The Bullet Trick

by Louise Welsh

  'No offence but I’m a conjurer by trade. I know how easy it is to make things disappear.'

  I reached out to take it and Blunt put his glass on the envelope.

  'Don’t worry. It’ll still be here when you come back.'

  I tried to see what Blunt was doing from my position up at the bar, but we’d chosen our spot well and he was hidden from view. When I returned with the drinks he’d lit another cigarette, this time he offered me one.

  'Where did you say this woman disappeared from?'

  'Essex, it’s near London.'

  'I know where it is, and you presumably know it’s not in my jurisdiction; there’s nothing I could do with this except pass it on.'

  'Aye, but at least then there would be a record. They’d be forced to investigate.'

  Blunt took the head off his pint.

  'Maybe so, maybe no.' He sighed. 'What your contact said about me being straight was right. I don’t take bribes and I don’t take bungs.' I looked towards the bar and he took another drag of his fag. 'I’ve got a tab, paid up every Friday on the dot. I do my best. Some people like it, some people don’t, fuck them. But I don’t go out of my way to make enemies.

  Accusing a well-respected officer in the largest force in the country of being an accessory to the murder of his sister-in-law is a sure-fire way to get yourself into trouble.' He turned, looked me full in the face and pushed the envelope back at me with the edge of a beer mat.

  'I can’t do anything, not on that.'

  'But you’re saying you think it looks dodgy?'

  'I’m saying nothing.'

  'But if I get more evidence you might be able to do something?'

  Blunt drained the last of his pint.

  'Gathering evidence is the job of the police.' He took a notebook and pen out of his pocket. 'What did you say the missing woman’s name was?'

  'Gloria Noon.'

  Blunt wrote the name down and replaced the notebook. 'And the name of the inquisitive officer in the Met?'

  'Montgomery, James Montgomery.'

  I waited for him to jot it down and when he didn’t asked, 'Aren’t you going to put his name in your book?'

  'I’m sure I can remember it.' Blunt shook his head wearily. 'This used to be a nice quiet pub.' He took out his wallet and rifled through it until he found a card. He checked to see there was nothing written on its back then passed it to me. 'Call if you have anything useful, don’t bother otherwise. I’m not a sociable drinker, remember that in future.'

  Berlin

  IT WAS TWO o’clock in the morning. Dix had looked at his watch so often in the rental car during our journey that I’d grown nervous about his driving. Now he glanced at it again while he fiddled with the heavy padlock to the door of the warehouse.

  I could smell the odour of damp earth brought forth by the night. Close your eyes and you could be miles from the city in a freshly planted country garden, a new tilled field, or a cemetery ready for custom.

  I asked, 'Who are these people?'

  Sylvie pulled her long coat closer and stamped her red shoes against the ground, shivering. Dix threw her an impatient look, then turned the key and prised back the hasp.

  'Would it make any difference if you knew?'

  'Maybe.'

  'It’s too late for questions, William, just do as we discussed and it’ll be payday.'

  Sylvie wasn’t the only one who was dressed up. Dix had revealed an unexpected showmanship, finding an outfit for me that would add a macabre touch to the proceedings.

  A black costume decorated front and back with a white glow-in-the-dark skeleton. There was a mask to go with it too, a grinning skull. The mask did a good job of hiding my bruises, but I’d been worried that my gut distorted the bones. Sylvie had reassured me.

  'You look yummy, William. Death come to carry off my fresh young flesh.'

  I’d pulled the skull over my face and stalked her round the lounge, arms outstretched till Sylvie had let me scoop her, giggling and wriggling, onto the couch. I’d affected an aristocratic accent, Christopher Lee as Count Dracula.

  'Your funeral bower, my dear.'

  She’d mocked a faint and Dix had watched us with the indulgent smile of a miser reckoning money due.

  The joke didn’t seem so good now and the Halloween costume had lost its carnival air.

  Sylvie was as white as my fake bones. I put an arm around her but she pulled away impatiently.

