Who hates you (and why) - a screenplay

AUDIENCE SOUNDS - BLACK SCREEN

A murmur to start with. A chant barely audible but growing.The lights start to grow in intensity.

FADE IN: INT. TELEVISION STUDIO - NIGHT

The television studio is not large. It seats fifty or sixty people but it sounds as if there are a lot more people.

ANNOUNCER: It’s that time again! Who hates you and who do you hate to love? 

Suddenly a massive and garish sign flares up in neon. THE KUNT SHOW

AUDIENCE:  KUNT! KUNT! KUNT! KUNT!

Saul Kunt walks on stage exuding smarm and charm. His arrogance is personified. A mixture of Piers Morgan and Ryan Reynolds.

SAUL: Who do you love to hate?

AUDIENCE: KUNT KUNT KUNT KUNT!!!

SAUL: And he hates you too! Well, we’ve got so many victims tonight that I think you’re going to have an amazing time!

The audience starts jeering and cheering; whipped up into a spectacle.

FADE OUT:

FADE IN:

EXT. STREET - NIGHT

Saul is walking alone. He is very watchful. He has every reason to be. It’s been raining and he can hear his footsteps splashing in puddles. It’s late and there aren’t many people around. Saul can hear footsteps behind him getting closer, the splashing sounding urgent, forceful. Saul instinctively walks quicker but the footsteps behind him don’t, they die down completely. He walks past an alleyway strewn with rubbish and broken furniture. A few seconds later and the footsteps are back and they’re right behind him now. Saul is about to turn around when he’s hit right in the back with a table leg. He falls into a puddle.

ATTACKER : You bastard. You think everything is there for you to rip apart. You and your damn show! You don’t care who you take apart, who you destroy. Well destroy this!

The attacker ineptly beats Saul with the table leg. There’s no real strength to the blows and Saul has rolled into a foetal position. Soon the attacker throws the chair leg at him and runs off. Saul painfully gets up from the puddle.

SAUL: Fuck… another grateful fan, no doubt… my admiring fucking public.

Saul is in a lot of pain and staggers to the nearest house.The gate is wooden and lightly peeling. There’s no doorbell but a brass knocker in the shape of a gargoyle. Saul bangs it three times. The door opens on the third and a non-descript chap with shaggy hair, sullen eyes and glasses opens it. This is GRAHAM.

SAUL: …And here is the man you love to hate…

Saul takes a few steps inside as Graham closes the door behind him. Graham can see the state of Saul and just lets him in. Once the door closes Saul throws up on the carpet and slides down the wall in pain.

FADE OUT:

FADE IN:

INT. GRAHAM’S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT

Saul is sitting on an old 1980’s style MFI sofa. The lounge has a homely, lived in look.Everything is retro without being kitsch; it is genuine. Graham is sitting opposite him but as Saul wakes Graham walks off into the kitchen to get him a cup of chamomile tea.

Saul continues to look around him: Bookcases full of well-read books of all shapes and sizes. The ceiling is artexed. There is a small coffee table in front of him with a book of Trevor Grimshaw prints. In the corner is a record player-cabinet with horn. The most beautiful music is coming from it and Saul sits up to listen.

GRAHAM (From kitchen): That’s Elgar’s Cello Concerto.

SAUL:  Is that an original record player?

GRAHAM: Most of it. I updated it a little so it could play standard LP’s. Trying to get anything to play 78s is pretty nigh on impossible these days. It’s the shellac, modern needles damage them.

SAUL : 78s?

GRAHAM: The old gramophone records of the early 20th Century. So difficult to get these days anyways. Trying to get hold of anything… well, old, these days it is virtually impossible. There are still a few companies that use snail mail. I suppose most people would think of me as an old fogey!

SAUL (Mutters to himself): And the rest.

GRAHAM (Walks out, holding a tray with two cups of tea): Sorry, I didn’t quite get that.

SAUL: The music is beautiful. I don’t think I’ve heard anything like it before.

Graham places the tray on the table and hands Saul his cup. Graham looks surprised by Saul’s statement

GRAHAM: Really? This performance is particularly grand. Jacqueline de Pre is playing the cello. 

Saul is still looking at Graham with bemusement.

GRAHAM: Oh! I’m so sorry. After all the excitement I’ve not introduced myself! I don’t get many visitors.

Saul manages to stop himself from saying anything derisory and instead shakes Graham’s outstretched hand.

GRAHAM: My name’s Graham. Graham Cleverly. Learned to accept the burden of the surname. Used to get bullied for it at school but I’ve got used to it.

SAUL: I can relate to that. 

GRAHAM: Oh, why’s that then?

Saul is bemused and leans back into the comfy sofa.

SAUL: Do you not know who I am then?

GRAHAM: Sorry, old bean; should I?

SAUL: I’m quite famous… or should I say infamous.

GRAHAM: Ah, infamy. I once heard that fame was fickle like a woman. (chuckles) She has to be courted and wooed, brought gifts and seduced but she can turn on you in an instant! (GRAHAM snaps his fingers)

SAUL: I’ve not heard that before but it’s very apt! Well, my name is Kunt.

There is no reaction from Graham, not even from the actual word itself.

SAUL: Saul Kunt? Have you really not heard of me? 

Graham shakes his head sheepishly.

SAUL: I’m rather big on tv; and even bigger online.

Graham shrugs again.

SAUL: On the internet. You know?

GRAHAM (Shakes his head): And therein lies the problem, old chap. I have neither a television or a computer!

Saul looks around him. He’s not noticed that before now and, there is no television; no computer. Just the record player and books.

SAUL (despite himself): Well, fuck me.

CUT TO:

INT. GRAHAM’S KITCHEN - AFTERNOON

It’s another day. Both Graham and Saul are wearing different clothes and for every piece of dialogue there is a change of day; a change of clothes, etc. Saul has finally found someone he can talk to. 

GRAHAM (Mid-conversation): …burglars would take two minutes to check the place out and realise that there’s nothing worth stealing. There’s nothing modern that looks as if it’s worth anything, so why worry?

SAUL: Well, when you put it like that…

CUT TO:

INT. GRAHAM’S LOUNGE - AFTERNOON

SAUL: …still can’t get over the fact that you have no idea of who I am.

GRAHAM: What is it that Joe Masteroff wrote? “Leave your troubles outside! So—life is disappointing? Forget it! In here, life is beautiful!”

(SAUL Laughs)

GRAHAM: Ok, maybe not beautiful but you get my gist. I don’t care about who you are ‘outside’. That’s not you, anyway.

Saul rubs his chin and wonders.

CUT TO:

GRAHAM: Everything has become so trivial today, and I think that television is to blame for that.

SAUL (Saul laughs good-naturedly): You might have something there, Graham. You really might!

CUT TO:

INT. GRAHAM’S LOUNGE - NIGHT

Graham is unwrapping a present. It’s a portable CD player with a few classical music cd’s including a box set of Jacqueline de Pre. 

SAUL: Happy Birthday, Graham. 

Graham looks confused. 

SAUL: It’s so you can carry your music around with you!

There’s now various electrical devices scattered on the shelves. A digital clock; a top of the line radio; electric lamps. No television though still. There is a barely discernible hum though.

GRAHAM: You really shouldn’t Saul. You buy me enough already and it’s really not necessary. We’re friends. It’s not as if I can repay you either.

SAUL: You don’t need to.

GRAHAM: And nor do you.

SAUL: I don’t think you understand, Graham. I can be myself here, with you. That’s a luxury I never knew I had until we met. I wish more people could know you as I do.

CUT TO:

INT. CORPORATE OFFICES - MORNING

Saul sits across a desk with his producer, CLive and researcher, Steph. 

SAUL : I want to do something different with the next show.

CLIVE : Different is bad, Saul. You know that. This format works. Steph researches the guests, you rip them to shreds! Gold!

STEPH: And people line up to be on the show! Well, they’re put up to it most of the time…

SAUL: I'm not sure I want to do that any more. I’ve changed, Clive. I want to be like Michael Parkinson or Terry Wogan. Serious chat-show hosts.

STEPH: Who?

CUT TO:

INT. GRAHAM’S KITCHEN - AFTERNOON

Saul and Graham are sharing a cup of tea. Graham is using the eclectic kettle that Saul bought him. Graham is looking a bit disheveled.

SAUL: Are you still having trouble sleeping?

GRAHAM: It’s the electric clock you got me; the glow of the numbers takes a bit of getting used to… But what were you saying?

SAUL: I want to put you on my chat show. I want other people to get to know you as I do.

GRAHAM: And why do you want to do that? What’s wrong with what we’ve got now?

SAUL: No one else seems to understand. They see a change in me… because of you… your influence… and they just don’t get it. If more people knew you, then they might… get it.

GRAHAM: But?

SAUL: My producer wants to meet with you first. He’s a very skeptical man.

GRAHAM: Meeting you is fine, there is no pressure for me to be anyone else. I don’t think the same will be true when I’m out with your other friends.

SAUL: He’s my producer, not my friend.

CUT TO:

INT. A COFFEE SHOP - MORNING

Saul and Graham sit opposite Steph and Clive. Graham is uncomfortable. He’s wearing clothes that are out of date, but still smart. Saul is trying to encourage him to talk. Clive is quiet, rubbing right thumb against his fingers. Steph is trying not to laugh. Graham is unaware of how he sounds to them.

