by Ellie Marney
All my skin is warm, and my robe suddenly feels ridiculously thin. I tug the belt to keep the vee front from gaping, but that just draws Marco’s attention to my chest. He makes a soft, half-believing exhalation, and touches his finger to my chin again. Then his finger moves downwards; sliding off my chin, down the sensitive skin of my throat, down to my breastbone.
At some point, Marco and I moved from playing kid’s games to playing…other sorts of games. We watch together as his finger trails lightly through the valley of my cleavage, all the way to my belly button. I’m wearing lycra, so it all feels very immediate. I take a deep breath.
He swallows audibly. ‘God almighty.’
‘If I kiss you now, I might not be able to stop,’ I whisper.
‘Should we chance it?’ His eyes suggest it’s a chance he’s willing to take.
I don’t wait for him to change his mind; I grab the front of his shirt and press my lips against his. The music for the acrobatic spot, the murmurs and applause from the audience, they all sound very far away right now.
When we manage to make a space between us, Marco looks at me in wonder. ‘Is it always going to feel like this when we kiss?’
‘I think so, yes.’ I grin. ‘That was to make up for the kiss we missed out on before.’
‘We have a backlog of kisses to make up for, y’know. Five years’ worth.’
My stomach swoops at the idea. ‘Hold that thought until after the show. Do you smell something?’
‘You.’ He nuzzles the curve of my neck. ‘God, why do you always smell so amazing?’
‘It’s not me. I mean, I hope it’s not, because it smells…’ I tug on his waist to make him straighten. ‘Marco, concentrate. Can you smell that? It smells like–’
‘Something…something burning.’ His eyes scan around us. ‘Is that smoke?’
He releases me and stalks further down the row, towards the canvas sidewall of the tent.
‘Hey,’ I call out. ‘Be caref–’
Which is as much as I get out before the sidewall of the Spiegeltent crackles and splits, and explodes into flame.
Nine
Marco throws his arms up and falls backwards, stumbling over a stack of plastic chairs.
There’s a sudden woof, as if my ears are popping, then a flash of late afternoon sky, framed on each side by hungry orange fire. A bright gout of flame goes streaking up the inner sidewall, pushing hot air forward at ground level.
‘MARCO!’ I bolt towards him, hands out, registering the stink of burning canvas.
He’s already rolling, scrambling to his feet. ‘What the fuck–’
‘Are you okay? Oh my god–’
Something cracks, and we both duck. Flames snake higher up the inside edge of the tent, rolling red and blue.
‘We’re on fire. Holy shit, we’re on fire… How did this happen?’ Marco grabs my arms, his expression horrified. ‘Get on comms. Jesus, where’s the fire extinguisher?’
My higher brain functions return in a rush. ‘Here, wait–’
I twist and race closer to the wing curtain, searching for the shelf I know is nearby, searching…there. Thank god for Bennett and organisation. I snag the squat red extinguisher with one hand, snatch a walkie talkie out of its cradle on the shelf, race back.
Marco claps and holds out his hands, and I sling the extinguisher to him before switching on the walkie talkie. My breathing is loud and frantic, and my hands are shaking.
‘This is Fleur Klatsch, Ringmaster One on emergency channel four–we have a fire in the tent. Repeat, FIRE IN THE TENT. Initiating fire protocols–this is NOT a drill. Fire crew to the right wing. All other crew, evacuate patrons NOW. Performers, report to your stations or evacuate. Stage One, call backup!’
I’m yelling all this on automatic as I watch Marco spray a wide arc with the extinguisher. But the extinguisher is pitifully small, and the fire is climbing the canvas faster than I would’ve thought possible. It’s scaled this section of sidewall effortlessly, and has started snapping for the roof. Marco’s already dodging bits of flaming debris.
‘Marco, get back!’ I run forward and pull on his waist. There’s a spitting report, and I look up to see the canvas above us starting to char. ‘MARCO!’
My scream finally gets through when my words didn’t–his eyes track in the same direction as mine, see the same things. He cries out, and we both tumble backwards as the canvas above us blackens and sags.
