TRICK
The theatre had been closed for years. Surplus to requirements. There were already three cinemas in the town, and one of those had been bingoed. Some entrepreneur had tried to use the building for storage, turn it into a sort of warehouse, but the little twisty stairs, and the rake of the auditorium, and the dry-rot in the stage had made him give up.
The last poster was still stuck firmly on the board at the entrance, faded, rain-streaked, and beginning to tatter. Hal Preston looked at it, as the rain dripped off the brim of his top-hat and ran down his cloak, whose magic didn’t extend to being waterproof.
He hadn’t had to change his name much to follow his chosen profession – drop a letter here, alter one there – but people didn’t want magic any more – not his kind, anyway. He leant heavily on his shiny black cane, hoping it wouldn’t decide to turn into a bunch of flowers when what he needed was its everyday support. It hadn’t been deliberate, coming back to the town where he gave his last show. He hadn’t even looked at where the train was going, just got into it, to get out of the cold and wet, hoping there’d be no one to check his non-existent ticket, and he’d been right.
But he couldn’t magic away the cold and wet, and they’d knocked down the waiting-room at the station, just left the clock as a reminder of mortality, and put up the all-seeing eye of the CCTV so they could get in the security guard to move along anyone they didn’t like the look of. That was why he’d staggered and stumbled his way towards the town centre – insofar as it had a centre any more, shops boarded up, and the ones that were open and had their lights on all hair-dressers, and nail-bars, and sellers of thirty different varieties of coffee.
Time for the skill he still possessed, the one that had got him out of trunks and padlocks and chains. He knew the alleyway with the stage-door in it – but it stank now, and his feet crunched on styrofoam cups and burger boxes, and sloshed through a deep puddle where the drain was blocked by badness knew what. The paint had flaked, and the lettering was gone, but he stood on the dry step under the little awning, and let his lock-picks work their still reliable magic.
Closing the door shut out the world that had shut him out. He ignored the musty smell – most theatres smell like that, behind the scenes. There’s always a bit of rot underneath, and the scent of places where people wait, often nervously, before the bright light shines on them, to show them up and show them off.
Up the bare wooden stairs he went, to the dressing-rooms. What he wanted to try would be better done there, where the lights might work – on the darkened stage, it would be impossible.
He settled on the one with the biggest mirror, and the largest number of bulbs left round it. Looking at his image, he knew he’d been right to keep his costume, even as everything else had been sold or pawned piecemeal for little bits of food and shelter.
He closed his eyes to concentrate. The words were still there in his head – the ones he’d been taught, when he was only a lad who could do card tricks and a bit of sleight of hand, and the Great Marvo had taken him on as an assistant, to hump the trunks around and be sawn in half twice nightly.
“Be careful,” the Great Marvo had said. “Never use these unless you really have to. They are for the Last Trick. You’ll know when you need them.”
Well, he needed them now. But he still felt he had to work up to the climax, to the Great Vanishing Trick. And so he did, by doing his small ones first, the ones he loved, the ones the kids had loved. And finally, finally… he said the words that would make him vanish.
The security guard had seen him, on the CCTV, the Big Eye, that was across the road from the theatre, had seen him go up the alleyway and disappear, so, eventually, when the rain stopped, he went to investigate. He had seen light in one of the windows at the top, and used his key to get in through the stage-door, and followed the wet footsteps all the way up to where they stopped, in the dressing-room where the lights blazed round the big mirror.
On the floor, there was a bunch of flowers. As the security guard picked them up, they folded back into an elegant black cane. He laughed, and walked across to the shelf in front of the mirror, where the make-up would have been. Instead, there were three other things, the kind of things, he vaguely remembered, that people who knew how could make appear out of thin air: an apple, and a goldfish swimming in a bowl, and a hibernating tortoise.
And that was all.
Mike Rogers
And here are the cubes:
Missing
I feel distraught as my little tortoise is missing. I’ve inspected every nook and cranny in the house. I then remembered that I’d left the back door open yesterday. Oh no, if she’s got out onto the road then it’s possible she’s been knocked down.
I ran outside and checked the verges and road. And then I looked into the woodland at the back of our house. I could hear music coming from somewhere close by, and it was playing The Eye of the Tiger. I loved the song, but at this moment it is getting on my nerves. If only I could see the eye of my tortoise, I will be so happy.
