by Giles Ekins
‘And I have to say, ‘Geriko continued, ‘ that right now we’re on a tight schedule, a very tight schedule. Today is set up, preliminary run through and then first and second, full rehearsal, and tomorrow we tape.’
‘No full rehearsal,’ Charlie objected , mostly because he did not take to Vorpalstone’s peremptory attitude, his arrogance and his bloated self-importance and wanted to twist his tail a bit. ‘We don’t do a full rehearsal. We’ll do a sound check and I’ll talk to the gaffer about the lighting effects I want, but that’s it, full stop. We will not disclose the complete illusion until we record. I’ll give you the timing and cues but no rehearsal, no full rehearsal, we’ll walk you through the illusion but only so far, we don’t reveal the finale of the act.’
‘You have to have rehearsals, I mean, what If it goes wrong when we are recording, taping before a live audience?’
Then, my queer friend, we are all the in the deepest darkest doo-doo ’It doesn’t go wrong’ he insisted. ‘It will not go wrong’ got my fingers and toes, eyes as well, firmly crossed on that one. ‘Geriko, no full rehearsal, no complete illusion, understand?’
‘This is…most irregular. No complete rehearsal, so that we don’t know what the illusion comprises. I’ll have to check with Gordon,’ Geriko flustered, taking the clip board from Poppy and clutching it to him in support, for a split second betraying a limp wrist. ‘Gordon Robertson, he’s the director. I don’t know what he will say.’
‘I thought you said that you pretty much ran everything,’ Charlie said blandly, resisting the temptation to really twist Geriko’s tail, he knew that a floor manager’s job consisted of ensuring that all the equipment on set worked, to brief the talent and give them their time counts and cues, deal with technical issues during the show and to seat and manage the audience. It was the director who ran the show, was responsible for the camera blocking, placement of lighting, mikes and props, controlling the show from the production control room, directing the various camera operators on what to film and focus on, whilst behind him the producer, the show-runner, coordinated the ‘big picture,’ the floor manager was a long way down the food chain.
‘Yes, yes, I do, but…technically Gordon…is… er…I like to give him things to think about occasionally, keeps him out of mischief,’ At that, he took off to consult, leaving Poppy to hold the fort. ‘Poppy, you stay here with them, OK?’ in a tone of voice that seemed to say ‘and make sure they don’t walk off with the best silver’ She looked lost without her clip board prop, but she smiled brightly. ‘Why don’t we go to the canteen and …get a cup of coffee or something, I’m sure Geriko won’t be long. He’s so talented, you know?’
‘Aye. A talented arse-licker, no doubt. Charlie had met his type all his working life, arse-lickingly servile to those above him, a petty martinet to those below, the Benny Marsden’s of this world. The coffee was OK, black and strong as he liked it, Poppy nibbled anxiously at an apricot Danish pastry, alternating mouthfuls of pastry and apricot with chewed fingernails and Selene declined to take anything, pastry, coffee, water, Come to think of it,’ Charlie realised, ‘I’ve never seen her eat or drink. What does she do, go out at night to feed? And on what? No, I don’t think I really I want to know that.
Geriko was fretting when they got back to the studio Poppy had hurried them out of the canteen as soon as Charlie had put his cup down and he very pointedly looked at his watch. ‘Poppy, I told you, I’m on a tight schedule and so you go wandering off like this, it won’t do. How do you think it makes me look if I can’t control my staff? he asked peevishly.
‘Sorry, Geriko, my fault I’m afraid, I asked if we could go for a coffee, Poppy was reluctant but we insisted.’ said Charlie and Poppy shot him a look of thanks.
‘Oh, all right then,’ Geriko answered reluctantly, ungraciously. ‘Anyway, Gordon says, and I agree with him entirely, the responsibility for going ahead without full rehearsal is yours, if it goes wrong, we will not re-tape and there will be no broadcast. Understood?’
‘Absolutely’
‘He’ll want to talk to you, go over things; just to be sure you know what you’re about.’
Sure, whenever, right now, if you like.’
