Twisted Sex, Murder Art and Videotapes

Twisted Sex, Murder Art and Videotapes

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

A script inspired by the seventies shocker Last House on Dead End Street, this is a rape revenge shocker set in a seedy porno underworld-its an old script hence its pre-digital media setting and quaint use of heritage technologies such as VHS>

Summary

A script inspired by the seventies shocker Last House on Dead End Street, this is a rape revenge shocker set in a seedy porno underworld-its an old script hence its pre-digital media setting and quaint use of heritage technologies such as VHS>

Content

Submitted: July 30, 2013

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: July 30, 2013

A A A

A A A


PRE-CREDITS OPENING

Crude phallic logo floating in a psychedelic sky to pounding beat, SADORAMA PRESENTS. Voiceover plays against black backdrop.

VOICEOVER

(sententious, booming)

Imagine. A million cocks ejaculating synchronically on a million silver screens, spattering a million faces, a million assholes. Imagine. Pimps lock up your hookers, the john from hell is here.

Swift glimpse of carnage, grainy video footage of a young girl brutalised by a corpulent man. Cut to film stock. The camera pans down a deserted city street, neon signs reflected on the wet pavement.

VOICEOVER

Victim of a cunt conspiracy, this is the shape of my rage, this is me.

A withered old lady sits holding a Styrofoam cup outside a fried chicken takeaway. She is swathed in dirty blankets and is accompanied by a wretched cadaverous dog. Shakes the coins in the cup at a suit who self-consciously ignores her. A youngish couple pauses briefly and rustle up a note and loose change between them.

VOICEOVER

I've always felt I'm a victim of internal wiring. Like there's something missing. Bad connections.

A man running to fat, thirtyish, in dated leather jacket and blue denim, takes the cup off the old lady and smiles pleasantly. The old lady holds out a withered hand. The man, Watkins, spits in the cup.

VOICEOVER

Things have got to change. Anyway, I've got my talent.

Cut to video camera POV. Watkins stood in front of a brick wall, on which is daubed in red paint WOMENS CUNTS SMELL smoking a joint absently. He is attempting to project a butch demeanour but merely looks like a petulant adolescent, his face pasty, dilapidated and distinctly porcine. Still, the countenance has a feral, menacing aspect to it, that of thwarted desire rather than lasciviousness.  Jump to scratchy videotape, skeletal girl in a leather mask bound to a wicker chair. A naked, doughy figure, wearing the flayed head of an inflatable woman, is terrorising her, dangling a dead rodent in front of her breasts. The music of Ennio Morricone is dubbed onto the soundtrack.

CREDITS

White credits flash on a black screen. Seedy jazz score dissolves into the rumble of a train; the opening credits end with the metallic screech of a train pulling into the station.

SCENE ONE: TRAIN RIDE

Static camera shot down the aisle of a train carriage lit a sickly yellow, just one tipsy looking office worker clutching a suitcase occupying the seats. The camera wanders into the other carriage. Close up of a pair of dilated, bloodshot eyes, stark and staring. the camera pulls back to reveal the face of a young girl, bleary and smeared with cheap make up. The face is thin and drawn and crowned with a mop of peroxide hair. The camera recedes further. Her head is propped on a fist. She is in a leather jacket, black leggings and T-shirt, stretched on a seat. It is Miss Glitz. Next to her, Watkins, in black overcoat, sits with his head in his hands, clearly the worse for wear. Opposite him is late teens, early twenties male in the usual regalia, stares morosely into the darkness through a window smeared with dirt. He is edgy. The train halts. Office worker disembarks. The metallic grind of the train stopping rouses Steve's travelling companions. Miss Glitz rolls face down; Watkins lifts his head slowly. Though fatigued, his face wears the alertness of the paranoiac. He clocks the carriage.

WATKINS

All out.

Steve is chewing the inside of his mouth nervously. Watkins watches him intently.

WATKINS

What's up?

Steve looks away.

WATKINS

Not been powdering your nose on the sly have you.

STEVE (croakily)

No.

Steve stares out of window again. Watkins looks at him ruefully and swallows his disdain.

WATKINS

How far to go?

STEVE

Junction's next.

Watkins nods. Straightening to his feet he does a go-go wriggle and slumps on his seat.

STEVE (mumbling, shoving a finger in Miss Glitz's direction)

She looks ill.

WATKINS (disinterestedly)

Too much rocks and cocks.

Steve is a little concerned for the girl, a lot for his liberty, but is trying not to show it.

STEVE

Maybe that skag was a mistake.

WATKINS (righteous)

You saw her. Anyway, she'll need it to hold her through the night, can't have her coming off a pipe.

STEVE (increasingly agitated)

All night?

WATKINS

Yeah. I want this guinea pig shipped off in the morning.

STEVE

Hope she's not near her time.

WATKINS

She's hardly unique. Perm one from three.

Watkins squeezes a fleshless thigh. Miss Glitz mumbles and stretches her legs, digging her boots into his side. He grabs her hair and pulls her upright. She is far away. His annoyance evident, he wipes vomit and spittle off her mouth with his sleeve. He draped an arm on her shoulders and pulled her head against his chest, creating the impression of escorting her home.

STEVE

Quite the courting couple.

WATKINS

Fuck off.

STEVE (eager to assuage)

Miss Glitz, where'd she get that from?

Watkins takes out a crumpled page from his pocket culled from a soft porn magazine. The picture is of three girls, blonde, redhead, and brunette in St Trinian's uniform, cheesecake pouts, flesh displayed coquettishly.

WATKINS

Some variety pack, huh.

Watkins taps the middle girl of the inter-linked trio, a plump and pretty brunette and passes it to Steve. He looks at the mag and then at Miss Glitz who has saliva hanging from the corner of her mouth.

STEVE

Jesus, that's her.

WATKINS

No, the brunette.

STEVE

It's a wind up.

Watkins shakes his head. Steve looks again at the glossy and then the girl.

STEVE

This can only be a few years old, at best.

WATKINS (sardonically)

Lifestyle choice. You know how the job market is.

STEVE (slack jawed)

Wha-

WATKINS

Some types go from lingerie to topless, then bacon slice shoots. Mostly users. Don't know if it's work or the play but they end up chasing their own arses.

 

STEVE (gesturing at paper)

You seen the film?

WATKINS (inscrutable)

Don't get excited, she's not in it. It's just repackaged seventies soft porn.

Steve is intently scrutinising the glossy.

WATKINS (lasciviously)

Thinking it wouldn't be such a chore if she were still in her pomp.

Watkins' eyes narrow, his aspect is disconcerting. Steve bites his lip nervously.

WATKINS

I don't blame you for being wary. Bucket of Starbright over her head, built like a chicken after Sunday dinner.

