Phyllis Wong and the Return of the Conjuror

by Geoffrey McSkimming

  She shook her head. Thoughts started crashing through her mind, like dodgem cars out of control. What had just happened? Had she really been at the Khan el-Khalili? Had W.W. escaped the wrathful scimitar of murderous Keith? How long had she been gone? What—?

  She opened her hand and saw the red ball. It was damp with perspiration. She took a deep breath, pocketed the ball, clasped her hands (her thumb encircling her little finger) and began to reflect.

  Then she noticed something. A sheet of note-paper, folded in half, on the sofa next to Daisy. Quickly she went across the rug and picked up the notepaper. Daisy opened one eye, saw Phyllis, and made her marble-gargling-at-the-back-of-her-throat sound.

  Phyllis sat next to her, giving her a long rub on her back as she unfolded the paper. Daisy moved closer to Phyllis and snuggled against her leg.

  At the top of the paper, in neatly fashioned swirly writing, was a raised blue monogram and title:

  WW

  Conjuror of Wonder!

  Underneath it, flowing elegantly down the page, was her great-grandfather’s handwriting. Phyllis’s hands were trembling as she began reading.

  My dear great-granddaughter,

  You have now had your first experience of the

  biggest magic I have known—that of Transiting. Congratulations! I trust and hope that it will

  not be your last venture forth.

  You will find this note but not me, for I

  have been and gone already. Like I told you,

  I find it difficult to stay in the one spot for too

  long. I have to be searching . . .

  ‘He must’ve got back before me,’ Phyllis muttered. ‘He must be okay.’ Her heart settled a little at the thought of that, and she read on:

  But do not fear, Phyllis. I am certain that one day or night we shall Transit together again. In the meantime, I entrust the secrets to you. Like the secrets to your conjuring, they are to be held in confidence. Only Transit with others you can trust, and only if you feel it is absolutely necessary. And even then, if you do decide to share the knowledge of Transiting, you must be very careful. Your good judgement is paramount. As I told you, we cannot have too many Transiters cluttering up our paths.

  The more Transiters there are, the fewer Transiting routes will be available. Sometimes it might be very difficult to find a Pocket, especially if other Transiters are going forth.

  Now, before I leave, I want to share with you this further important advice:

  Never Transit for selfish reasons, my dear girl. Never Transit for your own personal gain. Curiosity is one thing—a sign of your vibrant self—and it is perfectly acceptable to venture forth to discover things. That is what I am doing, or am trying to do. But never Transit for your own profit. Selfishness never leads to good.

  Never attempt to change the course of Time or the events of what humankind calls History. To do so will upset the everlasting equilibrium of eternity.

  ‘The everlasting equilibrium of eternity,’ Phyllis repeated, reading it aloud quietly. She thought about that for a few moments. Then she finished reading the letter:

  Remember the Pockets, and if you should discover any information about the Pockets that I have not shared with you (for I may not have discovered it myself), be sure to leave me a note, or a sign, or something. Hide any messages down here in our basement. No one else will find them if you are discreet.

  Be the best magician you can be, Phyllis, and always entertain your audiences. And Transit well, my clever and magical great-granddaughter. Transit wisely, and carefully, and leave no trace to upset the ways of the past or the future. Hear more than you tell. Remember that there is a time to investigate things and a time to look at the clouds. And be as inconspicuous as the warm marshmallow that is dropped into the deepest well.

  Oh, I know what I mean.

  With love from your great-grandfather and fellow Transiter,

  W.W.

  When Phyllis had finished reading the letter, she was filled with a sensation she had never known before. It was a calmness that seemed to be cocooned by a warm excitement. She closed her eyes and put her hand gently on Daisy’s head, and she let herself settle.

  After a while she folded the letter carefully. She got up (being careful not to disturb her four-pawed friend) and went to one of the tall cupboards near the Bengal tiger. Here she found an old leather-bound journal. She’d originally found this journal some months earlier, and immediately she’d liked it for its aged, sweetly smelling covers and the fact that its thick, marble-edged pages had never been written in. It was a handy size—it would fit easily into the pockets of most of the coats she wore—and it had a thin leather cord that was sewn onto the back cover and which was long enough to wrap around the journal and tie at the front. Phyllis had decided, when she had discovered the journal, that she would save it to be used for something really special.

