(an authorized sequel to EM ONE by @captain-aralias)
(under the aegis of Blake’s Junction 7)
SCENE: Six months after the non-events of the film. EXTERIOR, DAY.
Avon loses track of and finds Blake’s card several times before Vila finds it for him.
(“What’s this, then?”
“…hrm…? No, wait, give that here, it’s personal!”
“If it’s personal, why’d you leave it on the dashboard?”
To which Avon has no good answer.)
Sooner than later they are en route to Blake’s last known address.
(DIRECTOR’S NOTE: There is a large apartment complex near me where all tenants have to pay what’s called a public safety surcharge on their rent. Basically, the city noticed that a single address constituted a wildly disproportionate number of police and emergency dispatches, and decided its residents should foot the bill for their own delinquency. There’s also a couple of cruddy motels whose owners pay a property tax surcharge for the same reason. I don’t know if this situation could exist in Britain, or if there’s anything comparable. Nevertheless this is the approximate level of seediness you should imagine, going forward.)
Avon purposely neglects to call ahead in hopes they’ll find Blake is out, or better still, moved away. This is not the case.
Gan doesn’t come up with the others because he’s lying down in the caravan with a migraine. Cally would actually prefer a migraine over the prospect of watching Avon and Blake dart their eyes around and mumble at each other for an hour. Of course it was Vila who convinced Avon they should come, and if he’s made a worse decision recently he can’t remember it. The only one who isn’t wildly uncomfortable is Dayna, who’s preparing herself to be wildly bored.
Blake plays that he is delighted to see them while wondering if he is, really. After about a minute he will realize he is not. Unfortunately it is far too late.
Blake’s flatmate Deva absolutely will not take the hint to make himself scarce and hangs around the kitchenette doing nothing in particular. Avon can’t tell whether Deva and Blake are just mates or, you know, “special friends.” Deva seems rather camp, but you never know. Also Avon can’t figure out whether he’s jealous.
Jenna goes to light a cigarette for her nerves and is informed this is strictly prohibited. There are all sorts of smoke detectors, and the system is wired directly to the local fire station. If anything goes off anywhere they’re sure to send a crew.
Blake offers to put the kettle on. No comment except from Avon: “I think. I think that would be nice.” Then there’s the matter of washing up enough cups for everyone, and then he finds the tea canister has been put back in the cupboard empty. He turns off the burner. The kettle hisses to itself as though it alone truly understands what it means to be happy.
There is a police siren in the distance. It gets closer. It is directly outside the building.
“Not to worry,” Blake says, “the cops come, they go, it’s usually nothing.”
Dayna rushes to the window, Cally not far behind. “There’s more of them coming,” she says. “Three, four cars.”
“I think it’s the firearms unit!” Cally says. They share a significant look.
Vila has an unpleasant thought. “Avon,” he says, “you don’t suppose…this…is on account of us, do you?”
“Of course not,” Avon says. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I only meant,” Vila says, “that Blake, well, you were always keen on us being terrorists and. Well. Maybe someone noticed.”
“Blake,” Deva says, “you never mentioned that you were a terrorist.” He doesn’t sound concerned or even terribly interested.
“Oh,” Blake says. “That. Haven’t in ages, actually. How about you, though?” he says to Avon. “Been keeping your hand in?”
“At what,” Avon says blankly.
“Being a terrorist!” Blake says. He looks rather cheerful for the first time all afternoon.
“I think the girls do,” Avon says. He isn’t sure whether this is a lie. Jenna is looking pointedly at nothing.
Heavy footfalls of an unknown number of police in the stairwell, then in the corridor. Deva looks out the peephole. “They’re all grouped round the door of 508,” he says.
“But that’s Mr. Yousef,” Blake says, “whatever could they want with him?”
“No, he’s 510,” Deva says. “508 is the blonde girl with the manicure that could slit your throat.”
Outside, the police announce that the occupant(s) of 508 should open the door and stand back with their hands on their heads. No answer. Then they state that if the door isn’t opened immediately they will break it down. Then they begin doing so.
Deva has his eye glued to the peephole; Dayna and Cally are on the balcony watching the scene below. Everyone else sits frozen, stewing in a unique blend of social anxiety, secondhand shame, and existential dread.
More thumps from the corridor. “If it isn’t just,” Blake says lamely, “if it isn’t just like what we used to get up to.” Then he doesn’t say anything else.
Vila thinks wistfully of the flask that’s in one of his pockets, probably. The thing is it’s only half-full, and if he brought it out now he’d be obliged to share.
Avon is supposed to be quitting smoking as of last week, which means he’s been bumming cigarettes off Jenna as often as she’ll allow. Pretty soon they’re passing one back and forth, not looking at each other. Avon is definitely, particularly, not looking at Blake.
No one notices the smoke detector beeping at first because of all the noise from the corridor. Deva removes his eye from the peephole to point out that the the building-wide alarm will be going off in a moment and they had better get started evacuating. Considering the alarm will have originated from this flat it’s the least they can do.
“Yes,” Blake says, “be a good-faith gesture, wouldn’t it?”
