The Year of the Sex Olympics and other TV Plays

by Nigel Kneale

  BROCK: You bloody fool! Jill picked up the words! You got words yourself—that’s how it works! I told you.

  There is a familiar pattering. This time it is fearful to them.

  EDDIE (whispering): There it is—

  BROCK (after a moment, insanely): Come when I tell you!

  He lunges towards the sound projector and switches it on. At full volume he swings the horn, blasting every part of the room.

  Jill claps her hands to her ears.

  People stumble towards the doorway to escape it. The sound goes on and on—and seems to change, erupting into a vast grunting that makes the whole place shudder. For a moment it seems completely out of control. Brock is shaken like a man on a pneumatic drill.

  Then—silence. He stands panting, hardly knowing what he has done or why.

  The others drift back.

  JILL: It’s different.

  BROCK (numbed): Eh?

  JILL: She’s gone.

  BROCK: What d’you mean?

  JILL: Completely. I can tell.

  Eddie totters forward in a kind of grotesque triumph.

  EDDIE: I’ll tell you what he’s done! D’you know what he’s done? He’s wiped the tape!

  Brock stares blankly at them.

  Maudsley gives a sick snigger. Otherwise nobody is laughing. They are incapable of it.

  BROCK (mumbling): Thanks . . . we’ll leave it at that. Might try . . . another run tomorrow.

  JILL: Run what? She’s gone!

  She has a horror of him, as if she has just watched him commit a murder. Eddie takes her by the arm.

  Brock crouches on the floor. Listening and waiting . . .

  Hours later Brock is still there, watching by the flicker of the blank monitor screens. More and more anxiously . . .

  Dawn, and Brock is still there. Still alone. He has dropped asleep, leaning awkwardly against a monitor. His head droops a little more sideways—and wakes him. He pulls himself back to consciousness, wondering what woke him. Expectant again.

  But there is nothing . . .

  THE ENTRANCE HALL – DAY

  Coming in next day, Jill finds the Sergeant looking his usual self, at least.

  SERGEANT: Morning, Miss Greeley—or should I say good afternoon?

  JILL: It’s up to you. (Monitors are being wheeled along the passage from the storage room. Collinson is in charge. Jill’s look is a question. He shakes his head) . . . He really did it.

  COLLINSON: I kept away.

  JILL: Where is he?

  Collinson indicates the floor above . . .

  INSIDE BROCK’S SUITE – OFFICE

  Brock is huddled in his chair, looking too small for it. He is still wrapped in a dressing-gown and looks grey and dishevelled.

  BROCK (into phone, wretchedly): Look, Patrick. I’m sorry if I gave the impression that we . . . Perhaps I shouldn’t have, then . . . No, not backing down at all, I just don’t want you to waste your time coming here and . . . Oh, I have! Every confidence! I know we’re on the track of it, we’ve only got to get the bugs out of it . . . as always . . . What? . . . Of course you’ve got a right to. It’s a . . . mineral . . . medium . . . Don’t pin me down, I can’t be more specific at this moment of time . . . Patrick, please! (desperately) It—it’s a variant on Eddie Holmes’s digital crystal—in fact that may turn out to be it after all. I just can’t give a technical explanation right now . . . Of course I will, Patrick. Of course. Good bye.

  He puts the phone down in a sweat—and sees Jill watching him from the doorway. For a moment or two neither speaks.

  BROCK: Don’t say—anything! It’s over, it’s finished! If I can just walk away from this one—! (worriedly) He is a funny man, you never quite know . . . you can’t tell from his voice. Just so long as this doesn’t—doesn’t . . . He’s devious of course but what the hell. I’ve seen him be treacherous but not to anybody that—anybody that . . . No. No. He wouldn’t . . .

  THE ENTRANCE HALL

  Men from a Ryan Electrics van which has drawn up outside trolley a large, square, canvas-covered object in across the hall towards the reception desk.

  THE LABORATORY

  All the apparatus is back in place. Brock, looking more or less himself again, is restoring confidence to his team.

  BROCK: Whatever the . . . effect was, it is obviously gone for good.

  EDDIE: Obliterated.

  BROCK: Yes. (He looks at Jill but she says nothing) Now we’ve had time to take it in—I’m glad. It’s what I wanted to do in the first place.

