better the devil

a play by

anthony cain
 






better the devil  was premiered at Camden Peoples Theatre
on 29 May,  2001 by  shouting@giants, with the following cast:



Alexander Kincaid   Paul Millard
Nephesh        Dean Lawrence
Zisca Gibson        Katerina Lokenhagen
Lilith            Kari D. Lawrence
Carl Blake        Steve Misura
Kirsty Kincaid    Rebecca Milner
Vanessa Kincaid    Tina Barnes
Stephen Nash    Dave Hawkins

Demons and Doctors played by the company

Directed by The Noble Jane
Decor by Ian Rogers and Mike A. Lancaster
Lighting Design by Tom McMillen and Ian Rogers
Sound and original music by Mike A. Lancaster
Production supported by Francois Consulting

 
Act One
Scene One: A Place in Hell

A single spot throws a simple circle of light into the centre of an otherwise dark stage. Breathing sounds, laboured and rasping, come from somewhere distant. After listening to them for a while, we become aware of footsteps, getting closer, then coming across the stage, towards the light.
 
Alex KINCAID enters. He is well dressed in a suit and tie, but his demeanour doesn't fit with the confident image his clothes are trying to project. KINCAID looks nervous and he walks with a slight stoop, as if life is too heavy to bear upon his shoulders. He looks around himself, somewhat fearfully, and when he enters the spot of light he seems to be listening to the breathing sounds that, though lessened in volume, persist. KINCAID is carrying a carver-style chair, clutched tightly to his chest. After a few furtive looks around him he places the chair to the left of the centre of the light.

A woman's scream rings out loud, piercing and full of the sounds of fear. KINCAID looks towards its source and, while he is looking away, a dark figure looms out of the darkness behind him, bends down, adjusts the position of the chair and then fades back out.
 
The scream quietens, but does not die out immediately. KINCAID looks over at stage left rather nervously and then shrugs.
 
Kincaid
    Good voice. Very ... sustained.

He turns to the audience.

Kincaid
You get to appreciate their qualities after a while. Short, sharp screams of sudden surprise; long, ululating wails of drawn-out despair; pitiful, reedy screams that lack even the conviction of the screamer's suffering. They are as individual as the torments that evoke them.

He sits down. Another chair rolls, very smoothly and silently, across the stage (on casters?) and stops next to Kincaid's. The mechanism that propels it should be invisible to the audience. It is immediately followed by the arrival of NEPHESH, Kincaid's personal tormentor. NEPHESH sits down and nods a greeting to KINCAID. KINCAID ignores it, stands up and begins to pace.


Kincaid
But it's not the screams that are the worst here. It's the small places. Tiny rooms that you suddenly find yourself in, with no clear recollection of how you happened to be there; with no idea how to get yourself out.
 
He sits down but doesn't look at his companion.
 
It ... (he struggles to complete the thought) it gets hard to remember where you came from. You get to think that maybe this place is all you've ever really known; that maybe it's where you've always been. That open spaces and vaulted ceilings are a dream we once had. A dream I once had.

He massages his temples as if in pain.

Le Corbusier once said that a house was a machine, a machine for living in. Maybe the small places are machines, too. Machines for dreaming of better things. Of wider spaces. Of hope and love and laughter.

Long pause as he rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

Or maybe I've been here too long.

Dim light suddenly suffuses the entire stage, widening out the area of action. We see some of the small places that Kincaid has been talking about: tiny recesses in the background that look reminiscent of the nooks in the walls of a dovecote. Except no dovecote ever housed some of the twisted, half-glimpsed grotesques that inhabit these recesses

NEPHESH, who has, up to this point, been pretty indifferent to KINCAID, suddenly scrutinises him keenly. The trigger for this is the change in lighting.

Nephesh
And how long have you been here?
 
KINCAID just looks around, again rather nervously.
 
Kincaid
Did you just hear that?
 
Nephesh
I heard nothing.

KINCAID mouths the word "nothing" a few times, as if unsure of its meaning; then he looks triumphant.

Kincaid
Exactly. Nothing. (A beat) The screaming has stopped.

Nephesh
I wasn't aware of any screaming.

KINCAID sits down and studies NEPHESH for the first time. Somewhat suspiciously.
 
Kincaid
And who might you be?

Nephesh (smiling)
You can call me Nephesh.

Kincaid
Is that supposed to be a real name?

Nephesh
Well, it's what you can call me, so I guess it constitutes a name. (He thinks about it). Actually, names don't mean as much here as they do other places. Identity is ... a lot less rigid. And you were telling me about the screams.

Kincaid (somewhat testily)
Actually, I was telling you about the silence. A sudden lack of the screams you weren't aware of in the first place.

Nephesh
And you were talking about the small places...

Kincaid (suspicious again)
Are you a doctor?

NEPHESH laughs a pretty humourless laugh.

Nephesh (amused)
Do you feel in need of a doctor?

Kincaid
Doesn't everyone here?

Nephesh
You've seen others?

Kincaid
Not ... seen ... exactly; but yes, I've met others. Sometimes they end up squeezed into the same small places as me.

He shudders and turns away.

Their wounds are usually warm against my flesh. The smell of necrosis has its own heat ...

Nephesh
All this talk of small places; what do you mean by it? Where do you think you are?

Kincaid
... a wet heat that catches in the throat ... I'm sorry? You asked me something.

Nephesh
Where are we?

Kincaid (puzzled)
Where?

Nephesh
Are we.

KINCAID stands up again, looking perplexed. The question is moving around in parts of his mind that he really doesn't want disturbing just now. He looks back at his chair. Then he shakes his head.

Kincaid
I don't suppose it matters. Not any more. Not really. It must have mattered once -the not being sure of anything-  but as time passes you ... kind of adjust. I am here.  Sometimes I imagine that written in bold type across a map, with a big black arrow confirming the truth of the written  statement. I. Am. Here.

He gestures around him.

Location is relative. It requires reference points. Another place to define its precise location. The closest I can come to an answer is here, next to you.

NEPHESH nods.

Nephesh
Doesn't that bother you?

Kincaid
What? Why should it?

Nephesh
I'm just surprised that a man like you should have grown so ... disinterested in location.

KINCAID sits down and studies NEPHESH intently.

Kincaid
Why? What are you saying? A man like me? Do you know me?

NEPHESH smiles and shrugs. KINCAID grows distraught.

Do you know who I am?

Another scream rips through the air.


Nephesh
Full-throated and dense; a pressurised roar of stored suffering teased free from a person with a high pain threshold. Pain that grew fat and heavy then blossomed into sound. Can you imagine the extremities of violence that midwifed that cry into existence? The craft of the torturer?

Kincaid
I'd rather not think about it. And, anyway, we were talking about me.

Nephesh (distractedly)
We were. I mean, we were? (A beat) Sometimes one has to stop and take some time to appreciate the work of a true artist.

Kincaid (sulkily)
Why do you torment me so?

Nephesh
Do you recognise me now?

Kincaid
Questions, questions, questions. It's all we trade between us. Your face is different, but yes, I recognise you now.  We meet here every day. We talk without saying anything. You bait me with half-hints about me and my life and my identity and then...

Nephesh
Yes?

Kincaid
I can't remember.

Nephesh
Pardon?

Kincaid (louder, more desperate)
I can't remember.

NEPHESH's face assumes a hungry leer, devoid of humanity.

Nephesh
No. You can't. Because that is how it is meant to be. That is the scheme. The grand design. The purpose and the meaning. We are cogs, you and I, and at this time every day our teeth bite together. This is a function of the machine that drives us. We cannot escape the mechanical precision that drives us together. Nor can we remember when the machine resets itself tomorrow. And tomorrow. And to-fucking-morrow

NEPHESH stands and looms over KINCAID who cowers beneath NEPHESH's sudden height.

You want answers that the machinery prefers to keep to itself. You want to know the purpose of the tiny places and long to remember just who the hell you are.

NEPHESH raises a fist above KINCAID's face.

You want to see the world outside the bars of your mind-forged prison; want to know why you feel hot wounds pressed against your flesh and why the screams never end for long.

His fist drops to his side. The volume of this last speech has been rising, its harshness becoming more and more intense. Mocking. Ugly. Yet when he speaks again it is in civil, even friendly, tones.

Okay.

KINCAID has been cowering, sinker deeper and deeper into submission, expecting the punch to land. He has even squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation of the blow. Suddenly the tension is gone and he opens one eye, peering up, expecting a trick. But NEPHESH has sat back down and is smiling.

Kincaid
Oh-okay?

Nephesh (casually)
Sure. Why not? I hate clockwork. I hate precision. Let's make things ... messy, chaotic. (Pause) How deep are the waters of your curiosity? Would you be prepared to engage in a little wager, if it meant you found out all the answers to all the questions you have forgotten to ask?

Kincaid (guardedly)
A wager?

Nephesh
Sure. To keep things interesting. I am a gambling man. Are you?


Kincaid
I ... I ... don't know.

Nephesh
Then guess.

Kincaid (almost to himself)
I want to know who I am ... was ... whatever...

Nephesh
Then gamble.

Kincaid
What's the stake?

NEPHESH swats the question aside.

Nephesh
We'll worry about terms later. First we should determine the conditions of the wager. Let me think.

NEPHESH turns away and moves towards the back of the stage, leaving a bemused KINCAID just sitting there alone. NEPHESH flips open the cover of a mobile phone and starts chattering into it. KINCAID stands up and moves closer in an attempt to eavesdrop on the conversation but NEPHESH snaps his fingers and the dark figure from before rushes on from off-stage. He grabs KINCAID and throws him back towards the seat. More dark figures arrive and quickly, shockingly, brutally, but utterly efficiently the ensemble grab KINCAID; wrestle him into the carver chair; secure his arms to the chair arms with bonds; bring out a roll of cling film and wrap it around KINCAID's face, sealing it off with duck tape. (As soon as the dark figure sets foot on stage a heavy industrial chugging guitar kicks in, and continues as the securing process is accomplished). All the lights, bar the spot, are killed. KINCAID struggles, vainly, to free himself. The music crescendos and the figures disappear into the darkness. We kill the last light.

