A thin drizzle now falls across the tarmac, dotting the pavement with specks of wet grey. ANDREW TROUGHTON and MARTIN NASH walk past Number 18 slowly, the two men cloaked in tension. Cars hiss by. A boy on a bike rides past, eyeing Andrew warily. An empty beer can rolls down the curb in the wind.*
ANDREW
(quietly)
Do you know what it feels like to look a child in the eye and realise they're afraid of you? Not because of what they know—but because of what they sense? David wouldn't even look at me, Martin. Daisy slammed the door in my face. And Kelsey? She shook when I walked in.
MARTIN
(disinterested)
Children are emotional reactors. They imprint like ducklings and melt like wax. Next month, it'll be someone else they're angry at.
(glances toward Number 16, which now has boarded windows and a REPOSSESSED sticker across the front door.)
Number 16. Such a lovely house. Red brick. Bay windows. That stupid swing in the back garden. Who knew so much sentimentality could be worth a quarter of a million?
ANDREW
(stopping dead)
You took everything from him.
MARTIN
(turns, amused)
Correction. You did. I just handled logistics.
(leans in slightly, lowering his voice)
And before you wax poetic about betrayal and family, let me remind you: I pulled your guts off your own pancreas when every other surgeon wanted to call it. I gave you life. You gave me what you owed.
ANDREW
(guilt-ridden, trembling)
It wasn't meant to go this far. I thought—I thought it was just a loan. A transfer. You said it was temporary. That you'd help me cover the legal—
MARTIN
(mocking)
Temporary? Oh Andrew. I told you what you needed to hear so you'd sign what I put in front of you. I'm not your therapist. I'm your debt collector. You were drowning. I tossed you a rope—and charged you for every inch.
(steps back, voice calm, almost proud)
I've pocketed £258,000, give or take. Property. Savings. The pub insurance. Pensions. The good doctor—Barney—was a very reliable pipeline. Shame how easy it all was.
ANDREW
(voice shaking)
You're a monster.
MARTIN
(stone cold)
No. I'm a realist. You're the one who killed your own mother. Burned down your brother's pub. You just needed someone like me to hold the mirror up.
(Andrew clenches his fists, trembling in shame and fury.)
ANDREW
They'll find out eventually. Oliver. Maxine. Even Alan.
MARTIN
(chuckles)
They already suspect you. Nobody's asking who pulled the strings—they're too busy hating you. Which suits me fine.
(suddenly, Martin's voice drops, darker, venomous)
But let me be very clear about one thing. If you grow a conscience now? If you so much as whisper my name to anyone—to the police, to your family, to that pathetic little doctor brother of yours—then the next people to suffer won't be you.
(Andrew narrows his eyes.)
ANDREW
What do you mean?
MARTIN
(steps closer, eyes locked)
I know where Oliver lives. Where Gabrielle and Vanessa go to school. I know Kathy's Pilates schedule. I know David's shift rota. And Maxine's Thursday Tesco run.
(beat)
If you step out of line—I will wreck your bloodline like a fault in the gene pool. Quietly. Discreetly. One hospital visit at a time.
(Andrew steps back, stunned, breath caught in his throat.)
ANDREW
You wouldn't.
MARTIN
I already have. You just didn't know it yet.
(silence. Martin buttons up his coat and exhales like nothing happened.)
Now then. I'm due at the practice. MRI results don't read themselves.
(grins)
Oh, and if you see Barney, tell him his savings did wonders for my new clinic in Kendal. Heated floors and everything.
(Martin walks away down the road, stepping over puddles like royalty. Andrew remains rooted to the pavement, breathing heavily, the weight of guilt and fear crushing him from all sides. A curtain twitches from Number 19. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.)