- Notices a box of free condoms and lube on the desk.
- Glances at the battered ancient computer. His information on screen.
- Spots a water mark on the ceiling. Searches for other signs of funding constraints. Scuffs on walls, etc.
- Removes the cotton bud from his finger tip. Looks at the blood-stained fibres. Throws it in the orange bin.
- Stares at the pin prick on the tip of his finger.
The door opens.
The clinician returns.
She’s carrying the test. A small petri dish. Her body language is impossible to read.
CLINICIAN (CONT’D)
The result is reactive.
The word ‘reactive’ sounds oddly blank.
CLINICIAN (CONT’D)
We use the word ‘reactive’ because 7 out of a 1000 results come back with ‘false reactive’ result so what we’re going to do now --
Understanding, Danny stands up, sharply, the chair pushed back. The noise is unsettling. His movement abrupt.
Silence.
The clinician is delicate with him.
CLINICIAN (CONT’D)
Danny, why don’t you take a seat for me?
Danny’s in shock.
He looks directly at her. She remains careful with him.
CLINICIAN (CONT’D)
Danny?
He slowly sits down.
She also sits, putting the test down on the desk.
A small petri-dish with clear fluid. And through the liquid are two small dots.
CLINICIAN (CONT’D)
Two dots indicate the presence of antibodies to the HIV virus.
Danny stares into the two blue dots. They’re like two little eyes looking back at him - he stares and stares as if they were the eyes of his enemy.
CLINICIAN (CONT’D)
I need to take a second sample. And run a second test to rule out the chance of a false result.
He’s still staring at the two blue dots. Danny looks at her. His mouth is dry. He shakes his head.
So many people lie about their sex lives that the clinician is accustomed to a disconnect between a reactive test and claims about their sexual activity.
DANNY
It’s not possible.
She presumes he’s in denial.
CLINICIAN
Let’s run the second test.
The second test.
She readies the equipment.
This time no talking. And the atmosphere is very different. From both of them. Fraught.
Plastic gloves on. She takes Danny’s other hand, his left one. This time his hand is trembling.
She waits.
Danny steadies himself.
She pushes down all his fingers except for the middle.
A finger prick stamp on the tip. A bubble of blood. She gives it a squeeze and fills a thin glass tube.
She gives him a bud of cotton to put on the top of his finger. She’s finished. Blood taken.
Second sample ready.
CLINICIAN (CONT’D)
Would you like someone to wait with you?
Danny shakes his head.
She leaves.
We do not cut out of this second wait. We must feel it in real time. Beat for beat. Again, discount how quickly it reads - this is another two minutes.
But the energy of these two minutes is completely different. Tension no longer subsumed. On the surface.
As soon as the door is shut Danny stands and paces.
- He stops at the desk. Stares intently at the two implacable blue eyes in the petri dish.
- Walks to door. Places hands on it. Pushing against it.
- Walks back to the desk. Stares again at the two blue eyes in the petri dish. Unable to believe them.
- Removes the cotton bud from his finger tip. Sees the bloody fibres. Throws it away. In the orange hazard bin. And this time his eyes linger on the hazard symbol.
- Suddenly he seems to lose all of his frantic energy, short of breath, he sits at the desk.
- Close on the ancient computer screen: his health records. A large amount of text. He reads, blankly at first, then with more concentration.
- A long list of entries.
Danny scrolls up:
“Syphilis. Chlamydia. Hepatitis B. Hepatitis C.”
It all looks so absolute and real on screen. Dates. Antibiotics. On and on and on...
Danny scrolls up faster and faster, over a sexual health history packed with incident, until Danny reaches his name at the top of the screen.
He stands, stepping back from the computer, as if it were a threat to him. And, in many ways, it is.
And now he sees, in the blue plastic shelves --
A blood testing kit.
Danny takes it out. Removes the packaging. A needle combined with a tube that leads into a 5 millimetre plastic phial. An all in one unit.
It’s the exact same piece of kit used by the medic at the police station. From the opening sequence.
Danny holds the needle up to eye level. The moment of full comprehension.
Slowly his fingers tighten around the needle. Until it disappears within his clenched hand.
The door opens.
The Clinician is surprised to see Danny so close to the door, holding that piece of kit, his expression full of fear and fury. She’s startled.
An uneasy stand-off.
DANNY
I know how they did it!
CLINICIAN
Danny --
DANNY
I know!
Danny’s emphasis changes with each exclamation, modulating from anger to despair.
DANNY (CONT’D)
I know!
CLINICIAN
Danny --
DANNY
I know.
CLINICIAN
Danny --
DANNY
I know...
He isn’t listening. He raises his fist, containing the needle and phial to his head. Frozen in this position.
The clinician peers out into the corridor. She gestures for help.
A friendly male member of staff joins her. They stand at the door. Some form of silent communication. He understands. Both trained in distress.
CLINICIAN
Danny?
She does not touch him. They hold back.
