Human Punchbag; a 2003 playlet written for Soho theatre

A long time ago, in the autumn of 2003, I contributed to a ‘play in a day’ initiative mounted by Soho Theatre, in which four critics were invited to write a short play in a day. My fellow critics were Rachel Halliburton, Patrick Marmion and the late Jeremy Kingston. It coincided with the time I launched theatrevoice.com, so I have fond/foggy memories of the process. It was mentioned in the Guardian here –  (“The critics revealed violent imaginations”). I’m sticking my little Pinter pastiche online, partly because I found it languishing in a box, and also because it broaches my vague disquiet about being a theatre critic in an age of climate change (and being held to account later in life). So it suddenly seemed apt…

HUMAN PUNCHBAG

“03 July 2003

In an astonishing announcement on global warming and extreme weather, the World Meteorological Organisation signalled last night that the world’s weather is going haywire.” {Independent}

A shabby room at twilight. Half boarded-up windows, letting just enough light to see in. The sound of the sea in the distance. And also (very very faint initially, becoming louder over the course of the 10 mins) the sound of drumming (and finally, chanting). In the centre of the room, an old leather armchair. In it, Rickson, old, say 70, (clothes, ancient but not too tatty, as if dressed for winter). He slumbers, rousing slowly, disorientated and sees Wenger, 18–19, male, who is studying him from a slight distance. Wenger (pronounced as in ‘Venger’) in combat-style gear but nothing that resembles too closely today’s fashions. He looks careworn.

RICKSON: (squinting, speaks in a reasonably polished fashion): That you Wenger? (pause) You come at last, have you?

WENGER: (blunter, almost grunting of speech). ‘At last’? Same time as usual.

(beat)

RICKSON: I thought.. well, I thought you were late. It seems darker today, darker today than yesterday. I forget. I get confused, you know. It’s winter now, isn’t it? Yes, I know that. Hard to tell of course. (pause, slightly resentfully, but wary) I was hungry. What have you brought me? Anything decent? A potato. Did you get me a spud. Heaven bless you if you did.

WENGER: (gesturing over in the corner, a package). See for yourself. You’ll like it. I caught it. Cooked it myself.

RICKSON: (twisting in his seat) I can’t get up so easily. The cold, it’s crippling my old bones. Can’t you bring it over?

WENGER: (stares at him hard, then moves over, picks up the package, brings it over, deposits it in Rickson’s lap; it’s covered in unclean foil) There you go.

RICKSON: Where would I be without you? You take good care of me, lad. I don’t know why, but you’ve been good to me. A real saint. You’re not like the others. (mumbles) /I say that every day, though…

WENGER: (softly) Yes, I have haven’t I? Over the years. Kept you from harm. Kept you going.

RICKSON: Good old-fashioned (reaches for the words) care in the community.

WENGER: (blank)

RICKSON: Don’t worry, you’re right, what does that mean, any more? It’s just a phrase. Lodged in my head. Can’t get rid of it, after all these years.

(preparing to unwrap the foil) And today? What’s to report? Any sightings? Any incursions?

WENGER: None. They know what to expect from us now. We fight harder. We breed faster. We mutate faster (laughs). They’ll never recapture this sector. Not that they’d want it if they took it. The land so rotten, the sea so sick. You can hear them wheezing when they come over the border. Their little lungs can’t cope. We bat them away like flies.

RICKSON: (Sighs, then opens the foil, producing a dead rat; alarmed) What’s this? What’s this? What do you mean.. Is this a joke? Days I’ve been desperate, but I’ve never eaten one of these, never. You’ve never dared to do this; we’ve got an understanding. We have an understanding, don’t we?

WENGER: (shrugs)

RICKSON: I describe the state, how it was, how it functioned in the years before and after the calamity. I share what little knowledge I have. You bring me what you can find. But this.. (rises from his seat; faces Wenger). Is this it? What is this? You love me don’t you boy? You’re my boy.

(pause)

WENGER: (laughs) I just wanted to see your face! Well, what do you expect round here? Foie gras (mispronounced) or whatever it was you lot used to have? Here, (produces another packet), eat up! (Rickson rips open; a hunk of something looking like bread, which he hastily devours, beginning to laugh, relaxing a little, settles back into the chair). (tenderly) You’re my old man.

(beat)

There was a girl in the furthest meadow this morning. She’d crossed over from the flooded lands. I didn’t kill her. She was beautiful. From afar, she was beautiful. I went to look. She’d been crying. I was going to touch her. But then I saw her skin, her hands flaked away, like she was worse than sun-scorched. She must have dug too deep in the earth.

(pause)

WENGER: (producing a ‘theatre programme’ (he apparently doesn’t know what this is) What’s this? Exactly. (he deposits it casually on Rickson’s lap).

RICKSON: (squinting at it; slowly) Where did you get this? This is mine. How did you get this?

WENGER: Found it, didn’t I? You must have mislaid it. I’m interested in it; go on, tell me, what’s it mean? Read it. You can still read can’t you? Read it. Please.