 

Scene Two: A Boardroom.

A large table has been brought on-stage. The bound and shrink-wrapped KINCAID now sits at the table's head. A portable flip chart and a portable whiteboard have been wheeled on too, as has an overhead projector and a screen. There is also a Trompe l'œil of a cityscape to give us the impression that it is the window of a high building

We establish this odd tableau, demonstrating that KINCAID is still wriggling within his constraints, but the audience's focus is suddenly switched. The spotlight dies and is replaced, immediately, with a follow-spot stage right. This spot illuminates an area of the stage that suggests a city street outside the building that KINCAID is now inside.

A man walks into view: dressed as a carbon copy of Kincaid, but carrying a briefcase. We will meet this man later and find out his name is STEPHEN NASH (although the identity issue is problematised by later developments, it is the same actor). He walks part of the way onto the stage, followed by the spot. As he walks we here a SOUND EFFECT: footsteps. The man stops. The footsteps stop, but a full step after he stopped walking. He looks around nervously, takes a single step forward. We hear two steps. He takes another, much more hesitantly. We hear three steps. He pretends to take another. We hear four steps. And they are moving more quickly.

The spotlight winks off, then on again. Something howls. Something else growls. The spot flickers. The man drops his briefcase and looks panicked. The light dies.

A very slow strobe flashes and picks out the dark figures from the last scene, closing in, but frozen in tableau by the light. Darkness: more howls. Strobe flash: figures closer. The strobe flickers get faster and faster. The industrial chugging from the last scene kicks back in. The figures close in around the man. They are all wearing masks: utterly featureless. They encircle the man, clawing at him, toying with him. The music gets louder and faster. Their attacks grow nastier, more savage.

The man goes down on his knees; laces his hands together to pray; looks up to the heavens, pleadingly.
NEPHESH comes onto the stage, watches for a short while, smiling, then he steps forward.

Nephesh (shouts)
Stop this!

Guitar and strobe end immediately. Normal lighting is resumed. The attackers seem to droop, stand still, heads hanging. NEPHESH goes forward, helps the man to his feet, dusts him down and hands him the briefcase. His attackers remain frozen on the spot. The man looks desperately relieved.

Man (Nash)
Thank you. Oh god, thank you.

Nephesh
Oh, please don't thank me. I didn't do this for you. You will be seeing these folks again, and I should imagine it will be sooner rather than later.

He looks at the man with contempt.

Your wife very nearly succeeded in killing herself. If your daughter hadn't found her, she would be dead. This happened twenty minutes ago. It was all your fault. She felt she couldn't bear the lies any longer; the affairs, the phone calls, the abortion.

He looks as if he is about to walk off and leave it at that, but then he turns.

Evil comes in many shapes and sizes, but more often than not it looks just like you. Ordinary. Bland. Prosaic. Make peace and put your affairs in order. Keep an eye out for moving shadows. Your time is numbered. Go. Now.

The man leaves, looking shaken. NEPHESH rounds up the attackers and engages them in hushed conversation. He leads them to the boardroom set-up; gets them seated. At his silent command they take off their masks: human. They take off their robes: suits.

NEPHESH gives them some last whispered pointers and leaves. One of the group, ZISCA GIBSON, stands up and addresses the assembly.

Zisca
All that remains is for Mr. Kincaid to say a few words. So, without further ado, I hand you over to him.

Everyone turns to look at KINCAID, who is still shrink-wrapped. They stare at him for a while. NEPHESH comes back on, unties KINCAID's arms, unwraps his head and then, shrugging, moves to the back of the stage. He stands there, watching. The others turn back to ZISCA.

Zisca (as if already tired of the words)
All that remains is for Mr. Kincaid to say a few words. So, without further ado, I hand you over to him.

Everyone looks over at KINCAID expectantly, but he just looks utterly nonplussed by the attention. He just sits there, not knowing what is expected of him. NEPHESH coughs to attract his attention and then prompts him from the back of the room.

Nephesh
Thank you, Zisca. Thank you all.

KINCAID looks over at him without comprehension and NEPHESH gestures for him to repeat the words. KINCAID looks back at the gathering.

Kincaid
Th-thank you, Zisca. Thank you all.

NEPHESH applauds silently, then leaves again.

Kincaid (slowly, as if trying to remember his lines)
When I was asked to design your new corporate headquarters in Madrid, I thought, this is going to have to be something special.

Things seem to be going okay and KINCAID seems to be slotting into his role, so his delivery gains confidence and passion as he continues.

Not just because it is my duty as an architect to contribute to a city with sensible, pragmatic, aesthetic designs that do not conflict with the history already present in that city; but because of the high profile of your brand and the expectations such success creates within the imaginations of your customers and, indeed, your competitors.

The gathering nods their agreement.

What -I found myself asking- is a city? How can one interpellate into its history without leaving obvious keloid scars? And then it hit me. The history of the city IS its present, blurred into abstraction. Mapped and explicated by grid-referenced intersections of ages. Each street is a chance encounter between architectural styles, urban planning philosophies, owner modifications, random erosion, decay.

KINCAID moves to the whiteboard, picks up a pen and writes HISTORY? on it.

The city lives and breathes, but it does so independently of time. It exists outside of human time. It is both past and present. It acts as a nexus point between the ages of human history.

He writes PAST and PRESENT on the board.

The city, when viewed as a single entity, must exist in FOUR dimensions. And a flagship building within that continuum must be chronally, as well as spatially, aware. So I present for your approval my concept: time and space reconciled.

He turns over the cover of the flipchart and reveals his design: a glass pyramid on steel stilts. There are gasps and mutters among the assembly. Then a round of applause. KINCAID stares at the picture as if seeing it for the first time. He scratches his head. The applause continues. He walks over to the overhead projector and switches it on. The same picture is projected onto the screen. The applause gets louder.

KINCAID starts to look disorientated. He touches the screen. More applause. He looks around the table. The people stand up and applaud. He massages his temples. More applause. He takes the transparency out of the projector, quickly scribbles on a blank sheet, and puts it into the projector. A terribly inept picture of a house that looks like it was drawn by a five-year-old. The applause continues.

KINCAID looks around desperately, as if trying to make sense of what is going on here. The truth is: it makes no sense. With the applause suddenly augmented with recorded applause -many hundreds of people- less sense can be made of it. KINCAID starts to panic. A moment of presentational triumph is turning bad, nightmarish, and -unable to see how or why- KINCAID is going to pieces. As the applause crescendos Kincaid tries to bolt, first one way, then the other, but it is if the applause is preventing him, as if it is a solid wall of noise. Eventually he settles for shrinking down into a foetal position, his hands over his ears.

The applause dies as if a switch has been thrown. The assembly collapse like marionettes with the strings cut. They lay there, slumped across the table.

Only ZISCA retains any motion. With the rest of the group remaining slumped (and still) on the table, ZISCA twitches and mutters. NEPHESH enters and watches her at a discreet distance. She sits up and looks around her, puzzled.


Zisca
Sometimes my head feels too small to hold it all inside. To hold THEM all inside. Being him and her, but never me.  Playing real lives as if they were my own, as if I had been the one to live them, as if I even belonged in them.  Emotions not my own. I play them, but never know them. I can fake them all; I just can't remember what it was like to feel them for myself. An actor never touched by the roles she plays. A shadow puppet with the light source forever hidden from her glassine eyes.

She stands up and walks the length of the table, touching the heads and hands of those she passes.

So many people inside, but never me. The pressure in my head builds incrementally. The sum of the stresses of every life I play, times the square of my own hollow darkness.

NEPHESH has listened keenly, and now steps forward.

Nephesh
You played your part well, little creature.

Zisca
Did I? I can no longer judge. Nor care.

Nephesh
He seemed convinced.

Zisca
He was a fool.

Nephesh
You remember him? You know him?

Zisca
The architect? No.

Nephesh
You should. He's the reason that you are here with us.

Zisca
He is? But how?


Nephesh
I can't say. It's forbidden.

Zisca
I thought nothing was forbidden here. Except, perhaps, hope.

NEPHESH laughs.

Nephesh
My dear girl, hope is COMPULSORY here. It's what makes all the torment worthwhile. People cling to the slimmest skeins of the stuff, convinced that things will get better, hoping that they will earn a reprieve, a respite, redemption.

Zisca
And will they? Earn redemption?

NEPHESH shrugs.

Nephesh
Have you?

ZISCA looks at him as if trying to place him.

Zisca
You know me ... I mean from before...


Nephesh
I do.

Zisca
… but I don't know you.

Nephesh
You do.



Zisca
Did we...?

Nephesh
No. Never.

Zisca
Then we must have...

Nephesh
Again the answer is no.

He holds out his hands to her, but she turns and looks the other way.

Zisca
I don't want to be here.

Nephesh
No one does. That's the essence of this place. Damnation doesn't require volition, it just is. If you want out, help me.

ZISCA turns back to face him. His hands are still extended and she takes them in hers.

Zisca
Help you? You need me?

Nephesh
I do.


Zisca
And I can ... earn a reprieve?

Nephesh
It won't be easy.


Zisca
Few things here are. (Cautiously) This isn't a trick? A thin skein of hope for me to cling to?

NEPHESH draws her closer.

Nephesh
No trick. Just a deal.

Zisca
Trust me ... I'm a demon?

