The Uninvited Guest

Midnight Quatermass 25: The Pup, The Inspector and The Cab Driver

“But if I could help her now, believe me I would.”

“I'm sure you would, Miss Birling. But you can't. It's a great pity. She's dead.”

That week flew.

I’m not sure what I have to show for it work wise, but we do now have a puppy. We’re all still getting used to each other, but its mostly the kids desperate to stay up later and get up earlier to maximise their timer with Cooper.

I’m knackered, but you can’t blame them, right?

Also if you want to make friends carry a dog around for a while. So much small talk. We’re in puppy lock-down until he’s fully vaccinated, but he’s doing the school run with us and boy are we suddenly popular.

Everyone is a fan of Coops. Well, almost everyone. Our surviving cat, Dylan, is disgusted with us and has retired to the west wing. He comes out at night and curls up next to the pillow with a whisper, ‘Hey guys, have you thought about murdering that stupid dog?’

Sadly for the idiot cat the only murder I’m all caught up on is in the new season of Slow Horses (I’m way behind on the books) and it was lovely to see James Callis pop up. He made such a fun bad guy for us back in the day on Caper and is an absolute delight to work with.

Such a shame that Kristin Scott Thomas is going to eat him alive.

Some years ago I was working on something that never came to fruition, but may be still be under NDA so I can’t say much about it except that I was fanboying over the concept art by Brendan fucking McCarthy when the front door rang. Ever eager to help I opened the door and Kristin Scott Thomas was stood there and said, ‘Hello, who are you?’ And of course I forgot my own name and just said, ‘writer’ and she nodded and said, ‘Of course you are’.

She’s actually lovely, but you really don’t want to get between her and First Desk.

Speaking of unexpected guests…

The very first time I saw AN INSPECTOR CALLS (1954) I missed the beginning and I remember it annoyed me for years until I managed to see it broadcast again from the beginning. This was 1980 long before the dawn of VCRs and we had three channels. Not so much surfing as jumping from one puddle the next and back again. If you missed something then you’d have to wait for a rerun and hope to god it didn’t clash with something your parents wanted to watch. So I was possibly the only 8-year-old in the country torn up by missing part of a 25-year-old black-and-white drawing-room play with Alastair Simm about the dangers of classism in the early 1900s.

I remember being annoyed all the way through The Tomorrow People which followed it and asked my grandmother again just how much I’d missed as she passed me a jam sandwich. ‘Not much,’ she said. And a week later she borrowed a copy of the play from her friend who was a headmistress and gave it to me so I could ‘catch up’.

This didn’t blossom a life-long love of JB Priestly, but it probably did help foster my drive to become a completist.

My slow walk home from school coupled with ITV’s rainy May afternoon schedule robbed me of something that I had now partially clawed back. So it was a win.

Since then I’ve seen the film countless times of course. The only other adaptation that I’ve seen (and there are many once you add the various radio versions to the pile) is the 2015 Hong Kong version which is the loosest interpretation of the text, hitting the audience in the face with a pie like a lost Willy Wonka movie directed by Michel Gondry and Mack Sennett. I’ll drop the trailer after the story.

But I don’t think I’ve seen the ‘54 version in almost a decade so it was a delightful surprise when the kind folk at Emfoundation asked if I’d like to take a look at the 70th anniversary 4K restoration. I waited until both kids were back at school and spent a morning watching The Inspector drop himself into the lives of the Birling family like a slow-motion hand-grenade.

I’m gonna keep this spoiler-free because older movies now inhabit this odd space where people can discover them pretty late on without ever having heard of them or ever having seen a glimpse of them on TV. I stopped watching terrestrial broadcast television decades ago, but it feels like stumbling across a movie while channel surfing is already long gone. I guess horribly cropped portrait-orientated clips with AI voice-overs on Tik Tok have maybe replaced that experience. Anyway, if you’re one of the folk who has never had the pleasure I implore you to fix that. Here’s a brief synopsis.

