Dead Famous

DAY ELEVEN. 1.45 p.m.

The housemates had been called into the confession box to make their nominations in alphabetical order, therefore Woggle had gone in last.

“What’s he doing in there?” Jazz said, after a minute or two had passed.

“I hope he’s died and rotted,” David replied.

“He wouldn’t have to die to rot, he’s rotting already,” said Gazzer.

“We’ll be doing him a favour,” Jazz concluded. “Saving him from himself.”

To Jazz, the worst thing on earth would be to be filthy. He lived to preen.

When Woggle finally emerged from the little room, the boys were lying in wait.

“Afternoon, fellow humanoids,” said Woggle, wandering out into the garden. “Happy summer solstice.”

Without a word, they jumped him. Hamish and Jazz held him down while Garry and David pulled off his ancient combat trousers.

“What’s going on?” he shouted, but the boys were too intent on their mission to reply.

Woggle’s skinny legs kicked about, glaring white in the bright sunlight. He was wearing filthy old Y-fronts with a hole in them where one of his balls had worn the cloth away. As he struggled with his attackers both balls fell through this hole. It didn’t look funny, it looked sad and pathetic.

“No, no! What’re you doing!” Woggle yelled, but still the boys ignored him. They had drunk the last of the house cider and were feeling righteous. This had to be done. Woggle had it coming to him. You could not just give people fleas and then expect them to do nothing about it.

“Get them pants off him, they’ll be infested too!” Jazz shouted.

“I ain’t touching them,” Garry replied.

“Nor me,” said Hamish.

“Fuck this,” said Jazz and, letting go of Woggle for a moment, he ran to the chicken coup and grabbed the gloves they used to clean out the birds. When he returned, Woggle had managed to twist himself round so that when Jazz pulled his underpants off him his bony white arse was on view to the cameras.

Next they pulled off his shirt, ripping the buttons as they did so, and finally they wrenched Woggle’s filthy string vest up over his head. Now Woggle was naked. A struggling, shrieking, pale, bony little creature with a great mop of dreadlocks and his beard flying and flapping in the summer sun.

“This is assault! I am being defiled! Get off me!” he shouted.

“I’m being assaulted and defiled by your fleas!” Hamish cried, speaking for them all. “My fucking armpits are bleeding.”

There was a barbecue at the back of the house and the boys had already cranked it up in preparation for the attack. Jazz threw Woggle’s clothes and his sandals onto the fire. There was a strange fizzing sound. “Fuck me!” he cried. “I can hear the fleas popping!”

“Not popping, screaming!” Woggle shouted.

“Let’s shave his head!” shouted David. “He’s bound to have lice.”

“No,” said Jazz firmly. “You can’t mess with a man’s barnet, even Woggle’s.”

“Fascists!” shouted Woggle, but his voice degenerated to a cough as Garry and Hamish began dousing him in flea powder. For a few moments they were all engulfed in a great cloud, and when they had finished Woggle was a luminous ghostly white from head to toe. Even his hair and beard were white as snow.

They left Woggle prostrate and naked in the middle of the lawn. As he turned briefly towards one of the garden cameras, flesh-coloured lines began to streak his death-white face as the tears sprang from his eyes.