Let Us Prey Page #2

No sign of intoxication.

So is that it then?

Well he certainly has an air about him.

In my opinion, I'd say "yes".

His silence could be voluntary.

Night in the cells it is then.

What for? The inability to talk?

So we'll call it vagrancy.

Besides, he's already stepped in

front of one car tonight, hasn't he?

Until you've established who he is,

I think it's probably best he stays here.

Any luck with a name, Constable?

No. No wallet, no ID, no phone, no keys.

Just this book, which is full of names.

But which one's his?

If any. Could be he's just

copied down the phonebook, no?

That's obsessive.

There are little symbols, little signs.

It must mean something to him.

Told you. The boy's "Radio Rental"!

That's something nice for you to

check out then, isn't it Heggie?

Figure it out! Try the loony bins.

See if it isn't a secure

wing missing it's diarist.

Well, I've certainly never seen him around.

It is unusual, even if it

is such a... one horse town.

And it was a pale f***ing horse.

What was that?

What did he just say?

Doctor Hume?

- He knows.

- Knows what?

Everything.

What does he know, Duncan?

What does he know?

Well, well. Doktor Hume.

Come to mend our ills.

What's up Doc? You here to

examine my wrist, are you?

- Back up, Doctor Hume.

- You'r a long way

from the moral high

ground down here, Doctor.

Still, we all make mistakes, eh?

- Mind your own, Beswick.

- Oh, I will if he will.

But there's one thing I can

not abide, it's a hypocrite.

How do you explain your presence

here this evening, then?

- Mr. Beswick just got owned!

- And what did you get?

I got to watch!

And I've got a wicked little

story to tell all my friends.

- You threatening me, Francis?

- It's Caesar.

And no, I'm mearly opening

the floor to discussion,

about what my silence might be

worth to yourself and the good doctor.

See, I might not be book smart,

- Mr. Beswick, but I ...

- You're not any kind of smart, Caesar.

You're an idiot.

So why don't you sit down,

shut up,

and stop scaring the wildlife.

I heard she used to be anybody's

for a can of cider and a thumb up her ass.

That evolutionary ladder just

will not climb itself, will it son?

Sticky, sticky little fingers.

So, according to our records

and your fingerprints

you are one Alexander Monroe

from Port Glasgow.

and you died in 1983, in a fire,

aged seventy nine.

Must say you're lookin well, Al.

The benefits of a clear conscience.

And that, right there,

is modern policing in action.

Technology! Totally unreliable.

Except, tonight, we're going to

do things the old fashoned way.

Keep it up!

We might just!

Okay.

Let's forget about who you

are for a minute, and ask why.

Why, for instnce, did Dr. Hume attack you?

Because the clock is ticking.

Midnight is approaching.

He said, "you know".

Know what, exactly?

That the price for our sins

is paid for in blood.

And that I ... shall be...

"I shall be a vagabond in the air".

"And everyone that

findeth me, shall slay me".

That's the one.

Something in common.

- We're both Christians, mate.

- Except, you're more of um...

Old Testament kind of guy,

aren't you?

The blood and the vengeance.

The sweat,

and the spunk.

I can smell it.

Must say, I don't remember

that one from Sunday school.

Neither do I, but then... I jumped ship.

- So you don't believe in God?

- Didn't say that.

But I would like a f***ing word.

Ours is not to question why.

No! Because, down here, we

get to do what we please. Right?

Take him.

Take him down!

- Sarge, I don't...

- No!

Oh excellent! I was just about

to call up for a round of tea.

Did I see a packet of

Burbon Creams up there?

Look, you should be out

in the morning, okay?

Mundie?

You f***ing dirt...

Jesus Christ! Are you okay?

So who's first?

- Hey. Hey, are you alright?

- Just leave it!

It was nothing.

F*** off!

You can drop it with the whole

"two girls, we're in this together" thing.

Me and you.

We're not friends.

We're not anything.

Still can't get Mrs. Hume, Sarge.

Sarge?

She's been engaged for over an hour now.

There are donkeys the

world over who could

testify to that woman's

capacity for gossip.

Go down there. Take Jen.

"Your husband's in jail" always

seems better in person, you know.

I think it would sound better

if it came from you, Sarge.

I've got a few more enquiries to sort out.

See if I can't find out who our

smart assed freind really is.

Rachel.

Sit tight, and walk the batlements for us.

Drink some tea, answer the phone,

bake a cake.

- Just stay out of trouble, okay?

- Sir, do you really think that's wise,

leaving a lone officer

in charge of four prisoners?

As long as you don't plan on letting

them all out for a finger buffet

and a few hands of Bridge, I'd say,

yeah. Should be just fine.

I am aware you think we all

live in a f***ing biscuit tin here.

The fact is you were assigned

to me for a very good reason.

So, just this once for the cheap seats,

if you want to make it past probation,

you will learn to sit tight,

cool you heels,

and hold your f***ing tongue.

Understood?

25 years. Never seen such

blatant insubordination.

We tend to find this one the

most comfortable - heel wise!

Hilarious.

The Sarge has got a point.

You do have to work on your people skills.

I'll be sure to be taking lessons from you.

Call your boyfriend if you want.

Thanks. I'll pass on that one.

Okay. Well, eh... enjoy the crossword.

It's a b*tch, too.

Night.

You'd better be getting some

extra eggs in, is all I'm saying.

I'm not missing my French

toast, not for you lot.

Oh, you never know. Might

not be here in the morning.

Yeah, right. You got an

escape plan or something?

I thought you were

the one diging the tunnel.

Just... redecorating my cage, man.

You may try t' learn how

to spell it first, Francis.

Except, that'd involve spending

time in school - with you.

And yet here we are,

stuck together,

down amongst the delinquents.

Which is... exactly where you belong,

Mr. Beswick.

How do you know my name?

What do you think?

Wait until morning.

Wait until she forgives you again.

But no, your not getting away with it.

Not this time.

All those things you do,

those punches you throw,

the womb you pounded,

the loss you caused.

- You think it's about control?

- Don't speak to me.

It's not.

It's a lack of control.

It's a pent up toll... Angry.

- Why shouldn't I be angry?

- Why indeed?

Well, who isn't? Who is it

your really angry with?

Because I never met a wife beater

who wasn't really trying to beat himself.

Or was it your unborn child?

That's right,

think about it.

Think about what you've done.

Because ... who is she?

- Who's your wife?

- My Better half.

The one thing that raises me up,

that sustains me,

that loves me... in spite what I am.

Good boy!

But who is it?

Who is it?

Who do I hate?

What the f*** did I do?

You!

All you little f***ers!

Admittedly, it's not

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