From the podium, Kurt Pilo’s voice carried through the wreckage. He sounded mildly amused. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’
The apparent sabotage would be the source of much talk over the following days. It was strange that no one had been killed in what amounted to an attempt on every performer’s life. Vandalism on a smaller scale was never uncommon — someone always had it in for someone else, and most in the show had seen far too much for their own good, an aphrodisiac for random violence. Of course the banner had ruled out the possibility of an accident. Freedom? A pretty word, but no one knew what to make of it.
The first accusations were levelled at George, behind his back of course. His sneaking out of the tent had been awfully convenient. If George was the culprit, that raised serious questions about how he was to be brought to account; he was, after all, second in command, and Kurt wanted him dead already. But there was no case for George to answer. Everyone in the show would have loved to see him squirm for the pleasure of it, but none thought he’d actually done it. The chaotic nature of the attack, leaving so much to chance, lacked the signature of a control freak like George … It simply wasn’t his style.
The worst off were the acrobats. Their stage was in ruins and their act relegated to the smaller alternative: the clowns’ stage tent. Once that was announced, the clowns became the worst off, and the acrobats saw a great big silver lining. Nonetheless, their show was reduced to basic stunts on a gym mat until their stage was rebuilt, which would take some doing, with no one exactly sure of how to treat the machinery to give it the magical effects required.
The freaks were also aggrieved, as Fishboy had been seriously hurt; his head had been flattened beneath a support post. A visit to the matter manipulator was all that had saved him. Meanwhile Mugabo, panicking, had unleashed a small firestorm, melting some of the otherwise repairable apparatus. He was now vowing never to perform again, and refusing to let anyone near enough to tend to the burns he’d inflicted on himself.
The rest of the injuries were minor. JJ had no more than a bump on the shoulder and a dark wet patch down the front of his pants from a combination of fright and too many juice pops. Some others had ringing ears, thanks to Goshy, whose outbursts and screams amidst the calamity had helped no one at all. He’d been hyperactive for hours afterwards, until finally the kettle noise became the budgerigar noise and everyone was able to relax.
‘Well,’ said Gonko as they took their places at the card table, ‘wasn’t that something.’
‘Who done it, Gonko?’ said Doopy. ‘Who done it? They shouldn’ta oughtn’ta done it, Gonko. They scared Goshy, Gonko, they scared Goshy!’
‘Scared li’l JJ too by the looks of things,’ said Gonko. ‘Might wanna change them pantaloons, baby cakes.’
‘It’s just sweat,’ said JJ, crossing his legs to hide the stain.
‘Looks like Fishboy was hurt pretty bad,’ said Winston as he dealt a round of blackjack.
‘That’s fucking rotten,’ said Gonko, thumping his fist on the table. ‘Fishboy never hurt a fly. Whoever done it, I will slice ’em eight ways from Sunday.’
‘Who done it, Gonko?’ said Doopy. ‘Who was it what done did it, Gonko? Who was what done did it was what do —’
‘No idea, Doops. Good question, though — you always were the inquisitive type. Who’d wanna kill … everyone? And what was that “freedom” horse shit?’
Something clicked in JJ’s head. Just remember that word. Freedom. Winston! Why hadn’t he remembered it before? His head turned to Winston with the deliberation of the clown game in Sideshow Alley, and his mouth was gaping just as wide. Winston gave him the merest glance and said, ‘Odd, wasn’t it? Hate to be in the pants — I mean, shoes, of whoever hung up that banner.’
JJ took the hint, but his mouth still hung open. Winston gave him another flashing glance and yelled, ‘JJ, are you going to ante up or sit there blowing the invisible man all night?’
This got a chuckle from Gonko, and JJ shut his trap. ‘You’re wound up,’ said Gonko to Winston. ‘I never once heard you talk that dirty.’
‘Yeah, well, we’re going to be some time getting our show back now, aren’t we?’ said Winston. ‘You hear what George said? The acrobats got our stage. How long’s it gonna take to rebuild theirs?’
‘Oh Christ, you’re right!’ Gonko wailed.
