EURIPIDES' MISTER HERACLES (FABER POETRY)

Simon Arm

Mister P

ar after Euripides

also by Simon Armituge

SIMON ARMITAGE

ZOOM! XANAUIJ K1D

Mister Heracles

BOOK O F MATCHES T H E D L A D SEA I'OEMS MOON COUhTRY

(with Glyn

Maxwell)

after Euripides

CLOUDCUCKOOLAND KlLLlNG TlMF

pose ALI. P O I N T S N O R T H

City of York Libraries 0571203337 2 0 4 3 Askews

123.10-00

£7.99 - Q~),[D~WII

faber andfaber

First published in rooo by Faber and Faber Limited i Queen Square, London w c I N j ~ u

Contents

Photoset by W ~ l m a s e tLtd Pr~ntedin England by M P G Books Ltd. Victoria Square, Bodmin, Cornwall All rights reserved 0 Simon Armitage, zoo0 Simon Armitage is hereby identified as author of this work in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Pacenrs Act 1988 This book is sold subject t o the condition that it shall not, by way of trade o r otheru~ise,be lent, resold, hired out o r otherwise circulated without the prrblisher's prior consent in any form of binding o r cover other than that in which it is published a n d without a similar cottditiott incltrding this cotldition being imposed o n the subsequent purchaser A C I P record for this book is available from the British Library I S B N *j71-rojjj-7

Introduction vii Mister Heracles

I

Introduction

What d o we mean by hero? What is the greatest atrocity a man can commit? W h o can apportion blame t o the workings of the human mind, and who has the power t o forgive? These are the questions that face any reworking of the Heracles fable. In the modern Western world we race towards the future. Logical, economical, sophisticated, comfortable, virtual sometimes, double-glazed, air-conditioned, centrally heated . . . the real and the vital gets left behind, and the greater the distance the bigger the calamity when collision occurs. It's like the noise when lightning strikes, when the thunder we hear is air rushing in t o fill the burnt-out gash in the sky. There are many reminders of ourselves: dreams, intuition, appetite, lust, language, but violence is one of the most potent, opening a direct channel between what we have become and what we originally were. Heracles is a master of violence, and also a slave t o it. Euripides' Heracles, o r T h e Madness of Heracles, is shocking and strange. It begins in defeat and despair, soars into triumph, wavers o n a razor's edge of dramatic uncertainty, then plunges into carnage and horror of the darkest kind, before playing out in bewilderment. At some midpoint in the story, a line is crossed o r a switch is thrown; some short-circuit occurs in the mind of the conquering hero, and after an episode of uncontrollable fury, Heracles finds himself amid the bodies of his wife and children with their blood on his hands. Stupefied, he shuffles away in the arms of his friend, still carrying his weapons of murder. As the play comes to an end, the vii

audience is left in the same mood as Heracles himself, puzzling over an extreme act of brutality against loved ones, the cause and effect of which demand explanation and resolution. T h e play's structure is typically classical, but its contemporary relevance is not in doubt, its issues no less pressing than they were four hundred years before the birth of Christ. Euripides, last of the great Athenian playwrights, seemed t o suspect that the gods on Olympus were no more than metaphors for the urges and impulses of a man's mind, and that Fate, if it existed, was a minor deity compared with the supreme beings of Choice and Chance. The messengers that break into the original plot to plant the seed of madness might be portrayed as supernatural henchmen acting out a vendetta or employed on a mission of revenge. But crucial t o the argument of the play are the implications of Heracles' heroic past, the extent of his guilt and blame, and his human response t o this most horrific predicament. H o w can Heracles live with himself from this moment o n ? There are several translations of Heracles, all of them important and more or less faithful in a literary, textual sense. I have written the play again with a view to production, as a piece for the modern theatre, although I didn't simply want to contemporise this ancient drama in the way that some translations of the classics have made the golden fleece a pair of Nike trainers or the Trojan horse a nuclear submarine. What has been translated here is not s o much the language as the sentiment and the setting, and the main research tool has been an encyclopaedia rather than a dictionary o r thesaurus. It is probably more useful t o think that the play has not only been interpreted from Ancient Greek into English, but that it has been inferred, across time. In paying due respect to the original, it is equally worth remembering that Heracles never actually existed, and if

that sounds like a sacrilegious statement when put so bluntly, it has proved a useful notion when deciding how much latitude might be taken without the accusation of irreverence. Although the original lineation has hardly been altered, virtually all stage instructions have been omitted in this version and there are no indications as to when a character should enter or exit the stage; this seems to me issue, and I didn't want to restrict the t o be a dramatic possibilities o r t o try to direct the play from behind the typewriter. T h e one exception is the opening up of the house following the slaying of Lycus and Heracles' family. T h e implication is that the murders must not be seen, only described, and this seems to me to be imperative to the value of the drama. T h a t isn't to say, though, that the killings couldn't be witnessed o r represented through some other device. As with most plays, each character's idiolect is a t least as important t o the strategy of the drama as the storyline itself. In Mister Heracles, the old family are locked into a rhetoric of blank verse and grand imagery, with Amphitryon even quoting himself from a previous translation a t one point. Imposters, intruders and visitors seem able to express themselves more freely, crudely even. And the chorus buzz around the place using a variety of voices and means of expression, from cheap one-llners to chants and songs. T h e role or function of the chorus in the play is entirely a matter of discretion, interpretation and, hopefully, possibility, but it is their presence more than anything else which conveys the atmosphere of original Creek tragedy, and their contribution t o the tone of the play cannot be overemphasised. In Mister Herucies, it is as if the whole of human history has occurred within the lifespan of one family. Atomic weapons and spears are spoken of in the same

sentence, quantum physics and spinning wheels considered in the same thought. It is probably the cardinal sin of any treatment of Greek drama to include within it a reference t o a Roman Caesar, but no cultural or historical co-ordinates were beyond possibility using this full-spectrum approach. Today Heracles travels at the speed o f light - it seems only yesterday he was hitching a team of horses to his chariot. Of further relevance is the fact that Zeus is dead. When the gods die, they leave man in control of his own moral identity, and after experiencing his gravest tragedy, Heracles must confront his greatest challenge. We observe the agonising creation of the new kind of superman: one w h o takes responsibility for his actions. Mister Heracles was commissioned by the West Yorkshire Playhouse for performance in the year zooo. I am grateful for their support in this project, especially to Natasha Betteridge, and t o the many actors who tried and tested the play over t w o separate weeks of workshopping and rehearsal. T h e development of the text would not have been possible without their involvement. Initially, it is an uncomfortable experience t o hand over material written in private t o a group of total strangers, who then set about it with their minds, voices and bodies, pulling it, stretching it, and on occasion tearing it to pieces. But through a process that included small running repairs on the one hand, to a complete re-threading of plot-lines on the other, I'm sure a more cohesive and comprehensive piece of work has been produced. It's a pity that the same kinds of external quality-control mechanisms are not made available t o more writers, poets and novelists included. More specifically I am grateful to Simon Godwin, who suggested the project in the first lace, and who contributed a great deal t o the theory and thinking that underpins this interpretation. Having been spooked by

the play for a number of years, it was his enthusiasm for that haunting which lured me into the Heracles myth Euripides' treatment of it. From that starting point, the intention has been to re-present the play in the here now, combining what we might think of as eternal, universal issues with the undeniable changes that have taken place in the last two and a half thousand years, both materially and philosophically. Hopefully, there is something of tomorrow in Mister Heracles as well, reflecting not just the relative velocity of modern living the pace of life compared with that of Ancient Greece but its astonishing acceleration towards the future and the unknown.

