The last thing she ever heard was his voice. Between hungry mouthfuls he whispered, “Beautiful.”
THE ART OF ESCAPOLOGY
ALISON LITTLEWOOD
A large part of childhood is the desire for magic. As children we are drawn to the fantastical – whether it be The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe or Harry Potter – and the need to believe in magic is a big part of growing up. Alison’s story shows us what happens when we see behind the illusion and the losses that such a reveal can inflict upon us. This beautiful and charming tale will have you believing, but will also teach you a lesson in the consequences of believing too much.
IT WASN’T THAT Tommy could imagine his dad in a circus. His dad was portly with thinning hair and liked to play Scrabble. He wore a suit and went out all day and did strange things in an office. He looked at Tommy now with a blank expression and blinked slowly, in much the same way a tortoise might.
Tommy shifted in his chair in frustration. He clutched the flyer more tightly, waving it at his dad.
Amazing feats, the flyer said.
Amazing feats and mind-blowing escapades! See the incredible bird woman! Death-defying trapeze fliers!! Acrobats!! Fire swallowers!!! Mysterious warrior monks!!! Magic performed before your very eyes!!!! See feats of wonder hitherto unknown to man!!!!!!!
It was this last that had stuck in Tommy’s mind. Feats of wonder hitherto unknown to man: yes, he thought when he saw it. Yes.
Now the look in his mother’s eyes said no, or at best, maybe. But Tommy knew what he wanted. He wanted to sit in the big top, with all the other kids. He wanted to hold his breath with wonder. He wanted, if he got scared, maybe just a little, to look aside and know that his dad was there. It wasn’t that he didn’t want his mum, but his mum always took him places: football, piano lessons. It wasn’t anything special, and this was special.
“Dad,” he said. “Please.” He tried to keep the whine out of his voice, because his dad didn’t like the whine, would sigh and turn away. It was there anyway, a little bit. His dad looked at him sharply.
“Please, Dad.” Tommy waved the flyer again. He saw that the touch of his fingers had smudged the ink: it was already spoiled. He felt disappointment tugging on his lips.
When he looked up, his mum was watching him. She sighed, too.
“Oh, take him, love,” she said, and that was that.
Tommy sat back in his chair and turned his attention to breakfast. He tried not to smile too broadly, but he was holding it inside him, a trapped and wriggling thing. He couldn’t stop it any longer: it broke out onto his face in a broad beam. He heard his dad’s resigned sigh from across the table, but it didn’t matter. His mum had made a decision, and when his mum had made a decision, it stayed made.
TOMMY HAD THE flyer in his pocket as they walked from the car park towards the recreation ground. He could see the tops of the tents, one tall white point dominating them all. “That’s the big top, isn’t it, Dad?”
Dad grunted. There were other people walking all around them, parents with kids, the figures ahead of them outlined by golden evening light. Tommy thought it was magical. Excitement thrummed through his legs, making him skip along. They passed a huge poster with a big arrow on the bottom. Death-defying feats!!! it said in big red letters, and there was a picture of an acrobat plunging through the air, not a trapeze or a safety net in sight.
“Look, Dad.” Tommy pointed.
“They like their exclamation marks, don’t they?” Dad muttered.
THEY DID LIKE their exclamation marks. The ringmaster wore a red sequined jacket and a splendid red top hat. He even looked like an exclamation mark, standing there tall and thin and straight and strident in the centre of it all, and everything he said seemed to end in three or four, falling invisible from his mouth and hanging in the air. All was dark except the glitter of his clothes; he was lit by a single spotlight.
“Next,” he said with a sweep of his arm, “we bring you the amazing bird woman!!!”
Incredible, thought Tommy. The leaflet said she was incredible. But it didn’t really matter. The ringmaster was gone and instead a new spotlight shone, this time high in the air. A woman stood there, bright with feathers. There were white ones and pink ones, but mainly they were blue. She wore a tightly curved smile. The audience gasped as the incredible bird woman launched herself from her perch and into the air; but she wasn’t flying. Tommy focused on her hands, where they grasped a small trapeze. She somersaulted and caught hold of another and everyone clapped. Tommy didn’t clap.
