Life's Lottery (60 page)

Everyone cheers.

‘Long live Keith,’ shouts Shane.

Everyone joins in.

‘No,’ you say, arms round Jo and Mary. ‘Long live the Rebellion!’

And so on.

A
t about midday, you and Mary’s team are at the foot of a seventy-foot loose shale incline. Mary has the suitcase, and has discovered that it’s locked.

Sean reports that he can see Hackwill’s team in the next valley, crawling through thick brush.

‘What’s up there?’ Mary asks, nodding at the slope.

She hasn’t put her knife away.

Your hands are cuffed behind your back. Mary’s jacket is a right little utility belt, heavy with souvenirs from her law-enforcement career.

You’re losing control. For the first time, it occurs to you that the Compound’s isolation is not altogether a good idea.

‘What’s up there?’ Mary repeats, knife tapping the air.

‘The key,’ you admit.

‘Mr Bank Manager,’ she tells Sean, ‘hop up and get the key.’

Sean looks about to protest but doesn’t. He wades upwards about a dozen yards, then slips, tumbles and rolls back down again, ripping his cagoule up the back.

McKinnell is behind some rocks, still crapping. It’s a wonder there’s anything left in his lower bowel. It’s possible he’s dumping innards as well as faecal matter. James suggested putting ground glass in with the laxative but you overruled him. Perhaps he went behind your back?

Mary looks at Shearer, who doesn’t volunteer. She sighs and darts up the hill like a mountain nymph. The key is tied to a bright yellow plastic anchor. Mary snatches it and foot-skis back down, leaving tracks in the crumbly shale.

‘Game over,’ she says. ‘Now, I’d like a bath.’

‘If you uncuff me, I’ll blow the whistle,’ you say. That’s the signal that the treasure is found.

Mary looks up at the sky. ‘It’s early yet. Be a pity to lose Councillor Hackwill an afternoon’s exercise.’

You shrug. You can’t do much else with the cuffs on. Mary leads you back to the Compound. You can’t help feeling you’ve ceded command. If the course continues as planned, it will only be because Mary lets it. And she’s unknowable. Everyone else – even McKinnell, whom you’ve never met – you can fathom. They will act predictably. But Mary doesn’t follow rules, even those of her own character. Whatever that is.

You feel the cold and your shoulders are cramped.

While Mary baths and McKinnell sits on the toilet, Sean tries to be mates with you. He asks after Laraine. You tell him she’s married again, to an alcoholic named Owen. He asks after Mum and Phil, but can’t remember their names. He reminisces about the way your dad took him under his wing at the bank.

Shearer has been told to make the tea but resents getting a woman’s role because he’s gay. He uncuffs you and orders you to get busy in the kitchen. Mary’s defiance has brought something out in Shearer.

When James gets back, you have to reestablish control.

Mary comes down, wearing your towelling bathrobe, hair in wet spikes. She looks like a little girl dressed up, not dangerous at all.

‘Kay,’ she tells Shearer, ‘you’re next for the tub.’

Shearer goes upstairs.

Sean sulks at being passed over. ‘I feel filthy,’ he says. ‘Those pens were vile.’

Mary looks contemptuously at him. ‘I don’t bank with you,’ she says.

‘Meaning?’

‘I can tell you to fuck right off.’

Sean goes beyond sulky into upset.

* * *

At nightfall, Hackwill’s team trudges back, cold, hungry and depressed. James asks what happened to the whistle and you signal discreetly towards Mary.

Hackwill is furious that he’s lost. He blames Reg for leading them along a blind trail. Of course, he couldn’t have won, anyway.

‘You smell nice,’ Warwick says, moving on Shearer for a cuddle.

‘Ugh,’ Shearer says. ‘You don’t.’

You’ve seen this happen before on courses, between straight couples. It’s always good policy to get them on opposing teams and watch relationships – usually based on economic rather than character compatibility – come apart.

Perhaps you should think about fucking Kay Shearer? If he were a woman, you’d definitely be working round to it by now. It’s part of the Marion Course strategy. You’ve been straight all these years but your heart is untouched, especially by Marie-Laure. Shearer looks a bit like Chris.

‘The map was inexact,’ Reg whines.

You remember the fat boy giggling as James weed himself, as Hackwill gave you the Chinese burn. There’s another couple on the verge of crack-up: Hackwill and Reg. They were only friends in the first place because they were both children no one liked. The link between bully and sidekick must involve a lot of contempt.

