A Twist in the Plot

This is another entry for the Crime & Punishment 2024 Story Event- -- thanks to soflabbwlvr for organising the comp. Just a trigger warning - the story does contain reference to past domestic abuse suffered by one of the characters.

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The rehearsal had gone badly. For some reason, everybody was a bit on edge, and we were sniping at each other instead of being supportive. We were normally so close to each other. I was probably the grumpiest, and I have to admit that I wasn't being very professional about keeping my temper in check. I could see the others were feeding off that, and I needed to get a handle on it.

Not that we were professionals, of course. This was strictly amateur theatre: five of us in a dusty old hall in a mid-sized country town, trying to work up some entertainment for our community and to keep our little group going.

The rain outside wasn't helping either. God knows we had needed rain, after months of steadily worsening drought, so when it had started a few days ago, we were just about dancing in the streets. But it hadn't stopped, and the rejoicing had slowly started to edge into fears of mould ruining the grain, and of the town being cut off again as the rivers around us rose. So really, our mood was understandable.

Also, the script sucked, which was particularly a problem for me because I had written it. What looked sparkling on the page sounded wooden, insincere and hollow on stage. The others had been too polite to say so yet, but it wouldn't be long.

I needed to be the one to call it.

"I'm sorry, guys," I said. "I think we should stop for now. The script needs more work, and clearly none of us are in the mood to try and polish a turd."

They all looked relieved, and Susie, the youngest of us at around 25, said wryly, "Glad you said it, David, because I'm much too refined to use such language."

"Bullshit, Susie," I shot back at her with a grin, and the mood visibly relaxed.

We were a mixed group with varied experience. Susie had just joined us recently. She was a bubbly brunette, lightly freckled, brown eyes, and dressed invariably in practical jeans, boots, and a checked shirt. She was living with her aging parents at a farm just outside town, helping them with the jobs and learning the running of the farm after coming back to the area from her rural science degree. Tuesdays was her night off, and she said she'd rather spend it 'practising culture' rather than out with her old friends. I felt bad that we hadn't been giving her much inspirational material tonight.

"It's not that bad, David," chimed in Heather, kindly. "It just needs a bit more work." Heather was always like that: looking to soothe egos and calm troubled waters while moving the conversation along. I wondered if that was a technique that she had to practice a little too much at home. Heather's husband had a reputation for being too handy with his fists, and there had been more than one occasion where she had been unexpectedly unable to come to rehearsal for our previous plays. She never said anything, but word got around in a small town, particularly if the nurses at our little hospital got involved. Heather's husband had been out of town for a while working remotely, as work had been drying up for him locally. And Heather had been looking better for it. The lines on her face had eased, she smiled more readily, and she had recently been putting in some effort with her appearance, refreshing her hair in a blonde bob, and treating herself to some new dresses that revealed just a little more than usual. I knew that she had also been given more responsibility at her work, at the sole remaining bank in the town, so I guessed that she had probably treated herself a little with the pay-rise.

Keith, never one to hold back with an opinion, decided to stir things up again. "Sorry Heather, sorry David, but I think it stinks. It's an ok English drawing room comedy but we're not in England. It's just not going to work here." Keith, in his late thirties and the oldest amongst us, tended to be a little supercilious sometimes in ensuring that he got his way. He was one of the few lawyers in town, and he didn't mind reminding people of it.

"So let's go to England to stage it," said Rosie with a light laugh.

"Sorry, those cows aren't going to milk themselves," replied Susie, exaggerating her country drawl.

Rosie turned to me. "So how do you wish to proceed, David?" she enquired, putting on a formal and very English voice.

Ah, Rosie. Rosie, a blue-eyed, smiling redhead, was about my age, in her early thirties, and she occupied way too many of my dreams and not enough of my reality. I had been trying to build up the courage to ask her out for months now, following her break-up with a previous boyfriend. I had quite stupidly, fantasised about this play bringing us closer, and had written some of the scenes with that in mind. But now the play was in ruins.

"I don't know, Rosie," I said, dejected. "Let's take a break downstairs and then talk about it."