It’s 1912 and an upper class English family, the Birlings are celebrating. Life is good, at least around their table, and the future looks rosy. Talk of war is laughed off. This is the modern age and humanity has left such nonsense behind. If the family continues to do as it has always done and not make any foolish mistakes then they will all flourish together. Time for the ladies to retire so the men can talk of more important things and… and then a stranger appears. A police officer. Inspector Poole. A young woman has died this evening and he believes that perhaps the Birlings family may know why…

The movie itself is of course, a masterpiece. Guy Hamilton is now best known for his four Bond movies, but he did far more interesting movies in the 50s and 60s - I’ve spoken about THE PARTY’S OVER (1965) before - and here he follows THE INTRUDER (1953), a movie partially unfolded in flashbacks, by opening up and expanding the play while also improving on Priestly’s original name for The Inspector and providing generations of GCSE students a little a-ha moment.

Alastair Simm is, of course, the heart of the movie - albeit a sardonic looming slow beat of a bastard with a malicious streak behind his sad smile.

“So if I don't choose to discuss it any further, you have no power to make me change my mind.”

“I'm afraid I have that power, Missus Birling.”

As the rest of the cast spin faster and faster around the presence that he has brought back into their lives The Inspector, for the most part, simply sits and watches it all unfold. Omniscient and unmovable. Simm would have made a fine Judge Holden. As it is when he does speak his lines have a weight that slowly crushes the family.      

“Was she pretty?”

“She wasn't very pretty when I saw her last in the infirmary.”

The restoration was a tricky one apparently as the original negative was in a bad way, but you’d never tell from this release. It’s a huge upgrade from whatever dusty old print I saw back in the day. The audio commentary is brought over from the last release and is serviceable with a GCSE level reading of the plot and the odd comparison to Downtown Abby, but there’s enough trivia sprinkled though it to keep it interesting. There’s also a fun interview with the late Jane Wenham who played Eve, the lynchpin of the movie, while the brand new overview from critic Anna Smith is first rate.

Mostly though it was great to have an excuse to watch a grand old movie again on a rainy afternoon and also reminded me I should probably do it more often.

Right. Story time.

Passengers

Somewhere in America it was getting close to midnight.

A cab driver in his mid-sixties sits behind the wheel, looking down at a dog-eared notebook in his hands. The light from the dash shows a contemplative, but kind face. This is Ernie. Our designated driver for the story about to unfold.

He looks up into his rearview mirror as sounds from outside disturb his thoughts. Shouts… then a single gunshot. Sighing he puts the notebook away inside his jacket and starts the engine.

The back right-hand side door opens and a young man half falls into the cab. He has a gun in his hand. This is his final passenger. Kurt. He’s 27.

“Drive! Get the hell out of here!”

Ernie calmly takes in his new passenger, the gun and the view through the back window. Shrugging he puts the cab in gear.

“You’re the boss.”

The cab pulls away and Ernie turns on the meter with a ping.

“Where to?”

Kurt is calming down. Glad to be moving. No longer looking behind him.

“Anywhere. Just away.”

“You got it.”

He turns the wheel and the cab finds smoother road. We can’t make out the details flying past outside, but the lights passing by have a rhythm that infer they’re on the freeway now.

Safe for the moment, Kurt takes stock. The cab. The driver.

“You’re pretty calm, old man.”

Ernie makes eye contact via the mirror.

“Perks of being alive so long. You see everything eventually. The good and the bad. Rough night?”

Kurt smiles and slips the gun into his pocket. Unsure if the old guy saw it or not, but not worried if he did.

“I’ve had rougher.”

He looks at the seat as he rearranges himself, trying and failing to get comfortable.

“What’s with this seat, old man? It’s not exactly a limo back here.”

He taps the seat. Hard plastic.

