Command Performance by Paul Finch

Mr. Merryweather first spied the young couple in the farthest corner of the theatre bar. They were in their early thirties and rather handsome. The man had dark, swept-back hair and a light beard. He was of husky build, but fitted snugly into a pale grey suit. Even seated, there was an air of virility about him. Mr. Merryweather suspected that he was an athlete of some sort.

The girl was trim but curvy, with a pretty face and bobbed blonde hair. Her red velvet mini-dress ended well above the knee, showing shapely legs sheathed in dark nylon. She also wore shiny red shoes, with high heels. Mr. Merryweather flushed. Shoes like that always had an effect on him.

He walked over to the bar, carefully observing what they were drinking. The man had a pint of beer in front of him, the girl a glass of white wine. Perhaps they weren’t as well-off as they appeared. Maybe it was simply an impression they liked to give, and in reality they were nervous and out of their depth?

All the better. So far, they were perfect.

He made a point of standing at the closest corner of the bar to their table, and ordered himself a gin-and-tonic. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw them talking quietly together. The atmosphere between them was cold and rather strained. They weren’t enjoying themselves. Well ... he’d soon change all that.

He stayed where he was, contemplating his drink and smiling contentedly to himself. Only a moment passed before the girl noticed him. Mr. Merryweather smiled all the more. He could hear her change of tone as she whispered excitedly to the young man, who nodded in agreement. They were hooked.

Mr. Merryweather took another sip of gin and turned grandly from the bar. He was about to walk away, when the girl stood up. "Excuse me," she said, with a nervous giggle.

He appraised her quickly. He’d been right. She was - as the more loutish members of his profession might say - stacked.

"Excuse me ... you’re Mr. Merryweather, aren’t you? The hypnotist." She offered him her rolled-up programme. "You couldn’t autograph this for me, could you please?" She giggled again.

He beamed at her. "Of course, dear lady," he said, in his most resonant voice. He fluffed his bow-tie, then took a pen from his tuxedo pocket and made to sit down at their table. "May I?"

The girl looked as though she could hardly believe it. "Oh ... well, yes, yes ... please do."

He sat, nodding and smiling at the man, who nodded back uncertainly.

"Any particular message?" Mr. Merryweather asked them.

"Oh ... just to Caroline and Bob, with love," said the girl. She had a very sweet voice. She seemed like a very sweet girl.

"Did you enjoy the show?" he wondered, as he inscribed the brochure.

"Oh we did," said Caroline, and she poured fourth a flood of congratulatory plaudits about how she had never seen such wondrous things, or so mysterious a talent so humorously and mesmerisingly applied.

When Bob finally spoke, he was more skeptical but had clearly been impressed. "When you made the woman from the audience run around on all fours and bark like a dog ... that was astonishing. Or the pansy you turned into a sergeant-major on parade. I’ve never seen anything like it."

Mr. Merryweather nodded amiably, soaking up the adulation despite the fact that he was used to it. He was well aware how astounding his act was - he’d been hauling it successfully around the West End for the last twenty-five years.

"But do those people really imagine they’re in those situations, once you’ve hypnotised them," Caroline asked, still in a voice of wonderment.

"They don’t imagine anything, my dear," Mr. Merryweather said. "As far as they are concerned, they are in those situations. The potency of hypnosis is quite immense. It can make bastions of puritan self-denial sing and dance like drunken sots; arch-Conservatives espouse the values of Karl Marx."

"But surely it can’t make them do anything," said Bob. "I mean, not ... anything!"

Mr. Merryweather considered the question. "A magician never betrays his limits, but suffice to say this ... a good hypnotist is more likely to get results if he stays close to the basic nature of his subject. That’s still a wide

field, of course. Even if we don’t know it, we are all of us cowards and heroes, intellects and morons, saints and sinners ... there is fathomless scope for entertainment in the average person. Fathomless!"

And he finished his drink.

Bob immediately stood up, reaching into his jacket for his wallet. "Can I get your another?"

"I have a better idea," said Mr. Merryweather, staring at him with piercing eyes. "Sit down, please."

"Why don’t we go back for a more informal drink ... at my flat," Mr. Merryweather added.

"Why don’t we go for a drink at your flat," Bob intoned, in a suddenly quiet voice.

Caroline looked startled. "Oh, but we couldn’t do that, Mr. Merry ..."

"It’s quite alright, my dear," the hypnotist told her, gazing into her eyes. "It’s a good idea."

"It’s a good idea," she said quietly.

