The Year of the Sex Olympics and other TV Plays

by Nigel Kneale

  BROCK: Any reason given?

  COLLINSON: No. They just don’t like it. Come in—have a drink.

  BROCK: Good idea.

  Collinson clears a space for him. The whole caravan is tightly packed with files and office equipment as well as personal things, but method keeps everything in place. He produces whisky and glasses from a tiny cupboard, ice from an equally tiny fridge.

  COLLINSON: How’s Jill now?

  BROCK: I’ve sent her home.

  COLLINSON: Just as well. A nasty shake-up.

  BROCK: It wasn’t just the car.

  COLLINSON: Oh?

  BROCK (after a moment): Bloody woman!

  He sits frowning. Collinson watches him.

  COLLINSON (carefully): I’ve only admired her from afar but . . . I’d say she’s the type that . . . hurts easily.

  Brock seems not to hear him. So he goes on pouring out the drinks.

  BROCK: Colly—were there any rats?

  COLLINSON: Where?

  BROCK: In the end room?

  COLLINSON: No.

  BROCK: No sign there’d been any?

  COLLINSON: Rats wouldn’t have left that Spam. They’d have chewed those tins open in no time.

  BROCK: They could do that?

  COLLINSON: The teeth of a hungry rat—! Here—

  He passes Brock his glass.

  BROCK: Cheers. (He glances at Collinson’s report) I’ve got some work to finish too. I might stop over tonight.

  COLLINSON: Break in the Director’s suite a bit? (Brock nods absently. Collinson drinks and watches him, noticing his quietness) I was up in town last week. Dropped in on the legal department. One or two things I wanted to clear up about the house here—covenants and so on. They’ve got boxes and boxes of stuff—passed over by the trustees, I suppose. I brought one back. (Brock is still showing no attention. Collinson digs out an ancient document box and squeaks it open) One or two curiosities in it. How d’you like this? (He takes out a document) Application for the holding of a service of exorcism.

  BROCK: What!

  COLLINSON: August 1892.

  BROCK: Let me see—

  He grabs the document. Collinson follows it with a thin ledger.

  COLLINSON: Full record of the alleged haunting. Evidence, I suppose.

  BROCK: Louisa Hanks—

  COLLINSON: That was her. There’s even a report of her death.

  He passes Brock a newspaper cutting.

  BROCK: 1890—

  COLLINSON: Two years before.

  BROCK: “Sad mishap at Taskerlands. Louisa Hanks, an under maid in the employ of Mr. Horace Tasker, yesterday fell to her death from a flight of steps while engaged about her duties”. That’s all.

  COLLINSON: Pretty good press for an under-maid in those days.

  Brock stares at him.

  BROCK: And they thought that she—?

  COLLINSON: More than thought. They kept a note of all the times and dates, went on doing it for ages afterwards. You see, the ghost-laying didn’t take.

  Brock looks from the ledger to the document. to the cutting . . . back to Collinson’s steady face.

  BROCK: Have you seen it?

  Collinson shakes his head.

  COLLINSON: Only heard.

  BROCK’S SUITE – OFFICE, NIGHT

  Brock is walking uneasily about his office. Everything in him resists the idea. on the other hand—

  He goes to the window and looks down into the dark forecourt. He can see the lighted windows of the caravan. More by way of fidgeting than from any urgent need to communicate, he picks up the phone and presses buttons.

  BROCK: Christine . . . look, honey, I’m still at this place, I won’t be home . . . Oh, the move, various buffooneries. It’s all right, I’ve eaten. All I should. How’s whatsisname, the horse . . . Yes, Chuffy . . . it was that hoof? Aha . . . Oh, good. Love to the kids, then.

  He puts the phone down. And sits frowning. And comes to a decision. He pulls his jacket on and hurries out.

  ENTRANCE HALL AND PASSAGE

  The stairway that descends beside the lift shaft is narrow, lit by temporary fixtures.

  Brock comes down. At the foot of the stairs he stands by the deserted reception desk and listens. Not a sound.

  He moves slowly along the dim passage, putting his feet down as quietly as he can without making a performance of it. The door of the storage room is shut. He stands by it and listens again.

  For a few seconds there is no sound . . . then the same rapid pattering Jill heard, that might come from the feet of a very small human or a very large rat.

