Chapter 7
In a little terraced house tucked away in the back streets of an industrial town in Lancashire, Gary Belcher was settling down for the evening. He’d had a very long and tiring day at the supermarket and his hands were red raw from stacking the freezer cabinets. Although he was only in his mid-twenties, and in good shape, his body still ached. He’d done a double shift and was knackered. His crew-cut hair was wet with sweat and he longed for a hot bath to ease his aching muscles, but had opted for a quick shower, knowing how much it cost to heat the water. Tracy, his wife, was still working at the care home, but would be back soon. As it was Saturday he’d treated them to a curry on the way home, just one portion, but they’d share it along with some oven chips and bread to spread the meal out. He opened a can of lager and swigged it back. After gulping the last drop he burped loudly and reached for the remote control.
Flicking through the channels, he rolled his eyes at the talent competitions that dominated Saturday night TV. Call that singing? He could do better down at the club. He smiled to himself, remembering how he had serenaded Tracy on their wedding day. It had been a small but intimate affair in the local church, then a big booze-up in the hall next door. Tracy and her sister had decorated it with bunting and balloons, and used two wallpaper pasting tables covered with pink plastic tablecloths on which to lay out the buffet. Later a couple of his mates from the club had set up a karaoke machine and Gary had set the ball rolling with his rendition of ‘Lady in Red’, which he changed to ‘Lady in White’, gaining him a collective ‘Ah’ from the wedding party. Tracy had been bowled over. She’d never heard him sing before. He could just picture her now, looking slim and tanned in the off-white meringue dress she had snapped up in a charity shop, her long, blond hair all done up by Sharon from ‘Cut Above’ on the corner. She looked beautiful and he’d never felt so proud or happy as he serenaded her, meaning every single word.
He turned the television off, then pulled out his phone from his pocket to check the lottery numbers, as he routinely did on a Saturday night. Six figures stared at him. He screwed his eyes, shook his head then looked again. He’d recognise those numbers anywhere: 27 his age, 25 Tracy’s age, 11 the number of the house, 2 because they’d got married on 2ndFebruary, 30 the age Tracy wanted children and 13 as it had always been a lucky number for him. And tonight, if his eyes weren’t deceiving him, he had been bloody lucky, absolutely fucking lucky… Surely not? He sat up straight and gaped at the six numbers lit across the screen. Yes, there they were, plain as day, numbers 27, 25, 11, 2, 30 and 13. He sat still, frozen on the settee.
He heard the door bang shut, then Tracy’s voice call out. ‘Hi, Gaz, I’m home!’ He was motionless, all he could hear was the pounding of his heart in his chest, boom, boom, boom.
‘Gary? Are you all right, love?’ asked Tracy, full of concern at seeing her husband still as a statue, perched on the edge of the settee.Oh my God, he’s had a stroke.She dashed towards him. ‘Gaz! Talk to me!’ She slapped his face in panic. This seemed to shake him out of his reverie. He gave her a lopsided smile. Had he been drinking? She looked around her and noticed only one can of lager on the coffee table.
‘Trace, we’ve done it, we’ve bloody done it, love,’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘Done what, love?’ she asked gently. Something was definitely wrong. He wasn’t himself at all. She stroked his face tenderly. ‘Gary, you’re shaking, love. What’s the matter?’ He pointed to his phone. Frowning, she turned to look and then she too saw the numbers, each one holding some small significance to them. Now they held so much more. Those six numbers held their destiny, their fate, their future. She faced her husband and they gazed into each other’s eyes before screaming and jumping in the air. ‘We’ve won the lottery, Gaz!’
‘I know, I know Trace, we’ve won the fucking lottery!’
