The Year of the Sex Olympics and other TV Plays (16 page)

BROCK
: Kentish what?

COLLINSON
: Rag.

BROCK
: Joke time’s over.

COLLINSON
: All right, ragstone. It’s a kind of greensand.

He picks up a crowbar and starts prising at it. The other members of the team sit watching with a kind of greed. All awe of the place has gone.

BROCK
: Is it rare?

COLLINSON
: Good grief, no. It’s been quarried since Roman times. Used all over the south of England. Most of medieval London was built of this stuff.

BROCK
: Better and better!

COLLINSON
: How?

BROCK
: It might explain a lot of—ghost stories.

COLLINSON
: See what you mean.

BROCK
: Colly, it all keeps clicking together!

THE LABORATORY

Jill is checking back the program with furious concentration.

STEW
: Found the snag yet?

JILL
: No.

STEW
: Think there is one?

JILL
: It’s beginning to look . . . as if he’s right.

THE STORAGE ROOM

Collinson’s crowbar dislodges a piece of stone. He shows it to Brock.

COLLINSON
: Crumbly stuff. That’s why they stopped using it in the end. This was well weathered.

BROCK
: Penetrated.

COLLINSON
: Deeply. Algae—moulds—bacterial action. They all come into it.

BROCK
: The protein medium, Eddie?

EDDIE
: Maybe.

BROCK
: We chased that for a long time too.

He stiffens.

The others notice it too but this time they wait with a new kind of expectation. Quite calmly. Eddie takes his own pulse.

Then—the rapid pattering. A rasping screech.

THE LABORATORY

There is no sound here but the soft clatter of Stew’s teleprinter. But Jill breaks off, listening.

THE STORAGE ROOM

The sound dies away. They look at each other, detached observers.

HARGRAVE
: I saw it again. A fraction of a second.

COLLINSON
: I seemed to be getting words.

BROCK
: Words—

HARGRAVE
: Yes, I wondered too.

COLLINSON
: Couldn’t make them out.

Brock is strangely, quietly exhilarated. He picks up the crowbar and taps it thoughtfully against the wall.

BROCK
: Vibration.
(turning)
Are you game to go on?

EDDIE
: Now? Yes.

BROCK
: As long as it takes. Jill? Stew? Shall we make a night of it?

STEW’S VOICE
(through speaker)
: Okay, Pete.

JILL’S VOICE
(through speaker)
: What do you want to do?

BROCK
: Get control.

THE LABORATORY

JILL
(shaken)
: Not yet—how could we possibly—?

BROCK’S VOICE
(through speaker)
: The essence of experiment, Jilly. Put it to the proof!

THE STORAGE ROOM – THAT NIGHT

In a patch of light, the crowbar creaks and grates as Brock levers a piece of stone out—just as Collinson did.

BROCK
: Frequency?

EDDIE’S VOICE
: Seven forty.

BROCK
: Right, give me that. Ten secs.

A droning sound hits the ear at the same frequency as the scraping of the crowbar. The metal horn of a sound projector is pointed at the spot by Maudsley. Eddie crouches over the amplifier controls.

The sound cuts. They wait.

BROCK
: . . . And another ten.

Again the drone. Jill and Stew are watching from the computer desk which has been set up nearby the doorway. The noise cuts. Another wait. Brock comes hurrying across.

BROCK
: Well?

JILL
: We haven’t enough data.

BROCK
: We’re getting data all the time, and building. Stew—

Stew taps keys. The teleprinter re-runs. Brock studies its print, turns quickly to a display monitor nearby. This shows a three-dimensional drawing of the room itself. Brock makes an adjustment and the lines jump . . . and jump again . . . displaying a different perspective each time. Another adjustment—and a spray of radiating lines is superimposed to denote the current target area.

BROCK
: Back to the steps. Laser plus sound . . .

The thin cherry-red beam of a laser flicks back and forth across the steps, scanning them. Simultaneously there is a strident intermittent buzz.

BROCK
: Cut them.

The sound stops. White light floods the steps. They wait. Brock has a stopwatch in his hand. Nothing happens.

BROCK
: Right. Run number 17. Laser plus five second bursts.

EDDIE
: Peter, what’s the use?

BROCK
: We’re on the right track, just keep going.

EDDIE
: You’ve had a—a response!

BROCK
: No.

EDDIE
: We’ve heard it twice tonight.

BROCK
: Not because of anything we did. It didn’t relate. It’s got to relate, Eddie.
(He looks round the wearying faces)
Okay, break for ten minutes. We’ll get more coffee up. Just another hour, if we don’t get anything by then—Bear with me?

HARGRAVE
(glumly)
: You’re the captain.

Brock walks out into the passage. Eddie glares after him. As Jill comes up he nods after Brock—is there anything she can do. She goes doubtfully to see.

Ten minutes later the team are downing coffee and microwaved snacks. They are too tired to talk.

Eddie glowers down the passage.

THE ENTRANCE HALL – NIGHT

Brock is standing on the stairs, leaning against the wall. Adrenalin and alcohol have left an odd, inspirational effect. Jill is fighting her own weariness, trying to sound persuasive.

JILL
: I think you’re right. It’s a vibration thing.

BROCK
: I know it is.

JILL
: But—Peter, it’ll take huge programs to analyse it.

