All Aces

by Ellie Marney

  ‘He will think you stole them.’

  ‘Probably.’ Zep seems more interested in nuzzling my hair.

  ‘He’ll be angry. And your father will be angry. I hope I haven’t gotten you in trouble.’

  ‘That kind of trouble I can handle.’

  But post-heist second thoughts have been swarming inside me today. ‘What if they try to bring charges against you again?’

  ‘Querida.’ He turns me to face him. ‘It’ll be okay. For the first time in my life–for the first time ever–I’ve got leverage. I can tell them to back off.’

  ‘What if try to hijack you in some other way? What if–’

  He stops me by kissing me gently on the mouth. Every anxiety that’s boiling inside me shimmers on my lips, but Zep kisses me so firmly I stop shaking.

  He pulls away and brushes his fingers down my cheek. ‘There are a lot of what ifs, it’s true. Anything could happen. But a clever girl I know once told me we could fall down a very deep hole considering all the potential things that could happen.’

  ‘I just hope I haven’t done anything to put you at risk.’ I quiver in his arms.

  ‘You said it yourself, Ren. Everything’s a risk. Being alive is a risk.’ He wets his lips, stares into my eyes. ‘Falling for you is a risk.’

  I can’t speak. I just grab him and hold on tight, bury my face in his neck. He squeezes me back with equal fervour.

  When I finally make my voice work, my words are so thick I have to clear my throat. ‘That’s actually a lot less risky than you might think.’

  The moment is broken when Terry Klatsch strides up onto the verandah of the mess and claps his hands for attention.

  ‘Heya! Okay, people. This is it. One final word before we get started…’

  Mr Klatsch is dressed in his punk ringmaster costume–which is basically his normal black jeans and concert T-shirt, with a frayed, red ringmaster jacket. His fair, shaggy hair whisks in the breeze, under a battered top hat. Eugenia Deloren stands beside Mitch Gibson a few feet away to the right, her elegant skirts a contrast to Mr Gibson’s worn mechanic’s coveralls. Fleur is standing a short distance from her father on the other side, in her trapeze costume covered by a flyer’s robe. Marco, in dark trousers and a white shirt with a brocade waistcoat, has an arm around her waist.

  Mr Klatsch gazes out fondly at the assembled crowd, raises his hands for quiet.

  ‘Hey, folks. I’m so damn excited to see you all. Cos we’ve come a long way, amiright? A few months ago, I was in the hospital, the Spiegeltent was a charred husk, and most of you were out of a job–some of you were being treated for burns, and other injuries.’ His serious eyes play over us, catching upturned faces, nodding at individuals. ‘That’s right, it’s been tough. And we’ve made it here today because of every single person on this lot. Every worker, every performer, every mechanic, every roustabout… You’ve all made this happen. Look at yourselves. I mean it, go on and look.’

  He flaps his hands, and people all around me smile, glance from side to side, take each other in. There’s a camaraderie here that thrills my blood.

  ‘You’re a goddamn wonder,’ Mr Klatsch continues, his cheeks pink. ‘An absolute team of awesome. I’m grateful to all of you, for everything. So grateful I can hardly…I can hardly say.’ He sniffs, clears his throat. ‘Goddammit, now you’ve made me cry. Okay, it’s real cold, and I’m shitty at this inspiring-speech stuff. This performance is going to be legendary. Let’s get out there and show ‘em what we’ve got! Come on, people!’

  There’s a collective roar from every person assembled, hands clapping, cheers rising up. Zep squeezes me in his arms, his laugh joining the whoops and whistles on all sides.

  There’s a noise like thunder, then Gabriella’s liberty horses arrive to mill and circle, steam lifting off their flanks. Gabriella sits astride Henry, her lead horse, taking up the vanguard at the front. Her diamante headdress and hot pink costume shimmer as she raises her hand.

  ‘It’s five o’clock, folks! Let’s go!’

  Nobody needs more urging. Henry leaps forward, the other horses race to follow, and everybody streams up the hill to the umbilical tunnel that leads us all into the Spiegeltent.

