Norma took count of votes again, with two votes going to Lottie, two to Bettany, and four to Vince, including Norma’s. “Actually,” she said with a wink to Melvin, “I think Bettany is more likely. But I already gave her ‘landslide,’ and I wouldn’t want to be wishy-washy.”
After HUNTING ACCIDENT came TAINTED BEEF. Debate was brief and the votes divided evenly between Sid and Marie, the two restaurant critics. After TAINTED BEEF came DRUNK DRIVER. This was followed by an awkward silence as everyone avoided looking at Jorge, except for Vince, who said, “Well, obviously that’s Jorge.” Norma gave Vince her most lethal scowl, but Jorge just shrugged.
“You can vote for me if you want to. I don’t care. I’m sober. I’ve been sober for three years, and I don’t even own a car. I promise you, that’s not how I die. Besides, it says ‘DRUNK DRIVER’ not ‘DRUNK DRIVING.’ Whoever it is is the victim, not the culprit.”
Ultimately, three votes went to Jorge, three to Marie, and two to Vince.
After DRUNK DRIVER came RADIATION.
“But we all live so close together,” said Lottie, “if there’s some sort of nuclear accident, shouldn’t we all die of radiation?”
“Maybe it doesn’t happen for a long time,” Melvin suggested. “Maybe only the last of us is still alive when the meltdown happens.”
“Or someone could go on vacation to someplace that has a reactor,” Norma offered.
Jorge disagreed. “There’s no reactor, there’s no bomb. It’s nothing nuclear at all. The machine’s just being coy. There’s always radiation. Solar radiation, electromagnetic radiation, microwaves, radio waves, whatever. A lot of them cause cancer. That’s the death here. It’s just cancer.”
“So then it’s Bettany,” said Melvin. “She spends the most time outside, so she probably gets skin cancer.”
“Geez, you sure are eager to kill me off, aren’t you?”
“It’s not my fault you lead a conspicuously dangerous life.”
“I don’t see how any of us is more likely to die of cancer than the others,” said Jorge. “I say we each just vote for the person on our left, and then we all get an equal number of votes.”
“In that case, I say we all vote for Jorge,” said Sid.
“Seconded,” said Bettany.
So everyone voted for Jorge. Including Jorge, just to be a good sport.
“You should be careful, Sid,” Norma said. “You almost seem like you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Maybe just this once,” he said. And he actually sort of was. Just this once.
Norma reached into the hat once more and pulled out the next death.
She unfolded the paper and read it.
She opened her mouth, but said nothing.
“Norma, what’s wrong?” Vince asked.
“What does it say?” asked Melvin.
She looked up again. She looked at Sid. She pressed her lips tightly together, in a look that most of the guests would confuse for worry, but Sid knew it was pure irritation.
“It says ‘PARTY GAME MISHAP.’”
Everyone was silent.
Then, Lottie: “I don’t get it.”
Melvin: “It means someone could die right now. Playing this game.”
Marie: “How?”
Melvin: “I don’t think I want to know.”
Lottie: “Right now?”
Jorge: “But that doesn’t even make sense.”
Vince: “It never makes sense.”
Melvin: “Maybe the machine electrocutes one of us…”
Lottie: “I don’t want anyone to die.”
Bettany: “Whose is it?
Melvin: “Or maybe…I don’t know. It could be anything!
Jorge: “I know the machine likes to be vague and cryptic.”
Bettany: “It’s Sid, isn’t it?”
Lottie: “I don’t want to see it happen.”
Vince: “Nobody’s going to die.”
Jorge: “But they always at least sound lethal. What’s lethal about a party game mishap? That’s not cryptic. That’s the machine actively thumbing its nose at us.”
Melvin: “The machine can do what it wants. I’m done.”
Bettany: “It must be Sid. He hates these games.”
Lottie: “I don’t want to play anymore.”
And finally, Norma: “I think the game is over.”
She folded up the slip of paper and dropped it back in the hat. The hat went back onto its shelf under the machine. The machine was turned off. And unplugged.
All through this process, Norma never took her eyes off Sid.
