“Listen to this, she said, reading from a cheap magazine: “You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club – Jack London, 1876-1916″. I like that” said Sarah. “I’m going to use it as my motto”.
“Don’t know what that’s got to do with anything. He was talking about writing, not this. Don’t you think we should just wait for the money?” asked Luke.
“Hey, they ain’t going to give us the money any time soon. It’s got to go through probate and mum said that takes ages. And I don’t know for sure how much Daft Em left us. Can’t we make a plan without the money? Then it will be brilliant when we get it. Charlie’s made a mint out of this already – we don’t need to wait.”
“Charlie’s dodgy and you know he is.”
“God, not that again. He’s fine. He got us the fucking tickets didn’t he?”
“Dave Snagell said he ripped him off…”
“Dave Snagell is a loser. Even I would rip him off, he makes it so fucking easy. Let’s just decide how much we want to start with. I’ve got the rest of the rent money, and I can easily get that back off dad. He doesn’t know mum gave it to me in cash last time I was down. That’s 600 quid – how much have you got?”
“Jeez, you get away with murder. If I did that…” he started, getting ready for a major whinge.
“God’s sake Luke, can we just stick to the point? she interrupted, “we need to get the money together, so what does it matter where I get my bit from? Just tell me what you got.”
He let out a long breath. “Well, I still don’t know if I want to do it. We need some kind of plan that involves not getting nicked. Can’t you think of anything else?”
“I’ve got that covered, will you stop worrying!”
“What do you mean?” he said, suspiciously.
“I’ve thought of it. I told you – it’s a plan. So I thought it out.”
“So, were you planning to include me in on it?” He looked exasperated. “I’m not just your fucking side-kick you know”.
“Well. Just imagine this, and tell me I’m not a genius. Charlie can get us the Black Mamba and…”
“That’s Class B you idiot!” he interrupted.
“Wait, wait, this is gonna work…we put it in tea bags and I can stick them all over me with bits of tape, and we do the crowds and you get the dosh and I kiss the guy, or kiss the girl, whatever, and they feel me up – I don’t mean heavy stuff, they can just stick their hand up my t-shirt, and they just peel it off…seriously, it’s genius.”
“And how the hell are we gonna smuggle all that past security?” His voice was a pitch too high, and far too loud for safety. He looked around, and started to virtually whisper. “And you’re planning on walking round covered in tea-bags? Christ, I just can’t see it working, it’s crazy. You’re crazy”.
“We get it in with Sparky”.
He looked at her for a long minute. Sparky was going in a camper van, and would be in the disabled campsite. Were the cops really that stupid to think that disabled people didn’t do drugs? “Did he say he would?”
“He’ll do it for me”.
Luke shook his head, whether in disgust or disbelief was hard to say, and looked at the floor, thinking.
“I’m not going to sleep with him, doofus! I just mean he’ll do it for me if we give him a decent cut. We’re buddies”.
“You and Sparky?” Luke’s voice had gone up again. “How the hell did that happen?”
“I met him on my field trip, we got talking. Christ’s sake, what does it matter? He’s not a banana, he’s just in a wheelchair. And he likes drugs. Medicinal, he said”.
“You can get them – empty ones. Easy peasy.”
“Stuck all over you? What if you get sweaty? Won’t they all peel off?”
“We can try it out, I don’t see why it won’t work”. She looked smug. “Anyway, it’s bound to bloody rain, it always does at Glasto”.
Luke was still thinking, looking at his devious, spoilt, clever little sister. It could work.