The Australian Connection
The Australian Connection |
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The scene opens on trees, perhaps sunset. The camera pans up through these self same trees, and the crunch of wheelbarrow tyres is heard. We see the bottom half of a wheelbarrow go past (we have a view of a bit of a track). The camera moves a little, following the path of the barrow, and settles on the following scene:
Title:
Kingston, New South Wales, Australia: Saturday 4th November 1997
We are in a quarry. A mechanical digger is being operated and is digging dirt from the quarry floor and tipping it into empty wheelbarrows, which are being moved away by some men. A supervisor stands by.
One man is slow (and drops a bit of the soil) to whom the supervisor says in a sinister voice:
Supervisor
Come on! Hurry up!
Wheelbarrow Man nods and takes barrow away, joining line. The supervisor kicks him, and he sprawls on the quarry floor, looking very frightened.
Change camera angle to from top of quarry, still zoomed in. Zoom out to reveal Lou standing at the top of the quarry, watching what is happening. Lou shakes his head in concern. Removables, by the Manic Street Preachers begins. The camera, in a helicopter, zooms out, and we see the whole of the quarry, and the enormous long line of wheelbarrows leading into it, empty, and the long line coming out full. The helicopter moves along this enormous line, which goes through countryside, along motorways, over mountains, over deserts, through towns, even across the sea, (with the men pushing the wheelbarrows swimming): there should always be two lines, one with full barrows, one with empty ones, going in different directions. The ones with empty barrows can sit in them and paddle if they want, across the sea, but some should sink. The shot fades in and out for each of these scenes, but is from the same angle, to give the impression of the helicopter going the whole way. Then fade out. Removables ends.
Title:
The Band Of Funsters Present...
Title:
A HOKEY Film
(that isn't important)
Mr J's study. Clock ticking in background. The door eases shut, as Peter Vine, secret agent, has just entered the room through a swing bookcase. He stands by the desk in the large room. Mr J is in the chair facing away from Peter on the other side of the desk. It is a grand office like that of M in the Bond films. You know.
Title:
Secret Service Headquarters, West London: Monday February 25 1998
Mr J
Well done, agent Vine. Another mission successfully completed. South America is eternally in your debt for this. And we will never forget it. Can you make the Palace this week?
Peter
Of course, sir.
Mr. J
She's expressed a strong desire to meet you personally, you know. You've made something of a name for yourself. Wednesday morning?
Peter
Thursday would be better, actually.
Mr. J
Alright. I shall talk to the Palace. I suppose that Clinton will have to wait. Oh, by the way, four-three, a new assignment has come up. Trouble with the KGB again.
Peter
Oh dear. How terrible. I had rather hoped I'd sorted them out, sir, after last time.
Mr. J
An unfortunate business, wasn't it?
Peter
Of course, sir. What can I do to help?
Mr. J
We want you, and Ness, acting in a junior capacity, to shadow one of their agents. It's a rather strange case. It will be Home turf this time, but the man we're after's rather a sly operator. One of the best we've seen, in fact. It will be, of course, an AA1 priority assignment, and quite frankly, I would be reluctant to entrust anyone else in the department with such an important brief. But do you think you would be up to a mission of that grading right now? You must be rather tired, after all.
Peter lights a cigarette, looks at Mr J's back as if he is joking. J shakes his head in amazement.
Mr. J
I'm sorry. Stupid question.
He presses a button on his desk and Ness walks in. He and Peter shake hands.
Mr. J
Ah, Ness. Very good. I believe you two have already met several times. Our briefing man will meet you here with all you need to know...
He hands over the map, pointing to a spot on it.
Mr. J
...at twelve-hundred hours tomorrow. The final details are as yet uncertain, I'm afraid, so I can't really tell you any more now. Now, are there any questions?
Peter
Yes. I don't wish to sound nagging, but in briefing for my last mission, I was told, by you, that I would have the use of a powerful new personal combat weapon. That helped sway my decision in favour of accepting the task, yet no such thing was ever delivered to me. Is it ready yet? I am currently rather under-equipped, as you know, since the North Sea incident.
Mr. J
Ah yes. I do sincerely apologise for the delay. We have been having some communication problems vis a vis our technology department, you will appreciate, and I discern that there was some confusion relating the exact nature of the desired weapon, which led to the, ah, procrastination. Of course, in such a delicate situation as yours, this error is unacceptable, and I can assure you that steps were immediately taken to rectify the fault. It will not happen again. I understand our scientific experts have just this week put the finishing touches to the ordnance to which you refer, and by all accounts, our friends in NT4 have surpassed themselves yet again. I would not, of course, seek to steal the thunder of those aforementioned colleagues, and if you wish, I believe one of them would be able to speak to you today on the subject. I personally think you would find it an extremely useful talk. We should be able to provide you with the weapons themselves when you rendezvous tomorrow. Would you like to see Doctor S?
Peter
What exactly is this weapon?
Mr. J
Ah, well. We operate a strict need-to-know policy here, I am afraid. But I am sure Dr. S can enlighten you. Hmm?
Peter
Certainly...
J presses a button.
Mr. J
Ah. Dr. S? Could you come in for a moment? There are some people I would like you to meet... He's just next door. He won't be long.
A mad-professor type enters.
Mr. J
Ah, doctor. So glad you could find the time. Would you be able to enlighten us all as to the precise nature of the fruits of Project F now, perhaps?
Doctor
I'd love to. I think you'll find it... well, incredible. I amazed myself. It should do the job no problem. No trouble at all...
He puts his head round the door, and calls 'Bring it in' or something. Two men, also in scientific costume (you know) drag in an enormous torpedo. They leave.
Doctor
Now will you look at that? It's brilliant! This baby will find and destroy in one even the new Soviet 'Q' class stealth submarines without troub...
J sounds pissed off, a bit despondent even.
Mr. J
Yes... Go away, doctor.
Doctor
Mm.
He winks to J's back, as he leaves, sinisterly. The men drag out the torpedo, which has started to tick loudly, anyway.
Mr. J
I'm... I'm sorry about that, gentlemen. I'm afraid that it looks rather like you'll have to complete this mission armed just with your cunning... And there we must end. I have an appointment with the Libyan ambassador. Be at the rendezvous point tomorrow.
Peter and Alvin leave the room. Mr J spins his chair around to face the camera, and turns on a radio on which the Archers is. He is smoking. Then the camera zooms in on his lap. Shock!!, horror!!, he has a cat on his lap: a stereotypical baddie cat, please, which he is stroking. Sighs deeply (depressed). Fade out to Marvellous by The Lightning Seeds.
Title:
The Australian Connection
An empty field. Peter and Alvin walk into the middle of the field. Stop. Waits a bit. Peter looks around. Looks at watch. Taps watch, and holds to ear. Gets map out. Screws up forehead, and turns map other way up. Painstakingly puts map back in pocket, and starts to walk hurriedly off, then breaks into a run, with Alvin behind. Improbably sized bucket of whitewash falls out of sky, but misses and just splashes his trousers.
Title:
Written by Simon Xanadu
Peter is sitting on a park bench (with smart suit but paint-splashed trousers), next to Alvin, who sits next to Peter, looking shy, for the whole scene. Peter is reading a newspaper. Shot moves to Peter's POV. A man breaks from the bushes behind them (Peter and Alvin ignore this) and sidles up, his trousers ripped a bit by the brambles, with some still clinging on. He sits very close to Peter, and opens a broadsheet newspaper across the two of them.
Paper Man
Ssshh!
He takes all this very seriously.
Paper Man
Your mission, should you choose to accept it...
He looks proud.
Paper Man
... is to trail this man.
Points to part of the paper which says 'Mr John Neville - is he a spy?'.
Paper Man
Mr Neville - Mr John Neville - is the man we suspect is behind the recent KGB operations in the area.
Peter
You don't mean...?
Paper Man
Yes. It's Operation Codfish. Now, this man is ruthless. He has built up a large network of spies, particularly in the Reading area, and he has infiltrated some of the most secure government departments in the country. Mr Neville, as a caterer, is in a very good position to gain access to state secrets. No-one at the fisheries ministry, for example, was suspicious of just another caterer - but by the time someone smells a rat, the person concerned is always long gone. One man is single-handedly responsible for the almost-total erosion of our merchant navy. And that wasn't the worst thing. Last year, at the flick of a button, every community nurse in Reading defected to the Soviets. Eight hundred and fourteen separate government departments have contracts out on his head. J wants this man. It will be your job to find out all you can about Mr Neville and his accomplice, Mrs Neville. And we need details before we can get the Under-Secretary's permission to 'deal' with them.
Looks sinister.
Shot of park bench. People walking past, looking oddly at Peter and Paper Man. Alvin sitting next to Peter v.self-consciously.
Peter
Ah, I see. One of those missions.
Paper Man
It's a filthy job, but someone's got to do it.
Paper Man looks tough. Peter looks pained at the cliché.
Paper Man
J. selected you specially. But I expect you know that.
Shot back to Peter's POV. Peter is 'getting down to business'.
Peter
I'd assumed as much. So how should I proceed?
Paper Man
You will follow standard procedures for this sort of op. We can't risk a leak here. You're going to be on your own ... again. The code name here is...
Gets out dictionary and flicks through it - stops somewhere in the middle. Peter begins to grin. Paper Man scowls at him.
Paper Man
ANTICIPATION. You have three weeks. We need to know this man and his movements better than he does himself, and you're the only man - men, who can find this out for us. Here is his last known address. That is all we have, so you are on your own from here on. Your country is counting on you. As usual, if you are caught, the organisation will disavow any knowledge of your actions.
Looks really pleased with himself.
Paper Man
And now my orders are to destroy this evidence. Good luck, four-three. Oh, and you, Alvin. Wouldn't like to be in your place!
He grins, gets out a lighter and starts to ignite the paper. He notices his trouser leg has started to smoulder a bit, as a result., and he has to pat it out. The paper is ridiculously on fire, with massive flames.
Peter throws the paper on the ground and stamps on it. Crowd of people watching. Peter (& Alvin) and Paper Man set off in same direction down street, ignoring people. Peter nudges Paper Man. Paper Man turns around and goes other way - v. conscious of people watching him. Breaks into a run. Camera follows Paper Man for a bit then pans around, past people, and stops on Peter - similar reaction. Peter starts to run. Fade out.
Title:
Reading: Two days later
Peter is in a urinal, standing peeing next to John Neville. When Neville finishes, totally unaware of Peter, he does up his flies and leaves. Peter follows him out, and the camera goes along behind Peter. Peter narrates as he walks along shadowing the man, Neville.
Peter
Well well! Another day, another mission. Having traced my suspect to North Reading, I had left my competent, but noticeably less able sidekick, Alvin Ness, at the library, doing some background research. I didn't really trust him to maintain surveillance on his own. This man was a real expert, and keeping tags on him twenty-four hours a day proved more difficult that even I had first imagined. On the third evening his wife stopped letting me into their house. I was beginning to worry. By the end of the week, however, things were looking up. I had rented a room in their house, posing as a lodger, and on my eighth day of surveillance, events took a very strange turn...
Peter has just come out of the loo, and the camera catches sight of John just disappearing. Peter hurries after him. Cut to Peter following John into a chip shop, and queuing behind him. John orders fish and chips, and sits outside to eat them. Peter orders the same for himself, and sits opposite John, outside. He tries to look discreet. Neville glances at him a bit strangely. Once he has finished, he notices the papers his chips are wrapped in. He raises his eyebrows. Cut to picture from Peter's eyes - Paper reads 'Top Secret Governmental Document. Do not Read.' Fade out while Peter is reading the document - going 'ooh' and that sort of thing. It ends as he turns the page...
A Party. Trickbaby's Indie-Yarn plays - lots of people dancing to it. Peter walking around while narrating. People turning their backs to him. Everyone's wearing party hats, etc.. There are also some young children there, for no good reason. Again, Peter is narrating.
Peter
I could see that the document which had fallen into my hands was unutterably important. Something big was going down. Bigger than me. Even bigger than J. Enormous. And that's big. I didn't think that it was anything to do with my present mission, either. What was it? Sadly, what looked like the most vital pages were sodden with vinegar - can't resist the stuff - and I had to throw much of it away. I actually knew next to nothing that was useful. But luckily for me, the Covert Operations Branch was holding one of its 'getting to know you' ice-breaker parties, and I was sure that a few carefully placed questions should get me what I wanted to know. ...Unfortunately, I couldn't quite manage to attract anyone's attention. I left early.
Peter walks out of the building (a village hall with party balloons festooning the door), and over to a streetlight, where he lights a cigarette. There are CIA sedans parked right up the road. He looks up and the camera sees a silhouetted figure (Lou) with a corked hat appear on the other side of the road. It has no elbows. (All will be explained later, sort of.)
Flashback: Public toilet again, except this time Lou is standing at the urinal next to him, turns to him, and winks.
Lou starts to cross the street. His shoes make loud echoey footsteps.
Flashback: Chip shop again, except this time Lou serves him, turns to him, and winks.
Lou looks up (he has been wearing a hat and looking at the ground in X-Files or The Third Man style.)
Lou
You're here at last. Come with me.
Peter
What? Why should I do that? Who are you?
Lou
Trust me. I am a friend. And you need one. You don't... you can't know what's going on. But we can't talk safely here.
Peter is a bit amazed, and slightly cross.
Peter
What? Here? Don't you know that... that half the secret service agents in the country are having a party in there...
A woman walks past, looking at Peter. Peter smiles awkwardly, and looks a little embarrassed. Peter realises and whispers...
Peter
This is the most secure place in the country.
Lou
Of course we know. But for what we must discuss, this is the least secure place in the country.
Peter
Alright. But no tricks, OK? I'm watching you.
Lou
You won't have realised this, but...
Cuts back to Lou putting some playing cards in his pocket. (without any elbows, please)
Lou
...we have known about you for a long time. Longer than you'll guess. We have been watching over you with great care.
Flashback: Peter's Childhood. He (the child, but obviously Peter) chases a ball in front of a big black CIA style limousine. Lou suddenly picks him up, appearing out of nowhere, and puts him on the pavement. Remember that Lou hasn't any elbows, please.
Lou
We had to be certain. Look, your present mission...
Peter
I'm afraid I can't talk about that. It's classified.
Lou
You're shadowing a man called John Neville. You think he's a Russian agent. Your boss has told you that he has infiltrated several governmental departments, and is seeking to subvert the entire workings of the state. He has told you that you are the only man who can stop him, and that it is your patriotic duty to do so.
Peter is agape.
Lou
This is not the case. Neville is nothing more than a caterer. Your boss J. knows that you are his best agent and he wants you out of the way. There's a bigger plan. And he's involved. You can't trust J. Some governmental papers will have come into your possession recently, so you will know much of what you need to know already. You have read them, of course.
Peter
Erm, yeah, sort of. But, look! Hang on a moment! You'd better tell me exactly what's wrong. I'm not walking blind into anything.
Lou walks into lamppost, picks himself up, goes on the same.
Lou
Alright. But you must understand that this mustn't be repeated to anyone under any circumstances. ...Australia's in trouble. Big trouble.
Peter
What's wrong?
Lou
It's not... wanted any more.
Peter
What?
Lou
It's going to be... removed.
Peter
That's ridiculous. How?
Lou
I can't tell you how.
Peter
You mean you don't know?
Pause
Lou
I can't tell you how. Or why. But I can tell you where. Woking. Surrey. They're building a huge hill. Constructed from the waste of an equally huge hole, presently being dug in Australia. Kingston, New South Wales.
Peter looks a bit puzzled.
Lou
Don't worry. You wouldn't know it. In a couple of weeks, the critical point will be reached. Gravity will have been changed sufficiently, and Australia will simply float off into space. Up to eighteen million disappointed viewers.
Peter
But... that's silly. That can't happen!
Lou
It is going to happen, Peter.
Peter
But... someone would have seen the hill! That's stup...
Lou
It's a covert hill.
Peter
Oh.
Pause.
Lou
We can't...
Peter
Who's we?
Lou
I can't tell you that. But we cannot interfere. You must. And you must succeed. And you have no more than three weeks. Good luck, Peter Vine. Now I am afraid I must go. Security has been compromised too much already. Nowhere is safe nowadays.
Peter
Oh, I blame television.
There is a stony silence from Lou. Peter looks embarrassed.
Peter
Umm. But... what should I do?
Lou
I can't tell you. But you are resourceful and intelligent. We made sure of that. You'll find a way. I'll see you again.
Peter
Where? When?
Lou
Don't you worry about that. It's Lou, by the way. Lou Smithson.
He gets out a folded piece of paper, and hands it to Peter.
Lou
I suspect that you will be able to make use of this man at some point. Ensure you make contact.
It reads 'Giles Gilbert'. Zoom in on Peter looking thoughtful putting the piece of paper in his pocket, then zoom out and Lou has gone. They have walked into the middle of a large field: the village lights are one side and the sunset on the other so there is nowhere for Lou to have hidden - but he has. Fade out.
Peter narrating as he walks downstairs in the Neville's house.
Title:
Friday 1 March
Peter
On the Neville case, things were becoming increasingly difficult. Mrs. Neville, the suspect's wife, wouldn't allow pets in the house, and my dog Jess's kennel bills were mounting up. I had to crack this problem quickly. I didn't believe for a moment all of what that strange man had told me last night, although he did know an awful lot about me and my work. But I was sure that I could trust J. and that Neville really was a KGB agent. The papers leaked to me were forgeries. I wasn't going to take the bait.
Peter enters breakfast room. Mr & Mrs Neville are eating breakfast. Mr Neville is reading The Daily Telegraph and Peter notices it. To camera he says, pointing to the paper and shaking his head:
Peter
It's just a cover.
The camera pans across to Mrs. Neville reading a copy of The Socialist Worker, banner headline: 'More Stray Dogs discovered in Woking - conclusive proof of Capitalist Menace finally revealed'
Mrs. Neville
Good morning, Mr. Vine. Did you sleep well?
Peter
Very, thankyou, Mrs. Neville. Busy day ahead?
Mrs. Neville
Oh, I don't know about that. I'm just doing a bit of spring cleaning, but John's away for a couple of days: he's got to go to Finland again.
Peter
On business?
Mr. Neville
Yes, that's right.
Peter
Such a pain, isn't it. You wouldn't have thought a caterer would have so many far-flung calls on his time, would you?
