All Aces

by Ellie Marney

  The crowd goes into raptures.

  Zep takes his bows, hands up and smiling, breathing hard. The brim of his hat tips forward over his eyes and he laughs. His face is alight, staggeringly handsome. He waves goodbye to the crowd, and I watch how he moves: his body is made entirely of sharp, graceful angles, like a well-honed knife.

  Heat rises inside me, prickling out through my skin. I know what he looks like under his shirt. My brain fixes on this thought. The memory of it makes me grip the curtain.

  I try to get a hold of myself. This is not like me. I am generally sensible, and I have orderly thoughts. But the thoughts I’m having now are not orderly. They’re…overwhelming. Unexpected.

  I don’t like overwhelming and unexpected.

  But I like looking at Zep Deal.

  Oh boy.

  Sorsha comes up beside me, still in her tightwire costume. ‘Holy shit, Ren! I had no freaking idea Zep could do that. Did you know he could do that?’

  ‘Uh…kinda?’ I’m having trouble making words.

  Sorsha laughs, squeezes my arm. ‘Okay, they’re setting up your floor space. You’re on next, right?’

  Ah, ternyata–this is true. Ring crew are arranging panels of stiff smooth board over the sawdust. My spot is next, and I haven’t been thinking about it at all.

  I duck behind the curtain, dragging Sorsha with me. ‘Can you take this? One second.’

  ‘Sure.’

  I use my asthma inhaler once, suck the medicine in, make a face. Then I cap the inhaler and pass it to Sorsha.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Her expression is concerned; she’s never seen me use my puffer before a routine before.

  ‘All good.’ I turn towards the ring and wait.

  Patrons in the tent have resumed chatting and drinking. I listen for my cue. Spotlights that were dancing around the tent have settled to focus again on the ring. I hear music swell, and…

  There. The first strains of my accompaniment.

  ‘Break a leg,’ Sorsha whispers.

  I don’t reply. I’ve already released a long breath and dipped backwards into a deep bend, my hands gripping my ankles, my entire body curled into a great ‘O’. It only takes a balance shift to transfer my weight forward.

  I roll into the ring, transformed into a human hula hoop.

  The pressure on my pelvis, elbows and ribs during the revolutions is intense. But once I’ve rolled into position, I let my bodyweight shift again: Just like a real hula hoop coming to rest, I circle twice on my ground-facing edge, then wobble to a standstill on the floor. I can’t tell if the patrons are watching, but I hear the sound of conversation in the tent subside.

  That’s when I release my ankles one at a time, stretch out along my side, roll to my stomach, and start my routine.

  It’s really very simple: everything has to look as though the floor is glassy-smooth, too smooth to stand up on. Each time I rise, my feet slide apart or to the side, as if I can’t stay upright on this surface.

  When my feet don’t cooperate, I use my hands. But my handstands slide out from beneath me as well. Even balancing on my head doesn’t seem to work. I use progressively more complicated combinations of actions to make it appear as if I’m trying to keep myself from sliding completely off the floor.

  It’s a fun routine, playful and comedic and light. Of course it’s not easy, because making anything look silly and simple is hard work. In my experience, things that look easy are actually the hardest to perform. But this is a routine I’ve done dozens of times before, so it should go off without a hitch.

  There are hitches, however.

  The first hitch comes with a needle scale that goes into a deep forward bend that compresses my stomach and my chest. When I slide out of it, I have trouble drawing my next breath.

  It’s okay, I was anticipating this. I can play catch-up through the next movement, so I’ve got a proper lungful during the handstand that follows.

  But that’s when the second hitch occurs: the rhythm of my breathing has been thrown out. I’m halfway through the next bend when I realise I’m not going to have enough air to transition to a new movement. I make a sloppy fumble and try to make it look like part of the act. This routine mimics awkward movements, not precision, so the disguise holds.

  I try to steady my breathing on the next few combination bends, work the air into my diaphragm. Except my diaphragm appears to be offline right now. Okay, that is disconcerting. I’ve got a half dozen more combos to go, and I’ve got to rely on short, shallow mid-lung breaths.

