Invitation Only

The invitation stipulated the attire. John was never a fan of formal dress. Comfortable anywhere other than a suit and the places where a suit gained entry. To John, a suit was armour and he was a lover, not a fighter. He aimed at loving pursuits, not that it got him anywhere. He consoled himself with the avoidance of the fight. Even the prospect of conflict left him cold. Sometimes, he wondered whether he was a coward. He didn’t feel any cowardice trembling in his blood, but then people became desensitised to their sins, telling themselves that they were comfortable in their failure.

It was the mask that left John nonplussed. The mask was too close to the truth in so many ways. His truth. An impostor, John always tried his best, hoping that this would prevent his exposure as a fraud. It didn’t help that he had found the invitation. Found was a euphemism for stolen, and he knew it. The ornate card had been laying there and he couldn’t help but pick it up, and once it was in his hand there was no letting it go. 

There was no name on the invitation and that sealed the deal for him. That and a series of helpful untruths that John told himself, the gist of which was that he deserved this. He didn’t get picked. He’d never been picked even when his arm shot up first to volunteer his services. All the same, he’d worked hard and done well, but the rewards for his swimming against the stream never quite stacked up with his efforts. He’d waited and waited for his big break, and he was still waiting. A fool on a train platform who had read the timetable and knew there were no more trains due to stop here, but still he waited in hope. His heart lifting every time a train approached, only to fall heavily, not even attempting to break its fall, seeking out the sharpest rocks as partial punishment for such stupidity.

Well, sometimes you had to take a thing. People made their own luck. John had heard that reference to impossible alchemy so often that it had to be true. That there were those who had discovered the secret formula. This ball was a gathering of such people. Being in the proximity of successful creators of gold could only be a good thing. John had seen his opportunity and he had seized it. 

This wasn’t to say that this random act of bravado had magically imbued John with levels of confidence that he’d only ever dreamt of. Self-doubt put paid to that. However much he told himself that his impulsive moment of thievery was a courageous act, he always failed to truly believe it. And so the three weeks between the theft and the ball were torture. The pressure of his out-of-character sin built and built. This was not who he was and it weighed heavily on him. 

Thankfully, there was a part of John that had become embittered towards who he had become and that part gave voice to one of John’s truths; you don’t like who you are! That was what had driven him to snatch up the card, and that desire, that wanting to be something bigger and better, was what he needed to embrace in order to go through with the theft.

Another, colder voice, joined in with the beating John administered to his self. This voice reminded him that the substance of the theft was the ball itself, not a paltry rectangle of card. It accused him of being weak and cowardly. He’d done nothing. Yet. So why all the unnecessary angst?

John could have cried as his internal war escalated. He struggled to imagine himself walking through the door of the venue. Just the thought of the evening made his bladder flutter in a foreshadowing of how he would feel on the day. He was reduced to the awkward little boy he had been, incapable of mixing it with the other kids, let alone self-assured and hulking adults waving their appendages around for all to see. John’s impotence shamed him and as each day passed the likelihood of his attending the ball waned.

And yet, every evening he slid his fingers gently over the embossed writing and caressed the card. He’d close his eyes, this was the loving touch that created a connection, fingers tracing the pattern of a hip, stroking a thigh. Despite his fear, John knew he had to do this. That this was one of those times in a life when not to follow through and at least give the thing a go would damage a person in untold ways. To fail before beginning would unleash the beast of regret and on an occasion such as this, there was no going back. That beast would wreak a terrible, ongoing vengeance. It would take life as a result of a person not attempting to live theirs.

Three days before the event, John Googled the venue. The search was not quite a Googlewhack, he established the location, but beyond that he drew a blank. On Maps, he switched to street view only to see an anonymous lane, the likes of which usually led to a farm. He tried the satellite view and encountered a glitch that must have been a one in a million. There was nothing there. Not a field or woodland. A patch of map was blank.

Intrigued by the lacklustre results of his search, he looked up instances of maps not capturing images. This was unusual, but more common than he would have thought. His mind boarded a rollercoaster of imaginings. The protection of the privacy of the established rich. He looked sideways at the invitation, in its place upon his dining table. The lack of a name on the invite added to his intrigue. This absence creating more than any presence. 

