 
### Trapdoors: A Collection of Original Stage Plays

Copyright 2018

Gary Kittle

Published by Gary Kittle (2018)

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to the vendor or your favourite retailer and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Trapdoors: A Collection of Original Stage Plays. Copyright Gary Kittle, 2018

This eBook is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual

places or events, the names, characters, incidents and locations within are

from the author's imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.

*

Dedication:

To my remarkable son, Arun.

*

Cover design and illustration by

'germancreative'

## Contents

Introduction

CHALK FOR CHEESE (Single Act)

STITCHING THE CHERRY Act One

STITCHING THE CHERRY Act Two

WALKING THROUGH WIRE Act One

WALKING THROUGH WIRE Act Two

WALKING THROUGH WIRE Act Three

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About the Author

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Other Books by Gary Kittle

## INTRODUCTION

I'd been writing short stories on and off for years, without any success, when I happened to hear an interview on local radio with a well-known author. Her name escapes me now, but she said that one of the biggest mistakes would-be authors make is to stick to one particular form, no matter what. In my case this was short stories and a couple of failed novels. Her advice was so convincing I decided to have a stab at a one-act stage play. The result was **'Chalk for Cheese'** , the first play in this collection. When my wife read it, she stated enthusiastically, 'Now that's what you should be doing!' I wrote a couple of three-act, 'full fat' stage dramas, **'Stitching the Cherry'** being the second play here. By now I was a member of a local playwrights' support group run by the Mercury Theatre in Colchester and working on something a bit more ambitious. The result was the third play in this collection, **'Walking Through Wire'**. Unfortunately, local theatres were largely unsupportive of my attempts to produce this play, and I was forced to go further afield, eventually teaming up with Tom Begley and Susan Cummins of the _Irish Network of the Performing Arts_ in London. An early read-through highlighted clear weaknesses in Act Three, so I tore it up and wrote a completely new ending. Tom agreed to direct, actors were auditioned and hired, and a venue was found at the _Hen & Chickens Theatre Bar_ in Islington. I took on the role of producer, and after months of rehearsals and frequent train journeys to and from Colchester, I finally realised my ambition to stage a play I had written. It's hard to describe the emotions I experienced as the lights went up and there were my characters speaking my lines. I will be eternally grateful to the cast and crew of **'Walking Through Wire' -** as well as to my dear wife, Kaushali, of course – but I also have to say a big thank you to Donna and Robin of DT Film Productions who filmed the Saturday matinee performance in its entirety (link). I lost money overall, as so many unknown writer/producers do, so it turned out to be the beginning and end of my life in the theatre. But I think my skills and confidence as a writer were greatly enhanced by playwriting. Subsequently, I wrote for the screen and radio, too, tried my hand at self-publishing, flash fiction and film script supervising, all of which can be found on my website. I hope you enjoy reading these plays as much as I enjoyed writing them. My only regret is that I didn't get the chance to do more, but other avenues have opened up for me instead, and so far the trapdoors have remained metaphorical.

## CHALK FOR CHEESE

SETTING:

The scenes in this play alternate between JACK and SIMON on one part of the stage, and Carol spotlighted in a variety of locations both on stage and elsewhere. Thus Carol is never seen together with JACK and SIMON, though there is some spoken cross-over during selected scenes. SIMON and JACK perform in a flat furnished with two ramshackle chairs either side of a coffee table strewn with in newspapers, food wrappers, mail, mugs/plates, etc. Some of this litter has fallen to the floor.

It is Saturday, mid-morning.

CAST

JACK (Father) 38

SIMON (Son) 18

CAROL (Mother) 36

## ACT ONE

SCENE 1:

Lights go up to reveal JACK seated in an armchair, chin resting on his steepled hands. SIMON remains standing behind the other chair, staring down at the older man.

SIMON:

Must be quite a shock, this.

JACK:

Not really. I've been expecting you.

SIMON:

Really? You don't look too pleased about it.

JACK:

How did you find me?

SIMON:

Same way anyone finds anything these days. Internet.

JACK:

Should have sent a friend request first.

SIMON grips the back of the chair he is standing behind.

SIMON:

You must get lonely – on your own, I mean.

JACK:

How do you know I live alone?

SIMON:

_(grinning)_ Internet.

JACK rests his hands in his lap.

JACK:

So how is she?

SIMON:

Remarried. Bloke called Harry.

JACK:

What's he like?

SIMON:

Reliable. Honest. _Around._

JACK:

I meant with you.

SIMON:

Isn't reliable and honest enough?

(Pause)

JACK:

I never meant to...

SIMON:

But you did, didn't you?

(Pause)

JACK:

Bet she still can't cook to save her life.

SIMON:

Is that why you left her?

JACK:

She used that cooker like it was a cry for help.

SIMON:

But you'd already lost your appetite, hadn't you?

(Pause)

JACK:

I guess you've come for an explanation.

SIMON:

But you'll only have excuses.

JACK:

Listen...

SIMON:

_(Loudly)_ So don't you want to know what I'm doing with myself?

JACK:

All right, then. What are you up to?

SIMON:

Interrailing.

JACK:

Where to?

SIMON:

All over Europe.

JACK:

Weeks? Months?

SIMON:

Till the heat dies down.

JACK:

The heat? What heat?

SIMON leans forward over the back of the chair.

SIMON:

Let's just say, the heat of the moment.

JACK:

You in trouble?

SIMON:

Why? Going to bail me out, _Dad_?

JACK:

You've not called me that for a while.

SIMON:

Well, I've not had the chance, have I?

JACK:

I'm sorry.

SIMON:

Could become a nasty habit that, remorse. Not like walking out on someone. You only have to do that once.

SIMON finally sits down.

So what do you do to afford this luxury?

JACK:

Telephone engineer. Pay's not bad, as it happens.

SIMON:

Never thought of getting remarried?

JACK:

No.

SIMON:

Why not?

JACK:

Once bitten...

SIMON:

You blame Mum?

JACK:

Not exactly. It's complicated.

SIMON:

She blames you.

JACK:

These things happen.

SIMON:

What, accidently? Like, you went for a walk one night with a suitcase and lost your bearings for two decades?

JACK:

It must have been hard for you.

SIMON:

Only the first ten years.

JACK:

What did your mother tell you?

Spotlight on CAROL, wringing her hands and talking down to someone unseen.

CAROL:

No. No, he's not coming back. Not tomorrow. Not for Christmas. Not ever. I don't know- Simon, I don't- _(becomes highly agitated)_ Because he doesn't love us anymore. OK? That's why he's gone. Because he's a heartless, self-centered failure of a man who's only interest is in himself.

CAROL goes down on one knee and reaches out her hand as if to gently caress someone's face.

But you listen to me, my boy: it's a good thing. D'you hear? You deserve better than the likes of him for a father. And I promise you that one day you'll get what you deserve. _(Looking out towards the audience)_ And so will he!

Spotlight on CAROL goes off. Lights refocus on JACK/SIMON.

JACK:

And you believed her?

SIMON:

Well, you weren't there to put me straight. Remember?

JACK:

Life's never that black and white. You'll realise that as you get older.

SIMON:

Don't patronize me, please.

SIMON walks over to the cabinet to stare at a photograph of an elderly couple.

JACK:

I was only trying to explain...

SIMON:

What? How you ran out on me? Well, feel free. The stage is yours.

JACK:

But whatever I say will be wrong, won't it? So what's the point?

SIMON:

Ah, right! Throwing in the towel again, are you?

JACK:

Like I said: things are never that black and white.

(Pause)

SIMON:

I nearly didn't come. I thought of a hundred different reasons to bin the whole idea. Ignorance is bliss. Let sleeping dogs lie... I was standing outside the door for ages. Just standing there staring at the paint, trying to imagine what was on the other side. I thought: what if he laughs at me? What if he slams the door in my face?

JACK:

What changed your mind?

SIMON:

( _laughs_ ) You won't believe me.

JACK:

Tell me anyway.

SIMON:

_(sniffs)_ I was planning this trip across Europe. I couldn't sleep for thinking of the places I'd see, the things I could do. I felt like the whole world was at my feet, like there was nothing but adventure and opportunity ahead of me. Then it hit me.

Brief spotlight on Carol.

CAROL:

Like a train.

SIMON:

That I couldn't go anywhere, that there was no future until I knew - what you looked like, the face behind the name. Even if we never said a word, if I just stood across the road and watched you walk past. I nearly did that.

JACK:

Maybe it would have been better that way.

SIMON:

And let you cheat me again? No way!

JACK:

There are no photographs? At home, I mean.

SIMON:

Mum burned the lot. She burned your clothes, too.

JACK:

There are pictures of me online.

SIMON:

I never looked.

JACK:

But the internet. You said...

SIMON:

It was someone else that found you.

JACK:

Not your mother, I'll bet.

SIMON:

I wanted to see you face to face. Look you in the eye.

JACK:

And spit?

SIMON:

I don't want to hate you.

(Pause)

JACK:

You didn't get my birthday and Christmas cards, either, I suppose?

SIMON:

Mum was just protecting me.

JACK:

You never asked about me?

SIMON:

I figured out I had more chance of seeing Father Christmas.

JACK gets up, starts pacing the room.

JACK:

She wasn't protecting anyone. Just poisoning you against me.

SIMON:

You reap what you sow, _Dad_.

JACK:

Now who's being patronising?

SIMON:

She really struggled at first, and not just financially. Every new bloke tried to take advantage.

JACK:

Oh, and I had it easy? I worked six days a week for years to pay your maintenance on top of looking after myself.

SIMON looks over at JACK suddenly.

SIMON:

Maintenance?

JACK:

Of course. Where else did you think the money was coming from? The Tooth Fairy?

SIMON:

You're lying. There was no maintenance.

JACK:

I paid a lump sum every month, direct into her bank account. I didn't want to see you go without.

SIMON:

I went without you.

JACK:

But at least I sent you some money.

SIMON:

Listen, there was no bloody money! OK? Not until Harry came on the scene.

SIMON starts wringing his hands together.

JACK:

_(muttered)_ What the hell did she do with your money?

SIMON:

You're sure you didn't mislay it at the bookies?

JACK looks up sharply.

JACK:

Watch your mouth. That money was for clothes, food, school trips... not for _her_.

SIMON:

I don't believe you.

JACK:

I kept the bank statements. Solicitor's advice.

SIMON:

Then there must be a trust fund or something.

JACK:

That she's never mentioned?

SIMON:

Perhaps it's for my twenty-first.

JACK:

Why not your eighteenth?

SIMON:

You won't turn me against her. If that's your game.

JACK:

I'm just saying that it's strange...

SIMON:

I trust Mum. She's always been there for me. Unlike you.

JACK:

Proper Mummy's boy, then, aren't you? Got a girlfriend?

SIMON strides towards the door.

SIMON:

I've got what I came for. Thanks for nothing.

JACK:

Is that it? You waited nearly two decades - for this?

SIMON:

I don't have to listen to you. Ciao.

SIMON reaches the door and puts his hand on the catch.

JACK:

Now I get it!

SIMON:

Hey?

JACK:

You really are like your mother, aren't you?

SIMON:

What do you mean by that?

JACK:

Retribution! You're running away. Just like I did.

SIMON:

No. Never!

JACK:

This is what you came for: revenge. You want to be the one who leaves _me_ this time!

SIMON:

I don't want to be like you. We're like chalk and cheese, and I'm not the one that stinks the older it gets.

JACK:

No. You just crumble under pressure. Well, get out. I never asked you to come! Enjoy your moment, little man!

SIMON:

You twist everything to make it seem like you're the victim, just like Mum said you would.

JACK:

Oh, so says the woman who kept your maintenance for herself. That's rich!

SIMON steps forward menacingly.

SIMON:

Do you know why I really came here today? I came to tell you how much better off I was without you.

JACK:

Mother Superior tell you that, did she? Little boy blue.

SIMON:

You're patronising me again. You need to stop doing that, _Dad_.

JACK:

Or what? You'll throw a punch? Maybe that's the real reason you came.

SIMON:

We laugh at you, me and my family. We laugh at your weakness. Me, Mum and Harry. We're a family, see, and we've stuck together.

JACK:

So go back to them and leave me alone!

SIMON:

I call Harry 'Dad'. Did you know that? Harry's my dad now.

JACK:

Good for him.

SIMON:

I love him like a father, too...

JACK:

Good for you.

SIMON:

He's twice the man you'll ever be.

JACK:

Good for nothing.

SIMON:

( _Pulling out his wallet)_ I've got a family portrait I carry with me everywhere. Do you want to see it? Do want to see what a real family looks like?

JACK:

You've made your point.

SIMON waves the photo under his nose.

SIMON:

Look at us. Look how happy we are. Me, Mum and Harry. Happy - without you. Free from the threat of your return. Look at it. _Look at it_!

JACK turns his head away.

JACK:

I don't want to. I don't need to!

SIMON:

What's up? Guilt starting to get the better of you?

JACK:

I feel guilty every day.

SIMON:

Not nearly enough for what you did.

JACK:

You're not being fair.

SIMON:

Now who's crumbling?

JACK:

I... I want you to leave.

SIMON strides back to the picture of the two elderly people.

SIMON:

I'm guessing these are my grandparents. Right?

SIMON slips his family photo into the corner of the frame.

SIMON:

Here. Let me add my photo to your collection. It'll be company for your poor dead mother. Ha! What did she die of, anyway - shame?

Silence, as the JACK rises to his feet.

JACK:

What did you say?

SIMON:

_(Flustered)_ Listen. I shouldn't have...

JACK:

Get out!

SIMON:

I didn't mean...

JACK:

_(Shouted)_ I said: Get out!

SIMON:

Please. I'm sorry!

JACK:

Get out! Get out! Get out!

JACK rushes at the SIMON and grabs his elbow, pushing him towards the door; his face flushed with anger.

SIMON:

Dad, I'm sorry...

JACK:

I'm not your dad. Bloody Harry's your dad. Well, go home and play happy families with Happy Harry!

They reach the door, but SIMON covers the catch with his back.

SIMON:

Don't do this. Please. It was wrong what I said. I had no right...

JACK:

Too late, Simon!

SIMON:

Who..?

JACK:

There's a line in the sand and you've crossed it. Now it's time to collect your bucket and spade and go home.

SIMON:

You can't do this to me.

JACK:

Why not? I've done it before, remember?

JACK and SIMON appear almost to be wrestling.

JACK:

Save your crocodile tears for Mum and Harry. It wouldn't surprise me if they were waiting for you outside. You can all have a good laugh together on the way home.

SIMON:

But I don't even like him. He's a prick. I just used him to get at you.

JACK:

Well, you have and my throwing you out shows how effectively you, Harry and the Wicked Witch of the East have got under my skin. _Now go!_

SIMON:

Please!

JACK:

Harry's waiting...

SIMON:

But I don't want Harry. It's you I...

JACK:

I told you, it's too late, boy. It's been too late for years! Don't you get it? I screwed up!

JACK makes another lunge for the door catch.

SIMON:

You can't do this to me!

JACK:

Why not? Tell me why not?

SIMON:

Because...

JACK:

Go on! Out with it! Tell me why you came here, damn you!

SIMON:

Because... I... I just can't stand it.

JACK:

_Stand it!_ Stand it? Stand what?

SIMON:

Losing you! All right! I can't stand losing you all over again!

SIMON collapses into his JACK's arms and after a momentary resistance JACK pulls him close and hugs him.

JACK:

Bloody hell!

(Pause)

Bloody hell! Come and sit down. I'll make us some tea.

SIMON:

I... I think I need something stronger.

JACK:

Yer. Me, too. I'll use an extra teabag.

SIMON laughs through his sobs. JACK looks over at his parents' photograph.

JACK:

Your grandmother never forgave me for denying her a grandson.

JACK takes a deep breath and pats the SIMON on the back.

Listen, I'll get us that drink.

SIMON:

_(Taking deep breaths)_ I need the loo _(exits stage right)._

Alone, the JACK picks up the picture of his parents.

JACK:

You were so right, Ma. It did come back to haunt me.

He pulls out the smaller photograph left by SIMON.

Let's see how much the old bag has aged. I bet she still wears too much...

JACK brings the picture closer to his face, his posture straightening.

He raises a hand to his mouth, then runs it shakily through his hair.

JACK:

Who the hell is that?

He turns to look in horror at the closed bathroom door behind him.

JACK:

This isn't... Oh my God! Oh my God!

The toilet flushes. SIMON comes out but hovers by the doorway.

SIMON:

You all right, Dad?

JACK stares wide-eyed at SIMON, his hand gripping the back of a chair for support.

JACK:

Listen. I think...

SIMON:

Wait. There's something I need to ask you. Earlier, when we were arguing...

JACK:

We've done nothing but. Here. Have your drink. I know I need one now...

SIMON:

Earlier, you said, 'Too late, Simon'.

JACK:

Did I? ( _turns away_ ) Sorry. Slip of the tongue.

SIMON:

Anyway. It made me realise. You haven't used my name yet.

JACK:

I've hardly forgotten it.

SIMON:

Then why don't you say it now?

Brief spotlight on CAROL.

CAROL:

My darling little...

JACK:

You were sleeping in your bed the last time I said it. It was late. Your mother was sleeping too. I'd already packed a suitcase and left it out in the garage earlier in the day. The time had come to leave, and I hadn't said goodbye.

JACK takes a large gulp of whisky.

JACK:

So I stole up the stairs and peeked through the half-opened door to your room. I couldn't see you properly. You'd turned away to face the wall. It seemed right, that, somehow. I crept in and pulled the covers over your shoulders because it was getting cold. And when I did my hand brushed your hair. You never stirred. But I felt this pain, this dreadful sickening pain in here ( _he clutches his chest_ ). It was like nothing I'd ever felt before or since.

SIMON:

But it wasn't bad enough to make you stay?

JACK:

No. Nothing could have stopped me leaving. It wasn't your fault. None of this is your fault.

SIMON:

But I still had to suffer as if it was.

JACK:

( _crying_ ) It took me a few seconds to get my breath back. I didn't think I'd be able to speak, but in the end I did. Even though you couldn't hear me. I had to say goodbye.

SIMON:

So what was your great farewell speech, then?

JACK:

I said what I said every night, 'Sweet dreams, sunshine.' It just came out that way. And you never even knew.

SIMON:

Until now.

JACK:

Yes. But it's too late.

_JACK turns away abruptly_ **.**

SIMON:

Say my name, Dad.

JACK:

You don't understand. I can't do it! And what difference can it make anyhow?

SIMON:

It will make all the difference in the world to me.

JACK:

It's not that easy.

