A miserable hour passed in the alley as JJ tried to console himself. When he emerged his tears had dug rivulets in the face paint, and white spatters dripped down his chest. He cocked his head and listened, but heard only the distant wooden
thock-thock-thock
of the woodchoppers rehearsing. Casting worried glances behind him, he headed down the main path and wondered where he could go, still truant from rehearsal after all.
Someone called his name. ‘JJ? Jamie?’
He almost broke down on the spot, but it wasn’t the acrobats. It was Winston. ‘Oh, thank God!’ JJ cried, so relieved he dropped to his knees. ‘It’s only you.’
Winston jogged over, puffing. ‘Yeah? Who were you expecting?’
‘No one. I resent your accusation. I did not throw that mud.’
‘That explains the mud on your hands, you damn fool,’ Winston said. He sighed. ‘At least I know what happened now. Want to give me your side of the story?’
‘No.’
Winston grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him into a nearby tent. His voice was sharp. ‘Now listen to me. You got your paint on for the first time, so I understand you ain’t completely responsible for whatever you’re doin’, but the fun’s over. Get yourself under control.’
JJ was in tears again.
‘Cut it out,’ Winston snapped. ‘That’s just what I’m talking about.’ He pulled out a handkerchief and began wiping the paint from JJ’s face, but JJ pushed him away. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘I’m still trying to, you know, vibe it for a while.’
‘All right,’ said Winston. ‘But you ain’t leaving my sight for the rest of the day. Got that? Now tell me what happened with the acrobats. You threw mud at ’em? That’s it?’
JJ nodded and tried to hold in a giggle; it came out anyway but he turned it into a pained sob. ‘Self-defence,’ he said. ‘They insulted me. There I was, swapping pancake recipes in Sideshow Alley. Out of nowhere, they surrounded me. The rest is a blur. I believe I was shoved in the back. Twice. When I fell, I must have inadvertently scraped my hands in a
puddle. I proceeded to stand up, and upon standing moved my hands thusly —’ he demonstrated — ‘to ward off their onslaught. Some of the mud must have flicked onto them. That’s all it took. They chased me through the circus. They’re
insane
, Winston.’
Winston regarded him with a stony face and sighed. ‘One thing I can be glad of, that’s saved more’n a few lives, is that Doopy and Goshy don’t have a brain between them. Rufshod’s got about half and he does more than enough damage with that. You got a whole one, son — or just enough of one for serious trouble. If you want to get yourself hurt, get yourself hurt. Leave the rest of us out of it. You’ve started some drama today that’ll come back on all of us.’
JJ nodded his head, playing the attentive grandson. ‘Did the acrobats give you a different version of events?’ he said.
‘Nope. They popped into our tent though, so we knew somethin’ was up. They don’t go near us when we rehearse. We don’t normally bother their rehearsals either. Kind of a truce we made, because things were getting nasty a while back, murderous nasty. But, today, in the middle of a routine we were workin’ on, they came in, wished us luck with our next show, and that was that.’
‘Sounds
awful
,’ said JJ.
‘They’re sending us a message, you fool. It’s on again. Was just words up till now. Figured you were the one to start it. They mentioned you. Said,
That new guy of yours is going to work out great
. Said you’d be a real superstar. We been wondering what you did. Rufshod can’t wait to hear all about it.’
An uncomfortabnle thought intruded on JJ’s glee. ‘Ah … what about the boss?’
‘Gonko was kinda quiet about it. Just told me to come find you.’ Winston ran a hand over his face. ‘You just threw some mud? That was it?’
‘I swear.’
‘Right. Then it may not be too bad. We’ll see.’ He strolled out of the tent and JJ followed. ‘Guess no one’s given you a proper look around yet,’ said Winston with a sigh. ‘That might as well fall on me. Every other bloody thing does.’
JJ let Winston lead him around, pointing out this and that, offering wheezy commentary and trivia. He pretended to take it all with timid respect, he was for now JJ the shy, vulnerable, overwhelmed new clown. He jumped at shadows, clung to Winston’s shirt, pleaded with him not to walk so fast, because by gosh he’d hate to get lost. Winston appeared to buy the act and offered words of comfort, told him not to worry, damn it, stop acting like a pansy.
‘What else can I show you, then?’ Winston muttered. They’d stopped for a breather by the funhouse, having done a circuit of the woodchoppers’ pit and the lion tamer’s ring, and made a trip to Sideshow Alley for a hot dog. JJ had played nice around the carnies in front of Winston, but there was no disguising the loathing glances they sent his way. ‘I want to meet the boss,’ JJ said. ‘This “Kurt” I keep hearing about.’
