The Deep End
The heat in the ravine was heavy enough to drown in, but it was the look on Jeff's face—sharp, smiling, and utterly hollow—that made David wish he hadn't come.
**EXT. RAVINE ROAD - NIGHT**
The air is thick, chewable. A wall of humid, oppressive heat presses down.
SOUND of frantic, metallic CICADAS screaming a saw-blade drone.
DAVID (17, sensitive, artistic, a walking nerve ending) walks along the edge of a road. His shirt is damp, clinging to his skin. He's sweating, but it's not just the heat.
He walks past long, curling driveways hidden behind walls of manicured cedar and wrought iron. Secrets.
He checks his phone. NO SERVICE. Of course.
He stops at a gate. Poured concrete walls, imposing. This is it.
**EXT. SULLIVAN PROPERTY - DRIVEWAY - NIGHT**
The gate is unlatched.
David's stomach turns. He pushes the heavy metal. It swings inward with an oiled, unnerving silence. He steps onto an aggregate stone driveway that snakes towards a fortress of glass and modern architecture.
A voice slices through the insect drone.
**VOICE (O.S.)**
You’re late.
David looks up.
ON THE UPPER BALCONY
JEFF (17, radiating a coiled, predatory ease) is a dark silhouette against the city's light pollution. He leans over a glass railing like a gargoyle dressed in expensive linen.
**DAVID**
(voice cracking)
Bus was slow. Traffic on the Parkway.
**JEFF**
(tasting the word)
Traffic. On a Tuesday night. Sure. Come round the back. The front door is alarmed, and my dad will have an aneurysm if you trip it again.
Jeff disappears from the balcony.
David walks, his sneakers CRUNCHING on decorative white gravel. The sharp, sterile smell of CHLORINE cuts through the sweet rot of the ravine.
**EXT. SULLIVAN PROPERTY - BACKYARD / POOL - CONTINUOUS**
A masterpiece of stark, expensive minimalism.
A rectangular pool glows like a radioactive jewel, lit from within by turquoise lights. The rest of the patio is hard angles and deep shadow.
Jeff lounges on a teak sunbed, a glass of amber liquid sweating in his hand. He doesn't get up.
**JEFF**
You look terrible, Si. Like you’re attending a funeral for a hamster. Or maybe your own dignity?
**DAVID**
It’s thirty degrees out, Jeff. We can’t all be climate-controlled.
David shoves his hands in his pockets, fingers gripping his keys too tight.
**DAVID**
(CONT'D)
You wanted to talk. I’m here. Let’s do the thing.
Jeff takes a long, slow sip of his drink. The ICE CLINKING in the glass sounds like small bones breaking.
**JEFF**
"Do the thing." You make it sound like a drug deal. Relax. Sit down. You’re making the feng shui nervous.
David doesn't sit. He stands at the edge of the pool, staring into the perfectly still, blue gelatin water.
A RIPPLE breaks the surface.
A pale arm emerges. Then a head of wet, sleek hair.
BEA (17) pulls herself up onto the coping, gasping. Mascara is smeared under her eyes like war paint. She's a ghost.
David takes a step back, startled.
**DAVID**
(breathing the word)
Jesus. I didn’t know she was here.
**BEA**
(raspy)
Hello to you too, David.
She doesn't look at him. She stares at her own feet as water drips onto the hot concrete.
**BEA**
(CONT'D)
Don't worry. I'm not really here. I'm just part of the scenery. Like a potted plant. Or a gargoyle.
**JEFF**
She’s the witness. Can't have a peace treaty without a witness. Otherwise, it’s just two liars in the dark.
A fresh wave of sweat prickles David’s hairline.
**DAVID**
Peace treaty. Is that what this is? keeping in mind that the last time we were all together, you threatened to ruin my life if I said a word about the car.
**JEFF**
And you didn't say a word.
He sets his drink down. The condensation leaves a perfect wet ring on the limestone table beside him.
