The Burglar
Part 1

by Vaughan



Jen had not really cased the joint but she had found out that only occupant of the mansion was an old man in his late sixties. As an experienced burglar she felt she could handle an old men and the temptation to enter the place and take a few items that would cover her expenses got the better of her. The moon was a white semi-circle low in the sky and well broken clouds scudded across the sky; these were her preferred conditions because there was light enough for her to see without a torch, but not be seen herself. She wore her usual working clothes of black leggings, a black sweater and black trainers. A pair of special climbing shoes hung at her waist. Over her shoulder was a large black holdall into which she intended to stow the treasures she liberated from her victim and also containing the tools of her trade.

The climb over the wall that surrounded the several acres of the estate was simple enough, without the complication of spikes or broken glass at the top. The approach to the house was equally uneventful, because there was a small wood from the wall to within 100 yards of the imposing building. The next task was to decide where to enter; to help her decide she walked round the house, mentally noting the evidence of an alarm system and the fact that there was only a single room near one end of the house which showed any light.

Even though entering a house while someone was at home was a risk, she decided that she was skillful enough to get in and out without being detected, especially as alarm systems tend be de-activated when people are home. She approached the unlit end of the mansion and tested the strength of the drainpipe. Before climbing, she put on her climbing shoes and her gloves, which were in part to protect her hands and also meant she did not leave fingerprints. The window she had selected had a small balcony outside it, which made her job easier. Doors onto the balcony came open as Jen applied her lock-picking skills and she closed them behind her, before entering the room beyond through the heavy curtains.

The room she had entered was totally dark, because the windows and doors were hung with heavy curtains. Jen stood completely still for a minute while her eyes became accustomed to the very low light level. As she looked around she became aware that this was not a typical upper story room. The first thing that she detect was the darker outline of something very tall almost reaching the very high ceiling. At first sight she dismissed it as a post from a four-poster bed, but then discarded that impression for want of the remaining three posts. The second impression was that the shadow was a guillotine, but she dismissed this on the grounds that you do not find such devices in mansion bedrooms. As her eyes became more used to the dark she could make out the shapes of a variety of boxes; most of the horizontal ones seemed to be on stands, while the vertical ones were free-standing.

Suddenly, she was blinded by the light. She stood stock still, until her eyes recovered the ability to see. The sight she saw did not make her happy. In the only doorway of the room stood an old man cradling a shotgun in his arms. He was dressed rather shabbily in a well-worn silk dressing gown and faded blue and white striped pajama trousers.

The silence was broken when the old man said, in a surprisingly firm voice, "I would rather not shoot you, especially in here, but I will if I have to."

Jen tried to appear relaxed as she knew that people were less likely to shoot you if you do not appear threatening and she figured that in this case, being tense, like a coiled spring was going to appear threatening. Maybe, she thought, I can find an opportunity to escape later, but now is not the moment.

After the pause, the old man explained the situation as he saw it. "It seems to me that you have very few options, dear. You can make a move for the window; in which case I shoot you. You could try and attack me; in which case I shoot you. We can wait here with me pointing this at you," he make a slight gesture with the gun, "and I'll call the police." He released the barrel of the shotgun long enough the tap the bulky handset from a cordless 'phone in the dressing gown pocket. "Your final option is to cooperate with me until I let you go or you reckon you can escape. Do you know what you want to do yet?"

The options that the old man had provided were the options that had crossed Jen's mind and she had already dismissed the first two options as not worth further consideration. She was already known to the police and therefore she would probably end up in prison for a very long time, which she would rather avoid. The only hope was that the old man would offer some sort of deal. "I'll cooperate," she blurted.

"That may not be entirely wise; You don't know what I want, do you?" He paused to let this comment sink in. "Well, as you are co-operating, we might as well introduce ourselves. I'm Trevor Phillips; and you are?"

"Jen," answered Jen.

"And do you have a last name?" he asked. She said nothing. "Oh well, I doesn't matter really; and first names are much more friendly." The quiet took over for a while and then the old man spoke again. "If you are going to cooperate you might as well know what I want you do. I used to be a professional magician, but I retired, because people said my act was too old-fashioned. As you might expect I miss it. I tried performing in various parks until I got a fine for busking without a license. Besides that wasn't as satisfying, because I could not do my favorite illusions. I toyed with the idea of hiring a hall and putting a show on, but I could not get a big enough theatre, cheap enough, unless I mortgaged this place, which I don't want to do. So the only option left was to perform in private for my own pleasure. Then I had to find assistants, but most of the agencies didn't want to know sending unaccompanied models to mansions for unspecified purposes. So I have been unable to perform the illusions I love for the last three years and thought that I might die without the opportunity to do them again. Well, I suppose you've guessed what all this is leading up to; I want you to earn your freedom by being my assistant for the night, then I'll give you breakfast and send you on your way. If you are really good I might give you something as a token of my appreciation."

