Game Theory (7 page)

I think that was when she started to truly believe. She looked from the screen to her ticket and then back again. She still looked dazed.

‘That's the good news,' I said. ‘The bad news is three other people got them as well. That means you only got a quarter of the division-one prize.'

‘How much?' she said.

I paused. I really wanted to draw this out, but in the end I couldn't bring myself to do it.

‘Seven million, five hundred thousand,' I said.

‘Fuck me,' she said. ‘I've won a quarter of seven million dollars?'

‘No,' I replied. ‘The pool was thirty mill. Seven and a half million is your share.'

CHAPTER 7

There are many reported cures for hangovers.
Raw eggs with a dash of Worcestershire sauce. Stacks of painkillers, obviously. Some say three litres of tap water will do the trick. In my admittedly limited experience, winning seven and a half million dollars on the lotto is the most dramatic remedy.

Summerlee jumped to her feet, the ticket clutched in her hand. I don't think you could have prised it loose with a crowbar. She took the phone from me and scrutinised it again. Held it up to the ticket, compared the numbers. Then she went to the computer where Phoebe was compiling a PowerPoint presentation, wrestled the mouse from her hand and shoved her out of the computer chair.

‘Hey,' said Phoebe. ‘I'm doing my homework.'

‘Never mind, mouse,' said Summer. ‘This is important.'

‘So is my homework.'

‘No, it isn't. Not at the best of times and certainly not now.'

Summer closed the presentation without saving it. It was something to do with Egypt, because most of the images contained pyramids. I also caught sight of a camel before it vanished into the ether. Phoebe wailed.

‘I've spent hours on that,' she said.

‘You should save your work,' Summerlee replied. ‘Your fault, mouse.'

‘But
you
could have saved it,' wailed Phoebe. ‘It came up with a “save changes” option and you . . .'

‘Too bad, so sad,' said Summer. Her hands raced over the keyboard, bringing up the Google search box. I watched in silence. I could understand that she would need independent confirmation. In her position I would have been doing exactly the same. ‘Anyway,' Summer continued. ‘If all of this is for real, I'll buy you a fucking pyramid, all right?'

‘Watch your language,' said Phoebe. She'd stopped grizzling by now, though her mouth was set into one of those formidable lines.

Summer found the site, brought up the numbers. They were still the same, for the very good reason that it was the identical site I'd got on my phone. She went over it again. And again. Checked the pool prize. Examined the numbers again. Finally, not even Summerlee could fail to accept the truth. She was a millionaire. She slumped back into the chair.

‘Fucking hell,' she said. ‘I've won.'

‘Watch your language,' said Phoebe. ‘What have you won?'

There was silence for a good thirty seconds.

‘What have you won?' said Phoebe. ‘What?'

Summer leaped up from the chair and grabbed Phoebe by the hands. She twirled her round and round, an old-fashioned barn dance routine or something from one of those period dramas where everyone is in frock coats or massive flouncy dresses. Phoebe leaned back, her hair flying, and for the first time a smile cracked the veneer of her annoyance. I smiled. They swirled around the front room, faster and faster, shrieking. Finally, they came to a halt. Phoebe staggered a few steps and plopped herself down on the sofa. Summer fell to the floor, her arms outstretched, a huge smile on her face.

‘I've won the lotto, mouse,' she said. ‘I've only gone and won the fucking lotto.'

‘Watch your language,' said Phoebe. ‘How much?'

‘Seven and a half million dollars. That's how much. Seven point five million big ones. What do you think about that, Phoebes the rodent?'

Phoebe put a hand to her mouth. Her eyes were huge. No one said anything for ten seconds or so.

‘Fuck me,' said Phoebe.

Summer and I cracked up. We laughed until our sides hurt and tears ran down our faces. I think it was the last time either of us was truly happy.

Summer insisted I go with her to the shop where she'd bought the tickets.
It was a Sunday and I thought it was unlikely they would be able to scoop seven and a half million from the cash drawer and redeem her winning entry. But I was curious about how all this worked, so I was happy to tag along. Phoebe came with us as well. She was so excited I don't think we could have stopped her anyway.

