Heat The Singing Detective

This programme contains some scenes of a sexual nature.

The thing about the moon is, it gives you the creeps with a capital K. Am I not right?

It makes water look like silver, turns flotsam into the crown jewels

and causes poor slobs in the cuckoo-house to think they are Jesus Christ or FW Woolworth.

Am I not right?

Also, it's cold. The sort of night when lonesome cats cry for empty hours on the broken slates.

But tonight, there isn't a pussy in sight.

Not even a four-legged one.

All good people have gone home.

And some bad ones too.

Oh, this is a night to freeze a pawnbroker's balls.

But it'll soon get warm in here.

That's the thing about gas.

..Eh, Sonia?

I hate the cold. I hate it as much as I hate plots and mysteries.

I didn't know it was going to be YOU who came back with me.

So what's going on?

Mind you, I'm not complaining.

Amanda's very pretty...but thick as shit in the neck of a bottle.

You're just as pretty, Sonia.

You don't talk much though, do you?

What are you trying to be? The Snow Queen?

Be the Snow Queen, if you like.

Pretend not to know anything about anything. But I'll find out whether you do or not.

There's a cupboard in that Club with room for more than one, Sonia.

Maybe you ARE just one of the whores.

Well, take your clothes off.

Give.

Maybe you ARE, at that.

Mo-ney.

You don't have to be quite so bloody Russian about it.

Mo-ney.

You bitch. You greedy, suspicious, great big beautiful bitch.

Da, da, moya luiboff. Konyechno.

Spasseebo.

I thought it was Amanda who was going to warm my lonely little bed.

-We agreed on a price.

-£15.

No, no, listen, you little tart, it takes a shop girl a month to earn that sort of money. I agreed TEN.

-And think yourself lucky.

-Fifteen pounds.

I see. VERY polite, aren't we?

Ask me nicely.

Go on, nicely.

Say "please." Say "please" to Daddy.

I see. It's Stalingrad all over, is it?

MONEY RUSTLES

One for my baby.

Two for my love. And three to come again.

Is shit.

What?

Is shit. Mo-ney is.

You stupid bitch! I've a good mind to stuff it down your throat!

Are you off your head?

Are you totally insane?

Mo-ney.

What are you trying to do? Make me feel small?

'What are you trying to do? Make me feel small?'

"What are you trying to do? Make me feel small?"

-"What are you trying to do? Make me feel small?"

-What did you say?

-What did you say, man?

-Where is it?

-What?

-The nuthouse door.

We're almost there, little squirrel. We're almost there.

-Wait for the man, right?

-Right.

-The cuckoo man, right?

-Right.

Why?

What's he got that for? Is this the British Museum?

What's going on?

BAND PLAYS "CRUISING DOWN THE RIVER"

# Cruising down the river

# On a Sunday afternoon

# With one you love

# The sun above

# Waiting for the mo-oo-n

# The old accordion playing

# A sentimental tune.

# Cruising down the river

# On a Sunday afternoon.

# The birds above All sing of love

# A gentle, sweet refrain.

# The winds around

# All make a sound Like softly falling... #

OK, fellas, that'll do. The words break my heart. We won't say like softly falling what though.

There's a frog about to spawn in this old throat of mine. Keep your whistles dry.

Mr Marlow?

-Yes. Are you the guy I've been waiting for since Sax stumbled upon the phone?

-Sorry?

The gent with the fat contract. The guy who loves the way I croon.

-Sorry, I...

-But you liked the song?

-It made a spider crawl up your throat, yes?

-Yes. Well, sort of.

-It's a tune for old ladies and puppy dogs.

-Mr Marlow...

-You didn't take it in. Other things syncopating, huh?

-No. Sorry.

Yellow mellow, curls at the edges, breaks, goes rotten.

-I don't understand.

-You're in trouble.

-Yes, I am.

-Dead trouble.

-Look, er...

