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STEPHEN. The facts are you’re here.

  You won’t / ever meet her.

  SADHBH. – having stuff over me.

  STEPHEN. I never think of –

  Can we drop it, please? Please?

  SADHBH. No.

  STEPHEN. The facts are you were away for eight months last year. I missed you. I was lonely.

  I’d very much like my girlfriend to live in the same country as me.

  SADHBH. The facts are you screwed someone.

  She dunks her doughnut.

  What’s that you said?

  STEPHEN. I didn’t say anything.

  SADHBH. The facts are you took a job at Shell.

  STEPHEN. Fuck it, Sadhbh.

  SADHBH. Sore point?

  STEPHEN. I am a consultant on humanitarian issues for a risk-management group. Shell is a client. So shoot me.

  SADHBH. You’ve gone over to the dark side.

  STEPHEN. We can’t both live on an NGO wage.

  SADHBH. Such horseshit. I can live on very little –

  STEPHEN. Horseshit? I’m paying the bills here.

  SADHBH. It’s you who –

  STEPHEN. The fact is – you’re about to go to the DRC for three months whether I like it or not.

  SADHBH. You’re going to China.

  STEPHEN. For ten days.

  I can’t compete with your work.

  SADHBH. Stephen. That’s neither true nor fair.

  STEPHEN. Horseshit.

  SADHBH. No – it’s that I can’t cope with your work.

  Can you see me hanging out with your Shell cronies?

  Hey – there’s a thought – I could lobby them at cocktail parties.

  STEPHEN. I wouldn’t mind that.

  SADHBH. Lookit, [Now, look here,] Stephen.

  STEPHEN. No. You look.

  You know those women who prop up bars in Goma – who get stuck traipsing round the world’s shitholes.

  SADHBH. That is not going to happen to me.

  STEPHEN shrugs.

  I’m twenty-nine.

  STEPHEN. Nearly thirty

  SADHBH. And don’t say ‘the world’s shitholes’.

  STEPHEN. Have you got a –

  SADHBH. That’s someone’s home you’re talking about.

  STEPHEN. – a plan? I’d like to hear it.

  Because I don’t want to be the oldest dad in the playground.

  SADHBH. Why do I have to change my life?

  STEPHEN. Don’t they teach biology in Donegal?

  SADHBH. Lovers shouldn’t pressure one another.

  STEPHEN. Have you just swallowed a shrink?

  SADHBH. Come on – you understand the work –

  STEPHEN. The lack of contact, the anxiety – where are you – what’s happening, yada yada and you – every trip – you become more beat, / more guilty, more – more –

  SADHBH. Okay. Okay. Okay. It’s stressful for you. I understand. Okay.

  Your pain. Your pain. / Your pain.

  STEPHEN. I’m done with –

  SADHBH. Okay.

  STEPHEN. I’m done with arguing.

  Find a reason not to go.

  SADHBH. Impossible.

  STEPHEN. Think.

  SADHBH. People are expecting me.

  Too many reasons why I can’t –

  STEPHEN. For once – think like a human being not like a humanitarian.

  SADHBH. How can I do that?

  Silence.

  STEPHEN picks up his jacket and gathers his papers. He makes to leave.

  SADHBH. Stephen?

  STEPHEN turns around.

  STEPHEN. You said you wanted to settle.

  It’s why I bought the flat. ‘Bambinos and all that shit’ – / that’s what you said.

  SADHBH. It’s not for the want of trying. I defy anybody in this block of flats to say they are fucking more than we are.

  STEPHEN. Then we’re back to the same old – maybe if you were here for longer than a month, et cetera. And we’ve already covered that ground.

  He puts on his jacket.

  SADHBH. Are you going to the office?

  STEPHEN. For a couple of hours.

  SADHBH. It’s Saturday.

  STEPHEN. Your point?

  SADHBH. Bibi is coming at seven.

  STEPHEN. I’m picking up pizzas. I know.

  He takes off her hat.

  He kisses her. She holds him tightly until he returns her affection.

  She holds him away.

  SADHBH. And Bibi is a vegetarian.

  STEPHEN. I know this. I also know you’re taking on her work. You also know I don’t like it – but who listens to a fucking word I say.

  SADHBH. She’s bringing the intern. Mathilde. Who will travel with me.

  STEPHEN. Oh yes?

  SADHBH. She’s young and very pretty.

  Just – don’t stare.

  STEPHEN. I don’t stare.

