Dead famous (11 page)

DAY THIRTY-FOUR. 5.00 p.m.

T
hat was the image Geraldine made me close the show with,’ Fogarty told Trisha.

‘We didn’t show any of this…’ He tapped an assortment of the buttons on his editing console and there appeared on the bank of screens the coverage from inside the house recorded immediately following the attack. The housemates were taking no pleasure from the incident. There was no whooping, no hollering. They were all genuinely sorry for Woggle. Dervla was already making him some herbal tea (which he accepted in silence), and Kelly was planning a tofu and molasses comfort cake. The mood was subdued but resolved. As one, they felt that the men had acted in order to counter a pressing social issue which threatened the wellbeing of the group. In the editing suite Fogarty retreated to the little kitchenette area to get more of his chocolate from the fridge. Trisha wondered why he kept it cold when he was going to put it in his coffee.

‘It’s sad, isn’t it?’ Fogarty remarked.

‘They actually deluded themselves that the nation would applaud their ability to police their own community.’ On the screens the self-justification continued.

‘We could have gone on strike and asked for him to be ejected,’ Hamish was saying, ‘but what would we have looked like? A bunch of kids who couldn’t handle their own problems.’

‘Yes,’ said Layla.

‘The whole point of being here is to discover whether we can work together. If we had just gone running to Peeping Tom with our first group problem we’d basically have failed the test.’ Fogarty shook his head in disbelief.

‘Incredible. That girl Layla is bright enough,and yet she actually believed all that bullshit about House Arrest being a genuine experiment in social engineering. It’s a TV programme, for God’s sake! How could she not realize that the single and only point of the whole bloody exercise is to attract advertisers?’

‘Well, it certainly did that, didn’t it?’ Said Trisha.

‘Oh yes, our ratings shot up and with it Peeping Tom’s revenue.’ Fogarty turned his attention back to the screens.

‘Watch this,’ he said.

‘There’s more that we didn’t broadcast.’ On the screens Woggle came in from the garden. He refused Kelly’s offer of cake without a word. He also turned his back on the various offers of clothing and water. Layla suggested that she read him one or two of her healing poems.

‘Or else we could hold hands and hum together.’ Woggle did not even look at her. Instead he took up a blanket to cover his nakedness and retreated silently to his corner.

‘This is it, coming up now,’ said Fogarty.

‘Dervla’s confession.’ Sure enough, there was Dervla slipping into the confession box.

‘Of course I understand the boys’ frustration,’ she said.

‘We are after all suffering quite considerably here. But I did want to say that I feel enormous sorrow over Woggle’s distress and wished that a better way could have been found to deal with his health issues. Deep down I think he is beautiful.’ Fogarty stopped the tape.

‘Now I believed then and I believe now that Dervla is a lovely, lovely girl and that she was really upset about Woggle. But do you know what that shitty little cynic Geraldine made of it?’

‘What?’

‘She reckoned that Dervla had worked out that Woggle would be popular on the outside and was trying to curry favour with the public by supporting him.’

‘Wow, you’d have to be pretty perceptive.’

‘And pretty calculating, which I don’t think she is.’

‘On the other hand, she was the only person who didn’t nominate him.’

‘You’re worse than Geraldine! She said exactly that! Said that if she didn’t know better she’d think that Dervla had inside information.’

‘But that’s impossible, isn’t it?’

‘It certainly is. Let me tell you that if anyone was cheating I’d know. I see everything.’

‘But if she did have a secret advantage, and one of the others found out about it…’ Trisha stared into Dervla’s deep-green eyes, trying to read the thoughts that Dervla had been thinking in the confession box. Before death had changed everything.

DAY THIRTY-FOUR. 8.00 p.m.

T
risha returned to the station without eating. Having watched Fogarty sucking chocolate for an hour, she had lost her appetite, which she regretted now because it looked like it was going to be another long night.

‘Let’s get through Woggle this evening, shall we?’ Coleridge suggested. I don’t think I could face coming back to him tomorrow. What happened after the flea powder attack?’

‘The public weren’t happy, sir,’ said Hooper.

‘Within hours of show eleven going out there was a crowd outside the Peeping Tom compound calling for Garry, Hamish, David and Jazz to be arrested for assault. Geraldine Hennessy had to play music into the house to drown out the chants.’ Trisha put the tape Fogarty had given her into the VCR.

‘People weren’t happy inside the house either. Look at Woggle. He’s devastated.’

‘The rest of them don’t look too good either.’

