All Fall Down

by Ellie Marney

  I don’t know what to say. Can’t talk anyway, because my chin’s wobbling too much. I just press my cheek to my father’s, as we clutch hands. Then Dad wipes his tears on my robe, and I wipe mine on his T-shirt, and we clear our throats and start strategizing for the day to come.

  ‘Talk to Jones about media, then maybe get Mitch down here,’ Dad says. ‘We need to discuss the police investigation.’

  ‘Have we found Zep Deal yet?’

  ‘No. And that worries me.’

  It worries me, too. ‘If Zep isn’t the saboteur, why has he disappeared?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Dad frowns. ‘That’s another issue, though. Today I want to start discussions with Mitch about how we’re gonna manage repairs.’

  ‘Sounds good. But I’ll let Marco help Jones–he’s been doing all the PR since he arrived.’

  ‘Has he? Well, now.’ Dad scratches his chin. ‘You and Marco have been getting on better, after those first days.’

  ‘We’ve been…getting re-acquainted.’ I will myself not to blush. ‘I might have been a little–’

  There’s a knock on the front door, and a faint, familiar voice. ‘Fleur?’

  Speak of the devil. I pat Dad’s hand, leave his room to answer.

  I’m washed and changed and stronger now, but I can’t resist straightening my robe and smoothing my hair before I open the door. Sure, Marco’s seen me in my embroidered-cat undies, but that was a while ago. He’s been dealing with the rattiest-looking versions of me lately.

  I pull the door open, smiling. ‘Hey, are you–’

  ‘I’m glad I caught you.’ My lack of glamour seems to be the last thing on Marco’s mind as he strides into the van. He looks much like I feel: cleaner and drier, but not much happier overall. He pulls at his hair, pacing. His whole demeanour is frazzled. ‘I can’t believe this. I fucking can’t believe it.’

  I’m immediately anxious. ‘What? Marco, what is it?’

  ‘I called work–’ He grimaces like he’s in pain. ‘Fucking hell. I called work, and told Brian about last night’s fire. He said that since the show’s going to be out of action for a while, I should go back to Cadell’s. Effective immediately.’

  My body temperature drops ten degrees in a heartbeat. ‘What does that mean?’

  Marco turns to face me, his expression haggard. ‘It means my boss has called me back. It means I’m leaving, Fleur. I’m leaving today.’

  Ten

  It’s Thursday. I’m on the phone.

  ‘…that’s right…Yes, I’ve spoken to a number of media representatives about the fire since…Well, no, all our interviews were completed yesterday, and we’ve provided a statement to the media. That’s right…No, we don’t have any plans to provide further interviews at this time…’

  I push my hair out of my face and wave over at Andi Jones, who’s sitting in the other corner of the office. She makes a questioning frown. I point at the phone I’m holding, make an eyebrow roll. Jones immediately gesticulates at me, in a sign language I understand: glare-y frown means Who’s annoying you? I will fight them, slashing motion across her throat with a finger means Cut them off. Then she does the flail-y drawing-in hand wave, the universal signal for No, wait, give it to me, I’ll do it.

  I nod, return to my conversation. ‘Yes, Renee, I do remember you, but unfortunately… Hmm, look, I’m going to pass you over to our media person, Andi Jones, okay? She can answer any further questions.’

  I hand the phone to Jones with a quickly-mouthed but sincere Thank you. Jones shoos me away as she takes over with Renee (‘Yes, hello. Yes, I’m afraid we’re not permitted to discuss the situation further, as there’s an on-going police investigation…’), and I take that opportunity to grab my bag and leave the office.

  It’s not like I’m doing much good in there today, anyway. I scheduled an hour to help Jones catch up on PR and field some of the media calls. But PR is about light, bright and airy–and I’m distracted, tired and mopey. PR is about finesse, and I’m no good at focusing on details right now. Everything around me seems frustrating and dull, like all the colour has bled out of my world.

  A midnight blue colour, shot through with swirls of jet…Or maybe a rich, bottle-green colour…Or a mischievous paisley brocade, off-set with a silver chain …

  And just like that, I’m thinking of Marco again.

