Meirion Green

Professional sceptic Hermann Beiringer suspects Meirion Green of being more than just an illusionist, but his investigation is destined to end in tragedy...

Meirion Green

 

The lighting engineer had failed to create a mysterious atmosphere and everyone knew it. So the director was trying to produce tension by having one cameraman circle us, while a second stayed fixed on my face, and a third on my guest’s. Over in the corner of this fake basement, the producer was biting his thumbnail. Beside him was a man in his sixties, rotund, bald, jolly, smirking through his white beard.

 

Opposite me sat Jim Merrick, celebrity author. On the table beside us, dumped in a shapeless pile, were all twenty-three of his detective novels. In his pocket was a sealed envelope containing a piece of paper on which I had written a single word.

 

“Okay Jim, I’m going to turn my back, I’m not going to say a word, there’s no way I can influence you. Take your time. Use any method you choose and pick one of your books.”

 

I turned my back and studied the floor. Briefly I studied the trainers of the peripatetic cameraman, then I studied the floor again. Just as the trainers were coming back into view, Jim said, “Got one.”

 

I turned back and smiled. “Death is Easy. Just confirm, Jim, it was a free choice.”

 

“Yeah yeah,” said Jim, scratching his long face and adjusting his scruffy jacket, “I chose it randomly. Absolutely. Yeah.”

 

“Good. Now pick a number, any number you like.”

 

“Seven hundred.”

 

“Seven hundred! I didn’t expect that. People usually pick something between one and fifty.”

 

Jim grinned. “I make my living thinking outside the box,” he said.

 

Resisting an impulse to gag, I smiled instead and said, “Okay Jim, I’d like you to count the number of letters in the words, seven hundred.”

 

“Twelve,” said Jim after a moment.

 

“Good. If we take seven hundred and multiply it by twelve, what do we get?”

 

He looked at me blankly. “I’m a best-selling author, not a computer!”

 

I made a point of laughing good-humouredly. You must never show that you think your guest is a prat, unless that’s part of your act, of course. “Eight thousand four hundred,” I said. “But - here’s a calculator. Check it for me.”

 

I gave him a huge calculator, one that the walkabout cameramen could clearly focus on. Jim tapped in the calculation. “Eight thousand four hundred,” he said, obviously impressed.

 

“It’s a big number,” I said. “Too big. Let’s simplify it. We’ll just keep the eight and the four - that gives us the number eighty-four. Are you following me so far Jim?”

 

“Yip. We’ve got number eighty-four. I wish I’d picked it in the first place!”

 

I made a seemingly casual gesture with my hand, in the shape of a swan. “Pick another number.”

 

“Two,” said Jim

 

“Okay. Now let’s take eighty-four and divide it by two”

 

“Forty-two �" don’t need the calculator for that.”

 

“Forty-two,” I said. “The meaning of life! Turn to page forty-two of Dying is Easy.”

 

“Yip,” said Jim, once he had the page before him.

 

“Now we need to decide which line to read out. Well, forty-two is made up of a four and a two. What’s four and two?”

 

“Six!”

 

“Read line six for me - no wait! Just in case people think this a little too smooth, let’s throw in a spanner. Read line six - but from the other side of the page.”

 

Jim turned back to page forty-one and read line six.

 

“...said Thorn. ‘I don’t like this leap of faith approach. I want clues, evidence...”

 

“Now Jim,” I said, making eye contact with him, “of the words on that line, is there one that jumps out at you, one word that springs up?”

 

He read the line again. “Leap, I suppose,” he said.

 

“Leap,” I repeated. “Okay, take out the sealed envelope I gave you earlier. Open it and show the paper inside it to the camera.”

 

He did so and I smiled broadly as he broke into astonished laughter. “How the hell did you do that?” he yelled, forgetting to show the paper to the camera, but gazing at it, then at me, then at it again, with good-humoured bewilderment.

 

“What’s the word on the paper, Jim?”

 

“Leap!” he declared, finally showing it to the camera.

 

I stood up and shook his hand. “Jim,” I said, “it’s been a real pleasure having you on the show.”

 

With the recording over, it took me a few minutes to prise myself free of him, as he, too savvy to ever be influenced, kept insisting he’d chosen everything freely so how the hell had I done it? It was like being saddled with a drunk. At last a production assistant got him away, I quickly reviewed the segment with the director and producer, then turned to the man with the white beard.

 

“So, what does the scourge of charlatans make of that?” I asked, as we exchanged a warm handshake.

 

“Very good, Paul,” he replied in his light Swiss accent. “I’m sure it will baffle all your viewers.”

 

“But not you, Hermann.”

 

“Let us walk to the car and see whether I can work it out before we get to the restaurant.”

 

Once the make-up girl had cleaned me up, we made our way to an expensive restaurant in the West End, meal courtesy of Hermann. En route, he dissected my illusion.

