Circus of Nightmares: Death is the Ultimate Illusion (The Anglesey Mysteries Book 2)

by Conrad Jones

  ‘Oh my god,’ he stammered, angrily. ‘Dirty bloody do-as-you-likeys,’ he hissed. It took him a few minutes to compose himself enough to stand. He tried to wipe the dog faeces from his fingers on the grass but it was a pointless task. It was under his fingernails. The smell was vile, making him want to puke. ‘And this is why you’re not welcome here,’ he said to no one. The smell of candyfloss and onions was hanging in the air. The fairground was gearing up to open. ‘You don’t have a licence and you don’t move your rubbish and you don’t pick up your dog shit. I’ll give them a piece of my mind,’ he muttered, angrily. He made his way along the path, searching for a gap between the caravans, which wasn’t guarded by a rabid terrier on steroids. Eventually, he reached an articulated lorry, which had converted into a funhouse. It dominated that side of the promenade. He navigated his way between the railings, ropes and power cables into the fairground and marched towards the first figures he could see. The men were fiddling with the engine of a Ford Transit, pouring oil into the block.

  ‘Can you tell me who is in charge here?’ They ignored him. ‘Excuse me. I asked who is in charge?’ They ignored him again but looked at each other. ‘Excuse me. Do you speak English?’ Malcolm asked unnecessarily loudly.

  ‘Yes. We speak English,’ one of them answered. His accent might have been German or Austrian.

  ‘I need to know who is in charge,’ Malcolm said, puffing his chest.

  ‘Why do you want to know that?’ one of them asked without looking at him.

  ‘This is council business. I will discuss that with the manager.’ The men ignored him. ‘Can you tell me where to find him?’ Malcolm said, tapping the man closest on the shoulder.

  ‘Don’t put your hands on me, understand?’

  ‘Sorry. But it’s important. I need to speak to the owner.’

  ‘Who is asking?’ the man answered. He turned to face Malcolm. His expression was aggressive.

  ‘I’m asking. Malcolm Orange.’ Malcolm stepped back. ‘I’m a local resident and a member of the town council.’

  ‘Town council indeed. If you’ve got any sense, you need to leave the way you came in,’ the man said. ‘The fair isn’t open yet. Everyone is busy. Come back at twelve o’clock.’

  ‘I need to talk to whoever is in charge before you open as you should not be opening at all,’ Malcolm said, standing firm. ‘And I won’t be leaving until I have spoken to them.’

  ‘You’re going to get yourself into bother with that attitude.’ The man picked up a wrench. He tapped the engine with it. ‘Where we come from, aggression is met with aggression.’

  ‘I mean no offence,’ Malcolm said, backing away. ‘But I would like to speak to whoever is in charge.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ the man said, turning back to the engine. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  ‘Where will I find them?’

  ‘You need to go to the big top,’ the man said, pointing. ‘Ask for Lottie.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Malcolm said, turning away. He headed towards the circus tent. The smell of burgers was wrestling with the smell of dog faeces. He couldn’t get it out of his head, no matter how many times he wiped his hands on the grass. Manic laughter made him jump. It took several seconds to register it was recorded and coming from the funhouse. Another burst of laughter echoed across the fairground. A mechanical parrot squawked inside a glass cabinet filled with teddy bears. Its perch swung to and fro. Malcolm walked as quickly as he could. There was something eerie about the place. He reached the big top. The flaps were tied back creating a doorway a large van could fit through. He looked inside. Tiered seating had been erected on three sides of the ring. The sound of chainsaws whirred loudly. He watched mesmerized as a man in a boiler suit juggled three of them. The blades gleamed as they span. He tossed them one at a time to a huge clown, who tossed them back in turn. Behind the jugglers, a fire-eater blew orange flames from his lips at another performer who became engulfed in flame and gyrated in a macabre dance. Seconds later, the flames were gone and the performer unharmed. A scantily clad female was spinning on a wheel, while a man in a ski-mask threw machetes at her; she giggled like a schoolgirl and shrieked with glee as each blade struck. Above him, a trapeze artist was practicing without a safety net. She was wearing a Lycra bra top and matching shorts, which didn’t leave much to the imagination. Every inch of her skin was tattooed. He stared for longer than he was comfortable with, feeling guilty of the desire he felt. A circus with a difference, the signs said. Now he knew why. They were all mad.

