Dead famous (24 page)

‘Really?’

‘Yes. The other night Hamish followed her out into the nookie hut, but I don’t think he got anywhere…Not that I’m saying anything about Hamish, you understand.’

‘Were you aware of anybody following Kelly out of the box last night?’

‘No, I was not.’

‘You’ve said yourself that you were situated near the entrance. You’re sure you noticed nothing?’

‘As I’ve told you, I was occupied at the time. The whole business was rather a giddy affair.’ Later, Coleridge was to ponder Dervla’s choice of words and phrases: ‘canoodling’, ‘giddy affair’, as if she was talking about an innocent flirtation at a barn dance rather than an orgy. After Dervla had completed her interview and returned to the conference room, Coleridge and Hooper discussed her evidence for some time.

‘Very mysterious that she had no sensation of the second person leaving the box,’ Hooper said.

‘Yes,’ Coleridge replied.

‘Unless…’ Hooper finished his sentence for him.

‘Unless she was the person who left.’

ONE WINNER

DAY TWENTY-EIGHT. 7.30 p.m.

T
he door closed behind David. He picked up his guitar from the orange couch and began playing a mournful song. He was the last one in. They’d all come home. There was never any real question in their minds that they would go on with it. Even as they were driven away from the house in seven separate police cars in the early morning following the murder, they were able to get some idea of the scale of interest that would henceforth be shown in them. The corpse was hardly cold, and yet already the word was out and the whole world was rushing to their door. By the time they left the police station, without charge, eight hours later, there were over a thousand reporters waiting for them. A thousand reporters. On a recent trip to Britain the President of the United States had rated only two hundred and fifty. And once Peeping Tom announced that the seven remaining contestants intended to continue with the game, the media and the public went berserk with excitement. For these were no longer just seven contestants in a TV game show, as Geraldine continued publicly to maintain, they were seven suspects in a murder hunt. The only seven suspects. All day and all night it seemed as if people could talk about nothing else. Bishops and broadcasting watchdogs deplored the decision as a collapse of moral standards. Opportunistic politicians applauded it as evidence of a more open and relaxed society that was ‘at ease with its traumas’. The prime minister was invited to comment on the matter during Parliamentary Question Time, and earnestly promised that he would ‘listen to the people’, attempting, if possible, to ‘feel their pain’ and get back to parliament the moment he had an idea about how they felt. Many people expressed surprise that the seven contestants were legally free to go back into the house, but of course there was nothing to stop them. Even though it was clear that one of them had murdered Kelly, the police were unable to find evidence to detain any of them. They were all free to go for the time being, free to do what they wanted, and what they wanted, it soon turned out, was to go back into the house. Efforts were made by concerned individuals to implement the law that states that people cannot profit from media exploitation of their crimes. But what profit? The inmates of the house were not being paid for their efforts. And what crime? Six of the people had not committed one, and the identity of the person who had done it remained a complete mystery. Once he or she was detected, it would of course be possible to prevent them from appearing on television, but until then there was nothing that could be done to restrain any of them.

DAY TWENTY-EIGHT. 6.50 p.m.

I
say we fahkin’ go for it.’ Garry had been the first to speak. He was a geezer and a hard one at that, and he wasn’t squeamish about using a toilet in which someone had been knifed.

‘I’ve been in a lot of bogs with blood on the floor,’ he said, thinking to himself that this comment would play rather well on the telly, before he remembered that he was outside the house and for the first time in a month there were no cameras being trained on him.

‘So I say fahk it, let’s have it large.’ Geraldine had managed to collect all seven of the tired, confused housemates as they left the police station and wrestle them onto a waiting minibus. It had not been easy: the offers of money had burst forth with a roar the moment the station door had opened. Any one of the remaining housemates could have got a hundred thousand for an exclusive interview there and then. Fortunately, Geraldine had brought a megaphone with her and she was entirely unembarrassed about using it.

‘You’ll do much better if you bargain collectively,’ she shouted, ‘so get on the bus!’ Finally, with the help of the ten huge security men she had brought with her, she managed to get her precious charges inside the vehicle and there they sat like obedient children while the police tried to clear a path for them to depart. Outside, hundreds of cameras were clicking and whirring, microphones were being banged against the windows; the noise of the shouted questions was cacophonous.

‘Who do you think did it?’

‘How do you feel?’

‘Did she deserve it?’

‘Was it a sex thing?’ Even inside the bus Geraldine had to use her megaphone to get their attention. She knew what she required of the housemates, and she got right down to telling them.

