Script.............(Copyright@2006)

EXT. CITYSCAPE - DAY

The day is bright. Blue skies. White wisps of clouds.
Perfection. Order. Life at its seeming best.

WE close in on a tower block. To a balcony. Through open,
full-length french windows, where the flow of white net
curtains on the gentle breeze leads us to...

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

A bedroom, immaculate, though a little old-fashioned. A
personal sleeping space yet strangely uncomfortable -
impersonalized in any way.

A precisely folded bed, paraded like a barrack room bunk,
with personal items from a soldier's 'foot locker' laid out
as though for inspection.

Socks. T-shirts. Leather belt, buckle of shiny brass, cap,
starched with peek of black gloss.

A pristinely pressed, and laundered khaki uniform all gold
braid, brass buttons and medals, lies atop a bed-spread.

A bible, and rosary beads lie next to it.

At the foot of the bed, a pair of boots, polished to a
glass-like state, laces pre-tied and orderly.

Through the open door into ...

INT. SITTING ROOM - DAY

Disorganized, and chaotic, in its expression of domesticity
in ruin. Colourless, and drained, a hovel of depression,
decay, and misery.

Bright sunlight rips through ill-fitting, torn, and heavy
drapes. Great shafts, illuminating the dank interior
through grubby glass.

Scattered cushions, across sofa and floor, some devoid of
filling. Broken curtain rails, peeling wallpaper, pictures
as antiquated as the decor.

Empty spirit bottles sat upon occasional tables. Scattered
across the floor. Beer bottles by the dozen, as though
discarded in absence of mind.

Cartons of food, half eaten. Abandoned. Silver foil, and
cardboard, plastic, and paper.

Magazines, papers, plastic carrier bags, and black bin
liners all have their place in this landfill of an
apartment. The environmental decay leads us into ...

INT. KITCHEN - DAY

Similarly abandoned, and similarly corrupted with the
detritus of a life led in squalor. Plates, unwashed, piled
high on the draining board, and on every available work
surface.

Cutlery lies rusting in a sink. Dirty glasses, plates, and
mugs to keep them company.

Half eaten food spills over the side of the overworked
waste bin, to lie festering on the floor trodden into the
floor surface, like a 'breadcrumb' trail ...

INT. HALLWAY - DAY

Uninspired and dirty, much like the rest of the flat. Coats
stacked on pegs behind the front door. A wall mirror that
has never been cleaned.

Several other doors lead off the hallway. One is slightly
ajar. Steam vapour escapes through the gap.

INT. BATHROOM - DAY

Through the steam the room appears white, clinical, and
sterile. Steel fittings cold, and uninviting. A mirror,
steamed over by the vapour of hot water.

A basin. Once crisp in its whiteness, now bloodied by the
razor, abandoned within the pink-tinged water.

An old bath. Roll top. Tarnished free-standing taps. Filled
to the brim, with an excess of water that spills over the
sides.

JACKSON PRIEST, (33) a muscular, imposing, black man, lies
submerged. Weathered, troubled, and distant. A face of
youth, yet aged by crisis. His hard, cold, staring eyes are
black, and soul-less.

A stream of bubbles vent, in shallow breath, from a mouth
that neither smiles nor scowls.

DISSOLVE TO:


INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT

Jackson's face stares towards us. Eyes betray pain and
despair. A hollowness that no other can know.

WE reveal Jackson, and beside him in bed a young white
GIRL. Clearly a prostitute, naked and curled against him.

A tacky room. Eclectic in its mess. Light by a dim bulb.
Sheets dirty. Pillows even dirtier. A grubby bed and even
grubbier older furnishings.

Jackson rises.

INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT

Dark, and dimly lit. Beads of water roll down the mirror in
the tacky, mould-riddled bathroom. A hand reaches in a
great arc, to clear the condensation from the mirror.

Jackson's face stares back at us. A black face, old, and
haggard by a life of conflict and uncertainty. Yet a face
with few years upon it.

JACKSON'S POV:

The bathroom, out of focus. It moves. It sways. No longer a
place of clarity. WE still see Jackson's face in the mirror
but not so clearly.

A small pill bottle opened. Contents emptied into hand.
Several oval shaped tablets. Slugged back without water.
Bottle dropped back into the sink. An empty bottle of a
tranquilizer preparation.

The mirror image of Jackson's face dissolves into....

INT. TRUCK - DAY

Jackson's face in concentration. Beads of sweat. Eyes
locked in stare. Tense. Fatigued. Afraid.

Dressed in desert combat fatigues. Equipped for war -
bergen, helmet, flak vest, webbing, rifle gripped between
clenched fists. Insignia of the British Army.

EXT. STREET - DAY

Burnt vehicle remains. Household waste. Faeces burst from
black plastic bags on the roadside. A track, dusty, and
unmarked.

Dogs feed on carrion. A child sits at the side of the road,
a wooden toy its sole occupation. Dust kicked up as if by a
strong wind.

