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In a World of Hurt; in a World of Pain; and Shame; and MisUnderstanding, I received a Call. A call from A Friend — Confused; ‘Not Heard’. I’d had these calls before. Many. Heartbreaking and scary; they speak to me. To an unknown part deep inside of me. Deep inside all of us; I think. Primal. Fearful. Frozen. Lost. Animalistic. Nihilistic. Violent. And Broken. He wanted to be Heard. This person. My friend. He wanted to be Understood. That’s all. He wanted to Understand Himself. Don’t we All…? He asked me to write. He asked me to write ‘something’. Anything. To tell Story. He didn’t even really know what he was asking — but he asked; Desperate and Alone. He asked. And then he disappeared, like an Echo... Afterward; I sat in Silence. Afterward — A Deafening Blow. I sat; and I Answered; Slow. This is my answer. I heard you, My Friend. “For Everything you have fought through.” Peter Maple.
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BEAST.BELLY.BEAST YOU.ME.PTSD
by Peter Maple
Published by WestWords: Western Sydney’s Literature Development Organisation
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BEAST.BELLY.BEAST Copyright © Peter Maple 2019 All rights reserved Any performance or public reading of BEAST.BELLY.BEAST forbidden unless a licence has been received from the author or the author’s agent. Enquires to the author: conversations@petermaple.com Except as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part of this book may be reproduced without written permission. For details of the Copyright Agency Ltd licence, under the Act, for educational institutions, please contact Copyright Agency at info@copyright.com.au Acknowledgements: We acknowledge the assistance of Riverside’s National Theatre of Parramatta. This activity was funded under the Commonwealth Government’s Armistice Centenary Grants Program. Disclaimer: The Commonwealth has not participated in the research, Project or exercised editorial control over the Activity or its contents. The views expressed and conclusions reached herein do not necessarily represent those of the Commonwealth, which expressly disclaims any responsibility for the content or accuracy of the Activity. For performances of copyrighted songs, arrangements or recordings mentioned in this play, the permission of the copyright owner/s must be obtained. Other songs, arrangements or recordings may be substituted provided permission from the copyright owner/s of such songs, arrangement or recordings is obtained; or songs, arrangements or recordings in the public domain may be substituted. Published by WestWords: Western Sydney Literature Development Organisation WestWords is an independent not-for-profit cultural organisation located within Western Sydney with centres in Parramatta, Blacktown, Campbelltown and Katoomba. WestWords celebrates and champions the people, places and cultures that are at the heart of Western Sydney. We provide pathways of opportunity for the development of the authentic and articulate voices and showcase them through innovative literaturebased, multi-arts programs. To achieve these goals we deliver a comprehensive program of residencies, fellowships, workshops, performances, presentations and publications. Postal address: PO Box 2327, North Parramatta, 1750 Email: admin@westwords.com.au Website: www.westwords.com.au WestWords is supported by the NSW Government through Create NSW. Front cover image by Jefferton James www.jeffertonjamesdesigns.com.au Photo on pp. 23–24 by Brian Patrick Tagalog on Unsplash Graphic design by Sailor Studio www.sailorstudio.com.au
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Peter Maple is an award-winning writer, actor, producer, director working extensively across all mediums of film, TV, radio, stage, online, and the written word. He holds a Bachelor of Performance from Theatre Nepean (Western Sydney University) and a Master of Fine Arts (Writing for Performance) from the National Institute of Dramatic Art. From the writing of original works, to performing as an actor for others, to the dramaturgy; devising; and script editing of existing texts in order to reach optimal final drafts, Peter inhabits all things story. Based in Sydney’s Western Suburbs, Peter has particular expertise in exploring questions of mental health and society. www.petermaple.com
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Forewords
P
eter Maple is an extremist. The situations he describes, the worlds he evokes, the characters he depicts are all situations, worlds and characters driven to the edge and over and falling like souls into a bottomless pit. What Maple wants us to do is to experience the torment and horror his characters are undergoing so that some semblance of community and empathy might bind us together to at least save us from that ultimate horror, the solitude of our own meaningless agony. Like other great artists fascinated and appalled by pain, like Michelangelo and Goya, or Albert Tucker’s spectral, hollow eyed figures, Maple demands that we confront the most grotesque aspects of our existence, unadorned by poetry or dignity, and as brutally stupid as any medieval depiction of empty death reminding of what awaits us all. It was inevitable, therefore, that Maple would set his sights on that most extreme and grotesque folly, the pursuit of war, as he takes another step along this ‘stations of the cross’ he has made his own. Seemingly informed by the German proverb, “A great war leaves the country with three armies —an army of cripples, an army of mourners, and an army of thieves” he gives us BEAST.BELLY.BEAST, a horrifying account of our own fatal fascination with the glories of war as an army of shadowy figures lurch across a dark dreamscape that we wake from with shock to realise is our own benighted land. Stripped of the medical-sounding jargon of acronyms like PTSD or the more visceral ‘Shell Shock’, the trauma of gut-wrenching combat is here depicted with the remorselessness of a disease as we see it rotting and corrupting everything in its way. The figures represented, redeemed here through art, are not heroic figures, are not figures undertaking an uplifting journey to enlightenment and wisdom. They are not men to be praised and honoured, to be emulated or looked up to, but like the German proverb describes, are instead the cripples, mourners and thieves their country turned them into in pursuit of its own rotten goals in a thoroughly rotten world. More like Woyzeck, or perhaps Mother Courage’s simpleton son, Swiss Cheese, Maple’s characters are so thoroughly ordinary, their fates become all the more appalling as we see the idiocy of the wars they participated in reflected in their own idiotic decisions. Here they are, yes, Australians like us, but Australians who have become butchers for their country, inured and immersed in death and consequently feared and shunned in life, monstrous, misshapen figures that haunt the edges of our psyche as we try to understand our own trauma but never will until we realise how deep inside the belly of 7
the beast we are ourselves. These are not fictions created by Maple’s fevered imagination, but the walking dead made in a war that goes on forever, and that not only created these characters but us as well and continues to do so as its sickness spreads across the globe, killing and traumatising millions with millions more awaiting their turn. This is our world. This is the monster consuming us. BEAST.BELLY.BEAST. Darkness isn’t coming. It’s already here. Stephen Sewell
Dr Stephen Sewell has won great popular and critical acclaim as a playwright, screenwriter and novelist, as well as directing for both theatre and film over a career that has spanned 30 years. Stephen is a former Chair of the Australian National Playwrights Centre, is the recipient of numerous awards and his work has been performed in most major Australian theatres as well as in New Zealand, the US, the UK and Europe. In January 2013 he was appointed Senior Lecturer and Course Leader Writing for Performance, National Institute of Dramatic Art (NIDA).
