Crestfall E-Book

Mark O'Rowe

• Herausgeber: Nick Hern Books
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: NHB Modern Plays
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 49

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

A collision of sex, violence and drugs throws the lives of Olive, Alison and Tilly together, bringing them to the precipice of catastrophe. Their stories converge in one place, on one evening, under an unforgiving sky. Told in Mark O'Rowe's unique rhythmic style, Crestfall is a play about love in a dog-eat-dog world.

Leseprobe

Mark O'Rowe

CRESTFALL

NICK HERN BOOKSLondonwww.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Title Page

Original Production

Characters

One

Two

Three

About the Author

Copyright and Performing Rights Information

CRESTFALL

Crestfall was first performed at the Gate Theatre, Dublin, on 20 May 2003 (previews from 15 May). The cast was as follows:

OLIVE DAY ALISON ELLIS TILLY McQUARRIEAisling O’Sullivan Marie Mullen Eileen WalshDirectorDesignerLighting DesignerSound DesignerGarry Hynes Francis O’Connor Rupert Murray Paul Arditti

The play received its UK premiere at Theatre503, London, on 27 November 2007. The cast was as follows:

OLIVE DAY ALISON ELLIS TILLY McQUARRIEPauline Hutton Niamh Cusack Orla FitzgeraldDirectorDesignerLighting DesignerSound DesignerRóisín McBrinn Paul Wills Philip Gladwell Sarah Weltman

Characters

OLIVE DAY

ALISON ELLIS

TILLY McQUARRIE

ONE

Olive Day

Dressed up,

pressing forward,

feel my body’s workings working

beneath my garb, my Sunday best.

The sun is high,

today we’re blessed.

For once it’s dry,

and I have to confess

it allows my mind to open a bit,

my senses to savour surrounding shit,

the muddy bank, the green,

the water on the river curve,

which curve I follow, trace,

till I’m faced

with certain images unforeseen.

Kiddies’ heads bob about rambunctious,

hear their crazy high-pitched ruckus.

Bank-to-bank racing, some mutual splashing,

a boy dunks a girl, she goes down thrashing.

Others call from the bridge for space,

then dive or cannonball in. The place

is as merry,

although, as always, the feeling is only momentary.

Watch as laughter lilts,

then tilts

toward moans

as a pissing of heavens means

the children have to shoreward flounder,

clamber out and hoof for shelter.

I hoof myself,

my shelter also my destination –

The Burning Bell,

to which I fly post-haste,

though, fucking hell,

by the time I get to the place,

I’m soaked to the skin.

Who cares? I’m in.

All right,

so, who’ve we got?

A couple of frightful-

looking hags at a table, fucked,

a furtive fogey corner-tucked

– there he is –

the Bru at the bar.

I’m surprised he even came this far.

Approach and belly up beside him.

‘We doing this?’ I ask. ‘We riding?’

Course, he says

and kills his whiskey,

heads for the door

and exits. I folly,

keeping my distance up to the Green,

where it’s safe to join him under his brolly.

He’s keen.

He practically drags me through the wasteland

behind the old slaughterhouse, the Boneland,

where bits of cow lie scattered, decaying,

and the odd hound laps at bone in vain

for any remaining

bits of meat

as we exit the Boneland,

cross the street

to The Vanguard, a hotel,

or so called.

Kit Rankin’s the man on the desk.

He’s bald

and pretty fucking thick.

Behind said desk is a hurley stick,

nail-studded to counter minor grief.

For major, it’s what Kit calls his ‘Enforcer-in-Chief’

a pump-action shotgun.

It’s Kit’s belief

we all should have one.

He probably thinks I’m some kind of ho,

but he signs us in and up we go,

me clutching the key, the Bru clutching me,

all the way to the room which we enter and see

what we’ve got. A shower, a single bed,

a lot of dried-in stains on the sheets – they’re red.

My God, it’s a dump,

but, look it:

You don’t need a presidential suite to hump,

so fuck it.

And so we begin,

committing maybe the oldest sin.

(Or old enough in any case.)

He grabs me roughly by the face,

and licks my neck, and bites my lip,

then tears my ninnies off and flips

me round and pulls me to him quickly,

entering me fairly slickly

from the rear

and commencing to pump,

his belly bouncing on my rump,

my flank,

every now and again

(I don’t mind.)

he gives me a little spank.

(Sure, whatever he’s in to.)

But now I find,

in this fuck, I begin to

mull on fucks gone by, and I grin to

think of Daddy always broaching

furtive but always failing,

settling always for lap-sat stroking.

Or Uncle Christopher succeeding,

a little pain, a little bleeding.

A little more determined than Daddy,

he was the one to pop my cherry.

And in the years that followed,

I became a righteous sexual fiend, and wallowed

in my many filthy rendezvous.

Come one come all, I thought. I wasn’t choosy.

Jesus, half a cockeyed look’d get you entry

to my cockeyed coozy.

What the fuck is going on here?

The Bru’s emitting moans of despair.

He stops his thrusts,

withdraws, and busts

out crying, saying, ‘My wife! I can’t…’

‘Your wife?’

‘… My son! I’m really sorry,’ he says. ‘I can’t go on

with this.’

‘Are you fucking kidding?!’ I hiss.

(My arse is still in the air.)

‘I’m not,’ he says. And with this,

he’s out of there,

half-dressed.

And am I pissed? You’d fucking best

believe it.

On top of which,

I have a serious carnal itch,

needs dealing with.

And so I linger

just about long enough to relieve it

with my finger.

Then I’m gone.

And, passing through the lobby,

I come upon

Kit Rankin, sitting slouchy,

giving his ‘Enforcer-in-Chief’ a clean,

(His shotgun. You know what I mean.)

which he suddenly pumps and points at me,

and, as he gleefully

pulls the trigger,

I holler, ‘Stop!’

before I hear a hollow ‘Pop!’

and tell him I figure

I’ve never come across a bigger

prick in all my days,

which doesn’t faze the fuck at all.

‘Still made you shit your fucking pants!’ he calls

as I leave.

And my heart is still in my mouth,

my ego still pretty tender,

as I retrace my initial route

through the rain,

my once-clean finery rendered

bedraggled and stained.

And I curse the Bru and Kit,

and more than either man, I curse the stupid shit

who adores me, Jungle Day,

my husband, who in a way,

I adore as well,

though, I know, you couldn’t tell

from my tale so far.

But let me take you back to clarify

that declaration,

and tell you that our early days

were full of love and consideration,

and me a brittle jewel treated so gently,

gentle as Jungle’s nature was,

a disposition at odds