Plays from Vault

by Florence Keith-Roach

  Back to the corner.

  MICKEY. That’s it, good boy! Get at him.

  JOEY. One, two. One, two.

  DREW. Easy, careful.

  JOEY. Off the ropes, off the ropes!!

  Collective groan.

  Get your bloody hands up!

  MICKEY. Good lad!

  DREW. Now with the right!

  JOEY. Attaboy!

  DREW. Sid’s taking a lot of punches, Mick.

  MICKEY. Yeah, but he’s giving them too. Go on!

  JOEY. Good. Get after that eye!

  DREW. He can’t keep this up for five more rounds.

  MICKEY. It’s better than him sitting back and waiting for Burns to take him apart, isn’t it? We can’t let him have the whole fight his way. You’ve got to risk stuff, Drew, learn to take risks and hope –

  ALL. Oh!

  Moment of shock. SID steps forward.

  SID. I saw them coming. The punches. I saw them. I’d started the round pretty well, taking the fight to Burns just like Mick said. But I’m not a brawler, and I knew I’d slip up eventually. I was pushing Burns back, but I must have thrown one too many because when I saw him winding up to throw the counter I was off-balance. I could see what was coming and knew I had to get out the way but my feet were all wrong and I just had to watch it happen. The jab to my body landed flush just under my heart, stopped me dead. I managed to take some of the sting out of the right cross. But the left uppercut hit me like a train. I felt my legs go and my head snapped back, it’s like someone changing the channel, one second I’m watching these shots come in and then suddenly, all I could see were the lights above me.

  SID falls backwards and is caught by the corner.

  JOEY counts to eight before they hurl him back upright.

  Then he is grabbed and thrown onto the stool.

  MICKEY. Water!

  JOEY. Is he cut?

  DREW. No.

  MICKEY. Fucking miracle. You with me, Sid?

  Claps about.

  DREW. How’s your jaw?

  SID has given up.

  SID. I’m done.

  DREW. Eh?

  MICKEY. He’s going to be fine. You’ve got seven rounds left to steal this, y’hear? Seven more rounds!

  SID. I’m done, Mick.

  MICKEY. No you’re fucking not.

  DREW. We could throw in the towel?

  JOEY. It was just a bad round, that’s all!

  MICKEY. He’s going to be fine.

  SID. I’ve got nothing left, I’m telling you, Mick, I’m done.

  MICKEY. Do you want to quit on your stool? Do you want to be another number on this bastard’s record? No! So get back in there and fight. You keep fighting until they ring that final bell!

  JOEY. Up, up, up.

  MICKEY. Go and get him, Sid!

  DREW steps forward.

  DREW. He didn’t even make it through the next round. His legs were shot so he just stood in the middle of the ring and traded punches, bending lower and lower towards the canvas. He got knocked down once more before the ref jumped between them and stopped the fight. The second it was over Burns just turned and headed back to his corner, leaving Sid stumbling around like a pisshead. Job done. It’s quite… hard watching someone you care about get treated like that. Outclassed and embarrassed. But he didn’t stand a chance, he’d had so much luck getting past all the others that when it finally ran out we saw for the first time how out of his depth he was. Something we should have spotted first.

  JOEY joins DREW.

  JOEY. After the fight we just sat in the changing room. No one spoke, we just sat there, thinking, listening to the stadium empty. When it was all quiet Sid took a shower, and asked Drew to take him home. I figured someone should to talk to the press if we ever wanted a rematch, damage control, so I went out to find reporters. And we left Mickey, sat on his own, just staring at the wall. Zoned out like he’d been the one taking all those punches. So much for bring me that title.

  The others drift away, leaving MICKEY on his own as if in the changing room.

