The Year of the Sex Olympics and other TV Plays (18 page)

JILL
: Colly—they’re still working on that room!

COLLINSON
: I’m glad to say.

JILL
: Nobody thinks there’s anything wrong?

COLLINSON
: Not . . . now.
(He gets up, disturbed by her expression)
Jill—

For whole seconds she stares in front of her as if she is struggling to focus on something deep in her mind.

JILL
: There must be a . . . decay.

COLLINSON
: Of what? Jill, what decay?

JILL
: Whatever’s . . . stored in the stone. The recording. Otherwise . . . it’d be like perpetual motion, an impossibility. It would have to . . . corrode and lose definition . . . over long enough time it would have to. But then if you boosted it—
(shrilly)
Colly, I think that’s what he’s done!

COLLINSON
: Boosted?

JILL
: Some deep-level record, much older. So old and . . . shapeless . . .

COLLINSON
: Jill, there’s nothing.

JILL
: I know there is.

Collinson shakes his head. Then:

COLLINSON
: Remember I’m on your side.

JILL
: You’re not any longer!

COLLINSON
: Sit down and let’s talk—

JILL
: Am I the only one? Am I?

COLLINSON
: Jill—

She backs away from the concern in his eyes. She throws the door open . . .

INSIDE THE LABORATORY – DAY

Jill is working feverishly at the computer. One by one the others stop the work they are doing, till they are all watching her . . .

BROCK’S SUITE – OFFICE, DAY

Folder in hand, Jill looks into Brock’s office—and encounters an angry argument.

Brock is sitting hot-eyed at his desk. Crawshaw is shaking a bright green fist in his face.

CRAWSHAW
: —Full facilities! I’ll accept nothing less! And you can just stuff that up your—up your—er—and—and—and—

He shoots a doubtful “presence-of-ladies” look at the newly imported girl secretary who sits nearby with a shorthand pad on her knee. Then he blunders out past Jill with a snarl of apology to her.

Jill shuts the door. Brock’s eyes are fixed on her.

BROCK
(to the secretary)
: Get out. Make some coffee.

The girl measures Jill with a look and goes into the living quarters.

JILL
: I’ve got to talk to you.

BROCK
: If it’s what I think—

JILL
: Even if it is.

Brock is out of his chair in a moment. He comes close, keeping his voice down to a furious whisper.

BROCK
: You won’t give up, will you! You started this whole thing and you keep it going! You’re determined to! You’re getting to enjoy it!

JILL
: Enjoy—!

BROCK
: Oh, not healthy yum-yum enjoy. Some people like to destroy people, Jilly, and you’re turning into one. If you can’t take me from my family, it’s got to be destruction!

JILL
: It’s not true!

BROCK
: That creature that just went out of here—that baboon with the dyed hands—he’s got his foot on my neck! Through you!

JILL
(desperately)
: Peter—you were right about the recording.
(For a split second he seems to be listening to her)
There are more things on it.

BROCK
: Oh no.

JILL
: I can prove it.

BROCK
: Sweetie, you’re into fantasies.

JILL
: You’ve got to listen!

BROCK
: Unless we’re careful you could get very sick. You’re going on leave. For a month—no, make it two months, starting now.

JILL
: I can’t—

BROCK
: Stew can take over, he knows the computer. And he’s—level-headed. He’s up to it.

JILL
: Peter—

She sees his eyes and gives up. His mind is sealed against anything she can say.

She turns—and sees the secretary watching through a crack in the doorway.

BROCK
: Home and rest now . . .

THE LABORATORY – NIGHT

The lab is dark, apart from the area of the computer where Jill is working alone. All round her are discarded rolls of print-out paper.

Collinson looks in, an old mac pulled round him, wet with rain.

COLLINSON
: Jill! I saw the light. What are you doing?

She looks at him as if she hardly recognises him—then goes on tapping at the teleprinter keys. He comes to her side and peers at what she is doing—but he can make nothing of it.

JILL
: I think . . . someone else did know about this.

COLLINSON
: Who?

JILL
: Louisa.

He watches her face as she works feverishly on. In a moment she has forgotten he is there.

He turns and goes quickly out.

The slight sound of the door shutting seems to break her absorption. She sits back in her chair, covers her face. When she looks again at the paper roll in the machine, the same result is still there . . .

THE ENTRANCE HALL – NIGHT

Jill comes out of the lab. She glances up the stairs—there are lights somewhere above—then turns along the passage towards the storage room.

A temporary notice has been stuck on the door, crudely lettered: “Keep Out, Building Work in Progress”. She opens the door. She switches the light on.

THE STORAGE ROOM

The storage room is empty, lit by a couple of bare bulbs. Builders’ equipment lies everywhere and more scaffolding has been erected.

Jill looks about, tense. But everything is aggressively ordinary.

She crosses to the stone steps and considers them. Ordinary, too, in the hard light. A workman has left a battered bucket on one of the lower ones and she dislodges it—just to break the silence. It clatters and rolls away . . .

BROCK’S SUITE – OFFICE, NIGHT

Collinson is facing a dishevelled Brock, who has just pulled a dressing-gown over his nakedness.

BROCK
(incredulously)
: At this hour?

COLLINSON
(quietly)
: I think she’s having a breakdown.

BROCK
: Yes.
(The tousled, undressed secretary peers out of the darkened living quarters. He waves her back)
I sent her on leave.

COLLINSON
: When?