JJ decided it was time to leave, for he couldn’t stop gaping in disbelief at Winston. ‘Hey!’ Gonko roared as he slunk away from the table. ‘Where the fuck are you going? What kind of poker can you play with three players?’ JJ whimpered and ran. ‘No one buys that play-acting shit,’ Gonko called after him. ‘I know you, matey, I know you well.’
Back in his room JJ sat on his bed and tried to think things over. Winston still had him by the balls — but did he have Winston by the balls too? Freedom. What did it mean? Why had he said it to Jamie in a moment of sentimental mush? What, did he think there was some chance for Jamie to get out of the show? Was that the old guy’s caper?
‘I think,’ JJ whispered, ‘that maybe, yeah, that’s his caper.’
He lay back, thinking, and his head bumped against something round and hard. A grin spread over his face as he patted the glass ball. He knew how he’d be spending his day tomorrow. He took the crystal ball from its cover, caressed it and said, ‘You and me against the world, baby.’
Chapter 16
Incriminating JJ
Jamie woke and went through the usual: vertigo, nausea, terror, doomed helplessness. On the plus side, physical pain was no longer part of the ritual. As usual, he remembered he’d narrowly escaped death the day before, via falling support beams this time. One had slammed down right next to his — or JJ’s, rather — face. And how had JJ reacted to all this? Once he was free of the carnage, he hadn’t given it a second thought. The guy didn’t care one bit what happened to the body they shared. I am going to die here, Jamie thought with absolute calm certainty. Any day now.
This was what Jamie had woken to every morning, and this was why he usually rushed for the face paint straight away. Not this morning, though. He had to think. Something big had happened yesterday, something at odds with how the place operated. Someone had attacked everyone in the show — all who mattered, at least. They hadn’t been fucking around, they’d been after scalps. That banner: FREEDOM. The word Winston had told him to remember. Winston was in on it! Had to be.
He thought of Winston, the one shoulder he had to lean on.
Freedom.
Or perhaps there were many shoulders.
He regarded the small tub of face paint with a look of disgust. Today he would face this place as himself.
The rest of the carnival was waking up and Jamie could hear the clean-up of the acrobats’ stage tent getting under way. He suited up with shoes, red nose, a puffy striped shirt, bright pink spotted pants. He double-checked the pockets and found nothing but lint. Once dressed he sat on his bed, listening to the clowns out in the parlour. It seemed quiet out there. He got up and opened his door, then had to choke back a scream; Goshy stood once again just outside, and God alone knew how long he’d been there staring at the door panels. All night?
Jamie’s hand squeezed tight on the door handle. ‘Good morning,’ he managed.
Goshy peered at him without change of expression. Jamie saw something green on his top lip, like a grass stain. ‘Morning, Goshy,’ Jamie repeated. Goshy answered with a blink: right eye first, then left. He gave a low chortling whistle and turned around to face down the hallway. Jamie, deciding it probably wasn’t safe to ask him to move, slipped through the narrow gap between Goshy’s shoulder and the door, doing all he could to avoid contact.
He looked nervously up and down the hallway, trying to remember which was Winston’s room. At the door he knocked, and from within heard the old clown’s voice saying, ‘Huh? Who’s that?’
‘Jamie.’
There was a sound of bed springs creaking. ‘JJ?’
‘Jamie.’
‘Jamie? Come in.’
He went in and sat on the one clear patch of floor beside Winston’s bed. Winston sat up yawning. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while,’ he said.
‘Yeah. Listen … I don’t want to wear the paint today.’
Winston scratched his chin and picked his ear with a cotton bud. ‘You picked a bad day,’ he said. ‘We rehearse today. You’re going to be made part of the act. We gotta keep the act in shape in case they put us back on.’
‘Why can’t I do that as I am now?’
‘You might get hurt. Maybe killed. The paint does more than turn you into a backstabbin’ cretin, remember.’ Jamie’s eyes dropped. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ said Winston, ‘and we both know it ain’t your fault, but it’s the truth. Let’s have it out in the open.’ The old clown sat back and heaved a sigh. ‘Quite a fix you’re in, ain’t it? I can’t tell you nothin’, because when you put the paint on you’ll blab it to everyone.’
