by Helen Phifer
Relieved when her feet began to move towards the door and not in the direction the clown had gone, she found herself looking straight into a scene from one of her worst nightmares. There was blood everywhere, which was where the awful smell was coming from. Lifting her eyes to the ceiling, she saw it was even sprayed on the once-white light shade. She looked down to the floor and saw a foot sticking out from the other side of the bed.
A cry made her jump and she felt horrified that whoever was lying there was still alive after losing so much blood. As she tried to force herself to go and help them, a much louder wail pierced her dream. Her eyes fluttered open and for a minute she wasn’t sure where she was; then she felt the weight of Alfie in her arms and breathed a sigh of relief that she was at home. She blinked, looking around the room to make sure there was no scary clown standing watching her in the corner. Relief flooded through her body to see it was the same as it always was. The early morning sun was breaking and she had to take deep breaths to try to calm herself down.
Why was she dreaming about that house? It had already been on the news that a body had been found. The police were dealing with it. Will would probably end up working the case when he went in tomorrow. She wondered if she’d just been dreaming and surmising about what had happened or whether it actually had happened and she had somehow witnessed the killer fleeing the scene.
Will would be so angry with her if she tried to get involved or even mentioned it, so she wouldn’t ask him. It was as simple as that. If she wanted to know, or had to know, then she would ask Jake to tell her the gory details. He wouldn’t care; he thrived on doom, gloom and drama.
She lifted Alfie to her shoulder to wind him and he stopped crying. Will was gently snoring and she wanted to get into bed with him. She had no idea why, but Alfie didn’t settle at all in his bedroom. He woke up at almost the same time every night. Maybe she should move his cot in here with them; at least she could have him next to her and she might get some more sleep. In fact, she was going to do it first thing in the morning.
Alfie was fast asleep again in her arms so she got up and went into his bedroom for his Moses basket. It was much colder in here than it should be and a horrible thought crossed her mind. What if he couldn’t settle because he was getting ghostly visitors? It was all very well and good her having visions and seeing dead people, but surely a baby wouldn’t be able to see any of those things?
She didn’t want to speak her name; it was forbidden inside the house, but just what if it was her? What if Betsy Baker had come back? She’d had no qualms about killing children when she’d been alive. Why would she be bothered about scaring them when she was dead? Annie hoped to God that she wasn’t around.
She would phone Father John in the morning to make sure her grave hadn’t been disturbed. Just the thought of Betsy filled her stomach with a heavy, sick feeling. Placing the basket on its stand near to her side of the bed, she put Alfie in, kissing his forehead, then she climbed into bed. As she sank into the mattress she thought to herself what a horrible day it had been. Funerals were awful; they drained the very life from your soul.
As she lay watching her baby, her back resting against Will’s and soaking up his body heat, she tried to clear her mind of everything. First she pushed the funeral to one side, and then the dream about the white house, until all that was left in there was an image of Alfie. Her eyes began to close. As she drifted off to sleep she prayed for God to keep her family safe.
Summer 1950
Gordy had walked out of his house, reached the garden gate, then remembered the safe his father had bolted to the floor in the storage cupboard on the landing. It would be foolish to leave all that money there. He turned and went back inside the house, stepped over his parents’ bodies and ran upstairs. He didn’t feel a flicker of remorse for what he’d done minutes ago.
His only regret was that his Uncle Bernard hadn’t been here as well. Gordy would have loved burying the axe in his head. Out of them all he supposed it was Bernard who deserved it the most. The nights he’d babysat for Gordy, waving his parents goodbye as they went to a dance, eagerly waiting until he had him all to himself. Gordy hadn’t realised at first that what he was doing to him was wrong. It was only when he got a little older that he understood it wasn’t right for a grown man to want to do the things he did to him.
Before Gordy had the chance to tell him this, the man had collapsed one night and had a massive stroke. He was now a vacant, drooling wreck in a nursing home. He had to be fed and wore a nappy. Gordy supposed this was at least some kind of justice. Although not as satisfying as killing him would have been.
