All Fall Down

by Ellie Marney

  It’s the question I need to answer. It’s the question that lends me some backbone.

  ‘I can manage.’ I try to keep my voice is firm and my face bland. ‘Once the drugs wear off, he’ll be exhausted. I’ll make him some lunch and tuck him in, and then he should sleep for a few hours while I’m at training.’

  Mitch has to return the car to the mech area, so I go in and check that Dad’s comfortable. He’s lying back in bed, paler than the pillows behind his head, but still more animated than I’ve seen him for days.

  ‘This is like Christmas and birthdays and New Year performance all at once!’ He clasps my hand, grinning. ‘Hospital sucks. Being back home, back in my own bed… This is better than Christmas.’

  I can’t help but smile. ‘I’m so glad you’re home, Daddy. Now, let’s get you something to eat, and then you should really have a rest. What would you like for lunch?’

  ‘Hmm… A burger? Pizza! No–uh, lemme think…’ His wrinkles pucker as he considers this complex question. ‘Something simple–French toast?’

  ‘French toast sounds fine. Do you want the TV on while you wait for the food?’

  I wrangle the TV, arrange Dad’s blankets and go out to the kitchen. I can do French toast. Cooking isn’t my strong suit, but I have eggs, I have bread… How hard can it be?

  Hard, as it turns out. I drop two eggs on the floor, there’s no butter, and while I’m cleaning up the eggs, the fry pan overheats on the burner: when I flop the first piece of toast into the pan, there’s a sizzle like I’ve plunged a newly-forged sword into a trough. The toast goes black and starts smoking immediately. With a cry, I dump the pan-with-charcoal-toast into the sink, grab a dish towel and start flapping it at the ceiling to stop the fire alarm from going off. Which is the perfect time for someone to knock on the door.

  I leave the sink faucet gushing water over the fry pan while I answer the door. Sorsha Neary is standing on our front step with a plastic bag in one hand.

  ‘Hi.’ I push back my hair and pretend to ignore the rush of smoke exiting our van for the earth’s upper atmosphere.

  ‘Hi.’ Sorsha narrows her eyes at the smoke, at me. Then she pushes inside. ‘Leave the door open for a minute and the air will clear. Is the fry pan ruined?’

  ‘How did you know I was…’ I bite my lip. ‘I don’t know. Probably.’

  She skirts around the mess from the eggs and turns off the faucet, inspects the pan. ‘Nah, it’ll survive. Did you burn yourself?’

  ‘No.’ I feel my chin wobble dangerously. ‘I was trying to make lunch for Daddy. He just got home, and he wanted French toast…’

  ‘Do you think he’d go for a dukey box instead?’ She holds up her plastic bag. ‘I brought you some food from the mess. Judy’s cooking up a storm to celebrate Terry’s return, and I thought you might like something to put in your fridge.’

  This–this is what makes me cry. When times are tough, when people are mean, I can battle it out. But when people give me kindness, I start blubbing, because I am obviously not a normal person.

  ‘Fleur.’ Sorsha must have put down the bag, because her arms go around me as she guides me to the couch. ‘Fleur, come and sit down.’

  I’m shaking. ‘Oh my god, I can’t do this. Who am I kidding? I can’t keep all the plates spinning. I can’t look after Dad, and run the show, and train, and perform, and fix everything behind the scenes. I can’t. I must have been crazy to think that I could–’

  ‘Stop. Fleur, stop talking. Here.’ She hands me a box of tissues. Then she goes to check on my father and returns with a glass of water. ‘Drink that. Your dad’s already snoring, and I don’t think he’s gonna wake up for a while.’

  ‘It’s just French toast.’ I wipe my noise, pluck another tissue. Stare off into the corner of the van, shredding the tissue in my hand. ‘I should be able to make French toast, right? Who can’t cook eggs and bread? What is wrong with me?’

  She sits down on the couch beside me and pats my shoulder. ‘Oh, girl.’

  ‘I wanted to make him something nice,’ I say, my voice quaking. ‘It’s his first day home.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll mind. Now, listen to me.’ She waits until I’ve finished blowing my nose and I’m looking at her. ‘Fleur, you were a stone cold bitch to me for the first few weeks I knew you.’

