by Ian Somers
I climbed off the bed and moved to the window. Mr Kirwan was standing by the road in his leather slippers looking awfully annoyed. He had his hands on his hips and was vigorously shaking his balding head. I’d never liked him and couldn’t contain my amusement. I ducked away from the window and laughed until I got a pain in my gut. When I finally stopped laughing I started to wonder if I needed to be frustrated or angry to be more powerful.
And moving the car was nothing compared to what I did to the pillar. Maybe panic fuelled the gift even more. Panic was difficult to recreate though.
I was tempted to move the car again, but as I peeked through the net curtains I saw that Kirwan was still outside, looking up and down the street and he’d been joined by more Dullbrookians who had been attracted by the siren of his car alarm. I decided not to risk another stunt and went downstairs to heat up my dinner.
I was still grinning to myself while I waited for my meal, but the blandness of the kitchen soon wiped the smile off my face. It was like everything else in Dullbrook, grey and old-fashioned. What use was a superpower in such a place – I couldn’t let people know about it, and I couldn’t escape Dullbrook and my job because I’d messed up my exams. I really was an idiot.
The negative thoughts returned as I sat at the kitchen table and my mood turned black once more. I realised that I could entertain myself by using the gift, but that my problems remained; if I really wanted to be content I would have to change the way I was living. That was easier said than done, though. An interesting job in the city would turn things around for me, but jobs were hard to come by. I tried to think of ways of escaping Dullbrook as I picked at my dinner. There was a world of opportunities out there, but more often than not you needed money to start a new life; something I had little of. It’s what some people call ‘the poverty trap’. I was caught in it and there was no obvious way out.
I was cleaning off my plate when Dad came in. I felt pretty uncomfortable; we rarely occupied the same room for more than a few seconds and this situation could have easily led to a conversation, which was a dreadful proposition. It would be the first in months. The last conversation we had ended up in a blazing row and I wasn’t in the mood for one of those.
‘There you are,’ Dad remarked, more politely than was necessary.
‘Yes, here I am,’ I replied without turning.
‘Always the comedian,’ he said as he moved to the counter and made himself a cup of coffee. ‘How’s work going?’
‘It’s riveting,’ I answered, never taking my gaze from the sink. ‘When I was finished sweeping the floors today I got the opportunity to study the differences between four types of nappy. Fascinating job, isn’t it?’
‘There’s no need to be so smart all the time, Ross.
‘Yes, that’s just it; there is no need to be so smart to live my life. In fact, only the basic brain functions are necessary.’
‘It’s a job, it keeps money in your pocket and you should be happy to have it.’
‘Maybe you should do it if you think it’s so great.’
‘I’d be happy to have a job.’
‘Why don’t you get one then? Maybe if we both had jobs we wouldn’t be living on a shoestring all the time!’
I could see by his expression that my words had cut deep and I regretted them as soon as they left my mouth. I didn’t have the courage to apologise, though. I returned my gaze to the sink and scrubbed my plate harder.
‘Do I not spend my days looking for work?’ he raised his voice. ‘I hope you never know what it’s like to face rejection on a daily basis.’
‘I don’t intend to.’
‘I never intended to end up in the dole queue, but it happened anyway.’
‘You’ll never catch me in the dole queue.’
‘I know you’re embarrassed by me, Ross,’ he said. ‘I’m embarrassed by myself. It hurts that my only son sees me as a failure. I’m just glad your mother isn’t—’
‘You had to mention her, didn’t you? I can’t wait to get out of this place.’ I slammed the plate against the counter. ‘I want out of this situation!’
He was about to reply, but I cut him off, ‘I know you’re gonna say: if I hadn’t turned down the contract with Manchester United then we wouldn’t be in this situation.’
He took his cup and moved to the door, ‘I was actuallygoing to say that you won’t be in this situation forever because you’re too talented to end up like me.’
I wanted to say something as I watched him making his way back to the sitting room, but no words came. For the first time in years I saw my father as a human being and not just another piece of furniture. He was a real person with feelings, not just a fixture of this house that wasn’t a home. He’d also had to endure the loneliness that had been haunting 57 Dullbrook Avenue for seven long years, since Mam died, and he also had to deal with the shame of unemployment. He’d been an outstanding carpenter in his day and now he walked the streets looking for jobs that no one else was willing to do. My life was utopian compared to his.
Now I felt guilty as well as frustrated. It hadn’t been a good day at all and I wanted to put it behind me. I made a cup of tea and headed back to my lair, even though I knew I should have gone to the sitting room and apologised. I walked past the sitting room door and saw him staring out the window. There was nothing out there but lines of little grey houses. Hardly inspiring. I just walked on by and went to my room.
I turned on my laptop and checked out The Impossible Stunt. There were hundreds more comments now and I read through every single one. Unfortunately reading them didn’t cheer me up at all, almost all of them were calling the video a fake or daring me to reveal my identity.
I read the latest comment: ‘I have to agree with previous posts. This is so obviously a fake that it’s laughable. No wonder 365 won’t take off his mask. Don’t give up your day job, mate!’
