*****
“Cary, my love, are you feeling any better today? Are you strong enough to help or do you need more rest?”
Greta’s bulk filled the door. Her brown eyes looked at me with concern from under dark lashes, her thick, grey-streaked black hair set in a bun. The muumuu she wore floated around her like a vibrant rainbow cloud.
I nodded. “I’m fine. I’ll be out to help you in a minute.”
She frowned. “You still don’t look too good, mi amigo. Perhaps you should sit this one out longer. We’ll manage without you.”
I was still recovering from a bad bout of bronchitis and a rash of postponed performances. I did four acts a week, twice a day except for Thursdays, where my fellow aerialist Lucy Tate—aka Snow Angel—filled in the matinee show with her own solo hoop act. Since I’d been sick, she’d taken on my slots.
I hated letting people down because of illness. Go figure. One of the rigid rules I adhered to in my twisted sense of personal ethics was that an unexpected illness may hold me back, but my cutting never would. I managed my self-torture with precision, knowing my limits when I was due to perform.
How fucked up was that?
I shook my head. It took every able body to erect the huge tent and I wanted to feel useful. “I’ll be okay. Just give me a minute.”
Greta didn’t look convinced. “I swear if you are bullshitting me, child, I will hurt you.”
I bit back a smile. Greta was in her sixties—no one had ever found out how old she was—and calling me 'child' was endearing. It brought back memories of my mother calling me in from the field.
I pushed that treacherous memory down where it belonged.
“Stop worrying,” I told her. I didn’t care for many people, but Greta, I adored, even if I didn’t show it. She’d taken me in as a damaged boy and treated me like a son. “Would I lie to you?”
I crossed my fingers behind my back. Greta ruled her circus with the proverbial iron fist, a fist that wasn’t always encased in a velvet glove. She wouldn’t appreciate my self-harming.
She snorted. “Don’t even ask me to respond to that one. You might not like the answer.” Her knowing gaze regarded me. “You didn’t join me for dinner last night. Did you have an early night?”
We’d gotten into a habit of eating dinner together every few nights in her caravan.
Icy cold whispered down my spine. Did she suspect something? I couldn't answer, “No, I tortured myself for a while before passing out on the floor.” Schooling my face into an impassive mask that had kept me out of trouble more than once before, I nodded.
“Yes. I wanted to try to get better for today, so I could help.”
Greta grunted. “Well, I don’t think it worked. You are still too pale.” She scowled. “You’d better be healthy by the time your birthday rolls around. We have a surprise for you.”
My heart plummeted. No matter how many times I’d told my circus family I hated birthdays, they continued to ignore me. October thirty-first was a week away. Proof I’d survived another year; a fact that sent me into a downward depressing spiral.
Since I’d been born on Halloween, or Samhain as some circus folk called the old pagan festival, my birthday was special to them. Sometimes, in my more fanciful moments, I imagined I was a changeling of darkness, a cherub entering the world destined for destruction, tormented for no other reason than someone else’s pleasure.
“I wish you wouldn’t encourage the whole fucking birthday thing. I’m turning thirty-three. It’s not like it’s a milestone or anything.” I scowled as I turned to hand-mould my hair into something looking less like a llama having a bad hair day. “You know how I fucking feel about them.”
“Oh yes,” Greta mocked. “We all do. You make it known enough.”
“Then why don’t you leave me alone?” I swung around to face her and gasped as the pain in my legs flared. “Tell everyone no celebrations, no presents, no stupid tribute speeches. Let me be. That’s the best birthday present you could all give me.” I snorted. “Last I heard, Lucy had baked me a damn birthday cake, and you know I won’t eat it.”
I liked Lucy; she was a world-class aerialist and a sweetheart, but still, I hated the attention.
Greta’s eyes darkened. “Ah but, my Cary, we need to embrace the fact you are still with us after so long. You came back to us after travelling around the world performing. I have a lot to be thankful for when your special day rolls around and I wish to thank the fates for keeping you safe.”
I tried to ignore the sadness in her eyes. Greta was the only person who knew a little of the story of the abused runaway boy. She’d never pried further because ‘that’s not what circus folk do,’ and she didn’t know the worst part, far from it. I’d never admitted my tale of blood and violence to anyone.