I-

MISTER HERACLES

Characters

Amphitryon Megara Lycus Heracles Iris Madness Theseus Chorus

Amphitryon Is there a man or woman here and now who has not heard of me? I see. This man, who shared the passenger seat of his bed with the great Zeus? This man, a famous son in his own right, the father of Heracles? The city sleeps, and bloats out in its dreams: a place where people seem to grow like seeds, turn up like pillow-coins in place of teeth. Footprints run one way, inland, up the beach, increasing all night until by first light new faces look for work and walk the streets. Not like the old days, back in the old time. O u t of our father's fathers descended a good leader, born of good stock. Sweet man, whose daughter is now my daughter-in-law, her whose wedding bells were the talk of the town as the limousine sped from the church door through a snow of confetti, back to the house with its high ceilings and halls. What white-out. Then shadows fell. My son received the call, left us for other regions, other worlds was it to put right some fault of my own? Left, because our name, cast in solid gold, was said to be losing its shine. Not so. It was a game. They sent him well away, deep down, far wide, mile high, inside and out . . .

H e has not come back. No, has not come back. Now we are laid low by enemy force, lashed t o the ground, brought down by the whip hand who tightens his hold and laughs in our face and makes himself at home. Him and his kind bided their time in the outlands, then marched while the city was turning about-face, and murdered our sweet man, and took his place. T h a t good man, whose name was welded to ours. A smart fit - but now we catch hell for it. And now with Heracles out of reach, in another orbit, we wait for death on Earth at the hands of this fraud, this fake, who'd kill the wife and sons of ~ e r a c l e s for fear of revenge at a later date, and me also, for the nothing I'm worth. When my son launched himself into the dark he left me here, a n old soul, to keep guard and to bottle-wash and t o baby-sit. So I keep those boys away from the sword and wait with their mother, send messages for help by whatever contraption or kit we can use, and just pray that they get through. From above, we are fish in a barrel, easy meat, soft targets, the soft option; this far gone we must stink of misfortune, we have small food, thin clothes and bad water; the earth is our bed, our bedsprings are bones and the sky our roof since they stole our home. We have two types of friend: the powerless, and those who turn their yellow backs at us. Days like these test a bonding to full stretch; cut off, all words have the ring of cheap talk, but back to front, I say I would not break.

Megara Does chance, fate, or choice make us what we are? Father-in-law, you have won your battles but now you idle here, losing the war. The silver spoon has a metallic taste. Didn't I have the whole world on a plate, wasn't it all heaven sent? A father with money behind him, weight to his name, wealth that made the fingers of the greedy twitch, power that made the weak suck on their guns. And as if that wasn't enough, marriage to your son, Heracles - a life of dreams. Soon the pair of us will be dead, old man, and with us these babes. They burst into tears at the slightest jolt, pray for their father t o come back. I keep them under my wing, feed them stories and tales, string them along, but whenever they hear a bolt or key o r a latch turn in its keep, they start up, all ready t o swing on their father's sleeve. W e look in your face for the slightest hope of escape, as if some ladder of rope might fall at our feet. But the roads are blocked, all transport is stopped and searched, and the phone is a plastic frog on its lily pad, asleep. We ache for the days of before, we who are nothing more than what we were, and your grandchildren hang on every word you fail t o speak. So, then, what will you say? Amphitryon I say . . . because we are weak, we should wait. Time changes the plot. Something might turn up. Megara You love life so much that you'd wait for worse?

Amphitryon I find some comfort in its twists and turns. Megara This life requires a miracle. At least. Amphitryon If we can just tread water, hold our breath. Megara H o t air and eyewash. N o good to those boys. Amphitryon Even science can't predict the weather. Be patient with yourself, something better will blow in from the south and blast this cloud. Heracles might still walk in through the door like the dead calm at the eye of the storm, and for now, if words are the only drink that send those children into peace o r sleep, then cry them a story, weep them a lie. H o w many flips of the coin can turn tail before coming up heads? H o w many times can the ball in the wheel find the wrong bed. Whatever comfort I get is only wordplay at most, but t o say it gives me faith. Whatever alters, what remains is change, and change is otherwise, and therefore hope. Chorus Brings tears to the eyes. Even now with his neck on the line he can still talk, and his words have a charge that stirs our butterfly hearts. We could sing him the song of the swan, but our voices are cracked and dry. Look at them: everything gone

t o the wall. It's a pity all right, but what can you do? Sod all. Don't throw in the towel so fast. You've got t o pull together, dig in your heels. It's a tug of war: you keep your footing until the last o r you're flat on your arse. Let the young join arms with the old and the other way round, so the total force is more than the sum of its parts. O r something of that sort. Look a t those boys: they have their father's eyes see him staring out through the portholes? Even a ball-bearing heart would crack if they were t o fall now, at the first hurdle. What a pit and a pothole. But watch out, here comes trouble. Lycus All right, listen up, you sad creatures. O h , I beg your pardon, if it pleases, if a savage might trade words with a gent? Roughly speaking, how long d o you have left, would you say, t o the nearest minute? Going off my clock, there's not much in it. It tickles me, watching you spin things out like those Russian dolls doing themselves down. Pathetic, spinning your yarns t o those boys, twisting the knife, saying how Heracles will kick down the door and turn the tables. Sorry, boys, but papa has turned turtle. I f I took a Polaroid this second you wouldn't believe how you look, how low,

but that's the price you pay for mouthirlg off about birthrights, bed-mates and bosonl pals, how you're hand in glove with the world's best man. And when it comes to it, what did he do? Charm a few snakes, tame a lion o r two with his stick with its 'orse's 'ead 'andle? Is that the reason you say that these boys shou!d live - because of a few party tricks? T h e world's moved on, old-timer, it won't fall for a big-cycd Jesus, playing it dumb, a hoaxcr, good a t taking people in. We'vc all seen the holster clipped t o his belt just in case, we've heard of the sniper sat in a safe place making the coast clear, then sonny Jim strolling out from the wings, stealing the show, making his curtain calls. As for you lot, his dingleberries; cruel I am, but not stupid. What sort of fool makes the kill then pardons the hangers-on t o lick on the wounds and drink from the blood? You'll all die - it's what's coming to you. Amphitryon There are forces watching over my son. For my own part, I have nothing but words t o make you scc the shame in who you are and what you do. You call him a coward well that's priceless. As truth is my witness, didn't hc free-fall from twenty miles high into enemy business to send word by wireless, while the land-mines boomed, and gas blossomed and bloomed with red and yellow heads, and sat down that night and drank champagne from bullet shells and enemy helmets while the air-strikes burst like party balloons and fireworks? Don't they sing songs about him?

