by Baker, John
The magician put tape over Alice Richardson’s eyes. It was something to do with the way she looked at him. The others had looked at him and he hadn’t minded too much, but with this one it was unnerving. He wondered if it was because she was a mother. He wondered how his own mother would have looked at him if it had been her tied to the bed instead of Alice Richardson and he thought she would have had the same look.
These were not the kind of thoughts to be having. He had to be professional about it. It was a performance, like any other, and it was coming round to the finale. If it worked right he would kill the woman as Sam Turner came into the house. The detective would come up the stairs and Danny would give him time to see that she was dead. Then he would plunge the bayonet into Turner’s stomach.
He would watch Turner die. He would wipe the handle of the bayonet and place Turner’s hands around it, so that his prints were all over it. And then he would take the life of the blind woman, the detective’s last love.
The police would see that Turner had killed again and committed suicide. Danny’s mother would be avenged. The case would be closed. The illusion would remain.
The magician stripped in readiness. He folded his clothes neatly and placed them on a chair by the window. He stood far enough back so that he couldn’t be seen from the street but could still watch the length of it. Magic is like an iceberg, most of it is not visible, happening beneath the surface; so much of it is confined to preparation and unseen by the audience. It’s such a waste, Danny thought inside his head, hearing his mother’s voice speaking the words.
And he watched the big man with the shark’s tooth around his neck come back into the street. The something different about him was so pointed and obvious that for a while Danny couldn’t understand what it was. The man had developed a limp, and it wasn’t a slight injury that Danny could have overlooked the first time he came to the door. It was as if he had been in a road accident of some kind. He winced every time his foot touched the pavement and the bad leg shot up into the air and described a wide arc which upset the man’s balance. From time to time as he came along the street he had to reach out for the support of a wall or a gate.
Go away, Danny said under his breath. Everything was set now, the last thing he needed was this great oaf banging on the door again. If he was collecting debts, Sam Turner would never come home while he was waiting on the doorstep.
The crippled man stopped at the door and lifted the knocker. He hammered it rhythmically for nearly half a minute. The sound penetrated every corner of the house. The woman on the bed struggled against the rope that bound her.
Danny crouched and did some deep breathing exercises. He tried to wish the man away, astral travelling in reverse; he pictured a spiritual wind taking the man up and away from the house, depositing him on the steeple of some distant country church.
But the hammering on the door started again, that same rhythmic beat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat.
The urgency of his knocking demanded a response, he obviously refused to consider there might be no one in. Danny wondered if the man had been standing on the street corner and had seen the woman arrive. Because if he had he obviously wasn’t going to go away until he got some satisfaction.
The magician crept down the stairs clutching his bayonet. He stood by the front door and listened to the knocking. For a moment it stopped and the big man on the street pushed open the letter-box and looked inside. ‘I know you’re in there,’ he shouted. ‘I’m not going until you answer the door.’
Danny sighed. He couldn’t place the accent. Somewhere in the Midlands. Might be Leicester or Derby but he didn’t think so.
When the big man closed the letter-box and started banging again the magician decided to answer the door. He walked across the room towards the stairs. He’d have to dress again first, but there didn’t seem to be another way round it.
‘I’m coming,’ he yelled. The banging stopped abruptly. ‘Give me a couple of minutes,’ Danny shouted.
The banging on the door started up again and he took the stairs two at a time. This was ridiculous. Some neighbour might take it into her head to ring the police, complaining about noise pollution.
At the top of the stairs he was about to enter Sam Turner’s bedroom to get his clothes when he heard something from the back bedroom, a sound like a footfall. Although he was already in motion to deal with the banging on the front door and didn’t want to be distracted, two other thoughts entered his head simultaneously. One was to investigate the new sound and the other was the dawning realization that he had been set up, that Turner was in the house with him and that the woman was still alive.
Before he had time to move in either direction the back bedroom door opened and Sam Turner came at him along the landing. Danny lifted the bayonet, realizing that this wasn’t how it had been planned. The woman was supposed to die first. Turner came at him with a doublefooted drop-kick, something the magician had never witnessed in real life and never imagined would be used against him. He recognized it only from watching wrestling on the television with Jody on a Saturday afternoon.
He slashed at Turner’s legs with the bayonet and caught a glimpse of blood before Sam Turner’s booted feet connected with his bare chest. He tottered there for a moment, at the head of the stairs, but he always knew that he was going down.
He grabbed for the banister, missed and dived headfirst down the staircase. The magician had never been particularly physical but he had dived twice before, when he was a teenager, in the public baths. The first dive had been a belly-flop and it had hurt; the second dive had been perfect, the instructor said the water parted without a sign of a splash. The present dive would be a combination of the two; there wasn’t going to be a splash this time either, and it was certainly going to hurt.
But Danny managed to break his fall with his forearms and elbows. He slithered the rest of the way down the stairs and got to his feet. When he looked up Turner was standing at the top of the stairs with the bayonet and a face like a thunder-storm.
In his professional career the magician had never abandoned a trick. There was always something you could do to save the day. But when he saw Sam Turner take a step towards him, the German bayonet clutched in his hand, Diamond Danny Mann decided to make a run for it.
