Agency O Read online

  TOR FLECK

  AGENCY ‘O’

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  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE - THE SCRIPT

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  PROLOGUE - THE STICK

  A WORD FROM TOR

  GET YOUR AGENCY 'O' STARTER PACK FOR FREE

  WHO IS TOR FLECK?

  Reading Group Questions

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  “In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order.”

  Carl Jung

  “That was total f***ing chaos, lads.”

  Ally McLeod, Scotland Football Manager, 1977-78

  PROLOGUE

  THE SCRIPT

  SCRIPT EDIT 27 – DRAFT 3 - REVISION NOTES

  AGENCY ‘O’

  A screenplay by

  Paul Grant and Richard Gann

  Tor Fleck

  3rd Draft

  FADE IN:

  EXT. NEW YORK SKYLINE - NIGHT

  We weave at speed, eagle-like, above and between illuminated skyscrapers until we reach, and circle, a huge steel and glass building. We close in on the vast, top-floor penthouse, and an UPRIGHT FIGURE seated behind a desk.

  INT. PENTHOUSE - NIGHT

  The penthouse is open-plan, futuristic, and minimalist, with awe-inspiring views over Manhattan.

  The figure behind the desk is MARTIN JAMESON, middle-aged and immaculately-dressed, his hair heavily-oiled. A CEO. He stares straight-ahead, devoid of emotion. The desk is stainless steel, impressively large, and completely bare.

  From somewhere, a buzzer SOUNDS. Jameson ignores it. He places his palm on the surface of the desk.

  A scanner flashes and runs across Jameson's print. Almost immediately, a screen emerges from the surface, followed by an illuminated virtual keyboard.

  Jameson types quickly and lightly. Then he stops. Changes speed. Scrolls slowly through virtual pages with his finger, reading carefully, until ...

  ... the word CLASSIFIED appears in bold, red letters.

  Jameson enters an encrypted password. The logo ‘Agency O’ slides elegantly into the centre of the screen. Jameson narrows his brows. Sweat is visible on his forehead.

  In slow motion, a droplet of sweat runs down Jameson's forehead. It splatters loudly - SPLASH! - on the smooth, pristine, gleaming surface of the desk. Jameson flicks through more pages and stops at a signature.

  Martin Jameson

  Jameson's hand hovers over the keyboard ...

  ... he stares at the screen, and then ...

  ... HITS the delete key.

  The word TERMINATED fills the screen.

  Jameson closes down the file and the screen drops silently back into the desk.

  Jameson straightens himself up again. Slicks back his hair. Presses a previously-unseen intercom button.

  JAMESON

  You can send him in now, Sarah.

  SARAH (O.S.)

  Yes, sir.

  A KNOCK at the door.

  JAMESON

  Come in!

  A well-groomed executive – DUNCAN BALLATINE, late 30s - enters, his sharp suit as immaculate as his hair. He has a dark tan suitcase in his right hand. He approaches the desk and stops in front of it. Jameson offers up a weak smile.

  JAMESON (CONT’D)

  Everything's done. I’m ready now. Are you?

  Ballatine lifts his briefcase up onto the desk and un-clips the clasps. The lid pops open and he reaches inside with both hands, lifting out a bulging handkerchief. Carefully, he unwraps it to reveal ...

  ... a revolver.

  Ballatine covers the handle of the gun with the handkerchief, picks it up, closes an eye, and points the barrel at Jameson.

  JAMESON (CONT’D)

  Careful.

  Ballatine smiles. He hands the gun to Jameson, removes the handkerchief, folds it neatly, and slides it into the breast pocket of his suit, straightening the small exposed silken triangle perfectly.

  JAMESON (CONT’D)

  Goodbye, Duncan. And good luck.

  BALLATINE

  Goodbye, Mr Jameson. It was a pleasure working for you.

  Ballatine steps away from the desk.

