1. INTERIOR. NIGHT. A GRAND PUBLIC HALL LIKE THE BARBICAN CENTRE , LONDON

The house-lights are dimming in the crowded auditorium, where the excited culturati are gathered in black-tie evening finery. As lights go up on the platform, the chattering subsides.

And now the climax of the evening. Rupert Easterbrook will announce the winner of this year's Hooker Prize for Literature...

RUPERT EASTERBROOK, a sleek plump man in his mid-forties, strides towards the microphone and produces an envelope. He opens it with a melodramatic gesture.

RUPERT stumbles a little and grimaces at his slip. Titters in the audience.

Applause and cheers as CAROLINE RUTLAND, an angular feisty thirty-something woman with flaming red hair strides up the aisles, leaps on stage, hugs and kisses RUPERT ferociously, before turning to the audience, grinning manically.

The judges chose this work for its vibrant language , its subtle deconstruction of our post-electronic mythologies, its rich evocation of -

CAROLINE elbows RUPERT aside and grabs the microphone. In close-up it's clear she has drunk a great deal but there's already something hysterical about her euphoria.

Trust an old fraud like Rupert to fuddle the name of my festering book. But tonight it doesn't flutter a shit. You see I'm the hot babe of babel and I'm bubbling under, right? Yes? Right? Look at you all pissed and bursting, waiting for the word..

The audience laughter wavers uneasily. RUPERT looks worried, makes an ineffectual grab for the mike, but she grips his arm and twists it away.

For the pus word is the word pizzle ...zax...aristzahaha...here's the woo woo you're ratzz for ...araata. vanucahit I am wanna wanna .I want to thakra catabla noasmi tabela my reditor hoditor and my coswami agent hoo ronzon gobble job gobble job ..yahooomi yojo kaccaz yo zaxy thang but plab I nam hahhrgh no no no nahhragh...

CAROLINE appears to be losing control. Her speech turns into a stream of random syllables, increasing in volume and raucous vehemence. She seems to be both exalted and terrified by what is happening to her. Her arms and legs are fighting each other as if seperate from her torso.

Of course, Caroline Rutland is known for her controversial and often irreverent cultural commentary as well as her flamboyant lifestyle . And previous Hooker Award evenings have had their share of drama. Even so, this kind of gesture seems excessive -

RUPERT manages to wrest control of the microphone as two SECURITY MEN move across the stage with dream-like slowness.

Well, Caroline seems to have anticipated her triumph with a long gargle of champagne - or line of Charlie , who knows -

CAROLINE shifts her grip, grasps RUPERT by the neck, tries to strangle him with the microphone cable and then hits him hard across the mouth with the microphone, drawing blood.

The SECURITY MEN close in but CAROLINE, screaming, repels them with blows to the face and groin. RUPERT staggers and falls. As she hammers at his head with the base of the microphone stand, the horrified audience rise from their seats. Some move forward to intervene, others stampede for the exits. Chaos. Slow dissolve into:

2. INTERIOR. DAY. METATRON AGENCY OUTER OFFICE

BECKETT sits at his his desk, poring over a laptop. A close-up over his shoulder reveals he is playing with a web design package, highlighting text and clicking icons. At the desk opposite MISS HANNAH looks up from behind a huge old-fashioned typewriter.

I don't think Mr Kadmon likes computers.

It's a tool . My consciousness machine. Like his pack of cards.

Maybe he just can't afford to buy me a proper word processor.

He can't afford not to get this business on-line. Like so...

BECKETT clicks open a window on the laptop. A close-up reveals a web-page:
"WELCOME TO THE METATRON DETECTIVE AGENCY" The index is arranged around a tree-of-life glyph. The spheres on the tree are labelled with links to different aspects of the Agency's business. MISS HANNAH comes over and peers at it.

My personal project, Miss Hannah. Still under construction, and nowhere to upload it yet. But we will.

Everyone has a site these days.

Everybody's drifting through the cyber-sphere looking for a personal solution. They'll discover the Metatronic presence. His talents. Case histories, archives. Validating what happens here.

