Sleight Of Hand

Another 8th birthday party booking. They all seem to be turning 8 this year. Maybe that's also the age where parents finally lose interest in the novelty of their children's birthday parties, and decide to just book a magician.
Still, I shouldn't complain, at least work is steady this year. Means I'm putting in less hours at the petrol station.
Though it's Steph's birthday soon, should probably buy her something good, but it's not like the money is pouring in. She'll understand.
I get to the kid's house, forty of them, it's usually the whole school class and a few extras - cousins, friends from different classes, the token friends of any siblings, or children of the parent's friends. It'd be weird if parties later in life were attended in a similar fashion.
I go through the motions, I think half these kids have seen me before. I hear one whispering the conclusion of the trick to her friend. If I see her at another show she can be the "volunteer" for the custard pie trick. I always save that one for the little shits.
So, I do some giant size card tricks, a stuffed rabbit in a hat, the knotted handkerchief and a small scale swords through a box routine with the birthday boy.
Afterwards I loiter by the food, chowing down on cocktail sticks skewering pineapple and cheese chunks, and I have a slice of plasticky Transformers cake.
"Hey, great stuff," an overly enthusiastic father says, shaking my hand and placing a friendly mitt on my shoulder. "I loved the magicians when I was a kid, had one at every birthday for about five years running. Thought I wanted to be one, until I heard about investment banking!"
He laughs a big cackle. The howl of the well off.
"I got these big, ungainly hands anyways," he says. "Could never get the cards to stay wedged in there. My parents wastes a small fortune on magic kits for me. At least yours backed the right horse, huh?"
I swallowed my mouthful of sponge. "My parents don't know I do this."
"Shit, you are living the boyhood dream, huh?! Ran away and joined the circus, right!"
"They're dead."
His face turned sour and he quietly, quickly made some new friends on the other side of the room.
I tossed my paper plate towards the bin - though it failed to make its target.
After collecting the rest of my pay I packed up and left. Children's birthday parties are no place to hang out, though in my younger days I met some willing single mothers, and once one that wasn't single. Though Steph put paid to all that.
It's not that I yearn for it or anything, that stuff is far more exciting in theory than practice. But there is a certain frisson to those chance encounters now lacking in the inevitability of my days.
I know what bed awaits me, I know who's there, and this malaise comes from somewhere, but, don't get me wrong, I wouldn't change things. Not between me and Steph.
I should try and think of something nice to get her. I think I've let her down these last couple of years, I'm sure she's already wondering how I'll complete the hat trick. But, and perhaps I'm ignorant, forgetful or complacent, I just don't remember what she likes.
I resolve to try and listen that bit harder, hear the clues in what she says. Maybe there's something that she keeps hanging out there, like a carrot for a mule, seeing if I'm going to putz it up one more time.
I drive home, passing the petrol station, unconsciously - I think - I slow the car and take a long, lingering look at the place. I've got the night shift there tomorrow, 11pm to 7am.
I take the next junction and, eager to have a drink and slip into bed, I press my foot down a little.
I look forward to the feeling of Steph's body pressed against mine before we fall asleep.
I see a flash.
It's dark. Sudden.
There's a thud, followed by an uncomfortable clatter.
I brake, look back, and see the body lying in the road.
Leaving the car I'm thankful that the street is quiet. A few houses, but not a light on in any of them.
Getting closer I see that it's the body of a young boy, dressed in an unhelpfully dark hoodie and jeans. His face is pale, about from the blood stripe across it. His eyes are wide, lifeless.
I look up and down the road, still noone around. I've been fortunate.
I crouch by the body, hold my hands over his most obvious wounds and I close my eyes.
His sharp intake of breath alerts me.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
He's bewildered, sits up and shuffles back.
"You should wear a hi-viz, or at least something colourful, if you're going to dash across roads at night."
The boy holds a hand to his chest, breathes deeply, as if ascertaining the veracity of the situation against his memory of it.
"You hit me? With your car," he finally utters, though doubting himself.
"Clipped you," I correct him. "Nothing serious, but you should see a doctor just to be sure."
"O-okay..."
I give him my card in case there are any problems. I offer him a lift home but he points to his house, we're right in front of it. I get in my car and drive away.
When I get home Steph is asleep, though she stirs and mumbles a hello as I climb in next to her, kiss her cheek.
As I lie sleepless in bed, I'm brought back to the vacant look in that boy's eyes as he lay dead on the road. That look which confirms the disconnection between body and spirit, or soul, or whatever.
Now I know that if I'm quick then that spirit lingers, as if taking one last look at its vessel and I can encourage it to take up its residence for just a little longer.
I wish I'd known that then, before I killed them.
I told Steph about the accident, sure I left out a few details, like my powers. But she insists that it was, as I say, an accident. But I know more, and I can never find forgiveness.
I've told Steph about that, though I've never told her how she died once. That we were putting up a painting, she was on a short ladder, missed her footing and her head collided with our kitchen worktop.
From somewhere within me came this urge, this futile rage, a seemingly impotent hope. I looked into her eyes, saw that the life had gone. I placed my hands on her, and then it was back.
And she never knew why I cried and held her so close, so tight.
That I couldn't bear the abyss of my life without her.
Yet I know that with every passing day the tide comes in, our lives must end, and it dulls the magic, it dilutes my hope.
Perhaps, I make excuses for myself, I'm so tired, so listless, because I love her so much. If I cared less maybe our eventual deaths wouldn't concern me.
Though I cling onto the idea that there is a soul, that it is that which I coax back to those vacant bodies, and if it were to roam free it would find a fitting afterlife. I can't help but think we are all doomed, and that is what I see in the eyes of those children as I reveal their card, as I pull the rabbit from the hat, as I push the pie into their face.

