Red Door

Their door has just been painted red. But now it won’t open. Ben and Jane find themselves placed under a form of house arrest, trapped inside their council flat till further notice. They don’t know wh

The stage is set with a red door standing upstage. Downstage, two chairs and a bed. 

THE ARTIST enters. He admires the door. He has a pen and a clipboard in hand, set to complete his evaluation. 

THE ARTIST: Have you ever seen a more perfect looking object of desire? I pose this question to you, so that your artistic eye may determine the fate of this poor little wooden thing. The one before was the same, and the one before that, and the one before that. After this, there will be other doors; countless others for me to judge. And judge I shall. But what about this one door in particular, is special? What makes it stand out? What is the essence of the door? These questions, however ridiculous they may be, are vital in the assessment. I cannot simply look at the colour and give it an eight out of ten for good craftsmanship. No, no, I must look deeper than that; much deeper. Every individual door tells a story. And I intend to peer into every nook and every cranny there is, until I have sussed it. I take no prisoners. Now, come my darling, don’t be shy...

(plays with the door)

We must test our limits, examine our weaknesses and embrace the splinters of our forbidden love. Let me sneak a peek through your keyhole. Let me swing you on your hinges till you creak with exhaustion. Allow me to install a set of knockers, so that I may play some more. What’s that? No words of protestation? Dirty girl! I took you for a pure, innocent type. But no, you’re a dirty, dirty little redhead! Perhaps I shall give you a nickname.

(stops. backs away)

Enough rambling. I must be professional. I am an artist after all, and you are my muse; my canvas, my door. It would never work. Our love is the worst kind... The love that can never be. Oh yes, you may want to stay friends, but we both know it would never work. We’ll always want something more. Better to go our separate ways now, than to wake up in twenty years’ time to find that the love has gone and we are merely going hand-in-hand towards the grave because a divorce would be too hard on the children. So, I must be professional.

(notes down on the clipboard)

Eight out of ten for good craftsmanship.

(admires the door)

Hmm, eight out of ten... My finest piece yet. This could very well be my masterpiece. 

JANE enters. She’s carrying shopping bags. She notices The Artist standing by the door.

JANE: Um, excuse me! Can I help you?

THE ARTIST: You certainly can. Are you the resident of number 12?

JANE: Depends who’s asking. 

THE ARTIST: I am. Now, are you, or are you not, the resident of number 12? 

JANE: Well, I wouldn’t be standing here if I wasn’t. My boyfriend, Ben, and I �" we live together...

THE ARTIST: That information is not relevant to the conversation. I was wondering, could I perhaps get a critique?

JANE: A what?

THE ARTIST: A critique. An opinion. As you can see, there has been a rather significant change made to your door today. This work was carried out by yours truly, on behalf of Her Majesty’s Royal Council. What I am trying to put across to you in my own unique vocabulary is, what do you think of the door?

JANE: Well, um, I like it, I guess. It’s a door. Red, green, blue, purple; it’s all the same to me.

THE ARTIST: You’re joking...

JANE: Are you going to let me pass or what? It’s just, these bags are pretty heavy and you’re kind of in my way. 

THE ARTIST: I have slaved away at this door for hours. I put my blood, sweat and tears into the paint. My heart and soul into every brushstroke. I present to you a Da Vinci, a Picasso, a f*****g Van Gough! Is this really all you have to say on the subject?

JANE: Look, I’m kind of in a rush at the moment. How’s about I drop you an email or something?

THE ARTIST: Very well... Here is my card. 

(hands her his card)

My email is at the bottom. I expect a review; a very well worded review at that. Five hundred words minimum word count, and I expect it within the next couple of hours. Words shall jump from the page like poetry. My entire being will swell with pride as brilliance flies directly from my inbox and into my heart. I look forward to hearing from you. 

The Artist exits. 

JANE: F*****g artists! Always wanting gratitude off someone or other...

Jane takes out her key, opens the door and enters into the flat. She puts down her shopping bags by the door and goes to sit down.

She sits there for a moment, unsure of what to do next. She sighs, stands and walks offstage, only to re-enter carrying a laptop. She sits back down, opens it up and starts browsing. She looks at The Artist’s card.

BEN enters. He’s walking with the use of crutches. He rummages through his pocket for his key. He finds it, opens the door and enters into the flat. 

As soon as he’s through the door, he throws down the crutches, fully capable of walking. 

BEN: Honey, I’m home!

JANE: Christ, could you be any more clichéd in your entrances?

BEN: Sorry. Didn’t realise. 

(picks up the crutches)

Let me try that again.

 

(walks back through the door. waits. enters again)

Oh Darling, what a beautiful day I’ve had. Everything has been so perfect. Positively tip top! I was going to ask you, ever so politely, to make me a sandwich, but I’ve decided that it would be rude of me to ask you such a thing. I am my own man! I can make my own sandwich! I wouldn’t want to start any unnecessary arguments. 

JANE: Good boy. Shoes off at the door, remember?

Ben goes to the door, drops his crutches and takes his shoes off. 

BEN: No, seriously, can you make me a sandwich?

JANE: In a minute. I’ve got this review thing to be doing.

BEN: Review thing? What review thing?

JANE: There was this guy �" some sort of artist �" he painted our door while we were out. I bumped into him on the way in. Get this, right �" he wanted me to review his work! He’s serious about it too!

BEN: What, did he work for the council?

JANE: Yeah, I think he said something like that. 

BEN: So he didn’t have, like, an ID badge or something? 

JANE: I didn’t ask. 

BEN: Some guy painted over our door, and you didn’t think to stop and ask for some credentials?

JANE: He was creepy, Ben, I just wanted him to leave. 

BEN: I liked our door the way it was.

JANE: So did I, but apparently someone didn’t.