  He puts his hand to the doorknob. In the same instant there is a cry—again the same that Jill experienced, a hoarse rasp. It is almost as if he had caused it.

  He instinctively takes his hand from the knob for a moment. Then he grips it firmly . . . no sound . . . and throws the door open. As he fumbles for the light switch there is a little rush of noises . . . the pattering, the cry, very faint.

  At the click of the switch it all ceases.

  He looks round the storage room. He sees nothing move. A quantity of panelling has been ripped out by the workmen and left on the floor.

  Then the sounds come again. The pattering—and, curiously close, the cry: A short, denatured screech, almost in his ear.

  It comes again . . . and again.

  Brock backs away.

  THE LABORATORY – DAY

  Coloured indicator lamps are flashing on a “breadboard”—a rough experimental lash-up of electronic components and printed circuits. Maudsley is making adjustments to the controls on a temporary panel, while Dow takes notes.

  Eddie Holmes has one eye to an optical tube with many large-handled but delicate adjusters. It is supported in a frame that is gripped tight in a vice. A couple of feet in front of him, clamped to the same frame, is a kind of crystalline box, a thing of exquisite complexity.

  Eddie is peering into the heart of the box.

  EDDIE: Try going down two nanoseconds.

  MAUDSLEY: Down two.

  Eddie’s other eye is open too but trained to ignore that it sees. It ignores the lab door opening and Brock coming in, followed by Jill.

  BROCK: I’ve got something to tell you all. (Eddie looks up with both eyes. He rubs them. Brock looks deliberately round the room, waiting for faces to lift from apparatus) We’ve got a ghost!

  For a moment, nobody knows how to take the announcement. Whether he is expecting a laugh or not.

  EDDIE: I’m glad to hear it, Peter.

  MAUDSLEY: Every home should have one.

  HARGRAVE: Every stately home.

  EDDIE: Had me worried, the lack of class.

  Collinson comes in. Brock turns to him.

  COLLINSON: Not a chance.

  BROCK: Talk to them yourself?

  COLLINSON: I did. Push it any further and there’ll be a general walk-out.

  BROCK: That’s it, then.

  He turns to the others. They are even more puzzled.

  EDDIE: What’s this about, Peter?

  STEW: Did you say ghost?

  BROCK: Silly word, don’t be put off. We could call it a phenomenon or something. Anyway it’s real. It’s got possession of the computer storage room and it’s stopped all work there.

  COLLINSON: The men won’t go back.

  STEW: They were going on about something in the canteen—

  DOW: Yes. I thought it was the muck.

  STEW: I wondered.

  BROCK: Whatever it is in there . . . I’ve heard it. Colly’s heard it. And Jill’s seen it.

  EDDIE: Jill—

  STEW: That what got you?

  JILL: Yes.

  STEW: What did you see?

  JILL: A woman.

  MAUDSLEY: Oh, come off it!

  EDDIE: She isn’t kidding.

  BROCK: None of us are.

  They don’t know how to react. Maudsley gives a nervous giggle.

  STEW: Let’s go in there.

  HARGRAVE
: Why not? I’m ready—

  BROCK: All right. Thanks for the enthusiasm because I intend to use it.

  STEW: Eh?

  EDDIE: What d’you mean?

  BROCK: They once had a go at it with bell, book and candle. Well—we’re rather better equipped. (He lets this sink in) I’m going to chuck the lot at it.

  EDDIE: Go after it with—electronics and—and—

  BROCK: Find out exactly what makes it—well, it doesn’t tick, it patters its feet and screeches. Everything we get Jill’s going to program in the computer.

  EDDIE: Analyse a spook?

  BROCK: Say it’s . . . a mass of data waiting for a correct interpretation. Nobody’s ever managed it. I think we might.

  Collinson glances at Jill’s tight, strained face.

  COLLINSON: Can you spare the time?

  BROCK: No choice, Colly. It’s got us stuck . . .

  INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM – DAY

  Something is hurled through from the passage, to land twisting like a heavy snake on the floor. It is a heavy cable with a multi-outlet head.

  MAUDSLEY: Ta.

  He plugs in a large tape-recorder. Nearby, Dow is sorting out microphones, including a parabolic reflector.

