*
The mouth of the passage was reminiscent of a sewer pipe; the walls slicked with the slime of degraded waste, the path shrouded in darkness. Harvey peered down the alley, eyes flickering from exposed brick to leaking gutter. He considered the lure of the more central locations of his favourite bars, and grimaced.
‘This isn’t a street.’
Nick shook his head and gestured to a chipped and defaced sign. Through the filth and muck from years of pollution, the faint outline of letters could be seen: a message in the dirt.
‘Hood Street’
‘This is a great idea,’ Harvey murmured, flicking a sceptical glance up at the surrounding buildings, which hemmed them in like the claustrophobic walls of a lift. Together they ventured forward, feet dragging in apprehensive scuffs.
There was only one venue down Hood Street, and even that was questionable. The only signifier that there was anything behind the boarded up windows and shuttered side doors was a low hanging sign, carved in the shape of the bird it paid homage to. It read:
‘The Hidden Dove’
Nick had already knocked on the door beneath, before Harvey had chance to object. There was a beat. Harvey swapped an uneasy look with Nick.
A slat at eye level slid loose, and behind a metal grate, two dark eyes sized them up.
Harvey wasn’t quite sure what to do. He shifted from foot to foot in an attempt to decide what to say, when Nick intervened. He brandished the flyer they had been handed earlier that day. The eyes narrowed, the small hatch snapped shut, and the surrounding door screeched open.
Red light leaked out from within and illuminated Harvey and Nick’s faces in a mysterious spotlight. They stepped in, and a gloved hand appeared from behind the door, fingers wiggling. Harvey fumbled in his wallet and slapped a ten pound note down onto the palm. They descended the stairs, and the door closed silently behind them.
The Hidden Dove was remarkably warm and inviting on the inside. The ceiling domed; encircling and holding the occupants of the little club, almost as if they were in the womb. Small red glasses holding bobbing tea lights lit each table, throwing warped shadows on the wall and providing the only light, aside from that emanating from the stage.
Harvey looked around, all of a sudden feeling remarkably content and cosy as he regarded the tumbling folds of the stage’s red curtains, and the tiny, rounded bar just to their right. The venue smelt musky, like the inside of a fancy dress box, and the tiny table lights were almost hypnotic. Nick rubbed his hands together.
‘This is it, mate. Time for a pint.’
Harvey muttered something about cider and went to take a seat at one of the vacant tables. He listened to the murmur of voices at neighbouring tables: an old couple drank wine and laughed together, while a young woman twirled the pearls around her neck nervously with one finger as she chatted to her date.
Moments passed, and then the curtains on the stage twitched and parted suddenly, to a roomful of applause. Nick returned a moment or two later, and sank down into the seat beside Harvey. He slid a tall glass of cider over to him.
Somewhere, a clock chimed ten.
There was nothing on the stage, no props, no doors, nothing: until there was a ‘poof’ and a cloud of sparkling mist billowed out of nowhere, and in its place, as it dissipated, was the magician.
He stood arrogantly in front of the crowd, holding his arms out for applause. The people around did as his gestures commanded, Harvey and Nick less enthusiastically.
The magician was simply dressed: top hat, coat with tails. His white shirt was frilled at the chest and cuffs, unfortunately resembling the decorative trimming on a wedding cake. His dark eyes danced back and forth, the erratic flicker giving his otherwise ridiculous persona an untrustworthy edge. The crescent moon smile in his angular jaw was sure but false.
‘Welcome to the show,’ he drawled. ‘I assure you all, by the end of this, you won’t quite believe what you have seen…’ Harvey sniggered; it was fun, very tacky, almost exciting. He folded his arms to feign nonchalance. ‘I am Demas Boltof. And this,’ he drew a wide scarlet sheet from within the confines of his jacket. ‘…Is my assistant, Iola.’ He held the sheet up in a matador fashion, twitched and shook it on the spot; then he jerked it away from its place in the air.
Harvey sat up.
