DAY THIRTY-TWO. 10.15 p.m.
“Very short fuse, Master David,” Coleridge observed thoughtfully. “Short enough for murder, do you think?”
Rewinding slightly and freezing on David’s furious face, it did seem possible.
“He certainly looks like he wants to murder her,” said Hooper. “But of course it wasn’t Layla that ended up getting killed, was it?”
“As we have discussed endlessly, sergeant. If the motive were obvious our killer would be awaiting trial right now. All we can hope to find is the seed from which a murder will grow.”
Hooper informed Coleridge as briskly as he dared that he was aware of this.
DAY FIVE. 9.15 p.m
After David had left the room, Layla did indeed take his advice and recite the poem herself, grinning like a baboon with a banana wedged sideways in its mouth throughout.
Jazz, Kelly, Dervla and Moon listened respectfully, and when it was over, they all said that they thought it was very, very good.
Woggle opined from his corner that poetry was merely an effort to formalize language and as such indicated a totalitarian mindset. “Words are anarchists. Let them run free,” he said. But the others ignored him, something that they had learned to do as much as possible, while counting the minutes to nomination day.
“That was the business, that poem, Layles. It was dead wicked, that, so fair play to yez,” Moon said in her Mancunian accent, which seemed to be getting thicker by the day.
“Did you notice my red lipstick?” Layla gushed.
They all had.
“Some anthropologists believe that women paint their lips red in order to make their mouths reminiscent of their vaginas.”
“Steady on, girl,” said Gazzer from over by the kettle. “Just had my dinner.”
“They say that women do it to make themselves more attractive to men, but I do it as a celebration.”
“Of what?” Jazz asked innocently.
“Of my vagina.”
“Oh, right.”
“Any time you want someone to help you celebrate it, Layles,” said Garry.
“Sherrup, Garry,” said Moon. “It’s not about fookin’ blokes, it’s about bein’ a strong and spiritual woman, in’t it, Layles?”
“Yes, it is, Moon, that’s exactly what it’s about.”
Kelly was still a bit confused. “Well, I don’t get what these anthropologists are on about. Why would any girl want to have a face like a fanny?”
Layla had to think about this for a moment. She had never been asked before. People she knew just tended to nod wisely and ask if there was any more guacamole.
“I don’t think they mean exactly like one. It’s just an impression of genitalia in order to steer the male towards procreation.”
“Oh, right, I see,” said Kelly.
“It’s why female monkeys turn their bottoms pink. If they didn’t they would have died out as a species long ago. Trust the woman to find a way.”
Everybody nodded thoughtfully.
“Did you know that monkeys have star signs?” said Moon. “Yeah. This mystic went to London Zoo and did horoscopes for all the advanced primates, and do you know what? She got them all bang on, their personalities and everything. It were fookin’ weird.”
DAY SEVEN. 8.00 a.m.
For the previous day or two Dervla had made a point of always being the first up in the morning so that she might have the shower room to herself. On this occasion, however, she found Moon had beaten her to it, not because Moon had suddenly transformed herself into an early riser, but because she was only just on her way to bed.
“I’ve been sat up all night reading that Red Dragon book Sally brought in. You know, the first one with Hannibal Lecter in it. Fookin’ amazing, I were fookin’ terrified. I reckon that’s the scariest kind of murder that, when there’s no fookin’ reason for it except that the bloke’s fookin’ mad for topping people, you know, a serial psycho.”
Dervla waited while Moon brushed her teeth and staggered off to bed.
“Wake me if I’m missing out on any food,” Moon said as she left the bathroom.
Now Dervla was alone, standing before the basin mirror in her underwear. She sensed movement behind the mirror. The housemates were occasionally aware of the people behind the mirrors: there were tiny noises and at night sometimes, when the lights in the bedrooms were off, shapes could vaguely be made out through the mirrors. Dervla knew that her friend had come to meet her.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall,” she said, as if having a private joke with herself, “who’ll be the winner of us all?” She pretended to laugh and put some toothpaste on her brush. None of the editors watching could have imagined that she was talking to anyone.
Soon the writing appeared, just as it did every morning. Ugly ungainly letters. The messenger was clearly having to write backwards and perhaps, Dervla thought, at arm’s length.
“Woggle number one with public,” said the message.
She nearly blew it. She nearly blurted Woggle’s name out loud she was so surprised to discover that he was in the lead. Fortunately she stayed cool, allowing her eyes to flick downwards only momentarily.
Her anonymous informant completed his message. “Kelly 2. You 3,” it said, and then, “Good Luck XXX.”
Dervla finished brushing her teeth and washed her face. So she was running third. Not bad out of ten. It was certainly a surprise that Woggle was so popular, but when she thought about it she supposed he must have a lot of novelty value. It would soon wear off.
Kelly was much more of a threat.
She was a lovely girl. Dervla liked her. Clearly the public did too. Never mind, Dervla thought to herself, there were eight weeks to go yet. A lot could happen in nine weeks and surely Kelly couldn’t stay so happy and so sunny for ever.
Before leaving the bathroom Dervla wiped the words off the mirror and blew a little kiss at her reflection. She thought that her friend the cameraman might appreciate a small friendly gesture.
DAY THIRTY-TWO. 11.35 p.m.
Coleridge tiptoed from the kitchen into the living room with his second can of beer. Upstairs his wife was asleep. She had been asleep when he’d arrived home and would still be asleep when he left the house again at six the following morning. She had left Coleridge a note pointing out that although they lived in the same house she had not actually set eyes on him for three days.
Coleridge searched out a Biro and scribbled, “I haven’t changed,” beneath his wife’s message.
The note would still be there the next night, only by then Mrs Coleridge would have added “more’s the pity”.
She didn’t mean it, she liked him really, but, as she often remarked, it’s easy to think fondly of somebody you never see.
Coleridge had brought home with him the Peeping Tom press pack relating to week one in the house. On the front was attached a photocopied memo written on Peeping Tom notepaper. It was headed “Round-up of housemates’ public/press profiles at day eight.” The writer had been admirably succinct.
Woggle is the nation’s pet. Mega-popular.
David is the bastard. Hated.
Kelly has phwoar factor. Popular.