A loud bang from the basement attracts no more than a few downward glances. What are they doing down there? I’ll check later; it’s time to begin.

The party’s in full swing. Clinking champagne glasses and the click-clack of heels on parquet add percussion to a string quartet playing sonatas on the central podium. The murmurs of my esteemed guests - fellow philanthropists – are punctuated by shrill laughter and the scoffing of exotic delicacies, shipped from every corner of the Earth.

‘Welcome,’ I say, microphone in hand, ‘to the Wishing Well Gala. The first of many.’

A sea of expectant eyes swivel towards me. The room falls silent.

‘Every penny made this evening will be spent on children who have led a life of pain and suffering. With your help, we can fill the wishing well. We can end their misery.’

Applause from monochrome men and rainbow clad women, glasses held higher than their noses for once. Every sorry soul in the country is here: from inheritance brats to entrepreneurs, nobility to Mafiosi. Not one of them is here for the children. They all want what I have to offer.

Positive publicity.

One can’t climb to the top of the ladder without bending a few rules on the way. A little moral camouflage hides the cracks one leaves in the rungs. No one wants to accuse the people who save the children or the animals. Who wants to criminalise those who donate to local nursing homes or cancer research?

Charitable immunity.

‘The auction will begin in fifteen minutes,’ I say. ‘Please take your seats in the auditorium. Paddles will be handed to you on entry. Thank you.’

A rush of bodies, each wanting the best seats, each wanting to be the first to feast their eyes on my surprises. I climb down the stairs from the lectern, then again, down the stairs to the basement.

Stock check.

Paintings from Russia, from France, from South America. Sculptures from Italy, from Africa and Asia. Signed manuscripts from authors, both dead and alive. Jewellery crafted from the finest stones. Poems and prose of lost civilisations. How much of it is stolen? That is not for me to know. Donations are taken with discretion. The first rule of a successful auction.

Never speculate.

‘What was that loud noise earlier?’ I ask.

‘Nothing,’ says Tobias. ‘The wind and some buttered fingers. I’ve dealt with him.’

‘Good,’ I say. ‘Are we on schedule?’

‘We will be finished by midnight.’

‘Perfect.’

                                                                *

The auctioneer’s gavel hits hard on the first sale. Six figures for an oil painting. A woman in a white robe, alone in a hotel room, spread across ruffled sheets. A pillow scrunched up in balled fists. A shadow beneath the bathroom door. Donated by Don Giordano. A true story, no doubt.

A roman statue for a duke. A diamond brooch for an oil magnate. She collects it immediately, pins it to her mink skin coat as the wishing well floods. Five million by nine o’clock. All for the children. All for their future.

‘The first truck’s here,’ says Tobias.

One of three.

‘Any issues?’ I ask.

‘None so far,’ he says. ‘We’ll start preparing the first load straight away.’

‘Perfect.’

                                                               *

The occasional phone call and blood-drained face of realisation does nothing to spoil the atmosphere. Pride wins auctions, but pride also drains memory. Memory of how rich one really is. One may like something a little too much, perhaps pride conquers reason, causes them to forget how small their bank balance has become, forget they have a family to support, forget they have a family at all - until the damage is already done.

Competitive amnesia.

The second truck rolls in at quarter to eleven. Plenty of time before the main event. One left.

‘Please help yourself to canapés and miniatures,’ I say to the crowd. ‘Stretch your legs. Powder your noses. The auction will continue in ten minutes.’

The last few items are lifted onto the stage, covered with sheets of charmeuse silk. Only the best for such particular clientele.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the final hour. We have, of course, saved the best for last.’ I gesture towards the disguised articles. ‘Beneath these sheets lie some of the finest objects this world has to offer. The most precious of prizes. The most wonderful of wares. Fill the well and take them home. For the children.’

The first veil lifts and the gold detail of a Fabergé egg glistens under the stage lights. The third truck arrives as Tobias’s broad form rises from the basement.

‘The first two loads are prepared,’ Tobias whispers into my ear. ‘This one should bring us up to twenty-one.’

‘Perfect.’

                                                                      *

The last item sells for a ten-figure sum to a lady who owns more islands than the former British Empire. The Indian Sun. A flawless diamond, larger than a baby’s head.

I wave goodbye to the journalists and shake the hand of each and every guest as they leave, wishing them well on their onward journeys, wherever they may take them. Some stay, of course, depending where their loyalties lie.

The auction can’t continue without buyers.

‘The wishing well may be full, but for you, the select few with exclusive invitations, I present the main event.’

Tobias walks slowly onto the stage, a thick rope held firmly in his hands. The first one is small. Skinny legs. Skinny arms. No older than four or five. The blindfold hides her eyes and the gag imprisons her voice. Her steps are clumsy from the drugs, bare feet slapping against hard wood, cheeks slick with tears.

Premium stock.

‘First, we have lot 4-7-2. The daughter of Henrietta Larsen,’ says the auctioneer, as Tobias positions the girl at centre stage. ‘Plucked from the Radisson Blu but an hour ago. Still fresh. Shall we start the bidding at one hundred thousand?’

Paddles rise.

Hotel rooms are about as secure as rotting garden sheds, if you know the right people. And I know all the right people. I wonder if Ms Larsen’s au pair has woken up yet, or if her mink skin coat has survived the rain.

It wasn’t a lie when I said ‘every penny made here tonight will be spent on children.’ Though these children don’t even know the meaning of pain or suffering. They have known nothing but luxury and privilege. They are the offspring of the elite, and would’ve grown to become their despicable parents had I not intervened.

Some of them will be bought to sell on. Others may be bought as pets for those holding the paddles. Most will be bought for political ransom, or “business development”, as it’s more favourably known.

‘Sold to the lady in the red dress,’ says the auctioneer, hitting his gavel. ‘Congratulations. She will be waiting in the storage room for collection once the auction has closed.’

A slow procession of children, one after the other, is paraded in front of the vultures. They flap their paddles like clipped wings, pumping their easy-earned cash into my personal wishing well.

Charity work is so rewarding.