Sudden glare as Skilton switches on landing light. He’s carrying camera, so all that is glimpsed is his bare feet descending. His hand comes into view. He’s carrying the handgun. Very fast he bounds downstairs. Into study. Pause. Books have been strewn across floor.
“Bastards!”
Skilton runs into kitchen. The intruder is not there. Skilton places camcorder on table. It shows the kitchen wall. He runs forward (wearing pyjamas). He looks through the hole in wall above refrigerator.
“Stop! Come back here. I said stop! I’m armed. Stop or you’re dead!”
Furiously, he thrusts muzzle of gun into hole and fires once. He looks through hole again, then hurries to second hole (off camera) and fires three times into the hole.
EIGHT
In the following, Skilton is calm; his throat, however, sounds sore. “4 a.m. I don’t think I hit them. Probably a good thing. I’d have been the one to end up in jail.” Looks wearily into camera. “You say what happened. An intruder. I pursued. I didn’t see him properly. When I looked through the holes in the kitchen wall I saw something passing by in the walled up passageway. What? Who knows. I fired. You know the rest.” He drinks from a steaming mug. “What next? Call the police? They’ll dismiss me as a nut. Seal off the cellar? I would if I could find the entrance… What would you do?”
NINE
A plethora of confused scenes follow. Mostly without Skilton’s commentary. He looks increasingly dishevelled, tired. Now bearded. Examples of camcorder shots that continue for twenty-three minutes:—
—Skilton working at computer;
—Skilton painting cottage interior;
—exterior shots of cottage in a snowstorm;
—night scenes: Skilton apparently semi-conscious in bed crying to be left alone;
—several shots (possibly on different days) of petty vandalism to the cottage and its contents: furniture upended, paint tipped from cans onto kitchen floor, packet foods scattered on worktops, computer cables disconnected, manuscripts lying torn on the floor;
—night time scenes of Skilton firing the hand-gun through holes in kitchen wall;
—eighteen short scenes of Skilton reading letters he has received: all from book publishers and magazine editors rejecting his stories.
TEN: FINAL ITEM ON VIDEO TAPE
Bearded, Skilton sits at the kitchen table, a letter in his hand. He is expressionless.
“I’ve now been a full-time writer five months. In my five years of trying to become a professional writer I have written six novels. Publishers did not want to know. All six novels lie rotting in a box through there. Five years of trying—five years of failing. If you were me, what would you do?” He looks into camera for a moment, then his face breaks into a weary smile. “But today, thank heaven, it’s all changed. This letter arrived twenty minutes ago from Hyatt & Constantine, Chicago, one of the most successful publishing houses in the world. And I quote: “Dear Jonathon Skilton. We are delighted to be able to offer you an advance against royalties of $5000 for the world rights of your novel. Quid Pro Quo. Our intention is to publish your books as a paperback original in the fall.” He looks directly into the lens. “I can’t really believe it’s real, may be it’s all illusion. But the contract they sent with the letter feels real enough.” He takes a deep breath. “Well. It took me just eight weeks to write the novel. Perhaps that’s the atmosphere… inspirational atmosphere of this place. The book is about a man who lives alone. He’s trying—and failing—to become a writer. Before long he realises he is being visited by something he can never actually see—or understand. It scares him. It scares him very badly, leaving him anxious, disturbed even. He tries to prevent what is happening to him. He can’t. Eventually he realises this… this intrusion has become part of his life. Like a man who suffers the death of his wife, he has to come to terms with it, and accept it is now part of his life. The intrusion… invasion? call it what you want, still distresses him. But in a way it’s not all bad. In the end, after all, it brought him what he really wanted from life.” Skilton, smiles wearily and picks up a document. “Excuse me, I’ve a book contract to sign.”
Before he signs, Jonathon Skilton looks out of the screen at us for the last time. Besides. If I ever have more than I can endure of this intruder, although I can’t stop it, I have the perfect method of escape.”
At this point Skilton picks up the hand-gun, presses the muzzle of the side of his head, and says softly, “Bang.”
