‘You’re head to head with Sophie,’ Carl says. ‘Say hi to Jim, Sophie.’
‘Hiya Jim,’ a crackled voice says, the slight echo confirming that Sophie’s using a hands-free kit from her car. And yet, who is this Sophie? And why is she – with me – live on the radio?
‘Whoever answers this question first will become the proud owner of a brand-new BMW,’ Carl goes on. ‘Or, as Connie would call it, “a posh white car”.’
‘That’s a bit sexist,’ Sophie’s voice says.
Her comment is completely ignored. The game that me and her are somehow a part of continues. Cars filter into the tunnel ahead of my glance, weaving their way from other booths. Any second now, a car’ll pull up beside me and this game, this quiz, this radio prank, will come to a sudden end.
Why haven’t I already hung up?
For every second I remain on the line, I’m begging to be fired. The joy it’ll give Derek Higgins to demand that I see him in his office, to click his dry, swollen fingers as he orders me to remove my high-vis jacket. If reading is the perk of my role, then dishing out a P45 is Derek’s.
‘Jim? Sophie? Are you ready?’
We both mumble a yeah.
A mashup of the theme tunes to Countdown and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? comes whistling through the speaker. Instead of waiting eagerly for the question, I can only focus on willing the banging in my chest to piss off. I’m breaking my boss’s rule to adhere to my own, and it could result in me losing my job. Sure, rules are rules, but what about priorities? I should hang up.
‘Okay; First one to say the correct answer wins.’ Connie clears her throat. ‘Name the author of On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, Dr No and Thunderball.’
A gasp from Sophie tickles my ear. ‘JAMES BOND!’
Bloody hell. My heart lightens. My knees are numb squashed beneath this little desk, my fingertips clammy.
‘Ian Fleming,’ I say.
A white van pulls up beside my booth, and with the efficiency of a robot, I hand change to the driver.
‘Good fucking morning to you, too,’ the driver spits. ‘Rude fucking bastard.’
I sigh and take a breath, knowing it’s now or never.
There’s a good chance that Connie and Carl and the whole of Merseyside missed my muffled answer. Or perhaps Sophie heard it, and she’s now ready to steal, to shout it out louder, clearer, stronger …
I blink. ‘IAN FLEMING.’
And just like that, I win a brand-new car.
Connie and Carl play ‘Congratulations’ across the airwaves, singing the word ‘commiserations’ to Sophie, finding themselves unbearably funny.
I put my handset on loud speaker, drop the phone onto my knees.
‘Stay on the line, Jim,’ Carl says.
A horn honks.
Again.
‘The producer’ll chat to you in a mo.’
Four, maybe five cars have piled up behind my booth, the one in front honking away with unashamed clarity. Derek’ll be making his way over any minute. With expert speed, I hand change to the impatient driver before he bombs it through the barrier. I recognise the next car. A Nissan Micra, silver, a sun-shaped sign stuck on the back window that reads Be the Light. Namaste. The girl behind the wheel passes through the tunnel regularly, never at a specific time of day. Sometimes, her hair’s snatched up or curled all fancy like a Charlie’s Angel, her wrists decorated with a bunch of bangles. Ed Sheeran sings through her speakers. Even now, in November, she never fails to wear oversized sunnies.
‘Hey, you,’ she says, rolling down her window and dipping her glasses to the edge of her nose. I give her a one-sided smile. She’s a right chatterbox, this one, always trying to entice me out on the lash with her mates or making a remark about me looking ‘cold’ or ‘hot’ or ‘tired’. Today it’s ‘worried’.
‘I’m going for a few drinks tonight in Oxton,’ she tells me. ‘Fancy coming?’
Oxton. Pretty posh. Over the water.
A horn honks.
‘Me best mate’s having a party,’ I say. ‘Bonfire night, and all that.’
Another horn honks.
The girl pushes her sunnies up her nose with her middle finger, mouths, ‘whatevs’ and drives away. Another car pulls up. Then, another. My head’s frazzled. Have I really, really just won a car? Come on, focus. I move fast, get the queue of cars to settle into a smooth, quiet rhythm as I wait for the producer to speak to me. I’m still on hold. And still trying to fathom how this has happened.
Last month’s payday.
Yep, that was it. The day I signed my name.
I’d been sheltering from the wet drizzle, browsing around a discount book store. Fluorescent strip lighting and BOGOF offers surrounding me, I stood reading the back of a Truman Capote biography. My phone rang.
‘Alright, Mam, what’s up?’
‘It’s nothing, love. I’m okay. Honest.’
‘You don’t sound okay. What happened?’
‘I was just making tea, that’s all. Me mind must’ve wandered. I forgot to concentrate for a moment. I burnt me hand. It just dropped, the kettle, it just dropped.’
‘I’m on me way. Don’t worry.’
I discarded Capote into the bargain bucket beside me and headed through town, towards Liverpool One to catch the bus to my ma’s. Wind whistled through the city, a cold chill reminding shoppers that autumn was falling into winter. I was almost at the bus stop when I noticed a white BMW made entirely from Lego. It wasn’t on the road, of course, but beside the shopping centre’s crowd-pulling outdoor piano. Impressive. As were the two young girls holding clipboards, approaching passers-by to sign up. Resembling a manufactured girl band, all petite with dark lashes and pouty pink lips, they wore bikini tops and hot pants, oblivious to the current climate.
‘We only need three more names,’ one of the girls shrieked.
I dodged out of her way, but her mate stepped in.
‘Come on, sign up,’ she said. ‘We’re not allowed on our break ’til the sheet’s full.’
‘I can’t,’ I said. Because I couldn’t. I had to get to my ma’s.
‘Don’t you wanna win a car?’ both girls sang, like a kitsch pop duo.
A pen got thrust into my hand.
‘What’s the catch?’ I asked, scribbling down my name and number as fast as possible. I never waited for their answer. I just legged it for the bus.
Had it been as simple as that to win a car? Really?
‘Jim Glover?’
The voice from within my phone hollers around the toll booth.
‘Yeah?’ I reply.
The producer of Connie and Carl’s breakfast show gives me strict instructions for how and when I can collect my prize. She’s most unenthusiastic, as if me winning this car is a hassle her life can do without.
‘You’re totally serious, like?’ I ask.
‘Why did you take part if you didn’t think it was serious?’ she snaps.
Bloody hell. My whole morning’s gone from boring to bonkers. I’m really trying to control myself here, but Christ, I’ve just won a car. What’s the catch? Come on. Surely there’s a catch.
‘There’s no catch,’ the producer says.