Front centre a small table in darkness, open at all sides, facing out. A man, M, sits at the desk on a wooden dining room chair. He wears headphones attached to a laptop on his right. Also on the table are a desk lamp, a wireless mouse, a clipboard containing several sheets of paper, a tied bundle of notebooks, a round metal tray and a microphone which is also attached to the laptop. On the tray is a glass of water and a dinner plate housing a knife and fork and remnants of a Chinese takeaway. There is a battered blazer hanging on the back of the chair and a small sports rucksack by his feet. He has kicked off his shoes.

A low rumble comes from understage and the table and its contents vibrate. M pauses. As the rumble dies down, he switches on the desk lamp and places his hand against the metal tray to dampen its rattling. The light flickers until the rumble stops.

M pulls his hand back and removes his headphones, takes a sip of water and then replaces them. He opens the clipboard’s clip, mumbling to himself, removes the paper and turns it face down on the desk. He opens the rucksack and puts the clipboard inside. He returns to the paper, counting the sheets before flipping them over again. He leafs through the first few pages, scanning them and then tidies them into a neat pile.

He takes another sip of water, moves his hands towards his headphones as if to remove them, but stops. He clicks twice on the mouse, waits, clears his throat and then clicks again.

He pauses as if awaiting a response, moves the microphone towards him and begins to read the first sheet, caught up in the poem.

Still caught in the poem, he stops and glances at the laptop. As he does, he takes the top sheet of paper and moves it to the bottom of the pile. He scans the new top sheet and continues to read.

He moves the top sheet to the bottom of the pile and continues reading.

Man: Flood. [Pause] I watch her up on the bridge. She takes one look at the flooded footpath and lifts her bag of bread over the wall, emptying it into the river. She doesn’t stay to see if the birds come…

A phone rings. He half ignores it, still caught in the poems, and waits for it to stop. When it does, he returns to the top of the page and carries on reading.

He snaps out of it, leans back on his chair and slips his headphones off so they rest around his neck. He rubs his eyes and then stretches out his arms, pauses, leans forwards and counts the remaining sheets.

M: How was that? Just three to go. How many did we start with? The end is in sight, eh? The end is in sight. An end to incite the insightful [Crooning] which is why they might fall into a delightful [Pause] catastrophe. [Laughs] Ha. Listen to me rolling it out like a raconteur. Safe in my hovel. To an audience of one. [Laughs] The end is in sight. And yet, I still have moments when I haven’t the foggiest why we persist with this. Get them down, you said. Get them read. Get them read and then you can go back to ignoring them. Can I? [Mocking. Change of accent.] Ignoring them is what got me into this mess in the first place, isn’t it? Or some other such would-be cliché. Yes, more than likely. That’s the way of the world these days. And the world as words. When they’re mine at least. Didn’t you know?

He reaches out to the plate, scooping up some sauce with his finger which he then puts in his mouth

M: And then what will we do with them? Let them go their separate ways? It seems only fair. I don’t think they can stick together, all these starts. That’s how they sound to me. And, even when I get to something that isn’t one, well, it seems stranded. Quick, find another start. Find another start. Another new thing to distract from the old thing.

He sits forward, dries his finger on his trousers and runs it over the page as he talks. Both things he does distract him from the other.

M: I went back again today. Me and the boy. We’re almost done there too. Closer than I’d thought. I’d forgotten just how much I’d already moved out. So much space and so few things. He had to sit at the corner table, his back to the room. Just read his comics or the sport pages of the paper. [Pause] I took the work with me. [He smiles] Ha, the work. Didn’t read any of it. Stayed in my bag the whole time. I think we’re past rehearsals now, don’t you?

He lets the words hang as he scans the page.

M: The boy found this ball he’d left there from last time. All squidgy. Decorated like a globe. He sat there for hours squashing it between his thumb and index finger. The world collapsing in on itself. Russia and North America being pushed into the core until it looked like a doughnut. [Laughs] Not hours. Well, you know.

