by Ellie Marney
I sign the paper. Then, before I think about it too hard, I sign it again with a different name: Zep Deal. Then I scurry inside the mess and make two hot drinks, cover them with lids and walk to the men’s dorm.
The back alleyway doesn’t seem so bad in the morning light, just a bit damp and mould-smelling. The curtain on Zep’s window is drawn, so I rap smartly and wait. And wait some more. And then I rap again.
The curtain flicks aside. Zep’s face seems to float in the window, backgrounded by the dark room. He’s frowning–what a surprise–and his hair is sleep-tousled. If he wants to avoid attention so much, he should really work on being less attractive.
I raise the two cups. His frown changes into a look of resignation, and he opens the window.
I thrust the drinks at him. ‘Take these quick.’
He obliges, his tone deadpan. ‘What’s the hurry? Are you being pursued?’
‘They’re hot. Get back.’ As Zep turns to put the cups on the dresser, I clamber through the window by levering my body up, stepping my hands down onto the floor, then sliding in my legs.
‘I should just install a stepladder,’ he muses. ‘Ren, what are you doing here again?’
I spring upright to talk. ‘I came to tell you–oh!’
He’s naked. Mostly naked: he’s wearing black trunks. I gape at the way they outline his hips and thighs for a long, frozen second. I’ve never seen this much boy flesh so up-close and personal before. Then I come to my senses and spin around.
‘What’s the matter?’ His voice sounds amused.
‘You’re…’ I wave a hand over my shoulder.
‘Not wearing clothes? This is how I sleep.’
‘Astaga–don’t you own pyjamas?’
‘No. And if you’re going to show up at seven-thirty in the morning, you’ll have to learn to cope.’
I can cope. It’s how easily I cope that troubles me. ‘At least put on some pants so I can turn around!’
‘If I put on pants, will you leave?’
‘Just hurry up and do it already!’
I hear rustling, while I wait with flaming cheeks.
‘Okay. I’ve acquired pants.’
‘Thank you!’ I turn around. He’s wearing sweatpants, but he’s not wearing any kind of shirt. My cheeks heat up. The pectorals, the biceps, the abdominals–they’re all still there. There’s also a number of red grazes and bumps, and some awful purpling around his ribs. Some of the areas are yellow on the edges, but eggplant-coloured in the centre. They look painful.
I make more conversation to cover up my staring. ‘Your bruises are looking better. The ones on your ribs are changing colour.’
‘Yeah, I should be able to show my face in the mess in a few days.’ His voice is dry. ‘Let’s get back to why you’re here.’
‘Come back to the workshops.’
‘Not this again…’ His hair spills through his fingers as he rakes it.
‘Don’t let them bully you. Come back.’
‘You didn’t exaggerate. You really are a very single-minded person.’
‘Yes, and also directionally-challenged in the CBD. I’ll get lost if I go on my own. And I don’t like walking in the city at night. Come back for my benefit.’
He steps closer and I have to exert a lot of control not to startle or quiver. But he’s not stealing things today. He takes my right wrist in a gentle clasp, lifts my hand, and slowly peels back the form-fitting sleeve of my bodysuit to show the wrist-to-elbow bruises I received on the night of the attack.
We meet each other’s eyes and he tilts his head, as if to say: Ta da.
‘Ren, you’re the one benefiting if I stay away,’ he says softly. ‘We work the same slot. Every time we step out that gate together, I’m putting you at risk.’
‘I can take care of myself,’ I insist. ‘I have a whistle.’
‘A whistle’s no good against a fist.’
‘We can use different routes. Go at different times. It’ll be just like a spy movie!’
‘I can’t. I can’t do it.’ He eases my sleeve back up, releases my hand and steps back. ‘Especially not to you.’
My shoulders slump in defeat. But a good entertainer always has an encore up her sleeve. ‘Okay, then here’s something else–a mini-show at Cadell’s. It’s this Sunday afternoon, and it’s a paying gig with an audience.’
