All language subtitles for Obituary.S01E01.Death.Becomes.Her.1080p.NF.WEB-DL.DD+5.1.H.264-playWEB_Track03

As far back as I can remember,
my life has been steeped in death.

Time of death, 11:20.

Who knows if that's a bad thing.

But what I do know,

is that death, like a child's soother,

has always been there for me
when I needed relief.

Unfortunately for me,
relief is in short supply.

Remember…

think of someone who annoys you.
Pull the trigger.

Look at you, getting good at this.

Duh.

I missed.

I wouldn't be so sure about that.

Take my 10th birthday.

Stood over that dead deer,

it was the first time my father
saw me happy.

Like, actually…

really happy.

How I prayed it wouldn't be the last.

What's that for?

Being the kind of person I am,

school would have been torture,
but for two key things.

My writing…

And my best friend, Mal.

I'm tellin' ya.

You get up there,

you're gonna win this contest.

A couple of them fancy words,
and they'll be eating out of your hand.

And if that doesn't work?

Picture everyone naked.

Now come on.

Let's hear it.

"That day, while smashing
her bully's skull off the credenza,

surprise took hold."

Picturing people naked was a bust.

But picturing them dead…

bingo.

"The sound of intracranial cracking

as brain splattered off walls
was akin to a music

this young girl had never heard before."

Right then I realised

that death and writing
were a powerful match.

That this is where happiness lies.

Of course, like everything else
that gave me peace, it was fleeting.

Yet when a doctor did finally see me
about my crushing depression,

all we talked about were pills.

Oh, so many pills.

But five years ago,
I put the brakes on that.

Those things made me sleepwalk, lose time.

Do batshit stuff I barely remember.

The bottom line?

They made me more dead than alive.

Elvira!

And I want to feel alive.

Elvira!

Then… something amazing happened!

You know, they say if you want to write,
you have to sit down,

open a vein, and bleed on the page.

Talk about words to live by.

So, here I am.

The Kilraven Chronicle's
brand new obituarist.

A job I've dreamed of.

And yet,

this happiness I've yearned for
remains missing.

Like a jigsaw piece
lost down the side of a couch.

When you're done, file it.

And then what?

Then you wait for someone to die.

And when might that be?

Clancy…

never say that out loud.

Your job is to write obituaries.

To take that talent you claimed you had

to make the deceased alive,
to give voice to the voiceless.

Not to sit there praying
that some pensioner pops his clogs.

What are you looking at?

Nothing.

Well then, get back to work.

It won't write itself.

Population 5,000 and falling…

Kilraven is like a fun fair in winter.

Its people convinced that,
if the sun only shone,

if that factory re-opened,

if the foreigners left,

their lives would be good again.

On the surface,

a bog-standard, backwater.

But as my Dad likes to say,

under that veneer of nothingness,

there's a tonne of weird shit going on.

Ah, funeral homes.

Heaven!

And it's not just the peace and quiet
or the human remains.

See, people go through life
wearing big, stupid grins.

Hiding how they really feel.

Here, there is no smiling.

Only tears, pain and impotence.

Here…

you see people as they really are.

Damn!

That half-blind mortician
made him more alive than I did.

My mammy gave you a tip.

She insisted.

Well…

She wants it back.

She said your writing was rubbish.

I'm still finding my voice.

She said you're at this six months.

Now, we expected better.

Look…

Daddy was a farmer.

And a Fenian.

No, Daddy was a fat fuck
that barely fit inside this box.

Yet, reading what you wrote,

it was like I didn't even know the man.

Which, tells me,
you didn't get to know the man.

Which, last time I checked,

was your job.

Patsy…

Tom.

I'm sorry for your loss.

And I'm sorry for yours.

Crime correspondents.

To some, a juicy gig.

But to others, it's a slow death,
haunted by unsolved murders.

Who did this to you?

For Clive, indeed, for Kilraven,
that meant Maria Riedle.

Clive? My office. Now.

Ah, the Grim Reaper.

Out from behind the death desk.

Tell me, is what this lot says true?

Is what true?

Your co-workers reckon
you listen to the death notices

as you twiddle your twaddle.

