A Shot in the Dark

by Lynne Truss

  Looking again, he thought it might well be, which would be quite a coincidence, what with Brunswick being here as well, and Mrs Groynes – and then suddenly all the doubt and fear that Steine had banked up inside himself was released in a glorious dam-burst, because now he knew! He knew for sure! If all these people were here, and pretending not to see him, this must all be part of the This Is Your Life conspiracy!

  Why else would a reporter be present here tonight? Why else would Brunswick be here with his girlfriend, canoodling like the rest of the hoi polloi so as not to draw attention to himself? Perhaps Twitten’s lengthy disappearance from the station had all been connected to the plans for the show as well! Perhaps he’d been ferrying Mother from Croydon Airport!

  Steine stopped worrying about the Hippodrome audience. He thought of his famous childhood misdemeanour at the HMSO shop and glowed with pride. It would make a wonderful story for the television viewers. A little boy running off from the zoo to check the exact wording of the paragraph ‘Disregard of Traffic Signals’, with reference to Section 49 of the Road Traffic Act, 1930!

  ‘What he said at the time,’ continued his mother in this fantasy, ‘was that: “An elephant would always look the same, Mummy! Whereas Section 49 of the Traffic Act was rightly subject to legislative revision!”’

  * * *

  When the whole affair was over, Steine was forced to concede that he was glad to have seen Professor Mesmer ‘at the height of his powers’, because right up to the climactic moment when the tragedy occurred, it had been a truly magnificent show.

  Initially, Mesmer himself was hard to make out under the beard and hat and bushy eyebrows, but in any case the distinctive thing about him turned out to be his voice. The accent was classless, the tone warm and open, the effect reassuring. In fact, the impact he had on the audience was so profound that it was inexplicable in rational terms: one moment they were a rowdy, overexcited crowd, spitting grape skins on the floor and starting small, localised fights; the next, they were quiet and focused, and not even chewing, with expectant smiles on their faces.

  There was nothing solemn or forbidding about Professor Mesmer, however. He merely projected – in a genial, relaxed way – authority. The blazing lights, which had rendered all the other turns garish, conferred on him a godly radiance. Using charts and jokes, Mesmer spoke first about the old art (or science) of phrenology, with all its highfalutin’ language of ‘organs’. This elicited the expected sniggers. But then he turned serious, insisting that phrenology did not lie. Finally, he announced that he would be reading some heads and also doing a couple of safe experiments with ‘phreno-magnetism’ – and then the show began.

  ‘Who will be first, ladies and gentlemen?’ he asked. A drum rolled, and Mesmer put a hand up to shield his eyes from the light as he scanned the audience for likely subjects.

  ‘Me! Me!’ came cries from sections of the auditorium, as Mesmer’s gaze swept over them. One young woman shouted, ‘I love you, Professor Mesmer,’ and it made him smile, but he carried on scanning.

  Steine had never experienced anything like this. Was it entertainment, really? Should it perhaps be banned? And then Mesmer shouted, ‘You, sir! In the uniform!’ and the drum roll was rounded off with a cymbal (‘Tsh!’) and Steine stood up to look round again and see who had been picked out, and realised that, weirdly, everyone was looking at him.

  ‘It’s you, dear,’ said Mrs Groynes.

  ‘What?’ Steine sat down. ‘Are you sure?’

  There was a murmur from the crowd – mostly a groan of disappointment that the chosen person was nobody they knew.

  ‘Would you care to come up, sir?’ Mesmer said, extending his hand.

  Steine hesitated. Could he plead he was on duty? Could he feign a nosebleed? If he ran for the door, would anyone stop him? While he was quickly considering all these attractive options (he liked the nosebleed best), Mrs Groynes got up and pulled him to his feet.

  ‘He’s coming,’ she yelled. ‘He’s coming if I have to drag him up, dear!’

  To laughter and applause, she started to march Steine towards the stage.

  ‘Care to come up yourself, madam?’ Mesmer asked. ‘I’ve got plenty of room.’ He indicated five elegant chairs lined up on the stage.

