The reality TV show to die for. Literally

by Kerry Drewery

  Truth is a strange thing that’s not always best to know nor to tell.

  I like her though, Eve. She’s nice, but she’s the same as the rest of them up there.

  She didn’t let me keep the letter. Said they’re bound to find it. It doesn’t matter because I can remember every word anyway. If I lie here and close my eyes I can hear him saying the words.

  My God, I miss him.

  I wish I could be around to see what happens after people find out the truth. If there is a heaven, or some kind of afterlife, then maybe I could watch. Maybe I could be a ghost and come back and see it all unfold as different people find out. I wish I could be with him then. Oh, the scandal.

  I wonder if he would be able to sense me with him.

  If he could see me.

  I wonder … oh God … I wonder if he’ll find someone else.

  Of course he will. How could he not?

  I wonder if he’ll always remember me.

  What’s it like to die?

  Will it hurt?

  Jesus Christ, girl, shut the fuck up.

  Think of good times, happy times.

  Think of that night in the rain with him …

  I told myself that night, as I walked up flight after flight of stairs, the lift broken again, that there was no way I was going to meet him the next day, but there was a problem with that. I didn’t want to meet him, but I went there every evening, that’s what I did, and if I was going to be there anyway, then it might be nice to have someone to talk to.

  Maybe.

  So the next night I stood in the covered doorway of the boarded-up shop opposite the underpass, not waiting for him, just waiting, for something. It smelt a bit of cat piss and there were food wrappers and cigarette ends, but it was out of the rain and you could watch folks go by without them seeing you. It’s where he was standing the first time I saw him.

  He was coming along the other side of the road, his hood up, his hands in his pockets, dark jeans and dark trainers. Inconspicuous. He could be anyone from anywhere. But not to me.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d turn up,’ he said as he stepped into the doorway.

  ‘I didn’t have anything else to do,’ I replied. ‘So I thought I might as well.’

  He turned and as the streetlight caught his face I saw him smile.

  For a few minutes we just looked at each other. Outside of our doorway the rain hammered on the concrete and tarmac and above us cars rumbled, but there, in our shelter, was only us. For a few seconds, in my head, we were all there was in the world.

  Suddenly self-conscious, I glanced away and down to my feet scuffing through the rubbish.

  ‘You want to go somewhere else?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘Where’s nice?’

  ‘Only one place around here,’ I said.

  I hadn’t been to Bracken Woods for longer than I could remember.

  Was I ten when I was there last? Eight, maybe?

  Going back, I realised it held some piece of my childhood in its branches. In there again I was eight, or ten, searching for conkers with my mum, dodging nettles threatening my bare legs, fearing eyes were watching me from the darkness.

  Everything was smaller, like I was looking down on it from higher up.

  The canopy of the trees was thick enough to keep most of the rain off us, and we strolled along in near darkness with the patter of water on leaves and its trickle down bark and stalks.

  ‘What is this place?’ he said. ‘It’s fantastic!’

  I smiled at him. ‘This way,’ I said and I led him past the largest oak tree and down a rough path.

  ‘How do I know I can trust you?’ he whispered. ‘You could be leading me into a trap.’

  I stopped walking and turned to him.

  ‘How do I know I can trust you?’ I asked.

  In the dark I could barely see him. I listened to the few raindrops hitting his hood and running down his jacket, and I watched the odd one catch the moonlight as it dripped down his face.

  ‘I am sorry about your mum,’ he whispered.

  I shook my head and blinked the water from my eyes. ‘You didn’t do it,’ I breathed.

  ‘Neither did Oliver B. You know who did do it though, don’t you?’ he asked.

  I carried on staring at him. I could feel it all welling up in me; the frustration and the anger and everything, and I didn’t want it right then. ‘No,’ I managed to whisper. ‘Why? Do you?’

  I watched his dark shape in the glinting light as he pulled down his hood, and I could feel the sadness pouring from him. He looked at me for too long without saying anything.

