DESOLATION JONES
7

TO BE IN ENGLAND
1 of 6

PAGE ONE

Pic 1
Open on: a mid-distance shot of a big cheap Holiday Inn-style hotel in the middle of nowhere, desert with patches of scrub and a big highway going past.  Its big ugly yellow 70s cursive signage mounted on the slanted roof names it as a GOODTIME INN.  Clouds gather overhead.

DISPLAY LETT:  		FOUR YEARS AGO

Pic 2
INT: the hotel's hideous beige bar -- woodpanelling, rough carpet, the two-dollar version of the sort of place people imagined Sinatra drinking in, in the 1950s.  There's one guy, thin and middle-aged and hunched over, drinking at the bar, sitting on a high stool.  Shabby suit, no tie.  BOB SAUER.  And one guy seated at one of the low tables across the bar, on a sofa, reading a USA TODAY: tall, blonde, a hawklike presence to him, in a casual sweater and jeans: JOHN ASHER.

(no dialogue)

Pic 3
Close on Sauer, side view, head down, miserable.  Unshaven and haunted.

(no dialogue)

Pic 4
FLASHBACK SEQUENCE BEGINS: Sauer in the same pose, a few hours ago.

OFF        	OKAY, BOB.  THAT'S THE CONTROL QUESTIONS DONE WITH.  IF YOU'RE ALL SET...

SAUER    			YEAH, WHATEVER.  SURE.

OFF        			OKAY.  JUST RELAX, HUH?

Pic 5
Pull back to see Bob seated in a miserable hotel room, same style as the bar, hooked up for a polygraph reading.  Chest strap, one upper-arm cuff, cuffs on first and third fingers of one hand, all wired to a laptop placed on the room's coffee table.  The polygraph READER, in a suit, wearing glasses, sits opposite Bob with the laptop open and facing him.  Sitting between them on the edge of the bed is PETER CARRICK, a big bluff man in a suit, head shaved military-style, Bob's handler.  Bob is a spy.   (Lampstand in one corner, for future ref.)

READER        	MR SAUER, IS YOUR OPERATIONAL CODENAME "MOVING IMAGE?"

SAUER        		YES.

READER        	AND DID THE RUSSIANS GIVE YOU A CODENAME TRANSLATING AS "DEEP MINER"?

SAUER        		YES.
PAGE TWO

Pic 1
The reader leans over the polygraph readout on the laptop screen -- it's close to flat.

READER        	HAVE YOU BEEN KNOWN BY ANY OTHER CODENAME OR DESIGNATION IN AN OPERATIONAL CONTEXT?

SAUER        			NO.

Pic 2
The polygraph readout spikes.

(no dialogue)

Pic 3
The reader looks over his glasses at Carrick, frowning.

(no dialogue)

Pic 4
Carrick scowls.  Sauer leans back -- he's exhausted and upset.

CARRICK        			C'MON, BOB...

SAUER        	I DON'T KNOW WHY IT KEEPS DOING THAT!  PETE, HELP ME OUT HERE...

CARRICK        			OKAY.  MOVE ON.

Pic 5
The reader studies Sauer now, suspicious.

READER        	HAVE YOU EVER GIVEN NON-APPROVED MATERIAL TO THE RUSSIANS?

BOB            	I'VE NEVER GIVEN OVER AMERICAN MATERIAL TO THE RUSSIANS THAT WASN'T CLEARED BY PETER CARRICK.

READER        			THAT'S NOT WHAT I ASKED.  

Pic 6
Sauer passes a hand over his eyes.  Drained.

SAUER        			THEN FIX THE FUCKING QUESTION.

CARRICK        			BOB.

SAUER        			I'VE BEEN IN THIS ROOM FOR FOUR DAYS, PETE.

PAGE THREE

Pic 1
Carrick leans over, concerned.  

CARRICK        			BOB, IF YOU'RE SERIOUS ABOUT RETIRING --

SAUER        	I'VE BEEN YOUR DOUBLE AGENT FOR TEN YEARS, PETE.  I WANT TO GO HOME.

CARRIER        	-- IF YOU'RE SERIOUS ABOUT RETIRING, YOU NEED TO BE FULLY DEBRIEFED.  YOU KNOW THAT.

Pic 2
Sauer stares at the ceiling.  He just can’t take any more.  Tired to the bone, and he feels like he’s got nothing left.

SAUER        			CAN WE START AGAIN TOMORROW?

SAUER        	WE'LL GET THROUGH IT TOMORROW, I SWEAR.  I HAVEN'T SLEPT ALL WEEK.

SAUER        	I HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING WRONG.  I DON'T KNOW WHY YOUR GODDAMN POLYGRAPH KEEPS JUMPING.

Pic 3
Carrick’s tired, too, and something is very wrong.  Rubs his face.

CARRICK        			OKAY.  9 AM TOMORROW.

CARRICK        			DON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO DRINK TONIGHT, OKAY?

CARRICK        			PACK THE POLYGRAPH UP.

Pic 4
Carrick stands, as the reader puts his laptop into a carry bag.  Sauer starts stripping off the finger cuffs, slumped, defeated-looking.

