by Tor Fleck
‘Fuck off,’ said Paul, and hobbled back down the hallway. Richard followed him. ‘Paul,’ he pleaded. ‘I swear, I was just trying to be supportive. I was worried about you, bro. Why didn’t you call me?’
‘I was fucking shot, remember?’ Paul reached for his phone. ‘I need to make sure she’s okay.’
‘See? She’s got her talons into you,’ said Richard. ‘You’ll notice there’s been nothing from her about the script. She’s got the both of us dangling like puppets.’
‘Shut up,’ said Paul, waiting for Alice to pick up. Bu her phone went straight to voicemail. Paul hung up. Was Richard right about her?
‘I just want to tell you …’ Richard sank into a chair and put his head in his hands. ‘… I’m as fucking scared as you are,’ he said, finally. Paul couldn’t tell if this sudden emotional outburst was genuine, or just another of Richard’s award-winning performances to smooth over his shite behaviour. He lowered himself onto the chair opposite, squirming around to find a comfortable position.
‘I’m beginning to think you could be right.’ Richard continued. That some evil bastard out there wants our script so badly, he or she will do anything to get it.’ He sniffed and looked up. ‘Seriously though, are you okay?’
‘I’ll live,’ said Paul. ‘For now.’
Richard sighed and rubbed the moisture from his eyes. ‘It’s a fucking nightmare. I should have listened to you from the start. That fucking script. I’m sorry. I’ve been a total cunt.’
‘That’s too polite a word for what you’ve been.’
‘I’ll take that,’ smiled Richard. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you and Alice. Are you or aren’t you?’
‘I’m here to recover,’ said Paul, keeping it simple. ‘That’s all. It was too much to go back to the flat. And you were being … well, you know what you were being.’
‘But I just don’t trust her. Why is she so bloody possessive?’
‘She’s just looking out for me. I said I didn’t want to see anyone, especially you.’
‘Oh, cheers.’
‘I needed to get out. Get away from everything. I felt under siege.’
‘But you’re on the mend now, right?’ Richard looked genuinely concerned.
‘I’m a bit slow on my feet,’ said Paul, ‘but I’m getting there.’
‘So,’ said Richard, ‘can I tell you what I’ve found out, or will I just not bother?’
‘No,’ said Paul, unsure where this was leading, ‘tell me.’
‘Dr Evil himself, Tor Torrensen, will be in town tomorrow.’
‘What?’
‘Yep,’ said Richard. ‘Our favourite villain will be guest of honour at the opening of some energy firm he’s just acquired over at the tech park in East Kilbride. While you’ve been enjoying bed baths in intensive care, Mr Fleck has been attracting quite a bit of press attention.’
‘In what way?’
‘It’s just like you said. Tor-izon has been linked to all sorts of dodgy goings on. Data theft mainly. There’s a paper trail leading all the way to Blofeld’s door.’
‘We have to go.’
Richard held his hands up. ‘No, no, no, that’s not why I told you.’
There was a sudden look of the zealot about Paul. ‘He could be responsible for all of this,’ he said, licking his lips. ‘We need to look him in the eye. Ask him straight out.’
‘But you’re not well enough,’ argued Richard. ‘Jesus, I didn’t mean to – ’
‘I’m fine,’ said Paul. ‘Anyway, I need to get out. I’ve been stuck in here for weeks.’
‘With Glenn Close,’ quipped Richard.
‘She’s been good to me.’
‘Listen,’ said Richard, ‘why don’t I just go and report back to you?’
Paul shook his head. ‘I need to know for sure if he was the bastard who did this to me,’ he said. ‘And to us.’
‘Okay,’ said Richard, ‘but we’re in and out, that’s it, and then we’re straight back to Fatal Attra – ’ He stopped himself just in time.
‘I don’t want Alice to know,’ said Paul. His suspicions about her were now running riot. ‘She’ll just worry and try to stop me,’ he added, covering his tracks.
‘Okay,’ said Richard. ‘I’ll call round in the morning, after she’s left for work. But how are we going to get in? Won’t there be security and shit to get through?’
‘We’ll think of something,’ said Paul. ‘Or rather you will.’