  Jameson leans back, sticks the gun under his chin, and FIRES. His body jerks backwards, a wide spray of blood covering the window behind him.

  A quick flash of alarm crosses Ballatine's face, replaced just as quickly by a serene calm.

  SHOUTING from outside the room. Loud, urgent BANGING on the door. Ballatine glances over his shoulder. The alarm - pretend this time - returns.

  BALLATINE (CONT’D)

  Noooo!

  The door flies open. A gaggle of COLLEAGUES crowd the doorway, aghast at the carnage facing them.

  Ballatine doesn't move. A MALE COLLEAGUE rushes past him - almost knocks him out the way - in an effort to save Jameson. But he's too late. Way too late.

  Back in the doorway, SARAH MCCONNELL, Jameson's twenty-something secretary, clutches her throat.

  SARAH

  Oh my God ... oh my God ... oh my God ... oh my God ...

  Ballatine doesn't hear any of this. His mind is racing, and his expression, previously frozen, is thawing. In fact ... is that the hint of a smile?

  When Paul reached the end of the page, he stopped, stretched, and glanced over at the clock above the issue desk. Six thirty-three. The library was now all but deserted. He’d been typing for over four hours without coming up for air. A librarian at the desk glanced over and smiled. Over the last three months, he’d become a regular fixture, tapping away furiously at one of the workstations, often from doors open to closing time. They all knew him by name, but between them they called him ‘that writer’.

  He scrolled back to the beginning and started to read his new draft again, to double-check the edits he’d made on the previous pass. He stopped. The title page stared back, the score through his and Richard’s name screaming out at him.

  Agency ‘O’

  A screenplay by

  Paul Grant and Richard Gann

  Tor Fleck

  Draft 3

  ‘Three months,’ Paul mumbled. ‘More like seven fucking lifetimes of living, rancorous shite.’ He sneered at the screen. I could end this nightmare right now. His finger hovered over the Delete key. One … two … three … What are you waiting for? Do it. His heart raced. One … two … He tried to force his finger down onto the key but his writer brain wouldn’t allow it. End it now, moron. End it! His hand wavered, but then, defeated, it dropped to his side, as it had so many times before. His shoulders dropped and his chest sagged. Enough. I’m done. No more. Fuck the threats and the fear and the intimidation. This malevolent little bastard has pushed us both to the brink and beyond. It was the end of the road, and it was time to take on whatever retaliation they could muster.

  Moving the cursor, Paul quickly put a line through Draft 3 and typed FINAL DRAFT. It felt good
. It felt right. One way or another, with or without Richard’s help, he was going to put a stop to it all. He was going to drop the bomb and blow their whole fucking world sky high. He saved the update and turned to the next scene. But he was too wired, and his brain wouldn’t play ball. His thoughts flashed backwards and forwards through the recent days and weeks, sprinting past all the threats and relentless intimidation they’d both endured, until finally his mind touched down at ground zero, when it all began, on that innocuous morning after the night before, when Richard, nursing a hangover from hell, laid out his big, fat stupid idea.

  1

  Glasgow, 2nd July, 1.42pm

  Rap-a-tap-tap!

  Paul slid himself further under the duvet. Leave it. Richard can answer it.

  Rap-a-tap-tap!

  Go away. Just –

  RAP-A-TAP-TAP! RAP-A-TAP-TAP!

  ‘Fu-u-u-ck!’ Paul hauled himself reluctantly from the warmth of his pit. His head was pounding. Christ, how much did he have last night? The floor was a virtual assault course of discarded clothes, dirty plates, half-empty pizza boxes, sucked-clean beer bottles, and ream after ream of scrunched-up paper, the failed writer’s signature dish. As he picked his way through it to the door he wrapped a tattered floral dressing gown tight around his waist and winced. God, his head …

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Grant, I hope I – ’

  A faded housecoat and teetering beehive, circa 1962, stood opposite him in the open doorway, its mouth agape, as though frozen by the chilled draught floating in from the stairs.

