Draft One

28 / 04 / 2023

A working document to develop the ideas for the script of The Crowboy ... 

A stage with a scaffold lighting tower in one corner and a bed downstage left.

Two performers:

Person A — is sitting on the bed under a spotlight
Person B — is at the top of the lighting tower in shadow

VOICEOVERS - various recorded voices played from speakers in the stage space. They consist either of dramatic elements or of other kinds of voiceovers including the interviews about crows etc. 


— person A is sitting upright in the bed. The lights are dim. 


I don’t remember the first time I saw them. In the tree, outside my bedroom window. All I remember is the sense that I had seen them before.

Oh, they’re back. Ragged shape. Bright eyes catching the sodium light from the streetlamp. A sense of déjà-vu. Like they had been there, watching me, when I was in my cradle. 

They didn’t come every night. Not even most nights. But often enough that I looked for them, waited for them. 

Mostly I would fall asleep, curled on my left side, curtains wide open, blinds pulled up, eyes drifting closed over the image of the empty branches of the tree outside. 

Naked in winter, clothed in summer, the tree was my opposite. Opposite me.

Most nights I would not wake until the morning, on my back, on my stomach, curled on my right side, the tree empty outside.

But some nights, I would wake in the dark and they were there. And then we would watch each other. We watched each other until ... well, until what. I’m not sure. I don’t ever remember falling asleep while I am watching them and they are watching me, but it must happen. Because I wake up again in the morning. On my back, on my stomach, curled on my right side. The tree outside, empty again.

— person A lays down to sleep on their left side, looking up at the tower. At first their eyes remain open, but then they slowly close. 


I don’t think it’s fair to say we knew. Kids say all sorts of things, don’t they. Sometimes you listen and sometimes, well, you don’t. So I don’t think it’s fair to blame us, to say we should have done something. To say we should have stopped ... her. 

People surprise you. They have lives of their own, private thoughts and things. They talk to people you don’t know they talk to. Think things you couldn’t imagine. Or don’t want to. 

She was always different. Never fit in. Not just at school, not in with the rest of the family, either. Nothing was ever right. Ever good enough. We tried our best with her, really we did. I promise you that. No one could have tried harder than we did. But there was always something. 

Now she’s gone. Don’t get me wrong, I’m heartbroken. Heartbroken. But ... also — I feel bad saying this about my own flesh and blood — but, also, maybe it’s for the best. Perhaps it’s better. For her. Of course we miss her. But, if she wants to leave. Let her, I say. We won’t go out there looking for her. She’s strong. If she needs help — money — she knows where we are. The door is always open. 

It was a shock, on one level. But then on another, I think I’ve been waiting for it. But, no. I didn’t know. Neither of us did.