THE STONE TAPE

by Nigel Kneale

Producer: Innes Lloyd  
Director: Peter Sasdy
Produced on BBC Television, December 25, 1972

OUTSIDE TASKERLANDS HOUSE — DAY

A SMALL CAR, an Austin 1300, is being carefully driven down the last of along drive and into the forecourt of the house.

There is much evidence of the massive rebuilding this ugly la te-Victorian structure has undergone. There are contractors I huts on the lawn, and a large caravan. There are piles of material — - sand and reinforcing metal and heavy pipes. Some scaffolding clings to the centre parts of the building.

The car pulls in behind large motor vans.

There are two vans, both emblazoned with the name “Ryan Electric Products”. one has unloaded, the other is just finishing. Men are shifting bulky apparatus onto trolleys and moving it inside the house.

The car driver is JILL GREELEY, aged about 30. There is a very feminine, strong directness about her, so that what she is seems far more important than what she does. What she does is computer programming.

She surveys the house, oppressed by the sight of it. Her eyes go along the whole ugly length. One end of it looks still untreated, smothered in ivy.

She is so absorbed that she hardly notices that the vans are moving.

She looks round. One of them is backing straight towards her, huge and blind. She blips her horn but it still comes on. She glances to the side and sees the other van backing towards her from that direction. She has moved in too close; neither of the unseen drivers has noticed her.

She frantically starts her engine.

Then, as if something happens to her vision — - the two objects are suddenly no longer motor vans but two huge, de-focussed shapes like standing stones in motion, slowly blundering and blending, looming over her. And their engine rumble descends to something deeper, an irregular grunting. Somehow obscene ...

Then it passes.

Jill finds herself sitting motionless, her car on the point of being crushed. She frantically throws her gears into reverse and slams her foot down.

The Austin shoots wildly backwards out of danger, swaying and skidding in the loose gravel. She glances in the rear mirror — - and sees a mass of builders’ equipment; piles of pipes and scaffolding! She tugs at the wheel, hits the brakes. The car skids straight on in a spray of gravel.

Jill screams.

The Austin scrapes past a pile of reinforcing metal with an ugly grinding — - and thuds into a huge pile of sand. Jill is flung back in her seat. The engine stalls.

For a moment she hardly realises what has happened. She leans forward, head into hands. She shudders.

Fifty yards away the caravan door opens and ROY COLLINSON looks out. He is a grey-haired man of 45 or so, his face tight and strained.

Evidently he heard the scream. But he sees only the two vans slowly turning into the drive.

In the Austin, almost lost to sight behind the builders’ equipment, Jill is still huddled over the wheel, giving herself time to recover. She numbly watches the vans go ... then a yellow fastback swinging in past them.

The fastback pulls up in the forecourt and Collinson turns to greet the new arrival: PETER BROCK, aged 35, Director of Research for Ryan Electrics. He is a man with a lot of drive, his temperament all upswing and downbeat. At the moment, he is on a big upswing, arriving to take over his new establishment.

BROCK: Hello, Colly.

COLLINSON: Peter.

BROCK: The big day.

COLLINSON: Don’t expect too much. It’s all a mess. If only we’d had another month — -

BROCK: Not a chance. (They survey the house in silence) It looks good. I mean, it looks as terrible as ever but — -stronger.

COLLINSON (with feeling): Why didn’t they tear it down!

BROCK: Colly — -

COLLINSON: It would have been better. They had to rip the floors out and the roof and even the window frames — -there was nothing worth keeping. Just an ugly shell!

BROCK: Colly, he found it.

COLLINSON: Even so.

BROCK: Himself.

COLLINSON: I can understand about the park there — - at least it’s big — - but this!

BROCK: He liked the style of it.

COLLINSON: My God.

BROCK: One look, that’s all he needed, and his mind was made up. He said it spoke to him. Spoke to him, so it did. (This last comes in the mock brogue which is staff code for utterances of the firm’s chairman) I know what it said. “Mr Ryan, for pity’s sake don’t knock me down!”.

COLLINSON: He — - he could have built it new! For half the cost!

The stridency in his voice worries Brock.

BROCK: How long have you been down here?

COLLINSON: Three or four months.

BROCK: Got somebody stashed away in the caravan?

COLLINSON: Eh?

BROCK: Why not?

COLLINSON: Hardly. I quite like it. It’s quite — - snug.

Horns blare in cheerful chorus. Three more cars are approaching down the drive.

BROCK: Here they come.

COLLINSON: Eddie Holmes was a great help. He’s got most of your gear in position. I’m glad you could spare him.

BROCK: Good man, Eddie.

A battered estate car pulls in, with the other two close behind. Hands wave from windows. Then they are scrambling out. Most of Brock’s staff are under 30, stamped in general with a kind of alert ingenuousness. EDDIE HOLMES, at 40, is the oldest, a dull-faced clever man. HARGRAVES and MAUDSLEY, both 25, one serious and introverted, the other afflicted with an adolescent sense of humour on top of basic cunning. CLIFF DOW is 30, a slow perfectionist.

There are three or four others, less noticeable characters. All of them are in high spirits. There has clearly been a lot of laughter on the way.

EDDIE: Aye, aye, Peter! Setting a good example.

MAUDSLEY: The conscientious boss is always the first in!

He leads the hammed-up dirty laugh.

BROCK: See what I’ve got — - a bunch of kids.

VOICES: Where is he! Mascot! Mascot! Mascot!

The rear of the estate car is flung up. An extraordinary figure bounces out. Its head is covered by a rubber Martian mask with bug eyes and sprouting wires. Its body is padded and covered with the green undulating rubber foam that is used under carpets, belted into place. on its chest hangs a control panel with flashing indicator lamps and a loud beeping noise. A sash marked “Ryan Electric Products” — - a relic of some trade exhibition — - is tied round its middle.

BROCK: Stew! is that Stewart?

EDDIE: Who else?

The figure bows as the cheering research staff close in. They sweep it off its feet and swing it aloft. They run with it beeping and flashing, in a wide circle.

In the Austin, Jill sits watching. Her nerves are steadying. She smiles slightly, moves to get out.

The Martian figure yells as he is swept towards the house and nearly crashes into the door lintel. They tip him back and run him under it.

INSIDE THE ENTRANCE HALL

The figure is borne triumphantly in and set down with a bump. Then they demolish him. He yelps as the Martian mask is ripped off to reveal the thin face of STEWART JESSOP, 22, computer operator.

STEW: Help! Take me to your leader! I come in peace!

HARGRAVES: You’re coming in pieces, mate!

They yell like wild animals. The control panel is battered into silence, the sash sent flying. Hands rip at the cords and rubber foam. They fight for possession of the padding.

An elaborately uniformed “Sergeant” appears from the reception desk, worried about exercising authority. Brock waves him back.

BROCK: They’ve got to do it. Like dogs peeing on something.

COLLINSON: Like what — - !

As Jill comes in, Stew is flung almost at her feet with the worrying pack on top of him, whooping and yelling.

JILL (in genuine, momentary horror): What are you doing to him!

MAUDSLEY: We’re sacrificing a Martian!

