CHICANERY is a psychological thriller set in a dictatorship. A writer, who escaped to exile, is under a death sentence but returns to his homeland and deliberately gets himself arrested. The Chief of Intelligence is baffled by the writer's return and the play is a duel of wits as the mystery and passions unravel.

EXCERPT of CHICANERY

SCENE TWO
(MARK continues reading. Now and then he makes a note on a
pad). (Brown crosses to the cell, he undoes the straps. Shilling
rises, stretches, rubs his arms and legs. Brown prods him
towards Mark. He looks around, sees MARK and peers at him.
MARK reads a moment longer before looking up He examines
SHILLING carefully.)
MARK: You've changed.
(SHILLING doesn't reply. He studies MARK, as if not recognising him.)
SHILLING: Do I know you?
MARK: You've gotten fat.
SHILLING: They shaved my beard. It took a whole year to grow. I miss it.
MARK: So you planned this.... adventure... a whole year ago?
SHILLING: I had grown fond of it. It was a bushy thing. A lot of body. It
made me look distinguished, I thought.
(Strokes his face sadly. MARK flips open a passport, comparing the
photograph
with the face)
MARK: You look better without it, Singer. It...
SHILLING: Shilling.
MARK: ... hid the strength in your face. Only weak looking men cultivate
beards, Singer.
SHILLING: Shilling. (Pause)It's Shilling. Not ....(Gestures)Singer. I told
the fool at the border post, and that idiot who just showed me in. Bloody
impertinence, shaving off my bread.
MARK: Can you prove that Singer is really Shilling?
SHILLING: You suffer from the same fixation as those other idiots. Look at
My passport, my drivers license, my credit card. If nothing else, you've
got
to believe American Express.
MARK: Excellent forgeries, I've never seen better.
SHILLING: Listen, Whoever-you-are. I demand to see my ambassador. I came
here as a tourist. I've been shot at, shaved, search, scrutinised,
sequestered, suspected. At least call the Hilton. They're charging me for
the room.
MARK:(Softly, monotonously) Your fingerprints match; your voices match;
Your bullet wounds match; your fillings match; your blood matches; your
hairs match. (Pause) Why choose Shilling? It rings of tills and bank
clerks.
(SHILLING sighs, and droops in resignation, as if HE knows HE can no longer
deny his real identity)
SHILLING: It's a humble coin, worth nothing now.
MARK: And even out of circulation. But you're not a humble man, Singer.
I would have chosen something grander. Singer is so appropriate. A poet, a
minstrel. Shall we stick to that?
SHILLING: If you wish. Can I have a drink?
MARK: Of course. Please do help yourself. In this job one forgets one's
manners.
SHILLING: Power does that to men.
(HE goes to the bar, pours himself a generous slug of scotch. The hand
shakes as HE lifts to drink it. HE turns to see MARK watching)
SHILLING: (continuing)I'm afraid.
MARK: Of me?
SHILLING: Death. You. Both are the same.
(Finishes his drink in a gulp, pours out another. Smaller this time)
MARK: Then why return?
SHILLING: (Slyly) Nostalgia. Homesickness. I wanted to see the old country.
I believed those travel articles. Sun, Surf, beautiful girls, dancing all
night.
MARK: So you bought a private package tour. No. You certainly are not that
kind of a fool. You could have seen slides.
SHILLING: You can't smell or feel them.
MARK: They aren't worth dying for. Not for someone who is rich and
successful and famous. Who were you planning to meet?