He snorts and shakes his head. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’
‘I already put your name down.’
His chin jerks up. ‘You what?’
Okay, now he’s just annoying me. I stamp my foot, raise my voice. ‘You said you want to start performing again! How can you–’
‘Shh!’ He darts in close, one of his hands bracing on my shoulder blades and one covering my mouth. ‘It’s seven-thirty, remember? Half the people in the dorm are still asleep.’
‘Okay, I’ll be quiet,’ I say, although with my mouth covered it comes out more like, ‘M-ke uh be k-ahet’.
He frowns, like he doesn’t trust me. When he releases me, my nose is full of the scent of cloves and sleepy-warm boy.
I ignore that and keep my volume down. ‘Zep, you said you wanted to start performing again. How can you do that if you don’t get any rehearsals in front of an audience? And I know you need the money. Pot noodles don’t grow on trees.’
His expression is considering. He’s still standing close enough that his bare chest brushes my shoulder when he breathes. ‘This Sunday?’
‘Yes.’
He squints. ‘What’s the rate?’
‘Half performance pay. It’s a short show, so you’re only doing a ten-minute routine.’
He bites his lip, then exhales. ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’
I clap my hands, smiling. It’s only then that he seems to notice how near he’s standing. He steps back and turns to the cups on the dresser.
He lifts the lids, baulks. ‘You got me a short black.’
‘It’s what you always order in the mess.’ I shrug. ‘I know the drinks orders of everybody on the lot. It’s just the way my brain works. My head collects useless facts.’
‘Or useful facts, in this case.’
‘Listen,’ I say. ‘There’s one more thing,’
‘Isn’t there always?’ If I wasn’t paying attention, I’d miss the quick upturn of his lips.
‘We have to get you free of your dad and his cronies.’
His head whips towards me. Then, to my shock, he starts laughing. But it’s not funny-haha laughter–it’s the kind of laughter that makes you feel sad.
He holds his belly and laughs in this helpless, broken way. ‘Oh, Ren…oh, chica…’
I step closer. ‘Are you okay? What is it?’
‘Get free of my dad…’ He hiccups back to normal, wiping away tears. ‘Right. No shit. Okay, so how exactly do you plan to do that?’
‘Blackmail,’ I say.
His face sobers immediately. ‘Pardon?’
‘You said your dad kept ledgers. We’re going to steal them.’
‘Wha–’
‘We’re going to get that information about Angus’s association with Lost Souls and other organisations,’ I say. ‘And then we’re going to tell his cronies that if they don’t back off, we’ll give it to the police.’
He goes still. ‘That’s insane.’
‘It’s not insane at all.’ I gave this a lot of thought last night. ‘We’d have to break into Lost Souls, it’s true. But we can do that. You know the layout. And you know where the ledgers are kept, right?’
He hesitates, which I take to mean ‘yes’, but then he looks away. ‘I can’t steal anything. I promised myself I wouldn’t use my skills like that anymore.’
‘You’re going to have to make an exception for this job if you want it to work,’ I point out, but part of me
is excited he’s even considering it.
‘Ren, I can’t…’ He scrubs at his face. ‘I don’t do illegal things anymore. I’ve had enough of being a bad guy.’
‘And you’re not a bad guy, Zep.’ I step right into his personal space. ‘You’re not. But you’re dealing with criminals–you have to use criminal tactics. With my contortion skills and your mechanic skills, we can pull it off.’
His mouth twists and his eyebrows meet in the middle. He’s obviously uncertain. But he also bites his lip. That tells me he’s tempted. I want to tempt him further.
I also want him to make a decision based on logic, because decisions based on emotion often fall apart under pressure. This plan is logical. Even better: this plan is collaborative.
‘I looked it up last night,’ I say softly, ‘and I know what a cannon is now. A cannon is a pickpocket who always works alone. But you can’t always do things on your own, Zep. Everybody needs help sometimes. Let me help.’
He looks at me, confused. ‘Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?’
