That ends now (I hope.)

I’m giving myself full permission to slap myself in the face if I don’t post more regularly.

So from now on, I’ll be throwing out some reviews and rants and other things that I feel like writing. Oh, and in case you’re wondering about how much I raised from the recent hair-dyeing (and then shaving) efforts…€1,410 (so thanks to everyone who read about it, posted about it, shared and contributed.)

This week, I’ve changed my mind.

I’ve been somewhat overwhelmed by people’s generosity (somewhat overwhelmed is a polite way of saying “blown away.”) I managed to meet my €500 target within a week, only doing one colour. And the second colour…well, it’s meant to be blue, but it’s come out looking a lot more like black.

Let’s be fair, my hairline has been receding since I was a teenager. And part of the reason why I was dyeing was because I’m afraid of shaving and being horrified by the results.)

But as of this morning, I’ve raised nearly €600 euro, so I decided…I’m upping the game.

I’m shaving it when I get to €750.

Get in there: http://www.mycharity.ie/event/ken_dyes_2012

And that important thing is…hair dye. And cancer. And death and loss and sadness and everything that goes along with it.

Why? Because I’m taking part in Today FM’s Shave Or Dye to raise funds for the Irish Cancer Society: that’s no surprise, it’s a worthy cause, but I also felt like talking about why I’m doing it, and what it means to me. (In case you want to go straight ahead and donate, you can do so here.)

Cancer and I, we didn’t have much of a relationship up until a few years ago: I guess that makes me lucky in some ways. Sure, there were mild flirtations: family members and friends had recovered from it, but most of that was before I could remember; “pre-cancerous cells” was a phrase thrown around when family members needed tests or operations; I even had a biopsy done on a mole once. Turns out it was just a big mole. In all that time, if I’m honest, cancer never really affected me: it was the bad smell when you walked into a bathroom, the bad shit had happened to someone else, and now you just had to hold your breath and get through it.

That was then.

About three years ago, my grandad was diagnosed with cancer; I’m going to call him P, because this piece is going to require that I differentiate between my two grandfathers. He got sick relatively fast; chemotherapy was on the cards, but was taking a lot out of  him. He had been through two different heart-bypass operations, a different cancer scare a few years previously, but this was the one that changed him. Fiercely independent, he’d spend his weekends doing DIY in the house, or for other members of the family; he’d drive (and his cars were amongst his prized possessions); having looked after me as a kid, he’d even gotten used to the babysitting thing (used to is an understatement. He relished it.) They were amongst the first things he had to stop doing.

For me and my parents, it got worse. I was lucky enough that at 24 years of age, I still had three living grandparents. My other grandad (we’ll call him T) had also been through his fair share of health ups-and-downs, but was no less independent: this was another man that loved his family around him, hopping on the plane to London several times a year to see family over there. But he, too, got sick.

After T went into hospital, we realised how bad things were: not only was it cancer, but it didn’t look like he’d be getting out of hospital. For him, the cancer was too widespread to treat effectively, so we started playing the waiting game.

I don’t think I can explain how hard it was to visit him in the hospital, knowing the inevitable outcome of his time there. He knew, of course: I don’t think he ever said it, but you could see it in his eyes, when he smiled it betrayed the tiniest bit of sadness. He was a proud man, he wouldn’t talk about it to me, or my mam, but he was also incapable of keeping a secret. My parents were there more than I was, insisting that I still carry on with work and life as normal. Not that it was particularly easy to do so. Every time my phone rang, I worried that it was that phone-call. Towards the end, he might have been moved to the Hospice; but he was put on a morphine drip to manage his significant pain and keep him comfortable, and the move never happened.

On the 14th November 2010, I went into work (it was a Saturday…not a nice day to work by any stretch of the imagination), I came home, I sat down to watch that week’s 30 Rock and…about halfway through, my phone rang. It was the phone-call I’d been dreading, but also knew that it was going to come.

The next week was…difficult. It was the first funeral for someone close to me in a long time, punctuated with panic attacks, half-pint glasses of Bulmers (long story), an infamous France v Ireland soccer match and trying to maintain poise while a church singer that nobody really wanted to sing screeched her way through high notes of “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

It was also that week when my other grandad, P, got really sick again, and ended up going back into hospital.

Things went somewhat similar there: sure, it was a different hospital, but things were close enough that it was like some sick deja-vu (in every sense of the word “sick.” Except for that new meaning that the kids are using.) This time, it progressed quickly, far quicker than anyone would have liked. This time around, my parents tried even harder to keep me from experiencing the exact points of the pain that was going on: it didn’t really work particularly well.

I spoke to him on the phone a few times, saw him even less. It’s strange what stands out about that time: I remember him specifically telling me “I’m really sorry about your grandad” (he was too ill to come to the funeral.) I also went to Top Gear Live, and spent most of the time there thinking about how much he would have loved it. (It also had a model of the 1960s Batmobile there, which was particularly poignant; my grandad had gotten so fed up with me renting out the Batman movie every time I stayed over that he’d resorted to buying it.)

It was the 14th December 2010 (check the date a few paragraphs up…yep, exactly a month later) that I rang my mam; knowing it was a month since T had passed away, I wanted to see how she was. I don’t know what made me ring her at that exact time, but as fate would have it, she’d left her phone in the hospital room while they all went out to grab a cup of coffee, and it was at some point during that phone call that he passed away.

