Murder By Illusion

Two-1

TwoThe Seville Theatre, Whitburn on Sea

'Cut you in half, you little bleeder'

THE SEVILLE THEATRE, WHITBURN ON SEA, lies perched on the seafront close by the pier, squatting like a toad on the edge of a pond, it is sadly dilapidated and in dire need of maintenance, something that the elderly owners of the theatre seem reluctant to undertake. Some of the tubes in the flickering red neon façade sign occasionally short out so that the sign then reads 'eville heat.' Benny Marsden, the manager of the Seville Theatre has been meaning to get it repaired for ages but somehow he never round to it and now it is the end of the summer season so the repair can wait until just before the start of next year's season, along with the repaint of the peeling façade, assuming of course that he actually does get a budget for maintenance next year. He is not counting on it.

At one time they used to stage a Christmas pantomime, but even the Fairy Godmother could not wave her magic wand and bring in paying customers, some nights there were more cast members than audience and so the idea of a Christmas panto was finally abandoned about 6 years ago. So, no repairs or maintenance until next year. Perhaps.

Like the rest of the town, the Seville Theatre is dying on its feet, houses have steadily fallen over the years, revenue is down, costs are up and the overheads are now such that they can only afford to hire second or third rate acts for the summer season, mediocre virtual unknowns who are not going to bring in the paying customers, not going to put bums on seats.

Billboards around the town and a standing advert in the Whitburn Gazette read:

The Seville Theatre - Whitburn on Sea:

Proudly presents

A Grand Summer Extravaganza

followed by a list of names, second rate names, third rate names, no rate names

The bill is also to be found in glass fronted display cases at either side of the theatre entrance, the bill now slightly faded, the glass front spattered with rain drops and seagull droppings, obviously discerning avian critics. The headline act, Dickie Wallace, is a sad comedian who once appeared on a regional TV talent show and came second, his name and his photograph (taken several years ago when he still had all his hair) is displayed at the head of the bill, heralded as side-splittingly funny. Most holidaymakers have never heard of him, he is long past whatever prime he had and his jokes are even older.

Tony Bonnet, (Hilarious TV Comedy Star) the other comedian on the bill,( the term comedian used lightly), once had a single line appearance in 'The Last of the Summer Wine' followed by minor role in a desperately unfunny sit-com that lasted one season before being pulled, never to see the light of day again, not even on daytime re-runs. He has not worked on television since.

The International Cabaret Star is an unknown singer who once worked on a cruise ship, as for Mandy Sweet, Brought Back by Popular Demand, this was the only booking she could get, and lucky to get it at that. Alessya and Ayeasha, Exotic Dance Duo are no longer in the show and the juggler has lost his balls.

It's cold and blustery so we won't spend too much time looking at the rest of the bill, a magician, a dancing dog act, and a Romanian tumbling trio. Let's get inside, at least it is dry inside (except in the prop store where Benny Marsden has still to fix the leaking roof) It's the Tuesday afternoon matinee, the last but one act before the interval, so we might just catch that, it's the magic act, billed as THE GREAT SANTINI, Magician and Illusionist Extraordinaire. 'As seen on Tyne Tees Television.' It might be interesting but I would not hold your breath.

The theatre is half empty, no, let's be positive, the theatre is half full, in fact one of the best attendances they have had all season, but this owes nothing to the quality of the acts, it is simply due to fact that it is raining outside. Wet, damp and miserable. Like the exterior, the interior of the theatre is shabby and run down, the seat coverings are worn and stained, the aisle carpet has long since seen better days, whatever pattern it once held now a forgotten memory, the floral pattern gilt around the balcony and stage surround is cracked and peeling and back drops and scenery need re-painting – or scrapping. The stage curtains are dull and limp, lighting second rate, the orchestra in the pit are the pits, and it is a sad, desolate, run down and pathetic excuse for a theatre. Execrable. And the acts are no better.

On stage, Charlie Chilton aka The Great Santini is trying to hold his act together. The audience is apathetic and bored, restless, waiting for the interval so that they can head to the bar and Charlie has not got them, as he likes to put it, by the balls. In fact he has not got them by anything at all and he knows it. He is sweating heavily and his makeup is starting to run. He is queasy, stomach roiling; no lunch and three scotches hardly the ideal preparation for a magic act relying on slick timing and sleight of hand.

His assistant, Clarissa Manners, known as Clarrie, is endeavoring hard to energise the lacklustre audience, swanning around the stage, looking decorous, pouting, pushing out her chest, frequently pointing to The Great Santini to try and milk some applause, which is badly needed. She knows the show is a disaster, that Charlie is botching the routines badly, his timing is out and that he is losing it if not already lost it, but she is a professional, been on the stage for years and although she and Charlie have never been lovers, (unlike some, actually most, of his assistants) she cares for him as a workmate and friend, cares about the act and is doing all that she can to rescue the situation. A slim brunette, Clarrie is dressed in a skimpy red spangled leotard, cut high on the thigh, with a wired under b*a to lift up and push out her breasts to reveal a lot of cleavage which does not go unnoticed by the males in the audience. She wears high heel silver shoes and fish net stockings clad her slender legs, she is proud of her shapely pins and knows how to display them on stage to good effect. A good magician's assistant is part of the misdirection, the men in the audience take their eye off the magician to look at her and the wives watch their husbands. However, Clarrie can see this audience no longer care, 'even flashing my fanny is not going to wake this lot up.'

