“First number out…number five”, the voice announced.
The unmistakable delivery of a man with teeth too white and skin too suntanned. Probably a failed presenter of sorts; cheap suit and aggressively patterned tie, now tasked with sprinkling his own brand of stardust…from a sound booth deep in the bowels of the television studio.
“ Ther we go, goat that! If yer gonny win the big yin…ye need the first wan oot!”.
Fred had always been a gambler and forever been a dreamer. Horses, football, lottery. Always chasing ’the big win’. Always believing (in childlike fashion) that it was just around the corner. He would put a twenty team football accumulator on at the bookmakers, religiously, every Saturday. About thirty inches of paper; selected teams from the length and breadth of Britain, all of varying ability, all differing in likelihood of success. At the bottom of which… a life-changing figure that would deliver his wishes. How safari trips to Africa and Disneyland excursions with the kids would be funded. How he would get the money to win her back.
“Aye nae bother, idiot“.
Frank had extensive experience of Fred’s dreamlike qualities. He also had infinite insight into his ineptitude, regarding winning football coupons. They had been friends since early childhood. Brothers for the last twenty-five years. Their mothers had been friends; they went to the same schools, for the most part shared the same mates and indulged in the same bohemian style, recreational pursuits. They were inseparable. Hated each other and loved each other. Admired and despised each other. Relied upon and distrusted each other… in equal measure.
“Second number…number twenty-two”.
“Ya dancer! Goat that anaw!…we’re winnin’ this ya tool, am fuckin’ tellin‘ ye!”.
Fred tilted the bottle back and drained as much lager as his lungs would allow, before he had to breathe. He then, clammy-handedly, picked up the smouldering joint from the ashtray; wisps of blue tinged smoke floated upwards, in a slow and gracefully hypnotising motion. He put it to his lips and pulled back on it; in staccato fashion, in order to produce a fiercely glowing, red tip, then took a long, deep toke, amidst the dense plumes now obscuring his view of the screen and held it in.
“Third number…number eight”.
“Ya fuckin beauty!…three oota three, that’s a tenner innit?” Fred spluttered, through the smoke and spit, his eyes stinging and watering.
He now stood before the coffee table, joint in one clammy hand, bottle in the other. He looked round at Frank, wishing his friend to be as animated as he but knowing full well that it would take more than winning less money, than it takes to buy four pints at the local pub, to get him excited.
“Naw ya daft bastard, this is the Euromillions, a don’t even know if ye get anythin’ fur that…shut up a minute!”.
Frank had listened to Fred’s fantastic tales of certainties and “can’t be beat” scenarios before. For about twenty years, actually. He had listened to Fred many times; as he gave a clear and concise and very persuasive argument, as to why the ten pounds he was putting on these seven horses or twenty football teams, would bring them haute cuisine and champagne at the finest eateries and myriad other five star recreations. He also knew that Fred was a hopeless gambler. That despite his obvious knowledge on the subject of horses and football, that gambling…the making of profit through investment…was beyond him.
“Fourth number this evening…number eleven”.
“FUCKIN HELL!, we’ve goat that anaw!…we’ve won something! that’s a definite!”. This is FUCKIN’ IT, am tellin’ ye!” Fred informed the neighbours.
By now Fred was rushing. He was pacing around the coffee table; smoking the joint in shorter, faster puffs, eyes wide and sparkling like the precious gems that he wished to shower her with. He felt as light as the helium balloons that he would arrive at the door with, for the kids. He felt like you do in the five minutes after your second line of proper coke or when you’re coming up on a good E. The clammy hands were now sticking to everything they came into contact with and they shook uncontrollably.
“Shut up a minute fur fuck’s sake!”
Frank was now starting to feel a little warmer. His pulse had accelerated markedly and he too was starting to feel a dampness of palm. He gestured for Fred to pass the joint with a firm movement of hand and a steelness of stare that belied the excitement he felt building within. He was getting butterflies…and he liked it.
“Fifth and final ball tonight is…number thirteen”.
“AAAAARRRRGGGHHHH, GET FUCKIN’ IN THER YA BASTARD!!!!!!!!!!!!!”. “THAT’S FUCKIN’ GRANDS!!!!!!!!!” screamed Fred.
They both jumped into each others arms in perfect synchronisation; one arm over each shoulder and one around the waist. They could feel a surge of electricity from each other; their muscles twitching and taut, as they hugged. They planted huge, wet slobbering kisses on each others cheeks and they leapt so high and with such vigour that the floorboards seemed to bevel under the force they generated when they landed. Beer bottles scattered and spilt their golden hued contents over broken cigarettes and green buds, as they inevitably mistimed a landing and both crashed onto the coffee table, amid shrieks and screams of, “YEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!”
“SHUT UP!! HERE’S THE LUCKY NUMBERS”, Frank shouted over Fred’s screeches as they scrambled amongst spilt beer and tobacco and stood, bolt upright, in front of the television screen.
“First lucky number…number ten”.
Pin-splitting silence. Exchanged looks of puzzlement to the now obvious, life-changing act, to which they had now befallen...were the only reactions they were capable of. They stood as still as statues; mouths gaping, hearts beating like drums and sweating profusely.
“To win tonight’s Euromillions rollover jackpot you need to match this final lucky star, here it comes, good luck…number seven”
“ FOR FUCK SAKE WE’VE GOAT IT. WE’VE GOAT IT!!! A DON’T FUCKIN BELIEVE IT, WE’VE WON ABOOT £79 MILLION, £79 FUCKIN MILLION!!!!!…WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE GONNY DAE?…FUCK SAKE WE’RE RICH! FUCKIN RICH!…YEEEEEHAAAAAA!!!!!!!! YA FUCKIN BEAUTY! AM A FUCKIN MILLIONAIRE!…YEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSS!
By now both had lost all sense of reality, in their own way. Fred leapt from sofa to chair to table and back, screaming like a banshee, in a state of maniacal euphoria. He intermittently stopped, raised his arms to the heavens and gave a scream that would curdle milk, then followed with the only words he seemed capable of uttering, “Yes ya fuckin’ bastards, yes!”.
Frank, however, was detached in a different way. He sat with the ticket in hand, simply staring and mouthing the words, “seventy nine fuckin’ million”. He was naturally pale but at this moment, he had the deathly pallor of a condemned man. He realised the magnitude of what had just happened; how their lives would no longer be the same, the upheaval that would inevitably ensue.
He had read of previous winners whose lives had been destroyed by the financial bomb that had exploded in, not just their lives…but those around them. How greed and jealousy had ripped apart families and friends. He knew well enough how people’s perception of those who come into money can change. How would their friends and families react? What about the locals? They would have to get away fast, before word spread.
He felt nauseas. His mouth began to salivate irresistibly. With his head bowed, saliva dripped onto the wooden floor and gathered in a shimmering pool, as he fixated on a soaked cigarette paper drowned on the fake, pine board. A swelling of the stomach heaved its way, in a burning torrent, up through his throat. As he looked up at Fred, whose face was contorted in ecstasy, he emitted a projectile of vomit over the coffee table and everything on it.
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