‘Where do I look?’
‘If I were you, I’d bow to the royals first, then look straight ahead into the dark. You better start with “Your Majesty, my lords, ladies and gentlemen”, that’s what they usually do. After that, you’ll have enough light to read by.’
It wasn’t the kind of reassurance Silas was looking for, and across the way, Signora Campanelli was now staring daggers and causing a fuss.
‘Two minutes, Sir,’ Jake said. ‘I’ll call Mr Roxton soon as the maestro takes the podium.’
‘I don’t think I can do this.’ Silas was horrified that his voice cracked when he spoke.
Jake passed him the chalice from the props table.
‘Drink this,’ he said. ‘It’s only lemon water. I’ll refill it after.’
Silas held the goblet and wondered how much stranger the evening could be. The prop was real gold, heavy and encrusted with rubies. The water was bitter, but it helped take away the taste of bile. It struck him that this simple prop summed up his life. Here he was, an immigrant street-rat, holding a solid gold goblet and about to appear at the grandest theatre in the country, in front of a king who was sitting with his lover. He wished he’d never turned into that alcove off Cheap Street to take a leak and bumped into Fecker. If he’d used another doorway, he might not have ended up renting, but then he would never have met Archer. He might well have been dead from starvation, but at that moment, it was preferable to what he was about to do.
‘Not long now,’ Jake said.
‘I can’t do it.’
The scrawny youth patted his back. ‘You’ll be right, Mr Silas. It’s all fake.’
‘What?’
The stage was slipping in and out of focus, and Silas could no longer feel his feet. He was floating.
‘It’s all fake,’ Jake repeated. ‘That set is made of wood and canvas. The sky is painted. The Diva is wearing her own gems, for sure, but her crown’s made out of tin, and her words are written on the back of props. Out front, it’s gold paint, some gilding maybe, but no-one cares. Even your audience is playing a role. They’ve come here to support your master, not to hear some old soprano wail about lost love, nor a poncy countertenor trill away on a high F for two hours — no offence to your master’s mate. They’re here to be seen helping men like you.’
The words jolted Silas, and the stage settled.
‘Men like me?’
‘His Lordship’s cause,’ Jake said. ‘We know all about it back here. Actors are a funny lot, they’ll support anyone. The hands are a bit tight-lipped about it, but no-one cares, ’cos His Lordship’s paying us double wages. Me point is, no matter who reads them words, they’re going to be kind to you. You’ll be fine.’
Applause crackled through the drapes, and Silas was unable to breathe. Slipping a hand into his pocket, he felt for Fecker’s pebble and clutched it in his fist. He stared at the speech, but it made no sense. It talked about good deeds and the need for change. It thanked the patrons for their support and went on to tell an invented tale of a boy the Foundation had already saved. The only use Silas could see for it was as a reminder to greet the King first. Someone had scribbled in the correct address as an afterthought.
This wasn’t what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell the truth, to explain why he was talking and not the star they had come to see. If he could tell them about the danger, he might avert Roxton’s death, but if he did that, he would have to admit the reason. Cleaver Street. The boy with the scarred back, the man in the black and red coat. Opium. Blackmail. Betrayal.
His thoughts were no longer making sense. He didn’t know what he was meant to say. How could he have been so stupid? With his mind so scrambled inside his weak and trembling body, he was going to say the wrong thing. He was going to tell the world Archer’s secret by mistake and do Stella’s work for him.
Music played, and Silas thought he would be sick.
‘Just the anthems,’ Jake said. ‘The leader will play both, the lights’ll go down, and you’ll go on.’
Silas was aware of the muffled orchestra, but hardly heard it. Jake’s words repeated in his head, and he imagined this was what it felt like to be led to the gallows. A calm and sympathetic gaoler was guiding him towards the noose, reassuring him that it wouldn’t take long, he wouldn’t feel much, and the hangman knew what he was doing. The analogy didn’t help, but there was nothing he could do. The disaster was unstoppable, he couldn’t fight the momentum he had created and it was too late to turn back.
