by Ian Sansom
'Erm. Mrs Wilson?'
'Yes.'
'I'm looking for, erm, your husband? The…erm, the Wonderful Wilsoni?'
'Right. Is it a party?'
'No.'
'You're not after booking a party?'
'No, I'm afraid not.'
'He's not been well, you see.'
'I'm sorry to hear that.'
'Six months we had to wait for that last appointment.'
'Erm…'
'We'd have gone private if we could have afforded it, but we'd sold our insurance already, when we had the problems with his pension.'
'I see.'
'And I've not paid my full stamp, you see, so I've had to take a wee job in the chemist's.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Only three afternoons a week, mind, but it makes a difference.'
'Yes,' agreed Israel.
'So. Sorry, you are?'
'I'm Israel Armstrong, the librarian.'
'Ach, aye, of course. Is it the books? I thought I'd took them back.'
'No, no, it's—'
'That Alice Sebold–I really enjoyed that. And the Dave Eggers.'
'Really?'
'Aye. Not a patch on Marilynne Robinson, like, but they're young, aren't they?'
'Yes.'
'Time to develop.'
'Erm…'
'Look at Philip Roth.'
'Indeed. It's not the books I've come about though, Mrs Wilson.'
'Is it the DVDs?'
'No, no,' said Israel.
'I told him to take that back. He must have seen that The Wicker Man a hundred times. Is it The Wicker Man? Or is it one of them ones with Jodie Foster? He's a thing for Jodie Foster.'
'No, no, it's not the DVDs. There's nothing overdue. I just need to talk to him about Mr Dixon.'
'Och, really?'
'Yes, indeed.'
Mrs Wilson stood on the doorstep thinking. 'What would you want to be talking to him about Mr Dixon for?'
'Well, it's a magician thing—'
'Och, aye, right enough. Once you've him started you'll never shut him up, mind. He's out back. He spends hours in there. You know what they're like. Keeps him out of mischief.' Mrs Wilson spoke of her husband, as all the women of Tumdrum seemed to do, as if he were a teenage delinquent.
'Could I…'
'Aye, down the passage there, you'll see the shed.'
She pointed Israel down a narrow alley which separated the Wilson household from their perfectly symmetrical neighbours, and he went down the passage and through a gate, and he found himself in a small but immensely tidy garden, filled with small but immensely tidy plants, as if tended by a team of exceptionally tidy and green-fingered gnomes; each blade of grass seemed to have been individually clipped. There were no actual gnomes, as far as Israel could see, but there were lots of small Chinese stone lanterns and concrete statuettes, and he passed a tiny pond with tiny orange fish, and walked down a concrete-flag path, flanked by pansies, to the large shed at the bottom of the garden. There was a bird table outside, and a cold frame filled with budding plants. A light shone inside. Israel tapped on the door.
'Hello?' he called. 'Mr Wilson?'
'Enter!' came the voice from inside.
Israel pushed open the door. Mr Wilson was seated at a workbench at the far end of the shed and had swivelled round to face Israel and was staring at him, frowning. He had a small white goatee beard, and a curiously unlined red-flushed face. He was wearing a collarless shirt and braces, and wore thick tortoiseshell glasses. He looked like a child dressed up as an old man.
'Hello,' said Israel. 'I'm Israel Armstrong, the librarian. Your wife kindly—'
'Aye, right. Is it the DVDs? I told her a dozen times about returning them. She must've seen that English Patient…goodness knows.'
'No, it's not the DVDs, Mr Wilson.'
'Liam Neeson, she's a thing for him.'
'No, it's nothing to do with Liam Neeson,' said Israel.
'He's a Ballymena man,' said Mr Wilson. 'Her brother knew his uncle.'
'Right, good. Operational headquarters, eh?' said Israel, changing the subject.
'I beg your pardon?'
'This,' said Israel. 'It's…erm, a lovely shed.'
'That it is.'
