Treatment
When I first directed this play on the Edinburgh Fringe, something strange happened. Something mysterious and magical and almost beyond our control. We felt we had tapped into a spirit, a feel of the age, very specific to its time. Audiences were shocked, stunned, cheering and weeping. People still tell me how much those performances affected them.
Since then, there have been many productions of Treatment both professional and amateur, most notably at The Gate, The Donmar and for BBC Television. I saw the play again recently at The Finborough Theatre in London, directed by Jacob Murray and produced by Clarissa Young for State of Unrest Theatre Company. It showed me that a new generation could make this play their own.
I'd like to thank the following for their inspiration and commitment to the early productions of the play: Steve Brown, Michael Kingsbury, Ros Goldsmith, Roger Monk, Bryan Oliver, Souad Faress, Katrin Cartlidge, Terence Wilton, Jonathan Stratt. And those involved with the BBC TV film version, directed by Chris Menaul: Gabriel Byrne, Peter Macnamara, Suzanne Crowley.
Jonathan Moore
CHARACTERS
Father Michael
Liam
Rory
Julia
Setting: LondonTime: The present
Performance Note:
The style of this play in performance should be disciplined, physical, poetic, ritualistic. It should be a stylistic contrast between naturalism and heightened ritual. A mimimum of props and sets is best, performed with a maximum of physical and emotional commitment.
SCENE 1
Darkness. Lights up on Father Michael alone.
I didn’t plan anything. Just a freak. The joining together of bread and water. A quiet drink. The real sound of pouring liquid. I’d rather be anywhere else than here. That’s not true. A partial gravitation motion. A gradation.
A thought flow. Nothing too strenuous. However it wasn’t that easy. Or that simple. In fact it was probably the most difficult thing to be involved in. With. Scientific? Perhaps. Emotion? Certainly. Einstein’s skeleton must be very old by now.
Sun thoughts. Thoughts from abroad. Clarity of ignorance. That sort of thing. The usual extraordinary. The peacetime blues. Darkest Africa. That could have been the place.
Or India. Any colony. Brushstrokes. Sound and colour. Blessings from Fathers in foreign lands. The whole landscape of thought. Of course it needn’t have been so linear. A short burst of ecstatic need would have been enough, but time was on their side. Thankfully these considerations bless the paucity of originality.
Moondust. Thought and plague. It could go anywhere.
The music started. Tuning instruments. A concert hall. Endless tuning. The music started. Suddenly I was there.
It blessed me. The flavour of freshness, bathing the skin of the soul in textured eternity. Heed me. Hear this. The certain knowledge of the tragic never fails me. Constant brushes with the daemon, existing endless battles with the vessel. Will the vessel stand up to the pressure of the force passing through it? Atavistic? Possibly. Certain? Yes. It is always with us. I feel the force passing through specially chosen, sometimes exceptionally fragile vessels of creativity, daily. All over the world. Think about it. Think. A truly wonderful thought. As natural as the sun. Simple. Full. I do battle with myself, the fragile container of this need. The all powerful shaper of creation.
Blackout.
Spotlight on Liam.
O Death where is thy victory?
O Grave where is thy sting?
Blackout.
Spotlight on Rory.
Take me right. Down the Bridge on a Saturday afternoon. Fucking head case. Trim lined footwork. Blues on the loose. Blades out.
Blackout.
Lights up.
Seen the price of a season ticket?
Gotta be rich mate.
Or smart, like us.
Blackout.
Lights up.
It can be any type of gear. Speed. weed. We get up and out on it, Flash the ash.
On your bike, mate.
Ash.
Blackout.
Two spotlights. Father Michael in one, Liam kneeling in the other.
A life of crime liberates one from the ordinary. It makes a personal statement of emotional liberty. I find it challenging, refreshing. Blessings, age old and pre-Reformation, Old Testament and Michelangelesque.
Flared nostrils attending Palestrina in the Cistine Chapel. Our own personal glory. A translation of the glory of death.
Why not? A new movement. Terror pianos of guilt.
Striving with the current. How can these multifarious images be enjoyed? Through death? Guilt? I feel nothing.
I feel all. Look at me. Eccentric figure. The court jester of retribution. The drunken porter at the gates of Heaven.
The herald of death with a clown’s mask. You are holy. I bless you and ask you to bless me. I do not contravene your sacred love. I do not risk to question your love. The nature of your complete hell.
I never ask for nothing. Nothing. I am nothing.
Your purity refreshes me. I am refreshed. I see you as a desperate revenger in the grand tradition.
I despise nothing. I see you as an open receptacle. A vessel for goodness. The daemon. Powerful full throttle engines pushing the force in on itself. Nature never moves that quickly. History categorises, love unites.
'Out of the depths, I cry to thee O Lord
Lord hear my voice
Let thine ears be attentive
To the voice of my supplication'
Blackout.
Lights up on Liam and Julia.
Why don’t you trust me?
Do what?
I love you.
It ain’t right. Ain’t healthy.
Blackout.
Lights up on Julia alone.
He never responds fully. He is terrific. Awful. I despise his ignorance. Love his body. His body. He has no real strength. I tower above him. I hate myself for it.
He needs me in his weakness. I respond to that. It’s so complete. So totally satisfying. It’s easy to laugh. I laugh at him. He’s a child. A worthless child. I love him.
Blackout. In the darkness, a drum beat.
Lights up. Liam and Rory. Jagged electric guitar joins in.
White noise. Loud.
Mime fight: The two boys walking along an underpass, staring at the audience. The audience is made to feel like an on-coming pedestrian, caught in the underpass. Flashing light in time with the music – a pulse effect also suggesting a defective, flickering fluorescent light. The boys faces contort in exaggerated delight as in slow motion they mime the beating up of the on-coming pedestrian. Their movements are flowing, passionate, but controlled. Their legs move back as the invisible victim hits the floor. Lights change. The boys now savagely kick the victim in real motion. They both sprint to the front of the stage, left and right, hands in the air, triumphant, screaming.
Oh When The Blues
(Oh When The Blues)
Go Steamin’ In
(Go Steamin’ In)
Oh When The Blues Go Steamin’ In
I Wanna Be In That Bundle
Oh When The Blues Go Steamin’ In
(Repeat once, then:)
CHELSEA! CHELSEA! CHELSEA!
Lights change. Naturalistic.
Three fucking nil. Amazing.
Yeah.
You seeing that bird tonight?
Too right.
What’s the time?
Half five.
Goin’ down the boozer. You coming?
Nah.
Don’t be a prat. What’s the matter? You ill? Overdid it on that Paki geezer, you reckon? Bet he won’t come down Stamford Bridge too often again.
Yeah.
They eat dog shit.
Who?
Them Pakis.
How d’you know?
I seen ‘em do it. That geezer in 56. He comes out of his house. Looks round him, conspicuous like. He never sees me coming. He bends down, licks his lips and tucks in. Burped afterwards.
