There are a hundred different ways of making a coin disappear. More than a hundred, literally thousands. This is just one of them. It's his favourite because it's simple. It requires no props or cheats, no drilled metal disks on fishing lines or magnetic watch straps. There is the magician, and there are his hands, fingers fluttering in preparation as if caught in a breeze. Then there is the coin. A big one, American, silver with machined edges worn down smooth by his practised grip between thumb and forefinger. The coin is presented so it catches the eye of the audience. It hangs there for all to see, solid and sparkling in the sunshine. The hand is closed, briefly blown on through chapped lips and then opened again. Fast and fluid as melody.

Of course, the coin has disappeared, and the hand is displayed empty, palm out to the bug-eyed crowds. Shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. There is nowhere to go, metal melting into thin air. A flourish; the magician shows his palm and the back and the palm once more, the illusion is complete and with this realisation comes the coin. Bang. Rising up from cracked, black fingertips, growing from nothing. And with the coin comes the applause and, this being an idealised version of the performance playing out in his head, the casting of a further slew of coins into the magician's cap. It's his favourite hold in his favourite routine, the silver dollar palmed between the first and second finger and pushed through to the front as the hand is turned to display the back. Simple; subtly skilful without recourse to showboating. Sometimes it plays exactly as it does in his head, and there is sunshine and laughter. Now it is too cold to move, and he can't feel his fingers, much less the coin.

It is probably about five in the morning. There is no way to be sure without hiking to the clock tower in the park and gazing up into the ornate wrought iron of its weathered Victorian face. It's a long way to go for a moment of useless clarity. About five is fine. White gold crawls across the town's false horizon, gorgeous and pure next to the cheap amber of the halogen street lamps. Still, Harvey Webster (formerly Hokum Harvey of the Royal Proscenium Cabaret) can no longer bring himself to believe in a world full of magic. Birdsong heralds just another day, and sunset brings nothing but coldness. He pulls his jacket around him and rests his chin on his hunched-up knees, tries to make the coin disappear, but it leaps from his grip like a spark from a dying fire, rolling toward a grate at the pavement's edge.

It is desperation that animates him now, scrabbling after the coin with the perfectly milled edges, the correct weight, the right size. He descends on it with panic rising in his throat, swimming through the layers of clothing that hang in folds around him. String, coloured flags, army surplus navy jacket, several ex-cardigans and far too many hankies. He falls, grazes his knuckles on the curb but saves the coin. For a moment he lays there, his possessions piled on top of him, unmoving. Then he gingerly gets to his feet and raises his ruined knuckles to his mouth. Grips the coin in his palm with a ferocity he doesn't recognise. Just a coin, just another piece detaching itself and rolling away. Vanishing. He sways slightly in the cold pre-dawn breeze and closes his eyes.

Here the traffic rolling by on the High Road becomes the clattering of hand against hand. Now the greasy heat of a bank of par cans burns against his eyelids. Three hundred expectant punters sit out there in the dark, watching his every move. He stretches out his arms to them, unsure how to amaze them. He is cold and leaden, and his brain is made of cotton wool. He knows if he could make them smile, he could change everything. They are holding their breath, waiting for him to do something out of the ordinary. They want to be entertained. But all he can think of is the numb cold that winds around his extremities like thick foam rubber. Out in the dark, someone coughs politely. A man in the front row checks his watch. A hesitant, insistent undertow of whispered voices begins beneath the clinking glasses. Yet he is still frozen, caught in the tractor beam of the spotlight, unable to move.

Why can't he move?

If he moves, it'll all turn out differently. But he doesn't. And so the inevitable happens, as it often does. The club manager moves on from the side of the stage slowly, grin slipping silently into a grimace, clapping deliberately with every footfall. His velvet-hung back sails into view between Harvey and the spotlight, eclipsing the scorching tractor beam and releasing its hold. He falls to his knees with a sob and, between heaving breaths, vomits enthusiastically onto the backs of the manager's legs and shoes. The man barely looks around, just a slight acknowledging look of disgust because he is already yesterday's news. Again, as always, he presses his cheek to the sticky floor of the stage and closes his eyes.

His eyes snap open, and the past flutters away. Great grey shades flocking from his field of view, startled and smarting. It is getting light now, the world gaining form and solidity around him like a Polaroid developing beneath his feet. Instinctively he jams his hands into his pockets and absent-mindedly fingers the twine of the coloured flags coiled within. There is a part of his brain that won't let him process what the rest of his brain is thinking, and when his feet point him towards the esplanade, he is content to be taken along for the ride. Tilting along the road, eyes fugitive and unfocused, testing and retesting the flex of the thread between his fingers.