Israel looked around. The shed was crammed from floor to ceiling with small brown lidded cardboard boxes, which were neatly arranged on neat plain pine shelves. Each box was labelled, and the arrangement ran from left to right, starting by the door and running all the way around the room from A to Z. Israel stared at the hundreds of boxes and at the tiny copperplate-lettered labels: 'Anti-Gravity', the boxes began, by the door, then 'Automaton', and on through 'Billiard Balls', 'Bullets', 'Cake (Sponge)', 'Camera (Squirting)', 'Candles (Appearing)', 'Candles (Vanishing)', a dozen boxes of 'Cards', from 'Cards (Double-backed)' to 'Cards (Reversible)', to 'Chicken (Rubber)' and 'Coins (Penetrating)', to 'Cups (& Balls)' brass and plastic, 'Die' and 'Doves', and 'Eggs' and 'Egg Bag', 'Exploding Pens' and 'Fate's Fickle Finger', and 'Flying Carpet' and 'Funnels' and 'Golden Key', 'Guillotine', 'Heads', 'Invisible Thread', to 'Knives (Retractable)', 'Knots' and 'Locks', 'Matchboxes', 'Mirrors', 'Newspaper (Milk)', 'Newspaper (Torn and Restored)', 'Rabbit', 'Rings (Linking)', 'Rope (50')' and 'Rope (20')', 'Silk', 9", 12", 18", 'Sphinx', 'Squeakers', 'Swords (Swallowing)', 'Table Cloth (Black)' and 'Table Cloth (Fringed)', 'Vanishing Bowl', 'Wands' breakable and 5-in-1, 'X-Ray Glasses', 'Yo-yos', and finally, scanning round 180 degrees, something called 'Zig-Zags'. Aladdin's Cave was not the right phrase; it was a mad pharmacopoeia.
'It's very…cosy,' said Israel, rubbing his hands together in what he hoped was a friendly 'I've-stepped-into-the-lair-of-a-madman-but-really-that's-fine' kind of a gesture.
'Aye,' agreed Mr Wilson. 'When we had the extension I had the pipes run out here for central heating.'
'I see. It's…lovely.'
'But you've not come to discuss my central heating, presumably.'
'No,' said Israel. 'No, I haven't actually. You're right. I came to ask about Mr Dixon.'
'Ah, did you now? The Grand Disappearance.'
'Yes,' said Israel hesitantly. 'You've heard about it then?'
'Is there anyone who hasn't heard about it?'
'It's a small town,' agreed Israel.
'Aye. And you're not from round here?' said Mr Wilson.
'No. No, that's correct.'
'You're from the mainland.'
'Yes,' agreed Israel.
Israel always felt uncomfortable when people in Northern Ireland referred to England as the mainland, not because there was any implied deference, but rather on the contrary; because it was usually spoken with such obvious and utter contempt, the equivalent of a taxi driver addressing you as 'sir' and meaning 'arsehole'.
'I understand you're a magician?' persisted Israel.
'I may certainly count myself among that happy brotherhood,' said Mr Wilson.
'The Wonderful Wilsoni?'
'Indeed.'
Israel could just imagine him in a novelty waistcoat, the tips of his moustache waxed and shining in the stage lights.
'And Mr Dixon,' he said, 'he was a magician also?'
'Aye.'
'And you were friends?'
'You're not the police, sir?'
'No. I'm the librarian.'
'You don't look like a librarian.' Mr Wilson stared hard at Israel, his silvery white goatee shimmering in the fluorescent light, his red cheeks burning.
'Well. I, er…' began Israel. Honestly, what did people expect librarians to look like?
'I'd expect a jacket and tie at least,' said Mr Wilson, as if he were reading Israel's mind. 'I suppose everyone's scruffy these days, but.'
'Anyway,' said Israel, 'I just—'
'Do the police know you're here?'
'No. I don't think so.'
'Hmm.'
'I was just wondering how you knew Mr Dixon, whether you knew him well?'
'And why's it your business?'
&
nbsp; 'Well, you see, the police have…erm, they think I might have had something to do with his disappearance—'
'You?'
'Yes.'
'A librarian!' Mr Wilson laughed.
'Yes,' said Israel indignantly.
Librarians are capable of kidnap and robbery, and much worse, probably, thought Israel: Chairman Mao was a librarian, he was about to point out.
'Chairman Mao was a librarian,' said Mr Wilson.
'Yes,' said Israel. 'How did you—'
'Ha!' said Mr Wilson. 'Well, I knew they were desperate, the PSNI, but I didn't realise how desperate.'
'Yes, anyway,' said Israel, 'I'm trying to establish my innocence.'
