All language subtitles for The Singing Detective E02 Heat

The thing about the moon is it gives you
the creeps with a capital K.

Am I not right? It makes dirty water
look like silver,

turns flotsam into the Crown Jewels,

and causes poor slobs
in the cuckoo house

to think they're Jesus Christ
or FW Woolworth.

Am I not right?

Also, it's cold.

The sort of dead of night
when lonesome cats cry

for empty hours
on the broken slates.

But tonight,
there isn't a pussy in sight...

not even a four-legged one.

All good people have gone home.

And some bad ones, too.

This is a night
to freeze a pawnbroker's balls.

But it'll soon get warm in here.

That's the thing about gas.

Eh, Sonia?

I hate the cold...as much as I hate
plots and schemes and mysteries.

I didn't know it would be you
who came back with me.

What's going on, eh?

Mind you, I'm not complaining.

Amanda's very pretty,

but thick as shit
in the neck of a bottle.

You're just as pretty, Sonia.

You don't talk much, though, do you?

What are you trying to be?
The Snow Queen?

Go on. Be the Snow Queen if you like.

Pretend not to know anything
about anything,

but I'll find out
whether you do or not.

There's a cupboard in that club
with room for more than one, Sonia.

Maybe you are just one of the whores.

Well, take your clothes off.

Give.

(LAUGHS)
Well, maybe you are, at that.

- Money.
- Don't be so bloody Russian.

- Ask with a touch more grace.
- Money.

Oh, you bitch.
You greedy, suspicious,

great big, beautiful bitch.

(SPEAKS RUSSIAN)

(SPEAKS RUSSIAN)

My arrangement was with Amanda.

I thought Amanda was
going to warm my lonely little bed.

- We agreed on a price.
- P15.

(LAUGHS) Listen, you little tart,

it would take a shop girl a month
to earn that.

Ten. I agreed ten.
And think yourself lucky.

- P15.
- I see. Very polite, aren't we?

Ask me nicely.

Go on, nicely.

Say please. Say please to Daddy.

I see.
It's Stalingrad all over, is it?

One for my baby...

Two for my love...

And three to come again.

- Is shit.
- What?

Is shit. Money is.

Christ! You stupid bitch!

I ought to make you choke on it!

Are you off your head?

Are you totally insane?

Money.

Are you trying to make me feel small?

(BINNEY)
Are you trying to make me feel small?

Are you trying to make me feel small?

- Are you trying make me feel small?
- What did you say?

- What?
- What did you say, man?

- Where is it?
- What?

- The nut-house door.
- (LAUGHS)

We're almost there, little squirrel.

We're almost there.

- Wait for the man, right?
- Right.

- The cuckoo man, right?
- Right.

Why? What's he got that for?

Is this the British Museum?

What's going on?

(JAZZ BAND PLAYS)

# Cruising down the river

# On a Sunday afternoon

# With one you love, the sun above

# Waiting for the moon

# The old accordion playing

# A sentimental tune

# Cruising down the river

# On a Sunday afternoon

# The birds above all sing of love

# A gentle sweet refrain

# The winds around all make a sound

# Like softly falling... #

OK, fellas, that'll do.
The words break my heart.

We won't say
like softly falling what, though.

There's a frog spawning
in this throat of mine.

I'll see you later.
Keep your whistles dry.

Mr Marlow?

The one and only.
Are you the guy I've been waiting for

- since Sax found the phone?
- I'm sorry?

The gent with the fat contract
and piano-key smile.

The guy who loves the way I croon.

- I'm sorry...
- You liked the song, right?

A spider crawled
up your throat, yeah?

- Yes. Well, erm...sort of.
- A tune for old ladies. You agree?

- Mr Marlow...
- You weren't listening, were you?

You didn't take it in.
Other things syncopating, huh?

No. Sorry.

Yellow mellow curls at the edges.
Breaks. Goes rotten.

- I don't understand.
- You're in trouble, right?

- Yes, I am.
- Dead trouble.

Look, erm... I'm told
that you can help me, if anyone can.

- Who says so? Why believe him?
- John Bordington. My solicitor.

If he recommended me, this must
be a lulu. That over-inflated toad!

He hates my guts. I tend to agree.
Does he still pick his teeth?

- He said you got results.
- I get the jobs polite guys pass on,

cases that guys
who don't sing don't get.

I'm the piano-tuner
who's heavy on the pedal.