NEPHESH lets go of her and moves away, quite petulantly. He folds his arms and stares off-stage.

Zisca
What? What did I say?

Nephesh
Sticks and stones won't hurt my bones, but such words can only hurt me.

Zisca
Hurt you?

Nephesh
I'm only human.

Zisca
With more than a slight whiff of brimstone about you.

Nephesh
I'm not a demon, if that's your implication, I don't believe in them.

He mimes pouring salt onto his hand and throwing it over his shoulder, looks round and shrugs as if to say “see?”

The devil was only ever a form of social control; a terrible lie to scare people into behaving. A fiction that helps us transfer our darker impulses to an external figure. So we can say it was "the devil's work" or that "the devil made them do it" rather than facing the absolute truth: it was us; always   And of course there's no God. He died of a heroin overdose in a cheap motel many years ago. Mind you, it was no loss, if you must know. He'd been utterly mad with syphilis for as long as any could recall.  It's human will that defines our actions, full stop. There are no angels or devils. Good and evil exist only because of our childish need to put names to things, even if we don’t properly understand just what it is we are naming.  So if I smell of brimstone then it is your expectation that I will, shaping your perceptions. The truth is you just want me to, it makes everything simpler.

Zisca (horrified)
God? Dead? You really are a devil.

Nephesh
It was a joke, dear girl.

ZISCA seems to hearten because of this.

Nephesh
Actually, he never existed either.

ZISCA visibly deflates again, but NEPHESH ignores her, switching into a kind of game-show-host-from-hell mode.

But enough theology, I still have a deal to offer.

Zisca
And we all know how much those bargains cost.

Nephesh
Eternal damnation? Taken a good look around yourself recently, Zisca dahling?

Zisca
Is that my real name? Zisca?

Nephesh
Who the fuck cares? Are you ready to play the part of a lifetime? Are you ready to play yourself as we give Alexander Kincaid his life back? Can you? Dare you? Will you?

Zisca
I ... I don't know.

NEPHESH makes the UH-UNH noise from 'Family Fortunes'.

Nephesh
Careful, little lady. The next word you speak will be taken as your final word on the matter. If it ain't "Yes", then I'm outta here, sweetie.

ZISCA's interior conflict is echoed by her panicking eyes.

Nephesh
Tick tock tick tock.

Zisca
Yes.

Nephesh (cupping ear with hand)
Yes?

Zisca (louder)
YES!

NEPHESH applauds her and smiles.

Nephesh
You made the wise choice; the people's choice; the one and only right choice. From here on in it's gonna be a real scream.

He takes her arm and links it through his.

Nephesh
Zisca, dahling, let's raise some hell.

They walk off-stage, ZISCA somewhat nervously.

Black-out.

Zisca (off-stage)
Will I really be playing myself this time?

Nephesh
Would I lie?

 
Act Two
Scene One: A Park

Darkness. Then a single spot, illuminating a park bench, centre stage. Birdsong begins and the sounds of children playing follow soon after. More light is gradually phased into the scene. Somewhere a dog barks three times, then yelps and is silent.

KINCAID runs on from the wings, looking about himself nervously. He spots the bench and sits down, still looking around him, paranoid about potential pursuers.
 
Kincaid
Is this freedom, or just another small place I haven't yet perceived the dimensions of?

He shudders.

"The way we choose to view things is forever the way we will see them", my father once said.
 
Long pause as he reflects on the statement.
 
My father was always saying shit like that. Spoke like a box of fortune cookies for second-rate philosophers. Walked out when I was ten and I never saw or heard from him again. Guess the way he chose to view things was from a vantage point unencumbered with my mother and me.

Slowly shakes his head.

Can't remember his face; just some of his worthy contributions to epigrammatic thought. In my memory he's just a voice; a smell of Imperial Leather soap and Denim after-shave; a perpetually rough cheek and a bunch of sayings. Mother destroyed all but one of the photographs she had of him. It was one of her favourite photographs of herself so she carefully cut around my father so there was just a hole where he had once been. I don't think she even saw the heavy-handed metaphor she created with her scissors and her pain.

He puts his face in his hands and shakes his head.

"The way we choose to view things is forever the way we will see them". Thanks, dad. Nice legacy. Could have given me some cash or a car or some advice that would have seen me through puberty, but no! Mr. Hole-in-a-photograph gives me the analects of subjectivity and then fucks off out of my life.

NEPHESH appears behind the bench, unseen by KINCAID. He's talking to a woman, LILITH, and is pointing towards KINCAID and nodding.

Kincaid
The thing is: maybe he was right. That perception really is the key to everything. That universality is impossible and all we can really hope for is understanding. Or something.

NEPHESH sits down next to KINCAID who looks devastated that he has been found so easily. LILITH lingers in the background.

Kincaid
Not freedom, then.

Nephesh
Not yet. Want to hear the terms of our wager?

Kincaid
If I must.

Nephesh
I have put you back into your life. It's yours. Enjoy.

He pretends to start to leave then turns to KINCAID.

You have twenty-four hours to work out why you ended up in the place we so recently left. To see what condemned you to the small places. A simple, single act. If you identify it, if you succeed, the torment ends. Simple as that.

Kincaid
And if I fail?

Nephesh
Smaller places. Hotter wounds. No answers. Ever.

Kincaid
It can't be worse ... (than this)

Nephesh
Oh yes it can, Alex. If you fail, I can guarantee that things will be infinitely worse.

Kincaid
What can be worse that not knowing who you are? Why you've been damned?
 
Nephesh
Knowing. Sometimes.

He pauses to let this sink in.

Do we have a deal?

Kincaid
Is it worth it?

Nephesh
Knowledge, insight, answers, an end to pain and doubt and fear.

He mimes scales, weighing up his words.

Probably not.

Kincaid
Then I'll do it.
 
Nephesh
You will. I mean: you will?

Kincaid
But only if I can add a single term of my own.

NEPHESH looks surprised but fascinated.

Nephesh
Interesting ...



Kincaid
If I lose, then I want YOU out of my damnation. That's the condition I must insist upon if this wager is to go ahead.  You. Out. Of. My. Face.

NEPHESH considers this and smiles.

Nephesh
When making a compact such as this, it is imperative that you choose your terminology very carefully. With a careless phrase like your last, a literal-minded demon could find all manner of ways to fulfil their obligation, while giving you suffering beyond imagination. You're lucky. I'll take the spirit of the request, rather than the ambiguous nature of its phrasing. You have your condition. Sign here.

He flourishes a document.

Ink will be fine. Before you ask.

KINCAID studies it.

Kincaid
It's in Latin.

NEPHESH waves aside the observation.

Nephesh
Sort of. Do you have a problem with that?

Kincaid
I probably should have, but I really don't like you, so I will sign just to get you out of my fa ... just to get some  peace.

He pulls out a pen and signs with a flourish meant to rival NEPHESH's.

Kincaid
Bring on the dancing girls.

NEPHESH gives him a patronising smile, and then gets up to go.

Kincaid
When does it start?

Nephesh
That would be now.

He points to LILITH, who is still hovering around behind the bench, and then he leaves. LILITH steps forward and dances in front of KINCAID, then she sits down. KINCAID looks at her as if trying to tweak a memory, but it's obvious that if the memory is there it isn't coming.

Kincaid
Do I know you?

LILITH guffaws.

Kincaid
I'm sorry, did I say something funny?

She shrugs.



Lilith
It's not the most original line I've ever heard, that's all. So I laughed. Sometimes it's the only response that makes sense.

She takes out a compact and studies her reflection in its mirror.

Does this shade of lipstick seem a little brash to you?

Kincaid
I'm sorry?

Lilith
My lipstick. It's very red, don't you think? But is it too … provocative?

Kincaid
It looks fine.

Lilith (brightly)
Really?

She studies herself in the mirror, pursing her lips at her reflection. Then she shrugs.

It's just so hard getting these things right. The details.  So much to think about. For instance: do you think I should have chosen stockings with seams? They're so difficult to get hold of these days, but they do add a touch of ... I suppose "class" is the word I'm looking for.

She shows KINCAID her legs.

It's a lovely day, don't you think? There's a stillness to the air, as if the day itself was holding its breath, waiting for something wonderful to happen. I remember when I was little I used to think that days like this would never end.

Kincaid
I remember thinking something similar myself.



Lilith
But summer gives way to autumn, and though its colours are dramatic, there's always the sense that you are attending a wake. That the year is shrivelling and dying and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

She closes the compact and looks at KINCAID as if seeing him for the first time.

Do you think that autumn proves that God no longer cares about us?

Kincaid
I don't really think about God that much.

Lilith
Me neither.

She looks as if she is about to leave,  half-achieves a standing position, then sits back down and leans right in to KINCAID.

I use a raspberry douche on my cunt, you know. I'm told that it's like gorging on a warm fruit pie. I make my own custard, too, but you'll need to work very hard to earn that treat.

KINCAID looks stunned.

You don't think that line's a little over-the-top, do you?

His jaw drops.

It's just so hard getting these things right. The details.  What to tell, what to hold back. We need to give an accurate description of our contents while retaining a certain mystique with regards to our secret ingredients. Close your mouth, you'll catch flies.

She closes it for him.

So, anyway, if I'm to become your mistress I'll need a name. Why don't you call me Lilith? (She waits) Ask me why I'm called Lilith.


Kincaid (uncertainly)
Why are you called Lilith?

Lilith
You know something? I asked my mother that very same question.

There is a long pause.

Kincaid
And?

Lilith
She said: "Ith becauthe they're my favourite flowerth, thilly."

Another pause.

This silence has been left blank for you to insert laughter.

KINCAID stares at her blankly.

You really haven't got a G.S.O.H., have you?

