The reality TV show to die for. Literally

by Kerry Drewery

  She looks back up and glares at him. ‘And since you went on that programme it’s probably a hundred.’

  ‘Eve –’ his voice lowers – ‘they’re going to kill her. I had to do something. I had to try.’

  She turns away from him and looks out over the sea of customers. One lifts a newspaper, with the headline ‘Murderer Martha In Gang Rampage’, another: ‘Honeydew Steals Prisoner’s Stash’.

  ‘It’s all lies,’ Eve says.

  Another customer, closer to them, drops his newspaper onto the table; a photo of Martha at the crime scene takes up the whole of the front page. Most of the picture is dark, but the police car headlights bathe her in white in the middle, showing her arms in the air and the gun at her feet. They shine on the wet pavements as if they’re silver, obscuring the grime and hiding the dirt, and turning it into a scene from a play or a still from a film.

  Behind her is the underpass where the homeless live, the orange of a fire glows dimly on faces around it.

  Eve frowns as she stares at it. There’s something she can’t quite see. The shadows look strange. Uneven.

  Movement near the window of the cafe catches her eye. ‘He’s going, the guy from the National News. He must’ve got what he wanted,’ Cicero says.

  She watches him leave.

  ‘I had a visitor late last night.’ She reaches into her bag, pulls out a white envelope and rests in on the table. ‘He gave me this for Martha. Apparently a reply to the note I took to Mrs Barkova, Oliver Barkova’s mother – you remember him?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Cicero frowns and leans forward. ‘You took a note? From Martha?’

  ‘Yes, and I know I shouldn’t have, but …’

  He tips his head to one side in thought. ‘Strange,’ he says, picking it up. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘I don’t know. A man. A young man. Taller than me. Dark hair. I couldn’t see his face. Nicely spoken; a familiar voice I couldn’t place.’

  ‘You spoke to him?’

  She nods. ‘He didn’t say much. He said he was surprised I hadn’t worked out who he is.’

  Cicero frowns. ‘How would we know that? How does he know Martha?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t know how he knows Mrs B either.’

  Cicero runs his fingers over the indentations of the name on the envelope. ‘Are you going to open it?’ he asks.

  ‘No,’ she replies.

  He holds it up to the light. ‘It must be someone she knows. A school friend, perhaps.’ He turns it over, toying with the sealed edge. ‘It could say something that proves her innocence.’

  ‘I can’t open it. That’s not right.’

  ‘Shame,’ he says, placing it back on the table. ‘When your solution could be right in front of you.’

  ‘What difference would it make anyway? Even if it was a signed confession from the murderer, they’ve got the killer they want.’

  ‘You’re losing your faith in society too, Eve …’

  ‘It’s already lost. I fought for this job because it was the only way to make a difference. Because I couldn’t fight the changes to the legal system, but I could help those caught in it. But, do you know what? I don’t know if it does help them. And caring hurts. It’s so painful. I can’t do it any more and I can’t fight the system. This isn’t justice, it’s their interpretation of it. All we can do is pray to our bones that it never happens to us.’

  ‘But it did happen to you.’

  ‘Not me …’

  ‘Your husband … ’ He moves to rest a hand on hers but she pulls it away and covers her mouth. There are tears in her eyes. ‘Jim was a good person,’ he whispers.

  She nods.

  ‘Killing that man was self-defence and you damn well know it. You were there.’

  ‘There’s no number to vote for mitigating circumstances though, is there? It’s guilty or not guilty. We’ve had this conversation a thousand times, Cicero … It’s a grey area …’

  ‘But there is no grey allowed! It’s black or it’s white!’ Cicero’s voice is raised and cold with fury.

  Faces start to turn towards them. She takes her coffee cup and slumps back in her chair.

  ‘An eye for an eye,’ Cicero says with a grimace. ‘The law has gone quite mad.’ He picks up his coffee and takes a slurp; froth sticks to his moustache. ‘If he hadn’t acted, he’d probably have been beaten to death. Or both of you would’ve been. He saved your life.’