OK, what's the story? Who's the dame?

- How do you know...?
- There's always a dame.

- And where's the body?
- I'm sorry?

There's always a body, too.
I know that, you know that.

You're looking a trifle pale, pal.

Like you've been eating fried eggs
and green bananas.

Who's trying to swing you
into this number?

And are you as nervous as you seem?

Yeah. I am as nervous as I seem.

(MOUTHS SILENTLY)

''Yellow mellow curling at the edges.

''Breaks. Goes rotten.''

Oh, very good. Very funny.

I have a degree of fondness
for easily disposable things -

Kleenex tissues, Bic pens,

razor blades, cheap literature...

Prescription forms.
Don't forget prescription forms.

And, of course, medical degrees.

He said out of the side of his mouth.

- What?
- Gibbon. How do you do, Mr Marlow?

- Can't shake.
- Oh, of course not. Sorry.

I wouldn't, anyway.
I wouldn't if I could.

I'm here under protest.
This is tantamount to a kidnap.

I see. I see. An abduction.

Little men shouldn't sit where
their feet don't touch the floor.

It kind of demeans them.
Makes me think of nursery rhymes.

It must be very difficult for you.

More difficult than for you,
that's for sure.

I can't creep up on people
like I'm in a Marx Brothers film.

- Where did you learn that trick?
- You don't want to talk to me?

Christ! What sharpness! What
perception! I've underestimated you.

And yet you came,
not against your will. Why?

Why did you agree
to be wheeled here?

- Gets me out of the ward.
- What's that?

I said it makes a change
from the bedpans

and the sick old farts
talking in their sleep.

Lets me see the warp and woof
of life in all its rich texture.

Crap like that.
Where the cuckoo drops its eggs.

Someone else's smelly little nest -
yours.

This is an act, a desperate pastiche.

No. I don't like Italian food.

- You can't keep it up.
- Oh, little do you know!

I suppose you've noticed that
I've obtained a copy of one of your...

What do you call them? It's not
a novel, is it, properly speaking?

Not what Lawrence would
call the one bright book of life?

- Quote me no quotes.
- But you wouldn't call it a novel?

Oh, no. Of course not.
It's pages, that's all.

Where did you get it?
Not a bookshop, that's for certain.

What did you get it for? What casual
little cruelty do you have in mind?

- Not reading it, I hope?
- Clues.

- What?
- It's a detective story.

That's what you're supposed to find.

- Am I not right or am I right?
- Oh, my God! You can't do it!

The clues are supposed to point
in the direction of the murderer,

but what if they also reveal the victim
just a little more clearly?

Are you going to keep on like this?
Do you think it'll start me talking?

Well, you're wrong. If you think
you're being friendly and reassur...

Ah, I know what it is. You think
you're being interesting, eh?

You think you're quite a character.

Well, let me tell you, you're barking
up the wrong trouser leg.

So I see.

May I go back, please? I'm bored.
I wish to be returned to the ward.

It's vivid and exciting there.

Yes. It must seem like home.
How long have you been there now?

Ten, eleven weeks...

- Do you have visitors?
- Don't want any. My day is too full.

How often have you been in hospital?

You must have all this.
There's an army of you filling in cards,

padding out files, poking, prying.

- Why don't you look it up?
- Tell me. How many times?

Thirteen, fourteen,
something like that.

Quite an old lag, then, aren't you?

- Does your wife visit?
- I'm not married.

- Do you stop her coming?
- I'm not married.

I see.

Stop it! Stop staring! Put your
piggy little eyes somewhere else.

Now, now, now.

Call the porter. I want to go back.
I'm not going to talk to you!

- You don't like women, do you?
- What sort do you mean?

Young ones? Old ones?
Faithful ones?

Slags? Sluts?
Try and be a bit more specific.

All right. I'm reasonably sure
that you think that you do like them,

that you even think that they
are capable of being idolised, or...

You don't like sex.
You probably think you do.

- We think about it a lot, don't we?
- You do. You dirty little sod.

Yes, I do. But listen to yourself.

Isn't it clear
that you regard sexual intercourse

with considerable distaste,

or, what is more to the point,
with fear?

Would you call that a fair statement?

Am I totally wide of the mark, hmm?

Isn't it the case that you regard
sex with fear and distaste...

even loathing?

Oh, my God.
This is so sick. This is SO sick.