BEN: Red? F*****g red? None of the other doors have been painted red. None of the other doors have been painted at all. Who says a door even needs colour? If it’s wood, then just let it be wood. Don’t f**k with it.

JANE: Yeah, you tell ‘em, Ben. You put on those hiking boots, you march down there and you tell ‘em what’s what.

BEN: F**k it, I’m tired. I’m off to bed. 

(jumps into bed)

You won’t be too long, will you?

JANE: I’ll be through in a minute. 

(squints at the card)

Such a small font.

Jane sits there, unsure of what to type. She types a few words, but gives up.

Ben lies in bed, tossing and turning. He tries to sleep, but eventually gives up.

BEN: Jane, come to bed!

JANE: Give me a minute, I’m almost done. What’s another way of saying “I don’t despise the colour red, it’s just not really my cup of tea?”

BEN: Who cares! Why are you taking so long?

JANE: He gave me a word count.

 

(off his look)

I know �" right?

BEN: Jane, I am giving you an ultimatum here. Get into this bed right now, or so help me god, you won’t be getting any of this fine... this �" for an entire month!

JANE: I get a month off? Sounds good to me.

BEN: I’m being serious.

JANE: I know. 

(closes laptop)

I’ll finish it in the morning.

Jane joins Ben in bed and they fall asleep. 

Ben gets out of bed after a good nights’ sleep. He tries not to wake Jane. 

BEN: Morning... Five o’clock in the morning, to be exact. Perfect time for me to go out and stretch my legs. They’re a bit lazy, these legs of mine. They like a good sit, a good laze on the sofa. On a Monday. On a Tuesday. And pretty much every other day of the week. But every now and then �" and this is rare, mind you... They like to stroll. To walk in the fresh air, in the darkness that is 5am, without being seen nor heard, nor recognised... Bliss. There isn’t a soul around. Nobody sees you. Nobody grasses you up. 

(goes to the door. puts his shoes on)

I daren’t stick around long enough to see the sunrise. Just up and down the street once or twice. I won’t run, no, no, that would be a bit much now, wouldn’t it? Anyhoo...

(goes to open the door. it won’t open)

C’mon, what’s wrong with you?

(keeps trying. still won’t budge)

Jesus! They had to, didn’t they; they just had to f**k with the door! They couldn’t just leave it alone, could they?

(turns. shouts)

Jane!

Jane wakes up. 

JANE: What? What is it?

BEN: It’s the door. It won’t open. 

JANE: What do you mean, it won’t open?

BEN: It won’t f*****g open.

 

JANE: Where you off to, like?

BEN: I was going for a walk. I need the air.

 

JANE: Without your crutches? Are you mad?

BEN: Have you seen the time, Jane? It’s a ghost town at this hour. Seriously though, the door’s jammed with something. It’s not opening. 

Jane gets out of bed and joins him at the door.

JANE: Give it here.

(pulls. still won’t budge)

F**k, it must be jammed or something. 

BEN: That’s what I just said. 

JANE: What do we do now?

BEN: Um... Phone for help.

(gets his phone out)

I’ve got no signal. I’ve never had no signal in here before.

JANE: Mine isn’t working either. 

BEN: Email!

Jane opens her laptop.

JANE: The Wifi’s down!

Ben and Jane share a look of horror. They rush to the door in a panic. 

BEN: Somebody, please, help! Get us out of here!

JANE: We’re trapped! Somebody, please, help us! 

They drop to the floor. A week has passed.

BEN: It’s been a week. Still nothing. How can they not have heard us? I know people round here are ignorant, but Jesus, come on!

JANE: I can’t keep sitting here much longer. 

(stands)

I think I might go for a lie down. You wanna join me?

BEN: I don’t know. I think I might hang out at the door another day or two. 

(thinks about it)

Actually, no, f**k that!

Ben and Jane collapse on the bed.

THE VISITOR enters, standing outside the door. He knocks. 

BEN: What was that?

JANE: You heard it too?

The Visitor knocks again. 

BEN: Knocking. 

JANE: Someone heard us!

Ben and Jane rush to the door.

BEN: Hello? Hello? Who is it? We can’t open the door, so whoever you are, you’re going to have to go and get help. We’re kind of... Well, we’re kind of trapped, you see. Can you hear us?

Silence. Nothing. 

VISITOR: Suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “Tis some visitor”, I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door �" Only this and nothing more.”

JANE: Poe... He’s quoting Poe. Edgar Allan Poe. 

BEN: What? Why would he be quoting Edgar Allan Poe? He’s standing at our door �" the other side of our door, might I add �" quoting poetry, when he could be helping us figure out a way of getting out of here!

VISITOR: Quoth the Raven? 

BEN: Quoth the bloody Raven? Can you not hear us? Get help! Stop what you are doing and go get help!

VISITOR: Quoth the Raven?

BEN: F**k the Raven!

JANE: Stop losing your temper, you’re not helping the situation. 

BEN: Neither is he by the sound of it.

JANE: Ben!

BEN: What?

VISITOR: Quoth the Raven?

JANE: Nevermore. 

Silence. 

The door creaks open. 

The Visitor walks into the flat. 

Ben scrambles for his crutches.

VISITOR: Sorry I’m late. You wouldn’t believe the pile of paperwork I was trapped under. 

JANE: And you are?

VISITOR: Visiting. I do apologise, I left my identification badge at the office. 

(sits down)

Come, come, don’t be shy.

(Ben and Jane move closer)

I have with me the necessary paperwork, which must be signed, stamped, signed again, processed, shredded, put back together and shredded once more. Do you have a pen?

(Ben and Jane scramble to look for a pen)

Now, in this paperwork, it is made clear that you fully understand your situation...

JANE: Um, no... We don’t understand our situation. 

VISITOR: Oh for f**k sake! Really?

JANE: You haven’t explained the situation!

