Fault Lines

Ali Taylor

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2013
• Print ISBN: 9781848423763
• eBook ISBN: 9781780013244
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

A razor-sharp new comedy that exposes the dilemmas of working in charity today and asks whether doing good is always the same as being good.

7.32am. Christmas Eve.

Disasters Relief's staff parties are legendary – but their aftermath cataclysmic. Nick and Abi wake amidst the carnage to breaking news: a massive earthquake has struck Pakistan.

Gathering their clothes – and dignity – the race with rivals Oxfam begins. Who can be the first to dispatch branded aid in full view of the world media? And how far are they willing to go? With the appalling spectre of last night's antics hanging over everything, the day rapidly spirals into a dizzying web of secrets and lies.

Ali Taylor's play Fault Lines was first performed at Hampstead Theatre, London in December 2013.

ACT ONE

Scene One

8.32 a.m. Christmas Eve.

The office of Disasters Relief, a small charity in London. Through the half-light, we can see it’s a cramped, tatty room with four desks, grey metal filing cabinets with box files stacked on top, dying spider plants on shelves, dog-eared posters of refugees in tents during previous aid campaigns in Pakistan, Afghanistan and India, maps of north-east Asia, Africa, South America. There is also camping paraphernalia stacked in piles in various places. There’s a dated TV. There’s a door to Rory’s office, a door to a stationery cupboard, and a door to a shared corridor and kitchen.

Last night was the Christmas party and the place is a bombsite – decorations hanging off the walls, snapped paper chains, tinsel, paper plates with bits of half-eaten sausage rolls. Chocolates have been trodden into the threadbare industrial carpet. Glasses with dregs of red wine, beer bottles and plastic cups are everywhere.

In the centre of a room is a two-man tent with the ‘Disasters Relief’ logo on the side. Around the tent are strewn shoes, a pair of trousers, tie, a bra, tights and socks.

The phone on PAT’s desk is ringing.

ABI’s arm stretches out of the tent, feeling around for and grabbing a bra and T-shirt. She then emerges, hungover as hell, bleary-eyed, hair everywhere. She looks for which phone is ringing. It’s confusing.

She steps over the guy-ropes tied to desk legs and chairs, and just as she reaches it, it stops. The phone near NICK’s desk starts ringing. She looks for her clothes and picks up a skirt, lumberjack shirt and… realises. She looks around, realising, panicked.

Enter NICK, excited, carrying a cup of tea. He approaches ABI.

NICK. Hey!

ABI. Hey.

NICK. You all right?

ABI (half-laughs). Fuck.

NICK. Yeah!

ABI. Fuck.

NICK. Yeah! Mental isn’t it?

ABI stares at NICK, taking in what’s happened.

Who woulda seen that coming! Office parties are supposed to be shit but that was… properly one of the best two or three parties ever!

NICK follows ABI’s gaze around.

I know! You think this is bad, you ent seen the kitchen. It’s like an epileptic’s gone decorating.

Your head banging?!

It is isn’t it?!

ABI nods.

Yeah, yeah mine’s killing. Like badgers drilling inside it.

Here. Got ya a cup of tea, cup of camomile. I stuck four sugars in it and left the bag in. There’s breakfast there. (Points to a paper plate.) Just a few crisps, sausage rolls, things. I took the hairs off. And one had a bite out of it but –

ABI takes the plate. NICK puts the mug down. She looks to where the phone is ringing from.

That’s not helping is it? Been ringing all morning.

Giz a sec and I’ll…

NICK searches for the ringing phone. As he gets there, it stops ringing.

Thank you!

ABI puts the plate down and quickly picks up her clothes and begins putting them on.

You know who I blame? That Chris Symonds from Food Aid. That moonshine of his yeah. Said he makes it out of courgettes. It’s nuclear.

You remember doing his charity challenge?

ABI smiles awkwardly, shaking her head.

Abs, we were ace! You were downing it like water. One, bang. Two, bang. Fourteen! That bird from Age UK was destroyed!

And then us bustin’ some moves, remember you on Pat’s desk and getting Gordon Privett from Amnesty to give you the lift off Dirty Dancing.

ABI. I didn’t?

NICK. You did! You must remember. He refused and so you lobbed a whole cheese at his head.

ABI (laughs). No!

NICK. You smacked him on his face. A whole brie. All melted, running down his cheeks! He’s the Head of Regional Aid!

ABI. No! Fuck!

NICK. Yeah!

ABI (grins). I never did like him.

NICK. He knows that now!

NICK rubs the fluff off a sausage roll and starts eating off the plate.

Definitely the best party ever. You know what our new motto should be? ‘Disasters Relief, we might be bust but we are The Best.’

Pringle?

Beat.

ABI. Wait, what’s the time?

NICK. Half eight.

ABI. Half eight?

NICK. Yeah.

ABI. Then everyone’ll be in. In like ten minutes.

NICK. No, s’all right, Abs /

ABI. Oh no no no /

NICK. Honestly /

ABI. Pat’s normally in by eight, she’ll be here any minute.

Nick, we’ve got to clear up and get –

NICK. It’s Christmas Eve, Abs.

The office is closed. No one’s in till the twenty-seventh.

ABI. – ?

NICK. It’s just us. No Pat, no Rory, no work experience.

The place is ours. We can chill out. Or carry on where we left off.

I can’t promise a repeat of last night but there is some magic left in the old wand.

NICK goes in to touch ABI but she pulls back.

ABI. So we did – ?

NICK. The Rude? Abi, mate, I’m not easily shocked like but I’m feeling violated, yeah. Some of last night was borderline illegal.

ABI. But we did use / ?

NICK. Toys?

ABI. Protection.

NICK. I’m pretty sure we used Old Reliable.

ABI. – ?

NI...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• Original Production
• Characters and Note on Text
• Fault Lines
• About the Author
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information