ROSS: For Christ’s sake, go in there and have a look, Sarge!

SIMMONDS shrugs and walks into the kitchen. He comes back with a worried look on his face.

SIMMONDS: [angry] What’d you do to him?

ROSS: [scared] Is he dead?

SIMMONDS: He’s pretty bloody white. What in the hell did you do to him?

ROSS: [agitated] I lost control.

SIMMONDS: What in the hell did you do? Hit him when he was down?

ROSS: No.

SIMMONDS: You didn’t kick him, did you? You didn’t kick him in the head?

ROSS: No. I never kicked.

SIMMONDS: But you hit him when he was down, didn’t you?

ROSS: I might have. I lost control.

SIMMONDS: You idiot, Ross. You never hit a head that hasn’t got some freedom of movement. For Christ’s sake. Don’t you know anything?

ROSS: Is he dead?

SIMMONDS: Well, he’s looking pretty white.

ROSS: Why didn’t you feel his pulse?

SIMMONDS: Because I came out to find out what you did to him.

ROSS: Well, for Christ’s sake, go and feel his pulse.

SIMMONDS: Don’t order me around, boy.

ROSS: Go and feel his pulse.

SIMMONDS: I tell you what, Ross. You’ll go, if he’s dead. I can’t help you much if he’s dead.

ROSS: [wildly] We could make it look like he committed suicide.

SIMMONDS: [talking fast and sternly] What? Why in the hell would we say that? To protect you? Drag myself in to protect you? Do you think we’d get away—look, his wife, the sister, the removalist—do you honestly think we’d get away with a thing like that? Headquarters may be pretty dense, but I tell you what, I’m not sticking my neck out to cover up for your mistakes, Ross—your bloody lack of control. What’s the training school sending out these days? Punchies? Too much adrenalin or something?

ROSS: [hysterical] They’d believe it, Sarge. He’s had a hell of a day. You’d have to admit that. Wife walks out on him without a word of warning. Takes his television and his fridge. Just imagine if it happened to you, Sarge. Just imagine. It’d hit you right in the gut, wouldn’t it? I mean to say, he had no bloody warning, the poor bastard. Did the right thing by his wife in bed the night before, loves his daughter, and we didn’t even let him see the end of the movie he was watchin’. I tell you he’s had a bad day. If I was him, I’d be thinkin’ of the best way to kick it right now!

SIMMONDS: [pushing him away, starting to show signs of panic himself] You’re mad, Ross. You’ve gone right off. Do you think anyone commits suicide by beating himself to death? Gets all depressed and starts swingin’ uppercuts at himself? You’re in the shit I’m afraid, Ross. There’s no two ways about it and it isn’t going to help you one little bit to lose your head and come up with crazy stuff like that. You’re in real strife, boy, and I’m afraid—