Anthony Horowitz - Nightrise

“I’ll help you!”

A woman had stood up, a few seats away. She was black, slim and attractive: in her thirties, Jamie would have said. Once again, he couldn’t help feeling that something didn’t quite add up. The woman was smartly dressed in jeans with a white silk shirt and a thin gold necklace. He could imagine that she was probably an executive in some sort of business. But what was she doing here – and on her own?

Still, she had given Jamie no choice. He waited for her to follow him up onto the stage and a few seconds later they were standing in the spotlights. Scott was slightly to the side, not looking at them, waiting for Jamie to begin.

“I’m going to blindfold my brother-” Jamie began.

“How did you do that just now?” the woman interrupted. “That trick with the newspaper. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Well…” Jamie didn’t know what to say. Volunteers hardly ever spoke to him and they never asked him questions like that, not when they were up on the stage. Why was everything going so wrong tonight? He turned away and, without meaning to, found himself looking once again at the two men in row five. They were staring at him. Of course they were. Everyone was staring at him. He was the reason they were there. But he still couldn’t shake off the idea that they were different from the rest of the audience, that they were interested in him for another reason.

Jamie forced himself to calm down. The two men were surrounded by a lot of empty seats. That was the only reason they seemed out of place. They were here for the same reason as everyone else: to be entertained.

“I’d like you to help me,” Jamie said.

“Sure!” The woman nodded.

Jamie picked up the blindfold, the hood and the English pennies. “I want you to make sure there are no hidden microphones.”

“How did you do it?” the woman asked again. “Can you really read each other’s minds?”

The audience was getting restless. They hadn’t come here to listen to an explanation of how the tricks worked. And it was late – almost half past ten. They were ready to leave. Without waiting any longer, Jamie pressed the coins against his brother’s eyes. For a moment, he felt Scott’s breath, warm against his knuckles. Later on, much later, he would remember it. But now he was moving briskly on. He secured the coins with the blindfold, remembering too late that he hadn’t invited the woman to examine it. Never mind. What did it matter anyway? He placed the hood over his brother’s head.

“What now?” the woman asked.

“I’d like something from your handbag,” Jamie said. It was another mistake. Normally at this point he went back into the audience. He wished this woman hadn’t forced herself onto him.

“I don’t have a handbag,” the woman said.

That got a few laughs from the audience. But it was hostile. They were laughing at him, not with him.

“Then give me something else,” Jamie said. “Just don’t say what it is.”

“How about this?” The woman reached into her back pocket and took out a photograph, the size of a postcard. Jamie took it. He found himself looking at a black and white picture of a nine- or ten-year-old boy. It was obvious this was the woman’s son. Jamie could see the resemblance. The boy’s hair was much shorter but he had the same thoughtful eyes and slightly feminine mouth.

Jamie held it. He realized he was waiting for Scott to speak. Normally Scott identified the object the moment Jamie had it in his hand. Then it would be on to the wallet, the deck of playing cards, the driving licence and out before the final curtain. But Scott hadn’t spoken.

“Scott – what am I holding?” Jamie asked. He had broken the rules that Don White had taught him. If he said anything, the audience would always assume he was using some sort of code. It was better to remain silent.

“I… don’t know.” Scott turned his head as if he was trying to look through the blindfold and the hood.

Jamie felt the floor opening up beneath him. Something had gone wrong. He glanced at his brother and felt the tension. Scott’s arms were pressed against his sides, his fists clenched.

“It’s a picture.” Desperately, Jamie tried to help him. “What’s it a picture of?”

And then Scott cried out. He raised a hand and touched his fingers against his forehead as if in pain. “His name is Daniel,” he said. “And he’s gone. It’s your fault. You’re still blaming yourself for letting them take him.”

It was Scott’s voice but it didn’t sound like him. Nothing like this had ever happened before.

And then the woman stepped forward and snatched the photograph back, and when Jamie looked up at her he saw real anger flaring in her eyes. “Where is he?” she demanded. “What do you know?”

“I don’t know anything!” The whole theatre seemed to be spinning. The lights were burning into him. Jamie just wanted to get off the stage.

“Tell me what you know.”

“I’ve told you-”

“Ladies and gentlemen… Scott and Jamie Tyler, the telepathic twins!” Frank Kirby had been watching from the wings, still in the costume of Mr Marvano, master illusionist. He had decided to come to the rescue, walking on and clapping his hands at the same time. About half the audience joined in. They had seen something but they weren’t sure what. Certainly the trick with the newspapers had been quite effective. But the trick with the photograph had failed. Or had it? The woman in the white shirt certainly looked shaken. Had the twins correctly identified the boy in the photograph, and if so, where was he?

The show was over. Jamie took hold of Scott and dragged him into the wings, at the same time pulling off the blindfold. Frank showed the woman off the stage and went into the final speech that always brought down the curtain.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight you have travelled with us to some of the furthest corners of the human mind…”

But nobody was listening. The woman was back in her seat, deep in thought. Banes and Hovey were a few rows behind her, unmoving, detached. Quite a few people in the audience were already gathering up their jackets and bags, on their way out. The music was playing again, drowning out Frank’s words. Even when the show went well, it was disappointing. Tonight it had been a complete failure.

Don White was waiting off-stage.

As Jamie walked out of the spotlights, the scowling face of “Uncle Don” was the first thing he saw. He realized that Don must have been there throughout the entire act and he flinched, waiting for the backhand across his face or perhaps the fat fingers grabbing at his throat. Don certainly didn’t look pleased. “What happened out there?” he demanded. His thick lips were turned down in an angry scowl.

“I don’t know,” Jamie answered. “It went wrong.”

“It was your brother. He screwed it up.”

“Yeah. That’s right. It was me.” Scott took a step forward. Instinctively, he had put himself between Don White and his brother. Like he always did.

Jamie waited to see what would happen. But tonight there was to be no violence. Don shrugged, his huge shoulders and arms rising and falling, his palms facing out. “All right. Let’s just forget it,” he said. “I’ll see you two later. Go and wait for me in your room.” He turned to the other performers, who had gathered round, wondering what had gone wrong. “The rest of you, I want you out of here. Let’s close up for the night.”

Jamie followed his brother back to the dressing room. It looked as if there wasn’t going to be any trouble after all. If Don was going to hit them, he’d have done it then and there. Together, they went into the room, not even bothering to close the door. They took their time getting changed. The house where they were living – with Don and Marcie – was a twenty-minute drive away, and most nights they went there with Don. It was only when he decided to stay for a drink, or to throw away some money in one of the casinos, that they took the number 11 bus to Victorian Square and walked the rest of the way.