He then picks up the previous issue. He doesn’t notice the front page headline which would have given him a clue as to what is about to follow. Instead he turns to the back page and is chuffed to see ‘The Rovers’ thrashed their rivals, Peterborough 4-1. Then he remembers he hasn’t checked his Euro Lotto ticket from the day he left to go on his holiday. He skips back six pages to where he knows the Lotto results are listed every week without fail.
As he reads the numbers one by one he becomes more excited. He doesn’t want to believe what he is reading until he has found his ticket but the numbers seem very familiar.
Being a creature of habit, he knows it will still be in his desk drawer; the second drawer down on the left is the place he always empties the contents of his pockets each evening. The last time he did this was two weeks ago before he went to take the present to his mum.
He’s not very computer savvy but he is by nature a methodical and highly organised person. His desk is where he runs his business empire from so everything has its place.
As he sits on his Herman Miller Aeron executive chair and puts the ticket on the desk next to the newspaper, he carefully checks the numbers and the grin on his face starts to disappear. He doesn’t recognise the numbers on the ticket at all. It doesn’t take him long to realise this is not his ticket, at least not the one he remembers filling out at the convenience store two weeks ago. He’s sure he used his regular numbers.
He turns the newspaper over to check the date on the front cover and makes sure it’s from the week he went on holiday. As he does so, he reads the front-page headline: ‘Local Homeless Man Wins £168 Million Lotto’.
Then it dawns on him; the ‘human piece of crap’ he’d collided with in the shop. He remembers his ticket had slipped from his grasp for a few seconds with his other goods when they both fell to the floor. Could the tickets have got mixed up?
By now, his anger is quickly rising to boiling point. He screams out a massive “ARRGGGH”, before using a torrent of four letter words.
He starts to pace around the room before moving back through to the lounge where he quickly finds a bottle of ‘Jack Daniels’, his favourite whisky. He pours himself a large glass and downs the contents in one, resisting his urge to smash the glass by throwing it across the room.
Then he picks up the keys to his car and makes for the door.
Chapter Twenty-Two
ST MATTHEW’S CHURCH
For a man of the cloth in his mid-fifties, Wendall Bates, the vicar of St Matthew’s Church is very switched on about all matters of the digital world. He’s read about people contacting you pretending to be a police officer or purporting to be from the bank to get your account details and then emptying the account, and therefore the phone call I made earlier asking to make a donation into the church bank account arouses suspicion,
However, I tell him I understand his concerns and perhaps it would be better if I visit the church and make the donation direct.
This is why, three hours later, as I enter I see Wendall standing next to the altar.
“Hello. I’m James Sheldon.”
“Hello. Wendall Bates. It’s nice to meet you.” He gives me a big genuine grin.
“Wendall, I’ll come straight to the point. I’ve witnessed first-hand the wonderful things you do at the church hall and on Parker’s Piece with the mobile tea stall and I’d like to show my appreciation for what you did when I was in, shall we say, a less-fortunate position.” I put my hand inside my right jacket pocket and pull out a cheque. “I wasn’t sure who to make it out to?” I ask.
“Please make it out to St Matthew’s Church Fund. That would be fine.”
I sit down on one of the pews, take my Parker pen from my inside jacket pocket and add the name to the amount I have already filled in. “I hope this helps with your appeal,” I say as I hand the cheque over.
“We currently need to raise £30,000 for the church roof and any donation helps us enormously,” explains Wendall. He lifts the glasses currently held on a cord and sitting across his chest and looks at the cheque. “I don’t mean to be rude or ungrateful, but I trust this is sincere and not some sort of prank? The cheque is for £30,000, the entire amount we desperately need.”
I give a little laugh. “No, it’s genuine. Before I won the Lotto I was homeless and depended on handouts and when I needed food and drink the kind people associated with this church were on hand to help. This is my way of saying thank you. I just ask one favour and that is my donation remains private. No publicity or details of where it came from.”
“You have my word on that. This is such a relief. Now we can get the work underway. It’s been a big worry for the past few months. God bless you.”
“I think he already has, and now it’s my turn to help others. Thank you for everything your church and the people associated with it are doing for the homeless. From someone who was one of them, I can assure you it really means a lot. I know you get little thanks but deep inside I’m sure every single person you