  But Mrs Groynes flapped her hands at him as if to say, ‘Come off it’, and went back to her seat, to a ripple of laughter. Meanwhile Steine found himself walking up the steps onto the blindingly bright stage, where Professor Mesmer waited, arms open in a gesture of welcome and reassurance.

  Steine noted that the smell on the stage was a powerful mixture of face powder, Brylcreem, lavender, rubber adhesive and explosives, but a quick search of his memory failed to explain why this could possibly be significant.

  ‘Now, I’m known for how perceptive I am, and I’m guessing you’re a policeman,’ said Mesmer, with a smile.

  The audience responded with a mixture of laughs, whoops, jeers and boos.

  Steine introduced himself. There was a very small buzz of recognition when he gave his name, which was somewhat disappointing. Just one person shouted, ‘Hooray!’ and Steine had a horrible suspicion it was Brunswick. He felt sweat trickle down his cheek. It was hot up here. When he turned to look back to Mrs Groynes, he could see nothing beyond the footlights. This was not like talking on the radio.

  ‘Have you ever been phrenologised before?’

  ‘Of course not. I mean, I don’t think so. I mean, no.’

  ‘Well, there’s no need to worry, it won’t hurt.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  Mesmer repeated this for the audience, as if it was exceptionally witty. ‘He said, “Oh, good,” ladies and gentlemen. Now, I need you to sit on this chair, sir, and I’ll stand behind you, and I’ll place my hands on your head. I can already see you have some interestingly enlarged organs.’

  The crowd laughed and whistled.

  ‘I do apologise, sir. But that’s Brighton for you.’

  Steine sat down, full of dread. His mind was racing: when was This Is Your Life going to break this up? Why hadn’t this awful crowd ever heard of him? And then Mesmer’s hands were on his head, and he felt something he had never felt before: all the apprehensiveness in his mind – indeed, all the tension in his entire body – dissolved and flooded out of him.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, what I find here immediately,’ pronounced Mesmer, ‘is a man who knows the difference between right and wrong. Am I correct?’

  Steine nodded, dumbly. It was as much as he could do not to weep. The crowd was agog. Mesmer’s hands were lightly pressing all over Steine’s cranium, each finger finding a new spot, as if his head were an accordion.

  ‘Now, there are people who are good,’ continued Mesmer. ‘And there are people who just know the difference between right and wrong. This man, I would say –’ here he concentrated on the upper regions of the head ‘– is a good man, and a trusting one. What I’m feeling here is someone who is not afraid to take things at face value. Is that right?’

  Again, Steine didn’t speak, so Mrs Groynes called out from her seat. ‘That’s uncanny, dear. He does take things at face value, bless him.’

  ‘He is a leader, by nature. Not a follower. I am seeing a rather serious child, ladies and gentlemen – a child perhaps that parents didn’t understand; if they didn’t have much imagination, they might even have found him unlovable. But that was their failing, not his. Perhaps he was always playing the policeman? Yes? On the side of law and order? Maybe sometimes his zeal for right and wrong made him a bit unpopular with his little friends?’

  Steine sniffed. This was a far cry from what he’d been expecting tonight, but at the same time it was astonishing, and he didn’t want it to end.

  ‘He’s a lousy rozzer!’ shouted someone from the audience.

  Mesmer held up a hand.

  ‘Now, stop that,’ he said. ‘Many men in the position of Inspector Steine are cynical and self-seeking. They are, in short, lousy rozzers.’

&
nbsp; The audience laughed.

  ‘But, believe me, I find nothing remotely corrupt – or even corruptible – about this man. He is if anything too trusting. But if he sees the goodness in people rather than the badness, I for one celebrate it as a breath of fresh air. Brighton is lucky to have such a man. I salute you, Inspector Steine!’

  And with that, Mesmer removed his hands from Steine’s head, and the audience applauded with enthusiasm – especially the large criminal element, for whom this information was extremely useful.

  When it came to standing up again, Steine found that he couldn’t, but Mesmer said – wonderfully –‘No, you can remain seated, sir. I’ve had an idea.’ So Steine was able to stay on the stage, which was a great relief. The idea of stumbling back down into the smelly pit, and rejoining the mortals, was horrible to him. He felt he now deserved to be part of this show for ever, and if Eamonn Andrews had walked on at this minute, interrupting everything, the inspector would have leaped up and punched him on the nose.

