Dead famous (16 page)

DAY NINETEEN. 8.00 a.m.

K
elly did not go to bed. Having changed out of her wet clothes, she made herself a cup of tea and sat down on the green couch, trying to put from her mind the suspicions with which she had awoken. It was here that Dervla found her an hour later as she made her way to the shower room. Dervla, like the rest of them, had been up late, but she did not want to sleep in, she never slept in, she always wanted to get to the shower room first. She wanted to look in the mirror.

‘Good morning, Kelly,’ Dervla said. Things got a bit close with Hamish there for a bit, didn’t they?’

‘What do you mean? We were only having a laugh.’ Kelly’s defensive tone made Dervla smile. Perhaps something had gone on, after all.

‘Well, you were both pretty drunk, weren’t you? And he was drooling over you all evening, tongue fair hanging out, so it was. If the poor fella hadn’t have nodded off first I think you’d have had to beat him off with a stick.’

‘Nodded off first. Is that what he said happened?’

‘That’s what he said…Are you all right, Kelly?’

‘Yes! Yes, absolutely fine,’ Kelly replied, about twenty times too eagerly, and lapsed into silence. Dervla headed for the shower room, left Kelly to it. She could hear the camera moving about beyond the glass.

‘Morning, Mr Cameraman,’ she said as she soaped herself beneath her T-shirt.

‘I hope you feel better than I do.’ She slid a slippery, sudsy hand inside her knickers. Beyond the glass the camera’s electric motor gave a little hum as it pulled focus. Dervla might have heard it had the shower not been running. The message was already being written as Dervla approached the basin to brush her teeth. The writer’s tone had changed.

‘K is your enemy,’ it said.

‘Fucking slut is still ahead. She cockteases the boys to avoid nomination.’ And then the unseen finger underlined the first four words…

‘K is your enemy.’

DAY THIRTY-SIX. 11.50 p.m.

S
ergeant Hooper was thinking about ringing for a cab. He had had a long and fruitless day on the murder inquiry followed by a pretty monumental amount of beer and curry and it was time to pull the pin. It had been a decent night out with the lads, but it was about to go boring on him. It wasn’t that he particularly objected to pornography, although he was not a big consumer of it himself, it was just that he had never seen the point of watching it with your mates. As far as he was concerned, the purpose of porn was to stimulate sex, either sex with yourself or sex with a partner. That was what it was for. To be masturbated over or to be watched with a girlfriend as a way of expanding the horizons of your own nocturnal activities. What he was not into doing was sitting bleary-eyed on a friend’s couch holding a kebab in one hand, a can of Stella in the other and drooling over it with a bunch of pissed-up off-duty coppers.

‘You lot are sad,’ he said.

‘I’m going to finish me beer and leave you to it. Don’t stain the sofa now.’

‘You don’t understand. Hoops,’ said Thorpe, a detective constable from Vice.

‘This isn’t about sex, it’s about quality. We’re critics. Porn is an art form and we are aficionados. Do you know that at the blue movie Oscars in Cannes they have an award for best come shot?’

‘I find that very hard to swallow,’ said Hooper, unwittingly earning himself about five minutes of hysterical drunken laughter.

‘Pornography is a legitimate film genre,’ insisted Blair.

‘Every bit as important as, for instance, the adventure movie or the romantic comedy.’

‘Like I said, Blair, you’re sad,’ Hooper replied.

‘Why can’t you just be honest? You watch this stuff because it gives you a hard- on. Well, fair play to you, mate, I can understand that, I just don’t see why you need company.’

‘You’re wrong. Hoop, you just don’t understand at all. This is a social thing. We discuss the movies, the acting, the groaning, the relative success of a golden shower, whether the dick you see being slipped actually belongs to the bloke you see slipping it. What we have here is a critics’ forum. You seem to be under the impression that all porn movies are the same.’

‘Aren’t they?’

‘No more than horror movies are all the same, or westerns. Is Butch Cassidy the same as A Fistful of Dollars? Of course it isn’t. Is The Exorcist the same as a Hammer Horror? I don’t think so. Well, it’s the same with porn. For instance, this one I’m putting on now. This is from the tacky end of the market, real hardcore humping. A proper down-and-dirty porn nasty.’

‘Thanks for the warning, mate,’ said Hooper, draining his beer.

‘I think I’ll give it a miss. I’ll find a cab on the street.’

‘You’re mad. You’re missing out on a classic of its type, a cultural icon. The Fuck Orgy series is a milestone of its genre.’ Hooper was already heading for the door when the little bell rang in his head.

‘What series?’ He said, turning back.

‘ ‘Fuck Orgy. Legendary no-holds-barred, in-your-face porn. No stupid plot, no lengthy preamble, it does exactly what it says on the tin. Fuck Orgy is the name and fuck orgy is most definitely the game. This is number three, an early one, really only for the connoisseurs. The series hadn’t found its feet yet. The recognized triumph of the collection is Fuck Orgy Nine, which won no less than—’

‘Is there a Fuck Orgy Eleven?’ Hooper enquired urgently.