BROCK: All right, break it up. That’s enough. That’ll do! (He reaches Jill, puts his arm round her) Just a bit of clowning.

MAUDSLEY: Innocent clowning, sir.

BROCK: Innocent? You lot?

EDDIE: You missed the fun, Jill.

DOW: You’re late.

MAUDSLEY: Bride’s privilege.

Brock gives him a hard look.

HARGRAVES: We’ve sacrificed a Martian!

Stew sits up, grinning and sweating. He wipes his face.

Brock draws Jill aside.

BROCK (quietly): You’re shaking.

JILL (as quietly): I was — - nearly in an accident.

BROCK: How? Where?

JILL: Outside here. I had a sort of — - momentary — - I don’t know — -

BROCK (his face hardening): Blackout’s the usual word.

JILL: It wasn’t that.

BROCK (sighing): You should have been with me. I should have been driving you. I’m sorry, I couldn’t make last night.

JILL: Peter, please.

BROCK: So you’ll get accident-prone.

JILL: Nothing happened.

She turns, aware that the others are watching them now.

The house is as oppressive inside as out. Changes have only worsened it. The great curving staircase now embraces a lift shaft. Air-conditioning ducts run everywhere and spare sections of ducting lie stacked about the place. There are coils of cable and other debris. wires dangle unconnected from the walls. A low-level reception desk shelters the sergeant.

BROCK: Welcome to Taskerlands. It doesn’t look much now but wait till it’s finished — - then you’ll get the full horror.

COLLINSON: Don’t put them off.

BROCK: Everybody know Roy Collinson, house master and bunny mother?

COLLINSON: Hold on.

BROCK: Any problems about the move — - getting digs in the area, housing wives and harems — - see Colly.

EDDIE: Why is it called that?

COLLINSON: Taskerlands?

EDDIE: Yes, what’s it mean?

DOW: Work!

COLLINSON: It was built by a man called Tasker and these were his lands. He made a fortune out of iron railings.

HARGRAVES: It’s not — - ancient?

COLLINSON: Sorry to disappoint. It was built about 1880. Mostly owned by the one family. Requisitioned during World War Two — - the American forces had it. Derelict ever since.

Some laughter.

BROCK: Right. Let’s butter their paws. Come on — - (Leading the way briskly) Lift, soon to operate, I hope. My office is up there.

EDDIE: Very palatial.

BROCK: Of course, or why be boss? Reception desk, with Sergeant Patterson. Sergeant, get to know these faces.

SERGEANT (nodding and grinning): I know some already, sir.

BROCK: From here on, we’re secret. So no chums in, no parties in the canteen — - which by the way is through there and extremely decent.

COLLINSON: And working.

BROCK: Loos that way, also working. And now — -

He opens the lab door and leads the way in.

THE LABORATORY

The laboratory is large and well equipped. It is filled with benches and steel shelves holding all kinds of equipment. Crates still unpacked stand round the walls.

There are a couple of TV cameras on roller tripods, large monitors, oscillographs, thermographs, a spectrum analyser.

Separated off from the rest by a glazed partition is the computer section. This is the territory of Jill and Stew. There is the usual teleprinter for data communications-a plotter of automatic graphs ... a high-speed line printer. But only a couple of the conventional tape storage units with their heavy tape spools visible through windows.

BROCK: This is Lab One. Soon there’ll be two others like it to spread into. And if that’s not enough there are five hundred acres outside to sit and think in.

MAUDSLEY: Who else is coming here?

BROCK: Nobody. Just us.

HARGRAVES: But it’s enormous.

BROCK: We’ll get bigger. I’ll expand the team with people I choose. Handpicked. The best. Same as you’re the best.

STEW: Flattery, Pete..

MAUDSLEY: Gets him a lot of places.

DOW: Yeah.

HARGRAVES: This lot.

MAUDSLEY: Fantastic.

DOW: Too good to be true.

HARGRAVES: After North Acton, eh!

STEW: What about the other crowd? The washing machine?

DOW: Here?

BROCK: Forget it.

DOW: That bunch in here?

BROCK: No! Can’t you get it through your heads — - you’re special! Incredible as it may seem, you are! I’ll spell it out. This — place — is — ours. It — is — all — for — us. Because — we — are — on — the Big One! (He surveys their faces) D’you want a pep talk? D’you really want that?

DOW: About the Japs?

STEW: He’s a bit simple. Brilliant but simple.

BROCK: Cliff — it is always about the Japs. In ten years they are going to have us all by whatever part of our anatomy they pick. There will be no electronics industry anywhere in the world but theirs. Unless —

EDDIE: I think we’ve a good chance.

BROCK: We’ve got only a single chance. We’ve got to play a card so high they can’t top it.

STEW (mock-Japanese): Aah, so!

BROCK: A completely new recording medium.

STEW: Already have in honourable pocket.

EDDIE: Shut up, Stew.

STEW (seriously): What about tape, though?

EDDIE: Tape’s finished.

STEW: They can still improve —

EDDIE: Its day is done.

BROCK: Stew. (He has a spool in his hand) Magnetic tape is compact, responsive, all the sales chat-up says. (He pulls some loose and crushes it in his fingers) Also delicate and prone to lose its memory.

MAUDSLEY: Like Cliff here.

BROCK: As you rightly say. (He tosses the spool down) It’s time, gentlemen, for a breakthrough. Just record me, say, the whole of Wagner’s Ring cycle inside a pin head — with instant playback, of course —

MAUDSLEY: Gimme till lunchtime.

BROCK: — and you can name your royalties.

EDDIE (hungrily): It is royalties, then?

BROCK: Forget about bonuses, you’ll be right in there. I’ve got his word on it.

EDDIE: Himself?

BROCK: Yesterday. “Just put the boot into ould Nippon!” is how he delicately phrased it. So — if you want to be millionaires, it’s a crash programme. Find the medium and everything else follows.

DOW: The hardware?

BROCK: We’d take the lot. Computers — TV — home recording — satellites — they all follow. Then Ryan Electrics becomes Ryan International becomes Ryan Interspatial. It I s up to you.

EDDIE: I love this man’s modesty.

BROCK: Thanks to Eddie you’ll find all your junk in familiar order.

EDDIE: Disorder.

BROCK: Obviously. Sorry.

EDDIE: All that string.

BROCK: Now. Your pet projects will go on as before — Eddie’s digital crystal and so on — but we’re going to try something new. We’ll correlate all results together.

MAUDSLEY: But Pete — if there’s no connection —

BROCK: The computer might spot one. (Doubtful noises) Every clue counts.

EDDIE: It puts a lot on the computer.

All eyes go to Jill. She is standing by the computer, her

expression strange, as if she is still under the heavy apprehension that nearly made her crash the car.

BROCK: Jill’s ready. She’s going to try something very sophisticated. Projections — extrapolations — a sort of randomised mix with an accelerated uncertainty principle. How’s that?

Jill seems to come to herself.

JILL: Something of the sort.

BROCK: You all right?

JILL: Yes, I — (As if to take attention away from herself, she turns to the twin tape storage units) What about data storage? Are those all we’ve got?

BROCK: Colly. Computer storage room. When do we get it?

COLLINSON: Oh yes. Well —

BROCK: What?