A wheel, and then another, and another. A truck. Then
another. And a third. They RUMBLE through the streets.
Brown, ochre, and magnolia camouflage. The distressed
uniformity of military vehicles.

The vehicles rumble past a sign: KANDAHAR - 130 MILES.

INT. TRUCK - DAY

A combat section - seven other SOLDIERS, similarly dressed,
similarly equipped, sat on the steel racks that line the
inside of the truck, bounced about by the vehicle's
movement.

JACKSON'S POV:

Vision blurred. Everything out of focus within the truck.
Unable to make out the faces of his men.

INT. TRUCK - DAY

Jackson wipes the sweat from his eyes. Vision begins to
return to normal. Focuses on those about him, each man in
turn.

All young troopers untested by life, let alone combat. One
soldier leans from the rear of the truck. Vomits. Another
sits quietly, eyes closed, deep breaths as though to calm
himself.

A booted foot taps the metallic floor. A soldier absorbed
by the music that blares from simple headphones. Another
trooper, with religion close to his heart, grasps rosary
beads, and utters silent benediction.

The others sit in silent contemplation. Nervous. Fearful.
Their futures unsure. Hands nervously grip rifles. Palms
sweaty. Blisters evident.

Jackson's face is fixed in concentration, lost in that one
moment that is his, and his alone.

EXT. STREET - DAY

Stock NEWS footage. As though in Jackson's mind - his
memories, his aspirations, his fear.

+ Soldiers disembark from a helicopter.

+ Tanks rumble across the desert.

+ A city street

+ Soldiers on patrol.

DREAM SEQUENCE:

Jackson walks a dusty street alone. A street abandoned by
people. A stray dog eating the detritus of war at the
roadside. Dead bodies in the gutter. Boys, women, men.

Jackson in a ghost-like trance.

DISSOLVE TO:


INT. CORRIDOR - NIGHT

A seedy rent-a-room motel, grim and uninviting, as Jackson
makes his way from the room.

DISSOLVE TO:


EXT. SUBWAY TUNNEL - NIGHT

A long dark tunnel. A bright light at the end that draws
closer and closer. Brighter and brighter. A loud RUMBLE
that gets ever louder. A tube train THUNDERS past at speed.

INT. TUBE TRAIN CARRIAGE - NIGHT

But for Jackson the carriage is empty. A newspaper lies on
the seat next to him. Headlines tell of death and
destruction thousands of miles away.

With only his thoughts, his dreams, and his nightmares for
company, the flashing lights of a modern city pass Jackson
by.

DISSOLVE TO:


EXT. DESERT - NIGHT

A battlefield flooded in green. Night-vision perspective
broken by the white light of tracer rounds, and loud CRACK
CRACK CRACK of small arms fire.

A chorus of death interspersed by bright white-outs of
canon fire as a BOOM BOOM of tanks join the fire-fight
throng.

EXT. STREET - CITY - NIGHT

A taxi driver sounds a HORN with impatience, as Jackson
wanders, oblivious across a busy street.

His journey seemingly aimless, destinationless. Jackson
TRUDGES like a man with the world on his shoulders,
oblivious to his surroundings, and oblivious to the people
who pass him by with a wide berth.

Jackson is unaware to their stares of contempt mixed,
incongruously, with an equal measure of suspicion and
heedless to the inclement weather than soaks into his
clothes. Into his bones.

EXT. ALLEYWAY - CITY - NIGHT

A festering, grime-riddled alleyway, overflowing with the
detritus of city dwelling. A FIGURE in darkness hands
Jackson a small baggie of white powder. Cash exchanged.

Then the figure is gone. Jackson toys with the baggie.
Pockets it. Jackson slumps down on his haunches. Back to a
urine-stained wall.

Hair matted from the incessant rain, he lowers his head
into his hands, and weeps. Every emotion he ever felt pours
from reddened eyes.

DISSOLVE TO:


INT. TRUCK - DAY

Jackson with eyes screwed tight. Pain written across his
face. Hands placed over ears. Mouth agape in scream.

OS a high pitched SOUND. A boyhood memory of fingernails
drawn down a classroom blackboard. Louder and louder.

Eyes bolt open. Pain, panic, fear. Eyes flick rapidly in
all directions, observing, searching, scanning for others
to react. But they are unmoved, as though lost to anything
beyond the worlds they seek in their isolation.

Yet Jackson alone can hear the noise. So piercing it makes
his ears bleed. His rifle falls from its clenched position
between his knees.

Then there is silence. Jackson lowers his hands. It is as
though the world has suddenly just stopped.

The soldiers, blissfully unaware.

As if in slow motion and MOS, Jackson screams a warning.
But he is unnoticed. Unheard. As if he is in another world
altogether.

Jackson starts to rise from his seat.

EXT. STREET - DAY

As the convoy of trucks rumbles down the street, two
FIGURES, dressed in dark clothes, move into the window
space of a ravaged building, several stories up.

