01x01 - Death Becomes Her

[bunniefuu]

(playfully spooky music)

FEMALE VOICE:

As far back as I can remember,

my life has been steeped in death.

(Heart monitor flatlines)

MALE DOCTOR: Time of death, 11.20.

(instruments clanging)

(wailing)

V/O: Who knows if that's

a bad thing.

But what I do know,

is that death,

like a child's soother,

has always been there for me

when I needed relief.

Unfortunately for me,

relief is in short supply.

Remember think of someone

who annoys you. Pull the trigger.

(g*nsh*t) (glass smashing)

(g*n reloading)

(g*nsh*t)

Look at you,

getting good at this.

(g*n reloading)

(g*nsh*t)

Duh. I missed.

I wouldn't be so sure about that.

V/O: Take my 10th birthday.

Stood over that dead deer,

it was the first time my father

saw me happy.

Like, actually really happy.

How I prayed it wouldn't be

the last.

(sniffs)

What's that for?

(blood spilling) (flesh tearing)

Being the kind of person I am,

school would have been t*rture,

but for two key things.

My writing

And my best friend, Mal.

I'm tellin' ya.

You get up there,

you're gonna win this contest.

A couple of them fancy words,

and they'll be eating out

of your hand.

And if that doesn't work?

Picture everyone naked.

Now come on. Let's hear it.

(sighs)

'That day while smashing

her bully's skull off the credenza,

surprise took hold.'

V/O: Picturing people naked

was a bust.

But picturing them dead bingo.

'The sound of intracranial cracking

as brain splattered off walls'

That's disgusting!

'.. was akin to a music this young

girl had never heard before.'

V/O: Right then I realised

that death and writing were

a powerful match.

'That this is where happiness lies.'

'Of course, like everything else

that gave me peace,

it was fleeting.'

'Yet when a doctor did finally see

me about my crushing depression,

all we talked about were pills.'

'Oh, so many pills.'

'But five years ago,

I put the brakes on that.'

'Those things made me

sleepwalk, lose time.'

'Do batshit stuff

I barely remember.'

'The bottom line? They made me

more dead than alive.'

(rapping on glass)

Elvira!

'And I want to feel alive.'

Elvira!

(furious knocking)

'Then (gleeful) something

amazing happened!'

(keyboard tapping)

(dying gasp)

'You know, they say if you want

to write, you have to sit down,

open a vein,

and bleed on the page.'

'Talk about words to live by.'

'So, here I am.'

'The Kilraven Chronicle's

brand new obituarist.'

'A job I've dreamed of.

And yet

.. this happiness I've yearned for

remains missing.'

'Like a jigsaw piece lost down

the side of a couch.'

When you're done, file it.

And then what? Then you wait

for someone to die.

And when might that be?

Clancy never say that out loud.

Your job is to write obituaries.

To take that talent

you claimed you had

to make the deceased alive,

to give voice to the voiceless.

Not to sit there praying that

some pensioner pops his clogs.

(ping)

What are you looking at?

Nothing.

Well then,

get back to work.

It won't write itself.

♪♪

(music builds to crescendo)

ELVIRA V/O:

Population 5,000 and falling

'Kilraven is like a fun fair in

winter..

'Its people convinced that,

if the sun only shone,

if that factory re- opened,

if the foreigners left,

their lives would be good again.'

'On the surface,

a bog-standard, backwater.'

(gulls crying)

'But as my Dad likes to say,

under that veneer of nothingness,

there's a tonne of weird sh*t

going on.'

(spooky music)

'Ah, funeral homes.'

'Heaven!'

'And it's not just the peace and

quiet or the human remains.'

'See, people go through life

wearing big, stupid grins.'

'Hiding how they really feel.'

'Here, there is no smiling.'

'Only tears, pain and impotence.'

'Here

.. you see people

as they really are.'

'Damn!'

'That half-blind mortician made him

more alive than my obituary did.'

My mammy gave you a tip.

She insisted.

