Is that your final answer?

"Andy, you don't have to answer this. You can walk away with a
quarter of a million pounds."

Andy Palmer nodded and licked his parched lips. He knew the rules well
enough - that was precisely how he'd reached this stage of the quiz:
endless phone calls, eye-watering BT bills, that magical morning when
an eager young assistant had called to inform him that he'd made the
last hundred. The fastest-finger round - and he still couldn't
understand why four of his competitors didn't know the alphabet. Now he
was actually in the chair, shifting uncomfortably under the fearsome
array of harsh studio lights.

"It's an Afghan musket, maybe a rifle.. A weapon," he said quietly but
firmly. "Answer D."

"Not a cooking vessel?"

"No, it's definitely a weapon."

"What would half a million pounds mean to you?" the quizmaster asked
earnestly, trying his best to look interested in the nondescript little
man squirming before him.

"Oh, qu..quite a lot!" Andy stammered. Behind him the audience
smaned, safe in the comforting darkness, and the quizmaster leaned
back in his chair like some stern headmaster about to administer a
severe ticking-off.

Andy knew those gestures off by heart now; he'd been glued to the show
since it started, praying for his chance. He'd even seen it abroad, in
some bar, and knew that everything was identical - the set, the format,
the quizmaster's little foibles. Every facial twitch, each cautioning
frown was replicated worldwide as if everything, down to the colour of
his socks, was standardised.

"Are you absolutely sure about this? Rachel won't be waiting for you
with the rolling pin?" More audience laughter masked Andy's nervous
titter.

"No, she'll be okay. We discussed this." Another pregnant pause
followed, designed to ratchet up the tension.

"Final answer?"

"Mm," Andy nodded.

"Okay, we're going to take a break.." The audience groaned in unison.
Andy closed his eyes and reached for his water glass with a quivering
hand. All too quickly - for, of course, the videotaped programme would
be carefully edited round the adbreak - his agony resumed.

"You gave the answer 'weapon'.. (pause for dramatic intake of breath),
but if you'd said to me 'bird'.. you'd have just lost two hundred and
eighteen thousand pounds. (gasp) "Andy.."

"Yes?" Andy croaked, not daring to open his eyes.

"You've just won half a million pounds!" Chaos reigned as the audience
erupted into wild applause and Andy slid from his seat, his hands
clasped over his face.

Before he could be allowed to face The Big One, of course, Andy would
be forced to endure several minutes' time-wasting chat. It passed as in
some bad dream; yes, Rachel would be biting her nails at home in case
he'd made it over that final hurdle, her sister Gwen up there in the
audience would be willing him on.

That was what everyone wanted to hear, but it was all pure fabrication.
He'd never been able to abide Gwen, who was only up there to splash her
plain features across national television and because there had been
no-one else to invite apart from his mates on the "Greyhound" pub quiz
team - and he'd needed that expertise at home waiting for his call. As
for Rachel.. well, she'd been his partner for almost ten years, but
there was precious little keeping them together these days except
inertia. Never one to thrust herself forward, she'd refused point blank
to accompany him to the studio.

With this sort of prize money, though, Andy knew that his position at
home would be strengthened immensely: Rachel wouldn't decamp, as she'd
been threatening to do, if he brought a cheque that size home, and even
if she did a younger and more pliable replacement wouldn't be too
difficult to find. Andy snapped out of his daydream and stuffed the
cheque into his breast pocket without even reading it.

"You realise that no man has ever picked up a cheque for that magic
million?"

"I do," Andy whispered modestly.

"We all want to see you do it. Even now, Andy, you're a record
breaker!"

"I am?"

"No-one's got this far with two lifelines still intact. You've still
got fifty-fifty and phone a friend. Now let's take a look.."

Andy inhaled and shifted from one sweaty buttock to the other. He'd
rather have been at the dentist's at that moment, anywhere rather than
in that exposed chair. An expectant hush fell as the audience scented
history in the making.

