The Faithfuls

by Huw Dunnit

Genres: Humor & Satire

Synopsis

INNOCENT BUT ANNOYING STRANGERS ARE BEING MURDERED ONE BY ONE

Welcome to a medieval castle in the wilds of Scotland. Arriving here are contestants in the world's most popular new TV Reality show: two dozen ordinary (and painstakingly diverse) individuals from every corner of the British Isles. These seemingly random individuals random represent a cross-section of society (although shallow nobheads seem to be a bit over-represented). The castle is vast and labyrinthine, as are the paths through this treacherous landscape ...

The Faithfuls are ready to make friends, stab each other's backs, and possibly win huge sums of money and even become famous into the bargain. Imagine a hen party Murder Mystery Weekend with Harry Potter cosplay. Pitted against each other, these law-abiding folk find their values challenged. Relationships are tainted by distrust and fear. Betrayal, hate and bad faith take the upper hand as the rules that hold society together rapidly start to crumble. And this is when they are denied access to social media.

Each night one of the group is 'murdered' by the dark, secretive forces within - the Traitors. Their actions are directed by the sinister Manny Clawdwinkle whose remarkable wardrobe (one might suppose) is large enough to fill every room in the castle. Will the murderous Traitor be unearthed before the Faithfuls finally rip each other to shreds? And do that many people in society really have so much cosmetic surgery? Phew!

Release date: November 6, 2025

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 30000

Sample

The detective came out onto the roof and held his hat. Turned away, swearing, for a moment. Then bent into the wind and stepped deliberately forward. In front of him was a helicopter with its blades spinning, and a man in a pilot’s uniform looking disgustingly cheerful.

‘You all good?’ the pilot asked him.

‘I hate murders, and I hate helicopters even more.’

The pilot gave him a thumbs up and hopped up into his seat. There was a spare space in the back for the young PC who was accompanying him on the journey.

As the craft lifted into the air the inspector closed his eyes. He did not open them as it banked into the wind and scudded across the city skyline.

‘I like to call this route the Hollywood Walk of Fame,’ said the pilot merrily, speaking through the earphones as the chopper left the city environs and crossed the countryside.

‘Down there, that’s the bridge they used for the train to Hogwarts in Harry Potter,’ said the pilot. ‘And that there is the castle they used in one of the Narnia films. Just over that hill there is where they filmed that car chase in the last James Bond. Yeah. Scenic as all buggery, this countryside.’

He looked over at the cop, who gave him a thumbs up.

‘Got to admit, I bloody love it,’ said the pilot. ‘Best place in the world, when the weather’s not horrible. So you like being a copper, eh?’

He looked at the policeman, who gave him another thumbs up.

‘Ah, rather you than me. Grisly business. Solving murders? Tough stuff. I’d rather be in the sky, up here with the birds. Being a policeman’s dangerous, they say. High incidence of alcoholism and suicide, I’ve heard. Is that right?’

The cop gave another cheerful thumbs up. Then saw from the other man’s expression that this wasn’t the expected response. And pulled one of the earpieces away from his head.

‘I can’t hear a bloody word you’re saying, mate!’ he bellowed.

The inspector looked down and saw they were descending towards their destination. The castle where they filmed that TV show, The Faithfuls. His wife and kids loved it. Look at all those scene-of-crime white tents. From above it looked like a bloody Christian music festival.

How many deaths were confirmed now? the detective wondered. God almighty. Horrible stuff. He clutched his tummy as the chopper set down with a bump, then jumped down as soon as he could, glad to be on terra firma.

The local police were waiting for him. A grey-haired fellow, looking strained.

‘Glad to have you here,’ said the local chief. ‘Much too much death for us to handle ourselves. We need the experts. You’re Inspector . . .’

‘Constable,’ said the inspector. ‘Inspector Constable.’

‘Ah,’ said the other, looking amused. He turned to the PC. ‘Then your surname must be Inspector?’

‘Er, no, sir,’ said the PC. ‘It’s Handcock.’

‘I see,’ said the chief. ‘Well, come with me . . .’

Interviewee: Spike

Age: 32

Appearance: Spike has shoulder-length hair and wears glasses. He has a slightly wistful expression and a middle-distance stare.

Spike: It’s amazing to be in the castle, so exciting. And the other players are all so great – I love them all. Well, I love everybody really. Or I try to. Everyone’s got a good side, deep down. I truly believe that, I really do. Everyone.

[Listens to question from the off-camera interviewer.]

Spike: Piers Morgan? Well I think he’s just a soul in torment who’s searching for the right path and could still turn into a really nice bloke. Me, I’m a teacher. I teach primary school . . .

[Insert: A shot of Spike in his classroom, sat on a chair in front of five- and six-year-olds. He’s playing the guitar and singing a hymn to them while they watch, and one kid picks their nose.]

