Freemasons. Trust me, Grayle, this is going to be the most talked-about television of the winter.’
‘God,’ Grayle says. ‘After three, four nights, they’ll be halfway to killing one another.’
And what a stupid, naive remark that was. Defford turns to her, eyebrows edging his snowy hair, lips twitching into a foxy smile.
‘You really think it’ll be that good? No, listen, I’m kidding.’
She knows he isn’t.
‘What if they just walk away?’ Grayle says. ‘The residents.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘What if they’re like, the hell with this, I’m out of here…?’
Defford looks unperturbed.
‘If they walk out, they don’t get paid. Or don’t get paid as much. And we’re not talking peanuts for this, Grayle. Think six figures, and for someone big enough it can reach seven.’
‘A million?’
‘Trust me, however bad it gets, nobody ever walks out.’
‘Shit.’
‘But quality shit, Grayle. Quality shit.’
‘Not what I—’ Grayle starts to cough; air’s full of ancient dust. ‘Not what I meant, Leo. It was an exclamation of… I dunno… on one level, it’s a hell of an idea.’
‘But it does need very careful advance planning. On Celebrity Big Brother , there was always a key instruction drummed into the whole team. Stay ahead of them. Always be at least one step ahead of the overpaid bastards. If we don’t always have a very strong idea of what’s going to happen next, the programme can easily slip away from us. And that must never happen. That’s why we need to know everything.’
‘Figures.’
‘We need to know… how they think… what they believe… how they’re going to react to a given situation. Not too much of a problem with the sceptics, but the others…’
‘The fruitcakes?’
‘I never said that.’
‘More than one kind of fruitcake, Leo.’
‘Grayle… as you can imagine, I had you checked out. I know that way back when you were in your twenties—’
‘Wasn’t that far back!’
‘—you worked for one of New York’s smaller newspapers, where you wrote a column which dealt with what I hope I don’t insult you by describing as pop spirituality.’
‘Right.’ Grayle nods wearily. ‘You don’t insult me.’
Defford tells her he was looking for an independent investigative journalist who was both sceptical and open-minded. Who didn’t automatically believe in alleged paranormal phenomena, but didn’t laugh at them either. She decides not to ask him if he knows Marcus Bacton. It’ll all come out at some stage. If she goes through with this.
‘By the time our residents arrive this autumn,’ Defford says, ‘this person will have learned more about them than their mothers know. More than their agents know.’
‘Agents. Right. So the people in the house – the residents – this is a celebrity thing?’
‘Some better known than others. But celebrity isn’t the only thing we’re looking for.’
All residents will be specifically chosen, he tells her, becausethey have a personal history of some encounter with the paranormal. Or a strongly declared belief, for or against. And if the believers claim to be experiencing something here, the programme will be looking at how their stories measure up against what’s known of the house and its history.
‘So you need to know all that,’ Grayle says.
‘Everything. Everything about this house that’s even been known or suggested or whispered about. I need the history and the legends and all the reasons to be afraid.’
‘But if you know, then surely they can also—’
‘No. They’ll know nothing. They won’t even know where in the country they are. They’ll be flown from London to Cotswold Airport. Voluntarily and comfortably blindfolded. Driven here in the back of separate vans, at night, arriving at different times. Mobile homes in the grounds where they’ll spend the night, before a briefing – individually – the following day. And then, at sunset, we’ll take them into
‘God,’ Grayle says. ‘After three, four nights, they’ll be halfway to killing one another.’
And what a stupid, naive remark that was. Defford turns to her, eyebrows edging his snowy hair, lips twitching into a foxy smile.
‘You really think it’ll be that good? No, listen, I’m kidding.’
She knows he isn’t.
‘What if they just walk away?’ Grayle says. ‘The residents.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘What if they’re like, the hell with this, I’m out of here…?’
Defford looks unperturbed.
‘If they walk out, they don’t get paid. Or don’t get paid as much. And we’re not talking peanuts for this, Grayle. Think six figures, and for someone big enough it can reach seven.’
‘A million?’
‘Trust me, however bad it gets, nobody ever walks out.’
‘Shit.’
‘But quality shit, Grayle. Quality shit.’
‘Not what I—’ Grayle starts to cough; air’s full of ancient dust. ‘Not what I meant, Leo. It was an exclamation of… I dunno… on one level, it’s a hell of an idea.’
‘But it does need very careful advance planning. On Celebrity Big Brother , there was always a key instruction drummed into the whole team. Stay ahead of them. Always be at least one step ahead of the overpaid bastards. If we don’t always have a very strong idea of what’s going to happen next, the programme can easily slip away from us. And that must never happen. That’s why we need to know everything.’
‘Figures.’
‘We need to know… how they think… what they believe… how they’re going to react to a given situation. Not too much of a problem with the sceptics, but the others…’
‘The fruitcakes?’
‘I never said that.’
‘More than one kind of fruitcake, Leo.’
‘Grayle… as you can imagine, I had you checked out. I know that way back when you were in your twenties—’
‘Wasn’t that far back!’
‘—you worked for one of New York’s smaller newspapers, where you wrote a column which dealt with what I hope I don’t insult you by describing as pop spirituality.’
‘Right.’ Grayle nods wearily. ‘You don’t insult me.’
Defford tells her he was looking for an independent investigative journalist who was both sceptical and open-minded. Who didn’t automatically believe in alleged paranormal phenomena, but didn’t laugh at them either. She decides not to ask him if he knows Marcus Bacton. It’ll all come out at some stage. If she goes through with this.
‘By the time our residents arrive this autumn,’ Defford says, ‘this person will have learned more about them than their mothers know. More than their agents know.’
‘Agents. Right. So the people in the house – the residents – this is a celebrity thing?’
‘Some better known than others. But celebrity isn’t the only thing we’re looking for.’
All residents will be specifically chosen, he tells her, becausethey have a personal history of some encounter with the paranormal. Or a strongly declared belief, for or against. And if the believers claim to be experiencing something here, the programme will be looking at how their stories measure up against what’s known of the house and its history.
‘So you need to know all that,’ Grayle says.
‘Everything. Everything about this house that’s even been known or suggested or whispered about. I need the history and the legends and all the reasons to be afraid.’
‘But if you know, then surely they can also—’
‘No. They’ll know nothing. They won’t even know where in the country they are. They’ll be flown from London to Cotswold Airport. Voluntarily and comfortably blindfolded. Driven here in the back of separate vans, at night, arriving at different times. Mobile homes in the grounds where they’ll spend the night, before a briefing – individually – the following day. And then, at sunset, we’ll take them into
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