‘What about the pants?’ said Jamie. ‘JJ thinks you’ve got him by the balls. He doesn’t want to cross you.’
‘Well and good, but if JJ learned all there was to know, he’d have the goods on me, let me tell you. And it’s safe to say this, because it’s just my word against his. Been here longer than him, they’d believe me.’ Winston went quiet and shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to do with you, Jamie. No idea at all.’
‘What if — what if I were to arrange it so you had more dirt on JJ than he could ever have on you? What then?’
Winston raised his eyebrows. ‘Go on.’
Jamie leaned forward. ‘If I did something today, something really incriminating, and got away with it but somehow gave you proof, you’d have it all over JJ. Maybe you’d be safe enough to tell me what that freedom thing meant.’
Winston’s eyes darted to the door and back. ‘Shh. For God’s sake Jamie, keep it down.’
Jamie grimaced. ‘Sorry.’
Winston sat back on his bed, thinking. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘that arrangement could work. But you know what sort of risk you’re taking? If you got caught … Won’t be fun and games, son. You don’t want to know what they can do to you.’
‘You’re right, I probably don’t,’ Jamie sighed. ‘I’m just sick of waking up like this, feeling like this. I can’t keep it up much longer.’
Winston nodded. ‘Desperate times and all that, eh? Well, we’d better work out what high jinks you’re gonna get up to.’
‘Winston, something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Why don’t you change? When you put on the face paint?’
Winston smiled the ghost of a smile. ‘I don’t wear it,’ he said, and reached under his bed for a small box. ‘This is regular old face paint. From outside. Not the stuff they make in the funhouse. No one notices any difference. I just act surly. Ain’t hard. My stage personality ain’t much different to my real one. Guess I lucked out there.’
‘But how do you manage to perform?’
‘Make sure the parts I get ain’t dangerous. Not easy, mind you. I tell Gonko my back hurts too much for the hard routines. I still get plenty of bruises, and sometimes just have to take my chances with dangerous stunts. And for you, JJ, should you look back on this little talk, remember I could put the real face paint on any time I like and break your goddamn neck.’
Jamie blinked, surprised by the sudden viciousness in Winston’s voice.
‘Now you get out of here, Jamie. I’ll give some thought to what we can get you to do — if you’re sure this is the way to go?’
‘I don’t see any other. I honestly don’t.’
Winston shrugged. ‘Me either, now that you mention it.’
Jamie went back to his room and waited, trying to calm his heartbeat and trying not to think. After half an hour Gonko poked his head through the door to bark: ‘Rehearsal at one. Odd jobs at eleven tonight. Life’s a bitch then you just keep on fucking living.’
It was an agonising wait as Winston hatched a plan. Jamie longed for JJ’s contempt for death; unrealistic maybe, but effective. When Winston finally came in he carried a knapsack. He held his ear to the door to make sure they were alone, then opened the bag and produced a folded white sheet. It was a smaller version of the banner that had unfurled before the tent collapse, with FREEDOM in red paint. Winston’s voice was a whisper. ‘Here’s what you do. Hang this inside the freak show tent. There’ll be a ladder in there. Climb to the top rafters, tie it. When you’re done, there’ll be a note stuck on the inside of the front door. Take it off, read what it says, then swallow it.’
‘What if I get seen?’
‘You’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen. You’re friends with Fishboy’s new assistant, right? What’s his name, Steve? You visit him sometimes?’
‘Yeah.’
‘There’s your alibi. Now go, quickly.’
‘Won’t the freaks see me?’
Winston shook his head and left without another word, and Jamie wondered what made him so sure. He checked the pocket watch JJ had stolen from Sideshow Alley: two hours till rehearsal. Sighing, he picked up the banner and stuffed it under his shirt, which was puffy enough to conceal the bulge. As he passed through the parlour and down the main path he tried to walk like JJ, overly bending his knees, adjusting his crotch, scowling at the gypsies he passed. He felt like an idiot. Soon he came to the funhouse, where Damian the guardian stood out front as normal, hooded and motionless; he never seemed to budge at all. Jamie thought he saw something move at a high window, a curtain falling back into place, but he couldn’t be sure.
