SCRIPT TITLE

Written by Name of First Writer

Based on, If Any

Address Phone Number

BLACK SCREEN. In the darkness, a phone rings, twice. A WOMAN answers. WOMAN Hello? OPENING TITLES. C.U. On bad TV., channel-hopping rhythmically through garish, sometimes violent images. CCTV footage of savage attacks, riots, war, pornography, nature shows, anime. Sperm cells struggle for biological supremacy. Rescue teams pick through the wreckage of a crashed train. Interspersed are the films TITLES. Crash to static. INT. RINGOS APARTMENT - DAY A squalid apartment, littered with DVD cases, newspapers and takeaway cartons. A spilled stack of newspapers are strewn across a low coffee table. The headlines all run on a similar tack: BOY, 16, KILLS FIVE IN KNIFE RAMPAGE SEVEN DEAD IN SHOPPING CENTRE SHOOTING SPREE BUS HORROR AS LAWYER MURDERS 10 COMMUTERS Taking up the entirety of one wall is a huge bank of mismatched television screens, precariously balanced on top of one another, each flicking between channels at random. We focus on a singular screen, showing a daytime talk show. A scholarly gentleman is being interviewed. MAN ON TELEVISION I believe that everyone, yourself included, has some inherent degree of latent psychic ability that can manifest itself in strange and terrifying ways. Consider, a person who hears voices in their head. Doctors, psychologists, society itself may deem them mad, unfit for everyday living. Now consider, those voices are not manifestations of his own thoughts, but the thoughts of other people... RINGO sits in a battered easy chair, asleep, a black cross of electrical tape secured over each eye, holding them closed. He is 30ish, gaunt and pale, subsisting on junk food, television, and this strange ritual, the closest to sleep he ever comes. His fingers twitch rhythmically in time to the automated channel switching. On his computer desk sits a lucky waving cat, the kind you see in sushi bars, the multitude of flickering screens reflected in its ceramic eyes. Old Mondo movie posters adorn the walls.

2.

Ringo stirs, coughs and wakes up, peeling the tape away from his eyes. Leaning over, he picks a half-smoked cigarette from the ashtray and lights it, then sits back and watches the screens for a while. INT. RINGOS APARTMENT - LATER Ringo paces in front of the screens, which are all now switched to dead air. He is on the telephone, an oldfashioned rotary dial, talking to his boss, GODOLKIN. He swings the base in one hand, trailing the wire along behind him. RINGO Its the twenty-first century, God. Why are we using a land line? I forgot I even had the fucking thing. Godolkins voice is audible through the receiver. GODOLKIN Because you dont answer your damn emails. Ringo rubs his eyes with the back of his arm. RINGO Ive been hiding from them. GODOLKIN Why? Ive been trying to reach you for days. RINGO Because Marcia keeps sending me photos of her new boyfriends genitalia, and I find it repulsively compelling. Listen, Im serious about this. I want these murders. GODOLKIN Everybody and their questionablyaged girlfriends are covering the murders, Ringo. Its strictly tabloid stuff. RINGO True, but they dont see the connection. GODOLKIN What fucking connection?

3.

RINGO Exactly. Twelve incidents of mass murder in the last six months alone, nothing linking the perps except the fact that theyre all under fifty and have no history of mental illness. A lady pushing the menopause cruises along the pavement in her four by four, seven dead. A fourteen year old boy goes on a stab-happy rampage in a shopping centre, five dead, et cetera. Fifty-seven dead in all. Theres a connection here, whether its zombie movies or fucking bath salts, I just dont see it yet. But give me time and I will. GODOLKIN I dont think its exactly what our readers have in mind when they pick up our magazine. Porn movie reviews, yes, children raised by hyenas, definitely. But murder sprees? Its too real, too close to the bone. RINGO If I can find some hook to this, maybe the killers wore Evil Dead shirts or quoted Steven King, those bastardsll eat it up like popcorn. Listen, you pay me to hold my nose and lower myself into the prolapsed arsehole of modern culture, throw me a life ring here, God. Ive got an angle to work. GODOLKIN For fucks sake, Ringo. Alright, Ill trust you with this. Ringo sits down in his battered old armchair. RINGO Damn right you will. And Ill write you the Godzilla versus King Kong of progressive pop culture slash true crime articles. GODOLKIN You said that last time. It was more like Kramer vs. Kramer. RINGO Hey, she left me for a guy with a babys arm for a penis. (MORE)

