Just One Trick

Way back then:

The boy walked slowly across the stage to the lectern.  There was a large plastic bag in his hand, but other than the clock pinned to a beam above his head and the lectern, the stage was bare.  The audience was actually fairly quiet and attentive, perhaps intrigued at the rare sight of one of their own on the stage.  Though clearly a teenager by the gangliness of his limbs, his voice displayed no lack of confidence when he spoke.

“Hey,” he began, as though speaking to only one person.  “I’d like to show you a trick.”  This got their undivided attention and the slouchers even shifted to face forward.  Up on stage the boy appeared to gain momentum from this.  “It’s a really simple trick,” he continued.  “I’m just going to make the clock,” and here he leaned forward, twisted up and pointed.  “Move forward by five minutes.  Really simple.”  The crowd were rather underwhelmed by that and there were groans and a few snide comments.  None of it derailed the young man’s process though and he carefully removed a big piece of grey cardboard from the plastic bag and held it above his head, covering the clock from view.  There was a picture drawn on the cardboard but it was too convoluted to really make out.  “Okay.  Ready?” he asked cheerfully.  “After the count of five.  5, 4, 3, 2...” and then he stopped, put the cardboard down on the lectern, sat down on the stage next to it and settled in to wait.

It was then that you noticed the silence.  Also, every head was bowed.  Soft, sonorous, breathing sounds slowly came to the fore.  By the time the first gurgled snore rang out, there could be no doubt.  Every single person in the assembly hall, barring the boy, was fast asleep.

And so it went on.  A few people even walked past the windows on one side but this made no difference.  When five minutes were up, the boy casually stood up, hoisted the cardboard above his head again...and resumed his countdown.

“Two!” he said loudly to rouse everyone, then: “One.  Sweet as!” and put down the cardboard.  Astonishment flooded the room whilst the boy packed away the cardboard.  He was halfway off the stage before the applause began.  It became rapturous an instant later.  The boy stopped, grinned, waved, then walked on.  

Harris stopped the tape at that point and turned to me.

“He was seventeen when he did that,” he said.

Now:

You just wouldn’t expect a multi-millionaire to open his own front door, yet that’s exactly what Martin West did.  Nor was his house the grand pile I’d been expecting either.  True, it languished towards the more exclusive end of this typically American slice of suburbia, but it wasn’t the biggest estate here nor was it the most secluded.

He looked, essentially, like a perfect matured specimen of the boy I’d seen on the tape.  Almost as though a computer program had been used to age him, rather than Life with all its invisible workings.  Money must iron out the wrinkles in everything.

He hurried me down an elegant hallway, through a parlour decorated with sunset as its overriding theme, and into a vast study that looked out onto immaculate gardens.  I dreamt about rooms like this; a wall of books down one side facing a tasteful assortment of art - paintings and carvings.  Opposite the door I’d just entered were room-high French windows offering a tantalising inspection of the glory outside.  The desk, sprawling and boomerang-shaped, was set to face these with the apex pointing like an arrow.  West made a decision to sit with his back to the windows rather than make me walk round.  Which made me feel like it was my desk, my study, my gardens.  He clearly knew lots about putting people at ease.

“You know, she didn’t actually note down what it was we were supposed to be talking about,” said West thoughtfully.  He’d whipped on a pair of glasses and was consulting a ledger.  He looked up and closed the thing with a snap.  “This has happened once before so I can only assume that you’re from MI6,”he stated, beaming at me.

Of course he knew. No-one who could be ransomed for a decent amount of money was opening their front door without first evaluating the risk involved entirely.  I nodded at him.

“I take it the other occasion was your first brush with the security services?” I asked.  West’s face lost his smile and he looked away.  

“The American.  Yes,” he answered.  I shifted.

“May I ask what he said to you?”

He shrugged.  I’d heard that if you called him Marty, as some fawning, odorous, show-business agent types had done in the past, he was very likely to hypnotise you into emptying your bladder right there and then.