Well she wants it back.

She said your writing was rubbish.

I'm still finding my voice.

She said you're at this six months.

Now, we expected better.

Look

.. Daddy was a farmer.

And a Fenian.

'No, Daddy was a fat f*ck

that barely fit inside this box.'

Yet, reading what you wrote,

'twas like I didn't even know

the man.

Which, tells me, you didn't

get to know the man.

Which, last time I checked,

was your job.

(toilet flushing)

(door closing)

(clears throat)

Patsy Tom.

(menacing music)

I'm sorry for your loss.

And I'm sorry for yours.

(chatter)

ELVIRA V/O: Crime correspondents.

'To some, a juicy gig.'

'But to others, it's a slow death,

haunted by unsolved murders.'

Who did this to you?

'For Clive, indeed, for Kilraven,

that meant Maria Riedle.'

Clive? My office. Now.

Ah, the Grim Reaper

Out from behind the death desk.

Tell me, is what this lot says true?

Is what true?

Your co-workers reckon

you listen to the death notices

as you twiddle your twaddle.

(sniggering)

(door closing)

(Hughie's voice slightly muffled)

This gives me no joy, but

I've two options.

You either go freelance,

or I let you go.

Thirty years?! Just like that?

What am I to do, Clive?

You know what, Burns? What?

Eat sh*t!

Ah, come on!

Jesus.

Clancy

Clive quit. It was his choice.

'Cos you asked him to go freelance.

Circulation is down.

I'm having to combine

Farming with Fashion.

That will k*ll Kate.

No way! That's her.

Getting the email now.

Perhaps you could combine

birth notices with obituaries.

Cut out the middleman.

And perhaps your work could improve,

just a tad,

so that the families stop bitching

at me.

Look, you'll get 200 an obit.

No regular salary?

We'll review it down the line.

Hughie

.. on average, one person dies

every ten days in this town.

Sometimes, I've waited weeks.

Isn't that a good thing?

Not when I'm supporting my father?

Chin up. At least you're still

a reporter.

You're not stuck in here like me,

massaging ulcer-inducing

spreadsheets.

But--

How will I live? I dunno.

Maybe you should start k*lling

people.

(INTERNAL V/O)

Maybe I can start with you.

Maybe I can start with you.

(awkward silence)

(laughs)

(nervous chuckle)

THAT's the spirit.

Now, off you pop.

It won't write itself.

ELVIRA V/O: Because I had my own

stuff going on back then,

I missed all the signs.

'But it's like, one day,

Dad woke up and decided

'You know,

I think I'll take to the drink.'

You know, I read somewhere

that freelancers

get paid by the column, or even

by the word, sometimes.

Or perhaps, never.

How is the 'aul noggin'?

It'd be a lot better if that was

your last of the day.

You know I'm always here

for ya if you want to talk.

Yeah.

The same applies to you.

You can always get

another job in the town.

V/O: Notice he didn't tell me to get

another job, in another town?

'Poor man. He can't see a future

without me.'

I know you think you've got

no future, but

Writing's everything I have.

This job, Dad

It's like, my life.

And by the way,

you know if I'm broke,

you're broke too, yeah?

Jesus!

Tadaa!

I tell you something

.. nobody hurts my wee girl.

(liquid flowing)

Especially not that ballbag,

Hughie. Shut the door!

It breaks my heart to

see you like this.

Hey

I could dust off my CV.

Are you gonna tell me to go back

and wash my hands? No

CVs, Dad.

That's what I just said.

That's what I've been writing.

But people's lives aren't CVs.

They're much, much more.

But I like your writing.

Yeah (sighs)

It can be better. How?

'Not always, but sometimes,

Dad inspires me.'

I'm going to write advances.

Obituaries for the pre-dead.

Like zombies?

Like Michael Jackson.

Who did a mean zombie.

And who, the minute he did die,

the big papers had his obit

up on their websites.

Years in the making,

researched, refined.

Ready in a heartbeat to go to print.

