Previously on Obituary...
Circulation is down.
You'll get 200 an obit.
How will I live?
Maybe you should start killing people.
Emerson Stafford.
- Elvira. - Clancy. I know.
Looks like we're working together.
Maria Riedle's body was in the boot of your car.
I was gonna say that I shot her.
Yeah, but you didn't shoot her!
I think we have a killer in our town.
You're right, there is a killer.
You.
Hughie Burns has been arrested for the murder of Maria Riedle.
This town needs closure.
_
I need to find a connection between these two deaths.
The connection.
Is he alive?
Not remotely.
www.subtitulamos.tv
_
Hello.
You poor thing,
you must've eaten something nasty, did ya?
Oh, Christ.
What is that?
My God, that's a nose.
Oh, God. Right!
Help. Hello?
Is there anybody there?
Some cultures claim that a person
who dies without their eyes
can never cross over to the other side.
That their soul is tethered to this world...
bound to their earthy remains...
never to find peace.
Only to be left wandering this world
for all eternity.
I hope that's not true.
That you're not destined to be stuck in this town,
haunting these people because...
well...
that's kind of my job.
Dad...
You've left me in a pretty awful position.
And I am not talking about the unpaid bills
or a closed coffin,
you've left me with...
writer's block.
Your eulogy.
Words supposedly ripped from the bottom of my heart,
and I have nothing.
Because to write,
I need to feel something and right now...
I feel nothing.
What if I am a monster,
incapable of grief?
You're the only one who would understand that.
And now you're not here to tell me I am wrong.
Who knows...
maybe killing is how I grieve.
Instead of tears,
dead bodies are how I show sorrow
because I hate living in a world
where you're dead and they're alive,
cracking jokes about you,
the man without a face,
the drunk who drowned in a foot of water.
They'll pay.
The first one who says something...
It's time.
I know you were struggling with the eulogy,
so I jotted a few things down.
It's sentimental.
What can I say, I adored the man.
And before you ask, change whatever you like,
I know you'll make it better.
I spent a lifetime dreading his death.
I always pictured myself alone when it happened.
I am glad I got that wrong.
Do you mind if I have a word alone?
I'll look after her.
Which means, as much as it kills me,
she'll never know about the slippery, second-rate murderer
I think you really were.
What a pathetic way to go!
Not one thing in your pocket but a betting slip.
I saw it, all smudged and crumpled.
I checked your race...
They'd grown quite close.
That horse you bet on,
won by a nose.
Which is more than they can say about you.
There you are!
Two hours sleep.
One hour less than last night.
They say insomnia can happen
when you're not living true to yourself,
but I know what my true self wants to do.
Hey.
You still not sleeping?
I think you should see someone.
Or kill someone.
_
Don't swallow it this time.
I think you dropped this.
Room 26A.
You've grandchildren, Gladys, in the States.
Teenagers?
They don't care how I feel.
Well, I do.
So tell me, how do you feel?
Lets just say,
I hope the food is better in heaven than this kip!
Now we're talking.
You're not a nurse. Why are you here?
Do you want the truth?
Because at your age it's not really advised.
Tell me.
Alright,
I write obituaries.
Four months ago I was stabbed.
While I was in the hospital
I met a nurse who does shift work here.
Bernadine?
We struck up a deal.
I pay her, and she points me in the direction of people...
checking out early.
Since I've been coming,
this place has been hit by strep,
E. coli and...
whatever it is you have.
Yeah.
That one.
All this illness has been lucrative for us both.
So lucrative and well...
distracting.
It's kept me away from my real passion.
Which is?
As I said,
telling the truth to someone your age,
not advised.
Not going to make it to the morning, am I?
Then I am glad you're here.
I have a lot to get off my chest,
starting with those little bastards in America!
_
Work that ass.
Fuck off! Oi!
Dickhead!
Follow me, please.
Big bum.
- Well? - I did warn ya.
The... Tourettes,
it's a chemical imbalance in, in my brain...
I couldn't care less about your brain.
What I do care about,
is this smudge.
A smudge which tells me you were asleep on the job.
That's narcolepsy.
Smash your fuckin face in!
Sorry.
- Sorry. - Just start over.
Every window?
And this time, no smudges, yes?
Fuck.
As I said...
a plane tears across the sky,
I look down and in my hands is a rocket launcher.
