by Olivia Levez
I try to lift her, and she weighs no more than a child. ‘We’ll go to Paris, remember? Where you’ve always wanted to go? Well, I saw a sign by the pier – there’s a new circus there that’s looking for new acts. I think I’m finally ready, Suz. I can do my fire-eating act, and the trapeze too…’
And all the time, I’m listening, checking over the top of the cliff for the sight of an enraged Father Bear.
He’ll get the security guard first, alert the staff about the danger to his son, and then he’ll insist they call the police.
‘We’ve got to go,’ I hiss, grabbing Suz by the arm. We won’t be able to walk out of the main exit now. We’ll have to head back through the tunnels. Hope no one sees us climb out of the grille. Suz looks dizzy.
‘I don’t – I can’t –’
‘No time for that now. Hurry!’
I remove her leopardskin coat from her too-sharp shoulders, make her lift her arms as I pull on one of Beanie’s sweaters, zip her into a hoodie, soft and sweet-smelling with its designer logo.
‘Nice,’ she murmurs, rubbing her cheek against it.
‘Don’t fall asleep again, Suz. We have to go – now.’
I shove the rest of our food into a carrier bag, and try to pull Suz up from her nest.
I know immediately that it’s not going to work. Suz staggers a few steps, sighs, then sags. The only way I’m going to get us both to the coach station is if I carry her.
I have barely reached the first tunnel when I hear them.
‘That’s the pistol she used to threaten my son!’
I left it on the ledge, next to a plastic wrecker manhandling a tiny keg up the cliff face. They’ll be climbing over the cliff top now, swinging their torches around our recent home.
Did I clear up all our evidence? Will they find anything? Suz is a dead weight, even with my trapeze-trained shoulders. She sighs and slides.
‘Where are we going, Frog?’
‘Shhh!’
Father Bear blunders into our tunnel.
‘Are you in there?’ he calls. ‘We know that you are. I won’t have anyone frightening my son, d’you hear?’
Suz shrinks in my arms, eyes squeezed shut. ‘Make him go away,’ she whispers, and her voice is that of a much younger girl.
Torchlight sweeps the cave floor.
I stagger up the left-hand turn and stumble straight into a wagon full of caskets. In front of us, waxwork wreckers are knocking back ale in the midst of their ill-gotten gains.
That’s when I make a decision.
Now You See Me
I have hidden Suz amongst the barrels and sacks at the bottom of the wagon. Beside us, a fibreglass donkey hangs its head. I lean to kiss my friend, and she is all bones and hollows. No one will notice her there, I think, just another bundle of rags.
‘I’ll come back for you, Suz, I promise,’ I tell her.
But she’s already asleep.
They’ve found me.
The electric light snaps on and I force myself not to flinch.
‘I’ve called the police,’ Father Bear shouts. ‘We know you’re the one they’re looking for. You need to give yourself up now. Be a good girl.’
I breathe through my mouth, light as possible. I can’t have a panic attack now. Please don’t make me.
Next to me, an old crone in widow’s rags opens her mouth in a silent yowl of fear. Her teeth are yellow stumps behind frozen lips. My smuggler’s jerkin is hot and itchy, my hands sweaty as I try to keep them still. I have positioned myself right at the back of the storeroom, behind a scowling browed smuggler, cheeks flushed rec with drink,
‘She’s in here somewhere. Shine the torch in their eyes.’
‘Are you sure all this is necessary, sir? We pride ourselves on our –’
But what he prides himself on I never find out because they’re already moving amongst the waxwork figures, shining the beam in their gurning faces.
I can’t blink. I must not blink.
Tarquin’s father’s in the second row now, pushing his way through, breathing heavily. He’s so close that I can make out the logo on his polo shirt:JC Cording & Co Ltd.An expensive brand. Daddy once bought an entire shooting outfit from their shop in Piccadilly when he was trying to impress a client.
Please don’t let him notice me.
He shines the torch into the eyes of the waxwork widow and she stares back frozenly.