After another pause, "Well, my dear Jen; You are a quiet one. As for the moment you haven't said 'No', I shall take your silence as a 'Yes'. So, then you might as well put your bag down, because it will be in the way." Jen carefully unshouldered the bag and placed it gently on the floor, the main motive for this care was to avoid startling the old man with the shotgun; but there was the secondary idea that if the bag was positioned right she might be able to retrieve it if she got the chance to escape. "Now that's a weight off, isn't it?" remarked the old man. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, could you step into the open so that I can get a good look at you." Jen took three slow steps between two low pieces of equipment that stood in front of her and another couple sideways to stand in the middle of the clear area of floor that was surrounded on three sides by the boxes and other stuff that she had sensed in the dark.

Mr. Phillips scrutinized Jen for several minutes. She shifted uncomfortably. "Sorry, my dear, but I was just working out what I can do with you. Let's see; First off you aren't really dressed as a magician's assistant should be. I mean, don't be offended, but you aren't dressed to be noticed. But my assistant has to be noticeable."

Jen frowned, not quite sure where this line of conversation was headed.

"Don't worry too much. I'm a traditionalist where assistant's costumes are concerned. You have seen the kind of thing revealing enough to catch the eye, but not so as to be embarrassing or lewd. Go over to that big trunk over there," he twitched the gun barrel in the direction of a large box, "You'll find a lot of costumes in there. Select one in your size; the sizes are marked on the hangers."

Jen had relaxed a bit, mainly because her captor had been considerate and gentle with her, even if he was still pointing both barrels of a shotgun at her. She moved smoothly to the indicated box and found it easy to open. The inside was stuffed with clothes contained in thin polythene shrouds and it smelt faintly of mothballs. A quick scan across the rail yielded four hangers marked with her size. Jen could not tell what was under the white polythene covers so she took all four out and laid them on the nearest low box.

"I think you are getting greedy, my dear. You can only wear one costume at a time you know," comment the old man, with a smile on his thin lips.

"No, I've just got out all the stuff in my size, so that I can see what it is before choosing." Each bag had a sticky label on it and Jen cocked her head sideways to read them.

The labels read "classic, strapless, red velvet", "classic, long, black", "swimming costume, white" and "Marie Antoinette". The last one had been the heaviest and presumably the most modest, but Jen decided she did not like the rather obvious connection between the name on the label and the shadow that had turned out to be a guillotine after all. She picked up the one marked "classic, long, black" in the hope that it was what
Mr. Phillips wanted her to wear.

"I've chosen," said Jen. "Where do I change? I don't really want to strip off here."

"I'm not a cruel man; there's a screen over there in the corner; it will preserve your modesty. You'll find a heater back there too; we don't want you to catch a chill, do we?"

"Thank you," responded Jen. She was not actually grateful for the old man's consideration, more being as polite as she possibly could.

Jen moved to the indicated screen and found a space that was a comfortable size to change in; there was a hook on the screen for the costume's hanger and a mirror on the wall. She found the fact that she could easily see over the screen disconcerting as she felt exposed, even if only her head and neck would be the only parts visible from the rest of the room. She quickly found the heater; a small fan heater plugged in just outside the screen and switched it on. The rumbling whirr of the heater was soon joined by the noise of other heaters around the room as the old man pottered from one to the next.

Jen turned her attention to the costume she had selected. She found a seam on the cover that opened with a plastic zip. Once opened, a pair of flexible white slippers fell out. Inside the package Jen found several pairs of sparkly flesh-tone tights, a black cotton and Lycra long-sleeved body and two short black skirts. Popping her head up, she asked, "You want me to wear this costume? So that you can fulfill some sick fantasy about being a magician?"

"Well, yes, I want you to wear a costume more appropriate to being a magician's assistant, so that I can perform my favorite illusions with you. As to it being a sick fantasy, it certainly isn't. Like I said, I was a professional magician, quite well known in my day. I started out in the heyday of magic when illusions were frequently part of short sketches and part of a story; it had a reason for being. When it went to being just do the effect I adapted, but I never liked it as much, because what is magic without a context. I found myself thinking, 'Why am I sawing this lovely young woman in half?'; there was no story to justify the performance of the act. The only answer I came up with was, 'because the audience expects it.' This did not really satisfy me, because I found myself trying to analyze the why of my act and the why of audience expectations. After a decade or so of becoming disillusioned (sorry no pun intended); the fashion in magic shows went from bad to worse, from my point of view, as the ratio of illusion to choreography fell drastically and people started expecting flashes and bangs every five seconds. I had to give up performing large venues, because no-one seemed interested in magic done well, without a team of leggy girls prancing about. I managed to make some sort of living doing smaller venues and after dinner shows, but it was never the same without an assistant. It gets very lonely, you know, doing a job that keeps unsociable hours, for people don't really appreciate what I am doing for them and without someone to share it with." The old man's voice trailed off with a sniffle.

