Call Me Morgan

“Morgan Hi . . . Hallo Morgan?” 

I ignored him. I didn’t even raise my eyes from the pint glass in front of me. No one knew me by that name, not anymore. To tell the truth no one really used it even back in the day.

“Morgan?” He persisted.  “I’d know you anywhere, even without your old stage tash!”

I put my pint down, wondering vaguely how many I’d had, but the night was young so I couldn’t have had many . . . I was still sober.

Only one person knew me by that name.

“Fergus?”

But it couldn’t be. He was dead. I’d read his obituary.

He sat down at my table and stuck out a hand. We shook. It was him alright, only older, but with the same canny smile and a twinkle in his eye.

 “How are you?” He grinned, his charm undimmed by time, even if his debonair looks had gone. Was I being harsh? Maybe. I was no spring chicken myself.  I suppose Fergus passed as distinguished, whereas I was old with no redeeming qualities.

“Are you a ghost?” I said, only half joking. For a moment he looked very serious.

“Ah, rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated!” It was the same old jovial laugh, the easy confidence that had made him a success on stage. And yet . . . there was something different, something lurked in the eyes . . . and then it was gone.

“It’s a long story, Morgan, we –“

 “No one calls me Morgan now” I interrupted.

“You changed your stage name?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I just dropped it, no one knows about the old shows”

“Yeah, changed days  . . . so what do I call you?”

“Don’t you remember? - David, David smith is my name”

He chuckled. “Yeah David. . .” He seemed to be trying it out, or maybe he was remembering “It doesn’t seem right. I prefer . . .” He paused for effect and waved his hands in a familiar stage gesture “Morgan . . . the . . . Magnificent!” I had to laugh, I hadn’t heard the old stage routine for many years. He had me down pat. He’d always been a good mimic, it was part of his charm.

I never learned any more about his obituary, though I pressed him for an explanation. He never gave a straight answer. He hinted vaguely about a publicity stunt that went wrong. ‘I’ll tell you my secret later!’ was all he would say.

As far as his personal history was concerned he was evasive and preferred instead to reminisce about the so-called good old days. That wasn’t how I remembered them but old men get nostalgic about their lost youth.

We‘d been friends since uni.  One afternoon I’d observed Fergus in the Refectory surrounded by a growing crowed. He was performing one of his ‘tricks’. And he was laying on the patter, a natural showman even then. The actual trick was a run of the mill card number, but his showmanship was accomplished, to give him his due. Like an old carney pitcher He skilfully played the audience and at the finally received the pay off - enthusiastic applause! Someone even shouted “Bravo!”

But he messed up at one point. It didn’t really matter though, no one else seemed to notice.  Fergus was a master of misdirection. He caught my eye and winked a conspiratorial wink as if to say “it’s our secret, don’t tell”. I’d watched the performance with growing admiration and, I must admit, a stirring of jealousy. I could have done better! Or so I thought at the time. Now I’m not so sure.

After the performance Fergus came over to me. “You spotted it, didn’t you – the switch.” He was very matter-of-fact about it.

I admitted that I had and was surprised at his delight in this. “You got me!” He said. “Glad someone was paying attention!”

I’d found a kindred soul, someone who shared my passion for all things magical. We became fast friends.We started to try out some of my routines together. I showed Fergus the conjuring techniques that I had been practising. Back then I did hand exercises every day. It was the only way to improve.

In return Fergus shared his performance skills with me. The main thing he said was “to keep talking and keep them guessing and confused!” Easy for him, he was a natural. I had to work a bit harder – really quite a lot harder. But we sort of complimented each other. He helped me with the presentation aspect, the showman side of things and I helped him with the practical practice, the technical training. We became inseparable and our friendship grew stronger.  But I had a feeling that it couldn’t last. Those first stirrings of jealousy were growing. Funny how admiration can turn to envy and friendship can turn to rivalry.

In the beginning I convinced myself that I really did not mind. So what if Fergus was getting all the attention. He was a popular guy on campus. I couldn’t hold that against him. At least he seemed to value my friendship as well as my conjuring talents. He was never grudging with his praise and when it came to his own talents he was always self-deprecating. He couldn’t be faulted. He would often say that “he could not do it without me“. I was flattered.

