by Louise Welsh
On the black doorway: we close in slowly over the following exchange.
DAVID: [Voice-over.] Why?
MANLEY: [Voice-over.] What?
DAVID: [Voice-over.] Why was he murdered?
MANLEY: [Voice-over: he considers this an irrelevant diversion.] Oh… some human organs were needed for research purposes, some such thing. In any case, he was brought up here and killed through there. Eighty years ago.
MANLEY: [Continuing; teasing David into the conclusion.] On this very night.
DAVID: I get it. We’re waiting for his ghost to appear.
MANLEY: Very good. And I am informed it is a very reliable ghost, as ghosts go. [A pause.]
DAVID: And you’re going to…
MANLEY: Precisely.
On the black doorway.
MANLEY: [Voice-over continuing.] And I am now quite hungry.
65. VESTRY. AN HOUR LATER.
Close shot: the rip on David’s shirt. Now, it is being allowed to hang open. Widen to reveal David, sitting as before, back against the wall. He no longer looks frightened; he seems resigned, past caring.
Pan slowly until close on Manley, sitting beside David. He now looks much more hungry and impatient. He is hunched forward, breathing heavily, his gaze fixed on the doorway. He looks lecherous.
Another angle: Manley suddenly lurches forward, looking intently ahead. David does not react, but goes on staring blankly in front of him. This is because Manley has lurched forward numerous times before during the past hour. Manley relaxes and settles back.
MANLEY: Hmm. I thought I saw something move again.
DAVID: [Emotionlessly.] I’m the ghost around here. It’s me.
MANLEY: Now, you’re quite clear what you are to do? It’s absolutely imperative everything is timed precisely.
DAVID: [Staring blankly ahead.] I’m the ghost around here. Could vanish tonight, nobody would notice.
MANLEY: Sssh!
Manley lurches forward.
On the black doorway: hold for a few beats. Nothing happens.
On Manley and David: Manley is settling back again. David is still gazing blankly ahead.
MANLEY: Mmm.
66. CHURCH.
Point of view: unidentified presence which is moving up the side aisle of the church. It then seeks out the vestry door.
67. VESTRY.
Close shot: Manley’s face igniting with excitement.
MANLEY: [Hissing.] There!
Manley rises to his feet, his eyes never leaving the doorway. We see his net is grasped in his hands. David, as though awakened from a dream, starts, then also hurries to his feet.
MANLEY: [Off; hissing.] This time definitely! Something moved. Prepare yourself.
Hold on the doorway: there is a movement amid the darkness, which we cannot identify. Then a tramp appears in the doorway. His coat and body become visible, then his face. This is an “old-fashioned” tramp, with a big raggy coat. He is middle-aged, small, with a friendly, cheeky face. There is absolutely nothing eerie about him. The tramp rubs his eyes, as though he has just been awakened, then grins sheepishly.
TRAMP: Evening.
On Manley and David: both staring at the tramp in some confusion. Manley’s net is poised in one hand.
TRAMP: What’s going on here then? What’s all this? [He prods with his foot the powder on the floor.] Spilt something here, have you?
MANLEY: Leave that alone!
TRAMP: [Looking offended.] Don’t know who are you are, mate, but you won’t catch much with that there. After butterflies, go back to Hampstead Heath.
MANLEY: [Lowering his net, outraged.] What are you doing here?
TRAMP: What am I doing here? I might ask you geezers the same question. I always sleep here. I clean the floors for the old reverend and he lets me stay in here. Can’t sleep down there with all that snoring and God knows what else going on. Still, don’t know how you geezers got to come up here.
MANLEY: We happen to be awaiting a highly important event. And you, my man, are in the way.
TRAMP: [Shrugs.] Pardon me, mate. But I tell you there’s nothing much in there. If there is, I never noticed it.
As he says this, the tramp turns and looks into the black doorway. Hold on the tramp, his back turned to camera.
MANLEY: Well, I assure you something is very likely to materialize, and I would ask you kindly to remove yourself from that vicinity.