CARRICK        	WE'RE GONNA GET THROUGH THIS, BOB.  WE'RE PROUD OF YOU.  WE'RE GONNA HELP.  OKAY?

SAUER        			OKAY.

SAUER        			OKAY.  SEE YOU IN THE MORNING.

Continued over page

Page THREE continued

Pic 5
END FLASHBACK: Sauer at the bar, squeezing his eyes shut as if in pain.

(no dialogue)

Pic 6
The BARMAN passes by, picking up Sauer's empty glass as he gets off his stool, not too steady.

BARMAN        			SEE YOU LATER, MR SAUER.

SAUER        			SURE.

PAGE FOUR

Pic 1
From Asher's POV in the back of the bar, we see Sauer weave out of the room, hand against a wall or doorway for support.

(no dialogue)

Pic 2
Cut to: Sauer getting his keycard in his hotel room door, scowling at it.

SAUER        			C'MON... GODDAMN THINGS NEVER WORK FOR ME...

SAUER			AIR FORCE SONS OF BITCHES.  CHEAP BASTARDS.

Pic 3
He practically falls into the room.

(no dialogue)

Pic 4
Sitting on the bed, he pulls the room's PHONE towards him.

SAUER        			CALL ELLIE.

SAUER        			SET ME DOWN.  IT'LL SET ME DOWN.

SAUER        			"OKAY."  "OKAY."  WHAT A DICK.

Pic 5
Jump ahead a few moments.  Sauer talking on the phone, clearly very depressed.

SAUER            	...GONNA BE A FEW MORE DAYS, ELLIE.  YEAH, I KNOW.  

SAUER			YEAH... NO, BUSINESS ISN'T GOING SO WELL.

SAUER			OH, GOD, ELLIE... IT'S HORRIBLE.. I JUST WANNA DIE...

Pic 6
The line goes dead.  He reacts.

SAUER			...HELLO?

SAUER			CAN YOU HEAR ME?  DID YOU HANG UP?

Pic 7
He gets up, follows the phone wire to the wall.

SAUER        			MAYBE THE LINE CAME OUT...

PAGE FIVE

Pic 1
There at the wall: the phone line had been fed into a thing, a little thing in a black casing with a blinking red LED on it.  It had been passed between the shears in the casing, a little guillotine that sliced the wire in two.

SAUER       			...THE HELL?

Pic 2
And Sauer hears a voice and freezes.

FROM OFF    			I CUT YOU OFF.

Pic 3
Emerging from the bathroom: ASHER, his paper rolled up under one arm.  In his hand, a Treo-style PDA with the wireless stub-aerial.  He’s wearing thin latex gloves now.

ASHER        	I JUST HAD TO WAIT FOR YOU TO SAY THE PERFECT LINE TO WAIT ON.

ASHER        	AND THEN I PRESSED MY LITTLE BUTTON AND THE SHEARS CLOSED ON THE LINE.

ASHER        			LOVELY LITTLE GADGET.

Pic 4
Sauer scrambles to his feet as Asher advances, relaxed.

SAUER        			YOU'RE A BRIT.

ASHER        	THAT'S RIGHT.  JOHN ASHER.  BRITISH SECRET INTELLIGENCE SERVICE.  SPECIAL OPERATIONS.

ASHER        			YOU'VE BEEN A BAD BOY, MR SAUER.

Pic 5
And he punches Sauer in the side of the head, hard.  Drop it out into black and white.

(no dialogue)

Pic 6
Sauer falls on to the bed.

ASHER        	BEING DEBRIEFED IN YOUR ROLE AS A US AIR FORCE INTELLIGENCE DOUBLE AGENT.

ASHER        	AND TRYING NOT TO LET ON THAT YOU WERE DOING MORE THAN YOUR MANDATE FOR THE RUSSIANS.

PAGE SIX

Pic 1
Takes Bob a moment to snap back to himself after the punch.  A bruise is forming on the side of his head already as he clumsily tries to get back upright.  Ever been punched in the side of the head?  Your brain smacks into the other side of your skull and sloshes back again.  A few seconds of drunkenness, a flailing stupidity.

ASHER	I WONDER HOW LONG IT WOULD HAVE TAKEN FOR YOU TO CRACK?

ASHER	HOW LONG BEFORE GOOD OLD AGENT BOB GAVE UP ALL THE BRITISH SECRETS HE'D SOLD TO THE RUSSIANS?

ASHER	DUNNO KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ‘BOUT – I WORK IN THE ELECTRICAL BUSINESS --

Pic 2
Asher steps in, his back to us, and punches Sauer in the side of the head again – punching down, hard and sharp.

(no dialogue)

Pic 3
And again: and this time, we look at Asher’s face.  He’s enjoying it.

(no dialogue)

Pic 4
Sauer sags on the bed, badly stunned.  Asher looks around, sees the lampstand in the corner.

ASHER	I’M SORRY, I WASN’T LISTENING.  YOU WORK IN THE ELECTRICAL BUSINESS?  THAT’S FUNNY.  SO DO I.

Continued over page

Page SIX continued

Pic 5
He goes down on one knee, finds the cable going into the base of the lampstand, which is formed by two rubber-encased sets of wires bonded together.

