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 Kurteven 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.
It was stopped, obviously, the moment the shoulder straps came down. Kurt having to pretend to glance at his watch, realizing there’d be insufficient time for the Lottery draw. Oh, what a shame, perhaps another time. All right, when I snap my fingers, Cindy, you will … awake.
Click-click. Cindy blinking and, spotting the stocking on the camera, shrieking, ‘Oh you bastard!’ Technicians laughing their cans off. A triumph. Go down a bomb on the night.
‘Now, Cindy,’ Kurt says – they are sitting on two adjacent cane chairs and the lights are lowered – ‘I want you to relax.’
Cindy’s on his own. Out of contact with his producer, but Jo trusts him.
‘Relax? Me? Nervous wreck, Kurt. Oh, all right then.’ Straightening his dress over his knees and laying his hands demurely in his lap. ‘In your hands, I am. Big Boy.’
And, to a low
whoooh
from the audience, Kurt takes Cindy’s hand and holds it up. Remarks on the bangles, how heavy they must be –taking his own hand away, leaving Cindy’s hanging there. How very, very heavy. As heavy as his eyelids.
Cindy smiles, letting his body
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 Kurteven 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.
It was stopped, obviously, the moment the shoulder straps came down. Kurt having to pretend to glance at his watch, realizing there’d be insufficient time for the Lottery draw. Oh, what a shame, perhaps another time. All right, when I snap my fingers, Cindy, you will … awake.
Click-click. Cindy blinking and, spotting the stocking on the camera, shrieking, ‘Oh you bastard!’ Technicians laughing their cans off. A triumph. Go down a bomb on the night.
‘Now, Cindy,’ Kurt says – they are sitting on two adjacent cane chairs and the lights are lowered – ‘I want you to relax.’
Cindy’s on his own. Out of contact with his producer, but Jo trusts him.
‘Relax? Me? Nervous wreck, Kurt. Oh, all right then.’ Straightening his dress over his knees and laying his hands demurely in his lap. ‘In your hands, I am. Big Boy.’
And, to a low
whoooh
from the audience, Kurt takes Cindy’s hand and holds it up. Remarks on the bangles, how heavy they must be –taking his own hand away, leaving Cindy’s hanging there. How very, very heavy. As heavy as his eyelids.
Cindy smiles, letting his body
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