Read by Stephen Butterton
It’s not my real name. It’s just my stage name, written on both sides of my little sky-blue van: MISTER MERLIN, it says, in huge ornate lettering. And then underneath, in block capitals: CHILDREN’S PARTIES, BIRTHDAY PARTIES, CHRISTMAS PARTIES, OFFICE PARTIES – ANYTHING!
Alice used to say that the ANYTHING! at the end looked a bit desperate. She was probably right. Alice isn’t her real name, either. Names have been changed to protect us all. She always said I should stick at it, if it made me happy. It didn’t matter that we had no money. So I stuck at it. I did other work, of course - work that actually paid the bills - but I soon realised this is the only thing I’m any good at. And it made me happy. And if I was happy, Alice was happy, and if Alice was happy, I was happy. Isn’t that great? Sorry - I’ve had a beer.
It’s called magic, but it’s just tricks. Clever, complicated, silly little tricks. Not real magic. We tried real magic, me and Alice. Specifically, we tried to do that one magic trick that really counts, the one where two people get into bed and nine months later a third person shows up. Ta-da! But we could never get it quite right. The first part was fine, in case you’re wondering, no problems there, but the second bit, the pay-off, the big reveal, it just never quite clicked.
Three miscarriages. And Alice wasn’t getting any younger. But then, suddenly, she was pregnant again. We didn’t tell anyone. Not this time. Not at first.
I’m thinking all this while listening to Mister Landers: “Call me Stuart. Stu. Course, kids these days don’t want magic, do they? Not the old-fashioned magic, anyway. Another beer?”
“I call it classical magic, rather than…”
“Oh, you know what I mean. They want street magic. All that stuff on YouTube - that’s all they do all day, bloody YouTube, god knows what it’s doing to their precious little brains. Don’t let it get you down, though, I think it’s brilliant there are still people like you out there doing the kind of thing you do.”
“Like I say, it’s more classical magic…”
“Oi. You two. Stop trying to bloody kill each other. And leave that bloody cake alone.”
I long to tell children to stop bloody killing each other. I long to tell children to leave that cake alone.
The beer is good and cold. Doesn’t last long. I was quite thirsty.
Someone - I have to assume it’s Mrs. Landers - grabs Mister Landers’ elbow.
“I’m just talking to the, um, the…” he flaps a hand in my direction, “the magician.”
Then, to me, “Sorry about this.”
And she drags him away, avoiding my eyes. She knows. He doesn’t. But she is about to tell him.
The kitchen smells of today’s food and yesterday’s food and a whole history of food, lovingly prepared, day after day, year after year. And on the kitchen table, a big square cake with the number 10 piped on in blue frosting.
All alone, I get myself another beer. Distant shouts and laughter and whispers and children running around somewhere, unseen. I don’t mind being alone. Which is lucky, isn’t it?
I check my phone – fifteen minutes till I’m due on stage. Yes, today I’ll be giving them the works. The skill is in making them think they’re cleverer than you – get the opening trick slightly wrong, let them laugh and jeer (or worse) and then you bow a little, acknowledge your failure… but then you reveal – wow! – you knew what you were doing all along. The kid’s laughing and saying, No, mister, it was actually the six of diamonds! and everyone’s laughing, but then you say, The six of diamonds? Oh, well. Anyway, do me a favour, will you? Take your shoe off. Don’t worry about the smell. That gets them laughing with you again, and then you say, what’s that? And the kid looks in his shoe and there it is, and you say, Hold it up for all the boys and girls to see, and of course it’s the six of diamonds, in his shoe. From that moment, they are yours. How did you do that? Magic.
Actually, I haven’t done that trick before. I’ve practised it a lot, but never actually done it before. Is it a good idea to open with that? Well, you’ve got to do it sometime. This beer’s pretty good.
OK, so that’s the opening, but then what? Do I bring the rabbit out of the hat after the thing where it looks like I’ve chopped my finger off, or before? Should I even do the finger-guillotine at all? If nobody’s crying after the first fifteen minutes, then go for it. The only absolute certainty is the climax, which is always the same. Yes, in the climax, Mister Merlin will make the birthday boy disappear. Flash of light, puff of smoke, loud bang, the cabinet collapses outwards, all four sides falling to the floor of the stage, and – amazing - the birthday boy is gone.
Even Mister Merlin looks a bit confused. He stands over the empty space, wafting his hand through the smoke, as if the boy might still be in there, somewhere. But there is no birthday boy – there is nothing at all.
“Looking for me?”
They all turn around and there, in the back row, is the birthday boy, sitting happily with a slice of birthday cake in his hand. And the crowd goes wild. Take a bow, Mister Merlin, you’ve earned it.
The father joins me in the kitchen again. There’s obviously something on his mind. Do I want a cup of tea? No. Am I OK? Yes.
