by Ben Elton
‘The point I’m making, sir,’ Hooper pressed on, ‘is that if he was planning to kill her, which we have presumed he was, then he must have been considering the possibility of doing her inside the sweatbox. He could not have known for certain that she would go to the loo, or that he would be able to conceal his identity when he followed her into it.’ Coleridge stared at the screen for a long time. Difficult to believe that there were eight people in that foolish little plastic construction.
‘Unless the catalyst for the murder did not occur until after they had entered the box,’ he mused.
‘Unless whatever it was that made the killer want Kelly dead did not occur until moments before she ran to the toilet, and in fact he ran after her in an act of spontaneous fury.’
‘Or fear,’ Hooper added.
‘Yes, that’s right. Or fear. After all, since none of these people knew each other before they entered the house…’
‘Or so we have been told, sir.’ This remark came from Trisha, who had just returned with a round of teas.
‘Yes, that’s right, constable, so we have been told,’ said Coleridge.
‘We have been working on the theory that the catalyst that provoked the murder must have taken place at some point between the housemates entering the house and their entering the box. But of course something terrible might have happened once they were inside the box.’
‘Well, it would certainly explain why the people at Peeping Tom have no idea about a motive,’ Trisha conceded, sugaring Coleridge’s tea for him.
‘It would indeed. And this situation was after all developing into an orgy.’ Coleridge pronounced the word ‘orgy’ with a hard ‘g’. Hooper wondered whether he did it deliberately and rather thought he must.
‘Quite a volatile environment, I should imagine. An orgy,’ Coleridge continued.
‘Are you suggesting a rape, sir?’ Said Trisha.
‘That someone forced themselves upon Kelly and then killed her in order to avoid the consequences?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time a rape turned into a murder.’
‘But the others? We’ve talked to them all. They didn’t notice anything. I mean, you simply could not keep a thing like that quiet.’
‘Couldn’t you? In that environment? Besides, consider the possibility that they were all conspirators. That they were all covering up for the one who actually did the dirty work.’
‘You mean perhaps they all wanted Kelly dead?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Coleridge.
‘It would certainly explain the startling lack of evidence in any of their statements.’
‘You think that perhaps she had something on them, that she knew something about them all?’ Coleridge accepted his mug of tea from Trisha without looking at her. Instead he continued to stare at the box on the screen. He was imagining something very ugly.
‘Or because they’d all done something to her,’ he said finally.
‘Some kind of group abuse?’ Hooper said.
‘A gangbang?’ Coleridge wanted to tell Hooper to use some other more suitable term, but he knew that there wasn’t one. For the umpteenth time he pressed play and 11.38 ticked over to 11.39. Kelly emerged from the sweatbox.
DAY TWENTY-SEVEN. 11.39 p.m.
Geraldine was thrilled. Thrilled and very excited. When asked to describe the scene later to the police, everyone who had been in the box with her that night commented on just how happy had been her mood. Almost hysterical, one or two of them had said. And well Geraldine might have been happy. It was clear to them all as they watched the grey, translucent plastic box almost begin to throb that her plan was working and that real sex truly was on the cards. They had been in the box for just half the allotted four hours, and there had clearly already been some quite specific erotic activity, and it seemed certain that there would be more. The shouts and shrieks and smart-alee comments of the first rush of embarrassed excitement had died down, and now only murmurs and whispers could be heard. The people inside the box were clearly very drunk and very disoriented after their two hours of sweating and writhing in the complete darkness of their little plastic hut. Clearly anything might happen. And of course it did. It was about ten minutes after Jazz’s voice had been heard suggesting a touching game in which people were to attempt to identify each other in the darkness that the plastic flaps at the entrance to the sweatbox parted, and Kelly emerged.
‘Aye aye,’ said Geraldine.
‘Piss break.’ Bob Fogarty winced and concentrated on his monitors. On the screens Kelly straightened herself up. Her naked body was gleaming and dripping with sweat.
‘Very nice,’ whispered Geraldine, tense with excitement.
‘Very, very, very nice.’ Kelly seemed to be in a hurry. She did not bother to take up one of the great long sheets that Peeping Tom had thoughtfully provided for such eventualities, but simply ran naked out of the boys’ bedroom, across the living area and into the sole lavatory, which served the needs of the whole group.
‘Beautiful!’ Geraldine exclaimed.
‘I never thought they’d use the cover-up sheets once they got amped up. Except maybe that snotty cow Dervla. Moon was right, I only put them there to make it look like I’m not a total perv, which of course I am, along with the rest of the population, I might add.’ Kelly’s run had certainly been thrilling for the watchers in the monitoring bunker. The show’s first moment of absolute, in-focus, full-frontal nudity.
‘Minge and all,’ as Geraldine delightedly put it.
‘Now we won’t have to keep running that same tired old shot of her tit coming out in the pool.’
‘Superb image quality, too,’ commented Fogarty.
‘The body or the pictures?’ Geraldine enquired.