  ‘Was it you?’ I asked. ‘Is that why you’ve been going to the underpass? Cos you feel guilty? Feel like you need to do something to make it all better?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, Martha, it wasn’t me, I …’

  ‘You’re lying, aren’t you?’ I spat. ‘It was you. Of course. It all makes sense.’

  ‘No, I promise it wasn’t.’

  ‘Then …’

  ‘It was my dad. OK? It was Jackson. I saw the car when he came home that night – Lord knows how it was working. I know what happened, and Martha, I am so sorry. I should’ve …’

  His words faded away. I had no clue what he was saying. I felt like I’d been smacked in the face or thrown down the stairs. I was numb. Empty. But hurting. Confused and disbelieving.

  ‘What?’ I said, holding my head. ‘What? What the …? How could you know and not do anything? How could you let someone else die for it? Ollie, oh God, oh for fuck’s sake, Ollie died. They killed him. You let them kill him. Jesus Christ …’ I think I marched up and down through the trees; I think I punched one of them because my knuckles were bleeding and green and brown after.

  ‘How could you? How … ?’

  ‘Martha …’

  He came towards me with his palms up in peace, but I punched at his chest and slapped at his face and he lifted his hands to protect himself but didn’t try to stop me.

  ‘Get away from me!’ I shouted. ‘That was my mum he killed! Ollie was my neighbour, him and Mrs B were like family. How could you? HOW COULD YOU?’

  ‘Martha,’ he said and his voice was calm and restrained. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, there was nothing I could do …’

  ‘You could’ve told someone! You could’ve stopped it!’ I picked up a tree branch from the ground, gnarled and pointed, and I held it up ready to hit him with it. ‘I’ll do it,’ I told him.

  ‘You’ll what? Kill me? Will that make it all better?’

  ‘An eye for an eye,’ I hissed at him.

  ‘Is that really what you believe? An eye for an eye? Like our stupid justice system that killed Ollie? That didn’t ask for evidence, didn’t give him a defence? That didn’t find proper and fair justice for your mum?’

  ‘You could’ve saved him!’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘You could’ve gone to the police.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t have listened.’

  ‘Or the press … or … or gone on Death is Justice … or phoned in to it … or … or …’

  ‘Oh come on! You know how things really are, don’t you? You know about the corruption and the deals done. You know Jackson could just rig the phone lines. There’s no real justice – it’s all manipulation and lies.’

  I stared at him. I knew how things were, we all did. But … He closed his eyes and lowered his head.

  Did I want revenge? Was it revenge, this, threatening him? I tried to think … be calm … breathe …

  He was right, and deep down I knew that.

  What he said ate at me.

  I sat in the flat watching the rain on the window while the sun went down and came up again.

  I couldn’t get my head round the fact that somebody knew but did nothing, and doing nothing meant that Ollie had died. Was I angrier about that or that Jackson hadn’t been brought to justice for killing Mum? I didn’t know.

  In thos
e hours, in my head I shouted at him, punched and kicked and screamed at him, but really all I did was cry.

  In his shoes, I asked myself over and over, what would you have done? What could you have done?

  By the time it started getting dark again I realised I’d never have an answer to that and even though it was still raining I knew I had to get out. I’d had enough of sulking.

  He was there waiting for me again but this time with a flask of hot chocolate, a blanket and an umbrella.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I wish I’d done something, but at the time …’

  I reached out and, not quite believing what I was doing or how I was feeling, took his rain-soaked hands in mine. ‘You’re not responsible for him,’ I whispered. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  Still holding his hand I led him past the Rises and back into Bracken Woods, and we followed the path again but this time further through the trees, carrying on until we reached a clearing that I remembered from years ago.

  I strolled around it like I was visiting the home of an old relative, still like my memory of it from childhood but different: the covered shelter made from branches was broken in some places but fixed with newer wood in others; the wooden bench was more worn, with more initials carved into it and the slats more splintered. A mattress stained with God-only-knows-what and probably filled with fleas was half under a large bush, a few empty bottles and beer cans next to it, yet across the other side, right where the moonlight was falling, rested a little circle of plucked flowers.