You bleedin’ liar.
On my life. I had to teach him a lesson. Mind you, they ain’t as bad as them geezers down Arndale Estate. You missed ruck last Friday didn’t ya? About twenty handed we was. They was fuckin’ mob handed. Well, we steamed in right, and I’m in there with some Turkish bastard or something, crunching his bollocks with me boots, when this big gorilla grabs me from behind.
‘Right, you Chelsea wanker,’ he goes, ‘You’re dead.’
So he only gets out this blade, don’t he? Some of us went in tooled up. But I had mine kicked out of me hand by the Turk. I fuckin’ elbowed him in his guts, scraped his shins with the back of me boots. I span round, held his tooled up hand, nutted him. The prat goes down, don’t he? So I’ve had his tool and I’m laughing me head off. ‘OK fat arse, here we go.’ I only lopped his bleedin’ ear half off, didn’t I? He’s going: ‘You bastard, I know where you live. And that bleedin’ brother of yours.’ ‘Oh yeah?’ I goes, ‘You lay one finger on me brother and you’ll be a soprano, sunshine.’ Then I slashed just above his wedding tackle with the tool and we all pissed off. (Beat.) Might see you down the pub then?
Rory exits.
Lights change. Music. Liam and Julia lie together.
I could go anywhere. From here. After Cambridge it seemed pointless to get away.
Want a fag?
Thanks. You’re beautiful, do you know that?
Beautiful? How d’you mean?
Like a god. A statue. A renaissance hero.
Cheers. You ain’t too bad yourself.
Blackout. Music.
Lights up. Father Michael’s study. Father Michael alone.
Liam enters.
Hello. Do you mind?
Certainly not.
I was in the church. I wanted to talk to someone.
Of course. Please sit down. (Liam sits.)
Ta.
Well?
I er – I wanted to have a chat, sort of thing.
What about…? Go ahead.
I used to come regular. With me family.
I stopped coming though.
Why’s that?
Dunno.
I see.
It’s quiet. I like the smell. I like it. You’re new ain’t ya?
Yes, I am new. Well, I’ve been here a year now.
Oh. (pause) I’m sorry I shouldn’t have come.
Of course you should. I’m glad you dropped in. Where are you from?
Highshaw Estate.
I know it. I have a lot of friends from Highshaw.
Pause.
You ain’t old are you?
I don’t think so.
Most Priests are old.
I don’t know about that one. What’s your name?
Secret Squirrel.
I beg your pardon?
Top Cat.
Ah. One of my favourites. I like the theme tune.
'The indisputable leader of the gang.'
That’s right.
Do you like me?
Of course.
Why?
You seem like a nice person.
You’re having me on. I thought priests weren’t supposed to lie?
It’s the truth. I like you. Top Cat.
Top Cat. That ain’t my name.
Maybe not. But I like it.
Don’t you want to know my real name?
Not necessarily. Not if you don’t want to tell me.
Who said I never?
Alright, what’s your name?
Ain’t telling.
Ain’t telling. Interesting. Is it Greek?
Do I look like a Greco? Thanks a lot.
It could be a compliment. (pause) Why did you come to see me?
I needed to talk Father.
Of course. What about?
In there. On me own. Blackness. It’s dark and it smells like people dying all round the world. Like Chelsea on a Saturday. That’s what it smells like. Earth. Turfy, know what I mean? Incense and altar cloth. Then you sit down. On your own. Your head on your body, like your body ain’t there or something. Know what I mean?
I think so.
Feels like speed an’ all.
Really?
Done a lot of that I have.
What?
Speed.
Sorry?
I snort it. Used to. Don’t no more though. You shocked Father?
Not really. Should I be?
I like you.
Thank you.
I was lying. I hate you.
Pause.
What’s the matter?
Nothing. I’m OK.
You wanted to talk to me. Can I help?
No. I just felt like coming in. I walked through the pass door from the church. I was bored. Just felt like it.
That’s fine by me.
Ain’t you scared?
No.
Bet you are. Scared shitless.
I’m not. really.
Well, you should be. You should be terrified, mate. I might have come here to do you.
Do me?
Have your money away. Do the place over. (pause) I bolted the door on me way in. Now you scared?
Do you want me to be scared?
Ain’t bothered. (pause) You ain’t half boring. Can’t you say nothing funny?
Not really.
Watch this. (He turns a cartwheel) What d’you think?
That’s very good.
Bet you can’t do it.
I shouldn’t think so.
You can’t do fuck all, can you?
Pause.
Listen, just calm down. Sit down and we’ll have a chat.
What?
We’ll talk. That’s why you came here wasn’t it?
Oh yeah. Sorry.
Sit down. (Liam sits.) That’s better. Feeling better?
Yeah. A bit.
Now let’s have that chat shall we?
Go on then.
Pause.
Well, are you still at school?
Nah.
Work?
Nah. (pause) Is that all? Can I go now?
If you like. (Liam gets up and walks away.) Do you want to leave your address?
Oh, I see! You want to report me to the filth, you sly sod. Why do you lot always do the dirty, you fucking posh shits? I hate you. (He smashes a chair.)
You needn’t leave your address. Not if you don’t want to. It’s just that I’d like to see you again. I would.
Why?
I’ve told you. I like you.
You’ll go to Hell you will. All these lies.
Will you tell me what your name is?
Why?
I’d like to know.
That’s for me to know and you to find out.
Pause.
I see.
What’s your name?
Michael.
Father Michael?
If you like.
Well, I don’t mind.
Pause.
How long have you lived on Highshaw?
Fifty years. (pause) Where were you before you came here?
Yorkshire. Do you know it?
No, never been abroad. (pause) What’s it like?
Pardon?
Being a priest.
Oh dear, that’s a tricky one.
Do you like it?
Well – yes. Of course. I love it. It’s hard sometimes.
Hard?
Yes.
Talking to geezers like me, for instance?
No. That’s sometimes the best part, talking to people. Trying to help them. (pause) It’s the sacrifices you have to make.
What, like no birds an’ that?
Exactly. And other things.
Like what? (pause) Like talking to people you wouldn’t normally talk to?
You mustn’t think I feel obliged to talk to you.
Liam gets up and walks behind Father Michael’s chair.
I ain’t scared of you neither.
I’m pleased.
I still reckon you’re scared of me. I can see you shivering.
I’m not shivering. Really.
Still, I might mug you. I might have a blade. How do you know?
I don’t.
Pause.
If I killed you now, would that make you a martyr?
I shouldn’t think so.
Why not?
Martyrdom is chosen for the holy.
Hold up. I thought you was the holy.
I doubt it.
All Priests are holy Joes. Don’t give me that. (pause) If you ain’t holy, how can you tell people to be holy? Eh?
That’s one of the hardships I was telling you about.
