Vanishing act, p.1
Vanishing Act, page 1
Vanishing Act
M.L. Davis
Botwright Publishing
Vanishing Act
For Toby
Forever and after.
Copyright © 2024 by M.L. Davis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Printing, 2024
Cover photo by Sakti Dewangga on Pexels.
Prologue
The sun dipped behind the clouds, but the cobbled streets of Bath city centre still glistened with the warmth of the day. She stood at the front of a gathering crowd, trying to block out the muddled hum of voices muttering in several different languages. She only wanted to hear her little boy, who was stood on a wooden box, beaming up at the man stood beside him.
‘What’s your name, little dude?’ the man asked, crouching to match the child’s height. Despite his wild hair, sharp eyes, and jet-black suit, he was not intimidating. He was a showman, and the skill of his performance extended to much more than magic tricks. It was the finesse of his rapport too. He knew how to speak to people, how to speak to children. It was natural, like watching a father with his son.
‘Alfie,’ whispered her boy, tucking his head to his shoulder.
Her stomach lurched when he announced his name, loud and clear, to the ever-growing crowd. She tried to ignore the anxiety, determined to let her boy have his moment. Nobody knows us here. We are safe.
‘And how old are you, Alfie?’
‘Four.’
‘Four? Wow! Four is the very best age to be. Did you know that?’
Alfie shook his head, his dark curls bouncing as his gap-toothed grin widened and his shocking blue eyes gleamed. It made her heart roar with love and pride.
‘And tell me, Alfie,’ continued the performer, his Australian accent buoyant with enthusiasm, 'would you like to be a magician?'
‘Yes please!’ Alfie gasped, lifting his head and straightening his spine.
That’s the real magic right there, she thought, pressing a trembling hand to her chest. Taking my quiet boy and melting away his shyness.
Alfie was staring at the magician, his fingers wriggling at his side, his body rising with every bounce of his legs as he pushed himself onto the tips of his toes. She took her phone from her pocket and snapped a photograph, even though she knew she would never forget that moment. That image of her usually reluctant son, stood confidently before a crowd of strangers, would burn bright in her memory forever.
She and Alfie often stood in that spot together, the square in front of Bath Abbey, where ancient architecture met modern life. Where the hordes of impatient shoppers bumped into those willing to stand still for a while and take in the beauty, the buildings, and the street performers with their unique talents.
She had to be careful with money, so the bigger forms of entertainment were never an option. But sparing loose change for the street artists was an affordable way to have fun. Alfie never seemed to mind that he didn’t visit any of the bigger attractions. He would stand happily for hours, his small hand warm in hers, his tiny body tucked against her side. He rarely stood too close to the act, but he always watched on with a smile nestled between his chubby cheeks.
That day though, the magician caught his interest in a way no other artist had and Alfie pulled her to the front of the crowd. She could not fathom what had taken his eye. If anything, the man looked more like a surfer than a magician, with blonde hair in a top knot and a thick sandy stubble grazing his chin. He wore a black suit with a silver tie, yet there was nothing showy about his style. She supposed it was the way he moved that was mesmerising, the grace as he twisted his body, the quirk of his sharp features as he seduced the crowd.
When the show started Alfie had let his hand drop from hers and taken another step forward. And when the performer asked for a volunteer Alfie darted towards him, which had both shocked her and filled her with joy.
She watched him, her baby boy, take an oversized plastic wand from the magician, his mouth a perfect O of excitement.
But as the trick got under way, a woman pushed in front of her, blocking her view. And before she could say ‘excuse me!’ a hand landed heavy on her shoulder, a warm tickle of breath grazed her cheek.
And when a voice whispered in her ear the one thing she was most terrified of in the world, she had no choice. She turned and walked away, legs numb and heavy, leaving her son performing magic against the towering backdrop of the gothic abbey.
By the time the act had finished she was gone.
And she crumpled beneath the horror of wondering if, by the time night fell, Alfie would have vanished too.
Now - Austin
The soundtrack to Austin Jackson’s life had become some kind of permanent ticking. The second hand on the clock above his desk, making its slow and repetitive journey. The clacking of fingers on keys as he and his colleagues tapped and clicked their way through another eight hours. The dodgy chain on his bike as he pushed the pedals, and his will to live, towards the office. The clattering of passing trains.
The office building backed onto a railway and from his top floor desk Austin had a perfect view of the tracks. Whenever a train zipped by, he fantasised about jumping one and riding it well away. Some days, he fought against the urge to jump under one instead.
How has it come to this?
It was a question he asked himself every day, even though he knew the answer would crawl into his thoughts and leave him guilt ridden and sick with rage.
Nothing like a solid routine to keep your 9-5 on track
And the routine was unrelenting, consistent:
Nine o clock, make a coffee as strong and as bitter as his thoughts.
Twelve noon, eat lunch, and wash it down with a large side of self-loathing.
Three o clock, ask how it had come this and wallow in the answer.
Four o clock, fall into the trap of reminiscing, remembering a life that didn’t involve counting down the minutes that made up the final hour of work.
