All language subtitles for Murder s01e02 Lost Weekend.eng

This programme contains
strong language from the start,

and scenes which some viewers
may find upsetting.

BRYONY: That's what's in my head -

that somehow or other
he's killed her.

She's been trying to tell me
for months that she's in danger,

from him.

But I can't say that.

Apparently, that's defamation.

Apparently,
she's just a missing person.

Apparently, he's got the lawyers
and the money,

and, apparently,
that's what matters.

RINGING TONE

OPERATOR: 'Emergency.

'Which service do you require?'

The first time we met,

bang, I saw the light.

The first time we met -

properly met -

she dumbfounded me.

OPERATOR: 'Caller?'

RASPING BREATHS

'Caller?'

She's a vessel of light, Arla.

Emitting light is what she does.

She just has panache,

mystique.

That clicky handbag and heels,

the perfect hair,
never enough time.

And I'm...

Because of who Arla is,
she doesn't...

she doesn't know the protocol.

She doesn't know how she's supposed
to think and behave.

If I had a self image, which I don't
really, but if you pushed me...

...I'd say it was
a big, crashing torrent

of shitty, fucked-up brown water.

They don't listen.

They say she has a history

of dropping out of sight
for a few days.

And I say, "Yeah,
of dropping out of sight THERE."

So, if she isn't THERE...

...where is she?

It's not unusual for her to be gone.

She'll say she's coming for the
week, and then,

Wednesday, she's gone.

And things aren't properly
sorted between her and Alex.

It's complicated,
so, I've never said,

"You said you'd be here.
You've got to be here."

I've never...

taken that for granted.

He threatened to come
round here once - Alex.

Threatened to come here
and drag her home.

I said, "Where IS her home, though,
Alex?"

BRYONY, ON PHONE:
'He says she's not there.

'But for all anyone knows,
she IS there.

'Dead.'

The trend today is catastrophism.

Think the worst, it saves time.

Let's all cry wolf all the time,
then nothing can ever go wrong.

That's the thinking.

All eventualities will always
be covered all the time.

And if we all drop down dead,
exhausted, chasing shadows,

well, at least we shan't be accused
of dereliction of duty.

One 999 call
doesn't make it a murder,

especially not an aborted 999 call.

Bloody trainers,

kids who won't go to bed,

late-arriving pizzas...

(All 999.)

All urgent catastrophes.

Who else is it going to be?

MUSIC: Something's Gotten Hold
Of My Heart by Gene Pitney

Bryony Phelps,
poster girl for the charity.

Rose from the ranks,
lost soul found.

The girl's neurotic and overwrought.

Splashing it all over social media,

pointing the finger at Cotterall.

Tweeting, Instagramming,
Facebooking.

And, generally working up a right
old candyfloss of indignation

amongst the Tatler types. To which,
my superiors are not immune.

But slapping a writ on her?

That smacks of more money
than sense.

She said I was the one
who could tell her the most

because I knew Arla at work
and as a friend.

And as a client, too.

I'm living proof
of what Arla is capable of.

I'm not saying
they ALL turn out like me.

The kids we deal with, they don't
always have the best start in life.

That's the whole point of Liferaft.

We were both at some horrible
function at a gallery

and she was momentarily alone,
looking at a painting.

So, I cascaded over to her
and she just smiled,

and put out her hand
and said that she was Arla

and that I was Dominic, wasn't I,

and that she was very pleased
to meet me.

She said,
"What do you think of the work?

"I think it's very... kinetic.

"Are you buying?"

I couldn't think of a single
thing to say.

She would never have
missed the AGM, never.

This organisation
was everything to her.

I just told her that I'd only
ever liked one painting in my life,

and that one turned out
to be a fake.

I stole it from my dad

when I first left Abbedon.

After I fucked his second wife.

She was a fake, too.

A number of people have made it
their life's work

to traduce Dominic's reputation.

Gossip columnists, journalists,

paparazzi, barristers,

ex-wife, ex-girlfriends,

ex-friends,

friends.

His mother.