Oh. I see. Blimey. I see. (He walks around the room thoughtfully.) That’s amazing. So if I had you, I might not go to Hell or nothing?
Not necessarily.
Bleedin’ ‘ell, you don’t know where you stand. Well, thanks a lot. Ta. That’s alright then.
Liam starts to help himself to things in the room.
I thought you came here to talk.
You ain’t very quick are you? That was only an excuse to get in here.
You’ll only get into trouble, really.
Oh yeah? Who’s gonna say anything? You? Would you? I’ll have to see about that, won’t I? That’s fucking marvellous, that is. (Liam hurls things about the room.) You bastards know fuck all do you? I come here.
On me own. Standing at the back of the church. Fucking silent. Bleeding amazing. Not a sound. What can I have away, I thought? Candlesticks. But they’re chained to the floor ain’t they? Paintings. But they’re all nailed to the wall. On me own ain’t I? So I sit down at the back. Kill some time. First time I been in here for two years. Looking around. Stained glass windows. The faces are looking down at me. ‘WHO ARE YOU LOOKING AT, BASTARDS?’ I goes.
I felt like smashing them, every last one. ‘COME ON THEN!’ I goes, ‘DO YOUR WORST, WANKERS!’ They fucking bottled out, the cowards. I knew they would because they’re all posh bastards – nice boys – don’t fight, do they? They’re all in the Bible. They sit up there comfy and nice like those geezers on the telly. Well, they know fuck all. They bottled out to me! I could have taken any one of them. If only I could have got me hands on one of them. It’s like that though, init? They don’t move, none of them, these posh farts. They just look at you and hate you. (pause. Liam looks at Father Michael. Silence.) I know you. I know all you bastards. Try anything to get out of a good kicking. Then when your back’s turned they nick you. (pause)
I’m standing there. Looking round. I catch me breath. I’m feeling good. I’ve offered these saints out and they bottled down. I feel proud. I walk around like I own the place.
I love it. The smell. Incense, candles, paintings and that. You ain’t nowhere. You ain’t worth fuck all. But it don’t matter cos nothing’s moving. It’s all still. There ain’t nothing outside this church, nothing. (pause) I ain’t mad. I ain’t crazy. I know that’s what you’re thinking. That’s what everyone thinks. ‘He’s a loony.’ They stuck me in. All you lot. Them geezers on the stained glass windows. I was inside. ‘For me own health’s sake,’ they said. I ain’t a loony though. They just don’t know me.
Pause. Father Michael gets up, puts his arm around Liam, tries to comfort him.
Give me your address. I want to be your friend. I want to help you.
They put me away.
Who did?
Me Mum. Me Dad. The authorities.
What did you do?
I tried to hang meself.
Pause.
Why?
I dunno.
You’re not working?
Nah. Can’t get a job.
I’ll help you, I promise. No, don’t say anything. I will help you and be your friend.
You ain’t scared of me?
No.
You won’t go to the police?
No. Trust me. Trust me.
Blackout. Music.
Lights up. Rory and Liam.
So this geezer goes – ‘I ain’t a prat, OK?’
I goes, ‘I believe you.’ Then I nutted him.
Why?
He was Spurs, weren’t he? Can’t stand those geezers. You can spot ‘em a mile off. I think it’s the smell. North London stink, ain’t it? Once you’re over the river, say goodbye to civilisation, mate. They should put barricades on the south side. Stop the bacteria getting in. Us lot would still be able to go to Chelsea and that, but we’d keep those North London bastards out. Have passport checkpoints on Waterloo Bridge. Fucking rot sets in the other side of the river. Fuckin’ Houses of Parliament, mate. Says it all. All those wankers trying to bring down the country. We should blow all the bastards up. (pause) Where’d you go today?
Just hanging about. Not much.
I thought you said you was gonna be down the pub dinner-time?
I forgot.
Mick was asking for ya. He ain’t seen you for a while.
He’s a prat.
What? Don’t let him hear you say that.
You ain’t scared of him are you?
Oh yeah. It was you I was thinkin’ about.
Leave it out.
What’s the matter with you? You ain’t half funny these days. It’s that bird ain’t it? She’s turned you into a Zombie mate.
Give it a rest.
She has though, son. What you doing with a bird like that? Butter wouldn’t melt, eh? University birds. Can’t trust ‘em. You need A levels just to talk to ‘em. Mind you, they all go don’t they?
She ain’t like that. She’s different.
How’d you mean?
She’s normal. She ain’t posh or nothing. You can talk to her. About anything.
She’s tasty. I’ll give you that. (pause) She don’t like me though, does she?
What?
She bleedin’ ignores me. Too bleedin’ good for me, I suppose.
She don’t mind you. Not every bird’s gonna throw themselves in front of you.
That’s true. But I’m telling you she’s changed you. You ain’t no fun no more. It’s affecting your football too. First time I seen you bottle out last Saturday.
Who bottled out?
Remember that Paki geezer? You did nothing. Just stood there. If it weren’t for me you’d be tucking into Hospital nosh by now.
Oh, leave off.
I ain’t getting at you. I just reckon you should be with us lot. Know what I mean, Lee?
Yeah, I do. I know what you mean.
Nice one. I’ll tell the lads you’ll be down the boozer, then. Fuckin’ monster good ruck tomorrow night. Friendly with Millwall. See ya.
Rory exits. Music. Blackout.
Spot on Liam, alone.
Thigh deep mud, deep blood. Video shops. Porn houses. Women as mud. Makes you want to cough your guts, pukey and spunk. I stand here. Down the market, sauna – massage parlour. Where’s the beauty? Where’s the hope? Pox faced, clean shirts, posh in their comfy motors. I stand here looking at them. Sacrifice meself, that’s what I’ll do. I can’t hold onto it. Masses of day in day out hate and chips. Vinegar battered pizzas, gristly meat pies, nothing genuine. I want some honesty. For God’s sake! I’m perched. Settled. Balanced between the gift and the grave. The sun and the sane. It’s ME mate! Fucking ME! I’m ME! I ain’t a fucking person you ignore on the street. I’m ALIVE! I’ve GOT feelings! I NEED friends! Sure… Accent? Is that it? The way I speak…? Does that mean I don’t think? Does that mean I don’t FEEL, you bastards? I love you and hate you. I could fuck you and kill you. I wanna show love. I don’t give a fuck what you think. I LOVE YOU! (Screaming) OK? OK? OK? OK? OK? LISTEN TO ME!
Blackout. Music.
Spotlight on Julia, alone.
‘Oh, he’s so strong, so masterful.’ What? I see that. Yeah. There’s something beyond the hackneyed, something real. Terrified. Women are so much more.
