THE EDGE OF DARKNESS

Characters:

William Golding: British novelist, 60. Brilliant, conflicted, and haunted by his belief that darkness exists within every person.

Judy Golding: William’s daughter, 30. Intelligent and wounded, she refuses to let her father turn her brother’s life into a philosophical argument.

Ann Golding: William’s wife, 50. Practical and strong-willed, she has carried years of grief and disappointment. Her pain has made her guarded, even toward those who need her most.

Franz Kafka: Writer from Prague, 41. Quiet, sensitive, and haunted by a lifelong struggle for his father’s approval. He sees David’s pain not as weakness, but as the suffering of someone who never felt fully seen.

Samantha: Funeral director, 30. Compassionate and observant, she witnesses the family’s grief without judgment.

Setting:

Place: A small funeral home in Wiltshire, England.

Time: Present day.

The room is quiet and dimly lit. At center stage sits a simple wooden casket containing David Golding, the son of William and Ann Golding. There are no extravagant flowers or decorations — only a small arrangement of white flowers and two candles burning beside the casket.

A few chairs line the room.

The atmosphere is heavy, as if grief itself has settled into the walls.

William Golding stands alone several feet away from the casket.

He has not approached it.

Samantha, the funeral director, watches quietly from across the room.

(Lights rise slowly.)

(William Golding stands near the back wall, arms crossed. He stares at the casket but does not move toward it.)

(Samantha adjusts a flower arrangement near the casket. She notices him watching.)

SAMANTHA

You can sit, if you would like.

(William does not answer.)

SAMANTHA

Or you can stand there.

(A pause.)

There’s no right way to do this.

GOLDING

(quietly)

There should be.

SAMANTHA

Why?

GOLDING

Because he was my son.

(Silence.)

SAMANTHA

Yes.

(William looks at the casket.)

GOLDING

A father should know what to say.

SAMANTHA

Sometimes there isn't anything to say.

(William almost laughs, but it catches in his throat.)

GOLDING

People always say that after someone dies.

(Beat.)

They say there are no words.

(He looks toward the casket.)

But there are always words.

Too many of them.

(Samantha studies him.)

SAMANTHA

You haven't gone over to him.

(William stiffens.)

GOLDING

No.

SAMANTHA

You don't have to.

GOLDING

Yes, I do.

(Pause.)

I spent my entire life trying to understand what people are capable of.

(He looks toward the casket.)

And now I can't even walk across a room to my own son.

(Silence.)

(The door opens. Judy Golding enters. She holds herself together, but barely.)

JUDY

Dad.

(William turns.)

GOLDING

Judy.

(A long pause. They look at each other.)

JUDY

Have you seen him?

GOLDING

I—

(He stops.)

JUDY

Have you seen David?

GOLDING

Of course I have.

JUDY

No.

(Beat.)

You haven't.

(William looks away.)

GOLDING

Judy, please.

JUDY

You know what everyone keeps saying?

(She moves closer to the casket.)

He was struggling.

He was fragile.

He was lost.

(She turns back.)

Everyone keeps ‘explaining’ him.

(Beat.)

But nobody is saying his name.

GOLDING

David.

(A pause.)

JUDY

Again.

GOLDING

What?

JUDY

Say it again.

(William looks at her, confused.)

GOLDING

David.

(Judy nods almost imperceptibly.)

JUDY

Thank you.

(She looks toward the casket.)

Do you know what else everyone’s been saying?

"They're sorry."

"They're praying for us."

They keep asking what happened.

(She looks back at William.)

Nobody has asked who he was.

(Silence.)

GOLDING

Judy—

JUDY

Please don't.

(Beat.)

Don't explain him to me.

Don't tell me he couldn't escape the darkness.

I've heard all of it.

(Her voice softens.)

He laughed too loud at stupid films.

He always burned toast because he'd forget it was there.

He called Mom every Sunday even after he moved out.

(A beat.)

That's who he was.