She understood what he’d done, of course. That was obvious. And it was a stupidly simple trick, just a bit of palming. The only challenge was forging the death prediction—fortunately, she had warned him about the game days beforehand. She’d be kicking herself for paying him that kindness for a long time, he suspected. But she wouldn’t tell the others. She wouldn’t reveal what he’d done or how he’d done it. She’d been a magician’s assistant for too many years, at least until she broke up the act and they’d both retired. But she still knew the code. She still believed in the code.
Sid’s real death was safely hidden in his pocket. When he arrived home, he would take it out and read the single word printed there. But it held no surprises, just confirmed what he already knew.
He could die that very night.
Or he could live another ten years.
You never could tell with these sorts of things.
But he’d never have to play another stupid party game for as long as he lived. However brief that might be.
Story by Alexander Danner
Illustration by Dorothy Gambrell
EXHAUSTION FROM HAVING SEX WITH A MINOR
“THE JOB OF PRIME MINISTER IS NO JOB FOR A WEAKLING,” said Derek Fortham MP, eyes shining in the TV spotlight. “Centuries of British politics have shown us that. It’s a job that calls upon all of a man’s strength. It’s a job for men who know their limitations. Men with perspective. With drive.”
The audience was utterly silent, staring with goggle-eyed hero-worship as Fortham reached into his inside pocket and produced a white slip of paper, which he held between his first and second fingers and waved in time with his speech.
“I always keep my death prediction close to my heart. At the age of fifty-seven I will be knocked down by a car; that’s what it says. I don’t fear it. I’ll never run from it. When I see that car coming, I will stand with feet firm. That’s the kind of strong leadership this country needs.”
Pander, the interviewer, coughed meekly to signal his next question. “Mr. Fortham, how old are you now?” He was a man who knew his allegiances, and it was the most softball question he could have possibly asked.
“Fifty-three,” came the reply instantly. “And yes, I understand perfectly that I have only four years at most, and could only possibly serve Britain as Prime Minister for that long. I see that as my greatest strength. Who wants to vote for some self-serving bureaucrat with one eye constantly on his retirement fund? I have only four years to make my country great and leave a legacy for which I will be fondly remembered.”
A quiet, lovestruck sigh ran through the audience, as Fortham concentrated on keeping his face toward the camera at the best angle to show wisdom and dignity.
“If I could just turn to you, now, Mr. Dunmere,” said Pander, turning to Fortham’s opponent in the polls. “Do you have anything to say to that?”
“Yes, I do,” said Dunmere, shifting in his seat. “While I am in total agreement with my honourable friend concerning the importance of strength and courage in a Prime Minister, one should not play down the equal importance of optimism.” He paused to let it sink in and re-steeple his fingers. “I think it’s naïve to think a Prime Minister would only be a good one if he knew he wasn’t going to last. Rather, it would lend a certain…fatalistic approach to policy. A sense of not having to care about long-term issues because you won’t be around to face them.”
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No one seemed moved. Someone in the audience coughed loudly, mingling it with the word ‘wanker.’
“Mr. Dunmere,” wheedled Pander, “how are you, yourself, fated to die?”
Inwardly Dunmere rolled his eyes. This was exactly what he didn’t want to be asked. “I have not received my prediction. I don’t believe in letting yourself get bogged down with that sort of thing.”
There was a murmuring in the audience, and it definitely wasn’t on Dunmere’s side. “To be frank,” said Fortham. “I have enormous respect for my honourable friend and his achievements in the House of Commons, but his stance clearly shows he just hasn’t the belly for the job of Prime Minister.”
“Now look—”
“Sorry, I’m going to have to stop you there,” said Pander, now addressing his autocue. “We’ve run out of time. Remember to tune in next week for our election special, and we’ll see with whom the nation lies. Next tonight on BBC2: the new series of Crotch Rocketeers.”
“You have to admit, he’s won everyone over,” said Volger, staring out of Dunmere’s office window. Volger was Dunmere’s campaign manager, a man born, in Dunmere’s opinion, from a long line of evolutionary descendants of rats, lizards, and slimy fish. “Ten points ahead of us and rising.”
