by Tor Fleck
‘Okay,’ said Richard. ‘I get that. So what now?’
‘Well, now you tell me about the interview. How did it go?’
‘It was strange, to say the least.’ Richard paused to take a large gulp. He looked edgy, but Paul put it down to having been lamped with a broom handle.
‘I met Alice,’ Richard continued, ‘and she introduced me to all the bigwigs at Omni. Eight of them. They all just sat there staring at me, waiting to be entertained. So … I went all in. Proper hardcore. Oscar-winning it was. And at the end of it they were still sitting there, staring at me. Alice thanked them, we left, and she took me for a coffee. I thought it was game over, but apparently silence is a good thing and they always play it cool when they love something.’
Paul nodded. ‘That sounds promising.’
Richard took another gulp of brandy and winced as it hit the back of his throat. ‘It’ll still be a month or so before we get any kind of official word back,’ he said, ‘but it’s all looking good.’
‘Well that settles it,’ said Paul. ‘We can’t give up.’
‘There’s still the chance they’ll say no,’ cautioned Richard. ‘Alice says nothing’s certain with these guys.’
‘Understandable,’ said Paul. ‘Have you pulled the video yet?’
‘No,’ said Richard, ‘but I still can if you want me to.’
A grin crawled over Paul’s lips. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Fucking leave it up. We need to let these bastards know we’re going nowhere.’
‘You sure you’re up for this?’ asked Richard. ‘I mean, you were bloody shitting Lego a couple of days ago. I’ve never seen you so agitated.’
‘Attack is the best form of defence,’ said Paul. ‘Always. I realise that now. I didn’t before.’ He re-filled both their glasses. ‘So tomorrow, we go back to Glasgow and we start digging. We’ll track these bastards down, Richard. Don’t you worry about that.’
‘And if they come at us again, and it gets worse? Are you prepared for that?’
Paul raised his glass defiantly. ‘Bring it on,’ he said. ‘I’m done running.’ He clinked his glass against Richard’s. ‘Let the fight back begin.’
SCRIPT EDIT 12 – THE BALLROOM SCENE
FADE IN:
INT. BALLROOM – NIGHT
A lavish party is in full swing. On a raised stage, an effortlessly-cool JAZZ BAND TINKLES and PARPS its way through timeless classics, as black-tied and be-frocked GLITTERATI mingle beneath a huge, sparkling chandelier.
Harvey enters, his tight suit the wrong size and the wrong price. He looks nervous, out of place. He snatches a glass of champagne from off a WAITER’S tray and weaves through the throng, eliciting disapproving looks.
ANNE MAXTON – middle-aged, overly-made up, and heavily botoxed - approaches. She somehow manages to raise an eyebrow.
ANNE
And who have we here?
Harvey glances over his shoulder, instinctively looking for a way out. There isn’t one. Fuck.
HARVEY
(extending a hand)
Harvey. Mr Ballatine’s new assistant.
ANNE
Oh. I thought you looked a little wide-eyed and innocent. I’m Anne.
Anne takes Harvey’s hand, but doesn’t shake it.
ANNE (CONT’D)
It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harvey. So … are you going to be a good boy or a bad boy?
Harvey, aware that Anne still has his hand, prises it back.
HARVEY
Sorry?
ANNE
Oh, come come. You know what I mean. There are good boys, there are bad boys, and there are very bad boys. Which one are you?
Despite his nervousness, Harvey manages a smile.
HARVEY
What do you do, Anne?
ANNE
Oh, change the subject, why don’t you? Okay, I’ll play along. What do I do? Well, let’s just say I look after things and people that need looking after. Do you need looking after, Harvey?
Anne touches Harvey’s hand. He pushes it away.
HARVEY
Please excuse me.
Harvey shoves past Anne brusquely, causing her to pout.
ANNE
Bye, Harvey.
Anne suddenly smiles, turns, and joins another GROUP.
