The Bullet Trick

Ah, sweet whisperer, my dear wanton, I

Have followed you, shawled in your warmth, since I left the breast, Been toady for you and pet bully,

And a woeful heartscald to the parish priest;

And look! If I took the mint by storm and spent it, Heaping on you in one wild night the dazzle of a king’s whore, And returned next morning with no money for a curer, Your publican would throw me out the door.

'Raftery’s Dialogue With The Whiskey',

Padraic Fallon

Glasgow

THE AEROPLANE WHEELS touched the runway, jerking me awake.

'I envy you, that’s a gift.'

The blonde woman in the next seat smiled. I wiped a hand over my face.

'Sorry?'

'You slept like the dead all the way from Tegel. You’re lucky, I don’t sleep like that in my own bed.'

Some other time I might have asked how she slept in strangers’ beds, but I kept my smart mouth shut and waited while the pilot bumped us into a smooth landing, just another flight. The seatbelt lights turned off and the business types got to their feet and started pulling their bags from the overhead lockers. A mobile phone chimed awake and a man said, I’ll call you back in ten minutes. I’m on a plane. He laughed. No it’s OK, we’ve landed. My insomniac neighbour stood up and I slipped my equipment case from under the seat in front. It felt heavy, but I’d added nothing to it in Berlin, except for the envelope packed tight with bank notes that I hadn’t bothered to count.

The queue of passengers edged along the aisle then down the metal staircase and onto the tarmac. No one kissed the runway. I pulled my coat close and kept my eyes on the ground.

A long line of luggage lurched along the carousel but I’d left my broken suitcase along with its contents in a hotel room in Berlin.

The taxi-rank controller was bundled against the weather in a fluorescent jacket that looked regulation issue and an old checked bunnet that didn’t. He slammed the cab door on the safely settled traveller in front then turned to me.

'Where to?'

'Glasgow.'

He smiled patiently, a man used to jet-lag and bad English, and asked, 'Where in Glasgow son?'

'City centre.'

He wrote something on his clipboard saying, 'That’ll do.' And waved one of the white cabs forward.

The driver asked the same question that his supervisor had. This time I said, 'Do you know anywhere I could rent a bedsit in the city centre?'

He looked at me in the rear-view mirror, seeing the same face I’d splashed cold water on only minutes before in the gents. A nondescript face with a hard cleft in the centre of its brow that might suggest ruthlessness or worry, but nothing that would make me stand out in a crowd.

I said, 'There’ll be a bung in it for you.'

And he swung the taxi out of the airport, down into Glasgow and towards the Gallowgate.

I sat in the back and closed my eyes, wondering how I’d got myself into this mess and what lay in store for me in the city I used to call home.

London

THE FIRST NIGHT I met Sylvie she saved me from dying. The clock has ticked round and the pages have been flipped on the calendar, its numbers switching from red to black and back, shades the same as playing-card suits, and I realise that over a year has passed since Sylvie and I first met.

In those dim days I was known as William Wilson, Mentalist and Illusionist. Conjuring was throwing off the shackles of the dinner suit and velvet bow tie. It had slipped off the family viewing prime-time TV slot and into the clubs, gone underground, kicked around with freak shows and circuses, and now the feeling was it was ripe to hit the big time again.

I was one of the many who thought they might just be able to shake the profession back to life, if only I got the right break. Like a gambler waiting on the right cut of the cards.

I’d left Glasgow for London seven years ago and had been toiling through the British circuit ever since, long enough to almost recognise what town I was in, long enough not to care. I was a warm-up act for a whole trough of comedians and stand ups. The guy nobody came to see. I’d performed in the King’s, the Queen’s, the Prince’s and the Consort; done my stuff in the Variety, the Civic, the Epic and the Grand. I’d released doves across the ceiling of the Playhouse and watched them crap on the heads of the crowd in the Cliffs Pavilion. In Liverpool a woman fainted on stage and was dragged into the wings. In Portsmouth a row of sailors chased an usher through the aisles. In Belfast I slept with a girl in the Botanic Hotel.

I’d had professional excitements too. A TV scout who thought he might get me a slot that could lead to a series, an independent production company who proposed a documentary about my act. But in the end it seemed they were bigger failures than me. At least I could put a show on the road.

My agent was Richard Banks, Rich to his friends. He represented a slough of comedians, a couple of afternoon quiz show presenters and me. Rich had been an operator since the days when variety was king. In the fifties he’d mopped up the ENSA boys, the sixties had seen him branching into teenage pop and by the seventies he was a regular supplier of what he liked to call talent to piers from Brighton to Blackpool. A couple of his stable had even made it as far as Saturday Night at the London Palladium. Then entertainment had improved and Rich had moved on, signing a new generation of stand-ups to his fleet. Rich was realistic and adaptable but he was loyal too, after all, as he said,

'Loyalty costs nothing William.'

Though you can bet if it did Richard would have included it just above the VAT in his agent’s fee. He brought loyalty up early in our relationship. He had an office in Crouch End.

I’d popped in on spec, part because I was passing and part to remind him of my existence.

I’d tried and failed to work a James Bond/Moneypenny routine with Mrs Pierce, Rich’s steel-grey coiffured and steelier-eyed secretary. Now she just glanced at me from behind her word processor and said, 'Mr Banks has someone with him, but he won’t mind if you go through.'

The man in the visitor’s chair was a sprightly seventy with a boyish face that should have been in black and white but was red-cheeked, purple-veined and rheumy-eyed. He’d leaned back in his chair, his pale hair flopping away from his forehead, a brilliant advert for toupee tape. His upside-down smile was tight. We both knew my unannounced entrance was his cue to leave. Rich introduced us and I remembered the name from long ago, though I still couldn’t recall what I’d seen him in.

'Wilson, not a very stagey name,' he said over my shoulder to Richard as he shook my hand, trying and failing to squeeze my knuckles. I mugged a wince, just to please him, and his eyes sparkled.

'Times change,' said Rich, getting to his feet.

'They surely do.' The aged theatrical nodded his head and looked slowly round the room at the black and white photos of yesterday’s stars that mingled with the portraits of Rich’s current stable. Perhaps he was searching for a picture of himself, perhaps at his age you get used to looking at places as if you’re never going to see them again. 'Well, Rich, it’s been lovely but I can’t sit gabbing to you all day.' He raised his mug, pinkie outstretched, and knocked back the last of his tea with a loud slurp. 'So what’s this one? Another comic?'

'Conjurer.'

The elderly gent rose slowly, his thin body looking too young for his old man head, and pulled on a spotless gabardine I pegged as at least fifteen years old.

'Conjurer, eh? Known a few of them in my time. None of them made it big, but they were nice boys.'

I leered at him.

'I’m not a nice boy.'

'No,' his eyes glanced me up and down, 'I didn’t think so. Still, nice or not I’d give the last ten years of my life to have six months at the age you are now. Bet the offers never stop coming in for this one, eh Rich?'

Rich gave a noncommittal smile and the old man laughed, suddenly spry as he gathered his hat, scarf, gloves, briefcase and a carrier bag of groceries, fluttering apologies to Richard for taking so much of his time. He winked at me on the way out and said, 'Never mind dear, we all have our dry spells.'

I gave him a wide-boy grin and held the door open. When he was safe in the outer office, chatting to Mrs Pierce with a familiarity she’d never have tolerated from me, I took his seat, wincing against the warmth stored in the cushions and said, 'Nobody loves a fairy when they’re forty.'

Rich gave me a long stare, as near to a frown as I’ve seen him come, then he gave me a lesson.

Stuffed at the back of his filing cabinets were the profiles of men with a million mother-in-law and darkie jokes, female impersonators, ventriloquists, crooners and jugglers. He plonked the files on the desk in front of me and I flicked through them for form’s sake. Each file had a photograph paperclipped to its top left-hand corner. Outmoded hairdos, polyester dinner suits, big bow ties and grins that had once seemed alive, but now looked desperate, caught in a mad moment twenty or so years ago.

'I keep them on the books,' Rich said, 'there’s no harm in it. They don’t take up much space and it’s nice to be nice. After all, put together, these kids made me a lot of money at one time. And anyway, who knows when some post-modern ironist is going to suddenly discover one of these has-beens was a genius? But just remember son, it’s like they say in the financial ads, your shares may go down as well as up. So,' he tapped his nose like a tipster revealing a cert, 'remember, loyalty costs nothing.'

Once upon a time Rich had thought I might be in the new wave of conjurers, 'the post-Paul Daniels brigade’ he called them. These days we weren’t close, but he let me call his answerphone direct. The evening this story starts was the first time in weeks he’d called me back.

'It may not be the big time William’ — Richard hailed originally from Southend. He had a voice as loud as a McGill postcard, all whelks, beer and fat ladies flashing their drawers. I held the receiver an inch or two from my ear; there was no premium in adding deafness to my problems. 'But there’ll be some interesting people there. You never know who you’ll meet.' I’d made some noncommittal sound, and Rich had gone on with his spiel, selling it to me though he knew I’d take it. 'You’ll have fun. It’s a police retirement night.'

'Lovely, just what I need. The filth interrogating me on how I do my act.'

'Is that any attitude to have towards Her Majesty’s finest? Anyway they’ll love it, William. These guys are into lies and misdirection big time.' Rich paused and I could hear him dragging on his cigarette. 'Tell you, here’s an idea, pick on the weediest one and do some funny business with his handcuffs.' His laugh caught in his throat and there was a pause as he struggled to catch his breath. I wondered if he was lying down on his office divan.

'That’s wonderful advice, Richard: pick on a weedy looking polis, the one with the Napoleon complex. I’ll remember that. So who am I opening for?'

'You know these events, William. They’re not name in lights occasions, but they have the benefit of equality, there’s no headline act.'

'OK, am I on first or second?'

'My understanding would be first.'

'So who am I preceding?'

'A fine duo known as The Divines.'

'Tell me they’re mind-readers and not strippers.'

'They’re billed as erotic dancers.'

'Really pitching me high, Richard, support act to a pair of lap-dancers.'

'Don’t knock it, William. I’ve seen these girls, they need a lot of support if you get my drift.'

'What’s the bottom line?'

'Peachy, you could write a symphony about their bottom lines.'

I was beginning to understand why Richard had so few female artistes on his books.

'What’s my fee?'

'Two-fifty. Hey, who knows, maybe you could buddy up with the girls for the night?

Make some of their clothes disappear?'

'A real novelty act.'

Down the line more smoke was sucked into lungs.

'Don’t be so bloody Scottish. Tell you what, if you get laid I’ll waive my ten percent.'

I said, 'You’re a prince, Richard.'

And heard his laugh collapse back into coughs as I hung up the receiver.

That evening a bomb scare on the tube shut down main stations and the flatmate of the girl who filled in as my occasional assistant informed me that Julie had got a proper acting job. When I asked her if she fancied taking over instead she’d laughed and said, 'After the stories Julie told me? You must be joking,' and hung up still laughing.

I wondered if I could get a volunteer from the audience, but half-cut coppers waiting for a skin act didn’t seem promising recruitment material. Hurtling beneath the city in a carriage, pressed amongst jaded commuters who would rather take their chances than be rerouted and nervous tourists bracing themselves for an explosion, my mind drifted towards the dog track. A quick change of underground line and I could be there in time to place a bet on the third race. There was a young dog in the running that I fancied, it was untested enough to have high odds, but could do well if the conditions were right. I was onto a sure two-twenty-five from the gig once Richard had shaved his commission off the top, but if luck was on my side I could win a lot more. I thought about the money I owed my bookie and the demand for rent that the landlord had slipped under the door that morning after he’d got tired of battering on it. Next time he’d send one of his sons with a key and a couple of helpers to give me a hand shifting my gear onto the street.

We pulled into the station where I needed to switch line if I was going to abscond and I almost got to my feet, but I’d never missed a show to go gambling yet. Only addicts took a bet on their job.

The club turned out to be a private members’ place in Soho. I found the street, walked three blocks, then realised I’d overshot it and had to retrace my steps. The entrance was at street level, an anonymous green door with no sign or brass plate to distinguish it, just a number beside an unmarked buzzer. I pressed the buzzer and somewhere in the building a mechanical droning announced my presence.

There was a brief pause, then a bustling beyond the door and a Judas hole slid back with a crack. A pair of green eyes painted with emerald glitter and fringed by false eyelashes appeared behind a tiny wrought-iron grill. They stared at me unblinking, like an exotic anchorite.

I said, 'Joe sent me.' And the Judas hole slammed shut. When it became clear that the door wasn’t going to open I buzzed again. This time when the hatch slid back I gave my name and when that got no response added, 'I’m the conjurer.'

'The what?'

The voice was cockney, younger than I’d expected and full of scorn. I gave her the benefit of the William Wilson grin and said, 'The magician.'

The eyes looked me up and down, and found me wanting. The voice said. 'That’s funny, I thought you were a bloody comedian.' And buzzed me in.

'You’re late.'

The door led straight into a tiny entrance hallway divided by a counter into a reception and cloakroom. Black carpet ran across the floor, ceiling and walls. A harsh neon strip revealed fag burn melts and ooze between the jet pile. I guessed a TV design guru wouldn’t approve, but once the lights were down it would suit the musty come-alive-at-night feel of the place.

The green eyes belonged to a large pale girl, squeezed into a red and black dress whose lace-up bodice was losing the struggle to control her bosoms. She was the kind of girl old gentlemen like to pinch: ripe and big, with skin that fitted like skin should. Once you got past the hardness of her stare she’d be a fine pillow against the world. Her hair was a mass of white-gold curls, piled high and tumbling on the top of her head. A soft blush of down brushed her cheek. The overall effect was voluptuous, blowsy and somehow Victorian. My grandmother would have called her a strumpet, but I thought she looked too good for this place.

The girl lifted a flap on the counter and put it between her and me.

I smiled and asked, 'All on your own?'

I was aiming for avuncular, but it sounded like a line that Crippen might have used.

The girl ignored me and switched on the Tiffany lamp on the counter, then started to dim the overheads.

'What’s in the case?'

'My props.'

'Have you got a rabbit?'

'Aye, but he’s invisible.'

She gave me a disgusted look that suddenly revealed the teenager beneath the makeup.

'Bill’s upstairs chatting up the tarts.'

I guessed she was used to creeps and thought of saying something to show her I wasn’t one of them, but couldn’t come up with anything other than, 'Maybe I should go and introduce myself.'

She shrugged with a look that said she expected nothing less and pointed towards a set of swing doors.

'Changing rooms are through the bar and up the stairs.'

The bar was a larger, more dimly lit version of the foyer. A disco light bounced a coloured spectrum half-heartedly against the walls and from somewhere an eighties chart hit, that I dimly remembered from a stint I’d done at a holiday camp in Kos, was blasting across a tiny dance floor. A few men who looked too serious to consider dancing sat drinking at dimpled copper tables. I might be late, but the party wasn’t swinging. They dropped their voices and followed me with their eyes as I passed. They would be hard men to entertain, hard men full stop. I gave them a nod and they kept their gaze level, each man’s stare a mirror of his companion’s even look. I thought of a school of fish, each in tune with the other, slipping as one through a dark ocean. I wondered if Rich had meant two-fifty before or after his cut. I always forgot to ask.

At first glance Bill looked vintage doorman. Broad-shouldered, squat-nosed and tuxedoed. He was leaning against a dressing-table, arms folded, long legs crossed. The door to the room was half-closed but I could see two slim girls reflected in the mirror behind him, one Asian, the other a Jean Harlow blonde. The blonde girl was the shorter of the two, but they looked strikingly alike, monochrome sisters, hair styled into the same short curly bob, jeans and T-shirts not identical but similar enough to be interchangeable. I was no connoisseur of ballet, but I thought I might be able to tolerate watching them dance.

Bill leaned back slowly, giving me a good glimpse of his long profile, and said in a public school mockney that made me suspect he’d got his broken nose at a hunt meeting, '…

everyone has a good time’.

I banged my case against the banister to avoid hearing the rest of his instructions and he pushed open the door gently with the toe of his smart black shoe, revealing a quick flash of metal segs. The toe was slim, but I suspected it would be steel capped.

Bill’s move was smooth and unhurried but his expression flashed from smile to wary then to smile again as he spotted first me, then my equipment case with its motif of gold stars, and guessed who I was.

'Mr Magic, we were just wondering when you’d appear.'

'We thought you might come in a puff of smoke,' cut in the blonde girl.

I said, 'There’s time yet.'

And we all laughed.

Bill straightened up with the elegance of a sneak thief.

'Meet Shaz,' he put his arm around the Asian girl’s waist, 'and Jacque.' His free arm snaked around the small blonde. Bill squeezed his captives who staggered slightly on their high heels. He smiled. 'Lovely. Well I guess we should leave you ladies to powder your noses.'

He kissed them twice, continental style, then closed the door gently behind him and fished out a white hanky, absently wiping his mouth before folding it back into a perfect triangle and returning it to his breast pocket. He held his hand out to me.

'Mr Williams.'

'Wilson.' I didn’t like the way he’d wiped the feel of the girls’ flesh from his lips. I wondered if he would wash my handshake from his palm. I thought I might his.

'Mr Wilson,' he let the emphasis hang on my name as if he was amused I’d bothered to correct him. Letting me know it didn’t matter to him who I was, or perhaps that in his world one name served as well as another. 'The girls have commandeered our only dressing room, but there’s a few cubby holes on offer if you need to change or,' he paused, smiling,

'fix your makeup.'

'Are you trying to tell me my mascara’s run?' He gave me a quick sharp look, then laughed. 'I’d appreciate somewhere to go through my props.'

Bill showed me into a shabby bedroom equipped with two single beds draped with orange and brown floral covers and polyester valances that had long lost their bounce. He leant against the doorjamb. Leaning in doorways seemed to be Bill’s thing. He watched as I laid the suitcase on one of the beds and unfastened its clasp.

'You based in London, Mr Wilson?'

'Ealing.'

'Travel much?'

'When required.' Bill might just be making casual conversation or he might be looking for a travelling man to deliver a parcel or two. I set a pack of playing cards on the bed and changed the subject. 'So how’s business? Club keeping you busy?'

'Busy enough. Keeps me out of mischief. Speaking of which,' he turned to go, 'anything I can get you before I start mingling with the invited guests?'

'I could manage a white wine.' I slapped my stomach. 'I’m on a bit of a health kick.'

Bill smiled.

'I’ll have a bottle sent up.'

I turned back to my case. In truth there was nothing I needed to do to prepare, but Bill still lingered in the doorway.

'A word of warning on tonight.' I looked back at him. 'These guys are here for the booze and the girls, for most of them you’re an unexpected bonus.'

'Nice to know you think I can improve on booze and girls.'

Bill’s smile looked like a threat.

'The inspector who’s retiring is nicknamed the Magician. I think you’re more in the way of an in-joke.'

'Good to be in.'

'Just remember this isn’t a kid’s birthday party. If I were you I’d keep it short and snappy.'

'Don’t worry, I know my place.'

'Good, always best to make sure everyone understands each other. I reckon they’ll be ready in about half an hour, so take all the time you need.'

'As long as it’s short of thirty minutes.'

Bill smiled.

'We don’t want people getting impatient.'

I’d expected the door girl to bring up the wine, but when the knock came it brought a familiar face.

'Sam?'

'The one and only.' Sam Rosenswest smiled. He slid himself and a tray holding two glasses, a corkscrew and a bottle of white wine into the room. 'How you doing?'

'Great.' I got to my feet and slapped him on the back. 'Good to see you, man.'