Mr. Neville
Oh, you know how it is. Things keep coming up. Apparently, our 'Granny's Own' Delicious Diet Digestives' sales, our top-selling product, have taken a nasty knock because of cheapened whitebait availability - funny sort, these Scandinavians, Whitebait's just the thing with a cup of tea over there, and we need to do something before our market share drops too low, apparently. The boss is resolute that I go immediately. The same old story. Right, love, better be going. See you, Mr. Vine.
Phone rings. Mrs. Neville answers.
Mrs. Neville
The boat's waiting, John.
Mr. Neville smiles embarrassedly.
Mr. Neville
Boat. Yes. Better go. Bye.
Peter
Don't forget your passport!
Mrs. Neville
He won't need... er... he won't need his... er... face flannel. He was worried about it before. But they have them in Finland, you see. Ahahahaha... Ahahaha.
Mr Neville rushes out the door.
Peter
Erm... Mrs Neville...
Mrs. Neville
Yes?
Peter
I don't suppose you happen to know if... if your husband...
Mrs. Neville
What?
Peter
Nothing. Don't worry about it.
Pause.
Peter
What do you think about communism, Mrs. Neville?
Mrs. Neville
Please. Call me Kolya.
Peter
Kolya.
small pause.
Peter
What do you think about communism, Kolya?
Mrs. Neville
It rather depends what you mean. Marxism, Marxism-Leninism, Leninist theory, or just the cruder Stalinist application? Are we talking about Maoist Chinese peasant based systems, the autocratic states of post-war Africa and Latin America, Cuba, the kibbutzes of Israel and the middle east, the semi-Western integrated post-Stalin Soviet regime, or the Marx defined realisation of socialism? Or do you mean...
Peter
Erm... just... just Communism. Big C. Big Brother. Evil. Morally bankrupt?
Mrs. Neville
Well, any free thinker must agree that as a fundamental morality system, it has a more logical, if brashly material starting point than the Christianity of Western civilisation, or the polytheistic beliefs of the East. While one has to agree that the dialectic isn't perhaps as rigorous a scientific principle as Marx or Hegel would have you believe, it and the entire creed is supported by observed scientifically and economically rigorous phenomena in a way that a purely spiritual sense of morality is not, which makes intelligent and of course externally intelligible judgements easier to draw. And Marx's failure to prove the inevitability of a proletarian revolution, if you agree with some, is no better a reason to proscribe the faith than the blow dealt to Christianity with the non-arrival of Judgement Day. Although flawed, Marxism contains large tracts of good which humanity would be unwise to ignore. Similarly, Lenin was a truly good man, working against great oppression and resistance for what he believed was the good of the people, and if you have no interfering and stultifying theological beliefs, capitalism is full of contradiction and is inherently and unjustifiably unfair. While Communism is attacked by its critics for its bleak view of human existence, in a way, religions are worse, suggesting an external force is necessary in order for one to achieve real happiness - this is for many too close to an excuse for evil. It was only a shame that Stalin was corrupted by power, damaging the Soviet reputation, and that the US/USSR power games of the immediate post war period led to the infringement of human and civil rights in both countries and their satellites. But today, I believe that Russia and the renewed Soviet Union with the Motherland at the helm will once again triumph over the odds and regain its rightful, inevitable place as world leader, immediately before the onset of a true communist society.
Pause.
Mrs. Neville
Oh dear, is that the time? I should be at the Post Office.
Peter
I... I'll wash up.
Mrs. Neville
We really will have to buy a dishwasher. Bye-bye, then.
Peter narrates, turning to the camera, but still sitting eating breakfast, as he talks. He stops to eat toast, drink tea, etc. occasionally.
Peter
So. I would have to go to Finland right away. I had better tell Alvin, bring him with me. A job for two, eh? NO. No! I didn't have to go. Quite the reverse. It was imperative that I stay. For suddenly it all fitted into place. What that mysterious man Smithson had told me was true! My hosts obviously had nothing to do with the KGB. They were just innocent caterers. I could always tell, after a while. It was a sort of knack I had. Something in the way they walk. Damn useful in the secret agent business, I'll tell you. But I wished that Neville was a spy. Because the fact of his innocence told me Australia was really in danger, the covert hill was real, and, worst of all, Mr J. was a double agent. He had to be after the lies he'd told me. And I'd drunk port with that man!
He shudders.
Peter
There could be no other sensible series of events behind the motive which caused me to be sent on this wild goose chase. John Neville was going to Finland and J. knew it: with a boat every two weeks, and a crossing of several days, it was the perfect way to get me out of the country. I wasn't going to take the bait. But I couldn't trust J. And that could go for anyone else in the department. I wanted to tell Alvin, but I could no longer be sure that even he was genuine. Almost all of my colleagues in the security services had to be implicated somewhere in this dreadful plot - they would all just have to know too much. Longstanding acquaintances might have been subverted years ago for all I knew. This plan for Australia was possibly the biggest ever threat to the world, (again!) and although I could afford no mistakes, I could trust noone.
Pause.
Peter
I decided to consult my psychic.
Peter gets on a bus, and it drives off. Small pause, then another bus screeches around the corner, same route number. Cut to passengers sitting terrified inside. Cut to speedometer hovering above 50 mph. Cut to peaceful country lane. Traffic policeman standing by 30 sign. Cut back to bus. Passenger's POV, sees policeman by sign. Cut to speedometer again. Policeman walks into road in front of bus, cut to explosion filling screen.
A dark room. Old woman (the psychic) is sitting at one end of a long table, with a big mound of seaweed on it, also crystal balls and some playing cards, which she picks up and expertly shuffles a couple of times. She is very old and haggard. Gypsy clothing. Television is on in the corner: she is watching Neighbours. Volume annoyingly loud.
Title:
The High Street, Reading. The business premises of the renowned psychic and all-round family entertainer, Lindsay Davis: Afternoon
The psychic is playing that childrens game where you fold up a bit of paper and stick two fingers off each hand in it, then open it in and out, and pull up the corners to see what's written inside.
Peter
Hello, Lindsay.
Psychic
Ah! I knew you'd come during Neighbours.
Peter
Well: I made an appointment, didn't I. Of course you knew.
Psychic
Bastard. You don't get many gags, you know, as a psychic.
Peter
Apart from in the stage act.
Psychic
Yeah. Apart from that, of course.
Peter lights a cigarette.
Psychic
Don't smoke, please. It makes my eyes water.
Peter
Sorry?
Louder
Psychic
Put the fag out!
Over noise of television...
Peter
Look, can we turn this off?
Psychic
No. It's good. I'm watching it.
Peter
Alright. Look. I need your help.
Psychic
I knew you'd say that.
Peter
Shut up. I've discovered something terrible. It's... it's very delicate. Umm. Can I be frank with you?
Psychic
You can be whoever you like for [sterling]70 an hour.
Peter
Will you be serious for a bloody moment! The safety of the whole world is at stake. You don't understand how important this is.
Psychic
It sounds like a matter of some gravity.
Peter
If only you knew.
Psychic
I am a psychic. But it looks to me like you've got trouble with a conspiracy. You've noticed by now that your boss J. is a double agent...
Peter
But how did you...
Psychic
I am a psychic. But anyway, cliched situations only become cliched situations because they happen a lot. And you should never trust a man who won't tell you his whole surname. So, tell me what you know...
Fade out, fade in. The psychic's still playing the silly game.
Psychic
...Frankly, there's not a lot I can do for you. I could give you some aspirin if you want, and I've always found Beecham's powder is good for that sort of thing. But you're best off just having a good lie down. Take the day off.
Peter
But... but...
Gives up protesting...
Peter
I do feel a bit off colour actually.
Psychic smirks.
Peter
Alright. Thanks. See you, then.
Psychic
Ta. Bye.
Peter drives 'home'. As he goes along, he drives through a bomb-flattened area (where the bus blew up) and a crooked 30 sign. There are two lines of boots on the road, stereotypical after-explosion remains. Peter doesn't appear to notice.
Peter goes into the house with the Nevilles where he is lodging. It is dark outside. Walks past open kitchen door. Mrs. Neville there with enormous oversized transmitter and Morse tapper, tapping out message. Peter looks in, smiles, waves. Kolya replies in kind. Peter goes on up to his room, looking tired, lies down on bed. Closes eyes.
Strange effects, all swirly. He is stood there. Then suddenly he is through that, and standing in a garden. Realises he is dreaming (slow dreamy motion? children chanting nursery rhymes? Black & white.) Big sign, saying 'You are Dreaming'. He concentrates hard on a spot of lawn in front of him. Sheep appears. Smile turns quickly to expression of horror. he murmurs to himself.
Peter
I really need to see a psychiatrist some time.
He turns around: a psychiatrist is standing there. With a hat on.
Peter
Hello!
Then, suddenly, he is transfixed by horror: aghast, looking at the psychiatrist, who looks back curiously and starts making notes on a clipboard. Peter runs away. Psychiatrist takes out mobile phone, dials number.
Psychiatrist
Yes, quite mad. He's imagining psychiatrists... Oh damn!... He's sto
...and disappears.
Peter is running along: some people are looking a bit strangely at him. All wearing hats. There is a big river of blood in the gutter of the road, and it leads around a corner up a hill, which Peter goes around. There's an enormous pile of hats in the road moving slowly towards him like a glacier, and people's legs are sticking out from under it. Peter is terrified. He runs along, into a house. Big table, with a big hat on it. Peter is totally taken with horror. Falls backwards in faint.
Cut back to eyes flickering, and he wakes. There is a bulge on his chest. He pulls up duvet and looks underneath. Pulls out hat, screams. It is light outside, streaming through the window.
Downstairs telephoning psychic next day.
Peter
Hello: can I speak to Lindsay? No, I haven't.
Pause
Peter
Oh. Hello. How are you? Alright?
Psychic
Well, not too good really. I talked my way into a gig at the local club for next week last night: and I just know this could be my big break, but what goes and happens? Writer's block. I need some new material, something fresh - but I can't think of any. It's hopeless. I knew it'd happen.
Peter
Yeah, yeah, and you can't see any gags coming in the near future, either?
Psychic
I wasn't going to say that. What's the problem this time, then?
Peter
Yeah... I had that... that strange dream... nightmare, again, but... stronger than usual. I think, no, damnit, I know it's relevant to my... Australian problem, although I couldn't really say why. And I'm no closer to an answer there. Or even a proper question. Time's running out.
Psychic
It might be something to do with your sinuses, you know. You should see your GP.
Peter
I'm coming round. But my cold's gone, actually.
Psychic
I knew it w....
Peter slams the phone down. As he passes the kitchen, Kolya is standing by a whiteboard with a plan of Downing St., and bombs & stuff. Other spy types are sitting around.
Peter
Nice day, isn't it!
Spy types dive under kitchen table.
Mrs. Neville
Sunny periods in the morning, but in the Central London area drizzle and showers will set in, turning into heavy mist by dusk. Probably.
Peter
Right... Well, I'll be off then.
Shot of getting on bus (same as before).
Psychic's house. She is sitting there, watching Home and Away very loudly, playing Snakes and Ladders with herself, and writing down the dice scores. As Peter comes in he delivers the first line quickly to anticipate her.
Peter
You thought I'd come? You were expecting me?
Psychic
I knew you'd be like this.
Peter
You have no idea how much you can piss people off. Someone's going to kill you one day.
Psychic
I'm not afraid to die: it's just that I don't want to be there when it happens.
Peter
Ha ha. Been reading your Woody Allen then...
Psychic
You've heard it before? I would ne...
Peter
One day I shall lose my composure and you will be so sorry. I can kill with my bare hands, you know.
Psychic
I fear you'll never strike a happy medium, Peter.
Peter
I'm not rising to that. I need to save the world here. I haven't got time to swop jokes with a psychic. Especially ones stolen from Woody Allen.
Psychic
Yeeees you have! I listen to you.
Peter
I pay you.
The psychic opens her purse, etc.
Psychic
Here's a tenner. My dog's got no nose.
Peter
Give up. Shut up. Now look. Hang on, can you turn that off?
Psychic
No!
Peter
Alright. Look, I had the hat dream again. But it was much more real. I'm afraid to go to sleep. When I woke up, I found this...
He gets out the hat which was on his bed. His hands tremble as he lifts it to show her.
Psychic
Oh, you probably just went to sleep with it on. I do that with my glasses all the time.
Peter looks at her sternly.
Peter
It's quite taken my mind off the Australian problem, and I can't afford that.
Psychic
Probably not. Oh, hang on a minute. I know. I've had enough with this dream of yours. We'll get to the root of it, you'll see. It's the only way to stop it. Wait there a second would you, there was this book I got out of the library. Yes, look, this is it.
The book, very old and dusty, obviously not looked at in years, has a picture of Paul McEnna flicking his fingers and grinning, called 'Anyone can be a Hypnotist' She flicks through it and settles on one page.
Psychic
Regression hypnosis. I'll give that a try, if you want. You never know. It might help. It could be linked to your Australian problem, too: in my experience these things generally are.
Peter
Fair enough. I'll try anything.
Psychic
Have you got your gavel?
Peter
Eh?
Pause.
Peter
Oh, shut up.
Psychic
Sleep!
Pause, clicks fingers, adopts the pose on the front of the book.
Peter
Didn't work then.
Psychic
Just joking! I didn't really think it'd be that simple. Never judge a book by its cover, eh? Oh, never mind. I've got a surefire method in reserve. Always works for me. So lick this. I would have thought the effect'll be about the same.
He does. Nothing is happening, when...
Psychic
Hang on. Sorry. It was a stamp. I thought it was a bit cheap for acid. I'm not sure it'd work, anyway, actually. It's not really the way Paul McEnna suggests.
Peter
You wanted Class A and got First Class, eh?
Psychic
Hang on, I'll write that down. We could go far, you and me. How about it?
Peter groans, regretting what he's said
Peter
Please just forget I said that.
With a cheery smile...
Psychic
I never forget. It's like elephants. Have you got any Tipp-ex?
Peter
I've got a rubber somewhere here.
Psychic
Probably not much use. But I think I've got some in a drawer. Yes, this should do. Sniff this.
He does. Swirly effects as he passes out?
Alvin is reporting to J , who sits behind a big desk, facing the wall. J appears to be smoking, and progressively larger clouds of smoke waft up from his seat.
Alvin
Sir. Permission to be frank?
Mr. J
Permission granted. Ahem.
Alvin
It's not going well, sir. Vine did alright at first. He always does. He's become a lodger in the Neville's house, and has been observing them around the clock. But I haven't had as much success with my bit. And no connection to known Soviet agents yet at all. None. I've looked over all the documents I could find - Police records, medical records, library records, even The Phone Book, but nothing.
Mr. J
You mean...
Alvin
Yes. They're almost certainly ex-directory. But these commies always are. I'm beginning to despair of ever finding any evidence. It's like banging your head against a brick wall. Are you sure this isn't a wild goose chase you've sent us on, sir?
Mr. J
Rubbish. Of course not. This is the most serious threat to world security since Ronald Reagan. We have obtained information to the effect that the Russians are infiltrating our television network with their own propaganda, slipping their subversive ideas into everything we hold dear.
Alvin
Really?
Mr. P steps from the shadows and reveals himself. Very sinister. Younger than J. He is wearing gardening gloves and wellies. There is a miaow from under his jacket, and he gives the cat hiding under it a sharp bang. It squeaks then is silent. He has a piece of 'Somerset farmer' straw in his mouth.
Mr. P
Yes, really. Whilst certain of our operatives were trawling through the archives of the BBC, they came upon evidence of this grand conspiracy - subversive Russian agents had been implanting subliminal messages into the most popular shows of the times - subliminal messages it took a trained eye to spot. However, it was in an episode of Dad's Army first broadcast in 1968 that these spies made their fatal mistake. Our highly skilled agents smelt a rat when they saw that, upon rather humorously falling into a water filled ditch, Private Pike was heard to say...
Looks down at notes, reads.
Mr. J
'Ooh, Mr Mainwering, how much better this life would be in the workers' paradise of the Soviet Union. Oh! would that it were that we might rise up and overthrow our capitalist oppressors in the glorious and inevitable proletariat revolution, thus liberating the masses into true freedom!'. This small slip might have passed us by if the whole cast had not then proceeded to sing the Soviet National Anthem. Twice. In this, the foolhardy Bolsheviks had made their fatal mistake.
Mr. P
It has taken us less than thirty years to narrow down the search to the caterers at the BBC - who we now believe drugged the tea of the scriptwriters with various hallucinogenic narcotics - and, although we have to thank them for the many hilarious plots this activity caused, this allowed them to slip in unacceptable socialist dogma. We know that Mr Neville was to blame, and we are confident we will catch him in the act, as it were. This is where you come in, Alvin, and we are grateful for your help.
Alvin
I don't believe you.
Mr. J
No, we really are grateful for your help.
P looks in a slightly annoyed way at J, who cringes a bit.
Mr. P
Don't be silly, Ness. You have to believe me. It is vitally important that you do.
He steps back into the shadows and nods to J as Alvin talks.
Alvin
I haven't said anything to Peter, but I've been suspicious from the start. And you've just made me certain. Dad's Army began in 1971. I know something's going on, and I know you're involved. So tell me. Tell me.
Alvin fumbles for his gun, but he sees Mr. P with one in his hand already and gives up. Mr. J spins round, with his cat, stroking it.
Mr. J
It's just... an everyday story. Isn't it, Puss. Won't you join us, Alvin?
Stands up. The cat is stuck to his chest!!!!!!! Shot of Ness gaping in horror.
Alvin
You're mad!
Mr. J
Mad? Mad? Who is mad when we control so many lives? I think not, Alvin. Are you sure you won't reconsider joining us? I am sure you could prove to be a valuable asset to our organisation. You know that almost the entire department is working for us? We can offer... certain incentives....
He gets out a briefcase and opens it: it's packed with money. He turns it round to show Alvin.
Alvin
I already have a briefcase. You might get the others, but you won't pervert me, you evil man. Vine will find out: I'll tell him. He'll stop you.
Mr J
Ha! Think again. You are merely a pawn, Ness, a paper thin character on the stage of life. And I'm afraid that you have just been written out.
J presses a button, and a door opens on the left. With a sort of swishy noise, an enormous demolishing ball swings through it and carries Alvin away through a door which has opened on the right.
