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The stench of death was all too familiar to one John Constantine, and according to Greek and Roman mythology, the god of death and the god of wealth are one and the same– Hades for the Greeks, and Pluto for the Romans. Maybe that was why John had a habit of finding coins for as long as he could remember.
When he was five, he was in the kitchen with Cheryl while she cooked the two of them breakfast. Their dad was probably at work now that he had his morning drink and degraded John. Cheryl was complaining about them not having the money for the mall trip with her friends and mentioned how she used to save the coins in his nursery when he was a baby, but that wasn’t enough anymore.
“What’re you talkin’ about?” John mumbled into the banana Cheryl was making him eat.
“When you were a baby, John. We– I – used to find coins ‘round your nursery. ‘Specially when a milestone was comin’ up.”
“I still find coins!” John cheered. “All ‘round daycare and my room and everywhere!” John used hand motions to emphasize his claim. “Found a 50 pence just last week Cher! 50! That’s half a pound!”
Cheryl chuckled and turned to quickly ruffle John’s hair, noting its length so she could make him an appointment at the barber. She finished up the eggy bread and sausage and plated it for the two of them. “Now, hurry up, John. We gotta get going soon.”
After that conversation, John paid a bit more attention to when he would spot the coins. Most would come around important events like birthdays, the first and last day of every school year, when he had to do important tests like his SATs in Years 2 and 6, his GCSE, IGCSE, and AS, on his first date, and especially after Cheryl left.
One of his most memorable coin findings was when he was 12. The night prior, his dad had been particularly ruthless– most likely because it was his birthday. After his dad left to work, he decided to skip school, too bruised and bloody to go and not have anyone notice his dad’s hobby anyway. He grabbed one of his dad’s bottles of whiskey and gave it a try, gagging at the taste, but appreciating the feeling. He drank a little more until he was dizzy when he stood and felt a bit nauseous. He went to hide the bottle with his coin stash but tripped over his knees. Thankfully, the bottle didn’t break, but before he got up, he found a two-pound coin in the corner of the kitchen. Quickly, he stumbled to pick it up before rushing to his room. He stashed the coin and bottle in his closet and went back downstairs.
He went back to the cabinet and rearranged the bottles carefully so his dad wouldn’t notice. After that, he stumbled into the counter, trying to remember what people said to do after they drank alcohol. Water, his mind rang, so he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and sipped at it. A part of him felt like dancing, so he did. He danced around the flat with his bottle and pretended that he was some ballroom dancer with a lovely person as his partner. He giggled at the thought. When he finished the bottle he glanced at the time– noon. His dad usually got home around eight, so he still had plenty of time.
The feeling disappeared when he thought of his dad coming home. He looked at the burn marks on his arms and gently brought his fingers to the bruise on his chin. There was another around his eye, on the opposite side, but the tinge of pain he felt from touching the one on his cheek was enough to go back to the kitchen.
The plan wasn’t new, probably a month's worth of planning at this point, but it still made his hands shake. It had started when he overheard a couple of kids talking about their experiences with a blade on their skin making their problems shrink with drops of blood. John had tried it, liked it, but knew it wasn’t enough.
Maybe it was what his dad had said last night that kickstarted his plan, not that it really mattered because he said the same thing every year. “It should’ve been you who died. Instead of my amazing wife, I’m stuck with a killer for a son.” John chewed his cheek and tried to ignore the ghost of his dad’s steel-toed work boot slamming his stomach and sides when he tried to curl up. He knew that his actions today wouldn’t bring his mom back, but it was the best alternative.
His fingers touched the silver handle, but briefly paused when a voice echoed in his mind. “ Never touch this drawer, Johnny, ” The memory of Cheryl told him, “ not unless I’m here to help you. ” Except Cheryl left two years ago. She was gone.
He pulled the drawer open and grabbed a small knife with a sharp blade– a paring knife he believed it was called. In the corner, he saw a glint of gold that didn’t belong to the knife drawer. With steady hands, he reached for the glint and managed to pull it out with little harm to himself. It took him a second to read it, the dizziness making its way back to his head, forcing him to sit on the ground with a coin in one hand and a dangerous knife in the other.
He carefully set the knife down to his right and centered the coin in his vision. Silver center. P-o-u-n-d. His vision spun around the circular object. Gold, silver, quid. He swiped his thumb over the ONE and pushed himself up. The sudden motion made his vision swim and he had to grip the counter to regain his balance. He noticed the knife still on the floor, but couldn’t grab it, instead, he gripped the coin and moved to his room. Once there, he made his way to his closet and pulled out all the coins he’d collected since he was four.
