All language subtitles for Disclaimer - 1x03 - III.HEVC.MeGusta.en

Please, Robert.

Fuck off.

Fuck off!

We can't miss the Rembrandt exhibition
at the National Gallery...

like we missed the Pollock and the Monet.

Also, the new Almodóvar film
is out next month.

They say that destiny
knocks at the door.

That is not true.

Who can that be on a Sunday?

The neighbors, whinging about the smoke.

Well-- Well, are you gonna answer it
or what?

Right.

Destiny doesn't knock on any door.

Destiny doesn't ask permission.

It crashes in without calling

and grabs you mercilessly
by your body and soul.

Mr. Brigstocke?

Yes.

Can we please come in, sir?

Nancy.

Nan-- Nancy.

Nancy.

Stephen?

The police are here, in the sitting room.

Take this off.

Yes?

Um.

I'm DCI Duggins.
This is PC Davis, uh, Metropolitan Police.

- What can we do for you?
- Would you please take a seat?

Uh, you have a son.

- Jonathan, age 19.
- Yes.

- Traveling in Italy?
- Yes. Yes, he's in--

He's in Italy.
We had a postcard from him yesterday.

We're so sorry, but Jonathan died
in-- in a-- in an accident yesterday.

We're very sorry.

What sort of an accident?

He drowned.

Would you like some tea?

Uh, it was, um, an accident in...

Forte dei Marmi.

An accident?

Yeah. The Italian police
are very clear about that.

Now, you'll have to go to Italy
to identify your son.

The closest airport is Pisa.

The Italian authorities, um,
they won't release the body

until there's been
a formal identification.

- So it might not be Jonathan?
- It could be a mistake?

No, I'm-- I'm sorry, Mrs. Brigstocke,
but there's no mistake.

The Italian police
have been through your son's belongings,

- and his bag was on the beach.
- Somebody could have stolen it.

Well, they found his passport.

I'm sorry,
I'm afraid it's definitely Jonathan.

The body can't be released
until it's been formally identified.

After that, you can bring him home.

Is there anyone else
who can do that for you?

No, there's no one else.

Here's the number
for the consulate.

And I've given you mine too,
in case you have any more questions.

Again, we're very, very sorry
for your loss.

We can find our own way out.

It's too milky.

Excuse me?

The tea is too-- too milky.

Right.

I'm sorry.

Please call
if you have any questions.

Jonathan.

Welcome
to the O2 messaging service.

The person you're calling
is unable to take your call.

Please leave a message after the tone.

Robert.

I-- I unders-- I understand you're upset.

Would you just please, please call me?

I need to know you're safe.

You want to make him
understand why you hadn't told him.

It wasn't for you.

It was for them.

For Robert, but mainly for Nicholas.

Your silence had been to protect your son,

and Jonathan's death had sealed it.

There had been no need
for anyone else to suffer.

Uh, Mr. and Mrs. Brigstocke?

Hello, my name is Richard Perkins.

Uh-- Uh, the consulate sent me to be
of assistance during this painful process.

I have a car if you're ready.

Oh, yeah. Yes. Let me help you
with that, Mrs. Brigstocke.

Uh, Mr. Brigstocke?

Okay, if you'll follow me, please.

I'm sorry I was late.
Uh, there was a closure on the autostrada.

The, uh-- The motorway, that is.

The sun was shining
as if nothing terrible had happened.

The heavier the burden,
the more real things become.

A marble statue becomes nothing more
than a piece of stone.

Fuck off.

Robert recognizes
that he can't drive to work.

He daren't risk it.

Surely he's still over the limit.

He could call for a cab
but decides that he'll take the bus.

Italian law requires that the body
be embalmed before transporting abroad.

Do you understand what that means?

Mrs. Brigstocke?

His face isn't swollen.

Excuse me?

You-- You-- You-- You said he drowned,
but his face is not swollen.

There's no reason
for inflammation.

The body didn't spend too much time
under the water.

What's that on his arm?

That is, uh, probably an injury
he sustained during the accident.

Mrs. Brigstocke?

M-Mr. Brigstocke, we can go now.

I can't thank you enough.

It's the least I could do
after you treated me to a pizza.

Oh, during which you entertained my son
so that he would eat his supper.

It was fun.
I like kids.

Good luck in Rome.

Thank you.

Enjoy the rest of your trip.

I'll try.

Okay.

Okay. Come on, Nicholas. Ooh.

Sorry.

Okay. Thank you.

Thank you.

Bye, Jonathan.

Goodbye.

