Pigeons Are The Key

PIGEONS ARE THE KEY RYAN FITZGERALD

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Episode One

Pilot

EXT. TRAFALGAR SQUARE. DAY. There are lots of pigeons fluttering about. So many, in fact, that the figure sitting on the bench is almost undetectable. Only brief gaps in the feathery mass allow him to be seen, and not much is revealed.

OMNI [voiceover]

This is nothing new. This has been happening since the dawn of time. People’s fates interlinked, with nothing but a casual glance determining the future – or lack of – for

thousands of generations to come. But it is something new when the same small, seemingly arbitrary group of people constantly cross paths; when something more than

chaos binds them, something more than chance. Only one who can see all, one who knows everything, is able to map out their history.

My name is OMNI, and I am the Gatekeeper. I am the Watchman. I watch these petty

Heroes and I make a note of it. The Note-keeper. The Key-noter. Key events, no matter how large or small – everything has its place.

Let me tell you their story.

BLACKOUT

ROLL OPENING CREDITS

INT. PADDED CELL. INDETERMINABLE TIME. A woman of dark features sits on an uncomfortable looking bed. Her hair is wildly arranged and raven black. The fall from grace for this ex-Olympic athlete has been immense; once a Gold-medal winner and world-record holder at the long jump, the high jump, the triple jump and the various low-metre races, she now spends her time trapped in a mental asylum. Though she has never used drugs, the media claimed her talents

were unnatural, and sure enough, the experts agreed. The times and distances that she was setting could not be possible. She was poked and prodded, hundreds of tests run on her. When no drugs were found, the experts and media unanimously agreed that she’d discovered and engineered a new, undetectable drug. Her titles were taken, and she took to drinking. Soon after, she suffered severe memory loss, forgetting who she was, and being unable to make new memories. All she could remember was that there was a man, a dark and shadowy man, who was following her. She raved and ranted, but to no avail; the critics tutted and the fans hissed. It was just as well she couldn’t remember her past; she could count herself fortunate. But un-fortunately, this delirious state drew the attention of the medical field, and they soon declared her wholeheartedly mad, confining her to solitary. We discover this through an off-coloured flashback, and now arrive at our present circumstance, where her attention is fixed on the opposite corner of the room. She does not look away as a metal plate is pulled back from the door. A pair of black-gloved hands pushes a tray of food through. The plate is yanked shut with a clang. Opposite her, THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN laughs softly. CUT TO INT. MESSY ROOM. MORNING. The early morning sun peeps through a slit in a curtain, its beam slicing across discarded pizza-boxes and empty bottles of beer. Slouched on a sofa, raising a hand lazily to cover his eyes, is a pale man with curly white-blonde hair called CALUM. His freckles glitter in the sun.

CALUM

Heavy night we had babe…eh?

His confusion is justified, for no one responds. Reaching haphazardly about, he finds a pair of glasses. Popping them on, CALUM turns to scan the room, spotting a note lying on top of a cold slice of pepperoni pizza. He snatches it up and examines the writing.

“Gone to work. Catch you later – MW”

CALUM scrunches the note up and throws it towards a wastepaper bin, missing by quite a margin. He sighs.

CALUM

Work already? Jeez…

As he leans back and closes his eyes, the flutter of the morning post being delivered is his only company. For the briefest flash, a pair of black gloves can be seen before the letter-flap springs back into place. CUT TO EXT. BUSY LONDON STREET. MIDDAY. A man with a glum expression is walking along the road, being pestered constantly by people trying to get money from him – donations, sandwiches, tourist guides, you name it. All of his clothes are newly purchased, and he has a bag or two in his hands from shopping already today. Shuffling them further up his arm, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out his wallet. He gives a £10 note to each of them, sighs, and walks on. Spotting a particularly colourful set of shops further up the road with their inevitable “SALE NOW ON!” signs and “LOW PRICES!”, EDGAR decides to cut his losses and duck into the nearest available building. He glances at the window before entering, though he knows he can’t pass it now:

TRILL’S INTERNET CAFÉ: ONLY £1 PER HOUR As he moves through the threshold, a bell sounds above his head. At a desk opposite the door, a young man looks up. He has ginger hair that seemed to curl around his face like a snake, and a tuft of a beard. Despite his strange hair, the man is wearing a genuinely friendly smile, which was something of a premium around these parts.

TRILL

Why hello there, sir! I’m Trill, owner of this little hive. I must say its good to have you here with us. Where would you like to sit?

TRILL speaks with a thick Irish accent, almost in complete contrast to EDGAR whose slow drawl oozes melancholy.

EDGAR

Anywhere is fine. I’ll be here for one hour. How much will that be?

TRILL

As you can see on the window sir, it’s – uh…

TRILL’S brows knit together, as though what he’s about to say doesn’t make sense; as though it’s against his will. His eye twitches as he finishes.

TRILL

It’s £5 for one hour sir.

EDGAR hands over a crumpled five pound note and makes his way to a desk at the back of the room, passing half a dozen people all tapping furiously at the keys of the computers or playing with the mouse. Only one person’s cubicle seems silent, the rabble of the keys muted by thick black leather gloves. At least it’s still pretty cheap, all things considered, EDGAR thinks, as he thumps himself down into the chair. CUT TO EXT. MENTAL ASYLUM. AFTERNOON. A man is slowly and carefully pebbledashing the front of a building not far from the small track around which the ex-athlete is jogging for her daily exercise. Strangely, THE PEBBLEDASHER seems to simply be moving his hands over the walls. No equipment is visible. At least, that is the way it seems from the brief glance we are offered before our attention is drawn back to the woman as she completes her second circuit. Sat on the grass with his face to the sun, THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN yawns lazily. THE PEBBLEDASHER moves closer, though he is out of focus in the distance. Suddenly, THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN’S head snaps around, his eyes hungrily staring at THE PEBBLEDASHER. Without even looking back at the ex-athlete, he scrambles to his feet and hurries over to fence separating the two areas. His body passes straight through the electrified wire-mesh, and he stops next to THE PEBBLEDASHER whose hands drop to his side. THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN has a huge and wicked smile plastered over his face. The ex-athlete stops running. Her eyes betray her confusion, and a moment later, reflect her recognition.

LILY

I remember!

Crouching down, she tucks one leg up underneath her so that she is crouching on one leg. With a guttural yell, she springs herself upwards, somersaulting in mid-air, and lands on the other side of the fence, in the exact same position from which she had launched herself.

LILY

Man that felt good!

Glancing over her shoulder, she sees a number of other residents of the asylum looking at her strangely. She waves at them before bounding away with a strange gait, one leg propelling her a huge distance forwards as though she had leapt after taking a run-up. The other leg just permeates these massive leaps, giving the whole movement a bizarrely athletic limping style. The garden is not large, and she soon comes to the huge wall surrounding the complex. Not even breaking her stride, she pushes off from the ground, clearing the height easily. Confused yells erupt from behind her, the half-dozing guards posted at regular intervals along the wall suddenly snapping awake or dropping donuts as they see her seemingly defy gravity. But there is nothing they can do; LILY has already reached the ground and run, disappearing over the horizon. We pan around to see most of the residents turning back to whatever they were doing before, unperturbed. Guards scatter themselves about, unsure exactly what to do. THE PEBBLEDASHER walks off with a blank expression. The dark and shadowy figure follows him chuckling gleefully. The camera starts to zoom out as the following voiceover progresses; our final image is the earth viewed from space.

OMNI: [voiceover]

Sometimes even the most insignificant event can have catastrophic results. Given

enough time, everything becomes a part of something great. A part of something noble.

A part of something terrible.

A woman on the run, a man who seems to give freely more than he ought, a friend left alone; and what of the others? Be warned; for not only do the shadows creep upon us

when we least expect it, but more shadows grow every day. These may be our first Heroes, but in the course of time, many more will come to share the same destiny.

Believe me when I say this; for I am OMNI, and I am everywhere.

The Earth fades away, only its outline remaining as a glowing “O” suspended in the sky.

FADE TO BLACK

ROLL CREDITS

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Episode Two

Forget What You Think You Know Because You Don’t

PREVIOUSLY ON PIGEONS ARE THE KEY

OMNI [voiceover]

This is nothing new.

A huge man rolls down a hill, burping with each bump he receives as his spherical mass tumbles head over heels. There are spectators lining the hill, stood expectantly on the pavement and cheering. Some are waving red flags whilst others are holding up banners. As the fat man nears the bottom of the hill, there are wild gasps and growls; the cheering takes a breath of silence as the man slows...and then suddenly, the explosion of noise erupts forth from between the lips of the audience. The fat man is flat out of the floor, drool dribbling from his mouth.

LILY

I remember!


EXT. WOODS. AFTERNOON.

Lily flashes past the screen, a wide grin on her face as her strange gait propels her at high speed. The asylum gradually fades into the distance as the following narration plays out.

OMNI

[voiceover]

Sometimes even the greatest friendships can depend on a tiny moment. Bacteria, once worshipped as a god for its destructive prowess, now works its magic in subtler ways.

Illness can take, and indeed give, many shapes and many forms, for it is the spreading of germs that most perfectly emulates our way of life, where fleeting meetings can cause

thousands of miniscule but important changes to our future’s landscape.

Sometimes we are lucky, and are immune to these uninvited guests, these party crashers in our vision of a perfect world. Mostly, we are subjected to the cruel and

whimsical oscillations of the ever-changing spirograph of fate.

A police car zooms past on a road beside the forest in which LILY is running. As it hurtles down the road, we catch a brief voice crackling over the radio:

OFFICER WAE. Suspect is on foot. Approx—

It’s all we’re offered before the car has disappeared down the road with its lights ablaze. LILY is still running, oblivious and fortunate. A truck roars along the road, filling the screen. The hands on the steering wheel are wearing black gloves. As it passes, a new scene is revealed behind it. EXT. INSIDE BANK. AFTERNOON. An orderly queue leads up to the cash desks, made up of various people shifting from one foot to the other. One of them wears black gloves beneath the sleeves of a grey suit; it is all we can see of the figure. Two men wearing balaclavas that only show their eyes enter through the front doors which open with a slick ‘whoosh’. They are both wearing hats and shield themselves with their hands in an attempt to remain unnoticed – an attempt that succeeds. One is slimmer than the other; his name is JEAN-PIERRE. The larger of the pair is called JASPER.

JASPER [whispering]

Could you hurry this up? I’m getting anxious…

JEAN-PIERRE responds in an irritated tone; his accent is thick, and he occasionally slips French into his speech. The French is often completely arbitrary, and has little to do with the subject at hand.

JEAN-PIERRE

Sacre bleu, I am going as fast as I can!

JEAN-PIERRE holds out his arms so that the palms are facing towards the cash desks. The air ripples with a faint energy, a slight hum fizzes around the two men. There is a tinkling noise; the camera zooms in to reveal that the screws are falling out of the reinforced windows, pattering into the laps of the workers. Surprised gasps and shouts explode from their mouths. JEAN-PIERRE slowly walks forwards with his hands still before him until his palms are resting against the cool glass of one of the windows. He peers through. A smile twitches beneath his balaclava. Snapping his hands forwards, he shoves the window so that it no longer provides the worker with the protection he once took for granted. The shouts are replaced by screams as pandemonium erupts within the bank. Throwing an arm casually upwards, the screws from the overhead light fixtures rain down on the crowd, shortly followed by the lights themselves, which crash around them with an electrical hiss.

JEAN-PIERRE

I would not try to open le door. It is – how you say? – broken.

JASPER breaks a leg from a chair and shoves it through the door handles so that it cannot be immediately opened; the threat of what might happen if someone should try to remove the chair leg hangs in the air. JEAN-PIERRE clambers through the now empty window-frame and saunters up to one of the workers. He bends down so that his lips are almost touching the worker’s ear through the material of his balaclava.

JEAN-PIERRE

Open le safe.

The worker GREGORY HART is a portly teenager with a messy clump of brown hair that has clearly rebelled against any attempted imposition of style; he has a sweaty forehead that is dotted with blackheads, and a particularly large yellow spot between his nose and upper lip. His voice is a whimper, cracking half-way through with fright.

GREGORY HART

I c-c-can’t op-pen the s-safe!

JEAN-PIERRE

This is fine, I need only for you to enter le pin.

GREGORY HART

N-no, you d-don’t understand. Only the m-manager knows le – I mean, the – p-p-pin.

JEAN-PIERRE laughs. GREGORY HART nervously joins in, unsure of what else to do. JEAN-PIERRE continues to laugh, looking around at the bank. Some other people join in, also with a scared uncertainty. Without warning, JEAN-PIERRE grabs GREGORY HART by the back of the head and slams his forehead into the till. Holding onto his hair, he yanks his head back up; it is bleeding, and GREGORY HART looks dazed.

JEAN-PIERRE

So, where is this “manager”?

GREGORY HART gurgles, blood dripping from his mouth. He struggles to get any words out from between his mashed lips.

GREGORY HART

He’s out…lunch. Coffee…across road.

JEAN-PIERRE lets go of GREGORY HART’S head, which flops down onto the till. He leaps back through the empty frame, and JASPER hurries over to him, scratching at his face.

JASPER

I knew we should have stuck to small shops. You’re crazy! Now what are we going to do?

JEAN-PIERRE

Just let me think, mm?

JASPER

God, this is so agitating! You know what happens…

JASPER’S fingers are working overtime, scratching frenziedly at his face. In the end, he rips off his mask and begins to scratch at what are now large, swelling red lumps.

JEAN-PIERRE

Merde! You idiot! Put your mask back on!