This gives me no joy,
but I've two options.

You either go freelance or I let you go.

Thirty years? Just like that?

One way to do.

-You know what, Burns?
-What?

Eat shit !

Ah, come on!

Jesus…

Clancy…

Clive quit.

It was his choice.

Because you asked him to go freelance.

Circulation is down.

I'm having to combine farming
with fashion.

That will kill Kate.

No way!

That's her.

Getting the email now.

Perhaps you could combine birth notices
with obituaries.

Cut out the middleman.

And perhaps your work could improve,
just a tad,

so that the families stop bitching at me.

Look…

You'll get 200 an obit.

No regular salary?

We'll review it down the line.

Hughie…

On average, one person dies
every ten days in this town.

Sometimes, I've waited weeks.

Isn't that a good thing?

Not when I'm supporting my father?

Chin up.

At least you're still a reporter.

You're not stuck in here like me,
massaging ulcer-inducing spreadsheets.

But…

-How will I live?
-I dunno.

Maybe you should start killing people.

Maybe I can start with you.

Maybe I can start with you.

That's the spirit.

Now, off you pop.

It won't write itself.

Because I had my own stuff
going on back then,

I missed all the signs.

But it's like, one day,
Dad woke up and decided

You know,

I think I'll take to the drink.

You know,
I read somewhere that freelancers

get paid by the column,
or even by the word, sometimes.

Or perhaps, never.

How is the 'aul noggin'?

It'd be a lot better
if that was your last of the day.

You know,

I'm always here for you
if you want to talk.

Yeah.

The same applies to you.

You can always get another job
in the town.

Notice he didn't tell me to get
another job, in another town?

Poor man.

He can't see a future without me.

I know you think you've got no future,
but…

Writing's everything I have.

This job, Dad…

It's like, my life.

And by the way, you know if I'm broke,
you're broke too, yeah?

Jesus!

I tell you something.

Nobody hurts my wee girl.

Especially not that ballbag, Hughie.

Shut the door!

It breaks my heart to see you like this.

Hey…

I could dust off my CV.

-Are you gonna tell me to wash my hands?
-No.

CVs, Dad.

That's what I just said.

That's what I've been writing.

But people's lives aren't CVs.

They're much, much more.

But I like your writing.

Yeah…

-It can be better.
-How?

Not always, but sometimes,
Dad inspires me.

I'm going to write advances.

Obituaries for the pre-dead.

Like zombies?

Like Michael Jackson.

-Who did a mean zombie.
-And who, the minute he did die,

the big papers
had his obit up on their websites.

Years in the making, researched, refined.

Ready in a heartbeat to go to print.

So you'll, what… pick old people?

Sick people.

People whose lives dice with death.

And write them up before they do die.

These advances, with thought and time,
will be heartfelt and moving.

Not crap jotted down
as the coffin slides into the ground.

Something the families adore.

That gives Hughie no choice

but to put me back on full pay.

How does it feel, Alice?

To die?

To know you're dying.

It's Rose I worry about.

Your daughter?

A big lug of a thing.

Tomboy.

I don't think she'll cope.

She'll have to grieve.

They say there are stages.

Denial, anger bargaining,
depression, and…

Suicide?

Eh…no.

Acceptance.

Here, who are you?

I know, I shouldn't.

But…

Your daughter.

Rose.

Remember?

Thank God!

I'm here, Mam.

Finally, you lost some weight.

But would it kill you to wear
a little bit of rouge, huh?

Where were we?

You were advising me
on how to accept your death.

Who says I'm dying?

No one listens to me.

The story of my life.

Why do people say that,

the story of my life?

Because everyone's got one.

And I'd kill to hear yours.

"For Alice,

the voyage of discovery
is not in seeking new lands,

but seeing old lands with new eyes."

Dump that last line.

You're not bloody Prowst.

Proust.

You don't like it?

Kudos for the turnover time.

She's barely cold.

But, Clancy, your words screech
when they should sing.

Do better.

Or don't do it.

Do better?

Fine.

How about a dead man walking.

Or well… climbing.

