Dead famous (13 page)

DAY THIRTY-FOUR. 11.50 p.m.

O
n the drive home Coleridge attempted to banish Woggle from his mind by listening to Radio 4. The thing about Radio 4 for Coleridge was that no matter what they were talking about he always got caught up in it. He had often found himself sitting in his car outside his house waiting to hear the end of some discussion about crop rotation in West Africa, or some other subject he had never heard of and would never think of again. Even the shipping forecasts made good listening, conjuring up as they did strange emotions and race memories of dark rocky coastlines, furious typhoons and the long lonely watches of the night. The subject being discussed that night as Coleridge drove home was an economic slump in rural Ireland. The shift of money and young people to the cities, coupled with cuts in European agricultural grants, had left some villages in desperate financial straits. Negative loans and mortgages were forcing many households to the edge of despair. Coleridge’s ears pricked up at the mention of one of the villages worst affected, Ballymagoon. Where had he heard that name recently? He wondered. It wasn’t until he was opening his second can of beer (and thinking about having a bit of ham with it) that Coleridge remembered. He had read the name on a suspect profile. Ballymagoon was the village in which Dervla was born.

DAY THIRTY-FIVE. 9.30 a.m.

I
t’s day fifteen in the house, and after supper, in order to take their minds off Woggle’s arrest. Peeping Tom sets the housemates a topic for discussion,’ Andy the narrator intoned portentously.

‘The topic tonight is their deepest feelings.’ Coleridge stirred his second mug of tea of the working day. Those he had at home did not count. Trisha bustled in, pulling off her coat.

‘You’ve arrived just in time, Patricia,’ said Coleridge.

‘Our suspects are about to discuss that most significant and sublime of all subject matters: themselves.’

‘Suspects and victim, sir.’ It was early, and Trisha was not in the mood for Coleridge’s superior tone, besides which, she felt that some respect at least was due to the dead. Coleridge merely smiled wearily. On the screen Garry had taken the floor.

‘I’m not going to mess you about,’ he said.

‘I’ve not always been a very nice person.’

‘You still ain’t,’ Jazz chipped in, but nobody laughed. Instead they all hung on to the intense, caring expressions that they had had assumed when Garry had begun. Coleridge pressed pause.

‘You see how none of them share Jazz’s joke? This is confession time. It’s serious stuff. A matter of faith. Garry is worshipping at the altar of his own significance, and Jazz is laughing in church.’

‘Sir, if we have to stop every time any of these people annoy you we’ll never get through even this tape.’

‘I can’t help it, Patricia. They’ve ground me down.’ But Coleridge knew he was being stupid and resolved to make an effort. Garry began his story.

‘Like I said, I was a bit of a geezer, you know what I mean? Little bit o’ this, little bit o’ that, dodgy stuff, done some rotten things that I don’t mind admitting I’m not proud of, but at the end of the day, right, I done ‘em and that’s me and I can’t change that. Truth is, I wanted it large and I wasn’t too fussed about who I had a go at to get it. You know what I’m saying?’ There were murmurs of sympathy but not very enthusiastic ones.

‘I think the truth of the matter was, right,’ Garry continued, ‘I didn’t love myself.’ Now they all nodded earnestly. This they understood. Carry’s other influences — the fighting, the boozing, the dodgy dealing might have been different from their own, but when it came to that central subject of not quite loving oneself enough, they understood exactly what he meant.

‘I know exactly what you fookin’ mean,’ Moon said.

‘I don’t think I was letting myself in,’ Garry continued. Coleridge’s resolve to keep quiet had lasted less than a minute.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Why do they all talk as if they’re in therapy! Even Carry. Just listen to him! ‘I wasn’t letting myself in.’ What on earth does that mean? He’s a yobbo, for heaven’s sake! Not a sociology graduate! Where do they learn all these ridiculous empty phrases?’

‘Oprah, sir.’

‘Who?’ Trisha could not tell whether Coleridge was joking. She let it go. Back in the house, oblivious to how much they would one day annoy a senior police officer, the confessional continued.

‘I just know exactly what you mean, I really do,’ Moon was saying, ‘and I think it’s really dead strong of you that you can say it.’ Nourished by the support, Garry pressed on. Loving himself by pretending to hate himself.

