Music is the muse Issue One - The Interview edition | Page 20

Shattered – A Raoul Sinclair:
Mirror Walker novel ( excerpt)
Written by Melanie Quinlan
Ignoring the sneer of the bloke in the mirror, I mumbled my thanks and stepped out
of the dressing room into the corridor. Colourful little arrows marked the floor, indicating the
position where I was to wait behind the curtain. I didn't need those markings, I would've
found my way blindfolded. I always did. The stage calls out to me like a siren.
As I stood there behind the curtain, I was on my own. Nobody dared to talk, to make
a sound or to even stand too close. I shut my eyes and emptied my head so that all I knew
were the frantic drums that made up the intro of the first number. Drums, that seemed to be
born of a fever dream, heavy with the humid heat of some unexplored jungle. Drums that
were beating out a relentless rhythm which got increasingly faster and promised danger and
passion.
My hands were trembling, they were clammy and felt like chunks of ice. My heart
beat too fast, I felt the pulse in my mouth. I was scared. I wanted to run, to hide somewhere
and never come out again. Glimpses of dark corridors lined with countless doors and of mazes
with deep, dark shadows and unimaginable horrors lurking in their depths flashed through my
mind. The smooth surface of the mirror stirred, waves rippled across it and...
...the drums reached their peak. It was time. I stepped forward, through the curtain
and right into a coffin the dancers had presented to the screaming crowd, proving it was
empty. Inside the wooden box I held onto a small handle over my head as the coffin was
shoved around in the frantic dance that had been the trademark of every Raoul Sinclair show.
The door was yanked open, greedy hands grabbed hold of the lapels of my coat and dragged
me into the spotlight. I stepped onto the stage, sank to my knees, bowed my head and
waited. The noise around me intensified a hundredfold. The volume of the screaming and
clapping was deafening. I could no longer hear the drums, let alone my shallow breathing or
irregular heartbeat.
My six dancers took up formation. The three boys wore tight black leather hot-pants
and shiny black frilly shirts, which were unbuttoned right down to their belly buttons. The girls
were dressed in blood-red leggings, bras and blouses, which were left unbuttoned as well and
had been tied around their skinny waists. They all closed in around me and pulled me to my
feet. The spotlight found me. I felt its heat on the top of my head. A microphone was thrust
into my hand, I lifted it to my lips and shouted: “Welcome back, mes amies. Welcome to a
night of dark cabaret, sex and sin. Welcome to a night with Raoul & The Dreaded Bliss!”
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