The Turin Shroud Secret (12 page)

She’s trying to act like nothing has happened. Like it is a normal, boring everyday kind of day. Only it isn’t. It’s a terrifyingly
different kind of day. It’s her first day as a single parent. Her first day as a woman who’s about to start divorce proceedings.
She calls the number of the lawyer she found online and makes an appointment for next week. She’d prefer one sooner but he’s
all booked up. For some reason her hand touches her gun, the Smith and Wesson she aimed at her husband last night.

Would she have shot him?

Damned right she would.

Tried to kill him or wound him?

A more difficult question.

Just struggling to answer it makes her realise that under all the layers of hate, all the scars, bruises and contusions of
abuse, there’s still the gossamer of true love, a thin link back to the good times. She swigs from a large mug of black coffee,
and starts up the computer. Some day she’ll cut down on the beans, maybe do a complete detox and drink the daily bucket of
water that apparently all good girls do. Not today, though. Today
Mitzi is already doing ninety in the outside lane on caffeine superhighway and that’s where she’s planning on staying.

Now she wishes she’d called Nic in rather than have him chase down Tamara’s family and friends. She could do with his energy
around her, some positive momentum to keep her going. Then again, in a way, it’s a good job he’s not here. If she told him
about Alfie, he’d probably go crazy and do something regrettable.

Her desk is a mess. Piled with paperwork and files. Surely not as she left it. She’s usually much tidier than this. She must
be cracking up. Or else someone’s been rooting for something, and gave up part way through. The surface is covered with forensic
reports, interview statements, bank accounts, bills and records pulled from Tamara Jacobs and her estranged husband Dylan.
Plus all the goodies she finally shook out of Sarah Kenny – Tamara’s memos, notes and some USB sticks. From the storage devices
she’s managed to print a paper tower of early scripts – numerous different versions, marked numerically and chronologically
– ‘The Shroud Draft (1) Jan 10’, ‘The Shroud Draft (10) July 26’, etc.

She forgets the nagging worry that someone’s been prying and starts reading from the beginning. The first copy may be the
roughest but may also be the most valuable. Later drafts might have things taken out, refined away, covered up. She swings
her legs around and puts her heels up on the desk, then slides down a little in her chair with the manuscript until she’s
comfortable. It’s a long time since she read anything other than a paper or magazine – that’s something else
she’s going to put right in her new life. She leafs through the pages and tries to follow the layout and stylised flow of
screen directions and plot development.

THE SHROUD

By Tamara Jacobs

OPENING TITLES

BLACKNESS.

FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE NOTHINGNESS THERE IS THE
SOUND OF A DESERT WIND
BLOWING AND HOWLING.

THUNDER.

THE THUNDER TURNS INTO THE
SOUND OF NAILS BEING HAMMERED
INTO WOOD. MORE HOWLING WIND. THE WIND FADES INTO THE
SOUND OF WOMEN WEEPING
AND SCREAMING.

STILL THE BLACKNESS.

A TENSE MUSIC UNDERSCORE BUILDS.

SUDDENLY A MONTAGE OF BLACK AND WHITE IMAGES SPLATTER THE SCREEN. POSITIVE AND NEGATIVE SHOTS OF THE FACE ON THE TURIN SHROUD.

BIG CLOSE-UP OF THE SHROUD’S DARK EYES.

MUSIC POUNDS.

QUICK CUTS OF IMAGES THAT LOOK LIKE THE CROWN OF THORNS.
SHARP, JABBING MUSIC ON EACH PICTURE CUT.

IMAGES APPEAR – RIPPED, SHREDDED, SCRATCHED LIKE OLD BLACK-AND-WHITE FILM BEING SHUTTERED THROUGH AN ANCIENT PROJECTOR.

BLOOD SPATTERS THE SCREEN. DISSOLVES INTO THE FABRIC OF THE SHROUD, THE CLOTH SOAKING IT UP AND IMAGES FADING AWAY AS CENTURIES
PASS.

CLOSE-UP OF LOWER PART OF THE SHROUD. CAMERA TRACKS ALONG THE CLOTH WHERE THE PALMS OF THE HANDS AND THE FEET WERE COVERED
– WHERE RED BLOOD NOW SEEPS THROUGH. CAMERA DRIFTS FROM THE BURIAL CLOTH INTO BLACKNESS.

SOUNDS OF DISTANT CRYING.
THIS BECOMES MIXED IN A FADING ECHO WITH THE
NOISE OF A VICIOUS WIND
RISING THEN DYING.

LIFE AND TIME HAVE PASSED.

THE SCREEN TURNS BLACK AGAIN.

CUT TO

OPENING SCENE

FROM PREVIOUS BLACK FRAME WE SEE A STARRY SKY. CAMERA PULLS OUT TO REVEAL WIDE SHOT OF NIGHT SKY, THEN SLOWLY TILTS DOWN TO
SHOW MODERN DAY TURIN, ILLUMINATED BY CITY LIGHTS.

