by Adele Parks
What? I don’t get it! I turn to Mum and Dad, who look like a bus has just hit them. No one seems to know what is going on and there’s a confused murmur throughout the room. The words “syndicate” and “team” are repeated by the press people, over and over, the words are stones, the pond is rippling. What is he on about? There isn’t a syndicate anymore. They dropped out!
Mum opens her mouth, but no words come out, just a little phut sound. She reaches for my hand and puts her other arm around Logan’s shoulders, but her gesture isn’t comforting, it’s freaking me out. She’s behaving like when she had to tell me Grandpa Greenwood had died. And I’m behaving a bit the same, too. My brain is heavy and slow, like wet cotton wool.
“Fuck off,” says Dad. “You are not the fucking winners. We are not a syndicate.”
The “ladies and gentlemen of the press” suddenly turn from lethargic doughnut-eating sloths into twitching, hungry beasts sniffing out a story. So much closer to the journo stereotype I had imagined, but also quite frightening. They leap to their feet and start yelling questions at us. “So, this is a syndicate win? The six of you are winners?” one journalist shouts loudly. It’s basically the same question that everyone is asking, so people pipe down and wait for a response.
“No, there are not six fucking winners,” my dad yells back. It’s not like him to swear so much. I mean, if he hits his thumb with a hammer the air turns blue, but mostly, in front of Logan and me, he’s pretty careful not to say any of the words that we hear constantly at school. I don’t like to see him losing control. I don’t think it’s helping, and I get the feeling we do need help. A number of journalists scribble something in their books. I can’t think that’s a good thing.
“We have all been doing the lottery together for fifteen years, four months,” says Patrick loudly, although no one asked. He sounds calm and smooth. Authoritative. “We, as a group, have bought a ticket every single week for all those years.” He has hold of Carla’s hand. She is smiling at the cameras, she is very photogenic.
“That’s not true,” insists Dad.
“What’s not true?” asks Patrick. He turns to my dad, smiling. But it’s a bullshit, so obviously fake smile. How could anyone be convinced by it? “Have we, or have we not, been a syndicate for over fifteen years?”
Oh, no. I can see the train wreck that is coming. This is such a classic move. I see it at school all the time. But I can’t warn my dad. He walks right into it, admitting, “Well, yes.”
“And have we, or have we not, always used those exact same numbers?”
Dad nods and tries to say something else. He’s stuttering. His spittle makes it into the room but not his words, because Patrick smoothly turns back to the journalists, smiling triumphantly, point seemingly proven.
“But you pulled out of the syndicate the week before we won,” Dad protests.
The Heathcotes and Pearsons pull their faces into textbook expressions of confusion and incredulity. Carla tuts, shakes her head. Jennifer looks to the floor as though she’s embarrassed for my dad, shyly tilting her head. Then Fred slaps Dad on the back, quite forcefully, “Good joke, old man, but enough is enough now.”
“I’m not fucking joking,” yells Dad.
Mum touches his arm. “Stop swearing, Jake.”
He stares at her murderously. “Is that all you can say? You are worried that I am swearing when these bastards are up here trying to steal from us?”
“Okay, okay, that’s enough now.” Gillian is on her feet. She signals for help and suddenly the hotel manager swiftly ushers us out of the press conference into another room. The Heathcotes and Pearsons follow us, as do a couple of the hotel staff, sensing that all sorts of crazy is about to go down. They probably haven’t had as good a day at work ever. The journalists are being ushered by security into the foyer. Gillian seems to be talking to everyone at once.
“We will release a full statement before anyone goes to press. If I can ask you to refrain from reporting anything, either online or in print, until you get that statement that would be a great help.” I suppose she’s appealing to their better natures, hoping that the local press will be generous as they’ve enjoyed the doughnuts, but I wonder what the legal position is. Everything that has been said has been said at a press conference. Probably they can report what they like and at least one of them most likely will.