GRAHAM: It suits me fine though… not having a computer, I mean.. Life moves far too fast for me out there. I can’t keep up. There’s no getting to know each other, not really. Everything’s on show, everything’s for sale. Everything and everybody is commented on all the time and there’s no time to develop oneself. It’s all instant ego gratification and I refuse to live in that kind of world.

CUT TO:

Saul and Clive are paying the bill at the counter whilst Steph is talking to Graham. Clive nudges Saul.

CLIVE: I love it. It’s so calculated it’s fucking mean. Where’d you find him? This is going to be abso-fucking amazing.

SAUL (shocked): What? No! It’s genuine, Clive! He’s an amazing guy. I tell you, more people need to be like him.

CLIVE: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. If this is it; if this is really a sting then it’s a green light. If you are being genuine then it’ll be the last thing you ever do.

CUT TO:

INT. SAUL’S FLAT - NIGHT

Saul is on the phone to Graham. Graham sounds faint and spaced out, he can’t get used to talking on the telephone. There’s also the sound of static on the line.

SAUL: You need to have the mouthpiece closer to you, Graham; bloody hell.

GRAHAM: I really don’t think this is a good idea. You sound more stressed now than what you did yesterday!

SAUL: You don’t understand show business. It’s like being a spy the whole time, like being in that book you lent me: Orwell’s 1984. I have to toe the company line and even though I’m quite an influential person on television I’m still living on a knife edge, trying to keep up a cover story. Everyone wants a piece of who they think you are and there’s not enough of the real me to go around any more. I’ve lost sight of who that is, actually. Which is why I’m grateful to have met you.

GRAHAM: There’s a lot of it about, then.

SAUL: What’s that then?

GRAHAM: People being daft.

SAUL: More than you know, Graham. More than you know. Anyway; you need an early night. It’s the big day tomorrow.

CUT TO:

INT. TELEVISION STUDIO - NIGHT

The studio is packed. Graham is nervous, fidgeting. Saul is trying to look cool.

SAUL: Stop fidgeting, you’re making me nervous!

GRAHAM: Sorry. Maybe this was a bad idea.

The theme music starts and the crowd goes wild, clapping and jeering. But there is no fanfare this time; no voice over. The audience starts with their change of: “KUNT KUNT” but Saul motions for them to be quiet. The lights shine down on him as he stands up and walks to the front of his little set. Graham is not in the spotlight yet. He’s still in the shadows.

SAUL: (Speaking in his normal voice, albeit louder) People seem to think that it’s impossible for a man to change. Anyone can change if they’re given the chance, and luckily I was given that chance! I never realised that there was more to life than this. This chap here saved my life.(points to Graham and sits down next to him)

A few people get up out of their chairs and leave.

SAUL: In more ways than one… he didn’t do anything particularly heroic, but what he did was to open the door to a complete stranger and show him unconditional kindness. These last three months he’s continued to show me that same kindness as he’s opened his doors to me time and time again. He’s one of the most caring and thoughtful individuals that I’ve ever come across. (Graham blushes and fidgets some more) I’ve learnt things through Graham and believe that I’m becoming a better man. I sleep better and understand people more. He’s my friend and I want you all to meet him.

The spotlight shines on to Graham who puts his hand over his eyes briefly before remembering what Saul told him. A few more people get up and leave. Clive looks disgruntled and shakes his head in disbelief.

SAUL: True, Graham is a slice of yesteryear. But he is so refreshing and was quite an eye opener to me, I can tell you! I wouldn’t say that he’s out of touch with us today but in some ways he’s remembered things that we’ve forgotten. But he’d never seen a CD before I played him one, let alone heard of music downloads. He still has a record player, would you believe! What do you think of the difference though, Graham?

GRAHAM (Coughs):I still prefer vinyl. It has a much warmer sound. It’s more intimate.

There are a few chuckles of derision from the audience.

SAUL: It’s true; he does still prefer to listen to the records… and the bizarre thing is that he’s right! I started listening to some of his albums and they do sound so much richer and warmer. How can that be? Mind you, he didn’t even have a TV! Can you believe that! Why don’t you have a television set, Graham? You don’t even use the one that I bought you won’t even let me buy you one!

A few more people walk out with tuts and sighs.

GRAHAM (Really nervous and wooden):  I don’t have any need for it…I read, listen to the records…

Saul has seen the people leaving now and is a little shaken by what is happening. He carries on though, trying to salvage the conversation.

SAUL: Funny enough, I don’t miss it either when I’m at your place. We talk most of the time and listen to music. You’re so knowledgeable as well, Graham. I could talk to you for hours! How so?

GRAHAM: Because I don’t watch TV?

CUT TO::

Clive, standing in the wing of the studio.

CLIVE (mutters to himself): That’s going to hurt the ratings.

CUT TO:

Saul is more nervous now. He’s seen Clive and Clive is making the sign of slitting his throat.

SAUL: Well… you certainly read more than many people. Most of the books must be from libraries, I guess? What do you think of the plan to shut down more libraries?

GRAHAM: Well.. I heard someone say that it was possible to determine the degree of civilisation by the way they treated their books. Our libraries are falling into disarray; they’re old, dusty buildings and the books are often in a really bad way.

There’s an audible sigh and groan from the audience. Clive has his head in his hands and more people are leaving.

GRAHAM: I don’t interact with people, as you.. ahem.. know. I just can’t. They live by the sound bite, short twittered attention spans, no depth to their lives. Books are an investment into one's soul, allowing the individuals to grow, but all I see are stunted people everywhere.

Saul sees more people leaving. Clive is about to storm the set and turn the lights off. Saul looks at Graham fidget, looks at the audience.

SAUL (in his stage voice): Talking of stunted people, tweetie pie! You’re the latest victim of THE KUNT!

There is now an audible gasp from the audience. Those that were in the process of leaving suddenly rush back to their seats. There’s a palpable round of applause and Clive is really surprised and delighted by this turn of events. Graham doesn’t know what to think, he just looks at Saul for confirmation of what’s happening. Saul will not look at him.

SAUL: Would you believe this guy? He doesn’t have a television. He didn’t have a microwave, until I gave him one. He didn’t even have a radio or an electric alarm clock until I gave him one. He still doesn’t have a girlfriend and I’m certainly not giving him one of those.

Saul is on a roll. He insults every aspect of Graham’s life and has never been so savage before. Graham just sits there and takes it.

FADE OUT:

FADE IN:

EXT. THE STREET OUTSIDE GRAHAM’S HOUSE - NIGHT

The night after the biggest show of Saul’s life. He’s reading the news on his mobile about how he engineered the biggest coup in internet and broadcasting history. He doesn’t look happy though. He comes to Graham’s house and stops. The gate is broken. There is a dustbin visible and inside are all the electrical items that Saul bought him, including the boxes. There are cords trailing outside, and the lid isn’t on properly so we can see a toaster, or the cd player… The windows have boards against them where someone has tried breaking them. The words “SPECCY TWAT” are spray-painted on the door. Saul ponders whether or not to knock on the door. He hears Jacqueline de Pre playing faintly from within. He then hears someone walking on the opposite side of the street to him.

PASSER-BY: (SHOUTS) Who loves you, Kunty baby?!

SAUL (SHOUTING BACK): Who hates to love you back?

Saul continues walking through the night-time streets.

FADE OUT:

The Buddy Story - A Screenplay

INT. COMEDY CLUB - NIGHT

A smokey, dingey third-rate comedy club. The club has barely anyone inside: a couple at the bar and two or three sitting closer to the stage. There is silence because BUDDY is dying on stage; his tight fitting suit seems to be winning the battle for breath. He holds the microphone like he’s trying to throttle it. Behind BUDDY is a battered sign on an easel: “THE BUDDY PARSNIP SHOW”.

BUDDY (Talking into the microphone):Why is a martyr like the Grateful Dead? They're both stoned?

Absolute silence from the audience, maybe an embarrassed cough.

BUDDY: Manic depressives make the best pilots! Why? They're already flying solo.

A couple of people look at each other in confusion.

BUDDY: I used to have a drinking problem... I tried drinking gasses instead of liquids!

Another patron throws a plastic bottle at Buddy and it hits him on the chest.

AUDIENCE MEMBER (Shouts): YOU SUCK!

CUT TO:

TITLE CARD: THE BUDDY STORY

INT. DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT

Buddy sits alone in the backstage communal dressing room. He stares at himself in the mirror. His reflection winks back just as Mr O'Flattery opens the door. He walks up to Buddy and slaps him on the shoulder.

Mr O'Flaterry is overbearingly small. 

MR O'FLATTERY: Well, you done it again, pal! Well done. I knew I could really rely on you!

BUDDY: I bombed! Again! You heard them out there…

MR O'FLATTERY: That’s what I like best about your act, kid! You manage to clear the house every time you're on! Tuesdays and Thursdays I have a hard time getting rid of the drunks; but the nights that you're on they just get up and leave!

Buddy slumps deeper into his chair and stares at his reflection. His reflection grimaces briefly.

MR O'FLATTERY: Look, business was crap before you got here and you haven't made it any worst!But I swear that some people come in just to see how bad you are! At least they’re never disappointed.

