The Poltergeist

Philip Ridley

• Publisher: Methuen Drama
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781350241176
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Media & Performing Arts
• Subtopic: Theatre Playwriting

'Art's my hobby too.' Hobby?! Sasha was destined to take the art world by storm. At the age of fifteen pop stars wanted his paintings, and a new exhibition was going to make him a rich man. But now he serves in a stationers, and no one's even heard of him… what went wrong? Philip Ridley's darkly comic new play is about art, family, memory, and being haunted by the life we never lived. This edition was published to coincide with the world premiere performance at London's Southwark Playhouse, which was performed live and live-streamed around the world in November 2020.

Sasha I’ve woken up with a headache. I get them a lot. But this one . . . oh, it’s a doozy!

Beat.

I go to the bathroom. Chet’s already showered and the air’s still steamy. I wipe the cabinet mirror. I look exactly like I feel. Hunted by hyenas. A nightmare. I have them a lot. But this one . . . another doozy! I sloosh my face with cold water. It makes me look wetter, not better. I search the cabinet for the face-mask gunk Chet bought . . . but I can’t . . . find the fucking – Chet’s razor clatters into the sink! He’ll check if I’m okay in three, two, one – A knock on the door. ‘Everything okay?’ I say, ‘Where’s that face pack you’ve been using?’ Chet opens the door. ‘It ran out ages ago.’ ‘Well, I need something. Look at me!’ ‘I am! And you look perfect.’ ‘That’s what you always say.’ ‘It’s always true.’ ‘Oh, Chet . . . please tell me we don’t have to go there this afternoon! Please!’ ‘We don’t have to go there this afternoon!’ ‘But we do, we do!’

Beat.

My brother, Flynn, phoned a few days ago. He said, ‘What’re you doing this Sunday?’ I said, ‘There’s nothing planned.’ He said, ‘Great! We’ve decided to have a birthday party for Jamila.’ That’s my niece. She’ll be . . . three? Four? Fuck knows. Flynn said, ‘I hope you and Chet can come.’ I thought, I’d rather crawl a hundred miles and stick my head down a drain. I said, ‘We’d love to!’ He said, ‘Great! We’re having it in the garden. Guess what I’m getting for the kids to play on.’ Landmines? ‘What, Flynn? Tell me!’ ‘A trampoline!’ Jesus! ‘Oh, the kids’ll love it, Flynn!’ ‘I hope so. I know I will – ha, ha, ha!’ I try to laugh, but I can’t. I get like that when I haven’t heard anything funny. I say, ‘And how’s Robyn?’ His other daughter. Eight? Nine? Again, fuck knows. ‘Oh, she’s just great.’ ‘And how’s Neve?’ Wife. ‘Oh, she’s doing just great. Twenty-five weeks now.’ Pregnant. ‘And how’s Chet?’ ‘Fine.’ You think this is boring? You should have to go through it every fucking phone call. ‘We’ll see you both on Sunday then. Three-ish okay?’ I said, ‘Three-ish is perfect. Love to Neve!’ ‘Love to Chet!’ ‘Bye!’ ‘Bye!’ I hung up. Chet stopped doing his press-ups. He looked at me. I said, ‘We’ve just been invited to a new circle of hell.’

Beat.

I’m in the kitchen. I’m sipping coffee and taking painkillers. Co-codamol. The packet says ‘Take two every four hours’, but I find four every two works better for me. Chet’s chopping strawberries, but still manages to watch me. Before he can say, ‘You sure you need those?’ I get in with, ‘Why must they keep having fucking parties all the time.’ ‘It’s not all the –’ ‘It is, Chet! Every fucking birthday. Every fucking wedding anniversary. Can you imagine what it’s gonna be like when all their brats have grown up and have brats of their own? We’ll be going to one of these “shitty shindigs” three times a fucking week.’ ‘They’re not “shitty shindigs”. And don’t call them “brats”. ‘But they are “brats”!’ Chet puts some pancakes and strawberries in front of me. ‘You’ll feel in a better mood with this inside you.’ ‘I’ll feel in a better mood with you inside me.’ ‘We can have a knee trembler in your brother’s bathroom if you like.’ ‘At last! A reason for going!’

Beat.

I flick through one of my sketchbooks while Chet does the washing up. The sketchbooks – along with all my other art materials – are in a corner of the living room. We call this area my ‘studio’. Which would be sweet if it wasn’t so sad. We rent a flat above a dry cleaners in Ilford. Which, in case you don’t know, is in East London. The property’s got its good points and its bad. The bad are, it’s tiny, it’s got mice – or had them – it’s noisy – we’re on the High Road – and it smells like a dry cleaners. The good points are, it’s cheap . . . well, that’s it really. I start tweaking one of my drawings. I’m using water colour pencils. My spit is the water. Chet sees what I’m up to – of course he does! – and calls over, ‘Show me!’ I hold up the sketchbook. He says, ‘It’s brilliant, sweetheart!’ He likes everything I do. I could sneeze on a page and he’d call it a masterpiece. Perhaps it would be compared to what I am doing. I turn the page and start another drawing. Colour . . . Spit . . . Colour – It’s crap! I turn the page and – Chet puts a birthday card next to me. ‘You need to write in this.’ The card says, ‘To a Very Special and Much Loved Niece on her Fifth Birthday.’ He hands me a pen. I write ‘Love you lots, Sasha’. I hand the pen back. Chet writes ‘Love you lots too, Uncle Chet’.

Beat.