  SADHBH. You stare.

  STEPHEN. So kick me.

  SADHBH. I will.

  He places her hat back on her head.

  STEPHEN. You’re not around to kick me regularly. That’s the problem.

  STEPHEN prepares to leave.

  SADHBH. Try not to run the work down.

  He gives her a look and exits. She calls after him.

  Stephen? I couldn’t do this without you.

  And having this home to come back to –

  He calls back.

  STEPHEN. It’s a home – correct – not a runway.

  SADHBH. Screw you.

  Screw you.

  Two

  Nine o’clock that evening. MATHILDE, BIBI, SADHBH, STEPHEN. They are all drinking and eating pizza.

  SADHBH tops up BIBI’s wine glass.

  MATHILDE is pecking at a slice of pizza.

  SADHBH. Do you remember? Very early on – what you said to me?

  BIBI. ‘Stop fucking crying’?

  BIBI takes a bite of pizza.

  SADHBH. No. Yes, you did say that – but you said – ‘All of us are here for a reason – we’re running away.’

  BIBI. So?

  SADHBH. Weren’t you running from New York and your family?

  BIBI. You’ve met most of ’em.

  So you know you thought right.

  SADHBH. Sorry. Can’t see you happy as a UN desk monkey.

  MATHILDE nibbles the end of a slice of pizza.

  BIBI. Happiness has nothing to do with it.

  STEPHEN. But a promotion has?

  BIBI. I’m cooked. (Points to herself.) Malaria twice in eighteen months? Congo finally spat and shat me out.

  BIBI takes a bite of pizza.

  SADHBH. I give you six months on East 42nd Street.

  SADHBH takes a bite of pizza.

  STEPHEN. Why not give her / a break?

  BIBI. I even sold the house in Kinshasa to – and you’ll love this –

  To a Sister Addolorata. Big fat Italian nun with a cello.

  STEPHEN. Because orphans just love Elgar.

  BIBI. I think Bach is her thing but you got it.

  Yep – it’s serious.

  I’ve shipped fifteen years of African knick-knacks to New York.

  My mom is nearly eighty – alone – in Philly.

  It’s time I stopped running.

  I’m thirty-seven, baby! I wanna go home.

  MATHILDE. I’m not running.

  STEPHEN. Liar.

  SADHBH. Don’t mind him.

  STEPHEN (to SADHBH). Just give me / a bit of pepperoni.

  MATHILDE. I only want to do work I’m passionate about.

  STEPHEN. Yeah, yeah. That’s where we all started.

  (To SADHBH.) Not pizza. The meat.

  SADHBH picks off some pepperoni bits and passes them to him.

  BIBI. That’s pig’s butt, you know.

  STEPHEN. Fucking vegetarians. Pork butt is not pig butt –

  She’s trying to say I’m eating pig’s asshole.

  MATHILDE. What?

  STEPHEN. We
ate worse shit in Congo.

  SADHBH. It’s why she’s vegetarian.

  STEPHEN (to MATHILDE). Have you been to the DRC?

  He eats.

  MATHILDE. This will be my first time.

  STEPHEN. What’s your background?

  MATHILDE. I’ve got a degree in Social Science, a Masters in Humanitarian Assistance. And then of course internships at ACF, Amnesty – Human Rights Watch –

  STEPHEN. But not field work per se?

  MATHILDE. No.

  STEPHEN. How on earth did you get the job without experience?

  SADHBH. Stephen – you twat.

  BIBI picks up another slice of pizza.

  STEPHEN. I’ll phrase it differently. Who did you sleep with?

  MATHILDE. Maybe they realise you need education to learn from experience.

  BIBI (with her mouth full). Can’t tell you how many times I’ve saved his ‘experienced’ / sorry ass.

  STEPHEN laughs.

  STEPHEN. She’s rewriting / history, Mathilde.

  MATHILDE. I’m clear what I’m letting myself in for.

  BIBI. Good, ’cause I’ve seen a lot of young people break down after only a few weeks in Congo – ‘Oh, all the suffering.’

  SADHBH. You get a cook, a cleaner, a driver and you get paid. I’ll be watching out for you.

  BIBI. Your compound is fifteen kilometres from the displaced persons’ camp in Masisi. It also houses MSF and Save the Children. Don’t sleep with the doctors.

  They never return your calls – and that’s kind of awkward if you actually get sick.

  MATHILDE. Okay.

