The Lottery Winners, page 1
The Lottery Winners
A J WILLS
Cherry Tree Publishing
The Lottery Winners
Copyright © A J Wills 2023
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any other means, without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Contents
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1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
A word from the author
Also By AJ Wills
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FREE STORY: The last thing Victor remembers is dancing through the streets of Rome with his new wife, Ruby. But now he’s mysteriously back at the airport – and Ruby is missing.
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Chapter 1
The atmosphere turned ugly the moment the boys piled on board, charging the air with a threatening undercurrent that crackles like electricity. They’re all drunk, or high, most likely. Behaving like feral animals. Treating the bus as if they own it and none of the rest of us exists.
As they swarmed noisily up the stairs like angry wasps, I willed them to leave us all alone. But they won’t. Not unless someone says something, and we all know kids like that don’t take kindly to being told what to do, which is why we’re all pretending to ignore them. That we can’t hear the foul, aggressive language that makes my insides curl. I’m no prude, but there’s a time and a place, and it’s not here. And it’s not now.
The girl they’ve picked on can’t be much older than sixteen or seventeen. A child, really. I noticed her as I took my seat, glancing around to locate the source of an overwhelming stench of vinegar flooding the top deck of the night bus.
She’s a pretty girl, yet to fully grow into her looks, wearing her strawberry-blonde hair in tight braids and sporting a bright yellow puffer jacket over a tiny white crop top that shows off an enviable, taut, youthful stomach. She has a cluster of silver rings in her ears and a wrapper of chips on her lap, which she pops into her mouth as she stares, glassy-eyed, out of the window. Probably on her way home from visiting a friend. Or a boyfriend. A trip to the cinema, maybe.
At first, I was just grateful it wasn’t me who’d become the focus of the boys’ attention. I’d avoided eye contact with them as they poured onto the top deck with their noise and rowdy horseplay, pretending to find something more interesting on my phone and silently praying they wouldn’t give me any trouble.
But now they’ve closed in on that girl, crawling all over her, I feel bad. I ought to do something. It doesn’t look as if anyone else is going to intervene. Not the elderly couple at the front staring at the road ahead, plastic shopping bags at their feet and fingers interlaced as if they’re still in the first flush of love. Nor the broad-shouldered, thick-necked guy with ‘SECURITY’ emblazoned across the back of his jacket, who’s more interested in the creased paperback in his enormous, tattooed hand. And as for the overweight, spotty teenager four rows in front of me, he’s totally oblivious, his head bobbing rhythmically in time to the thumping beats pulsing from his headphones.
Like a concrete yoke, the collective weight of their indifference is pressing heavily on my shoulders, and leaving me with an impossible choice. Whatever I do, I have a feeling I’m going to regret it either way.
Why can’t they just mind their own business and sit quietly? It’s late. I’m tired. And my blistered feet are so swollen, they’re throbbing in my shoes. I don’t want to deal with this. I’d prefer just to close my eyes, rest my head against the window and let the rhythmic motion of the bus rock me to sleep.
I’ve been rushed off my feet all evening. It didn’t help that we had to cater for a big office party. Someone’s leaving do. Fifteen of them crammed in around three tables we’d pushed together. Most of them had drunk too much and, although they all behaved themselves, by the end of service I was frazzled and just wanted to get home to my bed.
It’s not as if I had a burning career ambition to become a waitress. It’s just a job that pays the bills. Or at least it used to. I’ve not had a pay rise in three years and with the tips being shared between the waiting and kitchen staff, I’m not bringing in much extra these days. Callum and I are supposed to be saving up for a house of our own so we can start a family, but at the moment, unless we have a massive change in fortune, it’s a dream beyond our reach.
The boys all have the same look. Hardened faces. Tracksuits, hoodies and trainers. Fingernails chewed down to the skin. Beer fumes and cigarette smoke radiating from their scrawny bodies. Lads from the estate. Outcasts. Prison fodder. They’re the type not to be messed with or told what to do.
It’s not that I’m a shrinking violet. You get used to looking after yourself when you have to constantly slap down the advances of drunken businessmen who still, unbelievably, think it’s acceptable to paw at your body just because you’re waiting on their table. But this is different. There’s an edge of danger to the boys’ behaviour. If I say something, they’re liable to turn on me. I can save the girl from their attention, but at what cost?
It starts innocently enough, but you can always sense when trouble’s brewing.
‘Give us a chip, love,’ one of them demands.
Paper rustles. Hands dive in. The pack swoops in like wolves around a wounded deer.
‘Hey,’ the girl whines. ‘Give those back.’ A voice so childlike it tears at my heart.