The moment we are out of the journalists’ sight, Patrick pounces on Dad. It’s really scary. “What’s the fucking game, Jake?” he demands. He pushes Dad up against the wall, holding him around the neck. Patrick’s face is puce. He’s a really good actor. He keeps glancing around the room to ensure all the staff are seeing him put on this performance. They seem scared. I look around for the two security guys but they are busy escorting the journos off the premises. Patrick looks genuinely wild. I’ve never seen such unadulterated violence and anger in a person’s face. Dad is way fitter than Patrick and I expect him to just push him away, but he doesn’t—he glares with contempt. This seems to infuriate Patrick more. He tightens his grip around Dad’s throat.
“Let him go!” yells Mum, lurching forward. I wrap my arms around Logan, restraining him from piling in, but also because I really need to hug him. Then Fred leaps into action. He roughly grabs Patrick’s shoulders and pulls him off Dad. I guess he’s effective because none of us expected Fred to become embroiled physically, he’s a pretty mild-mannered man. My body relaxes as I feel a huge wave of relief and gratitude. Fred has calmed things down. But then—shocker—Fred punches Dad in the stomach! “You bastard,” he growls.
Dad goes down like a sack of potatoes. Mum rushes to him and covers him with her body. “Jesus, Fred, what are you thinking? Stop this!” she yells. Neither Jennifer nor Carla say anything to their husbands. Jennifer walks calmly to the table that is set up with ice water and glasses. She carefully pours a glass and then hands it to my dad.
Adults are un-fucking-believable.
Mum stands up and steps away from Dad. I suppose she thinks it’s over and he’s safe now, but Patrick grabs my dad by the collar of his suit and hauls him to his feet. Dad is struggling to breathe properly, winded by the punch, but he tries to appear ballsy. “Easy, easy friend,” he says, putting up his hands in appeasement, showing the room he is surrendering. That he is reasonable and wronged. I look around in desperation. Why isn’t anyone helping? Patrick tightens his grip, shakes Dad viciously, a bit the way a terrier shakes a rat.
“We are not friends,” he insists. He draws his fist back and I think he’s going to hit Dad, too. Fred’s punch was shocking, it took Dad down because he was not expecting it. I fear Patrick will land something far more malicious and damaging. He’s a stocky man. Right now, he looks like a brutal little barrel that could roll over anything in his path and destroy it. His face is contorted with a filthy anger. I scream, everyone turns to look at me. They seem surprised that Logan and I are here. I think they’d forgotten about us. As though I’ve pulled them to their senses, the hotel manager dashes out of the room. I hope he’s gone for help.
“Stop it, please. Let go of him,” begs Logan, who’s crying now.
“This is what you get if you mess around with the big boys,” snarls Patrick. “You should know that.” I think Patrick is talking to Logan, but his eyes are on Dad.
At that moment, Gillian enters the room. The hotel manager is hovering at her side, unsure what to do with himself. I want to be sick.
“Let go of him at once or I shall call the police,” Gillian instructs.
“Why don’t you do that?” bluffs Patrick, but he does immediately step away from Dad. Logan and I run to him, wrap ourselves around him.
“Lexi, Jake. I’ve called you a lawyer, she’ll be here in twenty minutes,” says Gillian.
“Oh, I don’t think we need lawyers, do we?” chips in Jennifer. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
“Are we
?” snaps Mum. “How was your trip to Fred’s sister’s last weekend?” Jennifer holds Mum’s gaze, but doesn’t answer her. Mum turns to Fred. “Your wife told me you were going away but that’s not true, is it? You didn’t go away.” Fred looks confused, unsure how to answer.
“Is that why you are lying about the syndicate?” Carla asks. She doesn’t seem fazed by the fact her husband has just acted like a basic thug. I mean, it was so outrageous, so disgusting! Why isn’t she more riled? She just continues interrogating Mum.
“Your feelings are hurt because they didn’t invite you to dinner one particular night and so now you are trying to cut us out of the syndicate. Lie about us. Steal millions from us.”
“No!” says Mum hotly. “Well, yes.”
“Yes, you are lying!” Patrick throws a triumphant look Gillian’s way. “Well done for admitting it, Lexi, now let’s get this sorted out fairly.”
