Bloody Horowitz (5 page)

Just four faces left. Five, including his. Danny thought about all the contestants he had met along the way. There had been Gerald, the fat, jolly headmaster from Brighton. Abdul, the taxi driver who had been so certain he would win. Clive in his wheelchair, hoping to claw something back in a life that had been wrecked by a car accident. Susan, who had complained when she had been asked to share a makeup room. So many different people. But they had all gone now.

And in a couple of hours, there would only be one left.

There was a knock at the door and the soundman came in with the little microphone that he would clip to the collar of Danny's shirt. Danny had chosen jeans and a simple open-neck shirt for the final, although he had been told that the other contestants had been offered thousands of dollars to wear—and promote—designer labels. He had briefly considered it himself, but he felt comfortable in his own clothes and that was important. Staying relaxed was half the battle.

“How are you feeling?” The soundman was cheerful as he slid the microphone into place. Theoretically, the technicians weren't meant to talk to the contestants, but Ed didn't seem to care about the rules.

“I'm okay.”

“Good luck. I'll be rooting for you.”

The makeup girl left with the soundman, and for the next twenty minutes Danny was on his own. He knew he was nervous. He could feel his heart beating. It was hard to swallow. There was a tingling feeling in the palms of his hands. He forced himself to empty his mind and stay calm. A certain amount of nervousness was perfectly understandable. He just had to control it. That was all. He couldn't let it knock him off course.

At last the floor manager arrived. She was a big, smiling woman in her twenties, always carrying a clipboard and with a large microphone curving around her neck.

“We're ready for you!” she said cheerfully.

Danny stood up.

He hadn't let his parents wait with him. They were even more nervous than he was and he hadn't wanted to be distracted. He knew that he wouldn't see the other contestants as he made his way to the set. The studio had been specially designed that way. Just for a moment, he felt very alone, following the woman down a tatty, creampainted corridor with neon lights flickering overhead. It was more like a hospital than a television studio, he thought. Perhaps that was deliberate too.

But then they turned a corner and went through a set of double doors. On the other side, everything was dark and Danny could make out the great bulk of a wall, made of wood, hammered together almost haphazardly. There were cables trailing everywhere, fastened to the floor with lengths of duct tape. He knew he was looking at the back of the set. Through the cracks, he could make out the studio lights. The floor manager rested a hand on his arm.

“Ten seconds,” she said.

The familiar music began. Danny had heard it a hundred times, playing at the start of the show. Although, of course, it had never come up as a question, he knew that it was an adaptation of a piece by Wagner
(the German composer born in Leipzig on May 22, 1813, and who died in 1883).
The music stopped. There was a round of applause. Danny felt a hand tap him on the shoulder and he moved forward, into the light.

And there was the set of
Bet Your Life,
with five metal lecterns arranged in a semicircle around a central control panel—looking like something out of a spaceship—where the question master would take his place. The lecterns could have been designed for a politician or a lecturer to stand behind when giving a speech. Each one stood on a low, square platform and came up to the contestant's waist, with a television monitor built into the surface. Every question was written out as well as spoken and the screens would also be used if there was a picture round. The lecterns were black, and polished so that they reflected the studio audience sitting in long rows, facing them. They looked somehow dangerous—but of course, that was the whole idea.

On one side of the stage, there was a giant television screen. On the other, a strangely old-fashioned clock face would count down from fifteen to zero. Inside the zero was a cartoon of a human skull.

Danny had already been told which platform was his. The numbers had been drawn the evening before so that nobody would have a psychological advantage. Raife Plant was number one. Richard Verdi was two. Mary Robinson was three. Ben Osmond was four. Danny was on the edge at number five. He was glad to have Ben next to him. He had studied recordings of the other contestants, trying to find out as much as he could about them, the way they played the game. The professor and the computer programmer had been the most worrying. He had been struck by how grim and professional they were. Raife Plant, with his easy smile, seemed somehow untrustworthy. He would feel less intimidated next to Ben, who was, after all, the closest in age to himself.

All five of them were appearing at the same time, walking in through separate entrances, dazzled by the studio lights that formed a barrier between them and the audience. Danny could just make out the security guards in their silver
BYL
anoraks. There were half a dozen of them, huge men, standing with their backs to the stage, their arms crossed, their job being to make sure that nobody came close. The Wagner was playing, pounding out of a bank of speakers. Danny could sense the tension in the air. He could smell it. The heat of the lights was unforgiving, sucking out all the emotions of the crowd and keeping it trapped in the closed, windowless place.

He reached his platform and climbed onto it. At once, one of the floor managers—a young man in a black T-shirt—came forward and shackled his ankles into place. Now he couldn't move. He would be forced to stand in front of the lectern until the game, or his part in it, was over. In the beginning, this had worried him. Now he was used to it. He moved one foot and felt the steel chain jangle against his shin. The other four contestants had been locked in place, just like him. He didn't look at them. He didn't want to meet their eyes.

The music changed. A circular trapdoor had slid open in the middle of the stage and clouds of white dry ice were pouring out. As the audience increased their applause, many of them whistling and cheering, a figure rose up from below, carried by a hydraulic lift. He was dressed, as always, in a black suit with a black shirt and a silver tie. His black hair was slicked back and his black beard neatly trimmed. Against all this, his skin was unnaturally pale. His teeth, a perfect white, seemed almost electric. Wayne Howard, the host of the show, had arrived.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he began when the applause had finally died down. “And welcome to the final episode of the most dramatic, the most exciting quiz show on TV. The five men and women who stand before you tonight have completed an epic journey, but only one of them can walk away with the biggest prize ever offered by any television program anywhere in the world. And just to remind you what it is, let's take a look. Ten million dollars in diamonds. Bridget . . . bring them on!”

