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[beeping]
[Kirstie] It's 3:00 p.m. on Friday,
the 3rd of June, and I'm Kirstie Gower.
Our first guest today is the only novelist
ever to win both the Dunlop Prize
and the Harris Grant for Young Writers in one year.
The author of the breakout fiction hit of the season,
Tales from the M62 Corridor,
he comes from Sheffield, and his name is Mark Smithson.
Welcome to Arts Review, Mark.
[Mark] Thank you. Thanks for having me.
[Kirstie] So, how has it felt being thrust
into the limelight quite so quickly?
[Mark] I mean, it's not like I'm J.K. Rowling or anything,
but you know, the prizes are nice.
The money is nice, but where I'm from,
people don't let you get big ideas for long.
[Kirstie] But most writers toil for years in obscurity
before-- if ever-- they become famous.
Are you at all worried that success has come
- early for you? - [Mark] I am now, Kirstie.
[Kirstie] [laughs] Well, you seem pretty relaxed to me.
Now, The Book of Tales has been credited
with creating a new genre dubbed, "kitchen sink horror",
and has spawned a number of imitators.
- How do you feel about that? - [Mark] Oof, uh, flattered.
Confused. Worried. Not necessarily in that order.
It's odd when the world gets hold of something
that used to live in your head.
[Kirstie] Your next book, Suburban Topiary,
is slated for release in the autumn.
- It's another great title. - [Mark] Well, thanks.
[Kirstie] Will it also be kitchen sink horror?
[Mark] The hope is it's doing some new things,
but its DNA is the same as Tales.
[Kirstie] It's in the can, then?
[Mark] It will be soon, despite my best efforts.
- [Kirstie chuckling] - [high-pitched beep]
[key clicking]
[car engine rumbling in the distance]
[Mark sighing]
[light thud]
[light switches flicking]
[footsteps scuffling]
[cord slapping]
[clattering] [high-pitched beep]
[Kirstie] Now, one final question.
It's a cliché to ask,
but I can see from our texts and emails
that many listeners are wondering the same thing.
Where does Mark Smithson get his ideas from?
[Mark] Well...
creating a story is like lighting a beacon, Kirstie.
- A fire in the night. - [Sarah] Hello!
[Mark] You have to wait a while,
but eventually your characters will come out
from the darkness and take their seats around it.
[Sarah gasping]
[Mark] Some of them are lonely, some lost.
Some of them just want to be warm.
Eventually, you start to make out their faces
in the fire lights, and the stories behind them.
- [Sarah sawing cord] - [Mark] And then--
well, it sounds weird, but they...
[Sarah sawing cord and panting]
[Mark] ...then they start to talk to one another.
- [Mark] And pretty soon-- - [Sarah] Come on!
- [Mark] - -it's not your story anymore.
- [Sarah] Come on! - [sawing cord]
[body thudding to the floor]
[Mark] It's theirs.
[ominous orchestral instrumental]
♪
[parking brake creaking]
♪
[heavy item sliding and banging]
[Mark grunting]
[Sarah] Is this him?
[bird chirping]
Yeah. That's Harry.
- So, he was your... - [Mark] Great uncle.
- Is that his wife? - [Mark] Oh, he never married.
That's, uh... his sister, Edna.
Now I know where you get your looks from.
I hardly knew him.
I can't work out why he left me the place.
[Sarah] Joys of a small family.
[fireplace door creaking]
It's going to be a lot of work, isn't it?
Hey, look at this.
[pages rustling]
"Dear Harry, this was the line grandad Mack worked on
for a year at Ribblehead.
Maybe fuel for your muse? Love, Edna."
- Edna from the picture? - I guess so.
Muse... Did Harry write?
Never showed me if he did.
- [book snapping shut] - [both giggling]
[ominous orchestral instrumental]
[Mark] That'll dry out.
I was thinking of writing in here.
[object creaking]
♪
[Mark exhaling slowly]
[Sarah] You all right?
♪
- [quiet buzzing] - We'll get rid of it.
You know what, don't bother. We'll have people around.
It doesn't need to be here.
It's... been six months.
It doesn't need not to be here.
