The Bullet Trick

The pub was a converted bank. Mum admired the ceiling and gasped at the size of her glass of wine, but she kept a brave face when the barmaid told her the price of the round and managed to pay up without flinching. I carried the drinks over to a corner booth with a good view of the room. It was still early in the day and the last of the sun was filtering soft yellow through the frosted windows of the old bank. The nearest I’ve come to religious experiences have been in pubs in the late afternoon. A few office workers were scattered about the place, self-medicating with cheap bottles of wine and two-for-one lager offers. I’d always said I’d kill myself before I worked in an office. I wondered if I was destined to join their ranks, or if I’d stick to my principles.

Mum folded her coat on the seat beside her, took a sip of her wine and asked, 'Why do you not come back with me for a wee while William? Just till you get on your feet again.'

'You’ve not got the space.'

'That couch folds out into a bed. It’s comfy, I slept on it when your dad was not well.'

'And where would Bobby sleep?'

'He’s not allowed on the couch.'

'Aye right, I bet he’s sleeping on it right now.'

'Just for a wee while, William.'

'I’m fine where I am, Mum.'

She gave me the same look she’d given me when I’d said I was giving up university to concentrate on my conjuring.

'I wish I could believe that. What’s wrong son?'

'Nothing, I’m just having some time out.' I drained the last of my pint. 'It’s a popular twenty-first-century lifestyle trend.'

'For those that can afford it maybe.'

My empty wallet burned in my pocket. I cursed my warped conscience for making deadweight out of the money I’d brought back from Germany. It had been seeing me through my slow decline in the pub and the bookies’ shop. I’d lost count of the times I’d resolved never to touch it again, though I never went so far as to give it away. 'Do you want another drink?'

'No,' she started to gather her things together, 'Bobby frets if I leave him on his own for too long.'

We retraced our steps back towards the bus station. On Buchanan Street the clock was still caught mid-flight, its long legs poised on exactly the same spot, but its hands had ticked round the hours. The Cumbernauld bus was already at its stance, a new conductor issuing tickets to the waiting passengers. Mum glanced at the queue, making sure she still had time to board, then turned back to me, her face serious.

'William, I know things aren’t right with you just now, but remember whatever’s bothering you it’ll never be so bad you can’t share it with your old mum.'

I gave her a hug. It was hard to remember there’d been a time when she’d been taller than me and able to set everything right. She fished in her handbag for her purse, took out a twenty-pound note and folded my hand over it, squeezing it tight.

'Ach, Mum, you don’t have to.'

'Wheesht. Just for just now. You can pay me back later.' I leant down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. 'Remember, whatever you do your mammy’ll always love you.'

I said, 'I know that, Mum.'

Knowing I could never grieve her with what I’d done, I waited till the bus moved off, then turned and made my way back to the Gallowgate.

It was late that evening when I returned home from the pub lightened of the twenty my mum had given me. The envelope had been burning against my chest since I’d slipped it into my jacket pocket; now I was anaesthetised enough to face what it might hold. I sat down on the bed, took the envelope in my hands and slit its seal for the first time since Bill had handed it to me over a year ago. Inside was a map. I unfolded it, revealing a small red biro ring around a lakeside portion of a country park. I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes, then slid my fingers inside and drew out the only other thing in the envelope: a photograph.

Two young men stood grim-faced and weary at the edge of a lake. It was dusk or dawn on what looked like a brilliant summer’s day, but this was no holiday snap. One of the men was Montgomery, younger, with more hair and less gut, but still recognisable. The other man was taller, broader and more powerfully built. I hadn’t seen him before, but I took an educated guess and decided that he was Bill senior, the father of Sam-loving-gay-gangster Bill. Montgomery held an edition of that day’s newspaper in his hand. There was no blood, no violence, no murdered corpse or bruised face, but there was something horrid about the image that forced my eyes to stay on it. This photograph had caused me a lot of grief in Berlin. In a way it was responsible for everything that had happened there, and I had no idea what it meant. I reached into my pocket and felt for my lighter. It would be an easy matter to burn the photo and have done with the whole business.

I turned the lighter over and over in my hand, then discarded it and slid the image and the map back into the envelope. I got a piece of tape from my props box and stuck it to the underside of my bed. I could think of a better hiding place later. Perhaps by then I would know what I was hiding and what to do with it.

Berlin

WHEN I LEFT the theatre that evening Sylvie was standing in the yellow sliver of light cast by the open stage door. She raised her head and smiled, like a diva about to embark on her opening number. Which in a way I suppose she was. I hesitated for a second, then she shaded her eyes against the brightness. I let the door swing to and the beam of light slipped silently away, leaving us alone in the gloom of the car park.

There are some conjurers I know who claim their art helps them when it comes to women, and perhaps it does, but it’s never worked like that for me.

'Hey.'

Her voice was slightly deeper than I remembered, made hoarse by the damp and the cold.

'Hi.' I hesitated, wondering why she was there. 'Thanks for volunteering tonight.'

Sylvie’s expression was hidden by the dark, but her voice sounded like it had a smile in it.

'You’re welcome.'

'Aye, well, you saved my skin.'

'Always a pleasure.'

Men’s-mag wank fantasies fluttered across my mind. I put my suitcase down and asked, 'Are you waiting for someone?'

'Yes.'

Her slim silhouette looked vulnerable against the night shadows. The car park had a bleak abandoned feel, but there were still a half dozen or so cars scattered in the parking bays. Their headlamps were dead, windows dark; anyone could be sitting in them, watching, waiting for me to leave the girl on her own. My mind glimpsed the image of her face, caught in the half turn of a laugh, snapped at some celebration, her smile at odds with the stark appeal for witnesses. I pushed the picture away and bit back the urge to ask if she’d be OK. She was the captain of her ship, I of mine. Besides, I had the feeling she might laugh.

'I’d best get going. Thanks again, enjoy the rest of your evening.'

I unlatched the handle of my case, ready to trundle my burden to the nearest taxi rank and on to my hotel.

'Aren’t you going to ask me who I’m waiting for?'

Then, of course, I knew, but wanted to hear her say it anyway.

'None of my business.'

She took a step forward and the wank mags did another quick flit.

'I was waiting for you.'

I let go of the case, not ready to reach towards her, but wanting my hands free all the same.

'I’m flattered.'

I could see her face now, her bright expression somehow open and unreadable at the same time.

'You don’t know what I want yet.'

The unease was back. I glanced towards the abandoned cars wondering if a movement had drawn my eye there.

'I naturally assumed it was my body.'

Her smile grew wider.

'You Irish guys are all the same.'

'Scottish.' The brow beneath the smooth fringe pinched and I added, 'But my granddad was Irish if that helps.'