Jonathan?

Yeah?

Would you mind waiting a second
while I just take him up to bed?

I think-- I think you deserve
a proper thank-you drink.

Uh, yeah. Yeah.
I can-- I-- I can-- I can wait.

Okay. Great.

Actually, I wouldn't mind
some adult company for a change.

Why don't you just wait in the bar,
and I'll take him upstairs.

- Uh, yeah. Yeah.
- Okay. Great.

I won't be long.

All right.

Buonasera.

It's been years
since Robert's taken public transport.

He looks at the people that
he doesn't normally travel to work with.

He thinks that the woman
probably works shifts

to support herself and her family.

A good woman.

A woman without vanity

who has no time for affairs and deceit.

He can smell the lunch
coming from the rucksack

of the man sitting two seats away.

He guesses the man is a builder,

probably working
in some privileged Londoner's home,

a home like his,

where this man will be begrudged
cups of coffee and the use of the toilet.

He wonders whether his thoughts
are racist or patronizing,

or both,

and decides they probably are.

This presumption of simplicity.

His imposition of worthiness
to their existence.

"Sanctimonious twit"
is his judgment of himself.

You're uncertain
of what Stephen Brigstocke wants.

An apology?

An admission of guilt?

You know that you have to reach out
to him before things go too far.

Before Nicholas is touched
by Stephen Brigstocke's anger.

I still had some preserves
in the larder that Nancy had made.

I hadn't touched them since she died.

I was keeping them for special occasions.

And today was a special occasion.

The plan was flowing seamlessly.

Executing every part of it

made me feel closer to her.

You have reached 020 7946 0534.

Neither Stephen nor Nancy
are here to respond to this call,

but if you would please leave a message
with the date, time

and your telephone number,
we'll try to get back to you.

Have a nice day.

Yes. Hello.

Thi-- This is a message for,
uh, Stephen Brigstocke.

Uh, my name is Catherine Ravenscroft.

I've read The Perfect Stranger
and it, uh--

it was written with an intense,
uh, emotional commitment.

And there is a-- a pain at the--
at the heart of this book

which is-- is just undeniable.

So it's impossible not to feel moved,
uh, by the heart that penned these words.

And, uh, it's rare, actually,
for a-- a work of fiction

to produce such, uh,
powerful feelings in-- in its reader.

Yes, it's a--
an exquisite work of fiction

and I wish you well.

You feel you did
the right thing.

That what Stephen Brigstocke needed
was your acknowledgment.

And it helped you as well.

Writing those words and saying them
has forced you to think about his pain.

Perhaps some balance
was restored between the two of you.

The devil
had knocked at my door.

She'd figured out who I was.

I was expecting it to happen.
But hearing her voice startled me.

The book was not
an "exquisite piece of fiction"

as she called it.

And she knew that better than anyone else.
Such a deceiver.

She was so careful not to apologize,
not to accept responsibility.

I was not interested
in her acknowledgment of my pain.

It was too late for that.

She needed to feel it.

She needed to suffer as I had.

And Nancy's long, white hair was a sign.

Her seal of approval.

It made me think about what else
I might do to please her.

"Be bold," I thought.

For saving me from murdering my son.

You wouldn't. You love him.

Well, he's really sweet.

He's just such a bundle of energy.

"Mummy. Mummy, can you look at this?

Mummy, look at me. Look at me."

And you love it.

I do love it.

Every single second of it.

But honestly, though.
I see you, and I get a bit jealous.

J-Jealous of-- of me?

Yeah.
But in a lighthearted kind of way.

Just jealous of your freedom.

M-My freedom?

You know, to explore the world.

To-- To travel.

To make decisions as you go.

To meet new people.

To-- To have wild, passionate romances
in every place you go.

I don't know about that.

Are you saying you're not having
wild, passionate romances?

Well,
n-n-not really.

Why is that?

Uh, I--

I was traveling with my girlfriend.

You have a girlfriend?

Yeah.

Where is she?

Your girlfriend?

She, um-- She had to go back to London.

I see.

How long have you been together,
you and your girlfriend?

Oh.

Uh, I don't know.

A year or so?

And before that?

- What?
- Did you have many girlfriends before?

N-Not really.

- S-Sasha is my first proper girlfriend.
- Aw.

- Sasha.
- Yeah.

Have you always been faithful with Sasha?

- Yeah.
- Always?

Uh, yeah.

Come on. You've never fantasized
about being with some other girl at school

or some sexy mademoiselle that you saw

when you were queuing up at the Louvre?

