Jonny smiled at the murmuring sea of grey hair beginning to take their seats. The only splash of colour came from the silk handkerchiefs being sporadically produced off to one side by Steve and Jane, who applauded and guffawed like they’d not performed this and a hundred other similar effects today a thousand billion times already – and seemingly all for their own amusement.
‘Wow,’ said Zack, spotting Cynthia and President Pickle up ahead, briskly navigating their way forward and inefficiently zigzagging between several rows of tables, ‘President Pickle sure looks … different!’
It was true. Not that any of the four were particularly prone to passing judgement on anyone’s appearance, but now they got their first proper look at him, without the reception desk in the way, the transformation from the last time they had seen the man was drastic.
Gone were the portly belly and quivering jowls that wobbled and creased every time he spoke. Gone were the rosy red face and big rubbery lips that caused him to look like an inflated schoolboy. Instead, presented before them was a shell of the man they once knew. It was as if someone had taken his vital organs and a huge amount of guts, cast them to one side and then tried to (unsuccessfully) readjust his skin and bones to fit the new shape. But you could see the dramatic change in President Pickle’s drawn expression too, as if he carried with him a new heaviness – despite the weight loss. Like the change hadn’t come about in a positive or natural way, but some kind of sacrifice had had to be made.
‘Is he … unwell, do you think?’ asked Alex, who could see the other members blatantly wondering the same thing as President Pickle journeyed towards the lectern at the front, their faces all brimming with concern.
‘I mean, he wasn’t that well before, to be fair,’ said Jonny, remembering President Pickle’s love of rich foods and fine wines, and not quite deciding which of the two versions was the more healthy-looking. ‘Didn’t he mention something about not eating?’
Cynthia had now turned to face the partly seated crowd, casting her eyes about the ballroom, hunting for the junior members who peppered the scene like flecks of accidental tissue left in a dark load of washing. Hugo and his flock didn’t stand out much, blending in perfectly with the gloomy suited members’ attire like they’d all got the same invite to the same funeral. Cynthia finally caught the eyes of the four at the back and gestured vigorously for them to take a seat.
‘This way,’ said Sophie, spotting a table with four empty spaces at the back of the room. Among the general chatty hubbub, as they made their way over, Zack’s ears suddenly pricked up as he caught the phrase ‘Young Magicians –’ And then again, from another direction. He whipped his head round and stared about him. Was he imagining it, or were people now nudging each other and pointing them out?
At least he couldn’t see anyone wearing another of those ghastly T-shirts …
Sophie suddenly stopped dead in her tracks.
‘Whoa … Everything all right?’ said Jonny, colliding with her melodramatically.
‘It’s her!’ said Sophie, her voice cracking slightly and the colour draining from her face, which would have been a cause for concern – especially for someone as stoic as Sophie – save for the simultaneous smirk creeping up both of her cheeks. ‘It’s Belinda Vine!’
‘Who?’
‘Belinda Vine! I mean, of course I knew she’d be here, but actually seeing her …’
‘Who’s Belinda Vine?’ Zack asked casually. Sophie stared at him.
‘Who’s Belinda Vine? Didn’t you check the programme before we came?’
Zack shrugged.
‘I’d have come to this even if it was a non-stop weekend of Deanna trying out new routines, providing it meant we all got to be back together. So this Belinda’s pretty cool then?’
Sophie shook her head helplessly. ‘She’s a legend!’
Belinda Vine! It wasn’t just that she was clever, talented, striking in her own distinctive way … On the other side of the Atlantic, Belinda had pulled herself way up from her humble origins and blazed her own trail in the male world of American magic – something that Sophie admired greatly! And, as if it weren’t enough being a lone female in this community of mostly geriatric men, her performances were always impeccable and frequently floored even the most astute audiences. She’d even been known to fool some of the best minds in magic at conventions across the world with her mind-reading act, which was so brilliantly devised and so beautifully performed and so tantalizingly impossible that it could almost have passed as the real thing. Indeed, despite watching and re-watching countless performances of Belinda’s act on the web, Sophie still had no clue how she achieved some of her mental miracles.
