The reality TV show to die for. Literally

by Kerry Drewery

  The skin on my forehead feels weird and I lift a hand and touch it and something flakes off on my fingertip.

  Dried blood? I wonder. Did he knock me out?

  My eyes are getting used to the dark, shapes are looming out – the bed, the toilet, the sink – yeah, the usual.

  And the window up there. The sky draws me to it. I love it. I wonder what’s out there, what it’s like to be up there and feel so alone.

  Like this? I ask myself. No, it’d be peaceful, calm. Free. And devoid of all the shit that’s on earth.

  I should go live up there. Create a colony.

  Yeah right, in your dreams.

  Dreams are all I have in here. And memories.

  I shuffle across the floor and lie in the bed.

  This cell’s been simple, I think. But then I blink, blink again, and I see something coming towards me out of the shadows.

  Someone coming towards me.

  Dark at first, then lightening, shape forming. Female, shoulder-length hair, shorter than me, slender but a round face. Dark eyes, a wide smile, arms outstretching towards me.

  I blink, blink. Close my eyes, screw them up.

  No, no, no, no, no, I say in my head. Don’t let it trick you.

  I open my eyes again.

  She’s in front of me. Bending towards me. Smiling at me, her arms reaching to me.

  ‘Mum?’ I whisper.

  ‘Martha,’ she replies. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

  ‘But … but … Mum, aren’t you … aren’t you …?’

  ‘I had to come and see you,’ she says.

  Her voice so warm, so kind and comforting. So good to hear it again. And see her again.

  I sit up. ‘I’ve missed you so much,’ I say. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

  ‘I had to come and see you to tell you –’ she pauses, staring down at me, something’s changed, something’s wrong, her face, she looks – ‘to tell you how disappointed I am with you.’

  ‘W … what?’

  She leans right in to me, her face so close to mine. ‘How could you? How could you? My daughter a killer, a murderer. How do you think that makes me feel?’

  ‘But …’

  She stands up and starts pacing up and down.

  ‘I didn’t bring you up to become this! You … you … cold-hearted …’ She stops walking and lurches towards me. ‘… cold-hearted BITCH!’

  ‘What? But, Mum, you’ve got to understand.’

  ‘I understand; don’t think I don’t.’ Her voice is louder and louder, filling the cell and vibrating off the walls. ‘You blew holes in the nation’s sweetheart! You riddled the people’s icon with bullets! You blasted the body of our hero to PIECES! For what?’

  ‘No.’ I put my head in my hands and rock back and forth. ‘No, Mum, no, it wasn’t like that. It was one bullet, one, just one, and he –’

  ‘You got it WRONG! You know that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jackson Paige didn’t kill me!’ she shouts. ‘Isaac was LYING to you. He’s a LIAR and he HATES you!’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t …’

  ‘You’re a murderer and I HATE you! I’m turning in my grave because of you!’

  ‘No, please, no, don’t! Mum, Mum, I love you, don’t do this, please! It wasn’t like that, it wasn’t, it wasn’t. Please.’ I pull the sheets around me and collapse onto the mattress. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Mum, please, please, forgive me.’ I sob and sob, and her footsteps fade away.

  ‘Martha?’ Another voice.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I reply. ‘Please, just go away.’

  ‘You’ve told me that before and not meant it.’ I know this voice. ‘Actually you told me to fuck off, remember? The first time we met? Outside the flats?’

  ‘I remember,’ I whisper. Of course I remember, I think.

  ‘Don’t you want to see me? I snuck in. Stole the guard’s keys.’

  ‘I’d love to see you,’ I say.

  I think I hear footsteps move across the floor. I turn around.

  The moonlight from outside the window glints on his skin and twinkles in his eyes. He smiles and my body warms and my heart melts.

  ‘Isaac,’ I breathe and I feel myself relax. ‘Oh God, it’s so good to see you. I thought I’d never see you again. I thought …’ I’m crying again now, but with relief. ‘How did you get here? Are you going to take me with you?’

