It Was Me by Danny Coleiro

from the Candlewick Stories

It was me. I did it.

I mean, I could hardly deny it, could I? I aimed the gun, I pulled the trigger, I shot Virgil Baker in the heart. And nine hundred people watched me do it and cheered as he fell.

It didn’t start there, though. It didn’t end there either…

***

There are two policemen in the room.

The ‘good cop’ is sitting at the graffiti-scarred table in front of me, leaning forward with his hands clasped together and doing his best to look sympathetic and understanding. I must say he’s quite good at it – the earnestness in his eyes looks as if he really cares. Maybe he does.

The ‘bad cop’, on the other hand, won’t be winning any Oscars in this lifetime. He’s pacing up and down from one corner of the room to the other with a permanent scowl pasted across his face, occasionally swinging round dramatically to glower at me in what I think is meant to be an intimidating fashion. There are two reasons this doesn’t work. For starters, the room we’re in is way too small to pace in, and he keeps bumping into the walls. And secondly, he’s quite small and weedy and looks as if he would have trouble shelling a peanut. He’s about as intimidating as a slightly miffed sheep.

Besides, I’m a professional actor, and I can tell when someone is hamming it up for all he’s worth.

Like now, for instance. He stops pacing, whirls around, stabs a finger at me, and screams,

“We fucking know you fucking did it, you fucking motherfucking fuck!”

See what I mean? Terrible.

“Easy, Biscotti!” says Good Cop, holding up a restraining hand, but Biscotti is on a role and refuses to be silenced until he’s got his lines out.

“Holy Jesus Christ Mother of God!” he explodes, his knowledge of the Bible obviously a bit shaky, to say the least. He suddenly strides towards me and, slamming one hand down onto the table with a bang, whips his gun out of its holster with the other. I raise my arms defensively and cringe back in my chair, a look of fear on my face. I’ve had many a gun pointed at me throughout my career, but never a real one, and I’m terrified that Biscotti might get a tad carried away and accidentally deliberately pull the trigger.

“I’m fucking tired of this fucking crap!” he cries, poking me roughly with the barrel of the gun, “d’you fucking hear me? We fucking know it was fucking you, so fucking just fucking admit it!” He pauses, as if thinking of something else to say, before settling for another “fuck!”

“B… but…” I whimper, eyes screwed shut in terror, and start blubbing like a two year old before I manage to get any further.

“That’s enough! We know he did it. There were nine hundred witnesses” says Good Cop firmly. After a pause, he adds, “I think I’d better talk to him alone”.

“Like fuck you fucking will!” Biscotti prods me with the gun again.

“I mean it, Nigel”.

Nigel?

There’s a short silence.

“Oh, okay then”, sulks Nigel, and slouches out of the room. He tries to slam the door behind him, but it has one of those hydraulic arm thingies that prevent this from happening, and he almost dislocates his shoulder in the attempt. The door softly clicks shut behind him.

Good Cop hands me a handkerchief and I noisily and self-pityingly blow my nose.

“Right”, he says, “perhaps you should tell me again…”

“But I’ve already told you!” I protest half-heartedly. He reaches across the table and pats me encouragingly on the shoulder.

“Just one more time”, he says.

***

It was opening night and we were playing to a full house. The audience had already given us a ten minute standing ovation at the end of the first half, and we were expecting more of the same for the grand finale, when the ultimate twist would be presented, the last piece of the puzzle dropped into place and the mind-blowing truth revealed. A thousand eyes stared up at us in hushed awe as I thrust an accusing finger towards Virgil Baker, and said in a calm and commanding voice,

“It was you, Timothy, who stabbed Beatrice the night of the party!”

The audience, as one, gasped out loud and then quickly shushed each other as Virgil cried, “But I was in Tenerife that night!”

“So you would like us to believe! But what if you came home a day earlier? It would explain why Foofoo didn’t bark when the front door opened, which would in turn explain the half-eaten custard pie in the fridge, the muddy boots in the hallway and the candlestick in your underwear drawer!” I paused, then turned to face Zoe Turner, who was playing Mrs Farquhart, the unfortunate Beatrice’s deaf, dumb and mute stepmother.

“Now you know where your harmonica ended up!” I told her.

The audience gasped again, except for one guy in the front row who went ‘huh?’

Zoe convincingly mimed reading my lips, mouthed the words ‘oh my!’, and then fainted backwards into the awaiting arms of Gregory Manning, who was playing the part of her blind husband.

“Lies!” cried Virgil, “it’s all lies!” And then he pulled out a gun.

And I pulled out mine. And I aimed at his heart, and pulled the trigger.

