IN DEFENCE OF SPOILERS
There’s a lot of shit hitting the fan now on the Official Forum all to do with the events occurring in mid-November to celebrate Brookside’s twentieth anniversary. Basically, there’s been a moratorium declared on the O F, effectively prohibiting discussion of any spoiler, true of false, connected in any way with Brookside up to the time the anniversary episode is aired.
What this amounts to is simply that the Official Forum, unusually (for Brookside) so open and tolerant of viewers’ frank opinions of the state of the programme at the moment, has restricted freedom of speech. In doing so, it’s gagged itself in a way that’s laughable.
How?
A couple of weeks ago, Rachel Lindsey, the actress who plays Sammy Rogers, gave an interview in The Daily Express. It was, quite frankly, the sort of interview that, had any other contracted actress in any other soap said similar, would have been tantamount to professional suicide.
Lindsey said the show stank. It not only stank; it was rancid. She bemoaned the fact that Brookside was no longer the front-running soap on the cutting edge that it once was, during her first stint, when it took relevant issues by the collar and shook them in the public’s face, daring them to be discussed openly. And such issues were enacted by quality professionals - the likes of Sue Johnstone, Amanda Burton, Anna Friel.
But no more, said Lindsey. The show had basically sacrificed its integrity by dumbing down and sexing up sensational storylines.
A few nights later on BBC Choice’s Pure Soap, she went further, by waxing lyrical about Eastenders and saying that this was the only soap she watched.
That much has been said by Sarah White.
So the cast isn’t even supportive now. To them, it’s just a regular pay cheque.
Someone’s pointed out that Lindsey’s contract runs out in November. Presumably, it’s not being renewed - hence, the outburst in a style of which Michael Greco would have been proud. But at least she’s had the courage, whatever the motive, to say what the majority of its long-term viewers have been saying since God was a boy - or at least since Paul Marquess took over and blighted the show.
And now the spoilers. It’s that time of year again. Any day now, the tabloids will be rife with what’s going to happen at the Rovers/the Vic/the Woolpack over Christmas and New Year. People will start to talk. Others will listen. Soon those occasional autumnal viewers will place bums on chairs and tune in in the rush up to the Nativity. Ratings will increase. Before that time, a plethora of discussion of these storylines will be generated.
But Brookside?
Brookside dares to be different. The storyline for the anniversary programme is being kept strictly under wraps. Achtung! Sprechen ist verboten! (I remember this from the sign behind Richard Dawson’s head in Hogan’s Heroes). But guess what?
We know what’s going to happen.
We know that there’s going to be a siege/an explosion/a rape - what else? This is Brookside. When in doubt, blow it out, take a few hostages - oh, and while you’re at it, rape a girl, preferably one meant to be sexy and likeable but who’s having a bit of bother connecting with the target audience. There, that’s better. So many of the olds have turned off, the new viewers won’t twig that it’s all been done before - a few times, maybe. And we can get rid of that pesky old bat, Marg Campi and that field hand, Leon Lopez. And isn’t it about time someone got pregnant again? Never mind, the last guy she slept with has been in an urn in a crematorium for over a year now.
By the way, the episode is aired the same week that the Slaters’ house burns in Eastenders, killing Trevor and Tom. It’s also the same week Ade steals Ken Barlow’s car and takes Sarah Louise joyriding with disastrous results. Now, YOU tell ME what we’ll all be talking about that week? Well, it won’t be another siege/explosion/rape.
Dire and Plank stand at the back door of the conservatory and watch the police crew dig deeper into the crater in the back garden.
Marty sits, looking ragged and exhausted, at the interview table.
Jacqui settles Ron onto the couch in the Dixon living room.
As Dire and Plank watch the police crew gesticulate and dig, Dire wonders aloud what they could have found. Plank, never moving his eyes from the scene at hand, doesn’t know.
Next door, Jimmy creeps along the length of the fence on tiptoe, trying to see what’s taken the interest so solidly of the police crew. In doing so, he catches the baleful eye of Dire and Plank. Embarrassed, Jimmy motions to the pair. They make no response.
They’ve found soomthink, announces Plank. What does Dire think it could be?
‘I don’t know,’ she replies, flatly.
Jimmy gazes at the crew, trying to make himself taller. (Why doesn’t he just go upstairs into one of the bedrooms?)
Marty sits at the interrogation table, methodically demolishing a styrofoam cup. His silent solicitor reaches across and takes the cup from his hand. DI Clancy stomps into the room, intimidatingly. He slaps his hand down onto the table with a bang which makes the weary Marty start.
