by Tor Fleck
GRIFFIN
The likes of us can’t stop them. They’ll roll right over us.
HARVEY
But can’t you see? That’s what they want you to believe. But we’re more powerful. We have the means to destroy them. We can put an end to this madness, once and for all.
GRIFFIN
I don’t want to die.
HARVEY
You kill me, they’ll kill you. That’s how it works. You honestly think these are the sort of people to honour a promise? They get rid of one liability and create another. And so it goes. You’re a dead man walking, Griffin. Wake up! They’ve brainwashed you. All that psychometric shit they poured into our heads. We were selected for a reason.
Griffin shakes his head and presses down on the trigger.
HARVEY (CONT’D)
Look.
Harvey rolls up his sleeve, exposing his forearm. He points to a small red scar.
HARVEY (CONT’D)
There was a fucking implant in there. Check your arm. You’ll have one too.
Griffin glances at his own arm.
HARVEY (CONT’D)
We’re their little puppets and when they pull our strings we dance. They’ve made us believe they’re unstoppable. Invincible. But if we say no … if we block them and cut them out … then they’re weakened. We’re their Achilles heel.
Griffin hesitates. His hand wavers. The pistol drops.
HARVEY (CONT’D)
We do this together, okay? Put the gun down. We’re strong. We can beat them.
Griffin lowers the gun further. Harvey holds out his hand.
HARVEY (CONT’D)
That’s it. You’re doing the right thing.
A sudden change of heart. Griffin lifts the gun back up again, aimed straight at Harvey’s head.
GRIFFIN
I can’t risk it.
Griffin FIRES.
The bullet narrowly misses Harvey and he leaps over the railing, landing on a narrow ledge.
Griffin leans over the railing and FIRES again.
Harvey stumbles along the ledge. Another shot RINGS OUT. He ducks and slips, but doesn’t fall. He reaches a ladder and climbs it.
Griffin FIRES a fourth shot from the top of the ladder.
Harvey dodges to the side and keeps climbing. He reaches the top before Griffin can fire again and knocks the gun away.
The gun FIRES and topples over the edge of the building.
Harvey and Griffin fight on the ladder. Griffin pushes Harvey off, but Harvey grabs Griffin’s coat and takes him with him. As they fall, Harvey latches on to the last rung of the ladder. Griffin misses it, and tumbles into the dark.
Harvey hauls himself up onto the ledge, and peers over.
Griffin dangles precariously from the narrow walkway below.
GRIFFIN (CONT’D)
Help me, please!
Harvey reaches down.
HARVEY
Take my hand.
Griffin shakes his head. His fingers slip.
HARVEY (CONT’D)
Come on!
Griffin lifts his hand and Harvey catches it just in time.
HARVEY (CONT’D)
Now the other one. Quickly! I don’t think I can hold –
Griffin throws his other hand up, but the cross-wind swings him to the side and he misses.
Harvey struggles to keep hold of Griffin. The effort is too much and Griffin’s hand slips free. He falls backwards, arms flailing, mouth wide, and disappears into the blackness.
Harvey GASPS in shock. He can’t move. It takes SCREAMS and SIRENS from below to galvanise him into action. He clambers back onto the roof and sprints towards the exit.
INT. HARVEY’S OFFICE - NIGHT
Harvey holds the base unit of his computer above his head and throws it onto the marble floor.
DUMPF!
Sarah appears in the doorway. She runs to Harvey.
SARAH
What are you doing?
Harvey picks the base unit up and throws it down again. Sarah steps back in alarm.
DUMPF!
The outer casing buckles, but doesn’t break open. Harvey picks it up again.
SARAH
Harvey, stop!
Harvey pushes past Sarah, carrying the base unit outside to the terrace. Sarah follows him. When he reaches the sliding door, she grabs his arm. Harvey shrugs her off and steps outside.
EXT. HARVEY’S OFFICE, TERRACE - NIGHT
A dark rippled river is visible dozens of floors below.
Harvey lobs the base unit over the edge of the terrace and watches its descent.
Partway down, the base unit clips the side of the building and sections fly off. It eventually impacts the water with a silent, and underwhelming, SPLASH.
INT. HARVEY’S OFFICE – NIGHT
Harvey empties drawers. Stuffs a briefcase with papers.
HARVEY
I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t stop. It was an accident.
