Opening up the shop isn’t particularly taxing, which is just as well given that the coffee’s not kicked in yet. Working here... well, it’s not particularly glamorous, but at least it’s legal. Legal enough, anyway, and that’s what counts. Mostly I sell marked cards to smartarses who think they’re something at poker (and who’ll probably end up getting their hands broken with the business end of a hammer) or to kids with tattoos who fancy themselves the next Criss Angel. And don’t even start me on the light-fingered little toerags who come in here after school. I nearly lost my temper with one of them last month and Simon had to stop me from turning him inside out. Literally. It would’ve been messy, granted, but it would have been worth it. Apparently, however, that kind of thing counts as being “bad for business”. That’s Simon for you. But I owe him: he was the only one who would touch me when I got out and I can still remember the look on his face when I asked him for a job. He was sitting at the counter, stringing cards onto wire for the window display. He put the wire down, and he looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Donnie. Of all the places in the world, with your history, why in God’s name would you want to work in a magic shop?”
He had a point. You don’t send an alcoholic to work in a distillery, do you? But that’s just it. There’s magic and there’s magic. There’s tricks and illusions and sleight of hand... and there’s what I do. What I did.
I was a kid when it started – maybe seven or eight. It was little things: handing in homework I hadn’t done; the fiver in my mother’s purse that wasn’t really there... It made me feel clever. It never occurred to me that it meant anything, not until I was with my granddad and I booted a football straight through the greenhouse. It was an accident, and I panicked. He heard the glass break – Christ, he saw the ball go through – but when he went to clear up, the glass was gone. The pane had mended itself, good as new. He stood there and scratched his head and frowned, and all the while I did my best to look innocent. I thought I was smart for avoiding a thrashing, but later on, he called me over to sit with him. He always used to sit in the same chair, the one closest to the fire. “Donnie,” he said, “I want you to tell me the truth. What did you do to the glass?”
“Nothing, Granddad.” I always was a terrible liar.
“Is that so? Well, then.” He sat back in his chair and he smiled. “Nothing. Nothing, indeed.” And he winked at me, then pointed to the fire. Which had turned blue; the same blue as the sky on the first warm day in spring, or the blue of a pretty girl’s eyes. I watched, and the flames turned purple, then black, and slowly back to orange. He laughed, and told me to close my mouth, which was wide open. “You’re not the only one who can do tricks, you know,” he said, folding his arms.
And that’s how I found out. It runs in our family, the magic. Real magic. Always the men, generation to generation, back as far as anyone cares to remember – and then some. It runs down the male line, and the first time you use it, your clock starts ticking. My granddad lasted another three years after the day we had our chat. My father, he made it to his fifty-fifth birthday.
Me? I’m on borrowed time.
“Be careful with it,” my granddad said. “It’s a gift, and it’s a curse. No, don’t laugh. I mean that. You see, you can do anything you want with it: anything. The world’s yours. But magic... it eats you up from the inside. It’ll take another bite out of you every time you try it until there’s nothing left of you but a shell. And once you start...” he shook his head, “You take it from me, boy, once you start, it’s mighty hard to stop. Or at least, to stop in time...”
Not that I paid the slightest bit of attention. You don’t, at that age, do you? Take Lizzie, for example. Lizzie was a girl I was in school with. I had a bit of a thing for her, and being a nice, sensible sort, she wouldn’t give me the time of day. So I gave her a tree. Like you do. Not just any old tree: this one grew overnight, right by her bedroom window, and instead of fruit it was covered in little silver bells. When the wind blew, they sang. At the time, I thought it was the best idea anyone’s ever had. In retrospect, it might have come across a touch stalkerish. Didn’t matter, as it turned out: within a week, she was going out with one of the football team, the tree had rotted and the bells had rusted, and I promised myself I’d never waste magic on a woman again.
So instead, I took my magic to Rudge.
