The Man in Motley

Fiction by Rob Nisbet

A car turns into the carpark of my theatre. As an entrance, it is hardly dramatic, but I watch as two strangers step out and shiver in the cold air. Young men, barely more than teenagers. Instantly, I imagine them as theatrical characters: Scaramouche and Pantaloon. Two new members of my cast arriving together. I can hardly believe my good fortune.

The tall one, especially, interests me. Dark skin to contrast all the others. I am a performer at heart. Already I am studying the way his body moves. Easy, lithe and muscular. He is someone I long to portray. I want to observe his mannerisms, I want to hear his speech, learn how he thinks—get under his skin.

The other youth, too, has potential. But it is the dark man I watch. He won’t see me; to him I am invisible in my costume. He turns towards my theatre, stretching his limbs. I have already cast him. He is perfect. I must have him.

Tshepo ducked his head and eased himself from the driving seat. It had been a long journey. He flexed his arms and legs, and shivered. Around him, the scenic open greenness was cloaked in that fine chilling mist that only Scotland can muster. The village of Crowburn, set into the windswept undulations of a hill, seemed to consist of a few single-storey stone houses and the ramshackle building before him—the inn: The Man in Motley.

“Odd name for a pub.”

Tshepo’s companion, Vince, slammed the passenger-side door, running a hand through the hedgehog spikes of his gelled hair. He gazed up at the pub sign that jutted out from the building; it gave a rusty creak and rocked slightly in the chill breeze. It showed a weather-faded picture of a man striking an exaggerated pose of welcome, slightly bowed with a hand extended as if he’d just doffed an imaginary hat. The figure wore a checkered mask and was dressed in a once-colourful jacket and trousers of multi-coloured patches.

“Harlequin,” said Tshepo. “The man in motley. He’s got even less dress sense than you.”

“Hey, big-man, this is non-uniform.” Vince mock-scowled, shrugging his baggy jacket over his black t-shirt and torn jeans. “A guy’s gotta maintain his cred, you know. Nobody said I had to blend in.”

“Hardly what the commissioner meant by plain clothes.” Tshepo smirked. “I won’t tell her if you don’t.” Then his mouth set in a more serious expression. “Ready?”

They retrieved their bags and entered the inn.

Tshepo pushed open the door, thankful to get indoors. In the gloom, the inn seemed deserted. He had the impression of dull wooden panels and faded furnishings in what was once a plush red velvet.

“Welcome to The Man.” A plump woman of about fifty appeared from behind the bar and bustled towards them. “I saw ye arrive. Good journey? I know the roads around here can seem awful narrow to you Southerners. London, is it?”

“Yeah, thereabouts.” Vince dumped his bag and gestured towards Tshepo. “Though the big-man here hails from Oxford. Wouldn’t think it from his tan.”

“Shut up, Vince.” Tshepo raised his eyebrows in apology to the woman. “We booked a couple of rooms? Name of Madikwi and Smith.”

The woman smiled. “Ye did indeed; half-board ’til Tuesday.” She turned, leading them across an open area scattered with low tables and mis-matched chairs. The bar, a polished wooden surface with a row of handpumps, lined one wall. Bottles of amber-coloured spirits glinted on the shelves behind. “I’m Colleen, by the way. My husband and I run The Man.” She waved vaguely beyond the bar. “He’ll be out the back somewheres; his name’s Perry.”

At the end of the room stood a small, raised stage backed with a dusty black curtain and fitted with a couple of ancient-looking spotlights hanging from the ceiling. Tshepo and Vince were led past the stage to where a narrow wooden staircase twisted up to a creaky landing.

“Your rooms are aired and ready,” said Colleen. “You’re the only guests at the moment. Are ye OK with the bags?” Vince noticed the woman’s eyes sweep back over Tshepo with blatant appreciation. “Course you are—strong young man like you. Dinner’s at seven downstairs in the bar.”

“Not bad.” Tshepo forked up the last of his steak pie.

“You should tell Colleen that.” Vince pushed away his empty plate and supped at his cider. “What is it with you and elder women? You know she fancies the pants off you.”

