02

The Music Of the Night�.or not

A/N (Yes you knew there would be more. Once again I'd like to say I don't own Erik, Christine or the Vicomte, they belong to Gaston Leroux. I do not own the Phantom, Christine, or Raoul. They belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber. Also I do not own John Owen-Jones, Celia Graham, Andrew Lloyd Webber or any other staff working or who have worked on The Phantom of the Opera musical. Any hurt feelings are unintentional. I own me! And now, on with the story! Oh and by the way, I know in the book Erik wears a black, velvet mask. But it's just wrong! Don't flame me for changing his mask.)

London

From the balcony, Andrew Lloyd Webber raised his opera glasses to the level of his eyes. Something very strange had just happened to his musical. A moment ago the Phantom had been wearing colourful Persian robes, and now he was wearing a dark dress clothes suit. "John?" He whispered under his breath. Another thing, his half-mask had disappeared to be replaced by a full, white mask. Worst of all, he wasn't singing!

"Aargh my head!" Erik exclaimed as the pain slid out of his body.

He opened his eyes, to find a rather alarming sight. He was . . . on the Opera Stage? All these people staring at him.

"What is it? My mask?!" He quickly brought his hand up to his face. No, his mask was still there.

"What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?" He looked around confused, and then around his stage. He looked at Celia.

"Christine?" She ran over to him and harshly whispered in to his ear.

"John what are you doing? Why aren't you singing Music of the Night?" Erik looked at her curiously. "My dear child, what are you talking about?" Celia began to panic.

Then he said loudly, "my dear Christine, who is John? My name is Erik remember?" Quiet cries from the audience from little children.

"Who's Erik? Who's John? I want ice cream." Whispers from more experienced Phans echoed around the theatre.

"This isn't part of the script. Erik? They just call him Phantom in this." Celia began sweating in a panic.

The Phans weren't going to be happy about having them skip Music of the Night but she had to do this. She whispered in to Erik's ear.

"Pull off that cover over the mirror." Using her eyes she motioned to the mirror which concealed the Christine dummy. Erik nodded in confusion and did as she asked. She followed him, just hoping her plan would work. He pulled off the cover, and as rehearsed the dummy actor nodded her head forward and bobbed her head.

Slightly over-exaggerated, Celia cried, "oh Angel!" and then collapsed in to his arms, assuming the usual position after the song. The two stage managers watching from above needed no further instructions. With that, they immediately dropped the curtains, the lights darkened, and chaos ensued backstage.

"What was that John?! What was that?!" Celia looked at him wide eyed as she followed him backstage.

"Madame, that is what I would like to be asking you!" She turned to Erik and looked at him straight in the eye. "Now listen to me John, I don't know what the hell your trying to pull, but I don't think its funny! And neither will Andrew when he finds you." Erik looked at Celia strangley.

"My dear child, I don't know who you are but I have to speak to the managers." Celia glared at Erik. "The managers? The manager John Fitzsimmons has his day off tonight! I swear John, your not the Phantom of the Opera." Erik puzzled, brushed away a strain of hair.

"I think you'll find Madame-." She cut him off and shook her head and then finally said. "The assistant manager, Kate Roberts is upstairs. Go and talk to her."

Paris

"ation . . . darkness-" John opened his eyes.

He winced. The pain was gone.

"Hang on . . . where am I?" He looked around the dark room. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he realised he was sitting at a desk. He looked around curiously. The rooms only light was a sad flickering candle in the corner. He stood up from the desk at looked down at the scrap of paper. He was lucky he could speak French fluently . . .

My Dear Managers,

So it is to be war between us? If you still care for peace, here is my ultimatum. It consists of the four following conditions:

You will give me back my private box.

In FAUST, the part of Marguerite shall be sung this evening by Christine Daa�. Never mind about Carlotta; she will be ill.

I absolutely insist upon the good and loyal services of Mme. Giry, my box- keeper, whom you will reinstate in her functions forthwith.

Let me know by a letter handed to Mme. Giry, who will see that it reaches me, that you accept, as your predecessors did, the conditions in my memorandum-book relating to my monthly allowance. I will inform you later how you are to pay it to me.

If you refuse, you will give FAUST to-night in a house with a curse upon it. Take my advice and be warned in time. O.G.

"My dear managers? War between us? O.G.?" John covered his mouth in horror. He obviously wasn't in Her Majesty's Theatre anymore. He wasn't even in 2002. He was in the catacombs of the Paris Opera House! He was in the lair of the Phantom of the Opera. He put down the letter and looked around the room. It almost reminded him of the batcave from that old television show. John walked around the large room, and noticed a mattress and a few paintings around the wall.

"So dark and lonely" muttered John. How could Erik live in such a place? It was nothing to what he imagined. He had imagined bright coloured, elegant rooms. He had always been torn between listening to the musicals and the book. Well, it seemed that neither were 'right.' He was thinking this just before he entered a different room. It was brightly lit with five candles, as it seemed was Erik's style. Red panels on the walls, and a couch. Perhaps it was a drawing room. Hundreds of thoughts flew through John's mind. How did he get here? Was this real? Where was Erik? Suddenly, for no reason, John pressed his hand against his face. His mask was still here, but he knew that from the story Erik wore a full mask. He wondered what he should do. John hated to invade Erik's privacy, but what if he wasn't coming back? He bravely ventured in to the colourful drawing room.

He looked at the top of a table. Nothing, not even a mirror. He opened a drawer and immediately saw a mask sitting neatly on a pile of folded clothes. He placed his mask on the table and put on the full mask. However, before putting it on, he put his hand over his face. Yes, his face paint was still on. And it wasn't coming off. John doubted they had 'false skin remover 19' in the Opera House. Besides, he didn't think he would be getting out of here immediately. He wasn't exactly sure of his ground yet . . .

The Phantom of the Opera: 1881-2002