The Bullet Trick

The clues were there in the sixties styling, the lack of computer and the publication date on the inside cover of the library book in my bag. But I wasn’t prepared for the balding man in his sixties who walked into the pub, even though he was wearing the same glasses, or a close relative of them. I let him stand in the doorway for a second, looking around the pub with the controlled anxiety of a man who has attended many disappointments, but still harbours some hope, and then I stood up and went to meet him.

'Mr Manson?'

'Yes.'

His accent was how I imagined old-school Cambridge would sound and I was glad I’d decided to try for an intellectual look by wearing my own specs.

'William Wilson, thanks for agreeing to see me at such short notice.'

Manson looked self-consciously writerly. His trousers were a deep chocolate jumbo cord, his tie bore a monogram I didn’t recognise, but would probably signal something to the initiated, and his tweed jacket was patched at the elbows. I wondered if he was the real thing or an old fraud. I started to go through the spiel about the new line in crime books that my very small, very newly established publishing house was hoping to reprint with updates on any developments since the original publication.

'I’m interested in the Gloria Noon case because of the recent murder of her son Bill.'

Manson nodded and made a hissing noise, sucking the air between his teeth like a man giving something serious thought.

The waitress came with our menus and Manson began studying his with the intensity of a shortsighted don assessing a borderline exam script. When the waitress returned he ordered, 'Steak, rare, with a green salad and a bottle of Barolo. I’ll have a glass of Pouilly Fumé while we’re waiting.' He watched as the girl bobbed off to the kitchen then turned to me, smiling patiently.

'Mr Wilson, I’ve listened to this with great interest but it’s patently clear even to one of my failing abilities, that you’ve nothing whatsoever to do with publishing.' He gave me a mild look over his glasses, offering me the chance to contradict him. I sat silent and he smiled as if he approved of my lack of protest. 'Perhaps now lunch is safely ordered you’ll do me the courtesy of telling me who you really are and what it is that you’re after.'

I grinned.

'No flies on you, eh, Mr Manson?'

He gave me his donnish smile and I gave him my backup story. It involved schooldays and Bill and I don’t think he believed it any better, but he was satisfied that I wasn’t writing a book, and perhaps there were enough contradic tions in my pose to spark his curiosity.

Manson reached into his jacket.

'Right, as you’ve dragged me here on false pretences I think I’m entitled to claim some expenses from you.'

He laid his train ticket in front of me. I fished awkwardly in my pocket for the money to cover it then opened my wallet and added an extra tenner.

'Get a taxi from the station at the other end.'

He slid the note back across the bar-room table.

'The fare is sufficient thank you, and …’ He took a sip of the Pouilly Fumé and nodded his head. '… Very good. I’m happy to discuss the Gloria Noon case with you, in return for one simple promise.'

'What?'

Manson’s bookish aspect slipped slightly; there was a tinge of estuary to his accent now.

'That you share any new material you find with me.'

I hesitated, as if carefully considering his proposal.

'There’s no guarantees I’ll uncover anything new, but if I do I’ll be happy to tell you all about it.'

'Good,' Manson took another sip of his drink. 'So we understand each other?'

I nodded and we sat in a silence that wasn’t quite companionable, drinking our wine and tearing at the bread until the food arrived.

The waitress set Manson’s steak down first then slid my ravioli in front of me and sprinkled it with Parmesan over its top. Manson looked at my lunch with distaste then lifted his knife and sliced into his steak. Blood seeped across the white plate, resisting mixing with the dark-brown gravy that pooled around the meat. Manson put the piece of steak in his mouth and started to chew, then he started to talk.

'Cases where the body remains unfound are always intriguing. In an instance like the unfortunate Mrs Noon’s we know that she’s probably deceased, and yet a scintilla of doubt remains. Maybe she simply walked away from an unsatisfactory marriage.'

'And her child?'

'It does happen.'

Manson speared a piece of broccoli, added a small roast potato to the fork and smiled tenderly at the arrangement before putting it in his mouth.

'I suppose it does, not often though.'

'More often than you might think, anyway,' he put a small piece of steak in his mouth and kept on talking. 'I wasn’t saying that was what had happened, just that it’s a possibility.

No body, no certainty of death.'

'Like Lord Lucan.'

'Exactly.'

Manson’s strong jaws set to work and I glanced away to avoid seeing the food churning between his teeth.

'What do you think happened in Gloria’s case?'

'You read my book?'

'Yes.' I’d read it on the train down from Glasgow, half-disgusted by the ease with which I was drawn into the minutiae of Gloria’s disappearance. It had told me nothing that the press reports hadn’t. 'It was fascinating, but though the evidence pointed in certain directions you didn’t come to any definite conclusions. I wondered what you thought had happened.'

'Off the record?'

'Sure.'

'Off the record I think Bill Noon killed his wife.'

Manson slugged back the last of the wine. He smiled, savouring the vintage, or maybe the crime. I nodded to the waitress for a second bottle.

'How can you be sure?'

'Ah,' he held up his fork. 'I didn’t say I was sure, I said that was what I thought had probably happened. There’s a difference.'

'I take your point.'

'A crime boils down to three classic things — means, motive and opportunity. Bill Noon had all of these.'

'What about her lover?'

'The mysterious lover.' Manson pushed aside his empty plate and smiled as the waitress placed the second bottle on our table. 'Maybe he’s on a beach in Acapulco drinking mai-tais with Gloria Noon, maybe he was a figment of her imagination, maybe he killed her or maybe Bill did him too.' I topped up his glass and he grinned. 'Of course that would assume that there was no one except Gloria who cared for him, because no one who fitted the bill was reported missing.'

'But he could have murdered her, disposed of the body and disappeared back to where he came from.'

'In theory, yes.'

'But unlikely?'

He shrugged.

'If you really were a publisher I’d spin you a line about the chapter I’d write about the possible lovers of Gloria Noon, all completely within the libel laws you understand, but no I don’t think so.'

'So where’s Bill Noon’s motive if there’s no lover?'

Manson knocked back more wine and levelled his stare at me.

'Doesn’t every husband have a motive?'

'I don’t know. I’ve never been married.'

'No,' he grinned. 'Me neither, but if I were…'

'You’d be divorced?'

'I was going to say I imagine I’d have a motive for murder.'

He laughed, serving himself more wine and I asked the question that had been in my mind ever since I’d seen the picture of the two men standing beside the loch’s edge.

'Do you think that Bill Noon could have had someone helping him?'

Manson looked up sharply, half-cut but able to spot a lead when it was twitched in front of him.

'What makes you ask that?'

'It was just a thought. I saw a similar case a while back.'

Manson didn’t bother asking me which case because he knew I was lying. His voice was hesitant; he put his glass on the table, though his fingers still touched its stem.

'It’s not impossible; it would certainly make the disposal of the body easier. The main problem …’ He smiled. 'Laying aside the usual difficulty of finding someone willing to help you get rid of your wife’s dead body, the main problem would be finding someone you could trust to keep schtumm. If there’s any trouble, or the possibility of a reward, they might grass you up to take the heat off themselves. Then there’s the Raskolnikov effect. You mustn’t underestimate the confessional instinct. It’s very strong.' He took off his glasses, massaged his temples then looked at me, his small eyes pale and tired. 'But the basic fact is, the more people in on a crime, the more likely you are to be caught. Bill Noon would know that.' He belched softly. 'Unless you have evidence to the contrary I’d say you were barking up the wrong tree there, old mate. Bill Noon would have had to find an accomplice he could trust absolutely not to hand him in and one who wouldn’t have an attack of conscience, start boasting or get drunk and start blabbing to all and sundry.' He turned his gimlet eyes on me, and now he looked faintly like his author photo, though there was an insistent tone to his voice that was close to pleading. 'If you come up with anything, tell me. I’ll give you a credit in the book.'

I told him he’d be welcome to whatever I found out. Drew Manson nodded, satisfied he’d got as good a guarantee as he was ever going to get from me. He replaced his glasses on his nose and looked around the bar in search of our waitress. She caught his eye and tripped prettily across the room towards us. Manson gave her a very unacademic glance and a smile that showed the traces of broccoli trapped between his teeth.

'That was delicious, darling.' He grinned. 'I think we’re ready to see the dessert menu now.'

Berlin

I’D BEEN LEANING against the desk smoking a cigarette and watching Sylvie sleep when Ray knocked on his office door and put his head cautiously into the room. Ray’s moustache looked sadder than I’d ever seen it, but his dark eyes were sharp as polished dice and his cheeks flushed. I ventured a smile, but there’d been a lot of calls on my charm recently and I could feel that my reserves had grown slim. Ray hesitated, then, satisfied that the violence was over, turned and said something soft to someone standing beyond my view. He nodded to say he’d be safe, then slid into the room and closed the door.

'William.'

He shook his head as if lost for words.

'Yeah, I know Ray, sorry.'

'No,' his voice was hard, 'I’m sorry. You were making a good act.'

I sucked the last draw from my cigarette and looked for somewhere to stub it out. Ray’s computer lay askew amongst the mass of crushed paper on his desk, the keyboard spattered with Kolja’s blood. If there’d ever been an ashtray it was lost somewhere beneath the debris. I nipped the end of my fag with my fingers and put it in my pocket.

'Shit, Ray. I’m sorry about the mess.'

'Everyone’s sorry, William. You, me, Ulla.' He nodded at Sylvie slumped on the chair I’d lifted her into. 'Her too probably, when she wakes up.'

The indignity of the moment made my speech formal.

'Is my engagement terminated?'

Ray nodded.

'We depend on …’ He sought for an expression. 'Harmony… Ulla …'

'Ulla wants us out?' I hesitated, hoping he’d contradict me, but Ray nodded. I sighed.

'Yeah, I understand. Just pay me and I’ll collect my stuff and go.'

Ray looked sadder than ever. He reached into his pocket, drew out a bundle of notes and peeled a couple off the top. He passed them to me.

'Someone will bring you your things.'

I looked at the hundred euros in my hand.

'Ray, this isn’t what you owe me.'

'No, William.' The tide of red on Ray’s face seemed to be gaining ground. 'It’s not what I owe you. I spent money on advertising, travel, your new boxes, then …’ He spread his hands out taking in the mess of his office and I remembered how he’d described it as his sanctuary. '… You try to destroy my theatre. I have to persuade Ulla not to call the police.'

Sylvie stirred and I put my hand on her head. The theatre manager’s voice was rising; it held the shrillness of a man not used to shouting. 'It is you who owes me.' The door to the office opened a sliver and Ray spat something short and sharp at whoever was on the other side then turned back towards the room. 'Be grateful I gave you any money at all. Let your English friend give you your fare home. You won’t perform in Berlin again.'

'I put a lot of work into making the act perfect for Schall und Rauch.'

He shook his head and turned to leave.

'Someone will bring you your stuff.' He nodded towards Sylvie, averting his eyes as if it hurt him to look at her. 'Make sure you take her with you.'

'Ray,' I stepped away from the desk. 'I was relying on that money.'

'That is not my problem.' He looked me in the eye. 'Tidying this mess and finding someone who will take your place before tomorrow, calming my stage manager, keeping the police from my door, these are all my problems. You are simply one of my mistakes.'

At first I wasn’t sure which twin it was who appeared in the office with my props case, then I saw the omega symbol on his wrist and knew it was Erhard. He looked at Sylvie’s half-slumped form and said, 'Kolja is a bastard.'

'He’s a bastard with a job.' I lifted my props case. 'Can you give me a hand?'

Erhard glanced at Sylvie then at me.

'Sure.' He looked embarrassed. 'You should change.'

I laughed in spite of myself, but there was a bitter note to the laugh that made me stop.

'You could be right. Soon as I get home I’m going to give up hard drink and loose women and start studying moral philosophy.'

The acrobat nodded towards my case.

'Is there a fresh shirt in your bag?'

I glanced down and realised he hadn’t been referring to my lifestyle. The front of my shirt was soaked with blood, Kolja’s and mine, impossible to distinguish from each other, the same red merged on the no longer white cotton. I raised my hand to my face and felt the scab already crusting beneath my nose, becoming aware again of the pain where Kolja’s fist had connected.

'No. I’ve not had time to do any laundry.'

The domestic detail seemed absurd and I giggled a little.

'Here.' Erhard pulled off his T-shirt and passed it to me.

'You sure?'

The young athlete nodded and I started unbuttoning my shirt. Erhard took it from me then got a bottle of clear liquid from Ray’s desk drawer, poured some onto the stained cotton, and started dabbing the blood from my face. The alcohol stung. I winced and he placed his hand on my bare shoulder.

'It is necessary.'

I felt the heat of his naked chest close to mine. It was a strange sensation in the midst of a strange night. I took the ruined shirt from him and completed the operation myself then took a quick gulp from the bottle. The drink was some kind of schnapps. It was rough and strong and it made me feel better. I passed the bottle to Erhard and he screwed the lid back on without taking a pull.

I knelt beside Sylvie and whispered, 'Erhard’s going to help me get you into a cab.'

She mumbled something I couldn’t make out. I nodded to him and we hooked our hands gently under Sylvie’s arms and helped her slowly along the back corridors to the stage door. Once, she looked up at Erhard and smiled dreamily like she wasn’t sure where he had come from, but mostly she simply put one foot in front of the other, letting us support her, her head dipping gently under the weight of gravity. A bass beat reached us from somewhere deep within the theatre but we met no one during our slow progress to the exit. The stage doorman put down his newspaper and watched us with disapproving eyes.

We ignored him and Erhard helped Sylvie and me leave Schall und Rauch for the last time.

I stopped in sight of the main street.

'It’s probably best if I take her from here. Cabs might start worrying about their upholstery if they see it takes two of us to hold her up.'

'OK.' Erhard stroked a hand across his tattooed chest. 'Good luck.'

'Thanks, I’m going to need it.'

He nodded.

'Will you go back to England?'

'Probably.' I remembered the scout Rich had mentioned and tried to cheer myself up.

Or maybe I was just trying to save a little bit of my dignity.

'My agent said there’s TV interest back there. Something might come of it.'

