The Smell of Evil

by Birkin, Charles

  The reason for this lack of support was not hard to find; the crushing competition of bowling alleys, bingo, television, and dog racing, together with the more stimulating enjoyments of all-in wrestling and X-films, had been too great and, with the coming of the affluent society, a pleasure and sensation jaded generation had little time to waste on the Halls of Mirth, the Haunted Houses or the Tunnels of Mystery, which now had retreated mainly to the coastal resorts.

  Lovers, who could find mutual relaxation and ease, unobserved for three hours or more in air-conditioned luxury, in addition to the privilege of intermittently watching their favorite stars in double features, were no longer tempted by the prospects of a few furtive minutes on the broken-springed seats of the Romance Express.

  The Freaks, it is true, retained as yet something of their former appeal, ranged, as they were, around a wide and shallow bowl sunk into the floor of the second hall; and a small additional charge could still be made for admission into this inner sanctum. The Giantess; the Half-Man-Half-Woman; the Inseparables; the World’s Largest Rat; Leonard, the Dog-faced Boy; the Smallest Man on Earth; Goliath; the Hairy Ainu; and the Seven-legged Lamb—all stood, or sat, on their baize-covered platforms, or cowered in the back of their cages, week after weary week, indifferently eyeing the file of spectators as it made a slow tour of the arena; until, by closing time, there would be quite a number of cigarette stubs, lolly sticks and empty chocolate wrappings to be swept up and thrown away before fresh sawdust was put down in preparation for the morrow.

  Leonard had spent all his life in similar surroundings. At irregular intervals he would be transferred to a manager in a different city or, occasionally, to a travelling circus, but the routine was always the same. He was uncertain of his age but reckoned that he must be in the early thirties. Tonight he would be glad when it was time to sleep. His head was aching from the blare of the juke boxes and his eyes felt hot and gritty. Impassively he watched the barker usher in the knot of slightly self-conscious sightseers through the curtains that masked the arched doorway. Two weedy youths, one of whom was patchily bearded, an old lady with her daughter who, in turn, led a small child by the hand, a curly-headed young man with a pretty fair-haired girl hanging on his arm, three soldiers, full of camaraderie and beer, and spruce in neatly pressed uniforms, and a well-built lad in a leather jacket swinging a “skid lid”.

  They gazed uneasily at the hermaphrodite and the midget. As they drew level with the giantess, Gargantua, one of the soldiers whispered a joke to his companions and they all three guffawed loudly. The young mother lifted up her child so that it should miss nothing of the entertainment.

  The Freaks were not impervious to this scrutiny. It was, after all, the reason of their being. “Look at us!” was their mute appeal. “Look at us! Laugh if you like, be disgusted if you must, but look at us, we beg of you. That is why we are here. We are different from you. We are members of an exclusive club. We are unique. And this is the way in which we must earn our livings.”

  The child was waving its hands at the monstrous mass of female flesh. “Say ‘good evening,’ duckie,” the barker said. The fat woman obeyed. Her voice was high and tiny for so vast a carcase. The wide expanse of her face creased into pleats of an answering smile, inane as a half-wit’s.

  “She spoke to me,” exclaimed the child delightedly. “Did you hear her, Mummy? She said ‘good evening’.”

  The group shuffled on to Leonard. The little girl regarded him with frightened eyes. Suddenly her face puckered up and she began to cry. “I don’t like it, Mummy,” she complained. “It’s horrid.”

  “It’s not right to show children things like that,” said the blonde girl indignantly. “Some people don’t seem capable of bringing up a child. They don’t know what’s right!” Her voice was intentionally loud and self-righteous. Her escort grinned awkwardly, and the women exchanged hostile looks.

  “Don’t be such a baby, Bella,” the mother said sharply. She dragged at the little girl’s arm and hurried on, flushed with anger and embarrassment.