  EDDIE: Oh, Peter—!

  BROCK: Now, be fair—I did. So let’s regard it as a bit of a nonsense, part of the house-warming. It got out of hand. I plead guilty. But now—the room is clear, we can set it up for computer storage, get on! I’ve been working out new schedules—

  The sergeant looks in.

  SERGEANT: Beg pardon, sir—

  BROCK: What is it?

  THE ENTRANCE HALL

  Brock comes from the lab with the others following curiously. The sergeant points to the canvas-covered object. It looms there like a squat monolith.

  SERGEANT: Where’s it to go, sir?

  With rising apprehension Brock lifts a corner of the canvas cover. Then he throws it off. The thing revealed is white and shining, with the unmistakable single eye of a washing machine. Its top is monstrously swollen to accommodate a mass of special controls.

  BROCK: Crawshaw! (His stricken eyes meet Jill’s) The old bastard did it! He did do it!

  THE LABORATORY – DAYS LATER

  Eddie is peering through his optical tube. His spare eye goes to Stew as he passes laden with used rolls of computer paper.

  EDDIE: Ready for my data?

  STEW: Just clearing the decks.

  EDDIE: From the other night?

  STEW: Yeah.

  EDDIE: Get rid of it. As things now are, get rid of it fast.

  Stew moves on—to where Jill stands poring over more paper print-out.

  JILL: Stew. If she simply fell—

  STEW: What have you got there?

  JILL: The words that came through. Why these words? “Pray” . . . “soul” . . . “pray” again . . . “prayer” . . . “save”. They’re nothing to do with falling off steps.

  STEW: Jill, forget it.

  JILL: “Save” . . . from what?

  STEW: Forget it.

  JILL (remembering): The others . . . ! (She frowns, thinking back to what Alan said. Then she rips off the print-out) I’m going to show him this.

  STEW: Not Peter.

  JILL: Of course.

  STEW: No, love—not today.

  JILL: What?

  STEW: The big invasion. Crawshaw.

  She hesitates. Then she goes quickly out.

  THE STORAGE ROOM – DAY

  Brock is clutching a large plan as he glowers round the storage room.

  BROCK: At least he’s not getting this.

  COLLINSON: He’ll be fine in the other wing.

  BROCK (with satisfaction): It’s filthy damp.

  Work on the room is proceeding at last. Workmen are erecting scaffolding along the side wall, which has been stripped, like all of them, of remaining panelling. The place has a bare, industrial look.

  Brock turns to Jill as she comes in.

  BROCK: Jill, look at this. Location of the store-core units—

  JILL: I want to show you something. From the other night—

  BROCK (warding off the print-out): Oh no. No!

  JILL: The words—

  BROCK: I don’t want to see. I don’t want to know!

  He moves off quickly to confer with the workmen. Collinson gives her a warning gesture and joins him.

  Then it happens.

  Jill finds herself shaken by a spasm of trembling—far more violent than any before. As if the strength is being whipped out of her body. She grabs at a ladder to steady herself.

  Brock and Collinson are engaged in some joke with the workmen, all of them laughing.
<
br />   Then—silence. The men are still laughing and talking but without sound.

  Instead, an instant later, an obscene grunting roar.

  It is overpowering. Through the continuing horror of it Jill can see the men talking and working on, evidently oblivious of it. It simply does not reach them.

  It ends suddenly too. Brock’s laugh is heard again, and the small sounds of the scaffolding work.

  Collinson happens to turn.

  COLLINSON: Jill!

  Brock turns too and sees the state she is in. Collinson is the first to reach her.

  BROCK: Get her out of this—

  JILL: You didn’t hear it! (Collinson almost carries her out into the passage) It was different—this was different! It’s not her—it’s something else! Peter—!

  BROCK (firmly): You’ll have to keep out of this room. It’s the associations.

  JILL: It isn’t—

  BROCK: Stay out of it.

  JILL: Let me tell you—

  BROCK: Things went too far. My fault, I know it was.

  JILL: If you’ll only—

  BROCK: Now you’ve got to rest. Unwind. Go home and take it easy. We can’t have you cracking up.

  JILL: Peter—

  BROCK: Will you do that for me? (He glances at his watch) Time!