  'Let’s just get this over with.'

  'You don’t have to go through with it if you don’t want to.'

  Her laugh was harsh against the night.

  Dix said, 'It’ll be over soon. Less than an hour and we’ll all walk away safely with cash in our pockets.'

  Glasgow

  BLUNT NEEDED MORE evidence before he could act and I had an idea of how I might get it. Like all the best tricks, it relied on a good grasp of psychology and a lot of finesse, but with the right assistance it could be simple.

  I went back to the Internet café and checked up on flights from London. Then it was time to step into character and make a phone call. After that there was nothing much to do except hope and wait. I went back to my bedsit, poured myself a drink, lay down on the bed and started working through the moves over and over again, until the homeward screech of buses drifted into the diesel growl of taxis and shouts of late-night drinkers. Eventually even they died away and I was left in silence, looking at the splash of light thrown by the streetlamp outside my window, wondering if Blunt would buy my scheme and if he did, whether it had any real chance of success.

  Berlin

  SYLVIE WAS SOMEWHERE on the other edge of darkness. Dix and I stood side by side waiting for the signal. I sensed a movement and floodlights clicked on, searing white in the centre of the empty warehouse. A voice came from out of the firmament.

  'OK, proceed.'

  I’d expected German, but the words were English and the accents that came from the dark had an American twang. I looked at Dix.

  'American?'

  His voice held a hard edge of contempt.

  'They still think Berlin is a place where they can get something they can’t at home.'

  I grinned and pulled the skull over my face, the whole thing making more sense now that I realised it was all the whim of a rich Yank with a taste for the exotic.

  'Then let’s oblige him.'

  Dix put his hand on my arm.

  'These are not holidaymakers who have wandered off the tourist trail.'

  'What are you trying to tell me?'

  'Sylvie knows her role. This is for her sake as much as mine. Just play your part and everything will be fine.'

  I started to speak, but Dix put a finger over his lips and I heard the slow hollow sound of high heels striking against the wooden floor. Sylvie stepped out of the darkness into the floodlit centre of the warehouse. My poor victim looked magnificent. She wore a long silver robe that shimmered against the light; sparkles flashed from hair dark as coffin wood and her lips were painted a blood-red black that invited no kisses.

  We waited for a beat of ten then Dix wrapped a black silk scarf across his face, nodded to me and strode forth, his footsteps brisk and full of business. He halted a foot away from Sylvie. She looked beyond him, ignoring his presence, and then dropped her robe, arching her back as if daring him to lay a finger on her, her naked body pale and magical against the pitch black. Dix stood frozen in place for a beat of ten while Sylvie stalked a full circle around him, like a half-tamed predator, not hungry but a killer by nature. I held my breath, wondering if they’d choreographed this earlier, or if Sylvie really was making her mind up about whether to go on. Then she stretched her spine like a show lion deciding to let its trainer live another day, and placed herself against the board. Dix immediately stepped forward and started to secure her, his fingers nimble and efficient, buckling the leather straps around her wrists and ankles, tugging at them to show they were firmly fastened.

  I tried to push all other
thoughts from my mind, whispering a mantra over and over in my head, concentrate, concentrate, concentrate… and then it was my turn to walk into the light.

  Glasgow

  I DECIDED TO have my pre-performance drink in a bar beneath the railway arches because it was close to the Panopticon and I couldn’t imagine any of the university buddies Johnny had recruited to help with the show dropping in for a quick one. The pub was tiny and cheap so it was never empty, but I was unprepared for the swarm of people busying it so early in the afternoon. I stood at the top of the small flight of steps leading down into the bar, taking in the press of green, the Celtic shirts and scarves, the shamrocks and Jimmy hats, and realised it was St Patrick’s Day. I hesitated for a second, wondering if the pub could accommodate another drinker, then a fresh group of men arrived and swept me down into the familiar odour of smoke, sweat and beer. I ordered a whisky even though every pint of Guinness came with a shamrock etched into the foam. Someone moved, I slid into a prime spot next to the cigarette machine and placed my drink on the ready-made shelf. St Patrick had chased the snakes out of Ireland. Maybe this was an omen that things would go well. But then it was a holiday to mark his death, so maybe it was a sign that the snakes always won in the end. The old man at the table next to me started to sing, When I was a bachelor, I lived by myself

  And I worked at the weaver’s trade;

  The only, only thing that I ever done wrong

  Was to woo a fair young maid.

