1. The deadline was all he could hear. “Midnight tonight.”
Those two words resounded again and again in his head.
There was no respite. 180 days and nights had passed since
he’d watched one ball follow another and another. Each one
branded with his number. The first five numbers formed his
date of birth. The sixth number of the winning set was
seven. Seven, the number that hung on his front door,
albeit upside down appearing as the letter L. He had been
using the same numbers since the advertising campaign
saturated television, cinema, newspapers, magazines and
billboards. Even the only bus on the island was splashed
with the slogan: “It could be you”. 180 days ago he was
that “you”.
“For those of you who live on the Highlands and Islands of
Scotland,” the girl from the lottery show had said,
“Please, please look in every drawer, in every pocket,
under your floorboard, under your mattress, in your sofa,
your chair, everywhere and anywhere, as one of you has yet
to collect your share of the jackpot. And that share is…
wait for it… a massive £360 000. Remember, the lines close
at midnight tonight.”
He knew he had bought his tickets in Oban, on the west
coast of Scotland. He bought his monthly shopping, and he
always bought his lottery tickets on the same day at the
same time at the same place. He would be on automatic pilot
- the food he bought, the whiskey (Irish because he had a
personal gripe with Scotland), the lemonade, indeed
everything was the same month after month. The only thing
that ever changed was where his stuff was shelved.

2. He was in his bedroom turning everything upside down and
inside out. Drawers were being ripped from their chest with
venom. Socks, many with holes in them, ill fitting boxer
shorts, his 3 Glasgow Celtic T-shirts, the 3 green jumpers,
Christmas presents from his boys, jeans, shirts missing of
buttons, and finally his treasured Celtic strip adorned
with autographs of the 1963 European Cup winning team, he
had won in a raffle were shaken, before being dumped onto
the bed.
Jeans and trousers were having their pockets turned out. He
tore into one jacket, believing the paper concealed in the
lining was his ticket. The paper was an old £1 note.
He continued to curse and swear as he had done for months.
His vocabulary was limited at the best of times, but now
expletive followed expletive, ranging in pitch from soprano
to tenor, but with a menacing edge. The bedding was removed
and the bed turned over. The wardrobe was moved. The chest
of drawers moved. The centre of his bedroom now hosted a
growing mountain of his life. A life he fully intended
leaving in his wake.
The red mist was returning; the red mist that had made him
the recluse that he was; the recluse that he himself didn’t
so much enjoy but endured. The red mist that had lost him
his wife, his sons and his dog, that hung over the house
and the life now lived.
Having rearranged the bedroom he transferred his growing
frustration onto the bathroom, emptying the towel cupboard
and drugs cabinet. There was no real sense in looking in

3. the bathroom, but he needed to look ‘everywhere and
anywhere.’ The ticket would be found in the last place he
looked.
He went into, what was his boys’ room. This was the first
time he had stepped into their room for possibly two maybe
three years. This was the room he tended to avoid; now
serving only to remind him of his loss. He walked around,
breathing in the musty air. The smell of life had long been
sucked into the walls.
He caressed the Glasgow Celtic wallpaper with affection,
which was flaking off the wall exposing aged plaster. 1985,
was the first and last ‘old firm’ [Celtic v Rangers] game
he took his boys to see.
The bare floorboards scarred with paint akin to acne. He
picked up an old Celtic Supporters Association magazine. He
threw the magazine on the floor and grimaced. He was
reminded of the CSA (The Child Support Agency). They
prevented him from seeing his boys. Their ineluctable
pursuit of his money, which never abated had left him
penniless. They aborted his capacity to be a father. The
room was a visual representation of his life: empty, broken
and in a state of decay.
He had to find his ticket. The winning wasn’t about £360000
it was the 360° turn around. His winning would turn his life
full circle, getting his boys back. He would return to the
lowlands. He would take his boys to Celtic Park every week
as he had done, in the good old days.

