Jack, aged and crumpled, sits in the back of a limousine, tuxedo only half smartening him up, looks around, perplexed, alarmed. His eyes slowly widen. Not a moment before, he was swinging from his ceiling.
He rolls down a window and is greeted by a strong breeze ruffling what hair he has left. Mown fields stretching for miles around and, straight ahead, a large stately home made of an old, white stone.
Through obscured glass, Jack can understand the shapes of the Driver, who bumbles the vehicle along the gravel track, head and hat bobbing.
Jack, with weak arms, wrestles with the large wooden door of the home, pushing and shoving at it with wheezing breaths. It gives and he drags himself inside.
His eyes adjust to the darkened room that spreads as far as can be seen, empty, deadly silent and deadly still. He takes a step forward, surveys the room, taking note of the large painted ceilings and the magnificent chandelier.
He keeps walks, face of confusion. Tracking every minute detail, the Star of David or the Chi Rho on large plaques attached high up the walls.
Pacing up to him at some speed, a bob-haired lady, talking and gesticulating voraciously through a headset.
Jack keeps the same pace, straight ahead.
The lady, long coat tails and perfectly placed hair walks directly to Jack, brisk; bouncing with pride.
HELP: Can I help you?
Jack studies Help, from shiny shoes to flawless eyelids.
JACK: Where am I?
HELP: Do you know where you should be going? Do you have your appointment card?
Jack raises his head to look at Help’s face, upset and confused.
HELP: Would you like me to take you to the help desk?
Jack, without an utterance, walks with Help down the room, past all the ornaments and religious symbols along the walls.
Approaching an oval desk in the corner of the room, HELP written on a hanging sign in as many languages as you can think of. Help places her hand on Jack’s shoulder, gestures to a seat.
On a swivel chair behind the oval desk spins Smiles, blinding white teeth and identical outfit to Help.
HELP: This gentleman needs some assistance.
SMILES: Of course, get yourself comfortable.
Help takes her hand from Jack’s shoulder, smiles at him and walks the way they’d come. Jack turns his head, eyes following Help, studying the room once more. He returns his attention.
JACK: Where am I?
Smiles smiles.
SMILES: Can you tell me your name?
JACK: Jack Fuller.
Smiles begins writing on a notepad.
SMILES: And you were born in Southampton?
Jack nods his head gently.
JACK: On the 25th of April.
SMILES: To Steven and Maria Fuller.
JACK: Maria Lloyd.
Smiles, startled, confused, scribbles on her notepad. She brings her head back up, observes Jack; a confused old man sat lost in front of her.
SMILES: Right, Jack; I’m going to ask you a couple of questions, just so we can get you to the right place.
JACK: Where am I? I thought I was in hospital.
SMILES: What would you say your religious beliefs where?
Jack crosses his arms.
JACK: Atheist.
SMILES: And your sexuality?
Jack grunts, confused.
SMILES: Are you heterosexual? Bisexual?
Jack understands the question, grunts again.
JACK: Women.
Smiles nods, stifles a laugh.
JACK: What are all these questions for?
SMILES: So, we can get absolutely everything prepped for you!
JACK: I don’t understand.
SMILES: You’ll meet the curator soon, she’ll explain everything. But for now…
Smiles lifts up her notepad.
SMILES: …we just have to finish off these pages.
Jack grumbles.
#
Jack sits on an uncomfortable chair, bolted to the floor, in a room considerably smaller than the one before. It is empty, bereft of decoration aside from a clock mounted on the wall, a clock that ticks twice a second, then not at all, then twice a second.
He holds a small, folded piece of paper in his hands. He opens it and reads the number printed on it: 17,068,724,319.
The room is boxed, small. It hosts three rows of those uncomfortable waiting room chairs. A door, with no handles, is to Jack’s right and right in front of him is a beautiful dark oak door with a gold gilded handle and lock.
That noisy clock continues its asynchronous ticking, a mechanical heartbeat.
Jack’s knees bob up and down, his face low and his eyes look ready to burst.
His head swings up with a start as the beautiful oak door slowly falls open. From inside steps Lily, long coat tails and brushed back hair. She curtseys as she removes her eyes from a clipboard.
LILY: Do we have a MR. Jack Fuller.
Lily looks around the room, sees only Jack.
LILY: MR. Fuller, if you’d like to come this way.
With a groan, Jack stands, shuffles along the floor, slowly bring his eyes to look at Lily.
JACK: Where am I?
LILY: You’ll see.
The pair walk through the doorway. Clunk goes the lock.
Jack and Lily stand next to each other, matching in their beautiful clothes. Lily, unfazed, looks down at her clipboard before putting it down on an empty table.
Jack looks around the long, cavernous room filled with overhanging chandeliers billowing light in every direction. He gazes upon the thick wooden podiums dotted around the room, each with a spotlight and a different object on top; some of which he recognises. He turns to Lily in utter confusion.
JACK: What is this place?
