“High.”
Jake groaned. It had to be the trapeze. It had to be another thing to do with heights. “Where’s Bodge?” he asked, already moving.
Tef came after him at a slow jog. “He’s tried everything. We need a new part.”
Jake stopped. “Okay, so how’s that a situation that requires me?”
“Er, it’s stuck.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Rielle.”
Jake went cold, forgotten lump of meat at the bottom of the freezer cold. “You’re telling me she went up on the trapeze and it got stuck.”
“Ah. Well, yeah.”
“Shit, why didn’t you say that?” He took off at a run.
Jake could hear Rielle before he saw her. She was cursing Bodge, Bunk and anyone else in earshot with language that could make a sailor doing the rounds of Kings Cross strip joints blush. When he pushed through the crowd of roadies and techies on stage, he could see she was strapped in a harness, suspended thirty metres above the stage floor. Like way up there. Shit, shit, shit.
He moved to stand directly beneath her, sucking up the instant hit of vertigo. “Hi,” he called, “don’t worry, we’ll get you down.”
“What are you—a fucking magician? They’ve been trying to fucking get me down
for the last fifteen fucking minutes!” she shouted, the trapeze swinging.
Jake turned to Bodge. “Fifteen minutes?” Blood was pooling in his feet and his hands had started tingling.
“More like ten Reedy, but feels like hours.” Bodge groaned, wiping his hand across a sweaty forehead.
“She’s been yelling the whole time?” He glanced up. His arms came out to his sides looking for something to hold onto as his brain sent out the panic signal.
“Just about.”
“What do we need?”
“A new part. The pulley system is stuffed.”
“How long?”
“Least another half hour. I’ve got someone on the road to the supplier now.”
He shook out his hands. “Shit.” At least his voice wasn’t shaking. Though there was time for that.
“Yeah. Maybe longer than half an hour.”
“Shit. Okay, clear everyone who isn’t essential from the area, last thing she needs is an audience.”
Bodge nodded, then roared, “Fuck off all of you. Take a forty minute break.”
“Forty minutes!” screamed Rielle, as roadies downed tools and fled in all directions. “Fucking get me down now!”
This was bad. Getting your talent stuck thirty metres above the stage the day before the first show of their global tour was worse than bad—it was career suicide. “Is there no way to bring her down, Bodge?” He knew what he’d have to do, but it wasn’t going to save his job, or his sanity.
“Not without causing a truckload more damage we don’t have time to fix. It’s a two dollar part, that’s all we need.”
“And we didn’t have spares?”