‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I’ll read your mind and tell you.’
He stared into Sage’s eyes. His own were brown, flecked with green and fringed with dark lashes, and bright with mirth. A spray of freckles was spattered across the bridge of his short nose, and his cheeks were ruddy and flushed.
‘I’m getting the letter M,’ said Herb. ‘And … somewhere very far away. I’m sensing that you don’t want me to say something.’ He brushed his thumb along her wrist, and she felt suddenly flustered.
‘Herb,’ said Bianca, sounding genuinely upset. ‘Please.’
‘I totally understand you don’t want me to say anything in front of Bianca,’ said Herb, leaning forward and keeping his voice low. Sage could smell his cologne, something spicy and dark, like Christmas pudding. ‘But just so you know, I’m very flattered.’
Sage felt her face growing hot, and tried to pull her hands away. Herb hung on for a moment, before letting go and turning back to Bianca. ‘You know that the superstition she’s thinking of is totally apocryphal, right?’ he said. ‘The story goes that the Globe burnt down during a production of this particular play, right? Except it didn’t. It burnt down during a performance of Henry VIII. No superstitions about that one, are there? It’s all nonsense.’
Bianca’s lips were white and thin. ‘Don’t say it,’ she said. ‘Promise me you won’t say it. Not in the theatre. If you have to talk about it, call it the Scottish Play.’
‘Okay,’ said Herb, with a little bow. ‘I promise I won’t say Macbeth.’ He paused, then smacked himself on the forehead. ‘Oh, I did! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to say Macbeth.’
Bianca’s expression turned murderous.
‘Cut it out,’ Sage told Herb. ‘You’re upsetting her.’
‘Why?’ asked Herb. ‘Just because I said Macbeth? Would you like me to … what is it? Go outside, spin around three times, spit, curse and knock?’
Bianca turned and stormed out of the theatre, slamming the auditorium door behind her. Herb chuckled.
‘That was kind of mean.’ This was a side of Herb that Sage hadn’t seen before, an arrogant, mocking side. She didn’t like it.
‘Look,’ said Herb. ‘I like Bianca. I really do. She’s a good assistant, and she’s incredibly beautiful. But the superstition thing can get really annoying after a while.’
‘Still,’ said Sage. ‘You could at least try to respect her beliefs.’
‘Why? She doesn’t respect any of mine.’ Herb saw the frown on Sage’s face, and sighed. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I went too far.’
‘It isn’t me you should be apologising to,’ said Sage.
Herb nodded. ‘I’ll talk to her in the morning.’ He stood and stretched. ‘Home time,’ he said and started to walk up the aisle towards the foyer.
‘Hey,’ said Sage, following him. ‘How did you know I was thinking of …’ She glanced around. ‘How did you know what I was thinking?’
Herb paused. ‘Lucky guess,’ he said over his shoulder.
4. Prediction: it is forecast that a particular thing will happen in the future.
True to his word, Herb apologised to Bianca as they were setting up for the show the following afternoon, producing a beautiful bouquet of silk flowers from an old feather duster. Bianca laughed, and whacked him on the head with them.
‘Figure out how to do that with real flowers,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll be impressed.’
Herb grinned at her. ‘I thought I wasn’t allowed to have real flowers onstage.’
Bianca rolled her eyes, but Sage could tell her heart wasn’t in it. She floated back to her dressing-room to get changed, and Herb asked Sage to help him get the Zigzag Effect equipment out of the storeroom.
‘The storeroom?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’
She followed him up the auditorium aisle to a narrow staircase tucked behind the door to the foyer. It led to a small room with a glass front looking out over the theatre.
‘This place was originally built as a cinema,’ said Herb when he saw her questioning look. ‘Ages ago, when movies were this big new exciting thing. This was the projection booth. It’s where we store all the magic stuff we’re not using.’
The room was crammed with boxes and trunks that had once been brightly painted, but were now shabby and faded. Cardboard boxes were stacked in one corner, with carefully lettered labels reading Indian Rope, Silk Scarves and Fake Daggers. Sage shuddered at a guillotine collecting dust in a corner, and something that looked like a large and complicated clothes wringer. Next to it loomed a tall, thin box with a scantily clad lady painted on the front, covered in small slots where knives or swords could be inserted.
