In the cut throat world of stage magic, Scarlet was at the sharp end. Huge competition for gigs ensured that magicians guarded their own secrets jealously and envied any competitor whose act was more cutting edge than their own with a passion.
None were more jealous and envious than Francisco the Magnificent. He’d already gone to great lengths to conceal that he was really plain old Frank Potts, descended from a long line of slate miners. His rise to the pinnacle of his profession he owed to a combination of hard work and a flexible approach to allegedly supernatural property rights. He was also Scarlet’s employer.
This was why Scarlet now found herself backstage at the Palladium. There was a new kid on the block, shamelessly styling himself Harry Potts. It wasn’t so much his stage alias being flagrantly chosen to conjure up thoughts of the most famous name in wizardry, as the inadvertent use of Francisco’s real surname that enraged the self-styled magnificent one; that and Harry having muscled in on his hometown, with one sold out show under his belt, and two to come, and with an act to be genuinely envious of.
This was a challenge too far for Francisco the Magnificent, and the perfect situation in which to deploy Scarlet. Her job title was “second assistant”, but she never appeared on stage. Her job description might more accurately be given as “thaumaturgic espionage”. She gathered as much information on Francisco’s competitors as she could, and the magnificent one conjured ever more elaborate ways to upstage those who would knock him off his perch.
Harry Potts’ three-night stint at the Palladium provided the perfect opportunity to gather first-hand data. If Francisco’s expertise was no more than illusion, Scarlet had a shadowy past during which she’d acquired expert knowledge of all kinds of useful skills, from gaining illicit access to computer systems to more traditional forms of breaking and entering. In this instance she didn’t need to pick locks, because the assistant manager at the Palladium owed Francisco a favour.
Scarlet arrived so early in the morning that the man was still bleary eyed from sleep. She felt confident that Harry Potts and entourage wouldn’t appear until after lunch. The assistant manager gave her a master key, looking very shifty, and let her get on with it. Experience had taught Scarlet to travel without excess baggage. All the equipment she needed was stored in pocket-heavy cargo trousers, and in those and her army surplus sweater, the cleaners would take her for a stage hand. The real stage hands wouldn’t be in for a couple of hours yet, the assistant manager assured her.
It was far from the first time she’d done something like this, and she quickly checked the dressing rooms, particularly that of Harry Potts himself, finding material of only limited importance, but she would pass all of it on to Francisco regardless. He might see something in it that she didn’t.
It was the stage area that interested her the most. Harry was careless; almost everything was spread out as if no-one could be bothered to clear up after the show. She checked all the props; the handkerchiefs, the assortment of small boxes, the gloves, the decks of cards, the bouquet of feathers, the top hat, the squirty flowers used for comic relief. All of the props were examined and photographed, notes were made on their properties, just as last night she’d sat in the stands making detailed notes about the show, when no photography was allowed. The only props missing were the two white mice, three kittens and a tortoise; but if they’d still been there, Scarlet would have alerted the RSPCA.
Then she turned her attention to the larger boxes. They were both roughly the same height, about seven feet, but the one was of a traditional cast, made of solid, dark wood with a rounded top. It revealed nothing unexpected. It had sliding panels, a fake back, concealed cavities, and slits for poking nasty looking knives through while leaving the occupant of the box unscathed.
The second box was more interesting. It was white and occupied a floor space of roughly four by two and a half feet. The sides and back had holes in them, spaced irregularly, all of them roughly five inches in diameter. Though it was difficult to see exactly what was happening in the box when you were seated in the audience, large sections of the paying public could see well enough to be granted the illusion that whatever Harry put in that box disappeared before their very eyes – more often than not subsequently reappearing in the other box. At one point, Harry had packed the holed box with as many bouncing bikini babes as he could cram into it, making them “vanish” one by one.
Scarlet was optimistic about working out how the trick was done. If it wasn’t accomplished with the aid of mirrors, there was sure to be some contraption inside that gave the illusion that you were staring through the holes in the box when in fact you weren’t – or maybe even evidence of a more hi-tech solution.
The door to the box opened easily enough. She eyed the interior, searching for the box’s secrets. Apart from the large bolts in the floor, the interior was the same plain white as the exterior. Nevertheless, Scarlet felt sure there were secrets to discover. Seeing nothing with the naked eye that revealed any such secrets, she stepped inside. The most likely explanation was that whatever equipment Harry used with this box was stashed away for safe keeping in some location she hadn’t yet found. Nevertheless, she would satisfy herself that the box had no secrets to yield before she went in search of it. Sliding her fingers across the back panel, she heard a soft click behind her. Turning, she was surprised to see that the door had swung shut. It must be well oiled.
There was no latch on the inside, so she gave a push. The door stayed resolutely shut. Shit! This wasn’t good. She pushed again. Nothing; no give, no movement. She peered through one of the holes, seeing the collection of props she’d already examined. Most people’s instinct would be to cry out for help, but Scarlet had been in tighter scrapes than this. She wasn’t supposed to be here, and if she were found like this it would cause a major diplomatic incident in magic circles, possibly even a dual, wands at dawn and all that.