Born Again

His shoes were a stark contrast to the enforced, monastic silence of the ward. With the mother off on the bed in the corner, panting, heavy with relief, he loomed large over the incubator and examined the child. His jowls folded like the concertina of an accordian, reflected his approval, a smoky murmur rose from his gullet.

After eleven months, having thoroughly monitored the growing child's health, having screened its mother and her relatives for any history of severe illness, the baby found itself back in hospital.
    Laying in a bed nearby was its genetic benefactor, his bulk challenging the gurney below him. A body full of rich food, fine wines, expensive cigars and ravaged organs that, at great cost, had been tended and mended until they could stand it no longer. Which, as far as he was concerned, was of minimal concern.
    "A body is a temple," he would say over dinner, "and when one temple burns down you move to another."
    Less enlightened - read; financially inferior - friends would dismiss this remark as non-sequitus, a side effected of too much pinot that evening. Those whom this gentleman might consider his good friends, though the statement in such company has little meaning, would nod sagely, conspiratorially and with their own investment in their future equally secured.
    So, they cut open the baby's head, at the anterior fontanelle - where the bone is still weak and inviting and began to carefully push into the young mind various long, thin electrodes. It was an experience that the now dormant Mr. Martin, prostrate and bloated, had already been through himself, albeit voluntarily. Of course, technically speaking, the Mr. Martin that lay on the table was just the temple, the thoughts of Mr. Martin currently sat on a computer in the middle of the operating theatre.
    Essentially the human mind is merely a series of commands, that we confuse for thoughts, feelings, instincts, patterns of behavior, but, ultimately there is a basic formula to them, one that can be mapped and re-created. Once the human mind has been mapped it can then be uploaded onto a new, barely formed brain, provided there is a strong enough genetic similarity between the host brain and the mapped matter.
    Fortunately, and unfortunately, the extraction of the data required to emulate a person's brain was a traumatic process for the original brain, leaving the patient in a vegetative state. Since the procedure has become more prevalent it is common practice to immediately euthanise the patient following the extraction, this is why Mr. Martin's body is dead.
    "Ah, the life of the mind," he would sigh hungrily, reaching for his drink, the fat of his back jutting in humps out of the wooden recliner he had deposited himself upon after waddling through the shallows near his beach property.
    The nameless baby, eyes twitching in the last of its individual dreams before its own unformed thoughts are purged and the thoughts of Mr. Martin make their entrance, shifts uncomfortably - though anaesthetised.
    Upload complete the doctor braces her hand upon it carefully and slides each prong out, much like the skewers from a Sunday joint. The exposed brain is treated with a chemical compound, the opening sutured, the skin re-joined.
    The 11 month old will gradually come back into consciousness, will ease into its, now fervent awareness, and remember 157 years of living, of being Mr. Martin. With the rigour and enthusiasm of a crash victim being taught to walk again he shall be accompanied by doctors, physicians, personal trainers, who will build up this baby's capacities as if it were getting ready to run a triathalon. It will field calls through an assistant who shall listen to its toothless, sloppy burbled words, under it has the capacity to articulate itself better.
    But everything, Mr. Martin's accounts, his business interests, his investments, his privileges, his personal records, his fingerprints, have all been signed over to this newborn, who, in the eyes of the law, is no longer a newborn, is a fully grown man, is Mr. Martin.

As his assistant carries him from the hospital toward the awaiting car, Mr. Martin passes the maternity ward, the new father's goggling at their children through the glass, those doe-eyes and wobbly limbs clutch at nothing, and, for a moment one little girl, hardly half a day old looks at the baby being carried by, and Mr. Martin sneers in return.

Adventures

With great force they wrestled the helmet from Mr. Malpasso's sandpaper hands. It was the last piece of the costume that he'd made, the outfit that he'd been wearing almost every day for the last fifteen years.

When they finally prised it away from him, he, a sixty-two year old man, bawled like a spoilt toddler, dribbling and elongating with a cartoon like stutter, until it sounded ridiculous, one word: pleee-he-he-he-heease.

They took it out front, with the rest of his hand crafted uniform, and set it on fire. It's for your own good, they said. His daughter, Melody, reminsced to nobody about how embarrassed she was to see her father walking around town dressed like a space pirate or something. Captain Malpasso, her youngest, Stevi, corrected her, but her mother wasn't interested.

