Celebrity Hell House

by Millard, Adam

  Peter frowned. “Excuse me?” he said, for he hadn’t a clue what the producer was talking about.

  Stepping deeper into the small gazeebo, Callum gestured toward the offending article. “Your phone,” he said. “I thought someone would have, erm, removed it from your personage by now.”

  Suddenly, it all made perfect sense. There was no way on God’s green earth that he, or any of the other celebrities, were going to be allowed to take a phone into the house. No contact with the outside world; them’s the rules. You take a phone in, you might as well have an iPad or a laptop, and that just wouldn’t be cricket, now, would it.

  “Oh,” Peter said, holding the phone out for the producer to take. “Of course. I’m new to all of this.” In fact, he wanted to say, I’m scared shitless that this is going to be the final nail in my coffin.

  For a few seconds, Callum simply glared at the mobile phone in Peter’s hand, an amalgamation of puzzlement and awe etched across his face. “How does that thing even work?” he finally said, sniggering disrespectfully. “I mean, that thing must be, what, twenty years old?” He took the phone and examined it, the same way a palaeontologist might scrutinize a Diplodocus’s cock bone after a particularly strenuous dig.

  “Yes, it’s very old,” Peter said, “but it does exactly what I want it to.” He didn’t need apps or widgets or whateverthefuck the kids were calling them these days; he needed a phone. To call people with. After all, wasn’t that its main purpose?

  Callum wasn’t even listening to him, for he had taken out his own phone – some paper-thin sorcery with no buttons – and had proceeded to take photographs of Peter’s phone with it. A series of blinding flashes illuminated the tent; the producer chuckled as he took one shot after another.

  He was what Peter liked to call a ‘Grade A Cockwomble’.

  “Ah, that’s made my day, that has,” said Callum, forcing the phone into his suit pocket. “I guess there’s no point asking you if you have any other devices on you, is there? A Walkman, maybe? A fax-machine?” A smirk was stretched so far across his face that it might very well have joined at the back of his head.

  Peter managed to keep his cool, though only just. Punching the producer of the show might not go down too well with ITV7. He would be on the train back home, facing an almighty lawsuit, before he’d even had a chance to set foot in the house. “Fax-machines?” he said, feigning a smile. “Whatever happened to those, huh?” He knew exactly what had happened to them. He had four of them in his office at home, all in immaculate working order. Pity there was no one left to fax. Still, these things came back around eventually, and when they did, Peter would be ready.

  “I just wanted to wish you the very best of luck in there, Mr Kane.” The producer extended a hand which, for some strange reason, was covered in some sort of orange powder. It looked like the residue from a feast of tangy cheese Doritos, his old enemy, but surely the producer wouldn’t do that to him, would he? Knowing the nightmare Peter had gone through to kick them in the first place?

  “Thanks for that,” Peter said, holding out his other hand, giving Callum Edmonds no other choice than to switch. His left hand was free of orange dust, and so Peter didn’t hesitate in shaking it. He felt as if he’d dodged a bullet.

  “And remember,” said Callum, “this is an entertainment programme, so the more you entertain, the more the public are going to want you to remain in there. You stand around like a troglodyte at an orgy, and you won’t last long.”

  “I hear you,” Peter said, wondering what the hell a troglodyte was. “Thanks for the tip. I’m usually quite a reserved character, but—”

  “Those assholes out there don’t want reserved,” Callum interrupted. “They want crazy! They want offensive! They want you to swing from the chandeliers with your meat-sword flapping as you scream at the top of your lungs ‘God fuck the Queen’!” He must have realised how outrageous he sounded, managed to rein himself in a little. “Trust me on this, okay? I’ve been doing this for a very long time. I know how it works. Are you racist?”

  Peter was taken aback. What kind of question was that? “No,” he said.

  “Not even a little bit? Like, you don’t have a problem with Latinos, but you wouldn’t be too impressed if your daughter brought one home?”

  “Of course not,” Peter said. “And I don’t have a daughter.”

  “Your wife, then?”

