The lights darkened, and smoke crept through the stage floor. Hades was coming to take Aeneas; the fires had been lit. Parts of the stage descended, and the smoke billowed through, driven by inaudible machines and turning the scene into an ever-changing blur of colour and light with Aeneas in the centre accepting his tragedy.
Falling rose petals preceded descending cherubs, while from below, a tomb appeared beneath Roxton’s feet. Aeneas was lifted with it as if he would escape to Heaven after all, the poison held at arm’s length. The music swelled to an ear-splitting climax, and the singer hit his final sustain. He carried it effortlessly as smoke poured and petals rained. It swelled, a swansong, a pitiful cry of lost love, a farewell to all, until, with no warning, he broke off.
The music ended, the last strains soaked up by velvet and gold as the vibration settled into the woodwork.
The audience held its breath in the sudden silence. The conductor, watching closely, held the orchestra ready but at bay, and Aeneas drank the poison.
He dropped the glass. It shattered, and he collapsed onto his tomb. The music picked up where it had left off twice as loud, and the two massive curtains swept together as the lights blacked out.
The conductor appeared shocked, but led his men onwards until the last bar as the audience gave the performance a standing ovation. Thomas was pretty sure the curtains should have closed gracefully while the music reached its natural end, but he was less sure about what he had seen as the tabs closed, swished open a fraction on the rebound, and shuddered into place.
He couldn’t say what, but something had fallen from the sky, passed in front Roxton and vanished into the smoke pit. Perhaps it was theatrical symbolism of some sort. If so, he couldn’t for the life of him think what, but it had resembled a body.
Twenty-Seven
There was no way Silas could be unimpressed. James made his entrance as if he had been an actor all his life. His back straight, his face dispassionate despite nearly throwing up as Jake led him towards the stage, he walked calmly down the rake to the pedestal and replaced the silver goblet with the Champagne flute. According to Silas’ instructions, he left the scroll so that Roxton couldn’t fail to read the reassuring words. Assuming Roxton wouldn’t have time to read a fuller explanation, Silas had written, “We have him.” Even if it was not quite true it would be understood. Silas had thwarted the killer for a second time, but had probably driven him to more desperate measures, and far from ‘having’ him, he had no idea where he was.
The runner was still by his side, agape at James’ assured performance.
‘Listen, Jake,’ Silas said. ‘As soon as Mr Roxton stops singing, those curtains have got to close.’
‘I’m not allowed, Sir.’
‘I know, but it must be done.’
‘I’d lose my job.’
‘You’ll be saving the gala. It would be a huge favour to me.’
A movement in the opposite wings drew Silas’ attention. It wasn’t so much that the motion was unexpected, there was plenty of activity on that side, it was that it was frantic and unusual. Stella, or Miss Arnold as that was the character she was playing, was bounding up the spiral stairs heading into the fly tower.
James must have seen him from the corner of his eye because he stopped and, forgetting where he was, stared before he acted. He exited just as Roxton turned upstage by which time Stella was already at the first level and climbing. James emptied the poison into a fire bucket and dropped the chalice. Throwing off the costume and ripping away his bowtie, he gave chase. Above him, Stella scrambled onto the stage-right scaffold. He had kicked off his shoes, and by the time he reached the second gantry, Silas, stage left, was only at the first.
He stopped to look across and between the canvas flats, shielding his eyes from the glare of the wing-lights and trying to think one step ahead. Stella, her way blocked by flymen, searched for another route to ascend, and it wasn’t until Silas saw him looking at the roof that he realised the killer’s intentions. Stella swung out from the scaffold, narrowly avoiding a flyman’s grasp as he tried to stop her, and scrambled upwards in a flash of silver satin. A stagehand pulled the flyman back to his ropes just as James appeared on their level. The men were too busy to do anything except glare at him as they hauled.
The music distorted and dulled as Silas climbed, his legs already beginning to tire and his chest heaving. He checked Stella’s progress at each gantry. Thirty feet, forty, fifty, she swung back onto the ironwork and looked down to Roxton. He had collected the harmless glass and was singing for all he was worth. He had escaped the poison, but the opera was not yet over. Stella leant precariously from the ironwork and examined the ceiling.
Silas followed his gaze. Two levels down from the gridiron and suspended by wires hung the clouds that were about to descend as Aeneas died. They were reached by a narrow bridge that crossed the stage, and two cherubs were calmly stepping across the gap to strap themselves into fittings. It was a weird sight to say the least, but it wasn’t what Stella had seen. The fake clouds, made of wood and metal, were counterbalanced by lead weights that fed through pullies on the gridiron and hung sixty feet above the stage floor. There were four of them, each one the size of a barrel and hovering directly above Roxton.
Stella knew Silas had seen the contraption and his face distorted into a manic sneer. He reached into his dress and pulled out a pistol, waving it teasingly, before leaning over the guard rail and taking aim at the man below. Silas would never reach the other side in time, and there was no way to warn Roxton.
