[EXT. SOMEWHERE IN THE UK, NEAR JUDE PERRY’S DOMAIN]
[TAPE CLICKS ON.]
[The background is a-crackling. It sounds like fire. Under it all, is something that sounds like a high-pitched whirring – at least, until you realize that they’re screams.]
ARCHIVIST
Martin? Still with me?
MARTIN
(very shaky) Y-Y-Ye-Yeah, Yeah. (beat) Oh, Jesus!
ARCHIVIST
Some fears don’t need to be intensified. Only manifested.
MARTIN
Are we even going to be able to make it through all that?
[Something crumples; it sounds somewhere in between flopping cardstock and thunder.]
ARCHIVIST
It’s a maze in there – deliberately so. People running, desperately struggling for fire escapes only to find them blocked.
We won’t get lost, though. I know the route.
MARTIN
That’s… not really what I was getting at, John.
ARCHIVIST
Go on.
MARTIN
…Seriously? You don’t – It’s on fire, John; it’s –
ARCHIVIST
(overlapping) Mm –
MARTIN
(overlapping) – it’s a burning. Building!
ARCHIVIST
Yes, it is.
MARTIN
That’s on fire!
ARCHIVIST
Yes.
MARTIN
Right. You are aware that traditionally, wading into a flaming inferno is actually considered bad for your health!
ARCHIVIST
(a bit tired; we’ve been here before) Yes, Martin. It’ll be fine.
MARTIN
Alright, I just wanted to check. So. Okay. We’re planning to go through… all this, so I’m guessing the fire can’t actually burn us! Right? John?
ARCHIVIST
Um…
MARTIN
(please say yes) John?
ARCHIVIST
(how to say this?) Um… mm –
MARTIN
John.
ARCHIVIST
I-It’s complicated.
MARTIN
Well, if you want me to go in there with you, then I suggest you find a way to make it – simple! (firm) Yes or no, can that fire hurt us?
ARCHIVIST
Define ‘hurt.’
MARTIN
(no-nonsense) Will the fire feel hot to me?
ARCHIVIST
Yes.
MARTIN
Will it cause me lots of pain if I touch it?
ARCHIVIST
Yes, though not as much as –
MARTIN
(overlapping, increasingly frantic) Will it burn me alive and kill me dead?
ARCHIVIST
No. It can’t do us any permanent harm – once we’re out, we’ll be fine.
MARTIN
(ever-so-slightly shaky) You are aware that intense pain can do you loads of harm, even if there’s no, you know, physical injury –
ARCHIVIST
(overlapping, snapping) Yes, I know, okay! (immediate sigh) I’ll take us through the parts that are more… subdued.
[Martin takes a breath to start to say something; the Archivist rolls on.]
ARCHIVIST
It goes in phases; sometimes there are whole apartments that aren’t actively on fire for… hours!
MARTIN
(flat) How reassuring.
ARCHIVIST
(snapping again) Well, it’s the best I can do!
MARTIN
You’re sure there isn’t another way?
[He sighs. Silence, but for the background crackling.]
MARTIN
Yeah, I know, the journey will be the journey, blah blah ominous blah.
ARCHIVIST
I’m sorry.
MARTIN
It’s fine. I know you wouldn’t take me through if we didn’t actually need to go through, so…
[Silence – then, a soft exhale.]
MARTIN
What?
ARCHIVIST
Well…
MARTIN
John, is there another way?
ARCHIVIST
I mean – sort of? Maybe?
MARTIN
(realizing) That turn. You – You took a hard turn after the roots back there; I knew that was a thing! Why are we here?
ARCHIVIST
It’s just – when you said –
MARTIN
(overlapping, hard) John, why have you taken us here?
ARCHIVIST
Jude Perry.
[Silence.]
ARCHIVIST
This is where Jude Perry rules.
[Another silence.]
MARTIN
That’s the one who burned your hand, isn’t it?
ARCHIVIST
Yes.
[Slight pause, filled by another thunder-like crack and crumble.]
MARTIN
Right. I just assumed it would be… who was that landlord guy?