To a good extent,
he's brought it on himself.

But if people want to bandy
my eldest son's name

around the nightclubs of Mayfair

just because some
dizzy girl's gone walkabout...

...they have to be taught...

...there's a price to be paid.

'Hi, this is Arla.
Talk to the beep.'

VOICEMAIL BEEPS

BRYONY: Where is she?

Arla Beckman, 35, US citizen.

Lived here most of her life.

Parents made a fortune
in the fitness industry,

then sold up, turned philanthropist
and set up Liferaft.

She runs the UK arm, big benefactor,

considered a great beauty.

Married to a banker,
Alex... somebody.

Eton, Cambridge.

According to a magazine interview,

the landmark she'd most like to
spend a night in is the London Eye.

Maybe somebody should look there.

Left work on Friday the 17th
at 3:04pm.

Nice hours if you can get them.

"She was at Dominic Cotterall's
house," she said. "I know she was."

I said "I know she was, too.
He told me."

Spent the entire weekend there,
left the Monday morning.

Little face fell a bit at that.

"And," I said, "there's been other
instances in the past six months

"of her being incommunicado
for three days or more."

Phone off, no cash withdrawals.

Lost weekends.

Face fell a bit further.

"Any idea where she spent those?"
I said.

I didn't catch her reply at first,

I had to ask her to speak up.

Then I heard her.

"His," she said. "His."

He'd kidnap her,

abduct her.

There's no other way of putting it.

People don't realise the toll
it takes on her, being good.

On anyone.

Everyone needs a release.

She was always saying that Dominic
wasn't right for her.

He used to beg her,
she wouldn't go otherwise.

Maybe I'm not her release any more.

He wasn't right for her -
she told me.

Thoughts of him would creep up
on her, though,

build up in her.

Or her defences would go down
and she'd forget what he was like.

And she'd go back.

"What else did he tell you?"
she said, "Dominic."

I said, "He told me
you'd been round to his house

"a number of times in the last
few months looking for Arla.

"That more than once she'd had
to tell you to go away

"and, eventually, he'd had
to threaten you with an ASBO.

"Is that right?"

She wanted to know all about
Liferaft UK, and what we did,

and whether Arla had had any
fights or arguments

with any of the people in the
organisation,

or any of our clients.

I said it wasn't our clients they
should be talking to, it was him.

She said they already had.

She said she'd talked to him
at his house.

So, that lawyer can go fuck himself,
thank you very much!

I said, "I suppose, there may have
been one or two... grievances."

But they didn't come to anything.

In rehab, we had to write a letter
to ourselves from our addiction.

"Shitface" -
that's what my addiction called me.

Calls me.

It's calling me now.

I am the site of an addiction.

I'm a host body for narcotics,
that's all.

I'm nothing but that.

I'm Shitface.

INAUDIBLE

His reputation precedes him
but I found him personable enough.

He invited me in, shook my hand.

There were reporters shouting
to him from across the street.

No cup of tea,
but that's not uncommon.

I said, "If you don't mind,
I'd like to take this step by step."

He said all he wanted to know
was where she was.

I said, "Ms Beckman arrived
here on Friday evening

"and left on the Monday morning.
Is that correct?"

He said it was.

I asked him
how they'd spent their weekend.

He asked me if I wanted the lie
or if I wanted the truth.

I said, "The truth."

He said "Indulging in sex and drugs
and rock and roll."

"Without very much rock and roll."

I said, "When she left, what would
you say was her state of mind?"

He said, "What do YOU think?"

I said, "At this stage,
I try NOT to be thinking too much.

"I prefer to just marshal
the facts."

He said he was still asleep
when she left,

that she had a work
function to attend.

They'd gone to bed at about 4am,

and when he woke at 3pm
she was gone, as he'd expected.

He said those were the last drugs
he was ever going to take.

And he asked me to exercise
professional discretion

and overlook the admission

which was only made in pursuit
of the truth!

DCI Goss wanted to know
if I'd heard Arla make a 999 call.