Mr. J
Exit stage right.
He leans back on his chair, but too far, with The Archers' music beginning to play, and the scene cuts as he's falling over.
Peter's eyes open. Lindsay bending over him, with a big pile of scribbled notes. The TV is on in the background. Peter is feeling a bit groggy.
Psychic
That correcting-fluid stuff makes you speak very fast, you know. But I think I got it all. I knew I could.
Every time Lindsay does this gag or the ones like it, Peter cringes a bit.
Peter
What?
Psychic
I regressed you. Bloody good, eh?
Peter
Yeah, great.
Psychic
What it is, right, is that you had a bit of a strange childhood.
Peter
Yes?
Psychic
I don't know exactly how to put this. You see, your father: Bit of a strange man, was he?
Peter
Not really.
Psychic
Well, he had a bit of a thing about headwear.
Peter
He was a hatter!
Psychic
That's no excuse. And it was rather more than just a professional relationship. What he used to do to you with them was appalling. Every night, he and your mother...
Peter
I haven't got a mother!
Psychic
That's just your mind blocking her out. Think about it, Peter.
Peter
Oh... yes, I suppose so.
Psychic
Anyway, every night, if you remember...
Peter
No.
Psychic
Of course - I should have known... Anyway, what happened was they were disappointed by you. All they saw was this ugly, underachieving brat who ruined their life. Easily done, let's face it. But still... it's awful what they did. When you were five, you had a birthday party.
Peter
Noone came?
Psychic
No, a few people came, but your parents sent them away again to take your mind off them not buying you anything. They never wanted children, you know. You were an accident.
Peter
How do you know?
Psychic
I'm a ps... They told you every night. You know yourself, deep down. It's not just the Tipp-Ex talking.
Peter
Oh.
Psychic
They would shut you in this room, full of hats, for the slightest misdemeanour. If you got an A- instead of an A. If you forgot to lift the toilet seat in the middle of the night. If you held your knife and fork the wrong way around. Hats. Hats of all descriptions. There was just this little boy - six or seven - alone, friendless. In the dark. Surrounded by hats. You were a bit claustrophobic, and it used to terrify you. Every night. You would want to cry out, but if you made a noise, your father would come in and beat you, with a homburg. But it must have been terrible. In your mind. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming...
Voice fades, replaced by screaming. Brief flashback? If you like. Why not?
Psychic
Are those hats still screaming? Oh. Sorry.
Lindsay turns telly off. Screaming stops. The psychic lights a cigarette, sucks smoke in, and does the Hannibal Lecter sucking sound.
Psychic
It caused terrible trouble, you know. Even then your brain used to block out what had happened to you, so when you came home from school you couldn't remember where you lived. Quite funny, but a bit sad.
Peter
Christ. That's terrible. So is this sort of thing common?
Psychic
Surprisingly so.
Peter
Really?
Psychic
No. You're out of your tree, Peter. Did you not wonder how you grew up without a mother or a house?
Peter
I hadn't really thought about it. Are you saying I'm mad?
Psychic
Well, I have to say, I'm not sure. I checked in a book, and, you know, I was in two minds about whether to diagn...
Peter
...to diagnose schizophrenia. Very funny.
Psychic
No. A regressive sub-oedipal psychosis, actually, smartarse.
Peter looks at her blankly / sceptically.
Psychic
Yeah... alright - so I was going to say schizophrenia.
Peter
Oh, I had no idea. But will all this really help?
Psychic
I think so. I should know. Now you know what's worrying you, you can confront your fears. If we can make you go back there, you should be able to solve your problem for good. And while you were out cold, I sorted out your problem with saving the world. You see, there are an infinite number of parallel universes: when you had that strange dream, you went to a world exactly the same as this one, save the small fact that everyone wears hats. Strange but true. Hatland. Oh, that was the other thing. It had a silly name, too. Anyway, if there are an infinite number of universes, in at least one of them, there will be all the instructions you need to stop whoever is responsible for all this Australia stuff, written on a handy set of cue cards. Or whatever. Bloody strange, this parallel universe malarkey. Anyway... so all we have to do is send you there. I've been to Smith's for the white-pake already. I spilt the last lot. And I've a book here which will tell us which universe you'll be wanting.
Looks in very large book.
Psychic
Oh dear. It's Hatland. I knew it would be.
Peter
H... how?
The psychic bangs the table.
Psychic
Bu-BUM! Got you!
At the hill in Woking.
Title:
The Suburbs of Woking: Sunday March 3
Mr. X. in silhouette is overseeing the building of the hill from his bath: the hill can be seen in the background: the bath is on its lower slopes. He is talking on his telephone.
Mr. X
So... yes... say, I've got one... Phil and Simon go out to the pub, and yeah, yeah, Phil tells Simon his humorous sheep-dipping anecdote but it turns out-
Muted noise from the phone.
Mr. X
No. It wouldn't work if Nelson...
Shouting at person pushing a wheelbarrow.
Mr. X
Faster! Faster!
Back to phone.
Mr. X
No, don't worry about...
Shouts.
Mr. X
Soap! Soap!
Back to phone.
Mr. X
No, that's crap. Fuck off! You're fired.
Slams phone down with a splash. Calls someone over.
Mr. X
What's Kelly's number? And get us a fag.
Watson
(01319) 262-3423, sir.
Dials number on a mobile. Then, to phone...
Mr. X
Right. Hi Kelly, how do you fancy... you don't? Fuck you then.
Throws phone away. Calls Watson over.
Mr. X
We're in trouble. There's twenty minutes to fill in Tuesday's and Wednesday's is hardly started. Fuck knows what we're going to do about Thursday and Friday. Is the farmyard impressionist any better?
Watson
No, still in bed with a head cold, sir.
Mr. X
If he's not back at work by tomorrow, fire him. No, fuck it, fire him today. Then ask him back for half the cash. Messy divorce like that costs money...
Watson looks shocked in a kind of 'Divorce? What divorce?' kind of a way.
Mr. X
Mmm, yes. She was quite good, actually. But there's not much going without a full Equity card for a crap farmyard impressionist these days. Not for what we pay him. Paid him. Easy money. How's it going with packing for the holiday, by the way?
Watson
Smashing, sir. The wife's taken the day off work to pack, and the kids are so excited! The doctors say it's given little Jimmy such a boost, sir. At least his last few weeks will be happy, sir.
Mr. X
Yes. Very sweet. But cancel. I need you here.
Watson tries to speak, but is overcome by shock/horror and emotion and just looks at him.
Mr. X
I meant to thank you, Watson. Great storyline, terminal childhood illness. Pencilled in for next May already. Shame we can't fit it in this week. Should have sorted out the pregnancy sooner, eh? Ha,ha! Your Jimmy'll miss it! Never mind.
Pause. Watson is looking pale.
Mr. X
Don't just stand there. Get on with something. Don't abuse our friendship, Watson.
Ness' body is dragged up the hill by two men.
Mr. X
Ah! The famous Ness! Very fucking funny. I must congratulate J. What a tosser, eh? Our friend Peter Vine will find it so funny when he finds out. I almost look forward to it. Upper-class poof. Bunch of wankers the lot of them. Don't know what work is.
Shouting at various people...
Mr. X
You there! Faster! Or you're fired! Listen to me! LISTEN TO ME! This water's cold! More! Now! Or you're fired!
Weird effects. Then Hatland. Black and white. Camera from Peter's P.O.V., swinging round eerily. Children's voices, singing nursery rhymes: top quality postmodernist psycho-drama, eh? Alright, no. Everyone who walks past has a hat on. Peter is in the same field as before, where the psychiatrist was. The psychiatrist suddenly appears just behind him and Peter turns to look. The psychiatrist is mouthing support 'go on!.. go on!' and waving his clipboard, affecting slow motion. Peter turns, and walks down the street, and goes into the house he was in before. A small child (him) walks past crying, hatless. Stereotypical flashback style. Peter looks on the table, at the hat. Pained look. Chanting gets louder, building to a wall of sound. Finally he picks up the hat. There's an explosion, and the chanting stops. Replaced by the sound of the sea, or wind. Gentle. Outside, thousands of hats are falling out of the sky like snow. On the table are the cue cards. Peter looks at them briefly, and picks them up. Fade to black.
We see John Neville get off a boat, and walk down the gang-plank towards the camera. He is alone from the boat, and the port is deserted. There is quite a strong wind, there's frost everywhere etc. Very desolate, generally.
Title:
Finland
A man walks towards him and they greet each other. The man who greets him is very Russian and has a strong Russian accent.
Mr. Neville
Hello!
Russian
Hello, John. It is good to see you after all this time. I trust that your crossing was pleasant?
Mr. Neville
Oh yes. Very, thankyou. I'm surprised how quick it was. And how quiet it was. I must have been the only person on board, apart from the crew!
Russian
Yes. It is strange, isn't it.
The boat speeds off. A diver surfaces, and silently gives the thumbs up to the Russian, who nods. Neville doesn't see; he is facing towards shore.
Mr. Neville
We'd better get on, then. I hear that sweet biscuits have taken quite a tumble!
The Russian takes out a code book, and leafs through it.
Russian
Sweet biscuits. Yes. The...
...pauses for emphasis.
Russian
...whitebait have endangered sales. Severely. Action must be taken.
Mr. Neville
Yes. I heard that too. Very strange. Fish, eh?
As he says words, the Russian is leafing through the code book looking for them. The ship which carried Neville has exploded in the background, silently. There's odd splashes as debris lands in the sea close by. Perhaps a bit of smoke and some fire? Neville doesn't notice, of course.
Mr. Neville
You Scandinavian types...
Shot of the Russian, looking very Slavic.
Mr. Neville
You Scandinavian types are a mystery to me.
Russian
How was your summer, Peter?
Mr. Neville
Oh, fine, fine.
Russian
Did you visit...
He looks expectantly at him...
Mr. Neville
Bournemouth? Yes, we did. It was wonderful.
Russian
No. The... the... the Cumbrian place.
Mr. Neville
Oh! Yes, I'm with you. Windscale - whoops...
He slaps his wrist camply.
Mr. Neville
Sellafield, rather. I remember you asking before.
The Russian looks around nervously. He speaks in a whisper: John is very bubbly.
Russian
Yes. Of course.
Mr. Neville
Of course. Yes, it was very informative. We certainly learnt a lot, once we'd managed to get in.
Russian
You did? Good. Good, John.
Mr. Neville
But yes: it was very useful. You should see it now. They've redone it all, all multimedia. You know what that means? Of course you do. You Scandinavians are all word-perfect in English, aren't you? But it was so busy. We queued for hours.
Him looking Slavic again.
Russian
Yes. Very, very good. But it is cold here. Let us go inside, no, where it is warmer?
Mr. Neville
Fine by me. I would have brought the photos if I'd known you'd be so interested.
The Russian looks rather faint.
Mr. Neville
We went with little Sam; that's our Kolya's godson, and we were so impressed! The visitor's centre was done up so nice, it was just like EuroDisney, and the guide.. Have you seen the adverts?... Oh no, you wouldn't have.. And in May, we went to that airbase you were talking about: there was a really good Steam Fayre there, we won a goldfish and the Red Arrows did a fly-past, and that thing where they...
He starts to mime out aeroplane stunts with his arm. The Russian takes the other arm, and starts to lead him off the quayside.
Russian
Come on, John.
Mr. Neville
Why the hurry? Spies everywhere, eh? Wanting to know about the Whitebait situation no doubt.
Russian
Ssssh!
Now in a KGB office. Lots of papers etc. on the table. The Russian is looking blank and rather exasperated.
Mr. Neville
... beginning with 's'? Come on, it's Sea. Easy one. No? I think I might have missed the point here, I'm afraid. Would you like to explain again?
Telephone rings. Russian answers.
Russian
No. Yes, he's here now. I'm sure he knows nothing. Yes. Yes. We will make sure of that. I will deal with him myself. Of course. Goodbye.
He sits back in his chair, puts The Archers on, and the phone down. (theme-tune plays)
Mr. Neville
Ooh! Can you get that here? I'd have thought the reception'd be too bad. Don't listen myself, but my wife has it on in the kitchen all the time.
Russian
Yes. I see. Curiously, we don't seem to have a problem any more. Now, I think, our meeting is over.
Mr. Neville
That's good. I'm here till Tuesday. Is there anywhere nice I could go for lunch, do you know?
Russian
Ah. Ha. An interesting question, but tragically irrelevant. You won't be needing lunch. I'm very sorry, but I am afraid that... that I must kill you now, Mr. Neville. I (ha) can't think why, but you are apparently a very unpopular man with my superiors. It's orders from the top. Nothing personal. Well, not very. You know (ha) too much.
The Russian takes out a gun from a drawer: fires but it just clicks. He looks up and Neville has disappeared out the door and down the corridor. Sound of running. Russian goes after him.
Russian
Shit! I wish they'd stop playing that stupid roulette game!
Clicking the gun as he runs after Neville, who has grabbed some of the papers on the desk.
Title:
Half an hour later...
Neville is sitting in a large metal dustbin, eating a scrap of meat from inside the dustbin, ripping it with his teeth. Unshaven and haggard. He stops and pokes his head over the top to talk to the camera, his mouth covered with juice from what he has been eating. Then he lifts a wine glass full of red wine to his lips and carefully sips from it.
Mr. Neville
It always happens. I come to Finland, expecting to have to sort out nothing more than a routine hitch in biscuit production. It goes with the territory for us caterers. I was expecting perhaps, at worst, to have to have a 'quiet word' with the current director of 'Crunchie Fancies, inc.' But, no, I meet up with a Russian, and who does he work for? Not 'Boris's Bites,' but the KGB. It's happened before. Last time I went to Brazil, investigating claims that the 'Luxury Rainforest Vegetarian Nibblets' contained squirrel meat, I stopped off in Cuba, and they had me followed by their secret police, and my mother assassinated - apparently, the CIA have a file on me as long as my arm. And I had that lodger in my house, from the Secret Service, he was definitely giving me funny looks. It's just not fair - things like this shouldn't happen to a caterer. Sometimes, I even worry that my wife's trying to help me - but help me do what? Everyone thinks I'm a spy... do I look like a spy? Anyway soon as I twigged I wasn't talking to caterers, but was in the KGB offices... I think it was when he started shooting at me, I made a dash for it sharpish, and managed to get away. I even managed to pick up these documents off of his desk. Thought it might help or something. Don't know why, really. They were in Russian, but luckily, I picked up some Russian myself, icing personalised birthday cakes for the Russian community in my native Reading - not much, but a smattering here and there. Regular work, kept the business going through hard times. Anyway, what I made of these papers was that there was some plan to remove Australia, making it float into space, by building a big hill in Woking. A really big plan: the words they used were 'global conspiracy', except in Russian, of course. Hahaha! Ha, ha, ha!
He giggles for a bit and gradually stops.
Mr. Neville
Don't ask me how it was going to be done, I'm just a caterer - I really am! What it was, right, there were these two English guys, Mr J and Mr P. One worked for the British Secret Service, the second for Notcutts - well up in wheelbarrows. I think that my lodger, Vine, had been put onto me by J, who was his boss, to throw him off the scent. Common trick. I get the CIA recruits shadowing me all the time. You get used to it after a bit. But Peter: Peter Vine; you know, my lodger, was better than all them. He was probably the best single secret agent in the country. I notice the little things. And I had a hunch that he already knew what was going on and was trying to stop it. I hoped he'd just noticed his boss was a double agent and was on the trail. It was a shame I couldn't tell him. What I was getting from the documents was that the link was their boss (J's and P's) who had them working covertly for him, a certain 'Mr X', who was mixed up in the popular radio show, the Archers. God only knows why. He seemed to be behind this plan, and he had enlisted some fairly major help as well as these two - one of the documents was a list of names of collaborators, and you wouldn't believe who was in on this -
Gets out a big list
Mr. Neville
The Pope , The British Prime Minister... Well, that's it. It was big writing. Anyway, people had to know, that much was obvious, but to whom could I reveal the truth? Once again, it seemed that the only person who could for certain help save the world from the destruction of one of its major continents was stuck in a big dustbin in an obscure part of Finland. I translated a few dates on the papers - I'm good at them, of course, and it seemed Mr. X was in a hurry, although I didn't know why - the documents didn't say but the finish date for Australia's final 'removal' had been brought forward. Australia would have no more than a couple of weeks. I needed to tell someone quickly so it could be stopped. I like Australia. And the Scandinavians as a people are credited with great linguistic abilities, but no-one here seemed to speak any English, and I certainly didn't know any Finnish. And of course I was on the run from the KGB, who were apparently under the command of Mr. X and had been ordered to shoot me so I couldn't leak their plan, as presumably had been everyone else who was mixed up in this global conspiracy. That date I had translated read Saturday 9 March 1998. Today was the 5th. I had only 12 days. I had one idea. It had to work.
Neville walks down a high street in Finland, and walks into a bookshop. He takes a Finnish-English dictionary off the shelves. The shop assistant thinks he's in a Western, taking shots at customers with a imaginary gun. There are bullet holes in the shop's glass front. He kneels by a shelf copying down words. He writes them on his hand. He walks outside the shop, and approaches a passer by. Reading uncertainly off biro writing on his hand, he says:
Mr. Neville
Ka-da qwary, slobovon Mittas.
The precise Finnish is not essential to the plot.
Subtitle:
Please render me assistance in the removal of my secretive hump, lover.
Passer by looks at him bemusedly/angrily
Mr. Neville
Thatry catan. Whee horny trent!
Subtitle:
Kindly give it to me!
A bomb drops. It explodes but is ignored. A couple of these fall during the conversations Neville has with native Finns. OK? Remember that, please.
Mr. Neville
Helly helper! Nak nak! Misty renitbuory!
Subtitle:
There's an enormous erection in England! You have to listen to me!
The passer-by begins to run away. Neville has one last try, but it's a word he's uncertain of to say the least.
Mr. Neville
Qwa! Qwa!
Subtitle:
Goat! Goat!
He gives up, and breaks down a bit.
Mr Neville
But you have to help me! The whole world's in danger!
Subtitle:
I have photographed your wife with sheep. Give me money or I shall inform your three young children.
As Neville is attacked, another bomb falls out of the sky, and explodes nearby, causing much damage, and littering the area with masonry and that. A typical sort of bomb thing. OK? They notice, but are too busy fighting to care much.