  He hurries towards the entrance hall.

  COLLINSON (quietly): He’s right, Jill.

  OUTSIDE TASKERLANDS HOUSE – DAY

  Two strange cars pull in outside the front entrance. An old Rover and a Viva.

  From the first Crawshaw gets out. He looks twice as tall, swollen with triumph. One of his team is with him, three others get out of the Viva—all of them grey, bullied men.

  As they turn in a body to make their entrance, a lightweight motorbike sputters across the gravel. Its rider kicks the stand down, beams at them and trots into the house ahead of them.

  It is the vicar.

  INSIDE THE ENTRANCE HALL

  As the vicar enters he spots Brock standing by the reception desk with the air of a general forced to ignominious parley.

  VICAR: Mr. Brock! There you are! (Brock stares at him blankly) I’ve tracked down that exorcism!

  BROCK: What?

  VICAR: I went to the museum!

  BROCK (in horror): Not now—

  VICAR: And there it was!

  BROCK (desperately): Colly—cope, will you—cope, please!

  Collinson hurries forward.

  VICAR: It wasn’t easy to discover—

  BROCK: Very kind of you, very helpful, but—just at the moment I’ve got business!

  He turns to face the invaders. Crawshaw leads them with eyes gleaming and a thin smile.

  CRAWSHAW: Well, Brock?

  BROCK: This way.

  He leads them off towards the spare wing.

  VICAR (hurt): That really was a little short—

  COLLINSON: You said—an exorcism?

  VICAR: Yes.

  COLLINSON: He knows about it.

  VICAR: Oh.

  COLLINSON: We had the documents. 1892.

  VICAR: When? Oh, no.

  COLLINSON: It was.

  VICAR: 1760.

  Jill comes forward. The vicar recognises her, nods and beams.

  JILL: 1760? The house wasn’t built then.

  VICAR: Indeed not. There was just—some sort of ruin here. Nevertheless there’d been—complaints, so—a service was performed. Quite useless, apparently—that’s if you accept there had been anything there in the first place . . .

  THE LABORATORY – DAY

  Jill is working at the teleprinter with feverish concentration when Eddie comes up.

  EDDIE: Jill, what about tackling mine?

  JILL: Give me a chance.

  EDDIE: What is this? (He looks over her shoulder) For God’s sake! Don’t let Peter see that. We’ve got work to do.

  JILL (promising): Soon, Eddie.

  Eddie goes sourly off. Stew moves in.

  STEW: Well?

  JILL: It’s the concept of a tape that’s wrong. It’s more like a great depth—a core—

  STEW: The stone.

  JILL: He erased her. But she was only in the surface layer, the most recent.

  STEW: 1890 recent!

  JILL: There’d be much older impressions underneath. Much deeper.

  STEW: How far are you trying to go back?

  JILL: A long way . . .

  THE ENTRANCE HALL – DAY

  Brock and Crawshaw are coming down the stairs together as Jill appears from the lab.

  CRAWSHAW: I must have an office.

  BROCK (unhelpfully): Do what I can—

  CRAWSHAW: I have a great deal of paper work.

  BROCK (meanly): Costing?

  Crawshaw glares at him. Jill takes advantage of the pause.

  JILL: Peter—have you got a moment?

  BROCK (quickly): This is Jill Greeley, who programs our computer. William Crawshaw.

  Crawshaw thrusts out a bright blue hand.

  CRAWSHAW: I’ll have need of you, lassie, and your wee machine. (He turns his back on her and the pair of them move off rapidly towards the other wing) I got that crack about costing. Let me tell you my machine is viable and I’m going to prove it . . .

  Jill is left standing . . .

  OUTSIDE TASKERLANDS HOUSE – DAY

  Eddie and some of the others are taking a break near the front entrance, idly watching Crawshaw and a couple of his team unloading things from the van—wash drums, cables, etc. The last man struggles under a burden of dazzlingly dyed sheets—orange, turquoise and cerise.

  EDDIE: What do they think they’re doing! Colours like that! My wife’s old machine’d just spit them out naturally!

  STEW: Those blokes are curious.

  EDDIE: You’re telling me!

  STEW: No, I mean—one of them said what was this about a ghost.

  EDDIE: Oh, be careful—

  STEW: Don’t worry, I was.

