An exclusive interview with the witness
The Grand Theatre sits hunched on a narrow downtown street, its once-gilded façade dulled by soot and time. Inside, velvet seats sag, chandeliers sway with every passing lorry, and the air carries a permanent tang of dust and mothballs. It was here, among the faded grandeur and hollow echoes of a bygone age, that a man lost his life.
I met with a woman who was in attendance that night. She insisted on the interview taking place within the theatre itself — in the draughty lobby, beneath a flaking mural of cherubs. Her eyes sparkled, her hands fluttered, and she spoke not as one scarred by tragedy, but as though she had witnessed the performance of a lifetime.
—
Interviewer: You were present the night of the murder?
Witness: Oh, indeed! Row C, third seat in. Right in the centre — the perfect view. The theatre was full that night, you know. Packed to the rafters with people hungry for drama, though none of them expected that kind of drama.
Interviewer: This was during the performance itself?
Witness: Yes. Halfway through the second act, just when the audience had settled into that delicious lull — you know, when you’ve relaxed into the story, thinking you know where it’s headed. Then suddenly, everything shifted. It was extraordinary.
Interviewer: Tell me about the victim.
Witness: (smiles faintly) He was… noticeable. A large man with a booming voice, one of those people who commands a room whether invited or not. His suit strained at the seams, and he always smelt faintly of cigars. You could sense he enjoyed being important. On stage that night, though, he was utterly transformed.
Interviewer: In what way?
Witness: The moment it happened, he staggered into the spotlight — such presence! The entire theatre froze. He clutched his chest, eyes wide, a crimson bloom spreading across his shirt. You’ve never seen colour like it under the footlights; it glowed against the faded backdrop. For a heartbeat, no one even breathed. It was as if time itself had stopped.
Interviewer: The audience realised immediately what was happening?
Witness: Not at first. Oh, that was the best part. There was this ripple of confusion, then whispers, then gasps — it was like watching a wave sweep across the house. Some thought it was part of the play. Others stood, craning to see. And then, when the truth dawned, a single scream cut through the silence like a violin string snapping.
Interviewer: And you? How did you respond?
Witness: (eyes shining) I leaned forward, savouring every second. It was the most perfect moment of theatre I’ve ever seen. Every gesture, every sound, every flicker of light — it all came together in one exquisite crescendo.
Interviewer: You claim you saw the murderer.
Witness: (smiles slowly) Oh, I did more than see them. I knew every movement before it happened, every beat of their heart. It was choreography, darling — timed to perfection. The house was full, the stage was set, the audience holding its breath. All it needed was me.
Interviewer: You make it sound as though you were part of the play yourself.
Witness: (leans closer, eyes shining) Part of it? No, no — I was the play. Don’t you understand? I wasn’t merely a spectator, scribbling notes from the stalls. I was the leading lady. The heroine. The star they never expected.
Interviewer: What exactly do you mean?
Witness: (her voice softens, gleeful) The curtain rose, and I took my place. Every step, every gesture was mine to command. When the knife found its mark, the audience gasped as though on cue. And in that breathless silence, with hundreds of eyes fixed upon the stage, I gave them the performance of a lifetime.
(she pauses, then smiles sweetly)
I wasn’t just a witness, darling. I wrote the final act.
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