into that room. Did you?
ALAN : I did.
BROCK : You’re lying.
JILL : Peter—
BROCK : You stayed at the door and listened. You knew what it was.
JILL : Leave him alone!
BROCK : You were afraid of it.
JILL : Why not? Why shouldn’t he be? It’s a normal human reaction. He’s the sane one! We’re the freaks!
Brock turns quickly down the passage.
INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM
Dow is playing a tape recording back and getting only a confusion of bumps and scuffles and shouts. He looks up as Brock returns, and shakes his head.
Eddie is watching a wildly swinging playback image on a monitor screen.
EDDIE (turning to Brock) : Nothing.
Alan’s panic has brought something to the surface in them all. He has acted out the secret fear they suppress, and it needs more effort to keep a rational view of this unrecordable thing.
THE ENTRANCE HALL
The sergeant had brought water in a jug, and a glass. Alan has drunk some. Jill is washing the cut on his face.
JILL : What happened to Jackie?
ALAN : Eh?
JILL : You said just now—
ALAN : We never done nothing to him. It was the door got stuck. That door.
JILL : He was inside the room?
ALAN (nodding) : We never meant—we couldn’t help it, could we? (His face is suddenly suffused with guilt) He’s all right, old Jackie.
JILL : Did he . . . see it?
ALAN (after a moment) : He made out it spoke to him. And then . . . the others come.
JILL (chilled) : Others?
ALAN : Just his talk, see.
JILL : What happened to him?
ALAN : He’s all right. Got this job, hasn’t he?
JILL : Can I meet him?
ALAN : What for? He don’t remember. (She stares at him) They took him up the County.
JILL : Where?
ALAN : The County. You know. They put him right. They can do that. He don’t care a button, he just laughs. All the time. He’s all right.
She can say nothing. Seeing Brock returning, Alan moves off abruptly and heads for the outer door.
BROCK (calling) : Wait a minute—I’ll get a car to take you—
JILL (fiercely) : Let him go!
Then Alan has gone. They look at each other. Brock is showing the same strain as the rest of his team.
The phone rings on the reception desk, grating raw nerves.
SERGEANT (answering it) : Reception . . . Yes, he is. (To Brock) Mr. Ryan’s office.
It is like a cold douche. Brock takes the phone.
BROCK : Brock . . . Oh . . . Helen, my love, how are you? . . . Yes, we’re settling in nicely . . . (Alarmed) Crawshaw? But—that’s all been settled, there’s no question of—there’s no room for him here! . . . (Alarm subsiding) Talk to him? Well . . . I just don’t want to see the man, I’m in the middle of an experiment. Look, is he there? (He manages a grisly jocularity) Himself, th’ould grey widow maker? . . . I see, when’s he back? . . . All right, then, under duress. Tomorrow. ’Bye. (He puts the phone down) Hell!
JILL : Experiment . . .
THE LABORATORY – DAY
A display screen flickers. Tiny flicks of blue light jump up and hold, building into an irregular graph-like pattern.
JILL : I don’t know what you’d call that. The time since she died.
BROCK : Quasi-life.
JILL : All right, her quasi-life. During it she must have made eight thousand appearances, minimum.
BROCK : Sound only?
JILL : Yes. In vision, about a tenth as many.
Eddie and the others are gathering round to watch. There is a curious tension growing in them, a sense of the rational put under severe strain.
EDDIE : Sounds a hell of a lot.
JILL : Spread over all those years, it isn’t. And there’s a cyclic factor. Bursts of activity.
She indicates the peaks of the display.
BROCK : 1905 looks a good year. All round there.
JILL : The time of the letter.
BROCK : Yes . . . it could have been.
STEW : What letter?
BROCK : One to Father Christmas except that it wasn’t.
JILL : From Martin Tasker aged 8. Later to die a recluse.
Brock moves aside for the others to inspect the display.
BROCK : See them? Patches of concentrated haunting.
