Life's Lottery (72 page)

‘Why doesn’t one of you go with him, then?’

You look at James. He’s still shaky from last night, but gives a thumbs-up.

Hackwill has just shot holes in his own story. If James had really tried to kill him, would he let his hired man take a long walk over dangerous ground with him?

It would still be more logical for you to go; but you want to keep an eye on the situation here.

If you go with Shane, go to 256. If you send James with Shane, go to 269. If you veto the suggestion, go to 282.

Y
ou’re thrown. You need to talk with James in private. If he has a plan, you need to know about it. If he’s just killing his way through to Hackwill, you must talk it out. Now, he’s keeping quiet.

Obviously, you need to help your brother, but how? Join in with his killing spree, no matter what the consequences? Try to talk him out of it, get him to settle for two down? Protect him while he finishes the job? Or stop him before anyone else gets killed?

You have Mary to think about now.

Snap judgement, boy: who is more important to you?

If Mary, go to 254. If James, go to 267.

T
his confuses you. Shearer could have killed Warwick in a lovers’ quarrel. But why McKinnell?

‘Did he see you do it?’ you ask Shearer.

‘What?’

‘McKinnell. Did he wake up early and see you and Warwick leave Colditz together, then you come back alone? Or did he follow you and see you kill your boyfriend?’

Shearer looks panicked.

‘I’m convinced,’ says Hackwill, adding his force to yours.

‘All of you,’ Shearer sneers, ‘fucking breeders. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Kill the queers.’

Your certainty wavers.

‘Well, you won’t have to kill me.’ Shearer pushes the door open and sprints across the wet grass, past the pens.

If you chase him, go to 257. If you let him escape, go to 262.

H
ackwill has a great poker-face but it’s working against him. He’s so intent on not looking guilty that he’s forgotten that McKinnell’s murder should at least surprise him.

Wait a minute, he is covering something. Not surprise, exactly. He’s pleased. He’s pleased McKinnell is dead. That means it wasn’t him; but he’s benefited.

It was Shane. Sometime earlier this morning.

All along, McKinnell was supposed to die. Mary didn’t go through with it, so Hackwill switched to Plan B, heading off into alibi land with James, leaving the Man From B.U.N.G.L.E. behind to do it. He probably doesn’t even care if Shane gets caught.

Work on that.

‘So that’s two dead people who won’t be backing out of your dodgy deal,’ you say. ‘It must be amazingly convenient to have such staff.’

‘Whatever you say,’ Hackwill replies.

‘Looks like the rain’s letting up,’ Sean says, with a pathetic attempt at cheer. ‘We can send someone for help.’

Hackwill shakes his head. He won’t sit tight at Castle Drac while you or James go for the police. And you’re the only ones who know the country.

‘Shane,’ he says, ‘get your coat on.’

‘Not a good idea,’ you say.

‘You’d skip away free and leave us here to freeze,’ Hackwill says. ‘I’ve already had to crawl out of a gorge thanks to one of you. We can trust Shane.’

‘
You
can trust Shane.’

The only person you could both trust to go to the police is Sean. He’d trip and sprain his ankle. Then, if he didn’t die of exposure, get lost and limp back to the Compound bedraggled and useless.

‘Why doesn’t one of you go with him, then?’

‘There is no way my brother or I would take a walk over a mountain with your hired killer,’ you say.

Shane doesn’t have a poker-face. He snarls. He hates you. And he’d enjoy killing you.

‘You’ve had my idea,’ Hackwill says, ‘and shot it down in flames. Now it’s your game.’

‘Any objections if Mary goes?’ you ask. ‘We know she can read a map.’

Hackwill thinks about it. He still isn’t sure about Mary. He thinks she might be stringing you along. He doesn’t know about you and her. He’s wrong. Mary is with you. Whatever deal she had with Hackwill is off.

‘Very well,’ Hackwill says. ‘Mary goes.’

* * *

You wave at Mary as she walks off, following the path. At least she’ll be safe out there.

You and James have to spend the next day and night on your guard. You’ve agreed you should keep a close watch on Hackwill and Shane. The others – Jessup, Shearer, Sean – aren’t a threat. Shane’s the killer, the one you need to mark.

When you get back to Castle Drac, James is mateying up to Shane, talking about Ash Grove Primary. He tries to keep the thug away from his boss. No conferring, no messages from the brain to the hand.