I wonder - what were the exact words his wife used, when she told him? I can imagine his shocked, embarrassed, awkward reaction, his wife insisting, quietly but firmly, that he should have a little word with me. And here we are. He is having a little word with me.
“You sure you’re OK? I mean, seriously, it’s fine if you wanted to cancel. The kids’ll cope, somehow.”
He’s trying to smile. I wonder how old he is. I wonder how rich he is. I wonder how happy he is. I wonder how scared he is.
“The birthday boy. What’s his name? How old is he? And is today his actual birthday? Excellent. See, I need him for my final trick. Where I make him disappear. Can’t do it without his help.”
I know that an hour ago he would have made a joke about me making his son disappear for good, and how much would he have to pay for that? and we’d have a good laugh about it. Now there are no laughs, no jokes.
“I’ll … I’ll just go and get him. Looks like we’re out of beer. Sorry.”
Everything hums in the kitchen, everything fades a little, for a little while. If only I could ...
“Hello, Mister Merlin.”
“Here he is. The birthday boy. Ten years old today.”
Wonderful. Perfect. Ten years old today. What an age. We shake hands. Dad exits, glancing back at me as he goes. And I know he isn’t going far. He’ll stop just out of my sight, try his best to listen, to make sure … what? To make sure I’m not telling his child the terrible thing. She died, in childbirth. The baby died too, of course.
I tell him I need his help. He looks at me, perfect brown eyes wide with delight and intrigue.
“So, when I call out your name, you come up onto the stage and we’ll do the whole thing. Dead easy. I knew you were a clever kid as soon as I saw you.” I always say that. “You should see some of the kids I’ve tried to explain this to before …” I always say that. “And if you forget anything, don’t worry, I’ll guide you.”
Show-time. And, in spite of everything, the show must go on.
The grown-ups herd all the kids into the big room at the back of the house, open-plan, big French windows facing the garden. Lovely house. Lovely children. Lovely everything. Lovely everyone.
The beer-buzz is with me now, mixing with the tiny pang of stage-fright before I bound out in front of all the kids, all the lovely, expectant, bored, unruly, silent, ugly, beautiful children.
Half-hearted applause. No problem – I’m a professional. I’ll soon have them in the palm of my hand. They will be mine.
There are a few grown-ups at the back of the room, now, the birthday parents among them, watching, wary. How many of them know? How much do they know?
The card in the shoe. The dismay when I get it wrong. The nervous laughter. But wait. “Can you just take your shoe off for me? Yes, you, in the front row. Don’t worry about the smell.”
Laughter
“The right one, please. Not the wrong one. Can you take whatever that is out of your shoe and hold it up for all the boys and girls to see?”
And there it is – the six of diamonds. Gasps. Applause. Cheers.
And the rest of the show is a dream. Perfection. Best I’ve ever done. Handkerchiefs out of sleeves, rabbits out of hats, flowers, glasses of water, more cards, smoke and mirrors, the tools of my little trade. I am having a great show, and so are they. And already it’s time for my final trick.
Yes, and for this very special trick I need a very special assistant. Is it someone’s birthday today? He looks so excited – his moment has come at last. He runs out of the throng and joins me up at the front.
Little bit of banter between me and him, a few laughs, and then I wave my magic wand and open the door to the cabinet, and he steps in.
Can you blame me for what happens next? If you were me, what would you do? And anyway, this disappearing thing is only temporary. It’s only a trick. So please don’t blame me.
I wave my magic wand. I say a bit of the old mumbo-jumbo. There is a loud bang, a flash, a puff of purplish smoke. The cabinet collapses outwards, all four sides slapping to the floor. The birthday boy is standing there, looking confused. At least one little girl in the audience bursts into tears.
How long shall I stay like this? Until the nervous laughter turns into something else? Until someone comes up onto the little stage and says, “what the …?” How long should I stay here, wherever here is? I wonder what they will do with my kit, the tools of my trade. I wonder how long my van will sit outside their house. Will someone come and tow it away? Or will it sit there for years, sagging slowly, the tyres going down, moss collecting in crevices and gaps, the letters on the side fading in the sunshine. Perhaps it will become a grim tourist attraction – See this van? Remember Mister Merlin? He went into that house, did his magic act and then, for his final trick, he just ...
Don’t worry - this isn’t magic, it’s just a trick. There’s no such thing as real magic. Everybody knows that.
(c) Sally Wild, 2021
Sally Wild has been writing for a while, and this is the first of her stories that's had a public airing. She really hopes you enjoy it.
Stephen Butterton trained at the London Centre for Theatre Studies in 2002, finishing his training with a run in The Accrington Pals at Jermyn Street Theatre. He then spent time in Fringe Theatre and student film productions before leaving London in 2007. He now lives in Hastings, drowning in his day job as a vet. With very little time left over for acting and the written world, he is delighted to be taking to the stage once more for Liars' League!
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