We sat at one of the picnic tables restlessly until five minutes to seven and then walked around to the rear of the Ghost Train expectantly.

At ten past seven a door opened and two soldiers came out with my daughter following them, and I was pleased to see that she was not wearing handcuffs.

She ran over to us and gave us long hugs, and there were kisses all round. (Well, alright — not from my son!)

“You’re free to go,” one of the soldiers told her as he handed her a bag containing her clothes. I realised that she was still wearing the fancy French aristocratic dress from the guillotine scene, and I looked at her quizzically.

“Mum, Dad, we can’t leave yet. There’s something I need to do,” she said excitedly, turning and walking away. “Don’t worry, nothing’s wrong. Go and wait for me in the circus tent. Trust me.”

She followed the soldiers, and we followed her until she went into the backstage area behind the circus tent and we were told we couldn’t enter. Before she disappeared she waved us towards the main entrance to the tent.

We found some seats near the ring and watched the mimes finish their act. Then the ringmaster appeared and made an announcement:

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it’s time for our next thrilling act. Please give a warm welcome into the ring… Eliza Fairchild!”

The crowd applauded as Eliza walked gingerly into the ring, now dressed in a sparkling yellow and red leotard.

“Eliza and her friends were responsible for the death of our dear mayor Cllr Trevor McNulty earlier this month,” the ringmaster continued, to boos and hisses from the crowd. “Eliza, will you walk with me to the centre of the ring please?”

“But… I’m supposed to climb up there, aren’t I?” Eliza replied in confusion, pointing up at the high wire platform.

“There’s been a change of plan,” said the ringmaster quietly to Eliza as he moved behind her, putting his hands upon her shoulders and ushering her over to the centre of the ring.

Slowly the lights in the tent began to dim, leaving just a spotlight focused on the centre of the ring. It was then that I noticed two metal poles slowly rising out of the sand about four feet apart.

“Don’t fight; it won’t go well for you if you do,” the ringmaster whispered to Eliza as he produced a cuff from his pocket and snapped it onto her left wrist, quickly pulling up her arm and clipping the cuff onto a small ring at the top of the right-hand pole.

“But they said I had a chance to go free,” Eliza hissed at the ringmaster as he cuffed her right wrist.

“I hear you gave that chance away earlier this morning,” whispered back the ringmaster as he placed more cuffs around her ankles. The crowd were murmuring and getting excited for the entertainment to come.

Eliza was now facing the crowd, fully restrained between the metal poles, though she could still move her limbs around a little. She had looked scared when she entered the ring; now she looked terrified as she contemplated the ringmaster’s words.

The ringmaster stepped to one side and addressed the crowd once more:

“Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, Eliza Fairchild is ready to meet her fate. Won’t you please give a big hand for tonight’s guest executioner — Jane Everett!”

I was speechless as my daughter stepped out of the shadows behind Eliza and waved to the crowd in her fancy blue dress. She looked amazing.

Some jaunty, raunchy music began playing as my daughter produced a pair of scissors from behind her back, holding them out to show the crowd and grinning.

Eliza couldn’t see what was going on behind her, but the crowd applauded and it unsettled her.

Moving around to face Eliza, my daughter looked her in the eyes for a moment as she began slowly cutting through the right-hand side of her leotard, her hips moving in time to the music.

Then she did the same on Eliza’s left-hand side and looked at the crowd innocently before allowing the cut fabric to fall down around Eliza’s waist, revealing her breasts.

The crowd roared as they took in the scene. Eliza was now topless and they could see what looked like tiny brown spots all over her body — the make-up crew hadn’t bothered to cover up the dart hole scabs in places hidden by clothing.

My daughter then left the ring, momentarily allowing the crowd an unimpeded view of Eliza’s predicament. When she returned it was with a metal costume rack in tow. Except there were no costumes on this rack; just a row of skewers each two feet long hanging from their black plastic handles, and a low stool, which my daughter took and placed behind Eliza.

The music faded into a low, cyclic ominous drone in anticipation of what was to come next, and the noise from the crowd faded with it.

Selecting a skewer from the rack, my daughter moved behind Eliza and carefully began inserting it into her lower back. Eliza screamed and tried to move forward as far as the cuffs would allow, arching her back as the pain intensified.

The skewer emerged from Eliza’s stomach and my daughter came around to admire her work.

Then it was rinse and repeat — my daughter took the time to savour Eliza’s cries for mercy as she forced four more skewers through the girl’s lower back.

My daughter used her next skewer to tease Eliza’s left tit, but then instead of piecing it she held the skewer at an angle to the nipple and studied it from the side, her tongue out slightly in mock concentration.

Then she went back behind Eliza and stabbed the skewer into her back again, this time at an angle so that with some difficulty it emerged precisely out of the centre of her nipple. The crowd went wild.

The next skewer took care of Eliza’s right tit, and we all wondered what would be next — there were only three more skewers remaining on the rack.

My daughter picked up two skewers this time, and turning to face the crowd she held them up like crossed swords as she posed, smiling devilishly. Several cameras flashed as people recorded the moment.

Coming out of her pose she turned to Eliza and got up close to her agonised face.

“It is time,” she said simply, as the cyclic rhythm of the droning music intensified.

With that she stood aside and forced a skewer up through Eliza’s right side diagonally until it emerged from under her left armpit. Eliza’s eyes opened wide as she began to wheeze. No more screaming now.

My daughter quickly went around and skewered Eliza’s left side in the same way, causing her to begin coughing up blood. Her chest heaved as she desperately tried to breathe.

It was time to use the final skewer from the rack. My daughter got up on the stool and carefully wound Eliza’s hair around her hand. Roughly pulling back her head she looked down on her as she plunged the skewer down through the base of her neck into her heart.

The crowd rose to their feet as one and the noise of the applause and whistles was ear-splitting.

Now looking out into the crowd, just above Eliza’s head, my daughter took a little bow and gave another devilish smile.

The spotlight went out, plunging the tent into darkness.