by Giles Ekins
And Keith remained, an indispensable part of the entourage, driver, stage hand, roadie, minder, the quiet man in the background who ensures that every piece of equipment, every prop, every effect, every light, every dimmer, every sound effect, was working perfectly. Charlie once asked how and how much he wanted paying but Keith just shrugged. ‘It’s taken care of’ and Charlie did not pursue the matter any further. But without him, Charlie the act, the illusion would not have been ready, or at least as finely tuned as it was.
And now here they were, Charles Chilton and Selene, on the stage at Studio no 8, ready to record the illusion for ‘The Wonderful World of Magic.’
TWENTY
Studio 4 Granada Studios. Manchester, the day of the recording
‘How in God’s name did I end up here on this stage, Henry is thinking. ‘I didn’t even put my hand up, never volunteer, my Dad used to say, but here I am and this is spooky. Dead spooky. Scary, even.’
A SINGLE BELL TOLLS A DEATH KNELL. Donnnnggggg,
The studio lights dim.
Donnnnggggg. The death knell tolls again, echoing around the studio walls.
Donnnnggggg ‘For whom the bell tolls,’ Charlie whispers, quoting John Donne, ‘it tolls for thee. For thee and me, Selene.’
Donnnnggggg. The lights dim further, the studio now in almost total darkness. A whispered susurration swirls around the audience like a Mexican wave.
Donnnnggggg. A spotlight spears out of the darkness; Charlie and Selene stand at the back of the studio, facing down towards the darkened set on stage.
Donnnnggggg. A spotlight at the rear of the set suddenly casts the ominous shadow of the guillotine onto the front shoji screen, stark and black against the white paper of the screen. A gasp of surprise from the audience who had had no idea of what illusion was to be or who the illusionist was. There had been no announcement, no forewarning, the guillotine; one of the most recognisable images in the world has been hidden from view from the moment the audience had been led to their seats by Geriko and Poppy, screened and in darkness.
Donnnnggggg. Charlie and Selene walk slowly down the steps, Selene in front, her hands tied loosely before her.
At each knell, they take another step further down until as they reach the stage, the dread knells cease. Sudden silence, a silence as dense as the darkness. Charlie slowly pushes the front wall of shoji aside as Selene turns and faces the audience, head bowed down in submission. The white Shantung silk clings to her body, outlined by the spot light from behind.
The guillotine is now fully revealed, silhouetted, black as night, black as hell. Black as death. Charlie had thought long and hard about the placing of the guillotine. Should it face the audience, so that Selene’s head will be seen to drop into the basket? No, too graphic, far too graphic. Should it face the rear, so that the back of the kneeling Selene will be seen from the audience? Or sideways, but then the impact of the guillotine silhouette is lost and again, the sight of the decapitated head dropping into the basket is too horrific. Finally he and Selene agree that it is best placed so that Selene is seen from the rear, kneeling on the padded black box. The audience will see the blade drop and Selene slump forward as she is decapitated. Charlie will then lift the head which will have dropped into a specially sewn bag so that as he lifts the head, the severed neck is hidden.
Another spotlight now further illumes the guillotine and the tiny spot Charlie had installed at the top of the device highlighting the glittering death-blade. Dry ice cubes are dropped into water, sublimating and curling up like fog or smoke, to further eerie the scene. Apart from the spotlight on Charlie and Selene and the others illuminating the guillotine, the rest of the stage and the audience seating is in total black darkness. Charlie slowly walks over to stand beside Selene, surveys the darkened expectant audience, holding them for long seconds, holding them, he has them by their balls and he knows it.
‘Friends,’ he announces at last in a slow resonant voice. ‘We are about to re-create for your amazement the execution of the Comtesse Marie-Josephine de Blacam, executed in France for the crimes of witchcraft, devil worship and sorcery’ and an animated buzz echoes around the audience. Charlie holds his hands up for quiet, holding them high until there is total silence. ‘I need a volunteer from the audience as witness. You sir, thank you, sir, come forward’ taking a bemused spectator from the aisle seat of the second row and leading him by the arm to the stage.