4. He looked to the clock at the top of the stairs. He looked
at his watch and back to the clock. His face crumpled. A
storm was brewing.
He marched down stairs into the sitting room. His face had
become unrecognizable and his arms had grown thicker, as he
turned the sofa over with one swift flick of his wrists. He
ripped the hessian from its under-side. A few grapes that
had turned to raisins, a bone, belonging to the dog, a
present for his ex-wife, still in Christmas wrapping, a
penknife with tartan sides, some dried peas were trawled
with his large hands. Finally, a toy soldier, missing a
limb, obviously killed in action, was exhumed. He didn’t
have time to recall playing with the toy soldiers with his
two boys, or the castle he had built for them.
The chair was flipped over, the hessian ripped. But, there
was no lottery ticket.
The first sortie on the bookshelf was underway. No
compassion was afforded to any author. P.D. James, Rendell,
Rankin, Christie, Doyle, the Chandler’s, Raymond and Glenn
were fanned with incremental violence.
A noise like a growl forced its way from the depths of his
gut as he snarled at the books and the bookshelf.
He turned and trudged into the kitchen. He poured a large
whiskey into a half pint tumbler and added lemonade to
dilute the heat, took a mouthful and left the glass half
empty. His palate lacked sophistication. There was no

5. pleasure in his drinking. He drank whiskey to get drunk. It
was his only escape.
Armed with his glass, he returned to the sitting room and
continued his violation of literature. Two shelves occupied
by Stephen King were next. One by one they were stripped of
their sleeve and searched. Indeed, one book was agitated
with such ferocity he cracked its spine.
Again, he returned to the kitchen and charged his glass. He
stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting
room. He had a look that said he wasn’t ready to lie down.
He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. No, he wouldn’t allow
himself to be beaten by a deadline.
Herbert followed. His acts of vandalism and gratuitous
violence continued. A pink piece of paper escaped the
clutches of two pages in The Magic Cottage. He knelt down
and stared at the small, flimsy, rectangle of pink paper.
It was a lottery ticket. The lottery ticket
A shriek, likened to that of an animal being murdered,
sliced through the fetid air in the sitting room, before
breaching the walls of the cottage. The fox, the owl, even
the cows some 10 miles away could be forgiven for seeking
refuge such was the depth of his holler.
As he tipped back his head, yet another whiskey was
consumed. He held the ticket to his mouth and kissed each
number as he danced around the sitting room. He skipped
around the mountain of stuff, kicking books, watching them

6. fly across the room and smash into the wall. He didn’t
care. He had £360 000 in his hands. He was singing the
names of his boys as he danced his way into the kitchen.
Placing the ticket in the centre of the bare table, he sat
down and sighed. He poured another half pint tumbler of
whiskey and lemonade.
He looked around for a pen before finding one in the ‘odds
and sods’ jar, and signed the back of his winning ticket.
The ticket was now his. No one could claim the money. He
knew when and where the winning ticket was bought. He had
his boys back.
He wasted no time pouring the remaining whiskey down his
throat then he laced up his boots, put his woolen hat on
his balding head and pulled on his wax-less, waxed jacket.
He would need to travel across the island to the town to
the telephone box.
The CSA were responsible for him not having a phone in the
cottage. This only added fuel to his fiery relationship
with them. There was no way of contacting his boys other
than through the postal service. He wasn’t a writer or a
reader for that matter. The books he had treated with such
contempt belonged to his ex wife.
BT was still no further forward in installing the Internet
to the island, not that there had been much interest. There
were notices on the ferry to and from the mainland warning
tourists about the lack of reception for mobile phones.