It would be so convenient to have e-mail.

KADMON has silently emerged from his office. He stands behind BECKETT, looking over his shoulder. He frowns as his eyes follow the movements of BECKETT'S cursor on the screen. BECKETT and MISS HANNAH don't notice him.

I know this brilliant company up north who could do the whole bit, proper Flash and Macromedia, streaming audio and video, and host it - it wouldn't cost much - pay for itself in a year. Why hasn't he done it before?

Perhaps he needs silence and invisibility to function.

BECKETT is put off his stride for a few seconds; and MISS HANNAH demurely returns to her desk. But BECKETT rallies.

I don't understand. There are millions of bogus paranormal pages, thousands of fake occult sites -

I know.

But think of the hits you could attract..

Psychic nuisance callers, astral junkies, people who want easy answers.

But you have something real to offer.

We don't want to be virtually real, do we?

We want to eat.

If you're unhappy with your stipend, Beckett, feel free to leave. Maybe it is your will to become a television presenter.

MISS HANNAH has been studying the Daily Telegraph front page. She tries to divert the discussion

Oh no - Rupert Easterbrook's dead. A woman attacked him at an awards ceremony. Horrible...

We're not talking about TV presenters. We're talking about presenting your - abilities...your - activities...

As a celebrity freakshow?

You shouldn't be reduced to selling off your manuscripts. To subsidise our wages.

That's a private matter.

Don't you want recognition? If the web had been around for Aleister Crowley he would have been hanging right in there.

I'm not a manic self-publicist. I'm surprised you haven't learned enough to recognise the dangers of an imbalance in Hod.

BECKETT points with his cursor to his on-screen glyph, like an eager pupil raising his hand.

Hod? The eighth sephiroth?

Correct. The realm of language, communication.. The zone of Mercurius, Thoth, Loki. Messengers, scribes and tricksters. Entities of the media landscape.

CUT TO:

3. INTERIOR. DAY. VIDEO EDIT SUITE AT QUICKSILVER PRODUCTIONS

Close-up on a TV monitor, displaying a craggy-faced silver-haired man in a white suit (THE REVEREND ENOCH HAGER), gesturing emphatically. The image is flickering in fast-forward mode. The camera pulls back to reveal a darkened edit suite. The space is cluttered, untidy, surfaces covered with soft drink cans and crumpled tinfoil Chinese takeaway dishes. It is dominated by the monitors , VCRs and a computer, which provide most of the illumination. ANDY HEMMINGS, a stylish young man in an orange shirt and combat trousers, sits at the console, referring to notes. He pauses the tape and plays it back

" My friends, the tongues of Satan are flaming brightly...On the streets they talk drugs and fornication, in the schools they deny God's creation... the youth study astrology, psychology, semiology, homosexology, every logo but the word of Scripture...their music is the black metal thud of Satan's heart, they dance before the dark and bloody eye of Sodom..."

ANDY grins, glances at the tape counter and makes a note. This seems to be the kind of thing he is looking for. He freezes the tape again. HAGER's mouth is wide open, his arm raised with a warning finger extended. There is a garish studio set behind HAGER, displaying a neon cross and a text box glows at the bottom of the screen: "Channel 888 - The Immortal Word Network - The Enoch Hager Hour". ANDY smiles, swings round in his chair and calls off-screen.

Hey, Miriam, this guy is rocking...what do you think?

MIRIAM, flustered, is in the doorway, clutching an armful of tapes and ring-binders.

I'm only here on work placement. I thought I wasn't supposed to think things.

Oh, I'm sure you have hidden depths.

MIRIAM smiles.

Come on, Miriam - can't you see this guy on Samantha's afternoon show? Alongside some pop professor. And a tame astrologer. The funky Reverend, giving them shit. Great stuff! He's due here any day . We've got to set something up.

Andy, people like that don't have much to do with religion. Let alone mysticism. You don't know the first thing about it!

And you do?

I know someone who does - no, forget it..

I'm not forgetting it. I want to know. I want to know everything, Miriam. Over dinner. Proper dinner. Mysterious wines and perfumes -

I'm not sure, Andy.