The casual introduction hadn’t prepared him for this – hadn’t prepared him for Iola.
Her hair was a cascade of warmth, flames of liquid gold that tore down her back in unruly, mad snarls. Her eyes reflected a mind that was whirring and thinking, always far away; her lips, full, red and heart shaped begged to be ravished with kisses. Her cheekbones were sculpted like the thin edge of a blade, drawing attention down to the hollow of her neck, and lower, to the soft curve of her hips, which pressed against the clinging fabric of her royal blue dress, like undulating sea currents.
Everything was accentuated, and yet everything was not enough.
The show went on, building from pantomime tricks – floating above the ground without strings, miraculous recoveries from severed limbs – to bigger, more impossible things.
Nick continued to drink and drink, sometimes cackling at the tricks Demas and Iola produced: rabbits that back-flipped into top hats, doves that emerged, flapping from the confines of sleeves. Harvey’s pint remained untouched. The heavy beats of his heart, and the damp sweat on his palms and brow were more than enough to be getting on with.
Colours were cast above them, explosions and currents of neon, dancing across their heads like the Northern Lights. A pulse thrummed across the audience that rattled the ice cubes in drinks and upturned more than one hairstyle. A pair of boots walked alone across the stage, to which Nick murmured ‘Bedknobs and Broomsticks’ with amusement. All the while, Iola was either centre stage, lavishing in the attention, or in the shadows, watching the magic unfurl. Harvey’s eyes revelled in her confidence, her poise and her playful banter with the crowd.
It was gone one am when the show finished, and Harvey waited by the stage, feeling stone cold sober and like something of a groupie. Nick clapped a hand on his shoulder, slurring something about Iola being ‘a babe, really, really, you don’t have a shot’, before opting to stagger out of the club and back to the sobering comfort of his flat.
Alone, Harvey felt exposed and nervous, like he was about to step out onto a glass floor, with plunging heights below. It all worsened and bettered at once, when Iola came out – just as something skittish and firm brushed against Harvey’s ankle. He had a moment to look at her: hair pulled up into a tight bun, with corkscrews of escaped madness standing out on certain angles. Her face was wiped clear, revealing more flaws, and that alone had an effect on Harvey, who followed her like a friendless child in the playground, hardly questioning what she was chasing.
‘Tommy,’ Iola hissed, dropping to her knees as the enormous back feet of a white rabbit disappeared behind a smoke machine. ‘Tommy Cooper, get out from behind there…’ Her voice was impatient, and Harvey decided that there would be no better opportunity to make conversation than that moment. He rounded the other side of the machine and caught Tommy Cooper in his arms as it leapt out. He grinned at Iola slightly, and her lips curved into a pout.
‘That’s my rabbit.’ She said, holding her hands out and grasping pointedly at the air.
‘I know,’ Harvey replied, somewhat disappointed as he passed the kicking Tommy Cooper over. ‘I got him for you.’
Iola’s expression softened a little, and she rose to her feet.
‘Did you enjoy the show? It’s usually the older ones who wait afterwards.’ Her eyes gave a dubious sweep of Harvey’s checked shirt and styled hair.
‘Yeah, amazing. Amazing… Looks like we’ve come a long way since Paul Daniels.’ Harvey pulled out his house key, held it up for Iola to see, and then swished and manoeuvred his hands to distract her. The key vanished. ‘Bit of Paul Daniels for you,’ he said with a bold smile. Iola narrowed her eyes and then her l
ips curled at one corner into an amused smile. She reached out with her free hand and gave Harvey’s wrist a tug. The key dropped from his sleeve to the floor with a soft clatter, and skittered away, out of sight. Harvey’s cheeks went pink and he began to hastily search for it. Iola was still smiling, absently stroking her rabbit. She spoke in a curious voice, and Harvey ceased in his search to acknowledge her.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Nick. No, wait. Harvey. I’m Harvey Morgan and I… came with Nick. We thought the show would be a laugh.’ He was babbling and it required a serious amount of thought for him to stop. After all, her question had only been a minor ask. Iola wasn’t complaining, though. She sniggered; a slightly unflattering snigger that suggested a less than dainty personality. Harvey found her all the more appealing for it.
