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[INT. HOSPITAL ROOM]
[CONSPICUOUS ABSENCE OF HEART RATE MONITOR AND VENTILATOR SOUNDS. EERIE SILENCE.]
[CREAK OF A DOOR OPENING AND CLOSING.]
MARTIN: Oh. [PROTRACTED SILENCE, PUNCTUATED OCCASIONALLY BY STRAINED INHALATIONS] F—Christ.
[SHUFFLING, THE SCRAPE OF A CHAIR ON A LINOLEUM FLOOR, AND THE THUD AS MARTIN THROWS HIMSELF INTO IT.]
MARTIN: Um… I, uh, I’m not—I- er. [SHAKY EXHALATION] Basira told me it was really bad. But I—I dunno, I—I guess I didn’t… um, didn’t think you’d actually—uh, look—
[HE DESCENDS VERY GRADUALLY INTO SOBS, WHICH PERSIST IN THE OPPRESSIVE SILENCE FOR A CONCERNINGLY LONG MOMENT BEFORE SUBSIDING EVENTUALLY INTO SUBDUED WEEPING.]
MARTIN: You’re—w—god.
[INHALES SLOWLY.]
MARTIN: I mean, you’re not… rotting, at least?
[VERY , VERY LONG SILENCE.]
MARTIN: Why the hell did I say that?
[NOBODY ANSWERS.]
MARTIN: I was—I- this is stupid. He can’t hear me. Nobody can hear me. I’m— [SIGHS] I… I was praying for you. Felt really stupid. [THOUGHTFUL PAUSE] Felt like this, actually. Except I was… I was worried, and I—w- heh. It’s kind of hard to be worried when this is—just about the worst thing that could have happened? Less worried and more—well, I—I feel about as good as you look.
Sorry.
I… um. I just meant, ‘cause, y—sorry.
I—I think you’re really beautiful.
Fat lot of bloody good it does.
But I did. I- I mean, I do. D- um. Tenses. Y- oh. Um… has… has nobody even tried to brush your hair? I get the NHS is in a state, but Jesus.
[SCRAPE OF THE CHAIR, THEN THE SOUND OF THE DOOR OPENING.]
MARTIN: Um, hello? ‘Scuse me?
[PAUSE.]
MARTIN: H- um, he- hello?
[SOUND OF THE DOOR CLOSING AND MARTIN RETURNING TO THE CHAIR.]
MARTIN: I’ll… mm. Try to bring a comb or something next time, okay? Just—just to get some of that stuff out of there. Can’t be comfortable.
[LONG, RESIGNED SIGH.]
MARTIN: I—shit, I sound deranged, don’t I? [SHORT LAUGH.] Mm. Maybe I am. [CONSIDERS THIS VERY SERIOUSLY] Losing the plot would probably be the sanest thing I’ve done in a while. Might even help. I’d match everyone else.
We—mm. I know you probably—you would probably think you being gone would be an improvement. But y- [VOICE CRACKS] You are, and—and things aren’t—
Melanie’s not doing well. I mean… obviously she’s not, but—I guess I don’t know her that well, but it’s kind of like all the energy went out of her. And Basira’s—did you know she was—that good at putting on a front? I mean, makes sense, but—I know she’s got to be—w- huh.
[PAUSE. FABRIC RUSTLES.]
And she doesn’t even… have this.
[SARDONIC CHUCKLE.]
Doesn’t even have Daisy’s corpse to go and monologue at.
Y- it’s good your skin’s not cold, at least. Makes it—ugh.
[FOR A FEW MINUTES, THE ONLY SOUND IS HIS SOLITARY BREATHING, SOMETIMES PUNCTUATED BY SOMETHING AKIN TO A WHIMPER AS HE FIGHTS TO KEEP HIS COMPOSURE.]
MARTIN: I… I really—I never thought I’d actually have a chance with you. Obviously. Hah, I mean—look at us. You’re literally dead and you still look better than me.
But I… can I tell you this? I—I guess it doesn’t matter now, because… well. Yeah. I really wanted to—I don’t know, do something. Tell you. I- I never would’ve been able to ask you out, or—or anything like that. Honestly, I think—I think I would have puked my whole tongue out, if I’d tried.
If you were still—but… huh.
[LONG PAUSE, THEN HE CLEARS HIS THROAT AND INHALES DEEPLY. WHEN HE SPEAKS AGAIN, HIS TONE IS LIGHT AND NONCHALANT, AS THOUGH HE HAS STEPPED INTO A DIFFERENT TIME.]