‘I don’t know. Why did you rescue me from the fire? You said it yourself–some things don’t have an answer. But what’s happening to you is wrong. I want to help make it right.’ I smile, shoot a glance to the ceiling. ‘Also, I’m a tiny bit obsessive when it comes to problem-solving, so I’m not being completely altruistic.’
‘Just a tiny bit obsessive?’ He does the eyebrow thing.
‘Okay, really obsessive. Don’t judge me.’
‘Never,’ he says, and he smiles.
That smile fills me with excitement and energy. But I need to bottle that. I’ve got work to do.
I turn for the window. ‘I should go now. I have an exam in a week and I have to study. And you have to put on a shirt. I’ll come back tomorrow and we can figure this out.’
‘No.’ He reaches for my hand. For a heart-stopping second, I think he’s changed his mind. But that’s not it at all. ‘I’ll come to you. What room number are you in?’
There’s a thrilling fizz in my blood. I control it. ‘Number three. I’m on the left side of the dorm. Second window from the road.’
He nods and lets me go. ‘I’ll come over after your workshop tomorrow night.’
I nod back, like this is all business. ‘Okay, I’ll wait up.’
I climb out the window, slithering down onto the concrete. As I walk out of the alley, my pulse is thrumming in my ears and my hands have a little shake in them.
I can’t believe it. He’s coming to me, and he’s agreed to my plan. Is something going right?
Something’s going wrong.
I’m in Prac Shed Two, because if I’m going to perform on Sunday I need a routine. It has to be shorter and snappier than the routine I usually do for a full performance.
I like to think of an image or a theme for each routine I develop. I’m trying to evoke something in the audience–a tone, or a mood. I’ve been working on something like a solo adagio, which is an oxymoron because an adagio is for two, but that’s the kind of tone I’m chasing: something sinuous and graceful, with subtle movements, like a snake twisting on itself over and over.
But I’m having trouble with stuff I don’t usually have trouble with. My oversplits are fine, and my leg-shouldering is fine, and my balances are fine. But my scales are awful, and when I try to hold chest stands, I get short of breath.
This is bad.
Okay, I can work around it. It’s only a short routine–not much longer than the teaser at the start of a regular show–and there are things I can do to compensate. If I’m really having difficulty I can ask Fabian or Violet to join me onstage for some assists.
But I don’t do a lot of partner work. I don’t do rag doll acts, for instance. I don’t do dislocations or box acts either, so there are a few options that are unavailable to me because if I suddenly started performing them, people on the show would note the change of style.
I play around with some other options: elbow stands, durvasa, hairpins. I try to work up something that’s as much like my regular style as possible. The breathlessness gets worse with chest stands, deep bends and–aduh–all my knots and pikes.
But I just have to get through Sunday. Then I’ve got a week to pull myself together before the re-open. A whole week! I’ll, um, rest for a week. Well, I’ll have my exam and I’ll be in rehearsal for the re-open. But I’ll…take it easy? I can do that. I’ll be fine.
I’m finishing up on the mats just as a crowd of performers enter the Prac Shed. It’s not really a crowd: it’s maybe five show-folk, but Eugenia Deloren, the show’s costumer, is one of them and she exudes more glamour than a dozen performers. She’s wearing an emerald-green dress with a wasp waist, gorgeous shoes, and a little black fascinator in her short, swept-back hair.
Her hands make authoritative movements as she directs traffic, pointing to Colm Mackay first, who comes in with a large table balanced on his even-larger shoulders.
‘Put it right here, Mr Mackay.’ She indicates a spot on the floor, far to the left of the mats where I’m training. ‘Yes, thank you, that’s perfect. Mr Patel, do you have my machines?’
Seb Patel’s muscles bulge as he carries a sewing machine under one arm and an overlocker under the other. He lifts his chin towards the place Colm has dumped his burden. ‘You want these on the table?’
‘Yes, indeed. Very kind.’ Eugenia smiles and smooths her goatee, then steps across the mats towards me. ‘Ren, I’m sorry to barge in and interrupt your practice. We’re having a wardrobe day, and I needed more room than my van could provide.’
