The Bullet Trick

by Louise Welsh

  '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 watch
ing 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.'