Black.. Suddenly, eyes open (Peter's POV), and Lou is bending over him. Different camera angle, and we see they are in the middle of a corn field, on a sunny day, the 5th. Peter gets up, surprised.
Peter
I wish I knew how you did that.
They start walking.
Peter
I wasn't going to see you this soon, was I?
Lou
Change of plan. I hope you've worked out something, you know, because the deadline's come forward again.
Peter
Where?... Oh, fair enough. Yes. Actually, I think that I've probably got the solution to our little... dilemma. Solved it.
Lou looks at him somewhat amazed.
Peter
Yes. Rather good, isn't it?
Lou
What do you have to do, then?
Peter
It was surprisingly easy, actually. I'm rather pleased. I have the instructions in my head, and all I need to do is think, and I'll have the method to solve the problem entirely. I went to a parallel universe in a drug induced dream to get some metaphorical cue cards with the solution on.
Lou looks at him as if Peter's being stupid.
Peter
No, honestly! My psychic tol... Hmm. Yes, it does seem a bit less plausible now I'm awake. But I'm sure it'll go alright. I can't wait to sort this out and get home: the kennel bills are ruinous at the place I've got Jess, and Mrs. Neville just won't have pets in the house.
Lou
Yes. I hate the way they charge you for two days even if you only have your dog there overnight. It's such a rip-off: but they all do it...
Peter
They all do it.
Nodding
Lou
...so it's a monopoly. Nothing the average dog owner can do. And the boarding prices are ruinous. What are you paying for? I've stayed in cheaper hotels!
Peter
Probably some criminal super-gang that's got the fix on the pet-animals boarding market. Easy money. You pop round once a month to check the books and take a 90% cut, and free board for your animals. It's probably the same people who are destroying Austr... why are you looking at me like that?
Lou
This is deadly serious, Peter.
Peter
I.. I'm going to look in on Jess later. Do you want to come? I was going to go to the pub afterwards.
Lou
No. Can't be doing with dogs. They make me sneeze, mate. I need to go to the chemists, anyway.
Peter looks around and they're in the High Street in Reading, by Lou's car (CIA style sedan). He unlocks it and reaches in for his wallet.
Lou
The psychic's wrong. Trust me. Oh, mind the car for me, would you? I won't be a minute.
Peter
No...
...but Lou is gone. Peter sits down in the car, feet on the pavement.
Traffic Warden
Excuse me, sir.
Peter stands up. As Peter and the traffic warden talk, Peter's attention wanders: he looks at passing people (who are the same- about fifteen people walk past, then come on again in random order. All are going in the same direction.) He also perhaps looks in a shop window, at one of those baker's puppets that kneads dough, or a shoemaker's one that bangs nails in. At one point he walks away and comes back with a cake he's bought, which he eats while they are talking, during a particularly long speech. It is pouring with rain. They are both soaked.
Peter
Sorry?
Traffic Warden
I'm afraid that I'll have to give this car a ticket. Double yellow line, you see. I don't like it, sir, but it's my job.
Peter
You can't do that. It's only been parked here a moment!
Traffic Warden
I said I don't like it, sir, but I'm afraid that this imperfect situation of a bureaucratic capitalist state is an inevitable part of the dialectic which will ultimately resolve itself in communism. So rules are rules. That'll be [sterling]25, I'm afraid, sir. Money's an outmoded concept, but transiently necessary, even to someone of my standing. And yours, sir.
Peter
But it's not even mine!
Traffic Warden
I wouldn't worry, sir. Property is theft. And remember, by giving this money to me, you do help narrow the rich-poor divide, thereby hastening the glorious revolution. Think of the good you'll do, sir.
Peter
Look: this car belongs to a friend: he's just disappeared at the moment. He'll be along in a bit. Well, probably.
Traffic Warden
Well, I'll subscribe to the view that a communist movement should confine itself to a membership of active supporters! Bit of a Menshevik in-joke there, sir.
Peter
I didn't get it, I'm afraid.
Traffic Warden
Not your fault, sir. It springs from the education which you have been denied in order to subjugate your inevitable Socialist leanings with a wage successfully sir. Do you mind if I don't call you sir, sir? We are meant to call clients sir, sir... Pah. Clients? Victims. ...but I'm a little worried that all it does is widen the class divide. It doesn't even do it properly, you know. My father was a doctor, you know. I should have become a lawyer, but thanks to the detestable capitalist state, I'm afraid I ended up a traffic warden, sir. I'm not angry for myself, you know: I'm happy to indefinitely serve the state in any form, only I'm worried that not enough influential lawyers are Mensheviks, sir. It is important that we hasten through this transitory phase of social development as soon as possible, you realise sir. All this waiting around can't be doing any good. Between you and me, sir, sometimes my political views come close to those of Plekhanov, you know!
Peter is nodding but looking over the warden's shoulder: the warden slowly turns around and we see Peter nodding in time to a shoemaker's animatronic model in the window. He suddenly snaps out of it.
Peter
Really?
Traffic Warden
It's alright for Martov, well, was before he died, but seeing as how I'm the country's second most senior Menshevik, I frankly can't wait for us to come to power. Martov was a lawyer, you know. A rich one. Actually, (and keep this very much to yourself), sir, sometimes, when I wake up in the middle of the night, sometimes I lose a bit of faith in this dialectic malarkey. It's bloody ages since the fall of feudalism, and I can't help worrying that Lenin was right after all. What (and this may seem silly), but what if there isn't a spontaneous worker's revolution unprompted by the liberated bourgeoisie? I'd be a traffic warden for ever! Bill said..
Peter
Bill?
Traffic Warden
Oh come on.. Major, Blair, Ashdown... ring any bells? He's only the shadow Prime Minister. And Chancellor. I can't do Marxist Economics, because the book was overdue, and someone else had requested it.
Peter
For who?
Traffic Warden
Eh? For the Menshevik Party, of course.
Peter
And you are?
Traffic Warden
Foreign office, Environment, Home office, Health, Employment... erm... What else is there?
Peter is counting them off on his fingers
Peter
Defence... erm... Education?... Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster?
Traffic Warden
No, we'll get rid of that one. When we execute the Royal Family. Duchy, Marxism - doesn't really go. And we don't know what he does, anyway. But it doesn't matter much, anyway. Few weeks, and the chains of the bureaucratic state will fall away. I think that's what it said, anyway. I had to copy it out of the book, because the photocopying's too expensive. And the old writing's not up to much. My father's a doctor, you know, Comrade.
Peter does a sort of 'double take'.
Peter
Copy it out of the book? Excuse me for asking... how long have you been a communist?
Traffic Warden
Menshevik, Comrade. Communism's probably not for a couple of years yet, if we're realistic about it. These dialectics take time, you know. And you mustn't confuse the imperfect bureaucracy of a Menshevik socialism with the utopia of a global communist community, because it denigrates the word in the eyes of the proletariat and, thanks to the inevitably undermining attitude of the capitalists, delays the coming revolution. Only the other day, Bill was saying...
Peter
How long?
Very embarrassed...
Traffic Warden
Two weeks...
Peter
Huh.
The traffic warden is very bubbly.
Traffic Warden
So do you know about this dialectic thing, then? How long is it yet, till the populist revolution, d'you think?
Peter
I'm sorry, but I..
Traffic Warden
D'you think before Christmas, Comrade?
Peter
I really don't know.
Traffic Warden
Would you like to be Heritage Secretary, Comrade? You seem the right sort of man. Of course, it won't be for very long, but it's probably quite good fun, you know. Though I was thinking, like, when we abolish money, how do you buy stamps? And I'll be out of a job, because no-one'll be able to pay parking fines. Perhaps I could talk to people about leading a successful Comm... sorry, Socialist revolution. And being a traffic warden. Now, about this ti...
They turn around. The car has gone.
Traffic Warden
Oh, forget the ticket.
He rips it up.
Traffic Warden
It's only a tax on the poor, really, because rich people fly, or have chauffeurs. I used to throw the money away...
Peter
Why?
Traffic Warden
To starve the evil capitalist government of funds, Comrade. But Bill pointed out that all it does is decrease inflation and strengthen the monetary instrument of oppression, or more likely, some rich person who doesn't need to work and walks round all day finds it and widens the class divide, so now I give it all to him.
Peter
Why?
Traffic Warden
Well, I didn't understand that bit at first either, but basically what he's going to do is save up that, and my salary, and his dole money, and when we've got enough in the bank - we don't like them, but you do get the interest, and some money off vouchers as well at Pizza Hut, so we can hasten onwards the glorious revolution and take advantage of capitalist naivety springing inevitably from a politic of nepotism and corruption to undermine the system from within - and anyway, the day before we seize power, we're going to flood the international money markets, to prepare the way for the onset of world-wide communism. We'll need to save up for a fair bit, obviously, but we were hoping for donations. Apparently it's very popular in France. Do you want to be heritage secretary, then? You'll have to be third in command, and you can boss people about, once me and Bill have got people to boss about. As long as you stop, after a bit.
Peter
When?
Traffic Warden
When the chains of bureaucracy fall away, stupid.
Peter's being annoying. (And annoyed).
Peter
How do you know?
Traffic Warden
Eh?
Peter
How do you know? I could be oppressing the masses as Heritage Secretary for far too long if I didn't notice the chains of bureaucracy falling away.
The Traffic Warden wants to say something, but just looks cross, then carries on regardless, ignoring Peter's question.
Traffic Warden
A... A... Actually, Bill was saying, before he went off to that conference in Switzerland... or was it Austria? Somewhere with mountains, I know. It's traditional. Every winter. Anyway, he said, perhaps... Oh, I don't know. Oh look! There's a new Porche over there! I'll go and ring the clampy people. Wait there a moment, Comrade.
Peter walks away... The traffic warden doesn't notice / doesn't care, and is preoccupied anyway.
Peter walks down a back street in the same town. There are some cars on a double yellow line on the street, which have parking tickets, and communist propaganda spray-painted on the windscreens and bodies in a variety of colours.
Peter
Think... THINK! No; useless. Oh, Lindsay! SHIT!!! If she was 'only joking'... Aaaaargh!!!!!
He kicks a tin can, which rattles down the street in a sinister fashion. The sign for a kennels swings rustily on a sort of pole thing, creaking. The sound of wind. The windows of the kennels are boarded up: the place is abandoned. Somewhere a dog barks, a long way away. Peter knocks at the door. No reply (of course). He throws himself at the door: we see papers strewn all over the place as he bursts through. He recoils at the smell. As he walks around he calls out:
Peter
Jess! Jess!
A dog barks a long way away again. He rushes outside into the road and a bird flaps away, wings beating. A crow, please.
Peter
Every dog in the kennels was gone. Since the collapse of the USSR, I knew of no formal organisation with the clout to pull off this sort of op: for all J's claims the KGB were a shadow of their former selves. The only people I could think of were the people involved in this Australia business. Yes, I had a hunch, and my hunches were rarely wrong. There was more to the loss of my dog than I had first thought, and I had to find out what was going on. Though she had stopped the nightmares, I'll say that for her at least, I had been having doubts about my psychic's reliability for some time now, and her latest suggestion about the cue cards in the cold light of day proved even more eccentric than usual: I evidently couldn't trust her any longer. Perhaps she was even caught up in the Australian mess, working for J! Well, maybe not... (!). And I hadn't been able to get any more help from Lou, my shadowy Australian friend, either, so this was my only lead. Lead! Ha! Besides, I couldn't leave my dog to the mercies of those evasive yet unscrupulous rascals. I was determined to get my dog back, and I would follow her wherever necessary. Yes, Peter Vine was on the case, and I was going to get to the bottom of it. If there was a man in the country who could, it was me. Nobody more able, I was the best: top of the pile, the man with the know. You had to stir yourself damn early of a morning to best me, and when it came to the crunch, I got up with the midnight news.
He thinks about that phrase for a while and looks pleased with himself.
Peter
Yes siree Bob. No problems. If I didn't find the solution to Australia's problem, I would eat my hat.
Looks worried for a moment.
A Police station in the same town. Peter walks in, sweeping through the doors. He is still soaking wet.
Peter
Let me speak to the most senior officer here, please.
Constable
I'm afraid you can't.
Peter
MI11.
Flashes a warrant card, then looks at it, mutters 'sorry' and gets another one out. Several fall out of his pocket and he bends down to pick them up.
Constable
No, you really can't. He's having his afternoon rest at the moment. But you can talk to me.
Peter
I'd like to report a theft.
Constable
What of, please?
Peter
A dog. Well, several dogs, I suppose. But I'm only sure about one of them.
Constable
OK. Where was this dog, last time you saw it?
Peter
I was keeping it in Kennels: the one in North Street.
Constable
There isn't a Kennels in North Street.
Long pause. Dramatic tension, and some music, please, as Peter looks at the PC in horror / shock. Then:
Peter
Oh yes, that's right. Sorry, it was West Terrace I was thinking of. West Terrace.
Constable
Right. West Terrace. And you were coming to collect this dog.
Peter
No, to visit...
Constable
Yeah. Could I see that warrant card again, please?
He sees it, and shakes his head sadly in a 'what's the world coming to when MI11 agents are this strange' sort of a way. You know.
Peter
Look, it's a long story. I haven't time to tell you.
Constable
Sorry. None of my business, really.
Peter
No.
Constable
I'll just need to ask a few questions, if I may.
Fade in and out to indicate some passage of time. Now they are in an interview room. Peter is pointing to parts of his body. He's only wearing one shoe, and his shirt is partially undone.
Peter
There there there and there. Oh, and I remembered that one...
points to another question on the many sheets the officer is filling in.
Peter
...it was 'sideways'.
A man bursts in through a trap-door in the floor, covered in cobwebs. Sees Peter, smiles, talks to the P.C.
Constable II
You know that dog theft thing? There's new news. The traffic lot have just got a report, north of Watford Gap Services. A blue lorry, from which 'barking has been heard...'
Reads from a piece of paper he is holding...
Constable II
'...dropped two animals believed to be of the canine persuasion from its rear end, whilst in motion, in the fast lane. Two officers followed it in an unmarked car, observing several infringements of traffic safety regulations, and have traced it to a location somewhere north of Leeds.'
Both of the policemen in the room assume stupidly worried expressions at the phrase 'north of Leeds'.
Peter
Oh my god! Jess!
Constable II
What colour was she?
Peter
She's golden. A golden Labrador.
Constable II
Oh, you're alright then. These are both a sort of gooey red.
The first constable slaps a custard pie in the other's face.
Peter
Thankyou very much. Goodbye.
And Peter legs it out of the room, past a small brass band just arriving, who ask him if they're late. He hardly notices and rushes past. The door is left open, and we see the policemen in the room, rising to their feet, and the brass band hastily setting up, perhaps tuning up. Do brass bands tune up? They bloody well do here.
Constable
Come back! No! You mustn't go off there on your own! It's too dangerous! You don't understand. The people we think are behind this are... are... Come back!!
Nothing. Then Peter pokes his head around the door frame.
Peter
Where did you say it was, exactly?
The brass band make a sort of Oomph...AA! noise. (like Bu BUM! with drums).
Title:
The Royal Oak Public House, Stavenley, North Yorkshire: Tuesday Evening
A country pub, quite full. Ageing landlord mopes behind bar, old rural types sit there contemplating their stout. Peter enters. Deathly quiet falls upon the place. He walks up to the barman, who ignores him. Peter coughs a couple of times. A vicar, younger than most of the clientele, sits next to him. He's in full vicar costume. You know. There is a sort of space around the vicar: an 'he's an outsider' sort of physical and social space.
Peter
Could I see your cocktail list, please?
The landlord ignores that, and goes on glowering at him. The vicar winces.
Peter
Do you serve Bloody Mary...
Vicar
'Scuse me. I think you might have left your lights on.
Peter
Sorry?
Vicar
Yes. I'd say you've definitely left your lights on.
Peter
But...
Vicar
I'd go and check, if I were you. Can run down quickly, these car batteries.
Vicar gets up and walks towards the door.
Vicar
Yes. Your boot's unlocked, too. And your engine wants looking at as well. Now! Come on.
Outside the pub. Peter points about 150 yards away to his unlit, locked, (obviously, you can't tell that - but the engine is fine too!!!!) car.
Peter
But it's...
The vicar roughly pushes him against a wall.
Vicar
You're a secret service agent, aren't you?
Peter
Sorry?
Vicar
Yes you are. Cocktails list? Why didn't you just walk straight up and ask for one shaken but not stirred? This is Yorkshire, Mr. MI5. You stick out like a sore thumb.
Peter
A Bloody Mary isn'...
Vicar
It's enough to tell. You can't walk into a North Yorkshire country inn and ask for a cocktail. There's plenty of pubs round this way that lager drinkers avoid once it starts getting dark early. We're going to go back in there, nice 'n' slowly, and you're going to ask for a pint of Black Sheep. And you're going to drink it. That's if you want to see the South of England again.
Peter
But...
Vicar
Just do as I say. In half an hour, you can come with me to the Vicarage, and you can tell me what you want in this part of the world. You owe me one, you know. It's risky for me too. By the way, I'm the vicar.
Peter
Mmm. Peter Vine.
They shake hands, and walk in again. The barman looks up, frowning.
Barman
Aye?
Peter hams dreadfully a Yorkshire accent, then looks at the vicar, and stops.
Peter
Aye! Ahd li... ...I'd like a pint of your best please.
Barman
Roight.
Peter bites his lip to avoid laughing, and sits down. A space is created around him and the vicar. He and the Vicar sit very self consciously at the bar, the Vicar trying to ignore it. The noise level has increased back nearly to normal.
The vicarage. Peter and the Vicar enter. The Vicar sits down and while he is talking, works at repairing a broken lathe.
Vicar
Put your coat there.
Peter
Thanks.
They sit down, the vicar under a big crucifix hung upside down.
Vicar
Right. So what exactly do you want here?
Peter
I'm here looking for a dog. My dog.
Vicar
Things have quietened down a bit for you Intelligence lot since the Cold War finished, haven't they?
Peter
No, no, not at all. I'm taking time off for this.
Vicar
What happened, then?
Peter
It was stolen from a kennels in London. The van the police suspect is involved was seen near this village. I wanted to come and look for him. We're very close. And it might be connected to another case I'm working on. A much more important one. Important to the safety, perhaps of the whole world. I can't tell you the full details: I don't know them myself. But the theft of my dog, and many others like it, seems to be the only trail I have if I'm to bring to a stop an almost inevitable sequence of events in a global conspiracy and thereby prevent the disappearance of an important continent.