4. RINGO (CONT'D) I cant be blamed for any impact it may have had on my work.

GODOLKIN Whatever. Any special reason you want this? Ringo picks a VHS tape from the top of a small pile and reads the hand-written label. It reads YOU DIDNT GET THIS FROM ME - L RINGO Its just a hunch Ive got, is all. And a challenge. I like a challenge. INT. RINGOS APARTMENT Ringo slots the first of the VHS tapes into an old tape player and sits back in his chair to watch, Dictaphone and cigarette poised near his mouth. CCTV footage plays across the multiple screens in perfect synchrony, a grainy high angle showing shoppers on a quiet street. RINGO Thursday, June the seventeenth, A.M. Quiet street, innocent people. Theres nothing in the air, no tension, no signs to suggest that six people will soon be dead, among them a child of four. Its just an ordinary day. EXT. THE STREET We cut from the CCTV footage to a flashback of the event. DAVID ROTH, a man in his late twenties, dressed in baggy jeans and a windbreaker, answers his ringing mobile phone. Ringos commentary continues over the scene. RINGO (O.S.) The man they later identify as David Lawrence Roth is talking on his mobile phone, looking through the window of an electrical goods store. INT. RINGOS APARTMENT Ringo takes a drag on his cigarette.

5.

RINGO They identify him from dental records, his fingerprints arent on the database. EXT. THE STREET David Roth screams, venting pure animalistic rage. His face is lightly spattered with blood, and he clutches a long sliver of broken glass in one hand. RINGO (O.S.) Hed slashed his left wrist so deeply that his hand was hanging by a thread. INT. RINGOS APARTMENT Ringo leans back in his chair, taking a handful of dry cereal from a nearby bowl and crunching thoughtfully. RINGO David pockets his phone calmly, and smashes his bare hand through the shop window. Picking up a fragment of glass, he uses it to stab a fifty-four year old man through the -- Christ, this is terrible. Never mind, Ill rework it later. Ringo ejects the tape, inserts the next one and presses play. RINGO (CONTD) Tuesday, July eleventh, just after noon. Quiet street, innocent people blah blah blah. The girls name is... Ringo checks his notes, shorthand scribbles in a Moleskine notebook. RINGO (CONTD) ...Emma Townsend, no middle name. EXT. OUTSIDE A RESTAURANT - NIGHT EMMA TOWNSEND, a nineteen-year-old girl, is waiting outside in the cold, shivering slightly. Hearing her phone ring in her pocket, she takes it out and answers it. RINGO (O.S.) Shes waiting for her friends outside a restaurant, talking on her phone.

6.

Ringo pauses. RINGO (CONTD) What the fuck? Ringo ejects the tape, puts in another, and fast forwards to the relevant place. A man is on his phone, waiting in line at a clothes shop. He hangs up, then leaps over the shop counter and begins to mercilessly beat the proprietor to a bloody pulp with the cash register. Ringo puts in the next tape. A middle-aged lady, waiting at the gates of a school, answers, then hangs up her phone. She gets in her car and drives off. Ringo fast-forwards the tape. Her car pulls up outside the school again, and the lady gets out, a shotgun gripped in her hands, and enters the school. Ringo leans back in his chair, smiling. RINGO (CONTD) And theres your fucking connection. Ringo picks up his telephone, and dials a number. RINGO (CONTD) Hi, Lorenzo? Ringo. I need another favour from you, mate. EXT. A STREET - NIGHT. Ringo stands on a street, dressed warmly against the cold. He stares in through the window of a television shop at the display of flickering monitors inside. On one of the screens is the news, and on the news is a report about a new mass killing, a shooting in a bar. Ringo watches intently, unable to hear any sound through the glass. The body of the shooter is shown, covered by a bloodstained white sheet. A close up of a gun on the ground next to it, and next to that, a mobile phone. Ringos eyes narrow. A lady, mid to late twenties approaches Ringo, an unlit cigarette dangling from her mouth. Her name is LAURA, and she is already slightly intoxicated. LAURA Hi. You have a light? RINGO Uh, somewhere. Ringo fishes around in his pocket, eyes not leaving the screen. RINGO (CONTD) Here.

7.

LAURA (Lighting her cigarette) You waiting for somebody? RINGO Yeah. LAURA Friends? Ringo looks at her for the first time, and smiles. RINGO No. No. More like a resource. A contact. LAURA Dont tell me youre a spy or something. Youre a spy, arent you? RINGO Nothing that exciting. A writer. Journalist. LAURA Oh, thats quite disappointing. RINGO Sorry. LAURA Anything Ive read? RINGO I should fucking hope not. Fringe culture mostly, very peripheral stuff. The casual pursuits of some extremely fucked up people. Ringo, by the way. LAURA Huh? RINGO My names Ringo. LAURA Oh. Laura. There is a pause as Laura smokes. LAURA (CONTD) You know, you should turn around sometime. There's a very beautiful world behind you. One that isn't projected onto a screen.

8.

