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NEW AUTHORS SHOWCASE
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08-11-08 6M p3 |
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Aristotle’s First Law of Television by Robert Taylor |
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Synopsis Aristotle ‘s First Law of Television, is a novel of 95,000 words about the British TV industry. It satirises the dominance of reality television on the viewing schedules and the greed of independent producers who try to milk interactive telephone revenues for all their worth. Context. The story is set within Topsy-Turvey Productions PLC, an independent producer specialising in reality TV. Their most successful show is called ‘Murder in the Family’, a programme which re-enacts gruesome murders from the past and gives the descendents of the victims a chance to meet, live on television, with descendents of the murderers. Viewers are then invited to call in and vote for their favourite murder. Protagonist, The protagonist is a young programme researcher at Topsy-Turvey, Julie Blooming. She’s a nice well-educated middle-class girl but she’s also driven by a burning desire to become a successful executive producer before the time she’s thirty. Plot Outline. Julie’s job involves her finding and arranging guests for Murder in the Family . One such episode is devoted to Molly Maguire, a notorious serial murderess who killed four travelling salesmen in their bathtubs in London hotels during the 1950’s. Julie manages to track down Molly’s grandson, Pat Maguire, and persuades him to come on the show. However, things go badly off-script when Pat hijacks the air-time to launch a campaign of his own, claiming his grandmother was wrongfully hanged. Julie’s boss, Nigel Turvey, becomes worried about his programme’s reputation. ‘We‘re all murderers here, for Christ‘s sake, Julie” He shrieks before telling her to search for evidence that will blow away Pat Maguire’s claims or else risk losing her job at Topsy-Turvey. The novel follows Julie as she conducts research into these horrific crimes, interviewing many of the descendents from the original 1954 murders, travelling all around the UK, eventually flying over to Ireland. Unfortunately, her search leaves a succession of dead bodies in its wake. Disturbingly, these new killings all seem to have an eerie connection with the men murdered by Molly Maguire fifty years before. After several narrow escapes, Julie concludes her research. However, the outcome is not what her boss, Nigel Turvey, wants to hear. She’s now got firm proof that Molly Maguire really was innocent. Quite by chance, she’s also found out the identity of the mysterious assassin who’s been dogging her footsteps. But to Julie none of this really matters. What counts most is that with all the material she’s collected, she now has the basis for a stunning new programme. As it is a programme that only Julie can produce.
Chapter One Julie enjoyed the interviews. The sense of confrontation appealed to her. There would always be a winner and a loser, naturally, every time, no matter how hard you tried to dress it up. And she also liked the unpredictability, the fresh challenge which added spice to each new encounter. Every man and woman was different, of course. Except in one thing. In the end they all lied, That never changed. But Julie had learned her lesson and was prepared for the lies. She was even prepared, she thought, for her first visit to Liverpool. “Roger Hunt House. it’s located on the William Wilberforce Road in Kirkby,” she declared authoritatively to the grey wizened fellow slumped behind the wheel of the leading taxi in the long row outside Lime Street Station. A grey wizened head shook fractionally, an economical gesture that didn’t quite conceal his snigger, but then Julie could hardly have been expected to know that some consonants preferred to keep a low profile on Merseyside. “Are ya’ sure, Ia’?” “It is why I have come. Now, if you would be so kind, I haven’t all day.…” Her steely glare might have worked better if the left heel of her pink stiletto hadn’t missed the edge of the broken kerb at that same moment and left her half-lurching, half-stumbling, into the sticky back seat of his Ford. During the drive over to Kirkby Julie began to realise very quickly that this city was not like any other she knew. For one thing she could recall nowhere in the south of England that contained quite so many open un-built-upon empty spaces. Nor could she remember a city where the traffic moved so freely, approaching, even occasionally exceeding, the notional speed limit. In the back of her mind she heard a distant echo, something about inner city de-population and a quarter of a million people less than a generation before, but she couldn’t really remember the details and as the old Ford shuddered to a sudden halt such thoughts were far from her mind as she peered up at the slime-grey concrete monolith rising so dramatically above her. She was still gaping as the driver snatched the five pound tip from her fingers and disappeared behind a screech of rubber. Julie realised she ought to have asked him to wait but it was too late now. Stranded on the weed-infested pavement, she took her time brushing an invisible crease from the skirt of her freshly cleaned Aquascutum suit and touched up her lip-gloss quite unnecessarily. “Hmm, excuse me.” Her way through the rust-framed barrier was blocked by two diminutive creatures, possibly women, who stood guard over two strange-looking devices, possibly prams. Both faces had a red scroflulous edge that Julie assumed to be a bi-product of the local water supply. “Do you happen to know where I can find Mrs. Mary Maguire? I believe she lives somewhere hereabouts.” Neither of the women moved, neither turned as much as a split-end. Instead their conversation continued, unbroken and unhurried, as if Julie wasn’t there. “Yes, you! Do you mind? I’m talking to you, actually.” The smaller of the two small women blinked momentarily, seemed to realise her error, then promptly resumed her conversation. “Hmm, excuse me, but this is rather important! I’m trying to find Mrs. Mary Maguire. Do you happen to know her?” Slowly, very slowly, two pairs of colourless eyes turned on Julie. “You’se from the Social, are ya, Ia’?” “Actually, I’ve come up from London.” “Oh, aye?” “I’m looking for Mrs. Mary Maguire.” “So you’se said, la’. Twice in fac’.” “Do you happen to know her?” “Naagh.” “Maybe she means Pol’?” “Pol? Then why didn’t she say so?” “So you do know her?” “Pol’? Oh aye.” “Can you tell me where I might find her?” “Got ‘er address, ‘ave ya, love?” “No. 178, Roger Hunt House.” “Then why’s you askin’, like, if you’re not from the Social?” “Well I.…” Julie had to admit it was an almost legitimate question although one she had no intention of answering, not on that particular pavement and not with those particular women. “It’s a family matter. Rather personal, really.” “You’se a lawyer or some’at?” Julie wafted a line of pink French-polished fingernails and felt, in the circumstances, that it was probably close enough. “Is her husband with her today, do you know?” The two women creased themselves double. “You’ll find Pol’ up there, Ia’,” said one, wheezing noisily, before flicking a finger towards the top floor in a gesture of charity. “Can you direct me to the lift?” The women’s second, rather longer, outburst of laughter gave Julie the opportunity she needed to make good her escape. With stilettos striking a military drumbeat she disappeared inside a dark graffiti-choked chasm before eventually emerging, breathless but relieved, into an airless concrete walkway. The number 178 was picked out in tarnished red rust almost indistinguishable from the tarnished red paint which came away alarmingly beneath Julie’s knuckles. “Yeah?” Three inches of door space opened grudgingly. “Mrs Maguire? May I speak with you for a few moments, please?” “I’m not buyin’ so fuck off!” Three inches had shrunk to one before Julie’s gamely-held grip on the door edge began to take effect. “I’m not here to sell you anything, Mrs Maguire. Polly if I may. But I would like to talk to you about your grandmother. My name is Julie Blooming.” There was a tinge of desperation in her voice as she thrust a tiny white card into the woman’s hand, adding almost apologetically, I work for a television company. I’m a programme researcher.”…
About the Author The author has worked for a large interactive TV company for the past 5 years. |