‘Charming,’ muttered Sage, taking out her phone and snapping a few photos of the dingy room for her ghost-hunting project.
‘You’re like an overenthusiastic tourist with that thing,’ said Herb.
Sage hesitated, then told him she was trying to get a photo of the theatre ghost. He gave her a flat look. ‘Are you serious? You are, aren’t you. This is terrible.’
‘There has been plenty of documentation of paranormal activity,’ said Sage. ‘There are professional ghost hunters.’
Herb stared at her. ‘I am a professional magician,’ he said. ‘That doesn’t make magic real.’
Sage snapped a few more photos. She knew she wasn’t going to convince Herb, and anyway, she still wasn’t sure if she believed in the ghost herself. But after a few seconds, Herb couldn’t contain himself any longer.
‘What documentation?’ he burst out.
‘Digital recording equipment has captured voices,’ said Sage.
‘Radio signals, or noise from the recorder itself,’ said Herb promptly. ‘Next?’
‘Electromagnetic field detectors.’
‘Can be set off by faulty wiring which is very common in old buildings. Also microwaves and mobile phone signals.’
‘Photographs have shown floating orbs of light.’
‘Orbs of light!’ Herb spluttered. ‘Come on, do you really think there is any valid scientific explanation as to how a dead human being can transform into a floating orb of light that can be captured in a photograph but not by the human eye? You don’t think that maybe it’s slightly more likely to be light reflecting off particles of dust or moisture in the air?’
Sage shrugged. ‘There have been some pretty convincing investigations.’
‘No, there haven’t!’ Herb’s voice was high and indignant. ‘Nobody has ever actually set out to do a scientific, logical, methodical investigation into the existence of ghosts. Every so-called “experiment” is rife with sampling errors and misuse of equipment. And feelings. So many bloody feelings. Saying Ooh, I felt a chill in the air proves nothing other than the fact that you are either a) standing in a draught or b) highly susceptible to the power of suggestion.’
Sage gave up defending herself. ‘So where is this Zigzag thing?’ she asked, looking around.
Herb ignored her. ‘It’s like I said before: humans see what they want to see. If you ask the average human to prove a hypothesis, they’ll devise tests to achieve positive results.’
Sage couldn’t help herself. ‘So? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?’
‘No!’ Herb’s outraged shout rattled around the projection booth. ‘It’s not what scientists do. A scientist tries as hard as they can to disprove the hypothesis. It’s only by achieving positive and negative results that a hypothesis can be proven. But people just love to hear the word “yes”, so they only ask questions that they think will yield that answer.’
‘But aren’t you doing just that?’ asked Sage. ‘You assume that there are no ghosts. What are you doing to test that hypothesis?’
Herb blinked. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘You can’t disprove a negative, and it’s not up to sceptics to disprove the nonsense spouted by believers. I’m also making no effort to test my hypothesis that the sun is made out of burning marshmallows, or t
hat the universe is ruled by a giant saucy overlord made from spaghetti.’
He savagely yanked a drop cloth from something that looked like a filing cabinet: three boxes stacked on top of each other, with a black-and-white zigzag design painted on it.
‘Tell me you’re not really going to try and photograph the ghost,’ Herb said, his eyes pleading.
Sage shook her head. ‘I can’t promise that.’
Herb looked disgusted.
‘Who you gonna call?’ Sage grinned.
‘Give me a hand,’ said Herb, shaking his head. He pulled at the top of the cabinet, tilting it over so Sage could lift it from the bottom. It was heavier than it looked, and she gritted her teeth as she took its weight. Herb started to back slowly out of the booth and guide it down the little set of steps.
‘Do you think Bianca’s okay?’ asked Sage, steering the conversation away from the supernatural. ‘She seemed upset last night, and she still looks a bit weird today.’
Herb grunted under the weight of the cabinet. ‘It’s hard to tell with Bianca.’