Winston considered this very carefully. ‘Might be a good idea,’ he said. ‘Generally you don’t want to be near either of the Pilos, if you get my drift. If they come lookin’ for you chances are you’re in the stew, which’ll happen to you soon enough, the way you’re carryin’ on. Maybe we can at least make the first impression a good one. Come on.’
Winston led him down a narrow path he hadn’t ventured down before, where the grass was dry and yellow. A few dilapidated wooden cabins sat beside it, abandoned like old headstones. Winston lowered his voice to keep the passing carnies from overhearing. ‘Now, Kurt Pilo is pretty hard to gauge, ’cause you never know what’ll offend him this week as opposed to the last. Just act natural. If he makes a joke, make damn sure you laugh at it.’
‘So Kurt’s in charge of the whole shindig, huh?’ said JJ.
‘Kurt and George Pilo are who we take orders from,’ said Winston. ‘That’s all you need to know. The MM’s up there with them, but he’s stuck in the funhouse most of the time, sculpting or making the face paint we use, and God knows what else he does. There’s a few others like him, comers and goers doin’ whatever they do away from the rest of us.’
They came to the western edge of the showgrounds, a place free of attractions, with a quiet and stillness in the air which would tell any stray tricks they had taken a wrong turn. Ahead was a tiny white caravan propped up on cinder blocks, covered in chipped white paint, sitting alongside a tall wooden fence.
‘Hey, what’s on the other side of that?’ JJ said, pointing at the fence.
‘Nothing worth seeing, and I wouldn’t try and climb it, just between you and me. That caravan’s Kurt Pilo’s home, if you ever need to know. Here’s hoping you won’t.’
‘This little shit box?’ JJ cried. ‘The
boss
lives here? Our tent’s better than this!’
‘Never mind that, just remember what I told you. Seen and not heard.’
They walked up the tin steps and Winston rapped on the door. From within a very deep voice called: ‘Hmmm?’
Winston opened the door, which creaked like a coffin lid, and they went in. The trailer walls were covered in faded daisy-patterned wallpaper, and crucifixes hung over them at all angles. The floor was a cluttered mess of manila folders, clipped-together bundles of paper and, to JJ’s surprise, dozens of Bibles lying in neat stacks or splayed open face down as though cast aside over the reader’s shoulder. At the back of the caravan, half-buried in paperwork, was a wooden desk, behind which sat Kurt Pilo with a ballpoint pen in his hand.
JJ’s heart seemed to go still; it was the monster Jamie had seen at the fortune-teller’s hut. Jamie had nearly wet himself, and with good reason. Staring up at JJ were two unnaturally bright eyes framed by thick bony sockets: wolf’s eyes. Kurt Pilo’s head was bald and glistening, his face was far too long from crown to jaw, and his lips were thick and blue like a fish’s, twisted up into a smile that seemed docile. A predatory energy seemed to radiate from him, as palpable as heat, yet when he spoke it was in a cultured, civilised almost silken tone. ‘Hello, Winston. Who’s this you’ve brought along? Someone new? Someone borrowed, someone blue?’ Kurt’s fish lips stretched at the corners. ‘My little joke,’ he said. ‘Do you think you’ll use that in the act, Winston?’
‘Maybe so, sir,’ said Winston. His voice was unsteady. JJ watched him swallow, set his jaw and pretend to feel no fear. ‘I’d have to put it to Gonko, Mr Pilo, but it’s a fine gag.’
‘Hm,’ said Kurt in a satisfied way.
‘This here,’ said Winston, ‘is young Jamie. Or JJ, I suppose. He’s our newest employee. Newest clown.’
‘Oh, splendid!’ said Kurt, who turned his full attention to JJ. ‘Come closer. Let’s shake hands.’
JJ’s legs felt weak. He approached the desk, almost tripped over a Book of Mormons, and held a hand out for Kurt to
grasp. Kurt’s eyes sparkled with white light as his giant hand enveloped JJ’s. JJ could feel the crushing power in those fingers, and he glanced down to assure himself the vise was not about to close, for he couldn’t maintain eye contact while Kurt’s eyes were glittering with that light. It did his nerves no good at all — he saw talons and fur encasing his hand, and it was all he could do to stop himself from yanking it back.