'Hey!' Sam raised the tray in the air, like a ship’s waiter serving through a squall.

'Watch the merchandise.'

I pushed the lamp on the small bedside table to one side and Sam settled the tray in the gap. 'So how are you?'

Sam started to work the corkscrew into the bottle’s cork and grinned.

'Never better.'

'Nice threads.'

He glanced at his suit.

'Yeah well,' Sam pulled the cork from the bottle and poured us each a glass. 'When in Rome.' He handed me my drink. 'How about you, William? Still a slave to the gee-gees?'

'You know me, always the animal lover.'

He shook his head.

'I’m not sure following form quite qualifies you as St Francis. Won’t keep you warm at night neither. You want to quit all that and get yourself hooked up with a nice bird.'

'That’s good advice coming from you.'

Sam grinned.

'You know what I mean. How’s old Fagin? You seen him lately?'

'He set me up with tonight.'

'Aha.' He sat down on the single bed opposite me and took a sip of his drink. 'That’s where you’re wrong. You’ve got old Sam-I-Am to thank for this particular box of tricks.'

'Yeah?' I tried to look grateful. 'Rich didn’t say anything.'

'Well he wouldn’t would he? Wants to make sure of his 10 per cent, greedy sod.'

'Cheers, Sam.' I raised my glass in a toast, then put it to my lips and took a sip. Its cheap sourness cut through the chill. 'Thanks.'

'No worries, you and me go way back.'

'And…?'

Sam laughed.

'You may not be a whizz with girls and horses…'

'You can add dogs to that.'

'Ah, William.' Sam shook his head, looking like a priest caught between sorrow at the sin and the satisfaction of being able to squeeze a few more ‘Our Fathers’ from the sinner.

'Despite all your weaknesses, when it comes down to it, there’s no flies on you. OK there might be a bit more to tonight than meets the eye. But you just sit tight and it’ll all come out cushty.'

Sam was a young comic who had also been under Rich’s tough love care. We’d spent a long summer season together until he’d decided he could do better under new management. I’d not seen him for a year, maybe longer. In that time he’d grown leaner, but in a sleek way. He chinked my glass and knocked back the last of his wine.

'I’d better shift myself. Bill’s got a jealous streak. He’s already suspicious about why I suggested you.'

'You mean you and him…?'

'Yeah,' Sam’s face lit up. 'You wouldn’t think it to look at him would you?'

'No, you wouldn’t.'

'Yep, he’s a mean queen-killing machine. For me to so much as look at a bloke is to condemn him to a cement overcoat.'

'Maybe you should open the door then, let him see there’s nothing to worry about.'

Sam laughed.

'Your face, William. Don’t worry. I’m just having you on. Now he’s seen you he won’t be worried.'

'What do you mean?'

Sam got to his feet and moved to the door.

'That’s what I love about you William, always able to laugh at yourself. I’ll catch you after the show eh? Bill likes me to stay in the wings when he’s got business on, but we’ll grab a drink, the three of us, when you’ve done your set.' He gave me a last grin and I thought I could see a new, tougher Sam beneath the comic I’d known. It was hard to imagine this new shiny version bothering to parry some of the heckling I’d seen the old Sam spar with. He said, 'Don’t let me down. I gave you a big build.' Then shut the door gently behind him.

I sat for a moment, after Sam’s footsteps had faded down the stairs, wondering what I had got myself into. Then I took the bottle by the neck, slipped into the hallway and tapped at the door of the girls’ dressing room. A female voice said, 'Oh, for fuck’s sake!'

There was the sound of another woman laughing then the Asian girl opened the door. I held up the bottle of wine.

'I thought you might fancy a wee drink.'

Shaz leaned in the doorway, her left hip jutting towards me, right arm swinging the door slowly against her body.

'We’ve got our own thanks.'

Through the slim gap I could see the blonde sitting at the dressing-table, intent on her reflection. Both girls were wrapped in long cotton dressing gowns, their makeup bright and showgirl thick. The door started to close on Shaz’s smile. I slid a foot into the room, and her smile died. She said in a calm voice, 'Jacque, will you phone down to the bar and tell them we’ve got a wanker up here?'

Jacque looked up from the dressing-table. I held a hand up in surrender, but kept my foot where it was.

'No, look, don’t, I’ve got a proposition for you.'

Jacque’s voice was weary.

'In case you haven’t noticed we’ve got all the work we need right now, love.'

'That’s right,' the other girl was calm but there was an edge to her voice that had been absent before. 'We’re going to have our hands full.'

'It’ll be an easy score for one of you.'

'There’s no such thing, mate.'

'Oh, ask him what he wants Shaz.'

I looked beyond the gatekeeper at the girl in the mirror.

'Purely business.'

She kept her gaze on her reflection; concentrating on pencilling a beauty spot on her left cheekbone, level with the corner of her eye. She frowned at the pressure of the pencil against her skin.

'Nothing up your sleeve?'

I smiled and pulled back my cuffs.

'See for yourself.'

She gave her reflection one last look, then put down the pencil and swivelled round in her seat. Her face looked sharper than the image in the mirror, or perhaps she was getting tired of our conversation.

'Just ask him in, Shaz.'

Shaz bit her lip.

'As long as he understands whatever he wants it’ll cost. We’re not here for charity.'

'I think he knows that.'

'Of course I do.'

The tall girl leaned back, leaving me a narrow space. I slid by, ignoring the warmth of her body beneath the fabric of her robe.

If I hadn’t known that we were all hired for one night only I might have thought that the girls had inhabited their dressing-room for weeks. The flex of a set of hair tongs snaked through bottles of makeup, a slick of foundation pooled on the scarred dressing-table. An almost empty bottle of white wine and two glasses sat amongst the debris. Their discarded outdoor clothes lay bundled on the bed. A white envelope stuffed with notes jutted from the pocket of a sports bag. It looked like they were on a better rate than me, but then they were the main act while I was just an in-joke.

Shaz closed the door then leaned against a paint-chipped radiator on the far wall, keeping her eyes on me. I made a brushing gesture to my nose and after a moment’s hesitation she glanced in the mirror and dusted away the frosting of white powder that lingered round her nostrils, breathing in sharp, as if trying to inhale any stray grains that had caught in the air.

'You know that’s the Old Bill down there?'

She resumed her position, her expression blank. 'What’s it to do with you?'

'As little as possible.'

The other girl glanced at me through the mirror, stroking a fluffy pink makeup brush against her cheekbone.

'The Old Bill sent young Bill up with it.'

The tall girl flashed her a sharp look and I wondered if they really were sisters.

I smiled.

'Very nice.'

Jacque turned back to the mirror, wetting her finger and smoothing an imagined ruffle in her eyebrow.

'Hadn’t you better tell us what it is you want?'

I opened my arms like an old-time ringmaster and said, 'Which one of you lovely ladies would like to be my assistant?'

Jacque laughed. Shaz shook her head then reached over and took the bottle from me, tilting it to her lips.

'You must be mad.' She passed it to Jacque, who tipped a measure into her glass. 'Bill would go crazy if we came down early. It’d spoil the big surprise.'

'Is he your manager then?'

The word ‘manager’ came out wrong and both girls shot me a frown. Jacque’s voice was flinty.

'We manage ourselves.'

'I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I’m in a bit of a bind. The trick I want to do relies on the help of a lovely lady and the audience seems to consist entirely of ugly coppers, so there’s no point in asking for a volunteer.'

The blonde girl aimed a weary look at me.

'You rely on a pair of tits to stop the punters noticing if you make a balls-up?'

'Not quite how I would have put it…'

'But, yes?'

'Glamour’s an element of the show, yes.'

'Ask chubby downstairs, I bet she’ll do it for fifty.'

Shaz laughed.

'She’d do it for twenty.'

Shaz giggled again when I asked if they were related and put her arm around the blonde girl, posing as if they were about to have a portrait painted.

'You might not have noticed, but we look a bit different from each other. Ebony and ivory together, sometimes in harmony.'

She ruffled the blonde girl’s curls and I thought maybe I understood what they were to each other.

'Hey, multiethnic Britain, no reason why you couldn’t be related.'

'Only through drink.'

Jacque slapped Shaz’s hand lightly and set to repairing her hair. I gave the room a last glance, taking in the scattered clothes and makeup, the rumpled bed with its tired candlewick and said, 'If you ladies want to make a quick escape I’d recommend you pack up your gear and leave it at the door.'

Shaz had started painting her nails the same flame red as her lipstick. She looked up at me.

'Don’t worry. You may be the magician, but there’s not much you could teach us about vanishing acts.'

I could tell from the rumble of male voices that reached me as I went down the stairs that the lounge had grown busier. I searched out the door girl; it turned out her name was Candy, though I doubt she’d been christened that. The girls had been right. She was eager to help me in a surly kind of way. I explained what I wanted her to do, then went back through to the lounge. Bill wasn’t the only one required to mingle with the invited guests.

The disco lights glowed hazily through the sheets of cigarette smoke that shelved the air. The room smelt of alcohol, testosterone and sweat. There were about twenty of them.

They’d ignored the booths that lined the walls, choosing to congregate in the centre of the room, knotting together like a fragile alliance that da break ranks for fear of treachery.

I sloped over to the bar, ordered a double malt and looked for Bill. I soon spotted him talking to a small man seated at a centre table. Bill was angled away from me, but he had the peripheral vision of a sniper. He turned and met my look, holding up three fingers, indicating he’d be with me soon. I nodded and raised my glass to my lips, letting the whisky do its slow burn down my throat, surveying the crowd.

A casual observer would have got an impression of cohesion, a solidarity of spirit. But as I slid amongst them the divisions started to come into view like the fractures in a jigsaw.

They showed in the tilt of the men’s bodies, a half-turned back, the block of a shoulder.

Their clannishness crossed age boundaries, but it showed in the style of their dress, the cut of their hair.

Near the centre of the room was a tight knot of dark business suits, the type you see crushed into the tube early in the morning reading copies of the Telegraph, though commuters generally had fewer buzz cuts and broken noses. Grouped around them were louder tables where the camaraderie seemed stronger. These guys were quickest to their feet with the fresh rounds. Their colour was higher, cheeks shinier. These were the ones to watch, men out of their depth who wore their smart casuals with the self-consciousness of people used to wearing a uniform. I spotted a glass or two making their way from them to the suits. The exchange seemed one way, but perhaps I’d just missed the reciprocating rounds. Furthest from the centre tables were the men I labelled serpico wannabees. These guys were dressed with a scruffy trendiness that spelt money. Their laughter had a superior edge. If I had walked into a bar in a strange town and seen this assemblage, I would have gone in search of somewhere else to drink.

The room had gone from silent to the edge of boisterous. I had a special routine for macho crowds. An unfunny string of jokes Richard had encouraged me to buy as an investment from one of his down-on-their-luck comics. I hated them, smutty schoolboy gags that no one finds funny but everyone laughs at, all lads together. I silently rehearsed, then amused myself by deciding which line of crime these men would be best suited to.

The man sipping lager near my left would be perfect old-time bank robber material. No finesse, just a sawn-off shotgun and a stare that said he was mad enough to use it. The sly-faced weasel next to him would surely be a pickpocket. The broad-shouldered grunt behind Bill’s companion would be ideal for strong-arm stuff. I identified conmen and drug dealers, pimps and burglars, then turned my mind to the man Bill was talking to. He was compact for a policeman, surely just within the height regulations. Mid-fifties, dressed in a slate-grey suit, with a blue shirt and a pink tie that matched his eyes. What would he be? It was obvious. The Boss, the mild-mannered gang leader who wore conservative suits, drank VSOP brandy and executed his enemies with a nod of the head.

Bill began making his way towards me, shaking hands, squeezing shoulders, smiling a crocodile smile that was all teeth. He patted me somewhere near my elbow in a gesture an anthropologist would probably describe as dominating, then offered me another drink.

'No thanks, one helps, two hinders.'

'Maybe afterwards then.'

I wanted to escape before the girls started their act, but I smiled and said, 'If you like.

So who’s the birthday boy?'

'Detective Inspector Montgomery, the man I was talking to. Him and my dad went way back, he made himself useful at a difficult time.' Bill smiled dryly. 'I used to call him Uncle Monty, so I’ve got a personal interest in his send-off.'

'Young to be put out to pasture.'

'Law enforcement pays.' Bill smiled knowingly. He drained his drink, putting the empty glass on the bar. 'They’ve had their official party with wives and , testimonials and all that stuff. Tonight’s the real celebration. Just go with it.' I nodded and Bill smiled, satisfied I was cool with whatever was going to happen. 'Right, let’s get the music turned off and give you a big build.'

'Why not?'

Bill nodded to the barman. 'Crowther, switch that racket off.'

Crowther was already busying himself freshening Bill’s glass. He hesitated, unsure of which order to obey first, then did them both at once, laying the drink on the counter with one hand and killing the sounds with the other. Bill ignored him, turning the swizzle stick in his brandy and soda.

'Remember, keep it brief. Forty-minute set max — thirty would be better.'

He took a last slug of his drink and made his way towards the small dais to present me.

There was no calling for attention, no tinkling of teaspoons on glasses. Bill just stood there and the room grew quiet. I glanced at Montgomery. His face wore a small smile. The kind Stalin was reputed to wear after a good week. Bill’s voice cut through the silence.

'Gentlemen, this is a special evening, the retirement of James Montgomery, one of the finest police officers it has been my pleasure to know, and I’m sure yours to work with.'

There were murmurs of agreement and Hear hears from the men at the tables. A couple of those near to Montgomery leaned over and patted him on the back. Montgomery nodded, whatever his attributes modesty wasn’t one of them. I wondered how sincere Bill was, why he was giving the address and not one of the squad.

'I know you had a posh gathering on Wednesday with the Chief Constable, so you’ll have heard your quota of speeches for a while.'

There was laughter at this. Someone shouted, too true.

'So tonight for your delectation and entertainment we have The Divines.' There was a cheer from the audience and the sound of deep nervous laughter from some of the men. Bill held up his hand for silence. 'A pair of very beautiful young…’ he hesitated as if searching for the right word. 'Dancers.' More laughter. 'But before we meet them we have a very special guest. It’s well known that Inspector Montgomery is a worker of wonders. Indeed, he’s got so many illusive convictions he’s been christened the Magician. So, in tribute to Inspector Montgomery’s well-earned retirement I’d like to ask you to put your hands together for William Wilson, mentalist and magician.'

Half-hearted clapping scattered across the room and suddenly I thought that maybe I should start doing kids’ parties. At least some of them might believe in magic. There was a fraction of hesitation, then the barman put on the CD I’d given him and mysterioso music drifted across the room. I walked up onto the stage and stood there silently for a moment with my head bowed, hands folded in front of me, letting the soundtrack do the work, then slowly raised my eyes, keeping my stare level, my mouth serious, wishing I had a lovely assistant to flash her legs and take some of the heat off me. The music died and I cast my gaze across the room, grave as Vincent Price’s Van Helsing revealing the presence of vampires.

'Welcome.' I paused, making eye contact with as many of the audience as I could.

'Gentlemen, there are mysteries beyond our control, wonders that even the greatest scientists are powerless to explain. Tonight I am going to look into the unknown and explore some of these strange and perplexing phenomena.' The crowd stayed silent, I stepped off the dais and approached a thin man sitting towards the front of the gathering.

'Sir, would you mind standing up for me please?' The man got to his feet. He was tall and lank, with receding hair and a good-natured drink-fuddled face.

'What’s your name, sir?'

'Andy.'

'Nice to meet you Andy.' I shook his hand, staring him in the eyes and slyly unfastening his watch. 'Let me ask you Andy, do you believe that there are powers we don’t understand?'

'I believe in the DPP.'

The crowd laughed and I smiled indulgently.

'I see that you’re a married man, Andy.'

He nodded unimpressed.

'How did I know that?'

He held up his left hand with its gold marriage band.

'Quite right, the powers of observation.' I smiled round the room, giving him his moment of reassurance, then raised my voice. 'But this evening I am going to reveal to you things that the powers of observation would be powerless to divulge.' I made my tone more conversational. 'Andy, I would imagine that in your profession well-developed powers of observation are essential?'

Andy nodded.

'That’s true.'

'A good memory for a face?'

He nodded again.

'I believe so.'

'Have we ever met before?'

He shook his head slowly, cautious as a man on a witness stand.

'Not to my knowledge, no.'

'You’ve never arrested me?'

'Not to my recollection.'

'So you would be surprised if I could guess your rank?'

He shrugged.

'Possibly.'

'Come a little closer would you please, Andy?' The man looked around at the audience smiling. I said, 'Don’t worry, the force is with you.' And he stepped forward an inch. 'May I place my hand on your shoulder?' He hesitated and I stage-whispered, 'No need to be coy.'

The audience laughed, the volunteered man gave a brief nod and I reached up, resting my hand gently on his right shoulder. 'I would say, Andy,' — ‘that you are’ — I paused again —

‘a sergeant.' I removed my hand and he nodded to the crowd, who gave me a brief scatter of applause. I bowed, keeping my expression restrained. 'I suppose that’s vaguely impressive.

But maybe I could guess that from your age and the fact that you look fairly intelligent. So let me go a little further.' There was an ooooh from the audience. The man stepped back, clowning a slight mince. The men at his table laughed and I shook my head in mock exasperation. 'Calm yourself, Sergeant. I’ve told you that you’re married, but as you’ve confirmed we’ve never met before so there’s no way I could tell you the name of your wife.'

A voice came from the audience. Not unless you saw it written on the wall of the gents.

Andy shouted, 'Oi, watch it.' Taking the joke in good part.

I held up my hand for order.

'I see a good-looking woman …’ The crowd ooohed obligingly again and I traced an S in the air, making it sexy like the cartoon outline of a woman’s body. 'Her name is… Sarah…

no not Sarah, something similar, Suzie… Suze… Susannah.' The man’s face was pleasingly bemused. He nodded and the crowd clapped. I held up my hand, silencing them. 'You have children… two lovely daughters… Hai… Hail… Hailey and Re-e-e-e-Rebecca.' Andy was smiling now, nodding his head to the room. Again the applause and again I held my hands up to stop them. 'You also have a dog?' This was dodgy, dogs die more often than the wife and kids, but the group photo I’d lifted from his wallet with the names of its subjects obligingly written on the back in neat pen looked pretty recent. Andy nodded. 'Your dog is called …’ I hesitated a beat beyond the audience’s expectation and the room grew still, half-hoping I’d make it, half-hoping I’d fail. 'Your dog is called, 'Peeler!'

'The small audience erupted into applause and I bowed, relieved to find policemen as gullible as the rest. 'How’re we doing for time, Sergeant?'

Andy looked at his wrist, and then looked at me.

'Has anyone got the time?' There was a confusion of murmurs as the men I’d selected each noticed their missing wristwatches. 'Ach, it’s fine, I’ve got it here.'

I pulled up my left cuff to reveal the half-dozen watches fastened round my wrist. As things go, they were a good audience. I fed them more facts from filched wallets, keeping the action brief and cheeky, then kicked into the finale.

'Now, I know you’re keen to see The Divines.' There was a stamping of feet and a jungle-drumming of hands against tables. 'Let me assure you they are most definitely divine. But first I’ve got another young lady I’d like you to meet. Welcome to the lovely, the delicious, the truly scrumptious Miss Candy Flossy.'

Candy slunk in doing her best impersonation of a vamp. She would have looked prettier if she’d smiled, but she was doing me a favour. I grabbed her by the hips, putting myself behind her bulk and doing a leer over her shoulder for the benefit of the audience.