A blond-haired woman, dressed only in a silver bikini with thigh-high boots, walked out of the wings carrying a simple leather attaché case. She stopped next to Wayne and opened it. As one, the audience rose to their feet. The diamonds seemed to catch the light and magnify it a thousand times so it was as if Bridget had opened a portal into another world. There they were. A scattering of stones, each one a different cut and a different size, glittering brilliantly on a cushion of dark velvet.

“These stones can be carried anywhere in the world,” Wayne explained. He had said the same many times before. “They can be spent anywhere. And tonight, one person is going to walk out of this studio carrying them. Will it be Mary, who hopes very soon to change her name to Melvyn? Will it be Richard, whose career as a professor could soon be history? Will it be our poet and friend of the animals, Ben? Or how about Raife? We know he's gone straight. But is he going straight to the diamonds? And finally, there's Danny, our youngest contestant, just starting in eleventh grade. Could he be the one? It's time to find out on . . .
Bet Your Life
!”

More music. Searchlights sweeping back and forth. Wayne Howard took his place behind the central control desk, facing the contestants. The quiz began.

The format was actually very simple. Each round was a series of questions on a specialist subject randomly generated by a computer and fed to Wayne. Each contestant had fifteen seconds to answer, and if they didn't know, they had three lifelines. The first of these was a “pass,” which meant that their question was passed on to the person standing next to them. One was a “second chance,” which they could play once the question had been asked. It meant that if they guessed incorrectly, they could try again. The last was called “toss of the coin,” where they would be fed two possible answers and would have to choose between them.

Wayne reached out and pressed a button on the console. The single word SCIENCE came up on a giant screen above the stage. Danny smiled to himself. Science was one of his favorite subjects. It was a promising start.

“And the first question is for Raife,” the quizmaster exclaimed. “What chemical with the symbol NaCl is found in the sea and in the kitchen?”

Danny knew the answer to that one. It was sodium chloride—or common salt. Unfortunately, Raife knew it too. But that was hardly surprising. All the questions in the first round were deliberately simple. They would become harder as the evening went on. Sure enough, all five contestants answered their questions on science without any trouble.

The next round, ENTERTAINMENT, passed without much incident, but in the one after—POLITICS—there was a moment of drama when Ben had to use his pass. He had been asked who became president of the United States in 1969, and for some reason he couldn't think. The same question went to Danny, who suddenly found himself sweating as the hand of the clock began its journey. He had just fifteen seconds to find the answer, the time pressure making it all the more difficult. Thinking on his feet, he decided to play his second chance lifeline. And it was just as well he did. His first attempt, John F. Kennedy, was wrong, but that didn't mean he was eliminated. With four seconds left, he remembered the correct answer. Richard Nixon. His mouth was so dry by then that he had to force himself to spit out the words.

Richard Verdi had a bad round with FOOD AND DRINK, using his own second chance to answer the question “What alcohol is used as the basis of a
mojito
?” The answer, which he got right the second time, was light rum. He also had to use a pass in the next round, WILD ANIMALS, so that after fifteen minutes (and the first advertising break) he was looking distinctly rattled. Danny noticed that so far the computer programmer hadn't so much as hesitated. She could have been reading the answers straight out of a book.

The first upset came in the next round—FAMOUS FILMS. It was Raife Plant who was asked the question “Who had the title role in the 1931 film of
Frankenstein
?” And with a trademark wink and a grin, he answered immediately: “Boris Karloff.”

There was a long pause. Then Wayne Howard shook his head and at once the audience broke into a mixture of gasps and whispers. It was the wrong answer! Danny realized at once what had happened. This was one of the traps that the quiz program was famous for. It was absolutely true that Boris Karloff had starred in the film as the monster created by a mad inventor. But the film had been named after the inventor, Dr. Henry Frankenstein, not the monster, which actually had no name at all. And he had been played by a much less well-known actor named Colin Clive.

“I'm sorry, Raife,” Wayne said. He reached down.

Behind him, the audience began a chant, as they always did. “Go, go, go, go, go . . .” Wayne brought out a submachine gun. It glimmered in the spotlights as he checked that it was loaded. Then he rested it against his shoulder and fired a hundred rounds into the unfortunate contestant.

Danny could only watch in silent horror. Raife, chained to his lectern, seemed to be trying to leave the stage in six directions at once. He was almost torn in half, blood splattering everywhere. The noise of the bullets was horrendous. The stench of gunpowder filled Danny's nostrils and throat. At last it was over. The audience shouted and clapped its approval. Raife slumped forward, his hands hanging down. Silently, his lectern was lowered out of sight, carrying the corpse with it.

So now there were just four left.

Forcing himself to turn his attention away from the square opening in the stage—Raife Plant's grave—Danny searched for his mother and father in the audience. They had been given VIP places in the front row. Gary Webster was trying to smile, feebly waving a hand at his son. It looked as if his mother had been sick. She was slumped in the seat next to him. Her face was pale.

Richard Verdi answered the next question correctly. So did Mary Robinson. When it came to Ben Osmond's turn, he seemed rattled after what had just happened and hesitated—“What was the name of the character played by Ian McKellen in the three
X-Men
films?”—and only came up with the right answer, Magneto, with seconds left.

Danny liked films, but he was forced to use his precious pass when his turn came. “Who directed the original version of
The Italian Job
?” In the back of his mind he knew—somehow—that the remake had been made by someone named F. Gary Gray. But the original had been shot in 1969, almost thirty years before he had been born. The question went to Richard Verdi.

And with a thrill, Danny realized that the history professor also wasn't sure. He could, of course, have passed the question on to Mary Robinson, but he had already used his pass in the WILD ANIMALS round. Would he use his last lifeline, toss of the coin? Danny glanced his way and saw the beads of sweat on the bald man's head.