Turning the table (standard:Suspense, 2036 words)
Author: red1hols	Added: Nov 14 2002	Views/Reads: 3600/2466	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A man shows a sceptical journalist the secret of his success.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“So for this reason, you chose to harass my friends and colleagues. You
used your newspaper to hint and insinuate. You have gone to the very 
brink of libel in attempt to smear my reputation. Yet all you have is 
co-incidence?” My voice remains calm as I return the cold smile. 

We spar like this until Jackson returns with the tea. He serves it from
a large Georgian silver service and into the finest china. The reporter 
accepts his tea gracefully, but is not tempted by the cakes. It is not 
until Jackson has left the room that the interview starts in earnest. 

There are questions about my family, my education, and my early career,
particularly my early career. He cannot understand how for five years I 
worked in the accounts department of a small engineering company before 
my career took off. I answer politely and try to remain modest, telling 
him that I made the best of my opportunities. 

My answers do not please him. He does not want to believe my
explanations. The questioning slowly becomes more aggressive, yet I 
remain calm. There is nothing in my answers that gives him hope of 
exposing wrongdoing. There are no hints at any scandal that will boost 
his circulation. His sense of frustration is building. The calm refined 
exterior is showing signs of cracking. 

“Let's face it, Andrew. You are expecting me to believe that you have
risen to become one of the richest men in the country through fate.” At 
last his façade drops, his frustration takes him over. “Your are trying 
to say that you have some ability to see opportunities before anyone 
else. I'm sorry, I don't buy it. You must have had help!” 

“If you turn off that recorder, I will show you something. I doubt if
you will believe it, but I will show you anyway.” 

The speed that he switches off the tape recorder suggests that he has a
spare about his person. It is of no consequence, I have allowed for 
such an eventuality. 

“What do you make of this?” I walk over to the circular table where I
had been writing when he arrived and gently lay my hand on the highly 
polished walnut surface. 

“It looks like an antique table.” He follows me over and inspects it.
“Unusual though, with it having five legs and not the normal four.” 

“This is the secret of my success. I discovered it in the attic of my
first house.” I smile at his disbelieving face, that wonderful feeling 
of victory beginning to sweep through my body. 

“It's just an antique table.” The reporter walks right around the table,
his fingers leaving a trail of smears in the polish. 

I lean down to the hidden handle and turn it anticlockwise. The five
panels in the tabletop slide outward and turn to reveal the alternate 
surface. Into the void in the middle of the table rises a crystal ball, 
it's multifaceted face glistening in the sunshine. The panels click 
into place as the writing box slides out from it's hiding place. 

“Very impressive.” Mr Briggs looks at the table. “I still don't see how
this is the secret of your success.” 

“Do you believe in magic, Mr Briggs?” My question causes the man to
laugh by way of denial. 

“You are a reporter, Mr. Briggs.” I place a mocking tone into my voice.
“You should always keep an open mind. Without an open mind, there are 
so many opportunities that are missed.” 

The reporter is leant across the table, inspecting the astrological
symbols and the star charts. As he slowly moves round the table, he 
spots a circle of light, refracted from the ball in the centre falling 
on the star sign Taurus. 

“Look at that!” he exclaims. “It's a calendar, the light from the ball
is right on today's date!” 

“It's much more than that. It allows me to write a one hundred percent
accurate horoscope. The table allows me to write the future.” 

Despite himself, the reporter takes a step back from the table. I swear
that under his tan he has gone pale. 

“It doesn't bite.” I emphasise my point by caressing the symbols
engraved into the dark wood. “It is really quite simple. By placing 
something belonging to an individual on the dark square next to their 
star sign, I activate the magic.” 

To build the tension, I pause and walk and pick up a chair. I place it
in front of the writing box. 

“This box here is were the deed is done.” I produce a small key from my
pocket and unlock the box. 

“This... this is not possible. You are pulling my leg here.” The
disbelieving reporter is beginning to sweat. 

With a gentle click, the writing box is open. The trays containing the
quills, the sharpening knife, ink, powder and blotter are revealed to 
the reporter's wide-eyed stare. I lift up the writing rest and produce 
a blank scroll. 

“This is goat skin. The same type they write the Queens speech on for
the opening of Parliament. You don't need to use such expensive 
parchment of course, but it seems more appropriate don't you think?” 

The reporter seems hypnotised by the scroll. The paleness has been
replaced bys a flushing of his cheeks and he is sweating profusely now. 
He runs a finger around his collar leaving a grey smudge of dampness. 

“When is your Birthday, Mr. Briggs?” I smile my best crocodile smile at
the young man. 

“Err... I can't remember” he stammers and shakes his head. 

“Come now, everyone remembers their own birthday.” I move slowly around
the table until I come to the sign of the scorpion. “Still, no matter. 
I will help you out. Your birthday is the ninth of November, making you 
a Scorpio.” 

“How do you know that?” his tone is challenging. 

“I believe your biography is on your newspapers Internet web site. I
took the liberty of finding out about you when you wrote requesting the 
interview. It wasn't difficult, everything I needed was on your 
business card.” 

There was a hint of terror in his widened eyes as I produced his
business card and laid it on the black square on the table next to the 
engraved scorpion. Stepping back half a pace, I inspected it and then 
moved forward to position it so it was squarely in the centre. 

“Once I have an item belonging to a person in the correct square on the
table, I can then write a prediction for that person on the writing 
box.” I sat down in the chair and started to inspect the quills. 

“You must think me stupid. To believe this claptrap. The whole idea is
ludicrous!” he makes a play at bravado, which he doesn't quite pull 
off. 

“This is not claptrap. I'll prove it to you.” With slow precision I
select a quill and flip open the lid of the inkwell. 

“No!” With amazing speed and agility, the reporter moves over and
snatches his business card from the table. “This is all totally, 
totally ridiculous.” 

As I watch, he rips up the business card and throws the pieces into the
fire. 

“I see.” I fix the reporter with a stare. “Can I take it then that there
is no further need of investigation of my affairs?” 

The reporter stands and tries to return my stare and fails. In the end
his eyes move to his shoes, but he makes no response. 

“No matter.” I replace the quill, the lid on the inkwell and rise from
the chair. “The interview is terminated and I think you should leave 
now.” 

Such is his urgency he does not wait for my butler to escort him. His
recorder is scooped up and he almost runs to the door. I watch as the 
wheels on his car spin on the gravel and the car speeds to the gates. 
There is barely time for the gates to open before he through them and 
gone. 

It's a real shame. The poor man didn't take the horoscope I prepared for
him earlier. There was a lot of time and effort spent in its 
preparation. The calligraphy is particularly good I think. With a heavy 
heart I throw it into the fire. 

The sun is slowly sinking behind the hill now. Mr Briggs has his scoop.
He has his final big story, the big headline that would have truly made 
his reputation. Few would believe it of course. Not that they will 
never have the chance to decide. In a few minutes, the sun will set and 
his car will spin off the road. Poor Mr Briggs, his tape recorders and 
his huge exclusive will all be engulfed in a fireball and turned to 
ash. 


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