Before the audience could even begin its usual chant, he took out a handgun and shot her between the eyes.
The single shot was deafening. It seemed impossible that such a small gun could make so much noise. Mary was thrown backward, disappearing from sight. For a moment, nobody did anything. Then every spotlight in the studio swung around, focusing on Danny.
It wasn’t quite over yet.
One question remained.
Wayne produced a golden envelope. Inside it was a question that had been set by the prime minister himself. There were no lifelines, no help from the audience, no second chances. At this moment, it was all or nothing. Wayne took out a silver knife and cut open the envelope.
“Danny Webster,” he said. “You are our last survivor. Answer this and you will be our undisputed champion. We’re going to give you an extra five seconds to help you. How are you feeling?”
“Just ask me the question,” Danny rasped. The lights were blinding him. He could feel them burning his brain.
“All right. Here it is.” Wayne paused. “Can you tell me the name of the biggest library in the world?”
Total silence. It was as if the audience was no longer breathing. The clock had started ticking. In twenty seconds, Danny would either be very rich or very dead.
But he knew the answer! Danny wanted to be a librarian, and he knew that it wasn’t the British Library. That was the second biggest, with over fourteen million books.
“It’s the American Library of Congress,” he said.
Another long silence.
“You’re absolutely right!” Wayne said.
Everything went crazy. The audience left their seats once again, cheering and shouting. The security men closed ranks, forming a barrier in front of the stage. Fireworks exploded and brightly colored streamers rained down. Two floor managers ran forward and released Danny from his shackles. For the first time, he realized that he was soaked in perspiration. He found it hard to move. Bridget, the blonde in the bikini, came back with the attaché case. Wayne strode forward and took Danny’s hand, at the same time thumping him on his back.
“This year’s winner, just sixteen years of age, is Danny Webster. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the youngest multimillionaire in the country!”
More cheering. Somehow Danny’s parents had found their way onto the stage. His father was whooping with excitement while his mother smothered him in kisses.
“I knew you could do it, son!” Gary exclaimed. “You’ve made us! We’re in the money!”
The next five minutes were totally chaotic for Danny. His head wasn’t working. Nothing made sense anymore. He reached out as the attaché case was pressed into his hands and felt the diamonds rattling inside. Bridget kissed him. Wayne Howard embraced him. It seemed that everyone wanted to touch him, to congratulate him. His name was flashing on the screen in gold letters. The Wagner was playing again.
The security men had formed a protective tunnel and somehow he was bundled out of the studio and into the cold night air. But even here it wasn’t over. There were two thousand people cheering in front of the giant plasma screen, which showed his own face, blinking, as he was led out. The world press was waiting for him. More than two hundred cameras were flashing in his face, blinding him, shattering the night sky. Reporters were shouting questions at him in a dozen languages. There was a stretch limo with a uniformed chauffeur holding the door for him, but there was no way he could move forward, not with so many people surrounding him. His father was laughing hysterically. His mother was posing and pirouetting for the cameras. The security men were still trying to clear the way. It was like the end of a war.
And then, out of nowhere, a helicopter appeared. It came down so fast that Danny thought it was going to crash. What was it doing? Were there more newsmen trying to break in on the scene? He saw a rope ladder snaking down.
Then something fell out of the sky. A grenade. Somebody screamed. A second later there was machine-gun fire. Danny saw several of the journalists being mown down. The grenade exploded. Yellow tear gas mushroomed out. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
Two men, dressed in black from head to foot, their faces covered by balaclavas, were climbing down the rope ladder. They weren’t newsmen. One of them fired several shots into the crowd, killing the chauffeur and two of the security men. The other ran up to Danny and snatched the case. But Danny wouldn’t let it go. He had won the competition. Over the past months, he had answered hundreds of questions. The prize was his!
The masked man pulled out a gun and shot him.