Austin never wanted to live a life of routine and, above all else, he never wanted to work in an office. He’d decided as a teen that he could cope with bar work, and during his years at university he did just that. Yes, he could work behind a bar, he’d be a waiter, could handle giving out leaflets for sleezy nightclubs on cold streets in the middle of the night. But whatever happened he promised himself he would never spend his days at a desk.
And yet there he was, thirty-five years old and tap, tap, tapping away as he inputted feedback from surveys into databases and charts. That was his routine, Monday to Friday, nine to five.
What a bloody way to make a living.
He tried not to be resentful. He was lucky to have his job.
Lucky.
He repeated the word in his head, trying not to puke. He was fortunate, blessed to have a friend who owned a business and was prepared to let him in. No matter how hard he tried Austin struggled to believe the lies he told himself, found it hard to be grateful for his circumstances. It had been nearly a year since his world turned to crap, and the career he had worked so hard to achieve burst out of his life and slammed the proverbial door behind it.
In the early stages of studying for his degree, and even after he graduated, Austin had not intended to become a street performer. His sights were set on the stage, and he pulled pints at a busy West End pub, while trying to make it from behind the bar to under the spotlight. He allowed himself a small smile as he remembered the man he was then, optimistic and driven, even as dozens of failed auditions slapped him in the face.
Desperate to succeed in one way or another Austin developed a new approach. He’d performed some basic magic in a part time job as a children’s entertainer and it had been well received. So, he took more training to hone his skill, transforming his image along the way. He let his hair grow to his shoulders, where the tips turned fair in the summer, especially on visits to Australia to see his parents. He grew out his beard, endured the prickly, itchy stage until he had enough facial hair to craft the perfect goatee. With the carefully angled beard, his knotted mane and his razor-sharp eyes, Austin looked like a dare-devil illusionist. He pictured himself immerging through flames before an awe-struck crowd, who would breathe a sigh of relief at his safety before erupting into applause.
That’s how he’d pictured it. The gasp, the sigh, the applause. The perfect tune to match the rhythm of his heart. It hadn’t quite turned out that way. He was no great illusionist, no escapologist, no Derren Brown. But as he grew in confidence he took to the streets and performed fast paced comedy magic that left the crowd in stitches and the tip bucket full.
The crunch of wheels as office chairs slid against the cheap linoleum pulled Austin from his memories. With a lurch he came crashing down to the stone-cold reality that he was no longer a magician, but a data administrator, who had finally reached the end of his Monday shift. The sliding chairs were the daily signal that the working day was over. Regular as clockwork.
Only four more days until the weekend.
Austin grunted a goodbye to his colleagues and hurried down the corridor, bounding down the stairs and out onto the street. It was a relief to breathe in the fresh Spring air, away from the stale office atmosphere that reeked of old coffee, egg sandwiches, and a lack of ambition. He bent down to unlock his bike, pulling the straps of his rucksack tight, ready for the ride to his flat.
‘Excuse me? Are you Aust
Austin leapt upright and turned to face the source of the voice.
Oh christ. Not another journalist, please not another journalist.
It’d been months since the press had last accosted him, but Austin’s chest still tightened whenever somebody addressed him by name.
‘Yeah,’ he replied. There was no point denying it. They’d obviously done their research to find out where he worked. It can’t have been a coincidence that somebody had passed by the dingy office block just as he was leaving, and he had no friends in Bath. The woman was a stranger, as far as he could tell.
Though the more he stared it became apparent there was something off about her, halting his original assumption that she was a journalist. Her pale brown hair was swept into a messy bun, her face bare of makeup. She wore plain baggy clothes, shabby in comparison to the white designer sneakers that looked several sizes too big. She’d pulled the laces so tight the leather wrinkled, the fabric cuffs loose around her skinny ankles.
‘I’m Amber,’ she breathed, trembling as she spoke. ‘I’m Alfie’s mum.’
There was no pause, no need to take a moment to allow her words to register in his mind. Her announcement sunk in within seconds and Austin’s hand flew to his mouth as his stomach convulsed, sending a hot stream of bile into his throat. He swallowed it and gaped at the woman before him, a creeping coldness gripping his neck so he couldn’t breathe.
He had wondered about her every day for eleven months, her faceless existence had haunted his nightmares for nearly a year. It was almost more disturbing, having a face to put to the mystery. Pale skin, high cheekbones, startled brown eyes and dry lips dotted with red grooves. He had her face, and he had her name too. After all the time he’d spent searching, wondering, loathing…
He had planned over a thousand things he would say to her if he ever found her. But with the moment finally upon him, his words would not form. He couldn’t even muster one of the thousand things he had to say. Not even the most important of all.
I am so sorry. I am so sorry I lost your son.
Then - Amber
She’d been drawn to Ray the moment she saw him. At least that’s what Amber told him whenever they recounted the story of how they’d met. It was a lie, but she bargained it was a harmless one. In fact, it gave Ray confidence, in her and in their relationship.
