Now We Are Ten: Celebrating the First Ten Years of NewCon Press

by Peter F. Hamilton

  It was a pouch of gold. It was something we had only come across before in stage directions. The coins looked old and pure and a world away from the worn coppers the Sevengravers measured out their lives with.

  And you might not believe it, but we did actually try to turn him down. We were so high on the performance that even Timoti told him that he should find more deserving beneficiaries of his largesse, but Mr Collar was insistent. “This was a real performance,” he told us, “and deserves real remuneration. Please, take the purse with my blessings.”

  So in the end we took his money and everyone lived happily ever after.

  Well, not quite.

  *

  We returned to the Municipal Hall and went on with a dress rehearsal in which absolutely everything went wrong. At one point Sidney and I very nearly fought to the death with prop swords over a missed cue. The next night, we went up.

  We filled about a third of the dry seats, which meant about a sixth of the house. The Sevengravers watched us strut and fumble our way through the play as though they’d only just been introduced to the concept of drama and didn’t much like it. There was some desultory clapping at the end. The total take hadn’t been quite enough to buy everyone a pint. At around that point, those of us who had received Mr Collar’s little dividend talked very seriously about sharing the wealth around, just to cheer everyone up. But somehow we never quite did. It was out little secret.

  The second night was more than half full. I spotted some return faces from the first. Our spirits began to pick up and so did our performance. From the third to the ninth we were sold out and there were people standing in the aisles by the end. They were weary and poor, and some paid in coppers and others in firewood and root vegetables, but by God they came to see us play. I don’t think anything the full company put on quite matched that magical afternoon in the orphanage, but we came together even so. Sidney mastered his role and played that marvellously understated death scene to a tee, and Edith remembered which play she was in, and Alfonso and Magritte made them laugh right up to the point where we all made them cry. They cheered us after each house, and if it wasn’t that rapt silence we’d had before, it was good enough.

  I met Alexander once, you know – in that world where he was real and not just a character in a play. You’d never have picked him as someone to inspire a great romance of the ages. And I, having studied the part before I met him, didn’t have the heart to tell him how everything would work out.

  All too soon we came to the end of our final night, and there were even some bouquets for the ladies, and some jugs of homebrew for everyone, and if half our takings were in coppers then at least the other half were generally edible so we weren’t going to starve. Doctor Kampfe went round the company and shook everyone’s hand, and made sure we all acknowledged how right he’d been about the nine nights.

  That was when Mr Collar turned up. None of saw him enter: he was just there in the dressing room, waiting politely with his hat in his hands.

  I went over to him, still bubbling with the joy of a good performance, and offered him a drink. He declined politely. “Actually, I was rather hoping for a word with Doctor Kampfe.”

  Well that was awkward, because of course the Good Doctor didn’t know what had been going on behind his back, but there was nothing I could do about it now. I decided I would sell the whole thing as a bit of extra rehearsal and hoped nobody would mention the money.

  So I let Mr Collar between happy actors intent on inebriation until we got to Doctor Kampfe.

  I saw something was wrong the moment they laid eyes on each other. The Good Doctor knew Mr Collar instantly, and Mr Collar’s air of genial whimsy was gone as though it had never been. When he smiled, you could have shaved with it.

  “I thought that was rather a good show,” he remarked.

  “Thank you. We do what we can with the material given us,” Doctor Kampfe replied with precise cordiality.

  “So you always said,” Mr Collar observed. “I’m glad to see you’ve been honing your skills, Doctor, but I would remind you that your presence is requested.”

  Doctor Kampfe leant back and took a swallow from the jug we were passing around. “Your master can request as much as he wants. I’m still on tour.”

  “Not any more.” That shaving-sharp smile glinted. “Come on, Doctor, you know the terms of your contract better than anyone.”

  “I do.” Doctor Kampfe was utterly unconcerned. “Come back when I finish a run of something. Until then, bark all you want, but don’t pretend you’ll bite.”