COLLINSON (embarrassed): There’ve been — problems.

BROCK (quietly): You were here to solve them. (Controlling his anger) How far have they got with it? Colly, how much have they done?

COLLINSON (bluntly): Nothing.

Brock stares at him in disbelief, then makes for the door.

BROCK: Let me see!

He stamps off down the passage. Collinson looks at Jill.

They both follow.

THE STORAGE ROOM

Brock throws open a massive door. There is still a notice screwed to it reading “U.S. ARMY. STORE ROOM”.

The room is immense. It could contain a small house. The walls go up 15 or 20 feet to meet the bare and rotting beams of the roof. The walls are covered with wooden panelling that now hangs away from them in sagging sheets.

There is a single window at one end, high up and half smothered by the ivy we saw outside.

Apart from a workmen’s trestle table, standing in the rubble, it is completely bare. A few square yards of the rotten panelling have been torn down and thrown on the floor. Then work seems to have been abandoned.

Brock stands in the middle of the room, unable to believe it.

BROCK: It — it simply isn’t – !Five months and not a single– ! Why didn’t you report it?

Collinson joins him. Jill stays in the doorway.

COLLINSON: I knew there were reasons they had to finish the priority jobs.

BROCK: Colly, this was priority!

COLLINSON: To be fair, it wasn’t in phase one.

BROCK: Refacing and air-conditioning and wiring — ! Did they just forget it?

COLLINSON: No.

BROCK: What then?

COLLINSON: Problems with the men. They claimed it was — I don It know — a dirty job.

BROCK: There’s dry rot! Do they think it’s catching! Look at those panels — I could shift the lot in half an hour!

He grabs a swathe of distorted panelling and peels it back.

It splits, disclosing shroud-like hangings of fungus. Dust scatters. Brock sneezes.

He pulls savagely at another section and this too rips away. More fungus — and something else.

BROCK: Stairs.

Jill comes to look. The steps are little more than pegs the wall, scarcely a foot wide and very badly worn — hollowed, sloping and uneven.

COLLINSON: Yes, they saw those.

BROCK: The men?

He tugs at the next section of panelling. it is more resistant but it shows them enough.

JILL: They don’t lead anywhere.

The steps run from ground level to about eight feet up and then stop.

BROCK: Surely that wasn’t what — ? (Sourly, as he releases the panel) What else did they find? A skeleton?

COLLINSON: No-o.

BROCK: Anything?

COLLINSON: As a matter of fact, yes. About thirty tins of Spam.

BROCK: Spam!

COLLINSON: And a letter to Father Christmas.

He nods at the trestle table. With a comic groan Brock goes to look. There is a pile of rusty tins. He picks one up.

BROCK: U.S. Army issue.

COLLINSON: Doubt if it’s fit now. They must have got forced in through the panelling. The Yanks used this for a store.

BROCK: Painted it khaki!

COLLINSON: Trying to quell the rot.

BROCK: Even then?

COLLINSON: It was empty before the war. When the rot gets really going like this they call it weeping. Weeping fungus.

Brock glares at the membranes of rot with personal enmity. There is a piece of paper on the table — a half disintegrated sheet that looks as if it was previously folded up in a tight wad. Jill picks it up and tries to make out the faded scrawl.

JILL: “Christmas Eve...”

COLLINSON: Oh yes, that’s it.

JILL: “What ... I want for...Christmas ...

COLLINSON: A kid’s writing.

His manner has changed — tight and nervous.

Brock suddenly attacks the wall, kicking out a great piece of panelling. Rot and dead wood and dust go flying. He kicks at it again, hacking more away with his foot.

BROCK: Even the stone’s got it!

COLLINSON: It’s just — very old.

BROCK: 1880?

COLLINSON: Ah, that’s when they panelled it in. These walls are a lot older than the rest of the house. They’ve just been — built onto. In fact, they must have been knocked down and rebuilt and generally messed about a lot in the last thousand years. (Brock stares at him) Oh, yes. The foundations might be Saxon.

BROCK: Saxon!

COLLINSON: Just an amateur opinion.

BROCK: My God — !

COLLINSON: Informed amateur.

BROCK: If you’re right, you see what it means? (in despair) They’ll be in here — the environment boys, the conservationists — nailing their little notices on the door and writs and — they could stop everything! If they get on to it — (Thinking furiously) — what about the architect?

COLLINSON (with contempt): That architect!

BROCK: Didn’t he spot it?

COLLINSON: Not till the day he quit.

BROCK (a tight smile): Right! If we go ahead fast — get everything concreted over and the machines in — while we can! Where are the men now?

COLLINSON: Working on the back.

BROCK: Come on! (In the doorway he turns a worry, love, you’ll get your storage room!

They hurry off along the passage. Jill shivers. It is cold here, the chill suddenly striking. She follows.

As the men’s footsteps fade they seem to echo inside the room. Curiously changed, though — this is a rapid pattering.

The effect is so startling that Jill spins round expecting to see another person. And finds nobody. She forces calm on herself and makes for the door. As she reaches it the sense of another presence behind her is overwhelming. She halts and steadies herself against the doorpost. Quite deliberately, she turns to look.

And sees a figure.

It is standing high up on the peg-like steps. The figure of a woman in black, its face hidden by arms raised in front of it. It looks as if it is on the point of falling. Still and rigid.

In the same moment that the vision lasts — and it is only a moment — there is a shrill rasp in the air. A human scream that has lost its humanity, denatured and dead.

Then silence. The steps empty.

Jill twists about and clings to the doorpost, beyond crying out. She claws her way into the passage. In the entrance hall she can see Brock and Collinson talking to one of the builders’ men.

JILL (hoarsely): Peter

He turns. As he starts towards her she pitches forward...

BROCK’S SUITE — LIVING QUARTERS

Jill is huddled on a convertible bed. Her knees are drawn up beside her and her fists are bunched. She has come out of the first shock into a paroxysm of violent, confused sobbing.

Brock is trying to calm her.

BROCK: All right now, all right. Jill!

He pulls her crumpled face round. Her eyes open but it takes her a moment to focus on him. She looks like a child that can’t explain what hurts. Then panic rises again.

JILL: I can’t stay here, I’ve got to get away! Take me away! (wildly) Peter!

She sits up, tense and trembling, her fists held tight against her breasts and her body rigid. She is on the brink of hysteria.

He moves closer, stroking her, soothing her.

BROCK: Jill, Jill, Jill. Easy now. (He kisses her but she stays rigid in his arms) I’m sorry. I didn’t listen to you before. Tell me about it.

JILL: What?

BROCK: The accident.

JILL: It isn’t that.

BROCK: Tell me.

JILL: I — I hit a pile of sand, that’s all. There were vans and — I couldn’t have been watching. (Suddenly) I hate this place! I didn’t want to come here!

BROCK: No. You didn’t. (His face sets a little. Now he feels he knows where he is. They are on old ground. He sits back. Her fists are still pressed tight against her body like a barrier. He gently eases them down) Here. Dump the moist hankie.

JILL (opening her hand): Not — not a hankie.

Brock takes it.

BROCK: Oh. Father Christmas’s letter.

