The Prestige

13

During the third week of May I caught a train from London to the seaside town and fishing port of Lowestoft, in Suffolk. Here, Angier was booked for a week of performances. I went with only one intent, and that was to infiltrate myself backstage and discover the secret for myself.

Normally, access to the backstage area of a theatre is controlled by the staff who are employed to ensure just that restriction, but if you are familiar either with theatrical life or with a particular building there are generally ways of getting inside. Angier was playing at the Pavilion, a substantial and well-equipped theatre on the seafront, one in which I myself had performed in the past. I foresaw no difficulties.

I was rebuffed. It was hopeless to try at the stage door, because a prominent handwritten notice outside announced that all intending visitors had to obtain authorization in advance before being allowed even so far as the door manager's stall. As I did not want to draw attention to myself, I retreated without pressing my case.

I found similar difficulties in the scenery bay. Again, there are ways and means of getting inside if you know how to go about it, but Angier was taking many precautions, as I soon discovered.

I came across a young carpenter at the back of the bay, preparing a scenery flat. I showed him my card, and he greeted me in a friendly enough way. After a short conversation with him on general matters, I said, “I wouldn't mind being able to watch the show from behind the scenes.”

“Wouldn't we all!”

“Do you think you could get me in one evening?”

“No hope, sir, and no point neither. The main act this week's gone and put a box up. Can't see nothing!”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Not too bad, since he slipped me a wad—”

Again I retreated. Boxing a stage is an extreme measure employed by a minority of magicians nervous of having their secrets discovered by scene-shifters and other backstage workers. It's usually an unpopular move and, unless substantial tips are handed out, brings a noticeable lack of cooperation from the people with whom the artiste has to work during his run. The mere fact that Angier had gone to so much trouble was further evidence that his secret required elaborate defences.

There remained only three possible ways to infiltrate the theatre, all of them fraught with difficulties.

The first was to enter the front of house, and use one of the access doors to reach the back. (Doors to the Pavilion auditorium from the foyer were locked, and staff were watching all visitors vigilantly.)

The second was to try to obtain a temporary backstage job. (No one was being hired that week.)

The third was to go to a show as a member of the audience, and try to get up on the stage from there. As there was no longer any alternative I went to the box office and bought myself a stalls seat for every available performance of Angier's run. (It was additionally galling to discover that Angier's show was such a success that most performances were completely sold out, with waiting lists for cancellations, and those that were left had only the most expensive seats available.)

My seat, at the second of Angier's shows I attended, was in the front row of the stalls. Angier looked briefly at me soon after he walked on the stage, but I had disguised myself expertly and was confident he had seen me without recognizing me. I knew from my own experience that you can sometimes sense in advance which members of the audience will volunteer to assist, and taking an unobtrusive glance at the people in the front two or three rows is something most magicians do.

When Angier began his playing-card routine and called for volunteers I stood up with a show of hesitation, and sure enough was invited on to the stage. As soon as I was close to Angier I realized how nervous he was, and he barely looked at me as we went through the amusing process of choosing and concealing cards. I played all this straight, because wrecking his show was not what I wished to do.

When the routine was complete, his female assistant came swiftly up behind me, took my arm in a polite but firm grip, and led me towards the wings. At the earlier performance, the volunteer had then walked down the ramp on his own while the assistant went quickly back to the centre of the stage, where she was needed for the next illusion.

Knowing this, I grasped my opportunity. Under the noise of the applause, I said to her in the rustic accent I was using as part of my disguise, “It's all right, m’dear. I can find my seat.”

She smiled gratefully, patted me on the arm, then turned away towards Angier. He was pulling forward his props table while the applause died. Neither of them was looking at me. Most of the audience was watching Angier.

I stepped back, and slipped into the wings. I had to push my way through a narrow flap in the heavy canvas screen of the box.

Immediately, a stagehand stepped out to block my way.

“Sorry, sir,” he said loudly. “You aren't allowed back stage.”

Angier was just a few feet away from us, starting his next routine. If I argued with the man Angier would doubtless hear us and realize something was up. With a flash of inspiration I reached up and pulled off the hat and wig I had been wearing.

“It's part of the act, you damned fool!” I said urgently but quietly, using my normal voice. “Out of the way!”

The stagehand looked disconcerted, but he muttered an apology and stepped back again. I brushed past him. I had spent much time planning where the best place to search for clues would be. With the stage boxed it was more likely that I would find what I was seeking on the mezzanine floor. I went along a short corridor until I reached the steps leading down to the sub-stage area.

