Screenplay - Death is Another Life (beginning)

This is the beginning of a screenplay I wrote based on my vampire novel of the same name. Yes, it's a different approach to novel writing; I had to excise much that was in the novel. The hard part isn't the writing, however, it's finding someone to read it. If you thought it was hard to place a book with an agent/publisher, try getting a reader in the business to look at your script!

There is a pathologist's scene, so please look away if you're squeamish...

You can read the text version as an excerpt here

Legend:
V.O. = Voice off scene
EXT = Exterior
B.g = background
INT = Interior

Malta - Delimera Point

“DEATH IS ANOTHER LIFE”

FADE IN:

EXT.  AERIAL VIEW - MALTA - DAWN

A painted eye, red and white staring out of a blue background, with an arching black brow.  Wide open, ever alert.   The eye of Osiris, to ward off evil.  Painted on the prow of a fishing boat.

We pull away, to see three small boats, with huge night lamps hanging over their sterns, still lit but no competition for the dawn spreading gold across the Mediterranean.

Sea-gulls circle, screeching, accompanied by the muted chugging of motors and the lapping of the sea.

B.g. - cliffs of Malta, reddish-brown.

The eyes on their boats are old superstition and they don’t work.  Evil is already on the islands.

Two fishermen with cigarettes dangling from their mouths  struggle to haul in their net. 

Water sluices off and they see a human arm protruding through, then the rest of a naked body.

EXT.  FISHING BOAT - DAY

The fisherman crosses himself and says something to his companion.

The other fisherman flicks his cigarette butt into the sea then pulls out a cell-phone from a food-basket under the seat.

DR CARUANA (V.O.)

The smell isn’t too bad.  Fish have eaten the contents of the

stomach and intestines.

CUT TO:

INT.  MORGUE - DAY

Floriana Morgue. The clock on the wall says 17:45.  The ticking is faint but can be heard above the sounds of flesh being professionally sliced.  We just heard DR CARUANA, 60, a pathologist, speaking into a suspended microphone.

Beside him is his daughter, MARIA CARUANA, 30.  Attractive. She’s Maltese-American, a reporter.  Both are in green scrubs and gloves.  Cream on her upper lip to combat bad odours.  The rest of the staff have gone.

The cadaver on the metal autopsy table is female, the front of her torso gaping from throat to pubis.  Her skin has a pulpy sickly white sheen to it. Maria points to the gaping wound.

MARIA

Hey, Dad, this isn’t your usual ‘Y’-cut.

He ignores her comment and removes the woman’s lungs. Weighs them.

(He switches the mike on before reading out the weight of each body part then switches it off).

DR CARUANA

Lungs: 1.2 kilograms. And before you ask,

she’s Doris Tabone, the heiress.

MARIA

I know, I can’t use it in my paper just yet.

He glances up, notices the crucifix dangling from his daughter’s neck.

DR CARUANA

You’re still wearing your mother’s necklace.

MARIA

Her dying wish. (Defiantly) It doesn’t change

how I feel about religion.

DR CARUANA

Maria, Maria, you were always too hard on her beliefs.

He removes the heart, places this on the scales.

DR CARUANA (CONT’D)

Heart: 280 grams.

I envied her deep faith, you know.

As a scientist, I’ve lost that simplicity, that sureness.

MARIA

But you were never close.

DR CARUANA

We were, my dear. You were too young to notice. 

When she left, taking you to America,

a light went out in my  world.

It’s the liver’s turn for the scales.

DR CARUANA (CONT’D)

Liver:  1.4 kilograms.

MARIA

(accusingly)

But you never came after us!

DR CARUANA

I wanted to, but my work -

MARIA

 

You were always bringing

the smell of death home.

DR CARUANA

So - I’m grateful you brought her back,

even if only to die here.

MARIA

It’s what she wanted.

 
Her mouth suddenly twists.

MARIA (CONT’D)

What’s that?

 

INSERT - GAPING CAVITY OF BODY

A white-and-red speckled ganglion.