We’re expected to be so much more. More understanding, more peace-keeping, more protective. Shit. The amazing thing is he doesn’t expect that of me. He doesn’t expect anything or demand like so many so-called liberal thinkers. Emotional fascists, most of them. Kids. I think that’s why I have him around me. Possibly even love him. First thing, crisp-crumpled in the morning I can love his innocence. His remarkable silence. His tragic death wish. Is that it? I met him at a club. He was standing at the bar with his brother. I looked at him. I wanted him. I felt so horny. The shape of his head, his hair, the line of his nose, the way he stood – struck me. I went to the bar. His brother started some pathetic chat-up line. I felt sorry for him. He offered to buy me a drink. I bought my own. I saw him later on down the front near the band, so I joined him. We danced. I asked him back to my flat. He told his brother to tell their mum where he was. He was amazing. Totally insatiable. An innate sense of timing and touch. It’s his genius. That’s the only word for it. We have a friendship of sorts. He’s at once ignorant and brilliant. I have him around. Yeah. I don’t feel uneasy about it. It’s clean, pure, vulgar and tasty. He feels uneasy at times. He’s a lonely, isolated person. (Beat) Some facts, OK. My father’s a doctor, my mother’s a social worker. I was the Zuleika Dobson of my time at Cambridge. ‘A star’. Big deal. I’ve got over the guilt now. I don’t feel it exists anymore. Nevertheless, I’m still refreshed by his honesty. It reminds me what a bunch of idiots I’ve mixed with most of my life. The public school boys with their patronising please, thank you and fuck you. Their smarmy, all knowing glances across bar rooms. Their pathetic attempts at second-hand eroticism. Their utter fear of women. Their seedy innuendo and seething condescension. Their whiskings-off to country seats and delicately perfumed baronial mansions. Clean aired and functional.
Or scatty, rumpled and studied bohemianism. Roughing it at Cambridge on enormous gifts from their parents.
Sitting on the floor passing round joints and red wine and being ‘real’ with each other in assumed regional accents. And I was such a fool. I was actually impressed by this in my first year. I was so green. I grew up. I realised where I was. I stood on my own feet. I needed no one. (Beat)
Then he steams into my life, as he would call it. I love his cheekiness, his serious wonderment. I like him. He refreshes me.
Blackout. Music.
Lights up. Father Michael’s study. Father Michael and Liam.
It ain’t right.
What?
Me and her. It ain’t right.
Why not?
Well, I’ve – I dunno.
You’ve made love? Is that it?
Yeah.
Pause.
And?
What do you mean… and? Ain’t that enough?
Why do you say that?
We fuck. She fucks me. I fuck her. We fuck.
Pause.
Do you love her?
I dunno.
Do you?
Yeah. Sort of. Yeah.
She loves you?
Course. She says so.
Then what’s the problem?
You should know that. It ain’t the right thing to do. Sex before marriage and that. Well, I mean – I don’t think it’s wrong, it’s just that you lot do.
Us lot?
Priests and that. Church.
Listen, if you love each other and you make love together, then you’re only expressing that love in a natural, honest way. (Gently) You won’t be plunged forever into hell-fire for doing that. It’s not hollow, empty or trivial. You’ve obviously thought about it. You’re not treating it lightly. You love each other. Relax. Treat her with respect. Don’t use her. What more can I say?
Pause.
Do you know something?
What?
You’re alright.
Really?
Yeah. Diamond.
Thanks. Thank you. (pause) Did you manage to read those books I gave you?
Hold up, I only just got them.
Take your time. I think you’ll like them though.
What’s all this for?
Sorry?
All this. I mean, why are you doing it? I’m only a wanker – sorry, a git. You don’t owe me nothing.
You aren’t a… wanker. You’re not even a git. You’re a friend, OK? I want you to be my friend.
Why?
I like you. I want to help you.
I don’t need help.
Yes you do. You need help to open your eyes. You need help to give you strength. To make you unwind, see, feel, understand. Reach out and give. To develop your genius, your gift, your sensitivity.
Bollocks!
Listen. The leader of the gang. You. And your brother. You rule London, is that what you said? You carve people up on the Fulham Road on a Saturday. You run, scream, cut, slice your way to what you think is the truth. Flow with that. But with the energy must come the love, the understanding: the compassion with the passion.
You rule? What kind of strength does it take to do that? Enormous strength. Not just boots and fists, but spiritual strength. Cut away the hatred, develop the love, abandon the destruction, cultivate the creation. Don’t be saddled with other people’s views of you. You are intelligent. You don’t need to express that by causing pain. Teach the people a lesson, yes. But find out the real enemies. Not some stranger on a street corner. Seek out the forces that would keep you in ignorance and destroy them.
We’re ten handed. Walking down the Fulham Road. Me and Rory in front. There’s twenty of them at least. They’ re getting closer. I feel the energy rising. Closer. You can see their faces, what they look like, what they’re wearing. They look heavy. Hard. Rory says nothing. No one says nothing. It’s like slow-motion. I know us lot are secretly shitting it. Even Rory. I can sense that he’s scared, but he won’t turn back. My throat feels like sandpaper, my legs are water. They aren’t turning back. We ain’t turning back. It’s like a fucking Western or something. Closer… High noon. People on the other side of the street stop what they’re doing. Shoppers come out of shops, stand in doorways. Model birds and geezers in porsches stare like dead sheep. No fucking life. Closer…
I ain’t scared. I’m excited. People lean out of windows. Everyone looking at us, like the Albert fucking Hall or Madison Square Garden or something. Fucking star attraction. Really close now. There ain’t no sound. Just blink and you’re there. I’m General fucking Custer. Or Charge of the Heavy Brigade. ‘WANKER!’ someone shouts.
I start running. Closer… closer… closer… BULLS EYE! BANG ON TARGET! My boot’s gone out, flattens someone’s balls. Elbow in the nose. Headbutt in face. Someone flashes out a tool. One of our boys has a pickaxe handle. Bottles come easily to hand. I whip one around this hard geezer’s face – their leader. ‘YOU BASTARD, take that!’ Some geezer’s got me brother on the deck. ‘I’ll have him,’ I goes. Straight in. No worries. I maimed the bastard. Pulled him off, slammed him on the deck, jumped on his head, rolled him over, booted him up the road, smashed his head into a brick wall. ‘Yeah’, I goes, ‘Yeah? That’ll teach you to touch my brother, ballshead.’ They’re fucking bricking it by this time. Only their hardcore ain’t leaving. Their leader, the mouthy bastard, face flowing like the Thames, has this blade and starts slashing around him, cutting up my mate’s face. Me brother gets his blade and slits his fucking cheeks open. When his mates see this they start legging it all the way back down the Fulham Road. (pause) There’s peace now. Quiet. I thought I saw dust and smoke settling, floating down on the pavement. No sound. I look round – some of our mates a bit the worse for wear. But I felt proud of them. I felt so fucking proud I swear I could have cried. (pause) I’m gonna miss it.
Blackout. Music.
