The Bullet Trick

'OK.'

'Good boy.'

He hung up with his usual abruptness. I sat on the bed for a while, staring blankly at the wall, then tied the towel around my waist, went to the wardrobe, took my mobile phone from my jacket pocket and turned it on. The screen glowed lazily awake. Richard’s unanswered calls were logged like accusations. But slid in beside his familiar phone number was a number not featured on my address book, a British number I didn’t recognise. The mobile suddenly sprang back into life. I dropped it on the bed and stepped backwards, giving a small groan and looking at the tiny machine with all the horror I’d show a crawling, disembodied hand. My instincts were against it but on the third ring I reached out, pressed the call accept button and raised the phone to my ear.

A voice said, 'Hello?'

And I hung up. Almost immediately the mobile resumed its buzzing. I turned it off, went through to the en suite, filled the sink and dropped the phone into the water. Tiny bubbles rose from it, almost like the phone was breathing its last. I’d heard the police could trace locations through sim cards, but I had no idea if it worked overseas. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe Sam had done for Bill then killed himself. Maybe I was safe as houses in Berlin, and maybe it hadn’t been Inspector James Montgomery’s voice I’d just heard at the end of the line.

Glasgow

FOR ALL OF the warnings drink seemed a pretty slow killer. Not like a knife in the guts or a bullet through the head. Looking at the men that lived in the pubs around the Gallowgate it appeared you could reach sixty or seventy on a diet of whisky, beer and bile.

But perhaps the drinkers I took for pensionable were raddled thirty-somethings and it wouldn’t be long before I looked the same. I stared in the mirror and whispered, 'Bring it on.'

Already my waist had thickened; there was a scaliness between my fingers that itched more at night. My skin had the porridge pallor of a prisoner after a six-month stretch. I’d abandoned vanities like deodorant, cologne and contact lenses. My specs added three years, though they were a mite flash for my current circumstances. I wondered if I should get a new pair, ones that didn’t mark me out as a man who had known better days. My hair was longer too. I could go a full fortnight without showing it the shampoo. And there was no need for mousse or gel or any other crap. I just swept it back with my fingertips and left it as nature intended — which seemed to be a dirty brown flecked through with dandruff. Add to that the new old clothes I’d bought at Paddy’s Market and, all in all, I was managing my decline pretty well.

When I was a boy my heroes were two great escape artists, Harry Houdini and Jesse James. I borrowed library books about them, read up on their exploits and stared deep into black and white photographs of two men so skilled they could only be killed by cowards. In my fantasies I was the cowboy magician, no bonds could hold me and I was swift enough to sidestep a punch in the guts or any bullet in the back.

I jammed so many yales and mortises my father decided we were under siege and called the police. But in time my picking grew smooth. I freed tethered dogs, opened padlocks to sheds, gates and lockups. I released jangles of bicycle chains and liberated telephone dials from locks designed to frustrate teenage sisters. I bought a pair of trick handcuffs and taught myself to unfasten them with a dismantled hair clasp stolen from my mother. I hung about the locksmith’s shop, begged adults for old keys. My fingers were twitching to try their skill on a safe, but round our way there was nothing that worth securing, so I kept on the alert for a gang of thieves on the lookout for a nimble-fingered boy. They wouldn’t need to promise me lemonade streams or big rock-candy mountains; all I wanted was a chance to click that dial to the right combination. I’d be their creature and if we got caught, no great matter, I’d unlock the prison and set us free. But no wily crew ever spotted my talents and once mastered there was no drama in solitary achievements. Jesse had his pursuers, Houdini his audience. So of course I decided to organise my own great escape.

Ten-year-old boys have more access to padlocks and chains than adults might think. I invited the kids in my street to collect all they could find, and leave the keys behind. We met down by the railway line in an abandoned signal box that had once been boarded shut.

They came with dog leashes, belts and skipping ropes. They came with rusty iron links that had hung round gates for years. One boy brought a pair of handcuffs he said he’d found at the bottom of his parents’ wardrobe. I gave a short speech, and then chose the prettiest girl in the group to come and tie me up. She was too shy, but the boys obliged, setting on me with cowboy whoops and primitive yells. I flexed my non-existent muscles, like I’d read Houdini had done, and kept my face straight, though the bellows and rough jabs from the boys all eager to bind me as secure as possible made me want to struggle. Eventually I was trussed. Some of the strapping was slack but at its core was a tight tangle of metal, a firm pressure through my clothes and onto my flesh. My hands were cuffed behind my back. I felt a strange excitement in my stomach. The boys stepped away, I put on a deep voice that demanded they leave me for fifteen minutes precisely; the audience hesitated and my vulnerability entered the room. I gave them a strong hard stare. Then Ewan McIvor, the tallest of the group, said, 'He’s a fucking weirdo.' Neil Blane picked up the refrain, 'Weirdy Wilson.' And it became hard to make out individual insults beneath the mêlée of abuse.

Stupid fucking poof… silly cunt… weirdy bastard… Jessie… fucking spazmo… Joey Deakon

…

Ewan pushed me to the ground and the others joined in with quick kicks and jabs, then almost as suddenly as it had started the assault was over. They turned and ran whooping out into the sunshine, slamming the door behind them.

It wasn’t completely black in the hut. Light filtered in through cracks in the untrue slats, but it was dark enough to give the old signalling equipment a sinister aspect. I bumped up onto my bottom, brought my hands round in front of me and grasped the small metal pick I’d hidden beneath my tongue. Then I got my second shock of the adventure.

Police handcuffs are not as easy to unfasten as the trick set I’d been practising on.

It was dinner-time before my mother noticed I was missing. Neighbours’ children were interrogated and my fate soon discovered. My father shook his head, borrowed a pair of bolt cutters and set off to release me. The summer nights are long in Scotland, and it was not quite yet gloaming when he found me. But the shadows inside the signal box had spread their fingers until the little space was black. The darkness had crept inside my clothes, filtered into my nose and mouth, and slunk into my ears until I was unsure whether the rustling noises and groans came from the trees and grasses outside or from some creature inside the box with me.

My father ruffled my hair, and slowly cut my bonds, scolding and comforting in turn, finally releasing me, piss stained, snot crusted and tearful, into my mother’s custody. That was the first time I learned a fact that has haunted me throughout my return to Glasgow. I can’t stand to be locked up and I was never destined to be an escape artist.

After a few of my usual consolations I decided I was finished with pubs for that morning, so I bought myself a picnic and went down to the Clyde to drink it. In Berlin the rivers and canals were part of the centre of the city, there was bathing and boating, tourist barges and river taxis. People sunned themselves and played tennis and frisbee by the banks of the Spree, and though there were rainy days I only ever went there when it was sunny, so my impression is of brightness and good times.

It was damp down by the Clyde. The concrete walkway was deserted but there were signs others had been there before me, rusting beer cans, dead bottles of Buckfast, old porno magazines splaying already splayed women in the breeze. There were a few boats moored by the riverside, but the water was lead-grey dead, if I’d had any thoughts of drowning myself I would have ditched them for the day. The water was too cold to consider it. It would swallow you with a slurp and no word of pardon afterwards.

I walked along by the edge for a while trying to keep my mind empty. I didn’t bother trying to conceal my carry-out from the early afternoon. It swung from my hand in the kind of thin plastic bag licensed grocers seem to think sufficient for transporting lager, though every drinker knows they’ll bend and snap before you’ve walked a mile.

An old man with Struwwelpeter hair lay skippered in the shadows beneath Jamaica Bridge. He’d made a nest from an army-issue sleeping bag supplemented by a bundle of rough-looking blankets and some dismantled cardboard boxes. A tattered tartan trolley stuffed with newspapers lay toppled on the ground beside him. The old man mumbled something and I leant beneath the bridge’s supports and passed him a can of lager. It was more a plea for karma than any kind of sympathy, but the old tramp tipped his hand to his forehead and whispered ‘God go with you son’ in a voice raw with phlegm and cold. I nodded and said, 'And with you.' Though I thought any god had probably given up on both of us a long while back.

I found a bench, tucked my supplies neatly beneath its seat and settled myself down with my first tin, pulling the collar of my jacket up. It was pretty bitter down there by the river, but there was a distant gleam somewhere across the sky and it was no longer impossible to believe that spring was somewhere in the beyond. I took a sip of the beer. The liquid was warmer than the air outside, but it was better quality than the stuff I’d been supping in the bar. These old tramps were obviously men of discernment. Who knows what I might learn if I joined their ranks?

Berlin

THE SOUND OF Montgomery’s voice had sent me out into the street cursing Bill with his public-school vowels and his gangster pretensions that got people killed. This whole escapade was nothing to do with me.

There was money in my pocket; I could catch a flight that afternoon if I wanted. I fished out the scrap of paper Sylvie had written her number on. It took me a while to find a phone box, and then it took me a while to follow the instructions in German, but eventually the phone at the other end started to ring. Sylvie picked up and I asked her, 'Still looking for a job?'

'You found something already?'

'How do you fancy working with me for a while as my assistant?'

I left the phone booth with her shriek of excitement still ringing in my ears and started to walk towards the theatre, wondering what was inside the envelope I had sent home.

Glasgow

SEAGULLS WERE CACKLING above the Clyde. They made low, swift, argumentative swoops towards the water, maybe remembering times when they fished for their supper, instead of splitting restaurant rubbish bags and vying with urban vermin for abandoned takeaways. I wondered why they chose to live in this city when there were swathes of white sandy beaches and clear seawaters up north on the coast, but then who was I to judge? I raised my can to the sky and said, 'Go on yoursels. Away and shite on as many heads as you can.'

A posse of neds sloped down the walkway towards me. I lowered my eyes and tilted my head so they wouldn’t catch me following their progress. The last thing I wanted to hear was the immortal line, 'What the fuck’re you looking at?' A prelude to a Glasgow kiss or worse. There were five of them, dressed in trainers and shell suits, each with their hood up, hands in pockets. They had an excited bouncing walk, their heads bowed towards the ground, torsos nodding in rhythm with their feet. I could hear their keyed-up voices growing louder as they got closer and cursed myself for choosing this deserted spot. If they wanted to they could hold me down, fillet me and leave me for the seagulls. I slid my can into my pocket and kept my eyes fixed on the further shore, watching them with my peripheral vision. Their voices were high and nasal, tossing some recent adventure between them.

'You pure gave him a doin’.'

'Split his head like a coconut.'

'A jammy coconut.'

'Jammy donut.'

'Fuckin’ jammy fanny.'

'Fucking mental, man.'

One of the boys glanced at me. I saw a fine spray of rust-red droplets across his nose, like a delicate dusting of freckles. His face was as pale as mine, but instead of the graveyard grey of my complexion, his was the milk white of youth before the acne sets in. In another life he might have been a model or a movie actor. Our eyes locked and the boy peeled his top lip into a sneer. I thought fuck, here we go and got ready to spring into the kick-off.

Then one of his companions gave a shout of sheer joy, and I saw a Miami-blue launch cutting through the water churning two great wings of white spume in its wake. The boys’

heads turned, following its progress, then they began to run, keeping it in their sight. I saw one of them lift a stick and throw it towards the water, knowing he had no chance of hitting it, but wanting somehow to be part of the boat.

I took my can out of my pocket, noting that my hands were trembling. All the same I wondered at the quick stab of fear I’d felt. They were only boys and I had done worse than any of them would ever accomplish.

Berlin

THE THEATRE DOORMAN was slumped behind a newspaper in his booth at the stage door. I rapped gently against the glass and he snorted awake, harrumphing like an old dog who’s lain by the fire too long.

Early in my career I learnt the importance of cultivating that all-powerful alliance of janitors, cleaners, ushers and doormen, the people who can lose your fliers and cut your rehearsal time to the minimum or allow you free access to the building and gift you gossip that might solve all your disputes with the management. I gave the doorman one of my best smiles and he gave me a hard stare that suggested he’d seen my type before and hadn’t been impressed. The newspaper started to go up again. Still smiling, I rapped on the window.

'Guten Morgen,' I nodded towards a poster of the younger brighter version of myself.

The doorman looked at it blankly then returned his gaze to me. His eyes had taken on a deliberate vacancy. The smile was beginning to ache, but I’m a pro, I kept it strained in place and asked, 'Do you speak English?'

The doorman’s stare was cold. I fished out the bargain imprint German phrasebook I’d bought at Heathrow, but there was no entry for, I’m a conjurer performing here tonight; please let me in so I can do some preparation. I stepped next to the poster, pointing at it, then at myself, sure he was buggering me about but not willing to lose my temper.

'That’s me… Das ist…’ I pointed at the poster again. 'Ich bin…'

The doorman grunted and lifted the newspaper. Then something caught his attention, he straightened in his seat, smoothed back his hair and a small smile touched his lips. I followed his gaze and saw Ulla dismounting from her bicycle. She was wearing the same scuffed jeans she’d had on yesterday, but her hair was tied back in a neat ponytail and her shirt was clean. She looked like an advert for shampoo or sanitary towels or some other product that required a fresh, feminine, sporty beauty.

'Morgen.'

Her smile took in both of us, but I thought the doorman got the lion’s share of its warmth. He returned her greeting then said something indicating me. Ulla laughed and the two talked for a few minutes that seemed like an age, leaving me stranded beside the image of my more promising self. At last the guard buzzed open the main door and let us into the building. I gave him a cheery Danke as I passed, but the newspaper was already back in place, shielding his face from the light of the corridor.

Ulla’s smile seemed all used up but her voice was apologetic.

'Sorry, I should have given you a pass yesterday.'

'No problem, you got me through Check Point Charlie.' She gave me a sharp look and I cursed my stupidity. 'Sorry.'

There was a fork ahead in the corridor. Ulla hesitated, probably waiting to see what direction I chose so she could take the other.

'So you have everything you need?'

'More or less, but I could do with an intro to your chippy.'

She looked confused.

'My what?'

'The theatre joiner, carpenter, the man who makes the sets.'

Further down the hallway a door opened and Kolja stepped out. He stood silently watching us, dressed in his sweats again, his chest naked and shining. Ulla smiled and raised her hand in greeting. I muttered ‘Big poof’ under my breath and she turned to me.

'Pardon?'

'Nothing.'

She explained where to find the props department then walked off to greet Kolja. My eyes did an involuntary drop to her taut denim-clad rear. Whatever my trials, whatever my vicissitudes I always retained my aesthetic sense. It was a comfort of sorts. I looked up, saw the athlete watching me and raised my hand in a greeting I knew would go unanswered, then went in search of my quarry, wishing buffed-up krauts and a clumsiness with women was all I had to worry about.

The joiner had worked for a while in Newcastle and was keen to use his English. We discovered mutual acquaintances amongst the Newcastle theatre crowd, swapped experiences of brown ale, and then I explained what I wanted. He looked at my designs, asking a couple of questions, nodding to show he understood the answers and promised to have what I needed ready for the following week.

Sylvie was small and lithe, pretty, witty and clever. With her help I would build an act that would astonish this city. As for the other business, I couldn’t really believe it had anything to do with me. I’d stay here, work out my contract, and if there was any trouble I’d deal with it when it appeared.

Glasgow

I BENT MY empty can in two, scuttled it beneath the bench, then broke the seal on another and took a big swig. The Clyde was a still, battleship-grey, a shade lighter than the drear of the sky, a shade darker than the drab of the concrete. The only splash of colour came from the septic yellow label on an empty bottle of tonic wine rolled in the verge. There was an extra note to the dampness now. It would rain soon.

Dealing with trouble later was a stupid strategy. If anyone asked me now I’d say always meet trouble halfway. At least then you might have the advantage of surprise.

It had grown cold by the river. I wondered how people managed to stay alive sleeping under the bridges in the green damp. Did their skin give in to verdigris and decay, their bodies mistaking this preparation for the grave for the real thing?

Somewhere in the city a clock struck three. The four cans had hit home and the fifth might just get me near to where I wanted to be. My legs felt as leaden as the landscape. I got up and gave them a shake, trying to shift the stiffness, then started to wander back the way I had come, taking occasional pulls from my last can as I went.

The bundle of rags that was the old man I’d given the beer to still nestled at the foot of one of the wide stone pillars of the bridge. I hesitated, listening to see if I could hear any wisdom in his mumbles. But if he was saying anything it was lost in the rumble of early evening traffic from the road above.

Fuck listening. Confession was meant to be good for the soul and here was someone I could talk to without fear of judgement or retribution. I’d honour this old king of the road with a portion of my most precious worldly possession, my final can. I’d tell him what had brought me to this, and perhaps he’d share his decline with me.

I eased myself down towards his nest.

I’d be the new uncrowned prince of decay. He’d bequeath me his sores, his scabs and scaly skin, the lice that played amongst his beard. I’d learn what itching was. I’d be the itchiest itching tramp that ever frightened a schoolchild or tapped on a restaurant window.

There was a strong smell beneath the bridge, but drink and cold are kind to the nasal passages; it didn’t bother me.

'Hello, pal, how’re you doing?' The bundle of rags lay motionless, but I could see the electric aureole of grey hair escaping the blanket. 'There’s a wee sip of lager here if you want it.' It was still cold, but the pillar gave a bit of shelter from the wind. Outside it started to rain. 'This is a rare spot you’ve found yourself.' The old man was silent. 'Not feeling like a blether? Aye well, that’s fair enough.' I got down from my haunches and sat on the ground with my knees pulled up to my chest. 'Do you mind if I share your wee space just for the now?' I took another sip of lager. If he was asleep it meant I didn’t have to share. 'Just tell me if you do and I’ll piss right off.' I thought perhaps he shifted, but maybe it was just a stray breeze finding its way beneath the shelter, ruffling at his hair. 'You’re me.' I sought for the words to explain what I meant. 'You are the way I’m heading. But just ’cos you’re me disnae mean I’m you.' I took another sip from the can. 'You had your own road here I guess.

I hope it wasn’t as bad as mine.' I laughed. 'Jesus Christ, man, I could tell you a story.'

The rain picked up a little outside. It was warmer under the bridge than I’d expected. It was true; these old jakies knew a thing or two. The can was almost empty. I’d have to move soon, walk back up to the real world of cars and traffic, find myself a pub and grab a final pint or two. Yes it was a damn sight cosier down here out of the wind and the rain. I closed my eyes. It wasn’t such a bad place to stop for a while. I listened to the whirling cackles of the seagulls and the even rumble of the traffic. My last thought was that I could almost be beside the sea. Then I shut my eyes and gave myself up to the warmth and the black.

It was a white light that woke me. A pure searing cocaine white that peeled open my eyelids then forced them shut. There was a man behind the beam. His voice was stern, but there was a weary quality to it that made me think the sternness was an act.

'Come on, you know you can’t sleep there.'

I shrank back, shielding my face with my hands, like a disgraced businessman trying to hide from the camera flashes of the press. Behind the bright light I could make out the figure of a policeman. My specs were skewed across my face. I straightened them and whispered, 'Montgomery?'

But that was a nonsense. He hadn’t worn a uniform and anyway he wasn’t as big as the man that was reaching towards me and rattling my arm in a shake.

'Come on, rise and shine.'

I tried to get to my feet but my legs were locked. The policeman dipped his torch and I levered myself onto my hands and knees, trying to remember how to work my limbs. I was beginning to recall where I was. There was a bitter taste in my mouth and an explosion of bright spots behind my eyes.

'Look at the state of you.'

For the first time I noticed the second policeman to my left. He reached over and prodded my companion with his torch. It was a gentle businesslike prod. The old man remained motionless, his wild halo of hair the only part of him visible above the blanket.

'Give old Leonardo a shove will you.'

The smell was strong now, a mix of shit, urine, decay and something else, a rusty iron scent I almost recognised. I pushed down the nausea in my chest, leaned over and shook my companion softly by the shoulder.

'Come on, pal, I think it’s time to move on.'

I thought the old man stirred, but then he started to slip slowly, oh so slowly sideways.

I reached out to steady him, felt a wetness soaking the rough weave of his blanket, felt him slump against me in a sickening softening lurch.

I said, 'Are you OK?'

Then the torches caught him in the centre of their beams, and I saw the face that rested on my shoulder, a John the Baptist head, bearded and bloody, mouth lolling open, sweet sticky redness glazing his frozen face. The whole petrified tableau framed in the white light.

I scrambled to my feet and felt a hard grip on my arm, helping me rise out of the filth.

The policeman wasn’t acting anymore. His words were caught in a sigh that was pure anger.

'Jesus fuck! What in Christ’s name have you done?'

The police doctor who examined me was quick and businesslike. He prescribed a hot drink and pronounced me fit for interview. My clothes were put into plastic bags and I was issued with a white jumpsuit. I knew enough from the movies to ask for a solicitor and no one tried to talk me out of it. The cell was cold. I took the blanket off the bunk and draped it over my shoulders, then a wave of nausea hit me and I bent over the toilet. The orange police tea came up in a quick warm flush of liquid, followed by a painful gagging that only managed to cough up a thin streak of yellow bile. I’d corrupted the crime scene with the rest of my stomach contents when I realised what I’d been sleeping next to.

I rolled back onto the bed clutching the jaggy brown blanket around me, not caring who else might have sweated into its coarse weave. I was shivering now. I pulled my knees up to my chest; the damp of the river still seemed to cling to me. I rubbed the blanket between my fingers. It had an animal smell, the odour of all the men who had been shut in here. I tried not to think about the noise the door had made as it closed, the turn of the key in the lock. Would it square accounts to do penance for a crime I hadn’t committed in lieu of one that I had? I could feel sleep coming to claim me. How could I doze while I was at the centre of a murder? It was my last coherent thought before darkness claimed me. But then, the same thought had been in my head every night all of these long months.

I woke to the sound of the key turning the tumblers in the lock. Someone had set up a workshop in my head, but beneath the hammering in my skull and the filth of my own body I felt sharper than I had all night. I wondered what time it was. I’d handed in my watch at the front desk and the neon-lit cell gave no hint of how long had passed. The door opened and a concrete-faced policeman half-entered the room. 'Here’s your solicitor, Wilson. Are you going to behave for her?' I swung myself upright on the bunk and nodded my head. 'See that you do.'

He turned and said something to the person standing behind him, then withdrew still holding the door open.

A slim dark-haired figure walked into the room and I said, 'Ulla?' Feeling all the sharpness go out of me. And then I saw that she wasn’t Ulla. I sought for where we had met.

Desperation plucked the images from my brain. The ersatz theme bar that had been trendier than I’d realised. My old university buddy. A pair of violet eyes, and her name came to me. 'Eilidh.' The woman gave me a blank look. 'I’m a friend of Johnny’s.'

Recognition clouded her face.

'Yes,' she said. 'William.'

The policeman stuck his head back round the door.

'Everything OK?'

Eilidh gave him a professional smile.

'It’s fine.'

The door closed behind her. I’d thought I was immune to embarrassment but Eilidh’s presence made me want to pull the manky prison blanket over my head and hide until she’d gone. I attempted a smile.

'I seem to have got myself into a bit of a scrape.'

Eilidh’s mouth twitched in a quick spasm.

'You’re looking at a murder charge. What we need to establish is how are you going to plead? Guilty or not guilty?'

'I didn’t do it.'

'OK.' Her voice was coolly neutral. I imagined she’d been brought up on tales of wrongful convictions, the Guildford four, Birmingham six, Maguire seven. Perhaps these injustices had even been what had turned her towards law, the chance to save innocent people from becoming victims of the judicial system. But then none of these people had been accused of beating an old defenceless man until his head resembled a rotten strawberry.

'No,' I made my voice firm, 'I really didn’t do it.'

'OK.' The cool neutrality remained. She’d be one of the first to be dismissed from the hypnotist’s audience. 'Take me quickly through what happened.'

I started with the walk along the Clydeside, giving the old man a can, my drinking session on the bench, and finally my urge to share my last drink with the old tramp.

'You don’t believe me do you?'

Eilidh glanced up from the jotter she’d been scribbling notes into.

'It’s not me you have to convince.'

The interview room was painted a pale shade of blue I supposed was designed to keep people calm. It seemed to work. There was a dead feeling in my chest where there should have been panic. Two plainclothes men were waiting on us, a red-haired, red-faced invitation to a heart attack and a large sandy-haired man with a broken nose and ginger moustache that would have looked good on a seventies’ footballer. The sandy-haired man introduced himself as Inspector Blunt and his companion as Inspector Thomas. He placed a thin sheaf of papers on the table and asked, 'Anyone want a glass of water?'

I nodded, surprised to find that the words wouldn’t come out.

Blunt looked at Eilidh. She smiled. 'Yes please.' And I got the feeling that they had faced each other this way many times before. The policeman fetched four plastic cups from a Water at Work cooler in the corridor. Thomas turned on the tape, introduced himself to the machine, then got us to do the same. My voice sounded weak and untrustworthy. I reached out to take a sip of water and toppled the cup across the table. Blunt saved the tape recorder. Eilidh took out a paper hanky and mopped up the splash. No one offered to get me another drink and I guessed there was no point in asking to fetch one for myself.

The whole thing felt like a formality. The policemen behind the desk looked like they’d met too many men who had tried to drown their troubles in drink, and when that hadn’t worked had tried to stab them away instead, to think that I was anything else. Blunt glanced at my written statement then looked up at me.

'Right, Mr Wilson, I’m not really getting this. You’re unemployed, you decided to have a wee drink down by the River Clyde and then you fancied a bit of company, so instead of phoning a pal, or even taking yourself to a pub where you might run into someone you knew, you went to offer,' he glanced at the paper in front of him, 'the deceased, Mr Michael Milligan, a swig from the last of your can?'

He looked at me for confirmation and I nodded miserably.

'Mr Milligan seemed asleep and it came to you that this wasn’t such a bad idea so you bedded down with him, under Jamaica Bridge, for forty winks?'

I nodded again.

'Except it turns out he wasn’t asleep was he?'

'I didn’t know that when I sat beside him.'

Red-faced Thomas spoke for the first time. His voice had a weedy treble tone that seemed out of kilter with his broad frame.

'You snuggled up beside a corpse and never noticed?'

'I didn’t snuggle up with him. I was drunk. I fell asleep.'

Thomas’s face grew redder. If there was ever trouble down at Blochairn fruit market he’d be able to go undercover as a cherry tomato.

'Drink isnae an alibi.'

'It’s not a bloody crime either.'

Inspector Blunt sighed; he looked at the statement again then turned his weary eyes on me.

'According to your statement you saw five youths going along the walkway at around the time the assault might have taken place.'

I nodded.

'You’re suggesting that they’re responsible for Mr Milligan’s murder?'

'I don’t know. It’s a possibility.'

'You can see the difficulty I’m having with this, Mr Wilson?'

'I can see it’s a bit unusual.'

'It’s unbelievable.'

I glanced at Eilidh for support, but she stared ahead, her jaw sternly locked.

Inspector Blunt leaned forward and the tiredness seemed to have gone from his face.

'I think you did go for a walk by the Clyde and I have no doubt you had a drink on one of the benches down there. I’m even fairly confident that we’ll find someone who saw you doing that very thing. But I don’t think you went to kindly offer Mr Milligan a bit of hospitality. I think the opposite is true. You were angry and frustrated and that poor old man was in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

'I didn’t do it.'

'What did you use? A hammer?'

I stood up, balling my hands into fists.

'I didn’t bloody use anything.'

Eilidh put her hand firmly on my arm and I sat down.

The fat policeman looked like he was enjoying himself. His weedy treble piped up.

'You seem to have a bit of a temper there, Mr Wilson. Have you ever been in this kind of trouble before?'

'No.'

I lowered my head so he wouldn’t see the lie on my face.

There was a sharp knock at the door; a uniformed officer came in and whispered something softly into Blunt’s ear. The inspector glanced swiftly at his watch then addressed the tape recorder.

'11.57 p. m., interview suspended, inspectors Blunt and Thomas leaving the interview room.'

He leant over and switched off the machine.

Eilidh spoke for the first time since she’d accepted the glass of water.

'Can I ask what’s going on?'

'You can ask.'

'My client has a right to know of any developments.'

'At the moment my guess is your client knows more than the rest of us.'

He rose wearily and shut the door behind him. The policemen’s departure left me with a strange mingling of hope and unease.

'What do you think it is?'

Eilidh’s tone was professional. 'It might be nothing to do with your case. Or it might be new evidence of some sort.'

'Would that be good or bad?'

She gave me a thin look.

'It’d depend on what the evidence was.'

We sat in silence for a while. Movie lawyers always passed their clients a packet of cigarettes as soon as they sat at the interview table but my guess was that Eilidh probably didn’t even smoke. The headache was back, pressing at the usual spot above my temples. I wondered if I could ask Eilidh for a painkiller. I glanced at her profile; it was set in a grim expression that made me wonder how this would affect my mother if it went wrong.

'How’s Johnny?'

'John is fine, but it’s best if we concentrate on what’s happening here.'

The realisation that she couldn’t tolerate Johnny’s name on my lips stung and my voice came out high and querulous.

'I’ve done nothing.'

'You were found sleeping next to the body of an old man who’d just been battered to death. The cut on his neck was deep enough to almost decapitate him. Your fingerprints were on a beer can in his possession and you have his blood on your clothes. The police are within their rights to question you. Indeed they’d be remiss not to.'

'I didn’t do it, Eilidh, I was drunk and stupid, but I didn’t touch the old man. I wouldn’t do a thing like that.'

She shook her head and glanced at her watch. Then an officer came to accompany me back to the cells.

I sat in the cell for a long time. My waiting was punctuated by deliveries of tea that I drank and food that I felt too sick to eat. From time to time the sound of footsteps would raise the faint hope that I was about to be released, and a more definite dread that some drunken hard man was about to join me in my cell. But perhaps it was a quiet night in the world of crime, or maybe the stripy-jumper team were on a win that evening, because I was left alone to work through what had got me there.

The policeman who eventually came to collect me kept his face blank. I didn’t bother questioning him. I would find my fate out soon enough.

Eilidh was waiting for me in the same interview room where we’d sat earlier. I wondered if she’d been on duty for the whole time that I’d been locked up and how she managed to look so fresh in the middle of the night.

'They think they have the boys who did it.' Relief made me drop my head into my hands. Eilidh squeezed my shoulder for a brief second and I felt her warmth through my police-issue jumpsuit. 'They’re setting up an ID parade and want to see if you recognise them.'

I lifted my head from the cradle of my hands, feeling the blood rise to my face.

'So I’ve been promoted from arch murderer to star witness?'

'Be thankful.'

'Oh aye, I feel like I’ve won the bloody lottery.'

It was early the next morning when I eventually left the station. They’d left me to sweat it out for a few more hours in the cells but the policemen’s demeanour towards me had subtly changed. They still thought me a nasty, smelly alcoholic fuck-up, but they didn’t think I’d killed the old man. Eventually my clothes were returned. They were caked in grit from under the bridge and there was a streak of blood on the front of my jumper where the old man’s broken head had slumped against it. I threw the jumper into the corner of the cell, then lifted it and bundled it beneath my arm. I would dispose of it myself; I didn’t want to leave anything that could be stored up for future convictions.

The boys had looked diminished in the harsh light of the identity parade. A couple of them looked like they’d been crying, another like he had drifted into a trance. One of them was full-on cocky. I wondered if he really didn’t feel any fear or if he was psycho or maybe just a consummate actor. I stood behind the viewing mirror and indicated each of them by number. The boys looked young now that the energy of the assault had left them, and I remembered the way they had careered after the boat. Even if I hadn’t recognised them I would have been able to spot the accused. They were the youths who had spent a night coming down in a police cell, the ones who had sat with their social worker or mother and answered questions about the killing of an old man. If I hadn’t recognised them the parade would have been a travesty, but I knew their faces as well as I knew my own. After all, I’m expert in the art of recall.

I collected my personal belongings at the front desk, expecting a hand to reach out and a firm voice to tell me another matter that had come to light that they needed to talk to me about. I’d signed for my watch, wallet, keys and the little bit of cash I had left, when the officer at the desk produced a white envelope with my name written on it in a plain modern hand.

'Miss Hunter asked me to pass this on to you.'

'Miss Hunter?'

His voice was brisk.

'Your solicitor.'

I waited until I was outside before I opened it. I’m not sure what I expected; an apology for not being convinced of my innocence? Inside were five brown notes, fifty pounds in cash. I slid the money back into the envelope and looked at the note that had been tucked beside it. Johnny asked me to give you this. I shook my head then stuffed it in my pocket and went to look for a quiet bar.

Berlin

IT’S WORTH REPEATING — tricks don’t make a conjurer. Anyone with time to spare and a mind to it can cobble together a stock of sleights. You meet them in bars: men that can fold a napkin into nothing, or rip a ten-pound note to shreds and restore it just before its owner hits him between the eyes. These are the guys who get you to pick a card any card and reveal with their back turned and their eyes closed which one you chose. There are granddads and Lotharios across the globe can pinch a coin out their baby’s ear, science bofs and businessmen who try to milk charisma from a loaded deck. But without an act these men are as much diversion as a karaoke amateur.

The key lies in performance. A true conjurer is as hungry for applause as he is to master any deception. He schemes and worries, composing new ruses to thrill the crowd, working variations on his theme — smashing, breaking, vanishing; elephants, Mercedes, aeroplanes, whole buildings — until it becomes a trial to find anything worthy of being at the centre of his illusion. He guides the audience’s eyes, forcing them to glance away from the stage at exactly the right moment. They follow the hand he wants them to follow, see what he wants them to see. The hours spent perfecting a sleight mean nothing if the trick isn’t done with style.

The master conjurer is a psychologist deserving of a professorship. He can anticipate greed and tell when sex will give things a twist. He knows from the angle of your head, the hunch of your shoulders, the set of your eyes whether you are a liar. He can spot the easy touch as well as any conman can. He can chase the lady and cut the cards, he can summon up ghosts and put genies back in bottles, he can throw the dice and roll out sixes every time.

He can rap tables, vanish loons, hang himself and come back for more. He can saw a lady in half, stick her together, then run her through with knives; and if he spills a drop of blood nae matter, he can zap it into one of God’s white doves. A successful conjurer can challenge gravity, defy nature, escape any restraint and sidestep death — as long as he’s on stage.

I’d long given up the illusion that I’d ever near the top of my profession, but for some reason in Berlin in the face of trouble I got an urge for that to change. Maybe it was a secret wish to impress Sylvie and Ulla, maybe it was an urge to make something of myself before I ended up like Sam, or maybe it was just anger at being pulled into something that had nothing to do with me. Whatever the reason, the confusion around me seemed to concentrate my thoughts and sharpen my wits into ambition until I became determined to produce an act that would stun the city.

Sylvie was a quick learner. We rehearsed by day and each night I ran on as the clowns bounded off, ready to haul her from the audience when the time came for her to play my shy conscripted volunteer.

At first it was a simple routine. Sylvie stood blinking prettily against the glare of the stage lights, wearing one of the succession of sweet thin dresses she’d equipped herself with from the Flohmarkt. She wore no slip beneath it, allowing the bright lights to reveal the outline of her body to the audience below.

I’d welcome her gallantly, then ask if she had a piece of jewellery I could use in a trick.

Sylvie would shake her head, softly whispering no, putting her arms behind her back, resisting just a little when I grabbed her wrist and held up the hand wearing the cheap cut-glass ring that shone brighter than any diamond ever dared.

My new assistant was a better actress than I could have hoped. When she gasped that the ring was her only reminder of her dead grandmother, I thought she was overdoing things but the audience gasped with her. Perhaps Berliners, with their history of loss and separation, valued keepsakes even more than most.

I slid the ring from her finger then held it to her mouth, telling her to blow through it and make a wish. Sylvie closed her eyes and puckered her lips like a child about to blow out the candles on her fifth birthday cake. She puffed a morsel of breath through the ring and I folded it fast away. Sylvie opened her eyes; I put my hands on her shoulders, turned her towards the crowd and in a deep voice that echoed all the way to the back stalls and left no one in any doubt of what a prick I was, asked her to open her mouth and take the ring from beneath her tongue.

Sylvie’s eyes opened wide, she touched the inside of her mouth with her fingers, then slid into a rehearsed panic sobbing a stream of German, almost pushing me across the stage with the force of her fury. That first night there was a rumble in the crowd. I almost laughed to see them buy the ruse but managed to keep my tone pure pompous as I held up my hands and said ‘I think you may have swallowed it.'

There was a grumble from below and Sylvie repeated the line, slowly, in German.

'You think I swallowed it?'

I faced the auditorium and smiled a full-on evil smile.

'Don’t worry, this has happened before and it’s always worked out OK in the end.'

Then strobe lights flashed across the stage, the band creaked into a tune that was as near to manic as they could get and Sylvie leapt into an escape, but fast as she was, she was no match for me. I grabbed the girl by the waist, whirling her onto a table that had lain unnoticed at the back of the stage. Sylvie screamed, I laughed again. Then roughly buckled her down beneath thick leather straps, until she was struggling like a silent movie star tied to the railway tracks, and I was gloating over her like a moustachioed villain. I slapped a napkin over her front and, donning a handy operating gown, whizzed the table fast on its casters to centre stage.

Sylvie’s cries ripped across the hall and I half-expected the audience to storm the stage, but they were quieter than they’d been all night. I could feel their attention, but couldn’t tell whether their silence signalled interest or disapproval. I grabbed a scalpel from my top pocket, held it high so they could catch its quick sharp glint, eager as a shark’s grin, then I stabbed her hard in the solar plexus.

Fake blood from the gel packs concealed in the napkin’s lining spurted red and unforgiving over my gown, face and hair. I spluttered against its bitter tang and laughed like a crazy man. An echoing ripple of laughter came from the audience. They were with us now.

Sylvie lay frozen beneath my hands. Her sweet dress was ruined, her sleek mane stuck to her head with theatrical gore. She wiped a hand across her face and asked in German,

'Have you found it yet?'

I shook my head.

'Not yet, but don’t worry.'

Then shoved my hand roughly into the red stuff, seeming to lose first one arm then the other as I delved shoulder deep into her open wound, pulling out latex guts and organs, tutting at her liver, marvelling at the contours of her still beating heart, yohohoing as I hauled her intestines the full length of the stage like a reeling routing sailor tearing down the rigging. The audience laughed, delighted with this Grand Guignol conjuring. I pulled a succession of impossible objects from her slim form, a bottle of champagne, a waxen head I’d found in Costume, a bicycle wheel. Each one received its own slick comment and was welcomed with applause. At last I found the ring. I spat on it then rubbed it clean against the hem of my operating gown and held it triumphantly in the air. On a rig high above the hall the lighting engineer turned a spot to face a glitter ball. Bright diamonds of white light bounced across the stage then glimmered into the beyond, embracing the auditorium, dancing across the faces of the crowd as if the gleam from Sylvie’s ring were dazzling the whole world.

It was as heavy-handed as the ta-da at the end of a poor symphony but at least the audience knew it was time to clap. And they did, there were even a few cheers. I unbuckled Sylvie, helped her to her feet then stood her centre stage, noticing how the bloody dress clung to her curves and the hand that accepted the cheap glass ring trembled. She grinned at me, blood-spattered and beautiful; I smiled back then put my arm against her shoulders and made her take a bow before giving her a quick peck on the cheek and returning her back into the audience.

Alone on stage I ripped off the gown, wiping my face as clean of the stain as I could in one slick move, and stood, arms outstretched in my dinner suit, drinking in the applause, trying to look like James Bond after a violent victory. There was no doubt about it, the trick had gone down well. But no one could mistake it for a clever conjuring.

I cleaned myself up then waited backstage for what felt like an age. Eventually Sylvie burst into the dressing-room breathless with amusement and made to grab me. I threw a towel at her, ruffling her still sticky hair but keeping her at arm’s length.

'Watch the suit.'

She took the towel and rubbed it through her hair still laughing.

'Why’d I bother with makeup and fashion all these years? All I needed to do was throw a bucket of blood over my head and I’d have got all the attention I needed.'

I passed her a packet of facial wipes. I’d had a couple of tilts of the bottle of whisky in the room but I was too thirsty for spirits.

'Bit of a man-magnet were you?'

'You’ve no idea.' Her laugh was loud and buzzed up. 'They loved us didn’t they?'

'I guess so.'

Sylvie smiled, satisfied that I was as pleased as she was, then she turned round and I unzipped her dress. The phoney blood resisted mixing with her sweat, trembling in droplets on her pale back, like tiny worlds caught on a microscope slide. I fought the urge to trail my finger down the damp of her spine.

'D’you fancy going for a pint?'

She laughed.

'A man out there offered me champagne.'

I turned slowly to face the wall, feeling vaguely sleazy as I watched her reflection shrug off the ruined dress in a small shaving mirror above the sink. I took my fags from my pocket and lit one.

'Ten years in this game and no man ever offered me champagne.' I took a long drag.

'You going to take him up on it?'

'No, I think you and me should celebrate together.' She stretched a red hand into my line of vision. 'You got one of those for me?' I gave her the freshly lit cigarette and sparked up another for myself. Sylvie wrapped herself in a soiled robe and drew deep like she was toking a joint. 'Let me catch the next act and I’ll assist you in what I suspect is your favourite trick, making beer disappear.'

I said, 'As long as we can watch from out front.' Thinking about the cold lager they served there in tall chill-sweating steins.

'It’s a deal. Set ’em up and I’ll catch you when I’m decent.'

'That’ll be never then.'

She gave the back of my head a light slap as she ran off to the showers.

It was a poorer house than it’d felt from up on stage and I had no trouble bagging a table towards the middle of the room. For once my nod to the waitress produced swift results and soon I was sitting back with a cool beer and a cigarette. I was beginning to learn that there were some things you couldn’t touch the Germans on. Good beer and a lax smoking policy in public buildings came pretty high on the list.

The twins, Archard and Erhard, were nearing the end of their acrobatic act, a narcissistic man-in-the-mirror excess of preening and vogueing that had a table of buff queens next to me sitting to alert. Each twin was decorated with the inverse of his brother’s tattoos, spiralling green, black and red designs curling out of their tight trousers, across their chests and down their arms, emphasising the swell of their muscles, the sinewy definition of their bodies.

When the twins looked at each other they saw themselves, but I found no difficulty telling them apart. The secret lay not only in the direction of their tats but in the tiny Greek letters, one alpha, the other omega, clumsy home-done jobs, inked into their wrists, telling the world the first and last out of the womb.

I watched as Archard nimbly climbed his brother’s torso, and then did a handstand on his image’s upturned palms, gently disconnecting his right hand, each acrobat slowly moving his free arm until it was at right-angles to his body. They held the pose and my neighbours clapped ecstatically. It was a good effect. I glanced at my watch just as Sylvie slid in beside me smelling clean and citrus.

'Those are two strong boys.'

'You know who to ask if you can’t get the lid off a pickle jar.'

'Ah, they wouldn’t be my first choice.'

'No?'

'No, definitely make the reserve list though.'

I was about to ask who would be at the top of the list when all chance of talking was drowned by cheers from the next table as the twins took their final bow. The ninja prop shifters jogged on in their wake, bearing a huge plastic sheet. They spread it across the stage, ran off and returned with a full-size bathtub and half a dozen buckets of water. A trapeze was lowered above the bath, then the next turn came on and I worked out the answer for myself.

Kolja’s naked chest shone with oil; he stalked across the stage, pecs puffed out, shoulders thrown back, spine straight all the way down to the swell of his muscular buttocks. The bulge on the other side of his white leggings looked unnaturally large. I whispered to Sylvie, 'I see he’s packed his sandwiches.'

But she ignored me, concentrating on the vision of Kolja circling like a young Nureyev about to wow the Bolshoi. He stopped, rubbed some chalk theatrically into his palms, casting a superior glance at us mortals below, sneering slightly, as if he didn’t even deign to pity us, though I knew the lights rendered everything beyond the stage invisible.

The trapeze looked impossibly high but Kolja sprang effortlessly into the air and grabbed it with both hands, hoisting himself steadily upwards until his chest was level with the bar, he hung there for a moment, letting us admire his silhouette, then swung his legs into the dark, tipping himself slowly up and over into a leisurely 360 degree turn that made his muscles swell. The men at the table next to us sat without touching their drinks, nodding in appreciation as Kolja threw himself into a faster loop and then another, spinning round and through the trapeze, switching hands, making his slim hips follow through, his white leggings shining against the black backdrop of the stage, his speed increasing until he no longer looked like a man, just a twirling birling blur in the centre of the stage.

I nudged Sylvie, thinking she’d be amused by the body culturalists’ captivated stares.

But she put her hand on my arm, staying my elbow. I turned to look at her and saw her lips parted, her tongue pressing against her teeth. I downed the dregs of my beer and signalled for another.

Up on stage the trapeze was descending with Kolja astride it now, he sat motionless for an instant above the bath, then somewhere a needle hit shellac and a slow number started up.

In the heat of the night

Seems like a cold sweat

Creeping cross my brow, oh yes

In the heat of the night

The stage lights switched to a cool midnight blue, Kolja swung to and fro, clutching the supporting rope, making his muscles swell in the deep indigo, then he fell suddenly backwards into a turn that made my stomach slide and Sylvie give a quick short gasp.

I’m a feelin’ motherless somehow

Stars with evil eyes stare from the sky

In the heat of the night

Kolja caught the bar of the trapeze, holding his body rigid above the tub, ignoring but somehow basking in the audience applause. Then he swung himself into the water, all the time holding tight onto the U of the trapeze, drenching his legs, torso, chest, emerging dripping, his costume clinging. The men at the next table went wild and Sylvie joined in their applause.

Ain’t a woman yet been born

Knows how to make the morning come

So hard to keep control

When I could sell my soul for just a little light In the heat of the night

Kolja continued, oblivious to the audience. He swung himself up and over, submerging then resurfacing, sparkling with droplets as if it were all for his own amusement.

In the heat of the night

I’ve got trouble wall to wall

Oh yes I have

I repeat in the night

Must be an ending to it all

Then finally he slipped from his swing and into the tub, sinking his head beneath the water, releasing himself from the audience’s gaze. He broke the surface and lay looking up towards the heavens and into the beyond like a man with serious troubles on his mind. The music carried on.

Oh Lord, it won’t be long

Yes, just you be strong

And it’ll be all right

In the heat of the night

The last bar crackled to its close, the scene sank into dark. Then just as quick the stage lights came up, Kolja tumbled from the tub and stood, arms outspread, water cascading from him onto the plastic sheeting, warming himself in the audience’s ovation. I turned to look around the room and saw Ulla standing below the glow of the exit sign. For an instant our eyes met, then she turned away.

Maybe it was the music or maybe it was the beers hastening my descent from the euphoria of my own applause, but suddenly, watching Kolja take his bow, I felt a swift sharp stab of melancholy.

I caught Sylvie’s eye, she laughed, still clapping, and leaned across to me.

'Now that’s what our act needs, a bit of sex appeal.'

I wondered at the ‘our’, but when the floorboards began to vibrate with the force of the audience’s stamping feet, I realised she could have a point.

Dix was wearing an expensive charcoal-grey suit that could have been Armani, Versace or fucking Chanel for all I knew. It made him look like the younger, richer brother of the stubbly unwashed man I’d last seen slumped in a torn chair in Sylvie’s flat. He raised his beer and saluted me.

'To your new partnership.'

His smile was amused. For some reason it annoyed me.

Sylvie filled her glass with white wine from a deceptively dainty jug and said, 'To our new partnership!' Half draining the large glass, then refilling it.

I chimed ‘New partnership’, putting my stein to my lips and taking a long hard pull, remembering that three had never been my favourite number.

This was Sylvie’s and my fourth bar, Dix’s first. He was sober, but had the air of a man in the mood to indulge others’ foolishnesses. He signalled for more drinks though his own was still fresh. I hid behind my glass, smiling between each swallow, counselling myself not to turn into Tartan Willy on the rampage.

Sylvie was no longer the anxious supplicant who’d lain beneath my hands earlier in the evening. Her hair shone glossy and smooth around a face powdered to pale ivory, only her red lipstick recalled the bright stain that had coated her body. Sylvie’s stylised makeup was at odds with the plain black satin dress she’d changed into. It was a good combination, something like a whore on a murder charge. She took another inch out of her glass and asked, 'Successful evening?'

Dix smiled, keeping his own counsel. I didn’t bother to ask what had required a suit and sobriety until 2 a.m.

The two of us had left our previous bar about thirty minutes before, Sylvie urging me to hurry up or we’d miss the show. I necked the last of my beer, Sylvie linked her arm through mine and we reeled into the street, silly with sudden air, drink and new friendship. Sylvie’s straight spine seemed to straighten mine and we walked fast and tall like a soldier boy and his bride on their wedding day.

I recognised the club from the matchbooks Sylvie had substituted for a stake on our first night. The sign shone from above the doorway in sharp pink neon, Ein Enchanted Nachtreview, and the same festive lady lounged in the same triangular cocktail glass, spilling electric pink bubbles into the air from her careless toast.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have noticed Sylvie’s pace slowing as the Nachtreview came into view if our arms hadn’t been entwined, but though her conversation still sparkled as bright as the neon, I could feel her growing alert, her attention shifting from my orbit towards the door of the club. I matched my pace to hers, until her steps faltered, then stopped.

'Wait a second. I just want to see who’s on guard duty.'

She peered into the gloom. The bouncer moved into the lee of the doorway, cupping his hand around his cigarette, squinting against the lamplight.

'Perfect.' She slipped her arm from mine and started to walk briskly across the road.

'Come on.'

At first I thought she’d misjudged things. The bouncer stood barring the entrance, arms locked behind his back, expression like a breeze block, impervious to the cute way Sylvie’s smile flashed on and off, as she spieled out a patter peppered with one of the few German words I knew — bitte.

I tried to look sober, wondering what I was doing in a country where I didn’t even know the licensing laws.

'D’you spracken ze English?'

'It’s OK, William, Sebastian and I are old friends.' Sylvie dropped her voice soft and low. 'Bitte, Sebastian.'

I reached into my pocket, folded forty euros in the cushion of my hand then put my arm round my new assistant’s waist and palmed the notes to her old friend. He looked at me uncertainly then opened the door, shaking his head more in sorrow than in anger. Sylvie touched his arm as she passed and he muttered something that sounded like a warning. But entering the club had revived Sylvie’s reckless mood. She laughed and reached back towards the doorman, kissing him on the cheek. I waited for Sebastian to change his mind, but he laughed too, wiping away her lipstick and reissuing the warning, his sternness lost in the moment. I nodded my thanks and he gave me a quick appraising glance as he moved back into the shadows, a mix of sympathy and contempt. The kind of look you give a dupe.

I’d been in larger sitting-rooms, but whoever designed the club hadn’t allowed size to contain their style. The ceiling and walls were rose-gold peeling away to red below, and the curved coral-quartz bar shone with more champagne than a Soho clip joint. At the far end of the room was a small stage where a long-legged girl in a sailor suit that would have sent Lord Nelson spinning was sitting demurely on a bentwood chair, singing about how her mama thought she was living in a convent.

Sylvie took a table near the stage and I slid in beside her, making sure I could monitor the sailorgirl’s act for professional reasons. I glanced back to the entrance where the bouncer still lingered, following our progress through the glass as if unsure of whether he had done the right thing.

'What was that about?'

Sylvie shook her head dismissively.

'Nothing.' She looked around. 'What do you think a person has to do to get a drink in this place?'

Up on stage the sailorgirl was walking round the chair. Now that she was on her feet I could see just how short her skirt was. I wondered if she realised she’d forgotten to put her knickers on. Sylvie followed my gaze.

'She’s a classically trained ballerina.'

'I suspected that.'

Sylvie raised her eyebrows then peeled her lips back into a dazzling smile as the prospect of more alcohol approached.

The waitress’s uniform was deep pink edging sweet pink, it hugged her form, dipping and swooping around a wolf-whistle of a body. I gave her my stage show grin and she smiled back, taking all those clichés about Botticelli angels, wrapping them up and tying a bow on them. Then she clocked Sylvie and her expression glazed to strictly business. The waitress kept her eyes lowered as she took our order, then returned to slide our drinks onto the table without a smile.

I put my hand on the waitress’s arm and said ‘Dankeschön’, looking her in the eyes, making my tone soft and soothing.

She hesitated, glancing at Sylvie as if trying to decide whether she was worth a murder sentence, then murmured, 'Bitteschön’, and turned her back on us.

I lifted my lager and peered at the girl on stage through its liquid lens.

'Do you think I should check this for arsenic?'

Sylvie shot a look of venom towards the departing waitress.

'Why?'

'You don’t seem too popular around here.'

'Don’t worry, things have a way of rebounding on bitches like her.'

'Bad karma.'

'Something like that.'

Up on stage the naughty nautical shifted her rear making the pleats on her skirt bounce. The singer straddled the chair and I shifted my eyes from the shadows beneath her pelmet-lengthed skirt towards her face while she belted out the last verse of her song.

You can tell my papa, that’s all right,

'Cause he comes in here every night,

But don’t tell mama what you saw!

She tipped her sailor’s cap at the audience, smiled at the scattering of applause and left the stage, darting a quick look at our table.

Our waitress took her place; she’d changed into a stage costume and was smiling now, flanked by two equally jolly and equally busty girls. The trio were dressed identically in short shorts, low-slung halter-necks and cheekily angled bowler hats. They each dragged a chair on with them and started to go through a routine that must have been hell on the thighs. I had no illusions, Germans didn’t need to plunder their past for their own amusement, this was aimed at tourists hungry for a taste of Weimar decadence, but there was something about the way the flesh at the top of the girls’ legs trembled as they went through their steps that appealed to me.

The fascination seemed lost on Sylvie. She mooched a cigarette, and started talking loudly about the costumes she was designing for herself. Up on stage the trio were doing a syncopated wiggle while beside me Sylvie fought for my attention with descriptions of satin corsets and nipple tassels. Travel was certainly expanding my horizons. Sylvie’s voice rose a notch and I put my hand on hers. She smiled warmly at me, triumphant at wresting back my attention.

'What do you think?'

'I think you’ll get us thrown out.'

She shot me a hard look, then suddenly she was on her feet, waving towards the doorway, and that was when I saw Dix.

Dix was as stone calm as he’d been at our last meeting, but Sylvie’s high was edging on a fever. She described the evening, acting out both of our parts, not minding that Dix only nodded where she laughed, but then she was laughing enough for all three of us, her eyes darting between Dix and me, as if unsure of whether she could hold us both on her leash while there were so many other distractions around.

'You have to come tomorrow, Dix, it’s an ace trick, they loved it.'

'OK.' Dix looked beyond Sylvie at the girls on stage, following their legs, his face unimpressed, as if he’d seen the act before and didn’t find it much improved. He turned to me. 'So, William, did they want to see a magical trick or did they want to watch you cut her open?'

'Is that not a bit sick?'

Dix’s face wore a serious expression, but it was hard to see his eyes behind his specs.

'Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.'

Sylvie’s smile was eager; her teeth shone white against the nightclub gloom.

'They want to see you murder me, William.'

'Aye, the greatest show on Earth.'

Dix looked me straight in the eye, his voice mellow, and I thought that perhaps he meant what he said.

'There are people who would pay a lot of money to see it.'

'Sick people.'

'Rich, sick people.' He stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray then levelled his stare to meet mine. 'Better they see a trick than the real thing.'

'Better they get treatment.'

He shrugged.

'Maybe it could be treatment of a sort. Get it out of their system. Seriously, we should talk about it. You’re a conjurer. We find the right sick people and make it look real enough

— it could be a good way to get rich.' His gaze held mine. 'Remember, William, we’re all sick in some way.'

'Speak for yourself.'

'You’re a dying man, William.' Sylvie leaned forward with an intensity that might have been sincerity or maybe just drink. 'From the moment we’re born we start to die.'

I lit a fag and said, 'All the more reason not to hasten things along.'

Sylvie slid the cigarette from my fingers.

'You’ll not want this then?'

And for the only time that evening we all laughed together. But even as we laughed, Sylvie grinning at me through the smoke of my lost cigarette and Dix almost managing to look avuncular, I started to wonder if this was the only late-night place in the district or if there was a quiet bar somewhere that I could slope off to. Sylvie and Dix began slipping between English and German. I listened for a while, keeping my eyes on the girls up on stage, then stood up and made my way unsteadily across the room.

The saucy sailor was perched on a stool by the bar in a pose that made the best of her long legs. I guessed she’d grown too tall to be a ballerina, but I had no problem with her height. I looked up to tall girls. The barman was wiping glasses at the opposite end of the small bar. I feigned interest in the matchbooks tumbled in a round fishbowl on the counter next to the dancer, picking one up and reacquainting myself with the champagne bather, wondering how drunk I was. I swung onto a stool, grasping the edge of the bar to steady myself, realising I was pretty blasted. But a man fit enough to get his leg over a barstool still has some hope. I treated the sailorgirl to the full force of the William Wilson grin and said,

'Great song.'

Close to, the girl’s thick stage makeup grew malicious. Face powder had drifted into the fine lines around her mouth; it rested in the creases that framed her dark eyes and hung amongst the fine down coating her cheeks and upper lip. She looked ten years older than she had on stage, but she was still out of my league. She gave a slight nod of the head, but there was no trace of the smile that had glittered throughout her performance.

'Thank you.'

Her accent was Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich and Ingrid Bergman all coiled into one well-tuned set of vocal cords. The barman gave me an amused look, then turned his attention to the glass he was cleaning, holding it up to the light, making no move to serve me.

I said ‘Ein Bier, bitte’, pleased my German was coming along, then turned to the girl and gave her my best chat-up line.

'Can I buy you a drink?' She hesitated. I followed her gaze to the table where Dix and Sylvie were deep in conversation, then caught her eyes in mine, forcing her to look at me instead. 'Singing must be a thirsty business.'

It was nowhere near hypnosis, just a cheap use of her good manners, but it worked.

'OK, that would be nice.'

I wondered if she’d put on any underwear, and if my new status as exotic foreigner would add to my pulling power. The ballerina said something to the man behind the bar then turned back to me.

'You’re from London?'

'Via Glasgow.' She looked uncertain and I said, 'Scotland — wind, snow, rain, tartan, haggis, heather, kilts, all that crap.' She nodded and I added, 'We don’t wear anything under our kilts either.'

She laughed, pretending to be shocked, hiding her mouth behind her hand geisha style.

'Then we have something in common.'

'Aye, cold arses.'

The girl giggled. I appreciated the effort.

'My name’s William, William Wilson.'

I stuck out my hand and she took it in her soft grip.

'Zelda.'

The name suited her and I wondered if she’d had it long. The barman returned with something pink and fizzy in a tall fluted glass and said a price that suggested he’d just handed her the elixir of life. I slid a fifty-euro note across the counter and she raised the glass in a jaunty salute.

'Prost!' Zelda took a sip of her drink and gave me a smile that was worth the money.

'You’re a visitor to Berlin?'

'I’m working here, performing at Schall und Rauch.'

The smile was genuine this time.

'I know it.' She rubbed away some imagined stain from the side of her face. Her eyes did a quick flit towards Sylvie and Dix then back to me. 'Is Sylvie dancing there?'

There was an enforced casualness about the girl’s question that made me wary.

'Sylvie is my lovely assistant.' I smiled and fanned half a dozen of the matchbooks seemingly from nowhere into my hand. 'I’m a conjurer.'

Zelda clapped, but it wasn’t my trick that had made her sailorgirl eyes wide.

'Sylvie isn’t dancing any more?'

The edge to her tone might have been gloating or maybe just surprise. I played it safe for Sylvie’s honour’s sake.

'There’s a lot of dance in the act.'

'Ah.' The glass went to her lips and I began to wonder if I had enough cash to buy her a second drink. 'You can’t have been together long.'

'This was our first night.'

'So you are celebrating.'

'Got it in one.' Zelda glanced towards the table where Dix and Sylvie were leaning intently towards each other, their faces serious. I asked, 'You know each other?'

Zelda smiled a small tight smile.

'A little.'

'Come and join us then.'

The smile grew tighter.

'Dancers need a lot of sleep. One drink is enough.'

I took a sip of my beer.

'There’s a saying where I come from, one’s too many, a hundred’s never enough.'

Zelda drained the last of the pink stuff from the flute.

'You seem like a nice man.' She hesitated. 'Sylvie’s a good dancer, good company…'

'But?'

Zelda shrugged her shoulders.

'There is always a but.'

Yes, I thought, and yours is very nice, but kept my opinion to myself and put a tease into my voice.

'And in Sylvie’s case?' She hesitated and I said, 'Remember, I’m going to be working with her.'

Zelda held her empty glass in front of her, studying its stem, all the better to avoid meeting my eyes.

'Things happen when Sylvie’s around. Sometimes they’re fun.'

At last she met my gaze, telling me that what she said was true, she and Sylvie had had fun together.

'But sometimes not so much fun?'

She held my gaze.

'Sometimes not so much fun, no.' She smiled. 'We were friends. I mean it well.' She glanced back at the table where Sylvie was deep in conversation with Dix. 'You know how it is in this business, friendships change with shows, and Sylvie… well, she has loyalties that make it difficult for anyone to stay her friend for long.'

I nodded, encouraging her to go on, while wondering if the poison had been personal or professional. Zelda lifted a small bag from the seat beside her. A gentleman would probably have eased her descent from the high stool, but I hesitated and she slid off elegantly without my help, her skirt shifting up her slim thighs to reveal that she was still naked beneath. Now that she was standing Zelda was taller than me, but I still held her eyes in mine.

'So Sylvie quit?'

Zelda glanced away from me.

'She quit, yes.'

The glance told me some of what I wanted to know. Whatever reason Sylvie had left, it hadn’t been voluntary.

'I don’t suppose you care to go into details?'

Zelda looked at something beyond my left shoulder. I turned and found Dix at my elbow. He smiled, said something soft to Zelda in German then turned to me.

'Another drink?'

'Sure.'

He looked at the dancer and she shook her head.

'I must go.'

I took the stein Dix slid towards me and thanked him, mentally cursing his timing. The sailorgirl was buying a pack of cigarettes from behind the bar. I leaned in towards her.

'Perhaps you’ll come and see my act?'

'Perhaps.'

'I’ll drop by with a couple of tickets.'

'OK.' Zelda’s smile was cool and detached and told me not to bother. Maybe the disappointment showed on my face because she leant over and gave me a kiss on the cheek and whispered, 'Be careful, William.'

Her perfume smelt sweet beneath the faint tang of performance sweat.

'Hey,' I grinned. 'Of course I will. After all I’m a stranger in a strange town.'

This time there was no responding smile. She glanced towards Dix as he made his way back to the table with the drinks and said in a low tone, 'Then perhaps you shouldn’t make life stranger still by mixing with strange people.'

I watched as her slim form swished away from me. The bouncer opened the door, she gave me a last smile then turned away, lifting her skirt, giving me a quick naughty flash of her naked rear, then the door swung to and she was gone. I finished my pint at the bar, ordered another round and went to rejoin Sylvie and Dix.

Dix had set up a fresh jug of wine for Sylvie, but his own glass was empty. I placed a beer in front of him and he shook his head.

'It’s sad, but I have to go.'

'Dix is a busy, busy man. He has cards to deal and deals to shuffle.'

Sylvie’s words were slurred, but she was holding her own against the drink.

Her mention of deals and shuffles made me think about the casino at Alexanderplatz that Dix had mentioned on our first meeting. But I hadn’t placed a bet since I’d arrived in Berlin and was hoping to keep it that way. Anyway, even if I had fancied a flutter I wouldn’t want to do it in Dix’s company, even before his talk of rich perverts who could make our fortunes.

Up on stage the bouncer had donned a red-sequinned waistcoat and bow tie. He smiled shyly then somewhere a karaoke machine started up and he launched into ‘Those Were the Days, My Friend’. He moved his body with the music, jerking against the beat like a blind piano player belting out a Motown number. Tension constricted his voice, making the words come out high and off-key. He should forget the strong-arm stuff. If there was ever any aggro all he needed to do was sing at the troublemakers.

Dix pulled on an expensive-looking coat just as the bouncer swooped into an alarming pitch change. I nodded towards the stage.

'You picked a good time to get going.'

Dix shrugged.

'It’s necessary.'

He laid his hand for a second on Sylvie’s sleek head, and then raised it in general farewell. There was something saintly in the sparseness of the gestures that irritated me.

I gave him a glib, 'See you, then.'

And he leaned in for a final word.

'Remember what I said, we should talk, we could make money together.'

Dix stroked Sylvie’s hair again but she turned away, as if his decision to leave had already removed his presence and any need for goodbyes. She grinned at me without a last glance towards Dix as he walked out of the door.

'Poor Sebastian, he surely loves to sing.'

The bouncer was belting out the chorus now.

zose were ze dayze, my friend,

I thought zyd neffer end

His German accent was so thick I wondered if he’d learnt the words phonetically. But whatever skill his performance lacked, it had sincerity. A small tear coursed its way down a cheek layered over with powder and rouge. Sebastian’s brimming eyes were spiked with mascara, his mouth painted cherry-red. He looked like a corrupted oversized Pinocchio, cast out into the world and destined never to be reunited with Gepetto. A mad puppet set up on stage to remind us that all of our gods are dead.

Sylvie’s voice held an indulgent superiority.

'I like Sebastian, even if he is a violent, tuneless, poor excuse for a bouncer.'

Her voice was growing loud again. Sebastian’s eyes flicked towards us. I wondered if he could hear what she was saying above the music, but he kept singing, throwing his body into his same spastic dance. He slid off his suit jacket and I realised that his shirt was just a front secured by thin straps crisscrossing over his back and around his waist. Sebastian was on the da-da-da-da-da-das now. He unfastened the straps and let the bib shirt go flying towards the bar. His chest was hairless, his nipples unnaturally red or rouged with the same jammy gloss that coated his lips.

'Bring back the dancing girls.'

Sylvie shook her head.

'You ain’t seen nothing yet.'

Across the room a heavyset man excused himself from his companions and started to make his way awkwardly across the room.

'I’ve seen enough — look, folk are leaving.'

Sylvie kept her gaze on Sebastian and put her hand on my elbow. I glanced towards the door, wondering if there was a general exodus, and saw the large man veering in our direction, rolling like a sailor who’d lost his sea legs. Sylvie’s eyes were still fixed on the stage.

'Wait for the money shot.'

'Do I have to?' Sebastian leant forward, grabbing his trousers by the waistline, then there was a ripping sound, the Velcro seams gave and he was standing before us in a pair of pink and black lacy panties, suspenders and stockings. 'It’s a fucking freak show.'

'Don’t worry, William. No fucking involved.'

Sylvie’s laugh halted abruptly. I felt a pressure at my back. The fat man’s hands were resting against my chair as he leaned in towards Sylvie.

'Hey Suze.' His breath stank of beer, smoke, strong spices and belly rot. 'Long time eh?'

Sylvie looked up at him, her eyes panicked but her voice free of all recognition.

'You’re mistaken.'

The man smiled apologetically at me, drink making his grin lopsided, his other hand resting on Sylvie’s chair now. He smoothed it across her back, gracing me with a wink.

'Maybe you could spare her for a while. Fifteen minutes,' the grin flashed again.

'Probably less.'

'She’s told you pal, you’ve got her mixed up with someone else.'

The fat man raised his hands.

'Hey, no mistake, I never forget a face,' he smiled, 'or a mouth, or a cute ass, or a…'

I got to my feet, pushing his hand from the back of my chair. Up on stage Sebastian raised his arms ready to conduct the audience in the chorus, grinning against the sadness of it all, swaying stiffly like a human metronome.

'The lady’s told you, she’s not interested.'

'Hey — if she tells me to go I’ll go.' The fat man’s grin was moist, his broad face smooth and pink like a slab of boiled ham. 'There’s enough to go round, first or second, I don’t care, you take your pick.' He laughed. 'You take your prick, then take your pick.'

Sylvie said, 'When was the last time you saw your prick, you fat fuck?', just as I shoved the heel of my hand into the centre of his barrel chest. It wasn’t a hard push, but the man was drunk. He staggered backwards, jarring against the table behind us, spilling drinks in a smash of ice and glass undercut by the sudden protests of the drinkers. It looked like he was going to hit the ground, but the fat man’s rolling gait had taught him his centre of gravity and he regained his balance, pitching like a skittle that refuses to go down. The grin was back now, broader than before. Up on stage Sebastian faltered. The man shrugged his shoulders, palms raised upwards to show there was no problem. I righted my fallen chair and he turned back to me, his voice hurt.

'Why fight about a whore? She’s anyone’s for the asking.'

'Not yours.'

He shrugged.

'Enjoy her. She’s a good fuck, for a whore.'

Sylvie sloshed her wine in his face. The fat man shook his head like a Labrador shaking itself free of water after a swim. He put his face close to Sylvie’s and spoke in English for my benefit. 'You best watch out, Sweetheart, word is your boyfriend’s in debt to the wrong men, and my guess is it’s you who’ll have to pay.'

He put a hand on her breast and squeezed.

When I thought about it later I wasn’t sure whether my anger was sparked by the squeeze or because the man had referred to Dix as Sylvie’s boyfriend. But at that moment there were no coherent thoughts in my head, just the blinding red of rage.

I hit him a punch that connected with his jaw and a bolt of pain shot up through my knuckles. The room boomed as Sebastian dropped the mike. I grabbed my injured right hand in my left and the fat man made to get me in a hug. Sylvie started throwing glasses.

One skated across the stage. Its rumbling progress was picked up by Sebastian’s abandoned mike and blasted across the room. The second flew towards the fat man. He ducked, but too slowly to avoid a glancing blow; beer splashed into his eyes and his big hands flew towards them. Sebastian clambered from the stage. Everything seemed to slow except Sylvie. She kept on moving, grabbing her bag and coat, pushing me towards the door.

'Forget it!'

We staggered towards the exit, no one making any move to stop us, except for Sebastian, who was off the stage now, his progress hampered by the patrons. I looked behind me and saw him leap a table, more threatening than a man in women’s underwear should be.

We clattered up the basement steps and out into the street. I followed Sylvie blindly, chasing the sound of her heels until at last I realised there was no one behind us and stopped, leaning forward, hands on knees, taking deep gasps of the night air, wondering if I would ever breathe normally again. Sylvie heard the echo of my footsteps fail. She turned and laughed, then resumed her siren flight, her heels ringing against the pavement. I took a deep draught of air and ran on, realising I was no longer fleeing Sebastian. Sylvie darted away from the main drag, down a darkened alleyway and I followed, caught in the chase.

For a second I thought I’d gone the wrong way. The lane looked deserted. Then Sylvie laughed again and I saw her, hidden in the shelter of a goods entrance. Her smile shone out from the darkness and the fat man’s words flashed through my mind. Her voice was low and teasing.

'You fought for my honour, William.'

'Was it worth saving?'

Her voice dipped an octave.

'Come here and find out.'

I walked slowly down the alley until I was facing her. We stood not touching for a moment then I put my hands gently on her hips and we leaned into a kiss that started gentle and grew deep. I broke the clinch, moving my mouth down to her neck, feeling her hand beneath my jacket, warm against my spine. Sylvie pressed herself into me, digging her hipbone hard against my erection.

I asked, 'What about Dix?'

She stroked her hand down the length of my groin.

'This dick?'

'Your uncle or whoever he is.'

I breathed kisses against her neck, wondering why I was raising objections.

'Don’t worry about Dix. He’s been in trouble before. He’ll get out of it again.'

I wondered what she meant but then her hands moved to my fly, pushing all thoughts away. Her fingers slid inside my trousers, releasing me. I had her dress open down the front now. Her breasts were small and round, soft and firm at the same time. I lowered my mouth and Sylvie arched her back, pushing herself towards me but never letting off the pressure down below. I moved my own hands beneath her dress, pulling at her tights, not caring if I tore them. She whispered, 'Fuck me.' And I steered her against the wall, tugging her knickers down, feeling her soft wetness. I glanced up and saw her pale, smooth face, her mouth slightly open. A shadow hung beneath her cheekbone, the same shade as a bruise.

She looked young and vulnerable, defenceless beneath my rough hands.

Something inside me shifted and Sylvie whispered, 'You OK?'

I whispered, 'Shit.' Sylvie’s hand started to move, trying to revive me, but I knew it was no use. I pushed her away more roughly than I’d intended and she jarred her head against the doorway.

'Sorry.'

My voice grated in the darkness.

'It’s OK.' Sylvie rubbed the back of her head then started to button her dress. 'It happens.'

'Did I hurt you?'

'I’m in for a hangover tomorrow anyway.'

'I didn’t mean to hurt you.'

'Hey, William, it’s OK. It was an accident.'

I looked away and we started straightening our clothing, our awkward modesty at odds with the moments before. There was a sound of voices from the mouth of the alley, a couple of youths walked towards us and I realised the madness of what we’d been about to do. One of them said something to Sylvie as he passed and she answered him back in a short guttural phrase that made me think of Glasgow. I asked, 'What did he say?'

'Nothing.'

'Was he being funny?'

She ignored me, righting her dress. I groped through my scant vocabulary for an insult to throw at them.

'Shitzders.'

The boys looked back over their shoulders shouting something back at us, but not bothering to rise to the insult.

Sylvie’s voice was tired.

'Shitzder? That isn’t even a word.'

'They got the message.'

'I guess they did.'

We were back on the main street now. Glass display cases shone at the edge of the pavement boasting of the fine objects for sale in the adjacent department stores —

handbags, jewellery, shoes, accessories for your accessories — everything shiny, everything expensive. Two disembodied heads on impossibly long necks gazed out from one of the glass cubes, tiny hats teetering on their Marcel waves. Their stares were superior, as if they found the hatless passers-by rather common, too encumbered by flesh. Somewhere across the city I could see the illuminated sign of the Mercedes Benz building rotating slowly in the night sky. Hidden beyond it the half-ruined spire of the bomb-blasted memorial church would be shining out a warning against war.

Up ahead the lights of a taxi rank glowed into view, a row of white Mercs waiting for business. We walked to the top of the line, I opened the door and Sylvie got in.

'Want a lift?'

'No, I’ll walk, sober up a bit before I get to the hotel.'

Sylvie gave me a last kiss, her eyes glassy with tiredness, drink and almost-sex. Her smile shone from the cab’s shadows. 'You gonna be OK?'

'Don’t worry.'

'See you tomorrow?'

I nodded my head then slammed the door, not knowing if she could see my face in the darkness of the street.

Glasgow

NOT SO LONG ago, in the days when Glasgow was shipbuilding capital of the world, particular pubs opened before dawn to kill the drouth of the nightshift. While rich men slept and children rested safe in bed, while mothers readied themselves for the day and posties sorted through their sacks, the nightshift looked at the clock and licked their lips.

And not far from the factory gates pub landlords polished glasses, checked the levels in their optics and made certain that floors were swept, tables wiped, the cash register drawer running smooth on its rollers. Then they looked at the clock, unlocked the door and waited, for men who had toiled through the watch hours with the vision of a pint shining golden before their eyes.

I made my way from the police station with Johnny’s money warm in my pocket. Drink had got me into this trouble and it seemed that only drink could release me. I hardly saw a soul, just a lone dog-walker, who crossed the road at the sound of my footsteps. The armies of men that once filled whole streets at shift’s end are long disbanded. But the early morning pubs are still there, if you know where to look.

There’s a licensing law demands these bars serve breakfasts to mop up the drink. And so they’re always steeped in the smell of discount bacon, black pudding the colour of blood-soaked shit and gangrenous battery-farmed eggs. Everything fried in ancient lard, set grey since yesterday and melted each morning until it is hot enough to fry any cockroaches that might have burrowed in for a midnight feast.

I pushed open the door and stepped back into the night, though I knew it was a little past 7 a.m. The bar was busy. A couple of student types sat in a corner using the beer to ease the come down from whatever had kept them up. A businessman sank a predawn brandy. A guy in a brown leather jacket that went out of fashion sometime around 1983

studied the racing form, putting little crosses next to the horses he fancied, taking quick sips of a beer I’d seen him top up with vodka. No one looked like a shift worker. No one was eating the breakfast. No one talked because no one was here to be sociable. The jukebox pounded out some ancient hit even though no one was here for the music.

Everyone was here to drink.

I stepped up and ordered a pint. I was filthy, unshaven and there were still traces of the old man’s blood spattered across my trousers. The barmaid sat my beer on the counter without looking at me. I waited for her to put her hand out for the money and when she didn’t, set one of Johnny’s notes on the counter. She peeled it from the dirty bar without a word and slapped my change back into the beer spills and fag ash crumblings. I was too tired to care. I gave my pint a full second to settle then raised it to my lips.

The beer tasted stale enough to be the contents of the slop tray. But I sank a third of it in one deep swallow then used my change in the cigarette machine. I lit up, finished my drink then ordered another, looking at the men around me and realising I fitted in fine.

I was into my third when the old man’s battered face flashed into my mind’s eye and with it the memory of another face exploding in a spray of blood and brain. I took my glasses off and rubbed my eyes. A voice behind me said, 'That’s your last for the morning.'

I turned and saw Inspector Blunt, still wearing the same suit he’d had on during my interrogation.

'You arresting me?'

'Naw I’m telling you.'

'What are you now, the bloody beer police? Lager patrol?' I took out a cigarette and lit it. 'You’re not in your station with your wee fat pal now, so fuck off and annoy someone else.'

'Is one sight of the cells not enough for the day?' Inspector Blunt turned to the woman behind the counter. 'Mary, no more for him, understand?' The barmaid glanced up from the pint she was pouring and nodded. He turned back to me, his ginger moustache looking dry and alcohol hungry. 'You’re going to be needed if this thing comes to court, until then I don’t want to see or hear anything from you.'

'That makes it mutual then.'

The barmaid set a nice smooth pint of best beside him.

'On the house, Mr Blunt.'

'Cheers Mary.' Blunt took a cigarette from my pack and lit it with my lighter. 'If we got a productivity bonus I wouldn’t be bothered, but we’re a bit pressed right now so I’d like to avoid any unnecessary paperwork.' He picked a bit of tobacco from his tongue. 'Bloody cheap fags. Get over whatever it is that’s bothering you, because right now you’re going in one of two directions, the jail or the morgue. Now piss off. And remember, this is my local.'

I looked around at the tired décor, the deflated men, the uneasy chairs, then back at the police inspector supping his first pint of the day at eight in the morning and said the worst thing I could think of.

'Aye, it suits you.'

I got back to my room, stripped, double-bagged the clothes I’d been wearing in black bin bags and put them in the lobby. I stood in the shower until the water ran cold, and then I stood there until the cold seemed to burn. After that I lay on the bed, looking at the ceiling, thinking. I’d not been doing enough thinking lately.

Blunt was right. I was headed down whatever I did. There was no point in hiding a skin that wasn’t worth saving. It was time to set some things to rights, and then maybe I should make sure I had some company on the low road I was set to take.

The Mitchell Library is a wedding cake of a building overlooking the motorway that cuts a swathe through the city. I stood on the bridge and looked down into the ravine of speeding cars. I’d heard that some people claim their loved ones were mesmerised into throwing themselves from bridges like these by the moving lines of traffic. But I found it hard to believe. No one can be hypnotised into doing anything they don’t want to do.

The Mitchell’s computer hall was busy. I got a ticket, then found an empty berth and sat there amongst the students and school kids, the pensioners and unemployed, the asylum seekers and researchers. The room was quiet save for the clicking of fingers against keyboards, but I could almost feel the electric buzz of thoughts firing around the room.

Everyone beyond their bodies, absorbed in their own project, back in the depths of ancient Rome, their family tree, legal precedent or who knows what? There was a mix of ethnicity I’d not met elsewhere in the city and suddenly I missed London.

I logged onto the system, then scrolled through the internet, chasing Bill Senior until I thought I might have an idea of where else to look, then I got a librarian to direct me to where the microfiches of old newspapers were stored and struggled with the small plastic slides until I worked out how to use them. After a while I realised that I might be getting somewhere.

It was past three when I left the library and caught a bus over to the West End to pay back one of my debts.

The work address that Johnny had given me was on University Gardens, a short Victorian terrace that had once housed lecturers but was now converted into university offices and seminar spaces. I worked my way down the doors until I came to the number Johnny had given me. The outside of the building was covered in scaffolding that looked like it had been there for a while. I made my way up the entrance steps, past the neglected scrub of front garden and into the hallway.

Inside there was a fusion of damp, floor polish and books that hit me a smack of nostalgia for a time I’d almost forgotten. The foyer was as dark as I remembered, a notice-board on the wall covered in a confusion of posters and notices for classes, assignments, student theatre shows, political meetings and books for sale. I had a sudden memory of saturating campus with starry homemade advertisements for my new brand of magic. The scent of nostalgia was overlaid by the smell of turps and paint, the stairway swathed in spattered dustsheets, and suddenly it made sense why Johnny had given me this address.

A man in white overalls was balanced near the top of a long ladder in the stairwell reaching up towards a barely accessible slant of the underside of the stairs. I walked up towards him, the steps creaking under my weight; I could feel a corresponding creak in my chest that hadn’t been there when I’d used these buildings fifteen years ago. The painter peered down and I said, 'Can you tell me where Johnny is, mate?'

The man’s roller continued moving white on white across the wall; he was doing a fine job.

'Johnny?'

'Aye, he said he was working here, I think he’s probably one of your guys.'

'Oh, John.' The man pointed his roller upwards. 'Second floor, first room on the right, clap the door afore you go in: they might have the ladder in front of it.'

'Cheers.'

I kept on climbing. Johnny’s dad had been a painter decorator. I wondered if the firm had fallen to him now. Johnny had been smart enough to do whatever he wanted, but hash and booze had always threatened to hold him back. I’d been no better, spending the best part of my grant in the union bar before leaving halfway through my third year. I reached the second floor, turned right and rapped on the large dark-varnished door. A voice shouted, 'Aye, it’s clear.' And I went through. A broad-set, balding man was poised on the top of the ladder at the far side of the room painting the walls a sunshine yellow that looked washed out in the dim light. His apprentice was crouched on the floor, touching up the skirting near the door.

'I was looking for John.'

The older man stopped mid stroke and stared down from his ladder.

'You’ve found him. What can I do for you, son?'

I glanced at the nameplates on a couple of the doors until a uniformed attendant with a bundle of late-afternoon post tucked under his arm asked if he could help me. I saw myself as he must see me, a scruffy middle-aged waster skulking round a university campus, and gave him a grin to liven up his nightmares.

'Aye, is there a good pub round here?'

The guard directed me to one of my old student haunts, staring at me as if storing up my description for later use. I felt his eyes on my back as I walked down the stairs and supposed he’d reach for his radio as soon as I was out of earshot, alerting the rest of the security squad to the potential menace in range. I looked back up at his worried face peering down from the top of the stairwell and held my right hand up.

'May the lord hold you and keep you.'

Making a sign of the cross with my index finger just to freak him out. Then the front door opened behind me letting in a blast of sudden spring air.

'William!'

Johnny’s greeting caught me mid-genuflection.

The guard shouted down, 'Everything OK, Dr Mac?'

Johnny gave the grin that I bet swelled his lectures with swell young female students and nodded up at the guard.

'Fine thanks, Gordon, I’ll look after Mr Wilson.' My old friend turned to me. 'You’ve still got good timing.' Johnny’s hair was slightly wet, his face flushed. He smelt of something fresh and sporty. 'I just dropped by to dump this.'

I glanced at the sports bag he was carrying, suddenly feeling tongue-tied, and reached into my pocket for the fifty pounds he’d lent me, handing it over awkwardly.

'I wanted to return this.'

'Aye, thanks,' Johnny rubbed his fingers through his damp hair. 'I hope you didn’t mind…'

'No,' I tried for a smile. 'It helped to know someone had faith in me.' The weight of the hours I’d spent in the Mitchell that morning, searching out old newspaper accounts of crimes and cruelties, suddenly weighed on me. 'I was just going for a pint, d’you fancy one?'

John hesitated.

'I do but I can’t.'

I remembered the way that Eilidh had looked at me in the police cell.

'Fair enough.'

'No, it’s not that. It’s just I promised to get home early. Listen I’ve some beers in the fridge, why don’t you come back with me?'

'I’m not sure that Eilidh would be so pleased to see me.'

John ran his hand through his hair again.

'Don’t be daft. If you hadn’t dropped by I would have got your number from her and called you.'

'Ach I don’t know, John.'

'Well I do. I need a favour and you owe me at least the one.'

John’s flat was just off Byres Road, a quick fifteen-minute walk from his office. He was waylaid twice by students and each time used me as an excuse to move on.

'Looks like you’re a celebrity, Dr John.'

He laughed.

'They always get friendlier towards the end of term — exam time.'

I said, 'I’m impressed.' Realising I meant it. 'What happened?' John looked at the ground as he walked.

'Nothing much. I discovered that I quite liked philosophy, screwed the nut, passed the exams, applied for a postgrad. And the rest is history.'

'You were free of a pernicious influence.'

'Don’t flatter yourself.'

He turned into a close.

'Here we are.'

Johnny’s flat looked big enough to accommodate six students. But any resemblance to the semi-slums we’d once shared stopped there. The hallway was painted a tasteful parchment shade that made the best of its high ceiling, the walls were hung with bright prints and the floor carpeted with pale sea-grass matting. He led me through shouting,

'That’s me back.'

A smartly dressed woman in her sixties stepped briskly into the hallway.

'Wheessht, I’ve just got her down.'

Johnny lowered his voice.

'Whoops, sorry.'

The woman smiled expectantly at me, perhaps imagining I was a scruffy visiting philosopher.

'This is William, an old friend from university.'

The woman’s face lost some of its welcome.

'I think maybe Eilidh mentioned you.'

I nodded.

'All good I hope.'

And the old woman gave me a sharp look that told me not to take her for a fool. She turned to John.

'Grace’s had her feed, so she should sleep for a while yet.'

'Thanks, Margaret.'

'A pleasure as always.' She took down her jacket from the coat stand. 'Sorry to be in such a rush: book group night.'

John handed her a smart leather bag that had been left by the door.

'I remember. Have a good time.'

'Oh, it’s always interesting, even when you don’t like the book.' Margaret finished fastening her coat and gave John a quick peck on the cheek. 'You take good care of my grandchild.' She knotted a small silk scarf round her throat, tucking it into the collar of her coat. 'I’ll see you tomorrow. And goodbye Mr…'

'Wilson.'

'Yes, I thought that was it. I’ll probably not see you again so I hope things go a bit better for you.'

I bent into a slight bow.

'Thank you.'

She gave me a nod that said she’d do for me if she saw me again and I smiled to show that I understood.

John closed the door behind her. 'Sorry ’bout that.'

'You can’t get the staff these days.'

He smiled, relieved I hadn’t taken offence.

'Come on, I’ll get you a beer then I’d best check on the wean.'

The kitchen was large and homely with a scrubbed-pine table at its centre. I sat there nursing the bottle of weak French lager Johnny had given me, trying not to listen to him talking to his sleeping daughter on the baby intercom. When he came back he was smiling.

'How old is she?'

'Ten months.'

'Congratulations. Next thing you know you’ll be getting married.'

'You always had an uncanny knack for prediction. Date’s set for July. Have a seat. My affianced won’t be in for a while yet.' I resolved to be gone before Eilidh came home.

Johnny reached into the fridge, helping himself to a beer. 'What are you up to right now?'

'Nothing much.'

'Nothing much or nothing at all?'

'Why d’you want to know?' I took out my cigarettes then hesitated. 'Is it OK to smoke?'

'Eilidh’s not so keen on it in the house.' I slid them back in my pocket. John looked at me and laughed. 'You’ll get me shot, William.' He reached into a cupboard and selected a saucer. 'Here, use this.'

'Sure?'

He opened the window above the sink.

'Course.'

'Want one?'

'More than my life’s worth mate. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. Are you working?'

'Why’re you so interested?'

'Apart from the usual social niceties? I might have a gig for you.'

Johnny leaned back in his kitchen chair and started to tell me what he had in mind.

Berlin

THE SCHALL UND RAUCH’S joiner had made a fine job of the task I’d set him. The box was perfect; a shiny metallic blue, decorated with a zodiac motif of constellations and multi-ringed Saturns that would shine from the stage and draw the audience’s eyes from other distractions.

Sylvie stood on stage in the empty auditorium next to Nixie the hula-hoop girl, while I explained how the trick would work.

'OK ladies, this is a classic illusion, I am going to slice my elegant assistant Sylvie here in half, and you, Nixie, are going to be the legs of the operation.'

Nixie looked bewildered, Sylvie translated and the hula girl’s giggle followed a beat after.

'OK,' I wheeled out the box and lifted its lid, 'Sylvie this is where you go, head and hands sticking out the wee holes in this end, feet poking out the other.' Sylvie and Nixie looked at the box. 'OK?'

Sylvie nodded.

'OK.'

'Right, Nixie.' I smiled at the blonde girl. 'Unfortunately, you’re not going to get the benefit of the audience’s applause, but you are going to get the satisfaction of knowing you’ve been instrumental in successfully pulling off one of the classic illusions in the conjurer’s calendar.'

I looked at Sylvie. She rolled her eyes and started to translate. Nixie listened, her eyes widening, then collapsed in giggles, putting her hand over her mouth as if scandalised at her own amusement.

I asked, 'What did you say?'

Sylvie’s expression was innocent.

'I just repeated what you said, you’re a very funny man, William.'

There had been no awkwardness between us after our drunken celebrations. Sylvie had simply said, 'Well I guess that got that out of the way.' And I’d agreed, both of us laughing, relieved that the other wasn’t offended.

I’d wanted to ask her about the fat man. He’d called her by the wrong name, but Suze and Sylvie didn’t seem so different to me and I remembered a quick flash of panic in Sylvie’s eyes that could have been surprise, or could have been recognition. I’d kept my thoughts to myself and though I’d pulled the guts out of her at ten fifteen precisely every night for a week since, nothing had passed between us that would have scandalised even the pope’s maiden aunt. Still, the memory of Sylvie’s body stayed with me, making me glance away from her as I went onto the next bit of my explanation.

'OK, let’s go down to the stalls.' The girls followed me, chatting in German. 'So what do you see standing next to Sylvie’s box?'

'You make me sound like a puppet.'

I gave Sylvie a look, she translated my question and Nixie replied.

'Einen Tisch.'

Sylvie singsonged, 'A table.'

'Great, back up on stage.'

The girls groaned but they followed me up to where the props were standing.

'Now what do you see?'

'Ahh,' Nixie’s voice was full of realisation. 'Eine Kiste.'

I looked at Sylvie.

'A box.'

'Correct. Observe.' I opened a flap exposing the compartment in the tabletop that was hidden from the audience by the sharp black angles on its tapered-under edges, revealing that although the table was only an inch thick along its white-painted rim it was deep enough at its centre to hold a slim woman lying flat. 'You lie in here, Nixie, hidden from view. I put the box on the table and help Sylvie into it. She surreptitiously pulls her knees up to her chest and you slide your legs up through the flap on the top of the table, sticking your feet out through the foot holes in the box so the audience think that they belong to Sylvie. Then voilà, I wield my saw,' I grabbed the oversized saw lying on the ground next to me and shook it in the air generating a wobbling sound, 'and cut through the bit of balsa obligingly holding the two parts of the box together,' I started to saw through the balsa, letting them hear the metal rasp against the wood, 'until I’m able to separate the two halves,' I pushed the two ends of the fancy coffin apart, 'to reveal a head in one and wiggling feet in the other, making the crowd go crazy.' I held my arms up to the imaginary audience and grinned at the girls, but Nixie was whispering something to Sylvie, shaking her head. I asked, 'Was ist das problem?'

Sylvie sighed.

'The silly bitch says she can’t do it. She’s claustrophobic.'

Sylvie and I ran through every member of the company, but we already knew that Nixie was the only performer on staff slight enough to fit inside the tabletop.

'So that’s it then, fucked again.'

'Hey William, it’s not my fault.'

I kicked the trolley that the new box was lying on, sending it trundling towards the back of the stage.

'It was a fucking clichéd piece of crap anyway.'

Sylvie caught the trolley and rolled it back down the rake towards me.

'You’ll work it out.'

I slammed the trolley again, sending it hurtling back the way it came, not watching where it went, simply taking relief in the act of hitting something. It juddered, almost losing its load, then against all odds regained its keel, sailing into backstage.

I said, 'Fuck.'

And moved to retrieve it just as there was a gasp and Ulla came from the wings pushing the trolley away from her. I took a step forward. 'Shit, sorry.'

Ulla rubbed her arm. Her voice was high and annoyed.

'We have to be careful here.'

'Sorry, Ulla, I didn’t mean to push it so hard.'

'The stage is a dangerous place.'

'Yeah, I know, sorry.'

Ulla had a pencil stuck in her hair and a sheaf of invoices tucked under her arm. Her frown made a small crease between her eyebrows. I wondered what she’d do if I reached out to smooth it away.

'I came to see if you had finished with the stage. There are others who would like to rehearse.'

'Yeah, you may as well tell them to go ahead.'

Ulla hesitated, noticing our dejection for the first time.

'Problem?'

Sylvie took a step back and looked her up and down.

'No,' She placed her arm around Ulla’s shoulders and levelled her gaze at me. 'I don’t think so, do you, William?'

My eyes slid down Ulla’s body. But I already knew the proportions of the German girl’s figure well enough to realise that Sylvie just might be right.

Ulla grasped the simple illusion straight away.

'But this is a very old trick, the audience will have seen it many times before.'

'Not the way William’s going to do it.'

Sylvie and I hadn’t discussed the razzle-dazzle surrounding the illusion, but her confidence was inspiring.

'That’s right, it’s going to have that classic Schall und Rauch twist, a super-sexy variation on the theme.'

Ulla looked worried.

'Will I have to wear a costume?'

'No, just something comfortable you can move easily in and,' I felt the back of my neck flush, 'an identical pair of shoes and stockings to the ones Sylvie’s chosen.'

'They’re going to be darling.' Ulla had extricated herself from my assistant’s grasp but Sylvie was determined to hold her attention. 'Bottle-green fishnets with the reddest, highest, shiniest pair of kinky wedges you ever set eyes on.' She glanced at me. 'I’m borrowing them from a fetish shop in return for a mention in the programme.'

'Well done.' I turned to Ulla. 'Will you help us out?'

'I’m not a performer.'

'No performance skills required. All you have to do is lie there, stick your legs through the flap at the right time and wiggle your toes when I ask you to.'

Ulla hesitated.

I took a step forward.

'There’s no one else.'

She sighed.

'If it is necessary for the show.'

Sylvie swept her into a hug.

'I knew you would!'

Ulla freed herself and I made an effort to meet her eyes.

'Thanks, you’re a life-saver.'

I watched as Ulla made her way back down towards the office, and then turned to find Sylvie staring at me. Her voice was full of exaggerated marvel.

'William, you like her.'

I shook my head and started to put our props away, hiding my expression in the task.

'I’ve never gone for bossy women. Anyway, she’s taken. She’s with Kolja.' I tried to keep my voice light. 'A match made in heaven.'

Sylvie grinned.

'Then they’d better watch out. Those heavenly matches are notoriously vulnerable to temptation.'

Glasgow

IT DIDN’T TAKE Johnny long to get to the point.

'I’m organising a benefit and I’d like you to headline.'

I drew on my cigarette, wishing I hadn’t agreed to come back with him. I tipped some ash into the saucer, and smiled to sweeten my refusal.

'Sorry, John, I don’t do that anymore.'

The smile was a mistake. Johnny leant forward, enthusiasm for his new project shining on his face.

'So you said, but I thought you might be able to come out of retirement, just for one night.'

I wondered where he found the time for benefits between lecturing, exams, visits to the gym and a new baby.

'I’ll put up posters, take the tickets, shift props or act as bouncer, but don’t ask me to get up on stage. It’s just not possible.'

Johnny continued as if he hadn’t heard me.

'It’s in the Old Panopticon. It’s not normally open to the public so a lot of people might come along just to see the venue, but I’m finding it harder to get hold of halfway decent acts than I’d anticipated. You’re a godsend, William.'

I remembered this technique from our student days; Johnny’s water torture. It involved a relentless dripping at any objections until it became easier to do what Johnny wanted than to resist. I steeled my voice.

'I’m not a performer anymore.'

He shook his head, still smiling, sure that with the right persuasion I’d do it.

'I just don’t believe you, William.'

'You’ll have to because it’s true.'

Perhaps there was something in my voice or maybe Johnny had learnt that it wasn’t always possible to force the unwilling to his will. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hand through his hair.

'Well, at least give me a reason.'

I said, 'Maybe one day.' Knowing it was a lie.

Johnny’s face was incredulous, his dark curls stood up in angry little spikes.

'So that’s it? First time in years that I ask you to do me a favour and there’s no apology, no explanation, just no?'

Sunlight cut through the kitchen window, making a pattern of golden squares between us on the wooden table. I turned my head and looked out towards the backcourts where the tops of sycamores moved with the spring breeze. Sometime earlier in the year someone had planted bulbs in the window box; lilac hyacinths shivered in their pots, sending their perfume into the room. The kitchen would be perfect for socialising. The ideal place to share a meal with friends around the big table, knowing that if the baby woke she was only a few steps away.

I shook my head and kept my voice low.

'I’m not abandoning my career just to inconvenience you, and for the record I did apologise.'

We were interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the front door. There was a pause while the new arrival took off their coat, and then Eilidh put her head into the kitchen.

Her hair was pulled back into a roll, but it looked as if the wind had caught it and loose tendrils curled softly around her face.

'Hi.' She smiled at Johnny, then noticed me for the first time. 'Oh, William.'

I got to my feet, hoping my stubbed-out cigarette wouldn’t cause a row after I’d gone.

'It’s OK, I’ve got to head.'

Eilidh came into the room, glancing at the saucer, but not mentioning it.

'Are you sure?'

'Positive.'

She looked towards the other end of the table.

'John?'

'Let him go, Eilidh. William’s got things to do.'

The woman looked between us, sensing tension but unsure of its cause.

'How’s Grace?'

John took a drink from his bottle of beer.

'I just looked in on her, she’s sound.'

'Good. I’ll have a wee peek after I’ve walked William to the door.'

John shrugged his shoulders. I lifted my jacket from the back of my chair.

'I’ll be fine.'

But Eilidh accompanied me anyway. She turned to me in the hallway.

'What happened?'

'John wants me to do his gig, I told him I wasn’t able to.'

'Couldn’t or wouldn’t?'

'Can’t.'

She looked up at me then put her hand gently on my arm. Her voice was tender, as if she were seeing me for the first time.

'What happened to you, William?'

Something in her touch and her soft tone forced a pressure behind my eyes. I stepped free of her grip.

'Nothing, I just don’t perform any more.'

'It’s OK.' Eilidh smiled gently and I wondered if she’d always been able to switch between the hard professionalism she’d shown in the cells and this empathy that seemed able to sheer off my emotional armour with one look. 'I’ll speak to John. He’s under a lot of pressure and… well, you know how he is when he gets the bit between his teeth.' She shook her head. 'Every time you meet us there’s a display of bad manners.'

I returned her smile; grateful she’d changed the subject.

'Not the night I met you both in the pub.'

'It seemed to me you were a bit prickly then.'

'Possibly.'

'Anyway, I’m glad I saw you. I wanted to apologise for the other day. I should have been more sympathetic. You’d had a terrible experience and I was…'

'Sure I was guilty?'

'… not as sensitive as I should have been.'

'You’ve a lawyer’s way with words.'

'That’s good, I am a lawyer after all.'

'Will I have to go to court?'

'No, not unless one of them changes his guilty plea.'

'That’s something.' I put a hand in my pocket and took out my cigarettes, turning them over nervously in my hands, remembering that smoking was taboo. 'Eilidh, if…'

I hesitated, not wanting the mother of John’s child anywhere near my quest, but realising she was the only legal counsel I was liable to get. She smiled encouragingly.

'Go on.'

'… if a crime happened a long time ago would old evidence still be any good?'

Eilidh raised her head, her interest sparked, and I caught another glimpse of the sharp lawyer who had sat with me in the police station.

'It’s hard to generalise, it’d depend what the evidence was, but technology’s moved on remarkably. There are cases that were thought long dead being dusted down, reexamined and solved through DNA and the like.' She smiled. 'A lot of worried crims who thought they’d got clean away are dreading the knock at the door. Why?'

The urge to share was strong, but I resisted.

'Just something I was reading.'

Eilidh gave me a look that said she wasn’t sure she believed me. But it wasn’t an unfriendly look.

'Please think about John’s benefit.' She held my red-rimmed eyes in her violet gaze. 'He admires you. It would mean a lot to him if you were involved.'

'I’ll think about it. No promises though.'

'No promises.'

She leant over and gave me a kiss goodbye. Apart from the day when I’d met my mother it was the first time in a long while that a woman had kissed me. It felt better than it should.

I was halfway down the close stairs before I realised that I hadn’t asked Johnny what his benefit was in aid of.

Berlin

SYLVIE AND I spent the rest of the afternoon and much of a long sober post-show night trying to light on the super-sexy twist we’d promised Ulla. It was morning by the time we’d sorted it out. We went through a private rehearsal then headed to our respective beds with the warm worn-out feeling that comes from a good evening’s work.

Of course the cutting the lady in half trick was only a small part of the new act, but separating the woman’s torso from her legs was a private nod to myself that I was moving on from the kind of second-rate penetration effect I’d performed at Bill’s club. There was a dramatic death-defying illusion destined for our finale, something I doubted the crowd at Schall und Rauch had seen before.

It was 9 a.m. and I was sitting on my hotel bed adding the last touch to a diagram and sipping a medicinal Grouse before finally getting my head down when the telephone rang.

The voice on the other end was as brash as a barker in a penny arcade.

'William, I was expecting your fucking answerphone.'

'Hi, Richard, I was up all night rehearsing.'

'Good boy, well you can spare me three minutes.'

I held the phone away from my ear while he coughed a phlegm-filled cough. 'How’s things in der Fatherland?'

'Better.'

'You wowing them yet?'

'About to.'

'Glad to hear it ’cos I’ve got some good news for you.'

'What?'

'There’s a scout travelling over on Saturday to take in your show.'

'Saturday?'

'Christ, don’t drop dead of enthusiasm.'

'No, that’s great news, Richard, it’s just Saturday’s the first night of the new act. I would’ve liked a chance to iron out any glitches that come up.'

'Don’t worry, the adrenalin’ll carry you through.'

Richard hacked out another round of coughs and I wondered where he’d heard of adrenalin.

'Who’s he scouting for?'

'TV, BBC3 to be exact, a late-night show. This could be what you’ve been waiting for.'

'So do you want me to meet him? Wine and dine him?'

'No, keep schtumm. He likes to go incognito. A lot of the big scouts are like that. But forewarned is forearmed. Save you screwing it up.'

'Thanks, Richard.'

'Don’t mention it, son. Just thank me by keeping sober and avoiding making a balls up.

This could be the big one. He was most insistent, no comics, no dancing girls, no singers, he only wants conjurers. This could have your name on it, Will.'

Glasgow

MY TRAWL THROUGH the Mitchell Library’s archives had revealed that one particular case was mentioned every time the murdered nightclub owner Bill Noon, or his father, Bill Noon senior, appeared in the newspapers. Bill had referred to it obliquely on the night we met and I’d read about it in the Telegraph’s report of Sam and Bill’s death, though its significance had been lost to me then.

On the morning of the Friday, 13th March, 1970, Mrs Gloria Noon had left her home at about 12.15 in the afternoon. She had never been seen or heard of again. There were no witnesses to her departure, but Gloria had spoken on the telephone to her sister, Sheila Bowen, at about midday. Gloria had asked Sheila for a recipe for pork and apple casserole.

When Sheila phoned back a quarter of an hour later after searching out the recipe book there was no reply, though Gloria had been expecting the call.

Gloria’s six-year-old son Billy went uncollected from school; her car lay untouched in the driveway. Gloria’s makeup was spread out in front of her dressing-table mirror as if she had been interrupted in the act of applying it. Gloria had withdrawn no large sums of cash, nor did she pack any clothes, she had left her Valium and contraceptive pills in the bathroom cabinet. Her keys, purse and reading glasses were still in her handbag, which lay open on the bed she shared with her husband. Her passport lay undisturbed at the bottom of her underwear drawer. There was no sign of an accident or a struggle, no note; no woman was discovered wandering the local lanes with amnesia. Mrs Gloria Noon had simply disappeared.

Sheila told police that she and her sister had talked of more than recipes that morning.

Gloria had finally decided to leave her husband, taking her young son with her. According to Sheila the boy was the only reason Gloria had stayed in her marriage.

It was confirmed that Gloria had been seen two weeks earlier by the casualty department of her local hospital, claiming to have fallen down the stairs. The doctor who’d examined her had written in his notes that he considered her injuries more consistent with an assault than a fall. Her sister claimed that Gloria had been beaten by her husband and that this beating, the most recent in a long series, was the reason Gloria had finally decided to leave — that and the encouragement she’d received from her lover.

Gloria had never named the man she was leaving Bill senior for, fearing the danger he’d be in if her husband discovered his identity and knowing that divorce courts looked unsympathetically on women who indulged in extramarital affairs, even the wives of dubious businessmen who made easy with their fists.

'She wouldn’t have done anything that interfered with her chance of getting custody of Billy,' her sister had insisted. 'And she would never have left him.'

But of course the affair had jeopardised Gloria’s chance of custody. And she had most certainly left her son. The question was, had she left voluntarily?

If you could hang a man on hearsay, Bill Noon would have mounted the gallows in double-quick time. But he’d insisted that with the exception of his abandoned son he was the most confused and upset of anyone involved. He denied any knowledge of an affair and insisted that though they ‘had their ups and downs like any married couple,' he knew of no plan to leave him. Gloria liked a drop, they both did, and once or twice he’d raised his hand but he’d never have seriously hurt her. The gin and not his fists were to blame for her fall and her bruises. He disputed his sister-inlaw’s account, accusing her of being jealous of Gloria’s lifestyle and of actively wanting their marriage to fail. He poured scorn on the idea that his wife would confide anything in her sister. He even slandered the recipe for pork and apple casserole.

Though the newspapers recorded Bill Noon’s denials it was clear whose side they took, even after he had posted a substantial reward for news of his wife. Bill Noon stared out from their photos, photogenic as a Kray twin hard man, while Gloria’s sister, Sheila, sat dignified in full suburban bloom, or was pictured working honestly and industriously in her husband’s outfitting shop.

For a while Gloria was sighted almost as regularly as Lord Lucan. A holidaymaker thought he saw her walking along a beach in Majorca. She’d dyed her hair brown and was holding the hand of a thin aristocratic-looking man. She was seen on a bus in Margate, wearing a headscarf of the kind favoured by the queen. A hiker had passed Gloria walking along a cliff-top in Wales. She’d looked troubled and they’d thought of asking if she was OK.

It was only later that it occurred to them who she was. What attraction coastlines had for the disappeared Gloria Noon was never explored in the press.

After a while the sightings of Gloria diminished, though over the years people continued to claim to have glimpsed her. Generally after the press had resurrected her story, something that happened whenever a respectable married woman went missing.

Though, unlike Gloria, these women always seemed to turn up, in some form.

Gloria Noon had become her disappearance, a bundle of newspaper clippings, a police file, a chapter in true crime books and an entire Pan paperback, The Friday the Thirteenth Vanishing. The police denied her case was closed, but admitted there was little they could do with no evidence, no witnesses and no body.

The most spectacular resurrection of the publicity surrounding the case had come with Bill Noon senior’s remarriage twelve years after his first wife’s disappearance. Several newspapers had run a copy of the wedding photo. Bill junior acted as best man. He stood at the front of the group photograph, handsome face stiff and unreadable. And if you looked closely, it was possible to spot a younger, thinner James Montgomery in the back row of the bravely smiling wedding party, grinning like a man who’d just come into a good thing.

I took all the clippings I had managed to get copied about the disappearance of Bill’s mother and laid them across the floor of my room. Then I took out the map and the photograph that I’d filched from Montgomery and laid them side-by-side. I lifted the photograph and stared at the newspaper held in Montgomery’s hand. The print was small, but it was still possible to read the headline and the date, 13th March 1970, the day of Gloria’s disappearance. I looked again at the map and felt certain that this was the last resting place of Gloria Noon.

Bill had been nothing to me, Sam was a friend that I hadn’t seen for a year and Gloria a woman who vanished when I was still a child. I didn’t owe them any debt and nothing that I could do would bring them back. But maybe I held the solution to their deaths, and perhaps in helping to bring them justice I would find some peace of my own. Montgomery was out there somewhere, eager to get his hands on evidence that might damn him. Was I in mourning for what I’d done in Berlin? Or just a coward, hiding from a man who’d been playing dirty since before I was born? I’d been spending a long time on my decline. This could be my chance to redeem myself or go out Butch-Cassidy-and-theSundance-Kid-style, in a blaze of glory.

I left everything lying the way that it was, washed my face, locked the door, turned out the light and went to bed.

The cuttings were still splayed across the floor when I woke the following midmorning.

I stepped over them, mindful not to stand on any of the photographs of Gloria and Bill Noon, the laughing wedding guests or the carefully coiffured sister, then fumbled in the dressing table drawer until I found an unopened pack of playing cards and slid away the red scarf I’d used to cover the mirror. I leaned in close and looked at myself properly for the first time in months. My face was drink-bloated and unshaven, my eyes puffy behind their glasses. I rubbed a hand across my bristles, wondering if the old William was lost forever, then pulled up a chair, slit open the pack and threw the jokers to one side. I shuffled the deck and started to perform some basic sleights of hand. My fingers were clumsy, but after a while they began to remember the familiar tricks and I knew that with practice they would regain their old knack. I shaved, showered and then went out to ring Johnny.

Eilidh sounded distracted.

'Oh, William, John’s a bit busy, can he ring you back?'

'I’m calling from a phone booth.'

There was a smile in Eilidh’s voice.

'That’s novel these days.'

I looked out at the crowds of shoppers rushing along Argyle Street and realised it was a Saturday.

'I guess it is.' I paused, hoping she’d drag Johnny from whatever task he was caught up in. When she didn’t I said. 'It’s just to say I’ll do the gig.'

'That’s brilliant, William, he’ll be delighted.'

I felt myself go gruff.

'Aye, well, he’ll maybe not be so chuffed when he sees me; I’m a bit rusty.'

'Nonsense he’s always going on about how brilliant you were when you were both at uni.'

I stored this nugget of praise away amongst my depleted stock.

'Johnny didn’t tell me the kick-off time.'

'It’s a week today, 3.30 in the Old Panopticon.'

'A matinee?'

The voice on the other end of the line sounded concerned.

'Is that a problem?'

I hesitated and then realised that it would make no dif ference to my purpose what time the show was at.

'No, not really, it just threw me that’s all.'

'There’ll be a lot of kids there, families, it should be fun.'

'I’ll temper my act accordingly.'

Eilidh laughed.

'See that you do.'

Eilidh thanked me again and I realised she wanted to go. The pips sounded and I fired more change into the slot, holding her there.

'Johnny never said what the benefit was in aid of.'

'Did he not?' Eilidh’s voice was bright. 'We’re trying to raise funds for a charity catering for children like Grace.'

'Like what?'

It sounded flippant and inwardly I cringed.

'You really didn’t talk much did you? Grace has Down’s Syndrome.'

I felt a quick hit of pity, infused with embarrassment. The words were out before I knew I was going to say them.

'I’m sorry.'

'Don’t be,' Eilidh’s voice was serious. 'We consider ourselves blessed.'

Berlin

THE THREE OF us stood in the wings, Sylvie on one side of me trembling in a silky robe, Ulla on the other dressed in a close-fitting vest and tight leggings that had been severed at the knees. Both girls were wearing the same bottle-green fishnets and high shiny red sandals just as Sylvie had promised. Out on stage the clowns started to fling their buzz-saws around. I turned to Ulla.

'Ready?'

She nodded and I could sense her nervousness. I moved to help her into the hollow top of the table, but suddenly Kolja was beside her. He lifted her gently into his arms and deposited her safely in the compartment like some fairytale prince laying his new-won princess into their honeymoon bower. Sylvie leaned over to check something and her robe fell open. Beneath it she was almost naked. The green stockings were held up by a red satin suspender belt, which matched her high-cut shorts and the scarlet tassels, secured by mysterious means over her nipples.

Ulla made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a spit and Kolja smiled. He winked at me as if to ask, what could you do when women were around? Then leaned over and kissed Ulla quickly on the lips, ruffling her hair. I’d never suspected him of a sense of humour and would have liked him better for it if I hadn’t noticed him meeting Sylvie’s eyes as he rose out of the kiss.

Whenever cinema cameras go behind stage they show chaos. Half-dressed gaggles of showgirls tripping into departing acts, harassed stage managers pointing the odds with one hand and messing their hair into Bedlam peaks with the other. The reality probably doesn’t look so different to the untrained eye. It’s like watching a motorway from a pedestrian overpass. You wonder how the cars can snake from lane to lane without colliding, and yet when you’re the driver the switch can be effortless.

The curtains dropped and the clowns ran off stage making lecherous faces at Sylvie as they passed. The propshifters swept away the debris, then moved the table behind the lowered curtain. Our music started up, Sylvie dropped her robe, I took her hand and we strode out in front of the curtains to greet the audience.

Something about the way the high heels made Sylvie’s bottom stick out as she walked across the stage, spine straight, small breasts carried high, a diamanté tiara glinting from the top of her sleek head, made me think of a show pony. The crowd cheered. I turned her into a twirl and she stood sunning herself in their applause. I wondered if I was just a flesh bandit pimping a skin act, but there was no denying it was the best greeting I’d got in a long time.

Sylvie waited for the clapping to die down and our music to shift to a slower tempo, then handed me a deflated red balloon. I looked at her lithe body and held the balloon up to the audience displaying its limpness. They laughed and I raised it to my lips and started to blow.

The balloon expanded into a massive scarlet Bratwurst. I stopped, puffing theatrically, struggling to regain my breath, marvelling at the balloon’s Priapic fullness, raising my eyes and looking at Sylvie’s tits. The crowd belly laughed.

I raised the balloon back to my lips and kept on blowing. Sylvie covered her ears waiting for the explosion. Just when there was a danger of the crowd getting bored it burst, scattering red sparkles across the stage. I stepped back smartly, producing a bottle of champagne from its wreckage before the shreds of rubber had even hit the ground. The crowd applauded, two champagne flutes were flung from the wings and I caught them, slick as any juggler. I’d opened the bottle, passed Sylvie a drink and had downed one myself by the time the applause faded.

Sylvie nodded to the remnants of burst balloon lying dead on the stage and grinned,

'That reminds me of last night.' I looked outraged and the audience laughed. Sylvie winked and said in a conspiratorial whisper that echoed to the very back of the room. 'Not for much longer though, just you wait until you see the big athlete in act three.'

'That’s what you think.'

I pulled a wand from the inside pocket of my suit and pointed it towards the audience.

There was a quick flash of red at the front of the stage and the music switched to a graveyard moan. Sylvie’s hands flew to her mouth. The curtains behind us slid back to reveal the table where Ulla lay hidden. Before the audience had time to stare too closely, two of the ninjas jogged on, their features concealed by bandito scarves stretched black across their lower faces, each of them carrying one half of the sparkling blue cabinet. The first ninja handed me his half, I opened the lid and displayed its empty interior to the audience while he rolled the table centre-stage. I placed the box on top, exhibited the emptiness of its twin, then laid the two halves end to end. My ninja helpers slid out both boxes’ fronts, fixing the two parts together, turning them into one long coffin.

Sylvie stood frozen.

I said, 'Remember the rumours about my first wife?'

Then, as if she’d suddenly realised what we were about to do, Sylvie turned and tried to run towards the wings. The ninjas moved quickly. They grabbed my sexy young assistant and forced her high above their heads, ferrying her back to me. Sylvie’s pleas for help cut across the room. Her body looked white against the black of the ninjas’ costumes and the midnight-blue of the backdrop. She freed one leg and swung into an athletic turn, standing upright on one of her tormentors’ shoulders for a split second, like an art deco figurine caught in the moment, but the ninjas regained their hold and pulled her down. I rubbed my hands as they lowered the kicking, screaming girl into the sparkling coffin, latching her in tight, her head and hands at the top, secured like a witch in the stocks, feet poking out through the holes in the other end.

Sylvie turned her face to the audience appealing to them. I forced fake champagne into her then twirled the table sickeningly fast until the top of her head was facing towards the audience. This was the girls’ cue to do the fancy foot switch, while the bottom end of the box was out of sight. Sylvie cried for help, wiggling her hands, and I birled the table in the opposite direction so the audience could see Ulla’s shoes kicking madly at the other end. I gave the table a final twist, laying the cabinet side-on to the audience, so they could see the whole arrangement now — Sylvie’s frightened face and Ulla’s kicking feet.

The lights dropped, leaving the stage in darkness save for one golden pool in the centre where the table lay. I got a sudden vision of Sylvie’s half-naked curves lying above Ulla’s svelte form. The thought of the women’s closely packed flesh sent a thrill through me that had been absent in rehearsals. I shook myself against the distraction of my own excitement, took a massive swig from the water in the champagne bottle and gave an evil cackle. One of the ninjas jogged on with a giant two-handed saw. We wobbled the saw between us, showing the audience its evil-looking teeth and then set to work, he at one end, I at the other, the only noise in the room the sound of metal eating through wood and Sylvie’s petrified sobs. Ulla wiggled her feet frantically, the red shoes glinting as if they were desperate to separate themselves from the encumbrance of a body and begin a whirling, dancing life of their own.

The saw cut through the final layer of balsa, I bowed my thanks to the ninja and he ran off-stage, leaving the saw on the floor behind him, its discarded presence as much a part of the thrill as a centrefold’s abandoned panties.

Slowly but slowly I approached the box; I hesitated for a beat, then reached out and gently separated the two sides. Sylvie’s dark eyes were wide, her red mouth opened in a horrified silent scream, blood dripped from the box where the severed legs still danced.

The crowd roared, but I looked with horror at the cavorting red shoes. I shook my head then slammed the two sides of the box home, spinning the table until I got the signal that Sylvie and Ulla had regained their original places.

Sylvie cried, 'Have mercy.'

And the ninjas handed me seven long silver swords, unlatched the box and dragged her screaming into a new coffin, this time making her stand upright, sealing it shut while I sliced seven round, green watermelons in two, displaying the deep pink flesh of their insides to the audience, licking the last one lasciviously before I threw it into the wings.

There was a drum roll and I thrust each of the blades into the box, pushing them hard, forcing against the resistance inside, until their sharp tips emerged, silver dripping red, from the other side. I crisscrossed the blades until it seemed no one could have hidden from their cuts, but when I slid them free and opened the door, instead of a punctured and bloody corpse there was Sylvie, triumphant and unscathed.

She said, 'Now will you free me?'

But behind us the ninjas were setting up a new device. A simple black-painted board, the same size and dimensions as a coffin. The board was decorated with a woman’s curved silhouette, a silhouette formed of concentric black and red rings. A female-shaped shooting target with the bull’s-eye roughly where the woman’s mouth would be. Thick leather straps topped by metal buckles were attached to the figure’s wrists and ankles. Sylvie turned, saw it and gasped, but once again the ninjas were too quick for my poor assistant. They secured her against the board and placed a clear, door-sized panel of glass between her and the audience. I took a revolver out of my pocket and stroked it gently.

'This is your last chance. If you escape this ordeal then I will let you go free. If not…

well… it’s been nice knowing you.'

Sylvie struggled against her bonds. I climbed off-stage and approached a table of men.

'Sirs, will you watch while I load my gun with six live bullets?' They stared warily at my hands while I slotted the ammunition home, then each man nodded to show that the barrel was full. I handed the gun to the man nearest me. 'Sir, will you please hand this gun around your friends, I’d like you all to confirm that there is a bullet in every chamber.' The men passed the gun between themselves, weighing it in their palms, looking at the shells snug in their little hollows. Once more, each man nodded in turn. I said, 'Could you say it out loud please, so that everyone can hear you?'

And one by one they confirmed that, Yes, the chamber is full.

I turned to the man I had first accosted, a young blond boy with a clean-cut, intelligent-looking face.

'Thank you, sir. Now I’m going to ask if you could give the chamber a spin so that there is no way that I could have concealed a dud amongst the live bullets.' I handed the gun towards the man but he refused to take it. 'What’s wrong? Don’t you want to help me shoot my beautiful assistant?'

'No.'

The boy’s smile was embarrassed. He shook his head shyly, aware of his friends’

laughter, but unwilling to handle the weapon all the same. I held my hands out, gesturing casually as if I had almost forgotten that I was holding the gun.

'Don’t laugh, this is a serious business, he has every right to refuse to help. Who knows?' I looked evilly around the room. 'He may be the only one of you who doesn’t end the night on a charge of abetting a murder.' I looked at the revolver in my hand as if I had suddenly remembered it. 'Now, is anyone a little less squeamish than my young friend here?'

I scanned the audience, spotting Dix watching me, pale and intent from a centre table.

His grey eyes, still as ice, caught mine and I faltered, but I had no need to jeopardise the illusion by appealing to someone I might have been seen with. I rallied myself and shouted,

'Anyone brave enough to help me out?' The young man’s refusal had been exactly what was needed. The hilarity had gone from the room; in its place was a tension I hadn’t felt in Schall und Rauch before.

Sylvie shouted, 'Don’t help him.'

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

I took the gun off him without faltering.

'Thank you very much, Sir.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Sorry.'

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

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

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

'Prost!'

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

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

'Drink?'

Zelda smiled.

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

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

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

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

'Hassle?'

'Harass.'

Zelda shrugged her shoulders.

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

'I hope you didn’t pay.'

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

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

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

'You’re very skilled.'

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

Zelda shook her head, smiling.

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

'… And you like the torture stuff?'

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

Zelda laughed again.

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

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

'It’s just an act, Zelda.'

'Yes?' She took another sip of champagne, looking at me over the rim of the glass. 'So as long as it’s pretend that’s OK?'

The conversation seemed to have snaked out of my control.

'I think so, yes.'

Zelda smiled.

'You and I see the world differently, William.'

'Perhaps you could educate me.'

'Do I look like a school miss?'

'No, but I imagine you’ve got the costume somewhere.'

A slim woman in black jeans, shirt and leather jacket that I recognised as one of the ninja prop shifters emerged from the press of people and slid her arm around Zelda. They kissed and Zelda lifted the champagne to her friend’s lips. The dark girl took a tiny sip.

Zelda smiled as if the off-duty ninja had just done something clever and the two girls leaned into each other. The ninja looked at me with mild unthreatened eyes. No one bothered to introduce me.

I turned to go. 'Have a good party.'

Zelda lifted her glass.

'Thanks for the drink. You were good, William. But you don’t need women’s blood to make you look talented.'

'Thanks for the advice.'

She shrugged.

'It comes free with every glass of champagne.'

High up on the baby grand Gina drove the keys into an up-tempo number. The dark girl put her arm through Zelda’s, leading her onto the dance floor. Zelda looked back over her shoulder.

'Remember what I told you, strange people make for strange times.'

I said, 'Aye, aye.' Irritated by her white shirt, her smooth lipstick smile and the long legs stepping away from me. I turned to look for Nixie, wondering if I could regain ground, and saw Ulla moving slowly through the squeeze of bodies towards the office.

'Happy birthday.'

Ulla looked distracted but she gave me a smile.

'Thanks, William.'

'If I’d known I would have got you a present.'

'There was no need.'

She glanced nervously in the direction she’d been heading. The party was busy now and it was difficult to make headway without pushing through knots of people.

'Thanks again for helping us out.'

'You’ve thanked me already.'

'Sorry.' I grinned. 'What I really meant to say was… ’ I hesitated and Ulla looked worried. '… May I have this dance?'

Ulla laughed but her eyes still flickered away from me.

'I’m looking for Kolja.'

'He can dance with you anytime.' I turned my mouth down at the corners. 'I’m beginning to think German girls are unfriendly.'

Ulla sighed, and then smiled.

'OK, one dance.'

We moved towards the floor just as Gina switched from the up-tempo number she’d been playing into a German hit that I didn’t recognise and whose beat I couldn’t catch. Ulla was a good dancer, light on her feet with a nice synchronisation between her shoulders and hips. I lumbered as close to the rhythm as I could get, hoping my clumsiness was endearing. I wondered what kind of a dancer Kolja was, but couldn’t imagine him sharing the floor with anyone else. The music shifted into another song, I kept dancing, but Ulla was determined.

'Thank you for the dance, William.' She smiled. 'But I’m worried Kolja may be unwell.'

'Nonsense,' I said, my feet still moving, hoping he’d been crushed under a giant prop, kidnapped by the Albanian mafia or maybe just disappeared up his own arsehole. 'He’s the fittest man I’ve ever seen.'

I cast an invisible fishing line and started to wind its reel towards me.

Ulla refused to be hooked.

'Sometimes he does too much.' I wondered if Kolja was on steroids, but I stopped moving and stepped to one side, allowing Ulla to leave the dance floor. She squeezed my hand as she moved away. 'German girls are not always unfriendly, William, not if they’re single. Nixie was looking for you earlier.'

I nodded, 'Yeah, thanks Ulla.' I turned away to hide my disappointment. I’d lost track of Sylvie, but that was hardly surprising. The floor was hoatching now. She’d probably found an attractive man to spend some time with. A sudden thought struck me and I moved quickly, ignoring the gasps and retaliating shoves of the party makers I forced aside in my panic to catch up with Ulla. At last I saw her brown ponytail bobbing in front of me and put my hand on her arm, halting her.

'I think I left my wallet in the office. If Kolja’s in there I’ll send him out to you.'

Ulla looked impatient. Her voice was firm.

'Nein… danke.'

She turned her back on me and walked on ahead. I hurried after, trying to think of something that might delay her, hoping I was wrong. We reached the office almost at the same time and I placed my hand across the door.

'I’ll save you the trouble.'

Ulla pushed me away, walked into the room and turned on the light.

Kolja looked like an illustration from a Soviet poster expounding the health of communist ideology. A young pioneer, or a red-kerchiefed Stakhanovite. He stood straight and silent in the centre of the room, his broad chest flung out, muscular arms by his side.

But the men in the posters had animated faces, full of joy at their role in the construction of the socialist nirvana. Kolja’s face was serene, staring into the small mirror that was tucked amongst the framed pictures on Ray’s wall. He turned his glazed eyes on us, a slight smile touched his lips then he shoved the source of his serenity from her knees and onto the ground.

Sylvie looked up at us from her position on the floor. Her eyes were glassy. She smiled unsteadily. Kolja started to button himself away; his mouth took on a grim set.

'Hey, William, Ulla… Happy birthday …’ Sylvie wiped a gloss from her lips. 'You come to join the fun?'

There was a hiss as Ulla leapt at my assistant, wrestling her to the floor. Sylvie let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a groan. Kolja stepped neatly to one side and I bent into the fray. When I managed to pull the girls apart I could feel the scratch of a fingernail down the side of my face and Ulla had a bunch of Sylvie’s sleek hair clutched in her fist. I shoved the struggling girl at her boyfriend and he put his hands on her shoulders, still smiling. I glanced at Kolja, unsure of whether he was stoned or merely enjoying the sight of the two women fighting over him, then looked at Ulla’s stricken face, and felt sorry for her humiliation. I managed to make my voice gentle.

'Can you not see she’s out of her head?'

Ulla turned on me.

'You knew this was happening. You tried to cover for her. Your whore.' Her face screwed into a mask of grief; there was a keening in her shrill voice. 'You wanted me, so you sent her to make trouble.'

'No… I swear… I didn’t know…'

My voice faltered against the accusation.

Sylvie was still on the floor.

'William?'

Her voice was thin and confused.

Ulla spat on Sylvie.

'She’d open her legs to a dog if it sniffed her.'

I looked at Ulla, and wondered what I’d seen in her.

'She’s so drunk she can hardly see.' Sylvie looked at the spit glistening white against her lovely black dress as if wondering how it got there and I realised the truth of what I was saying. 'Into a bit of necrophilia is he, your athlete boyfriend? Look at her, she can hardly move.'

Ulla said, 'You disgust me.'

'Not as much as he disgusts me, your fucking boyfriend’s no better than a fucking rapist.'

Kolja spoke for the first time. His voice was hesitant and it sounded like he had summoned up the total of his English vocabulary.

'It was nothing. It meant nothing, like a drink or a cigarette.'

Ulla saw what was going to happen and moved to stop me, but she was too slow and too slight. I pushed her aside with my left hand, balled my right fist and hit Kolja square in the centre of his handsome weak face. The big athlete was caught by surprise. He lost his balance and fell against Ray’s desk, which spewed a blizzard of files and documents onto the floor. Sylvie batted at the spray of papers as they drifted around her. Her voice was soft with awe.

'William, you just hit Kolja.'

I grinned at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Glasgow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'William, long time no see.'

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

'Jimmy Carter, Bruce?'

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

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

'All on your own?'