Vicar
Oh. So that's why you were in the pub, then.
Peter
Umm... yes... yeah.
Vicar
That was stupid. Totally the wrong way to go about things, trust me. You haven't told anyone else you're here, have you?
Peter
No.
Vicar
Good. If you want to see that dog again, you'll have to work very differently. I hope we weren't followed. Christ! it's a godforsaken place here. I hate this life.
Peter
Godforsaken?
Vicar
Your present company excepted, of course. But apart from me, yes. It's a real shithole, to be blunt. I need the money. They hate me as much as I hate them - they like their priest to be inbred and local.
Peter
Is your congregation small, then?
Vicar
I wish! It's enormous. That's the problem. They heckle me.
Peter
Don't they like your sermons?
Vicar
They frequently heckle The Lord's Prayer.
Peter
Oh. Right. I sympathise.
The vicar breaks down crying a bit.
Vicar
You think you do, but you don't know what I'm going through. It's terrible. I'm from Croydon. I hadn't seen a southerner in 15 years. You can't understand what it's like. I have these nightmares... you don't know how glad I am to talk to someone. This vicarage is a prison.
Peter
God!
Vicar
I know, I know. I look tough; resilient. But I'm not. I'm a quivering wreck, Peter. A wreck!
embarassed...
Peter
Sssh. Sssh. OK. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum,eh?
Bringing out an old board-game box from beside him, and blowing thick dust from its top, he says tentatively...
Vicar
W... would you like a game of scrabble?
Peter
Umm. Yes, I suppose so...
Joyously...
Vicar
Hold me, Peter!
Peter
No!
quickly
Vicar
sorry.
They both look uncomfortable and embarrassed. They sit there in silence. The vicar sniffles a bit. The camera pans away from them, and a farmer (Giles Gilbert) is hiding outside the window with a stethoscope to it, listening. next to a small burning cross. He crawls away through a shrubbery, and runs down the road. Everyone who was in the pub is standing outside it watching. He runs past - the pub clientele are possessed, all turning and moving together. Aaaah! Cut to the farmer, who runs up to his farm, out of breath, lights a match which easily ignites a beacon: petrol or whatever on it, behind the farmhouse. We see a long line of beacons appear, stretching over the horizon.
Mr. X sits in his bath again, in a room. He is talking on a phone. The window on the left hand side of the room is broken. Watson is outside on the right.
Mr. X
What? What? Bollocks! There's no way that would work! Because I fucking say so! Fuck off!
Throws non-mobile phone handset through right hand side window. Base unit left dangling in the air - he kicks it hard, viciously.
Mr. X
Watson! Watson!
Watson
Yes sir?
Mr. X
Where the fuck are you!
Watson
Just getting the phone, sir.
Mr. X
It's here, idiot!
Watson
The other one, sir.
Mr. X
Come here!
Watson enters from the other door, please.
Watson
We've been contacted again, sir.
Mr. X
What? Oh, fucking hell. WILL you tell those Martians that it's NOT GOING TO FUCKING HIT THEM!
Watson
No... erm... you know.... erm...
Mr. X
I'd like to see those jaundiced tossers take the fucking responsibility for a major radio serial. Have you got those accounts?
Watson
Yes, sir, of course, sir.
Gives him it.
Mr. X
About fucking time, too.
Snatching it, eyes it, suspiciously.
Mr. X
Ah, good; I see we've made a sa-... WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?
Reading...
Mr. X
Set design ... [sterling]23,350.11. Set design? SET DESIGN? FOR THE RADIO? WHAT THE FUCK DO WE PAY FOR FUCKING SET DESIGN? WHAT THE FU... COME HERE! COME HERE NOW! WATSON! HERE!
He has backed off, squirming, shielding himself behind his arms.
Watson
I.. I - sorry, sir. But the cast were so miserable, sir. They really hated the studio, sir, especially when you stopped letting them out. I really am so sorry, sir. You did say how nice the barn was, sir.
Mr. X
YOU DIDN'T TELL ME HOW MUCH THE FUCKING THING COST! Oh well. I suppose it'll just have to come out of your salary again. That's the fourth fucking time this month. You'll have to sell your other kidney. And stop fucking snivelling, you miserable cretin. What was it that you were going to say?
Watson
N... nothing, sir.
Mr. X
SO WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU HERE! GET ON WITH SOMETHING! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I PAY YOU FOR?
Very nervously
Watson
Oh... oh... there, there was that one little thing, sir.
Mr. X
What?
Watson
Well, you see, it wasn't the Martians signalling. Not this time. It was, erm... it was...
Mr. X
WHAT WAS IT?
Watson
It was Badger 2, sir.
Mr. X
WHO?
Very nervous
Watson
Giles Gilbert. The... the farmer in Stavenley, sir. There's trouble.
Mr. X
Stavenley? Where the fuck's that?
Nervous
Watson
Where... where the dogs are, sir.
X seems a bit deflated.
Mr. X
Oh, that.
Title:
Wednesday 6 March
Peter in bed. Men's and women's underwear and other clothing lies scattered on the floor - the camera traces this along in stereotypical 'sorry, it's a cop out but it's a family film' film style. Slinky music too. A dog bursts through the door, carrying a pair of Peter's pants. The vicar follows and starts picking up the clothes as quietly as possible: looks very embarrassed. Peter wakes up.
Peter
What's happening?
Vicar
Scamp! Get off the bed! He's been at my wardrobe again.
The dog gets off the bed. He has been lying on a pair of knickers. Peter holds up the knickers. The vicar is extremely embarrassed.
Vicar
Erm... An old girlfriend's. I erm, I, err, never quite got... got round to throwing them out.
Grins sheepishly, picking up last of undergarments and going out...
Vicar
Anyway, breakfast in ten minutes.
Cut to Peter standing in front of the kitchen door. Muffled sound of the lathe. Peter enters, the vicar is sitting at the table, repairing the lathe, reading the newspaper and drinking a glass of orange juice. The lathe occasionally bursts into action forcing them to shout.
Peter
Morning.
Vicar
Morning.
Peter sits down and begins to eat his breakfast. The toast pops up. The Vicar turns the lathe on satisfied, there's a bang and a flash, and the power cuts. The vicar gets up and flicks it on again and continues repairing.
Peter butters his toast.
Vicar
Sorry about last ni... umm. ah. Sorry.
Peter mumbles 'quite alright' or something.
Vicar
Ahem. Could you pass the Flora?
Peter passes the Flora. The vicar butters his toast, while he is lathing.
Vicar
So, what do you intend to do?
Peter
Well, to tell you the truth, I don't know. I thought I might drive round the villages, see if anyone knows anything. You've been very helpful, but...
Vicar looks a little concerned.
Peter
What?
Vicar
I'm afraid they'll be on your trail by now. It'll just give away where you are, if they don't know already. No, I know who I can talk to. A retired farmer. He's very isolated, and I don't think they'll have got to him. I do hope not.
Peter
Who's they?
Vicar
Them.
Telephone rings. They look at each other a bit worried. The Vicar answers.
Vicar
Yes?
Sinister voice
Don't look for the dog! Don't look for the dog! Leave the dogs alone!
The phone goes dead
Vicar
Hello? Hello?
He's frantically pressing the thingy you put the receiver on on old phones, like you do. You know. Peter looks at him strangely, and the vicar looks sheepishly back, slowing down the whole pressing thing, looking down at the phone.
Vicar
Mmm. Yeah... I never really knew why you're meant to do that, you know... I'm afraid it looks like they're onto you: they do catch onto strangers very quickly here. It's a bit uncanny. But I thought they might.
Peter
Eh?
Vicar
If you're looking for conspiracy, you've come to the right place in Yorkshire. It's full of it: but on the up-side, someone's bound to know something about your dog in this part of the world, even if they won't tell us. It's just a generally suspicious county. Anyway, this man: I've talked to him before. I think he's isolated from most of the people round here: well, most of the people round here are, but he's even more so. And he might well know something useful, or one of his friends: anything you want to know about your dog. They hear things.
Peter
So when can I see him?
Vicar
You? I don't think you should. It's too dangerous. I couldn't live with myself if you got hurt.
Peter
Oh, I'll be alright.
Vicar
Erm... no... I really don't think you should. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you for some money, too. I have to cover my expenses, you see.
Peter
How much?
Vicar
A hundred, hundred and fifty should do it. I'll have to check that, though.
He gets out a copy of 'The Sheep Farmer', (which has sheep prices in, OK) and leafs through it.
Peter
What for?
Vicar
You'll see. You can come, I suppose, as long as you stay in the car. We'll go after Matins. Have you the money with you? It'll be a hundred and fifty three for starters: and that again at least for each man we see if we need to go somewhere else for information. Please.
Peter
OK. I have.
He stops the lathe.
Peter gets the cash out and hands it over. The Vicar has put his cassock on, and goes out the door.
Vicar
I'll see you at 10.30. Please don't leave the house. Please?
Title:
The outskirts of Stavenley
We see an isolated house, with a man sitting on the front porch, wearing a big floppy hat, and smoking a pipe. He is very old, hunched, and feeble. A mouldy guitar is at the corner of the porch, and he has a bottle of stout: like the Budweiser advert, only for Yorkshire. He has a shotgun at his side. The vicar appears over the hill, carrying a live sheep under each arm.
Vicar
Mr Coverdale! Mr Coverdale! Jeremiah!
Jeremiah
Whasa thee doin' here? Trespassin', noddout. I can see yah! I can see yah! Gerrof mah lan! Gerrof mah land!
Vicar
Over here, Mr. Coverdale!
Camera turns to show Vicar in a totally different place to where Jeremiah is looking.
Jeremiah
Whassat? Where!
Vicar
Over here. I've brought you some sheep!
Jeremiah
Ah. Good. Lerrem go, then.
He does so, and winces. The sheep amble away very slowly and start eating grass.
Vicar
Right you are, Mr. Coverdale! They're running! They're running!
Jeremiah
Good! Lemme get mah goon!
He picks up the gun, and fires both barrels. He misses totally, but reloads. Throughout their conversation he is preoccupied with doing this.
Jeremiah
Did ah hit? Did ah hit?
Vicar
Very nearly, Mr. Coverdale. Very nearly. Is it alright if I come a bit closer, now?
Jeremiah
Very well, lad. Wassa tha wan'?
Coverdale is reloading and firing as fast as he can. The sheep don't care very much and wander around munching.
Vicar
I was wondering if you might know something about some dogs. A friend of mine has lost his, and we just thought that you... you might know something. Or something like that.
Jeremiah
Well, lad, what wuld ah naw? Eh? Eh? Was meks ye think tha ay wuld knae summat like tha, eh? Wha wuld a paur man lak missen ken 'boot tha, eh?
Vicar
Well, I just thought that maybe...
Jeremiah
Did ah hit that?
Vicar
Erm... no, I don't think so. You might have winged it a bit, though, it's swaying slightly - yes it's... Oh, well done! Well done! You got one!
Jeremiah
Did ah? Did ah?
Vicar
Yes! Super shot!
Jeremiah
Ah, that's fine! One down, eh!
Vicar
Mmm. Absolutely... So, do you know about the...
Jeremiah
Ah've told thee - ah ken nowt. Mebbie tha shuld ask ol' Sam Ward. If anyone'd knae, t'be him, ah'd say.
Vicar
Oh, god.
- groaning with foreknowledge.
He walks back over the brow of the hill, to where the car is. Peter has heard the gunfire and sees one sheep lying dead, and is looking goggle eyed through the windscreen, while the car is full of hyperactive sheep. The vicar gets in, managing to stop any sheep escaping. Jeremiah's still shooting sheep.
Vicar
On to number two, I'm afraid. Let's go.
Similar setting. Slightly younger man, but still very old sits there. Same sort of porch, same sort of deserted setting. Some 'Bluesy' music playing, please.
Again, the vicar walks up with a sheep under each arm. He is about thirty yards from the porch, when a siren goes off, and a couple of searchlights start searching. A bell is also ringing. It is the middle of the day, so the searchlights just look silly (sillier). Sam Ward has a megaphone.
Sam
HAVE YOU BROUGHT SHEEP?
Vicar
Yes!
Sam
COME HERE, THEN.
He turns the sirens and lights off.
Vicar
Rightieho!... Hello.
He comes a little closer.
Sam
Let em go, then.
Vicar
Fine. There you are, they've gone. They're off!
Sam starts shooting, if anything, he is worse than Coverdale was. He is also shooting throughout the conversation, shooting and reloading.
Sam
So what've thee come to see me aboot, then? Ah hope tha's not come collecting for t'poor again. Ah told thee aboot tha' las' time.
Vicar
No, no. I just wanted your help a bit, Mr. Ward.
Sam
Waffor?
Vicar
A friend of mine's lost his dog.
Sam
'Ow long ago?
Vicar
A couple of days. Maybe a bit more.
Sam
Where?
Vicar
Reading.
Sam
Reading? Reading? Whasstha lookin' here for? Thas' doon south...
spits
Sam
...like Africa.
Vicar
Some... someone told him it had been seen around here.
Sam
Thas mighty queer. So was tha come t'me for, then?
Vicar
Seeing as you're one of the most influential land holders around here, and one of Staveley's most important men, I felt I should come to you first - see if you knew anyth...
Sam
Ah've jus' seen thee roun' at ol' Jem. Coverdale's place o'er hill!
Vicar
Ah. Well, that was just a social call. He doesn't get out much any more, I'm afraid.
Sam
Stupid ol' fool. He's way past it. Can't even shoot sheep any more.
Vicar
So, would you know anything about these dogs, then? My friend's really quite attached to it, you know. He's offering a reward!
Sam
How many?
Vicar
Well, I don't know, but I'm sure he'd be very generous. He's quite well off. Much better than me.
Sam
Well, ahm sorry, but ah haven't heard owt. Oh, booger'em.
He puts down his gun then presses down a massive plunger next to his rocking chair, and an enormous number of explosions are detonated around where the sheep are grazing, making them explode (with a Baaaaaaaaaaaaaa.....).
Sam
Ah'm gettin' on a bit these days. Can't spend me time off galivantin' after sheep no more.
the Vicar is a bit shocked.
Vicar
Well, I'll be getting on then. Th... thanks for your help.
Sam
If tha wants mah advice, ah'd knock on t'door of Giles Gilbert. He culd tell ye more than I could, ahl bet. Thank ye for t'sheep. Ahm a bit awld te catch me own these days.
Vicar
Goodbye!
Sam takes a sniff of the air as the Vicar goes off to the car. We see Peter hunched in the back seat, with slightly less sheep than before gambolling around. A sheep's disembodied head lies on the bonnet. Smoke is blowing across the landscape, and there is a small grass fire.
Sam
Ah, there's nowt like t'smell o'napalm in t'mornin!
The Ride of the Valkryies is playing. Ahahahahaha!
Giles Gilbert's house. A larger farm. Again, the vicar comes with a sheep under each arm. He opens the door.
Giles
Ah! Reverend! That's very civil of thee!
He lifts his gun, and the vicar sort of sighs and prepares to put the sheep down.
Giles
Ah, no. If you could jus' put'em in t'field o'er there, that'd be grand.
The vicar smiles with relief.
Giles
Ahm savin' them til' later.
He pats his gun.
Giles
Now, what was it thee wanted?
Vicar
A friend of mine's lost his dog.
Giles sucks in his breath sharply
Giles
Ooh. Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasty business, that.
Vicar
Yes. He is rather upset. And we were thinking that a man of your stature might well have heard if any such dog had turned up in the area recently. We were thinking...
Giles
Is there a reward?
Vicar
Of course.
Giles
How many?
Vicar
Oh, a couple of flocks. Loads... The dog's called Jess. She's from Reading.
Giles hasn't understood - looks totally blank.
Vicar
Near Africa. We were just hoping that you might have heard something...
Giles
T' south?
Realization dawns. We see Giles' POV, all blurry, then a short Flashback to him watching Peter & the Vicar at the vicarage. He shakes his head to clear it, and tries to hide his shock.
Giles
I'm afraid ah've seen nowt. An heard nowt. Sorry, bu'. Tha knows. If ah hear owt, ahl be sure tae tell thee. Goodbye.
...and he slams the door. We hear him running through the house, footsteps fading away.
The vicar shakes his head, and makes his way back to the car. He notices that Peter is outside the car, nosing about in the dirt.
Vicar
None of them know any... What are you doing?
Peter
Just looking around.
Pause.
Vicar
Are you coming, then?
Peter
Hang on a moment, would you...
Pause.
Peter
Look here!
Vicar
What is it?
Peter
Paw prints.
Vicar
So? There must be loads of dogs on the farm.
Peter
Yees. Lots of paw prints. And tyre tracks. And... oh my god... a collar.
Vicar
Oh.
Peter
It's... it's... not Jess's.
Vicar
OK, fine. If we just calm down...
Peter
What was the name of that farmer again?
Vicar
Which one?
Peter
The one you just saw.
Vicar
Oh. Giles Gilbert. He's a big cheese in Stavenley. He presents the prizes at the village sports day, and he's on the village hall committee. He probably knows the local MP, that sort of thing. Actually, I think he might be the local MP.
Cut to flashback. Lou giving Peter a piece of paper with Giles Gilbert written on.
Peter
Shit!
Peter runs to the door, knocks it down, dashes into the house Action Hero style. He looks round the house. It is deserted. In the back room Peter finds a farm hand, who runs away as soon as he is seen. Peter chases and catches him. They fight, but Peter wins, knocking the farm hand out.
Then cut to Giles Gilbert on a windswept hill, lighting a beacon.
In Woking, Watson is standing watching a fire on top of the big hill through a window, writing down details in a notepad. He rushes over to Mr. X.
Watson
Sir! Badger 2, sir. Badger 2! Signalling again. He says Vine has been prying. And he's probably onto him. They've caught someone who's bound to talk. We haven't got long, sir.
Watson looks terrified.
Mr. X
Oh, fuck.
Title:
St. Peter's Church Crypt: Evening
A dark room under the church. Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor is playing, the vicar is standing by a rack on which is the farmhand. The vicar is tightening the rack, and screaming at the farmhand...
Vicar
Tell me! Where is the dog? Confess! Confess!
