Murdering Ministers by Alan Beechey

thinking of ways to be absolutely beastly. Although if I were, trust me, you’d be the first to know about it.”
    He disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door in Geoffrey’s face.
    â€œI’ll take that as a ‘maybe,’ then,” said Geoffrey, as he slunk down the stairs again to short-sheet Oliver’s bed.
    ***
    One of the advantages of having Effie Strongitharm as his girlfriend, Oliver reflected, is that she is instantly recognizable, even from the back and in a dim light. He had finally reached the Theydon Bois Underground station just one minute before curtain time for the opening night of A Midsummer Night’s Dream , but finding no minicabs in the station car park, he had to make a five-minute sprint across the frosty Green to the Theydon Bois Thespians’ theater. The theater was one-quarter full for the opening night, which was a groundbreaking turn-out by the company’s standards, but Oliver’s Aunt Phoebe had elected to go to a later performance—assuming there would be one—since her aikido class was on Friday evening. This meant Effie would be sitting alone, and Oliver had no trouble making out her distinctive, bushy mass of curly hair, silhouetted against the stage lights in the front row. He had always been an enthusiastic ten minutes early for every meeting so far, and so he didn’t know how she responded to being kept waiting. Knowing her reputation for imperiousness among her colleagues at Scotland Yard, he feared the worst. Perhaps, since the play had already started, she would have to hold her tongue until the interval. If he was unlucky, she’d hold his.
    He waited until the stage cleared of goose-stepping fairies in storm-trooper uniforms, performing an unscripted entr’acte to a recording of Wagner, before he scurried down the aisle.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” he whispered, sliding into the seat beside Effie.
    â€œAre you all right?” she replied, her blue eyes showing concern. “I was just starting to get anxious.”
    â€œNot cross?”
    â€œOf course not.” She leaned over and kissed him beneath his ear. “Ollie, I know you wouldn’t be late if you could help it. I was worried that something might have happened to you.”
    Oliver sighed with relief. “That’s what I love about you, Effie. You don’t see this relationship as an opportunity to score points.”
    â€œ That’s what you love about me?”
    â€œWell, there’s the hair, too.”
    â€œI should think so.”
    She patted down the springy coils while Oliver started to explain why he had been held up, but he broke off when the stage lights came up again and the Athenian mechanicals made their way onto the stage. They were all dressed in contemporary clothes, including Mallard as Bottom in a corduroy jacket with patched elbows, jeans, Reeboks, and, incongruously, a paisley ascot tucked into a gray silk shirt. He had removed his glasses, and makeup made him look younger. The actors pulled chairs into a semicircle at the front of the stage.
    â€œIs all our company here?” began the actor playing Peter Quince. Mallard/Bottom lay back casually in his chair and flicked a disdainful finger at Quince.
    â€œYou were best to call them generally, man by man,” he said languidly, stifling a yawn, “according to the scrip.” Then he began to examine his fingernails.
    Oliver was puzzled, and his puzzlement grew as the scene progressed. He was all prepared for a traditional bombastic Bottom, the coarse amateur actor who tried to grab every role for himself with little subtlety, pompously overacting his heart out. But Mallard was avoiding the humor, treating the lines as if they were perfectly serious, in contrast to the other performers, whose antics seemed merely to exasperate him. Bottom did not interrupt Quince because he wanted to play every part in “Pyramus and Thisbe.” His comments were