My turn.
I stare back until my eyes water, and the pores on the sides of his nose blur and so do the gingery hairs in his carefully maintained stubble and then
and then
Blink.
Triple Twist
‘I’ve found her –’
I push him with both hands and knock waxworks down: the wreckers, the drunkards, the weeping women, the dragoons, the revenue men. My breath screams as I race for the door, barge past surprised tourists: a man with a baby strapped to his chest, a girl in a wheelchair, a boy with a head torch.
‘Stop that girl!’
And as I wend my way towards the ticket counter, towards the main exit, all I am thinking, the only thought that keeps pounding at me, is
I
can’t
leave
Suz.
But I can’t go back until the caves close, because if I do, they’ll find her.
I don’t know how long I wander, ducking into shadows, like a night creature afraid of the sun. In the end, exhausted, I find myself climbing inside one of the rotting fishing boats, the same one that me and Suz tied the fairground man up inside, a million years ago.
I haven’t long to wait, then I’ll go back for her. Shrink into the shadows, through the slatted sunlight, and sleep.
I dream of my mother, as I knew I would. She is dark and beautiful, shining in her gold dress. Her arms are raised high over her head, as if she is about to dive. I see that she is standing on a platform, above a pool of fire. Flames coil about her ankles.
I shout to her, to let her know the danger, and for a while it seems that she looks straight at me with her beautiful eyes. But then she twists, a graceful movement; she reaches round and unzips that sinuous spine. Her neck writhes and lengthens; she shrugs off her glamorous shoulders, and her dress shimmers into snakeskin chevrons.
She sheds one skin, then another,
and another,
until I see that,
after all,
she is only a snake,
which turns and
flickers its tongue,
then slithers
away.
Finale
I don’t know how I first know that something is wrong.
Maybe it’s the sympathy in the donkey’s plastic eyes, or the heavy silence as if the frozen drinkers are holding their breath. Or maybe it’s the fact that Suz really doesn’t seem to have moved at all; she’s still in exactly the same position.
I place a hand against her cheek, and snatch it away.
Everything stills.
Suz is cold. Her skin, when I touch it, is stone.
A mirror, I think. I need a mirror –
I don’t know why I think that. It’s like I’m a mad thing, fumbling through rags and bags, and even in Suz’s coat pocket, even though I know there isn’t one anywhere; it’s been weeks since we wore make-up.
But all the time, in the back of my mind, I know that I am only putting off what I already know.
Suz has slipped away.
Suz has left me.
Transcript of Telephone Conversation between DS Tracy Scallion and Willow Stephens, Monday 15 August 2016 at 4.07A.M.
Scallion: Willow? Are you crying, love?
[pause]
Scallion: Willow, tell me, lovey. Tell me what’s wrong.
Willow: I’m not…crying. I…
Scallion: Tell me what’s happened.
Willow: …won’t wake up…
Scallion: Who won’t wake up, love?
Willow: [incoherent]
Scal
lion: Shit.
Call ends.
They’re coming for me, Suz.
So we haven’t got long, OK?
They’re coming for me as I knew they would do, in the end. We had such a time together, didn’t we? And I’m sorry that you never got to see Paris. But Paris isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, not really. The boulevards are terribly long, and everything’s so far apart, and not nearly as friendly as London. And it’s awfully expensive. Nine Euros for a café noir! And the French aren’t remotely totally vegan, Suz, not at all.
Honestly, you’d have hated it.
Budge up, Suz. I know that you’re dead, but you’re taking up an awful lot of room at the bottom of this wagon. But it’s really rather comfy, isn’t it, after sleeping in a bus shelter?
You don’t half pong, Suz. Have I ever told you that? But it’s strange how I don’t mind one bit. I wonder where you’ve gone, now that you’ve left your physical being? Are you up there in the sky, Suz? Are you perched in your favourite spot on the rafters of that strange old house that you loved so much, or skimming over the ocean, like a breeze?