  ‘Yes, I’ve had an idea,’ Mesmer continued. ‘I’d like to ask that lady to come up, after all.’ And he called Mrs Groynes up onto the stage, amid cheers. Then Mesmer looked down to the front row, and indicated Twitten.

  ‘There’s another policeman down there, ladies and gentlemen,’ he explained. ‘Let’s get him up here too and have some fun.’ The men sitting either side of Twitten gave him a push up, and he actually climbed straight onto the stage, without using the steps, which to Steine seemed slightly odd, especially when Twitten, wild-eyed, lunged for him, saying, ‘Sir, thank goodness, I must talk to you! It’s very important! It’s enormous!’

  Steine was alarmed: was Twitten threatening to ruin this wonderful show? He was relieved when Mesmer grasped the constable by the shoulders and moved him forcibly to the other end of the row of chairs – where Twitten, still agitated, sat down.

  ‘Now, please tell me your name and why you are here tonight with a senior policeman,’ Mesmer asked Mrs Groynes.

  ‘I’m the station charlady, aren’t I? My name’s Palmeira. Palmeira Groynes.’

  The audience applauded. They approved of Palmeira already.

  ‘Palmeira? Like Palmeira Square in Hove?’

  ‘Named after Palmeira Square in Hove, in fact. I was conceived in the gardens there, by all accounts.’

  ‘So you might equally have been called Russell?’

  ‘That’s right, dear. A lucky escape.’

  ‘Now, Palmeira. I’d like to use phreno-magnetism on you. It’s a kind of hypnosis. Is there any skill that you wish you had? Can you stand on your hands, for example?’

  ‘I don’t wish to stand on my hands, thank you.’

  ‘What about singing? Can you sing?’

  Mrs Groynes seemed to think about it. ‘Not a note, dear. Sadly.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Mesmer asked Inspector Steine.

  ‘Well, she does hum a bit while she’s mopping.’

  The audience laughed, while Mesmer repeated it. ‘She hums a bit while she’s mopping!’

  Under cover of the laughter, Twitten slid along the row of chairs and tugged at Steine’s jacket. ‘Sir! I don’t know what’s going on here, sir. But I know everything else and Mrs Groynes is –’

  ‘What’s all this?’ said Mesmer, smiling.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Steine, pushing Twitten away. ‘I can only apologise. He’s very keen.’ He addressed Twitten. ‘This can wait, Constable.’

  Reluctantly, Twitten returned to the chair at the far end. Steine tried not to look at him.

  Then Mesmer turned back to Mrs Groynes, who was now seated in front of him, and began the bump-feeling process again. Once more, there was an intense hush.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I must inform you that this lady is far cleverer than she looks,’ said Mesmer.

  ‘Golly, you can say that again,’ muttered Twitten.

  ‘But what I find most enlarged on this head is the organ of Loyalty. Palmeira is a very caring person when it comes to people close to her. She also has a massive organ of Precognisance. Are you very good at planning, Palmeira? Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, dear. I am.’

  ‘When you plan ahead, you think of everything?’

  ‘Yes, dear. I think I do.’

  ‘Every last detail?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Because sometimes a lot depends on it.’

  ‘That’s right. But never fear, dear. Never fear. We’re nearly there.’

  There was a moment when Mesmer seemed to be taking stock, and the audience held its collective breath. Sitting beside Mrs Groynes, Steine was as bemused (but enchanted) as everyone else. Then Mesmer broke the spell.

  ‘But it’s the singing we were going to talk about! I need you to trust me now, Palmeira, and let yourself lose control. Just for a moment, you see, you must give control.’

  Mrs Groynes was motionless under his hands.

  ‘So, imagine you are mopping the floor and humming, mopping and humming, and I take the mop from you – gently, gently – and now I’ve got it, you see, but it goes on smoothly, mopping, mopping, it goes on smoothly, the only difference is that I’m doing it, not you.’

  He took his hands away, and the audience gasped. Mrs Groynes was in a trance. ‘Can you hear me, Palmeira?’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘Can you sing?’

