The Pilo Family Circus (6 page)

‘He doesn’t
look
harmless,’ said Jamie.

‘That is true,’ said the fortune-teller. ‘When angered he looks like harm itself.’ She stared into the distance for a moment, the smile fading from her lips. ‘But it takes a good deal to anger him, and if you tried he would probably only find reason to be amused. Please, be seated.’

Something about the sound of her voice made Jamie think of rich colourful liqueurs being poured into crystal glasses. He sat on the wooden crate beside the table. ‘I am in something of a hurry today,’ she said, ‘I have half a dozen visitors who need their fortunes read, so I must make this brief. Your hand, please?’

Jamie held out his hand and she traced her finger lightly over his palm. Her fingers were cool and sent little shivers through him wherever they touched. ‘Look into my eyes, Jamie,’ she said quietly. He did, and grunted in surprise; it appeared her irises were changing size, one growing while the other shrank, then vice versa. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said, ‘just watch my eyes dance. Aren’t they pretty, Jamie? Can’t you feel yourself walking down a long dark tunnel, through my eyes? You can feel my cool finger on your palm, guiding you, drawing a map to find the pathways through my eyes. Just my eyes, Jamie … Just watch my eyes …’

The voice slipped inside him like a drug, the sweet voice telling him secrets, words he could hear but not understand, and before he knew it his eyes had glazed over and closed.

She’s hypnotising me,
was his last thought before he succumbed.

A voice hammered as hard as a rock into his head.

Tomorrow afternoon. You are going to go out, leaving the house at exactly twenty past three, but you will leave your watch at home. You will go to this address: 344 Edward Street. You will wait outside the pub there. On the footpath you will see a blonde woman pushing a pram, waiting to cross the street. You will ask her what time it is. You are going to scratch your wrist nervously as she says something flirtatious.

Jamie’s drowsy head nodded.

You will say, ‘Thanks a ton.’ Then you will come straight home. You will not remember her face afterwards. You will not think back on the incident in any way.’

‘Why?’ Jamie murmured like someone talking in his sleep. ‘Can’t … leave me … ’lone?’

There was a pause, and the feeling of eyes pressing into him, huge and painful like twin suns. Jamie squirmed and moaned.
Don’t question me,
said the voice.
How are you able to question me? Did you … Have you swallowed some of the dust?

Jamie nodded.

Oh, for crying out — Who gave you the dust?

‘Just … picked it up,’ Jamie murmured. Talking was so hard each word almost hurt him. His head was slumped down onto his chest and he only wanted the voice not to be angry.

Was it one of the clowns?
it demanded.

‘Yes.’

Which clown? Where? When?

‘Goshy. Think his name’s Goshy. ’Bout a week ago. Fell out … his pocket.’

A wave of anger like warm air brushed over him and he cowered, whimpering. There was a pause and the sound of fingernails drumming the tabletop before the voice said,
Okay. Wake up now, Jamie. Come back to me. Wake up.

He filtered back into consciousness, lured by a wave of perfume and two sparkling eyes. At first he thought he was staring at a pair of diamonds glinting in candlelight; the fortune-teller’s face appeared as a fuzzy outline around the jewels, and it seemed to take hours to resume its clarity and shape. ‘Pleasant trip?’ said Shalice the fortune-teller.

Jamie tried to remember the last few minutes, but it felt like he was thinking through fog. ‘What happened? Was there something about a blonde woman?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Shalice said. She started packing things away with rapid movements, preoccupied and clearly annoyed about something. ‘Well, Jamie, thank you for stopping by. If you’ll excuse me I have something to take care of.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Jamie said and stood to go. Shalice brushed past him in a hurry, stepping through the beads and outside. Soon she was lost from sight. Jamie stared at the crystal ball for a moment, now hidden beneath a cloth cover, then left the hut.

Outside the dark fragrant little place, the world’s colours and sounds seemed an assault. It took a moment to get his bearings; he could remember almost nothing since the magic show, and even that was hazy. Behind him, the glass beads at the hut’s entrance rattled in the breeze. What precisely had gone on in there?

Again that soft, insistent voice:
Nothing it’s your place to worry about. Enjoy the show.

