Teacups & Tentacles | ONC 2022

3. Godwin Jones Isn't A Name (Yet)

In a part of London that was neither fashionable nor known for its supernatural stink, huddled a modest three-story structure that was, nonetheless, known far and wide: The Royston Dinner Theatre. 

In the performance hall and at exactly eight minutes to seven in the evening, tall, handsome Alistair Farthingham -- illuminated by a single spotlight-- reached out and took a powder compact from the plump hand of one of the audience members. He acknowledge the receipt with a smile and a slight bow.

He then turned towards the stage where a man in tuxedo and glittering peacock blue turban stood with his back to the audience. A thick blindfold was tied around the man's head and his hands were clasped together in plain sight.

There were only a few minutes left to the performance, but Alistair's observant eye could already tell by the set of the his shoulders and the way he ran his thumb over the index finger of his left hand that his boyfriend was rapidly getting into a mood. 

It had been happening more and more lately that Godwin came off stage grumpy as cog bleach. It wasn't doing their relationship any good, but as show partners it was even more worrisome.     

"Amazing Godwin!" Alistair called. "I hold in my hand an object belonging to one of our esteemed audience members." Alistair held up the compact, turning around in a circle so that the audience in the packed room, including the ones at the cheap tables in the back that were served the tougher meat and less choice vegetables, could see what he was holding. "Will you use your incredible powers of psychic vision to tell us what this object is?"

Fans rustled, opera-glasses were raised to curious eyes and Yorkshire puddings were completely forgotten as The Amazing Godwin placed his fingertips on his temples and slowly began to rub. 

For at least a minute, the only movement in the hall were the dust motes dancing in the sodium footlights. Waiters stood bored, but at attention, along the walls. They'd seen the show a hundred times and not even Alistair's panache was able to incite interest any longer.

"Yes, indeed. I'm seeing...I'm seeing a round object," Godwin finally said, enunciating each syllable. "Hard. I believe, yes, it's made of shell? No, no, metal. This is a round metallic object. But it is not...entirely so. I'm feeling a hollow space, yes, this object is hollow on the inside. And there is something inside that space. Something soft and feminine. Something..."

The Amazing Godwin fell silent.

The rubbing stopped.

The audience dared not lift so much as a forkful of quickly cooling mash to their mouths.

"Could it possibly be...a ladies' powder case?"

I said 'compact', Goddy, pay attention, thought Alistair as a flurry of oohs and ahhs were followed by the patter of rising applause. Alistair raised his arms in a request for silence and the noise quickly dampened.

"It is indeed a ladies' powder compact, Amazing Godwin!" Alistair handed the object back to the blushing woman with a flourish. She stared at it, then at Godwin, then at Alistair, who gave her a little wink.

"But surely, for someone of your powers, that must be child's play," Alistair continued. "How about something a little more challenging, hm? With your phenomenal powers of intuition and insight, could you not, perhaps, tell us...the audience member's given name?"

A murmur of expectation rose like a wave and the audience shifted excitedly in their chairs.

The energy in the room was electric, as it always was at this point in the performance. It was all Alistair could do to keep a grin from creeping over his face. He adored this part, really and truly. On his best nights, Godwin could keep an audience on the edge of its padded, three-shillings-a-pop seats until it slid off of them in surprise and delight.