Open on a room bare apart from exposed wooden flooring and single chair in the centre, a window on the far wall shows the night sky.
Boris enters from stage right, he wears a cable knit jumper and jeans. His shoulders are stooped. He’s playing with his fingers muttering to himself. He circles the chair clearly agitated and upset but not crying. Finally he sits and becomes still.
Boris – Holy mother of fucking christ, what the fucking bollocks, holy shit balls, fuuuuuuuuuuck!
He clasps both hands over his mouth, his eyes bulging at the strain of not making any noise.
Slowly relaxing again.
Boris – [speaking slowly at first but rapidly becoming more panicked]
Right, OK, we can do this, one dead body isn’t too shabby, we’ve seen plenty of those on the tv, this is just one more, but close up and related to you and smells slightly more and potentially has an eye missing and has creatures that …..
Boris throws up, he wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jumper. He holds out his hands to check they’ve stopped shaking and takes a few more breadths.
He fumbles with his pockets and picks out a mobile phone, it vibrates, he jumps, the phone goes smashing to the floor.
Boris – Bugger balls crap
He scrambles to answer the phone before it goes dead.
Boris – Hey Suze, ummm, this isn’t a great time. No no, I’m not with Clarence, I know not to go, plea, sto, I kno, OH HOLY CHRIST SHUT THE FUCK UP [pause] sorry [pause] I think I’m in trouble.
Lights dim, when they come up we are still in the same very basic home but this time downstairs in the kitchen. A woman in her early 50’s is setting the table for three people. She’s wearing one of her fancy skirt and blouse combinations that she saves for ‘at home special occasions’, a Cath Kidston pinafore is hung around her neck and she rubs her hands up and down it as she potters about the kitchen. Desert Island disks plays in the background and Trudy bops along to the beat occasionally prodding at her hair in attempt to keep the volume.
Trudy – Now Kevin likes bacon with the rind, Boris prefers potato with skin, Kevin without, but in fat not butter. Christ, why are they so fussy? Why am I not fussy? Should I be fussy? Is fussy a good thing?
[putting on a posh English accent and wafting her arms about]
I’m so sorry I can’t possibly drink that Chteau Lafite Rothschild Pauillac, it’s just not the right shade of red, ah ha ha ha.
[Trudy breaks into a fit of giggles then continues speaking to herself]
Now Trude, we talked about this, positive thinking, positive thinking. Kevin really enjoys the way you make the fat crispy, its a compliment to your talent as a chef. Stop panicking.
Turdy goes to the draw and cupboard, finds a large knife and starts cutting potatoes.
The door bell rings and Trudy jumps.
Trudy – Fuck
She holds her hand up to the light and a thin line of blood trickles down her index finger, she puts it in her mouth and heads towards the door. She accidentally slips, reaches towards the table forgetting that she is still holding the knife and drives it deep into her gut.
The bell rings again.