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ACT ONE
The scene is set with dramatic music. A Classical Greek CHORUS, dressed in black and wearing masks, enter. (Note: the CHORUS are played by the actors who portray MICHAEL, GABRIEL, LUCIFER and REBECCA.)
The CHORUS speak. They physicalise each action with a succinct and precise movement; it should be slick and stylised.
CHORUS.
Upon this stage a tale we bring to you
Of devils, angels, infants and a womb
The womb of whom upon our story rests
A female, young, with fire in her breast
Her life, not one of solitude but vice
Indulgence presiding over sacrifice.
Yet still her form was chosen as the host
To a child whose being mattered more than most.
Her unasked task was just to incubate
A child they say had greatness as his fate
But prepared for such a role our muse was not
And less than happy was she with her lot
And added to this growing mount of fear
The father of said child was less than clear.
A claim is staked from dark and one from light
And one from mortal, present on the night
And so begins our tale with her reception
Of the unexpected news of its conception.
The CHORUS exit and a single light comes up on a phone which sits on a column. As the light comes up, the phone begins to ring. After a moment, a voice shouts from offstage.
MIA (offstage). Fuck off.
She continues to curse at the ringing phone from offstage. A toilet flushes as lights come up on a small room. It is functional with little in it.
The phone continues to ring persistently as MIA continues to shout abuse at it from offstage.
Fuck off . . . Iām coming . . . Alright . . . OK . . . hang on for Christās sake!
MIA bursts onto the stage. She is clearly heavily pregnant and dressed in comfortable tracksuit-style clothes. She is holding a pregnancy test. She answers the phone. She is slightly frantic.
WHAT?
Yes . . . YES, Iāve just done it . . .
Iāve got it here . . .
Iām looking at it now . . .
Well, it doesnāt say anything yet . . .
I donāt know how long . . . five minutes?
She picks up the home-pregnancy-test instructions and reads the back.
The pack just says a few . . .
Well, I donāt know . . . three . . . ?
She disregards the instructions.
This is ridiculous . . .
I canāt be ā itās not possible . . .
No literally . . .
Biologically . . .
No . . . literally, I literally havenāt had sex since Michael . . .
I know . . .
I KNOW . . .
Well, thereās definitely something in there . . .
I can feel it moving around . . .
So how do you explain the massive fucking bulge Iām hiding under my sisterās jumper?
. . . Because my sister is fatter than me and my jumpers wonāt fit . . .
. . . Yes, Iām sure itās not just gas . . .
Looking at watch.
Three and a half . . .
OK . . .
She stares at the test.
I can see something . . .
Somethingās happening . . .
Itās a line . . .
Itās a blue line . . .
What the fuck does a blue line mean?
She desperately fishes around for the instructions and reads them frantically. Suddenly she stops moving and stares forward.
. . . Iām pregnant.
Fuck.
She puts the phone down.
Beat.
(To audience.) That was my friend Rebecca on the phone, sheās three years younger than me and has never had a boyfriend for more than seven months . . .
The idea of having children abhors her, she says the mere thought of a small, bald, wrinkly human being crawling out of her delicate feminine area is enough to make her avoid sex for ever . . .
She has nightmares about it . . .
Fields of hundreds of tiny babies with the faces of her mother and father, all screaming at her and shitting their pants, while she runs around desperately to try and change their nappies, but the cycle of shitting is so constant from the many, many babies, she can never keep up and there is a constant stench and never-ending, screeching howls from the many soiled, screaming, wrinkly little monsters . . .
At this point she wakes up in tears, covered in a damp sweat and rings me . . .
Who is always fast asleep, to say . . .
She picks up the phone. REBECCA appears in the doorway upstage left, holding a phone, shrieking.
REBECCA. I had it again, those little bastards wonāt leave me alone . . . I canāt bear it . . . the stench, the screams, the dead, shark eyes of my mother laughing at me as she shits all over my . . .
MIA. Calm down, you donāt have to have children . . .
Youāre on the pill, you use condoms, youāre protected, have a bloody hysterectomy if you want, then you know youāre safe . . .
It is a preventative problem, they donāt just appear in your womb from nowhere, demanding to be bred.
She puts the phone down, REBECCA exits. MIA turns back to the audience.
Well, they donāt . . .
At least that was my understanding . . .
But this isnāt about Rebecca, this is about me . . .
Who is, as you can see, pregnant, heavily.
Now, I donāt have Rebeccaās inherent fear of babies, I donāt mind babies; in fact, Iād even go as far to say I actually quite like babies, and I probably did intend to have one . . .
At some point,
Or at least I assumed I would,
At some point,
When I was happily married in my own house, with a gingham apron . . .
And an Aga and . . .
A dog . . .
I donāt have any of those things . . .
But I am pregnant, heavily . . .
Which is odd to say the least.
You see, I havenāt actually had sex since I broke up with my ex, Michael.
. . . He claimed that we were both āchanging, but we werenāt allowing each other to move on, that everything else in our lives was progressing but we were forcing each other to stay as the people we knew, which apparently werenāt the people that we were any more . . . ā
. . .
Which is bollocks, HE was changing and the new HIM wanted to be single . . . Prick.
MICHAEL suddenly bursts through the door upstage left.
MICHAEL. God, youāre so unreasonable, see this is why . . . this is what happens . . . youāre the only person that can make me like this, Iām not like this any more.
MIA. What? No, Michael, I...
