Jamie reached down and undid the ropes knotted around the priest’s wrists. The priest struggled and tried to fight him. ‘Shh, I’m letting you out,’ Jamie said. ‘Don’t make a sound, okay?’
‘Thank God,’ the priest said, though the words came out strangely. Jamie saw why; the man had not a tooth left in his mouth.
‘Can you walk?’ said Jamie. The priest stood and half- collapsed. Jamie lent him a shoulder and they stumbled out of the trailer.
In her hut, Shalice watched the magician in her crystal ball. She had left the hut in darkness and her caravan lights on so that, should he decide it was time to strike, she would have some extra time to make an escape. Twice he had resolutely stepped out with a gleam in his eyes, and both times paused, thought it over and headed back inside. The rest of the time his mood swung from furious rage to utter depressed stillness and blank stares. During the quiet times he would mutter to himself, gradually working up to one of the towering rages that had him tearing at his hair, shooting sparks from his hands and screaming like an animal. That Shalice was the cause of his rage she didn’t doubt — she’d read her name on his lips a dozen times. She had also seen the apparent cause of the trouble: the
destruction of his silly laboratory. For some reason he blamed her, which would need some investigating once this had settled down.
For now, she decided she’d seen enough. Mugabo had to go.
As she came to the decision there was a knock at her door. With a deft wave of the hand she panned the ball’s vision to outside her hut and saw with some surprise George Pilo standing out there. ‘Open up!’ he barked.
She went to the door and opened it. ‘What is it, George?’
‘Don’t take that tone with me,’ George almost screamed. ‘Something’s going on here. I want the ball. Hand it over.’
Oh you little SHIT
, she thought. ‘George, please — now is a bad time. Whatever you want looked upon, I will do it.’
‘What the hell!’ George snapped, face pressed into her belly, eyes peering up like two malicious white lumps of gristle. ‘Am I in charge, Shalice?’ he said. ‘Does that seem to be the basic thread of our interactions? I could be miles off the mark, but what do you think?’
She cringed away from him, disgusted to have him in such close contact. ‘Yes, George. You have a share in the leadership, I believe.’
‘Very good,’ he said, not rising to the bait. ‘Then hand it over. With every word you
don’t
talk back, you’ll get the ball back one day earlier.’
‘George —’
‘Did I say
day
? I might have meant year.’
‘You do not understand,’ said Shalice, knowing it was futile, ‘my life is in danger —’
‘Well,’ George cried, ‘tell me
all
about it! I’ll just let the circus come crashing down while I sit here, your shoulder to cry on. Have I ever told you your feelings are important to
me, Shalice? I must have done. Let me set the record straight, you stupid bitch.
Give me the ball
.’
Not looking at him, she handed him the ball. George snatched it, spat over his shoulder and marched out the door as fast as his Napoleonic legs could carry him. Her eyes blazed out after him. ‘Your time is coming, little man,’ she whispered as she shut the door then locked it.
George looked like a miniature drill sergeant in a film run at double speed for comic purposes as he scuttled back to his trailer, but there was no smile on his dial. He barrelled through everyone who found themselves in his path. There were two deeply conflicting emotions coursing through him: bitter triumph because Kurt’s ship was sinking, and disgusted fury that anyone would dare strike out at the show. If George had his way, everyone would be dead except him … Bitter flavours were all his palate knew.
Once in his trailer he placed the crystal ball on his desk and glared at it. Over by the funhouse Kurt was still prowling around, though no spectators remained. A mighty big hump had grown on his back and his jaw had stretched far longer than normal, rendering him unable to close his lips, which still formed the words
Oh, ho ho hoooo
…
Moving the ball’s vision along towards Kurt’s trailer, George saw something that made his eyes go wide. That new clown, J-something, was sneaking down the path with Kurt’s priest. George gave a short bark that might have been laughter. He snatched one of the accountant’s notepads and jotted on it:
Culprits.
First name on the list:
J the clown
. George panned over to the acrobat tent. Only one of them was home, Randolph,
and for some bizarre reason he was emptying a bag of manure over the furniture.
Why the hell is he messing up his OWN STUFF?
George wondered. Randolph then placed a red plastic clown nose on the suede couch, buried in manure, and sprinted away. George shook his head in bewilderment and added Randolph’s name to the list.
