by David Haynes
They crossed Boulevard Clichy, which was a tumult of cabs and buses, before criss-crossing their way along the quieter residential streets to Rue Chaptal.
“You would not believe it but Le Grand Guignol was, until only a few years ago, a chapel. Not that I ever went there of course, but it is such a strange transformation in a city such as this. Don’t you think?”
“I suppose so. Although I always imagine vicars, priests and such like are performing when they conduct their sermons.”
“Not like these performances though, eh? Here, turn down this one.” Blair ushered him onto a narrow street running off Rue Chaptal.
The street was unlit and due to the narrow dimensions, the lights from Rue Chaptal faded to almost nothing after only a few steps. The street was further cast into darkness by the trees, which stooped and drooped over their heads. The branches hung their heads wearily as if shamed by the neatly clipped greenery overhanging the fashionable boulevards. It created a dismal tunnel.
Were it not for the chatter from the gathering of thrill seekers at the far end of the street it would have been a gloomy and desolate place. The theatre’s façade was unimposing and dour; especially considering it was only a few minutes away from the rambunctious ambience of Montmartre. Yet, within its sombre countenance was a grace which seemed to drift from the crown-shaped gaslights onto the people below. They conversed and nodded, and occasionally laughed, but they did not sing, dance or engage in the frivolous actions of those only a few streets away. For that reason, Bishop knew it was somewhere more suited to his soul.
He had paid scant regard to the artistic posters beside the entrance on his last visit, but now he looked upon them with new interest. In the centre of the board was a gleaming white skull upon a black background, and painted around the perimeter in dripping red paint, were the words, ‘Torture de L’âme.’
“What does it mean?” Bishop asked, “Torture is plainly obvious but the rest?”
“Of the Soul. My friend is attempting to bring in a new audience and is hiring the services of a new breed of writer.”
“Yes? And where may I be expected to fit in?”
Blair patted him on the back, “Right next to this fellow I should think.” He pointed his cane at the foot of the poster. “Alexander Metier. We are fortunate indeed to bear witness to the first act in a career destined for bright things. You I believe share this destiny with him.” Blair leant closer and whispered. “Do not be concerned though. My friend tells me there is less blood than on other nights. Nevertheless, it is no less visceral.” Blair bounded through the enormous wooden doors. “I do hope they have cleaned our box!”
Bishop took a moment more to look at the poster. He had written his books of course but they were to be read and not acted out and viewed; not yet at least. Seeing the contents of his twisted mind acted out on a stage would take him further into those thoughts than ever before.
“Wait for me!” he called.
The former life of the theatre was beautifully depicted on the hand-carved mahogany balcony, which illustrated passionate and violent biblical stories. The dark stained wood was a feature of all the walls too, for not one was adorned with anything other than a dark panel of mahogany. It gave the theatre a darkness, which although broken by the occasional lamp, was perfectly suited to both Bishop’s mind and the expected performance.
They took their seats in the confessional chamber which served as the theatre’s only tribute to a royal box. Bishop had visited many theatres in London, but to be a player in a venue where not only the expectation of the audience was upon you, but also the eyes of two oak-carved angels swinging above the stage, must have been intimidating.
As on his first visit, Bishop was treated to two farcical romps, which he did not enjoy. Blair laughed like a Bethlem inmate throughout, as did the rest of the audience. It was not merely the language he found obstructive to his enjoyment; the plot was uncomplicated and obvious from the outset. It was, he knew, a burgeoning excited anticipation of what would come next, as well as meeting the owner which filled his mind. There was no denying it was a clever device though, for it served to amplify the horror of what came next.
For the next hour he watched as a man was systematically sliced into pieces. Each cut was deeper than the former yet it was not with knife, saw or other tool of butchery this rendering was achieved. It was at the hands of a shadowy conductor who merely suggested, urged and encouraged the necessary steps. This puppet master was never revealed but his carefully orchestrated directions were as murderous as if he held the blade himself.
Bishop watched enthralled. It was not the blood and gore of a surgical table before him but it was elegant, clever and dark; so deliciously dark. The act finished and the scarlet curtain drew across, hiding the image of the protagonist with his hands around the throat of a pretty woman. He looked to the audience and their captivation was as complete as his.
“Who is that?” He nudged Blair and pointed to a gentleman who walked slowly up and down the aisle.
“What? Who?” For once Blair appeared momentarily agitated. He followed Bishop’s finger to the darkened stalls below. His smile returned, “Ah yes, that is the theatre’s physician.”
“The theatre’s physician?”
Blair leaned closer and spoke in a not-quite whisper, “In case anyone faints with terror. A clever trick, yes? It all adds to the experience.”
The doctor looked up and acknowledged Blair with a slight nod of his head.
