Part One

OZZY is lit by stars which flicker and pulse around him.

OZZY: Make it…

Make it that there’s this guy.

A guy who feels…like everything he’s ever done was wrong. But then, right at the end, it turns out that he…

No that’s shite.

Right. There’s a guy who feels…so…

Old. Even though he’s not. Not that old anyway. But this guy feels like he’s carrying the years on his shoulders or something. He feels them digging into his shoulders, like a…schoolbag. He’s carrying a weight. He has slumped shoulders this guy, even though he’s big. Well, strong. Well. Used to be.

And it’s…kind of…terrifying him. This guy lies awake at night. Terrified. The end.

What about that? Is that a story? Do you want that story?

No. Needs a bit more eh?

Okay. Right. Right…one afternoon, like tea time, he’s on his way back to Central Station and he passes the queue for The Cathouse. And all the kids are there waiting to get in, cold and squealing. Buzzing, trying to look easy. It’s an under-age disco — probably not called a disco but you know what I mean. They’re really young, queued up. And he’s looking at all these kids, thinking that they all look ridiculous now, and kind of, unrecognisable. All this hugging and touching each other’s hair and laughing and jumping and hugging — it’s unrecognisable really.

But something about the way they are, the way they’re standing or they way they laugh reminds him of…a forgotten thing. An important thing. And although he, kind of, can’t explain it, in words, he can taste it. He knows he wants it. God — Jesus Christ he wants whatever that is. To be one of them. To be how they are. What they are. Right now.

But he wants so many impossible things doesn’t he, this guy? So it takes him by surprise.

It takes him by surprise when out of the blue, suddenly…he gets what he wants.

He turns young. He turns 15 again. Right there outside The Cathouse. He transforms.

And it’s like a miracle.

No-one tells you that you can choose your age. You can be any age you want to be, but no-one tells you that.

As he goes down the queue he gets younger and younger. His ancient tracksuit gets slack on his shoulders, his eyes brighten, everything brightens. And he joins onto the end of the queue. Just joins in. Just like that. He remembers.

And it’s all…just…good…just really good. Until…

Until the bouncer sees him.

“What age are you? Under 15s! What’s the game?” And folk are looking and…yeah…

Well. That’s it. Adult suspicion. The spell is broken. It’s the dead-eyed suspicion from the people in the street that ends it. He sees what they see and…

Miracle over.

He tries to speak but his voice breaks. He makes a lunge for the door but his bones buckle. He hits the floor heavy — just like a middle aged man.

He grows old again.

And before he knows it he’s…I dunno…running I suppose. In and out of traffic. All the way home. Running home. Racing for his life.

And when he gets home he…feels…he can’t…he just can’t hold it in anymore. He can’t hold in all this fucking pain anymore, it has to explode, it has to, it has to explode or he’ll burn to bits in this blue, horrible light. It has to explode so it does, and when it comes it keeps on coming and he lets it explode right past him and it is an explosion and it’s correct, it’s correct it really is correct and he smashes up the flat, the whole fucking place trashed, smashed and pounding and smashing the fucking glass and pulling down the fucking pictures and ripping the precious books and grabbing the curtains and punching himself in the chest and punching, punching, punching himself in the chest and…

Crying.

Until it’s…just

Smithereens.

And he takes off his clothes. And he lies on the floor. And he pulls up his knees and puts his thumb in his mouth and

It’s funny, this guy thinks. No-one tells you that you can choose your age. You can be any age you want to be, but no-one tells you that. We just plod on in chronological order. So this is the age I’ll be now. I think. I want to be this age now.

He tries to picture his father’s face, but he can’t. He tries to imagine being cradled. But he can’t.

It feels like a generation ago that they took his dad back into hospital, but it was only this morning. He got the call when he was on his way back to Central Station, heading home.

“You need to prepare yourself for the end pet”, the nurse had said.

So maybe that’s what this is all about?

Maybe that’s why he’s lying there, in smithereens, like a newborn, in broken glass.

Waiting.

What about that?

No.

That’s…

Unbelievable. That would never happen.

No-one would do that. No-one would even want to do that.

So instead…

Make it

That when the call comes in, the guy just does what he’s told to do. He always does what he’s told to do this guy. He keeps walking. He gets to Central, gets on a different train. Then a bus. And he comes out to the hospital. Like he was told to do. And he waits where he’s told to wait. And sits where he’s told to sit. And he follows her down the corridor, just like he was told to do.

And when he’s told that they’ll be left alone and that he should speak, even though in real life, they never spoke, not really…well, that’s just what he does.

What about that? Is that a story? Do you want that story?

***

We can see now that OZZY is sitting in a darkened hospital room, the stars are just the blinking lights on the equipment hooked up to the bed beside him.

OZZY’s a big man. He used to be fit. He’s wearing a tracksuit. He’s in his mid-thirties/early forties.

An old man lies unconscious in the bed. This is LEWIS MacDonald, OZZY’s dad.

