Ball of Confusion
Page 1
Ball of Confusion
Ian Black
Adapted from the Screenplay BALL OF CONFUSION by Ian Black
Copyright © 2014 Ian Black
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador®
9 Priory Business Park
Kibworth Beauchamp
Leicestershire LE8 0RX, UK
Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299
Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277
Email: books@troubador.co.uk
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Though some historical dates are accurate,
Ball of Confusion is a work of fiction.
ISBN 978 1784628 680
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
www.ianblack.info
Converted to eBook by EasyEPUB
For
J, G, H & M
Contents
Cover
Chapter: 1
Being Born (1985)
Chapter: 2
Chapter: 3
Chapter: 4
Chapter: 1A
Aged Six (1991)
Chapter: 5
Chapter: 6
Chapter: 7
Chapter: 1B
Aged Thirteen (1998) to Sixteen (2001)
Chapter: 8
Chapter: 9
Chapter: 10
Chapter: 1C
Adulthood (2014)
Chapter: 11
Chapter: 12
Chapter: 13
Chapter: 14
Chapter: 15
Chapter: 16
Chapter: 17
Chapter: 18
Chapter: 19
Chapter: 20
Chapter: 21
Chapter: 22
Chapter: 23
Chapter: 24
Chapter: 25
Chapter: 26
Chapter: 27
Chapter: 28
Chapter: 29
Chapter: 30
Chapter: 31
Chapter: 32
Chapter: 33
Chapter: 34
Chapter: 1D
Chapter: 35
And in the end…
Q & A
Chapter: 1
Ball of Confusion by Millennium Jones
In a packed high school auditorium in one of Los Angeles’ most affluent neighbourhoods, a sixteen-year-old bespectacled black girl stands alone, front of stage on an elevated polished podium. With shaking hands she shuffles A4 papers nervously, while surveying before her a sea of faces staring back. Silent, expectant, students, teachers and parents, hundreds of them focused solely on Millie’s pretty face; that is marred by a recent-looking wound: a bruised puffed-up eyelid, swollen right across her eye socket.
She perspires slightly, for two reasons: September heat, and nervous knotted tension inside her stomach, in anticipation of uttering, or maybe even spluttering the first words of her oratory exam. For Millie, the thought of public speaking brings cold sweats; but now that dread has become reality, this is it, the moment, her time has finally come. So with clammy skin and belly cramps she takes a deep quivered breath, clears her throat, and with detectable tremors of trepidation, introduces her vocal presentation, “Ball of Confusion… by Millennium Jones.”
While rolling her unimpeded eyeball onto the next line of text, she pinches a sharp manicured fingernail discretely into her thumb, to confirm she’s not dreaming; stuck inside some surreal nightmare… she’s not. Her mind screams: This is real, girl; so after tweaking the microphone closer, tentatively, Millie begins, “In the beginning… through no fault of my own… I was detained in the most confined space imaginable… A dark engulfing place, without windows; a place so dark that even with my eyes open… I couldn’t see the light… But I wasn’t scared, or blind, I’d just never seen light before!”
She takes a breath, tries to relax, and continues, “I became conditioned to darkness… and accustomed to noise; continuous, monotonous tones: deep, dull, numb, echoing underwater drones, accompanied by perpetual piston-pumping thumps that rarely missed a beat… Sounds and vibrations reverberated, muffled noise, constantly… but I wasn’t scared.”
As her words flow more freely, the nerves begin to disperse. While stealing a breath Millie scans faces, for a response, a clue as she wonders: Do they know what I’m describing?
Stony faces stare back; blank bricks in a cold wall that needs bulldozing, to win their hearts and minds; except for two… her closest allies, who exaggerate attentiveness as she explains, “Solitary confinement conditioned me to enjoy being fed by a tube… and though occasionally discomforted by unexpected jolts or irregular loud noise, I was generally content… because I was living my life in the only way I knew. Circumstance and influence were dictating the thought processes of my mind; so the eerie place I was detained in… wasn’t a problem.”
A flickered glance greets her teacher’s smile, she knows; Millie’s confidence grows, “For the duration of my incarceration, nothing altered dramatically, changes were gradual, and while floating gently I explored my face and body, with my perfect fingers… I slept whenever I wanted; time was irrelevant. It was an uncomplicated period of life when I felt absolutely safe and secure…” she pauses, “until I stuck my neck out… Then things got scary!”
