the reverse is also true

Venice Carnival

A simple black box theatre. Three stools sit side by side. On them sit three gents, dressed in suits and a waistcoat. They are lit by one light each. Occassionally they stare into the lights as they speak.
Alan: Seventeen years ago, I found myself adrift in a dinghy. I, to this day, have no idea how it happened. One moment I was climbing the stairs of a soho whorehouse and the next I was somewhere. Or nowhere. Maybe both. It scarcely matters. The point is that I was a mug. But I was a mug who still had both his kidneys so fate must have, in it’s own small way, been on my side.

Anton: I remember that day. I remember waking up into the sun. It was hot, too hot for a London January. Too hot by half. Too hot to trot, too hot to handle and if there was a kitchen anywhere, I was definitely not in it. So it was hot. That’s pretty much what I’m driving at.

Anton: Sweating salt water, bobbing in the same and all I wanted was an ice-cold, triple filtered, high strength, intoxicating beverage of the drinking classes. Alas. There was nothing in the craft to suggest itself as a mini bar. In fact, there were only a few things pottering about in the rubber yellow open top coffin in which I was riding. There was an old magazine, twelve matches and a brooch.

Austin: There was also an island.

Alan: I beached after about five hours of paddling against the tides. Worn, weary and in desperate need of shade, I found a few palm trees underneath which I could rest my head.

Austin: The pig.

Missing

Anton: The sun stayed high in the sky. The beads of sweat poured forth from my brow and even under the shade of palm leaves and thoughts of mojitos I cooked. Baked. So hot. And then I passed out.

Together: Waking up on the tube at Knightsbridge was a bit of a shock. I looked around the carriage, virtually empty, and wrestled myself out of my slouch in order to wake up some more. The time. What’s the time. I stretched out my left arm.

Alan: It was covered in a fine green moss. I stared at it. Moss. But I just bought this suit.

Austin: That was your train of thought? The suit had gardened you?

Alan: I stood up and found myself on a tor. The heather reached up to my knees. It was the sort of landscape you could have fun with a dog in. Hide and seek, running, jumping, swimming in puddles. Only there was no dog. There was only me.

Murder on the Moor by baddoggy

Anton: The wind was light, a breeze every now and again. A lone bird sailed through the air, gliding with open wings across the gentle currents of air. Never before have I felt such peace. I closed my eyes and began to hum.

Together: I almost tripped coming off the escalator. I hadn’t realized that it was finishing and having the queue of people behind me buffet and grind to a halt serves as a constant reminder to never forget again. I love people. People are good. There’s just so much to them. But I digress.

Together: I was in Holborn. On a Sunday.

Anton: Have you ever seen a troupe of cyclists? The strangest thing. Half on regular bicycles, the rest on unicycles, tandems and huge frameworks of aluminium, steel and graphite. Crossing the street to go into the courtyard is the single most extraordinary feeling in the world. The cyclists rode past me, around me, I almost could say through me. Almost. It felt close and it wasn’t like I was going anywhere.

Voice: Well. Thank you for your time.

Together: Thank you.

Voice: I am reallt sorry for wasting so much of your time, Sir.

Together: That’s. No. Problem. Sergeant.

Voice: I swear this case is giving me exczema. With PR breathing down my neck, I’ll need as much help as I can get on this one.

Together: We want to find whoever killed that young girl.