12

Now Jack felt that he could understand a clockwork orchestra. In a way. Which is to say that he understood the principles involved. A clockwork orchestra was an orchestra of automata – clockwork figures programmed, as it were, to perform a series of pre-planned tasks, to pluck certain strings, to touch certain keys, to finger certain notes. In fact Jack, with his knowledge of clockwork, apprenticed as he had been in a factory that produced clockwork figures, felt confident that he had the ability to personally create a reasonably efficient and melodic clockwork orchestra. It was only down to knowing how clockwork functioned and what it was capable of.

But the trouble was.

The trouble was, as the trouble had been ever since Jack had first arrived in Toy City, in what now felt to him like a distant past, the trouble was that the clockwork orchestra playing beneath him was actually playing. These were not simple (or indeed complex) automata going through their mechanical motions. No, not a bit of it. These were clockwork musicians, but they were real musicians. They actually played, and some of them sometimes hit the wrong notes.

They really played. They thought. They used their skills.

But clockwork brains? It was a mystery to Jack. It had always been a mystery and it remained a mystery still.

Jack glanced at Eddie. The little bear looked out anxiously over the audience, down upon the clockwork orchestra. That bear, as Jack knew, had nothing in his head but sawdust. Yet he thought, saw, heard, felt. Loved.

It was above and beyond a mystery. And although Jack felt certain that his own senses – those of a living, breathing man – did not deceive him, that he really was here in Toy City, a city where toys lived and moved of their own accord, it was beyond his comprehension as to how. And Jack knew that he cared for these ersatz creatures, these living toys. He wished no harm to come to them. In fact, like Eddie, he wished that something could be done to ease their lot, which was for the most part a pretty rotten one.

Jack looked out once more towards the orchestra: they were hammering into the overture. Going at it with gusto. These thinking, feeling clockwork musicians knew nothing of the threat that was presently hanging over them, that at any moment the terrible light might strike and their very essences would be torn from their bodies.

“Eddie!” bawled Jack. “We have to get down there. To the stage.”

“You do have a plan?” Eddie bawled back.

“I need the toilet,” bawled Jack.

“You need what?”

Jack and Eddie left the royal box. There was no one in the corridor. Jack located the nearest gentlemen’s toilet.

“Bottle job, is it?” Eddie asked.

“Just give me a minute, please. Wait here.”

Jack slipped into the gentlemen’s toilet, closing the door behind him. He locked himself into the nearest stall and withdrew from his trenchcoat Wallah the calculating pocket.

“You’ve a lovely soft hand,” crooned Wallah.

“Yes,” said Jack, “I’m sure I have. Now, you must help us, please. You were absolutely right about the orchestra being the next target and I’m still not certain how you arrived at your calculations.”

“That’s because I haven’t explained it to you,” said Wallah, in a husky tone. “And it’s not really necessary that I do, is it?”

“No,” said Jack, “not at the moment. But please, tell me, what should Eddie and I do next? The murderers are already in the building and they could strike at any moment. Eddie and I have to stop them.”

“Well then, my dearest –” said Wallah.

“Dearest?” said Jack.

“Well, you’re such a dear boy.”

“Please tell me,” said Jack. “I don’t know what to do.”

Wallah did snugglings into the palm of Jack’s hand. “You’ll need a plan,” she whispered.

“Yes,” said Jack, “and very fast indeed.”

“Then hold me up to your ear and let me whisper.”

Jack emerged from the gentlemen’s toilet.

“All right now?” Eddie asked. “I hope you didn’t forget to wash your hands.”

“I have a plan,” said Jack.

“Now, that’s a coincidence,” Eddie said, “for I have a plan as well.”

“Nice,” said Jack. “But my plan is this –”

“You’ll want to hear mine first,” said Eddie.

“No I won’t,” said Jack.

“Oh, I think you will – mine is a real blinder. It’s as brilliant as.”

“Mine is calculated to achieve optimum success,” said Jack.

“Ooh,” went Eddie. “Optimum success.”

“Time,” went Jack, doing wristwatch tappings, “time is surely running out.”

“Then we’ll run backstage and on the way I will explain to you my plan.”

“And if it doesn’t conflict with mine, we’ll put it into operation.”

“Jack, there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“You know there is.”

“Then tell me, please.”

“I won’t.”

And the two took to jogging down the corridor.

It’s really quite easy to move about unseen, as it were, in a big Opera House when a production is underway. After all, the audience are in their seats, the front-of-house staff, who are not required again until the half-time rush for the bar, are outside having a fag and discussing what rubbish they think the production is and how much better they could do it themselves. The technical staff are deeply engaged in their technical stuff, gaffers are gaffing and best boys, who don’t really have a role to play in the running of a successful ballet, and who would be better off getting back to whatever movies they should be being the bestest of boys on, are generally to be found in the stars’ dressing rooms, sniffing the roses and drinking champagne out of glass slippers. But some folk have all the luck and best boys have most of it.

And so it really is quite easy to move about unseen, behind the scenes, as it were, in a big Opera House when a production is under way.

“Up this way,” said Eddie.

“Might I ask why?” Jack asked.

“It’s part of my plan. Any objection?”

“Actually, no,” said Jack. “It’s part of my plan also.”

Jack and Eddie were backstage now, that wonderful place where all the flats are weighted down and there are big ropes everywhere and curiously it smells a bit like a stable.[16] Unlike the front of the stage. Which smells quite unlike a stage.

As a matter of interest for those who have never attended a ballet, or those who have attended a ballet but sat either up in the circle or further back in the stalls, it is to be noted that if you are ever offered front-row stall seats to the ballet, do not accept them. If you do attend the ballet, take a look at the front row of stalls seats. Notice how few folk are sitting there, and how uncomfortable these folk look.

Why? you might well ask. What is all this about? you also might ask. Well, the answer is this: what you can smell when you sit in the front row of the ballet is a certain smell. And it is a smell quite unlike stables. What you can smell when you sit in the front row of the ballet is …

Ballet dancers’ feet.

Why ballet dancers’ feet smell quite so bad is anybody’s guess. Probably because ballet dancers work so hard that they don’t have time to wash their feet as often they should, would be anybody’s reasonable guess.

But there it is.

Never accept front-row seats for the ballet.

Never.

Understood?[17]

“Why does this backstage smell of stables?” Jack asked Eddie.

“Because of the hay bales that are used as ‘running chuffs’.”

“Ah,” said Jack. “But what are –”

“This way,” said Eddie.

“That was the way I was going,” said Jack. “But what are –”