BROCK
: Of course.

JILL
: I’d like to develop them.

BROCK
: Fine.

JILL
: Then why this—tonight?

BROCK
: I want to pull the trigger, just once. Or what the hell are we into—a tape that only plays back when it feels like it?

The sheer irrationality of it shocks her.

JILL
: You just can’t say that—

BROCK
: I’ve got to know!

JILL
: Peter, I don’t think any of us is quite—we I’ve all been under strain—these days here—the more rational we’ve tried to be, the worse—

BROCK
: What are you driving at?

JILL
: We’re all past it.

BROCK
: Not me, love.

JILL
: Yes, you.

BROCK
: Don’t say that. Don’t do it. I’ve got a feeling about this. You get this exact grip on a thing this clarity—only once ever—

She is staring at him.

JILL
: What have you—promised Ryan?

THE STORAGE ROOM – NIGHT

An appalling screech bursts from the horn of the sound projector, pounding at the walls as it is swung round. The sound wobbles, changing frequency with the stridency of an air raid siren, but much faster. Then it cuts.

Brock turns to the others.

BROCK
: Nobody?

EDDIE
: What’s the use?

BROCK
: Nerves jangled?

EDDIE
: What do you think?

BROCK
: That may be good.

Next—a beam of bluish light swings rapidly across the area of the steps. Synchronised with it come sharp, separate blasts of sound—with something of the effect of a dentist’s drill.

Brock watches. Like the others, he now wears protective goggles.

BROCK
: Hold the U.V. on the steps!

At the teleprinter, Stew has suddenly had all he can take. He covers his ears. Jill moves to take over . . .

Now it is flashing light, as rapid as a stroboscope, with sound to match.

Brock signals. The sound cuts. The light is sane again. Eddie stares dazedly about. Hargrave has quietly started to cry.

But Brock ignores them as he turns again to the computer. It chatters out its report.

BROCK
: Right. On the next run we’ll try—

EDDIE
: Stop it! You don’t know what you’re doing any more.

BROCK
: Following a logical line.

EDDIE
: It’s insane!

BROCK
: Quit, then.

EDDIE
: What?

BROCK
: Get off the project.

EDDIE
: Peter—

BROCK
: Get off the entire project! You can!

EDDIE
(choking)
: Don’t talk to me like, that, Peter, not to me

The teleprinter chatters again, a line of delayed print-out. Brock turns to read it.

BROCK
: What the hell—?

JILL
(peering)
: That’s not—computer language.

BROCK
: It’s your code number. You fed it in.

JILL
: No—

BROCK
: You must have done.

JILL
: There are words. They might be words. See—“pray”.

STEW
: “Soul”. That’s “soul” there.

JILL
: “Pray.” . . . “Prayer”.

A deathly hush. Then a terrified wail from the demoralised Hargrave.

HARGRAVE
: It’s in the computer!

For a moment the thought has them all in its grip. They are past objective thinking, utterly exhausted.

Brock is the first to recover.

BROCK
: No—

HARGRAVE
: It is! It is! It’s in there!

Brock grabs him and shakes him like a rat.

BROCK
: You bloody fool! Jill picked up the words! You got words yourself—that’s how it works! I told you.

There is a familiar pattering. This time it is fearful to them.

EDDIE
(whispering)
: There it is—

BROCK
(after a moment, insanely)
: Come when I tell you!

He lunges towards the sound projector and switches it on. At full volume he swings the horn, blasting every part of the room.

Jill claps her hands to her ears.

People stumble towards the doorway to escape it. The sound goes on and on—and seems to change, erupting into a vast grunting that makes the whole place shudder. For a moment it seems completely out of control. Brock is shaken like a man on a pneumatic drill.

Then—silence. He stands panting, hardly knowing what he has done or why.

The others drift back.

JILL
: It’s different.

BROCK
(numbed)
: Eh?

JILL
: She’s gone.

BROCK
: What d’you mean?

JILL
: Completely. I can tell.

Eddie totters forward in a kind of grotesque triumph.

EDDIE
: I’ll tell you what he’s done! D’you know what he’s done? He’s wiped the tape!

Brock stares blankly at them.

Maudsley gives a sick snigger. Otherwise nobody is laughing. They are incapable of it.

BROCK
(mumbling)
: Thanks . . . we’ll leave it at that. Might try . . . another run tomorrow.

JILL
: Run what? She’s gone!

She has a horror of him, as if she has just watched him commit a murder. Eddie takes her by the arm.

Brock crouches on the floor. Listening and waiting . . .

Hours later Brock is still there, watching by the flicker of the blank monitor screens. More and more anxiously . . .

Dawn, and Brock is still there. Still alone. He has dropped asleep, leaning awkwardly against a monitor. His head droops a little more sideways—and wakes him. He pulls himself back to consciousness, wondering what woke him. Expectant again.

But there is nothing . . .

THE ENTRANCE HALL – DAY

Coming in next day, Jill finds the Sergeant looking his usual self, at least.

SERGEANT
: Morning, Miss Greeley—or should I say good afternoon?

JILL
: It’s up to you.
(Monitors are being wheeled along the passage from the storage room. Collinson is in charge. Jill’s look is a question. He shakes his head)
. . . He really did it.