Rudge is a fixer. He’s always got an eye out for magicians, and for a kid with a certain moral flexibility (not to mention, in my case, a growing magic addiction and a general dislike of authority) he can be a pretty attractive option. He gave me a trial, had me work a couple of illusions that I could have done in my sleep, and then he put me to work. My first job was to act as a lookout. No magic, he said. Of course, I didn’t listen. and in the process of not listening, I saved everyone’s bacon. Rudge was impressed, and it wasn’t long before he had me working every job he ran.
I’m what’s known in less law-abiding circles as a Ledru. There’s a very specific skill set required for that line of work, and we’re hard enough to come by. Did you ever see one of those cold-case shows, where the bank’s been robbed and no-one can quite work out how it was done? If nobody can crack it, then I’d bet my life on them having used a Ledru. We’re illusionists – often prestidigitators too, but that’s just part of it. We get you looking one way while the money goes the other. Easy. Back in the old days, when I ran with Rudge’s boys, we had a Houdini and a Farla; a Belzoni for muscle and a Banachek as a front man. Then there was me, and the Marvey. But while all the others were your common or garden lowlifes that Rudge so liked to rely on, me and Marvey, we were the real deal. Put the two of us on a job and you couldn’t go wrong.
Well. Until Marvey pulled his own vanishing trick and waltzed off with the money.
Rudge didn’t take kindly to that. Not at all. The way he saw it, I should’ve stopped Marvey as soon as I knew what he was doing... which just goes to show how little Rudge understands it. It’s magic. I didn’t know: that’s the whole point. It didn’t matter to Rudge, though: one of his little blue errand boys had me stopped and searched – and lo and behold, who’s suddenly got a pistol in his pocket? You’d think I’d have noticed, wouldn’t you, but magicians don’t usually expect to be on the receiving end of a trick.
Five years, that got me, and that was only because I gave up our Houdini and Belzoni. Farla had already washed up on a beach by that point, and God only knows where Banachek got to. Somewhere a long way away, I hope.
Still, five years is long enough to get yourself straight when the most your magic can extend to is doubling your cellmate’s cigarettes just to get him to stop bloody whining. When I went in, I was so far gone on the magic that I didn’t care. It was only when I realised I couldn’t do any in there – not if I wanted to keep myself in the same number of pieces I’d started out in, anyway – that it hurt. And believe me, it hurt. Those first couple of nights, soaked through with sweat and shaking like it was the end of the world... you could’ve heard me screaming from a long way outside those walls.
The upshot is that five years later, I come stumbling back out onto the streets. I’m clean(ish) bar the occasional little hiccup and the odd free coffee; not enough to get me into trouble, but something to keep my hand in. Simon gave me a chance, and working in the shop does seem to do the job, in a funny way. There’s something about the place that keeps the urge, that all-encompassing need, at bay. The props and the cards and the party pieces. If I wanted to, I could pull flowers out of top hats until I dropped, but it wouldn’t be the magic that killed me; it would be the sheer mind-numbing monotony.
Five years. Like I said, it’s a long time. But that’s the thing about Rudge: he’s got a hell of a long memory.
I’M CONTEMPLATING THE untold pleasures of a stock-check when the bell over the door rings, and the atmosphere immediately changes. It’s like a thunderstorm just walked in. His name is Marcus, he’s built like a tank and he’s one of Rudge’s goons. He’s exactly the kind of
person I don’t want to see. The ventriloquist’s doll by the door slowly opens its eyes and turns its head to follow him as he walks across the shop floor towards me.
“Donnie Taylor.”
“I’m impressed. You managed to walk and talk at the same time. What’s your next trick?”
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“Not really.” I straighten the stack of cards by the till. With characteristic charm, Marcus swings a meaty fist at them and sends them flying.
“He wants to see you.”
“Does he? Well, I want a yacht. We don’t all get what we want in life, do we?” He turns this over in his mind. His eyes narrow while he’s thinking about it, and his lips move as he tries out appropriate responses. Finally, the gorilla speaks. It’s worth the wait.
“He wants to see you. Tonight.”
“I got that. Tell him I’m washing my hair.”
“Taylor...”
