Carruthers' Demise (standard:drama, 2710 words) [1/24] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Updated: Jan 23 2014	Views/Reads: 3940/2360	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. 



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