I burst from the water and checked my phone. Two minutes and fifty-five seconds, smashing my previous personal best. There was a missed call from Simon and a voice message telling me the video had been uploaded on TikTok and encouraging me to check it out.

I didn’t. I got dressed and went downstairs into the backyard, where Mum and Uncle Mike were already sitting, glasses of red wine in hand. I think Mum was trying to be refined; I suspect she wanted to scull vodka straight from the bottle, but felt that might be inappropriate. Whatever, she’d blown her teetotal cover. Such as it was.

The yard was gathering shadows from the streetlights – the sun had long since waved goodbye – and the atmosphere was vaguely threatening, like there might be monsters lurking in corners. Uncle Mike got to his feet and offered me his chair, for all the world like a gallant, old-school gentleman. I didn’t respond but sat on the ground, checking for errant dog shit. Mum had brought out one of those battery candles that flicker in a supposedly lifelike manner, but don’t shed any light. It was the perfect addition to the ghastly gathering. Then Jake rocked up and sat next to me. The McKellon family, all present and accounted for. Bar Gran.

‘That’s so sad,’ said Mum. She raised her glass like it was a toast and took a delicate sip. Then she checked how much was left in the glass and took a sidelong glance at Uncle Mike’s. Pacing herself.

‘She’s had a good innings,’ said Uncle Mike.

I felt like knocking myself hard on the side of the head. Had he really said that?

‘Even so,’ said Mum.

Now, here’s the thing. Gran and Mum have never got on, which explains why she doesn’t go to visit Gran at her house. I don’t know all the details. In fact I don’t know any details, but the impression I get is that Gran never approved of my dad’s choice of partner and wasn’t backward in voicing it. Diplomacy has never been her strong suit. Gran, as you’ve probably gathered, doesn’t have much of a filter. She thinks it, she says it. I also guess that it’s hard to be polite to a mother-in-law who thinks you’re one step up from pond slime, so Mum not dropping round for tea and Wagon Wheels is understandable.

Uncle Mike is a different kettle of fish. Gran is his mother, after all, and, okay, he did pop in from time to time, but not as much as you’d expect from an only surviving son. He’s never said it, but the impression he gives is that his job is so demanding that he has difficulty finding time. He’s a real estate agent so he basically lives on his phone. When he’s not telling someone that it’s all about location, location, location or similar crap, he’s unloading Open for Inspection A-frames from the back of his car and schmoozing potential homebuyers with his own brand of sickening charm. If I had to choose an occupation for my uncle, there’d be three options – real estate agent, used-car salesman or con artist. I reckon I’ve got two out of the three.

‘Poor Mum,’ said Uncle Mike.

There was silence while we all digested these wise words.

‘So what’s going to happen now?’ asked my mother.

Uncle Mike immediately became energised. He’s better with action than with feigning emotions.

‘Well,’ he said while Mum topped up their glasses (hers a bit more than his). ‘It seems to me there are three options, none of them good.’ He held up one finger. ‘First, she could stay in the hospital, though I’m not certain that would work out anyway. They need beds, you know, and I’m not convinced they even have a palliative care area for those like Mum who are . . . you know.’ Dying, I thought about adding, but didn’t. He put up another finger. ‘Second, we could get her into a nursing home where her final days would be made comfortable. The problem with that is the cost. I don’t know how much money Mum has at her disposal but I do know that these places charge like a wounded bull.’ Not to mention the hole it would make in your inheritance, I thought about adding, but didn’t. He put up a third finger. ‘Finally,’ he said, ‘she could live at home, but that option would require someone looking after her. Maybe a full-time carer. Possibly part-time. That would be the most cost-effective solution and it would mean that Mum got to spend her last days in a place that’s familiar.’

Mum and Uncle Mike sipped their wine and thought it over.

I didn’t have to. There was no way Gran was going to go for either of the first two options. And she wasn’t going to be happy with a carer either, someone paid to help her on and off the toilet. She’d told me once that the only thing she had was her dignity. No one was going to take that away from her.

‘I’ll look after her,’ I said. ‘I’ll move in.’

Uncle Mike looked positively ecstatic at that, but he quickly hid the joy. Not before he’d done the mental maths, I suspected. Cost zero. Inheritance maximised. Win all round. He eyed me gravely.

‘That’s a big responsibility, Grace,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I could agree to you doing that. I mean, I would look after her, but . . .’ All those houses that need selling, I mentally finished for him. Plus the one that would be vacant when Gran carked it. I imagined he was already drafting the blurb. Charming two-bedroom bungalow in prime location, close to local schools and affording uninterrupted views of neighbours’ gardens full of rusted utes.