  Blood climbs up my neck into my cheeks. This is the first time we’ve really talked about this, and my mortification threatens to swallow me whole. ‘I know. And I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t–’

  ‘Be quiet and listen.’ Sorsha’s face is calm and serious. ‘You reported me to the police because you felt I was a threat to the show. You did the wrong thing for the right reasons. Now that’s all over–it’s done and gone. But you have to remember something. Fleur, you are one of the toughest people I know. You’re absolutely dedicated to the show. You’re an incredibly hard-working flyer, and a whirlwind organiser. You’re also a loving daughter, and a committed performer.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘No.’ She stops me right there, palm raised. ‘If anyone can sort out this mess, it’s you. We believe in you, Fleur. Everyone agrees that you’re busting your ass for the show, and it’s working–we’re pulling out of a nosedive. That’s because of you.’

  I sniff and swallow. ‘Thank you. It’s just…overwhelming, sometimes.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’ Sorsha frowns at me. It would look strange–a frowning fairy, with a braid of autumn curls–but Sorsha is made from pure electrum steel. ‘But you’re not running the show alone. You’ve got a team. You’ve got a whole circus full of people who are ready for you to give the word. Everyone wants to help. This is our home, Fleur, and we’ll all fight to keep it running.’

  I’m humbled by the fierceness in her voice. ‘I’m going to need more support, with Dad back.’

  ‘And you’ll get it. Rally the troops–come on, that’s what we’re all waiting for. Give us the call to action and we’ll be there.’

  That almost makes me start bawling again. I wipe my face with another tissue. ‘Okay, I can do that. And I can delegate more. But we’ve got someone attacking us. I don’t even know where the threat is coming from.’

  ‘Have Mitch Gibson and Eugenia given you any direction with that?’

  I shake my head. ‘We’ve got a few clues, and we’ve done some poking around, but there’s nothing solid. Even the police don’t seem to have any ideas.’

  ‘But the mingers don’t know the show…’ The mingers. She means the police. Sorsha falls back into parlari, the old-time circus cant, when she’s preoccupied. She chews her lip as she thinks. ‘You’ve been through all the personnel records? All the equipment from the accidents?’

  ‘Mitch went through the equipment with a fine tooth comb. The police were saying it could just be mechanical failure–’

  ‘Not a chance, not with Gibson. I’ve never seen such well-maintained gear, and the riggers are all incredibly professional.’ She pulls on the end of her braid. ‘What about Marco? He hasn’t got any suggestions?’

  ‘Um, no.’ I duck my chin. ‘Marco hasn’t…He’s not…’ My fingers pick at each other. ‘Um. No.’

  ‘Fleur…’ Sorsha peers at me, her eyebrows getting higher and higher.

  ‘He’s only here short term.’ I get it out fast, like pulling off a Band-Aid. ‘He’s got another job to go back to. It’s been useful to have him around, but Marco’s going, and I’m staying, and–’

  ‘Did you kiss him?’

  I go from sloppy-sad to shocked in a heartbeat. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Fleur, I was at training the day you hurt your foot, remember?’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Dee said you’ve never missed a straight catch, not in all the years she’s worked with you. And then Marco looked like he wanted to sling you over his shoulder and carry you outta there…Plus, his eyeballs are laser-trained on you ev
ery time you’re in each others’ general vicinity. It’s not actually that hard to work out.’

  I cover my face with my hands. ‘We grew up together. He was my best friend–my best friend. And then last night things just got out of control–’

  ‘Well I know how you like to have things under control,’ she says gently.

  ‘And he’s leaving,’ I say miserably.

  ‘Yeah, that is pretty crappy.’ She leans forward to meet my eyes. ‘Fleur, maybe just talk to him? I know it sounds like lame advice, but it’s always worked for me and Colm.’

  Talk to him. Talk to Marco. I know this is actually a sensible suggestion, but the idea fills me with a weird terror.

  It must show on my face, because Sorsha clasps my hands with her own. ‘It sounds scary, I get that. But trust me, it saves a lot of messed-up feelings and miscommunication. At least you’ll know where you both stand. And it couldn’t be any worse than suffering through all this anxiety, could it?’

