Read The Prestige Online

Authors: Christopher Priest

The Prestige (15 page)

The Prestige
5

The rain had turned to snow during the evening, and it was still falling as Andrew Westley
and Kate Angier sat together over the remains of dinner. Her story appeared at first to
produce no response from him, because he merely looked quietly at his empty coffee cup,
fingering the spoon in the saucer. Then he said he needed to stretch. He crossed the room
to the window to stare out at the garden, and cradled his hands behind his neck, waggling
his head from side to side. It was pitch black out there in the grounds, and she knew
there was nothing for him to see. The main road was behind the house and at a lower level;
on this side of the house there was just the lawn, the wood, the rising hill, and beyond
all that the rocky crag of Curbar Edge. He did not change position for some time, and
without being able to see his face Kate felt that either his eyes must be closed or he was
staring blankly into the dark.

In the end he said, “I'll tell you all I know. I lost contact with my twin brother when I
was about the same age as you're describing. Maybe what you've told me would explain that.
But his birth wasn't registered, so I can't prove he exists. But I
know
he's real. You've heard how twins have a kind of rapport? That's how I'm sure. The other
thing I know is that he is connected in some way with this house. Ever since I arrived
today I've been sensing him here. I don't know how, and I can't explain.”

“I've looked at the records too,” she said. “You don't have a twin.”

“Could someone have tampered with official records? Is that possible?”

“That's what I wonder. If the boy was killed, wouldn't that give someone enough motive to
find a way of falsifying the records?”

“Maybe so. All I can say for sure is that I don't remember anything about it. It's all
blank. I don't even remember my father, Clive Borden. That child obviously couldn't have
been me, and it's absurd even to think it was. It must have been someone else.”

“But it was your father… and Nicky was his only child.”

He turned from the window, and went back to his chair. It was across the wide table from
hers.

“Look, there are only two or three possibilities,” he said. “The boy was me, and I was
killed and now I'm alive again. That doesn't make any sense, whichever way you look at it.
Or the boy who died was my twin brother, and the person who killed him, presumably that's
your father, later managed to get official records changed. I don't believe that either,
frankly. Or you were mistaken, the child survived, and it might or might not have been me.
Or… I suppose you could have imagined the whole thing.”

“No. I didn't imagine it. I know what I saw. Anyway my mother as good as admitted it.” She
picked up her copy of the Borden book, and opened it at a page she had previously marked
with a slip of paper. “There's another explanation, but it's as illogical as the others.
If you weren't actually killed that night, then it might have been some kind of trick. The
thing I saw being used that night was apparatus built for a stage illusion.”

She turned the book around, and held it out to him, but he waved it away.

“The whole thing is ridiculous,” he said.

“I saw it happen.”

“I think you were either mistaken in what you saw, or it happened to someone else.” He
glanced again towards the windows with their undrawn curtains, then looked at his watch in
a distracted way. “Do you mind if I use my mobile? I must tell my parents I'm going to be
late. And I'd like to ring my flat in London.”

“I think you should stay the night.” He grinned briefly then, and Kate knew she had said
it the wrong way. She found him fairly attractive, in a harmlessly coarse sort of way, but
he was apparently the kind of man who never gave up about sex. “I meant that Mrs Makin
will prepare the spare room for you.”

“If she has to.”

There had been that moment before they came in here for dinner. She must have given him
too much rye whiskey, or had said too often that there were irreconcilable differences
between her family and his. Or perhaps it was a combination of the two. Until then she had
been rather liking the way he had leered in an open and unembarrassed way at her, off and
on all afternoon, but an hour and a half ago, just before they came in here for dinner,
he'd made it plain that he would like to try some reconciliation between the families.
Just the two of them, the last generation. A part of her remained flattered, but what he
had in mind was not what she had had in mind. She'd brushed him off, as gently as she knew
how.

“Are you fit to drive in snow, with drink inside you?” she said now.

“Yes.”

