

Contents

PREFACE i

PROLOGUE 1

CHAPTER 1

The Magic Circle  2

CHAPTER 2

The Lady Vanishes  6

CHAPTER 3

Dazed and Confused  8

CHAPTER 4

Showdown at Rileys  12

CHAPTER 5

Local Hero  16

CHAPTER 6

Dial S for Steiner  18

CHAPTER 7

The Boy-Noble Strikes Back  20

CHAPTER 8

The Witch's Shoppe  25

CHAPTER 9

The Sorcerer's Apprentice  30

CHAPTER 10

Of Mice and Men  32

CHAPTER 11

The Three Ruffans  34
CHAPTER 12

A Brazilian Odyssey  38

CHAPTER 13

An Offer we Couldn't Refuse  40

CHAPTER 14

Master of the Craft  43

CHAPTER 15

Duality of Opposites  46

CHAPTER 16

In the Bleak Midwinter  49

CHAPTER 17

The Most Excellent Master  51

CHAPTER 18

Deus ex Machina  53

CHAPTER 19

Good Cop, Bad Cop  57

CHAPTER 20

To Catch a Thief  59

CHAPTER 22

Devil's Advocate  62

CHAPTER 22

Memories of Istanbul  64

CHAPTER 23

Face Off  67

Epilogue 69
PREFACE

Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue was written to develop the corpus of

internal scripts in the English Department at Hillside School. The

purpose of said scripts being to inform and inspire further writings.

The story is a collaborative piece, initially commissioned by David

Noble. Robert O'Neill joined the project and developed many of the

themes within the story, within the structure developed by Steiner

Sanderson. David Noble added content to the work and Marie Laing

did some early reading of the script to test for fow and integrity.

Pitched at students twelve and up, it is hoped that there is enough

depth in the story to entertain across the age ranges, and that adults

can glean from it

The 'Cue' discusses theurgic and thaumaturgic 'Magic', which can be

found in the various philosophies of Wicca, Thelema/Hermeticism

or Cabbala. Our protagonist work changes in his environment, and

undergoes a process of inner transformation throughout the story.

The work is accommodated most easily in the fantasy genre. Places,

characters and times are rooted in reality, unlike, say, the Harry

Potter series, that have 'fairy-story' magic and events. Of course,

Rowling grounded her story in a large number of genuine places and

occult facts, much to the chagrin of Conservative Christians, who see

Rowling enticing the young and impressionable into paganism and

witchcraft.

Inducement into magic/witchcraft is not the aim of the novel; thus, an

opposing view is presented, represented by the sudden appearance

of a female Charismatic, who pronounces judgement. She functions

almost as a Deus ex Machina. (A technique oft used by Rowling

herself.) Yet, the scenario depicted realistically refects many 'street

encounters' with evangelicals and other proselytisers, and is essential

to the narrative. Both Pagan and Christian viewpoints are opposed

by one of the central characters, who regurgitates the stock-in-trade

diatribes found in the endless atheistic websites and books that

proliferate the media, repeating ad nauseam Epicurus' scepticism.

The tale is told from the Protagonist's POV, Steiner, in the frst person.

Steiner also functions as major antagonist as he operates secretly and

i
stubbornly, creating many of the plot conficts.

The style and tone pay homage to the gossipy narrative of Gibbon's

Sunset Song and the Satire of Saki's Short Stories.

Thematically woven into the fantasy, religious and adventure narra-

tives, the Cue explores the power of language to condition thought,

and behaviour, and provide emotional security. The psychological

framework for this was gleaned from Semiotics, Transactional Analy-

sis Scripts, Hypnotic Word weaving and NLP.

No attempt at uniqueness is intended, as this tact has a long pedigree

in story-writing, and has been made famous by A. Huxley, G. Orwell

and Philip K. Dick. The narrative machinery is forced along as our

protagonist interacts with his conditioning, which help, hinder and

betray him in turn, leaving him with the awful prospective of engag-

ing in independent thought. Indeed, it can be said that 'The Hypnotic

Cue', is a pun as the story's characters live out their lives in response

to various hypnotic cues.

Hermeneutically expanded, 'The Hypnotic Cue' functions as an

analogy, or allegory, describing humanity's 'programming', even 'im-

prisonment', to the various 'Cues' in our lives.

Similarly, the opposing philosophical themes function almost like a

historical allegory: The Occult (Paganism) is overpowered by Chris-

tianity, which is then attacked by Atheism.

The plot is simple, but the story is not simplistic. Readers should

be able to extract from the story what they bring to it. This becomes

more acute when encountering the satirical and opposing philosophi-

cal viewpoints embedded in the story.

It is told without excessive moralising.

It is hoped that the reader derives enjoyment from the story, and ap-

preciates the hours of effort involved.

Enjoy!

Robert O'Neill

ii
PROLOGUE

My name is Steinar Sanderson.

This is my story.

Now, Reader, you may think it is more like a dream than a story, as

my drama is unravelled before your very eyes, because I, and I alone,

became world snooker champion at the age of only 16—the youngest

player ever.

"How was it done?" I hear you ask. "What was so special about me?"

After all, I am just an ordinary looking boy with brown hair, weighing

some 10 stones and about 5'11''tall. If you saw me walking down the

street, you would not even give me a second glance. Well, you might if

you recognised me from television, but I have had, I must add, some

cosmetic alterations since the last time I was in the public view. "Mon-

ey well spent," was how a close friend described it. I am still not sure

how to take that comment.

But it's not my appearance I wish to talk about. I have a secret that

you do not know.

Oh, for sure I will reveal my secret to you in my story, but afterwards

you must not share that secret with anyone else, so no-one will know

about it except you and me. Still like to read on? Then turn the page

and let the adventure begin...

1
CHAPTER 1

The Magic Circle

So, here is how it happened.

I was returning from a snooker competition (it was really a pool com-

petition, and I was the organiser). Unfortunately I had lost, and was

feeling a bit sorry for myself. On my way back to my Unit at School (I

attend a residential school, which means I stay on campus), I noticed

that my Religion and Philosophy (RMPE) classroom was open. There

was yoga class on that evening. I wandered into the classroom and

watched them for a moment or two. I used to do Yoga, but it clashed

with pool and other clubs, so I quit.

On the teacher's desk were books on this and that—an Arabic &

English Koran, a Hebrew Torah, a Greek New Testament, the Egyptian

Book of the Dead to the right; some books on philosophy and theology

lying the middle; but lying on the left hand side were three books on

Magic: The Kybalion, The Key of Solomon, and The Zohar. I had

long fancied the idea of learning a bit of magic, after all are they not

always promising money, success and fame? Who doesn't want that? I

had helped my teacher draw some Pentacles from the Key of Solomon,

which were put on display. I had also learned a bit of Hebrew in my

RMPE lessons as well. To top it all off, I had seen a few re-enactments

on of magic ceremonies on YOUTUBE. Now was a perfect opportunity

for me to learn a bit more, and use it to my advantage.

I decided to 'borrow' the books. I had to be really careful with the

teacher's books as the last time I 'borrowed' one it had cost me £7!!

(That's another story, for another time.)

The yoga class never noticed a thing—they even said goodbye with a

smile and a little wave from the teacher. As I left the room with the

books in hand, I thought that perhaps the magic had started working

already!

2
The Magic Circle 3

Back in my room, I had to work quickly and return the books, so as

not to get charged a small fortune.

Then I realised my problem. I had no magic wand to 'draw' the

pentagrams in the air. Of course, had I planned this out properly I

would have purchased a magic wand from the witch in the village. Yes,

it's true—there is a genuine bona fde witch who owns a magic shop

in the village where my school is located. Sometimes we go in for a

browse or to buy a herbal potion.

Quick as a fash (did I tell you I often have fashes of genius?), I took

my snooker cue out of its case and examined it carefully. It was in two

parts, like most cues, and screws together. The top part looked just

like the wands the magicians had used in the videos.

Yes, you guessed it—I used the cue as a wand.

I closed my eyes and visualised the videos we had watched in class. I

reenacted the Goetia ritual in my head, but that seemed far too scary,

being performed by ancient old men with long beards and in silly

robes, chanting in creepy voices.

I dismissed it quickly, and when I opened my eyes, all trace of it van-

ished from my mind.

I shut my eyes again, and within no time, a new picture began to form,

as I recalled another video. This time the ritual was performed by

a young girl—Akasha, she called herself. About my age, she looked

cute—not scary at all and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt just like me.

This had to be harmless enough, didn't it? I thought that if a girl

could do it, then so could I.

To start with, I drew a circle on the foor using chalk I had 'acciden-

tally' taken from the art class weeks earlier. I drew a triangle inside

that. Skimming through the books, especially the Key of Solomon, I

then drew the Hebrew words on the foor, around the edges of the

circle, going over in my head how to say them as I drew.

Now, I have to be honest with you here, Reader. Sometimes in lessons
4 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

I did not always listen as well as I should. So when the teacher was

teaching us Hebrew, I did not pay quite enough attention, and never

really learned the difference between a Shin and a Samekh, or an

Ayin and an Aleph. Let's just say, then, that my pronunciation was not

all it could be. But to be fair, speaking Hebrew in a Moray accent was

never going to be that accurate, was it?

I knew you'd see things my way!

For stage three, I got inside the circle and triangle and started to chant

the Hebrew words, not too loudly, of course. I didn't want anyone

hearing what I was doing. I turned clockwise on the four points of the

compass as I spoke.

Nothing happened.

I said to myself that it was all just rubbish, echoing a discussion about

magic we had in RMPE.

I stood there like a fool. My eyes dropped to the foor. I gazed at my

artwork, delight at my artistry turned to horror, as I wondered how I

was going to clean it up. Then there were the books—how was I going

to get them back unnoticed?

I wished that sometimes I would think things through properly before

rushing ahead. I wished I hadn't done any of this. I just stood there

feeling very sorry for myself.

Then, after a few minutes, something did happen.

My hand started to tingle—the cue felt like it was moving in my hand.

It got stronger, and seemed to shock my hand, a bit like the shocks

I had gotten from the Van Der Graph machine. I wanted to drop the

cue, but couldn't. I wanted to shout, but did not dare.

Suddenly, there was jolt.

Then there was darkness.

I woke up in a sweaty haze when one of the unit staff, Maureen, came

into my room to see how I was. What would she say? I panicked to
The Magic Circle 5

myself, and frantically tried to wipe away the chalk-dust. There was

nothing there. It was clean. What on earth did I look like, on all fours

rubbing at the carpet? What was going through her mind seeing such

a sight?

She never did say.

I didn't wait to fnd out. I leapt up and ignored the questions she was

fring at me. I bolted over to the cue case. It was locked and when I

opened it, the two parts of the cue were snugly ftted inside.

I scrambled around the room in, throwing over DVDS, emptying

drawers, and storage boxes, but lo and behold, the books were no-

where to be found.

What was going on?

The staff wondered if I had some sort of seizure , or a nervous break-

down. Lacking in the necessary medical expertise, the staff rushed me

to the nearest hospital.

After an eternity of waiting, a doctor shined a light in my eyes, asked

me a few questions, and then talked to a 'consultant', AKA a psychia-

trist, on the phone.

Did they really think I was insane? Was I mad? Pictures of straight

jackets and padded cells fashed in my mind. The other week, I had

watched Mute Witness to Murder, an old horror about a woman

imprisoned in a padded cell by a insane doctor, and I didn't fancy

spending the best years of my life locked up as a mental case.

Left alone in an ER room, I tortured myself with these fears.

Relief came only four hours later, when the decided keep me in for

observation. I was given a bed and was so exhausted by the events of

the day, the time and my imagination, that I feel fast asleep.
CHAPTER 2

The Lady Vanishes

Given the 'all-clear' and out of the hospital, the frst thing I did was

to check my room again. There was no trace of anything, I could not

even fnd the piece of chalk I had 'borrowed'.

