‘The rules are quite simple. We each attach a bracelet to our wrist then press the palm of our other hand on to the metal pad. Once the pad’s level with the board it activates the electrical circuit and the game begins.’ Hendrique ran his finger the length of the indicator. ‘This monitors the level of current passing through the circuit at any given time. The number one will automatically light up as soon as we activate the circuit and the current increases gradually as the numbers get progressively higher. One to five light up in green, six to eight in amber, nine and ten in red. I think the colours are self-explanatory. The winner is the one who can out-bluff his opponent and keep his hand on the pad the longest. We play the best of three, hence the lights. As soon as the loser pulls his hand off the pad the light on his side comes on. That’s it.’
‘How much time is there between the numbers lighting up?’
‘Five, six seconds. That’s the one drawback of the game, it’s over so quickly.’
‘It’s still ingenious,’ Graham said.
‘It beats Monopoly.’
Hendrique removed the cloth and affixed the board to the table by means of its four powerful suction pads. They each snapped a bracelet around their wrist and locked it, placing the miniature keys in the centre of the board. Hendrique nodded and they pressed their hands down simultaneously on to the metal pads. Graham immediately felt a tingling sensation in his hand which quickly spread up his arm and into his chest. Although Hendrique was staring at him Graham was more interested in monitoring the progress of the indicator. As it changed from green to amber the current intensified sharply and before he could stop himself Graham instinctively jerked his hand off the pad. He wasn’t expecting the jarring shock that shot through his other arm but the shortness of the flex prevented him from pulling it more than a few inches off the table.
‘I’m sorry,’ Hendrique said without sounding very convincing. ‘I forgot to tell you: if you forfeit a game you incur an extra penalty of a shock transmitted through an electrode on the inside of the bracelet.’
‘It doesn’t help to be wise after the event,’ Graham said tersely.
‘There’s something else. The aftershocks intensify threefold each time. If you’ve got a heart condition we should stop now. A shock nine times stronger than the one you experienced could kill. Actually, it has in the past.’
‘Let’s play.’
‘I didn’t explain the rules properly at the outset so it’s only fair we should start again–’
‘I don’t need to be nannied,’ Graham interposed. ‘You’re one game up.’
‘As you wish,’ Hendrique replied, and placed his hand back on the pad.
This time Graham held Hendrique’s stare. The colour on the indicator changed from green to amber and Graham’s eyes narrowed fractionally, his stare unremitting in its intensity.
Hendrique found himself unable to hold Graham’s gaze and in his disorientation he turned away, unconsciously easing the pressure on the pad. The shock seared through his arm and he grabbed at the bracelet as though trying to tear it from his wrist. He closed his eyes until the pounding in his head had subsided and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
‘I make that one game all,’ Graham said with evident satisfaction.
Hendrique sucked in several deep breaths but said nothing. It was the first time he had conceded a game since building the device three years earlier. He sat forward and placed his hand on the pad, his palm still tingling from the effects of the shock.
The last game had reached eight. Graham already knew he could reach ten without pulling off. Hendrique had been right: it was a test of inner strength. They both pressed down on the pads. Hendrique, having learnt from his mistake, concentrated on the indicator instead of on Graham’s face. Graham also watched the indicator and winced more out of irritation than anything else when green five increased to amber six. Had Hendrique warned him at the beginning about the current intensifying when crossing the colour boundary the game might already have been over. Seven. Eight. He clenched his jaw as the pain barrier seemed to break with every passing second. Red nine. His hand began to shudder and his eyes watered.
He felt a strange moment of camaraderie with Hendrique. Then the moment was gone. Red ten. Graham’s back arched agonizingly and he used every last ounce of inner strength to keep himself from wrenching his hand off the pad. He caught a glimpse of Hendrique through the distorting haze of pain. Hendrique’s head was tilted back, his mouth open in a silent scream. In that split second Graham knew he had won. Hendrique was on the brink of defeat. Safe in that knowledge Graham braced himself then pulled away from the pad.
He remembered nothing else.
Graham sat in the deserted dining car for some time after regaining consciousness, his trembling fingers gently massaging his temples as he tried to overcome the throbbing in his head. When he did finally get to his feet his legs were unsteady and he had to stick close to the tables for support on his way to the door. He entered the next carriage, his hand gripped tightly around the railing, and moved slowly down the corridor until he reached his own compartment. He yanked the door open and stumbled inside.
The communicating door opened immediately and Sabrina came in, the Beretta gripped in her hand. She moved to the compartment door, peered out into the deserted corridor, then closed and locked it.
‘Have you been drinking?’ was her first reaction on seeing him with his head buried in his hands.
He jerked his head up, startled by her voice, then winced at the pain resulting from the sudden movement. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m your partner, remember?’
‘You know what I mean,’ he snapped, and again the pain reverberated through his head.
‘The boss sent me back,’ she replied dismissively and crouched down in front of him. ‘What happened?’
‘My head,’ he muttered.
She disappeared back into her own compartment then returned with a glass of water and two paracetamol.
‘I thought you never touched painkillers,’ he said, staring at her open hand.
‘You do, and I bet you didn’t bring any.’
He took the tablets from her and swallowed them with a mouthful of water. Then he sat back and closed his eyes.
She sat on the opposite couchette and picked up the paperback he had been reading.
Another James Hadley Chase. Not her kind of author. She read very few thrillers; they reminded her of work.
‘You wouldn’t like it.’
‘I know,’ she replied and dropped it on to the couchette. ‘What happened to your head?’
He told her about his confrontation with Hendrique.
She shook her head in disbelief when he had finished. ‘It’s not the first time you’ve put your life at risk for the sake of a challenge and I’m sure it won’t be the last time either.’
‘You don’t understand, do you? It’s not the actual challenge that counts; it’s the psychology behind it. In that kind of one-to-one confrontation with two people of roughly the same strength, the one with the stronger willpower always wins. Take two boxers for example. Both men are the same strength and weight but it’s the one who’s psyched himself up properly beforehand who’s going to win. Expertise and experience count for nothing if a fighter isn’t mentally prepared before he enters the ring. Intimidation invariably leads to defeat.’
‘You lost, so where does that leave your theory?’
‘I didn’t lose, I let him win. There’s a big difference. I merely inverted the theory.’