Plays from Vault

by Florence Keith-Roach

It’s not that little actually.

  Don’t say that.

  I do say thanks. And I move my hand up to take it away, start to walk on, but Dough has snatched it…

  Panic rises.

  And he’s put it on wrong – like at the front… cock… that’s not how you wear it you fat fuck… and he is doing like this really shit German accent… asking Ho and Slow if the Yid-Lid suits him…

  Fury rises. They laugh. I shake.

  My hands are back on the keys…

  My entire body tenses…

  I want to go ape-shit

  But I quietly ask for it back please

  Shame rises.

  Dough chucks to Slow and I try to swipe

  Dough pushes me back

  Slow catches… Shame rises.

  Slow puts it on.

  Something about looking like a dirty little Jew bitch

  And I try to take it but he chucks it to Ho.

  And I take a step forward but Dough pushes me back…

  And she chucks it back to Slow.

  And he stands there sneering at me.

  And my shame rises panic rises and my vision swims…

  He pulls out his lighter.

  And he tries to set it on fire…

  My whole everything immediately reels and I think I hear the word Heeb… and something about an oven and and and

  And the red that I see. The entrancing, vivid, all-encompassing, devastating, overwhelming, humbling profoundly vivid red that’s completely overtaken my line of vision, that’s flooded my brain and my throat and chest and my arms and my fists and my fists explodes all around me and before he can react I am all over him.

  My first punch breaks Slow’s nose.

  My second takes him out.

  And my rage and my fury and all my my ferocity just detonate and I try to stay calm and I try to imagine you but I swing round as Dough punches me in the back of the head and –

  Click.

  Nothing as I hit the ground and Ho kicks into me

  I try to imagine…

  Click.

  Tefillin

  And I grab Dough’s foot and pull

  Click

  Nothing as I manage to roll out of Ho’s way and Dough tumbles

  Click.

  And I pull myself up and the real rage, the you rage in me builds and I want to fucking kill him.

  And with each kick… as I remind him what a little fucking bitch he is

  I think of you…

  How you’d never let these morons anywhere near me.

  I think of you…

  How you’d leap to my defence if you were here…

  You.

  Umismali Gavri’el …

  You.

  Of the the the last time I saw you…

  Skinny grey jeans.

  Woolly grey hat.

  We’re both heading home for Shabbat, both sad that we can’t light candles together.

  Yet. You say.

  And I dunno what happens, I don’t remember how but we go from zero to ninety in about two seconds flat as I spark up some lame-arse comment about Sex and the City, and how vacuous defining yourself by shoes is and before you know it we’re screaming in the street.

  Screaming.

  And you’re trying to make a point but I’m talking over you.

  I’m a bit of a fucker like that.

  And you try again.

  I block.

  And again.

  Block.

  Can I go on, you demand…

  Is it a useful comment? I counter

  Well I don’t know because you won’t let me make it.

  Well think about it before you do, because if it’s just going to fuel this –

  You not letting me speak is completely fueling this…

  No, I think you’ll find that’s your overreaction.

  And on and round and up and down…

  And you’re about to jump in and I stop you again. Warn you off. Again.

  And then it erupts.

  You do.

  Suddenly.

  And you tell me, yell me in my face to shut the fuck up.

  SHUT.

  THE.

  FUCK.

  UP.

  And I lose it.

  Oh my god, do I…

  And in the accusations and assertions and the shouting and the shoving

  And the shouting

  And the shoving

  It all gets fucked

  And brittle

  And messy

  And it builds and it intensifies and I can’t remember what I’ve said but it basically amounts to fuck you, really to fuck you…

  And you’re upset, because we’ve never fought like this before.

  I’ve never had a go at you before.

  But it’s because I’m upset too.

  And I can’t handle being this upset.

  Not with you.

  And I still don’t quite know how we got from just super-excited to spend time together to you just just just raging off on your bike.

  You’re not gonna be my punchbag you yell back.

  No one fucking speaks to you like that…

  And you circle back.

  Demanding to know who the fuck I think I am?

  And that look in your eyes as you shake your head.

  And that sudden and complete disconnect as you ride off…

  Just –

  I call and call and I call and I call.

  And I message and I Facebook and I call and I call.

  And and and shame rises.

  As you ignore me.

  Over and over and over again.

  And I panic. When your phone shuts off.

  And.

  Panic.

  When I get the call two hours later.

  Panic.

  Rises. And the shame the shame the shame just just

  Just just just just just

  STOP.

  Row after row after row of searing white fluorescent strips beat down and rinse out the sickly pinks and greens of the hospital waiting room whilst bleached disinfectal pungency mask vomit and god knows what else.

  It’s supposed to be a vaguely decent hospital this one but I guess all A&E departments orbit at least one of the nine circles of hell.

  Devorah paces back and forth and the constant a-clacking is like scratched nails across a chalkboard.

  Jesse tells her to sit down.

  She does.

  Tells us she’s worried.

  Wants you to be okay.

  She’s sure you are.

  Yeah.