Past the funhouse was a scattering of little shanties with decaying wood and chipped paint, gypsy homes. He headed through these trying not to be seen, and he felt he was safe on that front; the distant babble indicated most carnies were over by the wreckage of the acrobats’ stage tent, cleaning up. The rear of the freak show was in shadow. That mysterious wooden fence ran around behind it. Jamie put his eye between two boards, thinking of escape for the first time in a good while, but he could see nothing out there — just that white mistiness JJ had seen from the rooftop. He held his ear to the scratchy wood and was surprised to hear a sound not unlike holding his ear to a seashell; the ocean from far away.
He was tempted to climb the fence, but a noise from the nearby gypsy hut snapped him out of it. There was a loud crash followed by angry voices shouting in Spanish; one male, one female. He ran to the freak show tent and found a gap in the canvas. He paused as the gypsies’ squabble became explosive; there was a shrill scream from the woman, then ominous silence. A burly fifty-something man kicked open the hut’s back door, an olive-skinned beer gut spilling over his pants. Over his shoulder was the limp body of a middle- aged woman, the back of her head cracked open and dripping red. The gypsy tossed her to the ground by the fence. Jamie winced and ducked inside the freak show.
Just a murder. These things happen.
‘Come on,’ he whispered, trying to calm his nerves — he felt dangerously close to falling apart on the spot. He bit his knuckle until it hurt, counted to ten, and got himself under control. Worse things than that happen here, he imagined Winston’s voice saying to him. Worse will happen to you. Get on with the job.
Around him the freak show was dark, as it usually was, except for the yellow light bulbs of the incubators, gleaming over their atrocities. Now the incubators were empty and the light itself seemed obscene, the kind of light one might expect to find shining in a serial killer’s basement, illuminating an operating table, soundproof walls, red stains and sharp objects.
The only exhibit still here was Nugget, the severed head. Nugget was chin-deep in water and had his eyes closed. The tin ladder was lying flat on the ground by the wall. Jamie raised it against a support beam and kicked off his clown shoes. The rungs dug hard into his feet as he climbed until his head was bent against the roof. He wrapped the banner around the rafters, legs feeling suddenly weak as he
tried not to picture himself falling.
As he coaxed the banner along the rafter a bright light went off below with a popping noise. He had to fight for balance from the start it gave him, and stared around wildly, heart pounding. Someone was ducking out the freak show entrance. Winston. What the hell was that noise? A camera? He cursed Winston for not warning him about that part of the plan. Well, he was sure as hell incriminated now. Jesus, he hoped he could trust the old guy.
He climbed down the ladder and saw with annoyance that the banner was upside down. He ran to the front door, pausing to check the severed head was still sleeping, and pawed around on the canvas for the note he was supposed to find … There it was. He tore it from the wall and ran to one of the incubators to read it in the yellow light:
Tip the head over. Do that last. First smash the glass displays. Head is sedated, won’t hear. Then get out. Take detour back to clown tent, out back of this tent, run along the fence line. Don’t get seen.
‘Oh man,’ Jamie whispered. He looked around for a way to smash the glass cabinets and his eye caught something leaning against Yeti’s cage — an iron bar. Winston had thought of everything. He picked it up and ran to Nugget’s bowl, where he coughed and snapped his fingers, tapped the glass — no reaction. Here goes, he thought. The tall glass incubator was first; one blow bent the glass and made a patch of spiderweb cracks. Two more swings and the whole thing shattered into small chips of glass, scattering over the ground like confetti with a storm of rattling sounds. Tallow’s booth was next; one swing left a jagged hole in the left wall, another finished it off. Glass sprayed over the floor, over the disgusting dried-flesh-coloured ooze. Next was the case shaped like a glass coffin. One solid blow and the whole thing shattered.
Suddenly he heard someone shouting in the distance — it sounded like George Pilo. If he could hear George, George could hear him; he had to hurry. He glanced at the other exhibits — Yeti’s cage was iron, not much he could do there. That left the severed head in his bowl. Jamie ran over and kicked the stand. It wobbled and fell, sending Nugget splashing to the floor and skidding to a halt against the ladder, spinning around on his bald spot.
The Pilo Family Circus Page 18