With the rigging loft and flies, the mezzanine is one of the main technical areas of the theatre; there were several trap and bridge mechanisms here, as well as the windlasses used for powering the scenery sliders. Several large flats were stored in their cuts, presumably for a forthcoming production. I stepped briskly between the various pieces of machinery. If the show had been a major theatrical production, with numerous scene and scenery changes, the mezzanine floor would be occupied by several technicians operating the machinery, but because a magic show largely depends on the props the illusionist himself provides, technical requirements are mainly confined to curtains and lighting. I was therefore relieved, but not surprised, to find the area deserted.

Towards the back of the mezzanine floor I found what I was seeking, almost without at first realizing what it was. I came across two large and strongly built crates, equipped with many lifting and handling points, and clearly stamped: Private — The Great Danton. Next to them was a bulky voltage converter of a type unfamiliar to me. My own act used such a device for powering the electrical bench, but it was a small affair of no great complication. But this one of Angier's bespoke raw power. It was giving off noticeable heat as I approached it, and a low, powerful humming noise was issuing from somewhere deep within.

I leaned over the converter, trying to fathom its workings. Overhead, I could hear Angier's footsteps on the stage, and the sound of his voice raised to be heard across the auditorium. I could imagine him striding to and fro as he made his speech about the wonders of science.

Suddenly, the converter made a loud knocking noise, and to my alarm a thin but toxic blue smoke began emerging with some intensity from a grille in its upper panel. The humming noise intensified. At first I leapt back, but a growing sense of alarm made me go forward again.

I could hear Angier's measured tread continuing a few feet above my head, clearly unaware of what might be happening down here.

Again, the knocking noise sounded within the device, this time accompanied by a most sinister screeching noise, as of thin metal being sawn. The smoke was pouring out more quickly than before, and when I moved round to the other side of the object I discovered that several thick metal coils were glowing red hot.

All around me was the clutter of a mezzanine floor. There were tons of dry timber, windlasses grimed with lubricant, miles of ropes, numerous scraps and heaps of discarded paper, huge scenery flats painted with oils. The whole place was a tinderbox, and in the centre of it was something that seemed about to explode into flames. I stood there in terrible indecision — could Angier or his assistants know what was happening down here?

The converter made more noises, and once again the smoke belched from the grille. It was getting into my lungs, and I was beginning to choke. In desperation I looked around for some kind of fire extinguisher.

Then I saw that the converter was taking its power from a thick insulated cable that ran from a large electrical junction box attached to the rear wall. I dashed over to it. There was an Emergency On/Off handle built into it, and without another thought I grabbed hold of it and pulled it down.

The infernal activity of the converter instantly died. Only the acrid blue smoke continued to belch out of its grille, but this was thinning by the second.

Overhead there was a heavy thud, followed by silence.

A second or two passed, while I stared contritely up at the stage floor above me.

I heard footsteps dashing around, and Angier's voice shouting angrily. I could hear the audience too, a more indistinct noise, neither cheering nor applauding. The racket of hurrying feet and raised voices from up there was increasing. Whatever I had done had wreaked havoc on Angier's illusion.

I had come to this theatre to solve a mystery, not to interrupt the show, but I had failed in the former and inadvertently succeeded in the latter. For the sake of this, what I had learned was that he used a more powerful voltage converter than mine, and that his was a fire risk.

I realized that I would be discovered if I remained where I was, so I stepped away from the rapidly cooling converter and returned the way I had come. My lungs were starting to ache from the smoke I had inhaled, and my head was spinning. Overhead, on the stage and in the general backstage area, I could hear many people moving quickly and noisily around, a fact that I felt would work in my favour. Somewhere in the building, not too far away, I heard someone screaming. I should be able to slip away in the confusion.

As I ran up the steps, taking them two at a time, and intending to stop for no one, no matter what the challenge, I saw an amazing sight!

My mind was unhinged by the smoke, or by the excitement of what I had just done, or by the fear of being caught. I could not have been thinking clearly. Angier himself was standing at the top of the steps, waiting for me, his arms raised in anger. But it seemed to me he had assumed the form of an apparition! I glimpsed lights beyond him, and by some trick they also seemed to glint through him. Immediately, several thoughts flashed through me — this must be a special garment he wears to help him do that trick! A treated fabric! Something that becomes transparent! Makes him invisible! Is this his secret?

But in the selfsame instant my upward momentum propelled me into him, and we both sprawled on the floor. He tried to grab me, but whatever he had smeared on himself prevented him from getting a good grip on me. I was able to release myself and slither away from him.

“Borden!” His voice was hoarse with anger, no more than a terrible whisper. “Stop!”

“It was an accident!” I shouted. “Keep away from me!”

Having gained my feet I ran from him, leaving him lying there on the hard floor. I sprinted down a short corridor, the noise of my shoes echoing from the shinily painted bare bricks, rounded a corner, ran down a short flight of steps, went along another bare corridor, then came across the doorkeeper's cubicle. He looked up in surprise as I dashed past, but he had no hope of challenging or stopping me.