He spent the next hour gazing into the ball at the strange goings on which, if he didn’t know better, looked to be bloody well
organised
. Every so often he’d mutter ‘that qualifies’, or ‘gotcha’, and scrawl another name on the notepad. He saw several dwarfs and gypsies he knew by name vandalising this, setting fire to that, tipping over this, covering in excrement that. Before long the list had a dozen names on it. George summoned the accountant, who bumbled and bustled into the trailer. ‘Take this to Kurt,’ George ordered, handing him the paper. ‘I think he’s still at the funhouse. If not, try his trailer.’ The accountant nodded his head, jowls quivering, and left. George didn’t really need his services any more anyway.
Kurt wasn’t prowling around the funhouse anymore. He stood in the doorway of his trailer, eyes roaming about slowly, taking in each detail of his defiled office; the spilled teeth, the human waste, ripped-up Bibles, and the open desk drawer with his priest no longer inside. He’d said one thing as he stood there observing it all: a barely audible ‘
Ohhh
, ho ho ho.’
Even the distant piercing cry, loud as an explosion, as Goshy discovered what had become of his wife, didn’t cause Kurt to flinch.
Behind him someone cleared their throat. Kurt gave a start as though roused from a trance and turned around. Had the throat-clearer been privy to the grin on Kurt’s face he would have kept quiet, turned and walked away very quickly, for the jolt Kurt had received from the attack on his office had manifested itself physically. Suddenly his face appeared to have been divided into two portions; his forehead and brow were as normal, but his nose was protruding out into a bent knuckle shape, almost like a small spine bulging under the skin. His lips and cheeks were spread thin. His teeth jutted like sharp knuckles of stained ivory. Kurt Pilo no longer resembled a human being — half his face had become a jagged weapon closer to an upside-down shark’s jaw than a man’s. This face was the last thing Pilo Senior had seen this side of the grave.
The jaw lowered like a drawbridge. Kurt said, ‘Hmmm?’
The accountant had about a second in which to turn pale and wet himself before Kurt ripped his head off cleanly. With a thud it dropped to the grass, glasses cracked but still intact. Kurt pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and daintily patted his cheeks. His words were half-formed, but jovial. ‘What have we done? Made a mess. Must control myself.’
He reached his hand down — the bones in his fingers had grown longer than the skin — and carefully picked up the note the accountant had dropped to the ground. His eyes flickered across it, though it took his eyes a moment to recognise letters and words again. He knew the names listed, the faces too. The culprits. ‘
Ohhh
ho ho ho,’ Kurt said, stepping out of his trailer and heading for the clowns’ tent.
Goshy’s face was changing colours from one moment to the next; his skin went blue, yellow, green, black, bright red, then back to its normal sickly pink. He stood motionless in the doorway of his room, like a pile of lard sculpted into a vaguely human shape and painted tacky colours. The black pot lay on the floor before him, soil tossed over the floor in the rough pattern of a giant brown teardrop. Feathery yellow- green leaves lay scattered in a trail leading out the door.
Doopy seemed to sense the mood from afar. He came running from his room, calling out, ‘Goshy? G-G-Goshy?’ No one in the showgrounds was spared the ear-needling pain of Goshy’s shriek. The lamp’s light bulb smashed. Blood leaked from Doopy’s ear in a thin stream as he stared at the empty pot. ‘Oh Goshy,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Oh Goshy, no!’
Goshy pointed a stiff arm at the trail of leaves and his mouth flapped mutely.
‘I know, Goshy,’ said his brother, ‘we should maybe oughta follow it, should maybe oughta see where it
goes
, Goshy, maybe we gotta! C’mon, Goshy, c’mon …’
Mugabo was in a frenzy of paranoid rage. He tried to keep it inside, the fire begging to come out and play, whispering,
Release me! It’s dry out there, dry and crispy, we could make it shimmer and turn orange and black, you and me, let’s do it, come now, you have your reasons, I have mine, let’s burn burn burn burrrrrrrrn …
‘No,’ he croaked weakly in reply, ‘no, must … think … make sure is … really her … make … certain …’
This battle had raged for two nights and Mugabo was losing. The fires spoke louder, relentlessly.