CUT TO

WIDE EXT GV OF THE CATHEDRAL OF ST JOHN THE BAPTIST

(SOUND OF CHURCH BELLS)

CUT TO

CRANE SHOT OF CATHEDRAL ENTRANCE

OLD ENTRANCE DOORS SUDDENLY BURST OPEN. A NOISY
CONGREGATION FLOODS OUT. PEOPLE ARE FASTENING COATS, PULLING ON HATS, HOLDING HANDS OF CHILDREN. THEY SOUND HAPPY. RENEWED.

INTERCUT WITH

OLD PRIEST WANDERS INTO SACRISTY AND CHANGES OUT OF HIS VESTMENTS. ALTAR BOYS COLLECT HYMN BOOKS, BLOW OUT CANDLES, STRAIGHTEN
KNEELERS.

THE CHURCH EMPTIES. THERE IS BLACKNESS.

SOUND OF A KEY TURNING IN THE LOCK
OF THE BIG HEAVY FRONT DOORS.
FOOTSTEPS HEARD
DISAPPEARING DOWN THE STONE STEPS OUTSIDE.

THE FACE OF A MAN APPEARS IN A SMALL POOL OF FLASHLIGHT. THE BEAM FLICKS DOWN ONTO THE TILES OF THE CHURCH FLOOR. WE
HEAR HIS FOOTSTEPS
AS HE WALKS AND WE FOLLOW THE BOUNCING BEAM. IT STOPS AND RISES OVER THE PLACE WHERE THE TURIN SHROUD IS LOCKED AWAY. THE
LIGHT FOCUSES ON THE LOCK TO THE CASE HOLDING THE SHROUD. A LATEX-GLOVED HAND INSERTS A KEY AND TURNS IT.

WE HEAR A DOOR CREAK OPEN.
LIGHT FALLS ON THE SHROUD.

NOTHING HAPPENS FOR A SECOND OR TWO.

NOW WE SEE A GLINT OF A KNIFE IN THE LIGHT.

IT LOOKS LIKE THE SHROUD IS ABOUT TO BE RIPPED. DAMAGED. DESTROYED. THE LIGHT CARESSES THE SHROUD – SMUDGES AND STAINS APPEAR
(IMAGES REMINISCENT OF THOSE WE’VE JUST SEEN IN THE TITLE SEQUENCE).

THERE IS A LOUD BANG. THE TORCHLIGHT IS QUICKLY EXTINGUISHED.

CUT TO

EXT GV

TWO YOUNG BOYS OUTSIDE HAVE KICKED A FOOTBALL AGAINST THE CHURCH WINDOWS. THEY GRAB THE BALL AND RUN AWAY SCARED.

INTERIOR

IN THE SHADOWS WE SEE THE FACE OF THE MAN WITH THE KNIFE, WAITING PATIENTLY.

WHEN NO MORE SOUNDS DISTURB HIM, HE RESUMES HIS TASK.

CLOSE-UP

THE LENGTH OF THE KNIFE’S BLADE SCRAPES SLOWLY BACK AND FORTH ACROSS THE SURFACE OF THE OLD CLOTH, LIKE IT’S BEING METHODICALLY
SHARPENED ON A WHETSTONE.

THE KNIFE DISAPPEARS FROM VIEW. THERE IS A SHORT PAUSE.

Mitzi studies the crossed-out lines and sees a handwritten notation a little lower:
*too sensitive/rw

She guesses
rw
means rewrite. She pulls apart the tower of drafts and after some rooting finds the next version of the script. It reads:

THE KNIFE DISAPPEARS FROM VIEW. THERE IS A SHORT PAUSE. A CREAM ENVELOPE COMES INTO SHOT FROM LEFT OF FRAME. THE SHROUD IS
LIFTED BY A HAND BENEATH IT AND GENTLY FINGER-TAPPED. TINY PARTICLES OF SCRAPED CLOTH AND BROWNISH DUST ARE SEEN TO FALL INTO
THE ENVELOPE. IT IS NOW SEALED.

Mitzi is wondering why Tamara changed the text. What was wrong with the original version? She compares the two. The only significant
change seems to be the dropping of the first draft’s reference to ‘the type CSIs use to lift fingerprints’. She swings back
and forth in her chair, almost in the hope that the motion will dislodge a jammed thought, a clogged intuition.

The cell phone on her desk rings. ‘Mitzi Fallon,’ she says, still staring at the script, still wondering about the changes.

‘It’s me.’

The words make her freeze.

Alfie.

Her heart pounds. She pulls the phone away from her ear and glares at it. He’s still talking as she cuts him off.

