Gelliant Gutfright

	Stephen sits in a leather armchair and addresses the camera, spookily 
	and fast.


Stephen		Between imagination and desire, between reality and ambition,
		between what is known and what is feared, between purpose and
		despair, between sense and shite, between the visible world and
		the inner world that straddles the curtain hung between what we
		know and what we think we suspect is a dark veil that waves
		gently between the beckoning finger drawing us into the world
		of what could be and what never couldn't be impossible to
		dread. OR DO THEY? Perhaps it isn't. Maybe we were only
		dreaming? Perhaps the answers can be found in that other realm
		that lies between the foundry of the heart and the sweating
		laundry-room of the imagination where the only rhythms are the
		smiles of a forgotten winter and the incessant beating of the
		frightened human thigh that we call "Fear". Or is it? I'm
		Gelliant Gutfright and tonight's tale must give us pause. It is
		called "Flowers For Wendy" but might it rather have been called
		"You Have Been Warned"? No, it might not.

	The picture starts to fade.

		Andrew Beckett is on his way home from work. A nice young man
		is Andrew Beckett. A kind word for everyone and liked by all
		who come into contact with him.

	We see a smiley Hugh walking along the street. He passes a flower 
	stall, manned by a sinister looking Patrick, with dark glasses and 
	white stick.

Stephen		(now off) Another hard day's work. Another quiet evening in.
		Perhaps a little television, the crossword. Maybe he'll finally
		get around to cataloguing those ... wait!

	Hugh stops and clicks his fingers as he remembers something.

		What is he thinking of? Not just another evening, after all.
		It's Wendy's birthday! Dinner at Mario's! But first he
		should ...

	Hugh turns and sees the flower stall.

		Strange! He's never noticed that stall before. Yet he comes
		home this way every evening ... providential.

	Hugh walks towards the flower stall.

Patrick		Good evening, Mr Beckett.

Hugh		(amazed) But that's extraordinary! How on earth do you know
		what time of day it is? You aren't wearing a watch.

Patrick		I know many things, Mr Beckett. Would you like to buy some
		flowers for your wife's birthday?

Hugh		This is uncanny! Flowers are exactly what I want. How could you
		possibly have known?

	Patrick smiles creepily.

Patrick		How about some roses? All the ladies love a rose.

	Hugh looks around. He sees some yellow things.

Hugh		What are these?

Patrick		Ah. You don't want those, Mr Beckett. Those are special blooms.

Hugh		They're rather fine. What are they called?

Patrick		Ranunculus pugnans.

Hugh		(picking the bunch up) Ranunc ... what?

Patrick		Commonly known, sir, as Old Man's Wrinkle or the Fighting
		Buttercup.

Hugh		Well, I think they're lovely. The smell is ...

	Hugh sniffs deeply.

Patrick		They didn't get that name by accident, Mr Beckett.

Hugh		What name?

Patrick		The Fighting Buttercup. They say that the bouquet of this bloom
		will bring out all the anger in a person.

Hugh		Oh what nonsense.

Patrick		That's what they say.

Hugh		Superstitious hooey.

Patrick		No doubt you're right, sir.

Hugh		Arse-clap.

Patrick		As you say, sir.

Hugh		Rhino-bollocks. How much are they?

Patrick		Five pounds, sir. But I ...

	Hugh gives him a fiver and stalks off. Patrick watches him go. Hugh 
	knocks over an old woman in the street as he goes.
	   Cut to Hugh tutting as he tries to let himself into the flat. He 
	mutters at the recalcitrance of the key.

Stephen		(voice-over) Poor Andrew. Poor Wendy. A kind thought for a
		birthday and a simple bunch of flowers. But when your life is a
		perilous yoyo, eaten by Destiny's right hand: when Fate lights
		the cigarette: when Chance plays the trumpet not very well and
		Hazard deals the cards from the bottom of your aunt, then you
		must expect ... the unexpected.

	Hugh gives up and smashes the door down.
	   Wendy, played by Caroline, appears worriedly in the hallway.

Caroline	Darling! What ...?

Hugh		Jesus suffering ARSE! That bloody door.

Caroline	I don't understand.

Hugh		Don't understand? Don't understand? What's to understand, you
		hopeless saucer of pus? It's a frig-mothering door and it keeps
		getting vomiting stuck. That's all there is to understand. It's
		not differential calculus.