  It’s a whirlwind inside. Bennett and the rest of the backstage crew have been slaving to get things perfect–black-clad workers are still rushing around, clipping and lifting and tweaking equipment into position. The sea of workers parts as the parade enters the tent, and people start clapping, their faces radiant.

  There’s been a subtle shift: the Spiegeltent has been restored, but there are differences, improvements. The biggest change is that the internals have all been moved about thirty degrees clockwise–instead of entering the tent and veering left, now the parade can pound straight forward, bursting into the ring like the rainbow crest of a wave.

  The ring itself is no longer perfectly round but egg-shaped, the narrow tip reaching into the audience front-row seats. The wing curtains are brand new, a thick, blood-red velvet. Even more dramatic, a giant new proscenium arch around the ring entrance can be layered with light effects: a massive Luna Park-style clown face, an undersea crevasse, a hellfire pit, a midnight sky streaming with stars.

  Instead of the usual teaser, we’re treating the gallery to this celebratory parade. Mr Klatsch, standing on an elevated platform, starts his introductory patter as Zep and I take a tour around the ring with the rest of the show troupers. We wave and throw glittering confetti into the excited audience, while the calliope plays and fireworks explode on the proscenium behind us.

  ‘I can’t believe I get to be part of this!’ The music and cheering is so loud, Zep has to lean down near my ear to make himself heard. His face is wreathed with smiles.

  I just have to smile back. ‘You deserve to be part of this!’

  Once we’re back in the wings, though, it’s all action. Performers set up for their cues, retire to the new dressing area, or grab a quick bite at the buffet table set with water bottles and snacks near the warm-up mats. Gabi’s act is the opener after the parade, so I say goodbye to Zep–who wants to do some prep prior to his spot, which is up next–and sneak over to the wing curtain to take a peak.

  ‘Ren?’ Fleur is just a white bobbing face, until she comes closer and I can make out the details of her dark hair and robe from amongst the rest of the wing darkness. She keeps her voice lowered, although the music from Gabi’s spot and the drum of horse’s hooves is enough to mask any backstage noise. ‘Hey, I need a quick word.’

  ‘Of course. What is it?’

  Fleur draws me away from the curtain, into backstage proper. ‘Look, I don’t want to stress you out, but I requested some advice about those ledgers.’

  ‘You weren’t sure whether they’d hold up in court?’

  ‘That was my first query, and we’re still working it out. But Kate called back just now, advising us to be careful. In fact, she suggested we hand the ledgers over to the police and take on some extra security.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s concerned that individuals named in the ledgers might try to get back at Zep.’ She holds up a hand as my mouth opens. ‘I know it was you who took the ledgers, not him. But he would be the person they’d suspect, because he’d have the most to gain from taking them. I mean, he was already caught once trying to break in.’

  All the blood leaves my face in a rush. ‘You’re saying that Zep could still be in danger?’

  ‘It’s a possibility, yes.’ She grips my shoulder. ‘Hey, don’t freak, okay? I just wanted to warn you, and we might need to take some precautions–’

  She breaks off when Sorsha arrives on her other side.

  ‘Ren, what is it?’ Sorsha grabs my cold hands, rounds on Fleur. ‘What did you say to her? She looks like she’s been punched in the gut.’

  Fleur sighs. ‘Ren took something from Lost Souls, someth
ing which incriminates a lot of messed-up people. I’ve been explaining that we’ll be putting on some extra security, in case any of Angus Deal’s cronies decide to pick a fight with her or Zep.’

  ‘I thought taking the ledgers would help,’ I whisper.

  ‘It does help,’ Fleur counters. ‘Ren, it helps a lot, especially with the arson case. But until the police nail down all the names mentioned in those pages, we’re going to be careful, okay?’

  ‘So you’ve told Ren to be careful,’ Sorsha says. ‘Good idea. Have you told Zep?’

  ‘That’s the thing.’ Fleur grimaces, rubs her forehead. ‘I don’t know if I should do that. This is his first full performance in three years, and he’s already nervous as hell.’

  ‘Fleur, you’ve got to tell him.’

  ‘I will! But he’s about to step onstage. I figured I’d tell him as soon as he finishes.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘Can you think of a better solution? He’ll be okay for the duration of his spot. Even Vas Cavendish wouldn’t be so deranged as to attack a performer mid-act, in front of a packed house full of witnesses.’