‘But,’ he went on, all too aware of each word, each syllable and it’s subsequent meaning. ‘I think I’d rather learn about you. If that’s not…Out of line.’
Iola studied him, and the sly smile became wider, warmer.
‘Come on,’ she said, holding out a hand. ‘Demas won’t mind.’ Harvey remembered the head magician’s sneering smile and untrustworthy eyes, but he forced his concern down. She might as well have offered him a pot of gold, or the Holy Grail. His reaction would have been much the same. Harvey’s face ghosted over, while his mouth opened and closed mutely. His hand moved on it’s own – thank God – and their palms slid together, fingers laced.
The rest of the night followed in a storm of wonder and colour.
Demas carried them away to underground clubs: places Harvey had never known existed, and almost, on retrospect, wished he hadn’t discovered. There were clubs with women using poles like a lifeline; where shadowy patrons in forgotten corners welcomed new or known pleasures of all kinds and substances. The night whirled by in hues of desire and lust: purples and reds of the richest shades.
To Harvey, there was nothing worth his attention, not with Iola at his side. They talked mostly about him, which only made him ache more for her past, to learn about every inch of her. He divulged tales of his childhood. Times he had felt wronged and rejected, and went on about his parents constant arguments – and their subsequent divorce. He detailed his passion for music, for creating what wasn’t there before, and highlighted his love for the unexpected.
They hid away in the quiet of a booth, while around them, sparks flew and drinks bubbled – more and more of Boltof’s strange and wonderful crew gathering in the night. Tommy Cooper even bounced around their table, lapping up vodka and peanut crumbs.
All the while, Iola would only laugh and indulge Harvey with witty comments about his tales, never once specifying about her own life. Harvey gained confidence, and the eventual courage to tell her she was beautiful. She smiled like she knew.
‘I love the performance,’ she said finally, as the morning began to catch up with them and Harvey had finally managed to urge her words to surface. ‘Learning to captivate a crowd, to hold them there. I feel as though I can do whatever I want. It’s a well of confidence that I drink from every night. It’s invigorating. That’ll never get old. Not ever.’
At the time, Harvey didn’t see the importance of that statement - of just how much it gave away. It only fuelled his fascination, and eventually ebbed and disappeared from the forefront of his mind as Iola led him through the door of her hotel room.
*
The following morning, Harvey pulled on his shirt from the night before, and as he buttoned it, he regarded the empty bed, the rumpled sheets… and the silence. The night before had seen a room with playing cards strewn across the floor, a line of devilish heeled shoes and eventually, the dress Iola had been wearing, along with Harvey’s shirt. Now, none of that remained.
As Harvey descended the stairs, back into the hotel lobby, he reflected that one night with Iola wasn’t what he had wanted. He realised that he would have been willing to give her one life. He questioned what he had done wrong, when the only thing that was memorable through the haze was how fascinating Iola was when she spoke… and how little that was.
Harvey tried, in a futile effort, to question the hotel receptionist on the location of the travelling show of magicians, but the female receptionist was insistent that there had never even been a booking in the name of Boltof.
Harvey left the hotel frustrated and confused. He opted to contact Nick on the subject.
>That assistant from the magic show. Did you catch her surname at any point?
It was bothersome that Iola hadn’t even told him.
I don’t know what you were doing last night, mate, but I caught an early one.
Harvey frowned deeply. Had Nick been so drunk that he had forgotten where they had been? Feeling stung by the morning’s reaction and all around confusion, Harvey caught the bus back home.
Aside from the initial trouble of being unable to locate his front door key and having to fish out the ancient back door one, Harvey got inside no problem, and immediately texted Nick back.
>The Hidden Dove on Hood Street-
He began.
>You spent most of your time laughing at the tricks like some kind of ape.
The reply took some time to return.
You’re not funny.
