by Ellie Marney
CIRCUS HEARTS 3: All Aces
Copyright © 2018 by Ellie Marney
Cover Design by Debra Billson
Cover illustrations by Marisha, Marta Leo
and amid999/Shutterstock.com
ISBN-13: 978-0-6480885-7-8
ISBN-10: 0-6480885-7-X
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication mat be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Bearded Lady Press
[email protected]
Australia
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Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
No Limits Chapter One: Harris
One
Brahmamuhurtha is ‘the divine time’ for meditation and yoga practise, and it occurs approximately one and a half hours before sunrise, which is convenient as that’s the time I usually wake up anyway.
My best friend, Sorsha Neary, likes to joke that I wake up earlier than the birds on the lot. When Sorsha and I shared this dorm space, I had to slip out to the women’s common lounge here in the bunkhouse or walk all the way to Prac Shed Two if I wanted to stretch first thing in the morning. But Sorsha moved out with her boyfriend, Colm Mackay, so the room is all mine now.
I could get up at five a.m. and dance around in my pyjamas, if I wanted to. Usually I just practise, though.
Pale light from the dawn outside spills through the window as I finish saying good morning to my body. I’ve put the space heater on, because the floor is cold. But the best thing about my craft is that I don’t need any other equipment. No wires, no weights or pulleys; no trapeze bars or knives or silks. Just the mat on the floor, and me. And a generous helping of self-discipline. Contortion is as much about discipline as it is about art or a science.
All the self-discipline in the world won’t ease this constriction in my chest, though. I lean deeply into padmasana, make a few adjustments. Nope. My lungs still feel tight, high on both left and right. It’s a weird feeling–sticky, somehow. Like these red breathing sacs inside me have caught on a snag. What snag? I don’t know. I can expand my chest, but it hurts.
As the pulmonary specialist explained, ‘It’s only been a month. Smoke inhalation is tricky, Ren. Don’t force it.’
I want to force it. This sticky-lung business is annoying the crap out of me.
I try to ignore it. Bend to my feet, press my seat forward and push into my legs. Breathe. Extend my arms, stretch back, reach high to open my shoulders. Clasp my hands, circle my wrists. Breathe. Make a long line of my neck, work the kinks out. Open my arms wide, swoop forward again, rest my chin on my ankles. Breathe.
My chest is still tight. Brengsek.
I need to stop stressing about it. The wise sage, Patanjali, once said, ‘Yoga is the cessation of the movements of the mind’. So I try to stop my mind from moving. Think of nothing at all.
It’s not actually that easy.
My father, another wise sage–well, he’s an academic–once said, ‘Pikiran Ren seperti seekor katak’. That my mind is like a jumping frog. Unflattering, but true. I am an orderly person, a disciplined person, but my brain has a terrible habit of leaping all over the place.
My mind wants to continue turning over the sticky-lung business. I re-direct it away from that subject. Roll to stand up, and bring myself into a straight pike–soles of my feet flat on the floor, stomach to thighs, chest to knees, collar to shins, chin to ankles. My arms wrap around my legs, like I’m giving them a hug.
Now my wandering mind wants to contemplate my course of study. Specifically, my exam preparations. But that will only lead to list-making and anxious thoughts, so I push it away from that subject, too. Take my weight forward over my fingers. Tighten the muscles in my back and butt and thighs, curl my legs up until my toes touch the crown of my head–the shape of a fern frond. It’s not a proper bend, I’m just loosening up.
Then my brain circles back to the subject of the fire, at which point I give up. Eh, I’m really not very good at this mental-control thing. I uncurl myself, lie on the mat in corpse pose and think.
The Spiegeltent fire is old news now. I still find the memories of it unsettling. Also, embarrassing; for the last month, people have been telling me how brave I was, how traumatic it must have been, to go back to help a friend then find myself mysteriously short of oxygen.
It’s useless to explain that going back for a friend wasn’t bravery, that Lee would have done the same for me, that other performers helped get people out of the tent. Fleur Klatsch, our ringmaster’s daughter, cleared the entire right wing and fought the fire at its source. Colm Mackay and Marco Deloren were both on the fire crew. I didn’t do anything special, but people don’t see it that way.
It’s also useless to explain that I wasn’t traumatised. Maybe if the fire had been all around me, I would’ve been terrified and suffered trauma. But the fire was in the rear wing of the tent. I didn’t see a single flame. Just a whole lot of smoke.
What was traumatic was not being able to breathe. If Zep Deal hadn’t come back for me that night, then carried me out of the Spiegeltent, I would be a corpse for real. No yoga necessary.
I’ve seen Zep around the lot since the Spiegeltent fire. We’ve kind of…nodded at each other. But now it’s been a month, and he hasn’t approached me, and I’ve been too shy to introduce myself. What do I even say? ‘Thanks for letting me scale you like a tree while I was gasping for air’? ‘Thanks for saving my life, you’re the greatest’? It’s not something you can just slip into casual conversation, and I’m not that great at normal social etiquette anyway
What’s also infuriating is that I’ve been applauded for having the courage to help Lee, but Zep has received no applause at all.