“The neighbourhoods I pick up in mean the backseat takes the brunt of the work. Was costing me a fortune and then I saw this new police charger with one of those fitted and bingo!”

“You make your passengers sit on a cop car seat?

Ernie smiles in the mirror.

“Not usually the first time my clientele have sat on police-issue plastic, trust me. Plus, just like the boys in blue, at the end of every shift I just hose out the blood, the puke and any other bodily fluids you people leave in lieu of a tip.

Kurt’s eyes narrow. Is this old guy for real?

‘You people’?

Ernie shrugs.

“No offence, kid. But case in point: you’re bleeding.”

Kurt looks down and sure enough there’s blood soaking through the arm of his jacket. He shrugs it off and examines his shoulder. Just a nick. He holds up the jacket and pokes a finger through the bloody tear. Keeps it there for Ernie to see.

“Youngsters can’t shoot straight to save their life. Back in my day--”

“You need a hospital?”

Kurt laughs.

“Does it look like I’ve got health insurance? Nah, I’m fine, man. Take me to the P-Pit. You know it?”

A small sigh from the driver as he moves the car over a lane.

“I know it.”

He watches the younger man shrug back into the coat and for a moment catches sight of the tattoo high up on his forearm. A fiery red dragon chasing a bright blue pearl.

The cab swerves a little. A flash of white light outside and the long press of a horn falling away into the distance as Ernie course-corrects. Kurt looks at him.

“My bad. Passion Pit. Next stop.”

The car moves on through the night.

Kurt leans forward to peer into Ernie’s cab through the thick misty window separating the front of the car from the back.

“Turn the radio on, man.”

Ernie smiles.

“Busted. But I have just the story to pass the time before I drop you. You like history?”

Kurt already looks bored as he leans back.

“Like in School? Abraham Lincoln and all that shit? You’ll send me to sleep, old man. Even on these uncomfy-ass plastic po-po seats.”

Ernie carries on regardless.

“You ever heard of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand?”

“Sure. They’re a band, right? From England. Like the Beatles.”

That smile fills the mirror again.

“No. This guy lived... well, more importantly he died in 1914. He was assassinated. His death started World War One.”

He takes a moment to lock eyes with his passenger.

“You’ve heard of World War One, right?”

“Sure. So this guy was a Nazi?”

Eyes back on the road.

“Austrian. He was killed by a group known as The Black Hand. There were several assassins in Sarajevo that day, but it was a young man of nineteen, Gavrilo Princip, who managed to pull it off.”

Kurt is impressed.

“A kid killed this Duke dude and started World War One? He must have been some kind of bad-ass.”

“Actually he was a fuck-up. There was a parade and as Ferdinand’s car went past Princip threw a hand-grenade.”

A small whistle from the back seat.

“That’ll do it.”

“But it didn’t. The driver saw it and accelerated and the grenade rolled under the car behind and blew that up instead. No one was killed, but people in the car and the crowd were injured.”

“Collateral damage. So this Princip kid had the stones to take another pop at the Duke?”

Ernie shakes his head.

“Just the opposite. He gave up. In case he was caught he had been given a cyanide pill. He swallowed that and then threw himself off a bridge into a river.”

Kurt laughs.

“This is one fucked up story, man. You sure all this shit happened?”

“Swear to God. But like I said. The kid was a fuck-up all the way down. The water he landed in was only a few inches deep and the pill he swallowed just made him sick and he threw up. So he sloped off to a nearby cafe to get dry and rethink his career.”

Kurt leans in. He’s enjoying this shit.

“Then what happened?”

“He ordered a grilled cheese sandwich. Glorious thing the grilled cheese sandwich. I make one at the end of every shift. No matter how bad a day it’s been that first bite fixes everything.”

He’s lost Kurt who sits back. Annoyed.

“What has a grilled cheese sandwich got to do with World War One?”

“Everything as it turns out. Maybe Princip was watching the young woman making it and for the first time in his young life thought about turning his back on politics and hand grenades. But...”

