The Prestige

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THE PRESTIGE

by Christopher Priest

Flyleaf:

After ten years of quietude, author Christopher Priest (nominated one of the Best of Young
British Novelists in 1983) returns with a triumphant tale of dueling prestidigitators and
impossible acts.

In 1878, two young stage magicians clash in a darkened salon during the course of a
fraudulent séance. From this moment, their lives spin webs of deceit and exposure as they
feud to outwit each other. Their rivalry takes them both to the peak of their careers, but
with terrible consequences. It is not enough that blood will be spilt — their legacy is
one that will pass on for generations.

The Prestige
is a chimerical triumph of storytelling magic, a fiercely compelling tale of revenge and
illusion. Awarded Britain's prestigious James Tait Black Memorial Prize and nominated also
for the Arthur C. Clarke Award,
The Prestige
is a masterpiece of imaginative storytelling.

THE PRESTIGE. Copyright 1995 by Christopher Priest.

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

ISBN 0-312-14705-8

First published in Great Britain by Touchstone, an imprint of Simon & Schuster Ltd.

First U.S. Edition: October 1996

For Elizabeth and Simon

Acknowledgements

The author wishes to acknowledge with thanks the help given by the Authors' Foundation

Also thanks to John Wade, David Langford, Leigh Kennedy… and the members of alt.magic

It began on a train, heading north through England, although I was soon to discover that
the story had really begun more than a hundred years earlier.

I had no sense of any of this at the time: I was on company time, following up a report of
an incident at a religious sect. On my lap lay the bulky envelope I had received from my
father that morning, still unopened, because when Dad phoned to tell me about it my mind
had been elsewhere. A bedroom door slamming, my girlfriend in the middle of walking out on
me. “Yes, Dad,” I had said, as Zelda stormed past with a boxful of my compact discs. “Drop
it in the mail, and I'll have a look.”

After I had read the morning's edition of the
Chronicle
, and bought a sandwich and a cup of instant coffee from the refreshment trolley, I opened
Dad's envelope. A large-format paperback book slipped out, with a note loose inside and a
used envelope folded in half.

The note said, “Dear Andy, Here is the book I told you about. I think it was sent by the
same woman who rang me. She asked me if I knew where you were. I'm enclosing the envelope
the book arrived in. The postmark is a bit blurred, but maybe you can make it out. Your
mother would love to know when you are coming to stay with us again. How about next
weekend? With love, Dad.”

At last I remembered some of my father's phonecall. He told me the book had arrived, and
that the woman who had sent it appeared to be some kind of distant relative, because she
had been talking about my family. I should have paid more attention to him.

Here, though, was the book. It was called
Secret Methods of Magic
, and the author was one Alfred Borden. To all appearances it was one of those
instructional books of card tricks, sleight of hand, illusions involving silk scarves, and
so on. The only aspect of it that interested me at first glance was that although it was a
recently published paperback, the text itself appeared to be a facsimile of a much older
edition: the typography, the illustrations, the chapter headings and the laboured writing
style all suggested this.

I couldn't see why I should be interested in such a book. Only the author's name was
familiar: Borden was the surname I had been born with, although when I was adopted as a
small child my name was changed to that of my adoptive parents. My name now, my full and
legal name, is Andrew Westley, and although I have always known that I was adopted I grew
up thinking of Duncan and Jillian Westley as Dad and Mum, loved them as parents, and
behaved as their son. All this is still true. I feel nothing for my natural parents. I'm
not curious about them or why they put me up for adoption, and have no wish ever to trace
them now that I am an adult. All that is in my distant past, and they have always felt
irrelevant to me.

There is, though, one matter concerning my background that borders on the obsessive.

I am certain or to be accurate almost certain, that I was born one of a pair of identical
twins, and that my brother and I were separated at the time of adoption. I have no idea
why this was done, nor where my brother might be, but I have always assumed that he was
adopted at the same time as me. I only started to suspect his existence when I was
entering my teens. By chance I came across a passage in a book, an adventure story, that
described the way in which many pairs of twins are linked by an inexplicable, apparently
psychic contact. Even when separated by hundreds of miles or living in different
countries, such twins will share feelings of pain, surprise, happiness, depression, one
twin sending to the other, and vice versa. Reading this was one of those moments in life
when suddenly a lot of things become clear.