“No, no, I am not lying. I’m just saying yes, my feelings are hurt. You left the syndicate. You are not our friends. I know you for what you are.” Mum isn’t shouting, but she looks wrecked, I’m pretty sure she might cry any minute.
Gillian puts her hand on Mum’s arm. “Okay, Lexi, Jake, I am advising you to stop talking until your lawyer gets here and we can get to the bottom of this.”
“You think you can get away with this?” demands Dad, ignoring Gillian to the max.
“We’re just claiming what’s rightfully ours. We’re not trying to get away with anything,” says Carla primly.
“But you pulled out of the lottery. You said it was common,” stutters Mum. I can hear the righteous indignation in her voice, but I wonder if other people will recognize it as that or just think she sounds a bit squawky.
“That’s not how we remember it,” says Patrick with a sneer. “I’m surprised at you, Lexi. Him—” he points at my dad “—him I expect this sort of low thing, but not you.”
“Lexi bought the ticket,” insists Dad.
“There was an implied contract,” argues Fred. He stares right at Dad. “I am owed a great deal.” He is the color of a tomato, most probably this is because he is lying. I don’t imagine that comes easily to Ridley’s dad, but somehow the color works in his favor. If you didn’t know him, you’d think he was pretty sincere. “You may have actually purchased the ticket, Lexi, but there was a kitty. We all chipped in, as usual.”
It’s unbelievable. I watch as my parents’ former friends all manage to pull their faces into complicated expressions that somehow communicate their regret and disappointment in Mum! They look totally innocent and credible. Honestly, they must have been rehearsing this! Mum looks like she wants to pull her hair out in fists, she probably wants to bang their heads against the wall—I know I do. The lying, thieving con artists!
Mum turns to Dad, collapses against his chest, she’s becoming increasingly unstable, hysterical. She bursts into frustrated tears and yells, “Just because you say a thing often enough doesn’t make it true.”
And I think of Ridley. His hand on the inside of my thigh. His chest rising and falling, as he took in fast, excited breaths, pushed them out again, as we moved together. I know what I’m doing, we’re safe.
I’ve never felt more alone. My mum is right. Just because you say a thing often enough does not make it true.
CHAPTER 12
Lexi
Tuesday, April 30
The room is full of suited and booted men and women. It’s a small space, airless. Too many expensive perfumes and aftershaves clash up against each other. It’s cloying. They all flash me efficient, practiced smiles that are so brief they have gone before they’ve fully arrived. They hold out their hands for me to shake. No one has sweaty palms, or irritatingly weak grips, and no one tries to assert their dominance by crushing my bones. It is all very sleek; these people know how to do things properly. That makes me feel more nervous, not less. I wish someone would make a mistake. I look for laddered tights, low flies; of course, there are none.
Our lawyer is Ms. Walsh. She is a slight woman in her thirties. She looks as though a strong wind could blow her away, but when Jake and I met with her on the day of the dreadful press announcement, I was struck by her fast mind and her no-nonsense approach. She remained calm and cool with us, I admired her for that. She’s someone who just wants to get on with the job at hand. Since we’ve become lottery winners, people mostly seem flustered around us, either sycophantic or resentful. It is refreshing to meet such neutrality.
There are two people from the lottery: Gillian and a man who I don’t know. “Mick Hutch. My boss,” says Gillian, pointing her thumb at him whilst pulling her face into a fake grimace that suggests they like and respect one another.
A man in his fifties, who is a poster boy for pale and stale, introduces himself as “Terrance Elliott, old family friend of Fred and Jennifer Heathcote.” He is their lawyer. Yes, a family friend, too. I met him last year, at their twentieth wedding anniversary party. We spoke for several minutes about ambulance chasers, but he obviously doesn’t remember me. The Heathcotes’ family friends are all accountants, solicitors, doctors.
There are three more lawyers in the room. They all have a haughty, complacent air about them, undoubtedly the sort of people who are used to winning. Mr. Piper-Dunn, Mr. Caplin-Hudson and Ms. Chen-Ying all say they are representatives of Patrick and Carla Pearson. Whilst I am good at remembering names, I don’t commit these three to memory but instead dub them Double Barrel 1, 2 and 3. Three. Three! They have three lawyers. We are the ones with millions in the bank and they have three lawyers. I feel exposed and underprepared.
