The Illusionists. Rosie Thomas

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      Two nights before Christmas Eve, two hundred people took their places for the evening performance.

      ‘Two hundred,’ Devil repeated to Carlo as they waited to take the stage. Perched on his stilts, with the wicker cage supporting his gown, the dwarf’s enlarged shoulders nudged his. Devil added, ‘I may not have a Varsity man’s head for mathematics, but I do know that figure represents eighty per cent of capacity. I am looking forward to seeing Jacko Grady’s face.’

      ‘You think he’ll give you the money, do you?’ Under the make-up Carlo’s face was flushed and his eyes glassy.

      ‘We shall see,’ Devil said simply.

      At the end of the show the place where Grady sat to hand out the performers’ shillings and pence was taken by his deputy, a terrier of a man who wore his hat tipped on the back of his head like a bookmaker.

      ‘Two hundred seats,’ Devil growled when the man passed him the usual two shillings and sixpence.

      ‘What’s that?’

      ‘Eighty per cent capacity. Tonight Carlo and I get ten per cent of the takings.’

      Grady’s deputy sneered. ‘Next,’ he called to the waiting line and waved Devil and Carlo aside. Devil planted himself squarely in front of the table and leaned over the man.

      ‘Ten per cent. According to my contract, signed by Jacko Grady.’

      ‘Take it up with Grady, then. Next.’

      Devil’s fist smashed down, sending a little pile of coins rolling.

      ‘Contract!’ he shouted.

      ‘You can roll up your so-called contract and stick it up your arse. So far as I am concerned,’ the man said. Devil grabbed him by the coat lapels and hoisted him out of his seat. Coins spilled all over the floor and the other performers catcalled and jostled as they snatched them up. The deputy’s legs feebly kicked in the air and the table overturned.

      Carlo sadly shook his head.

      ‘Won’t help,’ he sighed.

      ‘Give us our money,’ Devil snarled into the man’s face.

      ‘Not mine to give,’ the other retorted. Recognising the truth of this Devil slammed him back into his chair and took up the rickety card table as if he were about to joust with it. Impatience at the delay began to ripple down the queue. Devil poked the legs of the table at the deputy’s chest.

      ‘Tell Grady. I want my money. Tomorrow.’

      ‘Tell him yourself. Next, I say, and look sharp the rest of you if you’re wanting to get paid tonight.’

      Devil dropped the table on the deputy’s feet. With the man’s yelp of pain to console him he stalked away and Carlo followed. Outside it was bitterly cold, with clots of wet snow swirling through the sepia glimmer of the street lamps. In silence they began to trudge towards Holborn but Carlo walked so slowly that Devil gave up the pursuit of his own furious thoughts to look round for him. The dwarf pressed his hand against a leprous wall for support as he coughed and spat the product into the gutter.

      ‘Are you ill?’ Devil asked him.

      ‘Yes.’ Carlo was too tired even to attempt a sharp retort.

      Devil sighed. ‘Come on.’ With their heads down they trod the familiar way back through the alleys to the lodging house. When they reached the attic room it was hardly warmer than outside. The squalor of it struck even Devil after he had lit the lamp. He looked around at the mounds of props and boxes, the unswept boards and dirty pots. Carlo’s white doves sat in their cage, reproachful black eyes on Devil. He stirred up a fire and the dwarf sank into his blanket. He drank the toddy that Devil mixed for him and then lay in a piteous huddle. He closed his eyes.

      ‘This is how our Sallie went,’ he murmured.

      ‘You’re not going anywhere. Except to the Palmyra theatre.’

      Carlo only shivered.

      ‘We are about to make our fortunes, my friend. Two hundred seats sold, remember.’

      ‘I want to sleep.’

      Devil lay in his bed and listened for most of the night to the dwarf’s feverish tossing and turning. In the morning Carlo’s face was hollow and his eyes were sunk in their sockets. Devil let him rest and went out to buy food that Carlo could barely pick at. As the time approached for them to make their way to the theatre Devil fussed from bed to table, peering at the small heap of skin and bones under the blanket and praying that the dwarf would at least get up from his bed. He was hardly able to hope that he would actually be able to perform. At the last possible moment Carlo dragged himself upright. He coughed fitfully and lurched to his feet.

      At the foot of the stairs Maria Hayes was waiting for them. She raised her thick eyebrows.

      ‘Compliments of the season, ma’am,’ Devil murmured. Carlo moved like a shadow behind him and Devil believed he could feel in his own bones the shudder of a suppressed cough. The landlady would welcome a sick dwarf even less readily than a healthy one.

      ‘Rent is owing, Mr Wix. For two occupants.’ Her voice was like ice in a bucket.

      ‘And it will be paid this very evening, Mrs Hayes. Boldoni and Wix are becoming quite the spectacular success, as you know.’

      Devil had taken care to present the landlady with a pair of tickets, and she and her husband had duly visited the Palmyra. For two or three days thereafter relations had been cordial, even admiring, and Carlo had been tacitly accepted as a lodger even though none of the Hayes family ever spoke to him. But when the rent was overdue Mrs Hayes was immune even to Devil’s persuasions.

      ‘This evening.’ She turned the phrase into a threat, her mouth as yielding as a cut-throat razor. She withdrew into her quarters.

      As they walked up the alley Devil grimly said, ‘Carlo, we have to work. Tonight and every night. Otherwise’ – but there was no need for him to say what otherwise would involve. It lay hungry all about them in the ruined houses, even in the meagre shelter beneath market carts, and for the unluckiest in corners where the sleet-laden fingers of the wind dug a little less keenly.

      Carlo looked up at him. For the first time in the long weeks since they had met he seemed fragile. Usually his tiny frame was springing with energy but tonight his neck seemed hardly strong enough to bear the weight of his large head. His cracked lips barely moved when he spoke, and he still winced.

      ‘I know.’

      He was brave, for such a scrap of a man. Devil felt an urge to pull his cap down and wrap his ragged muffler closer about his throat for him, but these signs of tenderness embarrassed him. He touched the dwarf’s shoulder instead, quickly withdrew his hand and turned towards the Strand.

      The audience were already taking their seats. In anticipation of the Christmas holiday there was a hum of good-humoured anticipation rising through the auditorium. Devil put his eye to a chink in the curtain. More than two hundred in tonight, that was certain. As soon as the show was over he would force Jacko Grady to an accounting. He СКАЧАТЬ