I place it on my shoulder, pull the trigger
and right before the plane explodes,
I wake up and that's it,
dream over.
Many would call it a nightmare.
Dream, nightmare, explain it.
The plane does symbolize something.
Yeah, that I want to kill a bunch of people.
Don't we get on a plane to get away from it all?
- Groundbreaking. - So tell me,
how do you feel about your father's death?
I think you're avoiding dealing with it, Elvira.
I wish he hadn't got drunk, fallen,
banged his head on a rock and drowned, that's how I feel.
I am sorry but I am the kind of person who gets on with things.
My mental health has never been better.
So I am not in a puddle of tears,
that doesn't make me a monster, does it?
Please say it doesn't!
At the top of this session,
you said you haven't slept right since he died,
that you're down to two hours a night,
which tells me, without a breakthrough,
it'll only get worse.
So let's focus on your father.
Honestly?
Since the stabbing, we'd never been closer.
We'd... begun to open up to each other.
If time had allowed it,
no secrets would've remained between us.
Just down to our last minute.
Of our last session.
I can't afford to do this again.
I don't think that's wise.
Look, I am no therapist but it's clear what my problem is,
I need to get back to doing what I am good at.
Killing.
Work.
I know if I throw myself into it,
I'll sleeping like a baby in no time.
Bad taste?
Going as Sandy Benson to a fancy-dress party?
I love it.
Tell him.
Say you ripped that arsehole's larynx open,
that it was amazing and you want him to know all about it.
Well look at that!
Dress like a man that tried to kill you and you're all over me.
Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.
Check my pocket.
I doubt your pocket has what I am looking for!
I think you'll find it does.
I found it in my other pocket this morning,
I must've written it last week when I was drunk.
Tell Elvira you love her.
Took you long enough to say it.
I haven't said it yet.
You first.
Don't tell me... It's that freak of a nurse?
We've got a good thing going.
And this sounds like a good one.
And what about the party?
I just finished my book,
and I wanted to take you out,
- get your mind off things. - My mind is fine.
You go.
I hate parties.
Elvira?
I know I am not your dad here but...
just, no matter what it is,
you can share anything with me.
I know.
Chew that.
You dropped this.
Would've been okay if you'd taken a few minutes to change.
This one sounded interesting.
Well, it's much more interesting than the usual ones,
which means it's gonna cost ya.
200.
That's how much I get paid per obit, I can't afford that.
Then you should ask for a raise.
- I had plans tonight! - Then you should've done them.
- You must be Elvira. - And you must be lost.
- I am Ruby. - Ruby what?
- Just Ruby. - Well, just Ruby,
what are you doing at my desk?
Today's my first day, I am an intern.
As in, you don't get paid?
As in, money has never really motivated me
when it comes to journalism.
It's like what Daddy always says,
he didn't build the county's third largest waste management company
just to watch his little girl scrimp and save!
This way I can do what I was put on this earth to do.
Satisfy my urge to kill?
So, what are you up to? Correcting my work?
Not correcting...
admiring.
Your last paragraph where you let us know
her grandkids were little shits
without ever using the word little or shits,
it's... to die for.
Maybe I'll let her live.
You know, we could use some new blood around here.
- Good to have you on board. - Glad to be here.
So who hired you?
- The head honcho? - The daughter.
Seems the old woman put her in charge for a bit.
She did say things are going to change
- around here. - Change?
We're going to be asked to pitch stories,
ones that move the dial.
I can't wait to see what you've got up your sleeve.
I write obituaries, Ruby.
The only thing up my sleeve is dead people.
She's in tomorrow, so I suppose we'll see.
Am I late?
Sorry.
Bum, seat, now.
Name is Vivienne Birch, never Viv.
Among many others,
Alma Birch, my mother, owns this newspaper,
which means soon... bone cancer,
I'll own this newspaper.
Question for me, hun?
Yeah, tough titty!
Because I don't do questions and answers. Okay!
Here's everything you need to know about me.
I believe in one thing,
competition.
When I was four,
my sister and I saw an ad for a doll.
We told our mother.
The next day, she drove us to the shop,
and she made it clear that she would only buy one doll.
We had to decide which one of us would get the toy.
I knew there was only one way to resolve this.
We devised challenges
from sack races to egg and spoon,
the battles raged.
And then, the deciding contest.
A staring competition.
Our eyes locked on each other.
Time stood still.