'I see.'
'Not that it needs establishing,' clarified Israel. 'I mean, I am innocent.'
'Aye?'
'Yes.'
'I'll have to take your word for that, won't I?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'So.' Mr Wilson's hands rested across his stomach.
'So I wondered if you'd mind if I asked you a few questions about Mr Dixon.'
'To help an innocent young man clear his name?'
'Well, yes, I suppose that's—'
'Did you ever see the fillim'–he said fillim–'The Shawshank Redemption?'
'Yes,' said Israel.
'That was a great film.'
'Indeed.'
'So?' Mr Wilson thrummed his thumbs across his belly. 'Go on.'
'Well…'
Israel hadn't thought quite this far ahead, but having already been extensively questioned and interrogated himself, he presumed he might be able to find some way of getting the information he needed, although obviously he couldn't ask Mr Wilson to wear a paper suit and provide a DNA sample. That'd be going too far. So instead he tried low-level chat, though there was no low-level chat in any of Brownie's Elmore Leonards, as far as he could recall, but it was worth a go.
'How did you get to know Mr Dixon?'
'Ach, Mr Dixon?' Mr Wilson gazed up at the ceiling of the shed. 'Mr Dixon. The Impossible Mr Dixon.'
'Was he a difficult man?'
'No, that was his stage name. The Impossible Mr Dixon.'
'Right. I see.'
'I've known him a very long time. Right back before you were born.' Mr Wilson stroked his goatee. 'We used to do shows together, you know, works dos and what have you. When I first knew him–this was what?–back in the late sixties I suppose, he was doing card tricks mostly. He was drinking then.'
'Right.'
'We started out with the auld egg and hankie stuff, and then…'
'Yes?'
As Mr Wilson was speaking Israel was searching in his pockets for a pencil and some paper.
'You wouldn't have a pen and a piece of paper handy would you, that I could…'
'What for?'
'So I can keep a'–Israel continued rootling around in his pockets–'a contemporaneous record of our…'
'Here you are.'
Mr Wilson got up slowly from his seat, went to one of his cardboard boxes, pulled it down, searched around inside and then handed Israel a sheet of paper and a pen.
'Great, thanks. So, where were we?' said Israel, pen poised, once Mr Wilson had sat down.
'You were asking me about how I knew Mr Dixon.'
'Ah, yes. That's right. So…'
'He never really had the skills for it, to be honest.'
'For what?'
'The conjuring. Requires a lot of practice. Dexterity, you know. So he moved into illusions. The auld slippery slope. One minute you're doing floating balls and next thing you're sawing a lady in half.'
'Uh-huh. Could you just slow down a little bit, Mr Wilson. My writing, you see, can't…'
It wasn't as easy as it looked.
Mr Wilson ignored Israel's request and kept on talking.
'It's all about apparatus, you see, with the illusions. It's not really magic: it's mechanics. Different thing entirely. It's all Las Vegas these days–how much money are you willing to spend. I make all my own tricks right here,' said Mr Wilson, tapping his head.
'Right.'
'As it should be.'
'Good.'
Mr Wilson stared into middle space.
'Mr Dixon?' prompted Israel.
'Aye. I got to know him in the UAM I think it was. Which was a long time ago now of course.'
'Sorry, the UAM?'
'Ulster Association of Magicians. Which had split, you see, from the Irish Friends of Magic. That was–what?–early sixties. We were only kids at the time. I was serving my time in the printworks. He was working in the shop already.'
'Right.'
'And the Irish Friends of Magic had already split from the Irish Magic Circle, I don't know, back in the 1940s.'
'Uh-huh. That's…I don't know, that's maybe a little too far back actually…'
'It's background,' said Mr Wilson.
'Yes. But…'
'You don't want background?'
'Well, it's very interesting, but…Anyway, you were in the same magic society?'
'Aye. There was also the Ulster Circle of Conjurors, they were another group that had formed.'
'Right.'
'And the Northern Irish Magic Triangle.'
'Hmm.'
'Though they didn't last long. They got took over by the UCC.'
'The?'
'Ulster Circle of Conjurors.'
'Right. But you two were–what was it?' Israel glanced back at his notes. 'The UAM?'
'Aye. But then there was a split in the UAM.'
'Right. I see. Why was that?'
