by Ellie Marney
Three
I kind of take Sorsha’s advice. I do go back to the dorm. It’s just not my own dorm.
I don’t go about this in a completely disorganised way, though. Obviously I can’t walk up to the men’s dorm and knock and go in. I have to be a bit sneaky about it.
First, I go to Gabriella, who is always a great source of information. I catch her as she’s walking towards Tinpan Alley, on her way to feeding her horses. She’s dressed in the height of equestrienne fashion, as usual: a stylish riding skirt and heeled boots, and a white shirt with the starched collar snapped high. When I ask her for the information I need, her meticulously sculpted eyebrows raise before she throws back her head and laughs.
‘Oh, my little chicken, you are adorable,’ she says, chortling. ‘Try the back windows, third from the laundry side.’
‘Thank you, Gabi.’
‘I won’t ask why you need to know,’ she says. ‘But tread carefully, okay? I don’t want to be picking up all the broken shards of your heart if things get messy.’
‘It’s not about that,’ I point out.
‘Uh-huh.’ She doesn’t seem convinced. She pats my shoulder. ‘Godspeed, bebe.’
The back of the men’s dorm is basically an alley. The windows on this side aren’t for the view–the view is of a cinder block wall. A few shrubs grow alongside a tangle of plumbing pipes and three enormous gas cylinders, as well as the ugly industrial cubes for the air-con and the hot water system.
There’s some litter and a smashed bottle, which I step over. I count along until I reach the third window; it’s about half a foot above my head, and covered by a pale interior curtain. I take a deep breath, step forward, and reach up to rap on the glass.
It only takes seven seconds before the curtain flicks aside and Zep’s face appears. When he sees me, he frowns. His black hair hangs over his forehead and his face is mottled with bruises, mainly around his left eye and over his cheekbone. There’s also some bruising on the side of his chin and nose. It’s a shock, because I don’t remember there being this much damage last night, but the bruises have developed since then. If his face is this bad, I can only imagine what his torso must look like.
He seems to think and frown simultaneously for a moment, then he pushes up the old-fashioned dorm window–it’s very stiff, and only raises a couple of hands-widths–so we can talk.
I ignore the bruising and the frown, and start with a wave. ‘Hi! Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’
He looks at me, blank-faced. ‘You say that a lot.’
Ah, yes–he’s remembering our first meeting. But we know each other better now, so I continue. ‘I wanted to check on you. Chester would only tell me that you’re recovering. But you didn’t come to the mess, so I wanted to see how you are.’
His expression runs the gamut from surprised to touched, then back to remembering that he was frowning. ‘Okay, you’ve seen me. I’m fine.’
‘You don’t look that fine.’ This is untrue. He looks fine. He looks exceedingly fine. Just not in a medical-health way.
‘Really,’ he says. ‘I’m okay.’
‘When you say that, I take it to mean–’
‘The opposite. Right.’ He sighs a little. ‘But this time you should take it as the truth. I’m okay. And you should go.’
I smile brightly. ‘Do you need anything in there?’
His lips part as if he’s surprised at this, too. Then he shuts his mouth into a tight line. ‘Some peace and quiet.’
He pushes the window down, steps back and flicks the curtain across.
Well.
After hitting the books, I decide I need to stretch my legs. I’d like to check if there’s any feedback from Cadell’s about last night’s workshop and whether I passed my ‘audition’, so I walk up to the PR office to see Andi Jones.
‘Yes, yes,’ she says, shuffling papers. Her hair is a wild brown frizz, and she has two pens sticking out of the tangle. ‘They loved you and want you back. Same deal on Friday–bus from near the main gate, six-thirty p.m. start, eight-thirty p.m. finish, and next time you go you’ll get a lanyard with a staff entry card.’
‘That’s great.’ I had a feeling I would be giving a repeat performance, so it’s nice to have it confirmed.
‘Yep. You’re now four hundred bucks a week richer.’
I didn’t realise the pay was that good–mama will be pleased. ‘Wonderful. So me and Zep will be–’
‘Not you and Zep,’ Jones says. ‘Zep has withdrawn from workshops.’
