Endgame (13 page)

T
he
air was acrid with smoke when the others rushed into the kitchen. Everyone's first thought was that there had finally been an accident with the gas. David stared up from the expensively tiled floor, fumes issuing from his hair, his body still twitching. Sandra knelt and felt for a pulse. She turned to the others and shook her head.

“He's dead,” she said simply.

“Oh, no!” Verna cried.

Just then, a strangled cackling caught everyone's ears. They all turned. Sami Lee stood in the doorway peering in. The sound came from her throat, as though she found the scene funny, but the crazed look in her eyes said her response was from shock rather than amusement.

Max put an arm over her shoulder. “It's all right,” he said reassuringly, leading her out of the room. “It's all right, hon. We'll get off this island as soon as we can. We'll get far away from here.”

Spike peered cautiously behind the fridge. Sparks fizzed and flew from the receptacle.

“David plugged it in,” Sandra sobbed, a hand covering her mouth. “He said it was unplugged then he reached behind the fridge and plugged it back in.”

Spike looked over at the kitchen counter. He picked up a pair of rubber dish gloves and put them on. Reaching carefully, he grasped the cord and pulled on it. The sparks died.

“I think we'd better leave it unplugged for now,” he said.

“But how did it get unplugged?” Verna asked.

Spike looked over at Sandra, who stood alone near the stove. “Check that door for us, love.”

She nodded and went over to the door. It was unlocked, though they had left it locked when they cleared the gas from the kitchen earlier.

“It's unlocked,” she said, her voice trembling.

“But how …?” Verna said.

“This was obviously set up by someone outside the house,” Spike said in a grim voice.

“But how? Who did it?” Sandra asked.

“While we were searching the house for the cellphones, someone must have sneaked in and unplugged the fridge, making it look accidental.”

They all looked out at the rain through the kitchen window.

“I think we'd better start that search of the island now, while we still can,” Spike said.

Sandra looked over from where she had slumped against the counter. “I'll go with you.”

“Are you up to it?” Spike said.

Sandra nodded.

Spike looked around at the faces watching him. “Anyone else?”

Verna nodded. “Yes,” she said breathily. “I'll come, too.”

Crispin said, “I'll go with you if you want me to.” He'd been standing quietly without speaking all this time.

“Not you,” Spike said. “No offence, mate, but you'll only hold us back. You stay safe inside with Max and Sami Lee.”

“All right,” Crispin said. “I'm sure I can trust them.”

“Me, too,” Pete said. He spooked them all a little. They hadn't heard him come back into the kitchen.

“We'll need something to protect us from the rain,” Sandra said. “I saw rain hats and overcoats in the anteroom. I'll go find them.”

She stopped and turned around to Verna. “Would — would you mind coming with me?”

Verna nodded. “Sure thing,” she said. “You lead the way.

The two women went off together. Spike turned to look at Pete.

“I'll need you to help me carry David upstairs and put him in his room.” He paused. “Are you okay to do that?”

“Yeah, I'm okay,” Pete said, though he sounded anything but sure of himself.

Together, they hoisted the body and carried him up the stairs to the second floor, laying him on the bed in what had been his room.

Pete stood looking down at the blackened face for a moment. Spike stepped back and walked around to the other side of the bed.

Watch him!
the Voice cried out.

For a moment, Pete thought David had come back to life and was addressing him. He looked down. The body lay there, eyes closed and unmoving.

Pete turned to see Spike watching him intently.

“Spooked?” Spike asked.

Pete nodded. “A little, yeah.”

Spike came over and clapped him on the shoulder. Pete felt a tremor, as if he'd been touched by something evil.

Spike looked him in the eyes. “It's just a dead body, mate. No need to panic. Let's keep a clear mind and we'll all be fine till we get off this fucking island.”

“Yeah — right.”

They walked back downstairs together. As they were passing the drawing-room door, Pete heard the Voice again.

Count them!
it said.

He felt a jolt of fear as he turned around. He already knew what he'd find.

“Look!” He stopped and pointed to chessboard. There were now five pieces down on their sides. A black bishop had been placed beside the rook.

“Who's been in here since this morning?” Spike asked.

“Everybody,” Pete said. “We all have.”

Spike shook his head. “Well, I don't know about you, but I can count only three dead bodies. Why do you think this has anything to do with anything?”

“I told you,” Pete blathered. “Every time someone dies, another piece gets turned down. Who … who's doing this to us?” He sank to his knees, pulling at his hair. “Oh, fuck!” he screamed.

“Pete, get a hold of yourself,” Spike said. “You're only making it worse for everyone else.”

Pete looked up at Spike. “This is all your fault.”

Spike grabbed Pete by the shoulders and shook him. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” Pete said menacingly.

“I don't know what you're talking about!” Spike slapped him across the face. Pete cringed and held his arms up in defence. “Now just shut up. We're not telling anybody else about this right now.”

They continued on down the hall to the mud room, where Sandra and Verna had put on checkered jackets, and hiking boots. The rain gear was still hanging in a corner. The two men waited as the women brought it to the entrance.