‘Me?’ Richard laughed. ‘You do know that ownership of the Breaking Bad box-set doesn’t automatically make me a master criminal.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Paul. ‘You owe me. Big time.’
‘There’s no way we’d get in there unless we were industry insiders, or – ’
‘Or what?’ Paul could tell by Richard’s grin that he’d just come up with a plan.
‘Or journalists,’ said Richard. ‘Writing for an environmental magazine, supporting Mr Torrensen’s efforts to save the planet. Yes! They’ll welcome us with open arms! All we need are a couple of press badges and we’re in.’
‘Yeah, great,’ nodded Paul. ‘I’ve got three or four in my wallet.’
‘Any old card on a piece of string’ll do,’ said Richard. ‘Nobody ever looks at them anyway. It’s all about making people believe what they want to believe.’
‘Like acting?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, that’s us fucked then,’ said Paul, and for the first time in a long while, they both laughed together.
22
The energy company’s HQ was in the heart of the Enterprise Technology Park, a near-abandoned, 80s-style industrial estate, more Chernobyl than Silicon Valley.
‘Can’t be much further,’ said Richard. ‘How you doing?’ He’d noticed Paul’s face contorting every couple of steps. Paul just nodded, eager to keep going, less eager to share his pain. Up ahead were a bevy of TV vans parked at the end of a cul-de-sac. Beyond them stood a steel and glass multi-storey monstrosity. ‘Follow me,’ ordered Richard, slipping on his lanyard / old uni matriculation card. Paul couldn’t help sniggering at Richard’s retro grunge mullet.
‘So I loved Kurt Cobain,’ grinned Richard. ‘Shoot me.’
Paul pulled out his own lanyard from his pocket: an old Co-op loyalty card.
Richard shook his head. ‘God help us.’
They joined a small group shuffling silently into the building. ‘I hope they’re serving booze,’ Paul said to a pudgy, sweaty man fumbling with a briefcase. ‘Champagne, no doubt,’ the man replied. ‘Can’t stand the stuff myself. Not with these sinuses.’ Richard looked puzzled. ‘The bubbles,’ the man said, as though that explained everything.
‘Do you work for Tor-izon?’ Richard asked, forcing engagement with the man.
‘God, no,’ the man laughed. ‘My working days are long gone. I’m a shareholder.’
‘Ah,’ grinned Richard. ‘So you’re paying for the champagne?’
‘And a lot more besides in the coming months, by all accounts.’
‘You don’t have much faith in the new owners then?’
The man wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘In Tor-izon? Are you serious?’ He glanced down at Richard’s matriculation card. ‘I’m sorry, who are you?’ Before Richard could put his story to the test a large, uniformed guard instructed everyone to put their coats and bags through a scanner. As the group filed through, a second guard stopped Paul.
‘Which organisation?’
Richard leaned across, smiling. ‘Green Energy Magazine.’
The security guard picked up a clipboard and ran a finger down the guest list. ‘I can’t see Green Energy Magazine on here,’ he said, squinting at Paul’s Co-op card.
‘Strange,’ said Richard. ‘I spoke with Tor yesterday and he was very keen for us to follow up on our interview with him last week. Didn’t Mr Torrensen tell you?’
‘Er …’ The guard checked his clipboard again.
‘I’ll give him a cal
l now, if you like,’ said Richard, taking out his phone. ‘You can explain to him why we’re not on the list.’ The flustered guard waved them both through. Once out of sight, Paul let out the breath he’d been holding. ‘Jesus Christ, Richard,’ he muttered. ‘What if he’d said yes?’
‘Then we’d be walking back to the station,’ said Richard. ‘No biggie.’
They continued on to a large glass-covered atrium where guests, journalists, and film crews were gathering. A bearded roadie on a makeshift stage was testing out a mic, his ONE-TWO! ONE-TWO!s reverberating around the cavernous space.
‘Look!’ yelled Richard, pointing to a waiter weaving towards them. ‘Drink!’
‘Richard, don’t,’ said Paul. ‘We need our wits about us for once.’
‘Oh come on, a little Dutch courage won’t hurt.’
‘I’m on medication.’