A moment later the three of them left, Mr. Merryweather going to collect his coat and hat, and meeting the young couple in the car park at the back of the theatre. Bob drove a second-hand Ford Escort, and they all climbed in together, the hypnotist sitting beside Caroline in the rear, placing one hand on her exposed thigh as they set off for Holland Park.

"You can leave it at the front," Mr. Merryweather said, ten minutes later, when they swung round into a quiet, tree-lined side-street. "That’s it ... number fourteen. My pad’s upstairs."

They climbed out together and Mr. Merryweather unlocked the front door, the three of them then trooping up the steep, narrow stair. His apartment was plush and expansive, the lounge boasting a six-piece suite in front of a big, ornate fireplace and hi-tech home-entertainment centre. Mr. Merryweather was an obsessive believer in the value of entertainment. Having made such a good living at it, he now spared no expense in providing it for himself. In consequence, the room also had a well-stocked bar, and at its south side, magnificent windows affording panoramic views of London’s most chic neighbourhood.

"Please sit down," he told his guests. "Make yourselves at home."

He took his coat off as they seated themselves at opposite ends of the room, remaining cold and stiff. Interesting, he thought. Very interesting indeed. He left them alone for several minutes, finally returning in slacks, smoking-jacket and slippers. He called first at the bar, mixing himself a very large gin-and-tonic, then chose his favourite armchair - the one directly facing the deep, full-length divan.

He arranged himself comfortably, took a long sip at his drink, savoured it for a moment, then swallowed and smiled at his guests. "Neither of you will remember anything about this later on," he said, in a gentle, coaxing voice. "Now relax, please. Take off your coats. Sit next to each other ... on the divan."

They did as they were told, Bob peeling off his jacket and draping it over the back of his chair; Caroline standing prettily to unbutton her mac. Mr. Merryweather felt another flush of passion as he watched her. He’d chosen well this time. She was very desirable. Not that he ever indulged, himself. Mr. Merryweather preferred to watch.

"You are in the privacy of your own home together," he told them. "You are both aroused. At my command, you will give full vent to your deepest lusts and desires. You will be completely uninhibited with each other."

He watched the girl as a coy but seductive look came over her face. Her shoulders relaxed. He glanced at Bob. The man seemed to have withdrawn into himself. The skin on his neck and cheeks had taken on a dull red glow."

"Remember," said Mr. Merryweather. "I am not here. You can neither see nor hear me." He took another drink, then settled back. "Please ... begin."

Caroline climbed slowly to her feet, breathing heavily, head hung slightly backwards. Bob rose as well, his eyes fixed on her. She reached behind to the zipper on her dress. Her husband watched, as if mesmerised.

Mr. Merryweather couldn’t contain a chuckle of delight. He checked behind him, to ensure that the video-camera on the entertainment-centre was running. It was. He turned back ... and found Bob now standing by the fireplace with his back to his wife. She was unzipping her dress, a sultry look on her face, her breasts heaving. Bob turned slowly to face her again.

It gave Mr. Merryweather quite a jolt to see that the young man had picked up the fire-poker. It gave him an even bigger jolt to see him suddenly charge at the girl and swing it at her head with uncontrolled fury.

"You bitch!" he shrieked. "Christ ... I’ve been waiting for this!"

Everything then seemed to happen in slow motion for Mr. Merryweather. He sat there in his armchair, drink in hand, frozen into immobility, as the iron stave swept back and forth, repeatedly impacting on the girl’s skull. So savage was the attack, so accurate the blows, that she was dead before she hit the carpet ... the pink and pastel decor behind her liberally spotted with blood.

The man continued to beat her even when she was down, in an berserk frenzy. Finally, after what seemed like minutes, he stepped back, panting hard and sodden with sweat. "And good bloody riddance!" he hissed.

Mr. Merryweather’s mind was in darkness as he sat there. He knew that he was going into shock. That he might at any second swoon. For God’s sake, no!

He shook himself violently to stay awake. He wanted to jump to his feet and run about the room like a chicken, but he could hardly move. He was sick with horror. Not in his own front room! Oh God, no!

How on Earth had he let this happen?

He felt sweat trickle into his eyes, and wild thoughts rushed through his mind. The attack had been launched with such speed that he couldn’t have intervened to stop it even if he had wanted to. And of course ... he probably wouldn’t have wanted to. The only way to have stopped it would have been to wake them up, and then he’d have had some explaining to do.