Lights up. Julia’s flat. Liam and Julia together.
Where did you get the book?
Bought it.
It’s great, you’ll like it.
Yeah, I’m half way through it now.
What do you reckon?
What?
The book.
It’s good.
Why the sudden interest?
How do you know it’s sudden? I may have been a secret Einstein before I met you.
Maybe.
Liam kisses Julia.
I love you.
I know you do. I know.
He kisses her again.
I love you.
Speak up. Can’t hear you.
Liam kisses her – long.
I said, ‘Hello, mate, how’s it going?’
Pause.
I saw ‘Anarchy’ painted on a tree. On a tree. I was on the bus. I was tired, but happy. I was looking forward to seeing you. Do you know what you’ve turned me into…? Anyway, I was on the bus when I saw this big white circle. I looked closely and saw a big white A in the middle. It was daubed on this huge centuries old oak tree. By the side of the road. I was amazed. I don’t know why. It looked as though it had been painted on painstakingly. This huge immovable oak tree shooting out of the surrounding concrete and tarmac, surviving it, even thriving. Daubed with ‘Anarchy’. ‘Anarchy’ on a tree. Just like that.
Pause.
Yeah. Got any grub?
No I’m out. Got some coffee. Few biscuits. I think there’s a bit of bread left.
Bread? Bread? You expect a man to live on bread alone? What’s going on here? I’m being starved to death by this mad woman. Help. Let me out. Guards. I give in. I’ll tell you everything, just give me something to eat. Something to eat.
You daft bugger.
You know something. You’re mad you are.
They kiss.
Very possibly. Very possibly.
Very possibly? You are. I can tell. I know all about that sort of thing.
How?
Well, when I’m with a mad person my nose starts wobbling.
Oh, come on.
No. Really. It wobbles. A mad person comes within twenty yards and it’s jelly time. I tell you.
You crazy sod.
Do you know what happens when I meet a sexy girl who’s also mad? Seaside rock and jelly. You fancy it?
Doesn’t sound like my cup of tea.
An obnoxious concoction.
What?
An – obnoxious – concoction.
What’s that?
That’s what my auntie used to say. She took us down to Brighton when my mum left home that time. Me and my brother. We went into this café. We had fish and chips. I put salad cream on me chips. I love that. Salad cream and chips. It’s like Mozart, Michelangelo and Chelsea rolled into one. Heaven. So, anyway I put this salad cream on me chips instead of tomato sauce and me auntie goes, ‘What an obnoxious concoction.’ I’ll never forget what she said. I wouldn’t have minded but she thought it was posh and clever to say it. She used to say it about everything. ‘Ere auntie, can I wear me trainers on me head?’ –‘What an obnoxious concoction,’ she’d go. Silly prat.
Do you still see her?
No. I think she married a body builder and moved to Peckham or something. She weren’t even me real auntie anyway. Friend of me mum’s.
Pause.
Do you want to help yourself to some coffee and stuff?
Nah. It’s alright. I’ve got to be going soon.
You’re joking. Already?
Yeah.
Aren’t you staying tonight?
Nah. I can’t. I’ve got to meet a mate of mine. Besides, I’ve got my reading to catch up on.
This happened the other night as well. Who are you meeting?
It’s just a friend. (Light) My advisor.
Oh yeah.
Look, I’ll try and get back. OK? Tonight. (He kisses her.) Look it ain’t another girl or nothing.
I wouldn’t mind if it was. Just so long as we’re honest with each other. Yeah?
Yeah.
Are you going to Chelsea on Saturday?
Yeh. Bit of shopping in the King's Road.
Come on. Are you?
I suppose so. I’m not sure.
Are you serious?
What?
You’re thinking of not going to Chelsea?
Yeah. I may not need it now. I used to. I used to need the place. I wouldn’t have been no use for nothing if I lost it. But I reckon I don’t need it no more. Do you know what I mean?
Have you gone off them or something?
No, I’ll never go off the team. But then again it never was the team though, was it? It was the lads, the atmosphere, the aggro. Something to do. Being a part of them.
I don’t believe it. I thought I’d never hear you say that. Are you OK? I mean, you’re not ill or anything are you? (pause) You’ll be telling me you’ve found a job next. Beat me to it, I can see. (pause) It’s something else though isn’t it? You’re gentler. Not as paranoid. Not as worried? You haven’t turned up here covered in shit and blood for a fortnight. You’re more human. More open, relaxed.
Listen, I’m cutting away the hatred, developing the love, abandoning destruction and cultivating the creation.
What? Where did you read that?
I never read it. You are creation, right? I’m cultivating ya. Simple.
Simple. You bastard. I love you.
She kisses him long and hard. There is a knock at the door.
Who?
I dunno.
Julia goes to the door, opens it. Rory stands in the doorway with a can of lager.
Evening all. This is your local candidate for the wankers’ party. May I enter?
By all means.
Rory enters.
By all means. Ain’t she a lovely little wordsmith?
What you doin’ here?
I like that. That’s the welcome he gives his big brother when he pops round to meet the missus. Charming ain’t he?
How are you?
OK. Bearing up under the strain of success. It’s tough going though, what with the upkeep of the two mansions and my villa in the south of France. Truth to tell, success hasn’t spoilt me. I’m still the fun-loving boy-next-door type you all knew and loved.
You’re pissed.
Hold up, son. What sort of language is that to use in front of a lady? Yes, old man, I’m slightly inebriated. That’s better, ain’t it? Inebriated. Sounds like a ferret with diarrhoea.
How did you know where to come?
You gave the address to Mum on the back of an envelope, remember? In case of emergencies.
But I...
You told her not to give it to no one. Meaning me. I found it in her handbag.
I never said that.
She gets worried about you, staying out all hours with strange women. No offence.
Do you want some coffee or something?
Well, don’t sound too desperate about it, will you? No thanks. I’ve brought me own liquid refreshment. Transportable size. (Drinks) Dear me. How rude of me. Would you like a drop, darling?
No thanks. And listen, I'm not your darling.
She ain’t my darling, Rory. She don’t like that word.
Don’t you? Sorry darling. Never meant no harm by it. Well. Ain’t you gonna ask me to sit down?
Yeah. Help yourself.
Rory sits.
Ta. Well, this is cosy, innit? Must say though, it’s a bit threadbare, ain’t it? Bit under-decorated. Don’t you reckon, Liam?
What?
A bit threadbare? The decor like? (Bright) Mind you, it ain’t nothing to do with me. I’m just an ignorant cunt. Don’t mind me. No offence. ‘Scuse my language. (Long pause) Hold up a mo’. Hold up. Thinks: I get the distinct impression I ain’t welcome here. I get the distinct impression I’ve come at a bad time. Rory, my son,
I think you’ve done a no-no on this one. I think you’re out of order my son. (To Julia and Liam) Sorry, just thinking aloud.
