Instant Weight Loss

Patrick Whittaker Instant Weight Loss
INSTANT WEIGHT LOSS
An Original Radio Drama
By
Patrick Whittaker
Patrick Whittaker
trashman97@hotmail.com
www.coldfusion.freewebtools.com
2
INSTANT WEIGHT LOSS
By
Patrick Whittaker
Characters
COOMBES A surgeon.
WILSON A Junior Consultant.
TANNOY A disembodied voice.
MISS HARDY A young lady.
MISS WHEELER An efficient middle-aged lady.
FORTESCUE A diet doctor.
MURCHISON A doctor.
NURSE
WAITER
VICAR
AMBULANCE DRIVER
POLICE OFFICER
FAT PERSON#1
FAT PERSON#2
FAT PERSON#3
FAT PERSON#4
3
SCENE 1. HOSPITAL CORRIDOR
F/X: THE SUBDUED CACOPHONY OF A BUSY
HOSPITAL. BRISK, EFFICIENT
FOOTSTEPS: EXPENSIVE SHOES ON A
CONCRETE FLOOR.
NURSE: Good morning, Dr Coombes.
COOMBES: Mr Coombes, Nurse. I’m a surgeon.
TANNOY: (FILTERED) Dr Mills to Ward 3, please. Dr

Mills to Ward 3.
4
SCENE 2. SURGICAL CONSULTANTS’ OFFICE
F/X: A DOOR OPENS AND CLOSES.
WILSON: Good morning, Mr Coombes.
COOMBES: Says who?
WILSON: Now don’t be like that. Spring’s finally

arrived. The snowdrops are out and the sun
is shining.
COOMBES: Shut up, Wilson, and fix me a coffee.
WILSON: The pot's over there. Freshly brewed.
COOMBES: Black no sugar.
WILSON: No disrespect, Mr Coombes, but I'm a junior

consultant not a tea lady.
COOMBES: I'm in the middle of writing your appraisal.
WILSON: One coffee coming up.
COOMBES: Six!
WILSON: Sugars?
COOMBES: No. On my desk. Six case files.
5
F/X: FILE BEING DROPPED ON DESK.
COOMBES: One…
COOMBES: Two…
COOMBES: Three…
COOMBES: Four…
COOMBES: Five…
COOMBES: Six!
They expect me to do six operations in one

shift.
WILSON: Well, if anyone can...
6
COOMBES: Just fix my coffee, Wilson. I’ll let you know

when I want you to suck up to me.
F/X: COOMBES SMACKS HIS LIPS.
COOMBES: My tongue needs a shave.
WILSON: Late night last night?
COOMBES: Dinner at my club. Fine port. Fine brandy.

Intelligent conversation. Nothing you’d
appreciate.
WILSON: One coffee in your favourite chipped mug.
F/X: COOMBES SLURPS.
COOMBES: Tastes like mud. Where's my gastric band?
WILSON: (PUZZLED) Beg pardon, Mr Coombes?
COOMBES: According to these files, my caseload today

consists of two appendectomies, one
anterior resection of the rectum, a couple of
colectomies and an anal fistula. No gastric
band. I thought I was going to be operating
on old what’s-her-name? Mrs Lardy or
whatever she's called.
WILSON: Miss Hardy. She rang a few days ago to

cancel the operation. Says she doesn't need
it.
7
COOMBES: Doesn’t need it? Have you seen the size of

that woman? Anyone who thinks no man is
an island hasn’t met Mrs Lardy. If she
doesn’t have this operation she’s going to
die. Get me social services.
WILSON: They were contacted right after Miss Hardy

called.
COOMBES: And?
WILSON: They went to her flat and she wasn't there.
COOMBES: Nonsense. She can't even get out of bed let

alone her front door. They must have gone
to the wrong flat.
WILSON: Checked and double checked. Her GP’s

been there. The police have been there.
Even the head of the construction crew that
was going to winch her down has been
there. They all say the same thing: Anna
Hardy has vanished into thin air.
COOMBES: Why wasn't I informed?
WILSON: Do you recall what you said you'd do to

anyone who contacted you while you were
on leave?
COOMBES: Imaginative, wasn't it?
8
WILSON: We've filed a missing persons report.
COOMBES: There are only two man-made objects visible

from outer space. One is the Great Wall of
China; the other is Mrs Lardy. How can she
possibly go missing? And what the hell do
they put in this coffee?
F/X: PHONE RINGS.
COOMBES: If that’s for me, I'm not here.
F/X: WILSON PICKS UP THE PHONE.
WILSON: Camford General. Surgical consultants’

office. How may I help you?
Yes, he's here. I'll pass you over to him.
COOMBES: What did I tell you?
WILSON: It's Miss Hardy.
COOMBES: Give me that phone.
Miss Hardy? What the devil are you playing

at?
Yes, well when you qualify as a surgeon

maybe you'll be competent to make
decisions like that. In the meantime, let me
9
assure you that without this operation you

are going to die.
I fail to see what's so funny, Miss Hardy.
Who?
Charles Fortescue? That quack?
No, Mrs Lardy, I will not. I have better things

to do than run around the country chasing
recalcitrant chubbies. You can tell Fortescue
to take his slimming clinic and shove –
Hello?
She hung up!
WILSON: Is she OK?
COOMBES: No, she is not OK. She's fallen into the

clutches of Beanpole Fortescue.
WILSON: Dr Charles Fortescue? The slimming

expert?
COOMBES: Expert, my eye. The only thing he's expert at

is parting gullible fatties from their money. I
shudder to think what's he's doing - or has
done - to poor Mrs Lardy.
WILSON: Miss Hardy.
10
COOMBES: We were at med school together. I wouldn’t

trust him to treat a veruca.
WILSON: Where's Miss Hardy now?
COOMBES: At Rochdale House, Fortescue’s slimming

clinic. She wants me to meet her there
straight away. The woman had the cheek to
tell me to wait outside for a car to pick me
up.
WILSON: Out of the question of course.
COOMBES: Phone Powell. See how much of my

caseload you can dump on him. Reschedule
everything else for tomorrow.
WILSON: With respect, Mr Coombes, that's not my job.
COOMBES: With respect, Mr Wilson, until such a time as

