by Ellie Marney
When my fingertips slither out of Luke’s grasp, it’s mostly shock that makes me squawk in surprise, that delays my reaction time. But there’s a knock-on effect: when I hit the net, I’m wrong side up. Instead of splaying out, spreading my bodyweight or curling onto my back, I land with one foot caught under me. And it fucking hurts.
Sorsha calls from the ladder. ‘Ouch, Fleur, are you okay?’
I make a series of loud swears in reply. When I get to the side of the net and flip down, Marco’s dark eyebrows are a solid line.
He takes my arm when I stumble. ‘Easy now, come and sit down.’
I wave him off. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine, ohmigod, would everyone stop panicking please? It was just a crappy landing–’
My left foot collapses under me, so I don’t get to finish.
‘You’re fine. Oh yes, obviously,’ Marco says, grabbing me around the waist and hauling me upright. Now he looks infuriatingly bland. ‘Perfectly fine. Nothing to see here, move along…’
‘Nobody likes a smartass,’ I grit out. ‘Just let me–ohmigod, put me down, I don’t need to be carried.’
I bat away Marco’s helpful arm, and the concerned attentions of Dee and Sorsha, and keep limping until I can flop onto the bench seat beside the practice mats and survey the damage. It’s not my ankle, I’m relieved to discover. My foot is red when I take off my slipper, but there’s not much ominous purpling. Luke drops into the net from above, flips off and walks over to shoulder through the little knot of people in front of me.
He folds into a crouch so he can take a look. ‘It looks more like a bruise than a sprain. What about when you bend it?’ He manipulates my foot carefully. ‘Now back–’
‘Ahh–yeah, don’t do that.’ I wince sharply.
‘Ice,’ Luke says firmly. ‘Get some ice on it and you should be okay.’ He stands up. ‘Okay, people, give her some room. Fleur, are you gonna be all right for tonight?’
‘No problem.’ I make my voice firm, stand up to drum the message home. My foot throbs. I ignore it.
‘Right.’ Luke looks at the whole team assembled. ‘Reconvene at five on the Parade Road, and Fleur, if your foot becomes an issue–’
‘It won’t.’
‘Then…great. Okay, folks, practice is over.’
The group disperses. I round on Marco as soon as I can guarantee no one will overhear. ‘Please tell me you came in here to find me for some urgent reason, and not just because you wanted to make me embarrass myself in front of my entire trapeze team.’
He smiles wholeheartedly. ‘Petal–’
‘Don’t you “Petal” me!’ I snatch up my windbreaker and shoes. I can’t put my runner back on my left foot anyway, so I’ll just walk it in my slippers. ‘What is it? A sewage pipe has burst? We’ve run out of sequins? Why did you–’
‘Actually, I came in to see you train.’ He shrugs, looking apologetic. ‘I’m sorry if I put you off.’
‘You came in to see me…’ I’ve stopped at the door. I’m pretty sure my eyes are bulging in a very unattractive way.
Marco’s eyebrows lift and dance. ‘Well, it’s been a while. I was wondering if you were still as good as you seemed to be when we were kids. But now I have your undivided attention… Something’s come up. We’re meeting Mitch and Eugenia to discuss it back at my van.’
‘What? What is it?’
He prefers to go the mysterious route. ‘Come on back to the van and I’ll show you.’
We pass stage crew and performers heading up Tinpan Alley towards the mess for lunch as we make our way downhill towards the van area. I’m walking in a distinctly ungainly fashion, limping and clinging onto my belongings. One of the first vans on the grass is Eugenia’s Airstream, which looks like a silver bullet on tiny wheels. Marco glances at it, looks away. His van–a green and white lozenge that looks like a larger-than-life Duplo brick–is parked significantly further back.
‘Sorry for the trek.’
‘S’fine. You didn’t know I’d be disabled when you arranged for everyone to meet at your place.’ I restrain myself from poking Marco’s arm and asking him what’s going on with him and his mum. Totally not the time.