Pete was paler than normal, Sandra thought. It was the shock. The four of them put the gear on over their clothes without a word then crossed to the front door.

They all glanced into the parlour through the open door as they passed. Crispin sat alone.

Spike stopped and looked at him for a moment. “We're going out now. We shouldn't be long. Will you be all right?”

“I'm sure I'll be fine,” the critic replied, staring vacantly off into the distance.

“I'll tell Max we're going out and remind him that you're staying,” Spike said.

He raced up the stairs and knocked on the green door. Max opened it immediately.

“We're having that look around the island now,” Spike said. He glanced over Max's shoulder where Sami Lee sat silently rocking herself in a window seat. “Crispin's staying inside.”

Max peered cautiously out into the hallway. “I'll come down with you and lock the door behind you when you leave,” he said. “Sami Lee's scared. I want her to know she's safe in here. You'll have to knock when you want back in.”

“All right,” Spike said.

Sami Lee looked panicked when Max told her he was going downstairs. She clung to him and begged him not to leave. When he persisted, she agreed to go down with him. They closed the door behind the group and watched them trek off in the rain.

Max went to the parlour and looked at Crispin. “You're cool as a cucumber,” he said “Doesn't any of this faze you?”

Crispin turned his head in Max's direction, but his eyes seemed to be watching something in a far corner of the room. He shrugged. “I can't control what's going on here, so I'm not going to waste time and energy getting upset over it. Someone will come for us eventually and we'll all get out of here. If we keep our heads, there's no reason the rest of us shouldn't be fine from here on. Now that we know what's going on.”

“That's probably what Newt Merton thought,” Max said. “At the very least, I think we should be wary of everything that goes on around us at all times. Don't trust anyone.”

Crispin nodded. “A wise sentiment.”

After a moment, Max said, “Can I get you a drink?”

A wry smile formed on Crispin's face. “You've just told me my life is in danger and I should be wary of everything and everyone around me, but you're offering to serve me a drink that I can't see you pour?” He laughed. “But yes, of course. Why not?”

Max went to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of wine and three glasses. He uncorked the bottle in front of them. The room was oddly silent except for the soft pull of the cork releasing and the hiss of the rain outside. Crispin fiddled with his recorder and stared off into the distance while Max poured. Sami Lee kept her eyes trained on the drowned landscape outside the window.

They sat and drank in silence. It was some time before anyone spoke.

“Any sign of them?” Max asked, finally.

“Nothing,” Sami Lee said wearily.

Max began to sing softly: “On the first day of shagging, my true love gave to me a love song full of hate …”

Sami Lee's frown stopped him dead.

“The Ladykillers' extremely memorable ‘Love Song to Sid Vicious,'” Crispin said, stating the song's subtitle.

Max snorted. “What the hell were we thinking, anyway?”

“Why Sid?” Crispin asked after a moment.

Max shrugged. “We were all stoned on heroin at the time. It was just the thing to do back then. You know what they say — if you can remember the eighties, you weren't really there. I suppose thinking of old Sid came naturally. It's the way he chucked it, right? But what was in my mind while we were writing that song was how he killed his girlfriend, Nancy Spungen, in the Chelsea Hotel. I mean, it may sound crazy now that we've lived a little, but it all sounded so fucking glamorous at the time, if you can get into the headspace.”

“I'm not sure I can,” Crispin said archly. “Expressing violence in lyrics is one thing, but actually committing violence against another human being isn't that easy for me to understand. Maybe you could enlighten me as to how something like that could possibly be considered ‘glamorous.'”

Max shot him a look to see if the critic was putting him on, but the expression on Crispin's face said he was deadly serious.

“How she died, I mean. You know — they were both strung out on heroin and lying in bed in the Chelsea and, I don't know — something must have happened between them, because the bugger stabbed her and then lay back down in bed and went to sleep. It's like total fucking End Of the World time and he doesn't even know he's done her in.” Max looked around in exasperation. “Fuck — she was the one who got stabbed and even she didn't know it. So she, like, bled to death there in the bathroom while Sid was asleep in bed.”

Crispin nodded. “And four months later Sid's mother killed him by shooting him up with a heroin overdose while he was asleep. Was that glamorous too?”

Max looked over. “Yeah? I never heard that bit.”

“It was in a recent biography of the Sex Pistols. Sid's mother confessed just before she died of cancer. At the time he died, though, she said she found a suicide note from Sid saying he'd made a death pact with Spungen. I guess she changed her mind.”

“Yeah? Holy shit!” Max exclaimed. “I always thought Sid's death was too convenient. The stuff that people do, huh? I heard one of Sid's biggest fans wrote him a note after the murder telling him God would forgive him if he confessed and sang Diana Ross songs.”

Crispin turned his ethereal gaze toward Max, that unflinching, impenetrable stare. “We'll never know, will we?”

O
utside, the rain continued to gust in a constant, cold stream. Four figures reached the centre of the island and stopped.

Spike turned to the others. “We'll do this boy-girl, boy-girl,” he said. “It's safest that way.”