A flash of white and a flap of silver. Stella hit the planks, with James on top of him. The pistol skidded from his hand and fell behind the ropes. Silas located the nearest catwalk, two levels above, and forced his trembling legs to take him higher. He reached the bridge in time to see James on his feet swinging punches. Stella was fighting back, giving as good as he received, and he had the advantage. He didn’t care if he fell, his only intent was to disrupt the performance, and if that meant committing suicide, Silas had no doubt he would do it. He was forcing James to the upstage edge of the platform, and each time James ducked a punch, he took a step back towards a fall to certain death. He lashed out for something to hold and grabbed a lighting bar, rattling the lanterns and bringing men rushing to the levels below to see what was happening.
As Silas gripped the guardrail, the catwalk ahead of him, he flashed back to the Limedock warehouse. He had been here before; a narrow walkway with the flimsiest of handholds and a deadly drop on either side. The difference was the distance, and where there had been a river below him, there was now bare wood. Smoke began to billow, and dark openings appeared in the stage floor. Through them, he saw flames, but this was not the random burning of a wharf, men fanned the smoke, controlling machines that burned and blew, masking his view of Roxton, now ascending on a rising tomb.
Silas stepped onto the catwalk, shaking the dust from the metal, and glanced to James just in time to see Stella get the better of him. She laid him out with a punch to his jaw and, without looking back, grabbed a ladder and climbed.
He appeared at the far side of the bridge as Silas reached cloud level. The boys were throwing petals, facing front as the flymen lowered the scenery. As they descended, so the weights lifted, and Silas saw how the contraption worked. The leads hung on individual wires, but they were connected by a single line that threaded back to a fixed point to act as an anchor. The release pin had been installed beneath a beam above the centre of the catwalk, ten feet ahead of where Silas stood and four feet above. If the anchor was released without the flymen ready to stay its descent, half a ton of stage machinery would come down on Roxton’s head. The pin was easily reachable from the beam above, but to free it from this level, Stella would have to jump.
Stella ran onto the walkway with no fear for his safety. The iron grille vibrated, and out of opt
ions, Silas sprinted towards him. They hurtled at each other while far below, drums beat the rhythm of a panicked heart, and Roxton built to his final cadence.
Stella leapt for the pin.
Silas’ threw himself forwards, yelling as his feet left the metal. During the split second he was airborne, he pictured Archer’s face in morning sunlight streaming through a bedroom window. His smile of intrigued confusion, that brief fluttering of an eyebrow as their lips met and the feel of the man’s body against his, tender and loving…
The images shattered as his shoulder connected with Stella’s chest. The impact winded him, and the lights flashed a savage red, but his impetus repelled the killer onto his back. Rebounding, Silas crashed to his feet, stumbling towards the edge and clawing for a handhold. Stella slithered to the side. Reaching for the rail and missing, his fingers dug into the gridded walkway as his legs swung over the drop. He slid, but his grip held him. Dangling with his legs kicking, he threw his free hand to catch anything that would prevent his fall.
Silas lurched for his wrist, his mind absurdly clear. Prevent the man from falling. The production would be over. No-one, apart from a few stagehands, would be any the wiser. He took Stella’s arm with both hands. On his front, with his feet hooked over the back edge of the catwalk, he was forced to face the drop. Stella was terrified, his free hand flailing wildly, while beneath him the fires of hell flickered, and smoke engulfed the tragic Aeneas.
‘Pull yourself up,’ Silas shouted. He couldn’t hold the weight for long. ‘Reach, man.’
Stella’s expression changed. The fear was wiped away by an insidious, taunting grin and for a second, Silas considered releasing him. If he let him die, no-one would blame him; he had done all he could.
Not quite all.
‘Why are you doing this?’
He was so close, the last few bars of music were swelling, he just needed to cling on a few more seconds.
‘Who’s behind it?’ Silas roared.
Stella’s grin twisted into a laugh. As he released his fingers from the grille one by one until Silas bore all his weight. He tightened his grip, but Stella’s opera glove was slipping from his flesh. Silas clawed with his toes, the metal edge cutting into his ankles. His breathing was restricted by his prone position and the man’s weight flattening him against the iron. What air he could snatch was tainted with smoke. The lights blinded him. His muscles screamed.
‘Who’s doing this?’
The cherubs threw their petals of blood, Roxton sang his final sustain, and Silas’ feet slipped from their anchor. Stella pulled him further towards the edge as he grappled in panic.
The curtain hadn’t come down, but unless he let her fall, Silas was going to die with her.
Subito tacet.
No music, no voice, no heartbeat, just the realisation that there was nothing Silas could do but fall.
‘He hasn’t even started.’
They were the last words he heard as the glove came free, Stella fell, and Silas followed him over the edge.
For James, everything happened in a blur. He had done his best, but the man who was Stella was a more accomplished boxer and sent him sprawling to the decking. He was disorientated, the side of his head thumped, and he tasted blood. The shock passed as he shook himself and caught a glimpse of a silver evening gown slithering to a higher gantry like a winged insect.
The was the last clear vision he had until he found himself hovering sixty feet above the stage, a wire rail his only safety net, hurtling towards Silas who was flat on his front and sliding helplessly towards the drop.