  Leonard stared at the young man with the curly hair and the blue suit. It must be nice to have a smart suit, he thought, and to have a pretty girl on your arm who kept on looking up at you so admiringly. He wondered if the young man thought it was nice, too. He’d never really noticed people before—not as individuals, but just as a shuffling queue. He had always been on the receiving end of stares. Without turning his head he followed their progress with his eyes to the limit of his vision. He could hear Manshaw, the barker, trying to sell his post-cards by the exit.

  “The most remarkable gathering of human curios ever brought together,” he was saying. “Twelve post-cards in a souvenir folder, or sold separately if you prefer it. Now, sir, how about a memento of Gargantua, eh? She’d make a nice armful for some gentleman!”

  Again Leonard heard the suggestive laughter led by the soldiers, and the chorus of polite tittering that spattered from the remainder of the party.

  Vera was very nearly pretty, but the fresh appeal that she had possessed at seventeen had, ten years later, blurred and faded. Her eyes were large and blue, and her legs were slim. She had excellent teeth, but they were too prominent and gave her a mean, rather rodent expression. Her taste in dress was regrettable. She had a small neat figure, and a small dull mind. She possessed also an incurable sense of the romantic, which was perhaps fortunate, since it helped to deaden the tedium of her unlovely life.

  Vera had made up her mind to make one more sortie before “retiring” for the night. Not that it was necessary, she comforted herself; she was still doing all right; but it was only twelve o’clock, and this seemed to be her lucky day. She had once read a story in a paper-back about a girl just like herself. “Ladies in Shadow” she thought the title had been. It was all about a girl whose real soul had remained untouched by her way of living. Really beautiful, it was, even if it had made no contact with reality.

  She planned to walk along Lancaster Street, do a little cover up window shopping and then, if no adventures offered themselves, she would walk up to Clemont’s Hill and return home to Hanover Mansions, just like anybody else taking the air. It had been raining earlier in the evening, but now it had cleared up and the night was clean and cool. She felt pleased with life and confident of her own charm. She gave a friendly but dignified inclination of the head to a titian-haired vision who swayed past her as she turned the corner into Lancaster Street. She didn’t hold with getting too intimate with the other girls, it always led to trouble in the end, but there was no harm in being polite, and she’d been raised properly and knew how to behave. No Coloreds. And no kinkiness.

  Vera hesitated in front of a dress store and gazed into the window at the group of models, headless and dramatic, symphonies in violet and mauve, which were draped modishly, if eccentrically, on their stands against a background of soft gray hangings.

  She was genuinely interested, and it was only gradually that she became aware that a man had paused behind her, and that he also was assuming absorption in the cunningly arranged display. She moved a step and twisted her head to try and study his reflection in the plate glass. It would be silly to face him until she knew more about his appearance. Girls like herself were fair game for . . . for anything. She was fully conscious of the dangers of her profession. But it was no good. She moved along to the next store. Here she was more fortunate for, behind the hats, rakish on their steel supports, was a sheet of mirror. And now she could get a glimpse of him. He would be, she considered, about forty-two or -three, and he was ever such a handsome fellow, she thought, with those big shoulders and that broad chest; rather on the plebeian side maybe, but for all that a real man—not like some she’d taken on lately! He was wearing a dark suit and a black hat, and she noticed he favored a starched white collar, and that a thick gold watch-chain hung in a ponderous curve across his waist-coat. Old-fashioned touch—but pe
rhaps it was an heirloom. Even when freshly shaved, she saw, his beard would shadow his skin. His shoes were brilliantly polished, and his tie was sober and carefully tied. “Real class” she told herself. “Or if not exactly class—at any rate dependable.”

  She favored him with a shy glance and the barest suggestion of a smile as she minced away along the pavement. He followed. Each was aware of the other’s interest, but they had covered a block before he spoke.

  “Good evening.” She thought his voice lovely. Gave her a real thrill. Sexy. She allowed him to draw level.