Lily gestures with her head to the wall behind Jack. He slowly turns to see, in bold lettering across the length of the wall – Jack Fuller: A Life in Objects.
Jack turns back, shock and realisation, his hands start to gently tremble.
JACK: I want to leave.
Lily shakes her head, watches as Jack makes a start for the closed door, tugging at the handle.
LILY: The only exit is over there, but you probably don’t want to that just yet.
She almost smiles at herself.
Jack looks down at the ground then slowly looks back over the room.
JACK: Am I dead?
Lily remains quiet.
JACK: What do I do?
Lily bounces on her feet, creaking the wooden floorboards. She holds out her hand for Jack to take and walks him over to the first podium, a small, handwritten letter.
Jack is slow to follow, his eyes trapped on the letter.
LILY: Now, what I need you to do is simply reach out and touch it.
Jack looks at Lily, furrowing brows.
JACK: What happens when I do that?
Lily tuts.
LILY: Well, do it and you’ll find out!
Jack looks at Lily, then to the letter. He slowly reaches out his hand, inches away and…
Object One: A Letter of Apology
‘Dear Martha,
It makes the most sense to start with an apology, not that it could even remotely cover the amount of damage or upset that I’ve caused you, our child. But nonetheless, I’m sorry.
The past couple of months have been incredibly hard for me. Saying Goodbye to my father hit me hard, as did the cancer diagnosis but I can’t help but feel as if it were deserved.
When I sit in the lonely evenings and think over my life, I can only help but feel like I’m being handed what I deserve. Not by God or anything like that but there’s certainly something, and it’s fair; I understand.
I’m sorry for the way we parted, I’m sorry for how I treated you. I’m sorry I didn’t understand what it means to be a good man, or even an ‘ok’ one.
The older you get the more you see your mistakes for what they are.
Just before my father passed, he was in a similar way and his very ugly thoughts got me thinking. I listened to him speak but I heard myself. I could understand the lies he told because I told them too. Accidents happen and people do ridiculous things, but that’s just life isn’t it?
I’m not here to ask forgiveness, I know you well enough to know you won’t; but I wanted to reach out and tell you what I feel.
So, all I can say is I’m sorry for every pain I gave you in this life. I’ll spend whatever comes after death dreaming of ways that I could have been better and how to earn your forgiveness.
Jack.’
Jack, turning the page over, scribbles a phone number on the back, folds the paper and tucks it into an envelope; licking it and sealing it closed. On the front, he writes For Martha.
He sits, turning the letter in his hand; feeling its rough edges; digging the corner into his fingertips; feeling it bend under the pressure.
Jack places the letter on the table in front of him and sighs; loudly, peacefully, places it next to another letter addressed to Sam.
He takes hold of a small porcelain robin, runs it through his hands.
Around the room, dirty cups and bowls, torn curtains; seemingly matched to his filthy vest and underwear.
He stands, walks into the bedroom and takes hold of the rope pre-prepared. He stands on the stool; places the loop around his neck; takes a deep breath in and drops.
#
Jack pulls away from the letter, putting it back on the pedestal.
LILY: How was that, Jack?
JACK: How did you get this? How did you get all this stuff?
LILY: Well, once you pass away, your memories become attached to important objects and we organise them in an exhibition so that; before you go to your final resting place, you can have a level of closure.
Jack stands, stunned.
JACK: So, all of my memories?
LILY: Every single one of importance to who you are, yes.
Jack looks around the room, alarmed; frightened.
JACK: I want to leave.
Lily cocks her head.
LILY: Well, I wouldn’t do that just yet; Jack.
Lily bounds over to the next pedestal, gesturing to it with her fingers.
LILY: We have a bowl and spoon. Any ideas?
Jack shuffles closer.
JACK: He was a bad, bad man. He hated me.
Lily leans forward and Jack starts reaching out his arms, turning to Lily for reassurance. She nods.
Jack touches the bowl and
Object Two: A chipped bowl and a soup spoon
Jack, dirty shirt and torn shorts, slumped in a bowed back chair nurses debt collection letters on his lap. Opposite him, Steven, head hanging, back arched. Dirty white shirt, eyes barely open.
Magazines and laundry litter the floor.
Car horns and heavy wind shake the tatty curtains, grubby windows show industrial rooftops.
A tick, louder.
Louder.
RING.
Jack turns his head towards the kitchenette, a pot bubbling on the stove top. He stands, half sighs and walks over.
Jack takes a seat next to Steven, holding a hot bowl of soup in his hands. He lifts a misshapen spoonful to Steven’s mouth, expectantly agape.
Jack watches as soup dribble from Steven’s chin, but no mind; he wipes it away with a prepped cloth.
After several mouthfuls, Steven begins to shake his head. Agitating to Jack, who grabs at Steven face, forcing his mouth open; slopping the soup in.
Steven, in retaliation, starts spitting the soup out of his mouth, before wailing; screeching. Jack tries again but Steven goes to bite him so he stands; throws the bowl of soup down on the ground; watching it’s thick red vibrancy add some colour to the discoloured walls.