I caved in at that point and deleted the video I’d worked so hard on from my Youtube channel. I doubted that I would ever record another like it. I gathered up my conceptual drawings from the desk and dumped them in the bin.
I actually considered making one last video without the mask, but quickly decided against it; they’d still call me a fake, and they’d know my identity and would pester me even more. I’d never be left alone. There’d be no escape from the cyber vultures.
Making the videos was the only thing that kept me sane, but it seemed my favourite past-time was over. I would have to find something new to do. I couldn’t think of anything though so I logged onto Facebook to pass the time. There was no activity. None of my seven friends were online.
I updated my status by typing, ‘Worst day ever!’ then went to log out. But before I did, a chat box opened.
‘Why was it the worst day ever?’
I squinted at the screen and saw that it was Gemma; she’d just logged on. Part of me was happy that she’d decided to contact me, another part of me didn’t really want to talk to her at all; I was sure I would face difficult questions.
‘It just was,’ I typed.
‘It’s my fault, isn’t it? I was way out of line this afternoon.’
‘It wasn’t that. Everything just seemed to go wrong for me today.’
‘We all have days like those, Dusty.’
‘Hey!’ I typed. ‘I thought you said you wouldn’t call me that!’
‘Ha, ha. I’m sorry, Ross.’ She followed that up with a difficult question. ‘Why were you covered in dust this morning?’
This really caught me off guard. The cleaning-the-attic-in-the-morning excuse wouldn’t wash with Gemma, not that it had with Reynolds. I couldn’t tell her the truth though because that was even more implausible.
I placed my fingertips on the keyboard and gave her the only explanation that she would believe. ‘I fell off my skate-board on my way into work.’
She took a while to send a reply and I knew she was probably crying with laughter.
‘Were you hurt?’
‘No.’
‘OK, then I don’t feel bad saying, HA, HA, HA!’
‘At least nobody saw me falling. That’s the most important thing!’
There was a long silence and I felt the urge to direct the conversation back to where it had been that afternoon. I surprised myself when I managed to say, ‘You were right today. You know, I’m not like other guys.’
‘Duh! That’s pretty obvious.’
‘I’m not joking, Gemma. I really am different.’
‘In what way?’
‘It’s hard to explain.’
‘You can tell me, Ross! We’re best friends.’
‘I’ve never told anyone about it before.’
‘Are you gay?’
‘No! Christ!’
‘Well, what then?’
‘It’s so difficult to explain.’
‘Try.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Typical man. Maybe you should sign up to The Million Dollar Gift if you’re so different!’
‘Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist!’
‘Listen, my Mam is telling me to turn off the computer. I better go.’
‘Fine.’
‘I’ll see you in work on Friday.’
She went offline and left me to curse myself for being so open with her. Twice in one day I’d tried to let her inside and it turned out disastrously on both occasions. I didn’t even bother to log off or to shut down the laptop properly. I pressed my thumb on the power button and the screen went black, which I never did. I put the laptop on the floor and wrapped the duvet around myself. The lights in the bedroom went out.
What a day! I’d argued with Gemma and Dad, Reynolds was on my back the whole day, I got hassled by the Dullbrook gang and I was nearly killed by a rogue pillar.
It had been an exhausting day for so many different reasons and my eyelids were growing heavy. I couldn’t remember being so tired in all my life and within a few minutes I was drifting off into sleep. Finally I was calm.
‘Hold on…’ I said as I sat up. ‘What the hell is The Million Dollar Gift?’
CHAPTER FOUR -
A Day to Forget
The alarm clock buzzed at 8am, but I was already awake. In fact, I’d barely slept at all. I clicked my fingers and the alarm was silenced, then I returned my attention to the laptop. I was on Youtube, but wasn’t checking out my alias’ channel; I had been watching an unusual clip over and over since late the previous night – The Million Dollar Gift.
This video sent my imagination into overdrive; it began with a gold symbol, an atlas globe contained in the letter ‘G’, rotating on a black background and the words ‘Golding Scientific International’ scrolling along the bottom of the frame. A moment later the video faded to a TV studio. The camera first focused on an attractive woman, who was apparently a famous presenter on American TV, but I’d never heard of her before (I didn’t watch a lot of TV). Sitting opposite her were two men, both in their fifties. One was smartly dressed, tanned and had neat, greying hair. The other was painfully thin, had a short white beard and wore thick spectacles.
The presenter began a few seconds into the clip. ‘Hi, I’m Melinda Johnson and today I’ll be talking to two very different men who have come together in a joint venture that sees one million dollars up for grabs. It’s a very unusual competition and it’s aptly titled The Million Dollar Gift. Here to talk to me about it are the men behind the idea: Professor Mark Foster and, billionaire businessman, Paul Golding.’
The camera then focused on the guests and the well-dressed man began to chuckle. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back confidently in his chair. ‘Billionaire businessman isn’t my official title, but I guess it could be worse!’
All three laughed, but the one who found it most amusing was Golding who continued laughing long after the others had stopped.
