9781910981729 (14 page)

ABRACADABRA

He certainly hadn’t climbed to the top of the greasy pole of success via a route that could ever be described as traditional. Not that he cared. It was the cash that counted and now he had more than he could count. He used to take it from people without them knowing. Now he took it from them with his victim’s full knowledge he was conning them. The switch amused him. Though cynical beyond belief he appreciated irony. At least that was real.

With an extravagant flourish he covered the scantily clad, tightly bound girl with a satin cloth. The drums rolled, the lights dimmed, then, a moment later, a bright explosion of smoke shook the stage and the girl vanished. Incredibly, seconds later, the spotlight swooped to the back of the huge auditorium revealing the girl, miraculously unbound, running back down through the aisles of people, back to the stage to thunderous applause. ‘Jesus,’ he thought, ‘haven’t these people ever heard of twins?’ Their gullibility made him despise their weakness. There was the irony again. It was their weakness that had made him rich.

As he began to surreptitiously attach himself to the ultra fine cables would facilitate his ‘flying’ finale, he was vaguely aware that he was bored. God, was he bored. He desperately missed the excitement of the early days, when he’d begun on the journey of learning his craft. Unlike most magicians he hadn’t wasted his childhood endlessly practicing pathetic tricks or spending his allowance on cheap parlour illusions. This wasn’t what had interested him. He realised early in life that misdirection and manipulative skill could be used to his advantage. Not for him the junior magician’s circle or the appreciation of his classmates at a spectacular vanish. He embraced sleight of hand and deception. By the age of eleven he was already grifting in the school playground, effortlessly relieving people of lunch money. By thirteen he was unbeatable at poker. Whether it be a marked deck, card counting, crooked dealing or sometimes just his rigorously trained memory, he was able to totally control every encounter. In his hands, playing cards did his bidding. Endless practice paid off. Chance simply didn’t come into it. Only a fool would believe in luck.

While he was fleecing his classmates, safe in the knowledge that he could never lose, he also acquired the skills of watching for the bluff. The ‘shows’ and ‘tells’ that his friends exhibited in their amateurish attempts to deceive. It gave him valuable knowledge and experience of people and how they could be manipulated. At sixteen he could read people as easily as the daily paper.

His stack of cash began to turn from modest into something more substantial as he saw the rewards of his practice. He moved from cards to ‘dips’, ‘lifts’ and ‘brushes’. His ability to deprive friends and classmates of their cash by nudging against them or by a deft piece of misdirection became a daily occurrence. His prey would have enjoyed his skill, if he’d ever told them what he’d done. He never did. He then made the jump to strangers on the street and the money really began to roil in,

His hands, eyes and quick brain became his most valuable assets. He investigated thoroughly the experiences he had whilst observing the gullible and the victims of his skills. He then delved into the money pit that was clairvoyance, prediction and mentalism. There, with his well-honed observational skills and phenomenal memory, he made a name for himself amongst those who desperately wanted to believe in his gift. It was an easy sell. After all, he believed in them. They were making him rich.

The wealthier he became the more curious he was at the seemingly endless ways that people could be deceived. He mastered the intricate technicalities of ‘vanishes’, ‘palming’ and the ‘skim’. How to make a roomful of people see what he wanted them to see. How to influence their thinking simply by the power of his own mind and personality. He moved effortlessly to hypnotism. He was able to mesmerise the most vulnerable subjects in seconds. His ability to identify those subjects was refined to a fine art as his quest continued.

By eighteen he was not merely an enviably talented magician, he was an increasingly affluent and professional con man. He saw no difference between the two. As his success continued, his arrogance grew until the day he made a spectacularly disastrous share trade. Wiped out overnight, he was forced to complement his grifting by performing table magic at novelty restaurants. It was a crushing blow. He took his revenge on his stockbroker by lifting his wallet six times in as many weeks, together with his car and house keys on two additional occasions. The havoc he caused in the man’s life gave him at least some recompense.