She shakes her head.

BROCK (reading): “What I want ... for Christmas is ... please go away. Signed Martin Tasker”. Well.

JILL (whispering): Not what you’d say.

BROCK: I don’t know. One of my kids is like that, hates the idea of him coming down the chimney.

JILL: It wasn’t to Father Christmas.

BROCK: Who, then?

JILL: I know. I think I know!

Again the rising note of hysteria. Brock hardens himself against it. He gets up.

The room is only half finished. it will be very luxurious indeed but at present is still a mess of hanging wires and unopened crates.

BROCK: How do you like it now? They’ve done a bit since we came down that time. All the shelving and — (He looks into the adjoining office, where a huge desk stands in a sea of unsecured carpet, and back to her) I quite liked it even without the shelving. Didn’t you? (Her face is unresponsive) You know what all this is about. You’re getting at me. (He waits for a protest but there isn’t any) Mind you, I quite enjoyed your previous ploys. “How are Christine and the kids? How are Timothy’s mumps? How’s the dog’s toothache?” Oh my Jilly. You’re a very female one. (He sits on the bed) I need you. I know you weren’t keen to transfer but I need you for your brain as well — if that doesn’t sound crass but of course it does. If you’re in doubt ask Eddie and the boys. (He strokes her forehead) What’s in there is so rare and... valuable. (After a moment) Do it your own way. Commute home to old mummy or stay here. Stay? (She says nothing) Sometimes, anyway.

Jill looks him straight in the face. She is calmer, but only by her own effort.

JILL: I saw a ghost.

Just for a moment Brock’s eyes soften — then the response dies and they are hard again. He gets up briskly.

BROCK: Let’s get out of here for a while. Leave Colly to fight the labour relations.

He helps her up. when she is on her feet he kisses her.

JILL: Let’s go ...

A LOCAL PUBLIC HOUSE

The brewers’ gimmick when they face-lifted this roadside pub was ‘motoring’ . The beer handles are gaitered gear levers, and the whole bar looks like an accessory shop. Babycham bottles peep through spokes and steering wheels. Muffled muzak throbs.

Any jollity is dispelled by the BAR LADY, a genteel harridan, who forks out cold meats and pickles for Jill and Brock. Her helper, an ungainly little countrywoman, is allowed to work the beer engine.

HELPER (beaming): One Danish draught, one Super-Strong.

BROCK: One for yourself.

HELPER: Ta.

BAR LADY: No, thank you. Are they really making poison gas up there?

BROCK: No — we aren’t.

BAR LADY: It’s what I heard.

BROCK: Not a whiff.

BAR LADY (wearily): I mean germs. You know what I mean.

Feeling Jill’s tension rise, he puts his hand over hers.

JILL: Do you know the place?

BAR LADY: I’ve only been here a month. That’ll be — with the bread — one pound eighty pee. (As Brock pays) I mean, it won’t do us any good. These days people don’t like that sort of thing.

JILL: It’s nothing bad!

BAR LADY (freezingly): We all know what secret means.

She moves away to attend more favoured customers. The helper grimaces and lifts her glass.

HELPER: Cheers. I believe it’s been made very nice.

JILL: Do you know it?

HELPER: I used to. Well, sort of.

JILL: You went there?

HELPER: Not actually in. It was during the war when the Yanks was there. (She leans forward with a grotesque confidential giggle) I was a good-time girl!

BROCK: Hooray for you.

HELPER (pleased) : Yes, well — why not? They was nice boys. And the nylons!

JILL: Did they talk about the house?

HELPER: Ooh — it was all generals and people. Some headquarters Eisenhower was there once.

JILL: I mean — what was it like inside?

HELPER (puzzled): No. Very posh, I expect. There was one boy, though — (Fondness shows) — He was a caution. He said — now lemme think — oh dear, he had all these funny words, y’see, he was a coloured boy. I know — guppy. He said there was guppies in the store — that’s where he worked —

BROCK: Guppies are fish. Tropical.

HELPER: Oh dear. Duppies?

A man in his late twenties moves along behind the bar, aproned and carrying a crate of bottles.

MAN: He must have meant rats.

HELPER: You don’t know, Alan.

ALAN: Taskerlands is full of rats. We used to play up there when I was a kid.

HELPER: Oh yes — you and that Jackie and —

She breaks off in some curious embarrassment. He gives her a hard look and goes on with emphasis, as if to prove he doesn’t mind talking about it.

ALAN: Yes, old Jackie. We used to do dares.

JILL: The end room — you know it?

ALAN (after a moment): Yes. Stand there in the dark, after a bit you’d hear ‘em all noising about and squealing.

JILL: Did you see them?

ALAN: What was there to see? If they was behind the woodwork?

He moves off with his crate. Brock glances at Jill. She is trembling.

JILL: Who else would know about it? About the house?

THE VICARAGE LIBRARY

The vicar is in his sixties. He is a scholar gone completely to seed. He has opened an old glass-fronted bookcase and is searching hopelessly through the mess inside. It is crammed to bursting with tattered journals and folders and exercise books. Bundles fall, scattering dust.

Brock and Jill are with him. All her tension has returned.

VICAR: You’ve seen the parish registers. Not many Taskers there ... among the births and marriages and... they were not ... statistically prominent. But apart from the registers I really don’t know —

BROCK: We’re wasting your time.

JILL: No, please —

VICAR: It’s quite all right, if I can only —

JILL: I just thought there might be something more — personal. About the family and the house.

VICAR (opening an exercise book): Old sermons. Now who on earth would want to hear today about... about... ?

JILL: Did you know them? The Taskers?

VICAR: Eh? Oh ... they’d all gone before I came. Died out. That last one was a recluse, I believe. Now — there must be some odds and ends from my predecessor Is time. I fancy — somewhere here — (He suddenly turns to them with eyes brightened by a vital recollection) You know? It came to me the other day — about pollution. It’s the modern rediscovery of sin. The only form it can take in a materialistic world! (He is delighted with his notion) All the rubbish and mess — that’s the new wickedness! And they can see it! The sudden conviction of — of — of non-returnable bottles! Eh?

BROCK (uncomfortably): Yes, Jill, I think —

VICAR: Then sackcloth and ashes. Plenty of ashes!

BROCK: I think we’d better get back.

VICAR: Oh dear.

BROCK: This — was just a thought.

VICAR (moving with them to the door): Yes, well I ... Come again and p1raps by then I —

BROCK: Thanks anyway.

VICAR: They must have been funny people. There was something about an exorcism once —

JILL: Exorcism!

VICAR (shaking his head): Now I can’t approve of that. I know it’s in the prayer-book, but — oh, dear, dear!

JILL: You do mean — laying a ghost? Her intensity catches at Brock.

VICAR: It was either there or ... now was it? Ah! (He seems to change his mind) I may be maligning them.

JILL: When was it?

VICAR: Oh — long, long ago. (Then he brightens out of his vagueness and happily remounts his hobby-horse. He beams) I feel I’m obsolete but not sinful — I cause so little pollution. Apart from tea-leaves — and my hens eat those up —

OUTSIDE TASKERLANDS HOUSE — DUSK

Jill’s Austin pulls out of the corner behind the building materials, backfiring repeatedly. Brock holds up his hand to halt her and runs round behind the car to kick the sand out of her exhaust pipe. He waves her on. Engine running more smoothly, she turns away down the drive.