ASHER	NOW, I MANAGED TO BRING A COUPLE OF MY GADGETS IN WITH ME, BUT I WASN’T ALLOWED TO TRAVEL WITH A WEAPON OR DRAW ARMS ON LOCAL STATION.

ASHER	SOMETHING TO DO WITH THE “SPECIAL RELATIONSHIP” BRITAIN AND AMERICA SUPPOSEDLY SHARE.

ASHER			SO WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TO IMPROVISE.

Pic 6
And he yanks the cable out of the lampstand base.  There’s some sparking.

(no dialogue)

PAGE SEVEN

Pic 1
Asher pulls at the cable, not touching the bare wires, so that the bonding comes away and the cable peels into two long pieces.

ASHER	I’M GOOD AT THIS.  THIS IS THE BIT THAT MAKES ME FEEL LIKE JAMES BOND, YOU KNOW?

Pic 2
With the wires in one hand, Asher opens one of the room’s drawers, looking…

ASHER	ONE THING MISSING.  I MEAN, THIS HOTEL SEEMS TO BE STAFFED BY A SUM TOTAL OF THREE SUBHUMANS WITH SEVERE EDUCATIONAL DIFFICULTIES, BUT…

ASHER	..AHA.  GOOD.  BUT I DON’T INTEND TO TAKE ANY CHANCES THAT ONE OF THEM MIGHT HEAR YOU.

Pic 3
Asher shoves a pair of underpants into Sauer’s mouth.  Sauer’s weeping at this point.

ASHER	THAT’S IT, OPEN WIDE.  OH, GOOD BOY.  ANYONE WOULD THINK YOU’VE DONE THIS BEFORE.  HA HA.

Pic 4
And Asher touches both wires to Sauer’s chest.  He arches up off the bed violently.

ASHER			NOW.  JUST A TASTE.

SAUER			MMNNNN

Pic 5
Sauer sags back.  Suddenly his shirt is soaked in sweat, and there are burn marks through the shirt where the wires touched.

ASHER			THIS IS MY LIE DETECTOR, MR SAUER.  

ASHER	WE’RE GOING TO GO THROUGH A SEQUENCE OF QUESTIONS THAT HAVE YES OR NO AS ANSWERS.

ASHER	I’M NOT A CRUEL MAN.  I KNOW YOU WANT TO GO HOME TO YOUR WIFE.  BE TRUTHFUL, AND THAT’LL HAPPEN.

Pic 6
Asher, calm leans in over Sauer’s face, very close.  

ASHER			LIE, AND THIS IS HOW YOUR WIFE WILL DIE.

PAGE EIGHT

Pic 1
Three page-wide shots, stacked one atop the other.  Here, a shot of a British Airways jumbo jet landing in the rain.

(no dialogue)

Pic 2
Here, Bob Sauer, stripped naked – and, you know, he was a middle-aged man in bad shape, and his nakedness should reflect that – laying on his side on the bed.  There are horrible burns over his chest.  His eyes are open, and his mouth is open at a weird angle, maybe his tongue sticking out a little too.  He’s dead as hell, and he died in agony.

(no dialogue)

Pic 3
And now I want a shot of the MI6 Building, to establish the next scene and just because it’s so odd-looking.  Here’s a really good picture of the MI6 Building, at Vauxhall Cross in London:

http://www.thrillerman.com/images/Vauxhall%20%20Cross%20MI6.jpg

And it’s raining.

VOICE (NO TAIL)	AH, MR ASHER.  GO THROUGH, PLEASE.  C IS WAITING FOR YOU.

PAGE NINE

Pic 1
OPEN ON: ASHER, in a good suit, walks into a rich-looking office: nice carpet, big windows with a broad view over the river, gilt-framed portraits on the wall, and C behind his big desk with the window behind him.  C is a sixty-year-old man in a grey suit and stripy tie, silver-haired, neat moustache.  There are two expensive antique chairs in front of the desk, and C motions him to one.  C has a pipe sitting in an ashtray on his desk, next to a speakerphone.

ASHER			C.

C				MR ASHER.  I TAKE IT THE DEED IS DONE?

ASHER			SAUER’S TERMINATED, SIR, WITH NONE THE WISER.

Pic 2
Asher sits down.  C makes a reference he doesn’t get, and his brow furrows a little.

C	VERY GOOD.  CAN’T HAVE THESE SPINELESS YANKS SHOWING THEIR ARSEHOLE TO THE RUSSIANS LIKE THAT.  BAD FOR TRADE.

C				SO I SUPPOSED YOU’RE BLOODED NOW, MR ASHER.

ASHER			BLOODED, SIR?

Pic 3
C takes up his pipe irritably, producing a lighter.

C	BLOODED, YES.  BLOODED.  AS IN, THE FOXHUNTING, BLOODED… BLOODED, BOY.  YOU NEVER RODE TO HOUNDS?

ASHER			I’M AFRAID NOT, SIR.

C	WHEN YOU’VE HUNTED YOUR FIRST FOX, ASHER, THE TAIL’S CUT OFF, AND THE BLOOD IS SMEARED ON YOUR FACE.  BLOODED, YOU SEE?

