the burly sort, had found the prisoner when he did his night-time rounds. Michael Carmody was slumped on the floor by the side of his bed, his drip pulled out and oxygen mask yanked off. He looked as if he was trying to get away from something. Death, probably, the nurse concluded. He’d popped into the break room for an illicit fag, but he was pretty sure no one had come into the ward while he wasn’t there. He took his vitals, but it was obvious that Carmody was in the process of checking out of the Monster Mansion. There’d have to be an autopsy, of course, but Michael Carmody’s death was hardly a surprise.
The nurse paused and the paramedic said, ‘He’s gone. I’m calling it, okay? Time of death eleven twenty-three. Agreed?’
‘Agreed. He was a bastard,’ the nurse said. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish.’
‘Yeah, a lot of people would agree with that.’
Barclay Jack fumbled on his dressing-table for the tumbler of gin that he was sure had been there a moment ago, but he couldn’t find it. It seemed very dark in his dressing room. He shouted for Harry but there was no reply. Where was the idiot boy?
He stumbled out of the dressing room – he really didn’t feel well. Another funny turn. Backstage it was even darker, just a dim light coming from above somewhere. Where was everyone? Had they all gone home and left him here alone?
He found himself unexpectedly standing in the wings. How had he got here? Had he had a bit of a blackout? ‘You’ve probably had a TIA,’ he was told last year when he was admitted to the Royal Bournemouth after he collapsed at the checkout in Asda. TIA sounded like an airline, but apparently it meant he’d had a small stroke. Stroke of bad luck. They did a lot of tests, but he didn’t tell anyone. Who was there to tell anyway? His daughter hadn’t spoken to him in years, he wasn’t even sure where she lived now.
They must have accidentally locked him in the theatre. That bloody ASM again, he was supposed to check the place was empty. He searched in his pocket for his phone and remembered he’d lost it.
Then suddenly he was on the stage – another little jump in time, apparently. The curtains were closed. He could sense he was not alone, after all – he could hear the hiss and murmur of expectation out in the auditorium. The audience were waiting. The curtains jerked slowly open and after a second of blackness someone turned his spotlight on. He peered into the dark auditorium, shading his eyes like a man in a crow’s nest looking for land. Where was everyone?
Perhaps if he started his set they’d come to life a bit. ‘A man goes to the dentist,’ he tried, but his voice sounded scratchy. Was it the dentist? Or was it a doctor? Press on. He was a trouper. This was a test. ‘And he says I think I’ve got a problem.’ Silence. ‘And he says—’ He was interrupted by a tremendous roar of laughter, it washed over him like balm. The laughter was followed by wild applause. Fuck me, Barclay thought, I haven’t even got to the punchline yet. The invisible audience continued clapping, some of them were on their feet, chanting his name, ‘Barclay! Barclay! Barclay!’
Another wave of darkness passed over him, as if the curtain had closed. This time it didn’t open again. Barclay Jack couldn’t hear the applause any more.
Bunny was in the relatives’ room waiting for someone to come and have a word with him about what to do with Barclay Jack’s corpse. A comedian corpsing (as it were) indicated a bad joke – the kind that Harry might make – but Bunny was in no mood for levity. He had spent the entire evening chaperoning Barclay on his last journey. The ambulance, A&E, the relatives’ room, Bunny had endured them all. He appeared, by default, to have become Barclay Jack’s next of kin. It was not a role he would have chosen.
Was he somehow duty-bound to arrange the funeral as well? Would anyone attend? Perhaps some third-rate entertainers from ancient history and the summer acts at the Palace, which was the same thing. The chorus girls would turn out in force, they were good for that kind of thing. They always brought in cake when it was someone’s birthday. No more birthdays for Barclay Jack.