Passing Places E-Book

Stephen Greenhorn

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

Seitenzahl: 93

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

A road movie for the stage, following two young lads from Motherwell on their trip from dislocation to location. Alex and Brian are a pair of Scottish smalltown boys going nowhere, who get out the only way they know how – doing a runner with a prized surfboard in the only transport available: a worn-out Lada. But the surfboard belongs to Binks, Alex's psychopathic gangster boss, and he's hot on their heels as they head north for Thurso – where the surf is up all year round. Stephen Greenhorn's play Passing Places was premiered at the Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh, in 1997.

Leseprobe

Stephen Greenhorn

PASSING PLACES

NICK HERN BOOKS

London

www.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Original Production

Passing Places

About the Author

Copyright and Performing Rights Information

Passing Places was first performed at the Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh on 31 January 1997, with the following cast:

ALEXPaul Thomas HickeyBRIANColin McCredieMIRRENVeronica LeerBINKS, Motherwell gangsterKenneth BryansKID, Motherwell delinquentStuart BowmanIONA, Canadian geologistKathryn HowdenSERGE, French sculptorIain MacraeDIESEL, English travellerIain MacraeTOM, Mirren’s dadIain MacraeSHAPER, mystic surf guruStuart BowmanMO, Cornish surferKathryn HowdenYOUTHSIain MacraeKathryn HowdenALEX’S MUMKathryn HowdenLOLLIPOPStuart BowmanGUNNStuart BowmanPUMP HANDStuart BowmanWALKERStuart BowmanBARMANIain Macrae

Directed by   John Tiffany

Designed by   Neil Warmington

Lighting designed by   Ben Ormerod

Music composed and performed by   Mick Slaven

Movement directed by   Marisa Zanotti

1

ALEX and BRIAN enter.

ALEX. Motherwell!

BRIAN. West central Scotland. Population 27,000.

ALEX. Work base . . .

BRIAN. Traditionally . . . heavy industry . . . predominantly steel . . .

ALEX. And now . . .

BRIAN shrugs.

ALEX. Alright . . . Famous for . . .

BRIAN. Winning the Scottish Cup in extra time?

ALEX. And . . . ?

BRIAN. And!

ALEX. Surfing.

BRIAN. Oh. Yeah. Surfing.

ALEX. Motherwell. Surf City. The Bondi Beach of Lanarkshire. Malibu of the North.

BRIAN. Ideally situated.

ALEX. Twenty-five miles from the fucking sea!

2

The shop. Doorbell goes as the KID enters. Thirteen going on thirty.

ALEX. What do you want?

KID. Chill man. I’ve been saving up. I’m looking for a new pair of Air Jordans.

ALEX. How much have you got?

KID. Here.

KID slaps a bunch of notes on the counter.

ALEX counts them.

ALEX. Not enough. Unless you’re one-legged.

KID. Aw no. What about instalments?

ALEX. Aye. You can buy one shoe now and hop it.

KID. Very funny.

ALEX. Away and mug somebody.

KID. Nobody round here worth mugging.

ALEX. Beat it then.

KID. Cool the beans, pal. I’m going. But I’ll be back.

He goes to the door.

KID. Here.

ALEX. What?

He waves sarcastically.

KID. There’s a wee wave for your surf-board.

ALEX. Get to fuck!

KID exits laughing. ALEX regards the surf-board.

ALEX. Two years that bastard thing’s been in the window. Two years! And I’ve had to dust it every second day. All because he thinks he’s the Don-fucking-Jonson of Meikle Earnock!

BRIAN interjects from the Library.

BRIAN. Three hundred and twelve!

ALEX. Eh?

BRIAN. Three times a week for two years not counting holidays.

ALEX scowls at him.

ALEX. The library! Hang out for pensioners who can’t pay their gas bills. Ex-steelworkers who can’t bring themselves to watch Australian soap-operas. Jakeys who fall asleep over The Independent . . . And Brian!

BRIAN. I was just saying!

3

Shop doorbell interrupts. BINKS enters.

ALEX. Mr. Binks, I thought . . .

BINKS. Shut it, arse-face.

He goes behind the counter, rakes for an empty shoe box then takes a hand-gun from his waistband, wraps it and stashes it in the box. He stores the box back under the counter. ALEX is staring.

BINKS. What’re you looking at?

ALEX. Nothing.