  “Well, yeah, if my wife brought one home—”

  “So you have a little racism in those bones of yours—”

  “Not at all, but if my wife, which I don’t have, brought one home, which she wouldn’t, then I’d be pretty angry about the whole thing as it would mean my wife was getting dicked by another man.”

  “Because he’s Latino?”

  “No…look…” He trailed off, lost for words, which was probably for the best. “What does this have to do with anything, anyway?”

  The producer grinned. “The public love a good racist. I’m telling you. It stirs up a lot of shit. All you have to do is drop the N word every now and then, and you’ll—”

  “I’m not fucking racist!” Peter said, furiously. “And I would never drop the N word, whatever it is, so you need to go rile up one of the other contestants because I’m about as boring, inoffensive, and downright pleasant a motherfucker your public is ever going to see.”

  For a moment, Callum looked shocked. “Shame,” he said, sauntering toward the canvas door at the edge of the tent. “That could have been your thing in there.” He slipped out through the small opening and disappeared into the night, leaving Peter standing alone and even more tentative than he had been before.

  “What a fucking scumbag,” he said, reaching for the phone that was no longer there. He wanted to call Ed, tell him what had just happened, inform him that the producer was a complete tool and that he’d be lucky if one of the other contestants didn’t body-slam him. Then he realised that the very thing he was searching for in his pocket had just been confiscated by said tool.

  “Dammit!”

  8

  The crowd applauded rapturously, so hard that the grounds of Hathaway House vibrated and, in the adjacent field, a herd of unhappy sheep toppled onto their sides, where they squirmed and baaed in the hope that the farmer would come and set them right again.

  Samantha Bollinger stood in front of the enthusiastic audience, a microphone in one hand and an umbrella in the other. The cameraman finished counting down silently on his fingers so that the presenter could see.

  Three…

  Two…

  One…

  Callum Edmonds, standing beside Camera One, did a strange rolling thing with his hand, which Samantha guessed meant that they were live. The crowd got even louder, banners were waved, and millions of people watching at home fell into their armchairs, ready to watch this nonsense whether they wanted to or not.

  “Hello, and welcome to the live launch of Celebrity Hell Hooooouuuuuussse!” Samantha said, trying not to let the piss-poor weather ruin her mood, though it was hard to maintain a smile when ice-cold water was dripping down your back and your heels were sinking into what appeared to be sheep shit. “Oh, it’s so good to be here,” she lied. Once the crowd had died down again – noisy bastards, each and every one of them – she focussed on the autocue and promised herself a huge glass of wine once she’d made it through the show. “Now, I’ve been up to the house and it’s, as one might imagine, pretty nasty up there.”

  The crowd oohed and aahed spookily. It was all very ridiculous.

  “And we’re about to fill it with a cast of relatively famous, and I use that word loosely, faces.”

  “We want Sting! We want Sting!” some fucking idiot in the audience began to chant. There was more chance of getting the Pope into Hathaway House than Sting, Samantha thought, ignoring the foolish mantra of the overexcited audience-member and continuing with her spiel.

  “For decades, Hathaway House has been vacant, and with very good reason.” />
  At that the crowd cheered even more, proving exactly what kind of heartless gits they were.

  “It was here, just over fifty years ago, that Roger Hathaway brutally murdered his wife and daughters, decapitating the kids and strangling his wife with his belt, before blowing his own face off in the bathroom with a Remington Wingmaster.” Samantha bit her lip for dramatic effect, and the crowd ooooooohed some more. “Yes, that house has some dark secrets, and what better way to find out what they are than to send eight unsuspecting Z-listers in for a week of abject terror.”

  “We want Sting!”

  “Shut the fuck up, you muppet!” Samantha said, muffling her microphone and turning to face the audience gathered behind her. “Sting’s too busy trying to save the world for this bullshit.”

  Next to Camera One, Callum Edmonds performed what could only be described as a perfect face-palm.

