'The Parcel', Chapter 2 by Steven Hardy

Here is the first draft of Chapter 2 from my novella ‘The Parcel’. Enjoy!

Read Chapter 1 here: http://writersandlitlovers.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/the-parcel-chapter-1-by-steven-hardy.html

Alan was sweating, as he leaned back in his seat, though he was in no immediate danger, he felt on edge. As he looked around the cabin, all those innocent smiling faces, carefree laughs, it only made him feel a condemned man, a dead man walking.

‘Water or juice?’

‘Huh?’ Alan was caught unawares by the seductively dressed air hostess, ‘Water, please.’

She handed him the water - it was warm - and walked on. Time slipped away with Alan in a state of needless transfixed paranoia; he did not even watch a film, or sleep a wink.

‘Tsk – okay we are approaching London Heathrow’ the Captain gurgled through the PA system ‘Please fasten your seatbelt, and cabin crew please go through your final checks.’

 Alan in a robotic fashion obliged, and before he knew it they had landed in Heathrow. Alan retrieved his hand luggage and expressed his gratitude to the cabin crew, without ever meaning a word. Alan followed the throng of people through immigration control, where the gentleman behind the desk said, ‘Welcome home again’ and to which Alan thought is it? Is it really? In a solemn state Alan went to collect his luggage from belt six, and suddenly it dawned on him all he had to do was find Mr A. Gost give him the package, and it would be over, he would be a thousand pound better off, and all this worry would have been for nothing. He smiled.

Returning to his Mr Bean impersonation, with his grey hand held, without wheels luggage, he walked out to the arrival lounge. Confidently, he scanned the taxi men’s boards for his name, his heart skipped a beat when he could not find it, but trying to remain positive he walked to the group of taxi drivers.

‘Huh- hmm, excuse me, do any of you know Mr A. Gost?’ Alan asked,

‘Who?’ came the reply from a burly taxi driver, who seemed the same width as he was tall. 

I am looking for A. Gost?’ Alan repeated, to which the taxi drivers began to laugh at him.

‘So let me get this straight’ a tall, lanky Indian driver was talking now, in a strong Indian accent, ‘you are looking for a ghost?’

‘Yes, that’s right’ said Alan glad to be getting somewhere, but they laughed even harder this time. 

‘Get a load of this’ the Indian man continued ‘he really is looking for a ghost’ the drivers were on the verge of tears from laughing so hard, so after being made to look like a fool Alan stormed off. Frustrated and beginning to panic again, Alan suddenly realised why the taxi drivers were laughing at him, he was looking for a ghost. Oh how could he be so stupid he thought to himself, stretching his memory Alan tried to remember if Laos mentioned a first name, but he had not. Beginning to feel he was on the end of a stupid prank to find a ghost, Alan headed for the taxi stand, to end this nonsense. Walking out the terminals glass doors, Alan was suddenly hit by the chill of an English February afternoon, shivering he walked down to the line of yellow taxis waiting to pick up passengers. As he walked up to the first one, a small Chinese man leaned out the window, calling;

‘Hey, you, you wanna ride, I give good price, huh, huh?

‘Um – no thanks, do you know Mr A. Ghost?’

‘No, I know no Ghost. You want ride?’ the Chinese man responded.

‘Um – no thanks, have a good day.’

Essentially, Alan experienced the same sort of response from the next five drivers, however by the sixth he had a different response, an interesting one.

‘Hello, do you know a Mr A. Gost?’

‘Alexander? Yes’ said the taxi driver in a husky Russian accent.

‘Alexander Gost?’ Alan checked again.

‘Yes, I told you already’ the man in the taxi literally filled his cab, his head seemed to crane sideways just so he could fit in the vehicle, he certainly was not your average taxi driver, with a small cut down the right side of his mouth, and a small tattoo of a globe on the nape of his neck. Naturally, Alan was unnerved.

‘Um – okay – sorry, but where is he?’

                ‘Gone,’ the Russian monotonously replied.

‘Pardon?’ Alan must have misheard him.

