All Fall Down

by Ellie Marney

  ‘I will most definitely add that to the List of Things To Do,’ I say tonelessly. I hook my left arm over my head.

  ‘No, lower your elbow or it pulls.’ Eugenia re-positions my arm. ‘There. And don’t joke about it. You have to look after yourself. We can’t manage if you fall over sick, and right now you’re looking positively peaky. Okay, it’s pinned. Take it off and get your clothes and jacket back on. I’ll make you some tea.’

  Eugenia always keeps her van significantly cooler inside than we do–especially now that Dad’s home recuperating, and I’ve set the temperature higher–so the inside of the Airstream feels like a fridge compared to what I’m used to. I don’t linger in my sports bra and panties; I scramble back into my sweatpants and tank and jacket, trying to rub away my goosebumps.

  ‘Who’s looking after Terry, while you’re here?’ Eugenia divests herself of her pins, sliding the spares neatly into a row on her left breast pocket. Her white shirt is very stylish today, with the collar popped. It just reminds me of Marco.

  ‘Seb’s with him right now. They’re playing chess.’ I gave in, and called Sorsha this morning about arranging to have Seb sit with Dad while I was here.

  Eugenia approves. ‘That’s a nice, quiet activity, at least.’

  ‘And Dad wanted to make a phone call. He said he wanted to thank Brian Cadell personally for loaning Marco out to us.’ I stop pinching my biceps to warm them, drop my eyes to the mug Genie has placed in front of me. ‘I told Dad not to tire himself out. He still doesn’t have a lot of stamina.’

  ‘And what did you and Marco find out last night, after going through the files?’

  Eugenia is pre-occupied with lacing the new colour thread through her sewing machine from the bobbin, so she doesn’t see me blush. What did we find out? That Marco’s kisses are hot enough to curl my hair. That I have the emotional maturity of a gnat.

  ‘Nothing much.’ God, I sound like I’m at a funeral. But I still have no idea what’s going to happen when this week is up. Marco will return back to his regular job in the regular world, and I’ll be left here to pick up the pieces. This whole situation sucks, and I don’t know what I’m doing.

  I try to focus on Eugenia’s question. ‘We found a few potential suspects–two guys that Daddy let go for fighting in the mech yard, and another performer who had a pay dispute. But they’ll be hard to track down. We might have to engage an investigator to look into it.’

  ‘That’ll take time,’ Genie notes.

  Time we don’t have. ‘I know. But it’s the only idea we could come up with.’

  ‘And you didn’t find out more about Zep Deal?’

  I rub my neck. ‘Eugenia, I don’t think he’s the person we should be chasing.’

  She frowns. ‘After talking to Dita, I don’t think we should rule him out.’

  ‘Come on, Genie.’ I clutch my mug, frowning. ‘You know Zep, you know his history with Angus and Lost Souls. Zep loves this circus. And this industry is so small – everyone comes from someplace else. If we threw shade on every staff member who had a connection to our main competitor, then you’d be a suspect.’

  ‘Hm.’ Eugenia bites her lip, continues determinedly straightening the fabric of my costume to ease it into the machine.

  ‘What’s the deal with that anyway? Cavendish told me and Marco that you’d worked there. He said he “gave you a start when you were nothing”.’

  I know I should be more polite, more subtle and delicate in my questions. But I just don’t have the time or energy to pussy-foot around right now. I have a feeling that paraphrasing Cavendish to Genie’s face will spur her to reply, and I’m right.

  Her mouth screws up. ‘Vas Cavendish is a pig–’

  ‘Yeah, he’s a pig. After meeting the man, I wholeheartedly agree. But you’ve told me that already. What haven’t you told me?’

  The sewing machine hums as it idles. Eugenia smooths the fabric under the presser foot, but then she seems to change her mind about pretending to work. Or maybe this–whatever she wants to share–is something that needs her full concentration. She switches the machine off and turns in her chair.

  ‘I was eighteen when I left home–just about your age. Eons ago.’ She smiles faintly. ‘My home life was unpleasant, and I thought if I could just get out on my own, I’d find a place. But the world isn’t always kind to women who are a little stronger, who seem a little…different.’

