Remember Why You Fear Me

by Robert Shearman

  “I suppose we could just watch the news on the telly,” said Tommy.

  Next I produced a series of eggs from my mouth. I made my eyes pop, and my cheeks bulge out, kids always love that one. Tommy nodded at three of his friends, and they performed alongside me. I made a pack of cards levitate off the table. All around the room the kids made their ipods hover, their mobile phones, their computer games—“Are you all part of a magic group at school?” I asked, but they wouldn’t reply.

  I was sweating. I wish I had been wearing the hat. I could have blamed the hat. “For my next trick,” I said, “for my next trick,” and I wondered what my next trick might be, “for my next trick I’m going to need an assistant.” I pointed at the little girl.

  She was still sitting away from all the others. She was the only one who wasn’t performing magic. When I gestured towards her, she looked startled, as if she’d been caught out—as if she were surprised I could even see her, as if she’d been practising a trick all of her own, she’d made herself invisible and now I’d ruined the whole thing. For just a moment I regretted singling her out, I wished I could have let her hide again—but, no, she was the only one who wasn’t mocking me, and I felt a surge of affection for her, she was the only one who was on my side—or not on my side, maybe not, but she wasn’t against me, was she, she wasn’t against me, that was a definite plus. “Hello, sweetheart,” I said. “Would you mind helping me with a trick?”

  “She’s not part of this,” said Tommy.

  “Come up here, sweetheart,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “She’s not invited to my party,” said Tommy. “She’s my sister, and it’s not her birthday, it’s mine.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked her.

  She looked so shy, properly shy, and I think she whispered something, and I don’t know what. I imagined it was a name, but I didn’t hear it, and I wasn’t going to put her through that again. “That’s a nice name. Would you like to help me with a bit of magic?”

  “This has nothing to do with her!” shouted Tommy. “You leave her alone!”

  “Oh, shut up. For Christ’s sake, shut up. Shut up, you little bastard.” And my cheeks were burning, this was it, I’d snapped, I’d let the hate show through. He’d heard what I’d said, they’d all heard it, they’d be calling out for their parents and they’d be making complaints, and that’d be it, the grown-ups would turn on me, the grown-ups would tell all the other grown-ups, they’d be no more bookings, the magic would be over, the grown-ups would never want me now. But Tommy didn’t call out. He didn’t run through the door and get his mummy. He just looked stunned, as if I’d slapped him hard across the face. He’d been rising to his feet to stop me as I walked towards his sister—now he wobbled, actually wobbled, and then just slumped back to the floor. I thought he might be about to cry.

  I was going to see the trick through. I smiled at the little girl. It was the sincerest smile I could muster. She tried to back away, but there was nowhere to back to.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I’m not going to hurt you. No one’s ever going to hurt you. I just want you to pick a card.” I fanned the deck to her. “Any card you like.”

  I don’t know exactly when I saw my first magician, but I was young enough that I thought the Great Marvello was his real name.

  He performed at a birthday party. It wasn’t my party. My parents didn’t throw me birthday parties. And if they ever had done, they wouldn’t have hired a conjuring act.

  “My name’s the Great Marvello,” he said. “But you can call me Great for short.” I remember that. That’s the first bit I remember. It made me laugh.

  For years afterwards I liked to imagine that the act had been good, but it probably hadn’t been, really; I’m guessing it was the usual staple of tricks: newspaper tearing, eggs in mouth, cards. And I don’t think the Great Marvello went down well, I have this memory of his performance being interrupted so that two or three of my classmates could be hauled home by their parents, they’d been playing with matches, I think. I didn’t get on that well with my classmates. I probably only went to the party in the first place so they wouldn’t beat me up.

  I watched the show, I sat right at the front, just like I did at school, and I loved it, and behind me I smelled sulphur. For years I thought that was the smell magic made. Even now, sometimes, when I go on stage, I like to imagine that there’s sulphur in the air, sometimes I almost believe it’s there.