But after a while the flattery wore thin. I had to admit that I was under his shadow. I was merely seen as the warm up act. No one seemed to notice that I was technically more adept, technically the better conjurer.

So what if Fergus appreciated my talents, what good was it if no one else recognised my ability? I couldn’t pretend any longer that I didn’t mind.

Inevitably we argued. The partnership was strained, it wasn’t working. We decided to call it a day before things became more acrimonious.  I wanted to do my own thing anyway, to try out my own solo act. From then on we became rivals.

I did okay at first. I had a lucky break, an agent head hunted me. He loved my act. There was just one thing: the name. David Smith! It had to go! That’s when I became Morgan the Magnificent! It seemed a bit corny at the time but it worked. Soon I was in demand up and down the country. My agent did a great job with publicity.  In those days that meant posters! I had posters everywhere.

One day Fergus came to see me. He had one of my posters with him.

“This is you!” he said. I nodded. I must have looked a bit sheepish, I was still a bit embarrassed about the hyperbole, even though it was just a stage name.

“It’s brilliant!” was all He said. I was pleased. Somehow it meant a lot coming from Fergus.

He’d come to bid me farewell before he set off abroad. He had a notion about doing research in the Far East. When I asked what he expected to find he just laughed and said “I've really no idea!” I didn’t think he was telling the whole truth but I didn't press him.

I wished him luck on his venture. That was the last time I saw Fergus. Some months later I received a couple of post cards. One was from Kabul and one was from a remote village in china. He said he was on the trail of something . . . he never said what exactly. It was all very cryptic.

A year later I received a post card in an envelope, which also contained two tickets for a show. All it said was “I’m back – come see me” scrawled in Fergus’s nearly illegible handwriting.  The tickets’ proclaimed the ‘Illusionist’ to be the most sensational show to hit London.

I was intrigued but unfortunately I couldn’t attend; I was performing myself that night to a full house in Edinburgh and it was at one of my favourite venues; The Kings Theatre.

If the reviews were to be believed then I really had stiff competition with the ‘Illusionist’. Fergus seemed to have come up with a whole new approach. I didn't recognize any elements of the performance. There was no conjuring such as Fergus and I used to practice, none of the basic tricks which were part of my repertoire. Instead the performance sounded more like a mix between a spiritualist act and a more traditional magic act. He apparently called upon spirit entities to help with his illusions. And he also seemed to use hypnotism.  One critic claimed that the whole theatre must have been hypnotised, which I thought at the time was crazy; anyone in the business knew how hard it was to hypnotise one person, never mind hypnotising a whole audience.  But now I’m not so sure, these days mass suggestion and crowd forces are an accepted phenomenon.  

I felt the old rivalry and the old jealousy reactivated like a dormant tropical disease. Somehow I had been one- upped. The same reviewers who declared the Illusionist as an innovation in magical performance, pronounced my show as passé. I was devastated.

It all happened so quickly. Overnight I was washed up, declared obsolete. My agent informed me that some of my shows were being cancelled and bookings were no longer being renewed. Soon I was back where I started, performing in working men’s clubs and small venues. My agent said I was lucky to get even that.

Some months later Fergus contacted me again with tickets for his show. He was appearing in Edinburgh at the Kings Theatre!  I was furious! That should have been my show! This time he also had the gall to offer me a job! He could use me in the illusionist if I was interested? Yeah I bet he could. I had memories of the old days where I was merely Fergus’s warm up act. I couldn’t face being under his shadow again.  I knew that I should have at least considered his offer - that would have been the sensible thing to do. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Fergus’s rise to fame was meteoric. After a while I stopped reading the reviews. In fact I had to stop reading the papers too. He was everywhere. On billboards and bus shelters, on the covers of weekend supplement’s, even on talk shows. And of course the papers couldn’t get enough of him. It was sickening.

Over a year later one of my few remaining friends showed me a newspaper with Fergus’s obituary, a double page spread no less. The paper was a week old. I was in shock.  I had mixed emotions but I had never wished Fergus any harm, maybe a slight reversal of his fortunes but never any real harm. Now he was dead. My old rival was dead. It was hard to accept.

