Illusion Read online

  ‘Catch another one, catch another, Master Tom Winter!’ he cried with delight.

  He pinched another out. The Queen of Spades again.

  Tom caught Walter watching him. ‘I told you he was good, eh?’ he said.

  He had unfastened his cloak now. The opening revealed a tarnished chain around Walter’s neck. Tom knew it, and the locket that hung suspended from it, well. But two new pendants had also been added to the chain: a claw in the shape of a comma and an exquisite little blue bottle with a silver stopper.

  Tankards of ale arrived and Tom clasped his thankfully. Walter also drank deeply, squinting his eyes like a contented cat as he swallowed the drink down.

  ‘What have you been doing, all this time?’ asked Tom.

  Walter licked his lips, and then suddenly an expression moved across his features that had a startling familiarity. It was fire-fuelled; full of life, energy. His eyes sparkled with the humour of his secret. It danced across his lips before he had even said a word.

  And, instinctively, Tom felt a wave of dread reach over him.

  He searched for the door with an anxious glance. His body started to poise itself as if he might, again, be called upon to run away from something very fast. Because Tom knew that expression; he’d seen it on Walter’s face many times before, and it always positively stank of a plan.

  ‘I’ve seen and learned things on my travels that you would not believe, my friend,’ Walter began to reply, slowly. ‘We could do a lot with that knowledge.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘We.’

  Tom grasped at his drink again. His hand was unsteady. He tried to avoid Walter’s gaze as he swished the comforting, yeasty taste of the ale around his mouth and, in doing so, caught sight of the locket again, hanging on the tarnished chain around Walter’s neck.

  ‘Still got it then?’ he murmured, motioning towards it with a flick of the finger.

  Walter embraced the locket with his hand but only peered back at Tom in response.

  Kayan slipped off his chair, taking his trade to the bar. Both men watched on as he began to delight the blonde woman, and a small babble of others, with his tricks. Cries of amusement spiralled into the air.

  Tom felt fidgety.

  ‘All dried peas and eels?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Something like that,’ replied Tom, brushing his hair from his face. He crossed his arms uselessly and then unfolded them again. He couldn’t look Walter in the eye, which made him feel stupid and ashamed of himself.

  ‘I… I just don’t do that sort of business anymore,’ he suddenly blurted out, reddening up as he realised just how prim he must have sounded. Walter raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I have a job now. A proper job.’

  Walter raised his eyebrows even further.

  ‘Piano teacher. All very kosher; no bawdy stuff, no music halls. Fat bored girls more like, in posh houses.’

  Walter still said nothing.

  ‘Well you know I always had a knack for it, what with Father and all. And then I got to playing the organ at the Methodist church. That’s where I met Sally. You’ll meet Sally, she looks after Ma. I can just about scrape enough to keep us comfortable. The clothes are a bit tattered, but it’s better than what we grew up with, eh?’

  Walter eyeballed the frayed sleeve of Tom’s jacket and refilled his pipe with something golden and sappy in texture.

  ‘I have something better for us,’ he murmured at last.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The scent of the golden sap wafted through Tom’s nostrils. It was sweet and sensual.

  Walter leaned back in his chair. ‘Forget about piano teaching, Tom. I’ve thought up a show, a magic show, something entirely new. Kayan’s part of it,’ and he glanced across the room at the boy. ‘But I need another man on board. Someone I can trust …,’

  ‘I’ve got a good job now. I’m respected.’

  ‘Respected, my balls!’

  Walter leaned forwards. His eyes danced with a spark that Tom had never seen before. In spite of everything that set his stomach on edge, he felt a surge of excitement shimmy through him. His fingers tingled with the unknown.

  ‘Me and Kayan are going somewhere with this,’ whispered his friend. ‘But we need you. I need you. I need your …,’

  ‘Gullible faith in Walter Balanchine?’

  There was a moment of silence and then the corners of Walter’s mouth turned up.