Now his curiosity was peaked, he had to attend. He had to know. This was exclusive. A once in a lifetime chance not only to see an alien world, but to experience it. He had a suit, but now the date was almost nigh he panicked at the thought of his cheap wardrobe. Worse still was his knowledge of what was required at such a do. He’d heard stories of men being ignorant of the number of buttons they should have on the cuffs of their jacket. One plummy mouthed commentator had called it a dead give-away, that someone didn’t have a clue. Not all that long ago they would have been more forthright; had no class. 

The following day, John finished work on the dot and went shopping. He knew he was late in the day and having a suit tailored for the event was not an option, but then that was only ever a theoretical option. His bank balance told him as much. Nonetheless, a decent dinner jacket was a must. His eyes watered when he lifted the lapel and registered the price tag attached to the inside pocket. Reminding himself that this was a one-off, he bit the bullet and actually tried the jacket on. 

As he shrugged his shoulders so the jacket sat right on him, he smiled despite the highway robbery that was about to take place. The forthcoming transaction was penance for his own robbery. Karma was thankfully swift this time around. Taking his medicine like a good boy, he added a good quality shirt to his suit, a black cummerbund and a bow tie. The latter required tying, he didn’t want to cheat even though he’d never tied a bow tie in his life. At the last moment he’d grabbed a cheat version. Just in case. A belt and braces approach so that he was not found lacking. He’d had to leave his haul on the counter as he went in search of braces. Again black. He did not have the wherewithal to pull off anything fancy and he certainly did not want to stand out from the crowd.

“Does sir have shoes?” asked the aging man behind the counter.

John was confused at the way he had been addressed, let alone the question itself. In the confusion of the honorific he glanced down at the shoes on his feet to confirm that, yes, sir did in fact have shoes. He paused, head down, as the purpose and nature of the question at last hit home. The man was validating the completeness of his selection barring that one item. Shoes. As he further examined his current footwear, he knew the man at the counter would have appraised John. Seen his cheap, worn work attire and the state of shoes that were acceptable in his workplace, but would have dragged his appearance towards Charlie Chaplin if he’d not attended to this detail.

John shook his head and suddenly felt inexplicably forlorn, surely he wasn’t morose at the lack of suitable shoes? The shoes were symbolic of John’s life and he didn’t want to look that full in the face right now. He wanted the chance to dress up and be something different. Someone different.

“No, I don’t,” he hadn’t meant to sound sad and small, but that was exactly what he conveyed.

The older man smiled kindly, “let’s see what we can do about that, shall we?”

The sudden display of warmth almost overwhelmed John, but as he reeled away from it he came back to himself, disarmed by the unexpected kindness.

At the rack of shoes, the old man considered the selection and picked up a shoe from the display that John noticed was in keeping with his budget. This man was as astute as they came and the warmth he displayed, entirely genuine. Here was an ally. Someone who got John and was encouraging him as he embarked upon a foray into new lands. A time served squire helping the new knight at his very first tourney.

As John drove home, he understood that the man had seen many newcomers in his life. That he was providing a service and putting people at their ease. All the same, the old man had chosen to be an ambassador for what waited ahead as opposed to a discouraging gatekeeper. John loved him for that.

The last couple of days dragged however hard John pulled at them. Covered in barbs, they dug into the present and refused to become the past. This was of course a trick that time sometimes played on unsuspecting fools, and in the blink of an eye, John was finishing work and heading home to get ready for the ball. 

His simple mask had arrived in the post the day before. So nervous was John that he’d torn at the plastic wrapping, opening the box with shaking hands to ensure the contents were as expected, and then he’d left the box next to the invite. He would not don the mask until the very last moment prior to his attendance at the looming event.

He showered in the hope he could wash away his nerves together with all of the other emotions brawling within him. The ritual of dressing calmed him to an extent, but he remained all fingers and thumbs. It was as he put his shirt on that he realised he had made an omission with his purchases after all. There were slits in the cuffs that required cufflinks. He groaned at the sight of the missing jewellery and bemoaned his incompetence. Nothing for it now, he carried on dressing, adding the jacket last. Turning to the mirror he saw himself afresh.

“Not bad,” he nodded at his new and improved self, “not bad at all.”

He was a question and the question was; why had he never done this before? What had prevented him from striking further out into the pool of life? The shameful answer was that it was him.

As he turned from the mirror, he felt something in the inside pocket of his jacket. He sat on his bed and paused before reaching in, eyebrows another question. Fingers slipping down into the pocket to secure a box. Reaching in again to pull out a card.

