Agency O Page 7

  HARVEY (CONT’D)

  Let me out! Let me out!

  The door CLICKS open and Harvey bolts through it into …

  INT. CORRIDOR – DAY

  … a corridor of pure white. Harvey races towards the exit as the MAIN THEME from 'Lawrence of Arabia' fills the air.

  At the end of the corridor, Harvey PRESSES repeatedly at the green EXIT button until the door finally swings open.

  EXT. COMPOUND – DAY

  Harvey stumbles out into the rainy compound, dazzled and disorientated. Staggering through the open gate into the deserted industrial wasteland, he collapses onto the ground.

  7

  Richard ran from his room, yelling. ‘The girl from Del Monte … she say yes!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Paul … yes, really. Apparently, the production team gave it a resounding thumbs-up. Woop-woop! That’s us booked in for our pitch to the senior execs on the 18th!’

  ‘Fuck me, we’re actually in.’

  ‘Foot in the fucking door!’ Richard galloped around the flat on a pretend horse, slapping his thigh. ‘You are a genius, my friend.’

  ‘Team effort.’

  ‘Yeah, but you drove those eight-inch nails right through it. You’ve got it, baby!’

  Paul shrugged. ‘It’s all just shit, really.’

  ‘Platinum fucking shit,’ Richard corrected. ‘We’re going to be rich and famous, and get to drink and screw all day long. Whether we like it or not!’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ laughed Paul. As if.

  Richard suddenly stopped waving his arms around and lost his Cheshire-wide grin. A deafening silence engulfed the room. Paul wondered if it was something he’d said. He was about to apologise when Richard cleared his throat. ‘It’s Pete’s birthday today,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘He would have been twenty eight.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Paul. ‘I totally forgot. I’m so sorry.’ He reached over and offered a supportive hand, but Richard shrugged it off.

  ‘Come on,’ said Richard, reaching for his jacket. ‘Let’s go get shit-faced and shout from the rooftops.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Paul, ‘and I know that’s exactly what your brother would want us to do, but aren’t you forgetting one critical flaw in your plan?’ He rubbed his fingers together to signal moolah.

  ‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,’ grinned Richard, and whipped a credit card from his pocket as though it were a set of nunchuks. ‘I got the golden ticket!’

  ‘How the hell?’

  ‘I’m an employee, remember? I am now legally entitled to contribute to the national debt crisis.’

  ‘Can I read her email?’

  ‘Later. The grape and the grain doth call.’ Richard tossed Paul his coat. ‘To pub we go!’ he decreed. And they were out the flat faster than a Jack Russell down a rat hole.

  8

  Paul heard Richard come in around two and thump about the flat, moaning to himself. At some point in the course of the evening, Paul had abandoned his hyperactive flatmate and retreated to the quiet of the flat to work on the script. Saving his edits, he went to see what sort of drunken state Richard was in.

  ‘Hey, Rich, what’s up?’ he asked, entering the kitchen.

  Richard had his hoodie up over his head. ‘Do we have any paracetamol?’ he mumbled.

  ‘Sounds like you need more than paracetamol,’ replied Paul. ‘Where’d you end up?’

  Richard pulled his hood down. His left eye was swollen and partially closed and his nose dripped a viscous crimson gunk. Further down, his lower lip, cut on the diagonal, bulged like an over-blown balloon. It wasn’t a good look.

  ‘Jesus!’ Paul gasped. ‘What the fuck happened to you?’

  ‘I got jumped.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Southside. One minute I’m walking home, the next I’m on the ground with some ned laying his boot into my face.’

  ‘Bloody hell. It’s a right mess. We need to get you to A&E.’ Paul pulled out his phone.

  Richard shook his head. ‘I just need some paracetamol. And ice. We got any ice?’

  Paul looked at his friend dubiously. ‘You sure you don’t want it checked out? You might need stitches.’

  Richard nodded and Paul reluctantly pocketed his phone. ‘Did you at least get a look at the shit who did this to you?’ Paul asked, pulling open a freezer drawer and passing over a bag of frozen peas.

  ‘It was too dark,’ said Richard, pressing the bag to his lip. ‘And too fast. All I remember was his hat. He had one of those flat caps from the 30s pulled down over his face.’