BROCK
: Today. I told her to go.

COLLINSON
(amazed)
: Just like that? Just—go.

BROCK
: What else? If you feel strongly about it—go with her! In fact I think you should, you’ve been under a bit of strain here, all this extra work, you’re due for a—

COLLINSON
: Take Jill?

BROCK
: A spot of leave’s what you both need, so why not, the pair of you? Get it all out of your system—

THE STORAGE ROOM

Jill is starting back towards the passage when she feels the premonitory chill. But she keeps a grip on herself and keeps moving.

The passage is dark, as if the light in the entrance hall has gone out.

Oddly enough, there are two tiny spots of red light—low down and flashing alternately like indicator lamps. Then both glow evenly—and come rushing forward at incredible speed, swelling in an instant into two eyes, yet not eyes like those of any living creature, for they keep twisting and moving on separate courses.

She stumbles back and almost trips over a spade, sending it scraping across the concrete. It is the only sound.

The eyes have gone.

More movement. She turns—and sees shapes, or rather shapeless things moving towards her across the open floor with the same incredible speed.

JILL
(screams)
: Peter!

As if this served to set it off, the grunting begins—the same huge, unearthly noise she heard here earlier.

She starts across the floor—in the only direction she can, towards the steps.

They are hunting her. Huge forms, terrifying in their very lack of definition, with here and there eye-like dots of red light. They move across the ground with that dreadful speed, quartering it like hounds. There is a brute male violence about every movement, a lust to bring down and tear—

Then she is on the steps, pressing herself against the wall.

JILL
: Help me! Help—!

She glances up.

The steps lead to an upper floor, with light pouring down from the opening.

She claws her way up to reach it.

The steps beneath her feet are unworn and strong.

Frantic, she reaches the top of them.

And there is nothing. No upper floor, not even a roof above her—only the night sky.

The whole room has vanished.

Instead of the walls there are standing stones round a moonlit space. And there the shapeless things are circling, closing in—

Then she falls.

It is a long way down . . .

THE ENTRANCE HALL

Normal silence—then Brock and Collinson come running down the stairs. They look into the lab, then make for the storage room.

THE STORAGE ROOM

Jill is lying on the concrete at the foot of the steps. Brock and Collinson run to her.

Her eyes are open. She is dead . . .

THE ENTRANCE HALL – A COUPLE OF DAYS LATER

Brock, Collinson, Eddie and Stew come slowly in through the front door. Maudsley and Hargrave trail after them. All are soberly dressed.

The sergeant is missing from his place at the desk.

Crawshaw and one of his team come down the stairs. Crawshaw already looks more like a senior executive than a mechanic, and has acquired a plain-looking secretary who follows them holding some thick folders.

CRAWSHAW
: What was it?

COLLINSON
: Accidental death.

Crawshaw gives a sour sniff.

CRAWSHAW
: By the by, Brock—those environment boys were back, looking for you.

BROCK
(dully)
: Oh.

CRAWSHAW
: Clapping a preservation order on that room, are they?

He goes on with his followers towards his own wing.

EDDIE
: Pleased with the verdict?

Brock says nothing.

EDDIE
: Why did you have to say all that? About her?

BROCK
: Her mental state. They had to know.

EDDIE
: Did they?

BROCK
: Look, it wasn’t just the fall that did it, they knew that.

STEW
: They said shock.

BROCK
: Complete vagal inhibition. That’s when your whole system packs up. She brought it on herself.

Eddie gives him a look of disgust and turns away to the lab.

EDDIE
: I’ll just get my coat, Stew.

STEW
: Okay.

COLLINSON
(quietly to Brock)
: You were lucky.

Eddie reappears indignantly in the lab doorway.

EDDIE
: What’s he doing in there!

THE LABORATORY

The sergeant is standing beside the computer, busy with a paper-shredding machine. He has turned most of the used print out rolls into a huge mound of shreds. He is feeding in the last of them.

SERGEANT
: Just what I was told, sir. Ask Mr. Brock.

BROCK
(entering with the others)
: We had to get rid of it.

STEW
: That’s—what she’d just been working on—

BROCK
: It had to go. Look, I’m not suppressing anything—not evidence—it’s all computer language—

STEW
: All her work.

COLLINSON
(calmly as ever)
: Leave it to me.

He motions Stew and Eddie out and closes the door. The last of the paper is buzzed into shreds.

BROCK
: Mad stuff, Colly.

COLLINSON
: It’s gone now.

BROCK
: You saw it? Well, you wouldn’t understand it. Seven thousand years, it said! I mean—insane stuff!

Collinson hits him as hard as he can, it is an imperfectly aimed blow. It gets Brock in the throat, sending him sprawling in the shredded paper.

He lies there, choking and gasping while Collinson walks out. The sergeant is at a loss.

SERGEANT
(to Collinson)
: Look here, sir!
(He turns to help Brock)
You all right, sir? Are you? What on earth did he—? Shocking behaviour, shocking! Mr. Collinson, too!
(He gets Brock to his feet and brushes the clinging shreds off him)
Er . . . want I should do anything about him, sir?

Brock shakes his head. He rubs his bruised throat, breathing hoarsely. He makes for the door.

THE ENTRANCE HALL

The entrance hall is deserted.

SERGEANT
(relieved)
: Made off, has he, sir? Disgraceful. Sure you’re all right, sir?
(Brock nods)
Oh, before I forget, them conservation inspectors was here again.