‘I said gone,’ he repeated.

‘Oh, it is just that I have something for him,’ this seemed to capture the taxi driver’s attention.

‘What is it? He asked.

‘Oh – err- well I don’t actually know,’ Alan was back peddling now, seriously regretting ever telling this stranger about the package.

‘You don’t know?’

‘Err – no,’ Alan whimpered. They both locked eyes for what seemed like a minute, before he snapped out of this trance.

‘Look, Alan, let me tell you some advice, go home fast, okay?’ he spoke with an authority, which Alan was only too willing to oblige.

‘Yes – well, thank you, that is what intend to do.’

‘Good, you want a ride? I offer good deal?’ he spoke.

‘Um – no thank you, I have already booked a taxi’ and with that Alan walked away blushing, booked a taxi, what a white lie that was. Alan quickly strode over to the first Chinese taxi driver.

‘Err – change of mind, I would like a lift please,’ he said, as he opened the passenger door. The Chinese man smiled back at him.

‘Where to?’

‘Take me towards the south coast, I will give directions nearer the time’ Alan spoke with a confidence previously unbeknown to him; perhaps it was this unusual situation that required unusual measures. The Chinese man smiled back and nodded, probably a little confused as he pulled away from the taxi bay. Alan sunk down in his seat, and patted the package that nestled in his jacket pocket, what was he going to do with it now? Laos, will probably never know it was undelivered…maybe he should just bin it and forgot this situation. Feeling a little more relaxed, Alan played over the conversation he had with the Russian taxi driver, over and over, remembering his strange advice, ‘Look, Alan let me tell you some advice, go home fast, okay?’ The more Alan thought about this the stranger the advice sounded; of course he would go home, right? Where else would he go? But that was not the least of it, as Alan replayed the conversation in his mind it dawned upon him, that he referred to Alan by his name, yet Alan never told him his name. This chilled Alan to the core, the Russian man knew him, and was expecting him; maybe he was the reason Mr A. Gost had ‘gone’ mysteriously, that short period of relaxation had evaporated in thin air now, as Alan was now scared again, nay he was petrified. He felt as if he was a puppet, in someone’s cruel game, and what did they do to Mr Gost, kill him? No, no he was over thinking, Alan needed to calm himself, he felt he was suffocating in his own thoughts, so automatically wound open the car window and inhaled deeply, the crisp air cleared his mind temporarily, and he fought with himself for control of his body. The Chinese taxi man looked at him with an expression of concern.

‘You okay, mister?’

‘Yes,’ Alan had broken out in a cold sweat, but slowly began to calm himself.

‘You sure, mister?’

‘Yes fine, just please keep driving,’ said Alan almost inaudibly.

They drove for roughly an hour toward the south coast in stony silence, before Alan broke it to give directions. He lead the taxi driver through a quaint town, it appeared out of sync with the world, antique shops lined the high street, as did a butcher, and grocer, but no Sainsbury’s. The place seemed old fashioned and unassuming, one could argue derelict considering it was a Saturday afternoon. They turned off down a back road, two rights, a left, than another right, before they pulled into the driveway of a small bungalow cottage, with a neat garden, which sadly lacked blossoming flowers, however its tidiness was pleasing, nonetheless. A white cottage, with black tarred timber struts supporting its shape, it was not terribly fancy, but rather something your grandmother might retire in, nevertheless to Alan it was home, and there on his drive was his pride and joy, his silver Audi TT. Alan paid the driver, and tipped him too, he even waved him off as he pulled away. He smiled falsely, picked up his luggage and turned to enter his house.   

'The Parcel', Chapter 1 by Steven Hardy

Firstly, my apologies for giving you different work – again. I am busy juggling stage, screen and improve acting (on top of a degree) that I have not had any time to write new follow on material. So let me introduce my first ever novella ‘The Parcel’ I will give you chapters from this book over the next few weeks, whilst I am doing all my acting roles to bide me some time and I promise that during December I will write new follow on material to ‘No Separation’ my dystopian novella and my other work so that it makes some chronological sense. Enjoy!’

