Every One a WInner

by Johnny Parker

  "We use these pre-printed cards for the Irish Lotto," Big Marge kindly explained, "they have a barcode at the top and the customer ticks the boxes of the numbers they want, well actually they just put a line through the box."

  She fingered through the cards until she found a small bundle, ‘Wheelchair Wanker’ was written on the top card. Harry saw it and smiled.

  “Kaylee is in charge of filing,” said Marge with a raised black eyebrow like a hippy caterpillar.

  “What’s that?” Kaylee emerged from the back office with another coffee, her face fell when she saw who was waiting to be served.

  “Marge was just demonstrating your filing skills,” said Harry, nodding towards the inscribed Lotto Card.

  Kaylee made a wanking gesture beneath the counter where WW couldn't see.

  “Don’t I get one of them?”

  Kaylee froze, “can you see through the counter?”

  “What? You dozy bint, one of them,” Wheelchair Wanker pointed to the coffee.

  “You’ll be wearing it if there’s any more cheek,” said Kaylee, who nevertheless returned to the back office and flicked on the kettle.

  “Where were we?” said Marge.

  “Are you gonna serve me or what?” came the call from the other side of the glass.

  “Just a moment,” Marge dug into depths of patience mined from years of practice. “All you have to do is put the card through the scanner and the till reads it automatically and we don't have to enter the numbers manually."

  "So you can do even less work," observed Wheelchair Wanker.

  "And what would you know about work," said Big Marge with a look that brooked no retort.

  WW slid £30 under the glass partition. Harry thought that must be a lot of money when you are on benefits. He would never have put that much money on a bet even if he could afford it. He put the cards through the scanner and it came to £35.

  "That's not enough," said Harry,” counting out the money.

  "£30 it should be," said Wheelchair Wanker, "are you trying to do me again?"

  Marge took the small deck of cards off Harry and flicked through them, “There's one from somebody else's cards in here."

  "You should sack him, he's trying to overcharge me and pocket the difference," chipped in Wheelchair Wanker helpfully.

  "Somebody has just miss-filed one of the other cards that's all. I’ll delete that one and put them through again," Marge took charge.

  "Yeah, thanks for trying to get me the boot on my first day," said Harry.

  Wheelchair Wanker snatched the receipt off Marge and pushed his wheelchair backwards towards the door.

  "Aren't you going to open the door for me then?"

  Marge looked at Harry as if to say, I’ll kill the bastard. Despite the provocation, there was something innate about wanting to help a person in a wheelchair that Harry found himself involuntarily moving towards the door to the shop.

  “No, let me,” Marge went into the shop with a face like a Bulldog chewing a wasp. She opened the shop door for him and he pushed himself backwards with one slippered foot into the shopping precinct.

  "Wanker," she muttered and flicked two fingers at him as he disappeared into the crowd of shoppers, grumbling at people who didn’t get out of his way.

  "I bet you do that to all of us don't you," said Nobby the Jobby who was shuffling into the shop doorway. Marge held the door open for him and held her nose as he went past.

  "Only for my special favourites," said Big Marge winking at Harry as she came back behind the counter.

  “Go on you may as well get off,” Marge nodded towards the door, “You’ve survived your first day. Will there be a second?”

  "I'm not a quitter," said Harry pulling on his coat.

  “I wish I was,” quipped Marge.

  “We wish you were too,” chipped in Nobby the Jobby.

  “You can be barred you know, just one more smart remark,” Marge said with a smile. Nobby wasn’t sure she was joking.

  HARRY TURNED HIS KEY in the back door. It was the signal for loud barking from the front room. The two Springer Spaniels were better than CCTV when it came to monitoring people coming up to the house. Peggy was in the kitchen stacking dirty pots into the dishwasher. She stopped and gave Harry a hug and a peck on the cheek.

  “You’re home early,” said Harry.

  “Had a home visit but no one was there, wasn’t worth going back to the office, and I thought we might go out for tea, celebrate your new job.”