'Candy’s agreed to help me out.'

There were a few wolf whistles and catcalls.

You can help me out anytime love.

You can touch my truncheon.

Feel my new extending baton.

Try on my handcuffs.

Play with my helmet.

And I thought that perhaps they weren’t such a pleasant audience after all.

There are many ways to cut a lady in half. If you have the resources you can fashion jazzy coffins fixed with bewilderments and employ a girl who can contort herself so well it’s a waste to put her in a box. But my brand of the effect relied on a not-so-innocent-looking buzz-saw of the type you might see in an old-fashioned sawmill. It was an appearance of mere penetration where others managed dismemberment. But the kind of audiences I entertained were amused by it.

I steeled a serious tone to my voice and said, 'My final trick is so dangerous that only a very few members of the magic circle are initiated into its secrets. Should my concentration be disturbed at any point during its execution,' Candy shuddered and I put my hand on her shoulder, 'this young lady might lose one of her lovely limbs,' I hooked the hem of Candy’s dress with my wand and slid it upwards. She smacked my hand away before I’d revealed more than her calves. I gave the wand an impatient slap. 'I’m sorry. My wand has a life of its own. But I’m sure you’ll agree, gentlemen, that any injury to these fine pins would be a tragedy.' There was a gallant rumble of agreement from the tables. 'Therefore I’m going to ask you for silence while we prepare to amaze you.'

They were men more used to giving directions than receiving them, but they quietened down a little, the drinkers at the bar lowering their voices as they gave their orders to the barman.

I dipped them a brief bow, then made a show of pulling the saw’s fake chain, at the same time surreptitiously pressing the button that started the sound effect. The noise was as deafening as a motorbike stripped of its silencer. I’d warned Candy, but she took a step back. A show of nervousness was good, but only if she didn’t bolt. I grasped her firmly her by the arm and hissed, 'Remember what I told you, it’s all show.'

The big girl’s breasts quivered, she glanced towards the bar and Bill gave her a nod.

She whispered. 'You promise it won’t hurt?'

'Do you really think I’m going to slice you in two in front of the filth? No, course not.

It’s all smoke and mirrors sweetheart.' Candy winced, but she let me sit her on the table then swung her legs up, modestly holding her skirt to her, but still revealing a flash of fishnets that drew some whistles from the audience as she sank slowly onto her back. I thought I saw tears trembling in her eyes. I gave her a wink and locked a small box around her waist, turning to the policemen and shouting over the noise, 'Those of you who do a lot of shift work might like to know that this doubles as a chastity belt.' I started to move the saw, knowing that from their angle it would look like I was cutting through the girl. Candy’s eyes were leaking now, but her smile was a little braver. I twisted my face, trying to look like the kind of crazed personality that might indeed saw a woman in half, but ran a finger reassuringly down her waist. I let the saw complete its journey then did an evil, heh, heh, heh to the audience. Candy looked up at me, unsure whether it was working. I winked again willing her to keep silent.

There was a wave of applause and then the catcalls started.

I know which end I’d like.

Come round to my place and do that to the Missis, that’s the only half of her I need.

Naw, mine’s talks out of her arse anyway.

I unlatched the box, grabbed a giant silk flag painted with red and black flames, shielded Candy with it while she detached herself from the equipment and got to her feet. I waved the flag three times and forced her into a bow.

'Shit, he’s put her back together again,' said a boozy voice from somewhere in the audience.

I slipped twenty quid into her hand and she went off to tend to her coats, while I took a final bow.

Bill slid into a booth with a good view of the dance floor. I slipped in opposite him with my back to the action. The mirror angled on the wall above Bill’s head caught the room in a convex swirl, flinging it back in a distorted haze of lights and colour. I sipped my drink. A Middle Eastern beat that was all drums and pipes started up. Bill put his glass down and looked beyond me towards the stage.

'You been looking forward to this?'

I shrugged and wondered where Sam had got to. Whatever hopes I’d had of catching the last race of the night were lost.

Two tall black shadows glided across the floor. At first I couldn’t make out what they were. Perhaps the audience were confused too, they had fallen quiet, the men at the bar no longer keeping stiff-faced Crowther busy with a barrage of rounds.

Bill laughed. 'Christ, we’re going to have a fatwa on our hands.'

He shook his head, amused, looking confident of his ability to stave off any attack. The shadows slid into focus and I realised that Shaz and Jacque had draped themselves in burkahs. They stood nun-black, with just a mesh of fabric to see through, swaying with the music, twirling round in a dance that looked traditional, but was probably made up. It was impossible to see what their bodies were doing beneath the robes, but I bet it would be lithe and smooth. The only part of them uncovered was their feet, tripping soft and dainty against the dance floor.

Together the girls raised their right hands and with a delicate move unhooked the grilles that veiled their eyes. The sparkles glistering from the makeup that jewelled their eyelids caught the light, even flashing into our dull corner. Shaz’s was pure emerald, Jacque’s switched between sapphire and diamond. For the first time since the pair had stepped onto the stage the men made a noise, a low cheer.

The girls danced on as if alone, swirling the burkahs, though now I suspected these were of thinner material than standard. They floated above the girls’ ankles, revealing painted toenails beneath black mesh and anklets of silver that clinked and trembled with each step.

Bill glanced at his watch, then suddenly, as if the girls sensed the audience’s attention was wavering, they reached out, each grabbing the other’s dark garment by the hips. There was a slight pause, a hesitation of Velcro and the dancers’ legs were revealed, smooth and stockinged, diamanté garters competing with their eyes in the sparkle stakes.

The men roared. Bill took a drag of his cigarette and turned away from the dance floor.

'Not quite what I expected.'

I nodded towards the group of policemen.

'They seem to be enjoying it well enough.'

'That’s the main thing.'

In the mirror above his head the girls twirled some more, their veiled faces and covered bodies incongruous against the flesh of their exposed thighs shimmying above the dark stocking tops.

Bill seemed to have lost interest.

'You were better than I expected.'

'Cheers, but you weren’t seeing me at my best.'

'Even better then.'

Out on the dance floor Shaz had torn Jacque’s top off to reveal a black brassiere, beaded fringes all a-twinkle. Jacque did a shimmy to the audience that made her bosoms shiver, then turned to her friend and returned the favour. Shaz’s bra was identical but silver-white. Their act was tacky, but it worked.

I said, 'It’s tacky but it works.'

Bill made a face, 'I guess you could call it tacky, but I thought you had something, with the right girl you might get somewhere.' He looked back at the dancers. Jacque had wet her finger and placed it on Shaz’s thigh. She drew it back quickly as if scalded. 'Let’s face it, you’d get nowhere lumbered with that fat tart.'

'She was OK.'

'She looks all right now, but those pale blondes wash out pretty quick.' The girls were playing with the front fastenings of their bras now, teasing the crowd. Jacque leaned into the ringside table and let a burly man unclip hers. Her breasts fell forward and she rubbed them teasingly across his baldpate. 'I watched you boosting those guys’ watches. You’ve got nimble digits there. Ever get you in trouble?'

'Once or twice, as a kid.'

'No convictions though?'

'I learned to make it work for me.'

'All the same, you were taking a chance with these coppers.'

'You think so?'

'No, not really, but you know what they can be like, there’s some touchy buggers amongst them.'

'You get an instinct for them in my game.'

Bill took a sip of his drink.

'I suppose you do. It’s amazing how you know things.'

'It’s just a trick Bill.'

'I realise that… but all the same. You were spot on every time. Maybe there’s more to the trick than you think.'

It had happened before, people mistaking dexterity and good observation for something else, but I hadn’t expected it from Bill. He passed me a cigar. We both lit up and sat silent in the smoke-scented gloom of the booth. Bill’s body was relaxed, his smile easy.

A careless observer might have thought us old friends having a casual conversation. I mirrored his calm pose and waited for him to get to the point.

Sam skirted the dance floor, keeping clear of the boisterous bevy of men and inserted himself into the booth beside Bill. He nodded towards The Divines.

'Very Tales of the Unexpected.'

Bill turned towards him.

'A bit arty for me.'

Sam raised his eyebrows in mock exasperation.

'There’s a surprise.' His face grew serious. 'Have you asked him yet?'

Bill paused like a man trying to make up his mind. I half expected Sam to cajole him, but there was a silence between the three of us almost as loud as the beat of the music and the laughter of the policemen. At last Bill sighed and put his cigar in the ashtray.

'There’s something I’d like to know.'

He played with his glass, not taking a sip from it, just looking into the brown liquid as if the answer might lie amongst the bubbles. Curiosity and the dangerous faint hope of an easy score kept me in my seat.

'Go on.'

'I’d like to know what Inspector Montgomery had on my dad.'

The sentence hung in the air, a bridge between Bill’s world and mine. A bridge I wasn’t sure I wanted to cross.

Eventually I said, 'So why don’t you ask him?'

'It’s not as simple as that.'

'Sorry to hear it.' I reached for my jacket. 'I’m in the entertainment game. Complicated isn’t my scene.'

'Hasty.'

Bill raised his index finger and I found myself hesitating.

Sam said, 'At least hear him out. If you don’t like what he says then no hard feelings.'

My half-finished drink sat on the table before me; the cigar Bill had given me still stretching tendrils of smoke into the air. I sighed.

'OK, go ahead.'

Bill’s smile was dry.

'Policemen and businessmen: it’s no secret that sometimes one hand washes the other.'

'Yet somehow no one gets clean.'

He shrugged.

'It’s ancient history now. My dad and Inspector Montgomery had an arrangement, as I said, Monty helped my dad out at a very difficult time; he owed him and old loyalties die hard.'

'So?'

'My dad died three months ago.'

'I’m sorry for your troubles.'

Bill took a sip of his drink.

'He was only sixty-eight. It was unexpected.'

'Natural causes?'

'You’re not in murder central now, Jock, this is civilisation. He had a heart attack. It was instant.'

'So where do I come in?'

Sam’s smile was tense. 'It’s really just a matter of…'

Bill interrupted him.

'You save me the unpleasantness of laying my hands on an elderly policeman.'

Bill ordered more drinks. Out on the dance floor the music had changed to an R’n’B

beat. The girls still had their stockings and panties on, but now they’d each equipped themselves with high heels and were stalking around the men waving purses in front of them, getting the audience to pay up if they wanted them to go further.

In the booth Sam said to Bill, 'William’s straight up. Tell him the whole story and he’ll help you out. Won’t you, William?'

I shrugged.

'See?' Sam smiled. 'I told you he was the boy for the job.'

Bill shook his head.

'What does it matter? We’ll be gone soon.' He took another puff of his cigar and resumed his story. 'I said that Monty and my dad went way back?' I nodded. 'Well, they didn’t like each other. In fact, I’d go as far as to say they hated each other’s guts, but they helped each other out. I asked my dad why once and he changed the subject. I assumed it was just business.' Bill gazed out over the dance floor, but I got the feeling he wasn’t seeing the half-naked girls still teasing the drunken policemen. 'Last week Monty shows me an envelope and says my dad paid a lot of money to keep its contents quiet. If I keep up the payments I can keep it quiet too.'

'So what was in it?'

Sam interrupted. 'He didn’t say.'

Bill gave Sam a stern look.

'He was enjoying himself. Said it was something my dad wouldn’t want me to know, but now that he was dead it was up to me to decide whether I wanted to or not.' Bill took a swig of his drink. 'My dad was no angel, but…'

'But you don’t think there would be anything diabolical in his past.'

Bill shrugged.

'We all do bad things. Who knows? But I don’t think so, no. He straightened out a lot after my mum went. He did what he had to do,' Bill glanced over to where Montgomery had Shaz on his knee. 'But my dad always knew where to draw the line.'

I looked for a telltale drunken glaze in Bill’s eye, but his grey gaze looked clear. I wondered why he was telling me all this.

'Maybe you should sleep on it.'

'This is the last night this place is open. I’ve sold it.' He grinned. 'I’m getting out, bought a yacht. Me and Sam are going to have a taste of the easy life before we decide what to do next. Tonight was meant to smooth the way. My dad had to duck and dive to make a living, but he gave me a good education and a good inheritance. I’m cutting old ties and that doesn’t mean sending some copper hush money every month, no matter how far him and my old man went back.'

'So buy it from him and burn it.'

'That’s one option.'

He looked at me.

Bill’s plan started to dawn but I said, 'Where do I come into all this?'

Sam said, 'It’s in the inside left-hand pocket of his suit jacket.'

I remembered Montgomery’s smile, sharp as a broken razor-blade and reached for my coat.

'I’m sorry gents, you picked the wrong conjurer.'

Sam’s voice was injured.

'Come on, William…'

Bill silenced him with a look.

'Leave it out Sam. He does it voluntary or not at all, that’s what we agreed.'

'But…'

Sam shot me a glance like a man betrayed, but Bill put his hand gently on top of his lover’s. His voice was soft.

'Get William a bottle of Moët from behind the bar would you, Sam? Help compensate him for his extra time.'

I said, 'There’s no need.'

Sam gave it one last try.

'Go on, William. I’ve seen you do harder than that. Think of it as a bet.'

Bill’s voice was harsh.

'Just get the champagne will you.' He paused and smoothed a bit of finesse into his tone. 'Please.'

Sam got to his feet and left the table without looking at me.

'Thanks for the drink and the cigar.' I pulled on my jacket. 'I don’t need any extra compensation. Good luck with your new life. I’d like to help, but I’ve got worries of my own.'

Bill glanced towards the bar, making sure Sam was out of earshot, then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the bundle of IOUs it had taken me months of hard losing to accumulate with my bookie. His voice was low and sympathetic, like a nurse about to stick a needle into a particularly tender portion of flesh. He said, 'Are any of them financial?'

Pick-pocketing is not as easy as some people would have you believe. The greatest defence is a crowd, where a little bit of physical contact won’t be unduly noticed, a packed subway or a busy lift. The second-best defence is distraction. Luckily for me the biggest distraction in the world was right in front of the inspector’s eyes, sex. Jacque made her way up to our booth, there was a slight stagger to her walk and I could see a glaze in her eyes that might have been drink, drugs, an attempt at detachment, or maybe all three. She shook the full-looking bag in front of us. It was all notes.

Bill said, 'Leave it out, Jacque.'

But I took out my wallet and dropped in a fifty.

'I’d like to buy Mr Montgomery a retirement present.'

Jacque tucked my fifty in tight with the rest.

'You could have saved your money, that lot out there have already paid for him.' She looked back over her shoulder. 'Ta all the same.'

Back on the dance floor there was a cheer as the girls peeled off the remnants of their costumes. They were shaved and vulnerable in amongst the suits and studied casualness of the men. Bill said, 'I guess this is where I leave you to get on with it. Sam and me’ll be upstairs in my office when you’re ready to deliver.'

Jacque and Shaz were on the floor, the men crowding round them now, shielding them from my view.

I asked, 'Will they be OK?'

Bill said, 'They’re whores. OK doesn’t come into it.' A second cheer went up. Jacque was standing in front of Montgomery, loosening his tie. The men beside him had pulled back. I watched the men’s eyes as Jacque worked her way down the Inspector’s body, sliding his tie between her legs. I finished my drink and made my way towards the bar as if in search of another. When I passed the knot of men I reached over and grabbed Jacque by the waist, pulling her towards me.

'Any chance of a private dance, doll?' Montgomery got to his feet as I’d hoped he would, pushing me to one side. I lurched to the right, still holding the sweat-slicked girl in my grip, and dipped his pocket, feeling the envelope, sliding it out quick and sure, tucked between my thumb and index finger, then crabbed it in my hand and conveyed it to my own pocket, pushing the naked girl towards him as I did so. 'Hey, no harm meant pal.' Making my accent thick and drink-addled.

One of the men gave me a shove, 'Stupid bloody Jock.' But the scene was quick to resume itself, Jacque flashing me a sharp confused look that might have spoken of suspicion or regret or perhaps just of disgust. I gave her the briefest of smiles, and then went to deliver my prize.

Glasgow

MY FIRST MONTHS back in Glasgow I never once let daylight touch my face. I slept more than seemed possible and woke groggy-eyed from half-remembered dreams. It wasn’t hard for me to hide during the day. Apart from those mornings when train timetables heaved me from my pit, unshaven and blinking, to stagger with my suitcase into the predawn, I’ve rarely ever left my bed before noon.

I perfected my practice method early in my career, around the age of nine, when I stumbled on The Boy’s Own Guide to Conjuring in the local library. I can still see the front cover of the book. A boy with dark hair cut in a side parting, dressed in a red school blazer and grey shorts, pulls a rabbit from a hat. On a table suspiciously swathed by a green cloth, reclines a copy of The Boy’s Own Guide to Conjuring. The boy on its cover is pulling the same rabbit from the same hat and the same book rests face up showing the same image, though it is more of a smudge now.

If I positioned the mirrors on my mother’s dressing-table at a particular angle I could achieve the same effect, myself repeated over and over into infinity. It gave me a strange feeling to see all of these other Williams shadowing my actions. I felt that when I stepped from the glass these other boys did the same and moved on in their own worlds where everything was an inverted image of mine and these Williams were the braves or bullies of their school.

It was a solitary pleasure. Every day when I got home I’d set the panes of the mirror at exactly the right angle, like a precocious teenage masturbator, then set to work. Under my command the army of other Williams stumbled through the same tricks until we had mastered one to perfection. I was the prince of illusion. And even though these doppelgängers might have been tougher or more popular in their worlds than I was in mine, in the world of mirrors it was my decrees that held sway.

In time, the reflection aged into a thirty-three-year-old trickster, standing before dead-eyed hotel mirrors murmuring the patter beneath his breath. Sometimes I’d forget to whisper and my voice would boom across the empty room and into the lifeless hotel corridor.

It was these practice sessions rather than companionship or money that I missed most in Glasgow, because, although I was used to making my fee stretch and sleeping alone in anonymous rooms, I never adjusted to abandoning the ritual of rehearsal.

The bedsit the taxi-driver had taken me to faced south; it would have got the afternoon light if it weren’t for the shadows cast by the building opposite. When I got there I resolved to stay put and think things out. But that very first night the walls started to close in on me like a torture chamber in a bad Hammer Horror movie and I found myself putting on my shoes and coat and setting out into the darkness.

I didn’t go far, a walk of a few blocks, counting the turnings, though I knew the way. I hesitated outside the Tron Theatre looking upwards at its spire, and for an instant thought I saw the form of a hanging man dangling from the window below its turret. It sagged there, still and dark beneath the pointed hat of the building. But perhaps I was just remembering that this was the district where they hanged criminals in the old days, because when I looked again there were nothing but shadows clinging to the walls.

I skirted the building, keeping my eyes on the pavement, then turned up a side street.

Across the road a tattoo parlour glowed iced-neon blue. I thought of my own tattoo. Four aces splayed above a laughing skull in a top hat. It had hurt like a napalm burn but I’d thought the pain worth it. Now I’d happily slice it off. I leaned against the aluminium grille that screened the door and reached into my jacket for my fags. Above my head a sign twirled Tattoo/Artist, Tattoo/Artist, Tattoo/Artist, then reached the peak of its revolutions, hesitated and twisted back in the opposite direction Artist/Tattoo, Artist/Tattoo, Artist/Tattoo.

Opposite, the glass front of the theatre bar shone into the street. I could see the audience crowding into the space. Even from here I could sense the halftime buzz, the disagreements and posturings as they discussed the show. For an instant I thought I glimpsed Sylvie amongst the crowd, but I’d grown used to such sightings and ignored the leap in my stomach. The girl turned and I saw the angle of her jaw was wrong, her face so different it seemed impossible I could have imagined any resemblance.