Caroline	Andrew!

	Hugh heaves a colossal punch at her and sends her flying through the 
	banisters which collapse satisfactorily. She lies in a dizzy heap.

Hugh		Now look what you've done, you pointless tart. You've broken
		the snotting bannisters.

Caroline	Andrew ... is something wrong?

	Hugh tuts violently and drops the flowers on her.

Hugh		I'm going to get myself a drink. Happy birthday, you saggy old
		bitch.

	He storms off. Caroline looks at the flowers that have dropped on to 
	her chest.

Caroline	They're lovely, darling. Thank you. And they ... (inhaling 
		deeply) ... they smell gorgeous.

	She takes another sniff. Cut to Hugh in the drawing room, pouring 
	himself a drink. The lid on the whisky bottle is tight. This narks 
	Hugh.

Hugh		Oh, come on. OPEN, you scrotuming dribble of faeces.

	The lid opens.

		That's better. (Drinks) Oh, that's much better.

	Hugh looks at the drink and starts to smile.

Hugh		Only a door, after all. Not the end of the world. Silly to get
		annoyed about ...

	His thoughts are cut off. Wendy suddenly throws an enormous punch at 
	him, sending him miles across the room.

		What the ...?

Caroline	Sorry.

Hugh		Sorry?

Caroline	Yes. Sorry I didn't hit you with a sockful of gravel, you
		flabby, drivelling, waste of clothes.

Hugh		Wendy, darling ...

Caroline	"Wendy, darling". I'll darling your arse with a rusty lawn-
		sprinkler ...

	She punches Hugh again. He gets up, holding his nose.

Hugh		What ... what's happened?

Caroline	Happened? Nothing's happened that a Swiss Army penknife can't
		sort out. Now why don't you take these bottom-wipingly ugly
		flowers and stick them into your lungs?

	Caroline tosses the flowers at Hugh, who looks at them.

Hugh		The flowers ... flowers, that's it ... Wendy, listen ... I
		think I know what's happened. What this is all about.

	Hugh starts to talk as Stephen's voice comes over. During this, Hugh 
	gets up and starts drawing diagrams on a blackboard to explain his 
	tale.

Stephen		And so, Wendy Beckett sat at her husband's knees and listened
		to a story. A fantastic story. A tale that danced along the
		crumbling brim of credibility, yet never once lost its footing.
		A tale of walking home, and pavements, and forgettings of
		birthdays, and rememberings, and wantings to buy flowerings,
		and discoverings of a flower-stall just at the right
		momentings. And when he was finished, Andrew Beckett took his
		young wife's face in his hands ...

Hugh		Now do you understand, Wendy? Do you see what this is all
		about?

Caroline	Oh Andy. I feel such a fool.

Hugh		I think we've both been a little mad, Wendy. It's not a
		question of blame. What matters now is us. The future.

Caroline	Oh Andy ...

Hugh		Oh Wendy ...

	As they embrace, the camera starts to pan off to the waste-paper 
	basket.

Stephen		A happy ending, you may think. Loose ends tied up, the books
		balanced. And yet ... and yet .. what of our friend the blind
		flower-seller?

	Cut to Patrick selling to another passer-by.

Patrick		Old Man's Wrinkle, madam. Otherwise known as the Fighting
		Buttercup. They do say that the smell of these flowers brings
		out all the anger in a person ...

Passer-by	Really?

Patrick		And then, when they've done that for a bit ... they explode.

	There is the sound of a distant explosion, and after a few seconds, a 
	tinkle of broken glass and falling debris. The passer-by doesn't seem 
	to notice.

Passer-by	How much?

Patrick		To you, madam, nothing.

Passer-by	Oh. Thanks very much.

	She takes them and sniffs deeply. Close-up on Patrick as he starts to 
	cackle fiendishly. We get closer and closer as his laugh gets louder 
	and louder until suddenly, a fist knocks him out of view.
	   Cut to Stephen in his chair.

Stephen		Sleep well. If you can ...

Hugh		In the morning? Oh, I used to use one of those things that
		automatically pour you a cup of tea and make a horrid
		screeching noise in your ear. But she divorced me. Now I use a
		Goblin Teasmade.

Stephen		(as a woman) Well, I'm aroused every morning by a very
		insistent cock.