 

“Let me see. You meet Jim Merrick at a party. You assess whether he is someone who is suggestible, whom you can manipulate. The answer, yes. So you invite him on your show. You draw up a list of words that are likely to be in each of his detective novels - or in any detective novel, for that matter. You decide on the word leap. Am I right so far?”

 

I merely smiled. I never discuss my methods.

 

“Your poor researcher has to read all his books, until she finds the word leap in each of them. She notes the page and line number for each book where the word occurs. You memorise this for each book �" easy for you with your memory techniques. So it does not matter which book he picks.”

 

He then gazed at me with obvious admiration.

 

“Then comes the part where you are a genius. He has picked Death is Simple or whatever it was. You know where leap is in that book. You ask him to pick a number, and from that number you get him to page forty-one, line six. The calculations you had to make in your head in mere seconds, while appearing not to be doing so, that is the part that impresses me. Really, Paul, with the gift for mathematics that you have, you should be a physicist, not doing these party tricks.”

 

“The party tricks pay better,” I said.

 

“Then of course, by using the words jump and spring, you suggest to him the word leap, and everyone is amazed at your diabolical powers.”

 

“Except the man who’s offering a million dollars to anyone who can prove in his laboratory that they have paranormal powers. You’ve still had no takers since the last lunatic two years ago?”

 

“No,” said Hermann. “I’m glad you were with me at the time. I keep a gun ever since. Which brings us to Meirion Green. But, let us wait until we are settled at our table before we discuss him.”

 

They wanted to seat us in the window until the waiter changed his mind and gave us a secluded table, where I wouldn’t be bothered by fans and nutters. One character did spot us and looked like he was about to demand a trick, but then he thought better of it and left the restaurant.

 

“Meirion Green,” said Hermann. “You’ve studied the tapes I sent you?”

 

“Very closely. How did you get them?”

 

“Well, you know that Meirion never does television.”

 

“Lucky for me.”

 

“He prefers these arty theatres and things. I was able to bribe one proprietor to conceal  into the ceiling some cameras.” He looked deep into my eyes, earnestly hoping I had a rational explanation. I took a sip of wine.

 

“I’m sorry, Hermann. I couldn’t figure out how he did any of those... tricks, if that’s the right word.”

 

Hermann sat back impatiently and began to tap the base of his wine glass.

 

“No one can work them out, not even I. I had hoped that you...”

 

“None of those tricks can be done,” I said emphatically. “Think about it. He has a tarantula in a glass cage. He is able to make it dance - something it would never do in nature and which no substance could make it do. But there it was, like one of those horses prancing about doing dressage.”

 

“And then the audience he invites to choose which of its eight legs the spider will raise from the floor. Whichever they choose, by the power of his mind �" apparently �" he makes the spider obey. Are you sure you cannot replicate that?”

 

“Hermann, I’ve racked my brain for a way of doing it. It’s impossible.”

 

He gave a discontented sigh. He was silent for a moment, musing, then he said, “And the beetle - he can make it go into any one of twenty compartments. Always it goes into the one an audience member chooses. It never fails.”

 

He stared at me grimly.

 

“You have met Meirion Green, yes?”

 

“A few times,” I said. “He’s a very nice chap, self-effacing, pleasant.”

 

“I too have met him, a number of times more than you. Don’t you find, each time you talk with him, that you soon feel mentally tired? Even though the conversation is not demanding.”

 

“Well, now you come to mention it, I suppose I have, yes.”

 

He paused. “Paul, I believe that tiredness comes from Meirion Green probing our minds.”

 

“What!”

 

“I believe he has paranormal powers. He is a telepath. He can control mindless creatures and he can possibly access our minds too.”

 

I laughed humourlessly. “Hermann,” I said, “you’re absolutely the last person on earth I ever expected to say such a thing. You wouldn’t believe in Australia till you’d been there.”

 

“I follow the line of reasoning,” retorted Hermann, his face sombre. “There are too many things in Meirion’s life that have no explanation but this, that he is a telepath.”

 

I took my napkin apart as our food arrived. Once the waiter had gone, I said, “Then why hasn’t he claimed your million dollars? I’m sure he could do with the money. Arty venues don’t pay well.”

 

“Meirion takes care to conceal his ability. He claims all his stunts are illusions, that he is a master of psychology. Piffle. He clearly knows not the first thing about psychology. Compare him with yourself.”

 

“Then why didn’t he know there were cameras hidden in the ceiling?”

 

“Only the proprietor knew and he was careful to be away.”

 

“Okay, Hermann, suppose you’re right. What are you going to do about it?”

 

“That, my friend,” he said, taking a mouthful of food, “is where I need your help.”

 

I put down my fork. “Oh yes?”

 

“I intend to invite Meirion to my laboratory in Berne, ostensibly to help me with something, but in reality to unmask him.”