I've finished your appraisal, your job is
whatever I say it is. If Fortescue's doing
anything illegal - and that's something of a
given - I intend to see he pays for it. This is
a golden opportunity to rid the medical
profession of one of its worst elements.
WILSON: What shall I tell Mr Powell?
COOMBES: That I'm taking a much-needed day off.
11
WILSON: But you've just come back from a week's

leave.
COOMBES: Then tell him my mother's died.
WILSON: That’ll be the third time this year.
COOMBES: (IRRITABLY) Tell him anything you like - just

so long as it's not the truth. And Wilson...
WILSON: Yes, Mr Coombes?
COOMBES: Don't ever let me catch you being cheerful at

work again.
12
SCENE 3. OUTSIDE ROCHDALE HOUSE
F/X: CAR PULLING UP ON GRAVEL. FRONT
CAR DOOR OPENING. FOOTSTEPS ON
GRAVEL. BACK DOOR OPENING.
COOMBES: Thank you, driver. It's been most pleasant

conversing with the back of your head.
F/X: CAR DOOR BEING CLOSED.
FOOTSTEPS ON GRAVEL.
MISS WHEELER: Dr Coombes?
COOMBES: Mr Coombes. I'm a surgeon, not a village

GP.
MISS WHEELER: I'm Miss Wheeler. Welcome to Rochdale

House.
COOMBES: All five hundred acres of it.
MISS WHEELER: Fifty.
COOMBES: Fleecing fatties is obviously a lucrative

occupation.
MISS WHEELER: Dr Fortescue has invested every penny he

owns into this place and does not expect to
13
make a profit. He’d rather be poor than turn

away anyone who needs his help.
COOMBES: (SARCASTIC) The man's a saint.
MISS WHEELER: (TO DRIVER) You may go, Duncan. Park

the Rolls by the stables, will you?
F/X: FOOTSTEPS ON GRAVEL. CAR DOOR
CLOSING.
COOMBES: The strong silent type, isn't he? Didn't say a

single word throughout the entire journey.
MISS WHEELER: He's a mute. Would you care to come

inside?
COOMBES: Well, I didn't come here just to admire your

tennis courts.
F/X: CAR PULLING AWAY. FOOTSTEPS ON
GRAVEL.
COOMBES: This building’s Georgian, isn't it? Eighteenth

century.
MISS WHEELER: I have no idea.
F/X: DOOR OPENING AND CLOSING.
14
SCENE 4. ROCHDALE HOUSE, ENTRANCE HALL
F/X: FOOTSTEPS ON A TILED FLOOR.
MISS WHEELER: This is the main hallway. As you can see, it

is decorated with many works of art.
COOMBES: You can skip the guided tour. Just take me

to Fortescue.
MISS WHEELER: Dr Fortescue will be pleased to see you in

about ten minutes.
COOMBES: (SARCASTIC) That's good of him. I hope I'm

not putting him to any trouble.
MISS WHEELER: Perhaps you'd care to wait by the pool?

You'll find a fully equipped bar there.
COOMBES: Where's my patient?
MISS WHEELER: Miss Hardy is in her room. I'll have her meet
you at the pool.
COOMBES: Best keep her away from water. We don't

want her getting harpooned.
MISS WHEELER: I assume that's a reference to her weight

with the implication that she might be
mistaken for a whale?
15
COOMBES: Don't split your sides just yet. I get funnier

as the day goes on.
MISS WHEELER: The pool's at the end of that corridor. I take

it you're capable of fixing yourself a drink.
COOMBES: Sure. And I know who to come to if I need

any ice.
16
SCENE 5. ROCHDALE HOUSE, SWIMMING POOL
F/X: SOMEONE SPLASHING ABOUT IN THE
POOL. SOUND OF DRINK BEING
POURED. ICE THROWN INTO GLASS.
MISS HARDY: Hello. Are you a patient?
COOMBES: I beg your pardon?
MISS HARDY: I said: 'Are you a patient?'
COOMBES: Bearing in mind that this is a fat clinic for fat

people, do I look like a patient?
MISS HARDY: I thought maybe you'd had the treatment.

But that was before I spotted your spare tyre.
Not to worry. Charlie can have you fixed in
no time.
COOMBES: This is muscle. And who's Charlie when he's

at home?
MISS HARDY: Dr Fortescue, of course. Give me a hand,

will you? I don't think I can get out on my
own.
COOMBES: There are some steps over there.
17
MISS HARDY: Too far. I'm not a very good swimmer. In

fact, I can't swim at all. If it wasn’t for these
water wings, I’d drown.
COOMBES: Shouldn't there be a lifeguard here?
MISS HARDY: The pool isn't officially open right now. But I
just had to give it a go. I've not been in a
swimming pool since I was six.
So how about it?
COOMBES: How about what?
MISS HARDY: Helping me out of the pool.
COOMBES: I'll get my suit wet.
MISS HARDY: (LIGHT-HEARTEDLY) Fine. Leave me to

drown. And when they drag my lifeless body
out of the pool, you can give yourself a pat
on the back.
COOMBES: (IRRITABLY) All right. But grab my hands,

not my sleeve.
Ready?
Here goes!
F/X: COOMBES HAULS MISS HARDY OUT OF
THE WATER.
18
MISS HARDY: There! That wasn't so hard, was it?
COOMBES: My jacket's wet.
MISS HARDY: Only the cuff. It will soon dry. Pass me that
towel, will you?
COOMBES: (SARCASTIC) Yes, ma'am. Anything else I

can do for you? Perhaps Her Majesty would
like me to fix her a drink?
MISS HARDY: Oh you are a love. I'll have a brandy and

diet lemonade.
COOMBES: Would you like a cherry with it?
MISS HARDY: Yes, please. And one of those paper

umbrella things.
FX: DRINK BEING POURED.
COOMBES: I'm giving you Greek brandy. Somehow I

think the real stuff would be wasted on you.
MISS HARDY: Look!
COOMBES: At what?
MISS HARDY: Me.
COOMBES: Why?
19
MISS HARDY: Isn't my body great?
COOMBES: As bodies go, it's fairly impressive.
MISS HARDY: Pinch my tummy.
COOMBES: Why would I want to do that?
MISS HARDY: Go on - pinch it.
See? Not a gram of fat.
COOMBES: Personally I prefer a woman with something

to hold on to.
MISS HARDY: You wait till I get my new wardrobe. I’ll be

irresistible.
COOMBES: OK, Miss. Nice sales job. I get the

message. 'You too can have a body like
mine'.
If Fortescue's thinks I’m investing in his fat

farm, he can think again.
FX: SWING DOOR OPENING AND CLOSING.
MISS WHEELER: Ah, Miss Hardy. There you are! I see Mr

Coombes has managed to find you all by
himself.
20
MISS HARDY: So you’re Mr Coombes? You sounded so

much younger on the telephone.
COOMBES: That wasn’t you who rang me, was it? I

thought you were someone else. Damn it!
I’ve come all this way for nothing.
Do you realise wasting a surgeon’s time is a

criminal offence?
MISS HARDY: No it isn’t.
COOMBES: Well, it ought to be. And take off those

ridiculous water wings. They make you look
like Popeye’s anorexic sister.
MISS WHEELER: Please keep your voice down, Mr Coombes.