  And I approached the Great Marvello at the end, as he was putting all his props away, and he recoiled from me as if I were going to stab him. And I told him that one day I was going to be a magician just like him, that it must be the best job in the world. “Good for you, kid,” he said.

  I told my parents the very same thing, and they indulged me, they bought me a magic kit for Christmas. Inside there were playing cards and rubber bands and metal hoops and a retractable wand. I studied the introduction booklet that came with them all, I studied it very hard. And in the playground I would perform my own magic shows, but it’s true what I say, children aren’t good audiences, they are fundamentally unsuited for magic. I did indeed get beaten up.

  I clung on to my dream. I’m not saying there weren’t other dreams along the way. Some days I’d want to be a train driver, or a rock star, or a superhero—but when these new passions faded, as most passions do, the magician would still be there, patiently waiting for me in the wings, hey, hey, remember me?

  I went to the careers officer at school. He wasn’t pleased. “That isn’t a proper job,” he said. He said that, I think, because he didn’t have a leaflet for it. “There’s no such thing as magic.” And what I didn’t say, because I wasn’t clever enough, or because I was too shy—I knew there wasn’t magic, even back then, I knew that life was just the same grind, and that there was nothing new in the world, all the magic tricks were just variations on a small number of routines that had been played out and honed over centuries—but that that was the important thing, that you were taking something that was old and familiar, and with all your practice and skill putting a fresh spin on it, you were misdirecting the audience into believing that the stale old shit you were selling them was something sparkly and crystal and new. Wasn’t that a good thing, really? Wasn’t that, in this day and age, a public service? But yeah, no, no, I didn’t say that.

  My parents weren’t pleased with me either. My mother said I was selling myself short. That I could do so much better if I only put my mind to it. “Look at me,” I said, “really, do you think I can do anything special, you think I can make any sort of difference?” Yes, she said, firmly, quietly, yes, yes, I could. “Then you’re an idiot.”

  She looked so hurt. I so wish I hadn’t said that now.

  Membership for the Magic Circle requires a nomination from two existing members; I didn’t know any magicians, but in fact that was the easy part, I just wrote to a couple, I got their names from the Yellow Pages, they said yes, they didn’t seem to care. I failed my first interview. I was told that my technical skills were competent enough, it was my patter that let me down, my patter lacked confidence. The next time I was interviewed I passed. I still wasn’t confident. But I had greater confidence in pretending to be confident. I got away with it.

  I asked my examiners if they knew of anyone called the Great Marvello. They said they didn’t. “Is that what you want to be called?” said one of them, doubtfully. I said no, I couldn’t be a Great Marvello, Marvello just isn’t me at all.

  “Pick a card,” I said.

  I like card tricks. I like the purity of them. I know that audiences can be won over by the spectacle of the newspaper trick, and that of course spectacle has its uses. But I can’t help feel the more elaborate you make the con, the more superficial it really is. And there’s nothing superficial about the cards; when you play with them it’s just you, the magician, relying upon dexterity, and even upon the relationship that you have built up with them. The
audience doesn’t matter anymore—you keep up the patter, you keep up the eye contact, but, really, the people, the stooges, they’re just window dressing—all that’s important is the cards and the dances they perform in your hands.

  “Pick a card,” I said to the little girl. “Any card you like. Take a look at it. Don’t let me see what it is. And then put it back in the pack.”

  The little girl hesitated.

  “It’s all right,” I assured her. “I’ll do all the actual magic. You can just relax and enjoy the ride.”

  The room was silent now, and I guessed that Tommy and his cohorts were watching me keenly—but I didn’t care, this wasn’t for them, this was nothing to do with them. The little girl took a card gingerly, as if she were afraid it might bite.

  “Have you seen it?” I asked. “Are you happy with it?”

  She nodded.

  “Then put it back into the pack.”

  She did so. I began to shuffle. “Now,” I said. “You keep that card in your head. Concentrate on it. And you think it right at me.”

