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'A minister's ten year old son disappears, and a headless and mutilated body is found in the Thames. A partly obliterated birth mark—a star on the chest—convinces the minister that his brilliant and motherless son, to whom he was devotedly attached, has been foully murdered. He secures the position of hangman in the hope of one day executing his son's destroyer. The play opens with the newspaper reporters trying to play cards and taking brandy to screw their nerves up to witness an execution, which the hangman gloats over.
(...more) -
The Flail of God
by
Max Afford
(1931)
THE SCENE of the play is the ante-room of the execution chamber at Greycliffe prison. The time of 7:45 on a cold morning in late July.
Characters
MR. JENNINGS
of the “Daily Mail”
MR. WILSON
of the “Morning Herald”
MR. EATON
of the “Evening Telegraph”
A YOUNG REPORTER
MR. JAMES TIBEY
executioner of Greycliffe Prison
THE REVERANT AMBROSE PIERCE
Chaplain of the prison
WARDERS, GUARDS, ASSISTANT EXECUTIONERS, ETC.
The Stage Setting
THE CURTAIN rises on a small room. It is painted a dull, yellowish-white, so that it resembles an operating chamber or a dentist’s surgery. Spartanly furnished, it contains only a deal table, four chairs and a bench along one wall on o.p. side of stage. The table and chairs are placed directly in stage centre. Above the bench, a row of pegs are screwed into the wall. Three hats hand on the pegs. Also on the wall are framed copies of prison regulations, a few photographs of race-horses roughly cut from illustrated papers and pinned into place and a large notice reading “NO SMOKING ALLOWED” which is partly obscured by a splash of ink across the word “NO.”
There are three doors opening into this room, one o.p. side, one prompt side and a third placed in the rear wall. This last door is covered with bright green baize and studded with brass headed tacks. T stands out in bold relief from the rest of the furnishings. O.P. side door is open. Through it, the shadow of bars is flung part-way across the room. Light is provided by a weak, yellowish electric bulb in a dusty green shade hanging from the ceiling. As the play proceeds, the stage becomes slowly lighter.
OPENING
IN the centre of the stage, seated at one side of the table and facing the audience, are three reporters. They are playing poker. Each man has a small pile of money on his right. Also on the table is a small pile of “copy” paper, a watch and a soiled glass. Each man is wearing his overcoat. Jennings if the eldest, grey-haired, with kindly face and sad, tolerant eyes. Eaton is about forty, purple-faced and bad-tempered, with the distented paunch of a heavy drinker. Wilson is just under thirty, sharp-nosed, inquisitive, with one corner of his mouth drawn down in a perpetual sneer. He wears horn-rimmed glasses and has a scarf about his throat. All three faces are lined by experience. *Jennings is puffing at a smelly pipe, Wilson chews on an eternal cigarette, while Eaton chews continuously on a piece of gum.
Seated on the bench is the remaining reporter, minus hat and overcoat. He is a young man just out of his teens, rather good-looking in a weak manner, with the blue eyes and forehead of a dreamer. He is plainly ill at ease. He sits slumped forward, his chin on his hands and a cigarette in his mouth. He smokes each one for a while, then flings it away only to light another. A small pile of half-smoked butts lie at his feet.
There is silence in the room, save for the slap-slap of cards as they are dealt, but it is a silence that is fraught with an air of hushed expectancy and a tension that is slowly tightening to breaking point.
As the curtain rises, WILSON is seen gathering the cards from the table. He shuffles them and deals them out. Reporters pick up their cards and fan them out. EATON gives one glance at his hand and throws it on the table.
EATON (sourly)
“Another lousy damned hand! D’ y’ keep ‘em up your sleeve for me, Wilson?”
WILSON (quietly)
“You had your chance to deal with them – and refused.” (He takes up the remainder of the pack and eyes Eaton grimly) “How many --?”
EATON (crustily)
“I’m staying out. Monday morning, a push-off to do and I lose a quid waiting for it. That’s a hell of a way to start the week!”
WILSON (There is an edge to his voice)
“Your card-laying is about on a level with your reporting, Eaton. While we’re waiting, perhaps you’d like me to do a few card tricks to entertain you?”
