by Phil Rickman
He steps out.
‘Right, then, lovelies. Now there’s still a few individuals …’ meaningful glance at the case containing the bird ‘… who think the National Lottery’s a bit of a swizz. But I can assure you that nobody can control those magic balls … not even my next guest, who is …’
Pause. Widening of eyes. A contriving of awe.
‘… the Miracle Mesmerist from Malvern … the incredible Mr … KURT CAMPBELL!’
Cindy steps back two paces, watching Camera Three track Kurt down the glass stairs which lead nowhere. Kurt with his strawberry blond lion’s mane, freshly washed and bouncing. Tall, dishy Kurt with his grand-piano smile and his tight trousers.
Oh, the arrogance of youth. Not yet thirty and believes himself the most powerful person in light entertainment. A stage hypnotist with pretensions.
What is hypnotism, though, but another spiritual cul-de-sac? Why, Cindy himself could have been a Kurt Campbell, if he’d wanted to. Well … perhaps not at twenty-nine. Nobody was anybody at twenty-nine, back when Cindy was twenty-nine.
‘Now then, Kurt …’ Cindy wading into the receding tide of applause, ‘I said the Miracle Mesmerist from Malvern, not because you were born up there in Worcestershire, ’cause you’re a London boy, as we know, but Malvern … well, that’s where you’ve just bought yourself … your very own castle!’
Pause for ooooooooooooh from the audience.
‘That’s quite true, Cindy,’ Kurt says smoothly, in his soft baritone. ‘I’ve wanted to own a castle all my life. This one cost me … well, an arm and a leg, but…’
‘And didn’t even get a Lottery grant, poor dab …’
‘… but it’s worth it, because, as you know, I’ve had a lifelong interest in psychic matters and paranormal phenomena, and this castle … Well, to be honest, it’s not really a very ancient castle, not much more than a hundred years old actually …’
‘Oh, thought it was a proper one, I did!’
‘… but what’s fascinating about it, Cindy, is that this is actually Britain’s only purpose-built haunted house.’
‘Away with you, Kurt! You can’t have a purpose-built haunted house. Got to collect whole centuries of gruesome deaths, you have, and even then you have to take what manifests, isn’t it?’
‘Well …’ Kurt throws a confidential arm around Cindy’s shoulders. ‘I’ll tell you – very briefly, Cindy – how this came about. Overcross Castle was built in the nineteenth century by a millionaire industrialist who, like me, had a fascination with spooky things. And that was when spiritualism was becoming very fashionable, and so he invited all the star mediums of the day to come and hold seances in his castle … and actually attract a few ghosts.’
‘And did he succeed, then?’
‘That … is what I’ll be finding out. And, hey, everyone else can find out too. Because, you see, Cindy, we’re going to turn Overcross Castle – without a Lottery grant – into a huge exhibition centre for psychic studies and we’re going to have all kinds of exciting events … psychic fairs, the lot. And if this sounds like an advert, it is … because the proceeds from our opening event are all going to various charities … including the BBC’s very own Comic Relief fund!’
Burst of applause. Cindy nodding emphatically.
‘Terrific! Can’t miss that, can I? Now, Kurt, I know you’re going to start tonight’s balls rolling in a few minutes’ time, so …’
Music starts to swell. Kurt steps out and raises a hand. ‘Whoah, whoah, whoah,’ he cries, as arranged. ‘Cindy, hey, I thought I was going to hypnotize you. It’s how they persuaded me to come tonight.’
Cindy backs away. A squawk from Kelvyn in his case.
‘Not on your life, boy!’ Cindy shrieks.
‘Aw, go on, Cindy …’ Kurt appeals to the audience. ‘Submit to my magical, mental powers. It’ll be a hoot.’
‘No way!’ Cindy flaps his bangles in terror. ‘What if I do something … indiscreet?’
‘Coward! Coward!’ shrieks Kelvyn in his case.
‘GO OOOOOON, CINDY,’ the audience roars, as instructed.
‘Ten seconds, Cindy,’ Jo says in his ear.
‘I’m a terrible subject, anyway,’ Cindy protests, arms folded over his foam breasts.
‘GO OOOOOON!’
‘Oh, all right, but I bet it doesn’t work.’