EDDIE : Let’s scrap
ALAN : I did.
BROCK : You’re lying.
JILL : Peter—
BROCK : You stayed at the door and listened. You knew what it was.
JILL : Leave him alone!
BROCK : You were afraid of it.
JILL : Why not? Why shouldn’t he be? It’s a normal human reaction. He’s the sane one! We’re the freaks!
Brock turns quickly down the passage.
INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM
Dow is playing a tape recording back and getting only a confusion of bumps and scuffles and shouts. He looks up as Brock returns, and shakes his head.
Eddie is watching a wildly swinging playback image on a monitor screen.
EDDIE (turning to Brock) : Nothing.
Alan’s panic has brought something to the surface in them all. He has acted out the secret fear they suppress, and it needs more effort to keep a rational view of this unrecordable thing.
THE ENTRANCE HALL
The sergeant had brought water in a jug, and a glass. Alan has drunk some. Jill is washing the cut on his face.
JILL : What happened to Jackie?
ALAN : Eh?
JILL : You said just now—
ALAN : We never done nothing to him. It was the door got stuck. That door.
JILL : He was inside the room?
ALAN (nodding) : We never meant—we couldn’t help it, could we? (His face is suddenly suffused with guilt) He’s all right, old Jackie.
JILL : Did he . . . see it?
ALAN (after a moment) : He made out it spoke to him. And then . . . the others come.
JILL (chilled) : Others?
ALAN : Just his talk, see.
JILL : What happened to him?
ALAN : He’s all right. Got this job, hasn’t he?
JILL : Can I meet him?
ALAN : What for? He don’t remember. (She stares at him) They took him up the County.
JILL : Where?
ALAN : The County. You know. They put him right. They can do that. He don’t care a button, he just laughs. All the time. He’s all right.
She can say nothing. Seeing Brock returning, Alan moves off abruptly and heads for the outer door.
BROCK (calling) : Wait a minute—I’ll get a car to take you—
JILL (fiercely) : Let him go!
Then Alan has gone. They look at each other. Brock is showing the same strain as the rest of his team.
The phone rings on the reception desk, grating raw nerves.
SERGEANT (answering it) : Reception . . . Yes, he is. (To Brock) Mr. Ryan’s office.
It is like a cold douche. Brock takes the phone.
BROCK : Brock . . . Oh . . . Helen, my love, how are you? . . . Yes, we’re settling in nicely . . . (Alarmed) Crawshaw? But—that’s all been settled, there’s no question of—there’s no room for him here! . . . (Alarm subsiding) Talk to him? Well . . . I just don’t want to see the man, I’m in the middle of an experiment. Look, is he there? (He manages a grisly jocularity) Himself, th’ould grey widow maker? . . . I see, when’s he back? . . . All right, then, under duress. Tomorrow. ’Bye. (He puts the phone down) Hell!
JILL : Experiment . . .
THE LABORATORY – DAY
A display screen flickers. Tiny flicks of blue light jump up and hold, building into an irregular graph-like pattern.
JILL : I don’t know what you’d call that. The time since she died.
BROCK : Quasi-life.
JILL : All right, her quasi-life. During it she must have made eight thousand appearances, minimum.
BROCK : Sound only?
JILL : Yes. In vision, about a tenth as many.
Eddie and the others are gathering round to watch. There is a curious tension growing in them, a sense of the rational put under severe strain.
EDDIE : Sounds a hell of a lot.
JILL : Spread over all those years, it isn’t. And there’s a cyclic factor. Bursts of activity.
She indicates the peaks of the display.
BROCK : 1905 looks a good year. All round there.
JILL : The time of the letter.
BROCK : Yes . . . it could have been.
STEW : What letter?
BROCK : One to Father Christmas except that it wasn’t.
JILL : From Martin Tasker aged 8. Later to die a recluse.
Brock moves aside for the others to inspect the display.
BROCK : See them? Patches of concentrated haunting.
EDDIE : Let’s scrap
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