He leans back, stretching out his legs and seeking out his shoes with his feet. He pulls them towards him with his heels as he sits back up again. He begins to put them on.

M: We went for a walk in the afternoon. Up through the estate and out into the woods. He occupied himself. Talking to himself or bouncing the ball off walls, trees, windows. I didn’t bother with trying to join in. [Pause] It gave me time to think. Gave me time to…

As he ties the second shoe, the lace snaps. He shakes his head and gives a wry smile. He places the piece of lace next to the pile of paper and is distracted by the words on the page, reading them in an inaudible, muttering whisper. He looks confused. He unconsciously picks up the piece of lace creates a loop and then pulls it through so it looks like a knot. He snaps out the two ends so the knot disappears, only catching what he is doing at the last minute. He clicks on the mouse, stands up and walks downstage. He pauses, walks forward and sits back down again, pulling the chair snug against the desk. He looks accepting and is no longer confused. He puts the headphones back on, takes the mouse in his hand and lays his forearms either side of the pile of paper. He clicks the mouse and begins to read, again caught up in the poem.

He snaps out of it.

M: We walked further than I had planned. When I realised where we’d got to, we headed for the clearing, which wasn’t as clear as I’d hoped. A picnic party had beaten us to it. Half the women from that oddler’s group you use to drag him to. They recognised him straight away. And out came their crooks, ready to welcome him back into the flock. Oh, they’re so bloody defined by it. So passively competitive:
“Of course, Pippin didn’t say a word until he was three, not even a grunt.”
“Oh, I know, Bramley didn’t even open his mouth until he was five. Everytime he had a cold he had to breathe through his ears.”
“Oh yeah, my boy’s so bad it’s become contagious. He renders everyone within fifteen feet utterly speechless. I’ll call him over. Do us all a favour.”
Makes him seem so inadequately adequate. Stuttering, stalling and a few false starts ain’t much currency amongst that lot. [He smiles and shakes his head] It wasn’t that bad. We just shuffled through. Sat on the bench by the railings, watching the train tracks below. One of the other boys joined us. All of us silent. Me wondering if he had a choice.

Again, he moves the top sheet to the bottom of the pile and returns to his reading.

With a half-bemused, half-resigned smile, he exhales through his nose as he comes out of the poem.

M: Do you think it’s fair to take him there? He doesn’t seem to mind. I think he looks forward to our walks and is happy to bide his time. Within reason. You know what he is like when he’s tilled for something to happen.

The rumble starts up again and the desk light flickers. As before, when the rumble begins to die down, he reaches out and dampens the tray’s rattle.

M: Did you hear that one? I’m sure they’re getting worse. I should have a word. Once I’ve worked out which one that should be. [Laughs] Maybe, that’s what they want. It’s a beckoning.

He moves the top sheet to the bottom of the pile and takes off his headphones, keeping them in his hands.

M:After we got back, I made him some tea and was finally able to get round to the stuff Morven left me. Not Morven, [Laughs] Morna. If only I could’ve got my hands on some of old Morven’s treasures. Can you imagine? No, they snaffled the whole lot, didn’t they? Right down to the rusty bucket they kicked from under her. Morna on the other hand, well, I could’ve taken my pick. If I was that way inclined. But, yet again, I deferred. I already knew what it would be. Just my mother’s letters. She’d told me she had kept them. She knew I had no call for them beyond my obligations. And that those obligations would eventually halt my retreat. Strange things they are. All hum drum and ritual and her light fingered stubbornness. Not that anyone else would notice. A real testament to her trick of dismissing any suggested straying from the path as another bit of bad advice. And I’m sure Morna bought it every time.

Another rumble starts up. He flings down the headphones and jumps to his feet, pushing the chair away and stamping on the floor.

