Millions

by Frank Cottrell Boyce

  I said, ‘This is fantastic. Anthony said there were no poor people round here because of house prices, but there’s loads of you.’

  They all wanted pudding. Anthony was against this, but then it turned out that they had an Ice Cream Factory – it’s a yellow machine that lets you serve yourself ice cream and then you can put chocolate shavings or hundreds and thousands or tiny marshmallows on top, and three different sauces. It was completely quality. I wondered if pudding constituted a separate good deed from the actual pizza. In which case we were looking at twelve rungs.

  ‘You see,’ I said as we got on the bus. ‘We helped the poor and we had those little marshmallow things. That is what we should be doing every day.’

  The bill came to 175 quid. Anthony took out his calculator and worked out how many times we’d have to do that to get rid of all the money. ‘That’s 1,303.517. Call that tips. Which mean 1,300 trips to Pizza Hut. And d’you know how many days we’ve got to get rid of this money?’

  The answer was twelve.

  If you’ve got an idea, twelve days is plenty of time. I had a brilliant idea and it would have worked too, if it hadn’t been for people.

  The Latter-day Saints people all dressed the same in white shirts and black jackets, and all carried the same smart black briefcases. They always left the house together, walking in a line, and as they passed you they would each nod at you, one after the other, like ducks in a shooting gallery. Anthony thought they were too conspicuous.

  ‘Look at them,’ he’d say. ‘Like penguins in a playground. And you know where they’re going with the briefcases, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course! To help the poor?’ I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. They called themselves saints. There must be a reason for it. ‘They go and help the poor.’

  ‘The launderette. Look.’

  It was true. If you looked carefully, there was always a corner of undie sticking out of the smart black briefcase. So they had no washing machine and they had no cars. They all lived together in the same house and in the daytime they all went off together like the twelve Apostles. You know what they were? They were a set of rungs waiting to be climbed. That was my brilliant idea: give the money to the Latter-day Saints.

  After school the next day, I sat on their wall and waited till the first one came home. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Do you help the poor?’

  ‘What poor? Excuse me?’ He had a strong accent, like a footballer. Maybe he was from Sweden or Holland.

  ‘Any.’

  ‘You’re asking for money?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We have no cash kept on the premises. Don’t take the wrong idea from our respectable clothing. We live simply. No dishwasher. No cable TV. No microwave, even though I don’t see why not personally. Also, no car obviously.’

  ‘So you’re poor?’

  ‘In a sense, yes.’

  I managed to shove 7,000 pounds through their letter box that night when I was supposed to be taking the rubbish out. After the first few hundred, I got worried that it seemed to be taking ages, so I prayed for help and St Nicholas turned up. He explained that it was easier to drop it down the chimney. I explained to him about solar heating. After we’d done about 4,000, St Nicholas got bored and cross. It was his busiest time of year. He said, ‘Noli sollicitum esse. Pauperes semper nobiscum erunt.’ (Don’t worry about it. The poor will always be with us.) And we walked back to the house.

  I asked him if he’d ever come across a St Maureen.

  ‘Quis?’

  ‘Maureen.’

  ‘Dubito, etsi raro in publicum prodeo.’ (I don’t think so, but then I don’t get out much.)

  ‘Except at this time of year obviously.’

  ‘Sane.’

  If we’re saying 500 pounds equals one rung, then 4,000 is eight rungs. Plus I helped Santa on his round! Quality!

  I was on a roll. I wasn’t even surprised when I spotted another rung in the playground, before school had started. When the second whistle went, we all walked quickly to our lines and I was in front of Barry.

  He leaned into my ear and said, ‘Pringles.’

  I passed them back to him.

  The girl with the lovely corn rows was in the next line. She said, ‘Why don’t you buy your own Pringles?’

  ‘Don’t need to. I eat everyone else’s.’ Barry popped the lid of mine and winked at me.