EATON (rising in his seat)
"Look here! Who do you think you’re talking –"
JENNINGS (Interrupting quietly)
“For Heaven’s sake, you chaps, let’s control out tempers. There’s only ten minutes to go. Surely you can wait without this wrangling!” (He pushes Eaton back into his seat) “What’s wrong with you this morning?”
EATON (sourly)
“There’s nothing wrong with me. But Wilson’s gotta quit pickin’ on me.” (He snuggles back into his overcoat) “Brrr! This dump is as cold as the morgue. Seems as though they freeze ‘em before they push them off.” (He breaks off with a grunt and fumbles in his pocket, producing a half-filled flask of whiskey) “Now then, who’s for a taste?”
There are appreciative grunts from the couple and the soiled glass is passed round with the bottle. When it reaches Jennings, he holds the bottle in his hand, looks questioningly at the others and jerks his head in the direction of the young reporter. Eaton snorts, but Wilson nods curtly.
JENNINGS (Raising his voice)
“Here, laddie. Want a sip to keep your spirit up?”
REPORTER (He starts suddenly, rises to his feet and stands embarrassed)
“Er – what is it? Whiskey.” (He stands undecided for a moment, then shakes his head) “No, thanks all the same. It’d – well – it’d make me sick at the moment.”
JENNINGS (shrugging his shoulders and sliding the bottle across the table)
“Well, you know best. But you’ll feel more sick without it. We’re not going to see a Sunday school picnic.”
The young man makes no reply. Instead, he turns away, flings down his half-smoked cigarette and commences to pace the room. Wilson deals out a fresh hand of cards to Eaton and the trio pick up their hands again. There is silence for a moment, broken only by the monotonous tramp-tramp-tramp of the lad as he paces the room.
EATON (suddenly dropping his cards and swinging round)
“Oh, for God’s Sake, light somewhere, youngster. You give a man the creeps prowling round like that. God knows it’s bad enough without you parading the room like a sentry.”
REPORTER (Halting suddenly in the middle of the room)
"I’m sorry – I – er –"
JENNINGS (quietly, to the youth)
“That’s all right, son. We know how you feel. Go and sit down.” (Reporter walks back to seat. Jennings turns back to Eaton) “Your nerves are rotten, old man. Better keep off the whiskey.”
EATON (settling back in his chair with a scowl)
“Aw – go to Hell! You ought to be in the pulpit. Anyway, why do they send bloody schoolboys on these jobs. That lad ought to be back in the office running copy. An execution is no job for a first-year cadet.”
JENNINGS (There is a touch of scorn in his tone)
“We all have to start sometime, you know, Eaton!”
WILSON (curiously)
“Wonder why it is that the great common herd love reading the gruesome details of an execution.” (He lays down his cards and sits back in his chair.) “The empty-headed public whom we serve will be standing in rows to buy the rag tonight and the presses won’t be able to spew them out fast enough.” (pause) “Still, it keeps us in whiskey and soda.”
EATON (with a course chuckle)
“I’ve often wondered if the murderer gets a kick out of it – making his exit in a blaze of glory, with every newspaper in the land writing his obituary in black headlines.”
WILSON (Sneering)
“Oh, for God’s Sake, cut out the rhetoric! You read all that in a book!”
JENNINGS (with a faint smile)
“Being a reporter, Eaton probably realises that it is a cardinal sin to be original. If you get a bright idea in a newspaper office, they sack you for it.”
EATON (eagerly)
“That’s right.” (He waves a podgy finger in the air) "Now I remember when I did the dropping of Shuffling Mo. Winser ---"
WILSON (Interrupting with a wide yawn)
“Is it news? Because we can’t consider it otherwise?”
EATON (brindling)
“Can’t you, eh? And who asked you for an opinion --?”
WILSON (superciliously)
“Nobody. I give it to you, gratis.”
JENNINGS (tactfully)
“Never mind Shuffling Mo. Let’s keep our minds off that business.”
(In silence, the trio pick up their cards again. They play for a few seconds, then Eaton, reaching for some money, knocks over the whiskey bottle. He curses under his breath. With the cards in one hand, he reaches for his handkerchief with the other and tries to mop up the mess)
(At the same time, the young reporter, who has been sitting dejectedly in the bench, gets up. He glances at his watch and commences his endless, irritating pacing of the room.)