Where you been tonight?
Here and there, son. Here and there. I was in the pub tonight. You weren’t there. Again. I thought you said you would be.
I couldn’t make it tonight, though.
When are you gonna start makin’ it? People are asking questions about you. It puts me in a funny position, son. I can’t keep covering up for you.
Well, don’t then. You don’t have to.
Hold up. This is very rude. We’re taking over the conversation. This ain’t polite. Sorry love. Join in. Tell us a funny story.
No, it’s OK.
Do you mind me being here? Only I can go somewhere else with my brother and have a chat in private if you like.
I ain’t got time. I’ve gotta meet someone.
Oh yeah? Who?
A friend.
A friend? You’re keeping yourself to yourself these days, ain’t ya? I’m your brother, sunbeam. Don’t say a friend like that to me. A friend? What sort of fucking talk’s that?
It’s just a friend. Come on.
Who is it? What you up to?
Mind your own fucking business, you nosey bastard!
I beg your pardon? Would you care to repeat that brother dear? Come on.
Look, it don’t matter. I never meant to get riled. Sorry mate.
The tension relaxes slightly.
That’s better. Come on, let’s go down the pub. You and me. We’ve still got plenty of time.
I’d like to, mate, but I’ve got to meet someone.
Who?
It’s just a mate of mine.
Do I know him?
Nah.
Pause.
Well, this is nice, innit? Nice cosy chat. Can’t beat it. (pause) Doyou know what? They’ve opened up another chinky takeaway by the bus stop. Fucking animals they are. Chinks. You never know what you’re eating, do you? It’s all covered in that sickly sauce. They nick pets and cook ‘em. There’s only one cat left round our place and that’s got three legs. Geezer dies after eating one. On my life. It was in the South London press. OK. Don’t believe me, then. But when you’ve eaten your Chicken Chow Mein from the Fuck Ho Ho Dung and you snuff it, don’t come crying to me. (pause) Yeah. I reckon you should do this place up a bit, give it a bit of a spring cleaning. No offence. Mind you, some people like it like this, don’t they? Only yesterday in Vogue they had a lovely article on how to create a sparsely furnished open plan townhouse. Fucking decent, I tell you. Mind you, I thought you could have afforded a bit better, love. I thought your parents was rich?
Leave it out.
Fuck me, though. If our Mum and Dad had the money we’d be living in Park Lane, son.
Come on, what is it? What do you want?
Ain’t she forward? I’m getting embarrassed.
Why are you so shitty tonight?
I ain’t shitty. I thought I was being witty. And entertaining. I am sorry. Feel short-changed? Want your honest money back? Sorry love. No refunds once the film’s started.
Yeah. But I’ve seen this movie before.
I’m all for re-runs, OK? Good that, eh?
Pause.
Listen, hadn’t you better be going?
No. He’s enjoying our company. He doesn’t always get the chance to talk to such intelligent, witty, entertaining people, does he? Don’t want to spoil his fun. Ain’t I right?
I suppose so. I was late as it was anyway. Alright if I stay here tonight?
Course it is. You sure you don’t want to go?
Yeah. I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.
That’s right. You make up your own mind. That’s more like it. So, we’re going down the pub then?
Nah. Don’t fancy it.
Uncertain pause. Liam and Julia are not sure how Rory will react.
Did you know what would happen if you balanced three thousand ants end to end without knocking them over and fed them on a diet of boiled mushrooms for three years, then a diet of elephant shit for another three while being careful only to drink lager for the duration of the said time?
What?
Nothing.
Liam stares at Rory. Starts laughing. They laugh together.
You mad bastard.
Home game Saturday. You coming?
I dunno.
Course you are. Can’t miss it again. You ain’t been for three weeks.
He doesn’t want to go. OK?
Excuse me. This ain’t nothing to do with you.
Oh yeah? It’s got everything to do with me. I can see what it’s doing to him. All of you lot. He’s not like you. Can’t you see that? He’s trying to get rid of all that shit. He doesn’t have to fuck, drink, tell stories and kill people to make you bastards laugh anymore. Can’t you let him go?
Pause.
Well, well. There’s one thing I hate. That’s hearing a woman swear. Know what I mean? It just ain’t right.
Then why don’t you just fuck off? I don’t want you here any more. OK?
I’m afraid it ain’t that easy. I’m here with my brother. OK? (pause) You’ve never liked me have you? Who do you fucking think you are? Just cos I blew you out down that Club ain’t it? You've never forgiven me for that. My heart bleeds, it really does.
I don’t believe this. What are you talking about? You seriously believe that? I blew you out, friend, and don’t make any mistake about it.
Liam gets up, moves away from them. Goes to the other side of the room.
Just button your lip, darling. I don’t want to insult my intelligence talking to you. I’m delicate like that.
Now. I’ve told you. Shift your arse out of that door.
Are you gonna let your bird talk to me like that?
Just leave it out the pair of you. Stop it.
Come on. Get out. Leave us alone.
Shut your gob, OK?
Stop it.
Can’t you see what you’re doing to him? Just leave him alone. Can’t you just let him go? Just drop it, for God’s sake.
Let him go? What the fuck you on about?
You can’t see it can you? You can’t see the damage. There’s no joy, is there? No hope? Just pride and shit and swagger. You’re loveless. You know that? Now that he’s reaching out and finding love you won’t allow that, will you? You with your close knit Irish London Council House pride. But it’s not pride is it? You’re even ashamed of it.
Is that why you submerge yourself in booze, go out on the stands and the street carving people up? Why don’t you take pride? Pride. For fuck’s sake – you’ve got enough energy to keep London alight for years. It’s amazing. Why don’t you use it?
What is she talking about?
Liam has been startled, shaking during this exchange. He runs into the centre of the room, screaming:
Oh When The Blues
Go Steamin’ in
Oh When The Blues Go Steamin’ In
I Wanna Be In That Bundle
Oh When The Blues Go Steamin’ In
Rory joins in
Oh When The Blues
(Oh When The Blues)
Go Steamin’ In
(Go Steamin’ In)
Oh When The Blues Go Steamin’ In
I Wanna Be In That Bundle
Oh When The Blues Go Steamin’ In
Chelsea! Chelsea! Chelsea!
Liam and Rory start jumping up and down as if they were in a fight. All this is a strange, intense, manically fast ritual between them.
I get my blade out.
Sharp.
I slash it once.
Fast.
I push it in.
Nice.
I pull it out.
Great. I’m great. I’m in there. I pull the bastards balls off. I brain him.
Yeah.
I fucking slash his throat.
Right.
I mangle his skull.
Fast.
I pull. I kick. I shout. I scream. I lick. I fuck. I scream. I burst.
Sharp.
I tear, throttle, maim… Cunt Shit Bastard Arsehole Prick Wankers.
Shits.
Posh telly cunts in the stands.