  “The house at the top of this hill,” Samantha said, pointing toward the ominous building with one nicotine-stained finger, “is one of the creepiest places I’ve ever had the misfortune of stepping in to. And our eight celebrities are about to enter for the chance to be crowned this year’s Survivor of Hell House. Without further ado,” she paused, gazed menacingly into the camera. “Let’s meet our first celebrity…”

  *

  “So you were one of Heffner’s favourite Bunnies, right up until one of his zoo-parrots pecked your eyeball out.” Samantha couldn’t look at Crystal Cobb’s face; the hole there was sickening. She could have at least popped in a glass replacement. Unless, of course, she was going for the pity vote, in which case the former Playboy star was already winning. “Do you think your missing eye leaves you at a disadvantage up there? It’s pretty dark, and will be much darker for you.”

  Crystal nodded, processing the question and waiting for the crowd’s clamour to diminish. “Yeah,” she said. “But you know what? I’ve never let my disability stand in the way of anything. If anything, I have an advantage.” She smiled.

  “How so?” Samantha was curious.

  “Well, I won’t see half of the scary shit going on in there, will I?” The model was deadly serious, which made her comment all the more hilarious. “I’m just looking forward to getting in there and proving to the British public that we models aren’t just pretty faces.”

  “You show them what you’re made of,” Samantha said, still not making eye-contact. “Crystal Cobb, head on up to the house.”

  And off she went, nine-inch heels sinking into the mud, long blonde hair already sodden with rain, waving to the applauding crowd as if they were there purely for her. In truth, none of the audience knew who the hell she was.

  She was pretty, though, if you could see beyond the exposed eye-socket on the right side of her face, and that was good enough for them.

  *

  “It says here on my card that you were a boxer,” Samantha said, trying her damnedest not to laugh. “But you weren’t very good, is that correct?”

  “That’th abtholutely thpot on,” said Frank. For such a big guy, he sure was animated. Samantha hoped they had put the celebs through the rigorous drug tests she had been assured of. “Theventy-nine fightth, won none, drawn none, lotht theventy-nine.” He seemed somewhat proud of the fact that he had never won a fight, and Samantha could only assume he was grateful for being in the Guinness Book of Records for something.

  “Is this the biggest fight of your life?” Samantha was rather pleased with herself for that one, for she had deviated from the teleprompter.

  “It thertainly ith,” Frank said, dancing from one foot to the other as if the mud beneath his feet was lava. “I’ve mentally prepared mythelf for thith. I’ve thpent the latht thix dayth watching old horror movieth, and I jutht can’t wait to get in there and kick thome thpooky ath.”

  “Well, we wish you all the best, and hope this isn’t defeat number 80 for you. Go get yourself in the house. Ladies and gentlemen, Frank “Brittlejaw” Henry!”

  *

  “You were Kenny Baker’s stand-in on the three good Star Wars movies,” Samantha said, glancing down at the small person, Victor Hoof. Part of her wanted to crouch so that they would be face-to-face, but she didn’t think it would go down too well with the pro-dwarf movement, the RSPCT (Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Titches), who were nestled in amongst the audience, holding signs that read DO IT FOR US, HALF-PINT! and WE’RE NOT JUST GOOD AT LIMBO!. “But what people might not know about you” – apart from anything, she thought but didn’t say – “is that you were once employed by Prime Minister David Cameron. How did that happen?”

  “Well,” Victor said, pulling the microphone in the presenter’s hand down to his level. “As you know, the Prime Minister has four children: Florence, Arthur, Nancy, and Ivan.”

  “Oh, so you were brought in as a sort of Nanny?” She had no idea what the male equivalent of that was, so she just left it as it was. Not that it mattered, for she couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  “No, the Camerons were trying to figure out if they wanted a fifth kid, and whether they could fit one in at Downing Street if they did. I just had to hang around the place, playing Xbox and drinking Fanta.”

  “That really is an incredible story,” Samantha lied. “Let’s just hope your time up in Hathaway House is not ‘short’.” She laughed. The crowd laughed. The chairman of the RSPCT pulled out his phone and dialled his lawyer. “Victor Hoof, go get yourself in the house.”

