Transcript - Season 3, Chapter 16 (Part One)

CHANNEL, EXT, DAY

A military speedboat is roaring through the waves. The SERGEANT is yelling a briefing to TAINSLEY and a group of other Peninsulan soldiers.

SERGEANT:

(Yelling over the roar of the ocean)

All right, listen up!

Glottage has been hit by a severity-five miraculous event. A terrorist attack, by those bastard children of the Woundtree.

I know some of you are worried about your loved ones. I know some of you are still waiting to hear back.

The good news is - we know where those murderers are. And we’re going west to make it right.

We’ve got choppers liberated from the CLS. They’ll be scouting ahead for us. Our pilots aren’t used to flying ‘em, so keep your heads low unless you want a serious haircut!

Orders are to take these people alive, but I personally would not shed a tear if any of them takes a bullet to the back.

Just remember, their god reacts violently when their worshippers are killed. So if you have to shoot, shoot from a distance, and then take cover.

(Snapping angrily)

Tainsley, wipe that bloody smile off your face. This is meant to be a tragedy.

TAINSLEY:

(Yelling back, delighted and wide-eyed)

I told you, Sergeant! Didn’t I?

I told you it wasn’t over!

(Yelling to the sky, fanatically)

The true enemy has revealed itself! A great war is yet to come!

And every bullet shall hit its target! At exactly the right moment! In exactly the right place!

SERGEANT:

(Utterly unimpressed)

Yeah, keep a lid on it, Tainsley! Thank you!

The boat roars on.

PLANE CRASH, EXT, AFTERNOON

We can hear the cheerful security briefing still going off. Smouldering flames and ruin. Water sounds rise briefly and then fade.

And then CARPENTER wakes, with a gasp, in the wreckage of the cabin.

She's strapped into her seat.

CARPENTER:

(Swallowing, in pain)

Ach - agh-

Is anyone…can anyone…anyone still…

-and then we hear HAYWARD’s voice.

HAYWARD:

Carpenter!

CARPENTER:

Hayward!

(Exhausted)

OK. Hang on, I’m coming.

She unstraps herself out of her seat - and topples down onto the floor of the plane.

She crawls, grunting, through the upside-down plane - exhausted and broken.

HAYWARD:

Jammed in my seat. Can’t get loose.

CARPENTER:

(Breathing and swallowing hard)

OK, OK, just…give me a second and I’ll get to it. You any more dying than you were before?

HAYWARD:

Not much. You hurt?

CARPENTER:

(Grunting in pain)

Yeah, there’s something in my side.

HAYWARD:

Let’s take a look.

CARPENTER:

Nah, everything in its time. Anyone else make it back here?

HAYWARD:

No. No, I don’t think so.

(Choking a little.)

Cross is next to me. I don’t think it hurt. He’s still holding his champagne glass.

CARPENTER takes a moment to observe this.

CARPENTER:

(Gently)

Better than most, eh?

HAYWARD:

Better than most.

CARPENTER bows her head and delivers a quick prayer.

CARPENTER:

(Softly, under her breath)

This is the place. This was always the place.

You were always walking towards this moment.

We were always waiting for you here.

The soil will swallow you.

The roots will tear at you.

Foxes and flies will bear you away.

There’s nothing left to hold on to.

There’s nowhere left to go.

There’s no need to worry any more.

HAYWARD:

Oh, I…I like the sentiment. That’s nice.

CARPENTER:

Yeah, it is.

(Painfully crawling forwards)

OK, let’s get you out-

HAYWARD:

Carpen….Carpenter. Will you say it over me?

CARPENTER begins to unjam HAYWARD’s seat.

CARPENTER:

(Hard and wounded)

Shut your mouth. We’re getting you back to Paige, aren’t we? Think I hijacked a plane and flew it halfway across the country just so you could die right at the finish line? Don’t be ridiculous.

I’ve failed at every fucking test life gave me, Hayward, I’ve lost my hope and my dignity a million-and-one times, but I’m not failing at this. I’m getting you back to her. That is non-negotiable.

(Straining)

Ah - ah, I think I’ve got it! Careful-

HAYWARD gasps in pain as he’s released.

CARPENTER:

All right. Alright, now let’s…let’s figure out a way of, uh…

HAYWARD:

(Hissing)

Wait. Wait. Wait.

Wait! Do you hear that?

The sound of approaching cars outside.

Doors slamming.

HAYWARD:

What’s your search-and-rescue like out here?

CARPENTER:

Not this good. Stay low.

Distantly, we hear the voice of SISTER CULL, yelling out a prayer to the Trawler-man.

HAYWARD:

(Breathless)

These assholes again.