She said it happened in
or near my house,

though they were analysing it
further to pin it down more.

I'd already told her,
I'd heard nothing.

When I woke up, she was gone.

I said,
"You're getting me worried now."

She said, "Believe me, three nines
don't add up to what they used to."

Took me a second
to realise it was a joke.

I told the policewoman about Arla
splitting up from Alex

and how she got the flat then,

but she doesn't stay there much.

She stayed with me at first,
upstairs at Liferaft.

But then she got the flat.

The policewoman said,
"And is she happy?"

Did I think she was happy?

Maybe she did say she loved him,
but she would laugh at him too,

take the piss out of him.

I'd tell her
exactly what I thought of him

and she would laugh
and she would say that it was true.

I'd say maybe that should be
the last time she went round there.

And she wouldn't disagree.

She WOULDN'T disagree.

She's done me a good turn.

She came, she went,

we had six months together.

And I know which way my life
has to go now.

I'm 35 years old, and for the first
time in my life,

I really know what I have to do,

which is stand up
and be a Cotterall.

I don't care what anyone
out there is saying.

That's what I'm going to do.

There have been Cotteralls
at Abbedon Hall since 1592.

I'm the next in line,

the son and heir.

HE CONTINUES: Come on.

And Dad's on side, thank Christ.

At last.

Ten years he's been trying to get me
to renounce my inheritance.

Not now.

Finally, he can see it.

I'm going to be pulling up trees.

"Stay put."

That's what he told me.

"When he's under attack,
a Cotterall never runs.

"Stay put, otherwise they'll think
you're running scared."

The most derogatory word
in my father's lexicon -

"scared".

I had a life
chockfull of false storms.

I've been in and out of rehab
like it was Club Med.

But this time it's different.

This time I can look myself
in the eye, right in the eye.

It's for real. This time, I'm going
to be pulling up trees.

So, Arla, wherever you are...

...I salute you!

"Have you heard of this person
and this person and this person?"

She had photos, like police photos.
I said, "No."

She said,
"That's because they're not dead.

"They're all people who went
missing and then turned up.

"This one went missing
for two-and-a-half years."

The policewoman said...

"Maybe you're just a little bit
in love with her, Bryony.

"Are you sure that
that's not what this is all about?

"And, by the way, where were YOU
on that Sunday afternoon?"

WOMAN: 'Hey, Arla.
Just flown in from Paris,

'if you fancy catching up..."

MAN: 'Hi, Arla, it's Jimmy. Seeing
if you're free next Sunday?'

WOMAN: 'Hi, Arla,
can you give me a call back?

- 'I'm at the office...'
- 'Let's meet up...'

17 phone calls in 24 hours
from phone numbers

that cross-reference
with the Liferaft organisation,

midday Sunday to midday Monday.

Some of them were from
her colleague, Bryony Phelps,

number ending 1-2-8.

A good number of them were from a
different number, ending 7-4-6.

The first one she answered.

The rest, she didn't.

Phone registered in the name
of Hamad Latif.

Whenever she wasn't where
she was supposed to be,

this is where she'd be.

I came round here once,
looking for her.

He was stood at the door,

dripping wet
with a towel around his waist.

He said I could come
and look in the pool.

He said she wasn't there,
but if she HAD been,

this is what they'd be doing.

This, and this, and this.

All the way down the stairs,
he listed things.

I didn't want him to see
that he was upsetting me,

but he knew he was. He found it
very funny - upsetting me.

He... It was like a... like an
impulse in him, like a reflex.

He had an absolute fucking aptitude
for it,

so I don't know
why I took that, really.

I did it for her.

He asked me if I'd ever done it
in a swimming pool.

I said, "Is that what YOU do?
You and her?"

He tapped his nose.

I said, "Anyway, I know what you do.
You just told me what you do."

I suddenly had this
overwhelming urge

to knock him over
and fuck his brains out,

just to show him he didn't know me
the way he thought he did,

like I was so easy to know.

He took my hand and he pulled me
over to the corner of the pool,

where the ladder was.

He was naked.