As he performed a particularly innovative vanish at a table one night (the tips were better if he made an effort) his smooth technique and darkly cynical patter came to the notice of one of the diners at another table. As he was about to move on, the man blocked his path and pressed a business card into his hand. “Hey, Kid,” he smiled. “Call me.” He turned to return to his seat. As the conjurer studied his card the diner looked back at him and winked, “
Abracadabra
huh?” Momentarily non-plussed the magician looked up, “Yeah, sure,
Abracadabra
.”

As he sat in the agent’s office two days later his mood was in high spirits. Five confiscated billfolds tended to have that effect. It had been a good morning and it was still only eleven o’clock. “OK,” the agent demanded, “Show me what ya got.” Twenty minutes later the man was astounded by the competence of the performance he’d witnessed. It was one of the best he’d ever seen. The brief show was combination of flawless close up magic, mentalism and a vicious patter seemingly engineered to humiliate him. A real crowd pleaser; people loved to see others embarrassed. His level of skill was extraordinary. Yep, the kid had it. He signed him on the spot. As the ink was drying on the contract he fixed the young man with a gimlet eye. “Study your craft. Really study it. We’ll make a killing.” Together with the share tip it was the only advice he ever took. He was glad he did.

He rose rapidly through the ranks. His unique act stunning and appalling audiences in equal measure. In the mentalsim part of his show, his exposure of his suspects knew no bounds. He revealed details that should not just have been shut away, but buried in coffins six feet deep in the ground then covered in concrete. His hypnosis show was so extreme that minors were banned from attending. His conjuring amazed people with its audacity and innovation. In these moments the audience forgot his cruelty and gawped in fascination. Once he started to perform they were caught like rabbits in his headlights. Cannon fodder.

Naturally, lawsuits followed, the publicity droving his booking fees ever skywards. There was even a high profile suicide. The money cascaded in. Business was good. He was loathed and adored in equal measure. He delved into his craft ever deeper in the knowledge that the greater his skill the greater the rewards. His only pleasure came from his ever more brutal manipulation of his audiences; simultaneously striking them speechless with wonder at his illusions whilst ritually verbally abusing those he selected from the adoring crowds.

‘Who the fuck are ‘The League?’ was the first thought that had come to mind when he picked up the envelope in his post box. The paper was of a quality that told him this wasn’t junk mail. Additionally, his name and address had been written in a flourishing hand. On the top left hand corner of the lush manila stationary,
‘The League’
was monogrammed in an impressive embossed typeface. Curious, he opened it and read.

‘You are summoned to appear before the League to account for your behaviour. Call this number to make an appointment. Do not delay.’

It was unsigned. Save for a telephone number beneath the message, the missive contained no further information. He read the message a second time, briefly bemused. His attention wavered and then, annoyed at the intrusion, he tore it up. An identical letter arrived the following day. And the next. And the next.

On the fifth day, as he was tearing up yet another entreaty, his doorbell sounded.

The man who stood in his doorway was immaculately dressed. An exquisitely cut suit complimented by a perfect yet incongruous Lily in the buttonhole of his lapel. Apparently in his late sixties replete with a shining bald scalp, the man was staring at him with what appeared to be curiosity. “Yes?” the magician snapped irritably. The man looked down at the Lily and appeared to study it carefully. “I always wear one of these. It’s an ancient symbol of innocence and purity.”

“And that’s of relevance to me how?” The conjurer exhibited his well-known short fuse.

“The craft that we practice needs be to gentle, lest we are tempted take advantage of the innocent, those souls who give themselves over to our skills in their belief of our power. The purity the Lily represents symbolises this wondrous web of magic we weave and its true origins. Thus I wear this flower to constantly remind me of these two truths.”

The magician scoffed, “Who the fuck uses words like ‘lest’ and ‘thus’? Jesus, man. Just fuck off why don’t you?” He made to shut the door. At that moment a picture fell off the wall behind him with a loud crash, startling him. In the moment he hesitated, the man entered. Momentarily confused, he was about to speak when the stranger beat him to it. “Actually, I thought I’d come in.”