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met Peter when I produced a production of Breaker Morant, one of Australia’s best known military stories about the effect of war on men and what it can drive them to become. It was during this experience that Peter worked with seasoned veterans (including myself) who immediately took to him due to his hard work ethic, humility and his unblemished curiosity as to the journey that a soldier will undertake on military deployments and their struggles when returning home. Over the years following as I struggled with my own symptoms of PostTraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) I would often confide in Peter. These conversations were brutally honest and at times quite cathartic. These conversations allowed me to get more confident in sharing my stories with someone outside of the military family. Peter never shirked asking the hard questions and became as much as a confidant as my friends in the veteran community. When I first saw BEAST.BELLY.BEAST on stage what stood out the most was how Peter encapsulated the fractured and surreal existence that one can experience when severely affected by PTSD. He has directly looked at the bonds that veterans form with each other and isolation that they can encounter having returned from a war zone. He confronts the loss of humanity that we as veterans experience and the scattered existence that can result. Through the use of dark humour, surrealistic god like figures and a structure that underlines the confusing states that can be induced in a PTSD episode. A t a time where we Australian soldiers are serving in warzones around the globe BEAST.BELLY.BEAST is an poignant reminder of the sacrifices that soldiers make, and that sometimes the most debilitating wounds are the ones that can’t be seen. Andrew Douglas George Captain (Retired), Australian Army
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t’s so hard to be human when you’re expected to be either one thing or another — right or wrong, sane or crazy, victim or victor — or as Peter Maple’s traumatised Australian ex-serviceman, Captain Hamish Michael Forbes declares “Giants or ants … one or the other, man. One; or the other!” In BEAST.BELLY.BEAST, Maple not only explores the ‘worlds’ that inhabit and haunt its two soldiers suffering the repercussions of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) but through this play draws us, powerfully and movingly, into their lives as they attempt to negotiate the effects of war as returned service men. Such deep trauma, ironically acquired in efforts to secure the Australian public’s sense of security, peace and freedom, leaves its scars on them, on their mates and on wife, family and friends who must enter and survive a battle zone that these vulnerable men have, unintentionally, brought back with them. The play intentionally disturbs and disorientates its audience in the hope that they might develop a new-found empathy, insight and compassion for these men who have done their duty for the nation. As an audience member of an earlier ‘work in progress’ of this now published play, I was especially struck by the opportunity Maple gives to the two male actors to reveal both the complexities and expectations within the artificial duality of being a ‘soldier’ and a ‘man’, conveying their capacity for both toughness and tenderness. So, I’m delighted to see this play now published and available for more performance opportunities to provide both veterans, who suffer PTSD, and the significant others in their lives, as well as the larger public, to honor the humanity of these returned service personnel, rather than looking for non-existent black and white answers, or a simple enemy to blame. Peter Maple’s BEAST.BELLY.BEAST makes it clear that life is far more complex than that. Mark Seton
Dr Mark Seton is Honorary Research Associate, Department of Theatre and Performance Studies, The University of Sydney and Vice President, Australian Society for Performing Arts Healthcare
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fter watching the in development performance of BEAST.BELLY. BEAST, and as a previously serving member of the Australian Armed Forces, I was impressed by the way this play handles the experiences of ex-serviceman and portrays the often less than positive outcomes for those who have suffered from PTSD and continual deployment fatigue. One thing I am particularly concerned with in representations of military service is the authenticity of the experience and personnel who are portrayed. This play includes a lot of authentic and effective detail, particularly in regards to the types of characters portrayed, their interactions and, most importantly, their dialogue — which used correct and often confronting vernacular. The portrayal of the main characters incorporates a flawed morality and indifference to humanity, which is both a common side effect of military deployment and a trait looked for in those who are welcomed into service. I have personally observed during my years in the military, as both a Sergeant in the First Commando regiment and then a private security for diplomatic personnel in post war zones such as Iraq and Afghanistan, how often lack of empathy is encouraged and rewarded within active service and poorly addressed when returning service people back into the general community. I am also surprised how little this is understood by the public. It was refreshing to see these issues addressed, even in this highly theatrical way. Maple shows a nuanced understanding of not just the inherent problems of this issue, but how, where conflict is never ending and no service person can look forward to the end of hostilities, there is no option but for people to skew their moral compass. Where inhumanity must be normalised in a world where war is the default. The difficulty in re-integrating back into ‘normal’ society is one of the biggest obstacles for returning and active service people, yet is rarely examined or discussed in the greater community. BEAST.BELLY.BEAST takes us into this reality, and is not afraid to examine the real, if horrifying, results of an industrialised military complex, which, at its heart, must desensitise humans from their humanity. This play asks more of us than just to watch … but to ask ourselves how do we, as a society, deal with soldiers engaged in never ending warfare? How do we look after those with PTSD, particularly those in denial or who undiagnosed? And how do we ensure that we are all cared for and listened to in relation to these issues. 11
These are difficult and important questions, which Australia and the world are only just starting to recognise. Plays such as BEAST.BELLY.BEAST give us the mechanism to wrestle with these problems and glimpse the ways in which they affect us all. Neal Jackson Sergeant (retired), First Commando Regiment, Australian Army
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Introduction Peter Maple
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he Development of this project has been the culmination of many personal and professional experiences. From that of an AngloSaxon Australian 80s childhood, littered with military stories and iconography dating back to WW1 to productions in military-themed plays (including performing alongside currently serving soldiers in a production of Breaker Morant); to friends and family in the armed forces. The creative process specific to this play has been an assemblage of extensive research and interviews with servicemen; script workshops and reading with other creatives, collaborators, and mentors; and an in-development oneweek showing in 2018 at the Old 505 Theatre, Newtown, Sydney as part of their Freshworks program. (Directed by Kim Hardwick. Designed by Martin Kinnane. Stage managed by Kianah Marlena and assisted by Morgan Popely and Connor Ward-Kenway with Xavier Coy as H and David Ross as Terry). WestWords and its Executive Director Michael Campbell, has been integral in the development process, providing space for rehearsal, giving dramaturgical insight and for preparing the manuscript for publication. I hope to have come close to some kind of justice in providing an experience that echoes ‘Truth’ (an essence of) and ‘Understanding’ (for those coming to terms the lived experiences and those who have never had previous exposure), whilst being entertaining at the same time. My aim is to create a dialogue around some of the harder mental health ‘reality/s’ of trauma.
BEAST.BELLY.BEAST is intentionally both a provocation and a memorial to those who served.
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Thank you to (without you this play would have never been workshopped or published): Armistice Centenary Grants Program (ACGP) Australian Defence Force National Theatre of Parramatta Soldier On WestWords Casandra Bayley Gareth Boylan Michael Campbell Captain (retired) Andrew Douglas George Sergeant (retired) Neal Jackson Jefferton James Joanne Kee Gabiann Marin Dr. Mark Cariston Seton Dr. Stephen Sewell Lucy Wang Kim Hardwick, Martin Kinnane, David Ross, Xavier Coy, Kianah Marlena Alan Popely, Morgan Popely, Sapper L.C. Smith, Connor Ward-Kenway Shauntelle Benjamin, Jill Brown, Dr. Judith Craig; Carolyn Farrugia, Kerry Gonzales, Mark Hadaway, Spike Hogan, Dr. Stephen Hook, Col. RJ Mallet; Kingsley Reeve, Dr. Elizabeth Seely-Wait, Helen Vnuk Iona, Gus and Mags.
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Author’s notes
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s I wrote the play the military conflict I imagined H and Terry had seen active duty in was Afghanistan in the 1990s. If this can in any way inform the interpretation and production elements, for example the specifics of uniforms and the sound of gunfire, planes etc, by all means utilise this information. However, the aim of the play was for it to be universal and timeless and therefore could be depicted in any modern theatre of battle. This is a story that is concerned with the accumulation of the trauma of war. The PTSD not only affects the participants but is carried by us all. It is confusing, tearing, fractured. This is my intent in the structuring of the text and the images the plays contains. Terry and H, having grown up together, are much like brothers. They are from ‘military families’ and were raised in a culture surrounded by, and looking up to, the mythological ANZAC legend. One might say, they were ‘born for war’. As a boy H looked to the symbols of strength, power and glamour: a coping mechanism — a hope — sought out for in the iconography of The Anzac, rock stars, boxing greats, giants and dragons. In the short-term fantasy worlds he found, he also discovered solutions to the dysfunction of his growing up. Terry’s childhood world/s forged him as a loner; more contained than H he enjoyed the companionship and vicariousness offered by H’s escapes. The H we meet in the play is a ‘military man’ and a lost soul. He suffers ongoing mental health issues, carrying many an internal scar that bleeds into his everyday life and is always ready to explode. His PTSD only exacerbated and amplified what was ‘already there’ for him, almost certainly in his genes and the environment he grew up in. The PTSD has turned up life’s volume. Terry might have had ‘more of a chance’.
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Character Profiles In the writing of the play I developed character profiles to assist in grounding the abstraction of the work in a ‘real world’ reality. These may or may not be useful in coming to interpret this in performance. Captain Hamish Michael Forbes (“H”) Attended the Royal Military College of Australia (Duntroon, ACT) and graduated to the Royal Australian Infantry Corps. He attended the School of Infantry for Regimental Training and then was posted to a regular infantry battalion in the Royal Australian Regiment. After two years as a platoon commander of a rifle platoon, Lieutenant Forbes was put in command of an Operational Mentor Liaison Team part of Mentor Team Charlie in the Mentoring Task Force that supported the Afghan Kandaks in their fight against the Taliban in the Oruzgun province in Afghanistan. He returned to Australia as a combat veteran and was promoted to Captain. Due to issues related to psych Captain Forbes was classed unfit for deployment and he was medically discharged three years after his return home. He is on a disability pension and now works as a sometime ‘sparky’ (electrician) to supplement his pension. Estranged from his wife and child. Corporal Terrence Simmons (“Terry”) Attended recruit training at 1 Recruit Training Battalion at Kapooka. Terry graduated to infantry where he did regimental training at the School of Infantry and was then posted to a regular infantry battalion in the Royal Australian Regiment where he served two years as a rifleman in a rifle platoon and two years as a platoon signaller until he was promoted to Lance Corporal. Terry completed his Officer/NCO Combat Signallers course and was posted to Signals platoon where he was promoted to Corporal. He was attached as a signaller for an Operational Mentor Liaison Team commanded by Captain Hamish Forbes for deployment as part of Mentor Team Charlie Mentoring Task Force in Afghanistan. Upon return to Australia Corporal Simmons transferred to the Army Reserve and began training as a paramedic; but could not persevere.