CUT TO:

EXT. STREET - NIGHT

Buddy stands outside his front door. He sees the light in the lounge window is on. He grimaces as he carefully puts the key in the lock as quietly as he can manage. He slowly unlocks the front door and silently shuts it behind him.

CUT TO:

INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT

He then fumbles his keys and drops them on the floor.

JANGLING CRASH

BUDDY'S MOTHER (An almost manly voice. Menacing but laced with paranoia):Buddy? What time do you call this? You never tell me where you're going or when you'll be back... don't you care about me? Don't you care?

Buddy takes his shoes off in the hall, shaking his head; cowed by his mother once again. 

CUT TO:

INT. LOUNGE - NIGHT

Buddy walks into the lounge. His mother sits on a sofa opposite the television. She has a mug of horlicks on the reading table next to her. She is tall and thin. She is incredibly strong in being weak.

Buddy stands by the door at the edge of the room. He stares at his mum with resignation and hostility.

BUDDY: Mum, for Christ's sake, I'm 36 years old.. I can take care of myself.

BUDDY'S MUM: You can take care of yourself but you don't take care of me! What did I do to deserve such a son?

Buddy sighs.

BUDDY: Mum! For Christ’s sake: I do look after you, well.. I would if you let me. I pay more than enough rent and I try to take you out.

BUDDY'S MUM: I don't want to go outside where all the people are, you never know where they've been! They're too nosey, inconsiderate.. You should stay with me, we could watch television!

BUDDY: Mum – I'm tired, I'm going to bed.

BUDDY'S MUM: Why don't you tell me where you go at night? Is there a woman? Oh, please let there be a woman!

BUDDY: Don't worry, mum -I'm fine!

BUDDY’S MUM: So, there is a woman then?

BUDDY: NO! There's no woman!

BUDDY'S MUM: Are you ashamed of me? Is that why you don’t bring her back?

BUDDY: For the last time. There's no woman, there’s no man… and there are no sheep! But yes - I am ashamed of you. Now good night!.

Buddy turns, walks out the door before his mother has a chance to reply.

CUT TO:

INT. COMEDY CLUB - NIGHT

Another night. Less people than before. Mr O’Flattery looks bemused due to the poor quality of jokes. Buddy at the mic.

BUDDY: What’s the stupidest insect? An ignorant! What’s worse than that though? A sycophant!!

BUDDY'S MUM (Shouts from the back of the room): BUDDY! What are you doing here? I was sick with worry.

Buddy is shocked. His mouth is open and he is in a state of disbelief. The few customers are suddenly more awake and paying attention.

BUDDY (choked): Mum?

Buddy’s mum is walking fast from the back of the room.

BUDDY'S MUM: I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere! Or in a hospital somewhere… or with a woman. I was hoping it was with a woman… or even a man would have been better than this!

The audience, as it is, is paying rapt attention to what is happening. There are smirks and even titters of laughter can be heard.

BUDDY: What are you doing here, Mum?

BUDDY'S MUM: What do you think I'm doing here? I followed you! Why are you making such a sucker out of yourself? Why couldn't you have been with a woman? Even a whore... Anything would have been better than this!

Buddy panics, looks at the audience. The audience is enjoying this. He looks at Mr O’Flattery. Mr O’Flattery grins and gives him the thumbs up. 

BUDDY: Drummers make the worst cryptologists… Why? They’re always crashing their cymbals?

BUDDY'S MUM: Why couldn't it have been a woman?

The audience laughs loudly and Buddy looks utterly defeated.

CUT TO:

INT. BUDDY'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

His bedroom is actually smaller than the shared dressing room of the comedy club. The cramped single bed is snug in the far corner. There are posters of Eddie Murphy; Dustin Hoffman (as Lenny Bruce); Tommy Cooper and Jasper Carrott. Buddy is sitting on the edge of his bed, facing his reflection in the built-in mirrored wardrobe. His face is stalwart; his brow is furrowed in frustration. His reflection is frowning, gnashing his teeth. His reflection starts talking. Buddy’s mouth remains shut.

BUDDY'S REFLECTION: She’s done it again; ruined everything. I can’t take it anymore. She’s got to go… But how?

BUDDY: Garrote?

Buddy’s reflection shakes his head.

BUDDY: Push her downstairs?

Another shake of the head.

BUDDY: Freak gardening accident? Swallowing powdered glass?

BUDDY'S REFLECTION: Her cooking is worse, remember?

Silence. Buddy is fuming now. 

BUDDY: GAH! They thought she was brilliant! They never paid that much attention to me before!

BUDDY'S REFLECTION: You were the perfect double-act. They loved the conflict… It’s a shame you can’t make her take part…

BUDDY: Hang on a fucking minute… Maybe I can…

CUT TO:

INT. BEHIND THE STAGE AT THE COMEDY CLUB - NIGHT

Buddy is waiting to go on. He has a stool with him and a suitcase by his side. Mr O’Flattery walks up behind him, beaming.

MR O'FLATTERY: It's a full house, kid! People must have heard of your ball-breaking. They've turned up in droves to see if she turns up again. so… will she?

BUDDY: She might… she just might…

INT. STAGE - NIGHT

Buddy walks on to the stage, carrying his case and stool. He sets the case on the floor next to the stage and starts his act.

BUDDY: What’s the smallest piece of stationery you can get? A PINcel sharpener! 

Somebody boo’s.

BUDDY: What would Doctor Who be if he lived under the sea? A brine lord!

Another boo from the crowd.

BUDDY: What is it when you throw a cat back at someone? A recatipulated catapult!

CROWD - MIXED VOICES: BOO! Get OFF the stage!! Where’s your mum?!

Everyone laughs at this last comment.

SUITCASE (Buddy jostles the suitcase with his foot. The voice is just like his mothers!): BUDDY!!

The audience goes silent. Everyone looks to the back of the room. No one is there.

SUITCASE: Buddy! Let me out!

Mr O’Flattery puts the club lights on.

SUITCASE: Let me out of this fucking suitcase!

Laughter from the audience. Buddy picks the suitcase up with some difficulty.

BUDDY: Oh shit. I’m for it now!

More laughter. Buddy opens the suitcase, whips out the caricatured puppet of his mother. Cheers from the audience.

MOTHER PUPPET: Who the hell are they, Buddy? This isn’t some kind of orgy, is it? Why can’t you live a normal life like that Mr O’Fattery over there.

A bout of laughter. O’Flattery laughs from the side of the stage.

BUDDY: Muuuum… Don’t say that, it’s Mr O’Flatterly.. I mean, O’Flattery!! You’re going to get me fired!

MOTHER PUPPET: Just when you’re finally getting an audience? This must be the first time they’re laughing WITH you rather than at you…

More laughs.

MOTHER PUPPET (to the audience): I’m so glad you’re here though. I’ve been very worried about him. For years I’ve thought there was something wrong with him… but he’s finally got wood AND been able to give someone else a really good fingering.

BUDDY (feigning embarrassment): Muuuum…

FADE OUT:

MONTAGE

Clips of Buddy performing over a series of nights; the audience getting larger. Always performing with MOTHER. Mr O’Flattery beaming wide, counting the money; Buddy getting paid more and more money.

MOTHER PUPPET: Clean out your room! It’s like a rat's nest!

BUDDY: I’m not surprised. You won’t let me out of the basement and the rats don’t want to share!

MOTHER PUPPET: Are you one of those mono-sexuals?

BUDDY

Only if my right hand counts!

CUT TO:

INT. COMEDY CLUB BAR - NIGHT

Buddy is relaxing at the bar when a very attractive woman walks up to him. 

MANDY: I love your act… you’re so funny!

MOTHER PUPPET VOICE: Watch out for this one… she looks like a gold-digger.

BUDDY: She’s not after your gold-fillings, mum. Shut up!

MANDY (laughs): You’re so funny! Maybe we can go out sometime?

CUT TO:

MONTAGE

Buddy and Mandy walking together, happily. Buddy throws his voice at different times.

CUT TO:

INT. THEATER - EVENING

Buddy sits with Mandy in the more expensive seats. He winks at Mandy.

BUDDY (Throwing his voice, at no one in particular): Hey, Baldy! Shush! Just zip it!

Everyone turns to look at each other, as does Buddy.

CUT TO:

EXT. THE PARK - MORNING

Mandy and Buddy are sitting down eating sandwiches next to a pond. Buddy is talking to Mandy about his puppets having dry rot. 

MANDY: What? Did you say something, Buddy? I wasn’t listening… 

She points to an elderly couple that’s about to walk past.

MANDY: Go on… here’s your chance! Get them! Make them think they’re hearing voices.

Buddy sighs. The penny has dropped.

CUT TO:

INT. COMEDY CLUB STAGE - NIGHT

Buddy is on stage with his mother puppet. There is another suitcase on the floor next to him. Mandy is in the audience. All of a sudden the routine just stops. The mother puppet just looks at Buddy and then down at the audience.

MOTHER PUPPET: Ok, where is she? Where is the cradle snatching, money grabbing whore?

The audience are holding their breath in anticipation. This is something new. 

SAMMI PUPPET: How dare you!

Buddy reaches down with his other hand. Opens the suitcase and another puppet is produced. This is Sammi; a very rude caricature of Mandy. Mandy gasps in horror.