From somewhere beneath them came the sharp high calls of birdsong. It didn’t sound like real birdsong. It was cut through by crackling; it sounded like Dad’s old record player, the one that played funny black discs, only louder.
Tommy leaned towards his dad, but he didn’t say anything. His dad was staring up, intent on the woman. Tommy looked up too in time to see her do another somersault, a double one this time, and something fell from her and drifted down through the air.
He almost lost it in the dark; then it was in front of him, and Tommy reached out and grabbed it. It was a feather. It was a dirty grey feather, such as a pigeon might let fall. There was a dab of flaky blue paint on it, and a blob of dried glue on the quill.
Tommy nudged his dad. “It’s not real,” he said.
“Sh. Of course it is, son.” Dad was still looking up; he started to clap, enthusiastically, with everybody else. He turned and Tommy saw his dad’s wide grin, white and shining in the dark.
THEY WATCHED MORE of the death-defying trapeze fliers, the acrobats and fire swallowers. The mysterious warrior monks feinted with broad swords and dodged them. They were only playing at it, Tommy could see that. He clapped, but only just touching the palms of his hands together. It wasn’t what he had expected. The acts weren’t death-defying, not really. The trapeze artists even had a safety net. The poster hadn’t shown a safety net; it hadn’t been mentioned in the flyers. Feats of wonder, he thought. See feats of wonder hitherto unknown to man!!!!!!!
“It’s not real,” he whispered again.
His father answered: “Of course it is, son.”
Now everything fell quiet. Everything was dark. Tommy waved his fingers in front of his eyes and dimly saw them, shining green. He turned and realised they were lit by a fire exit sign and he sighed.
“Now,” the ringmaster said, “we shall see our most daring act of all. We shall travel to the farthest reaches of the earth to bring you – nay, farther. For why should we show you an imitation – a mere facsimile of magic, when we may bring you the real thing? Now, for your entertainment and edification, we travel beyond” – he waved his hand dramatically – “Yea, I say to you, we travel even beyond the veil, to bring you – real magic!!”
Unseen exclamation marks danced in the air and the ringmaster swept away. Now a new figure stepped forward. This one was cloaked and hooded, but his costume was plain: plain black.
At first, he didn’t speak; he simply waited. Then, slowly, something lowered itself towards him. It was a white, twisted thing, lowered on a chain from the top of the tent. He reached out and caught it, held it out for the audience, spinning it so they could see. Tommy realised it was a straitjacket; only that.
“The great Houdini,” he said, “was born in 1874 and left this life in 1926. There has never been an escapologist to match him.” He spoke softly, but his voice carried around the ring. There were no exclamation marks, but Tommy sat up a little straighter.
“Tonight, for your – amusement” – here he sounded contemptuous, even bored – “I shall summon the great Houdini to perform for us again.”
Silence. Nobody moved. It seemed to Tommy that nobody even breathed.
“I shall conjure him from beyond the grave, his wonders to reveal. But first, I need a volunteer.”
Tommy’s hand shot straight up in the air like a... like an exclamation mark.
The man looked into the audience, made a show of shading his eyes. He point
ed. “There,” he said, and Tommy’s heart sank; he wasn’t pointing towards Tommy. There was giggling, a hand rapidly withdrawn.
“Very well,” the man said. “Then where?” He searched the audience. His gaze lighted – or seemed to light, because Tommy couldn’t see his eyes, couldn’t see his face at all – on Tommy. “Too young,” the man said, and Tommy’s heart sank. “I fear you would slip straight through the bonds, my boy.” Everyone laughed, but Tommy didn’t.
“Your father, perhaps.”
Tommy froze. His dad shifted in his seat. He would say no; Tommy knew he would say no. “Please, Dad,” he whispered.
At first, Dad didn’t move. Then, slowly, he stood, and the big top burst into applause. “In for a penny,” he muttered, and made his way down into the ring.