  ‘I hope you’re not staring at my wife?’ a man growled. His accent was thick and guttural. Probably Eastern European, Malcolm thought. He looked like he ate six-inch nails for breakfast. His neck was thicker than the average man’s thigh. ‘What are you doing here, pervert?’

  ‘I’m not a pervert and I was not staring at anyone,’ he protested. He blushed. ‘I’m looking for Lottie. I was told he’s in charge.’

  ‘If you look at my wife again, I’ll poke your eyes out of your head.’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ a female voice said from behind him. He turned to face her. Her long brown hair was plaited and touched by the sun at the ends. She was fixing a scrunchie to it as she spoke. Malcolm was taken aback. Her eyes were smiling and she was disarmingly attractive.

  ‘He’s a pervert, staring at Helga while she works.’

  ‘I’ll deal with it. Go and practice.’ The man mountain snarled and walked away. ‘Ignore Ivo,’ the woman said. ‘He’s a little protective of Helga.’

  ‘I wasn’t staring at her,’ Malcolm muttered.

  ‘Of course, you weren’t. Although I wouldn’t blame you if you did. Helga is ridiculously hot, isn’t she?’ Lottie grinned. Malcolm opened his mouth but couldn’t find his voice. ‘No need to be embarrassed. How can I help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for Lottie or whoever is in charge,’ Malcolm said, irritated by his own hesitation. ‘Can you point me in the right direction?’

  ‘I’m Lottie,’ she said, smiling. ‘Lottie Edwards. Owner operator of this outfit.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘You expected a man?’ Lottie asked. Malcolm didn’t answer but blushed. ‘No problem. It’s a popular misconception. How can I help you?’

  ‘You could help by packing up and moving on,’ Malcolm said.

  ‘And why would we do that?’

  ‘You don’t have a licence to operate here or park here or even be here. This is public land owned by the people of Holyhead,’ Malcolm said. ‘And without permission, you’re trading illegally.’

  ‘And you are?’ Lottie asked, half smiling. Her eyes assessed him. She looked through him.

  ‘Malcolm Orange. I’m on the town council and this circus tent is right in front of my windows.’

  ‘Okay, councillor Orange. Do you want us to relocate the big top because we can’t do that now it’s set?’

  ‘No. I don’t want you to relocate it.’

  ‘Do you want money in compensation for your view?’

  ‘No.’ Malcolm was confused. ‘I don’t want your money.’

  ‘What exactly do you want?’

  ‘I want you to pack up and move on,’ Malcolm said, feeling more confused. Lottie appeared to be friendly enough so far and she was incredibly attractive. It was difficult to be annoyed with her. ‘You seem like a reasonable woman. You must appreciate you can’t just turn up and operate wherever you choose without permission.’

  ‘Yes. Of course, I do.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes. We’re just passing through on the way to Ireland,’ Lottie said. ‘We have been touring Europe but we’re ahead of schedule by three days so we arranged this stopover.’

  ‘Sorry. I don’t follow,’ Malcolm said, shaking his head. ‘You arranged what exactly?’

  ‘Part of the original schedule was cancelled. I knew we would have time to spare before we crossed to Ireland, so I made a call and we have permission to operate here until Thursday and then we’ll
be on the ferry on Friday and away. Maybe it wasn’t communicated to you. It was a lastminute arrangement but we have permission to be here.’

  ‘Lastminute?’ Malcolm asked confused.

  ‘Yes. Our schedule is planned years in advance so this is what I would call lastminute,’ Lottie said, smiling. ‘Time is money in this game and we can’t have the tent down any longer than is feasibly possible so, I made a few calls and arranged to stopover here for a few days. We have permission.’

  ‘That’s impossible. You have permission from who?’ Malcolm said, flustered. ‘I’m on the planning committee. I’ve seen no such applications made and certainly no permission granted in the last twelve months.’

  ‘I can categorically tell you we have permission,’ Lottie said. ‘Wait a minute.’ Lottie took out her mobile. Malcolm noticed how strong she looked. Her body was lean but toned. ‘I have it here somewhere.’ She scrolled through her messages. ‘Here it is. Charles Milburn,’ Lottie said, checking her phone. ‘We had a long conversation about it and we agreed we would donate a percentage of the ticket takings to the local hospice and he said he would forward the paperwork on to us but I haven’t heard from him and we’ve been travelling constantly, so I don’t have a hard copy. He said we could pick it up when we arrived.’

