Ama screenplay – First draft – Scene 9 to 11

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Logs crackle as they burn in the twisted iron grate of an open fire to JASON’S right; the flickering fire is causing shadows to dance across the rough lime-washed walls of this small pub.

VERMIS, an old man who looks as though the Grim Reaper forgot to tell him that he had died many years ago, is sat on a rickety old rocking-chair next to the fire. He appears to have no muscle mass or fat beneath his skin; skin that is stretched like a grey and mottled translucent canvas over his hands and skull. At his feet, laying on the slate floor, is an abnormally large wolf-dog called HOBS. It has sleek black fur, which shimmers silver in the firelight.

HOBS raises its head and snout and tastes the air with a few loud breaths, then locks its eyes on JASON. For a brief moment HOBS’ eyes glow red.

JASON freezes, still holding the door open.


Don’t worry ’bout old Hobs, son, he’s not hungry yet.

VERMIS reaches down to stroke HOBS but stays his hand a few inches from its fur, then returns his hand to the arm of his chair.


Good to know.

JASON closes the door and makes his way to the bar on the far side of the room. HOBS watches him pass and then returns to a restful repose and closes its eyes.

Behind the bar, SAMAEL is polishing glasses. SAMAEL is a grotesquely obese man in his thirties, wearing clothes that look two sizes too small for his enormous frame. The buttons of his stain-covered white shirt are threatening to give way under the strain of his bulbous belly. The leathery skin of his face has a liberal sprinkling of boils and pockmarks.


What can I getcha?


Hi. A pint of…

JASON quickly searches his pockets and finds a twenty-pound note.


No. Make that two pints of ‘Old Asylum’ and a double of your best whisky, please.


Ice in the whisky?


Only if you put it in a seperate glass, my friend.


Huh? Oh, separate glass? Yeah, I get it. Witty fuck.

SAMAEL passes the drinks across the counter. JASON holds out the twenty-pound note.




Oh, that’s okay. We’ll sort out what you’ll pay later. Looks like you’ve got some serious drinking to do first. Don’t want to bother yourself with the economics of it all.


A bar tab, cool idea. Twenty’s all I got though, so let me know when I hit it.


Don’t worry yourself about that. Life’s too short.


Well, okay then. Thanks again.

JASON pockets the note, then picks up the drinks.

On the left side of the room are two tables, each with two accompanying chairs. Sat at the table nearest the bar is another old guy called PETER, who, although of some great age, has weathered the years extremely well.

JASON starts making his way to the empty table by the entrance door.


This is your last chance to repent!





Off he goes. Gotta jump right in, ain’t ya, Peter? Why are you spoiling the fun?


Mind your place, Sam!

JASON continues to the empty table and settles himself.


You’re no longer alone in your thoughts. There are many eyes watching you, and your poor soul is about to be judged. These despicable creatures of filth, these demons, want your judgement to be harsh.

PETER points a gnarled and bent finger towards the bar, where SAMAEL is polishing glasses and placing them with careless abandon on a shelf above the counter. The accusing finger moves and jabs its final aim towards HOBS, then PETER holds out both his hands towards JASON.


I can lead you away from this place but you have to repent your sins.


Thanks for the heads-up, but I’ll pass. Religion really isn’t my thing.


Leave him be, Peter. He doesn’t want to hear your jabberings. Nor do I, for that matter.

SAMAEL raises a shot of whisky and gives JASON a drinker’s salute, then downs it.


Don’t mind the old fool. He’s like this with all new arrivals. Thinks he can save everyone. You would’ve thought he’d given up trying by now, but no, off he goes again.

JASON picks up his whisky glass and halfheartedly returns the salute, then studies the drink for a moment.



It’s been a while my friend.

JASON downs the whisky while looking across the room and watching VERMIS rocking back and forth in his chair as he stares intently into the fire.


The large room is empty apart from a YOUNG MAN who is slapping the sides of his head with his hands and rocking back and forth upon a plastic chair. Hanging on a long cord from the ceiling above the chair is a bare light-bulb.


They said it’s wrong to want those things, wrong to do those bad, evil things. I held her tiny hand, that’s all I did, that’s all I wanted to do. It was the monster inside that wanted more, not me.
Not me!


The YOUNG MAN is hanging, dead, from the light-bulb cord. The light-bulb is flickering on and off.


You hungry yet? I’ll feed you now if you want.

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