The forensic report is back on the Muddie computer, he announces, with ill-concealed glee. Where did Marty happen to buy it?
Marty, knowing that Christy had provided the computer, is immediately on his guard. He, uh, he doesn’t remember, he tells the detective, unconvincingly.
Doesn’t remember? Scoffs DI Clancy. Doesn’t he have a receipt?
Well, yer see, Marty fumbles, they don’t always keep receipts.
Now the detective is openly sceptical. Everyone keeps computer receipts for the guarantee! He exclaims. What about a bank statement or a credit card statement? They would show the purchase.
Marty maintains that he paid cash for the computer.
No questions asked, quips the discerning detective. Marty is puzzled by the remark.
This computer was stolen two years ago, DI Clancy explains, from a local pharmacy. The records are all deleted, but the forensics team had found them on the hard drive, hidden away. How does Marty account for that? He wants to know.
At Bicker-Bicker House, Rabbity Ruth is preparing to pack Luke the Bunny off for an afternoon spent in the company of his father, the hapless Sean. Sean and Luke are off to the park for an afternoon of football. Ruth ushers the po-faced child, who makes Stephen Beale look pleasant, to the front door, wiping the inherited snot from the kid’s face and admonishing him to be a good boy for his father.
Of course he will, attests the waiting Sean, confidently.
Rabbity Ruth, who wants to believe that the hapless Sean is the embodiment of everything evil and inadequate under the sun, isn’t so sure. If there’s any trouble, she advises the hapless Sean, the hapless Sean is to call her immediately.
There’ll be no trouble, assures Sean, blandly. It’s just a dad and his lad off to the park for a game of footie. As he leaves with Luke, the child (as instructed by the director, off-screen) waves half-heartedly to his selfish slut of a mother. As the pair move down the driveway, Rabbity Ruth snorks back some left-over snot that’s hovering over her too-short upper lip and hops swiftly to the front window to watch the departing progress of the hapless Sean and Luke the bunny, with a look of obdurate distaste.
Back at the copshop, however, Marty is busy denying the fact that he knew that Adele’s computer was stolen goods. He’s told the ubiquitous Scouse story of having bought the equipment off an unnamed man in an unremembered pub, no questions asked. Of course, DI Clancy has heard it all before. He’s even bought the teeshirt with the logo. So Marty’s bought the computer, off a stranger, in a pub, he recapitulates, without even the merest of thoughts that it might be stolen?
Marty shrugs. Everybody sells computers these days, he says, guilessly.
DI Clancy’s brows knit together in genuine puzzlement. Well, he wants to know, who ARE these people who sell computers then? Scallies and thieves, most likely, in his opinion.
Marty leans back in his chair, the lies flowing easily now in abject defence of Christy’s position. Why, loads of people were being given computers, he blags. By the Government, no less. Lots of people don’t want these computers, he continues. It’s no wonder they’re being sold.
Now Clancy is REALLY confused. Just who did Marty say gave these people these so-called computers?
The Government, repeats Marty, earnestly. Why, remember that drive a few years back about wanting to get every home on line? A computer on every desk in the schools? It was part of a Government drive?
The detective repeats a question. Did it not seriously occur to Marty that this computer just might have been stolen?
Marty shakes his head. It’s not his fault if the Government is off its head, he shrugs.Then he looks the detective squarely in the eye, man to man. Just what would DI Clancy do, he asks, if he were totally broke and some suited bleurt gave him a grand’s worth of computer equipment? Especially if his kids wanted the newest trainers and the latest England strip? Why, he’d flog it, of course, he would.
Behind DI Clancy, a door opens and a silent policeman walks in, handing the detective a note. Clancy smiles enigmatically and tells the officer that he’ll ‘be over at the house soon’. Turning back to Marty, he leans over the table ominously. The crew have dug something up at Sitcom House, he informs Marty. Is Marty certain he doesn’t want to tell Clancy anything else?
What? Asks Marty, genuinely innocent.
‘You tell me,’ replies Clancy. He turns and walks to the door of the interrogation room. He has to talk with the officers conduction the search, he informs Marty, using his formal voice, and also to Marty’s son, Plank.
As he turns to leave the room, Marty calls out to him. Would DI Clancy do him one small favour? He asks. He has a message to send to his family.
DI Clancy waits.
‘Would yer tell’em that I love’em,’ Marty says, his voice beginning to crack, ‘and that I miss’em?’
DI Clancy waits again. ‘Anything else?’ He asks, after awhile.