Hmm... Here, for example.

- I just can't believe this.
- I'll read you a passage, if I may.

I'd rather you shoved it
up your arse.

Fine.

- Jig. Jig.
- Yeah, jig bloody jig,

and us stuck out here in the cold.

Shh!

(HEAVY BREATHING)

(GIBBON) I don't wish to upset you.

No. I don't wish
to upset you unnecessarily.

I think you need help.
I think you know that you need help.

You're too intelligent or too aware
of your own condition to deny it.

Most chronic dermatological patients
take tranquillizers

or antidepressants, you know,
almost as a matter of routine.

The skin is, after all,
extremely personal, is it not?

The temptation is to believe that
the sins and the poisons of the mind

or the personality have somehow
erupted straight out onto the skin.

''Unclean! Unclean!''
you shout, ringing your bell,

warning us to keep off,
to keep clear.

The leper in the Bible, yes?

But that's nonsense, you know.

Do you know?

Well, one part of you does, I'm sure.

You can be helped.

Moreover, Mr Marlow...
Moreover, I think I can help.

You can. Yes, you can. Yes.

If you can give me a couple
of hundred barbiturates, you can.

Otherwise, stop pissing into the wind.
Stop listening to your own voice.

Stop confusing wisdom with smugness,
and send me back to my bed.

''Moreover.'' Jesus! ''Moreover''!

I can't say I care for your manners.

Yeah, sorry.
I never went to Sunday School.

Thank your stars
I don't crack my knuckles.

You didn't set out to mimic
that sort of stuff, did you?

- What sort of stuff?
- ''Not raining in the foothills.''

- ''Down these mean streets.''
- What sort of stuff?

(AS HUMPHREY BOGART)
OK. You won't play ball.

Look. You know, I'd heard
that psychiatrists, psychoanalysts

or whatever you are,
are very peculiar people,

but, really, I find it impossible
to understand a single word you say!

It is my contention,
having read some of your prose,

that you did not set out
to write like that.

What things
would you rather have written about?

If I had the talent, you mean?
Come on, be a critic.

- You've got the face for it.
- If you like. If you had the talent.

Well, one-liners
in Christmas crackers,

speeches for Mrs Thatcher,

obituaries...
or is that the same thing?

Ah, verses in birthday cards,
captions for Prince Andrew...

There's no telling. It's just putting
one word after another, that's all.

- It won't be used as evidence.
- What won't?

You telling me what or how
you wanted to write.

Forget it. I have. Long ago.

Tell me.

I'd have liked to have used my pen

to praise a loving God
and all his loving creation.

- Really?
- (MOCKINGLY) Moreover...

I'd like to have seen hosts
of radiant, translucent angels

spinning shafts of golden light
deeper and deeper

into the blue caverns of Heaven.

(CHUCKLES)

Yeah. I'll tell you something
even more unlikely.

I also wanted to play inside right
for Fulham and England.

- Fulham? Why Fulham?
- Be rude. I don't care.

We're used to slander at Craven Cottage.
Goals are something else.

- I'm not interested in football.
- You should be as a psychiatrist.

That's where the nutters are,
on the terraces. Except at Fulham.

That's where you go to be alone.

Now, there's a paragraph here
that sits rather oddly on the page.

It doesn't belong in a detective
story. Not in my opinion.

Oh, I see. So psychiatry
is not nasty enough for you?

You still want
to get into literary criticism.

I should be careful,
going down that slope.

Swine to the left of you,
swine to the right of you.

- Grunt, grunt!
- Listen to this. A purple passage.

No, a blue one, I hope.

''Mouth sucking wet
and slack at mouth,

''tongue chafing against tongue,
limb thrusting upon limb,

''skin rubbing at skin...''

Oink! Oink!

''The faces contort and stretch
into a helpless leer.

''Organs spurt out smelly stains
and sticky betrayals...''

Oink! Oink!

''This is the sweaty farce out of which
we are brought into being.

''We are implicated without choice
in the slippery catastrophe

''of the copulations
which splatter us into existence.

''We are spat out of fevered loins.

''We are the by-blows
of grunts and groans and pantings

''in a rumpled and creaking bed.

''Welcome.''

Yeah, the milk of Paradise.

(HEAVY BREATHING)

Good. Now we can talk.

What did Kipling say
about women and cigars?

Never mind. How would you know?

What do you know?