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Character descriptions H (Hamish Michael Forbes) H is a former Captain in the Australian Army. He is more physically imposing than Terry. H is pronounced Aitch. Terry (Terrence Simmons) Terry is a former Corporal and communications officer in the Australian Army. He is more lithe than H. Voice H’s psychological evaluation therapist who H was required to see on returning from deployment. Now a voice in his head. Noise A giant. A grotesque distortion of H’s mind where he has transformed himself into a creature large enough to be devoid of empathy, to drown out any movement towards the humanitarian. H/Noise looks to Sound to confirm that this is the only way to handle the reality of horror. Sound A giant. A grotesque projection of H’s mind where he has transformed Terry into a creature large enough to be devoid of empathy. Margaret Geraldine Matthews Margaret is of grandmother age. She is a ‘mother’ figure for H. This role could either be onstage or appear as a recording only. Allie
H’s estranged wife. (Referred to only)
Mum
H’s mother. (Recorded voice — “Hello”)
Character based psychological coping mechanisms Both H and Terry use various coping mechanisms that ground them into what we would describe as our established, recognised reality. These include any references to: colours, numbers, day/night, food, water, oxygen, boxing combinations, listing of name and rank, mindfulness. These attempts are sometimes successful, sometimes not, but they do indicate where the characters are both self-aware and have a sense of their own agency. 17
Stage directions The stage directions and scene descriptions are intended to assist in the conveying the internal logic of this fractured world as I envisioned it. In production I recognise that there is a multiplicity of choices that can be taken when dealing with the reality of resources, cast and interpretation. For example, the described costumes may be abandoned/discarded; decisions about whether the character of Margaret is seen or not; many, if not all, props/weapons may be mimed; statues (eg the Anzac) could be projection; titles of scenes can be seen/projected or not. Sound effects are to be included — these are integral signifiers, for audience and characters. Music and/or choice of songs are optional, and subject to obtaining rights etc. In production props can either be real or mimed throughout. It is however conceived that even if props are mimed the gun that gets placed on Terry is real.
Place and setting The play is seen and experienced from H’s perspective. He is an unreliable narrator even to himself. His damaged mind jumps and echoes through loops in time and place creating mindscapes driven by his emotional and psychological need. Each setting has resonance for him and each setting is propelled into being into existence by the previous. In production the title of each scene could be projected onto the screen/playing space like ‘a stamp’. The House: Margaret’s home, a safe place, a womb, where H can start again. A place where his ‘ugly deeds’ are unknown. Back room of Pub: A quiet place of solace, freedom and of clichés of ‘masculinity’. Karaoke: A place to play to a persona, to perform prescripted emotion with no thought or deep engagement. Sleep: Rest for the body, a desired respite for the mind.
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Spot:
No man’s land.
In the field:
War.
In the black:
The void.
The future:
Eternal apocalypse.
Playground: A created childhood and its symbols of simplicity and innocence. Nowhere:
A purgatory.
Sound Projectiles/ bombs falling:
Bits of H falling apart.
Boxing match bell: Re-sets H — his thoughts, his feelings, his decisions. Gunfire:
Invading trauma.
Bombs and explosions: H’s world/mind exploding. Aircraft overhead: A god-like threat. The sound of jets flying low overhead can followed by the screech of bombs being released. Monk chants: Always correlates with the ANZAC image and acts as an aural contradiction to the military iconography. The sound offers an instinctual knowledge that this man-made ‘god’ is false. Ringing phone:
Calling out for help.
Nature References to astronomy embody a sense of faith in an external force that binds the universe. This includes the acceptance of fate and the power of nature that exerts its influence on any and all aspects of humankind. The garden is a physical manifestation of ‘nature’. The act of (at)tending to it symbolises the vibrancy and harmony in the rhythm of life and death.
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Medication Medication is a futile attempt to mimic the power of astronomy as depicted in the play. Taking it is a human attempt to subdue both one’s perception of nature and exert control over nature (or what is).
Music The songs referred to in the script are intended to act as an additional layer of storytelling to the audience, indicative of the characters’ mood and intent. They act variously as underlining the character’s psychological and emotional state as well as a tool to distance from the pain and reality of feeling them too intensely. Although the named songs/artists/recording are the optimum choices all rights must be sought independently of the play’s performance rights and alternate choices can be incorporated to serve the same dramatic function.
Punctuation Capital letters in sentences
=d enotes deliberation of intent for implication of each word capitalised.
- (at start of line)
= r esponse to unarticulated thought or dialogue with imagined character.
- (at end of a line)
= interrupted thought/line.
–
= c larifying/explaining/detailing previous thought/phrase.
… (at start/end of line) = t railing into line, or trailing off. An ‘internal um’.
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Dramaturging the Beast Michael Campbell
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he characters of BEAST.BELLY.BEAST are locked within the emotional and psychological landscape of H’s head. This world does not adhere to what we would recognise as any ‘normal’ reality. This is the world of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. As a playwright Peter set himself a difficult challenge. All plays, and all the characters who inhabit them, work within the principles of a constructed world. It is the task therefore of the playwright to ensure that every moment, every response from every character, resounds in accordance with the fundamental principles he/she has created. In writing a play set within the complex world of PTSD Peter couldn’t rely on the recognisable conventions of linear, plot driven drama or carefully drawn character studies. He couldn’t use the signifiers that might allow an audience to slip into an absurdist dreamscape or the alternate reality of speculative fiction. Rather he had to create a world of multiple realities and seemingly contradictory motivating forces. He had to find and convey the ruthless logic of trauma and allow the action of the play to be propelled by psychological triggers. He had to realise the characters, sounds and images in this world are all projections of the one character and that the action of the play is H in dialogue and conflict with himself. He also had to instil a relentless imperative in H to find resolution. Most of all, the challenge for Peter was to write a piece that would be felt, rather than immediately intellectually understood. He had to find a way that allowed the audience to empathise in a landscape of brutality, ultimately instilling the audience with some understanding of what it might mean to be on the brink of one’s humanity; some idea of what it is to be a soldier; some idea of what it is to be on the way home. I came to this piece towards the end of Peter’s process. He had written his first drafts; it had grown and developed with a director, designer, actors and had been tested on an audience. Peter had conducted further research and interviews, redrafted and redrafted again, and then came to me. I saw my role as the first audience member for this transformed text – albeit not one not sitting in a theatre, but one observing from within the fabric of the play. I forensically examined its moments - moment by moment. I literally sat next to Peter as together we focussed the intent, tuned the words and images so
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that they could resound off each other. We clarified the inner working of the inexorable logic that underpinned this world. I talked a lot about pace and rhythm. I asked a lot of questions. I challenged the play and Peter to be his best. It was an intense process, but so is this play. So is PTSD. Michael Campbell Dramaturg BEAST.BELLY.BEAST
Michael is the Executive Director of WestWords, and Acting Chair of Currency House, the national not-for-profit association which advocates for the value of the performing arts in public life in Australia. Michael has worked across the arts as, among other things, a consultant and strategist, festival director of the Brisbane Writers Festival, editor, writer, director, choreographer and principal dancer. He has written a number of works for performance including the opera Madeline Lee (co-written with composer John Haddock) (Opera Australia; State Opera of South Australia), (she had) immortal longings (Tasmanian Shakespeare Festival) and The Faces of Mercy which toured Sydney and Rome.
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BEAST.BELLY.BEAST In H’s head. A world of black both infinite and a prison without physical constraint. Black plastic covers the ground and walls.
IN THE BLACK Blackout. The sound of a heartbeat (with the rush of blood going through the ventricles) grows in volume. The sound of projectiles/bombs falling through the sky… From up high, they fall, one by one. They land with a thud, without exploding, against the earth. Boxing match bell rings out (Ding. Ding. Ding.) H: H. H. H. H. Hamish. Michael. Forbes. Captain. 38Boxing match bell rings out. H:
H. H. H. H. Hamish. Michael. Forbes. Captain. 386 923 512-
Boxing match bell rings out. Lights up. H shadow boxes, repeating: H:
Left Lead. Right Cross. 25
Sweeping Left. Hook to Head. Right Rip to Liver-
Boxing match bell rings out. H: H. Hamish. Michael. Forbes. Captain. 3Boxing match bell rings out.
Left Lead. Right Cross. Sweeping Left-
Boxing match bell rings out. H: Hamish. Michael. Forbes. Captain. 386 923 512. Hamish. Michael. Forbes. Captain. 386 923 512... H… H stands, panting, sweating… VOICE: …do you feel on edge? …are your senses more acute? …do you find yourself mentally reliving events, people, places? Are you reliving anything now that you’ve seen or done before? …any Numbness, Disassociation? Sleep – or lack there of ? How’s your interactions with subordinates, superiors, peers and friends? Any misapprehensions…?
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The sound of projectiles/bombs falling through the sky… From up high, they fall, one by one. H reacts confused, startled. The bombs land with a thud one by one, without exploding, against the earth. A spot shines light onto the floor to mark where the bomb has landed, revealing pieces of heavy scale armour. After each thud the boxing match bell rings out. H looks to each bomb as it lands. Like a ‘good soldier’, he goes about collecting the heavy scale armour. One by one he drags and pull them, like dead heavy bodies, scraping against the ground, to single collection point, US left. The bombs cease falling. Boxing match bell rings out. H: Hamish. Michael. Forbes. Captain. 386 923 512. H. H. H. H. Hamish. Michael. Forbes. Captain. 386 923 512. H. H. H. H. Captain! Blackout. Boxing match bell rings out. Music: Tibetan Monks chanting builds and surges. The shadow of the ‘Anzac Legend’ (the Aussie digger in slouch hat with rifle) fades up in concert with the chant of the Tibetan monks. H is watching/marvelling/ fearing the growing shadow. H takes a step back. Boxing match bell rings out.