JASPER

I won’t be bossed around by you anymore you…you French twat!

JASPER spits this final word out, puffing up his chest. Some of the customers in the bank cheer. He throws the balaclava down to the floor.

JASPER

I don’t want to see you ever again!

He pulls the chair-leg out of the door handles, and yanks the door open. He steps through the threshold, letting the door swing shut behind him. Two seconds later, the door opens again, and JASPER walks through backwards, retracing his steps almost exactly in reverse.

JASPER

Okay, I’ll see you once more. There are lots of policemen outside and they all have guns.

JEAN-PIERRE

What? Which of you called the police? Ugh, it is of no consequence. Let’s just get out of here, oui?

JASPER

Yeah, okay. After you.

JEAN-PIERRE walks out hands held high above his head, in a posture that shows that he is unarmed. JASPER copies him. There are a number of POLICEMEN wearing dark helmets huddled behind a couple of police cars. They all wear black gloves. The most important looking figure is wearing a brown overcoat over a bullet proof vest. He has no helmet. Spotting the pair, he steps forwards. He has white streaks in his already greyed hair, and is inevitably only a few days from retirement. Predictably, he once let a number of thugs in a similar hostage situation escape, and this would be his big chance to right that mistake before he’s gone from the force for good. He chews down on his cigar whilst talking.

CHIEF CONSTABLE MICK HERVEY

Slowly now, lads. Let’s make this friendly, like.

JEAN-PIERRE

Certainly.

The air ripples once again, and all of the guns that the POLICEMEN have trained on the pair literally fall apart. Even their squad cars buckle, with certain pieces falling off. In the ensuing confusion, JEAN-PIERRE makes a run for it in one direction whilst JASPER waddles off in the other, still scratching at his face. CHIEF CONSTABLE MICK HERVEY’S cigar falls from his mouth. The camera zooms upwards until we have a panoramic view of the policemen milling around confusedly like ants. The camera continues zooming, until it becomes clear we are now watching a news report of the incident. INT. DINGY BAR. EVENING. A large, muscular black man slowly and disinterestedly polishes the bar with a dirty cloth. He has a towering rectangular afro. His name is DRAKE. The door to the bar opens, and LILY struts in, now wearing large sunglasses, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and a pale summer-dress. She pulls the sunglasses down so that her eyes are visible over their rims.

LILY

A glass of your finest wine, barkeep.

Something, either in her eyes or in her voice, tells DRAKE that this drink is on the house. He drops the cloth into a bucket on the floor, and moves behind the bar, trailing his hand along its surface. He pulls down an unmarked and dusty bottle of red wine, and pours out a glass for her.

DRAKE

It is rumoured that this bottle of wine is over a thousand years old…

He gently pushes the glass to LILY, who picks it up and downs the contents in one swift movement. She slams it onto the bar as though it were a shot of tequila, not even having to say a word to get her message across; ‘pour me another’. A rustle of a chair being scraped along the floor disrupts the tension hanging jaggedly in the air.

A slim man with a shaved head and a dark goatee steps forwards. Or, rather, tries to; his stride is sabotaged by a stumble brought on by alcohol. His words are slurred, and carry a thick French accent. It is, of course, JEAN-PIERRE.

JEAN-PIERRE

Good evening, mademoiselle. Do you…like le French accent?

LILY

Keep moving, buddy.

JEAN-PIERRE

Oh ho ho, playing hard to get are we? Bon!

He turns to DRAKE as though he’s about to order another drink, but decides against it. Instead he faces LILY.

JEAN-PIERRE

Hey, pretty lady. Let’s ditch the bar and I’ll show you why France is the city of love.

LILY

France is a country, you creep.

JEAN-PIERRE

Don’t be nasty now...

Clearly tired of his antics, LILY scoops her empty wine-glass up into her hand and swings it down at JEAN-PIERRE. Unfortunately for her, though his words may be dulled by alcohol, his reactions are not; within a split-second he has snapped his hands out, and the barstool has fallen apart, taking LILY to the floor with it. Her hat and sunglasses land beside her. Her face is bruised, a purple shading already swelling around her cheekbones. She looks around at the screws that litter the floor, which have all popped out at the same time. As she looks up, she smiles.

LILY

You have a power too?

JEAN-PIERRE winks at her.

JEAN-PIERRE

They call me the master of screwing.

LILY

Don’t push it now, mate, or I’ll kick you in the nuts and bolts with my powerful leg.

JEAN-PIERRE

This is your power? A strong leg? You are pathetic!

LILY’S face contorts when the Frenchman says this. Her eyes bulge slightly, and she begins to pull herself to her feet, her teeth audibly grinding. It is only then that realisation dawns on DRAKE.

DRAKE

You two…both of you!

He points to JEAN-PIERRE

DRAKE

You’re that guy that was just on TV a minute ago, the one that escaped the bank! And you –

He turns to face LILY

DRAKE

You escaped a mental home! They said you’re very dangerous! Aw, shit!

His palms seem to sprout large clumps of dirt. He throws them down onto the floor, and a dirt cloud rises like a smoke bomb, its brown mist choking and blinding his two customers. When it clears, DRAKE has disappeared. The two turn back to face one another, but DRAKE’S words and the sound of a distant siren reminds them of the tight line they’re treading between freedom and prison. A knowing look passes between them; this isn’t over, it’s simply on hold.

LILY walks to the large steel door that leads out behind the bar, picking up the supposedly ancient bottle of wine on the way. She kicks at the door, and sends it flying off its hinges into the alleyway outside, turns and gives JEAN-PIERRE the finger before darting outside and bouncing away.

JEAN-PIERRE

I can make big exits too, mademoiselle!

He flicks his hands out, and the front door creaks; the screws tinker down onto the floor, and JEAN-PIERRE pushes the door out of its frame. It lands with a crash on the pavement, making a number of pedestrians jump at the sudden noise. He struts off and soon becomes just another face in the crowd.

OMNI [voiceover]

Irritation, be it medical or casual, makes us do many things. We turn from a path we

have long trodden, frustrated with the route it is taking us down. We throw down our cards on the table, folding too early on what would be the winning hand. We want to

change, to escape; but we can never know what awaits us. To risk, to remain safe; both are borne from the same desire.

But just because the grass is greener doesn’t mean it’s green.

Back in the pub there is the sound of flushing. A toilet-door swings open, and we see only the midriff of someone walking up to the bar, arms swinging casually. They pick up a pair of black gloves, and wiggle their hands inside.

FADE TO BLACK

ROLL CREDITS

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Episode Three

Red Pigeon


OMNI [voiceover]

Mostly, we are subjected to the cruel and whimsical oscillations of the ever-changing

spirograph of fate.

A dog runs around in circles, chasing its rapidly wagging tail. It seems to be trapped in this cycle; running around and around and around. Suddenly, it stops stock still and sticks its nose high into the air. It seems to sense something in the distance. Its eyes narrow...

SPIROGRAPH DOG

WOOF!! WOOF WOOF!!

There, on the horizon, an indistinct shape forms; hazy from the blurring heat, it becomes even harder to make out what it could be. But whilst we might not be able to, the dog clearly can because it looks defiant.

SPIROGRAPH DOG

GRRR! BARK! BARK!

The dog rushes towards the shape. Its powerful legs propel it forwards at high speed; it leaps into the air, knocking over a man carrying a huge pot of custard. The yellow gloop splodges all over the floor. The dog, happy, licks it all up.

DRAKE

Aw, shit!


EXT. HOUSE. EVENING. The house is extremely neat and tidy; the garden is beautifully presented, the windows are sparkling, and the driveway smells of fresh concrete. And it is unsurprising; the windows were recently cleaned by young men with sun-burnt skin who posted a flier through the door, the driveway recently laid down after a neighbour had theirs done, the workmen putting a board up to advertise their low, low prices, and the garden had been tended to just yesterday by an elderly man with weak knees. Tomorrow, a middle-aged woman would be coming to do some more gardening, and two days after that a young lad would be mowing the grass. The front door opens, and EDGAR walks out, casting suspicious eyes along the pavement. He begins to sneak down the road.

OMNI [voiceover]

Every story needs a bad guy. Someone against whom we judge ourselves and others;

someone who helps us sleep at night, who we can point at and say, ‘Oh, we’re not that bad!’ But in this world, the space between good and evil is not well marked; we can’t pick up a person and shake them until we can see what they are. And why should we want to? We all love the dark heroes, and despise the white knights. We prefer our

villains to have our sympathy, or at least see them as mirror image of the good guys. A bland and pure evil is now thrown out as cardboard overlaid with plastic.

And that is why everyone will be caught unawares.

Behind him, a shape seems to melt away from the shadows, and begins following him. It is wearing a hooded white gown, its face hidden. The colour seems to materialise outwards, from within the darkness. It raises its hands up into the air – hands that wear black leather gloves. Poised ready to strike, the shape hesitates for just a moment. The gloves tremble with excitement, snarling with hunger. Ripples of information pass from EDGAR’S body to the black gloves. The figure withdraws its hands, recoiling from the waves of data streaming into its palms. EDGAR continues walking along, oblivious to the danger that had been mere inches behind him. The figure turns and walks away from EDGAR. It bends its head and seems to talk directly to its gloves.

MANUS

Think, my pretties, we were just moments away from absorbing that soul…that pathetic, useless excuse for a soul. He would have been a burden to us, a step backwards. We are

better off without him. But…something has stained him with the scent of power. It is why we were so close to making a tragic mistake, yes…yes…hmm…

He reaches the shadows, and steps into it, his body melding with the darkness, the white cloak fading to black. Seconds later, he cannot be seen at all. Only his voice betrays his presence, and even that begins to fade away. CUT TO INT. HALLYWAY. MORNING. Post lies unchecked in a pile on the mat. There is an answer-phone machine with a flashing green number ’24’ on it. A key is inserted nervously; the owner clearly lacks confidence that his key fits this lock. Perhaps surprisingly, it does. The door swings slowly inwards. Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the dawn’s brightness, is THE PEBBLEDASHER, holding his driver’s license in one hand and the front door key in the other. He’s wearing a bemused expression. Standing just behind him is THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN. For the first time, we are offered a lasting look at him; he has a grizzly black beard and a black cowboy hat. He is wearing a grey trench-coat lined with light grey fur around the neck, and walks with a shuffling hunch. His face is wrinkled and cracked with age.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

So this is where I live.

THE PEBBLEDASHER walks over the threshold, his footsteps muffled by the smattering of paper envelopes. He eyes the answer-phone machine, unsure whether he dares play the messages. Deciding to throw caution to the wind, he presses the button marked ‘PLAY’ and bends down to pick up the letters. As the messages play through, he sorts through the letters. They are addressed to a Mr. PAUL DASHER.

ANSWER PHONE [beep]

Hey PAUL, it’s RON. The clinic called and said you showed up but never finished the job. What gives? Anyway, call me back.

[beep]

Hey listen, RON again. You still got our van, we needed that one back by 6pm. You’d

better have an excuse.

[beep]

Hey babe, it’s JOELLE. Where are you? I let it go that you didn’t come round last night, but you were meant to meet me for lunch twenty minutes ago. Don’t be sleeping, or I

swear to God…love and kisses.

[beep]

This isn’t funny. Your 8am called at 1pm and said you still haven’t turned up, your 10am called ten minutes ago and said the same, and JOELLE called and told me that she ain’t

seen you since you left for work yesterday – you didn’t stand her up again, did ya? I dunno if somethin’s happened to ya mate, but call me, or you’ll be in deep shit.

[beep]

Listen you son of a bitch, if you keep ignoring my messages, I’ll come down there and –

I’m sorry, please, it’s just, well, without you, we’re nobody. So call me back.

[beep]

Are you happy with your current phone provider?

THE PEBBLEDASHER presses the ‘PAUSE’ button and tears open the envelope on the top of the pile. THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN peers curiously at it. Inside is a letter from ‘TRILL’S Internet Café’; it appears to be some sort of newsletter sent out to its members. From what THE PEBBLEDASHER can gather, he’s a regular customer there.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

Hmm…what do you think? Let’s go there and see if anyone recognises me. Maybe they can help me figure out who I am.

CUT TO EXT. TRILL’S INTERNET CAFÉ. MIDDAY. THE PEBBLEDASHER and THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN are stood outside of the internet café. Looking unconvinced, THE PEBBLEDASHER nevertheless proceeds inside.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

None of this looks familiar…

TRILL looks up and notices THE PEBBLEDASHER. He smiles and waves.

THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN

Oooh…

THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN hobbles over towards TRILL. He smiles hungrily.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

Hey, where are you going?

THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN does not turn around. A sense of understanding passes across THE PEBBLEDASHER’S face. His eyes look as though they have been uncovered, the film of confusion once concealing them now lifted.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

Seems like coming here did help, after all. Hey, TRILL, how’ve you been?

TRILL looks straight through THE PEBBLEDASHER. His eyes now have a far-away look to them, and his mouth opens and closes noiselessly. He steps out from behind his desk, and leaves the café, not saying a word to anyone. THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN shuffles after him, giggling madly. THE PEBBLEDASHER stares after him, not really sure what to make of the situation. Something begins to connect up in his mind, and we can see the echo of the thought being formed on his face. He rushes after his friend TRILL; or rather, he runs after THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN. As he bursts through the door, a large black-gloved fist sweeps through the air, catching his cheek and knocking him sideways. THE PEBBLEDASHER staggers, grabbing hold of

the wall for support. A grinding, crunching noise can be heard – we pan around his body to see that THE PEBBLEDASHER’S left hand is connected to the wall by pebble-dashing. He tears his hand free, tiny fragments of rock raining down on the ground. The rough rock around his hand crumbles away, and we can see THE PEBBLEDASHER flexing his fist.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

That hurt.

