by Helen Phifer
‘Black coffee.’
‘They do lattes. Do you not want anything to eat?’
Adele didn’t want to put her stomach to the test by eating a greasy bun filled with fried delights minutes before attending a post-mortem. She shook her head. ‘I’ve already eaten, thanks.’
Will paid his money and carried the tray over to a table at the opposite end of the dining room, away from the rowdy bunch of coppers, who were laughing loudly at something.
‘I’m probably going to regret this in twenty minutes, but all I can think about is food.’
Adele laughed. ‘Well, rather you than me; my stomach’s hard, but not that hard.’
Summer 1950
It took Gordy an hour to get ready for each performance, every single time. He didn’t like to rush the best, most important, part of the process. He stared at the white face in the mirror. He liked to make sure that every inch of his skin was covered in the thick, white greasepaint. His short black hair was hidden underneath a flesh-coloured stocking. He began to colour around his eyes in thick, black paint. They had to be just right. If they weren’t, even he wouldn’t contemplate going out in public.
He heard a dry, hacking cough from behind him and paused. Colin had worked really hard the last three days, but he’d started coughing a lot today. His skin was almost the same colour as Gordy’s face and he’d had a fine film of sweat on his forehead all day despite the temperature being much cooler today than yesterday.
Gordy hoped the kid wasn’t coming down with something catching. The last thing he needed was to be laid up and out of action with some illness. He supposed if Colin was poorly he wouldn’t be putting up much of a fight when the time came, but if Gordy was honest with himself he didn’t really want to hurt him now. Colin had kind of grown on him – something he’d never anticipated. He was a hard-working lad and, from the tales he had told him, didn’t have much of a life ahead of him with that bitch of a mother.
Gordy thought this might be his chance to do something good to make up for the bad. Plus, as he’d lain in bed last night, he’d thought about using Colin to help him with his plans. Colin had such a childlike manner about him; the kids seemed to flock to him more so than they ever flocked to Gordy, even when he was dressed in full clown regalia. It was as if the little bastards could tell what he wanted to do to them all – maybe they could.
He’d heard that kids could be perceptive. Maybe they knew he wanted to take them into the fields at the edge of the woods and hurt them so bad they would bleed to death. The urge was getting stronger; he didn’t think he could hold off much longer. He’d never planned on killing his parents, but now that he had, it was hard to ignore the fire burning inside of him.
‘How are you feeling, Colin? You look like shit.’
‘I don’t feel so good, Gordy. My throat feels as if I swallowed glass and my head hurts real bad.’
‘Is your mother coming to the show tonight? Did you give her those free tickets I gave you yesterday?’
Colin shook his head. ‘She sold them to the man in the pub. I saw her coming out of there last night. She was drunk and had some money in her hands. She don’t care about this at all.’
Gordy felt his fingers clench into tight fists. He squeezed so hard he snapped the black crayon he was holding. The woman obviously didn’t care about anyone but herself. He wondered if he should go and pay her a visit instead; maybe satiate his desire with her. He nodded his head. That was a marvellous idea. He would give Colin some of those strong pills the doc gave him last month when he hurt himself falling off the miniature car the clowns drove around the ring. They would knock him out for a few hours, leaving Gordy to go to Colin’s house and speak to his mother, persuade her to let Colin join the circus – and if she wasn’t agreeable?
A huge smile spread across his face. It was a perfect plan. She wouldn’t be missed if she was as mean as Colin had said she was. He’d be doing the boy a huge favour. He stood up and went into the bag under his bunk that he kept his tablets in. After shaking three out, he got a glass of water and handed them all to Colin.
‘Here – if you take these it will make your throat stop burning and you’ll be able to have a little sleep before the show starts. If your mother arrives, I’ll come wake you up. How does that sound?’
Colin nodded his head. ‘Will they stop me hurting?’
‘Yes, they will.’