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THE HOUSE Margaret’s home. She is a grandmother in age but a ‘mother figure’ for H. She, and her home, are his only real outlet/escape from himself, his life, his ‘deeds’ and his thoughts. Here, he feels a level of warmth, and acceptance, not felt anywhere else. H is in a tradie’s uniform finishing arranging some flowers on a quant, little coffee table. His demeanour is soft, gentle – a little boy even. He is talking to Margaret (who is imaginary for the audience). H: -Next time call me sooner. -No. As soon as something happens. As soon as something’s wrong. -Hell – call me before it goes wrong, okay? – I’ll be here. I’ll be around in a Heartbeat. -No. -No. (Joking) -Ha. I could strangle you sometimes… -There! (Throwing his arms up, finished arranging the flowers) Turning to her: -Ah, no – it’s nothing. Nothing. I love it. My pleasure. (Smiling). ‘…Friendly local, CHEAP, sparky AND: gardener, flower-arranger extraordinaire’ – Ha! (Thinking) Yeah… Oh – my hands are all dirty – Better clean ‘em before I get to what you called me for – yer light fittings… -‘ey…? -No – The soil – IT’S THE SOIL. (He sniffs it) Smells good. – SMELLS GOOD, MARGARET. Wanna whiff? (Showing her his hands). Ha. No… (He places a hand over his mouth and nose – akin to a gas mask) Smells good. 28
(He breathes it in, slow in, out) Smells ‘good’… Smells like, Life… (He shakes it off: the dirt off his hands – the thought out of his mind). (He looks about the room.) Beautiful Old Place – Beautiful old face! Ha. (Coffee mug now in hand – he drinks) Ta. (Looks out the window) Yeah – beautiful old place – garden and all – but (Looks back inside) some of these fittings – we do really need to update them – that one in particular – he’s screaming ‘danger’. Tantamount to a fire hazard, really. Drinks. -I’ll do it. Drinks. -I’ll do it. (Goes to drink) - I’ll sort you out, okay? Don’t worry. I’ll cover it. …look after you. -Ha. Who else knows just how to make my coffee, just right. Oh! – and before I forget (He produces a little packet of seeds from his breast pocket), I picked up these ones this time – to try… (Reading pack) Er, “Nigella”! (Smiles). “Nigella – also known as ‘love-in-a-mist’”. (Beat. Looking at Margaret) Ooooohhhhh…. HaHa…! -Ha. Just Jokes. (Back to reading) Er, “Simply scatter seeds across patch of soil” – patch of soil we got. Check. “Nigella is tougher than it’s delicate looks seem” – ain’t we all, Margaret. 29
“It’ll happily self-seed throughout the following year.” Er, “Loves full sun and watering in dry conditions” – loves a good time; and a bit of a tipple, Margs. Um, “TOP TIP! Sow two or three times between spring and summer to maximise the amount of flowers you get”… Well; there you go. (Putting packet down to be left for her) Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us! -No. Happy to. Happy to. More visits; more coffee. And Nigella sounds like a nice little addition to your garden there, M (Almost brought to tears – holds it off – fights it) -oh – too right – our garden, Margaret… (Beat) Right! (With a loud clap of his hands) No more dilly-dallying… This Fisherman better ply his trade… (Beat) (Again, looking about) Yeah. Beautiful Old Place… (He breathes it in… Drinks.)
Right – (as he makes his way) “Let there be Light!”
(Another loud clap of his hands). Blackout. VOICE:
30
…do you feel on edge?
BACK ROOM OF PUB Pokies bleep in background. Muffled music from pub speakers. H is at a cylindrical table, two chairs, worn beer coasters, and schooner glasses with a half-drunk jug. Terry stands, darts in hands, focused in other direction. H: Bitch. (Beat) TERRY:
I know.
H:
Bitch, man.
TERRY:
Yeah. I know. I agree.
(Beat) H:
Fucking Bitch!
TERRY: Hey. I agree, ok. C’mon. Let’s not pretend we didn’t already know she was. Maybe one of the biggest. And let’s not pretend that she hasn’t been trying to fuck you over, and ruin your life, and everything you are, for the past 3 years… (Beat) Okay? (Beat) H: Yeah. (He drinks) Yeah… Terry shoots a dart. H: Bulls eye. Boxing match bell rings out.
31
TERRY: Always on target, my friend. H: (Drinks) Stellar fucking effort my friend. Out-fucking-standing. (Drinks) Terry throws another dart. H: Fuck! – now I feel even worse for having called her a bitch. Fuck. H hits himself on the head. Boxing match bell rings out. Terry turns round to look at him. TERRY: Hey, mate… Your wife. Your Kid. H: Not anymore… TERRY: Allie. She’s taking that away from you. You have every right to be hurt; feel unheard – angry – betrayed. (Beat) Copy that? H: ...yeah… TERRY: Fight for it, brother. (H looks up at Terry) Fight for it. For what’s yours; for what you believe in. Yeah? H: …yeah. TERRY:
Yeah – Feel that fire!
H:
(Rising) Yeah!
TERRY: Cause remember mate – “Mars ain’t the kind of place to raise your kids” -
32
H: YEAH! Er… What? Yeah.
KARAOKE Music: Rocket Man: Elton John H, with microphone, plays both the keyboard and the persona of pop star icon with all the confidence and freedom of his childhood fantasies. The lyrics project on the wall behind and all over the body of H. Blackout. Music stops. The sound of jets flying low overhead followed by the screech of bombs being released and exploding when they hit the ground. It is loud, unbearable. The stage rattles. H’s trauma crashes in. Silence. The sound of bombs/projectiles falling through the sky… From up high, they fall, one by one. They land with a thud, without exploding, against the earth. Boxing match bell rings out. Lights up. H: Hamish. Michael. Forbes. Captain. 386 923 512. H. H. H. H. Hamish. Michael. Forbes. Captain. 386 923 512. H. H. H. H. Captain! VOICE:
Any misapprehensions…?
33
NOWHERE H and Terry carry a body wrapped in plastic. At the head end is H. They struggle to carry the awkwardly-wrapped and awkwardly-responding dead body. H: Ter. TERRY:
Shut up.
H: Ter. TERRY:
Shut up.
(Beat) H:
Ter – I’m sorry.
TERRY:
Shut. Up.
H: I’m sorry, Ter. I’m… What else…?... I’m sorry. TERRY:
Shut the fuck up, H. Just shut the fuck up.
H: Hey. TERRY:
Shut. The fuck. UP.
H:
Hey-
TERRY:
Shut the fuck up!
Boxing match bell rings out. H: (He stops moving/pulling backwards) Hey! – I said, “HEY”! (Beat) TERRY:
What?
H: What?
34
TERRY: Yeah. What? What?, you fuck up. WHAT?, you Colossal Fucking Fuck Up. H: Hey… TERRY:
(Shaking his head) No.
H:
Ease up.
TERRY: No. H: Oi. TERRY:
Get fucked.
H:
Oi
TERRY: What?! H:
OI!
TERRY:
Fuck off.
H:
Fuck you.
TERRY: Fuck you. H: Fuck me? TERRY: Yeah. Fuck you. You useless, Pig Headed Bastard. Fuck. You. Boxing match bell rings out. TERRY: And fuck everything you’ve ever done, or said, or thought, or felt, or heard, or spoke, orH: Alright! Fuck. I get it. I’m sorry. Enough. I get it, okay? – Enough. (On the verge of tears) (Beat) TERRY:
H. Words are just35
BOTH:
‘Decorations’ …
(Beat) TERRY:
Now – Keep moving. Go on. Move. Go. Move! Go! Move, you stupid bloody ape.
H: Hey… TERRY: Forward. Forward. Forward March, you dumb cunt. FORWARD! H:
Oi – Hey – Enough. Okay?
TERRY:
(Pushing against, with the body) Move. Move, you dumb bastard. Move-
H: RIGHT! (Beat) TERRY: Yes…? (Beat) H: Nothing. (Beat) Nothing. They continue moving the body. VOICE: (Gently) Are you reliving anything now that you’ve seen or done before? Blackout.
36
PLAYGROUND Night. The sound of a jet flying low overhead in the distance. Terry and H sit on the kids’ playground swings, side by side. They are not swinging. However, the sound of creaking chains is softly heard like a distant memory. Moonlight. They have beers (cans) with them, and they drink. Every now and then the distant sound of a Humvee rolling by. H:
(Looking up) Beautiful…
Terry looks up. H:
Sooo… beautiful…
Terry just stares. H:
The first quarter…
(Beat) Silence. H produces a 9 millimetre Mark 3 pistol. Terry looks over. H points the pistol over at the moon. Squinting an eye as he aims. (Beat) H:
On your marks (Beat) Get set (Beat)
H fires his pistol at the moon. Terry shudders. Blackout. Radio static.
37
IN THE FIELD Terry is on bended knee on the ground. Soldier’s helmet on – Radio comm’s equipment. TERRY:
Say Again. Over.
(Beat)
Say Again. Words twice.
Bad quality transmission heard on other end – radio static. TERRY:
Copy 1 out of 5. Broken and Unreadable.
(Beat) TERRY:
Say Again.
(Beat) Radio static TERRY:
Broken and Unreadable. Copy one out of 5.
