Click for podcast (first story)
Read by Miranda Harrison
—You’ve left your shoes in the car.
His surprise at the sight of her bare feet amused her.
—Surely you weren’t expecting me to walk in the woods in heels?
—But you could step on something—broken glass or God knows what.
She laughed at his absurd mistrust of the outdoors and slipped away onto the trail. In his three-piece suit and clumsy oxfords, he plodded along after her, on the watch for half-concealed roots that might send him sprawling.
—Over there should be fine.
It was even more humid under the trees than on the trail. Though his shirt was sticking to him, in her yellow sundress she couldn’t have looked crisper—like a lily out for a lark. Warily he inspected the fallen limb for signs of beetles, before lowering himself down beside her.
—Well? Admit it. Wasn’t this a good idea?
In the absence of a breeze, the stillness was unsettling. Not a leaf rustled; not a ripple disturbed the surface of the lake. But for the distant mutter of thunder, they could have been together in a painting.
—You’re lucky I’m not a rapist.
Her laughter—not the least of the reasons why he’d hired her—was so musical that, if there’d been other picnickers in the vicinity, every head would have turned.
—I’m serious. Could a rapist ask for a better spot?
—But you’re not a rapist, so take off your jacket and that ridiculous tie. Chicken or ham?
—Chicken.
Only after they’d finished the bottle of wine she’d brought with the sandwiches did he begin to appreciate her decision to kidnap him from the office. He put his arm around her. She leaned her head on his shoulder. For a moment, they listened to the thunder come closer.
—You know what you feel like?
—No. What do I feel like?
—Home.
She was quick to pounce on this reckless confession.
—You’ll talk to her then? Really?
Though the water was still sparkling below them, on the opposite shore a black cloud had surged up over the treetops. Long tendrils skittish as live wires dangled from it.
—I said I would, and I will. Now come on, unless you’d rather stay here and get hit by lightning.
No sooner had they begun to retrace their steps than the wind kicked up in the leaves. Grit stung their faces; fat drops smacked the duff; thumps shook the ground. He barely had time to push her out of the way before the spooked deer trampled on him.
At the hospital, where nobody saw her deposit him, they determined he had three broken ribs and a ruptured spleen. The cop who came to his bedside to take down the facts didn’t hesitate to admonish him in front of his wife and kids.
—Next time don’t argue with them. Just hand over your wallet.
(c) Stephen Baily, 2018
Stephen Baily has published short fiction in some forty journals. He's also the author of ten plays and three novels, including Markus Klyner, MD, FBI, which is available as a Kindle e-book. He lives in France.
Miranda Harrison: Credits include More Than This (Bread & Roses); Women Redressed (Arcola); The Mesmer (Dirty Dick Vaults). Classics: Nurse, Romeo & Juliet (Leicester Square Theatre); Mother, Blood Wedding (Barons Court). Voiceover work includes BBC Children in Need; charity & corporate narrations; educational audio. Miranda also runs new writing event Page to Stage.
Comments