SIMON:

Say it!

JACK:

You don't understand. I can't.

SIMON:

I need you to speak my name.

JACK:

( _waving the picture of SIMON and his family_ ) These are the voices you need to hear. This is your real family. I'm just a ghost.

SIMON:

Please! You don't have to use the full name. Everyone shortens it.

JACK:

Believe me, that's not the problem.

SIMON:

We could start again...

JACK:

You don't take no for an answer, do you?

SIMON:

Typical bloody teenager. Say it!

JACK:

( _takes a long, slow deep breath_ ) I'm so sorry, but there's something I think you should know. Something very important.

SIMON:

It can wait. Say it!

JACK:

But that's the whole point...

SIMON:

No one calls me Philip anymore. Except Harry. And that's to wind me up...

JACK looks up sharply.

JACK:

Phil!

SIMON closes his eyes and lets out a long sigh.

SIMON:

See? Was it really so hard? That night wasn't the last time, after all.

JACK breaks into a relieved smile.

SIMON:

But go on. What did you want to tell me?

JACK:

_(Flustered)_ Oh... It's... what I asked you when you came in.

SIMON:

How I found you? There's a site on the internet that traces people for a small fee. If I'd known you were living so close to home I could have saved my money.

JACK:

How much did you pay?

SIMON:

Five hundred. Why?

JACK drains his glass and immediately refills it.

JACK:

Five hundred quid!

SIMON:

You could have moved anywhere - abroad even - for all I knew. I didn't want to waste time. You only have to pay the set fee and they promise a result no matter how long it takes.

JACK laughs hysterically.

SIMON:

Are you drunk?

JACK:

No. But I rather think I should be.

SIMON:

What does it matter, anyhow? I found you. That's what's important. I found you and we've made... a connection. Haven't we?

JACK:

How did you know it wasn't all a scam?

SIMON:

( _Laughing)_ What are you saying? That you might not be my real Dad, after all?

JACK:

Don't be daft. Forget it. _(Forcing a smile)_ You're right. How you got here isn't important.

SIMON:

They sent me a map with the e-mail. Mr. Andrew Henderson, living on the Winchmore Estate. That's you, right? _Right!_

SIMON looks worried, but the JACK firmly grasps his arms.

JACK:

Course it is. It's just the shock of seeing you again, that's all. Forget I said anything. We need to look forward now. Together. Right?

SIMON:

Then tell me they got it right. Tell me that you are my Dad.

There is a moment's silence as they stare at one another.

JACK:

Listen, Phil. From now on, I'm going to be a proper father to you. I promise.

SIMON:

I need a minute outside. Take it all in.

JACK:

Sure.

SIMON moves towards the door.

JACK:

Phil?

SIMON:

What?

JACK:

You will come back, won't you?

CAROL:

_(Voice from offstage)_ No. No, he's not coming back. Not tomorrow. Not for Christmas. Not ever.

SIMON:

You can't shake me off that easily. I don't take no for an answer. Bloody teenagers, remember?

SIMON exits, leaving JACK with his parents' photograph.

JACK:

I can't fail two sons in one lifetime, even if one of them does belong to someone else. I have to pull this off. I've got away with worse. Simon won't come to find me. Not now. His mother's pulled the wool over his eyes good and proper. And what would the truth do to this 'Phil' anyway, even if it didn't kill him? Drink? Drugs? Prison? This might be a second chance for both of us, Ma.

CAROL:

_(Voice from offstage)_ Because he's a heartless, self-centered failure of a man who's only interest is in himself.

_There is a knock at the door. Wearing a smile JACK_ _opens it._

Come on in, son. I've been expecting you...

END.

## STITCHING THE CHERRY

SETTING:

A suburban house, present time. Following the funeral of their mother, two brothers MICHAEL and JOE GARRETT agree to have dinner together after a prolonged estrangement. The drama begins some way into their reunion.

CAST:

MICHAEL GARRETT (Elder brother) 37

JULIE GARRETT (Michael's wife) 34

JOE GARRETT (Younger brother) 35

MARIANNE GARRETT (Joe's wife ) 30

## ACT ONE

Evening in the dining room of MICHAEL/JULIE Garrett's house. All four characters are seated around a dining table, just having finished the main course. There are doors to the kitchen and hallway at either side of the stage.

SCENE 1:

As the scene opens everyone is laughing together loudly, due largely to three empty wine bottles in the centre of the table. MICHAEL refills everyone's glass.

MARIANNE:

Now don't start him off about pandas!

JOE:

Oh, Marianne, please...

MICHAEL:

Why, what's he got against pandas?

MARIANNE:

Let's just say he doesn't approve.

MICHAEL:

Approve?

JOE:

Marianne...

MARIANNE:

He hates it when they come on the television.

MICHAEL:

How often does that happen? They're endangered, aren't they?

MARIANNE:

Not enough, according to his lordship here.

JOE:

I don't think our hosts are interested, sweetheart. Let's change the subject, shall we? Where did you get the wine from, Michael?

MARIANNE:

Ha! Sounds like he's changing the subject to me. His other pet hate.

JOE:

Marianne, that's hardly fair.

MARIANNE:

Not denying it, though, are you?

MICHAEL:

Maybe you were on safer ground with the pandas, Joe. Come on, tell your big brother all. I promise I won't laugh.

JOE plays with his glass for a second, frowning.

JOE:

All right. I haven't got anything against them, as such. It's just...

MARIANNE:

_(loudly)_ Don't say I didn't warn you!

JULIE:

Is it some sort of phobia?

JOE:

No. No, really. This is silly. It's no big deal.

MARIANNE:

So tell them, then!

MICHAEL:

More wine, Marianne?

JOE:

Actually, darling, don't you think you've...

MARIANNE:

I bet Michael likes to have a good time! Perhaps I married the wrong brother. Does he like to have a good time, Julie?

JULIE:

Well... most of our social life surrounds the rugby club.

MARIANNE:

Now there's a manly sport... See, Joe. I put the ring on the wrong finger.

MARIANNE lapses in hysterical laughter.

JOE:

Anyway, the thing about pandas...

JULIE:

Actually, we don't get much chance to go out together. Reliable childminders being...

MICHAEL:

Anything but.

MARIANNE:

You mean they don't turn up?

JULIE:

No, it's not that.

MARIANNE:

What, then? It's not difficult. She is ten, you said.

JOE:

You're being a bit rude, love.

JULIE:

No, no. It's fine. Really.

MICHAEL:

Besides, we're letting my younger brother off the hook here.

JULIE:

It's not a phobia, you were saying.

JOE:

Yes. I mean, no. It's just... All that time and effort trying to save them and look at the state they're in!

MARIANNE:

You mean China?

JULIE:

I think they're quite cute.

MICHAEL:

Most people like them, surely?

MARIANNE:

Most normal people, perhaps.

MICHAEL:

And you can't accuse them of coming over and taking our jobs.

**MARIANNE** :

_(Suddenly serious)_ Come on, darling. Tell them.

JOE:

My point is, what's the use in trying to save them?

MICHAEL:

Sorry, Joe, but you've lost me now.

JOE:

Well, think about it. They only eat one particular type of food - that's growing scarcer by the year, by all accounts. And it isn't any old bamboo, either. Oh, no! It has to be a certain variety, apparently. They hardly ever mate and their coloured black and white in a green habitat. And on top of that they seem to spend most of their lives asleep.

JULIE:

Isn't that sloths?

JOE:

No. Well, yes, them as well. But no one's busting a gut to save sloths, are they?

JULIE:

Aren't they?

MICHAEL:

Well, the odds are certainly stacked against pandas, if that's what you mean. But kids love them.

MARIANNE:

Yer, come one, Joe. When was the last time you saw a toy sloth?

JULIE:

And once they're extinct you can't bring them back. It's a shame otherwise.

JOE:

Is it, though? The 'odds', as you put it, have a scientific name. It's Natural Selection at work. Darwin. Evolution. All that.

MARIANNE continues laughing, but MICHAEL and JULIE quieten.

JOE:

It just winds me up seeing so much money and effort being invested in fighting the inevitable. If you can't swim you drown. If you can't run you get eaten. That's just nature's way, surely?

Everyone is very quiet and very solemn now.

MICHAEL:

So what exactly are you saying, Joe? That we shouldn't bother? Let nature take its course? Is that it?

JOE:

Why not? They even have a saying for it back in China. Don't push the river. Why, don't you agree?

MICHAEL is staring hard at JOE.

JULIE:

Michael...

MICHAEL:

No, no, no, Julie. I'm interested to hear my brother's views on 'Natural Selection'. Go on, Joe.

JOE:

I thought I made myself pretty clear: It's survival of the fittest, like we agreed. When the odds are stacked against you...

MICHAEL:

Like we agreed?

JOE:

Let Nature take its course. Don't push the river.

MARIANNE:

Here, hubby, I think you've upset them. Maybe they're both members of the World Wildlife Foundation or whatever they call themselves.

JOE:

Either that or they're keeping a ruddy panda out the back!

JULIE gets up, looking flustered.

JULIE:

I'll just clear these things away...

MICHAEL:

Julie...

JULIE hurries off to the kitchen, leaving behind an awkward silence. JOE pours himself some more wine; MARIANNE likewise.

MARIANNE:

Oh, you've done it now!

JOE:

Done what? Opinions never hurt anyone.

MICHAEL:

Julie's a bit tired, that's all.

JOE:

She looks fit enough to me.

MARIANNE:

Shame we couldn't meet your Caroline, Michael.

MICHAEL:

Pardon?

MARIANNE:

Caroline. Your daughter.

MICHAEL:

She's poorly.

MARIANNE:

You said.

JOE:

Marianne's right, though. It's a shame we didn't get to meet her.

MARIANNE:

Flu, you said?

MICHAEL:

Yes, we think so. Or something like it. That's why Julie's so tired.

JOE:

Maybe next time...

MARIANNE:

If there is a next time, darkling.

JULIE re-enters from the kitchen, acting the genial host once more.

JULIE:

Right. Who's for desert?

MARIANNE:

Great. If you're not too tired.

JULIE:

I'm sorry?

MARIANNE:

Don't be. Joe's tired every night.

JULIE:

Joe?

JOE:

Sure. (TO MARIANNE) You can always work the kilos off in the gym tomorrow - if you don't have a hangover. (TO HIS HOSTS) She's a real calorie counter, this one. Aren't you, love?

MARIANNE:

He keeps telling me I'm fat.

JOE:

I bought her a year's gym membership for Christmas.

MARIANNE:

He keeps threatening to trade me in for a younger model. But what does it matter what type of vehicle you have if all you do is keep it in the garage? My milometer hasn't moved in years.

MARIANNE pours herself another glass of wine, emptying the bottle.

JOE:

Steady on, girl. You know you're not used to it.

MARIANNE:

D'you know what he got me for my birthday? Go on, try to guess.

JOE:

Hey, Marianne. Enough. OK?

MARIANNE:

Come on, Julie. You're a lady; have a guess.

JULIE:

I really...

MARIANNE:

Go on, guess!

JULIE:

Oh, I don't know. Perfume?

JOE:

Marianne...

MARIANNE:

He's a bit more practical than that, is my Joe.

JULIE:

A food processor?

MARIANNE:

What?

JOE:

Marianne, let's change the subject, shall we? I know where this is going.

MARIANNE:

Ha! That was my line when I unwrapped the bloody thing!

JOE:

Sorry, you two. She doesn't usually drink this much. I should have seen this coming.

MICHAEL:

(TO JULIE) Perhaps we should have that desert.

JULIE:

And coffee?

JOE:

Coffee? Yes, very good idea.

JULIE:

Will she take it black?

MARIANNE:

I don't care what colour it is, boys, s'long as it's hot.

MARIANNE collapses into fresh laughter. JULIE scurries away to the kitchen.

JOE:

I really can't apologise enough, Michael. Perhaps we'd better call it a night?

MARIANNE:

Bloody hell, even I'm tired now... Must be contagious.

MICHAEL:

It's been a good one so far. Shame to pull the plug so early.

JOE:

Maybe the coffee will help. Then we'll go.

MICHAEL:

It was good of you to come over, Joe.

JOE:

It's what she would have wanted.

MICHAEL:

I know. She's still playing mother even now.

JOE:

She'd have turned in her grave if I'd turned you down.

MICHAEL:

Like I said, it was good of you.

(Pause)

JOE:

She never understood why we fell out. I'm not sure I do either. Ten years is some feud, hey?

MICHAEL:

You're here now. Isn't that what really counts?

JOE:

If only it were that simple, Mikey.

MICHAEL:

Let's just bury the past... Shit, bad pun. I hope she's not listening...

JULIE re-enters the room with a tray of cups/saucers and coffee.

JULIE:

_(Whispered)_ I know it's a bit back to front, but I'll leave desert for a bit. If you know what I mean.

JOE:

Good thinking, Julie. Much appreciated.

MICHAEL:

Yes. Thanks, Julie.

JOE:

It has been nice, though.

MARIANNE:

Chewing the fat...

JOE:

Burying the hatchet...

MARIANNE:

_(Snorts)_ He's been talking about doing that for years!

JOE:

Still with us, then?

MARIANNE:

_(Waving her wine glass)_ Only in sprit, darling.

JOE:

This reunion's well overdue, though, especially when you think we only live up the road.

MICHAEL:

Actually, the road in question is the M1.

JOE:

Yes, but we live in Luton not Leeds.

JULIE:

I'll pour, shall I? Marianne. Marianne? Have some coffee, yes?

JOE:

Sit up now, Marianne. Please? This is starting to become embarrassing for all of us.

MICHAEL:

It's OK, Joe. We've all been there at one time or another.

JOE:

Yes, but not quite so soon after your husband has buried his mother.

MARIANNE lunges for the wine bottle.

MARIANNE:

Don't you throw that in my face.

JOE:

You're going to make yourself sick. I'm telling you.

MARIANNE:

You make me sick. What's new?

JOE:

It's no good. We'll have to leave. Marianne, get your coat. We're leaving.

MARIANNE:

Coward! Bully!

MICHAEL:

Oh, but surely...

JOE:

Marianne, get your coat, please. I said we're leaving!

MARIANNE grins, dangling a set of car keys.

MARIANNE:

All right. But who's our nominal driver, or whatever you call it?

JOE looks momentarily confused, and then raises his eyes to the ceiling.

JOE:

Oh, shit!

MICHAEL:

Oh, no, you're joking? You've both been drinking.

JULIE:

Oh, dear. It never crossed my mind. I am so sorry.

MICHAEL:

You had enough to think about, love. You're tired.

JOE:

It's our fault, then, isn't it? We are supposed to be responsible adults, too.

MARIANNE:

Man and wife! Ha!

JULIE:

Are you near a train station?

MICHAEL:

Julie!

JULIE:

Sorry, I just thought...We have a spare bedroom I could make up.

JOE:

It's all right. We don't want to be an inconvenience. She'll probably be sick later. We'll take a taxi to the nearest hotel.

MARIANNE:

Oh, that sounds promising...

JULIE:

It's no trouble.

JOE:

But you must be tired. Didn't you say she was tired, Michael? No, a hotel will be fine.

JULIE:

Then can't you give them a lift, Mike?

MICHAEL:

How? I've been drinking, too. And the taxi service around here is very hit and miss, to be honest.

JOE:

Like the childminders, eh?

MICHAEL:

No, it's OK. You'll have to stay over. But I'll make the room up.

JOE:

Are you sure, Mikey? You seem a bit... uncomfortable with the idea.

MICHAEL:

Of course I'm sure. If you want to stay, you're welcome.

JOE:

I'm glad in a way. We've only just started to talk properly.

MICHAEL:

Fine.

JOE refills his glass.

JOE:

Got another bottle, Mikey? We might as well join my missus on the road to oblivion. What do you say?

JULIE:

Here, drink your coffee, Marianne. I'll just go and find some clean bed linen for you both.

JOE:

If we wait much longer we'll have to drag her up by the hair.

MARIANNE:

Ever the caveman...

MICHAEL:

Wait. I'll give you a hand, Julie.

JULIE:

Nonsense. You stop and chat with your brother. I can manage.

JOE:

Yer. We've a lot of catching up to do. Right, Mikey?

JULIE leaves stage through the hall door and we hear her walking up the stairs. MARIANNE folds her arms on the table and rests her head there.

MICHAEL:

Why are you doing this?

JOE:

Doing what? It's like I said: we're catching up.

MICHAEL:

Fine.

JOE:

You're a strange fish, Mikey. You've always played your cards close to your chest.

MICHAEL:

Fish don't have hands - or chests, for that matter.

JOE:

Going to try and joke your way out of this, now?

MICHAEL:

Out of what?

JOE:

You put up a wall against me. Don't you remember?

MICHAEL:

We just went to different schools in year seven, that's all.

JOE:

It was like you were ashamed of me. Like there was something wrong with me.

MICHAEL:

Don't be soft. What is this?

JOE:

Reminds me of a story I heard once.

MICHAEL:

Listen, these things happen, even in close families... People change, they live apart, they grow apart.

JOE:

But we were still living under the same roof, Mikey.

MICHAEL:

And that's why you've contrived this whole drama. So you can 'have it out with me'. Is that it?

JOE:

_(Grinning)_ I really don't know what you mean.

MICHAEL:

I bet you've brought a toothbrush.

JOE:

Do you want to hear it? My story, I mean.

(Pause.)

MICHAEL:

If you think it's important. Sounds like I owe you something.

JOE:

Maybe you do. We'll come on to that in due course.

MICHAEL:

Just get on with it, 'Mr Nominated Driver'.

JOE:

You might have heard it. It was in the news. Anyway, a few years ago there was this big game hunter out hunting lions in Africa. Only trouble was, he met his match. Got himself ambushed by the alpha male, or whatever they call it. So he's lying there half-butchered with the lion chewing his foot and his rifle lying about three metres away.

MICHAEL:

It's not a fairy tale, then?

JOE:

So, what does he do? Despite the agony of being eaten alive he has to play dead and slowly inch himself towards that gun. It's his only hope. Sometimes impatience gets the better of him and that old alpha male pounces and drags him back to where he's just crawled from.

MICHAEL:

Is there a point to this?

JOE:

Anyway, after three hours creeping through the dirt, inch by inch, his fingers finally close around the trigger guard of his rifle and he slowly pulls it up into a firing position. Then, with most of his lower leg already consumed, bang!

JOE thumps the table melodramatically. MARIANNE murmurs incoherently.

He finally bags his beast. Predator to prey and back again. All in the space of a morning's work. Just a shame it wasn't a panda.

