ONE DAY(85)

‘YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!’ crows Sam, teeth bared, his ruddy face screwed up, two fists pulled slowly towards his chest in victory.

‘Better luck next time!’ drawls Helen, the wicked Roman empress.

‘You’ll get the hang of it,’ growls Lionel and, enraged, Dexter notices that the twins are holding finger and thumbs to their foreheads in an L shape. L for loser.

‘Well I’m still proud of you,’ pouts Sylvie, ruffling his hair and patting his knee, as he sinks into the sofa next to her. Shouldn’t she be on his side? When it comes to loyalty, he thinks, she’s still one of them.

The tournament continues. Murray beats Sam, then Lionel beats Murray, then Lionel gets beaten by Helen, and it’s all very convivial and jolly, these neat little bops and taps with the rolled-up newspaper, all much jollier than when it was Dexter out there getting clubbed around the face with what felt like a length of scaffolding. From deep in the sofa he watches and scowls and, as part of his revenge, quietly sets about emptying a bottle of Lionel’s very good claret. There was a time when he could do this kind of thing. If he was twenty-three again he would feel confident and charming and self-assured, but he has lost the knack somehow and his mood darkens as the bottle empties.

Then Helen beats Murray and Sam beats Helen and now it’s Sam’s turn to try and strike his sister, and there is at least some pleasure and pride in watching how good Sylvie is at the game, effortlessly avoiding her little brother’s desperate swipes, twisting and ducking at the waist, supple and sporty, his golden girl. He watches, smiling, from deep in the sofa and just when he thinks they’ve all forgotten about him:

‘Come on then. Your go!’ Sylvie is holding out the baton towards him.

‘But you just won!’

‘I know, but you haven’t had a chance to bat yet, poor thing,’ she pouts. ‘Come on. Have a go. Take me on!’

The Copes all love the idea of this – there’s a low, pagan rumble of excitement, bizarrely vaguely sexual, and clearly he has no choice. His honour, the honour of the Mayhews is at stake here. Solemnly Dexter puts down his glass, stands and takes the baton.

‘You’re sure about this?’ he says, kneeling on the carpet an arm’s length away. ‘Because I’m a pretty good tennis player.’

‘Oh, I’m sure,’ she says, grinning provocatively, shaking out her hands like a gymnast as the blindfold is tied.

‘And I think I might be quite good at this.’

Behind him, Sam ties his blindfold tight as a tourniquet. ‘We’ll see, won’t we?’

The arena falls silent.

‘Okay, are you ready?’ says Dexter.

‘Oh yes.’

He grips the baton with both hands, arms level at his shoulder. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m ready when you . . .’

Momentarily an image flickers in his mind – a baseball player on his mound – as he slices diagonally with the bat, a tremendous uppercut that swishes audibly through the air and from behind the blindfold the impact feels fantastic as it sends tremors along both arms and into his chest. A moment of awed silence follows and for a moment Dexter is sure that he has done very, very well. And then he hears a crash, and an appalled cry goes up in unison from the whole family.

‘SYLVIE!’

‘Oh my God!’

‘Sweetheart, darling, are you okay?’

Dexter tears off his blindfold to see that Sylvie has somehow been transported to the far side of the room, slumped over in the fireplace like a marionette with all her strings cut. Her eyes are blinking wide and her hand is cupped to her face, but it’s already possible to see the dark rivulet of blood as it trickles down beneath her nose. She is moaning quietly to herself.

‘Oh my God, I am so sorry!’ he exclaims, horrified. Immediately he crosses towards her, but the family has already closed in.

‘Good God, Dexter, what the hell were you thinking?’ barks red-faced Lionel, drawing himself up to his full height.

‘YOU DIDN’T EVEN ASK IF SHE WAS THERE MORIARTY!’ shrieks her mother.

‘Didn’t I? Sorry—’

‘No, you just lashed out crazily!’

‘Like a madman—’

‘Sorry. Sorry, I forgot. I was—’

‘—Drunk!’ says Sam. The accusation hangs in the air. ‘You’re drunk, man. You’re completely pissed!’

They all turn and glare.

‘It really was an accident. I just caught your face at an odd angle.’

Sylvie tugs on Helen’s sleeve. ‘How does it look?’ she asks in a tearful voice as she discreetly removes her cupped hand from her nose. It’s as if she’s holding a fistful of strawberry sorbet.

‘It’s really not too bad,’ gasps Helen, her hand clasped to her mouth in horror and Sylvie’s face crumples further into tears. ‘Let me see, let me see! The bathroom!’ she whimpers, and the family haul her to her feet.

‘It really was just some kind of flukey accident . . .’ Holding her mother’s arm, Sylvie hurries past him, eyes fixed straight ahead. ‘Do you want me to come with you? Sylvie? Sylv?’ There is no reply and he watches in misery, as her mother escorts her into the hall and up the stairs to the bathroom.

He listens to the footsteps fade.