Alan never really liked his name, especially when he handed over his passport and ticket to the masked girl behind the desk. Well actually she was not masked, however the unholy amount of foundation on her face lead him to believe she looked nothing like that first thing in the morning. She took his passport with her long, claw-like manicured nails and recited ‘Alan James Ingram’.

‘Uhm – yes, that is me’,  In retrospect there was nothing wrong with his name, or his life to be honest. Alan was an accountant for a minor banking firm; he did not earn a lot, but it was sufficient enough to send him on this holiday to Brazil. However, now it was over it seemed like a sad waste of money. For all the stress induced by a holiday - the packing, the leaving, the security checking - the relaxation was by comparison not all that worth it. To be fair though, the sunshine and tasty food was most welcome…also that day trip to the monastery was rather quaint and very informative.  The most disappointing element in Alan’s life was that he was not married; honestly he was never really close to getting a girlfriend. I mean which girl really wanted to date a thirty five year old accountant, five foot six, who can manage to boast a head full of grey hair? Although in his favour he did drive an Audi TT, the average man’s ‘‘I want to be a rich man’s’’ car, and he managed to fully pay of the mortgage on his house. Unfortunately, in reality those are not the two strongest pickup lines in the world.

‘London Heathrow?’ the check in lady inquired.

‘Uhm – yes that is right’, he really did not have a charm with the ladies. Airport, and other busy places tended to disagree with Alan, and the fact he works London probably attributed too much of his grey hair. The never-ending carousel of meetings and deadlines according to his Doctor had led to his premature greying and general aged disposition.

‘Okay Mr Ingram, you are gate 21, please head toward the departure lounge.’ She smiled at him, which resulted in Alan severely blushing and mumbling to himself as he left. He looked back outside the terminal; the skies were clear, people were smiling and he was heading back to England.  He pocketed his passport and ticket in his brown corduroy trousers, righted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and set off with his grey suitcase without wheels, in essence Alan looked about as out-dated and awkward as Mr Bean. His trousers swayed about his ankles, revealing white socks, which over time have become slightly yellowed by sweat and dirt. He wore a brown blazer (corduroy of course) and a brown belt. It was safe to say that he wore the colour palette of murky water.

The hustle and bustle of passengers did not help his unease at airports but that was unavoidable. Without speaking to anyone Alan swiftly made his was up two flights of stairs at the end of the check in room and emerged into the departures lounge. The departure lounge was lined with shops selling their wares. Anything from perfume to new suitcases was available, and speaking of new suitcases, Alan could have done with one; however, the old saying ‘do not fix what is not broken’ rang true with Alan. Walking along with his eyes fixed on all these shops was a recipe for disaster, as he accidentally swung his grey leather suitcase into a small child holding his mother’s hand.

‘I am so sorry…’ Alan began.

‘You careless man!’ the mother chided, her son had begun to cry, she smothered him in her arms.

‘Uh- I’m sorry, is there anything I could do-‘

It was about this time her husband came on over from the coffee shop after seeing the commotion.

‘What’s happened?’ he addressed his wife and a brief description of the events lead to this tank of a man squaring up to Alan. The man had muscles on his body that did not look as if they belonged there and his skin-tight t-shirt only served to exemplify this.

‘I did not mean to –‘, words were not forming in Alan’s mouth, as he blubbered nonsensically.

‘If I ever see you again, you are in big trouble’ he dug his finger into Alan’s chest. It hurt. The husband then swooped up his son and luggage and walked away; his wife glanced back disapprovingly.  