The inside of Marco’s van is just as characterless as the external façade: there’s barely any sign that someone lives here. It’s not like I was expecting knick-knacks and personalised curtains–he’s only been in residence a week–but there’s no mess, not even a stray piece of dirty underwear. Not that I’m interested in Marco’s underwear, or Marco’s knick-knacks, or–
‘Ice,’ I stagger to the couch and drop myself down, dump my training gear on the floor. ‘Please tell me you’ve got ice.’
‘On it.’ Marco rummages in the refrigerator, pulls out an ice tray and collects a dish towel–still folded as if it hasn’t been used since it came from the shop–from a drawer.
By the time he brings the ice pack over, I’ve got my sore foot hiked up and cradled in my hands. The cold provides instant relief. This isn’t a serious injury; I’ve had sprains before, and I know what they feel like. This is nowhere near as bad. If I can rest it a little, I should be good to go for tonight.
‘Better?’
‘Much. Thanks. So what’s the something?’ I rest my bare foot on the coffee table, the icepack wrapped around it.
‘Pardon?’ Marco drags his eyes away from my foot to stare at me blankly. Then his expression becomes more serious. ‘Ah. Okay, Mitch found a clue. Not during the security sweep. He found it when he was examining the bleacher poles from Terry’s accident.’
‘What sort of–’
There’s a sudden knock on the door, and Marco raises a hand for me to hold that thought as he goes to answer it. Mitch and Eugenia have arrived together.
I start grilling them as soon as they both sit down. ‘Marco said you found out something about Dad’s accident? Tell me.’
‘Slow down, Fleur.’ Mitch exchanges a glance with Eugenia, then continues in his usual growling drawl. ‘Okay, so I went back through the wreckage, and I found a walkie-talkie. Well, it’s not a walkie-talkie so much as pieces of one.’
He digs around in the inside pocket of his jacket and withdraws a ziplock bag. Inside the bag is a collection of jumbled electronics parts. Mitch was right: it’s not recognizably a walkie-talkie anymore. But larger scraps of plastic casing give a sense of what the device was before it was smashed flat.
‘It’s not one of ours,’ Eugenia explains. She sits on the edge of her chair in a capri ensemble that makes her, without doubt, the classiest-dressed person in the room. She doesn’t look uncomfortable, here in her son’s van, but she doesn’t look relaxed, either. That could be to do with what we’re discussing, but I see her shooting little glances around the van’s interior.
I focus off the issue of what’s up with Marco and Eugenia, focus back on the ziplock bag as I turn it by one corner. ‘So none of our people carry these units backstage? Are all ours accounted for?’
Mitch nods. ‘All our units are slotted into the charging bank. And ours are a different make and model–these are older-style units.’
‘We don’t know if it was used by the saboteur,’ Eugenia says, voice composed. ‘It could have been left behind by an audience member.’
Mitch shakes his head. ‘I don’t think this is some kid’s forgotten toy. This kind of unit is expensive. It’s not a hobby item, it’s a pro tool. I think leaving this thing was a genuine mistake.’
‘So you’re saying this came from outside the lot.’ Marco accepts the bag as I pass it to him.
‘Yep. ‘Mitch nods. ‘Someone from outside is screwing with us, and I’ve got a hunch who it might be.’
‘You’re thinking it’s Vas Cavendish,’ Eugenia says. There’s no inflection in her tone at all.
‘Who else?’ Mitch appeals to her directly. ‘Genie, you know the best way to figure
this stuff out–you follow the money. Cavendish is directly benefiting from us being sidelined. What other reason would motivate an outside saboteur to try to wreck us? Who cares about a little circus?’
‘Another little circus,’ Marco supplies. He purses his lips, nods. ‘I can see the logic in that.’
‘Terry and Vas Cavendish have been competitors for years but they’ve always managed to keep things civil,’ Eugenia protests.
‘I think maybe things have progressed beyond ‘civil’,’ Mitch says in an ominous tone.
‘Vas may be a crook, Mitch, but he’s not a killer. These accidents were specifically designed to hurt people.’
‘Or they were just designed to cause havoc,’ I suggest, ‘but some people got in the way.’
Having been one of those people, it hurts a bit for me to say that. But it’s a hard, clean hurt that I can set aside. I don’t want to sound like an apologist, but I also don’t want to accuse anyone falsely.