McKinnell will probably be out of action for days. So you needn’t think too much about him.

Shane Bush works for Hackwill. It’ll take a while for Shane to get surly, but it’ll come. One of the features of your method is that it gets juniors to speak their minds when their bosses try to force them to do stupid things. In the business world, it’s theoretically a bad thing for the company if subordinates are too cowed to speak up; but no boss you have ever dropped in a shit-pit has ever taken kindly to being trampled under by his executive secretary.

You set six places at the dinner table and cook a vat of stew. Mary’s team sit, waiting to be fed.

‘I’m afraid the losers have to go back to Colditz now,’ James announces.

It’s starting to drizzle outside, and it’s dark. Hackwill makes no move. He can smell the stew. You begin doling out the food.

‘I can’t eat,’ says McKinnell.

Hackwill makes a move to replace McKinnell.

‘Against rules, I’m afraid,’ James says.

‘Are you going to stop me?’

‘Read the contract, Councillor. If you break rules, you’re liable to a ten-thousand-pound fine. For each violation.’

Usually, it’s £1000.

Hackwill freezes in a mute fit of cold rage. Mary’s team, except McKinnell, tuck into their stew.

‘This is really good,’ Sean says. ‘My compliments to the chef.’

Reg whimpers.

‘I’ll save you some, love,’ Shearer says to Warwick.

Hackwill is outraged. ‘Is that against the rules?’

You and James shrug. It is, but you see potential in letting it slide.

‘Victors can dispose of spoils as they see fit,’ you say.

‘Fine,’ smiles Hackwill. ‘We split the food evenly.’

Sean protects his bowl as if in a rowdy school dinner hall. Hackwill used to extort food from smaller kids, you remember.

‘No,’ says Mary. ‘Councillor Hackwill, you lost. You have to go by that.’

Hackwill’s face is purple. What game is Mary playing?

‘Rye,’ Hackwill demands, ‘give me your stew. I’ll pay fifty pounds.’

Sean barks laughter. ‘Not bloody likely, Robbo.’

‘I’ll break you, Rye.’

‘This was your idea,’ Sean reminds him.

‘Enough argument,’ James says, clapping once. ‘Losers, outside. Now.’

Hackwill fumes out, banging the door behind him. Reg, Warwick and Shane follow.

Shane looks back, at Mary. He must have fancied his chances this week. He used to think he was Napoleon Solo, the prat. Now, he’s Napoleon No-food.

You finish your meal without conversation.

‘Congratulations, winners,’ James says.

You hand round cigars. Sean, Shearer and Mary light up. Even McKinnell perks up a bit, thinking things are better.

* * *

The next day of the course is the chain-gang game. There’s no way Mary can cheat on that. Hackwill’s team comes out the winner. The prize this time is that the team can elect one of their number to sleep inside the cottage, in a warm bed.

The election is where the fun starts.

‘By the way,’ you explain, ‘you can’t vote for yourself.’

Hackwill sits back, confident. After all, he’s won a few elections.

‘I vote for Rob,’ Reg dutifully toadies.

Warwick gets to vote next. He’s sulking because Hackwill called him a ‘useless poof’ when he took a tumble, dragging the whole team a couple of yards down the mountainside. He thinks it over and votes for Shane.

Hackwill wastes his vote on Reg and looks at Shane. Shane ought to vote for his employer. But coming on this course wasn’t his idea and he’s fed up. He votes for Reg, bitterly.

Hackwill bristles and looks at Reg.

Reg, momentarily wistful about a warm bed after two nights in Colditz, suggests a recount. James says the decision is final. You know Reg is pleased. And you know Hackwill wants to fire Shane.

* * *

The next day, everyone gets up to find that their boots have disappeared. Those who didn’t sleep in their socks – Sean, Kay and Reg – lose them too. Your boots are gone too, and so are James’s. You assume James is responsible for this especially fiendish bit of cruelty.

You assemble everyone by the minibus to drive them across country to the mud-pit assault course. The engine won’t start.

‘This is part of it, isn’t it?’ Warwick says.

James frowns. It’s not part of the plan. You look at the engine. Tubes have been pulled out and taken away. It’s obvious sabotage.