  *

  “Lorna Giffard, Olympic gold-medallist, when did you first realise that you could swim really fast without swallowing the water?” God, Samantha thought. These questions were getting worse.

  “Well, Samantha,” said Lorna, turning to the camera and snatching the microphone from the presenter’s hand. “I first learned to swim when I was six. I remember it well because Flirkin’s Bakery opened up across the street from the swimming baths. I always loved Flirkin’s Bakery. They do the best cakes, and their sausage-rolls are to die for. Flirkin’s Bakery is…” She trailed off as Samantha Bollinger snatched the mic back. It was a shame, really, as she hadn’t even managed to get to Flirkin’s Bakery’s current special offers, which was what she had been paid to mention in the first place.

  Samantha was not best pleased with the former Olympian’s blatant advertising, and so ignored the rest of the questions as they flashed up on the autocue. “Let’s just hope things go swimmingly for you in Hathaway House,” she said. “Lorna Giffard, go put yourself in Hell House.”

  As she went, Lorna Giffard reached into her Victorian dress, pulled out a sign, and waved it at the cameras.

  FUCK GREGGS, it said. EAT FLIRKIN’S.

  *

  “You’ve starred in The Only Way is Dudley and nothing else,” Samantha said, trying not to sound contemptuous. “What are you hoping to get from this experience?”

  Mark White flashed a sparkling, chemical grin at the audience. Women and girls screamed, and it was a while before the orgasmic din faded enough for the handsome bastard to respond. “I’m doing this for every single one of you ladies out there,” he said. “And who knows? I’ve been single for almost an hour now, so there’s always a chance of some romance where Mark White is concerned.” More euphoric screams filled the night.

  Good luck with that, Samantha thought. A one-eyed Bunny, an emaciated ex-swimmer, a ninety year-old fashion designer and the host of How Clean is Your Toilet? Knock yourself out, pretty-boy…

  “Do you believe the stories about Hathaway House, Mark? That the restless spirits of the Hathaways are still there, haunting the shit out of the place?”

  Mark grinned once again. Samantha had to avert her eyes, lest she go blind. “If there are any ghosts in there,” he said, “then they’re in for a real treat. I like to walk around in nothing but a pair of boxers, if you know what I mean…”

  The crowd cheered and whooped, forgetting, for a moment, that this was the United Kingdom and not some irreverent US chat-show.

&
nbsp; “Well, we can only hope that you come out of the house more famous than when you went in,” Samantha said, gesturing toward the hill. “Mark White, head on up to the house.”

  *

  “Michaela Strapon, you host such ridiculous shows as How Clean is Your Toilet? and Gypsy Love Triangle. Did you ever think you would be here, tonight?”

  “Well, Samantha,” said Michaela, “I’ve always said no to these shows, and the only real reason why I accepted this one is because the sauna’s just packed up and I can’t live without it. But if you were to ask me if I would do it ever again, I would have to say no.”

  Talk about jumping the gun, Samantha thought. She hasn’t even gone in yet!

  “Admit it, though,” Samantha said, “you must be looking forward to the challenge.”

  “In the same way I look forward to examining an alcoholic’s faeces without gloves,” said Michaela, a weekly occurrence on her lavatory-based show. “I know it’s going to be challenging, especially if I come across a clown in there…” She visibly shuddered.

  “Ah, yes. You’re absolutely terrified of clowns, aren’t you?” Samantha said with no small amount of pleasure.

  “I won’t even eat at McDonalds,” Michaela said, “and the last time I saw a clown, I kicked him in the bollocks and ran away.”

  “Well, we can’t promise that your time in Hell House will be clown-free, but we can assure you that you will have plenty of celebrity faeces to sift through, if you so desire. Michaela Strapon, get yourself in the house.”

  *

  As the geriatric woman dressed in what appeared to be a frock constructed from black-and-white photographs walked across the muddy red carpet, the crowd looked on in horror. Several of them vomited on the person in front, and at least three people were stuffed into the back of waiting ambulances.