RINGO Theyre LCD screens now, they dont really project any more. Besides, television tells me far more about the human condition than a mountain or a river. This is the real world, the one I wanna live in anyway. Laura looks at the screens. LAURA That one? With all the rape and murder? RINGO A lot more interesting than a fucking tree. Who are you waiting for? LAURA Friends. Probably not a concept youre familiar with, they're these other people that I sometimes hang around with, we share common interests and talk about stuff together. You should check them out sometime, I think you'd probably like them. RINGO Never heard of them. Laura motions to a group of people on the far side of the screen. LAURA Ah, here they are. See you later, Square Eyes. Laura walks away, waving to the group. Ringo watches her go, then turns back to the screen. RINGO Square Eyes. Huh. Ringo puts a cigarette in his mouth and pats his pockets. RINGO (CONTD) Stole my fucking lighter. There is a sharp WHISTLE from off-screen and Ringo turns around. LORENZO, Ringos contact, a tall spindly man in his early thirties, is standing near the steps to an underground club. A garish neon sign above reads SIGNAL TO NOISE. Lorenzo beckons to Ringo, and then points down the steps toward the door before disappearing inside. Ringo walks over to meet him.

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INT. SIGNAL TO NOISE CLUB The club is dingy and decorated in sickly ultraviolet paint. Ringo shoulders his way through the heaving crowd, all gyrating to pounding techno music. He finds Lorenzo sitting at a booth near the back, and sits down opposite him. Two bottles of beer sit on the table. LORENZO Ringo, mi amigo. RINGO Hey, Lorenzo. Hell of a place. LORENZO Beers cheap, you learn to live with the rest. Heres yours. Lorenzo slides the beer over. LORENZO (CONTD) Whos the belle fille you were chatting to up there? RINGO Christ knows, probably none of your business anyway. Thanks for those tapes, by the way. They were gold. LORENZO You have no idea how many back alley encounters I had to endure to get those for you. You dont pay me enough. RINGO Well, thats about to change. Had a little windfall. Thesell be right up your street, you dirty little bastard. Ringo removes a manila envelope from his pocket and passes it to Lorenzo. Lorenzo removes some photographs from the envelope and looks at them, wide eyed and smiling. LORENZO By the punctured hands of Christ, where did you get these? RINGO Same place you get your stuff, the land of Im-not-fucking-tellingyou.

10.

LORENZO Jesus, never imagined hed be into illicit Nazi-themed orgies, not after that Holocaust movie he was in. Look, theres his Oscar statue in the background. Is that the lass who played the Queen? Mon Dieu, shes got some experience behind her. RINGO Happy? LORENZO Muy. My customers will be, too. Thanks, Ringo. RINGO Anything for a pal. Now wheres my fucking stuff? LORENZO Alright, Jesus. Lorenzo hands Ringo a small package. Ringo peeks inside to see it contains a mobile phone. LORENZO (CONTD) That came from Scotland Yards mobile forensics unit, youve got about twenty-four hours before they notice its gone, so Ill need it in my dropbox before then. Ringo? You listening? Ringo is staring past Lorenzo at the crowd. He sees Laura, drinking and laughing with her friends. RINGO Uh huh, sure. Listen, Ive gotta shoot. Thanks for the beer. Ringo gets up and walks off. Lorenzo goes back to his photographs, smiling gleefully. LORENZO Whatever, man. Shit. Ringo approaches Laura, who turns and smiles when she notices him. LAURA Square Eyes, good to see you again. RINGO Hey. You stole my lighter.

11.

LAURA Was it worth chasing me in here for? RINGO My wife gave it to me. Ex-wife. LAURA Im sorry. What happened? RINGO Its a long story. Actually, no it isnt, she left me for a man with a fleshy baseball bat for a penis. She emails me pictures. LAURA Ouch. RINGO The things a fucking leviathan. One picture filled up my entire hard drive. LAURA OK, I suppose if it offers you some consolation, you should have it back. I feel like shit now. Whos your friend over there? Ringo turns. Lorenzo is waving from his booth, smiling cheerily. RINGO Oh, hes a lot of things, my friend not being one of them. Hes an underground pornographer to whom I trade exclusive pictures of aged celebrities in return for information. LAURA Well, he sounds like a fun guy. RINGO Well, he isnt. He pretends to be Spanish. Laura pauses, looking at him. RINGO (CONTD) What? LAURA Are you happy? You dont seem happy.

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RINGO What, right now, or generally? LAURA Either. Both. RINGO Yes. LAURA To which one? RINGO Look, I dont know. What kind of question is that? Are you happy? LAURA More so than you. I think you have a lot of problems, numero uno being the creepy people you associate with, the second being your hopeless devotion to the cathode ray. RINGO Listen, I told you its all LCD now. Im getting out of here-LAURA Hey, hey. Im teasing. I just think you need some positive energy inside of you. You seem like someone whos not an arsehole and I want you to be happy. Here, close your eyes and open your mouth. RINGO Why? LAURA Trust me. Ringo does as he is told. Laura gently places an ecstacy tablet on his tongue. Ringo smiles, opening his eyes, and swallows. LAURA (CONTD) Not a complete arsehole, anyway. RINGO Bad girl. INT. SIGNAL TO NOISE CLUB RINGOs POV as Laura leads him by his hand into the throng of revellers, flickering and pulsing between the clubs strobe lights. Ringo and Laura begin to dance together.