  “Good evening,” she answered.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “Nowhere in particular. Minding my own business, unlike some people!” she replied, and immediately regretted her pertness. It wasn’t his line. He’d think she was no lady.

  “On the loose, too?” he asked, not in the least put off. “Like to join me in a bite of supper?”

  She gave him a summing up look, and grew pink with suppressed excitement.

  “I don’t mind if I do.” They didn’t often feed you first. She took his arm, allowing her hand to slide up his sleeve and caress the muscles of his biceps, formidable even under the serge of his coat. It wouldn’t do to be too ladylike. He pressed her arm against his side.

  “Where shall we go?” he asked.

  She pondered the question, then she said: “Why not The Warrington? It’s only just round the corner.”

  She wondered if she could take him home with her, or if he would prefer her to suggest a hotel—but she could decide that later, after supper . . .

  “What’s your name?” she asked shyly, as they walked along.

  “Tom,” he replied. “What’s yours?” No surname, naturally. Almost certainly married.

  “Vera. Tho’ my friends all call me Vivi.”

  Perhaps he’s in Telly, she thought. Immediately she imagined herself as a part of his life, queening it at Show Business parties, gay and sparkling and sophisticated. Tom’s new discovery.

  Actually, he was an efficient chauffeur, up in the city for a few days, and having a night off while his employer was attending an important Company dinner.

  The Freaks were housed, under the chaperonage of their manager, in a down-at-heel apartment house now about a half hour’s walk of Funland, a sleazy lodging which had been taken over for them in the season. A special closed van called at their place of work when it was time for their departure, so that they could be transported back to their destination without the risk of causing any shocks to such dilatory pedestrians whom they might otherwise have encountered at zebra crossings or in traffic blocks.

  Leonard was fortunate in the fact that he had a room to himself; a narrow stuffy cubicle of a room, but still one of which he was the sole occupant, and which gave him the blessed solitude that he prized so highly, and which was so seldom his.

  After they had been given their suppers in the room that had been allotted to them for the purpose, Leonard and his fellows were packed off to bed, while Manshaw, in whose charge they were, enjoyed a drink or two with the owner of the house.

  Leonard, when he thought of the matter at all, liked Manshaw better than some of the men to whose mercy fate had entrusted him. It was only on the comparatively rare occasions when he had had too much whisky that he was unintentionally brutal, and Leonard had learned to keep out of his way when he saw the signs; at other times he treated them like a conscientious keeper who had an affection for his valuable animals. He saw that, as long as they behaved themselves, they had enough to eat and drink, and the strictly necessary amenities, even sometimes little luxuries. Beyond their material needs he never thought to trouble himself.

  Leonard lay staring into the darkness. In spite of his fatigue he could not sleep, and for the first time experienced the nagging torture of insomnia. Against the blackness he saw moving figures: the young man in the blue suit and the laughing golden-haired girl—always the golden-haired girl. Leonard felt stifled. If he did not get some air he would go crazy. A bold plan crossed his mind. He would go out for a while and walk by himself in the streets; be free like anybody else for half an hour; be his own master like the young man in the smart suit.

  Cautiously he climbed out of his camp bed and dressed himself in the darkness. From a hook in the wall he took his waterproof and hat. He opened the door. At the foot of the stairs a bar of light showed the room where Manshaw and his companion were still talking, the rumble of their voices intermittent. He waited a moment, and then with extreme care he started his descent. One of the treads creaked . . . and then a second. Breathlessly he halted, but apparently the sounds had passed unnoticed. The front door, he knew, was not locked until the men went to bed, which would not be for some time yet. He could see them through the crack of the door sitting by the table, a bottle and glasses and a half-emptied plate of sandwiches placed between them. Manshaw’s chair was tilted back, he was smoking a pipe and was listening to the other’s talk. His vest and the two top buttons of his trousers were undone to accommodate his belly in greater comfort, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, showing his black-haired arms.