He opened the bedside table drawer and pulled out the small, black velvet pouch where the master key was kept. Then he opened the safe and took the wads of cash out. His dad had always been very cautious with his money, which really, come to think about it, had been a complete waste of time because he was dead and hadn’t spent any of his hard-earned savings.
Gordy stuffed the notes into his suitcase and pockets. This would see him right for the next year or two if he was careful, and he could be very careful. If there was a legacy his parents had left, it was not to squander your hard-earned money and to keep it for a rainy day.
As he left the house once more, he closed the kitchen curtain and locked the door behind him, just in case any of his mother’s nosy friends came around. It would be wise to make sure he had left town before their bodies were discovered. As he walked along the empty streets towards the circus he wondered where everyone was.
A poster tied to the park fence railings answered his question for him. The last matinee was now in full swing and then the circus would be leaving town, moving on to the next one to start all over again. This time they would have an extra clown with them and he couldn’t wait to start his new life. He saw the peaks of the striped tent and his heart began to race. Walking faster now, he wondered if he could catch the end of the show. He’d already been to all four evening shows, hanging around outside and chatting with the performers until the early hours.
He could smell the animals before he reached the waste ground where the circus was pitched. The smell seeping from the carriages was not for the faint-hearted. The animal cages made his eyes water with the piercing smell of ammonia, even though they were cleaned out daily. Gordy knew that being a part of the circus wasn’t a job; it was a complete lifestyle. You didn’t work the circus; you were the circus. You lived, breathed and ate the circus whether you were a trapeze artist performing in the centre ring or one of the many labourers who took care of the big top.
Everyone pulled together. They spent so much time in each other’s company they were like one, huge family. This was where you left your normal life far behind you and became a part of the greatest show on earth. It was the perfect place for Gordy Marshall to be. All his life he’d fought against the constraints of what society believed he should be, and now here he was, about to live his dream, knowing he would love every single minute of it.
As he reached the red and white striped big top he could hear the thunderous clapping of the audience and the loud cheers. He walked around to the office caravan where Betty – one of the trapeze artists – was sitting on the step nursing a badly bruised arm. The circus nurse was sitting on the floor with a pair of tweezers, trying to pull out splinters from Betty’s leg. Her tights were in tatters.
‘What happened? Are you okay?’
She nodded. ‘The rope snapped, catapulted me across the bloody ring. I managed to grab hold of the pole and slide down it, but not before I’d almost crushed my arm and ripped my legs to shreds.’
‘Do you need to go to the hospital?’
Both women began to laugh and Betty shook her head. ‘Gordy is it?’ He nodded.
‘You’ll soon learn that no matter what happens the show must go on. Even if you’ve got a broken leg, you carry on until you’re out of the ring and the audience can’t see you. I’ll be right as rain tomorrow, new pair of tights, a ban
dage on my arm and a long-sleeved costume. I’ll be good as new, won’t I, Evie?’
Evie nodded. ‘She will. No point telling her she won’t, is there? She’ll only go back up regardless.’
Betty grinned. ‘So you’re finally a part of the show? How long have you wanted to be in the circus for, Gordy Marshall?’
‘All my life.’
‘That, my new friend, is the right answer. When I’ve taken my final bow I’ll show you where the clowns hang out.’
‘Thank you, but it’s no bother. I already know. I hope you feel better soon.’ He smiled at the women and carried on walking to where the clowns’ caravans were. As he passed the elephants he gave them a wide berth. They were huge and only had bits of rope and thin chains tying them to the outside of their cages. If they pulled, they would break free and be able to trample him. Until he knew them better it was wise to keep a safe distance.
As he continued he heard a loud roar and jumped at the three lions standing pressed against the bars of their cage. One of them had his mouth wide open and Gordy didn’t know what would be worse, being trampled to death or having his head bitten off. Still, he smiled to himself because, either way, it would be better than being suffocated to death at Marshall and Marshall.