13.

From Ringos POV, the flash frames of the strobe lights are intercut with fluttering glimpses of television signals, static and intense bursts of imagery reminiscent of the films opening titles. Ringo smiles broadly. EXT. THE STREET - NIGHT. Ringo and Laura skip down the street like children, shouting at passing cars and laughing. They drag their feet through the autumn leaves, all in EXTREME SLOW MOTION. A conversation that they had, or will have, plays non-diagetically over the image. LAURA (V.O.) What kind of things do you write about? RINGO (V.O.) Oh, you know, the usual. Extreme body modification. Devil worship. Three-eyed children. Vatican sex parties. LAURA It sounds like a lot of fun. Do you enjoy it? RINGO Yeah, I mean, its always what I wanted to do. Actually, originally I wanted to be Raphael from Ninja Turtles, but that stopped when I was about six. LAURA You always wanted to write about that sort of thing? I mean, usually writers want to change the world, and, you know, they wanna win awards and make people cry and all that shit. RINGO Well, last year The Times offered me a job as a staff writer, but...yknow. War and politics, it depresses me. This is what I wanna do. What did you wanna do when you were a kid? LAURA Always wanted to be a police officer.

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RINGO Really? Youd be a fucking lousy cop. INT. RINGOS APARTMENT - NIGHT. The door bursts open and Ringo and Laura fall inside, arm in arm, laughing together and thoroughly wasted. RINGO Hey, thanks for this evening. Had a lot of fun. You know, when youre a reporter, people presume you only wanna be around them because you have some voyeuristic obsession with peoples boring secrets, but this was different. I had fun. LAURA How can you be a reporter when you talk about yourself all the time? You havent once asked me what I do. RINGO You want anything to eat or drink? LAURA You are an arsehole. You seriously have food in this place? RINGO Sure, I grow it in petri dishes on the windowsill. Ringo sits on his bed, struggling to take off his shoes. LAURA I think Ill pass, thanks. Catch me when Im not thoroughly fucked sometime and I will make you the holy canneloni of Christ himself. Whos this? Laura points at a poster on the wall, a print of an old painting of a man in robes. RINGO That, is Isidore of Seville, patron saint of the internet. LAURA Get out. Youre kidding. RINGO Shit you not. I worship at his altar everyday. (MORE)

15. RINGO (CONT'D) I hope when I die they make me patron saint of something.

LAURA Patron Saint of Vatican sex parties. RINGO Huh? Laura turns and notices Ringos wall of television screen. LAURA My God, what is all this? RINGO My televisual shrine. Dont touch it, it might fall on you. Do you like it? LAURA Its...beautiful. And youre a lot madder than you seem from the outside. Whats it for? Ringo gets up and hits a switch. The televisions all blink into life, hopping between channels. RINGO Its like a compound eye that shows me the world in its fucked up entirety. Look at this, each display is timed to jump channels at random intervals, it gives you fifteen, twenty seconds of each channel at the most. Ive got a huge aerial array on the roof, sometimes I pick up pirate channels, even satellite images, just for a second and then theyre gone again. I never know the context of whatever Im watching, Im forced to imagine the rest. LAURA Thats amazing. What the hell do you with it? RINGO It gives me inspiration, you know, for my writing. A lot of the time I just close my eyes and listen to the sounds, and meditate, like a Shamanic pop culture trance. You wanna try it?

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INT. RINGOS APARTMENT Ringo and Laura sit cross-leggged on large cushions in front of the television. RINGO Come here a second. He gently places a cross of electrical tape over each of Lauras eyes. LAURA Whats the tape for? RINGO All part of the mystique, my dear. Ringo tapes his own eyes shut. RINGO (CONTD) There. Now listen. LAURA I dont get it. RINGO Let it find its rhythm in your head. Let the needle find its groove. The murmuring from the various channels begin to blend into one, forming a strange rhythmic sound collage constructed of canned laughter, gunfire, both real and fabricated, and gameshow buzzers. Laura and Ringo sit side by side, taking it in. Lauras hand finds Ringos and she leans in close. They kiss, before bringing their bodies together and having sex with their eyes crossed out under the watchful gaze of the multitude of flickering screens. INT. RINGOS APARTMENT - MORNING. Ringo wakes up in his bed, alone, with a smiles on his face. He pulls himself up out of bed, massaging his temples, and finding a fresh cigarette to smoke. On his desk, next to his waving cat, is his cigarette lighter, beneath it a carefully folded note. Ringo picks it up and reads it. On it is a landline number and a message. MY WORK NUMBER - CALL ME, LAURA. Ringo picks up his mobile phone and dials the number, it rings, and an operator answers.