CARPENTER:

We did crash in their river.

HAYWARD:

Do they give up easy?

CARPENTER:

No. No, they don’t.

HAYWARD:

(Breathlessly amused)

Always the same spiel. The river this, the river that. Mix things up a little, you know what I mean? You guys not got an ox-bow lake we could hear about?

CARPENTER:

(Coming up with a plan)

Stay hidden, Hayward.

Once we’re gone, make for the Grace. Find Paige, get her and your people to safety.

HAYWARD makes a grab for CARPENTER.

HAYWARD:

(Arguing)

No!

CARPENTER:

She needs you, Hayward. No arguments.

HAYWARD:

(Still arguing)

No, that’s bullshit, Carpenter-

CARPENTER:

(Firmly)

I’m going to catch up with you.

HAYWARD:

That’s what people say right before they do something really stupid-

CARPENTER:

What, before we get that haircut? Nah. I’ll catch up with you, Hayward. I promise.

They’re angrily hissing, HAYWARD flailing to prevent CARPENTER from crawling away-

HAYWARD:

Carpenter! Be fucking reasonable-

CARPENTER:

Never was, never will be-

HAYWARD:

(Spelling it out, firmly and angrily)

Carpenter. I’m not going anywhere.

I can’t walk.

CARPENTER:

You won’t need to.

I’m going to get you a car.

She yanks herself free of him - and then begins to crawl.

Slowly, and painfully, she reaches a great gaping hole in the cabin - and finds the water.

CARPENTER:

(Under her breath, to the White Gull itself)

All right, you two-faced bastard. Last chance. Final offering.

Give me this and you can do what you like with me.

She plunges into the water-

RIVER, EXT, AFTERNOON

SISTER CULL watches from the riverbank as the DISCIPLES scurry over the plane wreckage, turning over hunks of metal in the hunt for survivors.

She walks over to a parked truck, opens the door, and begins calling out instructions via a tannoy.

SISTER CULL:

(Calling out to the others)

Nothing yet? Keep searching! Get into the wreckage, siblings! Do not be afraid!

The Father in the Water will provide, he always provides-

-and CARPENTER, barely able to walk, staggers out behind her.

CARPENTER:

Yes, he does.

SISTER CULL gasps, sweeping around with her rifle-

CARPENTER:

Hey there, sister. Don’t think we’ve met.

But you…you probably know who I am, right?

SISTER CULL:

(In a surprisingly small and shocked voice)

You’re…you’re Anathema Carpenter. You died.

CARPENTER sways and staggers, clutching onto the truck for dear life.

CARPENTER:

(Agreeing)

Twice over at this point. Maybe more, but who…who’s keeping count?

(Trying to do the maths)

I survived a plane crash. I survived the Wither Mark in Glottage, and in Bellwethers.

The only rational conclusion is that the Trawler-man just doesn’t seem to want me dead, does he - which is funny, given that I’m such an Anathema.

At this point, I think, logic would indicate that the Father in the Water is keeping me alive for some greater purpose, some historic ending. Something that matters to him even more than the Wither Mark, more than the drowning of Glottage.

There’s no other explanation, is there? Not without losing faith.

(Her voice hardening)

So I’ll make an offering to you, Sister.

You can take me in. I’ll come quietly with you, I won’t put up a fight.

Take me back to High Prophet Faulkner, and he can be the one to find out exactly what the Trawler-man is keeping me alive for.

You’ll be richly rewarded, I’m sure, by the man you serve. And whatever happens next, history will remember that you were the one who captured me.

All I ask from you in return is safe passage, and a vehicle, for the man who’s still breathing back there. Prop him up in the driver’s seat and let him go unharmed.

He’s not an enemy of the faith, he’s not with the government. He’s nothing to you. Just a man who needs to get home to his loved ones.

The alternative is this. You can try and kill me now, and both of us can see what happens next.

SISTER CULL stares.

SISTER CULL:

(Nervous)

You’re bluffing. You - you can barely stand.

CARPENTER:

But it’s not my strength you’re reckoning with, is it?

SISTER CULL:

(Toting her rifle)

I could - I could drown you right now, and the Trawler-Man would gratefully accept your body’s offering like any other.

CARPENTER:

(Shrugging)

OK, yeah. Go on then.

She drags herself to her feet - and as she does so, the wind rises. And we begin to hear the dark and eerie whispers of the CAIRN MAIDEN upon the breeze, rising and gathering-

CARPENTER hears it, and chuckles. She begins to walk forward.

SISTER CULL gasps. She staggers back, banging into her own truck.

Her rifle falls.

