Some You Win, Some You Lose

By Vic Nikitin

Harry Basham wins a twenty-six-million-dollar Lotto jackpot. Then, quitting his job as a mail sorter, he divorces his wife and takes a dream holiday to celebrate his new life.

A chance encounter with a beautiful widow during a vacation plunges him into a world of violence, greed and deception, one he isn’t sure he’ll survive.

His quest takes him to Norway and the Mediterranean as he hunts down ruthless and dangerous adversaries. Hell-bent on exacting retribution, he risks everything in a madcap plan, one that could go wrong at any moment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vic Nikitin
• Release date: Jul 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005212483

Vic Nikitin

Vic Nikitin was born in the UK. He moved to London in the 1980s, to Johannesburg in 1992, and now lives in New Zealand. On this journey, he acquired an Honours degree in Modern Languages, a Teacher’s Diploma, and an MBA. He lectured extensively at the Tertiary level and consulted with corporations in South Africa.Vic is married, has two adult children, and combines teaching Digital Technology at secondary level with a passion for writing.While living in South Africa, he wrote his first novel, "Victim versus Villains." He has also published two short story anthologies, "Seventeen Deadly Sins" and "Seventeen-not-so-Deadly Sins", two police crime novels set in New Zealand, "There or not there" and "The Cronin Mementos." A second crime thriller "Some you win, some you lose" was published in 2022 and is now available.

Book preview

Prologue

The first blow from a blood-stained baseball bat proved too much. He woke up, swearing he could feel the rush of air and a sickening thud. He spat out the salty mixture of sweat and tears before shifting his cheek away from a wet patch on his pillow. Four cracked ribs, a broken collarbone, a fractured skull, and hairlines in his ulna screeched in union. The pain ramped up, fast and hard, as he tried to hold his breath.

Feeling faint, he squeezed four lozenge-sized pills into his shaking palm. Ramming them into his mouth, he crushed them and swallowed. The bitter taste compelled him to reach out again. Sucking in sips of water did nothing to help. A sob escaped his lips at the forty-minute wait before they kicked in.

Tears rolled down his cheeks as he struggled to lie still. He despaired at his slide from utter joy to deepest despair in the blink of an eye. He muttered an expletive as he dwelled on the how and why. Deep inside, a volcano of anger edged him onto a scream he barely managed to stifle. He waited, miserable, alone, in the dark, as his mind obsessed over his misfortune. Breathing shallowly, he sensed the awakening of an adrenaline-fuelled burn that cried out for revenge. It took the edge off his suffering as he vowed to go ‘an eye-for-an-eye’.

Part 1

Chapter 1

Harry Basham bought a Lotto ticket at his local supermarket every Friday after work. He used the same numbers on the first line, one of which was his birthday and passport number. The others were groups such as his aunt Freda’s birthday, the digits of her landline before her death and his mobile number. After slipping the ticket into his wallet, he forgot about it until Sunday, the day after the draw. He spent the weekend doing dull-as-dishwater chores such as mowing the lawn and fixing things from a list made up by his wife, Mavis. Despite this, he always gave a cheery reply at work when asked about it. ‘Yeah, nah, good, just not long enough, hey?’ was his favourite response.

On that Monday morning, he wasn’t keen on the idea of homemade ham and cheese sandwiches for lunch in the canteen. Instead, he decided a local cafe would be a welcome change. His mouth watered at the thought of a chicken burger, lemon cheesecake and a frothy cappuccino.

At the prescribed time, he took a brisk walk to a local cafe, bought lunch and put everything onto a tray. Finding a quiet corner, he pulled out his wallet and slipped in a five-dollar note returned as change. A yellow Lotto ticket caught his attention. He was surprised because he usually binned them after a quick look, usually with a sigh and a twinge of guilt. He remembered the reason. It was Super Saturday in the English Premier League; Chelsea versus Liverpool delayed until Sunday morning due to the time difference.

Dropping the ticket onto the tray, he tucked into his burger. Realising he only had thirty minutes, he ate quickly and finished inside five minutes. Looking at his phone, he realised he had ten minutes to eat dessert, drink coffee and visit the bathroom before the fifteen-minute walk back. He enjoyed the exercise. It helped his digestion and perked him up for a long afternoon.

With a mouth full of dessert, he opened the browser on his phone and called up the Lotto website. With impatience, he reached out to scrunch it up but hesitated. Then, finally, the third line caught his attention. It contained a few correct numbers, quite a few.