How much do you know?

I'm sorry. I'm afraid
this could make a very nasty burn.

And you've such lovely skin, Sonia.
It's like porcelain.

Do you know the origin
of the word ''porcelain''?

No, of course not. Why should you?

Doesn't it disgust you, what you do?

Being paid to stretch out
and let a stranger enter you?

They must have trained you well,
the NKVD.

You think I don't know
who you work for?

Well, this is the dead time.

Dead time in a dead city.

You can feel the nothingness
pressing down.

Pressing down
on the whole dirty place.

It looks cold out there.

The river looks as though
it's made of tar, sludging along,

full of filth.

- There's two men out there.
- Are you sure?

They're watching this house!
Are they the same two as...

They can't be there by accident.

Is there a back way, another way out?

Just one of the girls, eh?
Who are they? What do they want?

- Way out. Quick!
- Are they after you or me?

- Let go.
- Who are they?

- Let me go.
- You're not going anywhere.

(WAILS)

(BINNEY) My nose started to bleed.

I, er... I wasn't fully dressed,
you see? I couldn't go after her.

I think she was
not quite right in the head.

- Who is?
- Well, there you are.

Who is? Who indeed?

But, why should she
butt you like that?

- What did she say?
- She was too frightened to speak.

She gabbled something in Russian
as she ran.

- Where'd you pick up that lingo?
- Intelligence Corps.

I interviewed Red Army soldiers
towards the end of the war.

- You're not in the Army now.
- (LAUGHS) No. No.

So, six months ago you were
interviewing the comrades,

then a Russian girl goes missing
after visiting your house.

Question. Did this dame
know something about you?

- I don't know.
- You're holding out.

I don't know. I really don't.
I swear before God that...

Swear before something
you believe in, buddy.

I swear on my mother's grave

that Sonia was alive and unharmed
when she left my place.

- So who says different?
- I think I'll be arrested.

The police are at me all the time.
They've told me not to leave town.

They don't believe that there
were two men outside that night.

In fact, that made them
even more suspicious.

- Seems she never went to her flat.
- Where's that?

Queensway, apparently.
She lives with Amanda.

- Who?
- The girl in the nightclub.

- Another whore?
- If you want to put it like that.

- How else would you put it?
- I wouldn't call them names...

Dog shit by any other name
smells as foul,

and it sticks to your shoe
whatever you call it.

Be mealy-mouthed if you like,
but not around me.

You've stepped in something nasty
and want me to clean it up.

I'm the scoop, the brush and the shovel.

Mr Marlow, what I want
is for somebody to find that girl,

or the men
who were outside the house,

or to prove that nothing nasty
happened to her at my hands.

- But it did.
- What?

Something nasty did happen to her
at your hands.

- I'm telling the truth!
- I didn't say you weren't.

All I'm saying was something nasty
did happen to her with you.

- Wouldn't her mother say that?
- Her mother?! Oh, for God's sake!

You swore on your mother's grave.

Mr Marlow,
aren't you being unduly censorious

- for this day and age?
- What day? What age?

- Money's no problem. I'll pay well.
- You don't know how much I want.

- I'm not as cheap as I look.
- I'll pay whatever you ask.

My good name is important, but I'm not
paying you to make me feel small.

Oh, that's thrown in without charge.

Hey, man. This is bad.

You have got this bad.

Ah, thank you.
Thank you very much.

So, what bring this on, then?

- Camay.
- What?

Camay. That perfume
worth a guinea an ounce.

Listen,
I tell you something for free.

Like the health service used to be.

Hey, Jack, listen up.
This is serious business here.

Don't eat tomatoes. Do you read me?

- I hears you.
- You try it. You'll see.

- No tomatoes. I'm telling you.
- I'll try.

- Do you ever shit?
- What?! Erm... Well, occasionally.

Yeah, well, you look back at it
after tomatoes.

It's the pips.

Well, they're there, man. Ready to grow.

- The pips in your poop.
- Waste not, want not.

Lay off them love apples, man.
That's the truth.

- They are no good. Do you register?
- Registered.

- Yes, thanks very much.
- Good.

- Be seeing you.
- Yeah. Bye-bye.

(SIGHS) Tomatoes!

Yes, of course!
Why didn't I think of that?

Come on, George. Come on. Oh!

Cor! Somebody must have poured
boiling fat over that 'un.