When Dad was standing in the centre of the arena he didn’t look like Houdini. He looked like a man from an office who had found himself in a circus, the spotlights picking out the shine of his balding pate and the sawdust sticking to his shoes. He shifted uncomfortably, picking at his trousers with the tips of his fingers as though he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
“Just relax.” The voice emerged from the cloak. It was low and quiet, but Tommy heard it.
The man raised a hand and put it on Tommy’s dad’s head. Dad’s eyes darted around the ring as if looking for an escape. There was no escape. The man in the cloak started to chant, low at first and then higher. There were words in it, but Tommy couldn’t catch them; it was as if they were all blended together. He couldn’t work out if he was speaking English or some other language. It seemed to go on for a long time. Tommy’s dad stood there, quite still, and his eyes were closed, though Tommy hadn’t seen him close them. His face looked sweaty, shining in the spotlights now as brightly as the bald bit on his head. The man sitting in front of Tommy whispered something: he caught the word hypnosis.
All fell quiet once more. The man in the black cloak drew a deep breath, then he spoke. “Come to us,” he said. His voice was not loud but it was powerful and it echoed about the ring: perhaps beyond the ring.
Come to us.
After a moment, Tommy’s dad opened his eyes. He blinked in much the same way a tortoise might.
The man in the black cloak stepped back and bowed. “Please,” he said, “will you introduce yourself.”
Tommy’s dad looked up at last. He saw the audience, ran his eyes around it. He half raised one hand, let it fall again. Then he threw his head back, stood up straighter, and glared, his eyes suddenly intense. “I,” he said, “am Houdini.”
There was no preamble, no great Houdini or incredible Houdini, but Tommy could hear it in his voice: that was who he was. The Great Houdini.
His father looked up and saw the straitjacket. Slowly, he stripped off his shirt. He stood there, the spotlight picking out each grey hair on his chest, and Tommy looked at them. He wriggled in his seat; but nobody laughed.
His father walked around the straitjacket. He stood behind it and reached out both arms as if he was going to dive into it, but instead he waited while the cloaked man removed the garment from the chain and started to strap him in.
Tommy blinked. His dad was standing there in his black suit trousers, his arms crossed over his chest, bound in a straitjacket. He didn’t look like a man from an office any longer. He owned the arena with his steely gaze. He looked up towards the ceiling. “Now!” he commanded.
The cloaked man took the chain and secured it to Tommy’s dad’s feet. Then he stood back and the chain began to withdraw into the air, taking Dad with it. Eventually he hung there upside down, spinning a little one way and then the other. Music rose from beneath the seats, the kind of music that said something was going to happen; then it stopped, and Tommy’s dad started to writhe, faster and faster, whipping and twisting his body as though a demon were trapped inside. Then a white strap swung free, wrapping itself about him as he twisted some more, and then there was another and Tommy realised his dad’s arms were spinning inside them. Then they were loose and he was pulling the garment from his body, throwing it in triumph down to the sawdust below, flinging it away from him in contempt. He hung there, his body shining with sweat. Tommy couldn’t stop staring.
But that wasn’t all. Tommy’s dad’s arms hung loose only for a moment; then he lifted them towards his feet. He did something to the chains and they snapped free. Everyone gasped. Tommy inched forward. Surely, his dad was going to fall. And he did fall, he just let go, but he turned in the air, landed neatly on his feet and snapped out a sharp bow.
The audience erupted in applause and whistles and shouts. Tommy heard the man in front of him mutter, “He’s a plant,” but he didn’t care, was too busy clapping and shouting along with the rest, and grinning, he couldn’t stop grinning, especially when his dad left the ring and climbed back up the steps and took the seat next to his. Tommy was still clapping as he turned to his dad. “That was brilliant, Dad,” he said, and his father kept in role, was so cool about it all, his dad, and he just turned to Tommy and gave a single steely-eyed nod.
Later, when the show was over and they were filing out of the big top, Tommy was still grinning. “It was real, wasn’t it Dad?” he said.
His dad just looked back at him, quite calm, still being cool. “Of course not, son,” he said.