  MICKEY. After that fight I was made. You get someone a title shot, and the world will show up at your front door. The next time I went into work there were five young guys waiting outside my gym, begging me to take them on. No one needed a handshake, no one needed to ask their mum. They’d’ve sold their teeth to sign with me, which was pretty fortunate as it turned out. One week after the Burns fight I received a letter from the lawyer of a manager named Mark Simmons telling me Mr Sparks has chosen to appoint Mr Simmons as his manager and that my services would no longer be required. That was it, that was all the thanks I got. Turns out Simmons had convinced Sid that it was my fault he lost, my training and my management that let him down, and that if he wanted to win titles he should sign on the dotted line. It was bollocks, Sid lost because he wasn’t good enough. At least I got him paid. Simmons got him hurt. But he had a well-known name and a boxer who believed all his promises, easy money. Sid was whisked off as a bit of a novelty, someone for the up-and-comers to cut their teeth on before moving up. He became a journeyman after all, and that title shot never seemed to materialise. He finished with a record of seventy-one fights and forty-three wins. I didn’t see him again until just after he retired. I was at York Hall, full house, great atmosphere and one of my boxers had won an earlier fight. They were all celebrating in the changing rooms but I ducked out into the tunnel to see the other bouts. And there he was, standing right next to me, took me a moment to realise who it was he looked so different. Heavier and older, much older than he was, all small eyes and swollen ears decked out in some baggy suit to hide his gut. And he looked like every other boxer you see shuffling around the ring on a fight night, trying to recall their glory days. Because that’s the thing about boxers. One day they will come up against someone they can’t beat. And it kills them. So we chatted for a bit, I asked what he was going to do now his career was over. I don’t think he had a clue. So we just talked about the fights and who was going to win. Then he shuffled off to watch the next generation go at each other. Cyclical, see. We work them, these kids. We grind them and push them and shout at them until one day they can’t keep their hands up any more. They start taking punches, and then they don’t make any more money. So either they disappear, or they return the favour and go into my line of work. It’s not pretty, but we’ve all got to make a living.

  Lights fade to black.

  End.

  RUN

  Stephen Laughton

  ‘Remember the Sabbath day, keep it holy’

  Exodus, 20

  Acknowledgements

  For Oli, Lauren and Tom – working on this with you is the best. Ryan Forde Iosco and James Huntrods deserve a big THANK YOU for hooking us up in the first place, and also for the original Courting Drama platform and for all your support along the way. Matt and Sarah Liisa at Nick Hern Books for being cool about deadlines and typos. Tim and the VAULT Festival team for letting us in. My fellow Playdaters – Dave Ralf, Isley Lynn, Chris Adams, Poppy Corbett, Vinay Patel and Sarah Kosar for love, notes, empathy and understanding. My lovely agent Nick, and Laura and everyone at The Agency. Just because. Sue Teddern for keeping me off social media when I’m trying to skive. Sam, Lee, Rach, Dave the girl, Amy, Gary and Jack for putting up with my stress tantrums, cat sitting, radar drop-offs and general love. And Paul, and only partly for keeping me on top of my Hebrew. I love you.

  S.L.

  Run was first performed at VAULT Festival, London, on 10 February 2016, with the following cast:

  YONNI

  Tom Ross-Williams

  Director

  Oli Rose

  Lighting Designer

  Peter Harrison

  Producer

  Lauren Brown

  Composer

  Helen Sartory

  Press and Publicity

  Paul Bloomfield

  Character

  YONNI, seventeen

  It’s chaos in the kitchen.
>
  Yelling. Clatter… shit boiling over

  Washing

  Spinning…

  A dog barking. We don’t even have a dog.

  So I don’t even know what’s going on there.

  Like it’s brown.

  About yea big. Yappy.

  Keeps looking at me.

  I’m worried it’s hungry.

  But it’s mainly jumping around my little brother Jesse, who’s grinning like a moron and mirroring the stupid thing.

  And it’s the happiest I’ve seen him in months.

  Which I guess is good.

  And Devorah, my mother, pipes up from her prep every now

  and then.

  Kinda absently telling them to shut up.

  And the whole thing is mainly weird.

  Kind of adorable.

  Somewhat confusing.