‘That’s all that matters,’ Marty murmurs.
Jacqui is fussing and fretting over a recumbent Ron. Ron is fussing and fretting over a fussing and fretting Jacqui. Shouldn’t she really be at work now? He wants to know.
Jacqui punctiliously reminds Ron that he has to have someone with him 24/7 - at least until the following week.
Yes, Ron groans, but he knows how pushed Jacqui is at the moment, especially with Sammy Rogers in Spain.
That’s no problem, Jacqui assures him.
Trust that one to swan off on a moment’s notice, Ron grumbles about Sammy. But Jacqui is surprisingly understanding about Sammy’s absence.
‘I’m not soft,’ Ron tells her, touching his forehead wisely. ‘I know yer strooglin’.’
OK, so she misses Sammy, Jacqui admits, but Ii’s the only opportunity Sammy had to spend time with Louise, she explains. God knows, she finds it hard enough with her two. She knows how difficult it is to work and spend time with her kids. (What? When does Madam ever spend time with her children?) Jacqui’s mobile rings, and she takes the call. It’s someone reminding her about an appointment.
After ringing off, she trots to the front window and peers up and down the Close, glancing at her watch. Where’s Max? She wonders. He should be here by now.
In the back garden of Sitcom House, watched by Dire and Plank, the police crew have happened upon an object in the aperture in the ground. Dire holds her breath. Next door, Jimmy peers, narrow-eyed and surreptitiously, over the fence. The police life a large, wooden box from the hole. Opening it, they find inside an old television set.
Back at the Dixons’, Jacqui’s plumping Ron’s cushions, ensuring that he’s comfortable. Ron wants to make sure Mike keeps the place clean and tidy, she nags. And Ron doesn’t want to let his own hygiene standards slip.
Don’t wuddy, Ron reassures her. He knows all about the risk of infection.
Jacqui glances about the place and offers to do some jobs for Ron while she’s there. Ron demurs. He’s quite capable of washing his own unmentionables, he says. He might need help in a few years when he’s old and feeble, he says, but not now.
Jacqui glances out the window again. Max should be here by now, she frets.
Well, he’s probably on his way, Ron nudges, like Jacqui should be.
But she can’t leave Ron alone, she reminds him.
Look, Ron says, tersely, he’ll be OK for five minutes or so. He’s not going to do any jumping around and he has the phone if he needs anything or anyone. He urges Jacqui to go and keep her appointment.
Dire and Plank walk through the sitcom kitchen, followed by DI Clancy. Dire is expressing amazement that someone would bury a television set. The police have destroyed their garden for the sake of a dumped telly. The doorbell rings and Dire goes to answer it.
Plank asks Clancy why anyone would bury a television and go to the trouble of wrapping it up like that.
Forget about the television for the time being, the detective says.
Until forensics get hold of it, mutters Plank, under his breath.
Brigid stands on the doorstep, with Antony lurking about in the background. She’s returned from town and is asking Dire if she thinks Antony should be taken off for a bit. As Dire tells Brigid about finding the discarded television, Antony wanders away to the corner of the house. In the background, we hear Brigid’s amazement at the find and we hear Dire telling her that the police aren’t interested in the television. The bizzies want to talk to Plank, she says. They seem more interested in the Imelda letter found on the pc.
Surely Dire doesn’t think that Plank wrote that? Brigid asks, indignantly.
As the two women witter in the background, Ant watches a cavalcade of people walk by, each one seeming, in his mind to stop and stare accusingly at him. We see them warped in convex proportions, as through Antony’s warped vision of the world. (Good symbolism). A uniformed policeman stops and stares coldly at him. Then a member of the digging crew, clad in a white, hooded outfit stops and gives him the fish-eye. A third figure enters from the left, wearing a dark suit and clasping a sheaf of papers and a plate of food. He stops and glances at Ant. It’s Lance Powell.
The key turns in the Dixon front door, and Ron thinks it’s Max.
‘About bloody time yer got here!’ He calls out to his son-in-law.
Lance pops his head around the door to the lounge. ‘Soddy, Mr Dixon,’ he apologises, sweetly. ‘But Max is busy, so he sent me instead.’
Ron half raises himself and looks at Lance reluctantly. Well, er, Max was supposed to bring him soomthink to eat, he says.
Oh, Lance has it right here, he replies, showing Ron the covered plate. It’s steamed fish. Sea trout and fennel sauce, Lance adds. He goes into the kitchen to heat it up. As he pfaffs about preparing the dish in the kitchen, Lance chatters away to Ron. That son-in-law of Ron’s was turning Lance into a right lackey, he says. Why, Max is running Lance ragged. He even has Lance shopping for an anniversary present for Max to give to Jacqui. And Lance only suggested a few things for Max, he grumbles. He didn’t bargain on becoming his personal shopper.