‘She’s off, then?’ Sean asks.

You nod.

‘I’ll be glad to get out of here. No offence, but this has been a fucking awful three days.’

Hackwill and Jessup sit at the table, not talking.

‘Where’s Shearer?’ you ask.

‘Gone for a walk.’

You let it go. Unless there’s a madman on the mountain out there, Shearer is safe. All the killers are here. It’s always possible Shearer, grief-stricken, will kill himself, but frankly you’re too exhausted to care.

The people you want to survive this are James and Mary. And you, of course. Mary is safe. You and James can handle yourselves.

* * *

You sit down with James and Shane. Hackwill notices and glares across the room.

‘Hackwill probably couldn’t have killed McKinnell,’ you say to James. Shane goes stiff. ‘Probably had Mary do it, or Jessup.’

‘What about Warwick?’ James asks.

‘Open book.’

‘Shane, you found Warwick. What do you think?’

‘You’re both mental,’ Shane says.

He used to call you ‘Mental’ at school. You’re suddenly angry.

‘He could have done that himself,’ you say, ‘if his hired killer wimped out. His Master’s Voice always has to go first, test the waters for Captain Chickenshit.’

Shane’s face is beet-red. So that’s it. A lucky strike.

‘Let me get this straight,’ James says, catching on. ‘You figure Councillor Rob snapped Warwick’s neck and dumped him, because no one would do it for him. Then, making up for earlier yellow-bellied trembling, his hired thug murdered McKinnell, to get back in the boss’s good books.’

Shane tries to stand up. You and James hold him down. Hackwill folds his arms and watches.

‘He’ll let you go down for it all,’ you whisper in Shane’s ear. ‘He’ll be sipping pina coladas in Barbados, while you’re doing porridge. Providing he lets you live until the trial.’

‘Don’t bend over in the showers, Shane.’

Shane tries to hit James, but you grip his wrist.

‘What’s going on?’ Hackwill asks.

‘Detective work,’ you say.

‘What’s going to happen to me?’ Shane asks Hackwill.

Hackwill has no answer.

‘You fucker,’ Shane says.

Hackwill turns away. You and James sit back.

* * *

Have you done enough? Or do you need to push Hackwill and Shane some more?

If you’ve done enough, read 253 and go to 259. If you push some more, read 253 and go to 264.

Y
ou see a knife miles above you, flashing in the rain, the last of some blood washing from its blade. You’re ready for the end. Then the person standing over you is gone.

Sean and Jessup are there, soaked.

‘What happened?’ Jessup shouts.

You don’t know.

‘Where are the others?’ you try to say.

Sean picks up your torch. He plays the beam on Colditz. There’s a puddle round the entrance. It ripples red with the impacts of raindrops.

You get up and run over. You don’t want to make Sean shine the torch into the pens but you do. Two naked men. Cut badly, couldn’t possibly be alive. Enough.

Jessup is sick. You and Sean get him back to Castle Drac. Shane stands outside, fully dressed, getting wet.

‘The queers are dead,’ Jessup says.

Panic has reduced him to schoolboy level. Whatever he thinks, he’s been careful never to tag Warwick and Shearer with their sexual preference.

Shane grunts, and you can imagine him thinking ‘Good job too’, the thug bastard. It could have been him: he could have killed the lovers, knocked you over, got rid of his raincoat, and doubled back to the cottage, waiting to be called for.

The only people it couldn’t be are you and Sean. That’s bad, if Sean is the only one you can trust. And he could still be in it with whoever. He could have been listening in to make sure the murder went well.

You get inside and wipe your face on a kitchen towel. Your bare feet are blue.

When your face is clean and you’ve done your best to dry yourself, James and Mary are there too. You’re sure they were together. James has been outside to check the bodies and he’s wet. Mary’s hair is dry, but she could have covered it. The murderer’s coat was voluminous and might have had a hood.

You can trust only yourself. And James: even if he’s the murderer, he’ll count you as an innocent.

You’re very cold and very tired. You wish this would go away.

* * *

The next day passes in armed neutrality. Everyone sits around Castle Drac as it drizzles outside, keeping a grip on their knives, trying not to nod off. Despite everything, you have a long doze in the afternoon. When you wake up, no one new is dead and your throat isn’t cut so things are looking up. Then the sun sets.