Erhard rubbed his fingers together in the universal money gesture.

'So, soon all your problems will be over.'

I shook his hand and thanked him for his help; trying to push away the thought that the only time all your problems are ever over is when you reach your grave.

I slid Sylvie into one of the white Mercs idling at the cabstand, marvelling that she could still walk in her high red shoes. The driver gave us a reluctant look, but I told him the name of the hotel and he turned on the ignition and swung slowly out of the rank. Perhaps money was tight for him too.

Sylvie woke in the cab and gave me a sweet smile, like a child drowsy from an afternoon nap.

'Don’t worry, William, we’ll find somewhere better. I bet there are some fancy cabarets in London.'

'I liked it at Schall und Rauch.'

Sylvie rested her head against my shoulder.

'You liked that uptight bitch.'

'Yeah,' I looked out at the shop windows shining brightly into the night. 'Yeah, I liked her too.'

The hotel was in darkness but this time I had a key and let us in.

It was impossible to avoid my reflection in the hotel lift’s mirrored walls. Erhard’s T-shirt hugged my body, emphasising the gut that I’d been pretending didn’t exist. A Hitler moustache of caked gore clung stubbornly to my upper lip, there was a cut on the bridge of my nose where Kolja’s ring had caught me and my right eye was puffed half-closed.

The numbers above the elevator door climbed slowly towards four. Sylvie was awake now. She leaned against the opposite wall staring at her feet and I wondered if she was scared to see her reflection. I put my hand on her arm and she looked up at me.

'I’m too tired, William.' She smiled sadly, 'Let me sleep a while then we can do whatever you want.'

The lift pinged to a halt and she stepped into the corridor. Now she was sobering up Sylvie’s walk seemed less assured. She stumbled, swore softly, took off one shoe, then the other and staggered flat-footed down the door-lined corridor towards my room. I strode after her.

'All I’m doing is giving you a bed for the night.'

Her stare was sharp and appraising, her mouth bent into a cynical Mona Lisa smile that made my palm twitch.

'Your bed.'

'You were comatose and I didn’t have enough money to get you home.'

'Sure?'

'Christ, Sylvie, I’m in this mess because you decided to give that fucking pumped-up freak a blowjob.'

'You’re in this mess because you decided to smash him on the nose. If you’d kept your fists out of things all we would have had was a bit of embarrassment.'

I stopped at the door to my room and slid the keycard into the lock. The tiny light above the handle stayed a stubborn red.

'He’s Ulla’s boyfriend.'

'So then it was between her and him, or maybe her and me. It had fuck-all to do with you.'

I turned the card around, swiped it again and shoved. The door stayed firmly locked.

'He used you.'

'Maybe I wanted to be used. Face facts, William, you can’t get it up so you don’t want anyone else getting any.'

I took her by the arm.

'You’d be the last girl I’d want to fuck. I’d be afraid my dick would go septic and fall off.'

I felt my fingers digging into her flesh. She reached up and kissed me. Her breath was sharp, her lips salty. I thought of where her mouth had been and pushed her away. 'If I’d wanted to taste that big poof’s muck I would’ve blown him myself.'

'Fuck you, William.'

'No, fuck you, you mad bitch.'

Sylvie turned away. I watched her walk slowly back down the corridor towards the lift then tried the card again. The lock glowed green. I pushed open the door, hesitated, then went in.

It was the stench that hit me first. I half gagged, trying to place it, then suddenly I knew. It was my smell magnified a hundredfold. A dim slice of light shone in from the corridor. It wasn’t much to see by, but it was enough to reveal the few possessions I’d brought to Berlin strewn around the shadows. My clothes had been dragged from the wardrobe, the duvet and pillows pulled from the bed. And somewhere, smashed amongst the debris, was a bottle of expensive aftershave that no longer smelt suave. I picked up the paperback novel I’d been reading. Its pages had been ripped from their cover. It was a shame. Now I’d never know how things worked out.

I pressed the light switch; there was a dull click but the room remained in gloom. It was a fitting end to the evening. I’d been beaten up, lost my job, alienated the girl I fancied, forfeited my money and fallen out with the only friend I’d made in the city. Robbery and a dead light bulb dovetailed perfectly. Way down the corridor I heard the lift doors breathe open then chime shut.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck.'

I snibbed the lock in the slim hope that Sylvie would decide to come back, then closed the door softly behind me and checked my watch. It was 3 a.m. All across the city people were snug in bed. Loved ones spooned together, rosy-cheeked children sucking their thumbs as they slumbered. I moved towards the window to let in whatever light the street offered, or maybe to watch Sylvie walking away. My foot hit against the whisky bottle lying on the floor and I bent over to pick it up, reminding myself that friends needn’t always be flesh and blood. Perhaps something snagged the edge of my vision because I turned in the direction of the bathroom door just as it started to open.

Montgomery looked older, as if retirement wasn’t suiting him. My waters shifted and I balled my fists, taking a step backwards. Montgomery shook his head sadly.

'You’re a bloody mess.'

His voice was soft, concerned. My own voice sounded gruff, but more confident than I felt.

'A bit like this room then.'

'Yeah,' He smiled a melancholy smile. 'Sorry about that, I thought I could save us both a bit of bother.'

I sat down on the bed. 'Maybe I’m getting thick in my old age, but I’m still in the dark.' I looked at the unlit room and amazed myself by laughing. 'Obviously I’m in the dark. What are you doing here?'

Montgomery took a bulb out of his pocket and screwed it into the bedside lamp. A soft light showed up the full mess of the room.

'Better?'

I looked around at my scattered belongings. The ex-policeman had done more than search. His assault on my possessions had been furious. The duvet and pillows had been sliced open, coating the floor in a mess of foam and feathers. My jackets were shredded.

The jaws of my suitcase gaped wide, its red lining slit and lolling, reminding me of the damage I’d inflicted on Kolja’s face and making me wonder if I was about to taste my own medicine. I took a pack of cards from my pocket and started shuffling, giving my hands something to do.

'Not really, no, in fact I’m two seconds away from phoning your Berlin colleagues.'

'You’re a disappointment, William. For a moment there, when you were straight about recognising me, I thought you were going to be a good boy.' Montgomery stood in front of me and I realised it had been a mistake to sit down. 'Where is it?'

'I’ve got perfect recall remember? Part of the job.' I squared the shuffle. 'It’s an advantage in my game. For instance, I’ve memorised this entire deck in the time we’ve been talking.' I offered him the pack. 'Pick a card and I’ll tell you the rest of the sequence. Then you can tell me what it is you’re after.'

Montgomery knocked the cards from my hand; they scattered over my lap and onto the floor, like a cheap metaphor for my life.

'I asked you a question. Where is it?'

'Where’s what?'

'What are you after? Money?' Montgomery’s voice had lost its coolness. It was still low enough to stay within the bounds of the small room, but its tone was jagged. A spray of spittle landed on my face. 'You know damn well what.'

I hadn’t got round to replacing my drowned mobile yet. I looked towards the toppled bedside table where the hotel phone should be. It was missing, ripped out of the wall, and probably tumbled amongst the rubble of my belongings. Somewhere down the corridor I thought that I heard the lift doors ping open. If I made a rush for it I might be able to get help. I shifted from Montgomery’s shadow and started to get to my feet.

'You’re barking up the wrong tree, pal. Whatever it is you’ve mislaid, it’s nothing to do with me.'

Montgomery smiled, stepped to one side as if he were about to go, then turned suddenly, shoving me square on the chest. I sprawled back onto the bed and the policeman flung himself half astride me, his knee between my legs, hand at my throat, gently pressing the cutting edge of a knife below my Adam’s apple. I felt my flesh shift beneath the blade, not quite ready to yield my blood, but thinking about it. We seemed to lie there for a long time, though the red numbers on the radio alarm glowing from beneath a pile of my shirts stayed at 3.06.

'You are fucking trying my patience, Wilson.'

Montgomery’s breath was warm against my face. My own was stuck deep in my chest, somewhere near my heart. I found it, exhaled slowly and tried to think of something soothing to say, something that might get him to take the knife away.

'You’ve searched the room, there’s nothing of yours here.'

'Not here maybe.' The knife pressed down harder. I could see the blood climbing up Montgomery’s face, but when he spoke the voice behind the whisper was calm. 'Are you a fan of the movies?'

I wondered what soundtrack played in his head while he acted the master villain. This was my cue to bound free, while he described the elaborate tortures in store. It worked in films, but I had Montgomery’s full weight pinning me down, a blade at my throat and there was no unseen orchestra edging its way towards a climax. I swallowed, not liking the way my throat moved against the blade.

'Isn’t everyone?'

'Quite right, they’re a popular pastime. Did you see that film…’ He paused as if searching his memory. 'What was it called now? It was by that young American guy, ugly git, total genius… Reservoir Dogs, that’s it.' Montgomery smiled at me. 'You seen it?

Fucking marvellous. They cut a guy’s ear off.'

I stared into his eyes and spoke with as much command as I could muster.

'You won’t cut my ear off.'

The knife regained its pressure and Montgomery leaned in towards me.

'Oh I will, and a lot more besides if I don’t get what’s mine.' He caught me between the legs, cradling my shrinking balls in his hand. 'Not much there but I dare say you’d prefer to hold on to the small portion God granted you.'

We lay there panting, his hand on my vitals, our faces strained, looking like an ugly scene from a very specialist porno movie. There was a slight movement on the right of my peripheral vision. I concentrated my gaze on Montgomery’s and tried to avoid looking towards the not-quite-shut door as it slid slowly open.

Sylvie hadn’t put her shoes back on; she edged silently across the carpet, her gaze on the bed, like a cat stalking a pigeon. I remembered I’d never yet seen a cat get to the kill.

Maybe the thought made my eyes shift towards her after all or maybe the policeman simply felt the atmosphere change, because suddenly Montgomery gasped as if he had felt a hand on his shoulder and glanced towards her. Sylvie kicked the door shut and levelled my gun somewhere near the centre of our huddle.

'Having fun, William?'

For a second I wondered whose side she was on, but then I felt Montgomery’s body tense.

'Not really my idea of a good Saturday night.'

'Hear that you old pervert?' Sylvie moved forward until the gun was squarely aimed at Monty’s torso, still staying far enough away to make it difficult for him to grab her. 'Be a dear and let go of his dick.'

Monty gave the blade another press and I thought he was going to call her bluff. But then Sylvie said, 'Now please.' And maybe he sensed a strain of madness in her voice, because he raised his hands slowly in the air and threw the weapon beyond reach towards the far side of the room. 'Good boy, now kiss him goodbye and get to your feet.'

Monty said, 'You must be joking.'

'Just get off him.'

The policeman eased himself upright. His voice had regained its gentleness.

'It’s not a real gun.'

I stood up holding a hand to my scratched throat, though it was a small wound in a night of pain. 'I’m afraid it is. Real bullets too.'

'We can check if you like.' Sylvie’s voice was light, conversational even. She kept her eyes on Montgomery. 'No? Don’t fancy that idea? Then reach slowly into your pocket and throw your mobile on the bed. Any funny business and I shoot.'

Her dialogue was pure movie gangster, but maybe that appealed to Montgomery because he did as she said.

'William, phone the police.' I looked blankly at her and she said, 'The number’s 110.'

Montgomery started to talk quickly.

'This has nothing to do with you, darling.'

'Don’t worry, I have a feeling William wants to talk to the police as little as you do, but as long as they’re on their way we know you’ll make yourself scarce. When they get here we’ll say it was a simple break-in, unless you want to stick around and tell them different.'

Montgomery looked at Sylvie with a respect that was laced with frustration. I picked up his phone and dialled.

'I understand you want to protect your boyfriend, but he’s not the plaster saint he makes himself out to be.'

He started to lower his hands.

'Any further and I’ll shoot you in the stomach.'

The other end of the line picked up and I started to give the address of the hotel. Sylvie kept the gun level. I tried to think of the German word for emergency, failed and said,

'Schnell bitte.'

Montgomery smiled.

'You know I could take that off you don’t you, darling?'

'I know the safety catch is off, I know that I’ll press the trigger and I know it’ll make one hell of a bang whether I hit anyone or not. You, on the other hand, know fuck-all.'

I said, 'Danke,' and killed the call. 'They’re on their way.'

'Look, I went about this wrong. Your boyfriend’s got something belonging to me.'

Montgomery smiled, still holding his hands up to show he was no threat. 'Thirty-five years on the force,' he took a small step forward. His voice took on a hypnotic tone. 'I tend to get a bit impatient… go in like a bull in a china shop when there’s no need… forget that sometimes softly, softly is better. It means a great deal to me. Sentimental reasons as much as anything else.'

'He’s lying, Sylvie.'

Montgomery’s voice was gentle.

'There could be a lot of money in it for you both.' He took another step. 'A lot of money.'

Sylvie’s eyes locked with Montgomery’s and I realised she still wasn’t quite sober. The policeman took another step and I braced myself to go for the gun. Then Sylvie put her finger on the trigger, and a small smile touched her lips.

'Do you really want to test me?'

Montgomery took a step back and raised his hands a little higher.

'I guess I just did.'

A passing car broke the silence of the street outside. There were no sirens but it was enough to sever the spell. Montgomery turned to me.

'This isn’t the end, Wilson. If I were you I’d be a sensible boy. I’m not going to let up.'

'Are you threatening him?'

'No, love, I’m making him a promise. Until I get what I want your boyfriend’s the walking dead. You’ll never know the day or the hour, but know this, I’ll fucking swing before I’ll let him away with it.'

'You’ve had your say, now scram.' Sylvie was in her element, Bonnie Parker and Patty Hearst all rolled into one. 'I’m going to keep pointing this gun at the door. Anyone walks through who isn’t a member of the Berliner Polizei and they get a bullet in the guts.'

Montgomery hesitated, his gaze shifting between Sylvie and me. He said, 'You better get me what you owe me, Wilson, or you’re a dead man.' Suddenly he smiled. 'Your agent tell you about the TV scout looking for you?' The realisation came before he said it. 'Sorry, chum, you just failed the audition.'

