The Bullet Trick

'William, you just hit Kolja.'

I grinned at her.

'Aye, I did and you know what? I’m going to fucking hit him again.'

Ulla shouted something in German. I leaned in to pull Kolja upright, all the better to get a shot at him, and she leapt on me, clawing at my back. Kolja was beginning to rise from the desk of his own volition and suddenly I realised that if the athlete made it to his feet I was finished. I grabbed Ray’s computer keyboard and slammed it into Kolja’s face. The keyboard was too heavy to make a good weapon, but I stuck with it, amazed at how quickly the white keys became spotted with red, wondering if Ulla’s screams really were in time to the offbeat rhythm of my assault.

It was a relief to hear the strong German voices of the men who pulled me off. I gasped for breath, not bothering to struggle against their hold, hoping I hadn’t killed him. Then Kolja’s fist crashed into my face. The sound went out of my ears and my eyes filled with red.

I reeled against the person holding me, and would have fallen if they’d not braced against me. The pain was blinding. I waited for Kolja to take another shot, but it never came. A man I didn’t know shouted something I didn’t understand and didn’t bother to answer.

I spat blood and said, 'Fuck off the lot of yous, and take that fucking rapist scum with you or I’ll fucking do him for good.'

It came out as a spray of spit and gore and I doubt anyone understood me but the room emptied anyway and Sylvie and I were left alone.

There was a silence and I found myself gazing at the photograph of Ray’s granddad with his head inside the polar bear’s mouth. A moment of triumph followed by decapitation, that’s entertainment.

Sylvie looked up at me from the floor. The fringes of her dress were rucked around her waist; her red lipstick smeared across her mouth. She still wore the plaster and glass tiara, but it was sideways on now, a stupid gewgaw, not even a slipped halo. My assistant’s eyes were wide, her voice small and distant as if she were talking to me from a long way off.

She said, 'What’s so terrible about being called a whore?'

Glasgow

THERE ISN’T MUCH between the magic you perform for adults and the type that you do for children. Once again, the difference is in the delivery, the patter, the flimflam, whatever it is that you want to call the chat and flourishes that distract the eye and make the audience want to indulge the conjurer’s art.

I’d always looked down on children’s entertainers as a suspicious mix of arrested-development failures, half-arsed amateurs and prospective paedophiles. Now I was grateful that Johnny’s gig was for a family audience. It would be as far from my disasters in Berlin as it was possible to get and still be conjuring.

I said goodbye to Eilidh, set down the receiver and stood for a second in the shelter of the phone booth wondering what to do next. There were a dozen pubs and a similar number of bookies within yards of where I was standing. I’d withdrawn the last of the money stashed in the wardrobe before I’d left my room. Over the previous months I’d frittered it on drink, resolved never to touch it, then frittered it again. I pushed the thought of a pint and a flutter out of my head and walked along the Trongate, past the born-again preachers, the animal rights activists, the Big Issue vendors, buskers, flower sellers and fake perfume boys until I found a cut-price opticians I’d noticed before. I went in and sorted out a supply of disposable contact lenses, then found a barbershop and had a haircut. I stepped freshly shorn into Princes Square and bought myself a flashy purple shirt that set me back a whack and a pay-asyou-go mobile phone that didn’t. Finally, I broke away from the weekend shopping chaos and set off towards the Magician’s Den.

Conjuring manuals are like recipe books, OK if all you want is a passable trick or an acceptable cake, but if you want to create something superlative then you must seek out people you can persuade to share their secrets with you. To do that you have to find the place where the masters hang out and maybe after a while they’ll deign to notice you, and maybe a while after that, if you make yourself useful enough, they’ll let a few tips drop your way.

I pushed open the door of the Den and heard the familiar bell ding news of my arrival into the backroom. Bruce had told me once that he considered his shop as dramatic as any stage.

'I give the customers a moment to soak up the ambience, the strangeness, and then I make my entrance.'

Nothing seemed to have changed much. The long counter still stretched the length of the small sales area, displaying jokes and novelties beneath its glass top. The more expensive paraphernalia was at the furthest end, nearest to Bruce’s cubbyhole, where he could keep an eye on it. High above the shelves were the rubberised masks, crones and old men, Boris Karloff creations, animals and politicians, including a set of American presidents stretching back all the way to Richard Nixon. Behind the masks hung framed replicas of ancient theatrical posters advertising Harry Houdini and his ilk, dressed in lion-skin togas or long combinations, battling with wild beasts, wrestling free of chains, tightroping across impossible gorges. The velvet curtain, whose figured pattern concealed a small spy hole, drew to one side and out stepped Bruce McFarlane dressed in his brown shop coat.

'William, long time no see.'

It was three years since I’d last been in the shop, but Bruce didn’t seem surprised. He was forty-five when I met him twenty-odd years ago, and a very old man to my ten-year-old eyes. He was nigh on seventy now, but I’d say he looked a little younger than he did then. I nodded up at the presidents past.

'Jimmy Carter, Bruce?'

'Ach, you never know, William, there’s a lot of seventies parties on the go. Someone might want to go as the auld Peanut King.' He opened a flap in the counter. 'Didnae know when we were well off, eh?' He stuck his hand out and shook mine, holding my elbow with one hand while he grasped my palm with the other, the closest to a manly hug his generation ever got. He gave me a smile and I knew he was pleased to see me. 'Come away through and I’ll stick the kettle on.'

The backroom was as unchanged as the main shop. This was where the real business was done, the trading and exchanges, the gossiping and boasting. I’d thought I’d find a few of the other conjurers in here having a Saturday morning gab, but I was pleased to see that apart from us and dizzying piles of stock the place was empty.

'All on your own?'

'Like the Marie Celeste in here today, William. There’s a magic convention over Paisley way, I was going to go myself but my wee Saturday laddie’s got exams coming up and his mother phoned to say he wasn’t allowed out the house.' He shook his head. 'No like you, eh, William?'

I smiled.

'No, Mr McFarlane.'

'Aye, best wee Saturday laddie I ever had. Always on time and spent all your wages in the shop.' The kettle boiled and Bruce put a teabag, two sugars and milk into two mugs before adding water. 'But you’re not here to reminisce are you?'

'It’s always good to catch up…'

'But you’ve got a favour you’d like to ask.'

He passed me a mug and I took a sip; it was too sweet.

'Just a wee one.' I reached into my inside pocket and took out a small card I’d written while I was getting my haircut. 'I’m doing a charity gig…'

Bruce raised his eyebrows.

'Not like you, William.'

I ignored the gibe.

'See if I give you the details will you send folk my way? It’s for a good cause.'

'Course I will.' He took a sip of his own tea, frowned and added another teaspoonful of sugar. 'Now, tell me what you’re really after.' The bell pinged and Bruce cocked his head like a bright-eyed parrot that’s just heard the lid of the cracker jar being unscrewed. He waited three beats then said, 'Excuse me a sec…'

I peeked through the hole in the curtain as he strolled down the counter to serve two ten-year-olds, treating them like maharajas. When he returned ten minutes later he was grinning.