Glasgow Student Short Story Prize 2009

Judged by A.L. Kennedy
Edited by Elisabeth Ingram, Rebecca CF Bradburd and Jose Velazquez

In a Pickle

Jack’s last vision on this earth was two dozen cases of ‘Mackay’s Pickled Beetroot’ plummeting towards the top of his head. Their velocity was such he was unable to move out of the way. The cases squashed his head to a pulp on the warehouse floor smashing the glass jars of bright purple juice, some splashed on his bottom lip. Some say his tongue was licking the liquid in a last desperate attempt to gain some sustenance. Others say that he had it coming.

    Another Monday after the weekend before, another dull, dreadful soul destroying week to get through before the drunken and drug induced delirium of next weekend to look forward to. You shouldn’t complain really, lucky to have a job stacking cornflakes and items of feminine hygiene. Looking forward to the next twenty years of life, the horror of it taking the breath from your lungs. Never allowing yourself to dwell on it too long just in case logic prevails and ending it all becomes a life choice. Ooops! slipping into melodrama, let’s get on with the story.

    Six people sitting on their comfortable couches simultaneously leapt for joy on hearing the lottery numbers for that Saturday. Phoning relatives and friends, promising money and gifts which would change their lives forever. The company magazine took photographs, the local and national papers ran stories. The six of the syndicate told management exactly what they thought of them and stuck two fingers up at the minimum wage. Only Jack said ‘It won’t change my life, I won’t be giving up work, I’ll be back here tomorrow morning’.

    Jack, a christian soul who gave his time and money to charity, always thought of the poor things that were worse off than himself. That Friday night one starving and abused child followed another on BBC1, presenter after presenter tore at his heart strings begging for viewers to ring in and pledge cash to alleviate their plight. Jack thought for a while then made his decision. His work syndicate hadn’t won a tosser in months. He would be doing them a favour, helping their immortal souls in the next world by pledging the £21 syndicate money to this great cause, after all it was just changing charities for one week. Jack hadn’t caught the lottery numbers on Saturday night as he attended his usual church choir practice. By Sunday morning Jack’s phone was red hot. His wife had taken the first calls and was hysterical when she heard the great news. They would be able to retire, do charitable works, live abroad.

    Jack was in a terrible dilemma and had no idea what to do, it seemed simpler to do nothing. His mind couldn’t deal with the appalling reality of the situation. He pretended he had contacted lottery HQ and that the cheque was on its way. Then the newspapers were told by the lottery that no syndicate had won that weekend. The truth was out. He received his first death threat by Wednesday morning, a piece of notepaper put through his letterbox stating ‘YOUR NUMBERS UP YA BASTARD’. The six other syndicate members ate humble pie to get their jobs back, good PR for the company to take them back, everyone professing how sorry they were but laughing hysterically behind their backs. The supermarket six became media stars for a week, Lorraine interviewed them and said the whole country was behind them, but nothing could be done. Two of the syndicate drank themselves to death within a year, one put a hatchet through her husband’s head, another jumped off the Erskine Bridge and was dragged out of the Clyde to spend the rest of her life in Leverndale. The last two went off sick with depression and were medically retired.

    Jack, on the other hand, continued to live his life as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, until that fateful day three years later. The supermarket six had disappeared, he had prayed for their souls especially after the death of his wife in suspicious circumstances. The brakes of his car had always worked perfectly well before her accident. His last day had begun as any other, the usual half dozen threatening letters had popped through his letterbox, a few phone calls which he didn’t answer and the police escort to the supermarket. Nothing to suggest anything unusual, but as he separated a load in the warehouse he heard a loud cracking noise from above. As he looked up he saw the logo of ‘Mackay’s Pickled Beetroot’, (oddly enough his favourite brand ) charging towards him. He closed his eyes before impact and contemplated his journey into the afterlife. Many wondered about the how and the who, but not the why. Only God knows the answers.