HAMISH MacNESS

HAMISH MacNESS &; THE RETURN
OF THE UNTOUCHABLES

CURTAINS CLOSED

LIGHTS OUT

'BUTLER JO' STEPS OUT BETWEEN CURTAINS

PICKED OUT BY SPOTLIGHT

JO 'SINGS' "SILENT NIGHT" backed by choir at low level.

(Jo is in fact miming to the sound track of
SPIKE MILLIGAN'S "SILENT NIGHT".)

As the music dies away, Jo is unceremoniously dragged behind
the curtains by a pair of hands.

The SPOTLIGHT picks out MEGAPHONE sitting on a bar stool,
STAGE RIGHT.

MEGA: Hi, folks. My name's Mega, and I know everything,
so if you can't figure out what's going on,
don't worry.
I'll straighten you out.
Right, here we go.
It is Christmas Eve in Chicago.
All is dark.
All is silent.

(Nothing happens.)

MEGA: (menacingly) I said: All is dark.
All is silent!

SPOTLIGHT OUT!

Enter LOUIE &; HYMIE from REAR OF HALL.
They switch on their torches.
As the progress towards the stage, they scan the audience with their
torches as if looking for someone.

They 'stage whisper' to the audience as they go:

LOUIE/HYMIE: Have you seen him?
Have you seen him?

(They stand at opposite sides of the stage. As each one speaks, he
flicks
on his torch to light up his face.)

LOUIE: This is silly!

HYMIE: Oh no it ain't!

LOUIE: Oh yes it is!

HYMIE: Oh no it ain't!

VOICES (behind curtain): Oh yes it is!

HYMIE: But the Boss told us to meet him here.

LOUIE: Oh no he didn't!

HYMIE: Oh yes he did!

MEGA: Don't start that again! Just get on with it!

HYMIE: Okay! Okay! Now where's da message?

LOUIE: What message?

HYMIE: Da message da Boss gave you.

LOUIE: Da Boss didn't give me any message.

HYMIE: Oh yes he did!

LOUIE: Oh no he didn't.

(Al Capone's head pops through the central curtain. He is standing on
a chair behind the curtains to give him height.)

AL: (menacingly) Oh yes I did!

MEGA: Oh yes he did!

(Hymie and Louie turn their torches on Al's face.)

LOUIE/HYMIE: It's the Boss! It's Al T. Capone himself!

AL: Don't call me Al T!

LOUIE/HYMIE: Sorry, Mister Capone.

AL: Is everything okay, boys?

HYMIE: Sure thing, Boss.

LOUIE: Everything's A-okay!

(The torches fail simultaneously. Hymie and Louie
try frantically to get their torches to work.)

SPOTLIGHT ON AL

HYMIE: They must'a broke, Boss.

LOUIE: Maybe it's a powercut!

AL: You dumb palookas! Get those torches fixed.
I told you we was gonna need 'em.
Get them fixed and meet me at Fat Sam's.

And by the way, boys, don't call me Al T again.
Not if you wanna be around to celebrate Christmas.

Al disappears from view.
Louie and Hymie move closer together, scared.

HYMIE: See what you done. You got us in BIG trouble with
the Boss. Now where's dat message?

(Louie tries all his pockets - nothing. Finally,
he takes of his hat to wipe the sweat from his
forehead and discovers the message in the hat.)

LOUIE: I found it Hymie. I found da message.

HYMIE: Read it then, Louie. Read da message.

LOUIE: I can't read da message, Hymie.

HYMIE: Why not? Is it too dark to see?

LOUIE: Na, Hymie, it ain't dat.

HYMIE: What is it then, Louie?

LOUIE: I never learned to read.

HYMIE: You dumb palooka! Give that to me!
I'll read da message!

(He grabs the message from Louie.)

HYMIE: It says: Don't forget to buy new batteries.
We're gonna need dem torches.
Al Capone - The Boss.

(beating Louise with his hat)

You idiot! You moron! You jerk!
You're gonna get us bumped off, wiped out,
e-lim-in-ated - or even worse. I'm gonna teach you a lesson...

LOUIE: Don't do it, Hymie. Remember we're brothers.
An' it's Christmas...

(Hymie begins to beat up Louie who jumps off stage
and is chased up the CENTRAL AISLE.)

During the chase, the CURTAINS OPEN to reveal
FAT SAM'S, a typical Speak-easy of the Roaring Twenties.