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OPERATOR Hello, youre through to the Metropolitan Police Department. How may I help you? Ringo laughs. RINGO Shit. INT. RINGOS APARTMENT - DAY Close in on Ringos wall of televisions, flitting between channels. A science programme, showing microscope images of cellular assimilation, with a soft-voiced narrator. TELEVISION NARRATOR The ramifications for the future are huge. What Biological Polymers, Incorporated has created is a superresistant, wholly biological plastic, the cells of which could be remotely programmed to obey specific instructions. In essence, a biological nanite cloud, which, in coming years, could be injected into the body, seek out a diseased organ, learn its function, then assimilate and replace it-The channel switches to a stand-up comedian, sweating under stage lights. Ringo connects the mobile phone he procured from Lorenzo to his desktop computer via a series of complicated jury-rigged wires and routers. He sets it down on the desk, next to the screen, and types a series of commands. On the screen, the telephones digital guts are laid bare; sections pop up headed TEXT MESSAGES, AUDIO MESSAGES, OUTGOING, INCOMING, INTERNET ACCESS, et cetera. Ringo cycles through them. The text messages and outgoing calls tell him nothing. He accesses the AUDIO MESSAGES file. A RECORDED MESSAGE chimes in over Ringos computer speakers, followed by a FEMALE VOICE. Ringo adjusts the volume. RECORDED MESSAGE Hi, its Brian, leave me a message, unless its you again Jessica, in which case you can just piss off. FEMALE VOICE Brian, its me, for fucks sake, I know youre there. I never thought you could be so fucking immature, Ive got your two sons here--

18.

Ringo stops the playback. He accesses the file headed INCOMING. It mostly contains the same number, calling within minutes of each other, but there is one anomaly. A number that consists of a long string of Prime Numbers: 2 3 5 7 11 13 17 19 23 29 31 37 41 43 47 53 59 61 67 71 73 79 83 89 97 101 103 107 109 113. Ringo chews on his pen thoughtfully. Isolating the number, he checks three boxes marked ENCRYPT, TRIANGULATE and RECORD, and clicks the button marked CALL. The number rings once and then Ringos computer speakers emit a piercing digital screech of sudden and brutal intensity. Ringo falls backward off his chair, lashing out with his foot at the speakers. His computer display warps and distorts into a sickening muddle of colours. Ringo lies on the floor, desperately covering his hands with his ears, gritting his teeth against the pain. As abruptly as it began, the noise stops, as the monitor goes dead and the mobile phone emits a small puff of smoke. Ringo lies, panting, on the ground, before standing up suddenly, covering his mouth and running to the bathroom. We hear him being violently sick. Unnoticed by him, a thick secretion not unlike rancid oatmeal begins to leak from the grille in the back of his computers tower unit and onto the floor. Ringo comes back into the room, wiping his mouth. He picks up the mobile phone and inspects it. It is partially melted around its sockets. He pushes the power button on his pc a couple of times, to no avail. He notices the organic matter seeping from his computer and touches it, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. INT. A RAILWAY TERMINUS - DAY. Ringo walks among the crowds, hands in his pocket. He approaches a row of lockers, one of which he unlocks using the combination padlock. He takes a clear plastic bag out of his pocket which contains the remains of the partially-melted mobile phone, and drops it inside. He locks the door again and walks away. INT. GODOLKINS OFFICE - DAY. Godolkin sits in his office chair, smoking a cigarette. A sign on his desk reads J. GODOLKIN - EDITOR. The walls are adorned with blown-up reproductions of magazine covers in frames. Ringo is standing in a corner, flicking through a stack of photographs of a young female model who appears to be tearing long strips of flesh from her body. Behind Godolkin, a small flat-screen television on a wall bracket quietly plays the news.

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GODOLKIN I dont care what theyre reporting, theres no damn way a woman can give birth to a dolphin. Were just not genetically compatible. Listen, you need to reset your bullshit detector if youre going to work here, were not the Weekly World fucking News. Godolkin hangs up the phone. GODOLKIN (CONTD) Jesus Christ, what is so hard to understand about fringe interest news and alternative culture reporting? RINGO Youre such a hardass editor stereotype, God. Youre like a lowrent Perry White crossed with a chain-smoking Hitler. GODOLKIN Dont you fucking start. Youre on thin enough ice with this spree killing thing. RINGO Well see. GODOLKIN What do you think of her? Godolkin motions to the pictures in Ringos hand. GODOLKIN (CONTD) Shes the cover girl this issue. RINGO Just when I thought she couldnt be wearing any less, she goes and proves me wrong. GODOLKIN Ah, tits just arent enough these days, you have to innovate. RINGO It has a certain visceral sexuality, like being beaten to death by a naked women. I like it. Coffee?