Watkins reaches into the inside pocket of his overcoat and snags a bottle. Tokes it.

WATKINS

Want a drink?

Steve shakily assents. Chokes on a mouthful. Watkins reclaims the bottle and drains it. The train pulling into the station; rumble and shriek.

STEVE

We're here.

WATKINS

Help me with her.

They grab an arm each and stumble down the corridor.

STEVE

Mind the doors.

They step onto the platform. We see them from departing train's POV.

 

SCENE TWO: THE LAST HOUSE

Watkins and Steve, breath like fog, are stood in a poky kitchen. Watkins is rinsing a blue mug in the sink. Steve enters. Watkins dries mug with a tea towel.

STEVE (Trying to stifle perceptible concern)

She's got worse. Seemed a bit livelier once we got off.

WATKINS (airily)

The Librium's kicking in.

STEVE

What?

WATKINS

Just a few milligrams crushed up in that can of coke I gave her.

STEVE

To stop her dehydrating you said.

WATKINS

That dose would barely make a baby sleep. It's humane anyhow.

STEVE

We're going to be taping a corpse.

Watkins shrugs with an insouciance that rings false. He reaches under the sink and takes out a half full bottle of vodka. Pours it into mug. He glugs greedily to Steve's discomfort.

WATKINS

Do you reckon I should cook her a shot?

STEVE

Christ, she needs fucking jump leads as it is.

 

WATKINS

Only in case of emergency. I'm fond of her, else she'd do it clean.

STEVE

We'll need a body bag if you can keep chipping away at that half gramme.

Watkins swigs from mug, lights a cigarette.

WATKINS

You talk too much.

He looks at the double still left in the bottle and pours it down his throat.

SCENE THREE: IN AND OUT THE LIVING ROOM

Heavy pair of black curtains drawn. High watt bulb, no lampshade, hanging from the middle of the ceiling. Miss Glitz is ornately bound, wearing just her underwear, in a wicker chair. Clothes and handbag piled up beside her, on a brown coffee table. She is gagged with a football sock. There is a sports holdall and a video camera placed before her. Watkins enters and picks up the holdall. The camera follows him into the kitchen. Steve is cooking heroin in a tablespoon. Watkins produces a Fu Manchu mask, square slits, coil of elastic. Cucumber in other hand. Passes cucumber to Steve.

WATKINS

Props department…fresh.

STEVE

Nice.

WATKINS

We better.

STEVE (draining liquid up from spoon)

We better

They walk into living room. Stand silently before Miss Glitz, deep frozen.

 

STEVE

You let me film it. I think you've more of a talent.

Watkins holds Fu Manchu mask against Steve's face.

WATKINS

The fun's in the seeing. Anyway, you get the eyes close up.

STEVE

I can't do it.

WATKINS

Jesus doesn't want her for a sunbeam.

Watkins secures the Fu Manchu mask to Steve's head. Out of the holdall he takes the decapitated head of an inflatable dummy. Acrylic wig, spider eyelashes, beaming glass orbs. Short length of tubing between scarlet lips. Watkins puts it on. Takes syringe off a saucer and injects the girl in the back. She mewls softly. They watch for a minute or so.

WATKINS

I'll slap her chops, make her look interested.

JUMP CUT

Girl is on floor, bloodied, slightly out of focus.

WATKINS(fingering videotape lovingly)

I'll get Harry.

Steve, doubled up and vomiting, rears up, saucer eyes.

WATKINS

South, not Black

Steve groggily assents. On all fours he crawls into the kitchen.

 

WATKINS (flatly)

And so to work.

Her rips up the carpet.

LATER…

Shot of bucket, foamy water and bloodied tea towel. The room has been stripped, the video recorder and tripod placed in the far corner of the room. Watkins is in an apron, scrubbing the floor. Miss Glitz is wrapped in a roll of the ransacked carpet like a greasy wishbone in a handkerchief. Takes off the apron and marigold gloves and places them in a bin liner. Gathers up her clothes and dumps them into the binliner. He goes through her bag. Tampons, a compact mirror, a lipstick, small bag of make up. He dumps them one by one in the bin liner. He finds an awkwardly posed set of photo-booth snaps of Miss Glitz and Jessica, in their former incarnation, in an embrace. Rips the sheet up and lets it flutter like confetti. Finds bank card, pin number attached to it with an elastic band. He smiles ruefully. Watkins kicks the kitchen door.

WATKINS

I'm going…won't be long.

Steve is sat on kitchen floor, knees pulled up to chest. He hears door shut, but does not move or let his gaze, fixed on an invisible object in the middle distance, waver. The camera pulls back. He climbs to his feet Splashes water on his face in sink. Opens door. The room is empty for body in the carpet. Steve, not taking his eyes off the bundle, walks backwards to the door. He slips out and is lost to the night.

 

 

 

SCENE FOUR: WE MEET ASHTON

Interior of flat. Camera pans across the minutiae of the living room, a squalid refuge unique to a particular kind of singleton. A moth-eaten couch, a stereo system pushed up against the wall opposite, scattered tapes and CD covers. On a coffee table are spread a TV guide and pulp horror novel, a bulky manila jiffy bag, saucepan containing cannabis and tobacco, a waterpipe. The curtains are closed. Into bedroom. Ashton is face down in the mattress. There is a video recorder and TV positioned before it. Ashton is on top of the sheets, in boxer shorts, T-shirt and socks. A bottle of pills lie on the bedside cabinet next to a quarter bottle of vodka. Ashton is thirtyish, skinny arms and legs but a considerable girth. The phone is ringing. Ashton places pillow on head. The phone stops. He slowly rouses and slightly parts the curtains. Leafs through a porno mag classifieds section and smokes a joint. He taps the ash into the saucer. When he is finished, he takes a belt of vodka and lights up a cigarette. The phone rings again. Ashton drags himself out of bed and gingerly places receiver to ear.

ASHTON

Ummm…alright. Pick me up at six.

Ashton places the phone down. In the kitchen he turns the kettle on. He stands smoking as water comes to the boil.

 

SCENE FIVE: IN CAR WITH TURNER

Turner appraises Aston wryly as he gingerly climbs into his car. Turner is a tall, well built man circling middle age. He has a superficially belligerent and dour demeanour, slightly remote, that is shot through with a streak of impassive irony.

ASHTON

I've been getting all neurotic the last couple of weeks, kicking my heels. Last few days I've been checking my balls for tumours and now the hurry.

TURNER

Something's cropped up.

ASHTON

How much.

TURNER

He'll be grateful.

ASHTON

Is that meant to comfort me?

TURNER

You know.

ASHTON

Porn is not porn anymore.