Moments later I was outside the stage door, and hurrying along the dimly lit alley to the seafront.

Here I paused for a moment, facing out to sea, leaning forward and resting my hands on my knees. I coughed a few times, painfully, trying to clear the remains of the smoke from my lungs. It was a fine dry evening in early summer. The sun had just set, and the coloured lights were coming on along the promenade. The tide was high and the waves were breaking softly against the sea wall.

The audience was straggling out of the Pavilion Theatre, and dispersing into the town. Many of the people wore bemused expressions, presumably because of the sudden way the show had ended. I walked along the promenade with the crowd, then when I reached the main shopping street I turned inland and headed towards the railway station.

Much later, long after midnight, I was back in my London house. My children were asleep in their rooms, Sarah was warm beside me, and I lay there in the darkness wondering what the night had achieved.

Then, seven weeks later, Rupert Angier died.

To say I was consumed by feelings of guilt would be an understatement, especially as both of the newspapers which recorded his passing referred to the "injuries’ he had sustained while performing his illusion. They did not say that the accident had happened on the date I was in Lowestoft, but I knew that must be the one.

I had already established that Angier cancelled the remainder of his season at the Pavilion, and as far as I knew he had not performed elsewhere in public afterwards. I had no idea why.

Now it transpired that he was fatally injured that night. What was inexplicable to me was that I had run into Angier less than a minute after my accidental intervention. He did not seem fatally injured then, or even hurt to a minor extent. On the contrary he was in strenuous health, and determined to confront me. We had scrapped briefly on the floor before I managed to get away from him. The only unusual thing about him had been the greasy compound he had smeared on himself or his costume, presumably to perform the illusion, or to help in some way with making himself vanish. That Was a genuine puzzle, because after I had recovered from the effects of the smoke inhalation, my memory of those few seconds was exact. It had quite definitely been the case that for a split second I had “seen through” him, as if parts of him were transparent, or if all of him were partially so.

Another minor aspect of the mystery was that none of the compound had rubbed off on me during our brawl. His hands had definitely gripped my wrists, and I had distinctly felt the slimy sensation, but no trace was left. I even recall sitting on the train returning to London, holding my arm up to the light to discover if I could “see through” myself!

There was enough doubt, though, for feelings of guilt and contrition to dominate my reaction to the news. In fact, confronted with the awfulness of the event I felt I could not rest until I had been able to make some kind of amends.

Unfortunately, the newspaper obituaries had not been published until several days after Angier had died, when the funeral had already been held. This event would have been an ideal place for me to start the process of belated reconciliation with his family and associates. A wreath, a simple note of condolence, would have paved the way for me, but it was not to be.

After much thought I decided to approach his widow directly, and wrote her a sincere and sympathetic letter.

In it I explained who I was, and how I, when much younger, had to my eternal regret fallen out with her husband. I said that the news of his premature death had shocked and saddened me and that I knew the whole magical community would feel the loss. I paid tribute to his skills as a performer, and as an ingénieur of marvellous illusions.

I then moved on to what was for me the main thrust of the letter, but which I hoped would seem to the widow to be an afterthought. I said that when a magician died it was customary in the world of magic for his colleagues to offer to purchase whatever pieces of apparatus there were for which the family might no longer have a use. I added that in view of my long and troubled relationship with Rupert during his lifetime I saw it as a duty and a pleasure to make such an offer now that he had died, and that I had considerable means at my disposal.

With the letter sent, and presciently supposing that I could not necessarily count on the widow's cooperation, I made enquiries through my contacts in the business. This was an approach I also had to judge sensitively, because I had no idea how many of my colleagues were as interested in getting their hands on Angier's equipment as I was. I assumed many of them would be; I could not have been the only professional magician to have seen the stunning performance. I therefore let it be known that if any of Angier's pieces were to come on to the market I would not be uninterested.

Two weeks after I wrote to Angier's widow I received a reply, in the form of a letter from a firm of solicitors in Chancery Lane. It said, and I transcribe it exactly:

My Dear Sir,

Estate of Rupert David Angier Esquire, Dec'd

Pursuant to your recent enquiry to our client, I am instructed to advise you that all necessary arrangements for the disposal of the late Rupert David Angier's major chattels and appurtenances have been made, and that you need not embark on further enquiries as to their destination or enjoyment.

We anticipate instruction from our former client's estate as to the disposal of various minor pieces of property, and these shall be made available through public auction, whose date and place shall be announced in the usual gazettes.

In this we remain, Sir, yr. obedient servants, Kendal, Kendal & Owen

(Solicitors & Commissioners for Oaths)