  ‘Fuck!’ Paul exclaimed, popping a paracetamol caplet from its foil casing. ‘That’s the same guy who followed me.’ He handed the painkiller to Richard along with a glass of water.

  ‘Could be,’ said Richard, throwing his head back and swallowing. He touched an open wound below his eye and winced. ‘The guy was strong. I mean, I tried to fight back but the bastard got the better of me. Fucking psycho.’

  ‘I told you I was followed.’

  ‘And I should have believed you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Did he take anything? Money, or - ?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Richard checked his pockets. ‘Oh great, my wallet’s gone. Still got my phone though.’ He placed it on the coffee table. ‘And it’s fucking cracked. The wanker.’

  ‘We should report this.’

  ‘What’s the police going to do?’

  ‘We’re being fucking stalked, Richard.’ Paul shook his head in alarm. ‘There’s bound to be CCTV footage of the bastard … or witnesses … anything.’

  ‘Fuck sake, Paul,’ said Richard. ‘They’re not TV cops. They haven’t got time for low-level shit like this.’ He hauled himself up off the couch, groaning as he tried to straighten up. ‘I’ll be fine. I just need to sleep it off.’ Still pressing the bag of Bird’s Eye to his face, he shuffled off to his room.

  Paul sighed, checked the locks on the doors and windows, and went back to his room, an unfamiliar feeling of panic slowly growing in his chest.

  It was just after eight when Paul knocked on Richard’s door to wake him for his shift at the bookshop. There was no reply. Paul knocked again, then cautiously pushed the door open. Richard was sitting at his desk, peering at his laptop.

  Paul entered and crossed the room. ‘Hey. You remembering you got work?’

  Richard’s eyes never left the screen.

  Paul leaned over and checked Richard’s face. The swelling on his lip and nose had gone down, and there was only a hint of a black eye. ‘Your face looks better. More like its usual ugly self.’

  Richard pointed to the screen. ‘Look.’

  Paul found himself staring at a list of emails. The top one was headed ‘This is the End.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Paul asked. Richard clicked on it and the message opened up.

  Remove your videos, erase your script, terminate your files

  Yesterday we warn – Tomorrow we end

  ‘Who sent you this?’

  ‘Check the time,’ said Richard, shaking his head.

  ’12.03am. Oh fuck! The bastard must have sent you this right after he did you over!’

  Richard sighed. ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘The sick fuck. What the hell’s going on?’

  Richard pressed his finger onto the cut on his lower lip. ‘Weird shit, that’s what’s going on. You want to see something weirder?’ Richard hovered the cursor over the word ‘end’ in the message and clicked. The word expanded until it filled the screen, then burst into flames.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ The panic in Paul’s chest returned with a vengeance. ‘I fucking told you not to put our details online.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Richard. ‘I set up a fake email address with Tor Fleck’s name on it. It’s the one Alice contacted me through.’

  ‘That’s even worse. They know who we are!’

  ‘Oh stop nee-nawing like a demented donkey,’ said Richard dismissively.
‘They’re just trolls.’

  ‘Richard, you were fucking set upon last night.’

  ‘You know me and my eloquent way with words. I probably upset somebody in the pub.’

  ‘He was wearing the same flat cap as the guy who followed me.’

  ‘Maybe I got that bit wrong. I don’t know.’

  ‘You knew it well enough last night.’

  ‘It’s just one of those things.’

  ‘”Tomorrow we end”. That’s pretty threatening,’ Paul squeaked, his voice leaping a couple of octaves.

  Richard cracked a painful smile. ‘It’s all a bit Mission Impossible, don’t you think? Even our script isn’t that bad. It’ll be one of my idiot acquaintances winding us up.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re playing this down. We need to go to the police. Now.’

  ‘For a stupid prank gone too far? Don’t be daft.’

  Paul sensed Richard was hiding something. ‘Have you had any more of these?’ he asked.

  Richard hesitated just a fraction too long.

  ‘Oh, Jesus Christ!’ yelled Paul. ‘When?’

  ‘Last week.’

  ‘Why didn’t you fucking say something?’

  ‘I told you, it’s just trolls,’ said Richard. ‘They’re not worth the energy.’