I was lighting my fag when a slim shadow edged into the doorway, blocking my exit. He was a thin spider of a lad, his jacket even older than mine, hair longer and danker; he stank of piss and neglect. We faced each other across the lighter’s glow and I wondered if I was looking at my future self, Old Scrooge meeting the ghost of Christmas future. I killed the flame and pulled out my cigarettes, offering him one to negate the image in my head. Then I ruined the effect by saying, 'Piss off son, I’m not looking for company.'

The boy took the cigarette impatiently, without thanks and slid it behind his ear. He reached towards me, gentling his nasal whine down till it was close to a keening. 'There’s a lassie round the corner does the business, thirty quid a time.'

'Fuck off.'

'She’s clean.'

His smell penetrated the nicotine. I took the lit cigarette from my lips and threw it to the pavement. Red flakes of ash scattered as it dropped towards the gutter. The junky watched it fall. I waited for him to bend towards the dowt, but he had the single-mindedness of a true scaghead. His eyes fixed mine; his hand touched the edge of my lapel in a tentative stroke.

'I’ll set you up with her for a fiver.'

'Fuck off.'

I shoved him away, but his hands were persistent, patting my body now with all the efficiency of a drunken border guard.

'Come on, mister.'

He was the first person to touch me in an age. His voice was soothing, coaxing.

Revulsion shivered through me, and this time my shove was harder. My only intention was to get him off me, but the boy was frail. He lost his footing and staggered backwards. For a second it seemed he might regain his balance, but then his heel slipped on the kerb, gravity won and he pitched backwards hitting his head against the cobbles with a gunshot crack that sounded across the street. I saw him lie still, felt a sickening realisation, then stepped towards him. My move was reflected across the road in the bright lights beyond the plate glass. In the mirror world of colour and warmth a girl stood up, pointing towards me. A man followed her aim, shook his head and raised his pint to his mouth.

I took a step towards the boy, leaned forward to feel his pulse, then heard a shout. The silhouettes of two policemen stood outlined against the bright lights of Argyle Street.

Suddenly I was on my feet and running, my boots clattering against the pavement. I glanced behind me just before I turned the corner, hoping I’d see the junky move, but seeing only one of the police bending over him and the other one haring towards me. I outran him so easily I guessed he wasn’t putting his whole effort into the chase.

For a week and a half I stuck to my room, only venturing down to the licensed grocers at the foot of the close for essentials. I lived on morning rolls, ham and crisps, washed down with milk or strong lager occasionally braced with blended whisky. The Evening Times was my oracle. I forced my way through drownings and arson, robberies and knifings. I knew of every murder and act of violence reported in the city. I dreaded sight of my crime, but was never relieved to find it absent.

Eventually the walls of my room started their old trick, shifting until they took on the proportions of a coffin. I decided there’d be more space in prison and ventured out, as nervous of a hand on my shoulder as a teenage shoplifter on their first spree.

It was a week before I saw him. A pathetic figure slumped in an Argyle Street doorway, the grey remnants of a hospital dressing still stuck to his head. He didn’t give me a glance until I shoved a tenner into his hand, then the look he gave me was pure love.

London

BILL’S OFFICE WAS three storeys up, at the top of the building. I gave a sharp rap at the door and Sam unlocked it, grinning. Bill was talking in a low voice to someone on the telephone. He motioned me inside and pointed towards a chair, still talking to whoever was on the end of the line. Sam locked the door behind me. I sat at one side of the desk, Bill at the other, one of his endless chain of cigarettes smouldering in the ashtray beside him. Sam leaned against the wall behind Bill, looking pleased with himself.

The office had probably last been decorated sometime around the coronation. There were hints of how the place had looked then in the bright rectangles around the walls where pictures had once hung. The wallpaper had been plain white intersected by regal bands of red flock. But the flock had darkened with age. It was balding in places, scored and chipped in others, and the once-white background had developed the faint toffee tint that old men and paper take on after decades of soaking up nicotine. The carpet had been chosen to match the walls, a plain red pile that had been good and might still be OK if someone took the time to run a Hoover around. Bill’s desk looked like you could take to sea in it, a grand mahogany structure too big for the small space. Bill had either recently been turned over or he was serious about moving. The room was pretty much stripped. What was left was a guddle of cardboard boxes, slouching half-full bin bags and discarded files. An empty safe yawned behind the desk. High above Bill on a set of almost cleared shelves was propped a picture of the young Queen Elizabeth in full sparkle mode, looking glam and only half horse.

Bill’s voice was soft and serious.

'Yeah, just tell them I’ve had to go out. Unavoidable circumstances.' He put the cigarette to his lips. 'Everyone paid, everyone happy?' He paused, listening to the person on the other end of the line. 'Well, Crowther will take care of them. Just wait till the last have gone and lock the door behind you. Nah, don’t worry ’bout the clearing up. Not our problem any more. Yeah, cheers, Candy, good luck.'

Bill put the phone back on its cradle and I held the envelope out to him.

'Mission accomplished.'

For a brief moment his face was still. I wondered if he was already regretting telling me as much as he had, then his mouth creased into a grin.

'OK, good.' He turned towards Sam. 'You got William’s fee?' Sam reached into his pocket, pulled out a white envelope and handed it to Bill. 'Cheers.' Bill slid it across the desk towards me. 'I think this’ll cover your trouble.'

'Thanks.'

'Fair exchange.'

He weighed the packet I’d given him in his hand and for a second I thought he was going to open it, but the moment passed and he laid it carefully back on the top of the desk.

'OK, I guess there’s no need, but I’ll say this anyway: tonight’s little adventure stays strictly between us.'

Sam raised his eyebrows. I ignored him and said, 'Already understood.'

'Good, because only three people know about it: you, me and Sam. So if word gets out I’ll know where it came from.'

I tucked the fee into my pocket. Sam put his hand on Bill’s shoulder.

'You bought a captain’s hat and a cat o’ nine tails for that new yacht of yours?'

Bill laughed gently.

'Yeah, point taken. OK.' He held out his hand. We shook and Bill palmed the IOUs to me. He gave me a quick wink. 'Good doing business with you.'

'And you.'

I meant it. I’d arrived that night deep in debt and left with cash in my pocket. I got to my feet taking my props case in my hand. Bill came out from behind his desk.

'I’ll show you out the back way. Save you going past that lot.'

Sam stepped to one side and Bill unlocked what I’d thought was a cupboard door in the wall behind him.

I said what had been bothering me ever since I’d slipped the envelope from Montgomery’s pocket.

'There’s always a chance he’s got a copy of whatever it is.'

Sam grinned and suddenly he was the same comic I’d spent countless bar-room nights with.

'Bill will molicate him if he has.'

I laughed but Bill’s nod of agreement was serious.

'He’s treading on thin ice as it is. He knows the score. I got it from him gently this time, for the sake of whatever there was between him and my dad, next time I won’t be so patient.'

'And if he notices and comes up here?'

'Five minutes and we’re gone.'

'Good luck.'

I was already halfway through the door when the knock came from the hallway. Bill tensed, looked at me and put a finger to his lips.

'You in there, Bill?'

We froze, silent as kids in bed hearing their dad come home from the boozer.

'Good going, but you only got half the story there, Billy boy.'

There was a hesitation in the policeman’s voice that made me sure he was lying.

I whispered, 'He’s bluffing, I can tell.'

But Bill shook his head. He shouted, 'Hangon a second.'

Sam said, 'You promised me, Bill, no argy bargy.'

Bill’s whisper managed to be furious and pleading at the same time.

'Jesus fuck, Sam, he’s taking the piss now.'

Sam’s voice was low and determined.

'I know he is and you’re right to be angry, but I swear, Bill, you hit him and I’m out that door with William.'

Bill shot me a dark look and I said, 'I think he means at the same time as me.'

Sam shook his head.

'Bloody hell, William, get a grip.'

The knock came at the door again.

'I know you’re in there, Bill. This is the one chance for you to find out the truth about your mother.'

Sam took the envelope from his lover and shoved it into my hand.

'Look, let him search the place — he’ll find nothing. This’ll be safe as houses with William.'

I hissed, 'This is nothing to do with me.'

Bill’s voice was low and determined.

'Don’t worry; I’ll make it worth your while.' He smiled. 'And if you open it I’ll know and you’ll have your balls to play with to prove it. Now go on, it’s abracadabra time, this is your cue to disappear.'

Bill put his hand on my shoulder and pushed me firmly from the room, Sam gave me a last smile over his lover’s shoulder, then the door was closed behind me and the key turned softly in the lock. The landing was dark and damp. There was a small wash basin to my left, and next to it a steep set of stairs leading downwards. I stalled for a second silently cursing, the envelope in one hand my case in the other, trying not to breathe for fear the small man would hear. Through the door I heard Bill’s voice, welcoming as a warm brandy on a cold night.

'Inspector Montgomery.'

I started to creep my way down the stone stairs, hearing Montgomery say something, and perhaps a second man with him or maybe just Bill, responding to the policeman’s words. I wondered if I should wait, wondered if there was anyone I should call. Then padded softly on, careful of the flaking whitewash against my velvet suit. I reached the ground, pushed open the exit bar and stepped out into the night, the envelope containing Bill Senior’s secrets pressed tight against my chest.

My mobile woke me the next day, buzzing ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’ from under the pillow. The ringtone had been a present from an ex-girlfriend. I’d never liked it, but I guess I didn’t get gifts, even sarcastic ones, very often. I retrieved the phone, wondering whether keeping it under the pillow would give me a brain tumour and why my alarm had gone off so early, then realised it wasn’t the alarm.

'Hope I’m not disturbing your beauty sleep?'

Richard’s voice was too loud for ten in the morning. I said, 'I was working last night.'

'I know. Did you have a divine time?'

'Is that why you’re calling?'

'Just a friendly enquiry.'

I reached for my gregs, put them on and watched the world come into focus, then got out of bed and walked naked into the tiny cupboard that served as my kitchen. Rich’s interest in my non-existent sex life was starting to grate.

'Do you want to get to the point?'

'I’ll take that for a no then.'

'No, I had a drink with the proprietor though.'

'Ah yes, young burglar Bill.'

'You know him well?'

'Knew his father.'

I filled the kettle and plugged it into the wall. Rich shouted, 'You’re breaking up.'

'Sorry.' I walked back into the small bed-sitting room and asked, 'What was he like?'

'A swine. Why’d you want to know?'

'Just showing a friendly interest.'

The envelope containing the money Bill had given me was on the coffee table. I poured it out; a thousand in twenties, not bad for a couple of hours’ work, but I had a feeling it was money I was yet to earn. Montgomery’s manila envelope lay under the cushion on the sofa.

I slid it out and looked at its seal. It wouldn’t be so difficult to break, but somehow I was happy to leave it alone.

Rich’s voice came loud down the wire.

'Listen, have you got a passport?'

I ruffled the notes through my fingers.

'Somewhere, why? Someone want to buy it?'

'I’ve got something for you — Berlin.'

'Berlin?'

'Yes, Berlin, capital of Germany, once divided city now happily reunited.'

'I know where it is. I’m just wondering what about it?'

'I’ve got a contact, who has a contact there, who knows a man who needs a conjurer for his club. Bijou little place, the Schall und Rauch, means Smoke and Noise, just up your street, William.'

'Maybe. How much are they offering?'

'A bit of enthusiasm would be nice. I said Berlin. It’s a top entertainment spot son. The home of cabaret. Remember what Germany did for the Beatles.'

'If I remember rightly one of them copped it there.'

'The money’s OK. I managed to squeeze them for 10 per cent over the usual to cover your subsistence, plus they’ll pay for your flight and fix you up with accommodation.'

It sounded like the best offer I’d had in months, but something made me hesitate.

'I don’t know, Richard. It’s a bit out of the blue.'

'Remember what they say about gift horses.'

'Don’t take one from a Trojan?'

'It’s up to you, but there’s nothing much on the cards for you over here right now.'

There was a short pause while we both silently mourned my early promise. 'I spoke to the boy in Berlin and it all seems kosher, they’ve got a website and all that jazz.'

'Your faith in modern technology is touching.'

'Got to move with the times, Will.' There was another pause while I took a sip of my coffee and Rich sparked up; I heard him draw the smoke deep down into his lungs and reached for my own pack of cigarettes. When he spoke again Rich’s voice was brisk. I imagined him sliding his next client’s folder, complete with mug shot, onto the desk in front of him. 'It’s up to you, old son. You’ve got an hour to decide. No skin off my nose either way.'

I looked at my one-room rented flat, the unmade bed, the scattering of books and CDs, the pile of unwashed laundry, the red demands propped on the window ledge. There was only one thing I had to ask.

'When do they want me?'

'That’s the attitude. They’re in a rush. Someone let them down. Get yourself there by tomorrow show time and the job’s yours.'

I agreed to let Mrs Pierce arrange my flight then sat for a while looking at Bill’s secret. I decided it was nothing to do with me. Then I did a very stupid thing. I wrote a short letter, went out to the post office, bought an envelope big enough to hold Bill’s, sealed it securely and got it weighed and stamped. Then I addressed it to the safest place in the world and put it in the postbox.

Back home I put the kettle on, smoked another fag and started to pack.

Berlin

THE MAN WHO ran the cabaret was a German called Ray. He was the opposite of Bill, a soft-bellied doughy-faced rectangle of a man. He had blond hair shot through with grey flecks that looked too artful to be natural. And a tense smile hedged beneath a shaggy moustache I was willing to accept as German fashion, but at home would have made me think he was a gay man on a retro kick.

I put out my hand and he took it hesitantly, giving it the briefest of shakes.

'How was your journey?'

'Fine.'

Ray nodded. 'Good.' He looked me up and down. 'I’d hoped you’d be able to perform in our opening number with the rest of the ensemble but …’ He shook his head sadly and smiled like a man who had faced enough disappointments to know that he would face many more. 'Never mind.'

'Try me.'

He shook his head.

'We will manage. So, I guess the first thing is to show you around the theatre.' I followed him from the tiny ticket office and out into the auditorium. 'This is our hall.'

Ray paused, waiting for my reaction at my first glimpse of his kingdom.

I’m used to the abandoned atmosphere empty theatres take on during the day.

Deserted by audiences they lose their sheen. When the house lights go up the grandest chandeliers can look cobwebbed, the finest gold-framed mirrors age-spotted and marred.

The red velvet seats where theatregoers dream themselves onto the stage night after night reveal frayed gold trim and balding nap. But I knew that, like the leading man who arrives grey-stubbled and sour-breathed, or the femme fatale who dares to bare her pockmarked face to afternoon rehearsals, come curtain-up great theatres are ready to wow them all the way to the gods.

Still, I had my doubts about the Schall und Rauch. When I’d called him back to accept the gig Rich had built the revue into something between the Royal Festival Hall and the Hot Club of France. I’d known he was exaggerating, but I hadn’t realised how much.

The auditorium smelt of mildew, tobacco and wet coats. Its dirty pine boards were still littered with the debris of last night’s performance. Small tables, spattered with red candle wax and equipped with bentwood chairs, were regimented across the hall in diagonal rows.

The formation was an optimistic attempt to create an unimpeded view of the stage, but it made me think of a desperate army making its final stand.

The safety curtain was up, the unoccupied stage littered with random props, a large ball, a tangle of hula-hoops, and, somewhere near the back, a trampoline. The stage was deep, its rake steep, but it was the ceiling that revealed this had once been a truly impressive building. High above our heads plaster cherubs toyed with lutes and angelic trumpets amongst bowers of awakening plaster blooms. Remnants of white paint still illuminated some of the chubby orchestra, but most of them had sunk into the same mouldering grey that covered the rest of the ceiling. In its centre, half hidden by the lighting rig, was a chipped but still elaborate ceiling rose marred by a half plastered hole where I guessed a massive chandelier had once hung. Cracks fractured out from the damaged rose and into the outskirts of the ceiling. Not all of them were linked, but they gave the impression of being connected, like irrepressible tributaries sinking underground when the earth turns to stone, but always resurfacing.

'Have a seat,' Ray pulled out a chair and lowered himself into it, 'see what it’s like to be one of the audience.'

I drew up a chair, turning at the hollow sound of footsteps on the wooden floor. A slim, dark-haired girl strode in and started to wipe the tables, putting debris of crumpled tissues, abandoned leaflets and empty fag packets into a tin bucket as she worked. I smiled but she looked past me to Ray, shooting him a sour look. Ray attempted a smile.

'So, what do you think? Maybe not as big as you’re used to, but it has a certain charm?'

The girl saved me from answering, calling something in German across the hall. Ray answered quick in a tone that might have been friendly or harsh. She turned away from him, reciting a few words in a singsong voice, then tucked the cloth into the back of her jeans and walked towards the exit. Ray shook his head, 'Women, the same across the world, impossible and irreplaceable.' He smoothed the grey moustache slowly, like he was calming himself. 'I know your agent negotiated a few days of freedom before you start…’ I could feel it coming, the not-quite-deal-breaker the management hits you with to soften you up for the rest of the betrayals. 'But in this business we have to be flexible.'

He paused and I gave a noncommittal smile. On the stage behind him a well-built man in cut-off sweats started going through a warm-up, easing into some stretches, then lifting his leg high in a balletic pose. I nodded towards him and said, 'I’m not sure I could manage that level of flexibility.'

Ray frowned then turned to look at the man.

'Acrobats aren’t worth the trouble. You invest in them, break your back helping them, then they go and do the same, only they break their backs for real. Kolja is talented, but acrobats have short lives; he’ll be walking with a stick or teaching sports in a kindergarten before he’s thirty.'

'Seems harsh.'

Ray shrugged his shoulders. I could imagine him sending a ten-year-old to drown a sack of kittens with the same shrug.

'It’s a fact. These kids go to circus school. They know the odds, but still think they’ll live forever. That is natural too.'

On the stage Kolja stopped his stretch to watch us. I thought I saw amusement in his face, but he turned away too quickly for me to be sure. Perhaps Ray saw it too, because he leaned back and shouted something in German towards the athlete. The young man made no reply, but his mouth set into a stiff smile as he punted himself down from the stage.

'There’s no time for you to go to your lodgings now. He’ll put your luggage in the dressing room.'

I got to my feet.

'I’ll do it myself.'

Kolja walked past without glancing towards us, leaving me standing awkwardly by the table. I sat back down and lit a cigarette. Ray shrugged. He sounded tired.

'He’s proud of his muscles, let him use them. Come on, let’s finish our business, then perhaps you’ll do some preparations.'

'Perhaps.'

Ray smiled and led me through to his office.

'So this is my sanctuary. Anytime you need to find me, you start looking here.'

Ray’s sanctuary was cramped. A workbench ran the length of the far wall, hidden beneath stacks of paper and some surprisingly new computer equipment. A small window above the bench looked into the ticket-booth where the girl who had been clearing the tables was now busying herself behind the desk. Beyond her I could see the empty foyer and an open door leading out into the courtyard. The wall behind me was covered in a mosaic of photographs, some expensively framed, others carelessly sellotaped to the wall. I looked at a smartly mounted photograph of a man in full evening rig placing his head inside a polar bear’s mouth. The man had removed his top hat for the act, and now flourished it in his right hand. His own grin was just visible through the jagged teeth of the bear.

Ray saw me looking and said, 'My grandfather.'

'It’s an amazing picture.'

