Maskerade

voices.
    “Giselle said she saw him last week!”
    “He’s here!”
    “It’s happening again!”
    “Are we all doomed ?!” squeaked Christine.
    Tommy Cripps gripped Agnes’s arm.
    “He’s got a face like death!”
    “Who?”
    “The Ghost!”
    “What gho—?”
    “It’s white bone! He has no nose!”
    A couple of ballet dancers fainted, but carefully, so as not to get their clothes dirty.
    “Then how does he—” Agnes began.
    “ I saw him too! ”
    On cue, the company turned.
    An elderly man advanced across the stage. He wore an ancient opera hat and carried a sack over one shoulder, while his spare hand made the needlessly expansive gestures of someone who has got hold of some direful information and can’t wait to freeze all nearby spines. The sack must have contained something alive, because it was bouncing around.
    “I saw him! Ooooooh yes! Wi’ his great black cloak and his white face with no eyes but only two holes where eyes should be! Ooohhhh! And—”
    “He had a mask on?” said Agnes.
    The old man paused and shot her the dark look reserved for all those who insist on injecting a note of sanity when things are getting interestingly ghastly.
    “And he had no nose!” he went on, ignoring her.
    “I just said that,” muttered Tommy Cripps, in a rather annoyed voice. “I told them that. They already know that.”
    “If he had no nose, how did he sme—” Agnes began, but no one was listening to her.
    “Did you mention about the eyes?” said the old man.
    “I was just getting round to the eyes,” snapped Tommy. “Yes, he had eyes like—”
    “ Are we talking about some kind of mask here?” said Agnes.
    Now everyone was giving her that kind of look UFOlogists get when they suddenly say, “Hey, if you shade your eyes you can see it is just a flock of geese after all.”
    The man with the sack coughed and regrouped. “Like great holes, they were—” he began, but it was clear that it had all been spoiled for him. “Great holes,” he said sourly. “That’s what I saw. And no nose, I might add, thank you so very much.”
    “It’s the Ghost again!” said a scene-shifter.
    “He jumped out from behind the organ,” said Tommy Cripps. “Next thing I knew, there was a rope around my neck and I was upside-down!”
    The company looked at the man with the sack, in case he could trump this.
    “Great big black holes,” he managed, sticking to what he knew.
    “All right, everyone, what’s going on here?”
    An imposing figure strode out of the wings. He had flowing black hair, carefully brushed to give it a carefree alfresco look, but the face underneath was the face of an organizer. He nodded at the old man with the sack.
    “What are you staring at, Mr. Pounder?” he said.
    The old man looked down. “I knows what I saw, Mr. Salzella,” he said. “I see lots o’ things, I do.”
    “As much as is visible through the bottom of a bottle, I have no doubt, you old reprobate. What happened to Tommy?”
    “It was the Ghost!” said Tommy, delighted to have center-stage again. “He swooped out at me, Mr. Salzella! I think my leg is broken,” he added quickly, in the voice of one who is suddenly aware of the time-off opportunities of the situation.
    Agnes expected the newcomer to say something like “Ghosts? There’s no such thing.” He had the kind of face that said that.
    Instead, he said, “Back again, is he? Where did he go?”
    “Didn’t see, Mr. Salzella. He just swooped off again!”
    “Some of you help Tommy down to the canteen,” said Salzella. “And someone else fetch a doctor—”
    “His leg isn’t broken,” said Agnes. “But that’s a nasty rope burn on his neck and he’s filled his own ear with paint.”
    “What do you know about it, miss?” said Tommy. A paint-filled ear didn’t sound as though it had the possibilities of a broken leg.
    “I’ve…er…had some training,” said Agnes, and then added quickly, “It’s a nasty burn, though, and of course there may be some delayed shock.”
    “Brandy is very good for that, isn’t it?” said Tommy. “Perhaps you could try forcing some between my lips?”
    “Thank you, Perdita. The rest of you, go back to what you were doing,” said Salzella.
    “Big dark holes,” said Mr. Pounder. “Big ones.”
    “Yes, thank you, Mr. Pounder. Help Ron with Mr. Cripps, will you? Perdita, you come here. And you, Christine.”
    The two girls stood before the director of music.
    “Did you see