  I can’t look away from him. His whole being gives me relief and comfort.

  ‘Would you like that?’ he asks. ‘Run away, just me and you. Start a life together somewhere safe where we can be together?’

  I nod. ‘Yes, yes, oh that’d be great. That’d be so good. Yes, Isaac, yes, let’s, please.’

  ‘Well, tough SHIT!’ He lurches towards me, the words screaming in my face. ‘Why would I want to be with a KILLER? That’s all you are. A MURDERER!’

  I can’t move. My mouth’s open but I can’t say a word.

  ‘You think I loved you? Hey? You really think that someone like me would ever love someone like you?’ he spits the words at me.

  ‘I … I …’ I can’t speak.

  ‘I never loved you. NEVER! You’re nothing but a dirty whore. A slag. Just like my father said. I used you!’

  ‘Isaac, please, no!’ Tears come now and I can’t stop them. My world is falling apart. I’m being torn to pieces. I’m going down. I can’t … can’t …

  ‘Go to your death, you slag, with these words ringing in your ears: I … never … loved … you! Got it?’ he shouts.

  I stare into those eyes that I know I’d seen with love in for me.

  ‘Got it?’ he shouts again.

  I nod because I have to.

  As he turns away from me I reach a hand out to grab his, but I miss.

  I close my eyes, pull the sheets over my head and collapse back down.

  My heart’s been ripped out. My soul is burning. I am empty.

  I cry. Sob. Until my head is pounding and I am drained. Only then do I peer out from under the sheet. I half expect to see them both, but of course, they’re not there. Even in this dull light and with blurry eyes I can see the door is still closed and see how small the window is.

  You know they weren’t real, don’t you? They were holograms or hallucinations or some other weird shit.

  My head’s heavy. There’s a weird taste in my mouth. I feel crap.

  I roll onto my back, stare across the cell.

  There’s that hissing noise again.

  What is that?

  I blink some more and sit up. My eyes are blurry from crying, and they’re heavy, but I can see something near the door … something coming from under it that the moonlight’s struggling to get through.

  Like fog … or mist … or … gas …

  They’re gassing me? What? Why?

  ‘Because they can!’ I turn my head around and Ollie is standing next to the bed, spinning his car keys around a finger, his curly hair tumbling around his head. ‘Because they hate you, because they control you, control everything …’

  ‘No, no, no.’ I struggle out of bed, pulling the sheet with me. ‘You’re not real. I’m not listening.’

  ‘You’re weak and you’re useless and you could never achieve anything …’

  ‘I’m not listening, not listening …’ I drop to the floor.

  ‘You didn’t save me, did you? Didn’t vote enough. And I loved you. You were like a little sister to me.’

  I crawl to the door and I can feel it on my hands now, the vapour, gas, whatever it is. This isn’t right, I think, how can they do this? How …

  ‘Do you want to know what it feels like to die?’ His voice is so harsh.

  I push the sheet into the gap under the door, ramming it in with my fingertips as much as I can.

  ‘Want to know what the pain is like?’

  I try not to listen.

  ‘You know nobody likes you. Nobody but me ever did, and you let me die. Isaac was just using you. How could you
ever think –’

  I stand up and stare at this apparition of Ollie. The room’s turning around me, my head feels thick but I will not be beaten like this.

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ I slur. ‘You’re not real and I’m not listening.’

  My legs buckle beneath me and suddenly I’m on the floor and I lie there as if I’ve been in a fight, emotion draining from me like blood.

  CELL 4

  Eve

  The woman at the desk flicks a pen between her fingers as she stares at the computer screen.

  Eve stands in front of her.

  ‘What did you say your name is again?’ she asks without moving her eyes.

  ‘Eve Stanton.’

  ‘We don’t just let anyone on, you know, Mrs Stanton,’ she replies. ‘It’s a very important and well-respected television news show. It’s vital to our integrity that we uphold the strictest of policies. Our guests are usually by invitation only, and only the most knowledgeable in their field are invited to share their opinions as it can sway the audience vote and thus alter the course of justice.’