  ‘I guess not.’ I sniff.

  ‘I don’t have to guess. I know. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.’ She smiles and pushes to her feet. ‘What you need now is a bit of hard, physical labour to clear your head. Let’s get this kitchen tidied, and then we can go to training.’

  So that’s what we do. Sorsha tackles the burnt pan in the sink, I clean the spilled egg off the floor. We put Judy’s food into the fridge, and wipe everything down. I’ve looked after myself and Dad in circus for years, but Sorsha’s had a rough life: she’s practical and efficient in ways that I’m not, and I don’t feel bad about admitting that to her.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose I’m pragmatic.’ She shrugs. ‘But I’ve had a lot of practise.’

  ‘I’ve been…kinda spoiled, I guess.’ I make another pass over the benchtop with a damp dish cloth, do a little double-take and smile when I see her grin. ‘Hey, at least I know it. And I’m sure as hell feeling it now, with Dad out of action.’

  ‘Seems like you’re doing fine to me.’

  ‘Huh. Well that’s mainly front-of-house glamour.’ I rinse the cloth in the sink, wring it out, look at her. ‘Thanks for talking me down before. I needed it.’

  ‘Anytime.’ Sorsha collects her jacket. ‘So, are you ready to go to training?’

  ‘You go.’ I flap a hand in her direction. ‘I have to stay and look after Daddy. There has to be someone here, for when he wakes up–’

  There’s another knock on the van door. My head turns toward the sound.

  ‘Yeah, we took care of that,’ Sorsha says, with a grin, just as the door opens and Gabriella peeks her head through the crack.

  ‘Hi. Is Terry awake?’ Her rainbow scarf is like a splash of bright feeling in the gloom of the van’s interior. ‘I brought Scrabble and Vogue. Eugenia said I didn’t need a nurse’s uniform, which I think is a heinously wasted opportunity, but here I am, reporting for duty anyway.’

  Suddenly I want to cry again.

  Sorsha pats me on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Fleur. Cry later. Right now, we train.’

  Flying is about adrenalin, and athleticism, and courage, and freedom. It’s also about trust.

  For a few weeks after the trapeze accident, I didn’t quite trust the net to catch me. It wasn’t a huge dent in my trust reservoir, but it was enough. I would over-reach, and cling onto hand-holds, and I closed my eyes a time or two. That was enough to put my whole routine into a shambles.

  I did a lot of extra practises, a lot of drills and standards–beginner stuff–to get back the confidence I had before. Which was fine, because I had to fill up my days somehow when people were ignoring me. So I guess my punishment was useful, in a way.

  I trust the net now. I trust it to be there and hold my whole body in its grip when I do my final somersault and throw myself back. A few short seconds of nothing, of air, then the spongy webbing of the net encloses me. I just lie in it for a moment, bobbing gently, getting my breath back.

  ‘Fleur? You good?’ Dee’s voice sounds down from above.

  I stick my arm in the air with a thumbs up. I’m still sweating from the drills I just performed with Rueben, but my breath is caught now, so I roll sideways to the edge of the webbing, grab two handfuls, and flip myself over onto solid ground.

  And then I have to catch my breath again. Marco is standing at the side of the ring. He’s not wearing his ‘gentleman gaffer’ get-up: it’s Monday, no performance tonight, so effectively still the weekend. He’s in jeans and boots. Instead of a waistcoat, he’s wearing a white undershirt, with a white shirt unbuttoned over the top. The undershirt hugs his chest and waist, making him look like a dancer, or a gymnast on his day off.

  When he notices I’ve seen him, he shoves his hands in his jeans pockets and frowns. ‘Got a minute?’

  His voice is only pitched loud enough to carry across the six feet between us. The sight of his messy hair makes my heart lurch painfully, and my fingers tingle with the memory of what it felt like to touch him.

  ‘Um…’ The creak of equipment and ropes, the Hups from Luke and Rueben high above, make me glance up and back again. ‘I think we’re done, yeah. Just gimme a sec.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  Uh-huh. Marco looks serious. Nerves and misgivings boil up inside me as I jog back to the ladder, let Luke know I’m finishing. I collect my jacket and training bag, sling on my shoes. Marco walks close but doesn’t touch me as we exit Practise Shed One.

