The reality TV show to die for. Literally

by Kerry Drewery

  MARTHA (off-screen, recording): I did it! I shot him! I killed Jackson Paige.

  KRISTINA: Her words, viewers. The gun in her hands.

  The word ‘KILLER’ is stamped in red across her paused image. Still facing into the camera, Kristina strolls towards the curved desk, the lights above it dimmed.

  KRISTINA: An open and shut case then. She is the first female teenager on death row and it seems she’s very likely to be the first executed. After all, why would you, the voter, doubt her word?

  The still of Martha disappears, the screen filled instead with the eye.

  Kristina eases onto the stool at the end of the desk, her long legs positioned neatly to her side. The lights brighten, revealing a small man on the stool to her left. His shoulders are hunched and his head is low, his hair sticks out in tufts.

  KRISTINA: But before we move on to another occupant of death row, we’ll turn our attention for a moment to what our celebrity-killer, Martha Honeydew, will be doing right now and how she’ll be feeling.

  She smiles at the man.

  KRISTINA: Gus, welcome.

  His face lifts. He flicks a smile at her and his eyes dodge around the audience. Twitchy, he runs a finger along the inside of his shirt collar and tugs at his jacket sleeves.

  KRISTINA: Five years ago you were one of those people. Incarcerated for a crime the public voted you not guilty of. You are ultimately experienced to tell us how she’ll be feeling tonight. What will be going through her mind?’

  GUS (quietly): Ummm … Well, yeah, as you said, I was accused of murdering …

  His low voice quivers with nerves.

  KRISTINA: I’m sorry, Gus, can you speak up?

  His body jutters as he takes a deep breath.

  GUS (slightly louder): Yeah … yeah … erm … five years ago I was accused of murdering someone but … but thanks to you viewers …

  He turns to camera, smiles widely but awkwardly; the audience applaud.

  GUS: I was let off.

  KRISTINA: And how was it, Gus? How was that first night? How will it be for our prisoner facing the final days of her life?

  GUS: Well, first, just so viewers know, right, she was arrested yesterday but been charged and put in the system and that, so wouldn’t have arrived on death row ’til this morning, so like, as you said, today’s her first day. Day one – Cell 1. ’Til sunrise, that is. At sunrise, you change cell.

  KRISTINA: And what is Cell 1 like?

  He runs his finger along the inside of his collar again, now soaked with sweat. He looks down, frowns.

  KRISTINA: Gus, we know this must be hard for you and we’re asking a lot, but as I’m sure you understand, it’s vital for us, the voters, to have a full comprehension of the situation in order to make sure we vote correctly. I’ve suggested many times that video feed into the cells would provide voters with a far more complete understanding of the accused.

  She turns to the audience.

  KRISTINA (nodding): Don’t you agree?

  The audience cheer and clap.

  KRISTINA: Gus? Cell 1. Tell us.

  GUS: Er … yeah … it was …

  He looks up and around at leering faces, sits upright, touches a hand to his right ear and takes a breath.

  GUS:… basic. There was a bed and … erm … a sink and … a toilet …

  KRISTINA: A toilet in the same room as you sleep in?

  He touches a hand to his ear again and forces a laugh.

  GUS: Er … no … no, there’s a bathroom. That’s what I meant. Not a sink neither, it’s a hand basin – and a toilet, in the bathoom. And a shower.

  He swallows hard and takes a breath.

  GUS: In the cell … there’s … books, loads of books, and a TV.… erm … and pictures on the walls …

  He wrings his hands together.

  KRISTINA: Not how you’d expect a criminal to be treated, Gus.

  GUS (quietly): S’pose not …

  KRISTINA: It sounds to me as if our Martha won’t feel like she’s being punished at all. Next you’ll be telling me that the doors are left open!

  Gus touches his ear, glances to camera, and back to Kristina.

  GUS: They are.

  Kristina leans backwards, her mouth falling open, her palms opening out.

  GUS: And … they … the prisoners … they can talk to each other.

  Kristina tuts audibly.