My mind was racing, trying to work it all out. It all seemed like a

dream. Perhaps I really did have a mental breakdown.

I received little comfort in my Religious Studies and Philosophy les-

son. The books were in the same place as I had lifted them (the teach-

er rarely tidied his desk. Books sat there for weeks on end).

It was time to play detective.

The lesson ended with the afternoon break. I dawdled leaving the

room. This was my usual manner and went unnoticed. When the

class emptied, I started a fake conversation with the Religious Studies

Teacher. I quickly changed subject, asking him to replay the videos on

magic, hoping to discover what I did wrong.

He looked a little puzzled, and did as people do when puzzled—he

asked some questions. I mumbled a few answers that made little sense.

Tempted as he was to ask more questions, he didn't, agreeing to look

instead, as I had 'shown interest'.

Showing interest was a great trick. We used it all the time to get teach-

ers and staff to do our bidding. It worked, just like magic every time.

I don't know why I bothered with the Key of Solomon, I had all the

magic tricks I needed up my sleeve.

He looked at me blankly, and claimed the videos did not ring a bell. I

insisted, even supplying the girl's name, Akasha. He then swore blind

he had never heard that name before. Likewise, he denied watching

the Goetia video. For a second, I couldn't decide who was going mad,

or whether it was all down to this guy's memory. He was always losing

6
The Lady Vanishes 7

things—keys, exercise books, worksheets, student documents and

teacher planners.

Undeterred, I pestered him some more. His patience was evaporat-

ing quickly, but in one last attempt to get rid of me, he called up his

YOUTUBE history and playlists. We checked it very carefully.

Nothing—they just were not there. Akasha had simply vanished. Had

he deleted them, or was I going nuts?

With beads of sweat forming on his forehead, he ushered me out of

the room, and rushed down the corridor to get a cup of coffee from

the staff room. It was probably about his tenth of the day. Why did he

need so much? Perhaps it was to help with his memory.

Meanwhile, I was left alone with my thoughts.

In one of those thoughts, getting those sessions with the school psy-

chologist started to look good. Perhaps I could drop a few hints, in-

stead of asking my staff directly.

'Embarrassment is a villain to be crushed,'

Was my motto. Well, one of them anyway. This one had cost me £7. I

had learned it from that book I borrowed.

But then a most peculiar thing happened.

I bumped into the yoga teacher. She had just arrived for her yoga

classes. Having seen me week before, she asked me if I wanted to re-

join the group. I made some pathetic excuses, claiming I was too busy

(it's a great excuse for getting out of things, isn't it?). Then she said,

"Well, I expect you are busy with all those books you are reading."

"What books?" I asked, startled.

"Those books I saw you pick up from the table."
CHAPTER 3

Dazed and Confused

What was going on?

I was really annoyed. As the old saying says:

"If you make people think they're thinking,

they'll love you;

But if you really make them think,

they'll hate you."

I was making myself really think and hating it. In fact, I hated that

saying, and hated it when our RMPE teacher made us copy it. He was

always trying to get us to think. Why couldn't he be just like everyone

else?

But I had an answer for the RMPE teacher. I had heard this:

"To avoid thinking for yourself,

get someone else to think for you."

I decided I would talk to my staff. They could sort it all out. But at

the last minute, sense kicked in. Magic, Spells, Vanishing Books, Bits

of Chalk who in their right mind talks about these? Exactly—I would

have been straight back to the hospital for some padded-cell therapy.

If I was lucky, I might have gotten off light with some sessions with the

school's psychologist, but I couldn't count on it.

I wasn't fnished yet, as I had also been told:

"To be free from the burden of thought,

consult an expert."

Who was a better expert on magic than the village witch? But another

hitch. How many of us can just approach a stranger and casually chat

away about magic and snooker cues? Talk about awkward. Likely as

8
Dazed and Confused 9

not, the school staff, who were keeping a close eye on me at the mo-

ment, would have invented a reason to come with me. It would end it

tears—my tears in a padded cell.

Another dead end.

But I had a more pressing problem; one which was 'growing arms

and legs' to quote the very popular cliché. Word travels fast and the

chattering classes were beginning to chatter about my little stay in the

hospital.

People love nothing more than a good scandal. I was fast becoming

this month's hot gossip.

How could I stop them? Well, I couldn't.

But then I had a fash of genius!

I would organise a competition. It was brilliant; absolutely brilliant,

I decided.

I couldn't stop them talking, but I could change it—get them to praise

me for my cleverness. The RMPE teacher told us his old friend Andy

Kovacs lived by this motto:

Razzle dazzle 'em And they;ll never catch wise!

Look the part; smile; show an interest; say what they want to hear;

put on a show; pretend you like them—they'll forgive your faults a

thousand times and trip over themselves to please you, Andy suppos-

edly said.

This would also keep me so busy and focused I wouldn't have time to

think. After all, staff and teachers kept telling me:

"I'm far too busy to think about that just now, son."

If it worked for them, then it would work for me. A pool competition

was just the ticket.
10 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

Soon, it was done. We would play at 5:45pm on Wednesday the 13th

of June in the School Games Room.

The early games in the competition played out pretty much as always.

The bragging, boasting and gloating was just as expected. The usual

suspects won and lost.

Then it was my turn.

I took the cue out of its case where it had lain silently for since that

fateful night, and screwed it together.

All eyes looked my way. Why were they staring at me? Had the gossip

become so bad?

My fears eased somewhat as I traced their line of sight. It wasn't fxed

on me at all. They were all staring at my cue. Then the unease re-

turned—did they know what I had done? I waited for the sniggers

and cheap comments. They never came. They all seemed hushed, as

in a bit of a daze and just looked.

I was pitched against the best boy in the school. I expected to get

thrashed, as I had many times before.

One day, I would tell myself, one day.

As it turned out, that day would be today. He messed up shot after

shot, He just could not concentrate on his game, but kept looking at

my cue. "Here take it if you want!" I almost said to him, almost, but

I was too busy potting balls, before sending the black into the bottom

right corner pocket.

I should have played one more game, but the phones started ringing.

Excuses were made, and a number of the assembled group headed

home. (This always happened.)

By default, then, I found myself in the fnal against a member of staff.

Now I don't like to name names; nor to gossip (well not when it's about

me, other people are Ok), but this member of staff is, how shall I put

it, a tad competitive. At table tennis, he's got to win; at golf, when he
Dazed and Confused 11

loses he sulks for a week; on any computer game we play, he will prac-

tice and practice until he beats us. No one at school has ever beaten

him at pool, and it was over two years before he lost his last game of

snooker at his local club in Kirkcaldy. And that's just for starters!

We squared up to the table and he gave a little chuckle as he pulled

out his phone and casually said to his wife, "Get my supper ready! I

will be leaving school in about three minutes."

He won the toss and got ready to break. I took my cue in hand where

it had lain against the wall since my victory.

"Break!" I was told as he moved back from the table with his eyes on

the cue.

It was a bit unusual to not take the break, having lost the toss; I was

obliged to break; so, I did.

Then the miracle happened.

Not only did I break; I potted all the balls in just under two minutes.

The room fell silent, but none were more quiet than my opponent. I

unscrewed the cue, and placed it back in its case.

"Rematch!" he ordered. The blank stare transforming into a look of

horror.

"Don't you need to be home?" one of the many also-rans chipped in—a

gentleman just as competitive, not quite as talented, but oh-so-very

happy to witness his downfall.

"Rematch!" he repeated.

"No," replied almost the whole assembled crowd in unison.

Then, for the frst time in my life I was genuinely applauded and

cheered.

Normally, I end up handing over the kitty money, but tonight it was

all mine. I was handed my frst ever winnings: £15.
CHAPTER 4

Showdown at Rileys

Rileys in Dunfermline is a spotless-looking snooker club offering pool

or snooker, and two hours tuition for £4. The table are squashed in as

tightly as rabbits in a warren. Like a rabbit's home, the club is under-

ground, smells damp and light drops in from overhead.

During the opening hours at the weekends, you will fnd at one of the

tables an almost famous snooker player, but now economics teacher,

David Noble. David wears a waistcoat, famous for its ruby sparkles.

When standing upright, David stands 6ft tall, and he was the man to

beat. Not that anyone had in a long, long time.

To here it was I decided to return. I had a large number of lessons at

Rileys, but I struggled with working out the number combinations of

moving to red, to pink, to black.... Oh my! This is another reason why

I never took darts seriously... the maths!

Rileys seemed like the best place to repeat the pool competition. It

was really a test of my sanity, after all.

Something very strange was happening. My opponents had become

dull witted and played terribly. In contrast, I was sharp and played

superbly. This was great, but what of the unexplained events?

Where had the video clips gone? Why could the teacher remember

nothing? What ability did the Yoga Teacher possess whereby she

could see me take the books, when they hadn't moved? She talked

about Chakras and Kundalini, in her lessons, and as far as I could see,

that was magic; so, mabye that was the key—people with magic, or

psychic powers could see things others could not.

Damn it! I was thinking again. I tried to stop, but I couldn't. "Why

can't I just be like everyone else?" I thought.

It had been almost four months since I had last been at Rileys. I just

12
Showdown at Rileys 13

couldn't cut it and gave up. The school staff told me never to ask

again. They had gone the extra mile in organising the lessons, and

were not happy with me.

But my recent dumping of school snooker 'champ' into 'chump' gained

me favour, and Scott Milne (school staff), agreed to take me along for

the Sunday Morning/Afternoon session.

By the time we got there, David Noble (also known as 'The Boy Noble'

in Rileys), had already chalked up a series of fve impressive wins,

handsomely supplementing his over-infated income for the week.

If I could beat Noble, I knew something special was happening and

that I was perfectly sane, or at least not completely mental.

The trick was getting his attention.

I put my £15 winnings on the table, and almost immediately a boy

about my age, set eyes on it. He swaggered over to my table, "I'll play

ye pal n' at, like." he offered in a nasally, whiney tone that was obvi-

ously a fake Glaswegian accent. Perhaps it was designed to intimidate

opponents, but I just felt sorry for the boy. I always take pity on Fife

lads pretending to be from Glasgow and acting 'Wide', as we call it.

Now, Reader, you might not understand what 'Wide' means. So, let

me put it like this, in the nicest way I possibly can: take a boy who is

stupid, unfunny and lacking charisma, and watch him try to be the

opposite. Now imagine such a boy looking twice as stupid as he did

before—that is acting 'Wide'.

He broke frst and to be fair he was pretty good. He notched up 12

points. He swooned, delighted by his own genius and glared at me. He

was a clear cut bully, all right, and his tactics worked.

My hands were shaking as I took the cue out of its case and assembled

it. Mr. Glasgow set his eyes on the cue and his face went blank. Now

he really did look like a Glaswegian.

I relaxed and took my shot. I angled the white off the side cushion and

it just glanced off a red, nudging it into the middle pocket.
14 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

Flushed with confdence, I potted the pink, before slotting all the balls

away—a break of 84.

The place was in silence. But more importantly, I had gotten David

Noble's attention.

The 'Glaswegian' slinked back to his corner, with a red face and empty

pockets, only to be greeted by sneering glances from his friends, or

so-called friends.

I put my now £30 on the table. David Noble barely glanced at it. A

paltry sum such as that would never interest him, but he looked at me

and the cue, hungry to take me on.

"That's all I've got," I said apologetically, sheepishly even.

Noble held out stoically, poker face in place waiting for a higher wager.

"I'll help you out, son," Scott announced as he placed £50 on the table.

