Frayed

I heard you were never coming back.

You were living in London, married to an English guy.

Oh, he's dead.

You officially now have absolutely nothing.

Hello, Mum.

We have an Uncle Jim, apparently.

You fucked off and left me alone.

What a dickhead.

Terry, these are Jean's grandkids from England.

Welcome to Australia.

Put those guns down! Relax. They're not loaded.

No, I have no idea you actually lived here.

Right, 'cause it's so fucking pathetic

someone'd be back living at home with their mum at our age.

Suck shit.

Is it... That's the lighter I gave you.

Ow! I have a seat belt in my butthole.

You have to get that bitch out of there

before she steals everything right out from under your nose.

Are you quitting? I am fucking out of here.

What's Sammy going back to? Who gives a shit?

I know where you were.

Abby, you don't have to go. We know what you do to her.

Abby! Abby! I hate you!

You need to put down that rifle.

Abby!

Tsk. (SIGHS, MUTTERS)

What the hell are you doing? This is my house, you rat!

You stole it.

I told you last time that if you ever came onto my property again,

I would call the police. Call the police.

I'll tell them about how you lied to me and told me I had to sell

everything to cover my dead husband's debt just so you could get

your filthy hands on my house.

Wow, that's a boring story.

I mean, you could tell the police, but I doubt

they'll be able to stay awake because it's such a boring story.

I can barely afford to feed my kids.

This is getting tragic, but not in an interesting way.

Everything I did was legal, Simone.

My name is Sammy.

Yes, of course it is. Simone... Sammy!

Much as I adore to find you in my garden

like some demented Australian gnome, it's time to go.

It's over, Simone. You lost.

Oh-ho-ho. It's only just started, because guess what?

I've been interviewing lawyers.

I'll see you in court.

Nobody will believe you.

Now get off my property.

No. Fine. Time for a restraining order.

Fine. I'm not doing anything wrong.

Last chance. Get off my property. No.

I'll do whatever the fuck I want.

You just kicked my pot plant!

Yeah, I did.

DON'T kick my pot plant!

It's MY pot plant.

I'll take a shit in it if I want to. I'm calling the police.

Oh, you really think the police are going to come around

this posh little fuckin' house to remove me?

Do you have any idea how busy the police are?

I genuinely thought you guys would be super busy.

Why aren't you arresting murderers and paedophiles?

Because we're busy arresting you

for shitting in this gentleman's pot plant.

It's MY pot plant. And that's my house.

He stole my life!

Well, perhaps we should arrest him, too, then.

Stop! It's a house thief!

You'll never catch me.

Bang! Bang! Oh! Eurgh!

Sir, I shot the house thief in the head!

What the fuck is going on?

Right, that's trespassing, intimidation and harassment.

We'll escort her out of the area.

Thanks so much, officers.

I'm so relieved this is over. Thanks for keeping my family safe.

Oh, you've got to be fucking ki...

Sammy Cooper.

So, it's nice to meet you.

I, uh... read your letter.

It was so... long.

Thank you.

I've had a preliminary look at your situation.

This Rufus Fenshaw is a partner at Hawtrey and Whitfield.

Yeah, that's him. Yeah.

They're the biggest firm in London. England. Britain. Western Europe.

Love it. David and Goliath. What?

No... I wouldn't usually say this, but you genuinely have no chance.

But I'm right. Oh, well, if you're right,

then courts will be very interested. Really?

No. You're not going to get your house back or anything back.

These guys are untouchable.

Besides, I'm more about challenging local authorities

over disability payments and helping asylum seekers.

Yeah, but this is important.

Look, I can't afford a lawyer.

I'm simply not earning enough money

working in automotive exhaust management.

I don't think that's a job title.

I used to be someone.

The room I used to store my shoes in was bigger than this office.

What a charming anecdote.

I don't think I can help you.

No, but if I was in a wheelchair or fleeing a civil war,

then you could help. Yes.

Well, that's just political correctness gone mad.

Have a private word with this Rufus.

See if you can come to some sort of agreement.

I can't. He hit me with a restraining order

for being in the driveway.

He can't put a restraining order on you for that.

I was going to take a shit in a pot plant.

I see. It's my pot plant.

I'm sorry, I can't help you.

That's it? The meeting's over?

I have clients waiting, clients in need.

Fine. I get that my case isn't sexy enough.

My pigeon's toes coming off.

But I have been robbed

and nobody has the grit nor the spunk to take on my case.

So if what you do is represent the poor, the needy, the suffering

les miserables who no one else will care about, then I assure you,

I'd fit right in.

Good day.

Oh...

OK, Bo. Now, even though the light has turned green, we are still going

to check both ways, OK, remembering that we're going to be conscientious

and courteous at all times, OK?

Conscientious and courteous at...

Oi! Watch where you're going, you fucking arsehole!

Go fuck yourself, jerk! You idiot!

You cunt! Oi!

Language, please. Sorry.

Let's not forget, Bo, we are both representatives

of my driving institution.

Right, now let's take a right here. Checking wing mirrors, please.

Always keep an eye out for cops.

Come on, Fairbank. You got this.

You got this.

Fuck. Fuck. Shit.

Goddamn it.

Argh!

Fuck!

Damn it.

Oh, for...

Come on!

Ah, Detective Fairbank.

Superintendent. Chief Inspector.

You better have some news for me.

Well, the... the investigation is ongoing.

So... So...

Terry Harris remains a missing person.

A missing person would have turned up by now, Fairbank.

Terry's been gone for nearly six months.

We're getting a lot of heat.

Yeah, I saw Terry's wife's interview with the Tribune.

We brought you in from Melbourne because you have a perfect record.

But so far we've seen nothing.

Alright.

This is not accidental death.

There's no indication that he's going missing voluntarily.

As for suicide...

We're all familiar with Terry's case file.

He had six months paid leave for PTSD.

That's a big red flag.

That incident was eight years ago.

There was no diagnosis of depression.

There was no relapse.

This is not a suicide.

We're going with this conclusion.

Well, it's the wrong conclusion.

I've heard enough.

I want this closed now so we can direct resources

at more urgent matters.

Oh, great. So, what, that's... that's it, is it?

I just have to hand in my gun and my badge?

This is a fucking outrage!

You don't have to hand in your gun and your badge.

Seriously, you don't have to.

You'll need them both in your daily work.

You want my expertise?

There was no suicide note.

He didn't get his affairs in order.

For God's sake, he'd just booked a holiday

to the Toncurry Lakeside Village.

His family deserves the truth, not what's convenient.

Just give me one more week.

Alright, one week. Two weeks.

No, one. One's good.

A week including the bank holiday weekend in that or...? No, it's fine.

It's plenty, actually. Great.

I will find out what happened to Terry Harris.

I won't let you down.

Jesus Christ, Bo!

What have I told you about checking your side mirrors?

You have to check them constantly! What if a cyclist was overtaking us?

Do you understand you could have killed someone?

I'm sorry. I'm sorry, OK?