The sick deja vu continued for another few days, only this time, things were a bit more difficult: it was snowing, and another snowfall started as we were wrapping things up in the graveyard. As we drove through my grandparents’ estate, the birds stood motionless on the field in the middle of it: that might not seem weird to you, but given that they usually got tossed the scraps of P’s meals or stale bread, it was their own eerie tribute.

One month: that was all it took for me to re-evaluate how I felt about cancer. That was how long it took for me to lose two really important men in my life.

I’d always thought that my grandads were invincible: doesn’t everyone? And not just grandparents, but parents too: whether it’s the folly of youth, or an aspiration, but they certainly always seemed that way to me.  When P and T passed, it struck me particularly hard: as a kid, both of them had looked after me at various times, whether it was after school or during the holidays. Both had used those times to teach me about life: I learned as much from them as I learned from my own parents. In fact, watching my parents going through this loss was probably harder than going through it myself.

I miss them both, but I’m not naive enough to wish they were still with us; they’d both seen their children grow up, most of their grandchildren as well. If they had regrets, they didn’t share them before they left. Me, however? I think it’s fair to say that I regret not spending more time with them, especially over that course of a month when I only had one grandfather to spent time with. But I also consider myself really lucky to have known them both as an adult, to get to know them as people, rather than just their role in the family.

Of course, that didn’t make it any easier.

I’m finding it a lot harder to think of cancer in the same way since that month: I think our relationship has changed (and not for the better.) I’m also not naive enough to think that my own experiences are particularly bad; just 3 months ago, my partner’s sister-in-law passed away thanks to cancer, and I find it hard to feel that her three kids, her husband, and the entire family, haven’t been cheated.

And that’s why I’m dyeing my hair for the month of February: because I know that someone out there has to have had a worse experience than me, and I don’t want people to go through what I did. Or anything worse. So this week, I have red hair; next week will be blue; purple and black will come after. And if just one person walking past me on the street feels better knowing that someone is supporting them, their friends and their families, then I’ll have achieved my goal.

If you feel the same, please give what you can, or take part yourself. You can donate through the website (www.mycharity.ie/event/ken_dyes_2012) and the money goes straight to the Irish Cancer Society too, so no fiddling with cash. And you can even see a picture of me with red hair (no, I don’t like it either.)

Jingle bells, Batman fells
Villains every day
Sometime he gets help from Supes
Or the JLA.

Jingle bells, Alfred smells
Robin’s kind of gay
His name is Dick and he wears leather
In a darkened cave.

Dashing through the snow
In her wheelchair
Here comes Oracle
Cos life’s not really fair.
Joker’s at the door
Gonna shoot her down
If only her dad (or uncle?) wasn’t
Commissioner of this town

Jingle bells, Riddler spells
Catwoman likes to steal
Bane’s kinda hard to understand
Cos the movie’s going for ‘real’

Jingle bells, Penguin sells
Beers and umbrellas
At the Iceberg Lounge for all
The dames and mean fellas.

Locking up the doors
In Arkham Asylum
Hope no-one breaks out and says
“Now I’ll have my fun.”
Having some nightmares?
Scarecrow’s got some gas
He ate too much at Christmastime
Now it’s coming out his ass

Jingle bells, Crime Alley tells
The origin of the bat
Tom and Martha lost their lives
Bruce was there for that.

Jingle bells, Gotham’s hell
Damian’s a pain
There’s no such thing as “happy” Christmas
If your name is Bruce Wayne

His eyes opened, but there was nothing to see. It was dark, that cold, deep dark where barely a crack of light enters, where everything seems to be absorbed by the darkness itself, like some solid mass. Someone was on top of him: he could feel their pressure as they leaned over his chest, their arms on his shoulders, the warmth of their flank just next to his hips.

“Shh, do not speak. If they hear you, they will come for, take you down there. You do not want that.”

The voice was male, whispered, close to his face, thick with an accent that made the consonants harsher, more guttural, but some remained light, effortless. His words sounded forced, speaking a foreign tongue that made the sentences and the phrasing appear unnatural. It was his breath that was striking, a warm, potent mist that permeated the relatively small space between them, adding to the dampness of the dark, a smell of hunger, of feeding off rotting flesh, a smell that no living thing should produce.

“You will see soon, yes? The darkness fades. Your name? You remember your name?”

He opened his mouth, his jaw aching, cracking almost, the faintest taste of dried blood in his nose and mouth. Blood, that’s what added to the smell, too much blood.

He moved his hand to his face now, probing gently with fingertips on tender flesh, stinging and agonising at that first touch, but providing a deeper, almost-satisfying agony when he pressed. His cheek was swollen on the right side, from his eye to his jaw. There was no such sensation on his left, and as he responded to the man’s question, he found himself speaking from the left side of his face.

“Thomas. My name’s Tom.”

There was a sharp gasp of breath, almost like laughter.

“You Americans, you say it so…funny. My brother, his name also Tomas, but we say it different here. More natural.”

“My brother,” Thomas responded. He tried to sit up, but the aching sensation in his back and sides told him that the rest of his body was in no better shape than his face. “He was with me. Is he here?”

Thomas tried to sit up, but a hand pushed him back to the soft surface on which he lay: despite its softness, it gave beneath him, rolled up pillows or blankets with little stuffing, mostly full of air. Underneath, he could sense something cold and hard as the wall next to him.