‘Anyway, I was getting into a lot of coke at the time, you know, quite a big habit, doing five hundred notes a week, bosh, straight up my hooter. Yes, please. Thank you very much. We like that. Blowing a grand was nothing to me. Nothing. I’m not proud of it, right, but that was me, right? I was having it large and what I wanted I fahking had, you know what I’m saying? I was a bad boy. I ain’t proud of it.’ Coleridge thought about remarking that for a man who professed so much not to be proud of his behaviour, Gazzer was doing a pretty good job of showing the world just how proud of it he was. He decided against it, though. He could see that Patricia was getting sick of him. On screen the rest of the group nodded earnestly at Gazzer while clearly itching for the moment when they could take the floor themselves.

‘But you know what saved me? You know what really worked me out?’ Suddenly Garry was choking up. There were tears welling up in his eyes and his voice was cracking.

‘Don’t go on if you don’t want to, mate,’ said David, his voice awash with concentrated sincerity and sympathy.

‘Take a break. Come back to it. Give yourself space. Now, when I—’

‘No, no,’ said Garry quickly. He wasn’t losing hold of the conch that easily, not now he was on a roll.

‘I’m all right, mate, thanks, but it helps to talk about it.’ David sank back onto the couch. Garry took up the thread of his story.

‘I’ll tell you what changed me. My little lad, that’s who, little Ricky. My kid. He means everything to me, everything. I’d fahkin’ die for him, I would, I really would.’ There was much sincere and committed nodding at this. The body language of the group was highly supportive. Their eyes, on the other hand, told a different story. As the shot cut from one listener to another the message was clear: it said, ‘I am bored out of my brains, I do not care about you and your little lad, and I wish you’d just shut up and let me speak.’

‘Cos, like, I have Ricky most weekends, right, and he’s just brilliant, I mean he’s just so amazing, I’m so proud of him and like everything he says is just brilliant, right? You know what I mean? I’m not being funny or nothing, he’s my little kiddie and he’s like the best thing that ever happened to me.’ Carry’s voice was choking with emotion but he persevered.

‘And one weekend I’d had it large the night before, you know what I’m saying? Did the lot, right, booze, coke, spliff, I ain’t proud of it, and I was feeling well rough, and Ricky’s mum brings him round and she says, ‘It’s your day with him,’ and I’m thinking, ‘Fahkin’ hell! Oh no! This is all I need with a head like a sack full of broken glass.’ So I says, ‘I’ll have him tomorrow,’ but she says, ‘You’ll have him today,’ and she’s gone, right? So I’m thinking, ‘Fahk, I’ll take him round me mum’s.’ But then, little Ricky says, ‘Don’t you want to play with me, then. Daddy?’ And you know what? He cured my hangover, there and then, just with his little smile and by saying that. So I stuck Spot the Dog on while I got myself together and then we went to the cafe for breakfast and after that we went down the park and had loads of ice cream and stuff. It was just brilliant, I mean really amazing, because I’m so proud of him and there’s so much that I can learn from him, right? And at the end of the day, I know I have to treasure every moment with him and cherish him, because he’s the most precious thing I’ve got.’ Gazzer wiped tears from his eyes. He had surprised himself. He didn’t cry much in the usual run of things, but getting all that stuff about Ricky out had been brilliant. He felt genuinely moved. The group paused for a nod. They were obviously anxious to leap straight in with stories of their own, but they held back, awarding Garry a moment of reflection and respect. None of them wanted to be portrayed on the television as taking somebody else’s emotions lightly. Particularly when a little kiddie was involved. It was into this pious pause that Kelly unwittingly slung her bucket of cold water.

‘So what are you doing in here, then, Garry?’ She asked.

‘What?’ Kelly did not look as if she was trying to be horrid, but it certainly came across that way.

‘I mean, if you have such a great time with him, and learn so much, what are you doing in here? You might be in here for nearly two and a half months. How old is he?’

‘Nearly four.’ Garry was trying to work out what was going on. Was this woman criticizing his heartfelt confessional? Surely that was against the rules? ‘Well, I think you’re mad, then,’ Kelly continued.

‘I mean, at that age he’ll be changing every day. You’re going to miss it.’

‘Yeah, I know that, Kelly, that’s fahking obvious. I might even miss his birthday and I’m gonna be dead choked up—’

‘So what are you doing in here, then?’ Kelly repeated.

