“The dream machine”

Wie hält ein junger Mann, dessen Leben von einem Augenblick auf den anderen vollkommen umgekrempelt wird, dem Druck der neuen Situation stand? Von JULIAN EARWAKER

We going to the casino tonight?” asks Jamie. “Yeah, come on. I can feel Lady Luck smiling at me,” says Lewis, picking up his bottle of beer.

“Na, I’ve got to go see Sam. I promised,” I reply.

“Come on, Mac!” they say in stereo, making me laugh. We’ve been friends since school, and I like hanging out with Jamie and Lewis, but a promise is a promise. Anyway, if we go to the casino, they’ll expect me to pay for everything.

“Just four more days, right?” says Lewis, making it sound like Christmas is approaching.

“Sure,” I say. “But remember it’s a two-seater, so one of you is losing out first ride.”

I try to sound cool, but we’re talking dream machine here. An Audi R8 Coupé V10 in metallic blue — 0 to 100 km/h in under four seconds. Top speed 320 km/h. Including insurance, it’ll cost me … well, let’s just say a lot. It’s being delivered on Tuesday.

Three months ago, I was working in a warehouse. An on-your-feet-all-day, minimum-wage job with unsociable hours. Ten-hours a day and every minute monitored. Talk about Big Brother!

They say if you gamble, follow the odds. But then no one would ever buy a lottery ticket, would they? For my weekly ticket, I always used a system of celebrity birthdays. Still do. Why stop now? One Saturday, three months ago, I had a feeling so strong that I decided to watch the EuroMillions draw livestream, something I would never normally do. When the numbers came out and matched mine, one after the other, I couldn’t believe it. It was like being told I’d been chosen for a mission to Mars. Impossible!

After another couple of beers, I kick the boys out and go to see Sam. I stop at the corner shop to get some chocolate for Sadie, his daughter. As I’m paying for it at the till, someone taps my shoulder.

“Hey, Mac?” I turn round to see Dean, his empty eyes staring hopefully at mine. Dean hung out with us for a while, but whatever bad stuff happened to him always came our way, too, so we left him behind. I nod, take the chocolate and turn to leave. He holds my elbow.

“Mac, can you lend me a tenner? I need some food and I’m really short.”

“Get your hands off my shirt, man. That’s a Gucci you’re pawing.”

“Sorry, Mac, but I’m hungry.”

“No chance,” I say and leave him there like the loser he is. I walk right past the Big Issue seller outside the shop, too. The world is full of people chasing my money. Forget it! It’s only half a mile to Sam’s block of flats, but it’s like walking into a war zone. I’m looking over my shoulder all the way. Gang tags on the walls and lamp posts. Boys on bikes with knives. This is where I grew up.

Sam is my foster dad. I never knew my real dad, and Mum died when I was 11. They were going to put me and my little sister into care, but Sam stepped in to help. He was our neighbour. He kept us clean, fed and schooled while Mum was in hospital, and he adopted us when she died. After we

grew up and left, Sam got married, but it didn’t work out. So now, he’s a single parent with an eight-year-old daughter. He works at a youth centre and delivers meals to the elderly as a volunteer. The man’s a legend.

“How’s tricks, son?” he asks, giving me a giant hug.

“Life’s good, Sam. Sorry I haven’t been to see you.”

“I expect you’re in demand.” He keeps his voice even, but his eye contact is delivering messages.

“Yeah, just like you told me. You wanna play?”

“Only if you like losing.”

Sam and me have been playing League of Legends since I was little. He plays a mean game for an old man of nearly 50. While he hooks up his computer to the TV, I think about what Sam just said. In demand. He had warned me about the so-called friends who would suddenly turn up, the phone calls, texts, e-mails and letters I would receive. Every week, I shred a mountain of begging letters. Winning 65 million euros. Me? It’s unreal, still.

I’m 26 years old, single and rich. Unemployed, too, until I figure out what to do next. I tried giving money to Sam, but he wouldn’t accept it. Told me to see an accountant friend of his instead, who helped me to put the money into a trust. I pay myself a fixed sum each month, but I’ve already burnt most of this year’s money on the car.

I’m focused on the game, figuring out a way to destroy Sam’s nexus, when a little girl in pink pyjamas walks in.

“Hi, Sadie,” I say.

“How’s it going?” She ignores me completely, stares ahead like she always does. She walks right in front of the screen, so I lose my concentration. She picks up her book from the floor and walks straight back out before I can give her the chocolate.

“Ain’t her autism cured yet?” I ask Sam. He laughs.

“It’s not that kind of illness, Mac. It’s with her for life, but she’s doing just fine. Here, she painted this for you earlier.” He hands me a picture of a man in a pink sports car. The detail is incredible. Must have taken her hours. Man! I wipe a hand across my eyes.

“She’s sad ’cos her youth club is closing down,” says Sam.

“No way!”

“Local authority cutbacks. Apparently, it takes 85,000 quid a year to run that place.”

“Really?” I whistle, and turn back to the game. But inside, something is stabbing me up bad enough to bleed. Sam wins our battle easily. Truth is, my mind isn’t fully on Legends. Tuesday comes round fast, like it’s racing to get here. Lewis is first to arrive, then Jamie.

“Sit down, I got some bad news,” I say.

“I had a call from my accountant. A couple of investments have turned bad. I’ve had to pull the car deal.”

“You’re joking,” says Lewis. He looks completely gutted.

“No sweat,” says Jamie, picking up the local paper from my doormat. “How much you lose?”

“Enough,” I reply, plugging in the FIFA 20. Maybe some football will cheer them up.

“Wow! See this?” says Jamie, reading from the paper.

“Someone has given 170,000 quid to that youth club on Berwick Street.”

“Oh, yeah?” I say. “Who?”

“Anonymous,” says Jamie, struggling to say the word.

“What’s that about? If I was giving money away, I’d be shouting it from the rooftops.”

“Giving money away? Madness,” says Lewis. “Whatever,” I say, looking up at the framed picture of a man in a pink sports car hanging on my wall. A dream machine.