The Versatiles

by Alex Duncan

  ‘Not even me ‘usband frisked me.’

  It was when a gentleman’s bright, white frock coat billowed out that Sam saw the flash of a hand as the boy dexterously turned himself through the air and reached into the man’s outside pocket, removing an embroidered handkerchief, and leapt aside before anyone even felt the brush of his sleeve.

  ‘I’m ripe for frisking so I am.’

  Again, with the speed of a cracking whip, the boy’s hand shot out and he rolled away with the gold bracelet of a lady dressed in a long gown of burnt orange coloured silk. This lad was good.

  Sam reached into his own pocket and removed the thin, silver chain Mr Versatile (or Mrs Bloomsdale, if he was being exact) had given him. And, aiming as best he could in the ominous glow of the torch-lights, flickering from every wall along the street, he threw the necklace into the crowd.

  ‘Ripe I tell you.’

  The boy couldn’t believe his luck when he caught the flash of silver in the cobbles and skidded through legs and past feet until he snatched it up off the ground and bolted away. Sam excused himself from the lady still behind him, much to her disappointment, and pushed his way though the crowd, all the time keeping his eye on the boy.

  ‘RIPE!’

  It was difficult, squeezing past owl and goat and lamb headed ladies and gentleman, to keep track of the boy, but the small figure never strayed far from his sight and soon Sam saw him dodge down an alleyway and back into the shadows. He pushed himself up into a doorway and leant round to see. The boy was talking with one of the guards and passing him all his winnings and the guard pulled out a handful of coins and dropped them on to the floor for the boy, cuffing him round the head as he leant down to retrieve them.

  The guard was quick to leave the boy to his wage and made his way, against the flow of the crowd, back down Corin Street and straight into the Crossroads tavern. Sam barged his way through after him, ignoring all the shouts and insults he got from the folk he pushed aside, and closed the door to the tavern behind him.

  The place was empty and the cheers and shouts were dull inside the main salon. The landlord, cleaning tankards with a dirty rag, looked up as he entered and grumbled.

  ‘Here for the event I can see,’ he said.

  Sam realized he was still wearing his mask. ‘Yes…er…that’s right. Here for the event. Fancy-dress and all that.’

  A door swung closed over to the left of him and made him start. It was the door to the privy. The snakes in his stomach hadn’t passed and he was still as nervous as he had ever felt but he swallowed hard and made his way across the room, ignoring the landlord shaking his head at him.

  The door squeaked open and Sam went inside. The room stank and Sam held his hand over his mouth and nose. There was no window and no other way out and every stall to every toilet was empty. He clenched his fists.

  He had lost the boy.

  How could he loose him? He only came in here a moment ago. Where else could he have gone?

  He tightened his jaw, thought of the look of disappointment on Rosie’s face and kicked the nearest closed door as hard as he could. The door swung inwards to reveal not a privy at all, but a narrow set of steps leading down into complete darkness. Sam didn’t know whether to cheer or run away, but knew that neither were particularly helpful and instead began to make his way down, one step at a time.

  The quiet sounds of the street turned into a heavy silence with each step he took further into the blackness and he held onto the rickety banister as firmly as he could and tested each step before putting all his weight down on it. All of a sudden he wasn’t taking anything for granted.

  After several minutes, a pinprick of light appeared beneath him and he knew he must be close to the bottom. Soon enough the light grew into the form of a torch, burning in its bracket, and illuminating a dingy passageway. The walls were built up with new red brick, but the floor was unpaved and dusty and the whole place was indecorous and dank and the smell of smoke was choking in the airless depths. Sam listened for footsteps but heard nothing except the crackle of the burning pitch, and yet he knew the guard must have come down here (along with his stolen goods), there was nowhere else he could have gone. Fortunately the path led only one way so he stepped down from the last step, turned back on himself, and continued onwards.

  The route twisted away from the light and he was quickly plunged into darkness once more. Not that he minded. He’d sooner be invisible than have the guard seeing him a hundred feet off, so with one hand out in front of him and the other hand brushing against the rough brick he walked blindly on. He took slow, shuffling and cautious steps in the dusty earth, feeling his way as he went.