He examined the card first. It was a business card from the gentleman’s outfitters. Turning it around he saw handwritten in careful lettering; Enjoy. No exclamation mark. Nice touch. Opening the box, John slumped. The cufflinks were beautiful in their simplicity. Gold inlaid with black onyx. They were what John would have chosen. It was the act of kindness that got to him. This wasn’t a sales ploy. Wasn’t just discretion. The old man had gone beyond what was expected. John cried, and as he cried, he felt something break within him. There was a sound to it and he experienced a loss, but that loss freed him. As he rose from the loss he realised that he was letting go of something that he’d carried around with him for far too long. A burden that was never his.

Automatically, he mirrored that feeling of rising. He got to his feet and left his home with a feeling of purpose that he would not have conjured had it not been for the gift of the cufflinks. He drove. He’d considered getting a taxi, but the presence of his car afforded him a contingency in his plan. A quick getaway. He was glad that he was in a more positive frame of mind now. Determined. The car no longer presented the option to quit at the very last minute. The box on the passenger seat next to him sat quietly throughout the journey. A challenge to his resolve. The mask within was a pending transformation that would test John’s mettle. Wearing it would lay him bare. His preference was the mask he’d always worn.

Nearing the lights and sounds of the ball, he parked a little way from the front of the house, finding a quiet spot from which he could walk. He didn’t want anyone to see his mundane and well used car. Expected it to be a pumpkin amongst carriages.

The cars arrayed on the gravel carriage drive were a strange disappointment. There was a grandiosity to them, but the kind of statement made by someone who was trying too hard. These were the vehicles of people with newly acquired wealth. Conspicuous consumption that screamed they were something other than what they were desperately trying to be. This should have made John feel more welcome, but his brand of misfitery was far away from this vulgar display. He was Cinders. These were his brutish sisters.

He pushed on by the barking motors. A spring in his step. He was better than this lot. They were an inversion of what really counted. There was a righteous indignation rising up within him, born of these people robbing him of his moment before it even arose. His was no longer a golden ticket. Now he no longer had anything to lose. These people may be wannabes. Gangsters playing at being landed gentry, but he no longer feared them. Their derision could only be validation.

At the door there was no one to take his invitation. To the left of the grand entrance hall was a cloakroom. The night was warm and he had no coat and so no reason to stop there. His mask fit only too well in this company. He was Zorro and there was crime and injustice all around him.

Entering the ballroom itself, he spied an unattended table festooned with drinks. He took a tumbler. The flutes of champagne were uninvitingly wrong as far as he was concerned. Sipping the amber liquid he discovered it to be whisky and a good whisky at that. His nerves had largely abated and with them the urge to drink the liquid down and follow it with more until he was suitably insulated from this endeavour.

“Shall we?”

He was taken unawares, and before he could compose himself, she had taken his hand and was leading him onto the floor. Her hand was cool, almost cold, he registered that as he took her in. She was wearing a long black dress. The significance of the dress began to come to him as they stopped in the midst of the other dancers. Dotted around him were women in the exact same dresses. Seeing this attuned him to the uniformity in some of the men’s dress too. That he could see the uniformity in the men disturbed him. A feeling of unease chilled him, compounded by the woman encircling him with her arms. Three weeks to prepare and no consideration of his total ignorance when it came to formal dancing.

She lead. He went with it. Moving around the floor effortlessly. He felt her eyes on him. She smiled, then drew him closer, whispering in his ear so clearly he couldn’t mistake her words or their meaning, “you weren’t invited,” she said simply.

“Why would you say that?” he countered.

“Because that is the simple fact of the matter,” she told him.

“What gave me away?” he asked, deciding honesty was the best policy now that he was here.

“Plenty,” she said, “everything,” she added, “you came alone. You’re not like the others.”

“How so?” he asked.

“They’re criminals. The dregs,” her voice had a hard edge to it now, “they will not be missed.”

A chill ran up his spine as she pulled him closer.

“You could say we provide a service and that no questions are asked,” she smiled a hungry, lupine smile and John knew then that he’d made a grave mistake in lifting the invitation and coming here tonight.

Suddenly, the music stopped mid-flow. All around him the partygoers froze. Then as one, the uniformed dancers lunged, biting down on the necks of their partners and feeding upon them…