His boring, unassuming self normally never led him to much trouble (with the odd exception of clumsiness) however, without realising it, today he was being watched, followed and chosen by people that seamlessly blended into the background. Alan was shaken up by his encounter with that family, not so much the whole ‘finger in the chest’ thing, but mainly because he felt sorry for the young boy: it was honestly an accident. He concluded he would take that as a life lesson, learn from his mistakes and think about it no more. Alan was very methodical like that. His Doctor said he had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but Alan just thought he was logical. Sure, he has to line up the television controls in a manner in which all were parallel, with an exact spacing of one centimetre between each controller and each controller was flush with the end of the table, but we all have our habits right? Promptly he made his way around the circular lounge and began to walk toward gate 44, his shoes rasping loudly on the floor as he did. He entered his gate, and displayed his ticket without ever saying a word and proceeded to sit down a full hour before the flight was due. The gate was virtually empty, except for a couple of families. One family had a young son who was crying, Alan swallowed hard, it was that same family and boy he had knocked over, secretly he made his way over to a seat at the end of the lounge without being seen by the boy’s father. There was also a tanned man, with a wild afro in a Hawaiian shirt, who perched himself like a vulture on his seat. He seemed tense, and the tension was tangible in the room. Alan began to read the newspaper that was left on the seat next to him, but there was nothing out of the ordinary: tax was being increased and somewhere in the world somebody had died, also another celebrity couple have filed for divorce, so as mentioned before, ‘nothing out of the ordinary’. As he was reading the newspaper, the Afro-man stood up. He looked a full six foot, yet was rather thin like a disproportionate stick insect. The stick insect – bird – man walked over to where Alan was sitting; Alan noticed he walked with a slight limp as he proceeded to sit next to him. Alan now felt uncomfortable and he began to finger the edge of his newspaper. The man smelt of barbeque and cigarettes, a sweet sickly aroma, as he leaned towards Alan and spoke;

‘Alan,’ he spoke with a heavy Jamaican accent, which to be honest typified his look ‘dawnt make a scene.’

‘How do you know me? Who are you?’ Alan's mind was racing as he began to breathe heavily.

‘Calm, Alan, calm’ the Jamaican man soothed, ‘I am Laos’

‘Okay – um – how do you know me? Please leave me alone, I have not done anything to you’ Alan was almost pleading now

‘It is nawt a question of what you haven’t done to me but what you could do for me, see Alan I have a favour to ask,’ Laos paused for a while, to let Alan absorb this new information, as he crossed his legs and sat back in his seat.

‘Talk to me Alan, can you help me?’ Laos inquired.

‘Look – err – Laos I don’t know you, and anyway how do you know me?’

‘Irrelevant’ Laos drawled, ‘Look Alan I have money.’

‘Okay - good - for - you, but please leave me alone,’ Alan insisted. He was actually quietly proud of himself, as this was probably the first time he ever tried to take authority.

‘I will go’ Laos said after some consideration, ‘If you deliver this package for me’

‘What? No I can’t trust you!’ Alan now began to feel uncomfortable again; this man wanted a favour.

‘Look, Alan, what are you afraid of? You deliver this simple package for me,’ as he spoke, Laos slid out of his cargo short a small brown envelop about four by two inches. It was padded, with bubble wrap Alan guessed, and was heavily sealed at the mouth of the envelope with masking tape.

‘Look, Alan, I ‘ave money’ Laos raised his eyebrows, sensing he might be getting his way.

‘Well – err – what if it is illegal, or dangerous, or gets me killed, or in prison or something’ Alan rambled, ‘this is an unusual request, I don’t even know you!’

‘Look Alan, you don’t need to know anything other than I am Laos and I have money. T’ink aboot it Alan, I have already got through security, pass dem sniffer dogs, through dem scanners, it is not illegal or dangerous,’ Laos spoke soothingly, and let his rhythmic Jamaican tones assure Alan.

‘Fine,’ Alan began to reason, ‘If I do this for you will you leave me alone?’

‘Yes,’ Laos monosyllabically responded

‘And I am I no danger?’ Alan asked, as he turned investigator.

‘No.’

‘How much will you pay me?’

‘One thousand pounds.’

Alan paused, and thought about this, the money would be useful; it practically pays for his airfare. Also, Laos is right he has been through security, so what he is carrying is not illegal. After much consideration;

‘Okay, I will do it,’ Alan confirmed in a confident tone.