Millie increases tempo, “Suddenly I became aware that for some reason my head was being squeezed into a hole, a hole too small for my head to fit, and the world became noisier, much noisier; the piston pumped faster, louder, and distressing noises, screeches and mumbles echoed through the fluid, while compressing movements manipulated my body, pressing, pulling all around me more than I’d ever known before.” A quick breath, “My head was then about the size of a small melon. Now basic physics dictate that a melon simply won’t fit through a small plughole, and if you forced too hard… it would explode! But somehow my pressurised head was being squeezed through a plughole into a drain pipe! My peace and tranquillity had gone, totally, and now my nose and ears hurt from being forced along this tube. I was scared now, petrified! It was terrible, I didn’t know what was happening; but then as the squeezing pressure eased, new sensations attacked me: my scalp and forehead became cold; I blinked my eyes open and bright lights pierced them! Light smothered me, it terrified me! And noise, so much noise, not muffled anymore; I was frantic, fretting, confused, in extreme trauma I screamed. I screamed and screamed and cried like a baby…” She stops abruptly, looks up, takes a deep breath and calms… before confirming, “I cried like a baby… as I was born.”
She hears approving murmurs rippling around the room, and feels a growing glow of audience appreciation warming her confidence; massaging her ego. Thoroughly enjoying herself now, Millie explains, “My parentage and birthplace were of course predetermined, I had no choice in that; but fortunately for me…” she smiles at her smartly attired Afro-American parents, and repeats, “fortunately for me, like most of us here, I was born into love, security, and opportunity…” Her smile turns to frown, “But sadly… for many others…
life’s beginnings are not so fortunate!”
•
Being Born (1985)
•
Chapter: 2
Him Slippery
On the outskirts of Greater London lies one of the capital’s poorest residential estates; where a tiny squalid bedsit sits amongst a decrepit row of terraced houses, lining the area’s seediest street.
Inside the bedsit, a small portable television stands on a scruffy kitchenette unit, overloaded with unwashed cups plates and cutlery. The TV blares out bland blurb towards both occupants, who are oblivious to the broadcast due to Martha’s frantic screams; while being physically assaulted by her so-called boyfriend-and-employer, Maurice; a Somali pimp/drug-dealer.
He holds the heavily pregnant stoned thirty-year-old white woman by her long blond ponytail; reprimanding her. She wears a stained silk dressing gown, which is just about holding together during the melee, by a taut waist cord stretched right around her bulging full-term belly, and though Martha’s face has been tarnished by years of street prostitution, drugs and alcohol abuse, and well hidden now beneath loaded layers of unnecessary make-up, her natural beauty remains apparent; even while under the influence of substances, and under attack.
However, the assault has focused her mind sufficiently to shield her expectant bulge with her left arm; while lashing out wild windmill punches with her right. But Maurice restrains her at arm’s length with ease, using an extended boxer-like reach. He’s a man-mountain with a greasy leathery face, pockmarked and scarred by constant menace, from his life of constant callous crime. A pure-bred bastard in every sense of the word and knows it. He’s attempting to shake some sense into Martha by rattling her head and body forcibly to-and-fro like a rag doll, and though she’s spiritedly having a go back, soon realises that her flailing attempts are futile, so scratches his arm instead, drawing blood; while fuming at the treatment.
Maurice roars, “MY STASH, BITCH!” reminding Martha of the consequence of using his drugs without his permission. With his free hand he points to the unmade double bed, which fills half the bedsit. On the disgustingly stained screwed-up white sheets lies an empty syringe, plunger depressed, next to an empty foil wrap.
He repeats, “My stash!” then hurls her away… straight into the sharp jutting work-surface of the kitchenette; her heavy belly impacts, she shrieks, flinching in pain as dirty crockery slides from the unit, smashing onto the hard wooden floor.
Straight-faced Maurice stands watching as her distressed body slides downwards, slowly, across the sticky front cupboard; she slumps sobbing to her knees.
Reaching down he explains, “I told you before…” grabbing hold of her ponytail, he yanks Martha effortlessly to her feet and bawls, “DO NOT USE MY STASH!”
Protecting her unborn she wraps both arms around her stomach; but is caught off balance as the bastard scythes her standing leg with his foot, and shoves her backwards at the same time. The force lifts Martha clean off her feet.
She falls through the air and lands heavily on her back, closing her eyes in pain as the flimsy silk dressing gown glides apart across her skin; gaping open at the middle revealing her naked pregnant body, and a show of blood and water dribbling across the pale skin of her inner thigh.
She’s unaware of this; Maurice is too, as he lifts his long leg over, stands astride her looming down; then places his large size-eleven booted foot firmly sideways across her throat. He applies pressure… She chokes.
Watching her gag, he insists, “My stash!”
Downward force on her larynx makes it difficult to speak, as she stammers, “It’s… coming!”