‘Do you want me to put the ticket in my wallet, Summer?' I asked. ‘Keep it safe.'

‘I'm not letting it out of my sight,' she replied. Or her grasp, as it turned out. She held it tightly scrunched in her hand. Even when we got to the shop she was reluctant to release the vice-like grip of her fingers.

‘Can I help you?' said the guy behind the counter, in a tone that suggested he wasn't the slightest bit interested in following through on the question. He was about my age and had asymmetrical hair. For some reason I've always distrusted people with asymmetrical hair.

‘I've won something on the lotto,' said Summer. She offered up the ticket but her fingers were white around the knuckles and she didn't let it go. The guy took hold of the small amount of ticket not buried in Summer's fist, but even then she didn't release it. He glanced at my sister and raised an eyebrow. For a couple of seconds I thought they would remain locked in a completely pointless tug of war, but finally Summer relinquished it. It clearly took a monumental effort of will. The guy, exuding an aura of
practised boredom, scanned the ticket into a machine on the counter. I guess he was expecting to pay out twenty bucks, maybe a hundred.
Been there, done that. Ho, hum, life is tedious
. But what the machine told him caused his eyes to bug out. He shook his head as if clearing it of hallucinations and his asymmetrical hair swung in an annoying fashion. He moved his head closer to the machine, then took a pace back. Then he brought his eyes right up to the display. They bulged even further.

‘My God,' he said. ‘You're a division-one winner.' His voice was hushed and awestruck.

‘I know,' said Summer.

‘You've won seven and a half million dollars,' he said.

‘I know,' said Summer.

If anything, the guy was more excited than Summerlee. After he got over the initial shock, he insisted on having his picture taken with her. I had to operate his mobile and take countless snaps of him with his arm around Summer's shoulder, my sister brandishing the ticket, which she'd reclaimed with indecent haste. He called over his fellow employees and they had their photographs taken as well. It quickly became a carnival atmosphere in the store. A few customers joined in, laughing and whooping. ‘I've never sold a division-one ticket,' the guy kept repeating in reverential tones. ‘It's amazing.' I thought this was a strange reaction. I mean, it wasn't as if
he
was going to be seeing any of the money, but apparently that didn't dampen his enthusiasm. He appeared positively orgasmic to be in the presence of someone
who, in an instant, was worth far more than he could ever hope to earn in his lifetime. He
admired
Summerlee. It was like he was in the presence of an A-list celebrity.

Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised at his reaction. After all, he had asymmetrical hair.

Eventually, we found out that Summer would have to wait a few weeks before the money came through. An employee rang the lotto company, confirmed the winning ticket and then took down Summer's bank details. She wasn't impressed with the apparent delay in getting the money. I guess Summer was still hoping there might be the odd seven and a half mill floating around in the cash register. We finally left the store, staff and customers patting her on the back and all of us grinning like lunatics. The ticket was back in Summer's hand and her knuckles were white again.

‘What are Mum and Dad going to say?' Phoebe piped up. Our parents had left the house early in the morning to visit our grandma at her residential home a few hours' drive away. We never went with them on these monthly trips. Grandma had long since forgotten who we were. She didn't even recognise Mum or Dad, so it was pretty pointless.

‘They are going to shit themselves,' predicted Summer. ‘They are going to poop their parental pants, mouse.'

Phoebe laughed.

‘I'm so glad my numbers came up, Summer,' I said.

‘Whaddya on about?'

‘The winning numbers. Remember? I wrote them down for
you. 10, 13, 27, 28, 39 and 41. You said they sounded good and boy, you were right.'

‘I don't know what you mean, Jamie,' she said. ‘I just picked all the numbers at random.' I noticed she didn't meet my eye.

‘Whoa, hang on, Summer,' I said. I couldn't let her get away with this. I wasn't expecting a share of the winnings – well, maybe a gift for services rendered wouldn't be out of the ball park, but it wasn't like I was going to sue her for half, or anything. This was a matter of principle. I
had
given her those numbers. What I wanted was acknowledgement, nothing more. It was only fair and it wasn't going to cost her anything. ‘You had 1 through to 6, as well. The very numbers I said were a really bad idea, according to game theory. You can't tell me you've forgotten that.'