Slash’em.
Season ticket wank piles.
Murder.
Everyone. Everyone.
HAVE ‘EM OVER!
You’re outside. You’re waiting... We’re mob handed, they’re dead. We’re alive. We’re running techni-colour dream kids. Electra glide in red. The pack that slice. Brainy. Clever, sharp. Run. Riot. Splurge. We’re electric. Electro-magnetic. We travel. Campaigns. Away games. Glory. Death. Blood and Iron. RAGE... SCREAM... RAMPAGE... BLOOD-SPLASH... We leave nothing to chance. We are THE BOYS. The glory boys of death and celebrat-ion. We love what we do. We are passionate. We love people’s hatred of us. WE ARE CHELSEA. The young mentals. The flying squad. The Heaven and Hell squad of London village. RIGHT? YOU HEAR THAT, ARSE-HOLES? YOU AWAKE? THIS IS ME TALKING, LONDON. OPEN UP YOUR FUCKING EARS AND LISTEN.
Liam collapses in a sweating heap on the floor. Silence. Rory, who has stopped halfway through Liam’s outburst, is now staring at him. Julia is pressed up against the wall in shock and fear.
What have you been doing to him?
What?
Didn’t he tell you?
Don’t.
He was inside for his loony behaviour. Me Mum and Dad had to have him put away.
Mad? There is inside some madmen – not me maybe – there's a kind of genius yeh you see 'em in books yeh no one gets 'em and their imaginations and their love burning in their heads so madness is their only escape from the trap that's been set for 'em.
Silence.
What the fuck you on about? Did you do this? Did you introduce him to the art of speaking like a wanker? You bitch. What have you done to him?
Are you OK, love?
I’ve had just about enough of this. Oi, brother dear. Get up. We’re going.
He’s staying here.
I wanna know. I wanna know why he ain’t been down Chelsea the last three games. I wanna know why he ain’t talking to his fucking mates no more. I wanna know why he’s turning into a fucking ponce. I’m his brother. I got a right to know.
There weren’t many of us on the bus. About seven altogether. This old woman got on. No one helped her.
I just sat there, watching her struggle. I wanted to help but I was rooted to the spot. I couldn’t move. It was a mixture of embarrassment and fear. I watched her. She managed. She coped. For no apparent reason I suddenly felt like crying. I felt like weeping for her and all of us. I couldn’t understand exactly why. Then it dawned on me later. She had been rejected – forced to travelling on buses at her age – we failed to help her. Because she no longer produced. She was of no use anymore.
Pause.
Oi, you coming now?
No. He’s not coming. He’s staying here. He needs help. He’s balanced very precariously at the moment and you’re not pushing him over. I’m telling you. You’re taking him from here over my dead body. He’s like me. He needs help, understanding. He wants to be strong, without the death of so much else that usually comes with what we call strength. For God's sake just leave him alone. He doesn’t want to play the manly crap. He doesn’t want to be confronted with cheap images of women that he can wank to. He wants the real thing. And he’s got it, boy. Is that what you’re jealous of? That he’s becoming stronger than you when he admits he doesn’t have to hurt someone just because they’re wearing different colours? Or because they look at him for too long in the pub? He’s told me. He doesn’t need it. So leave, OK?
Pause.
So that’s it? This is what you’ve been saying to her? She’s fucking ruined you, son. I never want to see you again. Do you hear that, you wanker?
It ain’t just her, Rory. It’s me. I’m in the church right. (Getting up) I’m all alone. It smells nice. Heavy black rain outside. I was walking in it. Down Sharp Street. Past the Rose And Crown. I was going nowhere. The pubs were shut. I was bored. I saw the church the other side of the street. Went in. Opened the heavy wooden door. Flowers on the altar. The little red light. Silent. I could hear the rain outside. I coughed. It sounded like God. It echoed round the building. Like it was absorbed by all the wood, all the stone. I sat down. So quiet. I could hear my own blood running through my veins. I got up and went through the pass door. I thought I might nick something. Then I saw this bloke. It was a priest. I started talking. Bit of a laugh.
I was gonna do him. (pause) He talked to me, Rory. He talked to me like no one’s ever done before. He listened an’ all. It’s like it’s all rich and new. Know what I mean? I’m reading, Rory. I’m reading books. Imagine that. You should meet him. He’s like my mate. I ain’t gone all religious or nothin’. It’s just something else in my life. Something new. I don’t feel like a prick no more. Know what I mean?
Long pause. Rory stares at Liam. He goes to him as if to embrace him. Pause.
Wanker.
Rory goes for Liam. Kicks him in the stomach. Punches him. Bangs his head on the floor. Julia tries to stop him. He pushes her away. Rory beats Liam up. Liam offers no resistance.
Fight back you wanker! (Liam does nothing. Rory leaves him semi-conscious on the floor.) Wanker! Don’t you ever show your face down the pub no more! You’re a fucking embarrassment! You fucking tosser!
Get out! (She runs at Rory, grabs him by the collar, shakes him.) You bastard! You stupid bastard!
Rory stares at what he’s done. Lights snap to blackout.
Spotlight on Julia, holding Liam. Music.
Grief doesn’t begin here.
It starts without these things,
It can start in the womb.
Grief doesn’t need encouragement.
Ignorance coughs blood in the air.
Terror pianos of guilt.
His music,
His silence,
I’ve seen him fighting.
He fights nothing.
I feel depressed soul down.
I trust nothing.
I believe nothing now.
Blackout.
Spotlight on Rory, alone.
Take a look at me, right? What do you reckon you’re seeing? Yeah. Me. I’m here. I ain’t dead. What don’t kill me makes me better. I’m strong. I’m hard. I don’t fall easily for lies. Not like him. I can see through their lies. Oxford and Cambridge? You’re poison. Arsenic that eats my guts. Politicians? You’re poison. With your ignorant, empty smiles. Job Schemes? You’re poison. Making me work for bollocks money instead of a decent slab for me graft. Probation officers? You’re poison. You pretend you’re interested but you’re all in it for the money – what you can get. Church? You’re fucking double poison. You lie, you cheat, you turn people into well-behaved wankers. Don’t nick this, don’t smash that, don’t swear or you’ll go to Hell. Well, fuck it. I don’t need that. I fucking reject that shit. I knew one priest who was alright. Father Healy. We played football together. Used to give me fags. He was a good geezer. Not like a priest, know what I mean? If you ain’t thick and don’t swallow all that shit, they use the other way: fill your head full of bullshit and lies and posh books, written by arseholes with rich parents and too much time on their hands. Make you think your life ain’t meaningless so they can give you a false sense of security, then when it’s too late you realise what they’ve done. They’ve turned you into an unthinking wanker. (shouts) They’ve cut your balls off! (pause) Well, they ain’t doing that to me. I’ve made my stand. I’ve chosen to ignore their fucking lies and hatred. I wanna (shouts) go my own way! I know it ain’t gonna be easy. It ain’t easy having people hate you cos of the way you are or because you don’t take their rules. But I’m gonna find it. A better fucking way, my way. I don’t know what it is yet but I’ll find it. I’m gonna stand on my own two feet. I don’t enjoy hurting people, carving ‘em up but that’s the only fuckin’ way I know. I ain’t gonna be soft-soaped and I ain’t gonna be lied to. They’ve offered me their poison. But I ain’t drinking it. They’ve tried to castrate me. But I’ll be in there. I’ll get the knife first and I’ll be in there ON ME OWN. That’s the only way I know. Take a look at me, right? What do you reckon you’re seeing?