I blink at her stupidly. ‘But he can’t do that.’
‘It’s up to him, honey.’ She shrugs. ‘The workshops aren’t compulsory. I’ll just give his slot to another performer.’
My first thought is, I don’t want to catch the bus to Cadell’s with another performer. I like going with Zep. How can I fix this?
I clasp my hands together. ‘Jones, please don’t give away Zep’s slot yet. Let me try to convince him to come back on board.’
‘You’re welcome to try.’ She gives me a little smile and pushes her horn-rimmed glasses more firmly onto the bridge of her nose. ‘Cadell’s would be happy to have him back. But if he’s not signed up by tomorrow morning, I’ll tap Fabian on the shoulder.’
Tomorrow morning? Okay, fine–I can work with that. ‘Great, Jones. Thanks so much. I’ll talk to you again tomorrow, okay?’
Right. A conundrum. But conundrums exist to be solved. I like solving puzzles, and I’m generally quite good at it. Before I can make further progress on this one, I need to unpack it a little. That means I need to ask someone who knows about the puzzle’s backstory. I go looking for Fleur.
Finding Fleur is a very simple process: you look for her wherever Marco is. And Marco Deloren is currently overseeing the repairs to the ring floor, so I head for the Spiegeltent.
Sun is hitting the canvas square-on, blinding me with white glare. I walk up the short incline to the parade tunnel, where we all usually enter just prior to a performance. By the time I get under the tent flap, I’m sweating. I’ve been up here a few times over the past month, moved primarily by curiosity about repairs. Sometimes I’ve come up here on errands or to look for someone. Every time I enter, though, it’s with a profound sense of displacement: this is not the Spiegeltent I’m familiar with at all.
It looks more like an industrial building site. Part of the tent roof is open to the sky; scaffolding arrays and scurrying tradeworkers are everywhere, as well as the sounds of people calling to one another and the grating buzz of equipment. I wince as the noise of an angle grinder bounces around the dusty space.
Marco is dressed in crumpled yellow coveralls, a hard hat tucked in his armpit as he confers with Mitch Gibson and another construction worker at a table that’s been put together from two trestles and a couple of planks. They’re deep in discussion, and there’s no way I’m going to interrupt, so I scan around the area for Fleur. I finally spot her behind a wheelbarrow at the back of the ring.
I skirt the ring area; this is not a place where casual tourists are encouraged, and a number of warning glances from workers suggests that I should get my business done and leave quickly. Fleur is laying out tape for the application of new sand and sawdust on the ring floor, so we talk fast.
She gets me to hold the tape she’s pegging into position. ‘You want to help Zep? Take out a contract hit on his father. Angus Deal is a complete asshole.’
‘But isn’t Angus in jail?’
‘You think that would stop him?’ She inserts another peg, tucks back stray hair from her ponytail with grimy fingers. ‘Angus has a long arm. Most of his reach is through his associates at Circus of Lost Souls. But he has connections with criminal organisations in three states–he’s a crook, plain and simple. And he’s been propping up Lost Souls for years. That’s probably one of the reasons why Zep was attacked la
st night–and yes, I know about that, Chester told me.’
I need to hold the tape with both hands to stop it springing back. ‘What do you mean ‘one of the reasons’?’
‘Well, Angus wants to shut Zep up. Zep knows where his father keeps his secrets, and Zep’s standing as a witness against Angus in the legal case over the arson and sabotage here. That’s already a big deal. But another reason would come directly from Lost Souls. They lost a critical engineer and their most important means of financial support when Angus was arrested.’ She doesn’t look completely unhappy at this idea, but her face is sober. ‘There’ll be some mighty pissed-off people at Lost Souls right now, and some of them will be angry at Zep.’
‘So Zep is being attacked on two fronts.’
‘That I know of.’ She clambers up and dusts off the knees of her coveralls, dropping the remaining pegs in the wheelbarrow. ‘He might have other enemies he hasn’t told me about–you can never tell with Zep. He plays his cards very close to his chest. Which I guess is appropriate.’
‘I guess so.’ I hand her the roll of tape, frowning.