MARTIN: Hey, um, Jon, have you got a tic? Yeah, um, nothing major, just, uh—d’you… d’you maybe want to go for a drink later? Like, with me?
[PAINFUL SILENCE.]
Yeah, see? Nothing.
[AGAIN, THE SCRAPE OF THE CHAIR. FABRIC RUSTLES.]
MARTIN: There. I’ll fix it up tomorrow. Properly.
[THE DOOR OPENS.]
MARTIN: Bye, Jon. I’m—h- um… L- see—uh. See you tomorrow.
[ONE LAST SIGH, AND THE DOOR CLOSES.]
[CLICK.]
[INT. HOSPITAL ROOM.]
[DAYS LATER.]
[INSIDE THE ROOM IS SILENT, BUT THE FAINT SOUND OF A HUSHED CONVERSATION, A TROLLEY ROLLING DOWN THE HALL WITH A SQUEAKY WHEEL, AND VARIOUS MONITORS IN OTHER ROOMS CAN BE HEARD. FOOTSTEPS APPROACH, THEN MARTIN CAN BE HEARD STRUGGLING FOR A MOMENT. THE DOOR CLOSES SLOWLY, AS THOUGH HE HAS HAD TO NUDGE IT SHUT.]
MARTIN: Sorry. Was trying to find something other than ginger or Earl Grey. No luck. I—I know you don’t like ginger. Neither do I. [CHUCKLES] I’ll—s’okay. I’ll have the ginger.
[LONG, AWKWARD SIP.]
MARTIN: So… ‘d I tell you about my new flat yet? Would’ve been—bit weird to ask if you wanted to see it.
Oh! God! Not that, like—I- I mean, not, um—not like that, you know. I- I just… I meant—as friends. Even as friends, it’d be weird, right?
[SILENCE.]
MARTIN: Mm. Yeah. A- anyway, um, it’s… it’s probably a bit expensive, but… it’s, um, it’s—well, it’s a bit closer to London than I had been before, so, uh… easier to get around. Get… get here, and stuff. So. Worth it. T- to me, anyway.
I like it fine. Funny how big it feels. Like, spacious. I guess sleeping in document storage for as long as I did’ll do that. [UNCOMFORTABLE PAUSE] S’not very spacious here, either. But—eh.
[THE SILENCE PERSISTS.]
MARTIN: I hate the thought of you being here by yourself. [VOICE GROWS STRAINED] Wish I could—I’d like to be here more. If I could. I know—you know, I know it’s me, so… so there’s—maybe I wouldn’t be your first choice. But—if you woke up, I’d- I don’t want you to wake up alone.
[THE SILENCE BECOMES OPPRESSIVE.]
MARTIN: Guess… guess it’s—it’s not… [A SINGLE, CHOKED SOB.]
[AFTER A MOMENT, A DULL SOUND OF IMPACT: HE PRESSES HIS FACE INTO THE THIN HOSPITAL BLANKET AND WEEPS FOR SEVERAL MINUTES. ALL THE WHILE, THE SILENCE AROUND HIM REMAINS ALL-ENCOMPASSING. EVENTUALLY HIS CRYING SUBSIDES INTO MUTTERING THAT IS NOT, AT FIRST, COMPREHENSIBLE. THEN, WHEN HE LIFTS HIS HEAD:]
MARTIN: Just- I- I know this isn’t how it’s meant to work, but—I’d- I’d do it, you know? I’d—I’d make a deal. Not to—it wouldn’t have to—change how we were, you and me, but—just- [LONG, RESIGNED SIGH] I just… I just wish you could talk back.
[FABRIC RUSTLES.]
MARTIN: I wish you could hear me. I- I think I’d rather say stupid, humiliating stuff that made you hate me to your face forever than—than ever get it right like this. ‘Cause you—d’you know, you make this face when someone’s just said something you think is stupid, like… like they’ve just… poured custard in your lap? [QUIET LAUGH WHICH SLOWLY SUBSIDES AND RETURNS TO LABOURED BREATHING—CRYING AGAIN] And… sometimes, if you’ve not slept, you’ll—couple of times, I’ve found you dozing off in your office. Like one of those… you know those videos of, like, kittens and puppies, and how they’ll fall over when they’re falling asleep?
Don’t know if you remember, but—heh. Once you did that. Dropped your glasses and everything. You were still half-asleep, so I just put your tea down and walked out. Thought you might’ve been embarrassed if you knew I’d seen you.