The tramp does not respond. His back has not moved since he turned. Hold a further beat, then zoom in quickly as the tramp begins to turn back towards camera. For a fleeting moment, we glimpse the tramp’s face, which has changed. It is the face of a dead man – staring, horror-struck, blood on the lips. We only catch this fleetingly, because we immediately cut to: Manley and David, utterly shocked. Manley comes to his senses first.
MANLEY: The flame, quick! Quick, man, quick!
Another angle: something causes a ring of flames to burst around the doorway. The figure of the tramp remains as still as a statue, caught half-turned, looking over his shoulder. We cannot see the face through the flames.
Point of view: Ghost. Through the flames, David is frantically throwing some powder from a bowl towards the camera. His urgency owes more to some illogical sense of self-defence than to enthusiasm for Manley’s cause.
Manley is unfurling his net. Taking deliberate aim, he throws it. The net covers the camera, and the screen goes black.
68. VESTRY/BACKROOM. A HALF-HOUR LATER.
Fade in: the vestry is empty. The net, and David’s jacket, lie on the floor at the doorway to the back room. The flames have gone and there is no sign of fire-damage.
There is now light coming from within the back room. We move in slowly through the doorway to discover: Manley sitting on a small stool, hunched over his stove, cooking something in his wok. The flame of the stove appears to be our only source of light. It is not strong enough to show us details of the back room. However:
David is caught within the glow of the stove. He is propped against a wall. He is staring towards Manley.
Close-up: Manley’s face. Impatient and lecherous, looking down at what he is cooking. He smiles in anticipation.
Manley puts spices into the wok. Hissing and sizzling sounds issue from the wok. We do not yet see the contents of the wok.
David, eyes blank, is still staring towards Manley.
69. CENTRAL LONDON. VERY EARLY MORNING.
Charing Cross and Trafalgar Square. The city has not yet awoken.
70. BACK ALLEY NEAR CHARING CROSS. VERY EARLY MORNING.
Garbage and old newspapers on the ground. A row of dustbins line the alley. At the far end, an old man is looking through a bin for food. He holds a plastic carrier bag into which he puts anything edible. We watch him going from bin to bin, coming towards us up the alley.
Manley appears in the foreground of our shot. He now has his overcoat on again. He is staggering. He halts and leans against a wall, turning to camera as he does so. Manley looks very ill. He is clutching his stomach and breathing heavily. Manley turns and vomits into the nearest dustbin. Meanwhile, the old man, searching a few bins away, has his back towards Manley and is thus unaware of Manley’s vomiting. Manley finishes vomiting, turns towards us and staggers away out of shot. The old man finishes with his bin and turns to the next in line. One glance tells him this is empty. His next bin is the one Manley has vomited into. The old man comes walking up the alley towards us, holding open his carrier bag expectantly. Just as he is about to peer into the bin, we cut to:
71. THE UNDERPASS OF A BRIDGE. VERY EARLY MORNING.
About fifteen men are sheltering on the pavement beneath the bridge. There are signs here of permanent encampment; empty bottles, blankets, newspapers and cardboard boxes marking out “places”. Around half the men are in sitting positions, propped up by the wall – either because they are awake, or because they sleep in this position.
Manley’s figure appears at the far end of the underpass and comes stagg
ering towards us. The men pay little attention to him. Manley stops halfway down the underpass, leaning against the wall to regain his breath.
Another angle: just where Manley has halted, one homeless man is sitting on the ground. He is around forty. He wears a suit but no tie. His clothes are now stained and creased, but conceivably, in these same clothes several months ago, this man may have sold insurance. The homeless man looks up sympathetically at Manley and indicates the space next to him. There is a “seat” of flattened cardboard.
HOMELESS MAN: Sit down. Take a rest.
MANLEY: Mmm.
Manley sits down, still short of breath. He looks broodingly into the space ahead of him. The homeless man fixes Manley with a friendly smile. Manley ignores him for a while, but the homeless man continues smiling. Manley gives the homeless man a quick glance, then looks beyond his companion, down the underpass.
On Manley and homeless man: Manley rubs his stomach slowly and gazes broodingly into space once more.
HOMELESS MAN: Overdid it, did we?
MANLEY: What?
HOMELESS MAN: Bit too much of the old… [Makes a drinking gesture.]
