All Aces

by Ellie Marney

  ‘Hai, kak.’

  ‘Hallo, lil sis. Kok gak nelepon?’

  I swallow. ‘Are things okay at home? I told mama I’d call at the weekend. I’m sure she’s probably cranky, waiting to hear from me–’

  ‘She’s cranky, sure. But Paman Agus is keeping her busy, so don’t sweat it. You’ve got a big performance tomorrow, ya? You’ll be great.’

  I blot my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket. ‘Thanks, Santi. And what about you with school? Have you got exams soon?’

  ‘I’m sick of school,’ she admits. ‘I’ve tried and tried–I wanted to make ayah proud. But I’m not a good student like you, Reni. I want to be out in the world, working and getting some money together, meeting people… I just want my life to start, you know? I feel like I’m stuck in glue, living at home.’

  I make a watery laugh. ‘So you want to get out. And the last thing I want to do is leave circus–it feels like home here, for me.’

  She snorts. ‘We are some messed-up chicks, ya?’

  ‘The worst.’

  We chat for a few minutes more, before it’s time for me to leave the mess and get organised for tonight. Talking to my sister has made me feel better; even though nothing has been resolved, it’s made me feel more solid.

  I fill up the final few hours before my gig at Cadell’s with busy-work, to keep me distracted. I pack my bag with everything I’ll need to pull this off. I narrow down exactly what I’ll be wearing in the re-open performance, and log my props and musical accompaniment with Bennett, the stage manager. I walk through the routine in the Spiegeltent with Vi, so the acrobatic team knows exactly what will happen with the transition from my act to theirs.

  My phone pings, but it’s only a message from Sorsha. Any news about Zep?

  I exhale deeply and text back. Nothing yet.

  I’m almost sick with anxiety by the time I meet Fabian at the north gate, ready to catch the bus to workshops. I manage to keep it together really well–maintain conversation, even–until I get a text from Fleur.

  All good–a fine, only summary offence, minor conviction recorded. Bringing Zep home now.

  I burst into tears right on the bus. Fabian rubs my back, and a nice lady commuter passes me a tissue, which was the only thing I didn’t think to pack.

  After the workshop is over, I hug Fabian in the front foyer of the CEM building. ‘Thanks for waiting for me, but I’ve got an appointment in the CBD.’

  ‘You’re going out? I thought you’d be rushing home to congratulate Zep!’

  ‘I texted him, he knows I’ll see him later. But I promised to meet my sister for dinner. If Zep lost his case, it was going to be a commiseration dinner–but now I know he’s okay, it’ll be a celebration instead.’

  Once Fabian has turned off around the corner, I hail a taxi with my whistle, give the driver the address and further instructions. In the quiet back seat of the cab, with streetlamp light flashing out the windows, I check over my equipment.

  I take a preparatory puff of my inhaler, because I’m pretty sure I’ll forget to use it later, and re-braid my hair. My phone says it’s now eight forty-one–I want to be back at Klatsch’s by nine-thirty. This is going to be very tight.

  The driver pulls up exactly where I need to be, and I join the flow of patrons entering the Lost Souls lot. The crowd for this show is a little different from the wholesome groups and extended families I’m used to; Lost Souls has burlesque performances, in addition to starting later and having an open bar during intermission, so the audience is younger and more rowdy. This actually suits me perfectly.

  People are talking, excited by the sparkling glamour of the carnival lot at night. I pay my admission and follow the crowd until it spreads out near the entrance to the warehouse that is the Lost Souls equivalent of our Spiegeltent.

  After a timed period of meandering, I find a friendly-looking female roustabout and tap her on the shoulder.

  ‘Can you please direct me to the ladies’ room?’

  ‘Sure.’ She lifts her chin towards a colourful row of fairy lights. ‘Follow that path around the corner, you can’t miss it.’

  I smile my thanks and walk around the corner. Once I’m out of sight, I veer off the path and go left, mentally running through the map I have memorised. I don’t dart, I walk slow, sticking to the dark backs of buildings nearby until I find the one I need.

  Now is the first tricky part.