  I say.

  Yeah.

  Half-convinced.

  Head goes into hands as I lean forward and try to hide into my lap. Try to scrunch myself up into the smallest possible me and tuck myself away.

  And I push.

  Further.

  Smaller.

  Smaller.

  Smaller still but before I even get the chance to go on, the door swings open and I just know it’s going to be good.

  And I stretch out and as my eyes adjust to the light as I take in those same eyes and those thin lips and that kink in the hair of of of of of –

  – of this person of this woman that isn’t you and I notice her empty smile and her empty eyes and try to listen to words I barely grasp because my head swims and my eyes fill and my stomach churns as your mum, as as as as Gabby, chokes out the words.

  The word. Singular.

  Gone…

  Gone where?

  Gone.

  I want to vomit…

  Gone.

  I need to leave.

  She tries to make it better by touching my arm, tries to hold me.

  I’m trying to open my mouth but I can’t say anything any more because I’ve lost the – the

  the

  the

  capacity

  to talk

  and with a now well-oiled fight-or-flight response kinda permanently triggered I pull away

&nb
sp; from this some kind of gentle embrace and I think I leave…

  I think I can hear my name

  but that’s

  Yonni

  how… not sounds.

  And it takes my thoughts and my mind.

  And it’s all I can think about.

  You.

  You’re all I can think about.

  You.

  Lying there in the road.

  You.

  A whole year a whole year a whole year ago.

  The bike crushed against the – you… the the the wheel of the truck.

  You.

  A year a year a year a year

  It’s all I can think about…

  You

  All I can think about.

  You.

  What I did

  All I can think about.

  To you.

  I last precisely fourteen minutes at your funeral.

  I can’t face your Shiva.

  I send Gabby flowers.

  Apologise. Hope she can understand.

  And I sit in silence.

  Staring at the walls for what seems like hours.

  We have really shitty wallpaper.

  My parents have like zero taste.

  And I don’t even clock Reuben in the room.

  I have no idea why he’s here.

  NoideaIjustthinkaboutyou.

  Or how long he’s been watching.

  I’m vaguely aware of the C’mon son.

  Vaguely with it as he takes me up to my room.

  Ijustthinkaboutyou.

  Cling to him as he tells me to let go. That it’s okay to let go.

  Ijustthinkaboutyou.

  So I let go.

  You.

  And sob into him.

  You.

  Into dickhead Reuben like I’ve never sobbed

  You.

  And he holds me tight.

  And I stand over Dough, wanting to kick the fucking shit out of him. Wanting to smash in that fat anti-Semitic motherfucker’s face until there’s nothing left of it as pain and shame burn redhot rivers of tears down my face…

  Wanting to –

  No no no no no no no…

  That doesn’t happen.

  That doesn’t.

  You.

  I have to see you.

  I have to.

  Run.

  Out into space.

  Us two little extra-terrestrials on either side of the solar system…

  Run.

  Me. Ganymede.

  The largest moon of Jupiter and the solar system, and the only moon known to have a magnetosphere.

  The seventh satellite and third Galilean moon outward from

  Jupiter.

  Completing an orbit in roughly seven days, Ganymede shares a one-two-four orbital resonance with Europa and Io.

  A million kilometres from Jupiter.

  And run

  Venus has no natural satellite.

  Run.

  And orbits the sun.

  Alone.

  At 108,000,000 km.

  I could orbit you… There’s enough room.

  I hear them behind me and with each yell as they gain ground to remind me what a dirty little Jew bitch I am.

  Ijustthinkaboutyou.

  About. About, about about… Orbiting you.

  Like.

  ET phone home.

  And as as as as my heart beats in my mouth beats lungs beat in my throat beats adrenalin ’cross my chest and tension in my arms that shivers down my back as legs turn to jelly I realise I need to think about how I’m going to explain this actually at home…

  But later.

  Because I have to get to you.

  I have to talk to you.

  I have to be with you and as I run at the wall of the cemetery

  I’m convinced I can clear it.

  And it doesn’t take long to find you.

  And as I curl down next to you memories and calls and chats and joints and texts and tweets and love and mushrooms and sex and cider and Sophie and Hebrew and politics and food and crusades and pics and wine and fun and and movies and and and some of it real and some of it –

  Stop.

  The timing of the stone-setting.

  Stop.

  Can vary from community to community. In Israel, it’s usually at the end of the first month, but here… in Britain we do it at the end of the year, to coincide with the first –

  First anni–

  I’m sorry I couldn’t come today.

  In.

  In in in in the Ashkenazi tradition the stone. The stone is left upright at the head of the grave, but the Sephardim –

  We lay them horizontally.

  I rest my head against the newly laid headstone. And I tell you that I never washed your T-shirt.

  I don’t know why that occurs to me.

  The one I slept in the first time I ever stayed over.

  That I’ve had it more than a year. That I stole it from your bedroom.

  That I sleep in it every night.

  And I swear it stinks.