We don't know exactly what she can see now in CARPENTER that frightens her so much. But her panic is audible enough - she's looking at death, advancing upon her one footfall at a time.

CARPENTER:

(Cold and pitiless)
Has Faulkner told you how much your God loves me?

Have you heard how I escaped a blazing church in the deep woods, a drowned city in the north, an interrogation cell in the south?

Did he tell you how I stood upon the dock alongside him and I cursed the Trawler-Man aloud with my dying breath - and yet your God came to me like a pet, to save my life and dash my foes asunder?

Has he told you that death trails me wherever I go - and it has yet to claim me?

SISTER CULL is pressed up against the truck, breathing hard.

The CAIRN MAIDEN's whispers fade.

CARPENTER bends down - retrieves CULL's rifle, and holds it out to her.

CARPENTER:

(Weak and vulnerable once more)

Your word, Sister. Give me your word. You’ll send him on his way.

Please.

Silence-

RIVERBANK, EXT, AFTERNOON

-and we cut to HAYWARD, wincing in pain and grimacing, as he's helped into a driver’s seat.

CARPENTER, CULL, and the DISCIPLES stand nearby.

CARPENTER:

(Calling out)

Drive fast, Hayward. Don’t look back.

HAYWARD:

(Weakly but firmly calling back)

We’ll wait for you at the Grace, Carpenter. A promise is a promise.

The door is closed. HAYWARD, painfully, starts the car up and drives, speeding away. CARPENTER watches him go.

CARPENTER:

(To herself)

Yeah, it is.

CULL waits for the car to vanish out of sight, and then-

SISTER CULL:

Cuff her. High Prophet Faulkner will reward us richly for bringing her in alive.

CARPENTER:

(Gasping as she’s dragged to her feet and shackled)

Easy, now! Easy, not too rough-

CULL crosses back to her truck. She steps inside and turns on the radio.

TRUCK, INT, AFTERNOON

As CULL attempts to hail the Grand Aquifer, CARPENTER is brought around the back and shoved into the back seat of the truck.

SISTER CULL:

(Increasingly worried as nobody responds)

Come in, come in. Grand Aquifer.

Sibling Rane.

This is Sister Cull.

(Silence)

We’ve secured the wreck of the plane crash.

We found something inside - a, a great and wondrous offering.

A miracle. Is anyone reading me?

A long silence - and then CULL gives up and switches off the radio.

SISTER CULL:

(To CARPENTER, very much shaken)

Uh. Don’t…don’t try anything, OK?

CARPENTER:

(With a little stunned pity)

Wouldn’t dream of it, Sister.

SISTER CULL starts the car.

PAIGE'S HOUSE, INT, DAY

The bells of the GRACE are faintly ringing out for the town meeting.

And on the radio, GGR is playing out an obituary for HAYWARD.

NEWSREADER:

(Severely and sternly)

As the emergency services and anti-sanctification specialists battle to recover Central Glottage for the living, questions continue to swirl about the perpetrators of the deadly miracle which took place during the Victory Day celebrations - with some eye-witnesses delivering testimony which appears to contradict official government reports.

In response, the Legislatures have released security footage from Greater Glottage Radio which they say confirms beyond a shadow of a doubt that the attack was carried out by CLS remnants aligned with the Children of the Woundtree.

The footage shows Anathema Shrue, entering GGR shortly before the attack - accompanied by a man who has been identified as James Hayward, a former investigating officer with the Greater Glottage Police Force’s Religious Homicide Division.

Hayward, who was expelled in disgrace after suspicions grew over his role in an earlier religious atrocity in the North-Western Territory, is known to have fled to the Linger Straits shortly before the rise of the Woundtree cult.

(Abruptly more cheerful)

In lighter news! In an effort to lift the nation’s spirits and raise funds for the unhoused victims of the Victory Day massacre, one tiny village in True Eastern has launched a new festival dedicated to the Succourine Soul - with kittens, puppies, and adorable piglets on hand. Sam Kincannon was-

PAIGE turns the radio off. She's sobbing, quietly, to herself.

Silence as she gets a grip on herself.

Then she turns, and lifts a pair of secateurs from the side.

She lifts them to her skin - and painfully cuts off a barbed black thorn that's protruding from her flesh.

She deposits it in a nearby jar with a wince.

PAIGE cuts again. Deposits again.

And then she has to move quickly as the Woundtree's thorn begins to spread and grow-

-but under the jar lid, the thorn is stifled, and falls still.

PAIGE observes the miniature saint-tree for a moment.

PAIGE:

(To her god)

You're lashing out because you're starving.

(With satisfaction and spite)

Good.

