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There is and was no darkness like the darkness that falls over a stage once the curtains draw closed. That darkness was second only to the darkness of death — the void you couldn’t so much as see your hands in, even if they were an inch away from your face.
The black was full and thick but never silent.
There was always applause somewhere else, somewhere on the other side of that drawn curtain. Some nights hands would patter-patter like great thunderstorms, other nights there would be only a sprinkle of applause.
The voices of the audience could only just be made out, never the words, only the tones: confusion, awe, and determination being the primary three.
Within the curtain, though, there were words, words, words, and near indiscernible movement, like ink being stirred in a pot.
“Officer? Officer Lockstock? Did I lose you?” A high voice’s string of questions rose above the general murmurs of exhaustion and light conversation.
Across the way, she was answered by a gentle cough and a lower voice. “Over here, Little Sally.”
She rushed in the direction of his voice, tumbling past and through other not-quite solid forms. The spirits were nearly non-Newtonian, firm on harsh impact, viscous in slow motion.
“Sorry, Tom,” she said after knocking into another figure particularly hard in her haste. “Officer Lockstock?”
“Right here,” he assured, sweeping her into a relieved embrace.
They held onto each other for a moment, the first truly peaceful moment in hours — that won’t sound like too long to you, but time works differently in the world where scenes are days.
Sally looked up, and of course, couldn’t find Lockstock’s face in the dark. “How long do we have? Until it starts all over again?”
She could hear Lockstock’s frown. “It’s hard to say, Little Sally.” A hand squeezed her shoulder. “It is hard to say. You had better rest up, in case we’re brought back sooner than later.”
Her breath shook out of her in a shudder. “Right. Rest…” Sally stayed with him a beat longer, before slipping out of his arms. “I’m going to find Becky first. And Robby. And —“
“And you’ll find some time to rest,” Lockstock said, stern. “I’ll see you when I see you, Little Sally.”
“Fine,” she promised, but she was already scampering away to find her friends.
Lockstock let out a sigh. He couldn’t blame her — one of the few comforts about this state was talking to the others.
Their lives, their actual lives and subsequent deaths, were all predetermined. This was what wasn’t written. This was what they could have that could be theirs.
Lockstock liked to enjoy these undefined times quietly. He had the some of the most lines, being the narrator and all that, and the space that must’ve been his throat always tickled with soreness and phlegm. He coughed infrequently to clear it, but it didn’t do much.
Nice as the solitude was, it was soon disturbed.
“Pssst…psst. Mister Lockstock. Over here!”
Lockstock could recognize that voice anywhere, a little farther away from the conglomeration of other conversations. What little privacy they were afforded he would take.
“Hello, Mister Barrel,” he said, reaching out to make contact. It was hard to say how but they could almost always find each other’s hands.
Lockstock could feel something cold, unlike a person, in Barrel’s hand. “Is that…oh, that can’t be a baton.”
“I found it,” Barrel said, his glee palpable. “The ghost light. What I can’t find is the switch.”
Lockstock sucked in a gasp, and his fingers flew over the metal to find a knob or anything. “Oh, come on, come on…” he murmured, searching frantically.
Barrel hadn’t given up the hunt either. Their hands kept slipping past each other as they pawed up and down the stand.
“There!” Barrel cried suddenly, and he twisted it. Like a blue star it glowed in the space between them, raw heat and light and they could see.
Lockstock blinked and settled into the new light. “Different,” was the first thing he said. “New actors.”
Barrel’s face was sharper than it was round. He had thin brows, a crooked nose, and dark curls framing even darker eyes. His pupils were like holes into the surrounding blackness.
Lockstock dared to graze the stubble on his jaw with the pad of his finger. “Brown hair. Brown eyes, very big brown eyes.”
Barrel grinned, a smile that was never the same except in affection. “Yeah?” He breathed.
“Yeah,” Lockstock repeated. “And I’m…?”
Lockstock’s face was rounder than it was sharp. His hair was light and straight, and long enough that it needed to be tucked behind his ears. Like Barrel, his eyes were brown. He had a couple of freckles.
“Brown eyes. Almost blonde hair,” Barrel asserted.
“Lots of it. Too much,” he complained when Barrel touched it. “I miss the buzz cut.”
Barrel hummed, “I miss being taller than you.”
Lockstock scoffed, “I miss when we were both redheads.”
“Oh, god,” Barrel said. “I’m not sure I do.”
“Yeah?” Lockstock’s hand cupped Barrel’s cheek. “I always miss you.”
Sweet words. But something in them stung.
Barrel’s brows went up. “I see.”
Lockstock grumbled, so he let out a little somber chuckle. “It doesn’t feel so good, does it?”
“Of course it doesn’t. I know it doesn’t,” Lockstock said. “But I have no choice.”
Barrel sighed. “I know you don’t.” He took a long pause, studying Lockstock’s face.
“I just…I just can’t help but wonder if one of these days, it’ll turn out different for us, Mister Lockstock.”
Sally’s words — the words that weren’t her words — rang through Lockstock’s ears. Can’t we do a happy musical next time?
“It can’t,” Lockstock finally said. “I’m sorry that it can’t.”
“I know.” Barrel patted the side of his neck. “But…you’d change it? If you could?”
“Yes,” Lockstock promised him. “Of course I would.”
Barrel’s touch became more a clasp, more eager. “Tell me how. Please, tell me how.”
“How?” Lockstock asked.
Barrel’s palms glided to Lockstock’s shoulders. “I’ve been meaning to ask, Mister Lockstock. Do you ever…have doubts about what we’re doing? About the killings and all?”
Lockstock swallowed. ‘Oh,’ he’d say, but it wasn’t written in. “It may surprise you to learn that sometimes I do, but the health and security of this town are my primary concerns.”
Despite himself, he slid his thumb over Barrel’s chin. “I love the people of this community, Mister Barrel. Very much. Cladwell’s edicts may be their only chance.”
The ghost light cast shimmers over the dark pits of Barrel’s eyes. “And I love you. Very much.”
Lockstock paused. He was supposed to pause. He knew what he was supposed to say next.
He didn’t know what he should say instead.
“I…I —“
It turned out he wouldn’t have the opportunity to find the words. Music began, an orchestra tuning itself to the prelude they had heard so many times before.
Whispers of “places, places!” broke out.
Barrel’s hard look turned into a faint smile, but his big brown eyes held nothing but pain. He said nothing before turning out the light.
Like clockwork, the spirits eased to where they needed to be, though they couldn’t yet see the town.
Lockstock readied himself with another cough, and wondered if his actor lived in a world just as water-deprived of his own. His mind was quite alive with questions — what would he say to Barrel if he could choose?
What would happen if he went off-script?
No more time to think. A near-blinding yellowish light overtook him as the curtains opened once again.