ANNE (CONT’D)
Well hello, Bob. Surviving those alimony payments?
Harvey stops the waiter from earlier.
HARVEY
Where are the toilets?
INT. LARGE OSTENTATIOUS BATHROOM - NIGHT
Harvey stares at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He INHALES deeply. Runs the tap. Washes his hands.
Two tuxedo-wearing EXECUTIVE-LOOKING TYPES BURST into the bathroom, TALKING and LAUGHING. EXEC 1, flush-faced and sweating, produces a packet of white powder and sprinkles a small pile onto the black marble surface of the sink.
Using a credit card, Exec 1 cuts the powder into two lines.
EXEC 2 rolls up a $100 bill and SNORTS his line. Wiping the residue from his nose, he ROARS with delight.
Exec 1 takes the rolled-up bill and leans over. About to snort, he stops. Turns to Harvey. Offers him the bill.
EXEC 1
Care to indulge?
HARVEY
I’m fine, thanks.
EXEC 1
All the more for me then!
Exec 2 LAUGHS MANIACALLY and rubs again at his nose. Exec 1 SNORTS his line.
The cubicle door behind them OPENS and a dishevelled, DRUNKEN COUPLE appear. He’s tucking in his shirt. She’s wiping her mouth.
EXEC 1 (CONT’D)
So that’s where you got to.
DRUNKEN FEMALE
We had some unfinished business to attend to.
DRUNKEN MALE
A healthy exchange of ideas. And bodily fluids.
Everyone LAUGHS. Harvey takes the opportunity to leave. At the door, he turns and watches as the drunken female bends over the sink and SNORTS a line. Exec 1, grinning, presses himself up against her rear.
INT. BALLROOM - NIGHT
An ever more anxious Harvey steps back into the fray.
The jazz band stops playing. Ballatine is up on stage, grappling with the microphone.
BALLATINE
How do I …?
The saxophonist comes over and frees the mic from its stand.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
Ladies and gentlemen!
A loud SQUEAL of feedback. The saxophonist adjusts the mic.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
If I could have your attention, please!
Guest CHATTER continues. Ballatine turns and nods to the drummer, who responds with a RAT-A-TAT-TAT on the snare.
The CHATTER dies away. Ballatine pushes out his chest.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight.
GIGGLING and LAUGHING, the group from the toilet stumble back into the room, where they’re immediately SHUSHED.
Despite the apparent calm, Ballatine has clearly been annoyed by the group’s disruption.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
Where was I? Yes. It gives me great pleasure to announce that NLightN Industries’ annual net profits for the year ending in May have soared to sixty-two million dollars.
LOUD CHEERS.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
This represents an increase of 12.3% on the previous year, and a 485% increase since I became CEO five years ago.
More CHEERS.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
In the past twelve months, we’ve secured eighteen major contracts with governments and organisations across twelve countries. We’ve become a world-leader in cutting edge data analytics, overtaking all our rivals. We’re now working with at least four intelligence agencies on vital security software projects. In other words, we – NlightN Industries Incorporated – are the masters of the fucking universe!
ROARS of approval.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
Our succe
ss, all of this, is down to you. Your brains, your sweat, your work ethic, your dedication, all the hard, painful sacrifices you made to get us here. Believe me, I know there have been many long days and nights along the way and many neglected loved ones, wives, husbands, and children.
Ballatine’s comments elicit nods from his audience.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
But here’s the payoff. We dream big. Again and again we surpass impossible targets we set ourselves. We have triumphed in battle and we have slaughtered our enemies. We are invincible!
More CHEERING.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
Victorious!
The CHEERING intensifies.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
Triumphant!
ROARS, WHOOPS, and CLAPPING. Ballatine nods proudly and LAUGHS, waiting for the applause to die down, which it does.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
So … with that in mind, I’ve instructed my finance director … where are you, Bleekes?