‘Gran wouldn’t agree to anything else,’ I said. ‘Hell, she might not agree to that, given she’s a stubborn old bat. But if she’s okay with it, I’ll do it.’

‘What about school?’ asked Uncle Mike. Not that he cared.

‘I’ve got two weeks off,’ I replied. ‘When the new term starts we can think about what to do.’ I shifted my bum, which was starting to ache. ‘When she gets bad, when she’s near the end, I can always take more time off if necessary.’

There was further silence and further wine sipping.

‘If you’re sure,’ said Mum, ‘we’ll ask if that works for her.’

I nodded. Mum wouldn’t have to hide the vodka bottle and I’d bet that was a positive outcome running through her head.

I lay on my bed and thought things over. At least, I tried, but Jake had come into my room and was bothering me with questions. Most of the time you can’t squeeze a word out of him, but when you want quiet he carries on like a pork chop.

‘So Grandma’s dying?’ he said.

‘Nail on the head there, Jakey old friend.’

‘How do you feel about that?’

I turned onto my side and tried to see him in the corner of my bedroom, but the darkness was too deep. I lay on my back and put my hands behind my head.

‘You sound like my therapist,’ I said. ‘How do I feel about that? How do you think I feel?’

He shrugged. I didn’t see him shrug, but sometimes you can just tell these things. Actually, to be fair, it was a good question. How did I feel? I’m not sure I felt anything, and I know that sounds like I’m a cold and heartless bitch. I was thinking through the practicalities. The other bedroom in Gran’s house was a fairly grisly affair with chunky wooden furniture in dark shades and curtains that were probably never in fashion. Would I be able to turn it into a place where I could relax, work on my magic and let my imagination flourish? It would require some serious painting of walls, probably a new carpet and a new bed. I’d bet the one in the spare room had rusty springs that would impale you if you turned over too quickly. I reckoned that Uncle Mike would pay for all of that and still consider himself in profit.

Then there was the day-to-day business of looking after Gran. True, she was pretty independent right now, and probably wouldn’t let me help out with cooking and scrubbing the floors. Just as well, because I wouldn’t scrub the floors anyway. I think I’ve established that point. But the sicker she got, the more I’d have to do. Could I really bathe her or get her onto the toilet and wipe her arse? The prospect didn’t fill me with excitement, but I could forgive myself for that. In the end, I’d almost certainly do what had to be done.

What I couldn’t imagine was the emotional load. How would I be, watching someone getting sicker and sicker and being powerless to stop it? Okay, I’m good at staying away from unpleasant feelings – all feelings, actually – but how would I react if I was there to listen to her last breath, to see her body relax or, worse, spasm into death and know that nothing could put life back into the emptiness that remained? That she had stopped being Gran and had turned into . . . nothing? Would I cry? Or would I feel disgust with myself because I couldn’t?

I was going to find out. Because I knew one thing. Gran would not die alone.

‘How do you feel about Gran, Jake?’ I asked.

But there was no reply. He’d buggered off while I was thinking, and I hadn’t even heard the bedroom door shut.

I closed my eyes. There was another thing that was preying on me. Time was running out in more ways than one. I had to do something about Uncle Mike and I had to do it soon.

I met up with Simon at ten in the morning in the local library. I still didn’t feel comfortable about letting him know where I live. He had on another appalling T-shirt and I knew at some point I would have to have a word with him, because he was now flirting with the unacceptable.

We found a quiet area and he brought up the TikTok video he’d uploaded. I had to confess he’d done a good job, because even I was impressed by the trick and I knew how it had been done. The whole thing was over in about a minute.

‘Keep them short and punchy,’ said Simon. ‘Attention spans are woefully short, as you probably know.’

‘Sorry, what were we talking about?’ I replied.

‘The TikTok video.’

I sighed.

‘Did I make your sense of humour vanish, Simon?’ I asked.

He gave a sheepish grin and smiled. ‘Oh, yeah. Sorry.’ He put the phone away. ‘The good news is you’ve already got over a thousand views and two hundred and thirty-odd followers. In less than a day.’

‘That’s good, is it?’

He frowned. ‘I don’t know.’ Then he smiled. ‘But it’s a start. We need to be getting into the millions of views and hundreds of thousands of followers. So I’ve used the Promote function on the app. One thousand views for roughly ten bucks. I’ve bought three thousand.’

‘Isn’t that cheating? And who’s paying?’

‘It’s business. And I am. Anyway, I’m hoping it’ll be like a boulder down a hill – you know, gathering momentum the more views you get.’

‘Hmmm.’

He leaned forward and put his arms on the desk.

