The first time I see him he is pissing against a fence.
‘Sorry love.’ He looks only mildly embarrassed and turns away finishing the job in hand and fumbling to do up his trousers.  It’s a hot summer’s afternoon and the stream of urine forms a pool on the parched earth, before disappearing in steaming rivulets between the cracks. A few feet away snuffling in the grass is the biggest dog I have ever seen. The man follows my gaze.
‘Don’t worry about him, he’s a big softy really.’ As if knowing we’re talking about him the dog raises his head and lollops back towards us. He is soft mink grey and comes up to my waist.  Offering my hand, I’m rewarded with an eager cold nose pressed up against it.
‘What’s his name?’ My nails scratch the deep ruff of fur at the dog’s neck. He pushes back against my legs, almost knocking me off balance.
‘Houdini’, the man pauses for a moment and shrugs. ‘I used to be an escapologist.’  It was almost an apology.
‘Really? I bet you have some tales to tell.’ I laugh, catching his eye and holding his gaze.  There is a silence, the palpable almost pregnant quiet where you’re not quite sure what’s going to come next.  A chiming from my left jeans pocket breaks the spell.  ‘Sorry.’ I take my phone out and stop the alarm.
‘I’m Tom by the way, I’d offer to shake your hand but well…’
‘Mari – and I’ll pass on the handshake.’ I check my phone. ‘Look, I’ve got to get going. I’m running late as it is.’  I give the dog one last pat and step around him, making sure to dodge the almost absorbed patch of urine and continue down the path. Tom calls after me.
‘Maybe I can tell you about it another day; the escapology?’
‘Yes. I think I’d like that.’ I shout over my shoulder.

I bump into him again the next day.  I’ve been shopping up the high street, and I’m hurrying home laden with bags stuffed with fruit and vegetables.  I’ve taken the short cut that runs over the railway bridge and past the waterside. It’s quiet, no one really comes down here that much, they tend to hang out in the local park, flocked together like chattering jackdaws.   I hear the dog before I see him, a padding of paws and a heavy panting.  Before I know it he has snaffled the big fat leek whose leafy green top was poking out of my bag.
‘Houdini drop’, the command is authoritative and firm and the dog releases his contraband dropping it at my feet. Tom appears retrieving the leek from the dusty path and offering it with a magicians flourish.
‘Do you mind?’ He passes the leek back to me.
‘No, it’s fine, I’m sure it will wash off.’ I stuff the leek back into my bag where it continues to poke incongruously over the top.
‘It’s all smoke and mirrors you know.’ I must look confused because he adds, ‘Escapology, it’s all smoke and mirrors. There’s no magic to it, it’s all in your mind.’
‘Isn’t everything?’
‘Pretty much.  Magic exists because we want to believe the unbelievable.  The more we insist we’re in control the more malleable we become. Go figure. Fancy a drink?’  He opens his backpack and nestled inside are four chilled cans of some premium lager.  I can see drops of condensation nestled on the top of each can. Trapping the sun’s rays, each one contains a miniature dancing rainbow.  It is the sixth day of the heat wave; the air is thick and viscous. Gathering in my back is a small pool of sweat and I feel like he is throwing me a life buoy.
‘Yes please, why the hell not?’ I take one of the cans, dropping my bags to the ground and we sit on the bankside our feet dangling over the edge looking at the water.

‘It’s been here since 1613 you know? They built it to get water from Hertfordshire to London. It’s pretty cool really, it relies on gravity to get the water to flow.’ I say, indicating the New River in front of us. He nods opening his can, and taking a long slow drink.  ‘People have drowned themselves in it.’ I’m not looking at him, but at the green weeds swaying deep under the water. They aren’t just one green, they are a kaleidoscope of emerald and olive and lime, constantly shifting and changing with the light.  ‘Some writer, Charles Lamb I think, wrote about it after his mate killed himself; he called it “a wretched conduit.” ’ I’m still watching the movement of the water over the weeds.  It reminds me of that painting of Ophelia – a tragic heroine about to drown.  I went to see it in the Tate recently. I couldn’t get over how peaceful and accepting she was; all the vestiges of insanity gone.  I picture myself slipping into that cold clear water, my lunacy ebbing away. No longer the need to fight just to get through each day. Just letting the rope of those long green leaves caress me and carry me away, soothing in my surrender.