THE NEXT DAY was a Saturday and when Tommy woke, the first thing he thought of was his dad, suspended from a chain, swinging in the air. He grinned and went downstairs and found him sitting at the table, eating cornflakes. His mum was standing by the dishwasher.
Tommy grinned and sat next to him, poured cornflakes from the packet. He usually had semi-skimmed milk but today he chose skimmed, just like Dad, and he started to eat, kicking his legs. His mum brought him orange juice. Dad just ate, looking at the tablecloth.
“Shall we try more escapes today, Dad?” Tommy asked. “Did he tell you, Mum? It was incredible.” He relished the word, rolling it around his mouth with the cornflake crumbs.
“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” she said. She looked tired; there were bags under her eyes.
“But...”
“I said be quiet.” Mum started loading the dishwasher, clattering plates into their slots.
Tommy looked at Dad, but Dad didn’t look back. He wasn’t just looking at the tablecloth, he was glaring at it. Slowly, he turned and looked at Tommy. “I need chains,” he said. “And locks. Where do I buy chains and locks?”
There was something about his voice. He must have been speaking with his mouth full too, but Tommy didn’t care. “Yes!” he said. “We can go to the hardware shop.”
“Finish your breakfast first,” said Mum. “And don’t forget to brush your teeth.”
LATER, WHEN THEY were dressed and their hair and teeth were brushed, they went to the hardware shop. Dad walked in and stood there, staring, but Tommy asked where the chains were and took Dad’s hand and led him to them. Then Tommy’s dad seemed to come alive. He walked along the row of chains – gold ones, silver ones, fine ones, thick ones – and he turned and walked back again. He took hold of the fattest silver chain and yanked it between his hands, testing its strength. He grunted. He started to pull it from the reel, faster and faster, spilling piles of it onto the floor. A couple passing them in the aisle tutted and stepped aside, but Dad didn’t seem to care.
Someone in staff overalls came by and stopped. “Do you need any help, sir?”
Dad didn’t answer.
The lad looked down at the pile of chain. “I’ll get you a trolley, sir,” he said, and wandered off, shaking his head.
When the chain was in the trolley, Tommy’s dad went further up the aisle. They had rope there, twists and twists of it, fat rope and thin rope and bright, colourful bendy rope. He added lengths of that, too, to the trolley. Then he turned and saw the padlocks and he smiled.
“What is it, Dad?”
No answer. Tommy followed his dad as he went to the padlocks, started to throw them, one
after the next, into the trolley. Tommy just stood there. He suddenly felt he might as well be invisible.
“Dad?”
His dad stopped throwing the padlocks. He turned and looked at Tommy. No: he glared. His eyes were sharp, piercing. There was no recognition in them. Tommy took a step back. “Dad?”
Dad looked down at the trolley, at the things he was going to buy, and his gaze became soft. Tommy swallowed. “It was real, wasn’t it Dad,” he said.
Dad looked back at him. His look was intense; there were depths in it. It was as though his gaze could lead somewhere else; somewhere beyond.
“Houdini,” Tommy whispered, but his dad didn’t answer. There was no expression on his face at all.
THEY PULLED UP outside the house and Dad started to unpack the boot, winding loops of rope around his shoulder. When he couldn’t carry any more, he went inside. Tommy watched as Houdini unloaded the rope into the middle of the lounge and went back for the chains. He came back, dumped the whole slithering pile on top of the rope.
Tommy’s mother came downstairs. She stood in the doorway and her eyes widened. “What on earth is that?”
Houdini looked at her. His mouth curved into a smile. “Rope,” he said. “Chains.” He said each word carefully, each sound distinct and clear. “Locks.”
“Well, you’re not putting them in my lounge,” Mum snapped. “You can put them in the garage. Go on.” And she made little shooing gestures with her hands as Dad glared at her, then bent and started looping chains, once more, about his person.
TOMMY WATCHED AS Dad wrapped the chain around and around his legs, and up, over his thighs, around his waist. He was wrapped tight as a cocoon, and soon he couldn’t go any higher. He held out the rest of the chain towards Tommy.
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