‘Are you okay?’ She grabs a water bottle from the wheelbarrow and takes a dribbly swig. ‘Chester said you saw the attack last night. You didn’t get hurt, did you?’
‘A few bumps–nothing serious.’
‘I called the cops about it, because it’s more material for the court case. But Zep insisted that he didn’t want to file a personal report. There’s nothing the police can do if he won’t file.’
‘I felt bad for him,’ I confess, but I don’t think Fleur gets my full meaning.
‘Zep can look after himself. He managed to escape his dad three years ago–he’s tough. I’m doing what I can to give him some protection here on the lot. But mainly I think he just wants people to respect his boundaries and leave him alone.’ She tips the neck of the bottle in my direction. ‘Which I can see is wasted advice. Hey, I say this as a friend–watch out for yourself. Zep’s a really nice guy, but he’s a health hazard right now.’
So Zep is a health hazard. Like a type of plague, or a faulty piece of machinery. A danger to the general public.
I wouldn’t like it if someone referred to me as a health hazard. It wouldn’t make me feel as if I was a welcomed member of the Klatsch’s community. Considering that Zep is trying to do the right thing by testifying for the show, it seems particularly unfair. Maybe this is something he’s prepared to live with, if he wants people to leave him alone.
But does he really want that?
Now training and dinner are both over, and I’m standing at Zep Deal’s dorm window–again–at eight p.m., wondering what exactly I’m doing. The alley behind the men’s dorm is deeply shadowed. Male voices murmur in other rooms, and music plays somewhere down low. Before I wimp out, I rap on the window.
The curtain flicks, and suddenly I’m confronted by Zep Deal in a white undershirt, his hair damp from a shower. He doesn’t look any more receptive than he did this morning. He frowns and his lips move. I can’t hear because of the window, but I don’t need to because he’s said my name–Ren?
I wave and mouth, Hi!
He mouths back. What are you doing?
I shrug and smile–I don’t know!–and tap on the glass.
He looks uncertain, but he releases the window catch and slides the stiff window up halfway so we can have the same conversation all over again, except with the sound on.
‘Ren, what are you doing here?’
I keep my voice bubbly but quiet. ‘Don’t know! But here I am, and I brought you a dukey box. I haven’t seen you at the mess today, so I thought you might be hungry.’ I pass him the waxed box of food. ‘Now please get out of the way’
He looks shocked when I grasp the lintel of the window and lever myself up onto the ledge. ‘That space is barely a foot wide. You can’t–’
‘I can.’ I slip first one arm, one shoulder, and then my head through the small square of window frame space. Ease my torso through. It’s not a tight squeeze–there’s a few cobwebs I bat away as I work my way inside–and certainly nothing as rigorous as the kinds of bends and twists I get into during a performance.
‘You’re, um, determined,’ Zep says.
‘I’m very single-minded.’ I grasp the sides of the frame, slide my hips, then twist to allow first one leg then the other through the window. I stand up, dust off and examine my surroundings.
‘I’ve seen you perform, but I still can’t believe you just did that.’ He’s wearing black sweatpants with the undershirt, and a slightly amazed expression.
‘Eh, it wasn’t hard.’ I’m in a boy’s bedroom. More specifically, I’m in Zep’s bedroom. I try to seem nonchalant about this. ‘Wow. So these are the boy’s dorms.’
One side of his mouth twitches. ‘Do they look much different?’
‘Goodness, yes. The girl’s dorms are all painted pink. Pink walls, pink furniture…’ I look at him and grin. ‘Nah, it’s almost the same as my room. Same size, same layout. You don’t get any extra shelf space.’
‘I’m glad to hear that the show is architecturally egalitarian. I’m still not sure why you’re here.’ Or why I let you in, his face seems to say.
‘Oh, you know. I brought you food.’
‘I had some dinner. But thank you.’
I scan right, and see a squat dresser with an electric kettle on top. The packaging from his ‘dinner’ sits beside it. ‘Mm, pot noodles. Dinner of champions.’
‘I like pot noodles.’
I get to the point. ‘Zep, you should keep doing the workshops.’