-I'm told that you can help me, if anyone can.

-Who said so?

-John Bordington, my solicitor.

-This must be a lulu.

That overinflated toad hates my guts. I tend to agree with him.

-He said you got results.

-I get the jobs the polite guys pass over.

I'm the piano tuner who's heavy on the pedal. OK, OK, so what's the story? Who's the dame?

-How do you know...?

-There's always a dame. Where's the body?

-I'm sorry?

-There's always a body. We both know that.

You look pale, like you been eating fried eggs and green bananas.

Who's trying to swing you into this number? And are you are nervous as you seem?

"Yeah, I am as nervous as I seem."

"Yellow mellow, curling at the edges, breaks, goes rotten."

Oh, very good. Very funny.

I have a degree of fondness for easily disposable things:

Kleenex tissues, Bic pens, razor blades, cheap literature.

Don't forget prescription forms and medical degrees.

-He said, out of the side of his mouth.

-What?

Gibbon. How do you do, Mr Marlow?

-I can't shake.

-Of course not. Sorry.

I wouldn't anyway. I'm here under protest. This is kidnapping.

I see. I see. An abduction.

Little men shouldn't sit places where their feet don't touch the floor, don't you think?

It kind of demeans them. Makes me think of nursery rhymes.

It must be very difficult for you.

More difficult for me than for you. I can't creep up on people like I'm in a Marx Brothers film.

-You don't want to talk to me. You don't want this.

-What sharpness! I've underestimated you!

Yet you came, not against your will, why? Why did you agree to be wheeled here?

Gets me out of the ward.

-What's that?

-I said it makes a change from the bedpans and sick old farts talking in their sleep.

Lets me see The Warp and Woof of Life in all its rich texture(!)

-Where the cuckoo drops its egg, someone else's smelly nest. Yours.

-This is pastiche.

No, I don't like Italian food.

-You can't keep it up.

-Oh, little do you know!

I suppose you've noticed that I've gone to the trouble of obtaining one of your...what do you call them?

-It's not a novel, properly speaking. Not what Lawrence would call the one bright book of life?

-No quotes.

But you wouldn't call it a novel?

Of course not. It has pages, that's all.

Where did you get it from? Certainly not a bookshop.

Why did you get it? What cruelty do you have in mind? Not reading it!

Clues.

-What?

-It's a detective story. That's what you're supposed to find in detective stories. Am I right?

Oh my God. You CAN'T do it.

I know the clues are supposed to point to the murderer, but what if they reveal the victim more clearly?

Are you going to keep on like this? You think it will start me talking?

You're wrong. If you think you're being friendly and reassuring...

You think you're being interesting, don't you?

-You think you're being quite a character. Well, you're barking up the wrong trouser leg.

-So I see.

May I go back please? I'm bored.

I wish to be returned to the ward. It's vivid and exciting there.

It must almost seem like home to you. How long have you been there?

Ten, eleven weeks.

-Do you have any visitors?

-Don't want any.

How often have you been in hospital?

You must have all this. There's an army of you filling in cards, poking, prying. Why not look it up?

Tell me, how many times?

Thirteen, fourteen, something like that.

Quite an old lag, then, aren't you?

-Does your wife...

-I'm not married.

-Do you stop her...

-I'm not married!

I see.

Stop it! Stop staring at me. Put your piggy eyes somewhere else!

Call the porter. I want to go back to the ward. I won't talk to you!

You don't like women, do you?

What sort do you mean? Young ones? Old ones? Fat ones? Thin ones?

Slags? Sluts? Be more specific!

I'll rephrase that. I'm fairly sure that you think you DO like them,

that you even think that they are capable of being idolised,

but you don't like sex.

-You may think you do. We think about it a lot.

-You do, you dirty sod!

Yes, I do.

But, listen to yourself.

Isn't it clear that you regard sexual intercourse with considerable distaste?