  ‘That sounds…’ I swallow, try to recover my breath. ‘That sounds reasonable.’

  Fleur squeezes my arm. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve made you panic, Ren, but it’ll be okay. We’ll look out for Zep, all right? And I’m going to keep checking in with you, so you don’t need to worry. Now I’m going to see Bennett about the set transitions–Sorsha, have you got her?’

  ‘I’ve got her,’ Sorsha confirms, and Fleur strides off. But once she’s gone, Sorsha frowns. ‘I don’t like this.’

  ‘Me either.’ I chew my bottom lip. ‘Do you really think someone would try to hurt Zep here, on the lot?’

  ‘That depends on how much they have to lose,’ she points out.

  ‘But they wouldn’t–’ I start, then I stop.

  I’m remembering Malcolm and Cecil. Men like that have no safety net. With Angus in jail, and Cavendish’s protection dissolved now after the discovery of the ledgers, Malcolm and Cecil have nothing left.

  And people with nothing to lose can be very dangerous indeed.

  I turn around slowly, searching for Zep in the backstage area. I can’t see him anywhere, but he’s probably near the curtain on the far side of the ring, waiting for his cue.

  I meet Sorsha’s gaze. ‘I’m going to find Zep.’

  She nods at me, catching my mood, her eyes round. ‘And I’m going to get Colm over here on stand-by for Zep’s spot.’

  We separate in different directions, both of us moving briskly. I jog towards the warm-up area, the sounds of the finale music for the liberty act echoing in my ears. My chest feels tight. I rub my breastbone, try to calm myself.

  I finally spot the black whip of Zep’s tailcoat. But a dozen people and Gabi’s horses, pounding out of the ring at the end of their spot, are wedged between us, and I can’t yell to him backstage.

  Zep’s face, pale with nervous anticipation, is angled towards the ring as he waits for his cue. Flashing lights onstage reflect on his skin, then the lights start to dim, and I know there’s no way I can reach him in time.

  I change direction, and dart through the curtain. I may not be able to warn Zep, but I can watch out for him while he performs.

  My night-sight is hinky from the glare of the recent spotlights, but I sneak out of the wing and fumble my way behind the bleachers full of people. Taking up position near the blue seats in the centre aisle, behind the front-row starbucks, I tuck myself into the shadow of the bleacher poles. After feeling a bit plain compared to everyone else during the parade, now I’m glad I’m wearing civilian clothes; being in full costume would have made this manoeuvre impossible.

  Fleur’s probably right–I’m being paranoid. But even without these worries, I would want to watch anyway, because it’s Zep’s first real performance, and this time I don’t want to stand in the wings to witness it.

  When the lights snap back on, the audience falls quiet. Zep stands front and centre in the ring, face angled down and his black hair falling forward. He’s motionless; a hard, obsidian sigil of a boy. His sharp collar and slashed tailcoat make him look like a living shadow…

  And then the music swells, and this shadow starts to move.

  He lifts his head and extends his left hand out to the side. Snaps the fingers of his right hand–and a card appears in his left. The card is as black as he is, like a shard of inky glass.

  He sails the card over his head–such a smooth, controlled throw, the card seems to move in slow motion–and by the time it reaches his other hand, it’s turned into two cards. Back again, and those two cards turn into four. As his passes get faster and faster, the cards multiply until the audience is gasping, and the air above Zep’s head is so full of whirling black cards, it looks as if a flock of crows is swarming there.

  Zep’s artistry is amazing. I could honestly watch this act all day. I’m staring at his hands so hard my eyes are straining, but even I can’t see how he’s doing this.

  People in the gallery exclaim with delight when he begins a series of trick shots, sailing cards up to the roof and catching them again in a giant circular juggle. Flashpaper cards flare and spark. Zep skips cards across the ring curbs like he’s skimming stones on a lake, throws them towards the gallery so fast that they ricochet, even boomerang back into his hand.