I glance behind. They’ve snatched the wrapper out of her lap and are handing it around. Jeering and showing off, lobbing chips across the seats. Grounding them into the floor, leaving a starchy mess.
‘What’s your name?’ a tall, skinny lad asks, sliding onto the seat next to her, pressing up against her rudely. The hunter sizing up his catch. ‘What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?’
The others huddle closer, mobbing her. Their excitement bubbling into a frenzy.
‘Where d’ya live?’ another kid barks. ‘You from around here?’
And then they’re all yelling at her. Trying to get her to engage.
You got a boyfriend?
Come on, I’m only asking your name.
What school you at?
I like your earrings.
‘My mate says he fancies you,’ one boy slurs. My stomach tightens. ‘Do you fancy him or what?’
Surely that guy up front with the security jacket is used to dealing with situations like this. He’s a big guy. I wouldn’t have thought he’d have been intimidated. Why’s he not saying anything?
‘Give us a kiss then,’ one of them demands.
‘Get off me!’ the girl shrieks.
‘Come on, I’m only asking for a little kiss.’
The rest of them bay like animals.
I twist my head, chancing another glance behind. They’re all over her. Hands clawing, touching her arms. Her hair. Her face.
‘What you looking at?’ the skinny lad at her side hisses at me as he catches me staring.
I snap my head back around and fix my gaze on my phone, my throat dry.
‘Oi, I’m talking to you. I asked you a question.’
Now what do I do? Keep my head down and hope they lose interest? Or do the right thing?
If it was me they were picking on, I’d want someone to stand up and take my side.
‘You’ve had your fun,’ I say, swivelling my body around in my seat, trying to exude a confidence I don’t feel. ‘Now leave her alone.’
Another boy, shorter and stockier than the lad at the girl’s side, jumps up with his shoulders back, chin jutting out. He has the dark growth of a prepubescent moustache and pitted, acne-ravaged skin. ‘Mind your own business, bitch,’ he snarls.
His naked aggression shocks me, but I can’t back down now. It would look like weakness.
I take a breath, my hands trembling. ‘I said, leave her alone.’
‘Yeah? And what are you going to do about it?’ His face tightens into a scowl. He struts towards me, knees kicking sideways. ‘You should mind your own business, innit.’
I slide out of my seat, my heart thumping. He’s a good two inches shorter than me. Another one of life’s diminutive men with a point to prove.
His m
I glance at his hands.
What if he has a knife?
I hadn’t thought about that.
His hands are empty, but that’s not to say he doesn’t have a weapon concealed somewhere under his clothes.
He takes a step closer. ‘I said, what ya gonna do about it?’ he repeats, slowly. Menacingly.
I raise my phone and point it at him, jabbing the screen so his face comes into focus. Making sure he’s captured clearly.
His eyes narrow, momentarily confused. ‘You filming me?’
I continue to point the camera directly at him for a few seconds before panning away towards his four grinning mates.
‘These five delightful gentlemen on the 157 bus,’ I say, loudly and clearly so the microphone picks up my voice, ‘seem to think it’s acceptable to sexually harass a young, vulnerable woman travelling alone, late at night.’
‘You ain’t got my permission to film me,’ the boy screams, waving his arms aggressively. He lurches forwards, snatching for my phone, but I swipe it from his grasp, holding it behind my head. ‘You’d better delete that footage or I’m gonna cut you up,’ he snarls, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, like a toddler desperate for the toilet.
‘I’m not filming you,’ I tell him. ‘I’m livestreaming. And I already have a big audience. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before someone recognises you. Your mother will be so proud.’
It’s something I saw on a TV drama a while back. I remember thinking then how clever it was, putting the footage out for the world to see instantly. He doesn’t need to know there are only two participants in my impromptu live recording. I’ve made my point.
The boy glances at his mates, like he’s looking for answers, but their stupid grins have dropped and they’re all staring at me, clueless.
‘We ain’t done nothing,’ the boy protests.
‘You were harassing that girl.’
‘We weren’t ‘arassing nobody.’
‘Tell it to the police. I’m sure someone will share the link with them any moment and they’ll be able to see for themselves.’
The boy’s jaw falls slack, his fury morphing into panic.
One of his gormless mates, a boy with a decorative crucifix tattoo on his neck, stands, almost losing his balance as the bus slows to a stop. He slaps the boy on the shoulder.
‘Come on, Gaz. Let’s go.’
The boy facing me down deflates, lowering his eyes to the ground in defeat. I pin him with my hardest stare and step to one side to let them pass, my heart rattling in my chest.
One by one they troop off, hurrying along the gangway and down the stairs, with their tails between their legs.
Below, the doors hiss open and through the window I watch them slope off, hands in pockets. The boy who’d squared up to me turns and flicks his middle finger in my direction. Charming. My jelly legs buckle and I have to grab a rail on the ceiling to stop myself falling.