Steven drops his eyes, tearful; scared.
Jack turns, faces Steven with stern face. He stands, looks around the room, at the dirty walls, the broken doors and takes a large, deep breath.
JACK: Dad.
Steven dazedly looks around, eyes trying to fix.
JACK: Dad. Dad, would you just look at me?
Steven’s eyes slowly pull up, fix on Jack; remnants of soup still sloshed across his face.
JACK: Dad, I can’t do this anymore.
Jack’s eyes now begin to wander, over the debt letters. Stevens face; a pained face; vitriolic—
STEVEN: Cunt.
Steven’s face, contorting; pained; then soothed, to smile.
Jack drops his eyes to look at Steven’s shorts; watching as he soils himself, watching a cruel smile creep across his father’s wrinkled face.
Jack’s face drops further. He turns, slowly walks over to the open bedroom door, grabs a suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and begins throwing clothes in as Steven begins grunting; louder, louder.
STEVEN: Clean! Me!
Jack keeps packing, violently throwing things into the case. He keeps throwing as Steven’s shouts grow louder.
He slams the case shut, breathing heavily. Stops for a moment, thoughtful. Head up, turns on his heel; case in hand and comes back into the living room.
Jack throws the case down, paces over to Steven and tries to pick him up, shuffle him towards a wheelchair. Steven hits and scratches, cawing in enormous pain; shit dribbling from his trousers onto the floor, onto Jack’s arm.
Dumped in the wheelchair, Steven sobs.
Jack kneels in front of Steven, looks into his eyes.
The curtain still swings in the wind.
#
Jack kneels in front of Steven, places his hand against his cheek. Steven looks up, wet eyes. Jack’s face begins to crumple. So he stands, he stand and he turns, turns and walks toward the car.
Steven, sobbing loudly; watches as Jack’s beaten up jalopy trundles down the road; far into the distance. His old, decrepit, destroyed eyes manage to read the sign on the wall next to him: Flower Meadows Care Home.
He lets his head drop, notices a note in his hand with what might say types of medicine, but he isn’t sure. He throws it to the ground, sobs; wails; screeches.
Dour eyes falling to the ground, quivering shoulders, shit stains still spoiling across the wheelchair seat.
He reaches out his arm, tries to grab at the handle.
#
In a bar, Jack sits; dirty shirt; dirtied with his father’s mess; head in hands against the bar. His eyes travel the faded shit stains that crawl up his arm.
The room is sparse, lonely pool table, sport on the TV. A couple kisses in the corner, tongues and teeth. Jack brings his head all the way up, takes a sip of his whisky. Phone out in front of him, it starts to ring. Sam.
BAR: Aren’t you gunna answer?
Jack turns his head, observes Bar; apron and plaid, facial hair and glasses. He taps on the side of his glass.
JACK: Another.
Bar studies Jack for a moment, narrow eyes look him up and down.
#
Jack, still shit stained, stands in the kitchenette, swinging open cupboard doors with animosity; standing on his feet to see high up.
Eyes ablaze, red; heavy breathing.
His actions become exaggerated, tired. Clanging, banging. He paces to the sofa; throws cushions to the floor. Stops; stares.
A small, almost empty bottle. He gracefully bends to pick it up, tries the lid with his hands; its stuck. He places it in his mouth, twists.
Sitting down, he takes a sip, then another.
He takes another, turns his head to the window, watches the curtain flutter in the wind.
His eyes draw down, catching sight of the chipped soup bowl before looking up; gazing at the empty chair opposite, longingly.
#
The care home, after much ado; figured out where Jack lived and sent a very politely worded letter. Initially about how uncouth it was to simply dump a vulnerable old man outside in the cold before going on to inform him that his father had indeed passed away.
Jack had taken the news well.
But now, as he stand before the coffin, he weeps; contorting his face in ways that were both beautiful and harrowing.
SAM: This is all such a shock.
Jack’s ear’s begin to tense and he turns to see Sam standing before him. Her hand clutching the funeral programme with its 3 fingers.
Sam notices Jack’s staring, searching her hand for the missing finger.
SAM: Yeah, still hasn’t grown back.
Jack half-heartedly smiles.
JACK: I didn’t know you’d come.
SAM: I only did to say goodbye.
JACK: Is your mother…
SAM: No. She had no interest in seeing you.
JACK: And you?
SAM: I figured I’d grin and bear it, just to say goodbye to grandpa.
Jack looks his daughter up and down.
JACK: Would you like to go for a drink, maybe?
SAM: No, no thank you.
JACK: You know, I want to know if it hurt. If it hurt when he died. Like, if he was in pain or if he went peacefully.
SAM: I’m sure it was completely painless. He wouldn’t have felt a thing.
JACK: That’s what I’m worried about.
Sam pulls back, confusion. She studies her father’s face, lost in the treeline somewhere.
JACK: Is it fair for him to be able to just slip away?
SAM: Did you want him to be in pain?