OZZY’s chest is sore. God it feels like he really hurt himself there, punching like that. He undoes the buttons on his shirt and there’s a bruise right enough. Right in the middle of his chest. Right where he was pounding during the story. Or is the bruise from before, when he really…? Well, whatever, it’s sore.

He’s rubbing the bruise with his eyes shut when a nurse, PAULA, enters.

OZZY guiltily does up the buttons on his shirt like a cheating lover caught in the act. Did she hear him? How long has she been at the door? Should he say something or…?

She gives him no clues as she goes about tenderly checking LEWIS and the IV drip.

Nah, she couldn’t have heard him. She would say wouldn’t she? People don’t normally narrate stories in hospital rooms do they, she would mention it, wouldn’t she?

Regardless, OZZY is stewing in his own juices as she leaves. Just as he thinks he’s got away with it…

PAULA: Oh, and Ozzy. You know what’s good for sore chests? Not doing this…

PAULA pantomimes OZZY beating his chest in full dramatic fury.

PAULA: Cheeribye!

She gives him a wee wink to let him know she’s only taking the piss and then she’s gone.

OZZY’s frozen.

The door opens again and PAULA pokes her head round.

PAULA: I liked it by the way. Your wee story. It was good.

She gives him the thumbs up.

Zombie-like, OZZY returns the gesture.

***

The school bell rings. The kids pour through the gates, as does OZZY carrying both a brief case and a sports hold-all.

Parting the crowd like a superstar is DAWN. She must be fifteen but looks a lot older in her school stuff. She’s white, obviously affluent and super-confident. She moves in the upper echelons of the playground ranks.

FAWZIYA stops stuffing crisps into her gub for a moment as DAWN passes. FAWZIYA is an Asian girl of the same age. She wears a blue Jilbab (a loose, ankle length gown) and a head scarf or Hijab. Something about the way she drops her eyes when DAWN catwalks past tells us that they don’t exactly move in the same circles. Actually just being near to DAWN makes FAWZIYA feel fat…well…fatter.

Attempting the same attention grabbing entrance through the crowd is Robert CHUBB. He too sports confidence, swagger and a superior, cheesy grin, but this time absolutely no-one reacts. Well, they might groan and turn away as he clicks his fingers and points hello to confused first years. Not that he notices this daily mass rejection. He has a great deal of thick skin, does CHUBB. CHUBB is under the impression that he’s a mover and shaker in the school, despite large amounts of evidence to the contrary.

A crowd forms a circle around DAWN, drawn by an impressive sparkling item of jewellery on her wedding finger.

A ring.

A ring that catches the light and dazzles everyone.

Oh this old thing? Well, there’s a story to this….

The second bell sweeps them all away. FAWZIYA is the last to leave. She shuffles after them sadly.

***

Lunchtime in the Gym Hall and OZZY is trying to set up a poster about food groups on a flip chart. There’s a circle of seats with only two taken.

Sitting far apart from each other are FAWZIYA and CHUBB. FAWZIYA has her head down trying her best to be invisible, while CHUBB is trying, and succeeding, not to be.

CHUBB: There’s no-one else coming. It’s already a tepid failure and it’s not even twenty to one, first day of the club.

OZZY: Give it time. The bell’s just gone.

CHUBB: No point. If Jamie Oliver couldn’t do it, you’ve no chance.

OZZY: Well you two are here aren’t you, so that’s something.

CHUBB: It’s a failure is what it is. Ozzy, can I come to your house one day?

OZZY: What? No.

CHUBB: How not? I won’t stay long, just check it out, cup of tea. It’ll be like Cribs.

OZZY: Absolutely not. And don’t call me Ozzy either.

CHUBB: How not?

OZZY: Cos I’m a teacher.

CHUBB: A PE teacher.

OZZY: And Guidance.

CHUBB: Mr Healy said all PE teachers are dumb-dumbs.

OZZY: No he didn’t.

CHUBB: Did. He says he’s got all the dumb-dumbs wrapped round his little finger. And he says Techy teachers are violent paranoids who are out to get him. Janice lets me call her by her first name and I’ve been outside her house hunners of times.

OZZY: Who’s Janice?

CHUBB: Janice McManus. Religious Studies.

OZZY: Mrs McManus’ name is Alma.

CHUBB: Is it? Oh. That explains why she didn’t look round when I was shouting through her window. Just sat on her couch inhaling a macaroni pie straight from the poke. God I feel bad about all that other stuff I shouted now. She was pretty frightened by the end. Ozzy, can I make a speech?

OZZY: Eh?

CHUBB: May I address the group?

OZZY: No. And you’ve to call me Mr MacDonald. Right, let’s get started. Fawziya, have you brought in your lunch for us to discuss?

FAWZIYA has a Tupperware tub and a bottle of orange juice that she hands over.

CHUBB: I haven’t brought mine and I’ll tell you for why…

OZZY: Brown bread, good. An apple. That’s a portion right there. As is the orange juice unless you’ve had some already. Have you had any other fruit juice today?