I thought, "This is what
it's like... to be her."

I asked him
what he thought Arla would say

if I told her
that he'd propositioned me.

He started going down the ladder.

He still had hold of my hand.

He let go of my hand
and he lifted my foot

and he put it on his shoulder
He said...

"Push me down.

"Push me under."

I didn't know what he meant.

I pushed him down with my foot,
he was pushing against me.

He said, "Harder!"

I pushed him down
and his head went under.

He pushed back up. He was...

He was strong, so I got hold of
the rails at the top of the ladder

and I pushed him down really hard.

I twisted my heel into his shoulder

and he went right down under.

There was a...

a little cloud of blood
in the pool.

He went down deeper
than I could reach

and he came up away from the steps

and he stood there looking at me,
and he said...

"There.

"That's what we do.

"Me and her, that's what we do."

I asked her afterwards
if she'd been there -

upstairs, listening.

She said she hadn't.

The policewoman asked me why I ran
after her when she was leaving work.

It's on the CCTV.

I said, "Because she forgot
to say goodbye.

"I was in the kitchen
and she forgot to say goodbye."

She looked right through me.

After everything she said.

MACHINE HISSES

I just wanted to make her see me.

She knows me.

She knows I'm hot-blooded.

She knows that.

She should've known that.

Because of who Arla is,
she doesn't...

She doesn't know the protocol.

She doesn't know how she's supposed
to think and behave and...

Oh, my God! That was so refreshing!

Won't give his name, but it's him
all right.

Hadn't been seen since Sunday night.

Hamad Latif.

It's become a murder inquiry.

Nothing's actually changed,
she's still missing,

but... a shift in what
I'm expected to find.

People say we investigate the rich
with more vigour than the poor,

we investigate the dead
with more vigour than the living.

I'll give them that.

Resources, manpower.

The living are commonplace,
I suppose.

The dead teach us a lesson.

INAUDIBLE

Arla loves Hamad.

He is one of her favourite people.

He has issues,
he can be a pain in the arse,

but you can't dislike him.
You can't.

He would never hurt her.

He would never hurt her.

Otherwise, obviously,
I mean, I wouldn't have...

The coffee shop where he works

is around the corner
from Dominic's place.

According to the manager, she didn't
notice him and he took exception.

She did, she mentioned it.

Exception enough to warrant
a 999 call on her part.

We wanted to help him.
We did help him.

But, sometimes you have to look
at the amount of time and energy

you're putting into one person.
That's what Arla said.

"Gobby," that's all she said.
He was gobby. "Gobby, as usual."

And he had the job!

That was us.

He was happy with the job.

He said he was happy with the job.

"Do you want fries with that?"

She thought it was a joke,
it was a coffee shop.

"Don't forget the many
because of the one,

"don't forget the one because of the
many." Arla was always saying that.

She hadn't heard him,
he was the one making the coffee

so he had his back turned
to the customers.

She was more or less
out of the door, she said,

and then this thing about fries.

And he came round
from behind the counter.

The police wanted to know
why he called her so many times

and why she didn't answer.

She loved Hamad.

Everybody loved Hamad.

And he was happy with the job!

He told me he was happy.

Otherwise, why would I have
given him her number?

SHE PANTS

INAUDIBLE

Suppose he followed her.

Suppose he followed her
and waited for her.

I know these kids,
they're messed up. I've met them.

It won't be him.

Suppose he followed her here
and waited for her outside.

Suppose he took her and she's dead!

It won't be him.

He did it.

He killed her.

SHE PANTS

MUFFLED SCREAMS, RUSTLING

GUNSHOT, MUFFLED SCREAMS

PANTING

I'm sorry!

OFFICE HUBBUB

You imagine, when you get into
this work,

you'll be pitting your wits
against criminals,

working out motives and means,

confronting offenders
with the fruits of your labour,

watching them squirm on a hook.

It's better to simply gather up
facts

in quantities
which make it hard for a suspect

to come up with
an unincriminating explanation.

Accumulation of detail
is intimidating for someone

who's not telling the truth.