Then, just a year or so ago, Belinda Vine had announced that she was crossing the Atlantic: ‘My work is done back home and a girl needs fresh challenges to stay on top. Look out, men (and women!) of Europe, Belinda is on her way!’ And here she was, just fifty metres away at the other side of the room, laughing heartily, looking stunning in her perfectly fitted red dress, her long ginger hair exploding from the top of her head and waving gracefully down her back – almost like she was underwater – as she swung her head to and fro to take in the room, perfectly at ease.
‘And she wrote to me,’ Sophie went on. She pulled the letter from her pocket. ‘Care of the Magic Circle. She said she’d heard of me and was looking forward to meeting me …’
‘Cool!’ Jonny was actually impressed. ‘So what’s the problem?’
‘Now I’ll actually have to meet her!’ whispered Sophie as they continued towards their table, her legs feeling a little squishy.
‘You know, I didn’t have you down as the starstruck type,’ said Jonny, enjoying the moment, not used to seeing Sophie so overcome.
‘Why’s that?’ said Sophie, as quick as a flash, and sounding a bit more like her usual self. ‘Because I didn’t react like this when I first met you?’
Zack and Jonny laughed loudly as they finally sat down, causing a few of the ageing members at the tables in front to turn round – or at least try, their necks creaking slowly – as they cast sour looks at the four, shaking their heads like broken nodding dogs.
‘Thanks so much for having us!’ Zack said genially to the disapproving audience members, with an elfish twinkle in his eye. Ah, it was good to be back.
Alex elbowed him lightly as he spotted Cynthia glaring over at them from the front, biting her lower lip, clearly desperate for her juniors to be on their best behaviour and not to attract any unwanted attention. Or at least none of the naughty negative kind.
So, for once, Zack obeyed. They’d made it this far – making mischief could wait, he reasoned. Well, for the time being, at least! He straightened himself up, straining his neck over the hundreds of bobbing heads patiently waiting for things to begin.
A spritely middle-aged fellow, dressed like a teacher who was trying a bit too hard to be cool – jeans, trainers, a T-shirt and baseball cap (hugely unnecessary!) – got up on the stage and gambolled over to the lectern. He was wearing a gigantic sticky label that named him ERIC DIVA.
‘Well, what a pleasure, what a treat, what a delight, what fun it is to see you all!’ he crooned into the microphone. ‘People from every nation, gathered here together!’
Sophie glanced around. Every nation? Really? she thought. Despite some promising ‘initiatives’ (as Council liked to refer to them) at the Magic Circle, the society was still as infamous for its lack of diversity as it was for its lack of gender equality. Sophie sat back in her seat, bemused.
A few of the councillors cheered, shooting glances at the rest of the membership who all joined in on autopilot, many of them not really knowing what was going on.
‘And obviously just to say, on a more personal note, how proud it makes me feel – as this year’s convention organizer – to have so many youngsters in the crowd!’
‘So many is a bit of an exaggeration, isn’t it?’ said Jonny in a low voice, trying not to move his lips. Cynth
ia gave the man a polite nod, probably wishing for him not to dwell on the matter, aware that – for the vast majority of members – the news of juniors being present (apart from the famous Young Magicians, who to some minds were like honorary old members) was probably as unwelcome as a cat at a dog’s hen do. And maybe even in some cases the first time certain members were receiving the news at all. In spite of this, Eric Diva continued.
‘Indeed, let it be sung from the rafters that these junior members are the future of magic and we welcome you, one and all. Especially the famous four at the back!’
He suddenly gave a jubilant wave to Zack, Sophie, Jonny and Alex, causing the entire room to effectively swivel on its axis as everyone twisted and turned – some more noisily than others, all at random speeds – to get a good look at the Young Magicians, who now sat looking and feeling a little like rare pieces at an exhibition, not quite knowing how to react. Even Jonny, with all his casual bravado, only managed the smallest of cursory waves. The room slowly heaved its way back to facing the front as Eric Diva continued to beam at the four friends.
