Friday, January Nineteenth.

As I was the only one from the house to be invited to Arthur Enright’s gathering, I caught the 52 over to Broomhill, then the 60 up to Fulwood, and walked the rest of the way to his rather large house. I was shown through to one of the big rooms downstairs, that I guess would be the living room if he had a TV in there.

I was one of about forty guests, all men in suits and ties, some of whom I recognised from Castle Market. The house was like a show home, with everything new, magnolia and impersonal, and the gathering was like some weird brotherhood meeting, like the Masons or something from the Fifties when all the wives stayed home. I could see them telling each other who I was: eventually a few of them actually talked to me. Challoner was there, talking to a tall, thin man who looked about forty or fifty – he had greased black hair and cheekbones like cuts. When I tried to talk to Challoner, the thin man brushed me off. Challoner said he was still waiting for his file on Ilford Dyson, or rather you, to come in the post. I heard a theory on the loss of magic I’d not heard before, from another of the guests:-
“We’re not in the world anymore,” he said. “We’re in a copy, in a finite universe, with limited physics. The mimic universe was created, bodies and all, and then we were transferred. Our consciousness was transferred, into this imperfect version. And now you’re wondering why. Because our real world has been taken over. And now you’re wondering, why not just kill us. Because we’re being observed, so that the new inhabitants can learn how to use our world.”
“And now I’m still wondering, who?” Said another in his circle. “Or else I’m wondering what you’ve swallowed. Have you any evidence for this at all, or is it just more speculation?”

The man with the theory said he had clues and indicators, but wouldn’t share them. At which point he was huffed out of the conversation, like a Garth Brooks fan. Also discussed and derided was Enright’s performance of The Transported Man at The Lyceum. It’d annoyed me that Angela got to see what seemed to have been genuine magic, on a far more impressive scale than Challoner’s glowing stones – she’s already had magic in her life. While we waited for Arthur Enright to appear, his series of appearances at the theatre were dismissed as stage magic, bluff and showmanship, or even arrogant swindling, from various factions in the room. Someone close to me wondered what he would do that night – saw a woman in half?

Across the room from me a set of sliding doors were opened full to double the room size and reveal Arthur Enright, sat on a dining table, accompanied by twenty or so men, also dressed smartly. Enright was singular among them, wearing long black robes that were tight at his neck and covered his feet. He alone among all these men looked unwearied: he looked awake and happy, rather than taxed and fretful like his companions and those around me.

“Good evening.” Enright called out, silencing those who hadn’t noticed him, and all of us wondered if he’d been there the whole time. “Thank you all for joining me. Before the night is through I think you’ll be glad you showed the patience I now ask you for. There is a question all of us need to be answered. I don’t profess to have the answer, nor do I believe the answer is to be found easily, like the unpicking of a riddle. What I know to be true is that our great deprivation is not universal. Some things have survived, and now part of that power is in me. So I hope, that when we part tonight, we will gather again tomorrow, and the next day, and for each day until we have our solution. We must work together to discover what happened that Tuesday Midnight.”

And then he pointed out a few names from the crowd, while the magicians who’d been on my side of the divider exchanged glances – the sort of glances they’d give if Michael Jackson started teaching P.E. to their kids. Arthur Enright came over to me, and he shook my hand. He started to say he was glad I could come, but then a boy appeared from behind his robes and said hello to me.
“This is my son.” Said Enright. “Also called Arthur. I was wondering if you could stay with him through this evening.”

I thought that was typical. The boy, who was short back and sides, spit on a handkerchief smart, came up to my rib cage, so I guess that makes him about nine, but all kids get stuck together when adults have no interest in them. I’d flattered myself for a moment, that Challoner was right about Enright’s interest in my father’s books.

With young Arthur beside me, and I was just about to ask him where his mother was, Enright returned to his central position by the dining table. Some of the heavier set men who were with him now moved to the doors around the room and locked them, then they blocked them.
“Again I ask for your patience.” Said Enright, projecting his voice across the crowd. “And please, for this first stage, please do not act to intervene.” No one knew what he meant yet, but I was thinking of the saw a woman in half trick. Enright opened his black robes, letting them fall to his feet, and revealing his naked body. My first thought was no wonder the doors are locked, and then another of Enright’s men came forward, carrying a long, unsheathed dagger. He held it with the tip of the foot long blade resting on one finger, and the short handle on the palm of his other hand. Enright said: “The most important thing of all is that we believe magic will come back to us.” Then he looked at his son, I think I could see tears starting to wash his eyes, and then he took the dagger and forced it deep into his chest – into his heart. The boy grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight, but he wouldn’t look away. There were shouts and moans from the other men in the room, but Enright’s son didn’t make a sound. I hate to think what kind of life he’s had, raised in a world of distorted expectations.

