Traitor's Exit

by John Gardner

  Mostyn nodded in Kapstan’s direction. ‘Bet the Pentagon are sorry to lose him. He’d have been a wow in Vietnam.’ Applause for Al as he finished.

  ‘Now.’ Mullka opened the door.

  The applause grew and there were cheers from the children.

  ‘Christ,’ blasphemed Boysie. ‘They’re clapping us.’

  Mullka muttered some strange Latvian oath. ‘You will have to do something. Go on and do something. Anything.’

  ‘Do what?’ Genuine panic in Mostyn’s voice.

  Boysie turned to him, eyes gleaming with pleasure as he hissed, ‘Clown, you stupid, humourless, untalented twit.’ He leaped forward waving both arms in the air crying ‘Hey-hey-hey-hey.’

  Still waving his arms, Boysie strode into the full glare of the lights and began to progress round the half circled crowd.

  Having no option I walked forward and began to do the same, going in the opposite direction. I shouted and waved my hands in the air but it was obvious that most of the glory was going to Boysie who strutted around as though he had been born into a family of clowns.

  We met at the half-way point, doing the inevitable: crashing into each other, Boysie twirling away in a backward somersault while I performed what I believe the profession terms a pratt fall.

  I spotted Mostyn as I climbed to my feet. At a complete loss for the first time in his life, James George Mostyn (Clown) had taken up a position in the centre of the open area and was performing the gymnastic exercise best known and best-loved by him.

  Mostyn was doing press-ups.

  Boysie saw him at the same moment. For a while I thought he was never going to get to his feet again but he finally managed it.

  Overcome by mirth we staggered across to Mostyn and began capering around him.

  ‘Eight...Nine...Ten...Get the hell out of here.’ Mostyn had the edge on us when it came to fitness.

  Boysie did a cartwheel. Then I tripped him up, provoking a fight. We sparred and capered, during which I got a chance to look into the crowd.

  Slattery had edged forward, paying no attention to us. I followed his gaze. A small group of Russian soldiers were preparing to enter the third caravan. They halted for a moment to smile at our antics. Among the uniforms a civilian stood out like an arsonist at a firemen’s ball. White faced and unsteady, our old chum Boris was leading the search party.

  ‘Boris is here,’ I whispered.

  ‘Well wave to him, don’t just stand there,’ said Boysie, a big grin under the make-up.

  Mostyn continued to do press-ups.

  We both turned towards the knot of soldiers and began to wave. Boysie even shouted a high-pitched ‘Yoo-hoo’.

  ‘Try and hold ‘em up.’ He whispered.

  To the crowd’s delight we began to make faces at the soldiers. Boysie stuck his thumbs in his ears and waggled his fingers. Then he pretended to be frightened and run away, stopping to put out his tongue. I did not do much because B. Oakes was doing enough for both of us. Now he was running full pelt round the perimeter of the crowd, coming to a halt just in front of Boris and the uniformed men who seemed to have temporarily abandoned their search.

  Boris was laughing at him. Boysie pointed to the soldiers and began to mime, marching up and down. They all laughed, young men bored by the search job they had been pushed into.

  Mostyn still did press-ups.

  Boysie gave me a push and inclined his head towards Mostyn.

  We both ran to the centre of the open area and began to circle Mostyn.

  Boysie spoke low. ‘Get up, shake your fists at us and chase us into Mullka’s caravan.’ He ordered Mostyn. ‘I’m not going to leave Hester in there, even if we have to haul her out bodily.’

  Boris and his group had lost interest and were starting to climb the steps leading to the third caravan.

  Mostyn leaped up and made aggressive motions towards us. We ran, dodging and sliding in a kind of game. Eventually, Boysie made for the lead caravan. Up the steps and inside with myself and Mostyn close behind him.

  Hester sat on the cot looking down at Styles.

  ‘Sorry, old love, but we can’t leave you here, much as you’d like it.’ Boysie grabbed an arm and a leg. I followed suit and we carried the kicking, struggling Hester down the steps with Mostyn following.

  ‘Once round the ring, then out between the caravans,’ Boysie shouted.