BACK TO SCENE

MARIA (CONT’D)

It looks like an umbilical--

He lifts up the cord-like appendage and nods, eyes suddenly very sad.

DR CARUANA

She was pregnant.

              There’s no sign of the baby.

MARIA

These cuts - they were done with a knife.

DR CARUANA

Sacrificial.

MARIA

Oh, God, the baby was cut out of her, wasn’t it?

DR CARUANA

Probably.

MARIA

Dad, I don’t deal in probabilities - only facts!

DR CARUANA

Yes, sacrifice.

MARIA

Jesus!  (Beat) She isn’t the first, is she?

DR CARUANA

I’ve had my suspicions for a few months.

MARIA

Suspicions!  What, like Black Magic?

DR CARUANA

Probably.

MARIA

You’re joking, Dad.  Black Magic here –

               an island with a church for every day of the year?

DR CARUANA

Yes, but if you went to church you’d see the congregation is

of a certain age - and mostly old women.

MARIA

What will you do?

DR CARUANA

Nothing.  I’m too near to pension.

            I just want to retire with my roses on Gozo.

MARIA

            (outraged)

Well, I’m not going to let it lie. She deserves better. 

I’m going to find out which twisted pervert did this!

CUT TO:

MONTAGE - LIBRARIES - DAY

A)        Cathedral crypt. Maria leafing through a very old book padlocked to the wall.  Making notes.

B)  University library. Well-stocked shelves. Maria scanning microfiches.

C)  Private library. Maria reading computer screen, typing while surrounded by medieval shields, swords on the walls, with bookshelves between them.

D)  Public library. Maria annoyed at obviously not finding anything useful. On the shelf, a Book of Mediterranean Birds.

AZZOPARDI (V.O.)

We must stamp on the ugly face of crime!

It is ruining our children’s futures!

CUT TO:

EXT.  AERIAL VIEW - VALLETTA - DAY

A flock of big black birds -- Black Kites -- flying over Valletta Harbour, over the liners and steam-ships, the walled city, down to Queen’s Square, just off Republic Street ...

... where a crowd of people gather, listening to a loud brass band.

A garish float follows the band then stops outside the Caffé Cordina whose tables are ranged on the street and across the road in the square.  In a corner of the square is the black statue of Queen Victoria.

On the float is a National Party politician, Manuel AZZOPARDI, a megaphone in his hands.  Above him is a banner showing his name and party.

AZZOPARDI

Malta is not the centre of the universe. 

We must pay our way.

The black birds, not perturbed by the music and noise, perch on a roof-top, sinister, watching, and...

EXT/INT.  QUEEN’S SQUARE/CAFFÉ CORDINA - DAY

... Maria notices them and turns away, uncomfortable at their appearance.  She’s sitting opposite Detective Sergeant Francis ATTARD, 42, at a table in the square.  He’s a rather portly man in crumpled tan suit, open-necked shirt.  We can see the belt holster and revolver under his jacket folds.  Maria is in a colourful sleeveless dress.

Their sea-food meal is half-finished.  They sip white Marsovin wine.

MARIA

It’s good of you to see me, Francis,

at such short notice.

ATTARD

I spend most of my lunch-breaks here,

watching the world go by.

And not watching my weight!

Many of the tables are occupied, the diners idly curious about the antics of Azzopardi, who is overweight and sweating in his dark suit and tie.  Others couldn’t care less.  There’s the sound of cutlery, dishes, loud talking, the hubbub of passers-by.

Police in tan uniforms and Ray-ban sunglasses stand at regular intervals along the procession’s route up Republic Street. Waiters and waitresses weave between the tables. Nobody is in any particular hurry.

AZZOPARDI

We must get things done today,

         not next month, not next year!

A waiter rushes through the crowd and leans over Attard.

Attard gets up and follows the waiter through the crowd ...

INTO CAFFÉ CORDINA ...

... and passes two men, ZONDADARI, 40s, and BONELLO, 35, sitting by the window as he makes for the wall-mounted phone in the contrasting dark interior of the café ...

