The Long Dark Summer

I fade up.

Interior, day.

I take a sip from my glass. It’s a vodka and lemonade, but it doesn’t have enough vodka in it and too much ice. I’ll mention it to them next time. More vodka, less ice. The lemonade is good and fizzy, though, at least. On the table is a circle of water where my glass has been and I place it back on the same spot.

The two men sitting opposite me snap into view. Some time has passed, I think. They are talking about a house in Italy that is waiting for them. I listen with one ear and make a mental note: it is close to the sea and there’s a great seafood restaurant very close, a stone’s throw. Their choice of phrase is interesting: a stone’s throw. This could be relevant later on in the story, you never know.

I should let them carry on their conversation for a while. These things are never straightforward, there are no rules which govern how these meetings should take place. Different characters, different scenes, same ending. I’m used to dealing with newcomers, too. It can’t be easy turning to someone like me for help. I’m unorthodox and no doubt slightly mysterious. I expect they feel a little awkward but a couple of drinks and a bit of chit-chat should help things along. It’s not as if I can do much else, in any case.

I pan my eye across our surroundings. It’s a funny little place, with no particular shape and people lurking in shady corners. Although it now feels like the middle of the afternoon, the only real light is a number of musty strips that sneak through the heavy curtains, creating a criss-cross of silently sparkling dust. The bar runs down one irregular wall and the barman is quietly pouring drinks. He does not make much eye contact and never seems to smile. It’s an efficient bar but not too friendly. That’s probably why we’re here: it’s the perfect setting. They have chosen a table which is a little separate from the others, near a small alcove, away from the bar and the toilet and any doors.

V/O: my voice, metallic and true:

‘I can’t remember how I got here… but it hardly matters.’

There’s a picture on the wall I’m sure I recognise. It’s a sketch of a horse’s head. The horse has a look on its face which seems to imply that it knows something I don’t and if it could speak, it would both amaze and petrify you. Maybe the secret is that it can speak. I’ve definitely seen it before, this picture, but I have no idea where. I make note of it in my mental log. Who knows if it will be significant as things develop. The back-story isn’t always clear and if you drop off you might miss an important chunk.

I take another sip of my drink. It’s not so bad, I guess. I look at the two guys sitting opposite me. They’re turned towards each other, still talking — not too loudly — about some place in Italy and all the good things about it: the weather perfect, the local people lovely, the wine cheap. The one on the left seems to be the protagonist as he is doing most of the speaking. He is slightly older, around forty maybe, and has a bald head, shaved right down to almost nothing. Although he seems like quite a short, stocky man, he has very large hands which gesticulate impressively. He is dressed casually, the most notable feature being his big brown shoes. They are worn and dirty and are really almost boots, with laces that run all the way up to the ankle. I expect he has worn these boots every day for a long, long time; like some people always have their hair exactly the same way for the duration of their lives, this chap always wears his trusty brown boots.

The other chap is like a thinner, whiter version of his friend. He has more hair and I cannot see what shoes he is wearing. It is strange, but the faces of both men seem to betray a long-forgotten childhood, like they remain two young boys, trying to cope with an inappropriately adult frame. The thinner man is not talking as much but instead nods and stares at his glass of beer, which he sometimes turns in his fingers. When he does open his mouth, a tiny voice peeps out like a mouse from its hole. Whatever his reasons for wanting to know his future, he is clearly troubled by the present. I hope I can help him.

Music starts: a downtrodden, plaintive trumpet.

Titles appear in large, white letters:

Ah-ha! We have a title and it dissolves from my view as the man on the left gets up and starts ambling between the tables, probably going to the lavatory; he’s definitely been here before as he goes straight there. He is indeed stocky. I used to be stocky like that, before I grew old and began to shrivel at the corners.

The thinner man turns toward me, his forehead creased like the sea. I ask him what his problem is and he raises his eyebrows a fraction, as if surprised that I knew he had one, then averts his eyes to his drink on the table. I can feel myself smiling so, forcing my smugness under, I tell him his friend was right to bring him to me. He raises his hand to his face and begins to flatten the skin which is folding deeper. He closes his eyes for a few moments as if searching the dark recesses of his mind for the right mousey words. I have a large gulp of my vodka and lemonade and urge him to do the same with his own drink. That might coax something out of him, I think to myself. He lowers his hand and takes his glass in it but does not drink anything. Something has to happen soon.

The other man returns to his seat and starts tapping an irrelevant rhythm on the table top with his fingernails. The air grows thick and darkness rises from the floor like noxious smoke.

Cut to: dream-like flashback montage of old home videos and grainy Super 8 film footage, mixing into itself, soundtrack echoing like ancient whispers.

Long, slow mix into bar, b/w.

How long we’ve been dreaming it’s hard to say, but not much has really changed. The stocky man is asking me if my drink is all right. He has stopped tapping and is looking directly at me, possibly for the first time. I fill my lungs with stale air. Maybe now is the time to get down to business.

I dip my toe in the water by asking him if he likes horses but he doesn’t really respond one way or another. Trying a different tack, I ask him if he has ever been to Italy. I notice the two men shuffle in their seats and shoot a glance at each other. I tell them that I went to a place once, many years ago, and played on the beach with my tiny sons. Maybe it was Italy. We drove there over the mountains in a car with no roof and had a birthday party in a wooden house. They remain silent so I empty the last of my drink down my throat and continue.