Now, Mr Adams. We don't make
those sort of remarks here.

Shut your mouth. Mind your Ps and Qs.

- This will be your bed, Mr Adams.
- Nice clean sheets, George.

Yeah, but I'm not staying.

- Now, now, Mr Adams.
- Best place, George.

I ain't never been ill,
and I'm not now.

You're not getting me in there,
and that's that.

It's my life, innit? Nobody else's.

I'll just draw the curtains.
Then you can undress in privacy.

- You what?
- In your new pyjamas, Dad.

Pyjamas!
What are you talking about? Pyjamas!

I'm not wearing bleedin' pyjamas.

- I won't have it!
- (WEAKLY) Hot...

- Hot...
- You can't bloody wait, can you?

- George!
- You just can't bloody wait.

You'll be right behind the hearse,
laughing your bleedin' head off.

George, stop it!
Want to stop mucking me about!

- (MOANS)
- Gently does it, Mrs Adams.

I'll bloody haunt you, I will.
I'll be back, Mother. I'll be back.

- The heat...
- Christ!

- George!
- What sort of bloody pillow is this?

Lie on that and you'll suffocate.
Leave me alone.

- Get off.
- George, if you don't stop...

Come along, Mr Adams.
There's no need for all this fuss.

Get off of me, you bloody old cow.
Leave me alone...

- Mrs Adams. What on earth...?
- (WHINES) You bloody hurt me!

- You rotten bitch.
- It's the only way, Sister.

Give him one.
It's the only way. I know.

I've had it for too long.
Years and years of it.

Give him one. He's not strong enough
to give you one back.

(WAILS)

Not now, he ain't.

(BIRDS TWITTER)

Our Father, which art in Heaven,
hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done,
on Earth, as it is in Heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread,
and forgive us our trespasses,

as we forgive them
who trespass against us...

(BING CROSBYAND THE ANDREWS SISTERS)
# Oh, give me land, lots of land

# Under starry skies above

# Don't fence me in

# Let me ride through
the wide-open country that I love

# Don't fence me in

# Let me be by myself

# In the evening breeze

# And listen to the murmur
of the cottonwood trees

# Send me off forever,
but I ask you, please

# Don't fence me in... #

(HACKING AND COUGHING)

# On my cayuse,
let me wander over yonder

# Till I see the mountains rise

# I want to ride to the ridge

# Where the west commences... #

Ah, put this racket off, eh?

Aye, get on thy wick.

# ..and I can't stand fences

# Don't fence me in #

(MUSIC STOPS)

I like the Andrews Sisters.
I like Bing Crosby.

Aye, well...and I do.

(COUGHING AND SPLUTTERING)

(HAWKING)

(SPITS)

Lovely bit o' plum. Thou cosn't beat
plum jam, whatever anybody do say.

Cosn't cook a plum.
A plum don't like cooking.

Him have too much skin.
Give I strawberry any day.

I'd rather have strawberry jam
any day. I'd rather have...

(COUGHS AND SPLUTTERS)

- God Almighty!
- What?

- What's the matter?
- What's the matter?!

How can anybody eat
with that going on?

- What's up wi' her now?
- Him can't help it, now, can he?

Ain't no joke, mind,
coal dust in the lungs.

- What's our Dad supposed to do?
- What's that?

- He can go outside when we eat.
- Oh? Whose house is it?

Tell me. Him has to go outside
for a bit of a cough in his own home?

A bit of a cough?!
More like a bleedin' avalanche.

(YOUNG WOMAN) It turns me up.
I had food in my mouth.

- I could hardly get it down.
- Fuss, fuss, fuss!

Where's thou been, Philip?
Tea's been ready half hour.

It's not fuss.
Not at all! It turns me up.

Then thou knows what thou can do.

- Now, our Mam.
- ''Now, our Mam.''

''Ooh, our Mam.'' Why don't you
stick up for me? Christ Almighty!

(GRANDMOTHER) Language!
(GRANDFATHER) No animosity.

Whose house is it, I do want
to know? Whose few sticks of furniture?

Have we got to be told what to do
at our time of life in our own place?

- Whose house? Tell me that.
- Is that all you can say?

Do you ever say anything else?
Change the bloody tune!

- No cussing here.
- Don't talk to me like that,

- not in my own home.
- Mam.

We never wanted this to happen,
to end up like this.

Oh, let's have our bit of tea.
Don't let's squabble.