Zondadari is reflected in the ornate gilt mirror on opposite wall.  He’s handsome: the REFLECTION reveals a badly scarred RIGHT cheek, glinting eyes and a smile playing on his lips.  He is talking to Bonello who looks tired and drawn, eyes sunken yet filled with a strange light.

ZONDADARI

Now, Bonello, is the time to exert your

leadership of the New Power Party. 

Just concentrate very hard and your

opponent won’t know what hit him.

BONELLO

I will try, Count Zondadari.

Bonello closes his eyes and his face hardens.  Oblivious to his surroundings...

... while Maria is leaning over the back of her seat, watching Azzopardi the politician. 

Azzopardi stops a moment to bite on a sandwich a pretty girl helper has given him. Then:

AZZOPARDI

A vote for me is a vote for the future of these

magnificent islands! Vote Azzopardi!

Which is the signal for the band to start again. And, as if disturbed by the sound of the brass instruments, the black kites flap their wings, take off and drop towards the float, circling Azzopardi, suddenly covering his face.

Some onlookers scream. 

Azzopardi tries batting the birds away with the megaphone.  A bird snatches his sandwich and flies off.

And Azzopardi overbalances, the birds still surrounding him.

He falls off the float... as a policeman withdraws his revolver and shoots it in the air, chasing the birds away.

People run back, screaming, fearful.

While Azzopardi falls directly under the wheels of the following limousine.

Whistles blow, police rush through the panicking crowd. The band players stop, though not in unison, it’s a squawking cacophony... followed by silence...

While Maria, having seen it all, closes her eyes and...

...Bonello opens his eyes, looking quite pleased with himself.  He’s flushed, looks down, grateful his lap is covered with a napkin.

ZONDADARI

Enjoy that, then?

BONELLO

Yes, very much.

 

ZONDADARI

Remember, that was possible through

the sacrifice of a new life.

BONELLO

Yes... as you keep reminding me!

 

ZONDADARI

Just think what more is possible in this election. 

The New Power Party can’t lose!

Attard passes their table, heading outside to finish his meal with Maria. Attard notices the commotion and stops to talk with a policeman. He shakes his head, pats the cop on the shoulder and walks up to Maria’s table.

ATTARD

(to Maria)

I’ve got to give evidence at the

Law Courts in an hour.

MARIA

Can I have the story?

ATTARD

Sure. Family feud. The usual.

 

Sitting down, he thumbs back at the crowd.

ATTARD (CONT’D)

Looks like his policies took a nose-dive.

 

Maria pushes the plate away, no longer hungry.

 

MARIA

It was an awful accident.

At least, I think it was an accident.

 

ATTARD

Hey, don’t get paranoid on me. I doubt if there’s

anything in your father’s suspicions, but I’ll

dig up any strange goings-on in our reports, okay?

 

MARIA

(shaking her head)

You didn’t see those birds. They seemed

to know what they were doing.

Attard is cutting open a pawpaw with a fruit knife from his pocket.  Eating it. Wiping his mouth with a paper handkerchief.

Maria pulls herself together.

MARIA (CONT’D)

Okay, Francis, get me anything you can

find in your musty old police files.

ATTARD

The supernatural. Do you believe in it?

MARIA

No.  I just want the story. Something that’ll

push Azzopardi’s death off of page one.

ATTARD

Well, I do.  And it scares me.

She gives him a look of disbelief.

ATTARD (CONT’D)

Three years ago I was called in by

the curator of Ghar Dalam cave.

 

MARIA

I read about that in George’s back issues. You were lucky to

get out alive.  But I don’t remember anything supernatural...

ATTARD

Yes, I was lucky.  Not like the poor priest.

DISSOLVE TO:

 

EXT.  GHAR DALAM MUSEUM - DAY (THREE YEARS AGO)

... and there we'll leave it. The script was finished some time ago, the standard length, 150 pages. Note the white space - lots of it. Speech is kept to a minimum, also. I try to limit the instructions to the actors (in brackets) - they prefer to interpret the emotions of the characters.