- N-Not really.
- Kate Moss?

Mmm, Salma Hayek?

Ah, well, you know.

Who?

Who do you fancy?

Uh.

Kylie?

Kylie Minogue?

Kylie.

Yeah, she's-- she's sexy.

I don't know.

She's got a beautiful mouth.

What do you like about Kylie?

I don't know.
Sh-Sh-She's-- She's fit.

Yeah, I--
I guess she's-- she's fit. Yeah.

But in your fantasy,

what would you do to Kylie?

You-- You know.

I don't know.

Things.

What things would you do to Kylie?

I...

k-kiss her.

On the cheek?

Y-Yeah.

Uh, I a-also kiss her on the mouth.

That must be nice.

What else do you do?

Um-- Uh--

Um.

I-- I-- I touch her.

Where do you touch her?

Um, her-- her skin?

Is it soft?

Is Kylie's skin soft?

Yeah.

Where else do you touch her?

Uh.

Her face.

Only her face?

Uh.

Her-- Her breasts.

You touch Kylie's boobs?

How do you touch them?

I, um-- S-S-S-Softly?

Hmm.

Does she like it?

I-- I think so.

Mmm. I'm sure she likes it very much.

And...

do you touch Kylie's...

nipple?

- Y-Yeah.
- Mmm.

- Do you press it between your fingers?
- Mmm.

Yeah.

Is it hard?

Uh-huh.

Mmm.

And you?

Do you get hard touching Kylie's nipple?

Yeah.

Can she feel it?

Can she feel how hard you are?

Y-Yeah.

Oh, how lucky she is--

Kylie--

feeling you so hard.

Mmm.

Hmm.

It's getting late,
so I think I'm gonna go back to my room.

But I would love to hear
what else you would do...

to Kylie.

So I'm gonna go to reception
because I think I left my key in my room.

Why don't you wait here,
and then go to the bathroom?

On your way, you'll find the lifts.

How's that for a plan?

Okay.

W-W-What about Nicholas?

Don't worry about Nicholas,
he sleeps like a log.

Room 207.

Scusi. Can you, um--
Can you just put that on my room, please?

- Certo.
- Thank you.

I'm Claudio Bramanti, from
the judicial office of Forte dei Marmi.

We're here to collect
Jonathan Brigstocke's belongings.

Second floor.

This is the room.

Jonathan slept here?

Yes, Mrs. Brigstocke.

It was a birthday present.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

You said he was too young
to be trusted with it.

Nancy was against me
giving the knife to Jonathan,

but I wanted to gain his affection.

I was never as close to him as she was.

When did he start smoking?

Probably that girl, Sasha,
turned him on to it.

Nancy never approved of Sasha.

I wouldn't have wanted Jonathan
to end up with her myself.

I never saw his camera.

A Nikon, top of the line,
our gift to him on his 18th birthday.

I always assumed that it had been stolen
by someone at the hotel.

Nancy must have found it,

and I wonder when it was that she decided
to have the film developed.

Do we pack all of this?

Yes. Don't worry about that, Stephen.
I'll take care of everything.

Can you please slow down?

We're nearly there.

You've been saying that
for the last 20 minutes.

Look, it's not gonna kill you
to move that big bum of yours, old chum.

It's not my bum I'm worried about,
it's my lungs.

- I feel like I'm going to have a stroke.
- Oh, stop whinging.

Wha-- Wha-- What's--
What's with the smug smile?

You twit.

- Twat. What-- Where--
- Hello, Claire.

- Hello. How are you?
- How are you?

Good.

- Guess who I've brought.
- Oh?

Stephen.

Stephen.

Come and meet Claire.

This is her lovely bookshop
and she's also a publisher.

- Oh. Oh, it's so nice to meet you.
- And you. I loved your book.

Oh, did you?

Very much so.

I've been recommending it to my customers.
We've sold quite a few.

Stephen insisted that his book
should be on display in your bookshop.

Yes. He was very specific about it.

Really? Oh, thank you.

May I ask you why?

Oh, well, I've read so much about it
and, um,

I believe you have a lot of, uh--

quite a lot of high-profile customers
who love books.

Well, yes. Some people come.

We're very lucky.

Maybe we could, um,
organize a reading of your book here.

- Oh.
- Yes.

Uh-- Uh, we had, uh,
Adam Thirlwell last week.

Oh... ...I would be honored.

Great.

You know, I was not expecting that ending.

- That took me by surprise.
- Oh.

- Is that a bad thing?
- No.