SAMMI PUPPET: You miserable old windbag! You termite ridden harridan!

MOTHER PUPPET: Buddy! Are you going to let her get away with that?

BUDDY: What can I do? I haven’t got any hands free!

The audience is laughing hard now. Mandy is sobbing and gets up. She walks away crying. Buddy doesn’t notice her. The Sammi puppet does though and jiggles up and down, as if it's laughing.

CUT TO:

EXT. COMEDY CLUB EXTERIOR - NIGHT

A large, gaudy poster of Buddy holding the mother puppet. “THE BUDDY SHOW!” and then in smaller letters: “Comedy is not the only thing that's wooden!”

CUT TO:

INT. COMEDY CLUB STAGE - NIGHT

Buddy is on stage. On one hand is the Sammi puppet. On the other is a new creation; a crude version of Buddy. 

The puppet of Buddy is on the left hand; Sammi on the other. They are on either side of Buddy and can’t see each other. The Buddy puppet peers over to Sammi and when the Sammi puppet peers back he disappears behind Buddy, embarrassed.

SAMMI PUPPET: Are you interested in ornithology?

BUDDY PUPPET: I’m not sure, why?

SAMMI PUPPET: Because I’d love to see your little woodpecker!

Both puppets ‘kiss’ and get ‘naked’. They start having sex.The audience is a little bemused by this. The humping becomes more strenuous then:

SAMMI PUPPET: Buddy?

BUDDY PUPPET: Whaaat?

SAMMI PUPPET: Why does your mum hate me?

BUDDY PUPPET: She doesn't, sweetie. She just doesn't understand you.

SAMMI PUPPET: That’s alright then.

The rhythm resumes its intensity. It suddenly stops again.

SAMMI PUPPET: Buddy?

BUDDY PUPPET: What now?

SAMMI PUPPET: I was thinking… Maybe we should get married?

BUDDY PUPPET (looks at audience): Well, I’ve lost wood!

CUT TO:

INT. DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT

Buddy is alone in his dressing room. It’s a large one now. The door slams open. His mother enters, enraged. She’s holding the puppet of herself.

BUDDY'S MOTHER: What the hell is this, Buddy? What do you call this? What is happening?

Buddy’s mother slams the door behind her. She throws the puppet at Buddy.

BUDDY: Be careful with that?

BUDDY'S MOTHER (shouting): Be careful? What about me? Do you know what other people are saying about me? They think it's all outrageously funny and obviously thought I knew about it!

Buddy’s mother is enraged. Buddy gets up and tries to get away.

Buddy’s mother goes to grab him by the lapels but he pushes her away. She slaps him hard against the cheek.

BUDDY'S MOTHER: Stand still, boy! You’re such a selfish brat; I can’t believe I’ve looked after you all this time! And this is what you do to me!

Buddy is backed into a corner now and rubs his cheek where he was slapped. He tries to ward his mother off but she lunges for him again. 

Buddy pushes her back hard and she stumbles.

Buddy looks to the make-up table and sees a pair of nail scissors. He brandishes them against her.

BUDDY (in his Buddy puppet voice):That’s it! I can’t stand it anymore! You’re for the wood chipper!

Buddy starts stabbing his mother with the nail scissors. She screams out, falls and blocks the door. Buddy just keeps stabbing. There are knocks on the door from Mr O’Flattery.

MR O'FLATTERY: Hey! What’s going on in there?

BUDDY: I’m just rehearsing for the next show!

MOTHER PUPPET: Oh no you’re not!

BUDDY PUPPET: Shut up! It’s not funny!

BUDDY'S MOTHER (interrupting with a scream):Help! He’s really killing me!

BUDDY: Shut up! Why won’t you fucking die!

Mr O’Flattery tries pushing the door but Buddy’s mother is still blocking it.

MR O'FLATTERY: I’m getting the police!

BUDDY PUPPET: You’re for it now!

CUT TO:

INT. OUTSIDE THE DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT

The police are outside the dressing room. They pound on the door.

BUDDY PUPPET VOICE: I told you! I’m rehearsing!

POLICE: Open up, or else we’ll have to break down the door.

Buddy opens the door. He stands to one side. The police walk in. There is a large suitcase in the corner. There is a trail of  blood leading to it. The suitcase is almost closed. Arms and legs protrude from it.

BUDDY: Look at it this way. I’ve got perfect material for the comeback!

FADE OUT:

Busman's Holiday

“The wheels on the bus go round and round” until Mr Sachs walked onboard and held the passengers and driver hostage. It was later that everyone else went “wah wah wah”.

1974: A Croatian flight attendant  survived a mid-air explosion in a 747 over Czechoslovakia. The plane broke apart at 33,000 ft and, trapped inside the tail section of the fuselage, she plummeted to earth with a food cart pinning her to the floor of the plane. It was this which saved her, acting like a seat belt. The fuselage struck a heavily wooded, snow covered mountain slope at just the right angle which cushioned the impact. In a later interview she stated that she felt she had been protected the whole time.

19.45. Thomas sits in the back of the bus, admiring Lynda. A distant but oh, so close yearning.  All the way from Midhurst to Guildford. Building up confidence to talk to her. But there could only be a few stops before she got out. The bus was pulling into the Park And Ride. Now or never. 

Mr Sachs had other ideas.  He calmly waits on the pavement by the bus stop. He doesn’t even wait for the other passengers to get off. His intentions perfectly clear.  And when the driver looks to the source of the disturbance he becomes face to face with an old comrade and a new threat..

“Frank… what’s up?”

“Shut the fucking doors”. Frank Sachs replies, pointing the gun at him. He  looks to the frightened passengers. There are ten people on the bus. It had been a long day for most of them and all were anxious to be somewhere else.  “Nobody screams or I shoot. It’s that simple.”

There were no screams. But as the first whispers became audible Frank Sachs walks down the corridor to explain the situation.

“It’s very simple.” Frank Sachs explains. “The bastards sacked me today. Apparently I’ve been ill one too many times for their liking and because I’m dispensably pale and single I have no rights. So we’re all going to sit on this bus until I get my job back. It’s very, very simple.”

Frank Sachs walks back to the driver, John Searle. “Did you do it by the book, John?” 

“What do you mean, Frank?”

“Pressed the panic button, of course. It’s what I would have done in your position… if I had a job, that is.”

“Yes, Frank. I did.”

“So you’re going to remain sensible, aren’t you, John?” John nods. Frank Sachs nods with him.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone. But I will.” Frank Sachs looks John in the eye.

“I don’t think you will, Frank. Not with that anyway.” John replies. John thinks he knows Frank. He’d worked with him for years. John knew nothing.

“Which leg do you favor, John?”  John looks at Frank Sachs quixotically. “It’s ok. I know you’re a lefty.” Frank Sachs shoots John in the right knee. “Unlike the movies, John, there is no blood spatter. Neat, isn’t it?” John screams in terror and pain. The rest of the bus respond in sympathetic resonance until Frank Sachs warns them otherwise. “He’s not in any pain. It’s shock. Don’t believe all you see on television.” He turns to John. “That doesn’t look too bad. I guess I missed the artery, John.” Blood oozes from the wound, a crimson oil seepage. “Take your belt off and make a tourniquet. If you’re lucky you’ll survive the night yet!”

Lynda now sits next to Thomas. Thomas is calm, despite the situation, but he just couldn’t tell you why…..

1999: A Swedish medical student lost control skiing down a steep mountain in Norway and fell headfirst into a frozen stream. She became trapped beneath the ice but found a small pocket of air between the water and ice which kept her conscious for 40 minutes before going into cardiac arrest. The rescue team managed to cut her out 80 minutes later. Although clinically dead she was rushed to the University Hospital of North Norway where the Doctors used a heart-lung bypass machine to pump her frozen blood out, warm it up, before cycling it back into her body. The operation  took nine hours, but she woke up with no brain damage. Upon waking she described the feeling of someone watching over her.

20.10. The curse of modern life: nothing is sacred; no privacy. No common sense and no facts,  no informed opinion, just feelings. Things might have turned out differently had it not been for social media. The police were notified sooner than John’s panic button. One of the bus passengers already texted the police. “We are being held hostage by someone with an air pistol. Please help us.!!”  This was before John had been shot. 

The police arrived and surrounded the bus. They demanded Frank Sachs leave the bus. That demand was ignored, as was the demand to release the hostages. It was at this time that the cavalry turned up. The local press had been informed by another passenger; priorities and the chance of fame and notoriety trumped common sense and the desire to stay alive. At least two of the passengers were filming quite openly, cameras held high like beacons mourning self-respect and understanding. Frank Sachs seemed resigned to this and actively played up to this new found audience. His demands had not changed, he just wanted his job back.

Thomas and Lynda can only watch the morons hold their mobiles like sacrificial daggers, exacerbating the situation. Lynda has Thomas’s hand in hers. She could not tell you why except it feels right, as if she’s known him all her life.

1848: Phineas Gage was an American railroad construction foreman. He narrowly avoided a catastrophic brain injury when a 13lb, 3.5ft  tamping rod was blasted through his skull after an accidental explosion. It entered his left cheekbone and exited with such force that it went through the top of his head and landed 30 yards away. Unbelievably he survived this and, despite having a radically changed personality, he lived another 12 years. When asked how he managed to survive such an accident Gage is reported to have said that moments before the explosion he felt someone push him back a couple of steps.

