Lichfield was there of course, and Constantia, radiant as ever. Galloway had chosen to go with them, so had Eddie, and Tallulah. Three or four others had also joined the troupe.
It was the first night of their freedom, and here they were on the open road, travelling players. The smoke alone had killed Eddie, but there were a few more serious injuries amongst their number, sustained in the fire. Burned bodies, broken limbs. But the audience they would play for in the future would forgive them their pretty mutilations.
‘There are lives lived for love,’ said Lichfield to his new company, ‘and lives lived for art. We happy band have chosen the latter persuasion.’
‘There was a ripple of applause amongst the actors.
‘To you, who have never died, may I say: welcome to the world!’
Laughter: further applause.
The lights of the cars racing north along the motorway threw the company into silhouette. They looked, to all intents and purposes, like living men and women. But then wasn’t that the trick of their craft? To imitate life
so well the illusion was indistinguishable from the real thing? And their new public, awaiting them in mortuaries, churchyards and chapels of rest, would appreciate the skill more than most. Who better to applaud the sham of passion and pain they would perform than the dead, who had experienced such feelings, and thrown them off at last?
The dead. They needed entertainment no less than the living; and they were a sorely neglected market.
Not that this company would perform for money, they would play for the love of their art, Lichfield had made that clear from the outset. No more service would be done to Apollo.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘which road shall we take, north or south?’
‘North,’ said Eddie. ‘My mother’s buried in Glasgow, she died before I ever played professionally. I’d like her to see me.’
‘North it is, then,’ said Lichfield. ‘Shall we go and find ourselves some transport?’
He led the way towards the motorway restaurant, its neon flickering fitfully, keeping the night at light’s length. The colours were theatrically bright: scarlet, lime, cobalt, and a wash of white that splashed out of the windows on to the car park where they stood. The automatic doors hissed as a traveller emerged, bearing gifts of hamburgers and cake to the child in the back of his car.
‘Surely some friendly driver will find a niche for us,’ said Lichfield.
‘All of us?’ said Galloway.
‘A truck will do; beggars can’t be too demanding,’ said Lichfield. ‘And we are beggars now: subject to the whim of our patrons.’
‘We can always steal a car,’ said Tallulah.
‘No need for theft, except in extremity,’ Lichfield said. ‘Constantia and I will go ahead and find a chauffeur.’
He took his wife’s hand.
‘Nobody refuses beauty,’ he said.
‘What do we do if anyone asks us what we’re doing here?’ asked Eddie nervously. He wasn’t used to this role; he needed reassurance.
Lichfield turned towards the company, his voice booming in the night:
‘What do you do?’ he said, ‘Play life, of course! And smile!’