M: [Shouting, half-joking, rushed] Now you’re just taking the piss. Once or twice a day, you said. Not every five bloody minutes. Gets inside your head. Like paying witness to the aftershocks of your own impending demise.

He steadies himself and sits back down.

M: The mild mannered poet upstairs and his strange little son. They won’t mind will they? [Shouting at the floor] Yes they bloody will.

He stops, takes another sip of water and bows his head. After a moment, he lifts it up again and talks into the microphone.

M: Sorry. Sorry. You know how it is.

Another sip of water and then a long sigh.

M: She kept all the photos as well. With the letters. In the envelopes they came in. My shyness on display, at first, at least. I don’t seem reluctant. The smiles never seem easy, but, apart for the odd clutch or frown, I seem fine with the attention. You don’t know how long that attention will last when you’re that age. By the time I’m about eleven or twelve the penny seems to have dropped. Sometimes, I’m still there as a raised hand or a departing step; or as a turned head bleached by the sunlight. But increasingly, I am missing until it gets to the point where I only feature as an absence. And then the strangest thing. Hang on, I’ve got it here somewhere. Bear with me. Down the bottom of the box, as I shuffled through the envelopes. Now, where have I put it?

He looks around the table, picking up the notebooks, paper and laptop to see if there is anything underneath. He looks through the bag and the pockets of the blazer. He doesn’t find what he is looking for.

M: Oh well, no matter. Yes, the strangest thing, down the bottom of the box, there I am, beaming out from beneath all the envelopes. A photo of me, crumpled and then uncrumpled, just me, a happy little hostage. I’m at least five years older than before, my eyes fixed on the camera, no pretense or feign or unease. Oh how ready I look. Well, there’s a first time for everything. [As if quoting] The first and forgotten filed side by side. [Long pause] You understand why I did it don’t you? Although, all eloquence gone. I hope you understand. We need to be outside. Me and him…

He tails off into another long pause, drifting off into thought until that thought is gone and it appears his mind is empty. He picks up the top sheet of paper, looks at it briefly and puts it back. He puts the headphones back on and begins to read.

He takes a little time to come out of it this time. When he does, he lifts the top sheet to look at the one beneath before putting it back down again.

M: I guess that is that. All done. That wasn’t so difficult was it? What are you going to do with them?

He lifts the top sheet again and places it to one side, staring at the page it had concealed. His face drops. He looks confused and quickly leafs through the pile before returning to the new top sheet, reading it but only as a mumble. He clicks on the mouse, stares ahead, takes a sip of water and places the glass next to the laptop.

M: Is this a joke? A trick? I don’t have to read this one. I’ve done what I said I would. [glancing at the page] I only said I’d read mine. I didn’t write this one. [glancing again] I didn’t.

He runs his finger over the page, shaking his head. Long pause. He clicks the mouse again and begins to read slowly, part bemused, part unnerved, part resigned.

He leaves the last rhyme suspended with the rest before snapping out of it.

M: No. No No. That’s not right. It never stops. You think it was your call? Where’s my one gone. You wanted me to be here? You wanted me to take him with me? No. You chose to send it singing at me like that? No. No. No. Where has my one gone?

He frantically looks through the pile of paper, scrunching up each sheet and throwing it to the ground. He looks under the laptop, hits his fist on the table, kicks the chair over and sweeps away the tray and plate so it flies from the table. He slumps to the ground. Long pause. His anger subsides and he begins to gather himself and the paper, looking at each sheet as he straightens it out. One sheet surprises him. He takes this one, picks up the chair and returns to the table. He sits down.

M: I struggle to explain. All eloquence gone. But there’s no vacating. No space for you to step into. You understand that, don’t you? It was me that couldn’t have him on the outside, looking in. It needed to be me. Us. We don’t place ourselves like you do.

He looks at the page in his hand, places it on the table and flattens it by brushing it with his forearm. He begins to read.

His eyes stay fixed on the page. Long pause. The light fades down.