‘Thank you, sir, can you give me your name, please?’
‘Henry, Henry Clutterbuck.’
‘Henry, thank you. Now, have we ever met before?’
‘No, never, I don’t even know who you are.’
‘Charles, just Charles.’ Charlie takes an indelible pen from his pocket and hands it to the bewildered Henry, ‘how in God’s name have I ended up here on this stage, Henry is thinking. ‘I didn’t even put my hand up, never volunteer my old Dad used to say, but here I am and this is spooky. Dead spooky. Scary even. ‘Henry, can you please sign your name, or a secret word, the name of your cat or dog, anything, anything at all, just so long as it’s something I could not possibly have known in advance. Just write on the condemned’s forehead…’
Henry does so, signing his name, his hand shaking a little.
‘Thank you, please come with me,’ and he takes Selene by the arm and leads her over to the guillotine, Henry follows, nervously looking back towards the audience, trying to pick out his wife’s face in the darkness, looking for some reassurance, some solace, he really does not want to be out here.
The dread bells tolls again, three times.
Selene kneels down before the guillotine, straightens her back and then clasps her hands together as if in prayer. But who is she praying to? Charlie wonders.’ This is not what we rehearsed and thunderous hammers of anxiety pound into his heart, have Selene and Tchort got a hidden agenda going on here, am I being set up for something…but for what? To go down for manslaughter? To be held accountable to Satan for the death of one of his …whatever it is that she is?’ All these fearful, apprehensive thoughts race through his mind as Selene finishes her ’prayers’ and leans forward to be locked into the lunettes. Charlie snaps the padlocks and Henry is asked to verify that she is securely held in place, he hesitantly rattles the padlocks, pulls at the upper lunette and the nods in confirmation. Henry gazed fearfully up at the glistening blade; this does not look like a trick guillotine to me, no sir, most definitely not.
‘On the count of three,’ Charlie exhorts the crowd, ‘Henry. Count them down please.’
‘One’ his wavering voice drowned out by the audience, as Geriko Vorpalstone, primed by Charlie in the pre-rehearsal, non-rehearsal, waves his arms to encourage them.
‘Two,’ the audience are much louder this time.
‘Thr…’ but before they can complete the word, Charlie drops the blade. Screams of shock from the audience. Has something gone wrong, triggering the blade before the count? Selene slumps forward, apparently headless. More screams.
Swiftly Charlie reaches into the basket, lifts out Selene’s head and holding in in two hands, one hand supporting the weight of the head in the black bag, the other at the top of her head, blonde hair spilling out in a cascade. At least there are no gushing fountains of blood everywhere, Charlie thinks, that’s a good sign at least. He holds the head out towards Henry who stands there white faced, numb with shock, his hands shaking uncontrollably. ‘Henry, is this your signature?’
‘Yyyyessss. Yes.’
Selene’s eyes open wide. ‘Give us a kiss Henry,’ she says and all the lights in the studio go out and screams echo around the studio walls.
The studio lights slowly come back on…
Henry Clutterbuck makes his unsteady way back to his seat, his legs shaky and trembling unmindful of the uproar about his ears, the clapping and cheering as Selene is bathed in sudden spotlight at the head of the steps above him.
He sits down heavily, still shaken. His wife Jane takes his hand, ‘You all
right, love? You look very shaky’
‘Shit, who wouldn’t be, eh, after that?’
‘He didn’t really cut her head off though did he? It’s not possible is it? Must be clever lighting or mirrors or something, don’t you think?’ his wife said, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.
‘Maybe, but I don’t really know, Jane, I just don’t know. I don’t know what I saw. I don’t know if it’s a miracle, clever lighting like you say. Or something really sinister, magic. Sorcery.’
‘Sorcery, don’t be silly. Henry Come on, let’s go and have a drink, I think you need one.’
‘Yeah, right.’ They stand up and Jane takes his arm and they head towards the exit. They get to the door; Henry turns and has one last haunted look at the death-black guillotine. He saw what he saw. Or saw what he didn’t see or didn’t see what he saw. Or something. He did not sleep well that night.