‘They feel guilty about it.’ It was clear from the subdued conversation and unhappy faces that everybody was feeling very uncomfortable. They took refuge in cleaning, frenzied cleaning. With Woggle, the carrier and principal breeding ground, de-flead, it was possible to begin cleansing the rest of the house, which the nine of them did with a vengeance. Every mattress and sheet was taken outside, washed, dried, powdered, then washed again. Every garment of clothing, every cushion and cloth. Everybody showered and applied more powder. They got through ten containers of it, all of which had had to come out of their weekly shopping budget. Not only had Woggle’s fleas half eaten them alive, but they had also cost them the equivalent of eight precious bottles of wine or thirty cans of lager. Throughout the whole of this day-long cleaning process Woggle remained beneath his blanket in his corner, swaying slowly and singing to himself. A traumatized troll, as one newspaper was to put it. At the end of the day came the first eviction.

‘They broadcast two episodes on eviction nights,’ Hooper explained to Coleridge, ‘which is very thoughtful, because it gives the nation just enough time to pop out for a beer and curry between the shows.’

‘Don’t talk about food,’ said Trisha.

‘I haven’t eaten all day.’

‘You can have half of my evening Mars Bar if you wish,’ Coleridge suggested, but without enthusiasm.

‘No, thank you, sir,’ said Trisha.

‘I’m a bit off chocolate at the moment.’ Coleridge struggled hard not to show his mighty relief.

‘Anyway,’ said Hooper, doggedly persevering with the matter at hand.

‘The first broadcast on a Sunday is a live broadcast of the announcement of the person who’s going to be evicted, and the second is live coverage of the departure.’

‘Marvellous,’ said Coleridge.

‘An opportunity to spend an entire evening watching someone you don’t know being asked to leave a house you’ve never been to by a group of people you’ve never met and whom you will never hear of again. It’s difficult to imagine a more riveting scenario.’

‘You have to be into it, sir, that’s all. If you get into it it’s brilliant.’

‘Of course it is. Hooper. I wonder if when the ancient Greeks laid the foundation stones of western civilization they ever dreamt such brilliance possible?’

‘Like I say, if you’re not into it you won’t get it.’

‘From Homer to House Arrest in only twenty-five hundred years, a record to be proud of, don’t you think?’

‘Sir!’ Said Hooper.

‘We’re doing fourteen-hour days minimum to get through this! You have absolutely no right to extend them by constantly going off on one!’ There was an embarrassed silence, which lasted for the time it took for Coleridge to unwrap his Mars Bar. Hooper’s face was red. He was tired, angry and annoyed. Coleridge, who had had no idea he was being so irritating, was slightly sad.

‘Well,’ he said finally.

‘Let’s get on.’

DAY FOURTEEN. 7.30 p.m.

P
eople under House Arrest, this is Chloe. Can you hear me? The first person to leave the house will be,’ Chloe left a suitably dramatic pause, ‘…Layla.’ Layla looked like she had been hit in the face with a cricket bat, but nevertheless managed to enact the time-honoured ritual required from people in such situations.

‘Yes!’ She squeaked, punching the air as if she was pleased.

‘Now I can get back to my cat!’

‘Layla, you have two hours to pack and say your goodbyes,’ Chloe shouted, ‘when we will be back live for House Arrests first eviction! See you then!’ Layla was stunned. They were all stunned. Even Woggle beneath his blanket was stunned. He had presumed like everyone else in the house (except Dervla) that his presence there had been evenly reported and, although he considered his conduct to be exemplary, he had not expected public sympathy. Years of sneers and contempt from almost everybody he met for almost everything he said and did had led Woggle to presume that the viewing public’s attitude to him would be the same as that of the four fascists who had stripped him in the garden and attacked him without any provocation. But the public’s attitude wasn’t the same at all, they loved their little goblin, the traumatized troll. He was their pet, and although Woggle could have no idea of the dizzy heights to which his popularity had risen, he was astonished and thrilled enough simply to have avoided eviction. He poked his head out of his blanket briefly.

‘Fuck you,’ he said to the assembled inmates and then submerged himself once more beneath his cover. Then Layla howled with anguish. She actually howled. The injustice of it all was clearly nearly unbearable. The tears streamed down her face as she rocked back and forth on the purple couch in an agony of self-pity. She could obviously not believe that the public had chosen Woggle over her! Woggle! Layla went to the confession box to vent her spleen.

‘You bastards!’ She stormed.

