(Page 1 of 3) The Hanged Man by Richard RidyardSUMMARY: A chilling tale about obsession.The Hanged Man
By Richard Ridyard
He's looking at me! He thinks I don't know it, but I do!
'I can see you, Happy, I can see you!'
He sits on a chair in the corner of my room. There is nothing but silence, I am alone, I can feel his cold harsh stares. As long as I live he'll haunt me, taunt me, then destroy me. There's only one escape for me ... for both of us.
Those stupid, painted doll-like eyes staring out of that wooden head. Sneering at me. There was a time when I could ignore him. Drop him in his box at the end of the act and forget about him until the next performance. That was long ago when I first got started as a ventriloquist.
Back then it was 'The amazing Edward'. That's how the billing read. No mention of 'Happy' ... just me, Edward.
But slowly he got in on the act. First they changed the billing to 'Edward and his lifelike dummy'. Happy didn't like that! Didn't like being called a dummy.
"The crowd don't see me as a dummy," he said. "They see me as a real person. Real flesh and blood. So why destroy the illusion?"
The only illusion was that people thought I pulled the strings to make Happy come to life, but in fact Happy was pulling my strings. He was the master and I was the puppet. He knew exactly how to handle me.
How to get his own way. He'd deliberately make me look a fool in front of others ... just like my old man used to do.
"Teddy Boy," he'd say. "You're like a spare tart at a wedding; sitting there with your legs crossed guarding your honor."
Teddy! That's what my father used to call me. Teddy. My mum would say, "his name's Edward," but my dad would ignore her and go on calling me Teddy.
He knew I hated it, but he didn't care. Just like Happy doesn't care. When we're on stage in front of a thousand people he'll say: "Watch where you're putting your hand, Teddy Boy. How'd you like it if I stuck my fingers up your bum." And he'd wink with that heavy, false eye and the crowd would fall about laughing. Laughing with him and at me! Just like my father used to laugh at me ... and the kids at school too. I hated school. Hated those staring eyes. The boys making fun of me because I didn't join in their stupid games ... and the girls giggling because I didn't chat them up.
I remember one of the girls complaining to the teacher that I'd tried to grope her. It wasn't true ... but the teacher told my father and he thrashed me. That's why I hated school and hated my father. They had found the weaknesses in me and deliberately played on them. No pity! No affection! No love! I guess they enjoyed watching me cry. And now Happy enjoys making me cry, in front of everyone. At first the audience didn't know how to handle it ... weren't sure whether it was all part of the act. They were a little uneasy about seeing a grown man cry.
But Happy made a joke of it. Turned it into a pantomime. He'd deliberately start to slip off my knee, pretending he was being washed away by the tears. "For God's sake, stop bawling," he'd say, "or you'll get water on the knee and I'll get wet rot."
The audience loved it.
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