Who sang a line like that? It was from a film, I’m sure. It was that old movie with Dustin Hoffman as Ratso. The film that killed me, every time I watched it.
We hardly ever got to do anything normal like watching films, did we, Suz? We were always making plans and dreaming. Or we were foraging about, trying to survive the day.
But I wouldn’t change a minute of it, not even at the end. Because you were what I needed, Suz.
You were my breath of fresh air, my wake-up call.
And I want to say thank you. You can’t hear me, of course, I’m not stupid. I know that you’re not inside there, not any more. I felt that the moment I touched your cold cheek.
You’ve moved out. Paf! Just like that.
But I know where you’ll be. And I wish I could say my final goodbye, Suz. I wish there was time to wave you off.
There are noises inside the caves, the sound of running footsteps.
I’ll tuck you in. Kiss your cheek. I’m sorry that I’ve made it all wet, Suz, I know you won’t mind.
Ball breath.
Dragon’s arse.
Your feet are so cold, Suz, but I don’t mind. And I know that you’re not sorry that you’re dead. I’m happy if you’re happy. I’m only glad that I got to look after you, in the end, and to say sorry.
Because I am sorry, Suz. So sorry.
Goodbye,
Frog xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
(AKA Willow. I’m sorry about that, too.)
Hurly Burly
There are sounds, faraway. Shouts. Footsteps. Lights buzzing on. When I look over the top of the wagon I can see green and purple mood lighting sweeping the cave walls, the swoop of torchlight. Father Bear would have called out all the troops, to protect Junior from the mad and dangerous fugitive. I wonder what he’ll make of Daddy, and if they’ll ever meet?
Ooops. Daddy. Keep forgetting.
I lean over and give Suz’s cheek another, final kiss.
‘Goodbye, Suz,’ I say. ‘They’re coming for me now, so I really do have to go.’
I rummage around, find the Little Kit of Happiness. Tuck it under Suz’s arm.
‘I don’t need it anymore,’ I say. ‘Not where I’m going.’
I take one last look at her face, peaceful, childlike, still. Then I grab my bag, and climb over the rope.
Someone’s shouting my name. Scally’s voice.
But I am fast and I am strong. It take me no time at all to scramble up the tunnel and make my way through the grille to the seafront.
Running Girl
Roof-running’s easy.
Doesn’t matter that it’s a gable end, a railing. You hang, and the morning hangs with you.
Your terrain is gutters, ridges and gable ends. You share your world with gulls and rats and swallows.
I start with the confection of houses on the seafront. The Victorians have made them simple to climb. It is easy to take a running jump at the wall of a bay window, and push off with my foot to reach the railing on its roof. Below me, a dog walker gapes. I laugh, a choking laugh. I am mad, free. Suz, are you watching me? Are you?
My fingers grasp the edge of a balcony. I pound over ridges and ledges; grip chimney tops. Once, I slip. My body learns, rights itself straightaway. I vault over parapets, railings. Focus. Breathe. Leap. Land. Feet gripping, belly clenched.
Around me, windows glint pinkfire.
Sometimes, chimney flashing cuts.
Sometimes, window moulding crumbles.
Sometimes, the world stops.
A yawning space.
A voice says, Jump.
A world between worlds.
Certain as a cat, I leap.
Wide as houses, free as space.
I am Circus Girl. I am strong. Catch me if you dare. The streets are my circus now, the rooftops, my stage.
I pause, poised perfectly. I clench, pause,
hold
the balance point.
Then it re-begins: the runningdrummingthuddingpoundingheartpumpingheartstopping thrill of it all
and I can’t stop, can’t ever stop, because while I’m still running, it feels
it feels
like you’re
still
alive.
Dream Tours
It isn’t far to the coach stop. Six o’ clock, the lady said. I can still make it.
I have to make it.
I am exposed here. It’s still too early for the holidaymakers to start descending from buses and trains and boats; there’s only me, a few delivery people, and a couple of bold-eyed seagulls.