[ominous buzzing]
[papers rustling]
[quiet, ominous instrumental]
[Sarah sighing deeply]
♪
[footsteps quietly thudding]
[light switch clicks]
[glasses clink]
♪
[light switch clicking]
Made you one.
Thanks.
Good luck today.
You know what to do if it doesn't come.
Well, there is only so much exercise one man can do
before he becomes a wanker.
There's a club with trampy alkies trying to stay sober.
- [Mark laughing] - [Sarah] You'll make friends.
That's the last thing any of us want.
[Sarah] I've gotta go.
Bye.
[footsteps thudding]
[ominous orchestral instrumental]
♪
[paper crackling]
♪
[keys jingling]
[cows mooing]
[eerie orchestral instrumental]
♪
[rocks crunching under footsteps]
♪
[keyboard clacking]
[Mark] Hundreds of men, women, and children
labored in a remote valley in service
of a Victorian dream of the future.
But it was not their dream,
and it was not to be their future.
[Sarah] Hello.
Hi!
[Mark sighing]
[keyboard clacking]
Hi.
♪
[Mark hammering]
[exhaling sharply]
[hammering]
I think I found something.
- What? Your burner? - What? No, a story.
Well, that's good.
That's great.
What is it?
Ribblehead.
There's this... sense of place that--
I don't know, it's hard to talk about.
Hey.
I'm really pleased, Mark.
[quiet, ominous music]
Hey.
[giggling]
So, what's next?
Well...
...next is research, try and find a way in.
[crunching]
[quiet clattering]
[ominous rumbling music]
- What is it? - It's a nail.
Good spot. Maybe it was on its last legs as it is.
- [Mark] Did you see that though? - What?
I swear it just...
[sighs] It doesn't matter.
- Mark. - Honestly, it's nothing.
Well, I was thinking about one like this just now,
and then it just...
So?
Maybe you conjured it from thin air.
Or maybe a magpie dropped it.
[ominous orchestral instrumental]
[Mark] Dear Edna,
I hope you don't mind my writing to you
out of the blue like this.
You may remember your brother Harry left me his house.
In going through his things I found a book from you
about the railway, which I know Mack worked on.
I'm thinking of writing something about it
and was wondering if there's anything
you can tell me about him,
anything at all you think might be interesting.
I hope this finds you in good health.
All the best, your great nephew... Mark.
[ominous orchestral instrumental]
[heavy breathing]
[nail clanging]
[inhaling deeply]
♪
[footsteps thudding]
♪
[Mark groaning]
♪
[clinking]
Right, I'm off.
[Mark] Okay, bye.
Don't forget about the exhibition.
Okay.
[sighing]
♪
[car engine starting]
[gravel crunching]
♪
[birds chirping]
♪
[wind rustling bushes]
♪
Hello. One for the exhibition, please.
[receptionist] Two pound, please.
Sure it's not a shilling?
[coins rattling]
[Mark] One. Two. Any good?
Exhibition's upstairs.
[stairs creaking with footsteps]
[footsteps creaking]
[soft, foreboding orchestral instrumental]
♪
[music getting louder]
♪
[music intensifies]
[wind gusting distantly]
[flame whooshing and crackling]
[music abruptly stopping]
[mysterious orchestral instrumental]
[dishes clanging]
I'm really pleased you're writing again, Mark.
- But it does make me worry. - About what?
[sighs] Tales dropped out of a fog of booze.
You've been blocked for months,
and now you're telling me you're writing again,
and I'm out all day, and...
Did you smell booze on me this morning?
No.
Do you think there's any way that I could drink
- without you smelling it? - Mark, we're not in court.
We always start from a place of trust--
I do trust you, just...
[sharp exhale] Don't ever lie to me, okay?
It's even more important out here.
The last time I did that, I almost died.
[quiet, ominous orchestral instrumental]
With Tales, the booze worked.
But then it stopped.
So, I stopped.
- Okay. - Okay?
Okay.
♪
[Mark breathing heavily]
[Sarah] It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay.
It's okay, I'm here. We're here.
[whispering] It's okay. It's okay.
♪
[Mark exhaling]
[birds chirping]
[objects clattering softly]
[footsteps thudding]
[mysterious orchestral instrumental]
[Edna] Mark.
