Author: Mark Renney

The moment is almost here. At last, after all the speculation and rumour, the grand reveal. A cage has been wheeled onto the stage, sitting at its centre, covered by a white sheet, pristine and perfect. Everyone is certain that, when the cover is pulled away, it will be intricate and ornate but formidable. The creature trapped within and unable to escape.

The cage is a giant replica of a Victorian birdcage. Across the theatre speculation begins afresh, hushed but audible. Is the creature in some way birdlike? Winged, even? A raptor – a throwback from pre-history, from the land that time forgot.

This little theatre is packed to the rafters, and the anticipation is rife and sour. It tastes bitter but I keep on swallowing, I keep on looking.

The whole world is watching and I imagine people standing on street corners staring through shop windows at old television sets. Concave screens housed in wooden boxes, rabbit ear aerials perched on top, retro aliens with spindle legs.

This theatre is old, a gilded, burnished artefact with its shag pile carpeting and its flock wallpaper. The plush velvet seats are the colour of blood and the backdrop hanging behind the shrouded cage is colourful but fading. In my head, on those old screens, everything has been reduced to black and white.

I glance up at the drones hovering overhead and a spotlight hits the cage. We can see the creature now, its’ silhouette behind the sheet. It appears naked and not unlike us. We can see legs, arms, hands, the head. The creature doesn’t appear to be bound or gagged and we wonder if there is a blindfold or will the creature be able to see us, be permitted to speak? Will we understand or will it merely screech and squawk? Or has its tongue already been cut away in order to save us from its blasphemy. Will its voice be deep and guttural, an anguished howl?

But this creature is quite clearly delicate and fragile. Sylphlike, a fallen angel perhaps, its wing surgically removed but not its halo, not its glow.