‘You should go and wait out there,’ Jake whispered to the disapproval of the stage manager who, like everyone else, had stood silently to attention. ‘Mr Bellows over there will pull the curtain back for you, and hold it open when you’re done so you don’t get tangled.’
‘I can’t do it. Go and get Mr Roxton.’
‘What? Are you sure, Sir?’
‘Yes. No.’
Silas glared at the paper again, but the words were scooting around and changing their order. His sweaty palms were blurring the ink.
Suddenly there were two hands on his face, and they weren’t his. Jake turned him, and eye to eye forced him to look.
‘You’re doing this to help those boys who ain’t been as lucky as you, Sir,’ he said. ‘Just tell them what it’s like.’
In the beat of a fast-pumping heart, Silas understood. The prepared speech was not going to work, but his plan was. He was one step ahead of Stella and, with any luck, he would stay there until the final curtain, and see Archer’s friend safely home.
‘Here you go,’ Jake said, nudging him forward. ‘We’re right behind you.’
The curtains were crimson velvet. They weighed three tons. Silas walked just over seven yards to the centre of the stage — it felt like a mile. Below him, there was room for ninety players in the orchestra pit, and they were now bringing the anthems to a crashing climax. The curtain trimmings were made of gold. Jake’s wealth of useless information flooded through his mind, blocking out any thought of what he might say, and with it came Jake’s voice.
‘Life’s not a rehearsal.’ He had said it only the other day. ‘You got to make the most of it.’
The words fought the inane facts and won. Silas remembered them so clearly, the lad might have been standing beside him. ‘Find something you love, work hard, enjoy it, don’t hurt no-one else and you’ll sail through.’
Sail through. That’s all Silas had done with his life so far; it’s what he could do now.
He took a deep breath and growled it out through his nose. The music finished, and the stagehand gripped the curtain, waiting for Silas to give the signal.
He closed his eyes, raised his head and nodded.
‘One pace forward only, Sir,’ the stagehand said. ‘I’ll open when you’re done. No need to touch the curtain.’
The darkness behind Silas’ eye lightened as he was hit by a wall of warmth. When he opened them again, he had taken a step, but hadn’t felt his feet move. A shocked gasp rolled across the glare of the footlights, and above them, curved rows of flickering lamps sparkled among glinting diamonds. He was still holding the chalice.
From somewhere in the void came his name.
‘Banyak!’
Fecker’s joyous yell was followed by a lone handclap and muttering, but the clapping wouldn’t be stopped and was soon joined by more until Silas was deafened by sound. He blinked, trying to see Fecker, but there was nothing out there except a sea of blurred faces stacked behind the footlights.
The applause died as he turned to face the Royal Box. It was still illuminated, giving the audience the entire performance to gaze at royalty, but all Silas could see were shapes, one of which he knew was Archer. He was probably as confused as everyone else, but he would also be terrified. His world hung on what was about to come out of Silas’ mouth, but
all Silas could think of to say was, ‘Your Majesty, my lords, ladies and gentlemen…’
He bowed to give himself time to think, and righting himself, saw one of the faint blurs in the Royal Box come into focus. Through the haze of dust and shafts of spotlights, he saw Archer. From that distance, his eyes were two black dots, but Silas knew every fleck and shade in them. He knew the feel of the man’s stubble, the ridge of his battle scars and the power in his muscles. He was given strength by them, but they were not the real Archer. There was more to him than a body that lit Silas’ passion.
Suddenly, he knew what to say and remembered to raise his voice.
‘I’m not who you were expecting,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that.’
A ripple of laughter from above trickled down to him bringing confidence.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to sing.’
The laughter was repeated, fuller this time.
‘Mr Roxton asked me to do this,’ he said, and realised that he had just lied to a crowned head of Europe, his friends and his lover in front of two thousand witnesses. ‘He is a supporter of the Clearwater Foundation,’ he continued. ‘As is everyone here, but do you know what he said to me?’
