Breathing Corpses

Laura Wade

• Publisher: Oberon Books
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9781849433259
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Media & Performing Arts
• Subtopic: Performing Arts

Amy's found another body in a hotel bedroom.
There's a funny smell coming from one of Jim's storage units.
And Kate's losing it after spending all day with the police.
There's no going back after what they've seen. Breathing Corpses was first performed at the Royal Court Jerwood Theatre Upstairs in February 2005.

SCENE 1

Tuesday morning, late January, cold but bright.

A hotel room. Not a great hotel, a mid-price hotel that trades on its views over the town rather than its quality of service.

Someone is lying in the bed, the sheets pulled up high. The figure is absolutely motionless.

AMY comes into the room with clean towels over her arm and a plastic carry-case of cleaning fluids. She is wearing a black skirt and white shirt, with a burgundy tabard over the top. She has rubber gloves on her hands.

She stops short when she sees there is someone in the bed.

AMY: Oh god, sorry.

She goes to back out of the room, then stops again. She turns back slowly for a longer look at the figure in the bed.

Right.

God not again.

She looks away. Bites her lip.

You’re supposed to put the Do Not Disturb on. Then I wouldn’t come barging in.

AMY takes a breath and goes over to the bed. She lifts the sheet and looks under it.

OK.

She replaces the sheet. She sees a pill bottle on the bedside table and picks it up. It’s empty.

OK.

Beat.

AMY lifts the sheet and puts one of her hands to the forehead of the body underneath. She frowns, unable to feel the temperature through her gloves.

She takes off one glove and touches the forehead with her hand.

Yeah.

She lifts the figure’s arm out from under the sheet and puts her fingers to its wrist. She looks at her watch with her other hand. A moment.

Yeah.

She lets the arm drop and it falls, lifeless. She watches, interested, then picks it up again and drops it. And again.

Yep.

AMY carefully puts the arm back under the sheet. She puts her rubber glove back on.

She goes over to the dressing table and sits on the stool, looking at the bed. She puts a hand to her mouth and looks around the room.

She goes to the phone by the side of the bed and picks it up, never taking her eyes off the body. She starts to dial, then changes her mind and puts the receiver down.

She sits back down on the stool and makes a sound like crying. She stops herself almost instantly.

Shit. Sorry. Sorry.

She looks to the bed momentarily, as if the corpse said something.

I’m OK.

AMY wipes her eyes and smiles weakly.

Just– you’re dead and I’m going to get sacked I think, so– Not very– not very good, is it?

She laughs at herself.

Talking to you.

She frowns, looking around the room.

That’s new.

She sighs and turns back to the corpse.

What’s your name, Mr Man?

She turns back to the bed, pretending that the corpse spoke.

I’ll go down and tell them in a minute. Probably think I’m joking this time.

Beat.

AMY sees an envelope propped up on the dressing table.

Oh, you did a letter. Nice.

AMY picks the envelope up.

You know you look– I bet you were lovely. I bet you were really– really kind.

Not a person I’d ever really talk to but. But you look lovely. Don’t fancy you or anything, you’re a bit old for me. Probably got kids my age. Oh god have you got–

Beat. She looks at the envelope.

Does it say in here? Who’s Elaine?

She turns the envelope over in her hand.

You didn’t lick it. You know they’ll take this. Evidence. She’ll not get it for days. She’ll have a few days of not knowing why, while they’re doing tests on it and stuff. If you’ve said why in here.

D’you mind if I– It’s just you’ve not sealed it, so no-one’d know, cept you and me and I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.

AMY opens the letter and turns it over to see the name at the bottom.

Jim. Hi Jim.

She reads the letter.

Oh my god. A woman in a box. Like a cardboard box? God. Yeah, that’s really hard. Hard enough finding you, can’t imagine if I found one in a box.

Didn’t you wonder about who was going to find you?

AMY finishes the letter.

That’s a really nice letter, Jim. I mean, you know... For that kind of letter it’s nice. Not too long, you don’t blame anyone. Wouldn’t seem fair, really, they never get chance to say anything back. Good you haven’t blamed anyone.

D’you mind if I open the window? It’s just you smell a bit. No offence, but. It’s just– You’ve had a stressful time, what with the– (Gestures to the letter.) and I think you’ve– on the sheets, so–

She opens the window.

Cold out there.

Don’t want to smell nasty when they come in, do you? Least it’s winter, you’d smell worse if it was summer. Did you mean to wait till after Christmas, did you think about that?

AMY looks out of the window.

See the park from here. Best view, this one.

Will you miss the sky, d’you think?

She turns back to the bed, her hand to her mouth.

Beat.

She goes slowly back to the bed and lifts the sheet to look at the body’s face.

Oh, you’ve been– You’re all red, round your eyes.

She puts the sheet back, and then thinks for a moment before sitting on the side of the bed.

Well I can’t clean up now, can I? Least you didn’t sick up on yourself, quite tidy really.

She reaches for the corpse’s hand and holds it in her lap.

There you go.

Cold hands.

She looks intently at the back of the corpse’s hand.

How old d’you have to be before you get the brown spots?

Pause. She goes to the end of the bed, lifts the sheet from the corpse’s feet and looks at them. She touches the top of one of them lightly, then looks at the door. She sits back, thinking.

You know what gets me? Why wouldn’t you go somewhere really good? Cause you’re not going to have to pay for it next morning, are you? Why wouldn’t you book into somewhere really posh, the Ritz or the Hilton or something, that’s what I’d do. Get a bus to London, new credit card cause you’ll not be around to pay the bill, will you? See a show. Have a nice long jacuzzi and then fall asleep forever but– But least it’s a nice four-poster, Egyptian cotton. Chocolate on the pillow. Not a hotel on a bloody roundabout in this bloody shithole, nice plants in the lobby but if there’s chocolate on the pillow means I didn’t clean your room before you checked in. And it might not be chocolate...

AMY looks over at the tea-tray on the dressing table. She goes to it and picks up the tea cup.

Had a cup of tea, at least.

I’d like to do that. Something mad. Not. Not top myself but– Go somewhere. Far away in a fast car.

She looks back at the tray.

Didn’t touch the shortbreads, I’m not surprised.

AMY looks out of the window.

Why would you not– Why wouldn’t you think there was something better coming for you?

Like a person to come and drive you away, out of your life or.

Or something. You could wait for.

Most days all I want at the end of it’s a sit down. A walk in the park even. Someone who wet shaves and likes buying me stuff and isn’t a bastard like my dad. Someone to talk to.

She looks ...