"Have you seen what's at the end of our row?" a woman asks, giggling.
The man she's with leans forward to have a look.
At the end of our row, right next to me, is a podium covered by a spangly cloth. And resting on top, wobbly gently with all the dignity of a jelly on a plate, is a penis. With a pair of scissors jammed into it.
"Oh gawd," the man squeaks, quickly throwing himself back into his seat.
But even safe in his seat, he can't get comfortable. He twitches. Presumbly unable to forgot the, err, glamorously displayed appendage.
As the lights go out and this underground tunnel is lit by nothing but a pair of torches held by the cast, his whole body jerks around as if cold water is dripping down the back of his neck. Which, given we are in the Vaults, is more than possible.
Somehow I don't think he's going to like this play.
But the darkness is not to last.
A young woman is bouncing out, smiling from behind her stocking mask, which she wears to hide her skin condition. She goes to great pains to make sure we understand the finer aspects of taxidermy. Elf Lyons' Diana is like a gothic lolita, all cutsie sweetness until you spot the blood-drenched teddy bear hanging from her backpack.
I find myself nodding along as she assures us that "it's NOT macabre." We almost believe her, even as she delves into the more gruesome aspects of her hobby, with sound effects to match courtesy of sound designer Molly Isaac and foley-artist-slash-performer David Houston.
Live foley. An extra layer of fascination, which unfortunately suffers from being shoved off to one end of the tunnel. Even leaning forward doesn't manage to capture much more than a glimpse of the cast attacking various different shadowy props that remain frustratingly out of view.
Diana reels off her own litany of annoyances: the swirling cacophony of strangers and their collective noises. Once again, I find myself nodding along.
Next to me, my neighbour bounces around, shaking the bench we are sharing.
I breathe in the thick muggy air of the Vaults and try to eradicate him from my thoughts.
Honestly, I get Diana.
Seriously, people are disgusting and should be stopped. They're even harder to take when you're already on edge.
No wonder she's ready to snap. Diana's parents have long disappeared, leaving her to the mercy of a stepmother (Natalie Williams) seemingly pulled from the pages of the Grimmest faerie-tale. Her boyfriend (David Houston) fetishises her skin issues. Her flatmate (Natalie Williams again) is super-duper annoying. And now her sister has gone too. Freya. Vanished. And no one seems to care.
Fragmented parts of the tale are stitched together as countless characters are brought in: bar managers, and therapists, and podcasters, and researchers.
None of them understanding Diana or what she's trying to do.
On the other side of the space, there's a soft thump as someone falls forward onto the ground.
Elf stops mid-speech and runs over.
An audience member has fainted.
Elf puts her arms out in a time-out gesture. Show stop.
The audience member is retrieved from the floor. He doesn't want to leave. Someone finds him a bottle of water.
"I'm still very scary though," says Elf, working herself back into character.
He nods, looking a little dazed. Very scary.
"If you need to leave, I'll pretend I can't see you," she assures him, and then with a nod to the tech desk, we're off again.
And while, yes, she is very scary, Elf's caretaking of the fallen audience member feels entirely in character. Because Diana is a woman whose hate is reserved for those who should have loved her.
Later, she creeps through an aisle, past the punctured penis, and rounds on me.
"I didn't ask if you'd eaten," she says, eyes wide behind her mask. "Are you hungry?"
I tell her no.
The show started at the painfully late hour of 9.20pm. Past my bed-time, but at least allowed for some food on the way.
"You're not hungry?"
I'm not. I had a nice hot dinner before arriving at the Vaults.
Satisfied, she moves on.
Just as I'm congratulating myself on handling this all so well, Diana describes a memory involving a hot plate with such sensory detail, that I can feel my stomach churn and my tongue grow claggy in my mouth.
I'm beginning to regret that nice hot dinner.
I have to swallow hard to prevent myself from causing my own show stop.
But my queasiness almost comes as a relief.
My neighbour, it turns out, is safe.
From me at least. If had proof enough that there's no way I could handle the cleanup.
As for Diana... I doubt she's making any promises.
GORGON: A Horror Story played as part of the VAULT Festival, 5 - 9 February 2020