The Bullet Trick

'That’s him.'

Sylvie breathed out, bent into a long stretch then straightened up.

'I guess you should have this.' She grinned and handed me my gun. 'It was naughty of me to put it in my bag, but I thought it might come in handy one day.'

'It did.'

'Yeah it did, didn’t it? I was sure he’d spot it for a repro, but he was quaking in his unfashionable boots.'

'It’s the real deal, Sylvie.'

Her face creased into an expression that the sight of me with a knife at my throat had failed to raise.

'It’s what?'

'It’s got to look good if the illusion is going to work.' I clicked the safety catch home, Sylvie’s reaction making me glad the revolver was back in my possession. 'I told you, there’s always a slim element of risk in the bullet trick, but believe me, you weren’t in any real danger.'

'You bastard.'

Sylvie threw my ruined paperback at me, but it was a half-hearted gesture and for the first time that night I sidestepped a blow.

'I thought we’d decided we were on the same side?'

I opened the gun and checked the cylinder. It was empty. Suddenly I realised what a truly accomplished liar Sylvie was. Her skill had possibly saved my life. I put my arms around my rescuer, kissed her cheek and made a resolution never ever to trust her.

I woke up suddenly, grabbing my arm with the feeling that something small and quick had just run across it. I hit the bedclothes trying to kill it or flush it out, unsure whether there had been anything there at all, then lay back and looked at the ceiling. Day had slid back into night. Soon I would have to get up and face my old enemy the world; soon but not yet. Somewhere down the hallway a door shut. I wondered if it was Sylvie or Dix, or maybe some inhabitant of the apartment I hadn’t met. After all, life was full of surprises.

I needed to work out how to get myself back to Britain. My credit card was long past fucked and my wallet nearly empty. I’d have to blag the fare from Rich or the British Consul or maybe my mum, though I wasn’t sure she’d have the money.

I wondered if the hotel would come after me for damages and unpaid charges. Maybe there would be a stop at the airport. A hesitation when I handed over my passport then, would you mind waiting here, sir? Even if I made it home there would be the problem of a fresh start with no money. I’d packed in my flat in Ealing. New deposits and first month’s rents were expensive. I was homeless, jobless and stuck in a foreign country, without even the stake for a reckless bet. I ran my hands down my body checking the damage. The pain was a comfort of sorts. A skelped arse gives you something to cry over, as my dad used to say.

All of this was just a way to avoid thinking about the envelope I’d sent unopened to my mother’s for safekeeping. Would Montgomery think to search her out? He was a trained policeman. He was smart and plausible and ruthless. My mum would welcome him with a smile. Montgomery would pat the dog, step through the front door, then what?

I swung my legs out of bed. My clothes were a ruined heap. Sylvie’s floral robe hung on the back of the door. I reached over and put it on. There was no point in trying to hold onto my dignity now.

Sylvie’s voice sounded soft and serious through the living-room door. Dix’s low rumble of reply was forceful, insistent. Sylvie said something harsh and Dix countered with a soft, measured response. It was an argument of sorts, but the words were beyond my reach. I concentrated, holding my breath to try and make out what they were saying, and realised that they were talking in German. I hesitated, not sure if I should knock, then pushed open the door, coughing as I entered the room.

Sylvie was curled up on the couch dressed in jeans and a scruffy T-shirt, her body bent towards her sometime uncle who was leaning back in his usual seat. Dix’s fingers still played with the gaffer-taped tear in the chair’s arm, but he looked like a different man from the shabby dope smoker of that first long evening. Black trousers and a clean white shirt had taken the place of the stained joggers and distressed cardigan. His face was freshly shaved. He might even have lost weight. It suited him, except for around the eyes. They looked strained, as if lately he’d had too many worries and too little sleep.

I’d expected Sylvie to laugh at my getup, but her face stayed grave.

'How you doing, William?'

'Rough.'

'I’ll bet.'

I glanced at Dix, wondering how much he knew of our adventures and whether he’d blame me for putting Sylvie in danger. He nodded towards the couch.

'Let him sit next to the fire.'

Sylvie shifted along the sofa and I slid in between her and the gas fire.

'You’re shivering.' Her face was still stern but her voice was gentle. She rubbed my arm.

'DTs or cold?'

'Knowing my luck, probably a new strain of black death.'

Dix looked at Sylvie.

'Coffee might help.'

I waited for her to say something smart, but she stopped massaging me, uncurled her legs and got to her feet.

I drew the robe closer and asked, 'Have you anything stronger?'

Dix’s voice was final.

'Stick to coffee for a while.'

And at last Sylvie smiled.

'Watch out, he could become your uncle too.'

She gave my arm a last squeeze then went out, shutting the door after her. We sat in silence for a while then Dix asked, 'Still cold?'

'A bit.'

He reached to the back of his chair and threw a blan ket towards me.

'Maybe shock too.'

'Thanks.' I pulled the blanket around my shoulders. 'Aren’t you going to ask what it was all about?'

'I told you before.' Dix’s face was unreadable. 'I mind my own business.'

Sylvie came through with three mugs and set them on the table in front of us.

'I don’t.'

Dix took his coffee without thanking her.

'But you don’t like to tell everything either.'

'Who does?' Sylvie’s voice was pointed. 'Not you, that’s for sure.'

I sensed that they were going back to some earlier argument that had nothing to do with me and pulled out the line I’d prepared.

'Let’s just say I owe some money. A lot of money.'

Sylvie put her cup to her lips and looked at me over its rim, raising her eyebrows.

'Your friend said it had sentimental attachments for him.'

Dix pulled back the piece of gaffer tape. 'A man can get sentimental about money.' He smoothed it down again and turned to me. 'There may be a solution to your problem. A way to make some money.'

Sylvie put her hand on my knee and opened her eyes wide as she stared deep into mine and said, 'An awful lot of money.'

Dix leaned forward, the strain in his eyes intensified by a spark of something else: excitement.

'Do you remember the night we were all together in the Nachtreview?' I nodded. There was little chance I would forget. 'That evening I said there were men who would be willing to pay a lot of money to see you play your Russian roulette with a live woman.'

'It’s not Russian roulette. Roulette is a game of chance. What I do is a well-constructed illusion.'

'Sure.' Dix nodded impatiently. 'We know that, but we lead them to think otherwise.'

'And how would you manage that?'

Dix smiled.

'There are ways. In a business like this everyone has their role. You squeeze the trigger, Sylvie is the target and I convince them that they are seeing what they want to see.'

It was a philosophy I understood, the basis of every illusion and every successful con, but I held back.

'I don’t know, it’s too weird. Who are these people?'

'Weirder than what you do normally?' Dix’s voice was soft, coaxing and I realised that I believed he would be able to sell the trick. 'What does it matter who they are? Sometimes it’s better not to know these things. It’s a lot of money. It could solve all your problems.