'More amazing than you can know. Outside the ring my grandfather was as soft as butter. People said he let his children run wild, but when it came to animals he was in charge. He ruled lions, tigers, polar bears even, for thirty years, with no injury to himself or to them.'

'A brave man.'

'Yes, he knew the risks.' Ray turned his attention to his desk, sifting through a pile of papers looking for something. 'The moment after that photograph was taken the bear attacked him, perhaps the flash provoked it. My grandmother was his assistant. She was standing by the cage, as she did every night, with a loaded pistol. She shot the bear, but it takes more than a single bullet to kill a creature like that.' He glanced back at the photograph. 'It’s something we should all remember. Even if you’re not placing your head in a bear’s mouth, show business is a risky occupation.' He smiled. 'It’s a sad photograph.

Let me show you one that will make you smile, then you can meet our stage manager and go through your requirements.' We rose and Ray walked me into the theatre’s small foyer.

'Look.'

Pinned behind glass was a large poster featuring a publicity shot Rich had insisted on three years ago. It was a while since I’d looked closely at it and blown up poster size it was clear that the intervening years had been crueller than I remembered. The suit I was wearing no longer fitted, and either the photographer had employed an airbrush, or I’d grown a deal redder and a trifle more craggy since we’d met. The man in the picture looked younger, leaner, sharper than I ever recalled being. It was even possible that he had a little more hair than me. I stroked my hand across my head wondering if I was about to add baldness to my list of worries. Ray’s expression was hidden behind the grey moustache, but his voice sounded anxious.

'What do you think?'

I looked at the red lettering scattering superlatives across the poster. My German might be non-existent but I could guess the meaning of Fantastisch! I turned to the posters hanging beside my boastful image and it suddenly became clear why Ray had decided I was unsuitable to join the ensemble. Schall und Rauch’s cast shone from the picture fresh and smiling, the outlines of their bodies impressive beneath the tight fabric of their costumes.

The recognition that Ray was right stung, but another more pressing worry had suddenly presented itself. Painted in shiny blue letters below the image was the legend, Cabaret Erotisch!

The stage manager turned out to be the girl I had first seen wiping the tables. She slid wearily from the ticket booth, brushing back tendrils of not very clean hair that had escaped from the loose roll twisted at the back of her head. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in weeks, but the look suited her. Suddenly, despite the rundown theatre and the reminder that I lacked the basic equipment to qualify for an erotic entertainment, Berlin didn’t seem such a bleak prospect. Ray introduced her as Ulla; I held out my hand and she shook it gently. Her palms were cold and dry and slightly calloused. I tried to keep the wolf out of my face and asked, 'Do you do everything round here?'

Ulla frowned.

'I do my job.'

Her English was slightly more accented than Ray’s. I liked it better. She was easier on the eye too, even when she was frowning. I slipped the duster that still dangled from her jeans pocket into my own.

Ulla led me through a door marked Privat and towards the changing rooms. Her silence should have been a relief after the journey, but I wanted her to talk to me. I reached into my pocket and drew out the old duster now tied in the centre of a ream of rainbow-coloured silks, presenting them to her with a flourish and a half bow.

'There was no time to buy flowers.'

Ulla accepted the string of scarves without smiling.

'The clowns present me with flowers all the time.'

'And now you think every bouquet is going to squirt water in your eye?' She ignored me, gently detaching her cloth as she led the way through the backstage labyrinth. 'I hope I’m not disrupting you too much.'

Ulla handed back my crumpled silks without looking at me. I followed her gaze and saw the object of her attention. The buff athlete detailed to deliver my case was striding our way, a large cardboard box tucked casually under his arm. He stopped when he reached us and Ulla raised her face to his in a swift but tender kiss. I stood awkwardly while he whispered something into her hair that made her laugh then shake her head, glancing quickly towards me. Kolja turned the corners of his mouth down, gave her waist a quick squeeze with his free hand, and then continued along the corridor. Ulla’s eyes followed him briefly and then turned back to me.

'Kolja has moved in with the twins, so you can have his dressing-room.'

There seemed no point in protesting that I was used to sharing. After all, I seemed destined to disrupt Kolja. The room Ulla had assigned me was like a slim prison cell bereft of even a barred window. I sat in the only chair and looked at the photos of Kolja stuck to the mirror.

He was a good-looking lad. Here he was on stage balancing an upside-down fellow athlete on one hand. Here he was again, stripped to his bathing shorts posing with both hands resting on his waist, his pumped-up arms a perfect complement to his inflated trunk.

Did Kolja need these mementoes as reassurance of his athletic prowess? Or did he just like looking at himself? I wondered why he hadn’t taken the photographs to the twins’ cell with him. There were a lot of them, but not too many for Kolja’s muscular arms. Perhaps he’d been in too much of a rush or maybe he didn’t think I’d be around long enough to warrant the move. Whatever the reason I hoped I hadn’t upset Kolja. He looked like he could destroy me with a flick of his wrist.

Outside I could hear exchanges of greetings as staff and performers started to arrive for that evening’s show. I imagined I could smell the winter damp settled on their coats. I pushed the noise away, tried to ignore the resentful stares of all the different Koljas and concentrated on preparing my act.

Ray’s moustache trembled a little when he saw me leaving the theatre half an hour before show time, but he knew better than to interrupt a performer before their act. Folk have strange rituals and who was to say mine wasn’t walking out before I walked on?

There was a stall in the courtyard selling soup that was all noodles and dumplings. I bought myself a bowl, added a beer to go with it and sat on a wooden bench in sight of the theatre entrance, watching the audience arrive.

Unless you’re a children’s entertainer, your audience doesn’t believe that what you’re doing is truly magic. They want showmanship. Anyone can feel the satisfaction of teaching their hands to twist the rope until it unravels the way they intend. It isn’t so hard to jump the right card from the deck, or snap a shiny silver coin into your fingertips. The skill lies in making these moves into a performance.

I was always in the smart-suited-cheeky-chappy conjuring brigade, bounding on stage and spinning a line as I spun through my act. I’d long ago consigned mime to a box marked

‘puppets and face painting’. I lacked the nimbleness for a dumb show. And all those exaggerations of the face and form, the Marcel Marceau smiles and grimaces, made me cringe. Sitting outside the theatre in Berlin I began to think how important words were to my act and began to hope that it was true all foreigners understood English these days.

The arriving audience looked young, bundled against the cold in dark coats livened by bright hats and scarves. I watched them drift in and wished I was one of their number, out for the evening with a pretty girl, looking forward to a show. I got up and returned my empty dish and half-drunk beer to the stall. It was time to get focused.

Inside I bought another beer, deposited myself on a seat near the back and watched an old woman in a black dress going between the tables trying to sell the contents of her tray of clockwork toys. She wasn’t having much luck. I signalled her over and blew twelve euros on a small tin duck. I turned his key and let him clack between the ashtray and my beer.

Then the lights dimmed, the audience grew quiet and high on a platform, way above the stage, a woman with the black hair and red lips of Morticia Adams grinned and stroked the ivories of her baby grand into something soothing that spoke of the sea. She reached out her right hand, never letting the music fail, and caressed a huge hollow drum as it descended past her to hang mysteriously over the stage.

The ensemble from the poster ran from the wings, the females in thigh-skimming dresses, the men in close-fitting shorts. Kolja jogged on last, his face shuttered and his muscles specially inflated for the occasion. The troupe waved to the audience, acknowledging their applause then stood still, like a starship crew ready to be teleported, as the glowing drum descended all the way down to the stage, trapping them within its bounds, silhouetting their forms against its pale walls. One by one each dark outline peeled off its clothes to reveal the black shape of their naked body, then they started to rotate slowly, forming a living magic lantern. Each disrobing received a polite round of applause that was rewarded with a pose as the artistes took turns to fold themselves into new shapes, slipping from athletic to romantic, from Charles Atlas to Rodin’s Kiss. There were no unfortunate bulges, no regrettable slips of decorum, and I guessed that the nudity was an illusion, each person contained in some tight-fitting body stocking. Kolja was the easiest to spot. His was the widest chest; the thickest thighs. It was he who held two seemingly naked girls on his shoulders, balancing their weight like a set of human scales. He too who got the loudest applause as he flexed his physique through a catalogue of muscleman positions.

Overall it was a good effect, an innocent erotic, about as naughty as an Edwardian postcard.

The first of the performers to appear solo was a lithe lycra-clad girl with a blonde ponytail, who seemed to be in love with her hula-hoop. The audience sat still in anticipation as she twirled the hoop around her body, letting it rotate her waist, chest, neck then suddenly drop to her ankles in an act of obsequiousness that seemed sure to kill its gyrations, but was merely a prelude to a snaking dance up her body and onto her right arm.

Her hand snatched a second hoop, rival to the first, which proceeded to do its own dance around her curves. It seemed this girl couldn’t get enough of the hoops. She lifted them one by one from a pile as high as herself until she had screwed her little body into a spiral of weaving plastic. The small audience went wild and my tiny tin duck clacked like there was no tomorrow.

I was hoping for Kolja, but the hula girl was followed by a trio of juggling clowns. They cavorted onto the stage dressed in bright baggy shorts and outsized shirts. The tin duck drew me a sad stare, I took a sip of my drink and nodded back at him. The crowd were clapping them on but the jolly jesters looked too wholesome to amuse me. I’ve always preferred Kinky the Kid-loving Clown, a hard-drinking funster who has his full makeup tattooed on.

Somewhere a violin started to play a waltz and onstage the trio began tossing their batons gracefully in time to the music. I could see where it was going. The tempo increased and so did the speed of their pitches until the music sounded like a fiddler devil’s crossroads challenge and the clowns were flinging their batons like missiles, ducking to put their partner in the frame, turning the cat’s cradle of their throws into a crisscrossing sequence it was impossible to anticipate. The speed increased, a baton or two was lost, after all a trick must never look too easy, then, just when the audience were getting used to their expertise, the entire volley was turned on the smallest of the three, who caught the batons with his hands, arms, legs and feet, looking askance at the final club before catching it deftly in his mouth. The audience cheered. The troupe acknowledged the applause with a series of synchronised back-flips, then the runt ran offstage and returned brandishing three buzz-saws and a manic smile. I got up and made my way back to the wings. I left the duck on the table. It would be nice to think that someone in the audience was rooting for me.

The clowns finished their not-so-funny business then flip-flopped offstage accompanied by music that was an improbable mixture of oompa and punk. The crowd clapped and stamped to the rhythm and the irrepressible funsters cartwheeled back on for an encore, throwing buzz-saws at each other with calamitous abandon before finally running unscathed into the wings.

The little one buzzed his saw at me as he sped past. I muttered, 'Buzz off’. And he flashed me a wicked grin saying something in German that might have been Good luck or Fuck you.

Two stagehands dressed like ninjas jogged on to clear the clowns’ debris and deposit my equipment. The mysterioso music I’d given Ulla reached its fifth bar. I took a deep breath and strode out from stage right as the stagehands exited stage left. The clown’s applause still trembled in the air. I measured it, gauged the warmth of the crowd, pretty hot, and realised that for once I wasn’t the warm-up.

I lifted a flimsy transparent perspex table above my head, twirled it like a baton then waved my hand Mephistolike below it and snapped a set of oversized playing cards into view. Beyond the edge of the stage there was nothing but black punctuated by the candle flames glowing out of the darkness. God looked out into the firmament and saw nothing.

Then he snapped his fingers and created the world. I gave the slightest of bows, and got on with it.

Have you ever seen a film of an ocean liner ready to embark on a long voyage? People were so loath to leave their loved ones that they stretched streamers from the decks to the quayside. The nearly-departed held one end, the soon-to-bestrangers on the shore, the other. As the ship moved off the streamers would grow tense, taut, then break.

That was the image I had of my audience’s attention, slender strips of colour connecting them to me. I wanted to keep them at the moment the ribbon was at its tautest, and never let it snap until my final bow.

The music died and I slid into my set, I was halfway through the first trick when I heard the whisper of conversation. The fragile strands connecting me to the audience snapped and it was as if I was a lonely soul on the top deck holding a bunch of limp streamers without even a breeze to give them a flutter.

There was a clink of glass on glass as drinks were refreshed. A jarring note of laughter where there should have been the silence of suspense. I did the only thing I could do, kept the smile on my face and stumbled on until the moment came for the house lights to be raised. Now I could see the faces of my audience, too many of them in profile. I stepped forward, feeling like a man on the scaffold, and asked for a volunteer.

Later, Sylvie would show me this was the wrong way to go about things. But that evening even the old lady who sold the tin toys stopped her rounds and waited for my humiliation. I paused three beats beyond comfort, unable to spot a dupe amongst the crowd, putting all my will into not begging. The stage lights seemed to flare again, the audience bled out of focus and even the candles seemed to lose their glow. A bead of perspiration slid down my spine. Then a young woman got to her feet and I knew everything was going to work out fine. And so it did, for a while.

The girl bounded onto the stage with so much confidence I suddenly thought the audience might assume her to be my accomplice. I shouldn’t have worried. Even on that first night, though I was the one with the tricks and the tailcoat, everyone wanted to see what Sylvie would do.

My volunteer was a slim girl in high-stacked boots and an old-fashioned shirtdress that showed off her figure. Her hair was sleek, cut close to her head, and her lips were painted a vampire red that glistened under the stage lights. She turned to face the audience. Her stare was confident, her mouth amused and I realised I should never have chosen her for my dupe. I swallowed, arranged my features in the semblance of a smile then went into my patter.

'So, gorgeous, what’s your name?'

'Sylvie.'

She had an American accent, all Coca-Cola, Coors and Marlboros, a bland corporate voice that could have come from almost anywhere.

'And what brings you to Berlin?'

Sylvie shrugged and looked out into the darkness beyond the stage.

'Life?'

The crowd laughed, and I smiled, though I didn’t see the joke.

'So, would you like to help me with a trick?'

'I guess so.'

Again her voice was deadpan and again a ripple of laughter worked its way through the audience. I might not be getting the jokes, but I was grateful. The clatter of glasses and conversation had ceased and all eyes were on us, the audience rooting for Sylvie, waiting for her to upstage me.

I turned her towards me, looked into her grey-green eyes and grinned.

'OK then, let’s get on with the show.'

The shell game is an ancient trick also known as Chase the Lady, also known as Thimblerig. The man who first taught me prefaced his lesson with a warning.

'This is a trick as old as Egypt — older, I don’t doubt. It has saved many a man from starvation and landed many another in debt or jail. The wise man is always on the showing side, never on the guessing.'

My old teacher was right, but it isn’t big news that it’s better to be the sharper than the sharper’s dupe, so my variation had an extra distraction to twist the ruse.

I fanned three brown envelopes in my left hand, and raised a picture of the crown jewels in my right, holding it high in the air so that the audience could see it. I’d thought that the royalist kick might go down well with the Germans, after all, they were related. I slid the photograph into one of the envelopes, making sure that Sylvie and the audience could see which one it was.

'Sylvie, how would you like to win the British crown jewels?'

Her voice was dry.

'The real thing or this photograph?'

I feigned an outraged look.

'This rather fine photograph.' Sylvie laughed and the audience joined her. I kept the note of injury in my voice. 'What? You don’t find it exciting?'

She shook her head matching my mock offence — ‘No’ — and turned to leave the stage.

'Hey, hold on.' I touched her shoulder and Sylvie twisted back towards me on cue, as if we’d been rehearsing for weeks. 'What about if I were to offer you…’ I leaned forward and snapped three 100 euro notes from somewhere behind her ear. It was the kind of cheap move a half-cut uncle could manage after a good Christmas dinner, but for the first time that night I got a round of applause.

It’s hard to convey the look that Sylvie gave me. A smile that acknowledged we were in this together and a glint of sympathy cut through with something else, an urge to please the audience that might amount to recklessness.

'Yes,' she said in her cool, who-gives-a-fuck stage voice. 'Yes, that might make a difference.'

I slid the money into the envelope alongside the maligned picture and sealed it tight.

'Now, Sylvie, examine these envelopes for me please.' I passed all three to her. 'Are they identical?'

She took her time, turning each one over in her hand, scrutinising their seals, drawing her fingers across their edges. At last she turned and nodded.

'Yes, they’re the same.'

'Now…’ I feinted a soft black velvet hood into my hands. 'How do you feel about a little S&M?'

Sylvie made a shocked face and someone in the audience whooped.

Sylvie’s fingers were strong as she secured the hood over my head. She tied the cord in a bow at the nape of my neck, then smoothed her fingertips over my face, pressing them against my eyelids for a second. I felt the prickle of total darkness and breathed in the faint peppery mustiness that the velvet bag always held, pulling the fabric towards me as I inhaled, letting my masked features appear beneath the velvet.

'I want you to take these envelopes and shuffle them in any way you wish.' The audience laughed. I wondered what she was doing and asked, 'All done?'

'Yes.'

'Now, I’m going to ask you which envelope the money is in. You can lie, you can tell me the truth, or, if you choose to be a very unkind girl, you can keep silent. The choice is yours.'

The audience were quiet, willing my destruction. 'OK, Sylvie, I want you to present me with each of the envelopes in turn. But because I can’t see anything you’re going to have to provide me with a commentary, so name them please as you hold them up. Let’s call them…

’ I hesitated as if thinking hard. 'Number one, number two and number three. OK, in your own time.'

Sylvie waited a beat, then in a loud, clear voice said, 'Number one.'

I lifted my head, breathing in again, hoping my covered features looked blunt and dignified, like an Easter Island statue.

'Is it in this one?'

I waited. Sylvie didn’t respond.

'Ah, I thought you might be one of those girls who like to torture men.'

No one in the audience would have noticed, but Sylvie gave a short intake of breath.

She recovered quickly and said in her calm, even voice.

'Number two.'

'Is it in this one?'

This time she answered me.

'No.'

'Aha, you’re not an easy girl to work out, Sylvie. I’ve got a suspicion that you might be rather good at lying.'

The stage was so quiet that I might have been standing there alone. I felt the warmth of my own breath inside the bag, then Sylvie said, 'Number three.'

I waited. This time it was my silence that ruled the stage.

'OK, if I’m wrong you go off with a week’s wages. Is it in this one?'

There was an instant’s hesitation and then Sylvie answered me.

'No.'

It was the hesitation that told me. I took my chance, snatching the hood off then grabbing the final envelope, ripping it in two and drawing out the money and the photo.

The audience applauded and I raised my voice above their clapping, 'Thank you Sylvie, you’ve been a wonderful assistant. People from Scotland have a reputation for being mean, but it’s a cruel slur and to prove it I’m going to make sure that you don’t go off empty-handed.'

I presented her with the photograph of the crown jewels. Sylvie held it close to her head and bowed prettily to the audience. We exchanged a quick kiss, and then I watched her slim figure descend into the darkness and the applauding audience beyond.

I thought that would be the last I saw of her.

Glasgow

THE PAST IS like an aged Rottweiler. Ignore it and it’ll most likely leave you alone.

Stare into its eyes and it’ll jump up and bite you. It was no more than coincidence that an old face came out of the darkness, but it felt that by living half in the past I had invoked old times to slip from the shadows.

I’d decided not to favour one bar above the rest. Glasgow’s got a hostelry on every street corner and a fair few in between, so why confine yourself to one pishy pub when you have the choice of plenty? I’d long been a travelling man so I travelled from one shop to the next, moving on before I could be hailed and hassled by any Jimmy/Bobby/Davie deadbeat who lived his life propped against the bar. I was a sailor on drink’s high seas, while they were merely landlubbers.