**JEFF**
(CONT'D)
Which is why we’re here. To formalize the arrangement. To... exhale.
Jeff stands. He seems taller, more imposing. He walks over to a backpack resting on a nearby chair. David’s backpack.
**JEFF**
(CONT'D)
I brought your stuff.
He nudges the bag with his foot.
**JEFF**
(CONT'D)
Laptop. Sketchbook. Even that weird inhaler you don't use anymore. It’s all there.
David stares at the bag like it’s a bomb.
**DAVID**
Just like that? You’re giving it back?
**JEFF**
I’m decluttering. My therapist says I need to let go of the past. Holding onto your geometry homework felt... petty. Plus, it smells like your basement. Musty. Like despair and old carpets.
**DAVID**
(muttering)
My basement smells fine.
He steps forward, reaching for the strap.
Jeff intercepts him. Places a hand flat on David's chest. The contact is shocking. Jeff’s palm is cold and damp from the glass.
**JEFF**
Ah. Not yet. We have to drink on it. It’s tradition. Ancient laws of hospitality and all that rubbish.
**DAVID**
I don't want a drink, Jeff.
**BEA**
It’s ginger ale, you paranoid wreck.
She’s wringing out her hair, water pattering on the stone.
**BEA**
(CONT'D)
He’s not poisoning you. He’s too narcissistic for murder. He’d miss the audience.
Jeff lets out a sharp bark of a laugh.
**JEFF**
She knows me so well. It’s touching, really. Come on, Si. One drink. To moving on. To forgetting the dent in the bumper and the... unfortunate noise it made.
The blood drains from David's face. He looks at Bea. She's shivering in the heat. She knows. She was there.
**DAVID**
(a whisper)
Fine. One drink.
Jeff turns to a cooler, pulls out a can of soda. He pops the tab. A sharp HISS echoes off the concrete. He hands the freezing can to David. It hurts to hold.
Jeff raises his own glass.
**JEFF**
To amnesty.
David lifts the can.
**DAVID**
Amnesty.
He doesn’t drink. He presses the cold metal to his lip, lets the condensation run down his chin. A small, silent act of defiance.
The CICADAS have paused. The only sound is the low HUM of the pool filter.
**JEFF**
You know, I was worried about you. I thought you might crack. You have that look. The 'I'm going to confess to a priest' look. But you surprised me, Si. You held the line.
**DAVID**
I didn't do it for you. I did it because I didn't want my mom to find out I was in the car.
**JEFF**
Motives are irrelevant. Results are what matter. And the result is, we are in the clear. The car is fixed. The paint is fresh. The universe has reset.
Bea makes a choked, wet sound. A cough.
**BEA**
Reset. Right.
David looks at the backpack.
**DAVID**
So I take this, and we're done? We go back to... what? Ignoring each other in the cafeteria?
**JEFF**
Preferably. I mean, we can't be friends, David. You're too... porous. You absorb guilt like a sponge. It makes you tedious to be around. But we can be... neutral. Like Switzerland, but with better landscaping.
David kneels. He grabs the strap of his bag. It feels heavy. He unzips the main compartment. His laptop. His sketchbook. He riffles the pages. The drawings are untouched.
A wave of relief hits him, so intense his knees feel weak.
**DAVID**
Everything seems to be here.
**JEFF**
Told you. I'm a man of my word. When it suits me.
David zips the bag and slings it over his shoulder. The weight is grounding.
**DAVID**
Okay. Amnesty. I'm leaving.
**JEFF**
Don't forget to write.
(a beat)
Or actually, please don't.
David turns to leave.
Bea says nothing. She just watches him, her eyes dark holes in her pale face. As he walks away, she slips back into the pool, sinking below the surface without a splash. Gone.
**EXT. SULLIVAN PROPERTY - DRIVEWAY - NIGHT**
David walks down the driveway. His heart hammers against his ribs. He forces himself not to run.