It’s because of the rumours about him. I don’t know how these rumours get started, but people have a lot of time on their hands right now. Klatsch’s Karnival Grand Re-Open is still two weeks away, and tradeworkers are sweating around the clock on Spiegeltent repairs. Some of the circus performers with useful skills are participating in the re-build, but the bulk of us are in limbo. And you can’t have a bunch of athletes (meaning: hyperactive people. I think you’d find the Venn diagram pretty conclusive) sitting around all day doing nothing. People get restless, and the gossip machine cranks up.
Before the fire, there was a period when the circus was plagued by accidents. People gossiped a lot then, too, and some of the rumours were about Zep. That he’d spent time living rough on the street. That he had connections with the Circus of Lost Souls, our main competitor. That he was seen meeting in the CBD with his father, an engineer at Lost Souls and a known criminal.
They say Zep’s father sabotaged the show. They say Zep was connected to it. That he maybe lit the fire.
None o
f those things gel with the Zep Deal who picked me up and carried me out of the Spiegeltent. Who said, ‘Hold on, chica, it’s okay, I’ve got you’ when my sticky lungs were failing from lack of oxygen.
I put my feet up on the bed and prop myself on my hands, face down. Bend my arms in rhythm, dipping to the floor. I had three days off training after the fire, and I’ve been working at half-capacity for the last month, plus no performances. My arm strength has suffered. Zep picked me up like I weighed nothing at all, so his arms are probably fine. I, on the other hand, need to do one hundred push-ups.
Zep’s arms were warm, and quite muscled. I’m not sure how a nineteen-year-old mechanic gets arms like that. Lifting engine blocks? Rolling tyres into place? Winching…stuff? He seems to be in better condition than your average mechanic.
I hold that thought while I’m in plank position. Ponder the idea of Zep Deal, saboteur. Zep Deal, arsonist.
There’s a fundamental disconnect between my experience and the gossip. Because arsonists do not save people from fires. They don’t whisper ‘Hold on, chica, it’s okay, I’ve got you,’ while risking personal injury to rescue others. Arsonists may have exceptionally fine arms–hard to figure out the Venn diagram–but they don’t do that.
This much, I know. And I also know that now I’m late for breakfast.
Sorsha gives me a nudge from behind, as I stand in the breakfast queue contemplating a choice between rice porridge, fried sausages, and some kind of yellow mash, which may be egg and onion kedgeree.
‘What’s it gonna be, Ren?’
Sorsha is one of the few people I know who ‘gets’ me. She has bright-red, curly hair–a total contrast to my dead-straight, black hair–and she’s more petite than me, although she’s more petite than pretty much everybody. Apart from our physical differences, we’re compatible in most other ways, which made us good room-mates. But she doesn’t always understand the difficulty of multiple options.
I chew my lip. ‘I like them all. And they all smell good, which makes the choice complicated.’
I’m holding up the lunch queue; impatient feelings are radiating from the people behind us. It’s not as if I’m unaware that this is a problem, but I can’t do anything until I’ve decided. I’m stuck.
Anybody else would be waving their hands and saying, ‘Just choose one already!’ But Sorsha is smarter than that.
‘Okay.’ She taps a knuckle against her plastic tray. ‘Then you have to think about taste. Are you in the mood for sweet, meaty, or mushy-cheesy?’
Distinguishing by taste! Of course! My friend is a genius. ‘In that case, I’ll have the porridge.’
Judy Wilkinson serves my porridge into a bowl, with a generous helping of brown sugar, and passes it over. Everyone in the queue behind me sighs with relief.
Sorsha receives her sausages and peruses the mess. ‘Corner table?’
‘Yes, please.’ I like sitting in the corner and I like having my back to the wall, not near a window. ‘Is Colm in training?’
Sorsha nods. ‘With Seb and Dita until lunch, yeah.’
‘He’ll miss the sausages.’ If Colm were here with us, he would take the window seat and act like another wall–he’s huge, which is appropriate for a strongman, and eats like food is somehow going out of fashion.
‘I asked Judy to save him a plate.’ Sorsha smiles and passes me napkins from her extras. ‘How’s the porridge?’
‘Good. You were right about the taste thing.’
Sorsha grins. We both chew and ruminate while looking around the mess, checking out who’s here and who’s not. Lunch and dinner can be variable, but breakfast times usually see a good turn-out of circus staff and performers. Folks come here to eat and gossip; I usually come to people-watch.
There’s been some thinning of the ranks. After the fire, people were given the option to stay on at half pay–full pay, if you wanted to contribute to the rebuild–or find another show. But the schedule for the rebuild has been pushed back and pushed back, and for some people the pay cut has been too hard. Every time I come to the mess, it’s with some nervous anticipation over who’s decided to go or stay.
Sorsha and Colm stayed. They could have gone north, back to their old family troupe, but neither of them wanted that. When he’s not being a strongman, Colm is a former mechanic who knows his way around a toolbox, so he’s working on the rebuild. Sorsha is one of the fulcrums of the trapeze team, so she stayed, but it’s not as if she was ever going to go someplace Colm wasn’t.
