by David Rain
Skip turned back and stared ahead, watching the road as though she were the driver; Mr Novak smiled in her direction as if he were any ordinary neighbour and she any ordinary neighbour’s child. They spoke, but said nothing. Poor Barry. Terrible. Yes, a shock. The funeral? Funerals were sad. Something in the dashboard rattled, and Skip wondered if she ought to say, ‘What’s that?’ or ‘You’ll have to get that seen to.’ People said that sort of thing, didn’t they – normal people? But Mr Novak was speaking. And what, he asked her, was she looking forward to most? She did not at first realise he was talking about the Show. What should she say: haunted house? Maze of mirrors? A fearful vision came to her of Vincent Price stalking her, tracking her through silver corridors.
Did she know, Mr Novak went on, that he would be at the Show himself, running cartoons for the kiddies in a room at the back of the Arch L. Gull Memorial Hall? Perhaps she’d like to look in for a while. Or was Skip Wells too old for Bugs Bunny (‘What’s up, doc?’), Porky Pig (‘Be-de-be-deep-deep, that’s all, folks!’ – did Mr Novak, in his Czech accent, really say that?), Roadrunner (‘Meep! Meep!’) and Kyot. Poor Kyot! Did she think he’d ever catch that pesky bird?
Yes. Yes, she did. He’ll rip it apart today.
The Ferris wheel, emerging over a line of trees, made a colourful clockface against the sky. Screams sounded distantly. Skip could think of only one thing: the pink Valiant, purple in the night, crunching up the drive of the old Dansie house, with the men talking quietly in the front, unaware of the stowaway in the back. What had Vincent Price said? ‘They’ll find me out in time.’ And yet he seemed not to believe in time at all. ‘We talk about the future,’ he had said, ‘but it’s only ever a story we tell. We’re in the loop of the present, going round and round. Up and down Volcano Street. Up and down, up and down.’
Mr Novak said now, ‘You’re not as thick with my son as you used to be.’ His tone was neutral, not accusing at all.
‘I suppose,’ said Skip.
‘Suppose? Did something happen?’
She shook her head and tried to think of something else to say – anything, to hold back what she feared must come next: I know it was you, Skip, outside the old Dansie house.
The Valiant slowed as they reached the showground gates. Noise filled the air: cars, voices, bicycle bells, music. Mr Novak looked at Skip fondly, and said that perhaps she ought to hop out here. It would take him a while to park. Relieved, confused, she thanked him for the ride.
He nodded. She had walked a few steps from the car when he called her back. He reached into his jacket and then extended towards her a dusty crumpled rectangle of paper. ‘Yours, I believe. You dropped it.’
The time capsule envelope was creased, dirty, and the seal was broken. Appalled, she looked up at Mr Novak again, but already the Valiant was nosing away, joining the queue of cars for the parking lot.
The letter burned in her hand. As she stood in line for the ticket booths, she tore it into bits, and crushed the confetti in the dirt beneath her feet. Impatiently she shoved her coins across the counter and fled into the Show.
She wandered blindly. Elbows stabbed her, broad backs blocked her way, but she pushed through where she could. Canvas aisles channelled her past flowers, food, art. Here, the roses. First prize: Mrs E. Sutton. Ladies in hats and gloves and pearls cooed admiringly. Here, the lamingtons. First prize: Mrs V. Lumsden. And here, posing for a photographer, the lady herself, plastic teeth beaming. And over here? Stinky enormous cheeses. And there? Fine specimens of Australian flora, some in watercolour, some in oils – some of them (this was much remarked upon) the work of armless artists who held their brushes with their mouths or feet. ‘Mar-vellous what those poor people can do, isn’t it?’ shrieked one stringy farmer’s wife to another, who nodded sagely.
In the animal sheds, where fluorescent lights, yards long, glared hollowly under galvanised iron, Skip inhaled the bristly reek of straw, combined in a heady cocktail with the brown damp animal smell and its undertow of shit. Look at that merino with its curling horns. Look at that pony with its furry flares. Look at that fat sow, just like Auntie Noreen. First prize: Mrs N. Puce.
The sow on its straw, stricken in fatness, teats protruding pinkly from its belly, seemed suddenly obscene, and Skip hurried from the sheds. She was lonely. She was frightened. She was hungry too. She had spent all her money on the admission charge. Children trailed by, laughing.