ARCHIVIST
Arthur Nolan. He’s here; he has a part of it, but it’s… huge. Bigger than you could believe. There’s so much fear in there.
MARTIN
But we’re not going after him, are we.
ARCHIVIST
No.
[Pause.]
ARCHIVIST
You said you were onboard.
MARTIN
I was! I am. I just thought –
ARCHIVIST
(overlapping) It wouldn’t hurt?
MARTIN
That we’d be safe.
ARCHIVIST
I never said –
MARTIN
(overlapping) I know! I know, okay, I just – (bracing exhale) Look, I j,just – don’t want to get burned, all right? It’s, it’s like my least favorite pain ever.
ARCHIVIST
Is that – a joke?
MARTIN
(a bit faster, a bit shaky) No, no, okay? I, I legitimately hate burns, alright? They’re, they’re awful, and they scar horribly, and they just – it – it just makes me sick; I, I hate it. Hate it!
ARCHIVIST
Alright. If you really don’t want to do this, w-we can go another way.
MARTIN
(somewhat smaller) Really?
ARCHIVIST
Really. My revenge… (long sigh) Well, let’s just say you’re more important.
[Pause.]
MARTIN
(inhale) It’s not just your revenge though, is it? Destroying her… it would help all those people in there, wouldn’t it?
ARCHIVIST
Maybe? It’s… (inhale) Like I said, I can’t see the future. It wouldn’t free them, if that’s what you’re asking. ‘Free’ doesn’t really exist in this place.
MARTIN
Apart from us.
ARCHIVIST
I suppose. In a sense, though – (dry laughing) How much of that is because we are trapped in our own quest to –
MARTIN
(overlapping) Okay, let’s, let’s not dive into another – ontological debate right now. Not here.
ARCHIVIST
Fair enough. So are we going in or not?
MARTIN
You’re – I, you’re asking me?
ARCHIVIST
I should have told you before, so – I leave the decision to you. You know my feelings on the matter.
MARTIN
I… do?
ARCHIVIST
I – Oh, right: I want revenge on Jude Perry. I want to… smite her. Make her feel what – (sigh) What all her victims felt.
But I’m not willing to force you to suffer for it.
MARTIN
Okay. So it’s – (brief pause) I have to choose, do I?
ARCHIVIST
Or we could sit here.
MARTIN
…No. No, I’m not going to choose; I don’t, I don’t think that’s a fair decision to put on me. It’s your revenge; your choice, not mine.
[Silence.]
ARCHIVIST
Fine. We go in.
[That crumpling again.]
MARTIN
(inhale, shaky, a bit surprised) Al-Alright then!
ARCHIVIST
We’ll be fine.
MARTIN
J– Lead the way.
[They start walking.]
[TAPE CLICKS OFF.]
[EXT. SOMEWHERE IN THE UK, JUDE PERRY’S DOMAIN]
[TAPE CLICKS ON.]
[A fluorescent light hums.]
[The crackling of flames is closer, here. More distinct. There’s a rushing sound, like hissing air – a thinning fire extinguisher, perhaps?]
ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)
Home. Such a simple word. Home – not house, not dwelling, not residence or address, not domicile or flat or lodging or abode or apartment or property or accommodation. Home.
A structure of brick or wood or concrete or canvas. A box in which you pack yourself away when the long day is done. A book neatly closed and placed snugly on a shelf.
There’s no place like home. An Englishman’s home is his castle. Home is where the heart is.
[In the background, indistinct words come through, seemingly over a loudspeaker.]
And home is where that heart can be hurt most severely, because within that place of safety, the warm and welcoming embrace of the cramped and well-trod floors whose layout has ingrained itself into your soul, there you are most vulnerable.
Your home is an extension of yourself, as much as you will let it be, and the place and the people and the things that form it and fill it are as much a part of you as your blood. As your bile. As your tears.
Perhaps you know the feeling that comes rushing over you when your home is compromised, invaded, corrupted. Perhaps a burglary gives lie to the promise of safety you took from a flimsy front door and a cheap lock.
