Terminal (2018) Script

There is a place like no other on Earth.

A land full of wonder, mystery, and danger.

Some say to survive it, you need to be as mad as a hatter, which luckily...

I am.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

Easy, sweetheart.

I don't think you're supposed to smoke in here.

Guess I've sinned again then.

What is it that you want?

You know exactly what I want.

I want your work, your contracts, all of it.

I'm afraid you're out of luck.

I've been recommended another interested party to handle my... liquidations.

I'll make you a wager.

These other interested parties, I'll set them on one another like starving rats in a cage, and you can watch through the bars.

Give me a fortnight.

I'll have them both dead at your feet.

If I win, I get your work.

All of it.

If you win, you get to make me the interested party that's dead.




I need a little favor.

I need you to find someone for me.

Let the games begin.

Filet steaks and a robust red for supper, is it?

Fuck off, you punk.

Don't do that. It's dangerous.

I've got an open blade here.

Stick it in your mouth. Maybe it will keep you quiet.

Why are you shaving?

Two weeks we've been in here all day and all night, and suddenly you're putting your face on.

What's all that about?

I've got a date later.

Have you? Bollocks.

Only date you've got is with a camp bed and your right hand, you wanker.

No trains till tomorrow now.

404 going north, calling all stations until termination.

Have a pleasant trip.

I'm not going north. I just need a train.


Yes. Where you going?

Nowhere. I just need a train.

Why? Never you mind!

There's no need for rudeness.

I'm so sorry. That was, um...

That was unnecessary.

A man... who needs a train... but not the journey... is a man with a problem.


Are there any freight trains coming through here between now and then? Naw.

No freight trains here.

Of course.


404 going north, calling all stations until termination.

Well, the 404 seems like an age away, and it's not time I'm trying to kill.

End of the Line Cafe situated on the station concourse, open 24 hours a day.

Why not purchase one of our delicious sticky buns?

Only 30 pence.

You're peculiar.

And you're staring at an empty platform in a deserted station in the middle of the night, waiting for a train that isn't coming.


End of the Line it is.

Give us your money, you old bastard, or I'll do you!

What? No! Absolutely not!

You think I'm kidding? I didn't say that.

I just feel like you lack preparation is all.

How's this for preparation?

Now give him your wallet and your watch. Now!

I'll tell you what. I'll buy the gun off you.

I've got a fiver here, a crisp five pound note.

Take it or leave it.

Raymond, hurry up!

What do you want me to do, Lenny?

He's not cooperating. Lenny?

You are? Raymond.

Raymond. Now listen to me very, very carefully.

I've made what I believe to be a perfectly reasonable offer.

Now you're going to make a few quid, and I'm in need of a gun.

Now, is it loaded?

What do you mean, is it loaded?

I mean, are there any bullets in it?

Of course it's loaded!


No, it's not loaded.

Ah. Ray!

For Christ's sakes! What?

It's not, is it?

This is ridiculous.

Hey, where you going? Stay there you or I'll...

Or what? What, Lenny?

You going to butter me to death?

I'm very disappointed in both of you.

You've let me down, and you've let yourselves down.

Something to think about, isn't it?

Good night.

Fucking piss me off sometimes, you do.

Why did you tell him there were no bullets for?

You can't smoke in here.

Well, there's no one else in here.

They're not smoking either, are they?

Can I have another cup of coffee then? This one's cold.

That's because you've been playing with it for 20 minutes.

Can I have another one? Sure. 40 pence.

Have a heart. I just got mugged.

39 then. I'm in a giving mood.

So shines a good deed in a naughty world.


As in spank me gently, I've been a naughty girl?

No, not that kind of naughty.

As in tie me to the bedposts because I've been so naughty?

I think that qualifies as the same kind of naughty.

I know.

I just enjoy watching you fidget when I say "naughty."

Have we met before?

Why? Do I look familiar?

Are you all right?

Do you need your medicine?

Well, tell me which one.

You've got to be kidding me.

Medicinal purposes.

Nice. Go on then.

How about that coffee?

Listen to this.

"Curvaceous, cream-skinned belle seeks sleek Romeo for candlelit romance and walks in the moonlight.

City based."

See, that's code, that is.

That's deviants' code. Pervert poetry.

Translates to "Fat bird wants outside seeing-to late at night." See?

Well, that is funny.

"Slight, retiring young gentleman seeks decisive, practical lady to draw him from his shell.

Friendship and romance. Suburban residence."


Skinny pencil-dick seeks dominatrix for abuse and humiliation.

Has own dungeon.

World's gone to shit, and all anyone can think about is their next dirty one down the docks.

There it is, though.

There it is in black and white.

So... what's wrong with you?

I beg your pardon?

You're hardly the picture of health. What's wrong?

You don't want to know.

I'm fascinated.

Tell me. What's wrong with you?

I have an unquenchable bloodlust for darkness and depravity.

That's nice.

Is it cancer?

No, no.

Has anyone ever introduced you to the concept of small talk?

Well, what is it if it's not cancer?

They don't know.

No way.

That is brilliant.

You're a bit odd, aren't you?

Unquestionably, but death is by far the best bit.

Of what? Of life!

Did you read that in a birthday card?

You're funny.

All right, let's examine the facts.

It's terminal, your sides hurt, and you cough badly.

All signs point to malignant tumor damage.

You're not in denial about it, are you?

You're not desperately searching for another explanation?