This is a clinic after all.
COOMBES: Some clinic! Where are the patients?
MISS WHEELER: They’ve all been cured and sent home. Miss
Hardy here is the last of them. She’ll be on
her way just as soon as I've run some tests
on her.
MISS HARDY: So soon, Miss Wheeler? I was hoping to

stay one more night.
MISS WHEELER: Fine by me. To be honest, I didn't fancy

spending the night in this big old house on
my own.
21
COOMBES: Where's Miss Hardy?
MISS HARDY: I'm here. At least what's left of me.
COOMBES: I'm talking about Anna Hardy.
MISS HARDY: So am I.
COOMBES: Thirty-seven stone Anna Hardy, aka The

Goodyear Blimp!
MISS HARDY: Actually I was only thirty-six stone twelve.
COOMBES: (SARACSTIC) Oh ha-ha. I don’t know what

you people think you’re playing at, but I've
had enough of this. I'd appreciate a ride
back to the hospital, if you don't mind.
MISS WHEELER: But surely you won’t go without seeing Dr

Fortescue? He's dying to meet you again
after all these years.
F/X: BLEEP-BLEEP. BLEEP-BLEEP.
COOMBES: That's my pager. It's probably an emergency

and thanks to your shenanigans I'm not
going to be able to help.
MISS WHEELER: Actually, that's my pager. Must be a

message from Dr Fortescue.
PAUSE
22
MISS WHEELER: (CONT’D) Oh yes. The doctor’s ready to see

you now, Mr Coombes.
COOMBES: Lead on, Miss Wheeler. There are a few

things I'd like to say to your beloved
employer.
MISS WHEELER: Take the lift over there. Press 'B' for
basement.
23
SCENE 6. ROCHDALE HOUSE, LIFT/BASEMENT
F/X: LIFT DESCENDING. HALTS. PING!
DOORS OPEN. SOUND OF MACHINERY:
MECHANICAL PUMPING NOISES;
SOMETHING LIKE A GIANT BELLOWS;
VARIOUS ELECTRONIC PINGS AND
BEEPS.
COOMBES: What the - ?
FORTESCUE: Ah Coombes. I glad you could make it.
COOMBES: Fortescue?
FORTESCUE: Come in before the doors close on you. It's

an old lift and quite temperamental.
F/X: LIFT DOORS CLOSING.
COOMBES: Where are you?
FORTESCUE: I'm afraid I'm rather obscured by all this

paraphernalia. If you push aside those red
cables, you'll be able to see me.
COOMBES: Dear God! What is this?
24
FORTESCUE: Please don't faint. People are forever

fainting when they first see me like this. I'm
finding it rather tiresome.
COOMBES: Is this your idea of a joke?
FORTESCUE: No joke, Coombesy. You're welcome to

poke me to make sure I’m real. It’s what
they all do. Go on - stick your finger
anywhere you like. I promise what you see
is what you get.
COOMBES: You must weigh at least a hundred stones!
FORTESCUE: Nearer one hundred and fifty.
COOMBES: But that’s impossible. Nobody could be that

gross and live!
FORTESCUE: That's what all these machines are for.

One’s giving my lungs a helping hand. That
contraption next to you keeps my heart
going. The box next to that cleans my blood.
And that slurping sound is fat being sucked
out of me.
Go on. Have a look. You won't find any

fakery.
COOMBES: You must be 90% fat!
FORTESCUE: By my estimates, 99%.
25
COOMBES: And you call yourself a slimming expert?
FORTESCUE: Ironic, isn't it?
COOMBES: Is this your leg?
FORTESCUE: Give it a prod and I'll tell you.
Yes. That's just below my knee.
COOMBES: This is obscene.
FORTESCUE: You always were judgmental. Remember

back in med school? All those names you
called me? Stick insect. Beanpole.
Toothpick.
COOMBES: Any thinner and you’d have given people

paper cuts.
FORTESCUE: Well, you can't say that about me now. And

still you criticise.
COOMBES: What's this all about, Fortescue?
FORTESCUE: It's about saving people from obesity.
COOMBES: But why have you dragged me away from my

patients?
FORTESCUE: I need you to get me back on my feet again.
26
COOMBES: I don't think I could even find your feet.
FORTESCUE: This equipment isn't one hundred percent

reliable. All it takes is for a fuse to blow and
I'm a goner.
COOMBES: You must have a back-up generator.
FORTESCUE: Back-up generators have been known to fail.

I'm feeling quite vulnerable, you know.
Unless I can start getting rid of my fat faster
than I accumulate it, I'm not going to be
around much longer.
COOMBES: Well, here's a suggestion for you, Fortescue:

stop accumulating fat.
FORTESCUE: Easier said than done, old chap. What

would you say if I told you I've not eaten for
almost six months?
COOMBES: I'd say you were as big a liar now as you

were in med school.
FORTESCUE: Twice a day, Miss Wheeler pours vitamin

pills down my throat, but other than that I’m
nil by mouth.
COOMBES: And I suppose all this fat came out of thin

air? That's one thing all you chubbies have
27
in common: an enormous capacity for self-

deception.
FORTESCUE: It came from my patients.
COOMBES: What did you do? Eat them?
FORTESCUE: In a way. Think of me as a vampire – only

not your traditional sort. Instead of blood, I
feast on fat.
COOMBES: That’s just sick. And if you’re going to lie, at

least make it plausible. I’m not an idiot.
FORTESCUE: You've seen Miss Hardy?
COOMBES: I've seen a Miss Hardy. But that woman -

that stick insect - is not my Miss Hardy.
FORTESCUE: Take my hand.
COOMBES: What?
FORTESCUE: Take my hand. Go on. What's there to be

afraid of?
COOMBES: Which part of you is your hand?
FORTESCUE: I’ll wriggle my fingers. See?
COOMBES: Got it. Though why I’m humouring you, I’ll

never know.
28
FORTESCUE: How does my hand feel?
COOMBES: Cold and clammy. Like a piece of tripe.
FORTESCUE: And now?
COOMBES: Warm?
FORTESCUE: And now?
F/X: SLURPING SOUND. LIKE SOMEONE
LICKING YOUR EAR.
COOMBES: Ah gross! Stop it!
F/X: SLURPING SOUND GROWS LOUDER,
MORE GREEDY, MORE OBSCENE.
COOMBES: (SHOUTING) Stop it!
THE SLURPING ABRUPTLY STOPS.
FORTESCUE: There! How was it for you, Coombesy?
COOMBES: I feel...
FORTESCUE: Like a great weight's been lifted?
COOMBES: Violated. And nauseated. Let go of me, you

creep!
29
FORTESCUE: You should have let me carry on. I've

considerably reduced your love handles but
you're still quite flabby in places.
COOMBES: My stomach feels funny. You’ve drugged

me!
FORTESCUE: Trust the evidence of your own eyes. Look

at you tucking your shirt in. Why is it
suddenly so loose?
COOMBES: What have you done?
FORTESCUE: Relieved you of a few pounds of fat. It’s now

a part of me.
COOMBES: That's not possible.
FORTESCUE: Depends on your definition of possible.
COOMBES: I don't know what you're trying to pull,