(This is too much for Eaton, who wheels on him suddenly, dropping his sodden handkerchief and sending the cards flying wildly about the room.)
EATON (Almost in a scream)
“Oh! For Christ’s Sake, sit down! Sit down! D’y’ hear? Can’t you keep still for one damned minute at a time?”
REPORTER (Halting right of table and turning defensively)
"How can I sit still? (his voice quivers) I have to do something. I – seem to have been here for years –"
JENNINGS (removing his pipe from his mouth and knocking it on the leg of the table)
“Take it easy, lad. Take it easy. Try not to think about it.”
REPORTER (He gives a shaky, defiant laugh)
"Try not to think about it. Gee, that’s funny – when we’re all here -- snarling at each other, bickering, our nerves on edge. Ha-ha-ha—" (his voice tails off I a high laugh, tinged with hysteria.)
JENNINGS (Abruptly. Authoritatively)
“Hey! That’s enough of that!” (He jumps to his feet and pours a few inches of whiskey into the dirty glass) “You can’t go on like that, you know. You’ll have us all ragged.” (Crosses from table to right hand side of stage where lad stands uncertainly. Thrusts glass into his hand) “Here, drink this!”
(Automatically, the lad takes the glass, looks at it for a moment, then gulps it down. Begins to cough and splutter. Jennings waits for a moment, then takes him by the arm, leads him down stage centre to right-hand side of table.)
JENNINGS (gathering cards from floor and replacing them on table)
“There now. Bring up a chair and sit down and stop thinking so much.” (He pauses while the youth drags up a chair) "Now –" (glancing at the watch on the table) “we’ve just time enough for another game.”
WILSON (throwing his cigarette away and gathering up the wad of papers)
“No more cards for me. I can’t concentrate. It’s getting too near the death-knock!”
EATON (openly sneering)
“Cold feet, eh?”
WILSON (with a cold stare)
“You don’t look too easy yourself, lion-heart. But as it happens, I’m going to make a start drafting out my story.”
JENNINGS
“I’ve already done that. Just the usual stereotyped stuff.”
EATON
“Did you include the old stand-by.” (quotes mockingly) “’The condemned man went calmly to the scaffold.’ That line has been more overworked than the editor’s regrets.”
WILSON (looking up from his scribbling, in deep sarcasm)
“Eaton, you amaze me. Such profound knowledge – (he breaks off with an elaborate shake of his head)
EATON (with a sour look at Wilson, after which he deliberately turns his back on him)
“Now I remember when I did the dropping of Shuffling Mo. Winser.” (He waves a podgy finger at the impassive Jennings) “They dragged the poor devil out of his cell and rushed him screaming down the corridor of the prison. The only way they could get him onto the trap was to lift him there ---"
WILSON (still scribbling, he interrupts, singing very much off key)
“Tell me the old, old story ---" (his voice trails off)
EATON (scowling blackly at Wilson)
“And I do a wonderful description – and the bloody sub. knocks it all out and substitutes that last dear old line.” (he snorts) “The condemned man went calmly to the scaffold – like Hell he did.”
(There is a moment’s silence. Wilson is gathering together a wad of papers)
WILSON
“Listen to this and tell me if I’ve got it down rightly.” (Read from papers) “Oscar Dowling, the Golgonna murderer, paid the supreme penalty at Greycliffe jail early this morning. Although it is some time since this criminal’s revolting crime shocked the Australian Commonwealth, the details are still fresh in the public mind. In spite of a vigorous plea of insanity, it will be remembered, the presiding justice definitely refused to reconsider the verdict of the extreme penalty.” (he pauses and looks up) “How’s that?”
JENNINGS (slowly refilling his pipe)
“Seems to cover the nasty business!”
WILSON (scribbling again)
“It’s no soft job being dumped onto these things unexpectedly. I haven’t followed the trial at all. What is this fellow Dowling like to look at?”
JENNINGS (applying a match to his pipe. He puffs for a moment)
“Queer looking fellow. Deformed, almost a hunch-back. Unkempt, too. A sallow face all lined and pitted. Nice study for the criminologists.”