She’d seen me through my depressions and despair, past suicide attempts when I was younger; and when I was twelve, she had encouraged me to try my hand at aerial work—something I now loved. It was the only thing I took any interest in apart from hurting myself. I had found a me I could endure when I worked on the silks, high above everyone else.
I’d spent years travelling around the world, learning from some of the best performers, before coming back here three years ago to settle down. In my bleak moments, which were myriad, I wondered if anywhere would ever provide solace for me.
Greta laid a warm, pudgy hand on my arm. “I will give you an early birthday present. You still look ill. Stay. Get sleep. One more day’s rest. You look as if you could use it.”
I shook my head. “No. You need me out there.”
Greta’s face scrunched up in disagreement. “No,” she decreed. Her face darkened. “And tonight, pequeño bastardo, you get the fuck over to Milena and get yourself some food to eat. You are too thin. One day you will fall off your silks. I do not want our people cleaning you off the ground.”
I didn’t care whether I fell the almost forty feet to the bottom of the Big Top or not. But I cared that Greta, who had given me a home, not be the one to clear up my jam-splattered mess. I made sure that when I’d cut or torn myself that my wounds wouldn’t leak when I was up in the air. Greta would never forgive me for painting her patrons red with my blood.
I wore my bandages with tight performance shorts covered with loose, billowing trousers tied above the knee, so it wasn’t too difficult to hide the damage.
A large finger wagged in my face and I blinked.
“I will get that lazy bastard Stefan and his even lazier lover to perform your duties today,” she declared with satisfaction.
I nodded because arguing with her was fruitless. Stefan, one half of the trapeze act, detested me; the other half, his boyfriend Emil, even more so. They didn’t appreciate the fact I didn’t want to make it a threesome since I was the only other gay man on site. They’d sneered I was too high and mighty to join their proposed ménage à trois. I didn’t give a toss. I let no one fuck me, and sex was overrated anyway.
“Fine,” I said. “Prepare to have his glowering face casting shadows everywhere for having to work harder. And no doubt Stefan will do that whole pouty sulky thing he does, which makes you want to smack him one, so his lips swell for real.”
Greta’s ample bosom jiggled as she laughed. “My Cary, so aggressive and such a diva.” Her face turned sly. “You want to be careful, my lovely. I hear anger in your voice. Something is bleeding through the hard shell of the ‘I don’t give a fuck’ you try so hard to cultivate.”
I shrugged. Something was bleeding through, but it wasn’t my emotions. It was the self-inflicted wound that warmed my thigh and tickled my skin as it trickled down my leg. I needed to get rid of Greta and fast.
“Whatever.” I huffed. “Are we done here then?”
Greta’s bosom jiggled as she took a deep, exasperated breath. “Yes. We are done. Rest now. And eat.” She glowered at me as before she turned to leave, she admonished, “And remember, ¡No me jodas!”
I rolled my eyes. I’d li
ved with her long enough to know when she said, “Do not fuck with me” no matter the language.
Alone again, I was glad of the respite. The number I’d done on myself last night was the worst so far. I was a quick healer; the extra day would go a long way toward my recovery.
After Greta left, I bolted the door, took off my sodden bandages, and replaced them with dry ones. I lay back on my unmade bed with a tipple of Jack Daniels and two painkillers, then drank and drugged myself into sleep.
Chapter 2
Rhys
Angling my camera toward the churning water below, I hoped like fuck the rope would hold my weight. I’d done stupid things before to get the right shot, but even I had to admit this was one of my most idiotic.
In my head, my dad’s voice echoed, his strong Scottish burr cursing me. “You bloody idjit, Rhys. You always have to do things the hard way, eh, boy?”
I’d been mad about photography since I was a child, and had taken every opportunity I could to hone my craft. Taking the perfect picture was a sacred mission for me; my digital camera a portal to another world.
The shaped rock in churning waters three hundred feet below had called out as I’d driven over the rickety bridge, which lay deep in the heart of the verdant mountains of KwaZulu Natal, a province in South Africa. With its majesty and heritage, it was one of my favourite places to shoot scenery.