Well I hadn't expected that. There'd been a bit of gossip in the School

(I try not to listen, but staff have such loud voices, don't they?) about

the state of Scott's fnances. Well I think it was that. It was always the

same old things, "Scott... bankrupt... no paying tax... broke... no

see Rangers playing any more... that Ali McCoist". I worked out that

things must be bad if a 'Rangers' fan like Scott couldn't afford to see

his team playing again. But what really worried me was why would

Scott, Fife born and bred, support a Glasgow team anyway? What's

wrong with Raith Rovers in Kirkcaldy? They must have been a lot

cheaper to watch.

The £80 on the table was still far lower than 'The Boy Noble' would

normally play for—his minimum was £250 per game. He would only

stoop that low on a shaky streak, or if he had a bit of a hangover from

the night before. Today he was as sober as a Benedictine Monk on

the Sabbath. I know nothing about Benedictine Monks and Sabbaths,

but it's a common saying in certain parts of Fife and East Lothian.

The three of us stood there in Mexican stand off. I suppose it must

have looked quite comic in its own way. Later, Scott said it reminded
Showdown at Rileys 15

him of that Spaghetti Western in which Tuco, Angel Eyes and Blondie

waited in a circle for each other to 'Draw'. Like the movie, Noble

'Drew' frst. He picked up his cue and walked towards his favourite

table and put down £500.

"The boy can't match that," Scott protested glaring at the 'Boy Noble'.

"If he beats me, he can take the lot. I'll settle for what he's got," he

said in a restrained tone, with a voice raspy and broken by too many

late nights, bottles of blended whisky and cheap cigars—just like a

cowboy in the old movies.

"The boy can break!" he gently ordered, full of disdain.

"No!" I protested. "Let's toss a coin for it, the proper way, like!"

"It's Ok Steiner. It's ok!," Scott butted in, with a hint of excitement in

his voice, sensing history was about to be made. "Just take the break!"

The pair of them stared at me, and a crowd gathered round to watch.

So, what could I do? I went to the table to take the break.

CHAPTER 5

Local Hero

It sat there on the chest of drawers in my room. I just sat and stared.

£530—quite a tidy sum! But it wasn't the amount; it was the fact I had

earned it. Things and money had just been given to me before, and I

appreciated it very little. But this was mine; it was won by me, and I

appreciated it a lot.

Possibly, This was the happiest day of my life.

Money's great! It stops you having to think in the bad way that we all

hate, and lets you think in the good way we all love.

My thoughts drifted to my next shopping trip. I couldn't wait. But a

week is a long time when money is burning a hole in your pocket.

But before next week, there would be tomorrow, and tonight.

Yes!

I would be the talking point. Everyone would praise me now. They

could gossip all they wanted now; so, when the call for the evening

meal came, I raced to the kitchen.

For the next half hour my legend grew as staff and boys quizzed me

over and over about my victory over local legend David Noble. I told

them this and told them that; Scott flled in the details I had totally

forgotten. My head was spinning. Their jaws went wide upon hearing

that the mighty 'Boy Noble' did not even make a shot! Scott put it

beautifully, how he had stormed out of Rileys in silence, even mim-

icking the actions.

In all the years he had gone there, Noble's opponents always left frst

with empty wallets.

I hardly ate a thing. My excitement was too great. That night I barely

slept, but I was up, bright and early frst thing in the morning, champ-

16
Local Hero 17

ing at the bit to get to school.

I was surrounded by a bunch of boys, and lauded by all and sundry.

Boys that I had never talked to before gave me a pat on the back, or

shook my hand. Teachers that barely took notice of me showed me

Youtube Clips of Stephen Hendry getting his 147, Steve Davis playing

'Hurricane' Higgins, and Ray Reardon in his prime.

One of the PE teachers even put me forward for the Hillside Sports-

Person of the Year award. That was quite special, as it was rare that

anyone but the football stars in the school got any recognition of

sporting achievement. (I'm not bitter... honestly... )

I was the centre of attention, and I loved it.

By Wednesday most of the boys had switched interests: the school

football match that afternoon; the staff: Andrew Murray's chances

at Wimbledon, Wiggins for the Tour de France. No one really talked

about the Olympics. We had done it as a cross-curricular subject, and

everyone was sick-to-death of it.

It didn't matter, I had won the war.

As Denise used to say:

"Gossip is when you hear something you like

about someone you don't.."

Everyone liked me. Who would listen to anything bad about me now?

Also, my School Unit had arranged an ultra big shopping trip for me

on the Saturday.

But what happened after that no one could have imagined—not even

me, and, trust me, I have a pretty good imagination.
CHAPTER 6

Dial S for Steiner

We arrived back at school around 2:45pm. In the end, I only spent a

couple of hundred—two new playstation games, a couple of DVD's

and some clothes. I actually don't like shopping.

That's not quite true, because I really do like shopping.

I would look forward to it, but once in a shop, I could never make

up my mind. I would get fustered and then angry. I always relied on

my mother or staff to help me choose my clothes. Denise from school

came with me, but I squandered the time in indecision and her shift

ended at 3pm. (I am an expert at dawdling, dragging my heals and

time-wasting. Of course, when others don't perform to my schedule, I

quickly loose my tempter.)

Scott arrived for his shift at school the same time as us. (He was al-

ways 15 minutes early.) I showed him the spoils of my adventure.

Denise rolled her eyes and Scott gave her a knowing look. Yes, he had

been shopping with me before.

We barely strolled through the door, before some of the boys clam-

oured around to see what I had bought. It was just the same gear as

they were wearing. They were just checking to make sure I hadn't got

anything more expensive than they had.

The kitchen phone rang. I barely heard it ring through the commo-

tion of the boys rifing through my bags, but I heard Staff Member

Laura shout through to the hallway,

"Scott, that's a David Noble on the phone. He says wants to talk to

Steiner about the snooker."

"Eh, whit's that all aboot?" Scott shouted back.

"I dunno, but he says he's in the village just now, like, and he wants a

18
Dial S For Steiner 19

wee chat wi' Steiner."

"Well, I tell you now, I'm not giving him the cash back," I said in a

high-pitched, shallow voice. Not even my famous 'Stubborn Head'

act could mask my growing anxiety. I had already spent almost half

of it and intended to spend the rest.

"I'll take it," Scott announced not fooled by my act. "And don't you

worry Steiner, Son. You won that cash fair and square, like."

In the hallway, almost frozen to the spot, I tried to catch the gist of

the conversation. All I could make out, though, were a few "Uh, hu's,"

and "Mm, mm's."

Then Scott called me through to the kitchen.

"Right, listen Steiner. He's in the village the now, like, and he says he's

no wantin' the cash back. He says he's wantin' to make you a proposi-

tion."

"A proposition—what's that?"

"An offer ... a deal ... about snooker. He says he can teach you how to

become a champ."
CHAPTER 7

The Boy-Noble Strikes Back

Denise extended her shift to cover for Scott. Without further ado, we

headed into the village, to the Aberdour Hotel.

Aberdour is a great little village, with a fantastic beach. Every year it

attracts thousands of visitors from home and abroad. The problem ist

once in Aberdour, there's not exactly a lot of amenities on offer. The

Hotel was pretty much the only place we could meet. True, there are

some coffee shops, but they are all so small that everyone can hear

your business. Most of them have bizarre and irregular opening times.

The History teacher joked a couple of times and said that Aberdour

reminded her of the village in The Wickerman (the 'original flm', she

always added, not the 'terrible remake'). To this day, I have never

seen the original nor the terrible remake; so, I don't know what she

was getting at.

Dave Noble was sat in a corner table, tapping something on his phone,

as if his life depended on it. Ten seconds passed before he acknowl-

edged our presence.

We sat down and David Noble started some small talk to put us at ease.

The Clint Eastwood act had been dropped, along with the spangley

waistcoat. In its place was a grey, v-necked sweater, and an unassum-

ing, rational man. David Noble was clearly a man of many faces. He

seemed a bit podgy in his sweater— the waistcoat obviously doubled

as body shaper. His attention strayed from time-to-time, as he looked

at his phone, expecting a life changing text at any second.

It never came.

Now, bear with me, Reader. There's a bit of speech coming up. I could

have shortened it, but it is so important to the story that I will repeat

the most of it.

20
The Boy-Noble Strikes Back 21

"Look!" he said. "I've never been beaten like that before, and I've

played some top boys in my time. I Think you've got what it takes to

be a champ."

"What do you mean champ?" I asked bewildered.

"I mean World Champ."

"What Steiner? World Champ?" Scott barked out, almost choking on

his coffee as he did. "Obviously he's got a bit of form at the moment,

like, but... are you havin' a laugh? He's no played in any proper

competitions."

"You need to believe in the boy," David went on. "Scotland's always

produced great champions and he's going to be one of them. Yes, sure,

were rubbish at team sports. No one's felt good about football since

1978, and the rugby team's got more wooden spoons than Ma Broon's

Kitchen. We can't even win at curling anymore. But as individuals

we're great. David Wilkie..."

"Aye, I suppose," Scott said to himself, his mind's eye reeling of the

Scottish list of honour.

"... Jackie Stewart, Archie Gemmill, Alan Wells, Jockie Wilson and

let's not forget about the most important of all—Stephen Hendry!"

"Andrew Murray?" I added feeling clever about my contribution.

Silence.

"So, listen... I'm wanting to coach and train the boy—become his

manager, so to speak. With my help the boy could become the youngest

World Champ ever."

"Younger than Hendry?" Scott asked, doubtfully.

"Far younger than Hendry."

"The summer holidays are almost here. We can train him up over the

summer and get him into competition. Get some attention and then go

for one of the big ones."

"So, what, you're saying is that me and you can train Steiner in just
22 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

a few weeks to be champ?" Scott wasn't buying it and made ready to

leave.

"Well, more me and someone else rather than you, to be honest," Da-

vid seeped out, almost apologetically—almost.

"Who's this someone else?" I asked, saying something at last.

"You might not believe this, but none other than Hendry himself."

Silence.

"He's agreed to give up a couple of weeks to help train you. He says

he'd like to give more help, but he's got to spend time with his family,

now he's retired."

Silence.

"We're old pals. I've played a number of games against the boy," he

added.

Silence... then.

"I don't remember your name coming up against Hendry at anytime at

all," Scott added, shifting in his chair.

"True," he admitted. "I've never played in a televised competition,

but I've played him in a number of 'friendly games'."

"... So, are you in or not?"

"Well, yes... if it's true," I replied.

"Let's have a chat about this, Steiner," Scott cautioned as he gave me

the look to leave.

"No!" I said. "I think I'll go for it. Nothing to lose. I'll be sixteen soon.

I can do what I want."

"Right," David concluded. "I'll get you some new kit and we'll start

as soon as."

"What do you mean, new kit?" I gasped.

"You know... cues, etc.—professional grade," he answered with a
The Boy-Noble Strikes Back 23

puzzled look on his face, as if it was obvious. "You can't play with that

cue you had. It's just a cheap and nasty toy. You can't play with that!"

"Yes, I can."

"If you're going to go for this, Steiner," Scott said, "then you might as

well let the man buy you some decent equipment."

"NO!" I almost shouted. "I'll play with this cue or not at all. You know

me Scott, I'm a bit OCD at times."

Scott didn't really know this at all, but he had seen my obsessing over

organising and lists; so, he probably guessed it.

But, speculation or not, it didn't matter. I had got them. I had used the

'OCD' buzzword, and no one could argue with a buzzword.

"The tool for the control of reality is the control of words.

If you can control the meaning of words,

you can control the people who must use the words."

Was another quote we had to copy down in RMPE as our teacher

droned on endlessly about the power or words. I acted bored in that

lesson, but, the truth is, I secretly listened to every word that was said.

The gist was this: in the past, magicians and priests used secret and

sacred words to bend the universe to their will, or failing that just

people. In the modern world, people constantly invent new words,

or manipulate old ones to control the thoughts and actions of others.

This immediately clicked with me, because I had used these tactics, and had

seen others doing likewise.

