The reality TV show to die for. Literally

by Kerry Drewery

  ‘Stop!’ Eve shouts.

  ‘Go on!’ Martha shouts back. ‘Hit me! Hit a defenceless girl if you think you’re man enough!’

  The guard leers down at her.

  ‘Stop it!’ Eve shouts.

  ‘She’s a killer, this one,’ he says. ‘An animal. Should be treated like one.’

  Martha kicks out at the guard but he pulls her sideways and her head and shoulder bang into the door frame.

  ‘Martha,’ Eve says. ‘Everything in here is confidential, I promise you that.’

  The guard snorts. ‘Yeah, unless I can hear it, then …’

  Martha pulls back against the guard; for a moment her strength catches him off-balance and he lurches forward, but he heaves against the chains again and raises the baton higher above her.

  ‘Stop it!’ Eve rushes forward, taking her phone from her pocket and pointing at him. ‘You want this in the papers?’ she asks. ‘On the television? Want voters to see what it’s really like in here?’

  He stares at her. ‘You wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Try me,’ she hisses.

  ‘Bloody softies like you,’ he says to Eve, dropping the baton and jabbing at her face with his finger, ‘are how this country got into such a mess before. Getting murderers off on some technicality, letting paedophiles go cos there weren’t enough evidence.

  ‘Best thing we ever did was get rid of the courts – that weren’t no justice. This –’ he points out of the door to the cells and the corridor – ‘this is justice. Death is justice and you haven’t got no place in this system with your stupid softie ideas.’

  He shakes his head, sweat beading on his forehead.

  ‘I know how I’ll be bloody voting and more than once too.’ He drags Martha to standing. ‘I don’t care how much it’d cost, I’d spend my whole month’s wages making sure you fry, girl. If it were up to me, you’d be in that chair tomorrow.’

  He wraps the chains around his fist and pulls her to his face. ‘How could you do it?’ he hisses. ‘How could you kill Jackson Paige? The man never hurt no one. Look at all them people he helped. All his charity work. He could’ve left this country with all that money he had, but he din’t. He stayed and helped the likes of you. He was an icon!’

  ‘He was a fucking liar!’ Martha hisses.

  The head butt forces her backwards, and as he lets go of the chains she slams into the wall and slumps to the side.

  Too shocked, Eve doesn’t move.

  ‘Did you get that?’ he says to her. ‘On your phone? Did you get a good shot? Cos I don’t give a bloody hoot. Go sell it to the papers. They’ll put it on the front page and I’ll be hailed a hero.’ His cheeks puff out as he grins. ‘They’ll pay me to do it again.’

  Martha watches as his raucous laugh wobbles his whole body. Her face tightens, her eyes narrow and as she stands and stares up at him, she spits in his face.

  Before he can react, Eve grabs Martha, pulls her out of the room and into the corridor.

  ‘Calm down!’ she shouts behind her. ‘I’ll see to this. I’ll sort her out.’

  In the corridor are six metal doors, closed but for a small panel, some with anonymous eyes staring out. The seventh, the final one, is at the very end, locked up and silent.

  ‘What you do, girl?’ a deep male voice comes from one of the cells.

  ‘Spat in his ignorant face,’ Martha replies.

  The voice booms a hearty laugh. ‘You made my day,’ he says. ‘You from the Rises?’

  ‘Come on,’ Eve says, ‘you’re not supposed to be talking to anyone. The guard will be out in a minute.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Martha replies to the voice.

  ‘Uh-huh. What got you in here? What did a girl do that was so bad?’

  ‘I shot Jackson Paige,’ she replies.

  ‘No shit?’

  ‘No shit.’

  ‘Girl, you just made my year! Power to the Rises!’ he says, and from the gap in the cell, a clenched fist appears, a tattoo of a rose down the side of his hand.

  ‘Come on,’ Eve says, but before she can lead her forward, Martha rushes towards the door and rests a hand on the man’s fist.

  She presses her face up to the gap. ‘What did you do?’ she whispers.

  Dark eyes peer back at her. ‘Only thing I ever did wrong, girl, was to be born in the wrong place.’

