Crash Page #3

INT. HOSPITAL HALLWAYS - NIGHT

James is taking his walk through the hallways, trundling his IV

stand along with him like an awkward pet.

A white-coated doctor - Vaughan - steps into the ward from a room

at the end of the hall. He is bare-cheated under his white coat.

His strong hands carry a briefcase filled with photographs which

he pauses to shuffle through as though checking a map.

As James approaches this new visitor, Vaughan's pock-marked jaws

chomp on a piece of gum, creating the Impression that he might be

hawking obscene pictures around the wards, pornographic X-ray

plates and blacklisted urinalyses. He sports copious scar tissue

around his forehead and mouth, rumpled and puckered as though

residues from some terrifying act of violence.

Vaughan looks James up and down, taking in every detail of his

injuries with evident interest.

VAUGHN:

James Ballard?

JAMES:

Yes?

VAUGHAN:

Crash victim?

JAMES:

Yes.

Vaughan shuffles his photos again. James manages to make out the

shapes of a few crushed and distorted vehicles caught in lurid,

flash-lit news-style. Vaughan flips through them distractedly,

then with an unexpected, almost flirtatious flourish, slides them

back into his briefcase and tucks it under his arm.

VAUGHAN:

We'll deal with these later.

He flashes James an enigmatic smile, and then walks off down the

hallway.

As James turns to continue on, a young woman comes out of the same

room that Vaughan did and moves towards him using a dark wooden

walking stick. She presses her face into her raised shoulder,

possibly to hide the bruise marking her right cheekbone.

The woman is Dr. Helen Remington, whose husband died in her car

crash with James.

James stops as she approaches. He speaks without thinking.

JAMES:

Dr. Remington...?

The woman looks up at James as she continues her approach. She

does not falter, but changes her grip on the cane as if preparing

to thrash him across the face with it. She moves her head in a

peculiar gesture of the neck, deliberately forcing her injury on

him.

She pauses when she reaches the doorway, waiting for him to step

out of her way. James looks down on the scar tissue on her face, a

seam left by an invisible zip three inches long, running from the

corner of her right eye to the apex of her mouth.

James is acutely aware of her strong body beneath her mauve

bathrobe, her rib-cage partly shielded by a sheath of white

plaster that runs from one shoulder to the opposite armpit like a

classical Hollywood ball-gown.

James steps aside. Deciding to ignore him, Helen Remington walks

stiffly along the communication corridor. parading her anger and

her wound.

INT. HOSPITAL - DAY

Catherine washes James's body as he lies in his hospital bed,

gently exploring his bruises and his wounds.

CATHERINE:

Both front wheels and the engine were

driven back into the driver's section,

bowing the floor. Blood still marked the

hood, streamers of black lace running

towards the windshield wiper gutters.

Catherine re-soaps her hand from the bar in the wet saucer on the

bed tray, a cigarette in her left hand. James strokes her

stockinged thigh as she continues her monologue.

CATHERINE:

Minute flecks were spattered across the

seat and steering wheel. The instrument

panel was buckled inwards, cracking the

clock and the speedometer dials. The cabin

was deformed, and there was dust and glass

and plastic flakes everywhere inside. The

carpeting was damp and stank of blood and

other body and machine fluids.

JAMES:

You should have gone to the funeral.

CATHERINE:

I wish I had. They bury the dead so

quickly - they should leave them lying

around for months.

JAMES:

What about his wife? The woman doctor?

Have you visited her yet?

CATHERINE:

No, I couldn't. I feel too close to her.

EXT. ROAD HOME FROM HOSPITAL - DAY

Catherine and James travel home in the back seat of a taxi.

Leaning against the rear window of the taxi, James finds himself

flinching with excitement towards the approaching traffic streams,

which now seem threatening and super-real.

Catherine watches him, aware that he is over-exhilarated, herself

very excited by his new sensitivity to the traffic.

INT. BALLARD APT. - DAY

James sits in a reclining chair on the balcony of his apartment,

looking down through the anodized balcony rails at the

neighborhood ten stories below.

Cars fill the suburban streets below, choking the parking lots of

the supermarkets, ramped on to the pavements. Two minor accidents

have caused a massive tail-back along the flyover which crosses

the entrance tunnel to the airport. In one of them, a white

laundry van has bumped into the back of a sedan filled with

wedding guests.

James gazes raptly down at this immense motion sculpture, this

incomprehensible pinball machine.

Catherine comes onto the balcony, kneels down beside him, begins

to toy lovingly with the scars on his knees.

CATHERINE:

Renata tells me you're going to rent a

car.

JAMES:

I can't sit on this balcony forever. I'm

beginning to feel like a potted plant.

CATHERINE:

How can you drive? James... your legs. You

can Barely walk.

JAMES:

Is the traffic heavier now? There seem to

be three times as many cars as there were

before the accident.

CATHERINE:

I've never really noticed. Is Renata going

with you?

JAMES:

I thought she might come along. Handling a

car again might be more tiring than I

imagine.

CATHERINE:

I'm amazed that she'll let you drive her.

JAMES:

You're not envious?

CATHERINE:

Maybe I am a little.

(rising)

James, I've got to leave for the office.

Are you going to be all right?

INT. BALLARD APT. GARAGE - DAY

James stands at the entrance to his apartment building's

underground garage. Only about a dozen cars stand there, most of

them have been driven to work. James walks amongst them, absorbing

the details of the personal things left in the cars - a silk scarf

lies on a rear window sill, a pair of sunglasses hooked over a

carpeted transmission hump.

James stops in front of the empty bay marked "Ballard". He stares

at the familiar pattern of oil-stains marking the cement.

INT. RENTED CAR - DAY

A steering wheel, an instrument panel, a windshield. Renata's hips

gripped by the fabric of the passenger seat, her legs stowed out

of sight beneath her red plastic raincoat. James drives Renata in

a rented car, his first drive since the accident.

EXT. FIRST CRASH SITE - DAY

The rented car slows and stops on the concrete verge a few yards

from the spot where James' crash took place.

INT. RENTED CAR - DAY

RENATA:

Are we allowed to park here?

JAMES:

No.

RENATA:

I'm sure the police would make an

exception in your case.

James unbuttons Renata's raincoat and places his hand on her

thigh. She lets him kiss her throat, holding his shoulder

reassuringly like an affectionate governess.

JAMES:

There's still a patch of blood there on

the road. Did you see it?

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