Dead Famous

DAY TWENTY-SEVEN. 11.44 p.m.

“Who the fuck is that, then?” said Geraldine, watching the sheeted figure emerge from the boys’ bedroom.

“Don’t know,” said Pru and Fogarty together.

“Someone’s having a laugh,” opined Fogarty. “Going to scare Kelly.”

Now the figure crossed to the kitchen units and picked up the knife from the kitchen drawer.

“That I do not like,” said Geraldine. “That is not funny.”

The figure was making its way towards the toilet now.

“They’re all far too pissed for this type of nonsense,” said Geraldine. “We need to make an announcement. Tell whichever silly cunt is in that sheet to stop fucking around and put that fucking knife back in the drawer before he gets us censored by the bleeding Standards Commission. Sam’s not here. You do it, Pru, quick, bang the intercom on.”

But there was no time.

The figure in the sheet suddenly threw open the toilet door and swept inside.

Kelly must have seen her killer’s face, but she was the only person who did. Every housemate knew the location of all the cameras intimately and whoever burst into that toilet knew that the only camera covering him was the one above the door. As he entered, he raised the sheet high above his head with both hands, one of which also held the knife. Kelly must have looked up in surprise, but it was not possible to see her expression in that final moment because the sheet was billowing above and behind the killer, cutting them both off from the view of the camera.

Now, as Geraldine and her editing team watched, the sheet seemed to fall downwards onto Kelly. This, it was to transpire, was the first plunge of the knife. The one that skewered Kelly’s neck.

In the monitoring box they still thought it was a wind-up. They had no reason to think anything else.

“What is that cunt doing?” Geraldine said, as the billowing sheet raised itself up again before plunging down once more.