Another blank look.

You have to wonder about people who use acronyms like that.  Do they really think that saying they have a G.S.O.H. is actually going to impress anyone?

She leans forward and kisses KINCAID on the cheek.

I have an F.E.S.O.H. A fucking EVIL sense of humour. I'm also an N/S; I'm well/end and I also T.I.U.T.S. The last rhymes with "glitter" and sounds like a right pain in the arse. Do we have sex soon? All this dirty talk makes my clitty throb.

KINCAID looks at her uncertainly. She smiles, sweetly, at him. She hoiks up her breasts to display her cleavage. KINCAID looks at it, then her face. He shrugs and smiles.


Kincaid
Yes. We have sex. Soon.

LILITH stands and KINCAID joins her. They move towards stage left. KINCAID turns to the audience.

Kincaid (aside)
Hell's provided me this opportunity
To re-acquaint myself with my past life
In a manner I find agreeable.
Let her smallest place provide me freedom:
A refuge from Tantalus' grasping claws.

Lilith (also aside)
I hope the fucker uses a rubber;
Hell-forged seed tends to play havoc inside.
I have little left, but I have my pride.
They exit.



 
Scene Two: An Office

ZISCA GIBSON and CARL BLAKE sit facing each other in another minimalist suggestion of a setting: this time an office. The two are frozen, mid-conversation. KINCAID and LILITH wander across the front of the stage. They look involved in each other's company, but then KINCAID spots ZISCA and does a double-take.

Kincaid
I ... I know her.

Lilith
You recognise her?

Kincaid
Yes ... it's very odd ... I feel …

Lilith
Odd? You SHOULD recognise the ice-coozed bitch. You were fucking her on the sly for over fifteen years.

Kincaid
Her? Me? We?

Lilith
Look, as eager as I am to move to the inevitable exchange of bodily fluids, I think you'll find this touching scene…

She indicates the tableau.

…takes place a good few years before we actually meet. How about I go and get worked up and foamy and you can join me when this is all played out?

Kincaid
But ...

Lilith
I know. Years of backed-up semen making you tumescent beyond endurance. This scene is important, though. They all are. Maybe this is the one that damned you. It would be pretty stupid of you to miss it because you were overly keen on whitewashing my back wall, don't you think?

Kincaid
But I will see you later?

Lilith
Of course you will. I'm important, too.

She goes. KINCAID moves to the back of the stage. CARL BLAKE comes to life while ZISCA remains frozen. BLAKE is mid-thirties and elegantly dressed.

Blake (to the audience)
My name was Carl Blake. I was Alex Kincaid's business partner for ... well, for as long as we were in business together. (He laughs). I'm married to Zisca. That's her opposite me. (Pause)  I have long suspected that Alex and Zisca have been ... more than friends, but I've never  dared attempt to confirm or disprove the truth of that feeling.  You may find that cowardly, I know I do, but I've weighed the whole thing up in my head and I can't take the risk of confronting them. I can't risk losing them both.

NEPHESH has sidled up to KINCAID at the back of the scene. He gets KINCAID's attention soundlessly and nods towards the scene, grinning knowingly.

We built this company, Alex and I, out of nothing: his creative vision, my business acumen. It's been a perfect symbiosis, actually. Neither could have done this without the other.

He lights a cigarette, slowly and with relish.

But lately things have changed. A symbiotic relationship needs balance, and Alex's hunger is increasing. In fact, as you join us, I suspect my business partner has not only been dipping into my wife, but the company funds as well. A matter I am about to bring to the attention of my lovely wife.

He winks conspiratorially at the audience, taps his nose with his forefinger, stubs the cigarette and turns to ZISCA. Who suddenly gains animation, too.

Blake
I'm fine. Why?

Zisca
You just seem tense, that's all.

Blake
Sure I'm tense. Tenseness is my middle name.

Zisca
And I thought your middle name was Kenneth.

Blake
Yes, but if you substitute some of the letters, then add some, then make an anagram of it, it will spell “tenseness”.

Zisca
You're working too hard.

Blake
I know. But I have to. This corporate headquarters for the Mojima Corporation is our big chance; it really is. Alex's design is ... very bold. Visionary. This could be the defining moment for Kincaid and Blake; the one that all the others can only dream about.

He lights another cigarette.

I'd hate to lose it all.

Zisca
Lose it? Why would you? Oh, honey, you need to take some time away from it all; it's making you paranoid.

Blake
More time away? I'm still counting the cost of the last time.

Zisca
But darling, what can you mean?

Blake
I guess I mean that while you and I jetted off to Antigua for our fun in the sun, some ... irregularities began to appear in the company books.

ZISCA looks shocked.

Zisca
Irregularities? I'm not following you.

Blake
I'm not sure I fully follow it myself, dear. It's just that it seems that someone has been playing it fast and loose with some our sub-contractors; substituting substandard materials for the high-spec materials we talked about using. The idea seems to have been to cut costs, but none of those savings actually appear in the company ledgers.

He waits for that sink in.

I'm not even sure I would have noticed the deviations from our original orders if it hadn't have been for a chance meeting with Juan Alvarez - he's the steel contractor in Madrid. He was over for a trade fair and stopped by on a whim. He voiced a concern about the loaded weight of the lobby walkway, something to do with the stiffeners in the beams, and he wondered if the change of spec had been an entirely good idea. Of course I had no idea what he was talking about.

Zisca
Structural engineering has never been one of your strong points, darling.

Blake
I concede that. So I did some checking. Guess who authorised the deviations from the specifications?

Zisca
I can't begin to.

Blake
Alex.

Zisca
There's been some mistake. Alex? Don't be absurd. Why would he?


Blake
He might have eighty thousand good reasons, one for every pound he could embezzle. How could I have been so blind?

Zisca (suddenly very tense)
Now listen, you don't know that's what happened. You can't believe that Alex is capable of such a thing. It ... it's a mistake. That's ALL it is. I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for it. This ... steel contractor, he just got it wrong, that's all.

Blake
I wish that were the case. I fear, however, that it is not.

He stands up and makes to leave.

Zisca
Where are you going?

Blake
To do a little more checking. If Alex is cutting corners to cut costs, I'm going to need some hard evidence before I confront him.

Zisca
Confront him? You can't be serious. This is Alex we’re talking about here.

Blake
No, this is the future of the company we're talking about here. If that walkway collapses while the building's in use, can you imagine how catastrophic that would be? I'm not just going to let this all fall down around us. Around me.


He storms out. ZISCA watches him leave. She sits there for a few seconds, utterly still, then reaches into her pocket and takes out a mobile phone. She quickly keys in a number. A mobile phone rings. KINCAID looks around. NEPHESH takes out his phone. He offers it to KINCAID without even bothering to answer it.

Nephesh
It's for you.

KINCAID takes it.

Zisca
Alex? It's Zisca. I think we may have a problem.

The lights fade to black.




Scene Three: A Bedroom.

Another minimalist environment that, with the slightest encouragement should shout "bedroom". Only a semblance of a bed is vital, along with a duvet and some pillows.

Under the duvet, something stirs. More than stirs, actually. KINCAID is working, none too subtly, on LILITH, and almost pantomimic take on the carnal act. A seventies porn-film wah-wah accompanies the action. KINCAID is doing all the vocalisations; LILITH merely coughs a couple of times. If the audience isn’t embarrassed by this particularly crap sex-scene, then we're not playing it absurdly enough.

KINCAID reaches a (rather uncertain) climax and then rolls off LILITH and settles himself down for a snooze.

Lilith (after 20 seconds of silence)
Maybe infidelity is to blame;
The heightened longing of a guilty taste.
So ripe a sacred fruit, its juice is drained
Before the flesh apprehends its squeezing.


Kincaid
I'm sorry. That's never happened before.
We can try again if you'll give me time.
I feel like I've taken without payment
A hollow gesture that yearns to be more.

Lilith
The gelid warmth I feel drip out me
Means you have given me more than I need:
A broken membrane of protection, and
Drool on the lips of my cannibal queen.
I feel like a painted, empty vessel
That you have used to pour your hunger in,
And though I over-brim with its product,
I fail to work out the shape of your need.
Was it me you saw in the moment?
Or just a moment you saw in me?

Kincaid
God.
I don't know. I feel I should, but I don't.
Too often I feel trapped in a prison
That I locked myself in and lost the key.

Lilith
I find myself lost to catch your meaning.
Where is this prison? Where is its gaoler?

Kincaid
I feel the borders of the trap I've built
But cannot start to find its bars.
I coloured them with memories and hope
But chose the hues too well and now they're lost.

Lilith
This is no small cage, it's more like freedom
Than freedom itself ever dared to dream.
Imagination pushes back the walls,
Extending vistas to vanishing points
Limited only by mental constraints.
Reason and its sweet lover, unreason
Transport us swiftly to locations new,
We wake in places never visited,
Imagination furnishes them, too.
Fills them with trinkets, gadgets, symbols, toys;
Signifiers of a privileged life.
They liberate men, not incarcerate.

No captive man has lived such a sentence
As the one you claim, it is simply wealth
-that boa constrictor called luxury-
That narrows and distorts your perceptions.
For like that first Arcadian couple,
The orchard-keeper and his fruit-smear'd whore,
Perfect sufficiency leads to hungers,
Hungers become their own soft reward.

Kincaid
But I have never made myself happy
Pursuing the chimaeras you describe.
The tyranny of these tiny places
Takes the souls of men and hides them away.
Then we awake in a new world order:
A pornocracy of rose-scent’d whores
Whose flabby dugs and strychnine-laced breast-milk
Serve to pacify our better judgement.
Subordination of our uniqueness,
Capitalisation on our weakness.
I've become a human ourobourous:
Forced by hunger to swallow my own tail.

