anyway.’
Pamela allowed herself half a smile in response, and looked up over her head to locate the two looped hand grips hidden in the cabinet ceiling. Reggie positioned himself at the back and got ready to take her cap and shoes and imaginary skirt as she shed them.
‘All right then,’ said Mr Brookes. ‘On my count. Nice and deeply in to start with. And remember –’
The opposing zinc panels multiplied Pam into an infinity of hoisted figures, black and white on silver. She tried to avoid her own face, but couldn’t.
‘Yes?’
‘Remember that as soon as the doors click shut the rope round your wrists goes between your teeth, so that your hands are then free to deal with your ankles and shoes. So you might as well do this with your mouth full. Reg –’
‘Christ. Don’t want bloody much, do you?’
It took nearly five hours.
First she had to get the hang of lifting herself up on the straps right – that alone took twenty minutes – then the drop through the open trap, then the drop and curl and slide into the steps, then the whole thing together as one uninterrupted, breathless sequence. Then, of course, she had to stay jammed into the steps while Mr Brookes counted out the full length of time it would take the stagehands to trundle her safely into the wings. The first time she made it all the way through, Reggie handed out a woman white-faced with shock and effort, her heaving shoulders sheened with sweat – Pam had stripped off her black sweater barely an hour into proceedings, and was working in just her bra and slacks. She looked as though she’d been dug up.
‘Thanks,’ she said, tersely, taking Reggie’s proffered hand to steady herself after she’d uncurled. ‘Jesus. Well … so that’s what it feels like when you go all the way.’
She was still fighting to get her breath back. Reggie stared at the scrapes and bruises that were already writing the apparatus’s angry signature across her back and forearms; he’d been expecting them, but still, they were going to need taking care of later. There’d be others on her shins as well, where she braced her knees against the metal strut.
‘I hope the music’s nice and loud.’
Mr Brookes was only half looking at her, quietly looping and relooping a rope. It was Reggie who spoke up, filling in for Mr Brookes’s silence.
‘Why’s that then?’
‘Because,’ she said, scraping her falling hair back out of her face again, and sucking in her breath, ‘I do hate it when people can hear me scream while I’m working. And now …’
She blew what breath she’d managed to drag back into her lungs right out through her mouth, like a swimmer climbing back up onto the starting block. Turning to Mr Brookes, she somehow managed to both smile and grit her teeth at the same time.
‘Now I expect you’d like to see me do that all over again, wouldn’t you? As the lance corporal said to the bishop.’
‘I most certainly would …’ Mr Brookes’s hands paused, and he let his mouth curl around the words as if he was tasting them. ‘I would love to see you do that again. Several times.’
Whatever the thought was that was passing across his face, it went as soon as it had come; the hands went back to busying themselves with the ropes, and his working smile slid itself back into place as if the proverbial butter wouldn’t melt. The transformation was so quick that Pam wasn’t even sure if she’d seen the expression in his eyes and mouth darken or not – it was like that business he’d described with the scarf, making people think that they’d seen something, then straight away telling them they couldn’t possibly have.
‘But we’ll cross that bridge in the morning, if you don’t mind.’ The rope resolved into a coil, and was tossed across the stage. ‘The crew will be arriving for the matinee soon, and I’m rather a stickler for not being observed on the job, if you see what I mean. Now, Reg, do you think you might rustle us
Pamela allowed herself half a smile in response, and looked up over her head to locate the two looped hand grips hidden in the cabinet ceiling. Reggie positioned himself at the back and got ready to take her cap and shoes and imaginary skirt as she shed them.
‘All right then,’ said Mr Brookes. ‘On my count. Nice and deeply in to start with. And remember –’
The opposing zinc panels multiplied Pam into an infinity of hoisted figures, black and white on silver. She tried to avoid her own face, but couldn’t.
‘Yes?’
‘Remember that as soon as the doors click shut the rope round your wrists goes between your teeth, so that your hands are then free to deal with your ankles and shoes. So you might as well do this with your mouth full. Reg –’
‘Christ. Don’t want bloody much, do you?’
It took nearly five hours.
First she had to get the hang of lifting herself up on the straps right – that alone took twenty minutes – then the drop through the open trap, then the drop and curl and slide into the steps, then the whole thing together as one uninterrupted, breathless sequence. Then, of course, she had to stay jammed into the steps while Mr Brookes counted out the full length of time it would take the stagehands to trundle her safely into the wings. The first time she made it all the way through, Reggie handed out a woman white-faced with shock and effort, her heaving shoulders sheened with sweat – Pam had stripped off her black sweater barely an hour into proceedings, and was working in just her bra and slacks. She looked as though she’d been dug up.
‘Thanks,’ she said, tersely, taking Reggie’s proffered hand to steady herself after she’d uncurled. ‘Jesus. Well … so that’s what it feels like when you go all the way.’
She was still fighting to get her breath back. Reggie stared at the scrapes and bruises that were already writing the apparatus’s angry signature across her back and forearms; he’d been expecting them, but still, they were going to need taking care of later. There’d be others on her shins as well, where she braced her knees against the metal strut.
‘I hope the music’s nice and loud.’
Mr Brookes was only half looking at her, quietly looping and relooping a rope. It was Reggie who spoke up, filling in for Mr Brookes’s silence.
‘Why’s that then?’
‘Because,’ she said, scraping her falling hair back out of her face again, and sucking in her breath, ‘I do hate it when people can hear me scream while I’m working. And now …’
She blew what breath she’d managed to drag back into her lungs right out through her mouth, like a swimmer climbing back up onto the starting block. Turning to Mr Brookes, she somehow managed to both smile and grit her teeth at the same time.
‘Now I expect you’d like to see me do that all over again, wouldn’t you? As the lance corporal said to the bishop.’
‘I most certainly would …’ Mr Brookes’s hands paused, and he let his mouth curl around the words as if he was tasting them. ‘I would love to see you do that again. Several times.’
Whatever the thought was that was passing across his face, it went as soon as it had come; the hands went back to busying themselves with the ropes, and his working smile slid itself back into place as if the proverbial butter wouldn’t melt. The transformation was so quick that Pam wasn’t even sure if she’d seen the expression in his eyes and mouth darken or not – it was like that business he’d described with the scarf, making people think that they’d seen something, then straight away telling them they couldn’t possibly have.
‘But we’ll cross that bridge in the morning, if you don’t mind.’ The rope resolved into a coil, and was tossed across the stage. ‘The crew will be arriving for the matinee soon, and I’m rather a stickler for not being observed on the job, if you see what I mean. Now, Reg, do you think you might rustle us
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