7. Again, no one on the island bothered. It tended to be
inconvenient only to tourists.
11:30 was his estimated time of arrival in town. He would
avoid seeing anyone. He normally only went to town to catch
the ferry to the mainland, the day he got his dole cheque,
the first Saturday of every month to be precise. He hadn’t
spent anytime there since she left him taking the boys and
his dog. He didn’t want anyone to know his business. He
would be off the island for good, as soon as he had the
money. No one on the island would miss him.
He skipped upstairs, although he nearly fell over, to raid
his ‘loose change’ bottle. He tipped the coins onto the
floor then filled his pockets with 5p, 10p and 20p pieces
for the phone box. He took more time going down the stairs.
He kicked a few more items as he crossed the living room
before lifting the keys for his ‘Taveller’, from the ‘key
bowl’ in the kitchen.
He stood on the doorstep having closed the back door, and
sucked in the cool fresh air, and smiled at the moon.
He opened the door of the ‘Traveller and eased himself into
the leather seat. Having prodded the key into the ignition,
the engine started first time. His ‘Morris Minor
Traveller’, black with wooden trim, was his baby and had
never failed him. Foot on the clutch, into gear, and he was
driving, with surprising care, out of his muddy drive way
and onto the one-track road to town. He had the ticket in
his right hand in full view, the whole time. The drive
would take him no more than an hour.

8. The clock on the dash showed 10:25 when he set off. The car
was cold inside. He had to wipe the windscreen until the
heater kicked in. His eyes were not truly focused either,
the whiskey had to be taking effect. Singing along to the
radio, although his words and rendition were not
necessarily a true representation of what he was hearing,
he increased his speed. The moon was full. The sky was
midnight blue, filled with twinkling diamonds. The clear
sky was an ideal night for the Aurora Borealis, an ideal
night to become £360 000 richer.
The whiskey was overwhelming his liver, compromising its
ability to metabolize the alcohol in his bloodstream. His
singing was becoming slurred. His eyes were reddening. His
muscle coordination was being put to the test, as was his
ability to drive.
He lifted his wallet from the dashboard and began to rake
through it. Business cards, receipts and pieces of paper,
with messages to himself, were extracted until finally he
found what he was looking for. With tenderness, he eased
the last remaining photograph of his boys. The picture was
ragged down one side where his ex-wife had been. He kissed
the boys twice. He raised his head slightly, peering over
the top of the photograph. Out of nowhere he was blinded by
the sight of a fully, grown cow. He pounced on the brakes
whilst swerving the ‘Taveller’ to avoid impact. He was half
way into a ditch. He shouted to the heavens, swearing at
God. The clock on the dashboard screamed 10:45.

9. He got out of the vehicle ensuring that he wouldn’t trigger
any movement. He opened the back door to get the shovel and
stones, standard in any vehicle on the island. With great
effort stones were shoveled behind all four wheels.
He got back into the car and turned the key. The engine
faltered. He took a deep breath, kissed his kids, kissed
the lottery ticket, apologized to God for his indiscretion
and turned the key again. The engine started. He crossed
himself. Putting the gear in reverse he eased the
‘Traveller’ out of the ditch. 11:10pm. The car was still at
least 40 minutes away from the town.
He set off again, but had reduced his speed to 30mph. His
winning ticket and photograph were still residing in his
right hand, despite his fingers feeling numb.
The clock on the dashboard read 11:50, as the ‘Traveller’
came to rest at the top of the hill, overlooking the small
town. He rested his head on the steering wheel for a moment
before gazing into the horizon. His eyes followed the light
reflection of the moon. The de luxe, velvety, splendor of
the red telephone box sparkled against the midnight sky.
Everything appeared so tranquil and surreal.
He left the car at the top of the hill and walked the few
hundred yards into town. There was one road in and one road
out. Walking to the telephone box, he maintained his grip
on the ticket. Not too tight for fear of tearing his future
apart. Not too loose, for fear of losing what lay ahead. He
was a mere phone call away from his two wonderful boys and
£360 000, a huge sum of money. Huge.

10. He looked out to the horizon with a smile and opened the
door of the phone box. He created pillars of 5, 10, and
20pence pieces on top of the moneybox and took a final
breath before lifting the phone from the receiver. He held
the phone to his ear. The colour drained from his face
leaving him as white as the moon. The dead line was all he
could hear.