Murder by Illusion

by Giles Ekins

  Donnnnggggg. The death knell tolls again, echoing around the studio walls.

  Dring, dring, the telephone rings in Benny’s ear. ‘Come on, come on, pick up the fucking phone’.

  Donnnnggggg. A spotlight spears out of the darkness; Charlie and Selene stand at the back of the studio. Donnnnggggg. The spotlight casts the ominous shadow of the guillotine onto the front shoji screen.

  ‘Stan? Yeah, it’s me, Benny…Benny Marsden?’

  Donnnnggggg. Charlie and Selene walk slowly down the steps.

  ‘Yeah, Benny Marsden, you know, manager, Whitburn on Sea? Yeah, that’s right, Benny…’

  Charlie and Selene reach the stage, Charlie pushes aside the shoji screen and the guillotine is now fully revealed, silhouetted, black as night, black as hell. Black as death.

  ‘Look, sorry to bother you at home Stan…yeah, yeah, I know it’s Sat’day night, but I wouldn’t bother you less’n it’s important.’

  ‘Friends,’ Charlie is announcing, ‘we are about to re-create for your amazement the execution of the Comtesse Marie-Josephine de Blacam, executed in France for the crimes of witchcraft, devil worship and sorcery.’

  ‘I know it’s late, Stan, I know, but you got the telly on? BBC One? That crap magic show, ‘Wonderful World of Magic? Yeah, that’s the one…with that tosser Jackie Smiley.’

  By now, Charlie has his, reluctant volunteer and hands him the indelible pen. ‘Henry, can you please sign your name, or a secret word, the name of your cat or dog, anything, anything at all, just so long as it’s something I could not possibly…

  ‘You’ll never believe this Stan, but it’s that piss artist wanker Charlie Chilton, got is’self on the telly. Yeah, Chilton, you know, the Great I don’t think so Santini.’

  Charlie leads Selene and Henry the ‘volunteer’ over to the guillotine.

  ‘Yeah, with a new act, a new tart and what looks like some kind of guillotine illusion.’

  The dread bell tolls again, three times.

  ‘Yeah, I know Stan, I’d a thought he’d have drunk his self to death by now an’ all by now. BBC, Stan, BBC 1.’

  Selene kneels down and begins to silently pray.

  ‘It’s him all right, Charlie Chilton. As large as life and twice as fucking ugly.’

  Selene is locked into the lunettes of the guillotine. ‘On the count of three. Henry. Count them down. One. Two. Thr…Charlie releases the blade. Selene slumps forward, apparently headless. Screams from the audience

  Benny jerks back in his seat as though shot, dropping his beer glass which hits his knee and then shatters unnoticed on the floor. ‘Fuck me, you see that, Stan? He’s only gone and chopped her head off! Christ, he must be more than well pissed.’ Benny reaches for his cigarettes with a shaking hand, ‘Yeah, honest. Cut her fucking head off right there on the screen, the audience is screaming the house down, BBC1 Stan, BBC1!’

  Charlie holds hold up the severed head. ‘Henry is this your signature? Henry nods dumbly. Selene’s eyes open wide. ‘Give us a kiss, Henry’ and all the lights go out and screams echo round the studio.

  Benny finally manages to get a cigarette to his mouth but needs two hands to hold his lighter and light it.

  A spotlight stabs through the darkness to the back of the studio and there stands Selene, arms outstretched, her eyes closed as though in ecstasy. The audience erupts in shouts and claps and cheers.

  ‘Fuck me, she’s back. Whole head on an’ all. I tell you what Stan, it’s sensational. Fucking sensational, I know you reckon Charlie Chilton’s about as much use as a boil on the backside, but I tell you Stan, this is going to ENORMOUS, fucking humongous, they’ll be queuing round the block to see this, if’n you could only book it… Sensational.’ Benny suddenly realizes that his trousers are soaked in beer. ‘Fuck! ‘Yeah, I’m sorry you missed it an all Stan, but I did tell you. BBC1.’

  Jackie Smiley is now back on screen, clapping and shaking his head. ‘Now what did I tell you? What did I tell you?’ the clever editing making it looks as though it was a live broadcast. ’Now here‘s a thing, that’s the end of tonight’s show but we’ll be back next week, at the usual time to bring you the very best in the ‘Wonderful World of Magic.’ Goodnight and sweet dreams.’

  Cue music and end credits.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Clarrie’s hometown, the same night

  But his control was eerie, menacing, not at all like the Charlie she knew. And those black clothes, the beard, he looked almost…Clarrie searched for the word, almost Satanic.

  CLARRIE WAS ALSO WATCHING the ’Wonderful World of Magic’ she always watched it whenever she could, often as not she knew the artists from her years in the business.

  She and Frank were reconciled; she had finally agreed to meet him, they met the first time, a tense , bitter exchange, then a week later they met once more, went for a meal and Frank begged her to come back, begged her forgiveness, swore that he loved her and that he would never, ever betray her again.

  Clarrie wished she had a friend, a close friend in whom she could confide, but there was no-one, especially not her mother. If I was American,’ she thought, I’d be in therapy and paying someone thousands of dollars to listen whilst I whine in self-pity. No thank you. She was conflicted, she missed Frank more than she would admit, however after their third meeting she thought long and hard and, to the bitter contempt of her mother, agreed to go back to Frank, for what else did she have apart from the endless recriminations of her mother, no longer any sort of career but she did have a man who loved her. She loved Frank, she knew that and she knew that he loved her and she could forgive him but never forget the hurt of his betrayal.

  The ’bitch in her bed’ was a divorcee, Janet Mercer, who used to work in Frank’s section in the council accounts department but now had left for another job and Frank swore he would never see her again. He did not try to excuse his behavior, did not make the lame excuse that Clarrie left him alone for long periods whilst she was on the road or in summer season.

  So far as she could tell, Frank was deeply contrite and profoundly ashamed and she could not help feeling some guilt that perhaps she had been away from him for months at a time. Not a justification for his behavior of course, not a viable excuse, not in any way, but possibly, just possibly, a reason. And now she was happily pregnant, the scan told her it was a boy and she was considering calling him Charlie, but had not yet informed Frank.

  They sat companionably on the sofa, Clarrie watching the television, Frank re-reading for the umpteenth time an Agatha Christie novel, ‘Murder on the Orient Express.’ Clarrie couldn’t understand why, he knew who the murderer was, has seen the film a million times on television or DVD, so what was the point? She enjoyed a good murder mystery as much as anyone else, but where was the mystery when you already knew who the killer was?

  Jackie Smiley came on, Clarrie also knew him from old, an odious creep, an oily lizard, a reptile, a second rate comedian, a third rate magician who had somehow re-cast himself as a popular TV host. Wonder how many necks he stood on to get there, she wondered, by no means for the first time. Or how many dicks he sucked on his way up the greasy pole. He was well known in the business as a predatory homosexual but for some reason the older ladies loved him, perhaps they want to mother him, personally I’d want to smother him.

  ‘For the most unusual…’ the creep is saying, ‘and I might say the most frightening magic act you will ever see, ‘The Wonderful World of Magic’ is proud to present ‘CHARLES CHILTON and SELENE with ‘THE DEVIL’S GUILLOTINE!’

  ‘Charlie, it’s Charlie,’ she shrieks, ‘look Frank, it’s Charlie.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Charlie, Charlie Chilton! You know, the Great Santini, I used to work with him.’

  Frank looked up momentarily from his book, ‘Oh yeah, Charlie, he came to our wedding, didn’t he? Got pissed as I remember,’ and went back to his reading, totally disinterested in Charlie Chilton and his conjuring tricks, that was Clarrie’s other l
ife and nothing at all to do with him.

  Clarrie watched avidly, glued to the screen, entranced by the theatricality of Charlie’s act, the dread bell, the darkness, spotlights piecing the blackness, the costumes, the sudden revelation of the guillotine, brilliant, just brilliant, so much better produced than anything he had done during her time with him. And that new girl, Selene? What a stunner, she thought, where on earth did she come from Charlie, where did you find her? and a spasm of fierce jealousy arced through her like an electric shock. ‘That could have been me up there, perhaps should have been me up there, but the resentment was fleetingly brief as she hugged her belly, her pregnancy now beginning to show and contentment flooded through her to sweep away any doubts.

  And Charlie, so, so controlled, his movements precise and measured, whereas before he used to bounce about all over the place, almost manic when on stage, until, that is, he got pissed all the time, then he was just lethargic But his control was eerie, menacing, not at all the like the Charlie she knew. And those black clothes, the beard, he looked almost…Clarrie searched for the word, almost Satanic.