The truth was, Amber had not noticed Ray until he approached her through the pretentious crowds of a club in central Manchester. It was just a week after New Year’s Eve, and anybody who’d resolved not to drink or not to spend too much money was at the bar. It was an upmarket place, sleek black surfaces, attractive lighting. There was no tacky haze from a smoke machine or over excited booming voice from the DJ booth. Just ambient music and glazed glass tables, a canvas of class.
Amber sipped on her drink, swirling the refreshing tropical juice around her tongue and wincing when the vodka seeped through. She’d made no resolution to stop drinking, nor to stop spending money. The only thing she had vowed was to finally settle into a relationship, and no longer with the kind of men who would rather do shots of Jägermeister down the pub than visit a cocktail bar.
Usually, Amber had a type. It wasn’t that she was shallow, or at least she hadn’t intended to be. The men she dated were chosen as much for their personalities as their looks. She liked men with a playful side, a laddish sense of humour and an eagerness to impress. She chose men who enjoyed watching football with their mates and didn’t take up all her time. In a relationship she liked to spend enough time together to be a couple, but not so much it was stifling.
Unintentionally, her type did extend to looks as well. She’d had three boyfriends since starting university at eighteen, and if they all stood side by side they could pass as brothers. Tall and tanned with dark hair, brown eyes, and muscles that strained against white tops. They all had the same trick; buy a size too small so the thin fabric pulled taut over their arms. Desperate to impress.
The similarities didn’t end there. All three relationships had ended in disaster. Dishonesty, disloyalty, and disgrace.
Ray couldn’t have been further from Amber’s type. He asked to sit beside her at her table in the bar and she’d said yes. Why not? She was alone anyway, perched on a high stool with a large and colourful cocktail in front of her. When Ray sat, he placed a glass of whisky beside her own drink before turning away, his fingers drumming against his leg.
He was older, she could see it in the gentle creases beneath his eyes and the flecks of grey hair above his ears. Amber soon learned he was thirty-eight, but she considered his age probably wasn’t a bad thing. She was fed up with the immaturity that lingered in the men she chose to date, and at twenty-six she wanted to think about settling down. Thirty loomed over her, four short years away, and there was so much she wanted by then. Marriage, children…wouldn’t an older man be more likely to want the same? She hoped that by breaking bad habits, she’d finally start a new chapter in her life.
She’d asked for his name, and he stopped drumming his fingers and turned to face her. He was a serious man, with intense blue eyes, as light and as startling as a husky’s. He had a small round nose, and lips that protruded into a permanent pout. Amber came to realise the pout wasn’t deliberate, but the result of slightly crooked front teeth that were almost too big for his mouth. He kept his lips closed over them, his hand raising to hide his mouth when he laughed, but Amber didn’t find them unattractive. They gave him charm.
He was a professor of History at the University of Manchester, where she herself had studied art. He didn’t make jokes but he was profoundly intelligent, his stories captivating enough without humorous quips or comedic value. And, so unlike her previous men, he did not have the needy desire to impress. Why would he? He was effortlessly interesting.
Admittedly, while Amber was not prepared to pile all her hopes and dreams on somebody so soon, excitement fizzed alongside the buzz of too much vodka. And in the following weeks, she fell for Ray so hard and fast it was like riding on an upward spiral, and she was soaring dizzily towards cloud nine.
Yes, she’d been well and truly drawn in, like a moth to a flame. Like a stuntman to danger.
Now - Austin
‘You have to help me find him,’ Amber urged, still gazing at Austin with eyes the colour of autumn leaves. ‘Please. I’ve done my research, you’re the last known person to have seen Alfie, the last known sighting. And although you probably don’t think you can help, you can! I need you to.’
The words spilled from her, a turbulent river of thoughts that Austin suspected she’d rehearsed for a while, just as he had. But where her words cascaded from her quivering lips, his remained stubbornly still. He had so much to say and yet nothing to say at all.
Instead, he studied her face, searching for some resemblance to her son. While Amber had always been a faceless figure, an image of Alfie had been all too clear in his mind. Unfaded, despite the months that had passed, Austin could recall the boy’s joy, excitement and wonder as he’d taken part in the magic act. He could also remember the wrinkled brow, the worry etched into his tiny features, once he realised he was lost and alone.
‘You left him.’ Austin’s voice cracked as his words made their appearance, slow and stiff.
Amber tilted her head to the ground, eyes pressed shut, teeth sinking into her lower lip. She rubbed at her arm, and Austin shuddered as his eyes were drawn to the trail of bruises dirtying her skin the way mud spoiled snow. Amber breathed a sigh of composure before lifting her gaze back to his.
‘Will you help me find him?’
Austin fell silent again, a waging war of emotions battled within him. In the pit of his stomach it was rage, a fiery resentment bubbling at his core. In his trembling fingers it was sadness and shock. In his heart it was terrible guilt, the kind that had destroyed his self-respect, happiness and certainty.
‘I want to help you,’ Austin said, his guilty heart pulling the words from his numb brain and forcing them out of his mouth. ‘But I can’t. I wouldn’t know where to begin. If I could’ve found Alfie by now, you have to believe me, I would have. I gave all my information to the police. They’re your best bet now.’