  In his blindness everything intensified, every step was amplified and every breath rattled in his chest.

  ‘Why did I volunteer for this?’ he muttered to himself, going deeper and deeper into the earth.

  With each step he became increasingly aware of an oppressive sense of vast space around him and when he lost his touch of the wall, a dreadful heaviness weighed down on his shoulders. Thin air moved gently about him in the sightless well and all he could do was put one foot in front of the other in the hope that the path would soon come to some natural end. All balance left him and he ducked down, nearly walking, nearly crawling, unaware if he was going the way he had come or heading elsewhere, uphill or downhill.

  He was suddenly afraid he could be lost down there forever, rolling about in the dirt until he was found mad with hunger or, worse yet, utterly forgotten. He began to think that he had always been there, in the darkness, and everything in the world above him had been some other dream.

  He began to think he was going to die.

  No! He shouted in his own mind.

  He shook himself and slapped his cheeks in a sobering fashion and moved on, taking larger more confident steps and standing as upright and tall as he dared until, at last, a faint, yellow outline of light broke through the blackness and gradually took on the shape of a door. He could see no bricks, no walls and no pathways, only the door.

  As comforting a sight as it was, he was beginning to have his doubts about doors. After a lifetime of surety he never seemed to know what was on the other side of them anymore.

  The soft but welcoming sounds of chatter and laughter came from behind the wooden panelling of the door and Sam slowly approached, crossing a wooden walkway, taking hold of the brass doorknob, in the shape of a closed fist, and carefully turned it.

  Laughter and cheering and light engulfed him, blinding him for a short moment, until his eyes rested and focused and he finally saw where he was.

  ‘What in heavens name…?’

  ◆◆◆

  If there was one thing Rosie had learned from her travels and adventures with her grandfather it was that people, on the whole, were fairly stupid. They could be convinced of pretty much anything if there were told so with enough confidence and gusto. And Rosie had enough confidence and gusto to share. She would have made a fine actress if she had wanted to.

  ‘Sorry boy, but if you’ve got no ticket, you’ll not be coming in,’ said the guard holding down a shining sword in Rosie’s (or Rob Curtis’) path. Rosie frowned up at him and took out a small notepad and pen from an inside pocket.

  ‘What was your name my good man?’ she calmly asked.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your name? Just for my own information you understand.’

  ‘Er…Flint young sir, but…’

  ‘F.L.I.N.T.’ she wrote in the notepad.

  ‘‘Ere what are you writing that down for?’

  ‘I told you, for my own information, it’s not a problem my good man,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ll go and tell the Prince that you, Master Flint, said his footman wasn’t permitted in the theatre. I’m sure he’ll be eager to have a word with you.’

  The man dropped his sword down to his waist and went several shades paler in the flickering light outside the theatre.

  ‘The Prince? The Prince Regent is he
re, tonight?’

  ‘Of course, why that’s him over there,’ said Rosie, pointing randomly into the crowd gathered behind her on the steps at a gentleman dressed in brown and gold with the head of what was possibly an otter covering his face. ‘I’m to keep his seat warm for him whilst he meets the other guests. Would you like me to bring him over?’

  ‘No! No, that wont be necessary…’ the guard floundered, quickly sheathing his sword. ‘In you go, and pass on my best to the Prince when you speak to him.’

  ‘Thank you my good man,’ said Rosie as she was ushered past the first gate and into the forecourt of the theatre. She could see her grandfather (as the boisterous Mrs Bloomsdale) already on the arm of an elderly gentleman, laughing and teasing as they made their way inside and she gazed up at the building before her.

  It was like some ancient coliseum or Herculean temple with its great white pillars reaching skyward at the top of the steps leading up to the open doors at its front. The ever-changing colours of fire danced across its pristine surfaces from the hanging torches and, as Rosie ascended the steps, she had the feeling that she was walking into the jaws of some hellish beast. Someone wanted them out of the way, someone wanted them dead, they had made that abundantly clear, and the poor couple in the Royal Suite had taken their place. But who could it be? And why? She had no idea.