CUT to:

4. INTERIOR - NIGHT - WARD OF OAKHILL SECURE MENTAL HOSPITAL.

CAROLINE is sitting slumped on the edge of her bed in an empty ward. Her wrists are bandaged. and her face is scarred. Her jaw is clenched, and she is trembling, She wears institutional clothes that don't quite fit. A PSYCHIATRIC NURSE and a WPC stand over her. A portable cassette recorder is spooling away on a bedside table. INSPECTOR MOUADI sits opposite on a plastic chair, head in head, pondering. He turns to the WPC and the NURSE

I'm afraid we have to try just once more.

You'll only drive her deeper into her psychosis.

The Prophet Nasrudin once drove two camels across the desert in search of water. One died but the other was saved.

The NURSE and the WPC exchange looks, but MOUADI turns to CAROLINE, who moans and mutters unintelligibly as he talks.

So - once more - what happened, Miss Rutland? We have sampled your blood and we know you had a little cannabis, as well as the wine. But nothing excessive. And you had no quarrel with poor Mr. Easterbrook. Whom you had met twice at the Groucho Club. And there you were, at the gateway to fame, at a great banquet, receiving riches for your story-telling - and yet you vomit obscenities, wilful obscurities, you who were a mistress of languge are mastered by madness , and then, then you brutally attack the man who sings your praises, you drive a metal tube into his skull so forcefully and frequently that he dies of brain injury three days later.

CAROLINE is silent.

Very well. Perhaps we can talk about your book. As if we were on the television.

MOUADI produces a copy of her novel Tongues Untied. CAROLINE squirms, moans and twists her body. The NURSE places a restraining hand on her shoulder and glares at MOUADI.

This is a magic realist novel, correct? Like the famous Mr. Rushdie, yes? But with better manners, I hope.

CAROLINE snarls. MOUADI glances at the blurb and reads:

"Jo Dee is a radical female DJ, at large in the under-lit world of the London club scene, with ambitions as a record producer. She discovers autistic New York rapper Kelly Edwards whose eerie scatting releases strange subversive energies in their audiences..." Fascinating...the result of much research, perhaps?

Scrying time ..odoritza ..... orocaha...screening and screaming...ZAX! ZAX! ZAX!

CAROLINE begins screaming and struggling violently with her minders, overturning the table, so that the recorder crashes to the floor

CUT to

5. INTERIOR. NIGHT. BECKETT'S FLAT

A glimpse of inner-city tower-block and flyovers from the high windows of BECKETT's apartment. In his kitchen the radio is on low - the BBC Radio 4 announcer trails a tribute programme about the late Rupert Easterbrook. But BECKETT, abstracted, not really listening, switches it off, and wanders into the living room.

He seems to have rearranged the space in conscious emulation of AK's study at the Metatron Agency. There is a Tree of Life diagram on the wall, piles of new paperbacks about the Qabalah and a worn gilt-framed mirror. An old movie - Quatermass and the Pit - flickers silently on the TV in the background.

His laptop is open on the coffee table, displaying his sample Metatron web page with a Tree of Life diagram. He moves the cursor across the spheres and clicks on a link. Which takes him into a blank page. He stares at it, dejected.

With self- conscious gravitas he lights a candle , then an incense burner. The incense smoulders in the lamp light. Then, taking a Tarot pack from its silk wrapping, he cuts the pack and starts to deal a spread of ten cards, arranging them according to the Tree of Life. He's a little uncertain, and glances from time to time at the Tree of Life diagram on his lap top. Then, cautiously, he turns over the first (Malkuth ) card at the base of the Tree.

It is The Eight of Cups. BECKETT is taken aback. He jabs a finger at a paragraph in one of his reference books.

Eight of Cups - Indolence...?

He starts to make a note of the name and position of the card on his laptop.

Dissolve to:

6. INTERIOR. NIGHT. KADMON'S STUDY

The image of the card expands to fill the screen and dissolves into AK's study. KADMON has fallen asleep at his desk, head down amid an array of scattered papers. packing materials and piled-up leather-bound antiquarian tomes. The topmost folio is entitled "A True Relation of What Passed between Doctor Dee and Some Spirits." KADMON stirs uneasily and murmurs cryptically in a deep harsh voice. The screen darkens.

