6

Mr President Edmund Pickle banged his shiny new gavel down loudly, calling the room to order. It was an intense, pernickety and stressful sound – completely unnecessary in such a small space.

From inside the cupboard, Sophie prodded Zack, Jonny and Alex in turn.

‘Ow!’

‘Sophie, watch where you’re prodding!’

‘Spiders!’

Through the thick gloomy air she silently beckoned the boys towards the thin crack in the door. They shunted forward.

‘Oh, wow!’ whispered Zack as he looked through the gap and saw the sea of white hair.

‘I didn’t think Council met during the day,’ whispered Sophie, recalling the wealth of useless facts in the induction pack. ‘I wonder what’s going on.’

‘We should probably leave while the coast is clear,’ said Zack quietly.

Sophie and Jonny stared at him.

‘Yeah … So we could do that … or we could spy on the Council of the Magic Circle. What do you think, Sophie?’ said Jonny.

‘Ooh, I don’t know!’ Sophie rubbed her pointy chin, pretending to think about it.

Zack smiled, his teeth shining like tiny beacons on a dark night.

The room appeared to have been carved into the crust of the earth itself, noted Zack – who hadn’t ever ventured this far, certainly not this deep, even on his most protracted of earlier adventures – this was like a candlelit cave that wouldn’t feel out of place in a scary movie were it not for the Tupperware box of biscuits lying slap bang in the centre of the long wooden table, just out of everyone’s reach, it seemed. Zack’s stomach let out a warning growl, as if to say, You really-really-really shouldn’t be spying on Council, Zack Harrison! OH WELL!

Alex watched wide-eyed as President Pickle, Cynthia and a spindly old man who looked dangerously close to death, took their seats at the top end of the table. The room fell silent, save for the noise of the spindly man bouncing up and down on his seat, trying to jiggle it forward closer to the table, like he was connected to some sort of mad machine.

Cynthia and President Pickle stared at him. ‘Ready, Bill?’ asked Cynthia quietly.

Bill nodded sharply – and let out a burp.

Jonny smothered his mouth, fearful of laughing out loud inside the darkened cupboard as he watched Cynthia close her eyes and wait for the tangy pong to disperse.

‘Right!’ said President Pickle. ‘Let’s get things under way, shall we? Bill, do you want to go through your report?’

Bill didn’t flinch, but remained facing forward – motionless, his eyes glazed.

‘Bill?’ President Pickle repeated, a note of worry creeping into his voice, hoping the man hadn’t actually died in his seat. That would be annoying – all those stairs to climb to get the body out!

Cynthia gently shook Bill’s arm, causing him to wake with a start.

‘Ah, there we go!’ President Pickle beamed, clearly not put off by the fact that one of his esteemed colleagues could fall asleep on the job so quickly. ‘Bill Dungworth, our treasurer, ladies and gentlemen!’ He brought his fist to his mouth and made a sound a bit like a trumpet announcing royalty as Bill began to rise.

The four spies looked at each other (as best they could), trying not to laugh: so this was the guy President Pickle had put in charge of the society finances … OH, GREAT!

Bill took just as long to stand as he did to sit down, mumbling grumpily about how he wished he’d never sat down in the first place, leaning heavily on the ornate giant green safe at his side as he heaved himself up.

Clearing his throat, he began to turn his notes round and round, trying to make sense of them.

‘OK,’ he said in a gargling voice. ‘Thank you for attending this emergency general meeting.’ He took a deep, wheezy breath before continuing. ‘I’ve been going through the society accounts, and this year we’ve sadly turned in a net deficit of …’

The Council waited to hear exactly how bad their financial situation was.

Bill rotated the paper, trying to find the right figure. ‘Fifty-one thousand pounds.’

Gasps filled the room.

Inside the cupboard the four backed away slightly. Had they really just heard right?

Sophie watched as two of the councillors – who had evidently just returned from a children’s birthday party and were still in their ‘Oriental’ make-up – looked at one another, biting their lower (bright green) lips in concern.

‘That’s Steve and Jane,’ whispered Zack. ‘Nice couple, but completely mad!’

‘Bill, are you sure that figure is … correct?’ offered Cynthia kindly from her spot in the council chamber. For this wouldn’t have been the first time Bill had got his numbers muddled up – like when he once celebrated Christmas on the twelfth day of the twenty-fifth month.

‘No, yes – sorry, that’s wrong.’ Bill planted a finger on the paper, almost piercing it with his long, yellowing nail.

President Pickle let out a dramatic ‘Phew!’ – pretending to mop his brow with the back of his hand.

‘A net deficit of … fifty-two thousand pounds.’

The room (and – unbeknownst to the Council – the cupboard’s inhabitants) fell into a shocked silence once again as Bill sat down, pleased, job done.

President Pickle stood, statesman-like, banging his gavel despite already having everyone’s full attention. ‘Mr Treasurer, do we have any idea why our finances are looking so bad?’

Bill was loath to stand up again, but did so anyway, making everyone wait. Again.

‘No,’ he eventually said, sitting back down, hoping – he thought – for the last time today, if not his life.

‘Right …’ President Pickle was still searching for an answer. ‘Well, I’m sure we’re due a windfall soon!’ He looked at his wife. ‘Do we know of anyone who might be, you know, on their way … out?’

Cynthia stood briskly, obviously a trifle disgusted by the suggestion. ‘Do I know if there’s anyone on the brink of death who may donate a substantial fortune to the society? No, I don’t, Edmund. That’s to say, there are plenty of old members on the cusp, but none of them are rolling in cash.’ She sat back down again.