Jen felt a bit sorry for the old magician. "OK, I'll put this gear on, but you're going to have to tell me what I have to do, because I don't know anything about assisting a magician." Jen took off her climbing shoes and socks. "You mentioned sawing a lady in half; did you really do that?"

"I've been sawing woman in half since I was nineteen; Oh so many years ago. But none have been proper ladies. Before my wife, most of them were actresses down on their luck; two left for second-rate careers in third-rate movies and the rest I had to dismiss when they got pregnant by god-knows-who. And my wife wasn't much better; at least she had the taste to seduce me into marrying her; but her affairs; they got to me. The only really good thing I can say about was that never missed a show and performed; well, until the day she died; A car accident with her lover at the time."

"I'm sorry," interjected Jen, who was by now down to her underwear.

"Don't be. It was the excuse I needed to stop doing the grand illusions in my show as I was failing to keep up with the fashions. Although I miss her in a perverse sort of way. She was there as a companion and stable point in my life, even if I rarely saw her except at rehearsals and performances." The elderly magician stood and lingered over the few good memories of his married life.

It took Jen a little while to get into the tights, as she had nowhere to sit. With her legs encased in sparkly nylon, Jen unsnapped the crotch of the body and struggled into it. With the body on she was surprised how comfortable she felt; it was neither too tight nor too loose. She examined the skirts and selected the longer of the two. The skirt wrapped round her hips and fell to mid-thigh. She did up the poppers that held it together and examined herself critically in the mirror. While she exercised to keep fit, she was not particularly concerned with her figure, but she appreciated how this costume enhanced the curves she usually avoided drawing attention to.

Jen stepped out from behind the screen and brought Mr. Phillips from his moment of reminiscence by saying, "Well, I'm ready. Now what?"

The old man looked at appraisingly for a few seconds, then said, "You look very good my dear. If I weren't quite so old, I might get ideas. I don't suppose you've got a boyfriend?" Jen shook her head. "I suppose your occupation makes that quite difficult." Jen was surprised to feel herself blush. "With a proper hair-do and some make-up you could probably have any boy you wanted." Jen's blush deepened.

For a while Jen basked in the warm glow of this flattery, then she remembered the shotgun and this put a little steel back into her. "So, what do you want me to do?" she asked.

There was a pause as the aged magician considered, "You seemed interest in the sawing of a woman in half, maybe we could start with that." The young burglaress blanched and her throat went dry. "You see the cabinet over there; the red one with the black and gold design on it?" Jen nodded, noticing a horizontal box that matched the description on a low table that was evidently designed to divide in the middle. "Would you mind going over there and getting into it?" This polite request was given the force of an order by a slight gesture of the shotgun, which was still resting in the old man's arms. "You'll find some bits of wood in the bottom, there; they are the restraints. The one with two cut-outs are for your ankles and fit in that end." He indicated which end by using his gun as a pointer. "The other one is for your neck, but I'll explain what I want you do with that when you are in place."

Jen approached the box with trepidation. She did not know what it was that she feared to see, but she feared something. When she reached the box, she looked inside for clues as to how the trick was to be done and found none, as the inside was bare, except for the two wooden restraints. Jen was now faced with a dilemma, whether to call the old man's bluff with the shotgun or to go ahead with what she had been asked to do and risk a possibly worse death at the hands of a geriatric maniac. She hoped she was making the right decision, when she took the items from the box and stepped up onto the edge of the table on which the box was mounted.

She reasoned that a death by gunshot wound at nearly point blank range was not a death she wanted; and on the other hand if the gentleman was a magician as he claimed, there was probably some secret that meant she would come out unharmed and she stood a better chance of escape this way.

Jen stepped from the edge of the low table into the box and then sat down with feet at the end the old man had indicated. That end of the box was completely open except for narrow strips of wood each side defining slots just inside the end. Jen shuffled up a bit until her feet extended beyond the box and fitted the wood with the twin cut-outs, adjusting her shins so that they were through the holes when the ankle stock was in place. She noticed that the holes were very narrow, so narrow in fact that she doubted that she would be able to pull in the bony protrusions of her ankles, unless she some how turned her feet sideways. The second thing that she noticed was that when the stock was fully in place there was a click; she tried to raise the stock and found that it was locked in place.

