The reality TV show to die for. Literally

by Kerry Drewery

  ‘Will the press be in the room?’ Isaac asks.

  He nods. ‘Always. It’s vital to us as a record of procedure and to follow the responsibility we have to the voting public to ensure their wishes are carried out to the full.’

  ‘I’d like to,’ Isaac says, jumping in quickly.

  ‘Then we’re done here,’ the woman says, looking at her watch. ‘Time to go.’

  ‘Already?’ Patty replies.

  ‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Paige.’

  With a nervous sickness rushing through him, Isaac picks up the file from his side and follows them from the house.

  Martha

  ‘The time is: 7 p.m. You have: two hours until your possible execution. The current stats are: 77.6% in favour, 22.4% against. We will update you in: thirty minutes.’

  Every thirty minutes now, hey?

  Two hours of my life left and all of it available to watch on live TV.

  At a premium now too.

  Who’d have thought I’d be so interesting that people would want to pay to watch me die. There’s voyeurism for you.

  How many people will watch my last breath?

  More than watched Jesus’s! Ha ha!

  God, I hope I don’t wet myself or anything, you know, when I die – or fart, because they say you do, don’t they? Oh, that’d be awful. But hey, I’ll be dead, so I won’t care.

  Unless I’m a ghost. Then I’ll cringe and bury my head.

  I don’t mind other people seeing me like that, but not you, Isaac, I don’t want you to remember me like that.

  I want you to remember me smiling, close to you, holding your hand or kissing you, lying in your arms.

  Before all this.

  The homeless had started drifting back to their old place at the underpass. It was protected from the wind and the weather and it kept more of the warmth from the fires they made in those metal bin things. Jackson had given them money to keep quiet after my mum was killed, and for a while they cleared off into hotels or B&Bs and the like, but a few at a time they came back to what I suppose they thought of as their home.

  A couple of them raised a hand to me as I passed through that night; a few put their heads down, I suppose not wanting to be reminded of what had happened. They all knew who I was, see. That orphan girl, they’d say, or her daughter, or that poor girl.

  Only one or two actually knew me by name, those who’d come to her funeral and stood with heads hung in shame for not being allowed to tell the truth.

  It’s OK, I told them, I get it, I know, I understand.

  I was raging, steaming angry, but with society, not them.

  The train lit its way through a gloomy station. Warm, welcoming carriages but for the smell of piss, sweat and alcohol. Y’see, the Rises might have a lot of nice, genuine folk in it, but it’s also got its fair share of drunks, druggies and idiots just like anywhere and they were the kind who’d use the train as somewhere to hang around in.

  You, though, kept to yourself on the train, propped in a corner with your hood up, a bottle in your pocket because it made getting out of trouble easier, you said, but I saw you stand and move towards the door, and as the train stopped and you stepped out, your smile warmed me more than any hot drink or fire could’ve done that night.

  We strolled through the frost with our arms linked, talking about what we could do, and we paused under a streetlight and kissed, and you looked down at me and I could see it already in your eyes.

  ‘We have to do something,’ you whispered. ‘We can’t carry on like this. He knows we’re still seeing each other. He’ll hurt you, you know he will.’

  ‘Then let him.’

  ‘No …’

  ‘I’m sick of being intimidated by him, Isaac. Something needs to change. Not just for me. People need to know the truth.’

  ‘You don’t think they know already?’

  ‘They need it shoving in their faces then and be forced to act.’

  We stepped out from beneath the street lamp, strolling past the boarded-up shops where I’d first seen him. Further up on Crocus Street, a dark car was pulled up at the side of the road.

  ‘You can’t force people to act,’ you said.

  Behind us a car door banged and we both turned around. Someone was walking towards us.

  Why didn’t we move, run away or something? Why did we just stand there and wait for him to reach us?

  ‘Martha Honeydew, you’re a filthy whore just like your mother.’

  I recognised his voice straight away.