20.20. The police did not take Frank Sachs seriously due to the hostage account regarding the air-pistol. They knew he could do some damage with such a pistol but it was just a waiting game. A base of operations had been set up in the reception area of the Park & Ride complex, near the toilets. No one investigated Frank’s situation, or his family. So when a man was caught trying to ‘break into the bus’ it was assumed he was another hijacker. The police were quick to tackle the man to the ground and use the taser on him when he tried to get up. Frank Sachs saw all this happening in horror. This was his brother, Bryan.

Bryan Sachs had seen everything unfold on the local news and had driven to the Park and Ride as quickly as he could.  He had not counted on such an oppressive police presence and hadn’t thought through the rationality of his actions until after feeling the tasers sting. Yet no matter how he tried explaining his situation no one would listen to him. Things became exacerbated when Frank Sachs personally contacted the police through his mobile phone. 

“Release Bryan or there will be one less hostage to worry about.”

“Frank. You must realise there is nowhere for you to go. We know that it's not a real gun. It’s an air-pistol. We even know what make and model it is… it’s a BRK Brocock Atomic XR!”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“I’ll release one of the hostages. I’ll show you I mean business.”

Lynda wants to be the one released and almost puts her hand up as if she is back in school, waiting to be relieved. Thomas stops her with a squeeze and a knowing gaze that captures her attention and keeps her calm. Her previous anxieties and crippling fear are gone and she watches the events unfold with a cool detachment. The girl with the mobile phone put her hand up and it was as if she had one top prize on a chat show. The crowd was awed by this gesture and everyone in the bus now felt hopeful. Frank Sachs allowed the door to open and waited until the hostage had passed the threshold. He then shot her calmly in the back of the neck, shutting the doors at the same time as her body fell limp, as if its contract had been cut. No one screamed. They could barely breathe.

“It’s no longer just an air-gun… it’s amazing what one can find on YouTube these days.. Like how to convert an air-gun so it can fire real bullets.” Frank Sachs said smugly. “You have two things to do. 1) Let me brother go. 2) Give me my fucking job back!"

Lynda looked at Thomas with incredulity. It could have been her.

20.50. It had never dawned on the police that they could easily have bluffed their way out of the situation. All it would have taken is one call to the bus company. One lie told by the manager. A fake contract drawn up and then once the hostages were released Frank Sachs’s story could have ended. But that isn’t what happened.

The police did comply in releasing Frank's brother but only because they had planned something else quite spectacular. The SWAT team was ready and would go in with smoke grenades, They had already managed contact with another passenger on the bus; so the next step was to smoke him out.Unfortunately the person they had managed to contact was the driver himself and therefore everything he knew about so did Frank Sachs.

1985: A British climber tried climbing down the 634 meter Sivla Grande in the Peruvian Andes during a blizzard. He slipped on a frozen cliff edge and plummeted 20 meters into a crevasse, landing on a frail snowbridge. He managed to probe deeper and deeper into the crevasse and eventually found a small opening onto the glacier. Over the next 3 days he was without food or water and suffered from intense hallucinations before finally being rescued.  One voice was constant through those hallucinatory times; it was one that told him to keep going, that everything was going to be alright…. And it was.

21.30. By using the smoke canisters, the assumption was that all the passengers would be on the floor, having been told to do so by the informant on the bus. Anyone left standing up would therefore be Frank Sachs and could be eliminated. The police shot a few windows out, threw smoke canisters inside before operating the ‘driver release’ handle on the side of the bus, next to the main door. The door popped open and they saw a silhouette of a man standing by the steering wheel. They took no chances and simply opened fire on the prone body. The body slumped onto the instrument panel. In the bus the other passengers remained deathly quiet. Two policemen walked to the body but neither of them had a chance to inspect it before they were both shot in the head by Frank Sachs.

Lynda wanted to scream and would have done it if not for Thomas. There was a serene look in his eyes. With a squeeze of his hand he motioned for her to be calm. And then he got out of his seat and walked behind Frank Sachs just as the smoke was lifting.

2001: The Canadian was used to scaling skyscrapers and was totally unprepared when he freescaled up the left wall of the Red River Gorge. It could have been, and should have been, a fatal miscalculation and he found himself stranded. The nearest handhold was completely out of his physical reach and his forearms were too full of lactic acid for him to climb back down. He felt a nudge to try something desperate; he knew he would make it: he released his grip entirely and launched himself upward into the air and caught the distant edge with his fingers and held on. Suffice to say he survived and made it back downstairs to tell the tale.

21.31. Frank Sachs heard a noise behind him. He was too preoccupied to understand what was  happening; he was now operating on adrenaline. He got up and turned to see what had made the noise. He was shocked to see Thomas walking slowly towards him with a beatific smile on his face. Frank Sachs first reaction was to shoot him dead but his hand was jolted by something as he fired. It was this muzzle flash that finally gave the snipers outside the bus something to target. Three of them took the fatal shot. Frank Sachs fell dead. Thomas had already fallen on the floor just seconds before the snipers opened fire. But to everyone else it must have seemed that Thomas had been shot multiple times at the same time as Frank Sachs.

Lynda rushed to his side, sobbing with confused emotions. Her life was now inextricably bound to this stranger. Less than three hours ago they had been two disparate people and now he had sacrificed his life for hers. Thomas heard Lynda’s sobs and opened his eyes. Despite the pain he looked into her eyes and smiled. “I’m absolutely starving. When this is all over how about a kebab?”

1999 : A disgruntled bus driver takes a bus and its passengers hostage for three hours with a converted air-pistol. Through poor communications and mis-understandings at least three people are killed. Just as things seem hopeless one of the passengers distracts the hijacker and almost pays the price.  By a pure fluke of fate the shot goes wild and rather than shoot him in the face the bullet goes right through the shoulder, missing all the major arteries. The passenger survives and jokes that his actions were down to a momentary lapse of reason. When pushed he states that he felt someone with him, guiding his actions. Eight months later he is married to the passenger next to him on the bus. That, he stated, was the real miracle.

What would you do?

I used to think that I was boring. The truth would have been far more complex had I not accepted my gift. I could put people to sleep by just talking to them.

For years, especially throughout my more formative years at school, I just thought I was the most asinine of children; everyone always yawned within minutes of talking to me. I thought I was bright and interesting with lots of things to say, it’s just that no one could stay alert when listening. The yawning and nodding off started within a minute of me talking. No one made the connection, luckily, but I certainly did. I was a sensitive child and was very careful not to talk to many people. It was also lucky that I didn’t really have much to say for myself; I was a loner, even back then.

It wasn’t too pronounced until I hit puberty and then the effect became more intense. No one dared argue with me; and still no one put two and two together. I suppose it’s quite a leap of the imagination to say that I was the source of everyone's lethargy. Soon it became obvious that I didn’t really need to say much at all to have an impact. When I turned 18 I realised that I could work from home and found a job doing telemarketing to start with, but I soon understood that I didn’t have to be within close proximity of people to affect them. I then tried becoming one of the 0800 sex-line models. I made so much money on those calls initially, the company who employed me thought I was an absolute marvel to start with -my calls were the longest they’d ever had, and every minute was a premium rate. The calls were so long because all the women had fallen asleep a few seconds of ringing me!That fell through though when the complaints came in.

I tried talking to the Doctors about my condition but that didn’t get me anywhere either. I could make an appointment via text or email but the moment I tried visiting the Doctor the same thing happened. It didn’t matter how detailed my email was, no one seemed to believe me! I soon gave up trying to talk to people and living like a recluse seemed to suit me.

One day I took one of my regular jaunts up the town to catch up on my weekly shop. I had figured out that I could write my instructions on a small dry-wipe board using a marker and mime to people that I couldn’t speak to them. It was surprising how effective that was; most people were very understanding and even had a go on my whiteboard -the amount of times I lost playing tic-tac-toe was embarrassing.

Then Amelia let me win, but I should have known better. She knew what the whiteboard was for and her need was actually genuine. In some ways our should have been a match in heaven. She was deaf and had been since birth.

She read lips and nothing I said made her feel drowsy or made her pass out, or sick to the stomach… She even encouraged me to speak my mind, especially when we were on our own. Whether her deafness lent her an elusive quality, I’m not sure, but she felt ethereal to me; too good to be true (which, of course, she would be). She had long waterfull hair, blond and translucent in the morning sun. Her eyes were like diamonds on a moonlit night. I could finally wax lyrical; become as literary as I wanted. Her kisses tasted of lychee and her tongue was teasing and gentle.

She was fascinated by my talent, as she called it; and loved to see me practice it on people. She thought it was a gift as well, could be used to distract and dissuade; break up arguments and dissolve tricky situations. Her favorite trick was introducing me to her parents. She delighted in watching me be really polite and obsequious to them only for them to blanch upon falling asleep. They would then apologise profusely to Amelia and promise her the stars on a stick. Amelia would play on their guilt and blame them for all sorts of foulness over the years. This was her chance to get her own back; and I could see no reason why not. I was so topsy over her that I wasn’t thinking straight -passionless sex will do that. Not that I knew the difference. She was purely going through the motions with me; her groans were more out of her inability to vocalise articulately rather than being in the throes of ecstasy.