HEADLESS BODY FOUND IN SALFORD QUAY. The ‘Manchester Evening News’ carried this story on the front page in its edition published the day after the recording.
The headless body of a young woman was discovered early this morning by the waterside at St Francis basin, Merchant’s Quay, which forms part of the revitalised Salford Quay redevelopment. The body was found by Mr. Arthur Machin, 67, a local resident as he was walking his dog along the quayside. ‘I can tell you,’ Mr. Machin said, ‘it were quite a shock coming across the poor girl like that, well in fact it were Suzy, the dog as actually found her, her legs sticking out from under the bushes, give me a turn, I can tell you. To do that to a young lass like that, he must be some kind of monster, no doubt about that.’
The body was fully clothed with no signs of sexual assault and was partially hidden behind bushes. It is not known how long the body remained undiscovered although Mr. Dennis Lee told police that he walked home from Hanrahans, a local public house at around 11.30 last night and definitely ‘saw no body there. It is not something you are likely to miss, no matter what time it is. If it had been there, there is no way I possibly have missed it, I walk right past the spot where the poor lass was found and she definitely was not there then.
The body is believed to be that of 17 year‘s old Sheila Anne Dudley who was reported missing by her parents last night when she did not return home after an evening out with friends however formal identification has still to be confirmed. The body has been transferred to Salford Royal Hospital for post mortem examination.
Police divers are searching the basin and police dogs are combing the area in a hunt to find the missing head. Police have cordoned off all routes and access to the murder scene and the area sealed off whilst investigations continue.
Detective Inspector David Milford of the Greater Manchester Police has appealed for information from local residents or any tourists who may have been in the area of Merchant’s Quay last night. ’Anyone who was in or around the area in the early hours of the morning and may have seen anything is requested to contact us as a matter of urgency. This is a particularly brutal crime and any information that the public might have, however trivial or seemingly unconnected, please bring it to our attention All information will be treated as confidential. Finally, the parents of Sheila Dudley have requested that they be left in peace in order to grieve and come to terms with their loss.
The police hotline for information is…
The story carried for several more days until interest waned. No arrests have been made, Sheila Dudley’s head was not recovered, but the case remains open and police investigations continue.
TWENTY-ONE
May, the Seville Theatre, Whitburn on Sea
‘You’ll never believe this Stan, but it’s that piss artist wanker Charlie Chilton, got is’self on the telly. Yeah, Chilton, you know, the Great I don’t think so Santini.’
CIGARETTE SMOKE SWIRLED ABOUT BENNY MARSDEN’S HEAD in a permanent haze as he sat at his desk, supposedly working, calculating the returns from the week’s business at the Seville. It was not pleasant reading and the owners of the theatre, a pair of elderly Whitburn spinsters who had inherited the theatre from their impresario father, Edmund de Vale, would not be happy, not happy at all. Every Monday morning the Miss Elspeth de Vale 79, and the Miss Edith de Vale 77, who lived in a 12 bedroom Victorian Gothic monstrosity overlooking the cliffs at Whitburn’s North Beach, came down to the theatre in a black 1947 Rolls Royce Silver Wraith with Hooper built bodywork, driven by their equally ancient chauffer cum gardener Desmond Bullock 76,who always parked the Rolls directly in front of the theatre, despite the double yellow lines and No Parking signs, exactly as he had done for the past fifty years. Traffic wardens, for some reasons, never seemed to notice the large illegally parked black Rolls-Royce, but woe betide anybody else who tried it; you’d find a parking ticket stuck to your windscreen before you’d had time to turn the ignition off.
Miss Elspeth was tiny and bird-like and always smelled of rose water and Miss Edith, not so tiny and who smelled of lavender water would pore over the previous week’s takings and outgoings, clucking and frowning, their disapproval growing as each year their profits diminished and the overheads grew. ‘This is not good Mr. Marsden,’ they would exclaim in unison, ‘Or this season’s houses are well down compared to five years ago.’