There was nothing to do. She trudged through a display of Massey Ferguson tractors. Rubber and oil could smell as bad as shit. At the back of the Arch L. Gull Memorial Hall a sign announced: CARTOON FUN TIME. She turned away briskly, but not before a figure emerged and hailed her: ‘Wait!’
She didn’t want to, but the crowds were thick, the hand gripped her arm, and the familiar face grinned into hers. Skip had not spoken to Honza since Auntie Noreen banished him from the sleepout. But Honza seemed to have forgotten all about her aunt’s threats. ‘Guess what?’ he said. ‘Just blagged five dollars off of Dad.’
‘Congratulations,’ Skip said sourly.
‘Been on the Ferris wheel yet?’ said Honza.
How dense could one boy be? If he cared or noticed that tragedy had engulfed her, he chose not to mention it. Why would he? The sun shone, music played, and crumpled in his pocket was a five-dollar note. Laughing, he led her towards the sideshows, and Skip (she had to admit it) was glad to follow. Bunting fluttered over the crowded alleys and tinny music mingled on the air, rolling out the barrel by the old mill stream, last night in dreamland in a gilded cage.
Their first ride was the Octopus. Whirling on its vigorous arms, one moment crushed against Honza, the next sliding away, Skip was exhilarated in spite of herself. The crowds, the tents, the sheds, the cars, the green paddocks whizzed dizzyingly by below, and she wanted to be dizzy, laughing as they tumbled like drunkards out of the car. ‘Again!’ cried Honza, and would have bought them a second turn, but Skip urged him on: too much to see.
Too much to do: a world of toffee apples, kewpie dolls, painted chipped horses and moving metal clowns, the sugary aroma of candyfloss and donuts, and revolving over it all, like the wheel of time, the Ferris wheel. The man who operated it had only one ear; where the other should have been was a thrilling dark hole in bonelike skin. A lady in a high wig, hoop earrings and a long red dress paraded outside the fortune teller’s tent, drumming up custom. A man who might have been the Wizard of Oz, with cane and top hat, a fob chain gleaming across his straining girth, stumped back and forth across a platform under a banner proclaiming: MARVEL OF MARVELS. Skip let Honza lead the way. He had the money, of course, but more than that she wanted him to lead, wanted somebody else to be in charge.
They had just jumped down from the dodgem cars when three faces appeared before them: Lummo, with his ballooning chins; Shaun Kenny, acne red-raw; Andreas Haskas licking a toffee apple, tongue protruding redly.
‘Well, well!’ Lummo began. ‘What have we here?’
Shaun Kenny began, ‘One Czech wog –’
Andreas Haskas finished, ‘– and his mole mate.’ (Lick.)
‘Come on, Honza.’ Skip tried to pass, but Kenny pushed her in the chest. She staggered. Lummo pushed her further back, and Haskas jabbed his toffee apple into Honza’s face like a burning brand.
‘What you see in this one, Novak? Flat and ugly – get it?’
‘Where’s your cousin, Skippy? Dug him up yet?’
‘Get fucked.’ Honza broke away, dragging Skip behind him. Both were surprised when the Lum’s Den let them go. They expected pursuit, a murderous game of hide and seek among the sideshow labyrinths. But the three boys passed on, guffawing; there was, after all, everything to do, and Lummo, for now, only flung back a single taunt: ‘We’ll be watching you!’ He poked a fat finger into the air, and Skip realised that he was plastered. Blotto. What would Valmai Lumsden think if she could see her precious son?
Shambling off, the boy made a metallic rattle; the pockets of his long shorts bulged and sagged.
Skip had heard that sound before, that chunky hard susurrus, deep in a slimy well in the dark: coins in bulk, shifting, shifting. Her face flared scarlet. ‘I could kill those bastards.’
‘Hah! Don’t reckon you could.’
She punched Honza’s bicep. ‘Could so!’
He rubbed his arm. ‘They’re in the money. You know they’ve got the dosh from the wishing well? Lummo was bragging in the boys’ toilets on Thursday. He reckons they’ll spend it all today.’
‘That copper had my bag,’ Skip said, confused.
‘Not mine. Lummo buggered off with my rucksack that night.’ Honza gestured around them. ‘I reckon he’s hid it at the Show. Stands to reason, don’t it? Couldn’t carry it all around with him. Couldn’t keep it at home. That fat bastard’s stashed it somewhere.’
‘And every so often he fills his pockets?’
‘Want to go on the Ferris wheel?’
