The Lottery Winners, page 13
‘Let me pay for some therapy,’ I suggest. ‘I’ll look into some addiction clinics. Some private ones. It’ll be like staying at a fancy hotel, but they’ll be able to help you there.’
‘I don’t need anybody’s help.’
‘I think you do and deep down, you know it too,’ I say, although I know she’ll never listen to me.
‘Get out,’ she yells. ‘Get out. Get out. Get out.’
‘Mum —’
‘Didn’t you hear me?’
There’s no point talking to her when she’s like this. Stupid me for thinking this time it would be any different, that money could change things.
‘Please, let me help you, Mum.’
‘Go.’
I stand up and wipe the tears rolling down my cheeks. ‘Fine, I’m going. But think about what I said.’
She tips the rest of the can of beer down her throat, belches and fixes her attention on the TV, as if I’m no longer in the room.
‘Mum?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Right,’ I cry, ‘well you know how to get hold of me if you change your mind.’
Chapter 20
Flashing bright lights blind us as we emerge, blinking uncertainly from inside the hotel. It feels like a hundred pairs of eyes are all staring at us as we approach a large huddle of photographers, TV cameramen and journalists who’ve assembled in the courtyard garden, watching us as if we’re a circus act expected to perform tricks. I’ve never been one of those people who enjoys being the centre of attention, even among friends, and this whole charade makes my insides squirm.
Marco, smiling like he’s won the lottery, guides us towards a fountain where a table’s been set out with a pair of champagne bottles in an ice bucket next to two glasses.
He makes us stand awkwardly, facing the media horde, as they continue to take photos and shoot footage. I grasp Callum’s hand for reassurance. I couldn’t have done this on my own. No way.
Marco introduces us, telling the reporters that Callum works in a garage as a mechanic and that I’m a waitress. Or at least, we were.
I force myself to smile, hoping it doesn’t look like a grimace, and look at all the cameras, remembering what Marco told us a few minutes ago when we’d gathered in a private room to prepare.
‘Just be yourselves. All they want is to hear your story and how it’s changed your lives. And don’t forget to smile.’ He exaggerated a cheesy grin, drawing an upward arc over his mouth with his fingers.
So many strange faces. So many pairs of eyes staring. I wish I could dive into the fountain and swim away. There’s not an atom in my body that’s enjoying this, but as Marco keeps telling us, the alternative, having journalists camped on our doorstep, going through our bins, poking long-lens cameras through our windows, would have been much, much worse.
A glamorous blonde woman in a sparkly dress and with fulsome false eyelashes and a smile as wide as Marco’s appears from nowhere carrying a cheque the size of a large suitcase. Callum takes one end. I take the other, as instructed by Marco. The camera clicks become a continuous buzz as Marco pops open one of the champagne bottles, pours, and hands us each a glass. I’m tempted to down mine in one to calm my nerves, but how would that look? I could just imagine the headlines. Instead, I hold up my glass and contort my face into what I hope is a grin of delight.
Eventually, Marco takes the cheque from us and invites us to sit. I pull my chair up close to Callum’s and hold on to his arm tightly, fearing I’ll drown if I let go. Marco sits to the side, his chair angled towards us, as if we’re a celebrity couple appearing on his TV chat show.
And then he starts asking questions.
‘Tell us where you were when you found out you’d won,’ he says, still grinning. His jaw must be aching. That smile hasn’t slipped once.
Callum glances at me as if to check whether I’m happy for him to answer. I lower my head, fix my gaze on my shoes, and give his arm a squeeze.
‘I’d been out playing football and forgot to check our ticket,’ he chuckles. ‘Jade reminded me after I’d picked her up from work. I couldn’t believe it when I saw the numbers matched. I thought it must be a mistake. I ran screaming into the kitchen to find her, waving the ticket above my head like an idiot.’
My head jolts up. What? That’s not what happened.