I tell them about the clouds at this place, that they are very serene, very subtle. They may look different at first and they may be far away, I say, but they still speak the same language. This seems to unsettle my companions and I suspect that whatever the reason they have come to me, they are scared of what they might hear. The bald man asks me if I want the same again — more stalling. I do not answer but his friend gives him my finger-smudged glass, and his own, and nods.

We are alone again — the thin, pale man and I — and the streaks of dust are shimmering more golden now. He stares off into space.

Close-up.

Those eyes reflect my own, strained and heavy, hiding a thousand wistful thoughts. His past is shrinking into disconnected specks, drifting around their glassy prison. He can see all too starkly the airless trajectory of his life. He doesn’t need me to tell him where he will end up but I cannot give him anything else.

A tall glass is placed in front of me and the various bar-room sounds slide back from their muted hum. I inform the two men that it is time to go outside. I sense their frustration, their unease, so I explain that the sky changes every minute and it’s important to see it at the right time. When nightfall comes, you can’t see it at all. They ask why I can’t finish my drink first. I turn toward the curtains and can see that it is still quite light outside, so I pick up my full glass and, trying not to spill any on my clean, white shirt, take a little sip. Very nice, I say, better than the last one, although I’m not sure it is.

Diagonal wipe, as time passes.

The men are now leaning forward with their elbows and forearms resting on the table, looking anxiously at me. Behind them the barman is scuttling around, filling and wiping and invisibly breathing. It looks like the two young men have something to say before we go outside. For a fleeting moment, I realise they live in an entirely different world to me and an unstoppable fear rushes headlong towards me. But it speeds on past, merely brushing the top of my head, and my heartbeats soften. Everything is correct again.

I should let them speak first, I decide to myself. They have surely heard all about my secret gift. I expect they both know that once I sit under the sky and see their future mapped in the clouds, there will be no point in saying anything. The clouds may tell a different story as the wind re-shapes their destiny but I will no longer be looking, so the story will no longer be true.

They are mumbling something about things changing and a better life for everyone. It is clear they fear deeply for their future, especially the thinner man, who seems to be blinking back some great emotion. I can only give them what they have already received, of course, for better or for worse, but I can understand their desperation. It is the rest of their lives, after all.

Music fades up: the opening bars of ‘God Only Knows’ by the Beach Boys. As the first verse gets underway, fade to a background level.

I dab a drop of vodka and lemonade from my chin with the cuff of my shirt. Now they are trying to explain something about a big, white house in the countryside. This one is not in Italy, they say, and there are lots of folk like me. To be honest, they’re not making much sense and are kind of wittering away in turn, one after the other, sometimes overlapping. Like waves on the shore, I think. I see they are not touching their drinks at all, yet they were keen for me to finish mine before we moved outside. Maybe they’ll leave theirs full on the table as if they never even existed. At least there won’t be a mess of watery rings left like usual.

It’s probably all irrelevant, this chatter. I really don’t like things that are unnecessary to the plot but I let them speak. Something about a big library of films to watch, they’re saying. Ah, now films are something I do like. I could watch films all day and often that’s exactly what I do. (It makes a nice break from reading the future in the clouds.) All types of films, the younger man tells me. Yes, I can watch pretty much any type of film. Old war movies, romantic ones, colour or black and white, bloodthirsty films, films about nothing much at all…most of them are very watchable. Very useful for letting the brain have a rest from the world. When I watch a film it’s like my blood moves at the correct speed and I feel extremely comfortable.

Slow mix into CU glass.

The bubbles rise obediently and disappear on the surface. The two men are still talking to me but their words are growing increasingly sparse. It’s getting dimmer, the dust is melting into the gloom. Better go outside soon. Our futures approach steadily from the beginning of time, then vanish in less than an instant. They are droning on about being far away but close by; it seems they do understand things. They say they can visit me quite often in the future, if I’d like.

No, I tell them. You can only visit me once. I cannot see people again after meeting them, that would be pointless. They may not find me again, anyway.

They’ll find me, they insist, but I know it’s not as simple as that. We drift alone on our own course.

Music fades out. Cut to: P.o.V. shot, colour.

As I let the last of my favourite drink fall between my lips, I feel a little light-headed, as if my chair is moored in the ocean and is being gently rocked by the tide. The two men have fallen silent but are still looking in my direction, waiting for an answer. Their shame is scrawled across their features, as if they are expecting to be scolded for throwing that birthday cake onto the floor all over again.

I don’t need to tell them that it’s time to let me see the sky. The shorter man stands and walks in his old boots around the table until he stands behind me. As I’m being wheeled through the doorway, the low sunlight forces me to squint.

Exterior, day: a village green.

By the time my eyes adjust, I can see we are already at the place. It’s all as familiar as ever: the grassy mound, the soft breeze on my cheeks, the private conversations of the birds. The two men stand in their usual positions, either side of me, and I tilt my head backwards and start to gaze up at the world to come. One of us lets slip a delicate, tragic sigh.

It’s for the best, Dad, a voice says, just think about it. That’s exactly what I do, of course, every time I’m here. Look up at the slowly shifting clouds and think about what lies in store. It’s going to be a long, dark summer.

Wide shot of sky.

Music swells: ‘Les Feuilles Mort’ sung by Edith Piaf.

I slowly fade to black.