Continued over page

Page NINE continued

Pic 4
Irritable, C taps a button on the speakerphone.

C	TRADITION IS DEAD IN ENGLAND, ASHER.  DEAD AS A DAMN DOORNAIL.  

SPEAKERPHONE		SIR?  

C				YES, YES, SEND HIM IN.  

C	THIS IS YOUR SENIOR IN SPECOPS, ASHER.  HE’LL DEBRIEF YOU.  

Pic 5
And MICHAEL JONES enters – as he was before the Desolation Test, tall, fit and reasonably handsome, in a black suit and a loosened black tie, smiling, a little cocky.

JONES				GOOD MORNING, C.

JONES	JOHN, I’M MICHAEL JONES.  WELCOME TO SPECIAL OPERATIONS.

###

PAGE TEN

Pic 1
CUT TO: today: LOS ANGELES: and a shot of the CHEMOSPHERE: a page-wide shot, half the page deep, pushed out to bleed at all sides.  It’s morning in LA.  Jones has the Chemosphere windows blacked out, stuff taped over them to screen out the light.

(no dialogue)

Pic 2
INSIDE: newspapers and books scattered everywhere.  In the foreground, a CELLPHONE sits on top of an open book, face up, called THE INVISIBLE LANDSCAPE by Terence McKenna.

(no dialogue)

Pic 3
Someone throws up over the cellphone and book, from the right hand side of the panel.

FROM RIGHT			HORK

Pic 4
And the cellphone’s screen lights up, through the puke over it.

FROM PHONE			(MUSICAL NOTES)

FROM RIGHT			OH, FOR FUCK’S SAKE…

PAGE ELEVEN

Pic 1
A pen comes into shot, poking at the call button.

FROM PHONE			-- LLO?  IS MICHAEL JONES THERE?

FROM OFF	YEAH, SORRY YOU'RE COUGH YOU'RE ON SPEAKERPHONE.  I'M JONES.

FROM PHONE	I HAVE JERONIMUS CORNELISZOON ON THE LINE FOR YOU.  PLEASE HOLD.

Pic 2
Pull back; to see Jones laying naked on his side next to the phone.  This’ll be your biggest pic on the page: the first time we’ve seen Jones proper, as he is in “the present day”.

FROM PHONE			MICHAEL?  HOW ARE YOU?

JONES				UM.  NOT SO COUGH NOT SO GOOD.  WHAT'S UP?

FROM PHONE			AH.  WELL.  I'M AFRAID I HAVE SOME BAD NEWS.

Pic 3
Jones' eyes snap open wide.

FROM PHONE			I'M AFRAID JOHN ASHER'S DEAD.

Pic 4
Jones pushes himself up on his elbows.

JONES				THAT CAN'T BE RIGHT.

FROM PHONE	HE WAS FOUND IN HIS APARTMENT WITH HIS HEAD, HANDS, AND, AH, OTHER PARTS CUT OFF AND ABSENT.

JONES				THE WEST HOLLYWOOD PLACE?

Pic 5
Jones looks around for something to wipe his mouth.  The closest item is a pair of underpants.

FROM PHONE	NO.  HE'S BEEN LIVING IN FULLERTON FOR THE LAST THREE MONTHS, OUT ON THE EDGE OF THE COMMUNITY LINE.

JONES	I HAVEN'T SEEN HIM IN FOUR.  DAMNIT.  WHAT ABOUT HIS GIRLFRIEND?

FROM PHONE			I KNOW NOTHING OF A GIRLFRIEND.

PAGE TWELVE

Pic 1
Frowning, he wipes his mouth with his old underpants, removing the last of the vomit.

JONES	BLONDE GIRL.  HE'S BEEN WITH HER SINCE NEW YEAR'S, I THINK.

FROM PHONE			BUT YOUR INFORMATION IS FOUR MONTHS OLD.

JONES				YEAH.  LISTEN, ARE WE SURE IT'S HIM?

Pic 2
Jones grimaces, holding his stomach.

FROM PHONE	WELL, THIS IS WHY I'M CALLING.  WE NEED THE BODY POSITIVELY IDENTIFIED, AND THE DEATH INVESTIGATED TO OUR SATISFACTION.

JONES				WE?   CHRIST, MY GUTS...

FROM PHONE	I'D LIKE TO KNOW WHY HE DIED, AND I WISH TO ENGAGE YOUR SERVICES.

Pic 3
Jones doubles over, in some pain.

JONES	JOHNNY ASHER WAS THE BEST SPECIAL AGENT I EVER SAW IN SIS, JERONIMUS.  THERE'S NO WAY HE -- -- OWWW, FUCK…

FROM PHONE			ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, JONES?

JONES	HAVING A BAD DAY.  THE STOMACH PAINS ARE BACK AND MY VISION'S FUCKED UP.

Pic 4
Sweat's broken out on Jones' forehead.  Lips thin.

FROM PHONE			LET ME SEND A DOCTOR OUT TO YOU.

JONES	I WANT YOU TO CALL TAPPER.  I WANT JOHN'S BODY EXAMINED.  AND I NEED A DRIVER.