“You shall meet him later.”
“I thought I was here to meet your friend, the proprietor?”
Blair nodded in the direction of the doctor. “Yes and there he is.”
The second act started but Bishop struggled to take his eyes from the doctor. Like a guard he paced up and down the aisle keeping watch over his precious objects; his expression was utterly implacable. Finally he walked beneath the balcony and into shadow where he disappeared from view.
He had lost track of the performance somewhat but he turned in time to watch Jacques, the protagonist, attach a noose to his neck and step quickly off a wooden stool. His arms and legs kicked wildly, and the look of terror in his eyes, made Bishop think that Jacques knew what he had done was a terrible mistake. Just as his body twitched a final time, a terrible ribald laughter erupted and the conductor stepped from the shadow of the wings. He pushed the legs of poor Jacques who wobbled on the makeshift gallows. The conductor walked off into the wings and the curtain drew across.
A few moments passed in silence as the audience contemplated what they had seen. Bishop looked to Blair who said nothing but stared at the now empty stage.
“Quite the performance, wouldn’t you say?” Bishop asked.
Before Blair could speak, the heavy stage curtain began to move back again showing just a glimpse of the stage.
“Arrêter les rideaux!” someone shouted.
“What? What are they shouting?” Bishop asked.
“Stop the curtain,” Blair responded quickly.
The curtain continued to separate slowly. With each second, its parting offered just a few inches more of the stage. Some members of the audience shifted position to see what lay beyond but only with a vague interest.
The first scream made him jump but it was not from the audience, at least not initially. It came from the stage-hands who were trying desperately to cut Jacques down from the gallows. Both Bishop and Blair rose to their feet to see better what was happening but also with a growing sense of alarm. Jacques was now quite blue and his tongue lolled, grotesque and bulging from the corner of his mouth. His eyes maintained the same shocked terror he had worn at the end of the act.
“Non!” The doctor roared and ran toward Jacque whose limp, lifeless body fell into his arms.
The stalls were a vision of chaos, not with people clambering to flee this terrible accident but to get closer, to witness the death. Bishop felt his face grow hot and flushed. He had no desire to vomit but the intensity of the
spectacle was alluring and stimulating. Obviously a terrible accident had occurred but he was unable to look away.
The curtain at last started its stuttering journey to the position it should have held. It was much to the annoyance of some of the audience who jeered at the loss of the terrible spectacle; several attempted to climb onto the stage.
“What is wrong with them? Can they not see what has befallen this poor man?” Blair sounded angry. “This will be the ruin of Victor.”
The conductor’s raucous laughter echoed once through the auditorium, holding everyone immediately in silent rapture. The two men looked to each other but not a word was spoken.
Once more the curtain pulled back, but this time it revealed Jacques and the doctor standing beside a small bespectacled man in the centre of the stage. They bowed and smiled before the rest of the crew joined them.
“We have been made into puppets!” exclaimed Blair, “Bravo!”
The applause was deafening inside the theatre. Each clap rebounded off the mahogany panels and made an appreciative spectator of Judas on his own gallows. In the draft, the carved angels rocked and swayed as if they too wanted to kiss the cast and clap them on the shoulders.
“Astonishing,” Bishop whispered to himself.
After several encores the curtain finally closed for the last time. “Come on, I shall introduce you to the doctor.”
“And Metier?”
“Of course,” answered Bishop, “I have never met him either, although I have heard he is a difficult man. You should get along famously!” Blair laughed heartily; he was once again returned to his cheerful spirits.
Bishop had not been inside a church for a long time but he knew where Blair had led him was blatantly the sacristy. Faded, poorly reproduced oil paintings clung to the grey walls. Their golden frames were tattered and rotten, crumbling gradually to dust, like the bones of the saints they encased. The bloody scenes they depicted were the same as those carved into the mahogany balcony. Long since gone were the vestments and gowns of the priests who formerly held worship here. They were replaced with costumes of a less sombre but equally powerful guise; the stage costumes of the players of Le Grand Guignol.
Blair bounded across the room in his customary gregarious fashion. “Victor!” He held his arms out before him like a husband rushing for an embrace from his wife. Bishop followed slowly behind him.
“What a terrifying spectacle you put before us. Quite disgusting I might say.”
The doctor turned slowly, removed his top hat and ran his fingers through his jet-black hair. He need not have bothered with the gesture for his appearance was immaculate. He smiled warmly at Blair but somehow it did not appear to be his natural countenance, unlike Blair who was grinning like a demented lunatic.
“Victor, I should like to introduce my wonderful friend, Robert Bishop.”
“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Robert.” He held out his hand and appeared to scrutinise him closely.
Bishop was momentarily shocked to hear such an unmistakeably English and aristocratic accent.