Or, what is more to the point, with FEAR.

Is that a fair statement or am I totally wide of the mark?

Isn't it the case that you regard sex with fear and distaste, even loathing?

-Oh, my God. This is SO sick.

-Here for example...

-I can't believe this.

-I'll read you a passage.

I'd rather you shoved it up your arse.

Fine.

Jig-jig. >

Yeah, jig-bloody-jig. And us stuck out here in the cold.

Ssh.

HEAVY BREATHING

DR. GIBBON: I don't wish to upset you, Mr Marlow...

No, let me be more precise. I do not wish to upset you UNNECESSARILY. I think you need help.

I think you know that you need help.

And you're too intelligent or too aware of your condition to deny it.

Most chronic dermatological patients are on tranquillizers or anti-depressants,

almost as a matter of routine.

Skin is, after all, extremely personal, is it not?

The temptation is to believe that the sins and poisons of the mind have somehow erupted on to the skin.

"Unclean!" you shout, ringing your bell, warning us to keep clear.

The leper in the Bible, yes?

But that's nonsense, you know.

DO you know?

Well, one part of you does, I'm sure.

You can be helped.

-Moreover, Mr Marlow, I think

-I

-can help.

You can. Yes, you can. If you can give me a couple of hundred barbiturates, you can.

Otherwise, stop pissing into the wind, listening to your own voice.

Stop confusing wisdom with smugness and send me back to my bed.

-I don't care too much for your manners, Mr Marlow.

-Yeah, I've had complaints. Sorry about that.

-Be glad I don't crack my knuckles, too.

-You didn't set out to mimic stuff, did you?

-What stuff?

-"It's not raining in the foothills" sort of stuff.

-WHAT sort of stuff?

OK, so you won't play ball.

Look, I'd heard that psychiatrists, psycho-analysts, or whatever you are, are very peculiar people,

but really, I find it impossible to understand a single word you say.

Having read your prose, I feel you did not set out to write like that.

-What would you rather have written about?

-If I had the talent? Come on!

-Be a critic!

-OK, if you had the talent.

One-liners in Christmas crackers, speeches for Mrs Thatcher,

obituaries...or is that the same thing? Verses in birthday cards, captions for Prince Andrew.

-There's NO telling what I could have done.

-It won't be used in evidence against you, you know.

-What won't?

-You telling me what it was you wanted to write.

-Forget it!

-I have. Long ago.

-Tell me.

-I would like to have used my pen to praise a loving God and all His loving creation.

-Really?

Moreover...

I would like to have seen hosts of radiant and translucent angels spinning shafts of golden light

deeper and deeper into the blue caverns of heaven.

And I wanted to play what used to be called inside right for Fulham and England.

-Why Fulham?

-All right, be rude, I don't care.

We're used to slander at Craven Cottage. Goals, no.

-I'm not very interested in football.

-You should be, as a psychiatrist. That's where all the nutters go.

But Fulham's where you go to be alone.

Here's a paragraph that sits rather oddly on the page. It doesn't belong in a detective story, in my opinion.

Oh, I see. So psychiatry is not nasty enough for you. You still want to go into literary criticism.

I should be careful, going down that slope, with swine on all sides of you. Grunt, grunt.

Listen to this, a purple passage.

No, a BLUE one, I hope.

"Mouth sucking wet and slack at mouth,

"tongue chafing against tongue,

"limb thrusting upon limb,

-"skin rubbing at skin..."

-Oink, oink.

"Faces contort and stretch into a helpless leer,

-"organs spurt out smelly stains and sticky betrayals."

-Oink, oink.

"This is the sweaty farce out of which we are born.

"We are implicated without choice in the slippery catastrophe of the copulations

"which splatter us into existence.

"We are spat out of fevered loins.

"We are the by-blows of grunts and groans and pantings in a rumpled and creaking bed.

"Welcome."

Yeah.

The Milk of Paradise.

