Remember Why You Fear Me (66 page)

Last Thursday I got a call from Sally. I hadn’t seen her for a week or three, I needed some time to myself. She sounded nervous, and a little cross. I hate it when women get cross.

“Were you ever going to phone me again? Or, what, have you just dumped me?”

I assured her I hadn’t dumped her.

“Oh,” she said. “Well. That’s all right then.”

I told her I’d had a lot on my mind recently. She apologized. She said she had had too.

“Can we go out?” she asked, and she sounded perky again, quite like her old self. “My treat to make it up to you. A Mexican, we like Mexican, don’t we?”

“Sure,” I said.

“When?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight? I’m a bit busy tonight.”

“What are you doing tonight?” she asked, and the truth was, I couldn’t think of anything.

“Let’s get chimichangas,” she said.

“All right. Do you want to meet at the restaurant? We could meet at the restaurant. Let’s meet there.”

“Come and pick me up,” said Sally. “Half seven, okay?”

At half past seven I rang the doorbell and my heart was beating fast and my heart was in my mouth and I felt a little sick. I hoped Sally would be the one that answered. I hoped it was Sally’s figure I could now see behind the frosted glass, the one coming ever closer, now reaching for the door knob, now pulling the door open, I hoped it was Sally, but I could see the figure was too small and too thin and I wanted to run.

“Hello,” I said to Abigail. “I’ve come to see your mummy. Is your mummy in?”

Abigail didn’t say a word. She stood back so I could come in.

“Is that you, darling?” I heard Sally call from upstairs.

“Yes,” I called back. I sounded cheery, I was surprised at how cheery I could sound.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” said Sally. “I’m just putting my face on.”

“Shall I come up?”

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

I went to the kitchen. Abigail followed me in. So I left the kitchen, I went into the sitting room. She was right there behind me.

I tried to be nice. “So. Abigail. How’s school?”

She just stared at me.

I turned away, even hoped she’d have gone by the time I looked back. She hadn’t.

“Must be summer holidays soon,” I said. Though it was May. “You must be looking forward to that. Summer holidays!”

Nothing.

And I didn’t know what to do, I reached out, I took a coin from behind Abigail’s ear.

“What’s that doing there! That’s for you. That’s all yours, sweetheart. But, you know, don’t spend it all at once!” And I smiled.

“I don’t like you,” said Abigail.

“Oh,” I said.

“I don’t like you, and I don’t respect your work.”

The judgment sort of hung in the air between us.

“What did you say? Why did you say that?”

And only then did Abigail make to leave.

“Not so fast,” I said. “Not so fast, I’m speaking to you, you don’t . . .  you don’t get to go, not when . . .  when a grown-up asks you a question, hey, I’m your elder and better.”

And I took her by the shoulders.

“Look at me,” I said. “I’m talking to you!” I had her by the shoulders, and it was hard, my fingers dug in, I think it was too hard.

And she did look at me. And she smiled. And very slowly, she stuck out her tongue. Just the tip of it. And licked her bottom lip, left to right, then back again.

I released her.

“We should go,” said Sally. She was standing in the doorway. I don’t know how long she’d been there. She looked very nice, all that make-up, she’d put in some effort.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was looking at Abigail, but I was speaking to Sally, “I didn’t mean to . . . ”

“We should go,” said Sally, “now,” and she took my hand, and she was strong, she
pulled
me towards the door.

We left the house. We got to the car. We sat inside. “Listen,” I said, “I should explain . . . ”

But she held on to me. “Let’s go and eat Mexican,” she said. “I’m dying for Mexican. And after that, we can make love. Yeah? We can make love all night. Can I come to yours? Can I stay at yours? Let’s go to yours, where we can be all on our own, and we can make love and never stop.”

“But what about your daughter?” I asked.

“What about her?”

Once in a while, if I were feeling nostalgic, or if I’d had too much to drink, I’d sit in the members bar of the Magic Circle and ask about the Great Marvello. And one time, just this one time, someone had heard of him.

“Oh yes,” said an old man. “He’s long retired now. Didn’t have the staying power.”

A few of us had been talking about how we’d got into magic, and I’d heard a series of tales, all increasingly more elaborate and fantastical. Magicians always do this, they’re liars, you can never trust any of them. So when the man spoke up, I didn’t necessarily believe him.

“Real name was Arthur Travis.” Then he thought. “Or Arthur Davenport. Definitely Arthur, though.”

I asked him whether he’d known the Great Marvello well, and the old conjuror shrugged expansively, and said, “Who knows anybody?”

The next weekend I went down to the town I’d lived in as a boy. I hadn’t returned since my mother died. It was just the same, a little smaller, maybe. I went to the library. I’d decided that Marvello had probably been local to the area, you never travel far for children’s parties, the money isn’t good enough. I looked through the phone directory. I photocopied the pages for Arthur Travis and A Travis and Arthur Davenport and A Davenport. There were two hundred and twelve numbers in all.

It became a hobby. If I had nothing better to do, if there was nothing on the television, if I’d finished my card practice for the day, I’d phone a number from the list. And then cross it off.

One evening I got lucky. “Hello,” I said. “I was looking for the A Davenport who used to perform under the name The Great Marvello.”

There was a pause, and a woman said, “What do you want with him?”

I nearly dropped the receiver. “You mean, he’s there? He’s still alive?”

“Yes, he’s alive. This is his daughter. Who is this, please?”