“It was simple, really,” said Martin West.  “He said he needed me to come with him as they’d like to ask me some questions about how I did some of my tricks.  He made it clear, he wasn’t asking.”

Back then:

“That’s pretty impressive,” I said.  Harris shook his blonde head.  

“It’s incredible.  We’ve asked the best, and they all conclude that it would be impossible to hypnotise that many people all at the same time to that degree.  And with such precision.”  Well, clearly the people we’ve been asking aren’t the ‘best’, I thought.  Harris turned back to the screen.  “He didn’t even use any commands.”  I frowned.  Surely the countdown was the prompt.  

“How many people were in there?” I asked.  

“Ninety-six.  Both years of the sixth form.”

That did sound like too many.  Still. 

“Okay so it’s a good trick.  A really good trick even.  Why exactly are we interested in this?”  Harris gave a tight wrench of one cheek, showing he wasn’t thrilled with the answer he was about to give.  

“It’s common cause, I’m afraid.  We’re interested because they’re interested.”

I pushed a hand around my face.  These were never good.

“FBI?”

“CIA actually.  They believe they can use some of his techniques.”

My eyes flicked to one side.  A reflex I’d found, when the preposterous was being touted, to check that the fourth wall still held.  

“Well.  Good luck with that.  Why don’t we just leave them to it?”

At that Harris’s voice became firm.

“Because technically he’s still a British citizen.”  Ahh.  Really? I couldn’t recall a time when Martin West hadn’t been in America.  Harris knew my thoughts though.  “Yes, he’s been there for ever and he’s got a green card but he never gave up his passport and you can still hear Lancing College in his voice sometimes.”

Wow, I thought.  That wasn’t just an affectation for the stage?  I was surprised.  Martin West was a world-wide name as far as magic was concerned.  David Copperfield without the spookiness.  He had done a few tv shows where he wandered the streets tricking for the general public but he was really a stage magician in the grand tradition.  I posed a question:

“They’ve made contact?”

Harris looked a bit wary before answering and I tensed up.

“They sent a man out to bring him in. CIA fellow.  He came back empty-handed.”

“How empty-handed?”

Harris cleared his throat.

“He was found, hours later, wandering around the local train station with no recollection of the previous twenty-four.”

Whoa.

“Another good trick,” I said.  

“Indeed.  The medics have been at him too.  He’s perfectly fine, he hasn’t been hypnotised.  In fact they insist there’s been no neuro-suggestion of any kind.  He’s just never heard of Martin West.”

“So now it’s our turn?”

Harris snorted.

“Sort of.  They were going to send a retrieval unit to get him, take no chances, that sort of thing.  Then they remembered he was a high-profile British National and asked us if we’d like the opportunity to prove to them that he wasn’t a threat.”

I frowned again.

“That’s a third neat trick to go from possible asset to possible threat so quickly,” I said.  “I’m not sure I can see how he managed it.”

“Yes, well.  That was before he wiped the mind of an intelligence agent without leaving a mark.”

“But the agent can still do his job just as well as before, and is completely unharmed from what I gather.  And if anything, managing that feat should make him morevaluable.  All of which ignores the fact that if they hadn’t bothered him, he would’ve gone on minding his own business forever.”  Harris plucked a speck from his immaculate trousers and smoothed down the fabric.

“There is the embarrassment factor,” he said without looking up.  I stared for a moment, truly surprised.

“They’re not serious,” I stated.  “If they were, they’d ignore all that and offer him no taxes for a year just to consult.”

Harris arched an eye slightly before commenting. 

“Bit of an exaggeration but you're essentially right,” he acceded. “But it’s borderline.  It could be serious without too much urging.  Will you just go and see the man?”

I shifted.

“When you say ‘see’...?”

“I mean talk to him.  Assess whether he’s liable to start brainwashing the wrong people.  Or worse, teaching his methods to the wrong people.  I don’t bloody care whether he can do real magic or not, just so long as he only ever does it to earn a living and not for some cause.”