I'm dying?


No, thanks.

But you don't know... why or how?


Will it be painful?

Oh, no.

Well, how can you be sure?


Is there anything else?


It's definitely not cancer.

Okay. I don't want to waste my time diagnosing you if it's going to be some run of the mill cancer thing.

Who says I need diagnosing?

You're dying.

Painfully, apparently.

And they don't know why or what of.

It just sounds pretty undiagnosed to me.

We're all dying, you realize.

Slowly, painfully. Just a matter of time, friend.

See now, that's the spirit!

Are you scared?

I try not to think about it.

How's that working out for you?

Not very well.

Are you being survived?

I have no idea what that means.

Wife, kids?

Okay, you can't say that.

It's "survived by."

It has no other grammatical context.

Jesus, what are you, a dying English teacher?



That's fair enough, I suppose.

Conjugate me to your heart's content.

Conjugation's different... Shut up.


Are you sure we haven't met before?

I don't know. Have we?

One shouldn't answer a question with a question.

One shouldn't be such a pompous prat, but here we are.

I think I would definitely remember you if we'd met before.

You would think so, wouldn't you?

What the fuck is going on?

Who the hell are you?

Untie me.


Listen to me.

You've made a mistake. A big one.

But it is a redeemable error.

You're gonna put on the rest of your clothes, you're gonna gather your things, you're gonna give me the key, and then you're going to run for your life.

You've no idea who I am, what I do, or who I work for.

Au contraire, Mr. Nigel Illing.

I know exactly who you are.

I know exactly what it is you do.

And I know exactly who you work for.

I also know that you're 44, 5'11", 12 stone, AB Negative, a drinker and a smoker, and you have a healthy appetite for young hookers in kinky suspenders.

And when you combine the information I have gathered on you and your habits, one can deduce exactly how many drops of laudanum it requires to render you unconscious and relatively docile.

I need a teeny-weeny bit of information from you and a small donation.

Okay, what do you want?

You want money?

You want the car? Listen, you can take it.

You can take it. Take whatever you want.

Oh, that's a very poor choice of words.

Help! Help!


Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

So there's this guy, right?

He's creeping through this house.

It's dark, sinister, creepy. You get the picture.

Pulls out his gun, and he goes into the room with it held arm's length in front of him, Vince.

I don't know what to tell you. It's the pictures.

Right. You walk into the room, right?

In like a shot. You clear your corners.

Cleared. The room is yours, easy.

You don't fucking ease your gun into the room without being able to see anything, waiting to be shot.

It's stupid.

It's a film, Alf. It's make-believe.

It's factually inaccurate. They actually make it up.

It's not as though they've got some hit man consultant talking them through the finer points of assassinating other fictitious people.

Yes, but why not?

It would be factually accurate if they did.

I just realized something.

You're a fucking moron.

Two teas, love!

Oy, bottle blonde!

Two teas.

What's the magic word?

To be fair, you didn't say "please."

Please, could we have two tea cups of lovely tea, a little bit of milk, two sugars, both builder's, please, if you don't mind?

Thank you very much.

It will be my pleasure.


Watch this.

Excuse me. Could I have one of your... lovely-looking sticky buns, please?

It's dinner and drinks at the very least before you get your hands on my buns, handsome.

I mix a mean martini, sugarplum.

In that case, I'll even butter them for you.

Alfred, would you mind terribly rejoining me at the table, pretty please?

Before I break your fucking neck.

Duty calls.

On the job, are you?

Is there the remotest chance that you could possibly calm down a bit?

And what kind of a shithole is this then, eh?

You said somewhere quiet, off the beaten track.

So you find the only late night cafe open this side of the precinct.

It's genius.

I thought it might be nice if we had a cup of tea while we talked.

Enjoy my buns.

Are you fucking drunk or something?

No. Why?

Just shut the fuck up! That's why.

What is so cloak and dagger that you couldn't just tell me over the phone?

A job's coming.


Guttering, is it? Window cleaning?

Yeah, keep up the cheek, son.

You know, you're gonna get clipped round the ear.

In fact, you're gonna get a clip straight in the fucking forehead.


All right.

I'm listening.

So there's a message on the answering service.

It tells me, "Go to the terminal and open locker 125."

Is there a key? No, there's no key.

So what was in it?

"La Lapin Blanche."

What's that?

Well, it's French.

Yes, I know, thank you.

I simply don't understand the relevance of it.

Are you going to ruin this for me?

Are you going to suck all the fucking alluring mystery out of this fucking situation for me?

So it's a clue.

A trail of breadcrumbs. Yes, apparently.

Someone has a pen-chaunt for the amateur dramatics.

It's pronounced penchant.

It's pronounced shut your fucking mouth is how it's pronounced.

Hang on a second.

Black briefcase.


In a locker.

A clue. A trail of breadcrumbs.

Vince, that's the touch, mate.

That is a job from Mr. Franklin.

A Mr. Franklin job?

This is massive!

All right.

Don't get moist.

I thought he always used Illing.

Apparently not.

Now, have I whet your appetite?

I'm salivating.

Let's go rabbit on him.

We've got to play our cards right on this one, Vincent.

No one fucks with Mr. Franklin.

It is a once in a blue moon, once in a fucking lifetime opportunity.

It's keys to the kingdom.

All right, Alfred, it's Mr. Franklin, not the fucking second coming.

Well, I guess this is the place.

What gave it away?