MICHAEL:

And the moral of the story?

JOE:

That's what being your brother was like. You were slowly inching away from me for years. So slowly I didn't notice. Until - Bang! - you were gone. Only unlike that lion I lived to tell the tale.

MICHAEL:

And now you've finally hunted me down.

JOE:

Ah, but that's the other big difference between me and the lion: I was never planning to eat you.

MICHAEL:

You're imagining it all.

JOE:

You disowned me.

MICHAEL:

That's some chip you've got on your shoulder.

JOE:

Rejected me.

MICHAEL:

This is all rubbish. It was just the age gap. Nothing more.

JOE:

Was there a language barrier, too?

MICHAEL:

You're too sensitive, that's your problem.

JOE:

And what about a cultural barrier? A religious divide? Politics? Sexuality? City versus United? Any other excuses you can come up with?

MICHAEL:

This is bullshit.

JOE:

And you're the bull. Charging through the family without a word of reason. Putting everyone on edge. Turning molehills into mountains.

MICHAEL:

Listen, it's not my fault your life flat-lined. I left home, made a life for myself. It happens. What's the big deal?

JOE:

Good question, Mikey. What the hell is 'the big deal'?

MICHAEL:

Do we have to do this now?

JOE:

When, then? In another ten years?

MICHAEL:

Maybe, if you keep stirring up the past. Yes.

JOE:

I just don't get the hostility. I've done nothing to you except be your obedient little brother.

MICHAEL:

Stop it, Joe...

JOE:

Which leads me to one conclusion...

MICHAEL:

Is this what Mum would have wanted? Us raking up the past and falling out all over again? Have you thought of that?

JOE:

There's something about me that frightens you.

MICHAEL:

What..? Nonsense.

JOE:

Don't pretend surprise, big brother. What is it that you're so afraid of?

MICHAEL:

You're being ridiculous.

JULIE's footsteps are coming down the stairs and MICHAEL looks up with relief.

JOE:

You going to follow her around the house to avoid being alone with me, Mikey? It won't work. You've got a third guest here tonight: it's called the truth.

JOE sips his drink and then grins wickedly.

You know if Marianne isn't too well tomorrow we may have to stay here all day. That should give us even more time to talk, hey?

JULIE comes back in.

JULIE:

I've made the bed up. Perhaps we should try to get her upstairs, Joe. What do you think?

JOE:

She hasn't touched that coffee. She needs to sleep it off. Marianne? Time for bed.

MARIANNE:

Ha! That's-a-joke...

JOE:

Michael, could you give me a hand? I doubt she can stand.

MARIANNE:

I can't stand you...

MICHAEL is getting up to help JOE when MARIANNE suddenly pushes JOE's hands away with a leering grin. She stabs the table with her index finger.

Vibrator!

MICHAEL:

What?

JOE:

Marianne!

MARIANNE:

That's what he got me for my birthday.

JULIE:

Oh my...

MARIANNE:

See, I told you you'd never guess, didn't I?

Scene ends to the sound of MARIANNE's raucous laughter.

SCENE 2:

MICHAEL and JULIE clear the table of plates, etc. From above they hear raised voices, one of which lapses into hysterical sobs.

MICHAEL:

Are you OK now?

JULIE:

I didn't realise things were going to turn so...

MICHAEL:

Eventful?

JULIE:

No wonder he doesn't like her to drink.

MICHAEL:

I'm pissed off they're staying, to be honest.

JULIE:

Why? He is your brother. And she's well out for the count.

MICHAEL:

It's just that it means more hassle for you. Cooking, cleaning, washing up... I don't want you to get tired.

JULIE:

You shouldn't worry. I'm fine; really I am.

MICHAEL:

You realise they'll have to meet Caroline. In the morning, I mean.

JULIE:

I don't suppose anyone will want desert now. I put a lot of effort into that tiramisu. Maybe if they're still here at lunchtime...

MICHAEL:

I said...

JULIE:

I heard what you said, Mike. It can't be helped.

MICHAEL:

It's not that...

JULIE:

Yes it is that! He's the first person to make you feel ashamed of her. With everyone else you're not just protective, you're fiercely proud. Sometimes it's as if you're defying people to say something derogatory or sarcastic, just so you can leap to her defence. I can see it on your face, in the shops or the park. Looking at the other parents and thinking to yourself: 'Go on, say something, you bastards. I dare you.'

MICHAEL:

I am not ashamed of her, Julie!

JULIE:

See? That's exactly what I mean. The way you just leapt to her defence. But with your brother it's different. Why?

MICHAEL:

Leave it, will you? I can't explain. We're not close, but he's still my brother. It's like he has the right to prod me in some places but not others. I don't know how to react. I'm scared I might thump him one. But I'm scared I might burst into tears, too.

JULIE:

Or scared you might not.

MICHAEL:

What's that supposed to mean?

JULIE:

You need to talk to him and resolve whatever it is that's tied you up in knots for the past ten years. Otherwise, what's the point?

MICHAEL:

Oh, I don't know. I'm just a bit...

JULIE:

Tired?

MICHAEL:

No. Not tired. I can't afford to get tired.

JULIE:

Why not? I'm here. We're a team, right? Mind you, I felt very uncomfortable lying about Caroline having flu.

MICHAEL:

I know. Thanks for that.

JULIE:

You've been like a caged lion all week.

MICHAEL:

Don't mention lions to Joe.

JULIE:

What?

MICHAEL:

It doesn't matter. Look, none of it matters. By this time tomorrow he'll be gone and that will be it.

JULIE:

So you intend to keep him estranged for the next decade, too?

MICHAEL:

Sometimes it's better to leave a stone unturned than to pick it up and throw it. That's how things get broken. Anyway, hush. He's coming back down.

JOE re-enters the room from the hall.

JOE:

Sorry, but I was right. She's just been sick.

MICHAEL:

Oh hell...

JOE:

No, no. It's all right. I got her to the loo in time. I can read her like a book. (TO HIMSELF) Just one I never seem to finish.

JULIE:

She'll sleep now.

JOE:

Yes. I just hope we didn't wake your kid...

MICHAEL:

Caroline.

JOE:

Caroline, right. I know. You said.

JULIE:

Don't worry. She won't wake up. She's had...

MICHAEL:

A long day.

JULIE:

What with the flu.

JOE slumps back down on his chair, smirking.

JOE:

How old did you say she was again?

JULIE:

Ten.

MICHAEL:

Well actually she'll be eleven come June.

JOE:

You'll have to throw a party then.

MICHAEL:

Of course.

JOE:

Invite her friends. From school I mean.

JULIE:

Caroline doesn't...

MICHAEL:

Yes, she does. Of course she does.

JOE:

Course. Everyone has friends at that age. We did, Mikey. Remember?

MICHAEL:

Not the same friends.

JULIE:

Michael, shouldn't we...

MICHAEL:

Not now, Julie. Please.

JOE:

Shouldn't you what?

MICHAEL:

Fancy a whiskey?

JULIE:

Goodness, I'll be the last one standing soon.

JOE:

I think he's trying to knock me out, Julie.

JULIE:

Yes, well he's not used to the hard stuff. So maybe we should all...

JOE:

Do you know what I think?

MICHAEL:

Think what you bloody like.

JULIE:

Michael!

JOE:

I think I'd like to try that desert of yours now, Julie!

JULIE:

It's tiramisu.

JOE:

I think Marianne might have had hers already judging by what went down your loo.

JULIE obligingly heads off towards the kitchen.

JOE:

By the way, I can hold a drink. I'm used to it.

MICHAEL:

Be ironic if it was Marianne that drove you to it.

JOE:

No. It's work stress. People don't realise how much stress there is in the world of computers.

MICHAEL:

Anything's stressful if you're good at it. In demand.

JOE:

Even more so if you're not.

MICHAEL:

You don't have to prove anything to me, Joe. We've both got adult lives now. We've...

JOE:

Moved on?

MICHAEL:

Don't turn this into something it isn't, Joe.

JOE:

No. (Sighing) Maybe you're right.

MICHAEL goes to the drinks cabinet to pour whiskey into two tumblers.

MICHAEL:

Sod the ice?

JOE:

Sod the ice.

MICHAEL:

Prefer it straight?

JOE:

Do you have any lemon?

MICHAEL:

And aren't you bitter enough already?

JOE:

It's a nice place you've got, by the way.

MICHAEL:

We're happy here. Suits us down to the ground.

JOE:

Three bedrooms.

(Pause)

No wonder Julie's so tired...

MICHAEL:

Can't help yourself, can you?

JOE:

How long did it take her? Go on, tell me.

MICHAEL:

You mean _us_? From half-eight this morning.

JOE:

Doesn't surprise me. Place looks like a show home.

MICHAEL:

Hardly.

JOE:

No, no. Really.

MICHAEL:

Well, cheers.

JOE:

Shame about the carpets, mind.

MICHAEL:

Sorry?

JOE:

On the landing.

MICHAEL:

We've only had them a year or so.

JOE:

Don't get me wrong. They've very nice. Durable. Resilient. Marianne loved the colours and the design – or at least that's what I think she was doing down there.

MICHAEL:

Then?

JOE:

Wheel tracks.

From the kitchen we hear something fall to the floor and shatter.

MICHAEL:

Julie! Julie?

JULIE:

I'm... I'm all right.

JOE:

As in: marked by a wheel _chair_.

MICHAEL:

_(Hissed)_ You knew!

JOE:

Maybe that's not all I know.

MICHAEL:

All this time, you knew!

JOE:

Then you should have levelled with me, dear brother. Or maybe she really does have 'the flu'?

MICHAEL:

Hey, wait a minute. What you were saying earlier, about pandas...

JOE:

Wouldn't have come up if you'd levelled with me, Mikey.

MICHAEL:

All that bullshit!. It was a wind-up. You were deliberately mocking us.

JOE:

No! Just you. I've nothing against Julie. To be honest, she has my sympathies.

MICHAEL:

You bastard!

JOE:

For putting up with you, not having a child in a wheelchair.

MICHAEL:

And then the drinking-driving mix up. All so you could draw out your little game!

JOE:

Yup. Though I had no idea my dear wife was going to play her role quite so convincingly.

MICHAEL:

But why?

JOE:

So you could know how it feels.

MICHAEL:

How what feels?

JOE:

To be kept in the dark, at arm's length, out in the cold. Played, like a fool and then forgotten about.

MICHAEL:

Oh, get over yourself, man! I left you at home not on a dessert island.

JOE:

You reckon? Maybe I'm not as stupid as you think, _Mickey_.

MICHAEL:

Meaning what, exactly?

JOE:

I told you, that's not all I know.

MICHAEL:

Oh, this imagined vendetta against you is bordering on paranoia. You're so far up yourself it sounds like you've lost all sense of direction.

JOE:

Yes, well, I can still smell the bullshit's coming from.

MICHAEL:

It's your shit, Joe. Maybe it's not the slate you need to wipe clean right now.

JOE:

Do you think that's all there is to it? Do you think that's the only axe I have to grind? We recently said goodbye to someone who always suspected there was a secret kept from her and that it was my doing. Ring any bells?

MICHAEL:

They don't ring bells at a funeral. Not anymore.

JOE:

My relationship with that woman was tarnished by you. 'There's no smoke without fire,' she used to say, looking down her nose at me; as if it were a foregone conclusion that it had to be the younger brother that had been playing with matches.

MICHAEL:

She was confused, disorientated. Your relationship with Mum was tarnished by her stroke, nothing more.

JOE:

Oh, that's right. Pathologize everything. Well, denial is a clinical condition too, isn't it?

MICHAEL:

It was the stroke, Joe. It's what killed her eventually.

JOE:

No. What killed her was seeing her two boys living like strangers and not knowing why. It ate her alive. She wanted to die by the end.

MICHAEL:

You don't know what you're talking about. You just can't face the fact that she was disappointed in you because you _were_ a disappointment.

JOE:

Answer me this, then: did Mum know about your Caroline?

**(** _Pause)_

MICHAEL:

Yes. She knew.

JOE:

I had my suspicions. How did she react?

MICHAEL:

She didn't run off in the opposite direction, if that's what you mean.

JOE:

Really? You know what Mum could be like.

MICHAEL:

She saw her quite a few times, actually.

JOE:

Birthdays, you mean?

MICHAEL:

No.

JOE:

When, then?

MICHAEL:

I can't remember exactly...

JOE:

Why the secrecy? If not birthdays, when? And how often?

MICHAEL:

I don't know. Once every couple of months.

JOE:

You must have come up. We only live five minutes away from Mum and Dad's. Bloody hell, you might even have driven past our house.

MICHAEL:

Listen. I'm sorry you didn't know...

JOE:

She never said a thing. Not even when she was really ill at the end. Why didn't she ever say you'd visited?

MICHAEL:

I don't know. It was no big deal.

JOE:

But it is a big deal: why the secrecy?

MICHAEL:

I don't know. Really I don't.

JOE:

Oh, come on! Don't you owe me at least some honesty here? She was my mother too... You were – are - my older brother. Level with me.

MICHAEL:

I never meant to hurt you, Joe.

JOE:

Unless it had something to do with your Caroline...

MICHAEL:

I don't...

JOE:

And that wheelchair of hers... You see, keeping it from Mum - now that would have made more sense. I loved Mum, but you know as well as anyone how judgmental she could be... She didn't have to be tipsy to start off about – what was the name she gave to people she didn't like?

MICHAEL:

ASBO's, arseholes and asylum-seekers.

JOE:

Exactly. So why introduce Caroline to her and not to me? It doesn't add up. You're not telling me I'm more judgmental than Mum was?

Slowly the kitchen door opens, revealing JULIE standing at the threshold. Neither of the two men notices, however. She is silently crying.

JULIE:

We're not ashamed to show her to anyone. But your Mother was. She made us keep Caroline a dirty secret from the rest of the family. She insisted that no one else should see her.

The two men turn.

A dirty little secret...

MICHAEL:

Julie...

JULIE:

No, Michael. It's all right.

MICHAEL:

I can handle this, Julie.

JULIE:

No you can't! She's mine, too. I brought her into this world. You want the truth, Joe? Yes, our daughter Caroline is in a wheelchair. She was born with...

The other door suddenly flies open, revealing an unsteady MARIANNE clutching the doorframe for support. She has an opened gin bottle in her hand.

MARIANNE:

Yer? Well she's not the only one crippled around here. Isn't that right, _darling_?

## ACT TWO

SCENE 1:

MICHAEL comforts a weeping JULIE. JOE is pacing, furious. MARIANNE has collapsed over a dining chair, her dress hitched up high on one side.

JOE:

Ignore her.

MARIANNE:

It's honesty time, ladies and gentlemen!

JOE:

It's just the booze talking. She doesn't know what she's saying.

MICHAEL:

I think we'd both appreciate it if you took her back upstairs, Joe.

MARIANNE:

Don't talk about me like I'm not here! Like I'm..

JOE:

Marianne!

MARIANNE:

Feeble-minded.

JULIE:

Oh...!

JOE:

Marianne! Jesus!

MARIANNE:

Besides... He hasn't taken me up anywhere in years.

JOE:

Oh, for...

MARIANNE:

Ask him why we haven't got any kids. Go on!

JOE:

How much of that gin have you had?

MARIANNE:

Go on! I dare you! You're his brother, aren't you?

JOE charges towards MARIANNE, bellowing like a rhinoceros. MARIANNE looks up at him and then bursts into laughter.

It's a long time since I've seen that expression on his face. If you know what I mean!

JOE:

You're making a bloody fool of yourself, woman!

MARIANNE:

Oh, I'm the fool, all right! You've been palming me off – no pun intended - with your limp-wristed excuses for long enough. I want this out in the open. And I want it now!

JOE:

For pity's sake. _For pity's sake!_

JULIE:

I'm so glad our daughter has flu. This is so unacceptable.

MARIANNE:

Flu, my arse! You don't think we actually believe that, do you?

JOE:

(TO JULIE) I really am so sorry about my wife and this...drunken sideshow.

MARIANNE:

Yer, patronize me, belittle me! You sorry excuse for a man...But I'm telling you, 'husband', it's all coming out tonight.

MICHAEL:

The only thing that's come out so far is the fact that you're a spiteful, foul-mouthed lush.

MARIANNE:

Are you going to let him talk to me like that, Joe?

JOE:

Shut up, Marianne. I couldn't have put it better myself.

MARIANNE:

You hardly know them and yet you're still trying to hide behind them. What kind of man are you?

JOE:

Embarrassed. Disgusted. Ashamed.

MARIANNE:

Don't be embarrassed, hon. It's the Twenty-first Century. You can share your secrets here. We're family, aren't we?

JOE:

You don't think we'll be welcome here again, do you?

MARIANNE:

(TO JULIE & MICHAEL) You still haven't asked him why we don't have any children. Trust me, it's important.

JOE:

Marianne, will you shut the fuck up!

MARIANNE:

I'll give you all a little clue, shall I?

MARIANNE lifts her dress over her waist and splays her legs wide to the audience. She then mimics holding something between her legs and making an electrical whirring sound whilst she moves her hand up and down suggestively. JULIE buries her face in MICHAEL's chest. JOE pulls MARIANNE from her seat.

JOE:

Get out, damn you! Get out! Get out!

MARIANNE:

That's why you we don't have kids! Because you can't make a baby with molded plastic and a small electric motor. That's the one thing a sex toy can never give you. I don't need relief, you prick. I need a man. A man who wants to make a baby with me. Is that too much to ask?

JULIE:

Take her out, Joe! Take her out!

JOE:

Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!

MARIANNE:

(TO JULIE & MICHAEL) Has he told you about his dear friend, Bill?

JOE:

Why are you doing this to me? Have an affair if it's that bad.

MARIANNE:

Oh, you'd love that, wouldn't you? That would take you right off the hook. You might be able to move in with bloody Bill... Oh, but I forgot – he has a disappointed wife, too!

JULIE:

Michael, I need this to stop now!

MICHAEL:

Who's Bill?

JOE:

Bill's just a mate. A very good, loyal friend.

MARIANNE:

Bring Bill round to watch if it helps to turn you on. I wouldn't mind.

JOE:

You are totally disgusting.

MARIANNE:

(TO JULIE & MICHAEL) I wouldn't mind, you know. I'd do anything to get my old man back. The man I married. Anything. Or maybe the man I married was never that man at all. Him, standing there. That shell of a man there. You see him? Maybe he was always going to turn into... some _thing_ else. Something I could never have exclusively; not even for a night. That vibrator was top of the range, though. Really got me to fuck myself in style. Well now it's my turn to fuck him, and oh yes I want an audience!