He lays down, somewhat huffily. LILITH sits up.


Lilith (aside)
This is what they mean by 'in the moment',
He falls asleep even as I awake.
I give him love -or a semblance of it-
So close one could not tell it apart.
To think this is what the poets speak of,
Symphonies written to commemorate
The simple exchange of complex proteins,
A man's unceasing need to penetrate.
Entrusts his code in jelly and tadpoles
Invests them in a tube that leads to eggs;
Such a simple reproductive device,
But this time it won't fail like Alex wants.

Already I feel it rise within me
Surging tide of genetic potential
Awash with Fallopian opium
I'm fertile, fertile, so fucking fertile!
One plus one will equal another one
Taking instant root within my body
A parasite that battens upon me
I know it's there, but he will want it gone.

She touches her stomach and then presses down upon it, as if feeling something inside. Then she becomes crestfallen. She lays beside KINCAID. He stirs and then starts to snore. It acts as an odd counterpoint to LILITH's sobbing.

NEPHESH wanders onstage. He checks the scene in the bed and then faces the audience. Puts a finger to his lips.

Nephesh
Sssshhhh.

Points to KINCAID.

His first night's sleep since he came here. There's never any sleep for the damned; it's all torment, no release.

Looks faux-admiring at KINCAID.

So sweet.

He laughs.

Such a waste of eight hours. By the time he awakens he will already have used up half of his allotted time.  

Faces the audience.

As have we.

Blackout.
Interval.






Act Three
Scene One: A Place in Hell

The boardroom, the park, the office and the bedroom are all mixed together on the stage. It needs to look cluttered and chaotic, surreal. The backdrop is, simply, flames.

A baby girl sits amidst the chaos. She does whatever she does. Dark figures move around behind.

STEPHEN NASH, KIRSTEY KINCAID and VANESSA KINCAID enter. Kincaid's best friend, daughter and wife respectively. We have seen NASH already, he is dressed exactly the same.

NASH goes to the bedroom area and sits down in a chair. KIRSTEY and VANESSA head towards the park bench. On the way, KIRSTEY sees the baby. She points to it.

Kirstey
Look. Another one. And this one looks whole. Can we keep it, mother? Can we?

VANESSA bends and picks the baby up.

Vanessa
You're right. It IS whole. Fancy that.

She carries it over to the bench.

Kirstey (with youthful indignance)
Why are THEY here? In Hell? The babies. There are so many of them. What did they do that was so wrong that they ended up here?

VANESSA is cooing over the baby but she looks up and shakes her head. She looks back at the baby and plays with it.

Vanessa (baby talk)
What did you do? Eh? Choochy face. Whaddidyoudoo? Eh? Eh? Whadidyoudo?

Kirstey
Is it as simple as their never having known God, of never developing a faith, that caused them to fall? Down here?  Babies? Tiny babies. Because they were too young? Too  innocent? If that's the case it's a pretty atrocious system.

Vanessa
Perhaps the ... people who thought it up ... the idea of  Hell ... hadn't really thought through all the details  properly. Maybe babies fall into some sort of grey area It's the word of the law, but not the spirit. Maybe they'll do something about it one day; you know, set it straight.  Maybe they'll get out of Hell then.



Kirsty
But then eternal damnation wouldn't be eternal. Would that work?

NEPHESH enters, approaches the two, takes the baby away from VANNESSA and leaves.

Vanessa
I guess it won't be whole for much longer, then.

Kirstey
No.

They sit in silence for a while.

What did WE do?

Vanessa
I'm sorry?

Kirstey
If the babies are here because they fall into this …grey area, why are WE here?

Vanessa
Oh, Kirstey …

Kirstey
No, seriously, what did we do to deserve this?

Vanessa
We must have committed sins we weren't aware we were committing. Maybe we were godless and just didn't realise it. Or we forgot to observe one of the commandments; you know how hard it is to remember all ten. They're mostly Thou shalt not"s, but there's at least one "Thou Shalt" and I'm sure I don't know what that one's about.

Kirsty
So we rot in Hell and never find out why? It seems awfully unfair. I mean the Ten Commandments were rules drawn up in another age; very few of them are actually relevant today.

Vanessa
Kirsty, what do you mean? Commandments are commandments.

Kirsty
But they're not, not really. Thou shalt not covet? Thou shalt not steal? Surely coveting and stealing are the cornerstones of a capitalist ideology. Keeping the Sabbath holy? Garden centres do better business on a Sunday than churches. Even killing seems excusable when it's "In the name of ..." So what happens when the sin you were sent to Hell for gets repealed? Do they let you out?

Vanessa
They don't give out a rulebook, dear, so I'm really not sure. Maybe that's the essence of this place: uncertainty. There are no answers to the questions. Hell is Hell, and that’s it. Figure out the principles that govern it and maybe it changes. All I know is we're here.

Kirsty (quietly)
But which Hell?

Vanessa
I'm sorry?

Kirsty
Which Hell? The Old Testament version is incredibly vague. Sheol: abode of the shades of the dead. Hardly specific, is it? It wasn't until the New Testament, when it started to absorb elements of the Greek Hades, that it started to take any sort of shape at all. But it was Dante and Milton that defined the place, that built it, out of their imaginations. Dante was satirising, edifying, filling Hell with allusions and metaphors; populating it with his contemporaries. Is that where we are? In Dante's bloody poem?

Vanessa
I'm ashamed to say I've never read Dante, dear. Or Milton. I never saw the point. I'm not even sure I've even read the Bible. (She thinks) Well, I must have read bits of it. Yes, yes I have.  It seemed quite good. I don't remember it mentioning Hell at all …

Kirsty
So let me get this straight: we rot in Hell and we never find out why? That really does seem unfair.

Vanessa
I really don't know anything about all this, dear. Why don't you ask your father?



Kirsty
I would. If I ever saw him. He's always stuck in those small places. Feeling sorry for himself. I don't think he'd know anyway. He doesn't seem to know much.

Vanessa
He's just got a lot on his mind these days.

Kirstey
That was always his excuse.

Vanessa
You don't understand. A man like your father doesn't play by the same rules as the rest of us; it's what makes him able to design such marvellous buildings. He's not tied to the same rigid structures as us.

She looks at her wrist.

Or the same clock, it seems.

KINCAID, who has been under the duvet all this time, suddenly sits up. He sees NASH and looks at him quizzically. NASH extends his hand.

Nash
Nash. Stephen Nash. Your best friend.

KINCAID ignores the hand.

Kincaid (yawns)
Oh.

Nash
Good response. Very … eloquent.

He indicates the lump in bed next to KINCAID.

So, who's this?

Kincaid
This is Lil …

ZISCA sits up next to him. KINCAID does another of his double takes.

Kincaid (quietly)
Zisca Gibson.

Nash
Yes. We have met.

He laughs. ZISCA nods a greeting at NASH.

Zisca
Stephen.

She looks at her wristwatch.

It's late.

Nash (to KINCAID)
Later than you think.

NASH points at the bench and its occupants but KINCAID doesn't notice. He's too busy looking at ZISCA with something close to terror.

Zisca
Aren't you supposed to be meeting up with Van and Kirsty? In the park?

Nash
Like now.

Kincaid (unsure)
Van? Kirsty? Who ?

NASH points again and this time KINCAID follows his finger.

Nash
Your wife and daughter. And seeing as you see them so rarely these days, I'll give you a hint: your wife is the older of the two.

Kincaid (putting it together)
My wife? My WIFE. Vanessa. Kirsty ... shit. I was ... I was supposed to ... I told them I would ... that we would …

Zisca
Have a picnic in the park?

Kincaid
A picnic. In the park.

He gets out of bed and starts throwing clothes on. As he dresses he rambles, memories are flowing back to him.

Kirsty weighed five pounds and three ounces when she was  born, you know. She was so tiny. I hardly dared pick her up for fear she would break. Her skin was almost translucent and I could see the veins through it. I missed the birth ...

On the other part of the stage, VANESSA picks up the story, as if she has been talking to Kirstey all along.

Vanessa
He missed the birth, you know. Oh, something came up; it always did. He'd missed every other important occasion; I don't know why I was surprised that he missed that.

She shakes her head.

It hurt, though. It felt like the most hideous form of betrayal. We were supposed to be in this thing together; I guess it made me realise that, for all my hopes and dreams,  that would never, ever be the case. That marrying Alex had  never been about US; just him. And me. Separates.

Back in the bedroom, KINCAID has finished dressing. NASH stands up.

Nash
Look, I can see this isn't a good time. We have some stuff that we should probably replay, but it will wait. It looks  like this is the part of the deal where you get to work your way through this ... woman stuff. Intimacy issues and serial infidelity. Read the stinking guts of that one, then we can talk.

He walks to the back of the stage where he is joined by the ubiquitous NEPHESH. The two enter into an animated, but silent, dialogue. NEPHESH keeps pointing towards KINCAID. NASH does a lot of nodding and shrugging.

KINCAID makes ready to leave, but ZISCA blocks his way. She's laying on the bed and encircles his waist with her legs.

Zisca (seductively)
Don't go. Stay here. With me.

Kincaid
I can't. Let them down, I mean.

Zisca
But you always have before …

Vanessa
He's always letting us down …

Zisca
… so stay.

Kincaid
I think maybe I'm beginning to see the light.

He kisses ZISCA tenderly, holds her face in his hands and smiles at her.

I don't know who I was to you, what I have done to you,  but I want you to know ...

ZISCA swats his hands away and pummels his chest with her fists.

Zisca
Stop it. Stop it now. What do you think you are doing? This isn't the way things happened.

She stops hitting him and stands there looking enraged and confused.