VISITOR: Well that’s hardly my fault now, is it? It’s not my fault you were not informed. You should have received a letter days ago. 

BEN: Just explain the situation!

VISITOR: Oh for the love of... This really isn’t my sector. Okay, when I’m explaining to you the situation, there’s a certain word that I may end up repeating over and over again. “Technically.” Technically your residence, flat number 12, has been, um... what’s the word? It’s under probation. Technically speaking, it no longer exists. You have been stricken off, plain and simple; technically you are no longer on the map. Where there was once a home with furniture and cutlery, it is now empty. Technically, you are the previous tenants. Her Majesty’s Royal Council has, technically speaking, put you both under house arrest. You are to remain here until your matter is dealt with. 

BEN: This is a joke, right? You’ve had us locked in here for a week! A week! Just so you can pull some sort of hoax on us? Who put you up to this, eh? Jerry? Bill?

VISITOR: I do not know the Jerry or Bill that you are referring to. 

JANE: What about our neighbours? They can hear us, can’t they? They know we’re here?

VISITOR: Oh, no, they can’t. Technically, the flat has been empty for a week. Unfortunately, due to high demand and the availability of council flats in the area, we cannot afford to let you both live under house arrest rent free, without allowing other families the chance to live here. 

(stands)

All you need to know, is that reality... well, it’s complicated. And technically, you’re no longer a part of it. A new family is arranged to move in here within the next couple of hours. But don’t worry, it won’t affect you. You are in one place, they are in another. And never the twain shall meet. 

JANE: But of course they’re going see us, we live here!

VISITOR: Have you not been listening to a word I’ve said? Your door has been painted red, has it not?

JANE: Well, yes. 

VISITOR: Then you fully admit that you entered into your flat, knowing full well that your door has been painted red?

JANE: We noticed it, yes. 

VISITOR: Ah, so you acknowledged the door? Good, good, very good. There is nothing I can do for you at this point. 

JANE: What? Why?

VISITOR: You entered. You saw that your door had been painted, and yet you still entered. Do you know nothing about doors?

JANE: Of course we entered, it’s our flat. 

VISITOR: But by entering, you fully agreed to the terms and conditions of your probation. Did you not read the terms and conditions?

BEN: What terms and conditions? Who reads the terms and conditions?

VISITOR: I do believe you were given a card. 

Jane picks up The Artist’s card. 

JANE: What; this one?

VISITOR: Ah, yes.

(gets out a magnifying glass. inspects the card)

Where is it? Where is it? Ah, here it is. Right at the bottom, under the email address.

Ben and Jane look through the magnifying glass. 

BEN: Such a small font.

 

VISITOR: Yes, and they do babble on a bit. It’s mostly irrelevant, but the important stuff’s there too. 

BEN: Surely there’s a loophole. There’s always a loophole. 

VISITOR: You can look for one, but I assure you, all terms and conditions have been rewritten, redrafted and plagiarised from much better terms and conditions. Did you find the pen? 

(Ben and Jane shake their heads)

No? Very well, you may use mine. Just sign here, and here, and here, and there again, and here. And could you also sign here in blood...

(off their look)

I joke...

JANE: Is that it?

The Visitor turns to leave.

VISITOR: I’m afraid I can’t stay. I have other appointments to be dealing with. And I still need 22.4 minutes for my lunch break. 

JANE: Wait, you can’t go yet. What do we do? How do we do... whatever it is we’re supposed to do?

VISITOR: I will return in... six months. Six months �" yes, that sounds about right. Save any questions or queries until then.

JANE: Right. Um, goodbye.

VISITOR: Good day to you both. 

The Visitor exits. 

Jane and Ben are speechless. They go to sit down.

 

BEN: Say something... Go on then, say something...

JANE: What’s there to say, Ben? We have six months �" six f*****g months of this! We’ll have killed each other by then. And if we haven’t, we’ll sure as hell be on our way to killing each other. 

BEN: You heard the man, he said we can look for loopholes. There’s bound to be a loophole. Jane, look at me, look at me... Every system can be exploited. You just need to know how. 

JANE: That’s your answer? Exploit the system? This isn’t just some... Oh my God, you are f*****g beyond a joke!

BEN: Jane, will you just listen to me...

(no response)

Jane...? Jane...?

(no response)

Aw, I see how it is. I’m getting the silent treatment now...

(they sit in silence for what seems like a month)

Jane... for the love of God... it’s been a month... say something... anything...

JANE: I’m not mad. I’m just very disappointed... 

BEN: With me? Aw, right, so all the blame gets thrown on me, as per usual.

JANE: You didn’t let me finish... I’m not mad, I’m just very disappointed, with the both of us, and the way things have turned out. When I envisioned myself in my twenties, I never thought I’d be wasting my youth away in a rundown little council flat, stuck here till god knows when. I mean, think about it �" What if there are no loopholes? What if we’re stuck here permanently, forever?

BEN: You honestly think I’d let that happen?

JANE: That’s rich!

BEN: What’s that supposed to mean?

JANE: You’re the one who got us in this situation to begin with!

BEN: Excuse me?

JANE: Why do you think we’re locked in? They wouldn’t have done it if they didn’t have a reason. It’s pointless avoiding the obvious, Ben, we both know what that reason is; we just haven’t said it yet. You’re the one who got us into this mess! You and those bloody crutches!

BEN: Those crutches have kept us afloat for months! Without those crutches, we wouldn’t even have a flat, we’d be sleeping in doorways, begging for money on the street. 

JANE: Those crutches are exactly what they say they are... Crutches. We used them as a... a support. 

BEN: Ok, fine, it might be the crutches... It might be something else... My point is, we don’t know for sure whether it was the crutches or not. You’re acting paranoid. 

JANE: And total paranoia is just total awareness.

BEN: Howard Hughes? 

JANE: Charles Manson.