Fortescue, but I'm sure it's not legal. I'm
getting out of this nightmare clinic right now
and heading for the nearest police station.
FORTESCUE: No! You mustn’t do that My work here must

remain secret. I can only help so many
people at a time. If word got out that I can
cure obesity in an instant, I’d never be able
to cope with the demand. It would kill me!
30
COOMBES: Give it up, Fortescue. You’re not fooling me

one bit.
F/X: LIFT DESCENDING. PING! DOORS
OPENING.
FORTESCUE: Ah there you are Miss Wheeler. Your timing

as ever is perfect. Mr Coombes was just
leaving. You’ve just got time to show him
what you have in that briefcase.
COOMBES: I'm not interested.
MISS WHEELER: I think you will be.
F/X: LATCHES ON BRIEFCASE SPRINGING
OPEN.
MISS WHEELER: I don’t know if you’ve ever seen one million

pounds before.
FORTESCUE: It's yours, Coombes, if you rid me of this fat.

No diets. No gastric bands. Just get in there
with your scalpel and have done with it.
MISS WHEELER: One million pounds for a few hours work.
COOMBES: You want me to perform a radical lipectomy?

I'd need an earth mover.
FORTESCUE: Whatever it takes, Coombesy.
31
COOMBES: I couldn't possibly remove that much body

tissue in one go. You’d never survive.
FORTESCUE: It's just fat. So long as you don't hit any

blood vessels, I'll be fine. I'm not asking you
to remove it all – just enough so that I can
stand on my feet again.
COOMBES: It can't be done. What you're asking is

impossible.
FORTESCUE: The alternative is to leave me to die. How

long do you think before my heart gives out?
A month? A week?
COOMBES: Why me, Fortescue?
FORTESCUE: Don’t be so modest, Coombesy. You’re the

National Health Service’s foremost expert on
fat removal. If anyone can save me, it’s you.
COOMBES: I'm going to need an anaesthetist.
FORTESCUE: Miss Wheeler can oblige. She's fully

qualified.
COOMBES: Some power tools.
FORTESCUE: I'll have a porter run down to the hardware

store.
32
COOMBES: And some big strong men to haul the fat

away.
FORTESCUE: Miss Wheeler knows where to find plenty of

those. Don't you, Miss Wheeler?
MISS WHEELER: Yes, Mr Fortescue.
COOMBES: Well, go fetch them, woman. And leave that

briefcase where it is.
33
CONCRETE FLOOR.
COOMBES: Get bent.

Mills to Ward 3.
34
F/X: DOOR OPENING AND CLOSING.
WILSON: Ah, the wanderer returns. You'll be pleased

to know we coped marvelously during your
unscheduled absence. Still, it's good to have
you back, Mr Coombes.
COOMBES: What have I told you, Wilson, about being

cheerful?
WILSON IGNORES THE QUESTION.
WILSON: Hello. You must be the intern we were

promised.
COOMBES: No she isn't, Wilson. And stop drooling.

You've seen a woman before, haven't you?
Although probably not this close.
WILSON: Aren't you going to introduce us?
COOMBES: No.
WILSON: Did you find Miss Hardy?
COOMBES: Possibly.
F/X: KNOCK ON THE DOOR. DOOR OPENING.
35
MURCHISON: Ah, there you are, Coombes. You caused

quite a flap disappearing like that. There's a
certain hospital administrator who's planning
to make cufflinks out of bits of your anatomy.
COOMBES: Miss Hardy, I believe you already know Dr

Murchison.
MURCHISON: Have we met, my dear?
MISS HARDY: You've been to my flat twice.
MURCHISON: (DEFENSIVE) No I haven't.
MISS HARDY: You spent quite some time in my bedroom

with me.
MURCHISON: What's going on, Coombes? Is this some

kind of stitch-up? I have never seen this
woman in my life, let alone gone to her flat!
And anyone who says otherwise will be
hearing from my lawyer.
COOMBES: Relax, Murchison. No one's suggesting

anything beyond a proper doctor-patient
relationship.
MURCHISON: They'd better not be.
COOMBES: Miss Hardy, tell Dr Murchison about his

visits. See if you can jog his memory.
36
MISS HARDY: Well, the first time was when he gave me an

examination to see if I was a suitable
candidate for a gastric band.
MURCHISON: Now you're being absurd. You need a

gastric band about as much as I need a third
nostril.
MISS HARDY: The second time, you took some blood and
tissue samples.
MURCHISON: You're confusing me with someone else. I

never make out-calls.
WILSON: You did about a week ago.
MURCHISON: That was an exception. The patient was too

fat to even roll out of bed.
WILSON: Not too fat to vanish though.
MURCHISON: Yes. Most extraordinary business. One of

the orderlies has put forward the theory that
she ate herself.
COOMBES: I'll give you another theory, shall I? It's

equally absurd but it might just be true.
MURCHISON: I'm all ears, Mr Coombes.
COOMBES: What if I were to tell you that this young lady

might – just might - be your Mrs Lardy?
37
MURCHISON: This skinny little thing? (TO MISS HARDY)

No offence, Miss.
MISS HARDY: Call me skinny all you like. In fact, I might

change my name by deed poll. 'Skinny
Hardy' has such a lovely ring to it.
MURCHISON: Now be serious, Coombes. You don’t expect

me to believe that this slip of a girl is Anna
Hardy, aka The European Butter Mountain,
do you?
COOMBES: I'm not sure I believe it myself. But there's

one way to be certain, Dr Murchison. You
took tissue samples from Anna Hardy. They
should still be in the lab.
MURCHISON: OK. Now I see where this is going. I go tell

the lab technicians some preposterous story
about a woman losing three quarters of her
bodyweight in an instant and you all have a
good laugh at my expense. Just how dumb
do you think I am, Coombes?
COOMBES: All I ask is for you to sign a release form and

then I can order the necessary tests myself.
Then if anyone looks stupid, it’ll be me.
MURCHISON: You're crazy, Coombes. Don't you have

anything better to do with your time?
38
COOMBES: Just sign the form.
MURCHISON: No!
COOMBES: I’ll make it worth your while.
MURCHISON: How?
COOMBES: I'll bet you fifty - no - one hundred pounds

that this Miss Hardy is the Miss Hardy – the
one I was supposed to fit a gastric band to.
MURCHISON: Make it five hundred.
COOMBES: All right. Five hundred pounds.
MURCHISON: You're on.
COOMBES: Wilson, fetch a release form.
WILSON: With all due respect, Mr Coombes, I am not

your secretary.
COOMBES: Point duly noted. They’re in that filing

cabinet. And when you've sorted that out,
book a table for two at the Blue Phoenix.
Miss Hardy and I have a dinner date.
39
SCENE 8. RESTAURANT.
F/X: A BUSY RESTAURANT.
COOMBES: We'll start with the crispy duck and

watercress salad. Then the roasted cod fillet
for the lady and I'll have Dorset dressed
crab.
WAITER: Very good, Mr Coombes. Your usual wine?
COOMBES: Got it in one.
MISS HARDY: You won't let me eat too much, will you, Mr
Coombes? I don't want to end up back
where I started.
COOMBES: Don't worry about the calories, Miss Hardy.

