Mortlock

by Jon Mayhew

  Pulling the knife free, Josie sighed. ‘It’s not fair. I just want to be my old self for once. I miss Cardamom and Gimlet.’ She scrubbed out the tears with the back of her hand. ‘I miss all this.’ Josie waved her hand around the tent. ‘Just for a moment I want it to be simple. I want to be Artemis again and throw knives, and the audience will cheer and I will bow. And there’ll be no ghuls or crows or Corvis, and no Amarant.’

  Alfie frowned and shook his head. ‘I know, but they won’t go away. And it ain’t right ’ere, Josie, can’t you see?’

  Before Josie could reply, the Gambinis came spilling into the tent. Ashena walked in on her hands, a huge grin splitting her face.

  ‘Lorenzo says we will perform soon,’ she said, bounding to her feet.

  ‘He says you want to practise and join us.’ Nicolao bounced up and down on the spot.

  ‘It makes us so happy.’ Paulo beamed at her, gripping her hand a little too tightly.

  Josie gave a thin smile back. ‘It makes me happy, too, Paulo,’ she said, staring defiantly over at Alfie. But her brother had slumped forward on to the ground. His eyes were rolled back in his head and his whole body shuddered.

  .

  .

  Last night she came to me, my dead love came in;

  She entered so softly that her feet made no din.

  She laid a hand on me and this she did say,

  ‘It will not be long, love, till our wedding day.’

  ‘She Moved through the Fair’, traditional folk song

  .

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Reality of Rope

  Alfie lay pale and still, wrapped in blankets. Josie leaned forward, placing a damp cloth on his brow. The heat of his skin warmed the rag. His eyes flickered and he grimaced at Josie.

  ‘Never ’ad you down for a nursemaid,’ he said, giving a weak smile.

  ‘Can’t go finding brothers and not look after them, can I?’ Josie grinned at him. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Drained . . . like when I move the corpses.’ He coughed. ‘Only worse. Josie?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t let’s row. We got to stick together.’

  Josie smiled and shook her head. ‘We won’t row again.’ Seeing Alfie lying on the floor like that had shocked her. He was all she had left.

  ‘I’m glad you’re my sister,’ Alfie said. His face relaxed and he let sleep take him.

  Josie bit her lip. She was glad, too. She thought of the obnoxious boy she’d first met in the undertaker’s. That wasn’t really Alfie; it was just a hard shell he wore to keep out the harshness of his life. But she’d lost everyone she cared about. And now he was so fragile . . .

  Lorenzo appeared at the foot of the bed, looking even taller as he stooped in the cramped caravan. Josie hadn’t heard him enter.

  ‘Some kind of seizure, I suspect,’ he said. ‘The poor boy.’

  ‘He’s been feeling bad since he woke up this morning,’ Josie said, looking up at Lorenzo. ‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’

  ‘The marshes are full of disease,’ Lorenzo said, shrugging. His long face stretched into an even longer frown. ‘All we can do is make him comfortable. There will be a performance soon. It will not matter then.’

  A performance? Soon? Josie bit her lip. She watched Lorenzo tuck the sheets round Alfie. The ringmaster looked like a huge grasshopper folded up in a matchbox. His face was so skeletal and sorrowful.

  ‘When?’ she asked.

  ‘Tomorrow night,’ the ringmaster replied slowly. ‘When the tide is at its height and folk can come.’

  ‘The tide?’ Josie frowned, puzzled. What did the tide have to do with it?

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ Lorenzo said. His eyes glowed again and a fierce smile lit his face. ‘Just practise your throwing, sharpen your act and be ready for the performance of your life.’

  He unfolded himself from Alfie’s bedside and, still bent double, clambered out of the caravan. Josie turned back to Alfie, who mumbled in his sleep, sweat matting the hair on his brow.

  Lorenzo’s words echoed in her mind, making her stomach flutter. ‘Sharpen my act,’ she whispered, excitement stretching her mouth into a smile. There were other things he had said, confusing things, but all that stuck in her mind was ‘the performance of your life’.

  ‘The ropes,’ Alfie whispered, tugging at her sleeve, his eyes tight shut. Josie leaned over him.

  ‘What, Alfie? What did you say?’

  ‘The ropes . . . look at the ropes . . .’ Alfie’s eyes opened a crack, then shut again as he fell back into a troubled, murmuring slumber.