‘No problem.’ I sling my towel around my neck. ‘I’ve just finished up here, so the place is all yours.’
Eugenia purses her lips as she looks at me. ‘Are you considering a wardrobe change for the re-open? Because if you want something new, or something altered, now’s the time.’
‘Uh…’ I actually haven’t given it any thought at all, which probably isn’t something I should confess to the show’s costumer.
Now Eugenia is examining my training leotard, her eyes narrowed. ‘Have you lost weight? Your bodysuit is sinking a little around your chest and shoulders…’
This is another wrong thing I’ve noticed but didn’t want to think about: the fit of my costumes has changed. It’s not really information I want in general circulation, though. ‘Well, these are just my training sweats, they’re probably all stretched out of shape. But I’m performing in the mini-show, so I might get you to look at my costume for Sunday, if that’s okay?’
‘That’s definitely okay.’ But Eugenia isn’t distracted. She’s pulled a tailor’s tape out of the pocket of her skirt and has started checking my measurements. She looks at me accusingly. ‘You have changed shape.’
‘Um… I’m sorry?’
‘Don’t apologise, dear. But come back with your costume and we’ll make some alterations for Sunday. And discuss the weight issue. I know you need to stay slender for contortion, but there’s slender and there’s skinny.’
‘Okay.’
She drills me with her eyes. ‘This is important, Ren. It’s not just about how your costumes fit. In nine days’ time, you’ll be back performing seven shows a week. It’s rigorous, and you need to be healthy to cope. Return in an hour and we’ll talk.’ She lets me go and gestures for another person in the queue forming near the table. ‘Deanna, darling, show me where you need the repair…’
I grab my training bag and bolt.
Eugenia is the HR person on the show, and well within her rights to comment and keep tabs on my health. If there are medical claims to file or personal welfare problems, she’s the one who needs to know.
But if she gets a closer look at me, she’ll notice the lung function issue. She might bench me. And there’s no way I can fall off the performance roster right now. Especially not before the re-open.
I need that slot. It will be almost impossible to justify to my mother why I’m staying on with the circus if I don’t have a regular performance slot and a regular income.
Eugenia is no slouch: with a bit of examination, she’ll know straight away that something’s up. Plus, she’s gorgeous and older and intimidating as hell. Taken all together, life will be much better if I steer clear of Eugenia at the moment.
My feet approve of this decision, and veer automatically up the alley towards the Parade Road. I’m only just at the corner when I’m met by Sorsha, who’s coming from the other direction on a…bicycle?
‘Don’t look at my bike that way,’ she says, dismounting. ‘Colm made it from parts, and he only gave it to me yesterday afternoon, and I love it.’
I peruse the bicycle. ‘I can see he made it from parts. Because the front part is different from the back part.’
‘It’s a bit like a penny farthing. In fact, I think the frame is modded from an old penny farthing of Carey’s.’
‘The front wheel is bigger than the back wheel.’
‘Yep, but it’ll get me around the lot, and that’s all I need.’ She adjusts her backpack straps. ‘So you’ve finished already? Wow, Eugenia works fast.’
‘Finished what?’
‘The wardrobe session. I need my tightwire gloves repaired, they get a lot of wear. Have you had your costume adjusted?’
I shift on my feet. ‘Ah, no. Not yet. I, um, forgot the session was on, I was just in training. So I have to go back to the dorm and get my costume. Yes. Although I’d be better off studying. You know how it is with exams–that pesky muscular-skeletal system won’t study itself!’
She narrows her eyes at my babbling. ‘Ren Putri. You’re procrasti-studying.’
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘You’re procrastinating about something, and using study as an excuse.’
‘I’m not!’ I straighten up fast, and my breathing hitches–sial, I wish my body would stop this right now and get back to normal programming.
‘Yeah, you are.’ Sorsha looks me up and down. “Well, I guess you’ll tell me about it eventually. Come over crying anytime, you know I don’t mind.’