She’s so very dry,
they all are, like bundles of straw, let’s make them crackle and spit and glow …
‘Shut up!’ Mugabo screamed with some force. The fires quieted down for a moment, giving Mugabo a chance to breathe, calm himself …
That’s when Goshy’s scream jabbed his ears as painfully as darts.
HER!
the fires cried.
LOOK WHAT SHE DID!
Mugabo lay on the floor, shivering uncontrollably. ‘Look what she did,’ he whispered.
LET’S MAKE HER —
‘Glow,’ he said, and rose, kicked down the door, stepped out into the night.
After George left, Shalice had consulted her charts and knew the attack was on its way. She had worked furiously in a short time and now her trap was ready. One quick stop-off in Sideshow Alley and the preparations were complete: a word to four gypsies, one subliminal command, and
voila
, all in readiness. She checked her pocket watch — two minutes from now, Mugabo would be finished, out of his misery at long last. Right now the gypsies should have just finished loading a wagon with lumber for the woodchoppers. Four besser blocks were in place on the road, as directed by the charts. Around the time the wagon passed her hut, it would flip onto its side, veer on one wheel off the road and into her door, where Mugabo would be standing. He’d be crushed like an insect. It was not a perfect plan, and left a few things to chance, but at short notice it was the best she could do.
Someone thumped on the door. Shalice checked her pocket watch in disbelief — he was here early. One minute,
forty seconds; her calculations had been wrong. Impossible. She’d set far more elaborate chains of events under way with perfect timing. A minute forty out? It might as well have been years.
Thump thump thump
again on the door. Years? Maybe not so bad as that — she had to keep him here for seventy more seconds. She stepped away from the door in case he blasted it open and lay down on her belly. ‘Who is it?’ she said.
‘Open the door Shal! You shouldn’ta oughtn’ta done it, you really shouldn’ta!’
‘HMMMMM
OOOOOOOO
HMMMMMMM
EEEEEEEEEE!
’
Hold on a second … ‘Who is that?’ Shalice said, then, ‘Oh shit, get out of the doorway. Move it, I’m telling you now, get away from the door.’
‘You dirty rotten, shouldn’ta, never shoulda, we gotta kill you dead, we just
gotta
, good and proper, you oughtn’ta done it, you really shouldn’ta …
’
Shalice stood and went to the door. ‘Listen, you freaks, I don’t know or care what your problem is, but —’
‘
Beeee-yoooo WIP!
’ Goshy screamed.
Shalice winced and held her hands to her ears. ‘But if you don’t get away from the door —’
Too late. There was a metallic sound, like a chain being struck with an axe, and the sound of hoofs. Shalice jumped away from the door just in time to see it give in as the wagon, right on time, thundered into it. The door fell inward, and stuck to it was a squashed flat mess dressed in bright colours, flower patterns and stripes.
Doopy had borne the impact at the neck. Had it been his torso, he might have made it … Clowns took some killing. Goshy was still twitching. He turned his marsupial eyes to
Shalice, and his expression hadn’t changed from what it had been since Goshy became Goshy. The left eye was wide and surprised to see his brother turned to a soft bag of dead clown, the right was coldly calculating which part of Shalice to remove first once she came within arm’s reach.
For her part, Shalice had no idea Goshy was still ticking, biding what remained of his time to strike. She was wondering why her star charts had told her Mugabo was coming, only to have the freak twins appear at her door with some kind of grievance. Two dead clowns was going to take a hell of a lot of explaining come morning.
Suddenly there was a bright flash of white light and an orange tongue of fire as Mugabo launched all he had at Goshy. He’d seen Goshy at the door, making the same noise that drove him from his home minutes before. Now unarmed for this confrontation, Shalice ran to the back of the hut, her heart slamming as she hid under the table, a knuckle gripped in her teeth, counting what she believed would be her last seconds.
What a way to end
, she thought —
and I saw it coming. Trapped like a rat, burned. I had the power of a goddess in my hands and still I could not escape this.
But Mugabo, his rage spent, stared perplexed at what remained of the two clowns. In the confused recesses of his mind it seemed that Goshy had been the antagonist all along, so he turned away from the fortune-teller’s hut, staggering down the pathway, the fires quiet in his head, for now.