I say, ‘We did get what’s-her-name a present, didn’t we?’ ‘Jamila. I showed it to you. The Disney Princess Ariel Vanity Set.’ ‘Oh, Jesus, that sexist pile of –’ ‘It’s what she wanted!’ ‘How do you know what she . . . You phoned Neve!’ ‘What if I did?’ ‘You know I don’t like you talking to –’ ‘Stop it, Sash! You’re just trying to pick an argument because you don’t want to go to –’ ‘All I’m trying to say is –’ ‘No! That’s enough. I mean it!’

Beat.

I’m walking down the High Road with Chet. The car’s down a side street. Every time I approach the corner I get this knot in my stomach. The car’s not going to be there! It’s been stolen! Chet will phone the police. They’ll say, ‘Your vehicle was used in a bank robbery.’ We’ll be arrested as accomplices. We’ll get twenty years without parole and – Oh, there’s the car! Chet unlocks it. I get in the front passenger seat. Fuck, it’s hot! Chet gets in the driver’s seat. He puts the birthday present and card in the glove compartment. He puts the key in the ignition. I wonder if the car will explode . . . It doesn’t.

Beat.

We’re turning into the High Road. The windows are open because the air-conditioning’s fucked. I watch things go by. I like the traffic cone on top of the bus shelter. And the funfair posters next to the undertakers. And – There! My favourite! The cadmium red post-box beside the chrome green pub. You see? Honestly, the set designer deserves an Oscar – Beat.

. . . I know it’s not a film set. But sometimes . . . sometimes it still feels like one. I say ‘still feels’ because, when I first moved here, it felt like a film set all the time . . . I’d go into the local supermarket and think, ‘Are those real pineapples or plastic props?’ And I’d start smiling at the other shoppers. Like we were all extras from the same talent agency and –

Straight into –

‘Oh, shit!’ ‘Wh-what, Chet?’ ‘Roadworks.’ The car’s slowing down. We’re on a motorway. I can hear pneumatic drills in the distance. I say, ‘Phone Flynn and tell him we can’t make it.’ ‘We can make it. Just a bit slower than we thought. But if you want to call your brother and tell him –’ ‘No, no, it’s fine . . . it’s fine . . .’ I get a packet of Co-codamol from my pocket. ‘You’ve already had enough of those.’ ‘I’ve still got a headache! – Where’s the water? ‘Here!’ I grab the water. I take the tablets. The car’s at a standstill now. The sun’s glaring right in my face. And Chet’s. But he seems to enjoy it. He’s easily pleased. Which is fine. For him. But not if you’re not easily pleased and have to watch. I lower the sun visor but it doesn’t help. ‘Oh, this fucking sun!’ I twist this way. That way. ‘Why don’t you put the seat back a little and close your eyes.’ ‘Because I don’t want to put my seat back a little and close my eyes.’

Twists this way, that way etc.

Eventually –

I put my seat back a little and close my eyes –

Straight into –

I’m in a blood red universe! I’m wearing a spacesuit. I’m drifting – If I move my right hand – I go to the left. If I move my left hand – I go to the right. Oh, this is fun!

Spins in space etc.

Then –

What’s that? Over there! An explosion of some kind! Oh, look at it! Lightning! Comets colliding. And the colours! Chrome yellow! Cobalt blue! Ruby red! – Something whizzed past me! Another! Another! Shrapnel! It’s dangerous here. I should get away! But . . . I don’t. I move closer –

Straight into –

Chet’s phone is ringing! The traffic’s moving now. We’ve passed the roadworks. Chet answers the phone. ‘Hiya, Neve. We’re in the car so we can both hear you.’ He’s saying that in case she blurts out anything bad about me. Neve says, ‘Hiya, both!’ I think, Oh, do fuck off! I say, ‘Hiya, Neve!’ She says, ‘I just wanted to flag up the parking around here’s a total nightmare.’ Chet says, ‘We’ll park down Chester Street, Neve. There’s usually space there.’ ‘You took the words right out of my mouth.’ This woman is the queen of clichés. ‘Also . . . guess who’s just arrived.’ I say, ‘The crew of the Mary Celeste?’ ‘Sorry? Didn’t catch that, gorgeous.’ Chet says, ‘Don’t worry. Just one of Sasha’s little jokes.’ ‘Oh! Ha, ha, ha!’ She’s the only person I know who can laugh at a joke she’s never fucking heard. Chet says, ‘Tell us who’s coming, Neve.’ ‘My parents! Quelle surprise, eh?’ ‘A very pleasant quelle surprise, I’m sure.’ ‘Oh, it is, it is.’ ‘We’ll see you soon, Neve.’ ‘I can’t wait.’ ‘Nor can I.’ ‘Bye, Chet!’ ‘Bye, Neve.’ ‘Bye, Sasha, gorgeous!’ Just go, for fuck’s sake! ‘Bye, Neve!’ Chet hangs up. I say, ‘I thought her parents had stopped going anywhere because of Niall’s dementia?’ ‘I think it was more to do with Vineeta’s sciatica. She couldn’t drive.’ ‘Well, she’s obviously driving now.’ ‘They could’ve taken the train.’ ‘Well . . . yeah. Or a plane. Or helicopter. Or perhaps they teleported all the way from fucking Norwich.’ I get the packet of Co-codamol from my pocket again and – Chet’s snatched it from me! He’s thrown it out of the window! ‘Wh-what’re you fucking doing?’ ‘Stopping you from killing yourself!’ ‘I’ve got a headache!’ ‘Oh, of course you haven’t!’ ‘How do you know? You’re not in my head!’ ‘THANK GOD! WHO’D WANT TO BE IN THAT TWISTED FUCK-UP!’

Silence.

. . . Am I . . . am I going to cry? . . . Sometimes I do when . . .

Beat.

No...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Sasha
• Copyright Page