Not Dead Enough

37

‘How are you?’ Sophie asked imploringly. ‘What’s happened? How—?’

‘Try it on,’ he said sharply, putting the package on the tray, ignoring her questions.

Out in the falling dusk, a siren wailed, momentarily drowning out the faint, low, four-beat boom-boom-boom-boom of dance music that was getting increasingly tiresome.

Sophie, astonished – and uneasy at his behaviour – meekly untied the bow, then peered into the gift box. All she could see for the moment was tissue paper.

Out of the corner of her eye, on the television screen, she saw Chris Tarrant mouth the words, ‘Final answer?’

The geeky-looking guy in big glasses nodded.

A yellow flashing light encircled the name Morocco.

Moments later, on the screen, a flashing green light encircled Tunisia.

Chris Tarrant’s eyebrows shot several inches up his forehead.

The lady in the wheelchair, who had looked earlier as if she was about to be hit by a cricket bat, now looked as if she had been hit by a sledgehammer. Meanwhile, her husband seemed to shrink in his seat.

Sophie lipread Tarrant saying, ‘John, you had sixty-four thousand pounds . . .’

‘You want to watch television or open the gift I’ve bought you?’ he said.

Swinging her tray of food on to her bedside table, she said, ‘The gift, of course! But I want to know how you are. I want to know about—’

‘I don’t want to talk about it. Open it!’ he said in a tone suddenly so aggressive it startled her.

‘OK,’ she said.

‘What are you watching that crap for?’

Her eyes still flicked back to the screen. ‘I like it,’ she said, trying to calm him. ‘Poor guy. His wife’s in a wheelchair. He’s just blown the hundred and twenty-five thousand pound question.’

‘The whole show’s a con,’ he said.

‘No, it isn’t!’

‘Life’s a con. Haven’t you figured that one out yet?’

‘A con?’

Now it was his turn to point at the screen. ‘I don’t know who he is, nor did the rest of the world. A few minutes ago he sat in that chair and had nothing. Now he’s going to walk away with thirty-two thousand pounds and feel dissatisfied, when he should be rip-roaring with joy. You’re going to tell me that’s not a con?’

‘It’s a matter of perspective. I mean – from his point—’ ‘Turn the fucking thing off!’

Sophie was still shocked by the aggression in his voice, but at the same time a defiant streak made her reply, ‘No. I’m enjoying it.’

‘Want me to go, so you can watch your fucking sad little programme?’

She was already regretting what she had said. Despite her earlier resolve to end it with Brian, seeing him in the flesh made her realize she would a million times rather that he was here, with her, tonight than watch this show – or any show. And God, what the poor man must be going through . . . She punched the remote, turning it off. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

He was staring at her in a way she’d never seen before. As if blinds had come down behind his eyes.

‘I’m really sorry, OK? I’m just surprised you’re here.’

‘So you’re not pleased to see me?’

She sat up and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips. His breath was rancid and he smelled sweaty, but she didn’t care. They were manly smells, his smells. She breathed them in as though they were the most intoxicating scents on the planet. ‘I’m more than pleased,’ she said. ‘I’m just . . .’ She looked into those hazel eyes she adored so much. ‘I’m just so surprised, you know – after what you said earlier when we spoke. Tell me. Please tell me what’s happened. Please tell me everything.’

‘Open it!’ he said, his voice rising.

She pulled away some of the tissue, but, like a Chinese box, there was another layer beneath, and then another again. Trying to bring him back down from whatever was angering him, she said, ‘OK, I’m trying to guess what this is. And I’m guessing that it’s a—’

Suddenly his face was inches in front of hers, so close their noses were almost touching.

‘Open it!’ he screeched. ‘Open it, you fucking bitch.’