Cross fade to:

7. INTERIOR. NIGHT. BECKETT'S FLAT

BECKETT's huge shadow moves across the wall of his bedroom as he places the Yesod card on the table. It is the Eight of Swords. He makes a quick note - "Eight of Swords - Interference." He looks up across the room at his reflection in the mirror. It seems to be out of focus, fading into blackness.

Cross fade to:

8 INTERIOR. NIGHT. KADMON'S STUDY

KADMON murmurs throatily in the semi-darkness slumped in his chair. In the dome of his skull, a fragmented dream is taking place.

MIRIAM and CAROLINE are in a dimly-lit arched space that might be a church or a museum. They're part of a mob manically slicing up pages of ancient books , scrolls of papyrus, and packs of Tarot cards and scattering the fragments over each other. The screen fills with flying mutilated text and imagery. There's a tremendous babble of voices chortling, braying and roaring in the fading mottled light.

Cross fade to:

9. INTERIOR. NIGHT. BECKETT'S FLAT

The candle-lit BECKETT starts, as if he'd heard something at the edge of his hearing, then shrugs. Very cautiously he takes another card and places it in the Hod position. With obvious reluctance he turns it over. It is XVI - The Tower Struck by Lightning. Suddenly unnerved he sweeps the spread off the table and scatters the pack across the room.

Cross fade to:

10. INTERIOR. KADMON'S BEDROOM

The spinning cards dissolve over KADMON, who suddenly with a great effort jerks himself awake. He is breathing heavily, blood trickling from the corner of his lip. He runs his hands through the chaos of his desk and turns up a Tarot book - open at a print of The Tower Struck by Lightning. He shakes his head wearily, rises and turns to the open window and the night cityscape below, where the sirens wail in the distance.

Slow dissolve to:

11. INTERIOR. DAY. METATRON AGENCY .

As BECKETT enters, KADMON is in his study. The door is open. He's on the telephone.

No, Mr Hemmings, not even with a psychiatrist and a theologian. She has obviously given you a highly colorised account of my work. It was gracious of you to consider me but I'm sure you'll find far more spectacular candidates for your programme. And I do have clients to attend to. We must leave it there. Goodbye, Mr Hemmings. Goodbye.

KADMON hangs up, clearly exasperated.

Quicksilver Productions - know them?

Probably just two guys, an Apple Mac, and some cupboard in Soho.

That cupboard contains my daughter. (pause) Miriam 's been on work experience with them for the last fortnight. I thought you knew..

No, I -

She seems to have made a strong impression on this Andy Hemmings person. And she's given away far too much to him. I'll have to have words with her.

Perhaps she's only trying bring you to a wider market. It's worth a shot.

I'm not a bloody brand, Beckett.

Cut to:

12. INTERIOR. EVENING. METATRON AGENCY. .KADMON KADMON'S STUDY

In the twilight KADMON listens to the playback of his answering machine. MIRIAM's voice hisses angrily on the tape. As he listens he slowly sifts through a pile of old photographs - pics of his father, mother, uncle, himself, Diana, Miriam as a child, all in different settings - and starts to lay them out in a Tree of Life pattern.

I'm very hurt, Dad.. Accusing me of betraying your work! When I'm trying to make something of this course so I that you won't have to subsidise me. Andy's really nice, really interested in your work . But you're impossible to help. It's not surprising that Mum couldn't live with you. There are times when for all your heightened awareness, you're quite insensitive to ordinary feelings.

KADMON turns off the tape and broods in the darkening room.