  ‘Or I cost him his.’

  ‘You can’t think like that, Eve. Do you think that’s what he’d want?’

  She passes him a serviette.

  ‘Maybe there’s something about this Martha girl.’ He dabs away the froth. ‘Something more than we’re seeing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but it seems she has something up her sleeve.’

  ‘Nothing that could change anything.’

  He shrugs and picks up a teaspoon, toying with the remaining froth. ‘Someone needs to fight,’ he says.

  ‘Not me,’ she replies. ‘I can’t …’

  ‘Then who?’

  She thinks back to what Mrs B said: it takes a braver person … the most unlikely … She pushes the coffee cup back on the table and slides the letter into her bag. ‘I have to go,’ she says. ‘I’m seeing her in an hour.’

  As she stands, so does he and together they move between the tables and to the exit.

  On the pavement outside, they stop.

  Cicero leans forward and kisses Eve on the cheek.

  ‘Go on the programme,’ he says. ‘What harm can it do now?’

  They both turn and leave in opposite directions, but she barely takes a dozen steps before she stops again. In front of her is a newspaper vendor.

  ‘See the evidence for yourselves!’ he shouts. ‘Exclusive photos of celebrity killing.’

  She lifts a newspaper from the stall, the same one she saw in the cafe – the photo of Martha at the underpass, the gun, Jackson Paige, the homeless. She tilts it towards the light, holds it closer to her face, staring at it.

  In the shadows of the underpass is the shape of something, only clear if you look and easily dismissed if you don’t care.

  Eve drops her money into the vendor’s hand and walks away.

  Counselling

  The guard leads Martha through to the counselling room. Today her hands are tied behind her back.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Eve asks.

  Martha lifts her head and stares at Eve with a black eye and a swollen face.

  ‘What happened?’ she asks.

  ‘Walked into the door, she did,’ the guard replies. ‘Had to move cells early and she was all sleepy and that, and walked into the door.’

  ‘Then why are her arms chained behind her back? She’s not dangerous.’

  ‘She’s a killer,’ he says.

  ‘Just take the chains off her and get out of here!’

  He stares at her for a second.

  ‘And make sure they’re always off now. We don’t need them.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’ His tone is mocking, and he takes his time choosing the right key and pulling off the chains.

  ‘Thank you,’ Eve says as he finishes.

  ‘Hope you feel safe,’ he mutters.

  The door slams behind him as he leaves.

  Eve moves round to the other side of the table and she and Martha sit down.

  ‘How did it happen?’ she asks. ‘And why is your hair wet?’ She looks her up and down. ‘Your overalls too. Why are they wet?’

  Martha doesn’t answer.

  Eve watches her. ‘It was raining last night, wasn’t it? Of course.’ She takes her jacket from the back of the chair and wraps it around Martha’s shoulders. ‘I’ll make sure they get you some dry overalls,’ she says. ‘Most people use the mattress … if the … the dripping … I should’ve told you, but they change things round … sometimes they don’t do anything … sometimes they have new things.’

  ‘Doesn�
��t matter.’

  ‘I’ve tried to argue with them, but they deny it or quote the contract you signed when you came in.’

  ‘I said it doesn’t matter,’ Martha replies, and she shuffles back in her seat, props her feet on the edge of the chair and hugs her knees to her chest. ‘The sparrow’s back,’ she continues, nodding to the window and the tree.

  Eve spins around to see it.

  ‘All’s well in the world if the sparrow’s in his tree, hey?’ Martha says.

  ‘I wish that were true,’ Eve replies. ‘Then world peace would be easy and I’d know the truth of what happened between you and Jackson Paige.’

  Martha smiles. ‘Shall I spell it out for you? I shot him.’

  Eve places the letter on the table and Martha’s smile disappears. She stares at it, stretches her fingers out to it and glances them down the edges and across her name. ‘Did you read it?’ she whispers.

  ‘No.’