Ron can’t hide the look of disgust on his face.
Oh, and did Ron remember to take his aspirin? Lance dutifully asks.
Lance is only the fourth person that day to remind him to do that, Ron remarks.
Lance giggles. ‘I woulda made a great Florence Nightingale, me. Oh, and after yer eat, I’ll give yer an enema.’
Ron grimaces.
Rabbity Ruth hops uneasily about the untidy lounge as Ma drones whiningly on the phone in the background. Finishing the call, she slopes into the room, her greasy, white trash hair hanging in skeins about her common face. That was Ellie’s mother, she whines. Ellie phoned her from Peru, wherever that is. Bitch wanted the family to know that she’d got the money they wired her - of course, nothing else matters.
Why didn’t Bitch call them then? Rabbity Ruth wants to know.
Oh, she said she tried, Ma witters, but everyone was out. Said she would send an e-mail from some internet cafe. (In Peru?)
Rabbity Ruth snorks back some green bilious snot and says they’ll have to get Ali to keep an eye out for an e-mail. (Well, I’m surprised each individual family member doesn’t have their own personal computer.
Oooh, says Ma, plopping herself down on the mingey sofa, she’ll haveter learn how ter werrk them e-mail things. Then she can send Bitch one back. Still, it’s a relief ter know Bitch is still OK, and that the tits are still perpendicular.
A mother never stops wuddying about her kids, Ruth repeats, trying to believe the sentiment, herself.
Antony creeps toward the back door of the conservatory, trying to sneak a peep at the digging site. In the background, we hear DI Clancy aggressively questioning Plank about the letter. Plank is vociferously protesting that he knows nothing about the letter and issues the now standard wail that he doesn’t know how to operate a computer. (I find this hard to believe. Plank is 22, which means it would have been 1996 when he left school. Computers were standard school procedure at that time. Get real).
Then the detective addresses Dire about the fact that the computer was stolen property.
All this is going on as Ant sees the police crew mark various points of the digging search with wooden crosses. He blinks his eyes and when he opens them, he sees a white-hooded member of the police crew kneeling by one cross. The person turns and stares full-faced at Antony, it’s Imelda, looking coldly accusing. Antony’s eyes widen in terror.
Brigid is making tea in the kitchen and wondering aloud if DI Clancy takes sugar. He’s still badgering Dire and Plank about the computer, and they’re protesting their innocence. Dire blurts out that she TRUSTED Marty about the computer.
TRUSTED? DI Clancy repeats the word in the past tense, emphasising the implication of this.
TRUSTS, corrects Dire, pointedly.
‘Look,’ interjects Plank, impatiently, ‘no one knows anythink about a letter or Imelda Clough OR what happened to her.’
Appearing suddenly at the kitchen door, Ant squeaks in a small voice: ‘I do.’
All eyes - Clancy’s, Dire’s, Plank’s and Brigid’s - suddenly come to rest on him, apprehensively.
‘I know what happened,’ Antony continues, querulously. ‘It was me. I did it.’
Dire and Plank seat Antony between them on the sitcom sofa and DI Clancy kneels in front of them, facing Ant and waiting expectantly.
Ron is now sitting up on the sofa, finishing the meal Lance has brought. The food’s very good, he says, appreciatively.
Lance takes the compliment and then asks Ron to help him suggest a gift Max can give Jacqui for their first wedding anniversary.
Ron tries to demur. He’s Jacqui’s dad, not her husband, he says.
But Ron knows Jacqui better than anyone, Lance protests.
All he used to get her mother was some bath salts, Ron says, lamely.
Lance crosses his legs and takes out the stapled sheafs of paper. Max downloaded loads of stuff, he says, waving the sheafs at Ron. How about dinner at the Ritz? Lance reads.
In London? Says Ron. Too far and too expensive.
Too far, repeats Lance, pursing his lips. Guess that leaves out a weekend in Barcelona?
‘With two kiddies?’ Squeals Ron. ‘A waste o’time and money!’
‘Pampered in Paris?’ Suggests Lance.
Ron’s had enough of this malarkey. ‘Bloody Norah,’ he exclaims. ‘Why moost he make a song and dance o’this? Why can’t he joost get her soomthink in a box with ribbons?’