So Nick had had too much to drink. It wasn’t the first time.
Harvey spent the rest of the day eating through bags of crisps, occasionally stopping to pluck the strings of one of his many instruments, or to shuffle the deck of cards he found at the back of the cutlery drawer.
It had struck ten o’clock –twenty-four hours since the show had begun – when Harvey found the number for the Hidden Dove online. Annoyingly, when dialled, the number wasn’t recognised.
Harvey fell asleep by the laptop, pen in hand, at the mercy of a severe lack in internet results for ‘Demas Boltof Magic Show’. It was as though they had never existed.
Weeks passed. The front of the heavily shuttered Hidden Dove remained so, even by night, and even when prompted, Nick had no recollection of what had gone on in there. All the while, Harvey couldn’t forget Iola. The things he hadn’t learnt, and the things he had. A travelling performer would never be easy to find, not unless they came back, but Harvey wouldn’t give up, and he refused to forget.
It hadn’t just been the way Iola glowed; her talent, her slightly outrageous side; or the passion he had got a glimpse of when she had let her guard down… It was what could have been. The quirks in her personality, rather than the scattering of freckles on her hips: the things he had found when they had spent the night together. Quirks were to be stumbled upon and delighted in, and the glimpse of Iola’s had been too palpable to ignore.
Harvey began to wonder if he was in love. He had never felt like this before, and it was more than slightly confusing. Iola’s absence intensified what was realistically an infatuation. Harvey had always been too logical, and he understood that he needed to move forward. but it was difficult. He knew Iola hadn’t been a dream. She had been real. Felt real. Smelt real…
No magic shows came to the Hidden Dove again. At least, not until long after the first show. Harvey had finished his degree and he was applying for a Masters in music. He played his instruments with enthusiasm; plucked at the Double Bass, combed the guitar with rough fingers and created tuneless but passionate melodies on his keyboard. Iola was painted in the lyrics, entwined in the notes he created.
Then, one day, Nick approached Harvey with a very familiar flyer…
Magic Show Tonight
The Hidden Dove was the venue. Harvey’s stomach twisted and his heart simultaneously leapt into his mouth. Never mind that Nick was approaching him in the exact same way he had, half a year ago. Could be funny.
They were going, and Harvey was going to find Iola.
*
It was the same again; the derelict façade of the Hidden Dove transformed to a warm, sensual paradise, with a spark and a cheeky wink.
Nick once again got the pi
nts in, and Harvey was vaguely reminded of Groundhog day, until she caught his eye.
The licks of molten gold hair, the far off focus in her eyes, the illegal curve of her hips… She even wore the same dress.
Iola.
Harvey was out of his chair before he could think, and he barely noticed the crash it made as it fell backwards in result of his haste. He was more confident than in their last meeting. Harvey had become a man who knew what he wanted, what he needed, and both of those things were Iola.
If she didn’t want him back, then fine, but he would be happy to have his heart broken for trying.
He said her name.
She stopped. She didn’t turn.
Harvey began to feel as though something was wrong. The air suddenly felt cold, the club fading from a warm crimson around him to a vile, bright blood scarlet.
‘Iola…?’
‘How do you know my name?’ She asked, in a voice like melting icicles.
Harvey tried to ignore how the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. She turned to face him, and there was cold shock in her eyes. ‘How did you know?’ She faltered on the last word as she looked in Harvey’s face; a flicker of recognition passed over it before disappearing.
Harvey was sharp, he didn’t miss it.
‘Last time you were in Manchester, we…’ His face fell as he realised that her hasty façade of failed recognition must be because she regretted their night together. She had regretted meeting him. ‘I…’ His words shrivelled and died as she glared at him.
‘You can’t know my name. We’ve never been to Manchester before.’ It seemed her shock was overwhelming what should have been recognition. Impulsive lies bubbling from beneath the surface. Harvey narrowed his eyes.
‘Well, you have,’ he replied firmly. ‘You made this room light up like the Aurora. I remember.’