Good Samaritan

‘And welcoming our fifth and final contestant of the night: Miss. Emily. Winters!’

A shove in the back from a faceless figure in black thrust Emily from the darkness onto the set, the huge lights from above temporarily blinding her as she squinted out at the studio audience. Their whoops of encouragement and applause deafened her, and she had to make her entrance feeling like a kitten taking its first unbalanced steps without the aid of sight or hearing. After a few seconds, her eyes adjusted to the brightness and she latched gratefully on to the tanned, beaming face of the show host. Emily looked nervously around the studio as he took her arm lightly. She had been told sternly by an assistant producer not to look directly into any of the cameras; when her eyes roved over one by accident, she tore her gaze away guiltily. 

A tap on her arm made Emily turn sharply around, catching the host - Damian, she remembered - mouthing words at her. Not mouthing - the din of the audience was still too loud to hear anything over them. Damian, realising the problem, turned his heart stopping smile on the audience and made a gesture with his arm. Like puppets on strings, they quietened instantly, their claps dying out politely. Emily waited for her eyes to adjust to the difference in lighting so she could see the people who were cheering for her, but they remained a faceless ensemble doused in darkness.

‘Emily, how are you doing?’ Damian asked jovially, gesturing to a white sofa behind her that seemed out of place on the black and neon stage. Her legs moved without her commanding them to, and she took her seat opposite Damian awkwardly. She couldn’t remember how she usually crossed her legs, or where she put her arms.

‘Good.’ Her voice was raspy, and the audience tittered. On instinct, she laughed with them. ‘I mean, good! Excited to be here.’ 

Damian laughed encouragingly. ‘It’s alright to be nervous, Emily. Live television will have that effect on you.’ He flashed a look at the camera Emily didn’t quite catch, but it made the audience coo in sympathy. ‘Though you’ve got some stiff competition tonight, right, folks? You’ll have to bring your A-game if you want to be in with a chance of winning the £100,000 grand prize.’ 

A cheer from the audience, who sounded suitably impressed with the stakes. Emily’s stomach was twisting in knots, her anticipation almost painful. 

‘As I’ve explained to your fellow competitors, this show isn’t about the past or even the present. We’re not just here to change the figure in your bank account. We’re here to…?’ 

Damian turned to the audience expectantly, and their voices rose in unison, eager to please. ‘Change your life!’

Damian chuckled. ‘That’s right. Now, Emily, let’s find out a bit more about you. Why do you want to win Second Chances?’

—

‘That’s £18.59 then, please.’

Emily watched her elderly customer frown into his wallet, his fingers trembling as he dug around. ‘Thanks, love - I’ve got the right change here somewhere, just give me a minute.’

‘It’s no bother, take your time,’ Emily smiled, ignoring the impatient shifting of the next customer in line. ‘You’ve got some good deals this week. Might pick up one of those lemon cakes myself after my shift.’ She nodded to where the man’s frail-looking wife was carefully loading their red-stickered items in the bags.

‘Oh, yes. We’re nothing if not thrifty. Got to be, these days, haven’t you?’ He finally produced a ten-pound note, extending it to Emily’s waiting hand. She wondered if she ought to say anything about the tremor in his hand.

The rest of the total was given in twenty, ten and five pence pieces. Emily dutifully counted it into the till, gradually becoming aware that the wife had finished packing up their food and was staring at her. Feeling suddenly hot, she fumbled the man’s penny change, her hands clammy.

‘Are you the girl from that Saturday night show?’ the wife asked abruptly. Her husband looked between them perplexedly as Emily flushed.

‘What are you on about, Maureen? Come on, time to get home.’ He tried to take her by the arm, but she resisted, her tiny frame standing firm.

‘You were in the paper last week,’ she insisted, and a few customers in line, overhearing her, cast a surreptitious glance over Emily. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

‘I - yes,’ Emily whispered, studying the till in front of her. ‘If that’s everything - have a nice day.’

‘John, she’s the one I was telling you about, from my show. She’s the one who took the money and -‘

‘That’s enough, Maureen.’ Her husband looked apologetically at Emily, but he didn’t smile. ‘We’re holding everyone up.’

But nearly every customer in line was now watching with rapt attention, studying Emily’s drab uniform and reddening face with a mixture of interest and disgust. A few were holding up their phones. Whispers broke out between couples and strangers, and Emily wished for the ground to open up beneath her.

‘The old bat’s right, that’s her -‘

‘Nobody’s gonna believe me -‘

‘This is going straight on Twitter -‘

‘Maureen,’ the old man hissed, now nearly as red as Emily in his embarrassment. ‘You’ve no right. Come on.’

But Maureen was an immovable object, emboldened by the support of the crowd as she drew herself up and set her features into an expression of indignant fury. ‘I think you should be ashamed of yourself.’ A few murmurs of assent from her supporters. ’Telling all those lies on television like that.’

‘They weren’t all lies -‘ Emily’s voice cracked, and she pressed her lips into a thin line instead. She knew it was useless.