  I swing and re-position and fold. Try not to panic. Try to stay focused.

  My lungs are red-hot as I bend into the final movements of the routine. My vision is getting spotty–I’m drowning on dry land. But I can’t stop mid-routine, that would be disastrous.

  My hands slide on the floor while I’m in a handstand–and that’s not part of the act. I have to compensate quickly, and making the movement look natural jars my neck.

  Two more movements. My mouth is open, sucking oxygen.

  One more movement. I fold, bend, brace…

  Music swells. Applause sounds faintly in the background, through the ringing in my ears. The hot spotlight on me dims, and I’m done. My relief is competing with light-headedness and exhaustion.

  A quick touch on my shoulder reminds me it’s time to get offstage so the ring crew can change props. I’m happy to comply. But when I stand up, everything goes wavy. My knees lock in position.

  Get offstage, Ren. I’m sure I’ve only said the words in my head, but somehow they’re repeated in a whisper nearby.

  ‘Ren. Come on, chica, time to go.’

  I must be having flashbacks. That sounded way too much like Zep’s voice.

  My eyes drift sideways–it is Zep. He’s pulled a black jacket on over his white performance shirt, so he blends in with the ring crew. He’s glowering. I don’t have breath or time to question this. Where he leads, I follow, mainly because he’s got one arm around my waist.

  ‘Nice braids.’ To a casual bystander it would look like he’s helping me rather than carrying me, but my legs are so ineffectual I’m actually relying on his support. ‘Are you going to make it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper-wheeze. ‘Was it that obvious?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But I’ve seen your act before.’

  We duck under the wing curtain to the backstage area. I’m too dizzy to walk, so Zep pulls me towards a chair against the far tent wall, away from the backstage rush. The spot is half-concealed behind a rack of costumes, so it’s about as private as it’s possible to get in this busy marquee.

  Zep kneels in front of me, his eyes flashing. ‘Where’s your medication?’

  ‘Sorsha.’ My words and my breathing are high and strained. I grip Zep’s arms and focus desperately on staying in the world of consciousness.

  ‘Sorsha has your inhaler? Then we need to–’

  ‘I’m here!’ Sorsha rushes up from my left. ‘Ren, that was incredible–’

  ‘Where’s her inhaler?’ Zep rounds on her, his voice almost a snarl.

  ‘What? Oh–here.’ Sorsha digs my medication out of her robe pocket. ‘What’s the matter? Ren, did you have an asthma attack onstage?’

  Zep snatches the inhaler without thanks, uncaps it and proffers it to me. I grab it like it’s a life preserver, squeeze the top and take a massive draw, then do it again. For once, I’m relieved to taste the acridness of the medicine. Zep kneels before me, pressing gently on the front of my shoulders. It makes my chest jut out, but I’m too grateful to be embarrassed; the position is keeping my ribs expanded, which is helping my lungs.

  Zep watches my face, my lips, until I don’t want to see how worried he is anymore, so I close my eyes.

  ‘I’m fine now, I’m fine,’ I say. My voice is still wheezy.

  ‘What th
e hell, Ren?’ Sorsha asks. ‘Since when do you have attacks during a performance?’

  I open my eyes; Sorsha hovers over me, her expression anxious. She means well, but this is too much fussing. Honestly, it’d be much better if nobody even noticed what happened.

  ‘I’m all right now.’ My breathing is returning to normal. I’m not gasping anymore. ‘I’m fine. Really.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Zep says. ‘You’re totally peachy.’ His voice is dry, but he no longer looks as if he’s about to start cracking heads.

  ‘I think we should get Chester,’ Sorsha says, biting her thumbnail.

  ‘Don’t get Chester.’ I think of a distraction for her. ‘No to Chester, but yes to a glass of water?’

  Sorsha nods and leaves to find water.

  Zep’s hands smooth down from my shoulders. His thumbs set off little lightning fires at my bicep, at my inner elbow. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘We do?’ I think I have the beginnings of a headache.