Compassion? Where did you suddenly get that from? Has Hell grown you a conscience?

Kincaid
Look, I don't know what I was before, and maybe that's for  the best. Maybe having no memory puts me in a position where I can start to set things right.

Zisca
That's not the point of the exercise, remember?

Kincaid (softly)
Why can't it be?

Zisca (spitefully)
Because it doesn't work like that.

She turns her back to him, exasperated.

You don't kiss me like you just did. Ever. There's no tenderness in what we had, just hunger. You bruise my lips with your need; you squeeze my breast in your fist as if you hope to break it. You have no warmth that isn't animal. You spell "Love" F.U.C.K. and you fuck me right here where I stand.

She turns back to him.

And you hurt me, Alex. Because ... because you can.

Kincaid
I can't.

Zisca
You did.

Kincaid
I've changed. I'm certain of it. I don't know why I did  these things, but I want …


Zisca (bitterly)
You want what? Forgiveness?

She snorts, derisively.

We'll just need to find someone who'll do this right. To stand in for you. To do the difficult stuff that Hell seems to have leeched from your decay-mottled soul.

She looks around desperately.

It's all for your benefit; you understand that, don't you? You want answers? Then I get hurt. And degraded. Again.

Kincaid
No.

ZISCA turns to NEPHESH, shrugging in exasperation. NASH steps forward.

Nash
I'll do it.

Everyone on stage turns and looks at him. Except NEPHESH, who is watching Kincaid. Unblinkingly.

No seriously, I think I can. I mean, it won't be the first time. And I am his oldest friend. I've known him for pretty much all of our lives. I've seen what he is, what he does. I think I can make a pretty good go of it.

NASH looks over at NEPHESH who is still staring at KINCAID. Then NEPHESH turns his attention to VANESSA who looks at NASH who looks at ZISCA who looks at KIRSTEY who looks at NEPHESH. Then everyone looks at KINCAID. Then at NASH. Then at NEPHESH. Who nods his assent.

Nephesh
You're hired.

Kincaid
But ... (surely you can't be serious)


Nephesh
Sit down, Mister Kincaid. Take this rare opportunity to see yourself as others see you with the good grace it was offered. Feel free to take notes if you feel the need to remain involved in the action.  

He chuckles to himself.

Well, Mister Nash, if you could just take Mister Kincaid's place there then we can get on with it. I'm sure you know what's expected of you.  

He mimes a punch. NASH moves to take KINCAID's place, but KINCAID doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to stay, exactly, either. In fact he's a bit lost. NASH turns to NEPHESH for advice and NEPHESH grabs his lapels and throws him aside, onto the bed, and charges forward towards KINCAID. NEPHESH shouts at the top of his voice.

Mister Kincaid, sit down! Do it before I tear the eyes from your head and nest hornets in their orbits. Do it before I decide this whole ... IMBROGLIO ... had gone on too long and that physical torture is really the only course of action that makes sense.  

He calms himself down, but his whispered conclusion is as menacing as his shouted introduction.

Do it for whatever reason, but do it now.

KINCAID obeys, rather reluctantly. There is, really, nothing else he can do. But perhaps it is something close to defiance that makes him leave the stage and take a seat in the front row of the audience. NEPHESH certainly looks a little perplexed by the action. NASH, meanwhile, takes his place and gives a slightly nervous laugh. Then he undoes his trousers and drops the around his ankles.

Nash
Okay, here goes. Take Two.

He pulls up his trousers again, but ZISCA encircles his waist with her legs.

Zisca
Don't go. Stay here. With me.


Nash
We talked about this, Zee. No pressure, remember? Remember?

Zisca
But that was before Carl …

Nash
And we're certainly not talking about that.

Zisca
We never do. We talk around it, but if I try to bring it up you turn to ice. I NEED to talk about it, Alex, it WAS our fault.

Nash
Don't be so godamned melodramatic. Blame yourself if you want, but leave me out of your half-baked contrition.  There's no way we could have known he'd take it as badly as he did. It happened: deal with it.

Zisca (exasperated)
Deal with it? My god, what are you?

NASH grabs her face between his hands, cruelly.

Nash
The skull beneath the skin. A cold, hard fact that you seem to want to cover over with a skin of guilt.

As he talks he pushes her backward, face getting more and more crazed.

Nash (mimicking her voice in a cruel falsetto)
Mea culpa, mea culpa. I need to be punished." Stop your endless whining and get out of my fucking way.

Zisca
You're insane.

NASH throws her aside. She lets out a shriek and falls, quite heavily, to the bed, then lays there, sobbing. NASH looks down on her, contemptuously.



Nash
Look at yourself. Self-pity and misplaced remorse. With running mascara to make the picture even more pathetic.

As NASH gets crueller, KINCAID -in the audience- tries hard to contain himself. The people around him must become aware of his discomfort and shame.

Nash
I've got to go.

Zisca
Yes. You have.

VANESSA and KIRSTY are just getting ready to leave the park. They've even started to walk away, looking rather solemn. NASH crosses the stage quickly.

Nash
Vee! Wait! I'm here.

They turn.

I'm so sorry I'm late.

Vanessa
You forget, we're pretty used to it by now.

She puts a protective arm around KIRSTY.

So tell me, Alex, what was it this time? Another urgent meeting? A site inspection? A surprise audit? Or another fluffy tart you couldn't resist creaming?


Kirsty
Mum!

Vanessa
I'm sorry, dear. Why don't you go and play on the swings, eh?

Kirsty
Swings? Mum, I'm sixteen years old

Vanessa (snaps)
Then go and snog boys behind the bandstand. Just leave me and your father for a few minutes, can you?

KIRSTEY fixes her mum with a compassionate look, then glares at her father with hostility. He glares back, blankly.

Kirstey
Message received and understood.

She turns away and leaves.

Nash
Kirsty...

NASH makes as if to follow her but she ignores him.

Vanessa
Another one of your lady friends has been ringing the phone off the wall. Alex, you promised this was all over. And I believed you. I trusted you. Guess that makes me some kind  of fool, doesn't it?

Nash
I don't know what you're talking about.

Vanessa
Well, no surprise there then. For someone as clever as you make yourself out to be, you can be exceedingly thick sometimes. Oh, wait a minute! It must have been a wrong number then. A wrong number asking for you by name. A wrong number repeated, with a growing desperation, half a dozen times. Who is she?

NASH sits down on the bench.

Nash
I don't know. Some nut, obviously.

Vanessa
Well, I obviously fall into that category, too. Some nut Stupid ... or crazy enough to believe that you love anyone other than your stubborn, selfish, cowardly self. How many times have we been here?

Nash
This park? Dozens of ... (times)

Vanessa (interrupts)
Not the park, you idiot!

She sits down too, but as far from him as the bench will allow.

Who is she?

NASH shakes his head, stubbornly.

Nash
I've already told you I don't know what you're talking about; what would you like me to add to that?

Vanessa
Oh, I don't know; the truth, maybe.

She pauses to allow herself time to calm down.

This one's different to the others. No secretive hang-ups when the phone's answered by a person of the wrong gender, just a growing sense of urgency. Desperation. What have you done?

Nash
This is getting us nowhere.

Vanessa
No, YOU are getting us nowhere. How do you think this makes me feel? How do you think it makes Kirsty feel?

Nash (defensively)
Leave her out of this.

Vanessa (enraged)
What? Out of our lives? Haven't you yet worked out that effect follows cause? That nothing you do occurs in a vacuum? EVERYTHING you do impacts upon others. Me. Carl. Stephen. This ... woman whoever she is.

NASH stands up.

Nash
I'm not listening to any more of this. I'm going back to the office. Some of us have to work.

Vanessa
Well that's a low blow, even for you. .

She stands up.

I'll tell you what, we'll cut our picnic in the park short so me and Kirstey can go home and take messages from whichever tart you happen to be screwing this time.

She storms off.

Vanessa (shouts, with tears in voice)
Kirstey.

As she exits she bumps into a distraught LILITH who is entering. NASH has started back towards the bedroom (where Zisca is still on the bed, weeping) but LILITH sees him and runs to him. She embraces him, but he stiffens and looks very uncomfortable.

Nash
What was so important that you had to ring me at home? I thought we had talked about that.

LILITH sobs.

Lilith
Thank god you're here, I have been so afraid,
I didn't know who else I could turn to.
Please sit down; I have some news to tell you.
I know it's not what you want, but it's true.

NASH sits on the bed. On ZISCA, who yelps.

Nash
What is so urgent that it couldn't wait?

Lilith
Life begins so incomprehensively:
Gametes and chromosomes, Xs and Ys.
Life's spark begins in the heat of an act
That we have enacted more than ten times.
Ten times! Sordid little stolen moments
When reason melts and passion takes over;
Intellect replaced with animal lust.
Ten times we flirted with creation.

Nash
Will you stop talking in riddles?

Lilith
I'm pregnant.

Nash
You're what?


Lilith
Oh. That was the plain-speaking version. I don't think I could have put it any simpler. I. Am. Pregnant. In the club Up the gut. I have one in the oven. I'm gravid. Heavy with child. Podding.

Nash
Is it mine?

LILITH laughs, somewhat hysterically.


Lilith
Of course it's yours.

NASH buries his face in his hands. Then he shakes his head. Then he looks up.

Nash
You'll have to get rid of it. .

Lilith
I beg your pardon?

Nash
I'll pay, of course.

Lilith (incredulous)
I haven't just confessed to forgetting to return one of your library books. This is a baby we're talking about. Our baby. Yours and mine.

Nash
You can't seriously want to keep it?

He stands up and starts pacing.

Lilith
I don't know what I want, yet. I only know that I had to tell you. That obligation has been fulfilled.