I favoured places with no mission other than to empty your pockets, fill you full of bile and kick you into the street at closing time. I had no time for quizzes and karaoke, pub grub and Sky Sports. Anything more entertaining than a puggy machine and I was out of there.

I had thrown my noose a little wider that night. From the outside it looked like my kind of place, trad dad, no theme, no music, no enthusiastic throng of patrons slapping each other on the back or measuring up for square goes.

The illusion hung together when I went inside. The only decorations were drink advertisements, but my radar should have gone on alert: they were for long-abandoned classic campaigns — My Goodness, My Guinness; Martini & Rosso; Black and White Whisky — there was even a green fairy sparking out of a cup under the power of absinthe.

The bar was a square island in the centre of the space. I was pushing the boat out. It was my third pub, fourth pint. I was going to make a night of it. See if I could get to the point where I’d lost count.

I kept my head down, my attention caught by the red carpet, busy with an abstract design which seemed to shift out of focus then arrange itself into a mosaic of grinning devils. I wondered what other people saw in the pattern. Flowers? Vast cities? Angelic girls?

The thought preoccupied me and I’d approached the bar before I realised this wasn’t the kind of place I’d thought it was.

The revelation lay in the beers. As well as the compulsory piss-poor Tennents Lager there was a variety of real ales and a pretentious clanning of single malts. It was a spit-and-sawdust theme pub, an ersatz recreation of the traditional Scottish howf, but lacking the essential ingredient — misery.

But even a poor pub is hard to leave. I ordered a pint of lager and stood leaning against the slop-free bar, counting the green tiles that covered the gantry wall. My pint was three-quarters down in the glass and I’d reached 150, estimating and adding together the fractions of divided tiles, when I felt a hand fall in between my shoulder blades. I tensed, steeled myself for a confrontation, turned and came face to face with Johnny Mac.

My first instinct was to walk away, but the thought came and went and I was still standing there. It was seven years since I’d last seen him, but Johnny hadn’t changed much.

There were a few creases round his eyes I didn’t remember and maybe his hairline had withdrawn a little from his temples. But he was still scrag-end thin, his dark hair still unfashionably long, but just short enough to ensure his curls lost none of their bounce.

When we’d hung around together, long second-hand coats had been the fashion. I’d worn an old herringbone tweed that smelt when it got wet and Johnny’d more or less lived in an olive-green army greatcoat that had served as a second blanket on his bed at night.

I probably wasn’t one to judge, but Johnny didn’t seem to be following fashion any more. The old greatcoat was gone, replaced by a navy parka with a small rip in the sleeve that appeared to have been mended using a bicycle repair kit. Beneath the parka he wore a T-shirt with a diametric pattern that meant nothing to me. His jeans were scuffed, splattered with the same paint that decorated his worn-out trainers. Johnny’s mouth bent into a wide grin and I noticed a gap where his left incisor used to be.

'I thought it was you. God, I don’t believe it.' He draped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me into a hug that was traitor to his west coast of Scotland origins. 'Hey, Houdini, long time no see. How’s tricks?'

The barman caught Johnny’s eyes, and saved me from answering. Johnny slacked his grip, letting me pull free as he leaned in towards the bar and started to stumble through a round of drinks. He was pissed, but only the meanest of pubs would refuse him service.

Anyone looking at Johnny Mac would know he’d be no trouble drunk or sober. He finished the order with a nod to me.

'And whatever he’s having.'

'No, nothing for me, I was just on my way.'

'Dinnae be bloody daft.'

'No, Johnny, I’ve got to be off.'

The barman was used to these friendly altercations. He wiped his hand on a towel, waiting for me to be persuaded. Perhaps he was on profit share because when Johnny demanded, 'Give him a pint,' he poured me another lager.

'We’ve got a table over there.' Johnny nodded towards a far corner of the pub.'

'I told you, I can’t.'

The words came out harsher than I’d meant. The barman glanced back at us, maybe wondering if he’d pegged Johnny wrong and there was going to be a fight after all. The drink cleared a little from Johnny’s eyes and he seemed to see me properly for the first time.

'What’s the problem?'

'I’ve got to be somewhere.'

He glanced up at the hands of the bar-room clock ticking beyond a quarter past ten. His voice grew less insistent.

'Aye, well spare me ten minutes. We’ve not seen each other in an age. How long has it been? Six years?'

'Something like that.'

'Mebbe longer.' Johnny picked up his pint of heavy and sucked the head off it. A rim of foam stuck to his upper lip; he wiped it away and took another pull looking at me over the brim of the glass. 'So what’ve you been up to?'

'Nothing much.'

'Still practising the black arts?'

'No, I gave that up. It’s a mug’s game.'

'Never thought I’d hear you say that, Billy boy.'

I raised my drink to my lips, hiding my expression behind the glass and taking a long gulping swig, all the quicker to finish and get out of there.

'Aye, well, it’s true.'

Johnny seemed to have forgotten he had a round of drinks to deliver. He stood there waiting for me to tell him why I’d given up my calling. I let him wait. Johnny Mac had never been good at silences.

'I ran into your mum in the town the other week.' Johnny hesitated waiting for me to say something then broke the pause again. 'She said you’d been not well.'

'I don’t know where she got that from.'

'You’re all right then?'

I held my arms out.

'See for yourself.'

Johnny looked dubious.

'That’s good.'

I forced my face into a smile.

'I’m doing fine, you know what my old dear’s like. I get a cold and she thinks I’m on my bloody deathbed. She’s aye been like that.' I strained the smile wider. 'Like the man said, reports of my death were much exaggerated.'

Johnny nodded, his eyes still on my face.

'Glad to hear it.'

From across the room I caught sight of a slim, dark-haired woman in her late twenties.

Even before she started making her way towards us I knew she was with Johnny. Johnny’s dark curls and quick smile had given him his pick of women, but he’d always gone for good Catholic girls, fresh-faced Madonnas who refused to sleep with him. Johnny had left his faith at the schoolhouse gates, but in those days it seemed that the tenets of the church were destined to rule his sex life. Johnny’s girl was clear-skinned and sober, but her eyes were amused. She slid her hand round his waist, his grin reappeared and I reckoned that after a certain age even good Catholic girls started to put out.

'There’s men at that table complaining their throats are cut.'

Johnny slammed his forehead with the back of his hand.

'I’m sorry, Eilidh love. I ran into William here and he kept me talking.' He flashed me a look. 'He’s a right chatterbox this one.'

Eilidh smiled. She was the staid side of fashionable, her hair long and simple, brushed into a side parting. It was her smile that kept her from being homely. Her smile and her eyes, a violet blue I’d have thought was painted on if I’d seen her on a movie poster. I wondered what she did for a living. Johnny liked them saintly. I took in her low-heeled brown boots, her coordinating skirt and jacket, just a shade away from a suit and guessed teaching or social work.

'Will you join us?'

I shook my head. For some reason I was having difficulty meeting her look.

'I’m sorry, I can’t.'

Eilidh didn’t try to press me, simply shook her head in mock exasperation and leaned past Johnny to take the three remaining pints in hands that looked too small to span the glasses.

'It was nice to meet you, William.' She smiled at Johnny. 'I’ll give you ten minutes then you’d better come over.'

Johnny gave her a kiss that threatened to topple the pints.

'You’re a wee doll.'

'I know,' Eilidh smiled again. 'One hundred per cent pure gold.'

Johnny watched her careful walk to the table, 'Who would have thought I’d end up henpecked?'

He looked more proud than bowed. I followed his gaze, watching the slim figure depositing the drinks on the table.

'She’s a good-looking girl.' Johnny gave me a stern look that was half mocking but fully meant and I added, 'My womanising days are over.'

'You’re a broken man right enough. You shouldn’t give up yet though. Ye canny whack the love of a good woman. As long as she’s your own.'

'Aye, point taken.' I drained my glass and held out my hand. 'It was good to see you again, John.'

'You too. Maybe we can meet up for a drink when you’ve got more time.'

'I’m not in town for long.'

Johnny gave me a look that said he knew me for a liar, but he didn’t try to argue.

Instead he reached into his pocket.

'Look, I’ll give you my number. It’d be good to catch up.' He pulled out his wallet and flicked through its contents. 'Fuck, I never have any cards when I need them.' The thought of Johnny Mac with business cards amused me and I smiled in spite of myself. 'Here,' he took out a bit of paper and scribbled a couple of telephone numbers and an address on them. 'Now you can get me at work, home or on the move. Mobiles, eh? They were yuppies-only when we were knocking about.'

I glanced at the scrap of paper and saw a half-familiar address. I pocketed the note, intending to drop it in the street when I got outside.

'No, no.' Johnny shook his head he knew my game. 'I went to the trouble of writing that down, the least you can do is keep it safe.'

I fished the paper out of my pocket, found my wallet and slipped it in.

'Happy now?'

'Not really, but it’ll do.'

'Catch you later then, Johnny.'

'Aye,' he said. 'Make sure you do or I’ll hunt you down.'

I made my way into the street. Eilidh gave me a wave as I passed her table. I looked straight ahead and pretended not to notice.

I wasn’t surprised that my mother and Johnny Mac had run into each other. However hard it pretends to be a city, Glasgow is just a big village. I’d known it wouldn’t be long till someone recognised me, and news of my return filtered along the M8 to the pensioner bungalow in Cumbernauld. That was one of the reasons I’d only held out a month after my return before phoning her, that and the brown envelope from another time that she was keeping safe for me. Mum came through the day after I phoned, as I knew she would.

The clock outside Buchanan Street bus station is a fey sculpture, a working clock frozen fleeing towards the entrance on long aluminium legs. I wondered what had come first, the image or the title, 'Time Flies’ — too bloody true.

On reflection the bus station probably wasn’t the best place to hook up. It had been renovated a few years back, but no one had bothered to maintain it since and the building was shrugging off the revamp. I arrived early, or perhaps the bus was late, so I took a seat on one of the cold perforated metal benches that sit on the edge of the concourse unprotected from the elements, smoked a cigarette and watched the buses sailing in and out of their slots, sliding across the forecourt like reckless ocean liners on speed. A bus left the far stand, the faces of its passengers blurred behind fogged-up windows. As it revved into top gear a second coach sped into the concourse from Buchanan Street, slicing towards the departing bus. They faced each other like reflections in a mirror and I tracked their course, tensing myself for impact. Just when collision seemed inevitable one of the drivers, I’m not sure which, peeled back and they cruised by with a quick exchange of salutes, one two-fingered, the other a single digit.

A woman of around my mother’s age sat at the far end of the bench. I gave her a reassuring smile and said, 'They should set that to music.' She shot me a sour look and shifted away from me. I muttered, 'Stuck up old cow,' just loud enough for her to hear, then threw my cigarette butt onto the concrete, walked to the edge of the stand and looked out into the forecourt. The wind had full reign across the open space. It blew down from the Necropolis, through the infirmary, across the motorways and round the high rises until it could reach its goal and whip loose grit into the inadequate shelter. I rubbed my eyes. There was an illusion waiting to present itself on the edge of my mind.

'Excuse me, Jim,' an old man stood at my left hand. 'Could you help us out with my fare to Aberdeen?'

I searched in my pocket for some change, the illusion still shifting angles in my head.

'There you go.'

I put fifty pence into his palm. He glanced at the coin before folding it in a firm grip, like a child scared of losing his pocket money before he made it to Woolworth’s.

'I need to get away frae this godforsaken city and back to civilisation, see?'

'Aye, well, I hope you make it.'

'This is a bad place, son; Sodom and Gomorrah had nothing on London. Land of bloody heathens.'

'You’re not in London,' I said, distracted away from my vision of collisions and vanishing buses.

'I know that, I’m no bloody daft.'

'Fair enough.'

I was through with illusions, magical and philosophical. I pushed the calculations from my head and turned towards the benches, but they were full now. The wind was growing sharper, cut through with a dampness that meant it would rain soon. I leaned against the wall of the shelter and the old man shifted with me, muttering something I couldn’t make out. The wind was bitter, but it wasn’t strong enough to carry away his tang. I wondered when he’d last had a wash. Maybe it’d been in London. I pulled out my half-empty pack of cigarettes.

'If I give you a fag will you go away?'

'That’s what you bloody yuppies are like.' The old man’s voice was getting higher. 'You think you can bloody buy and sell everyone. Well Jackie McArthur’s no for sale.'

The people on the benches turned towards us. I didn’t care, maybe it would be the last time I’d be the entertainment. I held the pack towards him.

'Aye fine, you can have one anyway, if you lower the volume.'

Jackie took a cigarette.

'Bloody fucking metropolitan yuppies. No room for a working man any more.'

Perhaps he really had come all the way from London. He seemed to have the measure of the place.

Another bus slid into another stand, but the Cumbernauld service was still missing in action. The people waiting on the benches started to shuffle into line. I looked back towards the clock in the main hall and saw a short moustached man in a navy-blue fleece walking towards us. He wore a silver ticket-machine strung round his neck like a badge of office.

The woman at the top of the queue began counting her change, getting the correct fare together. She looked up as the conductor passed, but he ignored her, walking by the waiting queue towards my new pal Jackie McArthur.

The ticket-collector cocked his thumb at Jackie.

'Move it.' The old man looked up, his fight chased off by the uniform and moustache.

The ticket-collector moved a little nearer, putting his face close to the old man’s. 'I said, bloody move it.'

I counted to ten, but when I finished counting the old man was still mumbling and the ticket-collector was still puffed before him like a bantam facing a flyweight.

'There’s no need to talk to him like that.'

'This isnae vagrant central.'

Jackie started muttering, 'Nae place for a working man any more.'

I tried to keep my voice reasonable. 'He’s only waiting on a bus.'

'No, he’s no, he’s just in here for the heat.'

'Then he’s bloody kidding himself isn’t he? You’d get more heat off my granny’s fanny and she’s been dead fifteen years.'

Someone in the queue laughed and the conductor flushed.

'You watch your mouth. There’s ladies present.' He turned to the old man. 'Where are you headed?'

'Away from London, son. City of fools and killers.'

'He’s going to Aberdeen.'

'Where’s your ticket?' The old man patted the pockets of his jacket and the official raised his voice, enunciating slowly. 'I said, where is your ticket?'

The man stopped his search and the collector’s eyes sparkled. He adjusted the settings on his machine. 'That’ll be fifteen pounds please, sir.'

Jackie looked confused. He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the fifty pence I’d given him. He turned to me his voice high.

'I told you already. I dinnae have the money.'

The cogs of the ticket-machine rasped as the collector cranked it backwards.

'Well fuck off and stop wasting our time then or I’ll be forced to call the cops and have you done.'

I took out my wallet.

'Look, I’ll bloody pay.'

I pulled out a tenner. The old man took it gently from me, smiling, and I noticed how well his horn-yellow nails coordinated with the nicotine tint of his fingertips.

The ticket-collector’s voice was nasal and sharp.

'It’s fifteen pounds please, sir.'

'Give me a moment.'

I patted my pockets for change echoing the old man’s search, but that morning I had resolved again to live within the bounds of the bru and never to touch the tainted money hidden in my props case beneath my bed. I remembered too late that the tenner was the last of my cash. I looked towards the queue.

'Look, this old boy’s a bit confused, he’s four-fifty short of his fare to Aberdeen.' I hesitated, not really wanting to go ahead with what I knew I was about to do, but sure that I wouldn’t be bested by the bully. I scanned the faces before me. Third in line stood a skinny red-haired girl in a green coat. She looked like a student, but the coat was new, her bag mid-range expensive. Others were looking away, keen to remove their better nature before it was called on, but the skinny redhead was half out of the line, watching us. I bet she had some money on her. Even as I caught her look in mine, her hand went shyly to her pocket. I held her gaze and said, 'You want to help this old man.'

The order freed her and she stepped forward, calmly unzipping her handbag.

Jackie took off his bunnet and started to sing.

The northern lights of A-a-berdeen are home, sweet h-o-o-me to me.

A couple of people in the queue started to grin, but the girl continued to reach for her purse. I kept my eyes on her, smiling but willing her to speed up.

Then suddenly everyone in the queue was laughing, the girl looked up confused, a flush burning her cheeks.

Jackie was tilting a small bottle of whisky to his lips. He finished his swallow, raised the ten pounds to his mouth, kissed it, then lifted the note in the air and began jigging back into the station, towards the exit.

The northern lights of Aberdeen are where I want to be.

'Remember, son,' he shouted over his shoulder, more lucid than a drunken, dancing tramp with money in his hand should be,'

'member and keep away from London. It’s full of killers and fools.'

'Aye, that’s good advice for your money,' said the ticket collector. 'So do you want this ticket to Aberdeen?'

'What do you think?'

'I think you should bugger off.'

Jackie’s song echoed from the exit.

I’ve been a wanderer all my life and many a sight I’ve seen, But God speed the d-a-a-a-a-y

when I’m on my w-a-a-a-a-y

to my home in Aberdeen…

I hesitated, caught between the impulse to run after the old man and an urge to thump the ticket-collector.

I said, 'Who the fuck do you think you are?'

He shook his head, and started to walk towards the waiting queue. I made to follow him, then a small figure caught my eyeline. I turned and said, 'Hi Mum.'

We wandered down past the Stalinist façade of the concert hall and into the city. I reached towards my mother’s carrier bag but she pulled it away from my grasp. The last time we’d met I’d taken her to an Italian restaurant I’d read about on the flight from London. This time I didn’t even have the price of a cup of coffee. The change hung between us as we walked towards the café of her choice.

I’ve drunk coffee in Starbucks from Manhattan to Inverness and never yet enjoyed the experience. We queued, ordered, Mum paid, then we waited to see what we’d paid for.

Perhaps it said something about the indomitability of the human spirit that no matter how hard the coffee corporation tried they couldn’t guarantee service with a smile. Our server looked like he’d had a rough night. His skin had a veal-calf pallor and there were red rings round his eyes that told of late nights and smoky rooms. He clattered our cups onto their saucers, swilling milky coffee over the side.

I lifted the tray and said, 'Ever thought you were in the wrong job?'

'All the time, pal.' He leant forward and whispered low enough to exclude the other customers. 'I’d prefer one that didn’t involve dealing with wankers.' Getting things off his chest seemed to cheer the boy up. He smiled, resuming normal volume. 'Mind and have a nice day.'

I started to answer, but Mum put her hand on the small of my back. She should have been a nightclub bouncer. There was no arguing with that steady pressure. I bit back my words and we made our way to the only seats available, two stained chairs set round a table littered with a debris of sandwich wrappers and dirty cups. I slid the tray between the mess.

Suddenly I wanted a pint.

Mum set our cups on the table and started to fill the empty tray with the rubbish. A plastic sandwich pack sprang open and her mouth grew tight as she forced it shut.

'Do you have to pick a fight with everyone you meet?'

I watched her hand the tray to a passing employee with the smoothness of a fly-half passing a rugby ball. One minute the guy was loose-limbed and unburdened, the next he was laden.

'Bad manners annoy me.'

Mum folded a napkin and placed it between the saucer and the cup to soak up the slopped coffee. She rubbed a paper hanky over the spills of the previous customers, then put her carrier bag on the table between the lattes.

'It’s me that’s the pensioner, not you.'

'Aye, sorry.'

She smiled to show me the reprimand was over then reached into her handbag and pulled out an envelope with her address written on it in my handwriting.

'I’d best give you this before I forget.'

'Oh, right.'

I took the envelope from her, feeling the cord that seems to stretch from my guts to my groin tighten.

'You said it was insurance documents.'

'That’s right.'

I slid it into my inside pocket wondering if Montgomery’s envelope would be my insurance or a bait to my downfall.