The gaunt, skeletal BLEEKES, standing close to Harvey, raises a bony hand.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
(shading his eyes)
There he is! Blink and you’d miss him.
Ballatine’s statement causes a ruckus of LAUGHTER. Not from Bleekes, though, who looks far from amused.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
I have instructed Mr Bleekes to issue all employees with a 20% bonus, to be added to this month’s salary …
The CHEERING and HOLLERING is now off the scale.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
… including yours, Mr Bleekes.
More LAUGHTER. Bleekes, however, remains corpse-like.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
So … here’s to victory!
Ballatine raises his glass to the ceiling.
CROWD
(together)
To victory!
Ballatine steps off the stage. The band RESUMES PLAYING.
Ballatine ignores the employees who surround him, eager to shake his hand. He’s looking for Harvey. Then … he sees him.
BALLATINE
Harvey!
Harvey turns. Makes his way over to his new boss.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
Glad you could make it.
HARVEY
Thanks for the invite. Good speech.
BALLATINE
Hollywood bullshit. It never fails.
Ballatine becomes aware of the confident, power-dressed young woman – Sarah McConnell, the late Martin Jameson’s former secretary – standing next to them.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
Harvey … this is Sarah McConnell.
Harvey and Sarah smile and shake hands.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
Sarah is our media and communications director. She’s the eyes, ears, and voice of our organisation. She knows more about us, and about me, than even I do, so be careful what you say.
(leaning in and whispering)
She’s probably wearing a wire.
Harvey LAUGHS. Sarah just shakes her head.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
You’ll be working together over the coming months. Sarah is your mentor. Your guru. I suggest you get to know one another.
Ballatine slips diplomatically away, leaving Harvey and Sarah to their awkward silence.
HARVEY
So … nice party. Have you tried the - ?
SARAH
Let’s get something straight. You work for me, not with me. I tell you what to do, and you do it. I say jump, you jump. Understand?
HARVEY
Sure. No problem.
Harvey sips his champagne. Looks at Sarah closely.
HARVEY (CONT’D)
May I ask a question? Or do I have to request an extraordinary meeting?
SARAH
Is that supposed to be funny?
HARVEY
I thought it was.
SARAH
It wasn’t. What’s the question?
HARVEY
Who’s Anna?
Sarah LAUGHS and shakes her head.
SARAH
Oh my, she’s a fast worker. I take it she’s invited you to play tennis at her club?
HARVEY
No, she didn’t mention tennis.
SARAH
Then she must really like you. Oh boy, you are in trouble.
HARVEY
What does she do? Aside from seduce new employees.
Sarah checks her watch, her social graces exhausted.
SARAH
That’s more than one question. I’ll see you at 7.30am, my office, tomorrow. Don’t be late. And don’t drink too much.
Sarah walks abruptly away. She glances back briefly.
Harvey grabs a glass from a passing WAITER’S tray and raises it to Sarah, smiling.
Ballatine returns.
BALLATINE
Impressive, isn’t she?
Harvey nods, still watching Sarah’s departing rear.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
If you want to get on, keep in with her.
HARVEY
I intend to.
BALLATINE
But watch her. She’ll burn you alive.
Ballatine raises his own glass.
BALLATINE (CONT’D)
Cheers!
Ballatine and Harvey CLINK glasses.
FADE OUT:
11
Once safely back in Glasgow, Paul set to work. First on his suspects list: the mysterious Alice Lowe. Her enthusiasm for their project was a little too good to be true, and something about her just didn’t square with the goody-goody image she was trying to project. There was no use confiding his suspicions in Richard; he’d only brush them off as irrelevant at best, and dangerous at worst. Richard had no time for anything that threatened to jeopardise their future success.
Paul fired an email off to Alice, suggesting they meet. Then he headed to the library. He could work from there on a non-traceable computer. Christ, he thought, as he clicked into the anonymous PC’s search bar, I’m living in a fucking John le Carre novel.
