If I had any doubts about him or his motives, I wouldn’thave done it. But I had already seen that he had looked after my daughter wellfor several years when he was the one bringing in the bulk of their earnings. Iknew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t want to be with her now justbecause she was rich.
So that was another timeline potentially in existence, onewhere Stacey had won the lottery, as opposed to the one where she hadn’t.Whether the original timeline had now vanished, or if it would be just anotherduplicate I still had no way of telling.
It was more important now that I looked to the past to findout what had happened to Stacey when she was sixteen and try to put it right.
Indulgence
June 2021
Stacey graduated in June which meant that she was soon toleave me again, heading back to university in Southampton for her final term.This was to form the pattern of the next three years: her spending holidayswith me, and term times away.
To pass some time, I decided to have a bit of fun with thehorse racing again. One of the bookmakers that advertised on television wascurrently running an advertising campaign that I found incredibly irritating. Ihad also heard that this particular bookmaker was notorious for banning orrestricting horse racing punters who dared to have the audacity to back morethan their fair share of winners.
So one Monday, forearmed with the knowledge of the day’sresults, I decided to have a little fun at their expense.
I went into one of their betting shops in a town a few milesaway from Oxford and placed a £10 accumulator on six horses running thatafternoon. I’d worked out that the accumulative odds of the starting prices ofthese horses would add up to just under £1,000,000. This was the maximum limitthat the bookmaker offered for winnings on horse racing.
After I put the money on, I found myself a comfy chair andwaited for the action to unfold. I more or less had the place to myself. Otherthan a couple of pensioners betting rip-off forecasts on the lunchtime dograces, and a few depressed-looking men pouring money into the roulettemachines, the place was deserted.
Nobody took a lot of notice of me, as the first two horsesduly won at odds of 2/1 and 5/1. It probably wasn’t that unusual for a punterto get two winners up like that. The bored-looking girl behind the counterseemed oblivious to what was going on.
However, after the third horse had won at 20/1, I saw herlooking at me, and she called her manager out from the office to look atsomething on the computer. Clearly, the bet had been flagged up as one withpotential liabilities.
I had £3780 going on to the next horse at 9/1. When this wentin, my winnings had risen to £37,800. The manager came out from behind thecounter.
“Is this your bet, sir?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “There’s not a problem, is there?
“Not at all,” he said, cheerfully. “I just like to get toknow my customers,” he said.
A couple of other punters were nosing around now to see whatwas happening. The shop had got progressively busier as the afternoon had wornon.
“What’s the craic, here?” asked one, a pensioner with anIrish accent.
I thought I’d let the punters join in the fun, why not? “Oh,I’ve got an accumulator running up,” I said. “First four have gone in already.”
“How much has he got to come, Brian?” asked another, whoreminded me a bit of Josh’s dad.
“I can’t tell you that, client confidentiality,” said themanager, as he headed back behind the counter. He didn’t seem remotely botheredby proceedings. It wasn’t his money after all: he was just an employee. Iguessed his superiors at head office were already aware of my bet. Presumablyall of the tills were linked up via the internet.
“It’s alright, I don’t mind,” I said, and showed the puntersthe slip.
“Blimey, you’ve got thousands running up here,” said theGeoff lookalike. “Hey, Nobby, come and have a look at this.” He gestured to asmartly dressed man with a small beard who just happened to be carrying a smallpocket calculator. “Nobby will work it out for you.”
I’d already worked it out, but Nobby glanced at the slip,then at the screen and without resorting to his calculator said, “Bloody hell,you’ve got £37,800 running up here,” loudly enough for the remainder of theshop’s punters to gather round.
They had a sniff of a possible big win and were all rightbehind me. Perhaps they wanted to unite behind one of their number who might beabout to strike a major blow at their old enemy. More likely it was justbecause they were hoping I might splash some of the winnings their way if thebet came off.
I had no reason to suspect that the bet would not pay off;however, I was about to discover that not everything I read in the followingday’s papers was set in stone. The fifth horse duly won, generating muchexcitement from the shop’s punters who sensed they might be witnessing aonce-in-a-lifetime moment, but something was wrong.
I clearly recalled the price of the horse being 4/1 when I’dmemorised the results from the paper, but when the starting prices werereturned from the course, the official price was 3/1.
What was happening here? Had I made a mistake? It turned outthat I had, but it wasn’t my memory that was in error.
As the last race approached, all eyes were on the screen tosee what price my last selection would be. It had £151,200 going onto it,though it should have been £189,000. I clearly remembered that my final horse, HotGirl, had also started at 4/1, but I could see as the race approached that itwas going to start at nowhere near that price.
It opened at 7/4 on course and the price instantly began todrop, to 6/4, and then 5/4.
Unlike the other punters who were in a major state ofexcitement, Nobby was frowning and