He was powerless to argue. The light-headed euphoria returned on a gust of breeze smelling of popcorn, and within a few deep breaths he felt giddy. He wandered slowly back to the more crowded pathways, browsing gypsy stalls as the afternoon grew dark.

Evening fell and the sky over Sideshow Alley was alight with multicoloured streaks. Jamie veered instinctively away from the colours and came to a wooden building with a crimson glow around it and orange tongues of flame bursting from its open door like dragon’s breath: The funhouse.

There were few patrons around — most seemed to be heading towards the giant marquees in the middle of the showgrounds, where the gypsy stallholders informed passers-by, the acrobats and clowns were soon to perform. Only two people waited by the funhouse steps: a young couple who stood completely still, staring directly ahead. Beside them was a robed figure holding a staff with a skull at its tip. A black hood concealed his face. From within the funhouse came the expected noises: bestial howls, women’s screams, a sound like giant teeth grinding together. Expected sounds, but by God they sounded real.

A cart suddenly burst through the door, sparks flashing around its wheels as it scraped along the metal rail. It squealed to a halt. The robed figure waved his staff. Without a word the young couple climbed into the cart. Jamie glanced from them to the guardian, then headed for the steps. But the guardian barred the way with his staff. ‘What’s up?’ Jamie asked him.

No answer. There was a horrible squealing that made him
jump as the cart plunged ahead on its rail. The couple’s heads wobbled like rag dolls. A flash of orange flame burst out from the doors as they went in, then they were gone from view.

Disappointed, Jamie waited for the next cart to wheel its way out. He glanced sidelong at the guardian, trying to make out the face beneath the hood. From inside the funhouse the sound of howling and screams kicked into a crescendo, trailing off into laughter like howling sexual ecstasy, drowning all distant carnival sounds before an abrupt silence fell.

That
was a bit much. Jamie backed away from the funhouse and turned to go. Then he heard the cart squealing to a halt. He looked back over his shoulder. The couple was nowhere to be seen; the cart was empty.

He found he was hurrying away in a jog, as though his legs sensed danger his mind couldn’t.
All part of the show
, the voice inside assured him. Of course. What wasn’t?

Set away from the rest of the attractions, he saw a huge tent with only a few small shanties around it — these seemed to be homes of the dwarfs and gypsies. Occasionally luminous pairs of eyes would peer balefully from cracks in curtains as he walked past. The dwarfs had come out in numbers since nightfall, foul-tempered little things who broke off their conversations when patrons came near, then resumed in heated angry voices. They carried small bags and could be seen picking through the grass with steel tweezers. Jamie at first thought they were after spare change, but as he came near a pair of them at work he saw they were picking up the
tiny gleaming crystals he’d noticed on the floor of the magician’s show. The dwarfs scowled at him with such ferocity he backed away in fright.

When he neared the lonely tent he discovered it housed the freak show, and he hesitated before going in. The sick and weird held no appeal for him, but the eyes at the shanty windows were making him nervous, and getting out of sight seemed wise.

The only light inside the freak show tent came from yellow bulbs illuminating the glass display cases. On the floor were more gleaming little points of light — more of those powder crystals, far more here than there’d been on the floor of Mugabo’s tent.

To Jamie’s surprise, in front of one of the glass cases he saw Steve, who was staring avidly at something inside a tall fish tank. Steve spotted him and waved him over. ‘Have a look at this,’ Steve said.

The label on the tank read:
This is Tallow. His every living moment is hellish
.

A pair of human eyes stared mournfully out of a face that looked to be melting. Skin was running like candle wax, bubbling and dripping to the ground in pools before hardening into flesh-coloured lumps on the glass floor.

‘Every few minutes he picks up the bits that have melted off and puts them back on himself,’ Steve whispered with relish. Tallow watched them both sadly as a flesh-coloured bubble burst on its neck, dribbling and running down its chest. Jamie grimaced and turned away.

‘Jamie, look! He’s doing it!’ said Steve, sounding damn near aroused.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Jamie said. ‘That’s sick. Come on.’

