Gil’s entire demeanour sang of overconfident charm. His broad, well held shoulders, his wide toothy smile and his expectant eyes made him simply perfect at his job. He shook the heavy red container up and down, and smiled even wider at the hearty sound of change rattling therein.
“Leprosy! But a few pennies will help these children!” He knew it wasn’t true that four pence from the bottom of someone’s bag meant anything, but guilt settled best in a heart when its cure was so attainable, and usually donations ranged from fifty pence to two pounds.
“Good evening girls,” he said to a group of elderly women, smiling cheekily, “spare a penny or two for children with leprosy?” The women began to rummage in their purses for silvers and pound coins and Gil thanked them with a small bow.
“Hello darling,” he said, gliding up next to a young woman. “I ask of you but one thing: A bit of change for children with leprosy, and maybe a phone number. Oh that was two! My apologies!” She smiled coyly, before dropping a two pound coin into the receptacle.
Gil shook the container again, and revelled in its weight. And to think his parents thought he’d never be successful! What would they know anyway? What socially conscious person could call a child born in 1991 Gilbert?! But he certainly had proved them wrong, for each day he collected around two hundred pounds for his cause.
“Any dross for children with leprosy?” he shouted across the square.
He had been out in the gentle spring sun for almost four hours now, and a midday hunger was beginning to creep up on him, so he retreated from his position to the alley between Martin’s and the Handyman. He squeezed the top of the red box hard, and the lid popped off, revealing a pond of glinting silvers. He pulled out just over two pounds, before pushing the lid back on, and walking back across the square to the Gregg’s.
“Two sausage rolls and a coffee please, love,” he said to the petite woman behind the counter. He paid, walked back out into the sun and bit into the lukewarm pastry. He spotted a gaggle of mothers with their pushchairs, stashed his lunch into his jacket pocket and ran over to them.
“What lovely children! Shrapnel for Leprosy?”
His movements were almost mechanical now. He knew exactly who to prey on: The elderly, those with children, and women in their twenties, who he knew couldn’t resist his charm. At first he was not so confident, and shuffled meekly into people’s eye lines, whispering his requests, but with time he had learnt, and he now made quite a healthy living from his deception. How his fortunes had changed since he snatched the red container from the counter of a nearby town’s Sainsbury’s.
It was hard work, being on one’s feet all day, but he excelled nevertheless.
“Coppers for those less fortunate?” he said to an elderly gent, who reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. The sun was now low, the crowd in the square was thinning, and Gil decided it was time to call it a day. He returned to the alley, pulled out enough money for a takeaway and a four pack from the off licence, before dropping the container into his satchel and heading for the southern exit of the square.
He wanted Indian tonight he had decided, but he was still tossing up which outlet to choose. New Dehli, Ruby Spice or the Star? They each had their own merits, but which suited him tonight?
Being so involved in his inner dispute, Gil hadn’t notice that the old man from before was standing in his way on the pavement, and he only just looked up in time to stop.
“Everything Ok, sir?” he asked.
“I saw what you did, taking that money. People trust you, and you let them down.”
“What nonsense!” replied Gil coolly. He had played this moment through in his mind before, and it was obvious that the man couldn’t back up his claims. “Let me past please.”
He pushed past the old man, and as he wandered off he heard something about it catching up with him, which he ignored. The Star of Bengal. He had made his decision. Excellent Peshwari naan, and he was usually offered a free cobra.
***
The next morning Gil was back on the square at seven thirty AM. Saturday was his best day, and the overcast weather would bring even more people into the town centre, meaning he may make upwards of three hundred pounds.
“Any amount will help these kids,” he said, sidling up to a woman who was laboriously dragging herself along the pavement with her walking stick. She stopped and opened up her little purse, pulled out some change, and dropped it into the container, before looking up at Gil and smiling.
This effected Gil in a way he could never have imagined. He suddenly felt the full weight of two years of guilt upon him, and had to sit down on the steps of the town hall.
“The woman’s smile may have been one of trust, but she at least smiled. I offer a service, that of inner satisfaction. Surely I shouldn’t stop that?”
But her eyes glared deep into him, and it dawned on him that though he had prepared himself for the moment of being discovered, he had not prepared himself for guilt of any sort. He decided to power on, but with each person who dropped coins into the box, the more piercing his shame became.
He returned to the steps, put the container on the floor, and stared at his feet. This had become his living. He couldn’t change now! What would he do? The only things on his CV were four years of petty theft and con artistry and a handful of GCSEs.
As he mulled over his options, a small girl, aged around four he guessed, dressed all in pink, approached him and pushed a selection of coins into the aperture. She smiled broadly and ran back to her mother who stood waiting for her.
“That’s it,” he thought. “I know not what to do, but I can no longer do this.”
He stood up, left the container on the steps and strode out of the square. He walked for hours, thinking desperately of things he might be able to do to support himself, but he couldn’t think of a single one. He had made himself a bed, and now it seemed he would have to lie in it, regardless of how unpleasant it seemed at this moment. Dejectedly he decided, that he would have to return to the charity box, and with his head down he wandered back to the square. These feelings would surely die down with time, he thought.
The sun was beginning to break the blanket of grey cloud as he arrived, bathing the town hall and the shops on the same side as it in a rich orange light. He arrived at the steps, but the box was nowhere to be seen. His eyes darted around, impeded partially by the mid afternoon sun, but the container was definitely no longer there.
He was in turmoil. He had lost his golden ticket. Now he truly was without hope!
He slumped down onto the steps, lowered his head in his hands, and began to weep desperately. The shoppers stared over at him, but no one chose to approach him. How far he had fallen in twenty four hours, but as Gil’s father had always said: “Tumultuous is the life of the dishonest.”
The words rang around his head, growing louder all the time, until it became unbearable. He stood up sharply.
“I used to manage without the box, and I shall do again,” he thought, and suddenly it dawned on him how much he used to enjoy his ever-shifting escapades.
He walked up the high street, enjoying the refreshing warmth of the sun, and smiled at the prospect of new challenges, new adventures, and a fresh start. The sun sank below the houses as he headed home, to begin the brainstorm which would decide his immediate future.
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