  I wooed her in the summer-time,

  And part of the winter-time too;

  He turned and smiled a happy full-on denture smile and some old men joined in.

  But the only thing that I ever did wrong

  Was to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.

  The result was surprisingly melodic, when you considered that it was 2.30 in the afternoon and everyone seemed to be pissed. The aged singer had eyes the colour of forget-menots. They were soft and wet and happy with drink and memories. He cast his gaze around the room.

  One night this maid came to my bed

  Where I lay fast asleep.

  She laid her head upon my chest

  And then she began to weep.

  'You’re a dirty bugger, Peter,' shouted one of the drinkers. The old man smiled and tipped the heckler a wink, but he kept on singing.

  She sighed, she cried, she damn near died.

  She said, 'What shall I do?'

  So I took her into bed and I covered up her head Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.

  Behind my eyes a man covered a woman’s ruined head with a clean white sheet. I put down my drink and went into the gents to splash water on my face. When I returned the song was over and someone had taken my place by the fag machine, but my drink was still there.

  The barman squeezed by, collecting empty glasses. He handed the singer a half pint and a nip and said indulgently, 'There’ll be no cut-price pensioner half’n’halfs if you lot get me shut down. Yous know I’ve no got an entertainment licence.'

  An old drinker leant over.

  'It’s a dog licence he’s needing with a voice like that.'

  There was a burst of laughter, then someone on the other side of the room raised their voice and shouted, 'Give us a song, Ann.' The rest of the regulars took up the cry till even the men who’d only come for a St Patrick’s Day bevvy joined in. The young barmaid shook her head shyly, but the drinkers kept up the demand, some of them banging the table with their pint glasses, chorusing Ann, Ann, Ann until the manager hurried back behind the counter and led the girl out in front. There was a call for hush followed by a shushing that threatened to descend into disruption, then the girl raised her face to the ceiling, closed her eyes and started to sing. Everyone else fell silent.

  My young love said to me, 'My mother won’t mind And my father won’t slight you for your lack of kind'

  And she stepped away from me and this she did say:

  'It will not be long, love, till our wedding day.'

  Her voice was high and clear and pure. It should have made me think of green rolling hills and the white froth of a waterfall glinting against the sun, but instead I saw Sylvie strapped to the target as I walked towards her, masked in my Young Bones Wilson costume. She seemed to press herself against the board. One of the sparkles in her hair caught the light and a bright prism glanced into my eyes, giving me a quick flash of the whole rainbow spectrum. It was an instant as fast as a bullet, then it was gone and there was just the frightened girl and the faceless audience watching from the dark.

  As she stepped away from me and she moved through the fair And fondly I watched her move here and move there And then she turned homeward with one star awake Like the swan in the evening moves over the lake.

  I took the bullet from my pocket, gripped it between my finger and thumb and held it high in the air. Dix came out of the blackness, the scarf still hiding his features. He had a second man with him. The man wore a smart black suit over a black shirt and a latex mask of a red fox. The fox’s wide smile was hungry, the eyes that glinted from its head an unnatural green that made me think of the damage a broken beer bottle can do.

  The people were saying, no two e’er were wed

  But one had a sorrow that never was said

  And I smiled as she passed with her goods and her gear, And that was the last that I saw of my dear.