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RINGO (CONTD) Strong one. Sugar. Godolkin fills two mugs of instant coffee from the kettle in his office, and passes one to Ringo. GODOLKIN Cocaine with that? RINGO If youve got it. GODOLKIN Leads? RINGO Yeah. Maybe. Some things Im looking into. GODOLKIN Well whatever your methods, keep it to yourself. I know what youre fucking like. RINGO Whatever do you mean? GODOLKIN Youre not Clark fucking Kent, put it that way. Just get it done quickly, whatever you think youre going to find-RINGO If there is a connection, Ill find it. If there isnt... well, youll get your story one way or another. There is a pause. GODOLKIN Why are you doing this? RINGO Doing what? GODOLKIN Youre a good fucking writer, Ringo, but youre not a reporter, youre a columnist, an editor. Why are you doing this? RINGO Just because its a potentially deadly, almost certainly pointless risk doesnt mean its not worth taking.

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GODOLKIN Im not talking about the story. Not just the story. I mean why arent you doing... real news? Ringo is staring past Godolkin, at the television screen behind him. RINGO Is this live? Godolkin turns. The news shows footage filmed from a helicopter, high above central London. The headline at the bottom of the screen reads. Gunman opens fire on Hackney estate, estimated eight dead, twenty injured. Godolkin turns back to Ringo. RINGO (CONTD) You coming? EXT. A PARK - DAY. This sequence is entirely filmed through the small camera mounted into the back of a MOBILE PHONE, the image is choppy and low-resolution. The park is a small expanse of unkempt grass nestled between two urban estates, surrounded by grey tower blocks. The grass is strewn with debris, torn bags of household waste and discarded furniture. A group of teenagers between the ages of fourteen and seventeen are grouped together. One sits on a battered moped, revving it noisily. TEEN 1 (Shouts inaudibly over the noise) The MOPED TEEN stops revving. MOPED TEEN What? TEEN 1 I said, its fucking loud! MOPED TEEN Thats cos its so fucking powerful. Thats the power. TEEN 2 Sounds like its got fucking lung cancer. The group all laugh.

22.

MOPED TEEN Fuck off. Another teen, CARL, approaches from the direction of one of the tower blocks. The boy holding the phone, lets call him MOBILE TEEN, speaks. MOBILE TEEN Heres Carl. Carlos! Hows your mum doing? CARL Shes fucking dead, you cunt. MOBILE TEEN Impaled on my cock. Carl pulls a HANDGUN out of the back of his jeans and points it at MOBILE TEEN. CARL Ill put a fucking bullet in you, you prick. Panic strikes the teens, they all jabber at once, trying to get Carl to drop the gun. Carl lowers it to his side and laughs. CARL (CONTD) Im joking, dickhead. You fucking shat yourself. Relieved laughter from the group as they all gather round to look at the gun. TEEN 1 What the fuck is that? TEEN 2 Its a fucking beauty. CARL Its Sams, I found it in his room. MOPED TEEN Is there bullets in it? Carl raises the gun and fires at one of the distant tower blocks. The group laugh and yell excitedly. TEEN 1 Let me try! CARL Piss off. Im gonna fucking rob someone. Next fucking person who comes along, Im gonna fucking rob em.

23.

MOPED TEEN Careful mate, Im on fucking probation. Fucking fedsll be up our arses. CARL You fuck off home to bed on your gaymobile then. Carls phone rings and he answers. CARL (CONTD) Yo. MOPED TEEN Fucking dickhead. Get fucking shot by police helicopters. Carl has fallen strangely silent. His face is blank. MOBILE TEEN Oi, Carl. Carl. Carl suddenly wheels around and shoots Teen 1 in the face at point blank range. MOBILE TEEN (CONTD) Fuck! Mobile teen begins to run away toward a tower block as more shots are heard behind him. Moped Teen races past him as they reach the road surrounding the green, but falls from the bike as he is hit in the back. Mobile Teen turns around to see Carl advancing on him. Carl fires and Mobile teen falls to the ground, dead. The mobile phone lies still on the floor, its camera pointing directly at the sky. More shots are heard from off-screen, mingled with the sound of passers-by screaming in fear. EXT. THE ROAD ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE PARK - LATER The mobile phone is scooped off the ground and sealed in a clear zip-lock bag by a police forensic investigator clad in a white protective suit and face mask. Police vans and ambulances stand by, whilst armed officers hold a throng of onlookers behind a perimeter of tape. Five bodies, including those of Mobile Teen, Moped Teen and Carl, are strewn across the bloodstained ground, covered by white sheets. Carl lies face-down next to a parked car, the door of which bears a blood-stained bullet puncture from a high-powered police sniper rifle. Among the chattering crowd stand Ringo and Godolkin. Ringo is looking down at his mobile phone, reading a text message from Lorenzo. The message reads: YOU PRICK. Ringo turns his phone off and puts it in his pocket.