TURNER

So you read the classifieds.

ASHTON

Yeah.

TURNER

He calls it hardercore.

ASHTON

Who filmed it?

TURNER

Watkins.

ASHTON

Jesus, I never made him for the type. Paranoid and a drunk, that's some combination. He should have stuck to discount smack.

They pull onto the gravel-covered car park of a dilapidated concrete bunker of a working men's club. It is dusk. Ashton stands outside the car waiting for Turner to finish putting on the carlock. Turner slams and locks door behind him and together they walk into the club.

 

SCENE SIX: WITH HARRY

Harry is in the backroom, a concrete windowless box, rummaging in a wooden crate, attempting to impose some sort of order on an haphazard pile of magazines and videotapes. He is obese, with a hairless pink globe of a head, sweating profusely in a hideous pink-jogging suit. On the back wall is a large blown up portrait of Harry; he is in a white peaked hat and outsized circular sunglasses. He is placing certain tapes in a box marked PRODUCT. He seats himself at the wooden desk in the middle of the room. A three-seater couch is positioned in front of it. Harry is wheezing, his asthma. He uses a couple of sprays, which he shoves in the folds of his jogging top. Knock on the door. Harry walks to door, unbolts it. Returns to his seat as Ashton and Turner slump on the couch.

HARRY (gesturing to crate)

I want that taking to the unit tomorrow.

ASHTON

Getting twitchy?

TURNER

You should put a doily on it.

HARRY

Nothing like that, it's just in the way. Anyway, Miss Havisham, you've been awfully hard to get hold of, pissed as a pudding again?

Ashton disregards the remark. He is fumbling for a packet of cigarettes that aren't there.

ASHTON

Any cigarettes?

HARRY

How many times have I told you, I don't smoke on account of my asthma.

ASHTON (petulantly)

If you smoked you'd know.

HARRY

The masters have come in.

ASHTON

Do you want me to check them?

HARRY

All ten of them. Beginning, middle and end. That video I gave you has a counter on it. Back to nought and every twenty minutes.

ASHTON (sourly)

I figured that out halfway through Got to get You into my Wife.

TURNER

Surely you didn't get queasy.

ASHTON

The quality of meat was very poor.

 

HARRY

So you'll check the tapes. Here, this should help ease the pain.

Harry opens desk drawer. We see a glimpse of the contents, silver wraps, tenth of an ounce of hash, and grammes of amphetamine in gelatine sealed envelopes. Harry throws Ashton a wrap. It lands on the shagpile. Ashton bends over and picks it up, drops it into top pocket.

ASHTON

I'll need a crack pipe to get me through fifteen hours of that crap.

HARRY

Quality management John. That's the secret of our success. Free packing and delivery. A discreet mailing list for pigs who eat anything. Like the old corner shop. You know how we're getting marginalised with innovations and all.

ASHTON

Some of the stuff lately…it takes a piece of you.

HARRY

You know it's nothing to do with porn anymore.

ASHTON

I don't know…that last batch, I felt like a fucking werewolf.

HARRY

Look, providing misogynistic violence on the VHS format is our bread and butter. It keeps a roof over your fucking head. Anyway, I draw the line at animals and kids. And you're real lucky because I was really tempted to distribute some fag shit I came by. Now those fist fuckers play for keeps. Imagine being stuck for the best part of an evening in front of Hot Wax on Balls.

 

TURNER

Isn't that the name of a musical?

HARRY

Shut up. Anyway, the gravy train's over soon.

ASHTON (morosely)

I guess so.

HARRY

Well, that's sorted. Main reason you're here, it looks like Watkins has gone freelance. Nothing to do with us but I'm worried he's been a little sloppy. Some girl involved and hired help. Everyone seems to know thanks to Harry South.

TURNER

Well, that's one doorstepper approaching the end of his career.

HARRY

I hope.

ASHTON

So how many films comprise Watkins' oeuvre.

HARRY

Two hopefully, not three. I've already had to hold one back. Took out an ad, got the orders but I can't put it out now with things being as they are.

ASHTON

Bleeding anuses savagely fucked.

HARRY

So you've seen the classified?

ASHTON

Yeah. Women's cunts smell. That's some title. Was he being deliberately ambiguous?

HARRY

He saw it on a wall and pointed a camera at it. The girl was hurt pretty bad but no comeback. There's spaghetti western music on it.

ASHTON

I never took Watkins for an auteur.

HARRY

I'll rustle you up a copy. You can admire Turner's camera angles.

Turner, who up to this point has been indifferent and remote, looks at Harry sharply.

ASHTON (laughing but genuinely startled)

Christopher, I'm shocked.

TURNER (defensive and chilly)

The situation imposed its own logic.

ASHTON

Anyone can play guitar.

TURNER

I'll see Harry tomorrow.

HARRY

After the unit?

TURNER

After the unit.

Ashton picks up case of masters.

ASHTON

I'll get these done for the middle of next week.

HARRY

Thanks.

Ashton and Turner exit.

 

SCENE SEVEN: THE SHOP

A short wiry man in sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms sits feet up on a counter, smoking a hand rolled cigarette and leafing through a tabloid sports pullout. His face is yellow and radiates unhealthiness. Long nose, dirty teeth, greasy brown hair tied up in a ponytail, like something that's crawled out of a sewer. It is Newton. Young middle-management type enters the shop; Newton regards him slyly with visible contempt. Shot of rows of shelves containing hardcore mags, luridly explicit poses on the covers with penis to mouth/vagina/anus contact covered in blue tape. The MMT is sweating and fiddling with his glasses, aroused yet wary, surreptitiously clocking the gay mags on the top shelves. Eyes flit back and forth like he's following a tennis match.

NEWTON

Got a sweet tooth, eh? Come round back, I'll give you a reach around.

MMT looks at man behind counter. Newton does a cunnilingual gesture with his tongue. MMT seems on the point of seizure, arms nervously twitch. Scoops up a handful of mags in tightly sealed clear plastic bags, walks on jelly legs to the counter and slams them down. Puzzled reaction shot from Newton. Black and white still of a wad of notes jammed into a greasy palm. Action resumes, the MMT falling out of the shop in relief, magazines clasped under armpit, crashing the door shut. Newton snickers. Takes out a tin of tobacco and papers and rolls himself a toothpick fag. Sticks it in the corner of his mouth and lights it with a match. Phosphorous glow in the afternoon gloom. A second consumer enters. He is no one and everyone. Places videotape on counter.

THE CONSUMER

I'm up to tape twenty-five now.

NEWTON

Lava of Love. A fucking S and M classic.

Newton pulls out a cardboard box from a doorway leading to the back of the shop, seen from the Consumer's POV in front of the counter. Thrashing around in the sea of cassettes, the rodent curses loudly.