‘Oh, I see, he might not like it, sudden like. Takes his time to make a decision, does Gordon, getting on a bit, past it, if you follow me?’
In fact Gordon Robertson was anything but past it. He was a short wiry ginger haired Scot in his mid-50s, wearing jeans, a dark green Ralph Lauren polo shirt, a suede waistcoat and scuffed Nike trainers. He was immediately energetic and decisive and Charlie liked him from the moment they shook hands and worked well with him; there was no bullshit about Gordon Robertson and he had got where he had by talent and hard work, not by the means of changing your name to something stupid like Geriko Vorpalstone.
And something about Vorpalstone’s fatuous name irritated Charlie, not just the pretentiousness of it which he found asinine, but an insistent worm vermiculated away at the back of his mind and then he suddenly it came to him; ‘Vorpalstone!, Not such an original name as you might think, my bum-fuck friend,’ he knew he had seen or heard the word ‘vorpal’ somewhere before. ‘Gotcha, Mr. Smart-Arse Geriko Vorpalstone. Lewis Carroll and ‘Jabberwocky’ from ‘Through the Looking Glass,’ I think it is. There is something about a ‘vorpal sword’ ‘Vorpal sword, not too hard to change that into ‘Vorpalstone and in his mind Charlie from then on thought of him as Vorpalsnake.’
In fact, there had never been a full rehearsal of the act, even back at the workshop; their rehearsals had never been taken as far as the decapitation. Tomorrow would be the first time, it could still go horribly wrong and Charlie could end up on a manslaughter charge. Certainly publicise the show though, he could almost see the newspaper headlines, Magician decapitates assistant on stage.
They had worked hard the previous weeks. Every morning Selene would appear in the workshop, from whence she came, how she came, he did not know. Some kind of diabolic underground system, the Satan line perhaps, direct from Hell via Devils Corner, and Lucifer Grove as other imaginary names of Satan line stations based on London Underground names tumbled into Charlie’s agile mind like leaping trout, ‘how about Tchort Farm (Chalk Farm) or Coven Garden, (Covent Garden) Hells Court, (Earl’s Court), Old Nick Gate (Aldgate), Blasted Heath, (Hampstead Heath) Chiswitch, (Chiswick) and Shorewitch High Street. (Shoreditch High Street).
Warlock Road (Warwick Road) anybody? Or how about Sorcery Lane? (Chancery Lane), the game had endless permutations.
Tchort also occasionally appeared, literally appeared, Charlie would turn his head to find Tchort at his shoulder, having had no indication that he was there. ‘Jesus, Mr. Tchort,’ he exclaimed after the third or fourth time this happened, ‘This is freaking me out, can’t you just come through the front door like any other normal human being?’
‘My apologies, Charlie, but as you are aware, I am not like any other normal human being, if indeed such an animal even exists.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know that but this is like the first time we met when I nearly wet myself in surprise, can’t you at least knock or cough or something, let me know you’re there?’
‘I shall in future endeavor to do so, but I have so many commitments on my time that it may not always be possible.’ Besides, I enjoy seeing you start in shock, it amuses me. And as silently as he had arrived Tchort would disappear again. (Charlie still tried to think of him as Tchort, so much less scary than Satan or the Devil and far easier to say than Mephistopheles, he was still amazed he had been able to come up with Mephistophelesical on the spur of the moment like that, scared shitless as he was, Mephistophelesical, what a tongue-twister that was).
On another occasion, Tchort was accompanied by a short, barrel chested man of middle age, with the flat face of a Russian peasant and dark staring eyes. Tchort only introduced him as ‘an assistant,’ never giving him a name but Charlie always thought of him as Igor, for although Charlie never saw him again, he always
had the feeling that Igor was around, watching him. Spying on him. If he went shopping, or down to the ‘Three Tuns’ for a pint, Charlie could always sense those staring eyes upon him, making the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. He would suddenly turn around to see if he was being followed, hid in shop doorways, watched the reflections on shop windows, sit near the door of the pub or any restaurant or café he went into so he could see who came by, but he never got even a glimpse of Igor. But Charlie was sure that he always there. Watching. Just watching.