‘Even better!’ Richard stopped the waiter as he passed and grabbed two glasses from the tray.
‘Richard?’ the waiter asked, smiling broadly.
‘Oh fuck,’ Richard muttered under his breath. ‘Calum. Wow. What a surprise.’
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Calum.
‘Researching a part for a new play,’ said Richard, squirming. ‘This is my director.’
‘Hi!’ said Paul, playing along.
‘Wow, you got a part!’ Calum was impressed.
‘Yep. I’m doing very well. Very well indeed. How about you?’
‘Oh, you know,’ said Calum. ‘A few small walk-on roles, adverts, the odd radio commercial. But it’s bloody tough. Hence this.’
‘Bad luck,’ said Richard. ‘But listen. We’re both here incognito, yeah? We don’t want anyone to know who we are.’ He leaned in, his nose almost touching Calum’s. ‘How the fuck can we get to the truth of our character if people know who we are? Am I right?’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Calum. ‘Game on.’ After a quick fist-pump with a relieved Richard he moved off, slaloming through the guests like a downhill skier. Richard and Paul, meanwhile, pushed their way towards the podium, ending up next to a BBC film crew and interviewer, who were setting up. ‘When’s the great leader due to speak?’ Richard asked the camera operator. The man glanced at his watch. ‘Should be any second.’ Just then a group of bow-tied dignitaries appeared on the podium, headed by a young man seemingly out of place in t-shirt and tight jeans.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ Tight Jeans said, leaning into the mic. ‘Thank you all for coming today, to this, the grand opening, and launch, of a new business partnership between OHM Energy and Tor-izon. It gives me great pleasure to introduce the Chair of OHM Energy, Dr Philip March, and the founder and Chief Executive of Tor-izon, Tor Torrensen!’ Dr March appeared from the wings to much applause. At the podium, he glanced back. Tor strode on next, to even greater applause. He had his signature flat cap on, pulled down at an angle.
‘There he is, the bastard,’ Paul muttered, and received an elbow to the ribs from Richard by way of reward.
Dr March spoke first, his lengthy drone completely ignored by Tor, who stood gazing out at the audience like a rock star. After a short round of brittle applause, March handed Tor the mic. Tor stood waiting for the last clap to die away. When it did, he spoke low, his English near-perfect, with only a hint of a Scandinavian lilt. He thanked the audience, the press, and Dr March, and then walked off.
All hell broke loose. ‘I’ll take some questions now!’ yelled March, but no one was listening. The massed ranks of press had made a uniform dash for the door, all of them eager to catch up with the departing Tor. Paul and Richard found themselves caught up in the melee, careful not to trip over camera cables. ‘This way!’ Richard grabbed Paul’s arm and dragged him across the auditorium to a half-opened door. They pushed through it and slammed it shut behind them. They now stood in a deserted corridor, its bare stone walls silent and cold.
‘Which way now?’ asked Paul.
‘Shh,’ said Richard. ‘Listen.’ Tor’s voice could be heard faintly at the far end of the corridor. Paul and Richard headed towards it by silent and mutual agreement.
Tor’s voice grew louder. He was bellowing, in Swedish, seemingly from a room up ahead. As Paul and Richard drew nearer, there was a scrape and a roar and a metal chair was flung out into the corridor, landing at their feet. Richard seized the moment and ran into the room. A more cautious Paul crept in after him.
‘Mr Torrensen?’ Richard addressed the now cap-less, flush-faced Tor-izon boss.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ barked Tor, his full head of greying blond hair slicked back with gel, a single stray quiff hanging down over his face. His black-suited entourage moved as one towards the door. Richard held up his hands. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr Torrensen. We …’ He looked back over his shoulder at Paul. ‘… represent Green Energy Magazine. We’d like to thank you for the sterling work you and your organisation are doing to preserve our fragile environment.’
‘What?’ Tor was confused.
‘Your cutting edge technologies,’ continued Richard, ‘have made it possible to change mind-sets and human behaviour for the good of all mankind. In our view, this is Nobel Prize-winning research.’
‘Ah, fuck it,’ said Paul, flopping down on an empty chair and gripping his side. ‘How much money do you cunts actually need, eh?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ gasped Tor. Richard looked aghast.