  “The six of spades,” said Tommy.

  I couldn’t help it. I turned around. There he was, maybe ten feet away, still sitting down where I’d left him. But he no longer looked as if he were about to cry.

  “Don’t be silly,” I said.

  “Six of spades,” said Tommy, slowly, deliberately. I looked back at his sister. She nodded once more.

  “You don’t have to go along with this,” I told her. She looked up at me, those big eyes were upon me, and it seemed as if she were begging for something, but couldn’t find the words. Didn’t dare speak at all.

  “Six of spades,” Tommy repeated, one last time. “Right?”

  The girl looked away from me, nodded again.

  “If you say so,” I said. “Fine. Okay. If you say so.” She must have heard the bitterness in my voice, she looked back up at me. She opened her mouth, just a little, in apology, maybe? I don’t know.

  “We’ll try it again,” I said. “Okay? Pick a card.” And the girl shook her head, just a little shake, I ignored it. “Come on, pick a card, any card.” I was more brusque perhaps than I’d intended. I fanned the pack out once more, I fanned it right in front of her stupid face. She took a card.

  “Three of clubs,” said another boy.

  The little girl looked shocked at this, I think, just for a moment, I think she had the decency to be shocked. Then, reluctantly, she held up her card for all to see. It was, indeed, the three of clubs.

  This second boy was nowhere near the girl either, he was next to that ginger git who’d done the newspaper trick, he couldn’t have seen the card, but he must have, that was it, that was all it could be. “Clever,” I said. I thrust the pack back at the little girl. “Pick another card, then,” I said. “Go on. Pick another. Pick another!”

  Unless, of course, the girl was a plant. That was it, she was telling her brother and his friends exactly what card she was holding, perhaps through predetermined gestures. No, simpler than that, they’d already agreed the cards in advance. “Pick another card, pick another card!” She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t take a card, she wouldn’t even look up at me, no matter how much I insisted, no matter that I think I began to shout. “All right,” I said. “Be on their side. That’s fine. I’ll do it myself.” So I fanned out the pack, I held it close, I picked a card, I didn’t show it to anyone, I kept it hidden.

  “Two of spades,” said a third boy.

  I fingered another.

  “Seven of hearts.”

  And another.

  “Jack of diamonds,” said four boys, all at once.

  My fingers prodded at the cards. Fast. Tapping the edges with my nail. “Eight of spades. Queen of spades. Five of hearts. Six of hearts.” Then faster still, and angrier too, stabbing the cards now, stabbing down on them hard, “Six of clubs. Nine of diamonds. Nine of diamonds. Ace of spades.” And now more boys were joining in, soon they all were, chanting in unison—and there was no triumph to their chanting, try to understand, it was like they were at school, it was like they were reciting their times tables, two nines are eighteen, three nines are twenty-seven, “Nine of hearts. Seven of spades. King of clubs,” and it was only Tommy who wasn’t chanting along, Tommy sitting there in the middle of them, unsmiling, his face so blank, Tommy beneath that ridiculous top hat far too big for him, he ought to have looked silly but he didn’t, I ought to be laughing but I wasn’t, he looked like a child pretending to be a grown-up, like a child becoming a grown-up—everyone chanting but Tommy and the little girl, I stole a look at the little girl, and she was beginning to cry. “How are you doing that?” I asked them, “why are you doing that?” I screamed, and I threw the cards at them, the whole pack, and they rained down to the floor, and everyone fell quiet.

  “We don’t like you,” said Tommy then. It was clear and so very precise. “And we don’t respect your work.”

  It was such a strange thing for a little boy to say, it sounded more like a review.

  “What next?” asked Tommy. “What are you planning to give us next?”

  I said, “Some balloon animals.”

  Tommy laughed mirthlessly. He got to his feet. He walked to me, slowly.

  “Don’t you have anything new to show us?”

  “But there isn’t anything new,” I said. “There’s nothing new. This is all there is. There’s nothing new under the sun.”

  Tommy seemed to think about this. He put his head on one side thoughtfully, in a parody of contemplation, the top hat slid somewhat over his face, it nearly fell off altogether. “I’ll show you something new,” he said.

  “Be my guest,” I said. I wanted it to come out haughty and sarcastic. I don’t think it did.

  “Did you mean what you said about your mother? That she’d rather you’d been a doctor?”

  I was surprised. “It’s just a gag,” I said.

  He nodded coolly. “Remember what happened to Houdini.”

  “What?”

  But he didn’t reply, the conversation was over. He took off the top hat. He handed it to me—and then, as an afterthought, he changed his mind, he took it back, he reached inside, and pulled out a stuffed rabbit toy. And another one. He pulled out seven stuffed rabbits, one after the other, gave them to me, gave me the hat.

  “Very nice,” I said.

  “That,” said Tommy, “wasn’t the trick.”

  “Oh.”

  And Tommy closed his eyes then. He stretched out his arms, wiggled his fingers. He breathed in deeply through his nose, exhaled through the mouth, in again, out again. He opened the mouth wide, rolled his tongue slowly around it,

  And, at last, the other little boys were taking interest; they shuffled forwards to watch, and their eyes, I recognized the look in those eyes, the eyes were gleaming.

  The little girl turned away.

  Tommy opened his eyes. He was ready to begin.

  He didn’t say anything. He’s going to have to work on his patter, I thought.

  He didn’t do anything, not for the longest few seconds. He began to gnaw on his bottom lip, and his eyes looked frightened. They were the eyes of a seven year old who had been caught out before his friends, who after all really had nothing to give, who’d shot off his mouth and been trapped in a lie. And I thought, it’s over, even before it’s begun. He’d lost his nerve. I’d seen it happen to performers, oh, ten times his age, and pretty soon the audience would start laughing, or, worse, feel ashamed for him.

  He gnawed at his lip, and then he stopped, and he showed us what he’d done.

  He smiled. The smile revealed that he’d gnawed his bottom lip clean off.

  I looked for the lip, I’m sure we all did. Nowhere to be seen. It had vanished. I could only think he had swallowed it.

  He continued to smile. His bottom teeth now fully exposed to the roots, you could see where they stuck deep into the gum.

  “That’s . . .
” I said. That’s, what? Remarkable? Disgusting, what?

  And then Tommy held up his hand for silence. I was the only one to have broken it. I shut up.

  And he bit down again. This time into his chin.

  Deep into the chin too, you could see the skin yield and break under the force, you could see the teeth sink straight down like a spade through grass. He began to chew.

  There was no blood.

  And he chewed faster, as if he were enjoying the meal so much, as if his own flesh was the tastiest treat ever, oh, he couldn’t get enough of it! And he chewed further, right to the bottom of the chin, to areas his mouth could never have reached, surely?

  And there was no blood.

  He paused to smile at us again, and now that smile seemed to balance upon such a thin sliver of jaw, so precariously you’d have thought there wasn’t enough bone to support it, you’d have thought that the smile should have fallen off his face and straight on to the floor.

  And then, the smile tightened into a little ‘o’—this smile composed of just an upper lip and some exposed gum and pure white hungry teeth. He forced the ‘o’ upwards into a pucker, it looked as if he were trying to blow a kiss, but no one would want to kiss that face, not now.

  He puckered the mouth into a neat little funnel. He aimed it at his forehead. He breathed in deep.

  I could see his forehead quiver.

  It quivered as if it were trying to resist the suction. It couldn’t, it couldn’t resist.

  And I heard, what? I thought I heard something crack. The bones, maybe? The skull as it was breaking, bending out of shape? But I might have just imagined that.

  And the top half of the head suddenly tipped downwards, as if released on a pivot, as if it were a swing door blown open in the wind. The forehead was now at a right angle to the bottom half of the face, the nose pointing straight at Tommy’s feet.