The overheard strip lights were too bright, stark on her skin as Emily shrank into her chair. Between them and the flashes of phone cameras, coming closer and closer like tiny explosions, Emily couldn’t look anywhere but down. Her awareness reduced to the stench of supermarket disinfectant - once a smell she had liked, a smell that was clean and safe - creeping into her subconscious like rot, and the quiet clamour of the crowd. Their scathing whispers built up like a wave that never crashed, and in the odd silence between their words she could taste her own terror.

‘Can you believe she has the nerve -‘

‘Selfish bitch!’

‘Emily, come with me.’ Her manager, grasping her arm tight enough to hurt. Emily briefly thought of Damian’s gentle touch, leading her into the lion’s den, as she was steered towards the staff room.

‘Are you going to fire her?’

‘I won’t be shopping here again if they don’t.’

‘Run away, then!’ Something cold and wet hit her like a slap, and Emily spun round to meet the shocked stare of a woman, wiping her mouth hastily. The woman stumbled away without looking back, and Emily felt herself being pulled quickly away.

The door of the staff room slammed behind them as Emily’s manager turned to face her, guilt written in the downturn of her lips. Embarrassed by the open pity on her face, Emily avoided her gaze by wiping the spit from her cheek with the sleeve of her uniform. 

She would miss this job.

—

‘And so we have our final two - Lorraine and Emily!’

Encouraging cheers radiated from the audience as spotlights danced around the two women. The third contestant to be eliminated - Peter, fifty-six and paunchy, who had wanted to use the money on the trip of a lifetime for his terminally ill wife - had just slunk off stage to sympathetic applause. Emily exchanged embarrassed grins with her remaining rival. Lorraine was older than Emily by over a decade, in her late thirties, and had a mass of frizzy red curls piled into a bun atop her head. Her eyes crinkled into almost nothing when she smiled, and her cheeks were pleasantly rosy under the heat of the studio lights. She wore a sequinned blouse that caught the spotlights perfectly. Emily could tell the audience had warmed to her; she wondered if Lorraine’s family and friends had come to support her.

‘Before we find out our winner, let’s remind ourselves what our two finalists are here for tonight. Lorraine, what does winning mean to you?’

The audience hushed as Damian sidled up to Lorraine’s podium, schooling his features into an expression of earnest understanding. Lorraine’s deep breath was the only thing that could be heard in the second before she spoke, and Emily found herself as entranced as everybody else.

‘Well, Damian, this opportunity tonight means the world to me,’ Lorraine began, toying with a gold wedding band. ‘To put it simply, it means my family’s future. I’ve been married to my wonderful husband for fifteen years, and we thought we’d have the big family we always wanted by now. But life hasn’t worked out that way -‘ Lorraine paused to collect herself - ‘and our last round of free IVF, unfortunately, failed.’ 

Emily was close enough to see Lorraine’s pink, watery eyes, and her heart sank for her. It must be mortifying to cry on live television.

‘But we aren't ready to give up. This money would allow us to continue with our dream of having a family. We might not be the youngest, hippest parents in the world -‘ the audience returned her self-deprecating laugh - ‘but we’d be the happiest. A little boy or girl to spoil. That’s what’s on the line for us.’ She finished with a choking half-sob, hiding her head in her hands, and the audience erupted into applause.

‘Touching stuff from Lorraine there,’ Damian said, clearing his throat self-consciously. ‘I’m a little teary myself! And last but not least, Emily - what would winning mean to you?’

Emily smoothed her hair down. ‘First of all, Damian, I’d like to wish the best of luck to Lorraine. I think we can all agree that if anybody sounds like they deserve a second chance, it’s her.’

Lorraine looked a little surprised, but pleased, and Emily was taken aback by the genuine warmth in her answering smile and nod of thanks. If she ever got the chance, she would be a wonderful mother.

‘That’s the beautiful thing about this show!’ Damian enthused, throwing his arm out in a gesture that encompassed the whole studio. ‘Everybody on it is deserving - there are no winners or losers, just the second chance of a lifetime for somebody who needs it.’ The audience had nearly fallen out of their seats at this show of solidarity between the two remaining contestants. Emily could feel herself rising in their estimations.

‘As for me? Well, when I was nineteen, I had to drop out of my social care degree to take care of my little brother. Our parents weren’t around anymore and he took it hard. Got himself into trouble. You know, there isn’t a lot of support around for young men who find themselves on the wrong side of the law when they’re still underage. And for many of them, it isn’t their fault. It’s all circumstance.’

Emily couldn’t look at the audience, or at Lorraine’s curious, open face next to her. She would change her mind.

‘What I want to do is create a second chance not just for myself, but for those boys. The ones who just need someone to show them another path - and show them how to take it. I didn’t get to complete my degree but I never stopped wanting to help people.’ Her voice cracked, and the sound was like a whip in the silent studio. ‘It’s too late for my brother, but others deserve that chance. So with the money, I want to set up a programme that helps underage boys come back from minor offences. Community service initiatives, youth centres in cities, targeted career and study advice, work experience opportunities. That sort of thing,’ she finished lamely, looking bashfully at the ground. And then there was noise, and the audience were cheering louder for her than they had done for Lorraine.