(thud)

So you'll, what pick old people?

Sick people.

People whose lives dice with death.

And write them up before

they do die.

'These advances,

with thought and time,

will be heartfelt and moving.'

'Not crap jotted down as the coffin

slides into the ground.'

'Something the families adore.'

(keyboard tapping)

'That gives Hughie no choice

but to put me back on full pay.'

♪♪

How does it feel, Alice?

To die? To know you're dying.

It's Rose I worry about.

Your daughter?

A big lug of a thing. Tomboy.

I don't think she'll cope.

She'll have to grieve.

They say there are stages.

Denial, anger bargaining,

depression, and

Suicide?

Ehno.

Acceptance.

Here, who are you?

I know, I shouldn't. But

Your daughter.

Rose.

Remember?

Thank God!

I'm here, Mam.

Finally, you lost some weight.

But would it k*ll you to wear

a little bit of rouge, huh?

Where were we?

You were advising me

on how to accept your death.

Who says I'm dying?

No one listens to me.

The story of my life.

Why do people say that,

the story of my life?

Because everyone's got one.

And I'd k*ll to hear yours.

'For Alice, the voyage of discovery

is not in seeking new lands,

but seeing old lands with new eyes.'

Dump that last line.

You're not bloody 'Prowst.'

Proust.

You don't like it? Kudos for the

turnover time. She's barely cold.

But, Clancy, your words screech

when they should sing.

Do better. Or don't do it.

Do better? Fine.

How about a dead man walking.

Or well climbing.

It's a really dangerous job, right?

Says who?

The National Statistics Office.

They claim that fatality rates

for roofers are

.. through the roof.

Nothing can k*ll me.

Not no roof nor no statistics!

Sorry, Bob. But the stats

beg to differ.

'Always reaching for the heights,

as Bob mounts his ladder,

one last time.

Think of him as gone,

yet not defeated.'

Lose that last line.

You're not bloody Hemingway.

Look, there is some improvement.

I only spotted two typos.

V/O: The people of this town think

my next advance

is Kilraven's nicest man.

'Dad STRONGLY disagrees.'

'Still, the guy is riddled with

cancer. Stage Four.'

'And because there's no Stage Five,

it's just a matter of waiting.'

'And waiting

.. and waiting!'

'And waiting.'

'And waiting!'

'And waiting, and'

Beautiful day, isn't it?

'It's the weirdest thing.

This dying man is refusing to die.'

Beautiful day, isn't it?

'His body screams cancer.'

Beautiful day, isn't it?

'Yet four weeks since my last obit,

Sandy walks this earth.'

It's a beautiful day, isn't it?

'My bank balance is a bust,

and my work remains unread.'

(tapping)

Beautiful day, isn't it?

'My words, trapped on my

hard drive.'

'Sandy's tumours, fighting for

their lives.'

'A kango hammer,

chipping away at my brain.'

'What the hell do I do?'

What the hell are you doing?!

Beautiful day, isn't it?

Are you serious?

No one in their right mind could

think today is a beautiful day.

Are you saying there's something

wrong with my mind? Finally.

Something out of your mouth

that makes sense.

You can't talk to me like that.

I'm sick.

Oh, join the f*cking club.

Go get them. Make me.

Fine.

(he struggles)

Aghhh. ah!

(effort grunts)

We're going to the Guards.

Why? I I saved you.

Jesus. Saved me!

You're more stupid than I thought!

You didn't know. Know what?

The town laughs at ye.

The sewer rat unfit to be a father.

The freak waiting for people to die.

Now your mother? Mmm

A tasty bit a pipe.

Pity she died and you didn't.

You were right. So you admit it?

You did push me. No.

It is a beautiful day.

(effort grunt)

(scream)

♪♪

V/O: I'd be lying if I said

I didn't fantasize about

doing this someday.'

'I just never knew how I'd feel.'

Mrs Benson, thanks for seeing me.

I know this is weird,

with me being the one

who saw your husband slip.