“Even if it’s our cause?”

Harris looked at me with a tirade behind his eyes.

“Things are hard enough in here without the unquantifiable and the uncontrollable,” he declared.  “Or more of them, anyway.”

Now:

Martin West handed me a cup.

“Thank you,” I said, remembering that no unnatural substances had been discovered in the CIA man’s system.  Still.  I pretended to take a sip, then blew on it a few times.  “Can I ask what you did to him?” I said, referring back to our embarrassed friend.  West looked a bit confused.

“Didn’t do anything.  I said ‘no’, reminded him of my rights, and showed him to the door.  Why d’you think I did something?”  I couldn’t be bothered playing that game and took another pretend sip that dribbled some tea down the side of the cup and onto the saucer.  

“You know, they think you can do real magic,’’ I said instead.  West feigned surprise.

“And you’re sane, so you don’t think that.”

“I think you can do some things that would probably be quite useful in the field, but I’m really here to see whether you’d share such secrets with us, and more importantly, whether you’d share them with those aligned against us.  Personally, I’d rather you kept all your secrets to yourself.”

He looked at me, possibly a little shocked at my frankness, and slowly a little smile began to play along his features.  

“You’re assuming I could teach these things,” he said.  I stared.  “Think about it,” he continued.  “If I could do real magic I think we can agree that considering human history up to now, that would make me thoroughly unique.  Which would mean that there would be no way I could pass on my ability in the same way I couldn’t teach you to roll your tongue if neither of your parents carried the gene for it.  It would be intrinsic to me.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Then we’d need you,” I said.  Martin West laughed.

“At forty-seven?  You’d be better off attempting to groom one of the kids.”

I closed my eyes for a moment; the man had a veritable brood.

“We know you have kids,” I said neutrally.  West beamed at me.

“A surprising number, isn’t it?”  I would’ve said ‘alarming’.  “I have them all round here for a month every summer.  It’s like camp!” he squealed.  “However I can assure you that none of them have shown the slightest bit of spookiness.  If they had, their mothers would be claiming more in upkeep.  Assuming that was possible.”  He took a long drink of tea.  “Look, I’m passionate about magic, swimming, electronica, and Malaysian cuisine,” he said.  “Oh, and er, women obviously.”

“Of course.”

“But if the current Miss Malaysia were a lifeguard who DJ-ed on weekends, and she asked me how to make an elephant disappear, I’d kick her arse!” he roared, took another drink then carried on.  “You don’t have to take my word for it either.  You can ask my mum.”  I put a finger to my temple. 

“I’m afraid getting your mother to vouch for your character isn’t terribly convincing,” I sighed.

“Oh she won’t vouch for me.  She’ll vouch for the consequences!” he assured me.  “When I first started doing magic, everyone in my family was just about tolerant with me.  But then one day I showed them something new, something they’d never seen before.  It was the first trick I’d devised myself and they suddenly realised I had real talent.  

“Afterwards, I was almost sick with pride remembering their gobsmacked faces.  That’s when my mum pulled me through the house by my ear, into the kitchen and promised that if I ever took advantage of those looks, other than to make an honourable living, I’d better hope that God found me before she did.”  His eyes sank to the desk.  “As it is I get half-hour lectures every time about all the women.”

“How does she feel about ‘camp’?”

A sly glint came into his eye, and he started smiling again.

“She’s delightfully appalled.  Or appallingly delighted, depending on her mood.  Lord knows they all adore her.  Treat her like the Queen.  You know, it’s the only time they don’t swear, when she’s around.  Myself included.  Don’t know how she fucking does it!”

I smiled. Intimating familial details was an excellent method of getting someone on side.  It was hard to tell if West knew what he was doing or if it just came naturally.  A master crowd-pleaser; even with an audience of one.

