Torment Read online

  His face was scandalised. “You don’t know our act? You’ve never seen us working together?”

  I grinned wryly. It seemed he knew as little about my work as I did about his. “Newspaper work makes you kinda busy,” I half-apologised.

  He glanced at his watch, calculated swiftly. “Doing anything special for the next coupla hours?”

  I was. I had a cocktail party to attend to celebrate a well-known author’s new publication. But Lucy looked at me, and there was something about those blue eyes …

  “What you got in mind?” I asked.

  “We’re on in twenty minutes,” he said. “First show. Why not nip round and see the act?”

  I thought quickly. The Casino was just around the corner. I could see the act, maybe date up Lucy and still get along to that cocktail party before it broke up.

  “You’ve got me interested,” I said.

  “Let’s go then,” he said enthusiastically. “Drink up and let’s go.”

  Naturally I was given one of the best seats and naturally I didn’t have to pay.

  I looked at the programme and saw Los Guitanos were given good billing, were the last act before the interval.

  The curtain went down on a trick cycling act and I settled back in my seat more comfortably, waited with interest to see the curtain rise on Billy’s act. But I wasn’t kidding myself. It wasn’t Billy I was interested in so much as Lucy.

  Billy musta made good, I reasoned. The theatre world is a tough world in which to make yourself a living. From my experience I’d learned that almost everyone is hypnotised by the bright lights, the desire to be publicly acclaimed and the centre of attraction. There are thousands of folks who try to hit the stage with an act that is mediocre. Therefore to pull oneself up above the general level requires real ability and determination.

  When the curtain went up, I was tensed in my seat, anxious that Billy should put on a really good act.

  The lighting was good and the slow lifting curtain revealed Billy in the centre of the darkened stage, spotlighted and seeming somehow mysterious and awe-inspiring. He wore evening dress and a silk hat. But the way he stood with his opera cloak draped around him and his arms folded across his chest, was dramatic and effective. There accompanied the music; a soft roll on the drums, which gave a background that was mysterious and dramatic.

  The audience was hushed, tensed and silent and listening. Slowly, gracefully and with the audience now completely in his power, Billy spread his arms so that the black cloak draped him like a demon king who had sprung directly from the bowels of the Earth. He glided forward, swept his silk hat from his head, placed it crown downwards on the forefront of the stage and then retreated from it with dramatic, silently impressive movements.

  Off stage Billy was a guy I knew, a regular guy who could tilt his elbow with the best of us. On the stage he was a dynamic, impressive figure, his eyes gleaming like those of a supernatural being, glowing with inspired power.

  Slowly and dramatically he raised one white hand, his black cloak billowing behind him. Then, abruptly, like casting a spell, his hand darted forward, seemed to throw in the direction of his silk hat. Amazingly the upturned hat spurted a tongue of red and yellow flame, a column of flame that leapt from the footlights, upwards and out of sight behind the safety curtain. Then, as the flame died, every light on the stage blazed into life, starkly outlining every nook and cranny, revealing Billy resplendent and handsome in his evening dress.

  A ripple of applause greeted what was after all a well-staged but simple conjuring trick.

  Billy bowed in acknowledgement of the scattered applause, advanced towards the footlights, paused until attentive silence was awaiting him, and then said in his rich, baritone voice:

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Tonight it is my honour and my privilege to introduce Carmenita, the mystic girl possessed of supernatural powers who can see into the future, know the present and read the minds of a multitude.”

  It was a nice build-up. When the drums began to roll and Lucy proudly and aloofly swept on to the stage, the audience’s reaction had been well prepared.

  She entered enveloped from head to toe in a black, flowing velvet robe. Like a queen, she advanced solemnly and seriously to the footlights, bowed and took the applause.

  I applauded too. Not on account of Billy. On account of Lucy.