‘I’m a techy, I don’t do aesthetics,’ Fogarty replied with angry embarrassment. He was right about the quality, though. This was no grainy-blue sneaky night-shot like the ones they occasionally caught in the bedrooms. Kelly had run right through the living area, which was permanently neon lit, and although the lights had been dimmed to avoid light intruding into the boys’ bedroom when the door was open, it was still a glorious shot.
‘Nice one, Larry,’ Geraldine called into the microphone, addressing the one live cameraman on duty.
‘Glad we decided to keep you on.’ Geraldine was referring to the fact that there had only the previous day been a debate about dispensing with night operators altogether, because so little ever actually happened in the house at night, and seeing as how the entire environment was covered by remotes anyway. Geraldine had, however, insisted on retaining at least one person in the camera runs at night for just such an eventuality as had occurred. A naked girl running right across the room needed the personal touch. The coverage from the hotheads not only came from above but also encompassed three different arcs of vision, and would have had to be cut up accordingly. On the other hand Larry, the live cameraman, had got one long beautiful, tit-bouncing, thigh-wobbling, tummy-stretching, full-frontal shot with pubic hair in full and constant focus. A shot that would play absolutely beautifully in slow motion.
‘Terrific work, out of the blue like that,’ Geraldine continued, giving credit where it was due.
‘Looks like there’s still a role for you human beings in making television. Stick with her at the toilet door, Larry, and get her again when she comes out.’ Inside the toilet, of course, there was only remote coverage, a single camera mounted high in a corner above the door. This camera was looking down now on Kelly as she sat on the seat of the lavatory, her head in her hands. In the monitoring box there was a slightly embarrassed silence. None of the production team had ever quite got used to this bit of their job. Listening to people pee and poop. In the daytime at least there were other things going on, something else to look at and listen to, but not at night. When any of the housemates went at night it was just them and the six people watching and listening from the box. This was always a strangely intense and rather degrading experience for the ed
iting team. They felt like the most awful perverts. On this occasion, of course, there should have been plenty of distraction coming from inside the translucent plastic box, but suddenly the party seemed to have arrived at something of a lull. The high hilarity,grunting and giggling of the touching game had rather abruptly died down into what sounded like something approaching a drunken stupor. Murmured conversations and giggles could be made out, but nothing very clear. Nothing distracting enough to take the team’s minds off the girl on the toilet. And so they sat there, grown-up, educated, professional people, waiting to watch a young woman empty her bladder and very possibly also her bowel. They all felt very stupid.
‘Get on with it then, darling,’ said Geraldine.
‘You can’t have stage fright after three weeks. We’ve all heard you piss before.’
‘Maybe she’s having a little cry or something,’ said Fogarty.
‘She doesn’t normally hang her head like that when she pees.’
‘Somebody in the sweatbox pushed her a bit too far, do you think?’ Geraldine replied eagerly.
‘Well, we shall no doubt hear all about it in the confession box tomorrow.’
‘She’s just sitting like that ‘cos she’s drunk,’ observed Pru, the assistant editor.
‘Probably.’ Together they all continued to stare at the girl on the toilet. It was, after all, their job. That reminds me,’ said Geraldine.
‘I’m busting.’ She had been in the bunker for many hours, drinking coffee almost continuously.
‘Bet I’m back before she’s been.’ Geraldine rather prided herself on the efficiency of her physical functions.
‘ ‘And I’m going to have a shit,’ she remarked over her shoulder as she left. Geraldine knew how unpleasant her staff found her and she delighted in compounding it, surprising them by going further than even their grim expectations.
‘Far, far too much information,’ Fogarty said ruefully after Geraldine had left the room. They waited in silence.
‘I think she is upset,’said Pru.
‘Who? Geraldine? I doubt it.’
‘No, Kelly. She doesn’t want a pee, she’s just gone in there to get away, hasn’t she?’
‘Possibly, I suppose.’
‘Well, she’s not doing a wee, is she? She’s just sitting there. She just wanted to get out of that sweatbox, but she knows if she does she’ll forfeit the task and Geraldine will fine the group half their budget. The only way she can get a break is by pretending to have a pee.’ Shortly after this Geraldine returned and drew the same conclusion as Pru.
‘She’s skiving off,’ Geraldine sneered.
‘She’s having a bunk. She’s not having a piss, she’s taking the piss, and I’m not putting up with that. I’m going to give her a Peeping Tom announcement to pee or get off the potty. Where’s my voice? Where’s Sam? I’m going to tell that young slapper to get her lovely body back in that sweatbox or pay the price.’
‘Hang on,’ said Pru.
‘Something’s happening.’
DAY TWENTY-NINE. 8.10 p.m.