  By now everyone was listening, ready to manhandle Mr Collar out the stage door if he got nasty.

  “Your run is finished,” said Mr Collar, with masterful double meaning.

  “The small print is quite clear on the subject,” Doctor Kampfe disagreed. “‘A run shall constitute ten performances of the same play before the Players move on...’ I have the contract about me if you want to check...”

  Mr Collar was also good at deadpan. “And congratulations on a fine tenth performance.”

  Doctor Kampfe went very still. “Nine,” he said. “Sometimes less but never more than nine.”

  In the wake of his words I was left feeling as though I had done something very unwise indeed. And I had been manipulated, surely, but an actor, of all people, has no business complaining he has been tricked.

  “A matinee for the orphans of Saint Agatha’s,” Mr Collar stated. “Truly a masterpiece. Performed by your company and paid for, handsomely. The day before you opened here.”

  The Doctor’s eyes sought mine and then Timoti’s. He must have known the truth by the way we avoided his gaze. He fumbled from his jacket a cracklingly old document and unfolded it with shaking hands. He really did have the contract on him. It was that important.

  “Don’t look so downcast. You’re still my master’s favourite, and think of the actors you’ll have the pick of,” Mr Collar told him. “They almost all come to us in the end, after all. It’s such a venal profession.”

  Doctor Kampfe looked up from the contract. I knew he must have been looking for some clause that rendered our little charity gig null and void. I think it was the payment that did it, though. When we took Mr Collar’s gold, the performance was entered in the books as official.

  “It has been a while since I saw the old place.” Doctor Kampfe looked older than I’d ever seen him.

  “Three hundred years of nine-night runs,” agreed Mr Collar. “Everything is as you left it.”

  “Of course it is.” He didn’t rage, our Doctor Kampfe. He didn’t curse me for my greed or folly. He was the manager, after all, and had to retain his dignity before mere actors.

  “And perhaps my master will allow you another sabbatical, some time. Albeit one with more rigorously worded terms. You’d think, with all the lawyers we have to hand, we’d have spotted that one.” Mr Collar gestured grandly and one of the walls of the dressing room opened up as though hidden machinery had moved it. Behind it was...

  I don’t want to say just what I saw behind it. If you want to imagine the usual mummery of flames and tormented souls and red-skinned goat-men with pitchforks, then I won’t say you’re wrong, but it doesn’t do it justice. And deep down in all of that, on some distant lower circle, I saw a stage.

  Doctor Kampfe turned to us and spread his hands. “My friends, my companions,” he said, “I leave Timoti to stand in my place. He knows where everything is, and is good with money. There’s little more to the craft of a theatrical manager, truth be told. And, as and when each of you should find your way to join me, you may be assured of a sympathetic audition. You’ve often heard it said that there is a special place down below reserved for actors, and now you know this to be true, but it’s a place of privilege. Even the Lord of the Pit enjoys a good show.”

  And then he bowed and stepped back past the notional boundary of that fourth wall, and abruptly all that we had seen there was gone, and we were within a conventionally-bounde
d dressing room once more and staring at each other.

  Needless to say the orphanage business got a full airing and we had to spread the gold around or risk the company coming apart at the seams. I consider myself justly chastened.

  Later that night most of the company were either asleep or swapping anecdotes about when other actors not present had royally screwed up. Nobody was talking about our lost leader, though everyone was thinking of him. Timoti di Venezi was already poring over the Doctor’s maps and working out which town we’d play next, while the old man who adapted our scripts was scratching the first pages of a new tragedy. I didn’t want to look at the dramatis persona. I knew who’d be at the head of it.

  Instead I found Felice, who had been fending off John Worthing’s sodden advances, and we went out into the stalls to look at the moon through the holes in the roof. We had the last jug of the Sevengraves homebrew, and were comfortable enough with our general dislike of each other that nothing untoward was likely to happen. What we had not expected was to find Mr Collar, red-lined cloak and all, sitting and staring at the stage as though all the world were contained there.