  It was the wink that put the thought in my head. I thought, Hello, is this another rung? And I said, ‘Barry, are you poor?’

  Barry’s left eyelid had still not come up from its wink. Now it fluttered a bit, then it opened wide, wide, wide and stared into mine.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you poor?’

  He hit me very hard across the face. I remembered to turn the other cheek. He hit me in the stomach. I had to sit on the floor to get my breath back. He put his shoe next to my face and said, ‘See that shoe? What does it say on it?’

  It said, Rockport.

  ‘Would I have Rockports if I was poor?’ And then he kicked me and I couldn’t breathe for what seemed like a long weekend.

  Now this might sound like it wasn’t that successful, but that depends how you look at it. It’s true I didn’t help a poor person but I did try, so that’s got to be worth a rung, and, more importantly, I did suffer persecution, which is just fantastic. I mean, five rungs at least. In fact, as I was lying on the tarmac, I actually did start to feel a bit floaty, like I might rise up into Heaven. Anthony said that this was due to a change in air pressure inside my head caused by the loss of blood from my nose.

  It was the blood that made the girl with the lovely corn rows start screaming. Mr Quinn came running over. Barry kept saying, ‘D’you know what he said? D’you know what he said?’

  Mr Quinn sent him to the head and told the girl with the corn rows to take me off to the quiet corner while I recovered my equilibrium. She got me a drink of water and sat chatting to me. She told me her name was Gemma and asked me lots of questions, such as, ‘What team does your Anthony support?’ and ‘What music does your Anthony like?’ and ‘Does your Anthony ever go to the Early Bird session at the baths first thing on a Saturday, because it’s free if you’ve got your leisure pass? Tell him.’

  On the way home, I asked Anthony, ‘What’s so special about Rockports?’

  ‘Rockports! That’s a great idea. We could both have a pair.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘They’re great. You tuck the laces in the side instead of tying them. Dead, you know, state-of-the-art.’

  ‘And they really hurt if someone kicks you with them.’

  ‘Right. We’ll get some.’

  Surprisingly, there actually was a St Gemma. Her name was Gemma Galgani (1878–1903). She was an ecstatic who excelled in the practice of heroic poverty and her feast is 11 April. I was in the hermitage, trying to look up heroic poverty, when someone said, ‘Anyone there?’

  I looked out. There was a man in a Tommy Hilfiger jacket with lots of stubble on his face. The stubble made me think it might be St Damian of Molokai, who was a bit rough, though very good. But that didn’t really tie in with the Hilfiger jacket. He definitely wasn’t Gemma Galgani. I said, ‘I don’t know who you are.’

  He said, ‘Mutual that, then.’

  I tried to look him in the eye, but I realized that one eye was looking straight at me and the other was looking off to the left. I wasn’t sure which eye to look into.

  ‘This yours?’ he asked, pointing at the hermitage.

  I nodded.

  ‘Very nice. Close to the railway. What’s inside?’

  He bent down and peeped in. He couldn’t see the scooters or the Airzooka because they were still covered by the tartan blanket. He put his hand in and rooted around. He found the little tube. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Tinted moisturizer.’

  He nodded and looked off into the distance. He threw the tube to me.

  ‘What are you looking for?’
<
br />   ‘Money. Know anything about that?’

  This was brilliant. This was the second opportunity in one day.

  I said, ‘Are you poor?’

  ‘What?’

  The minute I said it there was a crackling sound and then a crackling voice saying, ‘Damian, Damian . . .’ Even I jumped a bit, but the stubbly man sort of bounced with shock.

  ‘What the hell is that?’

  I showed him the walkie-talkie wristwatch. ‘It’s my brother. My turn to set the table. You wait here.’

  ‘Now, you hang on . . .’

  ‘No, honest. I’ll be back with it.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘The money. I’ve got tons of it.’

  I ran off.