  ‘We’re being stalked. Were they all like this, the emails?’

  ‘More or less.’

  Paul was incandescent. ‘I can’t believe …’ He rubbed at his eye. ‘And all demanding we pull our project, or else?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Richard. ‘Because they’re mischievous wankers?’

  Paul shook his head. ‘This is more serious than that.’ He couldn’t work out whether Richard was genuinely unfazed over all of this, or just afraid to show how terrified he actually was.

  ‘One other thing,’ said Richard.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look at the sender’s name at the bottom of the email.’

  Paul leaned in and scanned the message again. ‘What the fuck? Tor Fleck?’

  Richard nodded. ‘Our mystery man from the tundra.’

  Paul stared at his friend, totally confused. ‘But that’s just fucked up.’

  ‘Your fictional best friend from uni, and our ticket to the stars, has turned out to be a saddo troll. We’ve quite literally created a monster!’ Richard laughed, wincing again at the pain rippling across his cracked lips.

  ‘We need to report this,’ said Paul. ‘It’s fucking with my head. And the sooner we pull our stuff from the Internet the better.’

  Richard scowled. ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid. We’re two weeks away from our pitch. If we pull it now, we risk blowing the deal.’

  ‘Fuck the deal! We’re being threatened!’

  ‘By who? Somebody we just made up? You need to calm down, Paul. This is just a bubble in a fart bag.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Whatever. We’re sitting on the deal of a lifetime here. Are you going to let fucking Gollum fuck it up for us?’

  ‘The email said ‘we’, ie. more than one.’

  ‘Of course it does. Him and his imaginary friends from Middle Earth. Just sit tight and he’ll go away.’

  ‘I’m not happy about this.’ Paul clenched his teeth and shook his head.

  Richard smiled. ‘When are you ever happy? Just trust me. Okay? I know it goes against your better nature, but can you make an exception this one time? For me?’

  Paul stared at the floor, refusing to answer.

  ‘Paul,’ Richard soothed, ‘think about it. This only happens in the movies. You’ve been working on the script for too long. You’re going la-la.’ He put a hand on Paul’s shoulder. ‘Last night was a bar-room conversation gone wrong, that’s all. These messages are stupid and harmless. Somebody pissed, firing them out in a fit of anger, end of.’

  Paul glanced up. He still wasn’t fully convinced, but what if Richard was right?

  Richard grinned. ‘There we are. Our boy has returned unscathed from Narnia.’ He raised his arms in victory.

  ‘Any more emails or threats of any kind,’ cautioned Paul, ‘and we pull the plug.’

  ‘It’s not going to happen,’ said Richard. ‘And besides, I could flatten Tor Fleck any day. Who is he anyway? A fucking nobody, that’s who. And a fictional one at that.’ He closed his laptop. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I need coffee. Some of us have to work today.’

  Paul forced out an unconvincing smile. For the sake of their friendship, he’d carry on with this charade. For now. But in the pit of his stomach, he knew it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

  9

  To Paul’s immense relief, the next two weeks passed without a single threatening email. Maybe Richard was right after all; maybe it was just a nutter with a grudge who’d gotten bored when they’d ignored him. The return to a state resembling normality re-ignited Paul’s creative spark, and as he worked furiously on honing the script, Agency O began to look more like the real deal, a fact Paul couldn’t help but feel a little excited about.

  He checked his watch. 2.47 am. He’d been working on Scene Twelve, a critical turning point in the story, for more than five hours, tightening the action and fine-tuning the plot. He stretched and yawned. He was done. He’d nail the scene tomorrow. He reached over to click Save but something in the pre-dawn soundscape of the house made him pause and turn. Was that the door? Richard was spending the night with an ex – or, as Richard himself described her, an ex with severe memory loss – so it couldn’t be him. And it was too late, or too early, for a visit from Mrs McGilvray. Was it even a sound at all? Paul rose from his desk, eased open the bedroom door, and peered into the gloom.

  Nothing.

  Of course it’s nothing, he thought. Who the hell would - ? A clatter from the kitchen cut short the thought. Paul pushed his head out further, his heart thudding, but it was still too dark to see. Moving into the living room proper, he peered around the corner into the kitchen. There was a sudden crash, as though a saucepan had been dropped.