  “Great idea, I could murder a pint.”

  “How did you get on," she smiled, half expecting Harry to pour out a litany of regrets.

  "It was different," said Harry, "bit like the Star Wars Bar to be honest."

  "I knew it would be, how about the work, did you have any trouble understanding the bets?"

  "I don't really have a clue what most of them are talking about," said Harry, "but Big Marge the manageress has been there for twenty odd years and knows the business and the customers inside out. Kaylee, the other cashier, is a bit dizzy but she's pretty streetwise when it comes to some of the old conmen and the cheeky ones."

  "Are you sure it's going to be for you?”

  "It will bring in a little extra money for the time being until I can get something better."

  "How many shifts have they given you?"

  "Three this week and five next week."

  "Will you be paid weekly?"

  "Yeah, it’ll help with the cash flow."

  Peggy looked at him closely and he could feel his thoughts being scanned. As a Probation Officer, she had a Gestapo like knack of extracting the truth without having to ask a question.

  "Do you want a cup of tea?" said Harry in an attempt to wriggle out of the spell.

  "Is the Pope a Catholic?"

  Four

  Next morning Harry pulled on the company blue polo shirt complete with embroidered logo. No more suits, no more ties, no more smart shoes that were his uniform as an IT contractor. He'd enlisted in the ranks as a minimum wage lackey, just like the majority of the working population. He trudged into the kitchen and Peggy handed him a cup of tea.

  "You look very smart," she lied.

  "Thanks very much, I know you're just saying that, but it helps."

  “There’s some toast there.”

  “Cheers,” he whizzed a couple of slices and took a big bite of one. He offered Peggy a jammy kiss that she didn’t refuse. “Got to shoot off, you don’t want to be late.”

  The dogs fussed around his feet as if they could smell his reluctance.

  “Have you got your blaster?” asked Peggy.

  “What?”

  “Star Wars Bar.”

  “Thick skin must I have,” he waved a piece of toast at her and disappeared out of the back door.

  She watched him go down the road and gave him a little wave he didn’t see, “May the Force be with you.”

  When Harry got to the shop big Marge had already opened up. She got there before 8 o'clock to have everything ready to open up by 8 am on the dot, the company were very keen on punctuality.

  "Hiya, glad you made it back."

  "I told you, I'm not a quitter."

  She looked at him with the same penetrating gaze that Peggy used to read his thoughts.

  "We'll see about that, but making it in for your second day is a good start."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "The papers are up, the promo boards are done, you could check there are enough betting slips in the dispensers and that we have enough biro's as well. Oh, and can you check there is bog roll in the toilet, we don't want Richard the Turd back in the shop with his trousers round his ankles."

  Harry was happy to do the few mundane tasks that helped to start the day. The only customer in was a youth playing the machines by the door. He was a typical estate dweller, dressed all in black; black waterproof trousers, black waterproof coat with the hood up and pulled tight around his face. The look was finished off wi
th a black roll scarf pulled up to just under the nose. The Ninja didn't look round when Harry topped up the biros in the dispenser next to the fruit machine.

  "Hey Harry, come and see this, a bit of excitement for your second day. We've had a big winner from the Irish Lotto."

  The youth on the machine stopped pressing buttons for a moment and turned his head to look at Big Marge then quickly returned his focus to the flashing lights.

  "How much is it?" said Harry coming back behind the counter.

  “Seven and a half grand.”

  "Seven and a half grand," repeated Harry, "that's a year’s salary for me, at the moment of course."

  "Somebody is going to be very happy, I hope it's one of the nice ones."

  "Can you tell who it is?"

  "You can if you want to sort through that big box of cards and check every single number in there."

  "We'll just have to wait and see, suppose it adds to the excitement."

  They didn't have long to wait. A bang at the door signalled the arrival of Wheelchair Wanker. The handles of his wheelchair bashing against the glass pushed the door open.

  "Oh my god he's early, that can only mean one thing," said Marge.

