Remember Why You Fear Me (65 page)

“Three of clubs,” said another boy.

The little girl looked shocked at this, I think, just for a moment, I think she had the decency to be shocked. Then, reluctantly, she held up her card for all to see. It was, indeed, the three of clubs.

This second boy was nowhere near the girl either, he was next to that ginger git who’d done the newspaper trick, he couldn’t have seen the card, but he must have, that was it, that was all it could be. “Clever,” I said. I thrust the pack back at the little girl. “Pick another card, then,” I said. “Go on. Pick another. Pick another!”

Unless, of course, the girl was a plant. That was it, she was telling her brother and his friends exactly what card she was holding, perhaps through predetermined gestures. No, simpler than that, they’d already agreed the cards in advance. “Pick another card, pick another card!” She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t take a card, she wouldn’t even look up at me, no matter how much I insisted, no matter that I think I began to shout. “All right,” I said. “Be on their side. That’s fine. I’ll do it myself.” So I fanned out the pack, I held it close,
I
picked a card,
I
didn’t show it to anyone,
I
kept it hidden.

“Two of spades,” said a third boy.

I fingered another.

“Seven of hearts.”

And another.

“Jack of diamonds,” said four boys, all at once.

My fingers prodded at the cards. Fast. Tapping the edges with my nail. “Eight of spades. Queen of spades. Five of hearts. Six of hearts.” Then faster still, and angrier too, stabbing the cards now, stabbing down on them hard, “Six of clubs. Nine of diamonds. Nine of diamonds. Ace of spades.” And now more boys were joining in, soon they all were, chanting in unison—and there was no triumph to their chanting, try to understand, it was like they were at school, it was like they were reciting their times tables, two nines are eighteen, three nines are twenty-seven, “Nine of hearts. Seven of spades. King of clubs,” and it was only Tommy who wasn’t chanting along, Tommy sitting there in the middle of them, unsmiling, his face so blank, Tommy beneath that ridiculous top hat far too big for him, he ought to have looked silly but he didn’t, I ought to be laughing but I wasn’t, he looked like a child pretending to be a grown-up, like a child
becoming
a grown-up—everyone chanting but Tommy and the little girl, I stole a look at the little girl, and she was beginning to cry. “How are you doing that?” I asked them, “why are you doing that?” I screamed, and I threw the cards at them, the whole pack, and they rained down to the floor, and everyone fell quiet.

“We don’t like you,” said Tommy then. It was clear and so very precise. “And we don’t respect your work.”

It was such a strange thing for a little boy to say, it sounded more like a review.

“What next?” asked Tommy. “What are you planning to give us next?”

I said, “Some balloon animals.”

Tommy laughed mirthlessly. He got to his feet. He walked to me, slowly.

“Don’t you have anything new to show us?”

“But there isn’t anything new,” I said. “There’s nothing new. This is all there is. There’s nothing new under the sun.”

Tommy seemed to think about this. He put his head on one side thoughtfully, in a parody of contemplation, the top hat slid somewhat over his face, it nearly fell off altogether. “I’ll show you something new,” he said.

“Be my guest,” I said. I wanted it to come out haughty and sarcastic. I don’t think it did.

“Did you mean what you said about your mother? That she’d rather you’d been a doctor?”

I was surprised. “It’s just a gag,” I said.

He nodded coolly. “Remember what happened to Houdini.”

“What?”

But he didn’t reply, the conversation was over. He took off the top hat. He handed it to me—and then, as an afterthought, he changed his mind, he took it back, he reached inside, and pulled out a stuffed rabbit toy. And another one. He pulled out seven stuffed rabbits, one after the other, gave them to me, gave me the hat.

“Very nice,” I said.

“That,” said Tommy, “wasn’t the trick.”

“Oh.”

And Tommy closed his eyes then. He stretched out his arms, wiggled his fingers. He breathed in deeply through his nose, exhaled through the mouth, in again, out again. He opened the mouth wide, rolled his tongue slowly around it,

And, at last, the other little boys were taking interest; they shuffled forwards to watch, and their eyes, I recognized the look in those eyes, the eyes were gleaming.

The little girl turned away.

Tommy opened his eyes. He was ready to begin.

He didn’t say anything. He’s going to have to work on his patter, I thought.

He didn’t
do
anything, not for the longest few seconds. He began to gnaw on his bottom lip, and his eyes looked frightened. They were the eyes of a seven year old who had been caught out before his friends, who after all really had
nothing
to give, who’d shot off his mouth and been trapped in a lie. And I thought, it’s over, even before it’s begun. He’d lost his nerve. I’d seen it happen to performers, oh, ten times his age, and pretty soon the audience would start laughing, or, worse, feel ashamed for him.

He gnawed at his lip, and then he stopped, and he showed us what he’d done.

He smiled. The smile revealed that he’d gnawed his bottom lip clean off.

I looked for the lip, I’m sure we all did. Nowhere to be seen. It had vanished. I could only think he had swallowed it.

He continued to smile. His bottom teeth now fully exposed to the roots, you could see where they stuck deep into the gum.

“That’s . . . ” I said. That’s,
what
? Remarkable? Disgusting, what?

And then Tommy held up his hand for silence. I was the only one to have broken it. I shut up.

And he bit down again. This time into his chin.

Deep into the chin too, you could see the skin yield and break under the force, you could see the teeth sink straight down like a spade through grass. He began to chew.

There was no blood.

And he chewed faster, as if he were enjoying the meal so much, as if his own flesh was the tastiest treat ever, oh, he couldn’t get enough of it! And he chewed further, right to the bottom of the chin, to areas his mouth could never have reached, surely?

And there was no blood.

