(There is a knock on ALAN's door. BLUNT tips his hat and exits opposite. Another knock. ALAN fusses irritably with his breasts. He keeps a hand pressed against the base of his ribs to prevent Churchill's gang from listening in. A third knock. ALAN peers through the eyehole and opens it to reveal ROBIN in a fedora and trench coat, once again soaking wet and carrying a suitcase.)
ALAN: Sorry about the rain.
ROBIN: Bloody Manchester...
ALAN: Sorry about... everything.
ROBIN: Don't start, Alan... We just have to be patient.
ALAN: Patient...
ROBIN: I said don't start. (Silence.) So? How are the injections coming?
ALAN: They're not.
ROBIN: How unfortunate. They took you off them?
ALAN: Not really. They decided to put in an implant instead... I guess they thought it might work better. (ALAN removes his hand from his ribs and lifts up his shirt to reveal where he'd been pressing.) Right there. Feel it? ...I think I'm going crazy, Robin.
ROBIN: You just need to get out more; get some sun.
ALAN: What sun?
ROBIN: Rain, then... Get some rain...
(ALAN returns his hand to his ribs.)
ALAN: ...The Queen Dowager is dead.
ROBIN: I know.
ALAN: Churchill's paralysed down his left side.
ROBIN: It was a stroke, Alan. All the newspapers said so. He's an old man, now. The Queen Dowager wasn't exactly a spring chicken either.
ALAN: Blunt poisoned them! Rat poison, cyanide, I don't know. I've been trying to do the research.
ROBIN: The research?
ALAN: Yes, I've been making it in the bathroom, doing experiments.
ROBIN: Jesus, Alan... Be careful, will you?
ALAN: Of course I'm careful!
ROBIN: ...Even if it is Blunt's doing, what does that have to do with us? We're leaving, let him rot.
ALAN: What us? There is no us.
ROBIN: Oh don't be petulant... I'm here now, aren't I?
ALAN: You just haven't left yet.
ROBIN: I'm taking you with me, I promise.
ALAN: Promises... Why do you even keep coming back?
ROBIN: Because I want to hear you say it.
ALAN: Say what?
ROBIN: You know what... (Silence.) We got in a little bit over our heads, didn't we, old chap...
ALAN: I don't know where to turn, Robin. I don't know who I can trust.
ROBIN: Well I guess you'll just have to pick someone and hope for the best, won't you?
ALAN: Someone like you?
ROBIN: Would it be so bad? ...Just say it.
ALAN: I can't...
ROBIN: Yes you can. I want to hear you say it.
ALAN: But the implant –
ROBIN: Forget the implant.
ALAN: It's a bug, a listening device.
ROBIN: Oh, it's bloody oestrogen, Alan! It's just a hormone.
ALAN: No, it's a bug. It's inside me.
ROBIN: It's how you got your tits, is what it is.
ALAN: Not this one. The oestrogen's wearing off. I can feel it. I'm down a bra size.
ROBIN: Like hell you are.
(ROBIN reaches for ALAN's breasts but ALAN swats him away.)
ALAN: They can hear every word. It's how they know.
ROBIN: It's how they know what? ...For crying out loud, Alan, all you have to do is say it.
ALAN: They're triangulating my location using the Huff-Duff stations along the coast. You worked on them, remember?
ROBIN: The war is over! It's been over for eight years... Besides, they probably tore those old stations down long ago.
ALAN: They're tracking me, Robin!
ROBIN: Why would they need to? You don't even leave the house... (ALAN's telephone rings.) Pick it up.
ALAN: No.
(The phone rings again.)
ROBIN: Just say hello. Maybe it's your mum.
(The phone rings a third time. ROBIN picks it up and presses it to ALAN's ear.)
ALAN: Hello?
(Silence as ALAN listens. ALAN finally shrugs the phone away.)
ROBIN: So? Who was it?
ALAN: Travel agent.
ROBIN: I'm sorry it wasn't your mum... Come on, you need to start living again.
ALAN: (Stage whisper) Apparently there's a fabulous resort on the Greek island of Corfu.
ROBIN: That sounds nice. We should go sometime.
ALAN: (Stage whisper) Sshh...
ROBIN: (Stage whisper) Why are we whispering?
ALAN: (Stage whisper) The travel agent had a Scottish accent.
ROBIN: (Stage whisper) Oh... What does that mean?
ALAN: (Stage whisper) It means I'm going now.
ROBIN: (Stage whisper) Going where?
ALAN: (Stage whisper) Greece. To Corfu.
ROBIN: Anything to get out of saying three little words, huh Alan?
ALAN: (Stage whisper) Sshh! ...Can I trust you?
ROBIN: Of course you can. What's this all about?
(ALAN pulls a fish knife from a pocket and hands it to ROBIN. ALAN lifts his shirt to expose his ribs.)
ALAN: (Stage whisper) The implant... I need you to cut it out.
ROBIN: Alan, I –
ALAN: Please, Robin? ...I just need you to cut it out... (Shaking his head, ROBIN bends over and searches ALAN's side for the implant. Lights down as he lays the knife edge against ALAN's flesh. ALAN gasps.) I love you.
YOU ARE READING
The Turing Tape - a one-act play
Fiksi Sejarah"The Turing Tape", a one-act play, is a madcap conspiracy theory about the life and times of Alan Mathison Turing, a brilliant cryptanalyst, computer visionary, and homosexual within the British intelligence community of the 1940s and 50s. The play'...