Back at Sitcom House, Dire and Plank try to soothe a nervous Ant, as DI Clancy tells the lad to take his time.
And Ron and Lance continue to debate Jacqui’s present. ‘What about champagne and chocolates?’ Ron suggests.
Lance shakes his head ruefully. Max would deem that boring. What about adopting a bush baby or a seahorse?
Hmph! Ron snorts. And where would they keep a seahorse? In the bath?
Oh, it wouldn’t get sent to them, Lance assures him. It would stay in the aquarium or the zoo.
‘Joost as well,’ Ron mutters. ‘With RJosh around, a seahorse wouldn’t stand a chance.’
Lance throws up his hands in despair. He’s at a loss. What about some lacy lingerie?
Ron nods sarcastically. And Lance would know all about where to buy that!
‘It’s mail order,’ retorts Lance. ‘And before yer say anythink, it’s not that kinda MALE!’
Ron reaches out and takes the sheaf of papers from Lance. There moost be soomthink in there, he reckons, thumbing through the set.
Lance frets that Max would be angry if Lance only came up with something as boring as flowers. It’s hard to live up to Max’s style, he tells Ron. Max told him that he proposed to Patricia in a hot-air balloon.
Ron glances up from the sheaf of papers and grunts. ‘I always did say Maxie Farnham was off his head.’ He throws the sheaf of papers onto the sofa. ‘Why can’t we joost go back ter the good old days when men fergot their anniversaries?’ He wonders. Suddenly, Ron grabs his chest. Lance rises up, concerned, but Ron assures him that it’s just a twinge.
Should he call Jacqui? Lance asks, hurriedly.
No, Ron says, and then looks uncomfortable and embarrassed. But he thinks he might have to use the loo and he’ll need help with the stairs. Lance offers to help him to his feet.
‘But I’ll not be needin’ me backside wiped,’ Ron assures him as Lance helps him toward the stairs.
‘Small mercies, eh?’ Quips Lance.
Ant’s choking back sobs as DI Clancy urges him to tell his story in his own words. Antony becomes tearful. In a small, child-like voice, more the voice of an eight year-old than a twelve year-old, he confesses that he wrote the letter.
Why did he write it? Asks the detective, gently.
Ant shrugs, sniffing and breathing heavily. He just - wrote it, he says, lamely. He wanted it all to stop.
Dire leans into his ear. Why did Antony write a letter to the police pretending to be Imelda Clough?
Antony shrugs again. ‘I just did,’ he whines.
‘Yer moost have had a reason,’ Plank chides.
‘Did you do it to stop the Cloughs from worrying?’ Asks Brigid.
DI Clancy takes control. He wants to hear Antony’s own words and no prompting.
Antony looks at the detective with open fear in his eyes. He did it for his dad, he says.
Did his father make him write the letter? Asks DI Clancy, misunderstanding the statement.
‘No,’ protests Antony. ‘Me dad was oopset at the police questionin’. I joost wanted it ter stop so’s he could be me dad again.’
DI Clancy rises to his feet uncertainly. Is Antony certain his father didn’t ask him to write the letter?
Antony nods.
‘I need to ask you some more questions, Antony,’ the policeman says, curiously gentle. ‘I need to know if you’re telling me the truth.’
Antony asserts that he IS telling the truth.
‘Can you remember the name of the file on the computer?’ Asks the policeman.
Antony shakes his head.
‘Did you save and close it or delete it? He asks.
Antony replies that he deleted the file.
The detective nods.
But how can you find a file on a computer if it’s deleted? Dire asks.
There are ways, the policeman says. And can Antony remember what he said in the letter?
Antony recites the letter from memory. ‘It began: "To the police. My name is Imelda Clough, the girl you are looking for. I am safe and well.’
The detective nods. And did Antony post the letter, himself? He asks.
Antony nods.
Brigid glares at the policeman accusingly. Why doesn’t he believe the lad?
The policeman looks beaten. He admits that he believes Antony, as Dire bends to kiss her youngest stepson.
Back at Bicker-Bicker House, Rabbity Ruth is frantically trying to get hold of the hapless Sean. She rings and rings his mobile, but only gets voice mail. She snorks her snot noisily. Sean’s doing this deliberately, she moans to a passing Ma. He always leaves his mobile off when he’s with Luke. (Not a bad idea. His time with his son is precious. He doesn’t want to be disturbed.)
Ma says exactly this. The hapless Sean probably doesn’t want to be distracted as he has so little time to spend with his son.
Well, what if she needed him urgently? Argues Ruth, senselessly, because she has no common sense.