And it doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. Because Cindy studied hypnotism many, many years ago, and he knows what Kurt is looking for, and he knows how to fake it.
But does Kurt know? Is Kurt smart enough?
Cindy’s pretty sure that, at rehearsal, Kurt was fully convinced he had Cindy where he wanted him. Kurt’s a smart boy, see, well read, plenty of contacts, and he knows about Cindy’s shamanic training: the years of weekending at the farmhouse of the Fychans, fourth-and fifth-generation wise men of Dolgellau. Once, ambitious Kurt even tried to contact the dyn hysbys, Emrys Fychan himself, claiming that as a Campbell he was qualified to learn the inner secrets of Celtic shamanism. Canny Emrys saw him off by refusing to speak to him except in Welsh. Well, Cindy can’t speak Welsh either, mind, no more than tipyn bach, but he admits the old language has its uses.
At the rehearsal the mischievous Kurt, having established that Cindy was a good subject and truly tranced, made him put on the inevitable strip show.
A nice idea, in this particular case, given that millions of people would dearly love to know exactly what Cindy keeps under there, at both ends.
And it was well done. Kurt is a smooth and practised mesmerist. Indeed, on almost anyone else in show business – and therefore not seriously inhibited – it would have worked.
Cindy went along with it, naturally, letting his eyes drop into neutral before sliding off his paste and plastic bangles one by one and sending them spinning into the audience of grinning technicians. Then lifting up his frock, as commanded, to reveal the bottom of his suspender belt and removing his stockings with a flourish, tossing one neatly over the camera shooting him.
It was stopped, obviously, the moment the shoulder straps came down. Kurt having to pretend to glance at his watch, realizing there’d be insufficient time for the Lottery draw. Oh, what a shame, perhaps another time. All right, when I snap my fingers, Cindy, you will … awake.
Click-click. Cindy blinking and, spotting the stocking on the camera, shrieking, ‘Oh you bastard!’ Technicians laughing their cans off. A triumph. Go down a bomb on the night.
‘Now, Cindy,’ Kurt says – they are sitting on two adjacent cane chairs and the lights are lowered – ‘I want you to relax.’
Cindy’s on his own. Out of contact with his producer, but Jo trusts him.
‘Relax? Me? Nervous wreck, Kurt. Oh, all right then.’ Straightening his dress over his knees and laying his hands demurely in his lap. ‘In your hands, I am. Big Boy.’
And, to a low whoooh from the audience, Kurt takes Cindy’s hand and holds it up. Remarks on the bangles, how heavy they must be – taking his own hand away, leaving Cindy’s hanging there. How very, very heavy. As heavy as his eyelids.
Cindy smiles, letting his body relax but carefully detaching his consciousness, watching Kurt as from a couple of yards away. Studying Kurt’s performance – that low, midnight voice, a seasoned seducer’s voice. Ostensibly having a chat, but the words coming very slightly slower than normal, the tone a little thicker, textured, conveying a conviction – the sense of certainty which must swiftly be impressed upon the subject.
This is the art of informal hypnosis. People think you need a swinging watch or a deep, fluid gaze. Not true.
Cindy’s arm falls slowly to his lap. Kurt is telling him he’s simply resting, allowing his mind to relax. Telling him he can hear everything Kurt is saying to him but he really doesn’t have to think about it because he’s so pleassssssantly drowwwwwsy. Talking evenly, to deepen the trance, and after little more than half a minute, Kurt’s voice is pouring into his head like warm olive oil.
‘You hearing m
e OK, Cindy?’
‘Yes.’ A whisper. Cindy’s whole attention is fixed on Kurt, as though the set and the lights and camera and the studio audience no longer exist. He produces a couple of butterfly blinks.
‘It’s very comfortable here in this chair, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Deepening his breathing.
‘Warm.’
‘Yes.’
‘And getting warmer.’
‘Yessss.’ Should he attempt to sweat?
‘Getting warmer and warmer still under these very strong lights. You’re beginning to perspire and your clothes are feeling tighter. Very much tighter.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Cindy squirms a little, gives an apparently involuntary swallow.
‘You’ve simply got to take something off.’