*CRUNCH. CRUNCH. CRUNCH.* The sound of his shoes on the gravel.
He reaches the gate. Pushes it open. This time, the metal GROANS. He steps out onto the street.
**EXT. RAVINE ROAD - NIGHT**
The air is just as thick, but it feels different. Less watched.
He walks up the hill. The relief is already curdling into suspicion. It was too easy.
He stops under a streetlamp. Its bulb BUZZES, casting a sickly yellow light and long, distorted shadows.
He swings the backpack around, unzips it again. He needs to be sure. He pulls out his laptop. It's his. Same scratches, same skate shop sticker.
He pulls out the sketchbook. Flips through it. Sketches of trees, his dog, the school... He stops.
The last page. The paper is different. Thicker.
Taped onto the sheet is a PHOTOGRAPH.
He leans into the dim light. It’s a photo of his house. Taken from the street. At night. Recently. His mom’s car is in the driveway.
In his bedroom window... a silhouette. Him.
A cold horror pierces his chest.
Under the photo, in Jeff's neat, architectural handwriting, is a single word:
*Collateral.*
David slams the book shut. His breath comes in short, jagged gasps. It wasn't amnesty. It was a leash.
He shoves the book back in the bag and walks. Faster now. Almost a jog. The CICADAS are deafening again, a roaring chorus of judgment. The shadows of the trees stretch like grasping claws.
He turns a corner onto the main road, desperate for the lights of a bus, for people, for anything normal.
The road is empty. A long ribbon of black asphalt shimmering under the heat haze.
And then he sees it.
Fifty metres down, tucked into the shadow of a large oak tree. A dark sedan. The engine is off.
As David appears, its parking lights FLICK ON.
It's not Jeff's car. It's older. Nondescript. The kind of car you never notice.
David freezes.
The car's engine turns over. A low PURR that vibrates in the soles of his feet. The windows are tinted, impenetrable.
He grips the strap of his backpack, knuckles white.
The car rolls forward, inching out of the shadows, turning its nose toward him.
David takes a step back. The trap is so much bigger than he realized.
FADE OUT.
The air is thick, chewable. A wall of humid, oppressive heat presses down.
SOUND of frantic, metallic CICADAS screaming a saw-blade drone.
DAVID (17, sensitive, artistic, a walking nerve ending) walks along the edge of a road. His shirt is damp, clinging to his skin. He's sweating, but it's not just the heat.
He walks past long, curling driveways hidden behind walls of manicured cedar and wrought iron. Secrets.
He checks his phone. NO SERVICE. Of course.
He stops at a gate. Poured concrete walls, imposing. This is it.
**EXT. SULLIVAN PROPERTY - DRIVEWAY - NIGHT**
The gate is unlatched.
David's stomach turns. He pushes the heavy metal. It swings inward with an oiled, unnerving silence. He steps onto an aggregate stone driveway that snakes towards a fortress of glass and modern architecture.
A voice slices through the insect drone.
**VOICE (O.S.)**
You’re late.
David looks up.
ON THE UPPER BALCONY
JEFF (17, radiating a coiled, predatory ease) is a dark silhouette against the city's light pollution. He leans over a glass railing like a gargoyle dressed in expensive linen.
**DAVID**
(voice cracking)
Bus was slow. Traffic on the Parkway.
**JEFF**
(tasting the word)
Traffic. On a Tuesday night. Sure. Come round the back. The front door is alarmed, and my dad will have an aneurysm if you trip it again.
Jeff disappears from the balcony.
David walks, his sneakers CRUNCHING on decorative white gravel. The sharp, sterile smell of CHLORINE cuts through the sweet rot of the ravine.
**EXT. SULLIVAN PROPERTY - BACKYARD / POOL - CONTINUOUS**
A masterpiece of stark, expensive minimalism.
A rectangular pool glows like a radioactive jewel, lit from within by turquoise lights. The rest of the patio is hard angles and deep shadow.