  I have to be realistic, though. It’s only been one day: of course I’m not going to banish thoughts of him that easily. But I like to give myself goals. I’m shooting for at least sixty minutes. For self-preservation’s sake, I should be able to not think about Marco for a whole hour. Right?

  My state of mind is spilling out from the edges of me, though. Mitch has been frowning, asking me if I’m sure I’m recovered from the smoke inhalation, and telling me to call out if I need a hand with anything. Dad has checked in with me; he’s more observant, but easier to redirect. Genie keeps asking me if I’m all right, and encouraging me to eat more.

  Then Sorsha pulled me aside in the mess this morning. ‘How are you coping?’

  ‘Fine.’ I rubbed my neck. ‘The tent repairs are still under discussion, so until that starts, things are–’

  ‘I don’t mean how you’re coping with fixing the carnival, or with tent repairs.’ She looked at me earnestly. ‘I mean how are you coping without Marco?’

  Everyone knows Marco has left. It’s not like he crept out under cover of darkness with his duffel slung over his shoulder: we had a whole crew meeting yesterday, just like Dad suggested. I stood in the mess and gave a wobbly little speech, explaining the situation with the show and giving people their ‘options’, as Dad put it. Then Marco gave a much shorter speech, explaining the circumstances of his departure, and how proud he was to have come back when we needed him, and how he was sure the show would pull together to get through…

  It was a lot like the day Eugenia announced that Marco and I would co-coordinate. Only with less cheering. And I had to look at the ground and mouth-breathe while Marco was talking, just to get through it.

  The rest of yesterday was spent on the Spiegeltent clean-up, and Marco packing. He had a meeting with me and Mitch and Dad and Eugenia, so we’d all be ready to take on the jobs Marco will now never get a chance to complete.

  Before he left the van yesterday, he took both my hands in his. ‘I’m going to figure this out, Petal. I’m going to work it out, okay?’

  But I’ve seen him leave before. And by lunchtime, he was getting in his car. I didn’t hang around to wave goodbye. That would’ve just been embarrassing for everybody.

  How am I coping without Marco?

  I’m keeping busy.

  There’s plenty to do to keep my mind occupied. There’s PR to sort out with Jones, and the last of the clean-up with Bennett. I still have to phone city council, to negotiate new permits for the repairs and organise our on-going lease. I need to sort out the carnival’s insurance claim. Last night I visited performers with Eugenia, to see how they’re doing and talk to them about whether they’ll go or stay–the bulk of our performers will stay, which is a relief–and ask if they needed more support. I liaised with Mitch about the police investigation and security, and joined in discussions with him and Dad about the rebuild.

  There’s crew requirements, and employment release forms, and training schedules… People are still in training, because what else are they gonna do? I’m still in training. I’m on a very restricted regimen because my lungs and my feet haven’t yet recovered, but I need to keep moving. I need to sweat.

  And at night, joy of joys, there’s paperwork. Invoices, accounts, receipts, tax, staff release forms, staff contract renewal… I’ve started badgering Dad about buying business management software, so I can enter all that staff data that Marco grumped about going through in hardcopy.

  There’s plenty of work–an excess of work. And it’s great.
Because last night, when I couldn’t sleep, when I was lying in bed thinking about Marco’s eyes, and the way he kissed me on the couch, and the way he says Jeezus when his defences are down... When I was thinking about how terrible he looked yesterday morning, when he said he had to leave, and when his words–I wanted to see you again–were rolling around my brain on some kind of pathetic, self-torturing loop…

  Well. Then I just got up and got back to work.

  I’m hoping that if I bury myself in archeologic layers of work, I won’t still be thinking about what Marco said, or how I feel about him, in another five years’ time.

  I’ve got plenty of other things to think about in the meantime. My show-running prospects, for one. It’ll be years before we completely absorb the hit we took in the fire: this show is going to be a long time recovering. It’s almost like starting from scratch again. It’ll need a steady, experienced hand to steer the course. Which is…not me. My dreams of being troupe leader will have to be deferred. Maybe, by the time I’ve stopped thinking about Marco, I might have a chance.

