Den of Stars. Christopher Byford

Run on home to you!

      Her hands rose in triumph and her hips swayed with the thump of the beat.

       Let’s just forget these foolish actions,

       Feel pity in the arms of these poor fools,

       Let’s stop the fighting, it’s got us nowhere,

       I crave for you to love me!

      Drums burst into a rhythm as the instrumental music beneath, a waltz of violins, rose to be heard. With a swing of her hips in time, the Songbird did what she was born to do.

       Oh honey, sugar, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me,

       Tell me whatcha wanna do,

       I’m tired of the games that we play, dear, they’re o-ver,

       Oh baby, baby, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me,

       Tell me what we’re gonna do,

       I’ll shun the day for just one more night with you!

      Elizabeth gave an electric performance, exuding pure charisma to the audience. She bathed in their attention, taking requests as she saw fit. Almost all were charmed, most singing along to some regional songs that she gave a rendition of. She was bathed in the spotlight with arms outstretched, relishing every scrap of applause. This was what fuelled her. This was her calling.

      But something bothered Elizabeth. A deep-seated vein of distrust ran through her, directed primarily at their manager. The sheen of entertainment, the dazzling lights and distractions, were nothing but an attempt to relieve people of their money. This wasn’t the subject of her frustration, but the sheer callousness of the process. Misu bathed in tips thrust towards her and sweet talked gamblers into increasing their stakes.

      Elizabeth was brought on under the impression that the Morning Star was a legitimate venture. What she was a part of felt more like a hustle and she strongly disapproved. When raising concerns about such worries, she objected to being told, quite eloquently, by her manager to shut up and get on with things.

      Then, there was the subject of Misu’s mysterious disappearances.

      * * *

      Corinne passed between the showgirls on one of the interior carriages. The light threw shadows and dark figures all around, each person in chaotic motion as they prepared for the next spectacle. Some were hurriedly changing into outfits for a dance number, with Katerina adjusting the red plumes on her phoenix-themed ensemble.

      ‘Eight minutes, everyone! Eight more minutes to go!’ Corinne gave warning.

      She pressed through the melee and questioned them, loudly, as to whereabouts of Misu. ‘Somebody must have seen her!’ she protested. Shaking heads and apologies were all that was returned. When Elizabeth’s next song came to a close, and the silence returned, a handful of girls took their cue and dashed through the carriage doors to thundering applause. In the midst of this, Corinne scanned all around and wondered where their manager could possibly be.

      * * *

       Eight minutes.

      Misu checked her watch. It ticked along quite contentedly in its leather and silver housing. The second hand snapped to a stop-start, watched keenly to ensure that it showed no hint of delay nor failure. Eight minutes she repeated to herself. Eight long, damned minutes. Flashes of light reflected from the mask as fireworks popped in greens and reds.

      Where the Morning Star pulled into the station, she had snuck over the opposite tracks and down into one of the tight, shadow-soaked alleyways.

      A series of thumps in the darkness announced the arrival of a simple cart that creaked before jerking to a stop. As she looked up from her timepiece, examining the newly stacked load of red bales, she watched its entourage hastily hide the load with canvas. The cover was hurriedly tied down and checked once more. The pair of horses that pulled the cart behind were discouraged from stomping their hooves in impatience, though they were clearly uneasy. A woman took hold of their reins, and attempted to soothe them with her voice.

      Smart animals, Misu told herself. It was comforting to know that she wasn’t the only one anxious about this whole affair. The alleyway was devoid of gaslight, where few would willingly walk down – ideal if you wished to make a secretive transaction such as this. The busy folks who swarmed like ants over this whole trade slowed themselves after loading the last of the secret cargo from the back of one of the freight cars. It was the one that, curiously, remained permanently out of bounds, especially to staff: Car Six. Sure, this had been noticed by some, even commented on, but these were all brushed aside by its owner. What Misu said, people accepted, no matter the circumstance. Her word, whilst aboard the train, was law.

      The last figure that sauntered past dropped a small iron key into Misu’s open palm. She in turn threaded it into a chain fastened around her neck.

      ‘All locked?’ she asked with no small measure of authority.

      ‘As requested. Nobody knew we were even here.’

      Misu narrowed her eyes as the man stood, quite awkwardly, staring at her. He examined the mask before settling on the eyes peering beneath.

      ‘You hide such a pretty face I bet.’

      ‘That’s none of your concern.’

      ‘Cold. Is that the lot?’ he enquired.

      Misu defensively crossed her arms. Cheeky bastard. ‘Is there a problem?’

      ‘No, it’s just awfully small and you have plenty with you.’ Weaver smiled, ever so contentedly. Michael, or Weaver as he was commonly called by those in the know, was thin in stature but unpleasantly imposing, with a parting of soot-coloured hair and a well-trimmed beard mirrored in colour. He was given his nickname for his tendency to formulate well-constructed plans. His constant thoroughness and prediction of possible dangers had kept him and his crew alive on more than one occasion. Here tonight, and unbeknown to him, his diligence would be revealed as not as complete as it could be.

      ‘Six bales. That’s the arrangement – no more, no less.’ Misu tried her best to keep her composure with a staggered exhalation, letting her disgruntlement enforce each word. ‘What you do with it is your business, whatever mark-up you put on it is apparently your own. We never spoke and you never obtained this from me.’

      ‘You honestly have bigger balls than me doing this under the nose of …’ he waved his hand behind at the event in motion ‘… all that spectacle. Personally, I would be considerably more cautious.’

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