Jack Thorne

It’s dark. Very dark indeed.

TOM lights a torch. A pathetic torch. But it’s almost blinding in this darkness.

As our eyes adjust, we take in his surroundings… He’s underneath a table. A small table that he’s 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.

I’d 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-who’ll-be-sorry-when-I’m-gone?

Check.

But then I tried to cure a leper – well, a kid with really bad eczema… it didn’t 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. He’s spitty.

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

Spotlight off.

TOM. I mean, talk about premature, I hadn’t 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. I’m not normally like that. I’m a good lover, really I am… oh, don’t 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 don’t 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 I’m unlucky.’

There are loads of other examples – the time I thought I’d 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 I’d written on my blog – the time when I thought I’d accidentally castrated my dog –

A dog howls in the distance. TOM frowns.

Okay, well, I sort of did castrate my dog. That’s a long story… my point is this…

It’s normal to be centre of your own world, in your head, star of your… and me… I don’t just star in my head, I kind of suffocate all other forms of life. But this – finally – I’ve got the opportunity to actually be some kind of star and I’m –

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

TOM. They’re a – having a funeral downstairs.

I’m supposed to be there. Down there. With them.

I mean, it’s not like a guy missing his own wedding – I mean, it’s not my

I used to have a fat friend. Sheridan. Named after a Sheffield Wednesday footballer – and they wondered why she ate? Bulimia in the end. She got hospitalised once she turned yellow. Then they moved her from the school – when she got out – of hospital – because they wanted to ‘change her routine’ and they weren’t sure our school was a ‘healthy environment’. Like any school is a healthy environment. But I did like watching her eat. With every mouthful you just saw this look of pure gratitude crossing her face – like – I can’t believe I’m getting to eat this… this is awesome.
I say ‘friend’. She wasn’t really. My friends are different. I’m – difficult to explain without sounding thick – but me and her don’t fit like that. Not that I fit anywhere. I’m the unfit fitter. I don’t fit. But not in a bad way. Just in a – way. To give an instance – and this is true – and very very illustrative – everyone came to my eighteenth-birthday party – I mean, ever

single one of the twenty-five I invited – and all were important – but also everyone left my birthday party – every single one of the twenty-five – at 10.30 p.m.
Which is not a normal time to leave any birthday party, I know. And that’s what I mean about…
But they were bored and it was quite shit and they thought it’d be quite funny to leave, and it sort of was, you know? Funny. Still quite an embarrassing one to explain to your parents. Where are all your friends? Um. Hiding. No. They’ve gone. Obviously. Where have they gone? Um. Home. Probably. Why? Why have they gone? Turn. Look parents in the eye. Because this was pointless. I basically turned it all on them. Which was fair enough. They’d made some effort. But the wrong effort. And so had I. I mean, it was mostly my fault. There was booze – but there were too many snacks and not enough Ann Summers’ toys or something. I don’t know.

When it came to applying to university, I said to Dad – ‘The thing is, Dad, I care, but I don’t really really care,’ and Dad was like – ‘What does that even mean?’ And I said that I just didn’t think – I thought it would probably be quite pointless. Anyway, we actually ended up taking it quite seriously. Dad got really into it. He’d been, Mum hadn’t, and nor had his sister – so he was all ‘First woman in the family to go to university, that’ll be quite something’. So we make lists and more lists, and we go to open days and do ratings and it’s quite fun and Dad eventually decides we’ll go London School of Economics, we’ll go Manchester, we’ll go Bristol and then for back-up we’ll go Essex and we’ll go Southampton. And I’m all – okay – and I – we – spent ages filling in forms – and a few had me up for interviews, and Dad came with me for them too.
The rejections came in one by one. One after the other. Tipping through the box.
Essex took me. The rest… didn’t.
And Dad – Dad just said – ‘Well, good to have tried, isn’t it?’ And Essex? Essex.
I scratched his car the night I got the last rejection, from Bristol, three weeks – three weeks that must have been – ago. I went out in the middle of the night with a hair grip and scratched ‘cunt’ in big letters.
He was really funny the next day. ‘Who did this? Who did this?’ And Abe, coming to walk me to school, stood with my dad and talked about who could have done it… ‘Who could have done it, sir?’ He sometimes calls my dad ‘sir’. Abe does. And both of them discussed in loud voices who could have written ‘cunt’ on my dad’s car… I’ve never met Abe’s parents – I don’t know why