He turns to face his attacker, uttering a small gasp of surprise. In front of him, five pairs of black gloves are floating in mid air. Behind them, MANUS is smiling, his own black-gloved hands held out in front of him, arched as though he were a puppeteer.

MANUS

Is he the strength? This is where it came from, eh? Hmm…yes, yes, I think, let us try, my lovelies! Let us try!

At these words, MANUS starts flicking his fingers around, seemingly at random. The floating gloves dart forwards, assaulting THE PEBBLEDASHER from all sides. He springs his own hands up in at attempt to defend himself, batting the gloves away, surprised to find them filled with a strangely heavy force. His defence soon dissolves into a wild flailing. A glove skilfully ducks beneath his hands and smacks him in the face. He reels backwards, leaving a gap in his armour; without hesitation a number of gloves rush towards his stomach, aiming to wind him. The screen turns black as we hear a sick crunch. Silence for a heartbeat. The darkness lifts. Four of the gloves fall to the floor, seeming to sigh or whimper as they plummet. They are covered in pebble-dashing, and break into pieces when they hit the ground. THE PEBBLEDASHER raises his hands from in front of his stomach to chest height. He gestures to the remaining gloves to come for him. MANUS looks furious, his eyes ablaze with fury. The six remaining gloves move in formation towards THE PEBBLEDASHER.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

I’ve spent the past few minutes analyzing you, and I can see that your anger is dulling your capabilities; right now, I can read your movements exactly.

THE PEBBLEDASHER sidesteps easily as a glove slices the air beside him. His eyes don’t even seem to be on the gloves anymore – rather he is watching MANUS. He squats low, a glove passing just over his head, before leaning to the side and springing to his feet. THE PEBBLEDASHER chuckles, bowing as two gloves speed over his head. Throwing his hand up in the air, he catches a glove, turning it to pebbly-stone in an instant.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

That’s half gone.

MANUS smiles a wicked grin.

MANUS

His arrogance is his downfall, my beauties. From behind THE PEBBLEDASHER, hundreds of gloves rise up from the roof of the café, filling the sky, covering the sun and turning broad daylight to darkest night. The tsunami of gloves crash down on THE PEBBLEDASHER, knocking him face-first onto the pavement. The sheer weight of the gloves pins him in place. His hands twitch uselessly, a number of gloves holding his arms. MANUS walks up to the pile of gloves. As he nears them, a number slide away, parting to reveal the face of THE PEBBLEDASHER. MANUS bends down, and holds his own gloves a couple of inches from THE PEBBLEDASHER’S cheeks. The air trembles as information about THE PEBBLEDASHER passes between the two, the gloves lapping it up hungrily. MANUS smiles.

MANUS

He has the same smell, but unlike that useless soul, this one’s strong. Who is it that connects them? I must taste him, that strength, too, convert him too…Yes, yes, but for

now, this one will be a fine addition…

MANUS places his hands on THE PEBBLEDASHER’S cheeks. THE PEBBLEDASHER’S eyes flit from side to side, his mouth jerking open and closed. All of a sudden, MANUS shrieks; with a grinding rumble, pebble-dashing erupts all over THE PEBBLEDASHER’S face, climbing up onto MANUS’ gloves and solidifying. The gloves covering THE PEBBLEDASHER’S body begin to turn to stone, until they form a giant slab of pebble-dashing. MANUS struggles, but he can’t break free; his hands are firmly stuck in the stone.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

Your arrogance was your downfall.

THE PEBBLEDASHER frees his arms, shrugging off the pebble-dashed gloves. He pushes himself up into a standing position, yanking his head free from the gloves of MANUS with a snap, his body rising through the crowd of gloves, a massive cloud of dust billowing into the air as he breaks them apart with his torso. His whole body is covered in tiny, jagged rocks; he is entirely pebble-dashed.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

I’m able to pebble-dash anything I touch using any part of my body. Just be thankful I stopped at your wrists.

THE PEBBLEDASHER stretches his arms out, twisting his neck from side to side. The pebble-dashing falls off of him, leaving him standing naked in the street. Covering himself up, THE PEBBLEDASHER walks calmly towards the row of highstreet shops further along the road. Already accepting defeat, MANUS sends a telepathic order to all of his puppets that had previously been keeping this street free of pedestrians; within seconds the road is filled with people. Looking down at his hands, MANUS sighs.

MANUS

I am sorry my lovelies, but he took me by surprise. It won’t happen again, I promise…can you even hear me? Oh…oh…damn him! He’s killed you! I won’t let him go unpunished,

no no no no no! Goodbye, pretty ones, goodbye!

With a yell, MANUS throws his hands against the floor, shattering them. Beneath them is an empty space; that is, for a brief moment, before black leather starts to spread out from within MANUS’ sleeves, running liquid-like into the shape of a hand. These new hands flex, and MANUS bends to kiss them.

MANUS

My new masters, I humbly greet you. Yes, yes, my beauties. I know, I should have stayed in the shadows, but sometimes I can’t wait…the compulsion to reap their souls…shh,

shh, it’s okay, it’s okay…

MANUS looks to the sky, the camera moving with his gaze. A single pigeon flaps it wings and takes flight from a tree branch, momentarily silhouetted against the sun.

CUT TO EXT. WEST END. MIDDAY. / INT. CLOTHES SHOP. MIDDAY. In these clips, there is no sound other than OMNI’s voice. Any speech is discernable through lip-reading alone. The scenes occur side-by-side. TRILL is walking along the road, looking up at everything confusedly. The sights seem to be all new to him, nothing makes sense. People would easily take him for a lost tourist, although that may be a little harsh – even lost tourists would recognise London’s West End. Behind him, THE DARK AND MYSTERIOUS MAN gazes about, lips smacking with satisfaction. He has to quicken his step every now and again to keep up with TRILL.

Unabashed, THE PEBBLEDASHER is paying for some new clothes. He gives the change to CALUM, who, after seeing him in the shop and feeling sorry for him, has lent him the money to buy these new clothes with, his own money and wallet having been pebble-dashed and turned into dust.

OMNI

[voiceover]

Have you seen it yet? I have shown, openly and closely, the true evil that these heroes must face. The empty blackness that has no heart, no compassion, no aversion to

cruelty. Yet such neutral evil must also be a neutral good. Truth knows no allegiance, for truth, pure, untainted truth, is nothingness itself, the destruction of all codes.

One member of the oncoming crowd is JEAN-PIERRE. He’s keeping his head down, wearing a hooded-jumper, and trying not to be noticed. But someone does notice him; eyes already gleaming, THE DARK AND MYSTERIOUS MAN hobbles forwards, seeming to phase through TRILL, who suddenly remembers where he is. THE DARK AND MYSTERIOUS MAN passes through the remainder of the crowd, until he is in front of JEAN-PIERRE.

Outside of the clothes shop, the red and blue flashing lights of a police-car can be made out through the window. A car door slams. Moments later, OFFICER MICHELLE WAE walks into the shop. She is wearing a bullet-proof vest and carries a deadly looking handgun in one hand. In the other, she flashes a badge at the scared customers. On it is written the words; YORK CITY JAZZ POLICE: LONDON BRANCH

OFFICER MICHELLE WAE

OFFICER MICHELLE WAE of the York City Jazz Police, London Branch. Don’t panic,

I’m just here for these guys.

OMNI [voiceover]

The true, unexpected evil is not evil because it is evil. It is evil because it is often the most neutral and logical course of action; it is evil for the same reasons that the river flows as it does. In the end, the river always reaches the sea. But evil, cut off from all motive, can never reach that sea; for having no motive means having no goal. For the

path of true evil, true neutrality, is one of loneliness.

THE DARK AND MYSTERIOUS MAN bends to look into JEAN-PIERRE’S eyes, smiling and rubbing his hands together. JEAN-PIERRE’s face blanks, and he pulls his hood down, looking up at the sun, wondering why he’d be walking along with a hood in such nice weather. He stands stock still, a strange figure in the sea of bodies sweeping past him. The camera zooms out and pans up; this is the image at which the episode ends.

OFFICER MICHELLE WAE strides over to THE PEBBLEDASHER and CALUM.


You’re both under arrest. This can be easy, or it can be hard. It’s your choice.

CALUM is visibly distressed by this, but OFFICER MICHELLE WAE refuses to look him in the eyes.

CALUM

‘CHELLE, what’s going on?

THE PEBBLEDASHER silently holds his hands out for OFFICER MICHELLE WAE to handcuff. She does this, and he walks outside. CALUM holds his hands up.

CALUM

You’re not putting those on me.

OFFICER MICHELLE WAE shakes her head and sighs, but allows CALUM to walk out uncuffed. He climbs into the back of the police car. The car zooms off, disappearing over the horizon.

ROLL CREDITS

<o)

( D )>

_|_|

Episode Four

Theory And Practice


An assortment of different coloured bowls are on display. There is an old man hobbling around, looking at each in turn with obvious scrutiny. His name is EFFEL HALIOTROPE, and he is the second most powerful man on the planet.

EFFEL HALIOTROPE

Hmm...these bowls...

Without warning, a minotaur smashes through the wall, dust and debris coating its back. It gives an inhuman roar, huffing as hot breath shoots out from its nostrils.

EFFEL HALIOTROPE

I’ve been waiting, TRON

TRON THE MINOTAUR

Rarrr! I’m here to end you!

A battle ensues. TRON THE MINOTAUR swings his chunky fists around, knocking the bowls flying. EFFEL HALIOTROPE leaps up into the air, catching each bowl before they smash and placing them safely in a pile behind him.

TRON THE MINOTAUR

I have been bested!

EFFEL HALIOTROPE

Indeed.


INT. POST OFFICE. DAY. JASPER is in a long queue, looking at his watch every few seconds. He’s getting agitated that posting this letter is taking so long; there’s a large woman that seems to be fussing and counting her coins out very slowly. As time passes, small red boils begin to appear dotted over his face. He begins to scratch his face, sighing and huffing. Moments later, his entire face is covered with swollen, red boils. The skin begins to stretch, threatening to burst; with rough fingers, JASPER pulls and pushes them, hard enough to tear the flesh from the bone. The itch becomes too much, and JASPER turns and runs out of the post office.

OMNI [voiceover]

I once heard a song about love. The lines were as follows: “Love power, a little love power; stronger than the hurricane, softer than the summer rain.” It’s true that this

song featured in a Muppets movie, but don’t let that mask the accuracy of these words; for love is a powerful thing. It binds us together, and tears us apart. What people do for

love, what they do with love and without love, has always and will always shape the course of the future. Capable of amazing feats, love is the life of this world. Capable of

terrible evils, love is also the death of this world. As he runs through the door, he bumps into someone walking past the post office, stumbling sideways as his body twists around from the impact.

JASPER

Oh, shit, I’m so sorry.

The camera pans around to reveal LILY looking unimpressed. Her face is badly bruised.

JASPER

Oh…your face…it’s…beautiful!

LILY

What?

JASPER

Ah…uh…let me buy you a drink – for bumping into you. You could’ve fallen and got hurt.

JASPER’S face has returned to normal, the boils now reduced to just a tone of red running across his face. If anything, it now looks like he is blushing.

LILY

I’m okay, really.

JASPER

Ah…yeah…sure…

LILY

You can take me out for a drink because I’m cute though.

JASPER

Really? Yeah! Yeah, that’s great!

LILY holds her arm out for JASPER to take, and the pair walk along the street together, starting to chat casually amongst themselves. A brief montage of the next couple of days, showing the pair growing increasingly close. They share ice cream on a train, learn to tango, visit the zoo and eventually end up spending the night together. There is a gratuitous sex scene set to awful eighties porn music; nothing too revealing, but it’s clear that they are enjoying themselves. CUT TO INT. JASPER’S BEDROOM. MORNING. LILY is lying on one side, staring lovingly into JASPER’S eyes. She reaches her hand out and cups his face, a smile on her lips. She then pushes herself up, and turns to fully face him. JASPER gasps and scuttles backwards, falling out of the bed.

LILY

What?! Oh no, what’s happened?!

She jumps out of bed and runs to the mirror to check her face. In the reflection, we see that…there is nothing there. The bruise has gone.

JASPER

Your face…the mark…I…I thought you were like me…

LILY

Like you? What do you mean?

JASPER

Oh, great, play dumb. I thought we had something here!

LILY

What are you talking about?! You only liked me because of my bruise? What are you, some sick S&M freak?

JASPER

Yeah, that’s right, I’m a freak. You’re just like everyone else! Get out of here! Get out!

LILY

Fine!

LILY grabs her bag and hurriedly puts on her clothes. She rushes out of the door without looking back. It slams with a loud thud. CUT TO INT. DINGY BAR. AFTERNOON. JASPER is drinking his sorrow away. DRAKE is serving him, polishing the bar.

DRAKE

What’s eating at you, pal?

JASPER

It’s stupid.

DRAKE

No, come on, I’m a barman, it’s my job to listen.

JASPER

It’s your job to serve me another whiskey.

DRAKE

You know, I had two crazies in here the other day. A bank robber and some bitch that escaped a mental asylum. They had a scuffle. Bad times. But everyone got problems,

right?

JASPER

Yeah, I guess. I spent the last few days with this great woman, thought she understood me. Turned out she was just another…

JASPER begins to get agitated thinking about LILY, his face erupting in red boils.

DRAKE

Woah, woah! You’re that robber’s mate!