“Alright, alright.” I hold up my hands in submission. This seems to make him happy. He nods, grunts and heads back towards the door. He pauses to stare down the dummy, which tips its head on one side and blinks at him. I’m half-tempted to make it blow him a kiss, but there’s some lines even I won’t cross.
Come closing time, he’s waiting for me outside the shop, leaning against the wall like he owns the place. He’s been there all afternoon, scaring off passing trade – which was probably half the point. Not that he managed to keep the bloody kids away, mind, so that’s another tenner Simon’ll have off me at the end of the month.
“You ready, Taylor?”
“No, Marcus. I’m standing here for the good of my health.”
He considers my answer longer than should really be necessary – I swear, Rudge’s boys are getting thicker – and then he makes a sound which could be a laugh. It starts somewhere low down in his chest and gurgles its way up until it sticks in his throat. It’s with no small satisfaction that I snap my fingers and seal his mouth shut. It’s still there, more’s the pity: he just can’t get it open. And there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it. It’s a petty move on my part, and I can feel the magic scratching away at the inside of my skin, but at least I won’t have to listen to him mouth-breathing all the way across town.
I beam at him. “So. After you, sunshine.”
I HATE RUDGE’S place. I’ve been there before, a couple of times. He lives up at the top of a tower block in the middle of town, looking down on the rest of us like he’s king of the city. I guess in many ways he is. He’s not subtle about it, either: he’s had some hocus-pocus worked on the balcony so it’s lit up like a rainbow. Wherever you are in the city, come night-time, you look up and you see Rudge.
He’s not a magician himself, Rudge. We make him nervous:;it’s one of the reasons he likes to have a few of us on a leash. “On retainer”, he calls it, but we all know what it means. The Vegas lights on the outside of the building? They’re just to remind the rest of us of the firepower he’s got at his disposal should we step out of line. I don’t trust him; worse, I don’t trust myself around him. I was burning through magic so hard and fast while I worked for him that I damn near killed myself... and the worst part was that I liked it. So it’s with some trepidation that I step into the lift with a still-mute Marcus and press the button for the top floor.
It smells just like I remember it: of money and magic. Paper and ink and fire and forgetting. Already I’m wondering if this was a mistake, but before I have a chance to change my mind, the door at the end of the hall opens. It’s not Rudge, of course. He wouldn’t dream of opening his own door, and most certainly not to the likes of me. But I recognise the face: how could I not? The last time I saw it, it was yelling at me from the wrong side of a one-way window. It’s our Belzoni, and he doesn’t look especially happy to see me. He’s even bigger than I remember him being: I’d guess his biceps are wider than my neck. He scowls at me, raises an eyebrow at Zippy behind me and steps away from the door.
Rudge is out on his balcony, perched on the edge of a plastic sun-lounger, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses. Yes, it’s dark, and yes, it’s the middle of winter outside... but Rudge isn’t going to let a little thing like the weather get in the way of his relaxation. I look round the room, and sure enough, there’s a pasty-faced kid slumped on the sofa; his eyes aren’t quite focused and he’s wearing a vacant expression I’ve seen too many times in the mirror. Tripping on the magic and keeping Rudge’s balcony at a pleasant seventy-eight degrees.
“Donnie!” Rudge is coming through the sliding door, opening his arms like I’m his long-lost brother. “You’re a hard man to find!”
“Not exactly, Mr Rudge.” It slips out before I can stop it, and I don’t miss the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Get you a drink?”
“No, thanks. It’s hardly a social call, is it?”
“That’s what I always liked about you, Donnie. You’re all business.”
“Speaking of which...?” Being so close to that kid is making me nervous.
“Speaking of which. Yes.” Rudge holds out his hand, and someone puts a glass into it. Where do all these flunkies come from? It’s not that big a flat.
He takes a swig, and wipes his mouth with the back of the other hand. “To business. When was the last time...?”
“I think we both know you remember when the last time was.”
“Ha. Yes. Shame about that.”
