BROSE: Can hardly be him when he’s down here with us, can it?
PERCY: You know what I mean.
BROSE: Only because my powers of interpretation compensate for your inadequacies of expression. How on earth you got to be borough librarian I cannot imagine.
PERCY: By the same process as a pipsqueak blowbag like yourself got to be the Last of the Actor-managers, I dare say. Where do you think we are going?
BROSE: For a walk by the river.
PERCY: But we went for a walk by the river this morning.
BROSE: That was when it was your choice. Now it’s mine and I choose to go there again. Anyway, there’s nowhere else. Come on, no dawdling.
PERCY: Don’t poke. You’re poking again. I promise you, if you start poking, I’ll start jerking.
DICK: I wanted to say something to them but they didn’t give me the chance to get a word in. And why are they walking so close together like that?
GEOFF: That’s how they arrived, sort of joined up. And the way you arrive is the way you stay, it seems, at least till you cross the river. You may have noticed I’m having to hold my head on, for instance.
DICK: Yes, I’m so sorry …
GEOFF: Bad habit that, always apologizing.
DICK: But your poor head …
GEOFF: I know. But look, old boy, there’s you bleeding all over the place and I’m not apologizing, am I?
ANDREW AINSTABLE: ’Scuse me, gents, but I’m looking for a bridge. Couldn’t tell me if it’s upstream or downstream, could you? I’ve got a Home Start waiting and I was due there …can’t recall when exactly, but I know he’s waiting.
GEOFF: Try upstream, old boy.
DICK: Who on earth was that?
GEOFF: On earth he was an AA man. He’s still a bit confused even though he’s been down here longer than any of us. Spends all his time looking for a bridge.
DICK: Bridge? I’d say he’s tried to swim across, from the look of him.
GEOFF: Not an option, old boy. No, that’s the way he came, dripping wet. He wants to find this bridge ’cos that’s where he left his van.
DICK: This is very confusing. And I keep on hearing music …
GEOFF: Oh yes, that’s young Pitman. He just lies around on the bank all day playing his bazouki. Seems perfectly happy and he can’t frighten the fish because there don’t seem to be any. Disappointing that. I know it’s not real-not in the real sense-but if you’re going to have a not-real river, you might as well stock it with not-real fish. Instead we’ve got that odd-coloured mist. Sort of purply. Looks industrial to me, like there’s some big plant with furnaces and such quite close. And that spells pollution with a big P. That’s what I used to love about the tarn. Creek ran into it straight from the hills. Nothing up there to pump chemicals and sewage into the water. Miss it, you know. Hope when we get across we might find somewhere a man can cast a line and hope to hook something more than an old bedstead.
SAM: My God, will you listen to him? It’s over, old boy. All that stuff belongs somewhere else. Here it’s done with, finito, kaput. The nearest you’re ever going to get again to that creek you keep on going on about is being right up it, without a paddle. Oh shit, here she comes, I’m out of here.
GEOFF: Poor chap, it’s hit him bad. You never know how people will take it. Me, remembering how things were keeps me going. Poor Sam it just drives mad. That’s why he can’t stand Jax. All she wants to talk about is the past. Jax, my dear, how are you? Look who’s just arrived.
JAX RIPLEY: Dick, is that you? Lovely to see you. Is my Wordman story still running? Do I still get a credit whenever anyone does a piece? What about movie rights? Or a TV drama-doc? It rates a drama-doc, at least. Who have they got to play me? God, I hope it’s not that girl in EastEnders, you know, the one with hair. I know she’s the right size, but everything else about her is so wrong. That mouth …!
DICK: I couldn’t really say. Jax …what happened …I’m sorry …
JAX: Are you? That’s not much of a compliment. I seem to remember really enjoying it.
GEOFF: He’s still a bit confused.
JAX: No use to me then. Unless you managed to smuggle a mobile in. No? Thought not. God, what wouldn’t I give for a mobile! Catch you later, Dick. Be good.
GEOFF: Lovely girl. Interviewed me once, you know. Thought I might have a chance afterwards, things going really well, then that blasted phone of hers rang. How about you? She seemed genuinely pleased to see you. Did you ever …?
DICK: I’m not sure …I seem to recall something …but I can’t be sure …
GEOFF: You are in a bad way, aren’t you?
DICK: I’m trying to get my head round all this. We are dead, right?
GEOFF: Got it in one, old chum. Yes, there’s no getting away from it. That’s what we are. Dead.
DICK: And this place …
GEOFF: I’ve thought a lot about that. Conclusion-it’s not really a place, it’s more a sort of state. Not like Mississippi …except insofar as it’s got this bloody great river …but like I just said, it’s not a real river either …more a sort of visible metaphor …hark at me, talking like a critic! …but you know what I mean …it helps our minds keep a hold on things …rather like you seeing dying as a tunnel …it’s all a bit hard to grasp at first …
DICK: But you seem to have grasped it better than anyone, Geoff. Why’s that?
GEOFF: Born to it, I suppose.
DICK: You mean, because you’ve got a title?
GEOFF: Good lord, no. Load of bollocks, all that stuff. It’s just that, well, I’m connected, you know. Sort of divinely.
DICK: You mean you’re God?
GEOFF: Of course not. Don’t say things like that. Got one of my ancestors into a lot of bother way back. No, but I am family, so to speak. Sort of fourth cousin, x times removed. It’s the fallen angels, you see. Some of them got the option of turning human rather than spending an eternity in hell. Hard choice to make, I should think. Back on earth, the connection’s not much help, but down here, it seems to give us descendants a bit of an inside track on things. Not that I know much more than here we are and here we’ll stay till we’re all here, then we’ll go across.
DICK: Who’s all? And where’s across? And how long do we have to wait?
GEOFF: Forget how long, old boy. No time here. Time’s away and somewhere else. Don’t know where that came from, must have been something I learned at school, but it’s true. As for all, I mean all those that the Wordman kills.
DICK: The Wordman …but aren’t I the Wordman?
GEOFF: You? My dear Dick! What on earth put that notion in your head?
DICK: I don’t know …just something …I feel responsible somehow …
GEOFF: And that’s why you’re apologizing left and right! My dear chap, rest easy. You couldn’t hurt a fly. I recall the first time I gave you a pair of trout and you realized you had to clean them out yourself. You turned white! No, you’re like the rest of us, a victim here. Look at you, all chopped about like a baited badger. Councillor, you tell him.
STUFFER STEEL: Tell him what?
GEOFF: The dear chap thinks he’s the Wordman.
STUFFER: So he is. All them buggers as work in yon poncy Centre, all sodding wordmen, never done an honest day’s work between ’em.
GEOFF: May have got something there, Councillor. But I mean Wordman with a capital W, the one who’s been doing all these killings.
STUFFER: Oh, yon bugger. No, Mr. Dee, you may be a lot of things, most on ’em useless, but you’re definitely not that
Wordman, not if that’s the bugger who killed me.
DICK: Thank God, thank God. But if it’s not me, then who is it? Who was it who killed you, Councillor?
STUFFER: You really don’t know? Aye well, fair do’s. Took me some time to twig even after I got here. I mean, you’re standing there washing your hands in a gent’s bog and you look up and see a bonny young lass in the mirror, you don’t think straight off, she’s come to top me!
DICK: A young lass …oh my God …