JASPER

Ha! “Mate”? No way. We used to be. Not any more. Not any more.

DRAKE

But you were on the TV Report too…

JASPER

I was practically a hostage myself. I’m well shot of that life.

DRAKE

I don’t care. Get out of my bar! I won’t let this pub be a hovel for criminals!

DRAKE’S hands sprout dirt, and he throws clumps of it at JASPER. Shielding his face, JASPER topples from his chair. He pushes himself up, stumbles out of the bar. DRAKE shakes his head.

DRAKE

Damned criminals.

MANUS

They’re not all that bad, no, no, no.

DRAKE gasps, turning around to face MANUS, who has just materialised out of the darkness. As he turns, the gloved hands aggressively grab his head, their palms spread across his entire face.

MANUS

We’re sure you’ll find you quite enjoy a life of evil.

DRAKE twitches, unable to move apart from these few small spasms. Within moments, even this stops. MANUS pulls his hands back, a faint purple trail connecting the gloves and DRAKE’S face, which now looks empty and lifeless. Suddenly, DRAKE’S hands begin to change. The skin turns completely black, and takes on a leathery look. They have become black gloves. His eyes light up, and he bows his head.

DRAKE

I’m sure I’ll find I quite enjoy a life of evil.

CUT TO EXT. PARKING LOT. NIGHT. We see through her car window that LILY is sat in her car with her head in her hands, crying. It’s raining outside.

MANUS

Oh, no, don’t be sad lovely lady.

LILY gasps and looks in her rear-view mirror. Reflected in it, we see the dark eyes of MANUS looking back. She screams and pulls at the door handle, but it won’t budge.

MANUS

No, no, no it won’t open, will it, prettiest ones? You must stay here and listen to me, hmm, yes, yes.

LILY

What? Who are you? What are you doing here?

MANUS waves his gloved hand disinterestedly.

MANUS

Questions, questions. I have seen the future, and I have a message, yes, I do, I do. Right now, you, yes, can change everything. They say the world is rotting, yes, and you can’t

trust anyone, not a soul, no. There’s nothing you can do.

LILY’S eyes grow dark. She looks even sadder, and droops her head, looking downwards.

LILY

You’re right.

MANUS

You’re wrong. I’m wrong. Everyone, everything, its all wrong. A way out, though, yes. Join me, join me, and fight back. She’ll be able to, won’t she, yes?

LILY

Fight back?

MANUS

Too many things, yes, it’s dark. You, though, you…together, together we can be more, we can fight the darkness and…yes…no. I don’t want anything yet, but, yes…come to

find me in an hour. Nearby. You’ll know. You’ll know, because I’ve seen it.

MANUS opens the back door and slips out. LILY is left looking shaken. Her eyes are wide and her lips tremble with fear. The camera moves out from the car and follows MANUS as he walks off, bending to talk to his gloves.

MANUS

I think that went well, pretties, yes. We have done well, yes, she was unsure, but now she’s ours. It’s easier, this way, yes. Much easier. Hmm, yes, hmm.

BLACK OUT CUT TO EXT. ROAD. NIGHT. A Japanese man walks along the road with a bandage around his eyes and a white stick held in front of him. His name is IRA. He suddenly comes to a halt outside the gates to a children’s park. Inside, MANUS is sat on a park bench, the streetlamps to either side of it extinguished. He is clothed in complete darkness. LILY walks up behind him slowly.

LILY

I’ve made my choice.

MANUS

Good, good. Yes. Come, sit, and together, we will –

IRA’s mouth twitches, and he suddenly shouts out, rushing towards the bench.

IRA

Stop! I can’t allow this to happen!

LILY

Who are you? Are you in on this? What’s going on? Is this a set up?

IRA

Forgive me, and let me explain. My name is IRA, and I can read the future. It seems, LILY, that you are the key to everything. I have read that you lean towards evil, and that this

is the moment at which you choose; I am here to try to change this bleak future. Millions of lives could be saved.

LILY

Millions?

IRA

Hypothetically and metaphorically. I can’t read the last page without reading the middle, and the middle is missing. Fresh ink will be laid tonight – and I urge you, think on

what you will do.

LILY

You’re saying I could kill millions of people? Are you an ex-fan, trying to put me back in that asylum? I’m not crazy! And this – this, it’s all too much! You’re just laughing at me

now, aren’t you? Both of you – everyone, everyone is laughing at me! I won’t stand for it – I won’t! You’re just like him, that man, that JASPER. I loved him, after a day, I loved him, and he threw it back at me. At least one thing today has been true; this world is

rotting…it doesn’t deserve saving.

MANUS smiles.

MANUS

Oops. Seems he’s made a mistake there, doesn’t it, pretty ones? She wasn’t sure before, well, she’s ours now, isn’t she, hmm? Come, LILY, it is people like this, yes, that we will

stop, yes…

LILY

You mean you’re not laughing at me?

MANUS

We forgot how to laugh a long time ago.

LILY’S eyes narrow as she looks at IRA.

LILY

But he knows how.

IRA

I feared this would happen. I can’t allow you to leave this place!

LILY

What can a blind old man hope to do?

IRA

You prove your amateurism already. Did I not tell you I can read the future? I know what happens next.

IRA steps forwards and readies to fight, simultaneous to LILY doing the same. He could be her mirror image. She frowns.

LILY

If you truly know the future, you must have known that you would fail to convince me to fight for your concept of good! If anything, you pushed me the other way!

IRA

Why have I been granted foresight if I am not supposed to change what I see? Though I have seen this fight, I hoped for things to occur differently, for this future to be averted.

I knew also that, should you choose evil, I would be saying these very words.

LILY

So what happens next old man?

IRA finishes her sentence with her, saying the words at the exact same time.

IRA

- old man. Old man, eh? Come!

LILY pushes her foot into the ground, cracking it under the pressure, and propels herself into the air. The camera pans up, silhouetting her against the moon. As she leaps higher, we see revealed behind her twenty gloves drilling straight through the air towards him. IRA cartwheels forwards using his cane, balancing on it to gain a greater height. The gloves speed past below him, missing the cane and destroying a park bench behind him. As he reaches his cartwheel’s zenith, his feet connect squarely with LILY’S body, sending her flying backwards. He lands perfectly in front of MANUS, grabbing him by the back of the head and slamming him down into the floor.

LILY pushes herself out of the rubble of broken benches and trees. Her arm is broken but she staggers to her feet and rushes towards IRA anyway. He swings his cane deftly in his hand, causing her to dodge backwards to avoid the hit.

MANUS

Seeing is not doing, no no no. Theory and practice, theory and practice.

As he says this, MANUS sweeps his leg along the floor. IRA jumps up, evading the low kick – but is struck by two gloves in the back. They burst through his body, tearing two fist-sized holes in his back and chest, and leaving him dead on the floor in an expanding puddle of blood.

MANUS

Bye-bye. We’re leaving. LILY is coming with us, yes?

LILY looks back at IRA briefly, her face not quite the cold, expressionless portrait of a killer just yet. But she closes her eyes, and runs off to follow MANUS.

OMNI

[voiceover]

Knowing the future is a funny thing. What we are and what we are not meant to do – if we know our future, can we change it, or do all our efforts simply make it happen? And if we change it, is the changed future the real future, the planned destiny, all along? If

we see the future, do we see a future that was never a future at all, but a pretend future, to make us change the future in the future to a real and changed future? And if,

like elbow, you say future enough, does it lose all meaning?

A dark shadow passes over IRA’S dead body; a low, grating and highly warped voice speaks from off-screen.

???

You still have too much to do.

The shadow disappears as quickly as it came. IRA suddenly sits up and breathes in simultaneously, his heaving chest gulping the air down. The holes in his body have healed over completely. BLACKOUT

ROLL CREDITS

<o)

( D )>

_|_|

Episode Five and Six

It All Falls Down


JASPER

Yeah, that’s right, I’m a freak. You’re just like everyone else! Get out of here! Get out!

FREDWICH FAFFELWORTH

But I yearn for you JASPER! You are the one for me! And to prove it I have...

FREDWICH FAFFELWORTH runs over to JASPER and presents him with a giant crème egg. It glows with a kind of golden tint.

JASPER

FREDWICH! No one has ever been so kind!

He smiles and nods slightly. Then, he pulls his hands away – the giant crème egg is left hovering in the air.


It has long been the legacy of the FAFFELWORTH family to hold the key to true happiness. I present it to you thusly; the super crème egg. It will only transform to its

true form when shared between two people who are destined to be together. Note its glow; note its levitation. This is no ordinary egg.

JASPER stares in wonderment. Reflected in his eyes is the golden egg shape of the super egg. He moves towards it as if to grasp it, but draws back at the last moment.


Go on. Don’t be scared.

JASPER touches the egg. It sends a shiver through his body. All of a sudden, he looks alive. More alive than he has ever looked before.

JASPER

I guess we can make something of this after all.

They embrace. ROLL OPENING CREDITS

IRA climbs to his feet and staggers around the park, tapping his cane in front of him and making his way to a bench, where he sits down with a thud. He holds his head in his hands.

OMNI [voiceover]

The culmination of a number of disparate threads into one recognisable picture may be

called a tapestry or a woollen scarf. It might be presented to kings by their artists, or small children by their grandmothers. It could be designed for public admiration or

private embarrassment. But one thing remains true; pull one of the threads loose, and the whole thing falls apart.

IRA

So this must be why I couldn’t read the future past tonight. Maybe…maybe now I’ll be

able to see what happens next.

IRA stands up and unsteadily walks forwards. He holds one hand out to the air, its freshness guiding him. A direction is chosen; he sets forth with greater purpose. CUT TO EXT. JAZZ POLICE STATION. DAY. Brief establishing shot of the small police station. A sign is hung on the front of the building: YORK CITY JAZZ POLICE, LONDON BRANCH CUT TO INT. JAZZ POLICE CELL. DAY. A couple of days have passed, and THE PEBBLEDASHER is still being detained in a very cramped police cell. We see THE PEBBLEDASHER growing restless, pacing about the

small room and scuffing his feet. The camera pulls back to reveal CALUM is in the cell beside him, sat on the sliver of a mattress that fails to add any comfort to the hard metal shell of the bed beneath it. A hefty black guard is stood outside; he wears bullet-proof armour and an excessively massive riot helmet, and his name is BALDUR.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

Hey, guard! Don’t you have to charge us or something?

BALDUR’S voice is smooth like velvet; THE PEBBLEDASHER’S main motivation was to hear those chocolate tones again rather than attaining the answer to his question.

BALDUR

I told you already boy, this here ain’t just no normal police. We the York City Jazz Police, London Branch. We gots the right to do whatever the hell we please with criminals like

you two.

A door opens, and OFFICER MICHELLE WAE walks into the corridor. She’s ditched her work attire, and now stands before them in gym clothes; grey tracksuit bottoms and a white vest, white and grey towel draped over one shoulder.


That’ll do BALDUR. I’ll take it from here.

BALDUR

Ma’am?


It’s okay. Give us a couple of minutes.

BALDUR nods his head slightly, and walks out of the doorway. It closes with a clang, the sound of the lock being bolted from the other side echoing down the stone corridor. The camera pans across so that CALUM’S cell fills the screen. OFFICER MICHELLE WAE pulls up a seat in front of it and looks her friend straight in the eye.

CALUM

‘CHELLE, what’s going on here?!


Sorry, CAL, but it’s gotta be this way. That bastard HERVEY at the London Met is only a couple days from retirement and he’s gunning for a big showdown with the Jazz Police

before he goes. If I hadn’t caught you, and he had – well, let’s just say he’d have won all the bragging rights, and deserved them too. I know we’re friends – no, more than that, I

know we’re good friends – but this isn’t just my career we’re talking about, it’s the whole branch.

CALUM

But I don’t even know what it is that I haven’t even done!


Don’t play dumb with me CAL, you and Mr. DASHER here are fully aware of the

atrocities you both committed. That bank robbery lark you had your goons pull was just a distraction – we’ve discovered your real plans! But you should know one thing about me by now, CAL, and that’s that I’m always one step ahead. You’ll tell me everything I need to know. I’m giving you this last chance because you’re a friend. I don’t want to…

CALUM

To what? To torture me?

OFFICER MICHELLE WAE’S eyes don’t waver at all; she stares directly into CALUM’S.


I’ll give you some time to think about it while I…question…your partner here.

As she stands, the camera follows her so that we are now presented with a shot of THE PEBBLEDASHER’S cell instead.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

Interesting. I only stayed here so I could find out if I was guilty, but it seems you’ve

made a big mistake. Good luck with the rest of the search.

THE PEBBLEDASHER grabs hold of the bars, turning them to pebbles instantly. He shoulder-barges through them, knocking OFFICER MICHELLE WAE to the floor, and pebble dashing her chest on impact. He runs for the door, holding his hands out and smashing through it, pebbles scattering everywhere.

CALUM

MICHELLE!

CALUM presses his chest up against the bars, sticking his arms through and bending them apart. He creates a gap big enough to slip through, and runs to OFFICER MICHELLE WAE’S side, holding her tenderly in his arms. She is breathing very heavily, groggily opening one eye as an alarm sounds.


You…too?

Her eye closes. CALUM looks desperately into her face, shaking her and crying out. She goes limp, and her breathing becomes a faint rasp, until her chest is barely moving at all. A voice breaks this silence.

OFFICER YARDLEY JAMESON

Move away from OFFICER WAE and turn around, slowly. Tears filling his eyes, CALUM stands up and turns around as instructed. In front of him are four heavily armoured, heavily armed Jazz Police officers all with their guns trained on him. OFFICER YARDLEY JAMESON is the one stood at the front.