She gets to her feet-

CHAPEL, INT, DAY

The entire town has gathered. Sat in pews, the WOUNDTREE DISCIPLES are gossiping worriedly about the attack on Glottage.

WOUNDTREE DISCIPLE #1:

I heard they killed the Rootkeeper and that's what set it off-

WOUNDTREE DISCIPLE #2:

We won't have long. They'll spare no expense in hunting us down-

WOUNDTREE DISCIPLE: #3:

They'll be upon us by nightfall. That's what I heard. Two battalions-

WOUNDTREE DISCIPLE #4

What are we...what are we going to do?

WOUNDTREE DISCIPLE #2

We can take a stand, if we have to do. Just like the Rootkeeper did-

WOUNDTREE DISCIPLE #3:

I don't know. Where are we...where are we meant to go?

A door opens at the back of the room as PAIGE enters.

MOSS:

(Excitedly)

Widow!

The hubbub fades as the congregation stands. PAIGE comes to the front of the chapel.

She’s sorrowful, but resolved - even hardened.

PAIGE:

Thank you all for coming.

It…really means a lot to see so many faces here.

Just in case if you haven’t already heard the news - last night, Glottage was attacked. A massive miraculous event.

And now they’re saying we were the ones who did it.

It’s a lie.

A bad lie, but they have the means and the time to make it stick.

(Taking a breath)

The Legislatures already know where we are. They’ve always known. And now they’re going to come after us.

A murmur of horror.

PAIGE:

(Tired and bitter)

The truth is, we were never going to win.

Even if a dozen Adjudicators defected to us today, they can always be replaced, and they can always be defamed, and they can always be forgotten.

Our resistance means nothing so long as our enemy has the power to edit us out of history.

Our weapons cannot save us so long as they can be stolen from us.

We cannot even speak our cause aloud without being manipulated and misshaped, because our enemy lives on in words.

So long as we can be seen, we can be interpreted, and we can be altered.

(Shrugging)

What does all of that mean? It means we cannot win, and we could never win - so long as we remain here.

Silence.

PAIGE:

A couple of nights ago, I sheltered in a cave that used to be a temple - a mile out from the camp, in the heart of the god-winds.

I survived. I didn’t think I would.

The polluted lands have stood as long as there’s been a Peninsula.

And we’ve stoked their lifespan and their fury with the smog of our industry in peacetime, dumping our god-waste down at the border, watching the nothing spread.

Millennia ago, the old tribes of the Peninsula fled out of the hills,. Angry, hungry deities, chasing them eastwards.

(As if wondering aloud)

What’s left behind there now, in the deep caves and dark hollows where nobody has set foot in centuries of centuries?

What kind of deeper quiet can be found in the places where even the last echoes have fallen quiet, where even the last god has starved?

What if in time’s wellspring, the very epicentre of our earliest worshippings, the root of all our problems, that’s where we find silence, and emptiness, and living soil fed by the dead bones of monstrous things?

Because if you look beyond the censorship and the propaganda, the literature seems to spell out a truth that we all spend our lives working to deny.

If a god cannot feed, it rages, and when it is done raging, it dies.

PAIGE takes a step forward - and then sets the jar containing the trapped Woundtree thorn down on the lectern for all to see.

PAIGE:

I don’t need an empire. I don’t need a nation.

I just need one shadowed nook where their light doesn’t fall, and a chance to grow something in the darkness that is mine, and mine alone.

I need to take a shape they cannot own. I need to find a home they cannot repossess. And that’s impossible...

...so long as we remain here.

So this is my proposal.

It’s desperate. And it’s mad. And I do believe it’s the only solution left to us.

We take flight, before the government comes for us.

We make one last pilgrimage.

We take our gas masks, and our radiation suits. We take our food and medicine.

And we walk west into the storm, looking for shelter night by night in the empty caves.

Hoping - in the heart of the polluted lands - to find a place beyond gods, without sacrifice. One corner of the world, one dark and loveless place, where we can work to become a shape beyond the sculptor’s hands.

A very long and uneasy silence.

Then, at the back of the chapel, MOSS gets to his feet.

MOSS:

(Weakly)

Widow. You - you can’t seriously believe we can survive out there. It’s madness.

ELGIN chimes in.

ELGIN:

(Honestly)

Paige already told me her idea.

I told her she was asking us to walk to our deaths; into poisoned land.

I still think that’s true…but that doesn’t mean she’s wrong to suggest it.

If death awaits us out there, it’s still better than the death they’ll make for us here.

If it’s a feeble hope - a deluded hope - I’d prefer to die with it than go on living in their hope.

(Acknowledging the challenge)

But it means giving up our only semblance of safety, and walking out into danger, armed with nothing but hope for a faint possibility that all reason suggests cannot possibly exist.