  We were sufficiently drunk that we accosted him at once, utterly forgetting who and what he must be. Felice went so far as to prod him in the chest and snap, “I suppose that was all fakery then, the orphanage, your bedridden ward? All just a trick to get to Doctor Kampfe?”

  I waited for the explosion, but Mr Collar just shook his head sadly. “Not at all. Do you think I can show no real kindness or charity? What else do we do on vacation abroad, but those things forbidden to us at home?” He rolled his shoulders and stretched in a way most inhuman, as though the shape was constricting him. “Count yourself lucky that you are an actress, my dear. Some of us spend our entire lives playing the demon king.”

  The Tenth Man

  Bryony Pearce

  “You’ve got the paperwork?” The nurse held out his hand. Or was he a nurse? My eyes went to the cuffs on his belt, the walkie-talkie.

  I stuttered a reply, offering the folder I had almost forgotten to bring in from the car. “A letter from the university, permission from his wife, notes from his doctor.”

  The nurse, guard, care assistant – what was he? – nodded. “It all seems to be in order.” But he didn’t move.

  I glanced at my watch. “I don’t have –”

  “Of course.” He shuffled, suddenly less intimidating. “What do you know about Professor Macguire, Mr Thomas?

  “He’s the leader in his field at Oxford – particle physics, he believes in multiple universes –”

  The nurse held up a chapped finger.

  “About his illness, I mean.”

  It was my turn to fidget. I cleared my throat. “Dissociative Identity Disorder, that’s what I was told.”

  “And you know what that is?”

  I glanced at my own reflection in the glass below the exit sign. “It’s like schizophrenia, isn’t it?

  The nurse shook his head. “Schizophrenia has a number of symptoms, including hallucinations, delusions and muddled thoughts. It’s usually diagnosed between the ages of fifteen and thirty-five. Professor Macguire was sixty when he was brought in; he suffers no hallucinations, his thoughts are clear.” The nurse returned my folder. “Professor Macaguire has the most astonishing case of D.I.D that we have ever seen.”

  “Which means what?” I leaned forward.

  The nurse touched my arm. “Professor Macguire has ten distinct personalities inhabiting his body.”

  “Ten ...” I cleared my throat again. “How do you know there are ten?”

  “As I said,” the nurse rubbed his chin and I heard the rasp of five o clock shadow, even though it was barely ten am. “They are distinct personalities. All are male and seem to be the same age, but they have very different histories, mannerisms, beliefs and even knowledge. Professor Macguire, as you know, was a world expert in his field. Number two, for example, can barely count to ten – and needs to use his fingers for that.”

  “Is.” I snapped.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You said he was an expert in his field.” I tucked the folder back into my rucksack. “Even with his... problems, Professor Macguire remains the foremost expert in multiple universe theory and dimensional research in the world. That’s why I’m here.” I straightened. “I’m doing my PhD on his work, hoping to take it forward towards completion.”

  The nurse took a step away from me, less friendly. “Look, this is standard information for a new visitor. A warning if you like. Professor Macguire himself – he’s a nice guy. Two’s a bit on the slow side - childish, but you’ll like him if you meet him. Three, Four and Five, are almost ... primitive. Six thinks he’s from some kind of world of the future. Eight and Nine seem like normal businessmen; you can tell the difference between them because Nine thinks he has kids and Eight is a foul-mouthed bastard, mind my French. But Seven and Ten...” He hesitated, touched his cuffs. “It’s not always easy to tell, which is why we don’t usually allow visitors, but there are signs. If the Professor begins to limp, or seems to be having trouble using his left hand, it’s Seven. Get as far away from him as possible – put the bed or desk between you – and hit the panic button.”

  “Why, what does he –?”

  “There’s a reason he was hospitalised, Mr Thomas.”

  “The... incident?”

