Mariah Mundi by G.P. Taylor

the evening was that Mariah had over-coiled the spring to the mechanical legs, and when it had been time for Bizmillah to flick the switch the legs had burst furiously into life. As he had asked Mariah to move his feet – the audience fully believing the poor boy had been severed in the trunk – the artificial legs had beat back and forth so quickly that the box had been violently shaken and Mariah looked as if he would be beaten about the head as his faux feet twisted and kicked beside him.
    Bizmillah, being the Great Magician, had quickly seized the moment and in his finest Transoldovian accent had told theaudience that the boy had fallen under the influence of his sorcery and when rejoined would feel nothing. He had even gone so far as to call a fat old man from the bemused spectators to come and inspect the boy to see if he had any visible wounds. This the man had done with immense enthusiasm, roughly squeezing Mariah around the middle and exclaiming to the world that he didn’t leak. The old man obviously did … Mariah had clamped his nostrils as the smell of the vile mixture of cheap wine, mothballs and aged dampness had made him gulp. Once the inspection had been completed, Mariah was hailed a hero by a standing ovation which lasted for several minutes, turning his face redder and redder as the embarrassment crept from his neck into his cheeks and finally engorged his ears. Bizmillah pushed him from the stage into the darkness of the wings, throwing from his hand a dove that circled high above their heads and then exploded into a shower of silver petals which floated gently upon the crowd.
    Now, Mariah watched as the theatre slowly emptied, the audience trudging to the open doors and the long passageway that would take them back into the Prince Regent.
    ‘It’s not over,’ Sacha said as she pushed him gently in the back to gain his attention. ‘Bizmillah leaves everything to us. There’s no time to stand dreaming.’
    Mariah was about to reply when he saw a man by himself in the back row of the small side balcony that overlooked the stage. He was wearing evening dress with a silver bow tie, and constantly brushed back his long hair with his hand as he looked around. It was as if he was looking for someone or something, waiting for the theatre to empty. Mariah squinted through thin narrow slit, unable to get a clear view of his face. Suddenly all became very clear as the man got to his feet, walked slowly to the edge of the balcony and looked down into the stalls, casting his eyes over every, empty seat.
    ‘Isambard Black,’ Mariah said as he instinctively ducked back into the darkness.
    ‘Who?’ asked Sacha as she quickly caught a white rat that scurried about her feet.
    ‘The man from the spa pool – he was on the train from London – said he was staying here till March,’ Mariah whispered as Sacha took the rat and loaded it back into the barrel of the small cannon from which it would be fired.
    ‘Let me see.’ She pushed Mariah to one side, peering through the narrow slit.
    Isambard Black climbed from the balcony, past the vine-clad columns and into the stalls below. Sacha now watched eagerly as he searched every seat, checking underneath each one with his hand whilst he looked about him as if he did not want to be discovered.
    ‘He’s searching the theatre,’ Sacha said, too loud for a whisper, her sharp voice echoing from the stage.
    Black stopped what he was doing and hid behind a seat. For several moments he was out of sight. Slowly and carefully he peeped from his hiding place, looking around for whoever had spoken. Sacha looked on as he gawped about him, not realising that the voice had come from behind the stage. Black again began to search every seat, slowly and meticulously searching underneath each one as he made his way along the empty row.
    ‘You watch,’ she said quietly in Mariah’s ear. ‘I’m going to ask what he’s up to …’
    Before Mariah could reply, Sacha was gone.