But he did not move from the chair. She laid the Borden book on the table between them,
face-down at the open pages.

“What do you want from me, Kate?” he said.

“I don't know any more. Perhaps I never did. I think this is what happened when Clive
Borden came to see my father. They both felt they should try to sort something out, went
through the motions of trying, but the ancient differences still mattered.”

“There's only one thing that interests me. My twin brother is somewhere here. In this
house. Ever since you showed me your grandfather's stuff this afternoon I've been aware of
him. He tells me not to leave, to come, to find him. I've never known his presence as
strong in me. Whatever you say, whatever the birth register shows, I think it was my
brother who came here to the house in 1970, and I think he's somehow still here.”

“In spite of the fact he doesn't exist.”

“Yes, in spite of that. At the same time, we both know there's something strange about
what happened that night. Or you do, at least.”

She had no answer to that, because she felt herself at an impasse. It was the same one she
had always known; the certain death of a little boy, whom she later discovered had somehow
survived. Meeting the man who had been the boy had changed nothing. It was him, it had not
been him.

She poured herself another drop of brandy, and Andrew said, “Is there somewhere I can make
those calls?”

“Stay in here. This is the warmest place in the house in winter. I've got something I want
to check.”

As she left the room she heard him jabbing at the buttons of his mobile phone. She went
down to the main hall and looked through the front door. There was a solid covering of
snow, two or three inches. It always settled smoothly here, on the sheltered pathway, but
she knew that further down the valley, where the main road was, the snow would already be
drifting against the hedges and roadside banks. There were no sounds of traffic, which
could usually be heard from here. She went around to the back of the house, and saw that a
drift was building up against the woodshed. Mrs Makin was in the kitchen, so she spoke to
her and asked her to get the spare room ready.

She and Andrew remained in the dining room after Mrs Makin had cleared away the meal,
sitting on opposite sides of the open fireplace, talking about various everyday things;
his trouble with the girl he lived with, hers with the local council who wanted some of
her land for building purposes. But she was tired, and had no real appetite for this. At
eleven she suggested they should continue in the morning.

She showed him where the spare room was, and which bathroom he could use. Rather to her
surprise, a second proposition was not offered. He thanked her politely for her
hospitality, said goodnight, and that was that.

Kate returned to the dining room, where she had left some of her great-grandfather's
papers. They were already stacked neatly; some hereditary trait, perhaps, that prevented
her from scattering paper everywhere. There had always been a part of her that wanted to
be untidy, casual, free, but it was in her nature not to be.

She sat down in the chair closest to the fire, and felt the glow against her legs. She
threw on another log. Now Andrew had gone to bed she felt less sleepy. It hadn't been him
that had worn her out, but talking to him, dredging up all those memories from childhood.
To talk them out was a kind of purging, a release of pent-up poisons, and she felt better.

She sat by the fire, thinking about that old incident, trying as she had done for a
quarter of a century to confront what it meant. It still struck fright to the core of her.
And the boy Andrew called his brother was at the heart of it all, a hostage to the past.

Mrs Makin came in just then, and Kate asked if she would make her some decaffeinated
coffee before she went to bed. She listened to the midnight news on Radio 4 as she sipped
the coffee, and later the BBC World Service came on. She continued to be wide awake. The
spare room Andrew was in was immediately overhead, and she could hear him turning
frequently in the ancient bed. She knew how cold that room could be. It had been her
bedroom as a child.

The Prestige
PART FOUR

Rupert Angier

21st September 1866

The Story of My Life

1. My History, my name is ROBBIE (Rupert) DAVID ANGlER and I am 9 nine years old today. I
am to write in this book every day until I am old.

2. My Ancestors, I have many but Papa and Mama are the first. I have one brother: HENRY
RICHARD ANGUS ST JOHN ANGlER, and he is 15 he goes to school and is a border.