  But it stinks of you and it stinks of me because it stinks of us and I don’t want to stop talking because I’m scared if I do the conversation will be over this time so I want to keep talking so it’s like we’re in bed and you’re waiting patiently for me to finish because you don’t want to interrupt but I want to tell you everything so much that I can’t stop until I actually tell you everything but there’s so much stuff to tell you now because it feels like I haven’t seen you for so long and that I don’t even know where to start.

  But off. In the distance. I hear them again.

  Fucking losers.

  And I stand.

  And I see them.

  In triplicate.

  A trichotomy.

  Heading straight at me.

  And I don’t want them to see me.

  I don’t want them to find us.

  I don’t want them to see me.

  And I don’t want to fight.

  All I’ve done since I lost you is fight.

  I just don’t have the energy.

  Not any more.

  So I run.

  Try to avoid them as they gain as they gain.

  Run.

  Run through graves and memorial, memories and pain

  Run.

  Through anguish, loneliness, laughter, loss.

  Run.

  Run run run at the cemetery wall.

  But this time run I don’t quite make it…

  Run.

  This time I don’t clear the wall…

  Just run.

  I lose my footing.

  Run.

  I fall.

  And run.

  I fall.

  With such sheer force that I hurtle through space.

  Fall

  Past a hundred million tiny stars.

  Fall.

  Past Venus.

  Fall.

  And Jupiter.

  Fall.

  In their serene, expansive, orbital dance

  Since the start of this month, Jupiter and and and all the stars behind it have gradually slipped lower and lower and lower into the evening twilight.

  Whilst Venus hangs high.

  I run.

  Fall.

  Run.

  I fall.

  Run.

  Fall.

  Into my orbital dance with you.

  As the two brightest planets in the sky shift and circle as they come close, the Goddess of Love and the God of Thunder conjunct to form a luminous double star that lights up the night sky.

  Run.

  Merging as one, to the left of the moon.

  Umismali Gavri’el …

  And as they do.

  Must run.

  I notice how… how flawless Venus’ orbit is.

  With an eccentricity of less than nought-point-nought-one, an almost perfect circle.

  The End.

  FLORENCE KEITH-ROACH

  Fl
orence Keith-Roach is a writer, actor and director working across theatre, television and film, who has been named a ‘rising star of the London theatre scene’ (Evening Standard).

  Her debut play, Love To Love To Love You, which she wrote, directed and acted in, transferred to VAULT Festival in 2015 where it sold out, and was named one of Another Magazine’s ‘top ten things to do’. A work-in-progress version of her second play, Eggs, opened at the Edinburgh Free Fringe in August 2015. It received five-star reviews and was described as ‘Honest. Human. Real. Frank. Funny. Achingly relevant’ by Broadway Baby. She has written for Grazia, the Observer and Little White Lies about her experiences as a writer, director and actor in both film and theatre. She is the founder of Orphee Productions, a female-led collective dedicated to telling stories that challenge gender preconceptions. Her short film, Frenching the Bully, which she co-wrote, directed and acted with Freddy Syborn is available to watch online. She has a lead role in the feature film, Here Lies, which was awarded the Best European Independent Feature Film of 2015.

  CAMILLA WHITEHILL

  Camilla Whitehill originally trained as an actor at the Birmingham School of Acting, graduating in 2012. She has had short plays produced at Soho Theatre, Park Theatre, Camden People’s Theatre, the Old Red Lion, and the Hen & Chickens Theatre. Her short play Icebergs won the international short play competition Pint Sized Plays in 2013, and her radio play Pier was produced by the Heritage Arts Company. She was part of the Royal Court Young Writers’ Programme in spring 2014, and is represented by Kitson Press Associates. Her first full-length play, Where Do Little Birds Go?, won the People’s Choice Award at last year’s VAULT Festival, completed a UK tour, and ran at the Underbelly at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, where it gained critical acclaim and an almost completely sold-out run.

  ROSIE KELLETT

  Rosie Kellett was accepted into Soho Theatre’s Writer’s Lab 2015/16.

  Rosie’s writing credits include Skint, developed with the support of the National Theatre Young Studio, supported by the Paul Hamlyn Foundation (VAULT Festival 2015, winner of the Pick of the Week and Festival Spirit Awards); Morker (Southwark Playhouse, developed on the Almeida Theatre’s Writers’ Development Programme); and Peak (Old Red Lion Theatre).

  OLI FORSYTH

  Oli Forsyth is a writer, poet, producer and actor from London. He established Smoke & Oakum Theatre in 2013 and staged his first play Tinderbox in 2014. Tinderbox went on at Theatre503, London, and the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, during this run it was nominated for the Amnesty International Freedom and Speech Award before transferring to London.

  In 2015, Oli wrote Cornermen, inspired by his experiences in the world of boxing. The show opened at the Old Red Lion Theatre before playing at the Pleasance Courtyard, the New Diorama Theatre, Otherplace Brighton and finally the VAULT Festival. Oli’s other works include Aubade (2015), and Happy Dave (2016), and a self-published collection of poems in 2015.