Cut to Orton and Halliwell running. Halliwell takes off his wig to run more easily. They eventually slow down. Halliwell puts on his wig again. They have come back to the Arts Theatre. They look up at the neon sign: ‘ENTERTAINING MR SLOANE WRITTEN BY JOE ORTON’. HALLIWELL Thank you.

ORTON   Thank you. (He checks no one is looking, then kisses him.)

INT. ORTON AND HALLIWELL’S FLAT. DAY. 1967.

Orton is sitting at his desk, above which is a collage made by Halliwell of the notices and comments on Loot.

ORTON   My second play Loot is a bigger hit than my first. It’s also a better play. And it is the critics’ choice: Best Play of the Year. The film rights have been sold for a record figure. Currently I am working on a screenplay for four boys who are nudging Jesus Christ for position of Number One Most Famous Person Ever. But have I met these fabled creatures? Have I met their manager. Miss Brian Epstein? Have I been paid? No. Then why am I doing it?

HALLIWELL   Vanity.

ORTON   Answer supplied by the envious queen with whom I share what is laughably called my life. Well, I’m going to jack it in, Beatles or no Beatles. What I would like to do at this moment would be to ease down their Liverpudlian underpants and ram my Remington up their arses. The lovable mopheads.

HALLIWELL   What about me?

ORTON   What about you?

HALLIWELL   I can’t remember when you last touched my cock. Well, I can actually, it was about two years ago, only I don’t know the actual date. Pity. If you’d said, ‘Ken, this is the last time I’m going to touch your cock,’ I could’ve done something to mark the occasion. Cracked a bottle of champagne, maybe, or put in my diary, ‘The last time Joe touched my cock. Grouse shooting begins.’

ORTON   Maybe we should go away. Somewhere there’s plenty of sex. And I don’t mean Southport. Somewhere even you might be happy. Morocco maybe. What do you think?

HALLIWELL   I don’t want to go away. I just want to go to the awards. I could. Look. (Shows him the invitation.) ‘Joe Orton and Guest.’ I’d behave. I wouldn’t say a word. Promise.

ORTON   No.

HALLIWELL   Why?

ORTON   Because it’s for me. I wrote it.

HALLIWELL   I gave you the title.

ORTON   OK. So when they have awards for titles you can go to that.
Halliwell launches himself at Orton with a carving knife.
Jesus!
They wrestle. The telephone rings.

HALLIWELL   Yes? No. This is Mr Orton’s personal assistant. No. He’s tied up at this moment. (His tone changes.) Oh, I see. Yes. Yes. Thank you. (to Orton) Paul McCartney is calling to see you. He’s on his way now.