The policeman smiled again but there was a brittleness to the smile that belied the gag.

The door closed quietly behind him, the latch clicking to, mild and gentle as his voice. I sunk onto the bed and put my head in my hands. Sylvie stood, legs apart, keeping her aim steady, looking like a female action hero towards the end of the movie. Her voice was level.

'William, go to the window and tell me when he leaves the building.' I concealed myself behind the curtain and looked down into the street. Sylvie asked, 'What was all that about?'

'My last chance to get on TV.'

'And I thought the dance world was tough. I’m not the prying type, Will, but I think you owe me an explanation.'

'I’ll tell you back at your place.'

'You take a lot for granted, Wilson.' She sighed. 'OK, later.'

Later was fine. By the time later came I’d have made up something that sounded plausible. Or perhaps I’d have left Berlin. Or maybe I’d be lying snug on a satin mattress in a rosewood bed while my mother stroked my forehead and remembered the sweet boy I’d once been.

Outside it was dawn. After a minute or two Montgomery strolled across the road, all hint of menace gone, looking like the kind of man you might turn to for advice, a respectable middle-aged man with a sleep problem who liked to take the air in the early hours. He pulled up the collar on his jacket and glanced back at the hotel. Maybe he saw me, or maybe he just guessed I’d be watching. He made the shape of a gun with his fingers, squeezed back the imaginary trigger and fired right between my eyes. I stepped behind the curtains. When I looked again he was gone.

'That’s him.'

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

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

'It did.'

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

'It’s the real deal, Sylvie.'

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

'It’s what?'

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

'You bastard.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'How you doing, William?'

'Rough.'

'I’ll bet.'

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

'Let him sit next to the fire.'

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

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

'DTs or cold?'

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

Dix looked at Sylvie.

'Coffee might help.'

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

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

Dix’s voice was final.

'Stick to coffee for a while.'

And at last Sylvie smiled.

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

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

'A bit.'

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

'Maybe shock too.'

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

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

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

'I don’t.'

Dix took his coffee without thanking her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And how would you manage that?'

Dix smiled.

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

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

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

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

Sylvie and I have discussed it. She’s in and so am I, but we need you if it’s going to work.'

He looked me in the eye and smiled. 'What do you say, William?'

The bathroom was cold, the towel the same shade of grey as when I’d seen it last, but the water was hot and foamed with scented bubbles. I eased myself slowly into the water, wincing as it made contact with my bruises, then shut my eyes and put my head beneath the surface. A whoosh of silence filled my ears, then above it the sound of the door opening.

I surfaced, pushing my hair out of my eyes just as Sylvie stepped into the bathroom with a bundle of clothes over her arm.

'Dix said you could use these.'

'That’s good of him.'

'Well,' Sylvie pressed the clothes to her chest and smiled sadly, 'he does need something from you.'

She placed the bundle on top of the toilet then sat on the edge of the bath and dipped her hand in the water, testing the temperature.

'Need?'

'You aren’t the only one with debts to pay.'

Sylvie’s face looked strained. I wondered again why she should care so much about Dix’s needs, but smiled to lighten the mood.

'He’s not going to come through here as well is he?'

'No,' Sylvie laughed. 'Why? Are you looking for company?'

'That’s what the girls down Anderston way ask the punters.'

She flicked her fingers against the water’s surface, splashing my face.

'I’ve no idea where Anderson Way is, but I get the idea you might be calling me a whore again.'

The splash was playful, but I thought there was real hurt behind the words. I caught her by the wrist.

'No, Sylvie, I’m sorry. I think you’re brilliant.'

Her hand was tiny. I placed it on my chest. She held it there for a second, then scooped some bubbles from the top of the tub and rubbed them into my skin, brushing against my bruises. It felt sore and sad and good all at the same time. Sylvie looked down at my half-hardness emerging through the fading froth. She tugged my chest hair teasingly and reached for the towel.

'You don’t know what you want do you, William? A whore, a Madonna or just a good fuck.'

'And what do you want, Sylvie?'

'Nothing.' She looked away. 'Just to live.'

'Then you’ve got your wish.'

She shook her head.

'Who’s the greatest person you can think of?'

'I don’t know.'

'Just say someone. The first person to come into your head.'

'Einstein.'

'He’s dead.'

'I know.'

She dropped her hand into the water again.

'All I want is to live while I’m still alive,' she grinned. 'Even if I die in the process.'

'A short life but a merry one?'

'You got it.'

Her hand slipped further beneath the water and brushed gently against my cock. I caught her wrist between my fingers and drew it away. Our eyes met.

'I don’t need sex to be your friend.'

'No?'

'No.'

And I let go of her wrist, felt her fingers fasten around me, closed my eyes and allowed myself to be swallowed by the rhythm of her hand and the warm waves of bathwater that started to lap against my chest.

Afterwards Sylvie shook her hand clean in the bathwater. I caught her fingers again and held them to my lips.

'Thanks, Sylvie.'

She shook her head.

'You should relax, William, you’re so formal, like a third-grade English teacher who’s just been jerked off by his most promising student.'

The water had grown cold. I pushed the scum of my spunk away from me and started to get out of the bath.

'I wish I didn’t feel you were talking from experience.'

Sylvie shrugged and shifted to the toilet seat. I wanted some privacy, but what had just passed between us stopped me from asking her to leave. She sat with Dix’s clothes on her lap, and passed me the towel.

Her voice was soft.

'Has anyone ever died doing your bullet trick?'

'I’ve never shot anyone for real, no.'

'You know what I mean.'

'I told you before, it has its risks but they’re probably no more than the odds of crashing on the motorway.'

'Midday or rush hour?'

'You were safe.' I wrapped the towel round my waist and sat on the edge of the tub, facing her. 'Magic is all about effects, if the trick doesn’t look dangerous then who’s impressed? The first man ever to die doing the bullet trick was beaten to death with his own gun.'

She laughed.

'And the second one?'

'I don’t know, like I said, people try to make it seem more risky than it is. Some of the conjurers who supposedly died in the line of fire turned up in the next town, some of them never existed. Sometimes it’s like the trick’s reputation slays them. There was a conjurer in the Wild West who was killed when someone in the audience jumped up and shot him.

Yeah, he was dead, but you couldn’t really blame the trick. Another guy was shot by his wife, presumably she’d decided not to bother with the trouble of a divorce. None of that’s going to happen to you.'

'And what about the ones who get it wrong?'

I sighed.

'I guess the truth is that they just weren’t careful enough. They didn’t switch bullets properly or used faulty equipment.' I took her hands in mine and looked her in the eyes.

'The trick is safe if you do it right.'

'And you’ll always do it right?'

'I wouldn’t attempt it if I didn’t believe that. Look,' I took a T-shirt from the top of the pile of clothes and pulled it over my head. 'You’re right. I should have gone through the risks more carefully with you. I’m sorry. I guess I was just a bit gung-ho.'

'Gun ho.'

She passed me a jumper and I laughed.

'Yes, gun ho. I’ll tell Dix its no go on his offer.'

'No, let’s do it.'

'Why?'

'What’s life without a risk or two?'

'Is anyone pushing you into it? Me?' I hesitated. 'Dix?'

Her voice was impatient.

'No, you want to do it and I want to do it. And Dix certainly wants us to do it. So let’s do it.'

'What makes you so sure I do want to do it?'

'I watched your face when Dix said he’d found someone who wanted us to perform a special show.'

It was true; Dix’s news could solve my money problems, but it was more than that, it was a chance to perform, to go out on a high rather than slinking back to Britain with my tail between my legs.

'Then let’s do it the other way round. This time you shoot me.'

Sylvie stared at me.

'Are you serious?'

'Serious as cancer. You’re right, there is a risk and this time it’s bigger. According to Dix we won’t get to inspect the venue before we go ahead and we don’t know who this creep is who’s willing to pay a fortune for a command performance.' I slipped on a pair of boxers and pulled Dix’s old jeans over them. 'So this time you shoot me. That way if there are any accidents it’s no great loss.'

Sylvie grinned.

'You’re good William, but when it comes down to it you’re a shit liar. You know as well as I do that no one’s going to pay big money to watch you getting shot. What they want is the chance to see a pretty lady take a bullet right between the eyes.' She stepped closer.

'Admit it.'

I took a comb from the washstand, wiped the condensation from the mirror and started to smooth back my wet hair. Sylvie pulled me round to face her.

'Admit you knew Dix and his audience of one wouldn’t go for it or the deal is off, permanently.'

'OK,' I turned back to the mirror. She was right, for a man who made his living out of illusion I was a pretty crap liar. 'OK, I guessed it might be a possibility.'

'A possibility?'

I met her eyes in the mirror.

'OK, 'possibility' might be a bit of an understatement.'

'William,' Sylvie shook her head as if mortally disappointed. 'You’re just as bad as the rest of us.' She squeezed my waist as she pressed past me towards the hallway rubbing her groin briefly against mine. 'OK then, let’s go out with a bang. But first you’ve got to reassure me by telling me exactly how the trick is done.' She held open the door for me. 'Tell Dix too, he’ll enjoy it.'

So I followed her into the blood-red lounge, Dix passed me a beer, Sylvie phoned out for pizza and I explained the secrets of the bullet trick with all its complexities and variations. Sylvie was right. Dix did seem to enjoy it. He sat and stared and occasionally asked questions. All in all it was a pleasant evening, the last I was going to enjoy for a long time.

Glasgow

THE VAN DRIVER I’d hired to help take my equipment to Johnny’s venue wasn’t happy.

'I’m not meant to go along here, it’s buses and taxis only.'

'And deliveries.'

'Deliveries until eleven, we’re well past time.' He looked away from the road, giving me the full effect of his torn face. 'You’re making me break the law.'

The driver was Archie, an old navy friend of my magic shop boss, Bruce McFarlane. He was bald, with three working teeth and a wrinkled face that had somehow shrivelled back in on itself. It was like being told off by a shrunken-headed tattooed baby.

'Aye well, I’ll drop into St Mungo’s on my way home and say a wee prayer for you.'

Archie shot me a look that said he might just kick me and my junk out of his van and I backtracked. 'I didn’t realise it was restricted, there’ll be something on top for your trouble.'

'If I get a ticket it’s your shout.'

'Fair enough.'

I grinned at him, but he was staring straight ahead, manoeuvring the van between the buses that were backed along the street. Eilidh had told me that the venue wasn’t far along on the Trongate, but though I’d tramped the street countless times I couldn’t remember ever noticing the Panopticon. I checked the numbers above the shops while the van eased its way through the traffic.

'Can you slow down a wee bit? We should be able to spit on it from here.'

'If I go any bloody slower we’ll stop.'

I pointed to a space.

'You could pull in there.'

'It’s a bloody bus stop.'

But Archie swung the van in anyway, muttering about blue meanies and bloody stupit cunts that didnae ken where they were going.

I slid back the passenger door and stuck my head out, looking for the hall.

'I’ll just be a second.'

'If the polis come I’ll have to mo–'

I slammed the door and ran along the pavement. The number Eilidh had given me belonged to a blue-fronted arcade that promised Amusements, Amusements, Amusements in pink neon swirls. The windows to the arcade were veiled behind elaborately pleated midnight-blue satin drapes. They made me think of a flashy funeral directors’, the kind of concern that might have got Liberace’s business. The space between the glass and the curtains was decorated with prizes the insurance company probably didn’t require to be locked in the safe at night, oversized ornaments of liquid-eyed dogs, TVs and microwaves that retailed for around fifty quid in Tesco and huge fake-flower arrangements whose bulk was supplemented by multicoloured feathers that had never seen a parrot. The bingo caller’s voice reached out through the empty door into the street, above a clatter of mechanical whoops and bells.

Baby’s done it, number two. One and five, fifteen. Key to the door, two and one, twenty-one, just your age, eh Lorna? Three and five, thirty-five, J Lo’s Bum, seventy-one. Tony’s Den, number ten. Blind eighty.

No one was shouting house. I glanced back to the van. Archie was making hurry-up gestures but there were no wardens in sight. I leaned through the open door to the arcade, into darkness punctuated by the flash of fruit machines, pinball and video games. For all of the noise it generated, the place wasn’t very busy. A bouncer stood sentinel inside the doorway; in the gloom beyond him a few punters tried their luck on the machines or sat solemnly marking their bingo cards.

The bouncer gave me an appraising glance. Maybe he’d studied Zen or maybe he just knew that guys as big as him don’t have to say anything to get guys like me to explain themselves. I said, 'I’m looking for the Panopticon, mate, ever heard of it?'

He nodded his head towards the ceiling.

'Upstairs.'

I stepped backwards into the street and looked towards the top of the building. Three huge storeys of what the early Victorians probably considered a Grecian façade, intersected by arched windows that decreased in size as the storeys rose.

The bouncer directed me to the goods entrance around the side, smiling mildly when I asked him if there was a lift.

I said, 'Never mind, it’s all in a good cause eh?' And went back to the van, wondering if I could use that line on Archie.

But I was beginning to learn that although Archie moaned, he got the job done. He grumbled the full length of the dingy staircase, but it was only when we stepped from the landing into the auditorium that he almost dropped his end of the box.

'Bloody hell!'

If I’d have been first into the room I might have done the same. The mannequin was positioned so you didn’t see it until you turned the corner from the stairs into the auditorium, then he was right in front of you, a whiskered Victorian decked out in frock coat and top hat. Eilidh hurried towards us.

'Are you OK?'

Archie’s end of the box straightened up.

'You’re all right, dear. He just gave me a bit of a start.'

Eilidh scruffed down nicely. Her hair was twisted into a loose half-knot and she wore an old checked work shirt over a pair of jeans that might have seen better days, but hadn’t lost their fit.

'He has that effect on everyone. I’d move him, but we’re being given use of the place as a favour and the management might go off us if we start shifting the furniture around.'

'Aye, you’re right, dear, they management cu– kinds can be an awful trial.'

Eilidh nodded towards the brightly spangled, coffin-sized box that Bruce McFarlane had lent me.

'Is that for the stage?'

'Aye.'

She smiled apologetically.

'Then you’ve another flight to go yet, access is through the back stairs.'

Archie smiled at her.

'Never mind, dear.' He nodded towards me. 'This one could do with the exercise.'

Archie and I manoeuvred the box up the final staircase, and through a door that led straight onto the stage. We lowered it gently to the ground just as Eilidh came in behind us.

Archie ran his hand over his head as if he’d forgotten he no longer had any hair and looked around.

'I remember my grandda talking about the music hall, but I’ve never been in it myself.'

Eilidh smiled.

'What do you think?'

'Aye, some place.'

The Panopticon was small by modern theatrical standards, a long room overhung on its left and right by high wooden balconies that I guessed used to house the cheap seats. Some old fruit machines, casualties from the amusement arcade below, stood sadly along the far wall looking like the Daleks’ more frivolous cousins, their single arms raised in a greeting no one wanted to return. The building’s eaves showed through its fractured ceiling, slanting into a peak that reminded me of an upturned boat. They gave the place a vaguely jaunty feel at odds with the otherwise Victorian atmosphere. The walls were the sallow brown that you find on the naked walls of old flats when you manage to peel back years of wallpaper. The floor was scuffed and unvarnished. There were no seats in place, but some metal chairs that looked like they would begin to pinch after a while were stacked along the back wall next to the fruit machines, waiting to be set in line.

It was clear that the Panopticon had been neglected for some time now, but there were signs that it was coming back to life. A pianola sat below the stage and a couple of glass-topped display tables containing artefacts from the music hall’s heyday were pressed along the entrance wall. Above them hung old posters, playbills and programmes advertising forthcoming attractions that had taken their last bow a hundred years ago. It was far away from the sequinned edginess of Schall und Rauch, but I liked it that way. Something up on the balcony caught my eye; I started, then pointed towards it, saying to Archie, 'Someone you know?'

He followed my gaze.

'Jesus Christ.' Archie turned to me. 'You bugger.' Two more Victorian mannequins, a man and a woman, stood silhouetted in the gloom of the balcony. 'Give me the bloody heebie-jeebies they things.' He looked at Eilidh. 'I bet there’s a few ghost stories about this place.'

'One or two.' She nodded down to the old pianola. 'Apparently George down there has been known to start playing all by himself, and a young soldier in a uniform from the Boer War has been spotted up on that balcony.'

Archie nodded his head sagely.

'Oh, come on,' I said. 'It’s no wonder folk think they’ve seen a ghost with those waxworks up there. They’re like something out of a Hammer Horror. The eye plays tricks on you, especially in an old place like this.'

'When you get to my age you begin to realise there’s more in this world than can be explained.' Archie looked at Eilidh and me as if imparting some ancient wisdom. 'People don’t just vanish when they die, they’re all around us and sometimes we catch sight of them.'

A cold finger pressed into my neck bone then ran the length of my spine.

Eilidh said, 'Do you really believe that?'

'Aye, I do dear. You should go to the spiritualist church up on Berkeley Street sometime. It’s amazing the messages that come through.'

'It’s a pile of mince.'

I was surprised at my own vehemence. Archie bridled.

'We’re all entitled to an opinion. I go there every Tuesday to see if the wife’s got anything to tell me. It’s a comfort.' He gave me a defiant stare, then turned to Eilidh. 'Do you mind if I go and have a look at your display, dear?'

'You’re welcome.'

'Thanks.' He stropped off the stage muttering something that sounded suspiciously like superior wee cunt as he passed me.

When Archie was out of earshot Eilidh said, 'Poor old soul, he’s lonely.' She gave me a compassionate look. 'How are you, William?'

I felt like saying lonely but settled for, 'Fine.'

Eilidh hesitated as if there was something else she’d like to add, then thought the better of it and said, 'I’ll leave you to get on with things, while I make a start on setting up the chairs.'

I followed Archie’s gaze as he watched Eilidh make her way to the back of the hall, then I went down to make amends.

'I shouldn’t have said that just now. You’re right, what do I know?'

'What does anyone know, son?' He gave me a sharp, shrewd look. 'Have you lost someone recently?'

My heart executed the familiar dip between fear, pain and shame, but my voice remained neutral.

'What makes you ask that?'

'Just a feeling.'

I kept my own counsel and handed Archie what I owed him, plus the promised extra.

He counted it and smiled, tucking the notes safe in his jeans.

'Look at all this stuff.' He pointed to a tray in the cabinet filled with small objects, cigarette packets, buttons, ladies’ brooches, a couple of rings, a silk commemorative poppy, old newspapers and programmes. 'See they old Woodbines?' He smiled nostalgically.

'That’s what I used to smoke when I was a boy.'

'It’s true they stunt your growth then?'

'Cheeky bugger. They found all of this under the floorboards in the gallery up there.

Can you imagine it? Some poor woman loses an engagement ring or a fella drops a full pack of five, got to last him the whole night most likely, and that’s that until a hundred years later.'

'I never realised you were interested in history, Archie.'

'Get to my age and you’ve got to be, son. What you call history’s sometimes just yesterday to me.'

'Oh get off it, you’re not that old.'

'Aye well, what I’m saying is, nothing vanishes for good. There’s still traces of it somewhere, so don’t close your mind. The dear departed often come back.'

'Like a packet of Woodbines?'

'Just don’t close your mind, that’s all I’m saying.' He grinned, showing me his missing teeth. 'She’s a bit of all right that one; you could’ve been in there.'

'You’re a dirty old man for a mystic.'

'That’s the only reason I’m no trying to get in there myself, son.'

'Anyway you’re wrong, she’s married.'

'Ah.'

Archie gave me a look that said it wouldn’t have stopped him in his prime.

'Her wee girl’s one of the kids I’m doing the benefit for.'

'Ah right, I see.'

'And her husband’s a friend of mine.'

'Aye, and you’re an ugly scunner she wouldn’t look twice at. Here,' Archie took a fiver out of the money I’d just given him. 'Put that in the pot for the weans.'

'You don’t have to.'

'I know I don’t bloody have to. They get a hard deal they Down’s kiddies, it’s amazing what they can do given the chance.'

'Aye, I guess so.'

'I mean look at you. Bet your ma was told you’d never make it out your pram and here you are now.'

'Chatting to a turnip heid.' I shook my head and took his money. 'Cheers, you’re a good man, Archie.'

'You’ll not be saying that if I’ve got a ticket. I’ll be back up these bloody stairs afore you can wave your wand and say izzy fucking wizzy.'

After Archie had left I went up to the back of the hall where Eilidh was setting out rows of folding chairs. I had things to do but I dragged over a fresh stack and started to give her a hand.

'I thought I might catch Johnny today.'

'He’ll be sorry to miss you. He’s up to his ears in work, it’s that time of year.'

'Exams?'

'Exams, essays, assessments.'

'It must be difficult to find time to spend together.'

'It’s what you expect with a new baby.'

'And benefits to organise.'

Eilidh smiled.

'It’s not the best timing but you know John, he deals with things through action. Has to feel he’s doing something.'

I picked a collapsed chair off my stack and hit its seat smartly with my hand, unfolding it and starting a new row in front of the one Eilidh had already begun.

'Looks to me like you’re the one doing all the work.'

Eilidh paused; she looked straight at me to give her words emphasis.

'I’m not put upon.'

I placed a new seat next to the last.

'I never said you were.'

'You had that look, poor Eilidh all on her own again.'

I set another seat on the ground and held up my hands.

'Eilidh, I hardly know you and before I met you both in the pub that night it was years since I’d last seen John. I’m in no position to make assumptions.'

We worked without talking for a while, the only sound the scraping of chairs against the rough wooden floor until Eilidh said, 'The last time I saw you I said that every time we meet someone behaves badly. I guess I just proved my own point, sorry.'

I set up another chair.

'You must lead a pretty sheltered existence if you call that bad behaviour.'

'Perhaps I do.'

Eilidh unfastened another chair and wiped a hand across her face.

I hesitated then asked, 'Are you OK?'

'Yes, just a bit tired.'

'And staying up all night with fuck-ups like me probably doesn’t help.'

'It’s my job. Anyway, it’s only part-time.'

'I was hoping you’d say I wasn’t a fuck-up.'

She laughed.

'Well, you’re looking a whole lot better than you were a week or so ago.'

'I’m trying.'

It was my turn to look away.

Eilidh put her hand on my arm.

'What I mean is I don’t think you’re a fuck-up. Far from it.'

I asked softly, 'What do you think I am?'

'I think you’re a bit of a chancer.'

Our eyes met. My lips tingled with the thought of what would happen if I kissed her. I thought of Johnny. Then there was a sound from the back of the building. I looked round and saw Eilidh’s mother come through the door with a small child in her arms.

'Mum, you should have buzzed my mobile. I would have come down and got her.

William, this is my mother, Margaret.'

Margaret’s voice was on the edge of politeness.

'We’ve already met.'

'I was just giving Eilidh a hand with the chairs. Is this Grace?' Suddenly I felt awkward.

'I’ve not seen her yet.'

Margaret cradled the child close, her hand supporting its head.

'She’s just dropped off.'

'Give her here, Mum, she’s getting too big to carry any distance.'

Margaret kissed her granddaughter’s crown and for a moment I thought she was going to refuse, but then she passed Grace to Eilidh.

'There was no way I could manage that buggy up the stairs, I told you when you bought it that it was too heavy.'

'I wanted something sturdy.'

The two women had the same strained look round the eyes and the same sharp defiant chins. There was no doubting they were mother and daughter. I said, 'I’ll nip down and get the buggy for you.'

Margaret looked like she’d rather reject my offer, but Eilidh smiled gratefully.

'Would you mind, William? Then I can put her down in it.'

'No problem.'

When I returned, Margaret was sitting in one of the far rows of chairs with the baby on her lap.

'Thanks, William,' Eilidh’s voice was low and amused. 'They’re both knackered.'

We chatted a while about arrangements for the gig and then I said, 'Do you remember I asked you about old evidence?'

Eilidh nodded.

'Of course.'

'Well, if you had something like that who would you go to?'

'My lawyer, which in your case is me.'

Eilidh smiled. I thought again how beautiful she was and was tempted.

'I’d rather keep you out of it.'

'Then it’s obvious, the police.'

'Sure, but is there anyone in particular? Especially if it was something a bit unusual.'

Eilidh raised her eyebrows.

'You’re intriguing me, William.' She thought for a moment. 'You’d want someone experienced, but with a bit of imagination. After a while there’s nothing policemen won’t believe given the right evidence, they’ve seen so many odd things, but sometimes you find they can’t be bothered. They’ve burnt out.' She paused. 'I’d probably go to Blunt, the guy who interviewed you the other week.'

'Why would I want to deal with that cunt?'

Margaret was too far away to hear our conversation, but maybe some instinct alerted her to the nature of it, or maybe she could lip-read swear words. She looked up in her chair and called over, 'Eilidh, have you almost finished?'

'Just a minute, mum.' Eilidh turned back to me. 'He is a cunt but he’s a straight cunt.

Take your lawyer’s advice. If you won’t show me, show Blunt. I happen to know he’s back on nights this week.'

The voice came again from the back of the hall.

'Eilidh.'

'Whoops.' She took the buggy from me. 'I’d better go. Good luck.'

And she turned and ran towards her mother and child.

I waited a long time until Inspector Blunt walked into his local. He was alone, wearing the same tired suit and weary expression he’d worn the last time we’d met. He stepped up to the bar without looking at me, though I knew I’d been marked as soon as he came in. The barmaid set Blunt’s drink in front of him without waiting to be asked. I let him have his first swallow then joined him at the bar. Blunt looked at my not-so-fresh orange juice and asked, 'You signed the pledge?'

'No, I’ve made a resolution. No strong drink till after 8.30 in the morning.'

Blunt raised his pint to his lips.

'Aye, well, some of us have already done a full day’s work.' He sucked the froth from his moustache. 'Been bedding down with any winos lately?'

'No. You?'

'Only the wife.' He pulled out his cigarettes and lit up without offering me one. 'I thought I said you weren’t welcome round here.'

'If I listened to everyone who told me that I’d never leave the house.'

'That might not be such a bad thing.'

I lit my own cigarette.

'I’ve got something that might be of interest to you.'

'So come and see me in shop hours.'

'It’s a bit delicate.'

'There are days I feel like a nurse at the clap clinic. Everyone wanting to show me their sores.' He looked at me through the smoke of his cigarette as if trying to make up his mind about something. 'Jesus Christ.' The policeman shook his head. 'OK then, what’s the worst that can happen?' He laughed and I wondered if this was his first stop on the way home or if he had a bottle in his locker to ease the pain. 'Just give me a chance to order my breakfast.' Blunt leaned across the bar. 'Mary, goan throw us a packet of dry roasted over.'

'Not fancy a nice fry-up on the house, Mr Blunt?'

'Naw, hen, the wife’ll have mine waiting when I get back.' He put the peanuts in his suit pocket, and straightened up muttering, 'Will she fuck.' He looked at me. 'Remind me of your name again.'

'William Wilson.'

'That’s right. Down-among-the-dead-men Wilson. Right then, Mr Wilson, show me what you’ve got.'

'Can we go somewhere a bit more private?'

'As long as you promise not to slip into something more comfortable.'

We settled ourselves at a table with the kind of logistics favoured by teenage dope smokers, out of sight of the bar and away from the gents and the puggy machine. Blunt took another inch off his pint.

'Right,' he spanned his hand from the bottom of the glass to where the dark liquid ended. 'I’ll give you this long.' I calculated it as two and a half seconds at his current rate of drinking, but there was no point in arguing. I reached into my pocket, took out a transparent plastic bag holding the envelope containing Montgomery’s photographs and put it on the table. Blunt looked at the envelope, but made no effort to pick it up. 'Tell me about it.'

I started to regret not buying myself a short, but I took a deep breath and began.

'Twenty years ago a woman named Gloria Noon disappeared under mysterious circumstances. She never turned up, neither did her body. Her husband was chief suspect, but nothing was ever proven. This is a photograph that shows him with a guy who was then a junior officer and is now a recently retired chief inspector in the Met. They’re standing next to what I believe could be her grave. The policeman is married to the sister of the murdered woman.'

Blunt snorted.

'I don’t know what I expected but it certainly wasn’t that.'

'Will you look at them?'

'Hold your horses. A few questions first.' I nodded, trying to keep a lid on my impatience. 'Question number one, why land them in my lap?'

'I asked around, you’ve got a reputation for being straight.'

Blunt rubbed a hand over his face.

'And this is my reward I suppose? OK, question number two, what makes you think it’s a gravesite?'

'I don’t know, the look of the place, the two men standing there holding an edition of the newspaper from the day after she disappeared. That and…'

'And?'

'And the policeman in the photo is extremely eager to get a hold of it.'

'Oh lovely. Is this documented evidence?'

'No.'

'And how did you come across it?'

'I’d rather not say.'

'I see.' He paused, staring at me as he had probably stared at hundreds of men across tables in police interview rooms. 'OK, we’ll come back to that if we need to. Why aren’t you giving it to this eager detective?'

'I think it implicates him.'

Blunt looked at my untouched orange juice.

'Are you going to drink that?'

The sour liquid looked set solid inside the glass.

'No, probably not.'

'Well, get yourself a proper drink and another one of these for me while you’re at it.'

I looked at the envelope and he said ‘Leave that here, it’ll be safe enough for the meantime.'

'No offence but I’m a conjurer by trade. I know how easy it is to make things disappear.'

I reached out to take it and Blunt put his glass on the envelope.

'Don’t worry. It’ll still be here when you come back.'

I tried to see what Blunt was doing from my position up at the bar, but we’d chosen our spot well and he was hidden from view. When I returned with the drinks he’d lit another cigarette, this time he offered me one.

'Where did you say this woman disappeared from?'

'Essex, it’s near London.'

'I know where it is, and you presumably know it’s not in my jurisdiction; there’s nothing I could do with this except pass it on.'

'Aye, but at least then there would be a record. They’d be forced to investigate.'

Blunt took the head off his pint.

'Maybe so, maybe no.' He sighed. 'What your contact said about me being straight was right. I don’t take bribes and I don’t take bungs.' I looked towards the bar and he took another drag of his fag. 'I’ve got a tab, paid up every Friday on the dot. I do my best. Some people like it, some people don’t, fuck them. But I don’t go out of my way to make enemies.

Accusing a well-respected officer in the largest force in the country of being an accessory to the murder of his sister-in-law is a sure-fire way to get yourself into trouble.' He turned, looked me full in the face and pushed the envelope back at me with the edge of a beer mat.

'I can’t do anything, not on that.'

'But you’re saying you think it looks dodgy?'

'I’m saying nothing.'

'But if I get more evidence you might be able to do something?'

Blunt drained the last of his pint.

'Gathering evidence is the job of the police.' He took a notebook and pen out of his pocket. 'What did you say the missing woman’s name was?'

'Gloria Noon.'

Blunt wrote the name down and replaced the notebook. 'And the name of the inquisitive officer in the Met?'

'Montgomery, James Montgomery.'

I waited for him to jot it down and when he didn’t asked, 'Aren’t you going to put his name in your book?'

'I’m sure I can remember it.' Blunt shook his head wearily. 'This used to be a nice quiet pub.' He took out his wallet and rifled through it until he found a card. He checked to see there was nothing written on its back then passed it to me. 'Call if you have anything useful, don’t bother otherwise. I’m not a sociable drinker, remember that in future.'

Berlin

IT WAS TWO o’clock in the morning. Dix had looked at his watch so often in the rental car during our journey that I’d grown nervous about his driving. Now he glanced at it again while he fiddled with the heavy padlock to the door of the warehouse.

I could smell the odour of damp earth brought forth by the night. Close your eyes and you could be miles from the city in a freshly planted country garden, a new tilled field, or a cemetery ready for custom.

I asked, 'Who are these people?'

Sylvie pulled her long coat closer and stamped her red shoes against the ground, shivering. Dix threw her an impatient look, then turned the key and prised back the hasp.

'Would it make any difference if you knew?'

'Maybe.'

'It’s too late for questions, William, just do as we discussed and it’ll be payday.'

Sylvie wasn’t the only one who was dressed up. Dix had revealed an unexpected showmanship, finding an outfit for me that would add a macabre touch to the proceedings.

A black costume decorated front and back with a white glow-in-the-dark skeleton. There was a mask to go with it too, a grinning skull. The mask did a good job of hiding my bruises, but I’d been worried that my gut distorted the bones. Sylvie had reassured me.

'You look yummy, William. Death come to carry off my fresh young flesh.'

I’d pulled the skull over my face and stalked her round the lounge, arms outstretched till Sylvie had let me scoop her, giggling and wriggling, onto the couch. I’d affected an aristocratic accent, Christopher Lee as Count Dracula.

'Your funeral bower, my dear.'

She’d mocked a faint and Dix had watched us with the indulgent smile of a miser reckoning money due.

The joke didn’t seem so good now and the Halloween costume had lost its carnival air.

Sylvie was as white as my fake bones. I put an arm around her but she pulled away impatiently.

'Let’s just get this over with.'

'You don’t have to go through with it if you don’t want to.'

Her laugh was harsh against the night.

Dix said, 'It’ll be over soon. Less than an hour and we’ll all walk away safely with cash in our pockets.'

Glasgow

BLUNT NEEDED MORE evidence before he could act and I had an idea of how I might get it. Like all the best tricks, it relied on a good grasp of psychology and a lot of finesse, but with the right assistance it could be simple.

I went back to the Internet café and checked up on flights from London. Then it was time to step into character and make a phone call. After that there was nothing much to do except hope and wait. I went back to my bedsit, poured myself a drink, lay down on the bed and started working through the moves over and over again, until the homeward screech of buses drifted into the diesel growl of taxis and shouts of late-night drinkers. Eventually even they died away and I was left in silence, looking at the splash of light thrown by the streetlamp outside my window, wondering if Blunt would buy my scheme and if he did, whether it had any real chance of success.

Berlin

SYLVIE WAS SOMEWHERE on the other edge of darkness. Dix and I stood side by side waiting for the signal. I sensed a movement and floodlights clicked on, searing white in the centre of the empty warehouse. A voice came from out of the firmament.

'OK, proceed.'

I’d expected German, but the words were English and the accents that came from the dark had an American twang. I looked at Dix.

'American?'

His voice held a hard edge of contempt.

'They still think Berlin is a place where they can get something they can’t at home.'

I grinned and pulled the skull over my face, the whole thing making more sense now that I realised it was all the whim of a rich Yank with a taste for the exotic.

'Then let’s oblige him.'

Dix put his hand on my arm.

'These are not holidaymakers who have wandered off the tourist trail.'

'What are you trying to tell me?'

'Sylvie knows her role. This is for her sake as much as mine. Just play your part and everything will be fine.'

I started to speak, but Dix put a finger over his lips and I heard the slow hollow sound of high heels striking against the wooden floor. Sylvie stepped out of the darkness into the floodlit centre of the warehouse. My poor victim looked magnificent. She wore a long silver robe that shimmered against the light; sparkles flashed from hair dark as coffin wood and her lips were painted a blood-red black that invited no kisses.

We waited for a beat of ten then Dix wrapped a black silk scarf across his face, nodded to me and strode forth, his footsteps brisk and full of business. He halted a foot away from Sylvie. She looked beyond him, ignoring his presence, and then dropped her robe, arching her back as if daring him to lay a finger on her, her naked body pale and magical against the pitch black. Dix stood frozen in place for a beat of ten while Sylvie stalked a full circle around him, like a half-tamed predator, not hungry but a killer by nature. I held my breath, wondering if they’d choreographed this earlier, or if Sylvie really was making her mind up about whether to go on. Then she stretched her spine like a show lion deciding to let its trainer live another day, and placed herself against the board. Dix immediately stepped forward and started to secure her, his fingers nimble and efficient, buckling the leather straps around her wrists and ankles, tugging at them to show they were firmly fastened.

I tried to push all other thoughts from my mind, whispering a mantra over and over in my head, concentrate, concentrate, concentrate… and then it was my turn to walk into the light.

Glasgow

I DECIDED TO have my pre-performance drink in a bar beneath the railway arches because it was close to the Panopticon and I couldn’t imagine any of the university buddies Johnny had recruited to help with the show dropping in for a quick one. The pub was tiny and cheap so it was never empty, but I was unprepared for the swarm of people busying it so early in the afternoon. I stood at the top of the small flight of steps leading down into the bar, taking in the press of green, the Celtic shirts and scarves, the shamrocks and Jimmy hats, and realised it was St Patrick’s Day. I hesitated for a second, wondering if the pub could accommodate another drinker, then a fresh group of men arrived and swept me down into the familiar odour of smoke, sweat and beer. I ordered a whisky even though every pint of Guinness came with a shamrock etched into the foam. Someone moved, I slid into a prime spot next to the cigarette machine and placed my drink on the ready-made shelf. St Patrick had chased the snakes out of Ireland. Maybe this was an omen that things would go well. But then it was a holiday to mark his death, so maybe it was a sign that the snakes always won in the end. The old man at the table next to me started to sing, When I was a bachelor, I lived by myself

And I worked at the weaver’s trade;

The only, only thing that I ever done wrong

Was to woo a fair young maid.

I wooed her in the summer-time,

And part of the winter-time too;

He turned and smiled a happy full-on denture smile and some old men joined in.

But the only thing that I ever did wrong

Was to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.

The result was surprisingly melodic, when you considered that it was 2.30 in the afternoon and everyone seemed to be pissed. The aged singer had eyes the colour of forget-menots. They were soft and wet and happy with drink and memories. He cast his gaze around the room.

One night this maid came to my bed

Where I lay fast asleep.

She laid her head upon my chest

And then she began to weep.

'You’re a dirty bugger, Peter,' shouted one of the drinkers. The old man smiled and tipped the heckler a wink, but he kept on singing.

She sighed, she cried, she damn near died.

She said, 'What shall I do?'

So I took her into bed and I covered up her head Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.

Behind my eyes a man covered a woman’s ruined head with a clean white sheet. I put down my drink and went into the gents to splash water on my face. When I returned the song was over and someone had taken my place by the fag machine, but my drink was still there.

The barman squeezed by, collecting empty glasses. He handed the singer a half pint and a nip and said indulgently, 'There’ll be no cut-price pensioner half’n’halfs if you lot get me shut down. Yous know I’ve no got an entertainment licence.'

An old drinker leant over.

'It’s a dog licence he’s needing with a voice like that.'

There was a burst of laughter, then someone on the other side of the room raised their voice and shouted, 'Give us a song, Ann.' The rest of the regulars took up the cry till even the men who’d only come for a St Patrick’s Day bevvy joined in. The young barmaid shook her head shyly, but the drinkers kept up the demand, some of them banging the table with their pint glasses, chorusing Ann, Ann, Ann until the manager hurried back behind the counter and led the girl out in front. There was a call for hush followed by a shushing that threatened to descend into disruption, then the girl raised her face to the ceiling, closed her eyes and started to sing. Everyone else fell silent.

My young love said to me, 'My mother won’t mind And my father won’t slight you for your lack of kind'

And she stepped away from me and this she did say:

'It will not be long, love, till our wedding day.'

Her voice was high and clear and pure. It should have made me think of green rolling hills and the white froth of a waterfall glinting against the sun, but instead I saw Sylvie strapped to the target as I walked towards her, masked in my Young Bones Wilson costume. She seemed to press herself against the board. One of the sparkles in her hair caught the light and a bright prism glanced into my eyes, giving me a quick flash of the whole rainbow spectrum. It was an instant as fast as a bullet, then it was gone and there was just the frightened girl and the faceless audience watching from the dark.

As she stepped away from me and she moved through the fair And fondly I watched her move here and move there And then she turned homeward with one star awake Like the swan in the evening moves over the lake.

I took the bullet from my pocket, gripped it between my finger and thumb and held it high in the air. Dix came out of the blackness, the scarf still hiding his features. He had a second man with him. The man wore a smart black suit over a black shirt and a latex mask of a red fox. The fox’s wide smile was hungry, the eyes that glinted from its head an unnatural green that made me think of the damage a broken beer bottle can do.

The people were saying, no two e’er were wed

But one had a sorrow that never was said

And I smiled as she passed with her goods and her gear, And that was the last that I saw of my dear.

The fox stared at the bullet for an age, turning it over in his hand, holding it close to his eye examining it until I lost track of time. Then at last he took the pen from Dix’s hand and initialled the bullet along its edge, making sure he’d recognise it again. I handed Dix the revolver and he passed it to the fox, who examined it with the same intense thoroughness he’d used on the bullet. Then he gave the gun and bullet directly to me and stared through his green eyes as I placed the bullet into the revolver. That was the difficult moment, the point where I made the switch. And I managed it; I swapped the live bullet for its wax twin and loaded it into the chamber right before his suspicious eyes. He walked away and Sylvie and I were left facing each other in the bright white pool of light, surrounded on all sides by a blackness darker than deep space. I continued my mantra, concentrate, concentrate, concentrate, until her face lost its focus and became just a pale white thing, pressed behind glass, like a dead butterfly with a red marking at its centre.

Last night she came to me, my dead love came in.

So softly she came that her feet made no din

As she laid her hand on me and this she did say,

'It will not be long, love,' til our wedding day.'

The pub broke into a racket of applause, rattling beer glasses and whoops. The barmaid bowed prettily and ducked behind the counter before she could be pressed into an encore. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and took another sip of my whisky. Then something made me look through the crush of bodies to the far end of the room, to where Inspector James Montgomery stood, still and sober amongst the revelry, with his eyes fixed on me.

The ex-policeman gave me a vague smile, the kind you might give a man whose face you recognise but can’t quite place. I kept my own expression neutral and said, 'You’re early.'

'Yeah, well I thought I’d arrive in good time, do a bit of sightseeing. I’ve never been to Scotland before.' He grinned. 'No wonder all you Jocks head down south.' Montgomery shook his head. 'What a dump.'

'Not like the classy joint you had your retirement do in, eh?'

'I’m not talking about this place, shithole though it is. I thought I’d make the most of my time up here; take in some of the sights. No offence but it’s like going back fifty years.'

'No offence taken.'

The turns had ceased for a while and Dean Martin was belting out ‘Little Old Wine Drinker Me’ from the jukebox. He wasn’t as popular as the barmaid, but he was going down OK and a few diehards were joining in the chorus. Montgomery laughed and put his arm around me like a man enjoying a good joke and I felt something small and blunt press into my spine.

'Cumbernauld was the worst though. The conditions people live in there, especially the old folk, appalling. Quite frankly some of them’d be better off dead.'

My resolution to stay cool disappeared in a quick flash of heat. I hissed, 'You fucking go near my mother and you’ll not live long enough to get what you’re after.'

Montgomery wiped away a speck of spittle that had landed on his face.

'Touched a nerve did I?' He pressed a little further into my back. 'Must’ve done to make you start threatening a man who’s holding a gun to you.' He grinned. 'You can’t win, son.

Just hand over what’s mine and you never have to worry about me again.'

'I don’t have it on me.'

'Then let’s go and get it.' He smiled again. 'Shall I tell you a secret?'

'If you like.'

Montgomery put his face close to mine and whispered. 'Your mother isn’t all you have to worry about.' His smile was small and sweet as a cupid’s. 'I know all about your little German girlfriend.'

My voice was hoarse.

'How do you know?'

'Thirty-five years on the force has got to teach me something.'

My lips formed her name.

Sylvie.

'What do you know?'

Montgomery grinned.

'Oh, I know everything. What was her name again? Sylvie, that was it, wasn’t it? She was quite something in that hotel room, eh? Too good for you, that’s for sure.'

The sound of Sylvie’s name on the lips of a policeman hit me in a dizzying wave of dread and liberation. The bitter release of fear made flesh made me laugh. The worst had happened, but I wasn’t headed for a jail cell, not yet anyway. The balance of the deck had shifted. Up until now I’d wanted to free myself of guilt and Montgomery in one blow. But it seemed that he knew as much of my crime as I did of his. It was time for a reckoning and I was about to find out how far I was willing to go.

Most of the drinkers were too busy to notice Montgomery and me pressed together in the corner, but I’d spotted a squat man in a baseball cap staring at us. I threw him a look over the policeman’s shoulder and he leered towards us.

'You a pair of fucking poofs?'

'I’m not, mate,' I made my eyes wide and honest. 'But I think this English git is, he won’t leave me alone.'

The man raised his voice loud enough for the drinkers next to him to hear.

'That’s the trouble with fucking faggots, they want to shove it down everyone else’s throats.'

Montgomery twitched his wallet out of his pocket and flashed his ID, keeping a thumb pressed firmly over the part where it stated his name.

'I’m an inspector in the Metropolitan police force and this man is wanted on serious charges.'

'No problem, big man.' The punter took a step back. 'I was only asking.'

I said, 'Your instinct’s right enough though. He is a fucking poof, always up for Gay Pride duty, if you get my drift. Soon as we step outside he’ll be trying to stick it in my arse.'

Montgomery kicked his toecap into the back of my heel shooting a stab of pain through my tendon, making sure that any thoughts I’d had of flight were over.

The punter said, 'I’ve nothing against poofs myself, like. I mean some of them are a good laugh… Graham Norton… Kenneth Williams…'

He faltered and I added, 'Noël Coward.'

The punter looked confused.

'I’m just saying, live and let live eh?'

Montgomery pulled out a pair of handcuffs and clicked me to himself. Someone in the crowd said, 'Oooh, kinky.' But the rest of the bar was silent. A pathway to the door had magically opened in the jam around us.

'Right,' the policeman’s smile was grim. 'Let’s go for a little walk.'

Argyle Street was busy enough with swarms of Saturday shoppers for two men walking closely side by side to go unnoticed. My bruised tendon shortened my gait, but Montgomery paced himself to my limp and our progress became more of a stroll. A father and son heading home after a couple of pints.

Something caught my eye. A small square of cardboard tagged to a lamppost and painted with sunny clowns and smiling faces. Bright red letters announced the time and venue of Johnny’s benefit in a careful, childish hand. In the sign’s upper corner a moustachioed magician pulled a grinning rabbit from a top hat. I glanced at Montgomery, but his face was set straight, his eyes busy scanning the crowd. Homemade signs decorated with crayon, glitter and tinfoil shone from the rest of the lampposts leading to the Panopticon, my own version of the yellow brick road. There was nothing to do but hope that Montgomery wouldn’t notice.

Moving towards us with the slow, unstoppable assurance of a Sherman tank was an elderly lady being pushed along in a wheelchair by her ancient husband. The wheelchair was strung with bulging carrier bags. They’d been doing their weekly shop, though why they’d left it to the busiest day of the week was beyond me. Maybe they just liked crowds.

Montgomery stepped to the left of their path and I started to go with him, it was only at the last minute that I steered in the opposite direction, putting the wheelchair between us.

'Christ Almighty, can yous no watch where you’re going?'

The old man’s breath was sharp and rasping. His skin was the grey-green of the cancer ward and he was carrying just enough weight to qualify as a hunger artist. His wife giggled.

She had a pretty doll-like face plumped up with rouge and jolliness above a stack of quivering chins. Her legs were elephantine, the flesh cascading down into her unlaced sandshoes. Jack and Mrs Sprat. I wondered if they took turns in the chair. Her wobbling along his frailty one day, him struggling with her bulk the next. Love conquering all, except poverty, disease and death.

I ignored Montgomery’s jerk of the cuff and addressed myself to Jack.

'Sorry pal, it’s my stag do, old Monty here’s pinned me to him for a joke.'

'Aye,' the man’s face was turning from green to beetroot with annoyance and high blood pressure. 'Fucking hilarious.'

The old lady tutted at the bad language and Montgomery tried to catch me by the scruff of my neck. I ducked out of his grasp, down towards the woman in the chair.

'Have you got a kiss for a condemned man?'

She laughed and landed me a smacker on the cheek enveloping me in her brandy breath. 'You’re an awfy fella. I pity the poor lass that takes you on. You’ll be the death of her.'

I said, 'If only you knew.' And reached into my pocket, grabbing a tenner. 'Here, have a drink on me the pair of you. For luck.'

'Keep your money, son, you’ll need it yourself.'

The old woman shoved the note back, but Montgomery seized me and our bodies collided. This was my chance. The policeman had replaced his wallet in his inside pocket.

His suit hung lower on the right than it did on the left. I guessed that was where he kept his keys. I only hoped that the one to the handcuff’s padlock was amongst them. I dipped my fingers quickly, found the bunch and thrust them swiftly into my own pocket, uncertain whether I’d gained my release or merely access to the pale rooms far away where Sheila Montgomery had spent so many hours grieving for her lost sister Gloria.

The old lady shouted after us, 'Cheers son. And you mind and look after that lassie of yours now.'

The old man shook his head and started to steer her down towards the Gallowgate.

I could feel Montgomery’s unease growing as we climbed the Panopticon’s dilapidated back staircase.

'What is this place?'

'I told you, it’s where I store my gear.'

'What’s wrong with a safety deposit box?'

'This is safe enough, and it doesn’t cost anything.'

Montgomery snorted.

'Bloody Jock.'

I thought I heard the sound of laughter up above us and glanced at Montgomery to see if he’d noticed, but he was shaking his head.

'I don’t like it.'

'I’m not exactly ecstatic myself. There’s a gun at my back, cuffs on my wrist and a couple of sterling threats hanging over me.' I made my voice soft and reasonable. 'Do you not think I’m as eager to get this over with as you are?'

Montgomery stuck the gun firmly into my spine just as another wave of laughter floated through the corridor. He pulled up short.

'What was that?'

'Don’t be so jumpy. It’s the bingo hall down below. Saturday’s their big day.' I grinned at him. 'What’s wrong? Scared of ghosts?'

He shoved me forward.

'Let’s just get on with it.'

I glanced at my watch. 'Aye, let’s.'

And pushed open the door that led onto the stage.

Johnny’s face broke into a mixture of confusion and relief when he saw me walking into the light, making no attempt to hide the handcuffs hooking Montgomery and me together. I nodded and he abandoned the half-hearted joke he’d been playing for time with, raising his hands in the air and shouting, 'Here’s the man we’ve all been waiting for, the magnificent, the magical, William Wilson!'

There was a roar of applause from the audience and Montgomery turned to leave, but the cuffs that had held me prisoner now did the same for him. He put the hand holding the gun into his pocket and I wondered if any of the adults noticed.

I jerked him across the stage; all the months of drink and dreary bedsits falling from me. Energy climbed up my spine along my limbs and crackled on my fingertips. I was home again. I peeled my lips back into a William Wilson grin and shouted, 'Take a good look at this man’s face. His name is Uncle Monty and he’s a terrible villain.'

The audience laughed.

I said, 'Shout, 'Hello Uncle Monty.''

Hello Uncle Monty!

The policeman tried to pull away but I wrenched him back, the wide smile on my face belying the pain jolting up my wrist.

'Look at his grumpy face. I don’t think he heard you, girls and boys, shall we shout a little louder and see if we can get him to say hello?'

The kids knew the drill. They took a deep breath of air, filled their little lungs to the top and bellowed Hello Uncle Monty!

I put my arm round Montgomery, leading him centre-stage, eager as an old dog in the vet’s waiting room and whispered, 'Don’t panic, you’ll get your photo. This way I’ve got a witness or two who’s seen us together.' I raised my voice again and shouted, 'Would you like to see some magic?'

Yes!

The hall was in full pantomime mode now. Montgomery still tried to edge us off stage, but I yanked him with me until we were level with the large bright box I’d borrowed from Bruce McFarlane.

'I’m sorry I was a little late. I had to go to the Magician’s Den, a very special magic shop not too far from here, and buy some magic dust.' I reached into my pockets and sprinkled a handful of the glitter I’d filled them with that morning across the floor. It winked and blinked against the bright lights. 'Do you like that?'

Yes!

They were a very obliging crowd. I grinned and put my hand back in the pocket, but this time, instead of more glitter, I grasped the key and with one flourish unfastened the handcuffs, pulled Montgomery’s jacket from his back and shoved him inside the box, shutting the door quick and latching it tight. I leant over to my props table and grabbed another padlock, fastening it for good effect. A banging came from inside the box.

'OK, boys and girls, mums and dads, aunties, uncles and hangers-on, now I’m going to show you what to do with bad men.' I sprinkled magic dust over the box and tapped it with an oversized wand, reciting a traditional magical incantation, 'Abracadabra!'

The banging continued and Montgomery shouted, 'Let me out, Wilson!'

The crowd cheered and laughed.

'You know what, boys and girls? I think I’m going to need some help. Shout and stamp your feet as hard as you can if you’re going to help me make the bad man disappear.'

The theatre exploded into an unholy din and I put my mouth to the box and whispered,

'Shut the fuck up and go with it or I swear to God, kids or no kids, I’ll empty your gun into the box, pretend it’s part of the act and dump this whole contraption in a loch. Now squash yourself up, it’s about to get cramped in there.' There was no answer but the banging stopped. I turned back to the crowd. 'OK, at the count of three I want you to shout

'Abracadabra!' One, two, three…'

Abracadabra!

'I’m not sure that was loud enough,' I shook my head. 'After all he is a very, very bad man. I think we should try it again.'

I made the kids shout three more times while I secretly slid in place the specially angled mirrored panels that would, if all went well, fling back a reflection of the box’s interior, confusing the audience’s eye enough to think it vacant.

I held my breath, kept the jacket containing the gun within reach and briskly opened the doors to the box revealing an illusion of pristine emptiness. I whacked my wand around inside, careful to avoid appearing in the mirrors myself then smartly slammed the door and bolted it shut. It got a round of applause but whatever the danger involved, making an ugly man vanish never gets the same reaction as making a beautiful woman appear and I thought that for all my efforts the illusion fell a little flat.

Thirty minutes later the show was over, or just about to begin depending on your way of looking at things. I sat on stage in the empty theatre, staring at the box and smoking a cigarette. Regulations probably didn’t allow smoking onstage, but there was no one around to stop me and I was planning on being very careful.

Montgomery had been quiet for so long I was beginning to wonder if he’d escaped. I’d had to abandon the room for a while after my set was through, pretending to leave with the crowd and encouraging Eilidh and John to go to the pub with the rest of the performers, before I could sneak back up into the auditorium.

But the padlock was still in place where I’d secured it and Bruce’s box was undamaged, so the odds were that Monty was still inside biding his time, hoping to jump me when I set him free.

I thought about Sylvie and wondered how far I was willing to go. Was killing a bad man better than killing a good woman? Obviously. Did it matter whether you killed him because he was bad or because you wanted to save yourself? I didn’t know. Could I set myself up as judge, jury and executioner? Maybe, if I was sure I was right. But how often had I been right?

The Panopticon felt eerie. Without the audience it was almost possible to believe in Archie’s ghosts. I sent a small smile up to the balcony then made sure my cigarette was dead and got up and unlocked the box.

I waited by the unlatched cabinet for ten minutes, willing myself not to look inside. My hand had just started to creep towards the door when Montgomery exploded out, bellowing towards me. But he was an old man, confinement had cramped his muscles and he wasn’t much of a challenge.

I shouted, 'This is yours,' threw his jacket over his head and spun him round. He staggered to the far side of the stage then pulled the jacket free and went into its pockets. I held the gun in the air.

'Looking for this? Here, take it.'

I flung the weapon tumbling towards him. He caught it awkwardly and I held up the ammunition clip.

'Mind if I hold onto this for a while? If you get close enough you can always batter me to death with the barrel.' I kept my tone conversational. 'Is that what you did to Gloria?

Stave her head in?'

'I never touched Gloria.'

'This photograph suggests otherwise.' I produced the envelope out of nowhere with a quick sleight of hand, then made it disappear again. 'Now you see it, now you don’t.'

He took a step forward.

'That’s mine.'

'Really?' My voice was mild. 'I thought it belonged to Bill Noon.'

Montgomery shook his head wearily.

'They were old Noon’s not his son’s. He had his and I had mine, whoever went first was to see his copy destroyed.'

'An insurance policy?'

'Kind of.'

I’d guessed the ploy when I’d spoken with Drew Manson, but it was good to have it confirmed.

'So neither of you could get a sudden urge to confess or grass the other one up without sticking yourself in it. I suppose it was a good plan until one of you died suddenly and you got greedy and decided to blackmail young Bill.'

Montgomery laughed.

'Is that what he told you?' He looked at me incredulously. 'And you believed him?' He laughed again and shook his head. 'Why not, I suppose?' His voice became serious, like an instructor explaining a basic point to a particularly dull student. 'The night you nicked it I had just paid a lot of money for that picture.' He repeated the phrase, stressing the point. 'A lot of money. All I wanted was to go home and do to that photo what I’d done to my own one as soon as I’d heard Bill’s dad had snuffed it: burn it and get shot of the whole sorry business. Thirty years with that hanging over me, never a day, an hour even, when I didn’t think of it. But Bill wanted to torment me. If he’d stuck me in it I would have understood.

She was his mother after all. But he didn’t want that. He wanted to torture me. A big party, the whole squad, strippers and me sitting with evidence of the crime that ruined my life and could still send me down, burning a hole in my pocket. Then…’ Montgomery started to laugh at Bill’s audacity, 'then he stole it back.'

'And you killed him and his boyfriend.'

'No, things got out of hand. His boyfriend dived in. Bill and I would have worked it out somehow, but his little nancy had got hold of a gun from somewhere. He aimed it at me, Bill went to stop him and the thing went off. He saw what he’d done and turned it on himself. It was nothing to do with me. There was blood everywhere, a fucking forensic man’s wet dream.'

I was certain that I could hear the lie in his voice but asked, 'So why didn’t you call the police? An ambulance?'

Montgomery was indignant.

'Be reasonable, can you imagine? That would have gone down a storm wouldn’t it?

Anyway, there was no point. They were dead already. I just wanted to get what I’d come for then get out. I tore that office apart.' Montgomery shook his head as if he was still amazed.

'He got his revenge all right. It was only later, when I thought through the night, that it became obvious what had happened. Then I knew I had to find you.' He smiled softly. 'It took a while, but I got you in the end.'

'Do you think so?'

'Look,' the policeman’s voice was reasonable. 'It was a long time ago. I’m a different man from the one I was then. I’ve made a different life. You can understand that. Everyone makes mistakes.' He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wedge of notes. 'I can pay, name your price.'

'Absolution.'

'What?'

I pointed up towards the balcony where the pair of mannequins stood.

'Up there.'

Montgomery shook his head.

'You forget, Wilson, I’ve been dealing with villains for thirty-five years.'

A soft whisper came from above.

'James.'

Montgomery birled round. A third figure had joined the Victorian couple. It stood silhouetted against the shadows, and then stepped down to the edge of the balcony. She was ghost-pale, her eyes set like stabs of jet, lips so bloodless they were almost absent. Her ash-gold hair seemed faded to white and she wore a loose cotton dress that could have been a shroud.

Montgomery’s voice was hoarse with dread.

'Gloria?'

Sheila Montgomery raised her head and stared out at us like vengeance made flesh.

'How could I be Gloria? Gloria’s dead.'

The policeman gasped for air. For a second I thought he might collapse, but then slowly his breaths grew longer and he regained his voice.

'He’s a crook, Sheila.' Montgomery looked at me. 'He’s trying to set me up.'

'In that case he’s done a good job. I saw the photograph, Jim, the one you’re so eager to buy. It was taken years ago.' She gave a bitter laugh. 'Setting you up in his pram was he?'

'No… he …'

The policeman faltered.

'I just heard you admit to standing by while Billy died, tell me what else you’ve done or I’ll think the worst.'

'I never wanted you anywhere near any of this.'

Sheila’s voice was faint.

'Near what?'

'This.' Montgomery spread his hands vaguely. 'I swear… I never touched her.'

'But you knew her? You knew Gloria?'

There was silence as the policeman searched for an excuse and failed. I wondered if there was a release in surrendering to the truth, but if there was, no sign of it appeared on his face. Montgomery looked ten years older than the man I’d first seen in Bill’s club. He sighed and said, 'Yes, I knew her.'

Sheila gasped and I realised that until then, despite the photograph I’d shown her, she’d been unconvinced of her husband’s involvement. Montgomery took a step forward, looking up at the gallery like an aged ruined Romeo.

'I swear, as soon as I met you I knew the affair with Gloria had been nothing. She was nothing compared to you.'

Sheila shouted, 'You think I’m upset about that? You think I care about that? About the sex? You think I’m jealous of Gloria?' She gripped the balcony and fought for composure.

'What did you do, Jim?'

Montgomery talked on, as if he hadn’t heard her, or as if he’d been preparing his speech for a long time.

'We were young… Gloria was bored… she thought it was funny to seduce a policeman…

to have lovers on both sides of the law. I was naïve… unsophisticated… easily flattered.'

Sheila’s voice was shrill.

'You’re blaming her? A dead woman?'

Montgomery whispered.

'No… no… I …'

'Tell me Jim or so help me God I’ll throw myself off this balcony. Did you and Bill Noon kill my sister?'

'No!' James Montgomery looked away from his wife, out into the empty stalls. 'No, I never killed her. It was Bill. He knew she’d been mucking around and he lost his temper.

She fell down the stairs. Nobody meant it, it just happened. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and he made me help him.' His voice was cracking now. 'He made me.'

'And young Bill?'

'I swear I had nothing to do with that.' He took another step forward. 'I never touched Gloria. All I did was help dispose of her body and I’ve been paying for it ever since.'

Heavy footsteps sounded across the stage. Montgomery looked at me, then towards the wings where the tall figure I’d been hoping to see all night was walking towards us.

'No, you haven’t.' Blunt was as scruffy as ever, but his voice was strong and sober.

'You’ve been avoiding it. But you’ll start paying pretty soon.'

Montgomery looked at Blunt blankly, then he saw the uniformed policemen behind him and realised what was happening. He edged backwards across the stage.

I said, 'There’s nowhere to go, Monty, you’ve got to face them.'

James Montgomery took a last step back. Sheila gasped and I reached out to grab him.

Our fingers touched and then he tumbled beyond my grasp. It was as fast and as sure as gravity. The feel of his hand was still upon mine even as I saw him twisting awkwardly and heard the sickening thump.

There was a clatter of police boots and a cackle of radios on the back stairs as the uniforms ran the slow route down. Blunt walked across the stage and looked into the audience pit.

'He’ll live.'

The sound of Sheila Montgomery’s sobbing drifted down from above. Blunt made his way wearily down into the stalls and started to recite the police litany.

'James Montgomery, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention now anything you later rely on in court. Anything you do say will be given in evidence …'

I sank to the floor, put my head in my hands and shut my eyes.

Berlin

SYLVIE’S RED LIPS mouthed something that might have been I love you or Don’t do it or Do it quick. My consciousness shifted and I saw us both caught in a tableau. Sylvie afraid but determined, her pale skin shining as if it were drawing all the light in the warehouse towards her, and me in my ridiculous costume, right arm raising the gun level with my shoulder. Somewhere in the dark the stranger and Dix were watching, waiting for me to go through with the trick, and somewhere far off so was I; still sure the wax was in the chamber, but wondering what it was that I’d missed. I lowered the gun and took a step towards Sylvie. Scared as she’d looked, her fear had been nothing to the terror that suddenly shadowed her face.

'Come on, dear,' her voice shook with the effort of calm. 'Why don’t you show them our William Tell act?'

And I realised that the die was cast. I had been tempted with money and performance pride but something worse than humiliation would happen if I rejected the challenge now.

I slid from my position on the outside, back into myself, breathed deeply, raised my arm, slowly took aim, squeezed the trigger and fired. The glass shattered and the target flew backwards into the centre of an explosion of noise and red.

I sank to the floor, into the warmth of my own piss, putting my head in my hands, feeling a thousand shards of glass rain down on me, scattering across the floor like diamonds spilled by a careless hand.

I crouched there, hearing nothing but the repeat of the blast exploding over and over in my ears. After what seemed like a long time Dix touched my shoulder.

'Here,' his voice was gentle. 'Swallow, you’ll feel better.'

I kept my eyes on the ground unable to run towards the red blur at the edge of my vision and asked, 'Did I kill her?'

'Shhhh.'

Dix prised open my mouth and slipped a pill beneath my tongue. I swallowed then hunched back on the floor, letting darkness claim me. He was right, oblivion was better than the knowledge of what I’d done.

Consciousness brought the sharp tang of disinfectant. My first thought was that they weren’t making hospital beds any softer. But when I forced open my eyes I lay curled in a square of sunlight beneath the warehouse’s skylight. The shadows of pigeons roosting in the roof above crawled across me. One touched my face; I winced and raised a hand to bat it away though it was nothing.

I thought of Sylvie. The vision of her ruined body dropping to the floor flashed into my mind in bloody Technicolor. There was a sudden pain in my gut and I twisted into it, heaving deep dry sobs whose echoes were my only replies. Above me the birds launched into the air, their wings beating out a fractured rhythm; I thought of the sound a pistol makes and groaned.

I’m not sure how much time passed before I managed to raise my head, but I know it was a long interval between that first move and struggling to my feet. Someone had covered me with my raincoat. I pulled it on and stumbled like a three-day drunk to the spot where Sylvie had fallen. The warehouse was huge and empty, a transitory space where things were stored then moved on, where women were shot then disappeared and shattered conjurers stood and wondered what to do next.

Someone had done a good job. There was no sign left of my crime, except for a patch on the floorboards that was cleaner than the rest, where traces of blood and tooth would still be stored, if you knew how to look. I got down on my knees and traced my fingertips across it. The boards were rough and unpolished, their surface still vaguely damp.

My hand went into my pocket feeling for the gun, but instead of hard metal my fingers closed around a stiff paper package. I drew it out and looked at a large bundle of euros, more cash than I’d ever seen. I stared blankly at the money then put it back in my pocket, fastened my coat and stepped out into the open air, walking a long way until I felt straight enough to hail a cab. The door to Sylvie and Dix’s flat was open, the place abandoned. I’m not sure how long I stayed there, sitting on Dix’s chair, pulling at the gaffer-taped tear in its arm, wondering what had happened and what to do, waiting for the police to arrive. But some time after it had become clear that no one was going to come for me, I found myself on a flight home to Glasgow.

London

IT FELT GOOD to be back in London. A friend of Eilidh and John’s had a studio apartment he’d wanted to let in a hurry. Johnny had given me a reference that dispensed with the deposit and I’d managed to cobble together a month’s rent. After dumping my few things in the flat my next stop was Rich’s office.

I braced myself for Mrs Pierce’s disapproval but there was a young woman at the desk.

Slim and dark, with short black hair framing a pixie-like face.

She called Rich on the intercom and he buzzed me straight through.

'Bloody hell, I thought you were dead or in jail.'

'Neither.' I sat on the visitors’ chair. 'What happened to Mrs Pierce?'

'Retired, said she had no desire to work past sixty.' Rich looked disgusted. 'I don’t know what’s happening, William, used to be you got loyalty, now what do you get? Women who work for you for forty years then suddenly want to spend time with their grandchildren. I ask you.' He looked at me. 'Oh I get it, what you mean is, who’s the sweet young thing sitting out front?'

'My womanising days are over.'

Rich smiled like he’d heard it all before.

'That says a lot about why you’ve been off the map. I’ll tell you what my old dad, God rest his soul, told me. He said, Don’t go for the good-looking ones Richie, they’ll only give you grief. He was right. My mother was an ugly woman, God rest her, and Mrs Banks…

have you met my wife?'

I shook my head. 'No.'

'Well, Mrs Banks is what they used to call homely, but she’s a wonderful woman, William, a good mother, good cook and… well… Take my advice, find a woman who thinks she’s lucky to have you and she’ll treat you like a king.'

'I’ll give that serious thought. In the meantime I was wondering if you’ve got anything in my line.'

Rich blew through his lips.

'Nada. Summer season starts in a couple of weeks and I’ll more than likely manage to scrape something up for you then if you’re still looking but right now trade’s as dry as Mrs Pierce without her HRT.'

I raised my eyebrows and he said, 'Crude, I know, but that woman left me in the lurch.

Been threatening to go for years, then suddenly she’s off. Unbelievable.'

He took a cigar out of his desk and started to unwrap it.

'Is that the best you can do?'

Rich shrugged.

'I told you, it’s quiet. You know the drill. Work up something good and come and see me in time for the Summer Season casualties. Bound to be some lushed-up comedian hits the skids and needs replacing.'

I shook my head.

'Always the bridesmaid.'

'They also serve who only stand and wait, William.'

'Christ, if I ever end up as a waiter I’ll saw myself in half and disappear up my own jacksie.'

'If you learn how to do that get in touch but in the meantime…'

'Cheerio?'

'You always did catch on quick.' He picked up the phone. 'Rozena, Mr Wilson’s on his way out now. Don’t let him chat you up, he’s got no money and fewer prospects.' He put the phone down. 'My accountant’s daughter, I promised him she wouldn’t lose her virginity on the premises.'

I said, 'You’ve nothing to fear from me.'

'It’s not my virtue that I’m worried about, son.'

I closed the door just as his phlegmy laugh descended into coughs.

Rozena put an arm over the file she was reading but too slowly for her to hide that it was mine.

'Interesting?'

'It confirms what Mr Banks said. No job, no prospects, but reading between the lines I’d say you know your way around.'

'Only because I’ve been around for a long time.'

'Long enough to give a girl a guided tour?'