  We sat down in the shelter and at the mouth of it, where it was dry, we made a fire big enough at least to warm the fronts of us if not our damp backs.

  Talking was difficult at first; I didn’t know what to say to him. It was strange and awkward, both of us testing the ground with observations about leaves or trees or flowers.

  Mum was in my mind. Part of me wanted to know everything about that night from his point of view – what the car was like when it came back, what Jackson said about it, what he looked like. If he was upset. But part of me wanted to leave it; I knew it was no good.

  He tried to apologise again and however much I wanted to be angry at him, to make him pay, for some reason I couldn’t be. He felt genuine.

  Slowly we edged closer to each other. Then, as the rain began to clear, he turned to me.

  ‘I’d like to get to know you,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Because you feel some obligation to look after the daughter of the woman your father murdered?’

  He winced and looked away. ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Because you feel guilty then?’

  He turned back to me. ‘Because I like you,’ he replied.

  His words made me speechless; I couldn’t do anything but look up to the stars in the night sky. In my head I told myself it was no good, that I didn’t need anyone. Simpler to be alone. Easier. But saying it wasn’t meaning it.

  ‘No pressure,’ he said. ‘At all. Ever. We could just try being friends.’

  ‘Isaac Paige,’ I said, turning to him. ‘Son of celebrity millionaire Jackson Paige, friends with Martha Honeydew, orphan girl of the Rises. It could be a headline.’

  ‘Strictly speaking I’m his adopted son.’

  ‘Or how about if it read: “Isaac Paige, Celebrity Chat’s Teen Bachelor of the Year and National News’ Junior Crime Ambassador Seen Slumming It”.’ I laugh at him.

  ‘Don’t label me,’ he said. ‘And all that Bachelor and Ambassador crap, it doesn’t mean anything.’

  He drew away from me. I’d touched a nerve.

  ‘Still,’ I replied, quieter, ‘in the real world, it can’t have a future. It’s impossible. Our lives are too different. What would your father say?’

  ‘I don’t care what my father says.’

  I snorted. ‘Until he cuts you out of his will and stops your allowance.’

  ‘I’m not like that.’

  ‘Isaac,’ I breathed, ‘the only thing me and you could ever share is the sky and the stars above us, not family, or friends …’

  He turned back to me. ‘Then we share the sky and the stars, and we enjoy it while we can. While it lasts, while it’s simple.’

  I looked into his eyes and I knew it could never last, or stay simple, and I felt the strangest sense of shift in the air, like pinpricks on the back of your neck, or static warning of a storm. Enough to make me pause and take notice but not enough to stop me from leaning forward, touching my hand against his face, and nodding my agreement.

  I sit up and stare out of the window; the sky’s getting dark already and the stars are shining.

  ‘Our sky, Isaac,’ I whisper to the air. ‘We shared the sky and the stars in it for a year.’

  A whole year.

  Eight months before things started going wrong.

  Ten before he started following us, eleven before his ultimatum.

  It was only ever a matter of time.

  If we wanted to be safe, we should’ve stuck with the sky.

  But I was right, see? I knew it that first night with him, when I looked at him in the moonlight, that he meant something. I just didn’t see what it was then.

  This is it.

  It’s him, not me.

  He’s stronger. More intelligent. Has more money. More influence and power.

  After all, who’d listen to me, an orphan girl from the Rises?

  I’ll play my part. I’ll see people know the truth, and settle my scores, but the rest? That’s not my fight.

  He’s the one for that.

  He can change things.

  6.30 p.m. Death is Justice

  Dark blue screen, flecks of white buzz and crackle. The eye logo, ‘An Eye For An Eye For’ spinning.

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

  The words stop spinning. The fizz of electricity, the words turn jagged, the eye reddens, blinks.