Brock watches her go. His face is serious. He has sent her off early. The other cars still stand parked. After a moment he starts towards the caravan. There is a light in its window.

INSIDE THE CARAVAN

Brock looks in and finds Collinson at work with two fingers on a portable typewriter by the light of an angle poise lamp.

BROCK: How did it go?

COLLINSON: Well — they’ve made a start, clearing the old panelling out. I’m just making a report. (As Brock glances back at the house) I’d leave them to it. They were decidedly tricky.

BROCK: Any reason given?

COLLINSON: No. They just don’t like it. Come in — have a drink.

BROCK: Good idea.

Collinson clears a space for him. The whole caravan is tightly packed with files and office equipment as well as personal things, but method keeps everything in place. He produces whisky and glasses from a tiny cupboard, ice from an equally tiny fridge.

COLLINSON: How’s Jill now?

BROCK: — I’ve sent her home.

COLLINSON: Just as well. A nasty shake-up.

BROCK: It wasn’t just the car.

COLLINSON: Oh?

BROCK (after a moment): Bloody woman!

He sits frowning. Collinson watches him.

COLLINSON (carefully): I’ve only admired her from afar but... I’d say she’s the type that ... hurts easily.

Brock seems not to hear him. So he goes on pouring out the drinks.

BROCK: Colly — were there any rats?

COLLINSON: Where?

BROCK: In the end room?

COLLINSON: No.

BROCK: No sign there’d been any?

COLLINSON: Rats wouldn’t have left that Spam. They’d have chewed those tins open in no time.

BROCK: They could do that?

COLLINSON: The teeth of a hungry rat Here —

He passes Brock his glass.

BROCK: Cheers. (He glances at Collinson’s report) I’ve got some work to finish too. I might stop over tonight.

COLLINSON: Break in the Director’s suite a bit? (Brock nods absently. Collinson drinks and watches him, noticing his quietness) I was up in town last week. Dropped in on the legal department. One or two things I wanted to clear up about the house here — covenants and so on. They’ve got boxes and boxes of stuff — passed over by the trustees, I suppose. I brought one back. (Brock is still showing no attention. Collinson digs out an ancient document box and squeaks it open) One or two curiosities in it. How d’you like this? (He takes out a document) Application for the holding of a service of exorcism.

BROCK: What!

COLLINSON: August 1892.

BROCK: Let me see —

He grabs the document. Collinson follows it with a thin ledger.

COLLINSON: Full record of the alleged haunting. Evidence, I suppose.

BROCK: Louisa Hanks —

COLLINSON: That was her. There’s even a report of her death.

He passes Brock a newspaper cutting.

BROCK: 1890 —

COLLINSON: Two years before.

BROCK: “Sad mishap at Taskerlands. Louisa Hanks, an under maid in the employ of Mr Horace Tasker, yesterday fell to her death from a flight of steps while engaged about her duties”. That’s all.

COLLINSON: Pretty good press for an under-maid in those days.

Brock stares at him.

BROCK: And they thought that she — ?

COLLINSON: More than thought. They kept a note of all the times and dates, went on doing it for ages afterwards. You see, the ghost-laying didn’t take.

Brock looks from the ledger to the document. to the cutting ... back to Collinson’s steady face.

BROCK: Have you seen it?

Collinson shakes his head.

COLLINSON: Only heard.

BROCK’S SUITE — OFFICE, NIGHT

Brock is walking uneasily about his office. Everything in him resists the idea. on the other hand —

He goes to the window and looks down into the dark forecourt. He can see the lighted windows of the caravan. more by way of fidgeting than from any urgent need to communicate, he picks up the phone and presses buttons.

BROCK: Christine ... look, honey, I’m still at this place, I won’t be home...Oh, the move, various buffooneries. It’s all right, I’ve eaten. All I should. How’s whatsisname, the horse ... Yes, Chuffy... it was that hoof? Aha... Oh, good. Love to the kids, then.

He puts the phone down. And sits frowning. And comes to a decision. He pulls his jacket on and hurries out.

ENTRANCE HALL AND PASSAGE

The stairway that descends beside the lift shaft is narrow, lit by temporary fixtures.

Brock comes down. At the foot of the stairs he stands by the deserted reception desk and listens. Not a sound.

He moves slowly along the dim passage, putting his feet down as quietly as he can without making a performance of it. The door of the storage room is shut. He stands by it and listens again.

For a few seconds there is no sound ... then the same rapid pattering Jill heard, that might come from the feet of a very small human or a very large rat.

He puts his hand to the doorknob. In the same instant there is a cry — again the same that Jill experienced, a hoarse rasp. It is almost as if he had caused it.

He instinctively takes his hand from the knob for a moment. Then he grips it firmly. . no sound ... and throws the door open. As he fumbles for the light switch there is a little rush of noises ... the pattering, the cry, very faint.

At the click of the switch it all ceases.

He looks round the storage room. He sees nothing move. A quantity of panelling has been ripped out by the workmen and left on the floor.

Then the sounds come again. The pattering — and, curiously close, the cry: A short, denatured screech, almost in his ear.

It comes again...and again.

Brock backs away.

THE LABORATORY — DAY

Coloured indicator lamps are flashing on a “breadboard” — a rough experimental lash-up of electronic components and printed circuits. Maudsley is making adjustments to the controls on a temporary panel, while Dow takes notes.

Eddie Holmes has one eye to an optical tube with many large-handled but delicate adjusters. It is supported in a frame that is gripped tight in a vice. A couple of feet in front of him, clamped to the same frame, is a kind of crystalline box, a thing of exquisite complexity.

Eddie is peering into the heart of the box.

EDDIE: Try going down two nanoseconds.

MAUDSLEY: Down two.

Eddie’s other eye is open too but trained to ignore that it sees. It ignores the lab door opening and Brock coming in,

followed by Jill.

BROCK: I’ve got something to tell you all. (Eddie looks up with both eyes. He rubs them. Brock looks deliberately round the room, waiting for faces to lift from apparatus) We’ve got a ghost!

For a moment, nobody knows how to take the announcement. Whether he is expecting a laugh or not.

EDDIE: I’m glad to hear it, Peter.

MAUDSLEY: Every home should have one.

HARGRAVES: Every stately home.

EDDIE: Had me worried, the lack of class.

Collinson comes in. Brock turns to him.

COLLINSON: Not a chance.

BROCK: Talk to them yourself?

COLLINSON: I did. Push it any further and there’ll be a general walk-out.

BROCK: That’s it, then.

He turns to the others. They are even more puzzled.

EDDIE: What’s this about, Peter?

STEW: Did you say ghost?

BROCK: Silly word, don’t be put off. We could call it a phenomenon or something. Anyway it’s real. It’s got possession of the computer storage room and it’s stopped all work there.

COLLINSON: The men won’t go back.

STEW: They were going on about something in the canteen —

DOW: Yes. I thought it was the muck.

STEW: I wondered.