We trooped down from the chilly, empty theatre to the rooms below, which were surprisingly nice for a town theatre this size. The 'green room', actually with cream walls and blue leather couches, was nice and cosy, and was serviced by a modern kitchen, thanks to a government arts grant a few years ago. At the far end of the room was an extensive area of racks of old costumes and clothing from decades of past productions. Nobody could ever bear to throw any of it out, and occasionally various items were pulled out and repurposed for a new production. There were also one usable dressing room. The other one was piled high with old theatre rubbish. Like most artsy people, we just all changed together and tried not to stare.

I started to put the kettle on for tea, but Keith stopped me. "Wine and cheese, m'boy," he said. "Wine and cheese for the sad playwright tonight." He dramatically pulled out a bottle of Hunter Valley Shiraz from his bag, and handed it to me to open while he bustled around the kitchen organising a cheese board. Keith was alright, really. I dug out five glasses in good condition, and pretty soon we were sitting happily around on the couches chatting.

It was Susie who came up with the idea. "Why don't we spend the rest of tonight improvising? Let's just have some fun, and maybe we will get some ideas from it. I don't think that this town is crying out for a drawing room comedy right now, but they do need entertaining eventually."

"Sounds good!" said Keith from over in the kitchen, where he was opening a second bottle of wine.

"What we would improvise?" asked Heather, doubtfully.

"

I

don't know!" laughed Susie back at her. "I'm the junior here, I expect you all to know what you're doing!"

Rosie got up, wine in hand, and wandered to the back of the room, thoughtfully running her hands over the costume racks, and pulling some dresses out to look at.

"Well," she said. "How about we each choose a costume we like? That will help us get out of our own heads a bit. I don't think it matters if the costumes are not compatible with each other: I'm happy to be a dashing 17th century pirate being seduced by a 20th century milkman.

"Bags the milkman costume!" Keith shouted across the room, before I could manage my own witty intervention.

"I don't think there's a milkman costume, sorry" said Heather, as she joined Rosie at the racks, with Susie, Keith and I all following to have a good look at what was available. After a minute, Heather turned to me with a quiet smile, and said "David! I think this bear costume might fit you!" She handed me a musty-smelling brown bear costume, with a large, shaggy head. I wouldn't be able to see a thing inside that, and I'd be overheating pretty quickly. Also, I wasn't really all that keen to have such a decrepit, unsexy costume in front of three attractive women, leaving Keith the field. Looking at Heather, I could see that she was trying a hide a grin as she watched me squirm. Perhaps she had an evil side that was starting to emerge.

"Heather, I love you more than life itself, but I am not wearing that bear suit," I said with an exaggerated look of horror, and started pulling out other costumes to look at.

We each eventually settled on something that we liked and that more or less fit us, and started to gather on the couches to wait for Heather, who was still getting herself together after zipping back home for what she described as some 'intimates'. Rosie did indeed find a pirate costume of sorts, which looked like it was a leftover from an old production of Pirates of Penzance. With a black bandana tied around her red hair, a skimpy red skirt over black tights, and a black leather waistcoat over a white blouse, she was a striking sight, particularly when she buckled on a realistic-looking cutlass.

Susie hadn't strayed too far from her regular profession, but she was hamming it up as a gun-toting cowgirl, oversized hat, elaborate black boots instead of her normal practical ones, and a flowing white dress that she wouldn't normally have been seen dead in. She'd found a realistic looking rifle to perfect the look. In fact... looking more closely, I suspected it was her actual rifle, as she'd also popped out to her car while we were deciding our costumes. Somebody had to ask the question.

"That's not loaded, is it, Susie? Sorry to ask."

"That's fine, David, and no.". She pointed it down, broke it open and showed me.

"So are you a jillaroo or ranch hand, or what?," asked Keith?

"I'm a jillaroo, from a Northern Territory station twice the size of the biggest ranch in Texas!," she announced proudly.

"What are you, Keith?" I asked curiously. He was in a dapper suit, polished shoes, and waistcoat, and he had gone to the trouble of gumming on an elaborate moustache.

"I am ze famous private investigator," he replied, putting on a pretty poor imitation of a Hercule Poirot-style Belgian accent. We were pushing the limits of theatrical talent here, but whatever.

"Let me guess, David," said Susie, looking at me. "Male stripper?"

