Brian and Suze nodded, reassured that someone else had said it, and carried on chanting. Eddy, standing on tiptoe, just about kept his head up, but he was grunting with the effort. The muscles in his legs were failing. He was trying to say something, but mud was coming out of his mouth in big, thick gobbets.
“I’ll go and get an official,” I volunteered.
Brian and Suze looked quite pleased about this, and their chanting grew in volume, almost drowning out Eddy’s frantic bellows. Brian and Suze weren’t worried. They knew an official was on the way to assess the situation.
I ran off into the woods, stopping after ten yards. I paused only to reach up to the rope, and tug out the concealed cable. I then watched Brian and Suze.
Pleased that Officialdom was being informed and that Help was on its way, they were doing what any other concerned bystander would do. They were filming Fast Eddy’s struggles and imminent rescue, mugging away at the camera with thumbs-up and everything, all the time keeping up the chants of “Try harder, you Muddy Funster” and “Go ahead and drown!”
From where I stood, I couldn’t quite see his head go under for the last time, but that was alright. I’d see it later on YouTube.
G OD BLESS B RIAN and Suze. They’d uploaded the video without thinking what it was. The spectacle of a charity fun runner being chanted to his death by his friends was a massive hit. The Daily Mail screengrabbed and analysed almost every frame like it was the Zapruder footage, but then again, the Daily Mail do this with a video of a kitten sleeping.
No one noticed or even thought about me. Muddy Hell came in for a lot of flack for torturing their contestants to death. Jackie Aspley wrote a column titled ‘Who are the sick people who sign up for these Nazi death camps?’ which got charity fun runners and a fair few World War II historians enraged. Brian and Suze (‘Are these the nastiest people in Britain?’) were hounded, a little unfairly, I thought.
No one even thought about me. I think I was mentioned in an early report in The Independent, which claimed that the ‘Death Pit’ was only manned by ‘an unpaid volunteer who was unable to find someone to bring help.’ The Death Pit soon became ‘A Plague Pit’ after chemical analysis. The QuickSet did show up, but the press were more interested in the sexier ingredients I’d added. The night before the race I’d gone round all the mud pits adding pigswill and cow manure. The organisers of Muddy Hell claimed, quite rightly, to have no knowledge of this. No one believed them, and they soon found themselves fighting lawsuits from former contestants who weren’t happy that they’d signed ‘I don’t care, Break Me’ contracts.
Fast Eddy, annoyingly, emerged from all this as a martyr. That was the one thing I’d got wrong. Well, until someone spoke to Guy, to ask him what he thought about the person who’d raised nearly ten grand for his dead girlfriend. Bless Guy, he said, “Who? I’ve never heard of him.” There was a small exposé of Eddy’s financial shenanigans, but it wasn’t very thorough. Everyone was a bit too transfixed at the sight of the man drowning slowly in mud.
I’d finally got something done. My first planned murder. I’d done good.
I’d watch that video, late at night, and think, I did that.
CHAPTER THREE
GIRLS, GUNS AND GAMES
I DIDN’T KILL Guy’s next girlfriend. Actually, I rather liked her. I really liked her. The problem was it was Amber Dass, the girl I’d met in the bar the night I’d killed Danielle. I’d always hoped to bump into her again, and when I did, she was going out with Guy.
And she was great. So great I had no problems remembering her name this time. Her family were rich Malaysian lawyers. You’d imagine this would mean she was confidently petite, graceful in a gown that flowed in straight lines, with a smile as delicately balanced as the rest of her. Actually, Amber was a
“I’ll go and get an official,” I volunteered.
Brian and Suze looked quite pleased about this, and their chanting grew in volume, almost drowning out Eddy’s frantic bellows. Brian and Suze weren’t worried. They knew an official was on the way to assess the situation.
I ran off into the woods, stopping after ten yards. I paused only to reach up to the rope, and tug out the concealed cable. I then watched Brian and Suze.
Pleased that Officialdom was being informed and that Help was on its way, they were doing what any other concerned bystander would do. They were filming Fast Eddy’s struggles and imminent rescue, mugging away at the camera with thumbs-up and everything, all the time keeping up the chants of “Try harder, you Muddy Funster” and “Go ahead and drown!”
From where I stood, I couldn’t quite see his head go under for the last time, but that was alright. I’d see it later on YouTube.
G OD BLESS B RIAN and Suze. They’d uploaded the video without thinking what it was. The spectacle of a charity fun runner being chanted to his death by his friends was a massive hit. The Daily Mail screengrabbed and analysed almost every frame like it was the Zapruder footage, but then again, the Daily Mail do this with a video of a kitten sleeping.
No one noticed or even thought about me. Muddy Hell came in for a lot of flack for torturing their contestants to death. Jackie Aspley wrote a column titled ‘Who are the sick people who sign up for these Nazi death camps?’ which got charity fun runners and a fair few World War II historians enraged. Brian and Suze (‘Are these the nastiest people in Britain?’) were hounded, a little unfairly, I thought.
No one even thought about me. I think I was mentioned in an early report in The Independent, which claimed that the ‘Death Pit’ was only manned by ‘an unpaid volunteer who was unable to find someone to bring help.’ The Death Pit soon became ‘A Plague Pit’ after chemical analysis. The QuickSet did show up, but the press were more interested in the sexier ingredients I’d added. The night before the race I’d gone round all the mud pits adding pigswill and cow manure. The organisers of Muddy Hell claimed, quite rightly, to have no knowledge of this. No one believed them, and they soon found themselves fighting lawsuits from former contestants who weren’t happy that they’d signed ‘I don’t care, Break Me’ contracts.
Fast Eddy, annoyingly, emerged from all this as a martyr. That was the one thing I’d got wrong. Well, until someone spoke to Guy, to ask him what he thought about the person who’d raised nearly ten grand for his dead girlfriend. Bless Guy, he said, “Who? I’ve never heard of him.” There was a small exposé of Eddy’s financial shenanigans, but it wasn’t very thorough. Everyone was a bit too transfixed at the sight of the man drowning slowly in mud.
I’d finally got something done. My first planned murder. I’d done good.
I’d watch that video, late at night, and think, I did that.
CHAPTER THREE
GIRLS, GUNS AND GAMES
I DIDN’T KILL Guy’s next girlfriend. Actually, I rather liked her. I really liked her. The problem was it was Amber Dass, the girl I’d met in the bar the night I’d killed Danielle. I’d always hoped to bump into her again, and when I did, she was going out with Guy.
And she was great. So great I had no problems remembering her name this time. Her family were rich Malaysian lawyers. You’d imagine this would mean she was confidently petite, graceful in a gown that flowed in straight lines, with a smile as delicately balanced as the rest of her. Actually, Amber was a
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