  ‘I can, dear. Like a canary, if I say so myself.’

  ‘That’s good. Now, I’d like you to sing “The Boy I Love is Up in the Gallery” – can you do that?’ He looked down to the orchestra pit. ‘Maestro?’

  The audience was spellbound. Inspector Steine was spellbound. Brunswick and Maisie, in the third row aisle-seats, were both spellbound. Twitten alone, watched closely by thugs in the front row – and spotting thugs guarding the wings at both sides of the stage – was in turmoil.

  And then the orchestra struck up the introduction, and Mrs Groynes rose from her seat, had a little cough, clasped her hands to her chest, and sang.

  * * *

  After the applause died down, Mesmer turned to Twitten.

  ‘Young man,’ he said. ‘You don’t seem very comfortable up here.’

  ‘I’m not.’ There were boos from the audience, and cries of ‘Shame!’

  Twitten raised his voice. ‘I’m not here of my own free will, for a start!’

  Steine shot him a very stern look. He found Twitten’s unsporting attitude to all this intensely embarrassing. ‘Look, if it’s good enough for me, young man,’ he said – and earned a round of applause.

  ‘I don’t wish to do anything you’re not happy with, Constable, but I’ve had an idea,’ said Mesmer, moving along the row of chairs to stand behind Twitten. ‘It sounds a little dangerous, but I promise there will be no permanent effect.’

  He stood behind Twitten and placed his hands in position.

  ‘It’s as I thought! Ladies and gentlemen, this young man has an exceptional head, an amazing head. The head, I might say, of a genius.’

  Twitten, who had just drawn breath to make another loud protest, stopped and bit his lip. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘You can tell that?’

  ‘Yes, I thought you’d like that,’ said Mesmer, to a laugh from the audience. ‘But I never flatter. I can honestly say that this is the cleverest person I’ve ever had under my hands – and I’m afraid that includes you, Inspector. And you, Palmeira. The sharpness of intellect here is phenomenal. What do you say to that, young man?’

  ‘I’m amazed.’

  ‘Amazed that you’re a genius?’

  ‘No, of course not! That you can tell I’m a genius from feeling my head, when phrenology has long been discredited as so much unscientific mumbo-jumbo!’

  Steine winced with embarrassment.

  ‘And I hope you realise,’ Twitten went on, ‘that phrenology as a system has always been eagerly adopted by eugenicists and racists?’

  Steine adopted a thoughtful, faraway look.

  ‘He forgets, ladies
and gentlemen,’ laughed Mesmer, ‘that I’m quite clever, too. Now, I’m not going to put you into a trance, young man. In your case, I am simply going to use a trigger word while I have your full attention. And given the circumstances, the trigger word for this experiment will be “Einstein”. Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is Einstein acceptable to you? Einstein?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t use a trigger word at all, sir.’

  Again the audience started booing.

  ‘As I said before,’ Twitten went on, ‘I don’t like this, and I am here under duress, and I need to speak urgently with the inspector about a very dangerous person who is in our midst right now. But thank you very much for calling me a genius.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Constable, but my experiment has already begun.’

  ‘What?’

  The audience laughed.

  ‘I have already spoken the trigger word, and believe it or not you are in a state of hypnosis, so it would be highly inadvisable to break off suddenly. When you next hear the word from me, the experiment will be over, and you’ll be restored to normal. Do you understand?’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like I’m in a state of hypnosis.’

  ‘But you are. Trust me. You are in my power.’

  ‘You won’t make me sing?’

  The audience laughed.

  ‘No, no. We’ve done that.’

  ‘I still don’t like it.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing you can do. I have said the trigger word. Anything I suggest to you now, you will simply believe until I say the word again.’

  ‘Anything you suggest to me? Like what?’

  Twitten’s mind raced. Mrs Groynes must be behind this, but how would she get this phrenologist to go along, and what would she ask him to do anyway, and why choose the bally word ‘Einstein’, that was a bit insulting –

  ‘Now, the lady sitting to your right – can you name her?’

  ‘Yes. Mrs Groynes.’ She is behind this, he thought. Of course she’s behind this. But what is she playing at?