PAIGE:

(Agreeing with her)

It’s actually worse than that. I’m asking us to give up our purpose, as well as our comfort.

If there’s any kind of new beginning out there waiting for us, we can’t bring the old world with us.

The god and the faith that we birthed - it’s been useful to us, but it’s part of that old world.

And if I can’t be rid of it, then there’s no place for me amongst you either.

I’ll carry the Woundtree on with us, in my body and my voice, for as long as there’s a chance that it can keep us protected through the god-winds and the storms.

But then, when the time is right, when we think we’re safe, I’m going to stop walking. And I want all of you to carry on without me.

Leave me, and the Woundtree, behind.

Keep on walking.

(Taking a hard breath)

I, I want us to make this decision together. We’ll vote on it.

If a majority votes to leave, anyone who wants to head back down into the Peninsula will be given as many supplies as they can carry.

If everyone wants to stay, then I’m staying with you, to the end.

Either way, we won’t have long before the government gets here, so…um...

(Running out of steam)

...that’s me done talking.

A long silence.

Then DAN gets slowly to his feet.

DAN:

(Slowly, but with rising passion)

The Widow speaks blasphemy, of course. Madness and blasphemy.

And I cannot disagree.

It was not the Woundtree who led all of us here, and found purchase for living seeds in poisoned soil.

It is not the Woundtree who I watched, day after day, grappling with the terrible weight of responsibility. For us. Our lives. Our future.

The Widow has sacrificed everything for us.

What has the Woundtree sacrificed? What has the Woundtree lost? Where are the tears of our god, and where is its sorrow for us?

If the Widow believes there could be life in the dead places, I will trust in her hope.

If she is to walk out to her death in the storm, then it will be my life’s last honour to walk with her, and our failure will be my life’s greatest triumph.

And if our god truly loves us, then he will protect our final pilgrimage - and he will let us go when it is time.

If he cannot...then we are well rid of him.

Dan sits back down. Silence.

And then the applause begins.

Cheers. Roars.

PAIGE is a little stunned - both by the response, and by DAN's speech. She cuts it off before it gets out of hand.

PAIGE:

(Taking a breath)

OK. Thank you, Dan.

Let’s…let’s begin with the vote. We’re going to give out pens and papers. ‘Stay’ or ‘go’.

Everyone who wants a say gets a voice.

And then we’ll go from there.

MEETING ROOM, INT, DAY

ELGIN and PAIGE are both counting up their votes.

ELGIN:

Done?

PAIGE:

(Counting)

Almost.

OK. That’s, uh…

One hundred and sixty-seven in favour. Fifty-four against.

ELGIN:

Mine was ninety-four against.

One hundred and seventy-one in favour.

PAIGE:

That’s it, then.

We’re leaving.

They just sit with the weight of that decision for a moment.

ELGIN:

(Kindly, gently)

Like we said.

We’ll leave a memorial for our friends here, in the heart of the Grace, because we know they’re dead.

And we’ll leave a cache of supplies behind, and instructions on how to follow, because we know they’re fighting on.

PAIGE:

One for Shrue, as well.

ELGIN:

Of course.

PAIGE takes a breath and gets to her feet.

PAIGE:

All right. Let’s start packing up.

Anyone who’s coming with us - no prayer-stamps, no branded products, no personal gods.

And - anyone who’s staying behind gets their equal share of supplies, just like we said.

ELGIN:

(On the verge of disagreeing)

We could…we could really use those supplies.

PAIGE:

Yes, we could.

(Raising an eyebrow)

Elgin?

ELGIN:

An equal share. Just like we said.

Come on - let’s share the news.

CAR, INT, DAWN

The following morning. CARSON is in the back of his car, on the phone, as a pair of electric gates swing open.

He's heading home.

CARSON:

(Speaking to the GRINDINGLORD’s people)

No, no, I’m actually pretty happy, I’m feeling better this morning about it all.

Risked getting a little bit messy there, but it’s like the Slag King’s people say, you know - “Anything can be a stable foundation so long you’ve got enough cement.”

We’re taking out the Woundtree camp this morning. Choppers and ground troops on their way.

Uh - Once that’s done, we root out the Parish’s last detractors, and we sign the faith over to you.

(Remembering something)

Oh, so - Greg - that was it. I was thinking.

There’s this part of the mythology that gets a little confusing.OK, it’s a god with two mouths, two faces. One devours, one returns.

He listens for a moment.

CARSON:

Right. Yeah. Right, yeah, that’s what I was thinking. It’s too ambiguous.

They need to be distinctive mascots, don’t they? Different names, different personalities, different franchises.