“That interview was a sham,” said Dunmere, sitting at his desk with his head buried in his arms. “Not a single question on party policy. Nothing about political experience, nothing about past achievements. Everyone’s. I don’t know. Fixated on his damn death.”
“Well, it’s the crux of his campaign.” Volger plucked one of Fortham’s campaign leaflets from the dartboard. “‘Four courageous years,’” he read aloud. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he believes it himself. I thought you did as well as could be expected. That bit where you talked down fatalism was shooting us in the foot, though. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but 90% of the country’s voters know how they’re going to die. Fatalism is very much the ‘in’ thing right now.”
At that point, there was a cheerful knock on the door and a head and shoulders peered around it. It was Carol, the work experience girl. “Just dropping off the newspapers,” she reported cheerfully, tossing a pile of newsprint onto a nearby chair. “Anything I can get for you, sirs?”
“No, nothing,” snapped Dunmere. “Just leave us alone.”
“Rightosie.” She left.
“I don’t know why you have to be so hard on her all the time,” said Volger. “She only wants to learn from you.”
“She’s seventeen.”
“So what? Youth isn’t the handicap it used to be. The MP of Rugby and Kenilworth is barely into high school. Everyone grows up so much faster these days. Everyone rushing to reach their ambitions. Nothing motivates people better than a glimpse of their own mortality. I guess you know that.”
“I’m sorry. I just get edgy around young girls.”
Volger went over to the newly-delivered papers and flipped through the headlines. “Not good at all. The media’s one hundred percent behind Fortham. ‘Dunmere Fears Truth,’ Jesus Christ.”
He glanced over at the party leader, who had sunk down into a visible despair. For a moment, the unfamiliar feeling of pity sparked in Volger’s mind. He sidled over to the desk, perched upon it, and injected what he felt was a fatherly tone into his voice. “Look, Fred. You’re a good politician. Everyone sees that. Frankly we should probably be a hell of a lot further behind than we are, but you’re just about keeping our heads above water. And you could turn this race around in a second. All you have to do is go to the nearest death machine and find out—”
“I’ve already had my prediction.”
“You—what?”
Dunmere looked up. There was a deep sadness in his eyes. “For Christ’s sake, Volger, I said I’ve had my prediction. I had it done years ago like everyone else. I just don’t want people to know about it.”
“Fred, that little slip of paper is the one thing that could still get you elected. What the hell is your problem? How bad could it be?”
Dunmere looked his campaign director square in the eye, and spoke each word in a quiet monotone, as if each one could set off an earthquake. “I am going to die of exhaustion from having sex with a minor.”
Close to a minute of silence passed between the two men. Volger’s face remained frozen throughout.
“Oh,” he said, finally. He glanced to the door where Carol had been, then back to Dunmere. “So that’s why—oh.”
“When I was nine, my father was arrested for molesting a little girl who lived next door to us,” said Dunmere. “He’d never done anything like that to me, we never suspected a thing, but he was caught red-handed. He was one of them, one of those they’d always warned us about. I hated him for that. And for years now I’ve known that I am destined to do the same thing.”
“Well…the machine can play tricks,” thought Volger aloud, while inwardly making a mental note to jump ship at the earliest opportunity. “Are you sure it wasn’t, like, a coal miner…”
“Minor. With an O. And I’m pretty sure it wasn’t talking about music.” He sighed. “Volger…it makes me wonder if I deserve to be Prime Minister. Knowing that I’m going to do that, I mean.”
“Oh, come on. That’s just the depression talking, you’d never have pushed yourself this far if you really thought that. Look, Prime Ministers have done much worse. You’re not going to let one little future mistake destroy your whole career, are you?”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? Fortham’s going to win.”
It said something about the change of tone in the room that Volger made no effort to contradict him, or make comforting noises. For the rest of the day they spoke of minor business details, scheduled meetings and appearances, neither daring to return to the issue of the death notes or the possibility of overtaking Fortham. Finally, when Dunmere could not stand the stuffiness of his office any longer, he made his excuses and left.
