1. Lights up...

Sunday 4th December 2005

Alright, then. No more excuses.
Everything else is done now.
The stuff's cleared away from breakfast. My pants and socks are soaking in the sink. I've had a bowel movement and a wash, sprayed my armpits, changed my t-shirt. The computer's on and I've dumped Solitaire, Minesweeper and Pinball off the hard drive. There, on the desk beside the keyboard, sits my fuel supply: a fresh can of Tennant's, some ready-made rollies, a packet of plain chocolate Hob-Nobs.

A cough and a sniff.

A flex of the fingers.

I pop the tab on the can, light up a rollie.

Another sniff.

Another cough.

The blank screen staring at me, like the whites of the eyes of my soul...

Work.....

SCENE 1
LIGHTS UP ON A BEDSIT. A REAL HOVEL. SHIT EVERYWHERE.
IT LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE COULD DIE HERE AND NOT BE FOUND
FOR A LONG WHILE.
THERE ARE TWO DOORS - ONE DOWNSTAGE-RIGHT, THE OTHER
UPSTAGE-LEFT - PLUS A LARGE WINDOW ON THE BACK WALL
LOOKING OUT, FROM A HEIGHT, OVER AN EMPTY, COLD-LOOKING
SEA. FURNISHINGS CONSIST OF A SHAPELESS SOFABED, AN
ANCIENT ARMCHAIR, A 50s OFFICE DESK, A TWO-RING STOVE,
A RUSTING FRIDGE, A VENEERED CHIPBOARD BOOKCASE FULL
OF BROKEN-SPINED PAPERBACKS, A VICTORIAN WARDROBE, AN
OLD UPRIGHT PIANO, A DRINKS' CABINET AND A CHEAP COFFEE
TABLE. THESE CAN BE ARRANGED ON THE STAGE IN ANY ORDER
DEEMED APPROPRIATE. OTHER FITMENTS INCLUDE A WASHBASIN
AND A SINK UNIT. FIXED TO THE WALL ABOVE THE UNIT IS A FOOD
CUPBOARD. A FOLDING TV-DINNER TABLE RESTS AGAINST ONE
WALL. AN OLD PORTABLE BLACK-AND-WHITE TV AND A RADIO
SIT ON TOP OF THE DRINKS' CABINET, ALONG WITH ASSORTED
BOTTLES, CANS AND GLASSES. A DUVET AND PILLOWS ARE
STUFFED UP ON TOP OF THE WARDROBE. THERE IS AN OLD
WHISTLE KETTLE ON THE STOVE. MOST SURFACES ARE STREWN
WITH DOMESTIC JUNK: OPENED BOOKS, MUGS, BILLS, ASHTRAYS,
CHEAP ORNAMENTS. AN ANCIENT PC SITS ON THE DESK,
SURROUNDED BY THE ACCOUTREMENTS OF A HACK'S LIFE: POTS
OF PENS, COFFEE MUGS, EMPTY BEER CANS, SHEAVES OF PAPER,
NOTE PADS, MORE ASHTRAYS, PACKETS OF RENNIES AND PRO-PLUS
TABLETS, DICTIONARIES, WORRY BEADS, RUBBERS. BESIDE THE DESK
IS A BIN FULL OF SCREWED UP BALLS OF PAPER. AT THE DESK SITS
THE HUNCHED FIGURE OF A SHABBY MIDDLE-AGED MAN. HE IS STARING
FIXEDLY AT THE SCREEN SAVER ON THE MONITOR - A FISH SWIMMING
TO AND FRO.
THE MAN MOVES THE MOUSE AND THE SCREEN SAVER VANISHES,
REVEALING A BLANK PAGE ON A WORD-PROCESSOR PROGRAM.
THE MAN SEEMS ABOUT TO TYPE SOMETHING, THEN STOPS. HE
DROPS HIS HANDS DEJECTEDLY.
PAUSE.
THE MAN RAISES HIS HANDS AGAIN AND BEGINS TO TYPE VERY
SLOWLY, WITH TWO FINGERS.

* thump *

OFF, THERE IS THE SOUND OF A MUFFLED THUMP - LIKE A HEAVY
FOOTSTEP ON A CARPETTED FLOOR. THE MAN WAVERS BRIEFLY,
BUT CONTINUES TYPING.

* creak *

OFF, THERE IS THE SOUND OF CREAKING, LIKE BEDSPRINGS -
AGAIN MUFFLED. THE MAN STOPS TYPING FOR A MOMENT AND
GLANCES UP AT THE CEILING.
BEAT.
SILENCE.
THE MAN TENTATIVELY BEGINS TYPING AGAIN.

* creak - creak *

OFF, THE SOUND OF THE CREAKING AGAIN. IT CONTINUES AND
BECOMES RHYTHMIC. THE MAN STOPS TYPING AGAIN AND
DROPS HIS FOREHEAD ONTO THE KEYBOARD. RANDOM LETTERS
DART ACROSS THE PAGE.

* creak - creak - creak - creak - creak... *

...and POP goes my bubble!

Any second now, she'll start moaning, which will work in with the rhythm of the creaking. Then the tempo will increase and the moan start to rise up the scale. And so on it'll go, in a rapturous crescendo. On and on and on and on...

* creak-uhh - creak-uhh - creak-ahh - creak-uhh... *

I pick up the can and take a big swallow, imagining the scene.
Beth and Daz. Him a pallid stick insect, pinned to the mattress by her bouncy, quivering adiposity - like a jellyfish engulfing a twiglet. They're trying for a kid. Surely it can't be that difficult? Surely you don't have to go in for all that training? It's not like it's a marathon or anything. It's so messy, too. Things leak. I can't bear to think about it.

* creak-uhh - creak-uhh - creak-ahh - creak-uhh - creak-AHHH - creak-yeah - creak-uhh... *

I take the can to the window and look out. A few people walking on the promenade, scarfed and cagged against the cold. Watery sun dribbling through. Seagulls wheeling. A beer-froth of tide on the beach. The remaining stub of the pier pointing north, like a shrivelled dick in the freezing sea.
I take another long swig. I go to the fridge. Some bruised mushrooms. Margarine. Half a loaf of bread.
Mushies on toast for dinner again. Champignons sur le pain grillé, if anyone asks.

*creakohhfuckme - creak-ahh - creak-ahhh - creak-yeah - creak-yeah - creak-uhh - creak-yeah - creak-YESSSSSS *

I switch off the computer. I finish the can. I put on my coat and boots. I step out.
A walk, I think. Clear my head. Put some air in my lungs. Pick up some more cans, maybe. Forget about what's going on upstairs.

Think about what happens next....