  Jill comes from the house, walking fast. Her face is set and desperate.

  EDDIE: Jill—

  He calls after her but she goes straight on towards the caravan.

  INSIDE THE CARAVAN

  Collinson is working on some papers when Jill throws the caravan door open.

  JILL: Colly—they’re still working on that room!

  COLLINSON: I’m glad to say.

  JILL: Nobody thinks there’s anything wrong?

  COLLINSON: Not . . . now. (He gets up, disturbed by her expression) Jill—

  For whole seconds she stares in front of her as if she is struggling to focus on something deep in her mind.

  JILL: There must be a . . . decay.

  COLLINSON: Of what? Jill, what decay?

  JILL: Whatever’s . . . stored in the stone. The recording. Otherwise . . . it’d be like perpetual motion, an impossibility. It would have to . . . corrode and lose definition . . . over long enough time it would have to. But then if you boosted it—(shrilly) Colly, I think that’s what he’s done!

  COLLINSON: Boosted?

  JILL: Some deep-level record, much older. So old and . . . shapeless . . .

  COLLINSON: Jill, there’s nothing.

  JILL: I know there is.

  Collinson shakes his head. Then:

  COLLINSON: Remember I’m on your side.

  JILL: You’re not any longer!

  COLLINSON: Sit down and let’s talk—

  JILL: Am I the only one? Am I?

  COLLINSON: Jill—

  She backs away from the concern in his eyes. She throws the door open . . .

  INSIDE THE LABORATORY – DAY

  Jill is working feverishly at the computer. One by one the others stop the work they are doing, till they are all watching her . . .

  BROCK’S SUITE – OFFICE, DAY

  Folder in hand, Jill looks into Brock’s office—and encounters an angry argument.

  Brock is sitting hot-eyed at his desk. Crawshaw is shaking a bright green fist in his face.

&n
bsp; CRAWSHAW: —Full facilities! I’ll accept nothing less! And you can just stuff that up your—up your—er—and—and—and—

  He shoots a doubtful “presence-of-ladies” look at the newly imported girl secretary who sits nearby with a shorthand pad on her knee. Then he blunders out past Jill with a snarl of apology to her.

  Jill shuts the door. Brock’s eyes are fixed on her.

  BROCK (to the secretary): Get out. Make some coffee.

  The girl measures Jill with a look and goes into the living quarters.

  JILL: I’ve got to talk to you.

  BROCK: If it’s what I think—

  JILL: Even if it is.

  Brock is out of his chair in a moment. He comes close, keeping his voice down to a furious whisper.

  BROCK: You won’t give up, will you! You started this whole thing and you keep it going! You’re determined to! You’re getting to enjoy it!

  JILL: Enjoy—!

  BROCK: Oh, not healthy yum-yum enjoy. Some people like to destroy people, Jilly, and you’re turning into one. If you can’t take me from my family, it’s got to be destruction!

  JILL: It’s not true!

  BROCK: That creature that just went out of here—that baboon with the dyed hands—he’s got his foot on my neck! Through you!

  JILL (desperately): Peter—you were right about the recording. (For a split second he seems to be listening to her) There are more things on it.

  BROCK: Oh no.

  JILL: I can prove it.

  BROCK: Sweetie, you’re into fantasies.

  JILL: You’ve got to listen!

  BROCK: Unless we’re careful you could get very sick. You’re going on leave. For a month—no, make it two months, starting now.

  JILL: I can’t—

  BROCK: Stew can take over, he knows the computer. And he’s—level-headed. He’s up to it.

  JILL: Peter—

  She sees his eyes and gives up. His mind is sealed against anything she can say.

  She turns—and sees the secretary watching through a crack in the doorway.

  BROCK: Home and rest now . . .

  THE LABORATORY – NIGHT

  The lab is dark, apart from the area of the computer where Jill is working alone. All round her are discarded rolls of print-out paper.

  Collinson looks in, an old mac pulled round him, wet with rain.

  COLLINSON: Jill! I saw the light. What are you doing?

  She looks at him as if she hardly recognises him—then goes on tapping at the teleprinter keys. He comes to her side and peers at what she is doing—but he can make nothing of it.

  JILL: I think . . . someone else did know about this.