Ernie movies through the gears as the traffic slows to a crawl. Kurt leans forwards. Caught in the story.

“But?”

The cab has stopped. Ernie turns in his seat, backlit red by the lights of the cars ahead.

“Fate stepped in.”

“Go on.”

Ernie does just that as the traffic begins to move again.

“You see Ferdinand’s driver by this time had been driving around like a maniac trying to save the Duke from any other bomb tossing anarchists, but this was his first time in Sarajevo and he was by now hopelessly lost. He pulled into a side street and that’s when the Duke saw a young man stepping out of a cafe...”

Kurt’s eyes go wide.

“No fucking way.”

Ernie loves this part of the story. Gets ‘em every time.

“So Ferdinand gets the driver to stop and he leans out of the window to ask the young man the way to the governor’s residence and--”

Kurt leans back, clapping, smiling.

“And the kid pops him.”

Ernie nods.

“Right in the neck with a pistol. Next thing you know: World War One.”

Kurt nods to himself. He’s gonna tell this shit to everyone he knows.

“Holy shit. That’s fucked up.”

Ernie shifts up a gear. Traffic is thinning out. They’re really moving now.

“Right? But what interests me, especially after tonight, is the way that the kid had given up. Literally. He tried to kill himself twice and then POW. He’s given another chance.”

Kurt shakes his head.

“That’s what you take away from this shit? What I’ve learned is not to wind your window down and ask for directions from a motherfucker in grenade-raining Sarajevo!”

Ernie smiles.

“You’re a funny guy.”

Kurt knows it. Something the old man just said is bothering him though. He leans forward again.

“Why ‘especially after tonight’? You think just because I’m in a situation and jump in your cab that I’m like that kid. The fuck-up?”

Ernie shakes his head as the cab interior goes a little darker, the road a little less smooth.

“Not at all. I was thinking that I was like young Princip. Before you got in the back of my cab tonight I was considering giving up too.”

“You ain’t suicidal are you old man? There’s a help-line for that shit once you’ve dropped my ass off safely at the P-Pit.”

At the name of their destination he suddenly looks around out of the window. The story had him distracted for a good while.

“Hey. Where the hell are we? What kinda cab driver gets lost driving a man in a straight line?”

Ernie smiles sadly. It’s almost time.

“Oh, I’m not a cab driver. Not really. I was a teacher for a while. I guess I still know how to tell a good yarn. But the cab is just an excuse to meet folk. Tell a few stories. Listen. You see--”

Kurt’s had enough listening. His arm hurts like a motherfucker and he wants to get laid. Driving around with this old bastard is over.

“Old man, I’m done listening to--”

With a jolt on the brakes the car slams to a stop. Kurt is propelled forwards into the thick plastic window. Almost immediately Ernie throws the car back into gear and Kurt is now thrown backwards on to the plastic seat.

“What the fuck?”

The car is jumping now. The road is gone. The track is rough.

“You see after my daughter died I didn’t speak to anyone for a long time. Not the rest of my family or the neighbours or friends and I guess I was seeing things as bleak as they could be. Without Gwen... well, I guess I was gonna check out. I took a heap of pills and a bottle of Scotch to bed and I guess that would have been it. But just like young Princip, I threw up. So it’s 4am and I’m looking at this whisky-pill cocktail of puke in my toilet bowl and something just snapped inside.”

Ernie clicks his fingers for emphasis as the car rolls to a stop.

“I said fuck it. And I made a grilled cheese sandwich. The next day I came here. To this city. The shit hole that killed my Gwendolyn. And for a while I tried to find the man who killed her.”

He locks eyes with the increasingly nervous looking Kurt.

“But I had even less to go on than the police. Just a vague description and a toilet of a city too big to find an individual piece of shit in. So I bought this cab. And I went looking again. But this time I stopped looking specifically. I didn't know if this prick was still even here. So instead I started picking up other pieces of shit. Men like the bastard that killed girls like my Gwen. And I made them pay for what they’d done.”