Tears formed in our eyes
as the seconds stretched into an eternity.
Until finally...
it happened.
A blink.
Who got the doll?
No one, sweetie.
I didn't have a sister, it was an imaginary friend type thing
and believe me it was a shitty way to find out.
Okay, from now,
on each of you is in a staring contest with me.
Under Hughie, the paper was reduced to a laughing stock.
We should be all killer no filler,
yet sales are soft, content is crap,
and people will have to go.
Hey, hey, hey, TBDs.
But before you end up on the street shaking a can,
you'll all be given a chance to prove yourselves.
I'll hear pitches.
Kill me now.
Not to freak anyone out,
but you've got a day.
Right, who's gonna make me a cup of tea?
You said there was a good story in this one, something different.
I need something different.
Hence the price hike.
I am on my way.
Nothing beats shaping history,
especially when the history you shape does good.
If me being made detective is a product of that,
then history's been kind to me.
Even if there's a chance you're wrong about Hughie Burns?
I don't deal in hypotheticals.
- But could you live with yourself? - I dunno!
Could you?
A woman died.
The right man is awaiting trial,
no matter what those crackpots say!
There are some people in town who think Hughie didn't do it.
There's some people in town who think the Earth is flat.
- What do you say to them? - Try walking off the edge of it.
I mean Hughie's fans.
Time of night is this going out at?
Streaming, say what you like.
Then I say go fuck...
Doesn't matter what she says!
- They're shutting us down. - What? Why?
Don't ask me, ask Maria Riedle's husband,
your pal, Daniel.
Do not tell me who I can sue or cannot sue,
you should've been all over this.
What? My tone? You watch your tone, Cathy.
Hello? Hello?
Where are you...?
Well, it turns out Daniel Buckley wrote a book of his own on the sly.
It's called Say I Did Do It.
- But he didn't do it! - It's a rush job.
Ghostwritten and they're paying him 75 grand.
What'd your agent say about the documentary?
Wait, what documentary? It's done, we're done!
My book is done, they'll pulp it.
- So, I got my hair done for nothing. - She's worried about her hair.
Says someone who never paid for highlights.
I am up to my neck in debt here.
Alright? And worse, I am stuck in a job that's beneath me.
Yeah? Cause I heard you had a backup plan,
big gig at one of the national papers?
Was the job a con?
It came with strings attached.
Everything does.
My first article has to be an interview with Hughie Burns.
No interview, no job.
Fuck it.
Look who's awake.
The staff here named you James Doe,
felt you were more James than a John.
Me, I am only interested in your real name.
You've had a stroke,
must've been living rough.
Haven't spoken since you got here, do you remember?
Found in an old shack,
no ID, empty pockets.
Guards had a look, but nothing.
I am kinda desperate for a story,
and I can't write it unless I know who you are,
so who are you?
Why did you come to this town?
What? Say that again.
Con... fess.
Con...
fess.
Who?
Who should confess?
Me?
How do you know what I've done?
Done... for.
Done for.
I am done for if I don't confess,
- is that what you're saying? - Done... for.
Done for.
There is no story here.
Unless...
But maybe I can work with you.
A man with no name, no voice,
a mystery series.
Congratulations!
Whoever you are, you're about to be in the paper.
_
Fucks sake.
Well, Hughie! How's me old novel looking?
Well, for a man who failed English in the Leaving,
you've a real talent.
About that, your solicitor said
- he's gonna get you out. - It was heavily implied.
Well, when you do get out,
- you'll be going back to your old job? - 100%.
So this writing craic!
I like it. I am thinking when you're at the paper,
I could work for you?
Maybe the crime desk.
I've looked after you well, Hughie.
Alright!
Crime desk it is.
It'd be great to get out of this hole.
Who are you telling?
Er, by the way,
phone call.
_
- Yeah? - Look,
I know you're not talking to the press,
and you probably hate my guts,
but one hack to another, for old times sake...
how about an exclusive?
I am listening.
So what's... what's prison like?
The toilets in the cells only flush every half hour.
Means I have to sit there for 30 whole minutes
smelling my own shit.
But guess what?
I would rather smell my own shit than talk to you.
You can't even admit that you're wrong!
The real killer is out there, and I know who they are.
- Then name them. - And let you lie again?
Tell me, can you live with yourself,
or are you drowning in guilt?
I sleep perfectly well.