Jack looks directly at Sam.
JACK: Of course.
Sam’s body tightens, watches Jack as he buttons his suit jacket.
JACK: Sure you don’t wanna go for a drink?
SAM: No, I’m sure.
Sam smiles, turns and walks away. Jack watches, glazed eyes as she disappears into the distance.
Object Three: A clock Martha had made
Jack, sat in the living room; staring at the television ignores Martha as she sits next to him; sketchpad drawing out blueprints.
Jack, without warning, stands; throws on a coat.
JACK: I’m just gunna go meet a work colleague for a drink. I’ll be back later.
Martha doesn’t look up.
#
Sat opposite each other, Jack and Jesse gaze upon each other; longing expressions, wide eyes.
JESSE: It brings me great pain to say this Jack.
JACK: Then don’t.
JESSE: He wants to marry me Jack. I’m tired of this, of us. Of you still with Martha.
JACK: I… I can leave her.
JESSE: But you won’t. You’ve been promising me for so long, and I’ve wasted far too much time waiting for you.
JACK: Just a little…
JESSE: No, Jack; I can’t. He treats me right, he’s kind; gentle. He’s not as funny as you but I can’t have everything.
JACK: He sounds good.
Jack drops his eyes to his drink, takes a large mouthful.
JESSE: And best of all, he ain’t married.
The pair laugh.
JACK: One more drink?
JESSE: I am more than happy to oblige.
#
Martha, nightdress and book, sits with a lamp on, studying the pages. Her head jumps as she hears creaking floorboards, but she quickly returns her attention.
The door flops open and in walks a drunken Jack, alcohol spilt across his chest, flies open.
MARTHA: (Sarcasm) Good evening.
Jack begins tearing at his clothes, letting them fall to the floor. Then he flops into bed, pulling the covers over himself. He lays, staring at Martha who is fixed on reading.
He reaches up a hand, brushes it against her shoulder, clearly inciting repulsiveness on her part. Her body begins to grow tight.
He runs his hand down her arm, across her breast, gently groping. Down, down it goes to her crotch. A brush, another.
Martha, forcefully, grabs at his wrist, pushes it away. He pushes back, grabbing at her hip.
MARTHA: Jack!
Jack turns on his side in a fit of anger, heavy breathing.
A long, long silence.
JACK: We don’t fuck any more.
Martha, discomfort at the word.
MARTHA: We don’t ‘anything’ anymore.
Jack slowly turns back, faces her.
JACK: I don’t remember what you feel like.
His saddened eyes look up at her. Martha sighs, puts down her book.
JACK: Can I… can I hug you?
Martha, surprised; sits up; perturbed. She slowly lift her arm. Jack slides upwards, nestles his head against her breast, brings a leg over hers.
They lay there, in complete silence. Agitated; tight muscles, pure discomfort.
MARTHA: I’m not happy.
Jack, pensive, pushes his head deeper into her chest.
JACK: I love you.
Martha, the whites of her eyes, stays silent, biting at her bottom lip.
#
Big, old windows with thick wooden panes let light flood across Martha’s shop; all the clocks ticking in perfect synchronicity.
Martha, overalls and eyeglasses, studies a small clock in front of her. It’s gilded in gold and shimmers, radiates. She tinkers with it with a small pair of pliers.
The bell of the door, ring, reveals Jack, smart clothes; carrying a smile.
JACK: I thought you might be hungry, so I thought we could go out for lunch.
Martha looks over at her half eaten sandwich.
MARTHA: I can’t today.
Jack, affronted.
JACK: Well, why not?
Martha takes off her eyeglasses, carefully places them down and walks over to him, angling her body to shun him from the shop.
MARTHA: You know how busy I am, Jack.
Jack looks around the shop, listens to the perfect, perfect ticking.
JACK: You don’t have time for your husband?
Martha stifles a chuckle.
MARTHA: I don’t even have time for myself, Jack.
Martha keeps pushing Jack towards the door.
JACK: Martha, I’m really willing to make this work. But I’m gunna need some sort of effort from you.
Jack turns on his heel, slams the door as he leaves.
Martha scoffs, disbelief. Shakes her head, goes back to the clock. Studies it, begins tinkering again.
A moment before—
–She throws down her tools and glasses, drops her heads to her hands; runs them through her hair; kicks out at the table leg.
JULES: Do you think he knows?
Jules steps out from behind a cupboard, stretching his neck.
MARTHA: No. No, I don’t think so.
#
Jack and Martha, motionless in bed; what might as well be an ocean between them. But neither seems inclined to reach out. The curse of loving who you don’t love.
Jack sits up, stands, takes a blanket from the corner of the room and leaves.
Martha shrugs; almost please, stretches her legs across the spread of the bed.
She grabs her book, reads the whole night in peace.
#
Another night, another night of Jack staring at the television, do nothing; really.
SAM: How come you don’t go out with your friend anymore, dad?
JACK: They found a new friend.
Sam fakes a sad face, as only children do.