(Beat)
Say Again. Say Again. Over. Say. Again.
Blackout. Boxing match bell rings out.
THE HOUSE H in tradie’s uniform sitting at a quaint little coffee table holding a coffee mug. H: -You do. -But you do. -You spoil me. 38
He drinks.
-Yes. I do. -Ha. I do. I love it.
Drinks. H:
I love you AND your bloody coffee!
(Beat)
Oh. Sorry. Pardon me. Sorry.
He stands. H:
I forgot myself. -Ummm… I better-
He sits back down. H: You sure…?... (Embarrassed) I’m…sorry. -No. I am. Poor form. (Goes to stand) I should- (Stops). Oh. Okay. Yes. Yes. Yes. -Yes. Of course (Raises mug into the air) “Another”! Blackout. The bombs land with a thud one by one, without exploding, against the earth. A spot shines light onto the floor to mark where the bomb has landed, revealing pieces of heavy scale armour. 39
After each thud the boxing match bell rings out. H looks to each bomb as it lands. Like a ‘good soldier’, he once again goes about collecting the heavy scale armour. One by one he drags and pull them, like dead heavy bodies, scraping against the ground, to single collection point, US left. The bombs cease falling. Boxing match bell rings out. Repeats the following as he is shifting the armour: H: H. H. H. H. Hamish. Michael. Forbes. Captain. 386 923 512. Hamish. Michael. Forbes. Captain. 386 923 512. 386 923 512... 386 923 512…. H. H. H… H… Boxing match bell rings out. Blackout. Sounds of table, chairs being smashed against the ground. Silence. VOICE: (Gently) Are you reliving anything now that you’ve seen or done before?
BACK ROOM OF PUB Both standing – Terry with his darts, looking from his distance. H standing over the broken set of table and chairs, lying busted on the floor. (Beat) TERRY: (Referring to the broken tables and chairs) Don’t think they deserved it… H: No. Probably not. 40
TERRY: Innocent victims. H: Yep. (Beat) TERRY:
(Looks at H) Re-direct, mate. Re-direct. Wrong Target.
Blackout. H: Yeah…
SLEEP H lies in his military issue cot. He can’t sleep properly, shifting from side to side until, he sits bolt upright. Slowly and consciously he breathes in and out, in an attempt to calm himself. H: (Breathing In) “Breathing In: I know that I am breathing in…” (Breathing Out) “Breathing Out: I know that I am breathing out…”
(He pops a pill)
“Breathing In: I am mindful that I have eyes that are still in good condition.”
(He touches his eyes)
“Breathing Out: I smile to my good eyes – that are still in good working condition…”
(He forces a smile)
“Breathing In: I am mindful that my heart is working… (He puts his hand to his heart to feel), day and night, for me…”
(He takes another pill) 41
(Beat)
“Breathing Out: I smile to my Heart.”
(He can’t smile)
(Beat)
(He takes another pill)
“Breathing In!: I recognise the anger inside me.”
(Beat)
(He takes another pill)
“Breathing Out: I love and care for the anger inside me…” (Beat)
(He takes another pill)
“Breathing In” – no. “Breathing Out” – no.
“Breathing In!: I recognise the sadness inside me…” “Breathing Out: I love and care for the sadness inside me…” Burst of military gunfire. H sits motionless. Burst of military gunfire. Boxing match bell rings out. Blackout. Burst of military gunfire with accompanying muzzle flare.
IN THE FIELD Lights up on H. He is in the middle of battle. He is in full army uniform, firing bursts of gunfire from his M4 carbine assault rifle. Blackout. Silence. 42
VOICE:
…are your senses more acute?
SPOT No man’s land. Numb, Terry and H standing motionless in two separate downlights. They use the simple recital of colours and numbers to pull them from their inertia. TERRY: Red. H: Green. TERRY: Green. H: Red. TERRY: 9. TERRY: 10. H: 11. TERRY: 11. BOTH:
(Saluting) 11.
VOICE:
…any Numbness, Disassociation?
H’s spot fades out. (Beat) Radio distortion. TERRY: (Drops to bended knee) (He looks up) Say Again. Say Again. Broken and Unreadable. Say Again. Words Twice. Copy 1 out of 5. Say. Again. Over. SAY. AGAIN! 43
IN THE FIELD/PLAYGROUND Burst of gunfire. H is in the middle of battle. He is in full army uniform, he continues to fire bursts of gunfire from his M4 carbine assault rifle. Daytime. Terry is alone on the swings. Not swinging but the sound of creaking chains is softly heard like a distant memory. TERRY: (Despondent. Quiet) Push me. (Burst of gunfire) Push me. (Burst of gunfire) Higher. Higher. Higher! Push me. (Burst of gunfire) Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Higher. Push me. (Burst of gunfire) Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee… Blackout. Burst of military gunfire with accompanying muzzle flare. TERRY: PUSH ME. HIGHER! Three bursts of military gunfire with accompanying muzzle flares. Boxing match bell rings out. VOICE: How’s your interactions with subordinates, superiors, peers and friends?
44
Long burst of military gunfire with accompanying muzzle flare. The gun runs out of ammunition. The sound of the empty trigger pulls. H. Shit. FUCK!
BACK ROOM OF PUB H sits at the table. Terry is standing with his darts. They are planning a robbery. H is focussed on the notes he has written. H: It can be done. TERRY:
(Throws a dart) Ah-huh.
H:
No. It can-
TERRY: Uh-huhH:
We can do this. (Softly) Negative Nelly.
TERRY:
(Stops momentarily to laugh) Negative Nelly?...
H:
(Looks up and smiles) Yeah! Negative Nelly.
(Beat) TERRY:
Alright. Continue.
IN THE FIELD/SPOT No man’s land. Numb, Terry stands motionless in a downlight. He uses the simple recital of night and day to pull him from his inertia. Burst of gunfire. H is in the middle of battle. He is in full army uniform, he continues to fire bursts of gunfire from his M4 carbine assault rifle.
45
TERRY: White. Light. (Beat) Day. Morning. Night. (Burst of gunfire) Morning. Day. Night. (Burst of gunfire) Night. (Burst of gunfire) Day. (Burst of gunfire) Night. (Burst of gunfire) Night!
SLEEP H: NIIIIGHT!!! Music: Feelin’ Alright: Joe Cocker H lies in his military issue cot. He can’t sleep properly, shifting violently from side to side. The lyrics project on the wall behind and all over the body of H. Blackout. Music stops.
BACK ROOM OF PUB H sits at the table. Terry is standing with his darts, listening and waiting. H is focussed on the notes, talking to himself, struggling to regain his composure. H: 46
It’s easy. I know the place like the back of my hand. Been there a million times.
She’s loaded. She’s lonely. She’s old. She has no visitors. (To Terry) No company. Ever. Just me. Just me. (He looks at Terry) (He looks back at the plans) In. And out. 5 mins on the ground. Blackout. Military Gunfire. Lights up.
In and Out. Enough for me to cover child support. Enough for you to… (Looks at Terry) do…whatever – you do…
Boxing match bell rings out. Blackout. The bombs land with a thud one by one, without exploding, against the earth. A spot shines light onto the floor to mark where the bomb has landed, revealing pieces of heavy scale armour. After each thud the boxing match bell rings out. H looks to each bomb as it lands. Like a ‘good soldier’, he once again goes about collecting the heavy scale armour. One by one he drags and pulls them, like dead heavy bodies, scraping against the ground, to single collection point, US left. Voice:
…are your senses more acute?
THE HOUSE/PLAYGROUND Daytime. H is in Margaret’s house. Terry is sitting on one of the swings. 47
H: Terry. Terry?! Upstairs. Upstairs, mate – you’ve got upstairs. (Terry stands up)
Come on, mate. I’ve got downstairs. You’ve got the top half, yeah…?
Blackout.
PLAYGROUND/SPOT Middle of the night. A full moon rises and hangs above the standing Terry. H is in No man’s land. Numb, he stands motionless in a downlight. He uses the simple recital of the nature of the moon to pull him from his inertia. TERRY:
180 degrees away from the Sun.
H:
Full Moon.
TERRY:
Full Moon.
H:
All things aligned. The Sun!, Earth, Moon.
(Beat) TERRY: But not exactly… Boxing match bell rings out. Blackout. The bombs land with a thud one by one, without exploding, against the earth. A spot shines light onto the floor to mark where the bomb has landed, revealing pieces of heavy scale armour. After each thud the boxing match bell rings out.
48
H looks to each bomb as it lands. Like a ‘good soldier’, he once again goes about collecting the heavy scale armour. One by one he drags and pulls them, like dead heavy bodies, scraping against the ground, to single collection point, US left. Blackout. The sound of jets flying low overhead followed by the screech of bombs being released and exploding when they hit the ground. It is loud, unbearable. The stage rattles. H’s trauma crashes in. Burst of military gunfire with accompanying muzzle flare. H drops to the floor. Music: Just the way you are: Billy Joel With the start of the lyrics, takes pill from his pocket and swallows it. He then slowly collects a microphone, raises it to his mouth and starts mime singing. He slowly stands. Downlight fades up on a body bag. Boxing match bell rings out. Silence. Blackout.