Surprise made him stop chewing. He closed his eyes and shook his head. He could only see four in his mind’s eye. Then, his mind exploded after a peep at his phone and ticket. He had six correct numbers, his mortgage was history, and he could smell the leather seats of a new car.

Taking a huge breath, he stabbed at the cheesecake, winced at its sweetness and looked again. Then, closing his eyes, he began to shake. He knew he didn’t need to check again because he’d fixed them in his head.

He’d read somewhere that Lotto winners generally reacted with surprise, became anxious, developed confusion and ended with a delirious mix of joy and relief. As his vision blurred, he struggled to make sense of his thoughts. Then, they started colliding in his head as utter and total mayhem set in.

His heart sank at the dreaded Powerball, the seventh number. Knowing It separated the jackpot from first division winners, he was discouraged by the eleven-point-one per cent chance of getting it. It meant the difference between hundreds of thousands and millions of dollars. With trembling hands, he needed three tries to access the information. The number seven was his birthday in March.

Pale-faced, he drained his coffee without thought. It did nothing for his heart rate except make it pound. Tears added to his difficulties as he tried to read the summary. They started rolling in earnest when he finished reading. There was no doubt. He’d won twenty-six million dollars.

Overcome with emotion, he started to cry for the first time since the death of Aunt Freda, his second mom. Looking up through a mist of tears, he noticed the serving lady staring. She turned away in embarrassment, but he didn’t care. He didn’t need her congratulations and certainly wasn’t going to tell her about it.

With a hacking sob, the dam finally burst open. With palms under his chin, he let his emotions pour out. For a full minute, they buffeted and roller-coasted around in his head. He shook as if plugged into the mains. Instead of electricity, adrenaline was pumping into his bloodstream, and the tap was fully open. It was more intoxicating, addictive and better than anything he’d ever experienced.

Cackling like a crazy man, he wiped away tears with a serviette before drying his mobile and ticket. After all, did he not want to ruin a perfectly good analogue Nokia.

He laughed at the humour as he dabbed at the yellow paper. Sliding it into his wallet, he pocketed it with exaggerated care. Glancing at the clock, he realised his lunch hour was over. Of course, someone would be expecting an explanation. But, at that precise moment, he didn’t care. After visiting the bathroom, he had no idea why he stopped at his table. The waitress had already removed his tray and wiped the surface. Sitting with his back to the counter, he took a second look. Nothing had changed. All seven numbers on line three matched the ones on the website. His lingering doubts evaporated. He breathed back his emotions and stayed put. He needed time to think.

His pinging mobile was a distraction he didn’t need.

‘You’re late, again, Harry,’ said the text.

It was the third time in a month.

‘Sorry,’ he replied, ‘not feeling too flash. Back in a few minutes.’

Pressing send with a smile, he dialled LottoNZ. He breathed a sigh of relief when the receptionist read them out a second time. She didn’t say anything about them being on their website. Something in the tone of his voice held her back. Before ringing off, she suggested he verify his ticket as soon as possible and that delaying was not advisable. With growing calm, he asked about the expiry date. Six months, she confirmed before ending the call. He decided he needed another cappuccino.

The hot milk calmed his nerves. He took slow breaths as his adrenaline rush subsided. He’d worked out how to spend the money years ago. Now that he’d actually won, he could get creative with the details. He no longer needed to dream because he could make anything he wanted a reality. It was intoxicating, and he loved it.

He calmed down while working through his next move. He concluded that it was risky, scary and not for the faint-hearted. Its audacity troubled him as he stepped onto the pavement. The idea that he wouldn’t be able to turn back once he began was a worry. Lengthening his stride, he was suddenly in a hurry. It meant less time to change his mind.

Chapter 2

Clicking his heels in mid-air, Harry landed awkwardly. Undeterred, he tugged at his sagging trousers and stumbled onto the sorting floor. Laughter and whistles echoed around the cavernous room. Eager to please, he mimicked a catwalk model while twirling a mailbag around his head. Some cheered, others yelled insults. Albie Flint, his grizzly supervisor, shook his head and returned to his sorting. He’d known for ages that he was entirely off the rails.

Harry draped the mailbag around the HR manager’s neck as she approached him. She froze, open-mouthed, as he pecked her on the cheek and patted one shoulder. He was halfway up the stairs before she realised she’d missed an opportunity to discuss his job performance. Instead, she hurried off to answer her phone as Harry rapped on the Auckland Mail Centre manager’s door.

‘Hello, Harry,’ said Jill Masters without looking up. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing,’ he replied, ‘absolutely nothing.’