She doesn’t, Ma points out. Why is she trying to get in touch with him?
To make sure Sean gets Luke back on time, she says.
How long before he’s due back? Ma asks.
Ten minutes, says Ruth.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ says Ma. ‘You put your feet up. You need to chill,’ adds trendy Ma. (That Ma! She’s all trend and no morals!)
Lance sits, head in hands, patiently waiting at the top of the Dikko stairs for Ron to finish his business in the toilet. The doorbell rings, and Ron shouts to Lance to answer it. Skipping down the stairs, Lance opens the door to find Brigid waiting on the doorstep. She’s surprised to find Lance there, she says. She only came by to see how Ron was faring.
Oh, Ron’s on the throne, Lance informs her, letting her in. Ron shouts down the stairs from the toilet, wanting to know who the visitor is and Brigid calls out to him, identifying herself. Ron will be down in a moment, he calls out, as Lance leads Brigid into the lounge.
She just HAD to get away from the Muddies for a moment, Brigid says, breathlessly. The place is overrun by police.
Have they found anything? Asks Lance, busying himself by making Brigid a cup of tea.
No, answers Brigid, stoutly, and they’re not about to!
Lance shoots her a sympathetic, but sceptical look. Everyone’s saying this is about that Imelda Clough, he says.
Hmph! Brigid snorts, maintaining that Imelda Clough ran away to London and that’s that. At that moment, we hear the sound of the toilet flushing, and Lance rolls his eyes heavenward.
There he goes, Lance says, motioning his head upwards. Now it’ll take ten minutes to get downstairs.
How IS Ron? Brigid asks, seriously.
Well, Lance says, confidentially, he says he’s OK, but Lance can tell that the surgery has really knackered him. Lance glances anxiously at his watch. Oh, dear, he witters, he’s got to be at work soon, and Jacqui’s late.
Brigid takes command of the situation, brusquely. As Lance has to go to work, she suggests, why not let her stay and look after Ron and then Lance could leave? After all, she says, she’s only in the way at Dire’s and she does have more practical nursing experience than Lance does.
The two move to the foyer, as Lance thanks Brigid profusely for her offer. Ron appears at the top of the stairs. Lance hastily thanks Brigid again and tells her he’s fixed a cup of tea for Ron on the sideboard. He shouts a good-bye to a bewildered Ron at the top of the stairs and hurries off.
‘Wait a minute!’ Ron calls out after him. ‘Aren’t yer goin’ ter help me down the stairs?’
But Lance has already gone.
‘Hang on, Ron!’ Warns Brigid, sprinting up the stairs with the zest of a twenty year-old. ‘The evening shift has just clocked on!’
Dire, Plank and Ant mull about uneasily in the Muddie lounge, as DI Clancy prepares to take his leave in the wake of Antony’s confession. What happens now? Dire asks him.
Now, replies the detective, he’s got to speak with Marty.
Plank wants to know if his father can be set free, but Clancy won’t commit. ‘Maybe’ is as far as he will go. But he does remember to deliver Marty’s message to his family. He wants them to know that he loves them and misses them.
Dire asks Clancy to tell Marty that they miss him too (but significantly, she doesn’t return the message of love).
Just like Imelda Clough’s family misses her, Clancy sniffs. Kneeling down briefly, he addresses Antony with kindly severity. He wants Antony to think about the repercussions of that letter and the way the Cloughs feel. It led them to believe their daughter was safe, when she could be anywhere, even dead.
He didn’t mean to do it, Dire attests, placing her arm protectively about Antony. Antony was only wuddied about his father. He didn’t know any better.
Ant’s a good lad for owning to what he did, admits DI Clancy, patronisingly. A very good lad, indeed.
Plank, who is standing behind the little Antichrist as he’s receiving the fulsome praises of the policeman, ruffles his brother’s hair affectionately. Always has been a good lad, Plank agrees. And Dire adds, innocently, that Antony has NEVER done anything wrong - besides accuse his father of being a Herod and committing murder.
As the policeman leaves the house, Antony moves to the rear window, watching the team wind down the search. One member, dressed in white from head to toe, turns a face toward the Muddie house. Ant sees the face of Imelda, gazing at him accusingly. He blinks once, twice, and looks again, relieved to see the unprepossessing face of a police official.
Across the Close, at Number 5, Rabbity Ruth snorks some snot back up her nose, wiggles it, chomps her choppers and watches out the Gordon front window as the police cars leave the Close.
