A room entombed in dust. The light is a bruised purple, filtering through cracks in plywood-boarded windows.
EXTREME CLOSE UP on a layer of grey silt coating a mahogany sideboard. Then on the spines of unread encyclopaedias. Then on the ridged, still knuckles of a man’s hand.
This is JACK (60s), a ghost in a worn velvet armchair. He is buried to his waist in a heavy, patchwork quilt. His face is a mask of weary resignation. He stares into the middle distance.
The only movement is the slow drift of dust motes in the weak light.
SOUND of a sputtering kerosene heater in the corner. Faintly, the wind howls outside, pressing against the house.
The grandfather clock in the hall is silent, its pendulum frozen mid-swing.
The silence is broken by the heavy THUMP of boots on floorboards from the hall.
MARTHA (60s) marches in. She is a bundle of pragmatic layers: an oversized cable-knit sweater, a fishing vest with bulging pockets, fingerless gloves. She moves with a brusque, aggressive energy that churns the stagnant air.
She carries a wooden tray.
Jack’s eyes slowly focus on her. His voice is a dry rasp, unused.
She sets the tray down on a precarious stack of magazines beside his chair. On it: a steaming mug and a bowl of grey, viscous liquid with small, pale shapes floating in it.
She leans over and adjusts the quilt around his knees. Her movements are brisk, efficient. She tucks the fabric in tight, swaddling him. Binding him.
She straightens, wiping her hands on her trousers.
She walks to the one window with a small gap in the boards, a sliver of the grey, snow-covered world visible. She peers out, her body coiled and tense. Her hand rests near the handle of a large knife on her belt.
Jack watches her back. She is capable. Terrifyingly capable. He is... furniture.
She turns back, her face shadowed. Her sharp eyes scan him, assess him. A specimen. A liability.
He picks up the spoon. It feels heavy in his hand. He brings the lukewarm soup to his lips. Takes a sip.
His expression shifts subtly. He lowers the spoon, lets it hover over the bowl.
She watches him. Too closely.
She smiles. It's a tight, bloodless stretch of skin over her cheekbones. It doesn't reach her eyes.
He takes another spoonful. The bitterness is distinct. Chemical. Like dissolved aspirin. He knows that taste.
The lie is pathetic, and they both know it.
She moves to the front door, buttoning a heavy canvas coat.
She pauses, hand on the doorknob.
She winks—a quick, incongruous flash of the woman she used to be. She slips out. The heavy oak door clicks shut.
A beat of silence.
Then, a distinct, metallic SOUND.
The SLIDE of the deadbolt. From the outside.
Jack stares at the door. A flicker of something—indignation, fear—crosses his face. It’s the first real emotion we’ve seen.
He looks at the bowl of soup. The little stars float in the grey broth, constellations in a dead sky.
He places the bowl carefully on the floor. He grips the worn, smooth arms of the velvet chair. His hands tremble.
He pushes.
His arms shake with pathetic, atrophied effort. His face contorts. He heaves his weight forward.
SOUND of his knees POPPING like dry twigs.
He rises an inch. Two.
The room TILTS violently in his vision. A wave of grey vertigo. His heart hammers against his ribs.
He is standing. Swaying. The quilt pools around his ankles like a shackle. The air up here feels thinner. He takes a rattling breath.
The kitchen counter is five metres away. An impossible distance.
He takes a step. His foot drags, catching the rug. He stumbles, slamming a hand down on the sideboard to steady himself. A porcelain shepherdess figurine wobbles. He stares at its terrified, painted face.
He pushes off. Lurching. A drunkard’s walk across the creaking floorboards. A cold sweat slicks his skin.
He collapses against the kitchen island, breathing hard. The bin is under the sink. He lets gravity win, collapsing into a controlled kneel.
He opens the cabinet. The stench of rot hits him. He pulls out a plastic bin. On top: a tin can. Campbell's Chicken & Stars. He sniffs it. Nothing.
He digs deeper, past slimy tea bags and potato peels. Nothing. No pill bottle. No residue.
He sits back on his heels, defeated. Is he losing his mind?
Then he sees it. Tucked in the shadow behind the u-bend pipe.
A flash of foil.
His stiff fingers pinch the corner, pull it into the light. It's not a pill wrapper. It’s a Cadbury chocolate bar wrapper. Fresh. The smell of chocolate still clings to it.
He stares at it. Betrayal, small and petty and somehow worse than poison, settles on his face. He crushes the wrapper in his fist.
SOUND of the foil CRINKLING, loud as a gunshot in the silence.
From the front door—the unmistakable RATTLE of the handle.
She’s back.
Panic, cold and sharp, cuts through the lethargy. He shoves the wrapper into his trouser pocket. He grabs the counter, hauls himself up. His vision blackens at the edges.
He scrambles, a desperate, crab-like shuffle, back towards the armchair. He kicks the tangled quilt aside, falls into the chair, and drags the heavy fabric up to his chin.
The deadbolt SLIDES back.
The door opens. A gust of freezing wind, smelling of pine and snow, swirls into the room.
Martha stomps in, cheeks flushed red from the cold.
Her eyes sweep the room. She looks at Jack. At the soup bowl on the floor. At the rug, rucked up where he dragged his foot.
Her gaze lands on the shepherdess on the sideboard. It's turned slightly, facing the wall. She pauses. Her eyes narrow.
Her voice is flat. Dangerous.
Jack forces a dry, rattling laugh.
She stares at him, her gaze boring into him. She sees the sweat on his forehead, the slight heave of his chest under the quilt. She knows.
She walks to the sideboard. She picks up the shepherdess and turns it back to face the room. Correcting his mistake. Putting him back in his place. She doesn't look at him.
She turns. For a flash, she looks afraid. Then the mask of the survivor slams back down.
Jack’s hand tightens on the foil wrapper in his pocket.
She walks into the kitchen area.
SOUND of a squeaking tap, groaning pipes.
Jack looks at the grey bowl on the floor. He looks at the dark, boarded window.
The water stops running. The silence stretches, humming with tension.
She doesn't come back into the room. Jack sits, listening to the wind. He can feel the sharp edges of the foil wrapper against his hip.
The room is a cave, lit only by the golden, sickly light of a single kerosene lamp on a small table between the two armchairs. Deep shadows writhe on the walls.
Martha sits opposite Jack, mending a tear in her coat. The needle flashes in the lamplight. In, out. A rhythmic stabbing.
The air is charged. The lie about the lock hangs between them.
Jack blinks, pulled from his thoughts.
She bites the thread, snapping it with her teeth.
She puts the coat down. Her eyes reflect the single flame.
She stands, walks to the window, presses a hand against the boards. She seems to vibrate with a contained energy.
She turns. Her face is hard as iron.
She reaches under the cushion of her own armchair and pulls it out. A Glock. Ugly, black, utilitarian. She holds it with a disturbing comfort.
She ejects the magazine. Checks it. Slides it back in. The CLICK is deafeningly loud.
She places the gun on the table between them. It sits there, a third participant in the conversation. An arbiter.
She leans over and blows out the lamp.
The room plunges into darkness. Only faint grey light seeps through the cracks in the window.
We hear her breathing in the dark. The house groans.
CLOSE ON Jack’s face in the near-blackness. His eyes are wide open. His hand creeps to his pocket, his fingers finding and touching the sharp edges of the foil wrapper.
He doesn't move. He just watches the darkness where she sits. Waiting.
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