Murder by Illusion

by Giles Ekins

  Anyhow, he hurt his back badly in a car accident, ten, maybe fifteen year ago, maybe even longer thinking about it, time flies don’t it? He had to retire from the game, leastwise performing, couldn’t do that no longer so he set up his own workshop. He’s got to be 75 if he’s a day or even 80, but he knows more about the magic business that any other ten magicians put together. Aye, you want an illusion, Michaelmas Daisy’s your man but he doesn’t come cheap, but then, the best never does. I’ve had stuff from him before but even if he has got something and he agrees to let me have it, I’ll be in hock to him for years. Still, he’s got no love for Stan Elkman; I do know that, Stan once bilked him over money an’ all, so he might be willing to help on the strength of that. It’s about the only chance I got of getting an act together gain.

  He drains his coffee ‘The only bloody chance.’

  NINE

  London, Michael O’Daly’s Magic Lantern, later that day.

  Aye, so you say, but I’ve had enough shocks for one day, thank you very much, I don’t think my sphincter can stand much more strain.

  COMMERCIAL STREET IN NORTH LONDON, just off Tottenham High Street is exactly what the address implies, a rather grim late Victorian brick built street with commercial properties, large and small for rent. At the corner stands Jacobsen’s Furniture Shop, which has been standing there since Josef Jacobsen arrived in London at the turn of the century. No longer run by the Jacobsen family, who moved further east to Stamford Hill after the war, Jacobsen’s has been a local landmark for generations, anyone seeking directions to Commercial Street are advised to just look out for Jacobsen’s. (sad to think that it will be burned to the ground during the riots of 2011) Further along Commercial Street there is an electrical repair shop, upholsterers, a second hand furniture shop with mismatched suites and chairs displayed on the pavement, a Halal butcher next to a kosher butcher, the Pakistani Community Centre and Madrassa, (Taliban affiliated) where young Muslim boys are taught the Holy Quran in Arabic by rote, often not understanding what the melodious lyrical phrases meant. Then there are the premises of Akbar and Sadiq, experts on immigration legalities, a dingy fronted Caribbean club of unsavoury reputation which pumps out loud gangsta rap and thick ganja smoke come midnight. Car spares, mobility scooters, Singh’s 24 hour supermarket, Chinese takeaway, second hand ladies clothes shop displaying such ugly and out of fashion dresses that it is hard to see how they could have sold first time round let alone the second, TV aerial and satellite disc installers, a music shop selling Fender, Rickenbacker. Gibson and Yamaha guitars as well as cheap Taiwanese copies, drum kits, keyboards, pedals, microphones and amplifiers, a small car and motorcycle repair shop, Turkish kebabs, a computer repair shop, second hand bookshop , none of the businesses would appear to be trading very much above bare minimums to pay the rent. Others have obviously failed and display ;’For Rent’ sign or have been boarded up, to become a canvas for multi –hued graffito, one prominently advising that the area was the turf of the ‘Gangsta Killer Gun Crew’, a statement disputed by the ‘Tottenham Boyz Black Gang’, a feud which has led to the drive by shooting of Samson Ogaba and the retaliatory killing of Sunday Johnson, both killings happening not more than a quarter of a mile from here.

  Many of the shops have rooms or small apartments to let, whilst the rooms above the Caribbean club are used for much shorter, by the hour, lets.

  Charlie Chilton makes his way down the street, the collar of his coat turned up against a sharp wind blowing down the street towards him, it is bitterly with a spattering of rain, the rain for some bringing to mind a girl he once knew at school many years ago, a girl whose parents had lumbered her with the name of Summer Raines; Summer Raines, his first big crush. I .wonder what became of her, probably married somebody called Holiday and became Summer Holiday. Shit, why do I get these stupid notions? he asks and not for the first time. ‘We’re all going on a Summer Holiday, he sings to himself. Summer Knight? Summer Day? Summer House? more idiotic thoughts on the same theme coming to mind. ‘Good old Summer Raines, She only had one arm, lost her hand and lower part of her right arm, don’t know why, I never asked. The first girl as ever allowed me to feel her boobs and even then only through her clothes. Nothing else mind.

  He crosses over the road, although not to avoid a group of black youths, hoodies up, smoking and giving hard stares at anyone daring to tread their turf, especially whities, or at least so he tries to convince himself. Wonder if they are Gangsta Killer Gun Crew or Tottenham Boyz Black Gang, no probably not, too young, maybe junior members though, apprentice drug dealers. Or just local lads coming from choir practice. Or there again perhaps not.

