My Uncle's Theatre
Chapter One
Madame Graves fluttered his eyelashes at me, black, exaggerated lips pursed. He face a mask of white paint, he was among the older of the drag queens.
“Good show tonight,” I said, breaking the silence, “Shame about Wilkins.”
Wilkins, my uncle’s childhood fan and confidante had died mid-performance in the audience. A long time follower of my uncle’s bizarre exhibits, performers and the low budget films he gave a home to, his presence was already missed. Since I could remember, he had turned up at the underground theatre shuddering with excitement, his one false eye disconcertingly still as the other swivelled manically. He stood out, he wore a suit and it was accepted that he was not short of money. Yet he was drawn into our world, our existence in a cold, self erected theatre deep underground the streets of London. We were home to bizarre circus acts, contortionists, people with extra limbs. We hosted the most amateur of films, riddled with rumoured snuff scenes and zombies created on non-existent budgets. And we welcomed Madame Graves and the other drag queens, their bizarre macabre shows being the headlines of our strange community. The acts, the fans, we were all crowded into a side room, Madame Graves fanning himself furiously.
“Your uncle is a good man,” he said in his false Transylvanian accent, “He has gone to bury Wilkins.”
There was a murmur of quiet respect as we contemplated this. It was not the first time there had been a death in the theatre; in fact its damp stone walls had witnessed several suicides and an onstage murder. Many members of the community had bizarre interests, so it was a safe assumption that they had witnessed death at some point in their lives. To this day, I do not know where my uncle hid the bodies of those who died in the theatre. I was engulfed in a wave of sadness when I pictured Wilkins in an unmarked grave.
“Who’s sleeping here tonight,” Madame Graves asked, if only to defer the subject away from death
As my uncles oldest friend and the main party responsible for ensuring the authorities did not discover the theatre, he seemed to have morphed into leader in my uncle’s absence. His costume, consisting of skeleton markings on a tattered dress, rattling jewellery constructed from animal bones and red feathers, framed him as an almost god-like figure in a way my uncle could never be viewed. He was simply an aging man who had been so traumatised by an unknown event in his youth that he had become enthralled by anything grisly and gothicly theatrical. He had a strange taste for blood, and a stranger desire for the dead, fascinations shared by the majority of the community.
Several people mumbled in response. I slumped to the floor, suddenly exhausted. Within seconds, Dragon had scooted to my side. He was the youngest of the performers, a silent boy with scaly skin and a short, pointed tail emerging from his back. My uncle had found him wandering the streets may years previously and had brought him to the theatre. He was among the most popular acts, regulars clamouring for a glimpse of him as he lurked in the shadows. He never seemed to sit still, even as he perched beside me he rocked gently on the balls of his feet surveying Madame Graves suspiciously.
“There are reels arriving tomorrow,” I said, “I’ll need to stay at home.”
Madame Graves snorted in approval. I hadn’t been to school in moths, to his delight. He hated the school, with it’s regimented appearance and teachers in laced up, dull clothing with laced up, dull expressions to match. Armature film makers deposited reels regularly at the theatre, which were stored in the projection room where I slept. There was something strangely comforting about awakening in the darkness and knowing that reels imprinted with the imagination of people as disturbed as my uncle surrounded me. The strange, dusty smell was peaceful and calming as it wafted around my makeshift bed on the floor. Sometimes Dragon would slip into the projection room at night, having escaped the area the sideshow performers slept in. Their chamber lay at the end of a slope leading deeper underground, the walls damper and greyer than the rest of the theatre. On the nights Dragon came to the projection room, I would haul the reels from dusty containers and watch snuff films securely from the window looking out onto the screen.
The night Wilkins died, I sat awake and shivering as I listened for my uncle’s return. There was quiet at first, Madame Graves subduedely offering him a stiff drink and assuring him that whatever atrocity had occurred was now over. I imagined my uncle gulping from a filthy glass, groaning loudly, placing his head in his hands. He was disturbed, but Wilkins was his friend and he had buried him in an unmarked grave in a similarly secret manner to the way he ran the theatre. I crossed my fingers and prayed Madame Graves would not provoke him. Several minutes after his return, I felt footsteps pad across the stone floor. Dragon’s shadow feel across the tiny room, shaking uneasily as though he was trembling. Wordlessly he slumped onto the lumpy mattress beside me, his breathing ragged and strained. I’d known for some time he was ill, yet it was taken for granted that the performers often suffered health problems.
“You should go to the hospital.” I said quietly
Dragon coughed, groaned and leaned backwards against a stack of reels. He was milky pale, eyes sunken and scaly skin more obvious than ever.
“Mr Von Kanger won’t let me leave.” he croaked
Suddenly I felt a rush of anger towards my uncle. He had always insisted that by imprisoning people like Dragon in the theatre, he was protecting them from a life of being judged and forced to beg on the filthy streets of London. In the past, when walking to school I had witnessed people huddled at the pavements edge with hideous deformities and clutching baskets in which change was deposited. I so often wondered if they were happier than those in the theatre. Would Dragon and the others rather be outside in the dusty air, among people who didn’t have an appetite for the dead? Would they rather have their freedom than their meals provided in return for devotion to a community of people so eccentric that they could no longer function in mainstream society?
