DAY FOURTEEN. 9.30 p.m.

As she stepped out of the house Layla was bathed in almost impossibly bright light, which turned her and the house behind her bleach white. A huge bald security man in a padded bomber-jacket stepped forward and took her arm. He led her onto the platform of a firework-bedecked cherry picker which lifted her up and over the moat while the crowd cheered. Peeping Tom took great pride in its house exits; they turned them into what appeared to be huge parties. They bussed in crowds, let off fireworks and criss-crossed the air with search lights. As Layla was lifted high over the shrieking throng a rock band played live from the back of a lorry.

Then came the short limousine journey to the specially constructed studio and the live interview with Chloe, the beautiful, big-bosomed, ladette-style “face” of Peeping Tom. Chloe was no mere pretty face, however, like the girls who presented the more mainstream shows. No, Chloe was a pretty face with a tattoo of a serpent on her tummy and another of a little devil on her shoulder, which was of course much, much more real.

Chloe met Layla at the door of the limo. She looked rock-chick stunning in black leather trousers and a black leather bra, while Layla looked hippie-chick stunning in a tie-dye silk sarong and cropped silk singlet. The women hugged and kissed as if they were long-lost sisters instead of complete strangers, one of whom was paid to talk to the other.

The crowd went berserk. Literally berserk. They whooped, they hollered, they screamed, they waved their home-made placards. There was absolutely no provocation for this madness beyond the presence of television cameras and the well-established convention that this was how up-for-it young people were supposed to behave in the presence of television cameras.

Finally the whooping died down, or at least died down enough for Chloe to make herself heard. It would continue, ebbing and flowing in volume, throughout the interview, but Chloe used her window of opportunity to express her own feelings of exuberance.

“Whooo!” she shouted. “All right! Unreal! Wicked! Whooo!”

The audience concurred with these sentiments entirely and returned to their own whooping refreshed.

Chloe threw a proudly muscular arm around Layla. “Do we love this chick or what? Is she not one strong, special lady?”

Further whoops and hollers indicated that the audience did indeed love Layla very much.

“We are soooooo proud of you, girl, you’re brilliant.”

Once more the proceedings became mired in shouting and screaming. Chloe fought to make herself heard, or perhaps merely to make it clear that she was the most excited and up for it of them all.

“So how are you feeling, girl?” Chloe whooped.

The atmosphere was infectious. Layla smiled broadly. “Wicked!” she said.

“All right!”

“Yeah, really amped up.”

“Go, girl!”

“But also quite spiritual.”

“I so know what you mean.”

“Yeah, like I’ve grown.”

“And you so have, girl. Respect to that!” Chloe turned to the mob and shouted, “Do we love this ace lady or what!?”

And the mob whooped and hollered with renewed energy.

“So were you really, really shocked to be nominated?”

“Well, you know, all life is a season and seasons change. I really, really believe that.”

“That is so true.”

“You have to be positive in your own head space, the mind is a garden, it needs constant weeding.”

“Fantastic, and what about Jazz’s cooking. Was that wicked or what?”

“Totally wicked.”

And so, with the in-depth psychological grilling over, Chloe turned to the big screen and showed Layla who had nominated her.

First came David. There he sat, on nomination day, looking beautiful and sincere as he addressed the confession box camera.

“And the second person I’m nominating is Layla, because although I think she’s a very strong spiritual woman, she doesn’t give a lot to the group as a whole.”

The nation watched Layla watching the screen. Her manic grin did not forsake her. “David’s great,” she said. “I really love him totally, but you know when two strong, spiritual, loving, caring, strong people meet, sometimes their head spaces don’t always connect, but that’s OK, I really love him and I know he loves me.”

“And of course you nominated him,” said Chloe.

“Yeah, isn’t that weird! It just shows what a connection we actually had.”

Dervla was a surprise. “After David, I nominate Layla,” Dervla said, looking excruciatingly sincere, thoughtful and beautiful. “She’s a lovely, lovely girl, a very gentle, caring and beautiful spirit, but I feel that in the end her loveliness would be able to blossom more beautifully outside of the house.”

Which everybody, even Layla, knew translated as “She’s a pain in the arse.”

Then came Garry. “Layles is a very, very tasty bird, and also I reckon she means well, but basically she’s a bit snooty for my liking, you know what I mean? Reckons herself and all that.”

Layla smiled bravely at this, a smile which was meant to say, “Yes, people often mistake my spirituality for conceit.”

And then finally there was Kelly. “This is really, really difficult, but at the end of the day I have to choose someone, and I’m choosing Layla because I think she reckons she’s better than me, and maybe she is, but it’s still a bit hurtful.”

Chloe leant forward and squeezed Layla’s hand, thereby offering comfort and showing off her lovely bosom simultaneously.

“You OK, girl?” said Chloe. “Strong?”

“Yeah, strong.”

“You stay strong, girl,” Chloe insisted.

Layla rose to the challenge. “I think David and Gazzer are brilliant,” she said, “and Dervla and Kelly are great, really, really, strong ladies. The truth is that they all have to choose someone and sometimes my strength and my spirituality get misunderstood by people. But at the end of the day, right, I love those guys, they’re my posse.”

“Big up to that! Respect!” Chloe shouted, and then abruptly got up and walked off into the crowd, leaving Layla sitting alone.

“So, one gone, only eight more rejects and we’ll have a winner!” Chloe shouted into the camera that was tracking backwards in front of her. “Who’s out next? Stinky man? Booby woman? David and his most irritating guitar-playing? Jazz with the top bod? Gazz who speaks for ENGERLAND!? Angry Sal? Dull Hamish? Bald lady? Or Dervla, our oh-so-sensitive little Irish Colleen. You are the executioners! You can crush their little dreams! YOU decide! The phone lines will be open after the next nominations! Respect! Love on ya.”

DAY THIRTY-FOUR. 10.20 p.m.

The three police officers watched as Layla disappeared behind the baying crowd, heading straight for obscurity.

“I think we should definitely talk to her,” Coleridge said. “There’s a lot of anger there and we need to know more about it.”

“Besides which,” observed Hooper, “she knows them all better than we ever will. Perhaps she has a theory.”

“Everybody’s got a theory,” Coleridge replied ruefully, “except us.”

On the screens the remaining housemates still looked shell-shocked.

“Well, O hunters and killers,” Woggle said through a broken-toothed smile, “the people sided with life over death and light over darkness. It appears that the revolution beginneth.”

David got to his feet.

“You’re right there, Woggle. I’m going to have a word with Peeping Tom.”