Maybe the dirt and grime builds up to such a degree that the stench begins to infect your soul, or an infestation of moths or ants or bed bugs stretches itself throughout the very structure of your home until it feels like your skin is squirming with them.
You may even find yourself living with a hostile, toxic presence, whether they be family, friend, or stranger, that poisons your home, turning blessed relief and rest from the tribulations of the world into a choking fog of anxiety and fear.
Such are the dangers of a rotten home.
But how many truly control their home? How many have extended their soul into the walls of a place that exists only at the whim of those who would let them die in the street were it not for the gain that can be squeezed from them.
A home that you can not control, that you cannot even be sure will exist with the turning of the seasons. Where stability and peace rot in calamity, exist only at the behest of faceless names that lace themselves throughout labyrinthine paperwork, chaining you to the front of a truck whose motion you cannot control.
Do you smell smoke? Do you smell the creeping ruin of a life, a stalking creature of unmaintained electricals, of cheap insulation, of cutting corners and missing fire alarms and unenforced safety regulations?
Do you see it creeping under the door to your bedroom as you sleep, the burning coals of its eyes regarding you in the supposed safety of your home, not indifferent but hungry, eager to take everything from you, to burn down your life in any sense it can reach.
Can you hear the crackling promise of kindled despair that it whispers into your uneasy, dreaming ear?
Sabina senses it, feels it drawing near.
How long has she lived here? How long have these cramped, dingy rooms in the back of this – sprawling rundown tenement been the place her heart calls home?
She cannot recall, but long enough for her to grow into love for it, to cherish every rusted appliance, every crumbling piece of plasterboard, every flickering lightbulb.
Even as the widening cracks and spreading mold fill her heart with dread, they gently, slowly, inch by inch approach the room where her parents lie sleeping.
Sabina – cannot picture their faces, but knows that should they wake to see the state of the place, their anger would be blistering. She sits there on the ratty, torn sofa, trying to bring herself to stand up, to do something about the place that is crumbling around her.
But she is locked there by the sure knowledge that anything she touches could result in the loss of any small stability she has. She barely notices how hot her tears are becoming.
Which sense is the first to warn her? What nerves are the first ones to fire the white-hot bolts of agonizing panic through Sabina’s body? Does she smell it, the rising smoke? A slow and subtle scent, like someone’s burned their toast, and – is that hair?
Does she hear it, the distant roaring, like the soft growl of a lion who never stops approaching, spotted with shrieks and screams that might just be her imagination?
Does she see it, the glow of the flames, pulsing slow and steady, the dull orange of old streetlights, but somehow strong enough to push through the cracks around the front door?
Does she feel it, the rising prickly heat, like she has sat too close to an electric radiator for too long, and her skin has begun to redden and blossom before the bars into thick beads of sweat?
Or does she taste it in the back of her throat, the sick, queasy terror that tells her she knows exactly what is coming. Because it’s all happened before.
Once again, the handle of the front door begins to glow red-hot, the metal bending and distorting as it melts. From the crack underneath, the fire drags itself forward, curling and caressing the rough coir of the mat that cheerily announced ‘Welcome Home!’
Its movements are flickering, rhythmic, almost hypnotic, and as her mind screams at her to stand, to run, to escape, she simply sits there, eyes locked on the dancing lights emerging around her front door.
She smiles the same smile she did when she was a child, staring at the bonfire at camp, though every nerve in her body is alight with fear.
Then the welcome mat ignites completely, in an instant turning from a gentle smoulder to a gout of flame, and whatever strange compulsion holds her in place snaps like a wire cable.
She leaps to her feet and starts screaming, calling for help for her parents. She runs to the door to their room but as she approaches she can already feel the heat wafting out from behind it. She can hear them crying out in agony, begging for her to save them as their pain crescendos.
She can smell the oily reek of charred skin as they call to her: “We’re burning! We’re burning!* Oh please, god, Sabina; we’re* burning!”
