DAY FOUR. 2.20 p.m.

The shrugs of the rest of the group indicated that Layla and Dervla had won the day, and since the inmates of the house were allowed neither pencil nor paper Jazz, drawing on his training as a chef, suggested that they make the rota grid out of spaghetti.

“Spag sticks to walls,” he said. “That’s how you check it’s done. You chuck it at the wall and if it sticks it’s done.”

“Well, that’s fahkin’ stupid, Jazz,” said Gazzer. “I mean, then you’d have to scrape your dinner off the wall, wouldn’t you?”

“You don’t throw all of it, you arsehole, just a strand or two.”

“Oh, right.”

“Jazz lightly boils some spaghetti,” said Andy the narrator, “and makes a rota grid on the wall.”

“Bitching,” said Jazz, admiring his handiwork. “Now each of us can be represented by grains of boiled rice. The starch will make them stick.”

“Wicked!” shouted Moon. “We can each personalize our grains, like them weird fookers in India or wherever who do rice sculptures. I saw it on Discovery, they do all this incredible tiny detail and the really, really philosophical thing about it is, it’s too fookin’ small to see?”

“Well, that’s just fahkin’ stupid, isn’t it?” Gazzer opined.

“It’s not! It’s a fookin’ philosophical point, ain’t it? Like if a tree falls in a forest but nobody hears it. Did it make a noise or whatever. These blokes don’t do it for you or me. They decorate grains of rice for God.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“That’s because at the end of the day you’re dead thick, you are, Garry. You think you’re not, but you are.”

They all began to discuss how they could individualize their grains of rice, and it was at this point that Woggle spoke up from his corner. “People, I have yet to speak, and I think that this domestic fascism is totally divisive. The only appropriate and equitable method of hygiene control is to allow work patterns to develop via osmosis.”

They all looked at Woggle.

“Listen, guy, I have to tell you,” said Jazz. “The only thing developing via osmosis on you is mould.”

Layla tried to be reasonable. “Surely, Woggle, you’re not saying that any type of group organization is fascism?”

“Yes, I am.”

There was a pause while the nine people who were trapped in a small house with this creature from the black latrine took in the significance of his answer. They were going to have to live with a man who considered organizing the washing-up tantamount to invading Poland.

Woggle took the opportunity of their stunned silence to press his advantage. “All structures are self-corrupting.”

“What are you talking about, guy?” said Jazz. “Because I have to tell you, man, you are sounding like a right twat.”

“Centrally planned and rigidly imposed labour initiatives rarely produce either efficient results or a relaxed and contented workforce. Look at the Soviet Union, look at the London Underground.”

“Woggle,” Layla was now sounding slightly shrill, “there are ten of us here and all I’m saying is that in order that the house stays nice it would be a good idea to rotate the housework.”

“What you are saying, sweet lady,” Woggle replied in his irritating nasal tone, “is that a person can only be trusted to act responsibly if he or she is ordered to do so.”

“I am so going to hate you,” said Jazz, speaking for the group.

“In the greater scheme of things,” Woggle said, “within the positive and the negative energy of creation, hate is merely the other half of love, for every season has its time. Therefore in terms of the universe as a whole, actually, you love me.”

“I fucking don’t,” said Jazz.

“Yes, you do,” said Woggle.

“I fucking don’t!” said Jazz.

“You do,” said Woggle.

Woggle never gave up.

DAY FIVE. 9.00 a.m.

Dervla pushed the bar of soap up under her T-shirt and washed her armpits. She was just beginning to get used to showering in her underwear; it had felt very uncomfortable on the first morning and rather silly, like being on a school trip and insisting on undressing under the covers. The alternative, however, meant exposing her naked body full frontal to the viewing millions, and Dervla had absolutely no intention of doing that. She had watched enough reality TV to know what the producers liked most and took great care as she lathered under her arms. It would be extremely easy to inadvertently pull up her vest and expose her breasts and she knew that behind the two-way mirrors in the shower cubicle wall a live cameraman was watching, waiting for her to do just that. One flash would be all that was required and her tits would be hanging around somewhere on the Internet till the end of time.

Having showered, Dervla went to brush her teeth, and it was while doing this that she noticed the letters on the mirror. For a moment she thought that they had been left in the condensation by the previous occupant of the shower room, but when more appeared she realized with a thrill that they were being written from the other side of the mirror.

Although Dervla had been incarcerated for only four days, already she had begun to feel as if she and her fellow inmates were the only people left on earth. That their little sealed bubble was all that was left in the world. It was quite a shock to be reminded that it wasn’t. That outside, beyond the mirror, just inches away but in another world, someone was trying to talk to her.

“Shhhhh!”

That was the first word that had appeared. Written as Dervla watched, letter by letter appearing through the steam and condensation, right near the bottom of the mirror, just above the basin taps.

“Don’t stare,” came next, and Dervla realized that she was standing bug-eyed, still holding her toothbrush in her mouth, looking at the letters. Quickly she readjusted her gaze, looking at her own reflection as toothbrushers are wont to do.

After a moment she allowed her eyes to flick down again.

“I like you,” said the words. “I can help you. Bye now.”

There was a pause and then the anonymous communicator’s final letters. “XXX.”

Dervla finished brushing her teeth quickly, wrapped a towel around her, took off her wet knickers and vest, dressed as fast as she could and went outside to sit in the vegetable garden. She needed to think. She could not decide whether she was angry or excited about this un-sought-for development. On balance she reckoned that she was both. Angry because this man (she felt certain it was a man) had clearly singled her out for his special attention. He had been watching her and now he wanted to use the power he had over her to intrude on her space. That gave her rather an uncomfortable feeling. What were his motives? Was he attracted to her? Was he perving on her? What other reason could he have for risking his job in such a manner? On the other hand, perhaps he was doing it for a laugh? Perhaps he was just a wild and crazy guy who fancied the crack of manipulating Peeping Tom? Dervla was well aware of how much the media preferred scandals and skulduggery in the house to honest relationships. It was always the bad boys and girls who got the publicity. If this mysterious letter-writer managed to open up a dialogue with her, the story would certainly be worth more than a cameraman’s wage.

That was a thought. Perhaps he was already in the pay of a newspaper? The press were always trying to drop leaflets and parachutists and hang-glider pilots into the house; it must have occurred to them to try to bribe a cameraman. Now another thought occurred to her: perhaps this person was no friend at all, but an agent provocateur! Seeking to tempt her into breaking the rules! Was this entrapment? A sting? Were Peeping Tom or the newspapers trying to catch her out? If so, then were they trying the same trick on the others?