Blame Stan Elkman, not me, thought Benny, ‘He’s the one with the management contract, has had for years and he doesn’t help by sending me a load of so called talent on the bill year after year. None of these non-entities, this bottom of the barrel dross are going to bring the punters in, put paying bums on seats. Take it up with Stan, not me. Who is going to pay good money to see the likes of Dickie Wallace, the world’s un-funniest funny man who heads the bill again? Or Mandy Sweet? Again. There was another magician, if anything even more inept than Charlie Chilton. But at least he had a rabbit to pull out of the hat. And, for fuck’s sake, a girl with long hair who hooks it onto a rope and then swings about the stage, by her hair, that’s really going to put arses on seats.
Even the weather was against him, it had been fine all week and it was looking to be the worst week in takings he had ever known, the worst week for takings in living memory and he was not looking forward to the Monday morning Inquisition from Miss Elspeth and Miss Edith. He scans the computer printout of the week’s figures looking for something positive to tell them but even the bar takings are down. Talking of which,’ Benny pops open a can of Fosters and pours himself a beer, his third of the night.
He was half-heartedly watching the show on a CCTV monitor relayed from the stage It was a dog act. He hates dog acts. Two pimped up poodles jumping through hoops held by Sally Derrick, their trainer. Whoopty-doo, please don’t let me die from excitement. No wonder no bugger wants to come and watch this shit? Literal shit, dog shit, as one of the poodles squats and defecates. ‘Stupid bitch, don’t feed the fucking mongrels before the show,’ he shouts at the screen.
Across the other side of his tiny office, Benny has a TV set up on which he is also half watching, ‘The Wonderful World of Magic’ on BBC. A ventriloquism act has just finished, the ventriloquist so abjectly poor he would probably end up on next year’s Whitburn bill and Jackie Smiley, the show’s host comes on, clapping his hands, all bouffant hair, pearly teeth and false bonhomie. Benny knows Jackie Smiley from old, as poisonous a human being as ever walked this earth, he’d sell his Grandma’s false teeth if he thought he could make a bob or two out of them and you never, ever, leave your back exposed to him, he was a devious manipulator who would fuck you over in a heartbeat and enjoy doing so and he revelled in destroying the careers of anyone he considered to be a rival, or simply anybody he did not like which included most of the human race. ‘Smarmy bastard.’
‘Thank you, thank you, Uncle George and his Best Friend Willy what a wonderful act,’ Jackie extolls, ‘I wish my best friend Willy could talk, the tales he could tell. Now here’s a thing,’ Jackie said, quoting his irritating catchphrase, ‘no missus, not that kind of thing, go back to sleep. Now here’s a thing,
as you know, every week I try to bring you the best in magic and illusion from around the world. The best. No expense spared, you would never know that this is a BBC show.’
He pauses for a burst of canned laughter. ‘This next act, I have never seen the like before. Never Ever. Seen the like. Now I’ve been around magic for a good few years now,’ he pauses, ‘yes dear, I know I don’t look old enough’ he simpers to more canned laughter, ‘but I reckon, I reckon that I know how most illusions are created. This next act however, I have NO idea how it’s performed. In fact I’m not sure I even want to know how it’s performed.’
‘Now here’s a thing’ you’ll have noticed that this broadcast is going out later than usual, well you must have done else you would have already missed it, wouldn’t you? It is going out later solely because of this act. Children and those of a nervous disposition, I recommend that you do not watch this. Now there’s a thing, turning away good viewers.
‘Get the fuck on with it,’ Benny says, taking a drink. ‘Arsehole!’
For the most unusual…and I might say the most frightening magic act you will ever see, ‘The Wonderful World of Magic’ is proud to present ‘CHARLES CHILTON with SELENE and ‘THE DEVIL’S GUILLOTINE!’
‘What the fuck,’ Benny splutters, splurting beer all over the printout and the CCTV monitor. ‘Charlie Chilton, I don’t fucking believe it.’ He picks up the telephone, looks up a number from a tatty address book and dials.
Meanwhile, on the TV screen:
A single bell tolls a death knell. Donnnnggggg. The studio lights dim.