And the night-huntsmen and the eventers know a horseman when they see one - ask t His namc has currency in every house the world ovcr. And you, you might as well whisper your name into a feather pillow seven miles down in a flooded sewer for all the effect it causes. A rat might turn its ear, hearing its ow11 signal. As for his methods, he plays thc devil at his own game to cancel out evil. You hand out your weapons like a dentist giving sugar sticks to greedy children. Heracles seeks out the moments of truth, not glory, and only clashes with those who cross his path, and those who cross him once cross themselves against doing so again. And his strength is his strength, not Dutch courage, his spced is not sorrle chemical sulphate, his dreams are not dreams of cheap acid, his rage is more than a tin-foil dragon, his tears aren't squeezed from an empty bottle. And every action, every victory, has one meaning and one meaning only: his love for his childrcn and family. You fear these boys becausc of who they are and what they signify, maybc that's wise; it's also the first form of cowardice. to stamp down heavy on a sleeping nest, and cowardice is fear. But here's your chance to stand as proud as him - let us go, out from under your feet; send us down river, stow us away in a paddle steamer, throw us in the hold of an aeroplane. Look the other way while the weather turns? Give what you would have hack when your t! comes.

There'll be a new star in the sky tonight made of a dying breed, burning alive.

As for the so-callcd countrymen of ours, this is how they repay their great hero and his three sons, by sitting on their thumbs. This is how they give Heracles their thanks, who put this place and people on the map. Those ticker-tape welcomes are as long gone as the big snow of 'eighty-one. This key, the key to the city, what does it mean when the doors are locked with a laser beam and remote control? You children, you boys, neither citizen or state will take turn in keeping you on, and you look to me t o be saved. To me, u strengthless friend, Y e look, who am not but a voice's sound. This is a flyweight of a former self. But if all my time could come again, blood would paint the earth blood-red where this crime paid its price, and that blood would not be mine.

Chorus His head might be light, but he flies his tongue on kite strings, anchored down by a big heart.

Chorus It's tragic, b11t what can a person d o ? It's even hard for our kind to down tools let alone walk up to this new fellow and fix his skull with a ballpoint hammer, and him no better than one of our own. H o w would it sound, I wonder, if we said ,' we won't work for this cuckoo in the nest, i won't be poaching his fish, frying his eggs '.>onboth sides, darning and pairing his socks? qike a mute swan with a sore throat, I guess.

, .

Ly cus Old man, you can build your tower of talk as high as you like. They say that actions speak louder; myself, I've found that petrol and matches bring an end to rnost squabbles by stealing the air - it's called fighting fire with fire - which might sound loopy, but it works. Men, bring dry tinder from the log-shed and stack it here a r o ~ l n dthis shanty hut. Get the lot of them inside, and tied up. Let them smell the smoking fuse of dead wood to remind them of their own, stinking rot, let thcm feel the fireburst of 3 fresh start. You bystanders are witnesses to this.

!

There's a place in our hearts for Heracles; as far away as he certainly is he's a close distance within us, alive, and that makes us loyal to his spirit. It also makes us inane, pathetic. We should raise arms against the imposter but we don't, don't even lift a finger. That forehead of his is a landing-pad for a head butt, but what kind of nutcase goes to the shark's mouth for a haircut? The working classes, eh? Moan bloody moan, then with the old lot just a gnat's knacker from being overthrown, it's bedtime tears and a pillow crusted with salt by dawn. Power to the people - that's what we say, but we'd rather the Heraclcs we know than the devil we know too well. Come back, Heracles, save the family first, of course, then stand above us, let our faces glow in the silver fly-buttons of your suits, in the polished leather of your great boots.

Megara I hear the mumbling support of those whose protests have the mouth-shape of a yawn. Father-in-law, I love these sons of mine who shouldered past me into a bright world. It's the length and breadth and depth of that love that holds the same capacity of fear. I care. Truly care. And if we must die we must, but there is a rush of pride that says this: to be made into a fire to warm the toes and hands of those we hate, and light their hearth - that is a second death. W e should die proud, according to our birth. Think of Heracles: his father disgraced and burnt, his wife ignited by her hair, his children bedded down as kindling sticks. There isn't a fight to be won, your son will no more materialise now than will the earth open a hatch for us. O u r prayers will climb the chimney with our flesh. O u r killer pulls his hat over his ears in case a well-chosen word splits his mind; our friends are otherwise engaged, away on business, ill, or occupied; fear could make a begging bowl of our crown. Let's welcome death with what pride we have left. Shout into the storm, old man, if you wish, and watch your words fly sideways like dry leaves. O r stand upright, tree-heavy and tree-high, as deep and sound below with roots, and crash mightily down, next to the spiteful axe. Chorus Back when I thought something of myself I might have had the nerve to lend some weight

to a good cause like this, but now I think only those with a good chance should fight. Amphitryon I don't cling to my life for its own sake but for these grandchildren left in my keep. Kill me however you like, but kill me first. Don't make my last vision on this earth be these three innocent boys reaching out for their lives. Would you spare me that at least? Otherwise d o it now. D o it now, fast. Megara Wait; if you will not bring yourself to ask then it falls to me. One final request: let me dress the children in their outfits and hats, let them think either play-acting o r dressing-up is what this is about. Lycus Fine. Better for the photograph. Less odds and sods to clear out afterwards. Be quick about it. Open the house. And when you're quite finished dolling them up, get yourselves back here, ready for the off. Megara Come on, my pretty ones. Follow my steps back t o our home. Carry your father's name like a candle. Cup your hands to the flame. Amphitryon So much for friends, so much for friends of friends, friends in high places, wheels within big wheels, cogs within cogs. So much for so-called gods, for Zeus, who I shared more with than I should. Did I really give him the lace pillow next to my wife for a night, as a guest?

So I did, and he left more than his shape in the sheets, and his teeth in a glass jar next to the bed. God-like Zeus, who is dead. Immortal Zeus, who was involved by blood, who died in his sleep in a nursing home, propped on a throne of incontinence pads. Those gods of old were nothing more than man. Chorus - Songs 1

Heracles was a boxer with bare hands. Heracles was a match for any man. H e pgnched his weight, knew how to duck and dive. Won many a bout, many a prize-fight. He'd strip any prize-fighter of his crown. Make every belt, purse and title his own. Never a gumshield o r headguard for him. It was hand-to-hand combat, skin to skin. 11

When the oilfields went crazy - down in the south When every well - had a burning mouth When the methane clouds - in the northern marsh Could have blown a hole - in the planet's crust When the nodding donkeys - east and west Could have lost their heads - o r something worse Who did they call - to put out the blaze? Heracles - with his nous and skill H e capped the wells - made all things lie still.

