The Billionaire's Curse

by Richard Newsome

  Gerald struggled on.

  Mr. Prisk held up his hands.

  “Please. Please. Let’s calm down,” he implored. “Remember where you are.”

  The room quieted at this and most people took their seats, though Gerald still had to squeeze between bodies as he continued toward his parents.

  “Thank you. I have one last document to read from Miss Archer,” Mr. Prisk said. “Miss Archer’s final wishes were these.” He cast a quick glance at the thirteen-year-old boy who was making for the front row. “She said: ‘My estate is worth approximately twenty billion pounds. This consists of my home in Chelsea, the manor near Glastonbury, my shares in Archer Enterprises, my island in the Caribbean, the Archer yacht, the Archer air wing, various investments, artworks, properties, and holdings, as well as about two hundred million pounds in cash. Apart from the few trinkets and minor cash sums I have distributed to people in this room, I leave all of my estate to one person…’”

  The intake of breath around the hall could be heard from across the street, followed by a unanimous demand of: “Who?”

  At just that moment Gerald popped out from between two large women and stumbled across the floor, right in front of Mr. Prisk.

  “To my great-nephew, Master Gerald Archer Wilkins,” Mr. Prisk announced.

  Gerald looked up at the sound of his name.

  “What?” he said.

  The uproar that followed frightened dogs four blocks away.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Gerald was sucked into a clash the likes of which the church hall hadn’t seen since the German air force bombed it to its foundations in World War II.

  The room was in uproar. Gerald was the primary heir to a fortune worth twenty billion pounds. A mob formed around Mr. Prisk, hungry for answers.

  The most vocal was Sidney, who brayed that he would be “seeing his lawyers about this outrage!”

  Everything happened at such a pace and with such intensity that it was hard for Gerald to keep up. Sidney was yelling at Mr. Prisk, and Mr. Prisk was doing his best to be heard back.

  Gerald stood mute—ignored by the mob but, at the same time, the center of its fury.

  He felt a jab on his arm. He turned to be confronted by the unsmiling Octavia and Zebedee.

  “Oh, hello,” Gerald said, a nervous smile forming on his lips. “I guess we’re cousins. I’m Ger—”

  “We know who you are,” Octavia snapped.

  Zebedee glowered at Gerald.

  “Do you have any idea how much time we had to spend with that woman?” Zebedee demanded.

  “Uh, what?”

  “Afternoon teas, trips to the park, walks in the country, visits to that boring museum.” Octavia counted off on her fingers.

  “I’m sorry, what?” said Gerald.

  Octavia shook her fists with frustration. “With Aunt Geraldine, you idiot!”

  “Dad made us grovel to her for years and what do we get? A lousy million quid,” Zebedee said.

  “A million pounds is pretty good,” Gerald said. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind getting—”

  Octavia looked like she was about to smack Gerald in the head.

  “Weren’t you listening, you clot?” she shouted. “You just inherited twenty thousand million quid!”

  It still hadn’t sunk in. Gerald counted himself lucky if Eddie remembered his pocket money each week. But now…twenty billion pounds.

  The world was pressing in on him: the inheritance, the mob, his newfound cousins. The only thing missing from the sideshow was his mother. Where was Vi?

  His question was answered almost immediately.

  Vi shouldered her way to the center of the crowd.

  “Right, you lot,” she snapped. “Time to listen to me!”

  Her tone made it clear she wasn’t going to ask a second time. People took a few steps back.

  “There’s nothing to argue about,” she said. “I’m assured by Mr. Prisk that this will is as watertight as a fish’s bum. The estate goes to Gerald.”

  The crowd howled.

  Vi wasn’t deterred. “Naturally, as Gerald is not yet of age, the estate will be held in trust for him over the next five years. And it is up to us, as responsible parents, to manage that estate as we see best for our dear son. Now, in case any of you get wild ideas about making some sort of claim”—she gave Sidney a piercing glance—“I have instructed Mr. Prisk to change the locks on all of Geraldine’s…I mean Gerald’s properties. Which means, Sidney, you will no longer have access to the country house. Don’t worry. Any personal effects will be forwarded to your little bungalow.”

