‘I thought we could tie a yellow ribbon ourselves. I know it’s cheesy, but you don’t have to choose an oak, or even a tree for that matter. You can imbue it with your own slant and significance. For some people it’s a symbol of protest. For others, loss, death, waiting. It’s also used as an outward sign of …’ I pause, unsure how he will take this ‘… missing someone. But of course, yellow is also the colour of sunshine, and flowers, and joyful things …’
I tail off as he strides to the biggest oak. When he reaches out a hand for the ribbon I scuttle after him, pulling out the scissors I carefully trousered on the way out. I hand them to him and he snips at the material. ‘Did you know blues musician Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil at a crossroads in return for being made the best blues guitarist in the world?’
‘Ah, now, my dad’s under the illusion he’s the best blues guitarist in the world,’ I start to joke and then realise I can use this talking point. ‘Crossroads are hugely symbolic in folklore. Faust sold his soul to the devil at one. If you do a deal with Lucifer, the place where four roads meet is a good spot to rendezvous because if you change your mind you can outrun him with a choice of routes.’
‘Four roads, four different choices,’ Vince says, looking beyond the edge of the green at the traffic rumbling around it. ‘I stood at the crossroads that night. Maybe I stood there every night without knowing it.’
‘Which night, Vince?’ I suspect I know the answer but wait for him to confirm it. When he doesn’t, I chip in again. ‘Apparently this was once the Devil’s Highway, an old Roman road running from London to Silchester. The highway ran along there.’ I point behind us to Goldhawk Road. ‘It was nothing like this then, of course, just a few isolated houses.’ I wait for him to speak.
After a few seconds, he obliges. ‘My first real contact with the audience was marked with a cross on the floor of the auditorium. That was the crossroads. The moment before we met. From there I walked up the aisle to claim my victim. Part of the success of the show was the element of surprise. I saw from the first night the impact of my actions on those I had cancelled. I never predicted what it would do to me.’
He gives me one end of the ribbon and winds his end around a large tree. ‘I didn’t choose them myself you know? Our producer downloaded their social media posts onto the house phone and briefed me before the warm-up each night. But even if my team hadn’t picked that particular young woman, I’d have been drawn to her like a magnet. She had the same deep eyes, the same pure soul. Pale hair and porcelain skin.’ He turns his hands around, to examine the backs of them. ‘Tiny hands, like those Edwardian dolls. She was sitting in C13.’
‘Booking seat thirteen is asking for a whole heap of trouble. People assume the unlucky number goes back a far as Judas but for my money Loki turning up as the thirteenth guest at the Valhalla dinner sealed its curse. Twelve? That’s lucky. It’s a complete number. Who did the woman in seat thirteen remind you of?’ Again I can guess, but I want him to tell me.
Vince lets the ribbon fall, staring at his nails as though he’s never seen them before. ‘I do a lot of research before a part. I’m a pain in the ass for directors. While everyone else is taking a tea break I’ll be asking question after question, trying to get beneath the surface of my character. I always want to know the motivation behind their every thought and word– to know what’s at their very being and the forces that shaped them. Before taking on this role I read a lot of interviews with people who have been shamed and cancelled. It’s a kind of death. You can’t come back from it, not for years anyhow. It’s devastating for them and draining for friends and family who get pulled into the horror.
‘I felt a small portion of that every night as their fear passed between us like a spark. And as I looked into their eyes and flashed up their tweets, I read their faces. Some were embarrassed, others terrified. One or two didn’t give a damn and held my gaze. But I usually managed to call them out on their posts and their pasts, move the conversation on and then get them off the stage so I could perform the rest of the play.’
He falls silent for a moment, and I wait for him to continue. ‘Apart from that night. The thought of cancelling her made me want to vomit. I couldn’t begin to say the words …’
He is quiet again and I perceive he is somewhere else, far away from me. And then he claps his hands together like he’s praying. ‘In the awkward silence no one knew what to do. The lighting department rescued me with a blackout and the stage manager hustled me back to my dressing room. I went home on autopilot, like a ghost.’ He pauses, and I know this is the first time he has said any of this out loud. ‘I couldn’t cancel her, Daisy.’
I put my hand on his shoulder. In the grey morning light, he looks lacklustre, his jaw more Cricklewood than Hollywood. Lost as the rest of us. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice two magpies. A sign. He sees me clocking them. ‘We have a lot of superstitions in the theatre. If anyone ever told me to break a leg before a show, I’d have snapped their arm in half. But I said “Macbeth” in the dressing room once and the world didn’t end. You should know that. Now help me tie this please or we’ll never get it done.’
When we’ve wrapped the tree, he fiddles with the bow and stands back. ‘Vince …?’ He turns, towering above me, pulling a navy-blue Yankees cap out of his pocket. ‘That job you gave yourself– The Canceller– if it didn’t get to you, you wouldn’t be human. But I don’t believe anyone is ever totally cancelled.’ Already in over my head, I dive further and show him my evil eye bracelet. ‘Sometimes I touch this, and chat with my mother. I think those we have loved and lost stay at the crossroads until we are ready to let them go.’
‘Or ready to join them,’ he says, before breaking into his trademark grin. ‘Therapy’s exhausting.’
‘I need to remind you I’m not your …’
‘Yeah, I know. But you eat breakfast, right?’ He puts his cap firmly on his head.
‘The coffee van will have gone by now, but I know a place that does a great egg butty.’
‘Can they make it so runny it oozes onto your chin?’
‘It’s basically a chicken embryo.’
In the café we order a mountain of food and two cups of strong tea.
‘We were destined to meet. What are the chances I’d take away your leaflet that night?’ he says.
I shrug. ‘I dunno. I bet you took home a few boobs after you signed them too.’
His laughter fills the small café. ‘You know, you two were the standouts for me across the whole run. The only ones I really remember. She stared back, challenging me to go ahead, but silently telling me not to dare. And you crumbled. I felt I’d sucked the life out of you with those three words.’
‘I didn’t know if you’d remembered me,’ I whisper.
‘As victims go you are rather standout with your kaleidoscopic hair.’ He smiles. ‘I touched you,’ he says, ‘I know I did. I touched a nerve.’
‘You touched quite a lot of nerves. And then you almost gave me a heart attack with the Twitter trick.’ I laugh it off, unwilling to tell him that night was a trigger for a whole childhood cancelled. I quickly change the subject. ‘There’s one thing I’m curious about. Why did fluffing that particular line have such an impact on you? You must forget them all the time and pick up the script again a little further on. It was one show, one moment. You’re fifty years old and at the peak of your career. Plenty of time to cock up some more.’
He looks me in the eye and quickly deflects. ‘I’m not yet fifty. I still have a fortnight to enjoy this last hurrah of youth.’
He gives the café owner a large tip and we walk in thoughtful silence back to the green.
‘I think you should have a birthday party. It’s a significant age.’
