Free Millions by Frank Cottrell Boyce Page B

Rockports.
    After school, I decided to go home via the hermitage. I ducked through the holly and stopped still. The hermitage was flat. I don’t mean the wind had blown it over or the rain had battered it. I mean someone had taken off every bit of masking tape, piece by piece, and folded the cardboard boxes flat. They’d even folded the tartan travel rug. The micro-scooters were out of their boxes and the boxes were squashed flat and neatly packed on top of the others. It was all really neat, except for my statue of St Francis, which was in hundreds of sharp little pieces, thrown all over the mud.
    I was already frightened when I heard someone behind me. I spun around to face a tall man in a bright blue robe.
    ‘St Charles Lwanga (d. 1885 ), martyr of Uganda,’ I said.
    ‘That’s right.’ He held out his hand for me to shake. It was covered in blood. ‘Sorry about that. I was beheaded, you know.’
    ‘I know. Did you do this?’
    ‘No. But we can help you put it right. There’s enough of us.’
    It was only when he said this that I noticed all the other martyrs of Uganda were also there. Twenty-two of them in fantastic costumes, all waving at me.
    ‘Beheading was very big in Uganda at the time. Some of us were in construction before we got into martyrdom. We’ll do what we can, but I can’t promise anything. You’ve had some right cowboys in here.’
    ‘Do you know who did it?’
    He looked off into the distance. ‘I can lend a hand but I can’t point the finger. You’ll have to figure it out yourself.’
    And they all set to work fixing the hermitage, and singing the most beautiful song I’d ever heard. It rose and fell like waves on the sea and sometimes one voice would call out above all the others, like a bird appearing in the sunset. While they were singing, two African greys appeared and sat on the railway fence, as though they were listening.
    ‘I enjoy those birds. They make me feel at home. Did you set them free?’
    ‘Yes. Like St Francis, you know. What’s the song about?’
    ‘It’s about water. In Uganda now, people have to pay for water. Sometimes as much as 10 per cent of their income. Bloody privatization. Don’t talk to me about the I M bloody F and the World Bank.’
    ‘OK, I won’t, then.’
    ‘People can’t afford to wash their own hands, so they get diseases. You don’t need fancy hospitals and drugs to keep people feeling better. You just need cheap fresh water. Did you know that you can dig a well for as little as 1,000 pounds?’
    ‘No, I didn’t know that. That is the most enjoyable news ever! Is it true?’
    ‘Completely true.’
    Anthony seemed almost as excited as I was when I told him. He was on givemeoneofthose.com, staring at the screen while a picture of the scuba scooter (£ 325.00 plus P and P) was downloading. He said, ‘That is fantastic. A thousand pounds for a well. You could buy two.’
    ‘I was thinking of buying 220.’
    He bit his lip. ‘Oh. Right.’
    ‘Yes. There’s a charity. They build wells. We give them the money. They build the wells. We are sorted.’
    ‘And how’re you going to give them the money? Pop 220 grand in the post? Have you felt the weight of it? Let me show you something. See this website? You can buy quad bikes. You can buy scuba scooters – that’s underwater motorbikes. We can afford them. We can afford a fleet of them. Can we buy them? NO. Because you need a credit card. Or you need to go to the shop, and we can’t because we’re kids. What’s your charity called?
    It was called Water Aid. We Googled around till we found it. It was based in Shrewsbury.
    ‘Now, you tell me how you’re going to get to Shrewsbury with a bag full of money.’
    I said, ‘They’ll collect. Oxfam collected when we gave them that wardrobe from the old house. I’m sure the water people’ll just come and collect the cash.’
    Anthony stared at me. He knew I was right. He went back to his Googling.
    I said, ‘I’ll just call them now,