But.. look, I won't take up

much of your time.

The thing is Yeah.

Your words are how Sandy

will be remembered.

The more you know

The more I can,

pardon the pun, bring him to life.

Okay.

But we're getting drunk.

So (chuckles)

I'm under this big sycamore.

First time making love.

But there's this farmer,

sneaking a sly look at us,

his Friesians behind him.

I slip my bits back in

Which are still fabulous!

But my husband,

still at half-mast,

offers to put on

a second showing.

(awkward laugh)

Sandy could be crude that way.

I'll see if I can get that in.

(sighs deeply)

Then that's that.

Really?

'Cos I feel like

we're still missing something.

Look, let's go off record.

Eh?

Okay.

Sandy was

.. in remission!

(laughing)

The last five years!

Sandy wasn't sick.

He just loved the attention!

But he had a blog.

About his ups and downs -

the town read it.

Lies.

Sandy could have lived

30 more years but for that fall.

(laughs, and coughs)

Oh pet, you're crying.

Sorry.

It's a shock.

I thought Sandy had months left,

not years.

V/O: Years I took from him.

I thought I'd k*lled a dying man,

when really, I'd k*lled a man

who deserved to die.

That's okay, love.

'I've never felt such happiness.'

'And everyone wants to be happy.'

'Right?'

'Sadly, we can do nothing for Sandy,

but cherish his memory.

As surely his wife, Margo will,

who one day hopes to meet him

under that sycamore in the sky,

where they will frolic like teens

while the Friesians watch.'

No, no, no, this is good.

I know it is!

I can't publish it. You can your

typos can go f*ck-- Margo!

Sandy's wife doesn't want him

declared dead.

But he is dead.

His body was never recovered.

She's going to wait out the 7 years.

So no one reads my work?

And no pay?

(deep sigh)

I'm sorry, Clancy.

It kills me as much as it

does you.

V/O: No matter.

'I like what I wrote.'

'I've found my voice now.'

'A voice with m*rder as a muse.'

'Of course, I should stop.'

'But now is not

a good time for me.'

I'll see you later?

'Your first k*ll is like

your first orgasm.'

'You feel guilty.'

Is Patsy's chest still at him?

'You're not sure how it happened.'

Belt.

'But you're damn sure you want

another.'

'At least, that's what Mal says.'

(horn beeps)

Hey, where d'ya get your licence?

A f*ck' raffle?

Who was that?

Sylvester McHugh.

Big builder back in London.

Contracted all his work out.

Cut so many corners that three

boys died on the job.

And Kilraven welcomed

that as*h*le back with open arms.

'As I said,

sometimes my Dad inspires me.'

I tell you something,

someone should clip his wings,

before anybody else gets hurt.

'Still, it's all well and good,

but I've got to be smart.'

'That means never getting

caught.'

'Which means picking the right one,

which means

.. picking someone who deserves it.'

'So, does Sylvester deserve it?'

Oh, Mal.

You're my best friend,

but you've lousy taste in men.

(engine revving)

You know, we're in the same boat.

We both don't want some rando

who's spent his whole life in

Kilraven, but

.. trust me, Mal, someone--

Better will come along?

Elvira! Christ, you've been

spouting that same shite

for the last five years.

Look-- (she sighs)

What?

Last Christmas, I overheard

the Scriney sisters.

Those piss-bags said that

girls like us,

who never left Kilraven were

different from girls

who went to college.

I went to college.

Okay, online. But so did you.

Ah, look - a month blowing

my grant on MDMA is not college.

Anyways, they said

we were robbed of our dreams.

That our small-minded brains

never grew

because we never went anywhere.

Then I meet Sylvester.

And he's seen the world.

Well, London. So I says,

I'll have that for a bit.

And why not, like?

The man's a

.. go-getter.

V/O: You may think we have

nothing in common.

'This crazy mess and me.'

'But you could not be more wrong.'

'Both mothers dead.'

'Mine in a pool of her own blood,

hers on a hen party in Liverpool.'