Was it the 20-foot neon sign with the fucking rabbit on it?

Pinch me, I'm dreaming.

I bet they charge a good-priced cover.

Hello, handsome, dangerous men.

Hello, beautiful, semi-clad girl.

Business or pleasure?

Is the real question do I want to pay you to writhe around on top of me for a couple of songs, get me hot all under the collar and take me into the back room for an overpriced hand job?

'Cause if it is, the answer's no, fuck off.

You are no gentleman.

But you, on the other hand...

I'm Conejo. Welcome. What is it you seek?

We're here to meet someone.

Who? We don't know.

About what?

We don't know. Oy!

You need to see Bunny. Follow me.

So where's this Bunny then, eh?

You'll see.


What a beautiful name.

I bet it means "waterfall" or "sunset" or something exotic like that.

It means "rabbit," tit.

Oh, yeah.

Get your head in the fucking game, mate.

You're becoming a fucking liability.

And part of my job is to dispose of fucking liabilities.

What do you mean, I've become a fucking liability?

It's Bunny!

Shut up. We all play the game.

Shut up. Look at her.

Oh, my God. Oh, my God.

Yeah? I'll show you game.

Yeah, are you the famous Bunny?

How abrupt.

Well, I'm not here for conversation or culture.

I'm here for information.

Maybe a filthy lap dance, if I can get one.

Then you're in the right place, Vincent.

How do you know my name?

Bottle blonde!

What the fucking hell are you doing here?

Girl's got to eat.

Is there somewhere we can go and talk?

That depends. Have you got something for me?

I was thinking more of an envelope stuffed with money.

Now, I bet that's gonna buy me a few filthy lap dances.

Probably a lot more than that.

Come and find out.

Both of you, down the rabbit hole.

Curiouser and curiouser.

They're with me, boys.

We've been sent here... we don't know why... to see you, apparently.

You're supposed to give us something, though why you couldn't have given it to us at the pissin' cafe is way beyond me.

Then we leave.

Sound like a plan?



Look, I'm just the middleman.

Think of me as a half-naked waitress delivering goods from one anonymous party to another anonymous party for a fee.

Or slightly less anonymous in your case, Vincent.

What's the combination? No idea.

Well, what good's a briefcase if we ain't got the combination?

No idea.

Huh. Doesn't even need a combination.

Thank you, Miss Bunny. We'll be on our way.

Hang on.

There's something different about you, bottle blonde.

Besides my stocking suspenders, plunging cleavage, and full face of harlot's makeup?

Yeah, yeah, besides that.

Time to go, Vince.


I want my lap dance first before I go anywhere.

I'm ready if you are.

I'll let the dog see the rabbit.

Let's go, Vince. Floor show's over.

Let me show you chaps the quick way out, shall I?

I'm gonna get that filthy lap dance off of you, bottle blonde, one way or another.

Come back again soon, handsome.


I'll even show you my tail.

Don't bring him.


Oh, Jesus Christ.

One sniff of a whore's perfume, you think you're in love.

I mean wow.

She looked better as a waitress.


You really are a twat, you know that?

It's the waiting that's doing me in.

Just, um... sitting around, waiting to stop breathing.

My mom went in a house fire.

No waiting around there, I suppose.

I'm sorry. No, you're not.

You are utterly self-involved at the moment, completely wrapped up in yourself.

Steady on. Just 'cause I'm on my way out doesn't mean I've turned into a complete bastard.

Why not?

It's your prerogative.

That is your hard-won silver lining.

I don't follow.

Okay, well, think of it this way.

It's moral carte blanche.

It's an open invitation to anarchy.

You can spend your last days on Earth doing whatever you want.

Rape away.

Smite to your heart's content.

Pillage the precinct till the gutters run red, and none of it will matter because you'll be dead by Sunday.

So go nuts!

You know, dry roasted, sniper in the clock tower nuts.

Did something happen to you as a child?

Besides my mother dying in agony in a blazing inferno?

Oh, I am so sorry. That was...

Don't apologize. Rub my nose in it.

Come on, pillage me!

Sorry. Was that a bit naughty?

What happened to your thumb?

Oh, that.

An exercise in self-control.

Ah. It went well then.

Look, all I'm saying is this seems like a really good opportunity to do whatever the hell you want.

Well, what if I want to mope around in all-night cafes, feeling sorry for myself?

Then, frankly, I might as well do you in now and save myself from your self-indulgent tripe.


Well, I would appreciate that.



That's not your locker!

You're going to give me a fucking heart attack!

It is a criminal offense to interfere with either municipal storage or precinct property.

Any suspicious activity must be reported to the appropriate authorities immediately.

Why don't you piss off, old man?

Mind your own business.

Supervisor. Night Supervisor.

Duties to include sweeping of concourse and platform, maintenance and attendance of all...

Shut up!

Tell me something.

Do I look to you like the sort of individual that creeps into the station in the dead of night, breaks open a locker, removes a suspicious-looking briefcase, and then lets the fucking cleaner...

sorry, night supervisor... run off and tell tall tales about it?

Do I not strike you more as the sort of highly motivated, highly vicious individual that would not kill said night supervisor and stuff him into the fucking locker?

Acceptable forms of payment at the terminal are as follows: cash, banker's drafts, certified checks up to the value of the return journey.

I like you. You're funny.

All right, all right, I'll clear it.

Oh. Mum's the word, Supe.