(Pitching concepts)

Ripple and Reed. Streamie and Splash. Maybe we can get the creatives on it. Eh?

(Laughs brightly)

Do you know what? I’ll hand in my notice today, I think. Yeah.

Then maybe I can have a few months off before I start with you. Bit of a breather. Catch up on my reading, perhaps - that’ll be nice. Have a bath! Oh!

Just getting back to the field office now, Greg. I’ll call you back, OK?

Ciao.

CARSON'S HOUSE, EXT, DAY

CARSON steps out over the gravel, humming meerily-

CARSON'S HOUSE (HALL), INT, DAY

CARSON steps inside, drops off the keys in a bowl near the door-

-and hears a voice in the distance.

CARSON:

Hawthorne, kiddo, I thought I told you to go home and get some sleep. You’re no use to us if you’re-

He walks through to his study, pushes open the door-

CARSON'S HOUSE (STUDY), INT, DAY

-And Carson stops dead. Because VAL is sitting at his desk, listening to SHRUE's final words on the radio.

We can hear the strain and the weakness in her voice. She’s breathing hard.

VAL:

(Gently)

Hello, Press Secretary Carson.

Close the door behind you, please.

CARSON does so.

CARSON:

(Nervous)

You’re, um -

(Finding his bonhomie)

-you’re supposed to be heading west, Val.

We need you going after the Woundtree’s people - they’re out in the hills.

Didn’t you, uh…didn’t you get the message?

(Gently pleading)

We’ve - we’ve got work that needs doing. Historic moment ahead of us, you don’t want to miss that.

One final push, Val…and then we can all just get on with our lives.

VAL does not respond. CARSON, growing more nervous, moves on to the next lie.

CARSON:

And I meant to tell you, as well, I was trying really very hard to get through to you to tell you, I was sorry about the parade.

We should have put you at the heart of the parade. Given you a float. You deserved that much.

You’re a…you’re a god, Val. Truly, you are. You’re the only reason we’ve won. You’re something extraordinary.

If you wanted, I…I know it may not be traditional, per se, but we could actually make you a licenced deity.

Your own church, your own territory, as many sacrifices as you need. Delivered to you daily.

Iff there’s anything I’ve learnt from the past year, it’s that change is inevitable, so all of us need to get with the programme - and you’re something new.

Truly, you are. So the old rules - they can be bent.

VAL:

(Questioningly)

Daily sacrifices.

CARSON:

That’s right.

VAL:

Can you really spare the bodies?

CARSON:

We’ll make do. We’ll spare no expense. Fly ‘em in from abroad, maybe. Figure out a way.

We…we can put the work in, for someone like you.

VAL continues to stare at him.

CARSON tries to hide his nervousness. He walks over to a minifridge on the far side of the room - and grabs himself a can of Tranquili-T Seven.

CARSON:

(Almost casually)

My, uh, my assistant’s working late, Val - only a matter of time before she comes in to see me.

She’s a good person. She’s an innocent soul. Real sweetheart.

I don’t want to see her get hurt, Val.

Neither of us want that.

VAL:

(Calmly and firmly)

You sent your assistant home early.

(Her breath catching as she strains to lie)

You sent everyone home, in fact.

We’re the only ones left.

CARSON chuckles weakly.

CARSON:

And if I try the door now, I suppose you’ll tell me it’s already locked.

VAL:

You catch on fast.

CARSON begins to negotiate, weakly and desperately.

VAL lets him talk.

CARSON:

You know, I’m not responsible for what happened to you, Val. I know you understand that.

You’re angry about what they did to you, all the pain they put you through, and you’ve got a right, dammit - you’ve absolutely got a right to be angry.

(Trying to come up with a solution that doesn't involve him being murdered)

And we can have an enquiry about that.

I mean, how high does this thing go? We need to hold these people accountable.

VAL does not respond.

CARSON:

And if you are a god, then damn it, Val, you’ve got your first true apostle in me.

I will - I will fall at your feet, I will pray for mercy, I will worship-

I will help you get your revenge on anyone you like. Just point me at ‘em. I'll...I'll rip 'em apart!

His nervous laughter dissipates in the silence.

VAL:

(Wounded and quiet)

I’m not a god, Carson. That was foolishness, nothing more.

I was lying to myself, and the lie didn’t help me.

I’m sure it’s the final consolation of many a monster, in the end - to think themselves divine.

CARSON, swiftly recalculating his approach, crosses the room and lays a fatherly hand on her chair.

CARSON:

(Paternal and supportive)

Well, I’m very glad that you…that you’ve had time to work on yourself, Val. But you shouldn’t call yourself a monster, either.

