Life's Lottery

by Kim Newman

  You shake your head.

  By nightfall, James and Hackwill haven’t come back. The rain gets worse, cranking up from drizzle to downpour, with storm in the offing.

  You let the guests into Castle Drac and organise a hot meal. You’ve been left with the glum, no-initiative losers: Shearer doesn’t say anything, Shane never did add much to a group, McKinnell spends most of his time on the bog, Jessup and Sean compete to see who can whine the most.

  You realise Hackwill kept his troops in line. Without him, it’s all falling apart. Mary is some help but seems softer than you thought, more uncertain, more vulnerable.

  The rain assaults the cottage. There are drips everywhere.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ you announce, ‘if the rain lets up and James isn’t back, I’ll lead you out of here. It shouldn’t come to that. If James isn’t back himself, he’ll send someone.’

  James doesn’t know Warwick is dead. Or that the universe is spitting out surplus boots.

  ‘Tonight, we just sit tight.’

  ‘Inside?’ Sean asks, eagerly.

  You’re tempted to enforce course discipline and send them out to Colditz in the rain. A river will be running through the sleeping quarters. You let them stay.

  Shearer and McKinnell, psychologically and intestinally upset, get your twin beds. You and Mary take the four-poster, which makes Shane look glumly angry and almost excites prurient comment from Jessup. The rest settle in chairs downstairs.

  Mary lights candles by the bed and you make love. Differently. Last night was fucking. Now, the violence is gone, the desperation in check. You draw each wave out, opening yourselves to each other, coaxing not pounding. Again, you have no parallel with the experience since early Chris.

  Of course, it occurs to you that you might not survive the next few days. Warwick is dead, stranger things are happening. Mary might be your last love.

  She’s got a lock on your heart. It’s not just sex, it’s emotion. This time, you’re not confusing lust and availability with a real connection. You’ve known this woman since she was a little girl, since you were a child. And yet not before now have you reached each other.

  You see the monster in Mary Yatman was a desperate fiction, a protective cover. Like the uniform she wore as a policewoman, like the hardness of her body and mind. Inside, she’s confused, reaching, wounded, generous, loving. Just like you.

  Lying together, sharing body-warmth, her hair over your face, you try to find a calm centre. The roof rattles, clawed by wind and rain.

  You are woken by the door opening. Someone hangs in the frame, holding himself up by hanging on the jamb. He is wet and dripping.

  Mary holds up the candle. It’s James, face dead white, clothes soaked. He pitches forwards, collapsing.

  You and Mary get out of bed. You pull on a dressing-gown and kneel by your brother. Mary crouches naked, balanced like an aborigine, and lifts one of James’s eyelids.

  You feel his chest. His heart is racing.

  ‘Let’s get him on the bed,’ Mary says.

  You lift him. His arm flops round your shoulder.

  ‘Get his wet clothes off first,’ Mary says.

  She pulls off his boots and socks. You work from the top. James isn’t quite unconscious. He mumbles, wavering on his feet as you help him out of his clothes. When he’s naked, you and Mary towel him down. It seems he’ll never get dry. Then you push him into bed.

  You want to ask him many things, but he conks out.

  You and Mary sit in the office — the others haven’t been disturbed — over coffee and review the situation.

  Outside, the rain is a liquid wind. To go for a walk would be to risk drowning.

  James has come back on his own: no Hackwill, no minibus. Something has happened.

  Mary is tense but cool. Not so air-headed she doesn’t see how serious this is, but not in a panic either. Good girl. You love her outside bed too. How does she feel about you?

  ‘Mary, were you supposed to kill Warwick?’

  ‘No,’ she says, not hesitating to answer. ‘McKinnell. He wants to back out of the Discount Development. The idea was to scare Warwick into line. He has doubts too. But Warwick would have been next. Having people killed gets to be addictive.’

  The woman you love has just admitted she was a hired killer. How does that make you feel? Your guts churn. You’re sick at heart. But you surf in a tube of joy.

  ‘I told myself I’d never do it, though I agreed to. I lay there in bed last night, knowing I could do it. If I’d been in Colditz, it’d have been easier. I’d just have had to wait for McKinnell to go out for a shit and follow him. But you came into the room.’