A rocket launcher is shouldered. A finger on the trigger. A
deafening WHOOSH, and vapour trail as a rocket propelled
grenade STREAKS towards the vehicles.

A loud SOUND as if air is being sucked from the world. A
second of total silence.

Sound returns almost instantly. A huge explosion
obliterates the first vehicle in the convoy. Everything
within a twenty yard radius erupts in a ball of flame.

INT. TRUCK - DAY

Jackson shouts orders to his colleague, as his vehicle
comes under intense small-arms fire.

Bullets whip up tiny showers of sand. Pepper the side of
the soft skinned vehicle.

Two troopers are killed instantly - MUSIC TROOPER killed
where he sat.

EXT. STREET - DAY

The soldiers debus in a flurry of panic, weapons levelled,
searching for a target.

Another trooper drops dead, his body riddled by machine gun
bullets.

ROSARY TROOPER takes a bullet in the chest. He is thrown
backwards from his position, and lands heavily on his back,
rifle slews from his grasp.

Jackson is by his side in an instant. Urgent shouts for the
section medic.

Battlefield first aid commenced on the trooper by another
soldier as Jackson stands, weapon firing, and advances
towards the building.

Another rocket WHOOSH and the third vehicle in convoy
erupts in a fireball.

Jackson is thrown ten yards by the explosion percussion. He
lands in some building rubble, a puff of smoke rises from
his scorched and smouldering uniform.

Jackson DRAGS himself partially unright, propped against a
boulder.

JACKSON'S POV:

Vision blurred by blood, smoke, and dust. The vehicles of
the convoy burn. Soldiers, briefly escaped from the blast,
rush in panic, consumed by flame uniforms stick to skin.
Their SCREAMS echoing inside Jackson's head.

Eventually they too succumb to death. Flat out, face down
in the dirt, consumed by heat, and flame.

DISSOLVE TO:


EXT. DESERT - DAY

Stock NEWS footage. As though Jackson's able to comprehend
what is happening through his pain-induced delirium.

+ Stretcher bearers disembark from a helicopter.

+ Jackson is put on a stretcher

+ A helicopter takes off Jackson in the cargo bay.

+ A medic leans over him. Words spoken but unheard.

DREAM SEQUENCE:

Jackson watches the scene below. Burning vehicles. Death.
Destruction. Watches the rotors spinning. The hypnotic
sound as they turn WHUP, WHUP, WHUP. Everything slowed.

Jackson walks a deserted dusty street. A street abandoned
by people. A stray dog dead. Dead people emerge from the
shadows where once buildings stood.. Boys, women, men,
soldiers. His soldiers - ghostly apparitions - flickering
into view then gone.

INT. CHURCH - NIGHT

A sanctuary for heart and soul that is empty of life, but
lit by a hundreds candles.

Jackson kneels at the altar, hands clasped firmly together,
He fingers rosary beads clenched between them as he utters
silent prayer. Head bowed. Eyes shut.

He opens his eyes slowly, and gazes at the cross. His eyes
well. A single tear rolls down his cheek. The tear drips
from his chin and falls to the floor.

INT. HOSPITAL CORRIDOR - DAY

An intravenous drip. A tube snakes its way into an arm,
badly scarred, and bloodied. Jackson is rushed down the
corridor on a gurney.

His eye flicks open.

JACKSON'S POV:

Lights above, uniform patterns, light after light, like a
train passes the tunnel lights on the subway.

An oxygen mask. Canulas in his arm. Connected to tubes.

Doctors. Nurses. They rush about like worker ants. Images
not in focus. Muffled noises. Deafeningly loud, yet
strangely muted. A large multi lens lamp. A face, masked,
peers into his face. Images blur further. Blackness.

INT. BATHROOM - DAY

An old bath.

Filled to the brim, water spills over the sides. Jackson
lies submerged.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
(in verse)
I don't really understand what's
going on. All I have is what I'm
allowed to know. My guiltless
life, is now come and gone, like
the Kings and Saints of old.

Weathered, troubled, and distant. His face betrays a short
life of utter sadness. Pale, sallow, hollow, and now life
less.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
In a moments breath, that all too
brief, brings tempests rage to
knee. Sees bloodshed in my
darkest days with no comfort; no
relief. The answer that I found
out there, in my solitude laid
bare, were desires to be free
again. Were my longings born of
fear.

A stream of bubbles vent from a mouth that neither smiles
nor scowls. He is alone, abandoned, and afraid.

The stream of bubbles slow. Then stops. No more bubbles. No
more life.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
And here I stand the only one, to
survive my days alone. So to ease
my life from all this pain, I'll
take the long walk home.

WE pull up and away from Jackson's face, to reveal both his
arms draped over the sides, his legs extended beyond the
lip of the roll-top bath.

Wrists are slashed. A growing pool of blood gathers beneath
the tub. WE close in on the blood as it turns to black.

FADE TO BLACK.

TITLE CARD:

In memory of the casualties of war. And not just those who
perish on the battlefield...

THE END