CANDY &; FLOSSY stand round a microphone and break into
........................................................

AL, JUDY, TRICKY DICKY and BUTLER JO are present.
It is Christmas Eve, but the mood is sombre.

As the music ends, MEGA comes forward, STAGE RIGHT.

MEGA: Well, folks, here we are in Fat Sam's Grand Slam
Speak-Easy,
which, of course, is owned by none other than
Al T. Capone, boss of Chicago's Underground.

AL: (calls) Don't call me Al T!

MEGA: Sorry, Al.

On the Christmas Eve in question, Capone, Boss
of Chicago's Underworld sat alone, ponderin' his predicament.

I said: Sat Alone!

(Judy, Tricky Dicky and Jo look bemusedly at each
other and then sneak off on tiptoes, STAGE LEFT.
Candy &; Flossy sneak off STAGE RIGHT.)

MEGA: Thank you.
Al Capone paced the floor of Fat Sam's
pondering his predicament...

AL: I gotta do something about that Eliot Ness
and his Untouchables.
They're ruining ma business.
If ah don't do something soon, ah'm gonna be broke,
cold, stony broke without a dime to ma name.
Ah just gotta think of somethin'. (pause)
Hey! What the heck is that?!

(AL starts chasing something around the floor
shouting abuse at whatever it is.)

AL: C'mere you. I see you. Don't think you'll get
away this time. Don't forget who you're dealing
with - the one and only Al Capone!

(Al grabs something off the floor, holds it up,
and shakes it vigorously.)

You dirty rat!
I told you to stay out of my joint and keep out!

(He holds up the 'rat' by the neck.)

Dicky! Judy! Jo! Get in 'ere. Get in 'ere right now.

(Enter DICKY, JUDY and JO, STAGE LEFT)

I told you I didn't want any more vermin in this joint.
Now get rid of this!

(He throws it to Dicky who screams, drops it and
climbs on a chair.)

JUDY: Aw, donnd experience.

Certainly I cannot remember a time when auld Janet was not there, a
landmark as fixed as the statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus under
which she squatted watching, when not in an alcoholic fog, the busy
world bustle by.

To suggest that Janet was nothing more than a drunken dosser is unjust:
her observations were acute, her wit could bite, and her concern for
the 'puir wee bairns' around her touching and not always ineffective.
She scolded young street girls - "Dinnae end up like me, I'm on'y
trash." - and hustled them, often against their will, to the security
of Centre Point and other young hostels. Young boys, seduced by the
bright arcades of Leicester Square, would find themselves gripped
fiercely and frog-marched to the nearest police station. Janet Anderson
cared for a world that cared little or nothing about her.

If Janet Anderson was a fool, she was a wise one. She could quote from
her Gideon Bible at length and make you ache with the arrows of its
wisdom. She knew passages of Shakespeare and, it seemed, all of Rabbie
Burns by heart. She scorned the blockbuster novels that her friends -
taxi-drivers, refuse collectors, the police, tourists - tried to pass
on to her saying "Ah dinnae like them; they're trashier than me." She
had no illusions about herself or her future, sitting in a cold dawn,
waiting for the hip replacement operation she knew would never
come.

Janet made you think.

Who were the homeless? What had led them to this life on the streets?
Who would record their sad, unfamous history? Why did a stray cat or
dog move us more than the sight of their bagged-up bodies lying in shop
doors? Why did we glance at them, look away and hurry on by?

I excused my curiosity on the grounds that I was a journalist. It was
my job to dabble in the stuff of other people's souls. Privacy is not
an option for the poor. I didn't learn much, perhaps I didn't learn
enough. Janet had been a nurse, sometime, somewhere. Now she could not
nurse herself.

There had been a young man, a soldier, in the Seaforth Highlanders, and
he had gone to war and never come home. That's the way it was, that's
the way it had always been.

Had there been a baby, a wee bairn, when she was a girl? Hints,
fragments, tears in those bleary blue eyes, but nothing definite, no
true confessions. I wanted there to be a baby. I wanted Janet one day
to rest in her narrow cell, comforting her lost baby to her breast
through eternity. If Janet had no history, I would write one for
her.

Janet Anderson was buried in a pauper's grave. It is surprising how
many of the homeless are. There is a simple wooden cross. They told me
that they will add her name when they have time.