He looks puzzled, “What?” releasing pressure slightly.
Enabling her to gulp in air and screech, “THE BABY’S COMING!”
Maurice removes the foot. His menacing expression becomes confusion, as his brain struggles to comprehend the gravity of the situation. He questions again, “What?”
A contorted face spits back, “IT’S COMING, YOU BASTARD!”
Realisation dawns; his jaw drops and he gawps while shuffling his feet around Martha. He stoops, grabs hold beneath her arms and they both grunt as he lifts, gently now, upwards and backwards towards the bed; but as her bare buttocks touch the mattress edge her waters break, and gush from between her legs.
Utterly horrified, and totally out of his depth, Maurice stands bolt upright and watches, as with excruciating labour pain shooting right through her body, Martha tenses herself into a half-squat on the bed’s edge. With the red-flaky-painted nails of her left hand she grips furiously onto the exposed plastic piping along the mattress edge, while the nails of her right pierce deep into Maurice’s wrist; drawing blood again.
She sucks in breath, and wails like a banshee, “IT’S COMING!”
Thrusting instinctively with her hips, Martha cranes her neck down towards the action area, and lets out a high-pitched scream in shock and horror on first sight of her baby’s squashed gooey head; poking out between her legs.
Maurice gawps in awestruck silence, and mimes an expletive.
She uses the same expletive, but yells it, “FUUUUUCK!”
Sucking in and blowing out quick short breaths, she tenses every available muscle and summons up every possible morsel of strength. It hurts… she wants it out; grunting and growling through gritted teeth, her buttocks lift from the mattress… she releases the firing pin… and thrusts the infant out.
With little resistance from the cervix, a tiny fluid-covered white boy slides out from his mother’s womb; but with nobody beneath to catch him, George Knight’s first experience of the world is free-falling helplessly through the air. He lands with a bump; head first onto the hard wooden floor; then continues to slide momentarily on his slippery back until halted, bungee-like, by the umbilical cord.
The baby stares up at his new world with wide blue eyes; then after a moment’s contemplation… opens his lungs and screams; writhing amongst dirty broken crockery in cold confusion on a cold hard floor; while Martha collapses backwards, passing out in exhaustion.
Inquisitively, Maurice peers down at the flailing baby; then bends down for a closer look. Utter disgust grows on his face while inspecting the umbilical cord and placenta. With an extended finger he prods George lightly in the stomach; then after realising the baby has white skin, sucks through his teeth and confirms categorically, “Him not mine then!”
George’s cries intensify into a screaming frenzy; as Maurice advises him, “You never gonna know your daddy, boy… him one of a thousand punters.” The pimp reaches down and scoops George up into his hands; creating a startling contrast in skin texture and colour: fresh Caucasian on well-worn African black.
The writhing fluid-covered baby slips from the man’s useless careless grasp, and falls… landing head first again on the floor.
George squeals; as Maurice chuckles and remarks, “Him slippery!”
The Somali stands, wipes his slimy hands across his trousers, and with a scowl addresses the traumatised child, “Get one thing straight, boy… You not mine, you never be mine, you nothing to me. You don’t come me for nothing… You your mammy’s boy!”
The heartless pimp leaves a screaming baby writhing on the floor, beneath an exhausted mother lying passed out on the bed, and turns his attention to the TV. He changes channels, lights a cigarette, sips from a bottle of beer… then throws a disdainful sneer towards shrieking George… and turns up the volume to drown out his cries.
•
Chapter: 3
Welcome to the World
Even at 5.45am, the sun blazes relentlessly over Iraq’s sprawling capital Baghdad. There are no clouds for cover, or breeze to refresh. The only sound this quiet morning is religious wailing; chanted from mosque towers near and far; until the chanting is drowned by chugging engine noise from an old battered truck, as it trundles past a huge billboard pasted with the enormous self-satisfied face of uniformed Iraqi President Saddam Hussein.
The truck’s tyres blow up a
minor dust storm, rolling across the dry road, and its brakes squeal as it slows before turning into a side street; where the driver picks his way through untidily parked traffic, dumped without consideration along a very narrow road.
Space is tight in this built-up working-class residential area on the banks of the wide Tigris river; that winds through Baghdad and flows parallel to this narrow street, directly behind a long continuous row of shabby adjoined breezeblock apartment buildings; which are sandwiched between river and road.
On the front steps of one three-story building, sit two bearded old men watching the world go by. They wear traditional long white robes and colourful chequered headscarves. In the latter stages of their lives, they don’t sleep too well, so consequently have time simply to observe anything that moves.