  I take the ziplock bag and the lighter out of my bib pocket, then strip off my overalls so I’m only in my bodysuit. I use the rough side of the water tank and the gritty texture of the shed wall to climb up to the vent–this is the second time I’ve climbed the tank alone, and it was definitely easier when I had Zep for a ladder.

  The vent grate is already loose, because I left it that way last time. Very aware of how exposed I am right now, I remove two screws and pry open the grate.

  I place the bundle of fireworks in position, and light the cigarette that’s attached to the first fuse. I replace the grate, and slide off the tank.

  I pull the stretchy dress out of my bag and over my head, unravel my hair, tidy myself. Tucking my overalls and the empty ziplock bag away, I walk around to the admin building as fast as I dare. I check my phone: nine minutes.

  If either Malcolm or Cecil answers when I knock, I am in serious trouble. But the man who opens the door of the admin offices is built like Colm Mackay, except shorter. He’s wearing a hat. The hat has a rounded top–a bowler hat? I’m not good with hats.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘My name is Santi Agus, I have an interview with Mr Cavendish at nine-fifteen, for a performance spot?’

  He checks a notebook in his pocket. ‘Oh, yeah. You’re early. The boss will be here in a minute, he’s gotta introduce the show first.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ I smile and try to look innocent. ‘I knew I was a little early.’

  He shows me through a long hallway to an office area with a green baize table–Mr Cavendish must like playing cards, too. I sit on a chair near the wall, the table in front of me, the closed door to the inner office on my left.

  ‘Wait here,’ Mr Bowler Hat says. ‘Don’t go wandering.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t,’ I say.

  Mr Bowler Hat leaves. I check my phone. Zep has texted, Did you finish your workshop? Are you on your way home? It’s nine-oh-six, so I don’t answer.

  Three minutes.

  At nine ten, Mr Bowler Hat comes back into the office area in a rush. ‘Ah, Miss? You gotta go.’

  I stand up from my chair. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Sorry, but there’s been a problem. Vas is gonna be delayed.’ Mr Bowler Hat walks quickly to the inner office door, locks it with a set of keys. He is agitated but efficient. ‘I need to go help sort out the problem, so you can’t wait here.’

  ‘But my appointment–’

  ‘Call again tomorrow and we’ll reschedule. I’m real sorry, but–’ His walkie talkie squawks. He hits a button to silence it. ‘Come with me, please, I’m clearing the offices.’

  He escorts me out of the building, and once we’re outside, he locks the door behind himself and points me to the path towards the carpark. Looking appropriately bewildered, I take the path. Mr Bowler Hat rushes away.

  I’ve given myself an alibi. Now comes the second tricky part.

  Once Mr Bowler Hat is out of sight, I turn right and go around to the back of the admin building. I strip my stretchy dress over my head and dump it on top of my bag, take out the hammer. Using the claw tooth of the hammer, I prise up the tiny window at head height on the back of the office wall. Then I wriggle through the gap.

  It’s a much tighter fit than Zep’s window. For a moment, I think I’ll have to dislocate my shoulder to get through, but that turns out to be unnecessary. I was prepared to do it, but I’m glad I don’t have to.

  Vas
Cavendish’s inner office is dark and smells musty. The fridge is in the corner–it’s an old Westinghouse from the nineteen seventies, very solid and very kitsch. The padlock keeping it closed is newer.

  I hold my breath, hold the padlock in my hand and smash the underside with the blunt head of the hammer. The lock springs apart. Huh–Zep was right. These locks really are hopeless.

  The ledgers that Zep described are black and red hardcovers. I find them close to the top of a stack of documents and manila folders. There are five ledgers in total, and I take them all.

  Shutting the fridge, I arrange the padlock so it looks closed, return to the window. Toss out the hammer and the ledgers. Use the corner of a chair to give myself more leverage as I wriggle back out the gap.

  I close the window and pull my dress back on. My back is sore from squeezing through the window–I think I might have some abrasions there. I dust myself off and smooth my hair. Stuff the ledgers and the hammer into my bag. Walk quickly around to the front of the building and exit the lot through the carpark.

  I return to where my taxi is waiting for me out front on the street.

  ‘Didn’t like the show, love?’ the driver asks, as she puts the car in gear.

