London Spy
Page 11
With a man inside oxygen levels drop seventeen percent. The temperature jumps ten degrees. You become breathless. Sweaty. There’s a moment of euphoria --
FLASH TO:
INT. SEX ATTIC. NIGHT (PAST)
A split second flash of the trunk, discovered by Danny.
BACK TO:
INT. POLICE STATION. INTERROGATION ROOM. DAY (PRESENT)
The word ‘euphoria’ jars with Danny.
DANNY
Euphoria?
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
Have you ever experimented with erotic asphyxiation?
Danny in disbelief at the line of questioning.
The detective wilfully puts on oversized reading glasses, making herself bookish & harmless:
DETECTIVE TAYLOR (CONT’D)
(reading from notes)
“When the brain’s deprived of oxygen, it induces a semihallucinogenic state called hypoxia. Combined with orgasm --”
DANNY
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
(interrupting)
(continuing)
I know what it is.
“-- the rush is no less powerful than cocaine, and highly addictive.”
DETECTIVE TAYLOR (CONT’D)
You know what it is, because you’ve tried it?
The question sounds casual. And lethal.
Danny considers a lie. But decides against it.
DANNY
I used to see a guy.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
A man called Steve Fields.
Perturbed, Danny can’t hide his surprise, looking down at the sheets of paper, wondering what else she has on him.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR (CONT’D)
Did the two of you use a trunk?
DANNY
We used a belt.
(embarrassed)
I didn’t particularly enjoy it.
I’ve never done it again.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
We were told you engaged in the practice repeatedly.
DANNY
It was three or four times. With one man.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
How close did you come to death?
DANNY
We were careful.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
Because?
DANNY
He was always watching. Or I was.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
I see. So if something went wrong, he’d step in, or you would?
DANNY
(quick)
Yes.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
That means you have personally experienced --
(checks notes)
“The moment of euphoria before conditions become critical”, haven’t you?
DANNY
(less quick)
Yes.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
That was the moment you were supposed to open the trunk, wasn’t it?
The trap closes.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR (CONT’D)
Danny, have you ever passed out from taking too much ‘G’?
Danny stumbles, sensing that she already has the answer.
DANNY
When I first started using it.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
Repeatedly with one man?
Repeatedly with different men?
She’s brilliant.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR (CONT’D)
More than five times?
More than five men?
DANNY
It could be.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
What would you say was a ‘typical’ dose? One and a half millimetres?
She hands him photos of an exquisite glass tumbler by the mattress. The sequence of photos move progressively closer until we see fingerprints, lip marks on the rim.
FLASH TO:
INT. SEX ATTIC. NIGHT (PAST)
Danny picking up the glass of ‘G’ & cola.
BACK TO:
INT. POLICE STATION. INTERROGATION ROOM. DAY (PRESENT)
Detective Taylor ensnaring Danny.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
5.2 millimetres. Enough for three.
She has him. And she knows it, so she adjusts, becoming solicitous and understanding.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR (CONT’D)
What happened that night, Danny? He asked you to lock him inside the trunk. You obliged, sat on the bed, waiting for his high. Except your high came first, and came stronger. You pass out. Nothing could wake you. Not his cries for help, not the movement of the trunk. When you did wake, an hour or so later, the attic was quiet.
Danny numb as this alternate reality is laid out before him. It’s so convincing.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR (CONT’D)
You sat up. Saw the trunk. On its side. Half way across the attic. Now you’re panicking. You open the locks. You touch his cheeks - he’s still warm... You consider calling an ambulance, of course you do. But it’s too late. You look around at the remnants of your night. The drugs. The kink. A jury’s going to hate you.
Danny shaking his head, but weakly, bewildered by the completeness of the case against him.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR (CONT’D)
You close the trunk. You leave. After all, the guy slept around. You didn’t even know his name. There were others. Maybe we’ll think it was one of them.
Danny’s voice falters. It could be mistaken for guilt.
DANNY
Why would I tell you that there were no other people?
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
There are always other people.
INT. POLICE STATION. INTERROGATION ROOM. NIGHT
A rapid, jarring cut forward, slamming into a new part of the interrogation. The detective is in her element. In full flow. Danny is looking ragged.
The Detective presents Danny with an expensive business card. Danny studies the enigmatic name.
Classy. Elegant. No phone number.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
Exclusive. Discreet. A specialist escort agency. For the very rich.
DANNY
Alex didn’t use escorts.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
Can we at least use his real name?
DANNY
Alistair didn’t --
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
You both enjoyed the company of strangers, it would seem.
She presses play on digital device. An audio extract. It’s Danny’s voice. It sounds like he’s on the phone.