JACK: But you’re still my friend, aren’t you?
Sam nods.
JACK: So, why don’t you come and sit up with dad and we can watch TV together.
Sam’s head bobs. She stands; jumps up on the sofa, turns to her Dad.
SAM: You’re not gunna hurt me again, dad?
JACK: Oh, sweetie; come here.
Jack puts his arm around Sam, pulls her close.
They sit like that, for a long, long time. Sam, infrequently trying to get up but Jack would just pull her closer.
When Martha came in through the front door, Sam split away with such speed; crashing into her mother’s abdomen; something her in hugs.
MARTHA: Sorry I’m late guys, have you eaten?
JACK: No, not yet.
Martha, alarmed.
MARTHA: What do you mean not yet? Christ, Jack; it’s 8!
JACK: I know, so where have you been?
MARTHA: At work, I told you.
Jack looks at Martha, knowingly. She breaks his gaze quickly, looks in any direction but his.
MARTHA: Takeaway it is then.
Martha kneels down, picks up Sam and gives her a squeeze.
MARTHA: Would you like that?
JACK: Sam, I need to talk with your mother.
MARTHA: No, Sam. Stay here.
JACK: Sam, go up to your room.
Jack grabs at Sam, tearing her away from Martha. The pair watch as she bounds upstairs.
JACK: Was someone else there?
Martha, a long; drawn silence; looks the man before her up and down, looks around their house.
MARTHA: You only know that because you’ve been doing it too.
Jack, peace; calm, so calm until he wasn’t. And when he wasn’t, he buried his fist into the wall; drywall, bloody and cracked fall to the floor.
JACK: You fucking whore.
A smile pours over Martha’s face.
MARTHA: Right back at you.
Jack turns, rushes upstairs. Martha listens as he tearfully fills a suitcase. Rushes back down, packed bags; bleeding knuckles. He takes one last look at her.
Sam bounds down the stairs.
SAM: Where are you going to Daddy?
JACK: To a friends.
SAM: Well, ok. But call us when you get there, for night-time.
Jack looks at his daughter.
JACK: That’s if I make it.
And with that venom, he turns and slams the door behind him.
Sam bounds over to her mother, who stands; surprisingly peacefully.
SAM: Are we still having takeaway, mummy?
Martha breaks to a smile.
#
Jack, bruised faced; cut knuckles and suitcases stumbles through the splintering door. Steven stands in front of him, a sadistic smile spread across his face.
STEVEN: How did you fuck up this time?
Jack almost barges past him, dragging his suitcase too. Steven watches, smile still stuck.
Jack, underwear, sits at the end of a dirty single bed set in the living room. A window, open wide. Moonlight, pale. The city streets own orchestra.
A small statue of a robin in his hands, he tosses it slightly in the air. Tosses it again, lets it fall to the ground.
Jack puts his head in his hands and deflates. As he pulls up, he smiles. Small but grows wider and wider.
#
Sunlit streets colour the streets that Martha bounces along. A new way to carry herself; confident, strong, powerful. She smiles down the street at all the passers-by, nodding; hello, hello.
She reaches the outside of her shop and her face immediately drops.
Broken shards of glass splattered across the floor. She steps inside, careful not to stand on anything. She walks forward, to her work bench.
A hammer, a smashed clock and a small note that simply reads: ‘Cunt’.
#
Lily looks Jack up and down, his visage somehow more deflated; the lines and folds of his face more pronounced. His eyes hang, feeling the weight of the room, they hang and looks like they’re going to fall away from his face.
Lily gestures to the next podium with a smile, a pleasant smile. Jack follows the direction of her arm and observes the object. A key, a small key.
As if the key represented all the horror in the world, Jack turns away in disgust, drooling; weepy eyes.
LILY: Jack, I need you to touch the key.
Jack remains silent, shuddering sets it.
LILY: Jack, it’s important you touch the key.
JACK: I don’t know about this.
Lily looks him up and down, his alarmed state.
JACK: I really don’t want to do that.
The pair stand in silence, Jack near hyperventilating; eyes locked on the key.
JACK: I want to leave.
Jack starts nodding with force.
JACK: I need to leave, I want to go.
Lily takes a step forward, places a hand on his shoulder.
LILY: What’s in the key, Jack?
Jack, upset, distressed.
JACK: I don’t want to remember.
LILY: That’s not how this works.
Jack turns his head, gestures to the exit door.
JACK: What’s behind the door?
Lily stays quiet.
JACK: I’m not a bad person.
LILY: I never said you were.
JACK: I did some bad things…
Jack starts shaking his head.
JACK: But I’m not a bad person.
He looks up at Lily, eyes like bursting dams.
JACK: A good person can do bad things, but you learn.
The dams burst.
Lily stands next to the podium, takes the key and sits down next to Jack. Jack begins pulling his body away.
LILY: I want you to take hold of this key.
JACK: I never meant to hurt her.
Lily nods.
LILY: Take hold of the key, Jack.