Next, we explored how everyone was playing the same game. Politi-

cians, scientists, lawyers, activists, educators....

Then we brainstormed some lists in our books of all the words used

in school. There were plenty: OCD, ADD, ODD, ADHD, APD, BPD,

AFL, PBSU, CAPD, GATE, Tourettes, dyslexia, dyspraxia, dyscalcu-

lia,....

"New Words for Old Things."
24 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

One boy shouted out. It was his way of refecting back the teacher's

learning intent. To acknowledge his genius, the teacher promised the

student he could display it on the wall as a slogan.

During the lesson summary, we worked out that despite the variety of

words and the range of groups using them, the intention was always

the same: to control others, especially adults.

As a class, we summarised it, and the teacher wrote it on the board:

'Block them in their thinking;

Bend them to our will;

Blind them to our behaviour.'

Another boy asked to make that into a slogan, but was knocked back.

The excuse: it could be misunderstood by those of 'Lower Cognitive

Ability'. (LCA–oh yes, another buzzword.) Words, he said, are also

used to educate, enlighten and edify.

Boring!

I liked the manipulation part better, because as students, it meant we

could act without consequence and get what we wanted. The same

with politicians, I guess.

Anyway, back to the story. True to form, the word worked its charm.

"I guess the lad's got a point," Scott said resignedly.

"Well, if your a bit fxated, just keep it then, Steiner. We can sort it out

later."

Over the next few weeks there would be many things sorted out, over

lots of phone calls. David Noble was a genius at organising things. I

admired that a lot.

But in the meantime, I cast my gaze outside. Directly opposite the

hotel stood the witch's shop.
CHAPTER 8

The Witch's Shoppe

We said goodbye to David Noble. One quick excuse to Scott, about

wanting to buy chocolate and juice from the newsagents, saw us part-

ing company at the shop. Being pushed for time, he raced back to

school to let Denise go home.

This was exactly what I had counted on. I am so clever sometimes.

Out of sight, I crossed the road and meandered back towards Green

Witch & Mystic Moments, as the witch's shop is called.

Here I was at last. This scenario had played out many times in my

mind; imagination had become reality. I hesitated and pretending I

was interested in the artefacts, gazed blankly into the window display.

The couple in the shop left while I was looking in. It was empty.

Time to consult the expert. I mustered up the courage, and walked

inside.

Just as I entered the shop, the witch left, and went through the back,

leaving a young girl at the counter. She wasn't much older than me.

The girl had dyed black hair. I could tell it was dyed because she had

ginger roots poking through; she had a few piercings in her face and

ears, and wore a black T-shirt and black jeans. Even her boots were

black. The T-shirt had an Eye of Horus on it and the word ILLUMI-

NATI emblazoned underneath. In class, we had learned that the Eye

is actually called a Widjut, after the Egyptian snake goddess (Ha! I

bet she didn't know that), and we also learned the Modern Illuminati

were an imaginary group. How could an 'expert' believe in the Illu-

minati? It was made illegal as far back as 1777, and once something

is made illegal, it ceases to exist. Doesn't it?

So when she asked if she could help me, I said I wanted The Witch.

25
26 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

"But I'm a witch too, you know," she protested. "I can cast spells; read

the Tarot; do psychic predictions; heal; I'm in the biggest coven in

Dunfermline."

No chance!

I was here to talk to the Expert; so, I repeated that I wanted to talk

to The Witch.

"Ok.," she conceded. Turning around, she shouted into the back shop.

"Chris! There's a boy here says he needs to talk to you."

On the back of her T-shirt was the sign of the Freemasons: a com-

pass, a set-square with a big G in the middle. G.A.O.T.U. was written

underneath, and underneath that, Jahbulon. We had learned a little

about Masons in RMPE, because their symbols appeared in loads

of music videos and flms. In case you don't know about them, they

referee all the football matches in Scotland. No matter how hard you

try, Masons will not shut-up about some guy called Hiram Abiff, who

had a friend called Tubal Cain. Apparently, Tubal spoke with a lisp

termed a Shibboleth. Huh? What's so special about that? My old Sci-

ence Teacher spoke with a lisp, but no one wanted to make a video

about him. So, why would every pop-star make music videos about

Freemasons?

Chris reentered the shop. She looked nothing like the girl, or like

witches you see in flms. She had bobbed, 'blonde' hair, and was

dressed just like a teacher.

"How can I help?... You're from The School, aren't you?"

She talked just like a teacher too.

"Yes," I replied. "I need to talk to you."

"Alright... I'm a bit busy... em... but ok." For a second I thought

she was going to give me the old 'brush off' after using the dreaded

'busy' word.

She pointed to the two chairs she has in the main shop area and we
The Witch's Shoppe 27

sat down. She asked the 'Illuminati' girl to put the closed sign in the

window. The girl locked the door, put up the sign and got on with her

business.

"I can see that something is troubling you—a personal problem per-

haps. It might even have something to do with magic," she said calmly.

"How do you know that?"

"I know many things, but it's better if you tell me in your own words,

eh... what's your name."

"Steiner."

"Steiner... right... well, nice to meet you my name is Christine, but

you can call me Chris. Do they call you Stein?

"No, they call me Steiner."

"Alright, then... tell me your story, Steiner!"

I told her everything that had happened.

When I fnished, she said, "So, Steiner you're worried about whether

it's your imagination and if something bad happening to you. I think

you are also worried about losing that pool cue."

"Yes, that's it. But also, lots of good things have happened. Everything

I have wished for seems to have come true. I got money and every-

thing."

"That's great! It seems like you performed the ceremony correctly, or

correctly enough for the Magic to work. Not every part of a spell has

to be perfect, you know. The books vanished because you wished it.

The teacher's memory failed because you wanted your magic to be

secret from those who don't understand."

"Are you sure? Well I hope it's like that. I certainly don't want anyone

to know, but ..." I paused

"What is it, Steiner?"
28 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

Well, in RMPE we heard it said that you can get bad karma through

witchcraft. The teacher said that Christians believe God will send you

to Hell for doing magic."

"Oh, that's just nonsense. As long as you use magic for good... you're

not putting curses on anyone are you?"

"No, No! I would never do that."

"Good, and don't use Magic to put curses on people. It will come back

on you threefold. I will let you in on a secret, Steiner: there is no such

thing as Hell; it's just an idea invented by the Emperor Constantine

and The Church to control the masses. Anyway, I am a Methodist

myself—a Christian."

"So God won't send me to Hell, then?"

"Of course, not, Steiner—not anymore than she would me. This idea

of an angry God is just a male fantasy fgure—an invention of the

Medieval Church. It's the Mother Goddess we witches worship. She is

only kind and generous. That's why you've had so many nice things.

Are there many Christians at your school ... really religious ones?"

I really didn't know what she was on about, but I answered her ques-

tion.

"Not sure... how many, but I've heard teachers gossip about the Wood-

work Teacher, saying he is also a priest with the Church of Scotland."

"Do you mean minister?"

"Could be that."

"Well, listen! If he starts talking about Hell, just ignore him... when

we die, Steiner, our karma takes us into new lives, not to hell."

"I heard that in RMPE. Hindus teach it, but that's not what my sci-

ence teacher says. Once we had a big debate about it and he said when

you die there is nothing—just the blackness of darkness, forever."

"Maybe for him that will be true, Steiner. Remember this:
The Witch's Shoppe 29

'Through thought we make words

and with words, magic,

and with magic we create reality.'

"Now... your Magic Cue—clever idea to use it as a wand ... but...

I think it's become a prop. A bit like, Dumbo with his magic fying

feather."

"Huh?"—was she calling me dumb?

Sensing my thoughts, she responded quickly, "The Disney Cartoon,

Steiner—you know, Dumbo he was an elephant that believed his

Magic Feather made him fy. He lost it, and had to learn to fy on his

own. You've never seen it?"

I hadn't; so, I shook my head.

"So, I need to get rid of the cue?"

"No! What you need is some confdence in yourself. Listen!" she went

on. "I will put you into a trance and cast a spell of confdence on you."

I agreed. She spoke. I fell 'asleep.'

When I 'woke up' she told me that she had cast a couple of spells.

Her assistant stood by my left side. Chris gave me her business card,

telling me to phone her at any time, especially if Christians tried to

preach to me about witches and hell.

As I walked back to school, I memorised the number—something I

would have struggled with before today. I felt much better than I ever

had.

I went into the corner shop and bought bars of chocolate, sweets and

juice for everyone in my School Unit. Once again, I was the hero for

the evening.

I loved every second of it.
CHAPTER 9

The Sorcerer's Apprentice

Training with Stephen Hendry was great. As was staying in the

Gleneagles Hotel. David Noble covered the bill at the Gleneagles. We

knew he was serious when he started forking out cash like this.

Who could have imagined that in just a few weeks I had gone from

being a rubbish pool player to training with the best snooker player

of all time? Sandwiched in the middle was my crushing defeat of the

best player in Fife—David Noble, who was now paying for my room

at the Gleneagles.

Even better, I wasn't thinking about anything other than snooker.

It wasn't all great. Auchterarder was a bit boring—too much like

Aberdour. In the day I trained with Hendry at his house, and in the

evening, Scott, David Noble and I played snooker to pass the time.

The two of them also took time out and travelled back to see their

families.

Scott was a pretty good player and beat Noble in a couple of games.

There was no money on the table. Perhaps 'The Boy Noble' couldn't

put his heart into it when there was no money on offer.

Hendry taught me how to snooker opponents; how to get out of

snookers; how to read the game; how to angle shots off cushions; how

to come back from disasters. He explained over and over again about

the need to stay focused and concentrate for the whole match.

He saved the best till last, of course—how to get a 147 break. The idea

is quite simple: just pot a red and set it up to pot the black. Multiply

this 15 times, pot the colours and then the fnal black: voila—147—as

easy as that!

So guess what I did? Yes, I started notching up 147 breaks. Eight in

two days to be exact.

30
The Sorcerer's Apprentice 31

It was going so well, I lost track of the days. So did Stephen. His wife,

Mandy, didn't. She was getting fed up with it all. At one point she said,

"Do you not think you should play a few games with you own kids?"

That was an awkward moment. Looking at his face, I think Hendry

hated being embarrassed as much as me.

Well, that was pretty much the end of the intense, non-stop training.

But Stephen said he would still help to get the ball rolling for me.

That was the problem.

To play in the Pro-Circuit, you need a Tour Card. These need to be

earned through the right competitions. Q-School was one way, but it

had just fnished and there was almost a year to wait. Besides, entry

was based on merit and I didn't have any.

Another possibility was the Players Tour Championship. There would

be recognition, but no cash. This was relegated to a back-up plan. Ste-

phen said he had a brutal time when he was forced to play on the PTC.

Time was against us. We had to short-cut the process. The best way to

do this was sensationalism we decided.
CHAPTER 10

Of Mice and Men

Here was the plan:

First, we would video two matches: one between myself and Hendry

and then a second between myself and Stephen Maguire, who also

agreed to get on board.

Second, we would post the videos on YOUTUBE and then send copies

to the newspapers and television broadcasting stations.

Third, at the end of the videos Stephen Hendry would announce

that he would pay one million pounds to any professional player who

could beat me. Said player would have no forfeit.

By the last week in July, everything was ready.

Of course, Stephen should have kept his wife informed of everything.

When she found out about the prize money, she went, as we describe

it in Scotland, 'absolutely radge'. I am absolutely sure that needs no

translation.

With the camera all set up, I played Stephen frst, the best of three.

He had taught me well, but he hadn't taught me everything. His angles

and ability to snooker me caught me off guard, but, as it turned out,

he was just delaying the inevitable. I took the frst game by only 7

clear points. I broke in the second and cleared 78 points.