“There was only you. They found you. Outside. Took you in here.”

“How long..?” He tried to turn his face, taking the room in, despite the darkness. “And what is this place, anyway?”

Despite the darkness of the room, a small sliver let light in from outside: night, darkness, little to help him see, but enough to allow his eyes to begin to adjust to the stone walls around them. A stone shelf across the way, scattered with some pillows led Thomas to realise that he was lying on something similar.

“It has been a few hours.” The man’s face moved away, and Thomas took as deep a breath as he could manage, despite the restrictive tightness in his ribs. It did little to help: the smell appeared to permeate the room, perhaps even the stone walls themselves. “I know not. Time, it…it goes by so unknowing here.” His arm moved; even in the shadows, Thomas could see the shape gesturing towards the window. “And where? I…I do not know exactly. I have been here too long…”

The man’s voice trailed off, his body straightening before the pressure and warmth was lifted, gone.

“It started. Can you hear it?”

His voice moved, pacing and turning in circles in the middle of the room, what little space there was.

“What is it? What’s started?”

Thomas struggled to sit up, his arms and biceps burning as he moved, trying hard to push his feet around. It was only now that he realised his feet were bare, touching the cold, wet stones underfoot.

“The machine, it starts around now, starts calling.” He stopped, leaned in close, his breath once more close to Thomas’s. “Calling your name now, can you hear? It thinks you are special.” He stood once more, crying out now. “It never calls me!” Now there was banging, what sounded like weak fists on a thick wooden door. “It never calls me!! I am always here, always waiting, and you never call.”

“I thought you said to be quiet?” Thomas hissed. He reached out, the room small enough that he could pull on the man’s clothing, trying to drag him away from the door, his efforts surprisingly successful given his lack of strength. “What are you talking about? What machine? Is there are telephone here I could use?”

The man laughed, returning to pace once more. “Now you are being the stupid, we are in the mountains, no telephones for miles. Have you never heard of the machine?” He leaned in close. “Do you not hear it call your name, hushing now, but it will get louder. It wants you. It needs you.”

Thomas tried to push himself back, the cold, uneven wall pushing into his bruised back.

“It’s okay, calm down. I can’t hear any machine, but why don’t you tell me about it?”

“The machine? Tell you about the machine?” He was sitting now, or at least leaning over the bunk on the other side of the room. “The machine is beautiful, it sings its songs as it eats your soul, calls your name until it takes you.”

Now it was Thomas’s turn to laugh, trying to snort through his nose, and feeling his chest ache as he did: whoever this man was, he was clearly mad, but he was unsure if that was a good thing or not.

“O…kay. I’m sure if there’s a machine like that here, there’ll be a phone somewhere.”

The smell was there once again, the man’s face close to his own once more.

“Did you not hear me? It calls your name!”

“…And wants to eat my soul? It’s welcome to it.”

He screamed once more, standing, banging furiously on the door, calling to someone beyond.

“Blasphemer! Take him away! The machine wants him, and he does not care. Let it feed!”

Thomas reached out once more, but as his hands touched the rough cloth of the man’s clothes, a hand struck Thomas’s face, strong enough that he fell backwards, as the man’s cry was louder now.

“LET IT FEED!!!”

Sofia’s head still ached. She wanted to rub her hand against her forehead, but there was a pain in her left wrist which she didn’t want to acknowledge. But now, the woman was resting a cold, clammy hand against her forehead.

She was in her forties, and wore a tight white dress: Sofia didn’t need more information to figure out she was in a hospital bed.

“You might want to stay where you are for a little bit, you had a fairly bad trip.”

The woman moved her hand to Sofia’s right wrist now, her fingertips groping just a bit too tightly to feel a pulse.

“You were dehydrated, so I’ve hooked you up to a drip, we’ll have you back on your feet in an hour or so. Do you remember what happened?”

Sofia tried to sit up, pushing her legs against the bed to move her hips up. The nurse took her by the shoulder, helping her. It was only now that she realised she was still wearing her blouse and trousers: a glance to one side, and she saw her jacket, coat and handbag sitting on a small armchair.

“I…I was attacked. There was someone there when I got home.”

The nurse’s face, a picture of concern, changed to something disappointed. She opened her mouth to say something, but a door to the side opened and they were joined by a man in jeans and shirt.

Sofia took the opportunity to look around the room, although there wasn’t much to see: the wall to the left was bare, while opposite her, a large mirror tried to make the fairly small room seem bigger. To the right, a small window looked to a corridor beyond, although she couldn’t see anything outside, since their visitor was standing in the door way.

“Can I have a few minutes?”

“She’s just woken up, Scott.” The nurse stood up straight now, turning to face him fully. “By all means, but let her have it easy.”

She walked towards the door, the two of them swapping some unseen permission slip as they did so. The man who had been called Scott grabbed an armchair from under the window and pulled it close to her.

“Ms Hastings, do you know where you are?”

He was handsome, his blue eyes beaming out from under dark eyebrows and thick lashes. His hair was long, scruffy, just enough grey through it to make him seem experienced, but not enough to age him. She wondered if his hair was always like that, or if it was still late and he had been asleep: without a window to the outside world, she wouldn’t know.

“I’m assuming a hospital?” Her mouth was dry, but she wanted some answers more than she wanted a drink. “I’m more interested in who you are?”