He got to the door and saw Alice Richardson’s Wellington boots. There was a coat that must belong to Turner hanging on the back of the door. Danny didn’t want to go into the street naked but he knew he didn’t have enough time. The boots would be too small for him and as Sam Turner’s footsteps clattered down the stairs he decided to ignore the coat also. He turned the Yale and ripped open the door.
He tried to run around the big man and when that didn’t work he tried to run through him. Same result.
‘Let me get past,’ he said. ‘I’m not who you want, he’s behind me.’
The big man grabbed his arm as he tried to wriggle around to the street.
‘Let me go!’ Danny yelled, pulling away with all his might. He slipped the man’s grasp for a moment and found himself free and able to run. But before he could turn his freedom to his advantage he realized that the man had him by the arm again and was swinging him round.
He saw the big man’s fist coming at him and closed his eyes. It was as though if he didn’t see it it wouldn’t hurt so much or do so much damage.
Wrong again.
43
Marilyn started the car when Danny appeared on the doorstep. She manoeuvred it out of the parking space and hit the horn, wondering with one half of her mind why Danny was naked. But the rest of her consciousness was concentrated on getting him out of there. It was obvious that the big man was going to lay into him.
Before she could get to them the big man hit Danny. Marilyn was inside the car when it happened and the engine was revving and the windows were closed but she heard the bones go. The big man howled and cradled his fist in his other arm as if he’d smashed his knuckles or some other bones in his h
and. But he’d broken Danny’s jaw. Danny went over in the street, not a stitch of clothing on and his chin and jaw seemed detached, hovering over his left shoulder.
Marilyn drove the car on to the pavement, blocking the entrance to the house and forcing the big man to jump out of the way, so the car was between him and Danny. She leaned over and opened the passenger door and yelled for Danny to get in. He struggled to his feet and fell into the seat. He was saying something but his broken jaw distorted the words so it was impossible to make sense of it.
As she reversed back into the street another man came out of the house clutching a long and bloody bayonet in his hand. He ran for the car and tried to hang on, slashing at the windows and the paintwork with his weapon. But when Marilyn hit the accelerator he lost his grip and rolled into the gutter. She didn’t look back; as Danny fastened his safety belt she screeched around the corner and headed towards the town.
She felt a rush of euphoria go through her body as she realized what she’d done. She’d snatched Danny from almost certain death. The first man, the huge one, wouldn’t have stopped at smashing Danny’s jaw if she hadn’t driven the car between them. And the second one, the one with the bayonet, was obviously looking for blood.
Still driving at speed she glanced over at the magician. There was something childlike about him in his nakedness and he was going through some trauma with the injury to his jaw. He held it in position, wincing with pain, and obviously found it difficult to close his mouth. A thin trickle of drool coursed its way down his chin.
‘Look at you,’ she said as she went through a red light at the end of Clarence Street. She was compassionate. She didn’t know why but she was filled with warmth. ‘Look at the state of you.’
He said something in reply but she couldn’t make out what it was. Marilyn didn’t think where she was going, she wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and the two men who were trying to kill Danny. Gillygate was congested so she turned into Lord Mayor’s Walk and sailed through another red light at the end and over into oncoming traffic on the one-way section of Foss Islands Road, the heel of her hand on the horn. The oncoming traffic peeled off to let her through, irate drivers hitting their own horns in reply, mouthing obscenities through their windscreens.
When she glanced over at him, Danny had his eyes closed and appeared to be smiling. He felt her gaze and opened his eyes. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He spoke each syllable slowly, with difficulty.
She reached over and laid the palm of her hand on his thigh. ‘It was nothing,’ she said. ‘I’d do anything for you, Danny.’
They left the one-way system behind and hit the comparative calm of Paragon Street.
She eased up on her speed. Danny moaned softly and shook his head. He was covering his penis with his free hand, an attempt at modesty. He spoke again, ‘I thought they were going to kill me.’
‘So did I,’ Marilyn said. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘Only when I speak.’ He creased up briefly, wincing hard. ‘And when I laugh.’
She turned into Fishergate and then impulsively into Blue Bridge Lane, intending to park there and think what to do next. But the river had claimed most of the lane and was gradually climbing up to occupy the rest. Marilyn pressed the brake pedal and the car came to a stop with its front wheels in the water.
‘We should do something about your jaw,’ she said. ‘Shall I drive to the hospital?’
‘You could take me home,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask the doctor to come round.’
She looked at him, shaking her head from side to side. ‘Where are your clothes?’
‘I didn’t have time to get them,’ he said. ‘I had to leave fast.’
Marilyn pursed her lips. ‘You’re going to have to explain this. I’m not a mind reader. What’s going on, Danny?’
‘It was an illusion,’ he told her. ‘My masterpiece.’
She turned to him. ‘Who were those men? And whose house was it? I don’t understand what you were doing there. Who was that woman?’
Danny pointed at his broken jaw and made an incoherent sound. He appealed to her with his eyes. The sound he made could have been the word ‘home’, and Marilyn was quite happy to take him there if he would put her mind at rest.