RICKSON: It’s a.. theatre programme.. It dates back to.. (flicks a page), ah, yes… the year 2003. It was a play about.. why did I keep this, I wonder? (squints again) Oh yes. (chuckles, nervously). Soho — that was in, well you wouldn’t know it, you’ve never been there. You’ve never been to London. Couldn’t go now, of course. You know what a play is, don’t you? You have them — they have them, don’t they, after a fashion? Those… gatherings.

WENGER: Yes, reckon I know what a play is. You taught me a lot. I know a lot of stuff.

RICKSON: The rain-charming rituals, the thanksgivings, the sacrifices. Yes, there are amusements, of a sort. Well this was different, really. Why did this not come up before? (shrugs) I should have mentioned it. I suppose I should have mentioned it.

WENGER: And this one, what was this one?

RICKSON: It was violent. That was the fashion. Can you believe it? That was the ‘fashion’! (looks again), in those days. Urban, disaffected, violent (roars with laughter, bitter). ‘Human Punchbag’, with, let’s see. I can’t remember a word of it. (looks) Can’t remember any of these people.

WENGER: And yet you kept it.

RICKSON: Yes.

WENGER: With hundreds of others. Not just that one, hundreds.

RICKSON: (frozen, saying nothing)

Pause

WENGER: It made me want to puke when I saw them down there. Rows upon rows of them. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Hundreds and hundreds of nights. All sealed up, and preserved. Hidden from view. What a life that must have been, I thought. All the pictures of those theatres, like palaces. I thought: I wonder why he didn’t share any of that with me? And there was me thinking ‘nice old Mr Rickson’, he bothered, he spoke out. He didn’t want this to happen. He knew what was coming, he did something about it. Not much, but he struggled, he wasn’t one of them, one of those arseholes who saw they were crapping things up forever and carried on doing it. There was something in your eyes that I trusted. (looks in his eyes) You were so believable. And now this? Because it just doesn’t add up. Does it? All that time you could have done something, you had it cosy watching plays, night after night. Like here, like now — cosy, with me protecting you.

(Starts hitting Rickson) And I was, what, going to let you go out dignified? The last of your kind?

Do you hear that? Do you know what that means?

(the drumming has got louder)

RICKSON: (listens appalled, then fending off Wenger’s glancing blows, gabbling) Listen. You have to understand, it’s hard to understand, but it was my life. I lived for it. I lived for the theatre. For plays. You have to know what it was like back then — I’ve told you. Everyone just shopping and eating and buying houses and having kids and getting ahead. And the theatre wasn’t about that. And ever since the age of, oh far back, when I was a child, when I went on my birthday with my mother, up to London, to see the big musical, and saw the lights. Such a glimpse of beauty. It was a better world. We could be better because of it, I believed that. A number of us did. The world was better for it, somehow, would be better as the result of it. I should have burned them years ago, those programmes. I knew such extravagance would… But somehow I couldn’t. I couldn’t part with them. I know what it looks like…

WENGER: (ripping up programme and continuing to strike him) What does it look like? It looks like you’re on trial like all those that went before you. Only this time, it won’t be like the others, the grovelling, the pretence of law. You’ve made a fool of me. ‘Human punchbag’. What did you think, as you watched them, acting like it was all so bad, and all just for show, for your pleasure. Didn’t you want to cry out: ‘use your imagination, you fucking cunts. Nothing is exempt. This isn’t going to help, and if it isn’t going to help, it’s wrong.’ 2003, the year they say was the turning point, the last year when nature was even remotely kind to us, and you were watching this? Something genuinely shocking was happening out there, and you wanted some pissy imitation? You should have confessed. You should have confessed this, because I can’t help you now. I spit on you. (spits on him). You’re going to be taken care of. It’s time you were gone.

RICKSON: (it is now very dark) The lights were beautiful, rows upon rows of them. You’d look up into the rafters and they’d be glowing hot. The electricity that ran through them. The power. Blues, reds, pinks. Like being able to look at the sun, it was. You could warm yourself just by looking up at them. Something would grow beneath that sun. Another world. If you could have been in my shoes, you’d have done the same, exactly the same. You take me out there, you’re no better than I was. You understand that?

WENGER: (nothing, maybe a hesitation, a hint of doubt)

RICKSON: (pleading) You’re the same as me. You’re my boy. I can’t regret it. Despite everything that happened. I couldn’t part with it. It was my life. Along with the activism, yes, the marching. Do you understand that? You must. You’re older now. I could explain it to you, fully, if you gave me a chance. You’ve still got a moment, to save me. Speak to them. It’s not too late. Don’t make me go out there. Don’t let it end like this.

WENGER: It was too late the minute you were born. I see that now. Well, we will rid ourselves of you, the last of your kind. And we will begin again. The world will be better without you. Purged. You will not be allowed to happen again. We’ll have some fun, we’ll put on a play, and you can star in it. Why not?

And then you’ll burn. Burn with all that garbage you left down there.

I’ve learnt everything I need from you. You’ve just completed my education.

Drags the bloodied Rickson off towards the door, which flings open — the sound of drumming intensifying. He shunts him out. Screams after him, savagely:

Let the entertainment commence!

(climax of  drumming, shrieking. Door slams, lights up; and then nothing heard but the roar of the sea)

 

 

 

activism climate change Harold Pinter Ian Rickson in-yer-face soho theatre