iv Heracles was a dead-eye dick, killed ten flies with a single swat, took out planes with a single shot, flew through flack, didn't break sweat, every jet was a sitting duck, every missile, sweet as a nut, as a cockpit man he was shit-hot stuff. v Wasn't he always in search of the gold? H e was. Why did he pan that particular watercourse? Because. And sieved for a year and caught nothing more than a cold. Then fished out a lump as big as a horn or hoof. And held it up like a kill or proof of the sun. And it shone. vi H e was the chosen man to blow up the High Dam. Dropped in on a hang-glider. Swung down like a house-spider. Rode out on a black stallion. Where there were guards - carrion. Where there were enemy forces nothing but white horses.

~~~

111

Iron-hearted, asbestos-fisted, level-headed, Heracles lifted uranium pips from the nuclear core, saved the world from its next world war, held them tight, safe in his keep, buried them deep in a landfill site.

vii Six months in a lunar module crossing the Sea of Tranquillity. Splash-down in a rusty capsule bearing a cure for insanity.

Six months in an underground silo being 'de-briefed' by Security.

...

Vlll

No doubt about it the man was a genuine genius. After the deadly outbreak in the downtown barrios he put his mind to the flesh-eating virus, modelled some kind of cannibalistic anti-virus one Sunday morning on the back of an envelope before breakfast. 'Ridiculous', said the men in white coats, bur the disease had pigged itself by next Christmas.

ix They say he owns a t least a thousand garters given as lovers' tokens in a former life. Where a married man keeps a thousand garters given as lovers' tokens . . . ask his wife. X

H e had stomach and guts, a hunger that wouldn't be quashed, the appetite of a small army. H e galloped a whole bullock once without fuss, used its horns for cutlery, its tail for dental floss.

xi It's said that one of the Caesars of Rome could mangle a stone in his bare hands, o r crush a baby's head. Heracles was the same with a cricket ball, or from behind his ear - hey presto produced apples instead.

xii But bravest and most famous, most touching and courageous,

with Theseus astray beyond logic and reason, Heracles thrust out an arm into walls of knowledge, punched a hole in science, reached through a sun's flames and a cosmos of pressure and hooked back Theseus finger to finger, as if they were one twin, welded together. Chorus Here comes the mother in her Sunday best, and the three children of Heracles, dressed like boys all set for a birthday party, and the old man done up pretty smartly. They scrub up well for an old family. So, death can d o up a tie properly, and run a hook through an eye steadily, and pull a shoestring tight, surprisingly. Megara Where is he? Show me our murderer's eyes. Bring out the butcher t o look a t his kill, life to life. Here's five notches for his belt. We stand in line, run us through with one shot, you'll never kill with as much ease, or guilt. Boys, I can promise you nothing more now than sleep, and I wish you dreams like the dreams that ran between us all those mother-months we were tied. So, I wish you back inside. T w o arms between the three of you won't go; two arms won't hold, the circle is outgrown. You, my eldest, with your father's head, your eyes would have looked from the framed portraits

in the great halls, you would have been our badge and our flag, you would have worn the thick fleece of fame, walked tall wearing your father's coat. You would have been our reason and our thought. And you, my stepping stone, my in-between, with your father's hands, what might you have been? Who holds his mother's finger with a grip so tight a dead white blood runs into it. You would have been our firmness and our fist. And you, my little toy, my domino, my shell, my mite, my dot. Some mother love was what I had in mind for you, whether that fitted his great scheme of things o r not.

All three of you, you would have kept us proud. Fortune swerves around. Brides I would have found for your beds, t o build your houses about, but the best match I can make now is life and death to be a quick and even fit. Here's salt, cried as a gift from your father who gives you away for good, and is late. So which of my flesh and blood shall I kiss the first, and who shall have the final word? Oh, if I could just be calm and stay fixed, but such grief will not be sucked from its sea and resolved to a single pearl, and grief will not be gathered by the bee and dropped as honey into the neat, portioned comb. Heracles, if the airwaves span the world then hear me now; we are t o be cut down your wife, your father and three sons - slaughtered. Come t o us any way you can, a ghost, a raindrop, a gunshot, a shooting star. Come for us, my love, come for us, my man.

Amphitryon Call out to the last, what is there to lose. We are owed. We have favours t o call in, debts to be paid from stocks and bonds of old. All you that have borrowed a pinch of this, a palm of that, a finger or fathom o r pace o r span o r taste of the other, you who were loaned the double-sided coins of my son's head struck with his godfather club together, pay now, and not with notes or half-promises, not with lip-service pay with a gun-ship, with force, with justice.

I see no walls break, hear no sonic boom prize the sky open with welcome menace. Time cranks its handle and the planets spin. We move through space at a rate I forget, thousands of miles a minute I dare say, but relative t o our death we stay put. Face it, it ends here; this is the last plot. Megara God in heaven. Here is a vision - look. Amphitryon Speechlessness of sight. I dare not say what. Megara My husband who was given up for dead, unless I daydream o r hallucinate o r in this state fall for tricks of the light. Children, run t o him and swing on his arms and ride on his shoulders and tear his clothes and bring me a piece of him back to feel, fast before he disappears, make him real. Heracles T h e conqueror returns!

Hell's teeth, runways and roads stretch out in front of me and my passport glows hot. Look there, feel a t that. But here are my four walls and my home in its house. Cook u p a hero's feast I could eat a horse!

Heracles Death sent by what? Megara Not what but who. By him, your enemy who waited until the house lights grew dim. Heracles Then thank all ten planets you are safe.

Megara Heracles, 0 my husband.

Megara Not safe. We are next to be put to dcath.

Amphitryon M y son. T h e clouds open up. It is a judgement.

Heracles Not my wife and father and my three boys.

Megara W e have been praying for you to come. 0 my living husband, here t o save us. Heracles What does all this mean? What now, what this time? Megara This time? This time? D o I speak out of turn, blurting it out with almost my last breath while your father stands dumbstruck with good luck? What clock brings you stridirlg home at the death? Heracles Slow down. Talk t o me straight. Megara But my father and brothers are all dead. Heracles Dead. H o w ? What kind of accident? Megara No, not death by chance, death that was sent.

Megara H e wanted all feeling knotted and tied off, he wanted all nerves stripped back t o the root. Heracles But these are party hats and party clothes. Megara Should I have drawn a target on their hearts, written a price and pinned it t o their heads? Heracles T o be murdered softly behind my back? Megara N o news was bad news. Heracles was dead. Heracles H a d you no trust, no patience o r no faith? Megara What we had was silence. Not a word. Heracles You should have kept indoors and locked our home.

When light draws me away from my own kind, darkness, a wolf, steals in on the blind side. Draw the line across, call that enough.

Megara We are turned out, turned over, overthrown. Heracles Of all the shame and all the shamelessness.

Chorus Hard to be a hero out in the world and the same hero back in your own home.

Megara Your enemies wait for your back to turn? Heracles Didn't our friends save us? Megara There are friends and friends, and then there are friends. Heracles All the good turns and lendings and favours

.. .

Megara As I said, there are friends and friends, and friends. Heracles Strip off those weird rags. Lift up those sad heads. Today is put back. This brain that was numb fury now excites. His fear will ignite. These hands that were blunt find a leading edge. His neck will cut clean. All those that buried their thoughts in the sand shall be planted further still, upside down. Call that enough of following orders and swallowing swords and jumping through hoops, here is my own blood close to coming loose. Call that enough of swearing allegiances, doing the right thing, saluting the flag.