Thick streams of tears rocket down Jack’s face. He looks up at Lily, eyes begging for sympathy. He looks at the key, holds his gaze upon it. He takes a long, deep breath and reaches out his hand.
Object Four: a key
Martha, loose fitting clothes; dishevelled hair, stands by the front door with a suitcase. Sam and Jack, pajamas and tired faces, stand opposite her smiling.
MARTHA: I’ll miss you.
Martha turns, opens the door; smiles and exits.
Jack and Sam rush to the window to watch as she walks down the driveway, Sam cuddling into Jack’s hip.
Jack turns to face Sam and they both stare at each other for a moment, a massive smile spreading across their face.
#
Jack and Sam, running at speed through an arcade, all the games; all the fun. The polyphonic soundscape like a new-found art.
Coin machine, cheers and smile from Sam as coins tumble to the opening.
A 3D cinema, revolutionary blandness, bright; illuminating their faces. Jack leans in and kisses Sam on the forehead.
Outside on the beachfront, Sam bures Jack in the sand; giggling with every fresh spadeful.
On the pier, ice cream in hand, Sam tumbles to the floor. In a flash, Jack picks her up, hands her his.
#
Jack, underwear and vest, sits on the sofa, hands down his trousers; the other holding a porn magazine. He’s shuffling his hand but not masturbating.
He flicks through the pages with a shake of his head, studies the next couple of images.
His eyes start to wonder, over to the telephone. He snaps back to the magazine but his eyes start travelling again.
He drops the magazine and, in a single fluid motion, picks up the phone and smashes in a number.
Ring.
Ring.
PHONE: Hello?
Jack, confused.
JACK: Hi, is Jesse there?
Jack, muscles tense.
PHONE: Not today, mate.
JESSE: (Muffled) Put down the phone and come here.
The phone disconnects, Jack sit’s still.
#
Jack paces around the sun-blushed house. Dirty living room, windows; misplaced cushions, unclean plates on the floor.
Unshaven, Jack stands in that vest and underwear; catches a flying pillow. Sam; the other side of the room, in her pajamas, is laughing.
JACK: What are we doing today?
SAM: I’m throwing cushions at you.
Jack laughs.
JACK: I know, but there must be something else you want to do?
Sam thinks, finger to chin.
SAM: How do we get a kite? Janie has a kite and she says it’s so much fun.
Jack, turns and paces up the stairs. He quickly drops to his knees to open the bottom drawer of Martha’s dresser, moves clothes around.
Scraping metal as he pulls out a rectangular tin with a handwritten note—
–holiday savings.
He opens it up, takes out a handful of notes, holding them in front of himself.
He looks down, staring at the money, shoves them in his pocket and throws the box back in the dressed, slamming the drawer shut.
#
Another day, another damn day.
Jack sits, as ever, staring at the television; occasionally watching Sam buoyantly bounce around outside.
He notices a robin bouncing in the tree branch and smiles, looks over to his small porcelain robin on the mantelpiece.
Jack drops his head, breathes in deeply and walks outside.
JACK: Darling, darling Sam. I have a present for you.
Jack looks uneasy, short of breath; his eyes wide; hyper-attentive.
SAM: You do?
Sam’s face lights up.
JACK: Yes; my love, it’s in the shed. Come with me.
Jack walks with a brisk pace, tries at the door of the shed. It’s locked. He reaches down under a rock and pulls out a key, feels the weight in his hand.
Sam watches as he unlocks the door.
Jack and Sam both enter the shed, Jack looking in every direction.
SAM: I can’t find it.
Jack stands completely still, deep in thought, his breathing rough, difficult.
Sam looks up at him, watches as he turns towards the door.
He grabs the handle, pulls it closed.
Hear the clunk of the lock.
#
Jack, apron and tomato splatters, is in the kitchen cooking. Sam, pained expression, sits with her head on the ready laid table.
Jack steps in with a basket of bread.
JACK: Come on Sam, sit up; mum will be home soon.
Sam stays till.
JACK: (Worry) Sam, come on.
Sam brings her head up, tired; tired face.
SAM: I’m not hungry.
JACK: You have to eat though baby.
Sam grabs at a piece of bread, takes a bite but spits it back out.
Jack goes back to the kitchen, returns with a big gift box.
Sam’s interest, wide eyes. Jack smiles.
SAM: What is it?
Jack smiles again.
JACK: Well, you’ll have to be on your best behaviour if you want it.
Sam grunts, pained face.
The door being unlocked, in walks Martha. Sweaty, dirty, walks in with a suitcase. She drops it to the floor and rushes to Sam, picking her up and covering her face in kisses. Putting her down—
MARTHA: Oh, Sam! I missed you so much!
Sam, contagious smiles.
SAM: Me too!
Jack leans in, kisses Martha on the cheek; she’s placid to it.
The three stand, almost in silence.
Sam turns and runs away, Jack and Martha stare each other up and down.
Sam returns with the gift box.
MARTHA: Ooh! Where did that come from?