CUT to:

13. INTERIOR. DAY. TV STUDIO. ON THE SET.

A day-time TV chat show just after the ad-break,. There's a quick pan around a tacky yellow set decorated with New Age motifs and a glimpse of the applauding studio audience . KADMON sits stiffly on a pastel sofa, alongside the craggy Texan evangelist Reverend ENOCH HAGER and suave pop psychiatrist Dr. NIGEL HANKS. The theme tune swells and dips under;

It's "Help Yourself!" - the Personal Growth Programme with Samantha Norbert!

cut to:

14. INTERIOR. DAY. METATRON AGENCY OUTER OFFICE

There's a quick shot of MISS HANNAH watching on a portable set, tea-cup in hand. Mr Kadmon is on the telly. She's so pleased for him.

cut to:

15. INTERIOR. DAY. TV STUDIO. ON THE SET.

SAMANTHA NORBERT, a blonde ex-weather girl (with aspirations to be a Carol Vorderman) smiles for the camera.

Welcome back to "Help Yourself". There are so many paths to personal growth available nowadays , and it's all too easy to get a bit muddled, especially when you're dealing with the oldest of them all - The Occult! Why does the occult have cults? Is it dangerous to be a devil and have a little dabble, or is it just harmless fun? We're here to find out... With the Reverend Enoch Hager, one of America's best-known TV evangelists, psychiatrist Dr. Nigel Hanks, who's just published his new book "Don't Swindle Your Inner Child", a sceptical look at the paranormal, and crime-busting New Age guru Adam Kadmon.

KADMON winces while HAGER and HANKS acknowledge the studio applause.

CUT to

16 INTERIOR DAY TV STUDIO - THE GALLERY

Up in the control gallery, Andy and Miriam are watching the show on monitors.

She's setting him up, isn't she? You promised me -

17 INTERIOR TV STUDIO - HOSPITALITY ROOM

Back-stage in the hospitality area, BECKETT grimaces as he views the show. He clenches his fist around his drink .

Dissolve to:

18 INTERIOR. DAY. TV STUDIO. ON THE SET.

SAMANTHA, HAGER, AND HANKS are all talking across each other at full volume. KADMON is marginalised.

...and the power of the spirit tells us we're living in the end-times, the prime time of the crime-times, the age to end all ages...

...but surely, Reverend, if New Age beliefs are based on a kind of fantasy, as Nigel says in his book -

- and my book does come with a free bullshit detector -

- then surely they can't be dangerous? Look at Adam - does he look dangerous? His New Age beliefs -

New Age beliefs is a meaningless term, as I keep trying to point out but -

God knows what it means, he knows the depths of your heart, Adam!

HAGER grips KADMON's elbow tightly. He leans forward almost as if to whisper in KADMON's ear like a stage hypnotist , although his voice is audible to the others

He knows you're an empty vessel. A channel. Channelling. That's what they call it. Except you're tuning to Satan's satellite channels. The devil's MTV and CNN. The sin channels. And then your voice is an echo of Satan. You become his tower of power, his SS satanic sound system. Spheres of Satan, great balls of fire - that's what you people become!

There's complete silence. Even SAMANTHA is mute. Then she snaps out of it into a cheesy smile.

OK Adam , follow that...

I don't know where to start - reality is so multi-levelled, so complex -

The man calls it complex. Well, my God is plain-speaking. I tell you, Samantha, that Doc Hanks here may call himself atheist but his book shows that he's at least a straight-talking man who could do business with the Lord. But our Adam does deals with the coiled serpent, he's glutted with the fruit of occult knowledge, that perverts God's Word into a blasphemy!

You're telling us Adam's inner child is making rude noises...

SAMANTHA and the studio audience laugh too loudly and eagerly

Listen... There's a network of symbols connecting all belief systems, a code in our sacred texts -

The Bible ain't no word-search puzzle for devil freaks!

Sorry to disappoint you, Mister Hager but I am not, and never have been, a devil-worshipper, Satanist, fire-breathing warlock, whatever...

Poor old Adam - he doesn't know who the hell he is!

More audience laughter.

If Adam really wants to help himself he could come to one of my crusades and talk the talk with the Holy Healing Spirit!

Well, there I'm afraid we have to leave it. I'd like to thank our guests...

As the audience applaud, HAGER raises his arm high in benediction, HANKS clutches his book and grins broadly while KADMON sits apart, stone-faced, exhausted.