Amphitryon Heracles, my son. Think before you act speed of thought is what will see us most safe. Heracles Already I'm late. Amphitryon Your enemy has friends. There is a chain of command, arms linked by power and greed, a system of handshakes, whispers and codes. While you were deep in or far out of things the world span about at a wilder pace and this same city is not the same place as it was. Money is higher than good. Think best how the tight fist can be disarmed. Heracles I should have guessed. As I was passing through there were months of rubbish piled in the streets, power lines hanging free, birds without rest that were unkeen to come down to the trees. Amphitryon Make use of the upper hand, my Heracles. First breach the threshold of your own home and let it take you in through all its rooms, and when your enemy returns, lash out from within the armoured shell of the house.

Let those in the city go, let news of this hard act leaflet its streets and roads. Heracles I'll see my house first. In my days away it gave my dreams shape, kept life square and safe. Amphitryon Son, is it true what they say, that you outpaced the speed of the eye? Is that who you are, the first man to move at the speed of light? Heracles It was a mission, like any other. Amphitryon T h e powers that be must be elated. Heracles Yes, in high heaven, I shouldn't wonder. Amphitryon My son, they know where you are, d o they not? Don't say you came without reporting back? Heracles A man's home has the first call o n his soul. Amphitryon Absent without leave, as it were. M y son . . . Heracles I am Heracles, I a m my own man. And maybe I sensed something here was wrong. Amphitryon One rumour put you at your cousin's house.

Heracles Theseus is my brother in these trials, my double almost, my brother in arms. They had plans for him, he had to be warned. Amphitryon And where is your cousin now in these events? Heracles Throwing stones in the sea if he has sense. Follow my footsteps, my sons, my lady, link my arm. Today might throw up a saint but not with your name; the angels can wait, n o wings shall be made for these three, not yet. All climb into me, life will not give out, will not splinter me. Sail in my slipstream, my candle afloat and my paper boats. Here is all mankind, whole and unbroken, a man and woman, born t o their children. Chorus T o be so much and so young. These anti-ageing creams don't work. Emollients and balms of special properties: extract of children's dreams, essence of youth, guaranteed gravity-free!

They test them on bloodhounds and ancient trees. But not one can smooth the folds from the skin, halve the double chin, ease the pleats and crumples from the brow or creases from the cheeks. Not one can draw the coal dust from the eyes. Lies all lies all lies. If there were just one thing that could be had above all others; just that - to be young for ever. So good a t heart and such confidence. It was only ~ e s t e r d aI ~said to my wife, 'Suppose we were promised a second chance, suppose we were guaranteed a second life based on good conduct and clean living. Think how decent we'd be, how courteous, kind and moral; think of the sharing and giving. Think also how the corrupt and evil would be singled out, how those who could only be cruel or make trouble would stick out like sore thumbs. And then something proper could be done because a thick line could be drawn with wrong on one side and right on the other and n o grey area or fuzzy middle ground.' And my wife said, 'Fine, but what would you be like second time around?' Where's the coin for the jukebox? Where's the tune for a jig? Roll back the carpet, landlord, watch me cut some rug. Strike oil with a corkscrew. Mark time with a drum.

I'll kiss anyone's arse, bar steward, for a song or a wee dram. Heracles or Ebenezer, M r Sheen or Miss Demeanour, garnophone, ghetto blaster or brass band, as long as I'm giving it loads by half-nine you can be my man. Draught, bottled, ice and a slice o r neat, as long as I'm arse over tit by closing time you've got the job. Don't mind if I do, my Jehovah God. T o the lord of the hosing down of the streets praise be. T o the lord of the six o'clock news - praise be. T o the lord of birds back in their rightful trees praise be. T o the lord of funding for public art - praise be. T o the lord of air-conditioning - praise be. To the lord of freedom of speech up t o a point praise be. To the lord of the software support helpline praise be. To the lord of holding hands in the park - praise be. T o the lord of Universal Coordinated Time praise be. T o the lord of an integrated transport policy praise be. T o the lord of the card index and microfiche praise be. T o the lord of the people's voice - praise be the same. Heracles in his house, the sky in its heaven again. Lycus Still splitting hairs with yourself? Composing an epitaph perhaps? Checking the date on your death certificate? Corresponds,

does it? Come on. Mush! Get the woman and the kids out of the walk-in wardrobe. That's immediately - if not sooner. Amphitryon You overstep the mark, take your power too far. Like the creature drawn to the heat, who couldn't resist a mouthful of fire. You can scarcely believe yourself, can you, t o be this close, to be standing so near? Lycus Where is she, the mother and her tindersticks? Amphitryon Oh, warming their hands for it, I should think. Ly cus Cold feet more like. Maybe they're on their knees. Amphitryon O n their knees. Warming their hands. Giving thanks. Lycus Thanks for what, an end to their misery? Amphitryon Thanks for their life and for their Heracles. Lycus For Milk Tray Man? That's pissing in the wind. Amphitryon And all his great and unexpected deeds. Lycus The great, late, unexpected Heracles. Amphitry on Late, yes. And yet, as though he never left.

Lycus Get into the house now and bring them out, Amphitryon You'll make me an usher at my own death? Lycus Thoughtful to the last, and image-conscious. That's the difference between my kind and yours it's the outcome that counts, not how it looks. 1'11 fetch them myself. Come on, 'raus, 'raus! Amphitryon Walk headlong into it then, face to face. A heartfelt welcome awaits you within. I could save his neck with the yo-yo trick, that boomerang stunt, where the thing cast out comes wuthering back to hand, but the knack has quite deserted me for an instant. 1'11 follow instead, like the measurer who paces it out to where the javelin lands. Chorus What a turnaround. T o the winning side justice washes back in with the tide. It's hell and high water for that bastard, let high waves leave him snapped and sand-blasted, let the whirlpool catch him and drag him down, let him breathe water, let the bastard drown. What sense of timing and speed. T o be so far distant at the bell, then make up ground on the final lap and breast the tape by a hair's breadth, at the last. Find a cat-flap or a fanlight to look through, see what takes place, see history coming to.

Lycus Wait, wait. Don't . . . Chorus Listen, a song comes from inside. What perfect pitch, rich notes cried from way down in the very deep. Those cries are meant. I could weep. Lycus No, Heracles. Heracles, listen, wait . . . Chorus O h , bloody revenge is better than drugs or money o r food o r drink or sex. Feel it physically, right t o the nerve ends. The good come strong and the strong come good. Rip life from his body. There is a God. Friends, come to the keyhole and listen. Nothing. Silence means the job is finished. Within those walls the old order is re-christened. This is one gold medal of a minute. Shake the bottle and pop the corks. Women, lift up your skirts. Let's have a knees-up of a wake, cancel the priest and the long black hearse, swing on the bell ropes down in the church, make them loop the loop. Shake bats out of the belfry, spreading the news. It's an age-old lesson: at first a man's happy to travel, goes cheap rate by bus or rail, looks out of the window and watches the world. Then he fancies a car of his own, then trades it in for a better model, and spruces it up with spoilers, fog lights,