And at that moment he heard a voice, amplified, coming out of a speaker system that must have been concealed somewhere outside the studio, and somehow he knew that it was being broadcast all over the world.
“What a fantastic piece of planning by the Macdonald family from Sunderland, who must surely be the winners of Steal a Million, the reality program that turns ordinary people into master criminals. It looks like they’ve snatched the diamonds, and now nothing can stop them as they make the perfect getaway—”
Danny didn’t hear any more. He saw his mother staring at him in horror and glanced down at his chest. Blood was pouring out. Then he was toppling forward. The attaché case was no longer in his hands. There was no pain.
A moment later everything went black and his one last thought was that, in a way, it was all very much like a television being turned off.
YOU HAVE ARRIVED
Everyone knew who ruled at the Kenworth Estate: Harry Faulkner, Haz to his friends, and Jason Steel, barely fifteen but walking tall like someone ten years older. When a new obscenity appeared, sprayed over the side of somebody’s house. When an old woman got her bag snatched at night. When a car, or the wheels or side mirrors of a car, went missing. When a window got smashed. . . . It had to be Haz and Jace. Everybody knew. But nobody liked to say.
The Kenworth Estate had been built in the sixties. It had probably looked fine when it was planned, but once translated to real life, it simply hadn’t worked. There were three blocks of high-rise apartments with views, mainly of each other, and a whole series of individual houses that might look attractive from a distance but which soon lost their charm when you tried to negotiate your way along the maze of dark passageways that connected them. Crime Alley and Muggers’ Mews . . . they all had names like that and the names told you everything you needed to know.
Even its location was against it. It was about a mile from Ipswich, just too far away from the nearest school or shopping center to make walking possible, especially when the east coast rain was sweeping in across the concrete. But nor was it quite in the countryside. It was surrounded by pylons and warehouses, with just one pub, the King’s Arms, and one fish-and-chips shop close by. There was talk of the whole place being done up, the buildings painted and the lawns replanted, but talk was all it seemed to be.
Even so, life on the estate might not have been too bad for many of the residents, who were, by and large, a friendly bunch. People tried to help each other out. If one of the older residents got ill, neighbors would pop in for a visit. There were quiz nights at the pub. Now and then someone would organize a litter party and all the crumpled Coke cans and broken bottles would be carried off, only to reappear slowly over the months that followed.
But the one problem that wouldn’t go away, even for a minute, was the local gang. It didn’t have a name. It wasn’t called the Sharks or the Razorboys or anything like that. Nor was it particularly organized. It was just there . . . half a dozen teenagers, maybe a couple more in their early twenties, prowling the estate, killing time, smoking, making life miserable for everyone else.
A boy named Bob Kirby had been gang leader for as long as anyone could remember. He was also known as Romeo because of the big red heart tattooed on his right arm, although nobody knew when he’d had it put there or why. Certainly, Kirby had very little love for anyone. He sneered at his father, beat his mother and terrorized anyone who got in his way. Bob
had been a weight lifter, with muscles that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Hollywood star or, for that matter, a long-term convict. Once, in a fight, he had broken the jaw of a man twice his size. Aged just nineteen, he had been arrested twice and was well known to the local police, who were just waiting for him to make the one mistake that would put him into their care. But Bob had been careful. Either that or he was lucky. The Kenworth Estate was his and he ruled it in filthy jeans and his trademark hoodie, a concealed weapon in one pocket and ten Marlboro Lights in another, with a permanent scowl on his pockmarked face.
And then, one day, Bob Kirby disappeared. He was last seen driving east on the A14 in a stolen car and rumor had it that he had upped sticks and moved to London. This was strange, as he had no friends or relatives there. Bob had no friends anywhere. Some people whispered that he had been stopped by the police on the way, beaten up and left in a ditch—but this was just wishful thinking. He had gone because he had decided to go. And the only thing that mattered was that, with a bit of luck, he wouldn’t come back.