3. I live in Caldlow House Caldlow Derbyshire. I have had something wrong with my throte
this week.

4. The Staff, I have a Nan and there is Grierson and a maid who changes with the other
maid in the afternoons, but I don't know her name.

5. I have to show this to Papa when I have written it. The end. Signed Rupert David Angier.

22nd September 1866

The Story of My Life

1. Today the doctor came to see me again and I am all right. Got a letter today from Henry
my brother who says I must call him Sir from now on because he is a prefect.

2. Papa has gone to London to sit in the House. He said that I am the head of the house
until he gets back. This means Henry would call me sir but he is not here.

3. Told this to Henry when I wrote to him.

4. Went for walk, talked to Nan, was read to by Grierson who fell asleep as usual.

I do not have to show this to Papa any more, provided I keep it up.

23rd September 1866

Throte much better. Went for drive today with Grierson, who did not say much but he told
me that Henry says that when he takes over the house he will be going. Grierson will be
going when Henry takes over the house, I mean. Grierson said he thought it had all been
decided but it would not happen for many years god willing.

I am waiting for Mama to come and see me she is late tonight.

22nd December 1867

Yesterday evening there was a party for me and several boys and girls from the village, it
being Christmas they are allowed here. Henry was here too but he would not come to the
party because of the others. He missed a great treat because we had a conjuror at the
party!

This man, who was called Mr A. Presto, did the most wonderful tricks I have ever seen. He
started by making all sorts of banners and flags and umbrellas appear from nowhere, with
lots of balloons and ribbons. Then he did some tricks with playing cards, making us choose
cards which he was able to guess. He was very clever. He made billiard balls come out of
one of the boy's nose, and a whole lot of coins fell out of a little girl's ear when he
grabbed hold of it. There was a piece of string which he cut in half then joined up again,
and at the end of it all he produced a white bird out of a small glass box that we could
see
was empty before he began!

I pleaded and pleaded to be told how these tricks were done, but Mr Presto would not tell
me. Even afterwards when the others had gone, but nothing I could say would make him
change his mind.

This morning I had an idea, and I got Grierson to drive into Sheffield for me and buy all
the magic tricks he could find, and to see if there were any books that told you how to do
it. Grierson was gone nearly all day, but in the end he came back with most of what I
wanted. It includes a special glass box for hiding a bird in so I can produce it by magic.
(Special floor to the box, which I hadn't thought of.) The other tricks are a bit harder,
because I have to practice. But already I have learnt a trick where I can guess which card
someone else has chosen and I have tried it out several times on Grierson.

17th February 1871

I managed to see Papa alone this afternoon for the first time in many months, and found
that the situation was much as Henry has already described it. There is nothing apparently
to be done about it, except to make the best of a bad job.

I could gladly kill Henry.

31st March 1873

Today I removed and destroyed all entries from the last two years. It was the first act I
performed on returning from school.

1st April 1873

Home from school. I now have sufficient privacy to write in this book.

My father, the 12th Earl of Colderdale, died three days ago, 29th March 1873. My brother
Henry assumes his title, lands and property. The future of myself, my mother, and every
other member of the household, be they ever so mighty or humble, is now uncertain. Even
the future of the house itself cannot be counted upon, as Henry has openly spoken in the
past of making drastic changes. We can only wait, but for the time being the house is
preoccupied with funereal preparations.

Papa will be buried tomorrow in the vault.

This morning I am feeling more sanguine about my prospects. I have been here in my room
this morning, practising my magic. My progress with this field was one of the victims of
my recent purge of this diary's pages, because from the start I kept a detailed record of
what it took to become proficient in sleight of hand… but all this had to go when I
decided to remove the rest. Suffice to say that I believe I have now attained performance
standard, and although I have not yet put this to full test, I have often practised new
tricks on the fellows at school. They feign a lack of interest in magic, and indeed some
of them declare that they know my secrets, but I have had one or two moments when,
gratifyingly, I have seen genuine bafflement in their expressions.

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