‘We need to build,’ he said. ‘Another video in the next day or two, something even more spectacular. Can you do that?’

I spread my arms wide.

‘Are bears Catholic?’ I asked. ‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’

He just frowned and cocked his head to one side.

‘If you like,’ I continued, ‘I’ll show you what I have in mind.’

‘Now?’

‘Why not?’

He looked around the library in a furtive fashion.

‘Tell you what,’ he whispered. ‘How about I record it now? If you stuff it up or something, then you can redo it later. I mean, the street magic bit is okay but maybe we need to mix it up a little. You know, a touch of variety in the background.’

I looked around the library but at least I wasn’t being furtive about it. The background he’d get wouldn’t exactly be riveting – just piles of books in the huge rack behind me, but I guessed it was as good as any. And, to be honest, the struggle I’d had yesterday getting people to give up their cappuccinos and their phones was not something I was keen to revisit.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘But I need you to be the audience. No need to see your face, which is probably an advantage, just your hand when you pick a card and sign it. Reckon you can do that and keep the phone steady?’

‘Sure.’

‘Good. But I need you to know what to focus on in this trick. ’Cause there’s a few elements and I don’t want you filming my hands when you should be on my face. Yeah?’

I talked him through the trick. Well, not the trick itself, but what he should be getting in frame and when. When I was sure he understood, I took a pack of cards from my bag and placed it on the table in front of me. Simon got out his phone and fiddled with the settings. We nodded at each other. Showtime. Again.

I opened the pack of cards and put the deck face up on the table, did a broad spread to show the mixture of suits and numbers. Then I picked them up and shuffled. I could have done the normal riffle shuffle, but I did the one-handed thing again, moving wedges of cards over and under. It would look good, and looks were important. When the deck was well shuffled I spread the cards again, face down, flat on the desk and waved my hand in Simon’s direction. He took one from wherever he wanted in the deck, then held the card up to the camera so the audience could see it, while I kept my eyes averted. I made a pen appear, handed it to Simon, and turned my back while he wrote on his chosen card – initials or a signature. It didn’t matter. Then he placed it back into the deck at a random point. Anyone viewing would think there’s no way I could know what card it was. Simon handed the pen back to me. I took it in the index fingers of both hands so it was horizontal to the camera, then brought my hands together. The pen was gone. Simple stuff so far.

I picked up the cards, shuffled and then put them back into the pack, folded the ends together so the pack was sealed, and placed it back onto the table. The next bit is slightly embarrassing, so bear with me. I waved both hands over the pack, perhaps ten centimetres over the surface. It was one of those abracadabra waves, all mystical and shit, which was why it was embarrassing. But I reckoned whoever watched the vid would lap up that kind of cheesy crap. Then I made one hand into a fist and brought it down hard onto the pack, which crumpled. I took up the pack slowly and crushed it in my hand. I was trusting that Simon was zooming in on this because close-up magic needs . . . well, close-ups. Stop me if I’m getting too technical.

I rubbed my hands together, like I was washing them, the crumpled pack just visible in my grip. Then I spread both hands. Instead of the pack, there was a small pile of dust, which I blew towards the lens. I brushed my hands and put them palms down on the table. So far, so good. I was pleased to see that Simon had adjusted his phone to focus on my face. The next bit was the Prestige, and the trick would sink or swim on how it was done.

I pretended to cough, a little at first, but then getting stronger, like I had something stuck in my throat and was trying to puke it up. I made my eyes widen as if something shocking was going on. Then, with my tongue, I poked the edge of a card out between my lips; a small sliver at first. I coughed again and a bit more of the card was revealed. I lifted my thumb and index finger to the card, took it out of my mouth, and held it up to the camera. The eight of diamonds with a big Si scrawled in its centre in felt-tip pen. I held the card so it would dominate the screen, kept it there for a few seconds. Then a flame appeared at the bottom, spread, and in a few seconds the eight of diamonds was ablaze. I dropped it onto the desk and it curled, blackened and smoked.

‘Cut!’ I said.

Simon lowered the phone and looked at me. I’d like to report that his eyes were full of admiration or awe or something equally flattering, but he just looked bewildered. That was okay. I’d settle for bewildered.

‘How the hell did you do that?’ he asked. At least there was a breathless quality to his voice, which was better for my ego.

‘Channelled my inner Shin Lim,’ I said.

‘Who?’

I just smiled. Mysterious, enigmatic Amazing Grace.

Not everyone was impressed, however. A minute later we were being thrown out of the library by an outraged librarian who seemed to think that setting things on fire in a place packed with combustible books was a slightly less than brilliant idea.

I have to confess she probably had a point.