  The foyer was packed shoulder to shoulder with guests, all revelling with goblets of wine, brought to them by servants dressed as fauns, and greeting each other and shouting and jeering. The room stretched off in either direction in a large curve, gradually disappearing, like a circular corridor, and doors lined the walls, each one with a spy hole above its number. Looking in, the spy holes showed the occupants of each box on the lower floor of the theatre. Rosie saw a party of vile goat headed guests in one, smoking and leering, a parliament of owl heads in another and a murder of crows in a third. What a menagerie, she thought, as she made her way round, until she found an empty box and snuck inside.

  Taking her place on a soft red velvet covered seat, she turned and got her first look at the theatre.

  It very nearly took her breath away.

  The giant proscenium reached up in an opulent golden arch, every inch inlaid with perfect sculptured figures of ancient warriors and leaders and gods battling their lives away. Boxes enveloped the sunken pit of seats like a horseshoe. Above the boxes was a gallery of seats and above that the gods and more seats still. It must fit hundreds upon hundreds, thought Rosie, looking above her in wonder until her eyes rested upon the ceiling.

  The domed ceiling was the real trophy of the house; an overwhelming mosaic of the glorious heavens with clouds parting to reveal the bright sky and the sun beaming through. She’d never heard of a place that could even match it. This was surely even grander than Drury Lane.

  ‘What riches,’ she whispered under her breath.

  ‘Riches indeed young sir,’ said a lady wearing a mask of purple feathers entering the box with her motherly companion. Rosie bowed and offered them their seats.

  ‘Jus’ keeping them warm for you miss,’ she said, ‘and admiring the view, it really is…’

  ‘Remarkable? Yes it is, isn’t it. He certainly hasn’t spared any expense.’

  ‘Who hasn’t miss?’

  ‘Why Apollo of course, the patron and benefactor of the theatre,’ said the lady, smoothing out her gown as she sat. ‘They say the town’s transformation is down to him and him alone. I hope the rumours are true and he’s going to speak tonight. If there’s one man who I would feel capable of leading us into the next century it’s Apollo.’

  ‘Not the King?’ asked Rosie, raising an eyebrow.

  The lady laughed, a high, tinkling sound, and patted Rosie on the hand.

  ‘The King? How droll of you, you naughty boy,’ she said. ‘The King is one wave short of a shipwreck. I wouldn’t trust him with my kittens, let alone the whole country. You know that well enough, you cheeky thing. Oh, I shall keep company with you.’ And with that she winked at Rosie and gave her thigh the smallest pinch. Rosie pulled her hand away and blushed. Perhaps coming as Rob Cutis wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  As she moved away from the lady, the door to the box opened and more guests spilt in, taking their seats and leaving Rosie nowhere else to go except squashed in far too close to her new admirer with the feathered mask. One gentleman fell into his chair complaining of an attack of biliousness and proceeded to break wind loudly, whilst his wife shot him glares of outrage and embarrassment. Rosie’s admirer found this nothing but amusing and squeezed her thigh again. Rosie coughed and edged as far away as she could, looking out over the gathering audience and trying to find her grandfather.

  ‘All the fashionable and dangerous folk in society are here, are they not?’ asked the lady with the feathered mask, leaning close into Rosie.

  ‘Er…yes,’ she managed.

  ‘Though not everyone dares to show their face, that’s why so many are masked. Rather thrilling if you ask me.’ Rosie could feel the lady’s hot breath on her neck. ‘Look, there’s Lord Sparkle with the peacock feathers, you can spot him a mile off, and Lady Brunton the actress, she’s the one wearing the fairies wings, oh and look, that must be Mr Dashwood of the Hell Fire Club, wearing the horns. What a devil he is, I must save a dance on my card for him afterwards. You see my young man…’ she whispered gently in Rosie’s ear, ‘everyone is not what they seem.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Rosie spluttered as the red curtain parted and the audience burst into loud applause.

  The stage was empty.

  Rosie bit her lip.

  As silence descended, one person’s solitary applause cut through the quiet. Everyone looked around trying to find whoever was clapping but could see no one. Rosie stood up and leant over the front of the box, craning her head round to see and there, right at the back of the pit, was a masked face, stuck in the frown of an ancient god, staring back.