The line of numbers at the bottom of the screen of the incident room television showed that it was 11.44. 11.44 and twenty-one seconds, twenty-two seconds, twenty-three seconds. Coleridge still found it difficult to watch, even after numerous viewings. He had heard that the whole sequence was already available on the Internet and had been downloaded many tens of thousands of times. As long as he lived Coleridge did not believe he would understand how a single race of beings could include both Jesus Christ and the sort of people who would download a video of a young woman being murdered. He rather supposed that had been the Messiah’s point, but that didn’t make it any easier to understand or accept. He, Hooper and Trish watched as, while Kelly sat naked and unsuspecting on the toilet, at the other end of the house, in the boys’ bedroom, the plastic flaps of the sweatbox moved. There was a sort of flurry of activity as a hidden figure swiftly gathered up one of the sheets that Peeping Tom had allowed for lavatory trips, spread it out to cover the entrance and on leaving the box enveloped his or her self in it. Try as they might, and using the best image-enhancement technology available, the police had been unable to gain any information whatsoever from that blurred bluish image. For a moment a hand was visible, but it was not possible to even tell if it was male or female, or even to say whether it wore a ring. Then, carefully, covered from head to toe in the sheet, the hunched figure made its way out of the boys’ bedroom and into the glaring tube lighting of the living area. From there it went to the kitchen units, where it provided the police with another tantalizing glimpse of hand as it reached into one of the kitchen drawers and took out the largest kitchen knife available, a beautiful Sabatier. Then, as the murmuring and giggling that emanated from inside the sweatbox continued gently to waft into the microphones, the cloaked figure crossed the rest of the living room, went into the utility area and approached the toilet door.
DAY TWENTY-SEVEN. 11.44 p.m.
Who the fuck is that, then?’ Said Geraldine, watching the sheeted figure emerge from the boys’ bedroom.
‘Don’t know,’ said Pru and Fogarty together.
‘Someone’s having a laugh,’ opined Fogarty.
‘Going to scare Kelly.’ Now the figure crossed to the kitchen units and picked up the knife from the kitchen drawer.
‘That I do not like,’ said Geraldine. That is not funny.’ The figure was making its way towards the toilet now.
‘They’re all far too pissed for this type of nonsense,’ said Geraldine.
‘We need to make an announcement. Tell whichever silly cunt is in that sheet to stop fucking around and put that fucking knife back in the drawer before he gets us censored by the bleeding Standards Commission. Sam’s not here. You do it, Pru, quick, bang the intercom on.’ But there was no time. The figure in the sheet suddenly threw open the toilet door and swept inside. Kelly must have seen her killer’s face, but she was the only person who did. Every housemate knew the location of all the cameras intimately and whoever burst into that toilet knew that the only camera covering him was the one above the door. As he entered, he raised the sheet high above his head with both hands, one of which also held the knife. Kelly must have looked up in surprise, but it was not possible to see her expression in that final moment because the sheet was billowing above and behind the killer, cutting them both off from the view of the camera. Now, as Geraldine and her editing team watched, the sheet seemed to fall downwards onto Kelly. This, it was to transpire, was the first plunge of the knife. The one that skewered Kelly’s neck. In the monitoring box they still thought it was a wind-up. They had no reason to think anything else.
‘What is that cunt doing?’ Geraldine said, as the billowing sheet raised itself up again before plunging down once more.
DAY TWENTY-NINE. 8.30 p.m.
I think he had been planning on making only one blow,’ said Coleridge.
‘After all, he couldn’t afford to get any blood on him.’
‘Tough call, that, if you happen to be knifing somebody.’
‘Just one huge blow, straight into the brain. Instant death.’
‘And no geyser of blood.’
‘Exactly, but the girl must have moved her head and he hit the neck.’
‘Fortunately for him not the jugular.’
‘No, not the jugular. He got away without getting marked, just.’
‘One lucky bastard.’ Coleridge was forced to agree: the killer had indeed been one lucky bastard.
‘I still say it would take a man to deliver a blow like that, and a strong one,’ Hooper continued.
‘It doesn’t. We proved that,’ said Trisha with a touch of impatience. She herself had spent an unpleasant afternoon at a local butcher’s shop plunging knives into pigs’ skulls.
‘I know that a woman could have done it, but at what risk?’ Hooper insisted.
‘If the knife had got stuck in the bone of the skull, for instance — that happened with the pigs, Trish, half th
e times you tried it. What’s more, the force required is huge, and there’s no guard on a kitchen knife. You were wearing gloves, but your hand slipped occasionally. What if hers had done? She’d have cut off her own fingers. Kelly would have grabbed the sheet. It would have been all up. The chances of a woman pulling off a blow like that are quite small.’
‘Except for Sally,’ Coleridge said. Big, beefy Sally. The Internet’s murderer of choice.
‘Why on earth would Sally murder Kelly?’ Said Trish, a little too quickly.
‘Why would any of them?’ Coleridge answered.
‘The only thing we can say for sure is that any one of them could have done it. The killer was right-handed and so are all of the remaining housemates. However, I concede that it is more probable that one of the stronger ones did it. Probably a man.’ They all turned back to the screen. The figure had thrown open the door at 11.44 and twenty-nine seconds. The first blow had fallen two and a half seconds later, the next and final one two seconds after that. The killer had been inside the lavatory for considerably less than ten seconds in all.
‘If it wasn’t all so damned clinical,’ Coleridge observed, ‘I would have said that the attack was frenzied.’ The tape played on. The killer had clearly taken two sheets from the pile when he left the sweatbox, for now as he raised himself up from making the second blow he threw one over his victim. The other one continued to cover him as he left the toilet.