“I used to watch you box,” Peter said, extending a hand. “Peter Kane. Horror writer.”
“Thinthe when did writherth become thelebrities?” said Frank, enveloping Peter’s hand in his own. Peter was sure he heard something crack, and braced himself for the ensuing pain.
“You’re not the first to ask me that tonight,” Peter said, taking his hand back and rearranging it so that the fingers were in the correct order once more. “What do you think of the others?”
The boxer nodded and glanced around at the mingling celebs. “I’d thay we’re in for one hell of a week. That Mark’th a fool, thimply here to make the retht of uth guyth look like we’ve been through a meat-grinder. And I don’t know what’th going on with the woman in the photograph dretth, but I can thtill thee her nippleth, and that’th jutht not acctheptable. My kidth are going to be watching thith.”
Kids? Peter was shocked, mainly because Frank Henry hadn’t landed a hit in his life. “What do you make of the Playboy Bunny? She seems nice.” Peter hadn’t had a chance to speak to the girl yet, but apart from the sinkhole in her face, everything else seemed present and correct.
“Yeth, the’th nithe. I didn’t even know Hugh Heffner had a thoo permit.”
“Where do you think he keeps his Bunnies?” Peter said, meaning it as a joke. A really awful, never-to-be-repeated joke. “No, but seriously, imagine losing your eye to a parrot. That’s got to suck.”
“I wonder why thee doethn’t wear a glatth one,” said Frank, sipping at his champagne.
“Well, probably because it would hurt the parrot’s beak,” Peter said, once again instantly regretting his decision to speak. Was it possible to go the entire week without conversing with anyone? Because in that moment, he felt like an utter drip. “But, yeah, I wonder why that is.” Maybe I’ll ask her later. Probably won’t.
“Hey, we’ve got out first little clique over here,” said the self-appointed bartender, Mark White, who was famous for something or nothing. “The boxer and the writer, sitting in a tree.” He walked across the room, put himself between Peter and Frank, and draped his arms over them as if they were old mates, an inseparable trio, the weirdest looking triplets ever birthed. “I’m only joking,” he said, his teeth glistening as if he was wearing Tinkerbell as a brace. “We’re going to have a good time in here, ain’t we? Huh? Hah?”
Peter shrugged the lunatic’s arm from his shoulder. This guy, he thought, was the kind of prick you saw on those awful Ibiza programmes, the ones with the insufferable reps passing STD’s back and forth like some sick game of Trichomoniasis Tennis.
“Okay, so we said we were going to wait until everyone was in the house before we checked it out,” said the insufferable prick. “Who’s up for a little tour, huh? Find out where we’re going to be sleeping tonight.” He flashed the room yet another blinding grin, which seemed to fall from his face as he realised the old lady in the weird dress, Clunge something or other, was grinning back at him and licking her thin, puckered lips.
“I’m up for a tour,” said Michaela Strapon, placing her glass down on the large, mahogany desk at the edge of the room.
“Me too,” concurred Victor Hoof, stepping forwards. Lorna Giffard shivered and stepped back. Peter didn’t know how long she was going to last, what with her fear of little people, but as far as he was concerned it was one less challenger for the quarter of a million.
“What are we waiting for?” Crystal said, necking her champagne in one thirsty gulp.
“Let’s just take a moment here,” Peter said, walking across the room. He picked up Michaela’s glass and knocked back its contents. She was about to protest when Peter’s words cut her off. “We can’t just go walking around this place, willy-nilly,” he said. “This is Celebrity Hell House, which means that there could be all kinds of traps out there.”
“So how are we supposed to get to our rooms?” Lorna asked. “Do you think our beds have been rigged?”
Mark White stepped forwards, placatory hands held high. “Everyone, hold up,” he said, still grinning like a Halloween pumpkin on crack. “I don’t think they’re going to start trying to scare us until after we’ve settled in. They’re going to want to catch us off guard, when we’re at our most vulnerable, not when we’re all together like this, so if we just stay together, I think we’ll be okay moving around the house.”