 

“Hold on now,” I said. “Meirion’s not hurting anyone, he’s not conning anyone, he’s just an entertainer. If you’re right and he does have powers, well he obviously wants to keep them quiet. So why not let him be?”

 

“No,” said Hermann, almost with the fervour of a fanatic. “Science must be informed. We must know if he has paranormal abilities. He will not be harmed, I assure you. And obviously, he will not be blackmailed. And I promise to safeguard his anonymity. But the scientific community must have access to him. Tests will need to be done. His family will be tested also.”

 

“He’ll become a lab rat.”

 

“Paul, if Meirion Green is a telepath, surely you can see the possibilities, both good and bad.”

 

“Good and bad for who?”

 

“For society. A telepath could be a very dangerous person. Such a person could rise to enormous political power. We cannot let this go.”

 

“And what part do I play in this quest for truth?”

 

“My pretext is that you have devised a new illusion and you want me to test it. I am asking Meirion to advise me. I know he will be intrigued sufficiently to accept.”

 

“And why exactly have your powers failed and you need an illusionist to help you get to the truth? Do you think he’ll really fall for it?”

 

Hermann chuckled. “Now I am the psychologist. He will come because he wants to see your greatest trick.”

 

“And what would that be exactly?”

 

“I haven’t thought of it yet.”

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

It was a fortnight later. I had been home about an hour. Linda, my girlfriend, was taking a hot bath. I was laying on the sofa, musing when my phone buzzed. 

 

“Hello?”

 

“Ah, I’m glad I got you home.”

 

I recognised the deep voice and Welsh lilt at once.

 

“Meirion! This is a nice surprise. It must be...”

 

“Fourteen months,” he said. “You came to see my show. We went for a pint after, remember?”

 

“That’s right. Where are you now?”

 

“Leuven, Belgium. It’s a university town. I’m doing a few shows.”

 

“Good. Are you ringing because of Hermann?”

 

“Yeah. What’s this experiment you’re doing?”

 

“Well, it’s more of a challenge, really. I bet him I could prove to him I have paranormal powers, right there in his laboratory, under laboratory conditions, when of course I haven’t any such abilities at all. He wants to see if he can be conned.”

 

There was a pause. When Meirion spoke again, I could sense the faint unease in his voice.

 

“That, er, that would be good for your telly show.”

 

“We’re not going to film it. It’s just a private thing between the two of us. He thought it would be interesting if you observed. Actually,” I added, injecting some levity into my voice, “I think he’s scared that I’ll be too smart for him.”

 

“Well, you’re both smarter than me, that’s for sure. I can never figure out how you do things.”

 

He said this with a little too much natural modesty. He was fishing, trying to suss out a hidden agenda. Meirion, modest though he was, would never normally suggest that working out an illusion was beyond him. Did he sense a trap?

 

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” I said smoothly. But I had to get off the subject before he picked up my unease.  “Are you going to come?”

 

“Oh yeah, I’ll come. Got to come. Got to see the outcome.”

 

We talked for a few more minutes, a bit about Hermann, a bit about illusions, some questions about my show, some questions about his tour. As I put the phone down, Linda came from the bathroom, towelling her hair.

 

“Who was that?”

 

“Meirion Green.”

 

“Ugh! That man with the spiders? Yuck. Did he tell you how he did it?”

 

“Oh,” I said, putting my hands behind my head, “I’ve always known how he did it.”

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

A month later, I was at Hermann’s lab in Berne. I’d heard nothing more from Meirion in the meantime, but had had weekly face-to-face meetings with Hermann to plan the set up. Meirion had been requesting meetings with him too, but Hermann had wisely put him off. He was concerned that the Welshman would read his intentions. Personally, I didn’t think Meirion’s telepathy extended that far. If it did, the whole thing would fail once he walked through the door.

 

At last, Hermann’s driver brought Meirion from the airport. I could see, from the way he glanced at us, that he was suspicious. But we kept him talking, avoiding any forced bonhomie �" which would have given the game away, telepathy or not. Once or twice, I felt an odd sensation, difficult to describe, a sort of mild tingling in the brain, but it lasted only seconds.  If Meirion was probing, he apparently got nowhere, for after a short while I could see that he was fooled.

 

Lunch over, we went to the lab. Hermann had erected a screen, yet to be wheeled into place, which would be positioned between us. Our wrists were strapped to the arms of our chairs, which were about four yards apart. Our index fingers were wired up, so that we could work a cursor on a monitor before us. These monitors were linked. I was pretending to claim that, from a hundred symbols, I could make Meirion choose the one I chose, and get a success rate of ninety per cent. But there was one thing that Hermann didn’t mention to Meirion until we were strapped in. We were to have electrodes taped to our temples to record brain waves.

 

“No thanks,” said Meirion, clearly alarmed. “It’s Paul’s brainwaves you need, not mine.”