Not even Silas knew what Roxton was supposed to have said to him, it was as if someone else was in his body. Luckily, that someone knew what it was doing.
‘He said he had a speech that had been approved by the Foundation and was all very technical. It’s about doing good deeds too, of course, but he didn’t think it was real enough. He thought that you good ladies and gents didn’t need to be reminded of your own generosity, because you are already good people.’
Archer’s head moved and, glancing, Silas saw him whisper to the king, possibly explaining who this man was, possibly apologising for the disaster, but whatever he said, His Majesty nodded solemnly, interested not angry.
‘No,’ Silas said. ‘He said everyone here was clever enough to know all that. What you may not know is exactly who your generosity is helping.’ There was some uncomfortable shuffling from the front few rows, but he ignored it. ‘Men who are lost,’ he explained, and the rustling gave way to murmurs. ‘That’s who you’re helping by supporting His Lordship.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Let me tell you a story. I’ll be quick. About four and a bit years ago, there was this young lad from Westerpool. He had twin sisters, even younger, see? And their mam had died. I don’t want to upset anyone, so I’ll spare you the details, but if you can imagine twelve people sharing a room, half of them sick with coughing, the other half bandaging their fingers after twelve hours on the looms, and only one of them over fifteen, then you’re on the right path to getting where I’m coming from.’
He was speaking to the darkness, but the image before his eyes was far removed from the opera house.
‘Rather, where I came from when I was sixteen,’ he said. ‘Left my sisters behind in the hope I could send them money. Streets were paved with gold, you see, only they weren’t. But, I’m not here to give you a sob story. I became a renter…’
A loud gasp was accompanied by some obvious tutting, and someone close by said, ‘I say!’
Silas sailed on through.
‘Well,’ he said, imagining he was talking to Archer. ‘You can’t be here to support a cause and be shocked by who that charity is for. Out there…’ He pointed the gold cup towards the wings. ‘Not that far away, there’s a hundred lads like me, some younger. Young as fourteen, and they’re starving. They’ve got families. They come from someone, and they’ve got friends they care about, same as you all. They’ve also got no choice but to do what they have to do. That’s why some ended up under the Ripper’s knife…’ There were louder gasps at that. ‘Sorry, but truth hurts. It hurts as much as frozen fingers and an empty stomach. But, because of you, out there right now there’s a building where my mates can go and find help. You, by putting on your best clothes and walking proudly into this theatre, you, standing up to be counted as people who care, you’ve saved me from starving.’
Sounds of discontent faded, to be replaced by what he hoped was sympathetic silence. James wasn’t far away, and Silas’ confidence was further boosted by catching sight of him discreetly holding up his thumb for support.
‘You’ve saved another young man,’ he continued. ‘Let’s call him Edward. He’s fourteen, and you’ve given him a safe place to sleep. There’s this other one, Martin, fifteen, and then Micky, a year older. Micky-Nick they call him. You’ve helped him recover from an illness, find assistance, have a hot meal. Well…’ He raised the cup to the Royal Box. ‘Men like Doctor Markland have. Like he helped a lad called Alex, like you’ve all done by supporting the genius behind all this.’ He bowed, not knowing if it was the right thing to do, but not caring. ‘Your Lordship,’ he said, and to his total surprise, the audience erupted into applause.
He was doing something right. He took a moment to look back to James, smiling behind a large mound of black that could only have been Mrs Marks. Her husband was leaning on the plush balustrade, his chin on his hands. He was studying every word, and when Silas caught his eye, he nodded approval.
Boosted, Silas waited for the applause to fade.
‘Except,’ he said, and left a pause. ‘I’m sorry to say you didn’t help those other lads. Oh, you’re helping men like them right now, but Martin, Micky-Nick, Alex? They were the victims of…’ He stopped himself repeating the name. ‘…a killer. You know who. I could have been one of them, but I was saved. That’s why Mr Roxton thought I should do this, and I’m happy to do it. I just wanted you to know that right now, there are desperate men who would do anything to get what they want.’ He was aware that he was sending a direct message to the Cleaver Street hitman wherever he was. ‘We’re not going to let that happen. All these good people here are not going to let that happen.’
