MEMBERS of Wokingham Writers’ Group were recently tasked with a challenge of creating a short story based on the theme of city break.
The winning entries were judhed by author Amanda Jennings, who has written a number of books including Sworn Secret, In Her Wake, The Cliff House, and The Haven.
Here we present one of the runners-up.
Wokingham Writers Group meet on the third Saturday of the month from 10am to noon at Wokingham Library. Membership is free and for everyone, be they a novice or experienced writer.
For more details, email chairman Keith Sheppard on: [email protected], or call Heather Dyson at Wokingham Library: 0118 978 1368.
Curiosity is a devious, uncontrollable companion.
It was an ordinary drawer in an ordinary sideboard. Dusty, a few paperclips scattered about, an elastic band and the stub of a pencil. The mustiness of old paper. A grubby-fingered, sticky handle. I sighed. A so-called bijou property that was a shadow of the smart week in London I’d planned. The owner, Alice, had left hastily once I’d arrived. Before I discovered too much.
I pulled the drawer out completely. At the back was a newspaper cutting and some letters tied up with string. I flicked through them. All addressed to Alice in faded writing.
‘There’re a few things in the cupboards,’ she’d said. ‘Easier to leave opened packets and bottles. Help yourself to anything you want.’
So did ‘anything’ include the letters? Could I help myself?
This evil escort, curiosity.
I unpacked without focus. If she wanted the letters, she’d have removed them. Wouldn’t she?
Leave them where they are.
I was embarrassed at the intimacy of the first letter. After several sentences, I replaced it. I didn’t know I was a peeping-tom.
Shame is an ephemeral fellow. I read the whole thing the next day and experienced strange satisfaction, as if reviewing a document for publication. Job done.
The second letter mirrored the first. Boredom soon kicked in. Sexiness on repeat; the messy privacy of her relationship with Alan.
Leave them alone.
The third letter looked different and halted me. Same handwriting, untidier, rushed, a much later postmark. The paper looked worn and had been refolded in various ways, in and out of the creased envelope, failed origami. What needed to be read so many times?
‘I know you’re aware what happened when Mum died. I suggest you keep your mouth shut. There could be consequences.’
I could almost feel Alice’s damp fingers touching the words, smoothing the page where she’d crumpled it; her gasp was mine. There were no endearments, no erotic suggestions, no kisses.
I trembled as I opened the last letter. A single sheet of paper.
‘If you go to the police, it will end your career. I know more about your past than you realise. Embezzlement does not sit well on an accountant’s CV.’
I ran my hands through my hair, tangled with sweat, crowning unwanted knowledge. I’d found my own punishment.
I went to the theatre that evening and tried to concentrate on the play. The following day, I had coffee with an old friend, a successful lawyer. My discovery hovered on my lips but remained there. She was both the right and the wrong person to tell. My break from work was breaking me.
As I replaced the letters and tied them up with the string, I pulled out the newspaper cutting. It reported Alan Bishop’s prison sentence for assisting his mother’s suicide. His partner, Alice, had testified against him.
Seems she got away with her crimes; I had the guilty conscience.
Curiosity, Shame and Knowledge locked together in that drawer. Evil companions.