BINKS. That’s right. And don’t you . . . Eh? . . . Aye.

ALEX. Sorry?

BINKS. Am I speaking to you?

ALEX. But you . . .

BINKS. Ronnie’s saying you have to be deaf, dumb and blind to work here.

ALEX. Dumb anyway.

BINKS. Eh?

ALEX. Nothing.

BINKS. Dinnae mutter son. I cannae stand muttering.

ALEX. Sorry, Mr. Binks.

BINKS moves to the surf-board. He strokes it.

BINKS. When was the last time you dusted my wee beauty here?

ALEX. Yesterday.

BINKS. Do it again.

ALEX. But . . .

BINKS. Again, I said!

ALEX. It . . . eh . . . it doesn’t have a price on it.

BINKS. That’s ’cause it’s not for sale, ya retard. Right?

ALEX. So if anyone asks about it . . . ?

BINKS. Are you deaf? It’s not for fucking sale. This is my retirement. My pension plan. In a few years’ time me and Ronnie and this wee beauty’ll be jetting off to a beach house in Hawaii. So long Lanarkshire, hello Honolulu! Wearing flowery shirts, chasing birds in grass skirts, drinking Buckie out of half-coconuts. Fucking paradise.

ALEX. Aye.

BINKS. So make sure you run a fucking duster over it before I come back this afternoon.

Eh? . . . Aye. Right enough, Ronnie . . . Dumb! Dumb as a . . . doorbell.

He exits.

ALEX. Fucking psycho.

BRIAN. Mr. Binks is subject to a bizarre paranormal phenomenon whereby he is in constant contact with the spirit of his twin brother who died at birth.

ALEX. Shite.

BRIAN. Not necessarily.

ALEX. He’s barking. Nothing but a mental sports shop owner. And it’s not even a real sports shop. All it sells are trainers and baseball caps. And bloody shell-suits. The only people who ever come in are all –

4

Shop doorbell again. Two YOUTHS enter.

ALEX. Like Sauchiehall Street in here! Can I help you?

SECOND YOUTH. We’re looking for baseball caps.

ALEX. By the window.

FIRST YOUTH. Right.

SECOND YOUTH. Your shop?

ALEX. I just work here.

SECOND YOUTH. Been busy?

ALEX. Not bad.

They pick out a couple of hats.

FIRST YOUTH. We’ll take these.

ALEX. Anything else?

FIRST YOUTH. Bats.

ALEX. Bats?

SECOND YOUTH. We’re thinking of starting a team.

ALEX. Yeah?

ALEX places a baseball bat on the counter. One of the youths picks it up.

FIRST YOUTH. This is good. Nice weight.

SECOND YOUTH. That’ll do then.

ALEX. Anything else?

SECOND YOUTH. Yeah.

ALEX. What?

SECOND YOUTH. Everything.

ALEX is whacked with the bat and thumps to the floor.

BRIAN. And that’s where all the trouble started . . .

5

BINKS enters the ransacked shop. He checks first that the board is O.K. then that his gun is still there. It is. Only then does he try to revive ALEX.

BINKS. Wake up ya wee prick.

ALEX groans.

BINKS. I don’t think he’s listening, Ronnie . . . Aye. Good idea.

He hauls a concussed ALEX to his feet and gives him a shake.

ALEX. Mr. Binks.

BINKS. Something you want to tell me, son?

ALEX. God. What a mess.

BINKS. That’s right. A real mess. In my shop. So maybe you could explain it, before I get angry and Ron gets violent . . . He says he wants your knee-caps for castanets. And I don’t like to deny him his little treats.

ALEX. Two guys. Young guys. I’ve never seen them before. They came in for baseball caps then they wanted to look at a bat . . .

BINKS. And you gave them one?

ALEX. They said they were starting a team.

BINKS. Ron says he can guess what happened next.

ALEX. They clubbed me over the head.

BINKS. Ahh. And does it hurt?

ALEX. Aye. It does.

BINKS. Good! I hope they’ve fractured your fucking skull! I hope you’ve got fucking brain damage! Except, I don’t think you’ve got a brain to damage!

ALEX. I tried to stop them but they . . .

BINKS. They had the fucking bat that you gave them ya clown!

And while you were in Noddy-land they made a home run with the till and most of my stock.

ALEX. Sorry.

BINKS. You will be.

ALEX. Have you phoned the police?

BINKS. So they can come round and have a good laugh too?