sun-strips, alloy wheels. It's a case of the means outweighing the actual end: next news, he comes off on the first bend. From the loading bays to the seven fountains, from the playgrounds and malls, from the zoo to the multi-storey car-park, from the barracks and mills, from the monuments in bronze and marble, from the church halls and docks, from the trading estate t o the private gardens, from the prisons and stocks, from department stores to the green-field campus, from the town-hall clock, from the bottle banks to the public toilets, from lock-ups and shops, from the weather vane o n the railway station, from the steeples and domes, give thanks for Heracles, back in his rightful home. They say there isn't just one father, but two: the man of the house and a sleeping partner. O n e was a husband through and through, one was a 'godfather'. N o w that story proves to be true: goodness has come with years of nurture, but willpower and killer instinct too are in his nature. N o w he raises himself to his full height, now all his courage is drawn to a point. T o d o what is asked, when required or requested is one thing, a duty which Heracles perfected. Now, with kith and kin to be protected,

the true Heracles steps forward. N o w he must kill for himself, not just to order.

there's no telling what a man like that might do. G a Ga - if you're ready, please, give him the works.

Although, here is another twist. Here are visitors that strike terror. Look busy, don't catch their eye. This smacks of official disaster. Iris People, please, don't stand up - we're not stopping. It's a flying visit - we were just passing. Anyway, it isn't you we're interested in, obviously, but you-know-who, everyone's favourite dreamboat, w h o I see from the way you're carrying on is back in the neighbourhood, making himself at home. More lives than a basket of kittens, that one. Nice, when a lost soul returns t o his turf, and I don't want t o shit o n the welcome mat, but we were expecting him a t our reception first. Guest of honour t o be exact, and t o be snubbed by such a super-luminary as him really hurts. You see, we had money riding o n his head, money that sent him winging through the universe, and when we invest, we look for certain returns. We can't have him strolling the countryside without . . . what's that phrase . . . without touching base. So we've come t o teach M r Heracles a lesson. M y little friend here has a strange device that locks on to the frequency of a person, winds a person up t o the top, pushes his button, gives him a sort of electronic adrenalin shot that multiplies his sense of being human. Which is fine if he's as meek as a lamb and so on, but poor Heracles - a born killer through and through-

Madness Don't think I enjoy this - it's only a job. I come from a good family, went t o private school, I could have been something big in the city o r the church, but it didn't work out. I seem to have fallen between stools. It's not so much the paperwork or the pay o r even the travel, which actually I enjoy. It's the very thanklessness of the task gets a person in the end; there's n o gratitude from upstairs, and obviously n o slap on the back from those on the receiving end. Just t o see someone smiling for once, maybe a t night I'd fall asleep easier. Iris Thank you. Your comments are taken into account. Madness Peace talks - they're the way to sort problems out. Iris I'm sure some outpost with the Diplomatic Corps could be arranged. Now, if you don't mind?

I

Madness All right, I know a n instruction when I hear one. You there, just put a cross o n this witness form. Anyway, it only takes a minute o r so, if, that, and it will hurt me more than it hurts him of course, the problem being the subject feels a flash of blinding light, leading t o temporary memory loss and sometimes a funny turn o r possible blackout before sense returns. I need t o get within range, it's best if everyone else stands back.

The first sign is a nerve twitching, just here in the neck. Then the head lolls and the eyes roll, then all hell breaks loose. Muscles move like eels under the skin, limbs act independently of thought, as if spell-bound, radio-controlled, o r on strings. All the past comes spooling through the mind, which for some must be a terrifying thing. 1'11 go inside and make sure. Open the door. Chorus Don't let the noise into the ear, don't let the frequency enter the brain's core; don't let sound's index finger worm into the mind's honeycomb truffling for sweet secrets, rooting out privacy. Madness is in the air making the atoms ring like alarm bells on red alcrt. Overloaded, the senses sing the brain's simmering kettle boils up and whistles. A terrible noise is heard, a system at full speed ahead abruptly reversing its gears. Amphitryon Oh, terror, terror

.. .

Chorus The noise still goes on wailing its nauseous song. Amphitryon Heracles, hold, hold . . Chorus Flesh is torn like bread, red wine spills from the dead. Amphitryon Children, save yourselves, hide . . . Chorus Not the children, the little ones. O h God, one by one he rips them apart. No, Heracles, throw the little ones back. Amphi.tryon Oh, worst ever, worst of all . . Chorus Some whirlwind of the mind whips up a version of his life which he acts out on his own kind. Feel the house shake, foundations disturbed and shocked. So much for a solid base and protection overhead. One bolt from the blue, one tremor of earth and heaven's keystone crashes through the roof, hell's fire comes bursting up through the hearth.

Chorus Such power out of control, such raw strength let loose, hopeless for those who stand close.

Messenger So d o you know, or d o I have to say?

Amphitryon Oh, such sickening blows . . .

Chorus Tell us it isn't true. Say otherwise.

Messenger Think of a nightmare, but in broad daylight. Chorus N o ... Messenger Think slaughter, carnage . . . Chorus Not children butchered by their father? Messenger Think bloodshed of the first order. Chorus If you were witness t o murder then have presence, come forward, say what you saw, speak t o us all in plain language. Testify: be clear and recorded. Messenger It was just happenchance I was present, the way that a person walking the beach o r harbour might be asked t o photograph a sweet family grouping with their camera, o r the way a person walking the street might be called in t o witness a marriage by lending himself and his signature. I was the complete and utter stranger, invited in as a good-luck gesture, first footer, bringing in the new era. T h e old enemy lay dead in one corner, killed like the wolf in range of the cradle. T h e family closed rank, held hands in the round, Heracles, his father, wife and three sons, with their arms crossed over. Purifying water in a bowl was set down centre-circle.

Heracles moved forward, then seemed t o stall, and a nerve pumped in the wall of his neck, just here, as if the man couldn't swallow, and his eyes swelled in their sockets. His veins were hot, overloaded, and he mumbled, 'Father, this isn't the time t o clean the house, I have breakthroughs t o make, barriers t o crash, more dirty work t o d o before I stop. N o rest for the wicked indeed. N o peace.' Then he sat down on the arm of the chair as if it were the saddle of a horse o r the captain's seat, and lashed with the reins and play-acted with levers and controls. And everyone smiled nervously, not sure whether to meet his eye with laughter o r fear. And he bucked and galloped and kangarooed around the room, t o and fro, side t o side, still riding his imaginary ride. The next thing, he threw himself t o the ground, saying the earth was a feast on a plate, and licked the floor and ate coal from the grate, then forced his way through a pretend thicket into a pretend wood, then stripped naked, then held an arm-wrestling competition with some invisible opposing force, then got dressed again claiming t o have won. And his father took his arm and said, 'Son, what is this journey you travel on? Give us some clue or sign. Is it the past that plays on your mind, troubles your mind's eye?' But Heracles pushed the old man aside and a rage entered his face, and, help me, God, t o tell what came next. Give me strength t o say He turned then to his children, not to hold o r lift them o r love them, but to kill them. And the steel in his eyes gave hlm away,

because one ran to hide in the shadows, and one rolled underneath a stone table, and one hid in the skirts of his mother, and the mother screamed, 'You are their father, their father, for pity's sake, Heracles . . .' And chaos broke out all over the house. And Heracles strode into the shadows and collared his eldest son by the neck and brought his free hand sledgehammering down with such force that the boy's head truly split, and his mouth poured with blood, and both eyes bled. 'Here's one I'm killing for the mother state,' he said, throwing the boy down in a dead heap. Then he walked to where his second son hid and lifted up the stone table, as if it were nothing more than a suitcase lid. T h e boy jumped up into his father's arms, hugging him, pleading, begging for his life, his small voice crying out not to be hurt. Those cries went unheard. And being too close, too near at hand for a swing of the fist, Heracles simply locked his arms and squeezed, and squeezed, crushing his son's ribs, crushing bones and breath, until no sound or life was left. 'And here's a killing for the greater good,' he yelled, and threw the body to one side. Then seeing the mother and the youngest son running for their lives, he steadied himself, reached down towards his belt, and with a gun emptied the whole barrel into them both, then put the gun to his father's head and clicked the trigger, but the last bullet was spent. His father stared into mid-air, his face without blood, full of blankness, drained. Heracles stood for a moment, then swayed and fell, crashing head-first through a glass pane.

