Doctor Who_ Camera Obscura - Lloyd Rose [4]
‘No,’ he said involuntarily.
‘Yes,’ the man responded, just as quietly. ‘I think so.’
He turned a dazzling smile on the audience, which responded with encouraging applause, then looked back at Octave. No one had heard what either of them had said. The audience must have assumed it was just the usual introductory chatter. Still smiling, the man said, ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
Octave almost laughed – a little hysterically, to be sure, but it was funny. ‘Why yes you are,’ he said. ‘I called you up here to hurt me.’ The man was puzzled. ‘You’ll see. It’s part of the act.’ His voice rose so that the audience could heat ‘Sir, do I know you?’
The man shook his head.
‘Have we ever seen each other before?’
‘No.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ Octave faced the black void of the theatre. ‘I will now ask this perfect stranger to assist me in this, my most fabulous, most mysterious, most inimitable illusion!’ He drew a hatpin from his lapel and held it up. ‘What am I holding, sir?’
‘A pin.’
‘Yes, it is a pin. Of the sort usually employed to secure ladies’ hats. I will now ask you, if you please, to take this pin,’ he handed it to the man, ‘and prick or scratch my hand in any place you choose.’ The man hesitated. ‘Gently!’ Octave said with mock alarm. The audience chuckled. ‘Just enough to draw blood.’
He held out his left hand, palm up. After a beat, the man took it. His own hand was cool. ‘So,’ he said uncertainly, too low for the audience to hear, ‘I’m to... ?’
‘Just a scratch,’ said Octave. ‘It’s for identification purposes later.’
Rather reluctantly, the man pricked the flesh at the base of Octave’s thumb. He had a lighter touch than most of the volunteers; Octave didn’t feel anything. A drop of blood oozed from the tiny wound. Octave squeezed his hand so that the drop became a trickle and held up his palm to the audience. ‘For those of you who cannot see: Sir, am I bleeding?’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘And you have taken note of exactly where you pricked me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please look again.’ The man studied Octave’s palm and nodded. ‘Thank you. You may return to your seat. But I will need you again.’
The man went down the steps into the darkness. Octave watched him, still uneasy. What was it...? But never mind. The show must go on.
* * *
Back in his seat, the Doctor sat forward, eyes fixed on the magician. Octave gestured with maladroit grandeur, and the scarlet curtain hanging at midstage slowly lifted. As it rose, a set of low platforms came into view, spaced evenly across the stage, each containing a tall cabinet about the size, the Doctor thought, of the not-yet‐invented phone box. These were blue and painted with bright yellow and crimson stars and comets. Octave walked from one to another, releasing a catch on each and swinging the door open to reveal an empty black interior. He entered each cabinet, turned around, tapped the walls and roof and floor. As he exited, he bent and swept a cane beneath each platform to show there was a space there. None of this particularly impressed the Doctor. He noticed that the cane didn’t sweep under and behind the cabinet and assumed a piece of black velvet hung there, placed to conceal anyone hiding round the back.
‘Time,’ Octave intoned, striding back to centre stage, ‘is a mystery, ladies and gentlemen! We live in it, and yet we cannot say what it is. But one thing we do know: Time is a trap. We cannot get out of it. We cannot slow it down. We cannot speed it up. It imprisons us as one of these cabinets will shortly imprison me, and this prison no one ever escapes. But tonight...’ He paused theatrically, ‘I shall escape.’
The Doctor wondered if Houdini had heard of this. He’d never read about