As soon as Sammy began to wade through the Terms and Conditions outlined in The National Lottery’s online Rules For Draw-Based Games, he took a couple of days off work to make further plans. Both mornings, he left as though for work, and spent his time at the local library on further research.
There was no way he would send his claim through the post. He’d have to send it Recorded Delivery for one thing, and the postmaster, that dodgy-looking Mr Sugden, would see the address and blab to the entire village. Either that or he’d nick the ticket for himself. Sammy put a cross in the ‘No Publicity’ option, then noticed that tickets for big prizes had to be presented in person. He couldn’t have Lotto officials turning up at his place, so he’d have to travel to Watford, wherever that was.
In his dream that night, he saw Mr Higgins, the local bank manager, twirling his handlebar moustache.
‘I see your balance is no longer in the red, young man. I congratulate you on your recent win, but I’m afraid there’s a special charge for secrecy on such large sums.’
Sammy woke up in a sweat and spent much of the next morning opening a new online account. Then he filled in the lottery claim form, checked his answers half a dozen times, braced himself…
then bottled out. He read everything through again, cursed himself for being so lily-livered, took a deep breath, and pressed ‘Send’.
He had to rest after this, and though he went to bed, found sleep impossible. He got up, Googled for the prices of a railway ticket to Watford, and wondered what excuse he could come up with for needing to borrow fifty quid from his mam. He comforted himself with the thought of her in a new dressing gown, but couldn’t stop fretting about those ‘necessary checks’ they’d do at Watford.
Yet he’d read the rules over and over. Everything should be fine. The payment would land in his new account, and he’d be a wealthy man. Good old Mrs G!
Mrs G! He tried not to dwell on her. He counted the plaster cracks in the ceiling, eyes smarting from lack of sleep. He supposed he hadn’t the temperament for a life of crime. But he only had to see things through for a short while longer. He showered, made himself a milky drink, and returned to bed. Still he found it impossible to sleep.
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