I be sick at heart with it all.

Where have you been?
Why are you always late for your tea?

- Where you been?
- I've been calling. Didn't you hear?

- No.
- You been in them woods on thy own?

- Stuck up top of a tree?
- It's unnatural.

I never know where you are. Wanted
you to go to the shop. Calling...

- I've a good mind you get no tea.
- Oh, him have got to have his tea.

'Course him have,
a growing lad like Philip.

Got to put some gristle
in them arms, old buddy.

Come th'on.
Sit up at table. There's a good boy.

- Make a soldier of thee, eh?
- I'll decide that. He's my son!

Philip. No tea for you.

Oh, him's got to have his bit of tea.

You gutless bugger!

I've never heard the like! Ted,
bist thou going to put up with that?

- Oh, I'd smack her one!
- Oh, shut up!

Keep your nose out of it,
you interfering old cow!

Get out!

Get theeself out!

- Get out of this house.
- Don't, our Mam. Hold on.

I would if your son
was any sort of man!

- Betty...
- It's his job to find us a place,

instead of being squashed up
in this pokey hole!

(PHILIP) It's me. My fault. Mine.

It's me. Me. It's all my doing.

It's me. My fault. Mine.

(MARLOW) It's me. Me. All my doing.

Hey?

Hey, please?

Please? Hey?

Call the...

Hey, please... I need...the nurse.

# I'm as restless
as a willow in a wind-storm

# I'm as jumpy
as a puppet on a string

# I'd say that I had spring fever

# But I know it isn't spring

# I'm starry-eyed
and vaguely discontented

# Like a nightingale
without a song to sing

# Oh, why should I have spring fever

# When it isn't even spring?

# I keep wishing

# I was somewhere else

# Walking down a strange new street

# Hearing words that I never heard

# From a girl I've yet to meet

# I'm as busy
as a spider spinning daydreams

# I'm as giddy as a baby on a swing

# I haven't seen a crocus
or a rosebud

# Or a robin on the wing

# But I feel so gay

# In a melancholy way

# That it might as well be spring

# It might as well be spring

# I'm as busy
as a spider spinning daydreams

# I'm as giddy as a baby on a swing

# I haven't seen a crocus
or a rosebud

# Or a robin on the wing

# But I feel so gay

# In a melancholy way

# That it might as well be spring

(ALL) # It might as well be spring #

Nobody holds a candle to thee father
as far as warbling is concerned.

Your dad's too good for the pit.

Him ought to be up in lights,
see if I ben't right.

- Bist thou all right, o'but?
- Aye.

Order! Order! Order! Come on, now.
Let's have a bit of order.

We've heard the husband,
now for his missus.

Mrs Marlow will now play
''The Rustle of Spring''.

Chunt a cowboy song, mind!

(LAUGHTER)

(PLAYS)

(PIANO CONTINUES)

(DOCTOR) Pay attention.

Now, pay attention.
I want you to look at my finger.

Mr Adams, please,
give me your attention.

Look at my finger.
Look at my finger.

- What for?
- Well, it's just a routine test.

Follow my finger with your eyes.

Just your eyes. That's it.

Up and down.

Down.

Yes.

Time for your greasing, Mr Marlow.
Sorry to disturb you.

(DOCTOR) Up and down. Up and down.

Just your eyes, Mr Adams.
Just your eyes.

Look at my finger. Yes...

What's all this, then, eh?

- What...?
- Now, relax your legs.

- Oi! You bloody hit me!
- Of course I didn't.

You bloody did. Ow!

Hammers now. Bleedin' hammers.
Right on my bloody knee!

- I am simply testing your reflexes.
- I'll have the law on you.

(LAUGHS) We've got a right one here.

(DOCTOR) Your next-of-kin
is your wife, presumably?

(MUMBLES) Drink. Drink.

Her name? Your wife's first name?

- Huh?
- Yes? What's her name?

- Her Christian name?
- I'm buggered if I know.

You... Surely you...?
What do you call her?

- You must call her something?
- Yeah, and I'm not telling you.

It's just a small matter,
then I'm done.

- What? No tablets?
- Sorry?

What sort of a doctor are you?

Just tell me,
if you would be so kind,

what name you give your wife.

Come on, now. What do you call her?

What about
when you want her attention?

- (GEORGE) What?
- Do you say, for instance,

- ''Mary, may I have some tea?''
- What?