Marco clutches my arm, drags me away from where pieces of flaming cotton are spilling down like cinder-y rain. The ends of the stacked mats are ablaze. Everything smells like plastic, and I am breathing in short, smoke-filled gasps.
‘This is no accident. This is arson.’ Marco’s face is pale with shock. He hauls me to my feet. ‘We need hoses. Fleur, we have to go.’
I sob. ‘The Spiegeltent–’
‘Fleur, we can’t do any more on our own, come on!’ He tucks me against his body, shielding me from the flames. Like contestants in a three-legged race, we run away from the fire, back towards centre wing.
But this is wrong–I can’t run. This is my circus now, and I have to take control. Or this whole tent, this whole show, will be reduced to ashes and ruin.
I pull away from Marco’s arm. ‘I’ll take the wing. You go ringside. Bennett is fire safety marshal, help him get patrons out–’
‘Fleur–’ Marco grabs for my hand, his eyes all panic.
‘No.’ I shrug him off. ‘This show is not burning down on my watch–no fucking way. Get in there and do the job. Call the fire department, and get those people out!’
I dash away before he can lodge more protest. Hot air is still juddering in my throat, making me gasp. My trapeze costume and robe won’t protect me against what we’re facing; a quick glance down at myself shows singed patches on my legs and arms where my tights and sleeves have provided no cover at all.
But I can’t think about that now. There’s a rumble spreading through my body: the deep-gut sound of hundreds of running footsteps. People are streaming for the exits, racing for safety–at least, I hope that’s what they’re doing. There’s a system in place, a system we’ve all rehearsed. I’m just praying that system is working the way it’s supposed to now.
I streak past the rows of equipment stacks, emerge into centre wing and stop dead. It’s chaos. Gabriella’s horses, brought up for their cue, are milling in a panic-stricken circle near the warm-up mats. She’s trying to calm them, but the smell of smoke–visible now, hazing through the air like oil on water–and the sounds of people crying and yelling are driving the horses berserk. Black-clad crewmembers are sprinting from or into the ring. Performers are snatching up belongings, musicians are clutching instruments as they run. Bennet’s orders squawk from a dozen different headsets and walkie-talkies.
I grab the first familiar face I see: Fraser Hemming. ‘Fraser, you’re with me!’
His eyes are scared but he hasn’t dissolved into hysteria yet. ‘What the fuck is happening? This is crazy–’
‘Stop talking and listen.’ I tug his headset off, pull his arm to drag him closer to the horses and Gabriella. ‘Get these animals out of here before someone gets kicked in the head. Gabi!’
I hail her by grabbing her shoulder. She looks around, startled but relieved to feel a touch of human contact in all this mess. ‘Fleur, my babies–’
‘Gabi, Fraser is your man now. Tell him what he needs to do to get your horses out. Go down the tunnel to the Parade Road then keep going all the way to the stables, you got it?’
‘Got it.’ Her face is tear-streaked but resolute. ‘Fraser, the halters–’
I leave them to it, clip the headset on properly and flick to channel four. A garbled mash of feedback emerges, and I wince. When it dies away, I can hear my stage manager.
‘…directing patrons to the car park area. Eve
ryone to meet at that area–no exceptions! DO NOT allow patrons to drive away. DO NOT leave the fire safety area–’
‘Stage One, are you reading me?’ I dash through a mess of bodies, pushing my way to the tunnel entrance that leads down to the Parade Road. I jump aside as Gabriella thunders past astride her big white lead horse, Henry–his eyes are rolling with fright, but he’s taking her cues, leading the other horses away through the tunnel. Fraser brings up the rear, with Tammi almost pulling him off his feet. At least they’re all out. I give Gabi a thumbs-up as she passes, but I seriously doubt she notices.
‘Ringmaster One, do you copy?’
‘I’m here, Bennett! Centre wing.’ I grab a chair and drag it closer, stamp it down hard to give it some traction. ‘I’m clearing centre, tell me you got everyone out.’
‘Still catching strays. Fire and ambulance on their way. No injuries so far.’
‘Mitch and the fire crew?’ I snatch up a bright green flag–something Carey usually pulls behind him when he rides the penny farthing bicycle in the parade–and clamber up onto the chair.