I had my walking stick with me, and used it to lift the bushes to inspect if she is there. No joy, and I thought, Oh, where are you, little tortoise?
A walker came towards me and he asked me what’s wrong, also what am I looking for? I explained about my missing pet. The answer I received knocked me backwards. “Get yourself a goldfish, and then you will know where it is.”
I thought, You cheeky blighter, thanks for the help!
I gazed at the walking stick, wishing it was a magic wand; still, it’s no good wishing.
I came to a cherry tree and felt relief for the shade from the hot sun. The blossom covered the ground and the perfume is wonderful.
Feeling fed up now, I thought, I might as well give this up, as she’s gone. I put my left foot out and then my right. I began the trek back to our house and felt downhearted. What will I tell the kids when they get home?
I suppose I have to tell the truth, and this is going to be a nightmare. They will be so upset.
Perhaps the walker is right, about buying a goldfish. At least I won’t have to waste a day searching for it.
Getting home I drew myself a drink of water from the tap, as I’m parched.
The clock on the wall says it’s time to pick the kids up from school.
They came running out of school laughing and fooling around. My daughter said, “Why have you got a sad look on your face Mum.” I took a deep breath and dreaded the thought of explaining our missing tortoise. The children are so happy, how can I bring their spirits low?
It was then I saw our little tortoise, in my son’s hands.
I took a deep breath and just explained why the sad face.
“I thought we had lost her for good. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to bring her to school today?”
“Sorry, Mum, but teacher asked us if anyone has a tortoise and I said yes. And then she asked me to bring it into school for a lesson. Today we’ve been painting tortoises. It felt cool to have my own tortoise to show off to the class. The other children love her.”
Josephine Smith
My day out
On waking I decided to go for a walk, as it was such a nice day. Taking my coat off the hook in the hall, and putting on my shoes, I went out of the front door into the brilliant sunshine.
After walking for a while, I met a young lady with a sad face. I found out later that she was sad because she had just lost her pet cat. She looked me straight in the eye and asked if I knew if there was a pet shop close by. After thinking for a while, I remembered one on the high street so I said, “If you want, I will show you where it is.”
“Thank you she replied.”
So off we went. When we got to the pet shop, I opened the door for her and followed her in. She had told me on the journey that she had had a fish tank given to her and she needed something to put into it. After looking around the shop for a while she was in two minds whether to get a fish or a small turtle; deciding on a turtle, the shop keeper put it into a plastic bag with a drop of water and we left the shop.
Looking at my watch, I realised that the time was moving on, so I asked the young lady, who I found out was called Ann, if she would like a bite to eat, and when she agreed we called into a cafe that I knew did a wonderful meal.
We started going out regularly after that, and now we have been married for twelve years and have two wonderful children.
Ken Smith
The Catch
You have to pretend, don’t you? When someone shows such enthusiasm you have to go along with it, try to look interested and even try to share his passion as far as you can.
One thing, the weather’s dry, even got a faint glimmer of sunlight creeping up over the horizon.
Of course that can change. It generally does when it’s this early in the morning but you have to hope for the best.
The clock on the church tower tells us it’s nearly eight o’clock. His things are all spread out around him, his rod, of course, then his bag of bait and the keep-net, that prison which takes the little trout and confines them, hopeless and afraid, until it’s time for them to be smashed against a rock and so end their joyous lives among the streams.
I don’t wait to watch them being caught. Don’t share his excitement as he reels in another victim. I’ve done my share by coming.
The river bank’s familiar of course. A mile or so along there’s an old apple tree which will reward my deviation with a few sweet bites. It always does.
I take the walking stick to make sure the going’s a little easier. It’s not so bad. It’s not raining. Not yet. And I’m not alone, surely. That recent footprint in the mud must mean I could meet someone a little further along.
And I’m right. I call out. She stops and turns.
“Gemma, is that really you?”
And so we meet and hug, my best friend from all those years ago.
How had we lost touch? A shadow of sadness falls across her face as she tells me of her much regretted marriage and I tell her of mine. So much sadness for both of us.
We walk up to the pub a few yards further on.
But we’ll meet again, of course we will. We can’t wait to arrange it. Only we’ll have some lunch here now.
Just not the local trout.
Anne Hill
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