  The fox stared at the bullet for an age, turning it over in his hand, holding it close to his eye examining it until I lost track of time. Then at last he took the pen from Dix’s hand and initialled the bullet along its edge, making sure he’d recognise it again. I handed Dix the revolver and he passed it to the fox, who examined it with the same intense thoroughness he’d used on the bullet. Then he gave the gun and bullet directly to me and stared through his green eyes as I placed the bullet into the revolver. That was the difficult moment, the point where I made the switch. And I managed it; I swapped the live bullet for its wax twin and loaded it into the chamber right before his suspicious eyes. He walked away and Sylvie and I were left facing each other in the bright white pool of light, surrounded on all sides by a blackness darker than deep space. I continued my mantra, concentrate, concentrate, concentrate, until her face lost its focus and became just a pale white thing, pressed behind glass, like a dead butterfly with a red marking at its centre.

  Last night she came to me, my dead love came in.

  So softly she came that her feet made no din

  As she laid her hand on me and this she did say,

  'It will not be long, love,' til our wedding day.'

  The pub broke into a racket of applause, rattling beer glasses and whoops. The barmaid bowed prettily and ducked behind the counter before she could be pressed into an encore. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and took another sip of my whisky. Then something made me look through the crush of bodies to the far end of the room, to where Inspector James Montgomery stood, still and sober amongst the revelry, with his eyes fixed on me.

  The ex-policeman gave me a vague smile, the kind you might give a man whose face you recognise but can’t quite place. I kept my own expression neutral and said, 'You’re early.'

  'Yeah, well I thought I’d arrive in good time, do a bit of sightseeing. I’ve never been to Scotland before.' He grinned. 'No wonder all you Jocks head down south.' Montgomery shook his head. 'What a dump.'

  'Not like the classy joint you had your retirement do in, eh?'

  'I’m not talking about this place, shithole though it is. I thought I’d make the most of my time up here; take in some of the sights. No offence but it’s like going back fifty years.'

  'No offence taken.'

  The turns had ceased for a while and Dean Martin was belting out ‘Little Old Wine Drinker Me’ from the jukebox. He wasn’t as popular as the barmaid, but he was going down OK and a few diehards were joining in the chorus. Montgomery laughed and put his arm around me like a man enjoying a good joke and I felt something small and blunt press into my
spine.

  'Cumbernauld was the worst though. The conditions people live in there, especially the old folk, appalling. Quite frankly some of them’d be better off dead.'

  My resolution to stay cool disappeared in a quick flash of heat. I hissed, 'You fucking go near my mother and you’ll not live long enough to get what you’re after.'

  Montgomery wiped away a speck of spittle that had landed on his face.

  'Touched a nerve did I?' He pressed a little further into my back. 'Must’ve done to make you start threatening a man who’s holding a gun to you.' He grinned. 'You can’t win, son.

  Just hand over what’s mine and you never have to worry about me again.'

  'I don’t have it on me.'

  'Then let’s go and get it.' He smiled again. 'Shall I tell you a secret?'

  'If you like.'

  Montgomery put his face close to mine and whispered. 'Your mother isn’t all you have to worry about.' His smile was small and sweet as a cupid’s. 'I know all about your little German girlfriend.'

  My voice was hoarse.

  'How do you know?'

  'Thirty-five years on the force has got to teach me something.'

  My lips formed her name.

  Sylvie.

  'What do you know?'

  Montgomery grinned.

  'Oh, I know everything. What was her name again? Sylvie, that was it, wasn’t it? She was quite something in that hotel room, eh? Too good for you, that’s for sure.'

  The sound of Sylvie’s name on the lips of a policeman hit me in a dizzying wave of dread and liberation. The bitter release of fear made flesh made me laugh. The worst had happened, but I wasn’t headed for a jail cell, not yet anyway. The balance of the deck had shifted. Up until now I’d wanted to free myself of guilt and Montgomery in one blow. But it seemed that he knew as much of my crime as I did of his. It was time for a reckoning and I was about to find out how far I was willing to go.

  Most of the drinkers were too busy to notice Montgomery and me pressed together in the corner, but I’d spotted a squat man in a baseball cap staring at us. I threw him a look over the policeman’s shoulder and he leered towards us.