It's the doggedness, the rigour.
It unnerves them.

I'm not necessarily saying
I can explain what I'm presenting,

but I don't have to.

I'm just saying, "Look at this,
and this, and this.

"And now look at what YOU say.

"How come they don't tally up?"

Hamad Latif says
that he just wanted to say sorry.

That's all he'll say.

That's why he phoned her
all those times -

he just wanted to say sorry to her.

And, also, he's sorry now.

I asked him why he was sorry now.

He put his head on the table.

I asked him where she was now.

He kept it there.

If you gather up all the video
from all the security cameras

on this street,
where Dominic Cotterall lives,

and there are a good number,

and some of the residents
are rich and powerful

and don't necessarily care
to share data

with the likes of police officers -
even me.

But if you're polite and persistent,
and give off the air of someone

who's never actually going to go
away unless and until

you get what you're asking for,

you will receive,
eventually, a response.

And if you cobble that together
across a timeline,

you get a portrait of the comings
and goings between midday on Sunday,

when Arla Beckman left without
her heels or her nice Hermes bag,

came back half an hour later
with two coffees...

...and 5:00 on the Monday,

when Dominic Cotterall drove away
in his car to visit his father.

The portrait's pretty comprehensive.

It includes Hamad Latif.

I asked Latif why he was walking
round the square

for nearly an hour on a Sunday.

He just said he was sorry.

I asked him why he's phoned her all
those times, he said he was sorry.

I asked him where she was now.

"Sorry."

I asked him if there wasn't
anything he could tell us

that would help us find her.
"Sorry."

Bangs his head on the table and
cries like a girl. "Sorry, sorry."

Always sorry.

Sorry.

I don't think I've ever met
a man so sorry.

And he is.

He's all over the CCTV,
he's all over the phone records.

He's all over all of it like a rash.

Something that's not there
is also very striking.

Arla Beckman goes
into Dominic Cotterall's house

with two coffees

on Sunday afternoon at 12:06...

...and never comes out.

When I woke up...

...she was gone.

Don't touch the product.

Know your customer.

Be indispensable.

Three principles -
don't touch the product, obviously,

first and foremost.

Know your customer, two.

And three, be indispensable.

This life holds
a plethora of temptations.

Opportunities to indulge
or abuse yourself.

And the path of rectitude and
sobriety is fucking hard to find,

and harder still to navigate.

When you have wealth,
all the more so.

When you're born into wealth
and entitlement,

all the more so, squared.

Everything that the rest of us
take for granted,

basically, where your wits run
when it fucking runs out,

is that bit less obvious
to the chauffeur-driven classes.

The principle of action
and consequence

are far from clear to a man who's
never washed up a porridge pan.

What do I mean by indispensable?

I mean, being there
to fill in the gaps

between knowledge and appreciation

between your client
and cold, hard reality.

Oftentimes,

that class of person cannot infer
from the facts of what's going down.

If you can be their agitant, their
officer providing enlightenment,

you can make yourself a very
nice living.

As long as you remain aware
you barely register as human,

you can be indispensable.

For those moments when life strews

extraneous objects
across the carriageway...

...that need to be removed.

So, that's why I don't like it
when I get called a drug dealer.

It's like calling Katrina a breeze.

I learnt this shit
at Lehman Brothers.

They don't say, "You can't come in
till your father gets here."

If he ever fucking does.

They don't say,
"Your disreputability stinks

"like shit on your shoe
and all of London's calling you

"a murderer behind your back."

They just say, "Can we get you
a drink and the day's paper?"

Out here, to the foyer,

with the florists
and the bicycle couriers.

When you get expelled from school,
they don't ever quite tell you.

One moment, you're galloping
onto the playing fields

in your rugger kit, the next you're
sat on the back seat of a car,

next to your trunk, and your
father's in a black mood

in the front
stinking of Scotch and Sobranies.

Eton was out of the question
after that, of course.

That's all he said,

all he had to.

Ten years old
and already in the wilderness.