‘Were you having an affair?’ she said. And then, as an afterthought, ‘Who was the boy in the boot?’
‘Not an affair,’ Danny said. ‘I told you, it was an illusion. The boy was necessary.’
‘There was a woman in that house, Danny. I saw her go in. And you came out naked. That wasn’t an illusion.’ Marilyn waited but Danny didn’t reply.
‘When she came to the door you were dressed and a few minutes later you were naked. That can only mean one thing.’
‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t what you think.’
‘So enlighten me.’ Marilyn hit the steering wheel with the flat of her hand, then she hit it again. When Danny didn’t reply she settled into a rhythmic thumping, her eyes fixed on the naked man next to her.
‘Stop it,’ Danny said. ‘Will you take me home now? I need to see a doctor.’
Marilyn continued her thumping of the steering wheel. Her lips and eyes were set and she wasn’t going anywhere until Danny came up with a suitable answer.
‘Stop that,’ the magician said, reaching over and grabbing her wrist.
She shook herself free and struck out at him, her hand glancing off his shoulder. Danny struck back, trying to keep his jaw out of the struggle. ‘All right,’ he shouted, ‘I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything. But not here. I’ll tell you at home.’
‘It better be good,’ Marilyn told him.
‘It’s not what you think.’
Marilyn composed herself and released the hand brake. She turned the key in the ignition and the starter motor turned over and died. She turned the key again.
Danny groaned and pointed out of the windscreen. Marilyn followed his gaze and saw that the car was slipping forward into the water. She had her foot on the brake pedal and she pulled back on the hand brake but it didn’t stop the vehicle from sliding down the greasy slope into the overflowing river. She tried the ignition again but it didn’t fire.
‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘Get out! Just get out of the car.’
She opened the door and slipped into the filthy, freezing water, feeling it grasping at her thighs like a hungry lover. She lost her footing for a few moments and hung on to the car door to regain her balance. The vehicle continued to move down the slope but hit something and came to a halt just before it was fully submerged. The roof was still clear of the water.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, looking around for Danny, her anger now completely evaporated.
‘Danny?’ Then she shouted loudly, ‘Danny!’
But he wasn’t there. Marilyn splashed her way around to the passenger side and wrenched open the door.
Diamond Danny Mann was underwater, fumbling weakly at the catch on his seatbelt. Marilyn brushed his hands aside and tried to unlock it herself. There was something wrong with the mechanism and try as she might, she couldn’t get it to open. As she tried again, submerged by the black water, she heard Danny’s last breath escape from his lungs, expressing itself as a series of bubbles heading for the surface.
Marilyn came up for air and dived again to have another go at the seatbelt, but it refused to move. Danny’s eyes were open, as was his mouth, and one of his arms was beginning to float in the water.
She came to the surface and shouted for help, climbing on to the roof of the car. A young cyclist came wading into the water and Marilyn watched him through the sunroof of the car as he finally managed to unlock the faulty seatbelt and drag Danny’s naked body to the roadside.
She climbed back into the water and went to him. His eyes were open and staring in disbelief and specks of detritus from the river were stuck to the cornea. Water was trickling from the corner of his mouth. The young cyclist was sitting on the pavement next to Danny’s bod
y. He was a blond boy, dripping wet, and he was shaking his head from side to side and looking as though he was going to cry. Marilyn went down on her knees and, cradling Danny’s broken head in her arms, she began rocking backward and forward and humming a lullaby that her mother used to sing to her when she was a child.
Marilyn had never seen anyone quite so dead before, not without the ceremonial mask that an undertaker fashions. She wished her mother was here to see how brave she was, how well she was coping with it.
44
Geordie was out of bed, sitting on a chair next to the table. ‘The stitches are out,’ he said, feeling his shoulder. ‘It’s still stiff but they say it’ll clear up. There’ll be a scar but I don’t care about that.’
‘You like scars,’ Janet told him from the entrance to the kitchen. She had Echo on her hip and was looking even more savvy than usual. Sam was standing behind Angeles by the window, both of his arms around her, taking them all in. Ruben, his right hand in a cast, was eating half a pork pie that Janet had brought on a tray with some triangular sandwiches. Sam and Ruben had been released by the police after nearly eighteen hours in custody.
On the couch JD was sandwiched between Celia and Marie, and Barney was gnawing at his shoe.
‘What happened to your moustache?’ Sam asked. ‘Gone,’ Geordie told him. ‘Janet shaved it off.’
‘It was awful,’ Celia said. ‘You look much better without it.’
Geordie was worried about Celia; the medics had put her on some tablets to try to stop the thing growing in her head. But it was exciting having the boss back on the street. ‘So,’ he said to Sam, ‘tell us the story.’
Sam looked over at Ruben but the big guy shook his head, reached for another half pork pie with his left hand.
‘Ruben smashed two of his knuckles,’ he said. ‘And he was hopping up and down in the street because I’d already done for one of his legs, and now he’d broken his hand as well. All the neighbours were out, keeping well clear but not wanting to miss anything, and that’s how we were when the police arrived. Me in the gutter clutching a bloody bayonet. They took us in the van, dropped Ruben at the hospital and put me in the slammer.’