The Ferris wheel was the best thing at the Show. Round and round it went, up and down, high and low, like life, like fortune. Girls were meant to scream as it turned skywards; Skip watched silent and unblinking, lightly gripping the chipped metal rail that locked them in place. From on high, two worlds were laid out clearly below them: on one side, flowers, pigs, tractors – dreary, worthy, officially approved; on the other, sideshows with their bright illicit alleys. In the sky, the music was thinner, frailer. Skip had never been in an aeroplane but imagined it would be like this. Everybody loves Ferris wheels. Everybody loves aeroplanes. Everybody wants to be Superman, swooping over a world of toys.
Gazing down into the alleys, Skip pointed. ‘Look!’
‘Where?’ Honza had been humming.
The Lum’s Den, emerging from the crowd, had veered towards the back of the tents. Lummo led the way. Weaving between caravans and cars, he appeared furtive, steering clear of sideshow folk on breaks who sprawled on patches of grass, or leaned, smoking, against bonnets of cars. All the cars were old.
Shakily, the Ferris wheel swung down.
‘They’re up to no good, I’ll bet,’ said Skip.
Honza shrugged. Perhaps he wanted to pretend for now that no Lum’s Den existed. On Monday, at school, he would know all too well that it did.
The wheel surged up again. ‘Where did they go?’
‘Maybe Lummo needed a piss.’
‘The rucksack.’ Conviction burned in Skip like fire. Honza must be right: Lummo had the rucksack hidden somewhere at the Show. She and Honza must steal it back. Impatiently now, she waited as the wheel brought them down, then up again, and was relieved when the ride was over.
They plunged back into the fray. ‘Ghost train next!’ Honza was insistent.
So was Skip. ‘Lum’s Den!’ But no Lum’s Den was in view.
Hovering blackly over the far end of the alleys was a house of canvas and lath, its high walls emblazoned with skeletons, monsters and sheeted ghosts. All afternoon, screams had issued from within. Reluctantly, Skip followed Honza to the tall house. A burly man with slack jowls, sullen behind levers, snaffled their coins; a pale youth with spidery, many-jointed fingers clamped them into a podlike car. Unimpressed, Skip looked around the flapping canvas veranda with its painted ghouls. Other cars, becalmed between rides, whirred and knocked on slithery tracks.
Rockingly, the car conveyed them into blackness. The ghost train was a roller-coaster of an unambitious sort, weaving its way upstairs and down through a darkened primitive stage set filled with skeletons, cobwebs, giant spiders, bats, corpses rising perpetually in coffins, House of Wax scenes of murders and executions, and a bolt-necked monster of a gangrenous green that lumbered forward, arms outstretched. Accompanying it all were recorded screams, cackles, sudden bursts of organ music, and sounds of thunder that shook the flimsy corridors. To these horrors Skip remained impassive; Honza, beside her, was stoical too, only jumping, not crying out, when draping bony fingers brushed his head.
They were rounding a corner past a pointy-hatted witch – a green-painted mannequin with Shylock nose and bicycle-reflector eyes – when the witch swayed, as if pushed from behind, and toppled onto the track. Crushingly, the car swept the mannequin along.
Honza twisted to look back. ‘Somebody’s there. On the ledge.’
Thumping footsteps sounded over the music. They heard a scuffle; and a cry, too close to their ears, made them gasp. Something – a boot, perhaps – struck the side of their car, then all the cars shuddered to a halt. Time itself might have been running down. There was silence. No music, no thunder.
Somebody laughed. A panel opened, exposing the corridor to searing daylight. Bewildered, Skip and Honza climbed out of the car and walked, as if to salvation, towards the light; other kids trailed raggedly behind. The burly man bellowed, ‘Come on, come on,’ and the spider-fingered youth pushed past them grimly, footsteps shaking the plywood floor.
Not until they stood with the crowd on the lawn outside, staring back at the evacuated house, did Skip and Honza realise what had happened. Yelling, the youth emerged with two ghosts struggling in his grip: one, a cursing Andreas Haskas; the other, a cowering Shaun Kenny. Lummo, grinning, slouched behind them. The burly man, to cheers from the crowd, slapped the back of Lummo’s head, then swore as the fat boy kicked him in the shins. Laughing, the Lum’s Den made their escape, fists in the air like sporting heroes.
A little girl next to Skip said, ‘They was them ones in the maze.’
Skip said, ‘The maze of mirrors?’
The girl nodded, pigtails waggling. ‘Mirrors got broke. Fatty couldn’t find his way out. So he smashed his way out.’