JULIE:

Make her stop, Michael! Make her stop!

JOE:

It's over, Marianne! Can't you see that? This is the last straw.

MARIANNE:

You have to make everything my fault.

JOE:

And can you blame me when you behave like this?

MARIANNE:

Most _real_ men would like a woman who misbehaves. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I'm not behaving badly enough...

MARIANNE squats suddenly and starts clawing at JOE's trouser belt.

JOE:

Are you out of your mind, woman?

MICHAEL:

Marianne, pull yourself together!

MARIANNE:

Oh, big brother wants some action, too. Well, since my darling husband is so obviously a backdoor man, you're more than welcome,

Mikey, to park yourself...

JULIE strikes MARIANNE across the face, knocking her to the floor, where she lays motionless.

MICHAEL:

Julie!

JOE:

Shit, Michael. What has she done?

MICHAEL and JOE examine the prostrate MARIANNE. JULIE stands horrified.

JOE:

Marianne? Can you hear me? Marianne?

MICHAEL:

It's all right, Joe. She's still breathing.

JOE:

I can see that, thank you very much. What I can't see is you exercising any control over your woman.

MICHAEL:

Oh, and you were, I suppose...

JULIE:

Michael? Michael, have I killed her? Tell me, Mike? Have I killed her...?

MARIANNE is slightly sick. JULIE starts to hyperventilate.

MICHAEL:

No, love. Just the evening.

SCENE 2:

JOE and MICHAEL are in the kitchen. JOE is leaning against the sink, breathing heavily. MICHAEL is at his side as his brother splashes cold water over his face.

JOE:

I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say.

MICHAEL:

It's all right. I'm pretty speechless myself.

JOE:

Not just about Marianne. I'm sorry about us, too.

MICHAEL:

Let's not, hey? Neither of us is in any fit state to think straight.

JOE:

You know, by tomorrow she'll probably have puked in every room.

MICHAEL:

I can't believe there's anything left to bring up.

JOE:

But I still need you to believe me, about how sorry I am.

MICHAEL:

Let's sleep on it. OK?

JOE:

God knows where Marianne got that gin from. She must have brought it with her. I think she was determined to get plastered.

MICHAEL:

I don't think Julie hit her that hard. I've never seen Julie lose it with someone like that.

JOE:

That's my Marianne for you.

MICHAEL:

It's just that with Caroline... Julie gets so tired. Her nerves are in shreds. Her brave face masks a losing battle. I try my best, but...

JOE:

(TO HIMSELF) You and me both...

MICHAEL:

I'm surprised it wasn't you that hit her. You haven't, have you?

JOE:

There're two things I know about myself for certain. One, I'll never hit a woman. And two, I'll never come closer than with Marianne.

MICHAEL:

This didn't blow up overnight, then, did it? Ever thought about counselling?

JOE:

Things haven't been this bad before, trust me... Hang on. Are you implying that I'm somehow responsible for Marianne's behaviour?

MICHAEL:

What? No. Course not.

JOE:

Sounds like it to me, Mikey.

MICHAEL:

Just forget it, will you. This is what happens when people argue when they're wrecked.

(Pause)

JOE:

She has a good life, that woman. You're right, it was just the drink talking.

JOE moves across the kitchen to pick up a baby monitor.

MICHAEL:

Julie's been listening in every time she comes back out here. Caroline's condition, it's not just one thing. It's like a dozen things all bundled up together. We can never relax, not fully.

JOE:

I had no idea.

MICHAEL:

You can turn that thing off now, Joe. The black button at the side. That's it. Ta. But we can never switch off. The next crisis is always lurking around the corner. Can you imagine what that's like? Can you?

JOE:

No. I guess not. It must be hard. But you could have told me. I could have helped somehow, surely.

(Pause)

MICHAEL:

Why the hell did you buy Marianne a vibrator?

JOE:

(Laughs) It's a long story... (Seriously) Let's just say we've had a few problems recently.

MICHAEL:

You don't say.

JOE:

Marriage is complicated. You must know that with what you and Julie have to put up with.

MICHAEL:

Joe...

JOE:

No, I'm not being nasty. I meant with the stress and everything. The longer the pressure goes on the further away you get from why you got hitched in the first place. Till everything's just habitual and driven by a fear of change. The problems in the bedroom.... they're a symptom.

MICHAEL:

And according to Marianne this 'Bill', he's the cause?

JOE:

Oh, give over. That hairy great fart!

MICHAEL:

Bloke in our football team is as bent as a clock spring. We get him to flirt with the ref. It's a right laugh. But he's still just one of the lads, even in the showers.

JOE:

Listen, Bill's just a mate. Best mate I've ever had, in fact.

MICHAEL:

I'm just saying... This is the twenty-first century.

JOE:

Well you're saying it to the wrong guy, Mikey. Mind you, it would have upset Mum if I'd turned out that way.

MICHAEL:

Not half...

JOE:

Contrary to nature, she'd have said.

MICHAEL:

Exactly. You'd never have heard the end of it. I'm relieved you're not, though.

JOE:

What? I thought you wouldn't mind?

MICHAEL:

I had to say that. I'm your brother.

JOE:

Marianne's got it all wrong. Bill, he's been a rock. You and him would get on well, I reckon. He's about your age, married with a kid...

MICHAEL:

Ah-ha.

JOE:

Ah-ha what?

MICHAEL:

An older brother substitute?

JOE:

(Sighing) Maybe. I had to talk to someone.

MICHAEL:

Sorry. I didn't mean to be bitchy.

JOE:

I can talk to Bill in a way I can't to her.

MICHAEL:

There's no pressure?

JOE:

There's no agenda. We just talk. With Marianne it's either screaming or sulking.

MICHAEL:

You've never considered professional help?

JOE:

Prostitution?

MICHAEL:

Be serious. I meant counselling.

JOE:

She'd go. I wouldn't.

MICHAEL:

Is that you acknowledging blame?

JOE:

I'd be too embarrassed.

MICHAEL:

When you got around to talking about the vibrator for a pressie especially.

JOE:

Now you are being bitchy!

(Pause)

It's better than nothing at all, poor cow.

MICHAEL:

So you can't get it up at all?

JOE:

Not for her, no. And before you ask, there isn't someone else either.

MICHAEL:

Oh, come on. You're still a man.

JOE:

You don't believe me, then?

MICHAEL:

Can you blame me? I don't know what monks wear these days, but I doubt it's Ralph Lauren.

JOE:

Listen, I did try, you know.

MICHAEL:

By getting her a vibo?

JOE:

It's supposed to reinvigorate the marital bedroom.

MICHAEL:

Only if you help her to use it, you idiot.

JOE:

I changed the batteries once.

MICHAEL:

What about oral sex?

JOE:

That would be one way to shut her up.

MICHAEL:

Honestly, I can't believe I have to give you sex education lessons in my thirties.

JOE:

All right. Don't rub it in.

(Pause)

No pun intended.

MICHAEL:

Seriously, though, Joe. You can't even bear to touch her? That's terminal. There must be something you're not telling me.

JOE:

Do you know that's exactly what she says? Then she puts two and two together and comes up with Bill.

MICHAEL:

So what are you going to do, leave her?

JOE:

I do want it to work... somehow. It's just the things she said tonight. Things she did...

MICHAEL:

They'll stay within these four walls.

JOE:

So I don't have to worry about Twitter and Facebook?

MICHAEL:

What happened tonight was ugly. There's no point dismissing it as mere drunkenness. There's a lot of pain in that woman. Whatever's going on for her, it's real and it hurts.

JOE:

I doubt she'll remember much come tomorrow morning anyway.

MICHAEL:

Unless you want to remind her.

JOE:

Then I really would be a bastard.

MICHAEL:

You said there was an agenda with Marianne: who sets it?

JOE lets out a short laugh.

MICHAEL:

What's so funny?

JOE:

You. You're still playing your old game, Mikey. Keeping the spotlight away from yourself. And do you know for a moment there I actually thought we'd made a breakthrough.

MICHAEL:

You don't know anything about my life, Joe. You can't judge me anymore than I can judge you.

JOE:

And who's that down to? Who pushed who away?

MICHAEL:

Oh, not this again... Change the record.

JOE:

I've been thinking, though. This feud must have started around the time your Caroline was born. Is that a coincidence?

MICHAEL:

Don't start this nonsense again, Joe. I'm warning you.

JOE:

There it is again, that hostility! Where does it come from? What is it about me that threatens you?

MICHAEL:

Just leave Caroline out of this, will you?

JOE:

I still know who you are, brother. I still know what makes you tick. You're afraid of something. Something that happened around the birth of your daughter. I'm right, aren't I?

MICHAEL:

You're way off. You're the one with the problems...mate. Remember?

JOE:

My God, you really are scared of something, aren't you?

MICHAEL:

At least I'm not scared of my wife.

JOE:

What's that supposed to mean?

MICHAEL:

No one reacts the way Marianne did tonight unless they've been pushed to the limit. It's you that sets the agenda - always. Except tonight she rebelled, didn't she? She broke free. Let rip. But why? What did you do to push her that far? Was it something to do with this Bill chap after all?

JOE:

Bollocks!

MICHAEL:

Maybe he's not just a 'rock'. Maybe he's a cave, too.

JOE:

(Laughs) Bill's a married man. His wife likes him to dress up as Batman in the bedroom. He buggered three vertebrae playing rugby and still likes lighting his own farts. Trust me, he's not gay.

MICHAEL:

But does he really have any children?

JOE:

There you go again. Keeping me under the spotlight and yourself to the safety of the shadows.

MICHAEL:

You never did know how to lie.

JOE:

Yer? Well you're the expert there.

MICHAEL:

Married to an attractive woman, best mates with a 'bloke' who only takes his gum shield out so he down his ale: it's the perfect camouflage. Or rather it was...

JOE:

Mikey...

MICHAEL:

Until she caught you up to something with him... That was it, wasn't it! What was it? A blow job in the garden shed? (Loudly) Damn it, I'm right aren't I?

JOE:

I told you, Mum had nothing to be ashamed of with her youngest son. Give it up, golden boy. You're the one that gave her a grandchild that needs hiding away. Get the flu a lot, does she? Your beloved Caroline.

MICHAEL:

You little shit! You've not changed at all. D'you know what I think your problem is? I think your jealous!

JOE:

Bollocks!

MICHAEL:

No, no, no. I'm serious. I think it's _me_ that can read _you_.

JOE:

And I actually thought I'd missed you.

MICHAEL:

Do you remember the time when that money went missing from Mum's purse? When you were, what - eleven, twelve?

JOE:

Sure. I owned up to it. I didn't try to spend it. (Sniggering) Kids do daft things. I bet yours does. So what?

MICHAEL:

I never could figure out why you did it... Hang on a tick. You're right. You did own up. You confessed straight away. And you hadn't spent a penny.

JOE:

So?

MICHAEL:

Oh, but boy was she livid.

JOE:

Mum certainly had a temper.

MICHAEL:

So you must have had a very good reason to risk provoking it. That temper of hers made one hell of a deterrent for bad behaviour.

JOE:

Wake me up when the lesson's over.

MICHAEL:

That's it! It was your school report! You wanted to draw her attention away from a bad school report. Now I remember. It wasn't so much a case of 'could do better' as 'should give up'.

JOE:

I did all right in the exams, thanks. I caught up. I've got a decent job now, security, prospects... I made Mum proud. Don't tell me otherwise, you arrogant bugger.

MICHAEL:

You're even doing it now! Deflecting attention from something sensitive. It's what you do. You did it back then, and you're still at it now. You're the one who hates scrutiny. You're the one who scurries from the light.

JOE:

You are so talking out of your arse.

MICHAEL:

So how does that explain tonight?

JOE:

My wife's a bitter, foul-mouthed tramp who's forgotten where she was when I rescued her from a paedo father who was still bathing her when she was fourteen.

MICHAEL:

Is that even half-true? If I ask her all this tomorrow, what will she say, Joe?

JOE:

Piss off.

MICHAEL:

Why would you even think something like that?

JOE:

Why would you even think I'd make it up?

MICHAEL:

What's hidden behind those drawn curtains, that locked door, Joe?

JOE:

Why don't you ask her? She's the one with the key.

MICHAEL:

Wait a minute... wait a minute...

MICHAEL slaps his forehead.

That's it! 'She's the one with the key.'

JOE:

What are you getting so excited about?

MICHAEL:

You _want_ Marianne to think you're gay. That you can't get it up because you don't fancy women. That's why you haven't had an affair either, I'll bet. Because the truth is something far more threatening than being accused of dropping your shorts in the scrum. But what?

JOE:

I've heard enough of this shit. I won't disturb you when I leave tomorrow morning.

JOE heads for the door but MICHAEL bars his way. JOE tries to push past him but MICHAEL forces him back up against the sink.

MICHAEL:

What are you hiding from her? What's so much worse than letting your old lady think you might be a fudge packer? And not just her, but me, Mum, Dad, everyone potentially.

JOE:

Let me out of here! I need to check on Marianne.

MICHAEL:

Why? Are you worried she might say something to Julie while you're out the way? Hey, think about that. They might be having their own little tête-à-tête right now.

JOE makes a big effort to escape but MICHAEL is too strong for him.

JOE:

Let me go, you are interfering bastard!

MICHAEL:

Julie and Marianne having a bosom chat upstairs right now. Imagine that. They say women are more in touch with their feelings than men. They've probably got to the heart of the matter already. I'll bet the cat's about to crawl out the bag right now.

JOE:

Bollocks! Marianne can't tell her anything she hasn't said already!

MICHAEL and JOE stop struggling abruptly.

MICHAEL:

Hey? Say that again.

JOE:

Nothing. Just let me go.

MICHAEL:

No, no, no. you just said...

JOE:

I said, let me go!

MICHAEL:

She's already let it slip, hasn't she?

JOE:

You're so full of shite.

MICHAEL:

She said something, but none of us noticed. What was it?

JOE:

You're as cracked as Marianne. Maybe you should fuck her.

MICHAEL starts circling the kitchen, frowning with concentration.

MICHAEL:

Think, Michael. Think, think, think.

MICHAEL suddenly draws in breath sharply.

Kids!

JOE:

What?

MICHAEL:

You don't want kids! That's it, isn't it?

MICHAEL pulls JOE up close to him.

Isn't it?

JOE:

You don't know what...

JOE turns his face away from his brother.

MICHAEL:

ISN'T IT!

JOE:

All right. All right! Yes. I don't want fucking kids! Satisfied, Mr. Sherlock?

MICHAEL:

You. Don't. Want. Kids!

JOE:

Can I go now, please?

MICHAEL:

But why the hell not? What's so bad about having kids? There's still something hidden. Even now.

JOE:

Let this go, Michael. This is only going to hurt both of us.

MICHAEL:

Why don't you want kids, Joe?

JOE:

You conceited bastard! Can't you see how I've been protecting you over the last ten years? It was me that kept away from you.

MICHAEL:

What?

(Pause)

JOE:

I said, it's been me that's been keeping away from you! Understand?

MICHAEL:

You...? What..?

MICHAEL frowns, shaking his head in confusion.

No, no. wait a minute. Yes! But of course! It was your plan all along. How didn't I see it?

JOE:

People only see what they want to see, Mikey. You're no different.

MICHAEL:

Granddad's will...

JOE:

I loved him, too. What was I left, though? Hey?

MICHAEL:

Protecting me? You were protecting yourself. It was you that removed those books from Granddad's house before the will was read. Don't think I didn't know that.

JOE:

And you never forgave me. Just like I knew you wouldn't. You loved those old books, not because they were worth anything, but because they reminded you of some of the happiest times of your childhood. Granddad's little soldier, sitting on his knee to have a story read every day after school!

MICHAEL:

Ha! You jealous twisted bastard!

JOE:

Sitting at the old man's dining table, poring over those old books and asking him question after question. What's this? What's that? And that look of awe and adoration on your face when he gave you the answers. I can still see it now. The mug of cocoa, the ruffling of the hair, the bare legs kicking beneath the table. And what about me? Where was I? Pushed out into the garden because I wouldn't be interested in learning, he said!

MICHAEL:

And you deliberately tarnished those memories for me by stealing those books. Why?

JOE:

You already know that answer. To deflect attention, of course. It's a defence mechanism, my special ability. It's what I do to protect myself. You got me bang to rights. OK?

MICHAEL makes a lunge for the sink top and retrieves a kitchen knife.

MICHAEL:

I think you'd best come clean, Joe. Seriously I do.

JOE:

You don't need that thing, Mikey. Put it down.

MICHAEL:

Oh, I think I like this just where it is. Let's call it my insurance against your concentration straying back into subterfuge.

JOE:

Fine. But you might not like what you hear.

MICHAEL:

That's a risk I'll take.

MICHAEL gestures with the kitchen knife.

Go on. Tell me.

JOE:

I know everything.

MICHAEL:

Everything? What do you mean, everything?

JOE:

_Everything_. And I have for years.

MICHAEL:

So go on, tell me – tell me about this 'everything'.

JOE:

Caroline's disability.

MICHAEL:

What!

JOE:

(Laughing) I knew as soon as Mum did.

MICHAEL:

She told you?

JOE:

Hardly. I was still living at home, remember? I overheard her on the telephone one evening. She thought I'd gone to the club. That's how I found out. But she wouldn't tell me. That would have belittled her golden boy. She needed the family to think she was proud of you even when she was ashamed!

MICHAEL:

Then Granddad died.

JOE:

Then Granddad died. And I knew how much those books of his meant to you.

MICHAEL:

So you stole them.

JOE:

Still got them. Safely stored away at my place. You can have them back now. They've served their purpose.

MICHAEL:

I thought you'd destroyed them out of spite. Or sold them.

JOE:

So you froze me out. Just as I knew you would. See, who's the clever boy now?

MICHAEL:

You needed that feud, didn't you?

JOE:

Is the penny about to drop, Mikey?

MICHAEL:

You were afraid to have kids yourself...

JOE:

Ker-ching!

MICHAEL:

... in case whatever was wrong with Caroline was hereditary. And with me moved away and no one able to breath a word about your niece there'd be no pressure on you to produce one of your own. Right?

JOE:

Well, it is hereditary, isn't it?

MICHAEL:

Oh, no, Joe! No!

MICHAEL tosses the knife back onto the draining board, running both hands back through his hair.

MICHAEL:

Think about it! If it was there would be a history of it further back down the family tree. Nana had arthritis in her seventies, but apart from that and Mum's stroke there's nothing there.

**JOE:** Then... how?

MICHAEL rests his hands on the edge of the sink and stares down into the plughole.