‘It’s fucking obvious what you’ve done! Somehow you’ve made him the victim, haven’t you? You’ve been having a laugh and we’re the joke, aren’t we? I’m the joke! You know what Woggle’s like! What we’ve had to put up with! He doesn’t clean up, he doesn’t help out, he stinks like the rotting corpse of a dead dog’s arse! Everyone wanted him out, but you haven’t shown all that, have you? No! You can’t have done or he’d be going, not me!’

DAY THIRTY-FOUR. 8.40 p.m.

I
f she’d shown a bit more spirit like that before, she wouldn’t have been nominated,’ said Hooper, who had enjoyed watching Coleridge wincing at some of Layla’s choice of phrases.

‘But she’s wrong about the eviction,’ said Trisha.

‘Certainly, Peeping Tom skewed the coverage in Woggle’s favour, but everyone could still see what a slob he was. Layla would have been voted out whatever. The mistake the people who go on these shows make is to imagine that anybody actually cares about them. As far as we’re concerned, they’re just acts on the telly, to be laughed at.’ On screen Layla was beginning to break down.

‘I think some of my flea bites will leave scars, you bastards! The ones around my bottom have gone septic!’

‘Ugh!’ Said Trisha.

‘Too much information!’ Hooper protested.

‘If I do get ill I shall sue you,’ Layla fulminated.

‘I swear I will! I’m going now, but one more thing: I know you won’t broadcast this, Geraldine Hennessy, but I think you’re a complete and utter shit and I will hate you for ever!’

‘Hate you for ever,’ Coleridge repeated.

‘That’s a long time, and it was only three weeks ago. I doubt she’d have got over it yet.’ On the screen Layla went into the girls’ bedroom to get her bag. Kelly joined her.

‘I’m really, really sorry, Layla,’ Kelly said.

‘It must feel rotten.’

‘No, no, it’s fine really…’ But then Layla broke down again, falling into Kelly’s arms and sobbing.

‘Kelly is comforting Layla, but what Layla doesn’t know is that Kelly nominated her for eviction,’ said the voice of Andy the narrator.

‘They just love pointing it out when that happens,’ Hooper remarked.

‘It’s the best bit of the show.’

‘You have to be strong, right?’ Kelly said, holding Layla close.

‘Be a strong woman, which is what you are.’

‘That’s right, I am, I’m a strong, spiritual woman.’

‘Go, girl. Love you.’

‘Love you, Kelly,’ said Layla.

‘You’re a mate.’ Then Layla went back into the living area and hugged everybody else, including, even, extremely briefly, Woggle. Her hug with David lasted nearly a minute.

‘The evictees always do that,’ said Hooper.

‘Have a great big hug. Pretending they’re all big mates really.’

‘I think while they’re doing it they mean it,’ Coleridge said.

‘Young people live on the surface and for the moment. That’s just how it is these days.’

‘You are so right, sir,’ put in Trisha.

‘I’m twenty-five and I’ve never held a considered opinion or experienced a genuine emotion in my life.’ For a moment Coleridge was about to insist to Trisha that he was sure this was not the case, but then he realized she was being sarcastic.

‘Layla, you have thirty seconds to leave the Peeping Tom house,’ said Chloe’s voice on the television.

DAY FOURTEEN. 9.30 p.m.

A
s she stepped out of the house Layla was bathed in almost impossibly bright light, which turned her and the house behind her bleach white. A huge bald security man in a padded bomber- jacket stepped forward and took her arm. He led her onto the platform of a firework-bedecked cherry picker which lifted her up and over the moat while the crowd cheered. Peeping Tom took great pride in its house exits; they turned them into what appeared to be huge parties. They bussed in crowds, let off fireworks and criss-crossed the air with search lights. As Layla was lifted high over the shrieking throng a rock band played live from the back of a lorry. Then came the short limousine journey to the specially constructed studio and the live interview with Chloe, the beautiful, big-bosomed, ladette-style ‘face’ of Peeping Tom. Chloe was no mere pretty face, however, like the girls who presented the more mainstream shows. No, Chloe was a pretty face with a tattoo of a serpent on her tummy and another of a little devil on her shoulder, which was of course much, much more real. Chloe met Layla at the door of the limo. She looked rock-chick stunning in black leather trousers and a black leather bra, while Layla looked hippie-chick stunning in a tie-dye silk sarong and cropped silk singlet. The women hugged and kissed as if they were long-lost sisters instead of complete strangers, one of whom was paid to talk to the other. The crowd went berserk. Literally berserk. They whooped, they hollered, they screamed, they waved their home-made placards. There was absolutely no provocation for this madness beyond the presence of television cameras and the well-established convention that this was how up-for-it young people were supposed to behave in the presence of television cameras. Finally the whooping died down, or at least died down enough for Chloe to make herself heard. It would continue, ebbing and flowing in volume, throughout the interview, but Chloe used her window of opportunity to express her own feelings of exuberance.