LAUGHTER NEARBY

The detective wanted to know

whether there was any way Arla
could have got out of the back.

The CCTV shows she definitely
didn't leave by the front.

Did I mind that she'd brought
a forensics team with her?

Was it OK that they had
a poke around?

Did we sleep with the window open?

Was it possible that someone
like Hamad Latif

could've have got in
during the night?

Presumably I'd been sleeping
very heavily.

Given the circumstances,

she'd lost her deference.

I said, "I suppose if someone came
through the side entrance gate

"of the mews house at the back,
across their yard

"and climbed over my garden wall,
then, theoretically, yeah."

"Well, then, theoretically,
Arla could've gone out that way?"

That's what she said.

She said she thought the people
at the house at the back

would've noticed something. She'd
send an officer round to enquire.

I said, "I wouldn't bother.
It's owned by some artist woman,

"and she's only ever there
during the summer."

She seemed struck by that.

WOMAN CALLS OUT

'Good boy!'

I asked him
if she'd taken the picture.

There was a picture
missing from the wall.

I asked him if she'd taken it
with her when she left.

He said, no, HE'D taken it.

It belonged to his father and he'd
taken it to give it back to him.

It was something she'd always
encouraged him to do -

reconcile with his father.

I said, "You swore off drug abuse
and reconciled with your father,

"but this was just an ordinary day?

"Are you sure you didn't fight?

"You sure she didn't say
it was over, and then you fought?"

'Oh, my God...'

He's craving narcotics.
It's like a fever in him.

Makes him eager to please,

vulnerable to the right tone
of voice or line of questioning.

"She went in," I said, "but
she appears not to have come out.

"How can that be?"

For a moment,
I thought he was about to confess.

The look he gave me
was almost imploring.

Then he offered me a cup of tea.

RINGING TONE

HE SIGHS

I used to be able to recite
the name and date

of every Earl of Monmouth
from 1592 until now.

There's not as many as you
might think.

We're a long-lived bunch
of bastards.

2,000 acres,

with a wall around it.

RUSTLING, PANTING

GUNSHOT

What Hindley and Brady
would've given for that!

The first acquitted himself
valiantly against the Armada

alongside Drake at Gravelines.

And the Queen showed her
gratitude by bestowing the title

and a great parcel of land upon him.

His name was Thomas Cotterall, 1592.

The house he built was
destroyed by fire in 1708.

I told him I was surprised
he wasn't inviting his brief.

He opened his mouth to speak,
but then he closed it.

It seemed to me that that brief
wasn't available to him any more.

His father's brief.

RINGING TONE

Cotterall blood is a heady brew.

You have to know how to handle it.

Like others before him,

Dominic wanted to staunch it
or cauterise it,

and miscegenated with girls

from the seamier parts of town.

His body rejected it.

It chafed inside his veins.

I used to steal a look at my dad
out from under my arm

when he was kicking me.

I'd think,
"Name, Greville Norman Cotterall.

"Assumed the title, 1983."

Kicking.

Sometimes he was spitting,
swearing, cursing.

Morris Cotterall, 1951.

Howard Cotterall, 1927.

And up there on the wall,
the painting.

With an effort of will,
I could lose myself in it.

Charles Cotterall, 1889.

"What are you?!"
"Scared."

"What are you?!"

"Scared. I'm scared!"

And the painting,

so quiet,

no sound,

even the colour's muted.

"Why haven't you called Miss Beckman
since she left on Sunday?"

William Cotterall, 1857.

Charles Cotterall The Elder, 1833.

The only colour in the painting.

The ploughman's shirt.

Right there in the middle.

I would latch myself onto that,

the ploughman with his plough,
centre stage!

So vivid in his shirt.

"Why did you go and visit
your father

"when you haven't seen each other
in a decade?"

Richard Cotterall, 1802.

Everything in its place,
orderly and benign.

Only that silly chap
drowning himself.

Making a big production,
disturbing the peace.

And that was me.

And I'd think, soon enough,

the waves will close over him

and he'll be forgotten.

And there'll be peace.