I’m - I’m glad you came here to speak with me.

I’m actually relieved.

(Attempting to be empathetic)

Because you’re hurting, Val, aren’t you? That’s what it all comes down to.

You’re not cruel at heart, you’re not vindictive - you’re suffering.

And…and you believe you can’t be fixed. That’s right, isn’t it?

But damn it, Val, I’m an optimist. And all of us are capable of change, every single one of us.

And if we want a better world, the process begins in our hearts.

It begins with you and me, and all the people beyond these walls, making the conscious choice, to get better.

Silence.

VAL:

(Simply, weakly)

I’m not going to get better.

Nor will you. Nor will any of us.

They’re spoilt produce, the people beyond these walls. An unfit offering.

Like me.

And they are dying out there.

Like me.

They’ve never once seen the light beyond the light you made for them, and it’s finally beginning to dawn on them, now that the lamps are flickering and the darkness is rising and it is late...

...it’s far too late, for anything to change.

You’ve won, because they can’t get away from you. Your victory is so absolute, your triumph so profound, that they can no longer conceive of a life beyond you.

We can’t be fixed. Not a single one of us.

This is our final condition, and we will never be rid of you; not until everything that’s grown has withered to ash, and the last stories die on the parched lips of the last storyteller.

CARSON just stares at her for a moment.

CARSON:

(Feebly)

That’s all very poetic, but Val, I - I’m getting the impression you see me as representative of something.

I’m just a civil servant. I’m not the government, I’m not anything.

I’m just a...just one guy!

I’m going private. You know...do some consultancy.

I’m going to be just another citizen. Y-

The words aren't helping. He falls silent.

CARSON:

(Weakly)

What are you going to do?

VAL:

Poke a few holes in the tarpaulin. See if the light falls through.

CARSON knows exactly what she means. He just laughs, mordantly-

-and walks back to the minifridge to retrieve his drink. He pours it.

CARSON:

My, hm…my predecessor in this job told me once,

“Everyone always thinks they’ve got a better way. It doesn’t matter how well you do, it doesn’t matter how far you’ve come or how hard you work; nobody ever stops trying to grab the wheel.”

The captains of industry, the boards of the great faiths, it doesn’t matter how much you give ‘em.

They’ll all keep on howling that you’re holding them back from achieving their full potential, and success for them means success for everyone.

So - you have to cut back the laws, approve the licences, give them everything they demand.

And the renegade cults, the progressives, this Woundtree rabble, they all keep bleating on and on about how all the stability and the prosperity, it doesn’t mean a damn thing to them, because you haven’t fixed the cruelty yet.

Everyone thinks they can do it better.

(With growing contempt)

But then in the end, for all of their talk, we come right back around to something like you. Back to the bad old days and the old barbarities.

(Mockingly)

Clean up the world by murdering a few politicians and CEOs. Twist reality into a shape of your pleasing. “Hey, what if we cut off a few more heads?”

(Laughing a little hysterically)

Sure, maybe that’ll fix things because we've never tried that before.

Gods above, you…you wretched, you limited, hateful thing.

Are you really the best answer they’ve got?

VAL:

(Unmoved)

Something like me could never be their answer, Carson.

But I’m hoping I can be their consolation.

CARSON throws up his hands.

CARSON:

(Wearily)

OK, well…come on, then.

(Sniffs)

Do what you’re going to do to me. Let’s get this over with.

VAL:

What do you think I’m going to do to you?

CARSON:

(With growing anger and contempt)

The same thing you always do.

I’ve listened to you doing it. Over and over. I’m sick of hearing it.

Kill me, change me, turn me into your arsehole mother if it gives you pleasure or satisfaction. Just stop wasting my time.

You…you really are a god, aren’t you, Val?

You’re not really a saint, and you’re certainly not a person. But you are just like them.

You threaten us, and you hurt us. You watch us squirm, you play with us - so long as it amuses you, and then you make us suffer before you let us die.

The same inevitable climax, over and over and over and over. The same single-minded hunger.

But that’s not enough. We also have to listen to you.

We have to put up with your smug little speeches and your judgements about how awful we are and how we deserve what you’re about to do to us.

Gods! Shrue was right. We should never have given birth to you.

We should have burnt you to a crisp in that holding cell. Written you off as a bad mistake.

A god that lectures you while it eats you.

(Almost chuckling resentfully to himself)

Fuck. One look at you and I want to start tearing down temples myself.

Maybe this is why the gods have to remain mysteries to the rest of us, you know?

If we could see your faces, we’d know you as hateful.

And who could stand to live, knowing that?

VAL just sits there. Her voice is increasingly weak.