  The vein on Sid’s forehead bulged even further.

  “That does it, woman,” Sid bawled. “You’ve gone too far!” He shoved people aside to confront his sister. “Naming your little brat after the old cow was bad enough, but this is too much.”

  Vi clamped her hands on Gerald’s shoulders and started to pilot him out of the throng.

  “Come on, Gerald. We’ve spent far too much time with these unpleasant people.” She threw a parting gibe at her frothing brother: “If you have any complaints, Sidney, I suggest you take them up with my new lawyer, Mr. Prisk.”

  On hearing this news, Mr. Prisk emitted a high-pitched yelp. The mob descended on him like lions at feeding time.

  Vi bustled Gerald and Eddie back into the church. Mr.

  Fry followed at a polite distance. She pushed Gerald into a pew and sat down next to him.

  “Right, Gerald,” she said. “There’s been a change of plan.”

  “Uh, Mum?”

  “We won’t be staying in London after all.”

  “Mum?”

  “Well, when I say ‘we,’ naturally I mean your father and I.”

  “Mum?”

  “We’ll be undertaking a thorough inspection of the entire Archer empire to make sure everything is in order.”

  “Mum!”

  “I thought we might start with a few weeks on the Archer yacht sailing around the Archer island in the Caribbean. It would be best for you to stay here for safety reasons, and Mr. Prisk has a few things he needs to go over with you. So I’ve arranged for Mr. Fry to look after you here in London. Now, doesn’t that sound fun?”

  “Mum!” Gerald yelled at last.

  Vi looked at Gerald as if she had only just noticed him.

  “Yes, dear, what is it?”

  “Is it true?” Gerald asked. “Is it true you named me Gerald so you could suck up to Great-Aunt Geraldine?”

  Vi looked at her son with surprise.

  “Why, Gerald,” she said. “Of course it’s true. Best investment I’ve ever made. I was only doing it with your long-term interests in mind, my lovely boy. Now, be a darling and calm down. Your father and I will call you once we get to the island.”

  Vi squeezed Gerald’s cheeks and planted a wet kiss on his forehead. “Such a good boy,” she purred. “Come on, Eddie. There’s a car waiting to take us to the jet.”

  Gerald’s father gave his son an apologetic shrug. Vi hugged Gerald, and with a sharp laugh of triumph, she and Eddie disappeared out of the church.

  Gerald sat speechless for a full minute as the enormity of the morning’s events sank in.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a cough. He looked up to see the sour face of Mr. Fry looming above him.

  “You ready to go, or what?” Fry said, his plummy accent mysteriously disappearing.

  Gerald guessed that Fry’s cheery demeanor was unlikely to be seen again any time soon.

  The drive back to Geraldine’s house—to Gerald’s house—was as quiet as you might expect it to be, sitting alone in the backseat of a Rolls-Royce limousine.

  Fry made a big show of raising the privacy screen behind the driver’s seat, but not before Gerald caught his muttering “ungrateful” and “twenty years of service” and “this is the thanks I get.”

  For most of the trip, Gerald sat there thinking.

  Now, let me get this straight, he pondered. I had a
great-aunt named Geraldine. I never met her in my life, even though apparently I was named after her. She dies and it turns out she’s worth a gazillion dollars. And she leaves pretty much the lot to me. My folks have jumped onto my new private jet and are heading to my luxury yacht to sail to my island in the Caribbean. And I’m stuck in London being babysat by my new English butler who totally hates my guts.

  Gerald stewed on all this.

  And it’s only day two of my holidays.

  The Rolls entered the Chelsea street of smartly presented houses, festooned with window boxes alight with summer color. Up ahead Gerald could see a crowd had gathered on the footpath outside Geraldine’s place. It was the now-familiar scrum of press cameras and television crews, waiting for Gerald to arrive. Fry pressed the accelerator and the car responded, gliding past the front door and along the street. The media pack was slow to react and only a few photographers bothered to chase the car, cameras held outstretched. Looking out the rear window, Gerald recognized some of them from the airport the previous night. The last one to give up the chase was the burly photographer with the red vest who had allowed Gerald to escape the grip of the thin man. He was sweating and swearing as he stumbled to a halt in the middle of the flagstoned street, trying to catch his breath.