There'll be peace.

That same blood...

...runs through Laurence's veins...

...like liquid silk.

For ten years, not a word passes
between father and son,

until the day
Arla Beckman goes missing.

On that day,

he drives to the Cotterall
stately home in 2,000 acres,

with a bubble-wrapped package.
Comes out through the front door.

But somehow manages to leave
bubble wrap on the gate

of a mews house round the back.

The painting.

A painting his girlfriend
encourages him to return

to his father
to promote reconciliation.

I asked him,
"Was she pleased about that?"

Or was she gone before
he even took it off the wall?

Dad isn't coming.

That was clear to them inside
long before it was clear to me.

Your father slapping a writ
on Bryony Phelps

was never going
to calm things down,

it was always going
to stir things up.

He didn't have my back.

He didn't have my back at all.

He just saw right through me,
like he always did.

He opened his doors and he sat me
down and he heard me out.

And he nodded and he smiled.

And he put his hand on mine,

and he sent me
into the lion's den.

Again!

List the list.

All the earls and their dates.

Shut your eyes and think of England.

I told him she was missing.

But he KNEW I'd killed her.

He knew I'd killed her, and why...

...and he didn't care.

This looks interesting.

ELECTRONIC BEEPING

RUNNING, PANTING

PANTING

GUNSHOT

DOG BARKS

What have you found there, boy?

RADIO: 'No formal identification
has taken place,

'but police say they believe
the body,

'which was found in rose bushes
beside the crematorium building,

'to be that of Arla Beckman.'

MOBILE PHONE RINGS

So,

not in the London Eye after all.

SADLY: Shame.

She was happy.

The policewoman, she asked me that -
"Was she happy?"

She was.

I didn't like it, but she was.

I knew she was going there
when she didn't say goodbye,

and I ran out after her.

I actually left the meeting
to run out after her.

I said, "You're seeing him,
aren't you? I know you are!"

I was shouting. I said,
"He doesn't care about any of this.

"He doesn't care about any of us.
Can't you see that?"

SHE SNIFFLES

"He makes me happy," she said.

"Get it in your head."

She said she'd rather be happy
than right.

She said I was right, and Alex
was right, and Liferaft was right,

but none of us made her happy.

And Dominic was wrong -

and he did.

But I wasn't right...

...and now she's dead.

I love you just as you are.

"I love you just as you are."
That's what she said.

Loved by her...

...my life made sense.

I made sense.

Loved by her, she could love me.

And that changed everything.

Everything.

And then I killed her.

I had a contact
at the crematorium...

Arranged to leave the door unlocked
for me that night.

Furnace lit.

The door was locked,
the contact was nowhere about,

not available on his mobile.

All the predictable bullshit
of normality.

I lay her down
when I tried to call him.

Security patrol arrived.

I lay down beside her.

We were face-to-face.

They were eating kebabs
with the car doors open.

Then they got out for a smoke.

One of them took a piss.

There were bats flying about.

I started thinking about

how I might have to kill these guys
if they saw me.

Started wondering about the rights
and wrongs of that,

putting aside any question
whether I could even do it.

She arrived
in such a very good mood.

It seemed to say, "This is it.

"Everything has changed.
I can save you."

Both of us.
And, with her, I could do it.

She was always saying,
"Let's just fly away to Zanzibar!"

And, this time, I said,
"Yes! Yes, let's!

"Let's just grab a bag
and a passport

"and let's, for fuck's sake,
just go!

"Let's chuck all this shit
down the lavatory.

"All the powder and the pills,
even the booze, we're done with it!

"A new world awaits us!"

She said, "Why don't we
just use up what we have?

"Why waste it?"

The game wasn't over for her yet.

It still had mileage in it.

And I had a startling realisation

that when it was eventually over...

...she'd call up Alex

and they'd both be sorry

and they'd start afresh.

It started as a joke on him,
and it would end as a joke on me.

And the joke was this...

I wasn't good enough.

I would never be good enough.

And that's what she wanted.

I was lying there for a long time.