(There is a second’s silence. Then Wilson looks up from his scribbling)
“The executioner will be Cromwell, I suppose?”
JENNINGS (Quickly)
“No. No. Don’t put that in. Didn’t you know? Cromwell, the official executioner, was taken to hospital yesterday with acute appendicitis. They’re getting the notorious James Tibey over from another state by aeroplane. He arrived late last night.”
WILSON (scratching furiously at his copy, erasing words)
“These bloody last minute changes will drive me mad. How can I do a story when nothing is the same for five minutes?”
EATON (with a course chuckle)
“Did you say they were getting James Tibey, Jennings?”
JENNINGS
“I did.”
EATON (still amused)
“There’s a blood-thirsty rascal for you. That crazy ex-parson! Do you know that he makes an open boast that his hangings are as neat and as finished as his personal appearance?”
JENNINGS (Quietly)
“Of course, he’s quite mad. But that’s scarcely to be wondered at – considering his horrible trade.”
EATON
“They say that he has taken more than 50 lives in revenge for the murder of his son.”
YOUNG REPORTER (looking from face to face)
“Is there some story behind all this?” (pause) “It’s all so new to me, you know.”
JENNINGS (softly)
“It’s not pleasant history, but as it is public property, you might as well know it. This executioner, James Tibey, was once a Protestant minister. He never married and, feeling the need for companionship, adopted a child from an orphanage and was training the lad to take his place in the pulpit.”
WILSON (looking up)
“This is news to me, too.”
JENNINGS (puffing at his pipe)
“That lad came to mean everything in the world to the minister. All his pent-up affection was showered on the boy. They rarely left each other’s side. The lad embraced Tibey’s religion with a fanaticism that was surprising in one so young. He believed firmly that his guardian had dedicated his life to religion and became almost priestlike in his purity.”
YOUNG REPORTER
“But what caused Tibey to --?”
JENNINGS
“I’m coming to that. About two years after the boy’s adoption, Tibey ran foul of some drug traffickers round about the Domain. He was tireless in exorcising them from their haunts. They swore revenge upon him and his kin. A few weeks later, the boy disappeared. Police were informed and investigations made, but the unfortunate lad had disappeared as though the earth had swallowed him.”
EATON (with a chuckle)
“But it wasn’t the earth that swallowed him.”
YOUNG REPORTER (curiously)
“Good Lord! What happened?”
JENNINGS
“The lad’s body was found in the river about three weeks later. The face and head were mutilated as though battered with some heavy instrument. The minister, however, identified the body not only by the clothes and articles in the pockets, but because of a queer-shaped birth-mark on the chest of the corpse. It was in the shape of a star, and Tibey had often teased his adopted son about the mark, saying that it proved he was born under a lucky star.
EATON (nodding)
“That’s right. I remember that business well. It happened about twenty years ago.”
JENNINGS
“Then James Tibey swore a terrible oath of vengeance against the men who had robbed him of his most precious thing in life. He became official executioner, dedicating his remaining years to the stamping out of murderers. Perhaps he thought that, in this way, he would ultimately run across the slayers of his son. It seems that the shock has turned his brain, for he considers himself chosen by God for his terrible task.”
(There is a silence. Suddenly, from outside the prison, comes the low wail of a siren. It rises in power, a disturbing, shrill scream that tears through the silent room)
WILSON (grimly)
“The curtain is about to go up, gentlemen. That means all convicts into their cells.”
YOUNG REPORTER (there is a nervous tremor in his voice)
“What is he like to see – this James Tibey?”
JENNINGS (musingly)
“It’s some time since I saw him. Then he was thin and spare, with queen sunken eyes that seemed to burn, deep down, as though he was consumed by some inward fire ---" (he breaks off as footsteps approach the right-hand door)
EATON (with a growl)
“Talk of the devil --!”
(James Tibey enters, followed by two men. These latter are dressed in dark suits and one holds in his hand a foot-rule. Without a glance left or right, the assistant executioners walk softly to stage centre, past the table and up stage to disappear through green baize door. Immediately from behind it, there comes the subdued sound of tapping on woodwork.)