  ‘Martha, move! Come on, quickly.’

  ‘Good luck,’ she whispers to the man and walks away.

  Eve pulls open the heavy cell door. ‘You shouldn’t have …’ she starts. ‘That guard, he’s …’

  ‘What difference does it make?’ Martha replies as she steps inside.

  ‘He’ll make your life a misery,’ Eve says.

  ‘What’s left of it, you mean?’ Martha shrugs. ‘What happens in here doesn’t matter. It’s what happens out there that does.’

  Martha

  He doesn’t follow me into the cell. I wonder if Eve stops him. Can I trust her?

  The cell’s small and cold. The walls are bright white without a single mark. There’s a window high up on the outside wall, with white bars across – I don’t think it opens – and on the wall opposite is a white metal door. It’s closed and locked now, the flap in it too. It’s like I’m in a box. If there was a fire in the corridor, I’d roast like a chicken.

  In fact, everything in here is white – the bed against the wall is white with white sheets and a white pillow, and there’s a white toilet in the corner and a white sink.

  But that’s it.

  No shelves, desk, table, lamp, wardrobe (why would I need a wardrobe?), books, pens … nothing. Why would I need anything?

  The only thing superfluous in here is a clock, high up on the wall above the door, ticking away every second left of my life. And that’s white too, with neon hands.

  It’s totally devoid of anything. Any kind of stimulus. It’s like my eyes have been turned to mute or I’ve been struck down with some weird colour blindness, not where I can’t tell the difference, but where there is no colour.

  These prison overall things they’ve put me in are bright white too and even my brown hair has gone. Shaved off and in somebody’s bin.

  I feel like I’ve lost half of myself. My hair was me, my clothes too.

  What did I expect? It’s prison, for Christ’s sake. It’s death row. It’s not going to be nice, is it?

  It’s so bright in here it’s hurting my eyes and giving me a headache. I can’t tell where the light’s coming from – there’s no bulb dangling in the middle of the cell or strip across the ceiling. I think maybe it’s coming from right at the top where the wall joins the ceiling but …

  Are the walls glowing?

  Is that some kind of light-emitting paint?

  Is this some torture they’ve dreamt up?

  I’d like to close my eyes, lie on the bed and drift away from here, but even when I close my eyes it’s still bright. Shouldn’t think I’ll sleep much in here and I don’t think they want me to.

  Torture? Yeah, think I was right.

  Maybe they figured out that the best way to cope with this is to sleep the time away. They don’t want you to cope; they want you to suffer.

  I couldn’t really sleep away my final week though, could I? My last seven days of breathing and living. Less than that now. How many hours is it? Minutes? Seconds? I don’t want to know. But what else is there to do but sleep and remember?

  I lie down, close my eyes and pull the sheets over my head, trying to make it dark, but I’m sure it just gets brighter. Why torture me when I’m going to die anyway?

  I bury my head in the mattress, screw up my eyes and concentrate on the dark inside them, trying to remember you.

  We met in the dark. You were hiding in the shadows just like I was, watching the street, the old cars tearing across the broken tarmac, the stench of exhaust fumes. You weren’t there every evening like me, sometimes you didn’t stay very long, but I had to go there, see? Couldn’t sleep ’til I’d said
goodnight to her.

  God, I don’t want to remember. I miss her, miss you. Hate that I do. Don’t want to be soft.

  When I picked up that gun she was in my mind, but I didn’t do it just for her. I told you to go that night for everyone else who can be saved, for justice and for right.

  You wanted to bring down the system; at first all I wanted was to bring down the man.

  Not kill him, actually, although that’s how it happened, but show him for what he was.

  By the end of my seven days here, even those who love him at the moment will have dragged his memory off that pedestal they put him on and my part will be done. I’ll rest in peace and so, finally, will the others.

  We’ve got our roles, me and you, defined by where we were brought up – you can be the fighter while I can be the martyr. After all, that’s all a girl from the Rises like me can do. I’m not clever enough, confident enough, I haven’t got enough money, had no future even before I ended up in here. We thought we could be together but that was bullshit.