Her name. What do you call her?

Mum. I call her Mum.

What the bleedin' hell else
would I call her?

Mum.

Life is a cabaret, old chum.
In here it is.

- (WEAKLY) Drink.
- Hang about.

Drink.

Are you in pain?
Are you in much pain?

Do you understand what I am saying?

Mr Marlow?

Here. A drink. Please,
you must drink. There's a good boy.

- (MUMBLES) Playing, they are...
- Pain, do you say?

- On the piano.
- Never mind the piano or whatever.

Drink this. Philip, drink, then I'm
going to fetch a doctor. Come on.

- Come along, now.
- The spring...

- No, it's tap water.
- The rustle of spring. Rustle...

Mr Marlow?

Of spring...

(PIANO PLAYS)

Yeah... Water.

Hello.

Guess.

(GRUNTING)

Caught us, have you, Marlow?

Philip? Hey, why don't you join us,
then? Come on.

Hey, don't be a spoilsport! Philip!

Hey, come back.
Don't be silly! (CACKLES)

Come back! Philip!

Philip!

(PHILIP GASPS FOR BREATH)

(WOMAN) Why is it only this boy
who knows the answer?

Why is it only Philip
who has his hand up? Always Philip.

The capital of Iceland.

- Reykjavik, Miss.
- Correct. Good boy.

You put the others to shame.
And who can tell me the name

of the very good man who wrote
''The Pilgrim's Progress''? Nicola?

- John Bunyan.
- Correct. Good girl.

Very good.
You put the others to shame.

The new president
of the United States of America?

(PHILIP) Harry S Truman, Miss.

(ALL CHANT) Clever Dick! Clever Dick!
Makes me sick!

Clever Dick! Give her arse a lick!
Clever Dick! Makes me sick!

Clever Dick! Clever Dick!
Give her arse a lick!

Clever Dick!
Clever Dick! Makes me sick!

Clever Dick! Clever Dick!
Give her arse a lick!

(LAUGHTER)

When I grow up, I'll be the first
man to live forever and ever.

'Cause you don't have to die,
not unless you want to.

And I ben't never going
to want to. Not me.

When I grow up, I'll leave the light on
all night, no matter bloody what.

I am going to have books,
on shelves, mind.

Shelves just for books.

When I grow up, I'll have
a whole tin of evaporated milk

on a whole tin of peaches, I be.

I bloody be, mind.

I bloody damn buggering well be!

Oh, and I shall cuss.

Do you know, I'll tell thou what,
when I...when I grow up,

everything...everything'll be
all right...won't it?

Won't it, God?

Thou does like me a bit, doesn't God?

When I grow up,
I gonna be a detective.

(PHILIP) I'll find out things.

I'll find out.
I'll find out who done it.

Cuckoo.

Cuckoo.

(WHISTLING TUNEFULLY)

(BIRD CALLS)

(PERFORMS A RANGE OF BIRD CALLS)

(MIXES BIRDS CALLS WITH PREVIOUS TUNE)

(CUCKOOS)

(RESUMES TUNE)

(WHISTLING SWEEPS AND SOARS)

I can't...

I can't seem to...

I can't clap my hands, I can't.
Not even for my dear old dad.

- Ah, but thou doesn't want to.
- Don't want to?

You ben't interested
in clapping thee father, be you?

Thou never gave the poor bugger
credit when him were alive!

- Too big for thy boots.
- Wh-What do you mean?

Thou knows very well,
you cocky bugger.

Are you trying to say... Listen,
are you saying that my dad is dead?

Dead? (LAUGHS) Aye. 'Course him is.

Dead and gone.
And nobody to care yuppence.

But, no.

I have so much to say to him.

I need to speak to him very badly.

Don't be stupid.

- He can't be dead. Not my dad.
- Oh, him's dead.

Him's dead, all right.
Dead and buried long since.

Listen, you...
That was him, wasn't it?

That was my dad doing the birds.

That was my dad up on the platform.

Dad! Dad! Over here, old buddy!
Come over here!

Thou knowest
how much I care about tha.

But he was here.

I saw him.

That was my lovely dear old dad.

That was him whistling. I heard him.

I heard him.

All the birds in the trees.

All the love in the world.

I heard it. I heard him.

(POSH VOICE) What's that?

What are you saying, old chap?

- What are you trying to say?
- I heard him.