Finally Kurt released his grip, which had actually been quite gentle. JJ stepped back from the desk, mumbling awkwardly, ‘Pleased to meetcha, howd’ya do …’
Kurt’s fish lips stretched wider — surely they were about to snap like elastic. ‘Tell me, JJ,’ he said, ‘do you believe in Jesus?’
JJ took a glance at the crucifixes and stacks of Bibles and wondered if it was a trick question. Yes or no? Damn it, he was caught. ‘Sometimes,’ he ventured.
For an instant he thought he’d blown it, but Kurt actually seemed pleased. He said, ‘I like that! What a lovely answer. Do you find it odd that we pay homage to the device used to torture and kill him?’ Kurt plucked a crucifix from his desk and held it in his giant hand. ‘It’s a beautiful artefact. You could whip a god … all day long.’
Feeling encouraged now that Kurt’s gaze wasn’t fixed on him, JJ said, ‘Yes sir, they knew how to treat a criminal in those days.’
He heard Winston take in a sharp breath. Perhaps JJ was skating on thin ice here, but the newfound clown in him
wanted
to test Kurt Pilo, by God. He wanted to push him, see what he could get away with before the big goon snapped. It was almost an independent reflex and he could barely control it.
Spit on his desk!
a part of him screamed.
Get your dick out! Fuck with him, let’s see what he’s made of!
But Kurt rocked back in his chair and started to laugh. It was a deep laugh and made the trailer walls shake. He put a finger to his face and wiped away a tear. JJ winced as a talon scraped at the corner of Kurt’s eye and drew a trickle of black blood. Kurt didn’t appear to notice. ‘Thank you, JJ,’ he said. ‘I needed that. Lifted my spirits. I’ve been having trouble with my brother George — old family spat, you know how these things go. I tried to kill him last Wednesday, and he seems upset that I did it while he was defecating, you see … Long story. But yes, it brings me to something I’ve been pondering. Don’t you find it odd that Satan acts as God’s policeman?’
JJ nodded, his eyes following the thick drop of blood sliding down Kurt’s cheek.
‘So do I,’ Kurt went on. ‘The strangest thing, isn’t it? Satan only gets his way with those who break the rules. He never gets to …
pluck
people off the street and have his way with them.’ The blood reached the corner of Kurt’s lips. ‘Ah well, enough of that for now. Welcome to the circus. We’ve a fine tradition to uphold, I suppose. That seems the sort of thing a proprietor might say …’ Kurt reached under his desk. When he straightened he held a dead tabby cat in his giant hands. ‘If you’ll excuse me gentlemen, all work and no play …’
‘How’s the collection coming along, boss?’ said Winston timidly.
‘Good, good,’ said Kurt. ‘I’ve got plenty from kittens, but no full grown cats at the moment. I run through them so fast, you know.’ Kurt laid the dead animal across his desk, then opened a drawer and produced a set of pliers.
‘Well, good afternoon to you, sir,’ said Winston, pulling JJ out by the shoulder.
‘And to you,’ Kurt said distractedly. ‘Thanks for bringing the new one. Nice to have a hands-on … thingy … with the staff …’
JJ’s last look at Kurt Pilo as the trailer door swung closed showed the huge man’s eyes lighting up as he opened the cat’s mouth and got a grip on its teeth with the pliers. As they headed down the tin steps they heard Kurt say, ‘Ah, there we go …’
JJ said, ‘What’s he —’
‘Collects teeth,’ Winston muttered. ‘All kinds.’
They walked back down the narrow path, Winston sighing with relief.
‘What was that he said about trying to kill his brother?’ said JJ.
‘It’s not a new thing. Those two are at it all the time, as long as I can remember. One of them dies, the other runs the show. The whole show. Something to do with Pilo Senior’s will, but no one knows the details.’ Winston considered. ‘No way in hell George is going to get the drop on Kurt. It might work the other way around, but still, they both survived a long time already. Both too cunning.’
‘Winston, ever seen Kurt Pilo mad? Really mad? Ever seen him really tee off on someone?’
Winston had a distant look in his eyes, and when he answered, JJ thought he was lying. ‘I don’t think so. Not that I’d want to. Nor would you. Understand?’
‘Sure, I’d hate to see that,’ said JJ the clown.