  ‘Monday night. Our special event?’ Zep gives me what Gabriella likes to call ‘a speaking glance’. He scans left and right before his eyes return to mine. ‘You were planning on doing some bending and folding then, correct?’

  ‘Correct.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Think again, chica.’

  We argue about it–in very low voices–all the way back to the lot in the bus. Then we argue about it some more while walking towards the dorms.

  Zep’s dark eyebrows are knitted together. ‘You said you get “a little breathless”. That’s more than a little breathless.’

  ‘It’s just asthma. Lots of people have asthma.’

  ‘Yes. Lots of people die from asthma.’

  ‘I’m seeing the doctor. I have medication.’ I swing my arms. ‘It’s none of your business anyway.’

  ‘If I have to drag your unconscious body out of Lost Souls, it will be my business.’

  It’s dinner time on the lot. We’re having this ridiculous conversation under the light of the ornate streetlamps on the Parade Road.

  ‘You’re being dramatic,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t use my inhaler onstage, that’s all. I can use it at Lost Souls.’

  ‘But if you have an attack while you’re–’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘But if you get stuck and you–’

  ‘I won’t.’

  He stops dead. ‘You’re climbing through a ventilation shaft. Anything could happen.’

  I stop to match him. ‘This is true. Anything could happen. We could fall down a very deep hole considering all the potential things that could happen. Things happen every day, Zep. What if you walked down the street and got hit by a bus?’

  ‘That’s a bad analogy, because you already have a history of getting asthma attacks and I don’t have a history of getting hit by buses.’

  When I mutter something about how this argument would be resolved quickly if he got hit by a bus, he crosses his arms.

  ‘Ren.’

  ‘Zep.’

  ‘I should do this alone.’

  ‘There is no way you can do this alone. And it was my idea in the first place.’

  He frowns, turns to keep walking. ‘I can deal with it. I don’t need you.’

  ‘You most certainly do need me.’ I walk faster to keep up. ‘You can’t get through the ventilation shaft without me.’

  ‘I’ll find another way. We can adapt the plan.’

  ‘Except we don’t need to adapt the plan.’ I control my scowl.

  The argument continues most of Monday morning, right through lunchtime. We’re still arguing about it on Monday night, while we’re sitting in the borrowed mech-yard car in the patron parking area.

  ‘This is a terrible idea,’ he says flatly.

  ‘It’s the best idea we’ve got.’

  ‘Ren…’ He scrubs both hands over his face as he sits in the driver’s seat in the dark of the car. ‘It’s not just this job. Don’t you get it? I’m worried about you.’

  ‘And I’m worried about you.’ I poke a finger into the hard meat of his shoulder. ‘You’re the one getting beat up every time you leave the lot. Your father and his friends hold you hostage in your own home. That’s no way to live.’

  ‘Why do you care? It’s not even your fight!’

  ‘Maybe it should be! You’re facing down a bunch of criminals on your own, and that’s not fair! Somebody should be taking your part in all this!’

  We’ve been sitting here, debating so long, the windows of the car are fogged up. Zep scans over my face. His expression is unreadable in the dark.

  ‘Ren, what’s the matter? Something happened when you went home at the weekend. What was it?’

  The question makes me still. I turn to face the windshield, stare out of it. ‘My mother wants me to move to Bali and work in my uncle’s hotel. She and my uncle would have absolute control over my personal life and my finances.’

  ‘Well, that sounds terrible.’ Zep’s hair is a spill of ink over his forehead. ‘How is working in a hotel more appropriate than working in a circus?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You should say no.’

  ‘I can’t say no. But I can’t say yes, either.’ I close my eyes, open them. My heart is trying to pound its way out of my chest. I turn away from the windshield to look back at Zep. ‘One of us has to get free. One of us has to have a victory. If it can’t be me, then at least I can help it be you.’

  This final pause in the car has a certain weight. I breathe silently through it. My breathing feels perfectly under control now. The thought of my breath betraying me, abandoning my lungs and vacating the premises, seems preposterous. Unbelievable.

  For the space of three breaths, Zep looks at me. Then he grabs the ignition key and starts the engine.