Chapter Three
Walter Lacey sat on the threadbare chair in his cramped living room, the curtains drawn even though it was morning. He never opened them, preferring to leave them shut. It afforded him some much-needed privacy. He gently rocked back and forth – a coping mechanism he’d used since his childhood – trying his best to release the endorphins inside his brain to soothe himself.
He stared at the small bookcase stuffed full of his films: every horror film he could find at the second-hand stall in the market. He’d been obsessed with horror films since he was a kid. His mam blamed them for the voices he heard in his head back then. He knew that the films didn’t help, but the voices had been there as long as he could remember; even watching the kids’ programmes he would hear them. She just found it easier to blame it on the movies and not the fact that her son was a fully legitimate schizophrenic.
He hadn’t seen his mam for a very long time; not that it mattered. When he’d been taken into hospital for months when he was fifteen she hadn’t come to visit him. He didn’t really blame her; he shouldn’t have tried to strangle her new boyfriend. She’d come in and seen him straddling her latest man and gone mental. She’d rung the police who had rung an ambulance. Wally had ended up being dragged out of his house screaming that the clown on the front of the Poltergeist DVD had told him to do it.
He glanced at the clown suit that was hanging from his picture rail. When he’d found it in the trunk in the attic at the last house they’d cleared out he’d stashed it down his jumper. He knew that he should have left it where it was and boxed it up with the rest of the stuff, but he hadn’t. The voice he hadn’t heard for a long time had told him to take it, so he had, and now look what had happened.
Walter looked away from it. He found it fascinating yet terrifying. It was telling him what he needed to do; only today he didn’t have time. He had to be normal; well, as normal as he could be. He stood up and went to the tiny kitchen to get a glass of water to swallow his pills with. He’d been on Largactil since he’d been in hospital, not that it was helping. He wondered if he’d become immune to it because he’d been taking it for so long.
After he swallowed the orange tablet he took the sun lotion off the windowsill and rubbed it on his face and arms. He was fair-skinned anyway, but the medication made him burn even quicker if he left the house without it.
A loud hammering on his front door made him jump, his heart pounding. The palms of his hands felt slick with sweat. Surely not; they couldn’t have found him so soon, could they? He crept to have a look through the spyhole, hoping to God it wasn’t a bunch of huge, hairy coppers on the other side.
As he bent his head forward to peer through the small, glass hole he heard a voice bellow, ‘What the fuck you playing at? I’ve been waiting five minutes for you. Get your arse out here now. Jacko said if we didn’t get that house cleared by dinner time neither of us is getting paid.’
He stepped back, releasing the breath he’d been holding and hoping his trembling knees would hold his body weight.
‘I’m coming now; sorry, I never heard you.’
He didn’t particularly like Jacko, his boss, or Stevie who was waiting impatiently outside for him, but the job paid him cash in hand so putting up with the pair of them was a small price to pay. He opened the door and waited for some arsy comment about what a state he was in from Stevie; instead he shook his head at him.
‘You know, if you opened your curtains and windows to let some fresh air into that shithole of a flat you might see what life was like on the other side once in a while. Not to mention hear me when I beep the fucking horn.’
‘Sorry, slept in. I was dead to the world.’
‘Well, you can go brush your teeth. I’m not sitting in the front of that van with you breathing all over me if you’ve got bad breath.’
‘Don’t be stupid. I’ve cleaned my teeth and had a shower.’
Stevie peered at him with one eye then turned and walked off. Walter grabbed his door key then shut his door, locking it behind him. The house had been a fancy Georgian townhouse once upon a time until whoever owned it had died. The current owners didn’t give a shit about the state of it and had turned it into far too many flats, letting it go to rack and ruin.