BROCK: Whatever it is in there I’ve heard it. Colly’s heard it. And Jill’s seen it.

EDDIE: Jill —

STEW: That what got you?

JILL: Yes.

STEW: What did you see?

JILL: A woman.

MAUDSLEY: Oh, come off it!

EDDIE: She isn’t kidding.

BROCK: None of us are.

They don’t know how to react. Maudsley gives a nervous giggle.

STEW: Let’s go in there

HARGRAVES: Why not? I’m ready —

BROCK: All right. Thanks for the enthusiasm because I intend to use it.

STEW: Eh?

EDDIE: What d1you mean?

BROCK: They once had a go at it with bell, book and candle. Well — we’re rather better equipped. (He lets this sink in) I’m going to chuck the lot at it.

EDDIE: Go after it with — electronics and — and —

BROCK: Find out exactly what makes it — well, it doesn’t tick, it patters its feet and screeches. Everything we get Jill’s going to program in the computer.

EDDIE: Analyse a spook?

BROCK: Say it’s...a mass of data waiting for a correct interpretation. Nobody’s ever managed it. I think we might.

Collinson glances at Jill’s tight, strained face.

COLLINSON: Can you spare the time?

BROCK: No choice, Colly. It’s got us stuck...

INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM — DAY

Something is hurled through from the passage, to land twisting like a heavy snake on the floor. it is a heavy cable with a multi-outlet head.

MAUDSLEY: Ta.

He plugs in a large tape-recorder. Nearby, Dow is sorting out microphones, including a parabolic reflector.

DOW: Which mike, Pete?

BROCK: Stereo. (To Jill) Where did you see it?

JILL: Near the top of the steps.

The panelling has been stripped from the end wall, exposing the steps, and from about half the remainder of the room. It reveals a bare stone wall with a row of large joist holes about half-way up.

BROCK: Where she fell off.

JILL: There must have been an upper floor. Where those holes are. D’you think she was going up to it?

COLLINSON: No. This was a total ruin when Tasker bought. It’s all in the deeds. He just roofed it and patched it and made it part of his house. A sort of folly.

JILL: Then — where was she going?

BROCK: Probably a big aspidistra at the top and she had to water it.

JILL: And died.

BROCK: Odd, that. You’d have thought she’d just break a leg or something. It’s not high enough.

JILL: High enough for poor Louisa. And then... they panelled the place over. To hide it all.

They are all watching her. Rational by temperament and training, they are nevertheless uneasy in this place. There is something about its atmosphere that disturbs.

EDDIE: There’s a big echo in here. We ought to measure it. Something to make a loud noise with? (At the table) What’s all this?

JILL: Spam.

EDDIE: Eh? Somebody feeding the ghost?

He grins at her but the idea isn’t funny. Tt hits her. Items click together in her mind.

JILL (almost a whisper): Perhaps they were.

Eddie thumps a rusty tin on the table but rejects the idea.

He goes on testing possible objects while Dow listens through his headphones. HARGRAVES points the parabolic reflector hopefully at the steps and locks it off.

HARGRAVES: Now we wait. Think I’ll get my coat.

MAUDSLEY: Get mine, will you?

STEW (giving them a sour look): Oh spare us.

HARGRAVES: What? STEW: This act, the ghostly shivers.

HARGRAVES: No act.

MAUDSLEY: It’s just — chilly. Don’t you feel it?

STEW: Do you mind!

Then he notices Jill. She is trembling, tightening her arms round herself.

Eddie has improvised a clapper board out of two pieces of batten from a packing case. He smacks them sharply together. The percussion echoes through the room.

EDDIE: How’s that?

DOW: Okay, I’ll take it. (He switches the recorder on and speaks into the microphone) Testing room wavelength. Take one.

Eddie produces another clash of metal ... it echoes noticeably ... then, after a few seconds, another percussion.

JILL: Stop it. Oh stop it — !

BROCK: That’s enough, Eddie.

Through their very voices comes the harsh rasping screech. It repeats several times in rapid succession.

There is wild excitement. The sound seems to break out in half a dozen places. They twist and turn to locate it. Then it is gone — in a single rapid patter of footsteps.

They are left staring at each other.

HARGRAVES: That was it! That was it!

BROCK: It was by the steps.

HARGRAVES (pointing down the room): No, over that way.

EDDIE: It was by the door.

MAUDSLEY: No, it wasn’t.

EDDIE: Distinctly.

They are all arguing and pointing; almost a nervous reaction.

STEW: What did you hear?

EDDIE: It was over there! I’m not crazy!

MAUDSLEY: You could hardly hear it.

EDDIE: It was deafening!

BROCK: It wasn’t loud.

EDDIE: Not loud? I heard it!

BROCK: Just close.

HARGRAVES: Hi, that’s right.

BROCK: No perspective on it.

STEW (to Maudsley): What did you hear?

MAUDSLEY (shrugging): Not much.

STEW: I didn’t hear anything.

JILL: I saw her. Again.

This stops the argument.

BROCK: Same place?

JILL: No, there. (She points to the middle of the room. Instinctively they turn to look at the spot) Black clothes.

EDDIE: Solid?

JILL: Yes, quite solid.

BROCK: Was she moving?

JILL: I think so. There was something the matter. The way she moved —

BROCK: How?

JILL: Sort of — twisting.

Brock looks at the others. Nobody has anything to add.

BROCK: Let’s hear it again. Cliff —

Dow turns the recorder spools back and switches on.

DOW’S VOICE (recorded): Testing room wavelength. Take one.

They hear the test sounds Eddie made and the two other voices cutting in.

JILL’S VOICE: Stop it. Oh stop it —

BROCK’S VOICE: That’s enough, Eddie.

Then — silence, apart from small human exclamations.

EDDIE: She’s not there. She didn’t record.

DOW: I heard her in my headphones. I don’t get this.

EDDIE: Let me check that thing.

He crouches by the recorder. Uneasy glances are exchanged.

HARGRAVES: She got away...

THE LABORATORY — DAY

More apparatus is being wheeled out of the laboratory towards the storage room: A TV monitor, TV cameras, thermographs. Jill slumps into her chair at the programming desk. Collinson is with her.

JILL: It’s the screaming.

COLLINSON: Yes.

JILL: Could you hear it from the caravan?

COLLINSON: No, only if I went to the room. But I — well, I just can’t take a woman’s screams.

JILL: Soft-hearted.

COLLINSON: I was with my wife in a car crash.

JILL: Killed?

COLLINSON: No. We divorced. Might have had something to do with it. This is even worse in a way.

JILL: Worse?

COLLINSON: A living person in that pain, you can try to help them. Here — you can’t. (Jill covers her face) , — I’m going to be very old and stuffy and say drop the whole thing.

JILL: No.

COLLINSON: If you really see something it must mean — extra sensitivity.

JILL: I’m a medium?

COLLINSON: That makes it sound —

JILL: Knocks on the table, one for yes, two for no.

COLLINSON: I’m serious.

She sees the concern in his face. Then Brock arrives with Stew.

BROCK (to Stew): Get all Colly’s data on file. And stand by to take real time from next door.

STEW (switching on his teleprinter): Okay.