Somehow disconnecting the call is not enough. Mitzi makes sure the phone is completely turned off. She knows she’ll have to
talk to him. But not now. Not until she’s really sure she’s strong enough.

DOWNTOWN, LOS ANGELES

Factory manager John James stands in the open doorway of the machinists’ workroom as the claxon sounds for the eleven o’clock
tea break.

‘Wait!
Wait!’

He has to shout loudly above the cacophony of chair legs scraping back over the wooden floor. ‘Hold on. You need to hear this
before you go.’

The noise dies down to a grumble. The expectant faces of thirty women stare at him. Some are desperate to go to the washroom,
others to get coffee, soda or cigarettes.

‘Emma Varley handed in her notice last night and isn’t coming in any more.’

The news raises a couple of whistles and even some bored clapping.

‘It means we have a vacancy for a machinist. If anyone knows someone who needs work, let me know. Applicants need to provide
references. That’s it.’

The wave of noise rises again and the exodus resumes. JJ steps to one side and lets the tide of women flow past.

‘Good freakin’ riddance,’ says Jenny Harrison as she approaches him. The thirty-year-old’s brunette hair is tied back in a
greasy bun and her face is heavily made-up.
‘Bitch was no good anyway, dragged the rest of us back.’

JJ feels compelled to defend her. ‘Em not being here is a big loss to this company.’

Harrison stops in front of him.
‘Em?’
Her voice crackles with excitement. ‘Was
Em
teacher’s pet, then?’

JJ says nothing. Inwardly, he’s already scalding himself for the slip of tongue.

‘Aw, you gonna miss her, Mr J?’ Harrison reaches out and grabs the arm of one of her passing cronies. ‘Hey Kim, you think
the boss was soft on Blotchy?’

Kim Bass, a platinum blonde, not young but not old either, stares baldly into her manager’s face. ‘He looks embarrassed to
me, Jen.’ She chews gum nonchalantly as she looks him over. ‘Yeah, maybe he was. Or maybe he wasn’t soft on her, he was
hard
on her.’

They erupt with laughter. Hold on to each other as though the joke was so funny they’d collapse if they didn’t.

‘Get out of here!’ JJ waves them through the door. ‘Take your break or get back to work.’

Harrison is too bold to be talked to like that. She’s eaten men twice the size of Fish Face for dinner and spat out their
scales and bones before breakfast. She steps close to him, so close her breasts brush him and her cheap perfume makes him
cough.
‘We
could be your pets, now Mr J. Kim and I here could show you things you never even imagined.’

Bass follows her lead and leans against his shoulder, pressing her body up against him. ‘That’s right, boss. Treat
us
properly and we’ll really treat you.’

His temper snaps. He jams a hand across the blonde’s mouth. Anger surges through him. Images flash to mind. He has to fight
to keep his other hand at his side, use all his willpower not to grab her throat and squeeze the life out of her.

‘Hey!’ Bass pulls away. ‘You just assaulted me.’

‘Get your stuff. You’re both fired. Get out of here.’

Bass no longer has a smart look in her eyes. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘I’ve done it.’ His heart is racing. ‘You’re
both
fired. Clear your things and get out of here. Now.’

The women look at each other uncertainly.

‘It was just a joke, Mr James.’ Harrison almost sounds apologetic. ‘We’re sorry if we wound you up.’

‘Get out.’

‘Please,’ begs Bass. ‘Dwayne will beat me stupid if I tell him I’ve lost this job.’

JJ couldn’t care less. ‘You’re stupid already. Get your things and leave or I’ll call the cops and have you thrown out.’

They can see he isn’t going to change his mind. Harrison’s face fills with fury. ‘You sexually assaulted her.’ She points
at Bass. ‘I saw you. You felt her up.’ She turns to her friend. ‘Didn’t he, Kim? He grabbed at you, didn’t he?’

‘Yeah. You’re a sex maniac. You’ve been pestering me all the time. All the girls have seen ya.’

They see the smug look slip from his face. Poor bastard doesn’t know what to do now. Doesn’t have a clue. Harrison taps him
on the cheek as she walks away. ‘We’re takin’ our
break now.’ She glances at her wrist. ‘Only we’ll be a bit late coming back, cos you kept us talking for so long.’

77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

Deke Matthews’ office chair creaks ominously as he rocks back and forth, weighing up Mitzi’s unexpected plea to send Karakandez
to Turin.

If the beach corpse was only a street bum, he’d say no. He’d send her away with a flea in her ear for even suggesting such
a thing. But a Hollywood writer is a different thing. Very different since this morning when he had the mayor riding him hard
for progress reports and reminding him that elections are just round the corner.

He rights the chair and gives his verdict. ‘Okay, send him. Only do it cheap. Get him on a parcel plane or bucket airline.
Strap him to a flock of pigeons or have him swim. No overtime, no fancy meals.’