FROM PHONE	OF COURSE.  CONSIDER YOURSELF HIRED BY THE POWERS THAT BE THROUGH THE AGENCY OF THIS OFFICE.  AND I'M SENDING A PROPER DOCTOR TO YOU, MICHAEL.

Continued over page

Page TWELVE continued

Pic 5
Jones' head touches the floor.  This whole sequence is about Jones’ body language, and the wrecked state of the man.  He barely even looks like he should still be alive.  He’s an incredibly fragile, ill protagonist.

JONES	THERE'S NOTHING A DOCTOR CAN DO.  IT'S DESOLATION TEST FALLOUT.   IT PASSES.

FROM PHONE	NONETHELESS.  IT TAKES LONGER TO PASS EACH TIME, MICHAEL.  WILL YOU ALSO NEED EMILY?  SHE CAN BILL ME.

Pic 6
Jones' eyes look sore and watery.  He's a broken man.

JONES				YEAH.

JONES	THIS ISN'T RIGHT, JERONIMUS.  JOHNNY ASHER DOESN'T JUST LET SOMEONE INTO HIS FLAT AND TOP HIM.

FROM PHONE	IF THERE'S ONE THING I'VE LEARNED IN MY YEARS, MICHAEL, IT'S THAT DEATH IS NEVER EXPECTED, EVEN WHEN IMMINENT.

PAGE THIRTEEN

Pic 1
Jones slumps down on his side, the position we originally saw him in.

JONES				IN MY EXPERIENCE, DEATH IS LIKE A FUCKING BUS.

JONES	YOU WAIT AND WAIT, AND THEN THREE TURN UP AT ONCE.

JONES				AND NONE OF THEM ARE FUCKING YOURS.

Pic 2
And go up, and look down at him, slumped on his side next to a puke-spattered cellphone, pain in his body language, laying there cupping his cock and balls with his eyes shut.

I want to lay some CAPTION work down here, but I don’t want to use caption boxes.  Can you create some white/negative space I can lay the following piece of text down on somewhere?

CAPTION			AND WHILE YOU’RE WAITING SOMEONE WILL FIND THE LAST FRIEND YOU THOUGHT YOU HAD AND KILL THEM JUST BECAUSE 

I’M COMING BACK TO THIS BIT – I LOST THE THOUGHT IN MY HEAD				

PAGE FOURTEEN

Pic 1
FLASHBACK: JOSE, you might just want to put a filter on these scenes, or a limited palette.

Our POV: We open the door on JOHN ASHER, who has a bandaid on his right cheek, wearing a suit that looks like he slept in it for the last three nights.  He takes off a pair of shades and smiles at us.  The sun’s bright outside: it haloes Asher’s hair a little.

ASHER			MIKE.

ASHER	LOOK AT THE FUCKING STATE OF YOU.  WHAT DID THEY DO TO YOU?

Pic 2
From over Asher's shoulder: Jones, a year ago, looking much the same as he does now, in a grey vest and black trousers, reacting in shock to see Asher, even while shielding his weak eyes from the glare.

JONES				JOHN? JOHN ASHER?

JONES	JOHN, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN LOS ANGELES?

Pic 3
Asher shoulders past Jones into the house, still smiling.

ASHER	HELL OF A WELCOME THERE, MIKE.  WHAT'S IT BEEN, TWO YEARS?

JONES				MORE LIKE THREE.  WHAT'S THE SCORE?

ASHER			NICE PLACE.  LOOKS LIKE A FLYING SAUCER.

Continued over page

Page FOURTEEN continued

Pic 4
Int: the main room of the Chemosphere, dark and dingy as ever.  Asher walks to the far side, looking around.

ASHER	IS THIS PLACE CLEAN?  I MEAN, IT'S NOT FUCKING CLEAN, BUT YOU KNOW WHAT I'M ASKING.

JONES	NO BUGS.  JOHN, I CAN'T BE TALKING TO AN OPERATIONAL AGENT...

ASHER			I'M NOT OPERATIONAL.

Pic 5
Asher pulls a packet of cigarettes, American Spirits, out of his jacket pocket.  Still smiling.  It's a little eerie.  Jones in the b/g, tense.

ASHER			SMOKE?

JONES	TOBACCO RIPS OUT MY LUNGS.  JOHN, YOU'RE SENIOR SPECOPS, DON'T FUCK WITH ME.

ASHER			I QUIT, MIKE.

Pic 6
Asher lights up, enjoying Jones' tension.

JONES				YOU QUIT.

ASHER			I QUIT.  I'M TAKING SANCTUARY IN LA.

JONES	I HAD A RUN OF BAD LUCK, THE NEW C'S A BITCH, AND I'M JUMPING BEFORE THEY PUSH ME.

PAGE FIFTEEN

Pic 1
Jones sits down on the sofa, next to his cellphone.

JONES	BLOODY HELL.  THAT'S INSANE, JOHN. SPECOPS WILL BE GUTTED WITHOUT YOU.

ASHER	SPECOPS IS GUTTED ANYWAY.  THE RUSSIAN  SECTION GOT BLOWN IN MOSCOW LAST YEAR, AND CIA ARE RUNNING THE TABLE EVERYWHERE ELSE.

