Will Kingdom - Mean Spirit

Money, of course. Tonight’s fee was probably ten times what the man — Marcus was almost certain Lewis was a man — had earned in an entire summer season of bottom-of-the-bill cabaret on Bournemouth Pier. And about ten thousand times what Marcus had ever paid him for an article in The Vision.

‘Now, I must show you this, see …’ The creature looked furtive, producing a fold of paper. The syrupy Welsh Valleys accent became more pronounced as it acquired a confidential wheedle.

‘Came today, it did. Signed jointly by the Director General of the BBC and the Managing Director of Camelot, organizers of the Lottery. Just listen to this. Dear Ms Mars-Lewis … Ms! There’s progressive.’

The response to this, accompanied by the creature’s arched eyebrow, suggested that several hundred people had spontaneously soiled themselves.

‘Dear Ms Mars-Lewis. Moderately accepting though we are of your personal manner and general deportment …’ Lewis sniffed and smoothed his dress ‘… we are bound to express dismay at the attitude of your avian associate …’

Uncertain laughter, as the cretins pondered possible meanings of the word avian.

‘We feel the continued and unwarranted cynicism exhibited by the bird is not in the spirit or indeed the best interests of the National Lottery as we see it, and unless there is a radical change we intend to take a hard look at the terms of your contract.’

Lewis lowered the paper and looked glum.

‘Oh dear. Well, now, despite what you see, I’m not as young as I was … And I’m not a rich person.’

This was true enough; the creature apparently wintered in a rusting caravan in Tenby.

‘The DG now, he has a terrible long memory. And I have to think of my future, isn’t it? Which is why I’ve come to a decision. I’ve decided, I have, that from now on I shall have to work … alone.’ Lewis straightened up, nose mock-heroically in the air. ‘I shall be … a solo artiste.’

To which the audience produced a passable simulation of a tragic Greek chorus.

‘What else can I do?’ Lewis shrieked in torment. ‘What can I do ?’

The camera backed up to reveal a large, pink suitcase splattered with airline stickers. A muffled squawk seemed to emanate from within.

‘You can start by getting me out of this bloody scented boudoir, you old tart!’ screeched Kelvyn Kite.

‘Definitely not. Your services are no longer required. You can sign on in the morning.’

‘You’ll regret this, Lewis!’

Marcus sat up. What? ‘Hmmph.’ He shook his head and poured the last centimetre of Scotch into his glass.

‘Je ne regrette rien!’ Mars-Lewis defiantly throwing out his arms. ‘My loyalties are to Camelot and to the BBC!’

The audience booed. Marcus sank the whisky and switched off the set.

Live television.

The danger. The living in the moment. The being here ness of the whole exercise.

Possibly the ultimate non-shamanic high, and Cindy Mars-Lewis in his element. As though he is two feet above the set and the studio audience and the millions watching at home. His responses coordinated to the second, his movements choreographed from within.

And all the time the buzz growing. The lights flashing out the brash magic of money. The air thickening with the coarse energy of lust and longing. Let it be me, let it be me. The build up to the tight, breathless moment when lives are changed dramatically for ever but — as Kelvyn knows — rarely for the better.

The future in the balls.

‘OK, Cindy. To Camera One.’ Jo, the producer, in his ear. But he doesn’t need the producer any more; his senses are attuned to the pitch of the moment.

He steps out.

‘Right, then, lovelies. Now there’s still a few individuals …’ meaningful glance at the case containing the bird ‘… who think the National Lottery’s a bit of a swizz. But I can assure you that nobody can control those magic balls … not even my next guest, who is …’

Pause. Widening of eyes. A contriving of awe.

‘… the Miracle Mesmerist from Malvern … the incredible Mr … KURT CAMPBELL!’

Cindy steps back two paces, watching Camera Three track Kurt down the glass stairs which lead nowhere. Kurt with his strawberry blond lion’s mane, freshly washed and bouncing. Tall, dishy Kurt with his grand-piano smile and his tight trousers.

Oh, the arrogance of youth. Not yet thirty and believes himself the most powerful person in light entertainment. A stage hypnotist with pretensions.

What is hypnotism, though, but another spiritual cul-de-sac? Why, Cindy himself could have been a Kurt Campbell, if he’d wanted to. Well … perhaps not at twenty-nine. Nobody was anybody at twenty-nine, back when Cindy was twenty-nine.

‘Now then, Kurt …’ Cindy wading into the receding tide of applause, ‘I said the Miracle Mesmerist from Malvern, not because you were born up there in Worcestershire, ’cause you’re a London boy, as we know, but Malvern … well, that’s where you’ve just bought yourself … your very own castle!’

Pause for ooooooooooooh from the audience.

‘That’s quite true, Cindy,’ Kurt says smoothly, in his soft baritone. ‘I’ve wanted to own a castle all my life. This one cost me … well, an arm and a leg, but…’

‘And didn’t even get a Lottery grant, poor dab …’

‘… but it’s worth it, because, as you know, I’ve had a lifelong interest in psychic matters and paranormal phenomena, and this castle … Well, to be honest, it’s not really a very ancient castle, not much more than a hundred years old actually …’

‘Oh, thought it was a proper one, I did!’

‘… but what’s fascinating about it, Cindy, is that this is actually Britain’s only purpose-built haunted house .’

‘Away with you, Kurt! You can’t have a purpose-built haunted house. Got to collect whole centuries of gruesome deaths, you have, and even then you have to take what manifests, isn’t it?’

‘Well …’ Kurt throws a confidential arm around Cindy’s shoulders. ‘I’ll tell you — very briefly, Cindy — how this came about. Overcross Castle was built in the nineteenth century by a millionaire industrialist who, like me, had a fascination with spooky things. And that was when spiritualism was becoming very fashionable, and so he invited all the star mediums of the day to come and hold seances in his castle … and actually attract a few ghosts.’

‘And did he succeed, then?’

‘That … is what I’ll be finding out. And, hey, everyone else can find out too. Because, you see, Cindy, we’re going to turn Overcross Castle — without a Lottery grant — into a huge exhibition centre for psychic studies and we’re going to have all kinds of exciting events … psychic fairs, the lot. And if this sounds like an advert, it is … because the proceeds from our opening event are all going to various charities … including the BBC’s very own Comic Relief fund!’

Burst of applause. Cindy nodding emphatically.

‘Terrific! Can’t miss that, can I? Now, Kurt, I know you’re going to start tonight’s balls rolling in a few minutes’ time, so …’

Music starts to swell. Kurt steps out and raises a hand. ‘Whoah, whoah, whoah,’ he cries, as arranged. ‘Cindy, hey, I thought I was going to hypnotize you. It’s how they persuaded me to come tonight.’

Cindy backs away. A squawk from Kelvyn in his case.

‘Not on your life, boy!’ Cindy shrieks.