DAY ELEVEN. 7.30 p.m.

The incident occurred on the second Thursday under House Arrest, the day of the first nominations.

The Peeping Tom rules were pretty much the same as all the similar shows that had gone before it. Each week, each of the housemates was asked to secretly nominate two people for eviction. The two most nominated people were then subjected to a public telephone vote to decide who should be thrown out of the house.

In order to allow people a chance to get to know each other there had been no voting in the first week and therefore day eleven was the first nomination day. The nominating took place in the afternoon, and in the evening the public got to see who had nominated whom, before the cameras cut live to the house to show the housemates being told who would be up for eviction on the following Sunday. Once this live moment of broadcasting was over, and everyone’s face had been studied for traces of relief, glee, spite, etc., the rest of the evening’s show returned to the usual round-up of the day’s activities in the house.

The first thing that the public saw on that eleventh night of House Arrest was the nominations. All but one of the housemates voted for Woggle. The strange thing was that the housemate who did not vote for Woggle was not Woggle, because even Woggle voted for Woggle, which was a first for any reality TV show.

“I am voting for myself to be evicted from this house,” Woggle droned into the confession box camera, “because I absolutely and entirely reject this highly divisive and gladiatorial system which is based on the inherently hierarchical principle that society must produce winners and losers, a principle aimed at the inevitable consequence of the emergence of a single oligarch, which is, let us be quite clear about this, nothing less than fascism. I therefore offer myself up as a sacrifice in protest against the transparently cynical deployment of a spurious democratic process in order to undermine genuine democracy. My other vote is for Jason, because his deodorants block my sinuses.”

After this astonishing display, which could only endear Woggle further to his adoring public, the other nominations seemed rather dull by comparison.

David voted for Woggle and also Layla, because he thought Layla was an irritating and pretentious pseud.

Kelly voted for Woggle and also Layla, because she thought that Layla looked down on her.

Jazz voted for Woggle and also Sally, because he found Sally’s pious attitude to being a lesbian irritating.

Hamish voted for Woggle and also David, because he thought he’d have a better chance with the women with David out of the way.

Layla voted for Woggle and also David, because she thought David was an irritating and pretentious pseud.

Garry voted for Woggle and also Layla, because he thought she was a snob.

Moon voted for Woggle and also Garry, because she thought he was a fookin’ sexist twat.

Sally voted for Woggle and also Moon, because of what Moon had said about the mentally ill.

Dervla voted for David and for Layla, because she was sick of their bickering. Dervla would have voted for Woggle. She certainly wanted Woggle out of the house – she was no more immune to him than anybody else was. But unlike the rest of the housemates, Dervla knew how popular Woggle was with the public. The mirror had told her.

It was a constant theme of the messages.

Woggle stood at number one, Kelly at number two and Dervla was stubbornly placed third.

“Be nice to Woggle. People love him,” the message-writer had said on the morning after Dervla had confronted Woggle over the hair on the soap. Since that time, Dervla had been careful to follow the advice.

When the nominations were announced on live television Woggle was acting very strangely. He was sitting in his usual corner but he had covered himself in a blanket and was swaying softly beneath it. He was humming to himself, almost keening. The other nine housemates sat on the couches.

“This is Chloe,” the announcement said. Chloe was the “face” of House Arrest, the girl who worked the studio chats. “The two housemates nominated for eviction this week are… in alphabetical order… Layla and Woggle.”

Everybody tried not to show it, but the relief was palpable. Only four more days and Woggle would be gone. Even Layla was not unduly worried. Although hurt that she had been the other nominee, she knew that she would live to fight another day, because, like most of the others, she simply could not imagine the public not voting Woggle out. Surely they must find him as revolting as the housemates did.

Dervla, of course, knew better.

DAY THIRTY-FOUR. 4.15 p.m.

“The public did find Woggle revolting,” Bob Fogarty said, fishing a semi-melted square of chocolate out of his foaming plastic cup, “but they just loved him for it, and by the time episode eleven was over, he’d become a national hero. It was so deceitful and unfair, I felt ashamed. I complained to that bitch Geraldine, but she said it came with the job and that cunts like me had forfeited our right to have principles.”

Once more Trisha had gone to the editing bunker in an effort to try to bridge the gap between what the public had seen and what had actually happened. It seemed just possible to her that the clue to solving the murder might lie in understanding how this trick was worked.

After all, everybody had seen the murder.

Fogarty sucked noisily on his chocolate. Trisha watched his mouth with growing distaste.

“That cow knew very well that she had been wickedly skewing public sympathy away from the main group and towards Woggle right from the start.”

“So when the attack on him came, shown in the context Geraldine had made you create, it looked absolutely damning?”

“It certainly did, and the nation went potty, as I’m sure you know. I told Geraldine that we were giving Woggle too much of the running. I mean, quite apart from the fact that we were seriously demonizing nine relatively innocent people, we were also turning the show into a one-trick pony, which in my humble opinion was not good telly at all in the long term. Geraldine knew that, of course, but the footage was just irresistible. It made the other boys look like absolute bastards. Awful. Like something out of “Lord of the Flies”

DAY ELEVEN. 1.45 p.m.

The housemates had been called into the confession box to make their nominations in alphabetical order, therefore Woggle had gone in last.

“What’s he doing in there?” Jazz said, after a minute or two had passed.

“I hope he’s died and rotted,” David replied.

“He wouldn’t have to die to rot, he’s rotting already,” said Gazzer.

“We’ll be doing him a favour,” Jazz concluded. “Saving him from himself.”

To Jazz, the worst thing on earth would be to be filthy. He lived to preen.

When Woggle finally emerged from the little room, the boys were lying in wait.

“Afternoon, fellow humanoids,” said Woggle, wandering out into the garden. “Happy summer solstice.”

Without a word, they jumped him. Hamish and Jazz held him down while Garry and David pulled off his ancient combat trousers.

“What’s going on?” he shouted, but the boys were too intent on their mission to reply.

Woggle’s skinny legs kicked about, glaring white in the bright sunlight. He was wearing filthy old Y-fronts with a hole in them where one of his balls had worn the cloth away. As he struggled with his attackers both balls fell through this hole. It didn’t look funny, it looked sad and pathetic.

“No, no! What’re you doing!” Woggle yelled, but still the boys ignored him. They had drunk the last of the house cider and were feeling righteous. This had to be done. Woggle had it coming to him. You could not just give people fleas and then expect them to do nothing about it.