NOWHERE H and Terry continue to carry a body wrapped in plastic. At the head end is H. They struggle to carry the awkwardly-wrapped and awkwardly-responding dead body. H:
(Head down. Soft, regretful) (To Margaret/Body bag) I’m sorry…
TERRY:
H! Enough. I know.
H:
No. Not you. Her. (Looking at the body) (H stops moving) (To Margaret/Body bag) I’m sorry.
(Beat) 49
TERRY:
(Pushing on) Yeah; you’d wanna be… (H shakes his head, hurt.)
TERRY:
…you lugging, lumping, fucking, Ape…
(Beat) Terry stops. TERRY: Here. H:
(Pulling forward) No.
TERRY:
(Stopping) Here.
H:
No. Not here.
They keep moving. H: She… They continue to carry the body. H stops, sniffing the air. H: (Looking around) Here. (H sniffs again, then takes a deep breathe in) Yeah. Here. This smells… Right… Here’s where. Perfect. (Beat) H:
(Slowly looking up the length of the tree) Nice, old, Strong, Beautiful Tree Here. To look over her. Watch over her.
TERRY: (Placing his end of the body gently to the ground) That’s great, mate. Very thoughtful of you. Nice to know you’re looking after her. Looking out for her. (H starts to lay his end of the body down) Kill them. And then care for them. 50
H:
(Dropping the body in frustration) Jesus. Will you…?I didn’t mean it-
TERRY:
You didn’t mean it-
H:
I didn’t mean to kill herIt was an accidentYou know that-
TERRY:
Big fucking Accident, though, wasn’t it. H.
H:
I know. I know. Jesus. I know. (To the body bag) I’m sorry. So sorry.
He sits alongside the body, pulls her in close to him. TERRY:
Too late now, mate.
H:
(Hugging her/the body bag) Terry. Shut up. Please.
(Beat) H:
(To her/the body bag, stroking the head) I’m sorry. Truly. I’m sorry. I didn’t… It doesn’t…
TERRY:
(Looking about. Bit breathless) You’re right – Nice fucking tree.
H:
(Still holding the her/the body bag) Yep. Told ya. (Beat) She’d like it here, The Old Bird. 51
Reckon it’s the type of place that’d put a smile on her beautiful old wrinkled face… (Stroking her face/the body bag) You can smell it – it’s in the air here… Life… Terry watches annoyed. H looks up at the tree. H: (Shifting the body to ‘look’ also…) What d’you reckon, ey? From the jolt from shifting the body, a separately-wrapped decapitated head, separately wrapped in black plastic, falls from the body bag. H:
…oh, shit…
TERRY: Oh, shit, H. Do I even wanna know how that happened…? H:
(Grabbing the head) I’m sorry. That’s fucked. Oh, shit. That’s no good. (He caresses the head) That’s no good, Margaret. No good. My bad. Sorry.
TERRY:
Fucken Hell, H. How many ways-
Burst of military gunfire.
How many ways to Fuck Up?-
Burst of military gunfire. H:
Copy that.
Three bursts of military gunfire. Blackout.
52
Copy that.
Boxing match bell rings out. A single bomb screeches through the sky, on hitting the ground it explodes.
PLAYGROUND Night. H and Terry are sitting on the swings staring up at the moon. Chains creak distantly. H:
Last Quarter. (Beat) Sun’s Light – shining on the Other Half… (Beat)
H cocks his pistol and puts it up to his own temple. Terry lunges for him. Blackout. Boxing match bell rings out. Silence.
IN THE BLACK Radio static. Coming through the radio, Terry’s voice breaks through: “Say Again. Say Again. Over. Broken and Unreadable… Say Again… Say. Again. Over.” This is repeated. The sound of jets flying low overhead, followed by the screech of bombs being released and exploding when they hit the ground drowns out the radio. It is loud, unbearable. The stage rattles. H’s trauma crashes in.
53
NOWHERE The body is ‘better-wrapped’. H and Terry both stand over it. H with some found, yanked, shitty flowers in hand. TERRY: Shovel. (Beat)
(H leans down and places the flowers on the body.)
TERRY: Shovel. (H places a palm gently on the body.) TERRY:
Shovel, H. Shovel.
H: (On bended-knee, in tears) Huh…? (Beat) TERRY: Where’s the shovel, mate. I’ll start the fucking dig. You say your goodbyes… H: Okay. (Beat) TERRY: So. The shovel. H: (Distracted) What, Terry? What is it? TERRY: (Gently) The shovel, mate. Pass me the shovel. H: (Eyes on the body.) The shovel’s in the car. TERRY: What? H: The car, mate. The shovel is in the car. 54
TERRY: What’s the shovel doing in the car, H? H: (Looking up) What?! TERRY: Why’s the fucking shovel in the fucking car? H: Fuck you, Terry. TERRY: Fuck you, H! (Beat) TERRY: Watch the bloody body... Stay here and watch the bloody body. I’ll get the shovel. (Leaving) You mind the fucking Corpse. Boxing match bell rings out. Over the following dialogue the sound of jets flying low overhead, followed by the screech of bombs being released and exploding when they hit the ground. TERRY: (Offstage) Fuck you, H. H: Yeah. Fuck me. No - FUCK YOU, TERRY! TERRY:
Fuck you, H!
Silence. Boxing match bell rings out. VOICE: …do you feel on edge? Blackout. The sound of bombs falling through the sky… From up high, they fall, one by one. They land with a thud, without exploding, against the earth. Boxing match bell rings out.
55
IN THE BLACK Lights up. H holds tight the body upright in his arms. VOICE: ‌are your senses more acute? H doesn’t know which way to go, so steps in uncertain, jagged, aborted steps. They increase in speed. H: H. H. H. Hamish. Michael. Forbes. Captain. 386 923 512. Boxing match bell rings out. H: H. H. H. Hamish. Michael. Forbes. Captain. 386 923 512. Left Lead. Right Cross. Sweeping Left. Burst of military gunfire. H: H. H. H. Hamish. Michael. 386. Forbes 923 512. Captain. Boxing match bell rings out. H: H. H. H. Hamish. Michael. Hamish. Left Lead. Captain. 386. Left Lead. 56
923. Right Cross. 512. Sweeping Left. Hamish. Captain. HAMISH! Burst of military gunfire. Blackout. Silence. Boxing match bell rings out - slowly.
NOWHERE Sound of jet flying overhead. Terry returns, shovel in hand. H is on the ground, limp, exhausted, covered in dirt and blood. Dirt also scattered over the wrapped body. TERRY: Jesus, H… You… What did you...? You ate her…? (Beat) H:
Her head. I only ate her head.
TERRY:
Why...? Why’d you eat her head...?
H:
Cause. Her eyes… They kept looking back at me… Those windows… I kept… falling through them…
(Beat)
57
I… I couldn’t bury her… I tried. I tried digging a grave. With my hands. But I… I couldn’t do it… TERRY: (Looking around at the mess) No – I don’t imagine you could… H:
No. It’s all just so… pointless…
Boxing match bell rings out.
SPOT No man’s land. Terry is standing motionless in a downlight. H and the body remain on the floor. TERRY: Oxygen. Food. Water. (Beat) Oxygen. Food. Water. (Beat) Oxygen. Food. Water.
58
KARAOKE/SPOT Music: My Way: Frank Sinatra H sits bloodied and dirty on bar stool facing the audience, mic in hand. Every time there’s start of lyrics he goes to sing, but he can’t/doesn’t. The lyrics project on the wall behind and all over the body of H. The shadow of the ‘Anzac Legend’ (the Aussie digger in slouch hat with rifle) fades up in concert with the chant of the Tibetan monks which slowly drown out My Way. Terry turns to H. He silently yells the following text to H. H. doesn’t respond to him. TERRY: I’ll give you some facts – some Truths, H: We all piss, and shit, and eat, and drink, and Bleed. Silence. The ‘Anzac Legend’ disappears. (Calmly, looking through H) I’ll give you some facts – some Truths, H: We all piss, and shit, and eat, and drink, and Bleed. We all breathe. And pump blood; And have hearts that Beat -That’s what makes us. Makes us, us. Humans. Human Beings. The Rest. The rest of it… That’s all just window dressing mate… Boxing match bell rings out.
59
NOWHERE The head is back ‘in place’ in the body bag. H digs with his hands, repeating, getting faster and faster. H:
H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H. H.
Blackout. The sound of jets flying low overhead followed by the screech of bombs being released and exploding when they hit the ground. It is loud, unbearable. The stage rattles. H’s trauma crashes in. Silence. VOICE: Are you reliving anything you that you’ve seen or done before?
NOWHERE Night. H and Terry are lying down next to each other looking up at the sky and the blood red moon. Red light washes over them incrementally. TERRY: Sun, Earth, Moon – Perfectly Aligned. Perfectly.
60
H:
(In tears) Total Eclipse.
(Beat) TERRY:
Nothing less than Perfection…
H:
(Wiping tears away) Ha. Simple. Celestial. Mechanics.
