Tony Dickie was late. It had been his turn to clean the blackboard and, out of spite he was sure, Miss Bland had been using the red chalk - the kind which was impossible to remove from the board or from your hands no matter how hard you scrubbed either of them.
Late for his big scene. He’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t provide the promised trick. The one he’d learned the day before. He ran wildly down the long empty corridor, hands slapping on the walls for balance, and slammed heavily into Tom Duncan, his maths teacher and the scourge of Tony’s young life.
Tony winced, expecting the usual verbal lashing and cuff around the ear. Instead the teacher merely grunted and moved aside to let him pass. Saying a silent prayer for his good luck he burst into the boiler room, a bundle of flailing arms and legs.
They were all waiting, silent.
Almost falling down the stairs he was carried by momentum into the centre of the small circle of seven.
“Sorry…I…I had to clean the blackboard and…”
He was always apologising recently - apologising for getting good results in exams, apologising for having two left feet when it came to playing football, but most of all apologising for being late.
Football was the worst though. There they would be, all lined up against the wall, peeling off as their names were called until only one or two were left. Tony was always one of those who were left.
“Oh all right, we’ll have Dickie,” a voice would say, “He can always go in goal.”
And there he would stand, cold seeping into his hands until finally, dismayingly, a horde of screaming bodies would descend on him, herding the ball in front. He tried, he always did, but the ball always slipped out of his hands at the vital moment and he was always left crying.
But magic, ah yes, magic was a different story.
He noticed that they were all waiting for him.
“OK. Just get on with it. Do we have to do anything?”
This came from Isobel, his first ever object of desire, she of the jet black hair and baby blue eyes. He blushed every time he had to speak to her and this little demonstration of his ‘magic’ was primarily for her benefit.
“I hope somebody brought the chairs?” he asked.
“Yeah, they’re here. Come on, hurry up. I’ve got to get tae the sweetie shop afore the next period.”
Nick Bayliss stepped aside, revealing two small chairs leaning against the boiler. Tony had now caught his breath properly and was just about ready to start but first he needed to set up the proper atmosphere. Granddad had told him that atmosphere was all, and that without it the trick would fall flat as a pancake and he would be left looking like a duck’s arse. Tony had never seen a duck’s arse, but he imagined it to be pretty horrible.
“Just wait till they see this trick,” he thought “Then they won’t be needing to go to the sweetie shop, and we’ll see who looks like a duck’s arse then.”
“C..could I have those two chairs,” he stammered, pointing with a shaking finger, “Over here in the middle of the floor facing each other.”
By the time the chairs had been positioned to his liking he had regained his composure and he stood silently in front of them, saying nothing, letting the tension build. He looked around, meeting each one of them in the eye before finally settling on his accomplice.
“All right Ian, lie down over here, across the chairs.”
Ian Kerr, a tall but fat boy, looked around with an aggrieved expression.
“Why does it have to be me? I always get to do the stupid things.”
Ian, even more so than Tony, was the class scapegoat. He was always the very last one chosen when it came to picking football teams, always the last one back from cross country runs and always, but always, the brunt of the cruellest classroom jokes. Fortunately he was good natured and had developed a resignedness to his lot. He only really protested when, as now, he was called upon to be a guinea pig. He was also Tony’s best friend, his companion in adversity against the whims of the other children.
Tony looked at him and smiled. He hoped that his look would say all that he felt, that he chose Ian because he was his friend, that he trusted him not to make a fuss and that he could share in the reflected glory once the trick was performed and the full scale of Tony’s talents was known.
But he couldn’t say it. For now he was the magician and magicians treated everyone else with disdain. That was something else Granddad had told him.
“Remember. You are always in control. It’s your trick and no one can take it away from you.” The old man had said, and Tony intended to make Granddad proud of him. He turned back to Ian and motioned to the chairs.
“Because you are the biggest one here, and this works better with big people. So just lie down and shut up or else we’ll never get this done before the bell.”
After finally getting Ian to lie down, Tony explained to the rest what they had to do, slowly, so that he could be sure that they understood him.
“I want you to stand, three on each side, with one finger of each hand under Ian’s body. Space yourself out, two at the legs, two at the waist and two at the shoulders. Then you’ve all got to stay quiet and try not to think of anything except my voice.”