  With the regal air of a queen, she took her position in the centre of the stage, and Billy spoke into the microphone, careful not to obstruct the audience’s view of the queenly, regal Lucy as he said:

  “Carmenita’s powers are mysterious and beyond dispute. No artificial aids are used to assist her in these demonstrations of her supernatural powers. It has been suggested that microscopic radio sets are used or other artificial methods are adopted in her demonstrations. Therefore, to ensure that her audience shall be convinced of the supernatural powers of Carmenita, we invite members of the audience to come up on stage as observers throughout the entire performance.”

  There was a buzz among the audience. Lucy stood there, queenly and regal, staring in front of her like a being from another world. Somewhere over on my left, a young man got up from his seat, made towards the stage. Two or three others immediately followed suit, and an attendant guided them towards the stairway. There were two guys sitting next to me. One said: “How about it?”

  The other replied: “Are you game?”

  “Sure.”

  “Come on then.”

  In all, ten men and two women made their way to the stage before Billy indicated there were sufficient.

  Seeing Billy on the stage was like seeing somebody I didn’t know and had never met. Every movement he made was graceful and attention-inviting. He placed the observers on either side of Lucy, five men and one woman on each side, neatly spaced out so that Lucy remained the centre of interest. Lucy hadn’t moved or blinked. She stared straight ahead of her into nowhere like a drugged woman.

  “And now,” said Billy dramatically, “we will ask our observers to assure themselves no artificial aids are being used.”

  With graceful movements, Billy went around back of Lucy, encircled her neck with his hands, pulled loose the bow of the cord that secured the black cloak, whisked it from her shoulders with a swift and graceful movement.

  If the act had comprised nothing more than the revelation of Lucy, it would still have been a good act.

  There was a kinda shocked sigh of approval from the audience as Lucy was starkly revealed beneath the probingly cruel spotlights. Yet she stood there queenly and serene with a dignity that made her revelation breath-taking and mind-shocking.

  She was beautiful. She was a goddess! As Billy kinda slipped into the background and handed her cloak to a uniformed attendant who had come on the stage to receive it, the audience’s eyes were centred on Lucy. She was a pocket-Venus, perfectly and beautifully sculptured, here skin warm with life and her body vital with femininity.

  A slender strand of black silk stretched across her breasts, concealed only their pointedness, and a black silken thread around her loins held in position the fragile, black, silken G-string.

  The audience gasped, stared at her breathtaking loveliness with an awed silence that reflected more than anything else the intensity of their interest.

  Billy was experienced in stage craft. He waited a few seconds while the audience gaped; then in his rich, baritone voice he said softly: “I will now ask the observers to scrutinise Carmenita, assure themselves there is no possibility whatsoever that there are hidden about her person or in her clothing, any artificial aid, microscopic radio sets or receivers.”

  Lucy was wearing maybe five square inches of black silk. Tightly stretched silk at that, and barely concealing. But the ten guys up on the stage were smart enough not to let slip an opportunity like that. They circled around her, scrutinised her closely the way I would have done had I been up there with them, and finally, regretfully, reluctantly, they took up their positions on either side of her and assured the watching audience they could see no signs of any electrical appliances concealed about her person.

  Meanwhile, Lucy stood there proud and aloof, staring in front of her, bathed in a kinda mystic detachment, oblivious to greedy, body-searching eyes, apparently quite remote and living in a mystical world of her own.

  The observers remained on the stage while Billy, in his evening dress and flowing cloak, came down among the audience, took up his position in the centre gangway.

  He said loudly, in a rich baritone voice that echoed around the theatre: “Will one of the observers now kindly blindfold Carmenita.”

  A uniformed attendant came on to the stage, handed a black silk sash to one of the guys who had sat next to me. He was a young guy, all eyes. He advanced on Carmenita with a pleased grin spreading across his face. He unfolded the scarf, placed it carefully over Carmenita’s eyes, wound it several times around her head before securing it.

  “Now, sir,” asked Billy loudly from the gangway. “You have examined that scarf. Will you assert it is quite opaque and that Carmenita is now unable to see anything happening around her?”