  Fry brought the car around a corner and into a narrow lane that ran behind the line of houses. About halfway down the alley a pair of iron gates opened to reveal a driveway. The Rolls pulled in off the street and the gates moved back into place. Fry got out to open the car door for Gerald, who climbed out and faced his butler.

  “You don’t like me, do you?” Gerald said.

  Fry closed the car door with a metallic clunk.

  “I’m not paid to like you,” he said. He turned and marched across the white pebble drive to open the back door for his new master, his boots crunching on the stones.

  About an hour later Mr. Prisk arrived at the house, a tiny ball of anxiety. He struggled past the cameras and through the front door. “I told you I have no comment,” he said over his shoulder, heaving the door closed. “Vultures,” he muttered, straightening his tie.

  Mr. Prisk found Gerald sitting in a bay window in the downstairs drawing room, peeking through a gap in the curtains at the media pack on the footpath.

  “Ah Gerald,” Mr. Prisk said in a businesslike manner. “Good to see you’re making yourself at home.” He pulled up a chair and sat next to his youngest client. “Seeing as it is your home now.”

  “It doesn’t exactly feel like home,” Gerald said. The walls were hung with floral wallpaper and adorned with expensive artwork. Antique furniture stood on plush woolen carpets. An ancient clock ticked loudly on the mantel above the fireplace and an enormous crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. It was an old woman’s house—from the porcelain figurines in display cases to the clusters of framed photographs on the side tables. Gerald had been surprised to find that one of the frames included a photograph of himself.

  “Perhaps not to everyone’s taste,” Mr. Prisk said, fidgeting with his briefcase.

  Gerald looked at the tiny man.

  “Is everything all right?” Gerald asked.

  “Um, not really, no,” Mr. Prisk began. “I mean, there’s no need to be alarmed, but I’ve been on the phone to the police.”

  “The police! What for?”

  Mr. Prisk pulled a white handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed his top lip.

  “It seems that news of your inheritance has spread rather quickly.”

  Gerald pulled the curtains back to reveal twelve television cameras perched on the doorstep. “I can’t imagine how,” he said.

  “There have been a few threatening phone calls—just nutters—but the police don’t want to take any chances,” Mr. Prisk said.

  “Any chance of what?”

  “Um…well, not wanting to worry you…you know…any chance of…unpleasantness. So they’ve asked that I keep you in the house for a little while.”

  “What? In here!” Gerald said. “For how long?”

  Mr. Prisk cleared his throat.

  “Just till you go home.”

  Gerald was horrified. “But that’s weeks away!” he cried. “You want me to sit in here for the next three weeks?”

  “Yes, actually. Possibly even longer. That is exactly what I want you to do,” Mr. Prisk said firmly.

  Gerald flopped back into his seat with an exasperated sigh.

  “Some holiday this has turned out to be,” he grumbled.

  Mr. Prisk frowned at Gerald.

  “Look, Gerald. I’m not sure you appreciate what happened today. You have inherited one of the largest fortunes in Europe. You are now probably the richest thirteen-year-old on the planet.”

  Gerald considered this. “Fat lot of good it does me if I’m stuck in here,” he said.

  “Gerald, from today everything is changed. This amount of money brings new challenges, new responsibilities. And, frankly, it brings new dangers. When you’re talking this kind of money…Gerald, there are people who are willing to do almost anything to get even a small fraction of it. I promised your parents that I’d keep you safe. I promised your great-aunt that I would keep you safe. And I intend to keep my word.”

  Gerald thought it over. The memory of the sinister thin man clutching his arm was still fresh in his mind. He rubbed his wrist and looked at the lawyer.

  “But why leave it to me?” Gerald asked, picking up his photograph from the side table. “Why would she leave it all to me?”

  Mr. Prisk retrieved his briefcase from the floor.