  ‘And it’s about time we rid the world of the burden of having you in it. You were a mistake that should never have happened.’

  ‘What?’ you said.

  I heard a click and as he moved closer I saw the moonlight glint on the barrel of a gun.

  ‘No, Dad.’ I watched you move forward but my feet were stuck to the ground.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Isaac, but I’ll kill her and I’ll see that some fucking low-life scumbag fries for it. Nobody’ll care and in a couple of weeks nobody will even remember. Two birds, one stone. Two degenerate shits that this city will be better off without. She’s no good for you – she’s nothing, just some stupid worthless slag like her mother was.’

  ‘My mother was a good woman!’ I shouted and I stepped towards him now. ‘But you left her with nothing! Nothing but me!’

  ‘What are you talking about, you silly bitch?’

  ‘You know what’s she’s talking about,’ you replied.

  We were edging around each other like it was some elegant, slow-moving dance, one pace this, one pace that, neither getting the upper hand, drifting over Crocus Street and back towards the underpass.

  ‘I have proof as well,’ I said.

  ‘Of what?’ Jackson snorted.

  ‘Let’s start with that you killed my mother – and then we’ll move on to the rest.’

  ‘You can’t prove anything,’ he said.

  A bullet whizzed past my ear, the bang echoing so loud, the night stagnant in silence after it.

  ‘The next won’t miss,’ he said.

  A gun pointing at your head, the man you love at your side, your family dead, no future, no education … well, it kind of puts things into perspective.

  ‘The time,’ the electronic voice announces, ‘is 7.30 p.m. You have: one hour and thirty minutes until your possible execution. The current stats are: 79.6% in favour, 20.4% against. We will update you in … thirty minutes.’

  Shit.

  Isaac

  The white limousine pulls up at the gates of the prison. The crowd is massive; press with microphones and cameras, people with placards, tourists come for the spectacle. They’re rowdy, chanting ‘Death for the accused’, ‘An eye for an eye’.

  To one side of the crowd is a smaller group, banners proclaiming ‘Let there be evidence’, ‘Fair votes for all’, but their voice is quiet and the press ignore them.

  As Isaac and his mother step from the car a hush falls over the crowd, hats are removed and the jostling stops. People stand still with their heads lowered or hands on hearts.

  ‘Jackson was our hero!’ someone shouts, and from behind her dark glasses, Patty Paige smiles wide.

  ‘Hero of the people!’ another shouts and the rest applaud.

  ‘If only you knew the truth,’ Isaac mutters, but nobody hears him.

  They’re led along a path at the side of the building, past a tree where a sparrow sits and a barred window. At the door they’re scanned for weapons.

  ‘What’s this?’ the guard asks Isaac, lifting the folder.

  ‘A speech,’ he replies. ‘I’m speaking on my mother’s behalf.’

  The guard nods and lets them through.

  ‘This way, please,’ the female security officer says, and leads them into a large room. ‘I should inform you that, at this point, the glass is lit to only provide a view into the cell. The accused at this point, cannot see you, or can only see very little.’

  Isaac steps into th
e room.

  It reminds him of a cinema or theatre. Rows of seats leading back and slowly up, lights angled towards the front, a flat space between the first row of seats and the stage.

  He stops, staring at the glass screen, closer than he expected, no curtain to obscure it before the titles roll or the actors appear, no age certificate or trailers before it all begins, because there she is.

  His eyes rest on her and he cannot help but step towards her until he is right in front of the glass and his fingers are reaching out to touch.

  ‘Can she hear me?’ he asks.

  ‘No, absolutely not,’ the female officer replies. ‘You can call her all the names you want and she won’t hear a whisper.’

  He watches her sitting in the death chair, her face red and blotchy and her long hair gone. ‘Martha,’ he breathes.

  Whatever the other officer is explaining to his mother, Isaac is oblivious, and as his heart holds him to the glass, he watches Martha struggle barefoot from the chair.