  The fella’s eyes kept flicking back to Lucy like they were magnetised. He nodded his head. “She can’t see a thing,” he confirmed. His voice seemed to say: “But I can see plenty.”

  Billy asked the nearest person in the gangway: “Will you kindly give me a personal article?”

  It was a dame. She gave him a programme. Billy held it up. “What is this?”

  “A programme,” said Carmenita promptly in a low, emotionless voice.

  “And this?” asked Billy. He was holding up a small, red book.

  “A driving licence.”

  “What is the number?”

  “263214,” Lucy retorted immedi
ately.

  Billy returned the driving licence, took another card. “And what is this?”

  “A social security card.”

  “Tell me, sir,” asked Billy, “do you know the number?”

  The man shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “Afraid I can’t.”

  “Can you tell me the number, Carmenita?” asked Billy.

  Speaking like she was in a dream, but without hesitation, she replied: “32751B-A.”

  “Is that correct, sir?” asked Billy.

  The man took back his security card, glanced at it, nodded his head with astonishment showing on his face.

  “That’s correct.”

  In the space of the next few minutes, Carmenita described numbers and objects held up by Billy like she was reading them off. It was an amazing demonstration and I was beginning to understand Billy’s rapid rise to success. I also had to acknowledge it that Billy’s real success was due to Lucy. Physically she was astoundingly beautiful. Mentally she seemed possessed of powers that were supernatural.

  Billy climbed back on to the stage. While he was speaking to the audience, an attendant wheeled in behind him a slender chromium and tubular framework, which was erected around Carmenita.

  Billy said into the microphone: “Last week in New Orleans, Carmenita looked into the future, prophesied the disaster that later overtook the fishing fleet that for a whole week was unable to leave the harbour.

  “As one more demonstration of Carmenita’s mystic powers, she will now be securely chained, yet without the knowledge of the audience will escape her shackles to prove once again her miraculous powers of telepathy.”

  He turned back to Carmenita, took from the uniformed attendant two lengths of fine chain, which swiftly and skilfully he clamped around Carmenita’s slender wrists. The other ends of the chains he placed in the hands of the four observers who were watching intently either side of Carmenita.

  Carmenita, or Lucy as I knew her, stood calmly and serenely in the centre of the tubular framework, her arms extended either side of her, her wrists firmly tethered and the ends of the chains firmly held by the observers.

  Billy asked two more members of the audience to come on to the stage.

  His act was dramatic and effective. The two new members of the audience were asked to inspect a plain piece of white cardboard and initial it with their own initials. This blank white card was then placed by them in a black silk bag, the draw cord pulled so the bag was closed and the bag then hung around Carmenita’s neck.

  Billy said in his powerful, melodious stage voice: “Now will the observers very gently take the strain upon the chains around Carmenita’s wrists.”

  They did so, straining her arms outwards so that her young, ripe body seemed to throb with life.

  “And now … the drapes!” announced Billy.

  Once again the uniformed attendant, with whose help Billy draped Carmenita and the tubular frame. They covered her shoulders and the frame with a black silk drape that concealed her hands, arms and body down to her hips. Only the draw cord of the black bag around her neck was left in view.

  Once again Billy came down into the audience. From the centre gangway he asked in a loud, ringing voice:

  “Is anyone here in possession of a document bearing a number?”

  There were fourteen offers.

  Billy invited another member of the audience to select from the fourteen offers.

  The selection was a birth certificate.

  “Do you know the number of this?” asked Billy.

  The owner of the birth certificate grinned ruefully. “Afraid I don’t.”

  “You are required to give the number of this certificate,” said Billy.

  Lucy nodded unseeingly but understandingly.

  Billy wended his way back to the stage. With the aid of the attendant, he stripped away the black drapes, revealing that Lucy’s arms were still extended either side of her, still tethered by the chains.

  “This is very important,” Billy said to the observers in a loud, ringing voice. “Are all of you quite sure you have kept a very careful hold on the chains?”