Stepping inside, he made a show of closing the door and approaching her desk.

‘I’ve decided to quit.’

Dropping her pen, she shot him a quizzical stare.

‘That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe, but I’m well and truly outta here.’

‘Hang on a sec,’ she added in annoyance, ‘you need to give a month’s notice. You can’t walk out, just like that.’

‘Course I can. Today is my last day, and I’m gone, as of now.’

‘Come on, Harry,’ she replied in a softer tone, ‘you’ve been here twenty years. You’re not just part of the furniture. You are the furniture.’

Smiling, she decided she quite liked that.

‘I’ve been here nineteen years, ten months and eighteen days, and every day’s been a day too long.’

‘Come on. Don’t be like that. We’re all in the same boat, trying to do a job, make a living, survive, etc.’

‘My mind’s made up. I can’t do this anymore. Sorry.’

‘You know Payroll will hold back your severance pay, don’t you?’

‘Who cares?’ he replied with a cocky grin. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you can donate it to charity.’

Her grimace morphed into a curious stare.

‘This is not the Harry Basham I know. Is everything all right?’

‘Everything’s hunky-dory, yeah. Couldn’t be better.’

Closing a file, Jill narrowed her eyes.

‘I knew it,’ she continued, ‘You’ve won the bloody Lotto, haven’t you?’

‘I wish,’ he replied smoothly, thankful he’d practised the phrase. ‘Didn’t even buy a ticket.’

She hissed with disappointment at his poker-faced denial. Then, hoping to extract a hint, she ploughed on.

‘Twenty-six million, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah, something like that.’

‘I heard there was only one winner.’

‘Someone got lucky, for sure.’

‘The winning ticket was sold in your neck of the woods, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah, it was, but it wasn’t me,’ he added, trying to deflect her question. He was never going to take the bait.

‘The interest alone would be quite something, wouldn’t it?’ she continued with a sly grin.

Her curiosity grew as she probed for a hint of admission.

‘How much do you reckon?’

‘Five per cent,’ he replied after taking a seat, ‘of twenty-six million is one million three hundred thousand per annum. Less forty per cent tax would leave seven hundred and eighty thousand, divided by twenty-six would net thirty thousand a fortnight or fifteen grand a week.’

‘But the banks barely pay three per cent, don’t they?’

‘Even at three per cent, net income would be around eighteen thousand a fortnight.’

‘You’re pretty sharp with numbers, aren’t you?’

‘I had a good Maths teacher.’

Her frustration grew, despite her neutral expression.

‘How are you going to pay the bills?’

‘My auntie Freda died recently and left me just enough to keep me afloat.’

‘Gee Harry, it’s a big decision. Are you one hundred per cent sure?’

‘It’s now or never, as the song goes.’

‘You’re still only forty. What are you going to do for the next twenty-five years?’

‘I don’t know, he replied, taken aback by the question, ‘maybe take some time off, take a holiday, somewhere warm.’

‘How does Mavis feel about all this?’

‘She’s fine with it,’ he replied, hoping his expression wouldn’t betray him. ‘She wants to go on a cruise.’

She gave up with a sigh.

‘There’s no way back, you know. We’ve not hired anyone in three years.’

Secretly, she was delighted at his decision. He was high maintenance, and his job performance was below par. His departure would mean a new cafeteria. She smiled at the thought of hiring an assistant.

‘Don’t see me coming back or even wanting to,’ he added doggedly.

‘OK, I get it, but I need one last favour, just a tiny one.’

He’d never done her any favours but hoped flattery would massage his ego.

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘Put in a formal letter of resignation.’

‘Don’t know if I have the time, busy schedule.’

‘I’ll type, you sign. What do you say?’

‘OK, since you asked so nicely.’

He whistled with impatience as she printed a standard form. Then, signing it with a flourish, he stood to leave.

‘Once again,’ she said, ‘Sorry to see you go.’

Harry didn’t see her fist pump as he left. Instead, he exited the depot and popped into his local bank. Then, hurrying back to the Auckland Mail Centre car park, he left his place of work for the last time.

Deciding he’d had enough excitement for one day, he returned to the same coffee shop. He liked the place because it had quiet corners, and he needed to catch his breath.

Once seated with a cappuccino and a slice of lemon cheesecake, he took a deep breath and tried to focus. Quitting his job had left him light-headed. He hoped a sugar boost would help. He knew it’d taste good but only add to his weight problem. At this precise moment in time, he didn’t care. His current plans were more important, and the extra calories weren’t. He sipped the bubbly liquid and took a forkful of dessert. The taste sensations provided comfort, which was all that mattered for now.