  Love me enough to let me go.

  TV STUDIO

  6.30 p.m. The programme – Death is Justice – is beginning.

  On a dark blue screen, flecks of white buzz and crackle like electricity. An oversized eye with an ice-blue iris appears in the middle. It blinks and the words ‘An Eye For An Eye For’ spin in a circle around the black pupil.

  MALE VOICEOVER: An Eye For An Eye Productions brings you …

  The words stop spinning. The sound of electricity fizzes again and the style of the words goes from smooth to jagged. The eye reddens and closes.

  MALE VOICEOVER:… tonight’s show Death is Justice with our host …

  The blue fades and lights come up on a glitzy studio. The large floor reflects the many studio lights from its silver-blue surface. To the right is an oversized screen filled with the eye logo – the words slowly spinning and the eye blinking – while left of centre is a shiny curved desk with high, glossy stools placed around the back and sides, facing out to the studio audience, who are hidden in shadow.

  MALE VOICEOVER:… Kristina Albright!

  Lights come up on Kristina standing on the left of the stage. She’s tall and slim, her blonde hair frames her perfect face and her white teeth smile into camera. Her red dress is tight and matches her lipstick and shoes.

  KRISTINA: Hello, and welcome to Death is Justice!

  Applause sounds around the studio. Kristina smiles and nods at the audience.

  KRISTINA: My name’s Kristina Albright and tonight we have some very exciting news for you.

  Kristina’s high heels click as she strolls across the floor to the screen on the right. The eye is replaced by a photograph of a handsome, smiling man with a pretty wife and teenage son.

  KRISTINA: Breaking news last night brought us the shocking story of the violent murder of multi-millionaire celebrity Jackson Paige.

  The photograph changes to one of the man with his arms in the air in triumph while a crowd of people applauds.

  KRISTINA: Jackson won a place in the hearts of millions after a string of appearances on reality TV shows over the last decade. Originally from the deprived area known as the High Rises, named after the row of tower blocks built to solve the housing crisis …

  The screen fills with a panoramic of the High Rise area – a dozen concrete towers stretching into a dull sky; a skinny stray dog, empty takeaway wrappers in dirty gutters and a young boy smoking a cigarette, a can of beer in his other hand.

  KRISTINA: He invested his winnings wisely, worked hard and took himself out of poverty and became an inspiration to all …

  The grey of the High Rises disappears, replaced by a large white house with big metal gates and a lush green lawn stretching across its boundary. Pink, orange and yellow flowers pour from baskets and fill borders. A red sports car in the driveway shines in the sun. The smiling man – Jackson – poses next to it.

  KRISTINA:… with his public appearances, his unrelenting charity work, and of course, not forgetting …

  Images of Jackson flash onto the screen: him smiling at a camera at a red carpet event, a still of him giving a speech dressed in a tuxedo, another as he passes an oversized cheque to a row of nurses.

  KRISTINA:… the selfless act of adopting a young boy after a tragic accident left him orphaned.

  A black and white photo comes into focus. Jackson, his forehead creased, his eyes watery, his mouth downwards, holds a crying six-year-old boy to his chest. Behind them the tower blocks of the Rises are blurry and dull, but on the cracked pavement, just visible, is the only colour – a trickle of red.

  Kristina presses her palms together and holds them in front of her mouth as if in prayer. The studio is silent. She lifts her head, bats her eyelids and looks back into camera.

  KRISTINA (quietly): But more about Jackson Paige later. Let’s turn our attention to the crime and the perpetrator. What kind of person could commit such a terrible act? Let’s go to our roving reporter, Joshua Decker. Josh?

  She turns to the screen. A blue banner stretches across the top, a small eye logo blinking in the left corner, the words ‘Joshua Decker – roving reporter’ sparkling across the middle, while running perpetually along the bottom is ‘Cell 1 – teen killer – Martha Honeydew’.

  In the middle, his black coat collar up against the wind, leather gloves holding a microphone and his eyes twinkling and smiling despite the November cold, is Joshua.