All my life, as long as I can remember, I have had the feeling that
someone else
is sharing my life. As a child, with nothing to go on apart from the actual experience, I
thought little of it and assumed everyone else had the same feelings. As I grew older, and
I realized none of my friends was going through the same thing, it became a mystery.
Reading the book therefore came as a great relief as it seemed to explain everything. I
had a twin somewhere.

The feeling of rapport is in some ways vague, a sense of being cared for, even watched
over, but in others it is much more specific. The general feeling is of a constant
background, while more direct “messages” come only occasionally. These are acute and
precise, even though the actual communication is invariably non-verbal.

Once or twice when I have been drunk, for example, I have felt my brother's consternation
growing in me, a fear that I might come to some harm. On one of these occasions, when I
was leaving a party late at night and was about to drive myself home, the flash of concern
that reached me was so powerful I felt myself sobering up! I tried describing this at the
time to the friends I was with, but they joked it away. Even so I drove home inexplicably
sober that night.

In turn, I have sometimes sensed my brother in pain, or frightened, or threatened in some
way, and have been able to “send” feelings of calm, or sympathy, or reassurance towards
him. It is a psychic mechanism I can use without understanding it. No one to my knowledge
has ever satisfactorily explained it, even though it is common and well documented.

There is in my case, however, an extra mystery.

Not only have I never been able to trace my brother, as far as records are concerned I
never had a brother of any kind, let alone a twin. I do have intermittent memories of my
life before adoption, although I was only three when that happened, and I can't remember
my brother at all. Dad and Mum knew nothing about it; they have told me that when they
adopted me there was no suggestion of my having a brother.

As an adoptee you have certain legal rights. The most important of these is protection
from your natural parents: they cannot contact you by any legal means. Another right is
that when you reach adulthood you are able to ask about some of the circumstances
surrounding your adoption. You can find out the names of your natural parents, for
instance, and the address of the court of law where the adoption was made, and therefore
where relevant records can be examined.

I followed all this up soon after my eighteenth birthday, anxious to find out what I could
about my brother. The adoption agency referred me to Ealing County Court where the papers
were kept, and here I discovered that I had been put up for adoption by my father, whose
name was Clive Alexander Borden. My mother's name was Diana Ruth Borden (née Ellington),
but she had died soon after I was born. I assumed that the adoption happened because of
her death, but in fact I was not adopted for more than two years after she died, during
which period my father brought me up by himself. My own original name was Nicholas Julius
Borden. There was nothing about any other child, adopted or otherwise.

I later checked birth records at St Catherine's House in London, but these confirmed I was
the Bordens’ only child.

Even so, my psychic contacts with my twin remained through all this, and have continued
ever since.

The book had been published in the USA by Dover Publications, and was a handsome,
well-made paperback. The cover painting depicted a dinner-jacketed stage magician pointing
his hands expressively towards a wooden cabinet, from which a young lady was emerging. She
was wearing a dazzling smile and a costume which for the period was probably considered
saucy.

Under the author's name was printed: “Edited and annotated by Lord Colderdale.”

At the bottom of the cover, in bold white lettering, was the blurb: “The Famous
Oath-Protected Book of Secrets”.

A longer and much more descriptive blurb on the back cover went into greater detail:

Originally published as a strictly limited edition in 1905 in London, this book was sold
only to professional magicians who were prepared to swear an oath of secrecy about its
contents. First edition copies are now exceedingly rare, and virtually impossible for
general readers to obtain.

Made publicly available for the first time, this new edition is completely unabridged and
contains all the original illustrations, as well as the notes and supplementary text
provided by Britain's Earl of Colderdale, a noted contemporary
amateur
of magic.

The author is Alfred Borden, inventor of the legendary illusion The New Transported Man.
Borden, whose stage name was Le Professeur de la Magie, was in the first decade of this
century the leading stage illusionist. Encouraged in his early years by John Henry
Anderson, and as a protégé of Nevil Maskelyne’s, Borden was a contemporary of Houdini,
David Devant, Chung Ling Soo and Buatier de Kolta. He was based in London, England, but
frequently toured the United States and Europe.

While not strictly speaking an instruction manual, this book with its broad understanding
of magical methods will give both laymen and professionals startling insights into the
mind of one of the greatest magicians who ever lived.

It was amusing to discover that one of my ancestors had been a magician, but I had no
special interest in the subject. I happen to find some kinds of conjuring tedious; card
tricks, especially, but many others too. The illusions you sometimes see on television are
impressive, but I have never felt curious about how the effects are in fact achieved. I
remember someone once saying that the trouble with magic was that the more a magician
protects his secrets, the more banal they turn out to be.