Nor did I think anything of us visiting her older sister. She pretended that I was deaf initially to get us in the door; and her sister seemed very shocked to see her; especially with me standing next to her. Amelia could sign but chose not to; she used her own whiteboard to deliberately annoy people -which she was doing now. In actuality her speaking voice was pretty damn clear and coherent for someone who had been deaf from birth; she had been tenacious in becoming proficient in it -she just didn’t allow the majority of people know about it. Her parents and sister were among those who were not in the know. 

Ten minutes of mounting sororal annoyance Amelia finally said, “My sister is getting het up again,.., why don’t you put her at ease?” So I finally introduced myself to her. The shock and dismay was soon overtaken by the yawns and eventual somnambulism. Amelia clapped her hands in glee and told me to go back to the car and get the engine running.

This was strange but I did as I was told; went outside into the chill morning and into the car to get the engine ticking over. I felt as if I’d just helped rob a bank. Five minutes later Amelia walked out the front door, almost skipping, carrying a plastic bag. She opened the car door and put the bag in the well next to me, slipped in and shut the door, but not before kissing me suggestively on the cheek -slipping a bit of tongue as if tasting me,

We drove home in silence.

I didn’t need to ask what she’d done. I slyly looked into the bag on the way home and noticed jewelry, lots of it .  “She stole it from me. It should all have been mine but she was always daddy’s favorite… You should have seen the way they judged you! It’s alright, she’ll never do anything about it -who would believe her?”

It was my turn to keep quiet. What was going on? I wasn’t the brightest of the bunch; a match who had been struck prematurely; but even I was pondering on whether Amelia was using me for some reason. My subconscious must have been leaking for Amelia confronted me once we returned to her flat.

“I know you must think me wicked, but I need that money… For years I’ve wanted to hear… I know it sounds corny but you can’t understand how much I’ve always wanted to… Well, there’s such a thing as a cochlear implant -and no, it’s nothing to do with having an penis enlargement!” I shrugged. “Mommy and daddy never wanted me to have it; they always gave their money to baby sister… but now it's mine.”

Sure enough, after selling the jewelry via a few pawnbrokers she finally had enough to afford the implant. For a couple of weeks the Doctors said that she was doing brilliantly and she pushed for the early activation of it as there was virtually no swelling. I was there when it was switched on and all the arguments had been worth it upon seeing her eyes light up after hearing something for the very first time. To be fair, it wasn’t my voice, obviously, just the doctor counting to ten, but it was the mere fact that it worked. It would take around another three months, probably longer, of speech therapy, listening exercises and auditory mapping of the nerves and fine tuning, It was an intense time to be sure. She became very tenacious, very demanding of me and she was in constant discomfort, which meant that we could no longer share a bed together, I understood… of course I did.

She did occasionally ask for me to speak to her, but only at the end of the day if she was in too much pain, I acted as the perfect anesthetic to her. And I obliged. I knew that I was in a loving relationship and she would have done exactly the same for me.

Three months later her sister got in contact with her again; going so far as to turn up unannounced. She wouldn’t even look me in the eye, she was that mad. There was a huge row; her sister had finally tumbled what had happened and knew that her jewels had become the down payment for Amelia’s operation. She hadn’t told the parents yet but would do unless certain conditions were met….

I could tell that Amelia was threatened by this and there was a very good chance that she could become violent. I had never liked confrontations and did my best to break this one up. There was no point me signing so I found our communal white board and suggested a compromise. Yes, the money had been for the operation but it was only because it was so important to Amelia. Now it had been successful we would do our best to pay it back over time, Amelia agreed to this immediately, which surprised me… And her sister agreed as well and by way of an apology, Amelia suggested that we all go out for a meal the next day. 

We were going to take a taxi to the new Chinese that had just opened, and that should have been the first warning bell. We picked her up in the taxi. I was already wearing my seat belt but Amelia helped her sister with hers. Whilst on the dual carriageway we overtook lots of cars, the driver eager to earn Amelia’s tip. Amelia casually asked me to help her with her auditory exercises.I agreed without thinking and she joked with her sister that she had me well-trained.

It wasn’t noticeable at first, I thought the driver was simply nodding his head to the radio, but there was no music on. I was still speaking slowly and methodically so Amelia could hear me and I saw her sister slump and suddenly realised what was happening. I looked back at Amelia and was puzzled to see her relaxed, coveting a smile and a glint in her eye. The driver slumped forward but quickly regained his balance and tried desperately to stay awake. I had stopped speaking but it was too late now, the steering wheel slipped out of his grasp and there was nothing he could. His full weight was on the car horn, like a death knell, as the taxi jack-knifed, slamming into the partition before careening into the oncoming traffic. I couldn’t see what happened next but I was the only one still awake amongst the wreckage.

Both Amelia and I survived; our seat belts had held. We were battered and bruised and in some degree of pain but we were ok. The taxi driver was dead; dead upon impact. Amelia’s sister was crumpled like a pile of rags; her seat belt had failed completely. She too was dead. It was clear that I had been used to effectively murder Amelia’s sister; there could be no doubt about it. However to everyone else we were victims of death by fatigued driving.

We spent hours at the police station; obviously both of us had to go right to the written statement. Amelia explained that her cochlear implants had failed and I just lied my guts out. No one would have believed the truth anyway. It was then that I formulated my plan. I had to get out of the relationship anyway I could.

That night we argued; this time with something more genuine and fraught than most nights. I think Amelia just enjoyed the sound of her own voice too much now. I found it grating and hostile. I asked her when she would allow me access to her beautiful body again, to which she just laughed. I now knew she had been stringing me on for months; she’d gotten exactly what she wanted and would probably dump me before too long. 

I took her by surprise and managed to pin her arms behind her back whilst finding her implant. I’d spent so long helping her out with the fine-tuning that I knew exactly how it worked. I turned it on, and turned it up. 

“I love you so much, baby.” I said. “You’re mine now.” And with a groan of disgust and defeat her eyes closed.

Yes… I tied her up. Yes, I turned her implant to maximum and when she woke up she was horrified to find herself naked. And so was I. I started whispering as I made love to her. Each time she started to drowse off I’d stop and allow her to gain consciousness again. I kept this up for hours; an hour for each of the stinking months that she kept me strung up and used me; making me accomplice to her crimes; her lies; her degenerate life. This was payback. I did nothing to her that I hadn’t done before but I also knew that I had crossed a line. The deaths could not be pinned on me -the sister and that poor, unfortunate taxi-driver.. But she could easily testify against me now and nothing I said would make any difference. She looked at me and understood exactly what I was going to do.

With the implant still on maximum I started to sing to her. I knew her favorite song in recent months had been ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ by Queen and it was rather apt for it to be used as an eulogy. This would surely puzzle the coroner as there was no real way of determining her death -sleeping sickness, perhaps? I didn’t care. She had enough money in the flat to get a full tank of petrol. The moral line had been firmly crossed now -it was so far behind me that it looked like a dot. There was nothing stopping me from getting what I wanted when I wanted it. A robbery here; a bit of comfort there…. I mean, if you were in my position what would you do?

Time of the month

1)

I was in a quandary; it was the wrong time of the month and yet if I didn’t act upon my impulses Simon could quite literally get away and I couldn’t have that; he was far too delicious looking. He wasn’t my normal sort; thinner, more bookish than normal but there was something vulnerable about him that made me want to mother him before…. well; teach him about the birds and bees. I met him at one of those dreadful speed-dating events. It was a new town for me and I needed a quick fix and this seemed to be the best avenue. My hopes weren’t high and I really just wanted something to tide me over.

Meeting Simon changed all that; he seemed far too innocent to just waste on a cheap thrill. He seemed captivated by me; but then that was quite unfair on my behalf, he never really stood a chance. He was thin, rakish, more like Harold Lloyd, even down to the same glasses -I even made the comparison upon chatting to him but he had never even heard of that glorious silent-cinema comedian… but then why would he? (I had to be careful here; I was letting my excitement make me tongue tied, like a smitten teenager and I was far too experienced for that!) The speed date with him went far too quickly and when the time finally ended I just wrote my name and number on the palm of his hand in slow, luxuriant strokes. I felt his eyes on me for the rest of the night and just bathed in his gaze. He was going to be one to savor for sure… 

But that did mean I had to sate myself with something else and, luckily, Rob ended up being the ideal candidate. He was totally unremarkable; a wise guy, always talking about himself..He smelt very heavily of cheap aftershave and the grease in his air looked like an environmental disaster.. But beggars can’t always be choosers. He was very easy to lay claim to and never seemed to bat an eyelid until the very last moment, but by then it was far too late. 

I thought of Simon the whole time.

2)

Simon rang me two days after the speed dating. He was very hesitant when he rang and I gave him my sexy, full bodied voice. Rob was proving to be very difficult to forget -like acid reflux, he just wouldn’t leave me alone. I wanted to see Simon though -the longer I left things the more chance there was that he would lose interest or I had to move towns again. I could only stay in one place for so long. I felt bloated and sore but if I likened it to the time of the month then I’m sure Simon would understand. I had to take the chance with him; I’m sure whatever happened I would be able to deal with it.