Cliché forbids me from saying that I last remember you
as a babe in arms, but there we are.
When so many have forgotten, the memory persists.
Yes, Mack worked on the first section.
He and Clara died in the shanties
and were buried at the church in the valley.
But I never knew more than that
Funnily enough,
Harry had also started to research Mack's life,
but gave up the project shortly before he died.
He never told me why.
I assumed it was because he could find no records.
Brother George, your grandfather,
lost the family papers after ruining himself with drink.
We were always determined not to visit the sins of the father
Hence, Harry leaving you the house.
I have nothing to leave you other than me blessings,
and a request to read whatever it is that you finally write.
Yours in fond remembrance...
...Edna.
One of the navvies who worked on the line, I guess.
John Stills.
- Mark... Smithson. - Ah.
He was my great-great-grandfather.
Would there be any sort of record of how he died?
I think that would be a matter
for the parish register.
Ah, looks like we're just a minute away from drizzle. Tea?
[rain pouring in background]
Brewed via wind power.
[John groaning]
Now, if, uh, you'll be mother: pour the tea.
Let's see... what we can find out.
[tea pouring]
Why did so many of them drown in mud?
Well, when it rained, the boulder clay
turned to liquid and would flash flood the cuttings.
Ah, Smith... Smith... Smithson.
Clara and Mackenzie.
Ah, cause of death for both is unknown, I'm afraid.
[Mark] Was that normal?
Ah well, I think these cases were referred to the, uh--
the district coroner.
Why would they do that?
I don't think I know the answer to that.
But I know a man who does. [chuckling]
The town secretary has all the old civic records
for the parishes hereabouts.
So, if you give me your phone number,
I can find out and let you know.
- [paper shuffling] - Thank you so much.
It's a pleasure. It may take a few days.
So. Go well.
[relaxing piano music]
[bicycle spokes clicking]
♪
[Mark sighing]
♪
[air hissing]
[ominous piano music]
[thunder rumbling]
♪
[Mark sighing]
[knocking on glass]
[Mark] Bad day to get a puncture.
- Come on in. - [Mark unzipping jacket]
Punctured his bike.
Girls are just talking shop. Drink?
Uh, just a juice, thanks.
So, is that where we'll be out of our depth?
It's office politics, not philosophical theory.
Those waters run even deeper.
Why don't you take a load off, Mark.
That'll send you in better standing.
Let's everyone sit down. It's nearly ready.
So, how are you two finding the good life?
[Mark] Yeah, all right.
- We're keeping busy. - [Paul] Mmm.
Mark's thinking of writing something
- about the Settle-Carlisle line. - [Paul] Nice.
Just research at the moment, but the history is fascinating.
He's getting into trains. I've started knitting.
All we need is nine cats to complete the picture.
There's nothing wrong with that picture.
Rural [indistinct], the best thing about this country.
Pretty rustic starter, I'm afraid.
I think both of us feel...
I mean, just as all our friends have started
settling down in the city, we sort of--
swerved of randomly out here.
I can guarantee that all those friends
will think that your grass is greener.
Plus, if our lot are anything to go by,
you'll have no shortage of visitors.
That's certainly true, wanted and unwanted.
To be honest, we couldn't have afforded the city anyway.
Academics and writers aren't exactly spearheading
- the economic recovery. - [chuckling]
And obviously the bigger the distance between me
and a whole lot of pubs, the better.
[chuckling]
- [timer buzzing] - Ah, that's that lamb.
- [Sarah] I'll help. - [china crashing]
[Deborah] It's all right, you stay there, Sarah, I'll get it.
[upbeat singing in background]
Tell me about the book, Mark.
Um, I was always had an interest in the Line.
Not much to tell yet.
I just thought it was a good setting.
It was real man versus the elements stuff.
You know, like the Wild West in a way.
Has it been done before?
Uh, bits and bobs but I think I could find something fresh.
There's plenty of death and disease,
if nothing else, that always sells.
Amongst the poorest folk, no doubt.
It was a different time, I suppose.
But the railways changed things for everyone.
♪
Mark's not a complete crusader for progress, are you?