Martha shoots her eyes to Jack.
JACK: She’s been so well behaved that it only made sense to get her something nice.
Sam tears at the box to reveal a kite. She bursts with excitement, flings herself at Jack.
SAM: Thank you, Daddy! Thank you!
The three meet in a hug.
#
In a park, open neck shirts and summer dresses; picnics stretching to infinity. Green grass. Shooting from Sam’s hand, a large; colourful kite. Martha and Jack watch in amazement.
JACK: Be careful Sam, you might fly away.
Sam, an unconvinced expression.
The trio watch as the kite floats in the air, transfixed.
Jack breaks his gaze to look at Sam’s.
JACK: You’re beautiful, Sam. Dad loves you.
Martha looking Jack up and down, shocked; impressed.
#
Soft lamp-lit living room, immaculately clean. Jack, shorts and shirt, sits look at his hand.
Martha, loose pajamas stares down at a book.
The longest silence.
Martha stands, shoots a quick smile at Jack as she leaves the room.
Jack, turn his hands over and over; lets a glossy tear run down his face. Another. Then another.
His face folds, broken damns, heavy breathing; running nose. He curls into a ball, sobs and shakes.
Sobs and shakes.
#
Jack, a messy tuxedo, lays in a pile on the floor, his body shaking as he sobs and screams. He wretches, wretches loudly and vomits in a puddle by his side.
Lily, immaculate, pulls away with a face of disgust that breaks into a smile.
Jack’s cries echo through the entire space.
Lily walks away, Jack holds his attention on her footsteps. He cries and cries but they’re washed out by the squeak of wheels.
Jack looks up to see Lily hold on to a pram, a small hole in the side of the fabric, dried blood dotted around it.
Jack starts to shake his head, feverishly.
LILY: We have to keep going, Jack.
Jack, a tighter ball, shudders and shakes.
Lily taps her fingers against the pram handle, tapping her foot in rhythm too.
JACK: (Tears) I can’t do this.
Lily crouches to her knees.
LILY: You told me you weren’t a bad person, Jack. That you’d just done bad things. So show me. Show me the story of this pram.
Jack’s cries get louder.
Everything drains to silence.
Jack slowly, slowly turns. He looks up at Lily. Quivering, hesitant – he reaches out his hand, choking on phlegm and vomit.
His fingers mere millimetres away.
Object Six: wedding rings
Lily, mouth agape in horror, watches as Jack lets go of the pram.
JACK: How… How do I make things right?
LILY: It’s too late for all that now. You can’t.
JACK: But it’s never too late.
LILY: You’re dead Jack. It’s too late.
Lily walks over to the next podium, a pair of wedding rings.
LILY: Surely this one should be nice?
JACK: When does it end?
LILY: When you’re back to where you started.
Jack, with no more tears left to cry, wretches again.
LILY: Come on, what’s the story with these?
Jack crawls along the floor; fitful; pain and reaches out for the wedding rings.
#
Inside a church, sun blinding through the stain glassed windows. The light decorates the spacious room, a room filled with smart suits and dresses, smiles gazing straight ahead.
Martha, beautiful flowing white dress, stands opposite a smartly dressed Jack. The pair are all smiles and wet eyes.
Between them stands a vicar, standard garb, book splayed in his palms.
VICAR: You may now kiss the bride.
A brief pause before the pair lean in, silhouette themselves against the window.
The room explodes to applause and cheers.
Jack’s eyes wander to the empty chair in the front row, a sign saying STEVEN FULLER.
#
A dance floor, countless people twisting to Chubby Checker, all legs and elbows; smiles and teeth. A band provides a steady tempo.
In the centre of a circle of people, Martha and Jack, loosely swinging, evidently tipsy, kiss and dance. Martha dips, Jack twists.
They dance and they dance and they’ve never looked happier.
The band comes to a halt, Jack pulls away from Martha, twists on his heels, almost tumbles as he walks towards the stage.
Martha watches, hands clasped glee,
Jack takes a microphone, bows to a clapping audience.
JACK: (Breathless) Baby.
The rooms falls to supportive silence.
JACK: Baby, I know we said we couldn’t afford to go anywhere for our honeymoon but…
Martha begins to smile.
JACK: You and I baby…
He almost begins to jig again.
JACK: We’re going to Rome for a week.
The room applauds, smiles, hugs and cheers.
Martha, amazement, watches as Jack removes two plane tickets from his breast pocket, shakes them in the air.
Her eyes wild with bewilderment, joy.
JACK: I love you baby.
Martha mouths it back, offers the brightest smile.
In one of the long hallways of the reception venue, Jack walks; hearing the sound of music and cheering slowly creeping in the distance.
His suit is crumpled, sweaty. Jesse, hiding in a corner; stretches out a hand and catches him from the shadows. They both fall into an embrace, tongues and grabbing hands. They stop.
JACK: Jesse, stop.
Jesses kisses him again, he half pushes.
JACK: Jesse, I said stop.