  He skips around a pile of dog turds and eventually comes to a double fronted shop, larger than most, but still not exuding much evidence of prosperity or brisk trading. ‘Don’t be fooled, Charlie thinks, most of Michaelmas Daisy’s business is to the trade, not the walk in public. He also has a thriving mail order business and is doing very nicely thank you, but in this locality, you don’t make a show of your wealth else you are likely to lose it at the point of a gun or knife.

  The sign above the door reads ‘O’DALY’S MAGIC LANTERN. Magic Tricks, Illusions and Conjuring Tricks. He had originally called it ‘O’DALY’S MAGIC KINGDOM; but Disney threatened to sue so he had to change it.

  Charlie stops before the door, takes and deep breath, ‘onwards and upwards’ pushes open the door and walks in. The door closed behind with a very loud and threatening ‘click’ For reasons he cannot identify or define, Charlie feels nervous and anxious, fiery butterflies fluttering madly in his gut, his breakfast of coffee and three slices of buttered toast and Marmite not sitting well in his churning stomach

  He looked around, expecting Michaelmas to be there behind the glass fronted counter or at least somewhere in evidence, an unattended shop in this neighbourhood is an open invite for shoplifting and robbery, especially with no apparent CCTV in operation, or at least so far as he could tell. He seemed to remember that Michaelmas had an assistant but it had been several years since last he had been here.

  The shop seemed to have grown older and shabbier in that time as well, and Charlie’s hopes, such as they were, began to fade. The glass shelves of the counter were filled with minor conjuring tricks, not the sort that serious illusionists and magicians might use, packs of cards, big cards, small cards, regular cards, marked cards and close up mats for cards tricks, flesh coloured paint , floating light bulbs, newspapers for the Absorbing News trick whereby water is poured into a folded newspaper and appears to vanish, anti-gravity bottles and glasses, handkerchief and ball tricks, rope tricks, holders for concealments, thumb and fingertip sets, trick die, plastic illusion hands, wands, beginners magic sets, magic Rubik cubes, intermediate conjuring sets, magicians wax for invisible thread or card on the ceiling tricks, reels, silk fingers, cup and ball tricks, stainless steel rings, the whole panoply of tricks from beginner to serious amateur. Glass shelves behind the counter contained yet more of the same, cloaks, masks, candles, canes, floating flower kits, counterfeit money, jars of liquids of every colour for colour changing champagne glass tricks, more silk hanks, black silk top hats (without rabbits), birdcage paddles, trick padlocks for escapology illusions, handcuffs and chains, thumb cuffs, escape sacks, juggling balls and fire sticks, everything an aspiring magician could wish for. But not what Charlie was here for.

  Another shelf behind the counter displayed rows of books on magic and illusions, many of which Charlie recognised including; ‘Animated Miracles,’ ‘The Art of Magic,’ ‘Build Your Own Illusions,’ ‘Banquet Magicians Handbook’ ‘Card Manipulations,’ Encyclopedia of Rope Tricks,’ Birthday Magicians Manual,’ ‘Card Table Expert’ and, of course, ‘O’Daly’s Illustrated Encyclopedia of Magic and Illusion,’ the veritable bible for aspiring magicians. Charlie had a well-thumbed copy somewhere.

  He looked around, slightly nervous, where was Michaelmas?

  A curtained door at the rear of the shop with a pro
minent ‘No Entry’ sign obviously leads to the workshop whilst on the other side of the shop opposite to the counter were stacked larger items, too bulky or heavy to go on the shelves. A Zig-Zag Lady box stacked next to a trick mirror through which a magician can appear to pass, back drop support frames, a red Daggers through the Head box, an upright penetration box and metal dividers, a suspension chair similar to the one he used on stage himself, a Flying Carpet and gooseneck hoop (which appears to go around a body but in fact does not) a blue and yellow painted Sawing the Lady in Half box, a packaged Asrah levitation bench, and a Substitution Box, similar to the one made famous by Houdini, (the magician is handcuffed, tied inside a sack and placed inside the trunk, his assistant on stands on top of the box, and hey presto, in an instant the magician is free and the assistant is now in the box, handcuffed and inside the sack) another illusion which Charlie has successfully used in the past, successfully that is until the demon drink got to him.