  ‘What’s that you’re smoking there?’ drawled the blonde, suddenly materialising and scooping up Walter’s empty tankard in her small hand. She made a pretence of stumbling, only to perch her neat backside on his knee. Walter gave her his pipe and let her have a puff.

  Kayan approached the table again too. He launched himself from the centre of the room and landed soundlessly on his chair again like an acrobat.

  ‘You have cold, shitty country here Master Tom Winter,’ he said, baring his perfect teeth again and making them chatter violently like a wind-up toy. He pointed at the floor with both thumbs, ‘Shit down there,’ he yapped, in an accent that sounded curiously like Walter, ‘and cold everywhere else. Shit cold, shit cold, shit cold!’ he chanted, turning a neat cartwheel over the table and landing perfectly on the floor on the other side. Tom, and the rest of the room, burst into laughter, whilst Kayan made an extravagant bow.

  Outside, the snowflakes propelled themselves against the windows of the little inn, slithering down the glass and leaving their icy trails behind them. Tom watched on as the blonde girl preened Walter’s thin hair with her small, ringed fingers and wrinkled her nose up at his pipe. He watched it all as it swirled softly around him, and he laughed with an energy and a lightness he’d forgotten he had.

  That was how Walter wove his magic.

  Tom couldn’t help but marvel. How did he do it? In a moment he could take you out of your filthy, wretched life and have you floating on clouds, up in the clean air and away from the rats, the smoke, the rotting feet; the cold, dripping stench of it all.

  He wiped tears of laughter from his eyes and, as Walter and Kayan and the girl horsed about before him, a tidal wave of memory washed through his mind. It was merely a simple vision of what they once were: two bedraggled boys, whispering in the shadows of the night.

  ‘I’ll get us out of here, Tom. Don’t you worry about that.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Magic!’

  He’d peered back at the older boy with disbelief. Their faces were filthy, their feet bare. It was a long, gruelling descent from the fourth storey, but Walter knew how to dodge every creaking floorboard, every looming, grown-up shadow. Down in the kitchens the cook was flat out on the table, sweating gin and snoring like an old sow. They stuffed their pockets with food and jumped down the rubbish shaft, straight into a bin of the foulest rotting excrement. But Tom’s young heart was pounding too fast to notice.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Sshh!’

  His arm was yanked forward and he found himself flying to his feet, dragged along behind Walter’s long, gangly legs. But they stopped dead at the workhouse gates, noses pressed against the cruel metal. The bolt that held them was bigger than his fist.

  ‘Now we’re done for,’ Tom groaned.

  The sudden sound of a piercing bell made them both jump. Barking followed. Windows glowed up and a shadow leapt up from the side entrance. Tom felt the sickness of disappointment slide up his neck, the pain of encroaching punishment already stinging at his haunches.

  He began to whimper. ‘Oh, God…,’

  ‘You don’t need God,’ whispered Walter. His voice was perfectly calm. ‘But you do need one of these.’

  He produced what looked like a hat pin from his sleeve and went to work on the bolt, his brow wrinkled, his mouth set in a thin, straight line. Tom turned to see jaws approaching: Cook’s mangy hound. It was the only thing in the building that harboured more fleas than them. Just as he felt its breath on his skin, a bony hand reached his own and
pulled him through a narrow gap in the gate. They slammed it shut on the dog’s nose and it fell back, whimpering painfully. Drawing breath, they turned their backs on hell and ran.

  They made for the river; the place that for Walter had always embodied the dream of something better, although Tom could never really work out what that was. At first their hearts raced so fast that they seemed to be running on air: two small skeletons in the still of night, skimming the surface of one dank alley after another. When at last the stink of the river hit them, they slowed down, finally collapsing beneath the inky arches of a bridge. They clutched at their bellies and panted into the darkness. The sound of the barking dog still whirred in Tom’s ears.

  At last, when he could breathe again, he looked up into Walter’s face. His friend was gazing across the water where a great, moored ship slumbered in the dark.

  ‘The Scheherazade, that’s her name,’ Walter murmured. ‘And one day I’m going to sail away on her.’

