Not Dead Enough

loud, the heater on his feet and the smell of new leather all around him.
    One day.
    One day, things would be different.
    He found a car within minutes, at the back of the third level. A dark shade of opalescent blue or green – it was hard to tell in the shitty light down here – with a black roof and cream leather seats. Its licence plate indicated it was less than six months old, but when he reached the car and noticed the smell of freshly burnt oil rising from it, he realized, to his joy, it was brand new. Not a mark on it!
    And the owner had very conveniently parked it nose in, close to a pillar.
    Checking carefully there was no one around, he walked up the side of the car and put his hand on the bonnet. It felt hot. Good. That meant it must have just recently been driven in here; so, with luck, it would be some hours before its owner returned. But just as a precaution he still removed the two sets of licence plates from his carrier bag and stuck them, with double-sided tape, over the originals.
    Then from his bag he removed what would look, to any police officer who stopped him, like a Sky TV remote control. He aimed it, through the driver’s window, at the dash panel, punched in the code he had been given and then the green button.
    Nothing happened.
    He tried again. The red light showed on the remote but nothing else happened.
    Shit. He looked around again, more nervously now, then went up to the front of the car and knelt by the right headlamp. Shielded by the car and the pillar, he relaxed a little. It was easy. He’d done this before; at least a dozen Audis. A five-minute job, max.
    Removing a screwdriver from the plastic bag, he began unscrewing the front right headlight-restraining rim. When he had finished, he eased out the sealed headlamp unit and let it dangle on its flex. Then, taking a pair of pliers, he reached his arm through the empty headlight socket, felt around until he found the wire to the horn and cut it. Next he groped about, cursing suddenly as he accidentally touched the hot engine casing, burning his knuckles, until he located the auto locking mechanism. Then he cut through the wires, disabling it.
    He replaced the headlamp, then opened the driver’s door, setting off the headlamp flashers – all that the crippled alarm system now had left in its armoury. Moments later he plucked the fuse for the flashers out of the box and dropped it into his bag. Then he popped the bonnet and bridged the solenoid and the starter motor. Instantly the engine roared sweetly into life.
    He slipped into the driver’s seat and gave the steering wheel a hard wrench, snapping the lock. Then he saw to his joy that he was going to make himself a little bonus tonight. The owner had graciously left the car-park ticket on the passenger seat. And Barry Spiker, the tight bastard he did these jobs for, who had given him twenty-seven quid to cover the all-day parking charge penalty to get the car out of the NCP, would be none the wiser!
    Two minutes later, having forked out just two pounds to the attendant, he drove the car gleefully up the ramp, already twenty-five pounds in profit. He was in such a good mood that he stopped at the top of the ramp, turned the music up loud, and lowered the roof.
    It was not a smart move.

37
    ‘How are you?’ Sophie asked imploringly. ‘What’s happened? How—?’
    ‘Try it on,’ he said sharply, putting the package on the tray, ignoring her questions.
    Out in the falling dusk, a siren wailed, momentarily drowning out the faint, low, four-beat boom-boom-boom-boom of dance music that was getting increasingly tiresome.
    Sophie, astonished – and uneasy at his behaviour – meekly untied the bow, then peered into the gift box. All she could see for the moment was tissue paper.
    Out of the corner of her eye, on the television screen, she saw Chris Tarrant mouth the words, ‘Final answer?’
    The geeky-looking guy in big glasses nodded.
    A yellow flashing light encircled the name Morocco.
    Moments later, on the screen, a flashing green light encircled Tunisia.
    Chris Tarrant’s eyebrows shot several inches up his forehead.
    The lady in the wheelchair, who had looked earlier as if she was about to be hit by a cricket bat, now looked as if she had been hit by a sledgehammer. Meanwhile, her husband seemed to shrink in his seat.
    Sophie lipread Tarrant saying, ‘John, you had sixty-four thousand pounds…’
    ‘You want to watch television or open the gift I’ve bought