  And then the stunning climax, the beheading, the screams and Selene’s final resurrection and Clarrie felt the icy chills surge through her, gripping at her guts, and she knew that most decidedly she did not want to be on stage with Charlie for that illusion.

  She sat back into the sofa, emotionally drained, Charlie, she whispered to herself, ‘what have you got yourself into? What in the Hell have you done?

  Clarrie did not sleep well that night, tossing and turning. She knew in her waters that what she has just witnessed was not right, just not right at all. ‘You all right love?’ Frank asked when her tossing and turning woke him up, interrupting his snores.

  ‘Yeah, fine, just the baby kicking a bit, that’s all,’ but she knew that the knots twisting in her belly were not the baby kicking.

  TWENTY-THREE

  London, Doreen’s apartment, the day following the broadcast

  ‘I saw it, that show, it were ‘orrible, him chopping that woman’s head off like that, couldn’t sleep for it, it give me bad dreams.’

  DOREEN MISSED THE SHOW, she had been out with Dennis for a meal, they did that about once a month, she normally enjoyed it, going out for a nice meal, usually an Indian at the ‘Moghul Emperor’ they did a nice Chicken Makani, or occasionally Japanese at the ‘Kobeyaki’ which Dennis liked but she wasn’t too keen about, not on the sushi, anyway and particularly not on the sashimi, raw fish? No thank you.

  Of late however, she had been feeling discontented and not quite sure why. Relations with Dennis were fine, or so she told herself although she could not shake off the memories of that night with Charlie, why did the bastard have to come back into my life like that? Her emotions were unbalanced, maybe it was the onset early menopause, she had read in one of her magazines that menopause could cause an emotional imbalance. Yes, that must be it.

  But it wasn’t the menopause; she had had a period not ten days ago. There was a emergent sense of un-fulfillment, a restlessness, an unease, a latent wishing that she had been able to have children, there was an emotive vacuum in her life that she had not realised until of late, and it was all down to that bastard Charlie Chilton turning up on her doorstep and stirring up all her emotions, bringing her resentments to the surface and tipping over the equilibrium of her life. Bastard!

  So it came as a considerable shock when she opened the ‘Sunday Express’ to see his photo on the front page with the headline ‘Outrage at BBC Magic Show’ together with the story that the BBC telephone switchboard had been inundated with calls of outrage at a sick simulated guillotine illusion in which a woman apparently has her head cut off… ‘Chopping off a woman’s head, good Lord Charlie, what have you done now? A further story on page 3 complained about the guillotine illusion at greater length together with a brief Wikipedia biography of Charlie’s career as a stage magician.

  ‘Charlie, Charlie, Charlie, why the hell can’t you get out of my life once and for all?’ she inwardly screamed. Even so, she read every word about Charlie she could find in the ‘Express,’ then dressed quickly and hurried down to Patel’s corner shop to buy the rest of the Sunday papers but because the show had been broadcast late on Saturday night, only the later editions of the Sunday’s carried the story and none of the newspapers left on the racks carried the story. ‘So sorry, missus, all latest papers gone,’ Mr. Patel apologized in his soft lilting accent, ‘some local man in news, a heinous killer, they say, much chopping off of heads.’

  ‘Hi Doreen,’ Pauline, her next door neighbor said, accosting her as she walked back along the corridor towards her door, waving the ‘News of the World’ at her, a photo of Charlie prominent on that front page also, ‘that’s your Charlie, ain’t it? Saw him last night on the telly, did you see it, you must ‘ave?’

  ‘No, Dennis and me, we were out.’

  ‘Didn’t recognise him at first, with the beard an’ all. Got to say he looks good, though. You didn’t see it?’

  ‘No, I said.’

  ‘I taped it, video, if’n you want to borrow it? Always tape it, that ‘Wonderful World of Magic. ’ just love that Jackie Smiley, he makes me go all gooey, I could drop my knickers for him any day.’ Pauline said, lighting up her ninth cigarette of the day.

  ‘And for just about any other man who comes along’ Doreen thought tartly, thinking of the number of temporary ‘uncles’ Pauline’s daughter Emma had had. ‘it’s a wonder the housing association put up with it, being Quakers they used to be very hot on the morals of their tenants, even divorcees weren’t allowed in at one time, they must have relaxed that rule, else Pauline wouldn’t be here.’

  ’Thanks, I will borrow the tape, you don’t mind.’