ALEX. Well, what are you going to do then?

BINKS. I’m going to boot your arse out that door . . . Or mibbe the window, Ronnie’s suggesting.

ALEX. Are you saying I’m fired?

BINKS. Wasn’t I clear enough for you?

ALEX. But what about my money. I’m due wages.

BINKS. They were in the till, weren’t they. Looks like you got robbed too.

ALEX. That’s not fair.

BINKS. Tough.

6

ALEX and BRIAN are in a pub. ALEX is very drunk, BRIAN only slightly less so. There is a trivia quiz going on in which BRIAN is trying to participate.

ALEX. See, what gets me . . . what gets me, right, is he really thinks he’s a gangster or something.

BRIAN. He is.

ALEX. Well, I know. But he thinks he’s Al Pacino. Scarface or something. Michael Corleone.

QUIZ. C’mon now folks get the scores sorted. One round to go.

BRIAN. They’ve taken a point off ’cause we spelt Azerbaijan wrong. Nine out of ten.

ALEX. Bastard thinks he’s in a big movie.

BRIAN. Still third. I think we can win if we have a good last round.

ALEX. Don’t you think you’ve had enough?

QUIZ. Last round, ladies and gentlemen. And it’s ten questions on . . . Sport.

BRIAN. Shit. Rangers players and greyhounds!

ALEX gets up to go.

ALEX. I’ve had enough of this. You coming?

BRIAN. O.K. O.K.

They stumble away from the table.

QUIZ. Which former Rangers star now trains greyhounds?

7

In the street. Night. The two lads are weaving their way home through the empty pedestrian precinct.

ALEX. Look at this place. Nothing but shoe shops and burger bars.

BRIAN. I’m starving.

ALEX. IT DOES MY HEAD IN!

BRIAN. You’ll have the cops doing your head in if you don’t shut up.

ALEX. Huh. They’re the same. Too many episodes of Miami Vice. Rush around going ‘freeze’. And, ‘make my day’! Half of them couldn’t even make their beds.

BRIAN. Time to go home, I think.

ALEX. No. Wait. Look. The scene of the crime.

The sports shop. They peer through the window.

BRIAN. They really cleaned it out, didn’t they.

ALEX. Took everything.

BRIAN. Except the surf-board.

ALEX. Left that just to piss me off.

BRIAN. Binks’ pride and joy.

ALEX. Stupid psychedelic phallic symbol.

BRIAN. Must be worth a wee bit too.

ALEX. Three hundred and twelve. Not counting holidays. Skivvying for that prick. Makes me sick. Wouldn’t even give me the money he owes me.

BRIAN. Forget it, Alex. There’s nothing you can do.

ALEX. Is there not?

ALEX goes looking for something.

BRIAN. Alex?

ALEX has found a litter bin.

BRIAN. What’re you doing?

ALEX grunts with effort as he lifts the bin up.

BRIAN. Alex? Bloody hell!

An enormous crash as the litter-bin flies through the shop window. An alarm bell begins to clatter loudly. ALEX scrunches through the broken glass.

BRIAN. Fucking hell! What’re you doing? Let’s get out of here. Come on.

ALEX. Hold on.

BRIAN. Oh no. Alex. You can’t take that.

ALEX is wrestling with the surf-board.

ALEX. Can I not?

BRIAN. I don’t believe this.

ALEX. Grab an end then!

They pick the thing up.

ALEX. Surf’s up!

They haphazardly make their escape into the night with the board. ALEX laughing hysterically. The alarm ringing in their ears.

8

Next morning. ALEX’s house. The phone rings. ALEX’S MUM enters and answers it.

MUM. Hello . . . Who’s calling please? . . . Alright, I’ll just get him for you . . .

She switches off her ‘telephone’ voice.

MUM. ALEX!

ALEX. What?

MUM. Phone.

ALEX. Right.

Pause. ALEX realises he is in bed with the surf-board.

ALEX. Ohmygod!

He is panic stricken.

MUM. Alex!

ALEX. I’m not in.

MUM. It’s Mr. Binks.

ALEX. Aaah! I’m not here. Tell him I’ve gone. Away. The Army. Or dead. Tell him I’m dead.

MUM. Alex . . . ?

ALEX. Just tell him I’m NOT HERE. Please!

MUM. Huh.

She goes back to the phone as ALEX begins dressing and packing in a frenzy.