The Year of the Sex Olympics and other TV Plays by Nigel Kneale Page B
Authors: Nigel Kneale
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Strength of eyesight or hearing.
JILL : What about Stew?
STEW : I still don’t get a thing.
BROCK : Okay, you’re ghostproof. Like colourblind.
JILL : Good. I’m running a fresh program. I’m going to put him in it.
BROCK : What?
JILL : I’m running Stew in it as a parameter.
STEW : Fame at last.
BROCK : What’s the idea?
JILL : He’s significant.
BROCK : How?
STEW : Don’t mind me.
But Jill’s intensity grips Brock.
JILL : Suppose . . . Stew was your only witness. In that case, would she . . . walk? D’you see what I mean? Would—she—walk—for—him?
Brock begins to get it . . .
INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM
Rapid footsteps patter in the storage room. This time they seem to run the whole length of it.
Maudsley swings a thermograph scanner wildly, trying to follow the sound. Eddie scrambles to help him.
Dow is aiming the parabolic microphone in another direction. Brock and Hargrave are busy with more thermographs. But all the monitor screens fed by these machines remain blank.
Jill comes into the doorway with Stew.
A harsh rasping squeal. The footsteps break into half a dozen crossing patterns.
Suddenly Jill sees it: A black figure at the foot of the steps, clawing its way up as if in slow motion, somehow almost paralysed.
JILL : Look!
Hargrave sees it too.
HARGRAVE (pointing) : There it is! (Brock abandons his thermograph. He sees nothing. The steps are empty) It was there! Right there! Sort of creeping! You must have seen her!
He runs to the spot as if he expects to find some trace and turns to them, baffled.
BROCK : Just you and Jill.
EDDIE (bitterly) : No warning! (He snatches up one of his black boxes and breathes noisily, angrily, on the element. It instantly lights up) Oh, it works now!
He shakes the thing until the contents rattle.
Brock looks round. Stew is still standing in the doorway. Meeting Brock’s eyes, he shakes his head. Brock turns to Jill. She is standing stiffly, controlling herself with an effort.
JILL : I saw her face this time. She’s frightened . . . !
BROCK’S SUITE – LIVING QUARTERS, NIGHT
Jill sits hunched over a drink. Brock is getting one for himself.
JILL : She’s running from something.
BROCK : The footsteps.
JILL : Always running.
BROCK : Probably old Tasker coming to pinch her bum. Three times round the table and the girl is mine, ha, ha.
JILL (emotionally) : She died!
BROCK : It’s really getting to you. (That does it. She rubs and dabs at her face as tears start streaming) . . . Jill.
JILL : Oh, Peter—to be afraid like that!
He sits and pulls her to him. She is shaking.
BROCK : Are you afraid? Of all this?
JILL : No. I don’t think so—
BROCK : What, then?
JILL (with difficulty) : It’s—the thought of it. Of there being nothing left of you but—just enough to repeat the worst moment of your life over and over again!
BROCK : That doesn’t happen.
JILL : But if it did—if she knew—
BROCK : Look, love, we talked about it. We all agreed—
JILL : Could there be anything there that knows?
BROCK : Not in my book.
JILL : Just—a dead mechanism?
BROCK : That’s all that’s left.
JILL : It’s horrible. But it’s better than knowing. I couldn’t bear it if she knew!
He strokes her, gentling her.
BROCK : All right, love.
He kisses her but she is still tense and obsessed.
JILL : To be so alone—
She looks at him with horror behind her eyes.
BROCK (firmly) : All right, that’s it. You’ve said it and got it over. Your moment of superstition.
JILL : It wasn’t.
She is calmer now. For a moment or two longer he keeps his arms round her. The tension is lessening, but slowly.
BROCK : What you need is another drink. (He picks up her empty glass. As he goes to fill it the phone rings) Oh, hell! (He tries to ignore it but it goes on ringing. He answers it) Hello? Christine, darling, I meant to ring before but you know—problems. Well, something slightly interesting for once. I’ll tell you all about it when I . .
