Thorne - Burying your brother in the pavement

Jack Thorne

BURYING YOUR
BROTHER IN THE
PAVEMENT

NICK HERN BOOKS

London

www.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Burying Your Brother in the Pavement was commissioned as part of the 2008 National Theatre Connections Festival and premiered by youth theatres across the UK, including a performance at the National Theatre in July 2008.

Each year the National Theatre asks ten writers to create new plays to be performed by young theatre companies all over the country. From Scotland to Cornwall and Northern Ireland to Norfolk, Connections celebrates great new writing for the stage and the energy, commitment and talent of young theatremakers.

www.nationaltheatre.org.uk/connections

Characters

TOM

MR WILKINS

COURTNEY

BOY SOPRANO

AUNTIE HELEN

FRIENDLY PHIL

UNCLE GERRY

TIGHT

MARTIN

LUKE

BILL

SIMON

SANDRA

LEO

LIBBY

RICKY

JK

DRUNK BILL

DAVID McPHEE

MISS HANDS

PUSHCHAIR MUM

BABYFATHER

ESTATE AGENT

STAN

CLIENT

PC BOB

PC BILL

UNDERWEAR MAN

And MOTHERS, FURNITURE PEOPLE, SCHOOLKIDS

Production Notes

The cast can be as large as a stage can contain, or as small as five.

Aside from Tom, Tight, Luke and Courtney, the parts are non-gender specific. No parts are racially specific.

There is no score, and so be encouraged to do and try everything with the music. It would be brilliant to have either live music or have someone mixing sound live onstage with the actors. The more the musicians or the sound guy can be bought into the action, the better.

The most important thing is that this play is kept scruffy nothing is beautiful everything is quick and swiftly accomplished. This should look like a piece of theatre achieved on the bounce and stuffed full of life. This means two things one, if you happen to have a brilliant rollerblader in your cast, then use her and add a triple-Lutz somersault to the Dairylea song number. Equally, dont let the technical overwhelm: I specify a lot of spotlights in the first few pages, but these could easily be torches held up to peoples faces, and, in fact, might work better like that. Scene changes should be incorporated into the action. All the stage and auditorium should be used.

Production References

Robbie Williams was a popular entertainer in post-war Britain. Jesus Christ was less popular, but equally entertaining in prewar Galilee. Planning Law is both popular and entertaining.

One

Its dark. Very dark indeed.

TOM lights a torch. A pathetic torch. But its almost blinding in this darkness.

As our eyes adjust, we take in his surroundings Hes underneath a table. A small table that hes had to squeeze himself underneath of. The table is in a large dusty attic.

TOM is an ordinary-looking teenager in his early teens. He is wearing the hand-me-downs of a cooler older brother. But he wears them slightly wrong. Too many buttons done up on a polo shirt, that sort of thing

TOM. I first had the idea that I was the son of God, when I was nine.

Id just read the Bible.

Not the whole Bible, not cover-to-cover but you know extensive dipping Anyway, the more I read, the more it sort of made sense, that I was the second coming. Jesus Christ. Two.

The sequel.

I mean, my mum a virgin? Well, looking at her you could certainly believe so. Check. Dad not my real dad? We never did have much in common. Check. Me leading a sad-and-tortured-life-where-everyone-hates-me-and-I-have-to-die-for-the-good-of-humanity-wholl-be-sorry-when-Im-gone?

Check.

But then I tried to cure a leper well, a kid with really bad eczema it didnt work. He just bled a lot. I tried to rip some of his skin off and

Beat.

I first got the idea I might have Aids after a particularly aggressive sex-ed class you know, the sort of class where your teacher just repeatedly shouts

Spotlight on a harassed-looking teacher, in a tatty-looking blazer. Hes spitty.

MR WILKINS. You must NEVER have sex. Never. Ever. Ever.

Spotlight off.

TOM. I mean, talk about premature, I hadnt even persuaded a girl to kiss me yet. But he always was premature, Mr Wilkins.

Spotlight on MR WILKINS inflagrante (tastefully) with a blow-up doll.

MR WILKINS. Im not normally like that. Im a good lover, really I am oh, dont look like that

The blow-up doll looks back, the same open-mouthed expression on its face it always has.

TOM. So Aids me? Unlikely! But then I had a tetanus shot and it took them ages to find a vein and I thought well, maybe I had a mutated version of Aids the sort where you dont get to do anything good to catch it. I caught mine through drugs. I caught mine through sex. I just, well, I just sort of got it. Why? Because Im unlucky.

There are loads of other examples the time I thought Id developed a cure for blindness in biology class because I seemed to be able to see things with my eyes closed the time when I thought I may have inadvertently started a war between Korea and the Isle of Sheppey with some stuff Id written on my blog the time when I thought Id accidentally castrated my dog

A dog howls in the distance. TOM frowns.

Okay, well, I sort of did castrate my dog. Thats a long story my point is this

Its normal to be centre of your own world, in your head, star of your and me I dont just star in my head, I kind of suffocate all other forms of life. But this finally Ive got the opportunity to actually be some kind of star and Im

TOM hears something. He freezes and turns off the light. He indicates to us silence, takes a deep breath and holds it.

COURTNEY opens up a hatch in the attic floor and light immediately spills into the room. She looks around aggressively with a torch of her own.

COURTNEY. Tom Tom? If youre up here, you little turd

The light passes across TOM, his face is racked with fear.

Tom? Dont be a shit okay?

She twirls the torch through one more tour. It sees nothing.

No, turds not in the loft, Dad

She closes the hatch. And the light goes with it. Were back in the dark.

TOM breathes out, counts to three, steadies himself, opens his eyes and then turns on the torch again.

TOM. Theyre a having a funeral downstairs.

Im supposed to be there. Down there. With them.

I mean, its not like a guy missing his own wedding I mean, its not my funeral, obviously TA-DAH! Im alive so, but still Im expected to be there. And not here hiding under a table in my attic.

He chews a finger and looks contemplative.

Luke my brother always used to come up here when he was upset. I was too afraid always thought there was something living up here. Something swimming in the water tank, sliding through the pipes, nestling in the insulation. But now well

TOM looks around. He shines the torch around.

Funerals fun-e-rals rals from the Latin meaning the rule is. The rule is fun. Great news for my little cousin Kevin, who has jam around his mouth and mayonnaise in his hair and likes randomly launching into his world-famous impression of Robbie Williams. And less good news for my mum who just wants to cry on me.

Spotlight on a MOTHER, in tears. TOM looks at her carefully. She looks up at TOM.

They hold for maybe fifteen seconds, just looking at each other. Then the spotlight flicks off and