here
ness 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
ness 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
Similar Books