  We lumbered round, yelling at the tops of our voices to drown Hester’s screams. She was difficult to hold. As we reached the gap between the caravans, through which we were to exit, Hester got one arm free. I grabbed and as she twisted to strike out at me she spotted Slattery only a few feet away in the crowd.

  ‘Tom. He’s in the first van. Styles I...’ I shuttered her mouth with my hand, getting hold of her wrist at the same time and locking her arm behind her back.

  ‘Shut up,’ breathed Boysie. ‘Keep quiet or we’ll bloody do for you.’

  As we passed through the gap I saw Boris and his goon squad descending the steps of the third caravan. Tom Slattery was running towards Mullka’s van.

  We turned left as we cleared the vans. There was the sound of an engine. In front of us were the three Romanian clowns with their car, about which Mullka had already spoken.

  I caught sight of Boysie’s face. His eyes gleamed with pleasure as he saw the vehicle — a small vintage Austin Seven convertible with the top down. It stood, juddering and immaculate, a gleaming little gem with bright yellow wings and bonnet, scarlet body panels and polished brass bumpers, lights and fitments.

  ‘A Noddy car,’ screeched Boysie. ‘Come on Big Ears.’

  The Romanians protested but they weren’t in the running. Mostyn flung one of the shouting Augustes to one side as I dumped Hester on to the narrow bench seat in the rear and leaped in beside her; fending off the other two clowns.

  Mostyn slipped behind the wheel, banged her into gear, took the brake off, increased revs and let in the clutch as Boysie dropped into the passenger seat.

  We moved forward. Mostyn increased power and there was a violent explosion from the rear. I looked round to see the spare wheel flying off in the direction of the gesticulating clowns.

  Boysie fell about. ‘Oh, dear heaven. A great performance the clowns do in their motor car. It’s a magic motor car, Mostyn. All the fun of the circus.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Mostyn coldly.

  There was a second bang. Boysie’s door sagged heavily on its hinges. He wiped his eyes and turned to Hester and I in the back. ‘Genuine offer. Only 100,000 miles: twenty-three careful owners: in mint condition with some parts detachable for easy cleaning.’

  We were rocketing along at a good twenty-five miles an hour now, straight into the village main street. The few people who were foolish enough to be abroad and away from the circus area pressed themselves against the walls as we bounced over the cobbles.

  Mostyn eased her into third and, as if triggered, the radiator cap flew a good twelve feet into the air. What seemed to be gallons of soapsuds geysered upwards and we careered on, leaving a long trail of bubbles on the night air.

  Hester sat in an almost frozen, shocked position; Boysie still fell about and Mostyn was hunched grimly over the wheel. We were leaving the village now, heading for the open road. I leaned forward to get a better view of the instruments. We touched thirty. A loud klaxon wail began to build from under the bonnet and, with a thump, about a dozen large plastic spring-loaded holly hocks shot through the floorboards so that it became like driving a window box.

  ‘Lights,’ shouted Mostyn. ‘Where the hell are the lights?’

  Boysie leaned over, placed his fingers on the lights’ switch, turned his head away, closed his eyes and pressed.

  The headlights came on accompanied by a strange hissing noise.

  Sparks were flying.

  ‘We’re on bloody fire,’ from Mostyn.

  ‘’S’al right. Only the Catherine Wheels on the hub-caps,’ chortled Boysie.

  ‘For God’s
sake stop the thing, we’ll all be killed.’ Hester in terror from beside me.

  I glanced ahead and, for a moment, agreed with her. Doing between thirty and thirty-five in this thing was like doing a ton in a tractor.

  Mostyn shifted his position and braked gently. Imperceptibly we slowed, but the main effect of using the brake pedal was that Boysie’s seat rose gently about three feet and descended again, like an epileptic ejector seat.

  The seat repeated its strange rising and falling motion with each application of the foot brake.

  By this time Boysie was hysterical with mirth.

  ‘For God’s sake shut up, man,’ mouthed Mostyn. ‘Pull yourself together. This is bloody dangerous.’

