All Fall Down

by Ellie Marney

  A rack of costumes that’s half-consumed–I knock it down and slap it hard. An orange flare on old props to my left–I flail at it and prepare for the next outbreak. Grey smoke swirls around me, eddying as I swing my curtain. Sweat drips down into my eyes, and I swipe my sleeve over my face. Where’s the fucking fire crew? I can hear voices, but they’re an indistinct roaring somewhere across a foggy sea. Is there a film over my eyes? Is it smoke, or sweat, or am I crying?

  I can’t tell if I’m crying. That strikes me as being fundamentally wrong. My body buckles at the waist, and I take shallow sips of air closer to the floor–the air is clearer there. But my arms are getting heavier and heavier. The curtain feels like a ship’s anchor; it’s filthy and half-burnt, and the trailing length of it drags at my legs. When another flash of red and orange jets up like a Bunsen burner flame near a stack of plastic chairs and bundled electrical cords on my right, I try to lift my arms and discover they just won’t move.

  ‘Huuuhhh…’ My groan comes out raw and grief-filled, grating along my throat. I fall to my knees–

  And get hit in the face by a cool, refreshing spray of water.

  ‘…need to stretch those hoses out! Ah crap, we’ve got flares! On the right side, crew, double-time now!’

  A fog of spray drips over me, then a gush, a cascade. Two figures in fire-retardant yellow coveralls and helmets rush forward, pulling snaking hose-line that spews a torrent of water onto the sidewall. One of the helmeted figures waves its arms, lifts its visor to speak. It’s a woman, not one of ours.

  ‘…me more pressure! Watch the backline, people. Go check on those…’

  Embers sputter, hiss like angry cats. I stagger to my feet and hear a clang of buckets as more people arrive. Someone grabs me by the arm, and now Marco is right in front of me.

  The bits of his hair that aren’t plastered to his head with sweat are sticking up like a haystack. His eyes are red-rimmed, as if he’s been rubbing them, and the rest of him looks like he’s been rolling in ash and charcoal.

  ‘Fleur?’ He holds me by the arms, his face aghast.

  ‘Marco, your mum is looking for you,’ I say.

  Except I don’t think I really say that. My throat is too dry and raspy to make proper words. Then I start to tilt sideways, and I can’t even put out my hand to stop myself falling because my hand is full of filthy burnt curtain, and why the heck am I still holding onto this?

  ‘Fleur.’ Marco’s face is above me now, like he’s leaning over me. How did I get so low to the ground so fast? ‘Oh Jesus–’

  ‘Fuck, she said she was right behind me!’ Another voice, which might be Colm’s but I can’t see. ‘Her lips are blue… Get her some air, man.’

  ‘We need oxygen here!’ Marco’s voice sounds terrible, shaky and desperate.

  ‘Don’t need ox…ox-see…’ Everything is fuzzy around the edges. A bunch of booted feet stand around right at my eye level, and when I shift my head the other way, my cheek hits damp cotton and shirt buttons.

  Then something hard and plastic is pressed up against my face–I fight it, but it brings a cold, clean breath. I draw deep, cough like I’m dying. The plastic thing goes away for a second, then comes back for my next gasp, and the next.

  I stare at Marco, who’s looking down at me with such a weird expression that I reach up to touch his face. His jawline is hard, black smudges making the shadows even harsher, and he has a red stripe of burn bisecting one cheekbone.

  He tells me before I have a chance to ask. ‘It’s okay, Petal. It’s okay.’

  ‘The fire–’

  ‘The fire’s out, Fleur.’ He smooths a hand over my hair. His lips are chapped, and his throat works as if he’s having trouble talking. ‘It’s over now. It’s all over.’

  They’re the words I’m longing to hear.

  They’re also the words I’m dreading.

  ‘Another sip.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I croak.

  ‘You’ve got smoke inhalation and burn injuries, and you’re dehydrated. You’re not fine.’ Don the Snarky Paramedic holds the cup for me. ‘Drink, or I’ll put you on a drip.’

  I drink.