Nash
But this affects me, too. It's not just your decision to make.

Lilith
And neither is it solely yours. I know your feelings on the  matter now.

Nash
Well, what did you expect? A trip to Mothercare to celebrate the wonderful news?

Lilith
I'm not sure what I expected. I know what I hoped, but  that's not the same thing.

Nash
Poor Lilith. And just what DID you hope? That I'd be pleased? That I'd leave  Vanessa and we'd play happy families together?

Lilith
Just that you wouldn't be such an insensitive arsehole about it, I guess. I wasn't looking for Mills and Boon, but I thought I was in with a chance at some understanding and decency. Could you leave me alone now, please?

Nash
You might want to call me when you come to your senses.

    Lilith
I think I might just be reaching them now.

NASH leaves.

Lilith
This is where it leads when all caution flees
And the tides turn back into foam and noise;
The treasure-laden ships of which we dream'd
Are just rusting hulks full of worthless shit.

She lays down and stares upward.

Meanwhile, CARL BLAKE has appeared, off to one side, carrying a sheaf of papers and a hangman's noose. He throws the papers in the air and looks despairingly at the audience. Then he throws the noose over a beam, steps up onto a chair.

We paint elegant pictures in our minds
That we colour from dreams and frame with hope.

CARL BLAKE puts the noose around his neck, says a silent prayer and readies himself to jump.

But they don't stand up to the light of day,
And when they fall from the wall, we fall too.

Blake jumps.
Blackout.




Act Four
One Scene: Limbo

A bare stage with a table right of its centre, chairs around the sides. If it suggests the boardroom then all the better, but this is not a recreation of that scene. This is somewhere new. The backdrop is the blueprint of Kincaid's pyramid-on-stilts building.

Centre stage is the park bench. After a couple of minutes of nothing happening, KINCAID (the real one, still sitting in the audience) starts with a jolt; stands up; walks onto the stage; goes to the bench and sits down.

Kincaid
When I was five or six, my favourite game was looking for buried treasure. I'd seen a film at the Saturday matinee at the local fleapit and I'd got the idea from there. Of course it didn't seem like a game to me; I was convinced that I would find some. I'm not sure if I was -even at that age- aware of the money problems that would later drive father away, into starting a new life for himself, but I guess it's possible.

He stops to gather his thread. While he does he stands up.

We had an outdoor coal shed; a tiny, windowless, spider-infested building that I was forbidden from going into.  But that just made me more certain I'd find some old Spanish doubloons stashed away in there. The problem was the lock was a Yale and I was never able to get in there. The treasure grew in my mind, becoming a veritable Ali Baba's cave.

He gets a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes as he remembers.

One day someone left the door open, just resting on the catch. I wasn't thinking about the trouble I'd get into, I just wanted to get a look in there. It was very dark inside, even in full daylight. I held the door open and edged my way in, then I must have let go of the door and it slammed shut behind me. I was too short to reach the latch.

He shudders.

I don't know how long I was in there before I was rescued. Time is a ... different proposition when you're that age; it stretches like warm toffee. It could have been an hour, no more than two, but to me it felt like days. Subjective time. With little or no room to move. Filtered through a child’s mind. Tied into a tight knot by a child's imagination.

The other cast members file on stage; seating themselves around the table. BLAKE is still wearing his noose. LILITH is carrying a Hoover tube. Only NEPHESH remains off to one side, still standing.

We think of ourselves as unique creatures whose lives change according to decisions we make in the naked now, but I can see now that my life has always been governed by that single episode.

BLAKE looks up at KINCAID who looks puzzled and sits down. BLAKE stands up.

Blake
Architecture. The need to create and manage space. To impose one's will upon the shape and size of exteriors and interiors. A small boy ... a scared, small boy in a tiny, dark room; expanding its limits with his own imagination. A glass pyramid: bright light and wide spaces. The antithesis of the room that imprisoned him.

He looks at KINCAID.

That imprisoned YOU.

KINCAID looks at him with something close to terror.

Cities are an externalisation of the human body. One of the ways in which we evolve now. Cells form communities, build structures: we call those structures bodies. Bodies need infrastructures to link organs, to process waste, to carry blood, to transport oxygen. Cities aren't that much different. Not really. Their measurements are derived from the human body. They have arteries and veins. They breathe. They produce waste. They grow. And down the scale to the individual building: an organ of commerce, of thought, of reflection. It too breathes, it too lives.

He adjusts his noose as if it was a necktie.

Space and time, reconciled. The claustrophobic space expanded. Subjective time compressed. Did you design this building, Alex? Or did it design you?

He sits. Vanessa stands.

Vanessa
Who do you blame, Alex? Your mother? She should have found you sooner, shouldn't she? And you prayed for her to find you, but the moments stretched and stretched and still she didn't come.

She looks at him with a mixture of compassion and pain.

Or do you blame me? A part of you has always been trapped there and I certainly never managed to reach that small boy inside. So much pain. So much fear. How much did my failure to reach him, to understand him, colour all that passed between us?

She shakes her head.

You built your first building back then, Alex, pushing at the walls with your mind; trying to reconfigure the bricks, the walls, the door.

KIRSTY stands, too.

Kirsty
You never let us in, that's the truth of it. Just as the Yale lock held you in, it held us out as well. I can't remember you ever being there for me, dad. I try but I cannot conjure a single instance from memory.

She fights back tears, and then her face gets resolute.

Your buildings are just a metaphor, really, for all the walls you have put up to protect that small boy. But if mum's love couldn't penetrate your defences, then surely your child's could? The only problem was: you never WANTED us in there with you. It was your secret place and for all your protestations, I believe the boy is happy to own so much of the adult. That's real power, isn't it? Power over every life choice an adult makes. The child is the parent of the adult and his authority over you is never questioned. He has even made your afterlife into a succession of tiny places. Why do you love that boy so much more than you even loved your own daughter, dad?

KINCAID sobs. VANESSA hugs KIRSTY; they both sit down. NASH stands.

Nash
Hey buddy. Funny and sad by turns, your life has amused me for a long time now. I've watched from the peripheries, have been forced into a few lies to protect you, but generally I've found the whole process rewarding in a drive-slowly-past-a-traffic-accident kind of way. Better by far than the twisted sculptures of metal that human carelessness creates are the twisted pieces of nonsense that people pass off as lives. This one really was too good to miss. It had all the elements that make a life futile.

He smiles.

When I was young I enjoyed watching crippled insects pulling their chitinous bodies across the ground. Hell, when you're a kid you get your kicks anyway you can.  Watching your futile life was deliciously similar to that pursuit. I have always looked for generalities to use to paint a picture of the world, and the bug-strugglings of my fellow men make great metaphors. Lousy everything else, but what the hell.

He looks at KINCAID with quiet amusement.

I've always known you were an accident just waiting to happen, I'm so glad you didn't disappoint me.

He rubs KINCAID's head and sits back down. LILITH is next. She slams the Hoover tube on the table in front of her.

Lilith
They sucked it out me with a vacuum pump,
Just so many accumulated cells;
And if it had a form beyond all that
Then I never want to be shown its shape.
It was you plus me and it equalled nought
Just a jar of blood and an empty womb.
It never had a thought or a body
And it never had a chance to exist.

Kirsty
Another baby? I had a brother or a sister?

Kincaid
I ... no, look, let me explain …

Nash
He got me to organise it all, you know. The procedure.

ZISCA glares at KINCAID.

Zisca
He never told me.

Lilith
He saw me a few times after, but something had changed. The emptiness inside me became a physical distance between us: unspoken, but vast; incalculably vast.

Kincaid
No. That's not the way it was.

Vanessa
What do you know about the way things were?

Blake
I took the fall for him. When I died it gave him an out .He took it.

Vanessa
He never hit me, though.

Zisca (touches her cheek)
Because he made others his whipping posts. You got off lightly.

Vanessa
He ... he hit you?

Kincaid
Look, this isn't right. Let me explain …

NEPHESH steps up onto the table.

Nephesh
There's no time for that, Alexander Kincaid. The hands of our Dali clock have come around full circle. All the important people in the drama of your life are assembled here. All the people you hurt, lied to, and broke promises to. You've heard what they all have to say.  

He winks at KINCAID.

In short: you've seen the suspects; which one did it?

Kincaid (puzzled)
Which one damned me?

NEPHESH laughs.

Nephesh
Killed you, you fool.

Everyone turns and stares at NEPHESH.

Oh, come on; don't tell me you didn't realise this was a whodunnit.

Everyone speaks at once. Outraged voices. Rising in volume. And outrage. NEPHESH jumps down from the table.

QUIET! My, my, it's not only empty vessels that make a lot of noise. Guilty ones do, too.  

He takes his place next to KINCAID.

Take a good look at these faces, Alex, and I'll tell you a single, trifling detail I missed out from our original wager.

Zisca
The devil welches on a deal? Surely not.

NEPHESH smiles at her.

Nephesh
It IS a related item on the agenda; in fact it's the biggest clue to your damnation you're going to get. Just solve the mystery of who hated you enough to kill you; it will lead you straight to that one single action that sent you to Hell.

He claps KINCAID on the back.

So, Alex, which one is it going to be?

He nods at NASH.

Nash
Well, I had opportunity, but no motive. You were a lousy human being, pal, but you made great entertainment.

Zisca
But you have always wondered if, with Carl and Alex out of the way, we could have been ... compatible. Maybe you saw a chance to find out one way or the other by removing him from the picture.

Blake
You mean ...? (he was after you too)

Nash
Now wait a godamned minute!

Blake
She has got a point. I never liked you. Maybe it WAS him.

Lilith
Yeah, like it couldn't be you.

Blake
I fucking killed myself, remember? You've got to admit that’s a pretty convincing alibi.