  DOW: Which mike, Pete?

  BROCK: Stereo. (To Jill) Where did you see it?

  JILL: Near the top of the steps.

  The panelling has been stripped from the end wall, exposing the steps, and from about half the remainder of the room. It reveals a bare stone wall with a row of large joist holes about half-way up.

  BROCK: Where she fell off.

  JILL: There must have been an upper floor. Where those holes are. D’you think she was going up to it?

  COLLINSON: No. This was a total ruin when Tasker bought. It’s all in the deeds. He just roofed it and patched it and made it part of his house. A sort of folly.

  JILL: Then—where was she going?

  BROCK: Probably a big aspidistra at the top and she had to water it.

  JILL: And died.

  BROCK: Odd, that. You’d have thought she’d just break a leg or something. It’s not high enough.

  JILL: High enough for poor Louisa. And then . . . they panelled the place over. To hide it all.

  They are all watching her. Rational by temperament and training, they are nevertheless uneasy in this place. There is something about its atmosphere that disturbs.

  EDDIE: There’s a big echo in here. We ought to measure it. Something to make a loud noise with? (At the table) What’s all this?

  JILL: Spam.

  EDDIE: Eh? Somebody feeding the ghost?

  He grins at her but the idea isn’t funny. It hits her. Items click together in her mind.

  JILL (almost a whisper): Perhaps they were.

  Eddie thumps a rusty tin on the table but rejects the idea. He goes on testing possible objects while Dow listens through his headphones. Hargrave points the parabolic reflector hopefully at the steps and locks it off.

  HARGRAVE: Now we wait. Think I’ll get my coat.

  MAUDSLEY: Get mine, will you?

  STEW (giving them a sour look): Oh spare us.

  HARGRAVE: What?

  STEW: This act, the ghostly shivers.

  HARGRAVE: No act.

  MAUDSLEY: It’s just—chilly. Don’t you feel it?

  STEW: Do you mind!

  Then he notices Jill. She is trembling, tightening her arms round herself.

  Eddie has improvised a clapper board out of two pieces of batten from a packing case. He smacks them sharply together. The percussion echoes through the room.

  EDDIE: How’s that?

  DOW: Okay, I’ll take it. (He switches the recorder on and speaks into the microphone) Testing room wavelength. Take one.

  Eddie produces another clash of metal . . . it echoes noticeably . . . then, after a few seconds, another percussion.

  JILL: Stop it. Oh stop it—!

  BROCK: That’s enough, Eddie.

  Through their very voices comes the harsh rasping screech. It repeats several times in rapid succession.

  There is wild excitement. The sound seems to break out in half a dozen places. They twist and turn to locate it. Then it is gone—in a single rapid patter of footsteps.

  They are left staring at each other.

  HARGRAVE: That was it! That was it!

  BROCK: It was by the steps.

  HARGRAVE (pointing down the room): No, over that way.

  EDDIE: It was by the door.

  MAUDSLEY: No, it wasn’t.

  EDDIE: Distinctly.

  They are all arguing and pointing; almost a nervous reaction.

  STEW: What did you hear?

  EDDIE: It was over there! I’m not crazy!

  MAUDSLEY: You could hardly hear it.

  EDDIE: It was deafening!

  BROCK: It wasn’t loud.

  EDDIE: Not loud? I heard it!

  BROCK: Just close.

  HARGRAVE: Hi, that’s right.

  BROCK: No perspective on it.

  STEW (to Maudsley): What did you hear?

  MAUDSLEY (shrugging): Not much.

  STEW: I didn’t hear anything.

  JILL: I saw her. Again.

  This stops the argument.

  BROCK: Same place?

  JILL: No, there. (She points to the middle of the room. Instinctively they turn to look at the spot) Black . . . clothes.

  EDDIE: Solid?

  JILL: Yes, quite solid.

  BROCK: Was she moving?

  JILL: I think so. There was something the matter. The way she moved—

  BROCK: How?

  JILL: Sort of—twisting.

  Brock looks at the others. Nobody has anything to add.

  BROCK: Let’s hear it again. Cliff—

  Dow turns the recorder spools back and switches on.

  DOW’S VOICE (recorded): Testing room wavelength. Take one.

  They hear the test sounds Eddie made and the two other voices cutting in.