Our equestrienne, Gabriella, is still here, glamorous as always. Lee, our acrobatic team leader, hobbles in on crutches. Apart from his injury in the fire, Lee and his wife Annie are about to have a baby, so they’re going through a tough time.
Dita and Seb, the rest of the strength crew, have stayed on, and Luke Rogan and Deanna LeMarr, from the trapeze act. But Rueben Sullivan, the other male trapeze artist, took a payout–and our lead musician, Winston Marshall. I had no idea the two of them were dating, and now they’re both gone. Winston’s departure was kind of the death knell for our music section; once he left, the other musicians peeled off for greener pastures. At the moment we have no circus band at all. Sorsha says admin is considering using recorded music for shows, which sounds a bit sacrilegious, although maybe more practical. But who will blow the tuba to get the pre-performance parade started?
Bill is still here; he’s been talking about retiring from his Diablo fire act, and every time I come to the mess I expect him not to show up. But he and Chester and Gordon, our resident freak act performers, are all present and accounted for. Bill looks mournful, but he has a jowly face and always looks mournful, so I don’t read too much into it.
Sorsha returns my attention to what’s going on at the table where I’m sitting. ‘How’s the lungs?’
I make a face. ‘Still sticky.’
‘I think you should see the doctor again.’
‘And I think the doctor will tell me the same thing she told me at the last visit–to use my inhaler and give it more time.’
Sorsha waves a piece of sausage on her fork. ‘Have you thought about taking a holiday? Not that I don’t want to see your face at the mess and talk shit, but maybe you need a real rest.’
‘I don’t think so.’ A holiday is not happening. If I stop now, I’ll never be allowed to start again. I need to work more, not less.
Sorsha frowns. ‘Don’t push yourself too hard, Ren. Colm says he still gets winded sometimes, and he didn’t get anything like the kind of smoke exposure that you did.’
‘I’ll get better soon,’ I say, scouring the mess for a diversion. ‘Look, there’s Fleur. Maybe she’ll have some ideas about it. We can talk, smoke-inhalation victim to smoke-inhalation victim.’
Fleur heads our way, cup of coffee in hand and sweats covering her curvy, muscled frame. She used to get more dressed up in public; as Terry Klatsch’s daughter and part of central management, not to mention being one of the lead trapeze performers, I think she felt she had an image to maintain. But in the last few months she seems to have relaxed both her dress code and her personality. Dating the costumer’s son, Marco Deloren, who’s also assistant manager of the show, appears to have had a positive effect on her.
Although I think the change happened before that–maybe even before her father had the accident that thrust Fleur into a managerial role. Terry Klatsch is nearly recovered now, but Fleur’s personal evolution is showing all the signs of being permanent.
I’m quite happy about this: she used to be a bitch to me, but now she isn’t. Whether the change is because of her father, her new responsibilities, her boyfriend, her own internal logic, or an invasion of alien body snatchers, I’ll take it.
Sorsha lifts her chin as Fleur finally makes it to our table across the crowded mess area. ‘How’s it all going?’
Fleur makes a snort. ‘It being the rebuild, it’s h
ell in a handbasket. But overall, things are good. Every day, some new emergency. I’m kind of loving it. Mind if I sit?’
‘Sure.’ I shuffle over so Fleur can pull her chair in. Then I scoop up porridge and ask Fleur the question, because Sorsha is giving me the ‘Ask her!’ look. ‘Are your lungs better than my lungs?’
‘Still with the asthma problem?’
‘Yes. It’s not bad.’
‘When you say that, I take it to mean the opposite.’ Fleur blows on her coffee. ‘My lungs aren’t better than your lungs. You got a worse dose of smoke than me. But you do need to rest. It’s a pain in the ass, but I recommend it. I had three weeks off training completely after my thing.’
Sorsha raises her eyebrows. ‘You mean ‘when I collapsed mid-rehearsal and we called the ambulance while Marco completely lost his mind’? That thing?’
‘That’s the one,’ Fleur says. ‘I’m better now. But Ren, a total break is the best cure. Take the time if you need it.’
‘Mm,’ I say. I might need it. But I can’t take it.
‘Okay, I have an ulterior motive for coming over to say hi,’ Fleur admits. ‘We need more workshop leaders.’
She’s talking about the workshops organised through Cadell’s Event Management. When Klatsch’s looked like it might go belly-up after the fire, Marco’s boss, Brian Cadell, stepped up to provide emergency capital. Cadell’s now has a thirty percent stake in this show, and they’ve set up a workshop series for kids and adults who want to learn circus skills. The workshops have been a good diversion and a chance for some additional income for Klatsch’s performers since the fire.
‘I like the idea,’ Sorsha says, ‘but I thought Luke and Dee had the trapeze workshops covered?’
‘I was thinking you could teach wire skills.’ Fleur turns to me. ‘And Ren, if you’re interested, a yoga class for budding contortionists might be a fun addition. But if you’re still unwell, you don’t need to–’
‘I’m interested,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m not unwell–not really. Yoga is a soft option.’