Aliens in Islington - by Alexander Cavell

Audioplay: Aliens in Islington (.wma, 2.6Mb)


Cast


Interviewer’s voice

Janitor’s voiceand Traveller

Traveller’s voiceand Writer

Writer’s voice and Jerome

Extra one

Extra duex

Extra san


All stage directions are in italics. Dialogue should be recorded beforehand and played over the action in each scene.


Scene one.

Lights down. The stage is cast in pitch black, deserted and empty. The interviewer begins to speak. The lights are still down.


Interviewer’s voice: You’ve got one minute to tell me your story. Remember to face the microphone and speak clearly. Can you tell us your name?


Writer’s voice: My name is [burst of static, rapid drumming], and I’m a writer. Actually, I’m not really sure what I am, but I spend most of my time wandering around pretending to be a writer, so it usually seems like the right thing to say.


I: Go on.


Lights up. Three extras are standing and slouching around a table, laughing joking. The Writer walks from stage to stage left- he’s not making a scene; he’s trying to stay composed while moving as quickly as he can. Lights down when the Writer leaves the stage.


W: I’m social phobic. Not just shy, phobic. Meetings, parties, pubs, even standing around on the street chatting- anything involving more than three people and I start to panic. I’ll look for a corner, for an empty bog, for somewhere to hide, and then I just start to fold in on myself.


I: You want to disappear.


W: Yeah. Absolutely, yeah.


I: But you can’t live like that can you?


W: Someone gave me the address for a support group. It was called Wallflowers. Bloody trite name. They met at this little missionary hall near London Bridge. So I decide to go along, I’m all fired up at the idea: being able to meet people, finally getting outside of myself.


I: What happened?


Lights up. The Writer enters from stage left, then stops, almost tripping over his feet. There’s a circle of empty chairs in the centre of the room, and a table set to one side.


W: Group therapy really isn’t the best way to treat social phobics. I find the building, find the room. Deep breathes, don’t panic. I step inside. Careful steps. And I’m alone. There are twelve empty chairs set out in a circle, a table stacked with coffee cups, a leaking radiator and a dog asleep on the floor.


I: Time’s up. Thankyo- [the writer interrupts her]


W: The dog had turned up by mistake. He thought it was gamblers anonymous.


Lights down.


Scene two.

Lights down, Jerome and three extras take position.


Interviewer’s voice: Tell me whatever you want; you’ve got one minute.


Janitor’s voice: There’s a werewolf at Charring Cross tube station. He catches the eight o’clock train there most mornings. He’s called Jerome.


Lights up, and we’ve got two extras standing stage left, one extra stage middle right. The extras are doing whatever it is that extras do; Jerome’s bolt upright just left of centre stage, looking dapper and staring straight ahead.


I: Is he real? I mean, is he really…


J: He’s pretty convincing. He’s certain- and so am I- but a lot of his friends aren’t as sure. I’ve known him since we were kids, I used to look after him and I’ve seen enough to know that it isn’t an act. So yes, he really is a Werewolf.


Jerome casually checks his nails and flosses his teeth. He plucks a few stray hairs from his chin, his hands... his shins.


I: You used to look after him?


Jerome drops to all fours and moves to stage right, to stage left and then back to centre stage. He sits down, fronts legs straight, hind legs turned out and bent at the knees. He looks eagerly around the audience. If Jerome had a tail, it’d be wagging.


J: Before he moved to London, Jerome could get through an entire flock of sheep in one night. Then he’d have some hikers… for seconds, like. And I’d clean up after him. He never made much mess; it was my job to shovel the bones and gristle into a bin bag and take it all down the local tip.


Jerome starts to scratch behind his ear. He rolls over, belly up. Jerome turns his head to face the audience, tongue lolling.


I: Why did he move to London?


J: Jerome went vegetarian when he turned sixteen. He was never the same after that. Got into university, left with a history degree and found a job on Fleet Street. I decided to tag along.


Lights down.


Scene three.

Lights up. The Traveller is sitting alone on a bench, centre stage. He’s trying to read a broadsheet newspaper; he’s dwarfed by the pages. Sections of the paper spill out over the bench and the Traveller scrabbles to pick them up.


Interviewer’s voice: Your story in sixty seconds, that’s the deal. What’s your name?


Traveller’s voice: I’m [burst of static, rapid drumming].


I: How long have you been down here?


T: Probably three days since I was last on the street. I stay in the toilets when they close up. Or I run down the tracks to one of the empty stations. But you can’t tell my parents; I’ve only been out of the hospital for a month and they might get angry if they knew I was hiding again.


I: You’re hiding?


The Traveller opens out the news paper. His torso and head are hidden behind the headlines. As he turns the pages we see that he’s torn a pair of eye holes into the newsprint. He peers through the paper, glancing cautiously at the audience.


T: From… From the CIA. And my parents, sometimes.

It’s safer underneath. I always thought that I was only person hiding down here, tucked in between the business suits and briefcases where no one could find me. But now I’ve found this girl… This girl who’s trying to hide too. She spoke to me. She got on at Leicester square, folded her raincoat, sat down next to me and started to speak. Said her name was Clara. I asked if the CIA had sent her, but she just frowned at me, then smiled. “No”, she said, “The CIA didn’t send me and I don’t know your parents.” And she was still smiling when she said, “I’m an alien. I’m here to topple your mountains and twist your cities. I want to shit in your rivers and rip into your cattle. I want to take your women.” I told her that that would probably be okay, as long as she didn’t tell anyone from the hospital where I was. She frowned some more and started to open her mouth. There was nothing there, no teeth no tongue, just this long, black void… She had nice eyes, though.


Lights down.


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