The farmhand screams. Peter comes in. Shot of farmhand, screaming.
Peter
Don't you think you might be overdoing it a bit?
Vicar
Sorry. I don't get the chance to do this very often, you know.
Shot moves to vicar, wearing PVC, whip and stuff, and some womens' clothes from his wardrobe.
Peter
How often, exactly?
The vicar tightens the rack another notch. The farmhand screams.
Farmhand
Please! Let me go! You don't understand! They'll kill me! They'll murder me! They'll send me to Australia!
Peter
What do you know about Australia?
Farmhand
Nothing. Nothing! Mr Gilbert said I knew nothing... but now my arm's coming off!
Peter
What do you know! Tell me, or you'll be here for ever!
Vicar
In church, no-one can hear you scream.
He cracks whip, licks lips.
Peter
We mean it. If you talk to us, I'll protect you. I've got connections. I'll see you're safe. But if we just let you go now, how long do you think you'll last? Eh? Answer me that.
Farmhand
But, they said...
He starts crying.
Peter
Sssh. Sssh. Everything's alright. We'll look after you. You're safe with us.
Shot of the farmhand stretched on the rack in agony.
Farmhand
Alright. I'll tell you.
Vicar
Are you sure?
Farmhand
Yes! Yes!
Vicar
Really?
Farmhand
Yes! Really!
The vicar looks rather put out and is about to go on at him more, but Peter intervenes.
Peter
Good. Where's my Jess?
Farmhand
Is that your dog? She'll be in the big shed by the river at Mr. Gilbert's farm. Will you let me go?
Vicar
We'll let you go in good time.
Farmhand
But you haven't got long. They load the dogs into a big van every week. It goes tonight, at eight. I'm not meant to know, but I watched it once, and it goes off down the B5123. You know, the Woking road. But I don't know where it ends up. You must be careful. Even Mr. Gilbert is scared of the person who is in charge: who the dogs are for...
Peter
Who is that?
Farmhand
I don't know. I don't think even Mr. Gilbert knows. He's just scared of him. And he said I wasn't to tell. He said I'd be for it if I were to say anything to anyone. Especially anyone from the South, from India or Africa or somewhere.
Peter
OK. There's no time to waste. We'd better go. Come on.
Lifting up a trapdoor...
Vicar
It's OK. We can take the secret passage to Gilbert's farm.
Farmhand
Wait! But...! You... you... if you do that... Giles will...
The Vicar, has been leaning on the rack handle, and the farmhand suddenly snaps with a loud noise, instantly dead.
Vicar
Oops!
Peter grabs the upper torso, and clutches it to him angrily...
Peter
Giles will what? Giles will what? Tell me! Tell me!
Pause
Peter
There's probably not a lot of point to that, is there, really.
Vicar
Come on! The tunnel floods at high tide!
Peter looks a bit bemused at this. Still...
Cut to the van inside a big shed. Night-time. Giles loads the last dogs while talking to the driver.
Title:
7.58
Driver
Right. That'll be the lot.
Giles
Can' we get in any more? E'll be cross if you brin' tha few.
Driver
But they're six deep at the back already.
Giles
Aye, alright then. Tell you what, 'ows about one for t'road, eh?
Driver
Oh, I don't know. We've had a few already...
Giles
Hair o' the dog?
They both laugh and go into the house. Peter and the Vicar come up through a trap-door in the road, covered in cobwebs.
Peter
I haven't time to explain now. But I'm sure my dog is connected with this other case I'm working on. Something big. I told you I was suspicious before. And if I go with this lorry to wherever it's going, I think I'll come closer to an answer.
Vicar
I'll come. Let me come.
Peter
You? No, you can't. It's too dangerous. And besides, there's only room for one up there. Thanks for all your help. But I'd better get going. Could you give me a leg up here?
They walk around the van, looking at it from all sides. The vicar occasionally pulls commando style poses. Eventually, the vicar gives Peter a leg up onto the roof. The roof is canvas, and he falls through to the sound of ripping. There is muffled barking.
Peter
Aw, I've got whitewash all over me. Hello Jess! Yes! There's a good girl! Hello!
Shouting to Vicar, while stirring music plays.
Peter
You'd better return to the vicarage. They won't be inside much longer... Look. I'm about to go into the heart of hell. I'm going to have to battle through danger, through discomfort, distress; but I know you'll be with me all the way. I know that. You've struck a blow for truth. It's the best thing a man can do. And never forget that. Never forget.
The vicar stands there, really pleased, but embarrassed.
Vicar
You're a great man, Peter. I'm... I'm really glad I've known you. I hope you succeed. I know you'll go down fighting. Um... stay up, fighting, of course.
Peter
Of course.
Vicar
I think... I think I... I... I l... I lo...
quickly
Peter
I must be quiet now, else the dogs will give me away. Goodbye! Good luck!
Vicar
Goodbye, Peter!
The door of Giles' house opens. The sound of 'On Ilkley Moor bah t'at' is heard. The driver comes out rolling drunk. He does not notice the vicar trying to be as secretive as possible hunched in the corner, and climbs into the van. The van lurches off down the road, revving too hard, stalling all the time, and demolishing a stone wall. When the van has gone, the vicar comes out from his hiding place, pulls out a pair of Peter's underpants, and clutches them to his chest lovingly, standing in the shed doorway, gazing at the departing van in the moonlight.
Vicar
There is a god.
Night-time: scene illuminated by roadside lights. Lorry moving fast. Peter has stuck his head up though the roof of the van, looking the wrong way, which is driving down a fairly big road. While it moves, Peter is narrating to camera. There is a brass band on a carnival float driving along trying to overtake Peter's lorry, playing cheesy versions of James Bond themes, although we can't properly hear it: its sound is carried away by the wind. Never mind, eh?
Peter
First the good news: Jess was fine. But there was a lot of bad: she looked half starved; and if I was to stand any chance of investigating this mysterious and horrific Woking camp, I would have to let her back into the hands of the evil-doers: they would surely notice a missing dog. I couldn't and hadn't told the vicar too much, for his own sake as much as mine: but it all seemed to be forming a pattern. The dogs had to be connected to Australia and Woking - I knew Lou knew about them, because he had told me to talk to Gilbert. Where did they fit in? What did this evil man, whoever he was, want with dogs? I was no closer to answering that then when I had first come to Yorkshire. And I still didn't know why he wanted to destroy Australia, or how I was going to stop him. But it seemed certain to me that the hub of the operation was in Woking, like the mysterious Lou had told me, and I was almost certain that was where this lorry was going. Why Woking? Another question that needed answering. And I was going to get those answers or die in the attempt. I was MI5's best. The cream, the elite. The...
Ducks to avoid the oncoming bridge (although he couldn't have seen it coming, being faced the wrong way), then sticks his head out again. Peter begins to fade out.
Peter
...top drawer. If I couldn't do it, no-one could. Yes, it would be a sorry day for England if ever I was bested. And I wasn't going to let that happen. No siree. I knew I would win through in the end.
Title:
Thursday
Dawn. Lorry drives past sign. Camera rests on sign. Marked 'Welcome to Woking', with a 'You are Here' sign, in the middle of a large blanked out section on a big tourist map, on a sign, of Woking. Camera pans up to reveal a big fence, then across to a gate, guarded by army-style men. The lorry goes through the checkpoint, turns a corner. Peter jumps out of the back, rolls away into the shadows. A guard walks past and misses him. Peter is carrying a hat. He stands up, looks at the hat then firmly puts it on. He gets a gun out, and begins to walk around the complex. He sees a door signed 'Reception', then thinks better of it and turns away. He sees a guard with a dog that looks a bit like Jess. He follows the guard, watching the dog closely, then shakes his head. The guard walks into a building. Peter dashes across the intervening space and follows into the building.
A warning bleeper bleeps sharply. Fade up on Giles lying asleep on the floor of his living room, in a toga. He is talking in his sleep (beeper continues throughout scene)
Giles
Oh... mmm... yes... lemme feel tha's wooly coat... Oooh...
Giles continues to murmur and roll around on the floor
Giles
Oh, yer lovely horns. Aah..
suddenly much louder
Giles
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Giles flails around wildly. He knocks into a chair, and wakes himself up. He hears the noise and looks over at a control panel. We see that it is enormous, covering about three of the walls of the room. It contains lots of lights with little labels indicating what they mean, as well as CCTV screens, looking on various sites on the farm, as well as screens for each sheep in the field by the house. One of the bigger lights is flashing and making the beeping sound. Giles stumbles over to look at the light. The label reads 'Trapdoor F opened.' He presses a button and stops the flashing and the beeping. Putting his wellies on, he runs outside, to the signalling fire, pours petrol on it, gets a lighter, but it won't light: it's too damp. He runs to the trapdoor, which has been left open, looks around, and climbs down. He goes down into a carved out tunnel, lit with flickering torches along the walls. There are big cobwebs. As he walks down into the tunnel, there are tidemarks on the walls, and a small amount of water is dripping from the roof. Giles disappears into the dark..
Back to Woking. The corridor heads down, with no windows. Sinister harsh lighting. When guards pass Peter ducks into a doorway, of which there are many. At the end of the passage, there is a lift, with a hand print thingy lock. The sign on the wall by the lift says 23. Peter looks stumped, then sees a guard approaching. Peter ducks into a doorway. The guard opens the lift and pushes the down button. Just as the doors are shutting, Peter runs up to the lift and jumps the guard. We can't see what happens because the doors shut. We hear a slightly muffled struggle, and the lift descending, the noise growing fainter.
Darkness. We see Giles come running along the tunnel, splashing through a little water. Giles splashes away into the darkness. The water washes against the sides of the tunnel peacefully as his footsteps fade into the distance.
We are a few floors deeper in the Woking complex (the sign by the lift says 18), but it looks much the same as the other one, if a little more sinisterly lit. More? Is that possible? The lift arrives, the doors swish open, and Peter is standing there immaculately dressed in the guard's uniform. He walks along the corridor, and picks the plushest looking office he can find. Most of the doors are open so he can look in. He enters a room with a big desk and begins to read the papers on it, muttering...
Peter
Australia eh?... What? What? Thrice? Oh my god!
Then he hears voices and hides behind a filing cabinet. Mr. X. walks in, Watson dashing behind him. He talks to someone outside the room.
Mr. X
...so I want him caught now! NOW!... Come on, Watson, you miserable piece of shit.
Watson
Yes, sir.
Mr. X
Are they coming?
Watson
I don't know: they said...
Mr. X
They'd fucking better be coming. I'm not having my precious time fucking wasted by a bunch of greenie four-eyes jelly Martians. What did you say they want?
Long-sufferingly:
Watson
Ohh... They're coming about Australia, sir, again.
Mr. X
Why?
Watson
Uhh... They're concerned that we're not going fast enough, sir. They say they want us to work harder. And they don't seem to think we have a choice. They say they're being nice about it.
Mr. X
Bollocks to them. You know how I feel. They can go fuck themselves.
He gets out a phone from his jacket, and starts to dial: but of course, it's a mobile and doesn't work - they're inside a big hill, stupid!!!!! He throws it at the wall and narrowly misses Peter.
Watson
But, sir!
Mr. X
Phone!
Watson
Yessir.
Watson opens a drawer and gets out a phone with a cord.
Mr. X dials, and says
Mr. X
How's Thursday's? It's what? She's WHAT! THEN TELL HER SHE'S FIRED! I don't care if the mortuary's shut. Her career's over with us. She had the biggest part for most of the next fortnight. Doesn't she have feelings? No - don't answer that. Fire her fucking friends too. I suppose we'll have to have another abduction. Bollocks! If I say they'll fucking buy it, the listeners will fucking well buy it. Do you know who I am? Anyway, we've only had thirteen this year. Well, fuck you then. You're fired. And don't expect to see tomorrow.
Talks to Watson, pointing at phone earpiece.
Mr. X
Kill him. Now.
Watson
Yessir. Um...
Mr. X
Want to say something, Watson?
Watson
Um...
Mr. X
Well? Don't fucking waste my time.
Watson
Um, it's just that... they don't like it. The alien abduct... the ingenious plot twists, sir. They think it's too much bad press. And what with...
Mr. X
What are you trying to say, Watson?
Watson
I really wouldn't sir. Last time they got so stroppy. Sorry.
Mr. X
Oh shut the fuck up. And have that man killed. Who was it, anyway?
Shot from behind Giles, we see Giles splashing through more water, still in the tunnel. More water still is dripping from the ceiling. Track Giles, then stop, as Giles stops at a fork. He looks briefly at both tunnels, then sees a ripped bit of cassock on one of the tunnels' walls. He follows that one. We watch him running into the tunnel.
Neville wandering around a Finnish street a bit battered. He walks up to a policeman and says, reading from his hand:
Mr. Neville
Nee nai qratik. Helfi helfi bonbons!
Subtitle:
I'm desperate to tell you of a suspicious British enormity!
Policeman looks bemused
Mr. Neville
Hilly bit chaffinch!
Subtitle:
Look at my fine architecture!
Policeman
Hokey hok. Fargo cromarty, helter.
Subtitle:
Are you taking the piss?
Neville looks in dictionary which he gets out of his pocket, then looks up confidently.
Mr. Neville
Qwaty.
Subtitle:
I've uncovered a plot to destroy the continent of Australasia through the construction of a large covert hill in southern England. We must immediately take steps to help the people of the world.
A bomb explodes. Neither of our protagonists take much notice.
Policeman
Halter shingles gop frh hwerh hsr htj gjhkbmk fg jfj hk.
Subtitle:
My god! Can this be true? What do you think we must do next? Shall I contact the British Embassy? Should we call in the armed forces?
Mr. Neville
Sorry, I didn't catch a word you were saying.
Subtitle:
Only joking!
Another bomb.
Policeman starts to walk off, shaking his head.
Mr. Neville
Qwa! Qwa!
Subtitle:
Goat! Goat!
pause...
Again, a bomb lands nearby, but Neville is unharmed, despite being showered with masonry again. OK? There is a reason. Honest.
Giles is in the tunnel, it's heading upwards, less water, perhaps only a few inches. He comes to a trapdoor in the roof (The tunnel continues on after the trapdoor), walks into the crypt of the church. The sounds of lathing can be heard, muffled, from above. Giles looks grim, and walks up the stairs into the church.
Giles
Ah've got'im now.
A figure can be seen sitting at a lathe. Giles creeps into the Nave. He pulls a gun out of his toga, creeps up behind the figure, puts the gun to his head. Suddenly, a voice rings out:
Vicar
Drop the gun.
Giles spins round, looking at the shadows at the side of the church. You know!!!!!!
Mr. X is laughing manically at the end of a corridor. Watson cringes next to him. Just behind them, Peter is hiding in a doorway. A bright light appears round the corner of the corridor. A black silhouetted figure appears in the bright light, from round the corner, and walks slowly towards Mr. X. The white light diminishes and we see a middle aged balding bloke walking to the other end of the tunnel. The only thing that isn't human is that he walks as if he has no knees. He has an American accent. Mr. X is a little nervous but doesn't really show it and certainly is trying not to. Watson runs away, past Peter, who keeps his cool.
Watson
Aaaaaah!!! It's him! Aaaaaaah!
Mr. X
I wish you'd knock.
Bald bloke smiles sinisterly. X gestures to the building around them.
Mr. X
Anything you can do, we can do better... What do you want this time?
Bald bloke, voice slightly slowed down to be more sinister please.
Alien
Don't play games with me. It isn't safe to stay here long. Hahaha! You know what we want. We have made ourselves clear. So will you deliver pleasantly and speedily...
Mr. X
Like hell I will.
Alien
...Or will we have to punish you? We will be forced to if your incompetence persists. We cannot tolerate this behaviour.
Mr. X
You can't do that. And what's the hurry? It's not like you need it desperately.
Alien
We have our reasons. They need not concern you. So please drop the shabby pretence of authority: it does become rather tiresome. You do remember Deimos Days?
Mr. X
Course I do. The script's next to my toilet. What's left of it, anyway. Do you think it could be printed on softer paper in future? You want to watch out, or you'll have problems with piles. So what of it? It's a joke, that, a piece of shit.
X is sneering.
Alien replies: really sinister smile now
Alien
That 'piece of shit' with four billion viewers. Where would that leave your 'country folk', eh? We can and we will destroy you if we feel you have not completed the agreed tasks adequately. Our satellites are even now in position.
Stuttering a little with nerves.
Mr. X
I... I.... It's too much! You can't expect me to finish all this! I haven't any time left for anything else! It's all falling apart. You must give me more time! Please! Please!
Alien ignores him.
Alien
How near are you to completion?
Mr. X
Very near, very near.
Alien
This is not good enough. We cannot be delayed any longer by your muddling ineptitudes. If Australia is not well on its way by Saturday morning, then you may kiss your 'Archers' goodbye.
Mr. X
Our excavators are working around the clock. We are completing this job as quickly as possible. Quicker, in fact! Allow me to show you our control room. That machine you gave us...
points in opposite direction down corridor.
The subtitle below should be bright red, and flashing.
SUBTLE PLOT DEVICE
Mr. X
...has helped matters along enormously. It co-ordinates our whole...
They walk off down the corridor, the alien walking sillily because he has no knees. They turn a corner. Peter moves after them, but they disappear in a flash of light. Peter turns the other way and walks off down the corridor. He sees where the alien came from: there's an enormous floodlight, and a smoke machine and a tape recorder. Peter moves away from it and tiptoes along. In front of him is a big pit covered in leaves and sticks. He looks at it for a moment, and then steps around it. He continues down the corridor. A trap door opens in front of him. He looks down and sees a big spiky pit. He looks around, jumps over the trapdoor and continues. The walls start to close ahead of him, but he easily gets through at a walk, stopping midway through surprised nothing's happened. He sees a big door, runs down to it, echoey footsteps. The door is locked. He shoots the lock off and dashes in. There is an enormous pulsating computer. It looks organic. In the middle there is a big button marked 'Stop'. Peter walks towards it. Then he hears an alarm begin to sound. He looks up and sees a cage dropping. He runs away, but loses his hat in an Indiana Jones style escape.
Peter
Fuck, my hat!
Peter rushes round the computer and sees some double doors. He runs through them into the open. Two guards stand either side of the door. They do nothing to stop Peter.
Guard 1
Bonkers!
Guard 2
Barmy.