  JILL’S VOICE: Stop it. Oh stop it—

  BROCK’S VOICE: That’s enough, Eddie.

  Then—silence, apart from small human exclamations.

  EDDIE: She’s not there. She didn’t record.

  DOW: I heard her in my headphones. I don’t get this.

  EDDIE: Let me check that thing.

  He crouches by the recorder. Uneasy glances are exchanged.

  HARGRAVE: She got away . . .

  THE LABORATORY – DAY

  More apparatus is being wheeled out of the laboratory towards the storage room: A TV monitor, TV cameras, thermographs. Jill slumps into her chair at the programming desk. Collinson is with her.

  JILL: It’s the screaming.

  COLLINSON: Yes.

  JILL: Could you hear it from the caravan?

  COLLINSON: No, only if I went to the room. But I—well, I just can’t take a woman’s screams.

  JILL: Soft-hearted.

  COLLINSON: I was with my wife in a car crash.

  JILL: Killed?

  COLLINSON: No. We divorced. Might have had something to do with it. This is even worse in a way.

  JILL: Worse?

  COLLINSON: A living person in that pain, you can try to help them. Here—you can’t. (Jill covers her face)—I’m going to be very old and stuffy and say drop the whole thing.

  JILL: No.

  COLLINSON: If you really see something it must mean—extra sensitivity.

  JILL: I’m a medium?

  COLLINSON: That makes it sound—

  JILL: Knocks on the table, one for yes, two for no.

  COLLINSON: I’m serious.

  She sees the concern in his face. Then Brock arrives with Stew.

  BROCK (to Stew): Get all Colly’s data on file. And stand by to take real time from next door.

  STEW (switching on his teleprinter): Okay.

  BROCK: Jill, can you start blocking something out? Heuristic stuff, really wild? (He glances at the tape storage units) Those won’t touch it. Book time on
the central computer. If you need it, go through to Chicago. All in code, Colly, it stays our little secret.

  COLLINSON: Who pays?

  BROCK: Himself. Sure he’d love it if he knew! (Collinson passes Stew the old ledger and a plastic folder of neatly typed notes) Full record of the first five years from 1890. Also the past six months.

  STEW: What about the bit in between? The odd eighty years?

  BROCK: We’ve got a witness . . .

  HALF AN HOUR LATER IN THE STORAGE ROOM

  Alan is standing in the doorway of the storage room. He looks thoroughly bewildered. The room seems to be full of apparatus. Blank monitor screens flicker. Eddie and the others are tending and adjusting and improvising.

  ALAN: Cameras? What’s all this stuff? What’s it for?

  BROCK: I told you—ignore it.

  ALAN: I didn’t want to come.

  BROCK: A few simple questions. That won’t take long. (Alan doesn’t move from the doorway) Remember this room?

  ALAN: I was just a kid.

  BROCK: You did come in here?

  ALAN: I suppose so.

  BROCK: You’re not sure?

  ALAN: Well, I did, then.

  As if to prove it, he comes forward now.

  BROCK: How often?

  ALAN (evasively): We—we knew we weren’t rightly meant—

  BROCK: How many times?

  ALAN: I dunno.

  BROCK: In a year, say?

  ALAN: Ten times. A dozen.

  BROCK: You said between 1952 and 1955.

  ALAN: Yes.

  BROCK: Maybe a total of thirty visits? (Alan nods. Brock turns to the nearest microphone) Get that, Stew?

  INSIDE THE LABORATORY

  Stew and Jill are working at the computer. Stew leans across the teleprinter desk to a microphone.

  STEW: I got it.

  BROCK’S VOICE (through speaker): Fills in the model a bit.

  The teleprinter keys rattle beneath Stew’s fingers.

  INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM

  Brock turns back to Alan.

  BROCK: And you heard—rats?

  ALAN: Sometimes.

  BROCK: Only sometimes?

  ALAN: Nearly every time, if we waited.

  INSIDE THE LABORATORY

  BROCK’S VOICE (through speaker): Nearly every time.

  Jill looks at Stew. He nods and keeps on typing it in.

  INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM

  ALAN: We made these dares out of it, see? Old rats are dirty customers. They’ll go for you. We used to fool about all over this house. Smash it up a bit you know.