  ‘Mrs McGilvray,’ oozed Paul, with more than a touch of sarcasm. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Mrs McGilvray aimed a wavering finger at Paul’s dressing gown and grimaced, her lips tighter than a puckered sphincter on a decaying corpse.

  Paul glanced down. His dressing gown had fallen open, exposing his underpants and a not inconsiderable bulge. Was she asking to see more, or less? ‘I do beg your pardon,’ he said, covering himself up and double-tying the cord. ‘Not before lunch, eh?’ He grinned.

  ‘It’s a quarter to two.’

  Ouch. Tough crowd.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to speak to you again, Mr Grant.’

  That makes two of us.

  ‘But it’s about the smell.’

  ‘The smell?’

  ‘I spoke to your flatmate – ’

  ‘Richard?’

  ‘ – last week. And the week before that.’

  Paul let his face feign ignorance. For weeks now, Mrs McGilvray had been complaining about the reek emanating from their flat: a rank, vomit-inducing odour born of personal and household neglect, namely: overflowing bins, dirty washing, bacteria-loaded dishes, festering sink water, and a fridge slowly incubating the Black Death.

  ‘I explained to him – ’

  ‘His name’s Richard.’

  ‘I explained to Richard – ’

  ‘Or Dick. I’d say he’s definitely more of a Dick.’

  ‘ – that the smell is clearly coming from your flat, and unless you do something about it I will be forced – ’ A little bit of spittle landed on Paul’s cheek. He let it sit there, burrowing into his skin, too afraid to wipe it off. ‘ – to report it to Environmental Health. And the landlord. We’re on good terms with Mrs Foyle, as you know, and I’m sure she won’t put up with it either.’

  Paul closed his eyes and slowly opened them again. He remembered Richard putting something in the gin last night. What was it? Blackcurrant? ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mrs McGilvray,’ he smiled. ‘Richard didn’t mention anything to me about a smell.’

  Mrs McGilvray was having none of it. ‘We have been very patient with both of you,’ she lied. ‘But the whole close, frankly, is now at breaking point.’

  Paul bobbed his head up and down, as though suddenly remembering something important. ‘It’ll be the plumbing,’ he said. ‘We’ve had some problems lately. Mrs Foyle’s promised to send her man round sometime this week.’ Pure lies, all of it. He just needed to buy some time. Exactly how much was down to the wet-lipped harridan in front of him.

  ‘Two days,’ Mrs McGilvray barked, and marched back across the landing to her flat, the dramatic slamming of her door reverberating down the stairs like a Rank Organisation gong.

  In the kitchen, Paul filled the kettle and ransacked the cupboards for coffee. None. He slumped down at the table, his hangover roaring like an express train through an Alpine tunnel. Six years …

  Six years since he’d left university, and this was as low as he’d ever been. He remembered being ready to conquer the world, spurred on by his tutor’s encouraging parting words: “Your stories are not bad, Grant. With diligence, dedication, and time, you might become a good writer, maybe even a great one.” It was the ‘not bad’ that had lit the fire beneath him, setting him off in pursuit of the seemingly impossible dream of literary glory, a romanticised view of the struggling artist that he fostered with bohemian delight, and then, as rejection and failure wore him steadily down, with clawing, soul-crushing despair.

  His flatmate Richard, on the other hand, had no delusions of greatness. After all, he’d chosen acting, a choice he once articulately described as ‘the lazy fucker’s drug of choice’. Unlike Paul, he could never be mistaken for a slave to ambition. In fact, he’d often quote his own father when describing himself: “You know what you are, son? You’re a lanky strip of useless shite.” Miraculously, he’d scraped by with a third in Drama. Given the fact he managed only two auditions* after graduating, he may as well have gotten his diploma online.