  Now she knew exactly what she’d use it for. It would be her Transiting journal.

  She went and sat on the rug in front of the sofa, surrounded by the blackboard slates. With a steady smile, she untied the cord, opened the journal and tucked W.W.’s letter into the back of it. Then she flipped to the front of the book and started writing down the names of the Pockets her great-grandfather had revealed to her, transcribing each name from the slates, slowly and with great care.

  As she wrote, she kept thinking of her great-grandfather. She wondered when she would meet him again—she really, really wanted to. There were so many things she wanted to ask him. She didn’t know it, but her eyes—the whites and irises—were glowing bright green.

  During the next week—the last week of her suspension/grounding/forbiddance—Phyllis spent most of her time thinking.

  She had the biggest secret of her life to keep; a secret far greater than any of the secrets behind any of her magic tricks. She had a great responsibility to guard the knowledge of Transiting, and she understood that she shouldn’t take that responsibility lightly. Somehow she felt that she should only Transit when she needed to, or when she had a huge desire to do so. She didn’t want the privilege to become a commonplace thing, like turning on the TV or phoning Clement or any of her other friends whenever she felt like it.

  She decided that she would only Transit when the Time was right. And she had a hunch that she’d know when those Times would be.

  With this new knowledge, Phyllis felt a sort of inner strength, and she felt a ripple of excitement whenever she thought about what might be to come . . .

  ‘Suffering sciatica!’ Phyllis exclaimed as she saw Clement coming to meet her in City Park. It was the first time she and Daisy had met up with him since Phyllis’s isolation had ended. ‘What on Earth’s happened to you?’

  He was hurrying, and when he hurried, he sometimes hobbled a little (it was because of an injury he’d got recently involving a streetsweeping machine, and it was barely noticeable).

  ‘Huh?’ he puffed, slinging off his backpack and plonking himself down on the grass next to her and Daisy, near the statue of an unremembered politician carrying a weasel which they often met by.

  ‘Your face,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Clement said.

  Daisy jumped over into his lap and licked his hand. ‘Hey, Deebs,’ he said, twiddling her ears.

  ‘Don’t act wise,’ said Phyllis. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Clement, as though he was suddenly remembering something. He pushed his glasses up his nose and grinned at Phyllis.

  Phyllis just shook her head slowly. She looked at all the warts that covered his face like blotchy polka dots on a handkerchief: three on his left cheek, two on his right, one in the centre of his chin, five across his forehead and a big, full one on the tip of his nose. ‘Are you contagious?’ she asked, trying to shift away a little without offending him.

  ‘No. Are you?’

  ‘I’m not the one who looks like a hatful of peanuts. What’s with all the
lumps?’

  ‘Aaaah.’ He wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Like ’em?’

  ‘Clem! How could anyone like warts?’

  ‘They’re not warts, they’re protuberances.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re protuberances.’ He reached into the pocket of his coat and fished around for something. ‘That’s what Miss Hipwinkle calls them, and she’s an expert on such things.’

  Phyllis squinted closely. ‘They’re not real?’

  Clement handed her an empty plastic packet with a label on it. Phyllis read out loud, ‘“FLESHIES—Protuberances for All Occasions! As Used by Stage Actors and Professional Detectives!” Oh, brother!’

  ‘They’re the best you can get,’ Clement told her proudly. ‘Really thin latex, the perfect match for skin. They can stay on for days if you want.’

  ‘How long have you had yours on?’

  ‘About a week.’ He lay back on the grass and put his hands behind his head. ‘I can’t get ’em off, actually.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t get ’em off. You’re supposed to stick them on with spirit gum, but Miss Hipwinkle had sold out and she told me to come back in two weeks when they’d have a new order in. But I couldn’t wait that long, so I used some glue I found at home.’

