by Louise Welsh
I’d expected Sylvie to laugh at my getup, but her face stayed grave.
'How you doing, William?'
'Rough.'
'I’ll bet.'
I glanced at Dix, wondering how much he knew of our adventures and whether he’d blame me for putting Sylvie in danger. He nodded towards the couch.
'Let him sit next to the fire.'
Sylvie shifted along the sofa and I slid in between her and the gas fire.
'You’re shivering.' Her face was still stern but her voice was gentle. She rubbed my arm.
'DTs or cold?'
'Knowing my luck, probably a new strain of black death.'
Dix looked at Sylvie.
'Coffee might help.'
I waited for her to say something smart, but she stopped massaging me, uncurled her legs and got to her feet.
I drew the robe closer and asked, 'Have you anything stronger?'
Dix’s voice was final.
'Stick to coffee for a while.'
And at last Sylvie smiled.
'Watch out, he could become your uncle too.'
She gave my arm a last squeeze then went out, shutting the door after her. We sat in silence for a while then Dix asked, 'Still cold?'
'A bit.'
He reached to the back of his chair and threw a blan ket towards me.
'Maybe shock too.'
'Thanks.' I pulled the blanket around my shoulders. 'Aren’t you going to ask what it was all about?'
'I told you before.' Dix’s face was unreadable. 'I mind my own business.'
Sylvie came through with three mugs and set them on the table in front of us.
'I don’t.'
Dix took his coffee without thanking her.
'But you don’t like to tell everything either.'
'Who does?' Sylvie’s voice was pointed. 'Not you, that’s for sure.'
I sensed that they were going back to some earlier argument that had nothing to do with me and pulled out the line I’d prepared.
'Let’s just say I owe some money. A lot of money.'
Sylvie put her cup to her lips and looked at me over its rim, raising her eyebrows.
'Your friend said it had sentimental attachments for him.'
Dix pulled back the piece of gaffer tape. 'A man can get sentimental about money.' He smoothed it down again and turned to me. 'There may be a solution to your problem. A way to make some money.'
Sylvie put her hand on my knee and opened her eyes wide as she stared deep into mine and said, 'An awful lot of money.'
Dix leaned forward, the strain in his eyes intensified by a spark of something else: excitement.
'Do you remember the night we were all together in the Nachtreview?' I nodded. There was little chance I would forget. 'That evening I said there were men who would be willing to pay a lot of money to see you play your Russian roulette with a live woman.'
'It’s not Russian roulette. Roulette is a game of chance. What I do is a well-constructed illusion.'
'Sure.' Dix nodded impatiently. 'We know that, but we lead them to think otherwise.'
'And how would you manage that?'
Dix smiled.
'There are ways. In a business like this everyone has their role. You squeeze the trigger, Sylvie is the target and I convince them that they are seeing what they want to see.'
It was a philosophy I understood, the basis of every illusion and every successful con, but I held back.
'I don’t know, it’s too weird. Who are these people?'
'Weirder than what you do normally?' Dix’s voice was soft, coaxing and I realised that I believed he would be able to sell the trick. 'What does it matter who they are? Sometimes it’s better not to know these things. It’s a lot of money. It could solve all your problems.
Sylvie and I have discussed it. She’s in and so am I, but we need you if it’s going to work.'
He looked me in the eye and smiled. 'What do you say, William?'
The bathroom was cold, the towel the same shade of grey as when I’d seen it last, but the water was hot and foamed with scented bubbles. I eased myself slowly into the water, wincing as it made contact with my bruises, then shut my eyes and put my head beneath the surface. A whoosh of silence filled my ears, then above it the sound of the door opening.
I surfaced, pushing my hair out of my eyes just as Sylvie stepped into the bathroom with a bundle of clothes over her arm.
'Dix said you could use these.'
'That’s good of him.'
'Well,' Sylvie pressed the clothes to her chest and smiled sadly, 'he does need something from you.'
She placed the bundle on top of the toilet then sat on the edge of the bath and dipped her hand in the water, testing the temperature.
'Need?'
'You aren’t the only one with debts to pay.'
Sylvie’s face looked strained. I wondered again why she should care so much about Dix’s needs, but smiled to lighten the mood.
'He’s not going to come through here as well is he?'
'No,' Sylvie laughed. 'Why? Are you looking for company?'
'That’s what the girls down Anderston way ask the punters.'
She flicked her fingers against the water’s surface, splashing my face.
'I’ve no idea where Anderson Way is, but I get the idea you might be calling me a whore again.'
The splash was playful, but I thought there was real hurt behind the words. I caught her by the wrist.
'No, Sylvie, I’m sorry. I think you’re brilliant.'
Her hand was tiny. I placed it on my chest. She held it there for a second, then scooped some bubbles from the top of the tub and rubbed them into my skin, brushing against my bruises. It felt sore and sad and good all at the same time. Sylvie looked down at my half-hardness emerging through the fading froth. She tugged my chest hair teasingly and reached for the towel.
'You don’t know what you want do you, William? A whore, a Madonna or just a good fuck.'
'And what do you want, Sylvie?'
'Nothing.' She looked away. 'Just to live.'