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GODOLKIN Look at that. Thats fucking awful, isnt it? RINGO Right. Yeah. Horrible. GODOLKIN How old dyou think? RINGO Fifteen, maybe. GODOLKIN Fifteen. Shit, when I was fifteen all I thought about was weed and the pussy I wasnt getting. Whats happening to the world, eh? RINGO Its always been like this, God. Just easier to get guns now. Ringo is looking around at the crowd. He notices a LADY in her fifties standing next to him, shaking her head sorrowfully. Ringo addresses her. RINGO (CONTD) Hi. You know what happened? LADY No. I heard the shooting, and the screaming. I thought it was a gang thing, you know? We get so much of that around here. But Ive seen some of these boys around, you know, like friends. She points at the bodies of Carl and the Moped Teen. LADY (CONTD) These two, they went to the same school as my son. RINGO Its like he just went crazy, huh? He shoot himself? Another bystander, a teenaged MALE chips in. MALE BYSTANDER Police sniper got him. Hell of a fuckin shot. You shouldve seen it. GODOLKIN What do you reckon? You seen enough of this yet?

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RINGO Christ, I hope so. Two paramedics hoist Carls covered body onto a stretcher. Ringo watches, lost in thought. GODOLKIN Come on, Ringo. Lets forget about this shit and go home. We dont need this. As the paramedics wheel Carls body away, Ringo spots a discarded mobile phone beneath the nearby car. As the nearby officer turns away, Ringo suddenly darts forward, ducking under the police tape and running toward it. He kneels and retrieves it from beneath the car, frantically pushing bloodsplattered buttons. He enters the RECEIVED CALLS list. At the top of the list is a string of prime numbers: 2 3 5 7 11 13 17 19 23 29 31 37 41 43 47 53 59 61 67 71 73 79 83 89 97 101 103 107 109 113. Ringo pushes another button and a box appears that reads: DELETED. He tosses the phone back under the car, and turns to face an automatic weapon levelled at his face. The armed office keeps his gun trained on Ringo whilst another officer pushes him violently to the ground, where Ringo hits his head on the tarmac. The arresting officer recites: POLICE OFFICER Youre under arrest for trespassing on a crime scene. You do not have to say anything, et cetera, and please bear in mind that we are scraping childrens bodies off the road and are not in the mood to be fucked with. Get up. Ringo looks up at Godolkin, who is arguing heatedly with an armed officer and gesturing at Ringo, who is being hauled off his feet and dragged away. INT. A CELL Ringo is alone in a cramped holding cell in a police station. He is lying prone along the uncomfortable metal bench, his jacket folded under his head. He puts his finger to his lip, and when he takes it away, the tip is bloody. RINGO Son of a bitch. Two police officers enter, and Ringo sits up. He smiles when he sees that one of them is Laura. The stern-looking POLICE OFFICER speaks.

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POLICE OFFICER Alright, get up. Weve nothing to charge you with, other than being a soulless journo leech, so youre to be released on police bail pending further investigation. To be honest, though, weve more important things to deal with, so fuck off out of here and dont let me see you again, or Ill give you something to write home about. My colleague here will escort you off the premises. Laura smiles. LAURA Come with me. EXT. OUTSIDE THE POLICE STATION - NIGHT Ringo and Laura exit the police station. The night air is cold, and their breath mists in front of their faces. Laura hands Ringo a clear plastic bag that contains a wallet, keys, mobile phone, cigarettes and other effluvia. LAURA Here are your things. Check your wallet, because Im sure Marion behind the desk is a kleptomaniac. RINGO Thanks. Um, this is awkward. LAURA Yeah. RINGO It wasnt really what I had in mind in terms of a second date. LAURA No. But as it turns out, Im a great believer in second chances. Which is why you can take me out for dinner on Friday night. RINGO Really? LAURA And explain to me what the hell you were doing tampering with crime scene evidence. I know youre not enough of an idiot to publish stolen information in that magazine of yours, so I want an explanation.

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RINGO Ah. You saw that. LAURA And youre fucking lucky nobody else did. RINGO Well, it wasnt what it looked like, not exactly... LAURA At dinner, on Friday. RINGO Right. OK. Even better, come to mine. Ill harvest the petri dishes and cook you something. I can only cook one thing, but its a delicious thing, probably not as good as Gods own canneloni or whatever, but still good. LAURA OK. RINGO OK, great. Well. See you. LAURA Right. RINGO Right. Bye. Laura turns and goes back inside. Ringo watches her go, and then turns and walk away down the street. He takes a few steps and then stops, and smacks himself in the forehead with his mobile phone. RINGO (CONTD) God fucking damn it. Ringo jumps as his phone begins to ring. He answers it. RINGO (CONTD) Lorenzo. Honestly not a great time. LORENZO You. You fucker. RINGO Really not a great time.