And seeing a chance, we tied him with ropes and rolled him in chains, and he sleeps now, the killer of his three sons and his wife, muscles flickering and flinching with dreams. So help us all. This is what I have seen. Chorus Violence is many. Beatings are ten-a-penny. Thousands are assaulted, tortured even and maimed. Murder has happened before and will happen again. But this is above and beyond, off the scale, in another plane. Even on the field of battle life finds a route, a way through. But this is a dead end. Where can we tread? What prayers can be said or heard? What songs can be sung at such a grave? We don't know the steps or the tune or the words. Open the doors at least, let air and light into the wound, hide nothing, let's start with absolute truth, let's see the worst.

The doors of the house open. Chorus Never in born days, never in all life, never before and again, nothing the same after, nothing to come close, nothing that matches, never such a sight,

never this scene, some picture o r frieze of madness and slaughter. Altar of still life. Only the father . . . Amphitryon Quiet, you people. Let Heracles sleep. Give him a minute's peace. Chorus W e don't know where to begin, which angle t o take, what light t o see things in. Amphitryon Stand off, back from the blast. Let calm find a resting place. Let another moment go past. Chorus T h e bloody, murderous workings of hell. Amphitryon Don't break the spell. Stand still. Chorus T o o much for one man. Amphitryon Gently now, stay hushed. Grieve in your thoughts, let the tide fall. If he comes to, with rage still pulsing in his veins he might kill us all this time. Chorus Look but don't touch.

Amphitryon Hush, hush, let me listen for life. Chorus O r use a mirror t o douse for his breath. Amphitry o n H e sleeps. Let him sleep on. H e slaughtered his sons and his wife. Let sleep hide him from that curse as long as it can. Chorus You yourself must be ready t o break down? Amphitryon No, I can see it out. Chorus Must be a t breaking point, must need t o mourn . . . Amphitryon Oh, Lord . . . Chorus For your son's children, for his wife, for your son . .. Amphitryon O h Lord, oh my Lord . . . Chorus Come t o our arms t o be held. W e can hold. Amphitryon Wait, he moves. There, see, he stirs from his dreams. Will he want t o rampage, go on the kill, or is he controlled and cooled, I can't tell. Chorus Can a split mind mend as quickly as that?

Amphitryon 1'11 stand back and wait. Now I don't fear death one jot, standing here in the thick of it, but won't let my son add his father's name to the long list o f his crimes; I won't stand in harm's way, tempt him into deeper shame. Chorus A person can cheat death a dozen times and think himself lucky, only t o find what waits for him, a t the end, as a prize, is death-in-life, a kind of living hell. Maybe then he wonders why he lived a t all. Amphitryon Look, he definitely moves. Run, make yourself scarce in case of a second wave. T h e carnage he wakes amongst might trip another surge. Heracles I live . . . M y own breath . . . daylight playing on my face. Sideways on, the world in its proper plane. But my senses won't surface, and my mind glides, seems airbornc almost, light-headedness like the state of grace after an illness. Am I captured? Were we overtaken in battle, knocked out by a strange action, a gas or a drug, electrocution, some tampering with neutrons or atoms . . . ? Where did time go? I see bodies and blood, but if I fought and killed so thoroughly what are these bonds and restraints? Metal chains anchor me, ropes wrangle me t o the ground. I am, what, bolassed, tethered like a beast

in my own home? This is the wildest of dreams. What Lilliput am I coming round from, what strip of shore am I run aground on, familiar and foreign at the same time? Amphitryon Should I enter the black mouth of the cave? Chorus G o on, we'll be right behind you. Be brave. Heracles Father, don't stand off, come here to my side, free me before the enemy returns. Amphitryon O h my Heracles, what is done is done. Heracles What can be so lost that brings you t o tears? Amphitryon Enough to make even a desert weep. Heracles Share it with me, father, don't hold it back. Amphitryon You lie in it. Tooth and claw. Root and branch. Heracles Has something broken? Tell me what has changed. Amphitryon First tell me how you feel. Calm, o r enraged? Heracles A strange question. What is it leading to? Amphitryon D o you fence with me because you are still mad?

Heracks Who said mad? Where does mad come into it?

Heracles What, killed my own wife, murdered my own sons?

Amphitryon Into the head, into the heart of it.

Amphitryon Chased and murdered your offspring one by one.

Heracles Say now who spun me in these coils and loops.

Heracles And my wife too? Murdered my wife as well?

Amphitryon Only your own kind who wanted to help.

Amphitryon In calm madness, point-blank range, in cold blood.

Heracles Father, tell me the truth, don't make me beg.

Heracles By force of hand or something inside me?

Amphitryon Look, you taskmasters, you must be well ~ l e a s e d .

Amphitryon Like a man possessed, by his own dark thoughts.

Heracles Did those I sweated for take part in this?

Heracles Then there is no recovery from this.

Amphitryon Those beyond reach, who are not touched by it

Amphitryon ~f all grief was one person, you are him.

Heracles No. A cover-up. What d o you keep back?

Heracles What shape did madness take, where did it start?

Amphitryon These - the bodies of your wife and three boys.

Amphitryon As you stood in the circle of loved ones.

Heracles All dead? M y whole life in one? All I a m ?

Heracles Then let me go and carry out my threat that murder must be brought to book; a head will roll for the crime, and that head is mine. Put a sheer drop a t my feet and I'll walk, or let me rest my tired head o n the block, or tie me t o a centre-pole, and burn this illness out before it strikes again.

Amphitryon The body count of your latest conflict. Heracles Point the finger, who shall I kill for this? Amphitryon Heracles, you killed them, nobody else.

And now here comes Theseus, his timing faultless, striding into my hall of shame.

So if his eyes click open on this scene all our past together will be redrawn in a worse light, will be shadowed with doubt, seen dimly with the candle of hindsight. Hide me in the Periodic Table. Open a hole in the ground o r the sky, make me invisible, sub-atomic, make me minuscule and I'll pass away through wormholes, through the eye of a needle into matter, without thought o r trouble. Hide me. Put him off. Cover me over.

Theseus W e came when we could. A rumour arrived that you were overrun, that the great house was taken, that the banner was fallen. Well, I've brought enough men and firepower t o knock over an entire continent that's if Heracles needs help; probably he's already cut off the viper's head and killed and skinned and made a belt of it. Apologies if the battle's over, no doubt the man's put his house in order. For God's sake, whose bodies are these? Every battle ground has its dead and its dying, its fall-out, but these are women and boys lying here. This is primal. This isn't the aftermath of waves of armed forces coming t o blows, this is something primitive and tribal. Amphitryon Tragedy, friend, is what you look upon. Theseus What d o these four corpses have in common?

Amphitryon They were the blood relatives of one man. Theseus Say whose woman this was and whose children. Amphitryon Heracles my son, w h o loved all of them, who lived for them, came home for them, killed them. Theseus Impossible. Amphitryon Impossible, yes, until it happened. Theseus T h a t is the most horrible. Amphitryon O n e complete world in a minute collapsed. Theseus Horrible. T o o horrible. Amphitryon O n e second calm and collected, a husband, father and son, the next second - crazy, demented. Theseus This reeks of intervention at a high level. Amphitryon My son, for all his medals, whose arms embraced the world, now lies there huddled in a baby-ball. Theseus Fame is his first brother, fate the other.

