They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

86 March 2012

Shit, I thought, watching that ball. I’d just made a fortune and now I was going to lose it. Lose it all, the lot, on one spin of the wheel.

Because of those stupid, drunken onlookers urging me on. Idiots who were probably all so rich that the amount I had riding on the wheel now was just petty cash to them.

Stop, stop, stop.

I made a lunge towards my chips, then stopped in mid-air as the croupier gave me a withering look.

The ball fell off the rim and rat-a-tat-tatted over the frets.

Idiot, I thought. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Oh God, you idiot.

You stupid sodding idiot.

It popped into green zero. Then out.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat.

It fell into black 6, but the wheel was still spinning fast and it was spat out. Into 18 red.

Please don’t stay there.

It popped out. Rattled some more.

I couldn’t bear it.

Just one minute ago I had thirty-five thousand euros. A fortune! Enough to solve all my immediate problems — and then some. And I’d blown it. Stupid, stupid, stupid loser me.

I closed my eyes. Turned away. Trying to remember Dr Ramsden’s words of advice about controlling the rage that was building inside me.

Deep breaths. I listened to the sound of the ball.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat.

The wheel slowing.

Thirty-five thousand euros.

A sudden moment of silence. Followed by a hushed gasp — or maybe I’d imagined that.

Then the deadpan voice of the croupier again.

‘Siebzehn.’

Stoker’s voice, ‘Oh sweet Jesus!’

I heard cheering. Applause. Then even more frenzied shouts than before. ‘NOCHMAL! NOCHMAL! NOCHMAL! NOCHMAL!’

‘Leave it! Let it roll again!’

I was mesmerized. Was this real? Was I fucking dreaming? I heard Stoker’s voice again, through all the hubbub.

‘You’ve won! You’ve only goddam won!’

I felt his arms around me. He kissed me on both cheeks. I opened my eyes. It took me some moments to process what I was looking at. The roulette wheel, motionless. The little white ball nestled in the frets of 17.

In confirmation, I saw 17, followed by 17, on the column with the LED of the most recent numbers.

‘NOCHMAL! NOCHMAL! NOCHMAL!’ More and more people gathered around the table, crowding us, shouting. ‘NOCHMAL!’

I shook my head. I didn’t care how disappointed they might be. I really didn’t.

The razored-hair croupier scooped away all the losing chips, then added ten grey chips to my stack, as nonchalantly as if each of them represented just one euro.

‘NOCHMAL! NOCHMAL! NOCHMAL!’

GO AGAIN! AGAIN! AGAIN!

I was momentarily numb with disbelief.

‘NOCHMAL! NOCHMAL! NOCHMAL! NOCHMAL!’

The crowd was in a feeding frenzy. They wanted to see me go on. And some part of my brain was goading me on, too. It was telling me I was on a roll, I couldn’t lose, I could only go on winning bigger and bigger tonight.

I was their hero!

God, it was tempting to go on. One more roll. I was intoxicated. My Warhol moment, my fifteen minutes of fame. Had I ever before in my life felt so much the centre of attention, so admired?

There must have been fifty people gathered around the table and they were chanting again.

‘NOCHMAL! NOCHMAL! NOCHMAL! NOCHMAL!’

But they were baying for blood. I was their Icarus. They all wanted to see just how high I could fly before my wings melted and I crashed to the ground.

The croupier hadn’t yet spun the wheel, as if she too was waiting on my decision.

How much money would I make on just one more roll? Untold millions. Thirty? Forty?

Oh my God, the temptation.

I would be rich. Seriously rich.

I looked at Stoker. I saw the almost imperceptible shake of his head. No. No. Quit!

But I didn’t need that shake. I’d already made my decision. Somehow, somewhere in another part of my brain, I reached for the shutters and slammed them down on the part that was goading me on.

‘Enough!’ I announced loudly. ‘Basta! Fini! Genug!’

And saying those words felt so good. So damned good. As if I’d wrenched a crazed monkey that had been clawing at me for years off my back and thrown it into a ravine.

Then I reached out and scooped the whole lot towards us.

Towards me.

‘You did it! You held your nerve!’ Stoker said, as we walked away from the table.

‘You swear it’s mine to keep?’

‘I am a man of my word, it’s yours, have fun with it!’

I stared at the top grey chip on the tall stack. It had one hundred thousand euros embossed on the top. Then counted. There were twelve of them. Then I stared at the two pale blue chips with twenty-five thousand embossed on them and a single yellow ten-thousand-euro chip next to them.

If I was right, I was staring at one million, two hundred and sixty thousand euros.

One and a quarter million pounds, give or take.

‘Here,’ I said, taking a pale blue chip and pressing it into Stoker’s palm. ‘Call this my debt paid, with interest.’

And I knew, at that moment, I would never set foot in another casino again. I was done.