  She strokes a thumb down her goatee, gazing somewhere to a spot amongst the mounds of glorious fabric and piles of notions on the Airstream’s sewing table. Eugenia’s been the pinnacle of my concept of elegance and beauty since I was a little girl. I can’t imagine anyone ever being unkind to her–the whole concept makes me want to beat something up. But she distracts me by going on.

  ‘I never really felt comfortable until I met a group of performers at a bar where I was working. When I joined their group, it was like finally finding my tribe. It was more than acceptance–they were the first people I’d ever met who saw me as an asset. Vas was their ringleader, and he was turning on the charm… He can be charming when he wants to be, believe it or not.’

  She raises her eyebrows at me. I have to admit, the concepts of ‘Vas Cavendish’ and ‘charming’ don’t seem to be simpatico at all. But this is Eugenia’s story, and I don’t want her to stop talking now.

  ‘Lost Souls was just getting started. We performed in public parks, at festivals, in underground parking lots. It all seemed very exciting.’ Her expression changes. ‘Then Vas found a permanent site, and along with the new place came a number of new working conditions. Stiff contracts. Punishing performance schedules. Vas had taken a huge financial gamble with the site, and of course he hadn’t gone through regular channels, so he needed to pay off his debts as quickly as possible. That meant we all accepted limited pay to keep working there, because there wasn’t any other option…’

  She clasps her fingers and brings her forefingers to her mouth. For a moment I don’t think she’ll continue, but then her hands drop.

  ‘I don’t remember exactly when the cooch shows started, but burlesque had always been a feature of Lost Souls. The whole carnival had been getting progressively seedier as Vas’s empire expanded. I was still fairly naïve–I only realised what was happening when someone asked me to make them a rip-away costume…’

  My eyebrows go sky-high. ‘That’s, uh, not something we’d ever ask you to do.’

  Eugenia’s expression is dry. ‘It got worse. One day Vas lost a performer, and suggested that maybe I should fill in.’

  ‘Oh Eugenia–’

  ‘I refused, of course. But that didn’t stop him from asking again and again. By that stage, I was starting to feel desperate. I wanted out. But it was scary, the idea of returning to mainstream life. And then I heard about a new show in town, with a promising young ringmaster called Terence Klatsch…’

  I know some of this story. ‘You met at a bar.’

  ‘That’s partly right–and it wasn’t by accident. I’d heard that Klatsch’s performers met at a wine bar on the west side, so one night I rounded up a few friends as cover and went there. I struck up a conversation with a young man who was working with Klatsch’s as an engineer. His name was David Deloren.’

  ‘Marco’s dad,’ I say in wonder.

  Eugenia nods, smiling softly. ‘I gave him the third degree about Terry’s show–conditions, wages, contracts. They didn’t have a permanent site, but it seemed like a much better deal than I was getting.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t be getting sexually harassed by Cavendish.’

  ‘Oh, yes–that was a deal-breaker. I asked David to pass on a note to Terry, to say I was interested in switching teams. Then I went back home to my miserable dorm… That was an awful week. While I was waiting for Terry’s contact, Vas asked me again to join the cooch show, and I said yes, just to make him stop peste
ring me and allay suspicion–’

  ‘My god, Genie.’ My heart flies to my throat.

  ‘Then the night I was due to perform, David and Terry rocked up to the site. Terry started an argument with Vas to keep him busy while David helped me grab my things and get out.’

  ‘Genie, that’s terrifying. And Vas must’ve been furious.’

  ‘He was blazing when he discovered what had happened. But it was too late–I was gone. I wasn’t the only performer who defected that year, either. I heard that Vas confined his performers to the lot after he realised people were going out for drinks, or to dinner, and just never coming back.’ She shakes her head. ‘People won’t be loyal to someone who treats them like dirt.’

  I give her a straight look. ‘And that’s one of the reasons why I don’t think Zep should be a suspect here. Daddy’s always done right by Zep. What could Zep possibly gain by going back to Lost Souls?’

