Globetrotter

Stood in the middle of the stalls, Michael internalised his surroundings: the stampede of hooves, the jeers of winners and losers, the smell of beer and stale cigarettes wafting from one side of the viewing platform, the smell of perfume and wealth emanating from behind the red velvet rope at the other. Turning towards that red velvet rope, a look of contempt creeping upon his face, he thought it funny how he could be looking beyond it with the same judgemental eyes that were likely watching him from within. The disdain felt between those at different levels of the social hierarchy was no stronger felt than at the horse racing - a pageantry of the classes where one specimen may view the other; a human zoo of sorts. Those at the lower end of the spectrum complained of the haughty, entitled demeanour of those at the upper end, who in turn looked upon them as uncivilised and crass.

Michael began to notice that he was obstructing those jostling towards the betting window, a few disgruntled shoves near causing him to lose his footing. When the target is a potential increase of wealth, rich or poor won’t let anyone stand in their way, so it seems.

Michael, in turn, was looking to increase his monetary standing, although not through the traditional betting mechanism. Well aware of the large amount of cash people brought with them to the races, and also of the little regard they had for their possessions after the eighth unit of alcohol, Michael was not looking for the most agile-looking horse; he was searching for a human target.

His grand prize took the form of a wealthy-looking, pinstripe-suit-clad man who had spent his day belligerently shouting orders at whichever staff member happened to be closest to him. The most common demand: another bottle of champagne, “and tell the waitress I might tip better if she smiled more”.

Drunk and looking to win back the money he’d spent at the bar, the man headed for the betting windows. Michael was awaiting him, waiting for the opportune moment which, considering the man was already staggering from overindulgence, did not take long. A surge in the crowd destabilized his footing and, with a little barge of the shoulder, Michael assisted in bringing him to the ground. Michael, not even receiving a grunt in thanks after heavy-handedly hauling the man to his feet, reflected that the content of the man’s pockets would serve as gratitude enough.

Waiting until he was a safe distance away, Michael inspected his winnings: a designer wallet and a leather-bound black notebook. Opening the wallet, he was disappointed to see little over £200, he had expected more after watching the man ride quite an impressive winning streak. Pocketing the cash and turning his attention to the book, he absentmindedly flicked to the first page. Seeing only the word ‘Globetrotter’, he flicked to the next page, which read ‘Red Ruby’, and the next, on which was written ‘Blue-Eyed Swan’, before closing it. Thinking it worthless, Michael went to toss the book away when his attention was snatched by an announcement of the final race of the day. One thing in particular stood out, the name of a horse: Globetrotter.

So this was how the man was doing it, this was clearly a book of tips! Michael, excitement welling within him, strode to the betting window, pulled the stolen £200 from his pocket and placed it all on Globetrotter, odds 10/1. His initial feeling of apprehension at placing a whole day’s work on a horse was soon quelled by Globetrotter taking an instantaneous lead and maintaining it, finishing with the biggest lead of any of the horses that day.

Now with £2,000 in hand, he clumsily fumbled the notes into his wallet as he headed towards the exit. With a tunnelled vision fixated only on the luxuries this could afford him, if only for a week or so, he missed a step, tripping and scattering his winnings, as well as the black book that earned them for him, to the ground. His reverie broken, a frantic scramble ensued as he expected vultures that had suffered an unlucky day to swoop and steal the notes from the pool around him. All eyes, however, had a different focal point.

Fierce blue lights flashing ahead foretold of travesty, confirmed by an ebbing of the crowd, standing aside for paramedics rushing forth, stretcher in arms. Attention shifting to the unfurling scene, Michael looked towards the stretcher, and his eyes locked upon the man in the pinstripe suit, limp with an oxygen mask strapped over his mouth. His half-conscious eyes rolled around their sockets, searching for a place to land until they met the arrangement of items strewn around Michael. Something changed in the man’s expression, his formerly inert form filled with a strange new energy, contorting into unnatural forms with a face twisted into an expression that simultaneously told of pain, desperation and desire. Beginning to heave himself from the stretcher, one panicked paramedic held him down whilst another plunged a syringe full of sedatives into his arm. Once again prostrate on the stretcher, he was dragged into the ambulance.

The next day, trying to forget the ferocity of the man’s stare, Michael headed, little black book of tips in hand, to a nearby corner shop to search the betting papers for his next big ticket, Red Ruby. He hardly noticed the looming figure of a homeless man approach him before he grunted:

“Spare any change?”

“I’m sorry mate, I’ve barely six quid to my name. You’re better off asking that lady across the street, I just saw her getting out of a car that’s got to be worth at least fifty grand.”

Moving swiftly past so as not to give him opportunity to reply, Michel darted into the shop and made a beeline for the newspapers, ripping into the sports section.