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LORENZO Explain to me, ese, exactly how Im supposed to return the partially melted debris of a stolen piece of evidence to an organisation comprised of the nations greatest detectives without anybody noticing? Explain that to me. RINGO Listen, you know the rules, you know the risks Lorenzo. Nonaccountability, no questions asked. As a professional scumbag, Im sure you can work something out. Now fuck off, Ive had a bad day, and Im going home to bed. LORENZO Fuck that. I want compensation. You owe me. RINGO Compensation. Right. LORENZO Five grand. RINGO Piss off. Where am I supposed to get that kind of money? LORENZO You think it's easy finding cops who will steal shit from the crime labs so perverts like you can get your fix of human misery? Five grand. RINGO Listen, we've got a mutual arrangement here. You can't handle the risks, you can fuck off out of the kitchen and into the bathroom with all the other pieces of shit. Im really, really not in the fucking mood for this right now. LORENZO Youve made yourself a powerful enemy, friend. RINGO Right. Ringo hangs up.

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EXT. A BRIDGE - NIGHT. Ringo leans on the handrail, halfway across a footbridge, and stares out across the neon-lit city, smoking a cigarette. An ethereal haze forms above the sprawl in the chill autumn night. His reverie is interrupted as his phone vibrates. He reads the text message he has received from Lorenzo: FIVE GRAND IN CASH OR I TAKE IT FROM ELSEWHERE. Ringo frustratedly texts back, reading aloud as he writes. RINGO Fuck. Off. Ringo exasperatedly pockets his phone, flicks his cigarette over the precipice and walks away in the direction of his flat. INT. CORRIDOR OUTSIDE RINGOS FLAT Ringo reaches the top of the internal staircase and walks along the corridor to his flat, taking the keys from his pocket. He reaches his front door, and goes to unlock it. He pauses, and puts his ear to the door, listening. Emanating from inside is a faint digital noise, like the processing sound a computer hard drive makes when working. Ringo unlocks the door quietly, then bunches his keys in his fist, blades emerging between his fingers forming an impromptu weapon, and goes inside. INT. RINGOS APARTMENT Ringo enters the gloomy apartment, peering warily through the darkness, careful not to make a sound. His desktop computer, the one that was seemingly broken earlier, is now on; the screen displays a rapidly expanding chain of Prime Numbers. Ringo approaches it, and his a couple of keys, but nothing happens. He looks around him. Light emanates from around the corner; his television wall is on, and the look on his face says he didnt leave it that way. He rounds the corner and stops, dead. An image is displayed, all the monitors linked to form a single word in six foot high letters, white on black: HELP. DREAM SEQUENCE Ringo stands is a large pool of light in the midst of total darkness. He is being interviewed by Godolkin who holds out a microphone to him.

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RINGO So, you know, I think its a case of having an extremely low tolerance of boredom, an addiction to television, stunted emotions and an unabashed hatred of humanity that drives it. Terrible, I know, but you cant hide who you are from yourself. Youd go mad. Godolkins grin is fixed, manic, a characture of a late-night talk-show host. He nods rhytmically, over and over, like a creepy wind up toy. Ringo looks away from him. Standing at the edge of the darkness, just outside the pool of light, is a figure, male, silhouetted and unrecognisable. RINGO (CONTD) And him. I feel like hes always with me, but I have no idea who he is. Do you know? He looks back at the reporter, who has transformed into Laura, who still nods in that unnerving way. Her eyes have been replaced by camera lenses, sunk into the sockets. The camera zooms out and reveals that this is all taking place on a TV screen. The broadcast abruptly switches to static, accompanied by the piercing screech of the signal. INT. RINGOS APARTMENT - LATER Ringo wakes with a start. He is sitting in his chair still wearing all of his clothes. All the screens on his TV wall are showing grey digital snow. Outside it is dark. He looks around himself, disorientated, before checking his digital watch. It says: FRIDAY 18:27. RINGO Oh, shit. He hurriedly gets to his feet. INT. RINGOS APARTMENT - MINUTES LATER Ringo has just got out of the shower. He wipes a clear patch in the condensated mirror and starts to brush his teeth. He spits into the sink, and sees blood. He puts his fingers in his mouth and feels that one of his back teeth is loose. RINGO Motherfucker. I swear... He wobbles it back and forth, and sensing it is loose enough, begins to pull it free. As it comes awa, Ringo sees with horror that it appears to be attached to the gum by a length of green electrical wire. Frantically, and in considerable pain, he pulls it.

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The wires stretches to almost six inches before snapping audibly. Ringo spits a mouthful of blood into the sink, and hols the tooth up to the light. Sure enough, a length of green wire protrudes from the root, frayed copper emerging from the break. Recoiling, Ringo drops it into the toilet and flushes it.