‘I think we should give this to the police,’ Eugenia says. ‘We have them listening to us now, and this will lend weight to any case we ultimately decide to bring.’
Mitch grimaces, Marco frowns. I bite my lip. We’re all staring at the little ziplock bag on the coffee table like it holds the secrets of the universe. We have something now, a clue, a piece of the puzzle. But all it seems to have done is opened up more potential questions.
I don’t get a chance to rest my foot.
I have to go back to the hospital twice, for starters. I get my safety inspection paperwork done during the taxi rides, at least, but I have to show the safety inspectors around between hospital trips. My final visit involves accompanying Daddy to receive an ultrasound, down in what is clearly the hospital’s Ultrasound Basement of Doom. It’s a journey of five corridors, over four floors, and I have to help wrestle Dad’s wheeled bed so it doesn’t hit the walls and corners. Dad is embarrassed by the fact that this adventure, during which his most arduous task is to stay still on a moving bed, is enough to exhaust him.
The Ultrasound Basement of Doom slows me down, so I find myself rushing to get back to the lot in time for tonight’s performance. I don’t even make it to the parade: I sprint into the Spiegeltent just as the flyers arrive. Luke has a thunderous expression on his face, and Marco looks frantic. I’m glad I’m already in costume, even if I did have to put my makeup on in the backseat of a cab on the way here.
‘Positions!’ Luke calls, and then we’re running into the ring for the teaser. I hardly have time to breathe.
As soon as I come off, Marco grabs me and shoves a headset mic into my hands. ‘You’re insane. I thought I’d be going out alone.’
‘And let you hog the spotlight? Not a chance, Deloren.’
Marco narrows his eyes at me, but he’s too late–Winston is blaring our cue. We sweep out into the ring, all smiles, and I concentrate on our introductory ringmaster patter, ignoring the stabbing pain in my foot. I smile for the audience, I simper and wave, until Marco calls the cue for the first act and we rush back into the wings.
A crewmember takes my headset, and I’m immediately talking to Bennett about the rigging for the acrobatic spot. Then Fabian wants me to answer a question about a scheduling emergency.
About halfway through the third act–Colm’s silks–Marco snags me and pulls me into a corner. ‘You’re still limping. And you were limping during the intro spot. Did you get a chance to rest?’
‘I’m still limping because it’s still hurting, and haha, you’re hilarious.’
‘You told Luke you’d rest your foot.’
‘That was before the trip to the Ultrasound Basement of Doom.’ I tug my black robe tighter and wipe my face with a towel, which means I’ll have to reapply makeup later but screw it. ‘And Dad’s fine, thanks for asking.’
‘Fleur, you–’ Marco glances out into the ring as audience applause sounds, then he smooths his hands down my arms, fixing me in place. ‘Find a chair. I’ll get one brought in for you. You can get on a headset, I’ll tell people where they can find you.’
‘I don’t need a chair! I’m–’
‘Say ‘fine’ one more time and I will strangle you. You’re getting a chair. And if there’s any running around that needs doing, I’ll handle it. Mitch and I can tackle any overflow issues.’ He skewers my gaze with his. ‘And I’m glad your Dad’s doing okay. But you’ll be no use to him if you’re exhausted and injured. Would you please pace yourself? Please? For him, if not for me.’
So I end up sitting in a chair.
I feel a little ridiculous, directing the action via headset and having people coming over to talk, skirting around my propped-up foot and generally treating me as if I’m made of glass. But I have to admit, it’s probably the only way I would’ve made the trapeze finale. By the time I make it into the ring, my foot has been on ice for nearly forty minutes, and it’s starting to feel pretty normal. That feeling only lasts as long as the performance spot, of course, but at least I manage to put on a show.
Now the finale is done and the lights have come back on, and the audience has started to trickle out of the Spiegeltent. I look around and realise that–incredibly–things are running smoothly. Stage crew are stowing all the gear, the pack-up is on schedule, and nobody has come to speak to me about an emergency. Marco makes his way towards me from the other side of the wing, and it occurs to me that…maybe this co-organiser thing is actually working?
‘It’s going okay.’ My voice sounds slightly incredulous.