‘So, someone’s displaying initiative,’ you declare, looking at the other eight people. With the exception of the Zen-serene Mary and the smug-stupid Reg, everyone looks guilty. It hits you that with two teams of four and you and James, there should be nine other people.

‘Where’s McKinnell?’

‘The shits again,’ Warwick says.

‘Find him,’ you order.

No one volunteers to go.

‘Shane,’ you say, ‘you find him.’

Shane still doesn’t like taking orders from the snotnose who threw a fit about school custard, but hops to it. He just wants to get off the mountain and look for a new job.

Your mind races. What’s going on? Is it James? Has he escalated the revenge programme without consulting you?

Shane comes back.

‘You’ve got to see this, Marion,’ he says.

He leads you and James towards the pens. Hackwill strides along after you, trying to keep up. The rest of the pack, like sheep, drift in your wake. Sean hops a little, bare feet on icy ground. Only Mary isn’t interested, and when she’s alone by the minibus even she shifts herself.

Ben McKinnell is slumped in a hollow in the earth, throat cut. The blood on his chest is frozen and dewy, like a crimson, crystalline Santa beard.

Sean gasps.

Your heart leaps.

Is James surprised?

‘How far to civilisation?’ Mary asks.

‘Two days’ walk, maybe three,’ you say.

‘In Wales? Nothing’s two days’ walk away.’

‘It’s up and down mountains. We bought the place because it was the arse-end of nowhere.’

‘And you don’t have a telephone?’

‘No, Mary, we don’t,’ James says.

You have a mobile and James knows it. You don’t contradict him. Everyone else was banned from bringing portable phones. No one speaks up to claim they’ve broken that rule. This once, the fine might be waived.

‘We should walk, then,’ Hackwill says. ‘To the police.’

‘There’s a problem,’ you say.

Hackwill looks disgusted. ‘Come on, out with it.’

‘Frostbite. How do your toes feel?’

He looks down at his stockinged feet. His socks are wet and heavy. Your own toes are dead.

‘Where are the fucking shoes?’ Hackwill asks James.

James shrugs. In that shrug, you realise how deep the shit is. Either you can’t trust the only person here you could trust yesterday, or someone else has crippled the lot of you. And someone must have killed McKinnell.

‘My feet are freezing,’ Sean says, redundantly.

‘We couldn’t walk for more than an hour without shoes,’ Mary says. ‘At the end of two days, we’d just have blue stumps at the ends of our legs.’

‘We have one pair of boots,’ James says.

You’ve worked that out too. You wonder whose feet are cold enough for the option to be tempting.

‘Who has boots?’ Hackwill demands.

James points at McKinnell. He has died with his boots on.

If you take the boots yourself, go to 190. If you stand back and let someone else claim them, go to 203.

A
fter a pause, Sean flies out of the open window. His arms and legs wave as he falls. He arcs a little, as if thrown with considerable force. You think he’s going to crunch down on the windshield but he falls short. He lies face down, like a broken starfish.

Mary comes out of the house.

‘Overcome by grief and guilt, in a spasm of self-hatred at his own worthlessness, Mr Rye threw himself…’

Sean groans and tries to get up on his knees. He can’t make it. Mary takes his belt and pulls him up, then heaves him over her shoulder in a fireman’s lift.

‘Finding himself still alive but resolved to end his useless life, Mr Rye dragged himself back into his house, crawled painfully up the stairs and, for the second time, defenestrated himself.’

You stand frozen and Mary carries Sean indoors. You are impressed that she has used the word ‘defenestrated’ in a spoken sentence.

This time, Sean falls vertically, head first, and his neck goes.

Mary appears at the window. ‘Mr Marion and myself stood by helpless,’ she shouts.

You look at the leaky bag that used to be Sean.

‘By the way,’ Mary says, ‘welcome home, Keith. Your brother would have been proud of you.’

And so on.

T
he problem you have is that you
can
remember things, so it’s difficult to keep your story straight. You’re asked hundreds of questions about your life and it’s hard to keep answering that you don’t know when you do.

Asked the names of your children, you want to say ‘Josh and Jonquil’ but have to get over the hesitation with a pretence of searching empty memory banks.

Dr Cross makes cryptic notes. You know he knows you’re faking. But you also manifestly don’t know anything about Keith Marion.

Dr Cross asks you a question in Japanese. You shrug. He makes a note.

‘Where did you go to school?’

‘Sedgwater,’ you answer.

‘Which schools?’