The Trumpet and Flame

A gale of laughter went racing up the high street - mirth and mania all in one - the sound of it catching, lighting, gas to flame. Anneka and her friend Zara, red mouths burning under amber lights, a neon trumpet blazing yellow above them, an ambulance flashing its blue-white siren in the opposite direction, the core of the heat. A bouncer flinched, poor man, standing guard at the pub to which they stumbled - The Trumpet and Flame.

‘You're late, ladies.’ He barred the way. ‘Show’s almost starting.’

‘Give over, Umar, it's my birthday,’ said Anneka, wrapping her jacket around her. ‘I'm freezing my nips off out here.’

He surveyed her: sequinned top patterned like peacock eyes, curls stuck to her temples, still coherent. ‘Last time you were here you nearly took out the lighting rig,’ he said. ‘Told the owner you were an angel.’

‘She’s Anneka Halo, she’s a professional angel!’

‘She’s a hula-hooper with LEDs and a love of binge-drinking,’ said Umar.

‘She’s too harsh on herself already, go easy,’ said Zara. ‘She’s an athlete with LEDs and a love of binge-drinking.’ Zara squeezed Anneka, leaned in to Umar and whispered loudly. ‘And she got dumped today.’

Anneka rolled her eyes and looked at the pavement, immediately wishing she hadn’t as her gaze landed on a pile of sick, so she rolled them right back up again, to see Umar looking reluctant, but clearly caving.

‘Not your lucky night. I guess you need some comedy. Happy birthday, yeah?’ He moved aside, then roped off the entrance behind them. ‘Don’t go flying off anything this time. Curtains, handles…’

They were already in.

The Trumpet and Flame was the East End’s oldest boozer; one of those places where the air’s so humid it has a flavour, and it’s some absolute, back-of-the-cupboard, don’t-make-bolognaise-with-it special occasion shit. For the comedy night, they’d packed in extra tables, candle in a bottle on each, sputtering smoke into the shadowy room.

Mirrors melted down the walls, each one ringed in black;. On the small stage, strands of plastic pearls looped round the faux-gold framework which arced over it, glimmering.

Anneka felt a hand on her back.

‘The big four-oh?’ said a familiar voice. Charlie, pub manager, voice lemon sharp. ‘Hope yours is less of a trainwreck than mine was. Comiserations. Table down front’s all yours, and you get one drink on me. Make it a good one.’

Anneka had no idea what she felt like. ‘Surprise me,’ she said.

‘Come on,’ said Charlie. ‘You know what you want, you just don’t want to say it. It’s your bloody birthday. You could choose anything. If you had a death row meal, what are you washing it down with?’

Zara leaned in.

‘She wants a flaming margarita.’

‘Typical,’ said Charlie. ‘You can tell you’re from the bloody circus.’

A shrieking bell cleaved the dark - one long, nerve-splitting note that seemed to pass straight through Anneka’s ribs. Fire alarm.

Charlie said something so graphically profane, it was like the alarm had gone off just to censor her.

A sweaty figure in a silver suit rushed onto the stage, skin more resplendent than the lamé, motioning for calm. ‘It’s fine!’ he yelled, then remembering he had a microphone in his hand, spoke into it. ‘It’s fine. Little accident backstage, not everyone happy about where they are on the bill - Charlie, can you get security? - but no fires everyone, stay put.’

No one had moved a muscle. Anneka and Zara squeezed their way between tables to make their way to the front, fiery violet drinks in hand. The alarm ceased.

‘I’m Gab, Gab Finn,’ he said, shaking himself into compere mode. ‘Enchanted to be your emcee this evening at Serious Brass, The Trumpet and Flame’s open mic!’

Cheers from the audience.

‘Tonight,’ he said, ‘the brass is bold, and some of you -’ his gaze swept the audience, ‘- are about to get burned. Drop your dramas at the door, abandon your anxiety at the… antrance. We’ve got some old faces…’

He paused, until the audience realised the joke was on them.

‘Sure, some of you may have been born this side of the millennium. But yes - our performers tonight will be familiar to some of you here. Now,’ he wiped his brow, ‘this place is a cursed inferno, but I need you to bring even more warmth as we bring on our first performer tonight.’ He raised his hands. ‘Please welcome Dr. Serena D. Spair!’

Applause flared. A woman in a lab coat marched on, goggles glittering, clipboard in hand.