  The observers grinned and nodded assurance. They appeared just a little awed.

  “Very well,” said Billy. With a graceful, dignified gesture he invited two observers to remove the black bag from around Carmenita’s neck.

  They removed the bag, opened it up, drew out the piece of white cardboard they had initialled.

  “Is there a number written on that cardboard?” asked Billy.

  The observers looked at it, nodded wonderingly.

  “Will you kindly read out the number?”

  One of the observers stepped to the microphone, said into it: “Number 635241.” His voice showed he knew this couldn’t really be happening.

  Billy confidently glanced down into the audience. “Is that your number, sir?” he asked. “Is that the number on your birth certificate?”

  The guy with the birth certificate looked at it to confirm. “That’s dead right,” he agreed with a note of amazement in his voice. “That’s dead right!”

  The applause was tremendous as Billy took a bow. Then the observers released their grip on the chains and Lucy shook her wrists free of restraint, took a bow herself.

  I was applauding madly like all the others. But at the same time I was climbing up out of my seat.

  Billy had invited me to visit them around back in his dressing-room after the show.

  I was around back at his dressing-room so quick I arrived almost as soon as they did.

  “Come in and make yourself at home,” invited Billy genially. He opened a dressing-table drawer, pulled out a bottle of rye and paper-mache cups.

  It was a small dressing-room, two dressing-table mirrors with chairs placed in front of them, a settee and a screen.

  Lucy’s blue eyes smiled me a welcome, made me breathless. She was wearing that black velvet cloak, but she didn’t disappoint me for long. As Billy poured, she seated herself before the mirror, untied the cloak, allowed it to fall back off her shoulders.

  One the stage and way up above my head she had looked incredibly beautiful without the concealing cloak. Right close up where I could reach out and touch her, she was breathtakingly, tantalisingly desirable. And close up I could judge better because I could see more. That black silken strand across her breasts was barely wide enough to conceal the haloes. It held without restraining the youthful, vital exuberance of rounded, firm and prominent femininity.

  The other silken strand strained around her loins low down, revealed the beautiful symmetry of hips, thighs and belly, made soft skin appear flushed, warm and throbbing with life. I watched with magnetised fascination as her youthful body moved smoothly and vitally as she spread cream on her face, cleaned away greasepaint.

  “One for you, and one for you, my dear,” said Billy cheerfully as he deposited one cup in my hand, placed another at Lucy’s elbow.

  “What did you think of the show?” he asked confidently, knowing my answer in advance but wanting to bask in praise.

  “Wonderful,” I told him, with sincerity. “A first class act. A pity it hasn’t had the publicity it deserves. It’s … sensational!”

  He frowned agreement. “Yeah,” he said unhappily. “We haven’t had enough publicity. That’s the trouble.”

  My eyes were fixed on Lucy. Underarm I could see the rich swell of he firm breasts moving as she rubbed cream on her face. Just to be near her and watch her like that was giving me butterflies in the belly.

  I said hoarsely, still without taking my eyes off Lucy: “You musta worked hard to perfect that act. Maybe sometime you’ll show me how you do it.”

  He said seriously, a slightly shocked tone in his voice: “It isn’t a phoney act, Hank. It’s genuine telepathy.”

  I looked around at him, grinned and close one eye significantly.

  His eyes were hurt. “You’ve seen the act. There’s no trickery about it.”

  “Telepathy my foot,” I jeered.

  He frowned. “What do you think of hypnotism?” he demanded abruptly. “David Stewart taught you how to do it, didn’t he?”4

  “That’s different,” I defended. “Hypnotism is a science. It’s a physical accomplishment. But no scientist will yet agree that telepathy …”

  “I remember what you used to say about hypnotism, Hank,” he said seriously. “You were sceptical. Damned sceptical. You claimed hypnotism was a stunt with stooges planted. But when David Stewart taught you how to do it, you just had to believe it then.”