High-Rise Page #4

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What's in all of

these boxes anyway?

Sex and paranoia.

What did you say?

Nothing.

- Shall we get some air?

- Is that your sister?

Laing:
Probably.

Did you get any sleep?

Laing:
Not really. You?

No.

Talbot's right.

It's as if everyone

suddenly silently

decided to cross some line.

- Be worse tonight.

- It's not that bad, surely?

- Can't be.

- Are you sure you're a doctor?

Of course I am.

What else would I be?

Yuck!

Laing!

Listen, I've got an idea.

A solid one.

I need an introduction

to the architect.

I'm gonna make a documentary

about this place.

That young man Munrow, you know,

the one who died last night?

He'll make a good

starting point.

I mean,

doesn't it seem odd, Laing,

that a man can fall from

the 39th floor

and not one police car turn up?

Where's the investigation,

Laing?

I mean, where's the sirens?

Laing!

Christ!

Who was that?

Wilder.

What did he want?

Why didn't he come in?

I don't know, some scheme.

I'd steer clear of him

for a while.

Of Wilder?

Don't be absurd. He went a bit

overboard with Simmons,

but really he

wouldn't hurt a fly.

What about a dog?

Charlotte:

It's rude to spy, Toby.

Laing:
Leave him be,

he's not doing any harm.

I wouldn't, if I were you.

Laing:

What have you got there?

- A kaleidoscope.

- Laing:
Oh.

Laing:
What can you see

through that thing?

The future.

And what do you want

to be in that future of yours?

An engine driver?

An astronaut?

- I wanna be better than you.

- Oh, for God's sake, Toby.

Laing:

He's quite right.

I should go and change.

Simmons is right.

Wilder is nothing but

an unconscionable

f***ing reprobate.

He's symptomatic, isn't he?

You know, the whole place

obviously needs a firmer hand.

There's no food left.

Only the dog's.

And Mrs. Hillman is refusing

to clean unless I pay her

what I apparently owe her.

Like all poor people,

she's obsessed with money.

Yes.

You know, we can't have

a repeat of last night.

Pangbourne:
We have got to show

the lower floors

that we can throw

a better party than them.

Healthy competition is the basis

of a modern thriving economy.

But you're right,

we must prevail.

Right, first things first.

We must commandeer

all necessary resources.

Simmons? List.

Booze.

Canaps.

Cocktail onions.

Pangbourne:
Other suggestions?

Cake.

Are we talking about

a raiding party then?

Pangbourne:
Not so harsh.

Although I think we

should be prepared

to meet moderate resistance.

Ah.

Royal. Just the man.

You still hold the key

to the building,

symbolically, at least.

We'd like you to lead

a delegation.

Where to? The United Nations?

The supermarket.

Richard?

- Is that you?

- It's all right.

Go back to sleep.

Helen:

What are you doing?

Wilder:

I'm starting a new project.

Another prison documentary?

- Richard?

- What?

You shouldn't leave me

alone like that.

I love you

but I don't trust you.

I don't think I ever have.

Isn't that sad?

You're not alone.

You've got the children.

Things would be better

if we could afford to move

to a higher floor.

It's the light

I envy them up there.

Wilder:
Stop torturing yourself.

You're perfectly happy.

Try and be more like Charlotte.

Less giving, you mean?

- At least leave me some money.

- There's money on the table.

Excuse me.

Get out of my way!

Residuum.

Some of these people generate

the most unusual garbage.

Objects that could well be of

interest to the Vice Squad.

Look.

I don't know anything about it.

I don't know what caused it.

And I didn't do it.

We're on the same level.

That's all that counts now.

At least until all

of this blows over.

Steele:

Restrain that intruder!

There, look! What we need

is a good sturdy chain!

What are you doing?

I'm packing to leave.

What do you think?

Has anyone actually made a

formal complaint to the owners?

We are the owners.

Pass me that green thing.

Daddy likes to see me in it.

You're not going anywhere.

I forbid it.

Well...

That's the first time he's

touched me in... Six months?

Royal:
Simmons!

Royal:
Simmons!

What's wrong? Poor little chap.

Pangbourne:
What about him?

I think he knows his place.

Jane:
Good God,

what do they look like?

Cosgrove:
You know,

I've never been in one of these.

What does one do exactly?

- Hunt and gather, of course.

- Gather what, exactly?

Announcer:
Welcome to the

15th floor market.

Today we have a special

offer on French bread

and French fromage.

Thank you

for shopping on floor 15.

Wilder:
Talbot! Where the hell

are you hiding, man?

Talbot:
The model

here is less the noble savage

and more our un-innocent

post-Freudian selves.

Perhaps they resent never

having had the chance

to become perverse.

Outraged by all that

over-indulgent toilet training.

Customer:

Queue's back here, pal.

Good. Working.

Need to get to the top.

This money's yours if you can

point me in the direction

of the service lift.

Wilder:
Oh, hello, girls.

Out on a spree, are we?

That's Wilder!

Yes, I recognize you

from the foyer.

Sort of an agitator type.

Bet you wish you'd gone to the

back of the bloody queue now.

Wilder:
Bastard!

Obviously a far more dangerous

mix than anything our

Victorian forebears

had to cope with anyway.

Excuse me,

let me through, please.

Hold on.

What have you got?

- Let me see it.

- Don't touch that.

I wouldn't do that

if I were you.

Let me through, it's my paint.

Get off that, it's mine.

It's mine!

It's my paint!

You really smashed him up.

I think you burst his eyeball.

Misogynist!

Talbot?

He's expecting us.

I wonder where he is.

Don't think you can count on

the Geneva bloody Convention

to get you out of this one,

you longhaired poofter.

Help! Help!

Room for two more?

I haven't got any money.

Will this do?

Look after your brother.

Why? You made him.

Is it the bomb?

- When are you coming back?

- Soon.

Are you freaking out?

Kiss.

Kiss.

Laing:
Helen.

Come in, come in.

Please.

It's so nice to see you.

Listen, you must

give me your opinion.

I think I've finally found

the right tone.

What do you think?

Woman:

And now the shipping forecast

issued by the Met Office

at 2-3-4-3

on Saturday the 18th.

There are warnings of gales

in all areas except Trafalgar.

The general synopsis

at 1-8-double 0,

low, 200 miles

south of Iceland...

Royal:
Simmons!

Where's my wife?

I don't know.

Well who invited

all these people?

They invited themselves.

You can't hide up here forever.

You'll have to go down there

and save her.

He's right.

Pangbourne:

She could get herself killed.

Or worse.

Unless that's what you want.

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