There was an almighty bang. Virgil grunted and clutched his heart and thumped to the floor, as blood pumped out through his fingers in a very, very realistic way.

And the crowd leapt out of their seats and roared.

***

“And you didn’t realise that the gun had been switched?” says Good Cop.

I shake my head.

“Of course not”, I say, my voice breaking. I swallow, and continue, “we were using a replica. You know, that fires bl… bl… anks. They’re very realistic”. I hang my head and look down at the table, shaking slightly. Someone had scratched ‘Jesus told me to do it’ into the surface of the table. Someone else had added ‘no I bloody didn’t’ underneath.

“Where did you keep the gun? The replica, I mean. When it wasn’t being used”.

I look up at him, eyes red: “I’ve told you. In my locker in the changing room”.



“Did you keep it locked?”

I nod.

“Yes, always. I’m one of the few who do. But, look, I’ve already told you that…”

“Yes, I know. Someone forced it open the day before. You didn’t…” Good Cop looks down at his notes “… find anything missing.”

I nod again, more forcefully this time.

Good Cop sighs, and his chair scrapes back as he stands up.

“I need a cup of coffee. Can I get you one?”

“That would be nice”, I mumble gratefully.

“Be right back”, he says.

***

He’s gone for a while. When he comes back, it’s with a remarkable lack of coffee. Instead, he’s carrying a crowbar and trying to hide the fact that he’s quite excited.

“Seen this before?”

“No”.

He leans over the table and points to the end of the crowbar, where the letters GM have been printed in permanent marker.

“GM?” I say.

“We found it in Gregory Manning’s locker.”

I sit up straight, my eyes wide. “Gregory? But…”

“His fingerprints are all over it. And see here…” Good Cop spins the crowbar around and points to the claw. I peer at it closely. Flakes of dried yellow paint.

“They correspond to the paint on your locker”, Good Cop explains needlessly. He leans forward.

“Any idea why Gregory would want to set you up to kill Virgil?”

“No”, I say firmly, “they were…” And I pause.

“What is it? You’ve just thought of something. Take your time. Try to remember”.

“Well”, I say slowly. “I was going to say that they were good friends, and that’s true, but… well… um… it’s just that…”

Good Cop makes encouraging motions with his eyes.

“… they did have an argument a week ago, during a rehearsal. I’m sure it was nothing, but…”

“Go on”, says Good Cop.

***

Gregory had auditioned for a part in the TV dramatisation of DC MacDougall’s best-selling novel ‘The Innocent Bystander’. And apparently, it had gone promisingly well.

“They loved me, darlings!” he cried, bursting into the canteen with a flourish so gay that it made Oscar Wilde look like John Rambo. We were taking a fifteen minute coffee break between rehearsals.

“Do you know what this could mean for me?” he simpered.

Of course we did. ‘The Innocent Bystander’ looked like being a huge success. If Gregory got lucky and played his cards right, it could serve as a stepping stone to bigger things. Bigger things like Hollywood, for instance.

So he wasn’t too pleased, the next day, when he learned that his good friend Virgil Baker had snuck off to audition behind his back.

And got the part.

***

There’s such a long silence that I start to think that Good Cop has died on his feet. But suddenly he straightens up and begins to pace around in small circles, hands behind his back and eyes glazed and unfocussed in a manner intended to convey deep thought and concentration. Frankly, it makes him look like a bit of a plonker.

I close my eyes and I can actually see it. So clearly that it almost seems real: Gregory, unable to sleep that night, gnashing his teeth and stamping his feet with hatred in his heart for his back-stabbing, double-crossing so-called friend – ha! – and plotting his revenge. His eyes lighting up as a malicious plan hatches.

Gregory sneaking down to his garden shed, where he keeps all his tools, neatly placed on racks and shelves and with initials on every handle. Gregory retrieving his crowbar.

Gregory buying a gun later that morning.

Gregory creeping into the changing room, forcing open my locker and switching the replica with the real.

Virgil Baker thumping to the floor, as I look on in horror and nine hundred witnesses thunder applause and Gregory smiles inside.

I open my eyes and shudder.

Good Cop has seen it too.

Much to Nigel Biscotti’s feigned dismay, they send me home.

***

What with Virgil Baker dead, and Gregory Manning having been dragged off to prison, screaming innocence on deaf ears, I got the part of the main character in ‘The Innocent Bystander’.

I think I deserved it. I worked hard for it. Climbing over Gregory’s garden fence was no picnic, I can tell you.

But as I said in the beginning, I did it.

It was me. I aimed the gun, I pulled the trigger, I shot Virgil Baker in the heart. And nine hundred people watched me do it and cheered as he fell.

And I got away with it too.