If you stand on the rails and hold your head just right, there is a spot at the end of the pier where you can see nothing but the sea. The sweep of the estuary barely registers in your peripheral vision. Harvey stands with his back turned to the world and breaths in salt and tar. He is standing on the upper level of the pier head, where the passengers disembark at high tide. When waters rush in from the North Sea and swell beneath the listing boats that seem like abandoned toys strewn across the blank expanse of the mudflats. It isn't high tide now, though. The water is reduced to a narrow channel in the centre of the estuary. The pier stretching out like a crooked finger, keeping a perilous fingertip hold on the nautical shipping route towards London's dockland. Far below him, the dirty water laps and squalls in metallic rainbow colours, oil on brown milky oblivion. Gulls wheel and flock and scream at the sky. And the thread is knotted about his neck. He can feel the rough reality of it every time he swallows. Coloured flags stream down his chest as he lashes the other end to the iron railings, concentrating on the ritualised flip and tuck as he methodically builds the knot around the rusting metal. Not a false knot, not the kind to slip silkily apart at the magician's insistent tug, not one of the dozen or so examples designed to look like steel and hold like water - knots he's tied around handkerchiefs or fingers or steel rings hundreds of times, knots he could do in his sleep. No, this is an entirely different beast, he gives it an experimental pull, and it doesn't move an inch.

Satisfied, Harvey gathers the slack in his arms. He mounts the ancient Victorian metal like a ladder, gripping tightly to the topmost bar as he steps over the lip and leans out into the morning. The ruby sun burns fiercely through a clump of sea mist gathering at the horizon, its ascendant reflection scattered carelessly across the surface of the Thames. Ozone in the air and blood in the water. Harvey closes his eyes and concentrates on the pock-marked metal beneath his fingertips. He leans out as far as he can and slowly applies himself to the task of letting go. One finger at a time, every millimetre a triumph of will over a deep-seated survival instinct. Edging slowly and methodically towards the inevitable tipping point where gravity will take over.

Help.

Harvey opens his eyes, his meticulous work undone in a moment. Did he imagine it? He listens and hears only the inhuman cry of the sea birds, shrill and careless. Forcing himself to focus once more on the task at hand, Harvey closes his eyes and tilts away from the world. One. Two. Three. Four. Slowly but surely, his fingers unhook from reality. Five. Barely able to contain his own weight now.

Help.

The shock drives salt air back into his lungs. His hands are clamped vice-like to the railing once more. The voice is unmistakable this time, clear and sweet and musical. Ringing across the rotting wooden planks of the pier head with inescapable clarity. Help. Help me. There is a note of hysteria to the plea which resonates unexpectedly in some long-forgotten part of Harvey, and before he knows what he's doing, he has swung himself back onto the deck. His hands wrestle with the mass of loops and knots that still tether him to the railing. Finally, the thread spools free beneath his insistent fingers as the flags, caught by a gust of wind, slap frantically at the backs of his hands. Then, with a deep breath and a thudding heart, he turns to find the source of the disturbance.

The term open-air theatre makes the building sound too grand. It's one step up from a Portacabin, made from MDF and stretched canvas. A roughly oval-shaped auditorium open to the sky. Its walls are painted an optimistic sandy orange & sea blue, which stretches like a waving ribbon across its exterior, dotted with yellow fish and tiny red boats. Near the entrance, someone has tried to paint a whale and failed. As Harvey approaches, he can see the peeling seaside posters pasted on top of each other on the faded wooden show boards. A sign hanging above the sliding door reads Seaside Fantasia, the words flanked by starfish and mermaids that have fared little better than the whale. Harvey can hear someone crying on the door's other side, softly and without hope. He can spot the absence of hope from thirty paces. Nervously, with halting hands, he pulls open the protesting portal and enters the theatre. The interior portion of the theatre lasts for only a few feet, just enough to house a tiny box office window to his right.

A couple more steps, and he is back out into the elements again. The floor is the slatted Victorian workmanship of the pier itself, with glimpses of slate grey water shifting beneath. The walls, curving gently away from him on either side, provide some protection from the wind. They are marked at irregular intervals by doors that Harvey assumes open onto toilets and storage cupboards. The auditorium contains no seats, but deckchairs are stacked against the walls in neat little piles, toothpaste striped and ageing. Directly opposite him is the small raised stage, a battered proscenium arch built out from the other side of the oval building. It is hung with ragged velvet and dressed with a black backcloth and sequins. Standing in the middle of the stage is a large horizontal cabinet, bright red and festooned with stars. It is split down the middle by a gleaming metal saw. The top half has had its lid thrown open to expose the fur lining within, the bottom half is still sealed firmly shut. Out of the end of the box pokes a woman's head. She is crying. Mascara drips down her face vertically and pools in her ears. Her blonde hair has been swept back into an elaborate pile, out of which protrudes a scarlet feather at an odd angle.

Harvey has seen this illusion many times and knows every conceivable way to perform it. Either the woman is a contortionist, or her lower half is concealed by an angled mirror. Intrigued despite himself, he takes a step towards the stage. The woman is clearly distressed, and he is clearly the only one within shouting distance. Suddenly the woman's head turns to face him, her eyes focussing instantly on his hesitant form.

"Help me," the words are barely a whisper, hope spreading across her face like a sunrise.

Harvey finds himself running the last few steps to her side. When he speaks, his voice is cracked and querulous with disuse.

"What's happened? What's wrong?" No longer the mighty roar of the showman, diaphragm-seated and jet-propelled and yet no longer falling on deaf ears either, heard and comprehended by another human being. Harvey feels something turn over within, an ancient engine with the choke pulled out, spluttering back to life. "Are you trapped in there?"