Due to a change of location and other reasons, the script was re-written one last time, to form the Final Draft.
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Sheffield Hallam University
INT. HOTEL HALLWAY. DAY PRESENT DAY
IAN (aged 36) bangs on the refined door of room 70. He
hasn’t shaven in days, and he wears a black trenchcoat
that’s half-intimidating and half-tramp.
The long, narrow hallway of the hotel is quiet, aside from
the maid several doors down, trudging through burnished
handles, buffering the hotel’s class and elegance. The body
of the building makes Ian look out of place, and the
building like a prude – almost snobbish – character.
He bangs on the door again.
All right, all right!
There’s movement behind the door. Two moments, and it opens
a crack, held back by the security chain attached with
A STRANGER, similar age to Ian, looks out to him, behind
square-rimmed glasses, His round face is almost child-like,
and his neat hair compliments his well-kempt appearance and
Can I help you?
Silence. An awkward pause. Ian fidgets uncomfortably. He
appears on edge – agitated.
If you don’t want anything, then
I’m closing the door now…
The stranger slowly closes the door. He murmurs under his
breath from the other side.
Ian looks left and right, up and down the corridor, looking
for something. There’s not a soul in sight. Then he pulls
himself together and bangs on the door again.
The door opens. The stranger looks back at Ian with
annoyance and hint of anger in his eyes now.
(Again, quietly – almost shy)
Open the door…
(Now more confident and
I said open the door!
I’m not letting you in…I take it
you’re not room service. Goodb–
The door begins to close, but Ian stops it at the last
Hey! What the hell!?
BANG. Ian rams into the door with his shoulder, breaking the
chain and bursting into the:
INT. HOTEL ROOM. DAY
The stranger backs up into the equally tidy room, stumbling
back in fear like a trapped deer.
Ian opens his trenchcoat pocket, pulling out a loaded and
deadly BERETTA M93, aiming with two hands at the stranger.
In return, he puts his hands up, completely defenceless.
Woah…Woah, take it easy.
Take whatever you want. I have
money around the place. Go ahead, I
won’t tell anyone. Just…Just
please, please, don’t hurt me.
I’m not interested in your money or
belongings! I’m–It’s you I want.
Despite his words, Ian sweats unconvincingly and his hand
trembles as he aims.
Please, I’ll do whatever you want.
Just please…please don’t fucking
I wish it were that simple…I was
contracted to do this, to protect
the ones I love.
I have family too, I understand
what you’re going thr–
–Don’t you dare! You have no
goddamn clue what I’m going
I’ll help you! I’ll help you
protect your family.
No-one can help me.
And he pulls the trigger.
INT. HOTEL HALLWAY. DAY MOMENTS LATER
The door of room 70 opens. Ian slips out. He closes it
slowly and quietly. He heads down the corridor. He doesn’t
look back. His face: a picture of remorse.
EXT. PARK. DAY FOLLOWING DAY
TICK, TICK, TICK.
A small golden pocketwatch. It’s small mechanical hands race
around the face with stunning precision. MR CORAL, snaps it
Autumn, browned leaves die and fall from the nearest trees.
There’s a chilling BREEZE, breaking the silence.
Ian enters the rusty gates of the park with his collar up
and his head down. Mr. Coral is seated at a nearby bench.
His face is the other way, but his jet black, pin-striped
suit and bowler hat is distinct and recognisable.
Ian takes a seat next to Mr. Coral. Neither of them turn to
Autumn is a funny time of year,
isn’t it? So much going on, and yet
so many people can’t wait to retire
for the year.
Ian doesn’t say a word.
MR. CORAL (CONT’D)
To me, it’s all about change. From
the people, all the way down to the
trees. What about you? What does it
mean to you?
Hmm. I’m not surprised you say
MR. CORAL (CONT’D)
I don’t approve of killing others,
Ian. But I must tell you, if you
want me to ease you conscience, the
man in room 70 isn’t
What do you mean?
I mean, he’s guilty of his own
crimes. Nobody will miss him.
What if they did?
What about his family?
He doesn’t have any.
That’s not what he told me…
Think of it this way: you’ve kept
the balance. One of you lives and
one of you dies.
That doesn’t make it okay! By
killing him, I’m no different.
The agreement was that I’d provide
the cure for–Well, we both know
you’re a little ’under the
weather’, so to speak. But to
obtain something, you have to make
I’m not prepared to betray what I
believe in to save myself. I’m
sorry, but no.
So you didn’t–
No. No I didn’t.
But you’ll die.
Without the cure, I know.
With a start, Ian raises from his seat and looks down at Mr.
Coral, who maintains his unfazed, stiff posture.
He puts the gun down on the bench, next to Mr. Coral. A
gentle breeze whistles through the air and rustles the
breathless ember leaves.
Ian buttons up his coat, pulling it closer around his
skeleton frame. They hold the stare – an unspoken agreement
of their parting ways.
Ian turns and walks away, leaving Coral on the bench.
Where are you going?
Ian pauses, but doesn’t look back.
To say my goodbyes.
And he resumes walking, exiting through the rusted gates and
out into the cold world.