'Then you’ve got your wish.'
She shook her head.
'Who’s the greatest person you can think of?'
'I don’t know.'
'Just say someone. The first person to come into your head.'
'Einstein.'
'He’s dead.'
'I know.'
She dropped her hand into the water again.
'All I want is to live while I’m still alive,' she grinned. 'Even if I die in the process.'
'A short life but a merry one?'
'You got it.'
Her hand slipped further beneath the water and brushed gently against my cock. I caught her wrist between my fingers and drew it away. Our eyes met.
'I don’t need sex to be your friend.'
'No?'
'No.'
And I let go of her wrist, felt her fingers fasten around me, closed my eyes and allowed myself to be swallowed by the rhythm of her hand and the warm waves of bathwater that started to lap against my chest.
Afterwards Sylvie shook her hand clean in the bathwater. I caught her fingers again and held them to my lips.
'Thanks, Sylvie.'
She shook her head.
'You should relax, William, you’re so formal, like a third-grade English teacher who’s just been jerked off by his most promising student.'
The water had grown cold. I pushed the scum of my spunk away from me and started to get out of the bath.
'I wish I didn’t feel you were talking from experience.'
Sylvie shrugged and shifted to the toilet seat. I wanted some privacy, but what had just passed between us stopped me from asking her to leave. She sat with Dix’s clothes on her lap, and passed me the towel.
Her voice was soft.
'Has anyone ever died doing your bullet trick?'
'I’ve never shot anyone for real, no.'
'You know what I mean.'
'I told
you before, it has its risks but they’re probably no more than the odds of crashing on the motorway.'
'Midday or rush hour?'
'You were safe.' I wrapped the towel round my waist and sat on the edge of the tub, facing her. 'Magic is all about effects, if the trick doesn’t look dangerous then who’s impressed? The first man ever to die doing the bullet trick was beaten to death with his own gun.'
She laughed.
'And the second one?'
'I don’t know, like I said, people try to make it seem more risky than it is. Some of the conjurers who supposedly died in the line of fire turned up in the next town, some of them never existed. Sometimes it’s like the trick’s reputation slays them. There was a conjurer in the Wild West who was killed when someone in the audience jumped up and shot him.
Yeah, he was dead, but you couldn’t really blame the trick. Another guy was shot by his wife, presumably she’d decided not to bother with the trouble of a divorce. None of that’s going to happen to you.'
'And what about the ones who get it wrong?'
I sighed.
'I guess the truth is that they just weren’t careful enough. They didn’t switch bullets properly or used faulty equipment.' I took her hands in mine and looked her in the eyes.
'The trick is safe if you do it right.'
'And you’ll always do it right?'
'I wouldn’t attempt it if I didn’t believe that. Look,' I took a T-shirt from the top of the pile of clothes and pulled it over my head. 'You’re right. I should have gone through the risks more carefully with you. I’m sorry. I guess I was just a bit gung-ho.'
'Gun ho.'
She passed me a jumper and I laughed.
'Yes, gun ho. I’ll tell Dix its no go on his offer.'
'No, let’s do it.'
'Why?'
'What’s life without a risk or two?'
'Is anyone pushing you into it? Me?' I hesitated. 'Dix?'
Her voice was impatient.
'No, you want to do it and I want to do it. And Dix certainly wants us to do it. So let’s do it.'
'What makes you so sure I do want to do it?'
'I watched your face when Dix said he’d found someone who wanted us to perform a special show.'
It was true; Dix’s news could solve my money problems, but it was more than that, it was a chance to perform, to go out on a high rather than slinking back to Britain with my tail between my legs.
'Then let’s do it the other way round. This time you shoot me.'
Sylvie stared at me.
'Are you serious?'
'Serious as cancer. You’re right, there is a risk and this time it’s bigger. According to Dix we won’t get to inspect the venue before we go ahead and we don’t know who this creep is who’s willing to pay a fortune for a command performance.' I slipped on a pair of boxers and pulled Dix’s old jeans over them. 'So this time you shoot me. That way if there are any accidents it’s no great loss.'
Sylvie grinned.
'You’re good William, but when it comes down to it you’re a shit liar. You know as well as I do that no one’s going to pay big money to watch you getting shot. What they want is the chance to see a pretty lady take a bullet right between the eyes.' She stepped closer.
'Admit it.'
I took a comb from the washstand, wiped the condensation from the mirror and started to smooth back my wet hair. Sylvie pulled me round to face her.
'Admit you knew Dix and his audience of one wouldn’t go for it or the deal is off, permanently.'
'OK,' I turned back to the mirror. She was right, for a man who made his living out of illusion I was a pretty crap liar. 'OK, I guessed it might be a possibility.'
'A possibility?'
I met her eyes in the mirror.
'OK, 'possibility' might be a bit of an understatement.'
'William,' Sylvie shook her head as if mortally disappointed. 'You’re just as bad as the rest of us.' She squeezed my waist as she pressed past me towards the hallway rubbing her groin briefly against mine. 'OK then, let’s go out with a bang. But first you’ve got to reassure me by telling me exactly how the trick is done.' She held open the door for me. 'Tell Dix too, he’ll enjoy it.'