  Where’s that box now he wonders. ‘and where the Hell is Michaelmas?’ wondering if it was going to be a wasted journey, he’d borrowed money from Doreen for his tube fare, unlikely she would lend him any more to come back another day.

  ‘Michaelmas? he calls. Michaelmas, are you there?’

  ‘Michaelmas comes but once a year, whereas I am ever present’ a deep mellifluous voice at his shoulder answers.

  ‘Jesus,’ exclaims Charlie in shock, having heard no one enter the shop or seen anyone come out from the workshop. He turns to see a tall man, 6’3” or 6’4” in height, slim, aristocratically elegant, of indeterminate age, anything between 45 and 65 with swept back silver hair that came to a sharp widow’s peak on a high forehead, hair so silver that it seemed to shimmer in the light. He had a pointed silver goatee beard and was dressed in an expensive light grey mohair suit, white shirt and plain red tie and highly polished black oxford shoes.

  ‘No, not Jesus, but we are, shall we say, acquainted., he and I,’ The man smiled thinly but it was a smile which did not reach his eyes, penetratingly brown, almost black eyes with thin arched eyebrows that almost meet in the middle.

  ‘You scared the shit out of me, where the Hell did you spring from?’ looking around to see if he could have been hidden anywhere.

  ‘That is the essence of magic and illusion, is it not? Surprise and misdirection’

  ‘I don’t know about that but I do know I almost misdirected the contents of my bladder.’

  ‘In which case my apologies, truly I did not intend to startle you like that.’

  ‘Aye, so you say, but I’ve had enough shocks for one day, thank you very much, I don’t think my sphincter can stand much more strain.’ Charlie looks about the shop again, ‘So…is er… Michaelmas about?’

  ‘Mr. O’Daly is, how shall I put it… regretfully indisposed. However I am standing in for him, on a temporary basis only, I must add. Allow me to introduce myself, Tchort, Asmodeus Tchort, T-C-H-O-R-T,’ but please do call me Mo. For short, if you will excuse my little pun.’

  ‘Tchort? I ‘m sure I know that name, Asmodeus Tchort? it rings a bell in here somewhere,’ Charlie said, tapping his temple with the point of his finger. ‘You in the business, been on the boards, doin’ the clubs and that? ‘Cos I do know the name, I just know I do its right there somewhere but I just can’t place it for the mo … Mo.’

  ‘The name is a very ancient one, very ancient indeed. This particular derivation is Russian, I believe.’

  ‘Russian? Nah, still can’t place it, the only Russian I ever knew was a sailor who lived in the same street when I was a kid, can’t remember his real name, right mouthful it was but we used to call him Ivor Nastikov, aye, Ivor Nastikov that’s right.’

  ‘How very droll,’ responds Tchort,, ‘Yes indeed’ suddenly clapping his hands, giving Charlie a start that sets his heart racing once more. ‘But enough of the idle chit-chat, pleasant though that might be, let us get down to business, business and the ancient art of barter, the eternal oiler of wheels.’

  ‘Yeah, well I was sort …of hoping that… Michaelmas.’

  Tchort holds up his right hand to stop him. As he does so Charlie notices that the finger nail on Tchort’s little finger is long and pointed, sharpened almost, unlike the rest of his hands which are smooth and well-manicured, nails neatly trimmed but even so, still somewhat pointed. Bloody long fingers they are an’ all; he thinks, annoyed that his pitch for a new trick had been interrupted, fearing that Tchort was about to tell him bugger off, no deal.

  ‘As I understand it,’ Tchort says, steepling his hands together, ‘you require, how shall we put it…the most sensational, headline grabbing, kick ‘em in the crotch illusion ever invented, something that’ll grab an audience by the fucking balls and not let go. Am I not correct?’ the thin humourless smile creeping across his thin lips again.

  ‘What? How…how on earth do you know that? Charlie asks in shocked surprise.

  ‘My dear fellow, it is self-evident. You are a magician; this is a magic shop, Quod erat demonstrandum.’

  ‘Eh? Quads are what, demonstrating?’

  ‘Quod erat demonstrandum. QED. In other words why else would you be here?’

  ‘Oh aye, right, QED, bought a CD of theirs once. ‘Music to Top Yourself By.’ But, the words, the word you used, how did you know that, the exact words I mean they’re the exact words I said earlier?’