No, there had to be a way out. There always was. Magicians weren’t exempt from health and safety requirements. You couldn’t have a box it was impossible to escape from. She just had to channel her inner Houdini, but there really was no clue as to how she might effect an escape. Scarlet ran her fingers over every inch of the box, hoping to find the mechanism that would release her. When the box stayed resolutely shut, she forced herself to stay calm. This was the world of magic. There had to be a trick to this, there just had to be.
She began running her fingers round the rims of the holes. Nothing. Then she withdrew her fingers at the sound of footsteps. Double shit! She needed to stay calm, silent, and hope that whoever it was disappeared without inspecting the box.
She pushed back against one of the walls, making as sure as she could that no part of her body could be seen through the holes. The tactic seemed to work at first. She heard sounds of scraping and lifting, male voices discussing what to do and how to do it. She gathered that Harry had been dissatisfied with some aspects of the previous evening’s show and consigned the dialogue to memory. But then one of the voices said, “Hang on, the grope box is shut.”
There was a short pause, then the other man called out, “Anyone in there?”
Scarlet held her breath. It didn’t work. Footsteps moved in her direction. The voice made itself heard again. “Anyone there?” She jumped when the man knocked on the side of the box, steeling herself for the moment of discovery. Any moment now.
It came as a complete shock to her when the man’s hand appeared through one of the holes, followed by his arm. There was nothing she could do to stop it, to stop his hand from touching her shoulder. He fumbled a little, then his hand moved. “Over here, Ken!” Footsteps told her the other man was coming closer as the first man’s hand reached her breast and gave a good hard squeeze.
“Which of ‘em is it?” Ken said.
“Does it matter? Mad keen for it these sluts, ain’t they? Can’t keep ‘em away from the box.”
In spite of the fact that the man was giving her breast a good mauling, Scarlet felt that this was good. If the men weren’t interested in who she was, maybe she could get away with it. She would have to put up with the ignominy of being groped, but anything was preferable to compromising her mission.
She realised with a jolt what avoiding exposure may involve when a new hand appeared and began prodding at the front of her cargo trousers. She heard Ken’s voice. “Fucking hell, you’d think the tart would have the sense to wear something that made it a bit easier.”
Three hands in the box now; Ken pulling on the zip, the other man pulling her jumper up. Both her breasts were groped as Ken tried to get a hand inside her trousers. The first man gave a verdict. “She’s got great tits on her.”
“Reckon it could be Shirley?” Ken said. “She’s got fucking fantastic tits. The best.”
“Feels more like Ronnie,” the first man said.
A true professional in every sense, Scarlet ignored the urge to answer back. She was finding it difficult to believe that Harry Potts’ girls actually locked themselves into the box voluntarily, but she had experience enough to know that truth could be stranger than magic. For the moment her overriding concern was not to blow her cover. There was always a risk that the men would peer into the box, but until such times, she would just pray that luck was on her side. “Feels like she could do with buying some new underwear,” Ken said, sliding his fingers over the front of Scarlet’s knickers.
“I know what you mean,” the first man said, his hands moving from her breasts to her arms. “Take a step forward, doll. You want me to get this off you, don’t you?” She decided to treat this as a rhetorical question, stepping away from the wall, but remaining silent as she felt his fingers fumble, more than men’s fingers normally fumbled with women’s undergarments.
“Get your trousers and knickers down for me, slag,” Ken said.
In any other situation, Scarlet would have punched Ken in the face. That wasn’t an option right now. The only option, because it was her only hope of avoiding exposure, was to do as he said and wait for his hand to touch her down there, which was what he was after.
Her bra came off, the first man finally having worked it out. Fingers went for her nipples, closing on them, pulling. In spite of everything, Scarlet felt them harden. Ken’s fingers were sliding across her mound. “Nice trim,” he said. “But if Harry catches you without the full Brazilian, you’ll be for it.”
What was this? It was beginning to sound to her like Harry Potts ran a harem as much as a magic show.
Ken’s gravelly voice again. “Get your cunt up against a hole, love, where I can see it.”
Reminding herself that her one overarching aim must be to avoid exposure, Scarlet turned. Hands came away from her breasts, which she pushed up against the side of the box as she manoeuvred to satisfy Ken’s demand. “Nice,” the man said. It was humiliating, the way she’d been careless enough to put herself in this position, but as long as she managed to maintain her anonymity she would endure the way Ken’s finger prized her labia apart.
The finger went straight for her opening. Let him have his fun. She needed to work out how to get out of the box and focused her attention on running alternatives through her mind. There was nothing she could do to stop Ken molesting her, but she could work out how to get out of here once the two men were finished with her.
An exchange of words was followed by a change of fingers. Still Scarlet occupied her mind with solutions as to how to escape the box. She was brought back to the here and now by the sound of new footsteps. Shit! More people arriving. She’d never get out of here at this rate.
“Over here, lads!” Ken called out. “We’ve got a slut-in-the-box!”
“And she’s warming up nicely!” the other man called out.
Double shit! But perhaps it was for the best. The more the men thought she was game, the less danger there was of exposure. Was that not the case? She listened intently, as sure as she could be that there were three newcomers.