  Why would he want her to look at ropes? And which ones? Josie shook her head. Must be delirious, she thought. Dipping the rag in some cold water, she mopped his brow again.

  Josie stood on a narrow platform on the centre pole near the top of the tent, her arms extended to the roof. She was so high up she could have touched it. Swings and lines dangled from beams that radiated out from where she stood. Below, the band played a merry tune and clowns cartwheeled and cavorted across the ring. In the void before her, Paulo swung to and fro, building momentum, coming closer and closer with each swing.

  ‘The ropes, Josie, the ropes!’ Alfie called distantly. She peered down into the depths of the tent. Row upon row of spectators stared back, open-mouthed. Somewhere down there in the dizzying distance, Alfie’s pale, scarred face peered up, too.

  Paulo swung towards her, hanging upside down on a trapeze, his hair trailing, a crazed grin on his face.

  ‘Jump, Josie, I will catch you,’ he cried, arms extended. Josie looked down again. Her mouth felt dry. The rope ladder seemed to stretch and twist down to the sawdust floor. There was no net. ‘Jump,’ Paulo called again.

  ‘The ropes!’

  ‘Just let yourself go.’ Paulo’s face swung nearer. His eyes looked feverish, his fingers long and claw-like. ‘We will keep you safe.’

  Josie grabbed the rope swing near her and recoiled at once. It felt cold and slimy, green with fine seaweed.

  ‘Look at the ropes!’ Alfie’s voice called. Barnacles crusted the bar of her swing, the shells cutting into the palms of her hands. Paulo came nearer again, his eyes gaping black sockets, his face a grinning skull.

  ‘We will take care of you,’ he hissed in a voice as dry as winter leaves. His long skeletal fingers grasped at Josie, making her scream and pull away. Overbalancing, she tumbled back, her stomach lurching as she plummeted towards the ground . . .

  With a gasp, she awoke, her head on Alfie’s pillow. He muttered and sighed, rolling over. Josie sat up. Her heart pounded. A horrible dream, she thought, yet so real. She shuddered at the memory of Paulo’s face, his hideous voice. With a groan and a stretch, Josie stood up from Alfie’s bedside. He looked no better – pale and feverish, shivering and grumbling. She looked out of the small window.

  Night had passed. I must have slept right through, Josie thought, looking back at Alfie with a twinge of guilt. Another grey, misty day. She rubbed her eyes, feeling a thrill of excitement shiver through her. A performance. Tonight. But the shocking image of Paulo reaching for her with withered hands lingered. Shaking herself, she picked up the knives and shuffled through the dewy marsh grass to the tent. Perhaps there she could practise, forget the nightmare.

  The day passed quickly. Josie lost herself in rehearsal, throwing and dancing, tumbling and bowing. Madame Lilly performed in here, she thought. She’d never felt so close to her mother before. She imagined the glamorous gypsy woman dancing across the ring, so exotic, bewitching the locals, labourer and gentleman alike. And here Josie was, following in her footsteps, amazing audiences with her astounding skill. Madame Lilly would have been so proud of her child. Josie stopped. Children, she corrected herself, realisation dawning on her. I haven’t looked in on Alfie!

  In a panic, she hurried across the scrubby ground to the caravan and banged the door open. Alfie lay sleeping, his breathing deep and ragged. Josie heaved a sigh of
relief and cooled his face with the damp cloth. He seems rested, she thought. A bit more practice wouldn’t harm.

  The light had faded a little by the time Josie made her way back to the tent again. She stopped and peered across the flat landscape and frowned. Something looked different. The mist had lifted slightly. She could just make out Rookery Heights, small and distant on its hillside. Smoke swirled around it. No, it wasn’t smoke, she realised; they were crows, thousands of them, whirling and twisting in huge flocks above the house.

  Another movement caught her eye, much closer this time. A black figure was stalking about the marshes, poking the gulleys with a long stick. Two more joined the first.

  ‘The Aunts,’ Josie gasped. They were still searching for them!

  ‘Don’t worry about them,’ said a voice behind her. Ulrico the clown slouched, hands in pockets, regarding her with piggy eyes. ‘They can’t touch us – no, sir.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Josie asked with a frown.

  ‘They steer clear of us, know they can’t harm us.’ He smirked. ‘They won’t come lookin’ here.’