His mind was still buzzing from his encounter with Jill Masters. She was intelligent, observant and nothing got past her, usually. He smiled at the outcome and how he’d handled it. She didn’t have a clue, and he wanted to keep it that way.

Swallowing the last bite of cheesecake, he realised he’d returned to the same place twice in one afternoon. He also bought the same items, minus the chicken burger, and sat in the same spot. However, this time, his life had changed irrevocably, and his behaviour was therefore understandable.

It was the first time he’d ever walked out of a job. He started as a postman straight out of school. Then, five years ago, he transferred to the floor as a mail sorter. Door-to-door postal delivery was no more, and he now sorted envelopes and threw small parcels into hoppers eight hours a day, five days a week, forty-eight weeks a year. He didn’t get bored because he’d never done anything else. However, now was the perfect moment to call time. He wouldn’t continue doing such a tedious job with twenty-six million dollars.

He recalled an article about a couple in the USA who won two hundred and seventy million dollars. After a takeaway dinner, she reported for the night shift at her local hospital. Her partner continued teaching at a local high school. Harry laughed at how they splashed out on energy-saving hybrid saloon cars.

Yawning, Harry rubbed tired eyes as he wrestled with wild ideas. Shaking his head, he tried to focus on his next move but couldn’t. Raw emotion and a monumental decision had left him drained.

With a glance at his phone, he realised twenty minutes had passed. It was only four o’clock, and he had nowhere to be. There was no need to clock off, go home, or start a stint of overtime. Mavis would be at home and wouldn’t ask. So he sent her a text about having drinks with colleagues and coming home for dinner. She replied with a simple OK. The café only closed in an hour, so he bought coffee, black this time, and returned to his corner spot.

The exchange of texts triggered indecision. He wasn’t sure how to hide it from her. He wasn’t comfortable with the deceit. They’d been married twenty years, and she deserved better. She never complained about his lack of ambition, poor salary and cavalier attitude.

Struggling to justify his selfish attitude, he took a moment before deciding he wouldn’t share his fortune with anyone. He didn’t want anyone questioning his spending. Ignoring growing indecision, he focused on his next move. It involved booking a hotel room and ensuring the minibar was fully stocked.

Chapter 3

‘Mavis,’ said Harry in a slurred tone as his lips started to freeze against the metal letterbox. Nausea and regret made him groan as he recalled how he’d cleaned out the hotel room’s minibar. Then, still, on hands and knees, he slumped against the faded paintwork.

‘Mavis, I can’t find my key.’

After a pause, the passage light came on, and the front door opened. Harry fell forward, his cheek resting on the doormat. Frowning, Mavis Basham, resplendent in a nightgown and green curlers, glared down at his prone form. She curled her lips in disgust at the smell.

‘Bloody hell, Harry,’ she said with a grimace. ‘Where have you been? It’s three in the morning.’

‘Couldn’t find my bloody key,’ he replied loudly. ‘Sorry.’

‘Shush, you’ll wake the neighbours, for god's sake.’

Standing on unsteady legs, he lurched forward, grabbed her breasts and leaned forward to kiss her.

‘You’ve still got great tits, you know.’

‘Stop it, Harry,’ she replied, slapping his hand away.

‘Back-end needs work, though.’

‘You’re drunk, so I’m going to ignore that.’

‘No way. I’ve only had a few.’

She propped him up with one shoulder and locked the front door while fending off roaming hands. Then, dragging him to the lounge, she dropped him into his favourite armchair.

‘Get me a drink, won’t you, darling? Scotch, no ice.’

‘You’ve had enough, you drunken sod,’ she retorted. She shook her head at his strange behaviour.

‘How’s about a kiss?’

‘Strong coffee and bed. That’s all you’re getting.’

She disappeared, and the kettle soon began to whistle. Harry’s head lolled on his chin as she placed the mug next to him.

‘Drink this. It’ll sober you up.’

‘You’re such a party pooper, you know.’

Frowning, she struggled to keep calm.

‘Even when we were trying for kids, you were always such a prude.’

Tears welled as he broached a touchy subject.

‘You weren’t the most supportive of husbands, as far as I remember.’

He couldn’t deny it. She was telling the truth, so he reached for his cup.

‘Never wanted kids anyway,’ he added with a dismissive gesture.

He ignored a tear as it rolled down her cheek. He knew it hurt, but he didn’t care.

‘Couldn’t have any, at any rate.’

Drying her eyes, she took a step forward. The shift in her