The Year of the Sex Olympics and other TV Plays (13 page)

HARGRAVE
(pointing down the room)
: No, over that way.

EDDIE
: It was by the door.

MAUDSLEY
: No, it wasn’t.

EDDIE
: Distinctly.

They are all arguing and pointing; almost a nervous reaction.

STEW
: What did you hear?

EDDIE
: It was over there! I’m not crazy!

MAUDSLEY
: You could hardly hear it.

EDDIE
: It was deafening!

BROCK
: It wasn’t loud.

EDDIE
: Not loud? I heard it!

BROCK
: Just close.

HARGRAVE
: Hi, that’s right.

BROCK
: No perspective on it.

STEW
(to Maudsley)
: What did you hear?

MAUDSLEY
(shrugging)
: Not much.

STEW
: I didn’t hear anything.

JILL
: I saw her. Again.

This stops the argument.

BROCK
: Same place?

JILL
: No, there.
(She points to the middle of the room. Instinctively they turn to look at the spot)
Black . . . clothes.

EDDIE
: Solid?

JILL
: Yes, quite solid.

BROCK
: Was she moving?

JILL
: I think so. There was something the matter. The way she moved—

BROCK
: How?

JILL
: Sort of—twisting.

Brock looks at the others. Nobody has anything to add.

BROCK
: Let’s hear it again. Cliff—

Dow turns the recorder spools back and switches on.

DOW’S VOICE
(recorded)
: Testing room wavelength. Take one.

They hear the test sounds Eddie made and the two other voices cutting in.

JILL’S VOICE
: Stop it. Oh stop it—

BROCK’S VOICE
: That’s enough, Eddie.

Then—silence, apart from small human exclamations.

EDDIE
: She’s not there. She didn’t record.

DOW
: I heard her in my headphones. I don’t get this.

EDDIE
: Let me check that thing.

He crouches by the recorder. Uneasy glances are exchanged.

HARGRAVE
: She got away . . .

THE LABORATORY – DAY

More apparatus is being wheeled out of the laboratory towards the storage room: A TV monitor, TV cameras, thermographs. Jill slumps into her chair at the programming desk. Collinson is with her.

JILL
: It’s the screaming.

COLLINSON
: Yes.

JILL
: Could you hear it from the caravan?

COLLINSON
: No, only if I went to the room. But I—well, I just can’t take a woman’s screams.

JILL
: Soft-hearted.

COLLINSON
: I was with my wife in a car crash.

JILL
: Killed?

COLLINSON
: No. We divorced. Might have had something to do with it. This is even worse in a way.

JILL
: Worse?

COLLINSON
: A living person in that pain, you can try to help them. Here—you can’t.
(Jill covers her face)
—I’m going to be very old and stuffy and say drop the whole thing.

JILL
: No.

COLLINSON
: If you really see something it must mean—extra sensitivity.

JILL
: I’m a medium?

COLLINSON
: That makes it sound—

JILL
: Knocks on the table, one for yes, two for no.

COLLINSON
: I’m serious.

She sees the concern in his face. Then Brock arrives with Stew.

BROCK
(to Stew)
: Get all Colly’s data on file. And stand by to take real time from next door.

STEW
(switching on his teleprinter)
: Okay.

BROCK
: Jill, can you start blocking something out? Heuristic stuff, really wild?
(He glances at the tape storage units)
Those won’t touch it. Book time on the central computer. If you need it, go through to Chicago. All in code, Colly, it stays our little secret.

COLLINSON
: Who pays?

BROCK
: Himself. Sure he’d love it if he knew!
(Collinson passes Stew the old ledger and a plastic folder of neatly typed notes)
Full record of the first five years from 1890. Also the past six months.

STEW
: What about the bit in between? The odd eighty years?

BROCK
: We’ve got a witness . . .

HALF AN HOUR LATER IN THE STORAGE ROOM

Alan is standing in the doorway of the storage room. He looks thoroughly bewildered. The room seems to be full of apparatus. Blank monitor screens flicker. Eddie and the others are tending and adjusting and improvising.

ALAN
: Cameras? What’s all this stuff? What’s it for?

BROCK
: I told you—ignore it.

ALAN
: I didn’t want to come.

BROCK
: A few simple questions. That won’t take long.
(Alan doesn’t move from the doorway)
Remember this room?

ALAN
: I was just a kid.

BROCK
: You
did
come in here?

ALAN
: I suppose so.

BROCK
: You’re not sure?

ALAN
: Well, I did, then.

As if to prove it, he comes forward now.

BROCK
: How often?

ALAN
(evasively)
: We—we knew we weren’t rightly meant—

BROCK
: How many times?

ALAN
: I dunno.

BROCK
: In a year, say?

ALAN
: Ten times. A dozen.

BROCK
: You said between 1952 and 1955.

ALAN
: Yes.

BROCK
: Maybe a total of thirty visits?
(Alan nods. Brock turns to the nearest microphone)
Get that, Stew?

INSIDE THE LABORATORY

Stew and Jill are working at the computer. Stew leans across the teleprinter desk to a microphone.

STEW
: I got it.

BROCK’S VOICE
(through speaker)
: Fills in the model a bit.

The teleprinter keys rattle beneath Stew’s fingers.

INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM

Brock turns back to Alan.

BROCK
: And you heard—rats?

ALAN
: Sometimes.

