Ben Elton - Dead Famous

The last thing any of the other panellists wanted was to be seen to be elitist.

“We certainly must listen to what the people want,” said the shadow minister. “Already Kelly Simpson has become part of their lives. They have seen her murdered, they have a right to view her legacy.”

“As I said,” Geraldine repeated. “They have to be given the opportunity to grieve and to heal.”

The distinguished poet made a late attempt to give the impression that it was actually he who had led the argument to the place where Geraldine had taken it. “As I believe I implied,” he said, “in many ways this event crosses the Rubicon in the democratization of the human experience. Reality television has already shown us that privacy is a myth, an unwanted cloak which people eagerly discard like a heavy garment on a summer’s day. Death was the last truly private event, but thanks to House Arrest it is private no longer. In our open, meritocratic age, no human experience need be seen as ‘better’ or more ‘significant’ than any other, and that includes the final one. If Kelly had the right to be seen living, then surely we must grant her the right to be seen dying.”

Geraldine had won her argument as she had fully expected to.

The simple truth was that people wanted to watch, and it would have been very difficult to deny them that opportunity. And not just in Britain either. Within thirty-six hours of the murder occurring it had been broadcast in every single country on earth . Even the rigidly controlled Chinese state broadcaster had been unable to resist the allure of such a very, very good bit of telly.

This worldwide exposure had been the cause of considerable frustration in the Peeping Tom office, which had been caught completely offguard by the sudden surge of international interest in House Arrest . When the flood of requests for tapes of the murder came in they had been handled like the ordinary clip requests that arrived in the office every day from morning TV and cable chat shows.

The clips had been given away !

Normally Peeping Tom was glad of the publicity. The nation was getting bored with reality television, and it was essential to give the impression that, when Jazz made an omelette or Layla got annoyed about the boys’ flatulence, a national event was taking place. Therefore, Peeping Tom Productions actively sought out opportunities to air their show on other programmes. So when every news and current-affairs show on earth had suddenly requested a clip, the Peeping Tom Production secretaries had simply followed procedure and handed them over for nothing. In fact, running off the huge number of tapes requested had actually cost Peeping Tom thousands of pounds.

No one involved would ever forget Geraldine’s reaction when she realized what had happened. There simply wasn’t enough foul language in the vocabulary to encompass her rage. In private, however, she had to acknowledge that it was her fault. She should have thought more quickly. She should have recognized immediately how profitable this murder was going to become.

Geraldine soon made good her mistake, and, from that point on, broadcasters who wanted to show any further footage of House Arrest were asked to pay a very heavy price indeed. But no matter how high Geraldine pushed that price, it was paid without a murmur.

Within a week of the murder, Geraldine, the sole owner of Peeping Tom Productions, had become a millionaire many, many times over. Although, as she was to explain in numerous interviews, this fact was of course in no way her reason for wishing to continue to broadcast. Oh no, as she had already made abundantly clear, she did that because it was her duty . She did that in order to give the public an opportunity to grieve .

Geraldine also dropped heavy but vague hints about substantial charitable donations, the details of which had of course yet to be finalized.

Some commentators had predicted that such unprecedented international interest in House Arrest could not be sustained, but they were wrong. Night after night viewers watched while the seven housemate suspects attempted to coexist in an atmosphere of shock, grief and deep, deep suspicion of each other.

Peeping Tom had announced that, until the police made an arrest, the game would continue as if nothing had happened. Nominations would take place as usual and the inmates would be given a task to learn and perform together in order to earn their weekly shopping budget. In the week following the murder, the task they were given was to present a synchronized water ballet in the swimming pool.

Geraldine had pinched the idea from the Australian version of the show, but in this new context it could not have been more perfect. Geraldine had also been acutely aware of the problem of maintaining the high level of excitement generated by the murder episode and its aftermath, and the idea of subjecting the seven housemates to a water ballet was hailed by many critics as a stroke of genius. The sight of these tired, nervous, desperate people, one of whom was a murderer, all rehearsing classical dance moves together while wearing high-cut Speedo swimwear, ensured that viewing figures for House Arrest went up. The sound of Mantovani’s most soothing string selections wafting through the house lent an even more sinister and surreal note to the exercises and the bickering.

“You’re supposed to raise your right fookin’ leg, Gazzer!” Moon shouted as Garry attempted to execute a movement known as the Swan.

“Well, I’ve done my fahkin’ groin in, haven’t I? I’m not a fahkin’ contortionist.”

“Point your toes, girl,” Jazz admonished Sally. “It says we’ll be judged on elegance and fucking grace.”

“I’m a bouncer, Jazz, I don’t do fucking grace.”

Even an innocent comment like this caused many a worried look between the housemates and much discussion on the outside. Sally had only been replying to Jazz, but to be reminded that she had more than a casual acquaintance with violence… Well, it did make you think.

Sometimes they confronted the ever-present agenda head on.

“This fahkin’ swimming suit’s riding right up my bum,” said Gazzer. “If I could get hold of the bloke whose idea this was I’d stick a fahkin’ knife in his head!” It was meant to be a joke, a dark and courageous joke, but nobody laughed when it was replayed ad nauseam in the House Arrest trailers, and Gazzer briefly climbed a notch or two in the “whodunit” polls of the popular press.

Coleridge was taking a break from reviewing the Peeping Tom archive when the pathologist’s report came in.

“Well, the flecks of vomit on the toilet seat were Kelly’s,” he remarked.

“Yuck,” said Trisha.

“Yuck indeed,” Coleridge agreed. “And, yucker still, there were traces of bile in her neck and in the back of her mouth. They think she’d been gagging. There’s no doubt about it: when Kelly left that sweatbox she must have been extremely upset.”

“Poor girl. What a way to spend your last few minutes, trying not to puke up all over people in a tiny plastic tent. God, she must have been drunk.”

“She was. The report says eight times over the limit.”

“That’s pretty seriously arsehole – legless. No wonder she was having trouble keeping it down.”

“The report also says that her tongue was bruised.”

“Bruised… You mean bitten?”

“No, bruised, reminiscent of someone forcing a thumb into her mouth.”

“Ugh… So somebody wanted to shut her up?”

“That would seem the obvious interpretation.”