(William cannot meet her eyes.)

GOLDING

I know.

JUDY

Do you?

(Silence.)

Or do you only remember the parts that made sense to you?

(A long pause.)

He wasn't a theory, Dad.

He wasn't one more piece of evidence that people are broken.

(Her voice cracks.)

He was my brother.

(A long silence.)

And...

(She struggles to finish.)

He was your son.

(The silence lingers.)

(The door opens quietly. Franz Kafka enters. He pauses when he sees the family gathered around the casket.)

KAFKA

William.

(Golding turns.)

GOLDING

Franz.

KAFKA

I’m sorry.

(A pause.)

For David.

(Golding nods.)

GOLDING

Thank you.

(Kafka looks toward the casket.)

KAFKA

It’s strange.

No matter how old we become...

Some part of us is always still the child.

(Pause.)

Still waiting to be seen.

(Golding says nothing.)

I almost didn’t come.

GOLDING

Why?

KAFKA

Because I wasn’t sure you’d want me here.

GOLDING

And yet you came.

KAFKA

Yes.

(Pause.)

Some things matter more than being welcome.

(A silence.)

GOLDING

You’ve been looking at me that way since you walked in.

KAFKA

Have I?

GOLDING

As though you’ve already decided who I am.

KAFKA

No.

(Beat.)

As though I know how frightened fathers can be.

(Golding studies him.)

GOLDING

You mean your father.

KAFKA

Yes.

(Pause.)

And perhaps...

you.

GOLDING

David wasn’t afraid of me.

KAFKA

I hope not.

(Pause.)

No child should be.

GOLDING

That’s not what I meant.

KAFKA

I know.

(A silence.)

Children don’t only fear anger.

Sometimes...

They fear disappointment.

(Golding stiffens.)

GOLDING

David knew I loved him.

KAFKA

I’m sure you did.

(Pause.)

We always think love is what we carry inside us.

(Pause.)

But sometimes...

the other person only knows what reaches them.

(A long silence.)

GOLDING

You’re blaming me.

KAFKA

No.

(Quietly.)

I’m asking whether you’ve spent your whole life looking for darkness...

when you should have been looking at David.

(Long silence.)

ANN

That's enough.

(No one speaks.)

I can't listen to this anymore.

(She looks at William, then at Kafka.)

You're talking about David...

like he's somewhere else.

He's right here.

(Silence.)

GOLDING

Ann—

ANN

No.

Just...

listen.

(She takes a breath.)

Everyone always wanted to tell me who David was.

The doctors.

The teachers.

You.

Everyone had a reason.

Everyone had an explanation.

(Beat.)

Nobody asked him.

(A pause.)

And I should have.

(Silence.)

GOLDING

I did.

ANN

Did you?

Or did you ask until you heard the answer that made sense to you?

(William looks away.)

GOLDING

I loved him.

ANN

I know.

GOLDING

Then what are you saying?

(Ann is quiet for a long moment.)

ANN

Do you remember the nights he'd come looking for you?

(William doesn't answer.)

He'd stand outside your study.

He'd knock so softly I could barely hear it.

(A beat.)

"Dad?"

(Pause.)

"Can I come in?"

(William closes his eyes.)

You'd say,

"Not now."

(Silence.)

He always said,

"Okay."

He never cried.

He never argued.

He'd just walk away.

GOLDING

I was working.

ANN

I know.

GOLDING

I wasn't trying to hurt him.

ANN

I know.

(A long silence.)

GOLDING

Then why are we talking about this?

ANN

Because you remember writing your books.

(Beat.)

I remember watching our son wait outside the door.

(Silence.)

GOLDING

I thought he'd understand.

ANN

He was seven.

(A long pause.)

He understood more than you think.

GOLDING

...

ANN

He always waited.

(A long silence.)

GOLDING

I thought there would be time.

ANN

So did I.

(A long silence.)

GOLDING

You make it sound as though I chose my work over my son.

(No one answers.)

I didn't.