  KRISTINA: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to this evening’s Death is Justice!

  The theme music blares with a thumping heartbeat. In a cerise dress with plunging neckline, high heels and perfect hair, Kristina strides across the studio to the screen. The music fades, the applause dies, Kristina smiles.

  KRISTINA: This evening, ladies and gentlemen, we promise you an exciting and breath-taking show as the final votes come in live for our Cell 7 prisoner, Anton Kinsella.

  A photograph fills the screen on her right – a round face of a middle-aged man, dagger-blue eyes and a greying beard.

  KRISTINA: Will he be facing the chair? Will that electricity be crackling tonight or will he be heading home? We can’t wait to find out!

  The audience applaud.

  KRISTINA: We’ll be looking at the stats, asking your opinions on the crime and the perpetrator, and linking up with our live feed from Cell 7 as his potential final hours and minutes tick by.

  A video feed from Cell 7 replaces the photo of the accused. In the top corner a timer counts down while Anton Kinsella, dressed in white overalls, walks back and forth past a chair with leather straps at the ankles and feet and a metal crown at the top.

  KRISTINA: Keep voting, viewers. This is your decision. You, the people, deciding the justice, and you, the people, serving it.

  She glances down to a monitor on her desk.

  KRISTINA (frowning): He’s looking worried there, I think. But let’s turn our thoughts first to the story that’s grabbing everyone’s attention …

  Her heels click as she strides to her desk.

  KRISTINA (smiling):… the cold-hearted killing of national treasure Jackson Paige. Today is day three on death row for Martha Honeydew and as is usual for day three, now the shock has died down somewhat and the dust has settled, we have a guest who is acting as the accused’s representative and speaking on her behalf.

  She stops at the desk.

  KRISTINA: Frankly, viewers, I’m very interested to hear what this representative will have to say on behalf of someone who has already
admitted her guilt – what could anyone say? – but we are committed to bringing you a fair and balanced argument.

  She pauses and a ripple of appreciation sounds over the audience.

  KRISTINA: Not only that, but yet again we are bringing you an exclusive here on Death is Justice. Never before has anyone been a representative twice! But that is what we have here – yes, indeed, her second time! Can you believe it?

  Her face is serious, a coldness to her eyes, yet the hint of a smile.

  KRISTINA: Yes, viewers, and here’s where it gets complicated – this person previously represented her son, who was executed for the brutal killing of Martha Honeydew’s mother, Beth. Of course, I’m sure you remember the case. But here she is again, appearing today on prime time television on the world’s leading and ground-breaking channel for justice, speaking on behalf of her son’s victim’s daughter!

  She pauses with her mouth open in mock horror. The audience gasp.

  KRISTINA: I know – what a turn of events! I am most intrigued to hear what she has to say and why she has chosen to take on this role. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you – Mrs Lydia Barkova.

  The audience applaud over an electric beat of intro music as Mrs B, dressed in black and with her unruly hair tied back for the occasion, shuffles from backstage and towards Kristina at the desk. Kristina smiles and indicates to the seat on the left. As Mrs B sits, Kristina moves around and takes the seat in the centre. The music fades, the applause stops.

  KRISTINA: Welcome to the show, Mrs B. I believe that’s how everyone refers to you – Mrs B?

  MRS B (nodding): Correct. My friends call me Mrs B.

  KRISTINA: Excelle––

  MRS B (interrupting): You call me Mrs Barkova.

  Kristina’s face tilts sideways with a half-smile.

  MRS B: I don’t know you. You’re not my friend.

  Kristina’s smile slips, but only briefly.

  KRISTINA: Moving on, or not quite moving on, let’s talk about your previous appearance here when you were representing your only son, Oliver.

  MRS B: About that I have nothing to say.

  KRISTINA: You don’t wish to comment on whether that is why you’re defending Martha Honeydew? Do you feel you have a responsibility to her? Is it guilt that drives you?