BEN: We’re getting a bit off-topic. 

Jane jumps to her feet. A bright idea in her head. 

Another three months have passed. 

JANE: We’ve put this off for way too long. It’s been like four months now, stuck in this hellhole together, and it’s amazing I never thought of this sooner.

BEN: I know, right. Wait, what are we talking about?

JANE: Sex... Let’s have sex. 

BEN: Sex? Are you sure? Like you said �" four months �" I might be a little rusty. 

JANE: Oh who cares! We need to let off steam!

(guides Ben over to the bed)

Are you ready?

BEN: Could do with a bit of a warm up, maybe a few push ups or something. 

JANE: Funny... Look, there’s something I want you to do... I want you to describe the outside world for me.

BEN: What, like during...?

JANE: If you don’t mind.

 

Jane lies down on the bed, whilst Ben sits at the front of the bed, looking rather uncomfortable.

BEN: Um, ok... Well, there’s the wind �" you know, the gentle summer breeze �" I think it’s summer time... yeah, its summer time. And there’s, um... there’s cars driving past. General traffic, you know. 

JANE: Yeah, yeah, that’s good, that’s good; tell me more about the cars. 

BEN: Traffic’s bad, I think... yeah, we’ll go with that; traffic’s bad, yeah, really bad. 

JANE: That’s the stuff. You know what you’re doing. Keep going.

BEN: Right, well, um... There’s trees and grass...

JANE: Wait, are we still on the street?

BEN: We’re in a park, I think. 

JANE: Ok, well you need to tell me these things first, if you’re going to change the scenario. 

BEN: Right, so we’re in the park, and, um... There’s swings and roundabouts and slides...

JANE: Children’s playground? Risky territory. Let’s not go there. 

BEN: Ok, so we’re in a field, I guess, and we’re rolling around on the grass, and the suns out. It’s a lovely day, not a cloud in the sky...

JANE: Good, good, keep going...

(stops)

Ben?

BEN: Yes?

JANE: It’s been four months since he last visited... He’ll be back again in two... Do you think we’ve, I don’t know... Wasted time?

BEN: Probably.

JANE: Ok. Just checking. You can continue.

MRS LOVETT enters. She has with her an unbelievable amount of cleaning products.

 

BEN: Ok, well, we’re sitting on a hilltop about to watch the sunset...

JANE: Yes, yes, that’s it, Ben, that’s it. Keep going, keep going. 

BEN: The sun’s setting on the horizon and...

Mrs Lovett knocks at the door. 

JANE: S**t!

Mrs Lovett opens the door and enters the flat. 

MRS LOVETT: I smell it... Filth.

BEN: I beg your pardon. 

JANE: What did she just call us?

MRS LOVETT: One at a time, one at a time, I cannot talk to two at once. The order of this conversation will flow a lot more smoothly if I direct my line of enquiry towards one at a time.

 

(points to Ben)

I will speak to the male first... I am Mrs Lovett. 

When was the last time this place was cleaned? The filth... I can smell it from here. The cockroaches are practically crawling up my nostrils, the stench is so vile. You’re lucky I came. 

BEN: And who exactly might you be...?

MRS LOVETT: I am your guardian angel... The shining light that guides you home from dangerous waters... I am your cleaner. 

BEN: We didn’t ask for no cleaner. Were you sent here, perhaps?

MRS LOVETT: Sent? A cleaner is never sent. A cleaner merely exists. We appear when needed. Whether it be muddy footprints on the carpet, or some peculiar stains on the bed sheets... The cleaner will be there. 

BEN: Well, um, make yourself at home I guess. Can I get you anything? A drink, maybe?

MRS LOVETT: I will take a glass of tap water, please. With a slice of lemon.

BEN: Right. I’ll go get you your tap water. 

Ben exits. 

MRS LOVETT: And now I shall direct my line of enquiry towards the female. And you are? 

JANE: Jane. Nice to meet you, Mrs Cleaner-thingy...

MRS LOVETT: Nice to meet you too, Jane. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to start my inspection. 

Mrs Lovett begins her inspection, walking round the flat, tutting at nothing. Her tutting starts to get on Jane’s nerves...

JANE: Something wrong there, luv? 

MRS LOVETT: Oh, nothing at all, my dear, nothing at all.

Mrs Lovett continues her inspection... and her tutting. 

JANE: Nice to hear this inspection’s going well.

MRS LOVETT: Whatever do you mean?

JANE: The tutting?

MRS LOVETT: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

(spots something. tuts again)

Absolutely lovely...

Ben enters with a glass of water.

BEN: Here’s your water.

MRS LOVETT: Thank you very much. 

(downs the glass) 

May I have another, please? This time with lime. 

BEN: Um, sure. 

Ben takes the glass and exits. 

MRS LOVETT: So Jane, how are you coping with your situation?

JANE: As well as I can, I suppose. 

MRS LOVETT: Yes, the first couple of months are indeed the hardest. You’ll fight, you’ll argue, you’ll tear each other’s hair out. But you have to remember �" and this is important �" this is not your property. It must be kept clean and tidy. I cannot stress this enough.

JANE: Well I’m sorry about that, but we’ve had a lot more important things on our hands. Jesus...

MRS LOVETT: Such as? You’re here indefinitely... What else is there to do, but clean? And can you please not blaspheme! Tell me... Four months in; what have you been up to?

JANE: We talked a lot. Admittedly, we might have argued a fair bit, but that’s to be expected. F**k, I dunno...

MRS LOVETT: Do you mind not swearing?

(runs her finger along the floor)

Dust... Quite a lot of dust.

 

JANE: And cobwebs. But I suppose you must be used to them occupying your nether regions. 

MRS LOVETT: Oh Jane. Insults will only get you so far.

 

JANE: What’s the worst that could happen? We’re already trapped here.