  Twelve year old Emma, the one who named the family moggie Lucifer, joined them on the walkway, still in her pajamas, ‘I saw it, that show, it were ‘orrible, him chopping that woman’s head off like that, couldn’t sleep for it, give me bad dreams.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Emma, I’m sure Charlie didn’t mean to give you bad dreams.’ At that Emma pouted, something she did a lot, and trounced back inside.

  ‘Didn’t I see him, your Charlie, few months back?’

  ‘He’s not my Charlie not anymore, you know that, but yeah, he did stop by, just for a while, hour or two, cup of tea, a chat and that. Can I borrow the tape then?’ Doreen added quickly, wanting to divert Pauline away from talk of Charlie’s visit last September. Dennis knew nothing about that and she wanted to keep it that way.

  ‘I’m sure I saw him leaving the next morning, but don’t you worry, Dor, soul of discretion, that’s me,’ Pauline said, tapping the side of her nose and winking conspiratorially. ‘I’ll just get the tape, you got a video, you ain’t gone all DVD have you? I mean, I got a DVD player but I kept the old video so’s I can record stuff. Like Jackie Smiley, for whenever I’m in the mood, you follow me, god, it makes me wet just thinking about him.’

  ‘Yeah, we got a combined DVD and video player, seemed a shame to chuck out all those old video’s, we still watch them sometimes when there’s nothing on telly, ‘Titanic,’ that’s a fave, and ‘Sound of Music,’ Dennis likes ‘The Great Escape’ and ‘The Magnificent Seven’.

  ‘Yeah, my Terry liked them an’ all, before he pissed off, the fucker.’

  Doreen slotted the video into the machine and pressed the start button and the opening titles and signature tune for the ‘Wonderful World of Magic’ played out on the television screen. She had never watched the show before, even though she had been at one time a magician’s assistant. After she and Charlie separated, she had wanted nothing to do with that old life and that included watching magic shows. Jackie Smiley came on and for the life of her Doreen could not imagine why Pauline would want to drop her knickers for him, or why he could make her wet, Doreen thought he was more likely to make her puke and she fast-forwarded the tape until she saw Smiley introduce Charlie.

  ‘What’s this, love
,’ Dennis asked, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand, he had drunk quite a bit last night, they had eaten at Pancho Villa’s, a new Mexican restaurant, which she had quite enjoyed except that the re-fried beans had given her wind. Dennis had drunk two or three margaritas, most of the bottle of the nice Argentinean Malbec they had with the meal and a large Macallan nightcap when they got home. He had only just surfaced, nursing a bit of a hangover.

  ‘It’s Charlie, he was on the telly last night and there’s a bit of a furore about his act, I’m just putting it on, Pauline taped it and lent it to us.’

  ‘Charlie?’ Dennis said, bristling, never sure just how complete Doreen’s separation from Charlie was, always worried that one day Charlie would just walk back into Doreen’s life and his insecurities made him irascible at any mention of his name, to see Charlie on television, compounded by his hangover, angered him even more. ‘Turn the bloody thing off; I don’t want to see it.’

  ‘Well I do, I want to see what all the fuss is about, he’s all over the front page of the papers, look,’ passing him the ‘Sunday Express.’

  ‘I don’t know why you read this rag.’

  ‘You read it as well, you always do the crossword, now be quiet, I want to listen.’

  Begrudgingly Dennis sat down on the sofa next to Doreen, pretending to show disinterest but watching nonetheless.

  The single bell tolls its death knell

  Donnnnggggg, Charlie and Selene standing at the back of the studio, they descend the steps reach the stage, the guillotine is revealed. Black as death.

  ‘Wow, this good, don’t you think so Dennis?’

  ‘What? Sorry I was miles away.’

  ‘Don’t pretend you’re not watching, I can see you staring at the girl.’ And what a girl, Charlie Chilton up to his old tricks with the ladies again, where did he find this one, she is out of this world knockout. If he tells me he’s not shagging her, I’ll call him a liar to his face. Doreen watched the girl, the way she moved, sinuous and sexy, erotic without flaunting it and was surprised to find that she felt no jealousy, none at all. Mind you, no wonder Dennis is ogling her, the way that dress clings to her body, it’s obvious she’s not wearing a bra or knickers, or just a piece of thin ribbon for a G string at the very most. ‘And put your eyes back in, they’re out on stalks.’