  The man in the mask came slowly forward, still clapping.

  Once the light hit him, Rosie saw that he was a tall gentleman, dressed in a military style blue frock coat with a bright red waistcoat underneath, and his frowning mask covered his whole face, giving him the appearance of an ancient tragic hero.

  ‘It’s him,’ Rosie’s admirer hissed at her. ‘It’s Apollo. I knew he would come. Is he not magnificent?’

  Rosie silently watched as the man glided forward through the audience towards the stage.

  Once people realized who it was, cheers belted out and every person, however many hundreds of them there were, was soon on their feet to see the great man and applaud him.

  ‘My honoured guests,’ he hollered over the immense noise.

  Men and women offered their hands out for him to shake and kiss as he passed them by with his arms raised up high. It was like the welcoming of a hero.

  Here was their saviour. Here was their new King.

  ‘My friends,’ he cried.

  The applause grew again, a great wave of sound, until he gestured for calm and, like lackeys, the audience obeyed and returned to their seats. He was the most commanding figure Rosie had ever seen.

  ‘All are here,’ he said, sweeping his hand across the whole house, ‘and within these walls our secret is sealed.’ He lifted a finger to the lips of his mask. ‘Hush now, pay heed, and all will be revealed!’

  Again there was enough silence to hear a pin drop. Rosie could feel the audience, as one, move forward in their seats to catch every word.

  ‘My friends, my good friends,’ Apollo began again, dropping his arms to his sides and adopting a more casual manner. ‘You do not need to tell me why you are all here tonight. And it’s not merely for one of Justice Brash’s splendid parties!’

  Everyone laughed and pointed as a gentleman wearing a full mask stuck in a vile smile, leant over the top tier of seats and waved down to the audience below. Rosie felt her cheeks go hot.

  ‘I know that everyday you all look out of your win
dows and see the same thing,’ Apollo went on. ‘Riot, anarchy and rebellion are rife up and down the country. We are at the dawn of a new age. It is the best time to be alive my friends, where the limits of the world are only exceeded our imagination. And yet, it could all be lost!’

  There were murmurs of ascent and a general hubbub of agreement around Rosie.

  ‘All we hear about in the new industrial towns is sedition and unrest. Is it any wonder that we are loosing our grip on the Empire?’

  He let the question hang in the air.

  ‘If we do not change, before long we could loose everything, our very way of life. If only we knew what tomorrow will bring. We could make ready for any eventuality. Sadly, that’s impossible,’ he laughed, ‘no one can predict the future, that’s witchcraft.’

  The audience awkwardly laughed with him, and many shuffled in their seats.

  ‘But surely our advances in the fields of science and experimental philosophy have opened up new possibilities. Surely we are in an age where we can make that which was once unbelievable…simple!’

  Apollo’s voice was rising to a great crescendo.

  ‘Friends, you all came here tonight wanting the answer to one question; how has Hope turned itself around from a town of rebellion to one of finery and success? And I shall present you with the answer. Ladies and gentlemen I give you…the Oracle!’

  The curtains parted and a dozen guards rolled in from the back of the empty stage what Rosie first thought was a weaving wheel twice the height of a tall man. People gasped as the contraption was manoeuvred forward and many stood up to get a better look. The machine was a maze of twisting metal wires and wooden cogs, a skeletal monstrosity, all sharp angles and spinning circles sending taught wires this way and that. At its front was an ornate chair, next to a large lever and above that a vast, shining brass ball, reflecting gold and red from the candles around the auditorium. It was nothing short of mesmerizing in the most horrible sense.

  Rosie reluctantly pulled her eyes from the machine and looked out over the enraptured audience until she found her grandfather, Mrs Bloomsdale, sat in the front of the dress circle staring at the “Oracle”. The old man, suddenly aware of Rosie’s attention, but not turning so much as a fraction her way, slapped his fan shut, tapped it across the digits of his left hand and then span it one rotation by his right ear. Rosie knew his codes well enough, he was saying over and over, ‘What’s going on? What’s going on here?’