  So here I am with my training bag slung over one shoulder, walking–well, still limping–down the Parade Road like I know where I’m headed, although that’s not true. I pass the mess; it’s right on lunch, but I don’t really feel hungry, so I just keep walking. Eventually I realise that I’m walking to Genie’s Airstream.

  When I get there, she’s on the phone.

  ‘…know I wouldn’t call unless it was serious, Ronnie. You’re the only contact I have left.’ Genie’s sitting in the cool van in front of her overlocker, wearing high-waisted, wide-legged culottes, and a white men’s dress shirt. When she sees me, she points at her phone and holds up one finger–one minute–before pointing at a chair. ‘Okay, but if you hear anything, send me a message? You’re a gem. Thank you, sweetie. Talk soon.’

  As she disconnects, I sit as directed. ‘You were calling Lost Souls.’

  She stills. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of a Ronnie, and the comment about contacts was a bit of a giveaway.’

  ‘Ah.’ She puts her phone down. ‘Then, yes. I was calling Lost Souls.’

  ‘You’re looking for Zep.’ That’s not hard to figure out either.

  She acknowledges with a tip of her head. ‘It seemed the obvious first place to look.’

  ‘Why would he go back?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s a lot of missing pieces in this puzzle. But I think the key to it is finding Zep to ask him.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Good. Now answer a question for me.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Are you missing Marco as much as I am?’

  ‘No.’ I stand from my appointed chair. I’m not ready for this conversation. ‘I mean, sure. But not as much as you, because you’re his mother. Look, I just stopped by to say hi. So I’m going to go now.’

  I turn and head for the door.

  Eugenia’s voice sneaks up on me from behind. ‘Do you want to know what I think happened with Marco?’

  My fingers are on the door handle; I firm my grip, using the handle to steady myself. The hardest part of all this has been people talking about Marco in offhand comments. He was part of their ordinary life, and now that he’s gone, they remark on him in ordinary ways. It hurts, with a sharp keening pain. But I need to get used to it. So I may as well start now.

  I angle back towards Genie. ‘Okay. What do you think?’

  Her expression becomes gentle, even though her voice still holds an older woman’s authority. ‘I think my son fell in love with you all over again, while he was here.’

  I freeze in place.

  ‘That night at dinner,’ Genie goes on, ‘that was when I figured it out. I don’t think Marco heard more than ten percent of what Mitch and I were saying to him. And I’ve been watching you change, Fleur. It’s been happening right in front of my eyes. So I suspect that the feeling may have been mutual.’

  ‘I-I have to go now.’ My breath is coming in short.

  ‘Fleur, wait–’

  I turn around, open the door and leave.

  While I stagger across the grass, wiping stupid tears off my cheeks, I formulate a new goal: I need to get away from the outside world and into my van, before I’m forced to interact with any other people. But that plan goes cock-eyed as well when I reach home and let myself in–

  And discover Zep Deal, putting the espresso maker on the stove in my kitchen.

  ‘Holy…’ I drop my bag on the floor and press a hand to my breastbone. ‘Is this whole fucking carnival trying to give me a heart attack? Zep, where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Hola, Fleur.’ He waves and makes a small, tired smile. He’s filthy, and still wearing the same clothes he had on the night of the fire.

  I decide I need to change tack. ‘Zep, are you okay?’

  ‘Once I’ve had a coffee, I will be.’ He jerks a thumb back towards my father’s room. ‘Your Dad told me to put on the espresso maker for both of us.’

  ‘How’s that coffee going, son?’ Dad’s voice trembles out.

  I walk closer to the kitchen. ‘He’s not allowed caffeine, which he well knows, but that’s secondary right now. Everyone’s been searching for you–Zep, what happened?’

  ‘My dad happened.’ Zep adjusts the burner under the pot and leans back against the opposite bench. His face is drawn with exhaustion. ‘After I got Ren Putri to the ambulance, I went to see Angus.’

  ‘You went to Lost Souls?’