His place, however, had been quickly taken. Harry Faulkner had been Bob’s lieutenant, his second in command and the first to do whatever Bob wanted. When old Mr. Rossiter’s house was burgled and his war medals stolen, it was Harry who had put his elbow through the back window. He was pale and unhealthy looking, with tufts of greasy, fair hair cut short and a sty that had taken up permanent residence in the corner of his eye. His teeth were amazingly uneven and he had lost two of them in a fight ten years ago when he was barely eleven. He had been suspended from school more often than he had been in it and he too had been served with an arrest warrant. He appeared frequently on the lists passed between the police and social workers. He lived with his single mother, who drank, and a mongrel dog that limped around the wreck of the garden and cowered when Harry came home.
He had chosen Jason Steel to be his own right-hand man—something that had made Jason enormously proud, particularly as he was only fifteen and, despite his best efforts, still had no police record. As soon as Harry took him under his wing, Jason promptly gave up attending school, something his teachers couldn’t understand because, despite appearances, he was actually fairly bright. Those appearances included a shaven head, hostile eyes and nicotine-stained fingers. Jason was scrawny and small for his age, hollowed out by the life he had chosen. He didn’t sleep enough, eat enough or look after his personal hygiene in any meaningful way. He was just happy to be with Harry. That was his tragedy. He couldn’t see how pathetic that made him.
The two of them spent their days doing very little. They seldom got up before ten or eleven o’clock in the morning. Once they were up, they ate large, unhealthy breakfasts and were outside the King’s Arms by one. Here they would meet up with Den, Frankie, Jo-Jo, PK and Ashley—the other members of the gang. Of course, the barman wasn’t supposed to serve them drinks. But Harry Faulkner was old enough to buy alcohol and the rest of them looked it, so why argue? Keep the boys happy and your windows might stay unbroken. That was the philosophy around here.
In the afternoon, the six of them might go shopping in Ipswich . . . or shoplifting, rather, for they seldom paid. Sometimes Harry and Jason would head off alone. They liked going to the cinema. One of them would buy a ticket and let the other in through the fire door. They took drugs, of course. So far they had stayed off the heavy stuff. Both of them were afraid, although neither of them would have admitted it. But they smoked grass and passed hours in a semiconscious state. For all seven gang members, this wasn’t so very different from their normal state. They had found a way of making the day pass without noticing. If they were bored, they didn’t know it. And if they knew it, they didn’t admit it. They were happy being together. What else did they need?
But Harry and Jason were on their own the day they came upon the BMW.
It was parked just around the corner from the King’s Arms, sitting in an empty street as if it had simply dropped out of the sky. What was an expensive car like this doing at the Kenworth Estate, anyway? It looked brand-new, although its license plate showed that it was actually three years old. A BMW X3, metallic silver with alloy wheels and sports trim, leather interior and electric sunroof, parked there as if it should be in some swanky showroom.
Incredible.
“Where do you think that came from?” Harry asked. He had a squeaky voice, the result of all his smoking, and he almost purposefully brutalized every word. “Whe’ d’ya fink tha’ caym frum?”
“I don’t know, Haz,” Jason replied. He was already wondering what Harry would do. Run a key down the paintwork, certainly. And perhaps more.
“How much do you think it’s worth?”
“I got no idea.” In fact, Jason guessed its value would be around $25,000. The latest X3 went for about $40,000 new. He’d read that in a magazine. But it was always better to keep his mouth shut when he was with Harry. Being too clever with someone like that could be bad for your well-being.
“Who’d park something like that around here?” Harry looked across the surrounding wasteland, back toward the pub and across to the estate. There was nobody in sight. It was a cold day and drizzling. The winter months were drawing in.
“What you gonna do, Haz?”
Harry hadn’t decided yet, but Jason could see all sorts of possibilities traveling across his eyes like prizes on a game show. The DVD player, the cuddly toy, the twenty-grand four-by-four . . .