  ‘And changed things?’

  She doesn’t answer.

  ‘Shearer might have killed Warwick,’ she says. ‘They weren’t exactly the Happy Homos. Warwick strayed a lot. This week was supposed to bring them together. I think you and James fucked that up. Good plan, by the way. Or it could have been Shane. Hackwill can count on him to do things I might not, if not as well. He’s still just a thug. Remember he wanted to be the Man From U.N.C.L.E.? Prat.’

  ‘Any other theories?’

  ‘Yes. You and James. Hackwill sussed as soon as he saw your brother’s smiling face that the special rate was a come-on. This was all about you getting your own back. He thinks it’s because he took your mum’s house away because James showed him up in a pub. But it’s the copse.’

  ‘You remember?’

  ‘I remember everything. You and school custard. I thought my monster was an extreme way of getting what I wanted, but I couldn’t match your custard fit. Hackwill doesn’t like to think back that far. He’s gone beyond bullying children. Now, he demands to be loved for what he does. Jessup might remember.’

  ‘He was there too. In the copse.’

  ‘Tell you what, if James killed Warwick — I know it wasn’t you because I was clamped round you at the time — let’s frame Reggie Jessup. If anyone deserves ten years of solid arse-rape at Her Majesty’s pleasure, it’s him.’

  Mary’s softer than you thought. But not that soft.

  ‘It wasn’t James,’ you say. ‘He’d have let me in on it.’

  ‘Like you let him in on you coming to my room?’

  Good point. You imagine James lying there, listening to a sonata of shagging, pissed off at the exclusion, wondering how to crank up the game. Could he have got to the point where murder was the answer? He’s the only one here who’s actually killed anyone before, and he’s got the commendations to prove it. How much easier would it be to ice a Hackwill toady than some panicked Argie conscript? Why Warwick? Opportunity. He was the unlucky sap who got up early to take a leak.

  No. It feels wrong.

  It’s more likely to have been Robbo himself. You imagine Warwick making a gay pass at the councillor, to piss off his boyfriend, to attach himself to the power source. You see Hackwill repulsed, personally affronted, taking things into his own hands rather than delegating to Shane or Mary.

  Or Shearer. Jealous, enraged, murderous. Or Shane, in an uncontrollable burst of homophobia. Or anyone.

  Suicide? Act of God? Extra-dimensional boots showering down on Warwick, trampling him to death?

  In the morning, the storm hasn’t let up. You can’t possibly lead six people through it over treacherous ground to the village.

  James is in a deep sleep, shivering under a pile of blankets. McKinnell is locked in the bathroom. Sean demands you get him out of this hellhole and Mary satisfyingly slaps him across the face.

  ‘Well done,’ says Hackwill, barging through the door. ‘Someone should have done that years ago.’

  You are as astonished as anyone else that Hackwill has come back. You thought he’d be miles away by now, doing his best not to send you any help.

  ‘Where’s the minibus?’

  ‘In a valley, upside-down. Where’s your fucking brother?’

  Mary stands by you as you face Hackwill.

  ‘Bastard hit m
e with a wrench,’ Hackwill announces to the room, displaying a bruise on his forehead. ‘Then shoved me and the bus off a cliff. But I’m not easily killed. You’re both going to prison for a long time, Marion. I’ll see to that.’

  Shane has stood up, awaiting orders.

  ‘Yatman, secure this bastard.’

  Mary doesn’t move.

  ‘Mary,’ Hackwill says, voice rising in alarm. ‘Do your job.’

  ‘Fuck right off,’ she replies. ‘I don’t work for you any more.’

  ‘He’s tried to murder me!’

  ‘Naughty naughty,’ Mary says.

  Hackwill looks betrayed, not to be taken seriously. ‘Bush, hop to it,’ he snaps.

  Shane steps forward and Mary punches him in the throat, staggering him backwards.

  ‘The problem isn’t the alleged attempt on Councillor Hackwill’s life,’ you say, ‘but the actual killing of Tristram Warwick.’