(TIBEY himself stands just inside right-hand door, surveying the room. He is middle-aged, thin and grey, with the sharply chiselled face of an aesthete scored with lines of pain and sorrow. He is neatly, almost dandily dressed, in a blue serge suit and patent-leather shoes. He stands gazing round the room as though lost in thought. Then he turns slowly up-stage until his eyes fall on the green door. He mumbles and rubs one thin hand in the other. From his pocket, he takes a Bible and with this in his hand, he begins to walk across the room. He halts about three paces from the table.)
JENNINGS (rising and walking toward the executioner)
“Good morning, sir. My name is Jennings, of the “Daily Mail”.” (He wave his hand toward the three seated reporters) “These gentlemen also represent the Press.”
TIBEY (Starting suddenly, then controlling himself)
“Ah – the press. Yes, yes, of course. Good morning, gentlemen. You are here to record this most solemn event. I trust that you realise the full seriousness of your position?”
WILSON (dryly)
“We were just talking about it.”
TIBEY (solemnly)
“To be a chronicler of the events of the day, to pass on to others that which we have seen and heard so that others might profit and learn – is that not the greatest of all tasks?”
EATON (grunting)
“Perhaps!”
TIBEY (turning and looking full at him)
“The scribes of the nations can sway multitudes.” (He holds up the Bible) “Do you ever read the Book?”
WILSON (cynically)
“Newspaper men never read any other person’s writings but their own, Mr. Tibey.”
TIBEY (slowly. Impressively, ignoring Wilson’s comment)
“Everyone should read the Book. There are pages and chapter and verse that are as the Balm of Gilead to the tortured soul.” (He pauses, thumbs the pages rapidly and points to a chapter) “Where else can you find words with the terrible power of David’s crying vengeance on his enemies?”
EATON (sourly)
“I’ve never heard of them.”
TIBEY (his voice rises a pitch)
“For evil-doers shall be cut off, but those who wait upon the Lord, they shall inherit the earth. For yet a little while shall not be, for they plotteth against the just and gnashest upon him with their teeth. But the sword of the master shall enter deep into their heart, for the Lord will uphold the Righteous. But the Transgressor shall be destroyed and their feet will go down to the fiery pit of Hell. Bloody and deceitful men shall not live our their days.”
(An awkward silence prevails when he finishes. It is broken by JENNINGS)
“That’s all very well, Mr Tibey.” (he pauses and eyes the executioner curiously) “Don’t you think that we are not meant to take those words literally?”
TIBEY (he smiles slightly and closes his Bible)
“My dear friend, how else are we to take them?”
JENNINGS (for the first time he looks uncomfortable)
“I can’t say. I’m a press-man, not a preacher. But you preach that God is a vengeful being – one who strikes down sinners for the love of punishing them –"
TIBEY (interrupting excitedly)
“Vengeance is Mine, Saith the Lord. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. That is written here.” (He pounds a lean fist on the Bible)
JENNINGS (softly, quietly)
“I prefer to think of Him as a God of love. Merciful! Forgiving!”
WILSON
“That is the one drawback to the Bible as we know it. Each person reads into the words his own viewpoint. So many different constructions leave the truth-searcher puzzled.”
TIBEY (harshly)
“There is one view-point that all must recognise. If you transgress the laws of mankind, you must pay. If you transgress the laws of God, the payment must go on forever.”
WILSON
“Then it’s a poor look-out for some of us!”
TIBEY does not answer. Instead, he looks across at the young reporter, who has risen to his feet and stands watching the ex-minister, partly in fear and partly in curiosity.
TIBEY crosses stage to where young reported stands and halts about a pace away from him.
YOUNG REPORTER (nervously)
“Good morning, sir.”
TIBEY (as though he has not heard)
“This is no place for you, my boy. How old are you?”
YOUNG REPORTER
“Just twenty-one, sir.”
TIBEY (turning front-stage and staring into space)
“Twenty-one.” (He nods his head slowly and a slow, caressing tone creeps into his voice) “Golden age of youth.” (His voice rises a trifle) “Once I had a son and, had he lived, he would have been twenty-one some time ago. But it was not to be.” (His voice drops. He sighs and shakes his head) “I loved that son better than I loved my life. Better, I think, than I loved my Lord. And in punishment for my sin, He took that son away from me – for ever –" (His voice trails off eerily into silence)
YOUNG REPORTER (openly embarrassed)
“Oh, I say, I’m sorry.” (He gropes desperately for some appropriate remark) “We – er – I was told about it, you know. You were the Reverend James Tibey –" (He is interrupted by a cry from Tibey that is almost a scream)
TIBEY (leaning forward and grasping him by the throat)
“Stop it! Stop it, I say!”
