Exit Stage Left

Renowned theatre director Toby Armitage arrived at the play-house just before nine o’clock in the morning. He was handed a cup of coffee and shown through to the auditorium. He removed his silk scarf and found a seat in the middle of the aisle, a few rows back from the front. They would be auditioning all day, with a morning session, a break for lunch, and then right the way through the afternoon until they were done. 

Toby and his team were auditioning actors for parts in his new play. The play was the thrilling story of an escaped prisoner attempting to evade capture in a leafy countryside village. Toby and the staff had a lot of people to see and a lot to get through. 

The first actor of the morning session treaded into the middle of the stage. He launched into his lines with gusto. The actor wasn’t bad but a little hammy, a bit over the top. Toby was making a high-end theatre production not some low-budget television movie. The actor reached the end of his dialogue.

‘And… scene.’ Toby called out, scene being the theatre term, like a film director calling cut. 

The actor nodded, thanked Toby for his time, and hurried from the stage.

‘Next!’ Toby hollered. 

A pale man in his early twenties stepped nervously out on to the stage. Toby checked his notes.

‘Jim Hopkins, yes? Auditioning for the part of the prisoner?’ Toby asked.

Jim nodded, fidgeting with the cuff of his denim jacket.

‘Go on then. Let’s see what you’ve got.’ Toby waved a hand for him to begin.

Jim cleared his throat and turned over the page on his copy of the script.

He had barely started speaking when he lost his place on the page, fluffing his lines and tripping over the dialogue. He stopped reciting the text and shrugged in apology. Toby tutted, his glare fixed on the aspiring actor, like a headmaster studying an unruly pupil.

‘Can I go again?’ Jim asked.

‘No, sorry, no. We don’t have the time. Get off my stage!’ Toby said.

‘But I really want this part.’ Jim insisted.

‘Look, Mr-,’ Toby checked the actor’s name again on his notes, ‘Hopkins, you are not what we are looking for.’

‘But-’

‘If you want the truth, young man, I found your performance totally forgettable and rather unconvincing.’ Toby said.

Jim went to protest, to insist on having another chance, that he could do better, but the director waved his papers, motioning for him to exit stage left.

‘Look, I need this part.’ Jim said. 

‘Next!’

The next aspiring actor, hovering in the wings, stepped out onto the stage. Picking up on Jim’s reluctance to leave, two members of the theatre staff approached and ushered for Jim to remove himself from the stage, or they would remove him by force.

Jim jabbed an angry finger at the director.

‘You will regret this! You will rue the day!’ Jim yelled, eyes wide, his face red with anger. 

Breathing hard, Jim shook his head in disgust and marched from the stage.

‘Shocking behaviour.’ Toby said in a booming voice, to nobody in particular, before turning his attention to the next person auditioning.

Toby was having a break for lunch in a bistro around the corner from the theatre. Light classical music played, mixing with the sound of cutlery and the chatter of the diners. He looked up from the menu and removed his reading glasses. 

‘I’ll have the Dunham Massey venison carpaccio to start and the partridge foie gras for my main.’

He handed the menu back to the waiter with an air that said they were dismissed. He sipped his Caramel macchiato coffee and let his gaze wander. He watched the bustle of the city-centre street outside the large window. 

A figure crossed the road, wandering out into the still-moving traffic. Passing cars blasted their horns as the pedestrian crossed, heading in the direction of the bistro. Toby recognised him. It was the rude young man who had auditioned earlier. He walked towards the large window of the restaurant, eyes locked on Toby. As Toby looked on, Jim marched right up to the glass and then simply stood there. 

There was something so disturbing about the way he was just standing on the other side of the glass, staring at him. It would have been less unsettling if the man had been banging on window demanding another chance. But the young actor simply stood there.

Toby was about to call out, to instruct a waiter to have the nuisance moved on, when Jim raised a hand. Toby watched transfixed, as Jim held something out, arms-length in front of him. The early-afternoon sunlight glinted off the knife in Jim’s hand.

A knife! Toby let out a moan, and grabbed the arm of a passing waiter.

‘Excuse me, can you call the police?’

‘What is the problem, sir?’ She asked, concern on her face.

‘There’s a man at the window, look!’ He pointed.

The waiter turned to the window, watched the people passing by. 

‘Which person in particular seems to be the problem?’ She asked.

Toby turned to the window, about to point out Jim and the knife he was wielding. He paused. The man was gone. There was no sinister knife-waving man at the window. Nobody loitered outside apart from a couple waiting on the kerb for the lights to change. 

‘Don’t worry about it, love.’ He said.

Maybe Toby had been seeing things. Maybe the actor had passed by the window, and maybe even made a rude gesture in his direction. In his over-active imagination, that had turned him into a crazed knife-man. He had been working hard recently. He ordered a coffee to-go, and headed for the exit. Time to head back to the theatre. No rest for the wicked.

That evening, as he headed home, he was looking forward to curling up on the sofa, with his wife Sheila and a drop of whiskey. He had recorded a documentary about a famous 1960s playwright. They could watch that over a few drinks.

As he headed up the large driveway, the car headlights swept over the front door of the house. He sensed there was something wrong straight away. The front door was wide open. That was strange. It looked sinister somehow. You didn’t leave your front door open like that, wide open, nobody around. He switched his engine off and hurried across the gravel driveway. 

He called out his wife’s name, as he rushed through the door. He poked his head in the living room, then the dining room. No sign of Sheila. Panic gripped him. He rushed through to the kitchen.

When he reached the kitchen he screamed. Sheila was lying face down on the floor, her white cardigan covered in blood. Blood seeped across the floor tiles from the wound in her neck. Jim was standing over his wife’s body, the knife still in his hand. 

 ‘What have you done? What have you done?’ Toby called out, his voice an agonised howl.

Jim didn’t move, he remained still over his victim.

As Toby dropped to his knees beside his wife, sobbing with tears, Jim tossed the murder weapon, sending it clattering into the kitchen sink.

‘And… scene.’ Jim said calmly.

Toby looked on in shock as his wife suddenly got to her feet, reaching for a tea-towel to wipe the fake stage-blood from her neck.

‘I-I I don’t understand.’ Toby said, pulling himself upright on the kitchen worktop.

His wife waved the tea-towel in Jim’s direction.

‘Jim called by earlier, and explained that he would be finishing his audition here, and would I be able to help him with the piece.’ She turned to Jim. ‘How was that, Jim?’ She said.

‘Very convincing.’ Jim said.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom