looked at Bob with exasperation. Bob had been selling the Big Issue on that particular spot for about a year now, and early on in his tenure he had spotted Simon for the easy sell that he was. Bob’s aggressive selling technique and shameless guilt-mongering had resulted in Simon being corralled into buying a copy of the magazine every day, despite the fact that new issues only came out once a week.
In addition to being an extremely effective salesman, Bob was also a devout Buddhist, or at least he claimed to be. His grasp of the religion was vague, to say the least, and Simon often got the feeling that he was making stuff up as he went along, mixing a smattering of the real thing with hippy mantras and anything else that popped into his head. Somewhat incongruously, Bob also possessed a ruthless materialist streak. His devotion to hard cash seemed to sit ill with his professed religious beliefs. Simon noticed that Bob was wearing a pair of extremely well-made and expensive shoes. He didn’t smoke and, being a Buddhist, never drank (he had once explained that drinking was in direct contravention of a holy edict issued by the Prophet Bud, which was ironic given that Bud had had a beer named after him).
‘I’m not really sure if I’d win any damages,’ said Simon.
‘You never know,’ said Bob.
‘I’m not that badly hurt, anyway,’ said Simon.
‘But it’s got to be worth a go, hasn’t it?’ persisted Bob. ‘I mean, you’re hobbling round on them bloody things.’ He pointed at the crutches. ‘That’s got to be worth a bit of moolah, surely?’
Simon shrugged.
Bob held up a finger. ‘The Prophet says: “Catch each stone flung at you along the road of life, for you never know when you may need those stones to build a wall.”’
Simon frowned. ‘Are you sure about that?’ he asked.
Bob looked affronted. ‘Absolutely. And building walls is the path to enlightenment.’
Simon tried to hide his scepticism about this unlikely and arguably confusing dictum – it would be disastrous, after all, if you unwittingly built the wall across the path to enlightenment. He looked at his watch. He needed to get to work. He was already late.
‘I have to go,’ he said.
‘Fair enough,’ said Bob. ‘Stay well. Preserve your karma.’ He made a peace sign.
‘Er, thanks. Preserve yours, too.’ Tucking his Big Issue into his trouser pocket, Simon hobbled off.
A few minutes later, Simon arrived in front of a shabby-looking shop. Large yellow letters proclaimed ‘STATION MAG C’ above the front door. In the middle of the window display, a toy rabbit flopped forlornly over the rim of a battered top hat. It was surrounded by wilting plumes of fake flowers, and tubes and boxes covered in metallic glitter. There were old black and white photographs of men in dinner suits chopping limbs off smiling, bikini-clad girls. The display had not changed for years, and it showed. Simon pushed the door open and went inside. Behind the glass counter stood Brian Station, the shop’s owner. He was a short man with badly dyed hair. He wore a bright and rather horrible waistcoat.
‘You’re late,’ he said as Simon shut the door.
‘Hello, Brian,’ said Simon. ‘Sorry.’
‘What the fuck happened to you?’ asked Brian, as he looked at Simon’s bandages and crutches. ‘You look a mess.’
‘Slight accident over the weekend,’ explained Simon, who really didn’t want to have to explain the whole story again, particularly not to Brian, who he knew would be less than sympathetic.
Brian regarded Simon critically. He pointed at the bandage on Simon’s hand. ‘How the fuck are you going to be able to do anything with that bloody thing wrapped around your hand?’ he demanded. ‘You’ll be no use at all.’
Simon hadn’t thought about this. Brian was right: with his hand bound up he would be unable to demonstrate any tricks. ‘You’re right,’ he said.
‘Of course I’m bloody right,’ said Brian. ‘I’m always bloody right. Someone has to be.’ He looked resentfully at Simon, as if he suspected that he had done this on purpose. ‘Fuck,’ he said, after some moments’ thought.
‘I could just do the stock room stuff and accounts,’ said Simon.
‘But that means I’ll have to work in the shop,’ said Brian.
It had always struck Simon as odd that for someone who owned a magic shop, Brian hated to sell tricks. The problem was, on a more profound level, that Brian hated anything that involved contact with other people. He was the most misanthropic person Simon had ever met. It was possible, in view of this, that a career in the entertainment industry might have been ill-advised, but it was all a bit late now.
Brian was at least democratic about his dislike of his fellow men. He was hateful to everyone. Simon had long ago learned to speak to him only when strictly necessary, and never to dispute anything he said. Anybody who dared to enter into the argumentative fray with Brian always lost. An argument is a series of structured consequential statements or propositions leading to a logical conclusion, not a flat denial followed by a torrent of foul-mouthed and unanswerable abuse. On that analysis there were no arguments to win, only dignity to lose.
Things were worst during the summer months. Throughout the day the shop thronged with tourists, who paid no attention to the exotic magic effects which were on show in the display cases, but instead went straight for Brian’s impressive collection of fake breasts, stink bombs, and plastic spirals of dog shit. Business was good, but Brian resented being little more than a glorified joke shop, and this did little to improve his temper.
‘Dean!’ Brian shouted.
There was the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. Finally a short, rather fat man with red hair appeared from the back of the shop. He wore a T-shirt with a dragon on it and a dirty pair of jeans. ‘Yeah?’ said Dean.
‘Evel Knievel here has buggered up his hand,’ explained Brian, pointing at Simon, ‘so you and me are going to have to work extra hard today.’
Dean shrugged. ‘OK,’ he said.
‘And the next day,’ added Brian.
‘OK.’ Dean looked at Brian and Simon affably. There was a pause. Brian snorted in irritation. Dean annoyed Brian hugely. He meandered through life without worrying about other people very much. He lived in his own world, which, as far as Simon could tell, consisted principally of thrash heavy metal bands and billiard balls. Dean could perform acts of dexterity with his podgy hands that defied belief. He was a prodigiously gifted manipulator, a talent born through hard graft and the unshakeable belief that he never wanted to do anything else. Dean’s favourite items to manipulate were billiard balls. Once he had shyly shown Simon his collection. Some were made of wood, some of marble, some of ivory. Simon remembered staring at this extraordinary array, lost for words. It stood as testimony to the all-embracing intensity of Dean’s obsession. Ever since, Simon had felt an affinity with him: here was another man with a fixation which left him dislocated and detached from the ordinariness of modern life. Simon sought sanctuary in his jazz records, Dean in his beloved red balls. It was essentially the same escape route.
Dean’s ability to make things appear and vanish with his bare hands did not, unfortunately