‘And presumably this kind of money is going to change your lives beyond recognition?’ Marco asks.
Callum nods enthusiastically. Takes a sip of champagne. ‘Well, we won’t need to work again,’ he laughs nervously.
A titter of polite laughter comes from the press pack. Marco said they’d all be pleased for us and they weren't here to catch us out. Even so, I can’t relax.
I took ages choosing what to wear in the hope that if I felt good about myself, it would make it easier to face the cameras. Eventually, I decided on an asymmetric Victoria Beckham midi dress. Smart but understated. I figured we needed to look well turned-out for the cameras without appearing to be flaunting our new wealth. That would have been crass.
I’ve also applied far more make-up than I’d usually wear. A shield to hide behind, but also a mask to cover up the dark circles around my eyes, my pasty skin, and the spots that have erupted on my face at the worst possible time.
‘Jade, many people can only imagine how it feels to win more than fifty million pounds. Tell us, what has it been like for you?’
Me? What’s he asking me for?
‘Ummmm…’ I mumble. ‘Yeah, it’s amazing. Really good.’ Even I can hear how flat my voice sounds, completely devoid of emotion.
But what’s there to be happy about? Within hours, our names and faces are going to be splashed across the news and there’s every chance Bianca is going to recognise me. And she’ll know I lied to her.
Marco quickly moves his attention back to Callum, who’s had his hair cut in a fashionable tousled French crop and has gone too heavy on his aftershave. It’s overpowering. Even outside, it fills my nostrils and claws at the back of my throat.
‘What does your family think about your good fortune?’
‘Obviously, they’re delighted for us.’ Callum casts a sideways glance at me. ‘And it’s nice we can finally give something back to my mum and dad, my sister and her husband.’
‘That’s grand. So they’re winners too, in a way?’
‘We’re buying them each a new house, so yeah, I guess they are.’
He doesn’t mention my mother, of course. I specifically asked him not to. I didn’t want him telling the world that she’s a washed-up alcoholic who turned down our offer of a new house because she’d rather have the cash to piss away.
‘And the million-dollar question, which funnily enough is a question you can afford now,’ Marco says, almost falling off his chair with delight at his own joke, ‘is what are you going to spend the money on? I mean, it’s nice to treat your family, but what about you two?’
‘We’re in rented accommodation at the moment, so obviously we’re looking to buy somewhere,’ Callum says. ‘Maybe somewhere with a pool and a home cinema. A man-cave, perhaps.’
‘Ahh, I heard you liked your tech, Callum. So, a man-cave, is it?’
‘You know, somewhere to hang out with the lads. A few games consoles. A bar. A pool table. Beanbags. That sort of thing.’ Callum beams with delight. I can’t believe he’s actually enjoying this.
‘What about you, Jade? What’s on your shopping list?’
‘I don’t know, really,’ I mutter. ‘A new house, of course. Somewhere private.’
‘Anything else?’ Marco prompts.
My mind’s a blank. ‘Ummm, not really.’
‘Callum, you must have spent some of your winnings already? A petrolhead like yourself, I bet you’ve at least had your eye on a nice motor?’
Callum looks down at his hands in his lap. ‘I might have hired a bright red Ferrari,’ he smirks. ‘And bought myself a brand new Aston.’
My insides twist. Does he realise how smug he sounds?
‘Good man. Well, you can certainly afford it.’
‘And Jade, all that money has to be burning a hole in your pocket. You must have spent some of it by now?’
A solitary camera flash fires, a burning, phosphorous bright light that momentarily blinds me. In that flash, I see Lee Greenwood’s face. It’s the smiling, happy image of him from the order of service at his funeral. I can even hear the sobs and the grief, and feel Bianca’s sorrow. A family ripped apart. A husband, father and grandfather murdered in cold blood on our orders. Paid for our money.
