The Crying Game Page #15

EXT. TREES - DAY

Fergus whipping through the trees, his body crouched low as

he runs.

INT. GREENHOUSE - DAY

Tinker sitting in the greenhouse. A helicopter screams into

view through the panes and automatic fire comes from it,

shattering every pane in seconds and tearing Tinker to bits.

INT. FARMHOUSE - DAY

Bullets whipping through every window, taking chunks from the

masonry, tearing the walls apart. Maguire, Jude, and the

others on the floor, scrambling for weapons.

EXT. TREES - DAY

Fergus, hearing the gunfire, runs through overhanging

branches till eventually he is hidden from sight.

EXT. CARNIVAL ON THE MONAGHAN BORDER - DAWN.

A forlorn-looking building over nondescript fields.

An old man wheels a bicycle slowly toward it; a rusty car

appears; and Fergus gets out of it.

TOMMY:

Fergus!

FERGUS:

You're back in the pink, Tommy? How're

you keeping?

INT. CARAVAN - DAY

The old man pouring whiskey into a teacup.

33.

TOMMY:

You'll notice I've asked you nothing.

FERGUS:

That's wise, Tommy.

TOMMY:

All right, then. I like to be wise.

He pours Fergus more whiskey.

TOMMY:

So what do you need, Fergus?

FERGUS:

Need to go across the water.

TOMMY:

Do you now.

FERGUS:

Need to lose myself awhile.

TOMMY:

Aha.

He looks at Fergus and lights a cigarette.

He puffs.

TOMMY:

There's a man I know ships cattle to

London.

EXT. DUBLIN BAY - EVENING.

The ferry, churning into the sunset.

FADE TO BLACK.

INT. BUILDING SITE - DAY

FADE UP into an elegant, empty Georgian room, covered in

clouds of dust. A figure among the clouds of dust, hacking at

a wall with a sledgehammer. It is Fergus, dressed in

laborer's overalls, covered in dust. He is knocking the

bricks from an outer wall. He works furiously and

relentlessly, like a machine.

We see the wall, with the hammer striking it. One brick falls

away, then another. Daylight pours through the clouds of dust

and the growing hole.

34.

Fergus's face, as he works.

The hole. More bricks falling away. Through the clouds of

dust and the streams of daylight we now see a patch of green.

Fergus's face, working. His rhythm slows.

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