Jordan - Closer to God

Anna Jordan CLOSER TO GOD NICK HERN BOOKS London www.nickhernbooks.co.uk ContentsCloser to God was first performed at the Old Red Lion Theatre, London, in 2009 as part of the inaugural OffCut Festival. It received the Overall Winner and Audience Choice Award. The cast was as follows:

HE	Peter Gordon
SHE	Ursula Early
Director	Anna Jordan

Characters HE, seventy-nine SHE, twenty HE and SHE sit on chairs. They are either side of an imaginary partition wall, at the top of a tower block.Unless a beat or pause is indicated, the text comes in very promptly on cue at a pace, almost overlapping. HE. Small. A tomboy. SHE. Grey. Grey.

Shrivelled. Like a prune HE. Got a mouth on her SHE. Like an old baked potato thats been left in the oven too long HE. Some of the words! SHE. Crusty.

Like hes, like hes, ah what is it? HE. F this, F that, little F-ing C SHE. Decaying! HE. Acid tongue. SHE. HE. HE.

Acid tongue. Potty mouth. SHE. A hundred and fucking two. HE. A pup. SHE. SHE.

Nearly dead. Beat. HE. She came a year ago. Was pleased at first. Good to have some life up here. SHE. SHE.

Hes been here since time began! HE. Thirty years in the sky! SHE. Sad. Old. Sad. HE. HE.

First it was Marie and Bob. Pretty lady. Barren. Something wrong with her fallopian tubes or what not. And a decent chappie. Although I think he left her in the end.

I lose track. SHE (calling to her baby). Jayden! HE. Then Derek. The bachelor. With his flashy waistcoats and his record player and his loose ladies.

SHE (shouting). Jayden! HE (chuckling to himself). I liked Derek. SHE (shouting). DO NOT PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH! HE. There she goes! SHE.

THAT IS DIRTY! HE. There she blows! SHE (louder). Im gonna count to three! ONE. HE (hushed mockingly). Run and hide, Jayden! SHE. HE. HE.

Dive for cover, old man! SHE. THREE. There is a suspended pause. Good boy. He crosses his chest in mock-relief. HE. Jayden. (Snorts and shakes his head.) Beat. Then for twelve years it was Sandra and Paul.

Good English names. Round white faces. When England was all about roast beef and funfairs, Christmas and long summers and chips and football, women drinking Cinzano and men in bookies, cars with smoke billowing from the exhaust and discos and the smell of petrol or toast or cut grass. Now its all messed up. All blurred. Beat. (A little louder, as though baiting her.) No rights for whites! SHE (shouting). Beat. (A little louder, as though baiting her.) No rights for whites! SHE (shouting).

Facist! HE (shouting). Nationalist! SHE (shouting). Racist! HE (shouting). Realist! SHE (to him). Who do you thinks gonna wipe your arse, old man? Eh? Who do you thinks gonna scoop mush into your dribbling gob, or change your shitty pants, or put up with your stinky stink as you draw your last fucking breath on some shitty NHS ward. Eh? Ill tell ya.

Black people, thats fucking who! HE. NEVER! SHE. Full of shit, old man! Beat. HE (ignoring her). These towers were the talk of the town at first. SHE. FULL HE.

High-rise living, that little bit closer to God. SHE. OF HE. Each flat would take it in turns to clean the landing, and each floor would have a flower arrangement and there would be a prize for the best. SHE. HE. HE.

Pride, thats called. SHE. You get me? HE. Whats now, eh? Last week someone did a turd in the lift. I got in and there it was, all curled up and brown and stinking in the corner, with some of it up the side. SHE. SHE.

It was you! It was your turd, old man! HE (shouting suddenly). Belt up! Beat. She does. It didnt end well. Paul died of cancer and Sandra threw herself off, but they were happy, while they were here. He used to build ships out of matches. And she collected china pigs.

Theres been a few. Jumpers, that is. Since then its been a sea of brown faces, foreign tongues. Assads and Mohameds and Osamas. Six of them, living on top of each other in that tiny flat! Then empty. I HE. She SHE. She SHE.

Came to live HE. Came along SHE. New start for me. With my boy. HE. Beat. SHE. Beat. SHE.

Chance for a bit of space. Just didnt think wed be so high. No air up here. Gets muggy HE. Close. SHE.

Walls paper-thin. Can hear him fart HE. Hear her puke SHE (to him). Can smell it sometimes too, old man. HE. Drunk. Drunk.

Those alco-poppy things. Sweet sicky strawberry stink. SHE (to him). I cleaned it up! HE (to her). I slipped in it next day! SHE (to him). Whatever Beat. But the worst thing.

The very worst thing is: HE and SHE. The lifts. HE. Out of action for days at a time. SHE (to him). At least we agree on one thing, old man! HE.

They come to fix it, then two hours later SHE. Broke again. Cant do nineteen floors with a pushchair HE. Cant do the stairs with this leg HE. So then were SHE and HE. HE. HE.

In a shoebox in the sky. Beat. SHE. If I sit around here for too long I start to get that feeling. That numb feeling? Its like Im sitting here and it starts at my feet, up to my knees then right through my body, up across my chest and into my neck, face and the top of my head. I feel dead. I feel that Im dying, slowly.

Dying and rotting up here. Like old Mr Stinky Stink. But we dont wanna be like Mr Stinky Stink, do we, Jayden? So we have our music. Reggae, drum and bass, dance hall, grime, crank it up and blare it loud! HE. The jungle drums. SHE.

Dont we, Jayden!! HE. The boom boom boom. SHE. Our own little carnival, hey, baby? HE. Makes me feel a sort of dread. SHE. SHE.

CAR-NI-VAL! Woo-hoo! HE. Stupid A grown man, but it makes me feel sort of afraid. SHE. And I dance. I dance like Im at the fucking Ministry of Sound, I dance and I sweat and then I know Im alive. HE.

Daft, really. Beat. SHE. But you have your telly, old man. HE. Its true. SHE. SHE.

He does it all, all day, loves the quizzes HE. Fifteen to One. Countdown. SHE. And the DIY HE. 60 Minute Makeover SHE.

And most of all, and this makes me piss myself, most of all he loves the programmes where people pack up their pissy sorry little lives in England and head for a new one abroad, like Place in the Sun HE. I dont SHE. He does! And the really stupid fucking thing is that he never goes out, do you, old man? HE (turning suddenly, standing). And where the hell have you been? SHE. Im young! Ive got time! Beat. (His question bothers her.) Ive got time. Only seen each other a few times, me and old man.

In the lift, which he fills with his shit and medicine smell, or on the landing, where he puts out his rubbish. Sometimes it spills out. He seems to live on Fray Bentos pies. HE. She doesnt eat, only smokes, thinks I dont know. SHE.

Knocked on him once. Slammed the door in my face. HE (to her). I didnt know who it was! SHE. Wouldnt even take the chain off, just stuck his flabby grey face out the gap and said: What you want? HE. She was so how do they say it well, in-your-face.

SHE (to him). Last time I offer to go shop for you, ungrateful fucker! HE. Ive got everything I need, I dont need you! Beat. Tins. They last forever, dont they? Stocked up like a nuclear bunker I am, in case leg or lift fail. Or both. Beat. (Leans forward, quietly.) I was sorry afterwards.

But I dont think anyone had knocked on my door since 2006. And that was the Jehovahs. I told them where they could stick their