‘No,' said Summer. ‘I remember you mentioning them so I put them down as a joke. But the winning numbers – they were mine.'

I stopped in the street. This could get nasty. I felt a knot of resentment building in my throat. Summer didn't stop, however. She kept on walking. Phoebe halted somewhere between the two of us, looking back and forth. In the end I forced myself to catch up with my sister. I started to work through possible explanations. Maybe Summerlee had simply forgotten that I'd provided the numbers. She'd entered them and another ten others and simply couldn't recall where they came from. But I knew it wasn't that. She damn well knew they were my numbers. Even now, she couldn't give me anything, not even a small glow of satisfaction.

‘I don't want any money, if that's what you're thinking,' I said to her back. ‘But I know those numbers were mine. And
you
know it. Why can't you just say thanks? Why do you have to be such a bitch about it?'

She stopped then and turned to face me, hands on hips. The ticket was still clutched in her right hand.

‘Fuck off, Jamie,' she said. ‘This is where it all begins, isn't it? I've won some money and now you're trying to weasel in on it. I tellya. I've read about shit like this. Family and friends turn against you. Everyone wants a piece of the action. Don't worry, brother dear. I dare say you'll get what's coming to you. But I will not hear that, basically,
you
won the fucking lotto. I did it.
I
did and don't you forget it.'

She took off again. Phoebe looked from me to Summerlee, torn. Then she trotted after her sister, took her by the hand. Summer's left hand. I watched them disappear down the street, the sound of drumming blood loud in my ears. I was brimming with rage. It seeped from my skin, like sweat. They
were
my numbers. She could keep the money. I didn't want a cent. But I'm a mathematician and they were my numbers. Eventually, I calmed down sufficiently to drag myself home. I couldn't bear to look at my older sister and she wasn't interested in seeing me either. She and Phoebe played Monopoly. Great joke. I went to my room to brood.

I'd read about situations like this, as well. And I knew that lotto winners were often destined to crash and burn, and that
families and friends were nearly always casualties. Wealth changes people, normally for the worst.

Trouble was, Summerlee was starting from a pretty low benchmark to begin with.

Phoebe reported back to me later about Mum and Dad's reaction.
I couldn't bring myself to come down the stairs when I heard the crunch of tyres on gravel. Seems there was the normal euphoria as the news sank in, but then it rapidly turned pear-shaped.

Mum did all the stuff about avoiding publicity, warning her daughter that there were nasty people out there who would try to take advantage. Dad weighed in with suggestions about financial advisors, even proposing that she put the money into a trust fund where she couldn't touch the capital until she was twenty-five. He did some quick calculations on his computer and told her that the interest alone on seven and a half million would bring her hundreds of thousands of dollars a year. More than the Prime Minister earned. Dad likes numbers, too.

Summer's reaction was predictable. It was her money and she wouldn't be told what to do with it. As for putting the cash into a trust fund – were they mad? You only live once, she told them. She was going to have fun while she was young enough to enjoy it. And beneath her sad, predictable bluster there was that underlying element of suspicion. Phoebe didn't pick up on it, but I sensed it even through her reporting. Mum and Dad had an agenda. Suddenly, Summerlee was a target for other people's
greed and she wasn't going to stand for it. The walls she had so carefully built around her would become reinforced.

Eventually, none of us would ever find a way in and she would languish in a fortress of her own making, convinced she was under siege.

Summerlee left home that evening. Spider picked her up and they booked into a swish hotel in the city. She still had some savings from her job at the supermarket and her credit card wasn't quite maxed out.

She never came home again.

CHAPTER 8

This is true.
There was a rock concert way back in the nineteen-sixties, at a place called Woodstock in America, and all the big bands and artists of the time were playing. They did it in this farmer's field, and it wasn't a buy-the-tickets-in-advance deal. You just rocked up. So the organisers had no idea how many people would show. In fact, no one knows even now. Some say there were a couple of hundred thousand, others well over half a million. What's
not
in doubt is that the concert was so freaking brilliant it took on legendary status.