SARAH
I believe you.
Harvey stuffs more documents into his now bulging briefcase. Sarah takes Harvey’s hand. He stops.
SARAH (CONT’D)
I believe you.
Harvey flashes a nervous smile.
HARVEY
They’ll be coming for me. I need to go.
SARAH
I’m coming with you.
HARVEY
No!
Harvey lifts up the briefcase. Sarah grabs his arm.
SARAH
I’m coming!
HARVEY
They’ll kill you too. They won’t stop.
SARAH
Let them fucking try.
INT. OFFICE CORRIDOR - NIGHT
Harvey and Sarah run down the corridor. PING! Up ahead, a lift door opens. Harvey and Sarah barge through a stairwell door just as two MEN IN BLACK – complete with sunglasses and immaculate suits – exit the lift.
INT. STAIRWELL - NIGHT
Harvey and Sarah CLANK NOISILY down the stairs. Sarah trips and CRIES OUT.
INT. OFFICE CORRIDOR - NIGHT
The men in black hear Sarah’s cry and BURST through the stairwell door.
INT. STAIRWELL
Harvey and Sarah take the stairs two at a time. HEAVY FOOTSTEPS can be heard above them.
Harvey glances up.
The men in black are closing fast.
Harvey and Sarah, both sweating now, speed up. Suddenly, Sarah pulls to a halt outside a door marked …
… STAFF ONLY.
Sarah grabs Harvey and shoves him through the door.
INT. SERVICE CORRIDOR - NIGHT
Harvey and Sarah flee along a dank corridor. Above them, exposed pipes and flickering strip lights. Behind them, the CLANK of their pursuers’ feet. They reach a set of metal steps and climb down rapidly.
At the bottom of the steps is a door. Harvey tries the handle. It’s locked. He RAMS it with his shoulder and winces in pain, but it doesn’t budge. ECHOING FOOTSTEPS behind them are getting closer.
Sarah pushes Harvey aside and KICKS the door hard. It flies open. Harvey stares at Sarah in astonishment.
Sarah shrugs.
INT. UNDERGROUND CAR PARK – NIGHT
Sarah runs through the door into a car park and stops.
SARAH
My car!
Sarah’s car is visible between two other parked cars.
Sarah takes off. Harvey follows, weaving between vehicles. A shot RINGS OUT and a bullet RICOCHETS off a fender. Harvey and Sarah duck lower and run faster.
One of the men in black, his arm extended, FIRES again.
The bullet SMASHES a car windscreen beside Harvey. He grabs Sarah and pulls her behind a 4 x 4. FOOTSTEPS grow louder. Harvey and Sarah hold their breath.
Two sets of black shoes appear either side of the 4 x4, moving towards the rear. Harvey pushes Sarah out and they make a run for it.
The men in black gave chase.
Harvey and Sarah reach Sarah’s ca
r. She unlocks it and they jump in.
INT. SARAH’S CAR - NIGHT
Sarah fumbles with the ignition.
INT. UNDERGROUND CAR PARK - NIGHT
The men in black race towards Sarah’s car.
INT. SARAH’S CAR - NIGHT
Sarah’s key won’t fit in the lock.
SARAH (CONT’D)
Come on!
The key turns and the car STARTS.
INT. UNDERGROUND CAR PARK - NIGHT
The men in black raise their guns in unison and FIRE.
INT. SARAH’S CAR – NIGHT
Both bullets RICOCHET off the bonnet, causing Harvey and Sarah to instinctively duck.
Suddenly, the engine ROARS and Sarah ACCELERATES towards the men in black. She HITS one of them. He bounces off the bonnet and onto the ground. The second man in black dives out of the way.
INT. UNDERGROUND CAR PARK - NIGHT
As the car SCREAMS past, the second man in black swivels on his back and FIRES at the fleeing vehicle.
INT. SARAH’S CAR – NIGHT
The rear windscreen SHATTERS and Harvey YELLS. Sarah puts her foot to the floor.
INT. UNDERGROUND CAR PARK – NIGHT
Sarah’s car careers out of the car park. Sparks and wood fly as it CRASHES through the exit barrier.
EXT. ALLEYWAY - NIGHT
Sarah ROARS along a narrow alleyway, CLIPPING bins and SCRAPNG the side of the car against a wall.
