End Times (Prologue)
It is a busy Saturday in the middle of the Brighton Fringe (that’s a stretch of imagination, isn’t it!). Punters emerge from fringe shows, comedians gigs and countless hipster pop-up bars, only to find that fringe city is in the midst of an emergency. Sirens blast warning signals. Casualties line the streets, clutching their eyes and nursing burns. Cars are crashed and roads are blocked. Emergency services can’t get through.
Stunned and shaken, you retreat back inside the venue. Someone has the BBC news on their phone, and you lean over their shoulder to watch as Jeremy Paxman implores you to stay indoors and keep the windows closed. Help is on the way, he says, please remain calm. They cut to images of army helicopters taking off, of cabinet ministers being hurried into police cars, blue lights flashing. Jeremy’s voice is serious as he says “We are hearing reports of multiple casualties on the South coast of England. Emergency services are responding. Please remain calm. We will bring you…”. The iplayer app crashes and there is a collective cry of dismay. Other people start trying to get wifi, or 4G – EVEN 3G – signal, but there’s nothing now. People are calling – trying to call – loved ones. Some get through, shouting into handsets, begging to know if everybody is ok.
Then the banging starts, on the doors, on the windows. The scraping of desperate fingernails down unyielding window panes. “Please!”, they shout, “Please, let us in”. You turn to the venue manager – the one holding the keys for the door. This terrified looking 20-something, who was until 10 minutes ago just a graduate whose biggest existential crisis was the slow realisation that the degree in Creative Producing for Contemporary Theatre had been a massive mistake. With a shaking hand, they move towards the door. The key in the lock, they turn to look at you, imploring you to relieve them of this monumental responsibility. Almost before you know it, you’re shaking your head. The venue manager crumples like a piece of discarded junk mail, until they’re foetal on the floor. Nothing they learned at drama school prepared them for this. You’re retrieving the key from the lock. It’s in your pocket. The others look at you differently now – monster or saviour? You’re not sure yourself. You bury your head in your hands and try to block out the banging… banging… banging.
Time. Passes.
Days pass, perhaps 3…maybe 4? You’re not sure. It would have been easier if someone had been wearing a watch, but everybody tells the time on their phone now, don’t they? The venue manager had pulled the theatrical blacks back a little on one of the windows. But even day and night had seemed to have deserted you, replaced by a dull ashen cloud which deadened the daylight to a sullen grey glow. Occasionally a beam of light from a torch would cut through the gloom, then the same whispered argument would rage, about whether to open up the door and reach out for help, or stay hidden. Ultimately, we’ve all watched enough disaster movies to know that opening the door is usually a very bad idea. You, with the keys, are resolute and unyielding. They accept your decision, secretly glad that the decision is made on their behalf.
More. Time. Passes.
It is only when all the alcohol and fentimans lemonade and crisps and artisanal nuts are finished in the venue bar that the murmurs of discontent begin to grow louder. Stir crazy and sober, there is a collective realisation that the rescuers are not going to come. You cut long strips from the theatrical blacks, then wrap the thick fabric over your face and around your head, tucking it into your collar. You know it will likely be feeble protection from the heavy grey air, but you are thankful for it nonetheless. You open the door tentatively and step out onto The Old Steine.
It’s not much of a plan – to get up out of the city and walk along the A23. Maybe find some other survivors? Police or the army? Surely there are others? You walk along London Road, past MacDonalds and Costa and Poundland – all eerily quiet. As you trudge on through Preston Circus, you hear the unmistakable sound of machine gun fire, and you see a sinister red glow along past Preston Park. Terrified, you veer off to the right, past the Duke of York Picturehouse with its smashed windows and looted kiosk. You run up the hill, blood pumping, ashen air burning your lungs.
A figure appears from a doorway and beckons you to follow. You only hesitate for a moment before you run after them…
This is the opening prologue from End Times, a dystopian interactive installation at the Brighton Fringe 2019 by neuoroqueer writer Sea Shucksmith, who participated in Creative Future Represented in 2023.