Good. Now we can talk.

What was it Kipling said about women and cigars? Never mind.

How would you know?

WHAT do you know?

How much do you know?

Oh, I'm sorry.

I'm afraid this could make a very nasty burn and you've such lovely skin, Sonia. Like porcelain.

Do you know the origin of the word "porcelain"?

No, of course not. Why should you?

Doesn't it disgust you, what you do?

Being paid to stretch out and let a stranger enter you.

The NKVD must have trained you well. I do know who you work for.

This is the dead time, isn't it?

Dead time in a dead city.

Feel the nothingness pressing down, pressing down on the whole dirty place.

It's cold out there.

The river looks as though it's made of tar, sludging along.

Full of filth.

-There's two men out there. Who are they?

-Are you sure?

It's half past four in the morning. They can't be there by accident.

-Is there a back way?

-What?

-Another way out?

-Who are they? What do they want?

-Way out, quick!

-Who are they after?

-Let go.

-Who are they?

-Let me go!

You're not going anywhere.

Oh!

I wasn't quite fully dressed, you see. I couldn't go after her.

-I think she wasn't quite right in the head.

-Who is?

Well, there you are, who is?

Who, indeed?

Why should she butt you like that? What did she say?

She was too frightened to speak. She gabbled something in Russian.

-Where did you pick up that lingo?

-The army. I interviewed Red Army soldiers at the end of the war.

-You're not in the army now?

-No.

Six months ago, you were interviewing the comrades,

-then that Russian dame went missing. Did she know something about you?

-I don't know.

-You're wasting my time.

-I REALLY don't know. Mr Marlow, I swear before God...

Swear on something you BELIEVE in.

I swear on my mother's grave that Sonia was alive and unharmed when she left my place.

-Who says different?

-I think I'm going to be arrested. The police have told me not to leave town.

They don't believe there were two men outside the house that night.

It seems the girl never went back to her flat.

-Where's that?

-Queensway. She lives with Amanda.

-Who's she?

-The girl in the nightclub.

-Another whore?

-Well...

-How would you put it?

-Not that way.

Dog shit smells foul and sticks to the bottom of your shoe no matter what you call it.

Don't be mealy-mouthed around me. You've stepped in something nasty and you want me to clean it up.

-I'm the brush and shovel.

-I want somebody to find that girl.

Or to find these two men, or to prove nothing nasty happened to her from my hands.

-But it did.

-What?!

-Something nasty did happen to her at your hands.

-I'm telling the truth.

-I didn't say you weren't.

-But something nasty did happen when she was with you. Isn't that what her mother would think?

-Her mother?

-For God's sake!

-You just swore on your own mother's grave.

Mr Marlow, aren't you being unduly censorious for this day and age?

-What's the day? What's the age?

-I'll pay you well.

You don't know how much I want yet. I'm not as cheap as I look.

I'll pay whatever you ask but I'm not paying you to make me feel small.

You don't have to. That's thrown in without charge.

Hey, man, this is bad.

You have got this bad.

Thank you. Thank you very much.

-What bring this on?

-Camay.

-What?

-Camay. That perfume worth a guinea an ounce.

I tell you something for free.

-Yeah, be like the Health Service used to be.

-Hey, listen, this is serious business.

Don't eat tomatoes. D'you read me?

-I hears you.

-You try it. You'll see. No tomatoes. I'm telling you.

-I'll try.

-Do you ever shit?

-What?

-D'you ever shit?

-Ehm... Well...occasionally.

Yeah?! Well, you look back at it after tomatoes.

It's the pips.

They're there, man, ready to grow!

The pips in your poop.

Waste not, want not.

Lay off them love apples, man, they are NO good. D'you register?

-Registered. Yes. Thanks very much.

-Good.

-Be seeing you.

-Bye-bye.

Tomatoes!

Yes, of course. Why didn't I think of that?

Right, come on, George. Come on.