“Don’t let her husband hear you.” Tshepo glanced over to the bar where a red-haired middle-aged man served a handful of elderly locals. It had grown dark outside, and the inn now glowed with a homely light and warmth.

“Yeah,” Vince smirked. “Perry seems the jealous type.”

Perhaps hearing his name, the man looked up and came over to their table. “More drinks, gents?”

Tshepo declined, but Vince nodded, rocking his glass in the air. “There gonna be a floor show?” he asked.

The landlord glanced over to the stage area. “Sadly neglected these days,” he said. “We have an open-mic evening on Thursdays.” He waved his hand to a small group in a corner. “But it’s mostly old Ken and his cronies singing the same songs every week. They seem to enjoy it though.” He looked back wistfully at the stage; his eyes seemed to come alive with a sudden focus. “There was a time when this was quite the venue. A proper theatre, proper plays; people came from miles around.” He shrugged. “But then the kinema opened in Inverness. Dance halls, night clubs—then, of course, television killed everything.” He looked back from the stage. “We must seem so outdated to young lads like you.” The fire in his eyes returned to normal. “Bingo overtook the halls. And this theatre… Well, we just about get by as a pub, with accommodation for the occasional visitors, like yourselves.”

“You don’t look old enough.” Vince still held out his empty glass. “To remember the glory days of cinema, I mean.”

Perry took the glass. “We still keep the stage,” he said. “The building may look like a pub, but—can’t you feel it? I know at its heart it’s still a theatre. The walls are somehow steeped in make-believe. Have you noticed the pictures?”

They had. But neither Tshepo nor Vince had been particularly interested or impressed. The bar and stage area were decorated with framed pictures in the same style as the Harlequin pub sign outside. Each was of an old-fashioned costumed character. Many of them wore masks across their eyes.

“They are the cast of the commedia dell’arte,” said the landlord. “Colleen moans that they’re an obsession of mine.” He glanced around, but there was no sign of his wife. “Their history is fascinating.”

“Comedy del-what?” Vince had never heard of them.

Their host gave a chuckle. “Think of them as the origin of pantomime,” he said. “They started in Italy. There’s a whole set of characters.” He pointed to the frames around the room. “Harlequin, of course, is the most famous; then there’s Colombine his mistress; Pierrot; Scaramouche…”

“Hey, that one looks like you, Vince.” Tshepo laughed. “I think it’s the spiky hair.”

“Another cider, then,” said the landlord. “An’ I’ll nip back out to the kitchen—tell Colleen you’re ready for your pudding. She’s been stewing apples all afternoon.”

“Apple tart and custard,” Tshepo murmured appreciatively. “Colleen, you must be psychic; that’s my favourite.”

“There’s an extra slice in the kitchen, if you’re wanting it.”

Vince smirked and mouthed she fancies you across the table.

Tshepo ignored his colleague. And anyway, it was about time they got down to the purpose of their visit. “Tell me, Colleen,” he said, deliberately using her first name, “have you heard of a young woman called Marie Macbeth?”

Colleen drew back. “Aye, I’ve heard tell of her. I remember thinking she ought to be on the stage with a name like that. She was the girl who got herself lost, wasn’t she? We had the police round, me and Perry did. Like something off the telly. Asking us this and that.” She glanced around. Perry had not returned so she kept her eye on the customers and the bar.

“That’s right,” said Tshepo; he produced his most ingratiating smile. “She called in here, I believe, the day she disappeared.”

“Perry served her, so they say. I must have been out the back somewheres. The police were wanting to know what she was wearing, did she say where she was going, that sort of thing. We helped as much as we could. Is she still missing, do you know? Did they ever find her?”

Tshepo shook his head. “I don’t believe so.” He met the woman’s questioning gaze; her eyes suddenly piercing. Evidently, she expected some explanation of their interest. “We’re interested,” he said, “because it’s a mystery. You wouldn’t think it, but young Vince, here, is thinking of writing a book on mysteries.” He spooned up some of the apple tart and kicked Vince softly under the table.

