The Bullet Trick

by Louise Welsh

  'You don’t believe me do you?'

  Eilidh glanced up from the jotter she’d been scribbling notes into.

  'It’s not me you have to convince.'

  The interview room was painted a pale shade of blue I supposed was designed to keep people calm. It seemed to work. There was a dead feeling in my chest where there should have been panic. Two plainclothes men were waiting on us, a red-haired, red-faced invitation to a heart attack and a large sandy-haired man with a broken nose and ginger moustache that would have looked good on a seventies’ footballer. The sandy-haired man introduced himself as Inspector Blunt and his companion as Inspector Thomas. He placed a thin sheaf of papers on the table and asked, 'Anyone want a glass of water?'

  I nodded, surprised to find that the words wouldn’t come out.

  Blunt looked at Eilidh. She smiled. 'Yes please.' And I got the feeling that they had faced each other this way many times before. The policeman fetched four plastic cups from a Water at Work cooler in the corridor. Thomas turned on the tape, introduced himself to the machine, then got us to do the same. My voice sounded weak and untrustworthy. I reached out to take a sip of water and toppled the cup across the table. Blunt saved the tape recorder. Eilidh took out a paper hanky and mopped up the splash. No one offered to get me another drink and I guessed there was no point in asking to fetch one for myself.

  The whole thing felt like a formality. The policemen behind the desk looked like they’d met too many men who had tried to drown their troubles in drink, and when that hadn’t worked had tried to stab them away instead, to think that I was anything else. Blunt glanced at my written statement then looked up at me.

  'Right, Mr Wilson, I’m not really getting this. You’re unemployed, you decided to have a wee drink down by the River Clyde and then you fancied a bit of company, so instead of phoning a pal, or even taking yourself to a pub where you might run into someone you knew, you went to offer,' he glanced at the paper in front of him, 'the deceased, Mr Michael Milligan, a swig from the last of your can?'

  He looked at me for confirmation and I nodded miserably.

  'Mr Milligan seemed asleep and it came to you that this wasn’t such a bad idea so you bedded down with him, under Jamaica Bridge, for forty winks?'

  I nodded again.

  'Except it turns out he wasn’t asleep was he?'

  'I didn’t know that when I sat beside him.'

  Red-faced Thomas spoke for the first time. His voice had a weedy treble tone that seemed out of kilter with his broad frame.

  'You snuggled up beside a corpse and never noticed?'

  'I didn’t snuggle up with him. I was drunk. I fell asleep.'

  Thomas’s face grew redder. If there was ever trouble down at Blochairn fruit market he’d be able to go undercover as a cherry tomato.

  'Drink isnae an alibi.'

  'It’s not a bloody crime either.'

  Inspector Blunt sighed; he looked at the statement again then turned his weary eyes on me.

  'According to your statement you saw five youths going along the walkway at around the time the assault might have taken place.'

  I nodded.

  'You’re suggesting that they’re responsible for Mr Milligan’s murder?'

  'I don’t know. It’s a possibility.'

  'You can see the difficulty I’m having with this, Mr Wilson?'

  'I can see it’s a bit unusual.'

  'It’s unbelievable.'

  I glanced at Eilidh for support, but she stared ahead, her jaw sternly locked.

  Inspector Blunt leaned forward and the tiredness seemed to have gone from his face.

  'I think you did go for a walk by the Clyde and I have no doubt you had a drink on one of the benches down there. I’m even fairly confident that we’ll find someone who saw you doing that very thing. But I don’t think you went to kindly offer Mr Milligan a bit of hospitality. I think the opposite is true. You were angry and frustrated and that poor old man was in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

  'I didn’t do it.'

  'What did you use? A hammer?'

  I stood up, balling my hands into fists.

  'I didn’t bloody use anything.'

  Eilidh put her hand firmly on my arm and I sat down.

  The fat policeman looked like he was enjoying himself. His weedy treble piped up.

  'You seem to have a bit of a temper there, Mr Wilson. Have you ever been in this kind of trouble before?'

  'No.'

  I lowered my head so he wouldn’t see the lie on my face.