  Anthony was standing in the garden because the walkie-talkie wristwatch didn’t work through walls. Well, it did, but it picked up Red Rose Radio. He was leaning over the fence, looking towards the railway. You could still see the man, standing up on the railway embankment.

  ‘Who’s that, then?’

  ‘Poor person. Yet another poor person. And you said there weren’t any.’

  ‘What’s he waiting for?’

  ‘I’m going to give him some money.’

  I was going into the house. Anthony pulled me back. ‘What’ve you said?’

  ‘I’ve told him we’ve got loads of money.’

  ‘Jesus, Damian.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing. Leave it to me.’

  Anthony went and got the big bottle we’d been saving the change in. It weighed a ton. ‘We’ll give him this.’

  ‘Can’t we give him a few hundred quid as well? Like 500.’

  ‘No, we can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ll tell you why not later. Come on.’

  We went back up to the railway. He was waiting for us. When Anthony held out the big bottle, he just stared at it. Or possibly he was staring at me.

  ‘See?’ said Anthony. ‘Loads of money. We’ve been saving it for ages. For the poor. We try to be good. Take it.’

  The man didn’t move. Anthony put the bottle down on the grass. ‘We’ve got to go now. Teatime.’

  The man didn’t say anything, didn’t touch the bottle. He watched us when we were walking back across the field.

  ‘I don’t think we gave him enough money.’

  ‘We gave him plenty. Go round the front way,’ said Anthony. ‘I don’t want him to know which is our house.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s dangerous. You’ve got to be careful. Some people in the world are greedy, Damian. Money makes them act weird. You’ve got to be careful. Have you told anyone else about it?’

  ‘Not really. Not told.’

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I’ve tried to be good.’

  ‘Damian . . .’

  But he stopped talking then. We were just coming into Cromarty Close from the top end and a taxi had passed us and pulled up. The Latter-day Saints started to pile out. The Latter-day Saints and their recent purchases. One was carrying a microwave. Another had a blender. And another had a foot spa. Anthony was so cross, he had to sit down on the wall.

  It was a pity he did that really. If he’d just gone inside he wouldn’t have seen the Comet van pull up and unload the DVD player, the dishwasher, the Gamecube and the two plasma-screen televisions. It wasn’t the fact that I’d given them the money that upset him. It was the fact that they’d managed to spend it.

  ‘Look at all the stuff that they’ve got! And what have we got? Junk. Junk that people were going to give to Oxfam anyway. Two tellies, a dishwasher . . .’

  He went on and listed everything they’d bought. He did this ten times, like a rosary. It was a very impressive feat of memory.

  ‘I didn’t know they were going to buy a telly. I thought they were going to give it away. They’re supposed to be saints, after all. I thought they were going to give it to the poor. I thought they were poor.’

  ‘Look, Damian, if you give poor people money, what happens to them? They stop being poor. Obviously. And if they’re not poor any more, what are they? They’re the same as everyone else.’

  So that was when I had this worrying thought: what if giving people more money just makes people more money-ish? And if it does, what’s all the money for? What can we do with it?

  After supper, there was a knock on the door. Dad answered it and it was one of the Latter-day Saints – Eli – carrying a little box and looking very anxious. Anthony and I were washing up. We looked at each other nervously.

  ‘Probably going to ask for more money,’ growled Anthony.

  Eli said he had an idea he wished to share with us. Then he opened his box and took out a tiny camera. ‘This is a security camera, CCTV. It mounts easily to the door lintel using the bracket arrangement here and then hooks up very simply to your domestic television.’

  Anthony sniffed bitterly and said, ‘Television? Or televisions?’

  Eli didn’t notice.

  ‘We’re most anxious about this very high likelihood of a burglary in the area. Terry says he has seen a suspicious character and of course we must protect our property. This camera could be most useful in this regard. We have bought three such. We wish to position one with a clear line of vision across the main point of access to the Close – from your front door to the car port of number 3. The ideal positioning would be your lintel. Would you be willing to assist the community in this way?’