  ‘Of course it’s bloody dangerous.’ Boysie suddenly shed his humour. ‘Dangerous? It’s dangerous the moment you’re born, cock. But this is it. Don’t you see? This is what it’s all about. Life: God’s little joke. We’re all jokes. Clowns, like the man said back there with the circus, we’re all bloody clowns racing along in our trick car, the world. And God sits up there stroking his long white beard laughing himself sick at us. Face up to it, look at yourself. We preen and we’re pompous, we kill each other, we hate because of stupid small things, we bicker, fight, worry about the ludicrous colour of our ludicrous skins, and what are we? Things, animals who can think a bit. Together we can do near miracles. But as individuals we are clowns and we live, love and die to be forgotten. We pretend to be heroic, or to love — there’s a laugh. Committing the great act of love. Even when we hump we look stupid.’

  ‘You finished,’ shouted Mostyn.

  ‘Yes. That was me message. Not profound but I had to get it in. This car’s a rave isn’t it?’

  The car began to vibrate.

  ‘It’s not going to get us to the border.’

  The vibration increased and the offside wing parted company with the body, clattering on to the road. A minute later the other wing went.

  We slowed to a crawl. With loud bangs all four tyres exploded. The bonnet slid off and, finally, the body panels fell away.

  ‘Very whimsical those clowns,’ said Mostyn in a tone which reeked of daggers.

  We were moving at around five miles-an-hour now, Boysie, still rising and falling on his seat began to whistle, and a cloud of black smoke poured from the exhaust.

  Mostyn made a last effort to get more mileage out of the monstrous vehicle. There was a final startling bang from the engine and we came to a halt.

  Hester was crying quietly.

  Chapter Eleven — In The Wee Small Hours Of The Morning

  ‘Rex. Rex. Rex.’ It was Hester, leaning over me whispering persistently and shaking my shoulder.

  We had pushed the remains of the car off the road into the fringe of forest and then argued about the wisdom of continuing on foot.

  Mostyn said it was madness to try it through the wooded areas at night.

  ‘It’s getting cold now. We’ll bloody freeze to death if we stay out here all night.’ Boysie had a point, but eventually Mostyn triumphed.

  Twice we had to lie flat among the roadside bracken, first as a closed car, followed by a truck full of troops snarled angrily in the direction of the border.

  ‘Boris giving chase no doubt,’ Mostyn said soberly.

  An hour later the little convoy rumbled back from the direction whence it had come.

  ‘Boris giving up?’ asked Boysie.

  Mostyn took firm command. Our eyes were well adjusted to the darkness by now and he set us gathering bits of fir trees and bracken to use as covering through the night.

  We split up and bedded down about twelve yards from each other, Mostyn hopping from person to person, showing us how to spread the bracken and fir over our bodies in order to retain some heat. Boysie could not resist calling ‘Night-night, Nanny.’

  Even with what little heat one could engender from the slight covering it was very cold. But, slowly, my body began to warm and I dropped off in a half doze peopled by odd dreams normally associated with anaesthetics. Boris and Shagsi, dressed as Batman and Robin, swooped down on me as I raced along a clifftop which, in turn changed into a horrific quicksand. Boysie, in clown’s gear kept rising and leaping from the sand, laughing loudly while unspecified men fired machine guns at us.

  Then Hester woke me and it was nearly half past four; damp, half-light and a soft mist hanging round the trees. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Hester looked terrible, with the remains of the clown make-up caked and crusted, mixed with dirt and sweat.

  ‘I was cold and couldn’t sleep.’ Her voice small, difficult to hear. ‘Rex, can I lie close to you and try to get warm?’

  ‘Sure.’ I pushed some of the bracken away, slid an arm round her and pulled her down beside me.

  She lay still, snuggling silent and close for a few minutes. ‘What do you think’s happened to Tom Slattery and Styles?’ she asked.

  ‘They’ll have got them for sure.’ I realized that I had been a shade blunt. ‘I’m sorry, but we have to face up to things.’ That was great coming from me, a man who has always looked fantasy right in the face with reality limping off in the opposite direction.

  ‘Was Slattery...’ I could not think of the right word, ‘...special?’

  She did not answer straight away, which gave me time to wonder how Slattery with his emaciated body and skull face could be special to anyone.

