Dead famous (18 page)

DAY TWENTY-SIX. 9.15 a.m.

B
ob Fogarty waited until the following morning’s production meeting to make his complaint. He wanted his objections to be noted publicly. It was difficult for him to find his moment because Geraldine was roaring with laughter so much as she recalled Sally’s unlikely take on the weekly task.

‘All I’m trying to do is persuade them to feel each other up and it turns out I’m a champion of minority rights. Anyway, all ethnic and sexual bollocks aside, Dervla will have to get ‘em out for the lads or nobody gets a drink next week.’ Fogarty had to stand up to get her attention.

‘Geraldine, we are coercing this girl into taking her clothes off against her wishes.’

‘Yes, Bob, we all know that. Why are you standing up?’

‘Because I think it’s morally corrupt.’

‘Oh, do fuck off.’ Fogarty had finally had enough.

‘Ms Hennessy, I cannot prevent you from using profanity to punctuate your sentences, but I am a grown man and a highly qualified employee and I am entitled to insist that you do not use such language towards me or those who work under me.’

‘No, you’re fucking not, you cunt. Now sit down or fuck off.’ Fogarty did neither. He just stood there, shaking.

‘You think you can do me for constructive dismissal?’ Geraldine asked.

‘For swearing? Grow up, Bob. Even this cunt of a country isn’t that pathetic yet. If you walk out it’s a straight resignation and you get bugger-all. Now, are you staying or are you going?’ Fogarty sat down.

‘Good. You may be an arsehole, but you’re a talented arsehole and I don’t want to lose you. And besides which,’ Geraldine went on, ‘Dervla is free to leave that house at any time. She could have walked out there and then, and she could walk out now. But she hasn’t done, has she? And why? Because she wants to be on telly, that’s why, and at the end of the day, if she has to take her clothes off to do it, then you can bet your last quid she’ll allow herself to be persuaded.’ Bob stared down into his coffee. He looked like a man who needed a bar of chocoate.

‘We’re corrupting her,’ he mumbled.

‘What?’ Geraldine barked.

‘I said, we’re corrupting her,’ but this time Fogarty said it even more quietly.

‘Look!’ Shouted Geraldine.

‘I’m not asking the snooty stuckup cow to show us her bits full on, am I? There are guidelines, you know. We do have a Broadcasting Standards Commission in this country. The polythene walls of that box are going to be translucent and the lights will be off. The idea is to make it so dark that the anonymity will persuade some of them to have it off, which I can assure you will be a lot more interesting than precious little Dervla’s sacred little knockers. I want it to be literally dark as hell in that box.’

DAY TWENTY-EIGHT. 6.00 p.m.

C
oleridge pushed the record button on his audio tape-machine.

‘Witness statement. Geraldine Hennessy,’ he said before sliding the little microphone across the desk and setting it down in front of Geraldine.

‘Bit of a reversal for you, eh, Miss Hennessy?’

‘Ms.’

‘I’m sorry, Ms Hennessy. Bit of a reversal, you being the one getting recorded, I mean.’ Geraldine merely smiled.

‘So tell me about the night it happened.’

‘You know as much as I do. The whole thing was recorded from start to finish. You’ve seen the tapes.’

‘I want to hear it from you. From Peeping Tom herself. Let’s start with the sweatbox. Why on earth did you ask them to do it?’

‘It was a task,’ Geraldine replied.

‘Each week we set the inmates challenges to perform to keep them busy and see how they react when working together. They get to pledge a part of their weekly booze and food budgets against their chances of success. We gave them wood and tools and polythene, a couple of heating units and all the instructions, and as it happens they did a bloody good job.’

‘You told them how to make it?’

‘Of course we did, or how else would they have done it? If I gave you some wood and plastic and told you to construct a Native American sweatbox to seat eight, could you do it?’

‘Probably not, I suppose.’

‘Well, nor could this lot either. We gave them the designs and the materials and told them exactly where to put it to suit our hot-head camera. This they did and it took them three days. Then on the Saturday evening, as the sun went down, we gave them a shitload of booze and told them to get on with it.’

‘Why did you let them get drunk?’

‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? To try to get them to have sex. The show had been going for three weeks and apart from a near miss with Kelly and Hamish in Bonkham Towers we’d had scarcely a hint of any nooky at all. I wanted to get them going a bit.’

‘Well,’ said Coleridge pointedly, ‘you certainly did that.’

‘It wasn’t my fucking fault somebody got killed, inspector.’

‘Wasn’t it?’

‘No, it fucking wasn’t.’ Coleridge absolutely hated to hear a woman swear, but he knew he could not say anything about it.

‘Look, I’m not a social worker, inspector. I make telly!’ Geraldine continued.

‘And I’m sorry if it offends you, but telly has to be sexy!’ She said it as if she was talking to a senile octogenarian. Coleridge was in fact only two years older than she was, but the gap between them was chasmic. She had embraced and joined each new generation as it rose up to greet her, remaining, in her own eyes at least, forever young. He, on the other hand, had been born old.

‘Why did it have to be so dark?’