And this was the self-appraisal
I came up with.

I'd fallen for my own propaganda.

I could smell dog shit.

I was cowering in the dirt

beside a dead woman in a graveyard.

For what?

For Dominic Cotterall?

It must've been two in the morning.

He was, what, ten?

And he'd been jacked out of school.

We'd barely said a word in the car
all the way home.

I woke him with a rifle in my hands,

took him downstairs
by the scruff of the neck, and out.

To here.

He was shaking.

He probably thought I was going
to shoot him, then and there.

And, perhaps I should have.

He kept looking...

at the rifle.

I said, "Run."

I said, "Run!"

"Run!

"Keep your eyes tight shut,

"and run as far and as fast
as you can, boy!

"Run until you drop!

"Until you drop, boy!

"And you'll still be
on Cotterall land!"

RUSTLING, PANTING

GUNSHOT

HE CRIES OUT

GUNSHOT

HE PANTS

GUNSHOTS

SOUND DISTORTS, HE PANTS

DISTORTED GUNSHOT

'So, that's what we did.'

We gathered up everything
and anything we could find

and we laid it out on the table
there. We binged.

We were like mad things.

And when she crashed out,
I kept going.

Like you said, "Why waste it?"
I kept going.

DISTORTED SCREAMS

When I woke, she was...

...dead.

She was cold and there was...

...froth in her mouth...

And I was on my knees.

I was on my knees,
shaking her and...

...her phone was there
so I snatched it up

and I called 999 and they said,
"Which service would you like?"

And I thought... I suddenly thought,

"None of these services are going
to do her any good at all,

"or me."

And then, she sort of

lurched.

Just once.

And there was a...

terrible noise
from her throat, briefly.

And they were saying, "Which
service, caller? Which service?"

And I thought about Abbedon Hall.

I thought of my father.

The first earl and the 31st.

The names and the dates,
the unbroken line.

And I rang off and called Kendrick.

For the first time in my life, I'd
started to think like a Cotterall.

And when we finished speaking...

I waited for...

for her to go.

I don't know how long it took...

...but I let her go...

...to become a Cotterall.

Like my father.

He stayed out there all that night

and the following day.

I heard later
that he'd soiled himself.

He stole that rifle from me
eventually,

along with a painting.

It was the gamekeeper
brought him back.

He'd probably be out there now...

...if he hadn't.

Father's on his way round.

I've told him this time
I'll make it worth his while.

Renounce my inheritance
in favour of Laurence.

You think you can kick
free of stuff.

Corrosive reputation,

drug chaos lifestyle,

family history,
but they're not things you do -

they're things you ARE.

HE SOBS

Our family history is
a catalogue of black deeds.

Killers, rapists, madmen...

Bad blood.

Bad all the way back.

We're like some
terrible undead creature

traipsing through the centuries.

The Cotteralls.

Fuck!

This isn't something
that I take lightly.

It's not a victory to crow over.

I intend to give it to Dad.

Both barrels.

I've asked her
to go easy on Kendrick.

He was only doing what he was asked.

When you lie in bed here
at Abbedon...

...in the blackness of the night,

surrounded by these 2,000 acres,

these fabled acres...

and the house is still and quiet...

...you become one
with your ancestors...

...who lay precisely here,
thinking perhaps

precisely that.

The shoes Arla was wearing
when we first met.

The colour, she said it was...

..."vermillion".

It was almost obscene.

Luminous, like she was.

I think it's the sexiest colour
I've ever seen.

I wanted to paint my house
that colour.

Not just my house, my whole life.

Vermillion!

Just saying it
sends a shiver down me.

I actually got down on all fours

so that I could stare at her shoes.

She was laughing.

She wore them the first time
she came,

so that we could match the colour.

Vermillion.

It was the colour
of the ploughman's shirt.

DOOR BELL RINGS

MUSIC: Ebben? from La Wally
by Alfredo Catalani

LOCK CLICKS

Dominic!

MUSIC INTENSIFIES

Dominic!

GUNSHOT ECHOES

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