“I’m going to say some sentences, and I want you all to repeat them after me, but changing the word ‘looks’ to the word ‘is’. When I get to the word ‘Illusion’ I want you to try lifting him, using only the tips of your fingers. Don’t try to force it - you’ll only break the spell. It only works if you listen to what I’m saying - you’ve all got to concentrate hard - OK?”
He looked around for confirmation and most of them were nodding. All that is, except one. Tony’s heart sank when the dissenter turned to him, a big grin fixed in its usual place.
“Ah’ve seen this yin afore. It disnae work unless everybody cheats. Is this yer big new trick? Ah’m no’ staying here fur this.”
Nick Bayliss was Tony’s rival for Isobel’s attention. Tony knew that if Nick left then the rest of them would soon follow. He was a sort of leader - the first to suggest anything which was liable to lead to trouble, the last to get caught. Granddad said he was ‘Tuppence short o’ a bob’ and Tony, although he didn’t quite understand the phrase, knew that it meant that Nick wasn’t one of life’s good guys. He trusted his Granddad’s judgement, but he couldn’t see what made Isobel so attracted to the boy. He supposed it was something he might understand when he got older.
He had to reply quickly, otherwise, he’d lose them all - Ian was already trying to struggle upright. He firmly pushed his friend back down and turned to face the rest.
“All right then. If it doesn’t work, I’ll give you all ten pence each.”
“Ten pence. That’s no’ goin’ tae break the bank is it? If ye want me tae stay, you’d better make it fifty at least.”
Nick was still grinning at him, that big cheesy grin that meant he knew he was on to a good thing. Fifty pence was all that Tony had, and if his trick didn’t work he’d have to pay out over three pounds. He was about to pull out when he caught Isobel looking at him, big lashes fluttering. He felt a warm tingly feeling in his stomach and had to lower his eyes. There was no way that he’d back down with her watching him.
“OK then, let’s do it.”
After they had placed themselves around the prone figure, he started to chant.
“He looks pale.”
“He looks fat, ” a low voice replied and they all burst out laughing. All that is apart from Tony. He was furious.
“OK. If you’re not going to take this seriously I’m off. I’ve got better things to do anyway.”
He looked around and felt a warm smile of pleasure inside which he daren’t let reach his face. He had their attention again - he was the magician once more.
There were several protests, not the least of which came from Isobel. He permitted himself one small smile as he looked across at her.
“All right then. I’ll try it again. But don’t blame me if this doesn’t work - I told you that you had to be serious for it to happen.”
He placed his hands on the side of Ian’s head, feeling heat at the ears underneath Ian’s hair.
“He looks pale,” he began.
“He is pale.”
This time they all replied, not quite in unison, but the atmosphere of the occasion was beginning to get through to them. Even Nick Bayliss looked like he was taking it seriously. Tony permitted himself a quick glance at Isobel, but her eyes were closed and she was frowning in concentration.
“He looks ill.”
“He is ill.”
Six voices replied. Nowhere existed except for that room, that moment. It was going to work, he could feel it.
By now they were all caught in the special atmosphere, so much so that no one noticed the whitening around the lips of the boy between their hands.
“He looks dead.”
“He is dead.”
“Dead?” whispered the lips in the head held tightly between Tony’s hands.
“Sshh.” Tony said, pressing his reddened palms even tighter against the large boy’s ears.
“We are now entering the world of Illusion”
Twelve fingers and one pair of hands lifted, but found the body already afloat, bobbing like a helium balloon on a piece of string.
Tony looked down a double row of faces, a triumphant smile on his face, a smile which was wiped out by the sight of Nick Bayliss. The older boy grinned widely, the same old manic grin. Slowly, looking at Tony all the while, he removed his fingers from beneath the body. The grin never left his face.
Time slowed for Tony, like a projector running down. He had a bad taste in his mouth, the taste of cold metal.
Ian fell stiffly to the ground, head striking a corner of the large boiler with a loud crack. They all stepped back, first one, then two steps and then there was a moment of silence as they looked at the unmoving body at their feet.
Tony stared at the ground, at the blood and grey fluid which was seeping from Ian’s head and at the red and white chalk dust in the boy’s blond hair.
He opened his mouth wide, took in a lungful of air, and prepared to scream.
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An oldie, written 15 years ago now. There's a possibility of a short movie of it coming later this year
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