Blackout.
Lights fade up. Father Michael’s study. He is sitting down, reading. Music. Rory enters, exactly as Liam did, silent, staring.
Good book?
Sorry?
Good book?
Yes
What is it?
Proust.
What?
Marcel Proust.
Who’s he?
He was a writer.
He ain’t alive then?
No
You mean he’s dead?
Well, yes.
I see. (Pause. Rory stares at Father Michael.) You’re reading a book written by a dead man?
Yes. I suppose I am.
Why?
Who are you? Do I know you?
Why?
Well, it’s a very good book.
I know. I’ve read it.
Really?
Yeah. Surprising is it?
No. It’s just you didn’t seem to recognise the name when I told you.
Does that matter?
No.
I’ve read it, OK? (Rory walks over to Father Michael, takes the book, opens it.) Yeah. As I thought.
What?
Fucking shit.
Why’s that? I think it’s brilliant.
Oh no. It ain’t. It’s irrelevant.
Why?
It don’t mean nothing to me.
Who are you?
Who am I? I’m the bad one. The nasty one. The one who don’t want your shit.
Pause.
What are you doing here?
Oh, I see. You don’t want me here? I thought you lot was supposed to be all welcoming an’ that.
Sit down. Do you want to talk?
Oh yeah. I want to talk alright. There are things I want to talk to you about.
Please do.
Oh fuck. Why are you lot always so nice? Will you stop being so nice please. Do you lot shit or what? I mean, are you human? I’ve often wondered.
What’s the matter?
You are, sunbeam. It’s you I’ve come to talk about. I don’t reckon you’re quite right. I reckon there’s something seriously wrong with ya.
Well sit down and we’ll talk about it.
You’ve got a nice place here.
Thanks.
It weren’t a compliment, China. It’s an insult.
What?
An insult. The way you live. The way I live. They ain’t the same.
I see.
Do you? Do you? I don’t reckon you do. I don’t reckon you understand nothing about me. The way I have to live.
Really.
Yeah. So what are you doing here? Why should you be here, telling everyone how to live? It ain’t right.
I don’t even know you.
Well, you should do. I’m in your Parish, right? You should have visited us. Me Mum’s always complaining about how you never come round our house.
I haven’t been here very long. A year.
A fucking year? Look what that geezer Moses did in a year.
I know.
Yeah. One butcher’s at the burning bush and he was away. He never wasted no time.
Yes, but Moses didn’t have a Bishop breathing down his neck or fund-raising or youth clubs to organise.
This is true. But at least he did what he had to. He had bottle.
Bottle?
Guts, mate. He had guts. You ain’t.
Hold on a minute. What do you want from me?
Now there’s a question. I want some answers from ya.
Go ahead.
Right. I wanna know… I wanna know what you’ve been doing to Liam.
Liam? Are you Rory?
I might be.
I’ve heard a lot about you. I wanted to meet you.
I never wanted to meet you. I just want to know what you’ve done to Liam. You and that bird of his. You’ve taken his soul away. You’ve destroyed him. He ain’t got no guts no more. Guts mate. That’s what he had. I’ve always loved him for that. His bottle. Is that what you’re all so jealous of? His guts? Cos you ain’t got none, he ain’t got a right to have none? Why didn’t you just leave him alone?
Liam came to me for help. Friendship.
Oh, so I never gave him that? Ta.
I’m not saying that. He loves your – bottle – too. But he wants a different kind of friendship. That’s why he came to me.
Different?
He wanted to show his love in a positive way. To you as well. He loves you very much. But also to his girlfriend. He loves her in a different way.
What about you? Does he love you?
I hope so. Yes, I think he does.
Yeah, his love is different. It’s an hard love.
Our kind of love. Just stick with your own cos that’s the only way we can win.
Win?
It’s a battle, mate. A battle for your dignity. For your self-respect. If you lose that you ain’t got nothing. (pause) Look, all I know is, he used to be my mate. Now I ain’t got him. I’ve lost him. He might as well be dead. He might be my brother but he might as well be a total stranger now. Thanks to you.
Rory, be patient with him. He’s changing, yes. But he’ll be able to love you in a fuller, more positive way. Bear with him. He’s just finding his way.
But it ain’t his way, is it? It’s your way and her way. Not his. Just leave him alone, OK? Don’t touch him no more. You’ve done enough damage.
No. I must help him. I’ve got to be able to help him.
Ain’t you done enough? Just leave us alone will you? Leave us alone! We don’t need your help! He’s dead now! Dead! Not alive! He’s dead like the writers you read and the chat you give! You’ve ruined him! Teachers, prisons, job centres couldn’t beat him but you have! Well I hope you feel proud! I hope you’re satisfied!
Rory attacks Father Michael. He beats him up, leaves him for dead. He exits.
Lights change. Liam enters. Tries to revive father Michael. He can't. Lights change.
Father Michael and Liam in separate spots. Music. (Boy Soprano: Pie Jesu, Fauré Requiem).
I speak to you now of love.
I too feel the need for extravagant aggressive genius.
Speak to me of freedom and I will show you
the landscape of truth.
I will take you there.
Sanctus Dominus. Bless me in death.
Et Resurexit…
It matters. Gloria.
I speak to you now of love.
I too feel the way forward through the black.
I trust you to know this beyond me,
Beyond time.
It might not make sense…
Perhaps that is the world’s numb emotion,
Crouched in the womb with a handgun.
I fail to feel the drenching hate of ignorance
I trust to blind myself on the road to light.
Have faith.
The anonymous voice on the intercom.
I have been there.
Fade to black.
Lights snap up. Liam stands in a spotlight with a petrol bomb. Lights fuse. Liam runs forward to throw it towards the audience. Stops. Extinguishes fuse. Music continues. (Pie Jesu, Fauré Requiem)
Beauty, hope.
Here but dead.
Show love here and you’re dead.
I choose the gift.
I choose the sun.
The sane can wait.
He takes off his shirt and pours the contents of the petrol bomb over his head. He strikes a match and is about to light the petrol.
We will win.
We will win.
Hold the light on Liam for a few seconds.
Blackout.
The end.
*Or update to the football songs of the day.