- He's no fan of social media. - [Mark] Aren't I?
That's what you said the other day.
- Did I? - In the car, on the way up.
How you would never be one of those writers
who constantly self-promote online.
I said that social media has become
a form of writing in itself, which is a bit different.
One of us has a selective memory then.
Nagel's 'subjective character of experience'.
[laughing]
Listen, I don't know who the fuck Nagel is,
or what he said about anything, but what I do know
is there are things that happened and things that didn't,
and this didn't.
How can you possibly be so conceited as to think that?
You've had chronic memory loss for years.
Always comes back to the drinking, doesn't it?
- The ace in the hole. - Why is it
so important for you to be right about this?
'Cause you're worried you've started conjuring
inanimate objects from the sky?
[Deborah chuckling]
[chair screeching]
- [Sarah] Where are you going? - Home.
Thanks for the rustic starter.
[gloomy orchestral instrumental]
[car window whirring]
[car engine rumbling]
♪
[bag rustling]
I'm sorry.
I'm going away for a few days.
Okay... You haven't done that before.
I worry.
[sighs] Then you'll have to worry.
At least tell me where you're going.
Down by the viaduct, sleep where the navvies did.
I'll drop you up there.
Don't bother. I fixed the puncture. I'll ride.
[bag rustling]
[birds chirping]
[footsteps thumping softly down stairs]
[door closing]
[birds chirping]
[bed squeaking]
[wind rustling grass]
[wind flapping fabric]
[high-pitched beep]
[woman] In the 1860s,
the owners of the Midland Railway
dreamed of forging a route to the North.
The project involved bridging
this huge glacial valley with a viaduct,
and tunneling through a two-mile expanse of moorland,
known locally as Blea Moor.
Walk to point two on the map to see the tunnel entrance.
[poignant strings music]
[wind rustling]
♪
[high-pitched beep]
[woman] It took four years to blast through
this massive shale, limestone,
millstone grit, and boulder clay.
It was grim work, and many drowned
when heavy rains turned the cla walls of the cuttings to mud.
Now, walk to point three on the map
to see the kilns.
♪
On this site, you can see the remains of the kilns
where bricks to cover the viaduct were baked.
A narrow gauge steam tram
carried the bricks from here to the construction site.
If you look carefully,
you can see the imprint of the track
leading away to the north of the kiln.
Seeking a dry bed,
one drunk navvy fell asleep on this line,
only to be fatally awoken by the first delivery from--
[loud honking]
[train rumbling]
[ominous orchestral instrumental]
♪
[water boiling]
[high-pitched beep]
[woman] Over 2,000 people lived
in the square mile of space before you.
Not far from where you now stan
were pubs, shops, and places of worship.
[water boiling]
When construction was finished, the huts were demolished.
The navvies dispersed, and within two winters,
all traces of the settlement were blown away
by the Pennine storms.
[high-pitched beep]
[wind blowing]
[tent rustling]
[light switch clicking softly]
[ominous orchestral instrumental]
[water splashing]
♪
[ominous music growing louder]
[Mark exclaiming]
[water splashing]
♪
[train whistle blowing]
♪
[train whistle blowing]
[train rumbling louder]
[train rumbling growing softer]
[fire crackling]
[soft moaning]
- [Sarah gasping] - God!
Mark! What are you doing out here?
[Mark gasping]
[Mark's breath quivering]
[Mark sniffling]
[Sarah] Can you tell me what happened?
[Mark's breath quivering]
I love you.
And whatever is happening...
and I do mean whatever...
...we can fix it.
It's not a relapse.
That's what I'm worried about.
They always brought you closer, but with this...
[water dripping]
Now.
Either we do something about that...
or we don't.
[Mark sniffling]
Do you understand what I'm saying?
[foreboding orchestral instrumental]
Thanks.
[cup thumping on table]
Okay, so, I see the nail, and it starts...
appearing everywhere.
The one from lunch, the one from the hall...
and the one from the puncture.
And these are real, right? Like, you can see them.
[Sarah] Mmm.
But then...
I'm listening to this thing about navvies drowning,
and I wake up in a tent with two bodies lying next to me,
and a fucking tram coming straight at me
out of 1873-- that can't be real!
