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ONE

BOZO

Eighteen Years Ago

Aged Seven

“Tell me, Maggie,” Dad sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair, the other holding his beer bottle. “How the hell are we going to pay this shit?”

“I don’t know, Craig,” Mam hisses, her gaze darting toward me. She doesn’t like arguing with my dad around me, but it happens anyway. I focus on building the Lego castle I got from Santa at Christmas.

“Look at this shit. Just look at it. We’re ten thousand in debt. We barely have five hundred euro to make it to the end of the month. We have to pay the hundred-and-thirty-euro electricity bill,” Dad snarls. “Not to mention buying groceries. That’s usually another hundred at the very least. How the fuck are we going to make it to the end of the month and pay some money off the debt?”

“How much do we have left if we budget the one hundred and thirty for electricity and a hundred and twenty for groceries?” Mam asks.

“Two hundred and fifty euro,” I say as I continue to build my Lego.

“What did you say, you little shit?” Dad snarls.

“Two hundred and fifty,” I reply as I shrink further into the sofa. I hate it when Dad snarls at me. It means he’s angry.

Dad's eyes narrow, his knuckles turning white as he grips the beer bottle tighter. "How the hell do you know that?"

I keep my eyes fixed on the Lego bricks, trying to make myself as small as possible. "I... I just subtracted the numbers you said."

"Craig, don’t be mean. He's just trying to help. Honey, how did you manage to do it that quickly?” she asks, her voice soft. It usually is whenever Dad’s mad.

I shrug, not really sure how to answer her. I’ve always been good with numbers.

"Help?" Dad scoffs and takes another swig of beer. "What we need is a goddamn miracle, not a smart-ass kid."

"Maybe..." Mam starts hesitantly. "Maybe I could pick up some extra shifts at the library?"

Dad snorts. "And who's gonna watch the kid? We can't afford a babysitter." He runs a hand through his hair. “Like the boy says, we’ve two hundred and fifty euro. If we use that money to pay off some of our debt, we’ll be able to pay it off in...” He waves his hand in the air.

"In about four years," I mutter, still focusing on my Lego castle.

The room goes dead silent. I can feel my parents’ eyes on me, but I don't dare look up.

"What did you just say?" Dad's voice is low, and dangerous.

I swallow hard, my hands shaking as I try to fit another brick into place. "If... if we only pay two hundred and fifty euro a month, it'll take about four years to pay off ten thousand euro. That’s not counting interest."

Mam gasps softly while Dad slams his beer bottle down on the coffee table, making me jump. "How the hell do you know that?" he demands.

I shrug, still not looking up. "It's just... math."

"Craig," Mam says softly, "maybe we should?—"

"Should what?" Dad interrupts. "Listen to a seven-year-old about our finances? Christ, Maggie, we're in deep shit here!"

"I know that!" Mam snaps back. "But yelling isn't going to solve anything. And maybe..." She pauses, and I can feel her looking at me. "Maybe we should consider what he's saying."

Dad scoffs. "What, you think the boy's some kind of genius or something?"

"I don't know," Mam says. "But he's always been good with numbers. Remember how quickly he learned to count? And he's always the one who spots when we've been overcharged at the shops."

There's a long silence. I keep building my castle, trying to ignore the tension in the room.

Finally, Dad sighs heavily. "Alright, kid. Let's say you're right. What do you think we should do?"

I look up, surprised. Dad's never asked for my opinion before. "Well," I say slowly, "if we could make more money..."

“How?” Mam whispers. “How do you expect us to make money, honey? We’re struggling. We’re already spread thin enough. None of us are able to get a better paying job, let alone both of us taking on more hours. We’re struggling with the workload and lack of money as it is.”

“When Dad plays cards, I could go with him again,” I suggest. I learned how to count the cards while he plays Blackjack. I watched as an old man did it at the casino when dad was there. He was drunk and explained the general rules to me. I’ve always been good with numbers, so it didn’t take me long to understand what he meant. Soon I was able to count the cards. I’m really good at it now.

I see Dad’s eyes light up. “You think you can earn me money, boy?”

I glance back down at the castle and nod.

“We don’t have any money,” Mam whispers. “We can’t afford to lose any.”

"We won't lose," I say quietly, still fiddling with my Lego bricks. "I can count the cards. I've been practicing."

Dad leans forward, his eyes narrowing. "What do you mean, you've been practicing?"

I shrug, not meeting his gaze. "When you play with your friends at the casino, I’m beside you. I count the cards in my head."

There's a long pause. I can feel the tension in the room, thick enough to cut with a knife.

"Craig," Mam says, her voice trembling. "You can't possibly be considering this. He's just a child!"

Dad ignores her, his eyes fixed on me. "How accurate are you, boy?"

I finally look up, meeting his gaze. "Very."

Dad's lips curl into a slow smile, one I've never seen before. It's not a nice smile. "Well, well," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Looks like we might have found our miracle after all."

"No," Mam says firmly. "Absolutely not. I won't let you drag him into this."

"Maggie," Dad says, his voice suddenly soft, persuasive. "Think about it. We're drowning here. This could be our way out."