He paused to smile at us again, and now that smile seemed to balance upon such a thin sliver of jaw, so precariously you’d have thought there wasn’t enough bone to support it, you’d have thought that the smile should have fallen off his face and straight on to the floor.

And then, the smile tightened into a little ‘o’—this smile composed of just an upper lip and some exposed gum and pure white hungry teeth. He forced the ‘o’ upwards into a pucker, it looked as if he were trying to blow a kiss, but no one would want to kiss that face, not now.

He puckered the mouth into a neat little funnel. He aimed it at his forehead. He breathed in deep.

I could see his forehead quiver.

It quivered as if it were trying to resist the suction. It couldn’t, it couldn’t resist.

And I heard, what? I thought I heard something crack. The bones, maybe? The skull as it was breaking, bending out of shape? But I might have just imagined that.

And the top half of the head suddenly tipped downwards, as if released on a pivot, as if it were a swing door blown open in the wind. The forehead was now at a right angle to the bottom half of the face, the nose pointing straight at Tommy’s feet.

It was the nose the mouth was now after. It made a little snap at it, missed. Tommy laughed, as if it were part of the game, as if in trying to escape the nose was just teasing him. Another snap, and the teeth gained purchase—and a gulp, and the tip was pulled into that gaping mouth—was it still a mouth, it seemed so much bigger now, it was a hole in the head, it was the head itself as everything caved in on it—another gulp, and the nose was in completely, the nose was lost, gone, and pulling in the forehead above it.

It looked as if Tommy were kissing his own forehead.

And still he chewed.

There was, as I say, no blood.

He chomped his way through the skin, he smacked what was left of his lips, this wasn’t quiet, this was too enthusiastic, this was the sound of a starving man gobbling down his final meal, there was (I think) belching.

The tongue came out, and it was a long tongue, or maybe that’s just because there was nothing to conceal it any more, we could see it in all its full red glory. Tommy stopped munching for a moment. It was a relief, if just for the quiet—and then he let his tongue play over what remained of his cheeks. It reached an eye. It licked at the eye. Gave it a bath. Then straight in to the socket, as if it were an ice cream cone, it scooped the ice cream out and wolfed it down.

One remaining eye winked as Tommy took a breather. He had to tip his head upwards so the eye was visible to us, he had to angle his mouth right at the ceiling to do it. So we couldn’t quite see the mouth, but I’m guessing that it was smiling right along to that cheery wink.

It was nearly over now. There really wasn’t much left. One final effort. Tommy took a deep breath, he breathed in hard, and the rest of the skull distorted, it thinned, and he sucked it in like spaghetti.

And all that was left was a mouth perched impossibly on top of a neck. And I think it gave me a final grin. And its teeth were gritted, and I knew what that meant from experience, I think in that grin there was hatred for its audience, for me.

The whole act had taken just over three minutes. And a part of my brain thought, that’s too long, without patter or music to sustain the trick he’ll lose his audience—his technique is good, but he really needs better presentation. He’ll never get into the Magic Circle like that—but, really, that was only a very small part of what my brain was up to.

Tommy’s body wobbled for a moment, then toppled over, crashed to the floor.

I felt the most appalling urge to laugh.

Silence. And then, the applause. Tommy’s playfellows began to clap long and hard, and I thought, that’s not fair, children
never
applaud.

The little girl didn’t join in.

I wanted to examine the body. I thought I might find, I don’t know. Hidden wires, maybe, or, or, or a secret compartment? But just as I thought to do this, all the boys got to their feet.

The clapping stopped.

They surrounded me.

“What do you want?” I asked.

They never told me. But together, as one, they began to chew on their lips.

“No,” I said. “No.” But a part of me said yes, yes, now I can get to see the trick up close. And although I should have stopped it, I should have tried something, I didn’t, I couldn’t help myself, I stayed to watch as the thirteen little boys stood before me and ate their own heads.

The little girl looked ever so sad.

“I’m sure it’ll all be all right,” I said to her.

And then I admit it, I ran.

I didn’t stop to explain to Tommy’s mother. I supposed she’d find out for herself all in good time.

There are many stories of the death of Houdini. One says that he drowned during an escapology act. They turned it into a movie; Tony Curtis played Houdini, looking suitably heroic and damp. Another story says he was poisoned by rival magicians jealous of his fame and skill. Houdini spent his life trading off mystery and intrigue. How appropriate, then, that the mysteries continue even as he dies—I imagine Houdini would have appreciated it!

Actually, Houdini may not have appreciated it at all. Maybe, right at the end, all he’d have wanted was some fucking clarity to his life. I don’t know. How should I know? I’m not Houdini. I’ll never be a Houdini. Don’t compare me to Houdini, what’s the use of that, don’t talk to me about Houdini.

There’s another story, and I think this might be the truth, because there’s no glamour to it, no pizzazz. And it relates the final conversation Houdini had with his doctor. And how the great illusionist lamented that he hadn’t been a doctor too. The doctor was surprised; “But Mr. Houdini,” he said, “you have given so much pleasure to the world. You have entertained so many people.” “That may be true,” said Houdini. “But you’re the one who is genuinely
helping
them, and making their lives better. Whereas all I do, and all I’ve ever done, is fake.”

And, of course, I’m aware of the irony to this, that Houdini may have been right—but, even so, history has remembered Houdini, and it’s forgotten the name of this doctor.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I read old magic books, lives of the great magicians. I tried to lose myself in articles giving new insight into stage techniques. I tried to recall why I’d wanted this job in the first place. And I lay in bed, mulling over all I’d seen, trying to work out how the trick had been done.

I wondered how they’d done it without spilling any blood.