Oh! Ten, twenty, thirty.

We all right, son?

When rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones make what price they will.

Come again?

I want more money.


Oh, yeah.

You know, when rich villains get pissed off with poor ones overcharging them, they go round their house, they burn it, they murder their family.

Terminal Train Lines thanks you for your business and wishes you a pleasant evening.

What a fucking crook!

Yo, you better give me your... Fuck off!

I just wanted to know the time, mate.

My bad.

Yeah, that's it, fucking walk on.

Yeah, yeah, you better run.


Just for you. Thanks.

Evening, bottle blonde.

Hello, Prince Charming.

Alfred. Vince.

You want to put her down, mate.

You don't know where she's been. You'll catch something.

Duty calls.

Well, it was lovely seeing you again, handsome.

Can't say the same for you, Vincent.

You want to get your head in the game, mate?

You're getting sloppy.

I'll see you around, bottle blonde, if I don't shoot you first.





This was in the briefcase.

Press play. I'm gonna stretch my legs.

I am Mr. Franklin.

I have no doubt you know who I am and what my business is worth.

I have an offer, a contract.

I want you to kill someone for me.

You will lie in wait in the apartment I have provided for you.

You will be on call 24 hours a day, seven days a week, until I contact you to... execute.


Before you commence, I require one of you to attend a face-to-face meeting.

Only one. I do not like crowds.

That is all.

Fucking perfect.

Evening, bottle blonde.

Out for a casual stroll?

Well, for fuck's sake.

You know what? I'm getting a little bit old for all these parlor games, bottle blonde.

Evening, gorgeous.

These are for you.

You're in trouble, Alfred.

I'm always in trouble, sugarplum.

Spare me the heroics. You're in real trouble.

Targeted, shot in the back of the head unless you pay attention trouble.

I'm listening.

Good, because I like you.

You're handsome, and you're chivalrous, and I like your jaw.

It's manly.

I want to keep you.

Well, I think you're... Shut up.


There's someone here to see you.

Listen to what he's got to say or that handsome face of yours will have a gaping exit wound slap bang in the middle of it.

Okay. Good.

Come on out. He's not gonna bite.


Good evening, Vincent.

Mr. fucking Franklin, I presume.

The very same. Let me get this straight.

You drag me out in the middle of the night, halfway across the city, freezing cold, up 20 flights of rickety stairs just so that you can speak to me on the fucking phone?

Who says mystery's a lost art?

Yeah, fair enough.

Now, the contract.

You and your partner start tomorrow.

The target will be lured to this window.

It faces the apartment where you will be waiting.

One shot to the head.

A clean kill. No mistakes.

Now, I have another deal, a side part, for you.

Okay, go on.

When you've executed the contract, I want you to kill your partner.


I don't like crowds.

And I like loyalty I can buy.

Double the original offer, in cash.

What you want, his head on a silver platter?

His ID papers and trigger finger will suffice.

I'm offering you double the money and a one way split.

I believe I can trust your mercenary greed.

Now, do we have a deal?


Consider it done.


Where'd you get ahold of that there thing?

Where the fuck did you get that?

Stop it, Alfred. He's just the messenger.

Who is about to get very shot on the count of three.

One, two...

Locker! Locker in the terminal!

Black briefcase.

Note inside.

A man... A man paid me.

An envelope with money.

Please don't kill me!


Now fuck off.

Go on.


Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!


Feel better?

It's all bullshit, isn't it?

No job, no hit.

Oh, no, handsome.

There most definitely was a hit.


Not anymore.

We can find a new target.


Now tell me something, sugarplum.

Why should I trust you, eh?

Aren't you part of this whole conspiracy?

I told you.

I like you.

I need someone to butter my buns for.

Well, I suppose I do need a new partner now, don't I?

My old one seems to have become rather untrustworthy.

But I will warn you, Alfred.

I'll need a firm hand and a regular lash of the tongue.

I can't wait to have you under me.


Let's have a cup of tea and plot our bloody revenge.

You tidy that up. I'll put the kettle on... partner.

The way I see it, you've got two options.

Go on.

Option A: suicide.

I see. And B?

Well, you've got to hear the case for Option A first.

I do? You do.

I'm all ears.

You're dying. Apparently.

You're not happy about it. Not really.

You're miserable, touchy.

Quite frankly, not great company.

Oh, thank you.

Want my advice?


Just end it.

Have you ever considered counseling?

Every minute of every day, you're bombarded with a series of hazardous and potentially life-ending situations to choose from.

Jump in front of a bus.

Have a bath with your toaster.

Fall on your butter knife.

Tall buildings, rivers, bridges, trains.

There are more ways to end your life than there are ways to live it.

All this pissing around in train stations in the middle of the night would be over.

End this nothing, and all it takes is some balls.

And my immortal soul?



Have you done something to put your immortal soul in jeopardy?

Well, there you go then. Nothing to worry about.

Are you Catholic?



Oh, fuck me. Oh, sorry. Um...

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

To be honest, I can't recall the last time I took confession.

I think it's more than 10, but less than 20.


Months? Not years, surely.

Don't get pissed off at me for telling you the truth.

That's just mean.

If I'd known you were like this, I would've just said three days and taken my chances with the Almighty.


That was uncalled for. I apologize.

Are you still there?

I know you're there. I can smell sherry.

Define religious.


I'll take that as a big fat no.

Maybe it's divine retribution.

Oh, yeah, that sounds tasty.