‘Righty ho, then …’ said President Pickle, chewing the air, not really knowing what else to say. ‘I mean, it’s just … one of those things, I guess, isn’t it?’ he pronounced feebly.

The Council groaned in agreement, a sonorous, weary, dying sound. Inside the cupboard the four spies were agog. Was this really all the Council of the Magic Circle could say? That it was just ‘one of those things’? Surely these were people who could make miracles happen.

From the opposite end of the table, a frail hand rose high into the air.

‘Er, yes, Ernest?’ said President Pickle.

Jonny shifted forward at the mention of his granddad’s name. So Ernest sat on Council. Well, that was encouraging!

‘Mr President.’ Ernest’s voice was calm but confident, and sounded much younger than his hand suggested. ‘What does this news hold for the future of the society? Is there anything Council can do?’

Cynthia looked down at the table as she felt her husband begin to sweat beside her.

President Pickle could feel his heart pumping loudly inside his damp shirt. Why did Ernest always have to ask these difficult questions? Oh, how different things had looked thirty years ago. Bill had had a brown mullet for one thing and wasn’t always asleep (as he was again now), and council meetings were merely a formality. More of an excuse for congratulating themselves on another successful year: magic thriving in the working men’s clubs, the society bursting at the seams with wealth and creativity. And now …? Well, President Pickle never liked to dwell on that question too much. It was much easier to focus on how great things were back in the good old days.

A globule of sweat that had begun life on his forehead started to run down the bridge of his nose. ‘Well,’ he answered tentatively, ‘I guess it might mean the society could fold at some point, but I’m sure there’s a bit more life in her yet!’

‘And exactly how many years of life do you think she has in her, Mr President?’ There was a slight edge to Ernest’s voice now.

‘Go, Granddad!’ whispered Jonny from inside the cupboard.

Cynthia winced as she saw her husband rubbing his chest – how much his heart must be going through these days. She imagined the blood flow being constricted, pushing its way through his veins like the very last slug of toothpaste out of a crinkled, frazzled tube.

‘I’m sure the club will last long enough to see us two through, old man!’ pronounced President Pickle, trying to keep things moving along. ‘And, like I say, I’m sure a windfall is just round the corner.’ His eyes darted towards Bill, who – the four in the cupboard noted – could easily have already snuffed it if it weren’t for the slight rustling of his nose hairs indicating a faint breeze of life.

‘But what about those just starting out in magic today? My grandson and Zack Harrison …’ continued Ernest, a clear urgency in his voice now. ‘What about them?’

The two made-up councillors exchanged nervous looks: no one ever questioned the president of the Magic Circle on matters such as this. It just wasn’t … fitting.*

Jonny squeezed Zack’s shoulders, proud of his granddad for standing up for them.

‘It’s just the way things are headed,’ answered President Pickle bleakly. ‘We simply have more money going out than there is coming in. Society funds were never going to last forever.’

‘Yes,’ replied Ernest, licking his lips, ‘but if we opened the society up to younger members, paying members, that would surely help.’

The question hung in the air like fresh manure. Some of the council members were beginning to fidget awkwardly.

From their claustrophobic closet, the four youngsters watched on with increasing interest. Could the society they’d been looking forward to joining all these years already be on the point of closure? When would they have their chance to shine? It all just seemed so … unfair.

At least there were people like Ernest fighting their corner, Jonny thought proudly. If anyone could help them save the society, it was him.

President Pickle grimaced and drew a sharp intake of breath.

Cynthia lifted her head. She’d tried playing this card with her husband before, but it had always been trumped. Still, it was nice to have someone as respected as Ernest on her side. ‘I’d be more than happy to lead on this if you’ll let me help,’ she said softly. ‘Just think how much we’d benefit from adding some young blood into the mix.’

‘I’m sure Bill wouldn’t object to someone assisting in the Treasury department,’ offered Ernest, the tiniest trace of sarcasm in his voice as he looked on at the snoozing prehistoric ornament sitting next to President Pickle.

‘And even a small increase in membership would inject some cash into society funds,’ added Cynthia, hoping that her husband would see reason. It was an idea she’d mooted before.

President Pickle stiffened, drawing himself up to his full height, exhaling loudly. ‘No. Sorry, but children aren’t the answer, I’m afraid. According to society rules –’

‘But Council can change those rules!’ cried Ernest, exasperated and steadily rising in his seat, his formidable height even more impressive than his grandson’s. ‘This is madness!’

The two stood facing each other from opposite ends of the table, President Pickle’s head now resembling an entire steaming red cabbage. Oh, how he wished he could expel certain council members! But the magic world would be up in arms. What, you’ve expelled Ernest Haigh? The first man to make an elephant vanish while surrounded? The first man to fly across the stage and out over the audience? Yes, well, those people didn’t have to deal with cross-examination day in, day out, did they? They didn’t know how strange he’d become – forever rocking the boat at these meetings. Couldn’t he just –?

All of a sudden there was a commotion – but not from Ernest or President Pickle.

Zack, Jonny, Sophie and Alex turned back towards the side of the cupboard they had entered through. With a deafening thud, the doors crashed open; all four cried out in alarm and squinted up at the strange angular figure now pushing them against the other door leading to the council chamber.

The whole of Council turned in stunned silence as the dusty cupboard doors began to shake before being forced open, spewing Zack, Jonny, Sophie and Alex out on to the floor.

The four of them looked up as the council members stared at them, bewildered. And then, behind them, emerging smugly from the cupboard, Henry, a mocking grin on his face.

Well, that’s it, Zack thought. We’re done for!