Jeff lounges on a teak sunbed, a glass of amber liquid sweating in his hand. He doesn't get up.
**JEFF**
You look terrible, Si. Like you’re attending a funeral for a hamster. Or maybe your own dignity?
**DAVID**
It’s thirty degrees out, Jeff. We can’t all be climate-controlled.
David shoves his hands in his pockets, fingers gripping his keys too tight.
**DAVID**
(CONT'D)
You wanted to talk. I’m here. Let’s do the thing.
Jeff takes a long, slow sip of his drink. The ICE CLINKING in the glass sounds like small bones breaking.
**JEFF**
"Do the thing." You make it sound like a drug deal. Relax. Sit down. You’re making the feng shui nervous.
David doesn't sit. He stands at the edge of the pool, staring into the perfectly still, blue gelatin water.
A RIPPLE breaks the surface.
A pale arm emerges. Then a head of wet, sleek hair.
BEA (17) pulls herself up onto the coping, gasping. Mascara is smeared under her eyes like war paint. She's a ghost.
David takes a step back, startled.
**DAVID**
(breathing the word)
Jesus. I didn’t know she was here.
**BEA**
(raspy)
Hello to you too, David.
She doesn't look at him. She stares at her own feet as water drips onto the hot concrete.
**BEA**
(CONT'D)
Don't worry. I'm not really here. I'm just part of the scenery. Like a potted plant. Or a gargoyle.
**JEFF**
She’s the witness. Can't have a peace treaty without a witness. Otherwise, it’s just two liars in the dark.
A fresh wave of sweat prickles David’s hairline.
**DAVID**
Peace treaty. Is that what this is? keeping in mind that the last time we were all together, you threatened to ruin my life if I said a word about the car.
**JEFF**
And you didn't say a word.
He sets his drink down. The condensation leaves a perfect wet ring on the limestone table beside him.
**JEFF**
(CONT'D)
Which is why we’re here. To formalize the arrangement. To... exhale.
Jeff stands. He seems taller, more imposing. He walks over to a backpack resting on a nearby chair. David’s backpack.
**JEFF**
(CONT'D)
I brought your stuff.
He nudges the bag with his foot.
**JEFF**
(CONT'D)
Laptop. Sketchbook. Even that weird inhaler you don't use anymore. It’s all there.
David stares at the bag like it’s a bomb.
**DAVID**
Just like that? You’re giving it back?
**JEFF**
I’m decluttering. My therapist says I need to let go of the past. Holding onto your geometry homework felt... petty. Plus, it smells like your basement. Musty. Like despair and old carpets.
**DAVID**
(muttering)
My basement smells fine.
He steps forward, reaching for the strap.
Jeff intercepts him. Places a hand flat on David's chest. The contact is shocking. Jeff’s palm is cold and damp from the glass.
**JEFF**
Ah. Not yet. We have to drink on it. It’s tradition. Ancient laws of hospitality and all that rubbish.
**DAVID**
I don't want a drink, Jeff.
**BEA**
It’s ginger ale, you paranoid wreck.
She’s wringing out her hair, water pattering on the stone.
**BEA**
(CONT'D)
He’s not poisoning you. He’s too narcissistic for murder. He’d miss the audience.
Jeff lets out a sharp bark of a laugh.
**JEFF**
She knows me so well. It’s touching, really. Come on, Si. One drink. To moving on. To forgetting the dent in the bumper and the... unfortunate noise it made.
The blood drains from David's face. He looks at Bea. She's shivering in the heat. She knows. She was there.
**DAVID**
(a whisper)
Fine. One drink.
Jeff turns to a cooler, pulls out a can of soda. He pops the tab. A sharp HISS echoes off the concrete. He hands the freezing can to David. It hurts to hold.
Jeff raises his own glass.
**JEFF**
To amnesty.
David lifts the can.
**DAVID**
Amnesty.