The boy with the body of a man held his hand out and took the tablets from Gordy. He clumsily shoved them into his mouth then took a huge gulp of water from the glass Gordy had passed to him. Colin winced. Water splashed down his chin and he began to choke. Gordy slammed the palm of his hand across Colin’s back, wondering if he’d inadvertently killed him. That would be just his luck: killing him accidentally when, in the first place, he’d wanted to skin him like a rabbit. The boy finally stopped coughing and wiped his sleeve across his eyes, which were watering.
‘You okay?’
Colin nodded.
‘Good. You lie down and, if I see your mother, I’ll bring her to see you. Is that a good idea?’
Colin had no concept that Gordy wouldn’t know what his mother looked like if he fell over her; he wasn’t bright enough. But it didn’t matter. Colin had told Gordy where he lived the very first day they’d met and it was only a five-minute walk from the circus. He could go in full clown regalia and if he took some leaflets with him to hand out to anyone he might pass, that would be a good enough cover story.
Gordy gave Colin a comforting pat and he lay back, closing his eyes. Taking a blanket, Gordy covered Colin with it then turned back to finish his masterpiece. By the time he’d painted the huge red grin across his mouth, exaggerating the corners, he was satisfied. Now he looked like his true self: Tufty. Taking the wig off the stand next to him, he tugged it over his head. He felt like he was invincible. Tufty took no crap from anyone.
He smiled at his reflection then turned from left to right to make sure it was perfect. He clapped his hands. Standing up, he took his precious silk suit from its coat hanger and stepped inside it, pulling it up over his vest and long johns. Shorty came in, took one look at him and laughed.
‘Christ, Tufty, if you aren’t the scariest-looking act in this whole miserable circus I don’t know who is.’
Tufty gave a brief laugh. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, should I?’
‘Take it how the fuck you want. I wouldn’t want to meet you in a dark backstreet. Anyway, what’s up with the kid? Have you worked him to death?’
He shrugged. ‘He’s got a fever. His mother is supposed to be coming. She can take him home with her. I don’t really want him hanging around here if he’s sick.’
Shorty nodded. ‘Too true. We haven’t got the time to be ill. It doesn’t matter if we feel like shit because the show must go on, even if we’re dying inside.’
He left and Tufty gave himself one last look in the mirror. He supposed he did look quite scary. Then again, what was a clown supposed to look like? They were all freaks when you came to think about it. Grown men prancing around trying to get the next laugh and wearing funny clothes and more make-up than any woman in the audience.
As Tufty bumbled into the middle ring of the big top, he nodded and clapped his hands at the audience, running around and getting them to clap back. He was very appreciative of such a good turnout for their last show. The next hour and a half went by in a blur; the atmosphere inside the tent was one of complete fascination, wonder and laughter. He knew his routine off by heart, not having to think about it, which was just as well considering he had much more pressing thoughts on his mind.
He wondered what Colin’s mother looked like, whether she was pretty or a drunken old cow whose looks had been lost in the bottom of a beer barrel. It incensed him that she’d sold the tickets to tonight’s show. She could have seen how hard Colin had worked and maybe appreciated how much potential her son might have if given the right opportunities.
The bucket of flour
covered his face and for a second he wondered where he was, but the sound of thousands of people laughing snapped him out of his daydreams. He began to run after Shorty, chasing him around in circles, almost catching him and shaking his fist at him, much to the audience’s delight. The lights dimmed and the clowns made their way to the back of the ring and the curtains while the next act began to set up.
Within a matter of minutes there was a huge cage erected. The lights went out momentarily and a chorus of screams filled the air. Then they flickered back on and inside the cage were three huge lions. Alongside them was one of the stars of the show: the lion tamer. Although he disliked the man because of the way the dancers fawned over him, Tufty also had a grudging respect for him. Not many people would get in a cage with three huge man-eating lions every day.