BROCK: Jill, can you start blocking something out? Heuristic stuff, really wild? (He glances at the tape storage units) Those won’t touch it. Book time on the central computer. If you need it, go through to Chicago. All in code, Colly, it stays our little secret.

COLLINSON: Who pays?

BROCK: Himself. Sure held love it if he knew! (Collinson passes Stew the old ledger and a plastic folder of neatly typed notes) Full record of the first five years from 1890. Also the past six months.

STEW: What about the bit in between? The odd eighty years?

BROCK: We’ve got a witness ...

HALF AN HOUR LATER IN THE STORAGE ROOM

Alan is standing in the doorway of the storage room. He looks thoroughly bewildered. The room seems to be full of apparatus. Blank monitor screens flicker. Eddie and the others are tending and adjusting and improvising.

ALAN: Cameras? What’s all this stuff? What’s it for?

BROCK: I told you — ignore it.

ALAN: I didn’t want to come.

BROCK: A few simple questions. That won’t take long. (Alan doesn’t move from the doorway) Remember this room?

ALAN: I was just a kid.

BROCK: YOU did come in here?

ALAN: I suppose so.

BROCK: You’re not sure?

ALAN: Well, I did, then

As if to prove it, he comes forward now.

BROCK: How often?

ALAN (evasively): We — we knew we weren’t rightly meant —

BROCK: How many times?

ALAN: I dunno.

BROCK: In a year, say?

ALAN: Ten times. A dozen.

BROCK: You said between 1952 and 1955.

ALAN: Yes.

BROCK: Maybe a total of thirty visits? (Alan nods. Brock turns to the nearest microphone) Get that, Stew?

INSIDE THE LABORATORY

Stew and Jill are working at the computer. Stew leans across the teleprinter desk to a microphone.

STEW: I got it.

BROCK’S VOICE (through speaker): Fills in the model a bit.

The teleprinter keys rattle beneath Stew’s fingers.

INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM

Brock turns back to Alan.

BROCK: And you heard — rats?

ALAN: Sometimes.

BROCK: Only sometimes?

ALAN: Nearly every time, if we waited.

INSIDE THE LABORATORY

BROCK’S VOICE (through speaker): Nearly every time.

Jill looks at Stew. He nods and keeps on typing it in.

INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM

ALAN: We made these dares out of it, see? Old rats are dirty customers. They’ll go for you. We used to fool about all over this house. Smash it up a bit you know.

BROCK: You’re a country lad. You know the sound rats make.

ALAN (ignoring this): I reckon we must have bust all the windows. Real bad, we were. Used to see who could find a pane of glass still whole and — smash’ Cost you a lot to put tem back, did it? (He is talking faster, suddenly urgent) I better go now. There’ll be trouble if l don’t get back. That old cow down there, she — (He breaks off, listening. The others notice something too. Maudsley shivers. Dow tenses and makes a dive for the parabolic reflector. All of them sense the chill: Brock ... Eddie...Alan) I reckon I’ll just get along.

But he has hardly turned to go when there is a rapid pattering ... a single rasping cry.

INSIDE THE LABORATORY

No sound comes through the speaker but Jill reacts.

JILL (turning to Stew): It’s there! Can’t you hear it?

INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM

The screech comes again and again.

Alan stands paralysed as Eddie and the others try to bring their apparatus to bear. Cameras are swung on their tripods. microphones scan the room.

Alan stands staring at Brock. Suddenly he cracks. With a strangled exclamation he turns and bolts. He collides with Maudsley. He pushes Dow out of his way, trips over a cable and falls against a thermograph tripod. He goes down with it. Then he is crawling towards the doorway, frantic with terror.

THE ENTRANCE HALL

Alan drags himself along the passage, trying to regain his feet But blood is spilling from a cut above one eye and he look. half stunned —only driven on by animal fear.

As he sways against the wall Jill throws the lab door open. He jerks away from the sudden movement. He stumbles past the reception desk and the pop-eyed sergeant — and drops to his knees, trying to wipe the blood out of his eyes. As Jill catches him up he peers round to see who or what it is.

ALAN: Don’t want to be — like Jackie —

Brock appears in the passage, to find Jill crouching by Alan and the sergeant running to help.

BROCK: All right. It’s over.

SERGEANT: What happened, sir?

BROCK: Get some water — whisky — anything — (As the sergeant hurries off, he makes for Alan) You never went into that room. Did you?

ALAN: I did.

BROCK: You’re lying.

JILL: Peter —

BROCK: You stayed at the door and listened. You knew what it was.

JILL: Leave him alone!

BROCK: You were afraid of it.

JILL: Why not? Why shouldn’t he be? It’s a normal human reaction. He’s the sane one! We’re the freaks!

Brock turns quickly down the passage.

INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM

Dow is playing a tape recording back and getting only a confusion of bumps and scuffles and shouts. He looks up as Brock returns, and shakes his head.

Eddie is watching a wildly swinging playback image on a monitor screen.

EDDIE (turning to Brock): Nothing.

Alan’s panic has brought something to the surface in them all. He has acted out the secret fear they suppress, and it needs more effort to keep a rational view of this unrecordable thing.

THE ENTRANCE HALL

The sergeant had brought water in a jug, and a glass. Alan has drunk some. Jill is washing the cut on his face.

JILL: What happened to Jackie?

ALAN: Eh?

JILL: You said just now —

ALAN: We never done nothing to him. It was the door got stuck. That door.

JILL: He was inside the room?

ALAN (nodding): We never meant — we couldn’t help it, could we? (His face is suddenly suffused with guilt) He’s all right, old Jackie.

JILL: Did he ... see it?

ALAN (after a moment): He made out it spoke to him. And then ... the others come.

JILL (chilled): Others?

ALAN: Just his talk, see.

JILL: What happened to him?

ALAN: He’s all right. Got this job, hasn’t he?

JILL: Can I meet him?

ALAN: What for? He don’t remember. (She stares at him) They took him up the County.

JILL: Where?

ALAN: The County. You know. They put him right. They can do that. He don’t care a button, he just laughs. All the time. He’s all right.

She can say nothing. Seeing Brock returning, Alan moves off abruptly and heads for the outer door.

BROCK (calling): Wait a minute — I’ll get a car to take you —

JILL (fiercely): Let him go!

Then Alan has gone. They look at each other. Brock is showing the same strain as the rest of his team.

The phone rings on the reception desk, grating raw nerves.

SERGEANT (answering it): Reception ... Yes, he is. (To Brock) Mr Ryan’s office.

It is like a cold douche. Brock takes the phone.

BROCK: Brock ... Oh ... Helen, my love, how are you?...Yes, we’re settling in nicely... (Alarmed) McAlister? But —that’s all been settled, there’s no question of — there’s no room for him here!...(Alarm subsiding) Talk to him? Well ... I just don’t want to see the man, I’m in the middle of an experiment. Look, is he there? (He manages a grisly jocularity) Himself, th’ould grey widow maker? ... I see, when’s he back?...All right, then, under duress. Tomorrow. ‘Bye. (He puts the phone down) Hell!

JILL: Experiment...