Then a loud siren goes off all over the complex. The two guards rush inside. Cut away to X standing by an enormous flashing map thingy of the complex, pointing at the central computer area place, with Watson next to him.
Mr. X
He's here! He's fucking here! I knew it! That's him! Catch him! Get him! Now!
A man with a big drum runs into the room and tries to get over to Watson to bang it, but is gunned down by guards. J runs out of the room, followed by Watson, who trips over the dead man but manages not to completely fall over. Watson is ashen white.
The vicar and Giles are circling each other, each looking for an opening to squeeze off a round. Every now and then, one points, ('Look over there!') and tries to distract the other. This goes on for a little while. It is vital to remember that the vicar is in a cassock, and Giles is wearing wellington boots and a damp toga. OK? It helps.
Giles
Tha's no goin t'get outa here alive, ye ken.
Vicar
It doesn't matter.
Giles
Wha?
Vicar
I don't care if I die here today. You still won't get away with your evil plan. My task is over, my debt to the world is paid. Many times over. I have done my duty. Here I stand: I can...
Giles
Get away we it? We're gettin' away we it, as we stand here, ye fool.
Vicar
No, you're not. Right now, Peter Vine is in Woking, thanks to your lorry, infiltrating your base. You can't do a thing. He knows all about your plan.
Giles
He does?
Vicar
Yes! Don't you see you're being used? I fight on the side of truth. You're just a pawn in their game.
Giles
A pawn? Me? Tha's comin' from't failed vicar o' a tiny parish.
Vicar
At least I know what I fight for. I fight for truth. For freedom. For Peace. I fight... for peace.
Giles
Fer peace? Pah. I look fer t'money, an it's got me a whole lot further than ye. I'm vital to t'whole operation.
Vicar
Vital? You don't even know what's going on!
Giles
An' tha' does?
Vicar
I know... enough. Oh! Look, a three headed monkey!
Giles turns to look. The vicar lunges at him. They fight each other, holding each other's gun arms with their free arms. They roll around, heading towads the stairs to the crypt.. They fall down these, and then fall straight down the trapdoor into the tunnel. Ahahahaha.
It is night, and raining. Searchlights are covering the complex, and there is a loud siren wailing. Peter is running through the complex. We can hear dogs barking. As he turns a corner, some guards catch sight of him. They run after him, their dogs barking. He runs back the way he came, the dogs give chase. He turns a corner and Lou is running next to him.
Lou
You're close, very close. You've got to do this. Don't give up.
They turn another corner, and Lou runs into a wall with a thud, disappears.
Down in the tunnel, the water level is quite high. The Vicar and Giles are wrestling fiercely. A rumbling sound starts, and begins to get louder. Giles notices.
Giles
The tide! The tide! It's the tide!
Giles, who is on top, grabs at the ladder (iron rungs in the rock of the tunnel walls) up to the crypt. The vicar lunges at him.
Vicar
You're not getting away! We die together!
Giles
But we can both escape! Just let go of me!
Vicar
And have you warn Woking about Peter? Never! Never!!!!!!!
The vicar pulls at Giles, restraining him. An enormous, thundering tidal wave sweeps along the tunnel, carrying both of them away with it. POV moves to the crypt, and we hear a softer swishing peaceful sound. The water fills the room to about a foot deep. We can see it bubbling out of the trapdoor, in a wave-type fashion. Then, the camera zooms in, and we see Peter's purloined underpants floating gently on the surface, which is a bit luminescent, which is sad. Aaah.
Peter's still running away. Some more guards come from in front. He shoots a couple of times, and perhaps even hits, with the guard's purloined gun. He is still in guard's costume. So Peter tries to turn back, but he is surrounded. He attempts to climb a wall, but a dog catches him and drags him back down. Peter is like Ralph at the end of the Lord of the Flies. He is lying exhausted. Gunfire, sirens, barking, shouting. He opens his eyes and sees that the dog is Jess. It licks his face, and wags its tail. Moving music, please.
Peter
Jess!
His hope fades as he realises the hopelessness of the situation.
Peter
We are the dead.
Jess barks. Then over the tannoy, we hear Mr. X.
Mr. X
You are the dead.
Peter is dragged away. Orff's Carmina Burana begins to play. Peter is dragged past the bottom of a hill. The camera pans up and up the huge hill. We see a long line of tiny men with wheelbarrows bringing soil to the top of t'hill. The camera continues up and we see Mr. X. standing at the top, conducting lightning. As you do. Fade out.
Something like Ravel's Bolero plays.
Peter is dragged along a sterile white corridor, past room 101, from which he hears sheep bleating. He is then thrown into a cell with another man, who wears sinister clothing, but his shirt is ripped at the front.. Peter's guard's uniform is now quite tatty and torn. He looks knackered. There is a few moments of silence. Then the other man starts to speak, moving to shake Peter's hand...
Mr. P
Hello. I don't believe I've had the pleasure... So, what did they get you for?
Peter
I was trying to break in. They caught me. What is going in here?
Mr. P
Break in? How much do you know?
Peter
Not much.
Mr. P
No, you wouldn't. You're a secret agent, of course. Ah, yes. Peter Vine? I think that was it...
Peter
Can you smell drink on my breath?
Mr. P
What? Um. No, I used to work for them. We... they knew about you from the start, near as makes no difference. You never had any chance, I'm afraid. I hear you were meddling in Stavenley. I don't believe I ever had the pleasure...
Peter
Hang on... how do you... they know all this? How did they get onto me? I left a colleague working on the case I'd been assigned, to cover my tracks. I thought I'd been very careful.
Mr. P
Alvin? Alvin Ness? We killed him, I'm afraid. He caught on a bit. Not much, but we couldn't risk it.
Peter
Alvin? Dead?
Mr. P
Yes. Sorry.
Peter
Really?
Mr. P
Yes. I was there.
Peter
Oh. So, what are you doing here?
Mr. P
J, your boss, doesn't like me. He was jealous - I was second in command. He is now.
Peter
J? That high up? I had no idea.
Mr. P
He accused me of stealing soil from the hill, and X, the boss, will believe anything. He's cracking up a bit. This is too much for him. He can't cope.
Peter
And had you?
Mr. P
Stolen soil? No. What gets me is, I wish I had. If I was going to get arrested, that is. It has a lovely peaty quality. It would have done so much good for my courgettes, you know. But that's the way life is. And, oddly, so close to the machine, the thought didn't enter my head.
Peter
Machine?
Mr. P
You really don't know very much, do you? Very well, we do appear to have some time on our hands. I shall tell you. But where to start?
Peter
At the beginning?
Mr. P
Don't take the piss. Right. Picture the scene.
P. narrates over the following bit, all done in Flashback style:
J, looking much less stressed, sits at a table, banging his head on it: paper, pens, word processor, typewriter etc. strewn across it. The man who walks in walks with no bend in his knees.
Watson
A man to see you, sir.
Mr. X
Oh! How kind of you to let me know, Mr. Watson. Would you be so kind as to show him in? Thankyou so much.
Alien
Hello. I was just passing by. You won't know me, but I wondered if we might do each other a mutual favour. Are you free for lunch?
Mr. X
Let's go now! I'd love to. And you are?...
They leave, with the alien doing a silly walk out the door.
They sit in a pub, musing over a script. The Alien is standing all the time. He leaves.
X sits at his desk the next day. The Alien enters with a script with Mr. X's name on the front. He puts it on his table, and leaves. X leafs through it.' Points at one bit, laughs, another, sucks breath in with surprise, laughs again, 'aaah's' another bit, and then finally starts to cry, so moving is the script. He gets up, knocks on the door, marked 'Producer'. Comes out without script, rubbing hands together with glee.
Mr. P (V.O.)
X was a scriptwriter on The Archers, recently promoted to temporary editor. The ratings were sliding, because the plots weren't interesting enough. Gentle farming anecdotes were too dated. He was a bit desperate, for recognition, for fame for the Archers, for a secure job. He developed a passionate, fairly irrational hatred of Australian soaps: they seemed to be able to get away with so much more than he could. Then a strange man walked into the office one day, with a silly walk. He claimed that he could solve X's problems at a stroke. He offered to go over his scripts. Suddenly, they seemed far more interesting, alive. And more people got killed. And it all worked. It was believable!
X hands a big wadge of tatty scripts to the Alien, who goes out, comes back with an enormous pile of them, and X goes with them into the Producer's office. We follow him in: the producer smiles at him, points to a graph of ratings on a flip chart, with a line going up and up. Mr. X smiles, and the producer only grins more, and flips over the page to show us the line continuing up, and over another page, and up again and again..
Mr. P (V.O.)
X got greedy. He was able to design the most ludicrous of plot lines, and get away with them, if he gave them to this strange man. But his position had been consolidated - he was beyond doubt chief scriptwriter. And he relied on this person, his happiness overwhelming his suspiciousness at his unusual good fortune.
Mr. X and the Alien are in the pub again, looking at scripts.
Mr. X
Won't you sit down?
Alien
Ah. I've been meaning to say something to you about this.
He sits down, and as he has no knees his legs stick out.
Mr. X looks a bit bemused.
Alien
I'm not... not quite like you, Simon.
Mr. X
Oh?
He gets out a bowl of jelly. We thought of this before it was on the Jack Docherty Show, or wherever, by the way.
Alien
This... this is my wife, Velma. Well, it's what she looks like, anyway. Actually, it's a bowl of jelly - she was busy today: but the effect's exactly the same.
Mr. X is taking the piss.
Mr. X
Uhuh? They were alright about this at the registry office, were they?
Alien
I must exp...
Mr. X
Oh, no, it's quite alright. I'm very broadminded.
Alien
I'm not from this earth.
Mr. X
Really?
Alien
Really. I look like that too.
Mr. X looks at him very strangely.
Alien
I'm a Martian. This is just the form I assume to fit in.
Mr. X
Except at children's parties: you can really be yourself there, eh?
Alien
This is serious. That is why I haven't any knees.
He taps his legs to make a hollow sound. Perhaps he rips the skin away on an arm to reveal a computer thingy, like off of Terminator. Mr. X is shocked, and starts to take notice.
Mr. X
Eh?
Alien
We didn't notice them. Honestly! Design fault. We haven't had the time to recast them. You should understand about production troubles. Now, listen. This is important.
Mr. P (V.O.)
Then, this same man revealed himself in his true guise. He was an alien, who worked for a television company on Mars, who produced an incredibly popular soap, entitled Deimos Days. They had had similar problems, thousands of years ago, and had developed a Plausability Machine. It lent plausiblity to ludicrous things, and allowed gaping plot holes to be disguised, papered over. Don't ask me exactly how it works. It sounds like it's self-perpetuating, though. It's too silly to be much else, although you never do know for sure with these alien scum. They are much more advanced than us in every respect. Apart from knees, of course.
A shot of a typical family home, with several bowlfuls of jelly on the chairs, one on the carpet, etc. Moves through to the bedroom, where 2 bowls of jelly are on the bed next to each other, out of their bowls which lie discarded on the floor. Then a shot of a huge seemingly organic Heath Robinson/hyper complicated machine computer thingy.
Mr. P (V.O.)
They had destroyed the Martian moon the soap was set on three times in the script, twice over Christmas, and once against a Royal Wedding on the other channel, when it also involved the obliteration of the entire universe. And it worked. People believed it and loved it. It had four billion viewers: three quarters of the population of the planet. The Martian knew X hated Australia: here was his chance to destroy it. Any scheme would work, with the help of the machine. And Australia could be removed. That gone, The Archers could take over the world. Didn't he think that was good? Of course he did. He set about constructing the plan: he would build an enormous hill in Woking
Peter
Why Woking?
Mr. P
The Martians know Woking well. Then, he would excavate a hole underneath Australia, in New South Wales, exactly opposite to Woking.
Peter
So that's the Australian Connection...
(That will be in the trailers.)
Mr. P
Yes.
A shot of the plans.
Mr. P (V.O.)
The waste from this excavation would build the Woking hill. This would disrupt the earth's gravity, and Australia would simply float off. With the help of the Plausibility machine he could pull it off. But he wasn't as tough as he made out: a little naively he didn't realise that the Martians weren't helping him out of the goodness of their hearts. He set the wheels in motion:
Watson and X handing over money to Giles Gilbert. Masked men stealing dogs from the Kennels Jess was at. Dogs arriving by lorry at Gilbert's: hundreds of lorries. X shouting 'Release the Hounds!' or something. Then dogs being released by Watson in Woking, pouring through the gates in their thousands. The gates are very sinister, incidentally.
Mr. P (V.O.)
He started up a dog laundering business, to cover his tracks. That's the measure of this operation: even the cover business is illegal. And silly. Anyway, they would be stolen from around the country and taken to Stavenley, Yorkshire, on Giles Gilbert's farm. You visited there, I believe. Anyway, then they would be delivered to Woking.
Peter
What did he do with them?
Mr. P
Do with them? Oh, he had no use for them - they were mostly released, or given away as presents to his friends. And when I was being denounced, he was thinking about using them to pay his staff instead of money. He's running out of cash fast. But he hasn't got round to it yet as far as I know. He did it initially partly to cover his real motives, and partly to show off.
X handing money to J., and the Russian who met Neville.
Mr. P (V.O.)
He recruited agents from the KGB, CIA, Mossad, and MI5 to work with him. A major criminal organisation was created in a matter of weeks. I'm afraid you had no chance. You and Ness were the only 'clean' departmental members. Apparently, neither of you listened to the radio much. So that's why J tried to pack you off to Scandinavia. There were no problems with enticement: his programme had been broadcasting subliminal messages in the farm scenes' animal noises to the four million Archers listeners world-wide for years. It's true. It's all true.
X handing money to P.
Mr. P (V.O.)
That was where I got involved. I worked for a major gardening equipment supplier, and intoxicated by the power, he had decided to ship the soil from Australia to Britain by wheelbarrow. He was spending too long close to the Plausibility machine: it affects people. And he could pay me... a lot. Not dogs, dollars. He was flush before the aliens started putting on the pressure. So I set up the transportation.
P, walking around in a trance. The Stavenley pub people come out of one door like zombies, and march off.
Mr. P (V.O.)
And working at the hill, near the machine, I was affected too: many of the offices are on the same floor. The Martians keep theirs in a high orbit around one of their moons. Now I've recovered: it took a while. But it was at this point that things started to go wrong.
The Alien and X arguing. X is banging the table and swearing. He throws a phone. The Alien points to the sky, and we pan up through the roof into the night sky, and to a satellite glinting.
Mr. P (V.O.)
The Martians made their first major demand. They wanted Australia. It was perfect: lager beer, good skiing in the winter months, and at least two globally mainstream soaps, which they secretly admired. And if they didn't get Australia, they... well... they were going to get Australia. X was cross. He had wanted to keep it for himself, orbiting around the earth, as a trophy, a reminder of his supreme power. But they threatened to beam Deimos Days to Earth: they had broken into our satellite system, and had only to press a button to release their programme. This was a soap thousands of years advanced from ours. It could destroy our puny efforts in days, without trouble. World domination.
Peter (V.O.)
Someone's been watching Independence Day...
Mr. P (V.O.)
Other way around, actually. Tyrannical world domination and a tidy little profit on the merchandising - that's space age capitalism for you.
X storming around throwing phones. The shot of the machine working overtime. Very high pitched hum.
Mr. P (V.O.)
So X had no choice. But working under such stress in such proximity to the machine for so long had changed him. He believed he could do anything, and considered himself to be invulnerable. He seriously thought... thinks.... he could defeat the Martians, if they came to blows over Australia, and hold onto it for himself. And he was beginning to doubt the existence, or at least the authority, of anyone and anything but himself; deluded by his apparent power to get away with anything, the distinction between reality and his scripts blurred until for him it wasn't there. Christ!, that sounded quite deep. Oh, and he keeps accusing people of hoarding dogs. Even then I thought that was quite funny. Anyway. Meanwhile, with the machine fully occupied with the difficult task of concealing a huge hill in the Home Counties from the British public, and similarly the hole in Australia, it had no time for the scripts.
X with a cast list again, crossing names off. Banging Watson's head on table repeatedly, like before with his own head. Then a shot of Woking, and a flickering hill appears. Lou looking at it.
Mr. P (V.O.)
They got worse, ratings dropped, so his plot ideas got more and more outrageous to try and attract ratings, and less and less plausible. A vicious circle had formed. He diverted some of the machine's run-time onto the scripts, but this meant that the hill was less successfully disguised. This is where the leak occurred. Someone, somewhere, noticed. We don't know who he is. That was the man who has been talking to you. We knew someone had, but couldn't find him.
Peter (V.O.)
Lou...
X with his hair untidy, unshaven, wild eyed, and J pointing at P, P having his cat ripped off, guards dragging P away. Lou at hill, then X crossing off more names, then people listening to the radio, hearing the Archers music, and turning off, then a shot of a rocket ready for launch, then their space station. A plan of the world, with Watson drawing a compass circle from Woking, with edge around the middle of the Atlantic.
Mr. P (V.O.)
Oh, that's what he was called? Fair enough. With X losing his grip on reality, and the Martians pushing him for the hill's speedy completion, the cracks began to tell. J denounced me to X and I was shoved in here, and the Archers has broadcast the same episode for three nights running. X has killed off most of the cast, both in the script and in real life, and he's drained. Obviously, I don't know what the effects of the completion of the hill will be on the earth: whatever X wants, I suppose. But whatever it is, I suppose it's nasty: X and J are leaving this evening for space by rocket from the top of the hill: they've built an orbiting studio, and they'll live there for a few years. We're dead. I wouldn't like to say how. But the Martians have three hundred and seventeen OB teams filming. I daresay it'll look good.
Mr. P
So that's it.
Peter
Why the hurry? I saw some alien visit X, and he was quite adamant the project had to be finished soon.
Mr. P
Oh, I heard they've got Australia lined up for a location shoot: but the location's in orbit around Mars. I don't think it's really a problem, but X annoys them with his little power games, and they like to wind him up. I'm not really sure, to be honest.
Peter
But I don't understand! What is the...
Guards come in and grab Mr P
Guard 1
Take him to room 101.
Mr P
At last! Yes! He-hey! Hooray! It's Christmas! Bring on the cattle!! I LOVE you!!! Bye!!!!