Does it happen when you're writing the story,
or you're reading about it, or thinking about it, or what?
It's always been when I'm...
thinking about how to fit something into it.
[birds chirping]
Why didn't you tell me this before?
[Mark sighing]
This...
it wouldn't be the first time
that the mind's played tricks on me.
Okay.
[soft, eerie orchestral instrumental]
On my mother's side, there's a history of...
Schizophrenia.
♪
But you kept it to yourself
because suddenly you're writing again.
I knew you'd make me see someone.
I can't make you do anything, Mark.
It's not that bad.
It's just that sometimes...
[Mark sighing]
It's separating what's real, it's just--it's constant.
Then, why don't you stop?
♪
These past few months have felt--
I ju-- I think-- I think I really need this.
♪
I can handle it.
We can handle it.
♪
Okay.
All right. If it helps with the book, let's try it.
[Mark exhaling sharply]
I can help you keep track.
But there's one rule.
Everything you read, watch, or see on this, I see it too.
That's the only way we can both know what's what.
Yeah, okay. Okay.
♪
[fire crackling]
Here's another one I got from the museum archives.
It's a letter from a man called John Miller
about the near drowning of his sister, Elizabeth.
Miller was in the same work gang as Mack.
She work down the line as well?
She was married to a navvy.
Lived in the tunnel huts on the side of the moor.
She slipped and sank into a bog
while leading a cow to pasture.
"She swallowed some of the mire in doing so,
but soon she broke free of the earth's unwanted embrace.
After a moment's composure,
she carried on her way as if nothing had happened.
But for some days after, she would wake in the night
and continue to void herself
until we became profoundly uncertain
as to the ongoing source of the substance."
Nothing like a bedtime story.
Well, you signed up, soldier.
How many more of these are there?
That's the last one...for now.
[foreboding music]
[keyboard clacking]
It's cold in here.
Yeah, this side gets the weather.
In there it's warm. There's [indistinct] and everything.
[Mark] I'll be right in.
[keyboard clacking]
[door closing]
♪
[Sarah gagging]
♪
[phone ringing]
[Mark sighing]
[woman] Dr. Mayhew will see you now.
[door knocking]
Come.
[door opening and closing]
Mark, Sarah, please take a seat.
So, what I would like to do first is for you to describe,
in your own words, what has been happening.
If one of you disagrees with something the other says,
please just raise your hand.
[clock ticking]
[Mark clearing throat]
I started seeing things,
and now Sarah's seeing them as well.
What kind of things?
Objects, people.
It all seems to be associated with
a story I'm trying to research.
I'm a writer.
So, initially you didn't share these experiences, Sarah?
Only the most recent one.
Can you describe that one for me?
I woke up in the middle of the night throwing up clay
after Mark and I had been reading about a woman
who had done exactly that.
So, you both witnessed this,
but there were no third parties present.
That's right.
[Mayhew] And it was clay, not vomit you saw?
Saw, felt, smell, yeah. It was clay.
Was there any change in circumstances
that could have led to you both having this experience
rather than just Mark?
I, uh, hadn't told Sarah about them before,
but it was driving me--
[Mark clearing throat]
I was starting to have trouble keeping things separate.
[clock ticking]
So, Mark, you have a family history
of schizophrenic delusions,
and it's not unusual that given the recent stressors
of alcohol withdrawal and moving house
that this could have triggered a further episode.
Attempting to cope with this alone
is the worst possible strategy.
What you've been trying to do,
we in the profession call "double bookkeeping":
creating two accounts of reality,
one that common sense tells us is real,
and one that tells us it's not.
It can be isolating.
And indeed, it is this isolation
which is considered one of the most dangerous elements
for people who suffer from this disorder.
So, it's good that you included Sarah in this.
And you mustn't feel guilty.
But what about Sarah?
There have been cases in the past
where people who are extremely close to one another
suffer shared delusions.
Colloquially, the phenomenon is known as "folie à deux".
Typically, they are experienced first
by the more dominant partner,
and subsequently shared by the other.
And I think this could be the case here.
And if it were, and we treat Mark, then,
Sarah, your problems should also be addressed.