In the beginning the guillotine act would not come together, it looked clumsy and contrived. Charlie firstly dressed Selene up in period costume, to look like Marie Antoinette in a powder blue dress with a full hooped skirt, puffed sleeves, narrow corseted waist and low cut bodice to display her cleavage with her hair and elaborate wig perched on top of her head like an enormous bird’s nest whilst he dressed as an executioner compete with black hood, black tights and leather jerkin. It looked ridiculous.
Next he put her in a Clarrie style leotard and tights and although Selene had the figure and legs to carry off the costume, it still did not look right. She needed something simpler, more elegant and then Charlie remembered the simple white dress she wore on that first, never to be forgotten meeting. Based on this he put her in a long straight white Shantung silk dress with long trumpet sleeves that stretched almost down to the floor, unwittingly almost replicating the dress that the Comtesse Marie-Josephine wore on the day of her execution. She looked stunning, ethereal, a vestal virgin, innocent but far, far more sensual than Lilith van Dante could ever hope to be.
As for Charlie, he did away with all his previous costume ideas, the cape, top hat, dinner jacket, white bow tie, realising how dated that look was. He stripped it all down to the bone, minimalist, contrasting Selene’s virginal white with an all-black outfit comprising black polo neck, black jacket, black trousers, socks and shoes. He lost weight, kept his hair short, grew a beard but kept it neat and trimmed, shaving his throat and cheeks, leaving a silver threaded goatee. He liked the new look and wore black all the time, black T-shirts, black jeans, black trainers. He also decided to change the name of the act from ‘The Great Santini’ to ‘Charles Chilton with Selene’; whatever stage reputation that remained of ‘The Great Santini’ was that of a failure and a drunk and he was moving on. Onwards and upwards¸ his old mantra now had meaning and purpose.
Now he had a vision as to how the act should look, he now also stripped down the guillotine, removing the clumsy bascule bench and leaving just the uprights supported on a solid, three foot long base of four inch square timber with Y shaped cross braces, the lunettes for holding the head in place had to remain, but instead of the bascule, Charlie introduced a black box with a padded top on which Selene would kneel before inserting her head beneath the blade and being locked in place by the lunettes.
The whole assembly was now much less cumbersome, lighter, easier to transport, and somehow, more menacing. To assist in moving it around, Charlie added wheels which could be locked in place, and finally, painted everything matt black, apart from the blade, which he brilloed and polished, removing rust specks and bringing the blade up to a mirror like finish which he intended to highlight by mounting a mini spotlight on the cross tree at the head of the guillotine to shine down onto the blade, to heighten the sense of anticipation and dread.
He had just finished the modification to the guillotine when Tchort appeared from nowhere again, but at least he did cough discreetly to announce his presence.
After greetings and casual enquiries after Charlie’s health, Tchort took Charlie’s arm and walked him over towards the guillotine, ‘I am pleased, very pleased at the progress you are making, your enthusiasm and drive fully justify the faith I have invested in you.’
‘Aye well, it’s a new start, isn’t it, a new Charlie.’
No, the old Charlie, my Charlie, still lurks inside and it will be the old Charlie that will let you down. And then you are mine and the fiery pits await you.
‘Another thing, Mr. Tchort I’m considering calling the illusion the ‘Devil’s Guillotine? I’ve thought of other names but nothing else sounds so good, so right. Do you mind me calling it ‘the Devil’s Guillotine,’ I mean?’ Charlie asked nervously.
‘Not at all, Charlie,’ giving him that thin humourless smile; ‘It is after all, the truth, is it not and we should always strive for verisimilitude, shouldn’t we?’
‘Vera Similitude, who she?’ he quipped before remembering that Asmodeus Tchort had no discernible sense of humour. ‘Yeah thanks, it’s good to go then as the Devil’s Guillotine?’ and Tchort nodded in accord.
Charlie next explained his ideas for screening the act after the decapitation of Selene. To the rear of the guillotine he would erect a wall of shoji screens, whilst to the side and front similar sliding screens would swiftly slide into place. ’The screens’ he explained, ‘would suspend from a timber frame work and hang on a track. I haven’t worked out all the mechanics but I envisage a system where I just press button and all the screens slide into place electrically. I might need some help on that.