  ‘I don’t understand . . . Is it because we’re so far out on the marsh?’ Josie said, confused by the clown’s words. She felt vulnerable and alone here, beyond the caravans with this huge man.

  ‘Yeah, missy, that’s right,’ he sneered. ‘Or they might think that if we’ve got yer, then you’re not goin’ anywhere anyways!’ Ulrico gave a nasty chuckle which grew into full-blown laughter.

  Josie covered her ears and hurried back to the caravan, the words ‘you’re not goin’ anywhere’ ringing in her head. Why did he seem to hate her so?

  ‘Josie!’ Ashena’s cold hand grabbed hers and dragged her into their caravan. ‘What is wrong? Why are you so upset?’

  ‘Oh, Ashena, it’s Ulrico – he said we would never leave,’ Josie sobbed. ‘He’s so horrible.’

  ‘He is not a nice man.’ Ashena’s face darkened. She clung to Josie, stroking the back of her hand. She grinned up at Josie again. ‘But we are nice. We are your friends . . . We will look after you.’

  Josie snatched her hand away from the clammy grip. ‘I’d better see to Alfie,’ she muttered. But Ashena grabbed the hems of her skirts, still grinning. She looked too gaunt, too wide-eyed . . . too desperate. Josie shuddered.

  ‘We can be your friends for ever, Josie, yes?’ Ashena whispered, staring. ‘We can perform every night for the rest of time. Won’t that be wonderful?’

  Josie backed away, horrified by the little girl’s words. ‘Ashena, I have to go. I’ll see you later perhaps.’ Josie slammed the door behind her and ran for the caravan. Her mind tumbled and twirled like an acrobat, swinging from one thought to the next. What had come over Ashena? What did she mean, they could perform for ever? Lorenzo had said something similar. Alfie was right: there was something strange about the whole circus. Why hadn’t she seen it before?

  An urgent chattering startled Josie out of her thoughts. Walnut dangled above her from the ropes that held up the big tent.

  ‘The ropes,’ Josie said as the monkey swung back and forth. ‘Alfie said to look at the ropes.’

  For the first time, Josie noticed how green with algae they were. And the stout iron pegs at her feet were covered in dead seaweed. The tent canvas was filthy, caked in a thin layer of mud, which made it hard to work out where the ground ended and the bottom of the tent began. The monkey squeaked again. Josie felt numb. The circus hadn’t moved, probably for years, she thought.

  ‘You begin to see with real eyes.’ Lorenzo appeared from behind her. ‘It doesn’t matter now. You are with us, where you belong. You will stay here and be safe.’

  A spasm of alarm jolted through Josie. Lorenzo gazed at her. His face looked kind and gentle, but a feverish glow lit his eyes.

  ‘We can’t stay,’ Josie said. ‘We have to leave.’

  ‘If only it were that simple,’ Lorenzo sighed, and straightened up to his full height. ‘You will understand after the performance tonight. Nobody can leave Lorenzo’s Circus.’

  ‘But we must,’ Josie said again. ‘I made a promise to Cardamom . . .’

  ‘We can’t always keep our promises.’ Lorenzo edged forward and took Josie’s hand. His fingers felt the same as Ashena’s – cold, clammy and faintly disturbing. His eyes burned with the same pleading desperation. ‘You are so vibrant, so beautiful, my child. So full of life. Stay here with us.’

  ‘I can’t . . . I won’t.’ Josie recoiled.

  ‘You have no choice, my dear.’ Lorenzo sighed again, his shoulders sagging as if with the weight of knowledge. But his eyes still burned feverishly. He extended his hand. ‘Join us . . .’

  Josie staggered away, shaking her head, tears stinging her face. She’d been wrong – there was something hideous and frightening about these people. Of course she and Alfie couldn’t stay here for ever. She felt as if a spell had been lifted. How could she have been so blind to the dilapidation and decay? She’d been drawn in by the excitement of the circus, the glamour of performing. How could she have lost all sense of what was important so quickly? They had to find and destroy the Amarant! They’d escaped from Corvis but, she suddenly realised, even here they were still prisoners.

  .

  .

  ‘For the worms are my bedfellows,

  Cold clay is my sheet,

  And when the stormy winds do blow,

  My body lies and sleeps.’