CALUM

Why are you pointing those at me? Why haven’t you gone after the one that did this?!


Put your hands on your head. Do it now.

CALUM

Did you get that other one? Just tell me!


This is your final warning before we open fire.

CALUM

You lost him, didn’t you?! Then it’s up to me to get him!


Fire at will!

The scene plays out in slow motion. Bullets fly at CALUM, blood trickling down his arms and chest. But he does not flinch. The bullets simply bounce off of his body, falling to the floor, crushed from the absolute strength of his bones. He seems entirely unfazed, his body simply decorated with scratches and grazes. CALUM cracks his neck, shoulders and fingers, swinging his arms and walking towards the group of Jazz Police Officers.

OFFICER PETER LARSON

He’s a monster!


Stand firm men!

But already OFFICER PETER LARSON has fled. CALUM descends on the remaining officers, their shaking hands betraying their fear. Only OFFICER YARDLEY JAMESON does not tremble. His two companions drop their guns and put their hands in the air, but he simply discards his and walks towards CALUM.


If you want to get past me –

There is a loud crack as CALUM’S fist breaks the heavily plated helmet that OFFICER YARDLEY JAMESON wears. This is immediately followed by a squelch; the camera pans around to reveal that CALUM has punched straight through the Jazz Police Officer’s head, his fist, covered in blood, passing through the back of the helmet.

CALUM

– I’ll have to kill you, right?

CALUM pulls his arm out slowly, and OFFICER YARDLEY JAMESON falls to his knees, then collapses into a pile on the floor. The other Jazz Police Officers have run away.

CALUM looks over his shoulder at OFFICER MICHELLE WAE’S body. There are tears streaming down his face. He closes his eyes, wiping his tears with his blood stained hand, and then walks towards the door, stepping over OFFICER YARDLEY JAMESON’S body. Outside, there are a number of people with pebble dashed bodies. Some of them are moving, moaning quietly, and others – BALDUR included – who are completely still. One of the doors betrays THE PEBBLEDASHER’S escape route; it is surrounded by small pieces of stone. CALUM sets off in pursuit. Behind him, OFFICER MICHELLE WAE’S eyes flutter open. It is from her point of view, partially obscured by the bloodied body of OFFICER YARDLEY JAMESON, that we see CALUM stepping out into the sunlight. CUT TO INT. TRILL’S INTERNET CAFÉ. DAY. TRILL is sat at the front desk of his Internet Café. Behind him we can see the busy London street outside; people are passing by hurriedly. He doodles on a notepad with a biro, idly attempting to draw an envelope without letting the pen leave the pad or draw onto any previously drawn lines. He seems distracted. Over his shoulder, the figure of JEAN-PIERRE can be seen walking past, followed by THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN. Suddenly, JEAN-PIERRE halts, causing THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN to bump into him from behind. Something has clicked in his mind it seems, for he steps back and peers inside, his blank face now taking on some form of emotion, hidden though it is beneath a mask of uncertainty. Cautiously, JEAN-PIERRE pushes open the glass doorway. TRILL welcomes him with a warm smile. Fortunately for JEAN-PIERRE, TRILL does not recognise his face from the TV, and no one else in the Café looks up as he enters. THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN looks around suspiciously.

TRILL

Hello, friend!

JEAN-PIERRE simply squints his eyes in response.

TRILL

Not the talkative type, eh? No worries. You’ll be wanting an hour on the net?

JEAN-PIERRE looks at TRILL carefully, and then nods his head.

TRILL

That’ll be a quid mate.

Patting his pockets, JEAN-PIERRE eventually produces a single pound coin, which he hands over to the Irishman. He turns and walks over to a computer terminal in the corner, followed eagerly by THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN. TRILL shakes his head with a sad smile and gets back to his doodling. The camera manages to take in the terminal and the front desk at the same time, though our attention is soon drawn to the doorway once more as THE PEBBLEDASHER steps through and immediately walks over to TRILL. In contrast to TRILL’S loud and jovial voice, THE PEBBLEDASHER speaks in hushed and hurried whisper.

TRILL

PAUL! Good to see you man!

THE PEBBLEDASHER

Yeah, you too, but listen – I think we’re in danger. Earlier, this guy attacked me when I was leaving your place…Weird guy with some strange powers…one of us. If he’s going

around killing off people like us…

JEAN-PIERRE

Sacre-bleu!

The sudden shout breaks through the low hums of the computer terminals. Following this is a high pitched scream, a wail that physically pains everyone’s ears, though no one can see what is causing it. No one, that is, except JEAN-PIERRE. He stares in horror as THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN flees from him, speeding across the room. The screams stop as soon as THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN reaches the front desk; his eyes catch hold of THE PEBBLEDASHER, and he darts behind him, dropping into silence. People murmur, looking around uncertainly. A few of them notice JEAN-PIERRE. Flashing on the screen behind him is his own face, an image on a news article that appears on the BBC website, set to the homepage of TRILL’S machines. The menacing smile that distinguishes him in the photograph is replicated on his real face as his memory floods back.

JEAN-PIERRE

Nobody move!

Things seem to go out of focus slightly, or at least are drained of colour to an extent; it is quite clear that JEAN-PIERRE’S robbery is taking place only as a backdrop to the following conversation.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

You…I know you from somewhere. Who are you – or, for that matter, who am I?

THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN gives a gruff laugh.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

I know that I have the answer. It’s so close. I feel like you want me to know who you are. We’ve met before haven’t we? I do know you from somewhere, don’t I?

THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN places his hand on THE PEBBLEDASHER’S shoulder and takes off his hat with his other hand. He holds it to his chest, almost as a sign of respect, and then turns and starts to move towards the door.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

Don’t move! He’ll shoot you or something! Can’t you see that this is a robbery?! Hey! Wait! Damnit…

Casting one last look at the scene, THE PEBBLEDASHER rushes after THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN. JEAN-PIERRE is busy talking down a mobile phone and does not notice them leaving; TRILL, on the other hand, does see his friend escape. We hear him mutter beneath his breath as the camera follows THE PEBBLEDASHER out into the street.

TRILL

Get help, PAUL…

THE PEBBLEDASHER is a few steps behind THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN who seems to be guiding him along the road. He reaches out to grab hold of THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN’S shoulder, but his hand passes straight through. Assuming he’d just pulled up short, THE PEBBLEDASHER shakes off the strange feeling that momentarily washed over him and continues on. Coming the other way, JASPER clicks his mobile phone shut gruffly.

With a flourish, THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN turns and bows deeply. Without pausing he falls into step behind JASPER, whose face slowly clouds over. Suddenly, memory floods back into THE PEBBLEDASHER’S mind once again. He sets off at a run.

CUT TO EXT. HIGH STREET. DAY. Stood beside a wall, the camera slowly zooms in on a payphone, ringing relentlessly. The shrill squeal of the phone goes practically unnoticed by those who walk past the glass box. A lone figure cuts across the masses, heading straight for the phone; white cane tapping the path in front of him, IRA makes his way forwards. As he opens the door, the phone stops ringing. He pats his hand around the payphone until he finds a small button. He presses the button, and a secret compartment swings out. Inside is a telephone directory. IRA pulls it out and closes the compartment, pushing the secret flap closed. Taking a deep breath, he flips through the pages until he feels a faint tremble in his hands. He gives a satisfied smile and bends his head as if reading through the open pages. It moves from side to side as he scans the numbers; his expression changes numerous times as though he were reading a rich and compelling narrative. There is a sudden and sharp tap that breaks the bubble within which IRA is reading. The camera quickly swivels around to reveal THE PEBBLEDASHER, looking desperately frantic. He raps on the glass door again. IRA sighs, and opens the door.

IRA

It’s all yours.

THE PEBBLEDASHER nods and dives inside the telephone box. He immediately dials 9-9-9. At the other end of the phone, a metallic and emotionless voice can be heard;

TELEPHONE MACHINE

For ambulances and hospitals, say “Health” For fire fighters and fire trucks, say “Fire”

For police and community officers, say “Law and Order” For York City Jazz Police, say “Jazz”

If you are under duress or cannot speak for another reason, please hold whilst we try to connect you with an agent.

THE PEBBLEDASHER closes his eyes in thought for a moment. He comes to a decision;

THE PEBBLEDASHER

“Jazz”

AUTOMATIC SWITCHBOARD

You have said; “Jazz”. Is this correct? Please say “Yes” or “No”.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

“Yes”


I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear that. Can you repeat what you said?

THE PEBBLEDASHER

“Yes!”


You have said; “Yes”. I will connect you shortly with York City Jazz Police.

After a ring or two, THE PEBBLEDASHER manages to get through to an actual person.

MAVIS MACMILLAN

You’re through to York City Jazz Police, MAVIS MACMILLAN speaking, what is the nature and location of your emergency?

THE PEBBLEDASHER

Thank God, there’s a robbery going on at TRILL’S Internet Café – it’s near Euston station,

I think it’s that French guy that took all those hostages when he tried to rob a bank, it was on the news a few days ago. Please, you gotta hurry!

MAVIS MACMILLAN

Just one moment please.

We now are looking at MAVIS MACMILLAN, a plump lady in her late thirties, who is sat at a desk with her headpiece on. She taps into her computer terminal for a few brief seconds, and then dials 5-2-9-9 on her phone.

MAVIS MACMILLAN

Connect me with London Branch immediately.

A phone rings in the centre of the room. The whole place is a mess; people are being wheeled out on stretchers or given injections on the spot. OFFICER MICHELLE WAE is sat on the edge of a table. A significant proportion of her chest has been turned to pebble dashing where THE PEBBLEDASHER’S shoulder crashed into her ribcage, and she is finding it difficult to breathe; but she is very much alive. She picks up the phone.


Yeah?

MAVIS MACMILLAN

A call you might be interested in.

With a click, MAVIS MACMILLAN drops out of the conversation.


This had better be good.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

You wanna get one up on the London Met?


That voice – you killed half our agents!

THE PEBBLEDASHER

Check again.

As he says this, the pebble dashing covering the bodies of the men and women inside the building crumbles away, leaving them confused and a little dusty, but otherwise perfectly fine.

THE PEBBLEDASHER

So, do you want to or not?


I’m listening.

CUT TO EXT. BUSY LONDON STREET. DAY. EDGAR is walking along the street, scoping out that which lies ahead of him; so far he seems to have managed to avoid any vendors or restaurant promoters. He turns the corner, and is gripped by a sudden fear – there, red-and-white striped canvas roofs fluttering in the wind, are a number of market stalls. He tries to back up, but has already been spotted by a POTATO SALESMAN.

POTATO SALESMAN

Potatoes for sale, potatoes for sale! Bargain prices mate, bargain prices!

EDGAR

Uh…

POTATO SALESMAN

I said they’re at sale for a bargain price! Super potatoes, super prices! Each potato for only £10! How can you say no?

EDGAR

Damn you! I’ll take one, but make sure it’s the biggest!

POTATO SALESMAN

Will this one do, mate?

EDGAR

Yes, yes, that’s fine. Thank you.

EDGAR is given a very LARGE POTATO which he plumps into his pocket. He then hands a fresh ten-pound note over to the POTATO SALESMAN. Before the POTATO SALESMAN can say another word, EDGAR has turned and dashed away down another road, trying to circumvent the market. The LARGE POTATO knocks against his leg as he moves along the busy street. Suddenly a door is thrown open in front of him. The frosted glass door fills the screen; on it we read the words “TRILL’S INTERNET CAFÉ”. OFFICER MICHELLE WAE storms out, visibly angry; she is followed soon after by TRILL. There is a loud pop and EDGAR cries out in shock; the LARGE POTATO in his pocket has exploded, showering carbohydrates and torn fabric everywhere. He holds his tattered coat glumly, and then screams as the scalding pain hits him. He runs off back in the direction he came.


And you say he took off without taking any money?

TRILL

Yeah, looked like his attention was caught by someone he saw out on the street and he bolted.


And you say he was on the phone?

TRILL

Yeah, well, he finished just as PAUL was leaving.


Hmm…you’re sure he didn’t take a call after that?

TRILL

Certain as the day is long.


You couldn’t have said it better, since this really is going to be a long day for me.

TRILL

Listen, I want to help you. He could have cost me my entire bloody business; people are gonna think “TRILL’S ain’t safe no more”, “You’ll get robbed if you go to TRILL’S”, “I bet

that Irish bastard was in on it all along”.

OFFICER MICHELLE WAE [aside]

Most of my team are recovering from injuries inflicted by stress and trauma, and I really

could use an extra pair of eyes.

OFFICER MICHELLE WAE [normal again]

Alright. As an Officer of the York City Jazz Police London Branch, I’m giving you

temporary Jazz Police status. You’ll follow my lead at all times. Do you understand and accept these terms and conditions?

TRILL

Blimey, sounds like you do this a lot.


It’s how most of us were recruited in the first place. Play your cards right buddy and you

won’t have to worry about that internet business anymore.

TRILL

But I like –


Do you accept?

TRILL

Yes, yes. Let’s catch that motherfu-

CUT TO INT. DINGY BAR. AFTERNOON. The door leading to this bar swings open and shut, letting a brief moment of light flit through. It is soon lost in the darkness. The bar has become dirtier since we last saw it. There is no one inside. The floor is covered with dirt, and the walls have also now taken on a brown and grimy texture. There is a tap-tapping noise.

IRA

Hello? DRAKE?

