The first thing we had to do for the Purple Parrot Theatre Company was what they called “advance publicity”. They’d arranged a photo call early on Monday morning to launch the show so, instead of going to school as usual, Graham and I had to catch a bus into town. All the kids were supposed to report to Maggie on the stage door at 8 a.m. sharp so that we could get made up and into the right costumes. By 9.15 a.m. we should have been standing on the broad, stone steps of the Theatre Royal waiting for Tiffany Webb, dressed in her Dorothy outfit, to pull up in a horse-drawn carriage and pose for the flock of photographers and TV crews who’d turned up for the occasion.
Things didn’t quite work out according to plan.
First of all, the bus Graham and I were supposed to catch was fifteen minutes late. Then it crawled through the rush-hour traffic so slowly that we didn’t get into town until nearly nine o’clock. I was really edgy because I thought we’d be chucked out of the show before we’d even got started and Graham was beside himself because he hated being behind schedule. We sat there, drumming our fingers on the backs of the seat in front of us, jiggling our feet, tutting and sighing, and generally annoying the other passengers.
The area around the theatre was pedestrianized, so, once we’d reached our stop, we had to sprint the last five hundred metres. The quickest way to the stage door was through an alley where the fire escapes criss-crossed the side of the building down to the ground.
When we got there Maggie sent us straight inside. One minute and forty-seven seconds later we were clad in lurid leafy tunics and brightly coloured tights. Cynthia had done our faces to match, singing bursts of “I Can Sing a Rainbow” as she daubed us with garish greasepaint. Cramming the flowers on our heads, she dragged us by our wrists back through the stage door, along the alley and round to the front of the theatre.
“If we go this way Peregrine won’t spot you,” she said. “You can slip in among the Munchkins and he’ll be none the wiser.”
As we reached the theatre’s main entrance, Cynthia shoved us towards the already crowded steps. “Go up the side there. Stand at the back. You’ll be fine. Go on.”
We did as we were told, squeezing between Munchkins until we reached the top. From there we could see the rest of the cast arranged artfully for the cameras. They were all there: the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion, the Scarecrow, the Wizard of Oz, Glinda the Good Witch and the Wicked Witch of the West. They were chatting and laughing but then there was the sound of hoofbeats on concrete, and everyone fell into a hushed, expectant silence.
An emerald-green open carriage was being pulled towards us by two pea-coloured ponies. “I wonder how they did that?” I whispered to Graham.
“Coloured hair spray I should imagine,” he replied. “It would need to be completely non-toxic.”
“Bet those horses didn’t like being zapped with green,” I said. “They’re probably really embarrassed.”
“Actually, horses are completely colour-blind,” Graham informed me. “But I wouldn’t want to be the person who has to wash it off.”
And then we fell silent too because all eyes were on the girl in the gingham frock and ruby slippers. Tiffany Webb. Dorothy. Smiling and waving just like the Queen, only with more enthusiasm and whiter teeth.
She was a lot smaller than I thought she would be and for a second I was slightly disappointed. She looked kind of fragile sitting there all on her own. When the carriage came to a halt the Cowardly Lion bowed and stepped forward to open the door. Suddenly the respectful silence was broken by the frantic clicking and flashing of hundreds of cameras. Photographers were shouting, calling her name to get her attention. “This way, Tiffany!” “Over here, love!” “Give us a smile, darling!” A film crew dangled a fluffy microphone in her face and demanded, “How do you feel about your new role, Tiffany?”
It was worse than being at a wedding. The photographs took forever. They took shots of Tiffany and the other principal actors and then did a load of wide-angle ones of the whole cast standing on the steps. Graham and I were elbowed out of the pictures by pushier, more publicity-hungry kids but neither of us minded. The TV crew did an interview with Tiffany and then a celebrity magazine wanted more pictures of her in the carriage with the green horses. Everyone’s eyes were firmly fixed on Tiffany at the bottom of the steps but my attention began to wander. I turned around and it was then that I noticed a wizard edging furtively towards the theatre’s front doors.
I prodded Graham.
“What?” he said, a little crossly. Then he saw what I was looking at and his mouth fell open.
I mean, it was quite a sight.
Six, maybe seven feet tall; black flowing cape; pointy hat; bright green warty mask. It was like seeing Darth Vader out trick-or-treating.
“Must be someone from the play,” said Graham uncertainly. “Probably here for the photo call.”
“Maybe,” I replied. “But why isn’t he down there with the rest of the actors?”
“I don’t know.”
“There’s only one wizard in The Wizard of Oz, isn’t there?” I asked.
“Yes,” replied Graham. “And he’s standing right next to Tiffany.”
We watched, and to our horror the tall wizard suddenly pulled a lethal-looking knife from beneath his cape and raised the blade high in the air. With a thud he brought it down hard, stabbing a piece of paper to the front door. Then he ran off down the side of the steps, disappearing into the alley so quickly that we didn’t have a chance of stopping him.
The piece of paper flapped helplessly beneath the knife in the breeze. When Graham and I read what was written on it, my blood ran cold. Scrawled in scarlet ink were the words TIFFANY WILL DIE!