  Looking out from the back of the ambulance is like examining the scene of the aftermath of a tornado, or a World War Two battle. It’s early evening now. In the glare of headlights and spotlights, the pall of smoke is clearly visible. Cars and emergency vehicles are parked at crazy angles. The reek of fire-retardant foam flies straight up my nose. Hoses trail through the carpark–people pick their way over them as they walk from here to there–and puddles, trickles, swirls of water are catching debris.

  Every single person looks shell-shocked: faces drawn, hair bedraggled, shoes filthy, costumes torn.

  I should get up, slap my Be Happy face on and get out there. It’ll be full dark soon, and the clean-up has barely begun. Performers and crew are in disarray, emergency personnel have to be directed, patrons reassured and sent home. We’ve got to handle the media. The police need to be escorted through the scene of the fire. The carnival needs me.

  But someone is hammering on my head with a length of two-by-four, and it’s all starting to sink in now. How can we possibly recover from this?

  My whole body aches. And I don’t know if I can dredge up my Be Happy face. It would feel clownish, awful. I can’t be competent and smiling when the rest of this community is hurting.

  A huge part of me wants to just curl up under this silver blanket, suck on my oxygen, and go to sleep in the back of the ambulance. Even the idea of getting up and stepping out there makes me want to cry.

  But I have to do something.

  ‘Whatever it is you’re thinking, I advise you against it,’ Don the Snarky Paramedic says. ‘Those guys didn’t carry you all the way out here for you to jump up and plunge back into the fray.’

  ‘Those guys,’ I say slowly, ‘are my family. This whole carnival is my family.’

  I let the oxygen mask fall away and stand up gingerly.

  ‘Please sit back down,’ Don says.

  My coverall is unbuttoned to my waist, because Don had to put me on the monitors for a minute. I look down at myself, my fingers fumbling at the buttons–

  And then a dirty, long-fingered hand closes about my wrist. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  Marco holds my wrist gently and steps up onto the ambulance’s bottom stair. He doesn’t look any better than he did last time: he’s covered in ash and smears of black. His hair is sticking up. The burn on his cheek looks sore. His face looks less stressed, though, and seeing him brings all my feelings to the surface.

  ‘Your girlfriend is thinking of doing something stupid,’ Don says.

  ‘That’s not like her,’ Marco says. He levers me carefully back onto the gurney, brushes hair out of my eyes. ‘She’s usually all about the insane bravery, but I’ve never known her to do anything stupid.’

  The caring lilt in his voice makes me want to cry. ‘Thinking I could run this show–that was pretty stupid.’

  ‘Not true,’ Marco says. He glances at Don, who diplomatically retreats.

  My eyes drag back and forth between the sight of the lot and the sight of Marco’s face. My voice is a clogged-up ghost of what I normally sound like. ‘We’ve lost a quarter of the sidewall, and part of the roof. We’ll have to refund everyone’s tickets. We might get sued. People got hurt. Ren and Lee got hurt–’

  ‘They’re okay, Fleur. They’re recovering fine.’

  ‘Insane bravery isn’t going to save this show.’ Tears are spilling out of me now. ‘I should be out there. I should be talking to people, helping them–’

  ‘Fleur, you have helped them. You saved lives today.’ Marco cups my chin and brings my focus around. ‘You saved people who might’ve otherwise been trapped in the wings. You stopped the Spiegeltent from burning down entirely. People are
grateful, Fleur.’

  ‘Gratitude isn’t going to repair the tent. It isn’t going to pay a retainer to every performer and crewmember until we get back on our feet. If we get back on our feet.’ My breath hitches in my aching throat.

  ‘Do you even know what you did?’ Marco’s eyes search mine. ‘Jesus, Fleur–do you understand?’

  ‘What?’ I cry out. ‘What am I supposed to understand?’

  ‘You’re alive.’ Marco’s voice is shaking with emotion. ‘You could have died, coming back to fight the fire. When I saw you there, in the wing, and then you keeled over, I thought–’

  His mouth contorts. He holds my face in his hands, presses his forehead against mine. I feel the tension in his whole body.

  ‘It’s not just about the circus,’ he whispers harshly. ‘It’s never been just about the circus. It’s been personal, right from the start. I wanted to see you, Fleur. I wanted to see you again.’

