ALEX
There might be. For both of us. But since we don’t know them, it’s just a theoretical.
Alex has overstated the case. His intellectual rigour is sharp. And in this instance a little cruel.
DANNY
It’s a sentimental idea... The maths doesn’t add up. But... we’re sitting by the fire... under a night sky... couldn’t you have just said yes?
Alex asks with curiosity rather than petulance:
ALEX
Is that what your soulmate would’ve done?
Alex immediately regrets his statement. Danny doesn’t take the bait - he doesn’t say ‘yes’.
FLASH BACK TO:
EXT. COUNTRYSIDE. ESTUARY. NIGHT
Danny by a fire of his own creation. On his own.
Danny opens the bag. Slowly, thoughtfully, he starts burning Alex’s few remaining possessions.
A farewell, an improvised funeral. No anger. The actions are heavy with defeat. First is the T shirt.
Then the various stubs and tickets and receipts. Each a moment. An event. A point in time. With him.
Then the tub of cream, the fingerprint, the plastic burning blue and green, contorting in the flames.
The aftershave bottle goes in, the glass cracking, the alcohol burning bright. Danny inhales the smell.
Danny can’t bring himself to throw the book in. He puts it to one side.
He does, however, throw the laminated estuary map into the fire, watching the flames take it.
We see the various numbers melt.
And the spot where their fingers almost met.
EXT. COUNTRYSIDE. ESTUARY. DAWN
Danny has been awake all night. The fire’s dead. Just ash and blackened shards of glass.
He stands, stiff. The ash is cold. Danny takes a handful.
A partial fragment of a burnt number among the ash.
Danny walks away from the fire, into the estuary mud flats and holds his hand high above his head.
He releases the ashes as though they were the ashes of Alex’s body.
They catch in the wind: a bold grey upward streak in the sky. And then they’re gone.
Danny looks down at his hand.
A single flake stubbornly remains.
FLASH TO:
EXT. SOHO YARD BAR. NIGHT (PAST)
Yard bar, Soho. An outdoor courtyard. The bar on several levels. We’re upstairs. It’s busy.
Danny is artfully trying to carry two drinks through the crowd, spilling a little here and there.
He reaches the balcony and looks down, among the crowd. Many faces. Old and young.
Danny’s eye searches --
Until he sees Alex by a tree filled with lights.
A handsome man is hitting on Alex. A flicker of powerful sexual chemistry between them.
Danny observes, not jealous, or angry, but thoughtful.
EXT. SOHO YARD BAR. PASSAGEWAY & STREET. NIGHT (PAST)
Lively. Many couples.
Danny and Alex leaving. Danny is unusually serious. And detached. Alex is concerned.
DANNY
(struggling)
I’ve tried a lot of things with a lot of people. That’s part of the reason I’m so sure we’re something special. But for you...
These are some of the hardest words he’s spoken. He’s trying to sound unemotional.
DANNY (CONT’D)
I don’t want you to stay with me just because I’m the first.
They’ve reached the street. Alex stops walking. Giving no reaction. Danny pushes the point.
DANNY (CONT’D)
You should see other people.
(beat)
You should.
(beat)
And, I hope, afterwards, you’ll decide to come back to me...
The emotion starts to come through from Danny.
But not from Alex. He holds the same expression.
DANNY (CONT’D)
I’ll wait. For as long as it takes.
(beat)
And maybe...
(emotional)
Someone else...
(emotional)
I don’t know...
(beat)
But you need to know...
(beat)
I need you to know.
Alex remains unemotional. Inexpressive. And then --
To Danny’s amazement an apparently unemotional Alex looks directly up, staring at the night sky.
Baffled, Danny is on the verge of being angry when --
Alex looks down. He’s crying.
The first and only time we’ve seen him cry. And, it’s as if they’re new to Alex too.
DANNY (CONT’D)
Hey?
Danny wraps his arms around Alex.
DANNY (CONT’D)
What is it?
With tears, but calm, as if he’s done the maths and --
ALEX
I don’t want to.
DANNY
I only meant --
ALEX
I don’t want to.
DANNY
Okay.
ALEX
I don’t need to.
DANNY
Okay.
Referring to their relationship --
ALEX
I know.
(subtle variation)
I know.
DANNY
I know too.
The swirl of people around them on the street.
FLASH BACK TO:
INT. CENTRAL LONDON TRAIN STATION. DAY (PRESENT)
The swirl of people around Danny on the concourse. The station is crowded with evening commuters.
He’s returned from the walk.
He appears to have stopped in the middle of the concourse among the flow of people. In the way. Nudged impatiently.
So many different lives. Passing each other unconnected.
Danny turns his head in a specific direction, staring at the flow of people. Waiting --
Until they break and we catch a glimpse of a bench.
FLASH TO:
INT. CENTRAL LONDON TRAIN STATION. DAY (PAST)
Same station.
Danny sitting on that bench, dressed for a hike, bag packed and ready by his side.
He’s waiting, watching the crowd of commuters and then, among them, he sees Alex. Out of the many.
A moment of relative insignificance at the time.
