Doctor Who_ Camera Obscura - Lloyd Rose [5]
Octave was finishing explaining that he didn’t work with assistants but that two of the theatre’s stagehands had agreed to wind chains around the box in which he was to shut himself. He introduced these men, who seemed a little embarrassed to be in front of so many people, and walked grandly up the three steps into the stage right cabinet. Once inside, he turned to face the audience, arms folded across his chest like the carving of a pharaoh on the lid of a sarcophagus. The stagehands stood blinking at the audience. Octave hissed something, and one of them jumped slightly and hurried to close the cabinet door. Then he and his fellow clumsily wound the chains around the box and fastened them with an enormous lock. They hung sloppily, but it was clear they would keep all doors, visible or hidden, shut.
Instead, there was an anticipatory and uncertain silence as the stagehands shuffled self-consciously back into the wings and the stage was left empty. The silence continued, grew lighter. There was some shifting. Someone coughed. Then, just as a bored, slightly querulous mutter was beginning to rise, the door of the second cabinet swung open. Octave stepped out. He bowed. The crowd applauded politely. Without even waiting for the clapping to die down, Octave stepped back into the cabinet and slammed the door. And instantly, the door of the third box slammed open, and there was Octave.
The crowd gasped. Octave again stepped out. He held up his bleeding palm. The stunned silence that had greeted his appearance broke, and applause echoed around the auditorium. Again, before this had time to subside, Octave re-entered his cabinet. And again, as soon as he closed the door, the door of the next cabinet flew open and there he was.
‘It’s a fake,’ said a man behind the Doctor. ‘It must be.’
‘But how?’ asked a female voice. ‘He would have to be... what is four triplets?’
People in the cheaper seats were on their feet, yelling and whistling, and even the more genteel element was cheering. Octave bowed, a small smile on his face, and once more shut himself in his magic box. All eyes turned expectantly to the fifth cabinet. But the magician had a different trick up his sleeve. Suddenly, the door of the second cabinet banged open again. There was Octave. He smiled and, without emerging, pulled the door to. Immediately, the door of the third cabinet swung away, and there was Octave. He jerked the door shut. At once, the fourth cabinet opened. Octave bowed slightly, grabbed the handle, and shut himself back in. At which the door of the fifth cabinet flung wide, and Octave came out and down the steps to the centre of the stage.
Clapping and cheering filled the air. Octave, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, bowed and bowed. Then he raised a hand and, as if mesmerised, the audience fell silent.
‘Would my earlier witness please honour me again with his presence on the stage?’
The Doctor rose and made his way down the aisle. He felt the audience’s eyes on him, felt a faint tremor of suspicion from some of them. Was he really Octave’s colleague? Was it all, somehow, just a fake? The Doctor walked up on to the bright stage and Octave beckoned him over, holding out his wounded hand.
‘Tell me, sir, is this the pinprick you made?’
The Doctor took Octave’s hand in both of his, carefully. He had had no doubt this was the same man, and a look at the little puncture confirmed it.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘So far as I can tell, it’s in exactly the same place.’
Holding his bloody hand aloft, Octave swivelled towards the audience. Applause crashed on to the stage. The Doctor stared into the blackness, feeling the pleasure plunge over the footlights like a wave. Once again, Octave raised a hand for silence, and once again the crowd hushed.
Octave gestured to the wings and the stagehands