Clowns At Midnight

by Terry Dowling

  Though I had managed to come outside, become part of it. I’d watched, opposed but belonged. Had managed that much.

  Half hindrance made.

  The wind roared in the trees. The bright blade of the moon came from behind clouds again. Moonlight ran scattershot on the leaves, sent clown confetti sparkling in the night.

  I forced myself to act, to turn back from the gate in the wire fence. I reached the grassy terrace, went back inside and locked the door, then collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table. I sat aching and thrumming, wired with adrenalin, savagely primed with my usual counterphobic brew of terrified fascination.

  I kept seeing myself in my late-night motley: Oxymoron the Fools’ Fool, Bathos the Clowns’ Clown, Prince of the Black Page and the Mysterious Fruit Cart. No-one can know what it’s like. Being the thing so fondly loathed. No-one. Julia had tried, bless her, and Kristy before her, and Jane before that. Bless them every one.

  But how soon, how inevitably, it had gone from deep caring to the condition, to dealing with David’s thing—in spite of the caring, the genuine love and affection. In spite of. How quickly psychiatrists’ sensible pronouncements reduced it to a kind of brand-name neutrality, a commodity, an intriguing signature attribute like a pop star’s quirky name or hairstyle, or a film star’s dating habits, or a property’s distinctive window moldings and unique hillside view, things to be factored in but thereafter defining the object in question and limiting it by doing so. Not for itself. Not really. Not as something lived and shared. Not as us. What we are.

  An absurd connection came while I sat looking at my hands but not seeing them, my whole being resonating with full-clown. A student from my teaching days had taken a position in Sydney with the Bank of Tokyo and, as a matter of professional interest and courtesy to her employers, had made the mistake of learning Japanese. As she acquired the language skills and the cultural knowledge learning any language brings, they expected her to have the mindset and social role as well, treating her more and more as a traditional Japanese female, secondary and subservient. The little courtesy gifts stopped coming. The respect they’d previously shown disappeared. They treated her as what she resembled.

  It had been like that with Julia and the others. The more they lived with my condition, the more the attitude of caring and acceptance itself became the wall, the barrier between. I couldn’t put it any better right then. No wonder Julia had found herself relaxing with Mark, finding downtime where she could, just stepping out of the flow for a time. Who could blame her for sighing with relief, relishing the release from having to be careful, always careful? Just once, just twice, just a treasured three times, then more and more.

  Even dear precious Jack had to feel it. I was such a feature in his busy life, his interesting case, his preferred appointment in a day, his Tuesday regular and more. But I still remained a set of clinical factors, behaviours, expectations, part of the structure of his existence, his own relationship with himself, the life data he could draw on. Despite the friendship, the genuine affection, I was someone to relax from, to be free of. Nothing personal. Jack-ness had to define itself by being without David-ness. I understood and accepted it.

  Sitting at the table, I let paranoia and grief have their way. The calling had stopped. No more cries came. The shink-shink sound had faded into the night, moved on to other hills. Now I was left to deal with the residue: seeing my life by turns shored up and flourishing, then always in disarray, dismantling, falling apart, trapped in a series of holding patterns.

  It was the late hour causing it, I knew. The clown-fear, the Yakkos cries, the bells.

  It was an odd and exhausting road to go down at this hour—2:15 I saw by the kitchen clock—but I’d long ago learned I had to debrief myself like this.

  But finally the thoughts ran themselves out; I found myself staring at my hands again and listening to the wind. Then I was back in my room and settling under the sheets once more, with the window nearly closed and nothing but old night beyond the glass, lines of moon-flecked crazings on a black page. Soon, soon, everything was left behind.

  PART TWO

  ‘The air seems charged with something between expectation and anxiety. Erwartung, the Germans call it. You feel a sharpened awareness of yourself in nature, and in the landscape. Your imagination reels, surging from rapture to foreboding and tender sadness, and you experience one of those moments of epiphany.’