A little smile on Kurt’s leonine face. He’s quite a big-boned man, probably has to watch his weight. By middle age, he will be a formidable presence. But already, at twenty-nine, Kurt has an undeniable strength and his influence is growing. His television work is now merely the icing on a very rich cake, filled with the lucrative cream of consultancies – Kurt has his own company, operating in industry, where he motivates sales forces, perhaps even passing on (highly improper, in Cindy’s view) some tricks of the trade which will enable salespersons to apply gentle hypnotic pressure to recalcitrant customers.
‘Your wrists have expanded in the heat, so that the bangles are tight. Take one off.’
Cindy shrugs off a bangle, which clatters to the studio floor. He’s thinking that when it comes to buying himself a castle, Kurt Campbell is a man who certainly has no need of a Lottery grant. Or a Lottery win. Or the Lottery show itself… but perhaps it’s to serve his ego. Or perhaps Kurt also gets that live-television buzz which, coupled with the hypnotist’s power buzz, must make for a very intoxicating surge.
‘Hey, Cindy … You’re a star. A performer.’
Cindy smiles, giggles faintly.
‘If you’re going to take off your bangles, you want to make a performance of it. Stand up.’
Cindy comes gracefully to his feet.
‘You … are a stripper.’
Squeals from the audience, to which Cindy doesn’t react.
‘You know how a stripper performs. You’ve done it soooo many times you could do it in your sleep.’
‘Yes.’
‘So when your music starts up, you’re going to begin by taking off your bangles … like a stripper.’
And so it begins. Apparently oblivious of the audience laughter, Cindy tosses his bangles one by one into the crowd, where they’re scrabbled for as trophies.
Kurt Campbell smiles, but he’s always watchful. A professional.
The taped music – no originality required here – bumps and grinds along its languorous, familiar catwalk.
Up comes the skirt, to howls and wolf whistles. Cindy feels a real sweat breaking out. How easy and pleasant it must be to surrender to hypnosis … but what a careful combination of attention and detachment is required to carry out the commands to the letter while remaining unhypnotized.
The pop of the suspender, a glimpse of knicker – from the rear, naturally – and off comes the first stocking, landing at the feet of a young man who hesitates, unable to decide whether retrieving it will be his moment of celebrity or mark him out as gay, poor dab.
Off comes the second stocking, and Cindy aims for the camera he isn’t supposed to be aware of, knowing what a nice shot this will make, but the stocking falls short.
One minute, Cindy estimates, before the rather risqué hypnotism sketch must be wound up and the famous National Lottery machine activated.
He drops a black shoulder strap, provocatively flexing the arm muscles to an intake of breath from the audience – most of them at last having come to believe that this is the real thing; you can tell by the sudden hush.
While young Kurt Campbell, of course, knows that it’s real. And that he must presently bring Cindy out of his trance.
Cindy does an exotic twirl, turning his other shoulder to the audience and to Camera One. On the way round he comes face to face with Kurt, and Kurt’s face is impassive; he’s leaning back in his cane chair, legs stretched out, relaxed, enjoying the show. The music swells to its final climax. After the second strap is lowered, the music will fade and Kurt will look at his watch in apparent alarm, come to his feet, wander casually over and stop the performance, bringing Cindy safely out of trance … bemused and appealing to the audience to tell him what appalling atrocities he’s committed.
Down comes the strap. Cindy feels his bodice start to slide. Take it carefully now, or two foam-rubber tits will drop out and go rolling into the audience. Trophies indeed!
The music fades.
Nothing happens. Cindy does another twirl.
Which shows him that Kurt, smiling complacently, has remained seated.
The music continues at background level.
Christ.
Cindy continues his voluptuous weaving, the bodice continues to slip – thank the Lord he doesn’t have a hairy chest – and still Kurt Campbell doesn’t move … Kurt Campbell who firmly believes, because he’s done this thousands of times before and is absolutely sure of his power, that he has Cindy in deep trance and about to disclose his small, male nipples.
And this is not merely mischief, because Kurt knows that Cindy’s act depends on that continued ambivalence … is he or isn’t he? – with so many levels to that question – and that the revelation of his padding will literally be the end of him … the end of his credibility, the end of his career even on Bournemouth Pier.