It's a really dangerous job, right?

Says who?

The National Statistics Office.

They claim that fatality rates
for roofers are…

through the roof.

Nothing can kill me.

Not no roof nor no… statistics!

Sorry, Bob.

But the stats beg to differ.

"Always reaching for the heights,
as Bob mounts his ladder, one last time.

Think of him as gone, yet not defeated."

Lose that last line.
You're not bloody Hemingway.

Look, there is some improvement.

I only spotted two typos.

The people of this town
think my next advance

is Kilraven's nicest man.

Dad strongly disagrees.

Still, the guy is riddled with cancer.
Stage Four.

And because there's no stage five,
it's just a matter of waiting.

And waiting…

And waiting!

And waiting.

And waiting!

And waiting,

and…

Beautiful day, isn't it?

It's the weirdest thing.

This dying man is refusing to die.

Beautiful day, isn't it?

His body screams cancer.

Beautiful day, isn't it?

Yet four weeks since my last obit,

Sandy walks this earth.

It's a beautiful day, isn't it?

My bank balance is a bust,

and my work remains unread.

Beautiful day, isn't it?

My words, trapped on my hard drive.

Sandy's tumours fighting for their lives.

A kango hammer, chipping away at my brain.

What the hell do I do?

What the hell are you doing?

Beautiful day, isn't it?

Are you serious?

No one in their right mind could think
today is a beautiful day.

-There's something wrong with my mind?
-Finally.

Something out of your mouth
that makes sense.

You can't talk to me like that.

I'm sick.

Oh, join the fucking club.

Go get them.

Make me.

Fine.

Aghh…

Ah!

We're going to the Guards.

Why? I… I saved you.

Jesus saved me!

You're more stupid than I thought!

You didn't know.

Know what?

The town laughs at you.

The sewer rat unfit to be a father.

The freak waiting for people to die.

Now your mother?

Mmm…

A tasty bit a pipe.

Pity she died and you didn't.

-You were right.
-So you admit it?

-You did push me.
-No.

It is a beautiful day.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't fantasize
about doing this someday.

I just never knew how I'd feel.

Mrs Benson.

Thanks for seeing me.

I know this is weird,

with me being the one
who saw your husband…

slip.

But.. look,
I won't take up much of your time.

-The thing is…
-Yeah.

Your words
are how Sandy will be remembered.

The more you know…

The more I can, pardon the pun,
bring him to life.

Okay.

But we're getting drunk.

So…

I'm under this big sycamore.

First time making love.

But there's this farmer,
sneaking a sly look at us,

his Friesians behind him.

I slip my bits back in…

Which are still fabulous!

But my husband, still at half-mast,
offers to put on a second showing.

Sandy could be crude that way.

I'll see if I can get that in.

Then…

That's that.

Really?

Cos I feel like
we're still missing something.

Look, let's go off record.

Eh?

Okay.

Sandy was…

in remission!

The last five years!

Sandy wasn't sick.

He just loved the attention!

But he had a blog.

About his ups and downs.

The town read it.

Lies.

Sandy could have lived 30 more years
but for that fall.

Oh pet, you're crying.

Sorry.

It's a shock.

I thought Sandy had months left,
not years.

Years I took from him.

I thought I'd killed a dying man,

when really,
I'd killed a man who deserved to die.

That's okay, love.

I've never felt such happiness.

And everyone wants to be happy.

Right?

"Sadly, we can do nothing for Sandy,
but cherish his memory.

As surely his wife, Margo will,

who one day hopes to meet him
under that sycamore in the sky,

where they will frolic like teens
while the Friesians watch."

No, this is good. I know it is!

I can't publish it.

-You can take your typos can go fuck--
-Margo!

Sandy's wife doesn't want him
declared dead.

But…

He is dead.

His body was never recovered.

She's going to wait out the 7 years.

So no one reads my work?

And no pay?

I'm sorry, Clancy.

It kills me as much as it does you.

No matter.

I like what I wrote.

I've found my voice now.

A voice with murder as a muse.

Of course, I should stop.

But now is not a good time for me.

I'll see you later?

Your first kill is like your first orgasm.