“I’m Dr. Danny Cregan. I…work closely with your father at the Ministry of Defence.” He pulled an ID card from under his shirt, she saw the necessary logos, didn’t look any further. “We’ve taken you into a secure location after what happened earlier.”

Sofia shook her head. “Okay, and what happened earlier. I take it you got those guys who were at my apartment?”

Scott’s face froze for a moment and he sat back.

“Not quite. Those were some of our team.” He paused. “We were there under protocol from your father.” He stood up, turning his back to her. “There’s probably something you should see.”

He tapped the edge of the mirror on the wall opposite: a number of buttons lit up around the point where he touched. A drag and a tap and the mirror turned black for a moment before it displayed a news channel with images of a collapsed building taken from overhead.

“…scenes from central London after an explosion rocked the Stoppard Theatre and surrounding blocks. Prime Minister MacIntyre  and Minister Of Defence Martin Hastings were due to attend the grand re-opening of the theatre this evening, and we’re awaiting confirmation whether they were in attendance or not.”

“Oh god, dad.” She moved to stand up from the bed, but Scott turned around.

“We have agents on the scene, Ms. Hastings, but we believe your father made it safely out of the building.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Believe? That doesn’t sound very convincing.” She moved around to stand up once more, wincing once more at the pain in her wrist. A blue cannula and some tape held her drip in place: she pinched the tubing where it entered her wrist and pulled, leaving the cannula in place but disconnecting the drip.

She wasn’t expecting the reaction to be as serious as she got.

“Look, it’s best if you stay where you are. There’s far more going on than I can discuss with you right now: we’ve already lost three agents this evening, with two more seriously injured. Once I know more about the situation, I can fill you in.” He stood up and began to move towards the door. “I can assure you, we’re doing everything we can to assure your safety, and that of everyone else in the country. I’m afraid belief is all I have to go on right now.”

He left the room before she had a chance to follow.

She was barefoot, her shoes underneath the same chair as her coat and bag were on, but she opened the door to follow regardless.

“I’m sorry, miss.” The voice came from beside her, a man wearing the same black jumpsuit as she’d seen outside her apartment. “This is a restricted area, I can’t let you leave until you’re signed out.”

She let the door slam as she returned into the room.

“Great. Thanks for nothing.”

But seriously, ignore the first-draft-iness.

***

It was dark when the doors opened, just like it always was: the automatic lights would take a few more seconds to turn on, activated as the elevator arrived at its floor. The uneasy fingers of gravity played with her stomach and chest: the ride to the ninty-sixth floor was always a bit too fast for her liking, but she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, and although she was afraid to check the time on her watch, she knew it was nearly midnight.

The lights overhead flickered slowly into life, and she stepped into the corridor. They would only be bright enough to help her find her way to the door: it took close to five minutes for the bulbs to illuminate fully, although it only took thirty seconds to get to the front door of her apartment.

Sofia Hastings was twenty-nine years of age, soon to be thirty, though she didn’t like to think too much about that. It was a young age to be the owner and sole inhabitant of a penthouse apartment in one of the most exclusive buildings in London. The lift and stairs were in a glass corridor connecting two hub buildings: Sofia’s apartment was to her right, one of two on the top floor of South Block.

There was a full moon outside, shining like a beacon in the dark over the city’s landscape. She thought she saw flames and smoke in the distance, but she ignored them all as she turned towards her apartment: it was nothing she hadn’t seen before, and she was more interested in food and her bed, her only solace being that, being a Friday night, she could sleep late the following morning.

There was a cough from in front of her as she approached her door: a man in dressed all in black stepped away from the wall and moved slowly towards her.

“Ms Hasting,” he said, partly a question, but more of a statement. “We need to talk.”

She shook her head.

“I’m sorry, it’s been a long day. If there’s a problem with the building, do you think we could talk tomorrow?”

She had been having problems with a leak in her en suite recently, and was expecting a visit from her downstairs neighbour at some stage to complain. Perhaps not this late though.

He made another step forward, trying to keep far enough away to avoid making her uncomfortable, but she was aware that he now stood between her and the door. Her hand found its way into her handbag and the small pocket against its side, her fingertips easily finding the pressure points of her PalmPulse.

“I’m afraid it’s nothing to do with the building, miss. It’s about your father.”

She looked straight at him now, taking in all his details, though it was still difficult in the twilight of the electric lights overhead. He was shorter than her, probably a bit shy of six feet. A clean-shaven face did little to help her guess his age, which could have been anywhere from his thirties through his fifties, with reddish-blonde hair that probably made him look older than he was.

It was his clothing that now struck her, though: what she had thought was a black shirt and jeans, she now realised was a one-piece overall, loosely fitting enough that it was uncomfortable, but with the clean lines of a military jumpsuit.

She took a step backwards.

“I’m sure it can wait?”

Now, he stepped forward again: she could see both his hands, held by his side, and felt confused. She had been in threatening situations before, and while she wasn’t comfortable with this guy waiting for her outside her apartment, she could see no reason to worry.

“Ms Hastings, there’s been an attempt on your father’s life and we’ve reason to believe your life may be in danger as well. I’d like to take you to a safe location so we can be sure of your safety. I can show you my credentials?”

She shook her head again, this time withdrawing the PalmPulse from her bad: five small thimbles covered the tips of her fingertips and thumb, thin wires connecting each of them to a larger panel in her palm.