“And I too, am pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Ah but if I am to address you, Robert, you must address me Victor. I fear my days as a sir are well behind me now,” he turned to Blair, “is that not correct Douglas?”
“As are mine I fear,” Blair nodded happily.
“I must say Robert, I have read all of your books; I am quite the fan. The Surgeon of Slaughter was the most repulsive thing I have ever read, quite brilliant. Of course, when Douglas informed me that not only were you acquaintances, but that you were also in Paris, I had to insist on us meeting.”
Bishop was abashed at the compliment and unable to muster a response.
“Come with me. I wish to introduce you to someone with whom I believe you have a great deal in common.”
Victor led them from the sacristy into the dark corridor at the rear of the stage. After a few moments they arrived at a door. He paused before entering. “Now even though I own this entire building, there are two areas into which I am forbidden to enter, at least without first knocking. One, alas, is the changing room of my beautiful actress, Mademoiselle Eve Bissette and the other is this one; the room of Alexander Metier. He can be quite prickly if he sets his mind to it.” Victor knocked three times and opened the door.
The room was no larger than a cupboard, and without windows, a dismal sense of gloom was heavy in the air. Metier sat at his desk under the inadequate glow of a single candle and the light cast a faint aura about him. He scribbled furiously onto his papers, unaware he now had an audience.
“Alexander?” Victor’s voice echoed around the small room. “Would you care to join us for a cigar and brandy? My guests are eager to meet you and Robert here, is very keen to converse about your writing. You have much in common.”
Bishop stepped forward and lifted his hand expecting Metier to do the same. Instead Metier remained at his desk and continued with his scribbling. Bishop dropped his hand and stepped back. In this one action, Metier had already revealed his character.
“You really should be less rude to my guests, Alexander. Especially to Robert, who, if he accepts my offer, may well be sharing this room with you.”
Metier paused and looked over the rim of his glasses. “I am busy re-writing the second act. I shall speak with your guests another time.”
His manner was brusque and unpleasant. Bishop had already taken a dislike to the man, “Yes, I found the second act to be the weaker of the two, until the last scene it barely held my attention.”
The comment caused Metier to stop his writing entirely; he looked directly at Bishop but the candle flame bounced off his spectacles concealing his eyes. “And you, sir, who may I ask are you to offer this unsolicited opinion?”
Victor stepped between the men. “This is Robert Bishop, Alexander. He is the author of The Surgeon of Slaughter and Mask of the Macabre amongst others. He is the gentleman of whom we spoke.”
“Yes, the Penny Dreadful man. Quite apt.” Metier sneered.
“And who are you to dismiss my work so readily? I do not see your name written in lights above the city, why I…”
“Gentleman please,” Blair joined Victor between them, “we have clearly got off to a bad start. Perhaps we can partake of that brandy now, Victor? We should leave Alexander to his writing.”
Blair ushered Bishop out of the room leaving Victor inside. It was not until they had walked a few steps that Bishop realised Metier had conducted the argument in English without the merest trace of a French accent.
“He is also English?” he asked.
“It would appear so.” Blair sounded as confused as he did.
The sound of raised voices erupted from Metier’s room and echoed along the corridor.
“I fear I may have upset him,” Bishop stated, feeling happy and yet agitated at the unexpected confrontation.
“Quite, and I believe Victor is upsetting him further. For all his pleasantries, he is not a man with whom liberties can be taken.”
After a few moments the door opened and Victor stepped into the corridor, “Ah there you are,” he closed the door and walked toward them. “He was most apologetic for his rudeness, to you both. As I said he can be quite prickly if he sets his mind to it.”
“Think nothing of it,” Blair interrupted, “I am quite sure they will get along famously.”
“But I have not agreed to anything, and after this, I am not sure I could work with him.”
“We shall go to my office and discuss the matter over brandy and a fine cigar. I am quite sure you will find my offer compelling.” He strode away with Blair at his side.
‘It would have to be something irresistible to bring me into contact with that vile creature again,’ thought Bishop as he followed them.
Victor’s office befitted his position in size but the ragged, weary looking décor and furniture was unexpected.
“Please sit. Will you take a cigar and brandy with
us Robert? I scare need ask Douglas for I know the answer, the old sot.”
“Please do not take this as rudeness, but our friend Blair got me quite drunk last night and I am still feeling a little under the weather.”
“Oh give him a brandy, Victor!” Blair turned to address Bishop. “It will aid your recovery. I have felt what you are feeling a hundred times and brandy is the only guaranteed cure.”
Before he could raise further objection, Victor placed a glass in his hand and turned his attention back to Blair, “I don’t suppose they are as good as those from London but they are better than the camel dung you seem to smoke these days.”