Why does Campbell want to do this to him? What has he ever done to the boy to inspire such cruelly reckless disdain?
And what is Cindy to do now?
Up in the gallery, Jo, the producer, will be in a panic, on her feet, probably unsure – because she’s quite young for this job – how to stop it.
Now some members of the audience have started a rhythmic slow handclap. This is definitely not in the running order. Cindy does a last, desperate twirl. Kurt is smiling. The shit.
Cindy pauses. Pushes out his chest.
The spotlight encircles him. Cindy backs up and it follows him. He’s standing now in front of his chair.
The crowd whoops. Kurt no longer smiles, no longer has that certainty.
The moment has come. No avoiding it.
The pink suitcase still standing, half in spot, next to Cindy’s empty chair, emits a raucous squawk.
‘Get ’em off, you old tart!’ shrieks Kelvyn Kite.
When Kurt Campbell started the machine for the draw, a number of people, Cindy among them, noticed that his smile was tainted by a pure, black fury.
The winning numbers were six, fifteen, thirty-six, forty-two, forty-three and forty-six.
Kurt did not look at Cindy again, but Cindy could almost see the rage shooting out of him like thick, black arrows.
When the team gathered in the green room for a drink afterwards, Kurt had gone. Jo Shepherd dragged Cindy into a corner. She was white.
‘Christ…!’
‘I’m sorry, Jo.’
‘What the hell happened?’ There were great sweat stains under the arms of Jo’s blouse.
Cindy was calm, but no longer high, no longer living in the moment.
‘I think’, he said, ‘that young Kurt forgot his cue.’
‘He bloody didn’t. He wanted you …’ Jo was near to tears ‘… all fucked up in front of twenty million viewers. I knew it was the wrong thing, I bloody knew it.’
Cindy blinked. ‘I’m sorry, lovely?’
Jo shook her curls. ‘Never mind, you got out of it. You turned the tables. You’re a brilliant man, Cindy, we all thought you were completely under. How did you do that?’
‘Wasn’t me, lovely. Kelvyn, it was.’
Jo was smiling and shuddering at the same time.
‘I’ll tell you what, Cindy – public humiliation on the National Lottery … that guy i
s never going to forget this. I think you’ve probably made yourself an enemy for life.’
‘Yes.’ Cindy bent down and flipped open the case. ‘I suppose I have.’ He extracted Kelvyn Kite, all beak and feathers and big rolling eyes. ‘There’s unfortunate, isn’t it?’
VII
MOST OF THE NIGHT, GRAYLE HAD AVOIDED IT.
Ersula. The matter of Spirit.
She’d taken down the numbers of two hotels in Stroud, but it was clear Persephone Callard was in no fit state to drive her there and she wouldn’t have a cab calling here for Grayle – there were already too many people who knew the house wasn’t empty.
No way out of this.
Past midnight: she lay on her back, in her sweater, under an eiderdown on the iron-framed, brass-headed bed, in the plain, square Victorian bedroom with its small iron fireplace and a view into the dark woods.
From the next room she heard Persephone Callard snort and then moan in her sleep.
They’d eaten microwaved Marks & Spencer’s Chinese food – Callard leaving most of hers – and then drank and talked for over four hours, with a lot of stuff coming out.
But none of it explaining what Callard was hiding from. Either she was playing with Grayle or whatever it was really could only be said to Marcus Bacton.
Fathers. They talked about fathers.
They’d discussed Dr Erlend Underhill, eminent Harvard Professor of American and European History, who had two daughters: Ersula who, in her father’s image, was studious, serious, humourless and an archaeologist, and Grayle, of whose writings Lyndon McAffrey, Deputy City Editor of the New York Courier, had once said, This may be journalism, but not as we know it.
They’d spoken of Stephen Callard, the knighted career diplomat, who had become besotted with a lovely black nurse in Kingston, Jamaica, brought her home to be his wife, have his child and die.
‘So what does your father think about what you do?’ Grayle had asked.
‘What I did.’ Persephone Callard’s eyes were hot but hard in the candlelight.
Grayle had accepted a second weak Scotch, but Callard’s tumbler remained on the mantelpiece, and Grayle kept thinking of what she’d said earlier: When I’m pissed I don’t receive.