Alfred Borden's book contained a long section on card tricks, and another described tricks
with cigarettes and coins. Explanatory drawings and instructions accompanied each one. At
the back of the book was a chapter about stage illusions, with many illustrations of
cabinets with hidden compartments, boxes with false bottoms, tables with lifting devices
concealed behind curtains, and other apparatus. I glanced through some of these pages.

The first half of the book was not illustrated, but consisted of a long account of the
author's life and outlook on magic. It began with the following words:

“I write in the year 1901. ”

“My name, my real name, is Alfred Borden. The story of my life is the story of the secrets
by which I have lived my life. They are described in this narrative for the first and last
time; this is the only extant copy. ”

“I was born in 1856 on the eighth day of the month of May, in the coastal town of
Hastings. I was a healthy, vigorous child. My father was a tradesman of that borough, a
master wheelwright and cooper. Our house—”

I briefly imagined the writer of this book settling down to begin his memoir. For no exact
reason I visualized him as a tall, dark-haired man, stern-faced and bearded, slightly
hunched, wearing narrow reading glasses, working in a pool of light thrown by a solitary
lamp placed next to his elbow. I imagined the rest of the household in a deferential
silence, leaving the master in peace while he wrote. The reality was no doubt different,
but stereotypes of our forebears are difficult to throw off.

I wondered what relation Alfred Borden would be to me. If the line of descent was direct,
in other words if he wasn't a cousin or an uncle, then he would be my great- or
great-great-grandfather. If he was born in 1856, he would have been in his middle forties
when he wrote the book; it seemed likely he was therefore not my father's father, but of
an earlier generation.

The Introduction was written in much the same style as the main text, with several long
explanations about how the book came into being. The book appeared to be based on Borden's
private notebook, not intended for publication. Colderdale had considerably expanded and
clarified the narrative, and added the descriptions of most of the tricks. There was no
extra biographical information about Borden, but presumably I would find some if I read
the whole book.

I couldn't see how the book was going to tell me anything about my brother. He remained my
only interest in my natural family.

At this point my mobile phone began beeping. I answered it quickly, knowing how other
train passengers can be irritated by these things. It was Sonja, the secretary of my
editor, Len Wickham. I suspected at once that Len had got her to call me, to make sure I
was on the train.

“Andy, there's been a change of plan about the car,” she said. “Eric Lambert had to take
it in for a repair to the brakes, so it's in a garage.”

She gave me the address. It was the availability of this car in Sheffield, a high-mileage
Ford renowned for frequent breakdowns, that prevented me from driving up in my own car.
Len wouldn't authorize the expenses if a company car was on hand.

“Did Uncle say anything else?” I said.

“Such as?”

“This story's still on?”

“Yes.”

“Has anything else come in from the agencies?”

“We've had a faxed confirmation from the State Penitentiary in California. Franklin is
still a prisoner.”

“All right.”

We hung up. While I was still holding the phone I punched in my parents’ number, and spoke
to my father. I told him I was on my way to Sheffield, would be driving from there into
the Peak District and if it was OK with them (of course it would be) I could come and stay
the night. My father sounded pleased. He and Jillian still lived in Wilmslow, Cheshire,
and now I was working in London my trips to see them were infrequent.

I told him I had received the book.

“Have you any idea why it was sent to you?” he said.

“Not the faintest.”

“Are you going to read it?”

“It's not my sort of thing. I'll look through it one day.”

“I noticed it was written by someone called Borden.”

“Yes. Did she say anything about that?”

“No. I don't think so.”

After we had hung up I put the book in my case and stared through the train window at the
passing countryside. The sky was grey, and rain was streaking the glass. I had to
concentrate on the incident I was being sent to investigate. I worked for the
Chronicle
, specifically as a general features writer, a label which was grander than the reality.
The true state of affairs was that Dad was himself a newspaperman, and had formerly worked
for the Manchester
Evening Post
, a sister paper to the
Chronicle
. It was a matter of pride to him that I had obtained the job, even though I have always
suspected him of pulling strings for me. I am not a fluent journalist, and have not done
well in the training programme I have been following. One of my serious long-term worries
is that one day I am going to have to explain to my father why I have quit what he
considers to be a prestigious job on the greatest British newspaper.