Millions (8 page)

‘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.

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 people 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.’

I gave her 100 quid for two horses without saddles but with some mountains in the background.

I tried to discuss things with Anthony at Small Play. ‘It’s terrible. Everyone’s got money but no one’s any richer because everyone just charges more. I mean, 100 quid for a picture and it was felt pen. She wanted more for paints.’

‘Is she any good?

‘That’s not the point.

‘It is for me. Term’s over soon. Dad’s going to want to see my model of Tracy Island, the one I won the Subbuteo for.’

‘She’s the best at art.

‘Which one is she?

I pointed her out. He ended up paying her another 100 for the model and she wanted fifty up front, even though the model wouldn’t be ready till the last week of term.

‘It’ll be worth it,’ said Anthony. ‘What d’you think of the Rockports?’

He showed me his new shoes. They were red, with the laces tucked in at the side.

I said, ‘Won’t Dad notice that you’ve got new shoes?’

‘He never notices anything. But I’m not sure about them anyway. Now that everyone’s got money, everyone’s got Rockports. They’re losing their prestige value.’

‘I need to ponder things in my heart,’ I said.

I walked back across the playground with my eyes downcast, which is how I noticed that I was now the only boy not wearing Rockports.

After school, I decided to go home via the hermitage. I ducked through the holly and stopped still. The hermitage was flat. I don’t mean the wind had blown it over or the rain had battered it. I mean someone had taken off every bit of masking tape, piece by piece, and folded the cardboard boxes flat. They’d even folded the tartan travel rug. The micro-scooters were out of their boxes and the boxes were squashed flat and neatly packed on top of the others. It was all really neat, except for my statue of St Francis, which was in hundreds of sharp little pieces, thrown all over the mud.

I was already frightened when I heard someone behind me. I spun around to face a tall man in a bright blue robe.

‘St Charles Lwanga (d. 1885 ), martyr of Uganda,’ I said.

‘That’s right.’ He held out his hand for me to shake. It was covered in blood. ‘Sorry about that. I was beheaded, you know.’

‘I know. Did you do this?’

‘No. But we can help you put it right. There’s enough of us.’

It was only when he said this that I noticed all the other martyrs of Uganda were also there. Twenty-two of them in fantastic costumes, all waving at me.

‘Beheading was very big in Uganda at the time. Some of us were in construction before we got into martyrdom. We’ll do what we can, but I can’t promise anything. You’ve had some right cowboys in here.’

‘Do you know who did it?’

He looked off into the distance. ‘I can lend a hand but I can’t point the finger. You’ll have to figure it out yourself.’

And they all set to work fixing the hermitage, and singing the most beautiful song I’d ever heard. It rose and fell like waves on the sea and sometimes one voice would call out above all the others, like a bird appearing in the sunset. While they were singing, two African greys appeared and sat on the railway fence, as though they were listening.

‘I enjoy those birds. They make me feel at home. Did you set them free?’

‘Yes. Like St Francis, you know. What’s the song about?’

‘It’s about water. In Uganda now, people have to pay for water. Sometimes as much as 10 per cent of their income. Bloody privatization. Don’t talk to me about the I M bloody F and the World Bank.’

‘OK, I won’t, then.’

‘People can’t afford to wash their own hands, so they get diseases. You don’t need fancy hospitals and drugs to keep people feeling better. You just need cheap fresh water. Did you know that you can dig a well for as little as 1,000 pounds?’

‘No, I didn’t know that. That is the most enjoyable news ever! Is it true?’

‘Completely true.’

Anthony seemed almost as excited as I was when I told him. He was on givemeoneofthose.com, staring at the screen while a picture of the scuba scooter (£ 325.00 plus P and P) was downloading. He said, ‘That is fantastic. A thousand pounds for a well. You could buy two.’

‘I was thinking of buying 220.’

He bit his lip. ‘Oh. Right.’

‘Yes. There’s a charity. They build wells. We give them the money. They build the wells. We are sorted.’

‘And how’re you going to give them the money? Pop 220 grand in the post? Have you felt the weight of it? Let me show you something. See this website? You can buy quad bikes. You can buy scuba scooters – that’s underwater motorbikes. We can afford them. We can afford a fleet of them. Can we buy them? NO. Because you need a credit card. Or you need to go to the shop, and we can’t because we’re kids. What’s your charity called?