FLASH BACK TO:
INT. CENTRAL LONDON TRAIN STATION. DAY (PRESENT)
Danny looking at the bench. The crowd reforms and the bench disappears behind the mass of people.
Danny starts walking again, slowly at first, then faster, and faster. Pushing his way through. Until he’s running --
EXT. EAST LONDON. HIGH STREET. NIGHT
Danny running --
An impoverished area. Pawnbrokers. Betting shops.
Danny makes sure he isn’t being followed, and moves with great speed and determination.
He hurries into a fast food restaurant --
EXT. EAST LONDON. SIDE ALLEY. NIGHT
Danny clambers out of the back window, into an alley with no CCTV. He retreats, away from the main road.
EXT. EAST LONDON SCRUBLAND. NIGHT
Danny climbs over a fence and into scrubland. Abandoned washing machines. Burnt mattresses. He arrives at --
The skeleton of a former factory where he hid the cylinder in episode 2.
INT. DERELICT INDUSTRIAL WAREHOUSE. MACHINE ROOM. NIGHT
Danny nimbly clambers up the shell of a long-dead furnace towards the ceiling. Rusted pipes crisscross.
He finds a section of the pipe and removes the bolts. Inside is a diary wrapped in plastic. He removes the plastic. Inside the spine is the cylinder.
He holds it for a moment, studying the elegant seven digit dial code lock. A random spread of numbers.
He adjusts the first dial to zero, then the second, the third, fourth, fifth and the sixth - all to zero.
000000
Final
ly, with the last dial, he turns it to number --
0000001
A click. The cylinder unlocks.
A final message from Alex.
Danny’s excitement modulates into sadness.
And now, finally, Danny opens the cylinder, revealing --
INT. SCOTTIE’S HOUSE. FRONT DOOR. NIGHT
Danny rings the doorbell, excited, the cylinder in the palm of his hand. No reply. He rings again.
He peers through the letter box.
EXT. SCOTTIE’S HOUSE. BACK GARDEN. NIGHT
Climbing the side gate, like a burglar, Danny tries the back door. It’s locked.
He finds the spare key, hidden in one of the pots.
INT. SCOTTIE’S HOUSE. KITCHEN. NIGHT
Danny enters. The lights are off. But a saucepan is on the stove. The gas blazes underneath it.
Danny peers into the saucepan only to find it’s empty. Red hot. Forgotten about. He turns the gas off.
He’s afraid.
INT. SCOTTIE’S HOUSE. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY. NIGHT
Danny reaches the landing. He sees a shard of cracked mirror on the floor outside the bathroom.
Danny hurries forward to see --
INT. SCOTTIE’S HOUSE. BATHROOM. NIGHT
The mirror smashed. Pulled from the wall. Blood on it.
DANNY
Scottie!
INT. SCOTTIE’S HOUSE. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY. NIGHT
Danny searching the house at speed.
He hears a thud from the bedroom. He runs --
INT. SCOTTIE’S HOUSE. SCOTTIE’S BEDROOM. NIGHT
Danny opens the door to find Scottie sprawled on the floor, one hand bleeding profusely. In the other hand is a near empty bottle of Scotch.
He’s horribly drunk - the drinking of a sick man.
Nothing comedic about this moment. Scottie, normally so impressive, in a dreadful self-medicating state.
Danny rushes to help. But Scottie’s difficult to move.
Scottie takes a while to register Danny, but when he does, he smiles warmly.
SCOTTIE
I was...
Not listening, Danny examines the cut to Scottie’s hand. A lot of blood, though not too serious.
SCOTTIE (CONT’D)
Remembering...
Danny tries to take the bottle.
SCOTTIE (CONT’D)
A place...
DANNY
We need to go to a hospital.
SCOTTIE
Listen to me. For once, Danny.
Danny relents, observing that his friend is not well. Having presented Scottie with so many of his own problems this is a pivotal reversal for Danny.
Danny tries to recall what Scottie was trying to say.
DANNY
You were remembering a place.
Scottie’s eyes light up. As the memory returns --
Scottie trying to tell the story but forgetting to speak. Instead, performing various disconnected actions. The saddest, most broken down version of his storytelling.
With a bloody hand, he lamely, incompetently rolls up one trouser leg. It makes no sense.
And then --
Scottie points to the wall, as though pointing to something completely other. With great wonder.
And then --
His wonder turns to sadness.
An incomprehensible pantomime. Danny remains focused on his friend. With no idea what is being communicated.
Scottie, as if he’s concluded his story:
SCOTTIE
A place where no one cares.
Scottie turns to Danny. And lurches towards him, kissing him. Danny doesn’t recoil. He gently, slowly, takes hold of Scottie and separates them.
Scottie shakes his head at himself. Ashamed. Pitiful.
SCOTTIE (CONT’D)
Pathetic.
He goes to take another swig from the bottle but Danny catches it, again gently.
SCOTTIE (CONT’D)
Pathetic.
Scottie allows Danny to have the bottle.
SCOTTIE (CONT’D)
Path --
Before he can say it a third time Danny puts a finger on his lips, stopping him.
Danny stands, offering his arm. Scottie pulls himself together and stands, resting on Danny for support.