‘Good’ Laos smiled, ‘At Heathrow, you will find a man at the taxi stand called Mr. A. Gost’ as he spoke Laos wrote the name on the package for him, and slipped it onto the newspaper sheet spread across Alan’s lap. Laos then reached inside another pocket and pulled out a small roll of bank notes.

‘One thousand pounds exactly, I counted it myself,’ he seemed proud.

Alan smiled weakly as he pocketed the cash, supposing that this was the proverbial signing of a contract, and from this point onwards there would be no backing out.

‘Now listen good Alan, do not lose this gift, guard it with your life, and finally, only give it to Mr. Gost, understood?’

‘Um – yes’ Alan felt nervous again, why did he call it a gift? Guard it with my life? That seems a bit extreme.

‘Okay goodbye Alan, stay safe’ Laos hissed the last words. Feeling uneasy, and already regretting this decision he looked down at the package, whilst mumbling something that sounded vaguely like goodbye. So many questions flew through Alan’s mind, primarily what is the package? Who is Mr Gost? Alan had to ask Laos now before he boarded the flight.

‘Laos?’ Alan said.

No reply, Alan looked up again, and turned his head left to where Laos sat, or used to sit, because now he had gone. Alan had almost jumped out of fright, how did this man vanish? Frantically, Alan began to look around the room, the two families were still there; the boy had stopped crying and was whimpering in his mother’s lap. Panicking, Alan involuntarily stood up and he began to pace around the waiting lounge, he stared down the corridor he had just walked down, but all he saw was a barrage of people heading toward him, probably about to get the same flight as him, but no sign of Laos. Conceding defeat, he sat back down in his chair, head buried in his hands, why on earth did he accept the deal? Stupid, stupid, stupid…. He repeated over and over in his mind.

‘Damn it!’ Alan unintentionally said out loud, attracting the attention of the mother cradling her whimpering child and her husband.

‘You!’ he said beginning to rise out of his seat, until his wife put a comforting hand on his arm, confining him to his seat. He made a motion with his hands, trying to communicate that either he will be watching me, or that he had something stuck in his eye.

‘Sorry,’ Alan mumbled, and he bore his vision into his lap again his heart missed a beat at the thought of being confronted by that human tank again. In all honesty Alan was not sorry, he was scared and annoyed with himself. Naturally, Alan began to reason with himself. Look, nothing bad has happened to me yet, I did not tell them where I live or anything. But then again he already knew my name, what if he has a whole file about me, overthinking the situation Alan concluded he would stop using Facebook or Twitter. All I have to do is give this package to Mr. A. Gost - instinctively he patted the packet that rested in his blazers pocket - and then that would be it, it would be over, he could return to being mundane Alan, the thought of which soothed him. His mind, entertained many ideas and thought each of which only lead to a chain of new thought, concerns and worries. Time slipped by as Alan thought deeply, and by the time he raised his head again, the waiting lounge was fully of passengers, and the stewardess was announcing rows twenty-seven to fifty-seven could board. That was Alan. In a sustained daze Alan stood up, gathered his things, and went to board the plane. 

Morpheus - Scene 1 by Ben Garry

I wrote the first six scenes of this play (with one more scene on the way) as a response to inspiration that I received in my A levels from both the modern tragedy, A Streetcar Named Desire (by Tennessee Williams), and Ancient Greek tragedies such as Euripides' Medea and Heracles. My big idea was to create a modern day classical tragedy, that somehow combines the ancient form with the modern. Thus, I've axed the Chorus found Greek tragedies, set out the script in what I hope is a similar way to Williams, and placed two minor Greek gods in a kebab shop in Brighton. I've also tried, as far as possible, to merge modern ideals of everyday heroes with classical ideals of the supernatural, as well as keeping to as many of the conventions of plot that are found in classical tragedy as I can...it's all well and good me saying this, but you can be the judge of how successful I've been. If you enjoy this, then I'll post some more scenes in the coming weeks. I hope you like it!