You feel guilty.

Is Patsy's chest still at him?

You're not sure how it happened.

Belt.

But you're damn sure you want another.

At least, that's what Mal says.

Hey, where d'ya get your licence?
A fuckin' raffle?

Who was this?

Sylvester McHugh.

Big builder back in London.

Contracted all his work out.

Cut so many corners
that three boys died on the job.

And Kilraven welcomed that asshole
back with open arms.

As I said,

sometimes my Dad inspires me.

I tell you something,

someone should clip his wings,

before anybody else gets hurt.

Still, it's all well and good,
but I've got to be smart.

That means never getting caught.

Which means picking the right one,
which means

picking someone who deserves it.

So…

Does Sylvester deserves this?

Oh, Mal.

You're my best friend,
but you've lousy taste in men.

You know, we're in the same boat.

We both don't want some rando

who's spent his whole life in Kilraven,
but…

Trust me, Mal, someone--

Better will come along?

Elvira!

Christ, you've been spouting
that same shite for the last five years.

Look…

What?

Last Christmas,
I overheard the Scriney sisters.

Those piss-bags said that girls like us,
who never left Kilraven

were different from girls
who went to college.

I went to college.

Okay, online.

But so did you.

A month blowing
my grant on MDMA is not college.

Anyways, they said
we were robbed of our dreams.

That our small-minded brains never grew
because we never went anywhere.

Then I meet Sylvester.

And he's seen the world.

Well, London.

So I says, I'll have that for a bit.

And why not, like?

The man's a…

go-getter.

You may think we have nothing in common.

This crazy mess and me.

But you could not be more wrong.

Both mothers dead.

Mine in a pool of her own blood,

hers on a hen party in Liverpool.

Deadly place, isn't it?

What's the sex like?

You never ask me about my sex life.

Well, you never ask me about mine.

He says I blow the wife out of the water.

Oh, get this.
The last night he was on top of me,

he starts twitching like crazy.

Isn't that a good thing?

He was having an epileptic fit.

Forgot to take his pills.

Who says I can't make men drool, eh?

You know, Mal.

Guys like him…

-Push them and they're dangerous.
-So he's got a temper!

He's up the walls with work,
but I can handle mys--

Fuck it!

Here, have mine.

It's just a 99, Mal.

Nothing's ever just a 99, Elvira.

You know, sometimes, I just feel like…

A laughing stock?

Lost.

People tell me to skip town.

I say, why?

I'm from here.

-I want something to happen here!
-Like what?

I dunno.

I just want it to happen.

I'll wait for it if I have to.

I'm done waiting.

Sylvester's purpose in life
seems to be to hurt everyone around him.

Therefore,
if my purpose in life is to kill,

I think I'll make some rules.

And one must be,
no one I love ever gets hurt.

This is a small town.

That means there can never be
a whiff of murder.

Everything must be a mishap or a suicide.

An act of God, or a sex act gone wrong.

A while back, a journalist opened
an image sent to him on Twitter.

It was strobe lighting.

The guy, a known epileptic,

came within seconds of dying,
when he suffered a seizure.

Still, it could have been worse.

He could have been trapped
in the boot of a car.

Crucial to this whole thing, is research.

In this case,
the dark web and a can of Ketamine.

Several good blasts, they're toast.

But a couple of spritzes…

it's sleepy time.

Sylvester's going to spend
the next few days

swallowing a little something
from my own medicine cabinet.

Also essential is intel.

And because she tells me everything,

I always know when and where
Sylvester and Mallory will meet.

I told you he'd remember!

Aren't they gorgeous?

How do you do that?

Eh… do what?

Well, hello!

Get people to open up to you like that.

When they're at their lowest.

The people I deal with
are consumed with death.

Add sedatives and stodgy funeral food,
they soon realise their deep dark secrets

aren't worth taking to the grave.

Emerson Stafford.

-Elvira--
-Clancy.

I know.

Tell me, what are you working on now?

It's a… surprise.

Oh… does it not get depressing?

Obituaries?

I spend two lines out of a hundred
on how someone died.

The rest is a celebration of their life.