“Yeah yeah that’s right,” he said. “And I heard she wasn’t the only one, there have been quite a spate of disappearances from around here,” he tried to mimic Tshepo’s easy smile. “Colleen.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” she bristled. “But if it’s mystery you want, Crowburn is just the place.” In her role of landlady, she glanced at the bar, and, judging it quiet, pulled over an extra chair to join them at the table. “We have a ghostly figure,” she announced with conspiratorial pride.

“A ghost?” Vince leant forward; this was exactly what they’d been sent to investigate.

“That’s right. The figure of the Harlequin, the man in motley, just like on our sign. He’s been seen flitting about the village. Appearing, then vanishing. Some, they say, what’s seen him, leave the village in a hurry—there, that’s disappearance if you like.”

Tshepo rubbed at his side; he suddenly felt uncomfortably full. “What does this ghost do, Colleen?”

“Nothing. Well, stares at people, apparently,” she said with a shrug. “Unnerves them. They say it’s like he’s looking deep inside of them.”

“Creepy.” Tshepo winced, placing a hand over his stomach.

“All nonsense, of course,” said the landlady. She waved a hand at the pictures on the walls. “Perry’s obsessed with the whole lot of them, but the Harlequin isn’t real. He’s a character from the stage. There’s no such thing.”

I watch the two strangers carefully. They are cunning with their questions, trying to under-play their interest, but I can recognise a rehearsed speech. They know more than they say.

I may act the fool, that’s one of my roles, but I can see their motives. Police, most likely. But they seem too young. Some specialist new breed of investigators, willing, perhaps, to consider a more unorthodox explanation of the disappearances. They are under-cover—acting their parts.

I have unmasked them, but still they can’t see me, I blend so well into the scene, like a puppeteer draped in black to match the backcloth.

Are they searching for me? If so, they present more of a contest, and having them in my ensemble will be all the sweeter for the challenge. They are looking for the missing girl, my Inamorata. That’s my cue. Perhaps they should find exactly what they are looking for…

“Where is Perry?” Colleen glanced around the bar area. “That husband of mine is never around when you need him.” She gathered up the bowls and cutlery from the table. “Would ye like a wee dram, gentlemen? On the house.”

Vince couldn’t help smirking at the obvious half-wink she cast in his companion’s direction.

Tshepo rubbed at his side again. “I’m not sure…”

“Eaten too much, is it? Perry has some special malt he keeps in the outhouse—that’ll settle you nicely.”

With that pronouncement, Colleen bustled away, vanishing backstage behind the bar.

“She defo fancies you, big man.” Vince smirked.

Tshepo groaned. “My guts…”

“I reckon she’s slipped a love potion in the apple tart. I hardly touched mine.” Vince leant back in his chair. “A free scotch, though—that’ll look good on our expenses. Should keep the commissioner happy for once.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the bar. “Hey, do you reckon Colleen and Perry have had a tiff? They’re never in the same room together. They’re like those figures on a weather clock, one doesn’t come in till the other’s gone out. Hey, what’s that?”

Tshepo twisted round to where Vince was staring over his shoulder. They both recognised the face at the window. Narrow pointed features, dark curly hair. It was the missing girl, Marie Macbeth! She seemed frightened, eyes intense and wide, peering through the glass. She was there for only an instant, then she drew back, leaving only darkness.

Tshepo and Vince scraped their chairs and hurried to the door, attracting interested glares from the locals.

Outside was cold and intensely black. It seemed Crowburn was too small a village to warrant street lighting. They scrambled their way around the building as their eyes adjusted to the gloom, thankful for the glow from the windows. There was no sign of the young woman.

“She can’t have got far.” Vince squinted into the night. “There!” He pointed to a movement in the darkness: a slim figure who, apparently startled, began to run across the carpark.

They gave chase, feet crunching on wet gravel. “Marie!” Tshepo’s deep voice rang out. “Hey, we only want to talk to you.”