I’d never quite got as far enough to think of what to say should I actually find him. “I’m a magician,” I said. “Just like your father. And the reason I do it, well, it’s because of your father. I saw him when I was a boy, and I spoke to him, and he encouraged me, he said nice things. And he was really good, you see, gifted, that’s why I wanted to become one in the first place. And I did, I’m a magician.”

“What is it you want?”

“I don’t know. To tell him that he made a difference. That he changed my life. That he was great, I mean, really great, as in the Great Marvello, ha!”

“I’m afraid he’s not in right now.”

“Oh, I see.”

“But I’ll tell him you called.”

“Please. And you’ll tell him I became a magician because of him, won’t you?”

“Do you like being a magician?” she asked, suddenly.

“Oh. Yes. Very much.”

“Good.”

“It’s all I can do now, anyway! I’m not good for anything else!”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Let me give you my phone number,” I said, and I did.

“Okay.”

“Have you got it?”

“Yes.”

“Because I’d love to tell him in person.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And, you know. Thank him!”

I didn’t leave the house for three whole days, for fear I might miss the Great Marvello when he called back.

I should add that all this happened years ago, when I was kinder, and cared, and magic still seemed something innocent.

I still don’t know why she visited me, and when I first saw her standing on the lawn I thought I must be dreaming; I hadn’t slept well since the birthday party, it had been several nights now with no rest; and once in a while I’d get up, I’d potter around the house, put on some music, turn on the TV, look out of a window—and it was whilst I was looking out of the bedroom window that I saw her. And I thought, I’m not pottering, I must be asleep!—and I was so relieved I was sleeping at last I actually felt grateful, I waved down at the little girl, I wasn’t frightened at all.

She didn’t wave back. But she was looking at me, she was looking right up at me.

And I realized I wasn’t asleep, this wasn’t a dream. The little girl really was there, right in the middle of my garden, at three o’clock in the morning. I could see her face clearly, and that bothered me, because it was pitch black out there—but she was wearing a white nightie, and I thought that maybe that was what made her light up, I don’t know.

We looked at each other for a long time. I recognized her, of course, and I didn’t want a little girl in my garden, I didn’t know how that would look to the neighbours. I wanted her to go away. And then, at long last, I got my wish, and without even the slightest gesture of acknowledgement she turned around, she started to walk—and immediately the garden grew darker and she was lost within the blackness—and I hammered on the window, I called out, “No! Stop! Wait!”

I hurried downstairs, I opened the back door.

She was waiting for me.

“What are you doing out there?” I asked. “Does your mother know you’re out? Quick, come in, you’ll catch cold.” And the sort of things you’d say to kids when you want to sound like a responsible adult.

Her nightie was damp, and her feet bare and wet.

“Are you all right?” I asked. “It’s okay. It’s all okay. Look. I’ll get dressed, okay? I’ll take you back to your Mum’s. I’ll drive you home, did you get lost?”

She shook her head at that.

“How did you find me?” I asked. But she just stared, and she looked so sad.

“Let’s get you some milk. Would you like milk, or orange juice?” I opened the fridge. “There’s juice too. What’s your name again, sweetheart?” And she mumbled something I couldn’t catch, and I didn’t like to ask again. I poured her some milk. She took it from me, and sipped at it, and when she took the glass away from her lips it had left her with a little white moustache.

“Is your brother all right?” I asked. “Did Tommy come back?”

She nodded. She began to shake.

“You’re cold,” I said. “It’s okay. You sit down. You’re cold, I’ll get you something, put this around you.” I gave her a tea towel, I draped it around her shoulders.

“That was quite a trick Tommy played,” I said. “Do you know how he did it?”

She sipped at her milk again, and this time wiped away the moustache with the back of her hand.

I’d always hoped that one day a child would search me out. That, at the end of a gig, one little kid would come up to
me
, just as I had done to the Great Marvello, and say thank you, and say that I’d inspired him, and that he wanted to be a magician too. But not her brother, no, not someone like Tommy—no, someone like
me
, someone who was nice and kind and meant well (because I did once, I did). Someone like this little girl.

“Do you like magic?” I asked her. “Do you want to be a magician some day?”

No answer to that.

“I could teach you,” I said.

Still no answer, but it wasn’t a no.

“My name’s not really the Great Miraculoso,” I told her. “It’s Steve.”

She was crying.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ll get you home. I’ll get you home safe.”

The tears were pouring down her face, but the little girl, she didn’t make a sound.

“Hey. It’s okay. I wouldn’t lie to you. I don’t lie.”

And then she began to nibble at her bottom lip, and I didn’t even realize what she was doing at first—she had none of the confidence of the boys at the party, she looked so scared, and so
trapped.
“Hey,” I said, and there appeared on her chin a tiny ribbon of blood, and downwards it trickled, and I thought, no, there shouldn’t be blood, you must be doing it wrong, you’re doing it all wrong. And still she cried, and it wasn’t for the pain, I could see that, and still she nibbled, no, chewing now, the bites became bigger, “Hey,” I said, “it’s okay.” And I wanted to put my arms around her, give her some little bit of comfort, but I didn’t know whether that was appropriate, you have to be so careful working with children. And on she bit, and out came more tears, out came more blood, and I pulled her close to me, I felt the gleaming white nightie tickle through my pyjamas, I hugged her tight, I hugged her hard as she chewed and she bit and she swallowed.