  There was a sharp knock at the door; a uniformed officer came in and whispered something softly into Blunt’s ear. The inspector glanced swiftly at his watch then addressed the tape recorder.

  '11.57 p. m., interview suspended, inspectors Blunt and Thomas leaving the interview room.'

  He leant over and switched off the machine.

  Eilidh spoke for the first time since she’d accepted the glass of water.

  'Can I ask what’s going on?'

  'You can ask.'

  'My client has a right to know of any developments.'

  'At the moment my guess is your client knows more than the rest of us.'

  He rose wearily and shut the door behind him. The policemen’s departure left me with a strange mingling of hope and unease.

  'What do you think it is?'

  Eilidh’s tone was professional. 'It might be nothing to do with your case. Or it might be new evidence of some sort.'

  'Would that be good or bad?'

  She gave me a thin look.

  'It’d depend on what the evidence was.'

  We sat in silence for a while. Movie lawyers always passed their clients a packet of cigarettes as soon as they sat at the interview table but my guess was that Eilidh probably didn’t even smoke. The headache was back, pressing at the usual spot above my temples. I wondered if I could ask Eilidh for a painkiller. I glanced at her profile; it was set in a grim expression that made me wonder how this would affect my mother if it went wrong.

  'How’s Johnny?'

  'John is fine, but it’s best if we concentrate on what’s happening here.'

  The realisation that she couldn’t tolerate Johnny’s name on my lips stung and my voice came out high and querulous.

  'I’ve done nothing.'

  'You were found sleeping next to the body of an old man who’d just been battered to death. The cut on his neck was deep enough to almost decapitate him. Your fingerprints were on a beer can in his possession and you have his blood on your clothes. The police are within their rights to question you. Indeed they’d be remiss not to.'

  'I didn’t do it, Eilidh, I was drunk and stupid, but I didn’t touch the old man. I wouldn’t do a thing like that.'

  She shook her head and glanced at her watch. Then an officer came to accompany me back to the cells.

  I sat in the cell for a long time. My waiting was punctuated by deliveries of tea that I drank and food that I felt too sick to eat. From time to time the sound of footsteps would raise the faint hope that I was about to be released, and a more definite dread that some drunken hard man was about to join me in my cell. But perhaps it was a quiet night in the world of crime, or maybe the stripy-jumper team were on a win that evening, because I was left alone to work through what had got me there.

  The policeman who eventually came to collect me kept his face blank. I didn’t bother questioning him. I would find my fate out soon enough.

  Eilidh was waiting for me in the same interview room where we’d sat earlier. I wondered if she’d been on duty for the whole time that I’d been locked up and how she managed to look so fresh in the middle of the night.

  'They think they have the boys who did it.' Relief made me drop my head into my hands. Eilidh squeezed my shoulder for a brief second and I felt her warmth through my police-issue jumpsuit. 'They’re setting up an ID parade and want to see if you recognise them.'

  I lifted my head from the cradle of my hands, feeling the blood
rise to my face.

  'So I’ve been promoted from arch murderer to star witness?'

  'Be thankful.'

  'Oh aye, I feel like I’ve won the bloody lottery.'

  It was early the next morning when I eventually left the station. They’d left me to sweat it out for a few more hours in the cells but the policemen’s demeanour towards me had subtly changed. They still thought me a nasty, smelly alcoholic fuck-up, but they didn’t think I’d killed the old man. Eventually my clothes were returned. They were caked in grit from under the bridge and there was a streak of blood on the front of my jumper where the old man’s broken head had slumped against it. I threw the jumper into the corner of the cell, then lifted it and bundled it beneath my arm. I would dispose of it myself; I didn’t want to leave anything that could be stored up for future convictions.

  The boys had looked diminished in the harsh light of the identity parade. A couple of them looked like they’d been crying, another like he had drifted into a trance. One of them was full-on cocky. I wondered if he really didn’t feel any fear or if he was psycho or maybe just a consummate actor. I stood behind the viewing mirror and indicated each of them by number. The boys looked young now that the energy of the assault had left them, and I remembered the way they had careered after the boat. Even if I hadn’t recognised them I would have been able to spot the accused. They were the youths who had spent a night coming down in a police cell, the ones who had sat with their social worker or mother and answered questions about the killing of an old man. If I hadn’t recognised them the parade would have been a travesty, but I knew their faces as well as I knew my own. After all, I’m expert in the art of recall.