“Nope, doesn’t work like that. I know for a fact there should be more than just one of you. Now, who the hell are you and what are you doing here? You know one quick phonecall will have a team here to take care of you within a minute?”

The stranger held his hands up now.

“I know the protocol, miss: that back-up would be myself and my team. We’re the…”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence before staggering backwards. For a moment, she worried that she had fired the PalmPulse, but there was no warmth in her hand indicating that the weapon had been used.

His left hand went to his forehead, now looking to her side.

“Shade, get her out of here now.”

She turned and gasped: there was shadow beside her, the lights still not having come on fully, and now, two hands emerged from the blackness, one taking hold of her arm, the other reaching around her torso and pulling her towards the wall. Sofia raised her hands, stifling a scream and putting her hands out to stop herself from hitting the wall. But where she expected to feel the wall, her hands became instantly numb and cold, as if she had just dipped her hands in iced water. The sensation swiftly moved up both arms, spreading into her body and legs, until a moment later, she felt herself fall to her knees.

She was somewhere else: the air had changed, and there was a bustle around, something like her office in the middle of the day. She tried to look up, but her eyes refused to open, the cold sensation now seeping into her head.

A muffled voice sounded right beside her.

“Look after her. I need to go back for Forecast.”

The words made no sense to her as the coldness crept deeper.

Parts one and two can be found here (one) and here (two.)

It was close to midnight when Gray arrived back at his hotel, a decadent European-influenced abode a few blocks down from the theatre.

He’d walked alone, despite the weather, despite the fact that he had left the theatre at the same time as Sophia, even hailing a taxi for her and putting her inside. The snow had stopped falling, forming a fine grey-white slush at the edge of the footpath, a combination of snow and the salt-rock thrown by countless doormen, shop assistants and city employees, clumping together like wet paper waiting to stick to the sole of someone’s shoe.

He’d confused Sophia when he’d closed the taxi door, telling her he’d see her later. They were going to the same hotel, so there was no reason for him not to share her cab as they had done every time they made their way between the theatre and the hotel.

But he needed some time to himself tonight, some time to stew, to prepare himself for the show tomorrow. She knew that. He always did that the night before a show, a sort of preparatory ritual, more in his own mind than anything external.

But there was something more tonight, something that had been off with him since the impromptu press conference earlier that day, something scratching at his conscience, and it was more than just Gavin’s ineptitude, however real or imagined it was.

She didn’t ask him what was wrong, and he appreciated it. He paid her well enough to know when to keep to herself, and if he wanted to keep to himself this evening, he knew she’d respect whatever reasons he had as to why, chalking it up to him needing the night-time walk to clear his head or walk it off.

The doorman was opening a car-door as Gray approached the door of the hotel, torn between which of the two guests to assist before a smile from Gray let him know it was okay, that he was capable of opening the door himself. The doorman obliged, a hand raised to his cap in gentle salute.

The warm air that struck Gray as he walked through the first of two doors was comfortable, a stark contrast to the sickening bellows of heat that so many places offered from over their entrance. This was a heat that acknowledged the bite outdoors, making him shrug deeper into his coat and scarf, rather than immediately reaching to remove them.

The lobby of the hotel was long, reaching backwards past couches, past mirrors, past tables and carpets that somehow managed to belong simultaneously in both a glamorous photo-shoot and a grandparent’s attic. A spiral staircase dominated the opposite end of the lobby, the rest of this level of the hotel tucked neatly around the corner.

The girl on the desk looked up as Gray approached, smiling.

“Any messages for suite eight-twenty-three?”

The girl looked down, a few taps on a keyboard that Gray couldn’t see behind the marble desk, looking at an equally invisible (to him, anyway) monitor. She looked back up.

“There was an envelope delivered for you this afternoon by courier, which we sent up to your room. Anything else I can do for you this evening, Mr. Stanton?”

Gray shook his head. “No thanks.”

The receptionist opened her mouth for a moment, about to say something. She looked down again, but Gray had noticed the gesture, leaned his head down slightly to catch her eye.

“Is everything alright?”

She looked back up, catching his eyes. There was something in there that she couldn’t fight against.

“There was someone else looking for you, a young lady who’s also staying here.”

“Room ten-eighteen? Sophia Lorenzo?”

She shook her head. “No, this woman only checked in today, she seemed particularly…anxious to speak with you. She’s been waiting in the bar since she got back this evening. I’ve already alerted security in case she’s a…” She paused, searching for the word, and smiled. “In case she’s a fan.”

Gray smiled, a quick glance at the nametag on her left lapel. “Thank you, Roma.”

She smiled, blushing slightly at the use of her name. He turned around: from here, the elevators were to one side, the bar around another corner. It only took him a second to decide which way to go.

[...]

***

With only a hundred people in the auditorium, maybe less, it didn’t take long for the applause to die down, giving Sophia the change to step from the side of the stage to the front. She was a sharp contrast to the show that had just gone on: no sharp black tuxedo or sequined gown to show off, just a pair of blue jeans, an old, black fitted T-shirt, faded to grey with a barely visible logo proclaiming her as a fan of The Clash. And, of course, a headset.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is just a sample of the show that Mr. Stanton will be staging here tomorrow evening. As you know, it will be broadcast live on FBC6 at 8pm, seven central. Details of the broadcast, and full press releases are in the press pack you were given earlier. I’ll be more than happy to answer any questions you might have once our press briefing begins.” She glanced down at her wrist where she always wore her watch on the inside of her arm: the digital screen proclaimed it to be 4.30pm.