Back then:

“He’s very, very, clever,” confirmed Harris.  He’d moved back behind his desk now.  “You cannot forget that.  For the most part he’s kept to the script.  The same types of shows pulling the same types of tricks as all the others.  He regularly makes up a few new ones that only afficionados of a certain level can decipher.  He can do magic as we know it, all well and good.  But then every now and then he’ll do something simple, without any grandstanding and certainly not as a finale, that’ll be absolutely improbable.”  He gave me one of his long stares to make sure I got the message.  It was too much, as ever, and made me fidget.  I gestured at the screen.

“He can’t be that clever,” I suggested.  Harris gave that austere smile that was the closest I’d ever seen him get to laughter.  

“He couldn’t possibly have known about it.  It was actually set-up to record the fifth-form drama class dress-rehearsal beforehand, but they overran and had to exit in a hurry.  No-one remembered to turn the tape off till much later and never bothered to watch what happened either.

“He had a picture-perfect cardboard cut-out of the clock in that plastic bag, with the time drawn to show five minutes before.  He conveniently let this slip out on the way back to his room.  Everyone assumed he’d tacked it on beforehand and then whipped it off at the right moment.  Who’s going to notice the clock is five minutes slow while filing into the hall?  That’s why no-one bothered to watch the tape.  No need.”

“So how did this turn up?” I asked.

“The rumour is, one of his less equitable contemporaries went digging for dirt and got more than he bargained for,” replied Harris with a telling raise of the eyebrows that hinted at the scale of the original surprise.

“They must’ve realised that releasing it would just make him more rich and famous,” I muttered.  

“Precisely.  But they were sufficiently unnerved to hand it in to the Magic Circle, who eventually passed it on to our venerable friends in intelligence.”

“What?  The Magic Circle didn’t confront him about it?”

“Of course they did.  Asked him to share.  Demanded, begged and bargained.  He said ‘no’.”

“That was it?”

Harris flicked his eyes at me.

“He does have a reputation,” he said in answer.  Clearly.  Institutions like the Magic Circle weren’t accustomed to not getting their own way.  Must’ve been “‘No’, with a grenade attached” as my Primary Headmaster had been fond of saying. Harris, looked at me again, sighed, and then turned to face me squarely.  “Look.  Realistically speaking, there’s nothing he could teach us about doing...anything, really.  If he has a special skill then it’s unique to him.  I’d like to think we’d never be in a situation where we’d have to utilise a civilian, no matter how gifted.”

“Still,” I mused.  “We’re going to have to keep tabs on him anyway now just in case anyone else tries to use him.”  Harris’s eyes had returned to the papers on his desk and he’d swivelled away again somewhat.  

“Yes, well that’s where you come in,” he said.  “A limpet in his drink should entail a doctor’s visit and then we can get him properly tagged.  He’s made a good start on immunising himself to all of this by being so ridiculously high-profile.”  He looked up.  “That’s enough to dissuade even the most inconvenienced agency.”

Now:

“You know what?” asked West, developing a grin.  “Being a secret agent sounds like fun.  You guys really want me to work with you?”

Finally, I thought.  The perfect reason for not getting the job; wanting it.

“You only get in if you can bring something new to the table,” I said.  “I’ve got all kinds of methods and drugs for getting the truth out of people.  Same goes for subduing them, coercing them, and making them believe whatever I want them to.  On top of which, I broke in here last week and inserted this appointment into all your diaries.  Mimicking your secretaries’ handwriting was the easiest part.  I didn’t have to do it that way but I wanted to prove the point.  All those things took, was preparation and practice.  If your methods require the same and don’t work any better then I really can’t see the point.  Especially if you’re the only one who can use them.”

To be fair to him, he recovered from the shock of finding his home had been invaded quite quickly, yet still didn’t respond for some time.  There isn’t much one can say to such news though so I let him have the time and didn’t query when he switched topics.

