Mean Spirit

Marcus sat up. What? ‘Hmmph.’ He shook his head and poured the last centimetre of Scotch into his glass.

‘Je ne regrette rien!’ Mars-Lewis defiantly throwing out his arms. ‘My loyalties are to Camelot and to the BBC!’

The audience booed. Marcus sank the whisky and switched off the set.

VI

Live television.

The danger. The living in the moment. The being hereness of the whole exercise.

Possibly the ultimate non-shamanic high, and Cindy Mars-Lewis in his element. As though he is two feet above the set and the studio audience and the millions watching at home. His responses coordinated to the second, his movements choreographed from within.

And all the time the buzz growing. The lights flashing out the brash magic of money. The air thickening with the coarse energy of lust and longing. Let it be me, let it be me. The build up to the tight, breathless moment when lives are changed dramatically for ever but — as Kelvyn knows — rarely for the better.

The future in the balls.

‘OK, Cindy. To Camera One.’ Jo, the producer, in his ear. But he doesn’t need the producer any more; his senses are attuned to the pitch of the moment.

He steps out.

‘Right, then, lovelies. Now there’s still a few individuals …’ meaningful glance at the case containing the bird ‘… who think the National Lottery’s a bit of a swizz. But I can assure you that nobody can control those magic balls … not even my next guest, who is …’

Pause. Widening of eyes. A contriving of awe.

‘… the Miracle Mesmerist from Malvern … the incredible Mr … KURT CAMPBELL!’

Cindy steps back two paces, watching Camera Three track Kurt down the glass stairs which lead nowhere. Kurt with his strawberry blond lion’s mane, freshly washed and bouncing. Tall, dishy Kurt with his grand-piano smile and his tight trousers.

Oh, the arrogance of youth. Not yet thirty and believes himself the most powerful person in light entertainment. A stage hypnotist with pretensions.

What is hypnotism, though, but another spiritual cul-de-sac? Why, Cindy himself could have been a Kurt Campbell, if he’d wanted to. Well … perhaps not at twenty-nine. Nobody was anybody at twenty-nine, back when Cindy was twenty-nine.

‘Now then, Kurt …’ Cindy wading into the receding tide of applause, ‘I said the Miracle Mesmerist from Malvern, not because you were born up there in Worcestershire, ’cause you’re a London boy, as we know, but Malvern … well, that’s where you’ve just bought yourself … your very own castle!’

Pause for ooooooooooooh from the audience.

‘That’s quite true, Cindy,’ Kurt says smoothly, in his soft baritone. ‘I’ve wanted to own a castle all my life. This one cost me … well, an arm and a leg, but…’

‘And didn’t even get a Lottery grant, poor dab …’

‘… but it’s worth it, because, as you know, I’ve had a lifelong interest in psychic matters and paranormal phenomena, and this castle … Well, to be honest, it’s not really a very ancient castle, not much more than a hundred years old actually …’

‘Oh, thought it was a proper one, I did!’

‘… but what’s fascinating about it, Cindy, is that this is actually Britain’s only purpose-built haunted house.’

‘Away with you, Kurt! You can’t have a purpose-built haunted house. Got to collect whole centuries of gruesome deaths, you have, and even then you have to take what manifests, isn’t it?’

‘Well …’ Kurt throws a confidential arm around Cindy’s shoulders. ‘I’ll tell you — very briefly, Cindy — how this came about. Overcross Castle was built in the nineteenth century by a millionaire industrialist who, like me, had a fascination with spooky things. And that was when spiritualism was becoming very fashionable, and so he invited all the star mediums of the day to come and hold seances in his castle … and actually attract a few ghosts.’

‘And did he succeed, then?’

‘That … is what I’ll be finding out. And, hey, everyone else can find out too. Because, you see, Cindy, we’re going to turn Overcross Castle — without a Lottery grant — into a huge exhibition centre for psychic studies and we’re going to have all kinds of exciting events … psychic fairs, the lot. And if this sounds like an advert, it is … because the proceeds from our opening event are all going to various charities … including the BBC’s very own Comic Relief fund!’

Burst of applause. Cindy nodding emphatically.

‘Terrific! Can’t miss that, can I? Now, Kurt, I know you’re going to start tonight’s balls rolling in a few minutes’ time, so …’

Music starts to swell. Kurt steps out and raises a hand. ‘Whoah, whoah, whoah,’ he cries, as arranged. ‘Cindy, hey, I thought I was going to hypnotize you. It’s how they persuaded me to come tonight.’

Cindy backs away. A squawk from Kelvyn in his case.

‘Not on your life, boy!’ Cindy shrieks.

‘Aw, go on, Cindy …’ Kurt appeals to the audience. ‘Submit to my magical, mental powers. It’ll be a hoot.’

‘No way!’ Cindy flaps his bangles in terror. ‘What if I do something … indiscreet?’

‘Coward! Coward!’ shrieks Kelvyn in his case.

‘GO OOOOOON, CINDY,’ the audience roars, as instructed.

‘Ten seconds, Cindy,’ Jo says in his ear.

‘I’m a terrible subject, anyway,’ Cindy protests, arms folded over his foam breasts.

‘GO OOOOOON!’

‘Oh, all right, but I bet it doesn’t work.’

And it doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. Because Cindy studied hypnotism many, many years ago, and he knows what Kurt is looking for, and he knows how to fake it.

But does Kurt know? Is Kurt smart enough?

Cindy’s pretty sure that, at rehearsal, Kurt was fully convinced he had Cindy where he wanted him. Kurt’s a smart boy, see, well read, plenty of contacts, and he knows about Cindy’s shamanic training: the years of weekending at the farmhouse of the Fychans, fourth-and fifth-generation wise men of Dolgellau. Once, ambitious Kurt even tried to contact the dyn hysbys, Emrys Fychan himself, claiming that as a Campbell he was qualified to learn the inner secrets of Celtic shamanism. Canny Emrys saw him off by refusing to speak to him except in Welsh. Well, Cindy can’t speak Welsh either, mind, no more than tipyn bach, but he admits the old language has its uses.

At the rehearsal the mischievous Kurt, having established that Cindy was a good subject and truly tranced, made him put on the inevitable strip show.

A nice idea, in this particular case, given that millions of people would dearly love to know exactly what Cindy keeps under there, at both ends.

And it was well done. Kurt is a smooth and practised mesmerist. Indeed, on almost anyone else in show business — and therefore not seriously inhibited — it would have worked.

Cindy went along with it, naturally, letting his eyes drop into neutral before sliding off his paste and plastic bangles one by one and sending them spinning into the audience of grinning technicians. Then lifting up his frock, as commanded, to reveal the bottom of his suspender belt and removing his stockings with a flourish, tossing one neatly over the camera shooting him.