He
tightened the knot of his scarf snug around his throat as he emerged from the
lift, falling into the short-stepped shuffle of commuters that were filtering through the
ticket barriers. Some joined the throng of people wandering towards the piazza,
others traversed the street to lean against the “20% Discount Today Only”
stickers emblazoned across the windows of Oasis, the generic meeting point from
Covent Garden tube. Bleeping himself through the barrier, Brian paused
momentarily to pick up an Evening Standard before joining the stream of
tourists, the obsolete hollers of the newspaper vendor following him as he
walked.
James Street was congested with the usual
muddle: red-vested restaurant touts brandishing 2-4-1 Maxwell fliers;
eagle-eyed chuggers armed with superficial smiles, ingratiating small talk and
a clipboard; Big Issue sellers resident in the indent between Boots and
Sketchers, this time the lady with a dry frizz of purple hair and a sad-eyed
dog. To the right of the tube was a charred steel drum sheltered by a tatty red
and white tarpaulin and loaded with burning white coals. A dozen pebble-like
chestnuts roasted slowly on the grill, later to be sold for £2 per plastic cup.
Opposite, a metallic man with a comically large nose sat on thin air, legs
crossed, arms folded and comfortably cupping his chin in assumed thought. Other
street performers were stationed further down the street: a magician loudly
rallying spectators together for his next show, a Jack Sparrow, tapping his
foot impatiently while waiting for the life-size gnome to vacate his slot on
the street, and a 19th century sailor dressed in full ceremonial
garb.
On reaching
the crossroad, marked at each corner by traditional Victorian pubs (The White
Lion and The Nag’s Head) Brian turned left. Away from the
bustle of the tube station, the street was quieter. The glass-fronted
restaurants however were brimming with diners enjoying pre-theatre dinner. Hugging his
jacket close to his chest as he passed, Brian glanced up briefly at the helical
bridge linking the top floor of the buildings either side of him, then abruptly
turning right. He fished his ID from his breast pocket, swiped it across a
transparent square on the wall and a glass door swung open; he stepped inside.
He arrived
in a room no larger than an over-sized cloakroom – a small reception desk, a
cluster of chairs and a water machine. Loosening his scarf, he went straight to
the desk where a woman with short blonde hair and rosy cheeks was examining a
TV monitor. He caught her eye with a smile.
“Any mail
for me today Ruby,” he asked. Ruby nodded, disappearing behind the desk and
busying herself in a unit of pidgeon holes heavily stacked with paperwork
“Gimme a
min,” she called, her voice muffled.
While waiting, he turned a circle listlessly before wandering over to the row of
seats. As he sat down, another figure entered the reception via a side door.
She was barefoot and wearing an over-sized hospital gown. Loosely fastened by a
tie in the small of her back, it rustled like paper as she moved. She was
completely bald and deathly white, with pale chapped lips and wide hollow eyes
sunken into pallid, puffy cheeks. As she turned to show her side profile,
Brian’s stomach squirmed uncomfortably. The back of her skull appeared to have
been hacked away: the crown of her head a squashy, squiggly mess of raw red and
pink tissues.
As she
leant over the reception desk to see where Ruby was, she caught sight of Brian.
She grinned sheepishly. Incongruent with her appearance, it gave her a slightly
crazed look.
“That
goddam makeup department,” Brian smiled, getting to his feet. “Your head makes
me squeamish every time!”
“Gotta look
the part haven’t I,” she replied, running a hand delicately across the top of
her skull as if modelling a designer hat.
“Just
finished rehearsals?” he continued, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.
“You bet.
Wrapped up and ready for curtain up. Got those vocal chords prepped?”
Brian
tugged his scarf lightly and cocked his head. “Always.”
******
Two hours
later, the cavernous auditorium of the Royal Opera House was filled with the
murmuring chatter of an expectant audience; front of house staff ushered
latecomers into their seats, coughs were cleared and programmes rustled. As the
lights dimmed, a whispering hush fell until the audience were waiting the
in silent darkness. As the royal red velvet curtain parted, the
orchestra began to play and the silence of the theatre was filled with the melodic lines of the opening overture.
Standing in
the shadows in the wings of the stage, Brian felt a ripple of adrenalin. Though
unable to see them, he knew that hundreds of people were waiting for
him. Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes, hands behind his back and brow
furrowed in contemplation.
A few
minutes later, the music suddenly crescendoed. Looking up, he stepped from the
shadows and into the dazzling spotlight on-stage.
First published on Urban Stories.
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