Mr. Malpasso didn't want the ceremony, they all thought - his children all thought - that it would be symbolic for him, a liberation both literal and figurative, that it would release him from the trappings of his fantasy. You can live your life again, Dad, his son Ryan had smiled, warmly clapping his old man on the shoulder.


He just sat there, in his favourite chair, letting them bumble around him, tidying things away that didn't need to be tidied. They put this week's tv guide into the magazine rack, meaning he'd only have to fish it out again in a short while. They moved the coasters back into the little coaster holder and straightened the framed photographs on the mantlepiece, thus rendering their careful angling nul and void. Now she didn't look over his shoulder anymore.

Doesn't mum look pretty here, Melody asked rhetorically holding a frame. How old was she?

Melody's husband, Phil, took the picture, turned it over, searching for a clue to the year. Graham, he called, his voice slow and simplified for Mr. Malpasso's presumed benefit, how old is your wife in the picture?

My wife is dead, Mr. Malpasso said flatly.


It had been a month after the funeral when he had first worn the outfit. He had walked into the office to various hushed and muffled responses, a few uncensored laughs, and sat himself at his desk and got on with the tasks at hand. He made his calls, he wrote his reports, all was as normal, except he was dressed in a gaudy, shining diving outfit with a vibrant, mirrored helmet, various pipes and tubes hunched up and into the heavy fabric like the body of a sea monster, there were adornments such as the tassled shoulder pads and some random patches, medals and insignia.

He was called into his manager's office before 11am, and after patiently listening to the inevitable company spiel, Mr. Malpasso very reasonably stated his case and his manager agreed and let him continue to wear the uniform to work.


However when Melody saw her father in the uniform for the first time she burst into tears and batted him away, as if he were riddled with disease, when he tried to comfort her in his arms.

She asked him why he was wearing that stupid costume.

He said it made him feel like everything was ok.

She snuffled up the tears, tried to compose herself and accept it.


It was four years ago, when she overheard her father talking to Stevi that she cried about it again.

Dad's lost his mind, she told Ryan. He was telling Stevi about the planets he'd been to and the creatures he'd met, he was telling her about the greedy lizards who live in the clouds, he was talking about things made of eyes and a rocket ship in his shed. A rocket ship! I just thought he wore that thing like a blankie, a comforter, y'know, but I think he thinks he's actually a spaceman.

Ryan was flippant, said he could tell Dad wasn't nuts just by looking at him. Sure, he dresses like he's from a 1970s sci-fi show, but people wear all sorts of weird stuff, he's not doing any harm.

He was curious though, and later, at dinner, he casually mentioned outer space in conversation. Like, I don't think there's anything out there, he lied.

Out where? his father had asked, lifting his visor to take another bite of chicken.

In space, aliens and stuff.

There are aliens, his dad replied.

What?

Plenty of them, all sorts, more than you can imagine, some like us, some you couldn't comprehend.

How do you know?

I've been there, I've been to space, I've seen the universe.

When did you go there?

I go there all the time.


So Ryan agreed with his sister and they began plotting an intervention, it had been eleven years and the time had long since past that he should be confronted on this. Though he kept the suit clean, patched it up when necessary, the suit was no longer the issue, and clearly, to them, the fantasy had begun to rot his brain.

At first they sat him down and talked to him, they kept repeating; You know it's not real Dad?

Mr. Malpasso would look sheepishly at the ground, a glimmer of recognition they suspected, but he'd smile and square up to them defiantly, It's real, he'd say.


So, after four years of quiet private discussions, unexpected trips to therapists, they finally decided to take the drastic step to destroy the uniform, burn down the source of all this trouble and release their father from his delusion.

When the flames had burned out, and the house had been put in order, they stood in the front room where Mr. Malpasso stared at his dim reflection in the television screen.

Ok Dad, Ryan said, we've put some dinner in the oven, it's heating up, should be done in half an hour. Do you want us to stay or would you rather be alone?

He sat, stoic, only his lip seemed to wobble as if with inaudible words.

Melody, not wanting to leave on a bad note, crouched next to her father, put a hand on his side and smiled up at him. I'll come round tomorrow, ok Dad? Help with some gardening?


Phil tried to listen to the radio, straining his ears to hear the football results under Stevi's sing-songing in the backseat whilst she butted the heads of two plastic ponies together. The car door opened and Melody got in, her eyes were red and she, in hurried, fluttering movements, wept away eager tears.

You ok? Phil asked, one ear still squinting to the tinny howls of the crowd.

He told me that this was a terrible reality.

Who did? Your old man?

Melody nodded, sniffed.

Some thanks, Phil scoffed whilst starting the car. Give him time love, he'll learn to appreciate what you've done for him. 

And they drove home.


Mr. Malpasso tried to go to space again that night, but he couldn't do it without his uniform, he just found himself lying in bed, feeling the sheets too tight around his body, and the space where his wife used to sleep, unoccupied for fourteen years. He wished her goodnight, said her name out loud as he had done all that time ago, and had not done since her death.

Mr. Malpasso didn't go to space that night, but he was no longer part of our terrible reality the following day.