  “That was Seven. At least we think so.”

  “And Ten?”

  “If Ten surfaces, stay calm, but hit the panic button. He’s not violent, or hasn’t been yet, but –”

  “How will I know?”

  “It’s hard to distinguish Ten from Professor Macguire himself, but there are signs. Ten will start talking about the end of the world.”

  “If he’s not violent, why is it so important to get out?”

  “Ten’s a sociopath. He’ll manipulate you. He talked another patient into killing herself, which is why we keep the Professor in isolation. Even after that he was able to persuade one of my colleagues into attempting to free him. People who speak to Ten don’t come out the same, Mr Thomas. He does something to them. The rate of violence and suicide among his visitors is significantly above the national average. We can’t prove anything but...”

  “You think he can talk me into, what – setting fire to the student union?” I snorted.

  The nurse sighed. “This is your warning, Mr Thomas. The hospital won’t be liable if something happens to you during your visit with Professor Macguire, or afterwards.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then will you sign this, thereby freeing the hospital from liability?” The nurse pushed a clipboard at me.

  Impatiently I scrawled my name with the pencil stub provided.

  “Now, if you’ll go through the metal detector.” He gestured. “It’s like an airport – can I confirm that you have no sharp objects, nail scissors, penknives, nail files or anything similar you might have forgotten to leave in your vehicle?”

  “Nothing like that.” I shook my head. “All I have is my tape recorder, notebook, pen –”

  “You’ll need to hand that in.” The nurse held out his hand.

  “The tape recorder?” I frowned.

  “The pen.” He took it from me. “If you have to write we’ve got crayons.”

  “Are you serious?” I frowned.

  The nurse mimed stabbing me with the biro by way of explanation and I flinched. “Or stamp on it and you’ve got yourself some plastic shards.” He chose a blue crayon from a box beside his screen and handed it over.

  I turned the Crayola over and stared at the blunted end. “Bloody hell.”

  “Are you sure you want to go through with the visit?”

  I nodded. Without Professor Macguire I had nothing for my PhD. The only science related career I’d be able to hope for was teaching it. I shuddered. “Lead on.”

  *

  The Professor’s room was one of several on the floor, but the others seemed unocc
upied. I frowned as we walked past yet another empty unit.

  “We had to clear the rest of the corridor.” The nurse said, correctly translating my raised eyebrow. “Ten kept speaking to them through his door. There was mass hysteria and we can’t keep him permanently sedated.”

  “Or gagged.” I quipped into the awkward silence.

  “Right.” The nurse stopped outside the only closed door and handed me a button on what seemed to be a small box. “Your panic button. Remember – limping, having difficulty with his left hand, or talking about the end of the world. I won’t be far.”

  I swallowed and took the box. Then I watched the nurse loosen his cuffs and unlock the door.

  *

  The Professor sat at his desk with his back to me; he was staring out of his small window and I could see papers under his elbow; numbers, equations. My heart beat faster: he was still working.

  His hair was longer than in the photographs: a dark salt-and-pepper grey, it curled over the back of his collar to brush against his broad shoulders, thicker even than mine.

  He made no move as the door opened and the nurse guided me in.

  “Professor?” The nurse curled one hand around his walkie-talkie. “Professor Macguire?” The nurse looked at the papers crumped beneath his patient’s arm.

  The man sighed. “Yes, William, it’s me.” He turned slowly. He was bigger than I’d expected. He must have spent time in the gym, using weights, driving his thoughts on treadmills. Now he was starting to sag, to waste away.

  “You have a visitor. I’ll have to look after your pencil until he’s gone.”

  The Professor looked me up and down with a slight frown.

  “He’s from the university.” The nurse picked up the pencil that was lying on the Professor’s papers and tucked it into his pocket. He pointed me towards the guest chair beside the desk. I started forwards.

  “He has a panic button?” The Professor’s dark, almost girlish lashes dropped as he looked at my hand.