Millions

by Frank Cottrell Boyce

  I gave her 100 quid for two horses without saddles but with some mountains in the background.

  I tried to discuss things with Anthony at Small Play. ‘It’s terrible. Everyone’s got money but no one’s any richer because everyone just charges more. I mean, 100 quid for a picture and it was felt pen. She wanted more for paints.’

  ‘Is she any good?

  ‘That’s not the point.

  ‘It is for me. Term’s over soon. Dad’s going to want to see my model of Tracy Island, the one I won the Subbuteo for.’

  ‘She’s the best at art.

  ‘Which one is she?

  I pointed her out. He ended up paying her another 100 for the model and she wanted fifty up front, even though the model wouldn’t be ready till the last week of term.

  ‘It’ll be worth it,’ said Anthony. ‘What d’you think of the Rockports?’

  He showed me his new shoes. They were red, with the laces tucked in at the side.

  I said, ‘Won’t Dad notice that you’ve got new shoes?’

  ‘He never notices anything. But I’m not sure about them anyway. Now that everyone’s got money, everyone’s got Rockports. They’re losing their prestige value.’

  ‘I need to ponder things in my heart,’ I said.

  I walked back across the playground with my eyes downcast, which is how I noticed that I was now the only boy not wearing Rockports.

  After school, I decided to go home via the hermitage. I ducked through the holly and stopped still. The hermitage was flat. I don’t mean the wind had blown it over or the rain had battered it. I mean someone had taken off every bit of masking tape, piece by piece, and folded the cardboard boxes flat. They’d even folded the tartan travel rug. The micro-scooters were out of their boxes and the boxes were squashed flat and neatly packed on top of the others. It was all really neat, except for my statue of St Francis, which was in hundreds of sharp little pieces, thrown all over the mud.

  I was already frightened when I heard someone behind me. I spun around to face a tall man in a bright blue robe.

  ‘St Charles Lwanga (d. 1885 ), martyr of Uganda,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right.’ He held out his hand for me to shake. It was covered in blood. ‘Sorry about that. I was beheaded, you know.’

  ‘I know. Did you do this?’

  ‘No. But we can help you put it right. There’s enough of us.’

  It was only when he said this that I noticed all the other martyrs of Uganda were also there. Twenty-two of them in fantastic costumes, all waving at me.

  ‘Beheading was very big in Uganda at the time. Some of us were in construction before we got into martyrdom. We’ll do what we can, but I can’t promise anything. You’ve had some right cowboys in here.’

  ‘Do you know who did it?’

  He looked off into the distance. ‘I can lend a hand but I can’t point the finger. You’ll have to figure it out yourself.’

  And they all set to work fixing the hermitage, and singing the most beautiful song I’d ever heard. It rose and fell like waves on the sea and sometimes one voice would call out above all the others, like a bird appearing in the sunset. While they were singing, two African greys appeared and sat on the railway fence, as though they were listening.

  ‘I enjoy those birds. They make me feel at home. Did you set them free?’

  ‘Yes. Like St Francis, you know. What’s the song about?’

  ‘It’s about water. In Uganda now, people have to pay for water. Sometimes as much as 10 per cent of their income. Bloody privatization. Don’t talk to me about the I M bloody F and the World Bank.’

  ‘OK, I won’t, then.’

  ‘People can’t afford to wash their own hands, so they get diseases. You don’t need fancy hospitals and drugs to keep people feeling better. You just need cheap fresh water. Did you know that you can dig a well for as little as 1,000 pounds?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that. That is the most enjoyable news ever! Is it true?’

  ‘Completely true.’

  Anthony seemed almost as excited as I was when I told him. He was on givemeoneofthose.com, staring at the screen while a picture of the scuba scooter (£ 325.00 plus P and P) was downloading. He said, ‘That is fantastic. A thousand pounds for a well. You could buy two.’

  ‘I was thinking of buying 220.’

  He bit his lip. ‘Oh. Right.’

  ‘Yes. There’s a charity. They build wells. We give them the money. They build the wells. We are sorted.’

