Claire’s camera closed in tightly on Ben’s face and as the bear’s mouth moved, it sounded like a heartbeat. A three-dimensional image appeared on its stomach like it was inside the toy. It was of an unborn child moving. ‘We’re pregnant,’ she whispered. ‘You’re going to be a dad.’
Ben looked at her, wide-eyed, then back to the bear. ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘Really?’ He grabbed her by her waist, lifted her up into the air and squeezed her tightly.
Now, from inside her car, Claire burst into tears watching her husband gently place her back on the ground and steady himself against the table. It was a child they had tried so desperately to have but that both were beginning to give up hope they might ever see.
‘Are you happy?’ she heard herself ask.
‘What do you think?’ Ben replied. The screen became blurry as he went to hold her again. Claire shut her eyes tightly and it was like he was holding her now, her nose buried in his neck, inhaling his joy.
Claire always assumed that if they were side by side, she and Ben could conquer any obstacle that got in their way. That morning she learned she was wrong.
She snapped back to the present when, without warning, vibrations travelled through her body followedby a rumbling outside. She turned to see a convoy of four police motorbikes and several heavily armoured army vehicles appear outside, flanking either side of her vehicle. Above her, a helicopter had replaced the drone.
‘Oh God no,’ she said, panicked and hesitant of the extra attention they were going to bring her. But as the bikes sped ahead, she realised they were clearing a path for her. The armoured vehicles moved to each side and police cars behind prevented any other driver from overtaking.
It suddenly dawned on her that, her whole life, other people had protected her. Throughout their fractured childhood of care homes and foster parents, it had been her brother Andy who had given her the security she needed. But when he chose a life of petty crime over her, she chose education and met Ben. He had taken over the challenge of making her feel safe. And now it was Tate’s turn. If they were to survive this ordeal, she pledged never to allow her boy to be responsible for his mother again.
From what she had heard, Jack Larsson was the most unlikable of the jurors. But having seen him win the upper hand over his political opposition during televised debates, she knew he was also the most tenacious and well-schooled in the art of persuasion. Having picked her to represent meant he must have thought he stood a good chance of keeping her alive. He wouldn’t go down without a fight.
And neither would she. Immediately, she resolved to toughen up and take back some semblance of control of her life. Aware once again of the dashboard camera, she began to rub her bump more and talk to it, reminding Tate that she loved him and that she was praying they wouldn’t die. All the time, she spoke loud enough for her microphone to pick up her words. If the key to her survival was to get the world to pity her and vote forher, it was a small price to pay. She had to remind the jurors they wouldn’t be condemning just one person to their death.
But inside, Claire was acutely aware that if she were freed from the car, she would need to vanish from the scene – and vanish quickly. Nobody could discover the truth about what she had done before her hijacking, not until long after she had gone to ground.
Chapter 31
SOFIA BRADBURY
Sofia shook her head vigorously.
‘Oh, no, no,’ she said. ‘I do not like this. Not one bit. Look at it, Oscar, it’s distasteful, isn’t it?’ Her dog’s eyes remained closed. ‘How can anyone think that pretending to blow up someone in a car in such graphic detail passes for entertainment? Because I can tell you, it most certainly does not.’
She raised her voice and stared at the camera. ‘Will someone pull this car over and let me out? I need to speak to my agent and until that happens, you’re not getting one more reaction from me.’
Sofia poured herself another brandy and swallowed her fifth painkiller of the morning. The buzz from the last one was already beginning to wear off. She held her glare on the monitor, waiting for a response to her demands. Instead, more shouting and crying came through the speakers. She rolled her eyes and spoke louder. ‘Read my lips – Sofia Bradbury is not reacting. This is not what she signed up for.’ The vehicle continued at the same pace, offering no sign it was preparing to slow down.
She turned to Oscar again. ‘Listen to that lot wailing like bloody banshees. They’re all competing to see whocan make the most amount of noise and take the most screen-time. It’s pathetic. This is not what I worked my arse off for, to end up on something glorifying violence. I think Rupert has made a huge mistake getting me involved in this.’
It was the explosion of the car with the Indian woman inside – a Bollywood actress, Sofia assumed, as she hadn’t recognised her – that tipped her over the edge. The blasts from the first two cars were clearly visual trickery designed to elicit realistic responses from viewers and Passengers. But the third appeared much more detailed than the others. Supporting actors must have spent hours in hair and make-up to ensure the wounds were believable. Then there were smoke bombs, people running around with limbs falling off left right and centre and stuntmen and women ablaze. She knew today’s audiences expected more from their programming than her generation did, but still, who in their right mind would want to watch a child on fire?
‘I did a lot of Ayckbourn in the seventies so don’t try and tell me I’m a prude,’ she continued to whomever was listening. ‘I do not agree with the increasing amount of gore shown on prime-time television for the public’s titillation. Therefore, I cannot, in good faith, remain on this programme until I’ve spoken to my agent or until a producer can guarantee me there is going to be more substance to this series than I have witnessed so far.’
Sofia hesitated, debating whether making a fuss was the right thing to do. Standing up for herself might go one of two ways. It could backfire, making her come across like an old fuddy duddy to the younger audience she craved. Or by remaining true to herself, it could win her more support from an older demographic. It was a risk she was willing to take.
She had been waiting for the show to cut to a commercial break and allow her to discreetly fit new ear guardsinto her hearing aids. The sound was becoming muffled but she had just about heard the woman in the ill-fitting plaid suit lending Sofia her support over something. She assumed her long-standing status as national treasure was giving her some gravitas.
Were she to remain in the show, Sofia figured her toughest competition would come from the pregnant girl who was milking her condition for all it was worth.Will you just leave that bloody belly alone?she thought.All that stroking and rubbing, it’s not made of Play-Doh.
Quietly, Sofia resented and envied the girl. Many times over the years, she’d questioned whether she had done the right thing in not starting a family of her own. How much had she lost out on by not feeling another life growing inside her? Of loving another person unconditionally and allowing that love to be reciprocated? She would never know. But each time she doubted herself, she would think of her husband Patrick and it would remind her the decision had been for the best. He would not have made a good father.
As she stroked her sleeping dog’s head with one hand, she swirled brandy around a glass tumbler with her other and wondered what Patrick had planned now that she had been swept up in theCelebs Against The Oddsfrenzy. She hoped Rupert had cancelled the car driving him to the hospital where they were supposed to meet ahead of her public appearance. If he had not, it would be another thing for her to worry about.
At least her filming schedule would give them a break for the next seven nights, she thought, providing she survived in the competition that long. While the quality film and television roles offered to her had dried up, she was still in demand on the stage and often travelled for work, staying in hotels and away from home for weeks at a time. Unbeknown to Patrick, she had people to watch his every move and report back to her. Her cook,housekeeper and gardener were reliable sources of information, as was the private detective she kept on a retainer. There was also her accountant and a forensic digital specialist who followed Patrick’s every move online and who dipped in and out of his Operating System without being seen.
‘Hello!’ she said again. ‘Is anyone listening to me?’
Suddenly a man’s voice came from one of the other cars. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ he barked.
Sofia moved her face closer to the screen until she could see who was talking to her. It was the one who was married to another contestant. He reminded her of a daytime television presenter who’d once made her an indecent proposal in a dressing room. She had firmly declined.