This was his chance to make his disappearance and Tufty began skipping, hopping and stumbling towards the exit the performers used to come in and out of the tent. The rest of the clowns were all standing in a circle, smoking and watching the lion tamer. He knew that every single one of them was waiting for the day it actually happened and the lions turned on him and ate the smug, snotty bastard.
Grabbing a handful of posters from the now-empty ticket booth he began to walk the short distance to Colin’s rundown house. It was literally three streets away from the parkland where the circus was pitched. Tufty walked along the roughly cobbled pavements, his posters clasped in one hand, ready to give them to the first person he met – only the streets were deserted and he didn’t pass a solitary soul.
The circus tent held over two thousand people so most of the locals must be there because he doubted the streets were normally so quiet. As he turned into the dark street he was pleased to see a single light burning in the upstairs front bedroom. He picked up his pace, not wanting to be seen. He stayed close to the wall across the street, which was overhung with large oak trees from the parkland behind it.
He crossed over and tried the front door handle, wondering if she’d left it open for Colin. It didn’t budge. There was a small wooden door at the side of the house, which led to a narrow alleyway between both houses. He pushed this one and it opened. It was pitch black inside the small passage, but less than thirty seconds and he was out in the open again with a gate to the small back gardens on either side of him.
The one to the left of him was immaculate. He inhaled the scent of the freshly cut grass. He wondered what these neighbours made of Colin and his drunken mother. The house Colin had gone into yesterday had a gate that was rotten and hanging off its hinges. Next door’s house was in complete darkness and he would have bet that the nice family who lived there were at this very moment in time watching the lion tamer, their mouths open in fear and wonder.
He stepped into the overgrown, unkempt, weed-filled space and tried the door handle. This one went all the way down and the door opened. Grinning, he slid inside, pushing it closed behind him. The smell of lard and fried fish hit his nostrils, making him wince. Realising he had no murder weapon with him, he placed the pile of posters on the kitchen table and began to look around the cramped room.
There were more dirty pots, pans and plates on the draining board than there probably were in the cupboards. Sticking out of the sink was a huge butcher’s knife. It had some dark, sticky substance along the blade and he lifted it to his nose to smell. Strawberry jam. He would bet Colin had used this last to make himself a jam sandwich for his breakfast. Picking up a faded yellow newspaper from the table he wiped the blade down. A loud thud and the sound of raised voices from the room directly above him made him step against the wall and hold his breath.
Footsteps thundered down the threadbare staircase and he heard a woman’s voice yell, ‘Go on, fuck off out of ’ere. Run back to your wife and see if she’ll let you stick your dick where you just did for free.’
The front door slammed shut and Tufty waited to see if the crude, horrible woman was about to come downstairs. He heard the sound of the mattress creaking as she moved around on it, but there were no footsteps. Removing his huge red clown shoes, he left them in the kitchen and began to make his way upstairs. His heart raced with both excitement and fear. Was it right to feel so confused, he wondered. He reached the top stair and stepped on to the threadbare landing carpet. The floorboard let out a loud creak.
‘Who’s there? Is that you, Colin? Decided to come home now, have you?’
Tufty didn’t answer. She would know it wasn’t her son’s voice. He moved towards the bedroom that had the light on and the door ajar. At least she couldn’t see him approaching.
‘Colin, that better be you; stop messing around.’
Her voice didn’t sound quite so harsh and cocky now. He detected a slight tremble. Two more steps and he’d be inside her room. He heard the bedsprings creak as she sat up.
‘If you’ve fucking come back for sloppy seconds, Andrew Sloane, you can do one. Get home to your wife.’
Her voice was definitely quieter. He took a deep breath and used the tip of the knife to push the door open. The look of horror on her face at seeing him standing there in all his glory with a huge, red grin on his white-painted face and the knife in his hands was one he would treasure until the day he died.
‘What do you want? Who said you could come in and where’s my Colin?’
She had pulled her knees up to her chin and her frail, pale arms were wrapped around them.