‘There certainly is. They’ve made fifteen so far. I can get you them all if you like…What are you looking so pleased with yourself about?’ Hooper was indeed smiling. He believed that he had found out what Kelly had whispered to David in the hot tub. The thing that had made him look so concerned.

DAY THIRTY-EIGHT. 9.00 a.m.

A
s he removed his coat and hat in the cloakroom Chief Inspector Coleridge was surprised to hear cheering and shouting coming from the incident room. He walked in to see a group of his officers, both male and female, clustered round a video monitor from which strange moans and groans were emanating.

‘She will never get that in her mouth!’ A constable was saying.

‘It can’t be real!’ Shrieked one of the girls.

‘It must be digitally enhanced.’ Now Coleridge realized what sort of video they were watching, and was about to begin the process of disciplining the lot of them when Hooper pressed the freeze-frame button and turned to his boss.

‘Ah, sir,’ he said.

‘Sorry about the noise, but we’re all a bit pleased with ourselves this morning. I think we know where Kelly had met David before.’ On the screen a young woman was frozen in the act of performing oral sex on a man who appeared to have been crossed with a donkey. The woman was most definitely not Kelly.

‘That’s not Kelly,’ said Coleridge testily, ‘and I don’t see David either. What’s your point?’

‘Look behind the main lady, sir. Look at the two girls reaching round to feel her knock — breasts, the one on the right, she’s partially obscured by the man’s dick — penis, but it’s Kelly all right.’

‘Good heavens,’ said Coleridge.

‘So it is.’

‘She said that she’d been a movie extra, sir. Now we know what sort of movie she was an extra in. No wonder she didn’t rate it very highly. This film is Kelly’s ‘Far Corgi In Heaven’, by the way.’

‘Curious title.’

‘Not when you know that what she actually said was Fuck Orgy Eleven.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, I never…And the owner of that…Um, appendage…Is that David?’

‘No, sir, that’s just one of the numerous disassociated penises that the movie features. This is David.’ And Hooper fast- forwarded a little to reveal the entrance of the star of the film: an outrageous bisexual figure in a long purple wig and high-camp make-up, pink lips, glittery eye shadow and a fur and feather posing pouch, which he was in the process of removing.

‘David, sir,’ said Hooper, ‘or Boris Pecker as he is known in the Fuck Orgy series. He also appears at times under the names of Olivia Newton Dong, Ivor Whopper and half of a mock Scottish gay-porn comedy double act known as Ben Door and Phil McCavity.’

‘Good heavens.’

‘I talked to his agent this morning. He tried to hold out on me at first, but in the end he didn’t fancy getting nicked for obstructing the police in their inquiries. Our David has a secret double life as a porn star. Apparently he’s much in demand.’

‘So that’s how he manages to live so fat despite apparently not working.’

‘Yes, sir, the high-and-mighty serious actor who would never take on extra work and believes it is better to be unemployed than prostitute your talent.’

‘What a nasty little hypocrite our friend is.’

‘Exactly. Remember the hard time he gave Kelly that day about getting a different dream because she’d already compromised any hope she had of being an actress?’

‘I do indeed.’

‘Well, look at him.’ The tape played on and David, or Boris Pecker, barely recognizable in his outrageous make-up, walked among the writhing copulating bodies. He was stark naked save for the purple fright wig and a pink bow on his penis.

‘My name is Lord Shag!’ He said.

‘Bow before the power of my awesome schlong!’ At which point all the naked extras stopped cavorting about and prostrated themselves before him.

‘I’m amazed that none of the papers has picked up on this,’ Coleridge remarked.

‘Well, look at him, sir. All the make-up, the wig, the high-camp act. Would you have recognized him if you didn’t know?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘And nor would anyone else. Unless of course they recognized some absolutely clear distinguishing feature. Watch Kelly.’ Kelly was very close to David, lying at his feet, her eyes barely two inches from his left ankle.

‘To be or not to be, sir,’ said Hooper smiling.

DAY THIRTY-EIGHT. 10.15 a.m.

W
hile Hooper and Coleridge contemplated David’s starring role in Far Corgi in Heaven, Trisha had once more made the trip out to the Peeping Tom complex in order to speak to Bob Fogarty.

‘This business about Kelly and Hamish in the shag shack,’ she had said to him on the phone before setting off.

‘The day after it happened, Kelly went to the confession box, but we’ve only got the edited version of it here. Do you think you still have the original?’

‘Nothing is ever actually wiped from a hard disk,’ Fogarty told her, delighted to be able to talk about computers.

‘Unless it’s specifically recorded over, it just hangs around in the digital shadows for ever. Pressing delete or putting it in the trash simply hides it. If you know how to look you can get most things back on a computer. That’s how porno people get caught.’

‘Well, try to dig up Kelly’s confession from day nineteen for me, then. I’ll bring you a bar of chocolate.’ Fogarty had found the footage Trisha wanted and now they were sitting watching it together.

‘It’s seven fifteen on day nineteen,’ said Andy the narrator, ‘and Kelly comes to the confession box because she is worried about the events of the previous night.’

