DAY TWENTY-SEVEN. 11.39 p.m.
Geraldine was thrilled. Thrilled and very excited.
When asked to describe the scene later to the police, everyone who had been in the box with her that night commented on just how happy had been her mood. Almost hysterical, one or two of them had said.
And well Geraldine might have been happy. It was clear to them all as they watched the grey, translucent plastic box almost begin to throb that her plan was working and that real sex truly was on the cards. They had been in the box for just half the allotted four hours, and there had clearly already been some quite specific erotic activity, and it seemed certain that there would be more.
The shouts and shrieks and smart-alec comments of the first rush of embarrassed excitement had died down, and now only murmurs and whispers could be heard. The people inside the box were clearly very drunk and very disoriented after their two hours of sweating and writhing in the complete darkness of their little plastic hut.
Clearly anything might happen. And of course it did.
It was about ten minutes after Jazz’s voice had been heard suggesting a touching game in which people were to attempt to identify each other in the darkness that the plastic flaps at the entrance to the sweatbox parted, and Kelly emerged.
“Aye aye,” said Geraldine. “Piss break.”
Bob Fogarty winced and concentrated on his monitors.
On the screens Kelly straightened herself up. Her naked body was gleaming and dripping with sweat.
“Very nice,” whispered Geraldine, tense with excitement. “Very, very, very nice.”
Kelly seemed to be in a hurry. She did not bother to take up one of the great long sheets that Peeping Tom had thoughtfully provided for such eventualities, but simply ran naked out of the boys’ bedroom, across the living area and into the sole lavatory, which served the needs of the whole group.
“Beautiful!” Geraldine exclaimed. “I never thought they’d use the cover-up sheets once they got amped up. Except maybe that snotty cow Dervla. Moon was right, I only put them there to make it look like I’m not a total perv, which of course I am, along with the rest of the population, I might add.”
Kelly’s run had certainly been thrilling for the watchers in the monitoring bunker. The show’s first moment of absolute, in-focus, full-frontal nudity.
“Minge and all,” as Geraldine delightedly put it. “Now we won’t have to keep running that same tired old shot of her tit coming out in the pool.”
“Superb image quality, too,” commented Fogarty.
“The body or the pictures?” Geraldine enquired.
“I’m a techy, I don’t do aesthetics,” Fogarty replied with angry embarrassment.
He was right about the quality, though. This was no grainy-blue sneaky night-shot like the ones they occasionally caught in the bedrooms. Kelly had run right through the living area, which was permanently neon lit, and although the lights had been dimmed to avoid light intruding into the boys’ bedroom when the door was open, it was still a glorious shot.
“Nice one, Larry,” Geraldine called into the microphone, addressing the one live cameraman on duty. “Glad we decided to keep you on.”
Geraldine was referring to the fact that there had only the previous day been a debate about dispensing with night operators altogether, because so little ever actually happened in the house at night, and seeing as how the entire environment was covered by remotes anyway. Geraldine had, however, insisted on retaining at least one person in the camera runs at night for just such an eventuality as had occurred. A naked girl running right across the room needed the personal touch. The coverage from the hotheads not only came from above but also encompassed three different arcs of vision, and would have had to be cut up accordingly. On the other hand Larry, the live cameraman, had got one long beautiful, tit-bouncing, thigh-wobbling, tummy-stretching, full-frontal shot with pubic hair in full and constant focus. A shot that would play absolutely beautifully in slow motion.
“Terrific work, out of the blue like that,” Geraldine continued, giving credit where it was due. “Looks like there’s still a role for you human beings in making television. Stick with her at the toilet door, Larry, and get her again when she comes out.”
Inside the toilet, of course, there was only remote coverage, a single camera mounted high in a corner above the door. This camera was looking down now on Kelly as she sat on the seat of the lavatory, her head in her hands.
In the monitoring box there was a slightly embarrassed silence. None of the production team had ever quite got used to this bit of their job. Listening to people pee and poop. In the daytime at least there were other things going on, something else to look at and listen to, but not at night. When any of the housemates went at night it was just them and the six people watching and listening from the box. This was always a strangely intense and rather degrading experience for the editing team. They felt like the most awful perverts.
On this occasion, of course, there should have been plenty of distraction coming from inside the translucent plastic box, but suddenly the party seemed to have arrived at something of a lull. The high hilarity, grunting and giggling of the touching game had rather abruptly died down into what sounded like something approaching a drunken stupor. Murmured conversations and giggles could be made out, but nothing very clear. Nothing distracting enough to take the team’s minds off the girl on the toilet.
And so they sat there, grown-up, educated, professional people, waiting to watch a young woman empty her bladder and very possibly also her bowel. They all felt very stupid.
“Get on with it then, darling,” said Geraldine. “You can’t have stage fright after three weeks. We’ve all heard you piss before.”
“Maybe she’s having a little cry or something,” said Fogarty. “She doesn’t normally hang her head like that when she pees.”
“Somebody in the sweatbox pushed her a bit too far, do you think?” Geraldine replied eagerly. “Well, we shall no doubt hear all about it in the confession box tomorrow.”
“She’s just sitting like that ’cos she’s drunk,” observed Pru, the assistant editor.
“Probably.”
Together they all continued to stare at the girl on the toilet. It was, after all, their job.
“That reminds me,” said Geraldine. “I’m busting.” She had been in the bunker for many hours, drinking coffee almost continuously. “Bet I’m back before she’s been.” Geraldine rather prided herself on the efficiency of her physical functions.
“And I’m going to have a shit,” she remarked over her shoulder as she left. Geraldine knew how unpleasant her staff found her and she delighted in compounding it, surprising them by going further than even their grim expectations.
“Far, far too much information,” Fogarty said ruefully after Geraldine had left the room.
They waited in silence.
“I think she is upset,” said Pru.
“Who? Geraldine? I doubt it.”
“No, Kelly. She doesn’t want a pee, she’s just gone in there to get away, hasn’t she?”
“Possibly, I suppose.”
“Well, she’s not doing a wee, is she? She’s just sitting there. She just wanted to get out of that sweatbox, but she knows if she does she’ll forfeit the task and Geraldine will fine the group half their budget. The only way she can get a break is by pretending to have a pee.”
Shortly after this Geraldine returned and drew the same conclusion as Pru. “She’s skiving off,” Geraldine sneered. “She’s having a bunk. She’s not having a piss, she’s taking the piss, and I’m not putting up with that. I’m going to give her a Peeping Tom announcement to pee or get off the potty. Where’s my voice? Where’s Sam? I’m going to tell that young slapper to get her lovely body back in that sweatbox or pay the price.”