Deadly place, isn't it?

What's the sex like?

(Mal chortles)

You never ask me about

my sex life.

Well, you never ask me

about mine.

He says I blow the wife

out of the water. (she laughs)

Oh, get this. The last night

he was on top of me,

he starts twitching

like crazy.

Isn't that a good thing?

He was having an epileptic fit.

Forgot to take his pills.

Who says I can't make men drool,

eh?

You know, Mal. Guys like him

Push them and they're dangerous.

So he's got a temper!

He's up the walls with work,

but I can handle mys--

f*ck it!

Here, have mine.

It's just a 99, Mal.

Nothing's ever just a 99, Elvira.

You know, sometimes,

I just feel like

A laughing stock?

Lost.

People tell me to skip town.

I say, why?

I'm from here.

What I want is something

to happen here! Like what?

I dunno.

I just want it to happen.

I'll wait for it if I have to.

V/O: I'm done waiting.

Sylvester's purpose in life

seems to be to hurt

everyone around him.

'Therefore, if my purpose

in life is to k*ll,

I think I'll make some rules.'

'And one must be,

no one I love ever gets hurt.'

(pulsating music)

(muffled chatter)

'This is a small town.'

'That means there can never be

a whiff of m*rder.'

'Everything must be a mishap

or a suicide.'

'An act of God,

or a sex act gone wrong.'

(clanging)

(rustling)

♪

'A while back, a journalist opened

an image sent to him on Twitter.'

'It was strobe lighting.'

'The guy, a known epileptic,

came within seconds of dying,

when he suffered a seizure.'

'Still, it could have been worse.'

'He could have been trapped

in the boot of a car.'

(flicking)

(loud clanging)

(car engine humming)

♪

(music builds)

'Crucial to this whole thing,

is research.'

(barking)

'In this case, the dark web

and a can of Ketamine.'

'Several good blasts,

they're toast.'

'But a couple of spritzes

..it's sleepy time.'

♪

(music pings)

(pills rattling)

'Sylvester's going to spend

the next few days

swallowing a little something

from my own medicine cabinet.'

♪

'Also essential is intel.'

'And because she tells me

everything,

I always know when and where

Sylvester and Mallory will meet.'

I told you he'd remember!

Aren't they gorgeous?

(tapping)

How do you do that?

Eh do what?

Well, hello!

Get people to open up to you like

that. When they're at their lowest.

The people I deal with

are consumed with death.

Add sedatives and stodgy funeral

food, they soon realise

their deep dark secrets aren't

worth taking to the grave.

Emerson Stafford.

Elvira-- Clancy.

I know. Tell me, what are

you working on now?

It's a surprise.

Oh does it not get depressing?

Obituaries?

I spend two lines out of a hundred

on how someone died.

The rest is a celebration

of their life.

Yeah, but you make your living

from death.

As do cigarette companies--

And crime correspondents.

I'm taking over from Clive, so

looks like we're working together.

Now I know, staff will b*tch

about the new hire.

But don't worry.

But I'm paid per piece.

Still, they'll get mighty snotty

when they see

every second article is mine, right?

Hey, uh you up to anything later?

Only I thought I'd grab a drink

at the Mariner.

How's nine sound?

It sounds a lot better than 'no'.

I'll see you later.

V/O: Tonight was to be Sylvester's

last night on earth.

'Looks like we both got lucky.'

(chatter)

Sorry I'm late.

Don't worry about it.

What are you doing here?

Well 'hello' to you too.

What are you having, Elvira?

Whatever Mallory's having.

'Since she's having

what I'm having.'

What can I get you?

Whiskey and ice

(excited squeal)

What's that for? You said someone

better would come along,

and bam! I bump into him.

What? He could be married.

Or g*y?

You don't like him, do you?

Good.

Eh, hey Emerson.

Elvira reckons you're g*y-- which

I'm down with.

No, I don't. I'm sorry

to disappoint you. (Mal sighs)

Well, with that put to bed, tell us.