On the contrary,
I was so happy she got what she deserved.

She's so awful.

Yes, she is.

Excuse me. Is it possible
to have a table here?

Um, could I have, um, some
tomatoes on toast and a espresso, please?

Last night,
Catherine tried to convince Robert

that the book was not how it had been.

As far as he's concerned,

she lost her chance
to give him her version years ago.

He knows that whatever he's about to read
has happened.

Come in.

Close the door.

I'm glad you came.

I wanna hear more about Kylie.

Come closer.

My body hasn't been the same
since giving birth.

I'm sure
you're used to much younger bodies.

Come closer.

Give me your hand.

How do you touch Kylie's breasts?

Can you show me?

Okay.

Is it soft?

Uh-huh.

Do you feel my nipple getting hard?

Oh, yeah.

Can you squeeze it?

Softly.

Hmm.

I can feel you.

Hard.

Come.

Kneel.

- Huh?
- Kneel down.

Untie the laces.

Take them off.

Do you know what to do?

Wait, wait, wait,
wait, wait, wait.

Softly.

A little bit higher.

Mm-hmm. Yeah. Yeah, there. Do you feel it?

- Wait. Do you feel it?
- Uh-huh.

Okay. Now wrap it with your lips
and now suck it between your lips.

Yeah, like that.

- And now with-- with your tongue...
- Mm-hmm.

...do little circles.

Oh, yeah.

Oh, God.

- Okay. Do you feel how wet it is?
- Uh-huh.

Yeah.

Okay, now-- now take your finger,
and bring your finger down.

Here?

Lower.

Lower.

Just put a little bit of pressure.

Don't go in. Just a little bit over it.

- Uh-huh.
- Yeah.

And now keep moving your tongue.

Stop, stop.

I regret that I often
considered Jonathan spoiled and misguided.

And it shames me to recognize
I never believed in his courage.

But I can't recall any other time

when Jonathan didn't put himself first
before anyone else.

Not once.

So, why then?

Why did he try to save that child?

Was it just reckless impulsiveness?

Um, it happened over there.
Next to the lifeguard chair.

Where was the lifeguard?

Uh, he was taking care of a-a child
that had, um, cut his foot.

How can you be so sure it was an accident?

The, um-- The event was
corroborated by-by many witnesses.

Jonathan was such a good swimmer.

- I'm so sorry, Mrs. Brigstocke.
- Was anybody else involved?

Only the men that pulled him out
and the lifeguard who tried to save him.

And the English lady,
the mother of the child.

What's her name?

Um...

Catherine Ra-Ravenscroft.

Catherine Ravenscroft.

I want to talk to her.

Um, I'm sorry but she returned
this morning to London.

She declared
never having met Jonathan.

She left?

Just like that?

I want to get in touch with her.

Don't you think it's up to her?

I want her contact details.

I'll be sure to get you
her contact details, Mrs. Brigstocke.

Nancy.

Nancy!

Can you feel it?

Yeah.

Hmm.
You taste like salt water.

I-I-- I bathed in the sea.

Hmm.

I'm just doing what you did
to me with my finger.

Just here.

I don't want you to finish yet.

Come.

- Wait, wait, wait, wait.
- Fuck.

- Now take my arse.
- Okay.

Do the same thing with your finger.

Yeah.

- Just a little bit of pressure-- Don't--
- I'm going-- I'm going.

- No, wait, wait.
- I'm gonna--

Wait, wait, wait. Slow, slow, slow.

Slow down. Slow.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, shit. I'm sorry.

- Don't get out. Don't get out.
- I'm sorry.

I'm sorry. You-- You're-- You're wild.

You're like a sex Yoda.

Nothing further than that.

Seriously, though.
Th-Those things with the--

To tell you the truth, I--

You know, those are things
I just wanted to try.

What do you mean?

You know, just things that I wanted to do
or wanted to have done to me.

Y-You mean you never did?

It's different when you're married.

But before?

Not much.

I mean, just teen sex, you know.

- What?
- Sorry.

I didn't--

You're right, though.

This was different.

Yeah, it was.

Oh, my God.

So quick.

Uh-huh.

Mummy!

- Is he aw--
- I'm here, angel.

Just go back to sleep.

Is he--

Okay.

I remembered a poem
that I used to teach.

A poem that Mark Twain placed
upon his daughter's headstone.

"Warm summer sun,
Shine kindly here,

Warm southern wind,
Blow softly here.

Green sod above,

Lie light,

lie light."

"Good night, dear heart,

Good night,

good night."