‘Okay,’ she said, voice like a handshake. ‘Doctor Serena D. Spair. Absurdist Life Coach. Lovely to meet you all. Pointless, but lovely.’

As she began to speak, a name surfaced in Anneka’s mind. Katy Hollis. It took a second for the shape of her to line up with memory - the tilt of the chin, the half-smile that comes from medical-grade superiority.

Shit.

A character from ten lifetimes ago. Before Anneka Halo, before Zara. A baddie. One of those you want to abandon to time. One of those who trod others under the water, probably to keep themselves above the surface. Katy Hollis was the kind of person who, if - just hypothetically - they were accidentally Bluetoothed some of your nudes, would share them with everyone in her contact list.

That she was here and on stage, so close Anneka could catch a cold from her - what were the chances? She tried to shrink in her chair, look down at the table.

‘I’m turning forty soon, and I thought - time to take control. My friends said, Serena, the only things in life you’ve achieved are a perfect worm,’ - cheers - ‘Oh yes. And learning all the words to The Bad Touch. Are you sure you want to look that closely at your life?’ Laughter, scattered. ‘But I said yes. I’m ready. And I found that that sense, that mismatch between my own desire for meaning, and the universe…’ She gazed off into the distance. ‘The universe that looks upon me with the same love and attention that dads put into gift giving? That’s right. It couldn’t care less. That’s empowering. And I’m here - I’m here to help you. You in the sequins -’ she pointed the pen - ‘what’s your name?’

Anneka jolted. The question was for her. It came too quickly to lie.

‘Anneka.’

‘Anneka. Gorgeous name. What do you do?’

No sign of recognition. Nothing whatsoever.

‘I’m a performer. Circus skills.’

Serena/Katy looked down at her clipboard, shrugged, and threw it away.

‘Tell me you’re a clown,’ she said. ‘And my work is done.’

‘Not quite,’ said Anneka. ‘Hoops, silks, aerial work.’

‘Hoops,’ repeated Serena, nodding. ‘So: you’ve made a profession of going in circles.’ The crowd laughed. ‘I guess I'm impressed how you took a child's toy from a hundred years ago and turned it into a job. Didn’t make the grades for wooden-horsie school?’

Laughter again. Anneka’s laugh was perfunctory, searching Katy’s face for recognition.

‘I’m sure your parents were hoop-ing for something more.’

If Anneka didn’t smile, she’d kill the punchline. But maybe the margarita had been one too many to hold it together. The sound in the room seemed to bounce back a split-second late, echoing off the mirrors. The fake pearls on the arch quivered.

It was true. They had been hoping for something more. They weren’t the only ones.

‘Your commitment to the absurd is great,’ she said. ‘May I recommend yoga before the void.’

Anneka stood, the chair legs scraping a little gasp from the floor. Her hands flicked out, silver rings flashing, and then she was down - one clean drop, knees sideways, full splits. The crowd whooped.

From the back, Charlie’s voice, her grimace audible: ‘Touch that curtain, Halo, and you’re dead.’

A shout burst from the doorway, an unclear noise, as if swallowed in fabric - a balaclava. Heads turned. Anneka sprang up. A figure in green pushed through, uniformed, urgent, shouldering tables aside, glasses toppling in their wake. They moved fast, searching faces, then vanished through the bar door, which swung once and stilled.

Anneka turned back. Serena/Katy had gone from the stage.

‘Did you set me up for that?’ she hissed at Zara.

‘God no!’ she replied. ‘She got you good though, didn’t she?’

Anneka flinched, the line hit like a thrown drink. Zara didn’t have a mean streak. Anneka stared at her friend who seemed impervious to her response. Grinning like an idiot.

Gab hopped back onstage.

‘Let’s give it up for Dr. Serena D. Spair!’ he called. The applause was scattered, confused after the intrusion, but found itself again. ‘Thank god we’ve got a doctor in the house. Now everyone, I did say leave your dramas at the door, so let’s keep that in mind for our next act.’

Anneka became aware of a thudding noise coming from upstairs, a whole crowd of footsteps.

‘What is that, a raid?’ she whispered.

Zara’s rictus grin didn’t falter. Perhaps she hadn’t heard.

Gab was not put off. ‘Please welcome our next performer tonight. I give you - Rafe Calder!’

The stage flooded red. A man in a dark suit sauntered in, carrying a lectern. He slammed it down, front and centre, staring at Anneka. His was a face which, after he’d left that morning saying he never wanted to see her again, she’d naturally assumed she would never see again.