Dayna and Cally tear themselves away from the balcony. Everyone files cautiously into the corridor. The door of 508 is askew on its hinges and the police inside look simultaneously agitated and depressed.
Vila slipped out first and gets as far as the third-floor landing before the building-wide alarm goes off. He pauses to hunt for his flask. It’s in the last pocket he checks, and full of pineapple juice for some reason.
Outside, Gan is remonstrating with a tow truck driver who is leisurely winching the station wagon up onto the platform.
“I keep telling you,” he says, “you can’t tow a vehicle when someone’s inside it, it’s not permitted.”
“Well, you weren’t inside it when I got there,” the man says without rancor.
“I had been, though,” Gan says. “I’d only just stepped out. For air. I suffer from migraine.”
“Sorry to hear that,” the man says, adjusting the hitch on the caravan.
“Look, you’re not taking the caravan as well, are you?” Gan is beginning to get really upset.
The others watch blankly. “Avon,” Vila says, “he can’t do that, can he?”
They are standing directly beneath a sign marked GP ESTATES RESIDENT PARKING ONLY. ALL OTHERS WILL BE TOWED. Avon sighs deeply. Jenna lights a cigarette and hands it to him.
“I’m sorry about all this, Avon,” Blake says. “Should’ve mentioned about the parking situation. I suppose I thought you must have taken the bus.”
“Why would we have taken the bus,” Avon says rhetorically, without inflection.
Vila is speaking earnestly to the tow truck driver. “I don’t suppose you could leave the caravan? It’s where I keep all my things.”
“Can’t,” the man says. “They’re attached, aren’t they? Besides, the caravan’s not going anywhere without being towed anyhow.”
“Oh,” Vila says. “That’s very true.” He takes out the flask again.
“Let me have some of that,” Cally says.
“It’s pineapple juice,” Vila says.
“We don’t care,” Dayna says.
They stand apart, passing the flask between them. Gan makes a last attempt to enter the caravan, which is by now at an angle on the tow truck’s platform, only to be rebuffed by the driver. He joins them in a huff. Dayna offers him the flask.
Gan smells it. “This is pineapple juice,” he says.
“Well, don’t drink it then,” Dayna says.
It begins to rain lightly. Deva has gone inside. "We should have brought Orac in with us,“ Jenna says. "He’ll be terribly bored all alone, wherever they’re taking him.”
“I think he’ll manage,” Avon says.
“How is Orac?” Blake asks.
“The same,” Avon says.
“Oh,” Blake says.
The tow truck drives away. Blake begins to say something about coming up to make some phone calls, but thinks better of it. Jenna is checking her purse for a bus schedule.
“I don’t suppose you have a car,” Avon says. Blake shakes his head. “I think,” Avon says, “I think we should be going now.” To the others: “Come on, let’s get moving!”
“Is that it, then?” Blake says.
“It’s the end, Blake,” Avon says heavily.
A motorbike engine revs loudly somewhere nearby, startling everyone. “The next bus is in 12 minutes,” Jenna says. She heads toward the street and the others follow.
“Goodbye,” Blake calls after them. “Goodbye, Avon!”
“Goodbye, Blake,” Avon says without turning around. He isn’t sure if Blake can hear him. It doesn’t matter anyway.
ROLL CREDITS.
(But stay tuned for: DVD EXTRAS!
(DELETED SCENE 1: Featuring Soolin as the blonde in 508 who is being extremely cagey about why the police might want to speak with her. She takes hardly a moment to survey the damage before beginning to pack a bag while talking briskly on the phone in Korean. Neither Blake nor Deva will see her again.
(DELETED SCENE 2: Featuring Tarrant as the young man who has been polishing an already very shiny motorbike next to the drained swimming pool. Gan suspects him of having called the towing service out of spite. This is incorrect, but sometimes it’s nice to have a face to blame.
(DIRECTOR’S NOTE: Anticlimax is one of my favorite narrative devices, so naturally I loved Blake’s Junction 7. It’s a parody that has maybe 3.5 outright jokes, all of which are underplayed into nonexistence. The utter banality of every interaction is, for me, the film’s greatest appeal.
(After reading EM ONE, I started wondering what the series finale would be like as refracted through the Blake’s Junction 7 universe. What kind of catastrophe can you orchestrate when your prime directive is that nothing of any importance can be allowed to happen to anyone? I’m personally squeamish about social humilation/embarrassment scenarios, but I take an unholy delight in inflicting them on characters.
(I don’t expect I’ll post this anywhere else. I wrote it in about a day and a half, not looking back, and keeping the narrative as spare as possible. It feels, to me, more like a detailed treatment for something I haven’t yet developed than a full-blown story. I did make myself laugh, though. I hope you do too.
(The police-raid-next-door thing actually happened to me. Except it was two cops instead of many, and turned out to be a case of deliberate false reporting. It was still extremely awkward, though.)
My need for validation won out over any residual shame at having written fanfiction about someone else’s fanfiction. Script Treatment: AT BLAKE’S is now up at AO3. Fewer typos, less editorializing, better formatting. The story itself remains dumb, but there’s nothing to be done about that.