  ‘It was okay.’ I give her the next address. ‘I think I’ll like this one better.’

  Nine

  ‘These are the ledgers,’ Zep says.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘These are my father’s ledgers.’ He shakes his head as if he’s clearing it.

  Fleur looks at me. ‘Where did you get these?’

  I lick my bottom lip. ‘I’d prefer not to say.’

  ‘I think I’d prefer you didn’t say.’ Fleur huffs out a breath. ‘Also, I think you may be an evil genius. Zep, did you know your girl was an evil genius?’

  ‘She is multi-talented,’ Zep says diplomatically. ‘Do you know what you’ve done, bella?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’ve pulled off my first heist.’

  ‘Please don’t use the word ‘first’ in this context,’ Fleur groans, leaning her forehead on the table.

  I grin and take another sip of steaming tea. It’s nine thirty-nine p.m. and very bright in the mess at this hour. We’re sitting around a table near the serving line. The black and red books look entirely innocuous, stacked here on the melamine table top.

  Zep touches the top of the stack with the tips of his fingers, his eyes gleaming. ‘These ledgers hold all the information my dad collected on his activities for the past five years.’

  ‘Information is power,’ I say. ‘You’re free, Zep.’

  He blinks hard. ‘I wish it wasn’t like this. I wish I didn’t have to defend myself against my own father.’

  ‘But at least now you have some control. You don’t have to let Angus dictate terms–you can choose your own terms.’

  Zep nods slowly, staring back at me. ‘I don’t have to accept the kind of life he wants for me.’

  ‘And you don’t have to be the bad guy.’

  ‘I can’t even… Dios.’ He rubs his mouth, his hand faintly shaking, and turns to Fleur. ‘The details of the people Angus hired to sabotage Klatsch’s and set fire to the Spiegeltent are in here.’

  ‘So even if you’re eliminated as a witness in the arson case, all the incriminating evidence is contained in these ledgers?’ Fleur’s eyebrows lift almost to the roof. She looks back to me. ‘Ren, I could kiss you right now.’

  ‘Get in line,’ Zep says, his lips turning up slowly and his eyes focused solely on me. He tucks back my hair at the front. ‘You have a scrape on your cheek. Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ The tea is restoring warmth to my body, like a hot stream running from my throat into the rest of me. ‘That window was really small, though. My back is still a little sore.’

  Zep smiles. ‘Come home with me and I’ll rub it for you.’

  ‘Guys, please,’ Fleur says. ‘That’s another behind-the-scenes detail I’d prefer not to know about.’

  The re-open is scheduled for five. Normally there’s a matinee on Saturdays, but this performance is going to be a grand splash, and it’s been advertised as a one-time-only event with special ticket prices. According to Jones, it’s a straw house–an old circus term, meaning every seat in the tent is booked.

  Performers and crew workers are in a frenzy around the Spiegeltent; the Parade Road is hectic with people. Zep is in rehearsal. He’s scrambling to make up lost time, considering that he didn’t think he’d be performing at all.

  I’ve finished all my tasks, so I go check if other people need a hand with anything. Fabian and Vi and the other acrobats get me to help them move some equipment to the Spiegeltent. Then Jones enlists me to run some flyers up to the ticket booth on the midway. I haven’t seen Gabriella all morning–she’s been with her horses since six a.m.–but I run into Sorsha on Tinpan Alley at two.

  ‘I’ve been on the wires with Fleur all morning and she keeps talking about how you’re an evil genius?’ Sorsha is buttoning herself into her coat, her training bag over her shoulder. ‘What exactly did you do, Ren?’

  ‘I…’ I think I like the evil genius rumour, but I don’t want word to get around that I broke into Lost Souls. Not yet, anyway. ‘I cleaned up the mess I made with Zep. I’ll tell you more details later. Are you set for showtime?’

  She nods. ‘All set. Have you finished rehearsal?’

  ‘Yes. I know what I’m doing. Now I’m just helping with odd jobs, and conserving my energy for the performance.’

  ‘How’s your asthma?’ She hitches up her bag. ‘You freaked me right out when you had that attack onstage during the mini-show. Will you be okay?’