Only silence greets IRA’S calling. He makes his way through the pub until he comes to a large wooden door, which he taps with his cane. He sharply swipes at the door with his free hand, knocking a large hole in the wood. He slips his hand into this gap, and unlocks the door. It swings open slowly. From within the darkness, bizarre noises can be heard, croaks and buzzes more at home in a swamp than in a bar. IRA continues forwards. The cane’s tapping gives way to a heavy ‘sloshing’ as he begins to encounter stinking yellow water, filled with disgusting clods of dirt and swirling with mud.

IRA

DRAKE? I have an important message for you! DRAKE? DRAKE?! If IRA could see, he would have been confronted with a bizarre and disturbing sight. DRAKE is sat cross-legged, meditating on a huge lily-pad that is floating in the strange swamp-like water

DRAKE

I do not care for your messages.

IRA

But you –

DRAKE

I am not going to do anything for you.

IRA

No, you don’t –

DRAKE

Leave! Immediately!

IRA

You’re meant to kill her!

DRAKE

I know.

IRA

I’m sorry to tell you this, but you must kill a woman named LILY before she leads to the destruction of mankind. I have read that you battle and defeat her!

DRAKE

I said that I know. And I will do no such thing. I can not kill this woman you speak of. You

must leave now, messenger.

IRA

You knew I was coming?

DRAKE

More than that, I knew what you would ask me to do. I have given it much thought and decline. It is simply too risky. I must remain here.

IRA

Too risky? You don’t understand! This is the fate of millions of lives we’re talking about!

DRAKE

No, you do not understand. I do not mean a risk to myself; I mean a risk to others. I am struggling, meditating, trying to keep the evil that has been born inside of me at bay. If

you stay any longer, I can not guarantee your survival. Run away, little kitten, before this shark wakes up.

IRA

No, you have to –

DRAKE’S eyes open with a snap. There is a mad, killing glint in them.

DRAKE

Now you’ve done it.

All around them, the water begins to rise as dirt and mud oozes out of DRAKE’S body. The noises of the animals increase in their intensity. IRA stumbles backwards, turning to flee the rapidly rising water. He manages to make his way back into the bar. Dirt is falling from the ceiling and walls, and growing upwards and outwards from the floor. The room is literally suffocating itself with dirt. IRA rushes towards the entrance, reaching it just before the entire room is caked in soil. He dives out and into the street just in time. The door follows him, blasted outwards by the expanding mass of the dirt inside. There is a loud crunching noise as the roof of the bar is breached; DRAKE rises out of the dirt, growing taller until he towers over the city. He roars and swings his black-gloved hands around, crushing buildings and scattering trees. Pandemonium erupts, as people run around screaming. DRAKE’S booming voice shatters the glass of windows all along the entire street.

DRAKE

Look what your meddling has done!

As DRAKE clambers out of the debris of his bar, huge mudslides precede his footsteps, dollops of the filth dripping down from his legs. Tornadoes of dirt and soil are flung in his

wake. He has grown to Godzilla proportions, except instead of being green and scaly, huge clods of dirt crumble away from his body, smashing into cars and pavements, setting off alarms and pulling down telephone wires. He raises his foot high into the air, ready to stamp down on IRA’S small body – – when a purple pulse of energy sweeps over his hands. He staggers backwards, his foot landing a good distance from IRA. His other foot catches the debris he has created, tripping him up. As he falls, his body gets smaller, until it is impossible to distinguish him from the rubble. CUT TO EXT. M25. DAY. We join the motorway as a high-speed chase is occurring.

TRILL

B’jaysus, you’re a bloody good driver!


Shut up. Concentrating.

TRILL

Got it.


I said shut up.

TRILL looks down guiltily.

TRILL

Sorry.


I’ll pull the damn thing over if you don’t shut your mouth.

This time TRILL does actually keep quiet. The car whips past the camera so fast that we barely see its blur.

In front of them, a red car is blazing along the motorway also at high speed, manoeuvring deftly in between cars and impossibly small gaps. Through the rear windscreen we can make out a shiny, bald head; in the rear-view mirror, a familiar pair of eyes glance up to see that the Jazz Police car not only matching this driver’s speed but his skill as well.

JEAN-PIERRE

Merde!

He shifts down to second gear and yanks the wheel, turning the car around in a one-eighty degree spin; a smuggler’s turn. The red car is stationary for a fraction of a second before it speeds off, passing by the Jazz Police car. JEAN-PIERRE casually waves at TRILL and OFFICER MICHELLE WAE as he passes them.


Shit!

TRILL

Wouldn’t it help if you put the siren on?


Then where would the fun be? Hold on to your hat.

TRILL

I don’t have –

TRILL’S words are cut short as the car performs its own spin; perhaps competing with JEAN-PIERRE, instead of a one-eighty degree turn, OFFICER MICHELLE WAE performs a flawless five-hundred and forty degree spin, flying into pursuit as soon as she’s facing the correct way.


Yeah! Suck it bitch!

The two cars are now causing the oncoming vehicles to veer wildly to either side, inevitably making them flip over each other, resulting in the sort of unexplained explosions that only action-flicks can produce. In a moment of unnecessary showboating, OFFICER MICHELLE WAE mounts a pile of cars, propelling her car high into the air and

straight through a seemingly source-less burst of flames from below. She lands her car on top of a truck, driving along its trailer and zooming off the end. As she joltingly reunites her car with the tarmac, she gasps. In front of them, JEAN-PIERRE has dived sideways out of his car, rolling towards the grassy knolls that run along this section of the motorway. As he rolls, he holds his palms out towards them. There is a horrible crunching noise, and suddenly the car falls apart as it continues into the rush of traffic ahead. The wheels spin away from the car, the doors following a split-second later. The pair don’t even have time to unbuckle themselves, and are sent skidding along the road with the rest of the chassis. In the next second, OFFICER MICHELLE WAE grabs TRILL and pulls him sideways. The seatbelts have melted away to gloopy fabric which parts easily as the two tumble out the gap where the doors used to be, moments before two trucks swerve to avoid the car. They instead crash into each other, decimating the car beneath their massive tangle. Still holding onto TRILL, OFFICER MICHELLE WAE rolls underneath the sliding trailer. She yanks the Irishman to his feet, and he mumbles something unintelligible. She slaps him. Hard.


Snap out of it, we’ve got work to do! TRILL shakes his head rapidly from side to side in an attempt to dispel his confusion. He holds a hand to his cheek.

TRILL

Was that necessary?


It was for talking whilst I was driving. TRILL drops his hand and shrugs. JEAN-PIERRE has already made his way halfway up the knoll. He looks back and his face contorts in anger. He returns to his scrabbling climb.


Hold it! Put your hands where I can see them!

She levels her gun at JEAN-PIERRE.

JEAN-PIERRE

Gladly.

He slowly turns around and holds his palms out. Predictably, OFFICER MICHELLE WAE’S gun falls apart, the screws tinkling on the floor as they tumble out of the gun. With the Jazz Policewoman’s gun disabled, JEAN-PIERRE laughs manically and turns back to run up the remainder of the slope. He then yells out in pain. His trousers are smoking, flames lapping at his legs as the material melts into his skin. He tries to put the fire out with his hands but it simply climbs further up the rest of his body; there is nothing left to do but stop, drop and roll. Unfortunately, being on a slope means that his roll takes him back to the bottom of the hill, where OFFICER MICHELLE WAE is waiting for him. She steps on his chest.


You’re under arrest.

JEAN-PIERRE

Just try cuffing me, petit-beau.

OFFICER MICHELLE WAE rolls him over with her foot, and bends down to slap a pair of handcuffs on his wrists, pulling his arms roughly behind his back. She imitates his French accent as she repeats the words he spoke only moments ago.


“Gladly”. On your feet.

JEAN-PIERRE pushes himself up, and in one fluid motion, twists his palms so that the screws fall out of the handcuffs, breaks one hand free and swings the other arm up at OFFICER MICHELLE WAE, the handcuff lashing out viciously towards her face. She blocks this with her arm, deftly knocking the blow sideways. Her own hand roars towards JEAN-PIERRE’S head, connecting with incredible force. As she punches him, his

skin seems to melt, and as her hand passes, his skin is revealed to have blackened as though from some sort of immense heat. He is knocked to the floor. His head thuds against the grass, and he holds his hand out as if pleading. But of course this is not a simple gesture; a car speeding down the outside lane suddenly loses one of its tyres, and skids sideways across the motorway, causing cars to veer wildly to avoid it. One such car heads straight towards the group on the grassy verge of the road. OFFICER MICHELLE WAE and TRILL dive away to avoid the impact. When the car has passed, JEAN-PIERRE has disappeared. OFFICER MICHELLE WAE runs to the spot he had been moments before, and throws her hands up in anger. Her screams seem louder than the honks and horns from the motorway.


God damnit! Damn it, damn it, damn it! Did you see which way he went?

TRILL

No…Sorry.


We had him! I even cuffed him for Christ sake!

TRILL

He’s gotta be out there. We’ll find him.


Whatever. Go home. This no longer concerns you.

TRILL

Um…


No arguments. I’ll get someone to pick you up right away.

The camera pans high up into the air as OFFICER MICHELLE WAE snaps out a phone and dials her office.

CUT TO INT. LOUNGE. NIGHT. There is a TV set up at the front of the room playing the news in mute. The camera slowly zooms in on it as the headlines and images play out silently beneath OMNI’S voiceover.

OMNI [voiceover]

There is an animal that is seemingly obsessed with threads and strings. That animal is, of course, the humble cat. Revered by the Egyptians as a God, the cat is now an everyday feature of homes up and down the country. Give a cat a ball of string, and it will play all

day, tangling and untangling itself in this woollen web. The first image that we see is from the wreckage that DRAKE wreaked earlier in the day. The news report reads: “GAS EXPLOSION DESTROYS STREET”. There is no mention of the giant dirt wielder or the blind Japanese man.

OMNI [voiceover]

The threads that they pull so playfully never hurt anyone. But, suppose for a moment

that the Egyptians were right. Suppose the cat stood over our very existence. One simple tug could loosen the entire fabric of a life, a species, a world. A simple tug with no motive or aspiration other than its own self-amusement, curiosity or a natural urge

to pull and play. Secondly the carnage of the M25 is shown from a helicopter in split-screen with a mug-shot of JEAN-PIERRE. The headline reads “MYSTERIOUS CRIMINAL SCREWS POLICE AGAIN”. There is a silent conference between OFFICER MICHELLE WAE, CHIEF CONSTABLE MICK HERVEY and various reporters.

OMNI [voiceover]

Now substitute the cat out for a malevolent force. One that is determined to secure its own personal goals – the usual clichés of course, but perhaps, this time, it is more than

that. Perhaps, this time, it is real. There is a flushing noise from off-screen. A torso passes in front of the TV and we see a black glove enter the frame to turn it off from the button on the front of the machine. As the TV fades to black, so does our screen. There is just time for OMNI’S final haunting message before the credits roll.

OMNI [voiceover]

In that case, it all falls down.

FADE TO BLACK

ROLL CREDITS

<0)

( D )>

_|_|

Episode Seven

The Inevitable


There are four men stood in a room; an Englishman, an Irishman, a Welshman and a Scot. They mill about for a bit, touching the wallpaper or scratching their heads. After a while they sit on the floor.

SCOT

Does anybody know what this is aboot?

ENGLISHMAN

“Jazz” Suddenly the floor opens up and a jazz-band emerge from within.

IRISHMAN

B’Jaysus, this is brilliant!

WELSHMAN

I do like Jazz, me. They dance around for a bit, taking it in turns to solo break-dance in the centre of the rather small circle that they form. The Scot goes first, spinning on his head for a total of eight minutes, a Scottish record. The Welshman insists that he goes next, but his backflip goes horribly wrong.

WELSHMAN

Ouch!

He landed on his head, and the other three men stop dancing and rush to his aid. Suddenly, he leaps up into the air vertically, and continues to head-hop across the room.

WELSHMAN

Only kidding!

The other three men congratulate him with claps and pats on the soles of the feet. The Englishman follows up by springing up onto one hand, holding his posture for a grand total of six hours. The others tire of this after five minutes, however, and so wander off into a corner to witness the Irishman’s performance.

IRISHMAN

It’s gonna be wild. I can bloody well tell you all, it’s gonna blow your damned minds off! Clean off!

Unfortunately, they were interrupted by their pagers, and each was forced to run off to their regular jobs; actors in bad jokes. BLACKOUT


We have returned to the first scene that Pigeons Are The Key ever treated us to; the swirl of a multitude of pigeons as they flutter in circles around a figure, sat quietly at their centre. In the feathers and flapping wings, a pattern seems to appear – a circle, a glowing O that is made only of the air that separates one bird from the next.

OMNI [voiceover]

There comes a point when we always look to the past. Questions burn our hearts until all that is left is a smouldering pile of ash; scattered on the winds of time, we urge for it

to collect, shift, become –

Of course, as humans, we can do no such thing as reversing time, or so they say. But think for a moment, remember – and in remembering, realise that revisiting the past is a

trivial task for such an organ as the mind. Where did we come from? What prompted the course of action that we have embarked upon? Why are questions always framed in threes? We hope against hope that the past – our past – will hold the answers that we

seek. And so, giving in, we choke on our grey hearts and witness the beginning.