Maguire watched and worried. Hendry had retired, but Maguire

was still competing and he didn't want to look a fool on TV nor on

YOUTUBE. He demanded the best of fve.

So the best of fve it was: 3:2 to me.

I won't bore you with more details (you can check it out on YOUTUBE),

but I managed a 147 break. (I also managed a 97 break, but who

32
Of Mice and Men 33

remembers those?)

There was some debate over the release date of the material. The

London Olympics dominated all forms of media. Dave Noble argued

that our efforts might be drowned out. Hendry and Scott argued that

it was so sensational that people would take notice, despite the na-

tionwide mania for Team-GB. Plus, they added, it was costing Noble

money.

We released it as soon as.
CHAPTER 11

The Three Ruffans

The response to the video was overwhelming. Countless offers poured

in. In the end, I played just three top players: John Gould, John Hig-

gins and Matthew Stevens.

John Gould was the frst. I beat him 6:2 in the best of 11. The video

went viral. Shock waves reverberated throughout the snooker world.

John Higgins few in from Mauritius, interrupting his holiday. He left

Edinburgh Airport at 4pm. By 7pm we were playing in Hendry's

snooker room, cameras on.

I was blown away. Higgins took the frst three games without my barely

touching a ball.

Hendry started to panic. I was getting fustered and for the frst time

in weeks, I messed up my break. Higgins took the forth.

That left just seven games. I just didn't know what to do. I had the cue

clutched in my hand as I bowed my head, trying not to look at any of

them, and certainly hoping not to see Mandy.

Higgins broke and started potting the balls.

I went over in my mind everything that had happened—all the games.

There was defnitely something different in the last couple of matches.

My opponents hadn't stared at the cue as much as others had in

the early games. Higgins hadn't even looked at it at all. Also, I was

losing interest in magic, and hadn't thought about it in weeks. I was

obsessed on developing skill—I did mention I can be OCD at times. I

reminisced about that magic ceremony in my room. Then, I replayed

the school pool competition in my mind. I clearly visualised how the

cue had transfxed them all. Next, I imagined Higgins hypnotised by

the cue. It started to tingle in my hand. It dawned on me: the power

of the cue was based on what I wished for, and how I visualised it.

34
The Three Ruffans 35

"Higgins 27 break; Sanderson two shots," Hendry announced,

wakening me from my own trance. Opening my eyes, I could see

Higgins eyes glaring at the cue, pupils dilated. He had missed an easy

shot.

Now was my chance.

I went to the table and cleared it.

I won the next six games in a row, scoring two 147's—an unheard of

accomplishment.

My support screamed and jumped for joy. Higgins shook my hand

and said he would do his best to help me. Later he bought Scott and

David a couple of whiskies back at the hotel, before fying back to

Mauritius later the next day

When the footage was released, some understood it as a hustle on Hig-

gins; others saw me cracking and thought I was beatable.

Fortunately, Hendry saw it as a hustle and upped the prize money to

£1,500,000. Thinking back, I'm sure the hypnotic effect of the cue lay

behind this.

That kind of money put a lot of pressure on me, but I was not worried

a bit, because now I knew exactly how to beat everyone who came my

way.

There was a two day gap between Higgins and Mathew Stevens. In the

meantime, excitement gave way to some cold hard facts about fnances.

David Noble was beginning to make noises. I had overheard his con-

versations with his wife, who was making even bigger noises. He hadn't

really thought it through, and had overstretched himself.

Scott became uneasy, and decided to get back to work. He said he'd

wait until after my next game.

In contrast, Hendry became more upbeat with every passing minute.

Matthew Stevens arrived about 5pm. He was all fred up, stating he
36 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

wanted to play nine frames. No problem. I was the one holding a

hypnotic cue, and he could have as many games as he wanted.

Despite the bravado, he was in no real hurry to play. He 'blethered' to

Stephen and David Noble for about a hour.

In the other side of the room, Scott was trying to drag me into a

conversation about school. The holidays were ending in a couple of

weeks, he reminded me. He told me not to take any of this too seri-

ously, and argued I should get back to school for more qualifcations.

"Think again Scott!" I thought and then thought again, "Don't get me

thinking, Scott! Don't get me thinking!"

Of course I was thinking, but in a nice way. Music videos repeated

in my mind's eye—glamour, cars, houses, exotic locations and cool

friends. Like that Nickleback video I had seen a number of times—I

wanted to be a rock star.

Scott pushed me to make a decision. Fortunately, Stevens announce-

ment that he was ready to play ended this unwelcome conversation.

Stevens probably wished he had talked some more, as I gave him

the thrashing of a lifetime—fve games to nil. He scored less than 30

points in the entire match.

I had learned my lesson well.

Stevens was, for the frst time in his life, lost for words. The others

joined him in his silent tribute of awe and bewilderment. How long we

stood, dumbstruck, is hard to say. Mandy eventually took us out of

our trance by offering coffee and sandwiches. She had warmed to me

and our cause in the last couple of days.

Then, Hendry came out with a big shocker.

Out of nowhere he made us a proposition, right there and then, while

we were tucking into our sandwiches and Battenberg slices.

It went like this: he would reimburse all our expenses up till now and

would bankroll the three of us, modestly of course, until I started
The Three Ruffans 37

earning money. In return, he would take a cut of my winnings. He had

asked for 20%, but Noble whittled him down to 15%. Scott and Noble

were already in for a 10% cut each, plus expenses. There were mil-

lions to be won in the pro-circuit, and I intended to win every penny.

After all, what's 35% of fve or even eight million... quite a lot actu-

ally. This occurred to me some months after these arrangements had

been made. Eventually, I would need to cut loose from them all.

But that night I dreamt of money, swimming pools and limousines. I

wished for it so badly.

The next day came the big break we were all waiting for, as if to fulfl

my wishes.

CHAPTER 12

A Brazilian Odyssey

"Brazil," shouted David Noble. "Brazil wants us. Yes!"

"Brazil—whit?" Scott quizzed.

"Yep—Brazil. Stephen put me in touch with a contact of his over there.

He met him during the Masters."

"I remember that now," recollected Scott. "Did he no get humped by

the boy Murphy over there?"

"Aye, he got the tanning of a lifetime," David replied. "But he made

good friends with the organisers. He was the original 'Boy Wonder'.

One thing's led to another—contacts within contacts and more con-

tacts. We've been offered a two week demo tournament in Rio, to pro-

mote the game, and then a place in the Brazilian Masters. It couldn't

be better."

"Yesss..." I said at last. "How much money will I make?"

"We'll make plenty," Dave answered confdently. "There's forty thou-

sand dollars just for winning the competition."

"Is that a lot?" I asked naively.

"Loads, and that's after we clean up in Rio. So are you up for it?"

I was. David Noble was certainly up for it. He had been given an ex-

tended break from his teaching job—a sabbatical he called it. He was

hoping to make a fortune out of this little caper.

But I think he also wanted an adventure out of this. It was an experi-

ence he had never known, the glamour of doing the tours, of being a

champ, or at least being near one in a competition.

Scott was less certain about it all. Work had gone easy on him, but

38
A Brazilian Odyssey 39

now the pressure was on. After a stack load of phone calls, an agree-

ment was reached—a six month break from full time work. He could

tour and still work shifts when he was home. Ideal!

His wife gave him a bit of an earful over the phone; so, he headed

home to sort it out.

I don't know how David explained it to his family. He had barely seen

them the last few weeks, spending most of his time in Auchterarder.

Now he was off again.

Hendry's eyes lit up when he heard the news. I think he was getting

ready to pack a case, but his wife had other ideas.
CHAPTER 13

An Offer we Couldn't Refuse

Brazil was fantastic! Being in Rio De Janerio was like being in a Pit-

bull Video. We were in a hotel right by the beach, which stretched as

far as the eye could see. It took the three of us a while to adjust to the

heat after a summer of rain in Scotland. I was very pale compared to

the locals, and drew some looks and giggles.

At one point, we thought they might have recognised me from the

videos online, but snooker was a minority, albeit an up-and-coming

sport here, and it was unlikely. David Noble was as pale as me, but he

rarely took his top off. Scott already had a bit of a tan. How anyone

can get tanned in Scotland is a complete mystery. He absolutely and

fatly denied lurking around tanning salons.

We were in Rio for almost two weeks. For about eight of those days, I

put on snooker displays at night, either attempting (and getting quite

a lot) of 147 breaks, or playing against local talent. I had so many

breaks over a hundred, or centuries as they call them, that they

began calling me the 21st Century Boy, and started to play a jingle.

It was the sort of music my grandfather would play (I think the song

was 20th Century Boy—but imagine that, changing it for me?). It was

all good fun.

We didn't come here for fun, though; we came here for money.

The organisers covered all the hotel bills, including food and drink,

They covered all our transport, including fights, but by day seven no

money had been paid. By our reckoning there must have been around

£20,000 according to the number of 147's. We began to doubt they

had the funds, not expecting my doing so well.

I refused to play further until we saw some money. All kinds of ex-

cuses were given by the organisers, and this person after that person

said they had to consult their superior.

40
An Offer we Couldn't Refuse 41

About 9pm, we were invited to meet a certain gentleman in the hotel

lobby. He had two body guards, and a couple of lackeys in tow. He

was going for the gangster look, alright. Probably because he was a

gangster. He had sunglasses on, gold chain around the neck, Rolex

watch, etc.

Scott and David Noble, didn't waste time studying him. They were

too busy examining the two steroid kings either side of him, trying to

ascertain the level of violence they could infict. A threat enhanced

by the bulges in the left hand sides of their jackets—the tell-tale signs

of Glock 9mm's.

We were a captive audience.

The gentleman introduced himself as 'Mr, Fernandez', a business

man and owner of the hotel. He spoke in Spanish and a lackey inter-

preted. (It was actually Portuguese, but who can tell the difference?)

He claimed that one of his employees further down the food chain

had overstepped the mark, and promised too much money. This, he

claimed, was a great embarrassment, a great shame, especially as he

could not possibly honour what had been promised. Times had been

hard recently. However, as a sign of good faith he was willing to pay

us $15,000 US right here, right now, as long as I continued to play for

the rest of the week.

Well, there wasn't much choice, was there? Although, Scott did try a

rather sheepish, "Well, what do you think lads?"

Now don't get me wrong here. Scott was as tough as they come and a

brilliant boxer. At school, he'd taught so many of us the ropes. But

here, with those two pumped up and tooled up, he had no chance.

I quickly agreed to accept the cash, and another lackey opened a suit-

case and placed it on the table. We didn't have the effrontery to count

it, and averted our gaze looking at 'Mr. Fernandez' directly in the eye.

A couple of minutes later, they had left in a haze of handshakes and

smiles.

This had been a blow. It was much less than had been agreed. Plus we
42 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

had hoped for a bank transfer in pounds. Now we were landed with a

wad of cash. Keeping it in the room safe was out of the question.

"The second we leave that room, we'll be robbed," Scott prophesied

to the nodding of heads.

There was only one thing for it: a money belt. (It seemed like a good

idea when we purchased it from the hotel shop, but Scott did look a

little daft lying on the beach with a money belt.)

Then the rationalisations started.

"Well, it's money we didn't have before."

"Hendry covered everything—no one's actually out of pocket."

"If you think about the fights and everything else, it's not been too

bad a deal."

"A free holiday in Brazil. Now that's gotta be good."

"The Masters is just next week, and you'll win that."

We consoled ourselves, but in our hearts we knew we had been naïve

and caught out like wee boys in the big city; intimidated by local hoods.

The next day we hastily agreed that in future demonstrations we

would demand 70% of fees up front by bank transfer before entering

the country. This didn't always work out, but we never got ripped off

again as in Brazil.