JILL : What about Stew?
STEW : I still don’t get a thing.
BROCK : Okay, you’re ghostproof. Like colourblind.
JILL : Good. I’m running a fresh program. I’m going to put him in it.
BROCK : What?
JILL : I’m running Stew in it as a parameter.
STEW : Fame at last.
BROCK : What’s the idea?
JILL : He’s significant.
BROCK : How?
STEW : Don’t mind me.
But Jill’s intensity grips Brock.
JILL : Suppose . . . Stew was your only witness. In that case, would she . . . walk? D’you see what I mean? Would—she—walk—for—him?
Brock begins to get it . . .
INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM
Rapid footsteps patter in the storage room. This time they seem to run the whole length of it.
Maudsley swings a thermograph scanner wildly, trying to follow the sound. Eddie scrambles to help him.
Dow is aiming the parabolic microphone in another direction. Brock and Hargrave are busy with more thermographs. But all the monitor screens fed by these machines remain blank.
Jill comes into the doorway with Stew.
A harsh rasping squeal. The footsteps break into half a dozen crossing patterns.
Suddenly Jill sees it: A black figure at the foot of the steps, clawing its way up as if in slow motion, somehow almost paralysed.
JILL : Look!
Hargrave sees it too.
HARGRAVE (pointing) : There it is! (Brock abandons his thermograph. He sees nothing. The steps are empty) It was there! Right there! Sort of creeping! You must have seen her!
He runs to the spot as if he expects to find some trace and turns to them, baffled.
BROCK : Just you and Jill.
EDDIE (bitterly) : No warning! (He snatches up one of his black boxes and breathes noisily, angrily, on the element. It instantly lights up) Oh, it works now!
He shakes the thing until the contents rattle.
Brock looks round. Stew is still standing in the doorway. Meeting Brock’s eyes, he shakes his head. Brock turns to Jill. She is standing stiffly, controlling herself with an effort.
JILL : I saw her face this time. She’s frightened . . . !
BROCK’S SUITE – LIVING QUARTERS, NIGHT
Jill sits hunched over a drink. Brock is getting one for himself.
JILL : She’s running from something.
BROCK : The footsteps.
JILL : Always running.
BROCK : Probably old Tasker coming to pinch her bum. Three times round the table and the girl is mine, ha, ha.
JILL (emotionally) : She died!
BROCK : It’s really getting to you. (That does it. She rubs and dabs at her face as tears start streaming) . . . Jill.
JILL : Oh, Peter—to be afraid like that!
He sits and pulls her to him. She is shaking.
BROCK : Are you afraid? Of all this?
JILL : No. I don’t think so—
BROCK : What, then?
JILL (with difficulty) : It’s—the thought of it. Of there being nothing left of you but—just enough to repeat the worst moment of your life over and over again!
BROCK : That doesn’t happen.
JILL : But if it did—if she knew—
BROCK : Look, love, we talked about it. We all agreed—
JILL : Could there be anything there that knows?
BROCK : Not in my book.
JILL : Just—a dead mechanism?
BROCK : That’s all that’s left.
JILL : It’s horrible. But it’s better than knowing. I couldn’t bear it if she knew!
He strokes her, gentling her.
BROCK : All right, love.
He kisses her but she is still tense and obsessed.
JILL : To be so alone—
She looks at him with horror behind her eyes.
BROCK (firmly) : All right, that’s it. You’ve said it and got it over. Your moment of superstition.
JILL : It wasn’t.
She is calmer now. For a moment or two longer he keeps his arms round her. The tension is lessening, but slowly.
BROCK : What you need is another drink. (He picks up her empty glass. As he goes to fill it the phone rings) Oh, hell! (He tries to ignore it but it goes on ringing. He answers it) Hello? Christine, darling, I meant to ring before but you know—problems. Well, something slightly interesting for once. I’ll tell you all about it when I . .
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