You know, my sins revisiting me and my past coming back to haunt me...

I'm all ears, William.

Let me hear your confession.

Repent and thou shalt be saved!

That's not even from the Bible.

Okay, that is the graffiti that's written on the bus stop opposite the terminal.

That's disappointing.

That's pretty much my entire knowledge of scripture.

Try this one: Repent, turn back, and thy sins will be blotted out.

Not really as catchy, is it?

How's my case for suicide progressing?

Am I quaking your foundations?

You're giving me a headache.

Oh, how's this for a headache?

Take a pencil, jam into tabletop, slam head down onto pencil, dead in five seconds.

That's foul. Isn't it?

And every time I suggest this to someone, they think it goes up your nose.

You've suggested this more than once?

It can't go up your nose. That's impossible.

Think about the trajectory involved.

It would go in your eyeball, right?

Through the socket, into your brain.

I... Well, it depends on the angle of the head, I suppose.

Let's test the theory.

It's not very sharp, is it?

Use your fancy pen then.

It's heavier.

Nib's sharper than yours.

Probably get it further into the table, better purchase.

It would feel more proper, wouldn't it?

More ceremonial.

A pen does have more purpose than a pencil.

More stature.

Definitely a better choice.

Definitely, and how resonantly poetic.

The English professor found impaled on his own fountain pen.

It's epic.

It's inspired.

We've cracked it!

Time, place, method, it's all there.

Don't you think it'd be a bit painful?

You're missing the point.


Get it?

Brilliant. God, you're not very keen.

Do you want to kill yourself or not?

I'm not so sure now.

Oh, pathetic.

Can I have that pen then? I never had one like that.

No. Why?

Because it's mine.

Thought you were about to top yourself?

What do you need a pen for?

Come on, please. It'll be like you left it for me.

Bequeathed it, not left. Oh, my God.

Shut up! I'm taking the pen.

You've got no use for it, and I want it.

Here, you can have my pencil to make up for your loss, okay?

Done, swapped, over.

How long have we been stuck in here?

12 days, 13 hours, and 27 minutes. Why?

Just wondering.

You missing your bottle blonde?

Geez, you're like a hormonal teenager.

She's gonna be the death of you, that fucking girl.

Cards. Yeah?

Great. Hold 'em. Three-card brag.

Fuck off. That's a pouf's game.

Fine. Hold 'em it is.

Fair enough. Let's go!

That's more like it.

Oh, give 'em here.

You're gonna fucking hurt yourself. Come on.

Just give 'em to me.

For fuck's sake, Alf.

There's fucking barely half a deck.

We could always play snap.

I'll snap your fucking neck in a minute!

How do you play solitaire?

Quietly, on your own, in the other fucking room.

You really are becoming a... Yeah, a fucking liability.

I know. Hear it all the time.

Boss, look at this.

What is it?

Something for me to beat you to death with?


"The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things.

Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings."

"And why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings."

I don't get it.

It's gibberish.

It's all like this, the whole bloody book.

It's just fucking drivel.

Well, I'm sure Lewis Carroll will be suitably apologetic when he finds out how upset you are.

Why don't you fuck off into the other room and leave me alone, eh?

Want a drink?

A proper drink, I mean.

Oh, no doubt.

Bill, it's time we explore Option B.

Oh, goody, there's more.

There is.

Option B: assisted suicide.

I believe they call that "euthanasia."


It was very popular at one time with the Swiss.

What's a Swiss?

Doesn't matter.

All I'm saying is, if you haven't got the peanuts to do it yourself, just get someone to do it for you.

Are you saying I take a contract out on myself?


Do they have an assassins section in the classifieds?

"Wanted: tall, dark, anonymous stranger.

Must have own rifle."

My new boyfriend's a contract killer.

And, talk about getting lucky, he's getting off a job today.

Serendipity, indeed.

We could give him a brief, you know, suggest a few ways you wouldn't mind being killed, let him pick the best one.

Try this on for size.

You're just going about your daily business, then one day, you're on your way home from a long day in the classroom...

Shot in the head.

Last thing you would've expected.

I think it's safe to say if I'd paid somebody to kill me, I'd be expecting to be killed most of the time.

You just have to, you know, try not to think about it.

Oh, okay, I'll do that then. Right.

Can we bank long distance head shots then?

Quick, anonymous, painless.

Sounds like a keeper. Great.

Let's brainstorm a few more ways to die.


Stabbing? No, I don't like knives.

It sounds very, sort of messy and painful.

That's the sort of thing he's gonna need to know.

Who? Our possibly fictitious, but possibly real hit man, who happens to be my new boyfriend.

Oh, okay.

Ooh, what about a hit and run?

Oh, now, I have a problem with that.

Go on. What if I just get mangled?

He'd have to reverse back over me.

That's just horrifying.


Pushing? I don't follow.

Off a tall building, for the sake of argument, or in front of a train.

I must say I have explored the idea of trains somewhat.


Short, sticky, and sweet. Before you know it, you're strawberry jam and dental fillings.

You really can paint a picture, Annie.

Only downside's the whole closed casket thing.

Granted, but I am starting to like the idea of falling.

It sounds almost accidental.

Can we bank it, pushing?

Yeah, let's have it.

To imminent death.

To the 404.

What's up?


Is there anything you want to say?


I'm seriously fucking bored.

You want to play a game?

Do I look like I play Snakes and Ladders to you?