Johnson then took control of the interview by directing her words to Professor Foster, ‘Now, Professor, a lot of people out there may be familiar with you, but unfortunately not for your actual work in theoretical physics.’
‘Yes,’ Foster said with a smile. ‘I have made my way into the public eye in recent months, unintentionally of course.’
‘Of course,’ Johnson said with a smile. ‘A lot of people will know you because of your very public spat with Johan Van Goor, the famous, or now infamous, psychic medium.’
‘Yes, I commented during an interview with a newspaper journalist that I thought Van Goor was a charlatan and that he was robbing vulnerable people, who were mostly in the grieving process, of their money.’
Johnson interrupted the professor and talked directly to the camera, ‘For anyone who is unfamiliar with Johan Van Goor, he had a TV show where he claimed to speak to the dead relatives of his studio audience. The show had been mired in controversy because of the high cost of getting a seat in the audience.’
Professor Foster butted in, ‘One thousand dollars per seat if I remember correctly. Van Goor didn’t react well to my criticism and launched quite an aggressive verbal assault against me. And so I challenged him to put his talents under scientific scrutiny. Needless to say, he lost the challenge.’
‘And has that challenge, as you call it, led directly to this venture with Paul Golding?’
‘I guess you could say that. I was swamped, after the televised contest with Van Goor, by people claiming to have special gifts. I said if I had a million dollars I would offer it up to anyone who could prove me wrong. Obviously I don’t have a million dollars to throw around and I thought that was the end of it.’
Johnson turned to her other guest. ‘And that’s where you come in, Mr Golding?’
‘Yes, I had worked on a number of projects with the professor in the past and I heard about his offer and thought it would be interesting if I put up the cash.’
‘You don’t have any vested interest?’
‘None whatsoever, apart from getting some publicity for my latest hotel.’
‘Which we’ll come back to in a moment. But you’re not looking for potential employees? I’m sure a psychic would come in handy for someone like you. It would sure give you an edge during your business meetings.’
Golding laughed loudly and shook his head. ‘I can read people well enough so I don’t need a psychic to do my work for me. I guess ever since I read my first Superman comic I’ve been fascinated by the idea that there may be someone out there who actually has a superhuman power.’
‘So, you’re not just looking for someone who can speak to the dead?’
‘Not at all,’ Foster interjected. ‘We are looking for anyone who has any type of extraordinary gift. Be it the power to read minds, to speak with the dead, to make things disappear or reappear, to communicate with animals or even move objects without touching them.’
Johnson then continued by asking Foster, ‘It sounds a bit like X-Factor or American Idol. Will you be the Simon Cowell of this contest, Professor?’
Professor Foster seemed quite insulted by the comparison and straightened himself in his chair.
‘Certainly not,’ he scoffed. ‘This will not be a televised contest.’
‘But surely there will be hordes of fame-hungry people entering the contest?’
‘That may be the case, but they will be turned away quite quickly if that’s their only reason for entering. This is not about fame.’
‘But—’
Golding interrupted the presenter saying,
‘We’ll only announce the identity of a winner if that is their wish. If they prefer to remain anonymous, I can assure you that the public will never know their name.’
The presenter seemed a little flustered, but composed herself and asked, ‘When does this competition take place?’
‘It starts on 1 June,’ Golding answered. ‘It’ll take place in London, England, at the Golding Plaza Hotel, which I own. Interviews and tests will be conducted in the conference centre by qualified personnel who will be hand-picked by the Professor.’
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‘And I understand it will run for one month?’
‘Yes, for a month only. We’ll be officially opening the hotel in late July so we’ve decided the last day for interviews will be 1 July.’
Johnson turned back to the camera and smiled. ‘That is sure going to be one intriguing month. If you wish to enter The Million Dollar Gift you can go to the official website for more details.’
The clip ended and my mind was buzzing with possibilities. I’d already checked the currency exchange rates online and it worked out at well over three quarters of a million euro. It was a lot of money, enough to change my life forever, but it was already late June and there was only one week left before the contest closed.
Not only that, it was in another country and Dad wasn’t the type of parent to let his seventeen-year-old son wander off to London for a few days. What excuse could I give? I’d thought about it all morning and no convincing reason to go to London on my own came to mind. If I was to go, I’d have to keep my reasons to myself, which would mean big trouble. It would also mean giving up my job, not that that sounded too bad, but if I was unsuccessful I would return to a gloomier life than the one I left behind.
The thoughts of a new beginning excited me, though. With that type of money I could do anything! I could move to California, get a cool tattoo, loads of designer clothes, a new board … actually I could get a hundred new boards and a slick pad by the coast. I smiled as I pictured a much cooler version of myself rolling along Venice Beach. Could I really do it though or was I just daydreaming? I’d regret it forever if I didn’t enter the contest, that much was for sure.
My train of thought was broken when my Dad tapped on the bedroom door. Talking to him was the last thing I wanted, especially after the argument from the night before, but I had to respond, I needed things between us to be better if I was going to convince to let me travel to London.