"Now that your feet are in place, it's time for your neck. Lie back and try to get comfortable!" the old man instructed. Jen lay back in the box, which was only just wider than her shoulders.
Mr. Phillips took a look and said, "You'll have to shuffle down a few inches, because you are taller than most of my assistants ever were." Jen dutifully shuffled. "Yes, That's it; you'll need to put your feet out a bit further, so that you are lying flat. And I suppose that your skirt is all bunched up, so you had better straight that, too." Jen flattened her knees and found that the ankle holes now squeezed the base of her calves. Straightening the skirt presented a little bit of difficulty in the confined space, but a bit of back arching raise her buttocks enough to make the adjustment possible.

"Why am I straightening my skirt?" Jen asked.

"There are two reasons; one aesthetic, the other practical. The first being that a magician's assistant should look her best throughout the performance, even if the audience can't see her; the other one is that it is most difficult to saw through more than layer of loose fabric and for your sake you don't want me to take any longer sawing than I absolutely need to." Before Jen could object Mr. Phillips continued with his instructions. "Now that you are properly arranged in the box, take the other stock and slot it over your neck."

Jen complied, but wondered whether she ought to mention that she would not be able to pull her ankles in. The neck stock slid down its slot two inches then stopped. "It won't go any further," said Jen, slightly relieved that she was going to be stuck in this box after all. "And I don't think I'll be able to bring in my feet so that I can tuck up to avoid the saw."

"Don't worry about your feet. They will look after themselves. The illusion doesn't work that way; there is no tucking up or secret mechanisms for you to operate, just lie still and let it happen to you. You see this is the box I try out all my assistants in to build up trust in me and, I think, in this case to build my trust in you." The old man paused for a moment, then said, "You see those gaps in the slot?" Jen grunted an affirmative response. "Well, I want you to put your wrists in the gaps and press outward."

The girl in the box had noticed the semi-circular dips that made a gap in the slot, cautiously she placed a wrist in the cut-out and nothing happened, even when she pressed it outward. She brought up the second wrist and positioned it in the opposite cut-out, she applied a bit of outward pressure and let out a quick squeal as the neck stock smoothly slid down the slot, trapping her wrists and neck. Once the immediate shock had passed, Jen asked, "How long am I going to be like this? It's already getting uncomfortable; I'll soon be losing feeling above my elbows."

"Sorry about that, dear. No-one ever complained before, but then they were trying impress me. Perhaps if you move up a bit more."

Jen shuffled down the box a couple of inches until her chin touched the stocks, but it was enough to ease the pressure on the blood vessels in her elbows.

Now that his burglar was trapped in the box Mr. Phillips approached having placed his gun on another similar box. He looked into the box and liked what he saw. "It's a pity you decided to keep on your underwear," he observed, "but I suppose in your place, I would have kept mine on too. It does show a bit obviously through the costume. If you had volunteered I would ask you to change again, but in the current situation I think it would be just as well to leave it. Are you more comfortable?"

Jen tried to nod but found that she could not because her chin was against the stock so she muttered a yes. This seemed to satisfy the elderly magician, who reached into the box. When she felt his hand on her thigh, she jumped and asked what he was doing. He replied that he was adjusting her skirt that had become bunched up a bit. He walked around the foot of the box and lifted the half of the lid that would cover her legs and closed it, at the last minute he dropped it with a loud bang. Jen felt a sudden, brief gust flow over her body.

"Sorry, dear, I guess my fingers aren't a strong as they used to be," apologized the old man, as he returned from the hinge side and did up the heavy catches that would hold the lid down.

Jen considered raising her knees to test the lid, but realized that the leg stocks were so tight and so far up her shins that she could barely move her legs at all.

Mr. Phillips was more careful closing the lid on the upper half of the box and that too was soon latched in place. Jen could feel it pressing on backs of her forearms near her elbows.

"Would you care to describe you current predicament, dear, for our notional audience?" the magician inquired.

Jen looked puzzled. "Why? There's no-one here, but us."

"No reason, I suppose. It's just an exercise I've done with every assistant I've ever had. I always thought it was a test of self-awareness and how you are reacting to your situation."

"Oh well; if you insist," Jen sighed. "I am trapped in a box on a table with my shins sticking out one end and my head and hands sticking out the other. The box and table seemed to be designed to be divided into two parts and I can feel the division with my buttocks."

"Thank you, that was as good a summing up of your situation as I usually get. Any ideas about what happens next?"

