The Key
A Living room. The wallpaper has separated from the wall underneath and is sloughing off like a snake shedding its skin. The floor is covered in used plates and take-away pizza boxes. Little light reaches past the grimy window to illuminate the tiny, dank room.
On a couch in front of an expensive, enormous TV, sit three blank faced men. Pieces of stray food cling to their clothes. The only sign of life is when they deign to blink briefly before returning to their silent vigil.
On the television the picture is crystal clear. A fresh faced young man talks into the camera in a reassuring faux-American accent.
‘Hello and welcome to…’ At this, he turns to his left side and the camera swings around with him. The audience are on their feet, chanting and waving. As one, they say ‘FIND. THE. KEY.’
A brief look of disgust flutters on our presenters face but is quickly replaced by his trademark grin.
‘And let’s see who we have on the show tonight!’ A massive screen lowers itself behind him and we see a still image of a frowning young man.
‘James Regwin has been in and out of institutions all his life. From the age of thirteen he was described by a judge as being an “irredeemable criminal”. For a recent conviction of armed robbery he was sentenced to death. Thanks to our joint venture with the fine people at the Ministry for Mercy we have give him one last shot at freedom.’
Again he turns and says ‘What have we given him?’
‘ONE. LAST. SHOT.’ The crowd seem ever more zealous. A woman in the front row is visibly in tears.
‘Without further ado…’ The screen shows a narrow alley in the centre of a city. A nondescript white van opens its rear doors and dumps a man out. He lands heavily on his side, clearly stunned.
He scrambles up and grabs a nearby pole for support, his eyes darting about. He breaths heavily and then starts walking quickly out of the street.
The alley opens out onto a wide broadway, red bricked and blazing with sunshine. A few people are milling about, clearly not here for the shopping. One man stares at James and immediately races after him. Seeing the man, James sprints in the opposite direction. A close camera captures the tears and terror in his eyes.
More people join the chase; a woman dressed in black appears out of a shop doorway and lands heavily on James’ shoulder.
She falls but he manages to struggle on. Some of the pursuers are carrying weapons now.
In the studio, the presenter seems bored with proceedings ‘It seems our competitor has reached the first milestone.’ Loud boos emanate from the crowd. On screen James mounts a motorbike and speeds off. Almost immediately he is followed by a four by four, screeching out of a garage.
The camera switches to overhead CCTV shots of the bike racing down the main streets of the city. James looks nervously back over his shoulder and loses control of the motorbike. The front wheel turns and the bike flips end over end, catapulting him into the pavement.
His leg is twisted almost out of its socket and one of his arms is clearly broken. Blood streams from a long cut in his forehead and he spits feebly in an attempt to clear his throat of fluid.
It’s not long before the cars pull up. Hungry eyed contestants swarm around his broken body, brandishing their knives. James opens one eye and manages to croak out a weak syllable.
‘Please.’
He finds no mercy in their eyes, nor in the studio with the rabid fans and the bored presenter, or even the passers by or the dead eyed watchers at home.
As they carve his chest apart, not even stopping to end his suffering, he slumps back against the wall. One lucky contestant brandishes the shiny piece of metal, the joy of greed lighting his world. He holds the key, but not to what he thinks. He possesses only the privilege of being the next contestant.
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