Okay, Kiss Experience, But Don’t Open Your Mouth
In the pub, music beat walls and windows and the smoke of a Spanish cigar. Four men sit at a table with glasses of beer.
“Did I tell you the time I went into church and dipped my hand into this jugful of holy water? I smelt my fingers and they smelt of piss.”
“But what’s all this about when you went to the railway sidings?”
“Nothing really. I was only young then. Do you remember the time we went to that earthwork, those mosquitoes, they were the size of bloody wasps, and you nearly lost your shoes in that black mud? Probably pure Norman shit.”
“You went to the railway sidings with a friend? Tell us about it.”
“It wasn’t anything really. Look, I was sixteen at the time. I suppose I did a lot of stupid things. Like anyone.”
“Like what?”
“Like getting drunk on Woodpecker cider from the off-license. Like acting the fool. Me and Lairdie’d go down to Streasby sidings and get pissed… stupid things like that. You know Streaesby’s a funny place, all the dogs look dirty and sick. Last week I saw a mongrel with a prolapsed bowel. It looked as if it had a long pink tongue stuck out of its arse. The people are strange too.”
“What happened that Easter Monday.”
“Well… If you want to know, promise me you’ll tell no-one. Okay? Right, that night we were down there drinking cider in an old carriage. Lairdie was a strange bugger really. I don’t know why I knocked around with him really. Habit I suppose. We went to school together. He didn’t possess a sense of humour. He couldn’t take a joke—he couldn’t make a joke. He couldn’t even tell one properly. Anyway, we’d been getting pissed in the carriage, smashed a couple of bottles, talked about music. He told me the future of rock was with people like John Miles and Lone Star. He’d never heard of the Sex Pistols or the Buzzcocks. He even wore a Bad Company T-shirt under his parka.
“Then we came across this tramp. He’d been drinking too—probably Old Spice. He was a right bag of shit. Lairdie was annoyed that this bloke was in our carriage so he pushed him out the door. I followed.
“I wanted to watch, but I didn’t, if you follow.
“The tramp was shouting. Lairdie told him to shut it, but he wouldn’t, so Lairdie smacked him in the gob. Back the tramp went, crying like a big kid.
“Lairdie went all pink, really red in the face. Anyway, he thumped the tramp a couple of times, then booted him in the ribs. You should have seen the tramp shift. Like shit off the end of a shovel.
“You could tell Lairdie was more excited than afraid. He told me he was going to find another—and I was too drunk to know any better so I followed.
“We saw another tramp—lit by the yellow street lamps, standing across the tracks. He was really out of it. He just stood and stared into space.
“We had to wait for a train to rattle through—one of those long good’s.
“The tramp’s eyes were shut. He was a scrawny, wizened thing, with a face that seemed to have fallen in on itself. Lairdie threw a lump of ballast at him.
“The man’s eyelids snapped open. I stopped. He’d got something wrong with his eyes.”
“Maybe he was blind.”
“I don’t know, but he just stared straight past us, not moving, then slowly he raised his left arm and lifted it straight out as though he was pointing to something down the track.
Than he spoke. The voice was strange too.
“‘Have you asked him yet? Have you? Blood is near the ston
e. Have you asked him yet? Have you?’
“Lairdie spat. ‘What the fucking hell you on about, mate?’
“‘He’s off his rocker.’
“Lairdie spat again. The man carried on.
“‘Blood has found his stone. Have you asked him yet? Have you?’
“‘Let’s leave him,’ I said. ‘He’s not a right.’
“‘Not likely,’ Lairdie said. ‘I’ll make the bleeder dance.’
“‘…Asked him yet? have you?’ the tramp was saying. “‘Blood’s touched your stone. He’s seen a name. Have you asked him yet, have you? Is it your name? Is it your date?’
“A train, a diesel electric 125, came down, splitting the air like a flaming rocket.
“Now Lairdie was angry. He was shouting at the madman. ‘Who’s Blood! Who is he then!’
“‘Have you asked him yet? Here you? Have you asked—’ The train roared so loud my ears felt they’d split too.
“‘Have you asked him yet? Blood’s in his stone. Have you asked him?’
