The first paragraph is a status I posted online that someone said sounded like the start of a story. Here is that story.
Because of improv, the
first thing a stranger asked me today was ‘didn’t I see you get murdered in the
woods?’. At least I HOPE that was
because of improv.
I laugh (too loudly)
and pretend to read my paper when in reality I was trying to figure out how
long until the bus' next stop.
‘No, seriously’, the
randomer insists, ‘were you near Gunner’s Wood last night?’
I faux-casually look
up as if noticing her for the first time. ‘Me? No… Stayed home. Bake Off night.’
The bus pulls in. Finally. I leap up, then turn back as I
walk off. ‘Sorry!’
*
After my show that
evening, keen to avoid the risk of bumping into her again, I book a taxi to take
me home.
As we take a series of
seemingly endless country roads, I can’t help but worry if the woman had in
fact witnessed a murder (if not actually my own). Eventually I decide I have to
find out for myself.
‘Could we, er, divert
via Gunner’s Wood?’
My driver nods,
silently spins the wheel, and flicks on his indicators.
Am I really doing
this? Should I be doing this? Let’s
do this.
‘Stop here, please.’
We have reached the
start of the woods. I get out. ‘Keep the meter running. I’ll only be a minute.’
I rush in searching
for freshly turned over soil, dark stains, scraps of cloth. If something had
happened here, there had to be an obvious sign.
After spotting
nothing, I realise I’m paranoid. This is nonsense. Of course there was nothing.
The woman must have seen me in a gig. Either that or she’s a rambling bumpkin
who’s had one too many –
Hang on. Is that a
finger poking out the ground? I bend down to examine it.
The crunch of leaves
behind me suggests I’m not alone. I look. It’s my driver.
‘It’s fine, I’m coming
back. You’ll get your money.’
‘Oh, I’m not too
worried about that, sir. I was more thinking about who you’re going to tell
about finding my ex-wife.’
‘Your… Oh, I’m
terribly sorry. How did she –’
‘Painfully and slowly.
Just how I wanted.’ He grins, revealing two rows of sharp teeth. I know now I
should have stayed in the car.
I stand, put my hands up. ‘I’ll tell no one, I
swear.’
‘You’re damn right you
won’t…’ He draws out a long knife.
As he advances towards
me, over his shoulder, I see a bus drive by. And, if I’m not mistaken, looking
through one of the windows, is an old woman simply mouthing the word ‘sorry’.