 

“But I need to compare the brain patterns,” said Hermann, attaching an electrode. Meirion tried to shift his head away.

 

“No,” he said. “I refuse consent. I don’t like things taped to my head. It’s a phobia I’ve got.”

 

Hermann hesitated a moment, as anger built up pressure inside him. Then suddenly it erupted. He pressed the electrodes against Meirion’s skull with such force that Meirion howled.

 

“You think I’m a fool?” yelled Hermann. “You think I don’t know about you? You think you can fool me?”

 

“Hermann,” I yelled, “calm down. Remember this is being videoed.”

 

But Hermann had no intention of calming down. His face had turned purple and he was swearing to himself in German. He strode across the lab and took his gun out of a drawer.

 

“What’s going on?” demanded Meirion, not of Hermann, but of me. “Stop him!”

 

“You are a telepath!” shouted Hermann, crossing back to Meirion, waving his pistol. “Admit it! Admit it!”

 

“You’re out of your mind! Undo these straps.”

 

Hermann stared angrily at him, then walked over to me and put the gun to my head.

 

“Admit it or I kill Paul.”

 

I jerked my body sideways to try to get away from the gun. He grabbed my neck and  pressed the barrel into my temple.

 

“Hermann, this proves nothing,” I said. “Stop being a bloody fool!”

 

“Nothing is what I want to prove,” retorted Hermann. “Nothing, nothing at all. Telepathy does not exist. It goes against everything I believe and stand for as a scientist. If you are a telepath, Meirion Green, believe me, no one will ever know. Your secret will die here today with you and science will go on as before.”

 

Meirion was open-mouthed. He stared at Hermann, then at me.

 

“Can’t you stop him, Paul?”

 

“How can I? For God’s sake, if you are a telepath, do something! Change his mind!”

 

“But I can’t! All I can do is affect simple creatures. I can’t read the human mind. I’ve tried, time and again, but it’s beyond me. I get exhausted in seconds.”

 

Hermann took the gun from my head. He said quietly, “Then you admit it.”

 

Meirion was breathing heavily. He struggled against his straps, but without success. Then he gave Hermann a long, searching look, and said, “Yes, I’m a telepath. I admit it. Kill me if you want, but let Paul go.”

 

“It’s all right, Meirion,” I said. “He doesn’t want to kill you. This is a trick he’s made up to get you to confess. But please believe, I knew nothing of any of this. I thought he was going to �"”

 

I jumped in my seat as an explosion sounded just inches from me. Then two more. Meirion Green slumped forward, dead.

 

“Hermann!” I screamed. “What are you doing? Have you gone mad? Put that gun down. Call an ambulance. Let me free!”

 

But Hermann seemed in a daze. He walked up to a video camera on the wall, looked into it, put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

The police wanted me to stay on in Berne for a few days, in case they had further questions. But the video evidence was clear enough. Hermann had gone berserk. I was lucky to have escaped with my life. As for Meirion being a telepath, that was obviously a delusion of Hermann’s that Meirion had gone along with in the hope of saving our lives.

 

The hotel receptionist told me they had only the presidential suite free, but that she was very sorry, it was kept reserved. I wasn’t in the mood to look elsewhere, so, after a moment, she changed her mind and let me have it. Then a reporter arrived, the first to track me down. But before he could finish his question, he abruptly recalled something urgent and left. I decided to get to my room before he returned. As the porter put down my luggage, I flopped into a chair, not bothering to look at the opulent surroundings. He stood there, waiting for a tip. I don’t like giving tips, especially abroad, trying to work out the exchange rate �" I’m so useless at maths. So he decided he didn’t want a tip after all, and left.

 

So: it had all gone to plan. Meirion Green would never one day move into television and steal my thunder. That had always been something I’d feared. Instead, he had died bravely, sacrificing himself by telling a lie, in order to save me. I would never cease to honour him. The one man who might have exposed the truth was dead, his reputation disintegrated. During that meal with me in the restaurant, when I saw what he would do to a telepath, Hermann had signed his own death warrant. After all, if he had seen through Meirion, whose abilities were so puny, then sooner or later...

 

I noticed a spider up in the corner of the ceiling. With Meirion dead, it was finally time to develop my act. So I made it run down and do a little victory dance for me.

 

There was a knock at the door. With some irritation, I said, “Come in.” It was that reporter again. I shouldn’t have, I know, but it was the mood I was in. I made him do a little jig for me, there in the middle of the room. I thought about making him jump out the window, but causing three deaths in one day might rouse suspicion. So I helped him forget he’d performed the dance and, as I’d done in the lobby, put into his mind that he had an important appointment with his editor. Off he dashed.

 

Oh dear. It was then I noticed that he’d squashed the spider. Now, Meirion would never have allowed that.

 

 

 

 

END