  The sunlight outside is glaring, and I flinch–Marco adjusts his position to shield me, and now he’s very close. My skin electrifies. It’s as if my nerve-endings have been anticipating being near him again, and they all decide to switch on at once.

  He cups my elbow firmly, steers us towards the Parade Road. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘This is the opposite direction to my van–’

  ‘Privately.’ He bites out the word, although his touch on me is gentle. ‘Let’s just…find a place to talk.’

  Talking. Yes, right. This is what Sorsha recommended. I can do this. And Marco seems to have a destination in mind: we’re walking towards the lot laundry. It’s a low-roofed brick building, housing a few industrial washers and dryers opposite sinks and a long steel counter. It’s cool and dim inside, more like the area I’ve just come from; I don’t have to squint, at least.

  I can see well enough to spin around and demand some politeness. ‘Listen, Marco, you can’t–’

  And he just scoops me up and kisses me.

  It’s not a sweet, pressing kiss either; it’s a firm, sensual drag that rubs my lips apart, gives his tongue access. If I’d thought my reaction last night was some kind of aberration, I was wrong. It’s like an earthquake inside me all over again. I go completely limp as one of his arms goes around me and his other hand cups the back of my head, sinks into my hair. My legs turn into Judy’s spaghetti al dente. Marco makes a soft growl in his throat, and his arms tighten.

  We kiss until both of us suddenly realise we need to inhale, then Marco’s solid strength is gone as he takes a very deliberate step away, holding me literally at arm’s length.

  ‘Okay, it’s real.’ He looks shocked. He releases me and takes another step back. ‘Right. I didn’t imagine it, and that really did just happen.’

  I hold onto the countertop. All the air in the room has been sucked away by our heavy breathing. ‘Holy…whut…’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ He scrubs both hands through his hair as he starts pacing. ‘I thought maybe I’d dreamed the whole thing. But you really…We actually…’

  ‘We actually.’ My knees are still wobbly and I lick my bottom lip, where his taste lingers. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And I didn’t mean to kiss you again,’ Marco says, his fingers squeezing at his temples. He genuinely appears to be having trouble making whole sentences. ‘That’s not why I needed to see you. I mean, I wanted to talk to you about last night. I still wa
nt to. But another thing has happened, and I came to tell you. Then I saw you, and I…’

  His gaze skates over to mine, and we’re not even touching anymore but I feel every single hair on my body rise, like Marco’s a magnet and my blood is full of iron filings.

  He swallows hard. ‘Why did you run off last night?’

  ‘Because I can’t believe this is happening,’ I say, with absolute sincerity. Then I have a full body flush.

  Marco halts, frowns. ‘Is that bad? Like, you can’t believe it, this horrible thing? Or more that you can’t believe–’

  ‘I can’t believe that you kissed me.’ I stare at him. ‘That I kissed you. That we kissed each other.’

  It’s what I’m still struggling with: I can’t get the images to align. Marco, the dorky friend from my childhood; Marco, the handsome smooth-operator before me.

  The disconnect is jarring me now as his lips curve, his eyes fixed on my mouth. ‘It wasn’t horrible, though. Was it?’

  ‘God, no.’ It comes out fast, and I feel my blush deepen. ‘I’m sorry. About last night, I mean. That was rude, and I shouldn’t have–’

  ‘You should’ve stayed for dinner.’

  ‘I wanted to see Dad. And…I was kind of freaked out.’

  ‘We could’ve talked about it.’ He takes a step towards me, his lips still making that wicked curve. ‘Debriefed some more.’

  My temperature automatically rises in response, which is just nuts.

  ‘Marco, stop.’ I put out a hand, my shoulders slumping with the weight of the truth. ‘You’re leaving.’

  ‘I’m leaving.’ His face falls, as if he’s only just remembered. He looks down, roughing back his hair with a heavy sigh. ‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. I’m leaving.’

  It’s as if neither of us knows where to look.

  I bite my lip. ‘So…what was it you came to tell me?’