  ‘Sure.’ I try to act confident, but Sorsha is hard to bluff. ‘Look, I don’t know, it’s unpredictable. But I’m feeling fine, so I’m just going to continue as normal.’

  ‘Okay, but I’m watching you,’ she warns. ‘And tell Zep he needs to take care of you. Oh, come on, Ren, don’t blush, you know Fleur can’t keep a secret about who’s dating who on the lot.’

  I clasp my hands together. ‘I know you weren’t enthusiastic about Zep, when I was first interested in him. But he’s become really important to me.’

  ‘Hey, I get it. And I’m not worried about Zep anymore. Not when he’s got an evil genius keeping him in line.’ She grins and clasps my nervous fingers. ‘Bring him over to the van sometime, so me and Colm can meet him properly.’

  ‘What are we doing now?’ Colm Mackay emerges from the Prac Shed, in a coat and beanie combination that makes him look like a lumberjack.

  Sorsha looks up at him. ‘We’re having Ren and Zep Deal over for dinner.’

  ‘Dinner? Cool. I’m always up for food.’

  Sorsha rolls her eyes at me. ‘He’s always up for food.’

  ‘Right now I’m up for food.’ Colm picks Sorsha up, as easily as lifting a bag of potatoes, and sets her on his shoulder, over her laughing squeals of protest. He grins and looks back at me. ‘You wanna come up to the mess with us for snacks?’

  I smile at them, shake my head. ‘You go ahead. I can’t eat before I perform. But I’ll see you on the Parade Road at five.’

  I wave them off, go finish the rest of my chores. Then I retire to my dorm room–I should be napping, conserving my energy like I told Sorsha. But the collective buzz of excitement on the lot at the prospect of an imminent performance is difficult to ignore.

  Bonnie, one of the clowns, needs my help with an emergency treatment for her ankle. Then I have an early shower, before the rush starts. At four-thirty, I get dressed: dark, capri-length stretch jeans, a tight red tank, black ballet slippers. I apply my makeup, covering the scrape on my cheek, and snack on a power bar. By quarter to five, I can’t stand it–I tug my jacket on, slip my inhaler into my pocket and head out of the bunkhouse.

  It’s cold outside, and thankfully it’
s stopped raining. The air is so clear you can see the heat from the blacktop misting up toward the sky. Clearly I’m not the only one keen to get started: dozens of people are streaming out of their residences and walking up Tinpan Alley from their vans.

  I stand on the dorm porch and take it all in. Sun glances off spangles and flashing lycra, and performers are laughing, clapping their hands for warmth, stomping their feet. Far to the left, cars are being directed into the parking area, patrons are walking toward the midway and the Spiegeltent. The smell of buttered popcorn drifts faintly in the air.

  Peoples’ excitement around me is palpable. I feel a wrench inside: this is the life I love. Everything about this scene is part of me, part of who I am. A hotel in Bali couldn’t possibly fill the hole in me that leaving this show would create. I just have to find a way to explain that to my family.

  There’s a flash of black in the crowd–I jump off the porch, push through bodies until Zep and I finally meet somewhere in the middle of the parade throng.

  He hugs me, puts me back on my feet. ‘Are you set?’

  I nod. ‘Rehearsal went well?’

  ‘It went great. Are you in costume?’

  ‘This is my costume,’ I say, laughing. ‘No glamour, just me.’

  ‘Even better.’ His eyes dance, bouncing from me to the assembled array of multi-coloured costumes, bejewelled headdresses, smiling faces. ‘This is incredible. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a performance parade.’

  He’s wearing his signature black–not even a white shirt, today. Black shirt, tight black jeans with the silver zips randomly criss-crossing his legs, black motorcycle boots, a morning-coat jacket with the collar snapped and crisp tails low at the back, black fingerless gloves. He is a thin dark cipher, a rapier. I want him so badly, my teeth ache.

  He sees me smouldering at him, grins. ‘Come here, bella.’

  He turns me and hugs me in his arms. But even as I’m snuggling up with him, my mind is whirring. ‘Cavendish will know about the ledgers by now.’

  ‘I imagine so.’