‘Ladies and gentleman, perhaps the most worthy contestants we’ve ever had!’ Damian proclaimed, retreating from the podiums to his mark at the side of the stage. ‘A Mother of the Year in the making, and our very own Good Samaritan.’

Emily stole another look at Lorraine as all the lights bar two spotlights were swiftly dimmed. Her rival’s clenched jaw was lit up in stark relief.

‘Lorraine, Emily. This is it. One question - one tiebreaker - stands between you, and the futures you always imagined for yourselves.’ Damian’s voice cut through the darkness. When it wasn’t attached to his handsome face, it sounded cold - almost bored. ‘Fastest finger wins. Buzzers at the ready.’

Emily took a deep breath.

—

‘Mark?’

Emily let herself into her dingy flat quietly. No reply. Emily followed the smell of burning into the kitchen, to find a young man curled up in the corner between the cabinets. His clothes swallowed him whole; he dug his fingertips into his shaved head so hard that it must have hurt. 

On top of the hob, a pan bubbled away with thick, dark red liquid clinging to the sides. The oven door was open, displaying its charred offerings. Emily closed it gently, stepping over a fallen kitchen chair and kneeling beside the man.

‘Mark, what happened?’

He shook slightly, his forehead rhythmically hitting his bony knees. Emily placed her hand there instead as he lifted his head, and he looked up in surprise. Very wide eyes met hers, his sharp nose and high cheekbones a mirror of her own features. 

‘Tried to make dinner for you, didn’t I?’ He sniffed a little. Instinctively, Emily reached for a piece of kitchen roll and wiped it under his nose. ‘Didn’t work. Followed the recipe and everything.’ His eyes searched Emily’s face wildly, suddenly scared. ‘I really did. It just - it didn’t do what it was supposed to, fucking thing -‘

‘Ssh, Mark, I know. I know,’ Emily soothed, grabbing his arm as he went to thump a cupboard door. ‘These things happen. We’ll get a pizza instead. You can try again tomorrow, with me. I’ll show you how to make bolognese like Mum used to do.’

Suspicion creased Mark’s forehead. ‘Don’t you have work tomorrow?’

Emily looked away from him briefly, the grief of the day washing over her for the first time. That stupid old woman, who wasn’t stupid at all but angry, righteous. How deeply those strangers had hated her. 

She turned back to Mark, and found that the smile she fabricated for his benefit was genuine. The answering look of relief in his face was a balm to her anxious mind.

‘I’ve got the day off.’

—

Emily felt sick.

She had won.

Damian’s arm was too tight around her shoulders, constricting the little movement she was still capable of. The stage was slick with confetti, and the rapturous applause and screams from the audience dulled her senses. Damian was saying something in her ear, but she couldn’t hear him, so she looked across at Lorraine instead.

Her rival clapped politely, but her kindly face was twisted in disappointment. Emily tried to apologise with her eyes, but Lorraine only clapped harder and looked away. She didn’t understand.

‘Emily Winters, our winner tonight!’ Damian had given up speaking to her and was addressing the closest camera to them. ‘How do you feel?’

Her throat was dry, and her tongue felt heavy and immobile. She couldn’t move it to reply.

‘Overwhelmed! Well, who wouldn’t be, with £100,000 suddenly in their bank account!’ Damian’s grip became more pressing, and Emily knew he had to get her to speak. She wondered how many people were watching this at home. How many people would know her face in the morning?

‘I - I have something to say.’

Damian looked relieved. ‘I certainly hope so! What do you have to say to our audience, Emily? To the boys whose lives you’re hoping to change?’

What do you have to say for yourself, Emily?

‘I - I wasn’t telling a lie. About dropping out of university, and my brother getting into trouble - that all happened.’

The raucous crowd was being hushed violently by the faceless producers in black, who began to talk quickly into headsets.

‘But I think I should tell you - and Lorraine - about how I’m actually going to use the money.’

Damian’s arm dropped from around her shoulders, and with it she felt herself detach from her body. She watched from behind her hands as her lips moved, and words came out without her permission.

‘My brother is in prison. I need to post bail for him. It’s a lot of money, he - he didn’t do it, but what they’re saying he did, it’s quite serious. I had to - he needs to come home with me.’ She looked helplessly around her. The audience were whispering, wielding phones that were forbidden on set. Damian’s jaw was slack with disbelief. Lorraine - she didn’t want to look at Lorraine. ‘It’s all about second chances, you see? He deserves a second chance. He’s had a bad run of luck, it could happen to any of us.’ Her desperation began to morph into anger, fuelled by the silence. ’Our parents really left us - that wasn’t a lie either. You try making a life with that sort of start!’

Damian’s mouth was opening and closing like a goldfish, spouting nothing but air even as a producer gestured furiously at him. The audience started to boo. If only they would let her explain properly! She thought that nothing could be louder than their welcoming cheers, but this was overpowering. Their discontent billowed around their echo chamber and mutated into hatred. The sound of it deafened her.

Perhaps that was why she didn’t hear the anguished cry behind her, or the footsteps speeding up as they ran towards her back.

Emily knew nothing until she hit the ground.