  ‘When did you speak to Charles?’

  ‘Six weeks ago, was the last time, when we had a cancellation in London,’ Lottie said, checking her phone again. ‘It’s all here on my phone.’

  ‘This is most irregular.’

  ‘It might be but we have his permission and he’s in charge, isn’t he, councillor Orange?’

  ‘Charles was the chairman but he died last month,’ Malcolm said, frowning.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,’ Lottie said, frowning. ‘He seemed like a lovely man. Definitely not a jobsworth like some people. What a shame.’

  ‘You didn’t know he was dead?’

  ‘No. How would I?’ Lottie asked. ‘We’ve been travelling.’

  ‘Charles wouldn’t have done this. He couldn’t give permission for this, certainly not over the telephone anyway.’ Malcolm gestured to the fairground. ‘This is a major operation and we’re not prepared for it. It needs to be policed not to mention the waste you will create.’

  ‘We will throw all the waste into the sea,’ Lottie said. ‘It’s just over there. We threw a load in this morning.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Malcolm said, horrified.

  ‘I was joking,’ Lottie said. She rolled her eyes. ‘We have compactors. All our waste will be bagged and compacted ready for collection.’

  ‘Yes, it may be compacted but we haven’t arranged any pickups because we didn’t know about it. Charles wouldn’t have okayed this, last minute or not.’

  ‘He did,’ Lottie smiled. Her eyes narrowed. ‘I can assure you Charles Milburn gave us permission.’

  ‘He couldn’t and wouldn’t have given permission without the committee’s agreement,’ Malcolm said, adamant. ‘Everything has to go to the vote.’

  ‘He gave me permission,’ Lottie said, sighing. ‘Now. I’m a busy woman. I really need to get on as we’re opening at lunchtime.’

  ‘I absolutely forbid it.’

  ‘You forbid it?’ Lottie said, smiling. ‘Bossy little man, aren’t you, councillor.’

  ‘You do not have permission,’ Malcolm argued. ‘This is a ruse.’

  ‘Meaning what exactly?’

  ‘His death was reported widely in the press. I think you’ve seen it on the news and taken advantage of it.’

  ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Lottie’s expression hardened. Several employees were approaching. They looked strong and they looked nasty. A clown came out of the big top. He stood six feet five at least. There was nothing amusing about it. It looked like something from a Stephen King novel. Several more joined it. Malcolm felt intimidated. Others gathered behind him, pushing and jostling. ‘Don’t upset the staff. That won’t end well,’ Lottie said, shrugging. ‘We have permission to trade and we will be trading. And let’s be clear that I’m not a liar.’

  ‘I’m not calling you a liar.’ Malcolm lowered his tone and picked his words carefully. ‘I’m saying Charles didn’t have the authority to grant you permission to trade,’ Malcolm said, retreating a little. He looked around the bizarre collection of faces. A woman stared at him through yellow eyes. She had contact lenses, which made her pupils like those of a lizard. Her face was completely tattooed. She smiled to show her teeth were filed into fangs and her tongue was surgically split in two. Malcolm felt frightened. ‘I don’t believe he did give his permission and there’s no way of checking, is there?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We only have your word that this conversation with Charles ever took place.’

  ‘So, you’re not calling me a liar but you’re insinuating I am one?’ Lottie frowned.

  ‘Who is calling you a liar, boss?’ one of the clowns asked. He spat phlegm on the ground inches away from Malcolm’s shoes. ‘This little man?’ A second clown barged into Malcolm’s shoulder. The homemade tattoos on his neck looked childlike. One of his ears had been bitten off at the lobe. ‘Are you calling the boss a liar?’

  ‘I’m not calling anyone a liar,’ Malcolm said, shaking his head. Fear made his blood run cold. More travellers arrived, crowding him. ‘I’m not here for trouble,’ he said, frightened. ‘Maybe we should call the police to resolve this?’

  ‘I think you should leave,’ Lottie said. Her smile was gone. ‘Before you offend someone.’