"Which of these Wagner operas is not, repeat not, part of the 'Ring
Cycle?'"

Andy smiled nervously and attempted to focus his mind. Keep calm, he
told himself, let's just see..

"'Siegfried', 'Die Walkure', 'Parsifal', 'Gotterdammerung. You're
smiling. What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking 'I wish I knew the answer to this flipping
question.'"

"I'm sure'" the quizmaster chuckled. The audience fell about at the
feeble crack before an uneasy silence was restored.

Ring Cycle, Andy mused, his brain rapidly silting up with useless
pub-quiz facts. Walkure, flying female warriors. March of.. The
Parachute Regiment, yes. Film? Apocalypse now.. Based on Conrad, Marlon
Brando, napalm in the morning.. Gotterdammerung, Twilight of the Gods.
That's part of it, surely? The end bit?

"I'll take fifty-fifty."

"Right. Computer, take away two incorrect answers.."

Two lights instantly flicked out, leaving 'Siegfried' and 'Parsifal'.
Damn, Andy thought, that doesn't help. There was nothing else for
it..

"Can I phone Ben Parry?"

"This Ben.. good friend, is he? He'll need to be."

"Captain of my local pub quiz team. Knows a lot about music."

"You'll need to buy him a pint, you realise?"

"I don't think he'll be satisfied with just one if he comes up trumps."
The long, painful rigmarole of contacting Ben ended with Andy's
desperate plea.

"Ben? Wagner's Ring Cycle. Which opera's not part of it? 'Siegfried'
or'Parsifal'?"

"'Siegfried', mate. Go for it."

"How sure are.."

"Certain. One hundred per cent."

"Thanks. I owe you one." The phone line went dead. "Okay, he's the
expert. Siegfried."

"You're sure about this?" The tone was near-funereal. Even the
quizmaster seemed to be shifting nervously now. "It's a lot of money to
lose. An awful lot."

"I trust this man," Andy replied. "'Siegfried', final answer. There was
no moving him now, that was obvious. He'd promised Rachel faithfully
that he wouldn't gamble, wouldn't go against his instincts, but one
question.. one measly question, another half a million pounds. He'd
never, ever, get a chance like this again.

"Is that your final answer?"

"It is."

The orange light flickered on and the quizmaster's features contorted
into an agonised mask.

"Andy, I'm so sorry.."

All the way back to Stockport, Andy brooded. If only.. if only he'd not
known that sixty-four thousand pound answer, he'd be riding home in
triumph with exactly the same amount of money as he had now. He'd still
got that fat cheque for thirty-two thousand pounds, and that would pay
off the mortgage. So, why did he feel so rotten, so cheated? He'd
already phoned Rachel from the studios, complained bitterly about being
misled and she'd been surprisingly unsympathetic. He'd already spent
that mythical treasure on exotic holidays, a new sporty Jag, a stone
house out towards the Peak District. What had gone so spectacularly
wrong?

He paid off the taxi and let himself into the shabby flat.

"I'm back with a big cheque!" There was no reply. Maybe, he thought,
she's upstairs sulking. It had been known. "Hello, Tibs." Tibby
blinked, stretched and resumed his somnolent posture. "They still want
me on 'Richard and Judy'! Prat of the week, or something..
Hello?"

He looked round the untidy lounge, his heart sinking. God, he thought,
we've been robbed! They must have known I was away, the thieving..
Ornaments, books, the hi-fi, photographs had all been neatly removed.
This surely wasn't the way burglars normally operated? Then he noticed
it: on the table, an envelope. Neatly addressed to him, in Rachel's
unmistakeable handwriting.

"Congratulations!" The brief note read. "You can treat your friends
down at the "Greyhound" all you like now. You always preferred their
company to mine anyway. I'll be round at Ben's permanently if you need
to redirect post. That's what I like about him, by the way. Unlike you,
he's got a wicked sense of humour."