Into the hallway of the flat, two doors closed left and ahead, one door open to the right.
We go through.
Mr Crosier is naked, lying on his side on a bed of soiled, green satin sheets. On the wall behind him is a poster for a burlesque show. The dancer is striking a sensuous pose in her corset and suspenders, one gloved hand on her hip, one held flat beneath her chin as she blows a kiss. It passes over Mr Crosier’s head, missing his clumps of ash gray hair, bumping uncaught against the large plasma screen on the opposite side of the room. Mr Crosier has other, more desperate concerns, though, utterly focused as he is on the meagre trail of oxygen trickling up through his nasal specs. The great slope of his chest sinks and pulls with the effort of each breath.
It’s an appalling scene. The place looks more like a culture grown from a dirty carpet rather than a place anyone could live. Everything glistens beneath a white crust, as if Mr Crosier was a giant species of slug that spent the night crawling over it all. Especially the DVD player, which rests on a little pine table just in front of him, along with a bank of remote controls and a carelink button. In fact, a pattern becomes apparent. All Mr Crosier’s necessaries are within easy reach: a catering pack of Maltesers, a crate of weissbier, a packet of baby wipes, an encrusted plastic pitcher to piss in.
A large floor fan spins just in front of the table. It stirs up the noisome atmosphere, a-wisher-wisher-wisher.
We put him on our oxygen, then Rae takes some obs whilst I investigate our options. Would a trolley fit? Perhaps if this door were open...?
A dark room, a mattress with a throw, a lighting rig, a tripod and camera.