  Her eyes don’t focus as she stumbles towards him, they’re vacant or away in some deep memory, but she stops at the glass right in front of him, raises a hand and places it next to his.

  ‘Can you see me?’ he whispers. ‘Can you hear me?’

  Her eyes flit over him without focus.

  ‘I love you,’ he breathes.

  She peers through the glass, looking at him now, then she bends down and breathes heavy on it, creating steamed-up clouds. He watches her draw a finger through it, and starting on her right, his left, the letters, blurry and awkward, begin to form:

  I LOVE YOU

  As he gulps, she glances over his shoulder and quickly wipes the message away with her palm.

  Behind him a conversation continues, but he watches Martha.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbles.

  She shakes her head, and again she breathes on the glass.

  REMEMBER YOUR PROMISE

  He nods and closes his eyes, and when he looks back again, she’s sitting on the chair.

  ‘There are seats reserved for you at the front,’ the female officer says, suddenly next to him. ‘There will also be a few dignitaries with you, notably the CEO of Life Visions, the editor-in-chief of the National News, a representative from Cyber Secure – if there are any other people you’d like sitting with you, that can be arranged, such as other family members, close friends …’

  ‘Eve Stanton,’ he says.

  ‘What? The counsellor?’ Patty asks. ‘What do you want her for? You don’t know her.’

  ‘And Judge Cicero,’ he adds.

  ‘What?’ she says again.

  The woman raises a hand. ‘Mrs Paige, having such people as those on the guest list will certainly increase public curiosity and therefore gather viewers. We can do a quick press release now.’

  Patty nods and the two women walk away together.

  The male officer turns to Isaac. ‘At the agreed time, two television screens will lower from the ceiling, one at each side of the glass, both providing a live feed from Death is Justice. Some time before that the lighting will be altered, allowing the accused to see out as well as you seeing in.’

  Isaac nods.

  ‘She will be allowed the opportunity to make her final words in approximately …’ he glances at his watch, ‘… fifty minutes. And don’t forget, she’s claimed she has a secret to tell, so it’s going to attract a lot of attention. We’re looking at this being the highest viewer ratings in history! It’s a huge deal. It’s the first of its kind – a teen girl accused of killing someone like your father –’

  Isaac interrupts. ‘And when do I get to speak?’

  ‘After phone lines have been closed and votes have been verified. Five minutes before she’s executed, so 8.55 p.m.’

  ‘You’re very sure she’ll be found guilty.’

  He laughs. ‘Oh, that’s a cert!’

  Martha

  ‘The time is: 8 p.m. You have: one hour until your possible execution. The current stats are: 97% in favour, 3% against. We will update you in: thirty minutes.’

  Back to where they were twelve hours ago.

  How time flies.

  This is it: the last hour.

  Make it count, Martha.

  It’s all minutes now. Fifty-nine minutes until my possible execution …

  ‘Possible execution’ my arse.

  Fifty-nine minutes until I die.

  Fifty-eight yet?

  Oh, the glass has changed, I can see out, see properly.

  Jesus, there are a lot of seats. How can they expect to fill so many? But they are! People are swarming in! I don’t know any of them!

  Someone’s taking tickets off them and showing them to their seats. My God, this is … this is scary … oh God … oh shit. They’re looking at me, watching me, like I’m some animal in the zoo or something. Jesus!

  I want to hide but there’s nowhere to go.

  Death is Justice

  At the desk, Kristina and Joshua are watching the screen filled with images from Cell 7 and the viewing room. His face is sombre, his movements slow and deliberate; she smiles constantly, her eyes flickering with excitement.

  JOSHUA: What are you thinking to this, Kristina?

  KRISTINA: Frankly, I can barely contain my excitement! I only wish we could be there live!

  His face stretches, a grimace or a fake smile.

  JOSHUA (laughing): You should’ve lived in gladiatorial Rome, Kristina. Seems you enjoy the spectacle of suffering!

  Her smile drops, she turns from the camera to him. Ignoring this, he continues.