“You know what would be awful about being able to do real magic?” he asked, gaze finally returning from the middle distance to fix on me.  “The expectation.  For the most part I just have to move my hands quicker than your eyes, or hide mundane pieces of equipment around the stage and people are amazed.  Can you imagine being expected to fix real life-threatening problems with a click of your fingers?”  He was talking as though we’d come to an agreement that he wasn’t a real magician.  “What if you could only help one person at a time and then needed three days rest?  Should you spend your life in service in a hut in Africa?”

I decided to indulge him seeing as he’d clearly wrestled with this for a while.

“Those are two different questions with the same answer,” I said.  “It all depends on the scope of your abilities.  If you could fix global problems then you would be god and appropriate expectation would follow.  If you could merely heal the sick one at a time, then that’s what we’d expect you to do with our incurable diseases and disorders.  It’s not as though we don’t reasonably compensate doctors, and they can’t do anything like that so... of course you should spend your life doing it.  Unless you could find some way of living with yourself otherwise.”  There was a silence following that and it threatened to stretch so I cleared my throat to bring us back on surer ground.  “As it happens, now that you’re on the radar, that question is almost immaterial.  Those people who watch us will wonder why both ourselves and the Americans took such a sudden interest.  They might want to check you out,” I said with as much menacing meaning as I could muster.  West was puzzled.

“Those who watch you? Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” He asked with a smile.  I snorted.

“Absolutely bloody everyone as it turns out.  Every security service has got a close eye on its enemies and a beady one on its allies.  We all watch each other.”

“And now you’re going to watch me too?”

“Yep.  Not that you’ll notice.”

“I feel a little flattered.”  I eyed him and briefly wondered if he could repeatedly make someone forget to torture him.  Martin West though, was off philosophising again.  “You know what else is funny about real magic?” he began again.  “You’d only really need one trick.  You could build a whole spectacle of wonder off it.  Like being able to make people forget things or forget what they were doing.  That’s all it would take!”

I stared at him.  Was making people fall asleep his one trick?  But then all his tricks would involve doing things that didn’t take much time at all.  I also wondered if he’d actually made me so dismissive of his abilities, but I was dismissive long before I got here.  I got up.

“I do have one request,” I said.

“You want to see a trick,” he guessed, which did surprise me, but he waved it away.  “I’m a magician.  I’d be offended if you didn’t ask.”  I wondered if the CIA man had made that mistake.

“One trick in particular though,” I continued.  “The shoe trick.”

He frowned.

“Really?”

“I understand if that’s a problem.”  West’s face went flat.

“How easy or difficult it is is an issue for me,” he intoned.  “It’s just interesting because that one’s not exactly famous and you didn’t strike me as a fan.”

“Research,” I quipped.  He got up and came round the desk; the walk of a showman now.  

“Let’s see them then,” he said, so I showed him my shoes.  I admit to picking them specially.  Brown suede wingtips with perforated accents, size 11, from Patrick Cox.  West raised his eyebrows.

“Very nice,” he said then looked back at me.  “You know what’s weird about this trick?  If you do it on stage and pick someone out of the audience they don’t really rate it.  But if you do it on the street with someone who’s just jumped out of a taxi, the logistics of it blows their mind.”  I imagined it would.  “Now normally, I’d need an empty shoebox to show you but I think we’ve got an opportunity to do things better.  Follow me.”  He marched me back through the house and down the hallway to the front door.  I was leaving anyway but here he was actually kicking me out.  When we got there he steered me towards a low chest with drawers either side of a central cabinet.  “These’ll do,” he said.  “Left or right?”

“Left,” I said, at which he winked at me and pulled out the right-hand drawer.  There inside was a size 11, brown suede wingtip shoe with perforated accents.  A left one.

Back then : 

Muriel looked out over the city at midnight and marvelled again at the view, taking careful deep breaths to ward off any rising panic she felt. 