Well, you did do that jigsaw.

I fucking hate puzzles.

You did do that crossword book.

You trying to be funny? What about chess?

Are you trying to be funny? No, Boss.

So I don't have to come over and teach you some fucking manners.

No, Boss. Because if I do you're gonna fucking regret it, you understand me?

Yes, Boss.


Don't fancy Monopoly then?

God, keep it up.

I'm going to put you six feet under the fucking ground, mate.

Are you?

You know, I don't know why I bother on you.

I should just shoot you in the face, get myself another apprentice.

I thought I was a junior partner.

Oh, that's just the flash way of saying "apprentice."

I'm a valuable asset.

You're a fucking liability.

I already told you what I do with fucking liabilities.

If it wasn't for me, who'd make the tea, collect the cash, sort the jobs?

You know, do the fucking work!

Good lad. Now you're getting it.

Oh, cracking.

Pathetic fallacy.

Whinging librarian.

Excuse me?

No, that's what that's called, when emotional turmoil is reflected in tangible surroundings.

Like two lovers go their separate ways in a rainstorm, or lightning strikes as the murderer's revealed.

It adds gravitas.

It would hardly be as nerve-wracking if the serial killer stabbed his victim to death in a sunny park, would it?

Much better in a dark alley in a mist.

My God, you are wasted as a teacher.

You should be published.

You should be preaching.

You should be inciting bloody revolution.

And yet here I am, a lamenting English teacher coughing his spleen out through his nose, wishing the earth would swallow him whole.

Come with me.




Where are we going?

To explore gravitas and pathetic fallacy.

Chop, chop!

Well, this seems like a great idea.

Come on, Bill. Where's your sense of adventure?

Warm and dry and congealing with my coffee.

What the hell is that?

It's an old ventilation shaft from when the city actually used to work properly.

It's condemned now.

Just a hole dropping into nowhere.

Down and down and down.

Well, that's just about the most terrifying thing I've ever seen.

You come here often, do you?

Oh, yes, I love it here.

Here, come stand on the edge. No, I...

Close your eyes.

Feels amazing.

Annie, come on back.

Oh, my God!


Well, what?

You said you wanted the earth to swallow you whole not five minutes ago.

There you go.

You're welcome.

You want me to jump in there?

Pathetic fallacy.

No, it's not. Yes, it is.

Emotional turmoil reflected in tangible surroundings.

I'm in a deep, dark hole.

It's perfect.

Let's test your gravitas.

Or gravity, more like. Exactly!

Look, I'm not gonna throw myself into a yawning chasm just because it fits neatly into a metaphor!

Why not? Quick, clean, painless.

Poetically resonant.

You are insane, certifiably.

Unquestionably. You get close to the edge, and then I can push you...

Time out! Time out, okay?

Okay, fine, fine.

What the fuck was that?

Are you out of your fucking mind?

What is the worst that could've happened, Bill?

You'd be dead. It would all be over.

No more pain, no more suffering.

No more waiting for a train that isn't coming.

What if I had just let you fall?

None of this would be happening.

This conversation, your smoldering anger, your eloquent bloody resentment.


Not like that. I do not want to go like that.

Like what, Bill?

Trains, cars, gunshots, it's all the same end product.

I think the question really is, do you want to go at all?

Standing on the edge really makes you think, doesn't it?

I'll shoot you in the face.

I wish you bloody would, but you won't.

Stop thinking, Bill.

Stop reasoning.

Just close your eyes.

Take a last breath and just walk.

Clock's ticking.

It's quiet out there.

It's like a fucking apocalypse.

Just one round.


I said there's no one around.

Yeah, it's dead.

Like a corpse.

Was that loaded?


You're dead.

Milk, two sugars.

What are you waiting for?

That's it.

No. No, I can't.

How disappointing.



This is all a fucking game to you, isn't it?

Get this through your little skull, okay?

I am dying.

I am... I am going to die!

To me, all this is real!

The fucking hole in the ground is real!

I'm not standing on the edge. I am already falling down!

What are you, like, 23, 24?

Young, fit as a fiddle, immortal?

All your death nonsense is exactly that.

A load of fucking nonsense!

Step into the light more, enjoy nice things.

Stop skulking around big holes in the ground and wasting your life in all-night cafes.

Enough with the facade, this idle fucking fantasy!

Go on, Bill. Go on, rage.

Rage against the dying of the fucking light!

Did all this death stuff start when mommy died?

Ah, yeah.

What was it, an absent father?

A concerned priest, perhaps?

Did you find it was easier to get attention if you were the freak, the weirdo, the angel-faced kid with a heart of darkness?

I bet you were a cutter, weren't you?

I bet you loved a good razor blade.

Somewhere obvious where everyone could see the scars.

Did you have a little friend, a little accomplice?

Somebody you could go off behind the bike shed with and burn each other with cigarettes?

Another little orphan helper built in your own image, the two of you egging each other on?

Fuck! It's textbook, Annie!


You're two a penny!

I have taught dozens of you over the years.

I have known silly little girls like you all my life!

Naughty, naughty little girls just like you!


I just enjoy watching you fidget when I say...



Oh, God!

Have we met before?

You remember now.

Don't you, Mr. Braithwaite?

I think I would definitely remember you if we'd met before.

You would thing so, wouldn't you?

You remember this naughty little girl?

You remember punishing me, Mr. B?

Silly, naughty little girls, enough!