So I followed her into the blood-red lounge, Dix passed me a beer, Sylvie phoned out for pizza and I explained the secrets of the bullet trick with all its complexities and variations. Sylvie was right. Dix did seem to enjoy it. He sat and stared and occasionally asked questions. All in all it was a pleasant evening, the last I was going to enjoy for a long time.
Glasgow
THE VAN DRIVER I’d hired to help take my equipment to Johnny’s venue wasn’t happy.
'I’m not meant to go along here, it’s buses and taxis only.'
'And deliveries.'
'Deliveries until eleven, we’re well past time.' He looked away from the road, giving me the full effect of his torn face. 'You’re making me break the law.'
The driver was Archie, an old navy friend of my magic shop boss, Bruce McFarlane. He was bald, with three working teeth and a wrinkled face that had somehow shrivelled back in on itself. It was like being told off by a shrunken-headed tattooed baby.
'Aye well, I’ll drop into St Mungo’s on my way home and say a wee prayer for you.'
Archie shot me a look that said he might just kick me and my junk out of his van and I backtracked. 'I didn’t realise it was restricted, there’ll be something on top for your trouble.'
'If I get a ticket it’s your shout.'
'Fair enough.'
I grinned at him, but he was staring straight ahead, manoeuvring the van between the buses that were backed along the street. Eilidh had told me that the venue wasn’t far along on the Trongate, but though I’d tramped the street countless times I couldn’t remember ever noticing the Panopticon. I checked the numbers above the shops while the van eased its way through the traffic.
'Can you slow down a wee bit? We should be able to spit on it from here.'
'If I go any bloody slower we’ll stop.'
I pointed to a space.
'You could pull in there.'
'It’s a bloody bus stop.'
But Archie swung the van in anyway, muttering about blue meanies and bloody stupit cunts that didnae ken where they were going.
I slid back the passenger door and stuck my head out, looking for the hall.
'I’ll just be a second.'
'If the polis come I’ll have to mo–'
I slammed the door and ran along the pavement. The number Eilidh had given me belonged to a blue-fronted arcade that promised Amusements, Amusements, Amusements in pink neon swirls. The windows to the arcade were veiled behind elaborately pleated midnight-blue satin drapes. They made me think of a flashy funeral directors’, the kind of concern that might have got Liberace’s business. The space between the glass and the curtains was decorated with prizes the insurance company probably didn’t require to be locked in the safe at night, oversized ornaments of liquid-eyed dogs, TVs and microwaves that retailed for around fifty quid in Tesco and huge fake-flower arrangements whose bulk was supplemented by multicoloured feathers that had never seen a parrot. The bingo caller’s voice reached out through the empty door into the street, above a clatter of mechanical whoops and bells.
Baby’s done it, number two. One and five, fifteen. Key to the door, two and one, twenty-one, just your age, eh Lorna? Three and five, thirty-five, J Lo’s Bum, seventy-one. Tony’s Den, number ten. Blind eighty.
No one was shouting house. I glanced back to the van. Archie was making hurry-up gestures but there were no wardens in sight. I leaned through the open door to the arcade, into darkness punctuated by the flash of fruit machines, pinball and video games. For all of the noise it generated, the place wasn’t very busy. A bouncer stood sentinel inside the doorway; in the gloom beyond him a few punters tried their luck on the machines or sat solemnly marking their bingo cards.
The bouncer gave me an appraising glance. Maybe he’d studie
d Zen or maybe he just knew that guys as big as him don’t have to say anything to get guys like me to explain themselves. I said, 'I’m looking for the Panopticon, mate, ever heard of it?'
He nodded his head towards the ceiling.
'Upstairs.'
I stepped backwards into the street and looked towards the top of the building. Three huge storeys of what the early Victorians probably considered a Grecian façade, intersected by arched windows that decreased in size as the storeys rose.
The bouncer directed me to the goods entrance around the side, smiling mildly when I asked him if there was a lift.
I said, 'Never mind, it’s all in a good cause eh?' And went back to the van, wondering if I could use that line on Archie.
But I was beginning to learn that although Archie moaned, he got the job done. He grumbled the full length of the dingy staircase, but it was only when we stepped from the landing into the auditorium that he almost dropped his end of the box.
'Bloody hell!'
If I’d have been first into the room I might have done the same. The mannequin was positioned so you didn’t see it until you turned the corner from the stairs into the auditorium, then he was right in front of you, a whiskered Victorian decked out in frock coat and top hat. Eilidh hurried towards us.
'Are you OK?'
Archie’s end of the box straightened up.
'You’re all right, dear. He just gave me a bit of a start.'
Eilidh scruffed down nicely. Her hair was twisted into a loose half-knot and she wore an old checked work shirt over a pair of jeans that might have seen better days, but hadn’t lost their fit.
'He has that effect on everyone. I’d move him, but we’re being given use of the place as a favour and the management might go off us if we start shifting the furniture around.'
'Aye, you’re right, dear, they management cu– kinds can be an awful trial.'
Eilidh nodded towards the brightly spangled, coffin-sized box that Bruce McFarlane had lent me.