Some of us came from the factories, sons and daughters of coal miners and steel workers. Others were the children of doctors and professors. We were brothers, sisters, neices and nephews, friends, colleagues and lovers. You saw us only through what we did; the ways in which we toiled. We created glories, memories, happiness, and you took it all to the bank. Cash in hand you led us to nightclubs, bought us drinks and fast cars. We hatched plans and got drunk, occasionally made the news. And now we are gone and the obituaries written. You smile, averting your eyes.
Oh come on, man.
No. No more. You’ll just lose it.
I won’t. I’ve been tipped off. It’s a sure thing.
You’ve said that before.
Just £20. The odds will sort us out.
You’ve said that before too.
And I won.
You didn’t. You fucked off and I was out of pocket for months.
But I gave you it back. And I did win.
Did you? How much?
I got good odds.
How much did you win?
With my money.
But you gave it to me.
Where’s your winnings?
I spent it. But come on, just another £20.