He made eight piles, two quid, one, 50 pence, 20 pence, 10, five, penny, and all four of his five-pound coins. After that, he matched it to a fiver– 100 pennies five times, five pence 100 times, ten pence 50 times, and so on and so forth. He spent three hours doing this, sorting through 8 years' worth of coins. There had to be over a thousand scattered here on John’s floor, but John kept sorting. When there were too many fiver piles, he readjusted so each pile was worth 10 quid. By Five PM, he had 67 piles worth 10 quid, one pile worth five, and another worth exactly 1.52 pounds. This meant he had a little over 675 quid worth of coins from the last eight years. A small part of him wanted to give it to his father as penance for killing his mother, but a larger part told him that this was his money, and he found it.
He went downstairs and grabbed seven freezer bags before rushing back upstairs. In six of the bags, he put 100 quid in each, and in the last, he threw in 50. On the ones worth 100 quid, he wrote ￡50, and on the one with 50, he wrote approx. 25 . Then he hid all but the ￡50 bag in a bin and covered them in blankets. He put the leftover one back in the old spot with the label facing away from him. The remaining coins, he put in a pocket in his book bag and threw it back in the corner. After that, he ran downstairs to make himself a quick dinner but spotted the knife from earlier and picked it up. With his knee on the floor and hand gripping the knife, he realized that the overwhelming dizziness had faded until he was left with a headache that, in all honesty, was nothing compared to last night.
For the next few years, he would fill bags until they were worth a hundred and then hide them before starting a new one. Then he would start a new bag. He managed another 3 full bags– another one about a third filled– before he decided to open a bank account at 16.
Naturally, he skipped school that day to make sure everything got done before his dad got home. He put all 10 bags in a suitcase, grabbed his birth certificate, and grabbed some random NHS letter addressed to him. He made sure everything was in the case and began walking. On the main road, he hailed a taxi and paid with the money he kept out of the bags.
When he got to the bank, he waited in line for what felt like forever, and when he got to the front, he was ushered into an office.
“I hear you’re hoping to open a bank account!” The bank manager greeted him with a forced smile.
“I thought bank tellers did this job,” John’s thumb swiped across the cuff of his denim jacket in a soothing motion. The action didn’t escape the manager’s attention.
“Yes, well, we’re short-staffed, and as manager, I ought to help out.”
“Sure it’s got nothin’ to do with the way I’m dressed?” John mumbled. The manager– Declan Lowe, according to his nameplate– poorly held back a grimace.
“It’s not every day people in your… attire… come in with a suitcase.”
“It’s just coins and my documents. Besides, bank robbers wouldn’t want to stand out by wearing somethin’ like this.”
“How old are you, son?” John held back a flinch at the semi-harsh tone combined with the word son.
“16, sir.”
“Well, normally, to open a youth account, we require a parent to be with you, but there’s probably a reason you don’t already have one,” Lowe smirked and it took everything in John to not walk out.
“Look, I’ve got over 900 quid, and it’ll go to your bank if you help me open a bank account now. If not, then in a couple years I’ll just go to a competitor bank. Which would you prefer, Mr. Lowe. ”
Lowe bit the inside of his lip. “Proof of identity and address.” John held back a smirk before going into his case and pulling out the documents to hand them over. The guy typed some things on his computer– John was anxious for technology to advance enough so computers weren’t so damn ugly.
“Deposit of at least five pounds.” John laid the suitcase flat and fully unzipped it. The guy bit his cheek. “That’s a lot of coins, son.”
John didn’t hide his grin. “Been findin’ them since I was a boy.”
“If this is some kind of prank…” John’s face fell and made a quick move to recover.
“It’s not, sir, but stores get a bit prickly when you pay for groceries in coins.”
“Give me the five pounds now so we can start the account and then we’ll sort these coins and deposit them.” John did as told and Lowe called in a teller to help them.
It had taken them until the workday’s end, but they sorted and counted all the coins and deposited them into John’s brand-new account. By the end, the three were worn, but Lowe pulled eight plastic bags from his desk.
“This was hell, son,” Lowe began. “Until next time, put your coins in these bags, but only one denomination per bag. You will get a chequebook and a debit card in the mail within a few weeks. If you have any questions, go ahead and call the bank and ask for me.” The two of them stood up and Lowe shook his hand. “Congratulations on opening your first account, we hope you enjoy banking with us, Mr. Constantine.”
“Thank you, sir.”
John kept the account at the bank throughout his stint at beauty school and made coin deposits each time he hit 100 quid in coins. He always liked the look of paper notes in his wallet, so he never deposited those.
For one reason or another, he always found more coins after a close friend died. Gary, for one, Jasper for another. There were a lot more in his death-filled life, but the various coins always remained.