‘Do you want to know?’ Tom says.  I am jolted back to the present.  The dog, having finished rustling in the undergrowth, flops down beside him, the contraband vegetable now clasped firmly in his mouth.  When had he managed to get that? I hadn’t felt a thing.  Houdini looks pleased with himself and starts chomping and crunching away, filling the air with the sweet pungent smell of leek.
‘Do I want to know what?’
‘How to be an escapologist?’
‘I’ve never really thought about it before.’ I take a drink, ‘I guess you have to be good at tying knots. A regular boy scout.’
‘No.’ he smiles. ‘You just have to be good at untying them.’ He holds his hands out in front of him, fingers splayed wide. It reminds me of what my yoga teacher would call starfish hands, allowing you to ground yourself and connect to the earth.  Sometimes, when I start to feel like I’m drifting away I put my hands wide spaced on a wall in front of me. Willing myself to connect with this reality, tethering me and reminding me who I really am.  It doesn’t always work.

‘You give someone the rope; ask them to tie it up as tight as they can. But look.’ He moves his fingers in a little dance.  ‘A little bit of wiggle room is all it needs.  Same if you tense your muscles.’  He does a strong man impression and shoots me a cheeky grin.  ‘And talking, you just keep talking, a little bit of distraction goes a long way and then you usually have it in (or out) of the bag.’ He grins at his own joke.
‘People like to think they can outwit you. Take, for example, asking them to suspend you by your feet.  Which do you think is better for me, one rope or two?’
‘One I guess, less to escape from.’ I answer.
‘Well now, that’s what most people think.  So when you suggest to them that maybe two is better they usually take the bait.  But you see with two ropes you always have one to hold onto, release the tension and create the wiggle space you need. ’ He slaps his thighs as if to drive the point home. ‘Look, I’ve really enjoyed talking to you but I have I have to go now.’ he says apologetically. ‘But I’d really like to see you again, will you come back tomorrow?’  The lager and the sun have worked their soporific magic, for the first time in a long time I feel carefree and easy.
‘Yes.’ I lean back and smile.

That night I can’t sleep.  I lie on my bed with the windows thrown wide open, hoping for a breath of wind to break through the stifling heat. Beads of sweat like the drops on the top of the lager can cover my forehead. But these drops contain not rainbows but dark and cloudy storms.  I imagine the cold crisp water covering me and washing away the bedlam in my mind.  I fall asleep to troubled dreams.  In the shower the next morning I stand under the cold faucet my hands pressed wide against the emerald green tiles.

The next day is even hotter that the one before. We sit in the same place, our legs dangling above the flowing water, a seemingly relentless sun beating down on our backs. He hands me a can from his restocked backpack. I tap the top, pull back the metal ring pull and take a long draught.  The lager is cool and refreshing.
‘There’s a storm coming.’ I say.
‘Isn’t there always.’ is his reply.
‘There are three things you need to know to be an escapologist.’ He continues with his explanation.  ‘It all boils down to three things.’  He too is staring at the weeds under the water.  If you look closely you can see small fish darting in and out of the fronds. Occasionally a flower floats past, a red rose from one of the garden fences opposite, followed by a crisp packet, or a plastic bottle – flotsam and jetsam from a modern life.
‘The first thing is always have a plan. It’s important to think things through.  You can’t just let people tie you up without a plan.’  I laugh.
‘I guess not.’ I say.  He turns to look at me, his face serious.
‘No, I mean it, without a plan you might as well just not bother.’ He is twisting his hands round and round, interlacing and interlocking the fingers over and over again.  He has beautiful hands, strong and slender. He picks up his can and takes a swig.
‘The second thing you need to know is, if it isn’t working try again from a different angle.’ I think for a moment before I reply.
‘Under pressure it’s hard to think straight sometimes.  Sometimes you feel like you’ve exhausted all your angles, that there’s just no fight left, nothing more to give, that there’s no where else to go.’ I’m no longer talking to him. I’m drumming my feet against the side of the bank, the steady thuds reverberating in the oppressive air.  I can feel the warmth of the alcohol in my belly spreading through my body heating me from within. My skin feels on fire, the fervour crawling all over me and all I want right now is to jump into the water, to extinguish this furnace before it consumes me.  Tom is still talking, his hands animating and punctuating what he is saying, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil inside of me.
‘And the third thing, the most important one of all is this.’  He pauses, turning to look directly at me, ‘If you think you can’t get out; keep going, you don’t know how close you are.’  For a moment his bright blue eyes go dark and I feel a shiver run though my body. He leans back slightly and winks breaking the tension. We both laugh.  Reaching into the backpack he offers me a second can. Rain clouds are gathering overhead and a few big fat raindrops break the surface of the water.
‘What happened? Why did you give it up?’ I can feel him next to me, his shoulder pressed against mine.
‘I forgot to keep going.’ We sit in silence, swigging our cans, as the storm breaks around us.