‘I’m not doing the workshops.’ He shoves back his damp hair with one hand. ‘It was a nice idea, but now I know what happens when I poke my head out of the lot. It’s not worth it.’
‘I’m here to convince you otherwise.’
‘It won’t work.’
‘So you say.’ I take a lot of pleasure in using a phrase my mother has used on me a thousand times. By the look on Zep’s face, it has the much same effect.
I look around the rest of the room. Most of the guys from the mech yard stay in a separate bunkhouse. But this is the general men’s dorm, and I guess Zep’s status is mixed, given he’s both a worker and a performer.
Zep has declared his occupancy with decorations, and I remember what Fleur said; this has been his home on the show for three years. A dark-coloured rug, maybe handmade, is on the floor. A poster of Ricky Jay mid-trick is on the wall. I take everything in, snap, the way I always remember things.
More detail: a water glass and three books on the nightstand. A reading lamp suspended above the headboard provides mellow light. Zep’s room is personalised but neat–I like that. And he reads. Interesting.
He shifts impatiently in my peripheral vision. ‘Look, you should probably–’
‘Ooh!’ There are two packs of cards on top of the books. I smile at the sight of them, step closer to check. ‘You have Bikes! I love these cards.’
‘I love them, too,’ he grudgingly admits. ‘Ren, you can’t break into my room and–’
‘I didn’t break anything.’
‘Okay, but that doesn’t mean–’
‘Do you play?’ I point at the cards.
He raises an eyebrow. Only about twenty percent of the population can raise one eyebrow, and Zep seems to have mastered it. ‘You thought I just did trick shots?’
‘Actually, I don’t know.’ I shrug. ‘You’ve obviously spent a lot of time training with cards. That doesn’t mean you really like to play. I spend a lot of time balancing on my hands with my toes on my ears, but that doesn’t mean I like to–’
‘I play,’ he says.
‘Poker, would be my first guess.’ Every cardsharp in the world plays poker.
‘Yes to poker.’ He thaws a little. ‘But I play a bit of everything. Gin, bridge
, blackjack, schnapsen, five hundred–’
‘Schnapsen?’ I clap my hands together. ‘Oh, wow, I’ve always wanted to learn. Can you teach me?’
Again with the eyebrow raise. ‘Right now?’
I glance at the ceiling carelessly. ‘Well, it must be boring, sitting here in this room on your own…’
There’s a beat, then he points at a wooden chair near the wall. It’s the only chair in the room.
‘Sit.’ His expression says he’s wondering why he’s relenting. And that he’s now suddenly aware he’s being rude. ‘Please.’
From the pillows, I can tell Zep’s been occupying the bed, so I move the chair closer. Zep grabs one of the packs on his nightstand as he climbs back onto the bed, settling himself into the pillow dents. The white pillows make a strong contrast with the tan of his skin, his black hair, and the grey marks on his face and bare shoulders. The head rail creaks as he eases himself gingerly into a half-supported position.
I sit cross-legged on the chair. ‘How are your bruises?’
‘Not bad.’ He sees me open my mouth. ‘Sore. They’re sore. But at least Malcolm and Cecil didn’t break my fingers.’
‘I’m glad they didn’t break your fingers. And Cecil is a terrible name for a henchman.’
‘He makes everyone call him Whip.’ He smirks at the pack in his hands, then frowns. ‘I’m sorry you got caught up in it. It’s ugly, that stuff. You could’ve been hurt.’
I tuck my bruised elbows in. ‘Nobody got hurt but you. And maybe Cecil, when you kicked him in the chest.’
‘That felt good.’ He smiles to himself before sobering. ‘But like I said, I’m sorry.’
‘And like I said, you don’t have to apologise. It wasn’t your fault.’
He considers this like it’s a new idea. Then his eyes drag back to the cards. ‘You really want to play schnapsen? It takes a while to get the hang of it.’
‘Do you know how to play Shithead?’
‘Yeah. But, um, I might have an advantage playing that.’ His smile is small and slow.
‘Are you saying you would use your card skills to cheat at a friendly game of Shithead, Zep Deal?’