Free Mean Spirit by Phil Rickman

rear, naturally – and off comes the first stocking, landing at the feet of a young man who hesitates, unable to decide whether retrieving it will be his moment of celebrity or mark him out as gay, poor dab.
    Off comes the second stocking, and Cindy aims for the camera he isn’t supposed to be aware of, knowing what a nice shot this will make, but the stocking falls short.
    One minute, Cindy estimates, before the rather risqué hypnotism sketch must be wound up and the famous National Lottery machine activated.
    He drops a black shoulder strap, provocatively flexing the arm muscles to an intake of breath from the audience – most of them at last having come to believe that this is the real thing; you can tell by the sudden hush.
    While young Kurt Campbell, of course,
knows
that it’s real. And that he must presently bring Cindy out of his trance.
    Cindy does an exotic twirl, turning his other shoulder to the audience and to Camera One. On the way round he comes face to face with Kurt, and Kurt’s face is impassive; he’s leaning back in his cane chair, legs stretched out, relaxed, enjoying the show. The music swells to its final climax. After the second strap is lowered, the music will fade and Kurt will look at his watch in apparent alarm, come to his feet, wander casually over and stop the performance, bringing Cindy safely out of trance … bemused and appealing to the audience to tell him what appalling atrocities he’s committed.
    Down comes the strap. Cindy feels his bodice start to slide. Take it carefully now, or two foam-rubber tits will drop out and go rolling into the audience. Trophies indeed!
    The music fades.
    Nothing happens. Cindy does another twirl.
    Which shows him that Kurt, smiling complacently, has remained seated.
    The music continues at background level.
    Christ.
    Cindy continues his voluptuous weaving, the bodice continues to slip – thank the Lord he doesn’t have a hairy chest – and still Kurt Campbell doesn’t move … Kurt Campbell who firmly believes, because he’s done this thousands of times before and is absolutelysure of his power, that he has Cindy in deep trance and about to disclose his small, male nipples.
    And this is not merely mischief, because Kurt knows that Cindy’s act depends on that continued ambivalence …
is he or isn’t he?
– with so many levels to that question – and that the revelation of his padding will literally be the end of him … the end of his credibility, the end of his career even on Bournemouth Pier.
    Why does Campbell want to do this to him? What has he ever done to the boy to inspire such cruelly reckless disdain?
    And what is Cindy to do now?
    Up in the gallery, Jo, the producer, will be in a panic, on her feet, probably unsure – because she’s quite young for this job – how to stop it.
    Now some members of the audience have started a rhythmic slow handclap. This is definitely not in the running order. Cindy does a last, desperate twirl. Kurt is smiling. The
shit.
    Cindy pauses. Pushes out his chest.
    The spotlight encircles him. Cindy backs up and it follows him. He’s standing now in front of his chair.
    The crowd whoops. Kurt no longer smiles, no longer has that certainty.
    The moment has come. No avoiding it.
    The pink suitcase still standing, half in spot, next to Cindy’s empty chair, emits a raucous squawk.
    ‘Get ’em off, you old tart!’
shrieks Kelvyn Kite.
    When Kurt Campbell started the machine for the draw, a number of people, Cindy among them, noticed that his smile was tainted by a pure, black fury.
    The winning numbers were six, fifteen, thirty-six, forty-two, forty-three and forty-six.
    Kurt did not look at Cindy again, but Cindy could almost see the rage shooting out of him like thick, black arrows.
    When the team gathered in the green room for a drink afterwards, Kurt had gone. Jo Shepherd dragged Cindy into a corner. She was white.
    ‘Christ…!’
    ‘I’m sorry, Jo.’
    ‘What the hell
happened
?’ There