INT. SARAH’S CAR - NIGHT
Harvey glances behind him as Sarah changes gear.
EXT. ALLEYWAY - NIGHT
The car makes a sharp right turn, SCREECHING onto the main road.
INT. SARAH’S CAR – NIGHT
Sarah’s eyes are fixed dead ahead.
SARAH
Can you see them?
Harvey looks back over his shoulder again.
HARVEY
I think we lost them.
EXT. STREET – NIGHT
A neon-lit, rain-drenched street. Sarah approaches a red light and slows down.
INT. SARAH’S CAR - NIGHT
Harvey glances back over his shoulder.
HARVEY
Uh-oh.
Through the broken rear window, a car can be seen approaching at speed.
HARVEY
We’ve got company.
SARAH
Hold on.
Sarah CRUNCHES GEARS.
EXT. STREET – NIGHT
Sarah ROARS through the red light and takes a hard left, then a right. The car rolls onto two wheels.
INT. SARAH’S CAR - NIGHT
Harvey lets out a YELL.
SARAH
Are they still there?
The car from earlier is closing in.
HARVEY
(quietly)
Oh, Jesus.
Sarah SLAMS on the brakes.
EXT. STREET – NIGHT
Sarah makes a 180 degree handbrake turn. The tyres SQUEAL, causing smoke to billow.
INT. SARAH’S CAR – NIGHT
The car spins wildly.
HARVEY
Fuuuck!
EXT. STREET – NIGHT
Sarah’s car is now facing the oncoming car.
INT. SARAH’S CAR - NIGHT
Sarah REVS the engine.
HARVEY
What are you doing? Fuck.
Harvey grabs his seatbelt.
EXT. STREET – NIGHT
Sarah ACCELERATES straight at the oncoming car. Closer and closer, faster and faster.
INT. SARAH’S CAR – NIGHT
Harvey closes his eyes.
HARVEY
Fuuuckk!!
EXT. STREET – NIGHT
At the last moment, the oncoming car veers off to the left, SMASHING into a lamppost. A body flies through the windscreen and onto the crumpled bonnet.
Sarah SPEEDS away. Takes another hard left. Drives on.
INT. SARAH’S CAR - NIGHT
Silence. Harvey is in shock. He can’t speak. Sarah, changing gears fluently and weaving through slow-moving traffic, looks as cool as a cucumber.
HARVEY
Where’d you learn to drive like that?
SARAH
I’m a farm girl, that’s how we drive.
HARVEY
Where are we going?
SARAH
I know a place.
HARVEY
Where?
SARAH
Don’t worry, we’ll be safe there.
Harvey stares out the window. When he glances back he catches Sarah grinning.
EXT. STREET – NIGHT
The shiny wet street is deserted. There’s only Sarah’s car, ACCELERATING into the neon blur of the metropolis.
27
The bus pulled up in the middle of a vast waste ground, a graveyard of forgotten tenements and factories. ‘Last stop, mate,’ said the driver, pulling on the end of his dying cigarette and gazing up through the smudged glass of the windscreen as though expecting a sniper bullet any second.
Paul was sat at the front of the bus, the only passenger left. He held his phone up. ‘Do you know this address?’
‘I don’t know Castlebank, son,’ said the driver. ‘Only that ah wouldnae be flashin that hing aboot if ah wis you.’ Paul tucked the phone back into his pocket. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and stepped off the bus. The driver kicked the bus back into gear and took off down the road as fast as the ancient diesel motor could propel him.
Old folks love to mump and moan about how this place or that place was far better ‘back in the day’ – that seemingly mythical time when front doors could be left open without fear of being robbed, and a penny bought you a three-piece suit, a night at the pictures, four cans of Tennants, and a bunk-up with a prossie – but Castlebank had never had its ‘day’. Every day in Castlebank, from its inception in 1963 as a ‘model town’ to its current incarnation as ‘a fucking horrible place to live’, had been a purgatorial hellhole of utter misery and casual, shit-faced violence. Poverty wound itself around the town like a snake strangling its young. It was a prison, from which the only escape was a swan-dive off a high-rise roof, or a chilled cell in Barlinnie.