  BIBI. Your contact at the camp is Mama Carolina – an experienced local health worker specialising in gender-based violence –

  speaks about eight different languages.

  She alerted us to the March massacres in Masisi.

  She says a name keeps coming up – a Tutsi warlord called Colonel Jerome Mburame.

  Any questions so far?

  MATHILDE. We’ve postponed our trip twice because of violence. How is it now?

  BIBI. It’s been quiet in the area for over a month.

  But be sensible. You and Sadhbh are in this together like a lifeboat.

  One person’s action or inaction will affect the other in terms of security.

  MATHILDE. Of course. I understand.

  STEPHEN. And if you don’t like it you can always leave.

  MATHILDE. I won’t do that.

  STEPHEN. I began as an idealist.

  I imagined I’d solve problems by day and at night I’d play guitar / under an African moon.

  MATHILDE. What’s wrong with idealism?

  SADHBH. Stephen –

  STEPHEN. We too – thought we could fix the world.

  We’d catapult ourselves in without a clue.

  MATHILDE. I’ve done my homework.

  STEPHEN. Good, because there’s too much that’s ineffective / about the work.

  SADHBH. And he’s off.

  BIBI. I take issue with that, Stephen.

  SADHBH. We all do.

  BIBI. I’ve seen enormously successful programmes / in Congo –

  STEPHEN. Really? And have they helped the Congolese become responsible for their own security? Have they fuck!

  MATHILDE puts down her pizza and cleans her hands.

  BIBI and SADHBH look at one another. An awkward pause.

  MATHILDE. So you guys worked all together?

  SADHBH. We met in –

  STEPHEN. / 1999.

  SADHBH. 2000 –

  BIBI. 2000.

  STEPHEN. Last time we all worked together / was in 2006.

  BIBI. Worked, ate, had dysentery together.

  I knew Sadhbh when she was running from a boy.

  I’m not talking / about Stephen.

  STEPHEN. Which boy?

  SADHBH finishes her pizza and cleans her hands on some kitchen roll.

  SADHBH. Oh – a sweetheart from home.

  It was expected I’d end up / with him.

  Does anyone want more pizza?

  BIBI. The sweetheart was so pissed with you.

  STEPHEN. I’ll take that half-piece.

  MATHILDE attempts to open another bottle of wine. The cork is stiff.

  STEPHEN cleans his hands on kitchen roll.

  SADHBH. Michael didn’t understand. My parents didn’t understand.

  SADHBH gives STEPHEN a small slice.

  I gave up a job in the bank to go to Congo with Oxfam. In Ireland that’s like giving up the priesthood.

  STEPHEN. Here – will I open / that for you?

  MATHILDE. No, no. / It’s okay – if I just – oh no.

  The light flickers overhead. The light fades then blinks out.

  The sound of tropical outdoors.

  A spot of light. A CHILD in a grotty oversize football shirt is holding a rifle.

  CHILD SOLDIER. Descende de la voiture.

  STEPHEN steps into the light.

  The CHILD gestures towards SADHBH and BIBI. They come forward.

  The CHILD gestures with the rifle that they should stop and raise their arms.

  STEPHEN. Où est ton commandant?

  CHILD SOLDIER. C’est moi. C’est moi le chef.

  STEPHEN. Laisse-nous passer.

  CHILD SOLDIER. Personne ne peut passer.

  SADHBH. Nous avons nos papiers. Qui est ton commandant?

  BIBI. Il ne sera pas content si tu ne nous laisses pas passer.

  CHILD SOLDIER. Personne ne peut passer!

  STEPHEN. Hey, little buddy. Can you put down –?

  The CHILD points the gun at STEPHEN’s head.

  (Through gritted teeth.) Fuck this shit.

  SADHBH. Cool it. It’s okay.

  STEPHEN. Does this look okay to you?

  CHILD SOLDIER. Qu’est ce que t’as pour moi?

  STEPHEN. Just give her some dollars and let’s go.

  BIBI. What about chewing gum?

  STEPHEN. You’re kidding me, right?

  SADHBH. Try to be calm.

  CHILD SOLDIER pokes the gun at STEPHEN.

  CHILD SOLDIER. Luyindula. Luyindula.

  BIBI. What’s she saying –?

  SADHBH. Comment?

  BIBI. It’s okay, Stephen, / it’s okay.

  STEPHEN (through gritted teeth). Good.

  Because I’d rather not get shot in the face by an eight-year-old.