CROSS FADE TO INT. CLOTHES STORE. DAY. The following scene is in black and white. The text: “One Year Ago” appears on the screen in bold white font, the pattern of the birds forming the O of the first word. All across the shop are bright yellow signs screaming “SALE!!!! 75% OFF!!!!” – the words “up to” hidden just before the numbers are so small as to be nearly illegible. Racks of disarrayed clothing gleam proudly in the midst of a bustling group of shoppers; beneath them lies a carpet of trampled goods. One lone figure cuts a striking trajectory through them; wandering with his hands held firmly against his eyes as he strives to keep the promises of bargain must-buys shielded from sight. His podgy and sweaty body repulses nearby consumers, but he frequently finds that this repulsion cannot outweigh the attraction they seem to find to the dangerously discounted goods that oppress him from every angle; his stuttered stride is constantly interrupted as he bumps, apologises, and bumps again. Finally detaching himself from the all-consuming mass of shoppers, we can see that it is clearly EDGAR, items that he simply doesn’t need (or, frankly, want) tucked under his arms and safely held in plastic bags. But then disaster strikes – on the threshold of freedom, their visual assault outdone, the store had installed a wily sales assistant that boasts of the savings that can be made for today only. Those black words, the bane of EDGAR’S life, rip through him. He shudders. There is nothing he can do. It would seem that for EDGAR at least, nothing much has changed in the twelve months between the ‘then’ and the ‘now’. The never-ending monotony of his life remains unshaken. But of more importance is the small figure leafing through a collection of black gloves. We have not seen him before, but there is something oddly familiar about him – just a note from a certain tune might serve to jog distant recollections. The camera holds him in its gaze for a few brief seconds…the world around him seems to have slowed, become silent. His voice breaks this serenity, and we can now unite the person with his name.

MANUS

Excuse me, but are these in the sale?

The tones are less strangely inflected, to be sure, but at its core it is still the same voice. There is no hint of the madness that seems to pervade his entire person; nor is there that weight of evil that has so characterised him in earlier – or would that be later? – episodes. He seems, and it stirs a sense of unease from within to admit this, normal. But there is something distant in his eyes – they are light blue, almost white. He doesn’t quite seem to be fully in control of what he is saying; his mouth twitches moments before he speaks. This new – or, rather, older – oddity is unsettling in itself.

SALES ASSISTANT PAULA HINFISCHER

I am sorry, sir, but these items are excluded from the sale.

MANUS

No matter. I’ll buy them regardless.

He places a pair of black leather gloves down on the counter. The air seems to hiss as the gloves lose contact with his own hands; this goes unnoticed by both participants in the exchange.

MANUS

Don’t worry about a bag. I feel like wearing them straight away.

As MANUS leaves the shop, he wriggles his hands into the gloves. He stops short of the entrance for a moment, before shaking his head briskly from side to side and moving on. Stepping outside, the camera is filled with a bright white light. CROSS FADE TO INT. BEDROOM. AFTERNOON. The following scene is in black and white. The camera cross-fades to the white ceiling of a bedroom. Firmly fixed on the blank white plaster, beneath us we can hear the excitable noises of a session of intimacy. The pace is steady; the cries of pleasure and the creaking of the bed are in unison. The camera very slowly pans down to reveal a tangled mess of bedsheets, beneath which a hulking black back is moving backwards and forwards. Beneath this is the unmistakable face of OFFICER MICHELLE WAE, eyes closed tight and mouth agape. From off-screen, we hear a key in a lock and the sound of a door being opened. A voice floats up the stairs, followed by heavy footfalls.

CALUM

‘CHELLE! Surprise! I’m back early!


Shit! He’s not meant to be back yet! Get off me YARDLEY, quick! Those beneath the bedclothes scrabble. OFFICER MICHELLE WAE pushes the black man off of her, rolling him off of the bed and onto the floor with a thud. She just has time to readjust the quilt around her, concealing her naked body moments before the bedroom door opens. She jumps as though being suddenly woken from a deep trance, and shouts and CALUM, breathing heavily.


Never heard of knocking, CAL?

CALUM

Woah, sorry ‘CHELLE, didn’t realise you’d still be in bed. You okay? You look a little flustered.


I’m fine, just not feeling too well. I have a bit of a temperature is all.

CALUM

You want me to get you anything? Tea? Sandwich? Films?


No, it’s fine, I’ll just go back to sleep if that’s okay with you.

CALUM

Yeah, sorry. I’ll leave you in peace, eh? Well, let me know if you need anything, I’ll just

be downstairs.


Sure, sure, now leave a woman to her illness!

CALUM smiles sheepishly, and then closes the door. OFFICER YARDLEY JAMESON’S head appears from beside the bed, peering at the door.


That was close.


Boys in love with you, y’know that?


Probably…

From off-screen we hear the noise of the TV. The news is on, announcing that LILY OLIVIERS has just won another gold medal in the Olympics. CUT TO INT. “WHITAKER NET” INTERNET CAFÉ. AFTERNOON. The following scene is in black and white. On the computer screen we see a picture of LILY leaping with ease to beat the current High Jump world record. Below that is an audio recording and transcript of an interview that she has had with the BBC. TRILL, hand on chin, is staring at the screen, moving his mouse around idly. A balding man yells to him from a desk in the corner of the room.

GARRY WHITAKER

Hey, buddy, your time’s almost up. You want another hour?

TRILL

Nah, I’ll just listen to this interview then I’ll be gone, friend.

GARRY WHITAKER

Hope it’s a short interview. I’ll be cuttin’ your net in thirty seconds.

TRILL ignores him, places a set of heavy-duty headphones over his head, and clicks the “PLAY” button beneath the image. The interview plays out whilst in the background, we see GARRY WHITAKER pull the Ethernet cable from the back of TRILL’S PC. The streaming audio continues regardless. TRILL doesn’t seem to notice.

BBC INTERVIEWER

How does it feel to be winning another gold medal so early into your career?

LILY

Well, I really don’t believe it myself. About two years ago now, I suddenly started being able to run and jump really well. It was as if my legs had decided to work at a higher

capacity. I can’t explain it – I really didn’t train much before that, or, thinking about it, since. It’s like a miracle.

BBC INTERVIEWER

Are you suggesting natural talent wins out over hard work?

LILY

I couldn’t say. I’m not sure it’s natural, after all, I couldn’t do these things before…

BBC INTERVIEWER

Supernatural then? Otherworldly?

LILY

Don’t be silly. I don’t see why ghosts would want to help me…

BBC INTERVIEWER

What do you say about accusations that this “miracle” is due to a performance

enhancing drug?

LILY

Now that is just ludicrous. I have never touched drugs in my life – not even marijuana! I’m as clean as they come. I challenge the authorities to test me, if they’re that convinced of misconduct. I hereby pledge myself to be tested, if they so please.

GARRY WHITAKER is puzzled. He pulls the headphones off of TRILL’S head and puts them over his own.

LILY

– and if I can, I’d like to tackle the Marathon next…

GARRY WHITAKER

Hacker! Get out my café! I don’t know how you’re doin’ it, but I don’t want you stealing my internets! You ain’t paid for these minutes – how in God’s name are you getting this

to stream after I took your wire out?! Aw, hell, I don’t care, jus’ get outta here!

TRILL looks up at GARRY WHITAKER with confusion plastered clear across his face. He peers round the back of the tower – sure enough, the wire is no longer connected.

TRILL

Wow, sorry mate. Had no idea my time was up, thought I had couple minutes left. I didn’t hack your machine, mind you, must’ve just had some juice left in it. I don’t really

know enough about the internet for something like that.

GARRY WHITAKER

Don’t care, don’t care, just get out!

TRILL

Alright, Jaysus. Just give me a minute to get my stuff together.

CUT TO EXT. TRAFALGAR SQUARE. AFTERNOON. The following scene is in normal colours. The pigeons are still swirling around in a general chaos. The shot lasts a few moments, just long enough to catch a glimpse of the O pattern once more. The pigeons suddenly disappear, and all we see is the faint echo of the O on a black backdrop… That echo becomes the last letter in the words “Six months ago” which appear on the screen in bold white lettering. FADE IN EXT. PHONE BOX. UNKNOWN TIME. The following scene is in black and white. The phone box is seen against the same blank black background that the words have appeared on. There is a man stood inside with his back to us; but he isn’t holding the

phone to his ear. Instead, he is staring intently, head inclined downwards ever so slightly. We see the back of his head moving to the right, then snapping back left, before resuming its rightwards movement. The camera slowly starts to pan around. As it finishes its turn, the blindfolded face of IRA greets us. He gasps, and drops the phonebook that he has been reading. As the phone book thuds onto the floor, an enlarged replica falls from the top of the shot, leaving behind nothing but darkness. BLACKOUT FADE IN EXT. HIGH STREET. DAY. The following scene is in black and white. The camera, handheld, follows the brisk strides of JEAN-PIERRE as he pushes through the bustling crowd with an air of purpose. His brows are furrowed as though he is in deep concentration, and he says nothing as he bumps into people and palms them out of his way. We briefly see a jewellers flash onto the screen – it is there for a mere second, before the shot cuts back to the handheld camera trailing the Frenchman. A sardonic grin grows on his bearded face as his strides take him directly towards the jewellers; he cuts a straight line through the mass of people, not caring whose paths he crosses. CUT TO INT. JEWELLERS. DAY. The following scene is in black and white. The camera is positioned inside the jewellers looking out through the large front-window; we see the people walking the high street. In their hurrying and surging crowdedness, we nevertheless might just make out a faint O shape. One man passes the window, and if we look closely, we may have time to catch a glimpse of the black leather gloves that he wears. CUT TO EXT. HIGH STREET. DAY. The following scene is in black and white.

JEAN-PIERRE reaches into the pockets of his over-coat and pulls a balaclava out from within. As he nears the shop, he pulls it over his face. CUT TO INT. JEWELLERS. DAY. The following scene is in black and white. But compared to the energy outside, all is still and silent within the shop. This is broken in a moment as the phone rings. A hand, pimpled red, picks up the receiver. CUT TO EXT. HIGH STREET. DAY. The following scene is in black and white. JEAN-PIERRE is seconds away from the door. CUT TO INT. JEWLLERS. DAY. The following scene is in black and white.

JEWELLER

I understand. Thank you for the warning.

There is something familiar about the voice. As we struggle to place it, still not shown the face, the bell of the door being opened rings out.

JEAN-PIERRE

Zis is un robbery!

JEWELLER

I know. Unfortunately, business has been slow, so I don’t have much money.

JEAN-PIERRE

What you mean? I am here for le jewels!

JEWELLER

No, you’ve made a mistake. We sell cheap, fake jewellery, like… bracelets that rot your wrists and are really made from the tears of babies.

JEAN-PIERRE

Do not mess wiz’ me! Open le safe! Le safe wiz’ all le jewel!

JEWELLER

We don’t have any jewels here. Look, I’ve gathered together our finest mock-gold

jewellery, you can take that with you.

JEAN-PIERRE

I will steal your watches!

JEWELLER

Feel free, they’re only worth about a pound each anyway.

JEAN-PIERRE

But le tag say £650!

JEWELLER

I know, what a rip-off. But come on, I want to have my lunch break. Can’t you just take the pre-organised pile of fake jewellery and leave? I’m getting mildly agitated.

JEAN-PIERRE

Pre-organised? You knew I was coming?

JEWELLER

Oui, my Francais-friend. Someone must have seen you. He phoned just as you were

coming through the door. Seemed quite confident that if I kept my cool and didn’t freak out, I would escape unscathed.

JEAN-PIERRE

Someone saw me? Un witness?

JEWELLER

It’s okay, the guy sounded sketchy on details. Said he hadn’t read what you looked like, whatever that means, but that you were going to try to rob me. I’m very lucky he called.

If I hadn’t known, I’d have probably gotten very agitated. You don’t want to see me when I’m agitated.

JEAN-PIERRE

You become le violence?

JEWELLER

No, I mean, you literally don’t want to see me. It’s disgusting. Horrible rash comes up,

spots and boils everywhere.

JEAN-PIERRE

Sounds tres bad.

JEWELLER

It is. Tres bad, my friend, tres, tres bad.

JEAN-PIERRE

Well, zis is not what I expected. Hmm.

JEWELLER

Yeah, me neither. Hmm.

JEAN-PIERRE and JEWELLER [at the same time]

What is your name? / Fancy a cup of tea?

JEAN-PIERRE and JEWELLER

[at the same time]

That would be nice… / Oh, er, its…

JEWELER

JASPER. My name’s JASPER. As for tea, there’s a bar that’s just opened up nearby. We could go and check it out, I’m sure they’ll do hot drinks.

The camera pans up to reveal the familiar face of JASPER. It then swings around as the two men walk out of the jewellers chatting. Before leaving, we see JASPER turn a plastic card hanging in the window, turning the “OPEN” side so that it faces into the Jewellers; presumably the reverse reads “CLOSED”. The camera zooms in on the “OPEN”, and as it pulls back, we are in a different location. A hand pushes the glass door that the sign is now attached to, and we see JEAN-PIERRE and JASPER walk into a bar. A black man is stood at the bar, polishing it intently. He looks up as the door opens.

DRAKE

Hello there fellas, what can I get you?

FADE TO EXT. ALL WHITE. INDETERMINABLE TIME. The following scene is in black and white. PAUL DASHER is on his knees in the middle of the screen. He is reflected in the floor. He looks at his hands sadly.

PAUL DASHER

Lord, please tell me…what am I destined to do? I have tried my hand at hundreds of different things, from healing to killing, from office-work to mountaineering. At none of

them have I excelled; at none of them have I persevered. If only you could give me a sign. That is all I ask…

It begins to rain, hard.

PAUL DASHER

The rain…are you crying or are you trying to wash your hands of me? Am I a lost cause, or am I too much to bear? But wait…this isn’t rain…it’s hail. Ow, it’s very hard, very large

hail.