Marie turned, her frightened eyes seeming to lock for a moment with the two men chasing her. Then she doubled back, running towards the inn and a small side door which was lit by the illuminated pub sign. The faded image of the Harlequin swung back and forth, squeaking on its rusty fixings. Marie yanked open the door, spreading a fan of light across the ground, then she disappeared inside.

Run, my friends, run!

Have you worked it out yet? It’s all stage direction. Figures on a weather-clock. Yes, we have our exits and entrances. You may think the world of make-believe is all effects and mirrors—the art of the quick change. But nothing is ever that simple.

Vince and Tshepo reached the door and pulled it open. Inside stood Perry. He looked up, startled, a dusty bottle in his hands. He blinked. “You’re keen, lads,” he said, raising the bottle. “I’ll have your dram with you in a couple of minutes.”

Tshepo and Vince looked around. The space was small, some kind of storeroom. Shelves, boxes, and crates of bottles like the one Perry held. But there was no sign of the girl they had followed.

“We saw someone come in here,” said Vince. “A young woman.”

Perry shrugged. “You must be mistaken,” he said reasonably.

Vince frowned. It seemed the missing girl, Marie Macbeth, had vanished for a second time.

“Vince.” Tshepo’s voice was urgent.

Vince turned. His friend’s face was twisted, and he clutched again at his stomach. “God, he’s gonna throw up.”

Tshepo got outside just in time, and leant over a dark patch of grass, retching painfully.

“He’s not pissed,” said Vince. “Must have been something he ate.”

Tshepo straightened slightly. “I feel—really bad.”

“Take him to his room.” Perry waved them towards the inn’s main entrance. “I’ll away and call the doctor. He can be here in a jiffy.”

Vince supported Tshepo by the arm and had one more look around the carpark and the night-cloaked streets. There was no sign of Marie Macbeth.

“Some sort of food poisoning?” Vince asked.

The room was shabby, small and sparsely furnished. Tshepo writhed on the bed, rucking the faded quilt counterpane, unable to get comfortable. “You can’t suspect Colleen, surely.” Tshepo groaned. “Something in her stewed apples? Not deliberately.”

“She finds out we’re interested in the missing girl, then…” Vince waved a vague hand. “Something fast acting. Hey, do you reckon she’s a witch?” He made a show of stirring an imaginary pot. “Eye of newt, two pounds of apples, tongue of frog…”

Tshepo groaned again. “Anyway,” he managed, “we’re in the right place.”

“Yeah,” Vince agreed. “Perfect place for a couple of ghost hunters. Village haunted by a spectral figure in fancy dress and people vanishing. Quite enlightened of the police up here to link the two together. And just the job for our slightly esoteric division.”

There was a sharp tap at the door, which opened instantly. Vince swung around as a bizarre figure entered. He was tall and stocky, filling the doorway, dressed in an enveloping cape of deepest black. He wore a soft hat with a wide brim shadowing his face, which was dominated by a large, hooked nose. He carried a leather bag over to the bed. “I’m the doctor,” he growled, his voice deep and resonant. He removed the hat with a theatrical flourish and peered down his nose to where Tshepo lay. “Stomach problem, I understand.” He motioned Tshepo to lift his shirt, and waved Vince to stand out of his way.

Tshepo lay back on the bed with another painful groan.

Vince didn’t like the look of him at all. “You gotta help him, Doc.”

The strange figure held out a ringed hand to feel Tshepo’s brow. Tshepo suddenly convulsed, his back arching, his eyes rolled white, then he slumped heavily onto the bed, suddenly unconscious.

The doctor didn’t seem concerned. He held up a hand to stay Vince’s approach, then felt around Tshepo’s stomach, pressing deeply.

Vince hovered anxiously near the doorway. The doctor seemed to be tracing a shape with his finger on Tshepo’s far side.

“A swelling.” The ringed hand pressed again. “Just here. This may hurt.”

Tshepo’s body spasmed again, his face creased, and he let out a gasp of pain without regaining consciousness.