  ‘You’d be doing a good thing to get out of here,’ said Tom. He slumped back against the damp wall and rested his eyes on the boat wearily, so that she seemed to split in two. ‘But before you disappear off we’ve got to find a way of getting Ma out.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘But I can’t help it!’ Tom felt his lower lip weaken and he sucked it in and bit down on it hard. ‘It’s bothering me that much.’

  ‘We’ll get her out.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Magic,’ whispered Walter, and across the water the great boat creaked on a wave as if somehow adding substance to what the boy had said. Magic. That was Walter’s answer to everything. Tom wrapped his skinny arms around him for warmth and closed his eyes to the night. He’d stopped saying his prayers, even though he knew that Ma and his Father would have been saddened by it. But clearly none of that praying was of any use. His stomach groaned. He remembered the food in his pockets. Walter had got him out though and it did feel a bit like magic; being here with the great ship moaning just across the water. He felt his lids grow impossibly heavy. Perhaps magic would get Ma out. Magic, and a little bit of sleep.

  Walter’s pipe had finished. Kayan shuffled his cards one last time and then let them disappear back into his pocket again with an expert flourish.

  ‘So, you gonna take me to see your Ma then?’ said Walter.

  Tom looked down at his hands. Sadness stroked its fingers down his spine so that he felt himself hunch over.

  ‘She’s bad,’ he answered. ‘Hardly recognises me at all now. Her lungs are near to broken too.’

  ‘And this … Sally?’

  ‘An angel. Does far more to help than she has to.’

  Walter leaned forward, this time grabbing Tom by the shoulder. The warmth of his friendship forced hot tears into his eyes.

  ‘Let’s go and say hello, Tom. See what we can do.’

  Chapter 3

  They squeezed their bodies up the tiny staircase, their breath forming white clouds in the dank light. Kayan was waiting out on the street, back against the wall and eyes searching the new quarter like an inquisitive fox.

  The air inside was almost as cold as out and flecks of snow remained obstinately intact on their clothes. Somewhere, on the other side of the street, a great hubbub of shouting suddenly flared up. They both paused on the wooden stairs, listening.

  Its noise filtered easily enough through the thin brick membrane of the building. The shouting became interspersed with pleading and this was followed by the sharp crack of something brutal. Tom shrugged and then continued to climb; such occurrences were, after all, not uncommon on Samuel Street. But Walter paused for a moment, peering through a smudged window pane at the houses across the way.

  The single door at the top of the stairs led to a small room, painted white. It was astonishingly clean in comparison to the world outside. Tom always felt a stab of pride when he entered, because although the floor was bare and wooden, it was also spotless enough to eat your dinner off. There was little else: a stove, an empty hearth and a wooden table. He watched Walter eye the simple crucifix on the wall.

  ‘Ma’s through here,’ said Tom, leading Walter through to the only other room. ‘We keep the fire burning there whenever we can.’

  Mrs Winter was propped up in bed when they entered. Her face glowed in the warmth of the small, but comfortable room. She wore a knitted cap over greying curls and her mittened hands lay weightlessly on the thick blankets laid over her. Although her eyes were open, they contained as much life as two marbles, fixed on some point in the far distance. Sally was sitting beside her. She put her book down when they came in and her face broke into a broad smile that only wavered mildly at the sight of Walter.

  ‘Sally, meet my dear friend Walter Balanchine. He abandoned us for three years to explore the world and has only found himself back where he started – poor fool. Walter, this is Sally Jones. Ma’s - and my - angel.’

  Sally blushed a little and looked down at her hands. She’d done something different with her hair, although Tom couldn’t quite tell what.

  ‘Such a pleasure to meet you Miss Jones.’

  ‘And a pleasure to meet you too Mr Balanchine,’ she replied in her firm, unexpectedly deep voice. Tom could never quite match that voice to the wistful little face with far apart eyes that owned it.

  ‘Ah! And you’re not from London!’ Walter cried.

  ‘Is anyone in this city?’

  ‘Indeed, who is?’ Walter smiled approvingly. They were friends already; Tom had been in no doubt that they would be. ‘You are Welsh I believe?’