She grabs the handle, ignoring the sizzling of her own flesh and pushing through the lancing needles of torment to force it down, trying to free her unseen parents. But the door latch never really aligned properly, you see. The landlord always said he was going to get it fixed, and – it refuses to open.
[We hear all of this as it’s happening in the background, minus any actual voices. The sizzling, the growing fire, the creaking and groaning of the flat – it’s there. We’re there.]
Sabina pounds helplessly on the smoking wood as the voices of her parents go quiet. Pushing down a grief that threatens to overwhelm her senses, she charges to the window, rushing to reach the old fire escape beyond.
The window frame never really opened properly, you see. The landlord always said he was going to get it fixed. And it judders as she tries to force it open, freezing a few inches from the bottom.
Sabina pushes all her might into it but the glass cracks and shatters, peppering her with razor-sharp shards, cutting her face to ribbons.
She stumbles, trying to climb through the jagged window regardless, and she can feel the cool iron of the fire escape, a moment of blessed relief that shines through her suffering.
But the fire escape was always really rusty, you see. The landlord always said he was going to replace it. And at the first tiny bit of weight she puts upon it, she can feel the fastenings pop out of the old brick one by one, and her salvation tumbles away into the impossible distance below.
What floor was her flat on again? Surely it can’t be this high.
Falling back into the inferno that is now her home, Sabina dashes over to the laughably small fire extinguisher the landlord begrudgingly provided. It is sputtering and empty.
She runs to the sink, to the tap that has always made that unpleasant grinding sound, and turning it, unleashes only a slow trickle of a thick, dark, oozing substance that smells faintly of gas.
Limping and desperate, she turns to see her furniture in flames, the bookshelves full of memories that she can’t quite place but knows are precious to her curl and float away as ash. The photos on the wall of her family –
[A static begins to rise. And then:]
MARTIN
(faint in the background, but shouting) John!
ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)
(continuing) – whose faces seem indistinct but she knows that –
MARTIN
(background) John!
[The static is still steadily rising in volume.]
ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)
(continuing) – she loves, begin to blacken as the glass –
MARTIN
(background) John!
[He coughs.]
ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)
(continuing) – pops out of the frame.
Her home is being eaten alive by –
MARTIN
(overlapping, coming into focus) John, you idiot! Please go back!
ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)
(continuing) – this devouring Desolation, and she –
MARTIN
JOHN!
[He slaps the Archivist.]
[Somewhere, another fire escape crumples. People scream.]
MARTIN
She’s here.
[A thunder-like crackling.]
ARCHIVIST
Hello, Jude.
JUDE PERRY
Fancy seeing you both here. (sarcasm) To what, exactly, do I owe the pleasure – the honor – of being graced by the great and powerful Archivist, harbinger of this new world and his, mm… (deliberately obtuse) …valet?
ARCHIVIST
Naturally, we came to see you.
[Jude inhales.]
JUDE
What a treat.
[Martin coughs in the background. It’s wheezy.]
ARCHIVIST
I have a question for you. I’ve been wondering: did you know what you were doing?
[Martin continues to cough; he’s picking up steam.]
JUDE
Excuse me?
ARCHIVIST
When you burned me. Marked me with… Did you know it would lead to – all this?
JUDE
(unimpressed) You came all this way just to ask that?
ARCHIVIST
Answer the question.
[Martin coughs again.]
JUDE
If you want to know so badly, why don’t you just reach into my head and pull it out?
ARCHIVIST
Because I want to hear you say it. Willingly.
JUDE
What difference does it make if –
ARCHIVIST
(snapping) Just answer the damn question!
[Slight pause.]
JUDE
No. I had no idea.
ARCHIVIST
So why did you do it?
JUDE
Why d’you think? Because I wanted to hurt you.
[Martin coughs.]
JUDE
Because you were annoying and I didn’t like you, so I hurt you.
ARCHIVIST
And if you had?
JUDE
But I didn’t. Look, I don’t care, okay?
[Martin keeps coughing.]
JUDE
I just – I don’t. Raking over the past like it matters, like it means anything. The past is dead, Archivist: ashes in the wind.