James gets a few moments alone with you in the kitchen.

‘The phone’s gone,’ he says.

‘Were you with Mary last night?’ you ask.

Sean blunders in and James clams up, not confirming or denying.

‘Can we get some more tea on?’ Sean whines.

‘We might have to ration it soon,’ James says.

‘Surely not. Councillor Hackwill must have got to the village by now. Help will be here in an hour or two.’

‘Unless Councillor Hackwill hung around and paid the lovebirds a visit last night,’ you suggest.

‘Oh,’ says Sean, who clearly hasn’t thought of that.

‘Make tea,’ James says. ‘We’re not short of water after last night. And we’ve enough PG Tips to survive worldwide eco-catastrophe.’

Sean gets busy.

* * *

That night, you sleep in shifts, three of you awake, three asleep. Sean wonders why not two and four, allowing longer uninterrupted sleeps. James asks him which of the others he’s sure enough isn’t a murderer to share a shift with. Sean takes the point.

Ironically, you could have answered the question. You could pick Sean. Instead, you get Mary and Jessup. Mary doesn’t talk; Jessup doesn’t do anything else. He monologises about Councillor Hackwill, from where he is right this minute – heroically making it out to bring back help for his old pals – to their lifelong friendship and happy schooldays.

‘Do you remember dragging me and James into the copse at Ash Grove?’ you ask.

Jessup seems not to.

‘I remember that day,’ says Mary. ‘The end of break-time. You and Rob had James in the copse and weren’t letting him go. Keith ran in to rescue him. Bravest thing I’ve ever seen. He got in trouble for missing the start of lessons.’

‘You can’t possibly remember that far back,’ Jessup says. ‘You were just a little girl.’

‘I’d have beaten you bloody if you said that to me then. I might still. What I remember most is the shame.’

‘What shame, Mary?’ you ask.

‘You were the girl, Keith. Threw a fit rather than eat school custard. I’d have said you were the biggest chicken in school, yellower than the custard. But when it was your brother, you didn’t think, you ran in to protect him.’

‘You’re making this up,’ Jessup whines.

You’re glad it’s dark in the room. Mary can’t see the tears on your face.

‘I was ashamed I didn’t run into the copse too,’ Mary says. ‘It wasn’t my fight but I wasn’t supposed to care about that.’

Can this be the monster? The WPC who turfed out the squatters? The woman with the knife at your balls? How long have you misunderstood Mary? Or have you?

Listen to what she’s saying.

‘I should have torn the both of you apart. That was
my
school, Reg. You and Rob had gone on. You were coming back to my country. I owned that playground. I was the monster.’

Jessup shuts up, afraid.

‘Hackwill’s not coming back,’ Mary says. ‘Is he, Fatty?’

Jessup says nothing.

* * *

The next day, the rain stops. You wake up mid-morning, having done the graveyard watch. Jessup snores in the blacked-out room. Mary sleeps curled up like a baby, looking tiny and innocent, not deadly. You still haven’t processed the conversation you had while you were awake and the world was shaking.

James and Shane are in the kitchen, inventorying food.

‘Where’s Sean?’ you ask.

‘Checking on you,’ says James, knowing he isn’t.

‘The idiot,’ you say.

You go to the front door and see the bank manager disappear into the trees. He stumps along awkwardly, feet wrapped in big blue towel-balls.

Mary, bleary, comes into the narrow hall.

‘Sean’s bolted,’ you say.

She shrugs.

‘I’ll bring him back,’ says James.

‘Why?’ you ask. ‘He’s not the murderer. He was with me when Warwick and Shearer were killed.’

‘Not because of that, because he’s a prat. He’ll fall over and die.’

‘One bank manager fewer,’ Mary says, uncaring.

‘Our dad was a bank manager,’ you snap.

‘Sorry,’ she says.

If you volunteer to go with James, go to 252. If you stay behind, go to 265.

Y
ou stroke Shearer’s shoulder. You’ve never felt a man’s body like this, the way you’ve so often been close to women. Shearer, as demonstrated by his winning of the bed, is in great shape, sleek skin over smooth ropes of muscle.

You kiss him. You feel fine stubble on his cheek, but his tongue is just like a woman’s. He coughs and breaks the kiss.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s the whiskey.’

Your mouth must taste like a still. You back away, almost off ended.