MICHAEL:

They put it down to my 'recreational habits' when she was conceived. I was never an addict as such, but I was heading down that slippery slope. And of course Caroline wasn't planned. She was accident.

JOE:

An accident that never stopped happening.

MICHAEL:

Stop it now, Joe. Just stop it! Don't you realise there's no reason why you and Marianne shouldn't have a perfectly healthy baby just like anyone else.

JOE:

No. It's not that simple, Mikey.

MICHAEL:

Mum's grave is still fresh, Joe Garrett. You can't lie! Now open up!

MICHAEL turns and pushes JOE up against the door.

JOE:

(Crying) Let me go, Michael! Let me go! I can't stand it!

MICHAEL:

Stand what, man! What's holding you back! Why can't you drop the charade still!!!

JOE:

All right! All right! It was because I was scared. OK? I was glad Mum didn't tell me. I didn't want to know. Just knowing scared me.

MICHAEL:

Scared you? What is there to be scared of, you prick? She's a human being!

JOE:

I can't... I just can't deal with things... like that. OK?

MICHAEL:

Things? Caroline is a person. Your child would be a person too.

JOE:

Not if she was a mong, a spacko, an imbecile. Things go wrong during labour, during infancy... there are no guarantees. I couldn't bear to end up like you!

MICHAEL:

My God, you're prejudiced. That's what your fear's called: prejudice!

JOE:

Call it what you like. I don't care! I just couldn't face it!

MICHAEL looks into JOE's eyes; rests his forehead against his brother's.

MICHAEL:

But she's lovely, Joe. The best thing that's ever happened to me. Sure, it's hard work, and not just physically, but if you could see how much love there is in this house...

JOE:

But I'm not like you. Love's not enough. I want other people to be proud of _me_! The way Mum and Granddad were proud of you!

MICHAEL:

And are you proud of yourself and the life you have? And all because someone might call your child a name. Jesus, Joe!

JOE:

No! You're wrong. You're wrong!

(Pause)

It's the names I'd call myself that scare me.

MICHAEL steps back away from his brother.

MICHAEL:

You poor, sad, lonely fucker. I had absolutely no idea...

JOE:

You think it's easy, Mikey? Faking my own impotence. I still fancy my wife, you know. Do you know how hard it is not to fuck her straight through the floor every night?

MICHAEL:

You need help, Joe. You are one screwed up individual.

JOE snatches up the knife and holds it to his wrist.

JOE:

Maybe this is what I need.

MICHAEL:

You go from bad to worse. Face up to it, Joe! Deal with this shit!

JOE:

(Screams) How! How? You saw what happened tonight. She's on to me, Mickey. And if you can work it out, how long before she does the same? Then I'll have lost her forever.

(Pause)

MICHAEL:

I think I need to tell you a story.

JOE:

Please, Mickey. Don't take the piss. I'm begging you.

MICHAEL:

No, seriously. Listen. Just _listen_.

**(** _Pause)_

I used to work with this guy, at a packing plant I worked in one summer. The Geordie firm, remember? Anyway, he was a right nasty racist, a bigot of the highest order. Every day it was fucking immigrants this, bloody Pakis that. It used to drive us all loopy, even those who agreed with him. So, on my last shift I decided to speak up. I wasn't going to see the twat again. So I said to him, 'Terry, do you know why you hate foreigners so much?' and he stares back at me with his pimply moron's face. 'Because you don't know any.' It was ignorance that kept his fear alive.

MICHAEL approaches JOE again, speaking softly, and carefully taking the knife from his hand. He brings JOE to the kitchen table and sits him down.

Now like it or not you have a niece upstairs. And yes she's disabled, and yes there are lots of things she can't do. But you're still her uncle, man. Can't you see what an opportunity this is, for you, for her, for us, for your marriage? Don't let ignorance keep your fear alive too.

JOE:

I can't, Mikey! I JUST CAN'T!

MICHAEL:

But you can, Joe. If I can anyone can. I was so scared at the beginning. You just...

The kitchen door opens. Both men turn to stare at the doorway.

MICHAEL:

Julie...

JOE:

Oh.... My.

JULIE:

(UNSEEN) Joe, this is Caroline. Marianne managed to wake her up, after all.

A young girl makes her way unsteadily into the kitchen and smiles broadly.

MICHAEL:

Well, is this what you expected? Truthfully? Is this the 'thing' you're so afraid of?

JOE:

I... She's...

MICHAEL:

Your niece. Whatever else she is, Joe, she's your niece.

JULIE:

Marianne had crawled into bed with her, Joe. There were tears on her cheeks. Then mine.

JOE:

I'm so sorry, Julie...

MICHAEL:

Sorry is for yesterdays.

JOE:

I'm so, so tired...

MICHAEL:

You and me both, kid. Perhaps it's time we finally let this feud die.

JOE:

Make our peace?

MICHAEL:

And can you name me a better peacemaker?

CAROLINE laughs suddenly, holding out her hand to JOE. JOE whimpers and puts a hand over his mouth to stifle a cry.

MICHAEL:

That's right, Caroline, this is your Uncle Joe.

MICHAEL puts a hand on JOE's shoulder and squeezes it gently.

And he's come such a long way to meet you...

END

## WALKING THROUGH WIRE

SETTING:

The play is initially set in the Commandant's office of Bergen-Belsen concentration camp in the winter of 1944. The second act takes us to Blackpool in 1954, before returning to Bergen-Belsen for the final act.

CAST IN BERGEN-BELSEN:

S.S. HAUPTSTURMERFUHRER JOSEPH KRAMER. (Camp Commandant) 46

HANS FRESSEN (Detainee) 25

ERNST FISCHER (Detainee) 32

Un-named (Guard) 24

CAST IN BLACKPOOL:

THE GYPSY QUEEN. (Fortune teller) 56

ALAN TURING (Customer) 41

## ACT ONE

SCENE 1:

Mid-morning in the Commandant's office. The Commandant sits studying papers at his desk, with two empty chairs opposite. There is a large portrait of Adolf Hitler on the back wall, but otherwise the stage is bare. There is a loud knock at the door. The Commandant grunts and two bedraggled men are pushed roughly into the room by a burly soldier. They stand shivering before the desk with their eyes to the floor. The guard stands stiffly to attention by the door. Moments pass, then suddenly the Commandant points at the guard.

COMMANDANT:

You! Outside!

The guard leaves the room with a click of his heals.

COMMANDANT:

Names!

The two figures look nervously at each other.

ERNST FISCHER:

354...

COMMANDANT:

No. No. Your names. Tell me your names.

ERNST:

My... name... is Ernst Fischer, Herr Commandant.

COMMANDANT:

And you?

HANS:

Hans Fressen, Herr Commandant, Sir.

Hans speaks with a pronounced lisp, for reasons revealed later.

COMMANDANT:

Good! Now sit!

The detainees sit after a moment's hesitation.

COMMANDANT:

Good, yes? And here!

The Commandant tosses over two blankets, and then two smaller objects.

COMMANDANT:

Like your birthdays, yes?

(Pause)

Go on! It's Swiss. Courtesy of an aunt from Bavaria.

_S_ he sent it for _my_ birthday. So, you'd better finish it all. Yes?

_The_ _detainees start eating the chocolate._

COMMANDANT:

Of course, my aunt hates the S.S.

(Pause)

That's how I know she's put poison in it...

Both detainees shove their hands in their mouths to make themselves sick.

COMMANDANT:

No, no! I'm joking! I'm joking!

(Pause)

Laughter is medicine, as the English say. No?

_The_ _Commandant walks over to the portrait of Hitler, gazing up at it._

COMMANDANT:

I'm glad you could make it. I had a dream last night.

(Pause)

Last night and the night before. And the night before that, too.

(Pause)

I was standing at the edge of a vast pit. A pit, you understand? My balance was about to be lost at any second. I looked down and, behold... the pit was not empty but filled with thousands of emaciated corpses. I tried to turn away but there was something pressing me forward, preventing my escape. Looking back into the pit again I saw that the right arms of the corpses were beckoning to me to join them - thousands of them, rotting and stinking.

(Pause)

I screamed, but when I looked again I saw that the corpses were not beckoning at all, as I had imagined, but issuing the Nazi salute, and a great cackling wail issued from the pit of 'Heil! Heil! Heil!' I strained my neck to see what was pushing me down into this decaying hell and found the bloodied blade of a great bulldozer. And who do you think was driving this monstrous machine, intent upon my damnation? General MacArthur? This Eisenhower, perhaps? Or maybe Winston Churchill himself?

_The_ _Commandant points at the portrait accusingly._

COMMANDANT:

It was him. Him! You understand? It was him!

(Pause)

So what does it mean? Tell me, what does it mean? Answer me!

HANS:

Perhaps...

COMMANDANT:

Go on...

HANS:

Perhaps. He... is driving you on to greater victories?

COMMANDANT:

In Hell? Ha! And what is your interpretation, Ernst?

ERNST:

That every man has to die.

COMMANDANT:

Ah, you are a philosopher?

ERNST:

No, Herr Commandant.

COMMANDANT:

But of course, a preacher!

ERNST:

No... I...

COMMANDANT:

A teacher, then?

ERNST:

No, Herr Commandant.

COMMANDANT:

Then on what basis do you presume to tell me anything?

The Commandant stalks over to the detainees. He pulls back his right arm.

COMMANDANT:

Then let me teach you something, gentlemen. It may save your lives.

Ernst flinches, but the Commandant strikes the silent Hans across the face, knocking him into Ernst's arms. The Commandant returns to his chair.

With me, honesty is far more valuable than chocolate. Yes?

(Pause)

We understand each other. Very good! Because one of you is going to walk free today.

The detainees are silent. The Commandant pours himself a drink.

That's right, gentlemen. And this time I'm definitely not joking.

_The_ _Commandant pulls something from his drawer and throws it on the desk._

So, Ernst – since you're the candid one - what do you do?

ERNST:

I work in the kitchen...

COMMANDANT:

No, not here. Out there.

ERNST:

I was a barber, Herr Commandant.

COMMANDANT:

A barber, yes? Very good. And did your customers appreciate your services?

ERNST:

I don't...

COMMANDANT:

Come, come! This is our chance to really get to know one another, yes?

ERNST:

I... I had the shop for ten years.

COMMANDANT:

Go on.

ERNST:

Well...Before that my father ran it for nearly twenty.

COMMANDANT:

A family business. Hard work?

ERNST:

Yes, but we had a good life until...

COMMANDANT:

Until that? ( _he points at the purple triangle on Ernst's shirt.)_

ERNST:

Yes. We kept going as best we could – our only customers were other Jehovah's Witnesses, of course... And eventually...

COMMANDANT:

They brought you here?

ERNST:

Not straight away.

COMMANDANT:

You've done the tour, like me?

Ernst stares at his feet.

COMMANDANT:

Go on.

ERNST:

That's it. I've not seen the shop or my family for five years. Now they've given me a job in the kitchen. And that's what I do.

(Pause)

COMMANDANT:

But your profession, you must miss it, no?

ERNST:

That was someone else's life, Herr Commandant. It doesn't belong to me anymore.

COMMANDANT:

But if you could have it back..?

ERNST:

I don't like to think about it.

COMMANDANT:

Well, what if I told you that I want you to think about it?

ERNST:

I... I don't know.

(Pause)

COMMANDANT:

And what about you, Hans? What was your profession?

HANS:

I owned a shop.

COMMANDANT:

A shop? Good. I like shops. People need shops. But what kind of a shop, Hans? What was it that your shop sold, hmm?

(Pause)

HANS:

Presents, gifts... For special occasions, birthdays, anniversaries.

COMMANDANT:

Anniversaries, yes? Did you sell chocolate, perhaps?

HANS:

Not exactly.

COMMANDANT:

Then cakes, or maybe pastries?

HANS:

Not those, either, Herr Commandant.

The Commandant thumps the desk top with his fist.

COMMANDANT:

Are you still unclear about the consequences of deceit?

HANS:

Flowers, Herr Commandant! I sold flowers. I was a florist.

_The_ _Commandant laughs._

COMMANDANT:

You... you... You were a florist? Not the best occupation to hold if you want to hide your particular weakness!

Hans stares down at his feet.

What do you say, Ernst? He might as well have had a shop selling pink triangles! Hans, you're priceless. I'm warming to both of you already. But seriously, Hans if you don't win this little contest today at least you can provide your own wreath. Ha!

_The_ _Commandant laughs again._

We should have tied you to the front of a Tiger tank at Kursk, like a mascot. You could have been our pansy for the panzers!

(Pause)

What is your opinion of homosexuality, Ernst? From a religious perspective, I mean.

Ernst looks over at Hans.

Don't look at him, look at me. Now answer.

ERNST:

It is... not permitted, Herr Commandant.

COMMANDANT:

By whom?

ERNST:

By God Jehovah, Herr Commandant.

COMMANDANT:

You see! Already we have something in common, Ernst. The Party has prohibited such acts, too.

(Pause)

How does it make you feel, Ernst - knowing that his life might be spared instead of yours?

ERNST:

In Heaven I will...

The Commandant slowly claps his hands in mock applause.

COMMANDANT:

Oh, yes. In Heaven. I was forgetting. Everything will be corrected and put right in Heaven. It is something for us all to look forward to, no? Or have I got it wrong? Don't all good Aryans go to a better life hereafter?

ERNST:

Not all, Herr Commandant. Only the chosen.

COMMANDANT:

Chosen by your God, yes?

ERNST:

By God Jehovah, Herr Commandant.

COMMANDANT:

Chosen by God Jehovah!

_The_ _Commandant stares up at Hitler's portrait._

COMMANDANT:

I remember the day when I was chosen. Back in the late twenties when this country was a beaten corpse scavenged by Jews and Marxists. There was no dignity, no food, and no work certainly not for an inexperienced electrician like me. Then one day I saw him and before a single word had reached my ears I knew. I knew! Such strength, such conviction, such will. I thought to myself: this is what the Fatherland needs. Was that how it was for you?

ERNST:

No. I have never seen my God.

COMMANDANT:

Then you're not much of a witness, are you?

ERNST:

I witness his love every day.

COMMANDANT:

What? In here? Ha!

(Pause)

So, let us begin! We were talking about the resurrection of your skills as a barber, were we not, Ernst?

The Commandant picks up a cut throat razor (which he threw down earlier).

COMMANDANT:

(TO ERNST) Here, take it. Go on, yes. Take it!

Ernst takes the razor.

COMMANDANT:

Is it a good one?

ERNST:

I really don't...

Ernst leans forward to return the razor.

COMMANDANT:

No, no! You haven't used it yet.

The Commandant picks up the telephone handset.

Bring it in.

The guard carries in a steaming enamel basin and towel. He sees Ernst with the razor.

COMMANDANT:

It's all right. He is an advocate of non-violence. Isn't that right, Ernst? Some comfort that will be to our wives and children when the Bolsheviks turn up looking for vengeance!

The guard puts the basin down, places the towel over it, then exits.

Well, what are you waiting for, Ernst Fischer? You do still remember how to give a man a shave, don't you?

Ernst can only stare at the razor in his hand.

COMMANDANT:

Trust me, Ernst, there is much more to fear by not shaving me.

Ernst slowly rises and shuffles around the desk.

COMMANDANT:

Take your time, Ernst. We have the rest of the war to play with.

The Commandant stretches back. Ernst carefully places the now heated towel over the Commandant's face. He then looks over the desk, frowning.

COMMANDANT:

Ah, you are looking for the soap, yes? And maybe a shaving brush, too? One cannot shave without lather.

(Pause)

But I'm sorry, Ernst, there is no soap. Don't you realise: there's a war on?

Ernst opens up the razor.

Careful, Ernst, I don't think God Jehovah approves of assassins.

(Pause)

Now do your job, coward.

Ernst moves behind the Commandant and brings the razor around his throat.

COMMANDANT:

Oh, before you start I have to tell you that even the slightest nick and I'll have you torn apart by the guard dogs. It wouldn't be fair to keep that from you.

Ernst hesitantly draws the razor's edge down the Commandant's right cheek.

COMMANDANT:

Starting with the easy bit, eh? Because maybe I might get bored and tell you to stop? Or perhaps your God will intervene? Well, I give you my word as a German officer: I won't get bored, and I won't tell you to stop, and no god is going to save you, now or later.

Ernst starts to cry.

COMMANDANT:

And to think, that barber shop could be waiting for you after the war. If only you could bend your principles enough to swear your allegiance to the Fuhrer. A few words spoken for the good of the Fatherland and we could get you a post guarding a munitions factory on the Ruhr. Tut, tut, tut.

(Pause)

But you don't have much to say for yourself, florist. Don't you want to encourage Ernst to take the greatest care of your beloved Commandant? No? So what are you thinking?

HANS:

I... I wasn't thinking anything, Herr Commandant, Sir.

COMMANDANT:

Well, let me make it easier for you. If anything should happen to me this hour I have left strict instructions that every group in the camp should be severely punished except for those bearing the pink triangle - including you. You have precisely ten seconds to take me seriously.

Ernst completes the right side of the Commandant's face and moves around to start on the left side. He reheats the skin with the towel.

COMMANDANT:

Or maybe I'm just bluffing?

Hans jumps up from his chair and leans across the desk.

HANS:

Cut him, Ernst! What are you waiting for? Cut him up, the slimy ditch slug. Rip the life out of his overfed neck... Ernst! Ernst, can't you hear me? Kill him! Kill him now!

Ernst continues shaving as the Commandant bursts into laughter.

COMMANDANT:

Bravo, Hans! Bravo! You have more guts than this traitor, after all! What a performance! You should be on stage. Bravo!

(Pause)

But if the world's a stage, consider this room a trapdoor. For I really can't let you get away with calling me... What was it? A slimy ditch slug?

Hans's slumps back down into his chair.

COMMANDANT:

My God, Ernst, by now I thought you would be wiping my blood off that razor and begging me for mercy! But then, maybe I shouldn't be so surprised. You are, after all, an Aryan, are you not?

ERNST:

I am German, Herr Commandant. As were my parents, and my grandparents before them.

COMMANDANT:

Ah, you see? A true Aryan because your body is unpolluted by foreign blood. And Hans, you too are a pure blood German?

(Pause)

Answer now, if you value your life.

HANS:

N-No. My great-grandmother was Hungarian, Herr Commandant.

COMMANDANT:

A Slav? Well, don't forget the Hungarians are on our side though you'd never guess it by their showing against the Red Army. So, you see, you really are both Aryans at heart... If only you could give up your corrupt attitudes and practices the Reich would welcome you back with open arms.

