The Gleeman
Copyright© 2026 by KiwiGuy
Chapter 10
By half past five that evening, the Pitch had transformed. Where it had once been rough ground and restless territory, it now pulsed with life. Stalls had sprung up in cheerful disorder, their colours bright against the fading afternoon light. Laughter drifted across the space, mingling with the strains of festive music that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. People milled in clusters—talking, watching, waiting—drawn by the promise of the play.
Yet beneath the carnival air lay something taut and hidden. Groups that might once have avoided one another now stood within easy distance, exchanging polite glances that concealed sharper intentions. Signals passed—subtle, almost invisible—between those who knew there was more at stake than entertainment.
Clef stood a little apart from it all. He held his flute loosely, raising it now and then to play a few quiet phrases—fragments rather than full melodies. At his feet, Rolf lay watchful, though he did not stay still for long. Every so often he would rise, pad across to Cameron, press close for reassurance, then wander again, nose to the ground, restless.
Children darted constantly across the space, their energy irrepressible. Arms full of costumes, scraps of fabric, hastily assembled props—they ran in bursts, laughing, colliding, vanishing, reappearing. All but Cameron were part of the performance to come, and their excitement had a strange edge to it, as though something deeper tugged beneath the surface.
Gloucester intercepted one of them, placing a firm but smiling hand on the child’s shoulder.
“Ah—preparations underway, I see.”
The child barely paused, eager to be gone. Yes, sir. Yes, it would be wonderful—then gone again, swallowed into the flow of movement.
Gloucester watched him leave, a thin smile settling on his face.
“Yes,” he murmured. “A great surprise ... for everyone.”
Not far away, Deathrow edged close to Cameron, his voice low and uneasy. He was scared. He did not understand how this could possibly work.
“We don’t have to understand,” he responded. “Just do what we’ve been asked to do. We’re here to listen, to watch, to find out what we can. Now keep circulating.”
Deathrow gave a reluctant shrug and slipped away into the shifting crowd, careful to keep his distance from Blaze.
Cameron, meanwhile, moved among the children, stopping one here, another there—brief exchanges, quiet encouragements, his eyes always searching.
Across the space, Blaze was engaged in a different kind of manoeuvre. He drifted towards Foucester with calculated care, avoiding the notice of the other street kids. When at last he reached him, the Town Clerk turned sharply, irritation barely concealed.
“So—you decided to show yourself. Have you got the letter?”
Blaze’s reply was cool. “Of course. What do you take me for?”
“I know exactly what I take you for. Hand it over.”
“Not so fast. The money first.”
“When I see the letter, and not before,” shot Foucester.
Their negotiation tightened quickly, suspicion on both sides. Blaze finally produced the letter—but not without drawing a knife and pressing it lightly, meaningfully, against Foucester’s side as insurance.
Foucester read quickly. Satisfaction flickered across his face. It was exactly what they needed.
“Now push off,” he ordered, handing over an envelope. Blaze opened it—and his expression darkened. A cheque.
The insult of it stung more than the deception. What use was a cheque to him?
Foucester’s answer was clipped: he was not about to carry cash into a place like this. Blaze could do what respectable people did—open a bank account.
Blaze’s eyes burned as he turned away.
This, he promised silently, would not be forgotten.
“That is going to cost you dear, mister. There are many paths into this place, but for you only one way out.”
Before Foucester could respond, a bright, familiar voice cut across the tension. Mrs Gladstone.
She swept in with enthusiasm, delighted by the occasion, praising the spectacle, the promise of the play, the sense of history in the making. Foucester attempted to respond politely, though his unease grew with every passing second.
“I’m so looking forward to this wonderful play the intriguing Mr Gleeman and those darling children are going to put on,” Mrs Gladstone twittered. “Such an historic event.
“And of course you are going to keep a proper record of this afternoon’s events for our town chronicles?”
“A record?” Foucester blustered. “Well, it will all be minuted at the next council meeting, of course.”
“Oh, who cares about fusty old minutes! What we need are photographs, something worthy of the town’s memory.”
Foucester blanched. Photographs?
“Of course. Photographs. We must have plenty of those. Don’t tell me you haven’t arranged a photographer to take pictures.”
“Well, no...” he flustered.
“Shame on you,” she admonished. “It’s a good job I always carry my camera with me.”
Out came a camera, a tripod—pressed firmly into his grasp before he could protest further. He stood helplessly as she swept off to gather the children.
Gloucester appeared at his shoulder almost immediately, voice low and sharp asking what he was he doing?
Foucester explained, equally low, equally strained.
The councillor’s displeasure was unmistakable. The last thing they needed was a record—any record—of what was about to unfold.
And then, suddenly, inspiration struck.
“Exposed,” Gloucester had said.
Yes. Exposed.
With swift, furtive movements, Foucester opened the camera and deliberately ruined the film, flooding it with light before snapping it shut again.
When Mrs Gladstone returned, shepherding the children before her, he was all smiles.
“Ready when you are,” Foucester smiled.
The children gathered, though not easily. There was a strange quality about them now—restless, unfocused, their movements slightly delayed, as though they walked between waking and dream.
Behind them came the Gleeman.
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