“Do you mind if I record the interview?” asks Double Barrel 3.
I look at my lawyer. She smiles encouragingly. “Lexi, this is entirely voluntary. You must keep that in mind.”
Gillian chips in, “You are not under arrest.” Her tone suggests she is joking but my eyes widen. Gillian sees I’m frightened and quickly adds, “No one is. We’re simply trying to get to the bottom of the matter.” She squeezes my arm.
I take a deep breath and try not to panic. This inquiry is serious. I have never been on the wrong side of the law, and I don’t like the merest implication that I am now. I have to stay calm and focused. I have to tell my story to the best of my ability. Sort this mess out. I wish I was wearing one of my new dresses—after all I’ve bought three this past week. But this morning I just put on the first things that came to hand: jeans, a T-shirt, trainers. Suddenly I am struck by the concern as to whether Ms. Walsh, my lawyer, is even my lawyer at all. She is someone the lottery company sourced for us. Is she representing me or is she really here for them? Is there a difference? Before the press conference I would have said not. Now I’m pretty clear the world is always divided into them and us. It’s just a matter of working out which team everyone is on.
I need to step up, get back in control. Behave as I would at work where I constantly fight for the underdog, fight for what is right and fair. Justice must have its day. That’s all that matters. They have to believe me. “Okay, I have nothing to hide. I’m happy for you to record my interview.”
Everyone looks relieved. I’ve given the correct answer.
I know I am not under arrest, but I have a lot to lose. A lot. People are lying. Cheating. Desperate. It’s dangerous. Liars undermine everything. You can’t trust or know a liar. It’s exhausting trying to. A waste of time. People do bad things, they make mistakes—that bothers me less. As long as they own their mistakes and failings. If people own their mistakes, you at least know what you are dealing with, and you can make a move toward forgiving them.
Maybe.
But lying? Well, lying destroys reality and histories. And futures. Besides being small and plain, the room is a bit grubby. It’s nothing like the lavish room from which we made the press announcement on Friday. This place is much more like the sort of room I take my clients into at the CAB
. Functional. Low budget. I ought to feel comfortable as it’s so familiar, but I feel I am on the wrong side of the table. Have I already got used to being in more splendid environments in just ten days?
The table is wobbly and scratched. Not with legible graffiti, just mindless defiance or careless neglect. There are hard chairs around it and plastic cups on top of it. These have been filled with water from the cooler in the corner. I disapprove of single-use plastic, but don’t feel it’s the moment to go eco-warrior. My palms sweat. My throat is dry. I take a sip of water. “So, what do you need from me?”
Gillian smiles encouragingly. “In your own words, with as much detail as possible, please, can you give an account of the evening of Saturday, the thirteenth of April 2019? That is, the week before the lottery win.”
“The week you allege the Pearsons and Heathcotes dropped out of the syndicate,” adds Double Barrel 2. I don’t like his use of the word allege.
“Where do you want me to start?”
“Anywhere you like. Tell us anything you think is relevant. Set the scene if you think it helps.” She presses Record on her phone. I don’t know how far back to go. Our friendship group stretches way back, and my belief in the magic of Saturday night goes further back still. And Jake? Well, Jake has been forever, really. We met at university, where I was doing a degree in sociology and social policy and he was studying industrial economics. I was eighteen, he was nineteen. He and I have been an us all my adult life. I love Saturday nights. Always have. Since I was a teenager. To me, they represent untold opportunities, freedom. Not that I had a wild youth, far from it. Throughout school and college, I was consistently bookish and conscientious. I studied during the week and then babysat on Friday evenings. On Sundays I visited my grandparents. That is precisely why I lived for the outlet, the release from conformity, which Saturdays offered. What could be better than house parties where I snogged boys and drank cider and blackcurrent until I was ill or stupid? Where I danced to Take That and Mariah Carey and dreamed of a future which I was sure would be happy, meaningful, important?
