with a slight stagger, to the cabinet, pours whisky, drinks.
HIRST Hazel shit.
SPOONER Good lord, good lord, do I detect a touch of the maudlin?
Pause.
Hazel shit. I ask myself: Have I ever seen hazel shit? Or hazel eyes, for that matter?
Hirst throws his glass at him, ineffectually. It bounces on the carpet.
Do I detect a touch of the hostile? Do I detectâwith respectâa touch of too many glasses of ale followed by the great malt which wounds? Which wounds?
Silence.
HIRST Tonight . . . my friend . . . you find me in the last lap of a race . . . I had long forgotten to run.
Pause.
SPOONER A metaphor. Things are looking up.
Pause.
I would say, albeit on a brief acquaintance, that you lack the essential quality of manliness, which is to put your money where your mouth is, to pick up a pintpot and know it to be a pintpot,and knowing it to be a pintpot, to declare it as a pintpot, and to stay faithful to that pintpot as though you had given birth to it out of your own arse. You lack that capability, in my view.
Pause.
Do forgive me my candour. It is not method but madness.
He stands.
Heed me. I am a relevant witness. And could be a friend.
Hirst grips the cabinet, rigid.
You need a friend. You have a long hike, my lad, up which, presently, you slog unfriended. Let me perhaps be your boatman. For if and when we talk of a river we talk of a deep and dank architecture. In other words, never disdain a helping hand, especially one of such rare quality. And it is not only the quality of my offer which is rare, it is the act itself, the offer itselfâquite without precedent. I offer myself to you as a friend. Think before you speak.
Hirst attempts to move, stops, grips the cabinet.
Remember this. Youâve lost your wife of hazel hue, youâve lost her and what can you do, she will no more come back to you, with a tillifola tillifola tillifoladi-foladi-foloo.
HIRST No.
Pause.
No manâs land . . . does not move . . . or change . . . or grow old . . . remains . . . forever . . . icy . . . silent.
Hirst loosens his grip on the cabinet, staggers across the room, holds on to a chair.
He waits, moves, falls.
He waits, gets to his feet, moves, falls.
Spooner watches.
Hirst crawls towards the door, manages to open it, crawls out of the door.
Spooner remains still.
SPOONER I have known this before. The exit through the door, by way of belly and floor.
He looks at the room, walks about it, looking at each object closely, stops, hands behind his back, surveying the room.
A door, somewhere in the house, closes.
Silence.
The front door opens, and slams sharply. Spooner stiffens, is still.
FOSTER enters the room. He is casually dressed.
He stops still upon seeing Spooner. He stands, looking at Spooner.
Silence.
FOSTER What are you drinking? Christ Iâm thirsty. How are you? Iâm parched.
He goes to cabinet, opens a bottle of beer, pours.
What are you drinking? Itâs bloody late. Iâm worn to a frazzle. This is what I want.( He drinks. ) Taxi? No chance. Taxi drivers are against me. Something about me. Some unknown factor. My gait, perhaps. Or perhaps because I travel incognito. Oh, thatâs better. Works wonders. How are you? What are you drinking? Who are you? I thought Iâd never make it. What a hike. And not only that. Iâm defenceless. I donât carry a gun in London. But Iâm not bothered. Once youâve done the East youâve done it all. Iâve done the East. But I still like a nice lighthouse like this one. Have you met your host? Heâs my father. It was our night off tonight, you see. He was going to stay at home, listen to some lieder. I hope he had a quiet and pleasant evening. Who are you, by the way? What are you drinking?
SPOONER Iâm a friend of his.
FOSTER Youâre not typical.
BRIGGS comes into the room, stops. He is casually dressed, stocky.
BRIGGS Whoâs this?
FOSTER His nameâs Friend. This is Mr Briggs.
HIRST Hazel shit.
SPOONER Good lord, good lord, do I detect a touch of the maudlin?
Pause.
Hazel shit. I ask myself: Have I ever seen hazel shit? Or hazel eyes, for that matter?
Hirst throws his glass at him, ineffectually. It bounces on the carpet.
Do I detect a touch of the hostile? Do I detectâwith respectâa touch of too many glasses of ale followed by the great malt which wounds? Which wounds?
Silence.
HIRST Tonight . . . my friend . . . you find me in the last lap of a race . . . I had long forgotten to run.
Pause.
SPOONER A metaphor. Things are looking up.
Pause.
I would say, albeit on a brief acquaintance, that you lack the essential quality of manliness, which is to put your money where your mouth is, to pick up a pintpot and know it to be a pintpot,and knowing it to be a pintpot, to declare it as a pintpot, and to stay faithful to that pintpot as though you had given birth to it out of your own arse. You lack that capability, in my view.
Pause.
Do forgive me my candour. It is not method but madness.
He stands.
Heed me. I am a relevant witness. And could be a friend.
Hirst grips the cabinet, rigid.
You need a friend. You have a long hike, my lad, up which, presently, you slog unfriended. Let me perhaps be your boatman. For if and when we talk of a river we talk of a deep and dank architecture. In other words, never disdain a helping hand, especially one of such rare quality. And it is not only the quality of my offer which is rare, it is the act itself, the offer itselfâquite without precedent. I offer myself to you as a friend. Think before you speak.
Hirst attempts to move, stops, grips the cabinet.
Remember this. Youâve lost your wife of hazel hue, youâve lost her and what can you do, she will no more come back to you, with a tillifola tillifola tillifoladi-foladi-foloo.
HIRST No.
Pause.
No manâs land . . . does not move . . . or change . . . or grow old . . . remains . . . forever . . . icy . . . silent.
Hirst loosens his grip on the cabinet, staggers across the room, holds on to a chair.
He waits, moves, falls.
He waits, gets to his feet, moves, falls.
Spooner watches.
Hirst crawls towards the door, manages to open it, crawls out of the door.
Spooner remains still.
SPOONER I have known this before. The exit through the door, by way of belly and floor.
He looks at the room, walks about it, looking at each object closely, stops, hands behind his back, surveying the room.
A door, somewhere in the house, closes.
Silence.
The front door opens, and slams sharply. Spooner stiffens, is still.
FOSTER enters the room. He is casually dressed.
He stops still upon seeing Spooner. He stands, looking at Spooner.
Silence.
FOSTER What are you drinking? Christ Iâm thirsty. How are you? Iâm parched.
He goes to cabinet, opens a bottle of beer, pours.
What are you drinking? Itâs bloody late. Iâm worn to a frazzle. This is what I want.( He drinks. ) Taxi? No chance. Taxi drivers are against me. Something about me. Some unknown factor. My gait, perhaps. Or perhaps because I travel incognito. Oh, thatâs better. Works wonders. How are you? What are you drinking? Who are you? I thought Iâd never make it. What a hike. And not only that. Iâm defenceless. I donât carry a gun in London. But Iâm not bothered. Once youâve done the East youâve done it all. Iâve done the East. But I still like a nice lighthouse like this one. Have you met your host? Heâs my father. It was our night off tonight, you see. He was going to stay at home, listen to some lieder. I hope he had a quiet and pleasant evening. Who are you, by the way? What are you drinking?
SPOONER Iâm a friend of his.
FOSTER Youâre not typical.
BRIGGS comes into the room, stops. He is casually dressed, stocky.
BRIGGS Whoâs this?
FOSTER His nameâs Friend. This is Mr Briggs.
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