I cannot wait for you to say that to my face.
Look, no ones buying your Richard Kimble bit. You're going nowhere!
Your star witness, Mallory, she isn't even in the country.
You know what, Emerson?
All I hear in your voice is desperation.
Now, I may be wrong but...
Your deal with Buckley went south!
That's why you need me on record.
I am your ticket out of town, yeah? Well, buckle up!
You are going nowhere and do you wanna know what the best part is?
- Tell me. - The guy that I have lined up
to replace you
he has a brain like a bin bag.
He can barely read,
but he'll make twice the journalist you are!
Here we go, Hughie.
_
What's the cheapest thing this place has got with booze in it?
Let me think.
A stag left a bottle of aftershave in the jacks.
Whatever he wants!
Well,
in honour of an old friend,
- double rum and coke. - On the way.
What? Can't a councillor buy a constituent a drink?
So it's a vote you're after?
A month and a bit out, a tick wouldn't go astray.
Well, surely my votes worth more than a drink?
Name it?
The trains, councillor, they're always late.
You were going somewhere?
Hell.
Well, if the town votes me back in,
I'll make sure getting you there on time is a priority.
Do you vote, Patsy?
I don't even have a birth cert.
I was in school with that lad.
You know why they call him Chalky?
Because he ate the teacher's chalk.
Now look at him,
respected, buying for the house.
Chalky's on 50k a year,
along with an annual trip to Finland.
- 50 grand? - For doing nothing!
You know what, Patsy? You should run.
- Do you think so? - Yeah!
The last time I checked you were a dab hand at doing fuck all.
I can't go on like this.
It's clear I need to kill.
Question is... who?
Okay, jawline, it's pitchy time.
Your just the tip type bullshit won't work on me.
I read as straight, but I am bi
and any dudes I do do are Spanish.
So if you think you're gonna come in here
and rearrange my guts, you can jog on.
Me pausing is not an open invitation to blather.
Now, a little birdie told me,
you've been coasting along for the last few months
until the next big job comes knocking.
Yep, I am going nowhere.
Well, I hate to burst your bubble, that depends on me.
Why shouldn't I fire you?
- Have you read today's paper? - Do I look like a fuckin geek?
Well... you should.
The last-minute addition to the line-up of candidates
running in the local election is Kilraven's
Patsy Ruane, 52.
When asked what pushed him to run he answered,
"It was a young journalist from your paper.
He told me I had both the time and temperament
to serve the people of this town."
I've been working on him for weeks.
To get him to run?
He's one of the eight candidates who've paid their deposits.
I am going to ruin the other seven and help him win.
Is that ethical?
Okay, but seriously.
What's in it for the paper?
Patsy will be the worst possible thing to happen to this town
and the best thing to happen to this paper.
Think about it, five years filled with that fool's antics,
all that juicy material?
He'll be a godsend.
Yeah, okay, I love it.
But what happens if you don't get him elected?
I know.
You'll lose your job.
- Bit harsh. - Fine, let's make it interesting.
Fail to get him elected,
your next paying gig will either be Only Fans or binman.
But if you move to the politics desk and get that buffoon in,
I'll make you editor.
I am not staying long.
- This isn't my bag. - Yeah? What is your bag?
Hot twins.
Cool.
Well, okay, I am in, deal.
On one condition.
Them, out there...
it's fine if they know what you're up to,
but they can't know about the editor's job.
Why not?
You tell me.
Because you want them all to think they've got a shot at it.
Bingo!
Well, don't you worry, I won't say a word.
And finally,
for the title I am thinking, Cabbage Couture.
God...
who knew farming and fashion would click like that?
Bravo, Kate!
Now, an announcement.
Emerson is moving to the political desk
to cover the election for the next seven weeks,
so he gets a pass on the pitching.
Okay! And then there were two.
- You first. - Are you sure?
- I insist. - Will one of you get on with it?
- It's a series. - Or a P45.
There's this old man, he was in the nursing home...
- Was? - Died late last night.
- Riveting. - Only...
no one knows who he is.
- They've named him James Doe. - My James Doe.
No ID, no one knows why he came to the town.
So I am thinking over the next several weeks
I'll chase down his real identity,
play detective and write about it.
And when I do find out who he is...
You'll pop out his obit?
This is far more important than some soon forgotten obituary.
The crime desk is free and if you ask me this could be a crime.