‘I thought it would loosen up their inhibitions if they couldn’t see each other. I wanted them all completely anonymous.’

‘Well, you certainly succeeded in that, Ms Hennessy, which is the principal factor inhibiting my investigation.’

‘Look! I didn’t know anybody was going to fuck off and murder someone, did I? Forgive me, but in my many years of making television it has never crossed my mind to arrange my work on the offchance that you coppers might want to look at it later in the light of a homicide investigation.’ It was a fair point. Coleridge shrugged and gestured Geraldine to continue.

DAY TWENTY-SEVEN. 8.00 p.m.

T
he sweatbox stood waiting in the boys’ bedroom, but for the time being the housemates remained in the living area, trying to get drunk enough to take the plunge.

‘Well, we gotta do four hours in there,’ Gazzer said, ‘and if we don’t want to get caught all nudey when the sun comes up we’ll have to get started by one at the latest.’

‘I want to get it over with long before that,’ said Dervla, gulping at her strong cider.

‘Well, don’t get too pissed, Dervo,’ Jazz warned.

‘I don’t think the confines of a sweatbox are a very clever environment to honk up in.’ Peeping Tom had given them all the luxuries that they needed to get in an appropriately silly mood: plenty of booze, of course, also party hats, party food and sex toys.

‘What are they, then?’ Garry asked.

‘Love balls,’ Moon replied.

‘You stick ‘em up your twat.’

‘Blimey.’

‘I’ve got a pair at home. They’re great, keep you permanently aroused, except they can be dead embarrassing. I don’t wear knickers much, you see, and I were wearing me love balls to go shopping, right, and they fell out in the supermarket and went bouncing up the fookin’ veggies isle. This old bloke picked ‘em up for me, no fookin’idea at all. ‘Excuse me, dear, I think you dropped these.’’ Jazz fished in the party box and brought out a sort of plastic tube.

‘What’s this, then?’ He asked.

‘Knob massager,’ said Moon, who seemed to be something of an expert on the subject.

‘You stick your knob in it and it whacks you off.’

‘Ah well, you see, me, I’m a traditionalist,’ said Jazz.

‘Why get a machine to do something that is best done by hand?’ Everybody was getting quite deliberately drunk, slowly convincing themselves that they were at a party. That they were amongst friends instead of amongst rivals and competitors.

‘Quite frankly,’ said Moon, ‘at the end of the day, ninety-five per cent of sex toys never get near a knob or a vag. People buy ‘em for a laugh, to give as embarrassing birthday presents and whatever. It’s like ‘What are we going to get Sue for her eighteenth?’ ‘Oh, I know, let’s get her a fookin’ great big dildo with a swivel end. That’ll be a laugh when she opens it in front of her gran.’ Nobody actually uses this shite. Quite frankly, I’ve got a pair of nipple clamps at home and I use them for keeping my bills together.’ Along with the sex toys. Peeping Tom had supplied a coolbox full of ice creams. The modern variety of expensive iced versions of well known chocolate bars. They all dipped in excitedly.

‘I remember when there was ice creams and there was KitKats,’ Jazz observed, ‘and the idea of the two trespassing on each other’s territory was simply not an issue, it just was not going to happen. Unimaginable. Kids today reckon it’s the norm.’

‘Mars Bars started the rot,’ Dervla observed.

‘I’m old enough to remember the excitement, it seemed such an incredible idea at the time, a Mars Bar made of ice cream. Stupid. Now they do ice cream Opal Fruits.’

‘Starbursts, they’re called now,’ said Jazz with mock contempt.

‘Get with the plot, girl. You probably still think a Snickers is a Marathon. It’s fucking globalization gone mad, that is. We have to call our sweets the same as the Yanks do. There ought to be protests.’

‘And what was wrong with Mivvis and Rockets anyway, I’d like to know?’ Dervla added.

‘We enjoyed them.’

‘We are the last generation,’ said Jazz solemnly, ‘that will have known the joys of truly crap lollies. No kid will ever again be asked to suck the red and orange stuff out of a block of ice and be told that it’s a treat.’ In the monitoring bunker Geraldine was already getting frustrated. When she had supplied them with ice cream it had been in the hope that they might eat it off each other’s bodies, not talk about it.

‘You’re a philosopher. Jazz,’ said Dervla.

‘What’s that, then? Irish for wanker?’ Asked Gazzer.

‘It means,’ said David, ‘that there are more things in heaven and earth than you could ever dream of.’

‘You don’t have any idea what I dream about, Dave mate.’

‘Naked women?’

‘Fuck me! You’re fucking clairvoyant, you are. You’ve got a gift.’ But Jazz was not being diverted so easily. He had struck on a subject which he knew his book on comedy would recognize as the stuff of top routines.

‘It’s like these days everything is pretending to be something it’s not, nothing is happy as it is. Take Smarties, not happy any more, now you have to have little mini Smarties and great big fuck-off Smarties.’

‘And of course fookin’ Smarties original,’ Moon chipped in.