Slowly Danny lowers the needle and phial from his face.
CLINICIAN (CONT’D)
Danny, why don’t you take a seat?
Now numb and compliant Danny steps back, perching on the edge of the bed, still holding the needle.
The clinician cautiously steps closer.
The second member of staff remains at the door.
CLINICIAN (CONT’D)
Danny, why don’t you give me the needle?
It takes a moment for Danny to process the request. An all consuming weariness has come over him.
He opens his hand. The needle has sunk into his skin. There’s blood. The glass phial has broken.
She places the second test result down on the table. Next to the first.
She puts on a fresh pair of gloves, taking a tissue in order to remove the bloody needle.
She moves gingerly. Warily.
She throws the needle into the hazardous orange bin. She returns, to tend to his minor injury.
Meeting her glance Danny understands that she’ll never believe him. Nor will the man at the door.
Danny slowly turns to the second test result on the desk - a second set of blue eyes watching him, beside the first set - two pairs of enemy eyes now on him.
Confirmation.
CLINICIAN (CONT’D)
Is there someone we can call?
INT. SCOTTIE’S HOUSE. LIVING ROOM. EVENING
Scottie stands by the window, looking out. His hands are clasped behind his back. It’s dusk. He’s in shadow. His stance appears formal and objective.
Danny is seated on the sofa. He’s been crying. And remains on the brink of tears.
His dialogue is muddled - he knows what is true but can’t explain how it is so. The monologue veers wildly between compelling and implausible.
DANNY
When he took my blood at the station they must have injected me at the same time --
(sudden thought)
The virus can’t survive outside the body --
(sudden thought)
They must have kept it heated --
(sudden thought)
And I know it hasn’t been six weeks and it takes that long to show up in the test --
(beat)
Maybe they found a way --
But Danny doesn’t have the answers.
DANNY (CONT’D)
(abandoning the explanation)
I don’t know how. I don’t know how they did it. But they did it.
(pitiful)
They did it.
Scottie makes no attempt to console or comfort Danny. He isn’t even looking at him.
Sensing that the situation is slipping away Danny rallies, trying to compose himself.
DANNY (CONT’D)
Please Scottie. You have to believe me.
(beat)
Please...
(beat)
Please...
But Scottie doesn’t turn around. In sharp contrast, Scottie’s response is precise & composed.
SCOTTIE
I remember taking you to hospital all those years ago. When there was a chance you were infected. We barely knew each other. You were so young. More child than adult. I made you promise to never take a risk like that again. And you promised. You promised me, Danny.
Danny breaks down at the thought of Scottie not believing him. The tears that follow are from the very depth of his soul, wrenched up in the most awful way.
Scottie does not move to comfort him.
Danny repeats his petition but, this time, through the tears and snot, he’s barely comprehensible:
DANNY
Scottie-I-swear-to-you-I-never-broke-that-promise-I-swear-Scottie-please-believe-me-because-I-don’t-have-anyone-else-if-you-don’t believe-me-I-don’t-have-anyone else...
A desperate plea. One Danny thinks will never be believed. He lapses back into tears.
He has no hope.
Scottie doesn’t budge from his position. Doesn’t rush to offer any soothing reassurance. Doesn’t even turn around.
Finally, quietly, still looking out the window --
SCOTTIE
I believe you.
Danny doesn’t quite hear, or understand. He wipes his eyes, trying to catch up. He waits. Unsure.
SCOTTIE (CONT’D)
I knew that you were a young man who’d make a lot of mistakes. But never the same one twice.
(beat)
I believe you, Danny. I believe that they deliberately infected you.
Danny is blank. Numb. No longer crying. He can’t fathom that Scottie is on his side. Or what this means.
Scottie still hasn’t altered his position, still isn’t looking at Danny.
SCOTTIE (CONT’D)
Not to kill you, obviously. With medication you’ll live a long and normal life. They did it to discredit you. They’ll say you took risks with your own health. You were reckless and irresponsible. Perhaps they’ll even say you infected Alex.
DANNY
No, he was --
SCOTTIE
Negative?
Danny silent. Reconsiders.
SCOTTIE (CONT’D)
The story of you two has been written. It was written many months ago. A sordid tale, the details of which will leak into the public sphere. People will recoil. Many will think that you got what you deserved. No one will campaign for answers. No one will demand justice.
Scottie’s voice remains calm and analytical. Dissecting the situation carefully. Without emotion, like a professor presented with a problem.
Danny sits back in his chair, eyes on the ceiling. He’s suddenly so incredibly exhausted.
DANNY
These people...
SCOTTIE
Yes.
DANNY
...They’ll do anything.
SCOTTIE
Yes.
DANNY
I can’t...
SCOTTIE
No.
For the first time we witness Danny utterly defeated.
DANNY
I can’t.
He closes his eyes.
It’s over.
And then --
SCOTTIE
A long, long time ago I had a lover.
Danny opens his eyes.
