He’d told them no publicity. But the news had leaked out. Leaked? Gushed more like it. Three phone calls this morning. ‘My wife needs a lung transplant and fifty thousand will enable her to…’ ‘Our donkey sanctuary desperately wants funding to the tune of…’ ‘Good morning Mr York, I’m calling on behalf of the local women’s refuge and if you can find your way to donating…’
How long before they began calling round? And if he opened the door, how many would put a foot between door and doorstep and craftily intrude into the house, one pace at a time along the hall, until daily callers were lasering walls and nooks, and shining searchlights into hollows and corners?
After depositing a cheque for a million in the bank, he’d asked for ten thousand in loose change. The cashier counted out the fifty-pound notes. His reasoning: stow a big pile of readies at home, and that way avoid a hassle every time he went to a hole in the wall to make a withdrawal. No scrum of beggars ingratiating and wheedling.
It seemed a good idea. But it was exhausting finding a hiding place in the house for the money. He’d wandered around wondering where to secrete it from the world’s tentacles, the claws of the greedy, the snouts of the relentlessly curious, the lock-picking eyes of ever-ready, plausible chancers.
Under the stairs in that still good, battered portmanteau of his grandfather? But every room of the house opened its secrets to a keen eye. Then he’d picked up the newspaper and read an article on keeping your important items safe from thieves. One rogue said he never looked in a pantry, never searched in a cereal packet or bag of flour. So he’d put the bulky wad in a clever spot in the pantry.
Every half an hour he returned to feel the silky texture of the banknotes, smell their newly-minted, indefinable odour, crisp them between his fingers. It was so pleasurable, you could almost taste them.
But his anxiety levels rose massively when the postman delivered the mail. Dozens of charities wanted a percentage of his win; and a congratulatory card from his alcoholic son promised he’d be round in the morning to toast fatherly success. He’d given him a backdoor key years ago. Fool! Now he couldn’t keep him out.
He scuttled back and forth to the pantry, checking, rechecking, wondering if it was son-proof, until he was worn out, and his heart began to palpitate. He went to bed, twitching with foreboding, trepidation making his heart thump.
Next morning his son, dry-mouthed from the previous evening’s binge, opened the tea caddy to make himself a drink. Inside he found an enormous bundle of notes. He went upstairs and discovered his father dead in bed, his fingers clamped around his debit card. The son pocketed card and money, then rang the police, thinking of the copious G and Ts he’d soon be raising to his father’s memory. R.I.P!