Manle–y looks at the homeless man with disdain. Then with dignity:
MANLEY: I was hungry. I ate. Now I am sick.
HOMELESS MAN: [Shrugs.] Right, right. See what you mean.
MANLEY: You see what I mean? I very much doubt that. How could you ever understand the kind of hunger I suffer?
HOMELESS MAN: Well. We all get hungry, don’t we?
Manley gives the homeless man another disparaging look.
MANLEY: You have no idea what real hunger is.
Homeless man shrugs. Manley continues to look broodingly into space, slowly rubbing his stomach.
72. THE UNDERPASS. EARLY MORNING. A LITTLE LATER.
A Rolls Royce appears at the far end of the underpass and comes slowly past the homeless people.
73. CAR. EARLY MORNING.
Carter, driving, is watching the pavement. He has been searching for some time. His gaze fixes on Manley and the barest hint of a smile crosses his face. He brings the car to a halt, then for a beat or two, remains in his seat, gazing out towards Manley.
74. THE UNDERPASS.
The Rolls has stopped in front of Manley and the homeless man. Manley looks moodily up at the car, but makes no move to stand up. Carter comes out, unhurrying. He makes no move to assist Manley to his feet; instead, he opens the back door and stands holding it open. Manley rises to his feet tiredly. Carter continues to hold the door open, making no effort to assist the struggling Manley as he climbs into the car. On homeless man: there is no surprise on his face. Few things surprise him. He watches with the same friendly smile.
Sounds of doors slamming.
Another angle: the Rolls starts up. It moves past the rest of the homeless people and out of shot.
75. A LONDON STREET.
The Rolls moves along a deserted street.
76. CAR.
During the following speech, Manley continues to look tiredly out of the window. Although he ostensibly addresses Carter, he is really just thinking aloud and thus does not notice anything amiss in Carter’s silence.
MANLEY: [Without triumph.] You may like to know, Carson. I achieved what I set out to do last night.
Carter shows no reaction.
MANLEY: Not quite as extraordinary as one may have expected. [Pause.] A disappointment all in all. Perhaps I’ll take a trip up to Iceland again. [Pause.] Mmm. So dreary, Carson. [Pause] Life gets so dreary once you’ve tasted its more obvious offerings.
Manley continues to gaze out of the window, lost in his thoughts.
77. BACK ROOM/VESTRY. VERY EARLY MORNING.
Close shot: David. Asleep propped up against the wall, then he starts awake. He looks around then relaxes. The back room is small and stark, a kind of storeroom for odd bits of church junk. Although we need not notice this yet, there is an old full-length mirror propped against one wall. On the floor are the remains of Manley’s presence. It looks much like any untidily abandoned camp-site. The wok sits crookedly on the gas stove. Spoons, spatulas, an empty plate, jars and packets lie strewn around. Manley’s stool has keeled over.
David is behaving much like someone waking after a heavy drinking binge. He sighs heavily and rubs the back of his neck. He suddenly remembers the rip in his shirt and examines it as though in hope that it may have healed overnight. He rises to his feet tiredly. He continues to finger the rip in a preoccupied way, while his eyes search the room for something.
Point of view: David.
The wok with three or four pieces of meat still stuck to the edges. With a tired curiosity, he goes to the wok and crouches down by it.
David reaches down and picks off a piece of meat from the wok. He holds it gingerly, as one might a slug. He brings it cautiously to his face. The smell – powerful and awful – hits him. He grimaces and flings the piece of meat away. Then he sighs again and stares emptily in front of him. Still fingering the rip in his shirt, David goes to the doorway. He continues to glance about him in search of something. Through the doorway, we can see to the vestry door, which is now slightly ajar. We move down to the floor around the back room doorway, to discover the object of David’s search – his jacket. It lies amid white powdery ash.
David picks up his jacket, brushes as much ash off as possible, then puts it on. There is a large hole burnt around the shoulder. David notices this with dismay. He fingers the hole in his jacket, then his attention is caught by something in the back room. He returns into the back room, holding the burn in his jacket as though it is a wound.