THANATOS and MORPHEUS sit at a two-man table in a kebab shop. The light outside the shop windows comes solely from street lights. It is the middle of the night and it is overcast; the moon and stars have no effect on the streets. Inside the café, two men work behind the counter, serving a steady but small trickle of people who pass in and out of the battered shop door. No one pays any attention to THANATOS or MORPHEUS as they enter the shop or as they leave. The counter is on the right hand side of the shop as you walk in and THANATOS and MORPHEUS are sitting parallel to this. MORPHEUS has his back to the door; THANATOS is facing the door. On the wall behind MORPHEUS’ head is a white analogue clock. It reads 6:04 and the second hand jerks regularly but never progresses. MORPHEUS is wearing a loose, white shirt (untucked at the waist and slightly baggy), as well as comfortable looking, dark blue jeans. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, slightly revealing a hairless chest. His moderately dark, brown hair is a little unkempt, as though he just ran his fingers through it after a shower and left it as it was, but he doesn’t look unsophisticated because of this. THANATOS is wearing a black jacket (not leather) with the collar upturned around his neck. The jacket is zipped up to the base of his throat and nothing of the clothes under it can be seen. He is wearing slightly crumpled black trousers that are tucked into stout, shiny black boots around his lower calves. His black hair is combed back and falls to the base of his neck, but it does not look greasy. He is clean shaven except for a small, black, triangular beard under his lower lip.

THANATOS looks around himself in undisguised disgust as if the kebab shop is the epitome of all that is unsavoury in the city, which, perhaps, it is.

THANATOS – It’s no surprise that I’ve been kept so busy of late.

THANATOS picks up a laminated menu displaying the kebab shop’s wares, glances at it briefly with an expression of disdain, then throws it over his shoulder.

THANATOS – After all, humans seem to have an obsession with things that will get them killed. Once upon a time, the human race was actually concerned with prolonging their lives (He chuckles mirthlessly)...apparently they’ve decided that survival is overrated.

MORPHEUS – (Scowling) Don’t pretend that humanity matters to you, Thanatos. The only time you’d ever take an interest is if they discovered the secret of immortality. And you know full well that they have no love for you in return.

THANATOS – Oh I know, Morpheus. But I suppose it doesn't matter what humans think of me as long as I can do my job well.

THANATOS smiles as he talks but the smile never quite reaches his eyes, which remain a cold and ruthless grey. He is like a deadly reptile: nothing special to look at, but so full of poison that it seems to ooze out over its skin. Nonetheless, MORPHEUS seems untroubled in the other’s presence.

MORPHEUS – There was a time when we cared about what humans thought of us, even you. We sought their adoration and they worshipped us, bowing to powers that they knew were beyond their control.

THANATOS – We still have that power, with or without their worship. What does it matter if you have a thousand fleshy lumps fawning over you for a few years, at the end of the day, they are nothing more than a whim of greater gods than us.

MORPHEUS – Of course you’d say that! You only look at a human when it’s their time to die. You stare them in the face and they scream right back. (He sneers at the other) I doubt you even know what love is.

THANATOS – (Seeming genuinely amused) And I suppose you do know what love is, Dreamer?

MORPHEUS – I am the bringer of sleep, of dreams! Many count my gift as a blessing, which is more than you can say, O Lord of Death. I actually care about the humans, without me, they would never survive.

MORPHEUS keeps his voice low, but his mocking tone is unmistakable. THANATOS leans forward. He doesn’t appear angry at the other’s accusation, but a dangerous glint sparks in the flint of his eyes.

THANATOS – Does that mean you have to care for them? Do your powers make it essential that you show them concern? Tell me, Morpheus, if you only care for them because your powers require you to, do you really care for them at all?

MORPHEUS – Yes, I do. You need to-

THANATOS – (Cutting off the other’s sentence) Enlighten me, for I don’t think I understand where you’re coming from. For millennia, you have left me to my duties, yet now, you challenge me as if I am an enemy to you.

MORPHEUS – Perhaps, in ages gone by, I made the mistake of not caring enough.