A man shouts something at me, and I flinch, thinking that he’s coming after me, a plain-clothes officer after the dangerous fugitive that is on the loose. But it’s fine, he’s simply warning me out of the way of his mate’s lorry, reverse-turning out of a side road.
Panting, lungs burning, I jog the few hundred metres to the coach stop.
The coach waits in the bus bay and fifty old ladies chatter like birds, waiting to get on.
Dream Tours, the sign on the coach says. Paris.
I take a breath.
It’s still here. I haven’t missed it.
A car cruises by. Its lights are turned off, but I know that it’s an unmarked police car. Everything about it screams it, from the man and the woman in the front seats, pretending to drink coffee from cardboard cups, to the glint in its letters on the rear number plate. That will be where they keep the infrared camera, for spotting fugitives like me. The BMW sits low at the back, because of all the kit it has to carry. I begin to sweat.
Dream Tours. Dream Tours. Dream Tours.
It’s like a beacon, pulling me.
The old ladies chatter and fuss. They’re dressed in their best clothes for their trip: dresses and jackets and brooches, but with new white trainers, for walking.
The driver looks bored, waiting. She’s scrolling down her iPhone, leaning against the front of the coach while the Dream Tours guide ticks off the ladies on her clipboard.
I pass her my ticket. Wait with drawn breath as she takes forever to find my name.
Sarah, I’ve put. Sarah Bean.
She takes my ticket and nods me on board. It is as easy as that.
Outside, the police car’s engine starts, and it cruises back along the seafront. The last old lady is helped onto the coach. There’s just the cases to put in the hold, and we’ll be off.
I lean my face against the glass. Beside me, on the seat, is Beanie’s bag, where Suz should be. I wipe my eyes with my sleeve, but it’s no good; I need to find the wet wipes, because that kind-looking old lady across the aisle is starting to stare, and I can’t draw attention to myself, not now, not when I’m so close.
I unzip the bag and find the wet wipes in the inside pocket, but there’s something attached to the sticky label that keeps them moist.
Something that makes me freeze when I look at it. A pink envelope with a pony’s face on the front.
A letter.
It’s in loopy writing, with carefully filled-in dots above the i’s. I know at once that it must be from Kayleigh-Ann.
Dear Willow,
If you get this, I want you to know that it has nothing to do with your dad. He doesn’t know. I’ve been trying to think how to get in touch with you for ever so long, Willow, even after what you did at our wedding. I just wanted you to know I don’t care about it, not at all. It was all perfect, in the end, but not as perfect as it would have been if you had been there too.
I know he’s told you that he’s not your dad, but he is, Willow, he really is. I see it every night, when he sits in his scruffy old chair and asks me to pour him another whiskey. Yes, he’s probably drinking too much, but don’t we all, when all’s said and done? We’ve all got our vices.
I love him, Willow. And he loves you, even though he isn’t much good at telling you that. Men! They’re crap at feelings. It might not be PC to say that, but I reckon it’s true.
I’ve started an Open University course. I’m reading all sorts of books, trying to improve myself like in that old film – Educating Rita. I’ve read The Woman in White, Pride and Prejudice, To Kill a Mockingbird. It was hard at first, because I was always rubbish at school, not bright like you, but now I love it. I’ve got my own bookshelf in the library, filled with my very own books. I’ve put cand les and fairy lights on the shelves too, and sometimes I just gaze at them instead of watching television, because it can be lonely, when your dad’s out working late, and books are such good company, aren’t they?
Anyway, I know I’m rambling on. I’ve never been much good at getting to the point.
I haven’t told your dad I’m writing. Beanie said she’d deliver this letter for me. If you don’t answer it, I’ll understand, and I promise I won’t tell where you are. Me and Beanie don’t want you to get caught, not if you don’t want to. But I want you to know that there’s always a home for you here, and a little sister too, in a couple of weeks. I keep my fingers crossed that she’ll get to meet her big sister!