Oh!

Gawd! Somebody must have poured boiling fat over that one.

We don't make those sort of remarks in here. Shut your mouth, George.

-This will be your bed. Nice clean sheets, George.

-I won't get in. I won't stay.

Now, now, Mr Adams. Best place, George.

I've never been ill in me life and I'm not ill now. You're not getting me in that bed.

It's my life, not nobody else's.

-I'll draw the curtains, then you can undress in privacy.

-In what?

-In your new pyjamas.

I'm not wearing bleedin' pyjamas. You're not getting them on me!

-Hot!

-< Stop it, George.

-No more messing about!

-You can't bloody wait, can you?

-George!

-You just can't wait.

-You'll be in the first carriage, right behind the bleedin' hearse, laughing your head off.

-George!

-Stop mucking me about.

-Oh!

-Gently does it!

I'll bloody haunt you, I will. I'll be back, muvver, I'll be back!

Hot.

What sort of bloody pillow is this? Put your head on that and you'll suffocate.

-Leave me alone!

-George, I'm warning you...

-There's no need for all this fuss.

-Git off of me, you bloody old cow! Leave me alone.

-Mrs Adams! What on earth?!

-You bloody 'urt me.

It's the only way, Sister. Give 'im one.

It's the only way to deal with him. I know. I've 'ad it for too long, years and years of it.

Give 'im one. He's not strong enough to give you one back.

Not now, he ain't.

GEORGE'S SOBBING CONTINUES, MIXED WITH BIRDSONG

Our Father, which art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy name,

Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, On earth as it is in Heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread,

And forgive us our trespasses As we forgive them Who trespass against us...

BING CROSBY AND THE ANDREWS SISTERS: # Oh, give me land, lots of land

# Under starry skies above

# Don't fence me in

# Let me ride through the wide open country that I love

# Don't fence me in.

# Let me be by myself in the evening breeze

# And listen to the murmur of the cotton wood trees

# Send me off for ever,

# But I ask you, please - Don't fence me in

# Just turn me loose, Let me saddle my old saddle Underneath the western sky

# On my kayoose Let me wander over yonder

# Till I see the mountains rise

# I want to ride to the ridge Where the west commences... #

Put thick racket off, ut?

Tis, yunnit. Get on thee wick.

# ..And I can't stand fences. Don't fence me in. #

-I like the Andrews Sisters. I like Bing Crosby.

-Oh, ay. Well. And I do.

GRANCHER TAKES A COUGHING FIT

GRANCHER SPITS

Lovely bit of plum. Thou cosin't buyt plum, not for jam.

A plum don't like cooking.

Him a' got too much skin. Give I stro'bry any day. I'd rather have stro'bry jam any day of the week.

-God Almighty!

-What?

-What's the matter?

-How can anybody eat with that going on?!

What's up wi' her NOW?

Him can't help it. It's no joke, that coal dust in the lungs, what's our Dad supposed to do?

- What? - He can go outside if we're eating.

Have him got to go outside for a bit of a cough in his own home?!

You call that a bit of a cough? More like a bleedin' avalanche!

MRS MARLOW: You know it turns me right off!

GRAN: Fuss, fuss, fuss!

Where's thou been, our Philip? Tea's been ready half hour ago.

It's not fuss. It turns me up!

-Then thou knows what thou can do.

-Now, our Mam.

"Now, our Mam," why don't you stick up for me for once? Christ almighty!

GRAN: Language!

Whose house is it? That's all I da want to know. Whose furniture?

Have Dad and me got to be told what to do and what not to do at our time of life in our own place?

Is that all you can say? Can't you change the bloody tune sometimes?

-- No cussing. - I won't have that in me own home.

-Mam!

We never wanted this to happen. Never wanted to end up like this.

Let's have our bit of tea. I be sick at heart with this squabbling.

Where have you been? Why are you always late for your tea?

-Where've you bin?