  *Audition 1. Manhandled out of the theatre by two over-enthusiastic security guards after being ‘inappropriately offensive’ with the female director. Richard later claimed that the director’s misuse of an oxymoron had pushed him over the edge.

  *Audition 2. Got drunk and threw up on stage in the middle of his scene from Waiting for Godot. He tried to explain it was method, that Beckett would have approved, but the producers didn’t listen. Nor did security.

  Since then, Richard had avoided any and all contact with actors, the theatre, or anything even remotely resembling ‘the arts’.

  And yet, despite all that, and despite the catastrophic mess they were both making of their lives, Paul and Richard remained best of friends. They had a bond that went back a long way, covering a lot of rocky ground and troubled times. When Richard lost his younger brother to cancer, it was Paul who’d stood firm while others fled the carnage Richard inflicted on himself and the world. And though he’d never told him, Richard was eternally indebted to his friend for saving his life. So now, losers together, they clung on to one another as they tumbled further and deeper into personal sinkholes they seemed incapable of avoiding.

  ‘Morning.’

  It was more of a yawn than a word, expelled as Richard flopped down next to Paul. He was wearing boxers of indeterminate colour and an undersized t-shirt with ‘Fuck me I’m desperate’ scribbled across the front. Classy.

  ‘Afternoon.’

  ‘What time is it?’ Another yawn.

  ‘Ten to two.’

  Richard rubbed at his eyes. ‘What was I drinking last night?’

  ‘Scotland dry.’

  ‘Great night though. Where did we end up?’

  Paul stared at his friend. ‘For fuck’s sake. You don’t remember?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When I hailed a taxi, you tried to shag the exhaust pipe.’

  Richard grinned. ‘Was I wearing protection?’

  Paul was in no mood for humour. ‘The taxi driver tried to thump you, then he drove off. We had to walk home from Cambuslang. We spent the last of the week’s money. It’s all gone. There’s nothing left.’

  ‘Oh well … fuck it!’ Richard flung his arms up dismissively. ‘Is there any coffee?’

  Paul, who’d managed not to lose his shit up to this point, now shat out an arse-load of anger. ‘No! You finished it last night! You ate it! You fucking clown.’

  ‘What?’


  ‘You heard me. Handfuls of it. Horrific.’ Paul shivered.

  ‘That’s why I was awake for hours!’ guffawed Richard, instantly regretting it. ‘Oh, fuck,’ he said, rubbing his temples. He pressed his eyes shut. ‘Who was that at the door?’

  ‘Guess.’

  Richard’s eyes sprang back open.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, not Norma Bates again? What did she want this time?’

  ‘Apparently, we are a health hazard.’

  ‘Ha!’ Richard found the very idea hilarious. ‘Not me. I’m OCD with personal hygiene.’ He pushed his hand deep into his boxers and scratched.

  ‘Oh please, don’t do that,’ pleaded Paul. ‘Anyway, she threatened to contact the landlord.’

  Richard pulled his hand back out and sniffed. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll charm her with my wit and matinee idol good looks.’

  Paul shook his head. ‘You know you’re an arsehole, don’t you?’

  Richard curtseyed with all the finesse of a one-legged goose. ‘I aim to please.’

  Paul dug out the two least disgusting mugs he could find and filled them to the brim with hot, steaming, freshly-bought coffee.

  ‘Oh, you absolute star,’ grinned Richard, heaping six teaspoons of sugar into his mug and stirring vigorously.

  Paul grimaced. ‘Why don’t you have diabetes?’

  ‘What can I say, I’m a human fly.’

  Paul slapped a loaf and a packet of butter onto the table. Richard helped himself to three slices. ‘While you were at the shops,’ he said, spreading an inch-thick slab of coronary heart disease across a doorstep of Paul’s newly purchased Mother’s Pride, ‘I remembered the brilliant idea I had last night.’

  ‘Fuck sake,’ sighed Paul. ‘Not another of your brilliant ideas. Give me a bloody break. Please.’