'It was a disagreement about the direction we were going in as a society. People felt that the whole thing was too much focused down in Belfast.'
'I see.'
'So out of the UAM we formed the North Antrim Society of Magic.'
'Who did?'
'We did.'
'Who, you and Mr Dixon?'
'That's right. And others of course. Some of them left, mind, and formed the North Antrim Magical Society.'
'Right.'
'And the North Ulster Magic Club.'
'There're quite a lot of these magic societies, aren't there' said Israel, staring at his notes. It was quite messy: he thought it was probably his note-taking that had cost him a first in his finals, actually.
'Aye. Always been very popular in these parts.'
'Yes,' said Israel, pushing his spectacles up high on his forehead. 'I was speaking to the Reverend Roberts, actually, from the First Presbyterian Church. It was him who put me on to you. He's a member of the Fellowship of Christian Magicians.'
'Aye, well, we wouldn't really consider them proper magicians.'
'I see.'
'Bunch of clowns.'
'OK. Anyway, just so I've got it clear in my own mind. You and Mr Dixon are in the North Antrim Society of Magic—'
'No. Mr Dixon is not a member of the North Antrim Society of Magic.'
'But, hold on, you just said—'
Mr Wilson fixed Israel with his beady eyes. 'Mr Dixon was in the North Antrim Society of Magic. We're a broad church, not just cardicians.'
'Uh-huh.'
'We've dove magicians.'
'Um.'
'All sorts. Weight-and-motion-resistance specialist, we have. Big girl. Miss Tree. She's from Ballymena.'
'Erm…' Israel was having difficulty in seeing the relevance of this to his investigation.
'We even had a paper-tearer, Signor Bob, but he passed on. Dying art, paper tearing. No escape artists at th'moment. They've their own society–the Ulster Escapologists.'
'Good.'
'Down in the Moy. Muldoon, isn't it, the fella?'
'I don't know.'
'Aye. Well. Everything else we have: billiard ball manipulators; regurgitationists. There's a baker over in Derry who specialises in the Bullet Catch. Fella from Armoy who does stuff with ducks.'
'Quite a range then.'
'Ach, aye. We have all sorts. Mentalists.'
'Mentalists?'
'Mind-reading, you know? Couple of fellas up from Belfast.'
'Ah, right. But Mr Dixon?'
'Aye. Well, I'm afraid we had to draw the line somewhere.'
Now, even Israel could tell he was getting close to what he wanted to know.
'What was the problem with Mr Dixon?'
Mr Wilson sighed a long, deep sigh. 'He was getting carried away is the best way I can describe it.'
'Carried away?'
'Aye, you know. He was wanting to put on these big shows all the time, but we weren't ready for it up here. I think because of the store, you see, he thought he was the big shot. Billy Big Shot some of our members used to call him. It was a clash of personalities. He was too flashy for us. He was always wanting to be spectacular.'
'Well, we all want to be spectacular, don't we?' Israel laughed.
'Not round here we don't,' said Mr Wilson, deadpan. 'He was getting more and more into the entertainment side of it. He'd got away from the true spirit of magic. He wanted to do the Donkey Disappears and all sorts.'
'The what?'
'The Donkey Disappears. It's a trick, but.'
'With an actual donkey?'
'Aye,' said Mr Wilson. 'Or whatever. Elephant. Horse. Pigs. He'd buy these things from America: £5,000 he spent, apparently, on some big box, the eejit. He was addicted to conjuring appliances.'
'Right.' Israel noted this down.
'He was a crowd-pleaser.'
'But isn't all magic like that?'
'Not at all! Contraptions? Anyone can do anything with a few contraptions. The true spirit of magic is a wee boy making his own magic. You can't buy magic. It's not about how much money you've got. It's about skills, sleight of hand.'
'I see,' said Israel sceptically.
'Look,' said Mr Wilson.
He got up again slowly from his seat and turned off the light in the shed, switched on a small anglepoise lamp, and drew red and white checkerboard curtains across the tiny window.
Israel was watching him nervously.
'Watch the door,' commanded Mr Wilson.
Israel was starting to feel uncomfortable now, but he dutifully looked at the door–was someone going to come in?–while Mr Wilson stretched his hands and cracked his knuckles, arranged the lamp behind him and carefully closed one hand over another.