  Hackwill doesn’t look surprised but he’s always Mr Poker-Face.

  Mary — the only person you know didn’t do it — is with you. Which line of investigation do you pursue? Think about it.

  Go to 199.

  199

  Whom or what do you suspect?

  If Hackwill, go to 210. If James, go to 211. If Shearer, go to 212. If Shane, go to 213. If Jessup, go to 214. If Sean, go to 224. If McKinnell, go to 225. If suicide, go to 226. If natural or supernatural phenomenon, go to 227.

  200

  As Columbo says, there’s just one thing more to worry about.

  You split the double roll-over jackpot. You took home £6.5 million, but so did someone else. You might have had £13 million, but someone was mimicking your thoughts as they filled in their card. Someone was stealing from your mind.

  Someone who has half your money.

  The other winner ticked the ‘No publicity’ box. You find yourself thinking more and more about him; or her. Is their life better? Did they have more to build on? For them, was the money extra fuel for a rocket already cleared for lift-off?

  Or have they cracked up?

  Who is it?

  Who is it?

  Out there is someone with £6.5 million that might have been yours if they’d made a random pen-stroke in a different way, if some unknowable synapse in their brain had fired left instead of right.

  Do they think of you?

  You don’t mind publicity. You want it. You want people to know you’ve got what you deserve. You let television crews into your new home, to follow your family as you relish your just desserts.

  So the other winner knows who you are.

  If they get Cloud 9 satellite TV, which followed you around for six months, they know how many luxury cars you own and have written off, which quiz-show presenter you had an affair with, what brand of champagne you filled the swimming-pool with at Jesse’s fourteenth birthday party.

  Are they obsessed with you? Are they thinking of you as you think of them?

  Is it a woman? Is she attractive?

  Would you like them?

  Were they rich already?

  You make inquiries with the Lottery people. Even as a big winner, you don’t have a right to know.

  The other winners are your peers. Soon there will be a community of Lottery millionaires. A class, even. Maybe a seaside township will be built for them, like the Village in The Prisoner. A party town, a money town. One long holiday. One long soap. Cloud 9 would love to have the rights.

  There are functions for you all. You meet other winners. But not the other winner.

  Your family don’t understand.

  You have what you wanted. Why can’t you just enjoy it?

  ‘Just let it go,’ Vanda tells you.

  If you can forget the other winner, go to 205. If you can’t, go to 217.

  201

  You wake up for a moment and see James standing, in his dressing-gown, by the door.

  ‘Go back to sleep,’ he says, softly.

  You obey.

  In a dream, you are married to Marie-Laure but your wife manages never to be in the same place as you. Elements of your life are missing. The situation goes on for years. It’s not a nightmare, it’s a tragedy.

  You are woken up by creaking. Lying awake, with an angry erection, you hear the four-poster in the next room. It’s a noisy bed. Through the cottage wall, you hear your brother and Mary Yatman fucking, trying and failing to be quiet about it.

  If that’s the way it’s going to be …

  You put a pillow over your head and try to get back to sleep. No luck.

  ‘Harder … deeper … yes.’

  Nothing is so guaranteed to make you miserable. You want to knock their heads together and slam them into sleep. Eventually, it starts to get light outside. No let-up from next door. Oh, for a bucket of cold water!

  You are wide awake. And still dog-tired. You get up and get dressed, clumping around as noisily as possible. Then you go downstairs and outside, to suck in a breath of icy air.

  The cold hits you like a hammer and cuts you like a knife, but cleans you out. In the pre-dawn, the countryside is grey and green and gloomy. You can’t tell if the fine droplets of water on your face are thin drizzle or thick mist.

  You look at Colditz and almost feel sorry for Hackwill’s party. They must all have been kept awake by seven sets of chattering teeth. The puddles around the pens are ice-cakes.

  This morning, you’re giving them hot soup for breakfast and taking them to an assault course.

  Something stirs in Colditz. A head pokes out, mole-like, and looks around. Hackwill. He gets out and stands up, stretching.

  You press yourself against the side of Castle Drac, trying to blend in. You swear the whole building is shaking from sex.

  Someone else gets out of the pens. Warwick?