“I’ll be back in just a few minutes, once Mr. Stanton is ready.”

Her runners made a slight squeak on the plastic-sheethed floor as she turned on the spot and walked offstage, back in the same direction as she had come.  Gray Stanton was already waiting behind the curtain for her, still wearing the tuxedo he had been wearing as part of the act, only now his bow-tie hung open around his neck, two black tendrils emerging from a crisp white shirt. He was in the middle of undoing obsidian cufflinks that, even in the relative darkness of backstage, blindingly caught the light, something that had caught his eye in an antique shop years before and had spent a considerable amount of time and money hunting down a matching pair when he’d returned the following day to find them sold.

“How did it go?” he asked her.

His voice somehow fit his appearance exactly, and yet seemed so unusual when he spoke aloud after a lengthy silence. To Sophia, he had no particular accent, leaning more towards a combination of European accents than anything American. The closest accent to Gray’s that she had ever heard was upon meeting her father’s aunt a few years before, an Italian with a mash of accents after years of moving around Europe during and after the war, a voice dotted with a harsh G, a rolled R, a staccato C and eight different ways of pronouncing each vowel.

Sophia had met a handful of other magicians in the time that she had been working as Gray’s PA; some of them liked to maintain their mystery, with few of them speaking as much as Gray did, either as part of their act or when she had met them socially. Few of them needed to, the really good magicians were meant to be able communicate with their hands and their eyes, but Sophia always felt that Gray’s distinctive voice set him apart from the others, adding to the natural mystery that others had to force by a self-imposed silence.

“It was good,” she replied. “They clapped, didn’t they?”

She picked up a clipboard from the shelf nearby, where she’d left it before walking onstage. Tracing a finger over the page, and Gray’s schedule, she tapped the plastic once with her fingernail. “The quicker you get changed, the quicker you can answer their questions and get out of here.”

“I know.” He held out an arm and she obliged, unhooking his cufflink. “But not like I’ve anything better to do this evening.”

“You told me to keep it free.”

She reached for the other cufflink in his hand as he pulled his jacket off his arms: if she didn’t take them, chances were that he’d lose them.

He smiled at her. “I know, but it’s not like you ever listen to me, is it?”

He began to walk towards his dressing room, unbuttoning his shirt as he did so. She followed, just a few steps behind but far enough that he could either invite her in or wave her away. They did not need to walk far: five paces brought them across this part of the backstage area, a brushed aside curtain leading to a larger preparatory area with make-up tables and mirrors, with Gray’s dressing room just to the side.

Sophia was unsure if she was meant to hear Gray’s sigh as they moved past the curtain, but she knew what it meant, and as she passed under the smooth, new velvet, her suspicions were confirmed when she caught sight of Gavin Vantauk standing by the door.

“Gray, we need to have a talk about the cameras for tomorrow night. I just had a look at the footage we got there, and we can see her drop.”

Gray drifted effortlessly past him, half-placing, half-tossing his jacket onto the chaise-longue just inside the door. Leaning into the mirror that made up one whole wall of the room, Gray picked up a towel from the back of a chair and wiped his face, brushing away the fine beads of sweat.

He sighed again, his eyes catching Sophia’s in the mirror as she stepped in the door.

“Mr. Stanton, if we can see her drop…” Gavin continued.

“I’m well aware what that means, Mr. Vantauk, and it’s not my problem.” He turned, leaning slightly back against the dressing table and throwing the towel back onto the chair.

“Magic is all about timing, Gavin, one of many similarities I would have thought that our professions share. I can’t change the timing of my act, or else we’ll end up with a dead contortionist and a set of Russian twins who’ll be reduced by fifty percent. So I suggest that you figure out how to promptly switch your feed from that bloody camera at the front of the stage onto the audience so that…doesn’t…happen.”

Gavin stood, his lips forming shapes for a few seconds while he searched for the words. “Can…can we maybe come up with a different set of cues?”

Gray shook his head. “No, no way. The cues remain exactly the same, or the whole act has to change. You’ll need to sort this one out on your own. Get Jo to come up with some ideas for you.”

Gavin was still speechless; it was left for Sophia to interject. “Jo’s at a network meeting, she’s off-site.”

He nodded his thanks at her, eyes still fixed on Gavin before he stepped forward to place his hand on the younger man’s shoulder, not-so-subtly manoeuvring him towards the door.

“I’d suggest you either interrupt that meeting then, Gavin, or else figure something out for yourself. It shouldn’t be that hard, it’s not like your livelihood depends on it or anything.”

He didn’t give Gavin a chance to reply, even to turn around, before closing the door and returning to sit facing the mirror.

“Why? Why the hell did Jo leave…that in charge?”

“You should go easier on him.” Sophia took a hanger from the rack of clothes, placing the tuxedo jacket onto it and straightening it out. “Working with a magician isn’t always the easiest thing to do.”

“So I’ve heard.” Again, their eyes met by way of the mirror: if she hadn’t seen the sly glance he cast her, she would have thought he was being serious.

“He’s young.”

“Maybe mentally. He’s three years older than you, Sophia. I’m sure he probably still lives in his parents’ basement though. Or attic. He strikes me as an attic person, actually. Too scared of the dark.”

“Now you’re just being mean.”

“It’s not mean if it’s the truth. And I am, if nothing else, a soothsayer.”