THE CONSUMER

It's not there?

NEWTON

It's Watkins. He fucked up the system.

Consumer turns away disheartened.

NEWTON

Hey, stop, you're a good customer…want to see something new and special?

THE CONSUMER

Newton, you never disappoint.

Holds a chunky wallet to the camera between thumb and forefinger.

NEWTON (offscreen)

The key to the kingdom.

JUMP CUT

Newton and the Consumer stand in front of a widescreen TV, side by side holding hands. The room is in total darkness, the courting couple illuminated obliquely by the TV's blinding white transmission. On screen: young girl being tortured, snatch of The Good, The Bad And The Ugly soundtrack dubbed onto the skin flick.

 

THE CONSUMER

Surely that must be a prosthetic.

NEWTON

No, it's real. Look at the blood. You can't fake that shade.

He leans forward and taps the screen.

NEWTON

Do you like it?

The Consumer undoes his fly and takes out his penis. Newton gets a grip on it and kneads it slowly.

THE CONSUMER (breathlessly)

Yes.

NEWTON

And then?

THE CONSUMER

Do it.

NEWTON

And then?

The Consumer ejaculates onto the screen. It pours down the glass between a pair of cigarette charred nipples held together with a pair of disembodied hairy hands. Close up of Newton pinning his cheek to the set and collecting the milky droplets on his tongue.

 

SCENE EIGHT: IN BED WITH ASHTON

Ashton is propped up in bed, waterpipe in one hand and can of lager in the other watching the James Gillis sleazathon THE ENEMA BANDIT, which is rather self explanatory. The film is drawing to a close. The end credits roll over Gillis cowering on a stairwell, his face illuminated by the flashing neon of gathering squadcars. He pauses the remote to read the caption.

RAPE IS UNIVERSAL AND ALMOST ALL SOCIETIES

PRESCRIBE IT AN OUTRAGEOUS FELON. IT IS

ESTIMATED THAT RAPE OCCURS EVERY THREE

MINUTES IN AMERICA OR 150,000 TIMES A YEAR.

IT IS RECKONED 10-25 PERCENT OF RAPES GO

UNREPORTED BY THE VICTIMS.

Ashton gets up and goes into the kitchen, lager and cigarette in hand. The room is cloaked in smoke. He goes into the kitchen and fills a saucepan with water and places it on the hob. He rips open a packet of noodles with his teeth. Cut to static shot of the TV screen, the image on it distorted. It automatically cuts out and begins to rewind. Ashton sits in front of a snowy screen, twirling noodles on a fork and watches the video spit out the tape.

 

SCENE NINE: MISS GLITZ AND JESSICA

Miss Glitz, late teens, skinny and pretty, dark hair in a bob, is sat with her plump, wrecked friend, Jessica, in a greasy café. Miss Glitz is poking a toast crust into a sealed egg yolk. Jessica's chest gives a death rattle. She has orange hair and her eyes impart the weariness of having seen and experienced too much. Cracked fingernails, blistered lips. Miss Glitz watches her apprehensively, wondering if that is what lies over the rainbow. Between them are an ashtray and a half-eaten breakfast. Miss Glitz washes down her last mouthful with a can of diet coke. She crumples the can and throws it in the bin. Lights a cigarette and drinks Jessica's coffee, who is looking elsewhere and seems stuck there. A short interlude. Jessica suddenly pipes up, her voice a croak.

JESSICA

He's a creep. Don't let him do your portfolio. He got me turned onto hamburger shoots. When I got stropppy he roughed me up. Made me blow him. He held me tight down the till he came…(her voice momentarily trails off)…it tasted of strawberries.

MISS GLITZ

He seemed alright at the interview.

JESSICA

They're all pigs out there.

Brief switch to video footage. Jessica bound in foetal position. An old man waves a gun at the camera. Return to café. The camera encircles the young women.

MISS GLITZ

I've met this guy called Dave. He's a little too strange to be insincere. Nice though, doesn't think with his prick.

JESSICA

Yeah?

MISS GLITZ

He's taking me to a party tonight

Jessica yawns.

 

SCENE TEN: UNIT

Outskirts of an industrial estate, at the end of a seemingly limitless road. Container lorries and transit vans patrol the macadam stretch. The camera pans along a row of industrial units then draws back to reveal they are in the shadow of a huge derelict warehouse. Outside of the end unit. Cut to interior. Door consists of metal panels, firmly bolted. The unit is roughly the size of a garage capable of accommodating two vehicles, fluorescent bulbs illuminate it. Minimal contents; an armchair and couch face other, between them a fake leopardskin rug. A wicker trunk is situated directly opposite the rectangular entrance. Ten yards to the left of the trunk is a supermarket meat freezer, a plugless flex coiled before it. Barrington is sat on the couch, eyes like idiot saucers, straw hair of a monkish cut, equipped with a cleft pallet. He grunts and groans, wails and spits, but does not speak. He is groping his balls through the folds of his trousers. Little, freckled white features and red hair, short wiry build, in leather jackets and jeans, is circling an old man spread-eagled on all fours on the rug. The old man, naked except for white socks, white vest, we have seen earlier menacing Jessica in the fragment of videotape.

LITTLE

They've got a thing about walking in circles.

He stubs a cigarette out on the old man's buttocks. We see a close up of the old man's mouth. It is filled with blood and tongueless. Dragging on a cigarette, he circles the old man. The man pulls his vest down to his knees. Little takes an egg from his pocket and cracks it over the old man's buttocks. He massages the yolk into the dark knot of the anus, leans forward.

LITTLE (whispering tenderly into old man's ear)

Don't worry, it's all a Ride to Avalon.

Throws eggshell at Barrington, who gurgles and looks hurt.

LITTLE (stroking his head)

I'm sorry. You can watch the autopsy video later.

Barrington winks. The old man's head turns on its axis. One eye is closed, the companion milky and clouded. Little yanks the old man to his feet and leads him to the freezer. He opens the lid. The old man accepts a pair of outsized glasses with fissured lenses and puts them on fussily.  The old man climbs into the refrigerator, stretches full length and folds them on his chest. Little sprinkles a handful of crushed dentures on him and shuts lid. Hauls his frame onto the freezer and watches the old main inhale fruitlessly through scuffed Perspex. They sit silently listening to the dull thuds become less frequent.

 

SCENE ELEVEN: WATKINS AND GLITZ

Watkins and Miss Glitz are stood in the hallway of her lodgings. Watkins in tatty overcoat, Miss Glitz dark hair scraped back off her face, pretty without make up, in T-shirt and jeans. She gives him a cursory tour of the premises. Watkins is nervous and tries his best to appear interested. They peer into the communal lounge, a gloomily lit room, a scrawny kid on the couch smoking a cigarette and watching a cookery programme on TV. In the kitchen the oleaginous refrigerator, door ajar, a peep of a carton of sour milk. He follows her up the stairs.