  ‘Shit!’ Paul edged his way back out of the living room. As he reached his bedroom door, he caught a glimpse of a shadow moving across the hallway. He quickly ducked into the bathroom and locked the door. He scanned the room for any kind of weapon he could defend himself with, but all he could find was a toilet brush. Fat lot of good that’ll do.

  Pressing his ear to the door, Paul listened for the intruder. His heartbeat was more like a dance beat: DOOF-DOOF-DOOF-DOOF. If I ever get out of this alive, he thought, I’m never listening to Calvin Harris again. This is fucking killing me.

  The door handle turned with an agonising slowness. Paul jumped back and grabbed the toilet brush, prepared to administer a soft-tipped, but cleansing, beating. The door handle was let go. Paul leaned in, straining to hear the slightest sound. Something struck the door with force – BOOM! – sending him stumbling backwards. Another violent boom. And another. And another. Whoever was out there was trying to kick the door in. Paul was panicking now, cornered and trapped like a slaughterhouse hog. There was no way out. No window or hatch to climb through. In desperation he yanked back the shower curtain and clambered into the bath. BOOM! Another kick. The door shook on its frame.

  Paul opened the storage cabinet beneath the eaves and squeezed inside, pushing aside towels and toilet rolls and a foot-high blue plastic penguin. What the fuck? The battering of the door continued, as shards of plaster and wood flew out in all directions. Tucking in his legs and arms, Paul forced his body into the impossible space. Jesus. Just as he pulled the shutters closed, the door flew off its hinges and catapulted sideways into the bath, taking the shower curtain down with a crash. Paul’s hand flew to his mouth. Do not breathe! An ominous quiet descended in the bathroom. Calvin Harris cranked up the BPM in Paul’s chest. DOOF-DOOF-DOOF-DOOF-DOOF-DOOF-DOOF! Paul fought the urge to scream. Where the hell was the fucker? Did he leave? A pair of black-trousered legs climbed over what was l
eft of the door, and entered the bathroom fully. Nope. The fucker didn’t leave. The fucker’s in the bathroom. My bathroom! And I don’t think he’s here to do a shit! Paul couldn’t see his face, the cupboard’s air vent was too low, but he could hear the fucker’s breathing. Kicking the door in must have taken it out of him. He should get himself a Bannatyne’s membership, Paul thought randomly. The black-clad legs moved further in and stopped. Paul looked down. A pair of black, shiny brogues pressed up against the door. Whoever he was, he was listening for signs of Paul’s whereabouts. The feet reached the cupboard. Paul clenched his fists to defend himself, still gripping the toilet brush. The feet stopped. A flat cap appeared at the vent. Paul pulled back further into the darkness. The door rattled. Fuck! Paul was about to kick out – one good shot to the goolies should do it – but then the front door-chime rang like the bell on the Titanic and the intruder fled. Paul heard a commotion out in the close, and then the voice of Mrs McGilvray shouting at the top end of the sound spectrum.

  ‘Manners, young man!’

  Paul pushed himself out of the cabinet, stumbled over the debris, and ran to the front door, toilet brush in en garde position.

  ‘What in God’s name is going on?’ asked a shocked Mrs McGilvray.

  Paul lowered the toilet brush and caught his breath. ‘I am so glad to see you, Mrs McGilvray.’

  ‘One of your rude friends nearly knocked me down the stairs.’

  Paul nodded. ‘We had an intruder.’

  ‘Oh my. Are you okay, son?’ There was genuine concern in Mrs McGilvray’s voice. ‘I thought the whole tenement was going to fall down with all that noise.’

  ‘I was hiding in the bathroom. He kicked the door in.’

  ‘And you were going to defeat him with that?’ Mrs McGilvray nodded to the toilet brush and shook her head, ‘Come away in,’ she said. ‘I’ll call the police, then make you a nice cup of sweet tea. You’ll be in shock.’

  Paul followed Mrs McGilvray into her flat, lurching against her door as exhaustion kicked in. ‘Now don’t break my bloody door in as well,’ she said, and Paul could swear he caught the hint of a smile.