  Martha picks it up and lifts it to her face, closing her eyes and breathing heavy. ‘How did you get it?’ she whispers.

  ‘It was hand-delivered to me.’

  Martha’s eyes shoot up to Eve’s. ‘Who …?’

  ‘Who do you think?’

  Martha stares at her, her face not moving, her expression not changing. ‘I don’t know,’ she says.

  ‘I think you do.’ Eve leans down to her bag, takes the newspaper from it, and rests it on the table.

  Martha looks at the photo of herself on the front page. ‘Who took that?’ she asks.

  ‘It’s a still from the police head-cam.’

  ‘Told you I did it.’

  ‘This image is appearing everywhere. The video’s been on Death is Justice, it’s been on the news. They were discussing it on the radio too. “Proves her guilt without question,” they said.’

  ‘See?’

  ‘But I don’t think it does. You’re not pulling the trigger. You’re not pointing the gun at him.’

  ‘I shot him, though. I dropped it when the police arrived. They told me to. I didn’t want them to shoot me.’

  ‘Why? So you could spend seven days here and die by a different method?’

  ‘No …’

  Eve taps on the photo. ‘Look there,’ she says. ‘Look. See? Around the fire are the homeless men. They probably know what happened, but oddly, they’ve all gone now. Yesterday when I went to see Mrs B I parked there, and I drove past again after I saw this photo. Seems since the day of the shooting they’ve all found somewhere to live and all have enough money for some new warm clothes and hot soup.’ She shrugs. ‘But look there.’ She taps her finger on the shadowy edge of the photo. ‘See that figure?’

  Martha stares at Eve.

  ‘In fact, you don’t need to look because I think you know. That’s not a homeless man. His clothes are too good.’

  ‘You can’t see that properly,’ Martha interrupts. ‘It’s blurry. That’s probably just some kind of splodge from the printing.’

  Eve looks up at her. ‘No, you’re right, I can’t. Which is why when I’ve finished here, I’m thinking of going to see someone who could enhance this for me.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  ‘Because I think this person here,’ she jabs at the photo again, ‘is the same person who came to my house last night and gave me that envelope. Maybe he can tell me why you’re willing to die for something you didn’t do.’

  Martha doesn’t move or say a word.

  ‘Or maybe it’s something to do with what Mrs B said about standing up against the majority …’

  ‘Screw the majority, I’m not interested.’

  ‘I think you are.’

  ‘Think what you like, it doesn’t bother me.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you would shoot him.’

  Martha leans forward across the desk. ‘I don’t need you to understand, but you will, everyone will.’

  ‘When? When you say your final words? Because you know they have changed their minds before and not let the accused speak at the end. How is anyone going to understand then?’

  ‘You don’t know jack.’

  ‘Then explain it to me.’

  Martha shrugs and folds her arms across her chest. ‘No,’ she replies.

  Silence falls over the room but for the clock ticking away the seconds and the minutes. Neither of the women looks at the other. Martha’s breathing is erratic; long and slow followed by short judders. She stares out of the window, watching the red and the orange of the leaves swirling out of control on the wind.

  Finally Martha picks up the envelope, peels it open and lifts out a sheet of paper. Holding it near her lap, she reads, blinking and blinking more and more as her eyes drift down the page.

  When she’s finished she sniffs, wipes her hands over her face, folds the paper and places it back in the envelope again.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Martha whispers, ‘by not doing anything, you’re in fact doing something very big. You’re a cog in a machine, going along with things because every other cog is as well and bucking against it is too hard.’

  She looks at Eve.

  ‘But, you know, there comes a point where you have to make a decision; you either keep turning, watching the machine getting bigger and more powerful, destroying things as it does, or you do the only thing you can – you make one small movement in a different direction, praying it will jam things up or make people take notice.

  ‘I didn’t mean it to happen like it did – truth should be simple, shouldn’t it? Folks should know – but Paige, he …’ She pauses, looks down to the letter and back to Eve again. ‘What do you know about him?’

