his place, about halfway down the decrepit flea pit. He settled into his uncomfortable seat, his sight virtually useless in the shadowy gloom. He ate a handful of nuts. Figures shifted in the darkness around him as others took their places.
Minutes passed, the constant murmuring of those around increasing the sense of trepidation that was slowly giving way to fear within his mind. His body felt stiff and cold. A tiny muscle in his cheek twitched uncontrollably. He felt as though the theatre had become filled with amorphous, muttering things, each hungry for his blood.
Then the music started. To call it music would be an overstatement, for this was a dreadful clanging clamour mixed with tinkling bells, clashing gongs, and beating drums; an infernal, diabolical din that grew from silence into a hideous cacophony. Thankfully it faded, only to be replaced with a mournful, dirge-like singing that seemed to rise like something dead and wailing from the theatre basement, where all manner of things could lurk. Like a dark, unseen tide, it quickly drowned out the hubbub from those seated.
Murphy patted the lump of his gun, thankful that he had it.
Spotlights illuminated the stage. A thick, red, moth-eaten curtain concealed whatever lay beyond. The music stopped.
Then came a voice, a strange ethereal voice reciting strange Chinese words that Murphy couldn’t understand. Accompanying this incomprehensible introduction came a shuffling, crooked figure from the right side of the stage. It was an ancient man with a long, wispy grey beard. He was dressed in a rough grey-brown cloak, a knobbly stick in his hand. His movements were arthritic and doddery and, nearing the centre, he stumbled and nearly fell over.
Some in the audience laughed.
The Chinese commentary stopped.
Murphy squinted. Was this Chung-Fu in disguise?
The old man raised his terribly wrinkled face. “Good evening and welcome.” His voice was wavering. “May I take this opportunity to thank you all for coming on such a miserable night. We have a host of entertainers this evening. Tonight’s first act features those manic midgets from Old Shanghai—Sammy Hung and his sons: Ling, Jing, Xing, and Weng. Then we have, all the way from the Grand Guignol Theatre in Paris, France, Monsieur Claude Giraudin. After his performance, you’re sure to be enthralled by the puppetry of Huey Labada.”
Huey Labada. Murphy sat up. He thought he had heard that name before somewhere, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where.
“Tonight’s penultimate act before the main attraction is Madame Li Sung, the Empress of Escapology. And then, the one you’ve all come to see, the Master of the Macabre, the Chinese Conjuror, the Devil of Xiang-Shang-Po, ChungFu!”
With no further words, he shambled off the stage.
The curtain rose, albeit clumsily. The backdrop was a poor mockup of a dusty Chinese village street, dilapidated, ramshackle timber houses with red and gold banners hanging from windows and doorways. A large cart filled with marrows and pumpkins rested to one side.
For a time nothing happened and the murmuring in the crowd grew. Then, with the crack and bang of numerous fireworks a small Chinese dragon scurried out onto the stage, the feet of its operators clearly visible. It was a crude-looking thing of scarlet and gold, adorned with streamers, its head shaggy, its large goggle eyes wobbling, its mouth snapping. It weaved and danced for a few minutes before snaking off stage.
A moment later five midgets rushed out. The diminutive quintet cavorted, performing acts of none too great dexterity. With a hoot and a cry the entertainers leapt, somersaulted, and cartwheeled. One walked on his hands, presenting his fat backside to the audience. Clambering together, they then formed a human pyramid; a bizarre, fleshy effigy that held for a few seconds before toppling over.
A huge roar of laughter came from the spectators.
After this display of their acrobatic abilities three of them ran off stage and returned with huge guan daos—vicious looking Chinese pole arms—with which they fought one another, their attacks and parries poorly rehearsed. The other two produced hand axes with which they started to juggle. Every so often one of them would fall over or mistime a catch, often with bloody results. They would get a laugh all the same.
And then, seemingly over before it had started, Sammy Hung and his sons linked hands and bowed in unison.
“Let’s hear your appreciation.” The aged compère shuffled from the wings, clapping as he came. “Weren’t they great?”
“Utter rubbish!” shouted a tramp in the second row. “Pathetic!” He stood up and began making rude gestures at the entertainers.
Murphy glanced over, a wry smile on his lips. He agreed with the heckler’s sentiments, but—
Suddenly the lead midget rushed forward brandishing one of the hand axes. He looked around, his eyes wild, popping from his head. “What that you say?” he screeched.
Murphy stared dumbstruck as the crazed dwarf ranted on.
“You want this? You want this between ears?”
“I dare you, you damned—”
The hurled hatchet spun and flashed end over end, thudding with a meaty thwack into the heckler’s right shoulder. Screaming his agony to the ceiling, the unfortunate then began to push his way to the aisle. With blood oozing from where the hatchet lay embedded, the man stumbled to the end of the row when a second hand axe struck with deadly accuracy into the side of his head. The force of the blow catapulted him over and into the next row where he fell upended. His legs twitched for a moment before the body slumped down into the space between the seats.
There followed a stunned silence, a silence that was soon interrupted by the sound of the angry midget and his sons cursing and stomping off stage.
The curtain fell. Two stagehands rushed out with a stretcher and took the body away.
Murphy sat, like the majority of the onlookers, shocked and horrified at what had just happened. Good God! What kind of barbarism was this? Or could it just have been no more than a well-staged illusion, a part of the act? His thoughts seemed to be echoed by some in the audience as a ripple of uneasy laughter spread across the chamber. He watched as others left their seats, moving to the side aisles, either fearful that Sammy Hung would return and vent his wrath on them, or else in readiness to leave.
The doddery old man returned. “Well, that was something else, I’m sure you’d all agree. As for tonight’s second act, we are truly honoured to have with us an undisputed master of illusion. May I present, the one, the only…Monsieur…Claude Giraudin!”
The lights dimmed.
The curtain rose.
The haunting organ groaning of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor started up as clouds of dry ice billowed across the stage.
Murphy could see that the stage had been transformed into an eerie, moonlit, cemetery-like setting: hastily put up headstones, an old plastic tree, and a spike railing. In the middle, he could discern a caped organist with a top hat, his back to the audience, a large ornate church-organ before him.
The playing stopped and the seated figure turned around.
Thoroughly grotesque—his hair patchy and straggly, his face sunken and cadaverous—he bore more than a passing resemblance to