Calmly, the doctor reached into his bag and produced a white dressing and bandage. He taped the dressing to Tshepo’s side then beckoned Vince over to join him. Between them, they manoeuvred Tshepo’s heavy body to wrap the bandage around his stomach. Vince was relieved to see his friend’s chest rising and falling as if he were sleeping.

The doctor picked up his bag and voluminous hat.

“Is that it?” Vince was shocked. “A bandage?”

“Don’t let him touch it,” said the doctor. “He will wake very soon.”

“Doesn’t he need a pill—an Alka-Seltzer, or something?” Vince scurried around the bed as the doctor departed without further comment. “Hey!”

Vince glanced back at Tshepo in a dither of indecision, then followed the doctor out of the door. He had vanished, but there came the sound of creaking from the staircase landing. Vince sprinted down the twisting stairs into the bar area. He was just in time to see the dark figure disappear through another door: not the one leading outside, but one by the side of the stage area. There was a steep staircase just inside and the doctor descended, pulling the door firmly behind him.

Vince was confused. Why would the doctor go down to the cellar? Perhaps Perry, the landlord, was down there. He looked around. There was nobody behind the bar and the drinkers had all gone home.

Then Vince noticed one of Perry’s framed pictures which hung on the wall nearby. It showed one of the Italian commedia characters. Tall and stocky, dressed in a flowing black cape and ridiculous hat. The face was indistinct, but Vince recognised the hooked nose. The frame was labelled: Il Dottore.

This one suspects. I have stared into him and seen that he is clever, my potential Scaramouche.

The stage is a visual medium and he is observant. He has not seen me, not yet... Though I believe he has detected the idea of me, behind the scenes.

I will keep him in my spotlight. It will be a delight to have him join my cast.

Vince hurried back to the stairs, then he saw Tshepo making his way down.

“Hey, big-man, how are you feeling?”

“Guts are still churned up,” he replied, and lifted his shirt to reveal the bandage. “What’s all this? Hurts like hell.”

“Doc said you shouldn’t touch it,” said Vince. “I don’t trust him.” He explained about following the dark figure to the cellar door. “And another thing,” he added: “with all that fancy get up, he looked exactly like one of those pantomime pictures, the one labelled Il Dottore; that’s foreign for doctor, right?”

His companion shrugged. “Let’s ask him.” He gestured down the staircase. “We might find out what he’s up to in the cellar too.”

They made their way across the bar to the stage area, and through the cellar door. Flies buzzed around a stuttering fluorescent light which lit the steep, stone steps. And as they descended, a foul, sickly odour struck at their noses and throats.

“What’s that stink?” Vince fanned a hand across his face.

“I expect Perry’s down here connecting another barrel of poncey cider for you.” There was a smirk in Tshepo’s voice.

There were various archways and nooks around the cellar, but the main area appeared to be empty.

Vince looked around. “He must be down here somewhere.”

There were barrels stacked against the bare brickwork to one side, and flexible plastic hoses snaked upward, converging on a pipe which led them through the ceiling. Vince, however, had found something more interesting. He picked up a sword. It glinted in the light as he slashed it experimentally through the air.

“Hey, careful with that!”

Vince pointed the sword upwards to where a square of softer light outlined the presence of a trap door. It looked as if the square could be dropped onto a rail and then be pushed aside, but it was currently bolted in place. “We’re directly under the stage.” Vince waved at a stack of swords, axes, and other weapons. “They’re just props. Feel heavy though. I expect the locals used to love a good battle scene.” He replaced the sword. “There are costumes too. And, God, that stink is getting worse.” He sniffed and made his way towards one of the recessed areas in a dark corner. He stopped and backed out, his face ashen. “Tshepo. Oh shit. You’d better see this.”

Vince stood to one side and gestured into the alcove. The area was piled with human bodies, stacked haphazardly on top of each other. They both drew back; Vince shook his head violently as if to dislodge the horror of those slack faces a-crawl with flies. He felt a dizzy hollowness inside as if he would be sick and wondered how Tshepo must feel with his already churned-up stomach. He snatched a breath, and his voice shook: “Did you recognise the girl on top?”

His companion managed to nod. “It looked like—Marie Macbeth.”