I’ll help you burn them off.
MISS HARDY: Please call me Anna.
COOMBES: Anna.
MISS HARDY: And…?
COOMBES: What?
MISS HARDY: What should I call you?
COOMBES: Mr Coombes.
40
MISS HARDY: You must have a first name.
COOMBES: Lost in the mists of time. Even my ex-wives

call me Mr Coombes.
MISS HARDY: Ex-wives? How many have you got?
COOMBES: Three of the darling little parasites. Between

them they’ll take care of most of that million I
got from Beanpole Fortescue.
MISS HARDY: He's a wonderful man, isn't he?
COOMBES: He’s an opportunistic slime ball who’s made

a fortune from conning the general public
into believing there's a quick and easy route
to weight loss.
MISS HARDY: But there is a quick and easy route. I'm

proof of that.
COOMBES: My dear Miss Hardy - if that is indeed your

real name –
MISS HARDY: Please call me Anna.
COOMBES: Anna. If you'd had one tenth of the amount

of fat removed from you that you claim to
have done, you'd be tripping over your own
skin. And yet you don't even have stretch
41
marks. I doubt you've ever weighed an

ounce more than you do now.
I don’t know what Fortescue’s game is, but

I’m not falling for it.
MISS HARDY: He removed some of your fat. How do you

explain that?
COOMBES: He slipped me something to make my

stomach muscles tighten. As soon as it
wears off, my love handles will be back in all
their former glory.
MISS HARDY: So it's all a big con, is it?
COOMBES: It's simply not possible for a man to absorb

somebody else's fat like that. It doesn't
make sense.
MISS HARDY: And yet you bet Dr Murchison five hundred

pounds that it's true.
COOMBES: In the full expectancy that I will lose. Then I

can expose Fortescue for the snake oil
salesman he is and have the satisfaction of
seeing him put away.
F/X: MOBILE PHONE RINGING.
42
COOMBES: That’ll be Murchison with the lab results. Of

course, he's going to be unbearable now, but
I consider that a price worth paying.
Hello?
Steady there, Murchison. I didn't catch a

word of that. Say it again slowly.
Uh-uh. Yes. I see.
Now why would I do a thing like that?
There's no need for that sort of language.

And don't you dare hang up -
He hung up
MISS HARDY: I take it you’re now five hundred pounds

richer.
COOMBES: And in need of a very stiff drink.
43
FORTESCUE: Ah, Coombesy. Back already?
COOMBES: You should be in bed. I told you to take it

easy for a few days.
FORTESCUE: I can take it just as easy by this lovely

swimming pool as I can in my bed.
COOMBES: Where’s your skin?
FORTESCUE: It shrunk just as I told you it would. I’m a

little crinkly around the waist but I can put up
with that. Do help yourself to a drink.
MISS WHEELER: Shall I pour you one, Mr Coombes?
COOMBES: No thank you, Miss Wheeler. I'd like a word

with Charlie boy here.
FORTESCUE: Well do sit down old chap. These recliners

are amazingly comfortable.
COOMBES: I've had tests done on Anna Hardy.
FORTESCUE: And?
COOMBES: She's who she says she is. Which kind of

leaves me doubting my own sanity.
44
FORTESCUE: Yes, I know. I've been exactly where you are

now. It's all too fantastic for words, isn't it?
COOMBES: Experience has taught me that if things don’t

make sense it’s generally due to a lack of
data.
FORTESCUE: You want to know how I do what I do?
COOMBES: Exactly.
FORTESCUE: So do I. All I know is that whenever I touch

someone, my body absorbs their fat.
COOMBES: When did it start happening?
FORTESCUE: About six months ago. I’d opened a weight-

loss clinic in Hollywood and was doing very
well for myself. Thanks to my cutting-edge
treatments, I was Hollywood’s number one
fat-buster. The amount of money I earned
was frankly obscene.
COOMBES: I’m sure your conscience kept you awake

nights.
FORTESCUE: Not in the least. Anyway, to cut to the chase,

I suddenly found myself a whole lot less
popular than I used to be. There was a new
kid in town and he was poaching my
customers on a wholesale basis. His name
45
was Heston Willoughby. You may have

heard of him.
COOMBES: Author of ‘The Willoughby Diet’ and ‘Say

Goodbye to Fat Forever’?
FORTESCUE: That’s him.
COOMBES: He disappeared, didn’t he? Under

mysterious circumstances, I seem to recall.
FORTESCUE: Not mysterious to me. I know exactly what

became of him.
COOMBES: Don’t tell me you did him in.
FORTESCUE: You think me capable of murder?
COOMBES: He was stealing your livelihood. You must

have been rather miffed about it.
FORTESCUE: Believe it or not, I wasn’t. In a few short

years, I’d amassed quite a large fortune.
Plus I’d bought my clinic just as a property
boom came along. So even before I’d lost all
my customers, I was thinking about calling it
a day. The idea of buying an island in the
Caribbean appealed to me no end. But first I
had to satisfy my curiosity. What did
Willoughby have that I didn’t?
COOMBES: Customers.
46
FORTESCUE: My old clients avoided me out of

embarrassment but I couldn’t help but bump
into the odd one here and there. And the
change in some of them was amazing. I’m
talking about real porkers turning into
catwalk models over night. One of my last
patients walked out of my clinic for the final
time weighing seventeen stones. When I
saw her a week later, she was a size zero!
Whatever Willoughby was doing was
phenomenal!
The thing is, Coombes: nobody would tell me

what was going on. It was Hollywood’s
biggest secret. People kept their traps shut
for fear that Willoughby would refuse to treat
them.
I just had to know Willoughby’s secret or go

insane! So, one dark night, I broke into his
clinic. Can you imagine me doing anything
so sneaky?
COOMBES: Vividly.
FORTESCUE: It was too easy. I kept telling myself that as I

climbed the perimeter wall and snuck across
the lawn. There were no guards, no dogs. If
there were alarms, they stayed silent – even
when I forced open a window and climbed
through. And do you know what I found
47
inside? Bearing in mind this was the

foremost weight-lost clinic in the world?
Nothing! The place was empty. No

furniture. No machines. Not so much as a
bathroom scale. And it was dead silent – all
except for what I thought was the beating of
my heart.
F/X: A SLOW, RHYTHMIC PUMPING.
FORTESCUE: I was afraid. More afraid than I’d ever been.