  ‘Proud Lady Margaret’, traditional folk ballad

  .

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Audience of the Dead

  Walnut sat on the step of a dilapidated old caravan set apart from the others. Josie found herself there, having wandered, dazed, after her encounter with Lorenzo. She could see that, at one time, the caravan had been ornately painted – but not any more. Blisters of faded paint bloomed on its wood-wormed and peeling surface. She could just see the remnants of nursery-rhyme figures, laughing faces, stars and moons. Something about the van made her shiver. Josie didn’t want to be here. The monkey squealed and looked at her with eyes of liquid ebony.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’m not stopping. I’m off to get Alfie.’ She gave a squeak of surprise as she turned away. Ulrico loomed over her, blocking her path.

  ‘You all right, missy?’ he asked, grinning. Josie could see the stubble growing through the pale rolls of flesh on his chin. He still wore the remains of his make-up and looked like his caravan: faded and dilapidated. ‘Walnut ain’t botherin’ you, is he?’

  ‘No, no,’ Josie said, backing away from the bulky clown. He edged closer, licking his lips. Tufts of hair sprouted crazily from behind his ears, but his head was quite bald.

  ‘Sorry I startled you before, like. You aren’t afraid of old Ulrico, are you?’ the clown said, tilting his head and bringing his face close to Josie’s. ‘I’ve known you since you was a babe in arms. Before he came . . .’

  ‘Wh-who?’ Josie was backed against the wall of the caravan now, with Ulrico’s rancid breath on her cheek. She turned her head to one side.

  ‘The one who caused all our misery,’ Ulrico hissed in her face. ‘He loved Lilly, he did, but she’d had enough of him. He wouldn’t believe us when we told him she was dead.’

  ‘What happened?’ Josie’s voice trembled. His breath disgusted her, his closeness repelled her, and yet the story drew her in, kept her from fleeing. Josie edged back along the van.

  ‘He came here, to this very spot, with his cursed magic. Begged him, we did, told him she was gone.’ Ulrico’s heavy, laboured breathing made Josie squeeze her eyes shut. ‘But he wouldn’t have it . . . Cursed us all to a living death, he did.’

  ‘How could he curse you?’ Josie asked, her eyes snapping open. ‘Who was he? What was his name?’

  ‘Professor Necros,’ Ulrico hissed. ‘Your father did this to us! All because of your precious mother!’

  With a scream of horror and disgust, Josie pushed Ulrico away and dashed back towards th
e tent.

  ‘And you’ll be joinin’ us soon, missy,’ Ulrico called after her. ‘No one leaves the circus!’

  A wet squelching from behind the vans stopped Josie in her tracks. She peered into the shadows between the silhouetted caravans and stifled a scream. Pale, shivering hands clutched the edges of the pits that dotted the marshland. Vague figures with hair plastered to their leprous skin were dragging themselves from the water, staring at Josie with dead eyes. Men, women and children, dripping from their watery graves, thronged the narrow paths between the caravans, stumbling forward, reaching out to her.

  Josie glanced left and right, considered doubling back towards Ulrico, but the shuffling dead had already blocked her path. Her skin prickled as she skirted the edge of the tent, herded by the silent groping crowd. She focused on the feel of the rough canvas, desperate not to look at the slack faces that came closer and grew more numerous. Josie could smell the decay and the tang of the sea that fed the marshes and bubbled under its treacherous pits.

  Nearer they crowded, pressing together, reaching and grasping. She could see torn breeches and tattered shirts. She sobbed as she fended off the cold, clammy hands. The main entrance to the big top loomed like the mouth of some giant sea monster waiting to swallow her up. Josie had no choice but to tumble inside.

  The belly of the tent smelt dank. A dull green glow illuminated the cavernous interior. Josie felt as if she were deep beneath the sea. Ropes and ladders hung from the shadows like the rigging of some sunken vessel. Josie trembled as she suddenly realised an audience was seated, watching her. They stared blankly at her, jaws slack, eyes empty.

  Alfie hung limp and shivering from the corkboard in the centre of the ring. Before Josie could run to him, Lorenzo appeared beside her, thrusting the set of throwing blades into her hand. Ulrico, dressed in his ragged clown costume, paraded before the audience. He mimed laughter, pointing and jeering at Josie, his face twisted and contorted with hatred.