‘Whooo!’ She shouted.

‘All right! Unreal! Wicked! Whooo!’ The audience concurred with these sentiments entirely and returned to their own whooping refreshed. Chloe threw a proudly muscular arm around Layla.

‘Do we love this chick or what? Is she not one strong, special lady?’ Further whoops and hollers indicated that the audience did indeed love Layla very much.

‘We are soooooo proud of you, girl, you’re brilliant.’ Once more the proceedings became mired in shouting and screaming. Chloe fought to make herself heard, or perhaps merely to make it clear that she was the most excited and up for it of them all.

‘So how are you feeling, girl?’ Chloe whooped. The atmosphere was infectious. Layla smiled broadly.

‘Wicked!’ She said.

‘All right!’

‘Yeah, really amped up.’

‘Go, girl!’

‘But also quite spiritual.’

‘I so know what you mean.’

‘Yeah, like I’ve grown.’

‘And you so have, girl. Respect to that!’ Chloe turned to the mob and shouted, ‘Do we love this ace lady or what!?’ And the mob whooped and hollered with renewed energy.

‘So were you really, really shocked to be nominated?’

‘Well, you know, all life is a season and seasons change. I really, really believe that.’

‘That is so true.’

‘You have to be positive in your own head space, the mind is a garden, it needs constant weeding.’

‘Fantastic, and what about Jazz’s cooking. Was that wicked or what?’

‘Totally wicked.’ And so, with the in-depth psychological grilling over, Chloe turned to the big screen and showed Layla who had nominated her. First came David. There he sat, on nomination day, looking beautiful and sincere as he addressed the confession box camera.

‘And the second person I’m nominating is Layla, because although I think she’s a very strong spiritual woman, she doesn’t give a lot to the group as a whole.’ The nation watched Layla watching the screen. Her manic grin did not forsake her.

‘David’s great,’ she said.

‘I really love him totally, but you know when two strong, spiritual, loving, caring, strong people meet, sometimes their head spaces don’t always connect, but that’s OK, I really love him and I know he loves me.’

‘And of course you nominated him,’ said Chloe.

‘Yeah, isn’t that weird! It just shows what a connection we actually had.’ Dervla was a surprise.

‘After David, I nominate Layla,’ Dervla said, looking excruciatingly sincere, thoughtful and beautiful.

‘She’s a lovely, lovely girl, a very gentle, caring and beautiful spirit, but I feel that in the end her loveliness would be able to blossom more beautifully outside of the house.’ Which everybody, even Layla, knew translated as ‘She’s a pain in the arse.’ Then came Garry.

‘Layles is a very, very tasty bird, and also I reckon she means well, but basically she’s a bit snooty for my liking, you know what I mean? Reckons herself and all that.’ Layla smiled bravely at this, a smile which was meant to say, ‘Yes, people often mistake my spirituality for conceit.’ And then finally there was Kelly.

‘This is really, really difficult, but at the end of the day I have to choose someone, and I’m choosing Layla because I think she reckons she’s better than me, and maybe she is, but it’s still a bit hurtful.’ Chloe leant forward and squeezed Layla’s hand, thereby offering comfort and showing off her lovely bosom simultaneously.

‘You OK, girl?’ Said Chloe.

‘Strong?’

‘Yeah, strong.’

‘You stay strong, girl,’ Chloe insisted. Layla rose to the challenge.

‘I think David and Gazzer are brilliant,’ she said, ‘and Dervla and Kelly are great, really, really, strong ladies. The truth is that they all have to choose someone and sometimes my strength and my spirituality get misunderstood by people. But at the end of the day, right, I love those guys, they’re my posse.’

‘Big up to that! Respect!’ Chloe shouted, and then abruptly got up and walked off into the crowd, leaving Layla sitting alone.

‘So, one gone, only eight more rejects and we’ll have a winner!’ Chloe shouted into the camera that was tracking backwards in front of her.

‘Who’s out next? Stinky man? Booby woman? David and his most irritating guitar-playing? Jazz with the top bod? Gazz who speaks for ENGERLAND!? Angry Sal? Dull Hamish? Bald lady? Or Dervla, our oh-so-sensitive little Irish Colleen. You are the executioners! You can crush their little dreams! YOU decide! The phone lines will be open after the next nominations! Respect! Love on ya.’