'Your dad always said you had a good head on you, underneath all the carry-on.'

'Thanks, Mum.'

'I brought you a couple of things.' She unfolded the plastic bag and pulled out a three-pack of navy socks. 'I thought you could probably do with these.'

'Thanks.' I lifted them up trying to look interested in the 80 per cent wool, 20 per cent acrylic mix. 'Great.'

'They were on sale in the Asda. How are you for pants?'

'Fine.'

'I almost bought you some, but I minded the last time I got them you said they were the wrong sort.' I vaguely recalled a set of piping-trimmed Y-fronts I’d be scared to get run over in. 'I brought you this as well.' She handed me a blue shirt still in its cellophane wrapping. 'I got it for your dad, but he never got the chance to wear it.'

It was the kind of shirt that would look good with an off-the-peg from Slaters, a shirt for a nine-to-five man, the kind of shirt I never wore.

'It’ll mebbe be a bit big for you but I thought you could wear it under a jumper.'

I took it in my hand smoothing the slightly brittle cellophane.

'Aye, it’ll be grand in this weather.'

'That’s what I thought. Keep the chill out.'

We sat in silence for a moment. Neither of us touched our coffee.

'I bought it for your dad to wear to Lorna’s wedding, but he went before that came round.'

I bowed my head. Every time there was a crisis Mum would begin to reminisce about my dad’s death, as if reassuring herself with the knowledge that the worst had already happened.

She lifted her teaspoon and began to peel back the skin that had started to form on the top of her drink. 'Almost two pounds each these coffees and we’ve not even touched them.' I lifted my cup and took a sip. 'I almost had him buried in that shirt, but in the end I dressed him in plain white. I don’t know why, blue always suited him better. White just seemed more appropriate for a funeral.'

'There’s no point in fretting over it now. I’ll wear it under a jumper.'

'Aye,' she laid aside the teaspoon and looked me straight on. 'Or mebbe you should keep it in the packet and save it for your own funeral.'

'What’s that meant to mean?'

'Look at the state of you, son.'

'I’m fine.'

'You don’t look it.'

'Well, I am.'

I sat up a little straighter hoping improved posture would convince her. But I knew what she meant. I’d looked in the mirror before I left my room and seen my face puffy from the night before, my skin pale from days spent indoors, my cheeks jowlier than they’d been in Berlin.

'Why are you here, William?'

'That’s a nice question.'

Her face wore the same stern look she’d used to coax the truth from me when I’d been a wee boy.

'You’re not in trouble are you?'

For a second I wished I could tell her everything. The thought almost made me laugh. It was like an urge to put a finger in an electric socket or the impulse to jump under a subway train. I knew it would be fatal but the temptation still beckoned. I took a sip of my coffee, looked her in the eye and said, 'Of course not.'

The straight stare worked no better than when I’d been a kid.

'It’s nothing to do with drugs is it? Your dad was always worried about you being in showbiz. I told him you were a sensible laddie but he said it was high risk for drugs. I mean look at Elvis.'

She smiled at my dad’s folly, agreeing with him all the same.

'It’s not drugs, Mum, honest.'

'Honest?'

She took another sip of her drink, uncertain but wanting to be reassured.

'Honest.' I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. 'You need to keep a clear head in my line.'

'Aye, I suppose so.'

'How’s Bobby?'

Her face brightened.

'He’s grand. Mrs Cowan’s laddie’s going to take him out when he comes in from school.'

'I didn’t know they were letting dogs into school these days.'

It was a poor joke but she did me the grace of laughing.

'You know what I mean. Though mind you, he’s as clever as some folk I’ve met.'

'More intelligent than Mrs Cowan’s laddie that’s for sure.'

'Ach, you’re terrible, William. He’s doing his standard grades now.'

'That’s good.'

I sipped my coffee, pleased the conversation had moved to neutral ground. I should have known better. Mum let me relax, then hit me again with the old verbal one-two.

'Is it a girl, son?'

I kept my voice level.

'There was a girl, Mum, but there isn’t any more.'

She smiled. Romance was a good problem.

We left Starbucks and walked down towards the town. Mum wanted to see where I was staying. I said it was being painted, but promised to take her when the renovations were over. She asked me about the colours the decorators had chosen and I lied my way through an addled spectrum that had her shaking her head. We wandered into Marks & Spencer’s where she clucked at the prices and tried to patch my misery with reduced-price knitwear.

'It’s not my style, Mum.'

'You’re getting too old for style, son. Feel that, it’s lovely wool.'

'I’d never wear it.'

She reluctantly let go of the sleeve of the jumper she’d been holding out for my inspection.

'It’s a nice shade. It’d go well with your complexion.'

I thought it looked the colour of dog sick. But I smiled and said, 'Where do you want to go now?'

She straightened the hooks on the hangers, making sure they were all facing in a uniform direction.

'I still think these are a bargain.'

'Not if they stay in the cupboard.'

'I suppose not.'

Across the racks a smartly dressed shopper stared at us. She looked away as I caught her eye and I wondered if she was the store detective or just a nosy cow with too much time on her hands. I glanced to check Mum’s back was turned then mouthed Fuck you, clear and silent. Mum dug me sharp in the ribs.

'What?'

'You know what. I brought you up better than that.'

'Sorry. She was staring at us.'

'Well, let her stare.' Mum steered me towards the exit. 'And you a bally magician. Did you not know I could see you in the mirror?' She started to laugh. 'Mind she was a nosy torn-faced auld besom.' We were both laughing now. Mum wiped her eyes. 'Honestly, you’ll be the death of me.' She looked the most cheerful she’d been all day. 'Come on,' she handed me her shopper. 'It’s an hour before I need to get the bus. Will I take you for a wee drink?'

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.'

'I bet you’d say you were Klingon if it helped.'

'Assuming they don’t have national service.'

She laughed.

'You’re funnier off-stage.'

'So I’ve been told.' Somewhere beyond in the dark a tram hissed across the wires. She shook her head and I saw raindrops jewelling her dark helmet of hair. I waited for her to tell me what she wanted, then, when she didn’t speak, said, 'So what can I do for you?'

'Shall I tell you over a drink?'

'I thought you’d never ask.' I glanced at my suitcase. 'Do you mind if we swing by my hotel so I can check in and dump this bag?'

She smiled showing perfect American pearly whites.

'Maybe we could have a drink there?'

'Why not?'

I returned her smile, but kept my teeth hidden, thinking Casanova himself couldn’t have managed things better, forgetting that she hadn’t told me what she wanted.

In the hours since I’d arrived the district had changed. It was still busy, but the pace had slowed. We were at a crossroads of the night. The traffic of homeward-bound theatregoers and late-night diners was cut through with the young club crowd for whom the evening, like everything else, was still young. Sylvie led me along a street lined with bars and restaurants and I caught glimpses of couples and clusters of friends caught in the bright lights, smiling. I could almost have imagined myself in London and yet I was most definitely abroad. Maybe it was just post-show tiredness made worse by a slight sense of dislocation, but everything looked too good, too clean, too nice for me to relax. It felt like the scene in the movie just before the bad guys come blazing in.

We waited for a tram to clang its way around a corner then I stepped from the pavement and into the road.

'Hey, hasty.' Sylvie put her hand on my arm and nodded at the red pedestrian light.

'Sorry.' I grinned and stepped back onto the kerb. 'Where I come from traffic lights are for the aged, the infirm and homosexuals.'

The light switched to green, we crossed together and Sylvie asked where I was staying. I told her and she said, 'It’s pretty close, we can walk from here.'

'Any good?'

Sylvie shrugged her shoulders.

'I’ve never put in any time there.' She flashed me a smile, her heels brisk against the concrete. 'I love new hotel rooms, don’t you?'

'I’ve spent too much time in them.'

'I haven’t.'

We’d turned away from the bars and cafés into a side street dominated by the skeleton of a half-constructed building. Blue plastic flapped in the structure’s frame and I thought of a giant ghost ship travelling through the night, sails slapping against the squall. Sylvie stepped onto the kerb of the unfinished pavement, and our pace slowed as she teetered along its edge, pausing occasionally to steady her balance like a tightrope-walker on the highest of high wires. I walked beside her, my suitcase’s wheels grumbling against the roadway’s newly surfaced tarmac. Sylvie stretched out her arms, seesawing with exaggerated concentration, then placed the tips of her right fingers against my shoulder to steady herself.

'If I ever make it big I’ll live in a hotel. Clean sheets every day, a minibar full of cool drinks, room service, cable TV, a shower with fuck-off water pressure…'

We reached the end of the pavement. She wavered, swaying slightly like it was a long way down; I took her hand and she jumped lightly from the verge, landing in a small curtsey. I said, 'And a cooked breakfast every morning.'

'A cooked breakfast whenever you wanted. Midnight, if you felt like it, and…’ She hesitated making sure she’d got my full attention before adding her pièce de résistance ‘…

free toiletries.'

We were back on a main street now. A young couple crossed our path and went into a bar, his arm around her shoulder, hers around his waist.

'See if you were in Glasgow at this time of night the streets would be full of drunks.'

'Yeah? Why?'

'I don’t know. That’s just the way it is.'

'Where I come from only big-time losers are drunks.'

I felt myself bridle.

'Is that right?'

'Yep, just the guys that are too fucked-up to score crystal meth. Getting drunk’s for pussies.'

'Lucky pussies. Where is it you come from?'

'Let’s just say I come from here, now.'

'The here and now?'

'You better believe it.' The heels of her boots gave a final clack then she stopped before a doorway. 'Here we are, Hotel Bates. It doesn’t look very lively.'

I glanced at the shuttered windows, the fastened storm doors and sleeping neon sign.

'The guidebook said this was a twenty-four-hour city.'

'It is, but only where it pays to stay open late.'

I rang the bell and watched, straining my ears for the sound of a porter’s footfall, then pressed the bell again, unsure whether it was ringing somewhere deep within the house or if it had been disconnected sometime around the porter’s bedtime. I stopped and listened.

'Did you hear something?'

Sylvie shook her head. I started to bang my fist hard against the door. But my blows seemed to be absorbed by the thick wood; all I was going to end up with was a sore hand.

Behind me, three notes chimed like an incomplete scale on a cracked xylophone. I turned towards the sound and saw Sylvie switching on her mobile, her face illuminated by the phone’s green glow.

'Perhaps we should call them.'

I glanced at the address Ray had given me.

'I don’t have their number.'

But Sylvie was already keying the buttons on her mobile. She nodded towards a hand-painted sign above the porch. Somewhere beyond the bolted door a phone started to ring.

We waited twenty peals then Sylvie broke the connection, retapped the number and we waited twenty more. I swore under my breath. Then Sylvie said the words that every single man and many a married man who’s just met an attractive young woman longs to hear.

'I guess you’d better come back to my place.' Then she added the caveat we all hope is just for form’s sake. 'There’s a spare bed.'

I’d imagined Sylvie living somewhere compact and modern, an apartment as bright and uncluttered as the bars we had passed. But it was obvious when she opened the door that the years had been unkind to Sylvie’s flat.

The hallway’s unpolished lino and beige wallpaper could have dated from before Soviet times. There was a stack of unopened mail spewed across the hall table and an old slack-chained bicycle propped against the wall. The bicycle sported a man’s battered leather jacket on its handlebars. It looked triumphant, like a redneck truck with roadkill strapped to its bull bars. The apartment had the rundown temporary feel of a place that’s sheltered a succession of tenants and received no care in return. Sylvie gave the mail a quick uninterested glance.

'Well, here we are, home sweet home.'

'Great location.'

She laughed.

'We like it.'

I wondered if the other half of the ‘we’ had anything to do with the leather jacket. Sylvie started to take off her coat.

'Coffee?'

'I think I can do better than that.' I unzipped my suitcase and drew out the bottle of duty-free Glenfiddich I’d stashed there. 'I knew there was a reason I was dragging this bloody bag around with me.'

'Looks like good stuff.'

'I thought you said alcohol was for pussies?'

'I said in America alcohol is for pussies. We’re in Europe now.'

'Ah, America, that narrows it down.'

Sylvie gave me a look.

'Nosy boy.' She draped her coat over the mystery man’s jacket, then took my raincoat and hung it, snug, embracing hers on top of the pile. 'You go introduce yourself to Uncle Dix and I’ll fetch us some glasses.'

'To who?'

She walked through to the kitchen and I positioned myself in the doorway watching her peer into cupboards as if she wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for.

'Uncle Dix.'

She looked up, giving me the benefit of those perfect teeth again and pointed across the lobby.

I muttered, 'Casanova my arse.' And walked into the dimly lit lounge hoping to discover that Uncle Dix was a cat or maybe a small dog of the non-yappy variety.

Whoever had decorated the room had been in a hurry, or perhaps they just hadn’t had enough paint to go round. The walls and ceiling were ransom-note red, the paint applied in uneven swathes, a choppy red sea, pink-foamed and unpredictable, or the interior of a burst blood vessel.

There was a small anglepoise lamp pointing up towards the ceiling, and a half dozen or so tea lights guttering towards extinction on an unused hearth. The walls sucked the light into them making the shadows in the room dark and crimson like arterial spatters at a murder scene.

The man I supposed must be Uncle Dix was sitting on a brown leatherette easy chair.

The chair had a rip in its arm that had been mended with gaffer tape. Whoever had mended it probably hadn’t expected the repair to last. They’d been right. Uncle Dix plucked gently at the tape’s edge, as if testing the sticking power of the glue, then, when the strip succumbed unfurling towards him, he smoothed it gently back over the rip, sealing it tight against his next mild assault. There was no TV flickering in the corner, no interrupted book or newspaper placed on his lap, just a deep ashtray half full of dead rollups on the coffee table beside him. Uncle Dix was either a man with something on his mind, or a man giving his mind a rest.

We age people on much more than their faces. We check out their clothes, the condition their body is in, the company they keep. We look at their hair, the way they talk, all of this in the first few seconds of meeting and without even knowing we’re doing it. I’m pretty good at calculating people’s ages. It’s part of the job. I coughed, the man on the chair moved his gaze from the torn arm towards me, and I decided he could be anywhere between thirty-nine and sixty. He gave me a long, uninterested stare. The kind of look a man gives his shopaholic wife’s latest purchase.

'Hi, I’m William.' I stuck my hand out. He waited a beat beyond politeness then shook it softly without rising from his seat.

'Dix.'

His voice had the rusty quality of old keys and broken locks. It was hard to make out the colour of his hair in the gory gloaming of the room, a steel-grey that might be black. His face was studded with stubble, which I guessed was two days’ growth drifting into the third night. He wore a pair of loose jogging trousers and a half-buttoned shirt beneath which I could glimpse tendrils of chest hair. Dix looked unkempt, unwashed and was carrying about half a stone too much weight, but I had a sneaking feeling he was the kind of man that women find attractive.

I lowered myself onto the couch, wishing Sylvie would hurry up.

'Sylvie’s just fetching some drinks.'

Uncle Dix kept his eyes on my face but his hand had gone back to its plucking. Once again there was a brief pause before he spoke, like the hesitation between the wires in a long-distance phone call.

'You’re back.'

Against Dix’s hoarse whisper Sylvie’s voice sounded like the clear chime of a Sunday morning church bell.

'Sure looks like it.'

Sylvie held three mismatched glasses pinched in one hand with my whisky swinging negligently by its neck from the other. She placed herself cross-legged on the floor between us, putting the bottle and glasses on the coffee table, keeping the overfull ashtray at the heart of the arrangement. I sensed some disagreement, past or maybe just postponed, between the two and it crossed my mind that I might yet find a hotel willing to take me in.

Sylvie said, 'William’s homeless.'

And shot me a dazzling smile. I unscrewed the bottle and started to pour three measures.

'Temporarily homeless.'

'His hotel locked him out.'

Uncle Dix turned his eyes towards me. They were puffed and bleary, but they could see OK. I wondered again how old he was and watched him take a sip of whisky. He made a grimace of approval, took another sip and said, 'Bad luck.'

It sounded like an ill-omened toast. I raised my glass.

'Prost.'

Sylvie lifted hers in response.

'Bottoms up.'

Dix’s hand left the gaffer tape, went into his pocket and re-emerged with his rolling papers. I took my own cigarettes out and offered them round. Sylvie shook her head, but Dix took one and put it behind his ear for later.

'Not a very auspicious start to my first night in Berlin.'

Maybe it was the whisky, maybe it was the cigarette, or the company, but Dix seemed to be coming out of his fugue. He snapped a couple of cigarette papers from their packet and asked, 'You just arrived?'

For the first time I noticed an American tinge to his German-accented English. I wondered if he’d spent time there or if the inflection came from living with Sylvie. For all I knew he’d picked it up from MTV. I wondered how long they’d been together and what they were to each other. The sound of my name broke me from my thoughts.

'Will was the star of the show I was at tonight.'

I took a sip of my drink and nodded the compliment back to her.

'You were the star.'

Dix put his hand back into his pocket rooting for something. He looked distractedly at Sylvie.

'They gave you a job?'

'Not yet.'

Dix started to feel behind the cushion at his back, he gave an annoyed growl and there seemed a danger he might shift from his seat, then Sylvie reached under the coffee table and pulled out a bag of grass. Dix gave as close as he would get that night to a genuine smile, took the bag from her and untied the knot in its neck. The odour of fresh skunk flooded the room. I asked Sylvie, 'What do you do?'

'I’m a dancer.'

'What kind?'

'What kind you want?'

'She dances good.' Dix finished loading the joint. He sealed the papers with his tongue before lighting up and taking a couple of long drags. He passed it across the table to me.

'Here, it goes good with whisky.'

Sylvie laughed.

'Goes good with everything.'

'Cheers.' I took a long toke, pulling the smoke right down into my lungs then coughed against its goodness. 'Quality stuff.'

My voice had taken on the same dry essence as Sylvie’s uncle’s.

'The best.' He nodded.

I took another couple of drags. I could feel it working on my bones, better than any massage.

Dix squinted at Sylvie through the smoke.

'You should dance for him.'

Sylvie got to her feet, I noticed again how slight she was, how upright her posture. She leaned towards me, taking the spliff, then threw her head back, sucking down a long drag of the joint, twirling her small body into a pirouette. She tumbled out of it laughing, 'You should try this, Will, it surely ups the high.'

'If I get any higher I won’t come down.'

Dix repeated, 'You should dance for him.' He looked at me. 'They need any dancers at your place?'

'I don’t know. I could ask around.' I looked at Sylvie. 'You don’t have to.'

'But I’d like to.' She walked over to a CD player and started flicking through a handful of discs on the floor beside it. 'I need the practice.' Sylvie lowered her voice into a parody of an artist. 'I’m between engagements.'

'She quit her job.' Uncle Dix smiled proudly. 'Told them to stick it up their ass.'

Sylvie looked up from the CD in her hand, 'That kind of job you can get anywhere.'

Dix shrugged his shoulders; he was already rolling another spliff.

I asked, 'What’s your line of work?'

He looked at me and I wondered if he didn’t understand the phrasing of the question, then he grinned and said, 'I mind my own business.'

'Dix can turn his hand to anything.'