My stomach tightens and churns. Acidic bile rises up my throat and I have a compulsion to confess how we handed over fifty thousand pounds of our winnings, stuffed in a rucksack, to a man in a pub we’d never met before with the instructions to kill a man and make it look like an accident.
The blood rushes in my ears and I have the strange sense of drifting out of my body, floating up into the trees and watching from above. It’s peaceful up there, but I know it won’t last. I can’t escape from reality forever.
As soon as the news is out, Bianca is going to know. Or at least, it’s going to make her suspicious. I was wearing a hat and sunglasses at the funeral, but surely she’ll recognise my face. My voice. How could she not? And then what? If she thinks I have anything to do with her father’s death, there’s no knowing what she’ll do.
‘Jade?’
Marco’s voice brings me hurtling back into my body with a jarring thud.
I blink and glance around at the surreal scene. Me and Callum sitting with a big cheque, glasses of champagne and the attention of the media focused on us.
I can’t do this. It’s all wrong.
My mouth is like sandpaper. My head humming. My arms and legs heavy.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m not feeling well.’
I jump out of my seat and scurry across the grass towards the safety of the hotel, bowling through a set of double doors, into a lobby and back to the room where we’ve left our coats and bags.
The door slams shut and I collapse into a tub chair, trying to catch my breath. I’m breathing too fast. Too heavily. My head’s wheeling. My heart's racing. Everything in my vision is too bright.
Someone comes into the room.
Kneels by my chair.
‘Jade? Are you okay?’ It’s one of the women assisting Marco with running the press conference.
‘I think I’m having a heart attack,’ I pant, pressing my hand to my breastbone while I gasp for air, remembering how my father died. Is this how it was for him in his last few minutes?
‘Deep breaths,’ she says. ‘In slowly and out slowly. You’re having a panic attack, that’s all.’
A panic attack?
‘It’s a big deal having to face all the cameras, but you did really well.’
She has absolutely no idea.
‘Is Callum coming?’ I wheeze.
‘A few of the broadcasters want to do interviews with him first,’ the woman says. She has a kind voice and a warm manner. She must be used to dealing with women like me who find it all too much. ‘Now, breathe in, one, two. And out, one, two.’
My breath gradually comes back under control. My heart stops trying to fight its way out of my chest and my panic subsides.
The woman brings me a glass of water which I sip.
What would she think if she knew the truth? That we’d used our winnings to have a man killed? I doubt she’d be here rubbing my back and telling me everything was going to be okay.
But we can never tell anyone.
It has to be a secret we take with us to the grave.
And that means a lifetime living with the guilt and the shame.
A lifetime that could be short-lived if Bianca decides to come after us.
Chapter 21
The lottery team invited us to stay the night at their expense at the hotel, their way of thanking us for agreeing to do the press conference, Marco said. But I was embarrassed I’d made a fool of myself in front of the cameras and just wanted to get home. Anyway, we couldn’t leave the dogs on their own overnight. So instead, I’m sitting with Callum on the sofa at home, Jefferson and Delilah at our feet, flicking through pages and pages of coverage on his iPad together. The story is everywhere, all over the internet and running on almost every radio station and news channel. I guess it’s what they call wall-to-wall coverage. To a casual observer, I suppose it looks like a good news story.
Some of the articles have made a big deal out of me fleeing from the press conference, speculating that the occasion was too much for me to handle. Others have politely overlooked my sudden departure and focused on Callum’s assertion he’s going to buy a fleet of fast cars with his winnings. Yeah, right. Over my dead body.
‘I didn’t think there would be this much coverage,’ I say.
‘Must be a slow news day,’ Callum murmurs.
‘And when Bianca sees the story? What then?’ I rub my hands across my face.
‘She’s not going to do anything,’ he says.
‘But what if she does? I know you think I’m being a coward, but please, let’s just get away for a few weeks.’
‘We’re not going into hiding like a pair of fugitives,’ he says. ‘You’re over-reacting. Even if she suspects we had something to do with her father’s death, what do you think she’s going to do?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe kill us?’ I snap, recalling with a chill the conversation we had at the funeral.