- I've already got leads. - You've interviewed him?
Doesn't make much sense,
but I got his last words on paper.
For every second you spoke,
I was never bored.
Now I see why you've got that crazy big following of twinks on TikTok.
Ruby, go and knock it out of the park.
You, you confound me,
I am interested. Talk.
It's...
Well, it's...
It's... Stolen!
- Right in front of you. - Not ready yet.
- Not what I wanna hear. - I need more time.
Her Dad did just die.
He died over a month ago,
I will not use that as an excuse.
Thank Christ for that.
Right, get your ass in gear, yeah?
By deadline, I wanna see a story I can't say no to,
or your resignation letter.
Thanks folks.
Never shit on your own doorstep.
I work with Ruby, I can't kill her...
But God I want to.
And what did that old mumbler tell her in the nursing home?
I could be in danger, it's a smart choice.
No, it's too close, I can't.
But she deserves it.
Don't be reckless, Elvira, I can't. It's too...!
God, I want to!
That Vivienne, she is all business.
You know we needed someone like her around here.
This office needs a shake-up.
So... what kind of person is Elvira?
The kind that should've been hooked up to jump leads years ago.
- And her and Emerson? - Why?!
You're not going after him, are you?
Gross, he's ancient.
I just wanna make sure she's got a shoulder to cry on
when she gets the boot.
Do you think she will?
I was brought here to make ye all feel expendable.
But after reading her work,
which is super shitty,
I've decided to take her job...
and crime.
What?
But I mean she did just lose her dad,
and it was such an awful death.
Please,
I heard the man died happy.
Went out with a face full of pussy.
You're so bad!
Hey Ruby, I am sorry to bother you.
But I am the union rep and...
I don't believe in unions,
it's communism for skangers.
No dues due, I just need you to fill out some forms,
personal details, name and address and that.
- Your form. - Come on, Ruby!
See you in the morning.
See ya!
_
Time to grieve.
_
- _ - One clown down,
six to go.
_
I've never launched a political campaign,
so I'll keep this simple.
Like yourself!
Listen!
A vote for Tom Quigley means a vote for you!
Seriously though, transport will be a key issue.
So give me your number one and every train
that leaves town will run on time,
I can promise you that!
Sounds like he wants people to leave town.
Sounds like you want people to leave Kilraven!
Yeah. Don't like that at all!
Alright, well, listen. listen!
Go on, what do you want?
What I want...
what I want...
is to buy everyone here a drink!
Does that include shorts?
Back at The Gold Rush, abuse yourselves!
There's one for you as well, Father!
Open bar.
Yeah, which he's paying for.
Give me your number one.
- Thanks, thanks, thanks. - He's your opponent!
It wouldn't look right, Patsy.
It's free drink, which is my favourite kind of drink.
Good luck.
First things first,
let's see where Just Ruby lives.
Well, Daddy certainly provides.
Where are you off to?
Wine and a bath?
Basic bitch!
_
- Like clockwork! - _
- Same bathtime every night.
I can work with that.
And I can work with that too.
Maybe killing is how I grieve.
Instead of tears, dead bodies are how I show sorrow.
Ruby's heart won't know what hit it.
Showtime.
This isn't the routine!
What have you heard?
What the hell?
You need to get out of there!
Run!
Move!
Go! Move! I said, now!
No. No, no, no, no!
No, start you bastard!
We're sorry,
you have reached a number that has been disconnected
or no longer is in service.
_
Sweeping for prints now.
Get it down to the lab,
see what we can come up with.
Hang on, is that Elvira Clancy's car?
I am about to become the chief suspect in a murder case
and I didn't even do this one.
You're taking this hard.
She had her whole life in front of her.
Okay,
I've got to take control of this story.
- What? - I don't know whether to fire you or fuck you.
Well, hear me out first!
I want Ruby's murder, the story.
- Well, doesn't that mean... - Taking over the crime desk
while Emerson is on politics.
Definitely swinging towards fuckin ya.
Ruby and me,
we'd become close,
so it's personal.
And personal stories have always connected us to our readers.
60 grand a year,
maybe mileage.
- For taking over crime? - For taking over as editor!
You... you want me to run the paper?
But you only get the job
if you solve Ruby's murder before the cops do.
Don't, you're fired.
Plus you can't tell a soul about this.
Do, also fired.
Can I still write obituaries?
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