Behind me, safe on the dirt road, my tour guide and friend, a young Zulu man called Eziweni, clucked his tongue at me. “Ai, ai, ai you, stupid man. This is not a good idea.” His frustrated tongue clicks made me grin as I stared back at him.
“Oh, stop your damn fussing, Ezi. We’ve been here before. You know how I roll.”
Eziweni muttered under his breath. I knew enough Zulu to be certain whatever he was saying, it wasn’t a compliment. It wasn’t the first time he’d experienced my brand of crazy in my desire to get the shot.
I lay on my belly in the dirt, head and shoulders hanging over the gorge. I’d tied one end of the rope around the leaning metal strut of the bridge, while the other wound around my boot-encased ankle. Never mind falling to my death, I was concerned with protecting my leg against rope burn. The strut was right on the cusp of the old and somewhat damaged side of the rickety contraption. I’d tested it and thought it would hold.
My intention was to slide as far forward as I could, over the water, to get the picture of the strange but beautiful rock that jutted out from the water with rainbow-shadowed hues in its wake.
Eziweni’s eyes widened. “Mr Mac, this is not a good idea,” he spluttered.
I grinned, giving him no time to think, and said, “Hold that metal thing, would you? There’s a good chap. Haul me up when I yell.”
I waited until his white-knuckled fingers gripped the metal pole holding my weight. Then I crab-crawled across the heated red dirt to launch myself into the air, torso first. Eziweni’s loud yowl of fear made me smile as the familiar rush of adrenaline filled my body. The pole now leaned toward the gorge with the added weight.
“You should be used to it by now,” I shouted as I dangled above the gorge’s churning water, camera in hand. “I’m the crazy white man, remember?”
The swearing behind me reminded me of just how fucking crazy I was. I angled my camera at the frothing waters below, peering through the viewfinder speckled with moisture from the spray. The camera clicked shot after shot. The wrapping around my ankle had become loose in increments. I was losing my fucking boot and sock. I should have worn thicker ones, but the African heat was not conducive to them, plus sweaty feet sucked.
I snapped a few more shots, the bouncy feeling increasing as something threatened to give way and plunge me head first into the rocky waters below. Enough was enough. Twisting around, still holding tight to my precious camera, I yelled up at the anxious face peering down.
“Ezi. Help me up, my friend. Bloody pull me in.”
He disappeared, and my adrenaline surged as the makeshift rope loosened even further.
Shit. That didn’t feel right.
“Soon would be good, Ezi. Unless you don’t want to get paid because I’m splat out at the bottom of the fucking gorge.”
Ezi was a great respecter of money and if he thought he might not get paid, he’d soon enough make sure I made it.
As he pulled me up toward the road, I angled my foot, clenching my toes, trying to ensure my sock and boot stayed on my damn foot. As I was dragged, my shirt bunched up to my throat, my belly and chest subjected to the gritty friction of the dry ground.
I am so going to have friction burns, and I’m not even fucking anyone on a carpet. I shielded my camera with my arms, hissing in pain as my elbows scraped in the dirt. There was no way I was letting anything happen to my treasured Nikon.
My precious, my precious, I thought in a Gollum voice. I will protect you.
Lying flat on my stomach on the red sand, I turned over to see the Zulu glowering down at me. Adrenaline still rang high from my escapade.
“Hell, that was fun. You should try it. It might take that constipated look off your face. Although with all that damn mielie pap you eat, I’m not sure that’s possible. Doesn’t that stuff make you shit concrete bricks?”
I sat up and pulled my shirt down. Eziweni didn’t appear amused. I laughed, sitting wide legged in the dirt, checking the camera for damage. The pictures were incredible. I chortled with glee seeing them.
“Those are fucktastic. Here, look.” I held up the camera to my less than happy trail guide.
“Mr Mac, you are a foolish man. That rope was ready to come loose. If you had not called me to pull you up when you did, you would be down there.” He waved a hand at the bottom of the gorge. “You take too many risks.” He clicked his tongue and said something sotto voce, a melodic series of sounds I loved, even though I couldn’t understand what he said.