  ‘And how’re you going to give them the money? Pop 220 grand in the post? Have you felt the weight of it? Let me show you something. See this website? You can buy quad bikes. You can buy scuba scooters – that’s underwater motorbikes. We can afford them. We can afford a fleet of them. Can we buy them? NO. Because you need a credit card. Or you need to go to the shop, and we can’t because we’re kids. What’s your charity called?

  It was called Water Aid. We Googled around till we found it. It was based in Shrewsbury.

  ‘Now, you tell me how you’re going to get to Shrewsbury with a bag full of money.’

  I said, ‘They’ll collect. Oxfam collected when we gave them that wardrobe from the old house. I’m sure the water people’ll just come and collect the cash.’

  Anthony stared at me. He knew I was right. He went back to his Googling.

  I said, ‘I’ll just call them now, then, shall I?’

  ‘If you like. If you’re sure that’s what you want to do with the money.’

  ‘Oh, definitely. D’you know how much difference a well can make to an African village. I’ll tell you . . .’

  ‘I’m sure it’s great. And after all, India’s not your problem, is it?’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, they need wells in India too. And Afghanistan. They’re desperate in Afghanistan, but, like I said, if you prefer Africa . . .’

  He’d brought up a picture of a little girl with dust in her hair, standing in a pile of rubble somewhere in Iraq. Then another picture of a boy with one leg in Kosovo. Then another of a baby with a huge belly in Mozambique.

  ‘As you said, Damian, why should you care?’

  ‘I did not say that. Maybe we could divide the money . . . maybe we could—’

  ‘Did you know this, by the way? That you can prevent river blindness with an injection that costs less than a pound? Quarter of a million quid, you could more or less wipe out river blindness.’

  ‘Well, that would be good, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I don’t know what to do now.’

  ‘Think it over.’

  I sat on the end of the bed, staring at the carpet. I stared at it so long it started to feel as if the bed was moving.

  ‘I didn’t mean you to think it over right now. Maybe you should sleep on it.’

  I looked up. Anthony was staring at a picture of a woman on his monitor. He’d been Googling again.

  ‘What’re you doing?’

  ‘See these women? You can buy them. Look, this one’s called Victoria. Price – £39.99.’

  ‘Let’s have a look. Are you sure?’

  He pushed me away. ‘Spam for brains. It’s an underwear website. Look.’ He zoomed in on a lacy bra. A swirl of black and pink pixels swished across the screen. ‘See that? You can see it protruding. That’s her nipple.’

  It looked like more pixels to me. ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘Well, it’s for feeding babies.’

  ‘Did Mum have one, then?’

  ‘She had two. They’ve all got two.’

  ‘Did she feed us with them, then? ’

  ‘Yeah. I remember.’

  ‘You do not remember being a baby.’

  ‘I remember you, though. I remember her feeding you.’

  I looked at Victoria for a while. Even after Anthony had logged off, I could still see her in my brain while I was lying in bed. I imagined that you could really send off for her for £39.99 and that she’d come and we’
d drive down to Shrewsbury together and be excellent and go whoosh to the top of the ladder.

  12

  To be physical about it, water is amazing. Human beings are over 80 per cent water. And the surface of the earth is nearly 70 per cent water. From outer space, it looks like a drop of water. To be economical about it, most things that are precious, like gold or jewels, are precious because they’re in short supply. There’s more water than there is almost anything else, but it’s still more precious than gold. So precious that some people in dry areas are prepared to spend most of the day just fetching and carrying it. In some countries, the women set out at three or four o’clock every morning to collect water, so that they can be back in time to begin the day. No one would do that for gold. And gold or jewels are still valuable if they’re not quite right. It’s not the same with water. To be chemical about it, if water’s got the wrong amount of salt in it, or toxins, you can die of thirst next to an ocean full of it. If you can give people enough water, you can change their lives. If those women didn’t have to leave their villages so early in the morning, imagine how much more time they’d have to spend with their children, or just being asleep. If you can get even a little bit of water on to a farm, you can grow maize and keep chickens and have just enough to eat. But if you can get a lot of water on to that same farm, you could grow peas, bananas, pineapples, mangoes, sweet potatoes, eucalyptus trees – you name it – and make money and send your children to school and never be poor again.