‘You’ve been working with her for two years,’ said Sage, as they hauled the cabinet down the aisle to the stage. ‘You must know her pretty well.’
‘Bianca isn’t the easiest person to get to know,’ said Herb. ‘When I first started working here, I was only sixteen. Just a geeky magic kid desperate to get involved. I tried to make friends with her. Get to know her properly. But … sometimes she’s just sort of empty, you know?’
‘I think she’s sad,’ said Sage.
‘Maybe,’ said Herb. ‘Here, help me lift it up onto the stage.’
Under the stage lights, the Zigzag cabinet looked faded and cheap. ‘Might need a new lick of paint,’ said Herb. ‘I’ll wait and see if Armand really does want to use it.’
They headed back to their poky little office. Sage halfheartedly sorted through the list of phone bookings while watching Herb out of the corner of her eye. He was sketching a complicated-looking device in a notebook. His hair hung in his eyes, and a frown of concentrationcrinkled his brow. He looked so focused, so intent, that Sage almost didn’t want to say anything. He was such a puzzle. One minute he was funny and relaxed and smiling his wide, goofy smile; a moment later he was snarking away at Bianca, saying things he knew would hurt her. And was what Bianca said true? Was his clowning around and showing off all for Sage’s benefit? Did he really like her? That brought up an even more important question: did Sage like him back?
‘What are you working on?’ she asked.
Herb didn’t look up. ‘Just something I’ve been tinkering with for ages.’
‘A trick? For the show?’
‘An effect,’ corrected Herb. ‘But not for this show. It’s too good for this show. Or at least it will be, if I can make it work.’
He tore the page out of the notebook, screwed it up into a ball, and waved his hand over the ball to make it vanish.
‘Is that what you want, then?’ asked Sage. ‘To have your own show?’
Herb nodded. ‘That’s the idea,’ he said. ‘There aren’t that many job opportunities for magicians. You’re either a designer or a performer, or a fraud.’
Sage decided to try a little experimental flirting. ‘What about solving crime?’ she asked. ‘There seem to be heaps of magicians on TV who solve crime.’
A flicker of his usual grin. ‘They’re mostly mentalists, not magicians.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Magic is … magic. Making things appear and disappear. Mentalism is more about reading people’s minds and getting them to do stuff.’
‘But you can do that,’ said Sage. ‘You knew what theatre superstition I was thinking of last night.’
Herb let out a chuckle. ‘That’s not mentalism,’ he said. ‘It’s the best-known theatre superstition out there. For most people, it’s the only one they know. Bianca knew it, she just wasn’t saying it because she knew I’d say Macbeth.’
Sage winced.
‘Oh, now come on,’ said Herb. ‘Not you too. We’re not even on the stage!’
‘We’re in the theatre,’ muttered Sage. ‘It still counts.’
Herb pulled the screwed-up paper ball out of Sage’s ear, then turned it into a green jelly snake. ‘I saved you the last one.’
Sage felt herself blush a little as she took it. This snake was a flirting snake. A delicious, green piece of jelly flirtation.
‘What did you mean by “fraud”?’ she asked, chewing thoughtfully. ‘You said your career paths were designer, performer or fraud.’
Herb shrugged. ‘You know,’ he said. ‘Psychics. Mediums. All those people who prey on the grief of others and pretend to talk to their dead relatives.’ His face wrinkled in disgust.
‘So you don’t believe people can be psychic?’ asked Sage.
‘Nope, it’s all bullshit. You know that, right?’ Herb looked at her, suddenly concerned. ‘Right?
’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Sage, thinking about her ghost photo project. ‘I think that I shouldn’t automatically assume something is fake, just because I don’t understand it. Not everything is a trick.’
Herb rolled his eyes. ‘Just because I don’t understand something,’ he replied, ‘doesn’t mean it’s automatically magic. Don’t you think that’s kind of narcissistic? To assume that just because we haven’t figured out how something works yet, it can’t possibly have a rational or scientific explanation?’