  ‘Are you reading that?’ Eve asks.

  She looks up. ‘No.’

  Eve turns away. On the opposite wall is a bank of seven television screens; above them, the numbers of each of the cells.

  She turns back. ‘They’re … are they …?’

  ‘It’s something we’re trialling within our office environment and hoping to introduce across the market, available in all homes, businesses and offices at a premium rate for twenty-four-hour constant coverage.’

  ‘Of the cells?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Of the cells. We have zoom capability, night vision, sound capture …’

  ‘You’re watching them?’

  ‘And you can soon, too, with our very own subscription-only channel dedicated to the deliverance of a premium justice service.’

  ‘But that’s a violation of privacy.’

  ‘By violating our laws,’ her eyes are down again, ‘the prisoners have forfeited their claim to any such privacy.’

  ‘That’s against human rights.’

  ‘According the terms of the contract they sign upon entrance to death row, they forgo their human rights.’

  ‘Do they know they’re being watched?’

  ‘All information relating to the usage of any data was contained within the small print of the contract and available for each prisoner to see when they were requested to sign.’

  Eve frowns and looks back to the screens, and taking a step towards them, she focuses on Cell 4 – Martha lying on the bed, her head hidden by the sheet.

  Eve lifts a finger and touches the screen.

  ‘When did the windows get smaller?’ she asks.

  ‘We’re not at liberty to discuss the architecture of the cells, but we are in constant talks to assure the quality of your viewing pleasure.’

  Eve glances over the wall. ‘There’s another socket here,’ she says. ‘Seven screens for seven cells, but a spare socket. What’s that for?’

  The woman’s face lights up in smile and she looks to Eve. ‘That’s for our latest innovation,’ she says. ‘And our eighth interface. A computer screen is to be fitted there that will provide a live feed to our new, state-of-the-art VC.’

  Eve strolls back to the desk. ‘VC? Video conference?’

  ‘Virtual counsellor,’ she says with glee.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘After conducting research across the viewing public it was found that the vast majority felt their viewing experience was diminished by a lack of accessibility to the accused, in particular to the thoughts that may have led them to committing the crime. As I’m sure you, a viewer, will appreciate this can unjustly sway the audience vote and thus –’

  ‘Alter the course of justice.’

  The receptionist lifts her head and smiles wide.

  ‘Actually,’ Eve continues. ‘I’m not a viewer.’

  The smile falls and her mouth opens. ‘Oh.’

  ‘I don’t watch. I feel the course of justice has already been unjustly swayed by the introduction of a system that relies on money.’

  ‘Oh, but –’

  Eve raises a hand. ‘No. In fact …’ She stops and looks around her. ‘Sometimes, Miss … I’m sorry, I don’t know your name … sometimes don’t you find yourself in a situation and wonder how the hell you got there?’

  She looks at the screens again.

  ‘I can’t help but wonder if at some point in our history we’ve taken a wrong turn; that at some point somebody must’ve had the power to stand up and say no, but for whatever reason they didn’t. It’s as if they pushed a ball down a hill to see what would happen but now they can’t stop it.’

  ‘What ball?’ the woman asks.

  ‘And now,’ Eve’s voice is rising, ‘… now it’s so big and powerful that … that … and all these people, who could be innocent … are … and we’re stuck in this hellish place.’

  ‘What did you say your name is?’ the woman asks, the phone in her hand.

  ‘Are you calling security?’ Eve asks. ‘I’ll save you the bother.’ She turns and strides away. ‘Eve Stanton!’ she shouts behind her. ‘Designated counsellor to the accused!’

  She slams through the glass doors and out into the street.

  Martha

  My head’s banging. My face is swollen. I think my fingers are broken.

  I don’t want to move off the bed and I don’t think I can anyway.

  I don’t care any more. I’m drained. Empty. Done.

  I don’t want any more time or days, I want you to kill me now.

  I don’t want to be your plaything that you torture. Giving me hallucinations to watch me lose it. Or to break me.