BROCK
: Only sometimes?

ALAN
: Nearly every time, if we waited.

INSIDE THE LABORATORY

BROCK’S VOICE
(through speaker)
: Nearly every time.

Jill looks at Stew. He nods and keeps on typing it in.

INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM

ALAN
: We made these dares out of it, see? Old rats are dirty customers. They’ll go for you. We used to fool about all over this house. Smash it up a bit you know.

BROCK
: You’re a country lad. You know the sound rats make.

ALAN
(ignoring this)
: I reckon we must have bust all the windows. Real bad, we were. Used to see who could find a pane of glass still whole and—smash! Cost you a lot to put ’em back, did it?
(He is talking faster, suddenly urgent)
I better go now. There’ll be trouble if I don’t get back. That old cow down there, she—
(He breaks off, listening. The others notice something too. Maudsley shivers. Dow tenses and makes a dive for the parabolic reflector. All of them sense the chill: Brock . . . Eddie . . . Alan)
I reckon I’ll just get along.

But he has hardly turned to go when there is a rapid pattering . . . a single rasping cry.

INSIDE THE LABORATORY

No sound comes through the speaker but Jill reacts.

JILL
(turning to Stew)
: It’s there! Can’t you hear it?

INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM

The screech comes again and again.

Alan stands paralysed as Eddie and the others try to bring their apparatus to bear. Cameras are swung on their tripods. Microphones scan the room.

Alan stands staring at Brock. Suddenly he cracks. With a strangled exclamation he turns and bolts. He collides with Maudsley. He pushes Dow out of his way, trips over a cable and falls against a thermograph tripod. He goes down with it. Then he is crawling towards the doorway, frantic with terror.

THE ENTRANCE HALL

Alan drags himself along the passage, trying to regain his feet. But blood is spilling from a cut above one eye and he looks half stunned—only driven on by animal fear.

As he sways against the wall Jill throws the lab door open. He jerks away from the sudden movement. He stumbles past the reception desk and the pop-eyed sergeant—and drops to his knees, trying to wipe the blood out of his eyes. As Jill catches him up he peers round to see who or what it is.

ALAN
: Don’t want to be—like Jackie—

Brock appears in the passage, to find Jill crouching by Alan and the sergeant running to help.

BROCK
: All right. It’s over.

SERGEANT
: What happened, sir?

BROCK
: Get some water—whisky—anything—
(As the sergeant hurries off, he makes for Alan)
You never went into that room. Did you?

ALAN
: I did.

BROCK
: You’re lying.

JILL
: Peter—

BROCK
: You stayed at the door and listened. You knew what it was.

JILL
: Leave him alone!

BROCK
: You were afraid of it.

JILL
: Why not? Why shouldn’t he be? It’s a normal human reaction. He’s the sane one! We’re the freaks!

Brock turns quickly down the passage.

INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM

Dow is playing a tape recording back and getting only a confusion of bumps and scuffles and shouts. He looks up as Brock returns, and shakes his head.

Eddie is watching a wildly swinging playback image on a monitor screen.

EDDIE
(turning to Brock)
: Nothing.

Alan’s panic has brought something to the surface in them all. He has acted out the secret fear they suppress, and it needs more effort to keep a rational view of this unrecordable thing.

THE ENTRANCE HALL

The sergeant had brought water in a jug, and a glass. Alan has drunk some. Jill is washing the cut on his face.

JILL
: What happened to Jackie?

ALAN
: Eh?

JILL
: You said just now—

ALAN
: We never done nothing to him. It was the door got stuck. That door.

JILL
: He was inside the room?

ALAN
(nodding)
: We never meant—we couldn’t help it, could we?
(His face is suddenly suffused with guilt)
He’s all right, old Jackie.

JILL
: Did he . . . see it?

ALAN
(after a moment)
: He made out it spoke to him. And then . . . the others come.

JILL
(chilled)
: Others?

ALAN
: Just his talk, see.

JILL
: What happened to him?

ALAN
: He’s all right. Got this job, hasn’t he?

JILL
: Can I meet him?

ALAN
: What for? He don’t remember.
(She stares at him)
They took him up the County.

JILL
: Where?

ALAN
: The County. You know. They put him right. They can do that. He don’t care a button, he just laughs. All the time. He’s all right.

She can say nothing. Seeing Brock returning, Alan moves off abruptly and heads for the outer door.

BROCK
(calling)
: Wait a minute—I’ll get a car to take you—

JILL
(fiercely)
: Let him go!

Then Alan has gone. They look at each other. Brock is showing the same strain as the rest of his team.

The phone rings on the reception desk, grating raw nerves.

SERGEANT
(answering it)
: Reception . . . Yes, he is.
(To Brock)
Mr. Ryan’s office.

It is like a cold douche. Brock takes the phone.

BROCK
: Brock . . . Oh . . . Helen, my love, how are you? . . . Yes, we’re settling in nicely . . .
(Alarmed)
Crawshaw? But—that’s all been settled, there’s no question of—there’s no room for him here! . . .
(Alarm subsiding)
Talk to him? Well . . . I just don’t want to see the man, I’m in the middle of an experiment. Look, is he there?
(He manages a grisly jocularity)
Himself, th’ould grey widow maker? . . . I see, when’s he back? . . . All right, then, under duress. Tomorrow. ’Bye.
(He puts the phone down)
Hell!