‘Who the fuck are you? Are you the weirdo who wants my Colin to run away with him? Well, I’ve got news for you: unless you’re going to pay him and me, he’s not going anywhere.’
Tufty grinned at her and stepped into the room. He never spoke; instead he tilted his head and folded his arms across his chest, mimicking her. It was then that she saw the glint of the blade in the reflection from the bare light bulb and scrabbled to get off the bed, panic in her eyes. She looked around the room for something to protect herself with. As she spied the old cricket bat behind the chair that she probably kept for awkward men she brought home, so did he.
She tried to scrabble across the bed to reach it and he ran at her. Grabbing her spindly legs, he tugged her so hard that she fell onto the mattress. He sat on top of her, pinning her to the bare mattress that stank of sweat, cigarette smoke and sex. He was still smiling, even though she was trying her best to slap him and push him off. He lifted the knife and stabbed it down so hard it squelched straight through her eyeball and killed her instantly.
Her body twitched, but he wasn’t finished. Now that her heart wasn’t pumping the blood around her body, she wouldn’t make so much mess. He began to stab her again and again until her body was unrecognisable. His hands soaked in her blood, he pushed himself up off the bed. His beloved clown suit was splattered with bright red spots. He looked in the mirror and smiled.
Leaving her body there with the knife protruding from her eye socket, he walked along the narrow hallway until he found the small bathroom where he washed his hands under the cold water. He didn’t have much time. He needed to get back to the circus before the end of the show and the crowds flocked out of the parkland gates and the entire area was flooded with men, women and children.
He dried his hands on a threadbare towel and flung it onto the floor. Leaving to go into the next room, which was Colin’s, he shook his head. It was sparse to say the least. There were a couple of toy cars on the floor and a one-eyed, tattered old bear on the bed. Pulling a battered suitcase off the top of the wardrobe he opened the drawers and stuffed what few clothes were in there inside. There were a couple of patched jumpers hanging inside the wardrobe, along with a pair of trousers and a winter coat. He stuffed those inside the case, shoved in the bear and shut the case.
He didn’t look back as he ran downstairs and back into the kitchen where he slipped his feet inside the ridiculously too big clown shoes. He left through the back door and reached the passageway. Remembering the posters, he realised he had to go back inside to get them. Stupid Gordy, you might as well have le
ft a trail of breadcrumbs for the police to follow back to the circus.
The street was still deserted and he began to jog back to the small entrance he’d left through, hoping no one would see him. He was normally a good runner. He had to be to keep up with the clown routines, but the case, although not full, was weighing him down. A fine film of sweat underneath the greasepaint was making his head feel as if it was about to explode. He managed to get back to the circus just as he heard the final encore. He should be there now with the others taking his final bow.
He hadn’t intended to go back inside the ring, but his ego – which was getting far too big – made him. The lights were bright and the audience members were all standing and clapping in time to the music. He threw the case under the nearest stall and began cartwheeling into the centre ring of the big top. He loved the applause. If anyone wondered what was all over his suit, he would brush it off and pretend he had no idea what it was. He stood there next to Shorty and waved his hands, grinning from ear to ear.
The lights finally went down and he made his way out of the tent and straight to his trailer. As he opened the door he heard a gentle snore coming from the small bed where he’d left Colin. He tugged his wig off then pulled his suit off. Holding it up to survey the damage, he shook his head and tutted. He walked over to the small sink where he put the plug in; then, taking the box of soap flakes out of the cupboard, he shook them into the cold water. He immersed his suit in the solution and left it to soak.
He began to scrub his clown make-up off. He didn’t think anyone had seen him in Colin’s street, but it was better to be sure. When he began to look more like plain old Gordy Marshall he got dressed and went to retrieve Colin’s suitcase. The sound of laughter and chatter from the different caravans and trailers filled the air.
It was always like this on the last night after a successful run. The circus hands were already dismantling the huge tent and would work late into the night. The animals were all caged up and eating their long-awaited meals.