She didn't dare look down.  That road led to all sorts of panicking and shrieking.  It would be bad enough with firm concrete and a railing to grab her knuckles white with but this...?  This was insane.  And she'd asked to do this!  For the third time!  Because once back on solid ground she'd twice been unable to quite believe the experience. 

But it was true.  Undeniable even.  Just as before she was standing at eye level with the top of the Oxo Tower with nothing beneath her feet.  Flying, floating, whatever, just not falling. 

Eventually, when she'd had enough of the view, when the wind had dried her exhilarated tears, she turned around slowly.  Swallowing hard, she walked determinedly and very slowly back to the rooftop, sat down on the ledge, swivelled her legs round to the 'building' side then gingerly stepped back onto the roof. 

Muriel West let out the breath she'd been holding and congratulated herself for only screaming on the way out this time.  A moment later she went to find her son. 

He was exactly where she'd left him, squatting on the edge of a skylight with his head in his hands.  It seemed abominable that he hadn't even been watching her, such was his confidence in his abilities. In fact, such were his abilities. 

Yet here he was, as he'd been for weeks, miserable.  It was ridiculous...but she understood. 

He looked up at her then, directly into her eyes, showing her his on the verge of tears, and shook his head. 

"I don't want it," he whispered. 

About to nod, she suddenly froze.  She might understand but she'd never forgive herself if she didn't make him say it.  A gift of Godly proportions, God-like power, it had to be acknowledged. 

"Why not?" she asked simply.  He put his head back in his hands at that, shaking it again.  Martin's way with words had always leant towards verbosity.  Many words, too many in fact, tumbling out of him in a torrent that whirled and stymied while his hands moved playing cards faster than you saw. But this time, for once, he found succintness. 

"The expectation," he admitted when she wasn't expecting an answer.  He twisted his face around the thought.  

When words came next,  they appeared directly in her mind.  "Everyone will want...everything.  Wherever I go, my help will be assumed regardless of anything.  I won't have any choice in the matter.  I'll have to be a role model...to everyone!  Every problem, “Fix it,” they'll say. “How?” and they'll look at me like I should just know!  And if I don't, I'll be a monster."

"Stop!" she said.  Primarily to cease his telepathy; it echoed wildly around her mind with no regard.  Belittling her own mental prowess with its presence. 

Martin stared.  Then chuckled harshly. 

"I can't do everything, you know," he said out loud with a sick smile.  "There are limits, oh yes! I can't wish it away. I've tried. And worse still I can't give it away."   He looked at her in the eyes again.  "To someone better."  Then he looked out across the city.  "I won't be allowed to be fallible, Ma. Won't be allowed to be human," he sighed. 

She stared at him, weighing her heart in her mind.  Everything he said rang true.  She shivered with the thought of him wrestling with it night after night.  He'd been doing magic since he was 7 years old.  Imagine your dreams came true only for reality to bite down hard. 

She weighed her heart again.  Would she be damned for ever for choosing her son over the rest of humanity?  She went over and sat beside him on the edge of the skylight.  She stretched an arm around and pulled him close. 

"There's another way," she whispered. 

Later:

I was still startled as I got back into the car.  Logic was straining to be heard amongst the uproar in my mind.  

It was technically possible to pull off the trick, I decided.  Security cameras could  have noted my footwear as I arrived.  A cloth sheath could then be detailed appropriately before being slid onto a blank 'chassis' of a size 11 shoe.  A pair of them; one secreted in each drawer and...voila.  Martin West's only job would then have been to delay me.  And he did ramble on in places. 

All that effort though; the materials, the speedy artificing, rested on knowing that I would select the shoe trick.  From 'implausible' to Occam's Razor. 

So, as I eased out of the driveway, I did some philosophising of my own.  I wondered if a magician could work a magic trick on himself.  Such that he never knew he’d done it.  Could he make himself forget he had a civic duty to the rest of humanity?  More so, could he make himself believe he had nothing to offer?  

My own words kept coming back to me:

“Of course you should do this.  Unless you can find another way of living with yourself.”

Fin