  JOSHUA: I heard tickets were trading hands for more than four times their face value.

  KRISTINA: Yes, well, quite honestly, I would’ve given a kidney to be there! Spectacle of suffering or not, this is a once-in-a-lifetime viewing.

  JOSHUA: Well, you kind of hope so. Certainly we hope and pray that we live in a society where this type of crime is a very irregular occurrence.

  KRISTINA: Indeed. Oh, would you look at that!

  They both focus on the screen.

  JOSHUA: Oh, my …

  KRISTINA: Well, there’s a surprise. I believe in the front row we have, if I’m not much mistaken, not only our bereaved family of course, but Mr Cicero and Eve Stanton! What, pray tell, do you make of that?

  JOSHUA: Kristina, I haven’t a clue!

  Martha

  Eve, there’s Eve, and I recognise that man too, that’s Judge Cicero.

  Eve, can you see me?

  I try to beg with my eyes for her to look up, but she doesn’t.

  And Isaac. He’s looking at me. He’s not taking his eyes off me.

  Oh I feel sick. I want to cry.

  Help me, someone help me.

  I didn’t … I didn’t …

  No … don’t do that … be strong …

  Eve

  ‘I don’t want to be here,’ Eve whispers to Cicero. ‘I can’t look at her.’

  ‘You need to,’ he replies. ‘You need to be strong for her. Talk to her with your eyes.’

  ‘This is wrong,’ Eve says. ‘This shouldn’t be happening. But I don’t know what to do.’

  He leans towards her. ‘The boys have something planned,’ he whispers.

  She frowns at him. ‘The boys? What boys?’

  He sucks in a breath. ‘Isaac and your Max.’

  ‘Max!’ she hisses. ‘What’s Max doing in all this? Cicero, I can’t let him get involved.’

  ‘Shhhh,’ he says. ‘It’s all right. He promised me it’s nothing like that. He said he wouldn’t even be here.’

  ‘Then how …? And when did you and him suddenly know each other?’

  ‘This morning, with the television thing. He’s good with technology, your son.’

  ‘What?’

  Martha

  ‘The time is: 8.30 p.m. You have: thirty minutes until your possible execution. The current stats are: 97.4% in favour, 2.6% against. We will update you in: ten minutes.’
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br />   Oh God.

  God in heaven help me.

  I don’t think I can do this.

  I’m scared to die.

  I want to change my mind …

  That night, that night, you remember? A week ago! One whole week ago!

  This time last week I had walked over the frosty park, met you at the station, walked hand in hand with you, all the time knowing, sensing something … something …

  And then, there he was. Jackson staring at us, gun in hand, threatening …

  Suddenly everything in perspective.

  I thought I would die. Thought he’d shoot me there and then and be rid of me and have his little family back and his secret safe and all that. All he had to do was pull the trigger. He knew, I knew, you knew, that he would never be caught for it.

  I’d just be one more.

  Your mum, my mum, me.

  Those were just who we knew about.

  We’d said things had to change, and as I stared down the barrel of that gun, I knew that was the time. Act now, or never.

  I shouted at the top of my lungs and ran at him. He didn’t shoot, too surprised maybe, and I knocked him to the ground and I heard the thud of his head against the tarmac.

  But he leapt back up and grabbed me as I tried to run away.

  I waited to feel the cold of the gun on my skin, but didn’t.

  ‘Isaac!’ I shouted to you and I twisted and turned against Jackson, throwing a punch that glanced off the side of his face.

  ‘Bitch!’ he spat at me.

  I squirmed sideways but not quickly enough. Suddenly I was on the floor again with my face stinging and my head spinning. His shoes were in front of me and I felt the thud of one into my stomach. I had no air to scream or shout.

  Isaac, where are you? I thought.

  I blinked the pain away and across the tarmac I saw Jackson’s gun lying on the twinkling frost.

  I can’t do it, I thought, the air in my lungs burning hot.

  Can, I argued back. Have to.