When can we start?
Mark, I'm going to prescribe for you an antipsychotic,
which should help. And until it does,
I suggest that you seek to talk
to any trustworthy third parties, and each other,
about what is going on to assist
with developing a clear account of things.
If you can't find any third parties,
seek another form of objective record, CCTV, audiotape,
things like that.
And above all, try not to worry.
In the end, it's always the worry that gets you.
[foreboding orchestral instrumental]
[Sarah mouthing] Thank you.
♪
[car turn signal ticking]
♪
[Mark sighing]
[papers rustling]
[Mark clicking tongue]
[footsteps thudding]
[drawer opening and closing]
How's it going?
Mm.
Maybe I can help later.
Remember, Mayhew said we still share all the research.
I'm past that for now.
Trying to actually get some stuff written down this week.
"Trying" being the operative word.
I know it's difficult,
but it's better than the alternative.
For me, anyway.
Well. Death by department meetings.
I'll see you tonight.
[ominous synthesizer music]
[items clanging]
[Mark sighing]
♪
[Mark sighing]
♪
[pills splashing]
[toilet flushing]
♪
[gravel crunching]
[keyboard clacking]
♪
[Mark] When the tunnel collapsed,
they knew it was trouble.
[keyboard clacking]
Four men from Charlie Gang had died this way
just last week.
[keyboard clacking]
♪
They had a choice. Try and blow their way through
and risk more slippage,
or wait to see if they were dug out.
♪
After they all saw the thing
they later agreed they couldn't have seen,
the decision was the easiest one they ever made.
Hey.
Oh, hey.
I didn't hear you come in.
It's going better?
It is. Yeah. I think it uh, might work like this after all.
It just came?
It just came.
That's great.
And you all right?
If you're all right, I'm all right, remember?
[keyboard clacking]
[Mark coughing]
[Mark panting]
[fuse sizzling]
Oh no. No, no, I'm not through the blast shelter.
No, please! Please!
[Mark panting]
[Sarah breathing deeply]
My back's killing.
You've been hunched up in bed all evening.
Take a break.
I need to finish this tonight.
I'm going to go work downstairs for an hour.
Don't wait up if you're knackered.
[door closing]
[footsteps thudding]
[eerie orchestral instrumental]
♪
[clock ticking]
♪
[stair creaking]
♪
[stairs creaking]
[door opening]
[Sarah] You reading?
It's an extract from Crossley's diary.
You know you're not supposed to be reading stuff
from the story without me.
I literally just picked it up.
I didn't realize I had to come and get you that very second.
Lucky timing then, isn't it?
Better start reading.
Go on. It's right there.
♪
[Mark clearing throat]
"On winter's afternoons,
the mist will creep down from the fells.
The children call its tendrils the witch's fingers
because they seem to grasp one's very bones.
To turn the moss that grows in every corner,
to snuff out the fires,
and pluck the spirit from their very souls."
♪
[Sarah] Fire! I think there's a fire.
[Mark] What?
Calm down, Sarah. Calm down. Hey!
It's not a fire, it's not smoke.
Then what is it?
It's mist.
[Sarah gasping]
[Sarah] It's not misty outside.
[Mark] Because it's damp.
Stay calm.
I'm gonna go for a piss.
Keep the window open, it'll clear.
[fabric flapping]
Jesus Christ!
[Sarah] Mark?
[floor squelching]
[whispering] What?
♪
[water running]
♪
[light clicking]
- [Sarah] Mark? - [light clicking]
Let's just try not to panic,
and we'll think about it in the morning.
In the morning?
You haven't been taking the pills, have you?
What made you think this wouldn't happen again?
[Mark] Oh my God, you set me up.
- [door creaking] - [light clicking]
[low cry]
- [door slamming] - [Sarah screaming]
[Sarah] Something came out of here.
- [Mark] I'm trying! - [electricity buzzing]
[items falling]
[Sarah] Take your fucking pills right now.
[knocking on door]
[Mark] Jesus Christ, I can't stop it!
[Sarah] Sleepers. We're gonna get sleepers.