Ernst's razor catches on stubble and he pauses momentarily.

COMMANDANT:

Oh, the barber is getting tense now! The end is in sight and his nerves are faltering. Did you think you would make it this far?

ERNST:

No, Herr Commandant.

COMMANDANT:

Then you should have more faith in yourself. For what else is religion but a substitute for personal faith? Eh? The triumph of the will is the only true immortality.

ERNST:

Yes, Herr Commandant.

COMMANDANT:

Huh! But you don't believe that, do you, traitor!

(Pause)

ERNST:

I...

COMMANDANT:

And what will become of me?

ERNST:

Only the chosen...

COMMANDANT:

Ha! You should have worked for our Propaganda Office, Ernst.

(Pause)

But wait! Can't you hear that?

Ernst pauses. We hear distant dogs barking. Ernst starts crying again.

COMMANDANT:

They're getting hungry, Ernst. Better not slip up now.

ERNST:

Please... Herr Commandant.

COMMANDANT:

So near and yet so far, as the English say. One extra ounce of pressure here, one unexpectedly stubborn hair there and...

ERNST:

Please stop this, Herr Commandant.

COMMANDANT:

But you must be strong, Ernst. You are an Aryan, part of the master race. Just as the Wehrmacht cannot be defeated on the battlefield, so a resolute Germanic mind can never be broken. Reach inside yourself. Discover your latent Teutonic ancestry. It is not God who guides your fingers but the power of the Will!

ERNST:

Please... I...

COMMANDANT:

What? Are you not Aryan after all? How has your past betrayed you? A Jewish aunt, perhaps, or a cousin with gypsy lovers? Was your brother mentally retarded, or an epileptic perhaps? Talk to me, Ernst Fischer. I want to help you, to save you!

ERNST:

No... No, Herr Commandant. I am as German as you are!

COMMANDANT:

Lies! Lies! Lies! If you were you would have a gun in your hand and an iron cross around your neck. You are a coward, a traitor, a... What was that expression again, Hans? A slimy ditch slug!

ERNST:

No. I mean yes...

(Pause)

COMMANDANT:

What would you say, Ernst, if I told you I knew what happened to your wife?

Ernst turns his attention to the difficult area of chin and upper lip.

– your pregnant wife?

Ernst stops shaving.

ERNST:

Pregnant?

COMMANDANT:

You didn't know? But then how could you, so far from home?

ERNST:

I don't believe you.

COMMANDANT:

She tried to conceal the fact in the camp as best she could, of course, but Nature eventually betrayed her.

(Pause)

The skin grows cold, Ernst.

Ernst starts his shaving again.

COMMANDANT:

Do you know what they did when they found out?

ERNST:

If it's true – if you know this: tell me, what is my wife's name?

COMMANDANT:

They threw her into the middle of the exercise yard, stripped her bare and...

ERNST:

Her name...

COMMANDANT:

And then let the dogs loose on her.

ERNST:

What was her name?

COMMANDANT:

Such nobility in the way she tried to protect your unborn child. She even let the dogs eat her face before she would take her arms from around her waist.

ERNST:

Please. Tell me her name!

COMMANDANT:

But as a father, as a man, you must want to know the sex of the child, no? Didn't you want a boy who one day would crusade heroically in the lands of the East?

ERNST:

Please...

Ernst's hand stiffens. The Commandant closes his eyes.

HANS:

Ernst!

Ernst finally removes the last patch of stubble. He towels the Commandant's face, and then drops the razor back onto the desk.

COMMANDANT:

Coward!

(Pause)

But I was only kidding. By the time the dogs had finished, no one could tell what sex the child was. Now sit, Ernst Fischer.

Ernst slumps back into his chair, head bowed.

COMMANDANT:

Don't be disheartened, Ernst. Your skills have impressed me, and you've won a prize. Here.

The Commandant retrieves a small square block of soap from his desk drawer and tosses it into Ernst's lap.

COMMANDANT:

I know. I know. You can't believe your luck! Well, one of you could be laying in a hot bath this time tomorrow. War or no war.

The Commandant sighs.

COMMANDANT:

Such luxuries are always the first casualty in the fight for decency and culture. To fight with animals one has to some extent to live like them, no? He stoops to conquer, as the English say. That is the Aryan dream that has inspired a generation! Or most of it...

(LONG PAUSE)

The other night I dreamt about a small boy. It must have been a few years before the last war, summertime. The sun was high and Nature was busy wherever you turned: birds in every tree, bees around every flower, a cart horse, a herd of cows lowing unseen from a leafy shade - the horizon torn by mountains, air fresh like a mother's milk. There were crystal streams and waterfalls; so much virgin land to explore... How old was that boy? Eleven, twelve? He was fit! He was strong! He was... alone.

(Pause)

Bavaria – a fresh start. He was big for his age, well-built but ungainly with a broad Saxony accent, the voice of a farmer's son. The other children picked on him, played tricks on him. It is human nature for the strong to test... But he was not weak. He fought hard in the playground. At length he earned their respect and became a leader, a figurehead. Ah, yes! He would have made his father proud!

(Pause)

COMMANDANT:

So you see, boys, I appreciate what it must be like to be an outsider, a stranger among potential friends. The boy in the dream faced a choice: stand up to the challenges set by circumstance or join the ranks of those unworthy of life. You will not survive this camp; you may not even survive this winter – unless you are strong, and to be strong you must surrender your delusions and join us in our national struggle! What do you say, boys?

(Pause)

Ernst? Hans?

HANS:

No, Herr Commandant.

ERNST:

No, Herr Commandant.

(LONG PAUSE)

COMMANDANT:

No! Have you lost your reason? Do you think you can defy us indefinitely? It is your destiny to heed our nation's calling. But I will help to save you from the poisons that have infected your spirit... Just as that small boy in Bavaria was saved!

The Commandant walks across stage to stand directly behind Hans. He puts his hands on the detainee's shoulders and squeezes.

COMMANDANT:

Hans here knows only too well how determined I can be in matters of discipline. Isn't that right, Hans? Tell me, Ernst, do you know why Hans here speaks with that terrible lisp?

ERNST:

No, Herr Commandant.

COMMANDANT:

Do you think he was born that way? That he has a – what does Mengele call it? - a hereditary defect?

Hans shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

COMMANDANT:

You see, Hans doesn't like me. Do you, Hans?

(Pause)

He hasn't liked me from the day I got here. And I'm sure he's not alone. But Hans' big mistake was to tell other people how much he disliked me. Isn't that right, Hans?

(Pause)

Answer me, Hans.

HANS:

Y-Yes, Herr Commandant.

COMMANDANT:

How did you describe me? Answer!

HANS:

I... I can't remember, Herr Commandant.

COMMANDANT:

Then let me remind you for the benefit of Ernst. You called me 'two-faced'. Isn't that right?

Hans starts to shake. The Commandant tightens his grip.

COMMANDANT:

And what happened when I found out, Hans?

HANS:

You-You said...

COMMANDANT:

Go on.

HANS:

You said I was mistaken... That it was I who was two-faced.

COMMANDANT:

And I was right, too, wasn't I, Hans? Show him. Now.

The Commandant puts his hand on the top of Hans' head and twists it side wards. Ernst opens his mouth wide, showing white teeth on only one side. ('Missing' teeth will be blackened over in make-up.)

Don't feel too sorry for him, Ernst, it only took a couple of minutes for the guards to kick them out. And he really did have a lot of tooth decay on that side already! I think it must be the food here.

The Commandant laughs and returns to his desk, where he refills his tumbler.

COMMANDANT:

But that's nothing compared with what you have to do to get out of here. Is it, mien pretty pansy?

The Commandant swallows his drink but remains standing.

COMMANDANT:

Ernst. I asked you earlier about your views on homosexuality. Would you care to elaborate?

ERNST:

It is....

COMMANDANT:

Forbidden, yes. We've established that much. But what should be done about these people? What is the solution?

ERNST:

They should desist.

COMMANDANT:

Desist, yes. And get married to a fair German maiden?

ERNST:

It is natural for a man to seek a wife, to start a family.

COMMANDANT:

Good! The natural order. Yes! See how the Aryan in you is flourishing already. But if he can't get it up, what then?

ERNST:

Then... he should live alone, embrace celibacy, resist sinful practices. That is God's will.

COMMANDANT:

And the will also of the saviour of the Reich! Good! And then he can go to your Heaven, yes?

ERNST:

Only the chosen few...

COMMANDANT:

So already it is too late for him! There can be no salvation. Did you hear that, Hans? You are buggered, it would seem. Ha! So what is his motivation to stop, Ernst, if there is no hope of redemption? You're not selling this to him very well, I have to say.

ERNST:

In Ezekiel 18:4 it is written that "the soul that sins, it shall die"

COMMANDANT:

Then he can never go to Heaven?

Ernst glances over at Hans.

ERNST:

No, Herr Commandant. But there is still hope for him.

COMMANDANT:

How so?

ERNST:

Only the chosen may reside in Heaven, but the faithful may still attain everlasting life here on Earth.

COMMANDANT:

An Earthly Paradise!

ERNST:

That's right, Herr Commandant.

COMMANDANT:

But that is what we believe, Ernst. By purging the Earth of racially inferior beings, political criminals, the handicapped, the morally corrupt, etc., we will have created a Heaven on Earth for the Master Race: the paradise of a Greater Reich!

ERNST:

I don't think it's quite...

COMMANDANT:

But you would agree we have more in common than not, surely?

(Pause)

Don't we both, in our own ways, strive for purity, decency and a cleaner world for our families to live in? The creed of National Socialism is aligned to that of your fellow Witnesses. We should be allies not enemies.

ERNST:

We have only ever strived for our right to believe what we have believed in for generations.

COMMANDANT:

Exactly! Purity, decency, cleanliness - can't you see?

(Pause)

So how about it, Hans? You've seen what Ernst and I believe in. Will you desist from your filthy degenerate practices for a place in an Earthly Paradise? Guarding that factory on the Ruhr will be a doddle.

Hans shakes his head. The Commandant walks across the stage to stand directly in front of Hans.

COMMANDANT:

I ask again, will you stop your degenerate practices?

HANS:

I am what I am. There is no choice involved.

COMMANDANT:

But you know that's not true. The Third Reich is offering you a very real choice: a simple operation performed gratis by doctors who could be treating the wounded on the Eastern Front! And yet you turn your nose up at it! You could walk free from here, be liberated from this disease you have, and all it takes is...

HANS:

Never! Not for your paradise or his.

The Commandant clenches his fists behind his back but turns away.

COMMANDANT:

I'm disappointed, Hans. Do you even believe in God?

HANS:

After living here for so many years how can one believe in anything but corruption, filth and cruelty?

COMMANDANT:

You see, Ernst? You see? How his soul cries out for someone righteous to save it. Why do you look at me that way, Hans? Perhaps what you really want to tell me is to go to Hell?

HANS:

Why, when you're already in charge there? If that's not too honest for you...

COMMANDANT:

Ho-ho, did you hear that, Ernst? A blasphemer and a comedian in one. What will become of him?

ERNST:

The soul that sins, it shall die.

COMMANDANT:

And go to Hell, Hans? With me? Ha!

ERNST:

There is no such thing as Hell, Herr Commandant. There is only death or salvation.

COMMANDANT:

The very same philosophy as the Third Reich, Ernst; the very same! Can't you see that we are part of the same brotherhood?

ERNST:

No, Herr Commandant.

COMMANDANT:

No? No! What is this no?

ERNST:

You are neither my enemy nor my brother. You are no one.

COMMANDANT:

Do you realise I could have you shot?

ERNST:

Death is a doorway. It is the chosen who hold the keys.

COMMANDANT:

So I will die with this rat, is that what you're saying? You put me in the same category as this filthy arse bandit?

ERNST:

Maybe that is the meaning of your dream.

The Commandant slams his fists down on the desk top.

COMMANDANT:

Liar! Traitor. Your Jehovah cult is in league with International Jewry. Do you think we don't know that? How else could you finance your pamphlets and meetings? You are fifth columnists, November Criminals! That is why you refuse to swear your allegiance to the Fatherland!

ERNST:

There is no Fatherland, only Heaven and Earth. And sinners shall inherit neither.

COMMANDANT:

Then prove it, Judas! Let's put your beliefs to the test and see what kind of believer you really are. Both of you, stand up! Yes, now! Stand! Stand!

Both detainees get up.

COMMANDANT:

Hans, drop your trousers! That's right! Do it! Now!

Hans clutches his trousers in two fists and shakes his head.

COMMANDANT:

Take those trousers down, queer! Unless you want me to throw kerosene and a match on them with you still inside.

Hans obeys. The Commandant points at his manhood and laughs scornfully.

COMMANDANT:

My God, I've seen healthier turkeys!

HANS:

Please...

COMMANDANT:

Ernst, this is your big opportunity. Do this and I'll take it as a sign of your loyalty to the Reich. You and Hans can go free both of you, this minute, today.

ERNST:

I don't understand...

COMMANDANT:

Your razor, pick it up. Show me your loyalty, your subservience to the will of the volk. Save the queer and set yourself free... forever! Pick it up, Ernst. That's an order.

Ernst picks up the razor.

ERNST:

You want me to take his life?

COMMANDANT:

There is only one way a man with a pink triangle can leave a place like this alive, Ernst, and we both know what it is. Time for a little pruning, florist!

Hans instinctively covers his genitals with both hands.

HANS:

No, Herr Commandant. Not that! Not that!

The Commandant pulls out his revolver and points it at Hans.

COMMANDANT:

Get those hands up! Ernst, what are you waiting for? You won't kill him. I'll give him morphine afterwards, I swear. One flick of the wrist and it is all over for both of you.

HANS:

Please... I beg you!

COMMANDANT:

About your wife, Ernst. She was pregnant. Both she and the child survived. I could put you in my staff car right now and by dawn you could be with her, holding her, holding your new child. A family man reunited with his family. Don't you want that? Don't you _need_ that?

Ernst stands in front of Hans and slowly extends the hand holding the razor towards the latter's groin.

COMMANDANT:

I bet you could take them off before he has time to blink. It's what he wants, deep down. And you want it too, don't you, Ernst? You and your God Jehovah want to save him from the weakness in his flesh.

HANS:

Ernst, look at me. Don't listen to him. For the love of God, don't do it!

COMMANDANT:

A God he claims not to believe in. Ha!

HANS:

Have mercy on me!

ERNST:

My family is innocent. If they are truly still alive... then I must.

HANS:

Forgive me! Forgive...

ERNST:

Hans... I need to see my family again.

COMMANDANT:

And you will see them, Ernst Fischer: as a true German, welcomed back into your rightful brotherhood. That is your right!

Ernst's razor touches Hans' scrotum. Hans urinates on the floor.

Do it, Ernst! As a father and for the Fatherland! Oh, do it now!

_Ernst tenses his outstretched arm, closing his eyes._ _The Commandant stands, thrusting his hips against the edge of the desk._

Yes! Yes! Yes!

ERNST:

I must see them again, Hans. I _must_! It is my right as a man!

A high-pitched scream from Hans reverberates through the darkened theatre.

CURTAINS

## ACT TWO

The sound of a vintage cinema projector heralds the beginning of this filmed act.

It is mid-May, 1954 on Blackpool's Golden Mile, inside the establishment of fortune-teller, The Gypsy Queen. There is a large table centre stage covered with a thick red cloth, with a chair placed either side, left and right. The Gypsy Queen wears a brightly coloured skirt and shawl, whilst the customer wears a tatty grey suit. The scene opens mid-conversation.

The sound of the projector slowly ebbs away.

GYPSY QUEEN:

This is not your first time, I think?

**ALAN** **TURING:**

No. I had a reading when I was very small.

GYPSY QUEEN:

And what were you told?

TURING:

That I would be successful.

GYPSY QUEEN:

And were you?

TURING:

In my own field, yes. I suppose so.

(Pause)

So how does this work? Do you use a crystal ball?

GYPSY QUEEN:

Crystal balls are for tourists. You are... more serious, I think.

TURING:

Yes, I suppose it has been a serious life.

(Pause)

GYPSY QUEEN:

So for you I will read the palm. Please give me your right hand.

TURING:

How do you know I'm right handed?

The Gypsy Queen smiles and Turing extends his arm across the table.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Before we start, though, I must ask you again: won't you take off your...

TURING:

No.

(Pause)

I'd prefer to keep it on, if it's all the same.

GYPSY QUEEN:

As you wish. I was only...

TURING:

I'll be quite comfortable with it on. Thank you.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Please, try to relax.

Turing takes a deep breath; then exhales slowly.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Are you always so tense?

TURING:

I've had a lot on my mind recently.

GYPSY QUEEN:

As we shall see.

(Pause)

Very well. Let us begin.

The Gypsy Queen studies Turing's hand.

GYPSY QUEEN:

You are too modest. Your talents are quite unique.

TURING:

So I've been told.

GYPSY QUEEN:

I see... numbers, yes?

TURING:

Indeed. I work primarily with numbers.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Oh, I see your modesty is a habit. But not a dangerous one.

TURING:

No.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Unlike honesty.

TURING:

I've always assumed the two are very much kissing cousins.

GYPSY QUEEN:

So long as it's only kissing.

TURING:

Or only kissing goodbye.

(Pause)

GYPSY QUEEN:

But the numbers I see...

TURING:

A universe of numbers.

GYPSY QUEEN:

How can any mind attempt such infinite calculations?

TURING:

I had to build one especially for the task.

GYPSY QUEEN:

A mechanical mind?

TURING:

A thinking machine.

GYPSY QUEEN:

And not just the one.

TURING:

There were prototypes.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Can the world have any idea how significant this is?

TURING:

I'm equally as impressed that you can see so much in one patch of skin.

GYPSY QUEEN:

I can't. It's not the palm I'm reading now.

(Pause)

Tell me the truth about numbers.

TURING:

Very well. I _think_ in numbers. I live for and in a world of numbers. When the world doesn't add up numbers are sometimes all I have to fall back on.

GYPSY QUEEN:

But if your problems multiply?

TURING:

Every problem can be reduced to an equation.

GYPSY QUEEN:

_Every_ problem?

TURING:

All that is required is the correct formula.

GYPSY QUEEN:

You're a school teacher perhaps?

TURING:

I suppose you could call me a specialist of sorts.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Oh, so much more than a specialist, I think. They don't give someone a medal like that just for being a specialist. 'For God and the Empire.' Isn't that the inscription?

TURING:

I don't believe in God and even if I did I'm not sure he'd approve.

(Pause)

Can you believe they sent it to me by post? Apparently the King was ill.

GYPSY QUEEN:

But you don't believe it?