I laughed. "Adventurer!" I was going for an Indiana Jones type look, with outdoorsy clothes, a fedora, and a coiled whip at my side, which looked like it probably come from a Sydney sex shop rather than anywhere else, and hence Susie's comment. At least the costume let me show off a relatively buff body compared to Keith's.

"We'll work on that," said Rosie, puncturing my tyres.

Just then, Heather came out of the changeroom, and we all gasped. She was stunning, in a green 1920s style flapper dress, set off with a feather headband around her blonde bob, and white, lightly patterned stockings above sequined green shoes. She was the epitome of a fantasy date at a lively but fashionable dance.

"I love it Heather," said Rosie in admiration. "Nice touch to go for the white stockings rather than the black fishnets, too: much classier than the showgirl look.".

"Thank you," said Heather simply, but she was smiling broadly, and I could tell that she wasn't used to getting such warm praise.

"You can always swap to the fishnets if you want to spice it up," threw in Susie.

Heather blushed, but then seemed to remember that she was with friends, and threw back a saucy retort. "Let's see your sexy cowgirl costume instead of that silly dress, and you're on, Susie."

Susie just smiled, and stood up to whisper something in Heather's ear. Heather's eyes widened, and her blush deepened a little, but whatever it was, she kept it to herself. Things were getting more interesting here, and we hadn't even started our activity.

Speaking of which... "Folks, we should normally be going home now," I said, "but we're just getting started. Happy to stay later?" They all agreed.

We trooped back up to the stage.

"Okay, now what?" said Rosie.

I'd been thinking, and managed to jump in before Keith this time. "Here's what I'd like to try. Three of us on stage at a time. Two down in the stalls as co-directors, taking it in turns to throw us parts of a developing scenario for us to improvise to while staying in character. For every turn, one person on the stage can, if they choose to, call out 'swap!', and swap with somebody one of the co-directors. That way, we'll keep things moving, and also if somebody starts being an arsehole with terrible scenarios, then they might find themselves acting it out."

I had instant, enthusiastic agreement, and even Keith looked impressed.

"David, you can start as a co-director," said Rosie, "and I'll join you."

We set it up. On stage, we put a chair, a bed-settee, a solid wooden hatstand (nobody could articulate why, but it just seemed to fit there), and a small table with three glasses and the rest of the second bottle of wine on it.

Rosie and I settled down in the stalls. We had a jillaroo/cowgirl, a detective, and a 1920s flapper on stage to work with. Interesting.... but my mind was blank.

"I know! Mind if I start?" asked Rosie.

"Go for it!"

She called out to the ensemble on stage. "It's a small country town, and the annual Country Women's Association dance is happening. A solitary traveller, a middle-aged male with a dumb accent but an interesting moustache, just happens to be in town. On a whim, he buys a ticket to the dance. Entering alone in his suit and moustache, he sees lots of happy couples dancing, but there are two women, both beautiful but dressed very differently, standing near each other, talking awkwardly. He approaches them. Over to you."

To kick us off, that wasn't too bad at all. Everybody was being asked to play in their comfort zones, and the scenario wasn't too ridiculous. We both settled back to see what they would do with it.

They took it in their stride. Heather quickly filled two glasses with wine and gave one to Susie.

"So.... Susan...." Heather started, in a posh voice. Whoops -- we hadn't thought about character names, but never mind. "I understand that you're here for the stockyard sales this week?"

"Bloody oath!...I mean... Yes... Heather". Susie didn't need to do much acting to play the part of somebody awkward in high society.

They hit their groove quickly, warming into a hilarious conversation of two strangers with nothing in common trying to connect socially. Susie kept hamming up the country girl angle, and also trying to puncture Heather's social pretensions with suggestive remarks about how raunchy life on the station was. Just after she had warmly invited Heather to 'come up to the station for a ride on a real stallion', Keith made his approach, stumbling around the conversation with his terrible accent as he tried to work out how to invite one of the women to dance without causing offence.

Rosie gave me a nudge, and I agreed. I put them out of their misery with the next development.