It was the kind of offer that only comes once or twice in a lifetime. She smiled and I saw how even her teeth were. A lot of book balancing had gone into making that perfect smile. I lifted the file, looked at my own grinning face clipped to the right-hand corner, slid the photo from the folder and put it in my pocket. If I ever came back to the office I’d replace it with one that looked like me.

I said, 'There’s a tour bus leaves Marble Arch every half-hour, I’ve heard they give a good commentary.'

And went out into the sunshine.

Back out in the street my phone beeped. I flipped it open and read the new text.

Gt yr arse up2 Glesga by 25 June you’ve got a wedding 2go2 — Johnny I texted back A OK and replaced the phone in my pocket. I wasn’t the best man but that was all right, when was I ever?

I caught the underground to Tottenham Court Road then walked into Soho. I was making a new life. That meant no avoided streets and no-go areas, and that meant facing up to the past.

Maybe I was half aware of the clatter of high heels and the scream of giggles gaining on me from behind as I approached my destination. But if I thought about it at all I probably imagined it was the sound of a couple of teenage shop-girls released from the prison of their counters and making the most of their lunch hour. Then someone hooked my left arm in theirs and an instant later a second person put an arm around my shoulder, hugging me into a squeeze. I jarred to a halt.

Shaz giggled.

'Remember us?'

It was a moment before I regained enough breath to reply.

'How could I forget?'

Jacque looked at me.

'Did we give you a fright?'

'Maybe a wee bit.'

The girls laughed. Jacque’s hair was cut short and streaked three different shades of blonde. Shaz’s dark curls were perhaps a trifle longer. But otherwise the Divines looked unchanged from when I’d seen them last, except of course that they had their clothes on.

'You’re both looking great.'

They chimed thanks. Nobody complimented me on my weight loss, but perhaps they hadn’t noticed.

Jacque let go of my arm.

'That was one weird night wasn’t it? You know Bill was shot?'

'Yeah, I heard.'

'Lucky we were well clear by that time.' Shaz shook her head. 'He always was an oddball.'

'Was he?'

'Oh for sure, way out in cuckoo land.'

Jacque giggled.

'He was off the cuckoo map.'

Shaz joined in.

'Way out in the cuckoo sea.'

'Without a cuckoo paddle.'

I broke in before they could stretch the fantasy further.

'It’s good to see you looking so well…'

Shaz cut me off.

'Ah no, you don’t escape us so easily.'

She caught hold of my left arm again and her girlfriend took my right.

'Come and have a drink.'

'I was heading somewhere.'

Jacque nipped my wrist.

'A couple of exotic dancers not good enough for you anymore?'

'It’s not that …'

'What then?'

I wanted to say I couldn’t be trusted around women, but the explanation would be too long and too strange so instead I smiled and said, 'OK, where do you fancy?'

Jacque giggled.

'That’s why we came chasing after you. There’s something you’ve got to see.'

Shaz looked at her watch.

'And if we’re quick we’ll just be in time.'

After Montgomery’s arrest I had expected to find myself back in the cells en route for extradition to a German jail, but Sylvie’s name was never mentioned. Eventually, during one of the long debriefing and drinking sessions that took place between Blunt and me, where some of the liberties we’d taken were edited out of our recollections, I steeled myself and said, 'Montgomery threatened my mother.'

'The guy was desperate and ruthless, not a good combination.'

'It got him pretty far up the police ranks.'

Blunt gave me a look.

'It doesn’t matter what line you’re in, the bosses generally feature a couple of successful psychopaths.'

'Is that right?'

He nodded.

'Makes sense when you think about it, explains why all bosses are cunts.'

I nodded and took a sip of my beer.

'He also threatened a lassie I was friendly with in Berlin. I wondered if he mentioned her?'

'Nah, he’s not going to drop himself in it is he? Was it nasty?'

I thought back to our encounter in the pub beneath the railway arches.

'He said, 'I know all about your little German girlfriend.''

'Typical con talk. He knew you had a girlfriend so he threatens her as a matter of course. Maybe he knows where she lives or works, maybe not. But he brings her up and you go into a panic. It’s an old trick.'

'I thought …'

'What?'

'I guess I didn’t think. I just reacted.'

Blunt snorted.

'Aye well, some women have that effect. Make you imagine all sorts of daft things.'

I’d nodded and downed the rest of my pint.

The trial filled the papers for weeks. Montgomery had admitted to helping dispose of Gloria Noon’s body, but still maintained her death had been an accident. Gloria and he had been having an affair for six months before Bill Noon had got wise and made a point of coming home early. Montgomery stuck to his story, maintaining that Noon had caught them together and Gloria had fallen down the stairs in the ensuing argument, hitting a fatal blow to her head. He’d panicked and he and Bill had disposed of the body, pooling their gangster/police expertise to ensure Gloria would never be found. It was their shared experience of crimes and villains that decided them to take the photograph as insurance.

Montgomery described their controlled fear, how he and Bill senior had become uneasy allies and hatched a plan, waited till dark then driven through the night before slipping Gloria’s weighted body into the country park lake. Then they’d kept on driving, forced to stick together until the shops opened and they were able to lodge the film in a distant quick-developing chemist’s. He and Bill had sat together in silence, deep beneath the earth in an underground car park, until the prints were ready. Then they’d taken a copy each and burnt the negative together.

The bond between them had been formed that night. Maybe it was a union forged in blood and taboo, or maybe they were simply greedy men who each found an ally on the other side. Because after that evening neither man seemed able to leave the other quite alone, and the jury heard how many of Bill senior’s scams and undertakings had benefited from Montgomery’s influence.

There was no one left to dispute Montgomery’s story. He admitted a lot in the hope that a show of honesty and contrition would validate his denial of involvement in Gloria’s death.

But the Crown charged him with murder and the jury agreed.

The evidence regarding Bill and Sam’s deaths was inconclusive. Montgomery was right, the scene had been a forensic man’s wet dream and now that they knew to look, his fingerprints and DNA were all over the place. But Montgomery had never denied being in Bill’s office when the shots were fired, though he vehemently refuted pulling the trigger. At the very least, he had watched the two men die and made no attempt to call for help. That was enough to convince the jury of his ruthlessness and he was found guilty on two more counts of murder, though Eilidh thought Montgomery’s defence might succeed in getting them overturned on appeal.

Whatever the truth, James Montgomery was going away for a very long time to a place where policemen were welcomed with a special kind of glee. There would be no family visits and no one waiting for him if he ever came out. It was justice of a sort, but I kept thinking of his fading wife and wondering if she could ever reconcile the price paid for discovering her sister’s fate.

The Divines stopped in front of a building I knew well, though I’d only visited it once before.

Shaz grinned.

'Recognise it?'

'You’ve got to be kidding me.'

'No joke, William.'

We’d unknowingly had the same destination in mind, but if I’d not been led there I might easily have walked past. Bill’s old club was no longer the blank-faced dive where we’d met on that first night. It had undergone a paint job and a glowing peppermint-green sign proclaimed it BUMPERS.

Jacque looked admiringly at the building’s fresh facade.

'And who do you think the new management are?'

I shook my head.

'I can honestly say I’ve not got a Scooby.' The Divines’ excited smiles registered. 'You?'

They chorused Yes! Jacque caught me by the elbow.

'Come on, William, or you’ll miss your treat.'

The doorman smiled at the women then put his broad body in front of me.

'Are you a member, sir?'

'It’s all right, Dave, he’s with us.'

Dave looked unsure, but he stepped out of the way and let me through. The lounge where I had performed my act and the girls had danced for the policemen was transformed.

Banks of purple couches now grouped around its edge and where the mirror ball had half-heartedly rotated, a massive crystal chandelier shimmered from the ceiling. Airbrushed photographs of big-breasted women with wet, open mouths hung around the walls in oversized gilt frames. I thought that the models looked mildly pained, as if they had eaten something that disagreed with them. But all of this decoration was merely an adjunct to the room’s focus: a mirrored stage pierced by a silver pole.

'No offence girls, you’ve done a grand job, but I’m not sure this is my kind of place.'

'It never was, William,' Shaz nodded to a waitress. 'But wait till you see this, it’s right up your street.'

I’d thought I’d seen her face before and been mistaken so many times that I had learnt not to trust my senses. But when she stepped out from the darkness I knew that this time she was for real.

She strode across the small stage wearing a smart black business suit edged with white cuffs, raising her hands palm out, showing they were empty, then conjured forth a red silk handkerchief from nowhere. Her slender fingers folded the silk in on itself and made it disappear. She held her hands up once more as if amazed by their emptiness. Her eyes opened wide as she ripped off the white cuffs one by one and threw them behind her, then repeated the trick, conjuring the red square from nothing. Her smile was bright and daring as she moved with the music, slowly peeling off her conservative jacket, flinging it in the same direction as the cuffs, revealing a lacy black bra beneath. Once again the handkerchief suddenly appeared between her fingers. She waved it in the air, folded it away, then looked down at her skirt, raising her eyebrows cheekily as she slid down its zip, dropping the skirt to the floor and kicking it off-stage. Now she was wearing nothing but her underwear and shoes. The red hanky was relentless. It appeared again in her hand and once more she folded it into extinction. The trick was simple, something a precocious six-year-old could master, but I was mesmerised. I shook my head, a smile working its way across my face as her bra and knickers each hit the deck in turn and she stood before us naked. I got to my feet, ready to applaud, but she wasn’t finished yet. The naughty magician glanced down at herself, put her hand towards her sex and once more drew forth the red scrap of material.

She flung her hands in the air, made the hanky vanish for the last time and bent into a bow.

There was a dismal mid-afternoon round of applause from the half-empty tables. I got to my feet, started clapping my hands as hard as I could and cheered. Shaz and Jacque smiled at me, pleased I’d enjoyed their joke. They couldn’t know that it wasn’t the handkerchief trick I was applauding, but another more spectacular illusion. Sylvie looked in my direction and our eyes met.

We were the only people in the dressing-room. Sylvie cleared a space amongst the discarded fragments of costumes — the used tissues, abandoned makeup, kirby grips and hairbrushes — and pulled herself up onto the counter with her back to the mirror. I drew up a chair and sat opposite her. The sign above Sylvie’s head said NO SMOKING.

She took a pack of cigarettes from her robe and offered me one. I sparked both of us up.

She inhaled and gave me a smile through the smoke.

'So, William, mad at me?'

I thought for a long moment, keeping my eyes on her face.

'I should want to kill you.'

Sylvie pulled the lid from a can of hairspray, flicked her ash into it and gave the smile that had dazzled me in Berlin. It was still worth seeing.

'I guessed you’d wash up in London.'

'Is that why you came here?'

'Perhaps.'

'Perhaps?'

Sylvie shrugged.

'It’s a small world, smaller business. I guessed we’d run into each other sooner or later.'

Disbelief caught in the back of my throat.

'You guessed we’d run into each other?' She drew on her cigarette and her eyes narrowed against the smoke.

'You could of found me William, if you’d cared to look.' She laughed and held her hands out, indicating the tawdry room. 'Seek and you shall find.'

'Have you any idea of what you did to me, Sylvie?' I shook my head, stumbling for words. 'Christ, I don’t know what to ask first. Why or how? How? How did you manage it?'

Sylvie smiled wearily.

'Smoke and mirrors, auto-suggestion. I primed you, planted the seed that everything was going to go wrong, then when Dix set off the effect you believed it. You were on your knees and in shock practically before I hit the deck.'

'I still don’t understand. Why Sylvie? Did I do something to deserve it?'

She looked at her feet and wiggled her toes.

'Do you think we get what we deserve? No, you didn’t deserve it. It was necessary. The show was the price Dix had to pay to clear his debts.'

'Then why not let me in on it? I thought I’d killed you.' I added emphasis to my words.

'I thought I was a murderer. Have you any idea how horrible that feels?'

'I guess not.' She raised her head. 'Sorry, William, your reaction was central to the effect.' She smiled. 'You couldn’t have faked it.'

My voice was bitter.

'No, I guess not.'

Sylvie sighed.

'Dix got out of his depth. The men he was in debt to wanted to make a tape that would recoup what he owed and punish him at the same time.' She leant over and touched my hand. 'You were the opposite of a murderer and I was grateful… very grateful. I made Dix leave you a whole bunch of money.'

I slid my hand from under hers.

'Money I thought was covered in your blood.' Sylvie looked at her feet again and I asked, 'So Dix made on the deal?'

Her voice took on a brittle, jaunty tone.

'You know Dix, always an eye to an angle. For every official watcher there’ll be others in the wings, for every video there’ll be a dozen copies.'

The thought of the episode captured on countless tapes, trapped in the worldwide web, sweated over by an infinite audience of nameless viewers struck me. The realisation must have shown in my expression because Sylvie said, 'Don’t worry, the only face on show is mine.'

I forced my voice calm.

'How is Dix?'

Sylvie looked away.

'He’s fine.'

'A rich man?'

She smiled.

'You know money, it has a habit of evaporating.'

'Hence…'

I looked around at the dressing-room.

'Yes,' she smiled. 'Hence.'

'So,' I asked the question I’d wanted to know the answer to even in the first shock of our reunion, 'Dix is here with you?'

Sylvie nodded.

I said, 'Send him my regards.'

'You are mad at me, William.'

I shrugged.

'No, I’m not mad. I was, but I’m not now.' I got to my feet. 'Take care of yourself, Sylvie.'

She took a last drag and looked at me. For a second I thought she might ask me to stay, but instead she stubbed her cigarette out in the makeshift ashtray and gave me her special smile, the one that could have had them cheering all the way to the gods.

'You too, William.'

I closed the door of the dressing-room and walked out of the club, into the late-afternoon bustle of Soho.

Sheila Montgomery once said that if her sister turned up alive and well she would be tempted to kill her for all the pain she had caused. I knew now that wasn’t true. The revelation of Sylvie’s betrayal hurt, but it didn’t hurt as much as when I thought I’d killed her. I’d entered the club a murderer and left it absolved. That had to be worth a celebratory drink.

There was a decent pub close by that kept the racing on TV all afternoon. I turned the corner and started to walk towards it, the memory of Sylvie’s smile shining sweet and sad in my head.

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