‘Well, that is, of course, your Smarties Classic like with toothbrushes, David. Everything has to pretend it’s something else, and it won’t stop, you know, not now it’s started. Everything we love will change, get repackaged and flogged back to us as an improvement…Fish-fingers. I’ll bet you one day they start doing mini-fish-fingers, giant fish-fingers…’

‘Ice cream fish-fingers,’said Dervla.

‘That’s coming, I swear that’s coming,’ Jazz replied. Dervla was laughing now.

‘It’s salad dressing, but in a bar!’

‘You got it, girl!’

‘All your favourite breakfast cereals, in a series of bite-sized soups!’

‘Yeah, all right, all right.’ Jazz was taken aback to have had the comic baton wrested from his hand so easily. He was supposed to be on the roll, not Dervla. She was a trauma therapist. In the monitoring bunker Geraldine’s impatience was growing.

‘Come on!’ She shouted.

‘Get your kit off and get in the sweatbox, you cunts!’ Perhaps they heard her in the house, or else maybe they had got drunk enough by this time, but for whatever reason the conversation now turned to the forthcoming task.

‘So how are we going to do it, then?’ Sally asked.

‘I’m not just getting undressed in here with all the lights on.’

‘Do it in the bedroom, then,’ said David.

‘It’s dark in there.’

‘No way,’ said Dervla.

‘They have infrared cameras or whatever. We’d look like flipping porn stars, so we would.’

‘Very nice,’ Gazzer observed. Kelly flicked a look across at David, just a look, and a little smile. If he noticed he did not return it.

‘I don’t give a took, me,’ said Moon pulling off her shoes.

‘Well, I do,’said Sally.

‘Just because the sweatbox represents a legitimate ethnic experience doesn’t mean we have to do a striptease.’

‘Why not?’ Said Moon.

‘That’s the only reason they’re making us fookin’ do it, ain’t it?’

‘I don’t know. Moon,’ said Hamish.

‘They’ve given us sheets to cover up with if we have to go to the loo.’

‘Ah, but that’s just for show, a mask to hide their true agenda,’ Dervla said.

‘Exactly,’ Moon concurred.

‘Which is for us to show the lot and if possible have it off as well.’

‘You can be so cynical, you,’ said Hamish.

‘Hamish,’ Moon insisted.

‘They’ve supplied us with fookin’ chocolate-flavoured condoms, for God’s sake.’

‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’ Garry laughed.

‘If anybody wants to see my knob they only have to ask. Quite frankly, sometimes they don’t even have to ask.’

‘Yes, well, I do not have any desire to see your penis,’ said David.

‘We have to do this task or we get half-rations next week, but that’s no reason for us to feel obliged to allow our bodies to be exploited.’

‘Fookin’ hell, David,’ Moon sneered.

‘You wander round the house in your little pose pouch the whole time exploiting what a great bod you’ve got, which I’ll admit you have, but you still look a right ponce because you’re obviously so fookin’ pleased with it, and now you won’t even get your kecks off for this week’s task.’

‘A man in his underwear, Moon,’ David responded, ‘is no more naked than a man in his swimming costume.’ Geraldine crushed her styrofoam cup in her hands.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, you precious bunch of cunts. Get your KIT OFF.’ � Eventually the task had to be begun, and so they all made their way into the darkened bedroom and began to strip off with varying degrees of bravado. Dervla was easily the most cautious, keeping her undies on right up to the point of entering the sweatbox, before throwing them off in a flurry and scuttling inside. Geraldine was fairly satisfied.

‘I think we got one of her tits, didn’t we?’ She asked.

‘Certainly her bum. We’ll stick that in the trailers. The whole nation’s been waiting to see a bit more of sweet pure little Dervo.’ Inside the sweatbox the darkness was absolute. Dark as the grave, as the newspapers were to remark the following morning. And it was hot. Very, very hot. Following the instructions given. Jazz and Gazzer had laid out a false floor made of scented pine wood, underneath which were electric heating units, which had been on all afternoon.

‘Ooh, it smells dead lovely,’ Moon remarked.

‘Ow! This floor’s burning my bum,’ squealed Kelly.

‘You’ll get used to it,’ Dervla assured her.

‘Give yourself a minute to acclimatize.’ The floor was indeed hot on their bare flesh, but not unbearably so. In fact it was rather pleasant, exciting almost.

‘Sweet Mother of Jesus,’ Dervla voice continued in the darkness.

‘Now I know why they call it a sweatbox.’ She had been inside for only a few moments, but already she could feel the perspiration streaming down her skin. Her forehead and armpits were instantly dripping wet.

‘Well, it’s giving me a sweaty box, that’s for sure!’ Moon shrieked, and they all laughed with her.

‘Oh, my God! Who’s arse was that!’

‘Mine!’ Three or four voices answered simultaneously. They could all feel their flesh gliding across each other’s but the darkness was total. Nobody knew whose bottom belonged to whom.

‘Four hours,’ said Hamish.

‘We need another drink.’ Somehow, and with much groping about, plastic bottles containing warm Bacardi and Coke (mainly Bacardi) were handed round.

‘I could get to like this,’ Garry remarked, and to varying degrees he spoke for them all. In every sense, the party was warming up.