  "Oh Jesus you don't mean?"

  "Oh yes I do," said Big Marge, "would you believe it."

  "I don’t believe it."

  Wheelchair Wanker forced himself into the shop backwards waving his receipt like a triumphal banner.

  "Every one's a winner."

  Harry thought that this was going to be a good day, but now he was depressed.

  "There you go £7,500 and be quick about it."

  "I'll just have to run it through the till,” said Marge.

  "Come on come on I haven't got all day.”

  ‘I rather think you have,’ thought Harry.

  Marge put the receipt through the till and sure enough, Wheelchair Wanker was £7,500 better off.

  "I can't give you the money now," said Marge.

  "What you mean?”

  "I mean we don't keep that sort of money in the shop, it just encourages robbers."

  The machine playing youth in the corner momentarily turned his head towards the counter.

  "This is because I’m disabled, isn't it. If it was anybody else you would have the money. You don't like me, I know, that's why you are doing this."

  "You can believe what you like," said Marge, "it's company policy, nothing to do with personalities or wheelchairs, it's the same for everyone."

  Although Big Marge shared Harry’s antipathy towards the pathetic creature in front of them, they both knew he was a cheater and a liar, the odds were stacked against them if WW complained to Management that he was being discriminated against. Secretly she’d happily drop him and his wheelchair into a car crusher but externally she had to be as nice as pie.

  "If you come back at 12 o'clock I'll have your money for you," she pushed his receipt back under the counter.

  He snatched it off her, "You better had, or I'll be putting in a complaint."

  And with that Wheelchair Wanker pushed himself backwards towards the door, glaring at Marge and Harry. The Hoody on the slot machine unexpectedly jumped up and opened the door for him.

  "At least somebody likes me in this shop," said Wheelchair Wanker as his parting shot, although he didn't thank his well-mannered doorman.

  Marge got on the phone to the other local shops and began asking for money. It was common practice among the shops whenever they had a big winner. She managed to pick up two grand here, three grand there, a thousand in another shop.

  "You'll have to go and get the cash for me Harry, Kaylee has phoned in sick again, her little lad’s poorly, and there is nobody else until I can phone around and get someone in."

  "What, you expect me to carry six thousand pounds in my back pocket through the middle of town with all those ne'er-do-wells out there."

  "You’ll be okay, you're a big lad, and you can't look after the shop so there isn't any choice."

  "Can't we just pay by cheque or bank transfer?" asked Harry.

  "We could do, but I know he won't take a cheque because it will upset his benefit claims if money suddenly appears in his bank account. They'll think he's been working, haha."

  "Don’t we have some security arrangement, like a cash delivery service?" Harry was clutching at straws.

  "I'm sorry mate we are still in the dark ages, you'll have to be the courier. It’s cheaper for the firm to use a minimum wage slave to do their dirty work than an expensive security service. I’m afraid you’re expendable," she handed Harry a cloth cash bag and waved him out of the door.

  Ten seconds after, the Hoody on the machines also decided to quietly take his leave. Marge, who never missed a thing, watched him go and crossed her chubby fingers.

  As Harry walked through the still quiet early morning streets he examined every approaching stranger to check for signs of a bulge in their pocket. He gave everyone a wide berth. His dad had been a policeman and he remembered how the old man was wired to be suspicious of everybody, now he knew how that felt. He checked nervously over his shoulder too and was sure he caught sight of the Hoody from the slot machines but it could have been a shadow or his over anxious imagination.

  He didn't like it, but this was all good experience for Harry, he'd never been to the other company betting shops in the town centre. He was struck by the similarity of the staff and the punters to his own shop, they all seem to have been created out of the same mould and he pondered he may a square peg in a betting shop round hole.