  KRISTINA (to camera): Let’s think about that, shall we, voters? This girl has said she did it. She’s admitted she gunned down a man in cold blood and watched the very life seep from him, she’s freely admitted that and has shown no remorse and she is sitting around watching television, chatting … and eating … Gus, what would she be eating?’

  GUS (muttering): Fish and chips today, and sticky toffee pudding. Vanilla custard.

  KRISTINA: Well, justice, viewers, is in your hands as always. Let’s take a look at those all-important numbers and voting information. Across the bottom of your screen now, you can see the numbers to vote for Martha. Dial 0909 87 97 77 and to vote guilty add 7 to the end or to vote not guilty add a 0. You can also vote by texting DIE or LIVE to 7997. To vote online visit our website www.aneyeforan‌eyeproductions.com, click on the ‘Martha Honeydew Teen Killer’ tab at the top and log your vote. Calls are charged at premium rate, please seek bill payer’s permission, texts cost £5 plus your network provider’s standard fee, voting online is also £5 after an initial registration fee of £20. For full Ts and Cs visit our website.

  A blue band with the numbers and details written in silver glides across the bottom of the screen.

  KRISTINA: Gus, as always it’s been fascinating speaking to you, and we have so much more we could discuss: motive, broken childhood, missing father, dead mother, but we have seven days to debate.

  GUS (muttering): And the counsellor.

  KRISTINA: Counsellor? Explain.

  GUS (slow, as if copying): Her counsellor is Eve Stanton. The only counsellor who’s never been on this show. Never does interviews or nothing. Never comments on stuff.

  KRISTINA: Excellent point, Gus.

  The camera focuses only on her.

  KRISTINA: And an exciting one, viewers, one we’ll be leading you through over the next seven days; much to discuss and many stones not to be left unturned. Join us again after this message from our sponsor – Cyber Secure – when we’ll be looking at the last few hours of the accused currently in Cell 7 – what will judgement bring to him? Life? Or death? And in seven days what will it be for our newest resident – teen killer Martha Honeydew?

  The lights in the studio dim. Gus rips the earpiece out and storms off set.

  Eve

  ‘What you watching, Mum?’

  Eve takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. A brief smile flickers as she watches her son, Max, bound into the kitchen-diner, put his laptop onto the table, open the fridge and peer inside.

  Instinctively she shuffles together the papers spread out on the table in front of her, turning some over or placing others into files to hide all the images and names from view.

  ‘Nothing really,’ she mutters. ‘It’s just on.’

  Max glances to the TV in the corner of the room. ‘Death is Justice?’ He pulls off his headphones, heavy guitar bleeding out. ‘You never watch that!’

  He grabs a bottle of juice and slumps down at the table opposite her, peeling open the lid and watching her gathering together the files.

  ‘Are you her counsellor? That girl? The one who killed Jackson Paige?’

  ‘Who says she killed …?’

  ‘Whoa, you are, aren’t you?’

  ‘And you don’t know if she …’ She closes her eyes, props her elbows on the table and rests her head in her hands.

  For a moment he watches, then he picks up the remote and turns off the TV.

  ‘Don’t watch it,’ he mumbles, and he stands back up, pours her a coffee from the machine and places it in front of her. ‘It’s junk. And they manipulate you.’

/>   ‘Max …’

  ‘Everyone knows it, just no one says it. It’s horseshit, it’s not justice.’

  She flinches.

  He takes a swig of his drink. ‘Have you eaten?’ he asks.

  ‘Not yet,’ she mutters. ‘Earlier … breakfast … sandwich at lunch.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Come on.’ Taking her by the elbow, he leads her across the room to the sofa.

  ‘I don’t need you to look after me,’ she says.

  ‘Who else is going to? Sit down.’

  She slumps into the cushions and he lifts her legs onto the seat.

  ‘Stay there. I’ll make you some food.’

  When he returns with a bowl of pasta, she’s fast asleep.

  He throws a blanket over her, dims the light, and retreats to the kitchen area. Back at the table, he lifts the food to his own mouth and stares at the files and papers in front of him.

  Chewing the first mouthful, he glances back to her; her face is against the comfort of the sofa and her breathing is heavy. He puts down the fork, and turns over the first page.