Yet to his surprise Scottie still hasn’t moved to comfort or console him. He remains at the window, in the shadows.
Danny wondering what Scottie’s talking about.
SCOTTIE (CONT’D)
He was an aspiring artist. Quite promising. Extraordinarily beautiful. He had countless admirers, of course. And rightly so. I didn’t begrudge him that. I was the man he phoned when he wanted a good meal. Tickets to a West End show. I was stability. Domesticity, which he liked to dip his toe into every now and again. I was more than happy with the arrangement.
Exhausted, Danny listens to the seemingly irrelevant story without a trace of impatience.
SCOTTIE (CONT’D)
His name was Raphael. Not his real name, one he’d chosen for himself, as he reshaped his suburban background into something more fitting for an avant-garde metropolitan artist.
(beat)
1983, and he was among the first in London to fall ill. Back then it didn’t even have a name. There was no information. No leaflets. No warnings. No answers. You’d watch the news and hear no mention of it. A secret plague.
Danny’s now listening in earnest.
SCOTTIE (CONT’D)
I visited him as often as I could, with as much fresh fruit and vegetables as I could carry.
FLASH TO:
INT. HOUSING ESTATE. CORRIDOR. DAY (PAST)
Moving down a wretched, gloomy communal corridor. Grey. Dark. Without color. We’re almost floating, dreamlike.
The door to an apartment opens to reveal --
INT. HOUSING ESTATE. BEDSIT. DAY (PAST)
A tiny studio apartment. Little bigger than the bed at its centre. No bathroom. No kitchen unit. A sink.
Poverty, squalor and yet this room is remarkable --
The bed is blue, not painted, blue sheets, blue pillows. Lying on top of it is a beautiful gaunt young man.
The young man is painted one shade of blue, in thick oil paints, encrusting him, cocooning him in blue.
His hair is painted blue, not dyed. His pubic hair too. The paint is days old, cracked and dry.
Aside from being wisp-thin, the man has no other outward signs of sickness.
Painted on the back wall, emerging at the exact point behind his head, is a pyramid of blue - spreading out, narrow at first, expanding across the back wall, and up onto the ceiling, which is almost completely covered.
Within this pyramid is every shade of blue known to man, swirls, lines, Pollack splatters, always abstract.
The effect is both magical and disturbing, as if all this blue burst out of the man’s mind, as if he’d blown his brains out and the result was not blood, but blue, covering the back wall and ceiling.
Outside of the brain splatter of blue, which is painted with mania and genius, the remaining three walls are one shade of blue and low key.
The blue continues across the floor - carpet painted one shade of blue, covered with a hard blue crust. Again, low key shades, so the ceiling and back wall dominate.
Clothes on a painted blue rack are all blue, either originally blue or dyed blue.
In shock, at the door, we see a brown paper bag being dropped, hitting the floor, different coloured fruit rolling across the blue carpet.
BACK TO:
INT. SCOTTIE’S HOUSE. LIVING ROOM. EVENING (PRESENT)
Scottie remains at the window. He still has not turned around, arms behind his back, l
ooking outside as though he stood at the doorway to the blue room.
SCOTTIE
He’d been given a book on colour therapy. In it blue was described as having healing properties. Blue - blue alone - was able to fight infections. Blue - blue alone - could save him. Blue and blue alone. The idea no doubt appealed to his artistic sensibilities. In those days mysticism and magic stood in for medicine. He wouldn’t accept the fruit and vegetables because they weren’t blue. But - since water was blue - he eventually agreed to a bath.
FLASH TO:
INT. HOUSING ESTATE. COMMUNAL BATHROOM. DAY (PAST)
A grubby communal bathroom. Cracked tiles. Dirty. Without a window. No natural light. No colour.
Scottie is bathing the beautiful man. Tenderly, as if afraid the man will break. We don’t need to see Scottie, just the man and a younger Scottie’s caring hands.
The oil paint breaks off in uneven fragments.
As the blue paint dissolves Scottie reveals, across the man’s back, skin lesions: Kaposi’s Sarcoma.
A purple color. But subtle and real, unlike the vivid blue, this can’t be washed away.
The permanence of this purple.
Scottie’s fingers pass over them.
The beautiful man’s expression is serene. At peace.
BACK TO:
INT. SCOTTIE’S HOUSE. LIVING ROOM. EVENING (PRESENT)
Scottie in the same position, at the window.
SCOTTIE
I told him that he’d given up. I told him to fight.
(reenacting)
“Let’s find some better answers than the colour blue.” But he refused. He said that I’d never faced the inevitability of defeat. He was going to die. He was going to suffer. And suffer terribly. There was nothing he could do. There was nothing anyone could do. He was right. On both counts. He did suffer terribly. And I have never faced the inevitability of defeat.
For the first time, in this exchange, Scottie turns around to face Danny. Close on Scottie’s eyes.
London Spy: The Complete Scripts Page 13