  “You asked before why I flew out to collect you and your family, Gerald, instead of leaving you to take a commercial flight. It was for your protection. Your great-aunt wanted you safe. Her last instruction to me, in fact the very last words she ever spoke to me, were: ‘Look after Gerald.’”

  Gerald stared into the photo—into his own eyes.

  The lawyer stood up, preparing to leave. “It’s strange,” he said. “She seemed her normal self, then in the last few days she insisted that her will be brought up to date, that documents be prepared. It was as if she had some premonition of…” Mr. Prisk let his voice trail off for a second. “Gerald, I worked for Miss Archer for a very long time. She was never one for the grand gesture. Everything she did was well planned and done for a reason. Her decision to leave almost everything to you wasn’t because she liked the color of your eyes. The purpose she had in mind for you is something that you will have to discover for yourself.”

  Mr. Prisk glanced at the boy sitting at the window, and said with an encouraging tone, “Cheer up, Gerald. The time will pass quickly enough; all this excitement will die down. And remember—you’ve got Mr. Fry for company.”

  Gerald spent the rest of the day exploring his home and his prison. He started in the basement, rummaging through some ancient crates and tea chests. But beyond a collection of old Turkish postage stamps and a faded tourist brochure of the pyramids in Egypt, he found nothing of interest. He worked his way up to the kitchen, the lounge room, several drawing rooms, the library, the dining room, the six bedrooms and bathrooms, the home cinema, Aunt Geraldine’s office, the enormous games room, and finally the attic above the fifth floor. He didn’t venture into the staff quarters; he had no desire to spend any extra time with Mr. Fry.

  In the office, Gerald picked up the phone to call Ox but realized his friend would be at the family holiday house in the mountains, out of cell phone range. And anyway, what would he say? Hey, Ox. You’ll never guess what happened to me today.

  He tried to picture his parents. Were they on the yacht? Or still on the luxury jet? He guessed that no matter where they were, the smile on his mother’s face hadn’t faded.

  Dinner was unremarkable. Mr. Fry prepared scrambled eggs and Gerald ate by himself in the formal dining room. Apart from the brief visit from Mr. Prisk and a few wordless encounters with Fry, Gerald had not seen anyone all afternoon. About eight o’clock, he began to feel in
credibly tired and took the lift up the three stories to his bedroom.

  He closed the heavy oak door, reassured by the click of the brass latch behind him. The shower was warm and relaxing, the bed welcoming and comfortable. Gerald couldn’t believe how exhausted he was. He leaned across to flick off the bedside lamp and let the darkness wash over him. It had been a bit of a day. He listened as the sound of his breathing filled the room, and his eyelids closed.

  The bedside light suddenly sparked back to life. Gerald flung himself from under the covers and onto the carpet. He scurried across the floor and threw open the door to the closet. He tossed his shoes aside and hauled out his beaten old backpack, tore at the zipper, and grabbed what he was looking for: a buff-colored envelope, about the size of a large notebook. He carried it back to the bed, his great-aunt’s writing clearly legible in the lamplight: NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL AFTER MY FUNERAL. AND GERALD, I MEAN IT!

  Gerald flipped the envelope over and cracked the wax seal. He lifted up the flap and tipped the envelope upside down.

  Out fell a jumble of loose sheets of paper and newspaper clippings, as well as a bundle of small envelopes, tied together with brown string. Gerald spread everything across the bed and tried to make sense of what looked like a scrapbook that had been torn apart at the spine.

  He picked up a sheet of notepaper. It was decorated with a floral design and covered in an old lady’s handwriting—the same writing as on the front of the envelope. He lay on his stomach and read the note:

  Hello, Gerald. I hope this isn’t too weird for you—a letter from beyond the grave! By now you are my heir and worth a good deal of money. I hope you don’t mind.

  Bit late to be asking me that now! Gerald thought. He read on.

  I have a favour to ask. I am told you are a bright chap. I know we never met, but your mother kept me up-to-date on your achievements and whatnot in her letters. So I expect you’ve figured out that I was murdered. I want you to find out who did it.