‘Channel three, but reception’s choppy.’
‘Have they got a bucket line?’ Smoke is thickening fast. I start waving the flag madly, directing the remaining crew and performers in the tent to the best available exit. ‘Forget that, I’ll check for updates myself. Is Marco with you?’
‘…and the fire…get…’
Reception dissolves in a burst of static. I hiss and strain my flag-arm higher. I can’t do anything about the comms now, my first priority is getting people evacuated. ‘Keep going, Bennet, you’re doing good. Ping me when the fire trucks arrive.’
‘Roger that.’
‘EXIT HERE! Everyone out! Come on, people!’ I wave my flag like a revolutionary, yelling to make myself heard above the din of people and animals. Smoke is worse higher up, and I get a lungful, cough and wave and cough again.
It’s mostly performers and crew streaming past me through the tunnel umbilicus, but a few patrons are in the mix too, surprised to find themselves racing shoulder-to-shoulder with acrobats and sword swallowers. People are running, but I see Dita pick up a little kid and sling him over her arm. Other crew members watch out for those who stumble or fall behind.
I switch to channel three in time to hear a squall of shouting.
‘…on the right! We need more buckets!’
‘…with hoses, and lay down a burst. Mitch, do you copy?’
It’s Marco’s voice. The sound of him over the comm-line chills me–I thought he was directing patrons with Bennett. How the hell did he end up in the thick of the fire-fighting action? I dump my flag, jump from my chair. Centre wing is almost cleared out, and it sounds like the firefighters need more support. And I know where to find buckets.
My throat is dust-dry and my eyes are gritty, but there’s no time to think about it. Sirens screech, somewhere close–I’m hoping that means response vehicles are arriving. I sprint left, towards the stack of buckets I saw in the wing this afternoon, and almost run smack into Genie.
Her hair is in disarray, and she clutches my arm. ‘Marco! Oh my god, where’s Marco?’
I grip her shoulders, to calm her and to prevent us both from falling. ‘Genie, it’s okay. He’s with Mitch and the fire crew–’
‘He’s what? My god, he’s not trained for that!’
Her pantsuit hem is torn, and her eyes are frantic. I’ve never seen her lose her composure like this. Whatever Marco might think about his relationship with his mum, there’s no doubt she cares about him deeply.
I try to reassure her. ‘Eugenia, I’m going to get him, okay? Right now. But I need you to promise me something. I need you to go to my van and check on Dad. Judy was with him in the van–’
‘But Marco–’
‘Genie, please. I’ll find Marco, I swear. I’m going to find him right this second. But you need to look after my Dad.’ I squeeze her shoulders. ‘Please, Genie. We don’t have time to talk more. Go find Dad. I’ll take care of Marco, you know I will. Now get out of here, Genie! The tunnel’s clear.’
She nods and runs for the exit. I spin around and run for the buckets.
They’re exactly where I saw them, stacked together under one of the melamine tables. I grab up all four; two handles in each hand is easier than running with the stack. Sounding like a collision in a hardware store, I backtrack fast through the wing. Metal clangs as I vault knocked-over junk and ripped-down curtains. My breath scrapes in my throat–I feel like I’ve swallowed a cheese grater, and my chest hurts.
Someone is coming from the other direction, bolting through a pall of smoke: it’s Colm, and he seems glad to see me.
‘I need those!’ He grabs two buckets off me in one motion, sweat streaming off him, his face sunburn-red and darkened with streaks of ash. ‘Get the fuck out of here, you should be outta the tent!’
I ignore that. ‘Are the fire trucks here? I heard sirens, but comm reception’s shit.’
‘Bennett’s breaking down the front entrance with Seb and Zep, they’ve got a vehicle in the ring. They’re hitting the roof hard, but the fire’s still trying to get around the sidewall. Fleur, you should get out.’
‘I’m not leaving the fire crew when they need support!’
He bites his lip and nods. ‘Follow behind me, then. But find some coveralls, or you’ll end up with nylon skin.’