TURING:

Only angels don't get sick.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Or demons.

TURING:

If they didn't approve... Well, I wouldn't have got it at all.

GYPSY QUEEN:

But they didn't make you a Professor?

TURING:

No. But that was later. After the arrest.

GYPSY QUEEN:

But you were a pioneer, a genius sought after the world over?

TURING:

That's overstating it a little...

GYPSY QUEEN:

Is it?

TURING:

I worked in the States for a few years...

GYPSY QUEEN:

You're changing the subject.

TURING:

I worked _with numbers_ in the States for a few years.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Only a man of rare talent could understand the numbers I see.

TURING:

Your predecessor said much the same thing.

GYPSY QUEEN:

She was right, though, wasn't she?

TURING:

I've always believed there is more to the mind than electro-chemical impulses.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Your life in science has not answered all of life's questions?

TURING:

There's always a formula – but sometimes the terms are different to define, that's all.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Intuition.

TURING:

I see things – problems and their solutions – like pictures.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Is that not the essence of genius?

(Pause)

You find inspiration when... you're running?

TURING:

I don't run so much these days.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Because of what they...

TURING:

Sometimes it's like I'm in a dark room full of other scientists. I feel them stumbling about, frustrated. And then the light comes on in my head and there's the answer staring me in the face.

(Pause)

But the room in my head is always empty.

GYPSY QUEEN:

A falling star...

TURING:

Sometimes it feels like the whole universe is in my head.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Or you're a madman staring up at a full moon.

TURING:

My colleagues don't respect me anymore. It's as if they ignore what I've found because it's me that's found it. They don't like to be outdone, especially now they know I'm a...

GYPSY QUEEN:

Perhaps they are jealous?

TURING:

No. It seems more personal than that.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Because you are not like other men?

(Pause)

TURING:

I suppose that's one way of putting it.

(Pause)

I _am_ different. There's no denying that. But it bothers them far more than it bothers me. You'd think they had better things to think about – I certainly have. So many things...

GYPSY QUEEN:

Are you still successful?

TURING:

Now that the war is over this country faces new dangers, I've been pushed out. I'm a security threat. Can you believe it? It's a matter of principle, expediency. I don't... Politics: it's not really my cup of tea, you see.

GYPSY QUEEN:

The milk's gone sour.

TURING:

And it's right what you said about honesty – it's cost me dearly.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Genius is not enough for them?

TURING:

If what happened with Arnold...

(Pause)

If what happened recently had happened during the war, I really think they might have done exactly the same thing then. You can't imagine the consequences of that. To the war effort, I mean. I try not to think about it.

(Pause)

GYPSY QUEEN:

But you are still working?

TURING:

Yes. Things could be worse, I suppose, though I tend to work at home a lot. It's a kind of exile.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Keeps the wolves from the door...for now.

TURING:

I'd be unrealistic to expect more.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Because of this 'Arnold'?

TURING:

You must have heard. It was all over the papers.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Now it's all over you.

TURING:

I had problems; personal problems. You know what I'm alluding to. I have the utmost confidence in you.

The Gypsy Queen reaches out with her free hand and squeezes Turing's.

Anyway, I got myself in a spot of bother with the law, though I still don't really understand what all the fuss was about.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Back in that dark room again?

TURING:

Like I said, it's taken its toll.

GYPSY QUEEN:

There are scars?

TURING:

Yes... I suppose you could describe them as such. A few years back I was a fit, able-bodied young man. Now...

GYPSY QUEEN:

You're a man who can't take his jacket off?

Turing looks up abruptly and starts to withdraw his hand. But the Gypsy Queen gasps it tightly in both of hers.

GYPSY QUEEN:

I can see everything, _Doctor_.

_The_ _Gypsy Queen releases Turing's hand, but he does not try to remove it._

GYPSY QUEEN:

The truth doesn't frighten you?

TURING:

Would I have come otherwise?

GYPSY QUEEN:

Does a flame draw the moth?

TURING:

I may as well get my money's worth.

GYPSY QUEEN:

But joking aside?

(Pause)

Alan.

TURING:

Joking aside, if you have a passion for questions you have to uphold a love of the answers, too.

(Pause)

You remembered my name from the papers?

GYPSY QUEEN:

I didn't need to.

TURING:

Then it's very impressive.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Everyone has an aura. I saw yours before you'd even walked through the door.

TURING:

Maybe you should work for the Secret Service.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Do you ever feel like you're being watched?

TURING:

Not recently. But I probably am. Why?

GYPSY QUEEN:

I see _everything_ , Alan.

(Pause)

TURING:

Is it who I think it is?

GYPSY QUEEN:

The same people who make it hard for you to take off your jacket? Of course.

TURING:

My 'poor sweeties', I call them. They're watching me every day, like before?

GYPSY QUEEN:

No. But next year, next month, tomorrow...

TURING:

I had hoped that after... After what happened last time...

GYPSY QUEEN:

For a certain type of man, it can never be 'over'. In a certain room the lights never come on.

TURING:

I'm convinced they followed me to Norway. I was on holiday.

GYPSY QUEEN:

In a dancing club frequented by men only.

TURING:

Is dancing against the law now, too?

GYPSY QUEEN:

Discretion is not one of your strongest qualities, is it?

TURING:

I've had to be strong in other ways.

(Pause)

You'd think after all I did for this country during the war...

GYPSY QUEEN:

Ah, yes. The great man of numbers solves the unbreakable code. Not even Churchill could have delivered that golden egg.

TURING:

It wasn't just some academic challenge, you know. What we did at Bletchley Park saved real lives, advanced the Allied cause by years. If that war had gone on another six months my German counterparts could have tipped the outcome on its head: fighters with jet engines, tanks impervious to all our artillery, missiles that could level a whole city.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Ah, another type of fortune telling.

TURING:

I helped stop all that. And my reward...

GYPSY QUEEN:

Is what's hidden under that jacket.

TURING:

Please. Don't make fun of me.

GYPSY QUEEN:

It is the weight of your private life that hangs heaviest around your neck. Your integrity is a noose; your stubbornness the gallows.

TURING:

What business is it of anyone else what I do with other adults?

The Gypsy Queen looks away, drawing one hand back across the table.

TURING:

What?

GYPSY QUEEN:

You are not the first person to say that to me.

TURING:

You must have conducted readings for others like me. It stands to reason.

GYPSY QUEEN:

It was not during a reading.

The Gypsy Queen stares down intently into Turing's palm.

GYPSY QUEEN:

No matter. It is your future we are here to see. What is it you want to know most of all?

TURING:

I'm surprised you need to ask.

GYPSY QUEEN:

You are a particular type of man, are you not? Living in a particular life in a particular type of world? In a particular age?

TURING:

Yes, though what they forced me to go through makes it hard to be any kind of man at all.

GYPSY QUEEN:

You won't stop. Why should they?

TURING:

Hasn't all that slaughter ten years ago changed anything?

GYPSY QUEEN:

The stakes and the players maybe, perhaps even the game itself – but not the rules. It's not just science that has laws.

(Pause)

When did you last have a bath?

TURING:

Excuse me?

GYPSY QUEEN:

A bath. When you looked down at yourself didn't your naked body provide better answers than the words of an old gypsy?

Turing closes his eyes and lowers his head, hitching in a loud breath.

TURING:

It isn't always about sex. Sometimes it's just about being held. Another man's skin can be as natural as one's own.

GYPSY QUEEN:

You were born that way? Like the way you see numbers?

TURING:

It was a shock at first. There was a boy at school called Christopher...

GYPSY QUEEN:

Your first love.

Turing shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

TURING:

If I can accept it why can't they? It's not as though I'm asking them to join in.

GYPSY QUEEN:

No. They're demanding you join in with them.

TURING:

You know the Nazis used to incarcerate theirs in the concentration camps, along with the Jews and the communists... and the gypsies.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Ah, yes. My brother-in-law helped liberate Belsen. But do you know what happened to them – these 'men' - after liberation?

TURING:

At least it wasn't the Ruskies that got there first.

GYPSY QUEEN:

And you really think that makes a difference?

TURING:

Well it should do.

GYPSY QUEEN:

When the British liberated the camps everyone that survived was free at last. They could barely stand let alone walk. It took years for them to recover physically, decades psychologically. But at least they had their freedom... except those incarcerated for sodomy and buggery. They were merely transferred to conventional peacetime prisons, as sexual criminals.

TURING:

For how long?

GYPSY QUEEN:

For some, longer than those convicted of their maltreatment.

TURING:

My God!

GYPSY QUEEN:

There were no cozy day trips to the seaside for those men.

TURING:

I should be grateful? Is that what you're implying?

GYPSY QUEEN:

No. I'm saying you should watch your back. Constantly. And in the coming months more so than ever.

TURING:

All those years working in secret. The hours poring over intercepted U-boat transmissions. Is this the deliverance I struggled for?

GYPSY QUEEN:

At any given moment in history there is always more than one war raging. Yours is one that has been waged for as long as history itself.

TURING:

Then tell me this. Will I ever find peace?

GYPSY QUEEN:

Only through the vigilance of discretion.

TURING:

Well whatever they have planned next it cannot be any worse than the hormone therapy, believe me.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Science never sleeps. You of all people should know that.

TURING:

What do you mean?

GYPSY QUEEN:

Even now there are biochemists chasing the dream of a final solution to the problem that men like you present.

TURING:

A cure? But I'm not ill!

GYPSY QUEEN:

Men have made maladies in the laboratories of their imaginations. You may think yourself well, but to them you will always be sick.

TURING:

My liaisons have always been behind closed doors. Why must they always pursue?

GYPSY QUEEN:

You're wasting your breath.

TURING:

Then it should be my last.

GYPSY QUEEN:

I've experienced their condemnation at first hand. There will be no mercy.

(Pause)

TURING:

Did you... know someone...?

The Gypsy Queen writhes in inner turmoil.

GYPSY QUEEN:

It was not what he wanted! He was a good boy, do you hear?

(Pause)

Even the judge said he had been led astray. But that didn't keep him out of jail; didn't keep the label of depravity off his neck.

TURING:

That's where I was heading if I had declined their treatment.

(Pause)

I considered it the easier option at the time.

GYPSY QUEEN:

There can be no easy options for men like you!

TURING:

You seem...

GYPSY QUEEN:

Angry?

TURING:

At me?

GYPSY QUEEN:

At your kind.

TURING:

But you said the boy...

GYPSY QUEEN:

Was led astray.

TURING:

By someone like...

GYPSY QUEEN:

The young are so easily misguided.

TURING:

Then you _agree_ with them; with what they did to me?

Both characters turn their heads to face the audience.

GYPSY QUEEN:

They beat that poor boy practically every day.

TURING:

There was nowhere to run; no kindly soul I could turn to.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Even the prison chaplain turned his back on him - a man of God devoid of pity.

TURING:

I was shunned.

GYPSY QUEEN:

They stole his possessions, put things – disgusting things - in his food.

(Pause)

Put things... in him.

The characters return their attention to each other.

TURING:

But his sentence had an end! He got through it, didn't he? These will never go away!

Turing removes his jacket revealing two pronounced swellings under his shirt.

GYPSY QUEEN:

But at least you're alive, aren't you!

The Gypsy Queen attempts to remove her hand from Turing's, but he will not let it free, maintaining the physical bond through force.

GYPSY QUEEN:

They killed my boy! He got tired of the beatings and started to fight back. The prison wardens just stood by and watched as they kicked his head around the shower like a football! They murdered him for his defiance, just as they'll murder you for yours unless you hide your love away.

TURING:

Your boy?

GYPSY QUEEN:

My only son.

TURING:

My God. When was this?

GYPSY QUEEN:

Five years ago... five years ago this Christmas.

TURING:

You mean, _after_ the war? In _this_ country? After we wrestled the forces of darkness into submission? Just for being...

GYPSY QUEEN:

But he wasn't! Can't you understand? He was led astray by an older man, a pervert, a depraved predator of the innocent and the generous in spirit. My boy was naïve, gullible... but he was never... one of _you_!

TURING:

And that's why you... hate me? Because you can't face the possibility that perhaps your son was...

GYPSY QUEEN:

No! Never! Never, I tell you!

Their physical struggle looks almost like arm wrestling.

TURING:

But he was still your flesh and blood. Could you really have turned your back on him for being...?

GYPSY QUEEN:

He was pure of spirit, I tell you! A joy and a blessing for any mother. One day he would have met the right girl and today I would have grandchildren to look forward to instead of gin. He was an innocent child mesmerized by a fiend. And what about you, Mr. Code-breaker, how old was your youngest lover, hey? Twenty-five? Twenty? Don't you realise he too had a mother, a life, a future? My son was just nineteen years old when that old bastard wormed his way into his soul and within a year I'd buried him.

TURING:

I'm so sorry. Truly I am...

GYPSY QUEEN:

Nineteen! Exactly the same age as your boy Arnold! Pervert! Beast! That is why I hate you!

TURING:

This isn't what I came here for...

Turing tries to get up. Now it is the Gypsy Queen who clings to his hand.

GYPSY QUEEN:

You want to know your future? It's all here, right here!

The Gypsy Queen rakes her nails up and down Turing's palm.

TURING:

Let go! You're hurting me!

GYPSY QUEEN:

They will never stop chasing you. I have seen! Next year they'll catch you and haul you back to court. They'll offer you prison again or a new treatment regime. But this time it will beaten times worse. Two years of headaches and nausea and fatigue, incontinence and nightmares, joint pain and cramps. And do you know the best part? They know it won't work! It's a punishment, pure and simple. And do you know what else? Creatures like you deserve it! Corrupter of the innocents, robber of sons! I curse you! Do you hear? By all that is holy and righteous, I curse you!

TURING:

Bigotry killed your son; bigotry and avarice and maliciousness killed him! Prejudice and ignorance killed him, not his lover!

GYPSY QUEEN:

No! My son's killer has a name and a face, and that face is yours and whatever name you hide behind!

(Pause)

There is no peace for monsters like you. Death can be your only sanctuary. We will never let you escape justice. My son's life was not lost in vain. You are the turd I shovel from his grave.

Turing pulls his hand free and stands, knocking his chair over.

TURING:

I too have seen the future. Seen it and helped fashion the materials with which it will be built. One day my thinking machines will populate every house and factory and school throughout the world. Though my flesh may perish it is in the nature of the spirit to survive. And my survival will be verified every time a switch is thrown open or a signal transmitted. As my bones become casings and my nerves circuits so my spirit will reign eternal. That will be my legacy. What will be yours?

GYPSY QUEEN:

(WAILING) You! Killed! My! Son!

TURING:

I'm telling you society killed your son! And societies can change. Why won't you accept that?

(The Gypsy Queen turns to the audience.)

GYPSY QUEEN:

Because we are society!

Turing stares down at the fortune teller, defiant but horrified; then heads for the exit. The Gypsy Queen screams soundlessly.

GYPSY QUEEN:

One last thing, Alan Turing.

Turing pauses at the door.

GYPSY QUEEN:

Make sure that jacket is done up tight.

(Pause)

It's going to turn cold out there.

Brief return of the sound of the vintage film projector, then:

Turing leaves the Gypsy's tent. The Gypsy Queen buries her head on the table and sobs. Turing then emerges from the wings, shivering with his arms tightly crossed about his chest and makes his way up the stairs, through the audience and out of the auditorium at the top. Film cuts abruptly, leaving darkness and silence.

CURTAINS

## ACT THREE

_From the darkened stage comes the sound of sobb ing. The stage lighting slowly reveals Hans Fresson curled fetus-like on the floor, whimpering softly. Ernst Fischer is crouched by his side. He starts to reach out to touch Hans but is unable to let himself make physical contact with his fellow detainee. The Commandant is not present on the stage. A spotlight suddenly picks out a figure seated on the top step of the isle at the rear of the auditorium._

COMMANDANT:

To be honest, I haven't seen any morphine around here in weeks.

The detainees do not respond.

Just as well you couldn't go through with it, then, Ernst Fischer.

Ernst reaches out again, this time allowing his hand to rest gently on Hans' shoulder. Hans issues a long sorrowful moan, then resumes his plaintive weeping. Ernst removes his hand again.

COMMANDANT:

I thought – I hoped – that one of you at least would have...

Hans curls more tightly into himself. Ernst immediately attempts to pull Hans' arms away from his body. Hans moans in despair.

COMMANDANT:

It seems the power over life and death isn't what it used to be.

With some difficulty Ernst manages to pull Hans around. Hans looks up into Ernst's face and throws himself in his fellow detainee's lap.

COMMANDANT:

Be careful, Ernst Fischer. He might get the wrong idea.

Ernst looks up at the Commandant, who rises and slowly makes his way down through the auditorium towards the stage.

COMMANDANT:

Sometimes when you want something done you need to do it yourself.

The Commandant takes the straight razor from his pocket and opens it. Ernst sees the razor as the Commandant mounts the stage and pulls Hans closer to him protectively. Hans looks too, then whimpers, shaking his head.

ERNST:

If you hate him so much why not just kill him?

COMMANDANT:

Kill him? If that's what I wanted he would be dead already.

ERNST:

Then why are you doing this?

COMMANDANT:

Why!

The Commandant stands hesitantly over the detainees, razor extended. He looks up at the Fuhrer portrait.

COMMANDANT:

Why _am_ I doing this? Won't you remind me please? I used to hang on your every word, but you've been pretty tight-lipped of late. Ha! A demigod crippled by doubt! Where are you hiding now, my Fuhrer? Is there space there for me?

ERNST:

No man can hide from God.

The Commandant turns a fear-stricken face to Ernst.

COMMANDANT:

(TO HIMSELF) Not even a superman?

The Commandant's arm drops to his side and his shoulders slump.

ERNST:

Stop this cruel game.

COMMANDANT:

It is the game of life - the survival of the fittest \- where the strong overcome their fears of bloodthirsty apparatchiks charging through a winter fog!

ERNST:

It's not the winter or the Russians you need to fear.

COMMANDANT:

Then what, Ernst Fischer? What? Challenge me. Test my faith as I have tested yours – if you dare.

The Commandant waves the razor wildly between them, but Ernst holds his gaze defiantly.

ERNST:

When I first came to this camp you shaved every day.

The Commandant again lets his arms fall away slowly, looking suspicious.

COMMANDANT:

Well... Appearances matter. In this line of work one has to...lead by example.

ERNST:

But recently I see that grey stubble more and more...

COMMANDANT:

You, Ernst Fischer, should have been in the Gestapo! You miss nothing. Nothing!