"You said you were going to saw me in half, but doing that for real is impossible without killing the victim, isn't it?" said Jen with a note of doubt and fright in her voice. She almost wished she had taken her chances with the shotgun when could have. "My guess is that either the saw or the box is rigged some how."

"You know about the box, but now that you mention it, I had better show you the saw I will be using."

Mr. Phillips disappeared from Jen's field of view for a short while and she heard a noise like someone rummaging in a tool chest. She heard the slap of his slippers on the wooden floor as he returned. "Here it is." The old man displayed a two-foot long wood saw that looked to Jen worryingly real. "I told you I was a bit old fashioned; I use a simple saw. When I was doing this for a living I used to use a five foot cross-cut saw." a blank expression crossed Jen's face. "You must have seen pictures of saws with handles at each end. I would get a member of the audience to hold the other end. But when I had to streamline the show, the trusty crosscut had to go in favor of its smaller cousin. I did consider using a jigsaw or a chain-saw, but I decided the chain-saw was just too dangerous and the jigsaw was not reliable enough. So this is my weapon of choice," he concluded, giving the saw a waggle so that it twanged, dispelling the lingering hope that the saw was faked in some way.

"As it's your first time, I suppose you will want to see what I'm up to," the aged man commented, as he placed the saw on top of the box and bustled off in another direction. He soon returned with a tall dressing mirror on a stand, which he set up so that she could see across the top of the box. "Don't breathe too hard or it will steam up," instructed Mr. Phillips.

"Are you sure there isn't something I should do?" asked Jen, in the hope that her tormentor was just leaving the necessary instructions to the last minute to get her worried.

"Yes, there is. Lie as flat as you can in the bottom there; and relax as much as you can will make it not hurt so much and the bruise will heal quicker."

Jumping on this comment, Jen asked, "What bruise?"

"Sorry, maybe I should have mentioned it. When someone is sawn in half it is bound to hurt a bit and do a bit of damage, but everything is done to reduce that as far as possible, so all you'll end up with is a bruise on you hip where the saw goes in, but if you can relax, the pain will be less and the bruise will be smaller. By the way, that's why the tights are opaque and spangled so that the bruise doesn't show. Of course, usually after a while assistants get so relaxed that it neither hurts nor causes a bruise. If you're ready I shall start." said the old man, picking up the saw.

Jen did not know what to say or do. The only thing she thought of was to say "No", but that would leave her where she had started with the additional disadvantage of being trapped in a box. She thought about whether she trusted Mr. Phillips when he said sawing in half might hurt, but not significantly harm and whether that might be better than being handed over to the police. She decided to ask a question, "If I ask you to stop, will you?"

"That depends," replied Mr. Phillips. Jen looked even more nervous. "Let me explain. From what previous assistants have told me, sawing only hurts until a point of no return. Before then I can stop quite easily, take out the saw, and treat the wound; but after then the magic takes over, I get the feeling that the saw would keep sawing even if I could let it go. So, you see, if the magic gets going I can't stop it until it is finished, but before then I can if you insist, but I would rather not."

Jen digested this strange explanation, and came to the conclusion it all came down to whether she trusted her captor and what he said. "Can I trust you?" she asked thinking that this was a self-defeating question.

"That depends." He paused to work out a more reasoned response. "It depends on so many factors, such as what you are thinking of trusting me with or to do. If you decide not to carry on, you can trust me to leave you there until the police arrive and I feel sure that they won't be in a hurry. On the other hand, if you say I can go ahead, you can trust me to not do you any lasting injury and keep you informed of what I am doing and let you go free in the morning. You have to decide, because I can't make up your mind for you."

Jen considered this. Her thought processes were confused trying to come to some sort of conclusion as to which of the options was the lesser of two evils. The logical parts of her mind set the two options competing (arrest and a certain imprisonment for many years against the possibility of being cut in two by saw-wielding geriatric maniac) and found them very evenly matched. Suddenly, her much-neglected sense of adventure weighed into the battle on the side of letting the old man practice his profession. Jen suddenly said, "do it! Quick! Before I change my mind."

"OK! Remember to relax as much as you can. I know that's difficult, but do try." The old man seemed relieved and as the tension fell from his stance, he seemed to grow younger. He picked up the saw and leaning over the box located it in the division between the boxes. Without asking Jen whether she was sure, he began to saw.

The fact that he did not check with her disappointed Jen a bit, but she also felt relieved that she did not have to make the decision again. The sound of sawing penetrated the confusion in her mind. "Hey! Stop!" she shouted. When he paused the look on his face was more tense. "How come I can hear sawing? The saw is running in the gap between the two halves; Where's the sound of sawing coming from?"