  Martha

  Something wakes me. Didn’t realise I’d slept. My eyes hurt in the bright as I open them. I hear voices. Someone chanting or praying, someone else crying.

  Is there someone in every cell? Seven cells and seven people all waiting to die?

  Doubt it. I heard it’s never full. Threat of death will do that, they said, make people behave. Talk of building a death row in Birmingham, Manchester, other cities, stayed as talk – no more needed.

  Ship the accused from wherever to this one here in London. No loved ones near them? No family? What the hell does that matter? They don’t see visitors anyway. A prisoner loses all rights when they’re accused.

  You said they rule with an iron smile – the folks it suits only see the smile, while we feel the iron. I didn’t really care – I just wanted to see that scumbag Paige brought down. Or that’s how it started. But life isn’t that simple, is it?

  How many people then? Who’s awake and crying? Does anyone manage to sleep more than five minutes? Wonder if I’ll see them when we change cells at dawn.

  No hint of that yet though; it’s dark out the window.

  I want to see outside.

  I drag the bed over; it scratches along the floor but nobody comes at the noise. I stand on it and stretch upwards, but the window is angled so all I can see is sky. Now I’m facing away from the light, I can see it’s not black like it seems, it’s a deep, velvet blue, pinpricked with stars. I cup my hands around my eyes to block more of the light. The moon’s full, staring down at me like it stared down at me and you together last night. Before this crap happened.

  Maybe we should’ve run away together. Forgotten Paige and the pain he caused, made our own lives and futures …

  Who am I trying to kid? The pain would’ve carried on eating me ’til there was nothing left and we would’ve both been forced to watch corruption make the rich richer and the poor poorer and justice disintegrate further.

  ‘The sky was all we could ever share, Isaac,’ I breathe.

  I move a hand through the bars as far as I can, letting the moonlight fall onto my skin. ‘Are you looking out now as well?’

  Clouds pass over and the moonlight fades. ‘I hope this is worth it.’

  CELL 2

  Counselling

  Martha sits opposite Eve in the counselling room, her face almost as white as the room she spent the night in. Her prison overalls have turned grubby around her wrists and ankles from the chains, and grey lines have formed down the front where they’re joined together.

  She clinks as she moves in her seat and jangles as she rests her hands on the table in front of her, her fingers fiddling with the edge of Eve’s folder, notebook and pen.

  ‘How did you sleep?’ Eve asks.

  Martha shrugs.

  ‘A bit too bright? They do have some funny ways here.’

  ‘Hilarious,’ Martha replies.

  Eve leans in slightly. ‘Designed to shake you,’ she whispers.

  ‘Great. Does that mean there’s something else today?’

  Eve ignores her. ‘It’s less than six days now,’ she says.

  ‘You know just how to cheer someone up,’ Martha replies.

  She looks away and out of the barred window, the wind brushing the branches of the tree against the glass.

  ‘They shouldn’t have planted a tree so close to the building,’ she says.

  Eve glances over her shoulder. ‘Why?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? The roots will attack the building’s foundations. Cause subsidence or something. Make the building fall down. Bet they wouldn’t know ’til it was too late.’

  Eve nearly smiles. ‘You know a lot.’

  ‘Why would they plant it there?’ Her face screws up as she thinks.

  While the clock ticks on, Eve watches Martha as she opens her mouth to speak, but closes it again, and she watches as she shuffles in her chair, folds her arms across her chest, stretches her hands across her shaved head then drums her fingers on the desk.

  ‘I planted it,’ Eve says.

  ‘You did?’ Martha turns to her with her eyebrows raised. ‘Huh. Why?’

  ‘I thought it would be nice for the prisoners to see it,’ she replies. ‘A sparrow has a nest in it.’ She turns to look at it again. ‘He’s not there right now, but he’ll be back.’

  ‘I saw him yesterday. Can you open the window? Let some fresh air in?’

  ‘No,’ Eve replies. ‘It’s locked.’

  ‘’Course it is,’ Martha mumbles. She looks back to Eve. ‘You look tired,’ she says.

  ‘We’re not here to talk about me. Tell me how you are.’