Peter poured himself another champagne. It was the last of the second bottle; he was just grateful that he’d got there first. “I think he’s right,” he said, and he did, for the most part. “They’re probably going to wait until we’re in our beds, and then—”
Just then, the lights went out. All around people screamed; those that weren’t screaming laughed nervously.
“So much for waiting until we’re in our beds,” Victor said.
“Everyone stay calm,” Peter said, moving slowly through the darkness. Something bounced off his crotch.
“Hey!” Victor Hoof said. “Someone just dicked me in the face!”
“Sorry,” Peter said. “I’m pretty sure I saw a torch over here behind the bar. If everyone can just stay still until I…” He trailed off. “Okay, I’m at the bar…now, if I remember…” He edged slowly to his left, hoping that he wasn’t wrong about the torch. It had been here somewhere. It was almost as if the producers had known someone would spot it, for it had been carefully placed, right next to the empty ice-bucket. “How’s everyone doing?”
“Scared,” said Lorna.
“A little freaked out right now,” Michaela added.
“I think I’ve thit in my thortth,” Frank said. “I hope they’ve put our luggage in our roomth.”
Peter felt around in the darkness, knowing that to the people at home – through the night-vision cameras the show would no doubt be utilising – he was looking like a prize tit. Though no worse than the others, who were gathered in the centre of the room trying not to inhale the stench emanating from Frank Henry.
“Hang on, I think I’ve…” Peter trailed off, realising that he hadn’t found the torch, but was instead clinging to an empty champagne bottle. “For fuck’s sake, it’s here somewhere.”
“I don’t like this,” said Michaela. “I don’t like this at all. What if one of us has an accident in here.”
“It’th a bit late for that,” Frank said.
“She’s right,” said Victor Hoof. “We shouldn’t be expected to walk around blind in here, bumping into shit. I could fall down. I know it’s not as far to fall as the rest of you, but it still bloody smarts. I mean, do they think this makes good TV? Humiliating a bunch of celebrities like this? Don’t they know who we are?”
That, Peter thought as he continued to fumble in the darkness, was one of the only things they did know. “We are clowns,” he said. “Here to entertain the viewing public.”
“Well I don’t see how we can entertain them if they can’t bloody well see us,” said Dawn Clunge.
“I’m pretty sure the viewers at home can see us,” Peter said.
“What?” said Mark White. He removed a hand from his boxers and scratched at his sore manhood through the fabric of his trousers instead. He had spent the previous three nights in the company of a dozen or so less-than-virtuous girls, for he had convinced himself that he might never have sex again. Anything could happen while he was cooped up in the Hell House. Another war could break out. There could be a plague. A tsunami could wash in from fucking Wales and drown the whole country. It was best to get one’s fill of the ladies, he thought, before heading into the house, if only to be on the safe side. Although now, with his knackers burning and the tip of his penis looking like something hippies forage for in the summer, he wished he hadn’t bothered. “What do you mean they can see us?” He had been scratching relentlessly ever since the lights went out, was embarrassed to think that the viewers had been able to see his furious raking.
“Ah, here it is,” Peter said, and then there was light. It wasn’t much light, but it was a hundred perc
ent more light than they’d had a moment ago. It flickered momentarily; Peter aimed it toward the ceiling, for he had no idea if any of his fellow housemates were epileptic and the last thing any of them needed was some poor fucker, rolling around the floor, gnawing through their own tongue. After a few seconds, the light stabilised, and Peter brought it back down.
Mark White stepped into the centre of the room, so that he was the only one illuminated by the torch. “You think they have night-vision cameras in here?” He sounded somewhat disturbed by the notion.
“Of course they do,” Peter said. “Most of the action is going to take place at night. What’s the point if no one can see the drama unfold?”