‘Did you expect it to be a disaster?’ Marco takes the headset I pass over and hands me my backpack in exchange.
‘No, but I mean…’ I flail a hand as stage crew scurry to their assigned tasks, and performers tidy after themselves as they leave the tent. ‘We made it to the weekend. And things are going okay. The bleachers are back online, all the spots went well, including the new one, ticket sales are picking up, and…no accidents.’
Marco pointedly looks at my foot–I’m propped against the scaffolding near the wing, to take pressure off it–and raises his eyebrows at me.
I flap my hand again, at him this time. ‘Well, unless you count my own clumsiness in training as an accident, which I don’t. No accidents. Nobody got hurt, nobody was nearly killed…’ I look at him sadly. ‘That’s a pretty low bar, huh?’
He nods. ‘Quite low, yes. Come on–let’s get you back to your van and you can collect whatever else you need before you go to the hospital.’
But by the time I get to the van, I’m favouring my left foot badly. Marco ends up taking my backpack again as I navigate the stairs. Then he flops on the couch as I hobble around looking for stupid but necessary items, like clean socks and a fresh towel.
I finally have to admit defeat. ‘I think I need to go see Chester. He could give me some analgesics, at least.’ Chester is our resident medic; he used to be a doctor, out in the regular world.
Marco just looks at me. ‘Petal, have you considered the idea that you might need to stay home tonight?’
‘But I can’t–’
‘Fleur, I know your dad needs you. But come on.’ He slides my backpack off his knee onto the carpet. ‘You can’t sleep another night on the hospital floor, and sure as hell not like this. Stay home. Get a good night’s sleep. Call the hospital and send your dad a message, or I can get one of the crew to deliver a note…’
I’ve been standing here holding a spare pair of socks in one hand. My foot is hurting. Suddenly I realise that I don’t need to be standing. We can have this conversation just as easily with me sitting down.
I slump onto the other side of the couch. ‘I don’t want to leave him on his own.’
‘I get that. I do. But it’s only one night.’
‘I know.’ I throw the socks aside. ‘Oh god, I’m so tired.’
‘Then rest.’ Marco realises he’s won this battle. ‘You’
ve been going hell for leather all day.’
‘Okay.’ Why is it so easy to say yes when Marco is making the suggestion? And is there anything as good as a really comfy couch cushion? No, I don’t think there is. I’m melting into this one. I had no idea that just sitting down was going to feel so good. Dammit. I’m weak. ‘Okay, fine. You got me. I’ll stay here tonight.’
‘Wise decision.’
I side-eye him. ‘Stop smirking.’
‘Not smirking,’ Marco says, doing exactly that. He tries to school his features. ‘How’s your foot? Do you want me to kiss it better?’
‘Shut up. No.’
‘It’s really hurting?’
‘Yes, it’s really hurting. Okay, you’ve convinced me to stay, now go away.’
He pats the expanse of couch between us. ‘Give me a look.’
‘Ohmigod, I’m not showing you my foot.’
‘Fleur, seriously. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pull your chain. Give me a look at your foot. It probably just needs the muscles released.’ He waits, and when I don’t respond, he tries again. ‘I might be able to help. I promise I won’t be a jerk.’ He waits some more. ‘C’mon. Show Doctor Marco.’
‘You’re not a doctor,’ I grumble.
‘True. But I can give you a second opinion before you go hobbling off to see Chester. Put that sucker up here.’
He pats the couch again, and suddenly I can’t see the harm in it. It’s just me and Marco. It’s just my foot. This is all totally collegial, and the way I react to him every day, the fizz of tension whenever I’m around him, is just a natural side effect of the fact we’re still getting to know each other as adults, not kids.
Right?
I can choose to back off now, or I can take a chance. I can learn to trust Marco again, or I can consign our friendship to the bin forever…
I slide my leg over so my left foot is on the couch.
Five
As soon as I put my foot on the couch, I have reservations.
My leg is long and naked-looking, clad just in my tights and my ballet slipper. I’m sitting here in my trapeze costume with the black satin fold of my flyer’s robe parted, and it all feels weirdly…intimate. Sure, I want to resuscitate my friendship with Marco, but what am I doing?