Omni’s homepage listed two office addresses: Glasgow and London. London was clearly the administrative office. Glasgow? Well, he’d check that out later. For now, he was more interested in Alice’s bio. It mostly covered what Paul already knew: her hiring by the London office three years earlier, her two successive promotions in the same year, and her current position of Head of Acquisitions in Glasgow. Nothing new there. But to his surprise, her profile image was now present on the page: a stark and unflattering shot, taken from a low angle, presumably to give her a sense of importance.
Zooming in, Paul noticed something odd. There was a slight blurring around her head, as though the image had been tampered with. Above her head, on the wall behind her, a small section was pixelated. Paul enlarged the image to max, but the distortion increased, and he couldn’t make anything out. He leaned in closer and squinted. There seemed to be some kind of plaque or display in the middle of the distortion. Paul readjusted the screen and squinted again, but it was still too fuzzy. A sudden tap on his shoulder made him jump.
An elderly man, rain dripping from the rim of his trilby and soaking Paul’s trouser leg, nodded at the screen.
‘If yer no planning on marryin’ that lassie,’ he said gruffly, ‘then I’d suggest you gie somebody else a go.’
‘Sorry,’ said Paul, moving his leg away and brushing off a small pool of water, ‘I was just – ’
‘Aye. I know exactly whit you were just,’ the man sneered.
‘No, no,’ Paul laughed. ‘I’ll let you on no bother. Just let me log out.’
‘Am no sure ah want tae pit ma hons onywhere near it efter you’ve been droolin o’er it,’ spat the man, and wandered off to the large print section over by the issue desk.
What the hell was all that about? Paul shook his head and turned back to the screen. He tried interrogating the image again, but felt too self-conscious. He logged off and headed bac
k to the flat.
Alice’s reply came the following morning. She was happy to meet up. Paul suggested they get together at her office – he wanted a closer look around the mysterious Omni Productions – but Alice preferred the pub they’d met in previously. Paul agreed, albeit reluctantly. He told Richard he was going to the library to do some more anonymous online searches. No point worrying him unnecessarily.
Paul was surprised to find Alice at the same table as before. This time, however, was different. She’d clearly been crying.
‘Hello?’ Paul felt awkward and slightly uncomfortable, as though intruding in some way.
Alice wiped her face with the back of her hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve just had some sad news.’
Paul sat down opposite. ‘We can cancel, if you like.’
‘No,’ said Alice. ‘It’s fine. It’s just a family bereavement.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Paul.
‘Thank you.’ Alice looked at her hands. ‘It’s quite a close family member actually.’
Paul leaned in. ‘Seriously,’ he said, ‘we can cancel. It’s no bother.’
Alice looked up and smiled. ‘You are kind. But I need a distraction right now. And a brandy.’
Paul watched her from the bar, looking for a crack in her defences. All he saw was a young woman, vulnerable and lost. Could that really be all she was?
‘Sorry you had to see that,’ said Alice, as Paul handed her the glass.
‘Not at all.’
‘Why did you want to meet?’ asked Alice.
Paul sat down and took a quick sip of his pint. ‘I wanted to fill you in on some developments.’
‘Where’s your partner?’
‘He’s busy tonight. He sends his regards.’
Alice nodded, her eyes fixed on Paul, waiting.
‘I needed to get something off my chest,’ said Paul. ‘About Agency O.’
‘Okay.’
‘The thing is … ’ Paul hesitated, and took another drink. Dutch courage. ‘The thing is, Tor Fleck didn’t write our script. We did.’
‘Go on.’ Alice didn’t flinch, or even break eye contact.
‘Tor Fleck,’ said Paul, ‘doesn’t exist. He’s a fiction. A figment of our imagination. We invented him to make our project seem more mysterious. Or glamorous, take your pick’.
‘So the work is all yours?’
Paul nodded. ‘Richard came up with the original idea, we developed it together, and then I wrote it.’