I stood up to dust myself off, paying attention to my beard, covered in red dust. It needed a good trim. “You’re swearing at me in Zulu, aren’t you? I love it when you do that. It’s so cool.”
The eye roll preceded more admonishing. “You are foolhardy and give me grey hairs. You turn me white with fear, my friend.” He gave a small, sly smile.
I guffawed. “Yeah, I can see that creamy shade of coffee on your skin from here. That tight and curly head of yours has no grey in it. Christ, you’re only twenty-four.” I was twenty-nine, but I loved to remind Eziweni that he was younger.
Eziweni gave a long-suffering sigh. “If I turn grey, it will be because of you. Not because I have three wives.” He looked heavenwards. “Although that might do it too.”
I snorted with laughter. “Mate, I can’t imagine having one person to please, let alone three of them.” I glanced at him. "How does the sex work then? Do you decide which one you fancy and have a roster or something?”
Now it was his turn to laugh. He waggled his eyebrows. “Who said anything about having my women one at a time? Perhaps I have the stamina of a lion and can have all of them at once.”
I nodded. “I hear you. I did that twice, got into a threesome. It all got confusing knowing who was putting what where. We had it all planned and then it went all pear shaped ’cos one of the guys didn’t bottom, at all, so we all had to rethink—”
Eziweni reached out and laid a finger over my mouth. He looked a little green. “My friend, please do not continue. I have no problem with you being a homosexual, but to hear stories of which man put what where…ai, ai, ai. No, thank you.”
I smirked as I walked towards the pickup truck, known as a “bakkie” here. “You don’t know what you’re missing until you’ve had a cock up your—”
Eziweni got into the car and slammed the door, cutting off my sentence. I sniggered. I loved teasing him. We’d been trail partners on and off for the past few years. I connected with him each time I came back to visit. He was a good friend, an even better trail guide, and put up with me and my crazy daredevil antics where I suspected others might not.
<
br /> The dilapidated little white vehicle pulled off in a puff of red dust. The way the engine screamed, I didn’t think the poor car had long to live. I winced as Eziweni changed gears.
"Fuck, I thought you bought a new damn car? Last time I was here you almost killed me with the other heap of shit.”
Eziweni always bought the same bakkie—white, nondescript, battered, and on its last legs. I knew he had little money for such luxuries but still—safety was important.
He looked at me with a smirk. “This is the new car,” he said, then threw the vehicle around a corner so fast my head hit the door. I swore.
“For God’s sake, maybe you should rethink my offer of a loan for you to get something that isn’t going to fucking kill me.” My voice rose in panic as we avoided a flock of chickens, and the car steered so close to the end of the gorge and the drop below I closed my eyes, certain we were going over.
Eziweni’s cackle of laughter made me want to punch the man. I scowled. I preferred to be the one putting myself in danger, not good with anyone else trying it on. It was a control freak thing.
“Ha, my friend, you know I can’t take your money. We have spoken about this many times. And besides, mister ‘I’m the fucking crazy white man,’ I thought you liked taking things to the edge?”
“Yeah, not that close to the edge,” I muttered as I watched the road in front open out into something wider. I breathed a sigh of relief. “I don’t mind dying being stampeded by a herd of buffalos, or while running for my life from a bunch of bloodthirsty mercenaries, but I draw the line at being squashed in a pathetic tin can. Where’s the glory in that?”
Eziweni glanced over, his teeth showing in a wide smile. “You are crazy, my friend. I will be sorry to see you leave tonight. I enjoy our times together.”
I scrabbled in my rucksack for a bottle of water, throat parched from the heat. My shirt stuck to my back and stomach as if I were in a wet tee-shirt competition. The humidity was high in this part of the country.
“I know. Back to the cold climes of Scotland.” I grimaced. I loved my comfy home in Edinburgh, but I wasn’t looking forward to leaving the tropical weather of Kwa Zulu Natal to go back to 18 degrees Celsius on a good day. October wasn’t the most welcoming of months in Edinburgh.
Living On Air Page 2