Heracles Then I'll strike back in the same madcap state. Theseus Save your breath, your threats mean nothing to them. Heracles I gave it all, then they smashed me to bits. Theseus Save your breath, they probably hear you speak. Heracles H o w could they damage me any further? Theseus You must choose a direction to move in. Heracles Downwards to death, where gravity draws me. Theseus Those are the words of the ordinary. Heracles Suffer likewise before you lecture me. Theseus The cousin I know can bear anything. Heracles But not everything - it mounts up too high. Theseus Think of the millions who swear by your name. Heracles Let this role model be human again. Theseus I won't let you kill yourself, Heracles.

Heracles So you're a Samaritan as well now? Well stand by with the circuit breakers when this call for help lights up the switchboard, because Heracles is a case study, a living, breathing, one-man case history. Heracles, whose father happened t o kill his father-in-law, whose darling mother kept a mermaid's cunt between her legs till yet another blood feud was revenged, by which time Zeus, great Zeus, had nutmegged her in her bed, and left proof once and for all of his human form: Heracles was born. Zeus died but life goes on; these fingerprints are evidence of Zeus's frailties. I pay the price for his adultery, for his crossing the line into our family. Well, father, I have tried to be your son, tried hard to be a son of a true man, not someone god-like or legendary, but it cuts deep. Living up to his name keeps driving me on, towards the extreme, all part of a bigger push to be seen. Meanwhile, the planet altered overnight: Heracles was born to a way of life that went into receivership: all things to all men, jack-of-all-trades, infinite number of monkeys rolled into one man; when they said JUMP! he didn't ask how high, just banged his head on a meteoroid, opened a crater when he landed back. Now I'm hemmed in between future and past; to stay here would be to meet this slaughter in every encounter, coiled in each eye, dilating madly in every pupil,

what looks now like a mortal wound will heal into scar tissue and cauterised nerves let it remind you of the famous day you slashed the puppet strings that tweaked your limbs, broke the mould, emerged into your o w n realm. Let the breakage show the width of the gulf between expectation and the true self. Now leave this place. I have tracts of the Earth deeded in my name - you can have your pick, and build a house there of your own design without attics o r cellars o r deep vaults, without relics and tokens of the past. You can begin a life there of free choice. Just as yours was the hand that saved me once, I give you my own hand back like a pledge. Take it, Heracles, the hand of a friend goes beyond touch - you taught me as much.

aperture. Yet no other place would have me, either through old enmity o r envy, o r would have me for my new fame, just as a circus tent would give shelter t o an elephant man o r freak of nature. 'Here is Heracles who murdered his wife and his boys, please don't feed the poor creature, we need his grief t o stay lean and hungry.' If there's no word t o describe what I did, I could become some new definition. So it's best that Heracles disappears. I see my life for what it is - a list of things accomplished, acceptance speeches, records broken, ~ u z z l e ssolved, clocks beaten, all in the end without wider meaning. And the name of great Zeus might still hold sway, but power, massive power, rests elsewhere: the houses and names and families of old are hauled down, right t o the foundation stones, swept aside for the passage of new roads, stripped of all flesh to expose ancient bone. Theseus But listen t o me closely, Heracles. All your life you have fallen into step. Born musclebound you've thrown your weight around, born bright you've cracked the most cryptic of codes, born of such birth you've held your head high, followed the script exactly as planned. So this fall was the most obvious thing in the world - it was certain t o happen. And the way forward is not self-pity or lashing out at those implicated, but self-respect and human dignity. Mount up again, steer your own destiny, see this as a beginning, not an end;

I i i

Heracles Remember the first time you killed a man, cousin? As if a threshold had been crossed or some final obstacle overcome? But then what, after the second, third kill? Did you keep count into double figures? Did you round it up to a square number, or round it down, back into proportion? Soon instinct and reaction take over. I've loaded magazines without thinking, lined up the cross-hairs, beaded a target as if I were just pointing a finger, then beckoned death by pulling the trigger. Along lines of sight, I've followed the trace of gunfire passing through armour and flesh, seen daylight flashing on the other side, seen death blink its eye, and not broken sweat. At first it caused a dryness in the throat;

these days it doesn't even raise the pulse. I've killed without giving a single thought to the speed of a bullet: one mile per second, and spinning for good measure. O n e mile per second and spinning, cousin, and as a final task, a last labour, I even outran the speed of the eye, shuttled through time on behalf of the State, but it still wasn't enough. So I walked. ]Vow I'm the dog in the manger: if they can't have me, no one else can either. T o be sure of that they dreamed up a plan that couldn't be more sweet: madness t o strike from inside, turning me loose o n myself, the gorgon's head in a hall of mirrors. During my crimson rage, here in my house, when the red mist came down into my eyes, even though I was cut off from my soul I remember one thing - feeling alive. That's how far I've come: only butchery of those I love most provokes life in me. And that's what it takes to bring me to tears. Look - witness this scene - Heracles crying. I need t o go back t o the beginning, get into a calm life, depressurise, have a normal heart for half a minute, tone it down, tune in to a finer scale of living - but it's all so far distant. O h , my children and my wife, that your death were in me all the time, waiting t o hatch. O h , my father who I call my father, let the son who in a fit of anger would have killed you - let him be held by you, and let him hold you. Lean t o me, father; pity, love, forgiveness, mercy, sorrow anything you can bear to hand over

I'll take. Make contact with me this moment. Theseus Stand up, Heracles. Haul yourself t o your feet. Heracles I'm nailed down and countersunk to the spot. Theseus Push back the earth with the sole of the foot. Heracles You'd have me see this slaughter from above? Theseus Couple our hands, let fingers interlock. Heracles You lower your hand into the snake pit. Theseus I think not. I feel knuckles and warm blood. Heracles I feel it too. You have a brother's grip. Theseus Lean on my shoulder and I'll lead you off. Heracles Such true action - without obligation or reward. Father, you chose the wrong son. Amphitryon W e honour him rightly for what he does. Heracles Wait, shouldn't I turn back to see my boys? Theseus I think you should press forward, forge ahead.

Heracks

shouldn't I kiss them, o r close my wife's eyes?

Amphitryon If you will bury me when my time comes.

Amphitryon Let father and son embrace once again.

Heracles I will.

Theseus It's all in the past now. Leave it behind.

Amphitryon Will you find me, o r shall I come to you?

Heracles This is the hardest progress ever made.

Heracles Whichever way.

Theseus Forget praise, place one foot, and then the next.

Amphitryon M y son, try to say . . .

Heracles What harm can it do just t o glance backwards?

Heracles Tuck my children into their small graves, and my wife - tired of waiting - let her rest. Let him who brought down his whole house in shame be drawn away, physically, t o some place, and occupy himself, not other minds. Come down t o earth, back t o personal space.

Theseus What good is it to them, you can't help them. Heracles T o walk away

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it's unacceptable.

Theseus Then leave Heracles here in the rubble. Heracles It's what I am though, it's immovable. Theseus This way. Heracles Father . . . Amphitryon My son, take care. Heracles Father, bury my wife and my children.

Chorus All you who gather on the brink of tears, you simple souls, watch Heracles go, remember yourselves.