MISS GLITZ

My rooms en suite.

Watkins grunts. He is wheezing as he ascends the stairs.

WATKINS

What floor?

MISS GLITZ

Third one, the top.

Watkins mumbles to himself. Voices carry, stoned laughter, and faked ecstasy. They walk along a short unlit corridor, Watkins' legs uncertain.

MISS GLITZ

Here we are.

The room is brightly decorated and Watkins seems a little cheered. It is of a narrow width with a high ceiling. Bed neatly made up, white linen sheets and pastel coloured quilt and pillow covers. Dresser with a portable TV on a stand screwed to the wall above it. On the dresser is a pile of glossy magazines, a couple of cups, chipped saucers and a kettle. Dirty streaked windowpane, the sun glaring through it, barred on the outside. Green door slightly open at the far side of the room, coyly allowing glimpses of the pristine lavatory wall.

WATKINS

It's a nice place.

MISS GLITZ

Well, it's inexpensive and tidy, though I made a special effort knowing you were coming. Some times it's a bit of a tip, but I got paid the other day.

WATKINS

What they like in the other flats?

MISS GLITZ

Mostly overseas students. They're okay, sometimes a bit noisy, especially the weekends, but that's only to be expected. There's a smackhead on the second floor, he's a nice bloke but you have to keep an eye on him, he's the sort who'd nick anything not nailed down.

WATKINS

You've no video.

MISS GLITZ

No. I watch TV in the afternoon and go out at nights. If I stop in I read magazines or watch TV downstairs and have a few joints. It's better than sitting up here on my own.

Watkins nods grimly.

MISS GLITZ

Aren't you hot in your overcoat?

Watkins takes it off awkwardly and places it on the carpet.

MISS GLITZ

Want a drink.

WATKINS

Yeah.

She pulls out a bottle of white rum from beneath the bed. She twists the cap off and takes a slug, shudders.

 

MISS GLITZ

It's good stuff wants it kicks in. Keeping it down is the main thing.

Watkins accepts the bottle, his relief perceptible, glugs away.

MISS GLITZ

You got any cigarettes?

Watkins hands her a packet and glugs again, fidgets restlessly.

MISS GLITZ

Is anything wrong?

WATKINS

No. I had some hash earlier. It's made me paranoid.

 

MISS GLITZ

Sit next to me.

They drink and smoke in silence, handing the bottle back and forth, tipping their ash into the white saucer. Watkins has three mouthfuls for every one of Miss Glitz's. Watkins is stupefied.

WATKINS (slurring)

I make these films and I hurt them…I'm strictly no drugs on set…I mean what's the point if you dilute the pain…I shouldn't be saying this…I like you, I like you a lot.

MISS GLITZ

Would you hurt me?

WATKINS

No. I'd drug you first.

MISS GLITZ

Think I've got talent.

WATKINS

Dye your hair and you could be another Harlow.

MISS GLITZ

Who?

WATKINS

Old quality gash, another age.

MISS GLITZ

Why do you hurt them?

WATKINS

To make them less than humans…so they cannot touch…I'm not so bad…you see the trick is in the seeing…it's all just meat

MISS GLITZ

Do you want to lie down?

She snakes her arm around him.

MISS GLITZ

Come on, you're weak enough to trust. I only want to hold you. I'm drunk.

WATKINS

I'm not built…where it matters…I've got to piss…

He drags himself upward swaying. The sun is receding and they are relegated to the shadows. Miss Glitz is amused by how stupefied he is. Watkins slaps his hand to his forehead and seems on the verge of tears.

WATKINS

Why does it always come…to that…

He has urinated in his trousers.

WATKINS

Oh, I'm wet.

Watkins kicks open the bathroom door and flicks the switch, drowning him in yellow light. Miss Glitz finishes the bottle and is on the verge of paralysis herself. Watkins is over the lavatory bowl, legs splayed, palms lain flat against the cold white tiles. Miss Glitz presses against him.

WATKINS

Please…don't…

She reaches round and holds his cock.

MISS GLITZ (playfully)

Let me suck your balls.

 

WATKINS

No.

She laughs and burrows down. Watkins wails.

MISS GLITZ

Come to bed.

They stumble to the bed and clamber under the quilt. Pillow talk of an elliptical nature ensues.

MISS GLITZ

Will you take me away?

WATKINS

On a sweet journey.

MISS GLITZ (toying with his hair)

You say such funny things.

WATKINS

You want to go to a party?

MISS GLITZ

Yeah.

 

SCENE TWELVE: BACK IN THE UNIT

Little (now in outsize dark glasses) and Barrington are sat respectively on the couch and armchair. Audible crunch of gravel. Little is reading an angling periodical.

 

LITTLE

Get it, you gibbering fuck.

Barrington is dewy eyed. Little swallows his distaste.

LITTLE (conciliatory)

Me and my temper Alan. You stay put.

Little drops magazine and walks over to Barrington and tilts his head upward.

LITTLE

My eternal footman.

He approaches metal door. It is struck from the outside and reverberates sonically. Little unbolts the door and pulls it sideways on its castors, letting it run into the buffers at the end of the rail guard. The client enters, a middle aged man reeking money, beautifully attired, moisturised, doused in cologne, manicured and so on.

LITTLE

Wallet.

The client hands him his wallet. Little takes out a sheaf of notes and drops the wallet.

THE CLIENT

Good enough.

LITTLE

Baby, everything's on the menu.

THE CLIENT

And then?

LITTLE

Up the apples and pairs.

Barrington snorts. The client follows him to the freezer. The lid is lifted. Shot of Client from corpse's POV.

THE CLIENT (enraptured)

That's…exquisite.

 

LITTLE (to Barrington)

Leave him to it.

They walk back to the couch and sit side by side. The client masturbates himself through the folds of his trousers.

LITTLE (back to client)

Finished?

THE CLIENT (dreamily)

Yes.. I wish you could bottle it…

LITTLE

Get here.

The Client ambles over to them and lies on the leopard skin rug.

LITTLE

Strip.

The Client straightens and removes his clothes and shoes unhesitatingly. Leaves on his socks and wedding bed.

LITTLE

Adequate.

Little gathers the suit and white shirt. Barrington collects the rest, gold cufflinks, silk tie, handsomely polished brogues and starched shirt.

LITTLE

Impersonate a teapot.