  JOSHUA: Yes, Kristina, hello. I hope you can hear me against this howling wind. It sure is cold here in the Rises. I’m looking forward to getting back home to a hot bath and a glass of wine, I can tell you.

  He winks. Female voices mumble around the audience.

  JOSHUA: I’m standing about a hundred metres from where the crime was committed. This, for our audience who’ve never been here, is close to the main rail station that leads to the City and the surrounding Avenues, aptly named the underpass.

  His gloved hand points above him. The camera pans away from him, showing the underside of a large by-pass, dark and dank with broken railings and half-crushed bollards that were to stop motorists taking short-cuts. Beyond and out of its shadow is a smaller road followed by a row of shops with smashed or boarded-up windows, and just visible in the distance are the rows of tower blocks with pinpricks of lights in windows.

  JOSHUA: This side of it, away from the station, is an area frequented by drug dealers and the homeless.

  KRISTINA: Tell us what’s happening there, Joshua. What are people saying about our killer?

  The camera focuses again on Joshua.

  JOSHUA: Well, Kristina, thing is, they’re not. Nobody’s talking. For the residents of the High Rises it’s as if it never happened. Unlike the rest of the population, that is, as I’m sure you can see around me.

  The camera follows Joshua as he walks, panning out as he stops to see flowers, cuddly toys, photographs, handwritten messages and burning candles left on the ground. A woman on her knees places more flowers, two men hug each other as they sob.

  JOSHUA: This is the site where he was gunned down. These people can barely contain their grief. There’s been a steady stream of them all morning. Teenagers who’ve had their parents drive them here on their way to school, a couple of doctors taking a detour before surgery, some nurses paying their respects after a night-shift. Most too upset to speak, or even if they can, unable to put their feelings of grief and shock into words.

  But … try to ask the opinions of shopkeepers around here, young mothers taking children to school, teenage boys on street corners, people queuing for their benefits … nobody wants to talk.

  KRISTINA: Very strange.

  JOSHUA: That it is. Ranks are closed, it seems. But, I hasten to add, this roving reporter has managed to get an exclusive for you …

  He gives a lop-sided smile and tilts his head sideways.

  KRISTINA (smiling to the audience): I’m not going to ask how he managed to get an exclusive, but I’m guessing it�
��s something to do with that charm of his!

  The audience laugh.

  JOSHUA (with a wink): Yes, Kristina, we have some video footage of the moments following the crime. I think it speaks for itself.

  His image flies into a frame on the left of the screen, on the right another frame is filled with a shaky video image.

  JOSHUA: This is footage from the police head-cam. It was thought initially that the alarm was raised via CCTV, but it appears the cameras in the vicinity were broken.

  The footage shows half-lit streets flying towards the camera, rain and windscreen obscuring all but the obvious. In the distance the darkened shadows of the tower blocks loom as if they are gravestones in the evening sky, and around them roads flow like blackened rivers. Flashing blue from police lights reflects off wet streets and metal shutters on buildings, and sirens wail in anger.

  The changing of the scenery slows. Headlights turn a corner and flood white into an area beneath the underpass. The car stops. Drowned in light is Martha, long dark hair wet from the rain and eyes wide like a rabbit’s, her hands are in the air; in one is a gun.

  The image wobbles as it moves out of the car. In front of it a pair of arms are extended, hands clasped around a gun pointing at Martha.

  POLICE OFFICER (off-screen): Drop the gun and put your hands on your head!

  She bends and drops the gun on the ground. Shaking, the camera moves closer to her. She puts her hands on her head. The camera focuses on her face now filling the screen.

  MARTHA: I did it! I shot him! I killed Jackson Paige.

  On the screen in the studio, the frame on the right pauses on Martha’s face, while on the left, Joshua sighs and shakes his head slowly.

  KRISTINA (quietly): Thank you, Joshua. We look forward to catching up with you again tomorrow.

  She drops her head a moment, then lifts it back to camera.

  KRISTINA: Martha Honeydew may look as sweet as her name suggests, but in reality, is she a cold-hearted killer who has stolen from us one of the most famous and well-loved characters of our time? She says she is.