‘Listen to me!’ She shouted. The seven shell-shocked people stared back at her.

‘I know you’re all sorry about Kelly, but we have to be practical. Look at what’s going on outside! The entire world’s press have turned up, and for what? Not for Kelly, she’s gone, but for you, that’s who. So think about that for a minute.’ While the seven housemates thought about it the minibus began to edge its way through the roaring sea of journalists.

‘Why did you people get into this thing in the first place?’ Geraldine continued.

‘Why did you write to Peeping Tom?’ They were confused: there had been so many reasons given at the start of the whole business.

‘To really stretch myself as a person…’

‘To explore different aspects of who I am…’

‘To discover new horizons and life adventures…’

‘To provide a goal, and to be a role model.’ They had all known the codes, the things that they were supposed to say. The new language of pious self-justification. All rubbish, of course, and Geraldine knew it. She knew why they had applied to be on Peeping Tom, and no amount of pretentious New Age waffle could disguise it. They had done it to get famous and that was why Geraldine knew that they would all go back into the house. The bus was finally pulling away from the mob at the police station, and the motorbike photographers were beginning their pursuit, weaving in and out of the traffic, oblivious to their own safety or anybody else’s, intoxicated by the hunt.

‘So,’ Geraldine barked, ‘let’s leave aside for a moment the issue of who kill…of how poor Kelly died, and consider the opportunity that her sad demise has opened up for you people. I am talking about fame beyond frontiers, beyond your wildest dreams. This show will be broadcast worldwide, no question about that. By the time you come out of our house your faces will be recognizable in every town, village and home on the planet. Think about that. If you guys split up now the story’s over in a week, you’ll all make a few quid talking about Kelly to the papers and that’ll be it. But if you stick together! If you go back into the house together! You’ll be the biggest story on earth day after day after day.’

‘You mean people will be watching to try to work out which one of us killed Kelly?’ Dervla said.

‘Well, that certainly,’ Geraldine conceded.

‘But the police are trying to work that out anyway, so you might as well make a profit out of it. Besides, there’s so much more to this, the human angle of how you all cope with the tragedy, with each other. Believe me, this is a century-defining definition of what constitutes good telly.’ Geraldine could see that they were all still struggling with the terrifying and bewildering change in their circumstances. Sally spoke up in a sad small voice, a voice no one had heard her use before.

‘I thought that maybe it would be nice just to go home for a bit.’

‘Exactly!’ Geraldine exclaimed.

‘That’s what I’m saying.’

‘No, I mean my real home.’

‘Oh, I see…Fuck that. The house is your real home now.’ Geraldine’s own life was so entirely defined by her work that she simply could not understand the idea that somebody might be seriously considering putting toast and Marmite and a bit of a cry on the sofa with Mum before participating in the greatest television event in decades.

‘All right, let’s look at it this way,’ Geraldine said, able to adopt a quieter, more conciliatory tone now that they had left the roaring crowd behind them.

‘If one of you killed her, then that means six of you didn’t, right? Six people who can either slink away having had your big chance ruined by a cruel psychopath, or six people who can have the guts to stand up for themselves. Don’t forget that you have a right to pursue this journey of personal empowerment, you have a right to be stars. Because, at the end of the day, you’re all strong, fabulous, independent people, so I say just go for it! Crack on, because you’re brilliant, you really are. And I really, really mean that.’ But still they wavered. To go back into that house…To sleep in those beds…To use the toilet. The toilet where only hours before…Having tried conciliation, Geraldine picked up her cosh once more and played her strongest card of all: the truth.

‘All right, let’s really get down to it, shall we? Yesterday you were all part of a crappy, unoriginal little cloned game show that we’ve all seen ten times before. You’ve all watched them and you all know that the people on them basically look like a bunch of arrogant self- absorbed arseholes. Do you think you looked any different? Think again. I’ll show you the tapes if you like. Blimey, the public preferred Woggle to you lot. Stars? Fuck off. Disposable minor celebs is all you were. That’s the truth. I’m levelling with you for your own good.’

‘Now look here…’ David began to protest.

‘Shut up, David, this is my fucking bus and I’m fucking talking.’ David shut up.

‘Now, however,’ Geraldine continued, ‘you can change all that. If you have the guts, you have the chance to be a part of the most fascinating television experiment of all time. A live whodunit! A nightly murder mystery with a real live victim…’ She realized what she’d said the moment she said it.