The smell of an assortment of herbs and spices filled his nostrils as he stepped into the communal hallway, making his stomach rumble even though it was only eight-thirty. Mrs Batta was always cooking no matter what time of day or night it was. He tried to think when the last time he’d eaten was and couldn’t remember. It might have been last night, but he wasn’t sure because he’d felt so sick before he’d gone out to that house that it was all a bit of a blur.
As he went out into the bright sunlight he squinted. His face was too white. He looked like a ghost at the best of times. He couldn’t afford to get sunburnt, though. Dean was already back in the van with the engine running. He was the complete opposite of Walter. Stevie was so tanned he looked like he’d just come back from three weeks in Tenerife.
Walter hadn’t any inclination to do what Stevie did and pose in the gym every day after work and then go lie on the sunbeds. Each to their own, he supposed. If he did that he’d be burnt to a crisp in no time. He climbed into the van, which smelt of greasy McDonald’s, and his stomach groaned loudly. Why was there food everywhere?
‘Bloody hell, Wally, have you eaten lately? You look like a walking ginger skeleton!’
He shook his head, no point in lying.
‘How are you going to do a day’s work shifting boxes and furniture without anything in your belly, lad? You’ll be no good to me if you pass out. Come on, I’ll go back to the drive-through and you can get something.’
‘Thanks, if that’s all right.’ He began to scrabble in his pockets to see what change he had and if he had enough to pay for a sausage and egg McMuffin. He pulled out his last crumpled five-pound note and hoped that after today’s job Jacko would pay him what he owed him for the last two weeks. Stevie drove back round the drive-through, ordering the full works including two lattes. Walter felt sick. He didn’t have enough to pay.
‘I’ve only got a fiver, mate.’
Stevie waved his hand away.
‘Someone’s got to look after your sorry arse. You either need to find a woman or a man – whatever floats your boat – to sort you out, mate. You can’t carry on like this. You look like some waif. This one is on me.’
He had to turn away for fear of Dean seeing the gratitude on his face and the tears in his eyes; no one ever did anything nice for him. He couldn’t remember the last time they had – definitely not since his gran had died two years ago anyway. He thought about the suffering she’d been through and then he thought about the woman he’d kill
ed last night. He’d seen her coming out of the newsagent’s and recognised her. She went to the same hospice that his gran had. He didn’t know why he’d followed her home the night before; he just had.
That wasn’t strictly true, though, was it, Wally? The voice that belonged to the suit told you to. You stabbed her like she was nothing last night. How many times did you need to stick that knife into her? He shrugged his shoulders; he’d had to make sure she was dead, hadn’t he? He told the voice inside his head to shut up and took the bag of greasy food and the cardboard drinks carrier off Stevie.
As he bit into the hot, juicy muffin his stomach groaned in appreciation. He couldn’t help but wonder who the clown stuff in the box he’d found at the last house had actually belonged to. He didn’t have any internet or a decent mobile phone to try and search for some information. What he could do was go to the library at the weekend and do some digging there, maybe ask at the records office or use a computer there if he had a spare couple of quid to pay for it. It would be interesting to know more about the person it had belonged to. There was something so mesmerising about it.
When he’d pulled the costume out of the trunk there had been a wig and a big, black thing that went around your neck. He’d found a couple of black and white photographs in the bottom of the trunk, tucked into a faded yellow envelope. One was of a man sitting in a cage with three huge lions on his own; the other had been a small picture of three clowns – all different shapes and sizes.
He’d recognised the suit that he’d pulled out of the box. The clown wearing it had the strangest hair – just three tufts – and a huge red mouth. It was the kind of clown that would give anyone a phobia of clowns, not to mention nightmares. He didn’t imagine the kids who visited the circus would want much to do with him unless he was really funny and kind. Then again, if he’d been kind, why had he felt such overwhelming feelings when he’d tried the costume on? And then that rage towards the woman had been nothing like he’d ever known. It wasn’t as if he knew her and she’d upset him. It was as if someone else had taken over his body. Was that possible? He wondered if the clown suit was haunted. It might even be possessed.