He doesn’t drink. He presses the cold metal to his lip, lets the condensation run down his chin. A small, silent act of defiance.
The CICADAS have paused. The only sound is the low HUM of the pool filter.
**JEFF**
You know, I was worried about you. I thought you might crack. You have that look. The 'I'm going to confess to a priest' look. But you surprised me, Si. You held the line.
**DAVID**
I didn't do it for you. I did it because I didn't want my mom to find out I was in the car.
**JEFF**
Motives are irrelevant. Results are what matter. And the result is, we are in the clear. The car is fixed. The paint is fresh. The universe has reset.
Bea makes a choked, wet sound. A cough.
**BEA**
Reset. Right.
David looks at the backpack.
**DAVID**
So I take this, and we're done? We go back to... what? Ignoring each other in the cafeteria?
**JEFF**
Preferably. I mean, we can't be friends, David. You're too... porous. You absorb guilt like a sponge. It makes you tedious to be around. But we can be... neutral. Like Switzerland, but with better landscaping.
David kneels. He grabs the strap of his bag. It feels heavy. He unzips the main compartment. His laptop. His sketchbook. He riffles the pages. The drawings are untouched.
A wave of relief hits him, so intense his knees feel weak.
**DAVID**
Everything seems to be here.
**JEFF**
Told you. I'm a man of my word. When it suits me.
David zips the bag and slings it over his shoulder. The weight is grounding.
**DAVID**
Okay. Amnesty. I'm leaving.
**JEFF**
Don't forget to write.
(a beat)
Or actually, please don't.
David turns to leave.
Bea says nothing. She just watches him, her eyes dark holes in her pale face. As he walks away, she slips back into the pool, sinking below the surface without a splash. Gone.
**EXT. SULLIVAN PROPERTY - DRIVEWAY - NIGHT**
David walks down the driveway. His heart hammers against his ribs. He forces himself not to run.
*CRUNCH. CRUNCH. CRUNCH.* The sound of his shoes on the gravel.
He reaches the gate. Pushes it open. This time, the metal GROANS. He steps out onto the street.
**EXT. RAVINE ROAD - NIGHT**
The air is just as thick, but it feels different. Less watched.
He walks up the hill. The relief is already curdling into suspicion. It was too easy.
He stops under a streetlamp. Its bulb BUZZES, casting a sickly yellow light and long, distorted shadows.
He swings the backpack around, unzips it again. He needs to be sure. He pulls out his laptop. It's his. Same scratches, same skate shop sticker.
He pulls out the sketchbook. Flips through it. Sketches of trees, his dog, the school... He stops.
The last page. The paper is different. Thicker.
Taped onto the sheet is a PHOTOGRAPH.
He leans into the dim light. It’s a photo of his house. Taken from the street. At night. Recently. His mom’s car is in the driveway.
In his bedroom window... a silhouette. Him.
A cold horror pierces his chest.
Under the photo, in Jeff's neat, architectural handwriting, is a single word:
*Collateral.*
David slams the book shut. His breath comes in short, jagged gasps. It wasn't amnesty. It was a leash.
He shoves the book back in the bag and walks. Faster now. Almost a jog. The CICADAS are deafening again, a roaring chorus of judgment. The shadows of the trees stretch like grasping claws.
He turns a corner onto the main road, desperate for the lights of a bus, for people, for anything normal.
The road is empty. A long ribbon of black asphalt shimmering under the heat haze.
And then he sees it.
Fifty metres down, tucked into the shadow of a large oak tree. A dark sedan. The engine is off.
As David appears, its parking lights FLICK ON.
It's not Jeff's car. It's older. Nondescript. The kind of car you never notice.
David freezes.
The car's engine turns over. A low PURR that vibrates in the soles of his feet. The windows are tinted, impenetrable.
He grips the strap of his backpack, knuckles white.
The car rolls forward, inching out of the shadows, turning its nose toward him.
David takes a step back. The trap is so much bigger than he realized.
FADE OUT.