Yeah, but you make your living from death.

As do cigarette companies--

And crime correspondents.

I'm taking over from Clive, so…

looks like we're working together.

Now I know, staff will bitch
about the new hire, but don't worry.

I'm paid per piece.

Still, they'll get mighty snotty
when they see

every second article is mine, right?

Hey, uh… you up to anything later?

Only I thought I'd grab a drink
at the Mariner.

How's nine sound?

It sounds a lot better than 'no'.

I'll see you later.

Tonight was to be Sylvester's
last night on earth.

Looks like we both got lucky.

-Sorry I'm late.
-Don't worry about it.

What are you doing here?

-Well 'hello' to you too.
-What are you having, Elvira?

Whatever Mallory's having.

Since she's having what I'm having.

What can I get you?

Whiskey and ice.

What's that for?

You said someone better
would come along, and bam!

I bump into him.

What?

He could be married.

Or gay?

You don't like him, do you?

Good.

Eh, hey Emerson.

Elvira reckons you're gay, which…

I'm down with.

No, I don't.

I'm sorry to disappoint you.

Well, with that put to bed, tell us.

How do you end up working
at our little rag,

for that wanker, Hughie?

I like Hughie.

At least you know where you stand
with him.

You like him
because he lets you away with murder.

Oh, does he?

Let you away with murder?

So Emerson, why journalism?

And why here?

Ahh, you guys will laugh at me.

No, we won't.

It was my cousin's funeral.

I was nine.

-He was six, poor kid drowned.
-Pool, river or sea?

Sea.

But he had this twin.

Now on the day of the funeral,

his parents for some reason,
do not ask me why,

decided to dress them both
in matching outfits.

So you can imagine,
I'm standing there, I'm nine years old.

I'm looking into this coffin
with this kid lying there, my cousin.

And then they close the lid,
stick the lad in the ground.

There are sixteen words
for "love" in Latin,

yet none to describe how turned on I am.

But there's this other lad,
standing right there.

Identical to the one just buried.

I thought I was looking at a ghost.
It changes you.

And I went home and told my friends
what had happened.

And they had the worst nightmares,
they'd ever had in their lives.

That's when I knew,

my job is to bring the world's weirdest
stories to the people.

And what better place than Kilraven.

We don't even have a Penneys.

But we have people like Mal,
who has committed armed robbery.

-"Armed" is a stretch.
-You had a golf club.

-A putter.
-Still took two grand out of that shop.

Well, it would have been a grand more
if it were a Penneys.

-Did you get time?
-Suspended.

Eighteen months if I darken the door
of a court again.

Well, I should write a story about you.

"Reformed con makes good."

Maybe I should write a story on you.
"Reformed con dies".

Eh…

-My phone is broken, can I--
-Yeah, yeah. Use mine.

You followed me in here?

This is the mens.

Oh… yeah.

I wondered what that smell was.

Whatever he does,
he's giving me that feeling again.

And then there's that other feeling.

I've to go.

Ah, stay.

Mallory and I would love it.

Two shandies
and they're Mallory and I already?

Dad's ill.

Give Mal her phone.

Ehm…

Everything alright?

Good.

Now…

Why are you parked here?

Whoa, whoa, whoa.

Just getting my driver's license.

I come here sometimes to…

clear my head.

Funny that.

Because usually,
people come here to do drugs.

Do you do drugs?

Have you been drinking?

-Just the one, Guard.
-Really?

Because you seem very nervous.

Are you nervous?

Then you won't mind me
checking your vehicle.

Yeah?

Be my guest.

Anything in your boot?

Just an eight-inch hunting knife
and enough strobe lighting to kill a man.

Still…

you better pop it for me.

The thing's broken.

You'll have to do it yourself.

Hey!

What's with the can?

The thing is always acting up.
It's just…

Rose?

A call came in. Domestic.

Gimme a second.

Alice worked nights at Fruit of the Loom.

Having spent a whole day weaving baskets,

she'd still be home in time
to make her daughter's breakfast.

A glamorous woman, her speciality was…

Fancy baskets.

Made from ash strips woven in patterns.