  If I wasn’t already telling you I’m guilty I sure as hell would be now just to make it stop.

  Wonder what time Eve will be here.

  What will she say?

  Will she do anything?

  What’s it matter anyway?

  I’m in Cell 4 but I don’t know how I got here. Last thing I remember was collapsing on the floor, thinking how crap everything is. Wondering if that’s really what my mum and Isaac and Ollie believe and then thinking it must be and then trying to work out how I could turn the bed sheets into some kind of noose and just do away with it all now.

  Next thing I know, I wake here, feeling half dead already.

  I know I’m in 4 because someone has written ‘3 MORE DAYS’ on the wall in big brown-red letters.

  I’m staring at it, wondering what they’ve written it in when there are no pens or anything.

  There’s something else on the wall above it, right at the top where it joins the ceiling, like a box or something. I don’t know. I roll over and face the wall.

  Three days.

  Three more sleeps.

  Three more sunrises through windows that are getting smaller and smaller with each cell. If the next cells have windows, that is.

  Three more sunsets.

  Can we skip a few, please? Can we do it now and get it over with?

  No, hang on, four more sunsets. Of course, execution is after everyone’s had time to eat their dinner and walk the dog and settle down for an evening’s entertainment in front of the telly with a cup of tea or a glass of wine, depending on the day.

  Bliss.

  I don’t know what time it is. I don’t want to look at the clock. I’m going to stay here all day. Lie and sleep. Sleep and lie.

  Or die, please.

  God, my head hurts.

  I yank at the sheet, thinking the cool of it will be nice on my eyes, and the bed shifts away from the wall.

  Something there catches my eye. The edge of a word or a pattern. I stare at it for a while. I don’t want to be curious. Can’t be bothered. Don’t want to know what it is.

  But …

  No, Martha, just go to sleep, leave it be, ignore it.

  But … I summon energy from somewhere, push the bed further away and I can see mo
re.

  Push it further and –

  The wall hidden behind the bed is covered in red writing.

  I sit up – I can’t help myself – and I peer closer.

  Ted McNally. Thomas Redfearn. Alison Holmes. Craig Stiller. Marcus Allcock. Ahmed Johnson. John Reinbeck. Oscar DeVillo. Clarice Netenberg.

  The names are written awkward. Blurry. Some smeared, some with drips and runs.

  They’re written in blood.

  They go on and on and on. Hundreds of them.

  Suddenly I’m awake again, and alive, and caring.

  That was not your mum and that was not Isaac, that bit of me inside says, stronger now, and I’m listening. They gassed you, made you see your own worries, but your mum and Isaac didn’t think that, they never did and never would. And you know that. Don’t let the bastards win.

  I nod. I know, I think to myself.

  Be strong. Keep strong.

  I look back to the names. A shiver runs down my spine.

  How many people have been in this cell, facing only three more days of life with so much left to do or say? To apologise, explain, beg for understanding or for right and proper justice?

  I read the names like I’ve got an obligation to their souls.

  Boris Axenborough. Corrine Hamah. Edith Chalabi. Oliver Barkova.

  Ollie. My neighbour, my babysitter, my friend. Confidante and guilt.

  I lean forward and catch my finger on a bed spring, it digs into my skin and red blood oozes out. I squeeze it and more comes up like an inky bubble.

  As I stand up there’s a whirring sound on the wall behind me. I look around, I’m sure the box near the ceiling is moving.

  I watch it.

  6.30 p.m. Death is Justice

  Dark blue screen, flecks of white buzz and crackle. The eye logo spins.

  The caption – ‘Sofa on Saturday’ – drifts across as the theme tune begins, slower and sweeter than on weekdays, the backing heartbeat quieter. The caption disappears in a muted flash and lights come up on a more intimate studio. Kristina, dressed in fitted grey trousers and a pink blouse tight across her chest, is seated on a bank of slouched leather sofas, a low wooden coffee table in front of her splayed with magazines and newspapers. Next to her is Joshua Decker, fitted trousers and a shirt open a little too much.