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

I smiled.

'No, Mr McFarlane.'

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

'It’s always good to catch up…'

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

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

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

Bruce raised his eyebrows.

'Not like you, William.'

I ignored the gibe.

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

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

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

'Fake dog poo.'

'Still your fastest seller?'

'From eight to eighty.' He laughed. 'It’s a classic gag.'

'Aye, a fucking hoot.'

Bruce raised his eyebrows.

'You’ll have to ditch that language if you’re going into kiddie conjuring.'

'Sorry, I’ll go and wash my mouth out with some of your special soap.'

Bruce laughed.

'Not as popular as it used to be, but still funny.'

'Not everything has the longevity of plaster of Paris poo.'

'No,' Bruce shook his head sadly. 'It’s a pity that.'

We sat drinking sweet tea and eating ginger biscuits, while Bruce filled me in on what had been happening in the Scottish magic scene. Genie McSweenie’s rabbit had been kidnapped at a rugby club social and held to ransom — it wasn’t funny, William, the poor beast was traumatised; Stevie Star had crashed his van on the way back from Perth; Peter Presto had moved to America to take a shot at the big time; and Manfred the Great had been exposed as a kiddie fiddler.

'I always thought there was something not right about him.'

Bruce dunked his gingernut into his tea and nodded then sat up straight. The tea-soaked end of the biscuit lost out to gravity and plopped into his mug.

'That reminds me …’ he shook his head. '… See, that’s what happens when you get to my age, bloody senility. There was a chap phoned a few weeks ago looking for you.'

'Yes?'

'English bloke, said he’d seen you somewhere and mislaid your number. I told him I didn’t have a contact for you, but he sounded keen.'

Bruce looked worried; concerned I might have missed a gig or even my big break.

'Pushy even?'

'A wee bit, typical cocky cockney, you know the kind. I met a lot of them in the forces.

Nice enough fellas once you get to know them but they think anything north of London’s outer space.'

'Did he leave a number?'

Bruce’s face brightened.

'He did indeed.' His mouth dropped again and he looked around the tiny backroom piled high with mysterious parcels. 'But where did I put it?'

I selected what I was going to need for Johnny’s show while Bruce rummaged through the drawers and boxes that constituted his filing system, cooing over odds and ends he thought he’d lost, until eventually he found the scrap of paper he’d scribbled my name onto and a mobile number below.

'Bingo! I knew I had it somewhere.' Bruce looked at the props I’d assembled. 'You want me to wrap that lot up for you?'

'If you want.'

He shook his head, lifted a fluffy toy rabbit from the top of my pile and looked at me from between its long ears.

'Changed days, William, changed days.' Bruce totted up my purchases and started to putting them into bags. He put on his best shopkeeper manner. 'Now, will Sir be requiring anything else?'

I told him and he shook his head.

'You always were a bloody pain in the arse, William, even when you were a kid.'

'A minute ago I was the best Saturday laddie you ever employed.' I grinned at him.

'Come on Bruce, it’s in a good cause, wee Down’s Syndrome kids. I’ll get you a mention in the programme. The place’ll be full of weans. Who knows how much fake dog shite you’ll sell on the back of this.'

'The word is poo, William, we don’t say shite in this shop.' His expression softened.

'Aye, go on then. But you can arrange the bloody transport yourself.'

I remembered an Internet café somewhere near George Square; I walked through the Saturday-afternoon shoppers until I found it, waited in the long queue to buy a coffee, keeping my head down, hoping I wouldn’t meet anyone I knew, then rented time on a computer.

The author of The Friday the Thirteenth Vanishing, the book devoted to Gloria’s disappearance, was a man called Drew Manson. He’d written three other books, all of them following the demise of unfortunate women, all of them out of print. I punched the title and author’s name into a search engine and let out a low Yes when the hits appeared on the screen. I smiled a silent apology at the studious girl on the next computer and clicked on Manson’s website. It had a clumsy homemade feel, but I was its thousand-and-fifth visitor.

The most recent postings wavered between hurt and outrage. All of them lamented the lack of new editions of Manson’s books, in the same faintly florid style. At the bottom of the page were an email address and an invitation to contact Manson with any new information relating to the crimes in his books. I might be a cynical bachelor who’d forfeited all hope of romance, but I was growing to love the Internet.

I set up a new email account, VeritableCrimePublishing@hotmail.com, and sent Manson an invitation to meet and discuss the possibility of a new edition of his book in the light of Bill Noon’s tragic death. Then I looked at the links from Manson’s site. There were reviews of his books, some long-past festivals Manson had read at and the address for the website of the National Missing Persons Helpline. I clicked on the link and started to scroll through the images of the disappeared.

They were random faces, more young than old, though the old were there too, looking out from their photographs or hiding behind the faces of their younger selves in pictures taken decades ago. Long hippy hair, seventies mullets, eighties flat-tops, photographs so dated they’d make you smile, if they’d not been turned tragic by circumstance. The same skewed aspect clung to all of the images. The lost mothers and brothers, sisters, aunts, daughters, sons and uncles generally had a carefree air, caught at a family celebration or a party or maybe just the last photograph in the spool.

There were two photographs of Gloria Noon. The familiar image I’d come to know from the newspaper reports and a second, digitally aged one. The page flashed from one to the other: young Gloria, aged Gloria, young Gloria, aged Gloria. The images were imperfectly aligned and her shoulders moved up and down between the two, making it look like Gloria was shrugging as she smiled out from the screen of lost faces. Her résumé summarised the time and known circumstances of her vanishing. It said nothing about possible murder.

Even at my lowest I’d never totally vanished. I wondered how many of the disappeared were dead, how many had been coerced into leaving. I wondered if they even knew that they were missing, that there were people who loved them, desperate to forgive whatever they had done. But then who was I to jump to conclusions? Maybe some of them had committed acts too awful to be absolved.

I clicked to the next page and a warning that the following images might disturb me; I clicked again and the screen threw forth photographs of some of the found. There were only three of them. A woman washed up in the Thames, a youth discovered dead in Petersham Woods and an elderly man who had lain in the bushes in Richmond Park for a very long time before his skeletal remains were uncovered. All of them had lost their features to decay and the images on this page showed reconstructions of how they might have looked in life. The technicians who rebuilt these faces were more magician than I’d ever be. They crafted an illusion of flesh onto bare bone, dragging back the lost features of the dead. The technicians’ skill was painstaking and exact, but the images were ghastly. The smiles of the missing people that had shone carelessly from the previous page were all gone. There was no glimmer of expression here, the skin was too smooth, the eyes too blank, the lips too set, no living face ever held such deathness. The missing may yet be alive, but one look at the remoulded faces of these three showed what their fate might be.

I closed the site. The dead and the missing weren’t going to tell me anything, my search had to be through the living. I logged onto yell.com and started to search for Gloria’s sister, Sheila Bowen.

There were several Bowens in the telephone listings but only one Bowen’s & Sons Gents Outfitters. I jotted down the number then checked my new Veritable Crime email account.

There was a welcome to the server and an offer to enlarge my penis and supply me with Viagra. Maybe my enlarged penis would be too big to keep up without help. There was no message from Mr Manson.

The Internet café resembled a large open-plan office where the dress code ranged from casual to scruffy-as-youlike. I sat for a second listening to the sounds around me, the clatter of computer keys and occasional exchange of muted conversation, the kind of ambience a busy newsroom might generate. I collected a fresh coffee then took out my new mobile, dialled Bowen’s outfitters and asked to speak to Mrs Sheila Bowen. I expected the woman on the other end to say she was retired, dead, or too busy to come to the phone, but instead her voice became guarded.

It said, 'This is Sheila Bowen. Is it about Gloria?'

London

FOR A WOMAN whose sister had disappeared without trace from her own home in the middle of the day, Sheila Bowen was remarkably lax about security. I gave her a big smile and one of the business cards that I’d had made in a machine at the railway station, identifying me as Will Gray, freelance journalist. She glanced at it casually then invited me in.

Sheila lived in one of a row of semi-detached houses built in the fifties to accommodate lower-middle-class commuters. Today it was probably worth a small fortune. She greeted me at the door, and then led me through to a lounge decorated in pale parchment shades.

Her white blouse and cream slacks blended with the room. Maybe her sister had taken the coordinating colour scheme too far and simply faded into the wallpaper.

I had hoped she’d leave me alone to get my bearings while she made a pot of tea, but Sheila had obviously had faith in my punctuality, or maybe she’d simply wanted to occupy her nerves in a domestic task. A tray holding a teapot, two matching cups and what looked like homemade cake was already waiting on the blond wood coffee table.

If we’d met socially I would have supposed Sheila Bowen a well-preserved, middle-class housewife whose only concern was finding the right shade of white for her hall carpet or keeping her husband’s cholesterol down. The slim woman sitting on the ivory-coloured couch opposite me was surprisingly unchanged from the photographs in the thirty-year-old newspapers I’d found in the Mitchell. Her hair was ash-gold, styled in soft fronds around a pale face that was remarkably unlined considering all the troubles she’d encountered. It seemed that I wasn’t the only one who could create an illusion.

She started to pour the tea and I noticed that her hands were steady. There was a wedding band and a diamond eternity ring on her left hand, and a slim silver ring that looked cheap against her other jewellery on her right. She passed me my cup.

'You came all the way from Scotland?'

'I took the train down from Glasgow this morning.'

Sheila looked confused.

'Gloria never went to Scotland.'

'I know.' I smiled. 'I just happen to be based there at the moment.' I took a sip of tea.

'It’s good of you to see me. Many unsolved cases like Gloria’s are under review at the moment, but sometimes it needs a bit of outside pressure to get the police to reopen them.'

Sheila rubbed her thumb nervously over her chin and then folded her hands in her lap as if someone had told her it was an irritating habit.

'My husband’s always said that they never shut cases like Gloria’s.'

I leant forward putting a note of sincerity into my voice.

'He’s right, they don’t. But, as I’m sure your husband will tell you, the police are undermanned and overworked. Sometimes it doesn’t hurt to have a bit of press attention.'

Sheila nodded silently. 'I know it must still be very painful to talk about Gloria’s disappearance even after all these years. Are you willing to give me a brief interview?'

Sheila looked at me.

'I’d walk barefoot into Hell to get my sister back, or even just find out what happened to her.'

'OK,' I smiled but there was no answering smile on Sheila Bowen’s face. 'I’ll get straight to the point. In all the press reports at the time of Gloria’s disappearance, there seemed to be an underlying suggestion that it was her husband Bill who was responsible. Do you agree with them?'

Sheila Bowen looked over towards the picture of a Cotswold scene hanging above the living gas fireplace. It was a restful view across green fields to a little thatched cottage inside a neatly fenced country garden. It looked like the kind of place where nothing bad ever happened. There were even roses round the door. But who could guess what horrors might lie inside its rustic walls? At last Sheila met my gaze.

'Well, you’re certainly direct.' She poured more tea into her cup then left it untouched on the table. 'This is difficult. There was a period after Gloria disappeared when I didn’t…

couldn’t talk about her at all. I was suspicious of everyone, especially men.' She looked at her lap and began twisting the cheap silver ring on her right hand. 'But as time passed I began to realise that by shutting out memories of her I was denying the life that she had had. And by giving in to constant suspicion I was ruining my own life as well.' Shelia paused as if trying to order her thoughts. 'Her son’s dead too, Billy.' I nodded to show that I already knew and she carried on talking, her voice level. 'He was a sweet boy but after Gloria went it was hard to keep in touch with him.' She shook her head. 'There was a lot of bad feeling between his father and me after the investigation. I suspected him and he accused me of sending the police on the wrong track. It was hard to come back from that. Maybe I should have pressed more, but I wasn’t in the best of health myself… then I got married. Jim hated to see me upset and it became easier to shut that part of my life up.'

'Perhaps you had to, to protect your own sanity.'

'That’s what Jim said, but now I wonder; if I’d been around more, if I hadn’t been so determined that his father was guilty, maybe Billy would still be alive.'

'You can’t torture yourself with what-ifs. You did your best.'

'You and Jim should get together. That’s exactly what he says. Jim’s always wanted to protect me, he encouraged me to forget.' She took a sip of tea. 'When my children were young it was easy for a while. I was so busy. Then they began to grow up and I realised I was ready to talk about Gloria again, but by then no one was interested.' She looked into my eyes. 'You’re the first one who’s asked about her in a long while.' Sheila put her cup back on the table and straightened her back ready to get on with answering my question. 'Gloria’s husband, Bill, was very handsome and compared to the family that Gloria and I grew up in, very comfortably off. Perhaps she should have asked a few more questions about where his money came from, but Gloria was young and pretty and wanted a good life. I never blamed her for marrying Bill.'

'But he hit her?'

Sheila looked at her feet again.

'I only saw evidence of it once.'

'The time Bill claimed Gloria had fallen down the stairs?'

Sheila nodded.

'Yes, and I believed her. Bill was in the nightclub business. You don’t get anywhere in that world without knowing how to throw your weight around, and why should Gloria lie?

Yes, of course I believed her.'

'I’m sorry. Some of these questions are going to touch on difficult ground.'

Sheila nodded and gave me a brave smile.

'Do you smoke?'

'Yes.'

'Then let’s go outside and have a ciggy.'

We went through French windows onto a small terrace. Life had proved itself unreliable, but Sheila had managed to inflict order on nature. Her garden was an almost symmetrical arrangement of lawn and well-disciplined flowerbeds. There was a wrought-iron table and chairs beside us on the patio, but Sheila led me down the lawn, stopping occasionally to deadhead plants or pull a reckless weed from a border. Perhaps it was too chilly to sit outside or maybe she found it easier to talk of her sister without looking into someone else’s eyes.

'Jim doesn’t like me smoking, but an occasional one doesn’t hurt and it sure as hell helps.' She laughed and for the first time I thought I could see a trace of her sister Gloria in her face. 'You want to ask about Gloria’s lover.'

I nodded, relieved she’d broached the subject.

'Yes.'

'It always comes down to that in the end doesn’t it? Sex.'

'It’s a powerful force.'

'Is that what you call it?… He was very hush-hush, Gloria’s amour.' Sheila pulled a brown-edged leaf from a bush and crushed it between her fingers. 'They never found him you know. It wasn’t for the want of looking.' She opened her palm, looked at the crumpled leaf and then let it drop to the ground. 'He’s never said so, but I know Jim thinks Gloria just made a lover up to make life a little more exciting.'

'And what do you think?'

'I think he was probably married.'

The rain that had threatened all day started to spit; Sheila and I moved back indoors, she glanced at her watch and I got the sensation that our interview was drawing to its end. I asked, 'If there was a lover do you think that Gloria would have left her husband?'

Sheila looked at me.

'I don’t know and I’ve thought about it a lot over the years. That day has coloured everything since, even when I met Jim there was the shadow of it hanging over us. I used to think that she would have, but as I’ve got older I’ve wondered. She was devoted to Billy and his father wouldn’t have let him go easily. Maybe if it was the love of her life, maybe then, but the maternal bond is the strongest one of all; I think it would have taken a lot of persuasion for her to jeopardise it.' She nodded towards a dresser where a group of framed photographs crowded together. 'I should know, I’ve got two of my own.'

I glanced at the photographs: two nondescript boys in school uniform, flanked by the graduation photographs of two nondescript young men, followed by the formal portraits of the same boys/men, balding now, wearing dark suits reminiscent of their school blazers. I wondered how many more pictures it would take to complete the set. To the right of the arrangement in a chased silver frame was a studio portrait of Gloria Noon.

I said, 'Do you mind?'

Sheila nodded her permission and I picked it up.

'She was a beautiful-looking woman.'

'Not just to look at, she was beautiful inside too.' She gave me the smile that was like Gloria’s. 'It sounds silly, but sometimes I imagine that she’s on a long journey around the world. I can picture her in Egypt or Turkey… Marrakech; always somewhere exotic, somewhere sunny.' She took the photograph from me and for the first time since we’d met I thought that she might cry, but instead she gave a short laugh. 'You know, if she came back now and said she’d just been on an extended holiday I might kill her myself.'

I watch Sheila’s slim hands replace Gloria’s portrait on the dresser and a second framed photograph caught my eye. I reached over and lifted it, keeping my voice as casual as I could.

'A family friend?'

'What made you say that?' Sheila’s smile was warm. 'That’s my husband, Jim.'

'Mr Bowen?'

'Bowen was my first husband’s name. He died two years before Gloria vanished.' She shook her head. 'Myeloid leukaemia, he lasted six months after the diagnosis. Gloria going would have hit me hard whatever happened but after Frank’s death…’ She shook her head, remembering. 'Well you can imagine, I thought that was going to be the end for me too.

Then along came Jim.' She smiled again. 'He was part of the investigation team. I think deep down the rest of them just thought Gloria was an immoral woman who’d left her husband. Those were different times. But Jim never believed that. He kept on pushing and that was when I fell in love with him.' She smiled. 'I kept the name Bowen over the shop, Frank’s grandfather was the founder and it would have been wrong to change it.' She smiled. 'That was how I knew that you were phoning about Gloria. No one calls me Bowen any more. I’ve been Sheila Montgomery since I married Jim.'

My mind was full of what might have happened had James Montgomery come home early and found me in his front room interrogating his wife. Part of me wished he had.

What could he do with her there? But a larger part was relieved to escape.

I walked as swiftly as I could away from the Montgomery house, cursing suburbia’s open streets, not daring to catch a train back in case I passed him en route to his home.

Eventually I found a parade of shops and managed to catch a bus that would take me out of the district.

Back in central London I used a public email telephone to check my VeritableCrime inbox. Technology might have moved on but people were still pissing in phone boxes. I held my breath and tried to work out how to use the machine. The connection was painfully slow and I had time to read the details of a dozen women eager to dance, massage or generally entertain me. I wondered if they knew the risk they were taking.

The Viagra people had got back in touch and so had Drew Manson. He was keen to meet and had left a mobile number.

He answered on the third ring. I explained that I was heading off to a publishing conference tomorrow but would love to see him before I went, was he free for a late lunch?

Mr Manson was free. He suggested a gastropub somewhere near Farringdon. I’d taken a dancer there once. The food had been expensive and she’d gone home for an early night saying she had to keep fresh for the next day’s show. I hoped I’d have better luck with Mr Manson.

Drew Manson’s author photograph showed a man in his thirties wearing spectacles of the kind favoured by David Hockney and an intense stare under a shock of dark hair styled in a manner popular with young intellectuals in the sixties. Manson looked up from the typewriter on his desk with a mixture of surprise and intellectual rigour on his blunt face, his right hand frozen above the keys in mid-strike as if he’d been surprised in the act of writing a very big word.