We never saw our host again, although his two security turned up at a

couple of my shows.
CHAPTER 14

Master of the Craft

We few in relative silence to the Costão do Santinho Resort, in

Florianopolis for the Brazilian Masters, relieved to be out of the

grasp of 'Mr Fernandez'. The adventure was continuing, but our little

hiccup in Rio knocked the wind out of sails. Over the last few days,

Scott spent a little less time on the beach and more time on the phone.

David Noble became enmeshed in his own dealings. We didn't see him

much.

Sitting beside me, David Noble spent most of his time tapping into his

laptop, 'making contacts and setting up deals' as he termed it. Our ap-

proach was two pronged—try to promote snooker around the world

and enter every competition possible. Back home, Hendry would or-

ganise my tour card. Eventually, Noble snapped out of this and went

over the Masters.

The real danger man was Shaun Murphy, defending champion. He

had whitewashed Graeme Dott in the fnal and destroyed Stephen

Hendry in the semi: fve games to one. Of course, I knew something

that David Noble didn't and I was confdent of winning. I had learned

not to be too confdent, but overall I was very relaxed as we descended

into Hercílio Luz International Airport for the three day tournament.

I was pitched against a local champ, whose name I couldn't pronounce

in the frst round. I quickly disposed of him.

That didn't generate too much interest, but when I dispatched Peter

Ebdon (dubbed the most boring man in snooker) in the Quarter-fnal,

the eyes of the world were upon me, or so it seemed. The TV crews

tried to interview me, but I didn't know what to say, so I let David do

most of the talking, and he didn't do much.

He kept repeating this maxim he devised:

43
44 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

"Keep yourself scarce.

Maintain the mystery."

(Well, he claimed he invented it, but I saw him reading a book: The 48

Laws of Power, and I was sure he just copied it from there.)

By the time I had thrashed Judd Trump, the media was in a frenzy.

I, or should I say we, were a lot richer as I had notched up three 147's.

The atmosphere in the arena was electric when Shaun Murphy en-

tered to defend his title. It was quite hot, but not that hot as the air

conditioning kept things comfortable, but as I shook his hand I no-

ticed a trickle of sweat running down his temple. He was very nervous,

and had only nine frames to hold his title, retain his pride and earn

$40,000.

I had nothing to lose. What a great position to be in.

I started to hypnotise him with the cue.

Nothing happened! Nothing!

He refused to be mesmerised and would not look my way. I concentrated

harder. He started to get pulled towards me, but at the last second he

pulled his head away. What kind of will power did this man have? No

one was able to resist. I was sure I could even have got Fernandez to

comply.

He must have worked out my secret before the game, But how? He

must have seen the YOUTUBE clips—perhaps it was obvious from

that. Maybe he had special insight, like the Yoga Teacher.

I couldn't count on throwing him off his game, but I knew I could still

play well enough to beat him.

He got the toss, which meant he had fve breaks to my four. There was

potential danger in this.

For the frst time since the Higgins game, an opponent took a game

from me. 75-33. I got the second with a break of 92. I was nervous
Master of the Craft 45

alright. This was the frst time I had gone under a hundred since the

Higgins game. I had lost the third, but narrowed it to 67-61. I took

the fourth and so it continued. In the eighth, I managed a 147, and

the audience exploded in applause. This unnerved Murphy somewhat,

but he had the break and the advantage.

The game looked like a repeat of his frst. He potted some. Snook-

ered me. Missed a couple of shots. I potted some, but had to resort to

snookers. He was ahead, but there was little between us. Then came

my stroke of luck, the white followed the blue into the pocket. It was

a devastating blow to Murphy whose head immediately dropped. He

knew the game was mine.

With those extra four points, I went on the rampage and pushed the

game beyond him.

The audience applauded for about ten minutes.

They positively screamed as I was presented with the trophy.

The raucousness descended into a chant 'Destruidor, Destruidor'

(which I learned meant 'Destroyer').

Wow! In just a couple of weeks I'd picked up a couple of nicknames—

Destroyer and 21st Century Boy—how cool is that? Neither would

stick, but it was better than school—the best I got there was Shiner.

But what's a few nicknames compared to hard cash and trophies?
CHAPTER 15

Duality of Opposites

I returned home to a hero's welcome. I was in every paper and TV sta-

tion; Yahoo even had me listed on their news section. I splashed out

big time for presents for my friends and family. The money didn't last

long. In the end, I had done a three way split with Scott and David.

Hendry received his cut of the top.

Small shakes to him.

Scott returned to work and that was that. It sad was to see him fnish

like that, but he claimed his family came frst.

David Noble seemed to manage fne, even turning up at Rileys to earn

a few bob.

But he was incessant in his organising.

It soon paid off. He managed to secure for me some sponsorship deals.

Of course he then requested his cut be raised to 15%. No problem—

the money was rolling in.

A few days later, Hendry called us to his house for a meeting. He had

important news. He wouldn't discuss it on the phone.

I got the train down from Elgin and David Noble drove up from Dun-

fermline.

Hendry's gifts lay in the world of snooker, not words. Still he tried the

old, and very tired, "I've got some good news and bad news," speech,

which, like all of these openers, had no real 'good news'. You would

think, wouldn't you, that someone, somewhere could come up with a

better line that than one?

The gist of it was that they were not giving me a tour card. I needed to

earn it. I thought I had. But no, that was a non-ranked competition.

Then, he said, there was a bizarre accusation: Murphy had com-

46
Duality of Opposites 47

plained that I had to hypnotised him during the game. I froze; a

cold sweat trickled down my back; I had been found out. Would I be

banned?

But Hendry told us that it had been rejected out of hand. I breathed

a sigh of relief.

Unluckly for me, it had made the Association reticent about giving

me a tour card. They wanted no hostility or controversy on a Main

Tour.

"What's the good news?" I asked.

"Well... , " he replied, "the word is you will get an invite to the Mas-

ters at the Alexandra Palace... that's the big one. They have also

suggested joining the European Tour as an amateur and getting a tour

card in the qualifers."

We left.

Thinking time again. I was mad.

So, Murphy had all but fgured it out. Luckily for me, the story was

so incredible, no-one would believe it.

What other surprises were in store? What of Chris and the girl? Chris

was fne, but the 'Illuminati' girl concerned me. Would she blab to the

others in the 'Biggest Coven in Dunfermline?'

I also balanced this against my run of success. Everything I had want-

ed was coming to pass, despite the hiccups.

Driving to the train station, David Noble could see I was troubled by

my thoughts.

"Don't worry," he soothed. "I really have got some good news.

"Oh?" I responded with a tone of hope in my voice.

"Listen, I've been working for weeks now on setting up contacts and

getting things going. Just look at the sponsorship. There's more to

come, let me tell you."
48 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

"Uh-huh. . . "

"Well, that Brazilian deal wasn't just a one off."

"But... "

"I know that it wasn't great, but I've put together a number of deals

just like it—with sponsorship to follow."

"Where about?" I enquired.

"All over the place... all kinds of countries... you are a sensation.

You're famous world-wide. They want to see you play."

"That's great."

"Too right it is. Now if you agree, we leave in about three weeks for

Uzbekistan."

"Where's that?"

"Way over there—near Russia—look it doesn't matter. We'll be there

for about a week and then Turkey and then China..."

"Wow... and then to... ?"

"There's a few things in the pipe-line—almost about to seal some deals.

But, I tell you now, the chances are we won't be back here before

Christmas."

"And all of them have offered big sponsorship deals?" I asked barely

believing the good news—sponsorship—money for nothing.

"Yes, in Turkey a bank there called 'Garanti' have offered £150,000

just to sport their logo for three weeks and travel around the country,

and play a few games here and there."

"Yes," I replied.

"So, up for it then?"

"Oh... Yes."

I was up for it all right.
CHAPTER 16

In the Bleak Midwinter

The next few months passed in haze of airports, hotels, venues, and

applause butted together with some sightseeing. The money poured in.

I got into the habit of doing TV interviews. Often the interviewers,

who were usually very nice looking young women, would ask the ques-

tions in English, and then say something to the camera in their own

language. I never said too much, but my confdence grew. I soon for-

got about the ginger girl with the dyed black hair and Murphy—what

could they do when I was abroad?

I also got into the habit of understanding the banking business.

Much of the time the promoters and organisers refused to pay us

by international transfer to the account we had set up in Scotland.

So, more often than not, the frst port of call in a new country was

to a bank. It was often tedious, but in some banks the process was

smoothed along by an 'important person'. We discovered there was

many a 'Mr Fernadez' out there. Fortunately, we didn't really get

ripped off, although a few payments for 147's did not always materi-

alise.

David reminded me that all these bank accounts were a good thing. It

meant we could avoid a lot of tax when we returned home, if we gently

trickled the money into our Scottish Bank Accounts.

I had already paid tax on the sponsorship deals I had back home—I

couldn't believe how much they robbed me!

David further explained to me the joys of becoming a tax-exile in

Switzerland.

Well, this was something for the future. In the meantime, it was well

into December and we headed home for Christmas.

49
50 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

Christmas in Scotland was brutal.

It was dark, wet, gloomy and depressing. The glamour of the last few

months made home seem very bleak.

In some ways I enjoyed it. It was nice to be around people who spoke

the same language. For months, Noble was the only person with whom

I had proper conversations.

It was also good spending money. We couldn't really buy anything, as

we were 'living out of suitcases'. Although I did buy a Omega watch,

James Bond style, in Istanbul.

I set my sights on buying a car, but, of course, I couldn't drive. I didn't

even have a provisional licence.

I wasn't all that popular in the media anymore having spent three

months abroad. Things change fast. David and Hendry did their best

to get me back into the limelight.

I felt a bit down, but then I thought of the money. That cheered me

up no end.

I popped down to Fife for a few days with Scott and told him all about

our adventures.

Back in Elgin, I phoned up David Noble to see if he could arrange

another tour somewhere.

No was the short answer.

The long version was he needed a break. He had to spend time with

his family over Christmas and New Year.

He also pointed out that we could only continue to showcase abroad

on the back of winning competitions. Hendry had managed to get me

a place on the Masters, and I had better get trained up, as I had not

faced serious competition since Shaun Murphy.

With just a few weeks to go, it was back to Auchterarder for intense

training with Hendry and Maguire.
CHAPTER 17

The Most Excellent Master

The training few by. This time, instead of trying to mesmerise Hendry

and Maguire, I let them teach me and allowed them to play their game

in practice matches. My skill in magic had grown immensely since

last May.

My experience with Murphy, showed me that someone could all but

overcome the power of the cue. What if word had spread? There was

nothing online or in the papers, but what if he had gossiped and every

opponent resisted? I didn't think they could. I didn't think Murphy

could resist my hypnotic cue anymore, but,

"The clever man covers all angles."

As Maguire used to say.

Now and again I would mesmerise them, but only slightly. I was learn-

ing to control the power emitted by the cue, and it felt good. What I

tuned down towards my them, I modulated it my way, and played

much better in the tough snookers and diffcult shots.

Hendry just couldn't resist a competition. He joined me, Noble and

Maguire as we headed down to London by train.

I stuck to my script.

I used all the cunning my mentors instilled in me and combined it

with the magic I had given myself. I wasn't too showy and I gave Mur-

phy nothing to latch onto. But that didn't stop his watching me like a

hawk. I was sure he was gossiping about me with other players.

What did it matter? I was the favour of the month. The media loved

me and would see him as bitter if he said a word.

The Daily Mail called me The Wonder Kid, and the rest followed suit.

The Metro's covering of the story pointed out that Jan Ulrich, the

51
52 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

Tour De France winner had been called it frst. I never read newspa-

pers, but Hendry read them all and kept me up to date with the best

stories about me. The Wonder Kid was alright, I suppose, but I pre-

ferred The Destroyer, well who wouldn't?

During the competition, Hendry and Noble made me watch all the

live and recorded games, and then endless hours would be spent ana-

lysing them. More hours would be spent reconstructing the diffcult

shots and snookers and working out solutions in the practice room.