(A pause.)

I thought...

(He struggles.)

I thought I was trying to understand the world.

(He looks toward David's casket.)

I thought if I could understand darkness...

I could protect people from it.

(Silence.)

KAFKA

And did it protect you?

(William looks at him.)

GOLDING

What?

KAFKA

All those years trying to understand darkness.

(A pause.)

Did knowing it was there ever make you feel safer?

(William has no answer.)

GOLDING

I saw things.

(Beat.)

Things people should never have to see.

The war.

The violence.

What people do when they stop pretending.

(Silence.)

I spent my life trying to make sense of it.

(His voice softens.)

But I can't remember the last conversation I had with David.

(Everyone is still.)

GOLDING

I remember battles.

I remember strangers.

I remember things I wish I could forget.

(A pause.)

But not that.

(William looks toward the casket.)

What kind of father remembers the whole world...

and loses his own son?

ANN

A human one.

(William looks at her.)

A flawed one.

(Pause.)

But still his father.

(Silence after William’s words.)

(No one moves.)

(Kafka looks at William for a long moment.)

KAFKA

I should go.

GOLDING

Franz—

(Kafka stops.)

GOLDING

Thank you.

(Kafka seems surprised by this.)

KAFKA

For what?

(A pause.)

GOLDING

For telling me the truth.

(Kafka looks toward David’s casket.)

KAFKA

The truth is a difficult thing.

(Beat.)

Sometimes it isn’t something we discover.

Sometimes...

we just stop looking away.

(William absorbs this.)

KAFKA

Goodbye, William.

(He exits quietly.)

(The room is still.)

(Judy looks at her father. She wants to say something, but she does not.)

(Judy reaches toward her mother. Ann hesitates, then takes her daughter’s hand.)

(A small moment. Nothing is fixed. But something has shifted.)

(Samantha approaches William.)

SAMANTHA

William.

(He looks at her.)

GOLDING

I don't know what to say.

SAMANTHA

You don't have to say anything.

(Pause.)

GOLDING

Is that what people usually do?

SAMANTHA

What?

GOLDING

At funerals.

Find the right words.

(Samantha looks toward the casket.)

SAMANTHA

They try.

(Beat.)

But sometimes the people we lose are the ones who make words impossible.

(William looks toward David.)

SAMANTHA

You don't have to give him an explanation.

(Pause.)

Just give him a moment.

(Samantha steps away.)

(William stands alone.)

(For a long moment, he does not move.)

(Then, slowly, he walks toward the casket.)

(Judy watches him. Ann watches him.)

(William stops a few feet away.)

(His eyes remain fixed on David.)

(A long silence.)

(His hand rises slightly.)

(He almost reaches for the casket.)

(He stops.)

(Then, finally, he places his hand on the wood.)

(Nothing happens.)

(Just a father standing beside his son.)

(A long silence.)

GOLDING

David.

(He closes his eyes.)

(The room holds its breath.)

(He opens his eyes.)

(He looks as though he might speak.)

(He does not.)

(Slowly, he removes his hand.)

(He steps backward.)

(He looks once more at the casket.)

(Then he turns and walks toward the door.)

(At the doorway, he stops.)

(For a moment, everyone thinks he may turn around.)

(He does not.)

(He exits.)

(Silence.)

(Judy remains standing where she is.)

(She watches the door for a long moment.)

(Then she looks toward David’s casket.)

(Ann watches her.)

(A long pause.)

JUDY

Mother...

(Ann looks at her.)

(For a moment, Ann seems as though she might say something.)

(She does not.)

(Judy lowers her eyes.)

(The silence between them is familiar.)

(Ann looks toward David’s casket.)

(Then, slowly, she turns back to Judy.)

(She takes one small step toward her.)

(Judy notices.)

(She does not move.)

(Neither woman reaches for the other.)

(They stand there — close, but not yet together.)

(The candles flicker.)

(Blackout.)

THE EDGE OF DARKNESS