  I said, ‘I thought you didn’t mind about burglaries. I thought you didn’t care about earthly goods.’

  ‘Well, of course in a sense this is true, but if we do not have security, then we are tempting the burglar, not so? And so tempting him into sin. We therefore become assistants to the sin. The camera comes with reactive halogen lighting, which has a prohibitive effect.’

  ‘Great,’ said Dad.

  Personally, I went to bed.

  I lay there listening to Dad clanging up and down the stepladder and drilling holes for the CCTV bracket, then I fell asleep. It felt like I’d been asleep for hours when I heard him calling us. Anthony and I hurried downstairs to see what was up. He was very excited. ‘Just sit there,’ he said, pointing to the couch.

  We sat down. He turned the TV on and started flicking through the channels. ‘One, two, three, four, five and now . . .’ Six was a picture of the car port of number 3, which had a life-size illuminated Santa sitting outside. ‘That’s the terrestrial channels and the new CCTV. That much we know. Now . . . seven, eight, nine, ten . . .’ He went through all the new channels, with a big happy grin on his face.

  Anthony smiled too and said, ‘Brilliant, Dad. How did you do it?’

  ‘I was just fixing the CCTV and there it was. It must be something to do with the cable. Maybe it acts as a kind of aerial. Maybe it’s a miracle.’ It was the first time we’d seen him smile in ages. ‘Thank you, God.’

  I explained that St Clare was the patron saint of television. ‘If it is a miracle, it’s one of hers.’

  ‘Right. Well, what d’you fancy watching?’

  We all watched the repeat of Monster Truck Tug of War until we realized Dad had fallen asleep. We didn’t know what to do with him. We couldn’t carry him upstairs. We took off his shoes, moved his feet up on to the couch and covered him with the small duvet. We weren’t sure whether to turn the telly off or not.

  I said, ‘Couldn’t we tell him about the money? Just to cheer him up?’

  Anthony said, ‘If you want to cheer him up, tell him a joke.’

  Outside, the reactive halogen lamp kept going on and off. It didn’t have any prohibitive effect on cats.

  11

  Just to be logical about things: if it’s wrong to give money to people, then it must be right to take it off people. If it’s right to take it off people, then burglars and bank robbers are good people, which they’re not. Therefore, it’s not wrong to give money away. You just have to find the right peopl
e to give it to.

  And I had to find them in the next ten days.

  Every week during Art, Mr Quinn writes a title on the board and you can do a drawing, make a collage, build a model, whatever. This week he wrote ‘If I Got a Million Euros for Christmas . . .’

  Thank you, Mr Quinn.

  Everyone ran for the bendy-straws box – bendy-straw sculptures were the big thing that term – and got going on bendy-straw yachts, houses, cars, everything. Personally, I was staring at a big blank sheet of paper. I stared at it so long that I thought I was going to fall into it and be swallowed up in icy-white nothing.

  ‘I’ll do you a drawing if you’re stuck.’ It was Tricia Springer, who was the best at art.

  ‘Would you, honest?’

  ‘Sure. Could do you a yacht, or a car, or a house. That’s what most people have gone for. Or we could think outside the box – maybe a rocket, or horses, or a nice stretch of land.’

  ‘I just can’t think. What would you like to draw?’

  ‘I can draw horses out of my own head. Fifty quid each.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘I’ll draw you one horse for fifty quid, two for 100, a herd for, you know, maybe 300. We could do a discount for anything over six. Obviously I won’t have to draw all their feet because some of them will be partly obscured.’

  ‘Why’s it so expensive?’

  ‘It’s not. You gave some kid a tenner for fetching your hot lunch for you the other day. This is my talent you’re buying here. I am the best at art.’

  ‘When I came to school on your bike, you said you didn’t need ten pounds.’

  ‘Times have changed. Where would a tenner get you in this school now? It’s a tenner for ten minutes on Keegan’s Gamecube. And it’s all down to you.’