(He releases the lad suddenly and drops back a pace, panting a little. The young reporter shrinks away, his eyes wide with fear.)
All reported have leaped to their feet. They stand eyeing Tibey suspiciously, uncertain what his next move will be. Tibey, however, recovers himself. He steps back another pace.)
TIBEY (Sweeping both arms in opposite directions as though breaking free.)
“Memories! Memories! Never mention that name to me. The Reverend James Tibey, that poor, forgiving fool, is dead – a thousand, thousand years dead. In his place, I stand, chosen to carry out a great work.”
(His voice, charged with power, rises each minute. His face words, is lighted with fanatical fire. There is something horribly compelling about the man. The reporters watch in silence and even the cynical Wilson is stirred.)
“I am the Flail of the Lord, my God! I am the Vengeance that sitteth in His Right Hand. I am the Besom of Righteousness that shall sweep these miserable sinners to the fiery pit of destruction. I have made for their necks a yoke and for their feet a snare.” (His voice rises to the shrill screaming note and he raises one hand high above his head, his fist clenched.) “Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord!”
(For just one second, there is a breathless silence, then, tearing through the hush, comes the long shrill wail of the siren, rising higher and higher, to die away in a fitful moan.)
(As it ceases, the green door in back stage wall is pushed open and one of the executioners call through it.)
“We are waiting for you, Mr. Tibey!” (He stands holding the door part-way open)
TIBEY (suddenly brought to himself)
“Excuse me, gentlemen. I go now to prepare a way for one who walks in sin and death. A melancholy task, perhaps, but a most necessary one.” (He gives a queer, gloating chuckle and rubs his hands. He bows, walks slowly up stage, still rubbing his hands and mumbling to himself. The assistant holds open the door and follows Tibey through)
There is silence for a second.
WILSON (watching him go)
“Such a nice, kind gentleman.” (But even his sardonic tones are robbed of something of their bitterness.)
EATON (Blackly)
“Sneaking damned hypocrite. Going to a necessary, but melancholy task. He couldn’t have been better pleased if it were a picnic.”
(There is an awkward pause. All seem to sense the deadlock. Eaton spits his chewing-gum audibly in to the corner and taking a fresh piece from his pocket, unwraps it and places it in his mouth. Wilson removes his glasses and polishes them vigorously with his handkerchief. Jennings takes a pocket knife and scrapes the dottle from his pipe, knocking it out on the leg of the table.)
(The young reporter makes a half-hearted attempt to whistle. It is a miserable failure and peters out after the first few bars. He draws a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the perspiration from his forehead. He turns and gazes at the green door.)
JENNINGS (turning suddenly to the young reporter)
“Well, son. There’s your hang-man. What do you think of him?”
REPORTER (His eyes still on the door. He shakes his head slowly and there is a quiver in his voice)
“He’s – mad –"
EATON (matter-of-factly. Picking up his watch from the table)
“Of course, he’s mad. We told you that.” (He scrutinises his watch) “I make it two minutes to go.”
WILSON (glancing at his wrist-watch)
“Exactly one minute and a half. You always were behind the time, Eaton.”
EATON (with a snarl of rage)
“Will y’ stop pickin’ on me, y’ shrimp?”
WILSON (mockingly)
“Temper! Temper!”
Eaton makes an aggressive step toward Wilson, but Jennings grasps his shoulder.
JENNINGS (sternly)
“You two should be ashamed of yourselves. Can’t you stop arguing for a moment – even at a time like this?”
WILSON (affronted)
“But – he called me a shrimp!”
EATON (sourly)
“Someone will call you an ambulance if you don’t shut up!”
(There is an offended silence. Covertly, the reporters are glancing at their watches again.)
YOUNG REPORTER (He is still standing staring at the green door)
“What are they doing – in there?”