THANATOS laughs, but the sound is cold and humourless. The lights in the shop seem dimmer and colder than they had before.

THANATOS – Perhaps you did. Though I must say, humans seem to have been sleeping and dreaming well in the last few centuries, so you can’t have been neglecting your concern for them too much.

A small knife appears in THANATOS’ hand. He twirls it slowly through the air, watching MORPHEUS intently. The few humans in the shop seem not to notice.

THANATOS – Your uncomfortable silence reveals more to me than your evasive words, Dreamer. You are no Athene or Hades; you are not suited to cunning lies and distortions of the truth. I go everywhere, I see everything. You cannot hide anything from me.

MORPHEUS does not respond. He is sullen, glaring down at the table. If there is anger building behind his eyes, he keeps it hidden.

THANATOS – (Sneering) Nothing to say, Dreamer?

THANATOS reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small picture. The image is JANE BLACK, turned partly away from the camera, unaware that the picture has been taken. MORPHEUS cannot help but glance up sharply. His mouth opens slightly and a look somewhere between surprise and fury skims over his features before he can compose himself fully.

THANATOS – Now we’re getting somewhere. Do you know who this woman is, Morpheus?

MORPHEUS – No. I do not stalk mortals as you do.

THANATOS – (Seeming genuinely amused) I would find this funny if it wasn’t so pitifully pathetic.  You tell me that you don’t know this woman, but the look on your face when you saw this picture said otherwise. Don’t bother to deny your reaction. I saw it – I am patient and well skilled at observing the actions of the living. (His voice quietens eerily) How else do I know when it is their time to die? There is no point trying to hide anything from me. What is going on with this mortal?

MORPHEUS – She...she interests me.

THANATOS – Oh? As an ant interests a child?

MORPHEUS – Well-

THANATOS – Don’t bother.

MORPHEUS – (Reluctantly) No.

THANATOS – What then? As a question interests a philosopher?

MORPHEUS – No.

THANATOS – Well, this is bemusing indeed, Dreamer. (Feigning surprise) Surely you can’t mean...

MORPHEUS – (Slamming his fist on the table) You know what I mean, Thanatos!

The lights in the shop seem to flare brightly, then dim sharply once more as THANATOS’ expression darkens dangerously.

THANATOS – I do know what you mean. I know all too well. Foolish god! Did you not think that the Olympians would notice?

MORPHEUS’ defiant expression changes to one of horror.

THANATOS – Yes, Morpheus. I was sent here by the Olympian gods themselves. You know as well as I do that a god cannot fall in love with a mortal; we have not been allowed to do so for centuries now.

Placing the photograph of JANE BLACK on the table, THANATOS stabs down on it viciously with his knife.

THANATOS – Are the goddesses not good enough for you?

He stabs down again.

THANATOS – Could you not choose a nymph to take as your wife?

Stab.

THANATOS – You idiot. The path you choose is littered with foolishness.

MORPHEUS – (Angrily) You know nothing of love! How could you possibly understand what it means to fall in love when all you do is take?

THANATOS – (Raising his voice) I know my place! (His voice lowers threateningly once more) As should you.

MORPHEUS – So in doing this, I am out of place?

THANATOS – By the decree of Olympian Zeus, as a god in love with a mortal, you have broken a heavenly law.

MORPHEUS – (Looking away in disgust) I don’t need to hear this from you, Thanatos.

THANATOS scowls at him, pockets the knife, picks up the photograph and slowly tears it in half. His eye’s never leave MORPHEUS’ face.

THANATOS – I have said what Zeus sent me to say. My warning has been given. You would be wise to give it heed. Good bye, Morpheus.

THANATOS pushes himself up from the table and stands straight. MORPHEUS still refuses to make eye contact with him. Giving the god of dreams one last, long, penetrating stare, THANATOS exits through the shop door, striding out into the night. MORPHEUS remains seated. He stares down at the table and picks up the two halves of the photo. He holds them together for a moment, gazing at the face of JANE BLACK, before slipping them into the pocket of his jeans. He frowns slightly, then leaves the shop.