It was pretty boring. Looking back now, I can see they were just try-

ing to help. To be a champ, you have to be disciplined.

I also appreciated it when I met Murphy in the Semi-Final.

It was all a bit uncomfortable. No smiles and he wouldn't catch my

gaze. The best I got was a 'wetfsh' handshake.

He won the toss yet again, and true to form he played a very clever

game. But that was his mistake. This time I was prepared for the clev-

er game. The harder Murphy made it, the harder I punished him.

He was slaughtered, and the media circus really took off. I declined

all interviews, creating an aura of mystery, as directed by David. We

were holding out for a big pay-out on that one. As if we hadn't earned

enough even with the accumulation of 147's I had scored.

I faced last year's winner, Neil Robertson in the fnal, or should I say,

he faced me. I wanted to win in style. He didn't know what hit him.

He was left stunned and humiliated, while I was the victor.

To the victor go the spoils—trophy, prize money and bonuses were

all mine.

I had won the Masters. I was The Champion. The youngest ever cham-

pion.

No one like me had been before, and no one would ever be like me

again.
CHAPTER 18

Deus ex Machina

No, no one was like me again, not even me.

Shortly after the Masters win, we were back on the road for our

Spring Tour We charged almost double the fees of our Autumn Tour,

and David Noble upped his cut to 25%. I was happy to go along with

this, for the moment that was.

Our last venue was in Israel. It was planned that we would return

home; have a bit of a rest, and then execute the old plan of my attend-

ing Q-School and getting into the professional circuit.

We few into Tel Aviv. It reminded me so much of Rio. Walking on the

beaches, I had fashbacks of music videos and reminisced about my

frst tour. In some ways it was still the best.

We had arrived a few days early as David wanted to see a Uri Geller

show. Tel Aviv is his home town, and he was home to promote his lat-

est gimmick 'The Next Uri'.

David was a life-long fan.

Reader, if you haven't heard of Uri Geller, then let me tell you he

was the David Blaine or Chris Angel of his day. Back then the best

Uri got up to was 'bending spoons'. I know, I know—it's hard to see

how anyone could get excited about that, but really old people—say

people that are 35, or even older, like this kind of thing. David Noble

may have been as old 40 at this time. It's hard to imagine being that

old, isn't it?

I got dragged along reluctantly. To my surprise, the show was quite

good fun. Let's face it you get caught up in the moment, don't you? It

wasn't just Uri Geller, there was a bunch of them on stage showing off

how they could be the next Uri Geller. I wondered what they did with

those bent spoons.

53
54 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

With a few days to kill until I did my show in Tel Aviv, David arranged

a tour of the area, as he always did in new countries with time to kill.

The frst stop was the 'Dead Sea'. It was a crazy. You foat on the

water—you can't sink, no matter how hard you try; although it's

actually not a good idea to try because the water is so salty it will burn

your eyes out. David Noble ended up screaming, as he had nicked

himself shaving that morning. He wasn't alone.

Later in the afternoon we headed North to Jerusalem, and booked

into the Crowne Plaza Hotel. It was our usual hotel as David said

they had the best Wi-Fi connections, which he said he needed to keep

in touch with his 'contacts'.

The next day, we wandered around the tourist areas of the city. The

place was packed, and it was hard get through the crowds. Jerusalem

was busier than normal because it was Easter time. Everyone seemed

to be shouting, screaming and squashing into each other.

My head hurt.

Needing a break from the crowds and the heat, we stopped for a

cup of coffee at the Café Kadosh. I actually had a frappuccino to cool

down. When we left, the street was even busier. A whole group of peo-

ple had converged, just down from the café.

Walking past them, I saw a big sign with the word JETS on it. There

were other banners, but this one caught my eye.

When I was at school, I used to love jets and all kinds of aircraft. I

even started to make a website about jet-air planes, but changed my

mind half-way through, and made a James Bond website instead. It

almost won a prize for the best website of the year, and you can still

fnd it online.

I sauntered over to have a look, but when I got there I read the small-

er writing on the banner: Messianic Crusade in Association with Jor-

dan Evangelical Theological Seminary. The JETS had nothing to do

with planes at all. I knew that word 'Theological'. "This whole thing

is to do with religion," I thought. "I've been tricked!"
Deus ex machina 55

I looked round. There were people with guitars trying to sing; some

were handing out leafets; some were getting screamed at by guys

decked out in black. They looked weird. They wore black hats, black

trousers and black shoes. The had curly black hair dangling down

the sides of their heads. The only thing white, was their shirts, which

were buttoned up tight at the neck. How could they dress like that in

this heat? They guitar group were trying to argue back with the men

in black, and every second word used by both groups was Jesus.

The men in black were getting ready to attack. In the distance, police

were mustering.

"C'mon Steiner!" requested David as he gripped my arm. "Let's get

the hell out of here, quick!"

We turned to leave but blocking our way was a woman with long,

bright red hair and slightly old fashioned clothes.

"Hello Steiner. Tarry ye a while and heed the Word of the Lord," she

said in a Scottish accent. I couldn't work out where she was from, but

it wasn't Murray, nor Fife, maybe the Highlands.

"How do you know my name? Who are you?" I asked puzzled for a

second, then realised, how could she not know my name? I was fa-

mous in Scotland.

"I am Shelia McLaughlan, the Prophetess of the Lord and the Lord

hath revealed your name unto me... for The eyes of the LORD run

to and fro throughout the whole earth, and moreover God hath re-

vealed your great folly, Steiner Sanderson," she replied emphatically.

"Look!" David cut in, cutting her off and grabbing my arm again in

the process. "I'm actually a Humanist. We don't believe in God and

we're a bit busy at the moment."

"The Fool hath said in his heart 'There is no God'. How dare ye lie

unto the Most Holy God and resist His will!?" she scolded.

At this, David turned; fell over and cracked his knee on the pavement.

No one really noticed as all eyes were watching the police break up
56 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

the argument between the guys with beards and the guys with guitars.

I tried to see if he was alright, but Sheila started again, "There is

a great darkness over you, Steiner. You have consulted witches that

peep and mutter. Like Simon Magus, you have used sorcery to make

yourself great. But your heart is not right with the Lord"

"What? What are you talking about?" I asked not believing what I

was hearing. "I was told to watch out for people like you!" I blurted

out in a panic.

"Like Jannes and Jambres, who fought against Moses before the

throne of Pharaoh, those women fght in vain against the Lord, even

as ye do now!"

"Behold, the power of the Lord!"

I felt a slap in my face and a thump in my chest, just like a blast from

a powerful speaker at a concert, and I fell over onto the ground lying

beside David, speechless. No one was near me. No one had touched

me.

She closed her eyes and started to 'pray', but was quickly surrounded

by police who escorted her away with the others.

No one paid attention to us, and we got up and walked back to our

hotel. I walked, David limped quite a bit. It was still too noisy to actu-

ally talk about what happened, but that didn't stop chewing it over in

my head and wondered how she could know those things about me.

Even Chris, the witch, had to prompt me for information. I had told

no one. Maybe Chris or the assistant had blabbed, But this woman

just did not seem the sort of person to hang around magic shops, nor

covens in Dunfermline.

I was greatly troubled by it. My thinking had begun again in earnest.

But as I would learn, this was just the beginning of our trouble.
CHAPTER 19

Good Cop, Bad Cop

I'd been robbed.

As soon as I got back at my hotel room, I immediately knew something

was wrong. Things looked out of place and moved. My bag was open

(I had only taken that with me, the rest of our stuff was in the Crowne

Plaza in Tel Aviv). I looked inside the bag and found the cue case—

open and empty. I took it everywhere for safety, and just couldn't

believe it was gone. I frantically searched the room, and shouted for

David Noble who was in the room just opposite me.

He joined in the search.

It was gone! So was my James Bond watch. I could buy another of

those anytime, but the cue was irreplaceable.

My heart sunk; my legs grew weak and shaky; panic overtook me.

The hotel management called in the police, who took statements and

tried to console us.

"Look!" said Offcer Jerayesh in his best English. "You know, some-

times these are inside jobs—the staff set it up for the pale..., I mean,

you know, the poor kids. They cross the Wall and get everywhere in

this city. They steal and scuttle back like little rats. But we help you

get your watch back."

"And my cue," I pleaded.

"No, no no!" he argued. "Some kid playing pool with that? Where a

hotel? Too much money to play here. No No. It will be used to smack

their sharmuta, or skewer their shwarma. You buy another! We're

too busy to look for a stick."

"But I need that one. You don't understand," I insisted, barely paying

attention to the 'Busy' word.

57
58 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

"You rich," Offcer Baruch, piped in. "You play on telefshon... you

buy anothar steeck."

They left the hotel to my cries of protest which grew fainter and faint-

er by the second.

Those two were useless. Talk about Good Cop, Bad Cop—those two

were Bad Cop, and Crap Cop. Judging by the size of Jerayesh's belly,

they were probably off to buy falafel and kebabs.

How could I play now? It was gone. I was fnished. How would I tell

David Noble and the rest of the world? I just stood there in silence.

After a while, David suggested we take a walk outside again. It had

grown dark and was quieter outside he informed me. I followed him

outside in something of a daze.

And then, quite the most unbelievable thing happened.

CHAPTER 20

To Catch a Thief

We left the hotel, and walked towards the taxis. It was quite a distance

to the main coffee shops. We didn't want to walk too far at night, David

was still limping after all! He started some negotiations with the taxi

driver. We had been ripped off about a hundred times in about a

dozen countries to know better than to just jump into a taxi without

sorting the price frst.

Just then, two boys, aged about 12 or 13, emerged from the back of

the hotel. One was holding a bag and the other was holding my cue!

I just froze, and stared at them. I was speechless. They must have

been in the hotel and robbing people all that time, or at least hiding,

waiting for the police to leave.

One of them gave me a fitting glance and a smile as they moved hastily

across the car park—that was my 'cue' to make a move.

"Give me back my cue!" I screamed.

"No, Steiner!" David screamed as he popped up his head from the taxi

window, only to see my running into the distance after the two boys.

They leapt over the car park wall and ran headlong into the traffc

and across the road. Horns blazed and tyres screeched. Before the

traffc could pick up speed, I darted through the gaps. Behind me

cries to stop were totally ignored.

They bolted down a narrow alleyway between some houses, the type

of alleyway we would call a vennel in Scotland. I gave hot pursuit.

They turned right, climbing over walls and jumping along fat roofed

buildings that were covered with cheap corrugated iron.

Now, there were a few things about me that they didn't know.

The frst thing was I was brilliant at Parkour, or Free-running as we

59
60 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

used to call it in school. In case you don't know about it, Parkour is

like open air gymnastics using buildings as apparatus. I had a year's

worth of training at school in this sport, and had forgotten nothing in

the last few months.

I started to gain on them. They looked panicked. Before long, like

little cowards, they were screaming and shouting in their language.

They scrambled onto a wall, and darted along it. The wall was about

a foot wide, but had barbed wire along the top edge—a couple of

times I caught my jeans on it and almost fell off. Then they climbed

over the barbed wire, and jumped down the other side. I followed a

few seconds later.

I looked up into the darkness of the narrow alleyway. My eyes met with

a boy about 18 or 19. He was bigger than me and slouched against a

beat up old heap of a car—obviously some kind of get-away machine.

He stared at me, smiling at frst, but hearing the other boys shouting,

his face instantly changed. His eyes narrowed and his face dropped.

He squared up to me, swaggering like a Glaswegian, while the other

two dived into the car.

Now, the second thing they didn't know about me was just how good I

was at boxing. Scott Milne had spent hours showing me how to punch

and spar—to work out the right combinations of jabs, hooks, upper-

cuts and crosses; to block blows and dodge the quickest of fsts.