With a couple of hours to kill before sunset, Winston took him to the freak show. Fishboy greeted JJ warmly, and took
all his attempts at provocation with such good humour and diplomacy that JJ had trouble maintaining the effort. Fishboy saw the funny side when JJ squirted him in the eye with water, pinched his gills, even when he made a crack about pissing in his spawning pond. Fishboy had the manners of a British gentleman, agreeing with the derogatory remarks even as they became more caustic and heartfelt. ‘Face like a smashed crab, you say? I’d defend my honour, but you are one hundred per cent correct!’
JJ lapsed into sullen silence and let Fishboy show him the exhibits. He allowed JJ to feed Nugget, the severed head, by dropping protein flakes into the chin-deep water. He armwrestled Yeti and lost convincingly. He gloated while Steve scrubbed the dried fleshy ooze at the bottom of Tallow’s glass case. JJ left the freak show in high spirits, and couldn’t help agreeing with Gonko: Fishboy was a grand feller, a stand-up guy and a fine curator.
Afternoon became evening as they retired to their tent. The other clowns were playing poker and chatting about the day’s rehearsal. JJ remembered then that he’d skipped it — he very quickly took the strut from his walk and replaced it with meek old-lady stutters. Time once again for Mr Timid, Mr Please Don’t Hurt Me.
Winston muttered something under his breath and wandered off to his room. Goshy’s head happened to be pointed in JJ’s direction as he walked in, and he made a noise like a hooting barn owl. Doopy turned about. ‘Hey, it’s the new guy. Gonko, the new guy’s back. Gonko, look!’
Gonko turned and squinted up at him. ‘Why, hello young JJ,’ he said.
JJ flinched backwards as though he’d been struck.
‘Come on in, feller,’ Gonko said in a gentle coaxing voice. ‘’Atta boy. We won’t hurt ya. Rufshod might, but we’ll hurt him back. Come on, sit down here, feller.’
JJ made his hands tremble and lips pucker with fright. He crept slowly to the table and sat between Rufshod and Doopy. The apprentice was nowhere to be seen.
‘Good news, feller,’ said Gonko. ‘Rehearsal was spotless. We’re gonna sit Goshy out for now. He’s still a bit scrambled thanks to his lady troubles. Women, huh Gosh?’
Goshy made a low gurgling sound.
‘But the rest of us, bang on, dead sharp, well-oiled machine and all that shit. We’ll blow them acrofucks out of the water. Which reminds me …’ Gonko’s voice lost its brightness. ‘What did you do to ’em?’
JJ didn’t feel like having this conversation again. He stood as though startled by the question, turned on his heel and ran, sobbing like an affronted soap actress. No one followed.
In his room, he lay back and pondered the day’s events. He pondered Winston, and wondered how he could use the guy’s kindness for his own ends. If JJ was to climb the clown hierarchy, it was time to step on a rung.
And now …
And now, what? Take off the face paint? What the hell. JJ fumbled around for a rag. It was getting dark so he lit a candle, sending shadows scurrying over the enclosed little space. The sight of his surrounds filled him with a sudden fondness for his new job, his new life. ‘Yeah,’ he whispered. ‘This is just dandy.’
He wiped his face clean. The paint came off with ease thanks to a day’s worth of sweat and tears. He dropped the greasy rag and lay back, instantly asleep.
Sleep was filled with a nightmare; a line of chained people stood docile as cattle while Kurt Pilo walked past, sucking blood from the neck of each one. Jamie was puncturing their necks for him with a finger turned into a thin blade as Kurt made pleasant small talk between sucks.
Jamie woke and sat up, and the instant he moved his body clenched in nausea. He moaned, whimpered, pleaded for God to stop the pain. It felt like a swarm of insects was eating him from inside. He had never felt pain this bad.
Soon he wondered why he was trying not to scream; scream he did, and it trailed off pitifully. There was a commotion outside and mumbling voices. Soon Winston came in. ‘Ah, yep,’ the old clown said. ‘Forgot about this. After-effects of the face paint. Sorry, Jamie, I should have remembered.’
‘It’s okay,’ Jamie gasped, ‘just, how do I make it stop?’
‘Right. You got that little bag Gonko gave you? Your salary? You know, the powder?’
Jamie tried to remember through the latest spasm in his gut. He bunched into a foetal ball and felt the bag in his pocket pressing against his thigh. He dug it out and handed it to Winston, who had a small clay bowl in his hands.
‘I heard how you came to be here,’ said Winston, opening the bag. ‘About how you accidentally swallowed some o’ this stuff. I’m guessing the accident part, because what kind of lunatic would swallow some weird lookin’, weird smellin’, weird
sounding
powder he just picked up off the ground from out of a clown’s pocket?’