How do you end up working

at our little rag,

for that w*nk*r, Hughie?

I like Hughie.

At least you know

where you stand with him.

You like Hughie because

he lets you away with m*rder.

Oh, does he?

Let you away with m*rder?

So Emerson, why journalism?

(bored sigh) And why here?

Ahh, you guys will laugh at me.

No, we won't.

It was my cousin's funeral. I was 9.

He was 6, poor kid drowned.

Pool, river or sea?

Sea.

But he had this twin.

Now on the day of the funeral,

his parents for some reason -

do not ask me why -

but they decided to dress them both

in matching outfits.

So you can imagine, I'm standing

there, I'm 9 years old.

I'm looking into this coffin with

this kid lying there, my cousin.

And then they close the lid,

and stick the lad in the ground.

'There are sixteen words

for 'love' in Latin,

yet none to describe

how turned on I am.'

But there's this other lad,

standing right there.

Identical to the one just buried.

I thought I was looking at a ghost.

It changes you.

And I went home and told my friends

what had happened.

And they had the worst nightmares,

they'd ever had in their lives.

That's when I knew,

my job is to bring the world's

weirdest stories to the people.

And what better place than Kilraven.

We don't even have

a Penneys.

But we have people like Mal,

who has committed armed robbery.

'Armed' is a stretch.

You had a golf club.

A putter. Still took two grand

out of that shop.

Well, it would have been a grand

more if it were a Penneys.

Did you get time? Suspended.

Eighteen months if I darken

the door of a court again.

Well, I should write a story about

you.

(Mal giggles)

'Reformed con makes good'.

Maybe I should write a story on

you. 'Reformed con dies'.

Eh

My phone is broken, can I--

Yeah, yeah. Use mine.

(ping)

(message tinkle)

(door creaking)

You followed me in here?

This is the mens.

Oh yeah.

I wondered what that smell was.

'Whatever he does, he's giving

me that feeling again.'

(message tinkles)

'And then there's that

other feeling.'

I've to go. Ah, stay.

Mallory and I would love it.

'Two shandies and they're

'Mallory and I' already?'

Dad's ill.

Give Mal her phone.

(flickering)

♪

(slamming)

(engine humming)

(foreboding music)

(faint sound of Garda radio)

(gravel crunching)

(rapping)

Ehm

(window opening)

Everything alright?

Good. Now

Why are you parked here?

Whoa, whoa, whoa.

Just getting my driver's license.

I-I come here sometimes to

.. clear my head.

Funny that. Because usually

when people come here,

they come here to do drugs.

Do you do drugs?

Have you been drinking?

Just the one, Guard. Really?

Because you seem

very nervous.

Are you nervous?

Then you won't mind me checking

your vehicle. Yeah?

Be my guest.

Anything in your boot?

V/O: Just an eight-inch hunting

knife and enough strobe lighting

to k*ll a man.'

Still

.. you better pop it for me.

The thing's broken.

(keys jangling)

You'll have to do it yourself.

(foreboding music)

Hey--

(Garda radio sounds)

What's with the can?

The thing is always acting up.

It's just

Rose

A call came in. A domestic.

Gimme a second.

Alice worked nights at

Fruit of the Loom.

Having spent a whole day

weaving baskets,

she'd still be home in time to make

her daughter's breakfast.

A glamorous woman,

her speciality was

Fancy baskets.

Made from ash strips

woven in patterns.

Topped with carved flowers as--

Her mother's had been.

And as she hoped her daughter,

Rose's would someday be too.

You wrote that? My mam's obituary?

We spoke before she passed.

She said you meant the world to her.

She had a weird way

of showing it.

Left an awful lot unsaid.

Must have made

accepting her death difficult.

Ah

She was always telling you

to lose weight, find a man.

Wear make-up, join a gym.

You've made your point!

My point is

She thought you were beautiful.

She wished she'd said it more.

She said that?

Those very words?

I never met my Mam.