‘You’re so closed, Herb.’ Bianca was standing in the doorway to the office, wearing a thin cotton dressing-gown over her sequined leotard. Her hair and makeup were done, and she looked like a porcelain doll. ‘It’s sad, really.’
‘Anyway,’ said Herb, ignoring her. ‘I do understand psychics. I know how it works. There’s nothing supernaturalabout it, it’s just cold reading and the Barnum Effect.’
Bianca sighed. ‘I supposed you’re an expert, then.’
‘What’s the Barnum Effect?’ asked Sage.
Herb looked at her, and cocked his head to one side. ‘You really want people to like you,’ he said. Sage immediately felt her cheeks grow hot. ‘Sometimes you seem extroverted and sociable, but in fact you are quite wary and reserved around people you don’t know. You are an independent thinker, and you don’t like to feel restricted or limited. You’re not achieving your full potential. Even though you’re disciplined and seem like you have a lot of self-assurance, in fact you’re very insecure on the inside, and often have serious doubts about decisions you’ve made. You’re often self-critical.’
Sage stared at him. She knew what he was trying to do, but his analysis had still been frighteningly accurate. ‘So,’ she said. ‘The Barnum Effect is like horoscopes. You just say general stuff and people assume it applies to them.’
Herb’s face split open in a wide smile. ‘Exactly!’ He turned to Bianca. ‘Why can’t you be that perceptive?’
Bianca sighed.
‘There’s a classic experiment where psychology students are given a personality test, then presented with a personality profile along the lines of what I just told you. They’re asked to give it a score out of five, with five being totally accurate, and zero being not accurate at all. The average score given is 4.3.’
‘You’re a genius,’ said Bianca drily. ‘You know all the answers to everything. There are no mysteries left in the universe. Congratulations.’
Herb shrugged. ‘Humans want meaning in life. We want to find meaning in everything.’ He leaned to yank an extension cord from a powerpoint, and held up the plug. ‘Sage,’ he said, showing it to her. ‘What does this look like to you?’
Sage studied it. The two prongs at the top sloped upwards like questioning eyes, and the bottom prong looked like a nose or mouth. ‘It’s a face.’
‘No,’ said Herb. ‘It isn’t. It’s just three bits of metal. But you see a face, because you’re looking for meaning. People see Jesus’s face in the soap scum on their shower screen, or in their breakfast cereal, be
cause they want to. A bunch of people have tried to prove that psychic ability is genuine, using something called the sitter-silent condition, where the subject being read can hear the psychic, but the psychic can’t see or hear them, and gets no clues as to how the subject is reacting. The sitters still reported that the psychics’ predictions were accurate and relevant. But that proves nothing. The greatest trick of psychics is that they don’t do anything. The audience does it all for them. People hear what they want to hear. All a so-called psychic does is to give them back exactly what they want.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Bianca, perching on the desk. ‘Have you ever even seen a real psychic?’
‘There is no such thing as a real psychic! Here.’ Herb leaned forward and stared intently into Sage’s eyes. She swallowed. ‘I’m sensing pain,’ he said. ‘And loss, but you’re still trying to hide it behind a façade. I’m getting … April. Something happened in April. The number sixteen. I can see … a dinner table, and a letter in a white envelope. And I’m getting the letter M. Michael? Mark? Or is it a D? David? Who is this David?’
Sage caught her bottom lip between her teeth. ‘My ex-boyfriend’s name is Daniel.’
‘Daniel, yes! That’s it,’ said Herb. ‘Tell me what happened with Daniel in April.’
Sage thought about it. ‘April was when Dad found out he was getting this new job in Melbourne.’
‘And did you tell Daniel?’
‘I–I thought he’d be more upset. That I was leaving.’ Sage remembered the conversation, outside the science block at her old school. Sage had struggled not to cry, expecting a passionate avowal of everlasting love from Daniel, or at least a poignant kiss. But Daniel had just said, ‘Wow, that really sucks,’ and asked to borrow two dollars for the vending machine. In hindsight, it wasn’t surprising at all. Daniel wasn’t the passionate-avowal kind of guy, and Sage wasn’t the kind of girl guys got passionate about.
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