Scared to Death--Ten Sinister Stories by the Master of the Macabre

by Anthony Horowitz

  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 white 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. Raife Plant 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 immediately 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 programme 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 after the monster, which actually had no name at all. And the inventor had been played by a much less well-known actor called 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 sub-machine-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 by the bullets. The noise of gunfire 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 her husband. 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. “What was the name of the character played by Sir Ian McKellen in the first X-Men film?” Ben hesitated – and came up with the right answer, Magneto, with only seconds left.

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

  “I need an answer,” Wayne Howard said.

  The clock was ticking. Five … four … three … two…

  “It was Robert Deeley!” the professor exclaimed at the last second.

  There was another pause. Pauses were what everyone feared.

  “I’m sorry,” Wayne Howard said. “The correct answer is Michael Deeley.”

  “Go, go, go, go, go…” the audience began.

  “But that’s not…” Verdi began.

  He never finished the sentence. Wayne Howard flicked a switch on his console and twenty thousand volts of electricity coursed through the leg irons and also through the man connected to them. In less than five seconds, Richard Verdi was carbonized. Flames burst out of his ears and eyes. There was a terrible smell. Then he crumpled and disappeared behind his lectern. Once again the stage opened and swallowed him up. The audience was cheering. Two women in the back row were holding up a banner that read GIVE HIM THE JUICE, WAYNE. It seemed that their wish had been granted.

  There were just three contestants left.

  Danny had to force himself not to lose his composure. He had passed on the film question and so, in a way, he was responsible for what had happened. He had used the second of his lifelines and worse still, he then had to play “toss of the coin” in the next round, greek myths. The question should have been simple. Who was the first wife of Zeus? But with the heat of the lights, the ticking clock, the growing tension, his brain had failed him. Two names came up on the screen. HERA OR METIS. For a second, he was tempted to go with Hera. It had to be her, surely. But then he remembered. She had been Zeus’s third wife.

  “Metis,” he said.

  A pause. The audience waited.

  “That’s the correct answer,” Wayne Howard said.

  Danny almost fainted with relief. At the same time, he noticed Mary Robinson sneering at him, telling him that she had known the correct answer all along.

  And now he had no lifelines left.

  Two more rounds – current events and the beatles – and not a great deal had changed. Ben had used one pass. So had Mary. Danny was in the weakest position. With the contest almost over, any one of them could still win, although if Danny had been allowed a bet he would probably have put his money on Mary.

  And then came a round entitled unlucky dip. The audience cheered when they saw the two words on the screen. It was well known that these questions would be particularly fiendish, designed to catch the contestants out. And in this round, no lifelines were allowed.

  Wayne Howard looked more devilish than ever as he read out the first question. “The Smith family has six sisters and each sister has one brother. Including Mr and Mrs Smith, how many people are there in the family?”

  It was Ben Osmond’s turn to answer. “There are fourteen people,” he said.

  Danny’s heart sank. He knew exactly how Ben had arrived at the answer. He had added six sisters to six brothers, making twelve. Then he had added Mr and Mrs Smith, bringing the total to fourteen.

  But he was wrong.

  In fact, the six sisters only had one brother between them. There were just seven kids and so with the parents, the correct total was nine.

  “Bad luck,” Wayne muttered.

  “Go, go, go, go…”

  What had happened? Had Ben let his concentration slip? Had he been tired? Or had he simply wanted the whole thing to be over? Either way, the result was the same and the answer was no sooner out of his mouth than he seemed to realize what he had done. He turned to Danny. “I’m sorry, little man.” He shrugged. “It looks like I’m going to have to check out.”

  “Go, go, go…”

  Wayne pressed a button on his console. The correct answer was already flashing on the screen. Ben didn’t move. Danny glanced up and saw a glass cylinder sliding down from above. It clicked into place, completely surrounding Ben, and a moment later there was a hiss as a cloud of poisonous gas belched out from the floor. Within seconds, Ben was invisible, lost in an ugly white fog that swirled around him. The audience was ecstatic, many of them on their feet, applauding. Wayne pressed a second button and powerful ventilators sucked the poison out. The cylinder rose. Ben was slumped forward. He could have been asleep, but Danny knew his eyes would never open again. He turned away as the platform disappeared beneath the stage.

  Danny was sure he was finished. Ben Osmond might not have exactly been a friend but somehow he had always seemed to be on Danny’s side. Mary Robinson, on the other hand, was ice-cold and pitiless. She would never make a mistake. S
he would stand there and smile when Danny finally stumbled and the ten million pounds would be hers.

  When Danny’s own question came, he could barely find the strength to work out the answer.

  “Divide thirty by half and add ten. What do you get?”

  The answer was obvious. Half of thirty was fifteen. Add ten. That made twenty-five. The audience had gone silent. Danny could see the studio clock counting the seconds. Fifteen seconds! Fifteen plus ten equals twenty-five. He opened his mouth to give the answer. No. There had to be a trick. Think again!

  Divide thirty by half.

  Of course.

  You had to think about the exact words. Divide thirty by the fraction – one half – and you got sixty. There were sixty halves in thirty. Add ten to that…

  One second left.

  “Seventy!” Danny blurted out.

  “That is correct,” Wayne said, and the audience applauded. Most of them had got it wrong. And Danny was clearly the underdog. During the course of the show, there had been a shift in sympathy. Most people in the studio now wanted the teenager to win.

  Wayne turned to Mary Robinson. “How many animals of each species did Moses take into the ark?” he asked.

  Mary smiled. Was she over-confident or had the pressure finally got to her? The critics would be arguing about it for weeks to come. “Two,” she replied.

  Wayne blinked twice.

  “Wait a minute!” Mary’s face had suddenly changed. For the first time, her eyes were filled with fear. Her mouth had dropped. The little gold earrings trembled. It was an old chestnut and she had fallen for it! “Moses didn’t take any animals into the ark,” she corrected herself. “It was Noah. The answer is none!”

  Wayne sighed. “That’s absolutely correct, Mary. But I’m afraid I have to take your first answer. You said “two” when the answer is “none” and I’m afraid that was wrong.

  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 backwards, disappearing from sight. For a moment, nobody did anything. Then every spotlight in the studio swung round, 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. 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 slit 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 be either 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 coloured 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 the 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 any more. 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 image, blinking as he was led out. The world’s 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 reporters 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 programme 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. There was 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 had her bag snatched at night … when a car, or the wheels or wing 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 flats with views, mainly of one another, and a whole series of indiv
idual houses which might have looked attractive from a distance but which soon lost their charm when you tried to negotiate your way along the maze of dark passageways connecting 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 centre 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-chip 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 one another out. If one of the older residents got ill, neighbours 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 called 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 shoulder although nobody knew when he’d had it put there or why. Certainly, Bob Kirby had very little love for anyone. He sneered at his father, lashed out at his mother and terrorized anyone who got in his way. Bob had been a weightlifter, 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 given two ASBOs 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 just lucky. The Kenworth Estate was his and he ruled it in filthy jeans and his trademark hoodie, a concealed weapon in one pocket, ten Marlboro Lights in another, and a permanent scowl on his pockmarked face.