When he’s finished writing, he slots the notepad back in his pocket and flexes his fingers.

“So, what’s the new trick?” I ask.

“You’d need to sign a contract before I could tell you that, Watson. I can’t have you selling all my secrets to old Slugworth, now, can I?”

“Okay, Mr Wonka.” I laugh. There’s a moment of quiet before I say, “Can I ask you something?”

“Fire away.”

“What’s it like in prison?”

Jay lets out a bark of a laugh. “Be honest. You’ve committed some heinous crimes that are about to come to light, and you’re afraid of being thrown in the can. I’m right, aren’t I?” That mischievous look that’s so often on his face is there again.

I raise my hands in the air, replying deadpan, “Okay, you’ve got me. I’m secretly an underground drug lord, and one of my cronies has sold me out to the authorities.”

Jay laughs some more. “You’re funny.” He pauses, and his face sobers. It takes a while before he says anything. “It’s like being locked in a world where violence is God and you’re constantly waiting to become the next victim of its wrath.”

Wow. That was kind of poetic.

“Did you really almost beat a man to death? Is that why you were put in there?”

Jay shakes his head and his eyes grow dark, like he’s remembering the experience. “I was put there for pickpocketing, which, coincidentally, is great training for doing magic. You’ve got to steal stuff right out from under a person’s nose without them ever realising you’re there. I told you I used to pick pockets, didn’t I? Had to. It’s the only way to survive on the streets.”

“You did. But Una Harris said you were put away because you beat a man.”

“She’s obviously gotten her wires crossed,” says Jay, a satisfied look passing over his face, and then it’s gone. “I’ve been arrested a few times for getting into fights, so perhaps that’s where she got it from. When you’ve got nothing, you’ll justify many things in order to survive, even hurting people.”

The serious look on his face gives me pause, and I’m not sure why, but I feel immense sympathy for him in this moment. I clear my throat and continue speaking.

“So, Una must have seen some of your records from back in America, then.”

“Must have.”

“I don’t get how such a shoddily researched article ever made it to print. Wouldn’t her boss have made sure it was all true before giving the green light to publish it?”

“More lies are printed than truths, Watson. I think we both know that. And perhaps her boss is just as much of a degenerate as she is.”

“A degenerate?” I question curiously.

“She’s not the only one who’s done some snooping. In fact, I probably know more about her than she does about me.”

I get up now and go to sit beside him, asking seriously, “What do you know about her?”

He rubs his chin. “Well, now, let me see. She’s addicted to prescription meds. Oh, and plastic surgery. Her husband divorced her because she had an affair. She lives alone with her pet Chihuahua. She’s abusive towards her housekeeper. She gets a manicure every Friday morning. She attends church every Sunday, you know, to keep up appearances. And, last but not least, she’s been sleeping with her boss on and off for the last sixteen years.”

“What?! Her boss at the newspaper?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Like I said, I’ve been getting my ducks in a row for a while now.”

“Yeah, but you can’t use any of that information in court, Jay. Especially if you came across it illegally.”

Suddenly, I remember the time when he’d gone to speak with that shifty-looking man in the bar after Simon Silver’s seminar. There had been an exchange of envelopes. Was he a private investigator or something else?

“I doubt I’ll need to. This shit always comes out in one way or another, and Una Harris is hiding too much shit to keep buried. Sooner or later it’s going to hit the proverbial fan.”

Again, I get the impression that there’s far more he’s not telling me. I don’t push him, though, don’t feel it’s my place.

“I’m sorry she’s been spreading lies about you,” I say, putting a hand comfortingly on his shoulder.

Jay’s eyes travel to my hand and stay there for a moment. Then he reaches up and puts his hand over mine. “And I’m sorry that you had to go through everything you did. That you were alone in the world,” I continue.

“I wasn’t alone — I just chose to be. At the time I’d rather live on the streets than with a lunatic uncle. I’d already suffered enough madness with my father before he died.”

This is a rare moment of candour, and I want to know more, so I ask in a whisper, “Your dad was crazy, too?”

“Not in the same way. Dad used physical violence. Uncle Killian’s was all psychological. He liked to mess with my head.” He seems younger as he tells me this, like he’s reverting back to the boy who was mistreated by the adults who were supposed to care for him.

I rub his shoulder, because I don’t know what else to say, but I want to comfort him. We stay like that for a long time, quiet as we look out the windows into the dark night. He squeezes my hand and gets up, breaking our contemplative silence. When he leaves the room, I spend a long time wondering about the boy he once was as I pack away my materials.

Sixteen

When I get back to work after lunch on Friday, I find Dad’s office door closed and voices coming from inside. I put my ear against the wood and listen, picking out Jay’s recognisable cadence. God, I love his voice. I think I’m ruined for all other accents now that his is the one I hear every day.

Wondering what he’s here for, I turn my computer back on and start completing the tasks I need to finish before the end of the day. About a half an hour later, Dad’s office door opens and the two men emerge, shaking hands. Jay has an ecstatic look on his face, and Dad looks pretty happy, too.

“Here’s to a successful endeavour,” says Dad cheerily as he lets go of Jay’s hand and turns to go back inside his office.

“We’re going to win this thing, Hugh, you mark my words,” Jay calls after him.

Dad chuckles as he waves Jay off.

Does this mean Dad’s gone ahead and accepted the case? I try to act nonchalant as I type and Jay comes to perch himself on the edge of my desk.

“Guess what?” he beams.

“Dad’s taking your case?” I smile at him.

“Yeah! How’d you know?” he says, all playful and hyper. “I think you might be psychic, Watson. I should incorporate you into my act.”

“Oh, my God, you really are delighted about this,” I say, shaking my head at him but unable to stop smiling.

“Yep. The plan is back on track.”

“Plan?”

It takes him a second to answer. “To show Una Harris she messed with the wrong magician.”

“I thought you preferred illusionist,” I laugh.

“I do, but the two ‘M’s just made the sentence sound sexier.”

“If you say so.”

I continue working, but he doesn’t leave. Instead, he pulls his phone from his pocket and starts tapping on the screen. Glancing at him, I notice that, despite his invigorated mood, his eyes are a little tired. Sometimes I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and hear him pacing around in his room. I haven’t mentioned it to him, though.

“What time do you get off work, John?”

“John?”

“John Watson, Matilda. Goodness, keep up.”

I shake my head at him. “I get off at half past five. Why?”

“I want you to come somewhere with me. I promise a fun time will be had by all.”

“And where is this fun taking place?”

Instead of answering, he thrusts his phone at me. It displays a tweet that contains a time, a date, and a place. The date and time are for today, and the place is a well-known meet-up area in the city centre.

“I didn’t know you had a Twitter account,” I say, swiping to his profile. My jaw practically drops when I see he’s got more than 100,000 followers. “Wow, Jay, you’re, like, hugely popular.”