  ‘From the Rhondda, yes. An awful long way away from here.’

  Suddenly, Mrs Winter broke into a rasping cough. The small company made a collective start as she heaved forwards, her lungs fighting for air. Sally rushed to the dresser for some medicine and Tom jumped to his mother’s side, soothing her back against the pillows, wiping her mouth discreetly with a handkerchief.

  She seemed to settle a little and he squeezed one of her hands encouragingly. For one glorious moment she seemed to look back at him. She was still beautiful; her cheeks were still quite plump and girlish, despite the jumble of bones that held the rest of her body together. Tom kissed her forehead and she blinked slowly, like some ancient amphibian with all the time in the world. But then the coughing started again.

  ‘I’ll give her some cordial,’ said Sally, promptly stepping forward with the bottle.

  ‘With your permission, may I try something else instead?’ asked Walter.

  He sat down on the edge of the old woman’s bed and removed the small blue bottle from the chain around his neck. Sally looked at Tom, who nodded softly, and they both moved away a little to make space for him.

  He cupped the back of Ma’s head with his left hand, tilting it at a slight angle, and poured a few drops of the bottle’s contents between her lips. Everyone seemed to hold their breath, waiting silently for something to happen.

  She was calm, very calm. Walter lowered her carefully back against the nest of cushions that supported her. Her eyes were bright, alert, and the coughing had stopped. Tom felt his nails digging into the palms of his hands. A flush of colour seemed to rise up in her sallow cheeks, and then suddenly she turned her face to Walter, looking him straight in the eye. Tom and Sally both stepped forward, open-mouthed.

  ‘Walter, is it you?’ she exclaimed with a smile.

  ‘Yes, Ma Winter. Yes, it is me. I’m back.’

  ‘You’re so like your mother. Not in looks so much, although there’s something about the cheeks I suppose. But you have her way …,’

  Her voice trailed off and her head drooped a little. Tom couldn’t see Walter’s expression, but he knew his friend well enough to notice the subtle shift in his shoulders. She closed her eyes and smiled contentedly.

  ‘I’ll have a little snooze now. Don’t like that coughing one bit.’

  And they watched her glide into restful sleep.

  Walter stood up slowly, unben
ding his long, thin legs. The three of them moved away from the bed to the window.

  ‘Well, I’ve never seen her so lucid,’ said Sally, looking up at them both, her brow furrowed in astonishment. ‘What potion do you carry in that bottle there?’

  Walter glanced out of the window at the street below. His face was ashen, his eyes glistened; he barely seemed to be in the room any more.

  ‘I’ll make sure to get some more to you. It seems to work,’ he said, quietly.

  Tom laid a gentle hand on his arm. ‘She doesn’t know what she speaks of, old friend. Most days she says nothing and when she does it’s mostly gibberish, or memories from before my time. I can’t even tell if they’re right or wrong.’

  ‘But it’s always the same. Always,’ whispered Walter.

  ‘I know…I know that. Walter, do you think you can, you know, heal her?’

  Tom felt a crack in his voice. It felt stupid asking, after all these years. His Ma had been in her own world for so long that he could barely remember what she’d once been like now. Even when his father had been alive she’d start to drift, slowly away from them, lighter than thistledown on a breeze.

  His friend looked back at him. ‘I don’t know that, Tom. She’s been ill for a very long time.’

  ‘But, with all that you’ve learned, could there be something, anything, you could do that might bring her back to us?’

  ‘I only have this for now,’ he said, unclipping the blue bottle from the chain and giving it to Sally. ‘Take it. Administer small quantities like I did, three or four times a day. It won’t cure the cough, but it will relax the muscles and warm her up. Her suffering will be far less, which is a start.’ He looked at Tom and nodded gently. ‘Now, please excuse me while I check on young Kayan downstairs. A pleasure to meet you Miss Jones. May I call you Sally? I’m not one for formal airs and graces.’

  ‘Why, yes,’ responded Sally, but he had already gone.