  Phyllis shook her head again. ‘And it was super glue, yes?’

  ‘Yep. I couldn’t read the tube, it had all this gunk on it. Mum’s not very happy, but the doctor said if I shower three times a day regularly, with lots of steam from the water, the glue’ll gradually dissolve away. But you know the best part?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mum’s not sending me to xylophone lessons until they’re off. She doesn’t want the teacher thinking I’m diseased.’ He rolled over onto one elbow, pulled a distorted face and said, in a slurry voice, ‘Feast your eyes! Glut your soul on my accursed ugliness!’

  Phyllis laughed. ‘You’re priceless,’ she said.

  ‘I am indeed. And I can get a double seat all to myself on the bus,’ he added. ‘No one wants to sit next to me!’

  ‘Surprised, I am not.’ Phyllis gave him a sideways look. ‘So, how is Miss Hipwinkle?’

  Clement rolled onto his back again. ‘She’s cool. More to the point, how are you? What’ve you been doing these last few weeks?’

  ‘Oh, you know . . . this and that.’

  ‘This and that?’ he repeated. Normally Phyllis couldn’t wait to tell him what she’d been up to. ‘What sort of this and that?’

  ‘Oh, Daisy and I walked’—Daisy gave a small yap at the sound of her name—‘and I did all that homework. Thanks for collecting it and dropping it off, by the way.’

  ‘Any time. It was stupid of Bermschstäter to suspend you like that. It was only an accident.’

  ‘They happen,’ Phyllis shrugged.

  ‘Leizel Cunbrus will have another think before she heckles you again.’ Clement smirked. ‘She’s a twerp.’

  Phyllis smiled . . . now, the thought of Leizel Cunbrus didn’t bother her at all. ‘Hey, Clem? Have you got your webPad with you?’

  ‘Yep.’ He rolled over and undid the zip on his backpack, then up-ended it onto the grass. Everything spilled out in a heap: his webPad; a new boxed set of A Zombie Place to Die, Parts 1–6; his laptop; a half-eaten cheese sandwich squashed in plastic wrap; a blackened, mouldy banana; some coins; a fake grey beard; his dented glasses case; the latest copy of Game for Life magazine and a catalogue from Thundermallow’s. Phyllis recognised the catalogue, having just received hers in the post the day before.

  She watched as Clement pulled the webPad from the pile of his everyday distractions. It’s no wonder he’s always losing things, or having things break on him, she thought.

  ‘Got it,’ he said. ‘It’s the latest one; they’re not releasing it until the week after next, just before Christmas.’ He turned it on and immediately the screen lit up brightly.

  ‘Can you look something up for me?’ Phyllis asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A poem.’

  ‘Yergh.’ He gave a mock shudder. ‘We’re on vacation, Phyll . . .’

  ‘It’s called “Antigonish”. I know the beginning of it but I want to read the whole thing.’

  He looked at her, then typed the name in as she spelt it out. ‘Here it is.’

  Phyllis moved next to him and together they read the poem:

  Yesterday, upon the stair,

  I met a man who wasn’t there

  He wasn’t there again today

  I wish, I wish he’d go away . . .

  When I came home last night at three

  The man was waiting there for me

  But when I looked around the hall

  I couldn’t see him there at all!

  Go away, go away, don’t you come back

  any more!

  Go away, go away, and please don’t slam

  the door . . .

  Last night I saw upon the stair

  A little man who wasn’t there

  He wasn’t there again today

  Oh, how I wish he’d go away . . .

  Clement looked at her. ‘What’s it mean?’ he asked.

  She smiled at him. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Maybe it’s about a zombie.’ He nodded as he considered this. ‘Whatever, it’s weird.’

  ‘Ha! C’mon, Mr Warty, let’s get some chocolate!’

  ‘Brilliant idea! Good to have you back, Phyllis Wong.’ He started stuffing everything into his backpack again.

  ‘Good to be back,’ she said, smiling. And indeed it was.