  —Bill Henson, The Good Weekend, 11 March 2000

  CHAPTER 8

  As if to bring order to the world, the next morning I drove into Casino and did some shopping, wanting the normality of supermarket trolleys and check-out operators, mundane things like finding a parking space and having to choose among brand names. Len and May Catley were only too happy to do it, calling in for my shopping list to spare me the possible confrontations involved (you’d be surprised how many clown figures are used in brand-name advertising and store displays), but today I needed to be away from Starbreak Fell, to be out in that larger world for a time.

  Making my rounds of the aisles, I ran it all through my mind: just what had happened the night before, the troika sounds, the calling in the forest. Yakkos. That was the word. Over and over, like a name or a ritual cry. Yakkos.

  I knew what auditory hallucination was: the misperception of sounds, most commonly voices, coming from inside or outside the head. The rushing shink-shink, the cries, could all be that, but I believed otherwise. After the tower and the cross, after the bottle-trees and the flower garland, even the strange unreality of the picnic, I was sure there were late-night visitors to the hill.

  And the Yakkos cries had sounded very close, not just on the other side of that broken barbed wire fence, but on the Rankins’ side as well. I had a right to be involved.

  ‘Hi, David!’

  I turned in the crowded aisle of Woolworths and saw Connie Lambert, the librarian who had been at the Risi party with her husband—Harry? Barry? Danny? Danny, that was it.

  ‘Connie, hi. You missed Raina’s picnic yesterday.’

  ‘The kids had something on. I was sorry not to make it. They’re always great fun. But you went.’ She gave me an odd look.

  It was a question. How did you learn about it?

  ‘I was up near the tower and heard someone laughing. I went to investigate.’

  ‘Laughing, that’d be right. So she had it near the tower, after all.’

  ‘Is there some reason why she shouldn’t have?’

  Connie Lambert laughed and shook her head. ‘No, not really. But Raina usually doesn’t like going near the hill.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Something from years ago, I think. She was very young when Carlo brought her here. A true girl-bride. But I’m glad you went. You enjoyed yourself?’

  ‘Very much.’ And I decided, why not ask? ‘Connie, would you have a phone number for Gemma Ewins? Or an address?’

  ‘For Gemma?’ I endured the look she gave me. ‘No, I don’t. Sorry. Raina will know.’

  ‘Right. I’ll ask Raina. Connie, look, I’m a stranger here. I don’t want to intrude where I’m not welcome. Is Gemma married? Involved with anyone?’

  I got the knowing smile I deserved. ‘Not that I know of. Carefully single, I think, but you know what young people are like. Again, I’d ask Raina if I were you.’

  Young people. Twenty-nine. I felt foolish all over again, clutching at connection wherever I could find it. I knew better.

  But Connie didn’t seem to be judging or disapproving. It had been a guileless comment, openly wondering.

  ‘That’s what I’ll do. Thanks, Connie. Say hi to Dan for me.’

  ‘I will, David. See you next time.’

  It was only when I was loading my groceries into the car that I remembered Connie was a librarian and possibly had Gemma’s personal details in the local library database. Gemma had said she was a student. Confidentiality considerations aside, what reason would Connie have for not giving it?
It didn’t make sense. Still, Raina would know. It gave me another excuse to call the Risis.

  But when I tried the Risi number back at Starbreak Fell, I got the answering machine and hung up without leaving a message. It wasn’t something I cared to leave a message about.

  I spent the next few hours writing, creating business, putting Rollo Jaine in and out of a suspenseful subplot my editor Lizzie had requested. She wanted an extra ten thousand words, fifteen if I could manage it, twenty if it didn’t harm the pacing too much. Bigger books sold better, she reminded me in nearly every one of her chatty emails, as if I had to be kept on track.

  And for once it was working. What started as a two thousand word bridging piece just to get it down and set up the new plot turn ended up being a five thousand word development of it. It’s rare and wonderful and all too infrequent when it works like that, even rarer when you’re so unashamedly satisfied with your own work. The endorphins were flowing nicely; I was very pleased with myself.

