The Bullet Trick

'Then let’s oblige him.'

Dix put his hand on my arm.

'These are not holidaymakers who have wandered off the tourist trail.'

'What are you trying to tell me?'

'Sylvie knows her role. This is for her sake as much as mine. Just play your part and everything will be fine.'

I started to speak, but Dix put a finger over his lips and I heard the slow hollow sound of high heels striking against the wooden floor. Sylvie stepped out of the darkness into the floodlit centre of the warehouse. My poor victim looked magnificent. She wore a long silver robe that shimmered against the light; sparkles flashed from hair dark as coffin wood and her lips were painted a blood-red black that invited no kisses.

We waited for a beat of ten then Dix wrapped a black silk scarf across his face, nodded to me and strode forth, his footsteps brisk and full of business. He halted a foot away from Sylvie. She looked beyond him, ignoring his presence, and then dropped her robe, arching her back as if daring him to lay a finger on her, her naked body pale and magical against the pitch black. Dix stood frozen in place for a beat of ten while Sylvie stalked a full circle around him, like a half-tamed predator, not hungry but a killer by nature. I held my breath, wondering if they’d choreographed this earlier, or if Sylvie really was making her mind up about whether to go on. Then she stretched her spine like a show lion deciding to let its trainer live another day, and placed herself against the board. Dix immediately stepped forward and started to secure her, his fingers nimble and efficient, buckling the leather straps around her wrists and ankles, tugging at them to show they were firmly fastened.

I tried to push all other thoughts from my mind, whispering a mantra over and over in my head, concentrate, concentrate, concentrate… and then it was my turn to walk into the light.

Glasgow

I DECIDED TO have my pre-performance drink in a bar beneath the railway arches because it was close to the Panopticon and I couldn’t imagine any of the university buddies Johnny had recruited to help with the show dropping in for a quick one. The pub was tiny and cheap so it was never empty, but I was unprepared for the swarm of people busying it so early in the afternoon. I stood at the top of the small flight of steps leading down into the bar, taking in the press of green, the Celtic shirts and scarves, the shamrocks and Jimmy hats, and realised it was St Patrick’s Day. I hesitated for a second, wondering if the pub could accommodate another drinker, then a fresh group of men arrived and swept me down into the familiar odour of smoke, sweat and beer. I ordered a whisky even though every pint of Guinness came with a shamrock etched into the foam. Someone moved, I slid into a prime spot next to the cigarette machine and placed my drink on the ready-made shelf. St Patrick had chased the snakes out of Ireland. Maybe this was an omen that things would go well. But then it was a holiday to mark his death, so maybe it was a sign that the snakes always won in the end. The old man at the table next to me started to sing, When I was a bachelor, I lived by myself

And I worked at the weaver’s trade;

The only, only thing that I ever done wrong

Was to woo a fair young maid.

I wooed her in the summer-time,

And part of the winter-time too;

He turned and smiled a happy full-on denture smile and some old men joined in.

But the only thing that I ever did wrong

Was to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.

The result was surprisingly melodic, when you considered that it was 2.30 in the afternoon and everyone seemed to be pissed. The aged singer had eyes the colour of forget-menots. They were soft and wet and happy with drink and memories. He cast his gaze around the room.

One night this maid came to my bed

Where I lay fast asleep.

She laid her head upon my chest

And then she began to weep.

'You’re a dirty bugger, Peter,' shouted one of the drinkers. The old man smiled and tipped the heckler a wink, but he kept on singing.

She sighed, she cried, she damn near died.

She said, 'What shall I do?'

So I took her into bed and I covered up her head Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.

Behind my eyes a man covered a woman’s ruined head with a clean white sheet. I put down my drink and went into the gents to splash water on my face. When I returned the song was over and someone had taken my place by the fag machine, but my drink was still there.

The barman squeezed by, collecting empty glasses. He handed the singer a half pint and a nip and said indulgently, 'There’ll be no cut-price pensioner half’n’halfs if you lot get me shut down. Yous know I’ve no got an entertainment licence.'

An old drinker leant over.

'It’s a dog licence he’s needing with a voice like that.'

There was a burst of laughter, then someone on the other side of the room raised their voice and shouted, 'Give us a song, Ann.' The rest of the regulars took up the cry till even the men who’d only come for a St Patrick’s Day bevvy joined in. The young barmaid shook her head shyly, but the drinkers kept up the demand, some of them banging the table with their pint glasses, chorusing Ann, Ann, Ann until the manager hurried back behind the