“Lairdie swore and pushed the wrinkled thing of a man.
“He didn’t flinch.
“‘Blood is in YOUR stone. Blood is in YOUR stone.’
“The man’s eyes fluttered oddly. ‘There’s no need to ask him; no need, no need, no nee—’
“Lairdie pushed hard.
“The man went down.
“Into the wheels of an express train.
“I don’t think I saw anything. Not really anyway.
“The only thing that stuck in my mind is seeing something burst under the iron wheels.
“Then the train was gone.
“The tramp was still there. His top half looked alright, but his bottom half—feet, legs, and stomach, had lost their shape. They were just…They were just a mess, things stringing down the track.
“I think Lairdie tried to help. He bent down to the man. And reached out his hand to touch him.
“Strange, but I remember this as clear as day. The man reached up as if he was handing Lairdie something; like a passenger handing a ticket to the collector. Their hands touched, the tramp gave a little shudder.
“He was dead, no doubting that.
“Lairdie stood back. Straight. He’d shut his eyes, and I wondered if he’d throw up.
“‘Lairdie, Lairdie. Come on. Run. No-one’s seen us. No-one’ll know. Lairdie.’ No reply. I shook him.
“‘Lairdie. Please.’
“His eyes snapped open. He stood staring weirdly over my shoulder. ‘Have you asked him yet? Have you?’
“Slowly I stepped back. ‘Lairdie, come on. It’s not funny. Come on. Now!’
“Lairdie looked straight passed me and kept mimicking the tramp’s funny voice, ‘Have you asked him yet? Well have you? Have you? Blood’s back in his stone. Here you asked him yet? Have you?’
“Lairdie was joking. It was sick. But he was only joking.
“‘Blood’s in his stone. Have you asked him yet? Have you? Have you?’
“I turned and ran, with the last words I heard him speak going around and around my head; they still do.
“‘Blood’s in his stone. Have you asked him yet?
“‘HAVE YOU?’”
Hearts Lost in a Vacuum
For KARL EDWARD WAGNER (1945-1994)
“Keep looking,” the bearded man said. “Keep looking. We’ll find the answer in here.”
In Calcutta, home to more than nine million people, three million of those under-nourished, riddled with poverty, with little medical care, there are many deaths. Husbands cannot afford to cremate their wives; parents cannot cremate their children. Corpses are left on the streets for the authorities to deal with the best they can.
The heat quickens the rot and the rot spreads disease. More die.
“Keep looking,” the man said for the God knows how many time. “Keep looking. We’ll find the answer in here. YOU. You can help. Take this razor. Open the bag from top to bottom like this. Now look. What do you see? No. You must use your hands. Like this. Search through it. Pull it apart and look, man, look.”
The problem of the unwanted dead has not been solved. But every month the Calcutta authorities spend tens of thousands of Rupees on collecting the bodies in hand carts; these are taken to local collection points where the corpse is slipped into a large bag made of heavy duty plastic. In the bag is a valve. This is connected to a hose which draws the air out of the bag. The body is now sealed into a vacuum pack; it is airtight and no matter what level of decomposition the body reaches no post mortem juices leak from the bag; it’s airtight and safe to handle.
“Keep looking,” the man said to me. “We can’t waste any more time. Keep looking. We’ll find the answer in one of these.”
Another problem is burning the bodies; the intake is greater than the outtake; so the bodies are stored in their vacuum packs in warehouses situated in the heart of the slums. They are grim, poorly lit places. And all you can see is shelf upon shelf of vacuum packs. The packs are far smaller than you’d imagine, considering they contain sometimes fully grown adults. But the flesh has turned to syrup and the vacuum sealing process draws the plastic around the bodies so tightly that it forms a hard shell. The body itself is compressed into a foetal position.
“An extra month’s wage as bonus for anyone finding it,” the man called repeatedly as we worked in the stinking cavern of a room. “Keep looking. We’ll find the answer.” Occasionally a new employee would join us at the tables. The man who ordered us to, “KEEP LOOKING” would show the new worker what to do. “Use this razor,” he’d instruct. “Put the pack on the table, insert the blade into the plastic, cut along the full length. Then start looking.”