[THE SILENCE BECOMES PAINED.]
MARTIN: But I did. I saw you. [CHUCKLES] I, um—it was—it was kind of cute, I thought.
[NO ANSWER.]
MARTIN: Yeah. It—yeah.
I guess that’s what it wants. Is it? Does it still feed it if I feel like I’m the creep? For—for watching you sleep?
Sounds really bad when I put it like that, doesn’t it. Yeah. Y- yeah, I know.
[LAUGHTER.]
MARTIN: I- I guess you can still make me feel stupid without needing to say anything. That’s impressive. Just—that’s just one other thing I kind of love about you.
I mean, I… I’ll pretend I didn’t say that as long as you do too, alright?
[HE PAUSES THEN LAUGHS AGAIN, INCREDULOUSLY.]
MARTIN: Y- yeah, you’re still doing it. Okay. Yep. Yeah. Does that mean we have to talk about this?
[IN CONTRAST WITH HIS UNACCOUNTABLY JOVIAL TONE, THE SILENCE IS DEAFENING, DESOLATE, BILIOUS.]
MARTIN: Ooooookay. Fine. W- ye- yeah? That’s what I said, right, so… so obviously I meant it. I- obviously. I might kind of, um—you know—you.
Don’t tell me you don’t know that already.
[THERE IS, ASTONISHINGLY, NO RESPONSE.]
MARTIN: Oh, yeah, right, because—yeah. Forgot for a second. Well. At least you literally can’t tell me you didn’t know.
[TIRED SIGH.]
MARTIN: I bloody hate ginger.
[A PAUSE THAT IS CERTAINLY LONG ENOUGH FOR A MAN HOLDING HIS NOSE TO SWIFTLY DOWN AN ENTIRE POLYSTYRENE CUP OF GINGER TEA.]
MARTIN: I really bloody hate ginger. Eurgh.
A- anyway, it’s… it isn’t like it matters. Wouldn’t matter even if you were coming back.
[MOROSE PAUSE.]
MARTIN: And you’re not, so—
So in case you didn’t know, for some insane reason, um… I—
[WEARY SIGH.]
MARTIN: [MATTER-OF-FACTLY] I’m, uh… I’m in love with you.
So now you know.
[SEVERAL MINUTES PASS IN AN UNEASY BUT STRANGELY COMPANIONABLE SILENCE. WHEN MARTIN SPEAKS AGAIN HE SOUNDS HESITANT.]
MARTIN: Hey, look, also, I—um… I don’t know if I’ll be in again this week. Work’s really picking up and it’s not the kind of stuff I can fall behind on.
I’m sure you’d be familiar with that feeling, right? ‘Cause—yeah. You know.
I’ll be back as soon as I can, though. Promise. I’d hate for you to be lonely.
[UNCOMFORTABLE SILENCE, PUNCTUATED BY A SCRAPING CHAIR ON LINOLEUM AS HE STANDS.]
MARTIN: Soon. Promise.
[THE CREAK OF THE DOOR OPENING.]
MARTIN: Bye, Jon. I, um—I miss you.
[THE DOOR CLOSES GENTLY.]
[CLICK.]
[FADING SOUND OF GEORGIE’S HURRIED FOOTSTEPS, THE STEADY BEEPING OF MONITORS, THE TICK OF THE CLOCK, AND SLOW, EVEN BREATHING: CLOCKWORK-HUMAN(?) HOMEOSTASIS.]
ARCHIVIST: N- oh.
[THE SOUNDS OF THE ARCHIVIST SITTING UP IN HIS HOSPITAL BED—IT IS LABORIOUS, AS THOUGH HIS LIMBS WERE REPLACED WITH SOMEONE ELSE’S WHILE HE WAS NOT LOOKING.]
[LONG, ACRID SILENCE.]
ARCHIVIST: [WEAKLY, VOICE HOARSE] Uh… M- er—
[SILENCE AGAIN—THE IMPRESSION THAT THE ARCHIVIST IS HESITANT EVEN TO SPEAK THE AS-YET UNMET DESIRE INTO EXISTENCE.]
ARCHIVIST: Martin?
[A BOUT OF SHALLOW, TORREFIED COUGHING, THEN, FOR THE SECOND TIME:]
ARCHIVIST: Martin, are—M- I… hello?
[NOBODY ANSWERS.]
[CLICK.]