“Why do you think they’ve turned the lights out?” said Lorna, aware that the little person was there somewhere, swimming through the darkness like some stunted shark. Du-duh, du-duh, du-duh-du-duh…
Peter wondered whether these people even had a clue of what they had signed up for. “This is Celebrity Hell House, okay?” he said, trying not to sound patronising and failing miserably. “Things are going to happen in here that make us uncomfortable. It’s going to get scary, it’s going to be dark, there are going to be little people walking around, bumping into people’s crotches.”
“Not my fault,” said Victor Hoof.
“All I’m saying is that if they didn’t spook it up a bit, it would just be Big Brother, and I’m pretty sure ITV7 know how close they’re coming to a lawsuit as it is.” Peter allowed the torch to drift over each celebrity for a moment. “If we’re going to get through this, we’re going to have to be strong. We’re going to have to set aside our fears and draw strength from each other. Lorna?”
“Yes?”
“You’re terrified of little people, aren’t you?”
“It’s the way they waddle,” Lorna nervously said. “I always feel like they’re going to break into a song and dance.”
Peter didn’t know whether that qualified as a genuine fear, but he persisted. “When you’re in the presence of Victor – or any small person, for that matter – I want you to get down on your knees so that you are level with them. Victor is no smaller than anyone in this room, not mentally, anyway. Put yourself in his shoes…well, don’t, you’ll stretch them, but you know what I mean.”
“But I don’t like tall people either,” Lorna said. “If I’m down on my knees and level with Victor, everyone else will be up there, freakishly lanky.”
“My point is,” Peter said, changing the subject before it passed him by, “we can help one another get through this. I know there can only be one winner, and that’s down to the public, but if we can all try to stay sane in the meantime, that would be absolutely spiffing.”
“Hey, you’re alright, Peter,” Frank said, squelching his way across the room and patting the torch-bearer upon the back “Now, I don’t thuppothe you can thine that torch toward a toilet, could you? I’ve got a few thingth that need thome urgent attenthion.”
“Okay, and once you’ve got yourself cleaned up,” Peter said, doing his best to hold his breath, “we can all try to find somewhere to sleep. I think it’s best if we draw an end to this little celebration, at least for tonight.”
There were several exhalations of dissent, but nobody spoke.
“Tonight we sleep,” said Peter, adopting an ominous and somewhat comedic voice, like Lugosi, Karloff, or Schwarzenegger. “For tomorrow, the real horrors begin.” He topped it off with a maniacal cackle, hoping to alleviate the tension in the room. If anything, it had the opposite effect.
“I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep,” Lorna said. “Who knows what they have planned for us.”
“What we have to remember,” Peter said to the people he had known for only a couple of hours, nowhere near long enough to decide whether he hated them, or simply disliked them, “is that it’s just a game. A cleverly-designed experiment created for one purpose alone, and that purpose is to entertain the people at home. We’re rats, and this is our maze.” He moved across the room, shining the way with the torch. Seven freaked out Z-listers breathily followed.
This is going to be one helluva long week, he thought as he led the celebrity conga out onto the hallway, past the annoyingly noisy grandfather clock, and up the creaking, squeaking stairs, where he knew at least one of them would sleep quite effortlessly.
11
In the main studio, Callum Edmonds, Derrick Strunt, and the Lovecraft brothers, Nev and Trev, drank champagne and smoked huge cigars, cigars that would have Monica Lewinsky reaching for the Vaseline. A thick miasma drifted around the room; eyes watered, coughs erupted from every hole, but it was a celebration, and you couldn’t have a celebration without a glass or two of Veuve Monsigny and a 14-inch Cohiba Esplendidos.
The first night had been a huge success, not like Celebrity Golf Shack, where Tiger Woods had walked out after only five minutes after being erroneously teamed up with Brandel Chamblee, one of his harshest critics. Callum had had nothing to do with that little clusterfuck of a show, but he had read about it in the papers; the subsequent fallout had been spectacular. It was every producer’s worse nightmare. Thankfully, Callum had had no such trouble tonight.
“Look at them all,” Nev said, his huge glasses perched on the end of his pockmarked nose. “Do you think they have any idea just how awful things are going to get in there?”
