Read Online The Ghost in the Electric Blue Suit by Graham Joyce - Free Book Online

drunk who doesn’t want to leave a party. Well it’s time they sobered upand realized that we’ve had the party and it’s time to pay the cabbie and go home.”
    I didn’t know which cabbie he meant, exactly, but I nodded anyway. “What we want,” he continued, “is more ordinary boys like you going to college. This is the future. Not a gang of toffs quaffing champagne from a lady’s slipper while they formulate government policy.” He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “They’re rearranging the deck chairs on the
Titanic
, you understand that, don’t you, son?”
    I said I did.
    “I knew you were a good ’un as soon as I clapped eyes on you. You can tell. Only you have to be careful who you’re talking to. They don’t want to talk politics, most of this lot. They’d rather suck on the titty and leave it all to others. I knew you were different.” He got to his feet and picked up our empty coffee cups, even though there was a waitress to collect them. “I’ll pay for these.” He went over to the counter and made a joke with the girl working the till. I didn’t see any money change hands.
    When he came back he said, “You’re not doing anything tomorrow, are you?”
    The next day was Saturday, changeover day. It was my day off and I had no one with whom to spend it. I shrugged.
    “There’s some interesting people we want you to meet.”
    “We?”
    “Midday, outside the main gates. We’ll pick you up in the car.”
    “To do what?”
    “Midday. Tomorrow.” Then he turned and walked away,breaking into some old crooning song. There was a very old white-haired lady at a table near the door. He dropped into a crouch, grasped her hand, and gazed soulfully into her eyes as he sang. Then he released her and was gone.
    THE FRIDAY PRIZEGIVING and Farewell Show came and went. It was led expertly by Abdul-Shazam in his red fez. He was good. He had the audience eating from his hand. He expertly set up his gags (jokes were called “gags” by show-biz people) with terrific timing. He improvised with the names of the prizewinners and nothing fell flat. I got to help with some of his magic act, around which the prizegiving was structured. It was exciting to see the simple mechanisms at large, the false bottoms, the fake linings of the magic act. Rather than stealing away the enchantment, this insight only made it more fascinating. With light and shadow everything worked. Kids and adults alike were drawn onstage and induced to stick their hand in a velvet bag or under a steel blade. Their trust was uncanny. They abdicated all responsibility. They let the authority of the stage take over.
    The power wielded under the arc lamps by Tony Abdul-Shazam was a little bit disturbing. Only I and his other stage assistants were close enough to see the perspiration that went into his act. Everyone who came onstage was given a baton of rock candy they could carry away with them, a multicolored magic wand. Yes, when they got back to their seats it would be nothing more than a stick of sugar in a cellophanewrapper, but by then it was someone else’s turn to be onstage, blinking, dazzled by the limelight.
    The Prizegiving and Farewell Show was eventually followed by the Friday Revue, and I noticed that Luca’s attitude had changed. He breezed in before the show and was polite, he greeted everyone, but he was professional and distant, flinty even. Then he shut himself in his dressing room. As soon as the last dancer had high-kicked the finale and the show was done, he bid a cheery “
Buona notte
” and was out and off the premises sharpish. He showed no more interest in staying behind for a drink. I was disappointed. I was looking to learn about the world and I wanted to hear more of his wisdom. He was an artist—not like Picasso but still a true artist, living by his talent. His path was different to that of other men, and I was disposed to learn something from him. Colin had put a stop to all of that with a single