What Becomes (22 page)

But it's just a performance. It's magic: that kind of game. If I think something's going on, then it probably might be, but there's no need to fret. It's nothing personal – it's just the magic, not anything wrong.

All of these people, packed in snug: they'd sent the air up to a blood heat and he'd liked that, which surprised him. And maybe this was how the game would work him – making him trapped and then offering release: the hope of joining something strange, the chance to be lost in the mind of a crowd, to evaporate. It had been, in a way, extremely welcoming.

I don't know, though.

Straight ahead had been the tall, naked dark of the stage. It stared at him, prepared.

Everyone else in here understands this. They're going to like it. They want to play.

I might not.

Then his morning fear had tickled unexpectedly in his chest – the creep of it as he would get out of bed and be alone – no one else there, nobody's belongings, only time in the flat and books he didn't read and
DVD
s of films he never really fancied watching and maybe this would be the way it was from here on in – forever – maybe even with somebody there he was meant to love, trust, be loved by, maybe even then it would stay the same, had always been the same: himself locked somewhere airless, somewhere dead.

This evening is all of the things that
she
would like. Not me.

And he'd sat inside this thing that Dee would like while panic tilted in his neck and signalled a chill to the small of his back. He'd begun to wish hard that the lights would go down before he cried.

And then they did.

Like magic they did.

At the perfect point.

Exactly when another moment's wait would have toppled him, the colours had mellowed, the auditorium was withdrawn, was dimmed to exit signs and its private variety of night.

Evaporate now and nobody would see.

Nobody would stop me.

Or nobody would help.

There was no music.

Just breath – the audience noticing its nerves, stirring, giggling, settling again and holding.

Paul had shut his eyes. He'd inhaled the vaguely sweet and powdery warmth, the taste of attention, of other lives.

All right, then.

He'd tried to concentrate, to push and lift away from the restrictions of his skin, his skull. He was very tired, he'd realised, and had a great desire to be peaceful, uncluttered, unharried – to be not himself.

All right, then.

He'd begun to hear footsteps and, for an instant, they had seemed so natural, so much the start of an answer to soften his current need, that they might have been some internal phenomenon, an oddly convincing idea. Then they grew sharper: the hard, clear snap of leather soles that paced, perhaps climbing closer – yes, there was definitely a suggestion of stone steps winding upwards to the stage and raising an authoritative, measured tread. The sound was just a touch peculiar, amplified, treated.

All right.

Paul had unfolded his arms.

Yes.

He had let his hands rest easy on his lap. He'd blinked.

Yes.

He'd looked clear out into nowhere, into the free and shapeless deep of everything.

Do what you like.

And Paul had grinned as the footfalls halted, the proper pause extended and then the magician had walked out from the wings.

You do just precisely whatever you would like.

And The Great Man had been –
What?

Sane?

Undamaged?

Undamaging?
–

‘Oh, what did you think, though? Really. I
mean
. . .' When the final applause was done with, Simon had been not unexcited. ‘First half –
fantastic
, but second half? Always a kicker.' He'd clutched at Paul's forearm, shaking it gently. ‘What did you
think
? I didn't ask in the interval, I held back – didn't I hold back? – but
how
was
that
?' Simon had cornered him up at the top of the aisle, turning to peer back into the emptying theatre, the emptied stage. He'd pulled his free hand through his hair, smiling, then shaken his head and laughed. ‘Jesus, how
was
that?'

Paul had smiled, too – although he'd also shrugged away from Simon's grip. Then he'd breathed in – tasted deep – tasted something like physics going quite awry, like unexpected possibility. ‘It was all right.' He'd thought, for a second, the game might not be over.

‘It was –' Simon had interrupted his outrage and checked Paul's face. ‘Oh. Yeah.' He'd grinned. ‘It was all right.' He'd seemed to consider for a moment. ‘You feel a bit weird, yeah? Bit stunned? Mugged? Fuddled?'

To Paul, it hadn't felt quite appropriate that someone who was barely past teenage, who probably had at least one bad tattoo, and a no doubt exhaustive regimen of mildly unnerving self-abuse, was asking Paul about his personal condition.

Still, a response would do no harm, ‘A little – a bit weird. Maybe. Yes. That stuff that he did with the . . . the dead . . .' It was sometimes good to make a conversation, join in.

‘Then you should come along with me. You'll like this.' Simon had leaned in close enough to prove that his breath smelled of crisps. ‘The show after the show.' But he'd also been unmistakably very serious and almost tender. ‘Honest. It'll be good.' Simon had padded off without another glance, repeating as he went, ‘How was that . . . How just the bloody hell was that . . . How
was
that . . .' He'd expected Paul to follow.

And Paul had.

This isn't a chat-up, though, is it?Even if I
was
gay, he wouldn't be my taste at all – embarrassed if he'd think he was . . .

Then again, he's clearly a nutter – so probably I'd fall for him completely.

Walking out of the theatre and round the bend.

Oh, quite exactly round the bend. And maybe here is where I get mugged. Factually, unmagically mugged. He'd be a really useless mugger, though – a lover, not a fighter: young Simon – well, a wanker, not a fighter. But he could have pals – mugger chums. Maybe.

Around one more corner and they'd stopped in a little lane.

This exact and precise little lane – mildly cold and unmistakably damp and faintly piss-and-disinfectant-scented lane – this lane at the back of the theatre where I am currently standing. After all this time. Still standing.

Worries had reeled by, but had left Paul curiously sanguine – unworried, in fact.

Still am – calm as you'd like.

Simon had brought him to see the stage door and the jovially restless cluster of other young men in black drainpipes, or disreputable coats, plus a scatter of slender, underdressed girls and a few motherly types.

‘He'll be out in a while,' Simon had murmured as if he were in church. ‘It's what he does. He comes and speaks to us.'

Paul had been mainly glad he didn't have to go home yet, but he couldn't help asking, ‘
What
? Who does?'

‘
TGM
. It's what he does. No photographs, no autographs – says then it isn't friendly – but he'll chat. To everyone. To you. Then it's like you're friends. We're his friends.'

‘You're kidding.'

‘Why would I be kidding?' Simon had frowned, but then was interrupted by the appearance of two stocky pals – real, non-mugger pals – in what Paul thought must be second-hand suits – or they possibly both enjoyed wearing their dads' clothes. While Paul watched, the three men had shaken hands and fussed in each other's pockets, producing a flurry of small trophies: wallets and house keys, bus passes and condoms and christknewwhat, which they had passed between themselves for a while, deadpan – stealing and passing, returning, then stealing again.

After reclaiming his unlikely handkerchief for the third time, Simon had nodded to indicate Paul, ‘This is Paul. He gave me a ticket.'

‘You want to watch that.' The more solemn newcomer had tugged at his walrus moustache and extended his arm. ‘Hi. My name's Mr Palm.' He winked. ‘You can call me Morritt.'

‘And I would be Knot. Not Not – and not Knott – a K and one T – Knot. Davenport Knot – it's a family name.' The unmoustachioed Knot waved politely and inclined towards Simon, ‘How many did
you
sneak in? Any? Were you trying? Did you get any? A few? You did try? Was there the offer of a finger ring at any point? A bit of badinage and wordage?' He'd nudged Paul lightly, ‘Beyond me to say how fine it is, splaying with words. Word splay. Words play well, don't they? Don't you just love words? Love-me things, love-ly things.' He'd grinned, over-broadly, and then snapped his whole face into neutral, examined his thumb.

Simon had shrugged at Paul, ‘They're feeling antisocial. So they're being . . .'

‘Playful.' Morritt had winked again, ‘I'm always antisocial. Comes of being a sociopath.'

‘Like I said, they're not in the mood for company, so I'll escort them and conduct what I will not at all or in any way describe as a debriefing over there.'

Morritt let his eyes grin but kept his face immobile and seemed to be searching Paul for something – not predatory, but curious, forensically interested.

‘Morritt, leave him be.' Simon had patted Paul's shoulder, ‘I'll be back in a bit. And –' He grinned like the boy he almost still was, ‘Thanks again. Wouldn't have missed it.'

Which is how you end up standing by yourself and waiting. In a lane at night with your feet getting chilled – waiting for no one you'd wanted to meet in the company of strangers. And most of the strangers have headed off home.

All of the motherly women have gone, given up – except for the one with the shopping bag full of papers. Paul knew not to talk to
her
any more – and not to make eye contact, because that would start her off, as well.

‘These are letters for
TGM
. I send them, but I know they don't get through. So I bring him the copies myself. He always smiles at me. He's lovely. He should eat more fruit.'

Paul had already been caught by her twice – once with the letter story and once with the much more complicated crap about there being some kind of grand conspiracy against magicians in general and
TGM
in particular – because he was so highly skilled – and only she knew how to stop it and
TGM
was fully aware of this and would one day ask her for her help which she would then graciously give. She was called Lucy.

Didn't want to know her name. Didn't want to know anything about her, or have anything to do with her. Funny, cos she's madder than anyone I've ever met and she does have nice tits. Big, anyway.

And she'd be grateful for the attention.

Sweet Jesus, what am I turning into?

And he glances at his watch to distract himself and it's ten past one and everybody's still here waiting – well, not so many as there were, but definitely some, a small crowd – eight people, counting himself, which he does, because he's people – and Paul has no way of being sure if this is normal – a three-hour wait. He doesn't like to interrupt Simon and his friends to ask them, because they seem to be enjoying themselves, giggling and showing each other cards, coins, little gadgets, and if he steps into that and messes it up for them, then he'll be the boring old bastard who knows nothing and shouldn't be here and he's sure that will make him depressed, so he won't attempt it and then he thinks that maybe the magician is busy and – here it comes as quick as fainting, weakness, shame – the sly, worst possible thought comes ramming in – he imagines that maybe Dee
is
here, maybe she came, maybe she'd talked about the magician because she knew him and maybe they're in there now, in his dressing room – lots of lights and a countertop, mirrors and maybe – why not? – a bed – or a table – no, a bed – no, a hard, clinical table – and maybe he's touching her, maybe they're doing it, doing weird stuff, magician stuff, things that take three hours and counting, things that make her think the little bastard's really good, that open her and make her squeal it – he has this image of her skin and smears of make-up, stage make-up, of things that appear and disappear.

Except that's mad.

So mad it hurts.

Madder than Lucy.

I have no reasons to believe it, not a one.

Stark, staring Lucy.

Mental.

As stupid as staying here when I ought to just chuck it and head for home.

But I've been here so long that I might as well keep on.

Paul's vaguely nauseous, though – images of clever fingers and slippery skin pitching in at him, so he walks a bit, strolls round, swallows and rubs his eyes, as if this will make the brain behind them sensible.

In a doorway, one of the three remaining girls is sitting and holding a programme and Paul thinks the step beneath her must be dirty and that's not right and she'll be perished and, to distract himself, he goes over and suggests, ‘You could have my jacket. Borrow my jacket.'

She has dull blonde hair, ‘No, it's okay,' and tiny wrists which manage to make Paul feel she has sometimes considered slashing them.

‘You look freezing.' He wants to hold her, finds he is talking as if they have met before, are friends – the way you talk to people when you know how to talk to people.

‘No, it's okay.'

She doesn't seem annoyed by him or anything, so he sits down next to her, is quiet for a bit, gives her time, and then, ‘Do you like him – the magician?'