 

Halloween-2 - the sepulchral place

I got fed up waiting for a publisher to grab this book after it was out-of-print, despite the good reviews, so have self-published it as a paperback and e-book under the new title Chill of the Shadow. (amendment: 27/10/2017)

 
Closer to Halloween still. This excerpt from Death is Another Life introduces the heroine, Maria. The scene in the autopsy room is a good 1,000 words longer than shown here, comprising back-story blending in with more character-building; I’ve excised it (without scalpel) in an attempt to keep this blog relatively short. The next excerpt will introduce the villain – or hero perhaps…

Map of Maltese islands

Story so far: a woman's body fished out of the sea...

CHAPTER 1: The deprived womb

Maria Caruana had been covering a child’s hit-and-run death for her newspaper when the ambulance crew brought in the young woman’s body.
            Hit-and-run was rare on Malta. Yet, even with a speed-limit in built-up areas of 25 – and 40mph elsewhere – and the sorry state of most roads mitigate against high speeds, fatal accidents were quite frequent. The islands boast about one car for every three people and at times they all seem to converge at the same destination at the same time, and that’s usually when she’s approaching a junction or roundabout in a hurry. And she was usually in a hurry. Panel-beating and car-repairs were growth industries in Malta.
            The only witness to the hit-and-run thought the culprit had been driving a blue Morris 1000. This information had made her friend Detective Sergeant Attard, the police investigator, blanch – Morrises were very common on the island. The police had begun calling in all cars answering the description when Maria stumbled upon a suspect vehicle in the grounds of a foreign Consulate in Floriana. While the political implications caused dithering, Maria, enraged by the diplomatic considerations, visited the morgue to see the dead child. She had every intention of writing a sensational and damning account for her paper, Niggez.

Floriana

            The morgue always affected her the same way, as though she had been immersed in a freezing cold bath and was only now drying out. Outside it may be a sunny mid-April day, but in here it was perpetual winter, uncompromisingly chilly ­– cold, appropriately like death. Air conditioning hummed from the ceiling. The white coverall over her peach embroidered cotton blouse and white skirt didn’t help, either. As she strolled down the sloping corridor, the rubber boots flapped noisily as they were two sizes too large. Fortunately, she didn’t have far to walk in them.
            She pushed open the swing door of the autopsy room.
            Dressed in green scrubs, the tall bony figure of her father Dr. Nicholas Caruana stood beside the woman’s waxy pale body on the metal table. He lifted up his weary gaze and the overhead strip-lights glared whitely on his spectacle lenses, concealing his eyes. He smiled a brief welcome to Maria as she entered.
            A smile seemed out of place here, she thought.
            He waved a bony hand distended with the blue tracery of tired old veins, beckoning.
            Seeing the naked woman’s corpse already slit open, Maria felt her skin crawl and her stomach tightened. Bile rose to the back of her throat but she swallowed her distaste and offered, “Sorry I’m late, Dad.”
            He snapped on a pair of sterile latex gloves and said in his cultured soft voice, “No problem. I haven’t started yet.”
            Maria did a double-take. The woman was cut from the upper chest down to the crotch. Now she realized that it was not her father’s usual ‘Y’ incision that extends across the chest from shoulder to shoulder and continues down the front of the abdomen to the pubis. The shape of the cut appeared to be reversed, in fact, and this alone made her blood run cold.
            Dr. Caruana directed his assistants to the next table where the little girl from the hit-and-run lay. He eyed them over his glasses and sighed, and then turned to her and whispered, “Take a good look here, Maria.” He shook his balding head, leathery lined features drawn, pallid. “Here, you’ll find all the evidence you need of our waning culture, the tide of violence besetting our Islands. Write it all, show the people the blood and gore!”
            His astringent tone surprised her but she shrugged it off, accepted his invitation and looked at the corpse.
            Stark lighting was not flattering and had little need to be. Under the harsh lights, the marred beauty of the woman touched Maria.
            The dead woman was in her mid-twenties, her long black hair lank and wet. Congealed blood glistened darkly all around the gaping wound. Her flesh was bloated, as if she had been immersed in water for some time, and there were many bruises, doubtless caused by the rocks and the buffeting of the waves.
            “Where’d they find her?” The croak in her voice sounded unnatural. This was her fourth visit to the mortuary yet the effect was no less traumatic for all the familiarity.
            He grunted, professional eyes scanning the corpse. “Fishermen off Delimara Point. About three hours ago. They hauled her in on their nets and radioed the police.” He peeled back the woman’s lips and shone a torch into the dead mouth; light glinted on the faultless white teeth.