Not that it could be much worse than this! He was still paralysed in his chair as the madman paced around the dead woman, the bent and bloodied weapon tight in his fist. As far as Bob knew of course, he was still in the privacy of his own home. It seemed likely that he was now considering his next step. Mr. Merryweather’s heart was thumping like a drum. Did he let it continue? What else could he do? He was a front-row witness - if he woke the maniac now, he’d almost certainly be the next victim.

He hardly dared to breathe as the man finally threw the poker into a corner, took Caroline by one leg and dragged her inelegantly across the carpet towards the door. He was still muttering under his breath about her being a bitch and having deserved it all. And about him being off - at long last, he was off and gone!

Even after the killer had left the room, the hypnotist was still rooted to his armchair. For seconds he was too weak to move, and shaking violently. How could he have been so dim as not to realise that eventually something like this was bound to have happened? Why hadn’t he been content to go to the blue-movie cinemas like all the others? God in Heaven ... if only he could roll back time!

There was a sudden thunderous crash from the hall, and Mr. Merryweather jumped in terror. What was that psychopath up to now? What if he intended to cut the body up in the bath or kitchen, or something ghastly like that? The hypnotist clapped a hand over his eyes. Hot tears welled into it.

He didn’t want to know what was happening out there, but he knew that he would have to go and see. He climbed warily to his feet, peeping out through the door. There was no immediate sign of either Bob or his slaughtered wife, but a trail of gore led straight to the top of the stairs. Tentatively, Mr. Merryweather followed it and looked down. Immediately, he realised what the source of the crash had been. Bob had simply thrown the woman to the bottom. She lay sprawled in front of the door, legs askew, arms twisted underneath. Her husband was now standing next to her, going quickly through her handbag, emptying its contents on the floor.

At last he found what he was looking for - a cigarette and matches. Mr. Merryweather watched incredulously as the man lit up and began to smoke. A moment later, he opened the front door and sauntered out. The hypnotist clutched the stair handrail in mute horror. Surely he wasn’t going to disappear into the night and leave the mess behind him. Surely not ...

Seconds later though, Bob returned. He had been out to his car for something, and was now carrying it - something large and heavy. Mr. Merryweather fell back against the wall, gasping with relief. Something to wrap the body in ... probably a blanket. He was going to take it away and dispose of it. Thank God ... thank God! There’d be blood left, but Mr. Merryweather could handle that. At least if the body was gone ...

A sudden sloshing sound distracted him. He looked back down the stairs. Bob was now standing by the front door. He was just in the act of throwing something outside - something which clattered on the concrete path.

"I’ve warned you about coming downstairs in those high heels, darling," he said in a sneering voice. Then he took out his cigarette - now a glowing butt. "And I always said smoking would kill you."

He backed quickly through the door, dropping the dog-end beside his wife.

The stink of petrol reached Mr. Merryweather only seconds before the conflagration exploded up the stair-well towards him. He tottered backwards, stunned. The heat was incredible, the roar terrifying - it drove him helplessly along the landing. A wail of mortal fear rose in his throat, but the fumes strangled it. He could picture the tide of flames sweeping up the thick pile carpet on the stairs, devouring the silk wallpaper, the polished teak handrails, riding into his flat on a wave of oily-black smoke.

He retreated into the lounge, coughing violently, face smeared with sooty tears. He staggered towards the telephone, but a sixth sense stopped him. No fire brigade, no police! Bob had only made a token attempt to disguise this as an accident. Investigators wouldn’t be fooled. But how to get out!

Jesus Christ ... there was no other way!

Fresh tears spilled onto his cheeks as he stood there in the middle of the lounge, hands knotted in his hair. Then glass exploded somewhere in the flat. The crackle of combustion was deafening. He felt that searing heat roll through the open door to embrace him. A fog of foul smoke wafted in behind it.

Mr. Merryweather ran hysterically to the windows, but they were made of reinforced, burglar-proof glass and almost impossible to break with his fists. He turned to find some item of furniture to use, but the inferno was now raging in the doorway. The skin on his face instantly dried and tightened, his fringe began to prickle. Mr. Merryweather’s jaw dropped. His beautiful lounge, the scene of so much rapture ... soon a crematorium!

He turned back to the window, slamming his hands against it till the knuckles bled. Far down in the street, he saw a car pull up by the kerb. Hope surged in Mr. Merryweather’s chest. But it was only Bob - he’d turned round at the end of the cul-de-sac and was now leaving. He’d clearly just stopped for one last look.

Mr. Merryweather hammered on the glass all the same, screeching for help at the top of his voice. Anyone would do at this late stage! Anyone!

Not Bob though. Bob could neither see nor hear him.

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