Sidequest for Love by L.H. Cosway

Miracle of all miracles, was he actually, like, chatting me up or something? Be still my beating heart. Or is he just the friendly, chatty type? I consider these questions as I walk inside the café three buildings down from our office and order two lattes to go. I briefly think about ordering something for the tiger, aka Jay Fields, but he might be one of those picky coffee drinkers, so I don’t.

When I get back, I find Dad’s shut himself inside his office with Jay, and the next appointment is already waiting to be seen. She’s a middle-aged woman wearing a neck brace. I haven’t had the chance to look at her information, but I can imagine what she’s here for. Some sort of accident claim.

What I really want to know is what Jay’s here for. Yep, I’m already wondering about this man way too much. I remember him calling up last week to make the appointment, and somehow I neglected to ask him what kind of a claim he wanted to make. It’s weird, too, because I have my set spiel for appointments, and I never forget to ask for all the information I need. It’s almost like my subconscious knew I was speaking with a gorgeous man, thus rendering me double “F-ed”: frazzled and forgetful.

Knowing Dad will want his caffeine fix as soon as possible, I knock lightly on the door and wait to be let in. Dad calls for me to enter and I do, opening the door with the paper coffee cup in my hand. Jay’s sitting in the seat in front of Dad’s desk, his hands clasped together over his head as he lounges back, casual as you please. I can feel his eyes on me as I walk to Dad and give him his beverage. He seems a little out of sorts, so I put a hand on his shoulder and ask, “Everything okay?”

Dad looks lost in his own head for a minute, and I have to repeat the question a second time to get him to answer me.

“What? Oh, yes, everything’s fine. Thanks for the coffee, chicken,” he mutters.

“It might be me who’s the problem,” Jays puts in. “I just presented your old man with a case he’s not sure he wants to take.”

I look at Jay now, my brow furrowing. Who the hell is this guy? What he’s said has piqued my curiosity, though, so I close the door and fold my arms. Unless I’m needed to take notes, I don’t normally sit in on meetings with clients, but Dad’s demeanour has put me on edge, my protective instincts kicking into gear.

Jay grins in a way that makes me think he’s pleased with my attention. “Oh, now she’s curious.”

Okay, this man might be beautiful, but he’s also kind of strange.

“Did you want to make a claim against someone?” I ask, because Dad still isn’t talking. I suppose he’s still considering whatever Jay’s case is.

“Nope. I want to sue someone,” says Jay, all matter-of-fact.

“For what?”

“Defamation of character,” he answers before pulling a newspaper out of his bag. He flips through it, folds it open to the page he’s looking for, and hands it to me. I glance down at the tabloid, scanning the bold headline that reads, “Illusionist Jay Fields Causes Death of Volunteer.” I let my eyes drift briefly over the article, which features a promotional picture of Jay holding up a six of hearts card. Oh. Now I remember where I know him from.

A couple of weeks ago The Daily Post broke a story about an Irish-American illusionist with a new show coming to RTÉ. He was filming an upcoming episode when a tragic accident hit. I scan the article before me, recalling the details. A couple of hours after wrapping up the filming of an episode where Jay was paying homage to Houdini by re-creating a version of his “Buried Alive” stunt, the volunteer who’d taken part had died of a heart attack.

What Jay proposed to do was to put the volunteer, David Murphy, into a hypnotic state whereby he would only breathe in very little air, allowing him to be buried for twenty-four hours in an empty grave and not suffocate in the process. An impossible feat, many would say. The volunteer was given a panic button, and if anything went wrong, he could press it, and he’d be immediately dug up. In the end the panic button wasn’t needed, and he miraculously managed to survive the entire twenty-four hours underground. However, when he went to bed that night, he suffered a fatal heart attack and died.

Needless to say, the tabloids caught on to the story and began posing questions about whether or not Jay’s stunt had somehow caused David Murphy to have his heart attack. After all, being buried alive is quite the traumatic experience.

The piece before me, written by a well-known crime journalist named Una Harris, who was the one to break the initial story about Jay, is certainly extreme. It delves into Jay’s background in America, where she claims he spent a year in a juvenile detention facility for assaulting a man on the street. Before that he’d been a runaway, squatting in derelict buildings in Boston.

Harris poses questions about Jay’s less than squeaky-clean background. She wonders how a man who spent time in prison, even if it was a young offenders’ prison, would be given permission to carry out dangerous stunts as he had been doing in his show. She also wonders why Jay, who had been performing some very successful live shows in Las Vegas, would give all that up to move to such a small pond as Ireland to film a series that would only reach a tiny audience in comparison to the States.

Overall, she basically out and out claims that Jay had shady motives for coming here, and perhaps he even intended for David Murphy to die. He did, after all, almost beat a man to death when he was just fifteen. Perhaps he’s simply come up with a more elaborate way to feed his need to harm people, Harris muses.