  I collected my personal belongings at the front desk, expecting a hand to reach out and a firm voice to tell me another matter that had come to light that they needed to talk to me about. I’d signed for my watch, wallet, keys and the little bit of cash I had left, when the officer at the desk produced a white envelope with my name written on it in a plain modern hand.

  'Miss Hunter asked me to pass this on to you.'

  'Miss Hunter?'

  His voice was brisk.

  'Your solicitor.'

  I waited until I was outside before I opened it. I’m not sure what I expected; an apology for not being convinced of my innocence? Inside were five brown notes, fifty pounds in cash. I slid the money back into the envelope and looked at the note that had been tucked beside it. Johnny asked me to give you this. I shook my head then stuffed it in my pocket and went to look for a quiet bar.

  Berlin

  IT’S WORTH REPEATING — tricks don’t make a conjurer. Anyone with time to spare and a mind to it can cobble together a stock of sleights. You meet them in bars: men that can fold a napkin into nothing, or rip a ten-pound note to shreds and restore it just before its owner hits him between the eyes. These are the guys who get you to pick a card any card and reveal with their back turned and their eyes closed which one you chose. There are granddads and Lotharios across the globe can pinch a coin out their baby’s ear, science bofs and businessmen who try to milk charisma from a loaded deck. But without an act these men are as much diversion as a karaoke amateur.

  The key lies in performance. A true conjurer is as hungry for applause as he is to master any deception. He schemes and worries, composing new ruses to thrill the crowd, working variations on his theme — smashing, breaking, vanishing; elephants, Mercedes, aeroplanes, whole buildings — until it becomes a trial to find anything worthy of being at the centre of his illusion. He guides the audience’s eyes, forcing them to glance away from the stage at exactly the right moment. They follow the hand he wants them to follow, see what he wants them to see. The hours spent perfecting a sleight mean nothing if the trick isn’t done with style.

  The master conjurer is a psychologist deserving of a professorship. He can anticipate greed and tell when sex will give things a twist. He knows from the angle of your head, the hunch of your shoulders, the set of your eyes whether you are a liar. He can spot the easy touch as well as any conman can. He can chase the lady and cut the cards, he can summon up ghosts and put genies back in bottles, he can throw the dice and roll out sixes every time.

  He can rap tables, vanish loons, hang himself and come back for more. He can saw a lady in half, stick her together, then run her through with knives; and if he spills a drop of blood nae matter, he can zap it into one of God’s white doves. A successful conjurer can challenge gravity, defy nature, escape any restraint and sidestep death — as long as he’s on stage.

  I’d long given up the illusion that I’d ever near the top of my profession, but for some reason in Berlin in the face of trouble I got an urge for that to change. Maybe it was a secret wish to impress Sylvie and Ulla, maybe it was an urge to make something of myself before I ended up like Sam, or maybe it was just anger at being pulled into something that had nothing to do with me. Whatever the reason, the confusion around me seemed to concentrate my thoughts and sharpen my wits into ambition until I became determined to produce an act that would stun the city.

  Sylvie was a quick learner. We rehearsed by day and each night I ran on as the clowns bounded off, ready to haul her from the audience when the time came for her to play my shy conscripted volunteer.

  At first it was a simple routine. Sylvie stood blinking prettily against the glare of the stage lights, wearing one of the succession of sweet thin dresses she’d equipped herself with from the Flohmarkt. She wore no slip beneath it, allowing the bright lights to reveal the outline of her body to the audience below.

  I’d welcome her gallantly, then ask if she had a piece of jewellery I could use in a trick.

  Sylvie would shake her head, softly whispering no, putting her arms behind her back, resisting just a little when I grabbed her wrist and held up the hand wearing the cheap cut-glass ring that shone brighter than any diamond ever dared.

