Cecelia Ahern - Lyrebird

‘I got the idea for the cage from one of my favourite films, Zouzou . Do you know it?’ Benoît asks as they dress her.

Laura shakes her head.

He inhales through his teeth. ‘Sacrilege. But you will. Tomorrow, everyone will. In it, Josephine Baker, the first black woman to star in a major motion picture, sings for her life, sings like a bird in a cage, twittering and swinging. It is an important scene, an important film.’

As Benoît talks, in the background Laura keeps abreast of what’s going on in the show. It has begun already. Six acts in the final. The VTs recorded earlier this week, or during the course of today by her six housemates show how important tonight is in their lives.

‘Now or never.’

‘Do or die.’

‘Sing for my life.’

‘Performance of a lifetime.’

‘Doing this for my children. So they will be proud of their mum.’

Benoît tuts. ‘They will be proud anyway, but you and I know that, don’t we, Lyrebird.’

Laura nods. He has a calming effect, an all-seeing, all-knowing soothsayer who has been here a thousand times. Nothing but his creations are a big deal. Everything will be fine. Laura feels calm.

Alice and Brendan’s performance is flawless, heart-stopping. They’ve raised all the bars, taken major risks using fire, water, swords – everything is flying in the air. Alice looks strong and powerful, Brendan lean and mean. They work perfectly together.

Serena the soprano receives the longest standing ovation ever in the history of the show.

Sparks controls his shaking hands.

The twelve-year-old gymnast tumbles, leaps and cartwheels through hoops of fire.

Nobody puts a foot wrong. Rachel and her wife Susie arrive with their new bundle, Brennan. And Laura holds that little body in her hands and gets lost in his cries. And then, as Alan takes to the stage, walkie-talkies in the hallway followed by a knock on the door send Laura’s stomach churning. They’ve come for her, it’s time to move. She looks at Solomon and he glances awkwardly at Bo.

‘Oh, kiss her, for fuck’s sake!’ she snaps, deliberately turning away and looking at the wall.

Rachel’s eyes widen, unsure of what’s happening as Solomon gives Laura a long lingering kiss. ‘Just be you,’ he whispers in her ear. ‘As much as you can be in a gold bodystocking and six-foot wings.’

Laura snorts, then laughs and they break apart.

‘Charming,’ Benoît says, pretending to be unimpressed, but his twinkling mischievous eyes betraying him.

Laura’s brought to the stage, her wings are closed down now, Benoît has told her to extend them only when she gets inside the cage, because otherwise she won’t fit through the cage door. She stands by the stage and watches Alan bring the house down. His act has been perfectly honed, appears completely effortless despite the hours she knows he has put in. It consists of Mabel telling him that she’s breaking up with him. She’s leaving him. She’s found another man. A man who makes her feel different, sound different. That man is Jack Starr. To applause, Jack takes to the stage and puts his hand inside Mabel, which is odd for Mabel as only one man has ever been inside her. As soon as she opens her mouth she sounds completely different, a deeper, ridiculous voice. It’s the second puppet that Alan was working on, the one whose facial movements he could control with a remote control. Alan fights with Mabel. She wants him back. He won’t take her back. He stands by the wings, arms folded, and they shout at each other while Jack, in the middle of them, laughs until he cries. Finally Alan agrees to take Mabel back and they’re reunited.

The crowd loves it.

He nails it.

And then Alan is finished and they’re going to Laura’s VT. She hears her own voice, the real her this time, talking about a journey, how her life has changed. It’s nothing ground-breaking, but it’s her and it’s the truth. As she listens to the sound of her voice playing out to the country live, she passes Alan, who squeezes her hand and kisses her quickly on the cheek.

‘You can do it.’

The cage lowers from the ceiling and though the crowd are supposed to be quiet, they can’t help but go ooh . The cage door opens and Laura steps inside. Benoît was modest. It is not a simple cage as his sketch showed, but a beautiful, elaborate piece of art, with not just bars, but bars that appear to be twisted like vines, polished bronze leaves growing from them. She sits on the swing, somebody behind her clips her into a safety harness and the cage door closes. The cage is slowly suspended in the air. Her legs and body sparkle as it is raised, all eyes are on her. She feels beautiful, she feels like she is glowing, she feels magical and vulnerable trapped in this cage, high in the air. She sits up straight, perfect posture on the swing, not knowing what’s going to happen but knowing that she must focus on the screen.

‘I’ve come a long way,’ she says on the screen. ‘But I’ve a distance to go. My dream? My dream is to soar happily into my future.’

Then the lights are up, not all of them, a spotlight just on her. She turns to the screen and watches. She recognises scenes from Bo’s Toolin Twins documentary. Sweeping views from the sky over the mountains of Gougane Barra, wind farms, sheep farms. Her mountain, her home. The tips of trees. She closes her eyes briefly and breathes in. She almost feels like she’s at home. She imagines her morning walks, foraging, stretching her legs, exercising, exploring. The sounds of her feet on the soft earth, the rain on the leaves, the four seasons of living with nature. The birds, angry, content, fighting, building, hungry chicks. The distant sounds of tractors, of chainsaws, of vehicles.

Her cottage. Home. She thinks of the water boiling over the fire, the fire crackling on winter evenings when it gets dark so fast she can’t go anywhere after three p.m. Onions frying, the smell that fills the room, onions from her own garden. The cockerel that wakes her up, her two chickens who provide her eggs every morning, the crack of eggs against the frying pan, the sound of them oozing on to the heat, her goat who gave her milk. The sound of a stormy night, the wind howling through the shed. Mossie’s snoring, the owls, the bats.

Then an image of her home with Gaga and Mam. The studio. Jazz, a record player, the sewing machine, the hot iron, the sudden sound of the steam, scissors cutting through fabric, scissors landing on the other tools as they’re thrown down.

A photograph of Mam and Gaga. The clink of glasses, the giggles and laughter of two women who adored one another, lived for one another, only had each other, only wanted each other and then opened their hearts for another.

The Slaughter House. Laura’s first performance. Jack, chewing his gum, lights, camera, action, the applause of a crowd. The countdown, the security walkie-talkies. Laura’s infamous night out. Photos in the press. Flashes, name-calling, heckling, the girl in the toilet who wouldn’t help, who wanted the selfie, the high heels on the floor, the bang of the toilet doors, the lock, the flush, the roar of the hand-driers. Glass smashing, flashes, press yelling, everyone calling her name, blurred faces and blurred sounds. The confusion, head down a toilet, echoing, vomiting. Are you okay? The embarrassment, help help, nobody will help.

All the noise of Dublin city. Too many sounds, she can barely keep up with everything she hears in her ears. Ambulances, sirens, cappuccino machines, ATM cards, phones ringing, messages beeping, cash registers, video games, the hiss of buses breaking, all the new sounds.

The police station. A photo of Laura leaving, trying to cover her face.

‘Are you okay?’ She hears the sound of the kind garda.