The bus finally moves off, and I let out a long breath of relief.
The guy in the security jacket shoots me a tight-lipped smile and mouths, ‘You okay?’
I nod.
He returns to his book. Fat lot of use he was when I needed him.
The girl’s huddled up against the window, her eyes red and her knees jacked up to her chest.
‘Are you alright?’ I ask.
She nods. ‘I’m fine.’
There are chips everywhere, strewn all across the floor, the empty wrapper left screwed up on one of the seats.
I contemplate sitting with her in a show of solidarity. It’s what I’d have wanted if it had been me. But she’s giving off some serious ‘leave me alone’ vibes and I don’t want to make things any more uncomfortable for her.
‘Where are you getting off?’ I ask.
‘Next stop,’ she mumbles.
‘Me too. Is there going to be someone there to pick you up?’
‘I only live around the corner.’ Her gaze is fixed on the row of shops blurring past.
The teenager with the headphones continues to nod his head in time to his music. The elderly couple at the front are still staring ahead, motionless, pretending they’re invisible.
The bus lurches forwards as the driver accelerates and snatches a gear.
I retake my seat, perching on its edge, my body still filled with adrenaline and my pulse galloping like a herd of wild mustangs. I allow a smile to creep across my lips as a fizz of euphoria foams in my stomach. It’s a minor victory, but I did the right thing. That’s what’s important.
As the bus slows and pulls in again, I jump up and stagger towards the stairs, following the young girl with the braided hair. The doors swish open and a light flashes on. The girl hurries off into the darkness with her head down and her hands planted in her coat pockets.
Callum’s waiting for me, half-hidden in the shadows of a dark alley, leaning against a wall.
I step onto the pavement, watching the girl disappear, her legs moving comically quickly, not quite running, not quite walking. I hope she makes it home safely. Maybe I should have offered to walk with her.
‘Hey.’ Callum puts a possessive arm around my shoulders and kisses me on the lips, his breath sour with alcohol. He usually picks me up from work, but Tuesday is five-a-side football night. ‘How was work?’ he asks.
‘Tiring.’
‘Who’s that?’ he says, noticing I’m distracted by the young girl hurrying away.
‘Just some girl who was getting hassled by some kids on the bus.’
‘Is she alright?’
‘I think so. How was football?’
‘Great. I scored twice,’ he grins.
As we head for home, hand in hand, I notice he’s limping slightly. He still thinks he’s a teenager, the way he throws his body around the pitch like a man ten years younger. One day, he’s going to do himself a serious injury and that will be the end of his playing days. But there’s no telling him.
‘Well done,’ I say, with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.
‘Busy night?’
‘Frantic. There was an office leaving party in, but they left a big tip, so…,’
‘Yeah?’ Callum grins. ‘That’s great.’
Whatever I take in tips, we’ve been putting away towards a deposit on a house. We’ve been renting our current place for the past five years, and although it’s lovely, it’s not ours. But the deposit we’d need for even a small mortgage on a modest two-up two-down property around here feels like climbing a never-ending mountain. It’s not as if our parents are in a position to help, either. And while we continue to save, house prices continue to soar.
Jefferson and Delilah are waiting by the front door for us. When they hear the key in the lock, their tails thump the floor, claws scratch at the lino, and they bark with frantic excitement. Their joy at our return never fails to put a smile on my face.
Callum barely opens the door before they barrel out, almost knocking us off our feet. Jefferson jumps up on me, resting his paws on my chest to offer me slobbery kisses until he calms down.
Usually, after a long shift, I like to head straight for bed. But I’m still buzzing, my mind in overdrive, as if I’ve shotgunned three strong espressos. The encounter on the bus has shaken me more than I realised. I need to decompress for a bit, otherwise I’ll only lie there tossing and turning.
Maybe a cup of chamomile tea will help take off the edge. I’d have a glass of wine, but we finished the last bottle at the weekend and pay day’s not until the end of the week.
Callum heads for the lounge and switches on the TV.
As the kettle in the kitchen gurgles and hisses into life, the familiar strains of his mid-week football highlights programme drift through from the other room. A reminder it’s lottery night.
We play every week, kidding ourselves we have a chance to win. Although money’s tight, we’d never forgive ourselves if our numbers came up and we’d not bought a ticket.
We always choose the same numbers out of a sense of duty and superstition. A mix that vaguely reflects key dates in our lives. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Our ages when we were married. The house number of our first flat. Our respective shoe sizes. I know the chances of winning are slim, but someone has to, don’t they? Every week I live in hope, only for my dreams to be dashed. Sometimes, I wonder why we bother.