He wandered the streets of London in something of a daze, with no particular destination in mind. Revealing his secret had brought on a strange new perspective. All those concerns he had kept secret and bottled up had finally been revealed. Only to Volger, but even that had been draining. Dunmere stopped dead on a darkened street corner as he realised that he no longer had any wish to be Prime Minister at all. Perhaps it really was just the despair talking, or rationalising the hopelessness of beating Fortham. But he couldn’t shake the bristling hot sense of shame that now ruled his world.
Two days later, Derek Fortham died.
“Run that by me again,” said Dunmere, at his desk.
“He’s been killed,” said Volger, fighting to keep the morose expression on his face. “Stone dead.”
“How?”
“Knocked down by a car, obviously.”
“No, I mean…how? He’s not fifty-seven yet!”
Volger tossed the morning’s newspaper onto the desk. “Turns out Fortham never gave the exact wording of his prediction. Turns out the phrase was ‘knocked down by a car aged fifty-seven.’”
It took Dunmere a few seconds to figure it out, but when he had, he placed his hand over his eyes. “The car was aged fifty-seven.”
“It was a photo-op at a classic car rally. Wanted to show he wasn’t afraid of cars, I guess.”
“Who’s running in his place?”
“That’s the beauty of it. It’s Winslow. Old Fatty Winslow, old Simon ‘you’ll never get me onto one of those machines’ Winslow. He’s about as popular with the proles as a Christmas tax increase and now the death notes aren’t a campaign issue anymore!” He had now abandoned all pretence of solemnity and was grinning like a man with a coathanger stuck in his mouth. “We can still make it. You can still make it!”
“Oh.”
“Well, don’t sound too pleased.”
“Volger, I—”
He was interrupted by a knock at the door, and Carol appeared, she having temporarily taken over from Dunmere’s secretary. “Er, Mr
. Dunmere? Sir Richard Merryn is waiting. He’s the owner of—”
“—International Media, yes, I know who Richard Merryn is. What’s he doing here?”
“Jumping ship,” predicted Volger smugly. “Don’t keep him waiting any longer. Bring him in. I was expecting something like this.” Carol glanced to Dunmere for confirmation, who nodded.
Merryn was an imposing figure, as could be expected from the man who ran every mainstream newspaper in the hemisphere. His suit was at least twice as expensive as Dunmere’s and he knew it, judging by the way he walked. He was very tall and very stout, and one could almost feel the floorboards shake as he dropped himself into the chair in front of Dunmere’s desk.
“I’d like to speak to you in private,” he said, pointedly making a gesture toward Volger as if swatting a fly. Volger, ever the diplomat, bowed low and left the room, but Dunmere picked up on the noticeable increase of pressure on the door that meant he was still listening in.
“How can I help you, Sir Richard?”
“Terrible shame about Fortham,” he said, tutting loudly three times. “Terrible, terrible shame.”
“Yes, it was pretty terrible,” replied Dunmere, thinking that, if Volger was slime, then Merryn was the primordial soup from which all slime originated.
“Shame about his party, too. Can’t possibly introduce a credible new candidate in the time they have left. They’ll never get in now.”
“And since your newspapers have been backing them from the start, it’s kind of embarrassing for you. Yes, I know where this is leading.”
Merryn smiled thinly. “I wonder if you do. Of course my papers are going to back you. Even this close to the election our support will guarantee your election as Prime Minister. And in return…”
“Let me stop you there,” said Dunmere, bored. “In return, you want to have my ear. You want to be able to call in favours. I know how this works. Well, forget it. I don’t need your support and I won’t be controlled. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise, I wasn’t expecting you to go for it. You’re one of those boring, predictable, idealistic sorts.” He crossed his legs and leaned back, sighing luxuriously. “Off the record, you’re pretty relieved about Fortham, right?” It was only barely phrased as a question. “Gets you off the hook with the whole death note thing. So you don’t want to know how you die. Makes sense to me. I mean, I know how I’m going to die, yachting mishap, but I can understand your point of view. Just don’t want to admit that you’re afraid to know, right? Nothing wrong with that.”
Machine of Death Page 21