  ‘Yes.’ Zep licks his bottom lip. ‘But it really started before that. I met with him a few days ago–he asked me to meet him in the city. The stuff he was saying… I thought he was just talking crazy. You know he always talked crazy about this place.’

  ‘I know you met with Angus in the city, Zep,’ I say quietly.

  ‘You do? Well, some of what he was saying made me nervous. It made me think about the accidents, the security sweeps. That afternoon before the fire? He called me. Freaked me out so much, I went and took a look around the tent just to make sure everything was okay.’

  Things are starting to become horribly clear. ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘I didn’t find anything. But I should’ve come straight to you, right from the start. Soy un estupido–’

  ‘You’re not stupid, Zep,’ I say sadly.

  ‘When the fire happened, I figured maybe the old man was doing more than just talk.’

  ‘What did Angus do when you saw him at Lost Souls?’

  ‘He locked Zep in a storeroom!’ That’s my dad, calling out from his sickbed.

  ‘What?’ My head whips between Zep and the doorway to my father’s room. ‘Dad, be quiet a minute, just let him tell the story.’ I turn back to Zep. ‘Is that for real?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Zep, even though he looks wrung out, seems to find the off-stage prompting and banter kind of funny. He smiles, before sobering. ‘Yeah, it’s for real. I confronted Dad about the fire, and he said he made it happen. Then…well, there was a fight. Dad pushed me into this room for boxes and props and stuff, and locked the door.’

  ‘Oh my god.’

  ‘I finally broke out this morning. So I’ve come straight here, because…’ He rubs a hand through his hair–his fingernails are torn and bleeding. ‘Because I figured here is safe. And because you guys need to know, and if I can give you any more info, now is a good time, while it’s still fresh in my mind.’

  I shake my head. horrified. I believe Zep. What I can’t believe is that Angus could do what he did, both to us and to his own son.

  And underneath all that is a shimmer of excitement: now we know who the saboteur is. We can tell the police. The uncertainty and fear will be over.

  This is it. We’ve found the answer.

  ‘Okay,’ I say firmly. ‘We have to call Mitch and Eugenia.’ />
  ‘I’m doing that!’ Dad pipes up.

  ‘And we should call the detectives assigned to this case.’ I squeeze Zep on the shoulder. ‘You should sit down. Because once that pot is boiled, I’ll put it on again. I have a feeling this is going to be a long day.’

  Dad insisted on getting up and joining in the meeting in the living room. He said it was either put up with him sitting on the couch in his robe and slippers, or agree to everyone crowding into his room so he could participate in bed.

  But, in the end, it wasn’t Dad’s antics that everyone was focused on. It was Zep Deal’s calm recitation of the facts to Detective Pang–who recorded the interview–that made us quiet down and consider that we might actually be seeing the light at the end of this long, dark tunnel.

  When Detective Pang returns in the afternoon, we finally have certainty.

  He settles himself in the armchair, leaning forward to accept the coffee I pass him. ‘Much appreciated, Miss Klatsch. Okay, we have quite a lot of new information now–’

  ‘One minute,’ Dad says. He’s changed into soft sweatpants and a black Ramones T-shirt for this second meeting, although he’s still in his slippers. ‘We’re just waiting on Eugenia Deloren.’

  ‘What’s holding Genie up?’ Mitch helps me carry more drinks to the table, then takes a position guarding the kitchen bench.

  Dad does a quick head-shake. ‘Skype conference. I’ll tell you later.’

  ‘I feel like we should be preparing for a show.’ I glance out the van window. If this was a normal day, I’d be getting into costume now.

  ‘Give it a few weeks, Pumpkin.’ Dad sighs, looks back at Pang. ‘Detective, we appreciate you coming back to keep us in the loop.’

  ‘This is certainly the most bizarre case I’ve had in a while.’ Detective Pang sips his coffee with a soft smile. He looks more relatable when he smiles. ‘I’ve never investigated in a circus before.’

  ‘Here’s hoping you don’t need to investigate in this circus anymore,’ Mitch pronounces.

  Five minutes later, Eugenia enters in a flurry of tulle. ‘Excuse me, all. Sorry to keep you waiting.’