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.
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.
My arrangement was with Amanda.
I thought Amanda was going to warm my lonely little bed.
- We agreed on a price. - £15.
Listen, you little tart, it would take a shop girl a month to earn that.
Ten. I agreed ten. And think yourself lucky.
- £15. - 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?
- 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.
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?
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... um... 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. 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.
"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 bedpans
and 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.
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 idolized 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!
I don't wish to upset you.
More precisely, 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 are on 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 the sins and 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?
OK, so 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 like to have used my pen
to praise a loving God and all his loving creation.
- Really? - Moreover...
I'd like to have seen hosts of radiant and translucent angels
spinning shafts of golden light deeper and deeper
into the blue caverns of Heaven.
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 very interested in football. - You should be as a psychiatrist.
That's where the nutters are - on the terraces. Except at Fulham.
You go there 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.
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, isn't it?
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.
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. - 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, good 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, I want somebody to find that girl
or the men who were outside the house
or to prove 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'll 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.
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 pajamas, Dad.
Pajamas! What are you talking about? Pajamas!
I'm not wearing bleedin' pajamas.
- I won't have it! - 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!
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...? - 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.
Not now, he ain't.
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...
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...
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...
Put this racket off, eh?
Aye, get on thy wick.
... and I can't stand fences
Don't fence me in
I like the Andrews Sisters. I like Bing Crosby.
Aye, well... and I do.
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...
- 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.
It turns me up. I had food in my mouth.
- I could hardly get it down. - Fuss, fuss, fuss!
Where's thou been, our 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!
Language! 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, 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!
It's me. My fault. Mine.
It's me. Me. It's all my doing.
It's me. My fault. Mine.
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
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!
Pay attention.
Now, pay attention. I want you to look at my finger.
Mr Adams, 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.
Time for your greasing, Mr Marlow. Sorry to disturb you.
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.
We've got a right one here.
Your next-of-kin is your wife, presumably?
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'd be so kind,
what name you give your wife.
Come on, now. What do you call her?
What about when you want her attention?
- 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.
- 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.
- 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...
Yeah... Water.
Hello.
Guess.
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!
Come back! Philip!
Philip!
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.
- Reykjavík, 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?
Harry S Truman, Miss.
Clever Dick! Clever Dick! Makes me sick!
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!
When I grow up, I'll be the first man to live forever and ever.
In my opinion, 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'm gonna 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!
Aye, 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.
I'll find out things.
I'll find out. I'll find out who done it.
Cuckoo.
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?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.
What's that? What are you saying, old chap?
- What are you trying to say? - I heard him.
I saw him.
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.
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...
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.
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 it "niet"?
I had visiting to do - places where you don't leave a calling card.
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 on the step. 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.
He had a high temperature, but it's back under control now.
The skin, you see.
He's 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 100%.
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... um...
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, I don't want 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!
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?!
Cruising down the river
On a Sunday afternoon
With one you love, the sun above
Waiting for the moon
That's all, folks.