Meanwhile, Brigid is coaxing Ron out for some gentle walking exercise. Ron is embarrassed, as he steps from the house. He feels like an old man, he says. Well, Brigid replies, jauntily, give her a young man anytime. (Er, I thought Ron was considerably younger than Brigid?)
How far does he have to walk? Ron asks, querulously, as they take a few steps onto the Close.
‘How far do you want to go?’ Brigid asks.
Ron starts to turn back to the house. This is far enough, he says, but Brigid stops him, firmly.
After the police have departed, Plank Muddie abandons all show of a united Muddie front and rounds on Antony. Just what was Antony thinking of when he wrote that letter? He demands.
THAT’S ENOUGH QUESTIONS! Dire interrupts, peremptorily protecting her creature. With the bizzies gone, her booming voice of rectitude has been restored to its full strength. WHY, ANTONY MOOSTA BEEN REALLY WUDDIED ABOUT HIS DAD TO DO SOOCH A THINK. HE JOOST WANTED THINKS IN THE MUDDIE HOUSEHOLD TER GET BACK TER NORMAL. AND WITH ANY LUCK, THEY WILL BE, she finishes, firmly. NOW, MARTY WILL BE HOME SOON, she mollycoddles the little sinner, AND HE’S SURE TER WANT HIS FAVOURITE TEA. WHAT SHOULD THEY MAKE?
(Er, sorry, but Antony’s 12 years old. Why is she sitting there talking like the host of Play School to this kid. This is the reason the kid’s so fucked up psychologically. She’s treated him like the baby she’s never had).
Antony’s only half-listening to his stepmother’s booming voice. He’s staring out the front window, instead, as the last of the white-clad police crew is packing utensils into the back of a car. The policeman has his back to the window. Antony murmurs distractedly that Marty might like a roast dinner.
HOW ABOUT CORNED BEEF HASH? Dire suggests, clearly not listening to anything or anyone but the sound of her massive voice.
At first, Antony doesn’t reply, because he’s busy shitting his pants in anticipation of the white-clad policemant turning around. The man does so. It’s NOT Imelda. It’s an ordinary person. For the time being, the ghost has been laid to rest. Antony collapses with relief against the back of the sofa and confirms that Marty would prefer a roast dinner.
As Brigid takes Ron on his constitutional around the Close, they’re joined by Jimmy, who chides Ron about being in training for a marathon. I found this scene unbelievable in the extreme, considering the fact that it was JIMMY who caused Ron to have a massive heart ache by deliberately taunting him. Ron doesn’t react adversely at all. Why didn’t he level an accusation at Jimmy, to show the man up for the abject fraud that he is? The old Ron Dixon would have done so in an instant. But nooooooooo ...
Ron jokes that he’s just completed the 100 yard dash, as Brigid confirms that they were just heading for home. Jimmy asks Brigid if she’s got any news on what the police found at the Muddies. Brigid turns stiffly towards Jimmy and firmly states that she’s concentrating on Ron at the moment, just as Ron stumbles on the pavement.
Jimmy reaches out instinctively and grabs Ron’s free arm, quipping that he doesn’t want Ron collapsing in the street. And hey, he says to Brigid, if that happens, they’d have to toss a coin to see who would give Ron Dikko the kiss of life.
He knows which one he’d choose, Ron mutters.
‘There yer go, Brige,’ Jimmy nudges, ‘in with a chance, there.’
As the trio continue to walk slowly arm in arm, Jacqui rounds the corner onto the Close, greeting them all with pleasant surprise. Ron begins a ploy for sympathy from his daughter by complaining that he’s being made to exercise - again, he adds, pointedly.
It’s what the doctor ordered, Brigid chides.
Jimmy attempts a joke, saying that they actually found Ron Dikko trying to do a runer. Jacqui relieves Jimmy of Ron’s arm, and starts for home with him and Brigid.
Things are tense at Bicker-Bicker House. Rabbity Ruth hops back and forth agitatedly between the front window and the mingey sofa, where Ma’s lolling lazily. Still no sign of the hapless Sean and Luke, she snorks.
Ooooh, whines Ma, unconcerned, how long’s it been now?
They should have been back just over an hour ago, Rabbity Ruth whines. She grabs one of the many mobile phones, a necessary accoutrement for any white trash household, and makes an attempt to ring Sean’s. She doesn’t know why she’s trying this, she mutters, sullenly. It’s turned off, no voice mail, nada.
We-e-e-e-e-e-l-l-l-l-l, maybe he was delayed, whines Ma. Why is Rabbity Ruth so wuddied?