Up until then, I’d assumed that whatever
Willoughby was doing was what I’d been
doing – only more so. But now…
You may laugh, Coombes, but it occurred to

me that Willoughby might be meddling in
matters best left alone. What if he was a
modern day Frankenstein? Or in league with
the devil?
I was about to leave when I realised that the

sound was coming from a room at the end of
a long, dark corridor. Curiosity overcame my
fear and I tip-toed through the darkness
towards the room.
F/X: THE SOUND GROWS LOUDER. IT IS
JOINED BY SOMETHING LIKE A GIANT
BELLOWS AND VARIOUS ELECTRONIC
48
PINGS AND BEEPS. IN OTHER WORDS,
THE SOUNDS COOMBES HEARD IN
FORTESCUE’S CELLAR – BUT MUTED.
FORTESCUE: I reached the door and stood there trembling.

Somehow I knew that what lay beyond would
change me forever. I wanted to run from that
room and erase the memory of it from my
mind. But I had to know Willoughby’s secret
even if it destroyed me. I had to!
So I pushed open the door!
F/X: THE NOISE IS SUDDENLY FULL-ON.
FORTESCUE: And there – amidst a fantastic array of

machinery and tubes - lay the ugliest, most
hideous travesty of a human being I ever
saw. It was the size of an elephant and
looked like a maggot. I shuddered when it
turned its bloated face towards me and said:
‘Ah, Fortescue. You’ve come at last.’
49
SCENE 10. WILLOUGHBY’S CLINIC - FLASHBACK
WILLOUGHBY: Heston Willoughby at your service.

Although, I fear, not for much longer. My
heart grows weaker by the second. The
strain on it is enormous and all this wonderful
machinery can only do so much.
Come closer, Fortescue, that I may lower my

voice. The exertion of shouting a single
syllable could be my undoing.
FORTESCUE: What have you done to yourself,

Willoughby?
WILLOUGHBY: I have made the ultimate sacrifice in the war

against obesity.
FORTESCUE: I don’t understand how you could let yourself

go like this when you possess the secret of
instant weight loss.
WILLOUGHBY: One man’s loss is another man’s gain.
FORTESCUE: This is some sort of trick! An illusion! You’re

messing with my head and I won’t stand for
it.
WILLOUGHBY: I am doing nothing. You came of your own

accord.
50
FORTESCUE: But you knew I would. This is what you

wanted.
WILLOUGHBY: Would you permit me to offer you a piece of

advice, Fortescue? Leave this place. Now!
Before it becomes your undoing.
FORTESCUE: I can’t. Not without the secret of instant

weight loss.
WILLOUGHBY: Then you will be cursed as I am cursed.
FORTESCUE: Will you share the secret with me?
WILLOUGHBY: Are you willing to pay the price?
FORTESCUE: Damn it, Willoughby! You know I am.
WILLOUGBY: Then come closer.
Closer than that.
Bend your head towards my mouth.
That’s it!
F/X: WILLOUGBY MAKES OBSCENE
SLURPING/SLOBBERY NOISES.
F/X: FORTESCUE GASPS. HE WHIMPERS IN
EVIDENT HORROR.
51
FORTESCUE: Stop it! That’s too horrible. I can’t take it!
No!
F/X: FORTESCUE SCREAMS. WILLOUGHBY
BELCHES.
WILLOUGHBY: At last, the curse is lifted. I need suffer no

more.
END FLASHBACK
52
FORTESCUE: With a groan like the creaking of old timbers,

Heston Willoughby breathed his last.
But even in death he was not done with me.

What happened next was too ghastly – too
hideous… No. It’s no use. I can’t bring
myself to describe it.
COOMBES: Oh come on, Fortescue. You can’t leave me

dangling like this.
FORTESCUE: It is best you don’t know what happened to

Heston Willoughby.
COOMBES: So help me, unless you tell me, I – well, I

don’t know what I’ll do but it won’t be
pleasant.
FORTESCUE: Very well then; on your head be it.
Heston Willoughby melted before my very

eyes. His flesh turned to liquid and crept
across the floor. The last I saw of him, he
was disappearing down a drain.
And that’s why they never found Heston

Willoughby.
COOMBES: You shouldn’t have told me. Now I’m going

to have nightmares.
53
FORTESCUE: I thought that was the end of it, that Heston

Willoughby had taken the secret of instant
weight loss to the grave. But I was wrong.
He’d passed his gift on to me.
COOMBES: I thought you said it was a curse?
FORTESCUE: It was Willoughby who said it was a curse,

not I.
I have been given the opportunity to serve

humanity, to redeem myself for the many
sins I have committed in the past. I am not
cursed, Mr Coombes. I am blessed.
54
SCENE 12. CHURCH
VICAR: Do you Francis Albert Coombes take this

woman, Anna Christina Hardy, to be your
lawfully wedded wife?
COOMBES: I do.
VICAR: And do you Anna Christina Hardy take

Francis Albert Coombes to be your lawfully
wedded husband?
MISS HARDY: I do.
VICAR: I now pronounce you man and wife. You

may kiss the bride.
MUSIC: CHURCH ORGAN PLAYING THE BRIDAL
CHORUS. FADES.
55
CONCRETE FLOOR.
COOMBES: (CHEERILY) Good morning, Nurse.
NURSE: (HURRIEDLY) Mr Coombes! I meant Mr.
COOMBES: Mr? Dr? What does it matter? A rose by

any other name…

Mills to Ward 3.
56
F/X: A DOOR OPENS AND CLOSES.
COOMBES: Good morning, Wilson.
WILSON: If you say so, Mr Coombes.
COOMBES: Oh cheer up. Life can’t be that bad. Why

don’t you ask me how my honeymoon went?
WILSON: It obviously went very well.
COOMBES: My best honeymoon ever! Ah, that coffee

smells great. Would you care for a cup?
WILSON: I’d rather drink my own bathwater.
COOMBES: Now what do I have here? Oh look: an aortic

aneurysm - my favourite kind. And a
cholecystectomy. Haven’t done one of those
in ages.
It’s so good to be back.
F/X: PHONE RINGS. COOMBES PICKS IT UP.
COOMBES: Camford General. Surgical consultants’

office. How may I help you?
MISS WHEELER: (FILTERED) Mr Coombes?
57
COOMBES: Speaking.
MISS WHEELER: (FILTERED) This is Miss Wheeler. Dr

Fortescue is in grave danger. He needs your
help.
COOMBES: No can do, Miss Wheeler. I’m a busy man.