‘It’s just words. It’s what people say when they’re upset.’
‘Alright, well what if she goes to the police?’
‘They can’t prove anything,’ Callum asserts, but I’m not so sure. There must be phone records showing we were in contact with Gabriel around the time of the hit, for a start. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Sure,’ I say, although I don’t have much of an appetite. My stomach’s a shredded ball of nerves, knotted and tight with anxiety.
While Callum flicks through his phone, deciding what takeaway to order, I absentmindedly start browsing through my social media. Lots of news organisations have shared our story, and they've garnered hundreds of likes and comments. I know how spiteful people can be online, but I can’t stop myself checking out what people are saying.
It starts with some lovely congratulatory messages. Clapping hands and party popper emojis. People who seem to be genuinely thrilled for us. Strangers saying how amazing it is and how happy they are for us. Plenty of other comments from people discussing how they’d spend the money if they won fifty-one million pounds.
And then there are the others. The nasty, bitter comments from the keyboard trolls who resent our luck.
FraggleRock1994 Dont no why they gloating - they should give the money to charity
MissTCup Cant believe they stupid enough to go public. If that was me I wouldn’t tell noone
Johnno She’s fit. Dunno what she’s doing wiv him tho. Bet shes gonna leave him
Madmickey What does anyone need £51m for? you will end up lonly and divorced
JS15639 People like them dont deserve to win
PaulaS Don’t know how they can sleep at night. People who win the lottery and don’t use the money to help worthwhile causes are an utter disgrace.
The remarks become progressively worse. More vitriolic. More personal. Lots of people think we’re mad to have gone public. As if we had a choice.
My low mood grows gloomier. Anyone who thinks winning the lottery makes you happy has no idea. I’ve never felt more anxious, more depressed, more uncertain of the future than I do right now.
I switch back to scouring the news in the vain hope the agenda may have miraculously moved on in the last five minutes. No such luck. My attention’s caught by an awful picture of Callum and me on one of the sites. My eyes are half closed, making it look as if I’m drunk. I’m sure they’ve done it deliberately.
Why do some people have to be so spiteful?
My eye drifts down the page and is drawn to a teaser headline for another story. Something far more gruesome and interesting.
Missing man plunged 21-floors to his death
I shudder at the thought. I’ve never had a head for heights and the thought of falling from a 21-storey tower block leaves me feeling queasy. But, of course, I have to know more now. It’s perfect clickbait. I click on the headline and the story opens up.
It’s dominated by the image of a high-rise block of flats but inset into the picture is another photo. A photo of a familiar-looking man.
I sit bolt upright, not sure if my eyes are playing tricks on me.
With a growing unease, I skim-read the story.
Missing man’s death from tower block ‘not suspicious’
Police say they’re not treating the death of a man who’d been reported missing as suspicious after he apparently fell from a 21-storey block of flats in Waltham Forest in London.
The body of the 39-year-old was discovered by a street cleaning team in the early hours of Wednesday morning.
Although the man has not yet been formally identified, it’s believed to be missing Gabriel Salt.
Mr Salt had been due to stand trial on charges of attacking the van driver who killed his pregnant wife in a traffic collision.
Tilly Salt had been cycling to work when she was struck by a van driven by Lee Greenwood. Her body was dragged several metres along the road before Greenwood stopped.
Although Greenwood was prosecuted for careless driving, he was fined only £350 after claiming he’d not seen Mrs Salt because he’d been blinded by the sun as he turned across her path.
At the time, the sentence was described by Mrs Salt’s widower as ‘unduly lenient’. He’s alleged to have confronted Greenwood at his home in Essex earlier this month.
Mr Salt went to Greenwood's house armed with a knife but Greenwood escaped without injury after a brief altercation.
The family of Mr Salt reported him missing three days ago after he vanished from his home in West London.
