Welsh - The Bullet Trick

T HE FIRST NIGHT I met Sylvie she saved me from dying. The clock has ticked round and the pages have been flipped on the calendar, its numbers switching from red to black and back, shades the same as playing-card suits, and I realise that over a year has passed since Sylvie and I first met.

In those dim days I was known as William Wilson,Mentalist and Illusionist. Conjuring was throwing off the shackles of the dinner suit and velvet bow tie. It had slipped off the family viewing prime-time TV slot and into the clubs, gone underground, kicked around with freak shows and circuses, and now the feeling was it was ripe to hit the big time again. I was one of the many who thought they might just be able to shake the profession back to life, if only I got the right break. Like a gambler waiting on the right cut of the cards.

Id left Glasgow for London seven years ago and had been toiling through the British circuit ever since, long enough to almost recognise what town I was in, long enough not to care. I was a warm-up act for a whole trough of comedians and stand ups. The guy nobody came to see. Id performed in the Kings, the Queens, the Princes and the Consort; done my stuff in the Variety, the Civic, the Epic and the Grand. Id released doves across the ceiling of the Playhouse and watched them crap on the heads of the crowd in the Cliffs Pavilion. In Liverpool a woman fainted on stage and was dragged into the wings. In Portsmouth a row of sailors chased an usher through the aisles. In Belfast I slept with a girl in the Botanic Hotel.

Id had professional excitements too. A TV scout who thought he might get me a slot that could lead to a series, an independent production company who proposed a documentary about my act. But in the end it seemed they were bigger failures than me. At least I could put a show on the road.

My agent was Richard Banks, Rich to his friends. He represented a slough of comedians, a couple of afternoon quiz show presenters and me. Rich had been an operator since the days when variety was king. In the fifties hed mopped up the ENSA boys, the sixties had seen him branching into teenage pop and by the seventies he was a regular supplier of what he liked to call talent to piers from Brighton to Blackpool. A couple of his stable had even made it as far as Saturday Night at the London Palladium. Then entertainment had improved and Rich had moved on, signing a new generation of stand-ups to his fleet. Rich was realistic and adaptable but he was loyal too, after all, as he said, Loyalty costs nothing William.

Though you can bet if it did Richard would have included it just above the VAT in his agents fee. He brought loyalty up early in our relationship. He had an office in Crouch End. Id popped in on spec, part because I was passing and part to remind him of my existence. Id tried and failed to work a James Bond/Moneypenny routine with Mrs Pierce, Richs steel-grey coiffured and steelier-eyed secretary. Now she just glanced at me from behind her word processor and said, Mr Banks has someone with him, but he wont mind if you go through.

The man in the visitors chair was a sprightly seventy with a boyish face that should have been in black and white but was red-cheeked, purple-veined and rheumy-eyed. Hed leaned back in his chair, his pale hair flopping away from his forehead, a brilliant advert for toupee tape. His upside-down smile was tight. We both knew my unannounced entrance was his cue to leave. Rich introduced us and I remembered the name from long ago, though I still couldnt recall what Id seen him in.

Wilson, not a very stagey name, he said over my shoulder to Richard as he shook my hand, trying and failing to squeeze my knuckles. I mugged a wince, just to please him, and his eyes sparkled.

Times change, said Rich, getting to his feet.

They surely do. The aged theatrical nodded his head and looked slowly round the room at the black and white photos of yesterdays stars that mingled with the portraits of Richs current stable. Perhaps he was searching for a picture of himself, perhaps at his age you get used to looking at places as if youre never going to see them again. Well, Rich, its been lovely but I cant sit gabbing to you all day. He raised his mug, pinkie outstretched, and knocked back the last of his tea with a loud slurp. So whats this one? Another comic?

Conjurer.

The elderly gent rose slowly, his thin body looking too young for his old man head, and pulled on a spotless gabardine I pegged as at least fifteen years old.