Life's Lottery

by Kim Newman

  Shane’s gang becomes your gang. Even Mary is impressed.

  You’re very sparing with the kid-mystic act, partly because your memory of specific events is shaky. You should have memorised a book of general knowledge. You do remember one other snippet of World Cup trivia: the trophy will be stolen, and found by a dog called Pickles.

  Your biggest coup is in November, when you foretell William Hartnell’s regeneration as Patrick Troughton. You can remember all the actors who play Doctor Who. But you find it strange actually to watch, with grown-up critical faculties, the show as it goes out, realising how ropey the sets are and how repetitive the storylines. Surely it got better in colour.

  You write a letter to the BBC telling them not to wipe their master tapes of Doctor Who because they will reap a fortune in the unimaginable but impending future when retail videos will become a significant ancillary market. You get a patronising letter back, saying your amusing suggestion about the next century has been passed on to the Doctor Who production team, even if it is a bit far-fetched for the scientifically credible standards of the programme.

  You write to John Lennon and tell him not to move to New York and, if he does, not to move into that block of flats in Rosemary’s Baby. After you’ve posted the letter, you realise Rosemary’s Baby hasn’t been made into a film yet, though you think the book has been published.

  Well, you tried.

  A lot of things come back to you just too late to be of any use and you dread the process of relearning all the subjects you will take at school when you pass the Eleven Plus — you’ll have to be careful not to score too well there since that’s a test of skills not knowledge — and go on to Marling’s. Christ, you’ve got three years in uniform at a single-sex prison camp before comprehensive education comes in.

  And you’re a virgin.

  You start saving your pocket money. Eventually, Microsoft is going to be founded and you plan to be a very early investor.

  If you don’t watch out, you’re going to rule the world.

  And so on.

  Begin again?

  240

  Blit blurt.

  ‘Mr Marion? Keith?’

  You look at the man.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asks.

  You don’t. Do you?

  ‘I’m Dr Cross. This is Susan Rodway.’

  A nice-looking woman smiles.

  ‘You’ve been away,’ he says.

  ‘Away?’ you ask.

  ‘Voyaging, I suppose. Inside yourself.’

  ‘Am I mad?’ you ask.

  ‘The term no longer means anything.’

  Dr Cross is rather stuffy, pompous. But Susan, who seems also to be a doctor, is warmer.

  ‘You’re not alone, Keith,’ she says.

  ‘The Spiders?’ you ask.

  Dr Cross and Susan look at each other.

  ‘You remember the Spiders,’ Dr Cross says. ‘I suppose that’s a good sign. Most Marion syndromers edit them out of their memories.’

  ‘I have a syndrome?’

  ‘Not if you remember the Spiders.’

  ‘No, I have a syndrome named after me.’

  ‘You weren’t the first,’ Dr Cross says, ‘but you were the first to be studied. You’ve not responded as well to treatment as some, so you’re not the first to come out of it.’

  ‘What about the Spiders?’

  ‘Gone,’ Susan says. ‘Just as they came. We’re not sure what they were, really. A large-scale, inexplicable phenomenon.’

  ‘But I didn’t dream them?’

  ‘No, there were Spiders.’

  ‘Actually,’ Dr Cross says, ‘they can’t have been Spiders. Arachnid physiology is such that no true spider can attain great size. They have no respiratory or circulatory system which could keep a large body functional, and the increase of mass would render their limbs inoperative.’

  ‘So where did the webs come from?’ Susan asks.

  You sit up. Your mind is clear: but you have phantom memories.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Dr Cross says. ‘You’ll soon get over the after-effects.’

  You can’t believe it.

  ‘It’s a happy ending,’ you say, wondering.

  Begin again?

  241

  Fuck it.

  That’s your motto. Literally.

  You set up Vanda and the kids with trust funds and the house, and move out.

  You live in hotels. All your meals are in restaurants. All your beds are temporary; and populated.

  Everything you’ve heard of, you try. Cocaine, crack, call girls, caffeine, cherry trifle.

  You bury yourself in them. You can’t spend fast enough.

  Somewhere there are two graphs. One line is your life expectancy, the other your bank balance.

  You want them to hit zero simultaneously.

  Then, fuck it.

  Money isn’t everything. But it can buy you everything.

  You plough through the world. Fucking it.

  You live rich. And die broke. Congratulations.

  Go to0.

  242

  ‘He was a bully at school,’ you say. ‘Not that that’s any reason to kill him.’

  The sergeant catches that. He hasn’t said anything about Hackwill being killed.

  ‘I’m not,’ you begin, ‘sure Hackwill was, uh, the most ethical of businessmen.’

  ‘Um,’ the sergeant says. ‘I think that’ll be all for today. The doctor wants to take a look at you.’

  You wonder if you’ve passed.

  Read 250 go to 268.

  243

  ‘Your business partners are dying,’ you say to Hackwill, hoping to spook Jessup and Sean.

  ‘So are your customers,’ Hackwill replies.

  ‘When will this rain end?’ Sean asks.

  You and Hackwill look at him. He’s working on a fright fit.

  ‘Not soon enough to save you,’ you say. ‘Not if he’s determined.’

  ‘Shane,’ Hackwill says, ‘hit Mr Marion.’

  Shane steps forward. Mary trips him. He gets up and backs down. She always could outfight him.

  Hackwill looks betrayed. ‘So that’s how it is? Strange bedfellows, if you ask me.’

  ‘You’re a murderer,’ James says, coherent.

  Hackwill shrugs in disgust.

  ‘He tried to kill me,’ your brother says. ‘And he wrecked our quickest way out of here.’

  On balance, you believe James. So does everyone else in the room, though you guess Jessup and Shane will stick by Hackwill. Sean is wavering and Shearer is tentatively with you. You have James and Mary.

  ‘When we get back, I’m going to make sure you pay, Hackwill,’ you say. ‘This is one charge you’re not avoiding.’

  Hackwill can’t be bothered to look you in the eye. You know he’s scared. You’ve got him. You know it was him. No doubts. He killed them both. Maybe he had Shane do it, but he’ll be brought to book for it. You see wheels working in his head. His patience is thinning. He senses walls closing in. He’ll try something desperate.

  ‘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?’

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

&nbs
p; 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.

  244

  You’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 judgment, boy: who is more important to you?

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

  245

  This 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.

  246

  Hackwill 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 of 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.

  247

  You 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.