I'd die happy hearing

what she thought of me.

(siren wailing)

(keys jangling)

Safe home.

Oh, and Miss Clancy

When my time comes,

I'd like you to write my obituary.

Done.

V/O: 'As am I.'

'I'm not cut out for this.'

'That close to getting caught.'

'No way. No!'

'It ends now.'

♪♪

(locks clicking)

So this is where they found

Maria Riedle's body?

(deep inhale)

(coughing)

You okay?

Heard it's in both lungs now.

The rest of my files this week.

(gulping)

First Guard on the scene?

If you want to get the DPP file

off her, you'll need leverage.

The 'Mallory' I mentioned.

Last person to see Maria alive.

Five years have passed.

But I bet she still remembers

every tiny detail.

Oh, I'm way ahead of ya there.

I didn't drag you to this town

to get your hole. No.

You dragged me here so

I could finish what you couldn't.

Emerson, this is my life's work.

Mmm. Jesus!

You still don't get it.

She's German!

The story's international.

If your work leads to the arrest

of Maria Riedle's k*ller,

we're talking books, films.

In German?

In every language!

Netflix?

I was thinking more Sky,

but we'll ask them too.

That grabbed your attention.

Now our deal.

A change of plan.

Upon the arrest of the k*ller,

you don't get half of my life

savings. You get the lot.

(curious)

Yeah.

What's the catch?

Not a penny

if you don't finish up before I die.

And when do you think

that might that be?

(cackling and coughing)

I'm working on it.

And you're sure this scumbag--

and I'm not saying it's him.

Are you sure her husband did it?

No doubt.

Now go and prove it.

Cheers. Go on!

(chilling music)

(banging)

Elvira!

(banging)

Uhhh!

(he sighs)

Are the rats at ya?

I didn't always drink, you know?

Oh yeah?

Just these last few years.

Yeah, well

Maybe one day

I'll tell you why.

But for the moment,

I enjoy it. Alright?

And I could stop any time I want.

But truthfully,

I don't like me without it, anyway.

Yeah, well..

People change, Dad.

Yeah pigs might fly--

(tyres screeching)

Jesus Christ!

Go on, jog on redneck!

Ya prize bollocks!

Do you know he's suing his own

brother over his father's will?

And the poor fella's not

the full shilling.

And then he steps out

in front of ya?

He's an accident waiting

to happen, that one.

V/O: No. When I say, I'm done.

I'm done.

Hughie, you promised to review

my salary. Now is the time.

You read The Lancet, Clancy?

They claim that

flu season is late this year,

but it's going to hit big.

Soon. That's a boon for your beat.

So no review.

I'm paying you for Sandy Benson.

I can't publish it, but quality work

deserves recognition.

There's enough here for two obits.

You ever heard of Sylvester McHugh?

'Fraid not.

A controversial figure.

They found him slumped over

the wheel of his car this morning.

V/O: His meds.

His wife says he suffered

from epilepsy.

That's the official line.

'I forgot to change them back.'

Look, with Sandy's obit

'I did that. That was me.'

It finally felt like you got

the person you were writing about.

(gleeful)

Too right, I did!

And also, it inspired me.

To see you not have it,

search for it, and find it,

it made me want to get back

into 'real' journalism again.

Big and small.

This town is full of stories.

I'm going to find them.

So I stay on 200 an obit?

Desperation drives you.

Let's see where it takes us.

Do you know what you're doing?

I'm making a good journalist.

V/O: No, you're taking a

flamethrower to this town.

You just keep doing exactly as

you've been doing

these last few weeks.

And if work turns slow again?

You'll think of something.

♪

Hey babe! Hiya. Will we bounce?

Wow.

(kissing)

Hey! Watch it.

I'm sorry.

V/O: They say if you want to write,

you have to sit down, open a vein,

and bleed on the page.'

'Thing is, whose vein

are they talking about?'

'And whose blood do they mean?'

'No matter. Hughie's right.'

'These things won't write

themselves.'