Dead Famous

DAY FORTY-TWO. 7.30 p.m.

“Housemates, this is Chloe, can you hear me?”

Yes, they could hear her.

“The fifth person to leave the Peeping Tom house will be…”

The traditional pause…

“Sally!”

In that moment Sally made a little bit of TV history by becoming the first evictee from a programme of the House Arrest type not to shout “Yes!” and punch the air in triumph as if delighted to be going.

Instead she said, “So everybody out there thinks I did it too.”

“Sally,” Chloe continued, “you have ninety minutes to say your goodbyes and pack your bags and then we’ll be back to take you to your appointment with live TV!”

Sally went over to the kitchen area and made herself a cup of tea.

“I don’t think you did it, Sally,” said Dervla, but Sally only smiled.

Then she went into the confession box. “Hallo, Peeping Tom,” she said.

“Hallo, Sally,” said Sam, the soothing voice of Peeping Tom.

In the monitoring bunker Geraldine crouched close to the monitor, pen and pad in hand, ready to give Sam her lines. She knew she must play this one very carefully. Dangling before her was the prospect of some very good telly indeed. The result turned out to be even better than she had hoped.

“I expect by now the press have found out about my mum,” said Sally. “How she’s been held at Ringford Hospital for the last twenty years.”

“Horrible place,” whispered Geraldine, “the worst loony bin of the lot.”

“Ever since Kelly died I’ve been wondering,” said Sally. “Could I have done it? Is there some way I could have gone into a sort of trance? Got into the sweatbox and turned into my mother? I know that my mum told me she couldn’t remember a thing about when she did it, and when the police talked to me I couldn’t really remember even being in the sweatbox. So perhaps I did it and can’t remember that either? Was I in a box inside a box? My own black box? To be honest, I don’t know. I don’t think it was me. Paranoid schizophrenics don’t cover their tracks, wear sheets and avoid getting even one drop of blood on themselves. I think it was too good to have been me. I don’t think I could commit the perfect murder. I know my mother didn’t when she killed my father… but it could have been me. I have to accept that. I just can’t remember.”

“Fu-u-u-ucking hell,” Geraldine breathed. “This is fa-a-a-a-abulous.”

“One thing I do know,” said Sally, “is that everybody will think it was me and that I’ll never escape that as long as I live. It’s obvious that the police haven’t got a clue. They’ll probably never arrest anyone, so for the rest of my life I’ll be seen as the black dyke nutter who murdered Kelly. Therefore, I’ve decided to make the rest of my life as short as possible.”

And with that Sally produced a kitchen knife from within the sleeve of her shirt. She had palmed it when she had made herself a cup of tea.