And now, it was all about the gangs. Gangs were family, and you only belonged to one. You fought for it, and you died for it. You grew to accept that territoriality was sacrosanct. You could no more wander onto someone else’s turf than you could invade North Korea. The one was as outlandish an idea as the other. You carved your own niche, or someone carved a new one for you, on your face. Incidents would occasionally flair up – as incidents do – but if you kept to your own, if you didn’t stray, and if you knew your place, then maybe – just maybe – the only blood you would ever see would be from a nosebleed.
Paul found himself alone amongst the rotting weeds, the empty beer cans, and the broken shopping trollies of a pestilent, present and correct Castlebank. The landscape was alien and jagged, yet familiar. Beirut, sans sunshine. In the distance hovered a row of houses, loomed over by a vertiginous block of flats. Paul took off towards them. When he reached the first house he stopped. A gaggle of gangly youths were huddled around a burnt-out car like cavemen around a fire. One of them – a glassy-eyed, skin-headed scally – was jumping up and down on the blackened bonnet, his heels denting it a little more each time. Can’t afford a trampoline, huh? Paul crossed the road and hurried on past. A shout went up and the gang roused themselves in his direction. He picked up the pace, his breathing heavy. At the next corner, he turned back. The gang had stopped, distracted by the rusted skeleton of a pushbike. One of them glanced up and flicked Paul the Vs. Wee bastards.
Finding a signal in this wilderness was an exercise in futility. Paul gave up on his GPS and decided to go old school. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, running after an elderly man in a tartan bunnet. ‘Could you tell me where – ?’
Tartan Bunnet spun round. He had a bread knife in his hand. ‘Fuck off,’ he snarled. ‘Or ye’ll get this.’
Paul stepped back. ‘I’m sorr
y, sir,’ he said, holding his hands out. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘Whit dae ye want?’
‘I’m looking for Ballhill Rise.’
Tartan Bunnet looked Paul up and down and grinned. ‘Ballhill Rise, ye say?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Ye sure about that?’
‘That’s the address I have.’
‘Are ye polis?’
Paul shook his head. ‘I’m just visiting a mate.’
‘A mate.’ Tartan Bunnet nodded. ‘I see. Well, Ballhill is about three streets up that way. Keep goin and ye’ll come tae it. I take it yer no fae roon here?’ Paul scratched his nose. It was pretty obvious he wasn’t. ‘Well,’ said Tartan Bunnet, ‘I suggest ye watch yersel, son. This place hus gone tae pot since they shut yon youth club. But whit dae ye expect when the toon hall’s fu o’ arseholes?’
Paul nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll watch my back.’
‘Afore ye git a knife in it,’ grunted Tartan Bunnet. He winked at Paul. ‘Guid luck tae ye, son.’ As he shuffled off, Paul heard him laugh and mutter ‘… and it’s goodnight from him. Goodnight.’
Paul followed Tartan Bunnet’s directions. As he wound deeper into the estate, the environment grew more hostile. The houses were either burnt out or boarded up. Household rubbish lay piled up on pavements or scattered across roads. There was also a disconcerting absence of … people. There was nobody around at all. No hoodies, no teenage mums with prams, no Saturday Sannies, and, most surprisingly, no kids. It was as though the zombie apocalypse had kicked off and the zombies were still to arrive. Eventually, he reached Ballhill Road, leading to Ballhill Rise, which turned out to be a great concrete carbuncle of a building reaching up more than thirty storeys into the grim Glasgow skyline.
Paul gazed skywards, every bone in his body telling him to just turn around and run. Fuck it. He shoved open the decrepit front door, almost taking it off its hinges, and walked in. The entrance lobby was filthy. Mini-pyramids of dog-shit formed a faecal assault course to be carefully navigated, whilst a larger pyramid of ripped garbage bags all but obscured the out-of-order lift. The stench of urine was so overpowering Paul had to grip his nose. Beneath the stairwell lay the ruins of a recent fire: charcoaled chair-legs, cigarette butts, and a melted doll. Paul gave it a wide berth and cautiously made his way up the paint-peeled stairs.
The second floor corridor ceiling light flickered like a prop from a bad B-movie. The pungent aroma of piss was now accompanied by the rancorous reek of drains. Through the intermittent flashes Paul could just make out the door numbers. Where the fuck was 19? He had to hold on to the wall for support as he made his way through the intermittent dark. 16 … 17 … 18 … When he reached the last door, there was no number. You’ve got to be shitting me. He looked back at the previous door. A one and an eight. Eighteen. Which makes this one …