Max nodded. “Yes, I used to fly several times a month, Middle East, Africa, Americas, Europe. I sold reprographics machinery on large-scale contracts. The personal touch was good for business.”

The waiter was back. Max tipped him and took a sip of his pint, wiping the condensation from his fingers on his trouser leg.


“I’ve not travelled as much as you have. Dolores, by the way. Dolores Shaw.” She held out her hand.

“Max Swanson,” Max replied, shaking her hand gently.

“I couldn’t afford to travel much. Bargain flights to Spain in the summer; did Florida once. It’s ironic; now that I have a little money, I just need to get out.” She stared into space for a moment, then took a long draw on her gin.

“Something go wrong?” Max prompted.

Dolores nodded, still not making eye contact. “I’m afraid I made it go wrong. I won the lottery. Eight hundred thousand. With a ticket that wasn’t mine.” She finished the rest of the gin and pushed her glass forward. The waiter appeared; she nodded and he went to get her a refill.

She continued. “My uncle. Well, he wasn’t really an uncle. He was a close friend of my late father. After my parents passed away, I would visit him because I knew he was lonely. He used to play chess with my father twice a week and I don’t think there was much else in his life, not after his wife died. Anyways, he used to play the lottery, same numbers every week, and I’d get his ticket for him. I’d get one for myself too - random numbers, different every time - and one week, we both won. My numbers brought in a tenner. His came up eighty thousand times as much. I lied to him. He never used to check the numbers himself. Told him he’d won ten pounds; I took the money that ought to have been his.”

Max stayed silent. It felt as though there was more. Dolores went on