DANNY (V.O)
(tape recording)
“I posted an ad online saying anyone could come round. I mean - any one. I’d be waiting. My only condition was that they didn’t speak. And people showed up.”
FLASH TO:
INT. DANNY’S APARTMENT. BATHROOM. NIGHT (PAST)
The scene between Danny and Alex - Alex in the bath.
DANNY
I don’t remember much about them. There were two older guys.
BACK TO:
INT. POLICE STATION. INTERROGATION ROOM. DAY (PRESENT)
Horrified, Danny stands up, speaking over the recording, the following dialogue simultaneous and confused.
DANNY (CONT’D)
DANNY (V.O) (CONT’D)
How do you have this? This was a private conversation.
(tape recording)
“They arrived together. I didn’t turn them away. I didn’t ask anything of them. I just reminded them of my rule. Not to speak. And they must have thought their luck was in... Because they didn’t make a sound.”
The detective pauses the recording. Danny’s trembling with outrage. They’re all watching him.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
You told him that story over the phone. The apartment belongs to the security services. All calls were recorded.
She passes him copies of the call logs. Numbers. Dates. Times. In black and white. Computerized. One is circled.
Danny stares blankly at the evidence. It looks so real. Finally, trying to control his emotion.
DANNY
That conversation took place in my bedroom. We were face t
o face.
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
We’ve just searched your apartment. No surveillance equipment was found.
Danny looks at the people around the table. Incredulity.
Even his lawyer’s stance suggests disbelief.
INT. POLICE STATION. INTERROGATION ROOM. DAY
Later, another jarring cut, slamming relentlessly forward into a different part of the interrogation
Danny’s fingers around a polystyrene cup of coffee. He’s unwell, pale, worn down.
Everyone except Danny is wearing different clothes.
Now they’re discussing the set of four keys mysteriously given to Danny in Episode 1. They’re on the table.
Also the computer handheld device from the warehouse where Danny used to work.
Danny’s exasperated, speech fraying at the edges, as if he can hear how implausible reality is starting to sound.
DANNY
Alex didn’t give me these keys. He never gave me a set of keys. They were left. In the warehouse. I don’t know by who. I don’t know how --
(nudging the device)
You say it can’t be done, like that’s a fact. But it was done! They did it! Because they needed me to go into the attic so that you could believe all -- this --
(gestures at the papers & evidence)
Except it’s all a fucking lie.
He’s lost control. Danny catches breath.
No one believes him.
INT. POLICE STATION. INTERROGATION ROOM. DAY
Danny has been hollowed out by the process. In fact, he looks gravely unwell. Pale. Shivering.
Detective Taylor remains pristine and precise.
The lawyer checks his watch.
In contrast to Danny’s stumbling speech:
DETECTIVE TAYLOR
I’m not the one running out of time. We both know those attic bedsheets - stained with semen and shit and blood - are going to come back as a match for your DNA. When they do, we will charge you.
All eyes on Danny.
Danny overwhelmed. Can’t articulate a defense.
INT/EXT. TAXI CAB / LONDON. NIGHT
Danny’s sick and shivering.
Scottie registers how ill Danny is.
DANNY
A pen?
Scottie has a beautiful pen. He hands it to Danny.
On the back of a tissue, or scrap of paper, Danny starts to recreate the information from the mysterious business card that the detective showed him.
Scottie watches.
DANNY (CONT’D)
What did the lawyer say?
SCOTTIE
He said you should confess.
Danny pauses, looks at Scottie, then continues copying from memory the information from the escort card.
SCOTTIE (CONT’D)
What is that?
DANNY
Another lie.
INT. SCOTTIE’S HOUSE. GUEST BEDROOM. NIGHT
Danny’s helped into the guest bedroom. He keeps his clothes on, slipping under the duvet. Scottie finds a thick throw, placing it over a delirious Danny.
TO BLACK:
A split second moment of darkness. In which we hear a loud slam, a noise that jolts us into --
INT. ALEX’S APARTMENT. ATTIC. NIGHT (NIGHTMARE)
A sweat drenched Danny wakes up on his back, on the sex stained sheets, in the attic, in the gloom.
We hear the slamming sound for the second time.
Danny sits up.
The attic staged as it was before. Orange hubs of filament light. A tower of babel television sets.
Except the trunk is moving closer and closer to Danny. Someone’s alive inside.
Danny stands, sweating profusely, hurrying forward, through the harness zone.
Danny reaches the trunk. Sweaty fingers on the brass locks. We see a human form pressing against the side.
As he opens it --
BACK TO:
INT. SCOTTIE’S HOUSE. GUEST BEDROOM. NIGHT
Danny opens his eyes. The clock says 7.37 PM.