"By exploiting our son?" Mam's voice rises. "By teaching him to gamble?"

"It's not gambling if you know you're going to win," Dad argues. He turns back to me. "What do you say, boy? Want to help your old man out?"

I look between them, torn. I want to help. I really do. But Mam looks so scared, and Dad... Dad looks excited in a way that makes me nervous.

"I... I don't know," I stammer.

"You don't have to decide now," Dad says, standing up. "But think about it, okay? This could change everything for us."

As he leaves the room, Mam comes over and pulls me into a tight hug. "Don't worry, honey," she whispers. "We'll figure something out. You just focus on being a kid, okay?"

I nod, but as I hug her back, I can't help but think about the numbers. About how long it would take to pay off our debt. About how much we could win if I helped Dad at the card games. And I wonder, not for the first time, if being just a kid is a luxury we can't afford anymore.

I’m almost finished building my castle, mam is in the bath. She said she needed some peace and quiet and dad’s been drinking. I’ve kept to myself, not wanting to anger dad any further than he already is.

“Come on, boy,” Dad says, grabbing my T-shirt by the collar and dragging me out of the house. “What your mam doesn’t know won’t hurt her. We’re going to make some money.”

I stumble as Dad pulls me along, my heart racing. The cool night air hits my face as we step outside. Dad's grip on my collar is tight, almost painful.

"Dad, I don't think—" I start to say, but he cuts me off.

"Shut it," he growls. "You said you could do this, so you're gonna do it. We need this money."

We reach his beat-up old car, and he roughly shoves me into the passenger seat. The familiar smell of stale cigarettes and cheap air freshener hits my nostrils as Dad gets in and starts the engine.

The journey is intense as Dad teaches me signals to give him. I know Mam is going to go crazy when she finds out what’s happened.

"Now listen up," Dad says, his voice low and filled with anger. "When we get in there, you keep your mouth shut. You just watch the cards and give me the signals. Got it?"

I nod silently, my stomach churning.

We pull into the casino parking lot and Dad kills the engine. He turns to me, his eyes hard. "This is our chance, boy. Don't screw it up."

As we walk toward the entrance, my stomach clenches with fear and worry. Dad steers me toward the Blackjack tables, his hand heavy on my shoulder.

"Remember," he mutters. "Just like we practiced."

We sit down at a table and Dad buys in with the last two hundred and fifty euro that he has; the money that was intended to pay part of the debt off. I perch on the chair next to him, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone as I focus on the cards. As the dealer begins the game, I start counting, my mind racing through the numbers.

Dad plays hand after hand, following my subtle signals. At first, we're up a little, then down, then up again.

Hours pass in a blur of cards and chips. My head is pounding from the concentration, but I don't dare lose focus. Finally, Dad cashes out and I’m able to release a relieved breath.

In the car, he counts the money with shaking hands. "Five thousand," he breathes. "We did it, boy."

I should feel relieved, maybe even proud. Instead, I just feel tired and scared. As we drive home in the early morning, I wonder what price we'll really pay for this victory. Now my dad knows that I can win him money, I have no doubt that this will become a regular thing for him.

“We’ll go again in a few days. Your mam’s going to be pissed, but she’ll relax once she realizes we don’t have to worry about much this month.”

As we pull into our driveway, Dad turns to me, still grinning, clutching the wad of cash in his hand like it's a lifeline. "Remember," he says. "Not a word to your mother about where this money came from."

I nod silently, my stomach twisting with guilt. I've never lied to Mam before.

We creep into the house, trying to be quiet, but Mam's waiting for us in the living room. Her face is pale, eyes red-rimmed from crying.

"Where have you been?" she demands, her voice cracking. "I've been worried sick!"

Dad steps forward, puffing out his chest. "Maggie, love, you won't believe it. I?—"

"Save it, Craig," she snaps. "I know where you've been. Mrs. O'Brien from next door saw you leaving with him." She points at me, her hand shaking. "How could you?"

Dad's face darkens. "Now listen here?—"

But Mam's not finished. She turns to me, her eyes filled with anger and disappointment. It makes me want to disappear. "And you," she says softly. "I thought we agreed you wouldn't do this."

I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. What can I say? That I'm sorry? That I was just trying to help?

Dad steps between us. "Leave the boy alone. Look." He thrusts the money toward her. "Five thousand euros. Our problems are solved."

Mam stares at the cash, her face unreadable. For a moment, I think she might take it, might understand why we did what we did. But then she looks up, her jaw set.

"No," she says firmly. "This isn't the answer. We're not going to solve our problems by breaking the law and exploiting our child."

"Exploiting?" Dad scoffs. "He's helping the family!"

"He's seven years old!" Mam shouts, her voice breaking. "He should be playing with his friends, not counting cards in a casino!"

As they argue, I back away, bumping into the sofa where my half-finished Lego castle still sits. I slip away to my room, closing the door on the shouting. Crawling into bed, I pull the covers over my head, trying to block out the noise, the guilt, and the fear. I'm supposed to be good with numbers, but right now, nothing adds up. How can something that was meant to help us have gone so wrong?