  ‘Not special the way you mean it.’ She finally replied. ‘It was just that I worked with him for quite a time. We also got fired together for the same reason. It was fun setting up the Styles thing. He put more into it than me. More money and time. He had a lot of money.’

  ‘He’d need it for an operation like this.’

  ‘Tom was very good. His contacts were sound, all through Europe.’

  I could believe that. She was moving closer, her hand searching my body, slipping inside the grotesque baggy trousers. It was the most unlikely geographical location and the strangest garb, but it was happening. Her hand found me and began to caress, light, a butterfly stroking. I forgot the cold and pulled her even closer.

  ‘Love me, Rex. Please, I need to be loved.’

  It was not easy to turn on the enthusiasm. I bent to kiss the bizarre grease paint and mud-streaked face. It was better with the eyes closed. She tasted salty: sweat. But Hester was a girl of phenomenal talents. Her lips opened and I was engulfed, dragged down, spinning. The old sensations. The rise. Hester breathing hard through her nostrils.

  I unbuttoned the braces from her baggy trousers and drew them down. Lips parting, eyes opening to discover an oddly exciting view. A clown from the waist up and then, downwards, the rounded thighs and slim legs all girl, tight black pants peeping out from under the ginger checked voluminous coat.

  She eased her bottom up so that I could complete the undressing and we moved together, lost in the morning mist, forgetting the cold and aching limbs, the failure and the danger nearby.

  Bang: right through the row of dots or the swirling blow by blow purple passage of intricate description and out the other side.

  When it was all over and Hester had dressed again we lay together for more than warmth.

  ‘What’s going to happen?’

  ‘To us?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Mostyn’s experienced. I suppose if anyone can get us out he can. He must have contacts in Finland.’

  ‘It won’t be easy. These people keep their borders with glass on top of the walls.’

  ‘And things that go bump in the night.’

  It was getting lighter and one of the others seemed to be stirring. It had to be Boysie.

  ‘What ho,’ he said, lumbering out of the mist. ‘Been making a night of it?’

  ‘It was cold.’ Hester looked at him sourly.

  ‘You should have come over to me, darling. I’d have kept you warm.’

  ‘You were snoring.’

  ‘Yes, slept surprisingly well considering.’

  �
�Considering what?’ Mostyn arrived silently.

  ‘Considering that you were only a few paces away. Are you about to do your Perils of Pauline bit and get us out of here to some place where there is proper air conditioning, clean sheets, hot and cold running room service and the odd jot and tittle of luxury?’

  ‘I might even do that.’ He looked pensive, rocking to and fro on his heels. ‘I don’t want to try to make a crossing anywhere near the frontier up the road here.’

  I got his point. The boys up there would not, one felt, take kindly to four clowns blundering up to their little barber’s pole and presenting custard pies instead of passports.

  ‘Yes.’ Boysie looked as grave as was possible in his costume. ‘We want to find somewhere quiet and unobtrusive.’

  ‘Which might be difficult.’

  I thought for a minute. ‘I suppose you mean that we’ve got to walk until we come to an unguarded stretch of border and then hop over.’

  ‘You make it sound very easy,’ said Mostyn. ‘But that’s about it.’

  Boysie’s stomach rumbled. ‘Think we can make it by lunchtime?’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  We set off at an angle to the road, following Mostyn through the dense fir trees. Within an hour it was obvious that we were not even going to be able to gauge our progress by our speed.

  The last meal we had eaten was the potato soup with the International Travelling Circus. Lack of food, combined with the large outgoing amounts of nervous energy, had sapped our strength.

  The going was rough and difficult. There were no paths or tracks through the trees, only a great deal of scrub, some of it as high as ten feet, which we had to push our way through.

  Around midday we walked into a small clearing free of scrub.

  Sitting together, our backs against one of the larger tree trunks, we must have looked a dejected bunch.

  ‘How far do you reason we’ve come?’ asked Hester.

  ‘At the most, five miles. And that’s being generous.’ Mostyn looked worried.

  ‘And we’re going in the right direction?’ Boysie had turned into a realist. I kept quiet.

  ‘As far as I can tell. With no visible sun I can’t be certain.’ Mostyn allowed us fifteen minutes rest before we tramped on again.