  I could see it in my mind, a trail of water running across the desert, and all around it green shoots shooting and leaves spreading, and grass waving and fruit getting fatter and fatter, and the whole desert coming to life like a page in a colouring book. Then I woke up and found I’d wet myself.

  I haven’t done that since Mum was in the best place. Luckily Dad had already gone to work and Anthony was still asleep. I stripped the bed and washed the sheets on the 40° setting (colour-fast cottons), along with some towels and my pyjamas. I tried to think of it all as mortification, but by the time I pressed the ‘start’ button, I felt like going back to bed. But I couldn’t because there was no bedding and anyway it was a school day. I’m really glad I didn’t too, because that was the day I first saw Dorothy.

  I think I might’ve seen her before anyone else did. I was hanging up my coat and she went by, chatting to Mr Quinn. She had her hair in corn rows like Gemma and she wore a smart jacket, like the ladies on the make-up counter. She was carrying a little flip-top bin.

  When the whistle went, we were all told to go to the hall instead of our classrooms as someone was coming to give us a special assembly.

  ‘In classes and in silence please,’ said Mr James, the head teacher. He was wearing his reindeer tie.

  We were shuffling into our lines, when suddenly there was a scream from the Year Five row. Everyone was standing on their toes and pushing forward, trying to see what was going on.

  Mr James said, ‘Everybody . . . everybody . . . just take a step back and then everyone can see.’ He winked at the smart lady, who was on the stage with him now.

  Everyone made a big circle and there in the middle of the circle was Shumita and the little flip-top bin I’d seen earlier. It didn’t seem that interesting. Until the flip-top flipped open and a voice came out. It said, ‘So what’s your name?’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said Shumita.

  ‘Hello, Oh-My-God,’ said the bin, and everyone laughed.

  ‘Shumita. My name’s Shumita.’

  ‘I like your pigtails, Shumita,’ said the bin.

  ‘Oh, that is bad. It can see me. How can it see me?’

  ‘Don’t be alarmed. I come in peace.’ It had a nice soft voice.

  One of the Year Sixes barged past her to get a better look.

  The bin said, ‘No pushing please. No pushing.’

  ‘I’m enjoying this,’ said the Year Six.

  ‘What’s your name?’ said the bin.

  ‘How’s it doing it?’

  ‘How do you do, How’s-It-Doing-It?’

  I looked back towards the stage. Mr James was grinning all over his face. The smart lady seemed to be talking quietly to herself. She had her finger in her ear and she was holding something that looked like a pen quite close to her mouth.

  I don’t want to be cynical about it, but I knew it was her working the bin, that it was her voice we were listening to. She tucked the pen-shaped thing into her pocket and asked Shumita to bring her the bin.

  Everyone went quiet, expecting her to explain it.

  Instead she shouted, ‘Who cares about poor people?’

  I couldn’t believe it.

  My hand shot up. So did everyone else’s, which means that not everyone is completely honest. She started to tell us about the euro and the changeover. She wanted to know how much a pound was worth in euros. Everyone knew. Then she wanted to know how much two pee was worth. No one’s hand went up for a while.

  She said, ‘I’ll tell you. It’s worth . . . not very much. But how many people are here? Let’s count, shall we?’

  She started pointing at people and counting them off. When she got to thirteen, she said, ‘I’m sure I’ve counted you twice,’ and Mr James said, ‘It’s 368. At this assembly. There’s 368.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. So what is 368 times two?’

  I put my hand up because I wanted to be the one to tell her. She pointed at me and I realized that I didn’t actually know the answer. It was our Anthony who said, ‘It’s 736.’

  ‘That’s right. Seven pounds and thirty-six pee, which in euros is . . . ten euros and thirty-seven cents. Now that’s still not very much here, but in Ethiopia, that will buy you a bag of seed corn that could see a family through the autumn. Imagine that. That’s for just two pee each. Now what would happen if you gave me four pee each? How much would I have?’