Delimara Point

            The smell of formaldehyde and disinfectant clogged her nostrils, but could not completely relieve the stench of faeces, bodily gases and brine. She picked up a tube and squeezed out some cream and spread it on her upper lip to combat the bad odours.
            While his finger searched the mouth for any blockage or seaweed, he added, “The local policeman’s apparently having some difficulty getting any sense out of them. Very superstitious, those fishermen–”
            “Superstitious? What about?”
            “Suicides – a mortal sin, some of them think. And while I wouldn’t be so doctrinaire, I tend to agree with them. She’s been dead a good day and a half, I should say.”
            Maria nodded. She had a good memory, which was just as well for she doubted if she would be able to hold a pencil steady enough to make notes.
            He switched on the micro-recorder on his lapel and measured the size of the incisions in the woman’s stomach and chest and read out the details. He checked the scales by his side. “Lungs, 1.2 kilograms,” he read out, and placed the lungs in a plastic bag at the base of the table.
            Then he glanced up and said, “I see you’re wearing your mother’s necklace.”
            She fingered the crucifix. “Her dying wish, remember?” She added defiantly, “It doesn’t change how I feel about religion.”
            “Maria, Maria, you were always too hard on her beliefs.” He removed the victim’s heart and placed it on the scales. “Heart: 280 grams.” Automatically, he switched off the recorder. “I envied her deep faith, you know. As a scientist, I’ve lost that simplicity, that sureness.”
            “But, Dad, you were never close.”
            He shook his head, lifting the heart and bagging it and putting it alongside the lungs. “We were, my dear. You were too young to notice. When she left, taking you to America, a light went out in my world.” Now it was the liver’s turn for the scales and he switched on the recorder. “Liver: 1.4 kilograms.”
            “But you never came after us!”
            “I wanted to, but my work–”
            “You were always bringing the smell of death home.”
            “So – I’m grateful you brought her back, even if only to die here.”
            “It’s what she wanted.” She felt tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “All I wanted was for you two to get on again. Make her last days happy...”
            He shrugged. “I tried, but–”
            “Those big cuts – they’re almost like knife–” She stopped in mid-sentence as he lifted up a long cord-like appendage from the gruesome gash. It resembled a bloodless worm, engorged with fat and speckled with dried blood.
            With sudden, sickening realization, she backed away. “Oh, the umbilical cord – good God, Dad, she was pregnant!”
            “Not here, Maria.” he said urgently. His face was red. He glanced at his assistants ministering to the child victim: they seemed to accept his eccentricity and kept busy and out of his way.
            “Where’s her baby?” Maria whispered, her brow fevered and hot, her stomach squirming.
            He turned back to the corpse and concealed the gaping womb with his angular body.
            “Oh, God, the baby was cut out of her, wasn’t it?”
            “Probably.”
            “Dad, I don’t deal in probabilities – only facts!”
            “I don’t want to discuss this here,” he said softly, faintly. “I’ll speak to you later.”
            Maria shivered. She looked around at the sepulchral place. On the shelves were bottles, retorts, burners, periodicals and notebooks, journals and logs. The assistants had logged this woman in – Maria had watched them follow a set routine more than once – complete with her toe-tag resembling a luggage label, just like a mail office, or her paper’s dispatch room.
            The bizarre image of the deprived womb held on her retina, wouldn’t go away.

This book is now out of print - until further notice!

NB - Niggez is Maltese for 'sting'