The Client makes limp a wrist and arches a limb. Little and Barrington spread out the possessions neatly. They pause, bellow of a container lorry on the endless road. Barrington removes his Bolero shirt and wraps his belt around his fist.

 

THE CLIENT (on all fours)

Would you run your little finger across my eyelids.

LITTLE (urinating on Client's jacket)

A gent.

 

SCENE THIRTEEN: THE CARRIAGE

Watkins is slumped on a seat in a deserted train carriage. He is gnawing on a chicken tikka sandwich and swigging a can of lager. He looks sloshed. Crumpling the empty beer can he pulls out an empty bottle of scotch. On the soundtrack there is heavy reverb of the train screeching into the station. Watkins is thrown as he attempts to light his cigarette. The driver leaves his compartment, opens the door and briefly scans the deserted platform. He sees Watkins puffing away.

DRIVER

Put that cig out

Watkins meekly complies. Chug a lugs the bottle.

DRIVER

Don't you think you've had enough? Be careful getting off in that state. Mind the gap.

The driver re-enters the compartment and locks himself in. Blearily peers at reflection in cracked mirror. Drops the toilet lid, opens the window, lights up a cigarette. Closes eyes. Against a soundtrack of distorted screams and strangulated exhortations flashes a series of monochrome stills depicting Watkins at work; burning the sole of a foot with a cigarette, holding a rat by the tail over a set of male genitals, wearing a leather mask, charring a nipple with a cigarette, woman's face in grim rictus. Finally, Watkins cowering, Turner pointing a video camera at him. A kick on the cubicle door snaps him out of his reverie.

DRIVER

You alright?

WATKINS (slurring)

I'm alright.

DRIVER

End of the line, pal. This service has terminated.

Watkins leaves cubicle and staggers onto platform. Looks at blank departure screen and then goes into waiting room.

 

SCENE FOURTEEN: ASHTON WITH PACKAGE

Ashton stood in bathroom peering into the mirror. He is wearing a black T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. The curtains are open offering an expansive view of the darkness. He opens cabinet door and takes out two bottles of pills, Paroxetine and Tamazepam, from assorted paraphernalia, a typical hypochondriacs stash, elasterplast, aspirin, bandages, liver salts etc. He takes a handful of pills and washes them down with a glass of vodka (bottle and glass residing on sink). Looks like he has been fired from a canon. Wanders into living room bottle in hand. He gets out a duster and brushes down the living room. Sits on couch radio three in the background. Finishes bottle, dry retches.  On the coffee table is a torn open, manila jiffy bag. He takes out two unmarked tapes, one audio, and one video. Leaves room and re-enters with another bottle of vodka. He places the audiotape in the stereo and fiddles with the cassette recorder. Rolls a joint absently as the monologue washes over him. Lies back, smokes and drinks in an abstracted manner.

 

 

WATKINS (voice metallic)

Hello John, old buddy, my kindred spirit. Oh, I know there's a hell of a difference in our methods, me being extreme and you being a gent and all, but we shared something, the fear. Whereas you endlessly recoiled I wiretapped. Making those bad connections. What the fuck was I meant to do? Fresh out after two years for finger fucking a fourteen year old in the back of a ripped off Cortina. What was I to do? Fuck around in a factory or warehouse, six two, two ten, ten six, for what? Chump change. No, I had my talent and I felt mean. Inside I was an emotional drag act, feminised and weak, bitch sobbing, queer tears. Jesus, I don't know why I'm doing this…this is no valediction or suicide note…I just feel at the end of things. The past is out of bounds and progress does not seem likely. I am resigned to the waiting room. My life has shrunk to a succession of messy come shots. I am Watkins and I am Legion. I have burned the soles of faggots' feet …charred nipples with cigarette ends…whipped and stabbed…and I was a honey. Cunts like chopped liver. Cunts like spoiled meat. Cunts like raw hamburger. I was an artist of the transgressive whose spiritual home was the VHS format. And if a moth burns in a flame do you blame the candle. We're all in this together pally. The subject created the market not the object, because we know we're all faggots now. This is white slavery, people want a certain reality, no one buys sucking and fucking anymore. Any hint of consensual body politics is a dick shriviller. What they want is the pure essence of exploitation. And that's what I gave them, grade A product. And you're part of it John even if you only press the play button. Just because you can't get it up doesn't cut you out of the loop. That's the beauty of our world; you bring as much as you want to it and takes as little away. I didn't make it through the gate in time and now I know I never will. Everything is lost John, thank Christ. And remember, this is nothing but a party y'all (mirthless laughter).

Gregorian chants fill the room. Ashton takes the cassette out and spits on it, furiously unravels the tape. He sits on couch, staring at the videotape, inwardly wrestling by the voyeuristic urge to view the tape engendered by his prurient sensibility. Evincing no little self disgust he slots the tape in and settles back he slots the tape in and settles back, remote controls in hand. Turns TV on. Close up of screen. We see the WOMENS CUNTS SMELL footage from earlier in the film. Cuts to interior of an artificially lit room, windows boarded, looks like an especially rancid squat. A girl is tethered on a grimy pallet. Watkins is pointing a video at Newton, who, unseen, is responsible for the main footage. Fast forward. Cut back to Ashton. Presses play. Now the video footage is seen in its entirety main screen rather than being framed by the TV removing the distancing effect for the audience.

 

SCENE FIFTEEN: THE FOOTAGE

Newton is crouched by the naked girl, who is bloodied and bruised. Stares at camera reproachfully.

WATKINS (offscreen, holding video camera)

How is she?

 

NEWTON

She won't be dancing any more.

WATKINS

Fuck.

Newton stands up and gesticulates

NEWTON

You fucking idiot. Jesus, why did y'do it? It always comes to me. Well fuck you, this is your problem.

Newton tuns and runs for door. Video camera hits floor. Shot of girl motionless.

WATKINS (off camera)

You cheap prick!

The picture goes snowy. Resumes with Watkins on floor, cowering and murmuring under the glare of the camera. Camera is dropped again. When Watkins has regathered it Turner is cradling the girl who is now swathed in a blanket in his arms. He backs towards the door without taking his eyes off Watkins, leaves the shot. Watkins turns camera on himself and screams. Tape cuts off.

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: GLITZ AT UNIT

Inside the unit. The fridge freezer has gone. Wicker basket remains. Miss Glitz are sat opposite Little and Barrington. Little is sat in armchair, Barrington on armrest. There is a strained silence. Miss Glitz's hair is peroxide blonde and she seems wired.

MISS GLITZ

Where do you come from?

LITTLE

A haunted house of a town.

MISS GLITZ (to Barrington)

How about you?

LITTLE

A place where life is one long post office queue.

Watkins and Little are staring at each other blankly, barely able to suppress their mutual loathing. Miss Glitz seems anxious to somehow dispel the chilly atmosphere.