“What are we looking for?”
“You’ll know when you find it.”
The man who tells us what to do has been working here for longer than any of us know. He is tall, very big, built like a bear with light coloured long hair, a beard and a permanent expression that suggests he is remembering something painful that happened to him long ago. Rumours suggest that once he was a writer of strange stories and compiled strange stories of others; that his name is German but he is from some other place. Before that he was a doctor of sorts.
As I stand here I can see him working at his table with the rest of us. He stands in this chamber that is lined with racks of vacuum packs. Set out across the floor are umpteen tables. It is very gloomy; there are more shadows than light. The floor is bare concrete set here and there with holes large enough to insert your fist. These drain the unwanted fluid. And I can see him working. As if his life, or a million lives depend on it, he takes a vacuum pack, runs the razor along it, opening up the plastic. Eyes hard with concentration he sorts through the contents, lifting out sticks of bones that look like the remnants of chicken carcasses. After discarding a searched body bag he’ll sigh as if he really believed that particular one contained the thing he searches for, day after day without a break or holiday.
Inside here, the heat is suffocating; even the walls sweat, great sheets of polythene hang down from the roof beams, for what purpose no-one knows. Most are torn; they move limply in the torpid air. And that air carries a smell so strong it paints itself onto your tongue.
“Keep looking,” he implores. “We’re almost there. We’re almost there.”
I open more packages but the process is more nauseating than I can describe. The feel of bones and putrid meat. The sight of the vacuum packs’ contents, which resemble lumps of brown mud.
“Keep looking, keep looking, keep… Where are you going? Come back, come back! You’ve got to help me. We’ll find it soon!”
I could stay there as easily as staying in a burning building. I ran from it, sick, sick, through and through sick. There are other ways to earn a living. All I wanted was to wash the brown stains from my hands and arms and breath a sweeter air.
Here I work. A waiter in a restaurant in the hills outside the city. The air is cool and sweet. The tables have wh
ite cloths, flowers in vases; customers are elegantly dressed; their skins clean to the point of sweetness, too. As I serve the meals on the open air veranda I can look out down the valley as the setting sun fills the air with a violet mist. It is peaceful with only the pleasant sound of diners enjoying their elegant alfresco soiree.
But all isn’t well with me. The meals I bring out on milk-white china plates resemble the vacuum packs that I used to open with my razor in the warehouse. The contents look the same too. Yet the diners open them, stretch back the plastic flaps and hungrily pull out bones like sticks and brown wet lumps that resemble mud. Chatting happily, looking into their partner’s eyes like lovers, they eat with passion.
And in my ears all I can hear, over and over, are the bearded man’s words: “Keep looking. We’ll find the answer in here.”
Indefatigably he searched for that answer.
Me? I find myself asking: What was the question?
Beside the Seaside, Beside the Sea
Three-fifths of the Earth’s surface is covered by ocean. From sand beach shallows to icy depths where a layer of salt water seven miles thick covers submerged mountain ranges, valleys, and the rusting hulks of sea-choked ships. The sea: The salt-water womb of life. Yet, an alien world of kelp jungles, silver-sided fish, stony-shelled mollusks and boiling, steam-winded whales.
Temperatures vary from a blood-warm surface in equatorial regions to the ice-thick waters of the Arctic and Antarctic. The two trade streams of water. Invisible rivers of warm penetrate the cold. And icy fingers push deeply into the body of warmer seas. Along these currents drift the careless aquatic passengers of the oceans: Jellyfish, weed, kelp, seed pods, the flotsam and jetsam—the living and the dead.
In sweep the currents, with their bobbing free-riders, eventually reaching some coast to deliver their cargoes in the curling foam of surf.
The coastal town hung over the beach, almost lapping the water’s edge. It presented a façade of brightly coloured lights, pulsing their lotus eater’s message into the evening. Crowds drifted along the promenade, occasionally caught in the eddies of smoke-filled bingo halls or drawn by the lure of an arcade, packed with whistling, banging, singing video games.