‘Oh, all right, then, a real dead victim if you like. The point is that this will be the biggest show in history,and you are the stars of it! Kelly has given you the chance to be the thing she wanted most of all, to be a star! Do you hear me? Genuinely, properly famous, and to get it all you have to do is continue to play the game.’ Geraldine looked at their faces. She had won her argument. It had not taken long. Together they quickly concocted a press release, which they issued through the bus window as they approached the house.

‘We, the seven remaining housemates of House Arrest Three, have elected to continue with our sociological experiment as a tribute to Kelly and her dreams. We knew Kelly and know that she loved this show. It was a part of her, and she gave her life for it. We feel that for us to give up now and to jettison all that she worked for would be an insult to the memory of a beautiful strong woman and human being, whom we loved very, very much. House Arrest continues because it is what Kelly would have wanted. We are doing it for her. Crack on!’

‘That’s fookin’ beautiful, that is,’ Moon said. Then Sally started to cry and in a moment they were all crying. Except Dervla. Dervla was thinking about something else.

‘Just one thing,’ she said, as the bus forced its way through the crowds who had gathered round the Peeping Tom compound.

‘Yeah, what?’ Said Geraldine brusquely. Having secured their agreement, she wanted no further discussion, particularly from Princess fucking Dervla.

‘Suppose the killer strikes again?’ Geraldine pondered this for a moment.

‘Well, it’s never going to happen, is it? I mean, come on, you’ll all be on your guard, and we’d never do something like the sweatbox thing again. Obviously all anonymous environments and closed-in group activities are out. No more bunches of people, everything open and spread out. Really you should be sorry. I mean, imagine if it were possible for it to happen again. Just how fucking big would the remains of you be then?’

DAY TWENTY-EIGHT. 8.00 p.m.

T
hey had been back inside for half an hour, but no one had spoken. Some lay on their beds, some sat on the couches. Nobody had yet used the toilet.

‘This is Chloe,’the voice sounded through the house from the concealed speakers.

‘In order to maintain the integrity of the game structure we have decided to treat Kelly’s absence as an eviction from the house. Therefore there will be no further evictions this week. As a special treat,and in view of your long and tiring day, a takeaway meal for you has been placed in the store cupboard.’ Jazz went to get it.

‘Chinese,’ he said, returning with the bags. It was the only word uttered in the house until long after they had finished the food. Finally David broke the silence.

‘So one of us killed Kelly?’

‘So it would fookin’ seem,’ Moon replied. There was silence again. There was silence also in the monitoring bunker as the hours ticked by. Late that night Inspector Coleridge slipped into the box and sat down beside Geraldine. He wanted to see for himself how the show was put together. When he spoke Geraldine actually jumped.

‘You know that if I could have stopped you carrying on with this, I would.’

‘I don’t see why you would want to,’ Geraldine replied.

‘How many policemen get the chance to watch their suspects in the way you’re doing? Normally when no charges are pressed the prey is gone, off covering its tracks and hiding its secrets. If this lot are holding onto any secrets, then they’d better keep them pretty close.’

‘I would have liked to stop you on moral grounds. The whole country is watching your programme because they know that one of the people on it is a murderer.’

‘Not just that, inspector, as if that wasn’t good enough telly in itself,’ Geraldine replied gleefully.

‘They’re also watching because there is always the chance that it might happen again.’

‘That possibility had occurred to me.’

‘And I can assure you that it’s occurred to our little gang of wannabes. How good is that?’

‘Murder is not a spectator sport.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Geraldine asked.

‘All right, then. If you didn’t have to watch this because you’re investigating it, would you still watch it? Come on, be honest, you would, wouldn’t you?’

‘No, I wouldn’t.’

‘Well, then, you’re even more boring than I thought you were.’ Silence descended as they watched the housemates clearing away the debris of their meal.

‘Why are they doing it, do you think?’ Coleridge asked.

‘Why do you think? To get famous.’

‘Ah yes, of course,’ said Coleridge.

‘Fame.’

‘Fame,’ he thought, ‘the holy grail of a secular age.’ The cruel and demanding deity that had replaced God. The one thing. The only thing, it seemed to Coleridge, that mattered any more. The great obsession, the allencompassing national focus, which occupied 90 per cent of every newspaper and 100 per cent of every magazine. Not faith, but fame.

‘Fame,’ he murmured once more.

‘I hope they enjoy it.’

‘They won’t,’ Geraldine replied.