ONE DAY(84)

As he enters the living room the Axis powers turn to face him, and there’s a hasty hush as if they have just been discussing him. He smiles confidently, then flops into one of the low floral sofas. The living room has been done up to feel like a country house hotel, right down to the copies of Country Life, Private Eye and the Economist, fanned out on the coffee table. There’s a momentary silence. A clock ticks, and he is contemplating reaching for a copy of The Lady when:

‘I know, let’s play “Are You There, Moriarty?”,’ says Murray, and there’s general approval from the family, even Sylvie.

‘What’s “Are You There, Moriarty?”’ asks Dexter, and the Copes all shake their heads in unison at this interloper’s ignorance.

‘It’s a wonderful, wonderful parlour game!’ says Helen, more animated than she has been all evening. ‘We’ve been playing it for years!’ Sam, meanwhile, is already rolling up a copy of the Daily Telegraph into a long stiff rod. ‘Basically, one person is blindfolded, and they have this rolled-up newspaper and they sit kneeling opposite this other person . . .’

‘ . . . who’s also blindfolded.’ Murray takes over, at the same time digging in the drawers of the antique writing table for a roll of sellotape. ‘The one with the rolled-up newspaper says, “Are you there, Moriarty?”’ He tosses the tape to Sam.

‘And the other person has to sort of contort and duck out of the way and then answer Yes! or Here!’ Sam starts binding the newspaper into a tight baton. ‘And judging from where the voice comes from, he has to try and hit them with the rolled-up newspaper.’

‘You get three attempts, and if you miss all three you have to stay on and get hit by the next player,’ says Sylvie, elated at the prospect of a Victorian parlour game, ‘and if you hit the other person you get to choose your next contestant. That’s how we play it anyway.’

‘So—’ says Murray, tapping the palm of his hand with the paper truncheon. ‘Who’s for some Extreme Sports?’

It is decided that Sam will take on Dexter the intruder and that, surprise surprise, Sam will get the baton. The field of battle is the large faded rug in the middle of the room, and Sylvie leads him into position then stands behind him, tying a large white napkin over his eyes, a princess favouring her loyal knight. He gets one last glimpse of Sam kneeling opposite him, smirking from behind his blindfold as he taps the palm of his hand with the baton, and Dexter is suddenly overwhelmed by the need to win this game and show the family what he’s made of. ‘Show them how it’s done,’ whispers Sylvie, her breath hot in his ear, and he remembers the moment in the kitchen, his hand between her legs. Now she takes his elbow and helps him kneel, and the adversaries face each other in silence like gladiators in the arena of the Persian rug.

‘Let the games commence!’ says Lionel, like an emperor.

‘Are you there, Moriarty?’ says Sam with a snigger.

‘Here,’ says Dexter, then like a limbo dancer deftly leans backwards.

The first blow hits him just below the eye, making a satisfying slapping sound that echoes round the room. ‘Oooh!’ and ‘Ouch!’ say the Copes, laughing at his pain. ‘That’s gotta hurt,’ says Murray maddeningly, and Dexter feels a deep sting of humiliation while he laughs good-naturedly, a hearty, well-done-you laugh. ‘You got me!’ he concedes, rubbing his cheek, but Sam has smelt blood and is already asking—

‘Are you there, Moriarty?’

‘Ye . . .’

Before he can move, the second blow slaps against his buttock, causing him to flinch and stumble to the side, and again there is laughter from the family, and a low hissing ‘yessssss’ from Sam.

‘Nice one, Sammy,’ says the mother, proud of her boy, and Dexter suddenly has a deep hatred of this stupid f*cking game, which seems to be some weird family ritual of humiliation . . .

‘Two out of two,’ guffaws Murray. ‘Nice one, bro.’

. . . and don’t say ‘bro’ either you little tit, thinks Dexter, fuming now because if there’s one thing that he hates it’s being laughed at, especially by this lot, who clearly think he’s a loser, all washed-up and not up to the job of being their precious Sylvie’s boyfriend. ‘I think I’ve got the hang of it now,’ he chortles, clinging to a sense of humour while at the same time wanting to pummel Sammy’s face with his fists—

‘Let’s get ready to rumble . . .’ says Murray, in that voice again.

—or a frying pan, a cast iron frying pan—

‘So here goes – three out of three methinks . . .’

—a ball-peen hammer, or a mace—

‘Are you there, Moriarty?’ says Sam.

‘Here!’ says Dexter, and like a ninja he twists at his waist, ducking down and to the right.

The third blow is an insolent poke in the shoulder with the blunt end that sends Dexter sprawling backwards into the coffee table. The prod is so impertinent and precise that he’s convinced that Sam must be cheating, and he tears his blindfold off to confront him, finding instead Sylvie leaning over him, laughing, actually laughing regardless of what it does to her face.

‘A hit! A palpable hit!’ shrieks that little shit Murray, and Dexter clambers to his feet, his face a grimace of delight. There’s a little round of patronising applause.