Ernie, no longer smiling, turns the engine off.

“Been doing that for a while now. At first I thought I’d get caught, but guess what? No one cares about the people I kill and over time I’ve got pretty good at it. But still, it begins to weigh you down after a while.”

Kurt is listening. Very carefully. This shit isn’t the first tight spot he’s been in. Maybe the weirdest. He knows the doors are locked without looking. It’s dark in the back of the cab. He slowly begins to move his hand to his pocket.

Ernie has a little more moonlight in the front of the cab. He pulls out his small notebook and holds it up. An ongoing list of names, descriptions and dates. All crossed out. He lets it drop to the seat.

“I was tallying it all up tonight and I was done. Ready to call it a day. I’m not naïve enough to think I made a difference. The city is still a shit hole. But at least the assholes I picked up, my passengers, never hurt anyone again after they got in my cab. But I was done.

Ernie looks in the mirror at himself.

“More than done.”

Then back to the fuck in his back seat with a small cold laugh.

“And then in you get. You. With your gun and your coat and your stupid red dragon tattoo--”

Kurt pulls the gun and fires at Ernie.

The glass splinters but holds.

The noise back there is amplified. Tremendously. He moves the gun from the partition to the window and covering one ear with his hand fires again. Same result. Fuck all.

Not one to give up he lies on his back and begins to kick at the reinforced bullet-proof glass with his feet.

No joy. He’s trapped.

Ernie is smiling as he starts the engine.

“Made a few modifications over the years along with the seats. Same glass back there that the Secret Service use to protect POTUS.”

Kurt uses the butt of the gun to bang on the partition.

“Let me out of this motherfucking car, old man!”

Ernie keeps his eyes on the trail. Tress looms either side and nothing else is visible.

“Figures the minute I stop looking for you there you are. Just climbed right in. All these years looking for some tattooed lowlife motherfucker in a city full of tattooed lowlife motherfuckers and then POW. There you are.”

He slows the car down again and pulls it to a stop. Dark out there now with the trees behind them. Pitch black. No lights. No cars. No stores. No people.

No witnesses.

“Here we are.”

“You got the wrong man, I swear.”

Ernie turns around and looks at him again. Face to face.

“No. I know it’s you. Just like young Princip knew who the dumb fuck asking him directions was.”

He reaches for the glovebox.

“It’s weird. I’ve gone over and over again just what I’d do to you once I had you. The tortures I’ve planned and carried out in my mind. The time I’ve wasted thinking about you. And now I have you...”

He closes his eyes as his hand finds what he needs.

“I just want it fucking done.”

“No...”

Ernie pulls his own gun from the glove box and in a practiced move drops a clip that allows a small partition to open up between the front and back seat. Just big enough to hand change through.

Just big enough for the barrel of a gun.

Six shots go off in rapid succession and light up the back of the car.

Then silence. After a while the car moves on.

The sun eventually rises.

Ernie squints against it and clicks the meter to OFF with a yawn. Long motherfucking night. He stops at a red light and takes a moment to flick back to the very beginning of his notebook and taking a pencil from behind his ear crosses a line through the very first entry. Not even a name. Just four question marks in a line.

He realises he still doesn’t know the man’s name.

Then realises it doesn’t matter. There’s only one name that does matter in all of this.

He puts the book away as the light turns green.

Less than an hour later and he’s parked up next to a diner. In one hand he holds a grilled cheese sandwich with a single bite taken from it.

He has a hose in the other and swills out the back of his cab.

The blood and water fall from the door and wash into the drain as all that’s left of Kurt begins to make its way out to sea.

Never too late to make yourself a grilled cheese, right?

I’m beat. Life with a puppy.

Stay safe and I’ll see you next week.

Mike