Vince frowned his confusion. “But we’ve just seen her, outside. This poor kid has been dead some time.” He shuddered. “Was it a, you know, ‘ghost’ we saw?” He fingered quote marks in the air. “Is that how she disappeared?” Vince took another deliberate long breath, trying to compose himself. His heart was pounding. “She ought to have been on the stage, Colleen said, not hidden underneath it.” He ran a trembling hand through the spikes of his hair. “Well, we know what happened to the missing people—that’s half the mission accomplished. Now we’ve gotta track down the mysterious Harlequin spectre and work out how they’re connected.”

It seemed to Vince that Tshepo was flagging again: he placed a hand over the dressing on his left side, blew out his cheeks in a weary sigh and sat on an upturned barrel. “Really not feeling good,” he said. “How many bodies do you think there are?”

“You want me to count them?” Vince edged back to the recess, fanning at his face again. His eyes flicked over the grisly pile. “Nine, I think. The ones at the bottom are…” He gave up; unable to put their decomposed state into words. “Hang on…” He pulled the neck of his t-shirt up over his mouth and nose, then ventured into the alcove again.

“What is it?”

“The girl—she’s…  Someone’s cut a patch of skin from her side.”

“What?”

Oh, my Scaramouche! My little skirmisher—see how you dig and deduce. I am still invisible to you; I play my role and blend into the scenery. But you see me now, don’t you, revealed in the structure of the plot?

How you want to brawl! But you have nothing obvious to fight, only an impression that there is something here that you have not yet found.

Follow the script, my Scaramouche, but be warned: however much you tussle, the Harlequin always wins.

Vince examined the mutilation of the girl’s abdomen. “A lop-sided square patch,” he said, “like a diamond. This man too—the same shape, neatly cut. I’m not gonna touch them, but suppose they’ve all had a patch of skin taken from them…”

It seemed Tshepo had already realised what Vince was thinking. He lifted his shirt and was already pulling at the bandage.

Vince could only watch, as, with the dressing exposed, his friend picked at the taped edges, then with a wince, peeled it back. In the brown skin of his side, a neatly cut diamond shape, about the size of his hand, wept red and raw.

A look of horror slammed across Tshepo’s face. “That doctor! What’s he done to me?”

Vince really did feel now as if he’d be sick. “I don’t know, mate. Stick that pad back over it.”

Tshepo’s hand pressed the dressing back into place. “Really not well…” he repeated. His head drooped then his body rolled and slid unconscious from the barrel to lie slumped on the floor. Vince knelt, relieved, again, to see that he was still breathing.

There was a shuffling sound of movement from a dark archway which curved round to another section of the cellar.

“Ok…” Vince straightened, glancing down at the inert body. “You’re no help, mate. And I’m down here with a mad doctor who’s cutting chunks out of people.” He faced the archway, squaring his shoulders, trying to see into the shadows. He wondered how things could have got so bad so quickly.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice sounded male, but high pitched. It seemed to echo from the cellar’s archway. “In tonight’s performance, the role of Scaramouche will be played by Vincent Smith.” A confident chuckle emerged from the darkness.

“Who’s there?” Vince tried to sound defiant as he crept forward. The voice didn’t sound like the doctor’s grating baritone. He could see into the archway now and his own shadow only added to the darkness.

“Come through,” dared the voice, chuckling again.

Vince felt the darkness wrap around him as he edged forward and around a corner, slowly, giving his eyes time to adjust.

“Just a guess,” he called peering into the gloom. “You’re the Harlequin spectre, aren’t you?”

As if casting off a dark cloak, a figure appeared before him. Vince jerked back in surprise. It was the Harlequin, exactly as depicted in the pub’s sign. Dressed in the traditional patched costume, the figure bowed low with theatrical extravagance. “Harlequin, yes,” it said. “And so much more.”

The figure wore a multi-coloured mask across its eyes; even in the gloom, Vince saw the intensity of its stare; it was something he thought he had seen before. The mouth spread into a wide grin.