Maybe it's divine retribution. You know, my sins revisiting me.

I'm sorry.

After lights out, our little secret.

Did something happen to you as a child?

I've waited all night for you to remember me.

All fucking night, not two feet away, just waiting for you to connect the dots.

Do you wanna know why you don't have the balls to kill yourself, Mr. Braithwaite?

Because you know exactly where you're going when you die.

Orphans always make the best victims, don't they, William?

But chalk-stained fingers leave indelible marks on little girls' panties.

Consider this divine retribution.

Burn in hell.

Was that gun loaded, the one you pointed at me?

Impossible to say either way.

What's that? It's the fucking phone.

All right.



Got it.

That was Mr. fucking Franklin. It's on.



Is this phone in range?

Where's the fucking target?

Why aren't you taking a shot?

There is no shot.

Take the shot, Vince. What's the problem?

Shut up!

Bottle blonde!

Fuck hell's she doing here?


Put the gun down, Boss.

What the fucking hell's going on?

This is what we call in the trade "a double-cross."

Now put the gun down.

And now sit at the table, hands where I can see them.

You all right, bottle blonde?

Took your time, sweetheart.

Thought you actually were gonna let him have a pop at me.

Oh, I think he's been trying that quite enough recently.

Stop it, Alfred.

Don't be naughty.

Sorry, sugarplum.

Now get yourself over here.

Come and savor this moment with me.

I see you finally lost your virginity then.


Hi, handsome.

You smell different.

My new perfume.

It's intoxicating.

Oh, Jesus Christ, kill me now.

With pleasure.

Wait, wait, wait, wait.

Tell me something.

What have I ever done to you, eh?

Vincent Escariot.

Tut, tut, tut.

You'd sell your own partner down the river for 30 pieces of silver.

I like loyalty I can buy.

You traitor, you.

What the fuck's it got to do with you?

Now, now, Vince, don't be rude.

I think you've been quite rude enough to my other half recently.

Your girlfriend's doing all your thinking now, is she?

Well, fuck you... and your fucking whore.

Don't you misunderstand the situation you're in for one second, Vincent.

You'll keep a civil tongue in your head, or it won't be quick and easy.

It'll be slow and messy.

You are a fucking pain in my ass!

As well as being a double-crossing, backstabbing, turncoat traitor.

But guess what.

I've got a new partner now, Vincent.

And unlike with you, I just love it when she fucks me.

This is your doing, isn't it, bottle blonde?

Oh, yes, Vincent.

I'm the master villain.

Fucking crazy.

The pair of you, you're both mad, delusional.

Fuck you and your fucking whore!

You don't have to let him talk to us like that, handsome.


Your eyes. I saw them...

Bye, Vince.

That was fun. It was brilliant.

Right. I need a shower and a change of clothes, and then I'm taking you out to dinner.

My treat.

Our first proper date.

Bye-bye, sugarplum.

Bye, handsome.

Ah! Cleaning service.

I'll have the works, please, mate.

The full spit and polish.

Here's a cherry on top.

Call it an apologetic token for the little overreaction the other night, eh?

See you later, Supe.


Hi, handsome.

Hello, sugarplum.

Did you get your homework done?

Top of the class. Smart girl!

I've got a little surprise for you.

Are you wearing that stripper getup under that red coat?

Stockings, suspenders?

You know, you really do have such a lovely jaw.

Wait right here.





I really hate that nickname.

Drop the gun, hands up where I can see them.

One wrong move, handsome, you'll have that gaping exit wound in your face we talked about.

Drop it.

Kick it away.

Good boy.

I thought we were partners.

I've already got a partner.


So all of this was, what?

An overelaborate scheme perpetrated mercilessly upon you by highly motivated, highly intelligent individuals...

With a penchant for amateur dramatics.

It's pronounced penchant.

You are correct, Alfred.

Two weeks you had me in that fucking apartment, waiting to kill someone who was waiting to kill me.

Why? Because we like to have all our dollies lined up on the shelf.


Our starving rats locked in a cage, tearing each other apart just for our pleasure.

And... you never really liked me?

Me? No.

Has anyone ever told you that you are a two-faced, treacherous, manipulative, callous little bitch?

Oh, you have no idea.

Annie, darling, I don't suppose you'd consider...


Look, I know you wanted to keep him, but we got bigger fish to fry, okay?

I've got the ID papers. Give me his gun.

Stand and deliver!

Oh, Christ!

You nearly gave me a heart attack.

You're early.

Give me that gun.

Where'd you put Vincent?

What you gonna do with them both?

Can we chuck them in the river?


I've got a better idea. Give me a hand.

Ah, for a fool such as this.

I shall think nothing of tumbling downstairs.

Curiouser and curiouser.

See you around, Supe.

Oh, good day.


It's done, Mr. Franklin.

Yes? Both of them.


And the little favor, the teacher?

I'm forever in your debt.

Did you have fun, sweetie?

It was like jelly and ice cream.

The cripple was very useful.

End of the Line cafe.

He's just the messenger. Mum's the word.

All right, son? Cleaning service.

He has his uses.

Are you suitably impressed, Mr. Franklin?

Most definitely.


So I can rely on your business then?

I have a limited range of choice.

You've suppressed the competition admirably.

How do I know you're not going to double-cross me?

You seem very adept at it.

How, indeed. But remember, I like loyalty I can buy, and you are unique.

You're one of a kind.