"There's a sheet of ply bolted on the underside of the table across the gap. That makes the necessary noise to convince the audience that there is a real sawing happening. It's an essential part of the performance, if there was a way to send the smell of fresh saw-dust into the audience, that would probably happen too."

Having delivered his explanation, Mr. Phillips resumed sawing. Jen was trying to relax, which she felt was probably impossible, except if you are trained. Soon she felt a pull on the skirt. And then another one in the other direction. And then another one with a tug on her tights as well. The next thing Jen felt was the tugs on the skirt and tights and the metal teeth of the saw run across the skin just above her hip. She had only a moment to ready herself mentally and physically for the next stroke of the saw. The next stroke came; she felt it open a gash in the flesh of her hip. If she had not had her chin pressed against the neck-stock, Jen would have let out a full-blooded scream of pain, but instead it came out as a loud squeak.

Mr. Phillips looked across at Jen via the mirror and noticed some beads of sweat stand on her forehead and her teeth set in a horrible grimace, and then continued sawing.

Jen thought, he knows I am in pain why isn't he stopping. As Mr. Phillips kept on sawing Jen's pain increased.

It took four more strokes of the saw before it hit bone, then the pain began to ramp down, even though the elderly magician sawed on.

Jen's pain had peaked at about as painful as her previously most painful experience, when she had stepped on a mantrap, but that pain had not endured, this pain did. As the old man continued to saw the pain faded until it felt as though she had only been kicked hard in the hip. By then it seemed that the magician had sawn about halfway through her body. The pain had subsided to a level where it was an annoyance instead of Jen's only sensation and she could now feel internal tensions as the saw moved back and forth through her upper pelvis. She could also feel how the teeth of the saw plucked at the fabric of her costume as they exited her skin on the forward and return strokes.

Mr. Phillips carried on sawing, while Jen concentrated on ignoring the pain. It took a while until the saw emerged from the side of the box nearest to the magician. With two more swift strokes Mr. Phillips completed cutting the board of plywood attached under the table and then put aside the saw.

"Are you all right, Dear?" asked Mr. Phillips, concerned that he had not heard a sound from Jen since her squeal when the saw first made contact.

"What do you think?" asked Jen, her voice dripping sarcasm. "I am still trapped in an very uncomfortable position in a box and a geriatric maniac has just attacked me with a saw. Draw your own conclusion. Am I happy with the situation?" Then in a more conciliatory tone of voice she added, "Can you let me out now? Please."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, but you seem alright. I was just worried while you were giving me the silent treatment. And no I can't let you out, yet."

"What? Why?" She paused for breath. "You've done your sawing and it still hurts, so just let me out. Besides, My arms and legs are starting to go to sleep."

"I can't let you out because you are in two halves," said Mr. Phillips.

"I can't be. I can feel my legs and they're getting pins and needles."

"Surely you've seen this effect performed on the television. The next part is to separate the two halves."

Jen considered this for a few seconds before answering. "I can't be," she objected, "I can feel my legs and I can feel my feet move." She demonstrated this by moving her feet.

"I suppose I'm going to have to convince you that your feet are no longer attached."

"If you have to, but I would much rather get out of this box and see you perform a trick with a pack of cards or one of those big silk handkerchief things or something."

"Well, I have to. If you're a good girl, I'll do some of those tricks for you later."

Jen stuck her tongue out at him to show that she did not appreciate his patronizing attitude. "If you are going to do it, get on with it before I end up with the cramps."

The old man turned to the box upon which the gun rested and picked up a rectangle of dull metal by a thin wooden handle along one of its long edges. The other angles had been cut off to form beveled corners. The sheet was about an eighth of an inch thick.

"What are you going to do with that?" asked Jen, her eyes wide with fright. If a thin sharp saw caused her the pain it had, how much more pain would a blunt blade cause her.

"This, my dear Jen, is one of the separation blades. I my young days I would have wielded them both together, but those days are long gone, alas."

"Will it hurt?" asked Jen. Her eyes would have widened if they could have.

"No. Well hardly; I'm a bit out of practice, so if you feel anything tell me. All I have to do is fit it through the slot in the lid, the division in you and the slot in the table. I used to be able to do it in a single movement, but as you are new to this and I haven't done it in years, I'll take it slowly. OK?"

"What choice do I have?" asked Jen rhetorically.

Mr. Phillips was taken aback by the remark. "I suppose I have been rather imposing on you. But you did come into my house uninvited, so maybe it's fair. I'll get on with it."