ASHER	SO HERE I AM WITH THE REST OF THE EXORCISED SPOOKS.

Pic 2
Asher looks around for something, distracted, ash building up on his cigarette.

ASHER			I NEED AN ASHTRAY.

JONES				USE THE FLOOR, EVERYONE ELSE DOES...

ASHER	HEH.  YOU DIRTY BASTARD.  SO TELL ME -- HOW DOES THIS DEFECTING TO SPY SANCTUARY THING WORK?  I MEAN, WE DO HAVE IMMUNITY HERE, RIGHT?  SO LONG AS WE DON’T LEAVE THE GREATER LA AREA?

Pic 3
Jones' eyebrows fly up.

JONES				YOU MEAN YOU HAVEN'T MADE CONTACT?

ASHER	WELL, I TALKED TO SOME SCROTES IN BARS, WHICH IS HOW I KNEW YOU WERE HERE.  WE ALL THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD AND --

JONES	JOHN.  YOU HAVEN'T MADE CONTACT?   HAVEN'T POSTED A FLAG OR CHALKED A SIGN?

Continued over page

Page FIFTEEN continued

Pic 4
Jones grabs his phone in panic, punching buttons on it.

ASHER	THIS WEIRD STUFF WAS ALWAYS MORE YOU THAN ME, MIKE.  I WASN'T EVEN SURE IT EXISTED UNTIL --

JONES	FUCKSAKE, JOHN.  WE NEED TO GET YOU INSIDE BEFORE SOMEONE TURNS UP TO SLOT US BOTH.

JONES	YOU CAN'T FUCK WITH THIS SHIT, JOHN, IT'LL GET YOU KILLED.

Pic 5
Asher watches, smiling, as Jones speaks with some anger into his phone.

JONES	JERONIMUS?  JONES.  I'VE GOT A BRITISH SIS SPECIAL AGENT HERE NEEDING TO ENTER THE COMMUNITY.

JONES	WELL, JUST DO WHATEVER IT IS YOU FUCKING DO, JERONIMUS.  THIS IS A FRIEND OF MINE HERE.

Pic 6
Asher's grin widens, smoke leaking out of his nose.  Jones can't help but smile.

ASHER			IT'S GOOD TO SEE YOU AGAIN, MIKE.

JONES				SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU SILLY BASTARD.

PAGE SIXTEEN

Pic 1
END FLASHBACK: CUT TO: a female Asian DOCTOR, stethoscope around her neck, dressed in plain black, looking down at us.

DOCTOR			I'M NOT SURE WHY YOU'RE NOT DEAD, MR JONES.

Pic 2
Pull back: Jones, wearing a pair of black underpants (not the ones he used earlier, thank God), laying on his back on the sofa.  The doctor sits on the edge of the sofa, black medical bag at her feet.

JONES				I'M A MYSTERY TO US ALL.

DOCTOR			WHEN DID YOU LAST EAT, MR JONES?

JONES				HAD SOME RICE A COUPLE OF DAYS AGO.

Pic 3
She leans over, opens her medical bag.  He rears up on his elbows.

DOCTOR	AND TELL ME: HOW MUCH DOPE ARE YOU SMOKING, AND HOW MANY AMPHETAMINES ARE YOU TAKING?

JONES	I SMOKE FOR PAIN MANAGEMENT.  HAVEN'T TAKEN ANY SPEED IN WEEKS.  AND I DON'T DRINK, BEFORE YOU ASK.

DOCTOR			I SEE.  WELL, I CAN GIVE YOU SOME SHOTS FOR --

JONES				NO.  NO NEEDLES.

Pic 4
She considers him, without happiness.

DOCTOR			MR CORNELISZOON SENT ME TO --

JONES	NO NEEDLES.  HAD A BAD EXPERIENCE WITH NEEDLES ONCE.

DOCTOR	I SEE.  BUT I IMAGINE YOU HAVE NO PROBLEM POPPING PILLS.

Pic 5
He sits up, aware he's being insulted.

JONES				CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF THEM.

DOCTOR	YES.  I'M GOING TO GIVE YOU TABLETS TO CONTROL THE NAUSEA, AND VICODIN FOR YOUR PAIN.  NOT IDEAL, BUT I UNDERSTAND MR CORNELISZOON NEEDS YOU UP ON YOUR FEET TODAY.

PAGE SEVENTEEN

Pic 1
She hands him two bottles of pills, eyes sharply on him.

DOCTOR                   ALSO, TRY EATING.  IT'S VERY POPULAR WITH THE LIVING.

DOCTOR	BLUEBERRIES.  WALNUTS.  TURKEY OR SALMON.  TRY SOME WATER, I'M TOLD IT'S VERY GOOD.

DOCTOR	NO AMPHETAMINES.  YOU HAVE NOTHING LEFT TO BURN.  IS THAT CLEAR?

Pic 2
Jones dry-swallows a tablet from one of the bottles as the doctor's attention is drawn to the door.

FROM DOOR        		JONES, YOU LIMEY ASSBITCH!  YOU UP AND AROUND?

DOCTOR       			OH MY GOD.