MRS LOVETT: If you wish to be trapped here with dust, bugs and all other manner of dirty things, then so be it. But I am here to ensure that while you are under probation, people such as yourself aren’t living in your own filth and squalor.

JANE: Oh f**k off!

MRS LOVETT: Ugh, there you go again with your cursing. I hate it, hate it! I think you’ll find that swearing is the lowest form of wit. 

JANE: How can swearing possibly be the lowest form of wit? I think what you meant to say is that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit �" but good for you, for trying, at least. However, I do believe what you are referring to is the belief that people who do swear are somehow less intelligent than those who don’t. What a load of horseshit! Tell me, how exactly does swearing decrease my intelligence? Oh wait, this is the part where you tell me that I have a limited vocabulary because I choose to swear of my own volition. That would be a separate insult to the first, so excuse me if I take a moment to get to that. 

(gets up in her face)

Shakespeare... Shakespeare was filth! Have you ever read a Shakespeare play? They’re absolutely f*****g filthy! You probably don’t understand the meaning behind most of the words. They may sound all fancy and posh, but rest assured, the meaning behind the words are crass and vulgar �" for the most part, at least. If you don’t understand what I’m getting at here... William Shakespeare swore! Old Bill Shakespeare �" the Bard, as you may call him �" was a profanity filled, son of a b***h! But hey, he wrote some damn good plays... and his vocabulary wasn’t too bad, either. 

(laughs)

And Hemmingway... Don’t get me started on f*****g Hemmingway! Famous writer, boxer and all around alcoholic; a real manly man... Of course Hemmingway f*****g swore! Hell, Hemmingway probably swore with the best of them. I mean, Christ, he probably spent more time drinking and swearing than he ever spent time writing. But hey, he wrote some damn good books... and his vocabulary wasn’t too bad, either. 

Highly intelligent men... Yes, there may have been a fine amount of alcohol in the mix �" sex, drugs and rock n roll �" but at the end of the day, they swore. They eff’d and blinded, they cursed, they cussed, dare I say, they probably blasphemed... and yet, they still wrote some of the greatest literature ever put to paper. What the f**k does swearing have to do with my f*****g intelligence? Please pre tell?

(nothing)

Christ, I really hate people like you! You come into people’s homes and you judge them �" you’re looking for something to pick at! No wonder you work for the f*****g council...

I only have one thing to say to you, Mrs Lovett �" and listen close, cause this really is important. Are you ready?

(leans in close)

F**k you!

MRS LOVETT: I have been to many residences. I have cleaned many flats. I have dealt with many difficult and unruly tenants... But never �" never �" have I dealt with such wasted potential!

JANE: Well when was the last time you took your head out of your arse long enough to look? As far as I’m concerned, we’re an entire generation of wasted potential!

MRS LOVETT: It’s nice to see you agreeing with me, Jane. Certainly makes a change. 

JANE: Oh, I agree with you alright! What is it they teach you in school? That you can be anything you want to be. I wanted to be a journalist, myself. Except, the problem is, you leave school... you leave, and the illusion is shattered right before your very eyes.

The jobs they talked about... Practically non-existent. And the ones that do exist are far beyond your reach. So what do you do? You got to college or uni... You build up a gargantuan amount of debt; student loans and such. And at this point, you’ve got two choices. You get a job; you know, one of those mythical, fictitious jobs. All so that you can slowly pay off that bloody debt. But when you compare that to your other option; which is waiting 30 years for the debt to be wiped out �" which is an actual loophole, by the way �" you tell me, which option should I go with?

So you don’t work... You look back to when you were in school and you remember that bloody phrase they repeated over and over again; “you can be anything you want to be” �" and you realise how much of a f*****g lie that really is. 

You know, most of the jobs out there these days don’t pay s**t. You can make more on benefits doing f**k all, than if you actually did work. Sure, you can say laziness is the reason people don’t have jobs. But it’s common sense...

How can you realise your full potential in an environment that doesn’t allow growth?

MRS LOVETT: You’re certainly a very opinionated young lady, Jane.

JANE: I ’ve had a lot of time to sit and think.

MRS LOVETT: And I’m sure you’ll have a lot more. 

JANE: I think you should leave.

(points)

There’s the door, f**k off. Go on! I said f**k off, now off you shall f**k.

Mrs Lovett nods. Walks to the door.

MRS LOVETT: Jane, you understand your situation better than anyone. Probably better than your partner. I, myself, work for a system that is indeed flawed and imperfect. But is blaming an imperfect system really the answer? You can’t spread the blame, when you yourself know deep down that you never really tried... Now that is wasted potential.

(opens the door)

Something for you to think about. 

Mrs Lovett exits. 

Ben enters with a glass of water. 

BEN: What happened to the cleaner �" what’s her name?

JANE: Pissed me the f**k off, that’s what happened to her!

BEN: You want to talk about it?

JANE: No I don’t want to f*****g talk about it!

BEN: You don’t want a glass of water, do you?

JANE: No I don’t want a f*****g glass of water!

BEN: Ok... I’ll go pour it down the sink, I guess. 

JANE: Don’t f*****g waste it, just drink it. Stop faffing on!

Ben sits down. Drinks the water. 

BEN: What do you want to do now?

JANE: I dunno... Something... Anything!

BEN: I’m open to sitting down and discussing ideas.

 

Ben and Jane take a chair each and move them so that they are facing one another. 

JANE: I’m not going to argue. We’re past the point or arguing. We’re in this situation, like it or not. But who’s to say we can’t make the best of it, eh? Most people would kill to have this much spare time on their hands. We need to start utilising it a bit more. We need to start actually doing stuff.

BEN: What do you propose we do?

JANE: I propose we do something useful; something that actually makes us contributing members of society. It’s obvious we weren’t contributing before, and that’s what got us into this mess. 