Each monitor displayed a shot of the celebrities’ respective bedrooms, and what beautiful quarters they were, too. Filled to the brim with antique furniture and elegant embellishments, the bedrooms were exquisite. The night-vision cameras didn’t do them justice.
“I don’t think they have a clue,” Trev replied. His glasses were identical to his brother’s, as there had been a 2-for-1 deal on at Specsavers, and if the Lovecraft brothers were anything, it was frugal.
“I’m pretty sure that author guy’s prepared for anything we throw at them,” Callum said, sucking hard on his cigar.
“Since when did writers become celebrities, anyway?” asked Derrick. “I mean, I know that Rowling fella’s done alright for himself, but his stuff got turned into films. I’ve never heard of a Peter Kane.”
“We were running out of options,” Callum said, reclining in his chair and gesturing toward the monitors. “Alex Reid turned us down, Gary Glitter’s still doing time for something or other, and the mannish one out of the Spice Girls said she would only do it if she could advertise the shit out of her new tracksuit range.”
“What about Lindsay Lohan? She would have done it for a pat on the back and a bag of coke.”
“Rehab,” Callum said.
“Again?”
“Again.”
“Fuck me! that girl has spent more time in Betty Ford than Betty Ford’s husband.”
“Anyway, I quite like the horror guy,” Callum said. “I think it’ll be good for the show. You see how he’s already been singled out as the patriarch? That’s what happens with these idiots. They find someone to venerate and then overdo it, leaving the chosen linchpin to despise everyone around them. It makes great TV.”
“I think Dawn Clunge has just farted herself awake,” Nev said, jabbing a finger at the monitor. “That’s great TV.”
“Are they all asleep?” Callum said, glancing at his watch. It was a quarter-past twelve, and he was starting to feel the effects of the cheap champagne. The rats would have to be released into the house soon. He didn’t think he would last another hour.
“Clunge, Cobb, Henry, Hoof, Strapon, White, all asleep, or near enough,” Nev said, counting off the screens. “Your swimmer, Lorna, is sitting up and sobbing about something, and the writer guy is lying down now, but his eyes are wide open. See?” He zoomed in on the face of Peter Kane, whose mouth was moving slightly as if he were whispering.
“What’s the swimmer sobbing about?” Callum said, leaning forwards in his chair. “Can we get audio from her room?”
Trev pushed a green button on the panel console beneath the monitors, and a lou
d hiss filled the tent. “Dear Lord,” Lorna was saying between snotty sniffles, “protect me from the little people, the hobbits, the gnomes, the jockeys, the smurfs, and Danny DeVito. And Lord, please defend me for the duration of my stay in Hathaway House from Victor Hoof. I know there is a very good chance that he is a nice person, but there is also a chance that he will attempt to devour my kneecaps whilst I sleep. Lord, I know I haven’t been to see you for a while, but that’s because they put a Nando’s between my house and Our Lady of Willesden. I promise, if you do this for me, that I will come to see you every Sunday, like I used to. And I’ll only masturbate on days that have a T in them, just like we talked about at my last confession.”
“I’ve heard enough of that, thanks,” Callum said, making small circles in the air with his finger. “What’s the writer whispering about? Can we get audio on him?”
Trev shut Lorna Giffard’s audio off and pushed the button that would hopefully allow them to hear Peter Kane’s mutterings.
“Fuck you, Ed…fuck you, Ed…fuck you, Ed…fuck you, Ed…” Peter was whispering, almost singing. His eyes were clearly getting heavy, for they fluttered, as if he was trying to seduce the darkness.
“Who’s Ed?” Derrick said, pouring another glass of Brut. “Could it be that our writer is something of a homosapien?” He wiggled his eyebrows and grinned.
“Ed is the name of the guy’s manager,” Callum said, shaking his head and sighing. “And we’re all homosapiens, you dumb bastard. You’re thinking of hermaphrodites.”
“Doesn’t sound like he thinks much of his agent,” said Nev.
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