Perhaps you should phone 999?
MISS WHEELER: (FILTERED) They keep on coming. I can do

nothing to stop them. They’re killing him.
COOMBES: Who’s killing him?
FORTESCUE: (FILTERED) The fat people. They won’t

leave him alone.
No! Get back in line. Get back, you fat

fiends! Back, I say!
F/X: CLICK. RING TONE.
COOMBES: It seems like Charlie boy’s bitten off more

than he can chew. You know the drill,
Wilson.
WILSON: (RESIGNEDLY) Fine. What did your mother

die from this time?
58
SCENE 15. AMBULANCE
F/X: AMBULANCE RACING ALONG, SIREN
BLARING. THE OCCASSIONAL
SCREECH OF TYRES.
AMBULANCE DRIVER: You know, Mr Coombes, I could get the sack

for this. I’m only meant to go out on orders
from the dispatch office.
COOMBES: Tish! You’re here for medical emergencies

and this is a medical emergency.
AMBULANCE DRIVER: All the same, I’d feel happier if you let me
call it in.
COOMBES: No time for that. And keep your foot on that

pedal. If people won’t get out of your way,
that’s their look-out.
AMBULANCE DRIVER: What if I hit someone?
COOMBES: Pick them up on the way back.
59
SCENE 16. AMBULANCE/APPROACHING ROCHDALE HOUSE
F/X: A LARGE, UNRULY CROWD BORDERING
ON THE RIOTOUS. POLICE SIRENS. A
HELICOPTER. THE BEEPING OF A HORN
AS THE AMBULANCE EDGES THROUGH
THE THRONG.
AMBULANCE DRIVER: Come on! Move it!
COOMBES: Get out of the way, you great tub of lard!
AMBULANCE DRIVER: I’ve never seen so many fat people. There

must be thousands of them. Where have
they all come from?
COOMBES: (SHOUTING) Officer! What the hell’s going

on?
POLICE OFFICER: (SHOUTING) Some idiot started a rumour on

the Internet. Said there was instant weight
loss for free at the fat farm over there.
COOMBES: (SHOUTING) We need to get through. Can

you clear a path for us?
POLICE OFFICER: (SHOUTING) Not until the riot squad gets

here.
60
AMBULANCE DRIVER: Then that’s it, Mr Coombes. Might as well go

back. You’d need a helicopter to get past
this lot.
COOMBES: Order me an air ambulance.
AMBULANCE DRIVER: Oh no, Mr C. There’s no way I’m going to do that.

No way you can make me.
61
SCENE 17. HELICOPTER / ROCHDALE HOUSE
F/X: HELICOPTER. CROWD SOUNDS.
SIRENS. THE HELICOPTER TOUCHES
DOWN.
COOMBES: (SHOUTING) OK, boys. I can take it from

here.
F/X: HELICOPTER TAKES OFF AGAIN.
FADES INTO THE DISTANCE.
MISS WHEELER: Mr Coombes! Thank heavens you made it.

They’re killing him. I’ve begged Dr
Fortescue to send them away but he won’t
hear of it. That man just gives and gives and
soon he’ll have given everything.
COOMBES: Where is he?
MISS WHEELER: In the cellar. This way.
COOMBES: Gangway! Mind your backs! Surgeon

coming through.
FAT PERSON#1: Oi! There’s a queue. You wait your turn.
COOMBES: Out of my way, Fatso!
Breath in, everybody! Make room for a

little’un.
62
Excuse me, Madam, but at least three of

your stomachs are in my way.
MISS WHEELER: Come on, people! What have I told you

about blocking the doorway?
FAT PERSON #2: When are we going to get to see this

Fortescue geezer? We’ve been waiting
hours.
FAT PERSON #3: And how about some food? I’m starving.
MISS WHEELER: Dr Fortescue is resting. He’ll see you as

soon as he can – provided you behave
yourselves!
63
SCENE 18. ROCHDALE HOUSE, LIFT/CELLAR
F/X: LIFT DESCENDING.
MISS WHEELER: Actually, Dr Fortescue can’t possibly see

anyone else today – if ever. But I don’t dare
announce it for fear of starting a riot.
Since word got out about Dr Fortescue’s

work, just about every fat person in the
country is either here or on their way. He’s
already slimmed over a hundred people
today. He can’t possibly do any more
without killing himself.
FX: LIFT HALTS. PING! DOORS OPEN.
FORTESCUE: Is that you, Miss Wheeler?
MISS WHEELER: Mr Coombes is with me.
FORTESCUE: I told you he’d come. Wouldn’t let an old

mate down, would you, Coombesy?
COOMBES: My god, Beanpole! You’re the size of a killer

whale!
FORTESCUE: So many fat people; so much fat.
COOMBES: There are thousands of porkers out there.

It’s turning into a riot.
64
MISS WHEELER: They’re going to have to send in the army.
FORTESCUE: No! Not in my name. I wish to serve my

fellow man. Let them come, Miss Wheeler.
Let them come.
COOMBES: I hate to be blunt, Fortescue, but you should

be dead. What happened to your machines?
Not that they’d be much good to you now.
FORTESCUE: I had them removed. They were taking up

too much room.
COOMBES: I’m going to have to operate immediately.
FORTESCUE: Forget it, Coombes. You can’t save me.

Nobody can. But that’s OK. Let my death
serve as a warning to the world and an
inspiration to fat people everywhere. Tell the
lard-arses of Britain: Charles Fortescue died
for your sins.
MISS WHEELER: But you’re not going to die, Charlie! You’re

not!
FORTESCUE: I must, Miss Wheeler. It is my destiny.
MISS WHEELER: No!
65
F/X: A CROWD HAMMERING REPEATEDLY
ON A LOCKED DOOR. ANGRY CRIES.
WOOD SPLINTERING.
MISS WHEELER: They’ve found the fire exit! It’s not going to
hold!
F/X: A WILD CHEER AS THE DOOR GIVES
AND THE MOB STREAMS IN.
MISS WHEELER: Keep away from him! Don’t touch him!
FORTESCUE: Ah yes, come to me, my chubby children.