The act had gone wrong almost from the start; Charlie called for a volunteer from the audience, for a child to come up on stage and Clarrie knew, just knew that it was going to be a mistake. You could smell the scotch on Charlie's breath from three feet away and he was mumbling to himself as they waited in the wings to go on.

'Go on, Shane,' a Mum said, pushing her son forward, 'You'll enjoy it, seeing a magician up on the stage'

'Don't wanna.'

'Come on son, I won't bite, well not much anyhow,' Charlie said, none too distinctly. Reluctantly, Shane mounted the steps and on to the stage. 'There's a good lad, give him a round of applause' Clarrie asks as she takes his hand and leads him over to The Great Santini, noticing that even though the lad was only about 7 or 8 he had a good look down her front as she bent over to greet him., 'yeah, bet your Dad has had a good look an' all while your Mum wasn't watching,'

'What's your name son?' Charlie asks.

'Shane. Your breath don't half stink.'

'Magic breath, son. Magic breath.'

'More like piss pot breath,' Shane mutters under his breath but Charlie doesn't hear. With a flourish and drum roll from the pits, he produces coins and then table tennis balls from Shane's ear and then from under his chin, but Shane is singularly unimpressed, even less so when Charlie attempts a card trick and spills the cards all over the stage, Charlie bluffs it out, making it seem as part of the trick but Shane isn't having it. The Floating Light Bulb trick went off without a hitch, but Shane remains apathetic, disinterested, as though he saw light bulbs floating in the air every day.

'You got a rabbit?' he asks, picking his nose and dropping the bogey onto the stage.

'A rabbit?'

Yeah, rabbit, you know fluffy thing wi' long ears.'

'Cheeky little sod! 'No why?'

'You supposed to pull a rabbit out of a hat, top hat, that's what magicians s'pose to do.'

'Not this magician.'

'I think you're dead crap.' Shane responded and turned away, ready to leave, before turning back to Charlie. 'You going to saw 'er in 'alf?' pointing at Clarrie. 'Wun't mind seeing that, if there's blood.'

'Saw you in half, you little bleeder,' Charlie said under his sodden breath, 'Nay, not this show, my saw's blunt from cutting through all the bones, like. I make her disappear, though, later on.'

'Boring,' Shane says as he makes his way down from the stage, Clarrie clapping him off enthusiastically, desperate to drum up some interest in the act which dying on it's not too steady feet.

The next trick went off without a hitch or c**k up. not that there was much that can go wrong with the Chair Suspension Trick, nothing much for Charlie to screw up but his performance was lacklustre and lifeless, disinterested, as if he no longer cared. Two folding metal chairs have been on stage throughout his act. Whilst Clarrie pirouetted and postured, Charlie places the chairs back to back about three feet apart and then lays a thick board across the back of the chairs, like a trestle table. Prettily, Clarrie climbs on and lies down on the board and Charlie covers her body with a black cloth.

Drums roll, lights flash and Charlie removes one chair, leaving her suspended, balanced horizontally on the back of the remaining chair. More drums and lights and Charlie removes the board, so that there is nothing holding her up apart from the back of the chair under her shoulders. Charlie, feeling really nauseous, desultorily passes a hoop up and down Clarrie's body, to prove that there are no suspension wires holding her up.

He walks away, milking the muted applause, then replaces the board, not very steadily, then replaces the chair, removes the cloth before handing Clarrie down and they both take a bow. Not too shabby, but he has still not lit a spark with the audience, their balls as far as ever from his reach. A few claps, nothing to get too excited about, it a fairly uneventful trick anyway. Charlie, sweat running down his neck closes his eyes and forces down a rush of nausea. 'What have I come to,' he asks himself, 'I'm way better than this, was way better than this, played big theatres, the London Palladium, Leeds Variety, Glasgow Empire, summer season at Blackpool, what the f**k am I doing in this ratty, tatty shithole? Played with big stars, not like this tosspot Dickie Wallace, who the f**k has ever heard of him, played a summer season with Bob Monkhouse once. Once. Was good once…'

'You alright, Charlie?' Clarrie asks out of the corner of her mouth, taking another bow, 'you look like s**t,' her voice seeping through the whisky fumes in his head.

He straightens up., 'Touch of flu, is all.'

'Distillers flu more like!'

'Medicinal Clarrie, purely medicinal.'

'Bullshit, you're pissed and you know it.'

Charlie stands there immobile, seemingly unable to move, rooted to the spot.

'Get on with it, pal,' a drunk shouts from the audience, 'we want to be out of here before the snow sets in for winter.'

Charlie grimaces at the unseen heckler, mutters to himself under his breath. 'You come and stand up here mate. See how you b****y well get on, eh? The great Tuesday matinee dead show; the dead playing to the dead!' He turns away, back to the audience and hisses through his teeth, 'Aye, you're right, Clarrie, f**k it, let's get this sodding farce wrapped up, we'll miss out on the swords in the box and go straight to the disappear. Right?'