Fiction

By Karin Bachmann


SIMON grinned into the hotel-room mirror. He took his worn holdall and emptied the morning's proceeds onto the bed for counting.

“My, people are generous.”

As a “professional fundraiser”, Simon travelled the country. Everywhere, he found out what charity events took place and what disasters had occurred. Then he positioned himself with a collection bin by supermarkets, at shopping malls or even near church gates. In big cities, he avoided real charities' bases. He preferred the country, where folks gave more willingly.

He discovered if hospitals needed new wings or libraries extra funds. Then he toured the nearby villages. People tended to ask questions, and he might bump into a real committee member. But many people paid unsuspectingly.

Tragedies rewarded Simon best. Once an orphanage in Lincolnshire burned down, and he collected £10,000 within three days. When the mayor of Warwick died of a heart attack, leaving a wife and three young children, Simon raised a fortune for the “Heart to Heart Foundation”.

Even if Simon's charities existed, they never saw a coin of his profits. He enjoyed certain living standards and couldn't spare the income. Simon stayed at the Burlington Hotel in Birmingham, an elegant terracotta building with plenty of amenities.

Quickly, Simon hid the money in various drawers and left his room. More work waited. Father Christmas had delivered a wonderful gift: the Asian tsunami. Everybody had heard of it and sympathized. For Simon, that meant extra dough with minimal preparation.

He took a position in front of a billboard reading: “Long-Term Rehabilitation Scheme for Chiang Sung, a Thai Fishing Village Devastated by the Tsunami”.

He didn't know if such a village existed and didn't care. It sounded right. People who asked received the details of a plan to restore the harbor, fishing boats and an ancient temple while establishing street-kitchens, an orphanage and a school. They even saw the blueprints for a new hospital. Within a few hours, Simon accumulated several thousand pounds.

As he packed up, a low voice behind him asked, “Is it too late to donate?”

“Not at all,” Simon replied, turning. His business smile faded when he saw the tall stranger in a dark coat and hat. The man's skin looked grey, and he lacked hair, even eyebrows and lashes or the shade of a beard. His staring, icy-grey eyes gave Simon the creeps. “How much did you plan to give?”

The stranger handed him a new £50 note. “Can you guarantee that every penny goes to the tsunami victims?”

Simon relied on his standard answer. “We deduct a modest percentage for expenses. All the rest goes to the same cause. I'm afraid I have no leaflets left.”

He rummaged in his satchel, but the man held up a long, grey hand.

“It's alright. I'll take your word.”

Somehow the last sentence prickled the hair at the back of Simon's head. When he looked up, the man had gone.

Wearily, Simon decided to patronize a pub he'd discovered the previous day. He ordered a ploughman's and a pint. Pondering the darts board, he reached into a trousers pocket for money. Shouting, he yanked his hand back. Something had singed his fingers.

“Six-fifty,” the publican repeated.

Simon tried again. This time his hand and thigh burned as if touched by live wires. Noticing the other man's stare, Simon made a hasty excuse. “Sorry. I've hurt my hand. Could you take the money yourself, please?”

Visibly annoyed, the publican trudged around the counter. Sighing, he dipped a hand into Simon's pocket, searched and scowled. “Think you're funny, huh?”

“What?”

“Pay up or leave, buddy! I have no patience for guys like you.”

“I don't understand….”

“The pocket's empty!”

Simon blanched. “No. There's a clip with more than 100 pounds.”

The publican crossed his arms. “Are you paying or what?”

Simon reached to the pocket and felt a tingle of electricity. “I can't,” he stammered.

The publican grabbed him by the lapels and tossed him out. Simon stumbled, slipped and nearly fell. Bewildered, he rubbed his forehead. What was going on? Gingerly, he slipped a hand into his pocket. No fire this time. He fingered the clip and took it out. The money was there, all of it.

Sensing an audience, Simon turned. Across the street stood the hairless stranger, hands buried in his coat pockets, a wry smile on his lips.

“Hey, you,” Simon called.

Calmly, the stranger stepped into the shadow of a house and vanished. But Simon already had stopped wondering. Tired, cold and hungry, he started back to the hotel. On the way, he passed a pizza restaurant. Now that he could touch his money again, he decided to enter.

“Your table should be ready in 20 minutes,” a waitress told him.

Simon knew all the tricks. “Perhaps you'll accelerate things a bit,” he said, smiling at her. “There's a fiver in it for you.”

He reached for the tip. This time, he felt as if a thunderbolt jolted his hand. Screaming, he clasped his mangled fingers and doubled over.

“Are you alright?” the waitress asked.

Feeling sick, Simon couldn't answer. Sweat soaked his face. His shirt clung to his body. When he finally looked up, no young woman stood beside him. Instead, there loomed the smiling stranger in the restaurant's uniform.

Simon shrieked and fled, stumbling on the stairs outside.

Back in his hotel room, he temporarily locked himself in the bathroom. Again he could touch his money, but if the pain worsened each time he wanted to pay for something, then the next time might kill him. He couldn't buy food or drink, let alone pay the hotel bill.

Intent on disposing of the money, he feverishly gathered up every pound he had and flushed it down the toilet. Then he flung his wet shirt on the floor and enjoyed a cold wash. It was over! Simon laughed in relief.

“Let's watch TV and forget the whole mess,” he decided. But then he emerged and found the money neatly stacked on his bed.

“Oh, no,” he shouted.

He dressed, packed the money into his holdall and fled by the hotel's back door. It was late, and the streets looked empty. A light shower had fallen. Streetlights glistened on wet asphalt.

Gripping the holdall against his chest, Simon hastened to the canals. The water resembled tar. In a wide arch, he hurled the cash-laden bag into the sludge. Momentarily, it floated as Simon watched by the light from houseboat windows. Then with a soft gurgle, it sank.

Simon felt light enough to skip all the way back to the hotel. The receptionist watched in astonishment as he whistled through the lobby at such a late hour. Simon smiled and waved to her.

Craving a whiskey, he opened his door, flicked on the lights and froze. His holdall, dry as dust, rested on the bed.

Reluctant to go closer, Simon spent the night sprawled on the bathroom tiles. The next day, he departed early. When the nearest bank opened, he approached its counter.

“I'd like to transfer this sum to a charity for the tsunami victims,” he said, pushing the bag as far away as possible.

“That's very generous,” said a beaming lady behind the glass.


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