‘No way. You gotta see this place. Come and check out this
guy.’ Steve dragged him by the arm to an exhibit not confined in a glass case. They stood before what may have once been human until nature played a very cruel joke. From the neck down he was fine, five feet or so of humanity dressed in a grey suit and tie. The thing’s head was where the trouble began — it was covered in scales, too large for its body, and had catfish whiskers growing from gills in the neck. Its mouth was very wide like a shark’s and packed with vicious teeth. When the mouth opened and spoke Jamie almost screamed.

‘Hello. I am Fishboy, curator of the freak show.’

‘This is my friend Jamie,’ said Steve. ‘Jamie, this is Fishboy. He can breathe under water, he says.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Jamie,’ said Fishboy. His voice was high-pitched as if he’d inhaled helium. There was something obscene about his friendliness. ‘I hope you enjoy our exhibits as much as Steve does. Yeti will be doing a glass-eating show in fifteen minutes. I guarantee it’s the furriest, bloodiest performance in the whole circus!’

‘Oh man, we gotta see the glass show,’ Steve said.

Jamie shook his head. ‘See you later,’ he said.

‘Why? Where you going?’ Steve demanded.

‘
Anywhere
. Jesus. Maybe I’ll go wait for the clown show.’

‘Ah yes,’ Fishboy piped up. ‘The clown show is perhaps our most celebrated attraction. Please, feel free to sign the guest book on your way out.’

Jamie cringed away from the perfectly civil shark- toothed smile; he’d have felt more at ease if Fishboy were growling and gnashing at them. He backed out of the freak show tent, trying not to look at the glass cases to either side as the exhibits moaned and hissed. Steve didn’t follow him.

Back out in the warm night air, the good cheer had taken a sick, giddy turn. A faint nausea and sense of foreboding wormed into him.
I think I’m in deep tr—
But the thought was never allowed to finish.

And … he decided he preferred it that way.

By now large crowds had gathered by the two giant marquees. All present had faintly troubled looks on their faces, glancing about uneasily as though double-checking they were actually here.

The bigger of the two marquees had a sign out front that read:

R
ANDOLPH
’
S
D
EATH
D
EFYING
,

H
IGH
F
LYING
A
CROBATIC
E
XTRAVAGANZA

Out front of the other was a chalkboard that said:
G
ONKO
’
S
F
ANTABULOUS
C
LOWN
S
HOW
— C
OME
G
ET
Y
OUR
C
HUCKLES

Jamie stared at the chalkboard. Gonko … Where did he know that name from? He almost had it when he was shouldered by the crowd who, prompted by some signal he didn’t catch, were now trickling into the marquees. There was something resigned about them, like lost souls caught in a storm, gathering under the only shelter in sight. Though much larger, the acrobat marquee filled up first.

Feeling more disoriented than he had since waking that morning and seeing Steve alive and well, with memories shuffling around in his head like cards — there one moment, gone the next — Jamie fell in line with the stream of people heading into the clown show. He sat in the back row of
plastic seats, all facing a stage illuminated by bright spotlights, and waited quietly with the rest of the crowd.

Gonko
. It was so close to his grasp.

When the clown show began, whatever influence had been steering his thoughts the rest of the day suddenly let go its hold, and at once it all came back to him. He looked around wildly for the exits, but they were blocked by people watching the stage, their faces blank. There was nowhere to run. He shrank back in his seat.

Gonko strolled across the stage, hands in his pockets. There was applause, though he scowled at the crowd like he would have happily sliced every throat in the room. He wore ludicrously large striped pants which enveloped his thin waist like a hoop, held up by suspenders. His face was painted white and he sported a red plastic nose. He wore a puffy hat similar to the magician’s turban and a tiny bow-tie around his neck.

Stumbling out after him was Goshy, who looked around at the audience with boggling eyes, peering the way a baby does at a room full of confounding things.
What are these creatures?
But there was still that reptilian, calculating edge, suggesting that deep down Goshy knew very well
he
was the abnormality, and revelled in it.

In Goshy’s hand was a daisy. His arms were locked stubbornly at his sides. He stumbled forward to a young woman in the front row. Without bending his elbow he offered her the daisy in one abrupt movement. She smiled at him and hesitated a second before she took it.