  He got back to the shop just before noon, bursting for a pee from the coffee he'd been offered in each of his pick-ups. The black hooded youth was back playing the slot machines in the corner, perhaps he had imagined seeing him on the street after all. The shop had filled up with the usual suspects. Nobby the Jobby was hunched over the Racing Post scribbling his small odds bets in an indecipherable scrawl. Old Ronnie was on his stool at the far end of the shop calmly watching the dog racing from Haringey. At exactly 12:00 mid-day he would take himself off to the market for a sausage roll and a tea. Cheeky Jimmy was sitting on the table with Nobby exchanging wisdom about the forthcoming races. Harry slipped quickly behind the counter and Big Marge locked the door behind him.

  “Did you get it all?” Marge looked calm but Harry realised the pressure was on if she didn't have the money. Wheelchair Wanker was going to create a scene, he would complain for sure and Marge just didn't want the aggro. "You did get it didn't you?"

  "Yes five grand," said Harry unburdening his bulging pockets with bundles of £20 notes.

  “We need six,” the pitch of Marge’s gravelly voice went from baritone to tenor.

  "Only kidding," he pulled another roll of twenties from under his cap, "wanted to spread it around, if it was all in the bag and I got mugged it's all gone."

  “You had me going there, didn’t expect it, I’m going to have to watch you.”

  Marge’s expression was seriously Churchillian and Harry thought he’d crossed the line, but then she cracked a grin.

  “You need a sense of humour to survive in here, I’ll let you off, this time.”

  Harry relaxed.

  “But don’t mess with the money,” the face returned quickly to Bulldog.

  “Okay, got it.”

  “Watch the shop while I count this,” Marge retired to the back office.

  Harry could see her from his lookout by the tills. The sight of all that cash reminded him of the time he worked in a military hospital in Saudi Arabia in the eighties. Everyone was paid in cash and would queue up at a counter in the palatial marble and gold foyer of the hospital to get their moolah. At the time he was on £2000 a month. It seemed a fortune but the doctors were on five times that. The pay clerks would shove a mountain of notes across the counter like casino croupiers.

  In the slightly less opulent confines of the back office, Marge quickly counted the notes with an expertise born of many years practice. Bang on 12 o
'clock the front door opened and Wheelchair Wanker backed himself into the shop. Harry steeled himself for the coming encounter. Harry wasn’t an aggressive type even though he looked a bit like a nightclub bouncer with his broad shoulders and bald head. A buzz of expectation and whispers surrounded the entrance of WW, even old Ronnie delayed his sausage roll pilgrimage to witness the drama.

  The punters all knew he’d won big, that kind of news spread like cholera in a ghetto. Even on his second day, Harry had noticed a camaraderie among the pack of regulars born out of shared values and desires. Everyone hungered after a jackpot and if one of their brethren got lucky it was reinforcement that their cause was valid and just. But nobody liked Wheelchair Wanker, he was an outcast in a family of outcasts and no one would give him the satisfaction acknowledging his big win.

  WW ignored the envious looks as he scooted backwards to the counter like a greyhound after a hair.

  "Where is my money then," he said, rubbing his hands together like a not very humble Uriah Heep.

  "Not so fast," said Marge.

  “What’s your problem now?”

  “Receipt,” she held out her Russian shot putter’s hand.

  Grudgingly he started to check his pockets but found nothing but old crisp packets and crusty tissues. One of Marge’s bushy black eyebrows lifted as she hoped fervently that he’d lost it. Harry too found he was unconsciously clenching his fists and suppressing a victorious smile. The whole shop held its breath as WW went back over his pockets again with the thoroughness of a North Korean Border Guard. He stood up without any hint of stiffness to check the back pockets of his jeans. Harry and Marge exchanged knowing looks.

  WW stopped suddenly as a light bulb went on in his fevered brain. He sat down as quickly as he stood and flipped a catch on the armrest of his chair. He opened it quickly to expose a wad of twenty-pound notes, a bag of Weed, a packet of Rizlas and the precious receipt. He slammed it shut as quickly as he could and reset the catch. Looking around to see if anyone had seen his secret compartment - they all had.

  WW shoved the receipt under the glass partition with a gloating smile.