  Eve shrugs. ‘Millionaire, reality TV star, charity ambassador, beautiful ex-model wife, teenage son. The tabloids love him. The public too.’

  ‘Your public love him, maybe. Ask the people who live near the Rises about him. Go see Gus Evans – you can trust him, he’s always looked out for me – ask him what he thinks.’

  ‘I met him yesterday when I took your note.’

  ‘Yeah, well, go back and ask him then. Or find where the old homeless people are now, ask them about the night my mum was killed. Ask them who gave them the money to disappear that time. Ask them when the security cameras at the underpass stopped working.’

  ‘Gus did talk about some things … but what are you suggesting?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting, I’m telling. Jackson Paige wasn’t the man the public, your public, thought he was.’

  ‘Your public? What do you mean?’

  Martha laughs. ‘People like you with money, from the City or the Avenues, who see the glaze on stuff but not the cracks underneath because it’s easier that way.’

  ‘I see the cracks.’

  ‘If you see the cracks then you’re worse than those who don’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you do fuck all about them.’

  ‘I do this!’

  Martha laughs again. ‘Yeah, right. You come down from your ivory tower to talk to us low-lifes to make yourself feel better. Oh, and yeah, you plant a tree.’

  ‘It doesn’t make me feel better.’

  ‘No, it probably doesn’t.’ She looks at her sideways. ‘You do it to remember your husband? Because you think you owe him something because you watched him kill a man and wind up in here?’

  ‘The man was … beating him … Jim would’ve died …’

  ‘Is that what you told the police when they arrived? That you stood by and did nothing?’ Martha huffs at her.

  Eve stares at her, unable to speak.

  ‘You don’t need to explain yourself, but that’s why you can’t let go, isn’t it? That’s why you planted the tree. That’s why you do this job. And that’s why you won’t go on Death is Justice, because of the guilt you feel. He lost his life and you kept yours.’

  Eve’s eyes fill with tears. ‘I suppose you must’ve read the papers, watched the news reports.’

  ‘People round where I live know what goes on
, not from tabloids and stuff, but by listening and watching – ask anyone. We – me and you – we’re more alike than you think.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about this,’ Eve says.

  ‘Neither do I.’

  They both fall silent again; neither looks at the other.

  The clock ticks.

  The wind blows at the tree and a flurry of leaves crinkle to the ground.

  Martha glances to Eve and back again.

  ‘He must’ve loved you very much,’ she whispers, ‘to do that. He must’ve known he’d be executed.’

  Eve takes a struggled breath. ‘He must love you very much,’ she says.

  ‘Who?’ Martha whispers.

  Eve nods towards the envelope. ‘The young man who came to my house last night. The one you wrote the note for.’

  The corners of Martha’s mouth tip in the vaguest smile.

  ‘How did he know where I live?’ Eve asks.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Martha replies.

  ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she says.

  Eve reaches down into her bag again. ‘Your neighbour is a very kind lady,’ she says. ‘And she thinks a lot of you.’

  Martha shrugs.

  ‘She sent you these.’ Eve places a packet of biscuits on the table.

  ‘I didn’t think … can I … am I allowed these?’

  ‘No, but,’ she says as she tears open the packet, ‘while you’re in here with me, who’s going to know?’

  Martha

  I can taste the biscuits in my mouth all afternoon. I refuse the food they offer me later because it looks like crap and probably tastes like it too. I keep hoping I’ll find bits of biscuits stuck in my teeth at the back.

  Bless Mrs B.

  And Eve.

  We all knew what happened with her husband, Jim. Official line, what they told the police, was that some bloke jumped them on the way home one evening. Gave him a few blows to the head to knock him out and then tried to rape her. He came to pretty quick, grabbed this lump of metal and whacked the guy over the head with it a couple of times to stop him. Killed him. Always said he didn’t mean to and that it was self-defence and to protect his wife, but then folks are complicated, aren’t they? Yeah, I know, I should look at myself first – pot and kettle and all that.