  CHILD SOLDIER. Makélélé. Makélélé.

  STEPHEN. Drogba.

  CHILD SOLDIER. Drogba-Chelsea.

  STEPHEN. Well done, little Buddy.

  CHILD SOLDIER. LuaLua.

  STEPHEN. You got me there, kiddo –

  The CHILD SOLDIER lifts the gun threateningly.

  CHILD SOLDIER. LuaLua.

  She prepares to fire.

  STEPHEN. Hang on… He’s Newcastle – right?

  CHILD SOLDIER. Newcastle United.

  The CHILD smiles at STEPHEN.

  Donne-moi.

  STEPHEN takes off his T-shirt and gives it to the CHILD.

  The CHILD is delighted.

  (Pointing to a logo on the T-shirt.) C’est quoi ca?

  STEPHEN. Adidas.

  CHILD SOLDIER. Adida. Adi das. J’aime Adi das.

  Drogba, Makélélé, LuaLua.

  STEPHEN. LuaLua.

  The light snaps out.

  STEPHEN is T-shirtless – holding his wine-stained top.

  SADHBH throws STEPHEN a T-shirt.

  BIBI clears up a pool of red wine with kitchen roll.

  MATHILDE. I’m so sorry.

  STEPHEN. No worries. I love it when women / throw drink at me.

  MATHILDE. I’m a little drunk. Wow – (Giggles.) I didn’t throw it.

  You’re funny.

  SADHBH. You’re hilarious.

  STEPHEN dabs at a spot of wine on MATHILDE’s knee and hands her the roll.

  MATHILDE dabs at the spot of wine.

  MATHILDE. So – why did you leave Congo?

  STE
PHEN picks up an empty bottle and some of the used kitchen roll.

  STEPHEN. I had a problem.

  He clears the stuff away.

  SADHBH. You didn’t.

  Stops him by handing him an empty tray with the remainders of pizza crusts.

  STEPHEN. See, Mathilde – it’s taboo for a humanitarian to say that they lost the plot.

  SADHBH. What?

  STEPHEN. Here’s a bedtime story for you.

  I finish a three-month contract in Congo. Sadhbh stays on. I arrive home. Back to normal. Pay the bills. Shopping in Sainsbury’s. (Dumps the rubbish into the bin and returns.) Find myself standing at the fridge section for an hour in front of fifty kinds of yogurt – I’ve just come from a country without a fridge or fresh milk and don’t let’s even start on the meat counter. And this night – I’m woken by someone sitting on my bed. I realise that the bedroom is full of men, women, children. Some with splintered skulls.

  MATHILDE. What did you do?

  STEPHEN. I couldn’t get out. The room being full.

  So I have to pull the door. Really hard.

  Maybe I even hurt people. Go for a piss – come back – the fuckers are still there.

  I can barely get back into the bed.

  MATHILDE. And then?

  STEPHEN. I discover that if I blink people disappear –

  But only two or three per blink.

  After a month I had a fully blown tic.

  MATHILDE. But you’re not blinking now?

  STEPHEN. I went to see a shrink. Got some pills. Left my job.

  Haven’t looked back.

  MATHILDE. You’re joking with me?

  STEPHEN. No. Yes. No.

  MATHILDE. Oh dear, I must be drunk.

  Silly. Silly. I can’t tell if what you say is real.

  The next-door neighbours resume hostilities.

  STEPHEN. It was real.

  BIBI notes the disturbance.

  BIBI. And I thought this was a nice neighbourhood.

  SADHBH. So did I.

  STEPHEN and MATHILDE smile at one another. SADHBH is irritated.

  Can’t we turn on / some music?

  SADHBH pours wine for BIBI. STEPHEN puts on some music.

  MATHILDE. We go to Congo on Monday – you’ve welcomed me.

  Warned me. Thank you.

  SADHBH. Tu es ici chez toi.

  BIBI. I feel enormously reassured to hand over.

  STEPHEN. She’s the best.

  SADHBH. Oh, come here.

  She gives BIBI a hug.

  STEPHEN tops up MATHILDE’s wine glass.

  STEPHEN. Everyone looks for something in Congo.

  MATHILDE. What?

  STEPHEN. I hope you find it.

  I didn’t.

  SADHBH raises her glass.

  Mathilde’s adventures.

  They drink.

  SADHBH. Bibi in New York.

  BIBI. Home sweet home. I’ll drink to that.