‘Big, big, big, big, big fan!’ he mouthed, and brought his hands together towards his chest, forming a heart shape, holding it there for a disconcerting amount of time and causing Jonny to let out a giggle like a tickled toddler – this guy was a hoot!
Sophie was withholding judgement. Who exactly was Eric Diva? He certainly wasn’t present at the Magic Circle six months ago. And now, just like that, he was in a position of responsibility. That must have taken some serious greasing …
‘Anyway,’ continued Eric, addressing the whole room once more, ‘you’ll be seeing a lot more of me over the course of the weekend, I’m sure, so please don’t be afraid to say hello!’
‘Well, I’m already a bit afraid!’ Zack joked quietly, flashing the others a grin.
‘Anyway, let’s get things formally under way, shall we? Ladies, gentlemen, youngsters! Please welcome your president and mine: Mr President Edmund Pickle!’
The council members at the front started a long, sonorous handclap. The other members began to join in, Cynthia motioning for all the juniors to do the same, like she was slowly egging them on. The clapping began to intensify, the pace quickening dramatically as President Pickle slowly clambered up on to the stage and headed towards the lectern, his body still somewhat tense and so unbelievably pinched.
He finally faced the front, causing some of the more bootlicking members to stand and bow needlessly as he nodded at them all, though still with a whiff of uncharacteristic nervousness, Sophie noted. Slowly he raised and lowered his arm like he was conducting some giant orchestra. The crowd began to diminuendo into silence. Like the eerie calm before an execution …
President Pickle looked out over the crowd, his eyes roaming from person to person before sweeping towards the back of the room, darting up into the corners of the ceiling and then back towards the front, checking out the wings either side before focusing on the lectern he was now leaning on rigidly, gripping the sides like a terrified vicar at a pulpit. He seemed to mumble something to himself before summoning the reserve to stand up straight, pushing out his chest like a well-groomed yet evidently malnourished pheasant, a touch of the regal returning to him.
Ah yes, thought Zack, trying to work out exactly what was troubling the man just by looking at him, this is a bit more like the President Pickle we know and – ahem – love.
‘Welcome to the Annual Convention! A place for us to discuss ideas, to learn, grow and consolidate as a society, to celebrate our rich and bountiful history and to stamp out any bad blood. Most importantly of all, we are gathered this weekend to elect the officials who will carry us into a new and prosperous magical year. I hope you are all looking forward to it as much as me …’
He trailed off, confronted with the horrible possibility that maybe he was right, and that everyone was looking forward to it as much as him, which was to say not at all. Not in the slightest. Not this weekend.
‘Anyhow …’ he murmured, trying to find his groove. ‘Another year, another convention! How time flies. It doesn’t seem like five minutes ago that I … that I …’ The man suddenly lost his train of thought, fumbling for a piece of paper in his inner jacket pocket before righting himself again and remembering what he was saying. ‘That I stood here last time.’
A few of the members grumbled a strange appreciation of how quickly the years seemed to pass by nowadays, like a whole twelve months could go by unnoticed by just taking the briefest of afternoon naps … and then it was back to the Annual Convention!
‘Now a few of you will have noticed my – er – my change in appearance,’ said President Pickle, clearly trying to sound upbeat. ‘And some of you have even been so kind as to point it out and ask after my health, so I ought to set matters straight …’
The four sat up, wondering if they would be given a clue as to what was so evidently unsettling the man. They had heard him insisting to Cynthia that everything was fine. But now?
‘So let me assure you that it’s only a temporary state of affairs while … Well, no one needs to know about that!’
He cast a look over at Cynthia, who was massaging her hands so vigorously that Zack could swear he could see steam rising from them.
‘It does mean, sadly, that I’m off the booze, and the food. Which is … well, a huge shame. I hear this place does a marvellously gloopy and exquisitely sticky sticky toffee pudding! But no, not for me this weekend, thank you very much!’
He laughed awkwardly, before trailing off. Was it Jonny’s imagination or was President Pickle starting to get emotional?