  ‘I don’t see the point of this,’ Martha replies. ‘It’s not going to change anything. I’m still going to die in six days.’

  ‘If they vote you guilty.’

  ‘I told them I did it, why wouldn’t they vote me guilty?’

  ‘Maybe they won’t believe you. Maybe they’ll think that it’s too easy, or wonder why you would admit to it, even if you did do it.’

  Martha folds her arms again. ‘People don’t question, it’s too much effort. Why bother?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They don’t want to know the truth, they just believe what’s fed to them. “Let someone else do the thinking, we’ll just follow the crowd,” they say. “We don’t care if you make it up as long as it sounds like a scandal.” Sheep.’

  ‘Martha …’

  ‘Nosy sheep that like to ooh and ahh, and read gossip headlines that are all just a load of made-up shit to sell newspapers and make money.’

  Eve frowns, leans forward and rests her arms on the table. ‘Martha, you told the police that you’re guilty. They have you on record as saying, “I did it, I shot him, I killed Jackson Paige.”’

  Martha nods.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that you didn’t do it? Do you want to change your plea? I can tell them that for you.’

  Martha stares at the counsellor.

  ‘Do you want to change your plea?’

  Martha blinks and her eyes glisten with worry.

  ‘Tell me,’ Eve hisses at her. ‘You didn’t do it, did you? It wasn’t your gun. Somebody else was with you, weren’t they?’

  Martha doesn’t move.

  ‘If you’re innocent, you have to speak out. You can’t take the blame for someone else’s crime.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she says and roughly brushes a tear from her face. ‘Why are you going on about it? Just shut up.’

  ‘Who did it? If you tell me I can help.’

  Martha swallows and breathes heavy. She stares at Eve. ‘I told you,’ she whispers. ‘I did it. It was my gun. I bought it from a guy who lives in the Rises.’

  ‘But there was someone else with you, wasn’t there?’

  ‘I told you I did it!’ she shouts. ‘What more do you want? Nothing else matters! Not whether someone else was
with me, or if it was my gun or not. I did it! I shot Jackson Paige!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because … because … This isn’t one of your old courts! I don’t have to answer that. I just killed him because I wanted to. OK?’

  ‘If it was a court, if we still had courts, they might ask you why you shot him in the exact spot your mother was killed.’

  Martha’s face turns to stone. ‘Coincidence,’ she mutters.

  Her eyes blink and blink and her breathing is heavy in her chest. She stares at Eve, her eyes full of venom, her mouth open to say something but no words come. She stands up and strides to the window. As the branches sway in the wind, she lifts a hand and touches the glass between the bars.

  Behind her, Eve stays seated.

  In their own worlds, they’re silent.

  The clock ticks. Outside in the corridor heavy boots move towards them, then away. In one of the other cells, somebody shouts, something unintelligible, guttural, painful.

  ‘It was a hit-and-run, wasn’t it?’ Eve asks through the stillness. ‘It left you orphaned and alone.

  Martha doesn’t reply.

  ‘Your neighbour’s son was arrested for it, wasn’t he? He was here, on death row. He was executed.’

  The chains clink as Martha folds her arms across her chest. ‘Shut up with the questions.’

  ‘I imagine it’s hard to think that you’re in the same cell that your mother’s killer was. The same bed …’

  ‘I thought counselling was supposed to make you feel better?’ Martha says.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

  Martha ignores her.

  ‘You must’ve been relieved they caught him so quickly, your mother’s killer? What was his name? Oliver …’

  ‘Ollie,’ she says. ‘Everyone called him Ollie.’

  ‘You must’ve been pleased.’

  ‘Did you read it in the tabloids, what they said about him?’

  ‘I don’t read the tabloids …’

  Martha turns around from the window, brushes a hand over her head and sits back at the table. ‘The people who vote on Death is Justice do. They read it and believe it. He used to look after me when my mum worked, Ollie did, but they didn’t write that. They didn’t put that he taught me to play chess, fixed the motor on the washing machine when it broke or that we celebrated with him and his mum when he got a job, that I baked him a cake when he bought his first car.’