Anneka straightened, slowly. She looked at Zara, who remained unmoving. There was a silence which had an uncertainty to it; a dead stillness.

‘Did you know…?’ she asked Zara. Her friend’s head turned slowly towards her, eyes wide, unblinking. Her laugh, sharp and sudden, was almost a scream.

‘Is this a nightmare?’ asked Anneka.

‘I’m honoured to be here tonight,’ said Rafe. ‘Honestly. It’s unreal. I mean, it’s genuinely unreal, Anneka.’

It had been hard to believe he’d ended things on her birthday. What new cruelty was this?

‘A tribute to the birthday girl,’ he said. ‘Happy birthday, of course. Do you want me to toast your real age, or the one you told your agent?’

Soft laughter.

She tried to speak, to ask him - what are you doing? But she found herself paralysed, trying desperately but unable to lift a foot; to run.

‘We love you, of course, Anneka. We do. I hope you won't be too embarrassed by a few kind words. Did you know, everyone? She is so flexible, she can do the splits in mid air, she can arabesque, she can put her legs behind her head. She’s flexible in every way. Physically. Morally… She can fold herself in half. Just a shame she can never quite pull herself together.’

He gave her a simpering look. The audience, fully on board now, laughed like drains: full-throated, echoing. With everything she had, she fought the paralysis.

‘She’s multitalented indeed,’ he continued. ‘Not just good at physical gymnastics - mental gymnastics too. How else could a grown woman think it’s a good idea to run headlong into middle age in fishnets and nipple tassels?’

The noise was cacophonous. The footsteps upstairs thundered, the audience howled, slapping their thighs and pointing. She’d be screaming, if she could. The tears which escaped her tracked acid down her cheeks.

‘She just loves people, everyone! Because Anneka has such a big heart. She loves them. She's given away so many front door keys, I think her home’s now officially classed as a YMCA. But,’ and he leaned conspiratorially towards the audience, ‘absolutely don't go there to get yourself clean.’

The place became riotous. Glasses were smashed, there was baying, shouting, heckling - and alarms, sirens were blaring. Anneka watched as the audience around her got up and in the confusion, some started to seek exits. Let them go. Rafe continued to speak over the chaos.

‘My darling Anneka. You know our truth. I don’t hate that you exist, I just don’t want to know you any more. I don’t care about living in your imagination,’ and here he shrugged. ‘At the end of the day, Anneka, it will only be you, alone.’

He stepped back from the lectern, and left the stage.

Anneka looked toward the exits, as everyone - staff, audience, performers - found every way out, through front and back doors, through windows. A figure moved past the frosted glass, carrying something that flashed white - cloth, stretcher, light? Cold air began to circulate the room; the candles were extinguished, smoke coiling upwards, filling the darkness.

‘Could have gone differently,’ murmured a voice. ‘Could have been a celebration.’

Beside her, Zara seemed to have come to herself.

‘Thank you for trying,’ said Anneka. She leaned over to her friend; kissed her on the forehead. ‘You did everything you could.’

They embraced, and with that, Anneka was alone.

She stood, surrounded by many Annekas in the encircling mirrors. The stage gates seemed taller now, the fake pearls luminous, still glimmering.

On the stage, her hoops lay in a heap, LED flickering. The blue and white curtains hung down. She stepped forward, took off her shoes, bare feet on the sticky floor, and took one silk in her hand, undoing its catch and wrapping it tightly around herself.

‘Hey Charlie, check this out,’ she said, hooking her hoops over one arm, and lifting herself into the air. As soon as her feet left the floor, she felt weightless. She rolled upwards, holding herself mid-way, suspended in the silk.

She spun the hoops, several each side, tiny galaxies around her arms. Their white light strobed, formed pulsating wings - her signature.

She looked down. Only mirrors and rows of empty glasses caught the flashing lights. The trumpet sign outside flickered through the window, the flame inside it guttering. She caught the taste of rain on the air.

She turned in the air, slowly, the hoops tracing light around her. In the mirrors, her reflections spun too, all meeting her eyes. They tried their best to smile.

She was hanging, breathing hard, the curtain creaking. Below, the light shifted shape, forming briefly into circles, rings, ripples - then widening, breaking. As she watched the light fragment and re-form, she knew one thing. Although it was true that when it came, she would face it alone - it was not the end of the day.

She exhaled. ‘All right,’ she whispered.

As the orbit of the hoops slowed and stopped, she gathered them to her, and in the silence, began to descend.