We turn and jog back the way he’s come. I’m looking for coveralls, but I’m not seeing much. ‘Where’s Sorsha?’
‘She’s out.’ Colm looks relieved but grim. ‘She got Rueben and Dee and Luke out. Lee got hurt. They were mid-act when you called the alarm.’
‘Oh, shit.’ But I’m relieved to hear my flying team is safe.
Centre wing is eerily deserted. Shouting voices and crackling sounds come from further up the passage. The area roils with smoke, and my breath comes fast and high and scratchy.
Before I dissolve into another paroxysm of coughing, I spy a bundle of ring-crew black. I push Colm on the shoulder. ‘Go! I’ll be right behind you!’
I snatch up the coveralls and tug them on, various places on my body yowling as the rough cotton material scrapes against burnt skin. I’m still only in ballet flats, which is far from ideal, but I can’t help that. I’m sweaty and nauseous too, and I nearly step in my remaining bucket–it gongs against my leg–while staggering around with the coveralls. Then the curtain to my left suddenly parts, and two figures emerge.
It’s one person carrying another person: Zep Deal is carrying Ren Putri. Ren is gasping and blue-lipped. Her hands scrabble, trying to climb Zep’s shoulders. She raises her face in an attempt to get more oxygen.
‘…nearly there,’ Zep says firmly, not talking to me. ‘Then we’ll be out of the smoke, chica–’
‘What are you doing?’ I ask stupidly.
‘I saw her go in to help Lee, but then I didn’t see her come out again.’ He swings himself and Ren sideways to clear the curtain. Sweat-soaked black hair falls in front of his face, and his eyes are bloodshot. ‘The fire truck’s blocking the ring entryway and we can’t get through there to the ambulance, so please tell me the tunnel’s open.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I mean, wait–’
I feel dazed. Maybe I’ve got smoke inhalation symptoms, too. Marco is so sure Zep is connected to the accidents, even this fire. But what arsonist does something like this? I could imagine our saboteur watching from a position of safety outside, as the fire destroyed the Spiegeltent. But going back into the tent to save the victims of his well-laid plan? No way.
I’m dragged out of my thoughts as Ren starts to suck air. It’s weird seeing her panic; she’s usually so proper and firmly-controlled, and her contortionist performances are a triumph of physical and mental discipline. But that discipline fails her now–her eyes are rolling and her neck is stretched.
He doesn’t question, doesn’t ask me what I’m still doing in the tent, just hefts Ren’s slim form and heads for the left wing. And I turn right, and jog towards the fire.
The passage is dark–the backstage lights have shorted out–and obscured by churning smoke. I smell the reek of burnt plastic and wet ash. The air feels hotter as I get closer to the place Marco and I saw the first fire-front. Equipment, props, rigging ropes… Everything pushed up near the canvas looks horribly flammable.
Movement–I look up, and suddenly see a tendril of flame shoot out at wall-side above an old dressing table. I jump back with a cry, trip over a pile of folded curtains and nearly fall on my butt. I thought I’d hear the fire crew then come upon the scene, but it’s the other way around: the fire is here.
I’ve got nothing to fight with except an empty bucket. I dump the bucket, snatch up the stage curtain on top of the pile. It’s too long, so I bundle half of it over my shoulder and whack at the flames with the other half.
While attacking the fire, I fumble the button on my headset. ‘Stage One, I’ve got–’
A gargle of static in my ear. Goddammit.
I pull the earpiece away and try yelling straight into the mic. ‘Stage One, this is Ringmaster One … Anyone out there! I’ve got spot fires on the flank of right wing! If you hear this, I need immediate assistance!’
The fire is like a living organism, ducking under the ventilation gap at the base of the canvas and slicing up somewhere else, playing peekaboo behind objects–now above an old pedestal fan, now behind a pile of stage lights. I’m whacking and gasping and whacking again, staggering around like a drunkard, dashing in to slap my curtain against glowing flame and ember attack.
My arms are aching. My chest feels bruised, and every inhaled breath is painful. But beating at the fire, something powerful rises up inside me: this is my circus. Mine. And no saboteur, no flame or storm or flood, is going to wreck My. Goddamn. Circus.