The anger is gone from her, and so has the self-satisfaction.

VAL:

Have a seat, Press Secretary Carson. Please.

CARSON hesitates.

And then he sits, facing her.

VAL:

I’ve got one more question for you. Before I kill you.

CARSON:

(Resigned to his death)

Yeah. Yeah, go on, ask it. Go on. I’m ready.

Silence for a moment.

VAL:

(Like she's talking to a dear friend)

What did you want to be, when you were small?

CARSON just stares at her.

VAL:

(Softly amused)

You didn’t want to be this. I’m sure of that.

No child wants to become something like you.

(Simply, honestly confessing it)

I wanted to be a ballerina.

CARSON:

(Uncomprehending)

A ballerina?

VAL is soft and quiet as she remembers her own childhood - and we hear the faint melody of classical music on a record player.

VAL:

(Fondly)

Yes. They retire young, ballerinas.

Someone told me that, and it stuck with me. They train, and they practice, harder than anyone else, to hit that incredible athletic peak - and in spite of all their hard work, they can never quite recover once their bodies begin to age.

I was naive enough to think that sounded wonderful. I could dazzle the masses, I could create some astonishing body of work onstage, and the crowds would adore me. For a time.

And then I’d retire young, and all of the effort and struggle of my life would be behind me, and I’d spend forty years reading in a hammock under the soft sun, in some small wooden cabin far from anyone else, and I’d never have to worry about keeping myself alive from one day to the next.

That was my plan for my life.

I practiced the moves, every day for about a year. I begged my mother for lessons.

But I never really had it in me, and in time I forgot what I had wanted to be.

How about you?

Silence.

CARSON:

(Weakly making an honest confession)

I wanted to be a milkman.

Silence. She doesn't mock him.

CARSON:

(Gently, remembering it)

Yeah.

Yeah, we had a milkman - in our village out on the moorlands. Old guy with a thick white moustache, like he’d dipped it in the milk.

He knew everyone by name. All of us loved him. The kids would chase after his float.

And sometimes you’d see him out early, and he’d ask after your family or- or he’d tell you it was a beautiful day, or if it was going to rain, he’d find some good in that as well.

He could always find something to say, to give you comfort, and it never seemed like effort.

And sometimes you’d never see him at all, and there’d just be a cold milk bottle left on your doorstep, like an offering.

I always wanted people to like me just as much as they liked him.

And I was always afraid that they never would.

VAL closes her eyes.

Then, straining faintly, she speaks the lie into the world.

He doesn't deserve it - but she says it anyway.

VAL:

(Gently, like someone singing one final lullaby to a dying man)

You were a milkman.

That’s what I’ve been told.

And faintly - we can hear the failed potential of CARSON's life coming into flower.

Footsteps on gravel. The clink of bottles. A float roaring down the village lane.

VAL:

You grew up far from the city, a village on the moorlands, and you never thought to stray any further.

You worked as a milkman all your life, in that village where you grew up. You never harmed a soul, and you never told a lie, and every single day of your life was warm greetings and milk bottles that you left like offerings upon doorsteps.

You’d share a kind word with the people you met, and the comfort you gave them - that was a comfort like nothing else in this world.

You were happy, and you were satisfied, and you remained kind.

And the years, and the decades, went on like this - and eventually you grew old.

And you had a family along the way if you wanted one...and if you didn’t want one, nobody ever made you feel like that was something lacking in you.

But the important thing is that when you died, after a very long and wonderful life, you didn’t die alone.

You didn't die in pain or in fear - but in your own bed, gently and with grace.

The last thing you felt as you slipped away into the abyss was a hand squeezing your hand, a kind word in your ear. A gift returned, for all of the comfort you’d given them.

And after you died, even though in time you were forgotten - those who had known you carried your kindness onwards.

And so the love and the care that had been the most essential parts of you - these currents ran on.

And they spread across the land like clean water over parched soil, and in time beautiful things began to grow, and this - this was your lasting inheritance.

Silence.

CARSON stirs, faintly. We hear his voice, weak and aged.

He’s dying, literally and retroactively of old age.

CARSON:

(Experiencing it, believing it)

I was…I was a milkman.

VAL:

(Kindly)

Yes, you were.

CARSON:

(Feebly, offering up one final kindness in turn)

And you, Val…You were a ballerina. You danced.

And afterwards…you read your books, in the sunlight, far from anyone - for as long as you wanted.

(Just enjoying the thought of it)

You danced. And then you didn’t.

CARSON wheezes, breathes out - and expires.

VAL sits with him, her hand in his hand, as he dies.

VAL:

(Quietly, sincerely)

Thank you.