  I lean down, rub the dog’s head, kind of warily.

  Pop my bag on the chair.

  Devorah proffers a hi love, absently asks about the day

  There’s something too kind in her smile…

  And the dog stares back.

  With that look…

  Head to one side… cocked…

  It looks cute but basically means I wanna eat ya

  And I’ve never seen it before. The dog.

  We’re not allowed pets cos of my allergies apparently, and I can’t imagine a world where Devorah would even allow it in her kitchen. I’m not sure it’s kosher enough.

  But it’s adding to this sense of chaos and because tensions already feel high today, and I’ve got this slow creeping anxiety tightening across my chest, and I just kinda want to go to bed really… I’m mainly too scared to ask why it’s here…

  Jesse’s having fun though. Which from an IQ standpoint makes sense. And it’s nice the way my little spaz bro seriously just found himself a soulmate. He’s making some kind of Scooby Dooby ‘yes he is’ kind of noise at it. And basically looks special.

  It’s Friday.

  It’s February

  It’s 4 p.m.

  And amongst the scrum, the weekly pre-shabbat panic is officially in full swing. Devorah is frantically cracking individual eggs into a small clear glass. She holds it up to the light. Quickly inspects. Scans to the right, spins to the left. She lowers the glass to see it from above and then lifts it back up to check below.

  Satisfied with her inspection she tips the egg into her left hand.

  And oozes the yolk back to her right.

  Then left.

  To her right.

  And back…

  The white of the egg drip-dripping into the bowl below.

  She cracks and repeats.

  Cracks.

  And repeats.

  Orders me to chop carrots and I begrudgingly begin.

  Soon working out that Jesse’s in shit again.

  Devorah’s berating him over this week’s misdemeanours – including the dog… Knew it. And something about detention… again… and his general backchatting attitude shit.

  And there’s barking and jumping and chopping and cracking and Jesse’s vaguely jigging about the place. And answering back. Thinking it’s all a bit funny.

  And it builds and it builds and it builds and it –

  Stop.

  Breathe.

  I fucking hate carrots.

  Seriously like proper repulsed by them

  And she knows it.

  They look gross. Orange actually offends me. And you cannot… seriously cannot… boil a carrot without it festering everything it touches with its limpity carroty bollocks.

  They ruin.

  Everything.

  And as I hack at the carrots she chimes up –

  No one needs to eat your irritation my darling…

  That sweet sweet smile again.

  Well don’t make me chop the fucking carrots then.

  I don’t say that.

  Obvs.

  Just tut, and…

  Breathe.

  And on my in-breath Devorah lets out an exasperated oy as she empties another eggy glass into the waste-disposal-unit thing…

  Blood spot.

  On the yolk.

  She grabs a fresh glass. Stacking up the tainted, sullied glasses next to the sink.

  And as she places it, the dog knocks into her and she lets rip at

  Jesse. She won’t tell him again. Get that thing out of the kitchen.

  And then back to beating the shit out of the egg whites.

  Reuben, my father, walks in. He drops a bottle of Kiddush wine onto the counter.

  And takes in the scene.

  Grunts.

  Leaves. He’s fun like that.

  But Devorah doesn’t notice.

  I don’t think she notices him at all any more.

  It’s like they somehow just exist in spite of each other these days.

  In periphery.

  I can’t remember when I last saw them talk.

  Whites now mixed and I can’t help but pick up the rhythm… and I can feel it in my chest as she slaps in the matzo and starts forming the dumplings.

  I put the knife down.

  I need to just –

  Breathe.

  It’s chaos.

  It’s about one forty-five.

  Another Friday, maybe a year ago probably a year and a half ago now and lunch is nearly done.

  Teachers sweep the perimeter, and we’re all in huddles…

  It’s muck-up day today…

  And the Year 11s, me and mine, get to bolt after next period…

  Study leave.

  Or as we like to call it getting stoned with your mates all week then fully cramming with the geeky kids you’ve hung shit on for the last four years the night before your Modular Science exam.