  Before I can do anything more than brush Marco’s cheek with my fingers, the crunch of shoes signals Mitch’s approach. Marco works to control his expression, wipes my tears with his thumbs, turns us both.

  Mitch looks wrecked: his filthy coveralls have sweat stains in the armpits and he has a bandage taped around one hand. His eyes track from me to Marco’s arm around me and back again, but his face hardly changes expression. He’s clearly just too tired.

  He slumps against the open door of the ambulance. ‘If you’re thinking of getting out of this vehicle and going to the rescue, I’d put a pin in that.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been telling her,’ Marco says.

  Mitch lays his head back. ‘I know it looks bad, kiddo, but we’re doing okay. An emergency station has been set up in the mess–Judy and the mess crew have organised meals, bottled water and blankets for everyone. We’re feeding the fire team right now, then Bennett will coordinate the Spiegeltent clean-up–not all of it will be done tonight, but we can secure the area. The paramedics have cleared everyone but you and Ren and Lee. And I told Terry you’re okay, and that I’d make sure you went to the hospital if you needed to.’

  ‘I don’t need to,’ I rasp. ‘Is Dad okay?’

  ‘Genie’s with him–he’s upset and angry, like you’d expect. But he’s mainly just frustrated that he can’t walk up here and help out.’ Mitch rubs at his neck. ‘Like father, like daughter.’

  ‘If Dad had been running things–’

  ‘If Terry had been running things, the outcome wouldn’t have been any different. Maybe it would’ve been worse.’ His expression turns to granite. ‘Zep Deal has a lot to answer for.’

  That makes me look up. ‘Zep didn’t do this, Mitch.’

  Marco squints. ‘Fleur, you saw him–’

  ‘I saw him near the tent before the sweep. That could mean anything. And Zep rescued Ren. What saboteur would do that?’

  Mitch purses his lips. ‘If Zep didn’t do this, then I’d like to know where he is so I can chat to him about that.’

  ‘You can’t find Zep? Where did he go?’

  ‘You tell me and we’ll both know. Look, one last thing. Don’t beat yourself up about what happened tonight.’ He glances between me and Marco. ‘I’m not gonna ask why you two were in the wing equipment stacks, but you were in the right place at the right time. If you hadn’t sounded the alarm, we could’ve had another Hartford on our hands. It’s a miracle we sustained so little damage.’

  He’s talking about history’s most notorious carnival fire. But Hartford circus had seven thousand patrons inside the tent, it was the height of summer, the exits were blocked by animal cages…and it was nineteen fifty-eight, way before contemporary fire safety standards were even a thing.

  We were always going to come off better in comparison, but I don’t say that. ‘I want to see it. I want to go inside the Spiegeltent and see for myself.’

  Mitch and Marco exchange glances. Then Mitch sighs, and turns to Don the Snarky Paramedic.

  Don shrugs. ‘You can take her if you want. She’ll probably start coughing her lungs up again, but hey, it’s your call.’

  A compromise is reached so I don’t cough my lungs up: Marco carries the oxygen tank. Mitch directs us with a torch. It’s not until I’m walking again that I remember I have burns on the soles of my feet–it’s making me wince as we slowly tack across the bomb-site carpark.

  ‘One sec. Mitch, can you hold this?’ Marco halts our progress and passes the oxygen tank to Mitch. Then he squats down in front of me.

  ‘Get on,’ he says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can’t walk properly. Hop on my back. Piggy-back ride.’

  I get an attack of shyness. Then I realise I’m being ridiculous, and he’s right–I really can’t walk properly–so I grip around his shoulders and neck. As he stands, I hitch my knees up at his waist and hang on tight.

  He grips under my thighs with his hands. ‘Okay?’

  The sudden closeness is a shock. The warm strength of Marco’s back, the smell of his skin, the rise and fall of his shoulders… If Mitch wasn’t beside us, I’d succumb, and bury my face in Marco’s neck.

  ‘Okay,’ I say quietly.

  His words are still inside me, etched into my brain. It’s been personal, right from the start…I wanted to see you again.

