Dead Famous

DAY TWENTY-EIGHT. 8.00 p.m.

They 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 all-encompassing 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.