JONES        			DR TAPPER IS HERE.  YOU SHOULD LEAVE QUICKLY.

Pic 3
TAPPER swaggers in, grinning his awful grin at the doctor.  Dressed as in issues 1-6.

TAPPER		JONES!  YOU ORDERED WHORES FOR ME!  YOU SO SWEET!

DOCTOR		DR TAPPER, I PRESUME.  YOUR REPUTATION PRECEDES YOU.

TAPPER	A DOCTOR WHORE!  I SEEN WEBSITES ABOUT THIS.  YOU WANT TO TAKE MY TEMPERATURE?

Pic 4
She snaps her bag shut, ignoring Tapper.

DOCTOR			I TRUST THIS MAN ISN'T TREATING YOU, MR JONES.

JONES				NO, I ONLY LET HIM NEAR DEAD BODIES.

DOCTOR	GOOD.  I'M NOT CERTAIN HE'S QUALIFIED TO TOUCH ANYTHING WITH A PULSE.  INCLUDING FARM ANIMALS.

Pic 5
She stands and turns, and Tapper's there, invading her space, still grinning like a fool.

TAPPER			I COULD SHOW YOU HOW GOOD I AM WITH A PULSE.

DOCTOR		BUT THEN I'D HAVE TO CUT YOUR CLITORIS OFF, DR TAPPER.

DOCTOR			GOOD LUCK, MR JONES.
PAGE EIGHTEEN

Pic 1
She walks out.  Tapper laughs, sitting down next to Jones.

TAPPER	WHOO!  I TELL YOU, I COULD FUCK A HOLE IN THE WALL RIGHT NOW!

TAPPER			SO WHAT'S THE STORY, JONES?

JONES	FRIEND OF MINE WAS FOUND DEAD.  HEAD, HANDS, PROBABLY COCK AND BALLS, ALL CUT OFF AND TAKEN.

Pic 2
Tapper gets serious in a hurry.

TAPPER			DAMN.  YOU KNOW WHAT THAT SOUNDS LIKE.

JONES	LIKE SOMEONE WANTED US TO WASTE TIME WITH AN UNIDENTIFIABLE BODY THINKING IT'S JOHN ASHER.

TAPPER	YOUR BUDDY ASHER FROM LONDON?  NO FUCKING WAY.

Pic 3
Jones turns, gets his feet on the floor.  Scratches the back of his neck.  Trying to get his head in gear, his brain moving.  It’s hard work.  Every bone in his body probably hurts.

JONES	THAT'S WHAT I'M SAYING.   SO I WANT A DNA TEST ON THE CORPSE.  BUT DON'T WASTE TIME WAITING FOR IT TO COME BACK.

JONES	I WANT FORENSICS.  I WANT TO KNOW HOW HE DIED, AND WHAT WAS USED, AND IF HE FOUGHT.

TAPPER			WHAT’S RATTLING ‘ROUND YOUR SKULL THERE?

Pic 4
Jones stands, gingerly, holding his stomach.  That pill he took is not sitting right.

JONES				SOMEONE'S BUYING TIME, DUMPING A DUMMY BODY.

JONES	I'M THINKING EITHER SOMEONE'S GOT JOHN, OR JOHN'S GONE DEEP UNDERGROUND.

JONES	I DON’T KNOW WHAT I FUCKING THINK.  YOU KNOW I’VE GOT NO HEAD FOR THIS.  

Continued over page

Page EIGHTEEN continued

Pic 5
Tapper twists round in his seat.  Something’s digging into his backside or something, something feel wrong back there, and he sticks his hand down the back of the sofa.

TAPPER	THERE’S SOMETHING JABBING MY ASS… JONES, CAN I MAKE A FUCKING SUGGESTION?

TAPPER	YOU DO THE PRIVATE EYE THING BECAUSE YOU THINK SOMEONE SHOULD, BUT THIS AIN’T NO KIND OF PRIVATE EYE CASE.

TAPPER	THIS IS TRADECRAFT, JONES.  THIS IS FUCKING SPOOK BUSINESS, AND YOU NEED TO SADDLE UP AND START THINKING LIKE A SPOOK AGAIN.

Pic 6
And Tapper pulls a bent paperback out from the back of the sofa.  It’s called RADIO FREE ALBEMUTH, as by PHILIP K DICK (though we won’t be able to see that properly here, of course).  When we can see it properly, this is the cover I’d use:

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/e/e0/Radio-Free-Albemuth.jpg

TAPPER	YOU AND YOUR WEIRD FUCKING BOOKS.  IT’D KILL YOU TO GET YOUR ASS SOME ZANE GREY?

PAGE NINETEEN

Pic 1
Jones snatches the book out of Tapper’s hand.

JONES				ZANE WHO?

TAPPER	YOU’RE AN IGNORANT COCKSUCKER.  AND PUT SOME CLOTHES ON.  SOME OF US ATE THIS WEEK.

JONES	CALL JERONIMUS.  HE’LL TELL YOU WHERE THE BODY’S AT.

Pic 2
Jones looks down at the book in his hand.  Here’s where we need to see the cover.

JONES				AND THIS IS A GOOD BOOK.

