The Understudy

Act One H Waiting to Go On That's not real life, lad. That's just pretending. But "real life" is how well you pretend, isn't it? You. Me. Everybody in the world . . . Jack RosenthalReady When You Are, Mr. McGill Sunset Boulevard H Summers and Snow ep.3 draft 4 CHIEF INSPECTOR GARRETT (CONT.) . . . or I'll have you back directing traffic faster than you can say disciplinary action. INSPECTOR SUMMERS But he's just toying with us, sir, like a cat with a CHIEF INSPECTOR GARRETT I repeat Don't. Make It. Personal. I want a result, and I want it yesterday, or you're off this case, Summers. (SNOW goes to speak) I mean it. Now get out of herethe both of you. INT. MORTUARY. DAY BOB "BONES" THOMPSON, the forensic pathologist, sickly complexion, ghoulish sense of humor, stands over the seminaked body of a YOUNG MAN, early thirties, his bloated body lying cold and dead on the mortuary slab, in the early stages of decompositionCONSTABLE SNOW is clutching a handkerchief to her mouth. INSPECTOR SUMMERS Sofill me in, Thompson. How long d'you think he's been dead for? THOMPSON Hard to say. From the stink on him, I think it's fair to say he's not the freshest fish on the slab . . . INSPECTOR SUMMERS (not smiling) Clock's ticking, Bones . . . THOMPSON Okay, well, judging from the decay, the bloating and the skin discoloration, I'd say . . . he's been in the water a week or so, give or take a day. Initial examination suggests strangulation. By the ligature marks round the neck, I'd say the killer used a thick, coarse rope, or a chain maybe . . . DI SUMMERS A chain? Christ, the poor bastard . . . CONSTABLE SNOW Who found the body? (SUMMERS shoots her a look"I ask the questions round here . . .") THOMPSON Some old dear out walking the dog. Nice lady, eighty-two years old. I think it's safe to assume you should be looking elsewhere for your serial ki "Hang on a second . . . Nopenope, sorry, everyone, we're going to have to stop." "Why, what's up?" snapped Detective Inspector Summers. "We've got flaring." "On the lens?" "Dead guy's nostrils. You can see him breathing. We're going to have to go again." "Oh, for crying out loud . . ." "Sorry! Sorry, sorry, everyone," said the DEADYOUNGMAN, sitting up and folding his arms self-consciously across his blue-painted chest. While the crew reset, the director, a long-faced, troubled man with an unconvincing baseball cap pushed far back on a reflective forehead, dragged both hands down his face and sighed. Hauling himself from his canvas chair, he strode over to the DEADYOUNGMAN and knelt matily next to the mortuary slab. "Right, so, Lazarus, tell meis there a problem?" "No, Chris, it's all good for me . . ." "Becausehow can I say thisat present, you're doing a little too much." "Yeah, sorry about that." The director peered at hisNicholls, David is the author of 'The Understudy' with ISBN 9781400061822 and ISBN 1400061822.