By Kate Twitchin
a large brandy
“It
is you, isn’t it?”
“Damn, I thought
these dark glasses and this hideous hat were a good disguise.”
“I’d
know you anywhere, Angela…”
“Keep
your voice down.”
“I don’t understand. I saw him bury you.”
“The most terrifying three hours of my
life, I can tell you. Edgar Allen Poe didn’t know the half of it.”
“Three hours?”
“I told him two hours, max. Typical of
him to lose track of time.”
“You’re saying he buried you alive?”
“Obviously.”
“But…”
“Wait a sec, how come you saw him bury
me?”
“What?”
“It was dark, it was a secret, and it was
a good way off the forest track.”
“Why?”
“We could hardly do it in my back garden
with nosy old Mrs. Perkins next door.”
“I mean, why did he bury you alive?”
“Sales, darling, sales. I thought if I
mysteriously disappeared for a bit…”
“Christ! Couldn’t you have checked into a spa Hotel in
Harrogate under an assumed name?”
“That was my first idea, of course, but
then I thought, I can kill two birds with one stone here.”
“Two birds?”
“Research, darling, research. For my next
novel. I’m going down the Romantic Gothic Horror route.”
“You let him bury you alive for research?”
“I know, genius isn’t it?”
“Completely mental is what it is.”
“Hang on. You didn’t answer my question. How come you saw
him bury me?”
“Let’s just say, you’re not the only one
doing research.”
“What? He’s got some explaining to do.
Have you got your car?”
“Tesco’s car park.”
“OK. Meet me at mine."
With
that, Angela Goodbody put her head down and scuttled off in the direction of
the Long Stay Car Park.
As
I made my way through the crowds of Saturday shoppers, I pulled out my phone
and called Toby.
“Sarah?”
“I just saw our mutual friend. Alive.”
“What?”
“She told me everything.”
“Everything?”
“You buried her alive, for Christ’s
sake.”
“Don’t
talk rubbish. She’s
dead. You were there.
You saw me bury her.”
“Not quite. I was keeping lookout by the
car, remember?”
“But you saw me dig the grave, saw the
coffin I made out of…”
“Lengths of timber left over from my
decking, yes, yes, I saw all that but I didn’t see you physically bury her. All I saw
was you disappearing into the woods, dragging her corpse wrapped in an old
carpet.”
“Dead body, old carpet, what’s
the difference? You
saw what you wanted to see.”
“You were supposed to kill her, Toby.
Toby?” He’d rung off, the pillock.
He hadn’t
murdered her. I knew I should be relieved but right then I was confused, angry,
and fearful. Mostly fearful, for my debut novel. Everything about that night:
the owls screeching and foxes barking as blue-black clouds scudded across the
moon; the smell of leaf mould underfoot and the distant, muffled sound of Toby’s
shovel as he filled in the grave. It was all there, in my opening chapter.
The
police procedural bits were coming along nicely too, thanks to the invaluable
experience of being questioned by a very hostile police officer in a grim
interview room. Being caught up in a media frenzy was an eye-opener as well.
When did I last see my client, one-time popular novelist Angela Goodbody? Is
she dead or alive? In light of her recent flops, can suicide be ruled out?
Relentless speculation, but it was worth it. As her agent of two decades, I was
enjoying seeing sales of her tedious books soar and my percentage of the cash
rolling in, minus what I’d agreed to pay Toby. But what about my book? I needed
the constant dread of being found out, the stress of all the lies, being the
prime suspect of foul play, to make my novel real. How many crime writers truly
know how it feels to have killed someone…or at least aided and abetted in a
real murder?
As
I pulled up outside Angela’s cottage, it was Toby who yanked open
the front door.
“Get
in, quick!”
“Bloody hell, Toby, what’s
going on?”
“I can explain.”
“She’s still alive, damn it.”
“You didn’t seriously think I was going to kill
her, did you?”
“It’s what we agreed, for my book.”
“You’re nuts,” he was saying as, behind him, the
door to Angela's study opened and there she was, smiling, and very full of
life.
“Talking of nutters,” Toby muttered.
“Sarah, lovely to see you again. Sorry I
had to dash off but if you could recognise me then so might others. I want to
stay disappeared for a bit longer, I mean, have you seen what it’s
done for my sales?”
“Enough to buy a bigger hat?”
“Going shopping was a bit reckless but I
was going stir-crazy.”
“Angela, I…”
“How’s your book coming along?”
“You know about that?”
“Toby just told me. I’m
dying to read it, no pun intended. Anyway, now you’re here, pop your literary agent’s
hat on and have a read of my prologue.”
She
led me to her desk where a document was open on the computer screen.
Working title: A Trial Inhumation.
I
began to read…
My head is throbbing; my whole body aches and I’m very, very cold, and thirsty, so thirsty.
I’ve never known such utter darkness and the only sound is my blood pounding in
my ears. I try to sit up but my forehead whacks against something hard. I start
to bend my knees but they hit the same hard surface. Where am I? Have I been
asleep, or unconscious? I feel panic rising as I search for clues. My breath is
ragged, my heart racing, as I explore the space around me. There are only a
couple of inches between me and the walls of my…my…coffin. I’m in a coffin. I’m in a coffin. I can’t breathe. I’m in a coffin. I’m in a coffin. I’m screaming, yelling, hammering on the
sides...