Spike: It’s so meaningful being a teacher. It can be hard work but it gives a great sense of fulfilment. I won’t always be one though. You see, in truth, I’ve got another identity. [Looks into camera and speaks sincerely.] In fact, I believe that I am reincarnated from someone you might have heard of: Jesus Christ Our Lord. Or Yeshua, as he was really known. Me, as I was really known. I mean, how much more faithful can you get?

[Listens to another question off mic.]

Spike: [Nods thoughtfully.] Yes, as you say, I’m thirty-two now, so . . . [Shrugs.] next year’s going to be a big one for me . . .

FATE ON THE FAITHFULS: KILLED BY THE MURDERERS – EPISODE 1

Bright sunshine flooded in through the windows.

For once, the whole family was sat round the breakfast table.

‘We’re all here at the same time!’ said Manny. ‘How often does that happen these days?’

In the middle of the table was a bowl of scrambled eggs, a plate covered with toast, a much-gouged block of butter.

‘Darling,’ said her husband. He was looking at her dead in the eyes.

Manny laughed. ‘What’s up with you?’ she said.

‘Darling, I love you with all my heart. The last twenty years together have been the best of my life.’

Manny straightened her back. This was probably the build-up to some sort of joke. She waited. He still hesitated, so she said, ‘Go on . . .’

‘But these last few years, I hardly ever see you. I feel like I don’t know who I’m married to any more.’

Manny kept her expression still, but inside, her heart flipped over. Not in front of the kids. We know why I’m doing this! It’s securing our future . . .

‘Mummy,’ said Vee, her four-year-old.

Manny turned, bemused, to her. Put her hand out to hold Vee’s hand. The little one was fixing her with a steady, intent expression too.

‘I’ll never stop loving you, Mummy,’ said Vee. ‘You’re the best mummy I could have.’

‘Glad to hear it . . .’ Manny said. She didn’t like all this seriousness. She flicked back her fringe.

‘But you forgot my birthday,’ said Vee. ‘It made me very sad.’

‘I didn’t forget,’ said Manny, getting hot under the collar. ‘It was a work emergency. I told you how sorry I was . . . Daddy was here . . . I sent a present . . . and didn’t I make it up to you with the trip to—’

‘Mum,’ said Milo, her teenager. He’d always been her biggest fan, admired her television career and forgiven her failings because he thought she was so brilliant. Now, to her horror, she saw coldness in his eyes, too.

‘Hey, boy,’ she said. ‘What’s up? What is this?’

‘I really wanted you to see me in Julius Caesar. You helped me audition, and it was amazing when I got the part. But . . .’

‘It really kills me to do this,’ said her husband. ‘But I have to vote for someone. And also, you promised never to wear that wig inside the house. And therefore I’m voting for: you, darling.’

He turned over the slice of toast he’d had in his hand, and it had Darling written on it in flowing script made from melting butter.

Manny stared at it. How did he write that, with his breakfast knife?

‘I don’t want to vote for anyone,’ said Vee, solemnly, sucking in her little cheeks and looking around the room for a moment before her eyes came to rest on her mother. ‘But I have to. And so – I’m afraid it’s you.’

She flipped over the piece of brown toast in her hands. On it was written in the same yellow text: Mummy.

Manny’s temperature was quickly rising. This wasn’t funny any more.

‘Milo,’ she said softly.

He blinked back tears as he turned over a slice of toast on which was written: Mum.

‘Et tu, Brute?’ she asked. And she wanted to tell the kids to eat their toast. To eat it up and get a good breakfast for goodness sake. The day ahead would have challenges, with betrayal and in-fighting, and wasn’t breakfast the most important meal of the day? Have some eggs as well, they were going cold.

But she couldn’t open her mouth to speak.

She had been away for Vee’s birthday, she had missed the three performances of Julius Caesar at the East Dulwich Academy, and she had abandoned her marriage bed these past twelve weeks, and indeed for five months a year for the past seven years . . .

She wanted to open her mouth to protest. But nothing came out. She knew that all she could do was get up and walk out, never to return. She had been voted out.

Manny sat up in bed, her heart hammering. Terrified by the total darkness for a moment before she realised she was wearing her owl-eyes sleep mask and ripped it off.

Had she forgotten her daughter’s birthday? She couldn’t have!

She looked around. Where was she?

God, her heart wouldn’t stop thumping.

Then she realised it wasn’t her heart. It was the hotel room door.

‘Ms Claudwinkle?’ came a voice through it. ‘This is your morning alarm call! The car is here for you!’

She looked at her alarm clock.

5.15.

‘You know why I’ve asked you all here . . .’ she said. ‘The prize pot stands at seventy-seven thousand pounds. And now it’s decision time.’

All the castle’s guests were gathered in the Mead Hall. Sat around the Dodecahedral Table, glancing nervously at each other.

‘This is the heart of The Faithfuls. The moment of truth. It’s time to vote out who you think is the Murderer . . .’

Manny stalked slowly around the perimeter of the room, looking them all in the eye, one. . .