  Tchort smiled indulgently, as if dealing with a particularly obtuse, simple minded child. ‘Words are words, that is all, of no particular significance in themselves. You wish to buy, I wish to sell. You require a sensational, headline grabbing act to put you back at the top if the magical tree, I can provide one. The only question remaining Mr. Chilton is one of price.’

  Charlie feels icicles of apprehension trickling down his spine, the air in the shop seemingly devoid of oxygen as his stomach tightened and roiled with tension. There is something not right here.’ Wait a minute. How do you know that, my name? I never told you my name.’

  ‘You are too modest by far Mr. Chilton. Or should I say Mr. Great Santini. Believe me; you are very…familiar to us. Yes indeed, my dear fellow, very familiar’

  ‘Yeah well,’ Charlie replies, slightly mollified, ‘I suppose I have been round a bit and got a name for myself in the trade. Although it has to be said, hard times have set in of late, haven’t they just, So, aye man, QED and all that bollocks, God knows I do need a good new act, like you say, something to grab them tight by the balls and not let go. I was sort …of hoping that Michaelmas could help out with …you know… deferred terms and all that.’

  Tchort smiles, nodding in agreement, those long fingered hands pressed together as if in prayer, ‘Oh yes Mr. Chilton, or may I call you Charlie, I think I can safely say that the concept of ‘deferred payment’ is something that I help to pioneer. Live now, pay later if you will,’ and as he turns his head towards Charlie a shaft of late evening sun catches Tchort’s eyes and Charlie gives a start to see how, well yellow, they are when previously they seemed to be almost black. .Trick of the light is all he tries to tell himself but the gnawing discomfiture in his gut remains. ‘I am sure that you will find our terms acceptable,’ Tchort continues. ‘Most acceptable.’

  ‘There is a new illusion? A new illusion? It’s got to be good. Nothing that’s ever been seen before.’

  ‘Quite so. Come through to the workshop, Charlie, I do not think you will be disappointed and I am sure we can come to…an equitable arrangement. As I say, live now, pay later’ and he takes Charlie’s arm and leads him towards the door into Michaelmas Daisy’s workshop.

  TEN

  London, Doreen’s apartment, the same day

  No way. Absolutely no way whatsoever, let hell freeze over, let the skies crumble and fall, let Atlantis rise from the seas again and mammoths roam the earth once more before I ever let Charlie back into my life.

  DOREEN FINISHES CLEARING UP THE MESS in the bathroom; Charlie had only picked up the larger pieces of glass, leaving the rest f
or her to do. Typical! She swept up the glittering needle like shards of mirror glass into a dust pan and brush and then into plastic supermarket bags from Tesco’s and the Co-op, cleaning up the mess from the broken jar of cold cream, and she now noticed, or rather smelled, that a bottle of her favourite perfume, ‘Paris’ by Yves St. Laurent, had broken when knocked from the shelf over the basin. Dennis had bought it for her after they had spent a weekend there. (She’d loved Montmartre) ‘Bugger. Damn blast and bugger,’ she swore, she’d have to try and replace it before he returned, he could be very touchy about presents that he bought her, asking if she liked it, really liked it, why wasn’t she wearing the dress he bought, that bracelet or necklace he gave her for her birthday or Christmas, that nightdress he got from Selfridges, never ever any sexy underwear though, it was Charlie who had always bought her that. She sighed deeply, remembering, ‘Oh, Charlie, Charlie.’

  She then bagged the plastic bags of shattered glass into three bin liners, one liner was totally inadequate, the razor sharp glass cutting through the thin black plastic almost as soon as she put it in, even three liners didn’t seem enough but would have to do. Once she was dressed she gingerly carried the bags down to the communal dustbin storage compound. She didn’t dare to put the glass inside her numbered dustbin, if a bin man cut his fingers, she’d be sued for zillions in today’s compensation climate, these days somebody has to be sued for every little injury, real or imagined, a ‘bad back’ or ‘whiplash injury’ from a minor car shunt had ‘InjuriesRus’ lawyers slavering over their claim forms whilst a cut finger from broken glass maliciously left in a dustbin would give them multiple orgasms.

  Doreen put the bags against the compound wall as far away from her own dustbin as possible, let the cats and rats get their claws and teeth into that she thought, looking around to see if anyone had noticed her but could not see any twitching lace curtains at the windows of the neighbourhood busybodies who had nothing else to do but spy and snoop all day long.