PAUL DASHER swipes his hand out to bat away the hail. One particularly shark chunk lodges into his palm.

PAUL DASHER

Damnit! Agh…

PAUL DASHER tries to pull it out, but pauses as something strange catches his eye.

PAUL DASHER

This isn’t hail. It seems to be…pebble dashing?

Suddenly and without warning, lightning strikes. It hits PAUL DASHER directly. The all white backdrop flashes brightly, concealing everything under its radiant glare, and then fades to black.

???

Your destiny awaits.

As the black dissolves out, we see PAUL DASHER on all fours breathing heavily. His entire body is covered with pebble dashing. He struggles to his feet and holds his hands out in front of him, emitting a shocked scream before looking down at the rest of his body. He instinctively reaches for his face, breaking off a pebble in the process. The pebble dashing slowly crumbles away, leaving him standing stark naked amidst a pile of small pebbles. The camera suddenly jerks away, zooming out rapidly, until all that we can see is a grey speck on an entirely white screen.

OMNI [voiceover]

Perhaps the memory of the past holds the answers. Perhaps is only prompts more

questions. Perhaps it even raises old questions we have long forgotten. However we interact with the past, we must always return to the present at some point. With

renewed emotions – anger, confusion, sorrow, joy, indifference – we embark on our next time-travelling journey; that inevitable progress we make into the future as each

second passes and becomes written into the surfaces of the palisades of time.

A clock appears on the all-white background, the second hand ticking around its surface inexorably. As the entire screen begins to fade out, the ticking continues relentlessly. Soon, everything is black, except for a faint outline around the clock, leaving the faint remnant of an O. FADE TO BLACK

ROLL CREDITS

<o)

( D )>

_|_|

Episode Eight

Filling in the Blanks

PREVIOUSLY ON PIGEONS ARE THE KEY A man is stood hula-hooping to the soundtrack of Lord of the Rings. This takes up the entire “Previously” segment. ROLL OPENING CREDITS

OMNI [voiceover]

You may remember that I have shown you the past. Did you forget about someone?

That’s okay; it’s his business to be forgotten; it’s his business to be unfinished business. But I can hardly forget him and still call myself an all-seeing, all-knowing presence, now, can I? And so, it is time for me to act as filler of the blanks; close your eyes, and see, the

sky at night...

The sky is filled with stars; the moon, glowing, forms a distinct O on the blackness.

OMNI [voiceover]

Look closer...

The peaceful scene is shattered by a blazing shape that wildly tears across the sky, leaving a scar of light hovering against the blank darkness. It seems to be heading towards earth.

OMNI [voiceover]

Do you see it?

There is a brief burst of light on the horizon which fades as quickly as it came.

OMNI [voiceover]

You’ll see it soon enough.

Through a series of sharp cuts, we see progressively: a burning forest with a clear path smashed through its trees; smoke rising from a cloud of dust; a figure climbing to his feet, a mere shadow behind the obscuring dust; THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN picking up his hat and dusting off his jacket; his face, blank, looking around him; a finally, simply his neutral eyes, the moon reflected in it, his pupil and iris forming a blazing O. CUT TO INT. OFFICE. DAY. The office is neatly kept. Light streams in from a solitary window that takes up an entire wall. Outside of the window, the entire cityscape of London can be seen.

DOCTOR RAYMOND EL PASQUERROZO

Tell me, please, what you remember about that night, six months ago?

PRIVATE ELLIOTS

It’s...it’s hard to say. I don’t really remember much.

DOCTOR RAYMOND EL PASQUERROZO

We’ll review what you’ve already told me and go from there. It’s okay, take it as slowly as you need to. I’ve got all the time in the world.

PRIVATE ELLIOTS

Okay. Well, I remember...

CUT TO INT. UNDERGROUND MILITARY BASE. NIGHT. Military personnel are running around checking computers and looking alert. There is a flashing screen in the centre of the room with the words WARNING written on it.

PRIVATE ELLIOTS [voiceover]

I remember making my report. GENERAL HARBOUR didn’t like it much.

PRIVATE ELLIOTS

Sir, field operations have confirmed that the unknown object entering our air space

twenty four minutes ago has moved from the area of impact. It seems to be...man sized, sir.

GENERAL HARBOUR

Don’t be ridiculous lad. How can it have moved. Impossible, boy. Are you suggesting this

thing, this object, could be alive? Alive, you scoundrel, and yet survived the hurtling trajectory through space, the blaze of fire in its wake, and the clearly devastating impact it experienced upon landing? Alive, you damned fool, and still able to move, you vagrant posing as a man, after the unimaginable violence of its journey from start to finish? And

still, you seasoned bastard, you gold-medal winning example of how not to evolve, suggest that it is no bigger than a man? I ought to court marshal you immediately, you –

At this point, GENERAL HARBOUR, a large man with a large moustache, stops his insults to have an extended bout of nasty coughs.

GENERAL HARBOUR

Anyway men, step to it!

PRIVATE ELLIOTS

Step to what, sir?

GENERAL HARBOUR

Step to what? Step to it you veteran pain-in-the-arse! I want to know what and where that trespasser is! I won’t suffer anymore fools who believe it can move of its own

accord. More than likely we’re facing a Russian. A Russian stealth-something-or-other that fooled our senses or a Russian hiding in another Russian hiding in another Russian hiding in another Russian who we invited for Christmas dinner! Anyone who suggests

that the object is a lone man will be shot! Is that understood?

TROOPS [in unison]

Sir yes sir!

BLACKOUT EXT. FOREST. NIGHT. THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN is hobbling through the forest, looking curiously at the now blackened trees. He stops to reach a grey hand out towards it, but recoils before touching the burnt bark. He frowns and looks at his hand. It has small black patches dotted in a couple of places. His frown deepens, but he doesn’t give it any more thought. Moving on, THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN soon forgets this worrying experience. CUT TO INT. OFFICE. DAY.

DOCTOR RAYMOND EL PASQUEREZZO

And after that?

PRIVATE ELLIOTS

After that? I honestly can’t remember. I left to go check on field operations. Next thing I know, I was watching DOCTOR T walk off all strangely. My head hurt so I went home.

DOCTOR RAYMOND EL PASQUERREZO

You said, DOCTOR T. That would be DOCTOR TAMLIN, correct?

PRIVATE ELLIOTS

Sorry, yeah, DOCTOR TAMLIN.


Okay, I think we’ve covered enough for today. Thanks very much, PRIVATE. We’ll see

what else we can find out next week.

The two men stand and shake hands. PRIVATE ELLIOTS walks out and once the door has closed, DOCTOR RAYMOND EL PASQUERREZO presses his intercom button.


GENEVIVE, please send TAMLIN in to me.

Whilst he waits, he quickly jots something down in his notepad. The door soon opens and a balding man wearing spectacles pokes his head around it.


DOCTOR, come in!

The spectacled man walks in and silently takes a seat. He places his hands in his lap and watches his opposite.


So, DOCTOR, what can you tell me about that night six months ago?

DOCTOR TAMLIN

I’ve already told you everything I can remember, I don’t see how this is going to help!


Come now, DOCTOR, we spoke about your anger issues last time.

DOCTOR TAMLIN

Yes, yes, I’m sorry. Okay, here’s what I remember...

CUT TO EXT. IMPACT SITE. NIGHT

DOCTOR TAMLIN [voiceover]

We were sweeping the area, looking for clues that, frankly, just weren’t there. My radio

crackered...

PRIVATE JOSON [radio]

Found anything out there, TAMLIN?

DOCTOR TAMLIN

I’m afraid not, PRIVATE JOSON. All of our sensors are saying the exact same thing as half

an hour ago. We have searched the nearby area, and there is definitely no sign of any forms of planes or pods. There really is nothing else to report.

PRIVATE JOSON

[radio]

Aw, dayum. It’s a real shame. The boss just won’t believe it could be a man. I mean, well, the boys and I’ve been talkin’, and we’re all pretty damn hopin’ it’s gonna be some

kinda alien.

DOCTOR TAMLIN

As a scientist with particular interest in the stars and their potential for giving life, I would like nothing more than for this to be an alien. However, I would remind you that

those for whom we work do not take lightly that kind of talk, and would therefore recommend that you keep that opinion to yourself.

PRIVATE JOSON

Y-yes, sir!

DOCTOR TAMLIN

Very well. If I have anything else to report, I will contact you directly. Over and out.

DOCTOR TAMLIN clips the radio back onto his belt. In the time that this conversation has taken place, the other scientists have all wandered off, leaving DOCTOR TAMLIN alone in the forest. An owl hoots ominously somewhere in the distance. DOCTOR TAMLIN suddenly becomes very aware of the shadows around him.

DOCTOR TAMLIN

Who’s there? Come out!

He spins wildly, trying to catch the invisible assailant out in the open. But there is no response. He hurries to his bag and fumbles the zip, finally managing to get it open, at

which point he searches for his flashlight. When he gets it out of his bag, he turns it on – but no light shows. He curses under his breath and rummages in his bag for batteries. Finding them a full minute later, he fits them into the flashlight and cries out as the light turns on and blasts him in the face. Once this rigmarole is over, he eventually gets his chance to turn the flashlight onto his surroundings. Stood very absent-mindedly is PRIVATE ELLIOTS. He seems to be confused or bemused or amused; in fact, a combination of all three would best describe his expression. He looks up and smiles, immediately making a bee-line straight for DOCTOR TAMLIN

DOCTOR TAMLIN

Oh, thank God you’re here, I –

BLACKOUT EXT. FOREST. NIGHT. THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN walks as fast as he can. His hobbling shakes his entire body, but all he knows is that he has to move quickly. He is panting, his eyes are bulging, he is sweating, and if he was strapped to a heart monitor, we would see that his heart-beat was drumming irregular and hard. In the distance, he can see a light. CUT TO INT. OFFICE. DAY.


Is there anything else you can tell me?

DOCTOR TAMLIN

No, DOC, no, there isn’t, and I’ve told you that there’s nothing else maybe a thousand times! I’m sorry, I won’t get angry, but I won’t just sit here and be treated like a child.

The next thing I remember was waking up in bed next to my wife and she looked at me really strangely and just got up and walked out! She didn’t even put her clothes on! Just

up and left!


She could have just been sleepwalking?

DOCTOR TAMLIN

No, DOC, my wife doesn’t sleep walk. I don’t know what reason you have to ask that every god-damn time! She had forgotten who I was!


Okay. And?

DOCTOR TAMLIN

Well, I tried to get her back inside. She’d gotten out onto the pavement, and some jogger jogged past and gave us a right look. That jogger’s face turned blank like my

wife’s, and my wife suddenly realised where she was and what she wasn’t wearing and screamed. She blamed me! I told her she must have been sleepwalking. She believes

that but I don’t.


Okay, that’s fine. We’re done for today. Thank you, DOCTOR, we’ll see you again next

week.

DOCTOR TAMLIN

Wait. Wait a minute. I remember something else. Something that came after.


Something we haven’t discussed before?

DOCTOR TAMLIN

Yeah, I think so. The jogger...well, she stopped jogging, and...damnit. It’s foggy. I think she crossed the road and...then started jogging again. But, our mailman. He was across

the road. We never saw him again.


The mailman...? Do you remember his name?

DOCTOR TAMLIN

Yeah. Yeah, I do. It was BERT. BERT something. Call up the Council, I’m sure they’ll give you more details. I don’t think he ever became a missing person, he just never showed

up to work for a few days. We assumed he’d been fired, but...well, circumstances...I think there could be more to it than that.


No, you’re right, that’s fantastic. If I can track this man down, then we might finally be

able to expose this whole thing. Let me walk you to your car.

The two men leave the office building. DOCTOR RAYMOND EL PASQUERREZO gets into his car and sets off to find the mailman. CUT TO EXT. FOREST. NIGHT. THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN hurries towards the light. It turns out to be a flashlight being waved around by a scared looking man, who starts to speak in a foreign language. That’s when THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN realises that he’s been following, or followed by – he really isn’t sure – another man, whom the scared looking man with the flashlight seems to be talking to. He decides to try to comfort the scared looking man and rushes over to his side. CUT TO EXT. HOUSE FRONT. DAY. DOCTOR RAYMOND EL PASQUERREZO is stood outside the house. He checks that he has the right address by looking at a piece of paper he holds in his hands. Swallowing hard, he rings the doorbell. There is the sound of shuffling from within. The door slowly opens on a chain, and a blank, expressionless eye peers out. Suddenly the eye is filled with recognition and memory.

BERT WAFER

Hey, you! Where are you going?

DOCTOR RAYMOND EL PASQUERREZO has turned around and looked up with awe at the sky. His amusement is palpable. He frowns, confused, and his mouth twists between the

two, in a moment of bemusement. As he wanders off, THE DARK AND SHADOWY MAN happily hobbles along behind him.

OMNI [voiceover]

So, you see, you’re not the only one who forgot about that poor man. In fact, you are

one of the few privileged people who have ever been told about his existence.

DOCTOR RAYMOND EL PASQUERREZO walks straight past his car and down the street, his face angled right and left and up and down, always looking at things as if for the first time.

OMNI

[voiceover]

He eventually remembered why he had gone to that house. When he returned, the mailman had moved. There were no clues left. But it’s not his fault; after all, if you ever met that guy, you’d be forgiven for not remembering his name or face. In fact, you’d be

forgiven for not remembering that you ever met him at all.

Unless, of course, you were me. BLACKOUT

ROLL CREDITS

Documents

Pigeons Are The Key