Kirsty
Except these ... episodes weren't shown in chronological order. Your suicide could have happened AFTER dad's death. And we never did see why you killed yourself. A guilty conscience, perhaps?

Blake
Why you ... (little bitch)

Zisca
… Could have done it too. The daughter, ignored by her father, forever trying to win his approval, never managing it. That must make a person angry. But how angry?

Vanessa
My daughter would never have …

Nash
Then how about her mother?

Kincaid
This is insane …

NASH continues to look at Vanessa.

Nash
What was it? One affair too many? You had to end it all, once and for all?

Vanessa
 I certainly didn't kill him ... But while we’re on the subject of Alex’s affairs, what about Zisca?

Zisca
Why you poisonous bitch!

Kincaid
Look, this is getting us nowhere …

Blake
That's another name for this place. Nowhere.

Lilith
Nowhere. That's where it all leads in the end.

Nephesh (brightly)
Well, Alex? It's getting close to make-your-mind-up time.

Kincaid
I ... don't care which one it was. From what you've shown me of who I was, I think I probably deserved whatever I got. I don't want to point the finger of blame; I just want  people to know that now ... here ... in this place, in this time ... I'm sorry.

There are general reactions to this statement, none of which are particularly favourable.

Nephesh
How touching.

Kincaid
And who are you? You who seems to draw such pleasure from all of this?


Nephesh
Just another lost soul.

Lilith
He reminds me of someone.

Kirsty
He's like a game-show host.

Zisca
It's all his fault.

KINCAID looks up suddenly.

Kincaid
No. It's mine.

NEPHESH does that "Give Us A Clue" gesture; touching his nose and pointing at KINCAID.

Nephesh
On the nosey!

Kincaid
Me?

He looks around at the people around the table.

Me. Alexander Kincaid. This is all about my damnation. I'm the one who is damned. Me. ME!

NEPHESH looks at him oddly.

Nephesh
Of course it is. That's why we're here.

We see KINCAID processing the information, his eyes darting backwards and forwards.


Kincaid
No … it’s why I’M here.

He tubs his temples and then a revelation hits him.

This ... hell of small places ... it's mine, isn't it? The coal shed incident ... it made me claustrophobic. So my hell is one of tiny spaces.

Nephesh
Of course. Now why don't you...

Kincaid
Shut up!

Now it is NEPHESH who rubs his temples.

“The way we choose to view things is forever the way we will see them.” I thought that was just philosophical bullshit, but it isn't, is it? This is all about volition, about choice.

He turns on NEPHESH.

I chose this, didn't I? I BUILT THIS FUCKING PLACE, am I right?

NEPHESH grins uncertainly.

Nephesh
This hell is tailor-made for you, yes. Damnation doesn't come off the peg, you know.

Kincaid
So it was my fears and sins that dictated the shape and size of my torment?

Nephesh (mocking)
Of course. That's why we have phrases like "private hell” and "a hell of his own making.

Kincaid
And someone else's Hell would be substantially different to this one, wouldn't it? If I was afraid of spiders, the walls would teem with them.

Nephesh
The inside of your body would teem with them. Every breath you took would be full of them.

KINCAID smiles. And shakes his head.

Kincaid
So what are THEY doing here?

He points around the table. The assembly look at each other, suddenly seeing his point.

Kirsty
When did I die? I don't remember dying.

Kincaid
Which is, really, my point.

NEPHESH looks concerned.

Nephesh
Aren't we getting a little off-track here? I mean …

Kincaid
You see that's what's been bugging me about all of this. All of US. Here. Now. It doesn't scan.

Nephesh
In Hell all things are possible.

Kincaid
Another half-baked little piece of rhetoric; your act is getting awfully old, awfully fast, Nephesh. I don’t think you’re a demon. And I'm getting to think that maybe these aren't the actual people they represent.

Lilith
I'm me. Lilith. Aren't I?


Kincaid (compassionately)
    Probably not …

Vanessa
What trick are you trying to play now, Alex?

Kincaid
No trick. Although perhaps unravelling one.

He turns to KIRSTY quickly.

Kirsty. You said my buildings were a metaphor, yes?

Kirsty
Yes. You know, the act of putting up walls as a  psychological act as well as a physical one.

KINCAID nods, then turns on ZISCA.

Kincaid
Zisca? How did you die?

Zisca
I ... I don't know.

Kincaid
Did it hurt?

Zisca
I ... can't remember.

Kincaid
Of course you can't. It didn't happen.

All nervousness is gone from KINCAID now. He is in full flow. And he's actually starting to enjoy the unravelling process.


Nash
Maybe we all died together. In an accident. Or a disaster. Maybe we can't remember because that's just a part of this place.

The others groan and shake their heads at this,

Kincaid
If this was an episode of Hammer House of Horror, or a Twilight Zone I might even swallow that. But real life isn’t like that.

He turns to NEPHESH.

It isn't like this.

Nephesh
Real life might not be, but real death is.

Kincaid
I don't think so.

He turns to VANESSA.

Vanessa. My wife. Tell me something you have never told me before. A memory. Something personal. Maybe something that happened before we met that you have never shared.

VANESSA looks pained.

Vanessa
I can't.

KINCAID nods as if it confirms something to him. Then he turns to NEPHESH.

Kincaid
I'm ready.

Nephesh
Ready?

Kincaid (smiling)
To point the finger. To answer the question that you brought  me here to answer. That you did all this for.

Nephesh
Be careful. You only get one shot at this. If you're wrong…

Kincaid (confidently)
I won't be.

He gestures for everyone to sit down and they do.

So this is the drawing room denouement, rendered as obviously and as artificially as any Edwardian puzzle story. The suspects are lined up. The detective, with his powers of ratiocination, has picked his way through the minefield of clues, evidence, testimony, red-herrings and misinformation (He stares at NEPHESH) and is ready to say “J'accuse”.

Lilith
Who was it?

Nephesh (testily)
Shouldn’t the question be WHAT was it?

This sets the others buzzing. KINCAID gestures for quiet.

Kincaid
I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you both.

He looks around.

The killer is ...

Melodramatic pause.

ALEXANDER KINCAID.

He points to himself with a flourish. More mutters and surprised chatter greet his revelation.

Which brings me to the REAL question I am supposed to  answer. To pinpoint the SINGLE ACT that damned me. I know that, too. It was simply this: BELIEVING MY ACTIONS MADE ME WORTHY OF DAMNATION!

NEPHESH scowls.

That's it, isn't it? I killed myself. Because I could no  longer live with who I was, with what I had become. Because of pain I had caused, mistakes I made; and because I was too cowardly to live with the consequences of my actions. The fact is: it's all metaphors.

He looks around him.

YOU are all metaphors. I made you all, fashioned you from  the raw materials of my guilt. My consciousness was not destroyed -maybe it can't be, I don't know- but Heaven and Hell are just  decisions WE make at the point of death. We choose the form our consciousness will take when it is released  from the tyranny of the body and the shape I chose was this.

He gestures around him.

To torment me. To punish me because I BELIEVED I DESERVED PUNISHMENT. That's what this is all about, isn't it?

NEPHESH is silent.

ISN'T IT?

Lilith
Are you telling me I don't exist?

Kincaid
I think it more likely that you are a construct; an amalgam of all the extra-marital affairs I either had or imagined having. I think I made you to be the universal every -mistress. You stand for every woman I ever fucked over.

We start hearing a fuss on tape and the (muted) bleep-tones of an ECG machine.

Nephesh
And who might I be in this mad scheme? Am I the universal every-demon who represents every pact-with-the-devil you have ever made?

KINCAID shakes his head, sadly. He looks at NEPHESH with compassion.

Kincaid
No. You're the part of me that wants this. You're the part of me that thinks I deserve this. You're all my self-doubt and self-hatred dressed up as a discount-store demon. You are the warder I posted to guard the gates of my torment. But you are all the proof I need that I DON'T DESERVE THIS TORMENT.

NEPHESH looks taken aback.

Nephesh
And how do you come to that particular conclusion?

Kincaid
Because even the part of me that hates me the most provided me with an escape route. This deal. This opportunity. And I’m taking it.

Nephesh
What if you're wrong? Can you take that risk?

Kincaid
I don't see that I've got anything left to lose.

He walks around the table, touching each person in turn, looking weaker with every interaction. Finally he kisses VANESSA, then KIRSTY. Then he stands, suddenly bolt upright. The ECG beeps we have been hearing for a while suddenly make a single, continuous sound: flat line. KINCAID clutches his chest. The strobe starts again, very slow flashes. NEPHESH, LILITH and NASH quickly pull on white coats. They lay KINCAID on the table.

Lilith
We've got a barbiturate overdose, no pulse. I need a crash cart. NOW!


Kirsty
Daddy!

Nash
We're losing him.

NEPHESH grabs two defibrillator pads and calls out the obligatory:

Nephesh
No we're not. Not on my watch. Charge. Clear.

KINCAID bucks as the paddles fire their currents. The ECG sound fluctuates, flat-lines again.

Lilith
Godamnit! Adrenaline. Now. Shock him again.

Nephesh
Come on, Mr. Kincaid; you're family are waiting. CLEAR!

KINCAID bucks again, the ECG stabilises, the strobe stops and bright light replaces it. The relief passes from medical staff to family members and friends. VANESSA shakes LILITH by the hand and sobs thanks. There is a jubilant atmosphere. KINCAID mutters something and KIRSTY leans in to hear it.

The hospital staff leave and the light fades out until just KIRSTY, VANESSA and KINCAID are illuminated.

Vanessa
What did he say?

Kirsty (puzzled)
He said: “Thanks dad, you were right”.

They look puzzled, embrace, the lights drop and that's all folks.