  ‘We can start the minibus,’ Hackwill is saying, ‘and be in a warm hotel by ten o’clock.’

  It’s almost funny. They’re plotting an escape.

  ‘Raus! Raus!’ you shout, striding across the grass.

  The escape committee are startled. Hackwill is a deal more shocked than Warwick. It’s as if you’d caught them fucking, not planning to run away.

  ‘You men haff been tunnelling from A Hut,’ you sneer in an Anton Diffring accent. ‘Attempted escapees vill be shot.’

  Warwick grins nastily and heils. Hackwill looks sheepish. There was something else going on but you don’t get it.

  ‘Press-ups, vun dozen,’ you say. ‘Zen hot breakfast.’

  For a moment, you think Hackwill will argue, but he gets down on the cold ground and does his twelve. He doesn’t even break a sweat. That might be because it’s so cold.

  The others crawl out and you pass on the press-ups order. Since Hackwill is finished first, you tell him to make sure the others do their exercises.

  As you go back to the cottage, Hackwill is shouting at a writhing Sean. The councillor is a born kapo. Collaborating with the guards comes naturally.

  Bastard.

  Shearer wins the assault course. James asks if you’d mind Shearer having the other bed in your room so he and Mary can have the four-poster. That’s not how it’s supposed to work. But he’s your brother.

  ‘Look,’ he says, ‘if it’s a problem, forget it.

  If you let James have his way, go to 223. If you insist on sticking to the rules, go to 236.

  202

  Where do you want to be? What do you want to change?

  If you want to be a child again, go to 207. If you want to be a teenager, go to 209.

  203

  ‘I’m paying for this,’ Hackwill announces. You realise he means the course, not his sins. ‘Reg, get me McKinnell’s boots.’

  Jessup Muttley-grumbles.

  ‘Do it, Fatty,’ Hackwill insists.

  Jessup gets down on the ground and wrestles off McKinnell’s boots. He doesn’t enjoy himself.

  Hackwill gets the boots on, stamps around in them, gets his feet settled. Warm feet give him authorit
y. The game-playing is over and the Councillor is back in command.

  ‘You lot stay here,’ he orders. ‘I’ll send back help.’

  Jessup whines a bit, like an abandoned dog.

  ‘I can’t take you with me, idiot,’ Hackwill says.

  You all watch as Hackwill walks down into the valley, until well after he is lost in the trees.

  ‘Let’s get back to the Compound,’ you suggest.

  ‘What about him?’ Shearer asks, meaning McKinnell.

  ‘Heave that bit of old tarp over him,’ James says. ‘He doesn’t feel the cold any more.’

  You cover McKinnell.

  ‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t get any company,’ you say.

  You all sit in the small dining-room of Castle Drac, trying to keep your feet off the uncarpeted stone floor. The fire burns in the grate, but nothing takes the ice out of the slabs.

  ‘What if it was Hackwill?’

  Tristram Warwick says it. But you’ve all been thinking it.

  ‘Perhaps you should have mentioned it at the time,’ James says.

  ‘You, Jessup, you’re his friend, what do you know?’ Warwick shouts in Jessup’s face and grabs him by his furry jumper.

  ‘Nothing, Tris. Honest.’

  Jessup blubbers, a bully’s sidekick without the bully around, at the mercy of turning worms.

  ‘We could make him talk,’ Shearer says. Jessup looks aghast.

  After a few moments, James steps in. ‘We don’t do torture here,’ he says.

  ‘You could have fooled me,’ Shearer snaps.

  You and James laugh. Someone’s dead but you can still laugh. That’s a surprise.

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ Jessup insists.

  Warwick drops him.

  ‘Hackwill might come back,’ Warwick says. ‘This fat shit could be the inside man.’

  ‘Why would Councillor Hackwill want to kill anyone?’ you ask.

  Warwick shuts up. But Sean cracks.

  ‘McKinnell was going to pull out of the Discount Development,’ Sean says. ‘Robert thought he would take the deal apart.’

  ‘Idiot,’ Warwick says, and you don’t know who he means.

  ‘He was going to use this week to persuade him not to.’