‘I can’t even remember the last time I was allowed sticky toffee pudding.’ President Pickle’s eyes seemed to mist over, like he was in some strange trance, his mouth starting to droop, heavy with saliva. ‘Lettuce is what I get now. Scrubbed within an inch of its life, all pale green and tasteless, wilting and silly. Not even allowed to cover it in bacon and cheese just in case someone has p–’
Cynthia suddenly coughed loudly enough to snap President Pickle out of his food dream or whatever this was. He mumbled something to himself again, clearly in two minds about … something. Sophie looked over at Cynthia, who had now locked eyes with her husband, clearly trying to impress something upon him, nodding tightly, her hands held closely together over her neck and chin. If it wasn’t for Cynthia’s manner, Sophie could still have believed that this was just President Pickle feeling sorry for himself over a touch of indigestion: he could – after all – raise self-pity to a new art form. But, with Cynthia behaving as she was, Sophie knew something was desperately awry.
President Pickle stared back at his wife, chewing his lower lip, evidently completely at sea and still incomprehensibly, mindlessly hungry. He cleared his throat again, unfolding the piece of paper he’d taken from his pocket, pushing down on the creases to stop it from closing, taking his time … making a point.
‘So … as many of you are aware, I have been president of this magical society for nearly a quarter of a century.’
A few of the crowd began to applaud, but President Pickle silenced them with a waft of his hand, like Dumbledore turning out a light.
‘Many people have joked – often inappropriately – that you get less than that for murder. The truth is, twenty-five years is such a long time that that joke no longer applies any more.’
‘Sounds like he’s saying goodbye?’ said Zack. ‘Or giving in to something.’
‘Or someone,’ offered Sophie, her mind ticking.
The thought of President Pickle giving in to anything that he didn’t want to didn’t really compute. And when he did – like letting younger members in – then he certainly wasn’t one to make a public affair out of it.
‘No way!’ said Jonny, clapping his hand over his mouth to stop the sound from coming out too loudly.
Alex shifted in his seat as he craned his neck even higher. Was President Pickle really about to announce his retirement? For the
Magic Circle that would be like … like … He couldn’t imagine what it would be like. A bit like the Queen announcing she was stepping down, maybe, and handing her crown over to one of the corgis.
Sophie spotted Eric Diva poised like a concerned parent off to the side, biting his fingernails. What on earth was going on?
President Pickle continued. ‘So it would seem that there are some who believe twenty-five years is more than long enough … That I should now fizzle out and away like some defunct firework and pass into the realm of past-presidency.’
He took another long deep breath while staring down at the paper still held firmly between his fingers.
‘And I agree – to a certain extent. It has been quite an impressive innings, even if I do say so myself …’ The man paused for an obscenely long amount of time. ‘However.’ The whole room suddenly shifted as one. ‘I will not be bullied, beaten or broken. I will not bow down and beg. I am the President of the Magic Circle and it is I and only I who decides when my time is up. Do you hear me?’
President Pickle had started to bellow as the blood began to drain from Cynthia’s face. No! No, no, no! Hadn’t those horrible letters made it very clear that he must step down? That if he didn’t go ahead with it, there would be dire consequences? But President Pickle was now on a roll, cheered on by the growing army of supporters in the crowd who were now whooping loudly, like he was leading them into battle.
‘Once a president, always a president, that’s what I say! Anything else just takes the pickle!’
Zack, Sophie, Jonny and Alex looked at each other, not really knowing what to say. Evidently Cynthia had expected her husband to be announcing his retirement from the Magic Circle’s top job. And, by the looks of it, President Pickle had been partway towards making that decision too. But then – for whatever reason – something had changed his mind. He was here to stay. Or at least not going to go down without a fight!
But you could sense it a mile off, Zack thought. Despite the seeming overwhelming support and overzealous cheering, dotted somewhere between the slight glances between council members and the loud coughs emanating from the crowd – though a lot of that could arguably have been the flu – was the whiff of disapproval and disappointment. The thought that perhaps, had the man stepped down, something or someone better might come along. But who exactly that person or persons might be was – as yet – unclear. And what exactly did the president mean by saying he wouldn’t be bullied? Was someone forcing his hand? Zack rubbed his left eyebrow thoughtfully.
The Young Magicians and the 24-Hour Telepathy Plot Page 6