  My new assistant was a better actress than I could have hoped. When she gasped that the ring was her only reminder of her dead grandmother, I thought she was overdoing things but the audience gasped with her. Perhaps Berliners, with their history of loss and separation, valued keepsakes even more than most.

  I slid the ring from her finger then held it to her mouth, telling her to blow through it and make a wish. Sylvie closed her eyes and puckered her lips like a child about to blow out the candles on her fifth birthday cake. She puffed a morsel of breath through the ring and I folded it fast away. Sylvie opened her eyes; I put my hands on her shoulders, turned her towards the crowd and in a deep voice that echoed all the way to the back stalls and left no one in any doubt of what a prick I was, asked her to open her mouth and take the ring from beneath her tongue.

  Sylvie’s eyes opened wide, she touched the inside of her mouth with her fingers, then slid into a rehearsed panic sobbing a stream of German, almost pushing me across the stage with the force of her fury. That first night there was a rumble in the crowd. I almost laughed to see them buy the ruse but managed to keep my tone pure pompous as I held up my hands and said ‘I think you may have swallowed it.'

  There was a grumble from below and Sylvie repeated the line, slowly, in German.

  'You think I swallowed it?'

  I faced the auditorium and smiled a full-on evil smile.

  'Don’t worry, this has happened before and it’s always worked out OK in the end.'

  Then strobe lights flashed across the stage, the band creaked into a tune that was as near to manic as they could get and Sylvie leapt into an escape, but fast as she was, she was no match for me. I grabbed the girl by the waist, whirling her onto a table that had lain unnoticed at the back of the stage. Sylvie screamed, I laughed again. Then roughly buckled her down beneath thick leather straps, until she was struggling like a silent movie star tied to the railway tracks, and I was gloating over her like a moustachioed villain. I slapped a napkin over her front and, donning a handy operating gown, whizzed the table fast on its casters to centre stage.

 
Sylvie’s cries ripped across the hall and I half-expected the audience to storm the stage, but they were quieter than they’d been all night. I could feel their attention, but couldn’t tell whether their silence signalled interest or disapproval. I grabbed a scalpel from my top pocket, held it high so they could catch its quick sharp glint, eager as a shark’s grin, then I stabbed her hard in the solar plexus.

  Fake blood from the gel packs concealed in the napkin’s lining spurted red and unforgiving over my gown, face and hair. I spluttered against its bitter tang and laughed like a crazy man. An echoing ripple of laughter came from the audience. They were with us now.

  Sylvie lay frozen beneath my hands. Her sweet dress was ruined, her sleek mane stuck to her head with theatrical gore. She wiped a hand across her face and asked in German,

  'Have you found it yet?'

  I shook my head.

  'Not yet, but don’t worry.'

  Then shoved my hand roughly into the red stuff, seeming to lose first one arm then the other as I delved shoulder deep into her open wound, pulling out latex guts and organs, tutting at her liver, marvelling at the contours of her still beating heart, yohohoing as I hauled her intestines the full length of the stage like a reeling routing sailor tearing down the rigging. The audience laughed, delighted with this Grand Guignol conjuring. I pulled a succession of impossible objects from her slim form, a bottle of champagne, a waxen head I’d found in Costume, a bicycle wheel. Each one received its own slick comment and was welcomed with applause. At last I found the ring. I spat on it then rubbed it clean against the hem of my operating gown and held it triumphantly in the air. On a rig high above the hall the lighting engineer turned a spot to face a glitter ball. Bright diamonds of white light bounced across the stage then glimmered into the beyond, embracing the auditorium, dancing across the faces of the crowd as if the gleam from Sylvie’s ring were dazzling the whole world.

  It was as heavy-handed as the ta-da at the end of a poor symphony but at least the audience knew it was time to clap. And they did, there were even a few cheers. I unbuckled Sylvie, helped her to her feet then stood her centre stage, noticing how the bloody dress clung to her curves and the hand that accepted the cheap glass ring trembled. She grinned at me, blood-spattered and beautiful; I smiled back then put my arm against her shoulders and made her take a bow before giving her a quick peck on the cheek and returning her back into the audience.