INT. HOSPITAL. A&E. NIGHT
Scottie and Danny are waiting: a busy night. Chaotic scenes around them.
Scottie sobering up. But a melancholy sickness remains.
SCOTTIE
My parents used to chide me -
(wistful)
“You used to be such a happy child”.
DANNY
How long?
SCOTTIE
Like this?
Danny nods.
SCOTTIE (CONT’D)
The past three weeks... worse and worse... each day... as bad as it’s ever been.
Danny silent.
SCOTTIE (CONT’D)
It can’t be a coincidence? Can it? Thirty years, and I’ve been okay. And now, like this?
Danny and Scottie ponder.
INT. HOSPITAL. TREATMENT ROOM. NIGHT
Scottie’s hand examined by a doctor. Danny standing in the corner, with other things on his mind.
DANNY
(to the doctor)
Why might someone who’s managed depression for thirty years, suddenly suffer a relapse? For no reason?
The doctor turns to Danny, then looks at Scottie.
INT. SCOTTIE’S HOUSE. KITCHEN. NIGHT
Danny and Scottie at the table.
Scottie is sober. His hand has been bandaged.
On the table in front of them is a pack of prescription pills. A blister pack with only two left.
The pills are branded. Unremarkable. Yet Danny and Scottie are staring at them as though they were a puzzle.
The box has a standard printed prescription label with Scottie’s name and address.
Anti-depressants.
Danny picks up the pack, pushes out a pill. He twists the capsule apart - a powder spills out.
They peer at the contents. Scottie dabs some. Unsure.
Danny becomes practical. Sensible. Efficient.
DANNY
This is what we’re going to do: we’ll get new pills. Real pills. From a different doctor. You can keep them on you at all times...
(re-thinking)
Unless they’re switched before they’re given to you...
(re-thinking)
We can buy them illegally. I know someone. He can get anything.
Scottie seems removed, deep in thought. With an exploratory knuckle he taps the table, testing it.
SCOTTIE
...On your shell. Until they find a crack. A frailty. A vulnerability. No matter how small. And then they pick away.
Scottie still not well.
EXT. RUN DOWN SHOPPING CENTRE. DAY
A grim concrete building. A grotty carpark.
Danny waits, beside his bicycle. A car pulls up.
INT/EXT. DRUG DEALER’S CAR / SHOPPING CENTRE. DAY
Danny studying a box of prescription anti-depressants. He opens them, looking at the blister pack. Intact.
They’re the same kind that Scottie uses.
The drug dealer sits beside Danny, tetchy.
DANNY
Where did you get them?
The dealer’s speech is a near incomprehensible gabble.
DEALER
People-tell-the-doctor-whatever-story-collect-the prescription-sell-them-to-me-they’re good-all-good-always-good-with-me-want something else?
Danny realizes that this man is a relic from his past.
DANNY
No, nothing else.
INT. SCOTTIE’S HOUSE. BATHROOM. DAY
Scottie swallows one of the new anti-depressants. Danny watching. Scottie turns to him.
Unsure whether he should, because of Scottie’s state of mind, Danny opens the palm of his hand, showing Scottie the unlocked cylinder.
We see the c
ontents for the first time: a data stick.
Scottie stares at it.
INT. HAMPSTEAD CHURCH. DAY
Scottie and Danny at the front pew of an otherwise empty church. They face the altar - deep in thought.
Scottie holds the data stick, turning it over in his fingers as though it were a religious trinket.
SCOTTIE
You’ve examined the contents?
Danny nods.
DANNY
We’re going to need help.
SCOTTIE
With help comes risk. With each new person we involve...
Scottie remains scared by his depressive relapse. A haze of fear surrounds him. He struggles with it.
SCOTTIE (CONT’D)
Look at what they’ve done to us. Before they even knew we had this.
Danny considers his friend, not yet well.
DANNY
I can do this alone.
Hearing that, Scottie embarks on an act of self-regeneration. He uses the following narrative - an archetypal Scottie story - as a form of self healing.
He begins unsteadily, growing in fluency and assurance.
SCOTTIE
(unsteady)
There are rumours... About how the Kremlin guarantees the loyalty of its most important citizens. Under the pretext of celebrating an election to the State Duma, the individual is treated to the finest meal Moscow has to offer...
(improving)
At some point during that night, this prized individual blacks out, waking up in a hotel suite. On a bed. Beside a terrified naked child. Before they can say a word the FSB storm the room and arrest them, taking them to an interrogation cell in Moscow’s Butyrka prison where the individual swears that he’s not a pedophile --
(vivid)
“My drink must have been spiked!” “I’ve been framed by my enemies!” He doesn’t know. He can’t explain. “But it is a mistake!”
(near perfect)
To their surprise the FSB officer agrees: it is a mistake. But a mistake they will hold on record forever, a mistake no one will ever see, unless, of course, they make a mistake of a political kind. And with that, the individual’s choice is clear - privilege or disgrace. Destruction or survival. The officer believes he’s won. And the individual believes he’s lost. But those systems of oppression - ruthless as they appear, unbeatable as they seem - never hold, never last, never survive.
London Spy Page 17