-Didn't you hear me calling?

-No.

-You bin mooching about in them woods again?

-Chunt natural.

I wanted you to go to the shop. I've a good mind you won't get any tea at all.

Oh, him got to have his little bit of tay.

Got to put some gristle in them arms, antcha, o'butty?

Sit up at table. There's a good boy.

Make a soldier of tha. I'll decide that!

He's my son!

Philip, no tea for you.

Betty, him's got to have his bit of tea.

You gutless bugger!

I've never heard the like before! Bist thou going to put up with that?

< I'd smack her one, I 'ood.

Shut up! Keep out of it, you interfering old cow!

Get out.

Get theeself out!

-Get out of this house!

-Don't, our Mam.

-I would if your son was any sort of a man!

-Betty.

It's his job to find us a place, instead of being squashed up in this pokey hole!

'It's me. It's my fault, mine. Me, it's all my doing.

'It's me, my fault, mine. It's me. It's all my doing.'

Hey.

Hey, please.

Please, hey...call the...

Hey.

Please, I need the...nurse.

-MR MARLOW:

-# I'm as restless as a willow in a wind-storm

# I'm as jumpy as a puppet on a string.

# I'd say that I had spring fever

# But I know it isn't spring.

# I am starry-eyed and vaguely discontented,

# Like a nightingale without a song to sing.

# Oh, why should I have spring fever

# When it isn't even spring?

# I keep wishing I was somewhere else...

# Walking down a strange new street

# Hearing words That I have never heard

# From a girl I've yet to meet

# I'm as busy as a spider spinning daydreams.

# I'm as giddy as a baby on a swing

# I haven't seen a crocus or a rosebud

# Or a robin on the wing

# But I feel so gay In a melancholy way

# That it might as well be spring

# It mi-ght as we-ll be spring

# I'm as busy as a spider spinning daydreams

# I'm as giddy as a baby on a swing

# I haven't seen a crocus or a rosebud

# Or a robin on the wing

# But I feel so gay in a melancholy way

# That it might as well be spring

# Oh, it mi-ght as well be-e...

# Spri-i-ing. #

There yunt nobody round here as can hold a candle to thee father as far as the warbling is concerned, boy.

Him's too good to be down the pit. Him ought to be up there in lights.

You see if I byunt right.

Bist thou all right, o' but?

Aye.

Order! Order! Come on now, let's have a bit of order.

We've heard the husband, now for his missis. Mrs Marlow will now play...

"The Rustle Of Spring".

And that chunt nern a cowboy song, mind!

CLASSICAL MUSIC

< Pay attention.

I want you to look at my finger.

Mr Adams, please give me your attention. Look at my finger.

What for?

It's just a routine test.

Hold my finger with your eyes. JUST your eyes. That's it.

Up.

Down.

Time for your greasing, Mr Marlow. Sorry to disturb you.

< Just your eyes, Mr Adams.

< Look at my finger!

Now, relax your legs.

Hoy, you bloody hit me!

-Of course, I didn't hit you.

-You bloody did. Ow!

-Bleedin' 'ammers on my bloody knee.

-I am simply testing your reflexes.

I'll have the law on you!

We've got a right one here, by the sounds of it.

..Her first name? Your wife's first name is?

-What's her name? Her Christian name, Mr Adams?

-I'm buggered if I know.

But you... Surely you... What do you call her? You must call her something.

Yeah. And I'm not telling you what.

-I'll be done after this.

-What, no tablets?

-Sorry?

-What sort of doctor are you?!

Just tell me, if you would be so kind, what name you give your wife.

-< Come on, what do you call her? What name do you use when you want her attention?

-What?

Do you say, "Mary, may I have some tea?"

Oh-ho.

Her name, what do you call her?

Mum. I call her Mum.

What the bleedin' hell else should I call her?

Life is a Cabaret, old chum. In here, it is.

-Drink.

