Crestfall (NHB Modern Plays)

By Mark O?Rowe

Three women trapped between nightmares and waking. Crestfall is a play so dark that all but the tiniest glimmer of light has been extinguished.
Published in the volume Mark O'Rowe Plays: One

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Release date: Nov 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781780014432

Book preview

ONE

Olive Day

Dressed up,

pressing forward,

feel my body’s workings working

beneath my garb, my Sunday best.

The sun is high,

today we’re blessed.

For once it’s dry,

and I have to confess

it allows my mind to open a bit,

my senses to savour surrounding shit,

the muddy bank, the green,

the water on the river curve,

which curve I follow, trace,

till I’m faced

with certain images unforeseen.

Kiddies’ heads bob about rambunctious,

hear their crazy high-pitched ruckus.

Bank-to-bank racing, some mutual splashing,

a boy dunks a girl, she goes down thrashing.

Others call from the bridge for space,

then dive or cannonball in. The place

is as merry,

although, as always, the feeling is only momentary.

Watch as laughter lilts,

then tilts

toward moans

as a pissing of heavens means

the children have to shoreward flounder,

clamber out and hoof for shelter.

I hoof myself,

my shelter also my destination –

The Burning Bell,

to which I fly post-haste,

though, fucking hell,

by the time I get to the place,

I’m soaked to the skin.

Who cares? I’m in.

All right,

so, who’ve we got?

A couple of frightful-

looking hags at a table, fucked,

a furtive fogey corner-tucked

– there he is –

the Bru at the bar.

I’m surprised he even came this far.

Approach and belly up beside him.

‘We doing this?’ I ask. ‘We riding?’

Course, he says

and kills his whiskey,

heads for the door

and exits. I folly,

keeping my distance up to the Green,

where it’s safe to join him under his brolly.

He’s keen.

He practically drags me through the wasteland

behind the old slaughterhouse, the Boneland,

where bits of cow lie scattered, decaying,

and the odd hound laps at bone in vain

for any remaining

bits of meat

as we exit the Boneland,

cross the street

to The Vanguard, a hotel,

or so called.

Kit Rankin’s the man on the desk.

He’s bald

and pretty fucking thick.

Behind said desk is a hurley stick,

nail-studded to counter minor grief.

For major, it’s what Kit calls his ‘Enforcer-in-Chief’

a pump-action shotgun.

It’s Kit’s belief

we all should have one.

He probably thinks I’m some kind of ho,

but he signs us in and up we go,

me clutching the key, the Bru clutching me,

all the way to the room which we enter and see

what we’ve got. A shower, a single bed,

a lot of dried-in stains on the sheets – they’re red.

My God, it’s a dump,

but, look it:

You don’t need a presidential suite to hump,

so fuck it.

And so we begin,

committing maybe the oldest sin.

(Or old enough in any case.)

He grabs me roughly by the face,

and licks my neck, and bites my lip,

then tears my ninnies off and flips

me round and pulls me to him quickly,

entering me fairly slickly

from the rear

and commencing to pump,

his belly

Reviews for Crestfall (NHB Modern Plays)

[kimmr_2 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is a powerful and unsettling play. Set in Dublin, it consists of three un-named characters and nine inter-connected monologues. The narrative is initially straightforward: a hotline volunteer embarks on a mission to help someone in distress, a young woman goes out for a drink with friends, a man picks up a not-very-attractive woman in a bar. Gradually, the threads of the narratives merge, the links between the characters become clear and the story becomes dark and almost surreal. This is not for everyone: it contains strong language and references to sex and violence. But there is also comedy and real human tragedy. The language is wonderful: amazingly evocative and - best of all - in verse.