You have proved your value to me.

So is this the start of a beautiful relationship then?

Most definitely.

Good night. Good night.



What do you want?

There are two things in life for which we are never truly prepared.


Well, well, well, he lives.

I'm sorry, Mr. Franklin, is the light bothering you?

Where am I?

You like what we've done with the place?

A woman's touch is what was needed.

How... How the fuck did you...

Look through the looking glass, Mr. Franklin.

Or shall we call you...


A rose by any other name.

You've tumbled down the rabbit hole far beyond hope or rhyme or reason, flushed away in a river of tears.

You're mad! Stark raving mad!

Oh, we can't help that, said the cat.

We're all mad here.

I'm mad. You're mad.

Have you ever read it?

It's our favorite book.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

Mommy used to read it to us every night.

We know it front to back, cover to cover.

Inside and out.

If you gave us a page and a line, we could give you the words, verbatim.

We hear tell it's hereditary.

Like eye color.

Or homicidal impulse.

Blood will out.

May we tell you a story, Mr. Franklin?

Are you sitting comfortably?

Then let us begin. Then let us begin.

A long time ago in a place not dissimilar to this, as a point of fact, identical to this, there lived a young woman called Chloe Merriweather.

Now, Chloe Merriweather had a gleam in her eye.

She wanted adventure.

One night in the aptly named Anything Goes, Chloe Merriweather succumbed to the wiles of one Clinton Sharp, a low-level criminal with aspirations of grandeur, who whispered sweet nothings in her ear and kept her drink topped up and his powder dry.

Theirs was a knee-trembling relationship.

Then for a time, very little was heard of Chloe Merriweather until a year or so later she reappeared.

She'd grown up, like all little girls do.

She waited tables by day, and she danced on them by night.

For Chloe had a secret that nobody knew buried deep within her heart of hearts.

She had two little girls at home.


The result of her passionate tryst with Mr. Sharp.

Daddy. Daddy.

But Chloe Merriweather knew better than to involve Clinton in her daughters' lives, for she had seen the shadow in his soul, the murder in his eyes.

She kept them hidden from the world and from Clinton Sharp.

Deliciously sweet were those times.

But life is cruel, and the world is small, and fate laughs mercilessly at us all.

One deep, dark night, Chloe Merriweather saw something she ought not to have seen.

Clinton Sharp working.

Chloe Merriweather ran for her life through that deep, dark night.

But it wasn't long before Clinton Sharp came calling for Chloe with a canister of petrol and his cigarette lighter.

Rumor has it he whistled while he worked.

But Chloe Merriweather was a fighter, a wildcat with fierce tears, unwilling to go gently into that good night.

Chloe saved her little girls, but the wildcat could not get herself to safety.

And so it was we found ourselves wards of the precinct, taken into the mercy and kindness of St. Catherine's Orphanage.

To the welcoming arms of the priests and the teachers with their wandering hands and their sticky fingers.

Here we learned how to close our eyes and bite our lips.

We learned how to go elsewhere in our hearts and our heads when the lights went out.

As soon as our legs would carry us, we ran far, far away.

Survival was all we hoped for.

A feral existence.

Until one day, who should we see shuffling by with his cart and his broom and his limp, but Clinton Sharp.

In all his crippled glory.

That selfsame whistle that had haunted our nightmares for so long.

So we hunted you, Daddy, and before long, we discovered your clever little secret.

Mr. Franklin, a master villain marionette.

The legendary black briefcases, the infamous voice messages, the lost art of mystery.

What's in it?

Another fucking locker number.

Oh, you gotta love Mr. Franklin, don't you?

Who says mystery's a lost art?

Who says mystery's a lost art?

And we let you track us, Daddy, as we tracked you.

Inch by inch, we laid our plans against you.

We baited our traps and cast our lures.

We pulled the strings that made you dance.

We knew exactly what would get your attention and that you couldn't resist hearing our confession.

I need a teeny, weeny donation, Mr. Nigel Illing.

Mr. Franklin, I must confess, I've been a naughty girl.

Meet me at St. Catherine's Church.

This is a well-conceived venue.

I want your work, your contracts, all of it.

I'm afraid you're out of luck.

I've been recommended another interested party to take care of my problems.

I'm better.

I highly doubt it.

You men, with your bad suits and your pumiced hair, you're utterly predictable.

I reckon to the point of carelessness.



I'm the switchblade in the garters, the stiletto in the stilettos.

I'm the surprise they never see coming.

Who says mystery's a lost art?

Who'd have thought?

We're Daddy's little girls, after all.

And now we stand on the brink of our vengeance, on the cusp of the wildest of justice.

You are my daughters, yeah?

In blood only, Daddy.

Don't get too attached.

Mommy has to be avenged.

Tell us, Daddy, are you familiar with the science of lobotomy?

Much maligned in this day and age, but somehow rather fitting in this scenario, don't you think?

Please, girls.

Anything. I'll do anything.

But not this, please! Not this.

I beseech you in your mother's name!

I am your father!

No, no, no. Far too little, far too late.

Shh, Daddy, easy.

I've got you. Try not to fight.

The time has come, the walrus said, to speak of many things, like shoes and ships and sealing wax, cabbages and kings.

An eye for an eye, Daddy.

The coup de grâce is yours, dear sister.

The nail in the coffin.

Send Mr. Franklin to Wonderland.

Night-night, Daddy.

Perfect. Perfect.