“This isn’t a library! You either buy it or leave it” came the disgruntled shout of the shopkeeper.

Michael picked up an armful of papers and placed them down by the till. He looked about the counter, perusing the haphazard display of items when he saw, through the reflection of his wide-eyed stare in a Perspex scratch card container, a card with the name ‘Red Ruby Roulette’.

“I-I’ll take a number seven with that as well” he faltered, pointing at the garishly red card.

This surely could not be anything more than coincidence. There couldn’t be any way this was connected to the writing in the book; he was just attaching meaning to it because he had a lucky day yesterday. Still, even if nothing came of it, a £2 scratch card isn’t much of a risk for the potential reward.

With endless questions cluttering his mind, Michael couldn’t wait to scratch the film and unveil his potential fortune. One cartoon ruby revealed itself, then another. With bated breath he uncovered a third ruby in a row, the pattern needed for a win. His hand shaking so much he need hardly put any effort into scratching the card; he unveiled his winnings, £18,000.

A strange blend of fear and excitement shuddered through Michael. He slipped the black book from his pocket, first regarding it and then the winning scratch card. How could it be that an inanimate object was governing his fortune? £20,000 had now been won from his following its direction. How much more could be attained through following it? In a haze, he left the shop.

“Help! Please!” an unseen source screamed.

Michael instinctually ran to whence the screams were coming and saw, to his horror, the older lady he had seen climbing from her car falling to the ground after having her handbag violently snatched away by the same homeless man he had pointed in her direction. Michael rushed to her side and found her clutching her chest. Looking into his eyes beseechingly, she wheezed,

“My heart medication was in that bag.”

“I’m calling you an ambulance. Just stay with me, ok?” Michael encouraged as he called 999.

Becoming weaker, the woman’s hands slipped from her chest to the ground, revealing a blue-eyed swan emblazoned on the breast pocket of her jacket. A tinny voice said something from the other end of the phone but Michael was not listening, the remembrance of the book’s third page stifling him into inaction.

He checked the pocket and found within it a lottery ticket with tomorrow’s date and ‘£52 MILLION JACKPOT’ written upon it. He regarded the phone, finger hovering over the end call symbol. His choice was this: save the woman or save having to work for the rest of his life.

He ended the call.

Later that night, drunk, in a brand-new suit, swinging a half-empty bottle of champagne from one hand, Michael sauntered his way home from a high-end bar. Already living like he had a net worth of £52 million, he had spent the night buying bottle after bottle, spraying them around like a Formula One winner. Stopping, Michael pulled the lottery ticket from his pocket and kissed it. With the intention of doing the same to the black book he thrust his hand into the pocket that contained it only to find it empty. Frantically patting his body as if engaged in some ritualistic dance, Michael’s expression dropped as the reality sunk in: it was gone.

Smashing the bottle to the ground, he ran. With a startlingly fast return to relative sobriety, he remembered the last place he had had it was the bar and angled himself in that direction. Though in one pocket he held what seemed a guaranteed £52 million, the promise of more held within the pages of that book egged him on. His greed had surpassed his rationale.

Flinging the bar door open, he began his search, upturning tables and chairs, his hands and knees growing sticky from crawling on the alcohol-soaked floor. With all other avenues returning no results, the bathroom was his last resort. Having checked every other stall, he entered the final one in the row, defeated. Head in hands, he bowed his body forward as if weeping and, in one final act of misfortune, the lottery ticket flew from his breast pocket and wedged itself in the piping behind the toilet.

With the book already snatched from him, he would be damned if he let this ticket slip away too. With one hand on the porcelain lid of the toilet tank he was able to position himself so his other was only centimetres away from his prize, just one little push and… Got it!

“Hello?”

Startled by the voice of the stranger, Michael’s supporting hand slipped, dislodging the toilet tank and sending the lid crashing down upon his head. Pain seared over his head as a sticky wetness oozed from the spot that had been struck. His vision began to vignette, darkened edges creeping inwards, taking over from sight, consciousness slipping away. The final sight before the blackness took over was his unfurling hand releasing the lottery ticket and allowing it to slip under the cubicle door.

“Hello? I found a black book on the floor outside, does it belong to anyone in here?”

With no response, the stranger turned to leave the bathroom when he spotted the lottery ticket lying in the middle of the floor. Thinking no harm in picking it up, he did so, and slotted it into the first page of the black book.

The bar nearly empty and it close to closing time, he decided to give up his hunt for the book owner and call it night. Pulling out his phone, dialling a number and holding it to his ear, he said:

“Hello, I’d like a taxi from Tavistock Street. I’ll be outside a bar, it’s called… excuse me mate, what’s the name of this place?” he said, gesturing to a staff member.

“The Globetrotter.”