  I want to cheer. I restrain myself, pull my seatbelt across instead. My hands are inexplicably trembling. ‘You’ve made a good decision. The right decision.’

  He huffs a low laugh, shakes his head and puts the car in gear. ‘Ren, in my experience, convincing myself I’ve made a good decision usually means I’m about to do something really stupid.’

  Six

  Sneaking into the Circus of Lost Souls is actually easier than it looks on a paper map.

  We park the car away from the lot, under an overpass near the port. Klatsch’s is near the port, too, but it’s central: Lost Souls is in a more industrial area. The back fence of Zep’s former place of employment is just poles and wire links, and not at all secure. We scale it almost as fast as Zep can scale cards.

  The rear ends of troupe vans provide cover as we slip towards the Lost Souls main yard, but we have to be quiet as shadows. And dark as shadows–I’m wearing a bodysuit of royal purple velvet that eats the light, and Zep’s jeans and Henley and hoodie are all black. I have not really thought of him as a thief before, but now I see it. He moves like a cat, elegant and unhurried from one patch of gloom to another, no movement wasted.

  ‘Don’t dart.’ His fingers wrap delicately around my upper arm. His voice is barely a murmur. ‘You draw attention. Quick movements are easier to spot than bright colour.’

  I temper my steps, feeling exposed. ‘It’s slow.’

  ‘Better slow than caught. Slow goes in under the radar.’ His breath warms my cheek as he leans in. ‘We aren’t sneaking anywhere. We’re just strolling behind the vans. A rendezvous. Our parents don’t want us to see each other, so we meet in secret.’

  ‘Is that what this is?’

  ‘From a distance, yes.’ His lips curve against my ear.

  I turn my head to stare at him, bringing our faces even closer. ‘You’re enjoying this.’

  ‘Hard not to enjoy some things.’ His shrug registers in all the places we’re touching. ‘I’m familiar with it and I’m good at it, so it feels comfortable.’


  Since we left Klatsch’s, resolved to do this, Zep’s mood has definitely improved. Maybe it’s because he’s made a decision to act, or maybe it’s being back on his old stomping ground. I’d like to think it’s because we’re pressed against each other, but I’m pretty sure that’s just me projecting.

  ‘Well, y’know…Don’t steal anything off me while I’m distracted.’

  He grins again, tugs me onward.

  Moonlight silvers the edges of buildings and the occasional dry patch of dirt–the Lost Souls lot is like a giant carpark. Weeds poke out rebelliously from the concrete here and there. We have grass in the van area at Klatsch’s. Here, someone has gotten creative with radiator parts and wire: metal flowers bloom near the front of warehouses and prac areas, which is endearing and also a bit sad.

  Zep pulls me into the shadow of a huge storage shed with a large water tank and lifts his chin towards the roofline: I see a ventilation grate near the external plumbing pipes, and get a sudden attack of nerves. This is my cue. I study distances, angles, consider the route ahead.

  We look back at each other at the same time. Zep’s eyes are keen with concentration. ‘Are you ready?’

  I hold out my hand. ‘Give me the screwdriver.’

  He reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out an electric screwdriver, passes it to me. Like the car, we have ‘borrowed’ this tool from the mech yard. It’s a battery model, small and light. I give it one soundless rev into my hand, then let it hang by my side as I relax my arm.

  ‘Step back to the wall,’ I direct in a whisper.

  Zep retreats half a step.

  ‘Brace your knee and give me your arm.’

  We have not rehearsed this. We’ve only talked about how this is the best way to do it, how the ventilation shaft is the best chance for us to get in undetected. This would all be so much easier if we could walk into the Lost Souls admin office in daylight and ask for the paperwork we need, but they’ve already demonstrated a preference for protecting their asshole employee, Angus Deal. Or at least, the people who are protecting Angus are comfortably living and working here on the lot.

  So we do it the hard way.

  I place one ballet-slippered foot onto Zep’s cocked knee, then use his steadying arm to balance myself as I climb his body. Two easy steps. Now I’m standing on his shoulders, which are warm and a little bony. Once I’m up, he straightens. The extra height puts me almost level with the top of the water tank.