  It’s not just that he can scale so hard, at such lightning speed–it’s his level of accuracy, the delicacy and precision of each throw that makes it so astonishing. He sends cards spinning into handbags, onto palms, into gaps between seats, between fingers, into slivers of cracks in the quarter poles… When he starts scaling cards to people on request, even as far away as the top row of the bleachers, everybody seems to realise they’re seeing a performance so unique they’ll remember it forever. It’s as if he’s truly cast some kind of spell.

  Zep was wasted as a pickpocket. This, this magical performance, is where he exercises his real talents.

  He’s in the middle of floating cards one by one into a perfectly square pile, from fifteen feet away, when I register someone striding up the centre aisle towards the ring. Someone stocky, wearing dirty khaki coveralls. Someone who looks completely pissed off.

  When Cecil opens his mouth to yell, ‘Fucking Zep Deal!’ I see the glint of a gold tooth.

  Despite being forewarned this might happen, I still stand here, gaping. The audience around me is applauding; Cecil’s outburst is swallowed up in the noise and the music. And Zep is still scaling in the ring–defenceless and unaware.

  No matter how chaotic this situation is about to become, I can’t freeze up. I have to help Zep.

  I have to move.

  I step forward and scoop up one of the black playing cards that have fluttered to the sawdust. I have no technique–I just throw the card as hard as I can toward the ring, yell in the lull in the music.

  ‘Incoming!’

  Zep looks up, sees me, snatches the card out of the air. The break in his rhythm is barely perceptible. And then he sees Cecil.

  Zep’s stunned expression, when he catches sight of his dad’s accomplice, must just appear to be the pantomime of a very good performer. Even when Cecil starts jogging, then running, for the ring, people seem to think it’s all part of the act.

  I might be the only person in the gallery who realises it’s not.

  Zep lunges for his pack of cards, his weapon of choice. I break from the shadow of the bleachers, to dart for the ring–

  Someone grabs me from behind, hauls me back.

  ‘Uh-uh, sweetie, let’s make this a fair fight.’ Malcolm’s voice sounds rough but level, his arms squeezing me hard enough to leave bruises. When I cry out in surprise, he lifts me right off my feet.

  ‘No–let me GO!’ I kick and flail my legs, but Malcolm chuckles. He smells of alcohol and swea
t.

  A dozen feet away in the ring, Zep flings a barrage of black pasteboard missiles at Cecil’s oncoming assault. Zep’s face is furiously intent; I don’t know where he’s getting all these cards from, it’s as if they simply appear at his fingertips on command. Flashpaper cards stream out with the rest, exploding in showers of fiery sparks.

  Cecil bats at the stream of cards and fireworks, snarling and swearing. As he advances, Zep backs away, scaling so fast his hands are a blur. People in the audience start clapping again.

  ‘Let me–’ I struggle in Malcolm’s grip, kicking his shins. ‘Zep!’

  Fraser Hemming, one of the black-clad ring crew, is running towards the ring along the far left aisle. More movement, more ring crew, off to the right.

  ‘Fuck!’ Malcolm growls, wrestling me for control. ‘This is like holding a goddamn eel!’

  I make a yowl in reply, before realising–I am an eel. And I can be as slippery as one.

  I stop struggling immediately, relax my body and slide myself straight down, leaving my jacket in Malcolm’s grip.

  He swears and fumbles for me. ‘Come here, you little–’

  I kick my leg up, smack him right in the face with the flat of my foot. He stops talking and groans. Then I roll sideways, push up off my hands and run for the ring.

  I reach the ring curb just as Cecil yanks a long thin knife out of the leg pocket of his coveralls.

  My heart clenches like a fist. I have one glimpse of Zep’s blanched face before Cecil pulls back his arm to throw–

  As he releases, I leap from the raised curb to tackle his legs.

  There’s a collective gasp from the audience, even over the music. I don’t know what it means–I’m too busy having the air slammed out of me by Cecil’s heavy body.

  He bellows, kicks, rolls away on the compacted sawdust. Something jars, deep in my chest, and I gasp. I push myself back, fall on my butt, glance sideways.

  Zep is standing, twisted at the waist so he’s almost facing in the other direction. His hand is at his cheek. When he swivels back, his cheek is bloody and his eyes are blazing.