The guy in charge of Camelot would keep it for himself.
“Be fine, be fine…” Stan started walking again. Bully followed him, a little less sure with each step that he’d done the right thing.
“Stan. You got to prove it. Yeah? They
check
, you know. You got a passport?”
That word stopped him, knocked him back on his heels. “Look. I got no papers,” he said quickly, to the ground. “OK? I got no
proof
. You need proof, yeah? I got no proof of me. Nothing. Everything in my country at home.”
Bully didn’t ask where that was because Stan was an illegal. Bully couldn’t remember where he came from, even though he’d told him a couple of times. It was one of those long names. Somewhere
Stan
.
“So how much you won?”
“I dunno. The lot.”
“About, about how much?”
“Millions.”
It was always millions.
“Wow.” Stan wiped his forehead then got close, put his hand on his shoulder to show he was being serious. “Yeah, you no kidding me?”
Bully shook his head. “No, straight up. No joking,” he said.
“So … no one know
you
got the ticket? Yeah?”
“Well, yeah. No … no one knows.” There was a long pause. He looked at Stan, saw him working things out, doing his own sums, his hand getting heavier. Then he took it away and smiled.
“So no problem! We get Mick to collect money!”
“Yeah … yeah.” Bully didn’t like this idea, not one
bite
of it.
“Good, OK. Let’s go getting him up!”
“You go.”
“No, no, no. We all go!” Stan patted his shoulder, nodded the way. “Come on. You want your money? Yeah? We not far!” Stan sped off and Bully followed along behind, starting to sweat after a few minutes, with Jack’s weight in the bag. He hung back as Stan crossed Shaftesbury Avenue. Stan looked round and waved him across, then when Bully didn’t move, came back for him.
“What you doing? Why you so slow?” Bully didn’t tell him that he didn’t like going out of his territory, because he knew it was stupid. So he looked down, just put one foot in front of the other and followed himself across the road. Still, though, he hung back, didn’t like being rushed into new places. And every so often Stan would stop and hurry him along. It felt weird, shops and buildings all a little bit different to the ones he’d got to know since he’d left the flat.
They were nearly there by the time he started thinking about what he would have to give Mick. Was he going to have to give him half of his half or half of Stan’s half? Or half for everyone? What were three halves? He had never liked fractions, the way the top numbers were always sitting on the bottom ones, all up themselves, and he was stuck on this sum – resenting the maths he was having to do – when he saw the blue lights reflected in the shop window. There were no sirens and the lights were moving slowly. Bully tapped Stan and they both looked away, Bully putting his hat on, pulling it down round his ears.
“Police men,” Stan said, splitting the word up so they sounded like what they were. He never said
Feds
. They waited for the car to go further down the road but it turned the corner into an alleyway, similar to the one Bully bedded down in but much larger, with six or seven eating places backing onto it. In the road was an ambulance and in front of it a big bin truck. One of the grey metal bins was on the back of the truck, two metal arms holding it up in the air. The truck was still making a groaning noise but nothing was moving except the shadow underneath, spreading out into the alleyway.
Stan was in the bin on the back of the truck before the policemen were even out of their car. Black bags came flying out, popping on the warm tarmac. Stan was screaming and shouting all sorts but the only word Bully could make out was
Mick
. All the rest of it was from somewhere else.
He didn’t wait around.
“We got to go back,” he said to Jack, because there was no one else left anywhere near the top of his
“Be fine, be fine…” Stan started walking again. Bully followed him, a little less sure with each step that he’d done the right thing.
“Stan. You got to prove it. Yeah? They
check
, you know. You got a passport?”
That word stopped him, knocked him back on his heels. “Look. I got no papers,” he said quickly, to the ground. “OK? I got no
proof
. You need proof, yeah? I got no proof of me. Nothing. Everything in my country at home.”
Bully didn’t ask where that was because Stan was an illegal. Bully couldn’t remember where he came from, even though he’d told him a couple of times. It was one of those long names. Somewhere
Stan
.
“So how much you won?”
“I dunno. The lot.”
“About, about how much?”
“Millions.”
It was always millions.
“Wow.” Stan wiped his forehead then got close, put his hand on his shoulder to show he was being serious. “Yeah, you no kidding me?”
Bully shook his head. “No, straight up. No joking,” he said.
“So … no one know
you
got the ticket? Yeah?”
“Well, yeah. No … no one knows.” There was a long pause. He looked at Stan, saw him working things out, doing his own sums, his hand getting heavier. Then he took it away and smiled.
“So no problem! We get Mick to collect money!”
“Yeah … yeah.” Bully didn’t like this idea, not one
bite
of it.
“Good, OK. Let’s go getting him up!”
“You go.”
“No, no, no. We all go!” Stan patted his shoulder, nodded the way. “Come on. You want your money? Yeah? We not far!” Stan sped off and Bully followed along behind, starting to sweat after a few minutes, with Jack’s weight in the bag. He hung back as Stan crossed Shaftesbury Avenue. Stan looked round and waved him across, then when Bully didn’t move, came back for him.
“What you doing? Why you so slow?” Bully didn’t tell him that he didn’t like going out of his territory, because he knew it was stupid. So he looked down, just put one foot in front of the other and followed himself across the road. Still, though, he hung back, didn’t like being rushed into new places. And every so often Stan would stop and hurry him along. It felt weird, shops and buildings all a little bit different to the ones he’d got to know since he’d left the flat.
They were nearly there by the time he started thinking about what he would have to give Mick. Was he going to have to give him half of his half or half of Stan’s half? Or half for everyone? What were three halves? He had never liked fractions, the way the top numbers were always sitting on the bottom ones, all up themselves, and he was stuck on this sum – resenting the maths he was having to do – when he saw the blue lights reflected in the shop window. There were no sirens and the lights were moving slowly. Bully tapped Stan and they both looked away, Bully putting his hat on, pulling it down round his ears.
“Police men,” Stan said, splitting the word up so they sounded like what they were. He never said
Feds
. They waited for the car to go further down the road but it turned the corner into an alleyway, similar to the one Bully bedded down in but much larger, with six or seven eating places backing onto it. In the road was an ambulance and in front of it a big bin truck. One of the grey metal bins was on the back of the truck, two metal arms holding it up in the air. The truck was still making a groaning noise but nothing was moving except the shadow underneath, spreading out into the alleyway.
Stan was in the bin on the back of the truck before the policemen were even out of their car. Black bags came flying out, popping on the warm tarmac. Stan was screaming and shouting all sorts but the only word Bully could make out was
Mick
. All the rest of it was from somewhere else.
He didn’t wait around.
“We got to go back,” he said to Jack, because there was no one else left anywhere near the top of his
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