We arranged to meet that evening; go out for a small meal and then… well, I knew what my plans were going to be. I only hoped that I would be feeling better by then. 

Six hours later and I felt quite a bit better; I still felt tender in places and had an upset tummy still. I also felt nauseated now but couldn’t pass up the opportunity that presented itself. I met Simon at the local pizza restaurant and sat down to a really nice meal. I explained to him that I was on the ‘time of the month’ and he tried his best not to blanche. I had him pegged at being single a long time as most men just ignored such a sentiment rather than blanching so noticeably. He was very sweet afterwards and didn’t comment about me eating only a small green salad. I said that normally my appetite was far more.. insatiable and I smiled at him. He blushed… Oh, I was so going to enjoy him!

He offered to drive me home and, of course, I accepted. I asked him if he minded helping me to my front door as I was still feeling a little faint (a pure lie, of course) and then invited him in. He was very reticent, walked in and sat in the middle of my plush sofa, with his legs tightly touching and both hands grasping his knees for all that they were worth.

I took my coat off and showed off my purple dress which was tight-fitting in the right places and 

long flowing like a lilac waterfall. I sat next to him and almost regretted it as my tummy felt very sensitive to the touch. I still felt bloated and would normally just lie on my bed until it subsided; however I knew that I couldn’t do that here.

There was just something about Simon; I had to have him but I had to be careful -I still felt rather sensitive. Perhaps if I was gentle, found a way to.. tenderise him first... I knew that I only had a limited window of opportunity to act; he was a flight risk. I knew that he found me attractive but probably thought of me out of his depth and if he left tonight then he would probably never want to see me again and I just couldn't countenance that.

I faced him and smiled. "Don't be shy, Simon... It's ok, I know you like me."

He blushed... bless him, he actually blushed. "Well... that's true. I do like you but I really don't know what I'm doing here... I'm not sure I'm good at ... relations."

"Relations? is that what you call it?" I laughed, but in a seductive way. He was so sweet, I didn't want to hurt him in any way. "Why not call it sex? Making love... Is that what you'd like to do with me?"

"If I knew how then I would be all over you, I'm sure... but I don't want to waste your time; you'd only be disappointed with me." He moved to get up, I could see that he was actually being quite candid with me.

"What if I told you that none of that mattered to me? What you just told me is so important and means that I can be so gentle with you... I could teach you so much, Simon; if you just opened up and let me." I moved closer to him and let him feel my breath on his neck and face. He blinked and licked his lips. He sat back down, and I leaned closer to him still. "Lovemaking is something that's best savored; taken slow. Do you want that? Do  you want me, Simon? Because I want you..." What happened next caught me by completely by surprise.

 3)

It was like a cork being shot out of a bottle after so much pressure had been building up; I was totally unprepared for it... He was like a different person; unfettered. He suddenly caught a glimpse of his own libido and embraced it. Simon pushed me back on to the sofa and followed, his mouth seeking mine; his tongue flowing into mine. It was so unexpected and did so much to get my juices flowing.... however he was a little too enthusiastic and pushed too hard into my abdominal region. What happened next was so regrettable and all I can see is the look of horror on his face .

It was disgusting, truly and I did everything I could to stop it... To be honest, there wasn't that much left of him but it meant dislocating my jaws in order to regurgitate what was left of the body -just a few of the larger bones; the gristly and hairy bits (I hate the hairy bits!) Rob was still only partially digesting from the day before, which was causing the cramps; but Simon was too important to me. I felt so ashamed and felt sorry for Simon as well; I truly did want to take him to the heights of heaven before eating him. The colour had drained from his face and his mouth was open so much it was like a caricature. I quickly closed my mandibles and smoothed the skin over. Normally I would have reverted to my normal form but I just couldn't. I still felt bad for him....

"I'm so sorry; you were never meant to see that..."

"Were you going to eat me too?" He whispered, trying to regain whatever sanity remained in such a situation. I nodded. "But not before fucking me?" I smiled to myself; it seemed that something had come from tonight; Simon had found a bit of strength after all. Such a shame it would come to nothing. I nodded again, with a sad smile. "But now you're... just going to eat me."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to happen like this... ."

"But why? Why did you want to sleep with me?"

"As strange as it sounds, I like you... Really like you. I wanted to take you to heaven before you 

died. Normally I just kill without hesitation but I wanted to show you the best time of your life, as only I could have done... but..."

"But what?" Simon replied, hesitating. "I mean... as you were going to kill me anyway.... is that heaven thing totally off the menu?"  I knew there was a reason why I really liked him....

Lovey Darling

Two types of people you should never trust: writers and actors; one is an egotistical fantasist and the other a fantastical egotist.

Years ago, through the machinations of Simon, a single-serving friend, I was offered the part in a local play - Pygmalion! I didn’t want to be in it and had no aspirations of being an actor at all; I preferred to write my own fantasy even back then, but I was told that there wouldn’t be much to remember and I was desperately needed. I was naive, younger and more tractable back then and so I acquiesced. He was over the moon, and so was his father (Let’s call him Mr Simon), who was the director of the play. They couldn’t find anyone to play the part of Mr Doolittle and I was uncouth enough to pull it off.

I had long suspected that there was something more to the ‘comradeship’ that Simon and his family offered; certainly, they were of a much higher standard of living than me and it showed. I was often invited over for supper and treated to nights at the theatre -all of which I was, and still am, grateful for-  but in my more cynical moments I can’t help but wonder whether they saw it as some kind of charity work. Please don’t get me wrong, they couldn’t have been nicer to me, but they were more than a little aloof and treated me with a kind of benevolence you normally gave to a sickly animal or impoverished child.

For the first audition I arrived a little early, determined to be eager in appearance at least. I was greeted with earnest graciousness; I was a necessary outsider as no one would lower themselves to such a working-class background, even in the confines of a play. The group were widely known as an incestuous bunch; they didn’t like new people moving into the village let alone anyone new entering their precious Am Dram society; they were puritans and loved Morris Dancing and traditional folk songs. And even though they greeted me with outstretched hands and toothy smiles their gaze and grips were ice cold and threatening. I was an outsider; worse, I was a necessary outsider. How that must have festered!

They explained to me the premise of the play as if they were talking to a child and I was now really regretting this. All of them had an effete sense of superiority that only comes through breeding or coming into money; not through actually working for it.  I realised I could change the evening from a complete washout to a potential source of amusement and  play them at their own game.

“Do you understand what the play is trying to say?” Cordelia asked me, her cracked voice trying to make up for her rheumy stare.

“And what we’re asking from you?” Mr Simon chipped in, in a far gentler tone. Mr Simon was extremely charismatic, and I couldn’t help but like him even if he was like the rest.  I could see he was trying to sweeten Cordelia’s attack and I almost felt sorry for him as under any other circumstances I might have become quite good friends with Mr Simon, but this was going to be a long night.

“I remember seeing My Fair Lady a few years ago.” I quipped and I could see Simon bristle next to me, this was obviously NOT the response they were looking for. I smiled deep inside.

“It’s not quite the same thing.” Mr Simon replied, ever the diplomat.

“Oh -you mean there are no songs in Piggymalion?” I asked, really laying it on thick.

“That’s PYGmalion!” The Brigadier snapped; it was obvious that he was going to play Higgins. I was tempted to stir things a little bit more but didn’t want it to turn into a farce too quickly. The Brigadier was definitely one of the elite who thought the world now owed him a living because he ‘fought’ on the battlefields of the ‘great’ war. I actually researched him later on and found out the closest he’d got to a real battlefield was when he was sent look after the local TA due to being totally ineffectual at his post.

“Sorry. Well, the part I’m playing.. .Mr Domuch..” I replied.

“Do LITTLE!” He snapped back.

“As little as possible -well, that’s my motto.” I replied. Simon kicked me hard under the table, he knew what I was up to now but it was too late. I could feel The Brigadier bristle and even Mr Simon was having second thoughts. “Anyway, Doolittle is the wisest one of the bunch, it's obvious! He doesn’t care for his daughter but if he can make a bit of money out of her, so much the better. It was either that or sending her on the game, I suppose.” It was time for Estelle to blanche. Estelle of the duck billed countenance and brick thick glasses.

“I say.” She said and I tried my best to hold in a chuckle.

“Have you actually read the damn play?” Oswald asked me venomously. He had a gristled piggy face, white hairs popping out of moles everywhere. He could have been the original absent-minded professor; his knowledge was so out of date it threatened to become current one day soon.

“Yeah, I had a glance through it.” I ignored Oswald who was just about to launch a full-scale attack. “The trouble is, Dolittle is completely right. There’s no way he’s going to change Eliza’s mind; he also knows that Higgins is going to have his way regardless, so he may as well make SOME money on it. He also knows that you can’t polish a turd. It doesn’t matter how much you tart it up it will still remain a turd. He knew that Higgins would grow tired of Eliza -or vice versa- and just discard her; so then where will her airs and graces get her. She’ll truly be alone, neither one thing or another.
"That's is the trouble with fantasists; they’ve no understanding of reality -I suppose that was what Shaw was trying to say. The working class has never needed to delude itself whereas the middle-upper class lives with its head in the clouds. They mistake money and breeding for good manners and an understanding of humanity; confuse university degrees for common sense and true intelligence. Doolittle may not be educated but he’s got more street smarts and understanding then the whole lot of them.”