“You are clever, Vincent Smith. And suspicious. My worthy Scaramouche! Most people don’t see me. The audience see my characters, they watch my performance believing it is real. The skill of the actor is deception—knowing your character, getting under their skin. But you have deduced my presence behind the role. Well done. But beware, on the stage, nothing is what it seems.”

Vince was frantically trying to piece things together. “So, you like dressing up—as that freaky doctor, for instance.”

The Harlequin stepped closer. Vince strained through the dark to see the lower part of its face, hoping to recognise some detail beneath the mask.

“Il Dottore,” it said, “has been one of my most useful characters. How else could I procure a slice of your friend’s precious skin?” he swept a hand in an expansive gesture over his elaborate costume.

One of the diamond-shaped patches, Vince realised, was a deep brown.

Harlequin chuckled again. “My repertoire has expanded. Your friend will be my Pantaloon. I wear the skin of my ensemble.”

“Your costume! Oh, God, that’s disgusting.”

Vince backed away, and the Harlequin stepped forward. As it stepped, it changed—the mask disappeared, the gaudy costume became normal clothes. The spectre transformed into the image of Perry, the landlord.

“The commedia dell’arte,” he said in Perry’s voice, using Perry’s mouth. “Colleen moans that they’re an obsession of mine. I have a whole cast of characters.” The figure drew a hand across his eyes as if suggesting a mask. “I’m not Perry, but Pierrot, the sad clown, the fool. I had you fooled, didn’t I Vince?”

Another step closer: Perry vanished—and transformed.

Vince spun round. Somehow, Colleen now stood behind him, her round face looming out of the darkness.

“I am Columbine,” she said, “Pierrot’s wife,” she lowered her voice to a stage whisper, “and Harlequin’s mistress.” She mimicked Vince’s look of amazement. “Whatever’s the matter?” she said. “Seen a ghost? The Harlequin spectre perhaps which flits about the village.” Her face took on an expression of mock concern and she flapped her hands in exaggerated agitation. “You don’t look well. Something in my apple tart? Poor boy, I’ll fetch ye the doctor this instant.”

Columbine took another step, disappearing again.

Vince turned. The doctor’s black cloak hid his body in the cellar’s gloom, but his hooked nose was practically face-to-face with Vince’s. “Stomach problem, I understand.” The doctor raised a finger and traced a diamond-shaped sigil in the air. “You have a swelling. It needs to be cut out.”

The doctor lunged forward.

Vince ducked and scrabbled back through the archway, leaving the creepy doctor back round the corner, somewhere in the darkness. In the better light, he saw Tshepo ease himself shakily from the floor. “Tshepo, mate, we gotta get out of here!”

“What’s going on?” Tshepo’s voice was groggy.

Vince glanced back at the dark archway. “The Harlequin spectre thing—it’s in there. It takes a patch of skin and can become any of its victims. Colleen… Perry… They are him. They are all him. We never saw them at the same time. Marie and the doctor too.”

Vince’s voice was urgent, but Tshepo’s hand waved him to slow down. “You mean, they’ve been this thing all along?”

“Yeah. It wears them like costumes, and now it wants me too.”

Vince glanced behind. There was no movement from the archway; it showed only darkness. Vince took Tshepo’s arm, supporting his weight, leading him towards the steep stairs.

“You sure about this?” Tshepo’s voice was sceptical. “It’s not following.”

“No…” Vince admitted. “It’s not…” He let his voice trail away, lost in a thought. He released Tshepo’s arm and picked up an axe from the pile of props. He felt its weight, then took a step back, staring into Tshepo’s dark eyes. He had to be certain. He hefted the axe at arm’s length. Gripping it in both hands, he swung it up and round into Tshepo’s face. “That’s because it’s already here!” He gasped with exertion, whirling the axe again, praying that he wasn’t making a massive mistake.

Tshepo’s face morphed, becoming the masked Harlequin. It shook as if shrugging off Vince’s attack. “I knew you were clever.”

“Keep away from me!”