Enright’s men held a couple of the guests back, while Enright himself fell back onto the table and struggled against the death he’d invited. It didn’t take long, and there was a lot of blood. It ran over the grain of the table, onto the floor.

“He’s dead.” Confirmed the knife bearer. “Feel free, any of you, to check.” He pulled Enright’s body up so that it lay down the length of the table. “Feel for a pulse, check for breathing, his eyes, whatever means you wish, but please do not move the body.”

There was a silence at first, and then someone Samuel had pointed out to me at the market, Alex Reeves, stepped forward and put his fingers on Enright’s neck. He also pushed the blade to one side and looked down its length into the wound. He nodded, satisfied, and stepped back. The man he was with was one of the thugs who beat Samuel up, but it’s only now I can think to wonder if they arrived together – I’d seen neither of them before that point, and I didn’t see them leave. At the time I was horrified by the dead body in front of me, and by the procession of men going up to test the corpse. I had no intention of getting any closer myself, but then I felt the small hand of Arthur pulling me forward. His other hand reached out when we got to the table, but then returned to his side before he touched the body. He didn’t look upset, but more like he was thinking very hard.

In a few short words the room burst into shouts of demands and insults. I could hear some insist that they be let out of the room – “This is the real world now,” they said. “We can’t just do what we want anymore.” Others started to question who else was in the room – “I suppose all of them, the one’s behind the screen, are all carvers like Enright. But what about him? Do you know him?” – “And why do you suppose he invited all you candlelighters in the first place?” – “Do we know who’s represented? Could anyone here be from 1349?” The discussions and spats went on, with touches of hysteria as the demand recycled “What did he think he was doing?”

I stayed with Arthur, next to the table, and when the last poker and prodder was satisfied, the knife was pulled out and the black robes were lifted over the whole body, hiding the face and the look of pain. Arthur led me away then, over to one of the chairs in the living room and said:-
“So your father was a magician too.”
“From what I gather. He was, yes.”
“And what type of magic did he do?”
“He never told me.”
I don’t know if it was Arthur’s questions or my answers that others were listening to. Drinks were passed around, by Enright’s helpers, who I gathered now were more like servants rather than once-magicians. Alex Reeves was asking what everyone thought of Enright’s proposal, that they work together, sharing any information they have to try and solve what happened on Tuesday Midnight. One of the candlelighters, if I’ve got my factions right, shouted back that since it was Enright’s proposal it was tinged with lunacy. Others said that was disrespectful, but I didn’t see how. My eyes had barely moved from the suicide’s shape under the soaked robes, so it may have been me who cried out when an arm shot up from the body of Enright, pulling the robes away, revealing the man as he gasped for breath. Enright sat up. The wound in his chest was still open but it was healing over. He looked across the silenced room with the broad grin of a drunk. A laugh went up, and then hoorahs. Enright, still covered in his own blood, gathered the robes about his waist and knelt down to hold his son.
“It worked.” He told Arthur, and then louder for the whole room to hear. “Some power has survived.”
I was shuffled to the edge of the room as the groups mingled, all smiles and amazement now. Enright spoke to almost everyone there, even Challoner, who had somehow become some sort of grand mixer, joking and laughing with one group after another, offering them walnuts from a brown bag he’d brought along, like a pensioner at the pictures. It was pistachios up at the stone circle, but everyone saw the funny side of his eccentricity, nodding and winking as they ate them. I was offered one myself as I tried to pin him down for a meeting on Wednesday. The nuts tasted of chilli.

After another hour of talk, only half of which made sense to me, Enright thanked all his guests for their patience again, and the doors were unlocked. Many were as surprised as me to realise they needed to be let out, since no one had thought of going anywhere until Enright said it was time.

“Mr. Fold though.” Enright said. “I wonder if you could stay another minute.” Fortunately he wanted to clean up first – I might have been sick if he’d stayed all covered in his blood. When he’d washed up, he came back into the room buttoning his shirt – the wound was now just a pale scar. He said:-
“I hope we can be friends, you and I.”
“Sure.” I said. There’s not much more you can say to someone who you just watched come back from the dead. “Yeah, sure.”

It was only Saturday morning that I wondered why he would want to be friends with me. But despite Challoner's jealous warning, I'm glad he does. I would rather a man that has given me nightmares be my friend than my enemy.