‘Hullo, Tom.’

‘Hullo, Kelly,’ said Sam, the soothing voice of Peeping Tom.

‘Um, I just wanted to ask you about the party last night and…Um…When I went off to the um…The little hut with Hamish.’

‘Yes, Kelly,’ said Peeping Tom.

‘Well, I was a bit drunk, you see…Well, actually I was very drunk, and what I wanted to ask was…Did anything happen? I mean, I know nothing did, I’m sure nothing did, and I love Hamish, he’s great, but, well…I can’t really remember and, well, I just wanted to know.’

‘Why don’t you ask Hamish, Kelly?’

‘Well, he was drunk too and…Well, it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it? Saying to some boy ‘Did we do anything last night?’ ‘ ‘Peeping Tom reminds you of the rules, Kelly, that no outside influences or information are allowed to housemates. This includes retrospective discussion of an individual’s behaviour. Peeping Tom expects you to know what you did.’

‘I do know what I did, I just want to know what…’ Kelly stopped. She sat in silence for a moment, her eyes seeming to plead with the camera. Trisha looked hard at Kelly. What had she been about to say? Could it have been ‘what he did’? ‘Please, Peeping Tom, I’m not asking for detail, all I’m asking is whether anything happened in the hut.’ There was a pause.

‘Peeping Tom will get back to you on this, Kelly.’

‘What!’ Kelly gasped.

‘Just tell me! Surely you don’t have to think about it! I mean, you were watching. Did anything happen?’ Kelly’s voice was shaking.

‘Is this a gag? Are you having a laugh? Like when someone crashes out at a party and wakes up with their head shaved and toothpaste smeared all over them? Come on, I can take a joke. Did I make a fool of myself? Did anyone make a fool of me?’

‘I myself was not on duty last night, Kelly. We must consult with the relevant editors. You can wait in the box if you wish.’ And so Kelly sat and waited. Trisha and Fogarty watched her waiting.

‘She doesn’t look very comfortable, does she?’ Fogarty observed.

‘She thinks that she got drunk and did the naughty, naughty. She didn’t, of course. You’ve seen the footage. Very boring.’ Finally the voice of Peeping Tom returned.

‘Peeping Tom has spoken to the editor concerned, Kelly, and we have decided that it is within order for us to assure you that you and Hamish kissed and cuddled, after which you both fell asleep under the blankets and no further movement was observed.’ Kelly looked relieved. She had just wanted to be reassured.

‘Thanks, Peeping Tom,’ she said.

‘Please don’t show this, will you? I mean, I was just being stupid and I wouldn’t want to say anything about Hamish because he’s great and I love him…You won’t show it, will you?’

‘Peeping Tom can make no promises, Kelly, but will bear your request in mind.’

‘Thanks, Peeping Tom.’

‘And of course as you’ve seen, we did show it,’ said Fogarty, ‘or at least an edited version. Geraldine loved it. She said it was terrific telly. ‘A sad, drunken old slapper pleading to be told she didn’t make a twat of herself the night before,’ was how Geraldine put it. Said it happened to her all the time, that she was always bumping into blokes at parties who claimed to have shagged her rigid the previous Tuesday and who she didn’t know from a bar of soap.’

‘Quite a character, isn’t she, your Geraldine?’

‘She’s a slag. That’s all.’

‘Strange how Kelly thought that she could say all that on camera and then ask you not to show it.’

‘I know, they all do that. Amazing, really. They actually think we’d put their wishes before the prospect of a bit of good telly. They’re always creeping into the box and saying, ‘Oh, please don’t show that bit.’ I mean, if for one moment they stopped to think, they might ask themselves why we spent over two and a half million pounds setting up the house. I don’t think it was to provide them with a nice shortcut into showbusiness, do you?’

‘No, but then stopping to think isn’t really what these people are about, is it? They’re too busy stopping to feel.’ Trisha realized that for a moment she had sounded exactly like Coleridge. She was twenty-five years old and had started to talk like a man in his fifties, going on seventies. She really would have to get out more.

‘It’s pathetic, really,’ said Fogarty.

‘They even thank us when we give them some little treat or other, usually designed to get them to take their clothes off. It’s Stockholm Syndrome, you know.’

‘When captives fall in love with their tormentors.’

‘Exactly, and begin to rely on them, to trust them. I mean, how can that girl not have realized that as far as we’re concerned she’s a prop, an extra, to be used, abused and utterly misrepresented as we see fit?’

‘I suppose it is pretty obvious, now you come to mention it. But I suppose it’s not just the housemates who fall for it. The public believes in you too.’

‘The public! The public, they’re worse than us! At least we get paid to bully these people. The public do it for fun. They know they’re watching ants getting burnt under a magnifying glass, but they don’t care. They don’t care what we do to them, how we prod them, as long we get a reaction.’ Fogarty stared angrily at the screen upon which Kelly was still frozen.

‘The people in that house think that they’re in a cocoon. In fact it’s a redoubt. They’re surrounded by enemies.’