‘Well, because…Because…’ Now Coleridge could contain his frustration no longer. He almost shouted at the screen, which was very unlike him.

‘Well, come on, lad! Be honest, why don’t you, for once in your life? Surely it’s obvious! Because you have a right to be in that damned stupid house. You have a right to do exactly as you please. To lead an entirely selfish and irresponsible life while wallowing in the mawkish sentimentality of fatherhood when you feel like it! Come on, lad! Be a man! Answer the girl.’

‘Sir,’ said Trisha.

‘Shut up.’ She stopped, shocked at her audacity.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I…’

‘I did not hear anything, constable,’ said Coleridge quietly, resolving once more to try to contain himself. On the screen Garry was still lost for words.

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Kelly continued.

‘I’m not knocking you for having a kid or nothing like that. My sister’s got two by different blokes and they’re brilliant. I just think, you know, if you do have a kid, shouldn’t you be out there trying to look after it? Instead of sitting in here. That’s all. I mean, only seeing as how you love him so much.’ Garry, normally so quick with a clever line and a putdown, was at a loss.

‘Well, as it happens, Kelly,’ he said finally, ‘I’m doing this for him.’

‘How’s that work, then?’ Said Kelly.

‘To make him proud of me.’

‘Oh, I see.’ On the following evening’s edition of House Arrest Dr Ranulf Aziz, the show’s resident TV psychologist, gave his opinion for the benefit of the viewers.

‘See Carry’s body language, now his shoulders hunched, his jaw set, this is a classic quasi-confrontational stance, with overtones of semi-concealed malice and undertones of mental violence. We see it mirrored in the animal kingdom when a great beast is denied access to the best portion of the kill. Carry’s arms are firmly folded, just as a lion or a tiger might shift its weight to its rear haunches, demonstrating current passivity but a willingness to attack violently and with extreme rage.’ Chloe, the sparkly, spunky, batty, booby House Arrest babe, put on her intelligent face.

‘So you’re saying Gazzer’s a bit naffed off?’

‘That is indeed what I’m saying, Chloe. Gazzer is a bit naffed off big-time.’ Gazzer was more than naffed off. He was speechless with rage, his heart and soul were a boiling, bubbling pit of hurt and anger. He covered it well, in that he only looked furious.

‘Yeah, well, whatever,’ he said.

‘I didn’t mean to say anything, Gazz,’ Kelly replied.

‘You know, I’m just saying, that’s all.’

‘Yeah, right, whatever,’ Garry said again.

‘Who wants a cup of tea, then?’ He turned away from the group but there was no escape from the cameras, and a hot-head followed him to where the kettle was. There were tears in Carry’s eyes and he was biting his lip so hard that a thin line of blood could be seen emerging. How dare she? It was incredible. It wasn’t his fault that him and the mother didn’t get on any more. What was he supposed to do, camp outside their house twenty-four hours a day? He had to have a life, didn’t he? He did love his kid. She had no right. No right at all.

DAY SEVENTEEN. 10.00 a.m.

L
ayla had been back at work for only an hour when she left again. Back at work? It was incredible. Terrible. Devastating. During all the time she had been in the house, and indeed ever since she had received the thrilling news that she had been selected to join the House Arrest team, Layla had hardly dared to think of what she would be doing three days after leaving. Of course, she had allowed herself to dream a little and in her wildest fantasies had imagined herself juggling offers to model gorgeous clothes and to present exciting television programmes about beauty products and alternative culture. In her worst moments of fear and doubt she had feared being lampooned in the tabloids and having to go on radio chat shows to defend her dippy-hippie ways. What she never ever imagined, however, was that she would be going back to work. The brutal fact was that nobody was interested in her. The story of Woggle’s rise and spectacular fall had been the Peeping Tom story of the first fortnight,and now even that was becoming old news. The show had moved on. Layla had been useful to the press only in so much as she could talk about Woggle, and now that this one small nugget of notoriety had disappeared, she was just the beautiful but vain hippie one who got chucked out first. The one who wrote shit poetry. The one who was obviously entirely and completely absorbed in her own beauty and wonderfulness. That was how Peeping Tom had presented her, when they presented her at all. As a snooty, stupid cow whose one redeeming feature was that she was highly shaggable. However, since the Woggle story had placed matters of the heart firmly on the Peeping Tom back-burner, even that tainted card had been totally underplayed. Added to all of this was the fact that Layla’s final act in the house had been to go into the confession box and to tell the world that she had clusters of septic flea bites around her anus. This had been the sole snippet of Layla’s last rant that Geraldine had chosen to broadcast, and it considerably dampened her immediate sexual allure on the outside. Layla had gone into the house with a chance of stardom and she had emerged just two weeks later as a desperate wannabe who had turned into a sad loser. Even her friends were looking at her differently.