  She gives me an honest reply. ‘I don’t know, Fleur. But Angus might be dangling a carrot of some kind, or maybe holding a stick. Angus is a very volatile man. And family can be very complicated.’

  It’s enough of an opening, and it might be the only one I’ll get. ‘As complicated as you and Marco?’

  ‘Our situation is very different to Zep’s.’ Eugenia’s lips purse together as she turns back to her sewing machine.

  But I’m not going to be turned off course that easily. ‘Genie, what is it? It’s been bugging me ever since Marco arrived. Actually, it’s been bugging me since he left, years ago. You two obviously had a fight about something–’

  ‘Marco wanted out of circus life.’ She toggles switches and repositions fabric, her face tilted away. ‘I wasn’t going to be the one to hold him back.’

  ‘But…you wanted him to stay.’

  ‘Of course I wanted him to stay!’ Glaring at me would be déclassé, so Eugenia glares at the sewing machine. ‘He was only fourteen! He was a child! And he wanted to leave a place where he was cared for and looked after, to go off gallivanting around the world with his father…’ She sighs, and gives up on the machine. ‘We both said some things to each other that we regret. I told Marco that I’d worked hard, struggled a long time and sacrificed a lot to make a home for us with the show, but that he didn’t seem to care.’

  She said I didn’t understand the things she’d done to make me a home…Now I know what Marco was talking about.

  ‘Even if they were true, I’m sorry I said those things.’ She sighs, and tucks back her hair. ‘His mind was made up anyway.’

  ‘But it was never about you, Genie.’ I bite my lip. ‘He just wanted some stability. The show travelled so much, when we were kids.’

  ‘I know. And I did everything in my power to make things easier, but it wasn’t enough. If he’d only hung on for one more year…’ She picks up her abandoned mug, stares into it. ‘I thought maybe he just wanted something different–something not circus. I didn’t want to stop him from making his own choices. But it stung, that he rejected the life I’d made for us.’

  And Eugenia took it personally, I can tell. Even though Marco wasn’t rejecting her, or circus as a whole back then–just the lack of a steady home and lifestyle–she couldn’t separate Marco’s decision to explore other options from his relationship with her. Maybe the old anger is gone, but the bruised feelings remain. Maybe that’s why they’re having so much trouble being honest with one another: because being too honest before brought them to this point.

  The look on Genie’s face is so like Marco’s, when he left last night, that I feel the sting, too. Rejection hurts.

  I have to find Marco and apologise.

  The weather has started to turn by the time I leave Eugenia’s van. Dirty scudding clouds are reflecting on the Airstream’s chrome shell, and the temperature has dropped. I rub my biceps through my jacket as I head for the Parade Road, which is slowly becoming more populated. People are darting around as everyone tries to nail down last minute chores before the countdown to tonight’s show.

  Security sweep is scheduled to begin in an hour. Mitch has taken Zep Deal off the sweep team by assigning him duties in the ticket office: it’s a diversion that won’t extend beyond tonight. I want to talk to Zep before the parade, but I don’t know if I’ll have a chance; I need to see Marco first, and chances are high he’ll be moving between the booking office, the mech yard and the Spiegeltent.

  Chances are also high that if I text him, he’ll ignore me. And there’s the little issue of what the hell am I going to say? I don’t know what to start with, except I’m sorry. I need coffee for this–or possibly something stronger–so I aim for the mess.

  The aroma of fresh coffee and frying sausages washes over me as I pull the door open, and then I nearly run smack into Dee, who’s exiting as I arrive. We both jump back as a wash of hot tea slops over the rim of the mug she’s carrying.

  ‘Oh crap–did I burn you?’ She steps sideways to a table, comes back with a bunch of paper napkins in her other hand. ‘Here, Fleur, I’m sorry, I didn’t–’

  ‘You didn’t.’ I take the napkins, even though there’s nothing to clean up but the floor, because she seems flustered. ‘Close call, but we’re good. Are you… Are you okay, Dee?’

  ‘Fine. God, yes, I’m fine.’ She flushes and pushes back her short hair. It feathers up and out, a streak of auburn flame.