Skip grabbed Honza’s arm. ‘Let’s follow them.’
‘They’re drunk.’ He sounded awe-struck. ‘Totally pissed.’
‘You’ve only just realised?’ Sometimes Skip felt older than Honza.
Their task was clear. That afternoon, they would avenge themselves on the Lum’s Den. They would bide their time, but they would do it. No matter what it took. For a while their enemies vanished, but soon they were back: Lummo at the shooting gallery, firing askew (‘Eh, watch it, son!’); Kenny, to guffaws, swinging back the hammer on the try-your-strength machine (‘Bad luck, boyo! Better luck next time’); Haskas clambering up on a fence, making a wild leap for an Octopus car just as the cars were about to whirl.
‘Go for it, Greaso!’ Lummo cried, even as the operator swept forward and tossed Haskas back over the fence like a sack. The boy lay in the dust, shouting abuse, until Lummo and Kenny bent down to haul him up, when the abuse turned to screams. Crowds watched, enthralled, as Haskas was surrounded by sideshow folk, who pushed and prodded him until one little man declared, as if in triumph, ‘The bugger’s broke his arm!’ Gently, they bore away the shrieking boy.
‘Let’s get more dosh,’ said Honza, and made Skip follow him to Cartoon Fun Time where, at the end of a fuzzy beam of light, a flea in a Mexican hat spotted Elmer Fudd’s dog and yammered out that there was food around the corner, food around the corner for me. On the floor, little kids variously wailed, laughed, punched each other, or curled up on cushions, asleep.
Skip hung back while Honza begged his father for just a few more dollars. Mr Novak sighed and reached for his wallet. He winked at Skip. ‘Having a good time?’ She shrugged. Twice that afternoon she had thought of telling Honza what she knew about his father: once on the Ferris wheel, before they spotted the Lum’s Den; once as they squatted between tents, eating candyfloss. But both times something had held her back. Her thoughts, the revelations she might make, had seemed no more solid than the sugary nothingness on the stick in her hand.
Mr Novak threaded a new film through the projector. Light, juddering into brightness, caught his foreign face and cut it into jagged, shadowy planes. He was a strange man. A stranger. Like Vincent Price.
On their way back to the sideshows, Skip and Honza passed a lady in a violent floral frock who tugged a boy by the ear. Skip had to look a second time at the villain: Shaun Kenny. Twisting away from his mother, h
e threw up on the grass. Mrs Kenny looked away with lemon-sucking lips.
‘Guess what?’ said Skip. ‘That means Lummo’s alone.’
The afternoon had drawn towards dusk, and the painted colours on canvas and plasterboard took on an unearthly glow. Rows of bulbs, suspended like grapes, winked on above the alleys, where the crowds remained unthinned and their fervour rose with the empurpling sky.
They found Lummo at the Ferris wheel. The wheel was becalmed and a queue waited, impatient and complaining, as the fat boy on the creaky wooden platform demanded a turn on the ride. The man without an ear said no. ‘You’re drunk, boyo. You’re disorderly.’
‘I can pay!’ Lummo plunged a hand into a bulging pocket. A seam gave way and the Treasure of the Sierra Madre, like a sudden nightmare pants-wetting, clattered down his trouser leg. He was on his knees, scrabbling for the bullion, when the man with no ear kicked him in the arse, sending him tumbling down the steps. ‘I’ll get you!’ Lummo spat, and forced his way through a group of kids. Squealing girls parted to let him by; a boy tripped him, and he sprawled again, but picked himself up and plunged into the gap between Marvel of Marvels and the fortune teller’s tent.
‘He’s off to his hideout,’ said Skip. ‘I’ll bet he is.’
On the platform outside Marvel of Marvels, now lit brilliantly, a bearded lady sashayed in a many-tasselled bikini while the Wizard of Oz barked through a megaphone, inviting all the ladies and gentlemen and little chickadees to roll up, roll up for the strangest critters in creation: half-man, half-goat! Man with no limbs! Smallest boy in the world!
‘Let’s get him.’ Skip followed Lummo into the gap. She couldn’t see him ahead; he must have turned a corner. Honza came after her, but it seemed without enthusiasm. Briefly, she wondered why.
Behind the tents was another, wider grassy corridor where the caravans of sideshow folk backed on to the alley. Skip peered around the corner in time to see Lummo propel himself forward, as if he too were about to chuck, then lunge into the back of Marvel of Marvels. He was gone. Puzzled, Skip looked at Honza.