MISS GLITZ

What you doing down here?

LITTLE

The same old stuff in the same old way. Alan got a century last week for shitting in a bucket.

Barrington gurns inanely.

WATKINS

Where's the stock?

LITTLE

Don't worry. It's out there, finding its target market.

WATKINS

I want my cut, that's my flesh and blood.

LITTLE

And you'll get it.

WATKINS

When?

Little takes out a key. Throws it at Watkins.

LITTLE

It's there now, in the usual place.

WATKINS

I hope you're not stiffing me.

LITTLE

I'm happy with what I've got. Anyway, whispers make it awkward for both of us.

WATKINS

That's good enough.

Little turns to girl.

LITTLE

So what's your story? Is he going to make you a star?

Miss Glitz looks alarmed, Watkins angry.

WATKINS (trying to change tack)

You going back soon?

LITTLE

A few weeks time. You?

WATKINS

Next couple of days.

LITTLE

Is she going with you?

MISS GLITZ

I'm meant to be.

LITTLE

Well, there's no harm in it, all Grand Guignol. Problem is, Watkins here takes it all too seriously.

WATKINS

I know someone, they cut his tongue out and he still didn't shut up.

LITTLE

Don't we all.

WATKINS (pointing a thumb at Barrington)

You ever had Lucky here ream you Matty?

Disregarding the remark, Little strides to the wicker basket, flips the latch and rummages in it. He returns, holding a tiny video camera. He beckons Miss Glitz.

LITTLE

Come.

Miss Glitz is at his side.

LITTLE

How do you feel, the other side?

MISS GLITZ (smiling demurely)

I don't know.

LITTLE

Like this.

She fixes Watkins in the viewfinder. He sinks into the couch.

 

SCENE SEVENTEEN: ASHTON WAKES UP

The video runs out, snowy drizzle on screens turns to blank test pattern as the video rewinds. Ashton regains consciousness on couch.  Staggers to bedroom. Drinks vodka from bottle stood upright, stumbles around, falls sideways, knocking out lamp. Darkness and groans.

 

SCENE EIGHTEEN: LITTLE RETURNS

Little is on a descending escalator at a busy train station, sports holdall slung over his shoulder. It is a big city station; overhead shot of Little lost in the flotsam as he steps off the escalator. Cut to him fumbling for change, getting a can of coke and a bar of chocolate from vending machines. Uses a payphone; we do not hear the conversation just the human and machine cacophony of the station.  Goes to a row of lockers, deposits holdall. Outside station gets in a cab.

CUT TO

Little walking down a deserted city side street. High buildings dwarf his silhouette. He stops in front of an anonymous red brick pile and pads down a set of concrete steps. It is CLUB MONDO. Little takes out a large set of keys and lets himself in, pushing the heavy wooden door open with some difficulty and walks down a dark corridor to emerge in a lobby area bathed in red light. Turner is sat behind a wooden table, smoking a cigar and drinking a glass of scotch. There are a couple of cardboard boxes on the table, scrawled on them: CRISPS 50p DRINKS £1.

TURNER

Matty boy, what a pleasant surprise. I thought you were only due back next week.

LITTLE

The nights are growing longer.

TURNER

Well, I'm glad you're here to share this career low with me.

LITTLE

I've been lower.

TURNER

I bet you have. Where is he then?

LITTLE

Who?

TURNER

You sexy mutha.

 

LITTLE

His old man's had a stroke. Gone back looking after him.

TURNER

So I take it you've spoke to Harry.

LITTLE

Yeah. That's why I'm here. He said you had a tale to tell.

Turner replenishes his glass from bottle of scotch.

TURNER

It's not mine.

LITTLE

I didn't think so.

TURNER

Want a drink?

Little rolls his eyeballs. Turner pours a shot in a dirty looking coffee cup. Little lights a cigarette and sips the drink. Turner puts a large Tupperware box on the table.

TURNER

Show's over soon.

LITTLE

Want to go for a pint after.

TURNER (checking watch)

Well, the pubs are still open.

LITTLE

So what you doing grubbing around here?

TURNER

Newton's gone underground the last fortnight, so Harry offered me fifty to open up.

LITTLE

That was awfully generous.

TURNER

I got a pretty speech.

LITTLE

Those happy punters.

TURNER

Something like that. You see Watkins down there?

LITTLE

No, why has he gone cosmopolitan?

TURNER

Fucking ethnic by his standards.

LITTLE

Have they widened his bus route?

They both laugh. Turner tops up both glasses.

TURNER

He's at the heart of the matter. I'll fill you in over that pint.

Turner drains glass and gets to feet, stands on cigar stump, stretches.

TURNER

You want to take in the end of the flick?

LITTLE

No thanks. I've had enough of that shit to last several lifetimes.

TURNER

This is different. It's D.I.Y, pretty banal, nothing you couldn't do at home, yet still they come.

LITTLE

Must be the communal vibe.

TURNER

Well, it's a long way from the Unit Four.

LITTLE

Isn't it all.

They walk into viewing room. A selection of deadbeats sit veiled by darkness watching a collage of atrocity footage accompanied by Holst's Mars. Little ducks out. Turner follows him.

TURNER

Will you do the doors while I turf them out?

Little assents. The camera follows Little back down corridor. He opens the door and stands on bottom steps. A dozen or so ghosts file by, seeking the night. Little peers into corridor. Turner is at the end of it.

TURNER

All out.

Little pulls door shut behind him and reconvenes with Turner in lobby. Turner picks up Tupperware box and walks into viewing room, now brightly lit. Takes out marigold gloves and bottle of detergent. Little looks on with disgust.

LITTLE

What the hell is this?

TURNER

Just cleaning up.

LITTLE (throwing starched rag at Turner)

Fuck the come.

Turner strips off Marigolds. They leave room. Tuner flicks switch, room plunged into darkness.

 

SCENE NIGHNTEEN: ASHTON CHECKS RIIBS

Ashton is inspecting ribs in mirror. Takes handful of pain killers from bathroom cabinet and washes them down with a swig of mineral water. Phone rings. He answers.

ASHTON (wincing)

Yeah…yeah…sure…four quid a bottle? What size are they?

That's good for a litre. Put me down for a crate…alright, pick us up in an hour. Thanks. See you then.

Hangs phone up. Goes into bathroom, splashes water in face. Gazes into mirror.

 

SCENE TWENTY: IN THE CAR

Ashton is slumped against the rolled down window, semi-conscious, to the annoyance of Turner.

TURNER

Will you roll that window up it's freezing.

ASHTON

I can't, I need the fresh air.

