The Bullet Trick

Sylvie shouted, 'Don’t help him.'

And a square-jawed man got to his feet, raising his hand in the air. I passed over the revolver and he gave the barrel three sharp spins, his face flushed. As he handed it back he whispered low enough that only I could hear, 'Shoot the bitch through the heart.'

I took the gun off him without faltering.

'Thank you very much, Sir.'

And walked into the centre of the audience, facing the stage where Sylvie stood shivering behind the transparent pane of glass. The prop shifters dragged on a huge padded mattress and placed it to her left.

I undid my tie, leaving its limp ends hanging down my white shirt, trying to look like a ruined man, then cast my gaze across the room and said, 'Love is a strange and fragile thing.' I lifted the gun and pointed it at Sylvie. She shrank against her board. I took a deep breath, squeezed the trigger and fired it, BANG, into the mattress, sending an explosion of stuffing into a small dark blizzard around the stage. 'I used to love that woman, but she took my love and…’ BANG. The mattress took another hit and the smell of cordite filled the room. 'Ruined it.' I looked about the hall. 'It’s enough to drive a man…’ BANG, BANG, BANG. I dropped my voice to the low mild tone of the clinically insane. '… Mad.'

I turned, took aim, raised my arm and fired. The glass in front of Sylvie shattered, she jerked against the board and someone screamed. Then there was silence.

Sylvie stood intact with something clamped tight between her teeth. The ninjas jogged on and released her. She massaged her wrists then reached into her mouth, took out a bullet and held it high.

The crowd broke into noisy applause; I bounded on-stage to the accompaniment of laughter and hisses. We took our bows, the curtain descended and the lights came up for the interval.

Gina sat dizzyingly high above us at the suspended baby grand, her black hair spiked into a plume, her slim legs pumping against the pedals as she banged out a honky-tonk number. She shook her head with the melody and peered through her glasses, smiling at the party down below.

The theatre’s seats and tables had been pushed around the side of the hall; a few couples had started to dance, but most people were still at the drinking stage. I leant by the bar listening to one of the clowns describe the new act his troupe were rehearsing, a mime gag that involved disguising him as a mechanical doll. It was an old ruse, but a good one.

If I’d known it was Ulla’s birthday I would have bought her a gift. The triumph of the evening’s performance was soured by the missed opportunity. I swirled my drink around my glass wondering what I would have got her. Flowers? No, the clowns gave those to her all the time. Jewellery? Maybe too elaborate. Tomorrow I would walk along the Kurfürstendamm and search for a modest but thoughtful present. Something Scottish? No, something chic but simple, something that would make her look at me in another way. I wondered what Kolja had bought her, perhaps a fancy frame and a new portrait of himself.

The party was mainly composed of people from Schall und Rauch, some still dressed in costume, others in street clothes, some half in, half out. They were performers, most of them in their twenties. I looked around the room and thought that maybe I should find a gym and try to get fit. Or maybe I should just join a library and find some good books to fill the long, lonely hours with.

Erhard gave Sylvie a hug and his twin Archard came up behind, enclosing her between their two tattooed bodies. My assistant looked like the dancer she was in a natty black cocktail dress whose skirt was all fringes, and a pair of satin shorts that made the most of her legs. Beside me the clown started to mime the new act; I laughed, watching Sylvie out of the corner of my eye as she smiled, showing her perfect American teeth, and wriggled out of the twins’ embrace. I wondered if the rumours about the twins’ sex life were true. It was an interesting thought.

I scanned the room looking for Ulla, realising that the party was getting busier as people drifted in from other shows. Eventually I spotted her on the far side of the room amongst a small knot of well wishers, with Kolja smiling by her side. She’d swapped the high red shoes for a pair of sneakers but still wore the cut-off leggings and vest. They gave her the look of a scruffy principal boy. She laughed and looked up at Kolja. I took a sip of my drink and nodded to show that I was listening to the clown’s description of the aluminium mask he hoped would fool the audience into thinking he was a mechanical man.

There was a light touch on my arm and I turned to see Nixie standing beside me.

'Hello, William.' Her voice was soft and hesitant. The clown gave me a wink, lifted his drink and went into the crowd. Nixie leaned up and kissed me gently on either cheek.

'Sorry.'

'Hey, no worries,' I grinned. 'It worked out OK in the end.'

She smiled. I could see the low neckline of her leotard beneath the gauzy yellow shirt she’d thrown on top. I hesitated; Nixie’s English was equal to my German, but perhaps we could find other ways of communicating. Sylvie was chatting animatedly in the midst of a group of people I didn’t recognise. She looked towards me, raising her eyebrows comically as she saw me leaning in to offer Nixie a drink. I ignored Sylvie’s amusement and headed for the bar.

I was passing Nixie a chilled glass of white when I spotted a tall slim figure I knew walking into the hall. The hula girl raised her glass.

'Prost!'

Her blonde hair was soft and fluffy, her little body as tight and pneumatic as a high-school-movie . She looked wholesome and sweet and she liked me. I gave her a kiss, asked the barman for a glass of champagne and started to make my way across the room.

Zelda had swapped her sailorgirl costume for a sophisticated cowgirl look. Tight blue jeans and high-heeled western boots emphasised her long legs, her open-necked white shirt was crisp and cool, a simple gold lariat pointed from the hollow of her throat down into the crevice between her breasts. All she needed was a hat, a six-shooter and a donkey. I’d never really suited hats and my gun was with the rest of my props, but maybe I could help her out with the donkey side of things. She’d positioned herself by the stage and was standing on her own, glancing around the room, looking as if she wished she hadn’t come. I slid up on her blind side and held out the glass of champagne.

'Drink?'

Zelda smiled.

'Thank you.' She took the glass and lifted it to her lips, leaving a trace of lipstick on its rim. 'I wondered if I would see you here.' I forced my face to stay straight, trying not to look too pleased. Zelda’s voice was amused. 'I heard there was some trouble at the Nachtreview after I left.'

'Maybe a little.' I kept my voice casual. 'Is Sebastian with you?'

'No.' She shook her head laughing. 'He’s angry with himself for letting Sylvie back.'

'It wasn’t her fault, Zelda, a man started to hassle her.'

'Hassle?'

'Harass.'

Zelda shrugged her shoulders.

'I wonder why.' She didn’t wait for me to defend Sylvie any further. 'You didn’t leave me a ticket.'

'I hope you didn’t pay.'

'No,' she gestured vaguely to the room. 'I know people here.'

'It was the first evening, so not as slick as we will be.'

Zelda knew the performers’ etiquette of false modesties, genuine insecurities and praise that was sometimes sincere, sometimes not, but was always welcome.

'You’re very skilled.'

'I’ve always been good with my hands.'

Zelda shook her head, smiling.

'So I saw…’ She looked out towards the dance floor, searching the crowd with her eyes.

'… And you like the torture stuff?'

'No,' I grinned. 'No, it’s all for the act. I’m…’ I hesitated, not sure what I was going to say. 'I’m not into pain.'

Zelda laughed again.

'Not for yourself perhaps, but you chop women in two, stick them full of knives then shoot them.'

There was an edge to her words that I hadn’t expected.