‘Couldn’t you have stopped the others from being quite so mean to Woggle?’ The more radical of them said. T mean, in a way he was right. What is the difference between a fox and a flea?’

‘I think you should have let David read your poem for you when he offered,’ her mother said.

‘I’m afraid that refusing did look rather precious, dear.’ Layla felt that her life was ruined, and for what? Nothing. She was despised and, more pressingly, she was broke. Peeping Tom did not pay its contestants (except the winner). They were given a small stipend to maintain their rent or mortgages while they were in the house, but that was it. Ex-contestants were expected to fend for themselves, but the only offers of paid employment that Layla had received since leaving the house were to pose nude for men’s magazines. In the end, with weekly shopping to be done and bills to be paid, she had no choice but to ask for her old job back, which had been as a shop girl in a designer clothes shop.

‘What do you want to come back for?’ The manager said,astonished at Layla’s enquiry.

‘You’re famous, you’ve been on telly, you must be rolling in it.’ Nobody believed that Layla, who had been on telly every night for a fortnight, could possibly need a job in a shop. But she did, and they were happy to take her back, thrilled to have a famous person working for them. Thrilled, that was, until they found themselves with a shop full of idiots with nothing better to do than snigger from behind the dress racks at somebody who had been on the television.

‘I voted for you to leave,’ said one mean-looking teenager.

‘I rang twice.’

‘I saw one of your nipples in the shower,’ said another.

‘Do you reckon Kelly’s going to shag Hamish, then?’ They all called her Layla, or, worse still, Layles. They knew her name, they knew her, or at least they thought they did. A middle-aged man brought her a small bottle of walnut oil, which for a moment Layla thought was nice, but then he asked her to go out with him and she realized that people thought that the sort of girl who went on House Arrest (and got chucked straight off) was the sort of girl who would shag you for half the ingredients of a salad dressing. At shortly after ten a photographer from the local newspaper arrived.

‘Must be the quickest ‘Where are they now?’ Feature in the history of showbiz,’ he said, snapping away without asking. The shop manager had called the paper.

‘I thought you’d be pleased, Layles. I mean, after all, you must have done it for the publicity.’ Layla put down the jumper she had been trying to fold for some time, took £9.50 from the till, which was pay for one hour’s work, and went home. Once there she picked up the phone and asked Directory Inquiries for the phone number of Men Only magazine. They were delighted to get her call.

‘What we wondered was would you do an erotic shoot with this beautiful girl who had her kitchen done up on Changing Rooms? We thought we could call it Celeb-lezzy, you know, just as a joke, like.’ Layla put down the phone. She was so angry. Angry with Peeping Tom Productions, of course, but particularly angry with the people who had nominated her for eviction. She tortured herself by watching the tape over and over again. There they were sitting in the box, so smug, so self-important. They had sealed her fate, they had doomed her to being the first out. David. Dervla. Garry and Kelly. Kelly was the real humiliation, that little ladette slapper had had the gall to nominate her. Dervla she hated also. Those weasel words from the confession box burned into her soul.

‘She’s a lovely, lovely girl, a very gentle, caring and beautiful spirit, but I feel that in the end her loveliness would be able to blossom more beautifully outside of the house.’ What a stuck-up, hypocritical Irish cow. The truth was she had wanted Layla out because she hadn’t wanted someone better looking and more intelligent than her grabbing the sensitive male vote. Dervla and Kelly. For some reason it was the women that hurt the most. Probably because Layla felt that she was so much better at being a woman than they were. They should have supported her, they should have made her their champion against pseuds like David and yobbos like Garry and Jazz. Their rejection of her was, she felt, almost sexist. Dervla and Kelly. Those were the two she really hated. But particularly Kelly. That same Kelly who had nominated her and then hugged her and kissed her when she was voted out, and said she loved her. Kelly, who had pretended to be upset, who had so compounded her humiliation for all the world to see.