[items clanging]
[bottle cap popping]
[electric static buzzing]
[knocking on door]
♪
[Sarah gasping]
[Sarah breathing deeply]
[Sarah weeping]
[Sarah sniffling]
[Sarah] You stopped taking the pills.
I...
I thought I could handle it and protect you from it.
But you couldn't!
What you put us through last night--
You made me read it to you!
Why did you lie to me?
You said you loved me, and then you lied to me.
Answer me! Or I'm going to leave you
and this house right now!
[Sarah sighing]
The whole point was that the one thing we could be sure of
was each other.
[Mark sighing]
Look. I'm going to go make a coffee, all right?
No!
[door clicking shut]
You sit right there and you tell me why.
'Cause I liked it.
[Mark sighing]
Even when it felt really bad, I liked it.
Back in the day when I was drinking,
it used to make me feel so...
And then stopping, I just felt like...
You felt like the rest of us feel every day.
Maybe a bit bored.
Maybe a bit ordinary.
That wasn't good enough for our hero, was it?
He needs to be out there on the fucking edge!
[Sarah sniffling]
[Sarah sighing]
I'm gonna give you two options, Mark.
We can start over one last time.
I watch you take every pill.
You stop reading about the navvies,
you stop writing about the navvies,
and we figure out what the hell is going on
in this house together.
That's option one. Got it?
Option two is you do whatever you want.
Alone.
[upbeat orchestral instrumental]
[water running]
♪
[Sarah sighing]
Mayhew said we should involve third parties
to help us keep track of what's what.
Won't we start on anyone.
♪
There's another way. We need to be logical,
and we need to deal in facts, okay?
- Okay. - Okay.
I'm going to get some stuff from my uncle.
What sort of stuff?
♪
[water splashing]
♪
[kettle clicking]
[water running]
[phone buzzing]
[automated voice] Message received today at 13:30 hours.
[John] Mark, this is Reverend Stills from the church
I finally located the parish records
on your great grandfather.
I'm afraid it's rather grim news.
Shortly after his wife, Clara, died of smallpox,
Mackenzie Smithson took his own life.
It wasn't recorded in the church register
because suicides require inquests,
which were handled by the coroner in Lancaster.
I hope this isn't too disturbing to you.
I hate to be the bearer of bad news,
even if it is 150 years old.
If there's anything I can do
in the way of pastoral support, please do...
[voice fading]
[fire crackling]
♪
[John] Tuesday and Thursday
followed by coffee in the vestry.
Either way it will be good to boost the church's numbers,
which, I'm afraid to say aren't--
[glass crunching]
[chilling orchestral instrumental]
♪
[device clicking]
Mayhew flagged lots of other cases like ours,
but the conclusion was always shared psychotic disorder.
You can see how she got there.
Seems to be the only answer anyone has.
It's the only one that makes any sense.
Why would ours be any different?
But look.
Traces of moss in the toilet,
and clay in the sheets,
and clear depressions consistent
with the pressure of heavy machinery outside the tent.
And no prints other than ours anywhere else in the house.
So...
So? Doesn't that rule out folie à deux?
We weren't seeing things. They were actually there.
Unless--unless we're seeing things now as well.
Unless we've been seeing things the whole time.
But how far down that road are we going to go?
If we suspect the evidence,
the paper it's written on, it's bottomless.
And how do we test it?
It's just bad theory, or at least a worse one than--
Than the fact that I'm somehow manipulating reality
with my head?
Imagine if every time something new happened,
people are denying it as a vision?
Things that can explain everything
rarely explain anything.
Just...think about what that means for a second.
How could it possibly work?
It turns everything on its head.
We'll figure it out. We just have to be logical.
There's nothing logical about having some navvy witch
in your house at night.
But there is logic, isn't there?
It's just one we haven't seen before.
[utensil clattering]
When you create this story in your head,
things happen in real life.
Now, the facts tell us--
The facts don't tell us shit, Saz!
[Mark sighing]
The moss was moss, and the clay was clay.
It doesn't explain how I summon them out of thin air.
And it doesn't explain why they went after me.
[Mark sighing]
You're right.
[papers shuffling]
Oh my God, you're right.
Facts don't explain anything.
People do. This stuff is only crazy
by the rules we take for granted.