(Beat) Blackout.
IN THE BLACK Radio static. Coming through the radio, Terry’s, then Margaret’s (recorded) voice breaks through: TERRY:
Copy That. Loud and Clear.
Radio static. TERRY:
Copy That. Loud and Clear.
MARGARET: Son… H: (Live) Son? TERRY: (Live) Huh? H:
She called me “Son”.
TERRY: Who? MARGARET: (Recorded) You don’t have to do this, Son… H/ MARGARET: What are you doing, Son? 61
H: “You don’t have to do this, Son.” She said… When she caught me – in the act – recognised me, immediately – upstairs. Looked me soft, right in the eyes – didn’t judge me – loved me… Looked at me with pity, with love, with Understanding. She didn’t hate me. She didn’t hate me… Boxing match bell rings out. Radio static. (Beat) Radio static. (Beat) Radio static. The blood red moon glows strongly. TERRY:
(Recorded, over radio distortion) I know, H. I know. I understand. Some things you have to destroy I know. I understand. I do.
(Beat) Blackout. Radio Static, very loud – at an almost unbearable level. The following monologue is delivered over the noise. H: 62
It’s a world full of Giants and Ants, Ter. GIANTS and Ants. Do you hear me, Ter?! GIANTS, and ANTS… Beasts and Babies.
Predators and Prey. Guilty and Innocent. And if you’re not one, then you’re the other. One or the other, Ter. One or the fucking other!
The sound of jets flying low overhead followed by the screech of bombs being released and exploding when they hit the ground. It is loud, unbearable. The stage rattles. H’s trauma crashes in. Silence. VOICE: How’s your interactions with subordinates, superiors, peers and friends? H: One or the other, Ter. One or the other! If you’re not one of the Giants – then you’re an Ant. An Ant, Ter Just a fucking Ant. Blackout. VOICE:
…any numbness, disassociation?
THE FUTURE Night. The sound of jets flying low overhead followed by the screech of bombs being released and exploding when they hit the ground. It is loud, unbearable. The stage rattles. Boxing match bell rings out. The overlapping cacophony continues throughout the scene. Body bags, laid out in meticulous lines litter the stage in rows, like a graveyard. H and Terry transform into Noise and Sound respectively - two huge stomping, mad-eyed, slightly rabid, desperate, burnt-skin ‘beasts’. Their voices are guttural.
63
Sound, not looking where he’s going inadvertently kicks and shifts one of the body bags out of line. NOISE: Hey. (Beat) Out of line. All out of line. SOUND: Er? (He pulls the body bag back into line as best he can) There. Perfect… Perfect. NOISE:
Not perfect. Not Perfect - at all.
Noise gives Sound an inadvertent push out of the way in order to get to the body bag. (Beat) Noise pulls the body bag into line, to his specific liking. NOISE:
NOW – Perfect. Now – right. See? SEE?
SOUND:
(Stares at the body bags)
NOISE: Sit. They sit opposite each other using the body bags as benches NOISE:
(Uncomfortable, he shifts on his seat) Fodder.
SOUND: Hmmm… NOISE: Men. SOUND: HMMM… NOISE:
Fodder. Beneath. Below.
SOUND: Mmmm… NOISE:
64
Run out. Running out.
SOUND: Mmmm… NOISE: No More… Need… more… Get More – Where? (Beat) NOISE: Can’t. But. Can’t… SOUND:
Mmmm. Yeah.
(Beat) NOISE: War. SOUND: Mmmm. NOISE:
All at war.
SOUND: Mmmm. NOISE: Ground. SOUND: Mmmm. NOISE:
All in fucking ground.
SOUND: Yeah. (Beat) SOUND: Game? NOISE:
Hmmm… Yes.
SOUND:
Hats in the Ring?
NOISE:
Hmmm. Yes. Hats in the Ring.
SOUND: (Sound shakes the cup. Two rocks rattle inside like die.) Game. He spills the stones out onto the ground. Boxing match bell rings out.
65
NOISE:
Ha – You lose.
SOUND:
I WIN.
NOISE: LOSE. Lose. You Lose! Boxing match bell rings out. SOUND:
First Round. First Round.
(Sound collects rocks into cup – gives to Noise) Go. NOISE:
(Shaking cup) Prepare to die.
Noise spills the stones out onto the ground. Boxing match bell rings out. NOISE:
Yes! Yes! Yes!
Boxing match bell rings out. SOUND:
You don’t know how to play – properly.
(Beat) Noise, angry, collects the rocks in his hands – and eats them – almost choking on them. Boxing match bell rings out. SOUND:
Right. Well. That’s that, then… (He stands)
NOISE:
(Strained/hoarse) I win… (Rising)
SOUND:
Yeah. You win. You always win.
Boxing match bell rings out. The sound of a low-flying jet. Sound looks up and stands. NOISE: Bomb-de-Bomb-de-Bomb… Sky Rats. All up there. 66
SOUND: (Looking at Noise) Yeah – Bomb-de-Bomb-de-Bomb. Huge explosion. Smoke. NOISE:
(Sniffs) Nature. (Sniffs) On fire.
SOUND: Mmmm... NOISE: Burning – flesh – alight. In. Air. All up there. (Holding his pained head) (Beat) SOUND:
Morning soon.
(Beat) SOUND: Work. NOISE: Work? SOUND:
Work – now. Business.
NOISE: Business? SOUND:
Business now.
Sound exits. In response Noise moves centre stage and waits. He looks up, scared. VOICE: Any misapprehensions? About returning home…? (Beat) NOISE:
Business.
From offstage Sound throws a black plastic wrapped bundle, the approximate size of an oval shaped basketball to Noise. Noise catches it, sniffs it. Noise throws the Bundle offstage, as though passing it ‘down the line’. We hear the object land and hit the ground. This pattern continues for some time. Then instead of throwing the next bundle on, Noise sniffs the bundle he has in his hands again. (Beat) 67
Noise sniffs again. Bundles continue to be thrown by Sound unaware Noise has stopped catching them. The bundles start piling up at Noise’s feet. Noise sniffs the Bundle in his hands again. A sound emanates from it. (Beat) He sniffs again. Another sound, and then movement from within it. Noise holds the Bundle outstretched in his hands, unsure. He pulls it back in close to him again, and sniffs. It moves. Noise reacts sharply. (Beat) The bundle ‘cries’ – a baby’s cry. Noise is confused. Sound continues to throw bundles to Noise from offstage. They continue to pile up around Noise. Noise cradles the baby. It cries. Sound continues to throw bundles to Noise from offstage. They continue to pile up around Noise. Lighting intensifies, reddens. Radio static. Noise snaps, and snaps the baby’s neck. The crying stops. Noise throws the baby offstage on ‘down the line’. He hurriedly collects and throws the remaining Bundles on the floor, finishing ‘the job’. Sound re-enters. Radio static stops. They look at each other. The sound of a low-flying jet, louder than before. Noise cowers. Sound remains impassive. Boxing match bell rings out. Silence. Noise and Sound stare at one another. 68
(Beat) Staring at each other Noise and Sound transform back to H and Terry. TERRY:
(Recorded) It’s okay. I know. I understand. Some things you have to destroy. I know. I understand.
(Beat) Radio static. The volume rises to a deafening level. (Beat) H and Terry run at each other. Fighting, struggling, H forces Terry to the ground. H puts his hands round Terry’s throat. His mind fractures. The moon rises, becoming tainted with blood. H: (Whilst strangling Terry) Shift. Shift the Ground. Yum. Yum It Down. Thank. Thank you. Alright. That’s alright. Help. Can’t be helped. Stay. Stay alert. TERRY: (Choking) H. H. H… H… 69
H kills Terry. H: Stay… Blackout. Silence. H: (Breathless) …that… That’s what we like… It’s ok… No more Struggle. No more pain. The sun rises. H: (Petting Terry’s lifeless head) It’s ok. It’s ok. You’ll be reborn. I promise. ‘Re-Formed’… (Beat) H picks up Terry’s lifeless body – arms and legs dangling – and throws him over his shoulder. H makes his way to his military cot and carefully lays the body out straight. From beneath the cot, H collects a rifle from underneath and places it on Terry’s body to emulate the image of ‘the fallen soldier. H: (To Terry)
(Softly) Next Time… You’ll be, Bigger. Stronger…
(Beat) H begins to walk away. VOICE:
Words are just decorations-
H:
but, decorations are important.
The sound of jets flying low overhead followed by the screech of bombs being released and exploding when they hit the ground. It is loud, unbearable. The stage rattles. Finishes with a huge explosion offstage followed by the sound of debris reverberating. The stage rattles. The Lights flickers on and off in the space – close to strobing. H stops, shuddering. 70
KARAOKE Music: Feelin’ Alright: Joe Cocker (from the chorus). Terry remains laid out straight in his military cot as before. H raises a mic to his mouth. Finds that he can’t sing. Instead he puts handcuffs on himself. Music stops. The phone rings. H slowly walks toward the phone. He picks it up and puts it to his ear. The phone is answered with a click. MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
H: Mum. Mum…? -It’s me, Mum. -Mash. -Hamish. -Mish Mash. -Potato. Your little Mish Mash… MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
H:
Mum. I did something wrong…
MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
H:
-I don’t ever think I did anything Right.
MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
H:
They’re all gone.
MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
H:
-Friends. Marriage. Children.
MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
H:
-I’m gone… 71
(Beat) H:
-When I was little, Mum. -Just you and me.
MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
H:
-Just you and me… I never felt safe, Mum.
MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
H:
-I always felt, so small.
MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
H:
-An Ant…
MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
H:
-And you – and the world –
MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
H:
-and everyone else – were like Giants.
MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
H:
-And I was so small. So tiny and small. -I never felt safe, Mum. -Even when you were by my side, -lovingly holding my hand.
MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
H: -Scared. Always so scared. MUM: (Recorded) Hello? Hello? H:
-Anyway, I just wanted to say, I love you.
MUM: (Recorded) Hello? -Hello… 72
H:
-“I love you”. -Be Home soon. -Soon enough.
H:
-Oh – Terry says, hi.
MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
H:
-He’s Already Left-He always knew how to swing Higher – -Higher than me… -The creak of those swings…
MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
(Beat) H: -He said something Odd just before he left, Mum… -That was the last thing he said. (Beat) MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
H: -just wanted to say, Bye… - I Love you’. -BYE. MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
(Beat) He hangs up the phone. MUM:
(Recorded) Hello?
(Beat) H sits. Radio static. H shows no reaction. Blackout. 73
Boxing match bell rings out. Slow fade up on a lectern. H sits in a chair with his back to the audience facing the lectern. Terry gets up from the cot, grabs and puts on a priest outfit then moves to the lectern. He clears his throat. TERRY:
We are here to Remember. Remember those we have lost. Remember those we have loved. Remember those we still find in our hearts. Remember those we still love in our hearts…
(Beat)
Margaret. Margaret Geraldine Matthews.
H:
No. No. No. No.
(Beat) TERRY: No? H: No. You’re doing it wrong. TERRY: Wrong? H:
Right. You’re wrong. ALL wrong.
TERRY:
What do you mean?
H:
And it doesn’t make sense.
TERRY:
What? How? What doesn’t make sense?
H:
(Standing) You.
TERRY: Me? H: 74
It shouldn’t be you. It doesn’t make sense.
You’re dead. It’s confusing. It shouldn’t be you. It should be meTERRY: YOU?! H: ME. It should be ME. I should be the Priest. You’re dead. Boxing match bell rings out.
You’re gone And I’d do it better. It just makes more… Sense.
(Beat) Terry takes off and passes the priest outfit to H. Terry takes off H’s handcuffs. H puts on Priest outfit. Boxing match bell rings out. H motions Terry to the chair. Terry sits. H clears his throat. H:
We are here… to… Remember. …Remember those we have lost. Remember those we have loved… Remember those we still find… In our Hearts. …Remember those we still love in our hearts…
Boxing match bell rings out.
Margaret... Margaret. Geraldine. Matthews. She –
Boxing match bell rings out.
75
Margaret – was… She was often referred to as a Smile. Smile… (To self) Smile, Goddammit – Smile. She – Boxing match bell rings out. Margaret – was… was a mother. To me. To me. Margaret knew just how I liked my coffee – and was the only one who could make it just right. Just Right. (Beat)
She, Margaret, did everything ‘just right’.
(Beat)
I’m SI’m S-
MARGARET (Recorded) Son… H: Margaret… I’m… Sorry. I’m SMARGARET (Recorded) Son. Boxing match bell rings out. (Beat) H looks at Terry. H: Terry. I’m sorry, Terry. To you I’m sorry too. 76
Boxing match bell rings out.
I love you. Terry.
(Beat) Terry starts clapping. H looks at him. Terry stands, continuing to clap, getting louder. The sound of jets flying low overhead followed by the screech of bombs being released and exploding when they hit the ground. It is loud, unbearable. The stage rattles. TERRY: (Approaching, clapping) Wow. You were right. Absolutely Right. It should be you – not me. YOU. Not Me. Boxing match bell rings out. H sobs. Terry takes H’s face in his hands TERRY:
You should finish.
Burst of military gunfire.
You should finish it, now. Some things you have to destroy.
Boxing match bell rings out. I have to go. Now. Boxing match bell rings out.
I’m gone. Already gone. Already think of me – gone.
77
The sound of jets flying low overhead followed by the screech of bombs being released and exploding when they hit the ground. It is loud, unbearable. The stage rattles. Terry goes to leave. H: (Desperate, calling out to Terry) “Don’t fight what you Hate”! TERRY:
(On the move) Bulls eye.
H:
(Looking up to Terry) “Protect what you love”!-
TERRY:
(On the move) Always on target, my friend.-
H:
You – you said that-
TERRY:
(Still leaving) I know-
H:
-Those – those were your last words!-
Terry stops and turns: TERRY:
Hey, H.
H: What…? TERRY:
My great grandfather was an Anzac.
H:
I know.
TERRY:
Landed at Gallipoli.
H:
I know.
TERRY: Ended up getting shrapnel embedded in his head.
78
H:
I know.
TERRY:
Sent him mad.
H:
I know.
TERRY:
It was Hell…
H:
I know.
TERRY: (On the move to leave again) I think we still have some of his old letters from when he was on tour somewhere… I’ll talk to my Dad… (Beat) TERRY:
Hey, H-
H: What? TERRY:
Destroy it.
H: What? TERRY:
Finish it.
Terry exits. (Beat) H looks about. He looks at Terry’s empty chair. (Beat) H takes a breath, looks at the lectern. (Beat) H takes a breath. He takes his place behind the lectern. (Beat) H takes a breath (Beat) H: We’re here to remember those we have loved. We’re here to remember those we have lost. We’re here to… The sound of a bomb falling through the sky… From up high, it falls. It lands with a thud, without exploding, against the earth. A spotlight where the missile hits.
79
H:
Goodbye.
H comes out from behind the lectern and moves to the final (piece of) armour. He stares at it. (Beat) He reaches down. (Beat) H begins to drag it US to the same location as the others… MARGARET: “Son…” VOICE:
…are your senses more acute?
H reaches the same location as before. H lifts and places the last piece to complete the statue of the Anzac. As the piece is put into place a spot it is revealed for the first time. (i.e. it is no longer just a shadow). H stands back, taking in its enormity. The sound of monks chanting rise in volume to a very loud level. H shudders. H looks squarely at the Anzac. He salutes. He abruptly turns and walks away. As he turns the monks chanting stops. Boxing match bell rings out.
THE HOUSE H softer, gentler. MARGARET: (Recorded or live) Why did you join the army…? H:
It’s the family business.
MARGARET: …Yes. How many before you? Generations? 80
H: 4… MARGARET: Which? (Beat)
Which wars, my friend?
H: Every One. My dad, granddad, and great grandad. Great men. Legends: it’s why I served... To follow… (Laughs) …Am I just a well-crafted joke…?... I thought... (Laughs) I thought if I made myself big. If I built myself UP into Something. Something Bigger. Something Larger – Larger than Life. A Legend. An Icon. A Rock Star – A Fucking Rock Star. You know? Untouchable. Impenetrable A Giant among Men – A Giant among ants... (Beat) I thought… it’d make me... Invincible. …I thought I’d no longer be Scared. (He looks around) And – I’m not. I’m not. I’m no longer scared. Of Men. Of what’s out there… (Beat)
81
MARGARET: ...Sorry it’s all been such a battle. Everything. Life. Perception. Reality. Love. Relationships. Loyalty. Truth. Pain. Pride. Regret. Fear. Strength. Peace. Home. H:
…what scares me now - is Me...
(Beat) H alone in a single spotlight. The sound of a heartbeat (with the rush of blood going through the ventricles) grows in volume. Blackout.
82
In My Garden, All living things grow. In My Garden, All passed things show. In My Garden, There is Peace that warmly glows. In MY Garden, Where I most like to go. Under a Tree. Under the Sky. I close my eye. Smile. A poem by Margaret Geraldine Matthews.
Raw, bold, and Experimental. Dramatic and Darkly Humorous.
P
eter Maple’s BEAST.BELLY.BEAST delves inside the minds of two ex-servicemen suffering the repercussions of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Examining the effects of War on (Australia’s) returned servicemen, specifically the flow on effect of inter-generational trauma, BEAST.BELLY.BEAST presents the often fracturing and destructive nature of (any) PTSD that can distort Time, Place, and Space. Written in consultation with Australian Military veterans who themselves have suffered from PTSD, the play endeavours to mirror their mind-space and experiences. Take a glimpse inside these broken windows of the heart, mind, and soul, to find two men — two friends — two soldiers: in and out of ‘The Belly of the Beast’. “It’s a world full of Giants and Ants... Do you hear me?! GIANTS, and ANTS… Beasts and Babies. Predators and Prey. Guilty and Innocent. And if you’re not one; then you’re the other. One or the other, man. One; or the other!” — Captain Hamish Michael Forbes, BEAST.BELLY.BEAST
YOU.ME.PTSD.