He kisses the guard. Peter sits there on his own, depressed, playing Tic Tac Toe. The shot fades out through the small barred window to the hill, the 2001 theme music plays, and the light goes. Preferably the sun blocked out by the hill. Could this be arranged? I hope so.
Title:
Friday
It is dawn again, and the shot goes back again, where he is still playing with himself. Oooh! The guard enters, pushing a trolley laden with all sorts of silly things, including a crystal ball, and a complicated upgraded version of Mallett's Mallett. It has several shelves built into the sides, all packed with copies of 1984. Then the psychic enters, pushed in roughly. She carries a copy of 1984. The guard leaves.
Peter
They got you too?
Psychic
Oh, they got me years ago!
She grins. Lindsay opens the book and reads:
Psychic
You knew this, Peter, don't deceive yourself. You did know it, you have always known it.
Peter
What are you talking about?
Psychic
Erm... I told you that if we met again it would be here. Sit down.
She starts to strap him to his chair. He is laughing...
Peter
No you didn't. What are you on about?
Psychic
Oh. Is that a good one? Look, I haven't got time for this. I'll get into trouble. [coughs] At this moment, which power is Oceania at war... no, that's not a very good one. Lets skip that bit. How many fingers am I holding up?
Holds up her hand.
Peter
Five. Have you gone mad or something?
The Mallet's Mallet machine hits him on the head ten times with a sponge hammer. Each hit, the machine makes a blippety squeaking noise.
Psychic
No. Four and a thumb. By the way, that was ten on my little contraption. You can see the numbers on this dial run up to three hundred million. And at the higher settings, it makes farmyard noises. Do not attempt to tell me any lies, Peter, or prevaricate in any way or even fall below your usual level of intelligence. You will understand that the pain I can inflict with this machine is of an intolerable level, even for you.
Lindsay notices Peter is laughing. She turns the machine to 20.
Psychic
Twenty. That was not funny.
Peter
Yes it was!
She pulls a big lever which goes clunk and the machine starts bleating each time it hits him.
Psychic
No it wasn't. We control humour. Does a joke exist concretely in space? Is there somewhere or other a world of solid objects where that joke is still funny? Where do jokes exist, if at all?
He does nothing. She points to the dial, and looks at him expectantly
Psychic
Come on, do it properly.
She gets a copy of 1984 from a whole shelf of them on the lower bit of her trolley, and wearily Peter refuses it.
Peter
In joke books. They are written down.
Psychic
In joke books. And who is it who controls joke books? It is us.
Peter
Really?
Psychic
Um... It will be, soon. Very soon. And then, who will be funny? Look at yourself, Peter. Have you got the last sense of humour? Listen to yourself.
She plays a recording on a stupidly oversized tape-reel machine:
Psychic
Hang on. Sorry. It was a stamp. I thought it was a bit cheap for acid. I'm not sure it'd work, anyway, actually. It's not the way Paul McEnna suggests.
Peter
You wanted Class A and got First Class, eh?
Psychic
Would you say that was funny? I am funny.
Peter
You aren't funny! You're mad!
Psychic
Mad? Mad? Who is mad when we control the entire world, Peter? And who is funny? Me. Me. I am funny. We decide. You are nothing. We say so. And that is it. I am funny. Trust me, I know. They were killing themselves the other night down the Calter Club.
Psychic
How many fingers?
She holds her fingers behind her back, then brings them up - swearing.
Peter
Five?
Psychic
Two.
She turns the dial up to 300,000,000 and flicks all the switches, pulls all the levers, presses all the buttons, etc., and reels backwards from her seat in hysterical laughter. Each time it hits him, it moos. She gets up and bangs on the locked door to leave the room. The guard comes to the door.
Guard
Room 101?
Psychic
I'm not taking him there! Do you know what his worst fear is?
Guard
What?
She whispers in the guard's ear.
Guard
Really?
Psychic
Very good. Keep it up.
And she leaves, pushing the big trolley which squeaks and is well sprung. The machine is left in the room, still working and mooing.
Embarrassed, and grinning sheepishly:
Peter
Hahaha. She's joking.
Mr. Neville is running across a field, or even a fijord, in Finland. He's holding that dictionary, and, oh, sod it, who cares? Anyway, a plane's coming up behind him. It releases a massive bomb, which squashes Mr. Neville flat. It doesn't explode. As they do. The plane zooms off, and we cut to the cockpit of that self same plane. The pilot exclaims...
Pilot
Got him!
The co-pilot confirms into his radio...
Co-pilot
Got him.
Quick cut.
A KGB control centre. Massive banks of listening equipment please, radar thingies, etc. The Russian, listening over the radio, yells...
Russian
Got him!
Another radio operator near him says into a different radio...
Radio operator
Got him.
Quick cut.
Reading: Mrs Neville sits with headphones on in the kitchen of her home, listening in on her listening thingy, and tweaking a bomb. We see she is holding a wire in each finger. She's got both hands inside the bomb, like when James Bond defuses them. It's a delicate operation.
Mrs. Neville
Got him?
She jumps at the shock. There is a fuck-off enormous explosion, instantly filling the screen. Quick cut.
Woking. Mr. J, Mr. X and Watson, in a theatrical dressing room. Watson, listening on the phone says...
Watson
They've got him, sir.
Mr. X
Who?
Watson looks scared. He laughs nervously, and looks at the phone.
Watson
Umm... I, I don't know.
Mr. X
Get out of my fucking sight, idiot!
Watson leaves the room rapidly, squeaking a bit.
Mr. X
He's cracking up, you know. The pressure's getting to him. You can't get the staff...
J and Mr. X. are in their underwear. They dress as they are talking, into stereotypical James Bond baddie suits. They are both sipping brandy.
Mr. J
Your aide said that there's about half an hour till we need to leave. And you'd said you might rather like to drop in on our friend Mr Vine.
Mr. X
You know him, don't you?
Mr. J
Yes, he used to work for me at the department. I hope we have something suitable lined up for him.
Mr. X
Shut up, shithead. You didn't think of what could have happened with Nelson's sheep, did you?
Mr. J
Sorry?
Mr. X
Oh, for fuck's sake! Nelson's sheep! Friday's episode left it on a cliff-hanger, and I need something good. You know, sometimes it comes to me what a total dickhead you are...
Mr. J
Look, I don't mean to be rude, but, could you perhaps...
Mr. X
What? Oh, shut the fuck up. Honestly, if you haven't anything useful to say, shut up... and kill yourself. You realise your place on this ship is costing me six junior cast members?
Mr. J
Sorry?
Mr. X
Weight problems. Some tosser got the dimensions wrong on the rocket. More people and we won't get off the fucking ground. And I'm sure that you don't fucking want to stay here. It's not all bad though. Nasty firework accident, six young lives wiped out. Great for the ratings. But don't push it.
Mr. J is nearly ready, and is affixing his cat to his chest.
Mr. J
Right. Are you not wearing your cat?
Mr. X
Cat? What the fuck do you want that on for?
Mr. J
It's tradition. If we are going to say goodbye to the near vanquished hero before blasting off into the safety of space, we have to do things properly. Will there be somewhere to sit, do you know? I'd like to be able to spin arou...
Mr. X
Oh, fuck tradition. I can't be arsed with all that at a time like this. You wear mine.
Mr. J
Really!
Mr. X
Yes, and keep it. Which one do you want?
Eagerly
Mr. J
Do.. do you have that leopard?
Mr. X
Come on, tosser. Move it.
They leave.
Peter is in a heap on the floor, in the main control room where the Plausibility Machine is. The Psychic stands next to him, and also two guards. Two men in dark suits sit in the corner, legs stuck out kneeless (they are Martians) Suddenly the guards draw to attention. Peter looks up and sees X striding in, with J wobbling behind, a large stuffed leopard attached to his chest, wobbling. He is drunk on the power, and is nuzzling the leopard and stroking it. The usual Persian cat is dangling from the leg of the leopard, miaowing.
Mr. J
Where're the chairs? We must have the twirly chairs!
He sees a stool, and lurches over to it, trying to sit on it. It collapses, sliding away from under him, and he falls flat on his back, pinned by the enormous leopard. He flails wildly, kicking his legs. His normal cat stalks away. In his best impression of a James Bond Baddie:
Mr. J
Aha! I've been expecting you, Mr. Bond!
Trying to look at Peter.
Mr. J
This time, the pleasure is all mine! I really got you with that John Neville, eh? KGB! Bollocks! We're flying into space!
...he giggles through the next few speeches...
Peter
What do you possibly hope to accomplish? Why are you doing this to the world?
Mr. X
The world will get what it deserves.
Peter
Why? Why?
Mr. X
Spurn the radiophonic medium, will they? Watch...
...gulps
Mr. X
Neighbours, will they? Home and...
...spits
Mr. X
fucking Away? 18 million viewers? They all deserve to die. So I remove them. Pathetic. People don't recognise quality drama when they see it, I'll give them a hand. No more Australia, no more soaps, no more problem.
To J:
Mr. X
Shut UP!
J just titters a bit now, trying to restrain it. Bonkers. To camera:
Mr. X
The Archers The Film. The Archers Big Budget Hollywood Blockbuster. The Archers The World. If you don't like it, go and live on Mars. Watch Deimos fucking Days. Ha! How many gentle farming anecdotes there, eh? Not fucking many, that's what. I'll control the world. I'll control anything I want. It's that easy. That simple. Continent gives me hassle, I write it out. No more problem. Australia's yesterday's storyline. In three hours, this place will be at the centre of the world. Literally. Ha.
Peter
You can't do that! You can't change reality through writing. You can't do anything real. You're crazy! Now let me go. You are in big trouble, my friend.
Mr. X
Can't I fuck. Those fucking ET rejects want Australia, eh?
To men in corner:
Mr. X
Yeah, you. Don't fucking look at me like that. And get some KNEES!
(To Peter)
Mr. X
They going to fight me for it again?
Peter
Again?
Mr. X
World War Two? Hitler's Masses? Didn't you wonder why they walked funny? I won that.
Peter
No you didn't. You can't plagiarise the past! You're mad! You've totally lost it! Lindsay! Lindsay! Tell him he's wrong! You can't have lost it too... not totally! Don't you remember Reading? Lindsay?
The psychic ignores him.
Mr. J
I am very much afraid that it is you who are mad, Mr. Bond. Pfff!
Mr. X
That's History. That's the past. I write the history books, I made the past. I made you. You don't exist! Ahahahahaha!
The psychic is following this in a copy of 1984. Mr. J says from under the leopard...
Mr. J
He's right, you know. Teehee. Yes, you, Mr. Bond! It's such a shame.. for the, for the, the sharks! Pfff!
Mr. X
Those Martians: I made them. And how do they repay me? Give us Australia, or face obsolescence. Well, fuck them, I say. The only stuff that matters is me.
Peter
Look, this isn't going to work. You're being stupid. You can't do this. This is silly. You haven't changed gravity at all! Your hill isn't big enough. This whole thing is ludicrous. You can't do this! Can't you see, you madman?
Mr. X
See it? You can't see anything. This is radio, man. And you don't exist.
Peter
It's ridiculous. The world doesn't work like that. You just can't do this!
Mr. X
Bollocks. I wrote Physics. Who do you think threw the apple at Newton, eh?
Peter
It just can't happen. It won't happen.
He crosses his arms, sulking.
Mr. X
I've had enough of you. Your part's getting tedious. Goodbye! Come on, we're going. Now, arsehole. Australia's due to blast off at 4. Hahaha. It's... midnight already. COME ON! Watson! Watson! WHERE ARE YOU?
Mr. J
Hang on, hang on... A short, but very good night to you both.
Shakes his head to clear it (his vision is blurry)
Mr. J
To you. Must fly. Pfff!
Laughs and pulls himself to his feet, dragging the leopard. The guards drag Peter from the room.
Peter is dumped with Jess in a room with a sliding door. This is the computer room. J and the psychic come in and she starts scratching an LP. She then plays it. It's REM's It's the End of The World as We Know It, and she's made it loop in the wrong place: it is playing too loudly a line from one of the verses. She looks a bit cross at this, but recovers to gloat at Peter. Whitewash is coming in slowly through a small tube in the wall. J is having difficulty with the leopard, and trying to swagger, standing next to the psychic. Jess sits in a corner wagging her tail.
Psychic
You stupid, stupid man. How could you think I could be on your side? Me! You won't last long. This room will fill with whitewash within two minutes. See? Fitting, I thought. And I am funny. Goodbye. Ahahaha!
Peter is tied to a chair looking grim.
J tries to leave, but can't fit through the door because of the leopard. He eventually goes out sideways. The door closes and locks, and Lou drops down from the ceiling. So does a stupid amount of ceiling.
Lou
Hello.
He turns off the record, and replaces it with one of his own. Whitetown's Your Woman, which he has slipped from under his jacket.
Peter
What the...
Lou
Oh, don't ask. Alright?
...as in 'Are you alright?'
Peter
Yeah, alri... No, bollocks! I am not bloody alright! I've been trapped in a silly hill by a long standing friend and several of my colleagues. And you obviously knew much more than you bothered to tell me. If you knew that Lindsay was on their side, why didn't you say?!
Lou
I thought you'd have noticed.
Peter
No I had NOT noticed. This is your fault. Everything is too silly. How can this be happening? This insane man has made something which is, let's face it, very little larger than a mound on the face of the world, and presumably the same sized indent on the other side, and everyone and everything appears to believe that will make Australia float off into space. Including gravity. It's not fair!... By the way, who the hell are you exactly, Lou?
Lou
Oh, you don't want to know.
Peter
Yes. Yes, I do. This can't get any stupider. Make my day. Oh, and you couldn't untie me, could you? No hurry, you know, I'm rather enjoying it - in your own time, eh?
Lou
Yeah, yeah, in a minute... but no, no, honestly, you don't want to know.
Peter
Tell me. It can't be that bad.
Lou
Aaaaalright. But I warned you.
Peter
Come on, then.
Lou
I work for...
Peter
for...
Lou
for Neighbours: the production company. And I helped with the script once.
Peter
That's not so bad. I'd guessed, a bit. The accent, the dress, that sort of thing. Bit of a giveaway, let's face it. You can't hide much from me, you know. I'm a secret agent: I thought I was, anyway. Oh well. Somebody's got to do that sort of thing.
Lou
...and I come from Venus. We got asked to do a bit of consul...
Peter
Venu... Alright. Let's stop there. Right there.
Lou
I told you.
Peter
So, what can we do to get out of here?
Lou
Well, it's going to be quite difficult, but I think that if we...
Peter has been thinking while Lou talks.
Peter
You haven't got any elbows, have you?
Lou
Well...
Peter
Have you?
Lou
Oh, come on. it's easily done. We only had photos to go on - rush job, you know how it is. How were we supposed to know, eh? I'd like to see you find most Venusians' heads! We got the knees.
Peter
This is silly.
Lou
No. Actually, this conversation is extremely sensible, but because we're so close to the Plausibility Machine, although it gets most of its power from parallel universe thingies, it sucks in some from this world, actually making things less believable, which is noticeable at this close range.
Peter
Bollocks!
Lou
Mmm. I wasn't very hopeful you'd go for that one. It was a good idea, though, wasn't it?
Peter
Not really. So anyway. What can we do to get out?
Suddenly, Jess barks, pawing at a large ventilation grille in the wall which appears to be a bit loose.
Lou
What's that? What's she doing?
Peter looks at his watch.
Peter
Oh, she just wants her dinner. Be quiet, Jess. Sit. Sit! Good girl... So, how do we get out then, Lou?
Lou
Well, we can..
Peter is falling about (as much as you can while tied up) laughing.
Lou
What?
Peter
I'm sorry. We're ankle deep in whitewash, which is meant to drown us - but look, there's a ventilation vent three inches off the floor. And we are facing death from being crushed by a big hill. Look - it's going crusty over there. Sorry. Carry on.
Lou
Aaaanyway... This implausibility machine, right. It's a clever little thing. But you know how it works... X has set it working to make plausible, and viz a viz actual the floating off of Australia. It finishes that in just over three hours: then the time's up. It's not the size of the hill that's important, they finished building it yesterday. All the size does is makes it easier for the machine: if the hill was big enough, the machine wouldn't have to do anything. You see? And it looks threatening. The important thing is its plausibility. In just over three hours, it becomes plausible. So all we have to do is destroy this machine some time in the next three hours, and hey presto!
Peter
How?
Lou
I'm not sure what will happen as the blast-off time approaches, but I'm fairly sure we can stop it working. Because of this implausibility field, if we have a plan which is certain to work, it might; if it might, it probably won't; if it probably won't it certainly won't; and if it certainly won't: well, I'm hoping that it certainly will. It should loop round, you see. If we just do something with no chance of working at all. Three hours to go.
Lou looks down, the picture fades out and in to denote passage of time. Lou looks up again. Music's still playing in background, probably.
Lou
A minute to go.
The room starts to shake fairly violently, and a rumbling is heard as the space rocket launches nearby. Again, lots of the ceiling falls into the whitewash. The machine is making odd pulsing noises, and tension music starts to play, please.
Lou
That's X and J off.
Peter
I must say, sitting doing nothing for three hours is a bloody good plan if you want your plan definitely not to work. And you haven't untied me yet. But what if you're wrong? What if because that was only part of our plan , and the real plan was quite likely to work it really is only hardly likely at all to work? What if the machine really does do, err, oh, shit, I'm confused.
Lou
Twenty seconds.
Lou goes over to a corner of the room.
Peter
What's that noise?
A big 'Stop' button is coming up through the floor, encased in glass, which slides away. There is also a countdown timer on it.
Lou
Ten seconds. Told you. Stop it then.
Peter
How? I can't! I... I'm all... tied up, you bastard!
Lou
Lame gag. Just rock forwards and get it with your head. Bye, then.
Lou pats Jess on the head (who has begun to drink the whitewash), walks through a wall and disappears. Peter is rather lost for words, looking astonished (as you would be) that Lou's just buggered off. He rocks from side to side. We have a shot of his head and shoulders. The timer counts down. With a final heave, he swings: to the left, and falls out of shot, missing the button by miles. Whitewash splashes up.
Peter
Oh, SHIT!
The timer hits 0, and the screen goes black, with a piercing Beeeeeeeeeeeeep heard. Very very hokey music plays as the credits roll, after a brief pause with black. The credits go by to REM's It's The End of The World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)
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This page by: Tom Royston, James Pharaoh, Tim Fisken |
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