  Around four o’clock the changing light pulled me away from my desk, the darkening of the sun in the narrow gap I’d left in the curtains in John Rankin’s study. When I pulled them back, I discovered the impossible had happened.

  I rushed out onto the veranda.

  All through the long morning and fiercely hot noon, during my trip to and from Casino, I’d noticed clouds along the horizon to the southwest. Now they had piled up into thunderheads and were tumbling across the sky, dragging the vast grey wall of a storm behind them as they came.

  Even as I watched, the light was being snatched away. There were a few sunny defiles in the hills to the northeast, but they couldn’t last long. This was the real thing: a heavy, churning sky, with huge cofferings of darkness, great zeppelin underbellies tricked with edges of fractal light, fraying to infinity on the wind.

  And now that wind tore across the hill, slamming doors all through the house, sending birds flinging into the sky, hard black hooks against the growing dark. Their cries came back forlorn and far-off: amazed, joyful, distressed, who could say?

  I scarcely believed it was possible: the suddenness, the utter totality of it, the growing undersea tinge of green against the grey-black. I saw myself as the captain of a sunken ship, still on the bridge of his stricken vessel, gripping the forward rail and marvelling at the great seas that had foundered him.

  It all seemed to happen in seconds then. First there was the far-off roll of thunder but without lightning yet, though you could smell it coming; the indefinable thrill of negative ions bringing their magic. Then, like some jump-cut trickery, the thunder was rolling overhead and there was lightning on the hills, and rain at last, whooshing through the forest, lashing the land: hard, chill and invigorating. It drummed on the tin roof, drew grey curtains over all the familiar places.

  But it couldn’t last. Thirty minutes later, the storm had dragged its veils over the ranges, and there was sunlight again, transforming everything.

  I needed to be out in it. After the writing stint, after the Yakkos cries in the night, that harrowing, unacceptable intrusion, I had to be out in the land again, out where the storm had been.

  I grabbed the Ettrick survey map from the kitchen table, locked the house and was soon driving over the hill towards the gate. The storm had passed; the sky behind was streaked with streamers and swathes of storm-wrack, grey-black ribbons lit with gold, vivid against the blue. The smells of cool air and wet grass were invigorating.

  I passed through the gate, turned along Edenville Road toward the Risis’, determined to put places to the names on the ordinance map.

  It was one of the few times I’d driven without leaving a dust trail. I plunged along the straight stretches, swung around corners, finally reached the intersection with Sellen Road at the bottom of a rise, one of the many side roads I’d noticed on previous runs into town. It was bordered by trees and marked with a solitary white signpost. Now I’d see where it led.

  But even as I slowed to turn off Edenville Road and pass the old timber corner house behind its clump of trees, I saw someone sitting in the dripping shade of a Moreton Bay fig, sitting in a swing fixed to an overhanging branch.

  It was Gemma.

  I couldn’t believe it was this easy. She wasn’t swinging now, just sitting on the damp wooden seat, holding the ropes as if waiting to be pushed, looking slim and wonderful in white shirt and jeans, brown boots, with her short blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  I stopped and waved. ‘Gemma, hi!’

  She immediately raised a finger to her lips in a shushing gesture, and gave a quick glance back at the house, then stepped out of the swing and came over to the car.

  ‘David. What are you doing here?’

  ‘The official explanation is exploring.’ I held up my map.

  ‘And unofficially?’ She gave another quick glance over at the house.

  ‘Looking for you, I guess.’ I wanted it to sound light-hearted, of little consequence, but it came out more urgent than intended.

  Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. ‘Really?’

  ‘You asked.’

  ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘What can I say? I was hoping to see you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about you.’ It sounded so inane.

  Again she stole a quick glance at the house. I looked beyond her to the windows along the deep veranda. The lace curtains were drawn as far as I could tell. No-one seemed to be watching.

  ‘That was quite a storm,’ I said.

  ‘It was. Listen, could you run me into Kyogle? I’ve got a shift at six.’

  ‘Sure. You were waiting for someone?’