“About what? The fact your Marvey walked off with the money, or the fact you felt the need to take it out on me?”
“Water under the bridge, my boy. Under the bridge.” He waves his arms around, and narrowly avoids pouring the rest of his drink over the floor in his enthusiasm. I catch a waft of vodka and my stomach turns. To be fair, my stomach’s turning already. It’s not just the smell of the booze, or being stuck in this box of a flat with a man I ratted out breathing down my neck... it’s not even Rudge. It’s the kid. It’s the kid and his goddamn magic. I can feel it crawling all over my skin, looking for a way in. It’s distracting, to say the least, but that’s what Rudge is counting on. By the time I’ve cleared my head enough to actually listen to him, he’s in full flow.
“...getting the band back together, as it were. The way I look at it, you can finish the job, and we can all move on. No hard feelings.”
No hard feelings? He’s a piece of work, alright, and if I had any sense I’d walk out that door right now. But I don’t.
Something cold and hard presses against the back of my head. I can’t see Marcus, but I’ll wager it’s his finger on the trigger. Rudge is smiling at me.
“You know I could deal with that,” I say, jerking my thumb back at the gun. Rudge is still smiling.
“Could you?” He finishes his drink and hurls the empty glass out of the open window, over the edge of the balcony. “I need a Ledru.”
“I’m retired.”
“Then consider it a favour for an old friend.”
He pulls something out of his pocket; tosses it at me. It’s a photograph. It spirals down to the floor between us, landing face-down on the carpet.
“There’s a man who has something that belongs to me. I want you to get it back. Simple job, in and out.”
“If it’s simple, you don’t need a Ledru, do you? Send the Belzoni.”
“And if I thought that would get the job done, my son, I would. But I need a magic man. This one, he knows me, knows my crew.”
“Forgive me if I’m reading too much into this, but it sounds pretty personal to me. You know I don’t do personal.”
“You will this time.”
“Is that so?”
“Like I said, consider it a favour for an old friend.” And he slides his toe underneath the edge of the photo and flips it over.
Even though it’s been three years, I recognise her. I’d know her anywhere – no matter how long it had been. It’s my daughter, Grace. The unutterable bastard has just thrown me a photo of my seven-year-old daugh
ter. He’s proud of himself too: you can smell it, rolling off him in sweaty waves.
He’s also absolutely right. I will do the job, and not because he’s trying to use Grace as leverage.
I’ll do it because I can’t help myself.
The moment I walked into that room, I was lost.
It’s not the lingering smell of the vodka, and it’s not the stale cigarette smoke hanging around in the corners – I gave up the cancer sticks years ago. It’s the raw spark of the magic in here. It’s painted into the walls, stitched into the carpets. It’s heavy enough in the air that even breathing makes me ache inside from sheer need: that unspeakable, overwhelming vertigo of wanting something so badly you’d break your own mother’s neck to get it. Or your daughter’s.
I won’t be that man again.
I know what Rudge wants. The job’s a set-up, just like bringing me here was a set-up. The man he’s talking about? It’s the Marvey – I can see it in his eyes. And I know how the job’ll go. There’s only so many ways it can end: with me in a breezeblock box, or a wooden one... or me taking over from the kid in the corner then ending up in the wooden box. If it’s not me, it’ll be the Marvey. That’s why he wants a magic-man.
Who am I kidding? I’m standing here staring Rudge down like I have a choice. Of course I don’t have a choice: I never did. If I honestly believed that, I would have given up the magic altogether, not pissed around with parlour tricks. No doubling-up on cigarettes, no free coffees... none of it. But I didn’t.
This is it: that moment of clarity they talk about. The one where you step outside yourself and you see exactly where you’re headed. The moment I never had until now. Still, no time like the present, is there?
The magic makes the room feel sharper. I need to let it out, need to take the edge off. It cuts and it burns and I can’t breathe, and still Rudge is eyeing me and there’s a gun to my head and my daughter’s face smiles up from the floor. And somewhere far below, people are coming and going and doing whatever it is that they do.
Magic Page 17