  ‘I’m representing the town council,’ Malcolm said, shaking his head. He began sweating profusely. ‘And you don’t have a licence to operate on this island. Charles Milburn would not and could not have given permission for you to set up here. You’re leaving me no choice but to call the police.’

  ‘Call them,’ Lottie said. ‘I’ll tell them the same as I told you. We have permission from Charles Milburn. Today is Sunday. We’ll be opening until Thursday and then we sail to Ireland on Friday.’ Malcolm shook his head angrily. ‘Please leave the pitch. We’re getting ready to open.’

  ‘I will not leave.’

  ‘Leave for your own safety,’ Lottie said, smiling coldly.

  ‘You need to do as you’ve been asked,’ the lizard woman said, her tongue flickered from her lips like a snake. She leaned in towards him. Malcom had seen enough. He was overwhelmed. ‘Lottie has asked you nicely. So, be a good boy and fuck off before you get hurt,’ she whispered in his ear.

  ‘I will. I’m going now.’ He nodded and wiped sweat from his brow. ‘But I will be back,’ Malcolm warned. ‘This isn’t the end of the matter.’

  ‘Escort the councillor off the pitch,’ Lottie said to her employees. ‘Take him to the entrance gate and show him out. We wouldn’t want any ill befalling him on his way home now, would we?’ Malcolm turned and tried to walk away but his path was blocked. The giant clown barred his way. ‘Hugo. Be nice now,’ Lottie said. ‘Don’t upset Hugo. He’s a little unpredictable. Sometimes, he doesn’t know his own strength. He pulled a man’s arm off in Leipzig. It was an accident but painful nonetheless.’

  ‘Oh, god.’ Malcolm felt dizzy. ‘I don’t feel very well. Could someone call me an ambulance?’

  ‘Come with us and we’ll take you to the road and call you an ambulance. Don’t phone the police,’ the big clown said, shaking his head. His voice was deep. ‘Don’t use your phone, please,’ Hugo said, holding out his hand. His hand was the size of a garden spade. ‘The police are not our favourite people. We don’t want them here.’

  ‘I don’t have a phone,’ Malcolm stammered. Beads of sweat formed on the back of his neck. His chest began to tighten. Voices were raised and angry, threatening and abusive. His breathing became laboured. ‘I’ll go but this isn’t over,’ he muttered. He felt like he was being crushed by an invisible hand. ‘I’ll be calling the police as soon as I get indoors,’ Malcolm said, clutching his chest. Cold sweat ran down his forehead. ‘Excuse me,’ he gas
ped, trying to find a gap through the throng. ‘I’m feeling a little breathless.’

  ‘He doesn’t look too good,’ Lottie said. ‘Carry him off the pitch.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Anywhere but here,’ she said. ‘Take him to the road. There’s a toilet block on the corner.’

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ Malcolm gasped. His chest constricted further. ‘My heart,’ he muttered.

  ‘Get him off the pitch,’ Lottie ordered. ‘And don’t hurt him.’

  Malcolm was lifted from beneath the arms and carried quickly towards the exit.

  ‘I need an ambulance. Please call an ambulance.’ He was about to ask again when a blow to the back of the head knocked him to his knees. A second blow switched the lights off and he crumpled onto the damp grass.

  Chapter 2

  Michelle and Tiffany left the Albert Vaults and staggered up Newry Street towards the Newry Beach. They were both blond and petite. Michelle, affectionately known as Tinkershell because of how tiny she was, held Tiffany by the elbow to keep her upright. They’d been drinking gin and tonic and downing shots since dinnertime. It was Tiffany’s birthday and the news that the circus was in town was just what they needed. Michelle was a fan of the Circus of Nightmares and followed them on social media. Their stunts and illusions were ground-breaking, always pushing the boundaries and blurring the lines between entertainment and horror. She had wanted to see the show for years. It was perfect timing. On Tiffany’s last birthday, they had gone into every pub from one end of town to the other and back again. They had done the same the year before that too. And the year before that. It always ended up in tears and a kebab. Going to see the Circus of Nightmares would be the most exciting thing they’d done to celebrate a birthday for years. Chelle was giddy but Tiffany was drunk. They walked past the Empire and the sunbed shop. Tiff caught a reflection of herself in the window of a second-hand shop. She pouted and pulled her top down to expose a little more cleavage and hitched her miniskirt up and inch to show a little more thigh.