But the rules we create, that people create, which means...
it means we can create new ones.
Rules are the rules. You can't just change them
because they don't fit in with how you see things.
It's fucking science.
Of course we can. It's how we've always done it.
We just have to come up with a theory first.
Then, at the end of the month,
when you start researching again, then we test.
I think we should stop this.
All of it. Just the house, the story,
just go back to the city.
A week ago you were desperate to start again. What happened?
Nothing happened. It's just that--
It's just that now we're doing this together,
it has no value.
[pen clicking]
You were the one that wanted me to stop everything.
I wanted you to stop hurting yourself.
I never wanted you to stop being creative.
It's you that can't separate the two, Mark. Not me.
[Mark sighing]
[phone clicking]
[tense orchestral instrumental]
♪
[birds chirping]
[Sarah vomiting]
[Sarah sighing]
[Mark sniffling]
[Mark] Come on.
It's all right, Saz. It's okay.
It's going to be okay.
Maybe it's just another bad dream,
and we'll wake up tomorrow and everything will be fine.
I'm gonna fix this.
[car engine rumbling]
We know how to make it ours.
We know.
[Mark panting]
[Mark] It's smallpox.
[GP] Just tell Mary
to make you another appointment please, Dawn.
Mr. Smithson, the World Health Assembly declared
smallpox eradicated 30 years ago.
Just trust me, it's smallpox. What's the treatment?
I, um--
What's the fucking treatment?
There's no cure. There's a vaccine, but there's no cure.
It's in your head.
I know you can work this out.
Well, how can I?
I'm not a doctor, I can't just come up with a cure.
[Sarah] But you can come up with a story.
Where'd it all start? The viaduct.
Just after-- just after I first saw it.
Then you go back.
And you start over.
[GP] Sit up.
But this time, make sure you know how to get ahead.
[Sarah] Mark?
Remember. You're not Mack.
This is your story.
[suspenseful orchestral instrumental]
♪
Okay. I was walking.
Start walking.
[Mark panting]
And I saw the viaduct.
The story begins.
So. People are recovering.
There was a uh--
there was infirmary hall where they did blood letting.
♪
Help!
♪
Other treatments were fasting and hypnosis.
♪
[stammering] They--they prayed.
♪
Fuck! They're not getting better. They never did!
Come on. Come on!
[yelling] Come on!
Everything's happened already.
So, anything I do, it just leads me back here!
[Sarah] Unless we start at the back.
Then we could turn it into a different story.
[Mark] And find a way to make the old story
fit within the new one,
so it's not a ghost story.
[Sarah] It's a love story.
Okay. Okay. A man, a writer, moves to the country
so he can fall back in love with his wife.
And to do that, he's needs to open himself to her
in a way he never has done before.
But he's so deeply shut inside his writing that he can't.
So, he decides he has to scare himself out of his own head
and back into the arms of his wife.
But to do that--
To do that...
To do that, he needs to write one last story.
[inspiring orchestral instrumental]
A horror story within the love story.
But it's not the horror of ghosts or death,
but of a writer trapped inside his own head.
The writer's story is a tale of growing mistrust of lies,
deception, and ego. And at the end,
his wife contracts a life-threatening virus
because he's too scared to tell
her she might have been exposed to it.
So, he goes back to where it all started
to try and come up with a solution.
But nothing works.
He knows he can't change what's already happened.
However hard he tries,
he can't think outside the limits of his own head,
afraid of losing control of what little he understands.
And so, he comes to see that their fate is fixed,
that he will jump from the cliffs
after his wife has died from the virus,
just as his great-great-grandfather did.
And he rushes back to the hospital
to say one final goodbye before it's too late.
And the man knows then that he's done it.
That he's seen a version of himself so weak and pathetic
that he can leave that person behind forever,
and that this is now a love story,
and that he will get back to the hospital in time
to tell his wife that this is how it ends.
♪
[Sarah gasping]
♪
[speech muted]
♪
[uplifting orchestral instrumental]
♪
[Edna] Mack. A note to thank you for your last letter.
I am so glad you finally found the ending
you wanted for your story.
After all, what could be more important than that?
Yours in grace and peace.
Edna.
♪