-Hang about.

-Drink.

-Are you in pain?

Are you in much pain?

Do you understand what I'm saying?

Mr Marlow?

-You must drink, there's a good boy.

-(Piano...)

-Pain, did you say?

-On the piano.

Never mind the piano, drink this.

Philip, drink.

-I'm going to fetch your doctor. Come along, now.

-Spring.

-No, it's tap water.

-"The Rustle Of Spring."

-Mr Marlow?

-Spring.

Yeah...water.

Hello.

Guess.

Caught us, have you, Marlow?

Philip!

Hey, why don't you join us, then? Come on.

Hey, don't be a spoilsport!

Philip!

Hey, come back! Don't be silly!

Come back!

Phi-lip!

Phi-lip!

'Why is it only THIS boy who knows the answer?

'Why is it only Philip who has his hand up? Always Philip.

'The capital of Iceland?'

-Reykjavik, Miss.

-Correct. Good boy. You put the others to shame.

'Who can tell me the name of the very brave and good man who wrote the "Pilgrim's Progress"? Nicola?

John Bunyan. 'Correct. Good girl.

'You put the others to shame.'

'The new President of the United States of America?

'Harry S Truman, Miss.'

Clever Dick! Clever Dick! Makes me sick!

Clever Dick! Clever Dick! Give her arse a lick!

Clever Dick! Clever Dick! Makes me sick!

Clever Dick! Clever Dick! Give her arse a lick!

Clever Dick! Clever Dick! Makes me sick!

Clever Dick! Clever Dick! Give her arse a lick!

CHILDREN'S LAUGHTER

When I grow up, I'm going to be the first man to live for ever and ever.

In my opinion, you don't have to die, not unless you want to. And I byunt never going to want to.

When I grow up, I be going to leave the light on ALL NIGHT, I be!

I be going to have books, on shelves, mind. Shelves just for books.

When I grow up, I'm going to have a whole tin of evaporated milk on a whole tin of peaches, I be.

I bloody be. I bloody damn buggering well be!

Oy! And I shall cuss.

D'you know, tell thou what, when I grow up,

everything, EVERYTHING will be all right.

Won't it? Won't it, God, eh?

Thou's like me a bit, doesn't, God?

When I grow up, I'm going to be...

a detective.

'I'll find out things. I'll find out. I'll find out who done it!'

Cuck-oo.

Cuck-oo.

MR MARLOW WHISTLES "BIRDSONG AT EVENTIDE"

I...

can't seem to...

I can't clap my hands. I can't.

Not even for my dear old dad.

Ah, but thou doesn't want to, dost?

-Don't want to?

-You byunt interested in clapping thee father now, be ya?

-Thou never give him credit when he was alive! Got too big for thee boots.

-What do you mean?

Thou knows very well what I mean, you cocky bugger.

Are you trying to say...

-Listen, are you saying that my dad is dead?

-Dead?!

Aye! 'Course him is! Dead and gone, and nobody to care yuppence.

No.

I have so much to say to him. I need to speak to him very badly.

Don't be stupid! He can't be! Not my Dad.

Oh, him's dead.

Him's dead all right, dead and buried long since.

Listen! That WAS him, wasn't it? That was my dad doing the birds?

That was my dad up on the platform?

Dad! Dad! Over here, o'butty! Over here!

Thou knowest how much I care about tha.

But he was here. I saw him.

My lovely, dear old Dad...

That was him whistling. I heard him.

I heard him.

All the birds in the trees. All the love in the world.

I heard it. I heard HIM.

What's that? What are you saying, old chap?

What are you trying to say?

I heard it.

He sung.

All the birds they...

this song.

Nothing. Just a babble. But he's more or less asleep now.

You did right to call me. He'll sleep for a while. Leave him be.

Shall I close the curtains? Yes, good idea.