BEN: Easier said than done, Jane. It’s all well and good saying we need to do something, but what?

JANE: I don’t know... You went to college, didn’t you?

BEN: BTEC’s don’t count for s**t.

JANE: Either way, we both wanted to be something once. And we just gave up... Because it was easier that way. 

BEN: Aw, has she been filling your head with this crap? These aren’t your thoughts, Jane... She’s manipulated you. 

JANE: Opened my eyes, more like. I used to be ambitious, but from the moment I met you, you’ve been dragging me down with you. I turned down a job �" a job that I would have been damn good at �" all so we could move in together. And ever since then, we haven’t done s**t. 

BEN: If you were unhappy, all you needed to do was say.

JANE: I wasn’t unhappy. That’s the thing �" I’ve never been unhappy. You’ve always made me think that everything was fine. But I know what you really are, Ben; you’re a manipulator. It’s no big deal though, don’t worry, most relationships these days consist of manipulation and mind games. Relationships �" the way they are these days �" it’s all a manipulation game.

What I’m trying to say here, Ben, is that we’ve tried it your way. It didn’t work. Now it’s time we tried things a little differently. 

BEN: Ok. I’m listening. 

JANE: We may not have that many marketable skills between us, but I studied journalism, so why the hell not use it... I’ve got a few ideas knocking round. How’s about we write a book or something? That would be a good use of our time. 

BEN: We’ll start a printing press. I’ll go get the typewriter. 

Ben exits. 

JANE: Good idea. This is a great start.

Ben re-enters with a typewriter. He sits down.

BEN: Fiction... Non-fiction... Ooh, let’s make a children’s book!

JANE: Let’s not get too carried away here.

BEN: A newspaper?

JANE: Ooh, I like it. 

BEN: Everything’s online these days. We need to take things back to the golden age of the newspaper. No checking websites every hour or two, or watching the news 24/7, just so you can have the privilege of saying you’re well informed �" in the know, as it were. 

JANE: Exactly. People are so invested in technology these days, they forget what it was like to be part of the community.

BEN: Community... An interactive newspaper for the community. 

JANE: Brilliant. Ben, these are really good ideas. 

Ben and Jane go to bed and lie down. 

BEN: You think he’ll like them?

JANE: Bloody hope so.

Ben and Jane go to sleep.

A moment later, Ben and Jane awake and sit up. It is morning. 

Two months have passed.

BEN: Today’s the day.

JANE: Today’s the day.

The Visitor enters and knocks at the door. 

VISITOR: Knock, knock.

Ben and Jane rush to the door. Jane opens the door and lets The Visitor in.

JANE: So good to see you. Come in, come in.

BEN: Sit down, please, we have so much to talk about. You have no idea how long we’ve waited.

VISITOR: Approximately six months, ten seconds ago.

BEN: Accurate as always!

JANE: Yes, well, you’ll be surprised with the progress we’ve made. We have so much to talk about... where to begin...

BEN: Basically, right, we’ve reinvigorated ourselves. We’ve completely changed. We’re not the people we were six months ago.

VISITOR: I’m glad to hear that. Please, enlighten me.

JANE: Okay, first up; we wrote a book. 

VISITOR: Any particular genre? I’m quite a fan of the young adult books these days �" you know, the ones with glitter, lust and a great deal of self-loathing �" those sort of books. Very popular, considering the subject matter. 

JANE: Our book’s nothing like that. 

VISITOR: Oh... Can we make changes so that it can be like that?

JANE: Um... no.

VISITOR: Well then, what sort of book is it?

JANE: It’s an autobiography. It’s an account of our time spent in the flat together. 

VISITOR: So it’s non-fiction? But who buys non-fiction books in this economy? Doesn’t sound all that marketable to me. And, of course, you are aware that if this book were to be published, you would be branded a council estate whistle blower?

JANE: Right, um... Never mind.

BEN: Our other idea’s a newspaper.

VISITOR: Hardly original. Newspapers have been around since the dawn of time!

BEN: I highly doubt that. But this paper... It’s a weekly newspaper, written by the estate, for the estate.

VISITOR: I don’t like it... Keep going.

BEN: Well, think about it... You’re living on a council estate...

VISITOR: No I’m not.

BEN: You’re living on a council estate...

VISITOR: No sir, I am not.

BEN: For the sake of the argument, you’re living on a council estate!

VISITOR: Very well. Continue.

(under his breath)

Still not living on a council estate.

BEN: You’re living on a council estate, and you’re not very sociable. You don’t talk to your neighbours, you keep yourself to yourself. But what if we encouraged council estates to be more friendly and more sociable? With a council estate newspaper, we get people interacting with one another and offering their own thoughts and opinions.

VISITOR: Thoughts and opinions? Actual thought and opinions? Would we be able to censor these thoughts and opinions?

BEN: Well, no, they’re peoples thoughts and opinions. 

VISITOR: But they’re living in our homes. They’re occupying the space that we provide. Surely we can censor them if we want to. 

BEN: We came up with this idea because we actually wanted to start contributing to society. But you don’t want us to help people, or do something worthwhile. You only want us doing stuff that benefits you and your people.

VISITOR: What do you mean, “your people?”

BEN: You know exactly what I mean. You council f***s, sitting up there in your ivory towers, looking down on the little guy. No, not looking down �" shitting. Shitting on the little guy.

 

VISITOR: There is no need for things to get heated. 

BEN: Yes there is. This whole time, you’ve led us on �" you led us down the rabbit hole �" believing that if we contribute, if we stop scrounging, as you call it, and actually contribute, then we’ll become better members of society... That you’d let us leave. But no, no. It’s never been about that, has it?