I saw him.

(MUMBLES) All the love in the world.
All the birds... I saw...

Nothing, just babble,
but he's more or less asleep.

You were right to call me.
He'll sleep now for quite a while.

- Forget supper. Leave him be.
- Shall I close the curtains?

Yes, jolly good idea.

(BAND STRIKES UP)

# Cruising down the river

# On a Sunday afternoon

# With one you love, the sun above

# Waiting for the moon

# The old accordion playing

# A sentimental tune

# Cruising down the river

# On a Sunday afternoon

# The birds above all sing of love

# A gentle sweet refrain... #

(MARLOW) I look around the hall
when I'm crooning this stuff.

Study faces. Watch the feet.

You can learn a lot about life
from ballroom dancers.

It helps my think-box
to send out sparks,

and I've gotta fizz on this case.

# While cruising down the river

# On a Sunday afternoon... #

(MARLOW)
This river I'm cruising down.

They'd fished out a body,
and it wasn't a mermaid,

but there was something fishy
about it, that's for sure.

Yes, sir. The Thames
can be all sleaze and no flow.

And talking of flotsam and jetsam,
who were those guys watching Binney?

And is he playing
his own game with me?

What's this
with the Russianski lingo?

Is it ''da'' or is ''niet''?

I had visiting to do - places where
you don't leave a calling card.

(KNOCKING)

All right, all right, all right.

Do you want to break the door down?

- Who are you? What do you want?
- The police found her this morning.

- What?
- They found the poor little thing.

- Your piece of fluff.
- Your harmless bit of fun.

- She's turned up.
- I don't know what...

- In the river.
- Naked. Not even her knickers on.

- Not a stitch.
- What did you do with her clothes?

Especially the fur coat. Do you
know how much sable is worth?

Who are you? You look like strays
from some bad film.

You make me laugh.

Clowns! I know who you are.
It's written all over you.

Don't keep us outside.
I advise you strongly not to do that.

- Now, now, now, Mr B.
- That's not very friendly, is it?

All right. You'd better come in.

Thank you.

Thank you, sir.

Goodness me. Look at this.
What would you call this?

That is what I would call
a provocative picture. I'm provoked.

It tells us a great deal
about the woman, does it not?

A slut, I'd say.

It also tells us a great deal about
the man who put it there, surely?

A pimp would be my guess.

It's a painting,
a decoration for the wall!

A very attractive girl
as a decoration for a wall.

Splendid breasts, though.

Yes... Splendid.

(NURSE) He had a high temperature,
but it's back under control now.

The skin, you see.

He had to be sedated.
He's been asleep all day.

I'd rather you didn't wake him,
if he needs to...

Oh, my God.

- I had no idea he looked so bad.
- It's at its peak now. It's 1OO%.

But I mean, surely something
can be done. I mean... Heavens above.

This is ghastly. It looks
as though he's been scalded.

They're trying him
on one of the retinoids.

- You'd know that, of course.
- Of course.

Mr Marlow. Mr Marlow. A visitor.

I am not so sure
that we should wake him, are you?

He'll only give me a mouthful
of abuse, anyway.

Look, they wanted to know if and when
you came. The doctors, I mean.

They're not here now,
but Sister would like a word.

Well, I'm not so sure
that I do want to get too, erm...

All right.
I've got to speak to somebody.

- At least I won't get abuse.
- Sorry?

When he wakes up
and sees me, you'll find out.

In fact... I can't face it.

- Are you sure?
- I shouldn't have come.

Shouldn't even have tried.

Farewell, my lovely.

Nicola, come here.

Come back, you bitch. Nicola.

Come here. Come back, you bitch!

Nicola!

Come here, you filthy little slut!

(SHOUTS)
You disgusting tramp, Nicola!

You two-bit, rutting whore, Nicola!

Come here, you heartless bitch!

Nicola!

Who are you opening your legs
for now, you rutting bitch?

You filthy bag of filth, Nicola!
You whore!

Come here, you stinking,
heartless, rutting piece of...

Mr Marlow, what on earth
do you think you are doing?

Wash his mouth out
with soap and water!

Dirty bleeder!

- What's going on?
- You, that's what!

What do you think you are doing?
Where do you think you are?!

(CUCKOOING)

# Cruising down the river

# On a Sunday afternoon

# With one you love, the sun above

# Waiting for the moon #

That's all, folks.