  ‘Right. But they haven’t showed. It’s okay, they’ll see I’ve gone and keep going. It’s the usual arrangement. They’re going into town anyway.’

  They. Genderless, safely neutral. I thought of her friends from the other Friday and felt an odd stab of emotion. ‘I’d be happy to.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  It was all so neighbourly and low-key then. Gemma climbed in, fastened the seat-belt. Without another word, I started the engine and headed towards town, deliberately not hurrying. It was 5:11. There was no need to hurry.

  I couldn’t describe how I felt with her sitting there, not speaking, just watching the freshly washed landscape. It was all so mundane, so matter of fact. Finding her at last. Making my simple admission. And her reply: surprised, bemused, but not warned off, still asking for a lift, though perhaps from simple necessity. I’d turned up; they hadn’t.

  ‘Last Saturday at the Risis’ you said you lived along Edenville Road.’

  ‘That’s right. Look, David, about Monday –’

  ‘Monday?’

  ‘When you came into the Exchange. I should have said something, invited you over.’

  ‘You were with your friends. I understood.’

  ‘I betrayed you.’

  ‘You what?’ It wasn’t a word I’d expected. It sounded excessive and odd.

  ‘I betrayed you, made fun of you, and I’m sorry.’

  ‘Gemma, I’m a stranger here. I’m probably being pushy. I’ve had a few problems. I have a condition–’

  ‘That’s what I mean. I had a choice and I didn’t have the guts to do the right thing.’

  ‘You told them about it?’

  ‘Your condition? No, I wouldn’t do that. Not that I know much. But, you know, I made you sound like a loser.’

  ‘Well, hey, I can do pretty good impersonations there.’ She gave a little smile. ‘So why did you?’

  ‘You know how it is. It was just talk. If I’d asked you over I’d have had to include you, explain who you were, made small talk, that sort of thing. You wouldn’t have wanted that.’

  ‘No, you’re right. And they would have ragged you about it afterwards, right?’

  She nodded. ‘That too.’

  We drove in silence for a time, then I handed her the map. ‘You navigate. Take us to town by a way I haven’t
seen. I’ll get you there on time.’

  ‘David –’

  ‘Just so we can talk a bit longer, if that’s okay.’ The last comment had to be said.

  ‘But, listen –’ She hesitated, frowning.

  ‘Or pick one of the following: A. You’re seeing someone. B. You’re married. C. You’re not interested.’

  ‘What about D? None of the above?’ The frown was still there, but she gave a little smile with it.

  ‘All right. So let me be with you for half an hour, okay?’ I sensed how fragile this was.

  ‘Next left,’ Gemma said, studying the map, or pretending to.

  I made the turn, and we headed along a gravel road like so many others, driving between nearly identical hills and swales, with cattle grazing in green fields, windmills catching sunlight on their blades, and more lonely farm houses behind their sheltering screens of trees. The sun was caught up in remnants of storm cloud, casting long rays across the land. The air was still wonderfully fresh and cool. I couldn’t remember feeling happier.

  ‘Those problems,’ Gemma said. ‘Can you talk about them?’

  ‘I can try.’

  So I did. Not looking at her, just watching the road, watching the day, responding when she gave her ‘Turn left here’ ‘Go right here’ directions, I did just that. I told her about Julia and that recent loss, about my teaching and my journalism then and my storytelling and songwriting now, my efforts to make do, the strategies I’d adopted to get by. I kept it simple, tried to keep it clear of recrimination and self-pity (though how could I know?), just kept talking it out. It was unexpectedly healing to do.

  When I next checked the time, it was 5:50. ‘We should be getting you back.’

  ‘I can be late. Go on.’

  So I continued, told her about Mick and Jeremy and Shock Salamander, about how Jack and his colleague Dr Constantiou had arranged for me to housesit for the Rankins, about what I hoped to achieve with the Mind Fields piece. Made bold by her attention, I even told her about the Nelson Syndrome, emphasising that what I found myself feeling now wasn’t that, absolutely wasn’t, but how could I know, which made her smile again.