IMPERFECTION by Ray Clark (good books to read for women TXT) 📕

back and nearly dropped the bag of tools. “Know him? Well, of course I know him. What do you think I am, a doughnut?”

Martin was beginning to wonder. No one still talked like that down in London, did they? Not unless they lived in Albert Square. “Are you his stage supervisor?”

“I am.” The old man jumped down off the stage – pretty sprightly for his age – and extended his right hand. “Jake Bollard.”

Martin was about to shake when he noticed the old guy wearing surgeon’s gloves. But that wasn’t what stopped him. It was the name.

“Pardon?”

“Bollard, Jake Bollard.”

He did shake, so as not to cause offence. “Nice to meet you, Mr Bollard.” Martin struggled to remain straight faced. What kind of a name was Jake Bollard?

“And you are?”

“Martin Brown, I’m in charge of entertainment. I wanted to see how things were going, and if the team were looking after you.”

“Champion, mate.” Bollard turned and admired his handiwork.

“Where are they?”

“Gone for a tea break. They’ve worked like ten men. I thought they deserved it.”

“Fair enough. It’s looking good.” Martin didn’t know what else to say.

“It has to. He’s a bit of a stickler, is old William.” Bollard turned and let out a rasping laugh, slapping Martin on the shoulder. “He’ll bloody well have me if he hears me calling him old.”

Martin laughed as well, despite not finding the comment – or the slap – very funny. “Where is he, then?”

Bollard’s expression switched as quickly as his manner. “Don’t you read contracts, son? You won’t see him today.”

“Why not?” Martin asked.

“He’s never in the theatre the day before. Never has been, it’s one of his little quirks.”

“I see. How long have you worked for him?”

“As long as he’s been doing it,” replied Bollard, dropping the bag of tools and sitting on the edge of the stage.

“He’s reliable, then?” asked Martin. “It’s just that I find it a little strange that he isn’t here overlooking everything, a man of his calibre.”

“He doesn’t need to be, does he? That’s why I’m here. I know exactly what he wants and where he wants it. Things have to be done in a certain order, and William will not enter the building until they have.”

Martin was becoming more concerned. “What kind of things?”

Bollard stood up and waved Martin towards him. “Come with me, son.”

Martin accepted a helping hand on to the stage. The smell caught his nostrils first, and as he glanced upwards, he saw the garlic bulbs. They were mostly hanging by threads, but from the floor you couldn’t see them.

“What are those for?” asked Martin.

“To keep the spirits at bay,” replied Bollard. His wild-eyed expression conveyed his belief in the statement he had made.

“Spirits?”

“Oh, yes, my son.” Before Martin knew what was happening, Bollard had climbed up on to the podium and positioned himself as if he was going to do the show. His arms were open and his gaze high. Tubular Bells regurgitated its way around the sound system again. Quite how, Martin had no idea; he hadn’t seen anyone operate anything.

“You see,” shouted Bollard, glancing back down towards Martin. “There are those that believe the nature of William’s plays invoke spirits from beyond. He uses well-known quotes from some of the old masters, which have the power to summon.”

Martin stepped back as Bollard’s voice suddenly boomed out through the sound system. He must have had a hidden microphone:

O’ winged serpent, I summon thee to me

Come forth through the clouds for all to see.

The music reached a crescendo, the density of the fog deepened, and Martin started to cough, but Bollard continued unabated, his timing perfect.

Seek out the sinners and toll the bell

Boil them alive in the fires of Hell.

The stage grew silent, but not before a huge crashing sound. The strobe lights were extinguished, the smoke machines stopped, and the darkness became so total that Martin started to wonder what had really happened, and which side of the dividing line between good and evil he was now on.

“Mr Bollard?” said Martin. “I really think you ought to climb down, it’s not safe for a man of your age.”

The lights came back on and Bollard was directly in front of Martin, startling him. “What do you mean, my age?”

“How did you do that?” Martin glanced around. Nothing on the stage was out of place, and whatever had caused the crash must have come from the sound system.

“It’s in my blood, my son. Been doing it all my life, so don’t you worry about me.” Bollard reached down into his bag of tools and brought out a small bottle. He opened the top and took a quick swig of the not quite clear liquid.

“I don’t think you should be drinking when you’re in charge of such expensive equipment, Mr Bollard.”

“Drinking!” said Bollard. “Drinking. What do you think this is?”

“Well, I’m not sure, but it looks like alcohol.”

“Give over, son. Try it.” He passed the bottle over.

Martin sniffed. Whatever it was immediately coated the inside of his nostrils, and he sneezed violently. His eyes stung, and he could hardly see for the excessive water.

“Jesus Christ! What is that?”

“Garlic vinegar, mate. Me and William, see, we swear by it. Protection, my old son. The protective qualities of garlic were valued during the plague epidemics in the seventeenth century. Thieves who plundered the homes of the sick drank this to safeguard them from infection. Sure you don’t want a drink?” He offered the bottle again.

“No, thank you, Mr Bollard. I’d really like to make tomorrow night’s performance.”

Bollard put the top back on and placed it in the bag of tools. “Yes, I know what you mean. Anyway, I’ve loads to do, so if you don’t mind, I’ll let