He saw her shake her head. “Whatever you say, Gray. Just ease up on him, or he’ll have a heart attack before this time tomorrow. I’ll wait outside, let you get changed. See you back on-stage in five?”

It was now her turn to close the door before waiting for a reply.

***

There was some more applause as Sophia led Gray back onto the stage, dressed far more casually than he had been dressed for his act. His black shirt, jacket and black jeans might have looked casual on anyone else: for Gray, indeed for others of his profession, it still came across as something a bit too like a uniform. A comfortable uniform, but one which they were expected to wear during working hours nonetheless.

Outstretched palms quelled the noise, a few gentle nods in the direction of the seats showing his appreciation of their gratitude.

“Thank you, thanks everyone. I’m glad you could come along today for the press launch. You’ve already met my assistant Sophia Lorenzo,” he gestured to her, standing to the edge of the stage, close enough to step in and answer any questions that she needed to, but far enough that the focus was on Gray.

“I guess…,” he crouched down slightly, swinging his legs under him until he sat on the edge of the stage. “I guess some of you have some questions. I’m afraid we haven’t had the time to arrange any one-on-one interviews over the last few weeks, so I thought we’d have a little informal press conference type thing now. Please, feel free to ask whatever questions you like: I’ll answer what I can, and if not, Sophia can fill you in on what I can’t. Obviously, questions on the act itself are strictly out-of-bounds.”

Gray paused; there was silence, some noise of work from backstage, but none of the assembled dared to raise their hand just yet. He turned his head to Sophia. “Let’s get some lights on, see who we’re talking to.”

She stepped off-stage for a moment, her finger pressing the earpiece of her headset closer to her head. A few seconds later, the house lights came on, the assembled journalists, reporters, gathered press blinking slightly as the new bulbs flickered to life overhead.

Someone in the second row raised their hand, and Gray motioned to her. She stood up, notebook and pen clutched in hand. The combination of a formal skirt and matching jacket, a ponytail of salt-and-pepper hair that was just a little bit too severe, it was unsurprising to Gray that she was the first to stand up, had probably been used to putting herself forward first.

“Mr. Stanton, Gloria Mbanu from the Manhattan Chronicle.”

“Hi Gloria, nice to meet you.” Gray’s interruption threw her off just a little, a politeness that she wasn’t expecting.

“Oh…thanks. So, um, Mr. Stanton, can you tell us why you decided to perform at such a small venue as this? Your previous shows have sold out arenas, and you’ve had residencies in Las Vegas, London and Dubai. So why the Imperium?”

Gray smiled as she sat back down. Once again, an inclination of his head was all the thanks that he offered, or that was required.

“Thanks, Gloria. I’ve been asked that question a couple of times by people backstage and that I work with, but I’ve never really been able to give a proper answer. There’s lots of stories about the theatres here in New York, and in my head, theatre and magic have always gone hand-in-hand.”

As he spoke, Gray held both his hands together: it was one of the first things that Sophia had noticed when she’d started working with him, how every word or sentence received that extra punctuation from a wave, a gesture. It was like another language, a language that most people found very difficult to penetrate, never noticing nor understanding the subtle differences between the wave of his hand that called them closer or that waved them away.

“The Imperium’s been on this site, in some form or other, since 1878: sure, the place has been torn down and rebuilt a few times, changed its name and changed it back. Even now, everything in here is new, clean and shiny. But that’s not what I care about. There’s so much history here, just in this place, that regardless of whether this was a theatre, or a shop, or even a new apartment block, this place would just live and breathe that magic.”

“There’s been any number of shows on here over the last hundred-and-fifty years or so, but what interests me most is the fact that the Imperium began life as a real variety theatre, bringing over cabaret and vaudeville acts from Europe. And that’s what I want to bring back. When the owners asked me to perform at the theatre’s grand opening, that wasn’t something I could turn down, especially not when they gave me free reign of the program. Tomorrow night will be much more than a magic show: there’s be all sorts of entertainment and acts. Some of the people coming in for it will be doing things I’m pretty sure have never been seen before on live TV. Yes?”

A finger pointed to someone sitting behind Gloria, and another question.

“Edgar Trewsome, LJN radio.”

Gray didn’t interrupt this time, but opened his hand in a gesture of welcome.

“What about the television involvement, was that your idea?”

“Well I’ve done specials for a few different networks before, so I’m used to working on TV. But no, FBC contacted me through my agent and the management of the theatre directly when they heard about the show, wanting to be involved. That plan was originally to record it as a special to go out over the holiday season, but with the renovation work being done to the theatre, we had to push the opening back to late January, so it’s going out live. And here we are.”

Somewhere off stage, there was a crash, a sound of glass breaking, an obscenity shouted from amongst the curtains. Sophia disappeared into the shadows to check as another reporter stood up, towards the back of the auditorium. She sat underneath the balcony of the upper level, still somewhat in shadow despite the intensity of the house lights.

“Yes?” Gray inclined his head and smiled.

“Thank you. Leah Cooper. You’ve always been very secretive about how you got started in this business…could you tell us a little bit about how you got started? As a magician?”

By the time she’d asked her question, Sophia had returned to the stage, crouching down next to Gray now.

“We’ve a slight problem, Gavin’s after dropping one of the cameras as he was trying to move it, didn’t trust the director of photography to do it. Good news is, it sorts out our problem of having too many cameras seeing too much, but he’s freaking out back there and thinking he’s ruined the show, so I think we could do with your…calming influence.”