That was enough of that message. He had explained his meaning.
‘You see, all those young menfolk want is a warm room to sleep in, a wash and a chance. I was given that and now look at me. Two months ago… Well, it doesn’t bear thinking about, but now look. You’ve done that, My Lord, Your Ladyship, Doctor, Mr Marks, all of you here tonight.’ He took Fecker’s stone from his pocket and held it high. ‘Especially you up there.’
A rowdy cheer erupted from the gallery, and through it Silas heard Fecker roaring approval.
‘Yeah, alright,’ Silas said, forgetting where he was. ‘Don’t fall over the edge.’
He pocketed the stone as he waited for the laughter to subside. He had said enough. ‘I’m sorry if I spoke out of place,’ he said. ‘And I’m going to go now. I just wanted you to hear from one of us from the gutter before these talented people take you on a journey to the stars.’ He directed his voice to the King. ‘Those gutters are real, Your Majesty. I know because I came from them. On behalf of every boy or man who’s still in them, thank you. All of you.’ He raised the goblet. ‘Sláinte!’
He flinched at a sudden crack of sound, expecting a bullet to thwack into his head, but it was only applause. His Majesty stood to clap, and the audience hastily followed.
Silas had got away with it. He’d removed the reason for Stella to kill, but not the threat. He had let her know that he knew what was going on, and he’d suggested that he was not alone. He hoped he had also done right by Archer.
Thomas was also applauding, and on the other side of the theatre, Mr Marks was beaming approval while his wife bowed to the audience as if the reception was for her. At the back, James was beckoning urgently.
Twenty-Four
Jake was waiting at the side of the stage, where Silas was suddenly the centre of attention from the backstage crew. Many were watching him, whispering between themselves, a couple gave him a thumbs up, and one of the chorus men hissed, ‘Are you still working?’ when he passed. Silas ignored him, handed the prop goblet to Jake and
thanked him for his help.
‘What’s going on?’ Jake asked, accompanying Silas towards the auditorium.
‘Last minute change of plan,’ Silas said. His legs were weak, and sweat had gathered uncomfortably at the back of his neck. ‘Fuck, that was weird.’
‘I meant who were you warning?’
Silas stopped dead. ‘What do you mean?’ He feigned ignorance, but Jake was as intuitive as he was wiry.
‘Murder victims?’ Jake said, wide-eyed. ‘Desperate men determined to get what they want, and you’re not going to let them?’
‘I was talking generally,’ Silas said. ‘I have to get back.’
The auditorium exploded into applause as the conductor took the podium.
‘Yeah, and I better go and get Mr Roxton,’ Jake said. ‘Look, Mr Silas.’ He took his arm. ‘If you need any more help, just ask, yeah?’
He said it was a natural twinkle in his eye. Unlike the man from the chorus, there was no hidden meaning.
‘I will, Jake,’ he said. ‘I’m in the first box. If you see anyone back here who shouldn’t be here, come and get me, okay? See you later.’
The applause had faded to silence, and he closed the connecting door carefully behind him before poking his head through the curtains. The boxes were now all closed, their drapes untied and hanging. James was waiting for him.
Silas opened his mouth to speak when an unexpected crash of cymbals, a deep drum and trumpets shook the floor, and he jumped. The crash of music was followed by a second or two of silence during which he and James exchanged shocked glances. A quieter, calmer theme began on strings and woodwind, and Silas recognised it as the tune Roxton had sung after the dinner party.
‘Bloody hell,’ James said, sidling up to him and whispering. ‘How did you do that?’
‘No idea, mate,’ Silas replied. As soon as he’d finished the speech, he’d switched from abject fear to elation, but the moment was fleeting. ‘I reckon I’ve put the bastard on guard.’
Unspeakable Acts Page 23