He was only half aware of a whirring sound and the clank of chains rattling through an unexpected silence, and the next thing he knew, he had Silas’ belt in his hand and was yanking him backwards. He was probably hurting the man, but the reaction came naturally, and he scrambled and tore, heaved and swore until Silas skidded back to safety. Beneath them, the silver body fell through a curtain of petals, material flapping, arms thrashing until Stella was swallowed by a pit of fake flame.
The lights blacked out. The curtains closed.
Twenty-Eight
Silas was on his back staring at the gridiron, his hands gripping the catwalk’s edges and his chest heaving. Music played, muffled and quiet while beside him, two topless youths, adorned with gold wings, floated up to glare in wonder.
‘What the fuck was that?’ one asked as he hopped lightly from the cloud to the walkway with no thought for the chasm beneath. ‘Did she jump?’
‘What’s going on?’ the other asked as he leapt nimbly across. ‘What you playing at?’
Silas felt arms beneath his back tucking in under his armpits as James dragged him to his feet.
‘I ain’t got no legs,’ he mumbled. He could feel nothing below his waist, and he collapsed.
James caught him. Holding him from behind, he raised him again and allowed him to rest, while one of the youths directed Silas’ trembling hands to the safety rail.
‘You shouldn’t be up here,’ the lad said. ‘Trying to stop her jumping was you? Good on you, Sirs.’
‘I’m not moving until he’s ready,’ James said, dodging the question.
‘It’s the height,’ the first youth advised. ‘Let me, Sir, we’re used to this.’
Silas was helped to the relative safety of the stage left gantry by James and a gold-painted cherub. The second youth followed, gazing below, unbothered by the altitude.
‘There’s something not right down there,’ he said.
The lights brightened behind the curtain and Silas dared a brief glance. The smoke was clearing, and sections of the floor were rising into place. In the pit directly in front of where Roxton was being helped from his tomb, he made out lanterns and a small group of men gathered around a twist of silver and crimson; the broken body of the man called Stella. A plume of smoke escaped the funnels on which the torso was impaled. Silas looked away and, holding ropes for support, lowered himself to sit. He took deep breaths to prevent himself from retching and wondered if he would ever stop shaking.
‘Lads? A quick word.’
James huddled with the young men out of Silas’ earshot, but whatever he said to them, they left them alone with thanks.
‘How are you doing?’ James crouched, and Silas was aware that the music had stopped.
‘Give me a minute.’
‘Can you walk? Bloody hell, Silas. What were you thinking?’
Silas focused on James’ face. ‘You look rough,’ he said, reaching and touching a bruise blossoming above his eye.
‘Yeah, well, a bit embarrassing being slogged by a woman,’ James attempted humour. ‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t say anything.’
Silas wasn’t sure if James was impressed, or like him, stunned. Perhaps he was both. There was nothing impressive about letting a man fall to his death, not even a murderer. Archer would have found a way to save him.
‘I saw it,’ James said. ‘She let go of you.’ He placed a hand on Silas’ shoulder and squeezed. ‘You did the right thing.’
Light streamed up from below, and ropes creaked as flymen hauled open the curtains. The tower echoed with the sound of applause, whistles, the stamping of feet, and somewhere among it all, Silas was sure he heard Fecker’s voice. He felt for the pebble in his pocket, and once reassured that it was still there, he took James’ arm and struggled to his feet.
‘Can you walk?’ James asked, propping him up from behind.
‘Not until I’ve done this.’ Silas twisted into him, wrapped him in his arms and hugged. It wasn’t so much a thank you — that would come later when he could think clearly — he did it because he needed to feel someone solid beside him. A tough body, a breathing body, something real to remind him that he was still alive.
‘Hey, easy, Sir,’ Jam
es laughed, returning the hug. ‘Don’t want people to talk.’
‘Did you hear what he said?’ Silas asked. Reluctant to let him go, he dropped his head onto James’ sodden shirt. He smelt of sweat, but Silas still wanted to kiss him.
‘I heard something,’ James admitted. ‘But I wasn’t paying attention. In fact, I don’t know what I did.’
‘He hasn’t even started.’
‘What’s that?’
Silas lifted his head. James was an inch away, his face turned, embarrassed.
‘Sorry.’ Silas reached for a rope and held it before letting go of James completely. He faced the wall and inched his way towards the stairs. ‘He said, “He hasn’t even started”.’
‘What does that mean?’
James walked beside him, a safety barrier between him and empty space, and Silas was grateful.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s not making sense to me yet. What did you say to those two?’
The youths were way below them now, presumably hurrying to discover the juicy details and tell their version of events.
‘I told them they were right,’ James said. ‘We were trying to stop the woman from killing herself. I made them swear they would say nothing, because you would be embarrassed. You didn’t want praise, and would appreciate it if they remained silent.’
‘And will they?’
‘I added something about having their legs broken if not,’ James said, with a wink.
‘You would do that?’
‘No,’ James admitted. ‘I was thinking of Fecker, but it’s not going to be necessary. They were more interested in seeing the body than knowing how it got there. Will you be okay on the stairs?’
‘Yeah, Jimmy. As long as I don’t have to look down.’
‘I’ll go first,’ James said, when they reached the staircase. ‘Hold my collar if it helps.’
Unspeakable Acts Page 27