Part 1 - Reserved Seat
It was the night of the Opera and it seemed that the entire population of London had turned out to enjoy the spectacle. The special retinue from l’Opéra de Paris was there only for the week and although sadly the magnificent prima donna Carlotta was not in the lead, the public had been assured that Christine Daaé, her replacement, would dazzle them with the voice of an angel.
For Chief Inspector Tristan Jones, it was a nightmare come-true. A lot of people, including foreign dignitaries from around Europe, confined in small spaces and his head on the line should anything go wrong. But he grinned and nodded politely, bowed graciously to overweight royalty and shook hands glittering with priceless jewels. And all the while he kept a careful eye out for trouble.
Tristan would have preferred to be anywhere else but here, but at the same time knew that his was an important part to play - even as a preventative or cautionary measure. There had been a spat of robberies in London in the past two weeks without a single witness and he was getting more and more pressure from the high ups. God forbid if anything was to go wrong now.
Gently Tristan looked up at the old Opera house and sighed. There was not a cloud in the sky and the moon hung full above the building, cradling it in its comforting light. Gently he touched the cross suspended at his neck and watched as more and more people made their way in for the show.
There were royals and dignitaries, visiting politicians and wealthy merchants. Anyone who was anyone in Great Britain and Europe was there and some even from further afield. Some had to have special arrangements made and a lot of money was exchanging hands to avoid any political or religious upsets. If two countries were at war, it was Tristan’s job to ensure that they were given seats as far as possible from each other; you couldn’t even sit them next to an ally of the warring faction. His head ached from the complexities of it all.
Tristan turned around as someone called his name and watched Sean Gordon approach, out of breath and sweating. Sean was a large man, having tipped over the edge of fat quite a few years ago. Truth be told, he should have been kicked out of the police a while back but he had an uncanny eye for paperwork and detail that made him invaluable to the team. Also invaluable to Tristan who hated paperwork even more than he hated politics.
“Sir…” Sean gasped for breath
“Breathe Sean, relax and spit it out” growled Tristan, his patience slowly deteriorating.
“We have…. a problem in regards to…. the seating, a Count I think” sputtered Sean.
“Damn. OK, I’m coming, get me up to date on the way.”
It turned out that there had indeed been a mix up with the tickets and the Opera had booked one too many private booths, one which had been specifically requested by a visiting Count from Transylvania had been also allocated to the visiting troop from Paris who had requested that a private room be left empty due to some sort of superstition.
Tristan greeted a large coachman standing beside a long carriage with blackened windows and drawn curtains. Obviously this Count really enjoyed his privacy.
“Sir, I understand there has been a misunderstanding with the Opera and would like to offer my sincere apologies. We can offer the Count a seat near the front should he wish and of course, a full refund of all the money he has paid” said Tristan, thinking quickly.
The coachman reached into his cloak and pulled out a large drawstring bag. It jingled with coins.
“Count Orlok must have the private booth. This will ensure the seat?” The coachman’s voice was deep and emotionless and Tristan caught the jingling bag as it was dropped into his hands.
Superstition be damned he thought, if he was right the value of coins in the bag was probably more than three months’ worth of salary on the force.
“Of course, I will ensure that the booth is made ready for him immediately.”
Quickly making the bag of coins disappear, Tristan turned to Sean and told him to make that room available.
“But Sir, the Paris Opera specifically..”
“Enough Sean, just don’t tell them and put the Count in there. They will never have to know.”
Sean led the coachman away just as a Sergeant came running up.
‘Now what!’ thought Tristan.
“Sir! There’s been another murder!”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sitting alone in the booth, Count Orlok enjoyed the tremendous voice of Christine Daaé as it rose and fell with the beauty of the chorus behind her. Around her the ballet dancers spun in a dizzying spectacle of splendour. Orlok could almost smell their blood from here, pumping through their veins, delicious and warm.
The Phantom felt his heart beating in time with the music, the Opera flowing in his veins as his love sang like an angel on the stage. His angel of music. His muse and his only desire.
Still caught up in the music, the Phantom made his way to the private booth, a shadow in the dark that made no sound.
The silent figure slipped in next to the Count and stopped, having only sensed him at the last moment. For a moment in the darkness the two stared at each other, reflecting mirrors of horror and torment.
There was no mercy in their anguished hearts and in the next moment they launched themselves at each other, anger driving them beyond any rationale or sanity.
Two beasts estranging themselves from humanity; they fought in silence intent only on death whilst on the stage a beauty sang of love and hope.
(Part 2 - A Cry in the Night)