A deep breath and a nod was all he needed, before Sophia stood straight once more. Her knees cracked awkwardly, uncomfortably, and Gray looked up to see her wince quickly, then shake it off.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Leah especially…I’m sorry for this, but we’re going to have to cut this short, there’s a few…technical matters we need to attend to.” Gray smiled to himself that there was no such crack as he got to his feet. “If there’s any other questions you have, by all means direct them to Sophia and either she or myself will try and get back to you. We might even be able to arrange some one-on-one interviews for after tomorrow’s show.”

There was some polite applause, loud but unenthusiastic, disappointed maybe, as he left the stage. Sophia hung back, a gentle cough urging him to turn around before he passed through the curtain to whatever chaos Gavin had waiting for him.

“He’s trying to clean up the mess, just behind the pendulum-trick rigging. You want me to get rid of them, arrange some interviews for tomorrow then?”

Gray’s face was still: usually, he didn’t mind dealing with the press, even enjoyed it, or at least made it look like he did. But she could tell from his expression what the answer was even before it came.

He was already turned away from her, already walking in the other direction when he spoke, and she knew better than to call after him or follow.

“Absolutely not. You know what tomorrow is, there’s not going to be any more interviews after that.”

[...]

So if you like it, let me know: I’ll go back, work on it some more and maybe even finish writing it some time soon.

***

The blade was inches from her neck, so close that her hair flickered in the breeze it created as it spun. The sound of it filled the room, a high-pitched screech of metal-on-metal that made her ears prick to attention. It was loud enough to drown out the sound of her shackles, the shaking of the metal chains as she struggled against her restraints.

She was bound to a wooden cross, painted black, each wrist cuffed and attached to a lengthy chain. As he’d pushed her against the cross, with just a little too much force, he’d wrapped the chain around her arms, smoothed wood and soft skin pressed tight together. The chains were caught together at the neck of the cross, behind her head: even if she could have gotten a hand loose to reach behind herself, it was far enough back that she couldn’t adjust it, couldn’t free herself, of that there was no doubt.

He moved behind her, ensuring that the restraints were tight before wrapping his arms around both of them, his hands tracing their way over her bare arms and midriff. The roughness of his fingertips sent shivers along her spine, callouses formed from years of guitar strings, of candles extinguished with a pinch, now playing her body’s nerves like a harp. She turned her head away from the blade, a deep breath causing her body to rise and fall along with his movements, hoping to catch his eye, to beg for forgiveness, to achieve salvation.

If he saw her, he didn’t acknowledge it, moving his hands now along her other arm, tracing his fingers along the chains, the inside of her arm before leaving her completely, turning those rough hands to the instrument of torture, of certain death he’d set up for her.

The saw continued to spin, close to reaching its full speed, its edges turning a blurred orange and red in the corner of her eye. It was a simple circular saw, the kind you could buy at any hardware store, the kind that her father and brother had used in the garage when she was a kid. The stand was something new, something like a camera tripod, adjusted so the saw would sit perfectly on it, rotating through three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, if necessary. He’d shown her what it could do already that afternoon, a mannequin sawed in half before her eyes, its lifeless head and torso falling to the floor as her own scream mingled with the noise of the saw, ripping through hollow plastic, rending it apart.

Just to make it worse, he pulled the blade away from her, just for a moment, stepping fully on front of her. He reached his hands out, once again moving along her arms: it could have been to free her, to kiss her, were it not for the tight grip on her wrists as he pulled her arms, making sure one last time that she was secured to the cross. A hand at her waist, another brushing the hair from her forehead, it was to be her last human contact before he left her side once more.

There was no hesitation when he returned to the saw. It was fluid, it was fast, a weapon wielded by either the most certain or least careful of their craft, louder now, faster, feeling the air flowing around it as it spun, shaking her hair. She closed her eyes against the inevitable moment that surely must come.

Millimetres away from her skin, the lights went out, the sudden darkness blinding her, the sound continued to roar in her ear.

Right on cue, she screamed.

***

As the lights came back on, the empty stage only served to focus on that one point, the area where the cross had stood. It was vacant now, the chains still draped over the arms, sawdust sprinkled over the floor around the cross itself and the floor nearby.

The cut was clean, straight through the vertical beam and just over the cross-bar, the pale white-cream of young wood peering out, reflecting the light that shone on it. There was no blood, there was no body, not the faintest trace of the beautiful girl who’d been there mere seconds before.

He dropped his head, turning away from the destruction, looking around in vain to see where she could be before noticing something on high. His head, his hand, both raised to look, the light that surrounded him growing, spreading for a moment before turning away to follow his gaze.

There was the usual arbitrary applause from the spectators in the auditorium, turning to look at the girl who sat on the edge of the uppermost box to stage right, long legs swinging underneath her, a bow and a smile to the audience, a mirthful, practiced laugh and a wave to her would-be-killer, her finger urging him to come catch her before she rolled backwards into the blackness of the box.

The arm that he had pointed at her drew back in, the light returning to focus on him, and him alone. There were a few more hesitant claps from the audience, both of his arms outstretched and a gracious inclined head before turning to the cross once more, to dismiss it with a wave. What was once sturdy as a prison fell to the ground without a touch, the chains clattering on the floor as the harsh white light faded to black once more.

[...]