INT. SCROOGE’S CHAMBERS - BEDROOM - NIGHT
A low fire. A saucepan of gruel on the hob. EBENEZER SCROOGE (60s), in dressing gown and nightcap, sits close to the grate, spoon halfway to his mouth.
Far below, something heavy drags across the cellar floor. Then up the stairs. Then straight toward his door.
The door stays shut. JACOB MARLEY (60s, dead seven years) comes through it, a bandage tied round his jaw.
A long chain winds about his middle: cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds and purses wrought in steel.
SCROOGE
You’re fettered. Tell me why.
MARLEY
I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link.
Scrooge looks down at his own waist. Nothing there. He pats the dressing gown anyway.