"Suddenly, a loud scream came from the kitchen attached to the town hall. Our three heroes rushed to the door to see what it was, followed by the rest of the guests. On the floor was the Lord Mayor, dressed in crimson robes. His eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, and a pool of blood was spreading from a serrated kitchen knife protruding from his throat. Proceed."

As expected, Keith was in his element. He leapt forward, pretending to examine an imaginary body on the floor, then turning to the other two to make a dramatic announcement. "This... zet is not natural. Zis is.... Murder most foul!!!"

He stood, flushed, his arm gesturing over the room as he continued. "And zit must have been committed by... zumbody here at this dance!!" He paused, presumably waiting for us all to gasp.

The spell was broken by a loud intervention from Susie. "No shit, Sherlock!"

We collapsed in laughter. Things were off to a good start.

The scene moved along pretty quickly from there. Keith took command of the case, the regular police being mysteriously absent. After Susie and Heather gave their alibis, they progressively swapped themselves offstage so that Rosie and I could have a turn, while Susie and Heather directed.

Unfortunately, things went badly for my character in the investigation. The rest of them ganged up on me, and pretty soon I found myself in front of a judge (Heather, looking stern and regal with a black robe thrown over her flapper dress), while Keith (now playing a prosecutor with a terrible Belgian accent) laid out the case for my dreadful murder of the Lord Mayor, for motives unknown.

"Your Honour, 'e iz guilty by virtue of ze fact that ze four other suspects are not!" explained Keith. If the fake accent persisted much longer, I'd be asking Susie to borrow her gun and some real ammunition.

Judge Heather was no use to me at all. She nodded gravely, turned to me and said, "The Prosecutor's logic is unassailable, even if his delivery is poor. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Your Honour! I had no motive! I didn't even know the guy!" I exclaimed.

She considered that. "That may be true, and in fact the rest of us in this town hated him, so it speaks well of your character that you were willing to kill him without reward. This town is grateful to you for your service. Accordingly, I will not sentence you to death. Nevertheless, the law must be upheld."

"The law is an ass, Your Honour, particularly in this production."

"That may be true, but it is not on trial here. You are," she pronounced in ringing tones. Heather was really getting into this role play stuff. "I therefore sentence you to... transportation to the almost uninhabited country of England, for the rest of your natural life."

There was laughter from Rosie and Susie as the co-directors, and even I had to smile. Susie decided to have a bit more fun, and called out a new direction. "Judge Heather also decides to punish the Prosecutor for his terrible impression of a Belgian."

Keith shouted an objection, but Heather went with it. "Very well. The Court also decides that the Prosecutor will be transported to England, there to meditate on his vocal crimes until he shows sufficient remorse." And in a further sign of her loosening up, she added with an evil grin. "No rum for Keith, but perhaps some sodomy and the lash during the trip will help to focus his mind."

I was pretty sure that she was joking, but Keith sat bolt upright and immediately called out, "Swap! Susie will swap with me."

Smiling, she complied, coming up onto stage and sitting next to me on the settee, which was now pretending to be a bench in the hold of a convict ship transporting us to England from Australia.

Judge Heather wasn't done yet though. I had never seen her tipsy before, so perhaps it was the wine talking, but I think she was also enjoying her pantomime power trip after years of playing the good wife at home. She decided to up things up several notches.

"Convicts!" she called out. "You should not be sitting comfortably! This is not a luxury cruise. Knees on the floor, lying over the settee, arses facing up so that the wardens can take their pleasure!"

Susie and I both gave nervous jolts at this, and looked at each other. Susie had just been swapped in and Heather was simply continuing the previous scene, so by the rules we had set, it was tricky to both protest without spoiling the flow of the game. And we still had our clothes on, right? So I gave a careful nod to Susie, and she nodded back, and we meekly got into the positions described.

And then Keith, sitting smugly in the co-director's chair, sprang the Trap.

"Heather, swap with Rosie." His voice swelled into the sonorous tones of an English documentary narrator. "As the convict transport ship approached southwestern England, it was suddenly attacked by the dread Pirates of Penzance, and our convicts found themselves, alone and afraid for their lives, in the possession of Rosemary, the notorious Pirate Queen with her fabled and depraved sexual appetites." He thought for a second, and then added. "Who noticed that the male convict still had in his possession an interesting-looking whip."