We’re. Here. Now. And that’s it.
ARCHIVIST
I suppose you’re right.
[Coughing.]
JUDE
So the real question is: What happens now?
[The fire rushes up in volume and intensity.]
MARTIN
John, look out!
JUDE
What’s wrong? Scared of a little flame?
[Martin breathing comes out shaky, scrambled.]
JUDE
(delighted) Oh, you are, aren’t you?
[She laughs.]
JUDE
How pathetic.
MARTIN
(high) Screw you!
ARCHIVIST
Leave him alone.
JUDE
(to Archivist) You’re not scared, though, are you, Archivist?
ARCHIVIST
I can feel the pain of every person you have trapped here. My own isn’t all that different.
JUDE
Yeah, but you like seeing their pain, don’t you? Their fear?
[Briefest of pauses.]
ARCHIVIST
Yes.
JUDE
You and your stupid Eye, god, you make me sick! Lording it over everybody like you own the place? You’re just leeches. Voyeurs. Parasites on the real monsters.
[Martin coughs.]
ARCHIVIST
Enough.
[Beat.]
JUDE
(whatever) Fine. Just messing around! Wouldn’t want to keep you from your oh-so-special business, your holiness.
ARCHIVIST
I wouldn’t worry about that: I’m right where I want to be.
JUDE
What’s that supposed to mean?
ARCHIVIST
I’m here for you, Jude. To end you.
JUDE
What? No! No way.
[Martin’s breath hitches, and then he’s wheezing again.]
JUDE
You won. What would be the point of… (trailing off) You’re bluffing.
ARCHIVIST
You know I’m not. You’re already afraid.
[The crackling of the flames increases in intensity.]
JUDE
Oh, I see. I get it. You finally get a sniff of power, and the first thing you do is try to settle some old scores.
[She doesn’t sound afraid. Martin continues to cough.]
JUDE
(enjoying this) Play the big man; get off on good old-fashioned petty revenge.
ARCHIVIST
(not in the mood for games) I’d have thought that was a mindset you would appreciate. Now, feel it. All the terror and pain you’ve inflicted.
JUDE
(shut up) Oh, piss off –
[She cuts herself off with a gasp. She’s feeling it.]
[When she starts talking this time, she’s bargaining.]
JUDE
Look, look. Wait. Right? I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have burned your hand.
[Her words are almost slurred.]
ARCHIVIST
(unforgiving) No. You shouldn’t have.
JUDE
(slowly) Please don’t kill me, I – sure, I –
[Martin coughs.]
JUDE
– moan about the Eye; who doesn’t? But – we’ve won, both of us! And that’s great.
[In the background, ever so slightly under all the fire, we hear the high-pitched whine of the Archivist’s new top layer of static. The squeaky one, the one that signals something big.]
JUDE
If I’d known, would I still have marked you? Yes. I would. I’m… happy in this world. I belong here.
And so do you.
[Martin coughs. And coughs, and coughs, and coughs. It sounds like he’s hacking his own lungs up. It sounds bad.]
[The static is building.]
[As Jude keeps going, her breaths come in gasps and]
JUDE
(somewhat of a laugh) Listen, listen. You’re enjoying this, right? Of course you are. You want to use those powers of yours to hurt people. You want to murder everybody who can’t fight back at you now?
I can help you.
[But even as she offers, the beginnings of the glitching that warns it’s all about to be over start to flicker into audible territory.]
MARTIN
(half screaming) Just DIE already!
JUDE
You’re not – better – (audibly struggling) than – me!
[She yells. The glitching crescendos. It bursts, just like it had with the Not!Sasha.]
[And then, quicker than it came, it fades.]
[The Archivist exhales.]
[Martin’s breaths come fast and shaky.]
MARTIN
Is it? –
ARCHIVIST
It’s over.
[The flames still crackle on.]
ARCHIVIST
She’s gone.
MARTIN
The fires are still here. Doesn’t look like much has changed.
ARCHIVIST
No. I suppose not.
[Another fire escape crumples.]
MARTIN
Let’s just get out of here.