Topped with carved flowers as--

Her mothers' had been.

And as she hoped her daughter,
Roses', would someday be too.

You wrote that?

My mam's obituary?

We spoke before she passed.

She said you meant the world to her.

She had a weird way of showing it.

Left an awful lot unsaid.

Must have made accepting her death
very difficult.

Ah…

She was always telling you
to lose weight, find a man.

Wear make-up, join a gym.

You've made your point!

My point is…

She thought you were beautiful.

She wished she'd said it more.

She said that?

Those very words?

I never met my mam.

I'd die happy hearing
what she thought of me.

Safe home.

Oh, and Miss Clancy…

When my time comes,

I'd like you to write my obituary.

Done.

As am I.

I'm not cut out for this.

That close to getting caught.

No way.

No!

It ends now.

So this is where they found
Maria Riedle's body?

You okay?

Heard it's in both lungs now.

The rest of my files this week.

First Guard on the scene?

If you want to get the DPP file off her,
you'll need leverage.

The "Mallory" I mentioned.

Last person to see Maria alive.

Five years have passed.

But I bet she still remembers
every tiny detail.

Oh, I'm way ahead of you there.

I didn't drag you to this town
to get your hole.

No.

You dragged me here so I could finish
what you couldn't.

Emerson, this is my life's work.

Mmm.

Jesus!

You still don't get it.

She's German!

The story's international.

If your work leads to the arrest
of Maria Riedle's killer,

we're talking books, films.

In German?

In every language!

Netflix?

I was thinking more Sky,
but we'll ask them too.

That grabbed your attention.

Now…

our deal.

A change of plan.

Upon the arrest of the killer,

you don't get half of my life savings.

You get the lot.

Yeah.

-What's the catch?
-Not a penny,

if you don't finish up before I die.

And when do you think that might that be?

I'm working on it.

And you're sure this scumbag--
and I'm not saying it's him.

Are you sure her husband did it?

No doubt.

Now go and prove it.

-Cheers.
-Go on!

Elvira!

Uhhh!

Are the rats at ya?

-I didn't always drink, you know?
-Oh yeah?

Just these last few years.

Yeah, well…

Maybe one day I'll tell you why.

But for the moment, I enjoy it.

Alright?

And I can stop any time I want.

And truthfully,
I don't like me without it, anyway.

Yeah, well..

-People change, Dad.
-Yeah pigs might fly--

Jesus Christ!

Go on, jog on redneck!

Ya prize bollocks!

Do you know he's suing his own brother
over his father's will?

And the poor fella
is not the full shilling.

And then he steps out in front of ya?

He's an accident waiting to happen.

No.

When I say, I'm done. I'm done.

You promised to review my salary.

Now is the time.

You read The Lancet, Clancy?

They claim
that flu season is late this year,

but it's going to hit big.

Soon.

That's a boon for your beat.

So no review.

I'm paying you for Sandy Benson.

I can't publish it,
but quality work deserves recognition.

There's enough here for two obits.

You ever heard of Sylvester McHugh?

Afraid not.

A controversial figure.

They found him slumped over
the wheel of his car this morning.

His meds.

His wife says he suffered from epilepsy.

That's the official line.

I forgot to change them back.

Look, with Sandy's obit…

I did that.

That was me.

It finally felt like you got the person
you were writing about.

Too right, I did!

And also, it inspired me.

To see you not have it, search for it,

and find it,

made me want to get back
into "real" journalism again.

Big and small.

This town is full of stories.

I'm going to find them.

So I stay on 200 an obit?

Desperation drives you.

Let's see where it takes us.

Do you know what you're doing?

I'm making a good journalist.

No, you're taking a flamethrower
to this town.

Just keep doing
exactly as you've been doing

these last few weeks.

And if work turns slow again?

You'll think of something.

-Hey babe!
-Hi.

-Will we bounce?
-Wow.

Hey! Watch it.

I'm sorry.

They say if you want to write,
you have to sit down,

open a vein and bleed on the page.

Thing is,

whose vein are they talking about?

And whose blood do they mean?

No matter.

Hughie's right.

These things won't write themselves.