|Carruthers' Demise (standard:drama, 2710 words) [1/24] show all parts|
|Author: Brian Cross||Updated: Jan 23 2014||Views/Reads: 1832/852||Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Martin Carruthers acts as agent for his wife Chelsey, who is a well-known writer. When the publisher rejects her latest offering his troubles begin.|
Carruthers' Demise Prelude ‘And top marks for this week's essay go to Ian Turner,' the teacher announced in her matter-of-fact voice. Only there was nothing matter-of-fact about it, and the young girl felt her resentment rising as she studied the young boy's face; his smirk burned like hot coals on her cheeks as he turned and gloated at her. She nearly always won the school's creative writing competitions and would have done this time had it not been for the little bastard's prying into her exercise book. ‘He's been cheating, Miss Porter,' the girl objected sourly, an arm snaked towards the boy. ‘Now then, no sour grapes young madam, learn to be gracious in...' ‘Here – you check then...' the girl hurled her book towards the teacher and then clasped her arms tightly around her waist – ‘with this. You'll find out I'm right – he just rearranged my words and changed the ending...' ‘That's nonsense...' But the girl wasn't listening to the teacher as she reached across and wrestled the boy for his book, until Miss Porter's hand thumped down heavily on the desk. ‘Cease this now! I'll have no unruly behaviour in my class. Leave the room; I'll speak to you later.' The young girl did more than leave the room – she left the school buildings and strutted along the street to where a broad alleyway led to the Grand Union Canal. She stood there for several minutes, both hands gripping the railings of the old timber bridge that spanned it, her rage evaporating not one bit. The little runt had crept back to class after school, rifled the teacher's draw for her book and then all but copied her work – he had to have done – there was no other way he could have beaten her. The thought made her shake with anger. She checked her watch; school would be over in ten minutes, old Miss Porter would be expecting her apology. Well she could wait on, she wasn't going back today. She was going to do the waiting – for that brat Ian Turner. She'd have a surprise waiting for him. He'd need to cross the bridge to get to the cul-de-sac that lay beyond the field on the other side. If luck went her way he'd be alone and her little surprise would bear fruit. And luck did go her way. One or two kids passed by unaware of her presence as she stood back in the shade of a large oak, before Turner ambled by, hands in his trouser pockets, that stupid smirk still glued to his face, school bag dangling from his shoulder. Ignorant of her presence... Until her hand wrapped around the strap of his bag and she pulled with all the force of her right arm, swinging him towards her, a look of aggrieved surprise on his podgy face. ‘Let me go you cow...' his eyes became full moons and he swung in desperation trying to fend her off, but the girl's hands were strong and she had the element of surprise. Those hands were now on the lapels of his school blazer and possessed enough power to raise him from the ground as she began to swing him round. Her intention had been to hurl him into the thicket, to teach him a lesson not to mess with her – it would have only been his word against hers – only she couldn't stop – she wasn't going to – her anger increased with every revolution and so it seemed did her strength. It was strange – she was angry and yet she enjoyed her power over him – but it had to end – And so it did, with a splash that created rippling waves that crashed to both banks of the canal after she'd launched him into it. Click here to read the rest of this story (259 more lines)
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