Rabbity Ruth’s afraid the hapless Sean might try to kidnap Luke. OMIGOD!!!!!!! OMIGOD!!!!!!!
Ma whines from the sofa that Rabbity Ruth’s being ridiculous, as Ruth makes one more attempt to reach Sean on his mobile. This time it’s successful.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ She screams. ‘I’ve tried about fifteen times to - where are you?’ She suddenly hops to the front window and looks out. Sean and Luke are traipsing up the drive. Swiftly, she hops to the front door, throwing it open and physically pulling the hapless Sean, with Luke attached, into Bicker-Bicker House. Over her shoulder, she snaps an order at lazy Ma to take Luke upstairs while she sets the hapless Sean straight. (Hey, the thought just occurred to me. Brookside should be a cartoon. Discuss).
As poor Marty languishes in the interrogation room, DI Clancy returns. Smiling tightly, he tells Marty he can relax for a bit. Forensics drew a complete blank in the search of the Muddie home.
And that leaves him in the clear? Asks Marty, suspiciously, trusting nothing the policeman says.
That and the fact that your son admitted to forging the letter from Imelda, Clancy informs him, smugly.
Plank? Queries Marty, in disbelief. But why would Plank -
Not Plank, says the policeman, Antony.
Marty is visibly shocked by this revelation. (Well, Marty ought to start putting two and two together and ending this fiasco).
Poor, pitiful, hapless Sean is unsuccessfully protesting against his selfish, slut of a wife’s accusations and guilty paranoia. He’s only half an hour late, he says.
An hour late, corrects Ruth, sullenly.
OK, an hour, Sean amends. But why is Ruth so wuddied? After all, Luke was with Sean, who is the child’s father. If Luke were with her and she were late, he wouldn’t wuddie, because he would know his son was with his mother.
Just bring him back on time in the future, snaps Rabbity Ruth, coldly.
The hapless Sean reaches into his jacket pocket and retrieves a plastic bag filled with a pencil case, some crayons and coloured pencils. Look, he shows Ruth, ignoring her last outburst. He’s bought these for Luke’s first day of school. He thought he’d give them to him then, as a surprise.
Ruth unreasonably shakes her head. The hapless Sean wasn’t to see Luke on his first day of school. It’s not what they agreed, she reminds him.
It’s his son’s first day of school, Sean reminds HER, and he wants to be there for the child.
Luke will be in enough of a state without Sean’s presence, the abject slut remarks.
‘Luke will be in a state or YOU?’ Assesses Sean, perceptively.
Rabbity Ruth hops away from him, hiding her guilty, buck-toothed face. Sean knows very well what she means.
‘Yer got no right ter stop me,’ Sean tells her, angrily. ‘I gorra right ter be there on a day as important as this!’ He suggests that they both take the boy to school on his first day.
*******WARNING!!!!!!!!!! EXTREMELY SILLY REMARK ALERT!!!!!!!!!! WARNING**********
No, protests Ruth, inanely, IT WOULD ONLY CONFUSE THE TEACHERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(Excuse me ... HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA ... NOW THAT WAS GENUINELY FUNNY IN ITS ABSURDITY, AND IT WASN’T MEANT TO BE).
Ruth then suggests that Sean call around to see Luke the night before.
Sean looks at his slutty wife with disgoost. ‘Is that as close as I get?’ He spits.
‘Yer loocky I allow yer this mooch after the way you moocked me about terday,’ the big-toothed bitch snarls.
Marty has just begun to comprehend what DI Clancy has told him. Does this mean he’s free to go? He asks, uncertainly.
For the time being, says the detective, smiling his little, constipative smile and refusing to look Marty in the eye, instead staring straight ahead. But Marty wants to remember that a 13 year-old is still missing, and he’s not going to let go of the case until she’s found - dead or alive.
Marty stares at him coldly. And what if she’s dead? He dares to ask.
Now the detective returns his stare. The the enquiry enters a whole new phase, he says, evenly. In the meantime, Marty would be well-advised not to go to far away from the area.
Marty gazes at the man with ill-concealed hatred. He simply can’t believe that the police would simply leave him to get on with the hash they’d made and expect him to pick up the pieces.
It’s not over yet, promises the detective, again staring straight ahead, camera right, of Marty.
And what if Marty should just disappear? He asks.
Slowly DI Clancy turns to look at Marty. Oh, people do, he says. But Marty wants to make sure HE sticks around.
Peter Cox wrote this. Neil Caple made it.
Summary © 2002 Marion Watts
Brookside and all related materials are © Mersey Television 1982-2002