  Going places

  ‘Now, Phyll, there’s something I have to tell you.’

  Phyllis and her father were just settling down to dinner in the Art Deco dining room of their apartment. Phyllis, about to be seated, froze, half-sitting and half-standing over her chair. She always went cold inside whenever her father announced that he had something to tell her.

  ‘Yeeeees?’ she asked warily.

  Harvey Wong took his seat and smiled at her. He gestured for her to continue her journey towards the chair. She took a deep breath and sat.

  ‘It’s nothing, really,’ her father said, helping himself to a large serve of green beans and broccoli from the bowl in the centre of the table. ‘I have to go away for a little while, that’s all.’

  Phyllis spooned out some steaming potato gratin onto her plate. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Hong Kong. There’s a big deal being finalised out there. Normally I’d send one of the vice presidents of the company over to finish it off, but this one’s a bit too delicate. So I’m going myself.’

  ‘You said I, not we,’ said Phyllis.

  Harvey placed the serving spoon back into the bowl and poured some sauce over the filet mignon on his plate. ‘I did. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here. I’ll only be gone for three days. It won’t take long.’

  ‘Why can’t I come?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m leaving tomorrow morning. It’s all very sudden. There was barely enough time to arrange my trip, let alone arrange for you as well. Not to mention getting Daisy taken care of with a minder. I’m sorry, my girl. It’s the way it has to be.’

  ‘So,’ said Phyllis, helping herself to the greens, ‘the Deebs and I are staying here by ourselves?’ There was eagerness in her voice.

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  Phyllis stopped, the spoon poised mid-air. ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re not old enough. You know that.’

  ‘But it’s only three days. I’d be fine. And there’s Chief Inspector Inglis and Minette Bulbolos downstairs, and the Ravissants at the café. They’d make sure I was okay.’

  ‘I’m sure they would. Nevertheless, you are still too young to be by yourself.’

  ‘Daisy would be with me.’

  ‘Phyll. There’s no changing it.’

  ‘So what happens?’ Phyllis shovelled the beans and broccoli onto her plate next to the potatoes and the filet mignon and stared gloomily
at them.

  ‘I’ve arranged for you and Daisy to stay with Minette. She is more than happy to—’ ‘Please don’t say babysit. I’m not a baby.’

  ‘It was not the word that I was going to use, Phyllis. She is more than happy to have you for company.’

  Phyllis said nothing, but continued staring at her dinner.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Harvey told her. ‘You like Minette, after all.’

  That was true: Minette Bulbolos was bold and bright and colourful and she always had time to spend with Phyllis. She had a regular belly dancing spot at the Baubles of Baalbek Nightclub in the swanky theatre district. She lived in one of the apartments on the floor below Phyllis’s penthouse apartment, opposite another of Phyllis’s friends, Chief Inspector Barry Inglis of the Metropolitan Police Force.

  ‘And,’ Harvey continued, ‘I’ll know you’re safe with her. I won’t have to worry about you too much while I’m gone . . . I know where you’ll be.’

  Phyllis looked up through her fringe at her father. Had he said that last part with any extra meaning to it, other than what it sounded like? She looked down at her dinner again and speared up some of the potatoes and stuffed them into her mouth.

  ‘Daisy and I would be fine here,’ she muttered as she chewed. ‘Minette could come up and check on us . . . And the Inspector is just a floor and a phone call away.’

  In response, her father just stared at her. She knew that stare. She’d seen it often enough.

  ‘Okay,’ she conceded at last. ‘Minette’s it is.’

  On her second afternoon at Minette’s, there was a change of plan.

  Phyllis and Minette were sitting cross-legged on the Persian rug in Minette’s living room. Phyllis had been showing Minette a new rising card trick, and Minette had been watching, totally absorbed, while Daisy had been licking her stomach (Daisy’s stomach, not Minette’s), when the phone had rung.

  ‘Do you mind if I get that?’ asked Minette, a little miffed that the call had come right in the middle of Phyllis’s trick. ‘It might be a gig.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Phyllis. ‘Magic always waits.’