JONES	IT’S ABOUT A MAN WHO TURNED OUT NOT TO BE REAL.

Pic 3
Tapper’s already walking out the door, his back to us, giving a dismissive wave.

TAPPER			YOU’RE AS CRAZY AS THE FIRST DAY I MET YOU.

TAPPER	I ALREADY SPOKE TO JERONIMUS.  AND HE’S SENDING YOU HIS DRIVER DIRECTLY.

TAPPER	TELL HIM TO BE CAREFUL ON THE FUCKING ROADS.  IT LOOKS LIKE RAIN TO ME.

Pic 4
EXT. CHEMOSPHERE: and Jones, now wearing black pants and his grey vest-top, is standing outside his front door.  He’s kind of small in this shot: I want to pull way back and get the sky in.  The sky’s gone grey and dark, a massive blanket over the area.

(no dialogue)

PAGE TWENTY

Pic 1
Close in on Jones, as he turns his face up to the sky.

CAPTION	COOL AIR.  CLEAN AIR, PULLED OUT FROM THE PACIFIC AND SWIRLED OVER THE BASIN.

Pic 2
A few spots of rain hit the cement of the path to his front door, there at his feet.  Darkening the concrete; big fat raindrops.

CAPTION	LA MOSTLY DOESN’T HAVE ANYTHING AN ENGLISH BOY LIKE ME RECOGNISES AS WEATHER.  BUT ONCE EVERY YEAR OR TWO, THERE’S THAT RUSH OF COLD AIR…

Pic 3
Jones steps out a bit, holding his hand out to catch stray raindrops, still looking up at the sky.  Not smiling.  It’s been a long time since Jones smiles and meant it.  But he looks… maybe just a little more innocent, in this moment.  And we can see that he’s barefoot.

(no dialogue)

Pic 4
Jones’ POV, as he looks up – there’s a circular swirl to the clouds, and a dark centre… almost like there’s an incredibly massive, black flying saucer hanging over Los Angeles inside the cloud layer…

(no dialogue)

PAGE TWENTY-ONE

Pic 1
CUT TO: A small BAR, off a side street.  A BOUNCER, a six-foot tall guy with a bald head and a big belly straining out of a black t-shirt, sits on a wooden chair by the front door, reading the Los Angeles Times.  The light's still dim from the cloud over, but it's not raining here.  A simple head-on mid-distance shot.

(no dialogue)

Pic 2
Close in on him, brow furrowed over his paper.

BOUNCER			WHAT THE HELL'S A "RENDITION" ANYWAY?  

BOUNCER			SOUNDS LIKE THEY'RE DOING SHOW TUNES.

Pic 3
The bouncer looks up.  Someone's speaking to him, and he didn't hear the speaker turn up.

FROM OFF       	RENDITIONING: SECRETLY MOVING PRISONERS THROUGH FOREIGN AIRFIELDS TO CLASSIFIED HOLDING LOCATIONS.

Pic 4
The speaker is maybe five feet tall.  He's short, stocky, heavily built. A shock of black hair.  In his forties.  Not a pretty guy; his eyes are a little too widely-spaced, a little too large and bulbous in his head.  He wears a black suit under a long green coat. His name's CROUCH.

CROUCH	I'M LOOKING FOR A BIANCA NESTA.  A BLONDE WOMAN.   I'M TOLD SHE DRINKS HERE.

BOUNCER			I KNOW BIANCA.  SHE AIN'T HERE.

Continued over page

Page TWENTY-ONE continued

Pic 5
The bouncer stands up.  Crouch gives him a weird, mirthless smile that he supposes is ingratiating.

CROUCH			DO YOU KNOW WHEN SHE'LL BE BACK?

BOUNCER	HASN'T BEEN HERE FOR A FEW DAYS NOW.  I CAN TELL HER SOMEONE'S LOOKING FOR HER.

CROUCH			NO NEED FOR THAT.

Pic 6
The bouncer doesn't like Crouch.  Has immediately decided that he's trouble.  Crouch smiles up into his face.

BOUNCER	NO.  I'LL GET A NAME FROM YOU, DUDE.  LET HER KNOW YOU'RE LOOKING.

CROUCH			I DON'T WANT HER TO KNOW I'M LOOKING FOR HER.

CROUCH			I DON'T WANT YOU TO KNOW MY NAME.

PAGE TWENTY-TWO

Pic 1
And Crouch's left hand shoots out to grab the bouncer's throat, squeezing hard -- thick strong fingers digging into the fat around his throat, choking his voice off.

BOUNCER			AK

Pic 2
In Crouch's other hand: a long switchblade shoots out, with a serrated edge on the upper edge.

(no dialogue)

Pic 3
It sinks into the bouncer, just above the root of his cock. JOSE: drop this shot into plain black and white.

(no dialogue)

Pic 4
And it saws upwards, up through the bouncer's belly.

(no dialogue)

Pic 5
Shoved up at a crooked angle up under his breastbone, into the bouncer's heart.

(no dialogue)

Pic 6
Jump ahead a few minutes: the bouncer sits dead on his wooden chair, newspaper open over his belly and soaking through with blood.  It starts to rain, just a little.

(no dialogue)

To be continued