His fever’s broken. He gets out of bed. Fragile.
INT. SCOTTIE’S HOUSE. STUDY. NIGHT
Engulfed in an old fashioned dressing gown Danny shuffles in. The study is dark except for Scottie at his desk, lit by a pool of intense desk lamp light.
He’s working on official looking documents.
Scottie puts the papers aside, turning to see Danny in the gloom. There’s a subtle-but-distinct-distance between them. Danny’s sensitive to it as he takes a seat.
DANNY
Saturday?
SCOTTIE
Sunday.
Silence.
SCOTTIE (CONT’D)
You should eat something.
DANNY
The bedsheets, in the attic - they’re going come back a match for my DNA.
Silence.
SCOTTIE
How is that possible?
DANNY
Alex dry-cleaned everything. That’s when they were stolen.
Silence.
DANNY (CONT’D)
They’ve been working on this for months.
Silence.
DANNY (CONT’D)
I’m going to prove --
SCOTTIE
(interrupting)
You can’t even prove it wasn’t you. You’re talking about spies and conspiracies and --
(angry)
Look at you!
Danny looks at himself, a pitiful figure lost in Scottie’s old dressing gown. Scottie’s anger melts.
SCOTTIE (CONT’D)
(affectionate)
Look at you.
EXT. EAST LONDON. NARROW STREET. SHOP. DAY
A shadowy side street. A row of old fashioned shops and craft stores. Cobblers. Locksmiths. Quaint and run down.
Danny stands outside a silversmiths. He checks the street to make sure he wasn’t followed. He enters.
INT. EAST LONDON. SILVERSMITH. SHOP. DAY
Part shop, part workshop - a beautiful bronze bell rings above the door as Danny enters. He waits at the counter, standing in front of a wall of keys.
An old man emerges from the back, wearing a cracked, ancient leather apron, a fine layer of metallic dust on his clothes and spectacles.
Part wizard, part émigré, a man who has travelled far and made London his home.
An accent dragged across continents.
The silversmith looks Danny over, unimpressed. Until Danny places the cylinder on the counter.
The silversmith examines it, bewitched by its complexity and beauty. After a moment, he reassesses Danny.
SILVERSMITH
This belongs to you?
Danny nods.
SILVERSMITH (CONT’D)
Show me your wallet.
Puzzled, Danny hands it over.
The silversmith glances at the cards but seems much more interested in the wallet itself as a form of ID. Not leather. Cheap. Synthetic. He picks at stitching.
SILVERSMITH (CONT’D)
How does a person owning something like this --
(the wallet)
End up owning something like this?
(the cylinder)
DANNY
It was a gift.
SILVERSMITH
(incredulous)
A gift?
DANNY
You think I stole it?
The silversmith considers. He doesn’t.
SILVERSMITH
Want to sell it?
DANNY
Can it be opened?
SILVERSMITH
If you know the code.
DANNY
Can’t it be picked?
The silversmith lowers his ear to the cylinder, turning the dials, listening carefully. Delighted.
SILVERSMITH
Not a sound! Beautiful work. Exceptional.
DANNY
What about cutting it open?
SILVERSMITH
(with contempt)
I wouldn’t agree to try. Someo
ne else might.
About to hand it back but stops.
SILVERSMITH (CONT’D)
But an object such as this was made with care. Skill. Love. Most of all, it was made with the foreknowledge that someone crude minded might use brute force. Are you sure force won’t destroy whatever it contains? Or was it intended to be opened only by he who knows the code? And no one else?
He hands it back to Danny.
Danny considers it afresh, daunted by its perfection.
SILVERSMITH (CONT’D)
A gift, perhaps. But perhaps not a gift meant for you.
And Danny too has his doubts.
INT. DANNY’S APARTMENT. BEDROOM. NIGHT
Danny seated, copying the emblem for the escort agency from the fragment of tissue we saw in the taxi.
He’s carefully copying it onto a slip of card. Creating a handmade replica.
Still obviously handmade, coloured in with black biro ink. But as close to the original as Danny can make it.
Finished, he examines it. Runs his finger over the logo.
What does this mean?
Danny picks up his phone, going through the list of names.
He stops at Rich. No photo.
Just a number.
Danny seems greatly troubled by the prospect of this man.
EXT. RIVERSIDE APARTMENT BUILDING. NIGHT
A modern block of luxury apartments. Glass. Steel. Landscaped gardens. Located directly on the riverfront.
An apprehensive Danny stands outside, agonising over a decision about whether to go in, or not.
In his fingers we see the escort card.
Danny enters.
INT. RIVERSIDE APARTMENT BUILDING. NIGHT