I looked at the stunned silence of the people around me. Mr Simon looked at Simon who glared at me. I couldn’t care less so I thought I’d just twist the knife a little bit further, in my best cockney voice I said. “I ain't pretending to be deserving. I'm undeserving; and I mean to go on being undeserving. I like it; and that's the truth.” I shifted back to my normal voice and quipped: “So… do I get the part?”

Earthshock Part 6 (The Boy Who Was)

It was the end of a tiring week; boredom always made her tired and Rose had gone to the convention on a whim. She had nothing else better to do and allowed herself to be talked into attending the annual Dr Who convention because a) she used to enjoy watching it as a child and b) she was called Rose Tyler, which was apparently the name of one of the new companions. Rose hadn't followed Dr Who since it was cancelled, dismissing it as a childish fad. She'd tried watching the TV movie and had given up on it after half an hour as tokenistic American crap.

So why had she been persuaded to go to this convention? Nostalgia? Desperation? She'd entered into limbo, between relationships. Darren had been almost committed (which basically meant that his fantasies revolved around Rose pretending to be a younger version of his mother...) It was a very screwed up relationship, truth be told, but the sex had been amazing. Perversion equaled enthusiasm, after all. But it had ended when Darren found out that he was adopted and then the real weirdness began. Rose backed out when he suggested a threesome with his, now non-biological, mother. That had been eleven months ago and limbo wasn't supposed to last that long, surely.

She figured that it might be better if she went out with someone in a worse, more desperate state than she. She figured that the convention was as good a place as any to start. She couldn't have been more wrong. Dr who was once again cool -in a way that she could never have predicted. There were still the geeks and anorak brigades she was expecting but they were almost ostracised like the Ood, speaking their own, language of continuity and causality. 

The rest were all the beautiful people that surfed the cultural zeitgeist and knew when things were hot. After all, Dr Who was now winning awards, it was even expected to be talked about at school and work. Rose felt betrayed. She had gone through hell as a child for liking Dr Who; worse, for being a GIRL and liking it! She saw a couple of preview episodes of the new series at the convention,  and couldn't believe how crass the series had become. It always had cheap and tacky sets and special effects but amazing stories. Now it had such a huge budget thrown at it that it must've run out of money when it came to supplying a script! It was so badly written she almost felt ashamed to have gone. The whole day had been a disappointment.

She was now nursing a Smirnoff Ice, her third, whilst waiting for the train home. She looked nonchalantly around, hoping to see someone, anyone, that she could chat up and salvage something of the day. She wasn't unattractive, after all! She didn't recognise him at first and had it not been for the convention she might not have made the connection. True, she'd had a crush on him when she was growing up, but had she not been drunk she would never have tried it on.

“Excuse me.” It had taken her thirty seconds to get off the barstool, catch her breath so she could speak coherently and walk up to him. Now she was closer to him she was less sure than ever if it was him.. but it was too late to back down now. He turned round, obviously surprised to be faced by the blonde stunner. “Sorry to disturb you,” Rose said, “I mean, you're probably tired of hearing this, but are you...Matthew Waterhouse?”

He smiled, his eyes slightly foggy, and he paused before replying, “Yes.. I suppose I am. Pleased to meet you. My name is Adric.”

Ironically Matthew, or Matt as he now liked to be called, was on the same train as Rose; which she found strange until she remembered that Matthew.. Matt actually lived in Haywards Heath. Back in the '80's that had been the town's only claim to fame. They talked a lot.. well, she did most of the talking. He chipped in when necessary; she felt as if she'd found the missing part.

It was obvious that Matt had gone to the convention in the hope that someone would recognise him -he probably went every year. He probably still couldn't get over the fact that he'd been killed off in such a final way. Rose felt sorry for him. He'd let himself go quite a bit -his hair was mostly grey and in a strange kind of hedge-hog cut. He wore unflattering glasses to read (the only pair he could afford) and his dress sense was pretty poor. (he looked better as Adric) But... she had found her new project.

It turned out that he only lived around five minutes from Rose and it was very easy for her to make an excuse to go back to his place. His flat wasn't what she expected; there was some memorabilia but it was in poor condition. “I had to sell the best bits as I've not had many acting jobs since Who.” He'd explained.

It was obvious that he was a broken man which made Rose more determined. She kissed him then and he almost recoiled. She questioned then what she was doing. If it had been anyone else then she would surely have been in trouble, but this was Adric! Her childhood crush and she could help him. She could actually turn his life around!

So she kissed him harder, this time he responded. She could taste the malt and barley tinged desperation on his breath but she loved him for it. Soon he was responding with such a passion -something she'd not known since Darren- and she had unlocked it.

That night, lying in her own bed she was thinking about the next series of Dr Who... featuring the return of Adric! There was always a way of bringing a character back from the brink of death and through her it would be possible! Rose spent as much time as she could with Matt. They re-watched episode after episode of Dr Who, but only the ones with Adric in, obviously. Matt was like a commentary track offering skewed explanations about how he had added to the script. 

Every now and then he got carried away with himself and would say; “Well, I always knew that we would get together; we're soul-stitched you and I.  I mean, look in Mawdryn Undead when I stare at the camera in that certain way... I'm thinking of you, of being able to place my hands on your body.” (Even though Adric had never been in Mawdryn Undead and Rose would only have been eight at the time, she thought that the sentiment was sweet...)

One day Matt asked Rose about going for auditions herself, but as a look-alike. There was a lot of money to be made, especially for her. Rose wasn't taken with the idea.

“I haven't got the patience to line up with a load of people that almost look the same as me.. it's kind of creepy, you know?” Matt laughed at that, knowingly. “And what if I get through?” She continued. “How long have I got before she leaves the series?”

“Or gets killed off.” Matt chipped in. Rose nodded sadly.

“Exactly. They only want who's current... How many people remember Ben or Polly, for example?” Matt looked puzzled. “They were companions of the first Doctor, and just proves my point.”

“Yeah... work really dries up quickly. One minute you're opening garden fetes, the toast of the town... and then next minute you're the boy who was... Death is pretty final, even in Dr 

Who. BAMPF... overnight, no more me! And then no one wants to know you, obscurity!”

Then there were the times when Matt would ask her for money; for agent’s fees and publicity photos he'd say. Rose wasn't earning much herself and on the rare times she refused him he would start to moan and become a petulant child again; those were the times that reminded her of Adric, invariably turning her on and they would normally end up fucking on the closest hard surface.

It was her friend, Grace, who was most upset by everything that was happening; especially as it had been her idea that Rose go to the convention in the first place. She never dreamt it would end in an actual relationship, let alone with someone who was in an even worse state than her! She only wanted what was best for Rose and arranged to meet up with them both one night.

Although it had been over twenty years since she had last seen Dr Who she was pretty sure that the person Rose was dating was NOT Matthew Waterhouse.  Yet there were times, especially when he was moaning, when he seemed really convincing. Rose would not be persuaded though; she knew best, even if it meant wrecking her own life... she would see Adric reborn.

Three weeks after Grace met Matt she was drinking in her local pub wondering what the hell she could do to help her friend. She turned round to gather her wits and couldn't believe who was propping up the bar... It was him! That was it... she had had enough.

The next night Rose and Matt sat in their favourite cubical at Orange Square. The drinks were on her, again, but she didn't mind. She'd recently had a raise, and even thought Matt didn't seem to care, she was going to make the most out of it. Just then Grace stood over them, almost blocking out the light. There was somebody else, just behind her.

“Glad I caught you both.” She said. “I've got someone I'd like you to meet.” Grace stood away and what Rose saw totally flabbergasted her. It took Matt's single refrain of “Fuck.” to realise the truth.

“You bastard.” She shouted.

“To be fair, I never actually said I was he.” Matt said in a pitch-perfect impression of the man that was now standing over them both.

“But you let me think you were him!” She said, pointing at the real Matthew Waterhouse, feeling sick in the stomach now. Rose looked at Grace imploringly and could only say one word. “How?”

“I was drinking at the Snowdrop last night and saw the real Matthew Waterhouse and laid into him.”

“I, of course, had no idea what she was on about.” The real Matthew Waterhouse replied.

“As soon as I apologised profusely and explained what was happening Matthew seemed eager to help.” Grace continued.

“I remembered my doppelgänger from years ago.” Matthew said. “I often wondered what had happened to him when I was killed off. I never dreamed he'd sink this low... I just had to help!”

Rose whirled around to the stranger that sat next her her. “So what's your real name?”

“Rob... Rob Blotcher...”

“Ha! I remember now! Matthew laughed. “You had terrible acne as well -always had to smother it with tonnes of foundation before you dressed up as me!”

“Shut up! Shut UP!” Rob cried and pushed himself out of the booth, upsetting the drinks. “None of you will ever know what it's like.” And then he was gone.

“Can I buy you a drink?” She offered Matthew when Rob had departed. “'cause I was thinking...  you are the genuine article!”

Adric looked at Rose and smiled, almost enjoying the chance to finally reject someone.

“That's sweet... but I'm actually gay. Rob was probably more my sort than you, sorry.”

With apologies to Matthew Waterhouse – a companion for my generation...