Dead Famous

DAY THIRTY-TWO. 11.00 p.m.

The evenings were the worst times for the housemates. It was then, with nothing much to do, that they had time to think about their situation. When they spoke about it to each other, which was not often, they agreed that the worst aspect of it all was the not knowing. The rules of the game had not changed – they were allowed no contact with the outside world – and since their brief bewildering day in the eye of the storm they had heard and seen absolutely nothing.

The sound of madness had been abruptly and completely turned off. It was as if a door had been slammed, which of course it had. Collectively and alone they longed for information. What was happening?

Even Dervla with her secret source of information was in the dark. She had wondered whether her message-writer would stop after the murder, but he hadn’t.

“‘They all think you’re beautiful, and so do I.”

“‘You look tired. Don’t worry. I love you.”

One day Dervla risked mentioning the murder, pretending that she was talking to herself in the mirror. “Oh, God,” she said to her reflection. “Who could have done this thing?”

The mirror did not tell her much. “Police don’t know,” it said. “Police are fools.”