VISITOR: Society does not need your help. When has society ever needed the help of its fellow neighbour? No. They require a firmer hand to guide them along the way. And this, the council was created, born from humanities constant need for order. You wanted houses, we built you houses. You wanted money, we gave you money. Christ, you wanted bins �" recycling bins, I might add �" and we still provided. All of this, we gave to you both; and we only ever ask one thing in return... Do not f**k with us. And yet, you f**k with us. And because you f**k with us, you leave us no choice but to f**k with you in return. You do not f**k with the Tory’s!

(stutters. Corrects himself)

...Her Majesty’s Royal Council. That’s what I meant to say. Yes, Her Majesty’s Royal Council.

BEN: What, so everything we’ve been doing, everything we’ve done... it’s all been pointless?

VISITOR: This tends to happen to those under house arrest. The need for self-improvement slowly creeps its way into the minds of the occupants. You’re the lucky ones... Most occupants are driven insane by the prospect of bettering themselves.

JANE: You said we could get out of here!

VISITOR: I said no such thing.

JANE: Yes you did. 

VISITOR: No I did not. You heard exactly what you wanted to hear, Jane. There might be a way of getting out of here. There might not. There might be loopholes. But then again, there might not. You hold onto hope like a child holds a rattle... But you must always be prepared to assume the worst possible outcome is indeed the most likely.

JANE: Surely we can appeal to your better nature. 

VISITOR: I do not bring my better nature to work with me. One does not mix his business with his better nature... But please, by all means, continue pitching me your ideas...

JANE: We don’t have any more ideas... Those were our two golden eggs. 

VISITOR: Well then, I thank you for your time. I will be on my way. 

JANE: Fantastic! See you again in six months!

VISITOR: Indeed I shall.

(opens the door)

I’m sorry, there’s not a lot else I can do. 

(looks down. notices an envelope. picks it up)

Oh, you seem to have an item of post outside your door. Peculiar... This is the exact same item of post that should have been delivered to you six months ago, on the morning of my first visit.

(hands the envelope to Ben)

For you. 

The Visitor turns to leave.

BEN: One last question, before you go... How come you can open the door from the inside, but we can’t?

VISITOR: Working for Her Majesty’s Royal Council comes with certain privileges, I suppose. Doors open, doors close. Good day.

The Visitor exits. 

Ben opens the letter and begins to read. 

Jane lies down on the bed, tired.

BEN: Dear Mister Ben and Miss Jane... I am writing to you today, on behalf of Her Majesty’s Royal Council, to inform you both that you are being placed under a form of house arrest. Your door is to be painted red, and following the painting of your door, you are to be locked inside your residence until the matter is resolved... Yada, yada... They like to babble on, don’t they?

JANE: Do they at least explain the reason why?

BEN: The reason?

JANE: The reason why we’re stuck in here. What we did wrong! I bet it was those bloody crutches!

BEN: Let’s see... Ah, reason for house arrest... That can’t be right... Residents did not inform the Council to the inclusion of a third housemate. Total number of occupants... Three. 

A hand shoots out from under the bed. It grabs Jane, silencing her. She tries to scream, but she’s muffled by his hand. 

Out from under the bed crawls The Artist.

 

THE ARTIST: I did not receive my review!

BEN: Hey, let’s not be too hasty here.

THE ARTIST: My review; where is it?

BEN: Do you know this lunatic?

The Artist lets her speak.

JANE: He painted the door. He’s the guy who painted the door; the one I was telling you about. 

THE ARTIST: My craving grew stronger, minute by minute, as each solitary minute passed...

BEN: What’s he going on about?

JANE: What do you think he’s talking about? He’s talking about the door. He’s always talking about the bloody door.

THE ARTIST: I refreshed and I refreshed, but no email appeared. Nothing but spam from a Nigerian prince. He’s going to make me a very rich man. We’ll see about that...

BEN: How long have you been here?

THE ARTIST: I have been occupying this space since before I started painting. 

BEN: You’ve been here the whole time? And you didn’t think to speak up?

THE ARTIST: I dare not mix business with pleasure. I am here for the door, and the door alone. Other occupants of the space are not important to me. But now that you know the truth; now that the continuation of my stay is threatened. I must ensure my survival. You cannot separate the door and I... we are one... it is meant to be. 

JANE: As a lady, I respect your right to an intimate relationship with an inanimate object; but this is going too far. 

BEN: Maybe we should talk about this. 

THE ARTIST: What is there to talk about? I am the third housemate, yes? If you like, we could draw up an agreement of some sorts �" I could do dished, possibly laundry, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. 

BEN:   You want to live with us? Why would anyone want to live with us...? Oh, yeah. The door.

THE ARTIST: Of course, in the agreement, if you are willing to negotiate, I would require quite a lot of alone time with the door. Night hours mostly. Don’t worry, if you don’t intrude on my love making, I won’t intrude on yours. 

JANE: That’s very reassuring. Look, how’s about you let go of me and we discuss this like reasonable adults? I could make you a drink, maybe?

The Artist releases Jane.

THE ARTIST: Water, please. 

JANE: Christ, what is it with you council folk and water? You’d swear you were lizard people or something.

(stops. turns)

Hang on. You work for the council, don’t you?

THE ARTIST: Yes.

BEN: I think you should leave. 

THE ARTIST: No... I can’t, you see... I can’t just...

BEN: You said it yourself. You work for the council. It is well within your abilities to leave this flat, now I suggest you be making tracks before I get really mad. 

THE ARTIST: Intolerable cretins! Do you know who I am? I am an Artist! I am a respected member of the community �" loved by all. You dare to kick me out?

BEN: Yes. 

THE ARTIST: Even if I do leave, how do you know it will work? For all you know, I will leave, they will return and they will tell you the exact same thing as they did before.

 

BEN: Wouldn’t hurt to try now, would it? Bye!

Ben slams the door in The Artist’s face.

JANE: Bed?

BEN: Bed?