 And then there was the strange manner of his death. The newspaper accounts varied but they were all literally quite incredible and very disturbing. One memorable headline read:

THE ILLUSIONIST BRINGS THE HOUSE DOWN IN LAST FATAL PERFORMANCE.

No one seemed able to make sense of the events. Speculation ran wild in the tabloids. One theory was that a freak earth quake had somehow localised on the theatre. Strangely no other buildings were effected. The epicentre seemed to be on the stage itself or rather under it. Eyewitnesses testified to seeing Fergus consumed in a weird electric field. Then he disappeared amid all the rubble and smoke of the ‘quake’.  His body was never found.

And now here he was. He leaned forward and handed me a fresh pint.

“Cheers!”

“Cheers!” I took a sip.

We’d run down on the ‘old times’ conversation. Fergus swallowed a mouthful of beer and cleared his throat. Suddenly he looked dead serious.

“I’ve got a confession to make”

Oh no! What now, I thought. Fergus leaned forward, placing his pint carefully on the beer mat. I had no idea what to expect.

“You know I’ve always been jealous of you David” I certainly hadn’t expected that! Fergus Jealous of me?

“You must be kidding!” I said.

“I’m serious, you’ve always had a talent . . . a gift really, when it comes to conjuring”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I didn’t believe it. “You can’t –“

“No let me finish. I don’t have much time. You see I always had to work a lot harder, it never came easy to me”

“Well your hard work certainly paid off!” I said. I still couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“If only that was true. You see I cheated! That is my confession. I cheated to up stage you”

I couldn’t think what to say. I didn’t feel comfortable cast as the father confessor. Was I supposed to absolve Fergus for his transgressions? Say three Hail Mary’s and all is forgiven. . .

Fergus looked very penitent. “I can’t explain it all now – I wanted you to know before it’s too late . . . you were the best, you were my inspiration”

I was still taking in the idea about cheating. “What do you mean you cheated?”

“Well that’s probably a very British way of putting it. I . . . I suppose. . .” Fergus seemed to falter. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small black book.

“Here take this – it should help explain everything. . .” He handed the book to me. It was a very battered looking old journal. I looked at it doubtfully, started to flick through the pages.

“Don’t read it now” Fergus said. He looked disturbed. The strange presence which had lurked behind his eyes was back. . . He was scaring me.

I dimly heard the tinkle of the bar bell, followed by Bill the barman bellowing:

“Last orders, drink up!”

Fergus seemed to snap back to himself. He looked at his watch and then stuck out his hand. He grasped my hand warmly.

“Adios Morgan! I must be going. . .”

“Let me get you one for the road” I said. He hesitated. He had a strange, unreadable expression on his face.

“There’s nothing I’d like more, unfortunately my times up. . .”

He seemed remarkably sober as he headed through the door. I’d stood up to say goodbye so I had a clear view of him silhouetted against the street light as he passed the window.  He stood stock still and appeared to be looking up at the stars. I’d swear that he started to glow. Then there was a sort of crackle and a flash – then darkness. Even the lights in the pub had flickered out. There were some exclamations and curses. Someone had spilled their drink.

“Don’t panic it’s just a power cut” said Bill the barman. There was a musical tinkling sound, which grew louder and louder. All the glasses at the bar were vibrating. The barman’s face flared into view as he struck a match. He lit a candle.

Through the window I saw some street lights flicker back on. Where was Fergus? I couldn't see him at first. Then I spotted a dark shape. He was on his knees. He appeared to be praying. There was movement above him like a dark swarm of flies. The swarm seemed to descend. Fergus waved his arms in a parody of my old routine. The sound he made will haunt me forever. I couldn't see him anymore.

The lights were back on in the pub and the tremor seemed to have passed. Bill was replenishing drinks.

“Don’t worry about last orders. One for the road David? ”

I was in a state of shock. If there was ever a moment when I really needed a drink in was right then.

“Thanks Bill but I think I’ll pass – I seem to have lost my thirst and from now on you can call me Morgan”

"Morgan" He seemed to be trying it out. "Okay - It suits you"

The End