  ‘Good.’ Marco points us toward the Spiegeltent. ‘Now let’s go see what’s happened to our circus.’

  Next morning, it’s time to take stock.

  ‘Feeling better?’ Dad asks.

  ‘Some.’ I ease down onto the end of his bed. My hair is wet from the shower and I’m wearing an old terrycloth robe.

  Dad reaches forward and pats my hand. ‘You should’ve washed up last night when the ambulance brought you home.’

  ‘I was too exhausted.’

  ‘And heartsick and sore,’ Dad says gently.

  ‘Yeah, that too.’ I wince as I start to dab cream on the burns on my arm. When I woke up this morning, my sheets stank of smoke. At least I’ve stopped coughing.

  ‘Okay, let’s talk,’ Dad says.

  I swallow hard, remembering what the Spiegeltent looked like last night. I’d told Marco to put me down when we first arrived, but then all I could do was sag against him. Breathe, he’d said quietly. Breathe.

  ‘It’s… Dad, I don’t know how we’re going to come back from this.’

  ‘Hey.’ Dad gives me a gentle look. ‘We’ve been in messes before, right?’

  ‘Right.’ I blink my eyes fast.

  ‘We got out of those messes by putting our heads down and working like crazy. Well, dedication and hard work are still things we have in good supply.’ He settles back against his pillows. ‘It’ll be okay, Pumpkin. It’s going to take a bit more effort this time, but we’ll pull through.’

  I nod, but I’m not so sure. There’s a gash in the far side of the tent roof, over right wing. The curtains behind the rear ring curbs have been destroyed, and the whole tent is sagging low to the ground on that side. Bleachers are mostly okay, but ringside seats are a mess, and there’s standing water all over the ring.

  This is about more than just a concerted effort to pull the carnival back together: it’s about money. The repairs we need are going to be stratospherically expensive, and our receipts have been variable since the accidents started, only just picking up these last two weeks. All the dedication and hard work in the world won’t pay for new canvas, new curtains, new bleachers…

  ‘We’ll have to close the show for a while,’ Dad says.

  I look up, shocked. I’ve never heard Dad say anything like this before.

  ‘We’ll need to give ourselves a month or two to get everything fixed up.’ He rakes a hand through his greying hair. ‘I’m gonna suggest you hold a meeting and let folks know about their options–they can stick around on a
retainer, take a holiday, or choose to let us go and look for other work.’

  Closing the show? Letting staff go? My brain is reeling. ‘How are we going to pay people a retainer? And how on earth are we going to pay for repairs? Our accounts are–’

  ‘You let me figure out the accounts.’ Dad pats my hand again reassuringly.

  Maybe it’s his medication that’s keeping him so calm. Whatever it is, I’d like a dose of what he’s having. My heart is doing sick, slow thumps in my chest.

  My father’s eyes fix on me. ‘Fleur, I know you’ve already done a lot to keep this show running while I’ve been in hospital and off my feet. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. It’s been a big burden to take onto such young shoulders, and this makes things even tougher.’

  I straighten, feeling like my shoulders are about a hundred years old. ‘The show’s part of me, Daddy. It’s my whole life.’

  ‘I know, Pumpkin. But seeing Marco again, it reminded me that Genie gave him options–she let him go out into the world and discover what he liked, discover new things. I never really gave you those choices.’

  But you let me learn with you. There’s no confusion or miscommunication between us. I nearly say it, but I don’t. Marco and Eugenia have a chance to work out their issues now. Maybe they’ve already done it. In this moment, I’m more concerned that Dad’s building up to something. If he’s about to say it’s time for me to relinquish my management role…

  ‘I told you, Daddy. The show is my life.’ I smooth the robe in my lap. ‘It’s part of my soul. It’s not about you giving me choices. I made my choice a long time ago.’

  Then Dad says something that takes me completely by surprise.

  ‘And do you know how lucky I feel because of that?’ His face, worn but still expressive, has now gone incredibly soft. ‘You’re my daughter and I’ll always be proud of you. But to know you’re happy with the life I made for us… It makes me wanna sing. Because you’ve done so much more than just follow in my footsteps. You’re walking right beside me in all this. You make me so proud, baby.’