Ben and Jane go to bed.

The Artist’s paces back and forth outside the door.

THE ARTIST: This will not stand! This is not an ending. Certainly not one befitting of an Artist such as myself. You do not put all of your time and effort into something, only for it to go to waste... No. I agree that there is nothing more satisfying than a blank canvas; a fresh start with a new door that can satisfy my specific needs... But not without first closing the door one last time. Not every ending is perfect. But I’ll be damned if I’m not going to have the final say on this chapter of my career... If you’re ever going to amount to anything in this world, you must always make sure that you have the final say...

(takes a box of matches out from his pocket)

If I can’t have you... No one can. 

The Artist lights the match, drops it and exits.

 

A fire builds, burning throughout the building.

 

Jane sits up in bed. 

JANE: Ben? Ben! Do you smell that?

BEN: You haven’t farted again, have you?

JANE: You’re one to talk. But no, no, it smells like smoke.

(gets out of bed. sniffs)

Yeah, that’s definitely smoke that is. 

Ben gets out of bed. Jane walks to the door. 

BEN: Jane... Get away from the door. 

JANE: It’s coming from the outside. I can smell it. 

BEN: I can smell it too, but Jane, you need to back away now.

 

JANE: It’s burning out there, Ben. It’s burning. 

BEN: I can see that. But Jane, I need you to...

JANE: It’s radiating. I can feel the heat...

BEN: Get any closer and you’ll burn...

JANE: I wouldn’t mind burning. I’ve never burned before. Pain... A fresh, new pain. Eeh, I wouldn’t mind something new like!

Ben throws Jane down to the ground. 

BEN: Snap out of it, Jane!

(drops to the ground)

Aw Christ... I can’t breathe... I can’t...

JANE: Ben! Ben! Don’t you be giving in after all this... It’s a bit hypocritical after the s**t you just gave me. 

Ben falls unconscious.

Jane continues trying to wake him, but eventually even she succumbs. She falls unconscious too. 

After a moment, The Visitor enters alongside The Artist. They inspect the burnt ruins outside the flat. 

VISITOR: Tragic... very tragic. Lives ruined, homes destroyed. Such a waste... Anyway, on with the evaluation...

(moves along)

Number ten... burnt to a crisp. Two casualties, both of them fatal. Pensioners. No big loss there. Their money is being passed down to their two children, I believe. Moving on...

(moves along)

Number eleven... burnt to a crisp. No casualties. Both residents out shopping at the time. We’re looking to have them rehoused in the next couple of weeks, hopefully.

(moves along)

Number twelve... burnt to a crisp. Five casualties. Family of five. Four of them fatal. Moving on...

(moves. stops. goes back)

Number twelve... Something about this place... Have I been here before, do you know?

THE ARTIST: Number twelve, number thirteen, number fourteen... Numbers are irrelevant, my friend, they are endless and confusing. Cast your thoughts elsewhere. 

VISITOR: But the door...

THE ARTIST: Is gone. Long may it rest in peace! What is one door, compared to the dozens lost? Think not of doors burning, but of new doors being painted. 

VISITOR: Yes! Yes! We must look towards rebuilding. 

THE ARTIST: Might I suggest a few minor adjustments?

(the visitor nods)

More doors.

VISITOR: Yes! More doors! More doors means more homes! More homes means more space! More space means more residents! More residents means more doors! And more doors means... Even more doors! Genius! Absolute genius...

The Visitor exits. 

The Artist smiles to himself. He gives the door a gentle tap, and the door swings wide open. He steps to the side.

Ben and Jane wake up. They gather their senses and realise what’s happened. They look to the door. 

JANE: Are you seeing what I’m seeing?

BEN: Might be. I’ve shared weirder hallucinations.

 

JANE: You better believe your eyes, Ben. That door is open.

BEN: Well then... Ladies first. 

Jane gets up and walks to the door. She goes to walk through the doorframe, but finds that she can’t. Something’s stopping her. She keeps trying, but finds that no matter how hard she tries, she can’t leave the flat. 

JANE: It’s open! It’s f*****g open! You b******s! You f*****g b******s! It’s wide open, there’s no f*****g door! So why won’t you let me the f**k out of here?!

Ben tries, but finds that he can’t leave either. 

BEN: F**k... Well that’s an inconvenience.

 

JANE: We’re trapped here. 

BEN: Yeah, well we already knew that. 

JANE: No, that’s not what I meant... He burnt it, you see. He burnt it to the ground. And now, well, there is no door. Not on the outside, anyway. We’re trapped! Forever!

BEN: But that’s... They wouldn’t let something like that happen, Jane, you’re being melodramatic... They wouldn’t...

JANE: Wouldn’t they? You think they care about us? We’re just another number on the list, Ben. And that’s a pretty big f*****g list... But hey... At least we’ll always have the door... the red f*****g door...

Ben gets to his feet. 

BEN: We’ll see about that. 

Ben exits. He then re-enters with ropes. 

He hands one to Jane, and they both tie a rope around the door frame. 

They then begin to pull on the rope.

The Artist steps to the front of the stage.

 

THE ARTIST: Just as a moth is drawn to a flame, humanity is drawn to freedom. A door, however beautiful it may be, is still only that �" a door. Connect it to a doorframe and it becomes something else entirely �" a symbol. A door and its frame... Whether it be open or closed, the door is a symbol of freedom. The possibility of freedom, staring right at you. Hope... Hope is a very dangerous and cruel mistress. It’ll dangle itself in front of you, taunting you, making you long for it even more. It’s enough to drive anyone mad. But if someone were to accept their fate... If someone were to realise how dangerous the power of hope can be... Freedom can never be an option. And once you accept that freedom can never be an option... Then there is no need for the door. 

Ben and Jane pull hard on the ropes. 

The doorframe comes crashing down to the ground. 

THE END.