THE LABORATORY — DAY

A display screen flickers. Tiny flicks of blue light jump up and hold, building into an irregular graph-like pattern.

JILL: I don’t know what you’d call that. The time since she died.

BROCK: Quasi-life.

JILL: All right, her quasi-life. During it she must have made eight thousand appearances, minimum.

BROCK: Sound only?

JILL: Yes. In vision, about a tenth as many.

Eddie and the others are gathering round to watch. There is a curious tension growing in them, a sense of the rational put under severe strain.

EDDIE: Sounds a hell of a lot.

JILL: Spread over all those years, it isn’t. And there’s a cyclic factor. Bursts of activity.

She indicates the peaks of the display.

BROCK: 1905 looks a good year. All round there.

JILL: The time of the letter.

BROCK: Yes ... it could have been.

STEW: What letter?

BROCK: One to Father Christmas except that it wasn’t.

JILL: From Martin Tasker aged 8. Later to die a recluse.

Brock moves aside for the others to inspect the display.

BROCK: See them? Patches of concentrated haunting.

EDDIE: Let’s scrap that word.

BROCK: Haunt?

EDDIE: Yes.

MAUDSLEY: It blows Eddie’s mind.

EDDIE: It gets in the way. Like the jokey talk.

MAUDSLEY: Saw a ghost eating toast Halfway up a lamp post!

EDDIE (rounding on him): Shut up!

The tension has thickened.

BROCK: Eddie’s right. Let’s cut out all the loaded words. Ghost ... spook ... apparition ... phantom.

EDDIE: Supernatural.

BROCK: Yes, that’s a beauty. Spectre...wraith ... spirit.

HARGRAVES: Like a rollcall

BROCK: This isn’t a little shade that couldn’t get into heaven because the pearly gates were shut. It’s something else, something interesting.

A tiny silence.

JILL: You don’t want her to be alive.

EDDIE: Do you think it is?

JILL: No.

EDDIE: Well, then —

JILL: I might be wrong.

BROCK: Is anybody religious?

JILL: I don’t mean that. Just — respect. For her, I suppose.

MAUDSLEY: Old Louisa?

JILL: She wasn’t old, she was nineteen.

Brock gives her a long hard look.

BROCK: You’ve demolished her! I know you, love, I know how your mind works. You’re on the track of something that serves her up as a very dry dish indeed — and you feel funny about it. Come on. Give!

JILL (hesitantly): It’s just the first rough model. (She flips a switch. A wide coil of paper chatters and spills from the line printer) I took the sudden coldness as basic. A temperature drop of at least three degrees or we wouldn’t notice it.

EDDIE: Fair enough.

JILL: Taking the volume of air in that room — and varying times from ten to ninety seconds — what we get is a power flow between 20 and 200 kilowatts a minute.

EDDIE: A heat pump.

STEW: A furnace in reverse!

Brock studies the print-out.

JILL: Peter you see what’s coming out there? Heat drawn rapidly from the surroundings and concentrated.

EDDIE: Ionisation?

BROCK: Hot spots forming in the air.

EDDIE: Like — fireballs.

BROCK: Converting into other forms of energy — sound waves — light ... (doubtfully) It’d be quite a process. Crude energy forming itself into regular, recognisable patterns. I don’t know.. .

EDDIE: Let’s make a practical start. Search for these — hot spots, see if they exist.

STEW (amused): Hot spots.

MAUDSLEY: Ay, ay, Eddie.

DOW: Dirty old man.

EDDIE (eagerly): We’ve got heat sensors — we can do it. Two stages — a wide scan, then home in. It’s the crossover stage — we can improvise there — (Already on the move, he turns impatiently) Come on, then!

DOW (as he follows): Hot spots.

MAUDSLEY: Carry me to the Kasbah.

Jill watches them go,

JILL: Well, Eddie buys it ...

INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM — DAY

A thermograph detector is being slowly panned on a tripod by Maudsley. Eddie and the others are setting up black boxes improvised out of used canteen containers, with trailing wire and small lamps sprouting. Eddie places one on the top step.

EDDIE: Early warning. Any quick temperature change — this lamp comes on. Half a dozen altogether, that should cover the —

Turning to point the others out to Brock, standing below, he nearly slips off the worn steps.

BROCK: Watch it!

EDDIE (steadying himself): Following in Louisa’s footsteps!

BROCK: One’s enough...

INSIDE THE LABORATORY

Stew and Jill are working slowly through a data routine.

STEW: I don’t buy it either. I’ve never felt cold in there.

Jill breaks off and swivels to face him.

JILL: Never once?

STEW: Not a goose-pimple.

JILL: But — you’re skinny. You’re a natural shiverer.

STEW: Yeah. Wrap up warm, Stew, me mum always says. (He frowns at his work) Struck another bug.

JILL: Okay. Re-run.

Stew presses keys. The teleprinter starts typing out its data so far. Brock comes in.

BROCK: How’s it going? Trying more variables?

JILL: There are some we missed.

BROCK: Such as?

JILL: The strength of people’s reactions.

BROCK: To it?

JILL: Everybody’s is different. One hears hardly at all. Why?

BROCK: It’s what you’d expect. Strength of eyesight or hearing.

JILL: What about Stew?

STEW: I still don’t get a thing.

BROCK: Okay, you’re ghostproof. Like colourblind.

JILL: Good. I’m running a fresh program. I’m going to put him in it.

BROCK: What?

JILL: I’m running Stew in it as a parameter.

STEW: Fame at last.

BROCK: What’s the idea?

JILL: He’s significant.

BROCK: How?

STEW: Don’t mind me.

But Jill’s intensity grips Brock.

JILL: Suppose ... Stew was your only witness. In that case, would she ... walk? D’you see what I mean? Would — she — walk — for — him?

Brock begins to get it ...

INSIDE THE STORAGE ROOM

Rapid footsteps patter in the storage room. This time they seem to run the whole length of it.

Maudsley swings a thermograph scanner wildly, trying to follow the sound. Eddie scrambles to help him.

Dow is aiming the parabolic microphone in another direction.

Brock and HARGRAVES are busy with more thermographs. But all the monitor screens fed by these machines remain blank.

Jill comes into the doorway with Stew.

A harsh rasping squeal. The footsteps break into half a dozen crossing patterns

Suddenly Jill sees it: A black figure at the foot of the steps, clawing its way up as if in slow motion, somehow almost paralysed.

JILL: Look! HARGRAVES sees it too.

HARGRAVES (pointing): There it is! (Brock abandons his thermograph. He sees nothing. The steps are empty) It was there! Right there! Sort of creeping! You must have seen her!

He runs to the spot as if he expects to find some trace and turns to them, baffled.

BROCK: Just you and Jill.

EDDIE (bitterly): No warning! (He snatches up one of his black boxes and breathes noisily, angrily, on the element. It instantly lights up) Oh, it works now!

He shakes the thing until the contents rattle.

Brock looks round. Stew is still standing in the doorway. Meeting Brock’s eyes, he shakes his head. Brock turns to Jill. She is standing stiffly, controlling herself with an effort.

JILL: I saw her face this time. She’s frightened...!

BROCK’S SUITE — LIVING QUARTERS, NIGHT