They drive on in silence. Pull onto car park of the working men's club. Harry and Little are unloading crates of vodka from a white transit van. Harry is in matching white shorts, socks and T-shirt, capped by a fetching peaked cap. Ashton rouses.

TURNER

Fuck me.

ASHTON

It's Pistol Pete.

TURNER

A rather daring Winter collection.

ASHTON (singing flatly)

Love Boat, soon we're off on another run.

They park up, exit car. Little and Ashton greet each other.

LITTLE

Jesus, was it cold in the ground this morning?

Ashton feebly gestures.

LITTLE

That crate has your name on it.

ASHTON (placing hand on Little's scalp)

Bless you my child. I'll settle up now.

LITTLE

Someone's flush.

ASHTON

For once.

LITTLE (pocketing notes)

Thanks.

Ashton gets car keys off Turner, opens boot and puts in crate. Turner helps Little and Harry load the remaining crates onto a hand-pump truck.

HARRY

Do the honours Chris.

Turner drags truck into club through two wedged open side doors. Harry slams transit van doors shut while Ashton and Little stand sharing a joint making small talk. Turner returns.

HARRY

Well, that's that. Little saved you a journey. You up to anything special this weekend, Turner? Apart from the obvious.

TURNER

I'm seeing my kids.

HARRY

What about Harry S.

TURNER

Little's gonna smoke him out.

HARRY

This is news.

LITTLE

I know where he trolls, the prince of doorsteppers. He shouldn't be hard to track, he's sloppy and always leaves a trail.

HARRY

So I'm short of an Amigo. What you doing Ashton?

ASHTON

Staying in the garden.

HARRY

Fair enough.

Ashton and Turner get in car and drive off.

 

LITTLE

I'm better off on bus and foot. I'll ring you.

Harry nods and watches Little walk out of shot. Goes into club and shuts doors behind him.

 

SCENE TWENTY-ONE: IN SEARCH OF HARRY SOUTH

Shots of Little walking streets, flitting in and out of a couple of shabby pubs, propped up in a bookies, chewing the fat with the detritus. Inside a greasy spoon, the remains of a plate of sausage and chips before him, smoking a cigarette and drinks coffee, Little is looking in a local paper. There is a mugshot of Harry holding a tacky trophy in the darts 'n' dominoes pages. Close up of by line.

CUT TO

Little knocking at the front door of a terraced, cosy looking house. An old dear opens up. We see them in living room, gathered round a coffee table adorned by a pot of tea, cups and a plate of biscuits. They are nestled in armchairs and nattering amiably, dunking digestive. We do not hear any of their conversation; overdubbed onto scene is a preternatural intimation of Harry South's last screams, his expiring breath. Little hugs old lady, gives her a couple of notes which engenders a mixture of surprise, delight and embarrassment. Little walks down street, looking shifty and evasive. Goes behind the back of a row of houses, lets himself through a back gate and vaults over fence into adjoining garden. Looks under a garden gnome, finds a set of keys taped to its base. Unlocks the back door. It budges but is caught on an inside lock. He slams his shoulder into the door. We see the lock busted from the interior. Little enters. It is the kitchen. Locks door behind him. The Winter afternoon is darkening. Little switches on a light and makes a cup of coffee. Turns radio on, adjusts wavelength to find a sports channel. Sits at table smoking and drinking, a scattered tabloid before him.

 

SCENE TWENTY-TWO: TURNER IN PARK

 Turner is sat in a public park with an attractive but glum looking woman. It is cold and bright. The park is large, lots of green. They are in a play area, couple of swings, a slide, and a sandpit. Shot of empty lager cans embedded in the sand. His kids are on the swings.

1ST KID

Dad, give us a swing.

2ND KID

Yeah dad.

Turner gets up and mechanically sets them both in motion, resumes position on park bench with woman. He watches his children emotionlessly, his thoughts elsewhere.

 

SCENE TWENTY-THREE: FLASHBACK

Watkins and Newton in car. They pull up outside a row of derelict houses, silent, and a job to do. They get out of car, drag a young girl out of boot and bundle her into the end house. She is thrown onto the living room floor. There are two hand held video cameras stashed in the room. Newton and Watkins horse around pointing them each other while the girl, either drugged or brutalised into submission, cowers in the corner.

CUT TO

Watkins in payphone, hysterical.

 

WATKINS (blubbering into speaker)

You gotta help…Newton's done one…she's hurt bad…please…

CUT TO

Turner pulls up outside the house, bounds up path. Bursts in living room. He looks at the pitifully whimpering girl. Watkins is in the corner the girl occupied earlier, rocking backwards and forwards on his haunches.

TURNER

You sick fuck.

Turner drags Watkins to his feet and slaps him across the face twice with the front and back of his hand.

TURNER (shaking Watkins)

Stop snivelling you old tart.

Throws Watkins to floor. Turner picks up camera and points it at Watkins. The latter shrieks.

 

SCENE TWENTY-FOUR: BACK IN THE SOUTH

It is dark. Little is sat in living room, watching the evening news and heroically smoking. He flicks the television off, checks watch. Tidies up, sprays air freshener, wanders upstairs. Finds room devoted to the glory to Harry S, shelves of trophies attesting to his prowess at darts and dominoes.  Wanders into bedroom. Despoils a wardrobe, looks through a photo album disinterestedly. Hears front door open. Little leaps up and knocks bedside light off. Harry S is inebriated. We see him stagger through front door. He looks late fifties/early sixties; a thin rumpled face man stained nicotine yellow. Shakily he ascends the stairs, drunkenly singing. As he near the top of the staircase Little steps out of the shadow and pushes him back down.

 

SCENE TWENTY-FIVE: TURNER IN BED

Turner and woman in bed, post-coital. They are both staring ahead vacantly. Room is half lit by a bedside lamp.

TURNER

Thank you.

WOMAN

It was nice.

TURNER

Goodnight.

Light goes out. They turn backs on each other.

 

SCENE TWENTY-SIX: IN THE SOUTH AGAIN

Harry S is sat at kitchen table, bruised and doubled up, clutching a shattered forearm. Little pours coffee down him.

HARRY

You got a fag?

Little gives him one. He puts it in-between teeth but is unable to light it due to his shattered hands and elbows.

Little retrieves the fallen cigarette and lights it.

LITTLE (puffing on cigarette)

It's gonna kill me if I don't pack in soon.

He offers the filter to Harry's lips, which part in anticipation. Deftly switches ends and stubs the cigarette out on his top lip. Little's face is seen in close up, grinning with sadistic relish while Harry's screams reverberate in the background.

 

SCENE TWENTY-SEVEN: ASHTON IN MORNING

Turner is getting dressed. His erstwhile paramour is fast asleep. He sneaks out


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