tragically and bloodily. For, in the final scene, Labada and ‘Two-Bellies’ were cornered by the police, the latter depicted through a combination of real actors and more shadow puppetry. There ensued a ferocious gun-battle, the sounds of the pyrotechnics and special effects deafening.
Riddled with bullets, Labada staggered dramatically to the front of the stage and collapsed in a pool of blood, landing atop the deformed dummy-thing.
Labada’s demise was followed by some hesitant applause, although by now the theatre had emptied somewhat, many individuals having seen enough.
Once more the curtain descended.
A riot of crazy notions swam darkly in Murphy’s mind. There was a feeling of sick apprehension in the pit of his stomach. His brain heaved and twisted with something he was unable to fully control or understand, as though something was tugging at his sanity. He doubted whether he could watch much more of this bizarre horror show. And then there had been that thing, ‘Two-Bellies’. It surely wasn’t coincidental—however was it the link he needed?
The old man returned. “And now for Madame Li Sung.”
The drapes were lifted, revealing a tranquil temple garden scene: fountains, topiary-styled hedgerows, and a distant pagoda. Faint chimes tinkled.
An exotic, tattooed Chinese woman in a purple silk kimono descended gracefully from the ceiling on invisible wires. At least Murphy assumed there were invisible wires. A stagehand then wheeled out a large cabinet, assisting the woman inside before padlocking it, turning it around to show there was no apparent means of escape at the rear. Then, with a puff of smoke, she reappeared at the opposite end of the stage, winning a round of applause.
Li Sung did a few more minor feats of escapology, contortionism, and acrobatics.
Murphy relaxed a little. This was more like it. A beautiful woman performing what he considered safe, normal trickery. It wasn’t quite on Houdini’s level, but it sure beat the violent, anarchic slapstick of the previous performances. He was far more comfortable watching this.
That sense of comfort evaporated when a sinister-looking guillotine was trundled on stage by her accomplice.
If the previous acts were anything to go by, Murphy had a bad feeling about how this was going to end. His suspicions were to prove right, for, after failing to escape from the locking mechanism which held her head in place, the blade sliced down—cutting through air, then silk, then flesh, decapitating Li Sung.
Accompanied by a splash of blood and much screaming from the audience, her severed head rolled to one side.
Down came the curtain.
Murphy rubbed his jaw. This Chung-Fu was one sick individual. Yes, it was all trickery—dummies and fake blood—and he bet that right now the various performers were backstage in their squalid dressing rooms, smoking cigarettes and removing their make-up, no doubt getting ready to hit the bars—but the man was still sick. This bloody production was testament to that. Looking around him, he could see that less than a dozen others remained in the audience, those strong-stomached ones who had chosen to stay to the end. And a few who were probably too drunk to move.
The old man returned once more.
“And now, for the highlight of tonight’s cabaret. With no further ado, may I introduce that master of Oriental magic, Chung-Fu.” He threw down his knobbly walking stick and raised his hands. Holding his pose, he began to levitate.
Murphy stared, intrigued.
Then with a bang and a flash of smoke and a roll of drums from some hidden orchestra pit, the old man cast off his tattered robes. A bright, almost blinding light shot forth, and when Murphy’s sight cleared, he saw that a mid-air transformation had taken place.
The old man was gone and another, much younger man, the man he had seen on the poster, Chung-Fu, was there. Dressed in a truly expensive silken robe of purple, gold, red, and black, and wearing his tasselled cap, he stared out, his eyes piercing. Tracing a mystic sign in the air before him, the magician conjured flames from his hands before descending to the stage. Strange Chinese words came from his mouth.
Shadowy snakes and tigers sprang into being behind the menacing figure, silhouetted against the curtain. And then it seemed as though the shadows detached themselves, spilling out to embrace the walls of the theatre, to encircle those within.
“What the hell?” muttered Murphy, staring around at the encroaching darkness. Over to one side he could see some other men getting ready to leave.
Fang-filled, monstrous shadow-shapes flowed and slithered. Like a voracious mould they seemed to spread and drip, flowing down walls and oozing across the stained, popcorn-littered carpet of the theatre. Some of the shadows seemed to fight each other, the larger, fiercer ones devouring the lesser ones.
None of this was real, Murphy tried to tell himself. A demonical miasma had fallen, and icy fingers crept up his spine, ruffling the small hairs on the back of his neck. Terror surged through him as he continued to watch the spreading of the ghastly shadows. This was sheer nightmarish horror and he knew it.
“Well gentlemen,” spoke Chung-Fu. “I see you’ve enjoyed tonight’s cabaret. If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t still be here.”
A thickset man in the second row got up, fastening his raincoat.
“I’m afraid you’ll find that you’re unable to get out.” The conjuror smiled wickedly.
“What d’ya mean?” shouted the man.
Chung-Fu paced to the edge of the stage. “I mean this is the end. For you all.” The sorcerer pointed and stared.
Whether it was due to some form of hypnotism, Murphy couldn’t tell, but the man with the raincoat seemed to stop, become immobile.
“To some I am a devil. To others I am but Chung-Fu. Regardless, it is my place to prepare you for my next show. You’ve damned yourselves by staying and drinking in the bloodshed and the violence. You had the chance to leave, to follow your better judgement, but instead you chose to stay. And like those from my last performance, you will become part of my new act.”
“Not bloody likely!” Another man got up and made a run for it. Others screamed and clamoured to get out. This was now a stampede; a mad exodus of theatregoers desperately trying to get out.
All hell broke loose.
Snapping shadows flowed from the walls and, horrifyingly, Murphy saw one unfortunate swallowed whole, disappearing into a tenebrous maw. Gun in hand, he made a dash for where he thought the exit lay but in the poor light it was hard to be certain.
It was chaos. Screams and wails reverberated around the walls of the flea pit. Some were trampled in the side aisles. Another man was dragged, kicking and screaming, by a shadowy tentacle that pulled him against a wall. With unbelieving horror, Murphy saw the individual engulfed, absorbed by shadow. One moment he was there, the next, nothing but inky blackness!
Insanity threatened to take him. By some extreme mental effort, he managed to force it down, to focus on staying alive. He would willingly spend the rest of his days in the nuthouse if it meant getting out of this hell.
Then he and four others were at the doors. They were locked.
“Move it!”