Jesse falls back, places herself flat against the wall, opens her legs slightly, letting her thighs illuminate themselves against the pale moonlight.
JESSE: Let’s be real, Jack. You’ll come home soon enough.
Jack sighs, wipes away sweat from his temple.
JACK: This has to stop.
Jesse grabs Jack’s hand, rubs it against her underwear. HE exhales, loudly; grabs her waist and thrusts against her. All tongues and hands once more.
Jesse stops, pulls away.
JESSE: You’re pathetic.
Manic smile, she turns and walks away.
JESSE: (Distant) I’ll be seeing you Jackey.
Jesse disappears into the darkness. Jack falls back against the wall, erect and sweating. He slides down to the floor, puts his head in his hands. Footsteps, louder and louder—
MARTHA: Baby! Quick, they’re about to play our song! Did you request it? He said someone requested it!
Jack lets his head fall to his hands, sigh/
Martha, hand outstretched:
MARTHA: Come on, I could hardly bear missing it.
Jack studies Martha’s face, half covered by shadow.
#
Messy, rough paved roads and immaculate; smooth stone buildings. Jack and Martha sit opposite one another, a pizza to share; a bottle of wine too.
The faint sound of an accordion, louder and louder.
They fumble their way back to the hotel, a small hotel room; double bed and no floor space. Large red curtains and yellow pock marked wallpaper.
They begin to kiss; taking each other closely; slowly undressing.
Martha drops her head; closes her body.
MARTHA: I’m scared.
JACK: Of what, baby?
MARTHA: This is my first time, what if it goes wrong?
Jack, confused, uses a single finger to lift her chin, plants a kiss on her lips; she kisses back.
Jack lays on top of her and they continue kissing, passionately. A smile breaks across her face.
MARTHA: Grab a condom.
Jack shoots up, tears off his clothes and goes over to a suitcase. Martha slides off her underwear, lays flat against her back.
Jack, hands rummaging, can’t find the box.
MARTHA: Come on, Jack.
Jack, hands deep in the bag, retrieves nothing.
MARTHA: Is it on?
Jack, a small sigh, stands and hurriedly rushes over to the bed.
#
A small, dingy house; drawn curtains; moving in boxes. Martha shifts the last one, looks up at her sweating Jack.
MARTHA: I suppose it all starts now, then.
Jack walks over and rubs her back.
JACK: Are you ready?
Martha bites her lip.
MARTHA: It’s going to be fantastic, isn’t it?
Jack takes a sharp breath, observes the space.
JACK: It really, really is.
The pair look at one another, lean in slow. Kiss.
#
The all too familiar floor space. Lily, smart as ever, stands above Jack who is curled into a ball.
LILY: Jack.
Lily, almost annoyed.
LILY: Jack, we have to keep going.
Jack curls tighter.
JACK: I don’t want to.
Lily kneels down, shadow bold over Jack’s miniscule body.
LILY: I know you don’t, but those are the rules.
Jack starts to unfold, takes Lily’s outstretched arm and gets up, flaps at the tears streaming from his eyes.
JACK: Can I have a hug?
Jack stretches out his arms but Lily takes a large step back.
LILY: (Blunt) What does the next object mean?
Jack turns his head to see what’s left. He catches eyes with something, starts to shudder. His tears come flying back, rocketing from his face, falling to the floor. Jack follows them, hands and knees.
Lily walks over to the podium, holding up a small, rusted key. Close enough to read the plaque.
A Key to the Cellar.
Lily, vaguely concerned eyes, takes sight of the key; a breath of realisation.
Jack, distraught, turns his torn face to Lily, his shoulders uncontrollable.
JACK: I want to go.
A large breath, the largest he’s ever taken.
JACK: (Scream) I want to leave.
Jack begins to crawl along the floor, to the exit door. Lily, at a slow walk, keeps up with him.
The longest, most painful crawl.
LILY: Why don’t you want to see what’s next, Jack?
JACK: He was a bad, bad man. And anything that’s behind that door, cannot be worse that reliving that.
Lily, almost understanding.
He reaches his hands along the ground, burrowing his fingernails into the varnished wood floor; pulling himself along. His face, pained; his body weak.
Inches from the door, Jack fumbles for the handle. Lily drops to her knees.
LILY: Are you sure you’re ready for this?
Jack, behind sobs—
JACK: What’s on the other side?
Lily, straightened face.
LILY: You believe in what you believe.
A portrait of pain and destruction, Jack’s eyes look back across the room, a breath.
JACK: (Soft) I want to leave.
Lily smiles, opens the door and lets it swing open.
Jack looks at Lily one final time before crawling through the doorway.
Lily shuts the door, locks it.
Inside, the feint shadow of Jack, crawling like a dog. He stops; observes the nothingness of his surroundings. The endless blackness, the void. He lets his body fall to the surface.
He cries and he cries. Loud, snorting, shuddering. He cries and cries, cries and cries.
R.C.Stacey is a writer who lives in a house with a post-box in the side.