Mr. Phillips stood the blade upright on the lid of the box's upper section and located it in the slot about half an inch up from the separation line. Suddenly, the blade slipped through he slot and landed across the base of Jen's belly. She could feel the weight pressing her flesh and pinching it against the upper edge of her pelvis.

Mr. Phillips apologized and commented that he really ought to do this more often to avoid slips like that. He raised and tilted the blade. Jen could feel the line of contact move towards where she had felt the saw cutting, then the sensation stopped as if the old man had lifted the blade off, but she could see in the mirror that he had not. As she watched, the elderly magician allowed the metal to slip deeper into the box. Jen concentrated on her hips for any feeling that might indicate what was going on; all she could sense was a feeling of pressure pressing upwards from the base of her abdomen. The blade touched the floor of the box while about two inches of metal still stood between the box lid and the wooden handle. The old man stood back for a moment to catch his breath. "I'm not as fit as I used to be," he commented. He stood below the blade and gave the handle a sharp tug. He felt it locate in the slot in the table and saw it drop through. The tug took Jen by surprise. It felt to Jen as though the upper part of the box had been shortened increasing the pressure on her shoulders.

Mr. Phillips took up and inserted the second blade quite easily, causing very few odd sensations.

Mr. Phillips unclipped the catch across the join between the two halves of the table and then went round to the other side. "Now for the moment of truth," said the magician as he released the other catch. The old magician set his thumbs between the blade handles and pushed them apart.

Jen watched via the mirror as the narrow gap between the handles increased, until they seemed to be about a foot apart, when Mr. Phillips stepped through the gap. "What do you reckon?" he asked.

Jen found she was very confused. She felt sure that the old man in his shabby attire should not be able to wander through the area where, at her best guess, her thighs should be. "Are you trying to freak me out? Because if you are you doing a very good job."

"I was only trying to demonstrate that the two sections of the table and box were separate, which isn't easy when you have such a limited field of view. It's easier when there's an audience. My apologies if you are feeling more odd than one might expect. It is traditional to now show you your feet, and being a traditionalist that is what I shall do." He took hold of the lower box and wheeled it out from being hidden behind the handle of the nearer blade. As Mr. Phillips turned the box a pair of shins and feet came into view sheathed in sparkly nylon and wearing white slippers. "Voila, your feet, my dear."

"They can't be mine!" she said as she experimentally moved her feet only to see the appendages of the other box respond in exactly the manner in which she was moving her feet. "Can they?" she queried with a good deal less certainty.

"They are most assuredly your feet. How can I prove it to you?" He gently squeezed her toes through the slippers.

"Let's suppose I am convinced that those are mine," Jen said, running all sorts of scenarios through her mind for explanations of her apparent situation that did not involve her being genuinely sawn in two. Nothing she could come up with convinced her. "So, my legs are in that box?"

"Yes, they are," confirmed the magician as he rotated the lower box on the spot.

Jen could feel the movement of air against her ankles and the vibration, as the wheels rolled over the slightly uneven floor, through her lower buttocks. Despite the fact that she was having the greatest difficulty in visualizing her predicament, she was now totally sure that Mr. Phillips was telling the truth that she was indeed two parts. As the end of the lower box that was blanked off with the metal blade came round, Jen asked, "What's behind the blade?"

"Your cut off hips," stated the magician.

"But what do they look like?" asked Jen, still trying to conjure up a coherent picture of her situation.

"What do you expect cut off hips to look like?" countered Mr. Phillips.

"I don't know; do I? Have they grown a sort of skin? Or maybe are there exposed ends of severed guts or is it just blank?" protested Jen.

"Umm, Err, I don't really know," admitted the old man. "I've never looked. Why should I? It's not part of the performance."

"You mean you've never wondered?"

"Well, I've wondered, but never enough to do anything about it. And none of my past assistants has ever asked. Quite a while ago, I did consider getting a couple of glass separation blades made, but then I realized that part of the appeal of magic was the good feeling you get when you know something is fake even if you can't work out how it is fake. You know how you feel good that you have detected the fakeness, even if you haven't detected the method. So what would be the value of something that would prove beyond any doubt it was real. You see, we magicians work on the fine line between being obviously fake and being disturbingly real."

Jen nodded agreement and then realizing the futility of this made a noise to indicate agreement. "Why don't you just lift the blade and take a look?" she asked.

Mr. Phillips frowned, "I can't do that, dear."

"Why not?"

"Because, my dear, the magician I learnt my magic from specifically said that I shouldn't." replied the old man.

"What?"