EATON (with a glance at the door)
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
YOUNG REPORTER (Suddenly dropping back into his chair.)
“Do we have to go in – and watch – everything –"
JENNINGS (kindly)
“You don’t unless you want to. But didn’t your chief make it clear to you?”
YOUNG REPORTER (staring at the floor, miserably)
“He asked me if I thought I could do it – and I said yes. I thought it would be an adventure, to celebrate my birthday.” (pause) “But it all seems so different – once you’re here.”
(Another pause)
WILSON (crossing to the lad and slapping him on the shoulder)
“Brace up, lad. Pull yourself together. You’ll have to face it. We don’t feel too good ourselves.”
YOUNG REPORTER (Suddenly he crumples in his seat, falls forward and buries his head in his hands)
“I can’t go through with it – I tell you I can’t. I’m a rotten funk, but it’s this dreadful waiting – waiting –" (his voice breaks in a sob)
JENNINGS (crossing and putting his hands on the lad’s shoulders)
“Come on son. You needn’t go inside. We can do the job for you.” (As the young reporter looks up hopefully, he sits on the table beside him and nudges Wilson) “Come on, let’s talk of something else.”
(WILSON looks at Jennings and nods slightly. Then he takes his sheets of copy from the table and glances through them ostentatiously.)
WILSON (musingly)
“I suppose I’ve got all these names spelt correctly.” (He turns back to the young reporter) “Do your subs. give you hell if you mis-spell a name?”
YOUNG REPORTER (slowly, his eyes on the door)
“Yes, they’re very particular over names.”
JENNINGS (taking up the conversation)
“That’s why I hate taking copy over the phone. You get your names all mixed up. Even simply names like Smith – for instance.” (to the reporter) “Eh – sonny?”
YOUNG REPORTER (He has taken his eyes from the door and is watching Jennings. He begins to talk more naturally)
“But Smith isn’t a simple name. When I first went on to the paper, I was always in trouble about it. People would spell it “S-m-y-t-h” and “S-m-y-t-h-e” and all sorts of ways. I could never get it right.”
WILSON
“I wonder why it annoys people to see their name spelt wrongly in the paper?”
EATON (with a grunt)
“It annoys them even more if they don’t see it at all.”
YOUNG REPORTER (he is talking naturally now)
“But names are nothing to figures. I remember once I had to report on a girl’s beauty contest. The winner gave her weight as seven stone, thirteen pounds. I was flustered and twisted it round. When the report came out, it said that the winning beauty weighed thirteen stone, seven pounds. The editor had to apologise to her in front of his secretary.”
(There is a general laugh, even the sour Eaton joining in with a faint chuckle. The sound of footsteps approaching the green baize door is heard and it opens to admit the prison chaplain.)
(THE reverend Ambrose Pierce is elderly, going grey and is clad in the conventional black of his profession. He has a tired, care-worn face, but his eyes are the outstanding features. They seem to see everything with keen understanding. They never judge. His voice is low and soothing. He is followed by the assist. executioners)
CHAPLAIN
“Good morning, gentlemen. Will you go in? I believe they are waiting for you.”
JENNINGS (slipping from the table. He speaks softly)
“We are ready!”
(THE chaplain nods and crossing the stage, passes out of the right-hand door, followed by the two assist. executioners. Jennings looks from Wilson to Eaton and then to the lad. The latter rises from his chair, grips the corner of the table and seems about to go. Then, he shakes his head despairingly, sinks back into his chair and buries his face in his hands. The press-men eye him for a moment, then slowly file past him toward the green door, Eaton leading, then Wilson and Jennings. As the elder man passes, he pats the lad on the shoulder. They pass through and the door shuts silently behind them.)
(FOR a moment, there is unbroken silence in the room. Then, softly, from outside, there comes the measured tread of men walking slowly. The right-hand door has been left open and across the floor of the ante-room, long black shadows are cast of that terrible procession. But the young reporter does not see them. He remains with his head buried in his hands.)
THE sounds of the procession halt inside the green door. There comes the low sound of voices and a scrape of iron against iron. As if fascinated by the sound, the young reporter sits up, listens and rises to his feet. Slowly, he walks across to the green door, pulling it ajar. The sound of voices becomes louder. The chaplain is repeating the Lord’s Prayer.)