What David has seen is the full-length mirror, left abandoned against a wall. He stands in front of it, then takes his hand away from the burn in his jacket. He looks at his appearance with an empty expression. Then he sighs, shrugs and turns away, once again rubbing the back of his neck.
78. CENTRAL LONDON. EARLY MORNING.
Rolls moving through morning streets.
PROLOGUE, 1963
Tananarive…
Tananarive Due (b.1966) was born in Tallahassee, Florida, to civil rights activist, Patricia Stephens Due and civil rights lawyer, John D. Due Jr. She worked on the Miami Herald while writing her first novel, The Between (1995). She has published over a dozen books and now teaches on the creative writing MFA program at Antioch University, Los Angeles. Due lives in Southern California with her husband, the writer Steven Barnes, and their son.
Hilton was seven when his grandmother died, and it was a bad time. But it was worse when she died again.
Hilton called her Nana, but her real name was Eunice Kelly. She raised Hilton by herself in rural Florida, in Belle Glade, which was forty miles from Palm Beach’s rich white folks who lived like characters in a storybook. They shared a two-room house with a rusty tin roof on a road named for Frederick Douglass. The road wasn’t paved, and the stones hurt Hilton’s tender feet whenever he walked barefoot. Douglass Road was bounded by tomato fields behind an old barbed wire fence Nana told him never to touch because he might get something she called tetanus, and they couldn’t afford a doctor. Hilton knew they were poor, but he never felt deprived because he had everything he wanted. Even as young as he was, Hilton understood the difference.
Nana had been a migrant worker for years, so she had muscles like a man on her shoulders and forearms. Nana always saved her money, and she played the organ for pay at the church the monied blacks attended across town, so she hadn’t harvested sugarcane or picked string beans alongside the Puerto Ricans and Jamaicans in a long time.
Hilton worshipped her. She was his whole world. He didn’t know anything about his parents except that they were gone, and he didn’t miss them. He didn’t think it was fair to his friends that they had mamas and daddies instead of Nana.
Nana always said she didn’t intend for Hilton to end up in the fields, that there were bigger things in store for him, so she sent him to school instead. She’d taught him to rea
d before he ever walked through the doorway of the colored school a half mile away. And it was when he came home from school on a hot May afternoon that his life was changed forever.
He found Nana sprawled across her clean-swept kitchen floor, eyes closed, a white scarf wrapped around her head. She wasn’t moving, and not a sound came from her. Hilton didn’t panic just yet because Nana was old and sometimes fainted from heat when she tried to act younger, so he knelt beside her and shook her, calling her name. That worked by itself sometimes. Otherwise, he’d need to find her salts. But when he touched her forearm, he drew his hand away with a cry. Even with the humidity in the little house and the steam from pots boiling over on top of the stove, their lids bouncing like angry demons, Nana’s flesh felt as cold as just-drawn well water. As cold as December. He’d never touched a person who felt that way, and even as a child he knew only dead people turned cold like that.
Hilton stumbled to his feet and ran crying outside to find a grownup who could help. He was only half seeing because of his tears, banging on door after door on Douglass Road, yelling through the screens, and finding no one home. After each door, his sobs rose higher and his throat closed up a little more tightly until he could barely breathe. It was as though everyone were simply gone now, and no one was left but him. He felt like he’d tried a hundred houses, and all he’d found was barking dogs. The barking and running made him feel dizzy. He could hardly catch his breath any more, like he would die himself.
In truth, there were only six houses on Douglass Road. The last belonged to Zeke Higgs, a Korean War veteran angry with middle age, angry with white folks, and whom no child with sense would bother on any other day because he kept a switch by his door. Zeke appeared like a shadow behind his screen when Hilton came pounding and crying, “Nana’s dead. Come help Nana.” Zeke scooped Hilton under his arm and ran to the house.
When he got home, Hilton’s childhood flew from him. Nana was no longer lying lifeless on the kitchen floor. She was standing over the kitchen stove, stirring pots, and the first thing she said was: “I wondered where you’d run off to, boy.” She looked at Zeke’s face and nodded at him, then she fixed her eyes on Hilton. “I’m ’fraid Nana’s made a mess of supper, Hilton. Just a mess.”