This boy's face had the look of madness about it. He said something

very low and threatening.

His voice turned to rage, as he ran at me to hit me.

He didn't know what hit him.

As Scott always used to say:

"Slip to the inside -

right uppercut -

left hook."
To Catch a Thief 61

Fists fashing in the darkness saw his staggering back to the car, blood

pouring from his nose. I'm sure I heard him cry like a baby.

The boy with the bag started the engine, while the older boy got into

the back. I ran around the other side of the car, and wrenched the

door open, where my cue was. I tried to get it from him, but the car

started to pull away. I ended up running along side them as he picked

up speed. Just then, he swerved to make a right turn. The door went

it the corner of the wall with a thump, shattering the cue. I released

my grip, just before I was smashed into the wall.

They drove off with my watch and the rest of their bounty, leaving me

with pieces of shattered wood lying on the ground.
CHAPTER 22

Devil's Advocate

Dave Noble eventually found me. He had taken the long way round. I

was still trying to pick up the splinters.

He looked and sighed. He knew what was coming.

In the hotel lounge, I announced that it was all over—no more snook-

er. That I couldn't play without the cue. I played the OCD card sev-

eral times.

"Steiner... you'll be ok. Trust me. You've had a bad day—the frst in

months. True champions learn to handle the bad as well as the good.

And it's been pretty good. Do you know how much you are worth

now?"

"But... listen!" I rebutted. "That crazy woman today... what about

the things she said. I mean... how could she know these things about

me?"

"What things? She just recognised you from TV and spoke some gib-

berish about witches. None of that stuff is true. Everything is just

chance and coincidence—everything has a rational explanation. She

probably has mental health issues."

"But she was bang on... those things are true."

It was confession time.

I told him about everything—including the ceremony the chat with

Chris, what Murphy suspected—the lot. He looked embarrassed and

uncomfortable as I rambled on.

"Lots of teens go through a Harry Potter stage," he responded, trying

not to belittle me too much. "It's like a cry for power. That's normal.

Using magic to get that power, isn't. You create your own destiny. Re-

member Steiner:

62
Devil's Advocate 63

'One man's magic

Is

Another mans Science.'

"Science is real. What we can see, hear and touch is real. There's no

proof of the supernatural; so just forget it! There's no God, no magic,

nothing."

"But how did the Universe get here if there's no God?" I asked, re-

membering the slogan on the RMPE classroom wall:

"Every Cause has its Effect.

Every Effect has its Cause.

There is no such thing as Chance."

"It just happened."

"What, by Magic?"

"No, by Chance. One day, Science will explain it, Steiner. We just need

to believe and have faith in scientists, and one day they will explain

it to us."

"But what if we're all dead before they explain it?"

"It doesn't matter. Scientists are still right, even if they never explain

it. These religious people live in the past. They let some Bronze Age

book tell them what to think. We live in the Modern World and we

need to believe scientists. We must make our own decisions and shape

our own future. We are our own gods."

"So, do we believe scientists or make our own decisions?"

"If in doubt, follow the scientist!"

Later that night, after hours of arguing, and without a scientist in

sight, I made my own decision alright and that decision meant not

returning to Tel Aviv to play snooker, and never to play snooker again.
CHAPTER 22

Memories of Istanbul

We crossed the King Hussain Bridge into Jordan early the next day,

with the intention of fying back to Scotland from there and not via

Tel Aviv, where our 'business partners' possibly lay in wait.

The organisers hadn't actually paid us any money yet, but they had

spent cash promoting the event, and would be looking for payback

when we did not turn up. Most of these promoters were local mafa

and not to be messed with. We often breathed a sigh of relief when the

cash came in and we left the country.

David was raging at me for cancelling, but even in his rant at me that

morning, he still talked about taking a break and getting ready for

Q-School. He was also mad about having to leave his gear in Tel Aviv.

He could have had his luggage forwarded on, but he didn't want any-

one to know where we were.

The journey South from Jerusalem to the bridge into Jordan is only

about a hour, but we had to wait for ages at the border control. There

were other buses queued up. Some of the religious people from the

day before were there as well. They weren't singing now. I don't think

the soldiers with the machine guns would have approved. Although, I

don't think guns nor bullets would have stopped Sheila McLaughlan

if she put her mind to it.

Sheila spotted us and headed our way. One of the group followed her.

I was in no mood for talking. Picking up the hint, David cut them off

and started talking to them, no doubt feeling confdent in his atheism.

I watched him from a distance. Sheila reminded of someone—it took

me a while to work it out; then it hit me—Faye Dunaway. She had

played a mad preacher woman, who was kidnapped—Aimie Semple

McPherson was her name. I had watched it with my mother on TV,

years ago. She was also the Wicked Witch in Supergirl. Dunaway was

64
Memories of Istanbul 65

crazy, with wild, red hair and piercing eyes. I was only fve when I

saw that. She terrifed me and I couldn't sleep for weeks. Sheila was

the spitting image of her.

He must have talked for almost two hours, before we were all shouted

back on the buses to leave. He shook their hands, and the hands of

a few others. They swapped business cards and gave him couple of

leafets. He never discussed with me what was said.

I never asked.

Over the bridge, we turned North and just over a hour later, we were

in the city of Amman, trying to book a fight. All the airlines were

based at the bus depot. There was nothing, we were told, for a couple

of days. School holidays and religious trips at Easter had conspired

against us.

The Crowne Plaza hotel was so close to the bus depot that we walked

there in less than fve minutes, being instructed that to drive there by

taxi would take about 20 minutes in the rush-hour traffc.

The next day, we went back to the airline offces to check for fights.

Nothing was coming up online. At the depot, everyone gave us the

same reply, "Come back tomorrow!"

We left the offces, and decided to have a quick walk around the area.

We turned right; walked about 100 metres and passed a Safeway, of

all things, and there in front of us, was the sign on a building: JETS.

It had to be a joke! Those people were just a stone's throw from the

hotel. The thought of seeing Sheila again for a third day did not excite

me at all.

Taking a hasty left, we walked up the road. There was only a slight

hill, but it was hot and the sweat poured off us. Searching for a taxi

to take us somewhere better, we ambled along and found ourselves in

a medical district. There were three or four hospitals on either side

of the road. Something caught my eye; something I had seen before.

Back in the early days of touring, in Istanbul, David had got us into

a slightly embarrassing situation with one of the hotel staff. We had
66 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

really gone to town seeing all the tourist spots—the palaces, the Blue

Mosque, the Covered Market, and in our travels we noticed there was

a large number of girls with bandaged up faces and black eyes. One

night we were talking to Jan, one of the hotel managers. He was trying

to impress us with his English and get David Noble to sample the lo-

cal beverage—Raki. After a few glasses, Jan asked us what we thought

of his country (how many times have we been asked that question?).

We told him it was great and that Dolmabache was the best palace in

the world. Then David brought up the subject of domestic abuse. Jan

looked very puzzled, until we told him about all the girls we had seen.

He laughed and added,

"You must understand—here in Istanbul lots of girls get plastique—

you know, they change the face."

"What so many of them?" I asked amazed.

"Yes, yes... very popular here. Maybe girls come from the East, or

have, you know, a big nose. They want to look like girls on television,

you know look beautiful—Yes? Go to university and get husband. So

many times the family saves up and they get the nose fxed, like this.

It's very normal here. You understand?"

We understood alright and had a right good laugh about our confu-

sion.

Just opposite me, I saw a girl leaving a hospital with her nose band-

aged and I had one of my fashes of genius.
CHAPTER 23

Face Off

David went 'radge' after I disclosed my 'fash of genius'. I was a bit

disappointed, because I had spent ages gazing out of my room window,

looking dreamily at the lights of Jerusalem in the distance, creating

an irrefutable argument in my mind.

"Don't be insane... It will take weeks for your face to heal. What

about your passport? Will they let you leave the country? Do you ever

think about anything?" he shouted.

He had a point there. Don't think I hadn't thought about it. There was

a problem with my passport anyway. It was three years old and every

airport questioned me. I had changed quite a bit. When challenged

again, I was just going to argue the toss with them.

"I'm wanting to get out of here tomorrow, if we can get a fight," he

continued.

"Well, you go then! I'm staying. I'm going to get it done."

"Don't waste your money on this rubbish. Haven't I always told you:

"A fool and his money

are soon parted."

"Aye, but that didn't stop you spending thousands getting all your

teeth capped when we were in Bulgaria, did it?"

I had my stubborn head on. He had seen this before and knew there

was no reasoning with me. But he tried for about a hour, before giving

up.

"I can't leave you here, Steiner... you're only 16. I promised Scott

and your family. You're not safe in a city like this, alone."

Two days later, I was lying in a hospital bed, my face covered in band-

67
68 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

ages and my wallet a few thousand pounds lighter.

The clinic was only too happy to take it from me. They just asked a

few scant questions about allergies; showed me some reconstructions

on a computer and booked me in.

Three weeks later, I was healed enough to leave the country.

In the meantime, David had become Mr. tourist and had travelled

everywhere—to that place they made the Indiana Jones flm, to the

Roman ruins at Jerash, to Moses burial place, to that place where

they flmed the Hurt Locker and even to the valley where they made

Lawrence of Arabia.

Meanwhile I had to hang around my hotel room getting bored stu-

pid—the TV wasn't too bad, but I'm not the sort of person to just

watch telly all day.

Time passed slowly. I wished I was back in school—honestly, it was

that bad.

With the bandages off and the swelling down, I looked a bit different,

but not too much. I just hoped that when I was back in Scotland peo-

ple in the street would not recognise me easily. How could I go back

when everyone would be expecting me to be a star?

I couldn't face people.

Remember my motto?

'Embarrassment is a villain to be crushed.'

I also decided to dye my hair and make it a little blonder.

That was embarrassing.

Loads of boys at school had done it, though, and the Woodwork

Teacher spent a fortune on dye to look younger; so, although this was

not my style, I talked myself into it.
Epilogue

Well that's that.

There's actually much more than that. I've had a stack load of ad-

ventures. Who knows? Perhaps one day, Reader, I will tell you about

them.

Anyway, I did get challenged entering Heathrow. I argued tooth and

nail and they stamped my passport, eventually. I fnd that with adults,

they will do anything you want, if you argue with them enough.

It was hard explaining things to my family and why I had packed in

snooker and got plastic surgery. But I was very creative and very rich.

It's easily to convince people when you're rich, and you don't need to

use magic words to do it.

These days people rarely recognise me in the street and I'm quite

happy. I'd made a fortune in a year, and my fortune increased due to

some careful investing thanks to David Noble. As he always told me:

"The Rich get richer

And the Poor get loans

from the rich."

Returning to school after a year break was hard, but I got back into

it. I have done well in my continuing education, having a couple of

adventures on the way. I later secured a college place studying eco-

nomics. I wanted to be like David Noble, and work out my own invest-

ments.

Two months after my return, I phoned Chris at her shop, and told my

story. I went into great detail about that woman Sheila and how she

knew so much about me. Chris said that perhaps she was a powerful,

albeit misguided, psychic, and that if I came into the shop she would

cast some spells for me. I was tempted to go back and try to create

another hypnotic cue. But I haven't got round to it yet.

69
70 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

Now and again I think about the witch's offer, but as I do I always see

Sheila's face; her words ring in my head and it just puts me off. Be-

sides, who needs magic when you have lots of money?

Although I lost the cue, the thing is, I actually learned how to play

snooker quite well. I was taught by Stephen Hendry, no less, and

played the best players in the world and beat them. Almost a year

and a half later, I got over my shame, I got back into playing.

Sometimes you might fnd me in Rileys on a Sunday, where I meet my

old friend David Noble in the afternoon, once he has fnished attend-

ing Church with his wife and children.

Someday, I tell myself, I will join him.

I am Steiner Sanderson, and this is my story.