ERNST:

I'm just your barber, Herr Commandant. If I were a tailor I'd notice missing buttons. If I were a cobbler I'd notice the scuffs and stains on your boots. If I were a doctor I would notice the stoop of your shoulders, the palsy in your hands and the bloodspots in your eyes. I see the world through what I am – just like you.

The Commandant slumps down into his chair, tossing the razor down onto the desk top before him. Ernst picks something up off the floor.

ERNST:

This bar of soap you threw me has been in your drawer for months. Your skin was red raw in places. Why, Herr Commandant?

COMMANDANT:

So now _you_ are the inquisitor?

ERNST:

You want to be tested? Then answer me. Why?

COMMANDANT:

To suffer, Ernst Fischer! To feel pain and remind myself what being alive feels like. There! Satisfied?

ERNST:

No. I am not satisfied. There's more. Something you're not telling me. Something... you're afraid to tell me.

COMMANDANT:

An Aryan has no fear. There, the test is passed!

ERNST:

No. You're just telling me what I want to hear - that you're an unfeeling monster deserving only of contempt.

COMMANDANT:

Then you can help me, Ernst Fischer?

ERNST:

No one can help you until you have confessed.

COMMANDANT:

Ha! I think you'll find the Pope is on our side.

ERNST:

Then confess to me.

COMMANDANT:

But I have, I swear. I could eat the dead for supper and pick my teeth clean with their splintered bones and feel nothing.

ERNST:

I will not rest until you tell me. And neither can you. This is your moment of absolution, Herr Commandant. I was _sent_ here...

COMMANDANT:

Sent? To me?

ERNST:

Don't play the innocent. Why else did you seek me out?

The Commandant suddenly picks up the telephone, listening with great concentration before slamming the receiver back down.

COMMANDANT:

Help me... before it's too late!

ERNST:

Tell me your name.

COMMANDANT:

My... I am S.S. Hauptsturmerfuhrer...

ERNST:

No. Your name. Tell me your name!

COMMANDANT:

My name is...

(Pause)

Joseph. Joseph Kramer.

ERNST:

Raised in Bavaria but born further north on a farm.

The Commandant puts his hands over his heart and implores the Fuhrer:

COMMANDANT:

Forgive me, Father. For I have sinned!

The Commandant buries his head in his arms on the desk top and sniggers. He looks about him suspiciously, his eyes darting from one corner of the room to the other. Then he looks pleadingly at Ernst, suddenly serious.

COMMANDANT:

You promise you won't tell?

ERNST:

As God is my witness.

The Commandant puts a fist in his mouth and titters insanely.

COMMANDANT:

If you breathe a word I'll slit your throat.

ERNST:

But the razor is mine, Joseph Kramer. You are the customer. So tell me the truth about shaving.

The Commandant glares at Ernst briefly, then closes his eyes, stifling tears.

COMMANDANT:

I have a mirror...

ERNST:

A shaving mirror.

COMMANDANT:

A gift from home.

ERNST:

An object of great sentimental value. But one you have come to despise.

COMMANDANT:

I take a cloth and drape it over the top half of the mirror...

ERNST:

And then without soap or water...

COMMANDANT:

I scrape and scrape and scrape!

The Commandant mimics the shaving action.

ERNST:

But not so you can 'feel again' – to punish yourself.

COMMANDANT:

I told you, the power over life and death isn't what it used to be.

ERNST:

Absolute power has lost its majesty.

COMMANDANT:

And the cloth...

ERNST:

Is there because you can't bear to look into it and meet the gaze staring back at you.

The Commandant freezes suddenly.

COMMANDANT:

The mirror was a gift from my mother. She gave it to me when I left home.

The Commandant leans back in his chair and wrings his hands together.

COMMANDANT:

Every time I look into that mirror the eyes staring back at me... Those eyes – imploring - streaming with tears.

The Commandant turns away in despair.

COMMANDANT:

I can see her now, busy in the kitchen. He has been working late again. He comes home, tired and irritable. I have my homework out, but I am determined to give it as little effort as possible. Mother puts down his plate before him. He starts eating, silent, brooding. 'Bread!' he growls, and when Mother brings it through he grabs her wrist and twists it until she squeals. As if she is the pig. 'What is _he_ still doing up?' he wants to know. He glares at me, but I am speechless in the face of such animosity from my own flesh and blood.

The Commandant picks up the razor again and studies it intently.

COMMANDANT:

Mother explains about the homework, but he isn't listening. He just sits there staring into my face with a sneer across his lips and his sinewy hand steadily twisting my mother's thin wrist around and around; until Mother stops talking and just screams...

ERNST:

Go on.

COMMANDANT:

She loses her balance; falls backwards onto the table, her elbow in his dinner and still he glares and twists, glares and twists. She starts to beg then, her upturned face wet with tears like a hilltop in a storm, until I can bear it no more and shout at the top of my voice: 'For God's sake stop!' Just as you did a few moments ago.

ERNST:

What more proof do you need that I was sent?

COMMANDANT:

And do you know what he does next? He lets her go – but not before I hear the sharp crack of bone breaking. 'Go to your room, boy!' he spits, and I know he will never lay a finger on me. Not because of guilt or pity, but because he understands I would prefer that.

(Pause)

Watching my mother in torment was infinitely more hurtful to me that the mere physicality of pain. That's how much he hated me.

ERNST:

You were powerless?

COMMANDANT:

Sometimes I would beat at him with my feeble hands as he dug his nails deep into the soft flesh of her upper arms. But he was so strong. He worked on the land, in the days when no one could afford heavy machinery because of the Depression. We were always struggling and hungry. There seemed no way out for any of us; but at least he held this power over us. It was the one part of his existence impervious to disorder.

ERNST:

That boy in Bavaria?

COMMANDANT:

Took a solemn vow on the crest of a great mountain that he would one day take charge of his life, be the one who held power rather than be its victim. Then the Fuhrer arrived and a door to salvation was opened for him at last.

ERNST:

A surrogate father?

COMMANDANT:

A father figure for the nation! Or so I hoped.

The Commandant again stares up at the portrait.

COMMANDANT:

But in recent years I have found myself watching helplessly as he breaks the bones of our sacred Fatherland.

ERNST:

And you thought that by playing with our lives you could rid yourself of that memory of helplessness?

Hans opens his mouth wide and pulls down his lower lip.

HANS:

And did this to me for that same reason?

COMMANDANT:

The triumph of the Will reigning supreme.

ERNST:

But it's not your will, Herr Commandant. And it never has been.

The Commandant playfully runs his fingertip along the razor's edge, drawing blood. Hans is now totally silent.

COMMANDANT:

You're wasted as a barber, Ernst Fischer. You should have been a psychiatrist like that Jew analyst hiding out in London. All that nonsense about repressed sexual urges in the bosom of the family. Tah! My father showed me the true nature of Man and his place in the natural order of things: dominate or perish.

(TO HIMSELF) But the more command I attained the less control I seemed to have. Have I been praying to the wrong god?

ERNST:

You have discovered the paradox of power. And it's tragedy.

COMMANDANT:

Yes... Yes, I can see the irony...

The Commandant looks up at Ernst slyly.

COMMANDANT:

...and what you're trying to do.

The Commandant stands abruptly, his head held high indignantly. He straightens his tunic and runs a hand through his disheveled hair.

COMMANDANT:

But do you know what else is ironic, my wise barber?

(Pause)

The Russians _are_ coming.

The Commandant starts to titter again.

COMMANDANT:

But not just for me.

The Commandant's tittering becomes more histrionic.

COMMANDANT:

And I don't think they differentiate between Nazis, Jehovah's Witnesses and homosexuals any more than I do between Jews, gypsies and prostitutes.

The Commandant slams his fist down onto the desk.

COMMANDANT:

Did you think you could undermine my resolve, ingratiate yourself on first name terms? Did you think you could trick me into letting you go? The Russians are coming and when they get here we have a readymade system of camps in which to process their carcasses! And it will be your corpse that rots at the very bottom!

ERNST:

I never expected to survive this winter – I seek another kind of salvation.

COMMANDANT:

Then your bunk will become a deathbed for a Cossack or an Asiatic! Yes, I see it all now! Hans was right all along. That is the meaning of my dream! It _is_ the Fuhrer driving me forward to fill a thousand pits with the stinking remains of our vanquished enemies. The feeble peoples of the East, cripples, whores, liberals, intellectuals! On and on, relentlessly cleansing this garbage tip of a continent; until we attain the earthly paradise of a purified Greater Reich!

ERNST:

May God have mercy on your soul.

COMMANDANT:

Save your piety and pity for the _untermeschen_ , the life unworthy of life, Ernst Fischer. You are in the company of the Superman. It is his destiny to ascend, even from the ashes of a scorched earth! Now confess the awe you feel in my presence!

The Commandant dashes around his desk towards the detainees, but as he does so a hangman's noose drops down from the ceiling, baring his way. The Commandant stares at the rope, frozen, but the detainees appear oblivious.

COMMANDANT:

Is this your doing..? But no, how could it be?

The Commandant examines the rope fearfully but does not dare to touch it.

HANS:

W-What's...h-he doing?

ERNST:

Herr Commandant?

HANS:

Oh, God! Is he losing his mind?

Ernst puts a finger to his lips and studies the Commandant's bizarre behavior. The Commandant lurches away abruptly, heading back towards his desk, only for a second noose to drop down into his path. He gasps into the back of his hand, which is held defensively across his mouth. He rounds angrily on the detainees.

COMMANDANT:

You think this is just for me? Hey? You think the Russians will be any the less disgusted by you than we are? Do you think they welcome pansies in Petrograd? And you, Fischer, do you imagine they won't want you to swear allegiance to Comrade Stalin?

ERNST:

Please, Herr Commandant, I can...

COMMANDANT:

Don't say it! Do not say it! I shall not listen.

ERNST:

Then tell me what you see.

The Commandant does a strange little dance in the space between the two hanging ropes and points an accusing finger at the detainees.

COMMANDANT:

I know your game! You seek to wrench my sanity from me!

ERNST:

Herr Commandant – Joseph - what is it that you see?

Ernst gently slides himself away from Hans and slowly stands. The Commandant is instantly agitated.

COMMANDANT:

Get back! That's an order!

The Commandant looks over at his desk. He attempts to move around it from the side opposite from where the second noose dangles, only for a third rope to drop down in his path.

COMMANDANT:

Is it Him? Is this the work of your God Jehovah?

HANS:

If he is losing his mind, Ernst, is that better for us or worse?

ERNST:

Herr Commandant, let me help you. Please tell me what it is you see?

COMMANDANT:

What? You cannot even save yourself, weakling.

ERNST:

It is only the flesh that perishes...

COMMANDANT:

Hah! Pipe-dreams direct from the pamphleteer!

ERNST:

But it's not me that's afraid to die.

HANS:

Or to live, Ernst. Remember that!

Again the Commandant reaches out as if to touch a rope but dare not let his fingers make contact. He issues a tiny terrified cry, like a newborn rat.

COMMANDANT:

Then show me, Ernst, an alternative to the strong overpowering the weak? The philosophy I have built my life upon? I beg you.

ERNST:

The rumours in the camp about typhus are more than idle gossip, Herr Commandant. There is overcrowding, poor sanitation, dwindling food supplies. We were people once, not untermeschen. It was your philosophy that turned us into animals.

HANS:

If I leave this place alive I will forever smell shit and sweat in my nostrils, you bastard.

COMMANDANT:

I did not start this camp, this crusade, this war! I was only a soldier following orders.

ERNST:

At the cost of your own humanity!

HANS:

(WHISPERED) Hanging is too good for him!

COMMANDANT:

You do not fear death – either of you. But neither do you cling to your principles as a drowning man will cling to his shadow amongst the waves. Your values sustain you, so that even if two of these nooses are yours still you will die in peace. Whilst I...

ERNST:

It's not too late!

The Commandant stares up at the ceiling. Ernst gently kicks Hans and nods in the Commandant's direction.

HANS:

Yes... Yes, that's right. There is still time.

ERNST:

You could save hundreds yet, thousands; maybe more.

COMMANDANT:

I... I could get medicines and clothing redirected via Berlin. My word carries a lot of weight in those corridors. No one would question my motives. Food would be much harder to procure, of course... but I have a lot of favours I could pull.

HANS:

We would give evidence at any trial...as witnesses to your empathy...

ERNST:

And your epiphany... Joseph.

COMMANDANT:

Enough to convince them?

ERNST:

Enough to satisfy your own conscience... and bring you peace of mind.

COMMANDANT:

Of course, of course! That's what I meant.

ERNST:

Then there's not a moment to waste!

The three ropes slowly rise back up towards the ceiling. The Commandant covers his mouth with both hands and skips in a circle like a birthday child. The ropes are withdrawn and he runs towards the detainees as if to embrace them, only to stop short and wheel away towards the door, guffawing.

COMMANDANT:

Guards! Guards!

He opens the door and shouts his orders through the threshold.

COMMONDANT:

Call a meeting in the mess hall. Yes, now! I want to speak to everyone. Officers, cooks, medical staff – everyone. There are going to be big changes! A new regime!

The Commandant turns back to stare at the detainees. He tries to speak but cannot. Ernst merely nods, and the Commandant hurries out the door.

COMMANDANT:

Make haste! Make haste! Bring me an inventory of our supplies.

The Commandant darts outside bellowing orders that steadily dwindle away.

Ernst shrugs his shoulders and ambles towards the door. Hans laughs.

HANS:

(TO ERNST, HUSHED) That's it? We are safe?

Ernst averts his gaze. Hans stares at him in astonishment.

He's right, Ernst, you are wasted as a barber! He's finally cracked and we're off the hook. And you pushed him over the edge! What genius! They'll be more to eat, medicine, clothes instead of rags. You have saved us all, Ernst Fischer!

Hans claps his hands in delight.

ERNST:

No.

Hans stills himself. Ernst reaches the open doorway and turns back sadly.

ERNST:

Not all.

HANS:

What...? But he... You said...

Ernst raises his hand and studies it in disgust.

ERNST:

I did what I needed to do... to survive.

In the distance comes the sound of an artillery bombardment. Hans shivers and draws the blanket around his shoulders tightly. Ernst nods solemnly.

ERNST:

My faith is unbroken; the test God set me finally passed.

HANS:

But you lied!

ERNST:

Not to myself. And certainly not to my God.

HANS:

And what about me?

ERNST:

If you cannot change what you are you should live alone, embrace celibacy...

HANS:

But you didn't me that. You were just saying that to trick him.

ERNST:

...even if that means being put in prison for your own good.

HANS:

What... What do you mean?

ERNST:

'The soul that sins it shall die.'

HANS:

No, Ernst. No! You can't mean... You can't leave me here!

Hans shambles towards the door, but a noose made of barbed wire falls in his path, then another and another, until he is completely surrounded by wire nooses. He tries to fight his way through but quickly becomes entangled.

HANS:

It was all part of your trick! You said, 'we were people once.'

The noise of bombardment increases. There is a roaring from overhead.

ERNST:

I'm sorry, Hans Fresson, but your life lies outside God's realm. You were a person once; but it wasn't the camp that turned you into an animal.

Ernst exits, leaving Hans bleeding and crying within his restraints, his arms outstretched in a crucified pose.

The stage darkens and there is the sound of the vintage cinema projector starting up. A film from 2013 on the back wall shows police and soldiers harassing Gay rights activists in Red Square.

Hans starts to whisper a phrase that grows louder each time, his restricted body silhouetted against the screened images:

HANS:

Help me someone! The Russians are coming... The Russians are coming... The Russians are coming...

Hans twists himself round to address the audience.

(SCREAMED) The Russians are coming!

FILM CUTS/LIGHTS OUT

*

**

CURTAINS DOWN

**

*

Hello. I hope you enjoyed reading this collection.

Reviews are crucial for unknown authors like myself to reach a wider audience. If you have a few spare moments, could you please review my book wherever you can.

I hope you can help.

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**_IF_ _LOOKS COULD KILL._**

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IF LOOKS COULD KILL

### About the Author

Gary Kittle is the author of five previous ebooks, three of which are thrillers. He was twice shortlisted for the Essex Book Festival Short Story Competition and his play 'Walking Through Wire' was staged (and filmed) in London in 2014. Many of his shorter screenplays have been filmed by Film Colchester and DT Film Productions. 'Data Protection', written by Gary for Dan Allen Films, was shortlisted for the Sci-fi London 48 Hour Film Competition. He has twice been shortlisted for the 1000 Word Challenge, finishing runner up with 'Kismet'. He was also runner-up in the Storgy Halloween Short Story Competition with 'The Gag Reflex'. He is currently working on another crime thriller. Gary lives and writes in Wivenhoe, Essex, and would love to hear from readers, either via his website at gkittle.com, social media or in the form of a review.

## NEW THRILLER OUT NOW!

Geoff didn't want to kill his wife.

Instead he did something far worse.

### Geoffrey Madeley has a problem. His wife, Claire has a secret hidden on her mobile phone, and the more she tries to hide it from him, the more he thinks he knows what it is. When his worst fears are confirmed, Geoff decides he won't let someone take the love of his life away from him without a fight.

### But all is not as it appears.

### His mother-in-law, Sheila also has a dark secret, a secret she is suddenly keen to share with him. Does Sheila have suspicions about her daughter, too? And if so, can he use what she knows to side-step heartbreak and personal disaster?

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And Available to Buy Now from Popular On-line Retailers Including:

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### Other Books by Gary Kittle:

**BULLY FOR YOU**

NINE LIVES

IF LOOKS COULD KILL

DUMB ANGEL

GLASS ALIBI

**

***

When Chris Haynes is mugged twice by the same attacker, a nightmare begins. What does the mugger want? What does Chris feel so guilty about as a single parent? What relationship does Bradley's friend, Gordon have to the mugger? And what's hidden under the Haynes' summer house? As the stakes run higher, someone stands to lose everything – maybe even their life.

***

***

Nine Lives is my first collection of short stories, written over a decade. Some are tragedies, but there are also satisfying resolutions and moments of humour. Characters include an ex-RAF crewman who took part in the Dresden fire bombing, a conscientious objector forced onto the parade ground, a cross-dresser meeting his estranged father, Hans Asperger and a young Norman Wisdom. For readers who enjoy variety as well as surprises.

***

***

For Don Wallis, Mary is the ideal wife. She does what she's told, when she's told, no matter how extreme the demand. So it's a good thing for them both that Mary isn't human: she's an android sex toy designed to look and sound like Don's missing wife. But the real Mrs Wallis isn't dead, and she still has issues with Don that can only been settled face to face...

This collection contains nine film screenplays.

***

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