  I put my had up again and said, ‘Twenty euros and seventy-four cents.’

  ‘Perfect. Here. This is for you.’

  She held out a yellow plastic currency converter shaped like the Euro Duck. I had to walk up to the stage to collect it from her. She carried on talking, but ruffled my hair as I walked back to my place.

  ‘But what if you gave me seven euros fifty from now till the end of term? What could we do then? I bet we could build a well.’

  I shouted, ‘Yes!’

  She looked across at me and smiled. ‘Well, someone thinks that’s a good idea,’ she said. ‘And I’m not surprised.’ She rubbed my hair again as she strolled past me and started telling everyone all sorts of things about wells, which I already knew. I just kept nodding all the time she was talking. She said, ‘When we change over, you won’t get much for your small change. But it could mean a lot to other people. It’s no good to you so . . . CHUCK IT IN THE BIN!!!’

  People started piling five pees and two pees into the bin just to hear it say, ‘Thank you’ or ‘Is that all? Come on, you must have a bit more.’

  As I passed it, the bin went, ‘What about you, then? What’s your name?’

  I said, ‘Damian.’

  ‘Got any money for me, Damian?’

  I nodded and looked up at her. She was looking right at me. Trying to not let anyone see, I put all the money that was in my pocket into the bin, then looked up at her. She winked at me and the bin moved off.

  Anthony came up behind me and whispered, ‘What did you just do?’

  ‘Same as everyone else. Put money in the bin.’

  ‘How much money?’

  ‘Just what I had on me.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘A couple of grand. Maybe three.’

  ‘Three grand! What did you bring three grand to school for?’

  ‘In case. You know. You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Can’t you see that’s suspicious?’

  ‘It’s not suspicious. It’s unusual, but it’s not suspicious. How can it be suspicious? It’s our money.’

  Anthony looked at me long and hard. ‘OK,�
�� he said, ‘it’s time you knew the truth.’

  When we got home, Anthony showed me a site he’d bookmarked. It’s one of his favourites. It gives all the world news, but with a financial slant. So if it was covering the Olympics, it’d tell you how much the gold medals were worth. In the archive section, there was a picture of a train. Underneath it said, ‘Tons of Money’.

  ‘Click on it,’ said Anthony.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘You’ll see what for.’

  This is what came up:

  Sadly for most of us, the phrase ‘tons of money’ is just a figure of speech. But yesterday thieves made off with literally ‘tons of money’, in used, high-denomination sterling notes, earmarked for destruction in the government incinerator near Warrington. The robbery was planned with military precision and a relatively low capital outlay. The final haul could be something in the region of £6,000,000.

  LINKS: Brilliant robberies of history, click here.

  What would you do with ‘tons of money’?

  Message board, click here.

  I said, ‘What’s this got to do with us?’

  ‘Read on.’

  HOW TO LOSE £6,000,000.

  COUNTDOWN TO THAT SUPER-RAID

  Last updated 1 December, 7.00 a.m.

  From 16:00 ‘Trackfinder’ personnel and Transport Police secure Platform 1, King’s Cross, and begin loading twelve and a half tons of paper sterling on to a freight train. The money is marked for incineration as part of the ‘Big Switch Over’ to the euro on 17 December.

  18:55 Train is fully laden and ready to depart. Operators are told there will be no Railtrack ‘departure slot’ until 20:00 (Railtrack charge for clearing King’s Cross–Warrington route: €70,000).

  19:05 A van bearing the official Railtrack livery appears at one end of the platform. The van was a three-year-old Ford Rascal (RRP €9,000).

  CLICK HERE FOR WWW.FORD.CO.UK

  FOR THE BEST DEALS ON VANS AND SALOONS

  19:07 Van drives at full speed towards security guards. Guards scatter and ten men in replica Newcastle United shirts (RRP €49.99) and balaclavas leap out and begin laying about them with baseball bats, gaining access to the body of the train.