"I was taught all the principles of magic that I know by a great teacher and he gave me a list of things I should never do while performing magic, a few of which also apply when doing the pretend magic I prefer to call illusion. One of them was never remove anything while the effect of removal can be seen. I disobeyed one of my mentor's rules once and it was only through good luck that I didn't maim my assistant, but she was in hospital for three weeks. So, you see why I haven't broken one of his rules since."

"Oh well," said Jen a little disappointed, "unless you have anything more you have to do, would you mind putting me back together. Because, while I don't really belief I'm in two halves, this is getting too weird for me and my arms and legs are beginning to cramp."

"Why didn't you say so?" asked the aged magician rhetorically as he maneuvered the lower box back into line with part from which Jen's head and hands protruded. Two clicks later,
Mr. Phillips stood beside the middle of box. "If you are ready, I'll pull the blades; OK?"

"Can you hurry up, please? My calf muscles are trying to tie themselves in knots."

With a sudden movement, Mr. Phillips pulled the lower blade from the box and dropped it on the lid. Jen had three sensations; firstly, she felt her lower half uncompressing slightly; secondly, she felt a violent twinge of cramp up the back of her left calf; and lastly felt she better in some poorly defined way, as if her well-being had been turned up.

The elderly man gripped the second blade and lifted it more rapidly than Jen had expected. Again, she felt the uncompression of the confined half and the feeling of well being more than doubled, so that it seemed worth the pain of being sawn, the cramps and the other discomforts to feel this good. The only visible reaction to the feeling was that she smiled genuinely for the first time since being captured.

"You seem to be alright," commented Mr. Phillips seeing the broad grin on Jen's face and then a slight frown as another of her muscles went into spasm. "I'd better let you out so you can relieve your cramps." He transferred the metal blades to the other box and unclipped the catches on the lids. He then went to the bottom of the box and released the stocks that had held her legs so uncomfortably. Jen drew her knees up in hope of relieving some of the twinges, but the removal of the restraint only caused another muscle to spasm and her leg kicked, raising the lid which fell back on her knee. "You seem to have very bad cramps. Would you like me to massage your legs for you?"

"No, thank you, could you let me out so that I can rub the bits that need rubbing."

"OK, press your wrists outwards again," he instructed and then lifted the neck stock, when Jen complied. There you are; free to get out of the box when you're ready."

Mr. Phillips retreated to the other box and picked up the gun. He sat on the box with the gun across his lap.

Meanwhile, Jen carefully opened the upper lid and shuffled up, until she could sit, then opened the lower lid. She reached forward and massaged her complaining calves. After a few minutes of rubbing, she could tell that her legs would not rebel if she stood up, so she stood and stepped out of the box and off the table. She was surprised to notice that the skirt of her costume was hanging lower than it had been. The reason for this was that the skirt had a ragged slash across the front at the level where Jen had felt the saw penetrate; it was only held up be a short section of unripped fabric which had been under her buttocks.

"What happened?" asked Jen, indicating the damaged skirt.

"Why don't you change into something else, while I explain that," suggested the magician.

Jen returned to the screened off changing area, taking the costume labeled "classic, strapless, red velvet" with her.

As Jen wriggled out of the black skirt and leotard, the old magician explained, "It's all to do with how the magic works. It works very well on living things, things like people and animals and even plants. Living things seem to respond to the magic by knitting back together properly. I did once, in young and ambitious days, look in to the possibility of doing a sawing in half on one of the great sequoias in California, but had to give that up as far too expense, but that's by the by. Non-living material is a lot more tricky to work with because it only restores itself if it used to be living and it is put back adjacent to what it was separated from. In other words, living stuff puts itself together, but non-living stuff only goes back together if it hasn't been moved. That's why tight fitting costumes are so frequently used. I bet you thought it was some sexist thing exploiting female assistants."

"So, how come the front and sides of the skirt were shredded but the back wasn't?" challenged Jen.

"It didn't move, because you were lying on it," said Mr. Phillips.

"I suppose that makes some kind of sense, not that anything seems to make much sense at the moment." Jen rolled the sparkly tights down her legs and tossed them on the heap of clothes in the corner. Cautiously, she rolled down the waistband of her panties to check the line where she had felt the cut. Most of the way she could detect no evidence of any cut and no pain. The hip where the cut had been started was sensitive to the touch as might be expected if a bruise was forming, but not yet visible. The only visible damage was two very shallow parallel scratches where she had felt the cut begin. She thought how strange it was that she had been sawn in two pieces by an old man and got away with only a bruise and a scratch and she felt good. It certainly beat being shot.

"So, what's next?" Jen asked.

"Well, that depends," said the retired magician, Mr. Phillips.

"Depends on what?"

"Erm, partly on the costume you have selected and partly on what you
feel like doing."