CHAPLAIN’S VOICE (heard off-stage)
“XXX us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against XXX us not into temptation, for Thine is the Kingdom, the Power XXX, for ever and ever – Amen.”
(SILENCE. Very slowly, the young reporter begins to close the door.)
PRISON GOVERNOR’S VOICE (heard off-stage)
“XXX of the King, I demand from you the body of Oscar Dowling.”
(The young reporter releases the door, which shuts immediately. With eyes glued to the door, he retreats slowly backward across the room. Suddenly, there comes a metallic sound of machinery, almost drowned out by the first stroke of eight, which booms from the prison clock. As the chimes follow each other, the young man stands motionless. As the last one dies away, he gives a little shuddering cry and covering his face with his hands, rushes from the room.)
(Immediately, the door swings open and the three press-men walk into the ante-room. Jennings walks with his eyes to the floor, Wilson is pale, with his footsteps unsteady, while Eaton is mopping his face with a soiled handkerchief. In silence, the trio cross to the pegs and reach down their hats. Jennings and Wilson hold theirs in their hands, but Eaton jams his belligerently on his head.)
WILSON (SUBDUED)
“XXX executions for me. Did you see his face when he pulled XXX poor devil’s eyes. It was like Hell itself.”
(Neither Jennings nor Eaton answer, save that the latter grunts. The three men cross to the right-hand door. They pause at the entrance and look back. Jennings gestures in the direction of the green door.)
JENNINGS (softly)
“ANOTHER payment settled. When will it end?”
(They move through the door and disappear as the strident wail of the prison siren screams.)
(The green door opens again, this time to admit James Tibey and the chaplain. Tibey is rubbing his hands with his handkerchief and when they reach stage centre, he begins to flick the dust from his clothes.)
CHAPLAIN (softly)
“Thank God that is over. Poor soul, may he rest in peace.”
TIBEY (bitterly)
“May he burn in Hell – and all others like him.”
(The chaplain sighs and shakes his head. Tibey leans over the table and begins to sort the scattered cards into a neat pack. The chaplain watches him for a moment, with a slight smile)
TIBEY (Irritably)
“Such untidiness! How can people leave things like this. Neatness, like courtesy, costs nothing.”
CHAPLAIN (softly)
“If we could only sort our lives out as neatly as that.” (pause) “Take that poor fellow back there, for instance. Quite a remarkable case, I believe. What you would call an example of environment stronger than heredity. It caused quite a stir.”
TIBEY (still fiddling with cards)
“I did not study it. The examination of such things does not interest me. As you know, I was brought from another state at a day’s notice. And I never read the papers.”
(He piles the cards in a neat heap and turns away from the table, walking slowly toward right-hand door. The chaplain follows him. When they are about three paces from the table, the chaplain speaks again)
CHAPLAIN
“Of course, the man interested me. I paid him many visits and toward the last, he dropped his cloak of reticence and became communicative. He told me much about his past.” (pause) “Poor fellow, he experienced a hard life. When he was about ten years of age, he experienced a terrible shock that caused him to lose his memory. He cannot remember what happened before that time.”
(TIBEY pauses suddenly. A gasp escapes his lips. He reaches forth a groping hand and touches the priest on the arm. When he speaks, his words come chokingly)
TIBEY
“When – he – was – ten --?”
CHAPLAIN (surprised)
“Why – yes. I have every reason to believe that he came, originally, of good, clean stock, but mixed up with the wrong crowd as a boy. He said that they knocked him about terribly and through their brutal treatment, he lost his memory. He cannot remember his father or mother – but they could have easily identified him, had they wished.”
TIBEY (he licks his lips and his voice is dry with fear)
“How could they have done that --?”
CHAPLAIN
“Quite easily. You see, he had a great, red birth-mark on his chest – a queer-looking thing like a star that he said he had had as long as he could remember and ---" (he breaks off in sudden alarm as Tibey sways drunkenly toward him) “Good God, man! What the matter?”
TIBEY (almost in a scream)
“My son – Oh God! – my son –" (He falls forward into the chaplain’s arms. At the same moment, the shrill wail of the siren is heard, rising louder and louder as --
THE CURTAIN FALLS.
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