Another axe blow sent the figure staggering backwards. But it recovered instantly, a note of admiration in its voice. “Such attitude, Vincent Smith. You will make a truly wonderful Scaramouche. You will be another mask for me to wear.” The mouth twisted into a triumphant grin. “Soon I will have assembled the whole commedia.”

Vince struck again and the Harlequin reeled, staggering, but quickly regained its balance. It raised a hand, drawing the diamond sigil, which seemed to hang for a few seconds, glowing in the air. “Let me trace my mystic symbol on your skin. Let me draw Scaramouche from your body into mine.” The Harlequin paused and produced a mirthless chuckle. “I think it appropriate that your friend does this.” The figure instantly became the tall, broad-shouldered Tshepo again. “Keep still, Vince,” he said. “This may hurt.”

Vince saw Tshepo’s hand reach out toward his side. He raised the axe again, but in a confusion of limbs he saw another set of Tshepo’s arms wrap themselves around the first figure, pinning the reaching arm.

Tshepo’s face, the real Tshepo’s face, strained with the effort of holding his double. “Hit him!” he yelled.

Vince aimed the axe as the Harlequin-Tshepo writhed to free itself. Then brought it glinting, slamming into Tshepo’s eyes where he knew the spectre’s mask would be.

Tshepo staggered, his arms suddenly empty, and the Harlequin’s costume of patchwork skin crumpled to the floor.

“I woke up in my room,” Tshepo explained. “I came down to find you. Colleen and Perry were nowhere to be seen and the cellar door was open. Seems I timed my entrance to perfection.”

They sat at a table in the bar area having helped themselves to drinks. Between them, on the table, lay the Harlequin’s grisly costume.

“So, the Tshepo I met coming down the stairs wasn’t you at all.” Vince supped at his cider. “It was a ploy to lure me to the cellar, magic a lump of skin from me, and add me to the pile of bodies.”

“I’m sure I’d have ended up there, too,” said Tshepo. “We deserve danger money.”

“Good luck with that. I’d rather face the Harlequin than ask the commissioner for a rise.”

Tshepo smirked. “She’s gonna love this one. Another success for her ghost squad. With any luck there’s now one less evil spectre at large.”

“Was it evil?” Vince looked contemplative. “Yeah, it was carving up its victims, but all it wanted was the performance, acting out the roles of landlord, landlady and whatever other characters it had assimilated.”

“Hark at you—assimilated,” Tshepo laughed, then held his side, gritting his teeth at the sudden twinge of pain. He looked impassively at the patch of his own flesh in the costume. “Do you think the neglected atmosphere of this venue somehow created the entity, bringing the stage back to life, as it were?”

“Theatre as a concept…” Vince was thoughtful. “Shaped perhaps by Perry’s commedia obsession.” He shrugged. “Perry said the walls were steeped in make-believe. Perhaps the Harlequin spectre always existed and naturally gravitated to this site. Anyway, let’s hope we’ve seen its final performance.” He glanced furtively at the stage and at the framed pictures. “Is it dead, or has it simply withdrawn, like Perry said, within the walls?”

Tshepo raised his hands and clapped a slow round of applause towards the stage. “Let’s hope it’s over—or that we’re not around for the encore.”

They finished their drinks. They had to report to their commissioner, get the local police to clear up the cellar, and Tshepo had to get to a hospital. Vince gingerly picked up the patchwork costume, it felt warm to his touch. Another grisly exhibit, he thought, for their secure archives.

For a moment, he fingered the Harlequin’s mask. “It was the intense stare that gave him away,” he said. “I’d seen it before in Perry and Colleen—and in your double, mate.” Vince raised the mask to his face. “I wonder what it’s like to see through the eyes of a spectre…”

Tshepo reached out to lower Vince’s arm. “Don’t,” he said.

They made their exit to the car park.

This is not my final curtain. Let’s call it a dress rehearsal. I’m not ready to bow out yet. I’ve still got my costume; all I need is a new venue with new scenery and a new audience. Someday the lights will be raised, a trapdoor will open, I’ll spring up and take the world by storm. A real showstopper! Until then I’m here, waiting in the wings.