Free The Year of the Sex Olympics and other TV Plays by Nigel Kneale Page A

goes to look. There is a pile of rusty tins. He picks one up.
    BROCK : U.S. Army issue.
    COLLINSON : Doubt if it’s fit now. They must have got forced in through the panelling. The Yanks used this for a store.
    BROCK : Painted it khaki!
    COLLINSON : Trying to quell the rot.
    BROCK : Even then?
    COLLINSON : It was empty before the war. When the rot gets really going like this they call it weeping. Weeping fungus.
    Brock glares at the membranes of rot with personal enmity. There is a piece of paper on the table—a half disintegrated sheet that looks as if it was previously folded up in a tight wad. Jill picks it up and tries to make out the faded scrawl.
    JILL : “Christmas Eve . . .”
    COLLINSON : Oh yes, that’s it.
    JILL : “What . . . I want for . . . Christmas . . .”
    COLLINSON : A kid’s writing.
    His manner has changed—tight and nervous.
    Brock suddenly attacks the wall, kicking out a great piece of panelling. Rot and dead wood and dust go flying. He kicks at it again, hacking more away with his foot.
    BROCK : Even the stone’s got it!
    COLLINSON : It’s just—very old.
    BROCK : 1880?
    COLLINSON : Ah, that’s when they panelled it in. These walls are a lot older than the rest of the house. They’ve just been—built onto. In fact, they must have been knocked down and rebuilt and generally messed about a lot in the last thousand years. (Brock stares at him) Oh, yes. The foundations might be Saxon.
    BROCK : Saxon!
    COLLINSON : Just an amateur opinion.
    BROCK : My God—!
    COLLINSON : Informed amateur.
    BROCK : If you’re right, you see what it means? (in despair) They’ll be in here—the environment boys, the conservationists—nailing their little notices on the door and writs and—they could stop everything! If they get on to it— (Thinking furiously) —what about the architect?
    COLLINSON (with contempt) : That architect!
    BROCK : Didn’t he spot it?
    COLLINSON : Not till the day he quit.
    BROCK (a tight smile) : Right! If we go ahead fast—get everything concreted over and the machines in—while we can! Where are the men now?
    COLLINSON : Working on the back.
    BROCK : Come on! (In the doorway he turns) Don’t worry, love, you’ll get your storage room!
    They hurry off along the passage. Jill shivers. It is cold here, the chill suddenly striking. She follows.
    As the men’s footsteps fade they seem to echo inside the room. Curiously changed, though—this is a rapid pattering.
    The effect is so startling that Jill spins round expecting to see another person. And finds nobody. She forces calm on herself and makes for the door. As she reaches it the sense of another presence behind her is overwhelming. She halts and steadies herself against the doorpost. Quite deliberately, she turns to look.
    And sees a figure.
    It is standing high up on the peg-like steps. The figure of a woman in black, its face hidden by arms raised in front of it. It looks as if it is on the point of falling. Still and rigid.
    In the same moment that the vision lasts—and it is only a moment—there is a shrill rasp in the air. A human scream that has lost its humanity, denatured and dead.
    Then silence. The steps empty.
    Jill twists about and clings to the doorpost, beyond crying out. She claws her way into the passage. In the entrance hall she can see Brock and Collinson talking to one of the builders’ men.
    JILL (hoarsely) : Peter—
    He turns. As he starts towards her she pitches forward . . .
    BROCK’S SUITE – LIVING QUARTERS
    Jill is huddled on a convertible bed. Her knees are drawn up beside her and her fists are bunched. She has come out of the first shock into a paroxysm of violent, confused sobbing.
    Brock is trying to calm her.
    BROCK : All right now, all right. Jill!
    He pulls her crumpled face round. Her eyes open but it takes her a moment to focus on him. She looks like a child that can’t explain what hurts. Then panic rises again.
    JILL : I can’t stay here, I’ve got to get away! Take me away!