Nobody knew, because nobody ever asked.
“Good show tonight,” I said, breaking the silence, “Shame about Wilkins.”
Wilkins, my uncle’s childhood fan and confidante had died mid-performance in the audience. A long time follower of my uncle’s bizarre exhibits, performers and the low budget films he gave a home to, his presence was already missed. Since I could remember, he had turned up at the underground theatre shuddering with excitement, his one false eye disconcertingly still as the other swivelled manically. He stood out, he wore a suit and it was accepted that he was not short of money. Yet he was drawn into our world, our existence in a cold, self erected theatre deep underground the streets of London. We were home to bizarre circus acts, contortionists, people with extra limbs. We hosted the most amateur of films, riddled with rumoured snuff scenes and zombies created on non-existent budgets. And we welcomed Madame Graves and the other drag queens, their bizarre macabre shows being the headlines of our strange community. The acts, the fans, we were all crowded into a side room, Madame Graves fanning himself furiously.
“Your uncle is a good man,” he said in his false Transylvanian accent, “He has gone to bury Wilkins.”
There was a murmur of quiet respect as we contemplated this. It was not the first time there had been a death in the theatre; in fact its damp stone walls had witnessed several suicides and an onstage murder. Many members of the community had bizarre interests, so it was a safe assumption that they had witnessed death at some point in their lives. To this day, I do not know where my uncle hid the bodies of those who died in the theatre. I was engulfed in a wave of sadness when I pictured Wilkins in an unmarked grave.
“Who’s sleeping here tonight,” Madame Graves asked, if only to defer the subject away from death
As my uncles oldest friend and the main party responsible for ensuring the authorities did not discover the theatre, he seemed to have morphed into leader in my uncle’s absence. His costume, consisting of skeleton markings on a tattered dress, rattling jewellery constructed from animal bones and red feathers, framed him as an almost god-like figure in a way my uncle could never be viewed. He was simply an aging man who had been so traumatised by an unknown event in his youth that he had become enthralled by anything grisly and gothicly theatrical. He had a strange taste for blood, and a stranger desire for the dead, fascinations shared by the majority of the community.
Several people mumbled in response. I slumped to the floor, suddenly exhausted. Within seconds, Dragon had scooted to my side. He was the youngest of the performers, a silent boy with scaly skin and a short, pointed tail emerging from his back. My uncle had found him wandering the streets may years previously and had brought him to the theatre. He was among the most popular acts, regulars clamouring for a glimpse of him as he lurked in the shadows. He never seemed to sit still, even as he perched beside me he rocked gently on the balls of his feet surveying Madame Graves suspiciously.
“There are reels arriving tomorrow,” I said, “I’ll need to stay at home.”
Madame Graves snorted in approval. I hadn’t been to school in moths, to his delight. He hated the school, with it’s regimented appearance and teachers in laced up, dull clothing with laced up, dull expressions to match. Armature film makers deposited reels regularly at the theatre, which were stored in the projection room where I slept. There was something strangely comforting about awakening in the darkness and knowing that reels imprinted with the imagination of people as disturbed as my uncle surrounded me. The strange, dusty smell was peaceful and calming as it wafted around my makeshift bed on the floor. Sometimes Dragon would slip into the projection room at night, having escaped the area the sideshow performers slept in. Their chamber lay at the end of a slope leading deeper underground, the walls damper and greyer than the rest of the theatre. On the nights Dragon came to the projection room, I would haul the reels from dusty containers and watch snuff films securely from the window looking out onto the screen.
The night Wilkins died, I sat awake and shivering as I listened for my uncle’s return. There was quiet at first, Madame Graves subduedely offering him a stiff drink and assuring him that whatever atrocity had occurred was now over. I imagined my uncle gulping from a filthy glass, groaning loudly, placing his head in his hands. He was disturbed, but Wilkins was his friend and he had buried him in an unmarked grave in a similarly secret manner to the way he ran the theatre. I crossed my fingers and prayed Madame Graves would not provoke him. Several minutes after his return, I felt footsteps pad across the stone floor. Dragon’s shadow feel across the tiny room, shaking uneasily as though he was trembling. Wordlessly he slumped onto the lumpy mattress beside me, his breathing ragged and strained. I’d known for some time he was ill, yet it was taken for granted that the performers often suffered health problems.
“You should go to the hospital.” I said quietly
Dragon coughed, groaned and leaned backwards against a stack of reels. He was milky pale, eyes sunken and scaly skin more obvious than ever.
“Mr Von Kanger won’t let me leave.” he croaked
Suddenly I felt a rush of anger towards my uncle. He had always insisted that by imprisoning people like Dragon in the theatre, he was protecting them from a life of being judged and forced to beg on the filthy streets of London. In the past, when walking to school I had witnessed people huddled at the pavements edge with hideous deformities and clutching baskets in which change was deposited. I so often wondered if they were happier than those in the theatre. Would Dragon and the others rather be outside in the dusty air, among people who didn’t have an appetite for the dead? Would they rather have their freedom than their meals provided in return for devotion to a community of people so eccentric that they could no longer function in mainstream society?
Nobody knew, because nobody ever asked.