  ‘You seem a little–’

  ‘I got a date.’ Her words blurt out, and she’s smiling. The pink on her cheeks is taking over her whole face. ‘I mean, we made a date for after tonight’s show. I should be thanking you–’

  ‘You got a date…with Luke?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Dee smiles, bites her lip, smiles over that. ‘Yes. Ohmigod.’

  ‘Holy crap, that’s great!’

  Then I’m smiling, and then we’re both doing this crazy chortle, standing here in the doorway. Judy Wilkinson gives us an amused look as she wipes her hands behind the bain marie serving station.

  I pull Dee out of the doorway and onto the wraparound porch that fronts the mess, so we have a modicum of privacy. ‘Holy crap, that’s… You just asked him?’

  ‘Yes!’ She claps her free hand over her loud mouth, snorts through it. She scans around to see if anyone overheard before lowering her hand and her voice. ‘Yes. I asked him, and he said yes. And now I’m kind of elated but simultaneously terrified? But mostly elated.’

  ‘Dee, that’s great. And come on–finally.’ I give her a gentle squeeze on the bicep. ‘That’s so awesome.’

  She lets out a shaky breath. ‘Well I wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t given me a push. Thank you.’

  ‘God, no thanks necessary.’ I grin back. ‘You did it all yourself. But why terrified? Luke isn’t scary, and you’ve known him forever.’

  ‘I think that’s part of it,’ she confesses. ‘We’ve known each other so long, and it’s strange, thinking of each other in a new way.’

  God, I hear that. My grin fades a little.

  ‘Even though we know each other, there’s still plenty about him I don’t know,’ Dee goes on. ‘But I’m interested to find out. And I figure having him see me in something other than a trapeze costume or sweats might help things along.’

  She goes on telling me about the planned date–at a bar a few blocks away from the lot–and thanking me for the impetus to do the asking. I keep my smile on but a knot is forming in my throat. I’m happy for her, so very happy. But it’s as if her words are a on a loop, circling my brain like a flock of migrating birds: We know each other, but there’s still plenty about him I don’t know…

  By the time I say goodbye to Dee and she walks off with her now-cooling mug, I’m thinking deeply. I think as I find a mug, make my coffee.

  Marco and I grew up together. We know each other’s history. We’ve kissed. But have we gotten to know one another since he returned? Do I
really know anything about him? What’s his favourite movie? Has his favourite colour changed? It was blue when we were kids. Maybe it’s different now. Does he still like jam-filled doughnuts?

  And it works the other way, too. Does he know anything about me, apart from the fact that I’m loyal and hard-working and constantly running around the lot like my pants are on fire?

  You keep saying you know me. But it’s been five years, Marco.

  I said that last night, and it’s still true. But would things be different if that changed? Maybe if we knew more of each other, we’d trust each other more, and we could talk properly, as adults… Am I brave enough to at least give it a try?

  I take my coffee out of the mess and walk off the porch, heading towards the mech yard. My head is whirling, but I’m not so distracted that I miss a flash of movement up on the hill, near the Spiegeltent.

  Zep Deal is coming out of the Big Top. His dark clothes stand out against the glare of the white wailings. He’s slipped out from under the flap of canvas near where the parade tunnel joins the body of the tent.

  Zep hasn’t noticed me down here. And he’s moving sideways to the left now, briskly skirting the tent’s wide perimeter, not heading down the hill to the Parade Road but towards the midway. Where the heck is he going?

  More importantly, what the heck is he doing?

  I have to make a snap decision: follow Zep, or go report this to Mitch and Marco. But at this distance, Zep will have disappeared by the time I backtrack to the incline and make it up to the tent. The sensible thing is to report.

  I dump my coffee mug on the left hand verge of the road and start jogging. I’m at Mitch’s office in five minutes flat.

  The door is open, and Mitch and Marco are leaning over a set of blueprints on Mitch’s messy desk, talking final pole replacements for the repaired bleachers. I take a moment to realise that my hair is a mess and I’m wearing my absolute ugliest clothes, because of course I am, before I take the stairs and enter sans knocking.