Paul rubbed at his wound. ‘When will you stop? At ten billion? Fifty? Is it all about keeping up with the Saudis and buying a bigger island than Branson’s?’
‘Paul!’ hissed Richard.
‘Get the fuck out!’ Tor growled.
‘You people are fucking parasites,’ said Paul. ‘It’s not enough to sell worthless tat to folks who can’t afford it, is it? You need to brainwash them too. So they comply and buy and fucking vote for whatever monster you install to prop up your Bilderberg bandwagon. Yeah, we’re getting wise to your neo-liberal bullshit.’
‘Are you finished?’ sneered Tor.
‘Oh, I’m just getting started, pal,’ said Paul. ‘There’s a fucking revolution coming, my friend, and you all better watch your fucking necks. The truth is out and we’re coming for you, you totalitarian testicle.’
Tor pointed a wavering finger at Paul and spat out a string of Swedish obscenities, some directed at the interlopers, some at his own entourage. ‘Do the job I overpay you to do,’ he bellowed at his men, ‘and get these two fucking trolls out of my face! With force, preferably! Now!’ As though poked with a cattle prod his men rushed at Richard and Paul and hauled them out of the room.
‘Whatever shit you throw at us,’ hollered Paul, as he was dragged from the room out into the corridor, ‘you won’t win! We’ll make our film and show the world the monster you truly are! We will end you, you supercilious spunk-stain!’
Thrown onto the car park tarmac, Paul had his Co-op badge flung at him by one of Tor’s minions. It had snapped in the kerfuffle and the two pieces bounced off his body and onto the ground. ‘Don’t forget your discount card!’ the minion sneered, and slammed the building’s small side door shut behind him.
‘That feral bastard tore the only decent jacket I have,’ complained Richard. As he dusted himself down he suddenly found himself laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Paul, which made Richard laugh even more.
‘Totalitarian testicle? Supercilious spunk-stain?’
Paul cracked a smile. ‘That’s exactly what he is.’
Richard glanced over at the pack of journalists still milling around in the faint hope they’d land an exclusive last-minute interview with Tor. ‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ he said. He ran over and tapped one of them – a tall, thin-lipped woman in an ill-fitting pac-a-mac – on the shoulder, causing her to turn round. ‘What paper do you work for?’ he barked. ‘The Guardian,’ she snapped back, as though Richard should have recognised her. ‘That figures,’ he said. ‘He’s in there,’ he added, pointing to the
side door. Thanking Richard with a crooked smile, she slipped furtively away from her colleagues and around the side of the building. Richard watched her go with a self-satisfied smirk. I hope she breaks the story wide fucking open, you manipulative prick.
Back on the train, Richard and Paul tried to unpick what had just happened. ‘Well,’ smiled Richard, ‘that’s what you call a man with anger management issues.’
Paul shifted in his seat. His side still ached like buggery. ‘He’s fucking unhinged,’ he said. ‘Did you see what he did to that fucking chair?’
‘Not him, you!’ Richard quipped.
‘We clearly upset him.’
‘Too right we did,’ said Paul. ‘We called him out, the bastard. I just wish I could speak Swedish and understand what he was ranting about.’
‘I suppose when you think about it though …’ said Richard, ‘… this is a guy under tremendous pressure. I mean, he’s the subject of a major criminal investigation. He could be going down for a long, long time. Plus, he’s got paparazzi all over him. He’s not going to be too happy with us turning up and threatening him.’
‘Well,’ grinned Paul, ‘now he knows we know.’
Richard turned away to the window and stared out. ‘That’s what I’m worried about.’
As the train thundered on through the industrial dereliction of outer Glasgow, an ominous silence fell over the two friends; a silence that neither appeared willing, or able, to break.
SCRIPT EDIT 20 – THE BREAK-IN SCENE
FADE IN:
INT. HEAD OFFICE, LOBBY – NIGHT
An overweight SECURITY GUARD, his eyes closed, chews dreamily on a huge pastrami sandwich. A polite COUGH causes him to look up.
Harvey, a lanyard around his neck, points to the lift.
HARVEY
Forgot my briefcase.