The two men stood facing each other, the stranger was looking at him intently. He had the most compelling eyes. As the magician looked into them the room seemed to shudder slightly. In a second he recognised the signs and then he was back and actually laughed. “Hey, that was pretty good,” he said. “I’m a stone cold hostile subject and you got me to stage one.” As he spoke the man held up his hand. It held the magician’s wallet. “Good lift,” the conjurer admitted. “Now give it back and get out.” The stranger threw the wallet into the air, where it burst into flames before it hit the ground. As it touched the carpet, it crumbled into ash.

The conjurer was impressed in spite of himself. A most professional dip, followed by a full sight switch in bright light and instant remote combustion, all close up. He hadn’t caught the dip and certainly not the switch. “Because you weren’t looking for them,” said the stranger, reading his thoughts. “I caught you unawares. Now you’re aware. Watch this.”

He reached inside his suit pocket and produced a handkerchief. He methodically and precisely began to unfold it. The conjurer was instantly bored, but something inside him told him to keep looking. The man continued to unfold the handkerchief. He continued to unfold it until the magician realised that this was no normal piece of cloth. Thirty seconds later the stranger held up sash of material that was taller and wider than he was. He held it up in front of him at each of the top corners, with only his hands now visible to the magician. A moment later he saw the man’s hands release the cloth and it fell to the floor, the stranger behind it now gone. The conjurer was stunned. He was even more stunned to hear a quiet cough behind him. He spun round to see his uninvited guest sitting on a sofa.

It took him five seconds. What he’d seen was impossible. “You got me to stage two, you clever bastard. Bring me out of it now,” he demanded. The stranger smiled. “You’re not under. Surely you don’t believe that you could be mesmerised that quickly?” The truth was, he didn’t. He wasn’t susceptible. He knew the tricks of the trade. The stranger spoke again, interrupting his thoughts “I’m here representing the League,” he said.

The man had his attention. That he had to admit. “You have five minutes,” he snapped.

“Very well,” his guest nodded. “You’ve rather rudely been ignoring our invitations. Actually, you’ve been rather rude generally. We’ve decided that it’s got to stop.”

He continued, “the League has been in existence, in some form or another, since the very beginnings of magic. It was formed initially as a forum where those who practiced could come together in the company of like-minded individuals to exchange ideas. It’s always been a secret of course. Secrets are the source of our power. That much I know you understand. The forum evolved over time as a keeper of these great secrets, and to keep the practitioners and the very greatest exponents of our art close to the true spirit of the power we possess. To entertain and to do good for those who would hold us in awe. To encourage responsibility in those blessed in the craft.”

The magician laughed, “Yeah right. Then why haven’t I heard about you then?”

The stranger leaned forward. “Because, my young friend, you are not a great conjurer. You have not even started. When measured against the likes of Keller, Thurston, Houdini or Blackstone you are merely a flim flam man. A gaudy and unsophisticated charlatan too caught up in his own naked greed to even begin to understand the elegance of your chosen profession. And I’m only mentioning names that you’ll know. The vast majority of the League are not even in the public eye. This has always been our way. We are the keepers, the guardians of the gift.”

The magician reacted in fury. “A flim flam man? I’m the biggest fucking name in the business! Don’t come round here lecturing me about a sad bunch of amateurs jerking off in private pretending all this is real. We do tricks. We con people because they’re too weak minded to work out how we do it. That’s it, pure and simple.”

Unmoved, the stranger answered him. “Is it? What is real magic? If you perform a spectacular vanish that no one can fathom, then it’s magic to the observer.”

“Yeah,” interrupted the magician, “It’s magic to them not to us. That’s the real gig. We know it’s not real.”

“Magic is all around us,” his guest offered carefully. “It’s constantly present. Sometimes recognised and sometimes not. You and I and a few select others have the ability to tap into it. We have a responsibility.”

“No we don’t,” argued the conjurer. “We’re just deceivers. We have no responsibility. Their pathetic weakness provides us with a living. That’s it. End of story.”

“We don’t feel the same way,” the stranger murmured. “We’d rather like you to fall in line and stop being such a bore. You do show so much promise.”