  Then passing.

  And there’s buzzing and manoeuvring and rowdiness in the air.

  The kids in my year all excited ’bout egg and flour and maybe the odd firework. Some kid trying to convince us to catapult chickens at the school walls.

  I hope they’re kosher.

  And in the rabble I spot you.

  Smiling, a bit too cool, somewhat removed…

  Still soaking it up…

  Like, the day after we met, like properly… At that bus stop…

  And you’re standing there…

  Like. Grinning…

  Like that.

  Hot.

  Blue-green eyes.

  Messy hair. Cute smile.

  You’re fair.

  Not like me.

  Intellectual. Less like me.

  A nice Ashkenazi boy.

  You’re deep. Literal… Something of the artist…

  Bit more like me…

  Wry.

  Watching it all unfold.

  Then you spot me.

  Nod.

  And I freeze.

  Eyes locked.

  One…

  Two…

  And I brave it.

  Walk over.

  Leave my mates behind as they head off to get whatever supplies they think they need for whatever little juvenile ploy they’ll play…

  Then it’s us. Alone.

  Hey. You say.

  And it’s fully disarming.

  Kinda calming.

  But before we even get to say another thing I look up and there she is.

  Devorah.

  Raging.

  In the middle of the playground.

  Dragging Jesse behind her… that kid is always in shit.

  And I freeze and she’s instantly all over me…

  As the rabble returns…

  And she’s all like… we’re going… and I’m like no. No way. It’s my last day of… But she’s having none of it. She’s not coming back and I’m telling her I can make my own way home and everyone’s watching and she’s like, don’t answer back Yonni… and everyone’s watching and she tells me we’re leaving and before I can argue and everyone’s watching, I’m warned that I better not start a
s well.

  And everyone’s watching.

  Everyone.

  And I’m horrified.

  And we lock eyes, you and I, and you mouth to me… you ask me if I’m alright.

  And the whole thing seems to swim…

  And everyone’s watching.

  And in the –

  Shame.

  That rises.

  The the panic… that rises…

  You hold me.

  With your gaze.

  And as as as I’m led away…

  Head down… whispering frantically to Devorah about how embarrassing she is, not really paying attention to her total eppy about her meeting with the Head and Jesse and his Hebrew teacher Mr Weiner and how Reuben is probably gonna go batshit crazy –

  You catch up.

  Pull me back for a second and I’m torn between you and Devorah and I glance back at her and as I do you pull out a pen…

  Start to write on my arm… I guess it’s muck-up day, so it’s kinda what you do yeah…?

  But she’s calling me back and I pull away.

  Smile. Apologetically.

  Clock what you’ve written.

  And exhale. Realise I’ve been holding my breath.

  Adam.

  07590 –

  And I commit it to –

  Stop.

  And blur.

  Later.

  As Reuben rages. Jesse is sullen.

  Devorah looks between… her perception, her focus, her interest conflicted.

  Afflicted.

  She appeals to Reuben’s sense of reason.

  But that’s long gone and the word suspended rattles around the room.

  SUSPENDED.

  With such force that it threatens to bring down the foundations.

  Suspended…

  Which is kinda what it does to the room.

  Suspended.

  And I sit and I stare, like not entirely sure why I have to be here but soon find myself completely embodied within this entirely fucked-up scene… And looking back I find myself almost agreeing with Reuben’s fervent polemic… that maybe it was the mood of the summer itself taking a stranglehold on our family and that maybe it created the catalyst to the long slow implosion of our absolute entirety… maybe those rising tensions over war in Gaza and all the shit in this city, all the Sieg Heil salutes and the security at school and the swastikas on street signs and the name-calling on Facebook and Twitter and the windows smashed at that synagogue in Belfast and that rabbi attacked in Gateshead and the mutilation of that Israeli lady in Colindale did indeed make it just super fucking shit to be a Jew in pretty much any British city last summer and maybe that fear and and and and that frustration found itself directed.