Let me take the weight from you. Believe in
me and you shall see your toes again.
F/X: A MINI STAMPEDE. PEOPLE COMING TO
BLOWS. MULTIPLE SLURPING SOUNDS.
FAT PERSON#4: I’m thin! It works! It works!
MISS WHEELER: Get away, you blubber-bods! Leave him

alone! Can’t you see you’re killing him?
COOMBES: It’s no use, Miss Wheeler. He’s inflating like

a balloon. We have to get out of here before
we get crushed.
MISS WHEELER: Oh Charlie! My sweet Charlie!
66
COOMBES: Miss Wheeler! Pull yourself together or

we’re going to die. What’s through that
door?
MISS WHEELER: A service tunnel. It leads to the wine cellar.
COOMBES: Hang on to my arm.
MISS WHEELER: But we’ll never make it. Not with all these
stomachs in the way.
COOMBES: We have to try!
F/X: COOMBES AND MISS WHEELER GROAN
AND GRUNT AS THEY STRUGGLE
THROUGH A FOREST OF FAT.
COOMBES: That’s it, Miss Wheeler! Just one more belly

to negotiate.
F/X: A DOOR IS THROWN OPEN AND SLAMS
AGAINST A WALL.
67
SCENE 19. ROCHDALE HOUSE, SERVICE TUNNEL
F/X: THE MOB FIGHTING TO GET TO
FORTESCUE. COOMBES AND MISS
WHEELER PANT HEAVILY AS THEY
REGAIN THEIR BREATH.
MISS WHEELER: I thought I was going to suffocate.
COOMBES: My whole life flashed before my eyes.

Twice.
MISS WHEELER: All that flesh! And sweat! And body odour!
COOMBES: Come on, Miss Wheeler. Let’s get out of

here.
MISS WHEELER: But Dr Fortescue –
COOMBES: There’s nothing we can do for him now.
F/X: AN OMINOUS RUMBLING.
MISS WHEELER: What is it? What’s happening?
F/X: THE BUILDING CREAKS AND GROANS.
MASONRY COMES CRASHING DOWN.
COOMBES: An earthquake! Come on! Let’s go! This

whole house is about to fall down.
68
F/X: RUNNING FEET. BUILDING SHAKING.
MORE FALLING MASONRY – BIGGER
PIECES NOW. THERE IS A HUGE GROAN
AS THE CEILING GIVES WAY.
COOMBES: Look out!
F/X: MISS WHEELER SCREAMS.
F/X: AN ALMIGHTY CRASH! AND THEN
SILENCE.
69
SCENE 20. ROCHESTER HOUSE, LAWN
F/X: FADE IN: SOUND OF A MOB. SIRENS. A
HELICOPTER. ALL FAIRLY DISTANT.
MISS WHEELER: Mr Coombes. Can you hear me?
COOMBES: (BLEARILY) Where am I? What happened?
MISS WHEELER: You took a nasty knock back there. I had to

carry you out.
COOMBES: You saved my life. Thank you.
MISS WHEELER: Don’t try to stand up just yet. You’re still

concussed.
COOMBES: The house! It’s collapsed.
MISS WHEELER: Nobody in the cellar could have survived.

But look: still they crawl over the ruins,
digging into the rubble with their bare hands.
Don’t they realise its over? Charlie can’t
help them now.
F/X: GROANING. RUMBLING. DISTANT
SCREAMS.
COOMBES: Now what?
70
MISS WHEELER: The house – it’s sinking!
COOMBES: No wonder! Fortescue must weigh a

thousand tons. The ground can’t hold him.
MISS WHEELER: The Earth is swallowing him whole!
F/X: AN ALMIGHTY GROAN. A GREAT
CRASH. A DEAFENING RUMBLE. AND
THEN SILENCE.
COOMBES: It’s gone.
MISS WHEELER: And so is Charlie.
COOMBES: And all those deluded fat people who thought

they were being saved.
MISS WHEELER: Do you think there will be other Charlie

Fortescues, Mr Coombes?
COOMBES: I hope not, Miss Wheeler. I hope not.
THE END
71

Instant Weight Loss - A Radio Play

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Patrick Whittaker Instant Weight Loss

An Original Radio Drama

INSTANT WEIGHT LOSS

SCENE 1. HOSPITAL CORRIDOR

F/X: THE SUBDUED CACOPHONY OF A BUSY

HOSPITAL. BRISK, EFFICIENT

FOOTSTEPS: EXPENSIVE SHOES ON A

NURSE: Good morning, Dr Coombes.

COOMBES: Mr Coombes, Nurse. I’m a surgeon.

TANNOY: (FILTERED) Dr Mills to Ward 3, please. Dr

SCENE 2. SURGICAL CONSULTANTS’ OFFICE

F/X: A DOOR OPENS AND CLOSES.

WILSON: Good morning, Mr Coombes.

COOMBES: Says who?

WILSON: Now don’t be like that. Spring’s finally

COOMBES: Shut up, Wilson, and fix me a coffee.

WILSON: The pot's over there. Freshly brewed.

COOMBES: Black no sugar.

WILSON: No disrespect, Mr Coombes, but I'm a junior

COOMBES: I'm in the middle of writing your appraisal.

WILSON: One coffee coming up.

COOMBES: No. On my desk. Six case files.

F/X: FILE BEING DROPPED ON DESK.

F/X: FILE BEING DROPPED ON DESK.

F/X: FILE BEING DROPPED ON DESK.

F/X: FILE BEING DROPPED ON DESK.

F/X: FILE BEING DROPPED ON DESK.

F/X: FILE BEING DROPPED ON DESK.

They expect me to do six operations in one

WILSON: Well, if anyone can...

COOMBES: Just fix my coffee, Wilson. I’ll let you know

F/X: COOMBES SMACKS HIS LIPS.

COOMBES: My tongue needs a shave.

WILSON: Late night last night?

COOMBES: Dinner at my club. Fine port. Fine brandy.

WILSON: One coffee in your favourite chipped mug.

F/X: COOMBES SLURPS.

COOMBES: Tastes like mud. Where's my gastric band?

WILSON: (PUZZLED) Beg pardon, Mr Coombes?

COOMBES: According to these files, my caseload today

WILSON: Miss Hardy. She rang a few days ago to

COOMBES: Doesn’t need it? Have you seen the size of

WILSON: They were contacted right after Miss Hardy

WILSON: They went to her flat and she wasn't there.

COOMBES: Nonsense. She can't even get out of bed let

WILSON: Checked and double checked. Her GP’s

COOMBES: Why wasn't I informed?

WILSON: Do you recall what you said you'd do to

COOMBES: Imaginative, wasn't it?

WILSON: We've filed a missing persons report.

COOMBES: There are only two man-made objects visible

F/X: PHONE RINGS.

COOMBES: If that’s for me, I'm not here.

F/X: WILSON PICKS UP THE PHONE.

WILSON: Camford General. Surgical consultants’

Yes, he's here. I'll pass you over to him.

COOMBES: What did I tell you?

WILSON: It's Miss Hardy.

COOMBES: Give me that phone.

Miss Hardy? What the devil are you playing

Yes, well when you qualify as a surgeon

assure you that without this operation you