ORTON   Piss off.
Halliwell seizes the typewriter and throws it off the balcony.
You stupid nutter.
A boy watches, horrified.

HALLIWELL   When we get back to London we’re finished. This is the end.

ORTON   Why don’t you add, ‘I’m going back to mother.’

HALLIWELL   That’s the kind of line that makes your plays ultimately worthless.
The boy is speechless.

ORTON   (wearily) He’s waiting to be paid.
The boy looks at Orton.
Actually he’s rather sweet. I think I shall retire to lick my wounds, (taking the boy’s hand) Or have them licked for me.
Halliwell weeps.

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

The door is pushed back. Orton comes in, picks up the pile of mail behind the door. He turns on the light, puts his case down and starts opening his letters. Halliwell comes in with cases and a bottle of milk.

HALLIWELL   You might open the curtains. This place stinks.

(He opens the window, then takes the milk into the kitchen.)

ORTON   That’s good. Peggy’s sold the Beatles script to someone else. I get paid twice over apparently.
Halliwell bangs something down in the kitchen. Orton registers this, but goes on.
The Observer would like to interview me.
Another bang.
And Vogue wonders if I’d be interested in modelling some clothes. So much for the holiday.

HALLIWELL   What?

ORTON   I take you away for four weeks. We come back and you’re still the same miserable, jealous bitch you were before we went. Have you got them out? You have, haven’t you. I know you.
Orton gets up and Halliwell tries to hide the bottle of pills he has taken from the cupboard.

HALLIWELL   Joe.

ORTON   Come on. Do your act. Count them out.
He sets out the pills. Halliwell tries to get at them, but Orton holds him off.
How many is it, the fatal dose? Twelve, is it? One, two, three.

HALLIWELL   I’ll do it one of these days, you’ll see.

ORTON   You never have so far, ducky.
He hurls a tablet across the room.
Fetch. Fetch.
Halliwell chases it.
And another.
The telephone rings.
Answer that.

HALLIWELL   No.

ORTON   Answer it.

HALLIWELL   Yes. Hello, Leonie. Yes, very nice, thank you. Hold on.

ORTON   Hello. When was this? Does that mean there’ll have to be a funeral? Shit. (He looks at his watch. He puts the phone down.) My mother’s dead.

HALLIWELL   Oh. Joe. I know what it’s like. My whole life changed when my mother died. I’m sorry.

ORTON   I’m not. (He starts getting ready.) And while I’m away you should see a doctor. A proper doctor. You’re sick.

INT. FAYHURST ROAD. DAY. 1967.