  Leonard tiptoed past the danger zone. He found that the latch gave noiselessly to his touch. He was outside the house. The street was deserted and the night air was refreshing on his hot skin and he crammed his hat down over his eyes and turned up the collar of his waterproof as high as it would go, so that the minimum of his features would be visible. Quickly he slunk away, keeping wherever possible to the shadows. He had covered about fifty yards when he heard a shout. Turning, he saw Manshaw, who had been alerted had Leonard but known it, by the draught from the door. He was calling after him, ordering him to come back. His gesticulating body was silhouetted in the light from the hallway behind him, like a cut-out.

  Leonard started to run towards the end of the road to where it joined a brightly lit main thoroughfare. Behind him he could hear the pounding of the man’s feet in pursuit. Hearing his shouts, a figure courageously stepped forward with outstretched arms barring his way, thinking that he was a thief. Leonard’s lips curled back and he bared his teeth in a snarl as he found himself battling with this unexpected antagonist. In the struggle his hat fell to the ground.

  “Good God!” He heard the terrified exclamation as his opponent sprang hastily aside, and then he was free. Snatching up his hat he ran blindly, turning and twisting down by-roads, away from the populous street across which he had been forced to dash. He could hear no sound of continued pursuit. His pace slackened; here no one paid any attention to him. His breathing was labored. His heart hammered painfully against his ribs and a fierce pain burned in his side. Gasping, he leant against a wall to get his breath. He must hide. If they caught him they would probably beat him and put him on short rations—or take away his room and put him in with the hermaphrodite. The moon silvered the windows of the house fronts and glimmered on the rain-washed tiles. As he stood there a deep desolation filled his soul. Without thinking, he raised his head towards the sky and a cry of torment welled from his throat as he bayed to the gleaming disc above.

  Once again he hurried on—this time in a quick walk, afraid to run lest he should make himself more conspicuous. He was completely lost. After what seemed like hours he drifted to a dark doorway at the end of a cul-de-sac. He crouched down exhausted on the doorstep. From the end of the street he heard the approach of a measured tread and a young policeman approached, an impassive Olympian, his light probing inquisitively into the dismal secrets of the areas.

  Fearfully Leonard scrambled to his feet and hastened into the gloom and up the flight of steps that spiralled the building from the squalid entrance. Here he felt more secure, and lay panting in the darkness. After a long time a door below him opened and he saw a man and a woman come out, the light from the room shining on her blonde hair. They went down the stairs out of
his sight. He could see into the room which they had left—all glowing warmth and color and intimacy, of a luxury which he could scarcely have imagined.

  Flattened against the banisters he edged his way towards this sweet-scented oasis. His feet slipped and slithered on the worn wood and, panic-stricken by the noise he was making, he darted into the refuge. In one corner he saw a screen. Behind that he would be safe.

  Vera shrugged herself into her dressing-gown and, thrusting her feet into moulting mules, accompanied her visitor as far as the bend in the staircase. She held up her face and received a perfunctory kiss. “Good night, darling,” she whispered. He had been like all the others. It always puzzled her why they set such store by it. And he had had nothing to do with the Telly, which had been another disappointment. Said he was in the car trade.

  Tom Hutton snapped open his cigarette case, and the flare of the match lit up his head and heavy shoulders. He bent the cigarette towards his strong, cupped hands with their nicotine stained fingers. From above them, from around the bend, came faintly the sound of scuffling. Tom dropped the match and looked at her inquiringly.

  “Mice?” he asked.

  Vera laughed deprecatingly. “There may be one or two. This is a very old house.”

  “You ought to get a cat,” he said. “Then you could have a great bit of sport, like I used to when I was a kid. They have a fine old game with ’em before they finally get round to eating ’em up.” He stood grinning down at her, his hands jingling the coins in his trousers pockets, the cigarette stuck to his sensual lower lip, and his stomach stuck forward.