# Cruising down the river

# On a Sunday afternoon

# With one you love

# The sun above

# Waiting for the moo-oon.

# The old accordion playing

# A sentimental tu-une

# Cruising down the river

# On a Sunday afternoon.

# The birds above All sing of love

# A gentle, sweet refrain... #

'I like to snap my eyes around the hall when I'm crooning this sort of stuff.

'You can learn a lot about life when you size up ballroom dancers.

'It helps my think-box to send out sparks. And my head has got to fizz on this case.'

# Cruising down the river

# On a Sunday afternoo-oon. #

'This ol' river I'm cruising down.

'I knew they'd fished out a body.

'And I knew it wasn't a mermaid. But there was something fishy about it, that's for sure.

'Yes, sir, the Thames can be all sleaze and no flow.

'And talking of flotsam and jetsam, who were the guys watching Binney?

'And is he playing a game with me? What's this with the Russianski lingo? Is it "Da" or is it "Nyet"?

'I had some visiting to do.

'To the sort of places where you don't leave a calling card.'

KNOCKING AT DOOR

All right! All right! All right!

Do you want to break the door down?

Who are you? What do you want?

-The police found her this morning.

-What?

Your little piece of fluff. Your harmless bit of fun.

In the river. Naked. Not even her knickers on.

What did you do with her clothes? Especially the fur coat.

-Do you know how much sable is worth?

-Who are you? What are you playing at?

You make me laugh. Clowns. I know who you are. It's written all over you.

Don't keep us on the step. I'd advise you not to do that.

Now, now, now, Mr B. That's not very friendly, is it?

-All right, you'd better come in. We'll talk it over.

-Thank you.

Thank you, sir.

Goodness me. Look at this. What would you call this?

That is what I would call a provocative picture. I'm provoked.

It tells us a great deal about the woman. A slut, I'd say.

It also tells us a great deal about the man who put it there, surely? A pimp would be my guess.

It's a decoration for the wall.

A very attractive girl, as a decoration for a wall.

Splendid breasts, though.

Yes.

Splendid.

NURSE MILLS: He's running a very high temperature but it's back under control now.

The skin, you see.

I'm afraid he had to be sedated and he's been asleep most of the day.

Don't waken him if he needs to...

Oh, my God!

I had no idea he looked as bad as this.

It's at its peak now. It's a hundred per cent.

Surely something can be done. Heavens above, this is ghastly!

It looks as if he's been scalded.

They're trying him on a new drug. But you'd know that, of course.

Of course.

Mr Marlow! A visitor. I'm not sure we should wake him.

He'll only send me away with a mouthful of abuse.

They wanted to know if and when you came, the doctors, I mean.

They're not here now, but Sister would like to see you.

Well, I'm not so sure that I do want to get too...

Got to speak to somebody, I suppose. At least I won't get a lot of abuse.

Sorry?

When this one wakes up and sees me, you'll find out why.

In fact, I can't face it. I don't want it.

I shouldn't have come. I shouldn't even have tried.

Farewell, my lovely(!)

Nicola, come here!

Come back, you bitch.

Nicola!

Come here! Come back, you bitch!

Nicola! Come here, you filthy little slut!

You disgusting tramp, Nicola!

You two-bit, rutting WHORE, Nicola! COME HERE!

You heartless bitch!

NICOLA!

Who are you opening your legs for now, you RUTTING BITCH?

You filthy bag of filth, NICOLA!

You whore! Come here! You STINKING, HEARTLESS, RUTTING piece of...

Mr Marlow! What on earth do you think you are doing?!

You want to wash his mouth out with soap and water, dirty bleeder.

-What... What's going on?

-YOU! That's what.

What do you think you are doing? Where do you think you are?

-HE SINGS FEEBLY:

-# Cruising down the river

# On a Sunday afternoon

# With one you love, the sun above

# Waiting for the moo-oon. #

That's all, folks.

Subtitles by Dorothy Moore BBC Scotland - 1986

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