Sylvie found the disk she was looking for and slid it into the machine. She kicked off her boots, bent into a couple of stretches, knocked back the last of her whisky, and pressed

. The CD started with a lazy saxophone solo. Sylvie was already backing away, shaking her hips to the contra-beat, moving upraised arms against the melody, rolling her eyes as if in ecstasy as she reversed onto the bare floor in front of Dix and me. She eased her hips into a long weaving roll like a Hawaiian girl who’d had some soma slipped in her coconut milk. Then the rhythm changed to a percussive beat and Sylvie cartwheeled backwards into a handstand that was slow and sexy, showing the length of her leg, a flash of secret seam. She drew herself up to her full height, raising her arms till she was posed like JC on the cross and shook into a rhythm that was old and elemental. Sylvie smiled as she altered her moves to meet the tempo, pointing her toes like a ballerina, high-kicking like a burlesque showgirl then dropping to the floor in avantgarde writhings impossible to classify. Dix nodded his head and I fought an urge to look at my feet. At last the music ended, Dix and I clapped and Sylvie broke her final pose, slumping back onto the ground looking like she hadn’t broken sweat. She smiled and said, 'That was my audition piece.'

I woke in the morning with a dread of my forthcoming performance, a sore head, dry throat and only a vague recollection of the night’s end. I rolled over, hoping against hope to see Sylvie’s dark head beside me, but the rest of the bed was empty, the sheets rumpled as if I had been thrashing about, though the stiffness in my back suggested I’d slept like the dead.

After Sylvie’s dance it had been my turn for a party piece. Sylvie had produced a pack of cards and asked me to give them a show. I’d palmed them for the deck in my pocket and given my hosts a simple routine. She’d been full of gasps and exaggerated wonder but Uncle had kept his cool, looking like he’d seen it all before. After a while he’d asked, 'So are cards just for tricks or can you play serious games?'

'Like what?'

'Like poker.'

He inclined his head, his face so card-sharp straight it was hard not to laugh. I guess the grass had started to work on me by then. I pushed down the giggles and said,

'Sometimes.'

'Any good?'

I folded the deck into a fancy weave.

'Too good to play you for money when I’m accepting your hospitality.'

'Ah, that good.' He took the pack from me and riffled them into a neat shuffle. 'I’d like to see you play all the same.'

'Fine by me if we make it a friendly stake.'

Dix looked amused and I wondered if he thought I was after his grass or his girl, if indeed she was his girl, but then Sylvie went to her bag and threw a couple of matchbooks onto the table and the moment passed. I picked one up and started to strip the flimsy paper matches from it. The cover was glossy black, printed with a gold image. A woman dressed only in knickers and crisscrossing fishnets had tumbled into a fancy cocktail where she now sat, laughing. Her bosoms were as round and as buoyant as the bubbles floating from the glass. Her long legs kicked happily beyond its rim, her arms raised in a ta-da showgirl gesture. The cover read Ein Enchanted Nachtreview.

Dix broke into my thoughts. 'You do the casinos a lot?'

I shook my head, not wanting to get into it, my hand going to the small scar near my left eye.

'In my younger days.' I watched as he dealt a hand. 'But casinos are trained to be suspicious.'

Dix laid the last card on the table and left the pack face-down, next to the ashtray. 'They don’t like you to win too much.'

I picked up my cards and sorted them quickly into suits. 'It wouldn’t be good business.'

We played a couple of hands, aces low, in more or less silence. I called canny, watching the cards, memorising sequences, noting who had what and what had gone before. The first two hands I won were calculated luck. But by the third I had the measure of the pack and though my voice stayed smooth and my movements were slow and gentle my strategy was full-on edgy.

Dix didn’t have my grasp, I’d spotted any luckies that chance dealt him and without a monster hand he had the odds of a borstal boy with a yearning for Eton. He lost with the same calm disinterest that had characterised his moves all night, but I thought his lazy eyes betrayed a brighter keenness than they’d shown before. The whisky was a quarter lower than when we’d started. I poured my hosts a measure each, slipping a small tot into my own glass. Catching Dix looking at me over his deal, I wondered if he’d noticed that since the game began I’d been drinking less and inhaling so light it barely counted. Sylvie was beginning to look bored. She spread her cards into a careless fan. I said, 'Sylvie, I can see your cards.'

And she pressed them flat against her chest, like a colonial lady startled into a heart flutter.

'That’s how he does it, X-ray vision.'

'Hey, no, honey,' I affected an American old-timer accent. 'I just know when to hold them, know when to fold them, know when to walk away and know when to run.'

Dix ignored our banter. His voice had the rusty edge to it again.

'I think there’s a story you’re not telling us. If it was me I’d forget this trickster stuff and do the casinos.'

I levelled my stare at him and put my cards down with a flourish, winning the final hand and leaving the others with the old stains of coffee cups where their stake used to be.

Even without a penny of gain it was a good feeling and I spoke to remind myself of my priorities.

'I’m a performer.'

Dix pushed the rest of the matchstick jackpot towards me. 'Your choice man, but it seems a waste. With all these matches you could start a really big fire.'

'Could do, but then things might get a bit hot.'

He nodded. 'I understand. But you got a gift, seems a shame to waste it. There are a lot of good casinos in Berlin. We could go to Alexanderplatz right now and clean up more than you’ll make in a week of hiding aces up your sleeve.'

I reached over to Sylvie and palmed a gold coin from behind her ear, presenting it to her with a small flourish, showing Dix’s slight on my knack didn’t faze me. Sylvie giggled but he looked unimpressed.

'Maybe you don’t want to play the casinos, I can understand that.' He raised a hand absentmindedly to his eye and for the first time I noticed a fading rack of small bruises on his knuckles. 'But there are a lot of bored rich men in the world, you find a trick to entertain them, something special, some private show, then you’d collect big money.'

'Maybe we’ll do that one night.'

'You let me know.' Dix’s stare was serious. 'Right now you’re wasting your talent. Think about it. You have the audience watching you, maybe a pretty girl by your side and what do you do? Wave your wand and make her disappear or cut a piece of string in two then put it back together again.' He shook his head at the futility of my act. 'You’ve got quick hands, a fast memory,' he grinned, 'you can make people see things that aren’t there. That’s a hell of a skill. You change your mind you tell me. I’ve got good connections in this city.'

I nodded then squared the cards and slid them back into their box, not wanting to hear any get-rich-quick schemes or remember the kind of trouble my nimble fingers could get me into.

'So 'Uncle', is it an honorary title or a real one?'

He shrugged.

'Of course it is an honour.'

Sylvie replaced the dead candles on the hearth with fresh ones and we lit them with my winnings. The talk moved on and so did the night while we continued making a dent in Dix’s grass and killing the whisky, until everything faded.

I hauled myself out of bed, realising I’d gone to sleep in my contact lenses again. Vanity would send me blind. My trousers and shirt were in a bundle at the bottom of the bed. It looked like an alien had come along and zapped me off for an anal probe, leaving my clothes shrivelled on the ground behind me. I listened for noises, coughed into the silence, then dressed and went into the hall, trying to remember which door led to the bathroom.

The bathroom was kidney-shrivelling cold. I was midstream when I heard a noise behind me and glanced over my shoulder. Sylvie stood in the doorway wrapped in a thin floral robe. She rubbed her eyes and said, 'Don’t mind me.' Then turned on the tap and started to wash her face. It’s hard to be nonchalant while peeing, but I did my best.

'Sleep well?' I did a final shake over the pan and zipped myself away.

'Not so much sleep as pass out.' She patted her face dry with a grey-looking towel. 'How

’bout you?'

'The same.'

Sylvie hung the towel back up and did a quick shuffle, hopping from foot to foot.

I said, 'Cool dance.'

And she made a face.

'Very funny, you finished there?'

We swapped places and she seated herself, holding her long dressing-gown around her thighs. She had thick woolly socks on her feet, but I had the impression that other than that she was naked under her robe. A thin trickling filled the room. I did the gentlemanly thing and looked in the mirror. I needed a shave and my breath probably stank, but the night hadn’t left too much of a mark on my face. Thoughts of the show were still bothering me. I would have to get away soon. Somewhere on my own where I could start thinking how I might tailor my act to this new audience. Behind me Sylvie sighed.

'That’s better.'

I looked towards her then looked away quick, catching her blotting herself dry. My contact lenses eased away from my eyes, letting the world blur to the state where everything looked fine. I splashed my face with cold water.

'Dix has a razor and stuff if you want to use it.'

'I’ll be OK.' I held up my toilet bag. 'You forget I’ve got all my worldly possessions with me.'

'There’s a lot to be said for that.'

Sylvie put the toilet-lid down and sat on it, looking at me as I brushed my teeth.

'Yep.' I spat out the foam and rinsed my mouth. 'Just an old jakie, footloose and fancy-free.'

'A jakie?'

'A tramp, a hobo.'

'But you’ve got ties in the UK right? A house and kids and all that shit?'

'No house, no kids, not even a budgie; indeed no loved ones of any description.'

'No family?'

'Well there’s me old mum, but we don’t see much of each other.'

'Wow.'

I reached for the towel then remembered its greyness and dried my face on the hem of my shirt. Sylvie’s expression was blurred but I thought she was smiling.

'All done?'

'My normal regime includes a mudpack and a seaweed wrap but I suppose I’ll have to make an exception today.'

'Hungry?'

'Hank Marvin.'

'What?'

'Starving.'

She laughed and pushed me playfully from the room.

'Well here’s the deal. You let me get ready and I’ll let you take me out for breakfast.' She started to close the door behind me. 'You know, a girl needs a bit of privacy sometimes.'

Sylvie took me to a small Turkish café on the corner of her street. The aged proprietor smiled when he saw her and they exchanged greetings in a quick slick German while he settled us at a small pavement table. The old man shouted something through the door of the café and pretty soon a young waiter appeared with a tray carrying tiny cups and a tall curvy coffee pot. He handed me a menu printed in English. Sylvie snatched it away good-naturedly, ordering for both of us, saying something that made the waiter laugh then glance at me shyly before he went back inside to prepare our breakfast.

I massaged my temples above my right eyebrow, wondering why my hangovers always concentrated there. Perhaps it was some congenital weakness that would only be diagnosed after I suddenly dropped dead. I wondered if I’d die on-stage, collapsing in the middle of a trick, everyone thinking I’d done it for comic effect. Folk said it was the way Tommy Cooper would’ve wanted to go. I’d never met him but it seemed like a nightmare exit to me. The sound of embarrassed laughter and the audience whispering to each other that they couldn’t believe what an old ham you’d become.

We sat there, bundled against the cold. Sylvie poured, steam curled from the spout and the rich scent of thick sweet coffee began to lift my hangover. We both lit up, adding cigarette smoke and warm breath to the mix.

'You’ve got a good grasp of the lingo.'

'I went to school here.'

'Careful, Sphinx, you’re telling me things about yourself.'

She smiled.

'There’s no big mystery. It’s just, who needs the past? Dix says we should let go and he’s right. What’s the point in looking back? We live for now.'

'Where is Dix? Still in bed?'

'Why?'

'No reason. Nosiness. I wanted to say thanks.'

'I’ll tell him thanks for you.'

'Thanks for that.' We both laughed and I said, 'No, I mean it, thanks. I would’ve been walking the streets last night if it hadn’t been for you.'

'It was no problem.'

'Well, I owe you one.'

She put her elbows on the table and propped her sharp little chin against her fists.

'Wanna pay me back?'

I remembered for the first time that she’d been waiting for me for a reason. My voice was cautious.

'If I can.'

'Will you see if there’s any jobs going for dancers at your place?'

'Sure.'

The waiter brought out two sticky pastries and Sylvie dropped the subject, telling me instead about her Berlin, shops and cafés not listed in the guidebook, streets to search out and a couple to avoid. She talked quickly, taking distracted puffs at her cigarette between bites, laughing often and making me laugh in response. She spoke with her mouth full, somehow still managing to look good. The waiter came out to check whether we wanted anything else and Sylvie ordered a second round of coffees. The two of us lingered on at the pavement table though it should have been too cold to sit outside. We smoked more cigarettes and discussed the passers-by, people with places to go, each of us pretending to be shocked by the slanders the other concocted about perfect strangers.

Eventually the thoughts of that night’s show, which had been tugging at my mind since I woke that morning, became too uncomfortable to ignore. I stubbed out the last of my cigarette and pushed my empty coffee cup to one side.

'I’d best get going.'

'People to do, things to see?'

'A show to fix.'

She smiled.

'It wasn’t so bad.'

'Wasn’t so good either.'

'You’ll fix it. You just need to work out an angle.'

'I guess so.'

We swapped mobile numbers and I promised again to ring her if anything came up. It crossed my mind that I might phone her anyway, but then thoughts of Uncle Dix intruded.

Uncle Dix, where did people get off with these weird names? Styling himself like some Weimar pimp. I bet even now he was cursing the late night and getting ready for some second-rate lecturing job. No, I probably wouldn’t phone. I gave her a last wave then strode onto the street and hailed a taxi to take me to my hotel.

It was early in the afternoon when I stepped out and started to walk towards the theatre.

I’d been in the shower when the phone had rung. I’d assumed it was a wrong number, then when the ringing persisted thought it might be someone from Schall und Rauch. I’d answered half-draped in a towel, wondering why it was I seemed to be naked whenever the phone rang, though I was sure I was clothed most of my waking hours. I picked up the receiver, saying, 'Ja?' Assuming whoever it was would appreciate the effort.

'William? That you?' My agent evidently thought he should shout even louder when talking to someone abroad. 'What’s with the Ja? You gone native? You’ll be singing

‘Tomorrow Belongs to Me’ and sieg-heiling next.'

I started to rub myself dry.

'Times have changed Rich. They don’t go in for that anymore.'

'Once a Nazi always a Nazi. Anyway, where have you been?' He didn’t give me a chance to reply. 'Don’t you ever check your bloody messages?'

For the first time I noticed the red light flashing on the hotel-room phone. 'You could have rung my mobile.'

'I tried that. Dead, wasn’t it?'

'So where’s the fire?'

'Have you seen an English newspaper today?'

'No.'

'Well get yourself a Daily Telegraph then phone me back.'

'A Telegraph, you been checking your stocks and shares, Richard?'

'Just do it. I’ll speak to you in five.'

The line went dead. I looked at the receiver, shook my head then phoned down to the front desk and asked them to send out for a copy of the paper. I’d finished my interrupted shower and was just retying the towel around my waist when the knock came at the door. I tipped the porter, locked the door behind him, sat down on the bed and turned the pages.

It was the photograph that I saw first, a picture of a younger stern-faced Bill that might have been a police mug shot, or might just have been a poor passport photo. There was a picture of the club too. An outside shot that looked vaguely dated, though I wasn’t sure why. There was also, chillingly, a small photograph of Sam onstage from what must have been a long while ago. He looked younger, hopeful, his head thrown back in a laugh. I’d seen him laugh like that often.

I turned to the text though the headline had already given me the substance of the news, CLUB SHOOTING SLAYS TWO. The building’s new owners had gone on a tour of inspection and found Bill and Sam in the office, each lying in a pool of his own blood. The verdict so far was murder and suicide, the finger pointing towards Sam. My balls climbed up towards my belly. I laid the paper down on the bed, poured myself an unnecessarily chilled Famous Grouse from the minibar, downed it, then read on.

The article was big on photographs and low on facts, though it mentioned a jail sentence Bill had served for extortion and referred to his father, calling him a businessman in a way that would leave no one in any doubt of which side of the law he favoured. The whole family was pictured, the biggest space reserved for his mother, Gloria. Montgomery had promised to tell Bill the truth about his mother. Bill had said she was gone. If I’d thought anything of it, I’d assumed death or divorce. The newspaper revealed that she’d gone missing some time in the seventies, her fate never discovered, though after all this time the obvious conclusion was that she was dead.

I’d shut the adventure at Bill’s Soho club in a neat trunk in the corner of my mind. I visualised the trunk. It was an old seaman’s chest. The wood dry and peeling with age, banded with thin strips of black steel. There was a strong padlock clamped tight in its metal hasp. I unlocked it, opened the lid and started to examine my situation.

I thought of Montgomery standing outside the door and Sam thrusting the envelope into my hand. I thought of the envelope lying unopened somewhere in my mother’s bungalow in Cumbernauld. I was sure Sam was innocent, a victim. He wouldn’t be the first person to pay the ultimate price for falling for a bad boy. Maybe they were both victims. If Sam hadn’t insisted on a peaceful approach perhaps Bill would have been more on his guard. But then maybe the business with Montgomery had been settled amicably after all.

Bill was a gangster. Who knew how many enemies he’d made? There might have been a queue lining up to settle old scores before he and Sam sailed into the sun.

If Montgomery had had anything to do with the shootings I didn’t want him to have an inkling that I’d been on the scene when he’d shown up. That meant not alerting any of his chums in the police. If he hadn’t had anything to do with the killings then I was of no practical use to any investigation. Whatever way I looked at it, I was best sitting quiet and letting people who were used to this kind of thing get on with it.

The phone buzzed back into life.

'You found it yet?'

'Yes.'

'Whadda you think?'

'I don’t know. Tragic.'

'Yeah, yeah, young lives cut short and all that, but that wasn’t what I meant. What do you know?'

My voice was defensive.

'Nothing.'

'Don’t be so touchy. I know you wouldn’t get mixed up in anything heavy, William.

Silliness with drink and women, yes, the odd dabble with drugs possibly, but heavy stuff, no.' The line went quiet while my agent took a long drag on his cigarette then exhaled and resumed his monologue. 'So you feel no sudden urge to go and present yourself to the police?'

'No.'

'Good,' cos it would fuck up your Berlin gig that’s for sure.'

'Yeah.' I made an effort to keep my voice casual. 'That’s what I was thinking.'

Hundreds of miles away in Crouch End Richard grunted into the phone.

'You know what bum boys are like, William, unstable.'

'You seem to know a lot about it.'

'Well I would do working in this trade wouldn’t I?' He sighed. 'I’ve got nothing against poofs, William, but they’re a race apart.'

Disgust at Rich, myself, the whole sorry business suddenly filled me. I snapped, 'You knew Sam, don’t you feel anything for him?'

Rich’s voice was sharp.

'I’ll do my mourning on my own time, William.' His tone softened. 'Look, I’m not saying it isn’t sad and I’m not saying he deserved it, but Sam always was reckless. You remember the way he walked out of that summer tour.'

'It’s hardly the same thing.'

'Maybe not, but he wasn’t what you’d call steady. I mean what was he doing hanging around with the likes of Bill in the first place? Get yourself mixed up with that sort and you take what you get.'

'I suppose so.'

'Anyway don’t be surprised if you’re called back to Blighty to answer a few questions.'

I drew the towel closer round me.

'How d’you make that out?'

'All those bloody coppers on a police balls-out? Only a matter of time before one of them drops you in it.'

'I’d not thought of that.'

'No, well that’s why you’re schlepping around Krautland while I sit in a nice warm office with Mrs Pierce putting the kettle on.' He took another asthmatic pull at his cigarette.

'Speaking of Krautland, how’s the gig going?'

'Bloody awful.'

'Pull your finger out and sort it then. I’ve told you before, you need a bit of glamour. Fix yourself up with a nice Fräulein to saw in two and you’ll be laughing.'

'It’s just teething problems, you didn’t tell me the erotic nature of the club.'

Richard laughed.

'Didn’t I?'

'No you bloody didn’t.'

'Oh well, keep your hand on your ha’penny and you’ll be fine.'

'I’ll do my best.'

'That’s the boy.' I heard the quick tap of computer keys and knew the phone call was coming to an end. My agent’s voice took on a self-consciously compassionate tone. 'I’ll get Mrs P to find out when Sam’s funeral is and send along a nice wreath.'

'Thanks, Rich.'

'Don’t worry, son, it’s coming out your wages. Now you put all this from your mind and concentrate on making magic magical. OK?'