So that’s £4,950,000. Oh, and I need £6,000 to pay off all my credit cards and overdraft. Plus £300 for Suze. Call it £7,000. So that leaves . . . £4,943,000.

Obviously, I’ll do loads for charity. In fact, I’ll probably set up a charitable foundation. I’ll support all those unfashionable charities that get ignored, like skin diseases and home helps for the elderly. And I’ll send a great big check to my old English teacher, Mrs. James, so she can restock the school library. Perhaps they’ll even rename it after me. The Bloomwood Library.

Oh, and £300 for that swirly coat in Whistles, which I must buy before they’re all snapped up. So how much does that leave? Four million, nine hundred and forty-three thousand, minus—

“Excuse me.” A voice interrupts me and I look up dazedly. The woman behind is trying to get at the pen.

“Sorry,” I say, and politely make way. But the interruption has made me lose track of my calculations. Was it 4 million or 5 million?

Then, as I see the woman looking at my bit of paper covered in scribbled numbers, an awful thought strikes me. What if one of my rejected sets of numbers actually comes up? What if 1 6 9 16 23 44 comes up tonight and I haven’t entered it? All my life, I’d never forgive myself.

I quickly fill in tickets for all the combinations of numbers written on my bit of paper. That’s nine tickets in all. Nine quid—quite a lot of money, really. I almost feel bad about spending it. But then, that’s nine times as many chances of winning, isn’t it?

And I now have a very good feeling about 1 6 9 16 23 44. Why has that particular set of numbers leapt into my mind and stayed there? Maybe someone, somewhere, is trying to tell me something.

Four

WHEN I ARRIVE AT my parents’ house, they are in the middle of an argument. Dad is halfway up a stepladder in the garden, poking at the gutter on the side of the house, and Mum is sitting at the wrought-iron garden table, leafing through a Past Times catalogue. Neither of them even looks up when I walk through the patio doors.

“All I’m saying is that they should set a good example!” Mum is exclaiming. She’s looking good, I think as I sit down. New hair color—pale brown with just a hint of gray—and a very nice red polo-neck jumper. Perhaps I’ll borrow that tomorrow.

“And you think exposing themselves to danger is a good example, is it?” replies Dad, looking down from the ladder. He’s got quite a few more gray hairs, I notice with a slight shock. Mind you, gray hair looks quite distinguished on him. “You think that would solve the problem?”

“Danger!” says Mum derisively. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Graham. Is that the opinion you really have of British society?”

“Hi, Mum,” I say. “Hi, Dad.”

“Becky agrees with me. Don’t you, darling?” says Mum, and points to a page of Past Times, full of 1930s reproduction jewelry and trinket boxes. “Lovely cardigan,” she adds sotto voce. “Look at that embroidery!” I follow her gaze and see a long, purple coatlike garment covered in colorful Art Deco swirls. I’d save the page and get it for her birthday—if I didn’t know she’ll probably have bought it herself by next week.