“Let’s get another drink,” Jason went on. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and the pub would be closed by now, but there was something about the BMW that made him want to move on. It shouldn’t have been there. It was weird. And there was something else. . . .
“Nah. Wait a minute.” Harry was still deep in thought. “That’s a nice car,” he said. “And it’s here. And there’s nobody about.”
“Who’d leave a car like that out here?” Jason asked, almost exactly echoing what Harry had said a few moments before.
“Let’s take a closer look.”
“You think it’s safe?” Jason wasn’t sure why he’d said that.
“You think that little diddy car is going to get up and bite you?” Harry giggled. “It’s safe!”
The two of them went up to the X3. It had tinted windows. The bodywork was gleaming. Inside, the brilliantly polished dashboard made Jason think of a sleeping tiger. He wanted to turn the key, to hear the growl of the engine, to feel the power that would come as the dials and gauges lit up.
The key.
It was in the ignition.
Harry had seen it too. “You see that?” he whispered.
“Yeah, Harry.”
“They left the key in the car.”
“Let’s get out of here, Harry.”
“What you talking about, Jace? They left the bloody key in the bloody car.” Harry took another look around. “And there’s no one here.”
It was true. The drizzle was bouncing off the tarmac, sweeping across the grim, uneven grass, hanging between the electricity pylons. It was keeping people indoors.
Harry opened the door of the BMW.
Even then, Jason thought that it must be a trick, that an alarm would go off and a dozen policemen would appear out of nowhere, pouncing on them and dragging them off to the nearest juvenile hall. But no policemen came. There was just the soft clunk of the lock disengaging and then they were looking inside a car that they couldn’t have afforded if they’d both worked twenty-four hours a day for an entire year.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Harry whispered.
“You bet,” Jason replied, although part of him wondered if Harry ever thought very much at all.
“Let’s do it!”
They were inside the car before they knew it. And then came the wonderful moment when the doors closed and everything outside simply disappeared and the two of them were out of the drizzle, lost in the world of the car, surrounded by luxury and the latest technology. Harry had taken the driving seat, of co
urse. Both of them knew how to drive, but Jason also knew his place. He was the passenger. Harry was the one who would be taking them for this ride.
“Wow!” Harry breathed the single word and giggled.
“Awesome!” Jason agreed.
Harry turned the key and the engine fired instantly. Jason heard the soft splutter and felt the vibrations. Never in his whole life had he sat in a car like this. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling. Just a few hours before, he had been lying in his bed with its dirty, wrinkled sheets, wondering how he would spend the rest of the day. And now this!
“Let’s get out of here, Harry,” he said. He wanted to move. He wanted to leave the estate before the car’s owner appeared and dragged them out. And there was still that something else nagging at the corner of his mind. A silvergray BMW. It had a significance. But what was it?
The car had six gears. Harry whipped it into first, pressed on the accelerator, and at once they surged forward. Naught to sixty in eight seconds. That was what this car could do, and if Harry didn’t quite manage it this time, they were halfway down the road before either of them had quite realized what had happened.
“This is unbelievable!” Jason shouted.
“This is cool!” Harry squealed.
The King’s Arms had become a speck in the rearview mirror. A minute later, the estate had vanished from sight. Harry was clinging onto the steering wheel as if he were afraid of being left behind. To look at him, you would have thought it was the car that was driving him rather than the other way around. Jason drummed his hands against the dashboard. For the moment, sheer excitement had swept away all his doubts.
Second gear, third gear, fourth . . . the faster they went, the more confident Harry became. They raced down a series of lanes, and before they knew it, they had come to a T-junction and the A1071 stretched out in front of them, leading either to Sudbury in the east or Ipswich in the west. Suddenly there was more traffic. A police car whizzed across them without slowing down, and the sight of it reminded Jason that this was a serious business. They had just stolen a twenty-five-thousand-dollar car. This would be more than probation if they were caught. This could be jail.
Bloody Horowitz Page 5