‘I will arrange.’
‘Great, thanks. And then, as soon as Selene…is back together, press the button again and they slide back. I had thought curtains, which could quickly drop down, but I prefer the look of the screens. I want the whole act to be enclosed in a space no more than fifteen or sixteen feet square, to increase the intimacy, the intensity. Then, on my signal, the stage and auditorium plunge into darkness whilst I roll the screens in place, seconds only, just enough to give a scare without frightening the audience too much.’
‘All this is excellent work Charlie,’ Tchort said, patting him on the arm.
‘Aye, thanks. Just one more question I have, I mean, beheading somebody is a bloody business, gallons of gore all over the place, well, theatres aren’t going to like that much, let alone the paying public. I mean, how do we control the blood flow?’
‘Yoga!’
‘Yoga?’
‘Yes, yoga, Selene will practice yoga, like the mystics in India who can pierce their bodies with swords; Selene will control the bleeding by yoga.’
‘That’s good to know, it was a bit of a concern, that’s all.’ Aye, for sure, and if you think I’m stupid enough to believe that load of bollocks, you are sadly mistaken, it’s all down to that black magic, demonic shit ,isn’t it? I only asked to see what old flannel you would come up with.’
Charlie found a small workshop in Covent Garden (Coven Garden) who made bespoke shoji screens and gave them his requirements, for them to be delivered 10 days later. He has rejected painting the screens with the brightly coloured cabalistic patterns from his Not So Great Santini days and opts for stark black on white, solid black designs like Chinese calligraphy or a Robert Motherwell print he once saw in an art shop. However, he cannot get the sliding screen concept to work, even with the help of Keith, a handy man, joiner, welder, electrician, electronics expert, who just ‘happened’ to come into the shop three days after Charlie mentioned to Tchort that he might need some assistance and asked if there was anything he could do to help.
‘Aye, could do with some help, all right, Mr. Tchort, he sent you, right?’
‘Who? Tchort?, No, never heard of him, just heard on the grapevine like, that you was looking for someone to help, give some assistance, some handy man stuff.’
‘Yeah, you probably know Tchort better under a different name then, such as Mephistopheles or Beelzebub.’
Keith, whoever he was and wherever he came from, was well over six feet tall, had a large head with hair cropped so short he looked almost bald; he was heavyset with a barrel chest , strong arms and hands the size of dinner plates but which were capable of the most intricate work on electronics boards and audio equipment.
And whoever he was and wherever Keith came from, he proved to be invaluable with all manner of technical skills, but despite his expertise, they could not get the sliding Shoji
screens to work and so Charlie had to revert to curtains. Black velvet curtains were hung from12” light duty stage lighting trusses, quickly bolted together to form a frame. The curtains hung from a curtain track and were electronically operated, activated by a TV remote control modified by Keith for the purpose, far more effective than the clumsy screens, enclosing and screening the guillotine in seconds. The shoji screen to the rear of the set did however remain, complete with the black calligraphic design, and back lit as Charlie intended, the screens looked very impressive. Charlie also retained the concept of shoji screens to the front of the set, mounting un-decorated screens on small moveable platforms that can be readily moved to one side.
Charlie and Selene now rehearsed the act, honing and defining, reducing it down to a minimum of movement. Stillness. Eerie silence. Macabre suspense. Execution. Death.
But never taking it to the ultimate climax, Selene’s decapitation.
By the time came for the television recording in Manchester, everything was in place, including the promised new van, one day a white Iveco 35C with a luton body backed up to the workshop. It was actually not new, but had low mileage and been well cared for with full service history, large enough for transporting all the props and equipment that Charlie would need for the road show with capacity to spare. He immediately sent the van to be re-sprayed black and then had a sign writer paint ‘CHARLES Chilton WITH SELENE’ in gold paint, Times New Roman font, 18 inches in height, to the sides and rear doors in in smaller letters to the front of the luton, simple and effective.