Living On Air

by Susan Mac Nicol

  “Christ, it’s as cold as a witch’s tit out here.” I pulled my tracksuit top tighter.

  Cary stared at me. “Having never felt a witch’s tit before, I can’t vouch for the level of chill in one,” he deadpanned.

  I scrunched up my face. “Do you always talk like that?” I asked.

  “Like what?” Cary looked at me, a frown on his face.

  “Like you’re some private-school boy that went to a top-notch place. You sound like Little Lord Fauntleroy sometimes.”

  “I can assure you I speak like everyone else,” he huffed.

  I lifted my hands and laughed. “Sorry, oh grumpy one. Will I ever be able to do anything right in your eyes?” I was sure I didn’t mistake the muttered “Never” but I ignored it. “So, did you?”

  Cary rolled his eyes as he picked up a lightweight navy blue suede jacket from the back of the door. “Did I what?”

  “Go to some private school and take elocution lessons. You’re well spoken, and well educated from what I’ve heard from the others—your pub trivia quiz is a joy to behold, I’m told, when you deign to play with them—and you have an inexhaustible knowledge of classical music and composers. Your favourite, I understand, is Wagner. You even use his music in your act.”

  Cary regarded me. “You seem to have all the news about me, so why should I waste time going for a drink with you? Besides, I remembered I agreed to meet Marco for a drink too. And I understand you don’t like clowns.”

  I fought back the sense of rising panic and smiled. “Nonsense, Marco’s okay. I don’t mind being the third wheel in an aerialist clown act. Shall we go then? And I haven’t forgotten you haven’t answered my questions yet.” I flashed a cocky smile at him.

  We got quite a few stares from people as we made our way over to a long, brightly lit caravan about four pitches down from Cary. The circus people smiled and nodded as we passed and then I seemed to hear them whispering as we walked away.

  Cary stared out in front of him with a devil-may-care attitude and inclined his perfect head at passers-by. It was as if he was royalty out visiting the neighbourhood for the first time in a while.

  “I feel like a bloody footman in tow behind the king,” I muttered, casting dark glances around the field. “Any minute I expect someone to run up and curtsey before you. As long as no one expects me to kiss your ring or anything.”

  And didn’t that phrase conjure up some filthy thoughts? I shut them away—for now.

  Cary gave an unexpected chuckle. I closed my eyes for a second and basked in the sound. “Rhys, you have an overactive imagination. No one is in awe of me. It’s because I’m such an awkward, unsociable bastard and everyone is amazed I’m going over to La Taberna.” He gazed at me with a twinkle in his eyes. “That’s tavern in Spanish in case you didn’t know.”

  I snorted as we neared the entrance to the makeshift on-site bar. It appeared it was busy inside, plastic chairs set around plastic tables and filled with an assortment of people and drinks. “I travelled in Europe, thank you very much. I speak conversational Spanish, French, and German. And a little Croatian.”

  Cary stopped and inclined his head toward me. “That’s terribly enterprising of you. Most English people can’t speak anything other than their own language, even when abroad.”

  I glared at him. “I’m Scottish, you twat. We do just fine up there. I’ve been to school and everything.”

  He laughed, and I knew he’d been baiting me. “Oh well, I stand corrected. Shall we go in? See if Marco is already there? Please don’t wet your pants or scream like a sissy when you see him. That would be most unfortunate.”

  I confess, I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Marco again, but I’d put on my big boy pants and take one for the team if it meant spending time with Cary.

  It wasn’t Marco that scared the shit out of me though; it was the terrifying visage of Fabian as I turned to glance around trying to spot Marco that made me scream in terror and make a complete fool of myself. Fabian invaded my personal space with a scarlet grin and a flop of bright orange hair as he leaned in to say something.

  To be honest, I think my high-pitched squeal scared him as much as he did me, but by the time I could get my bearings back, the whole caravan, including that bastard Cary, was in floods of laughter, and then the ribald comments started.

  “Ooh look at you, clowning around, did you piss yourself, matey?”

  “Piss-poor jester if you ask me.”

  “Merdre, Rhys, you made me spit out my drink. That is no small feat.” This came from Julien, who was still shaking with mirth as he wiped beer from his chin.

  Someone howled from the back. “He can’t be a clown then—get it, small feet? Clowns have big feet, have you seen the size of their shoes?”

  “Sorry, Rhys, didn’t mean to scare you. I was only trying to say hello.” Fabian looked abject, and I shook my head. He was young, about twenty, and from the time I’d spent with him, he was a little shy.

  “No, I’m fine, it was a surprise. I was looking around for Marco, and there you were all…bright and orangey and…stuff…” My voice trailed away.

  “Oh.” Fabian looked happier. “Marco isn’t here. He wasn’t feeling well so told me to come down and tell either you or Cary he won’t make it. I saw you first so…” He shrugged.

  “How did he know Rhys would be here with me?” Cary asked. “We didn’t intend to come down together.” He looked unsettled and flashed a dark glance at me.

  Fabian shrugged again. “Dunno. That’s just what he said.” He beamed as Lucy walked over, his eyes brightening and his smile widening. I held back a chuckle. The crushes of youth were always cute to see in someone else.

  “Lucy, you need a drink or anything? I can get you one if you like.” Fabian gestured toward the long plastic table that doubled as the bar counter.

  She smiled at him. “That would be lovely. A glass of white wine please.”

  I ignored the good-natured hoots of laughter from around the room and walked over to the bar, needing a drink. Cary remained where he was, staring off into space.

  I ordered a beer and a white wine spritzer for him and carried them over. He looked down at the drink in surprise.

  “Thank you. How did you know I liked these?” He took the plastic cup with suspicion and I felt sure that fine, patrician nose would sniff it.

  “I’ve seen you here before, when you come in, order a drink, and then disappear. You always order a spritzer.”

  I took a gulp of my beer and looked around. Lucy and Fabian were in conversation, Lucy twirling her hair coquettishly. Julien stood with Madame Grace and her husband, deep in conversation. In the corner, two children played pat-a-cake under the watchful eye of their mother, Lucia. It was a mix of eclectic personalities, and warmth and the sense of family wafted in soft waves in the room.

  My heart swelled. Greta should be proud of what she’d achieved here, bringing this bunch of people together in a place they could be themselves and feel wanted.

  “You won't cry, will you?” Cary murmured as he regarded me with a glint. “Because if you haven’t already gathered, I’m not the nurturing type.”

  “What? Fuck you, no, I won't cry,” I said. “What makes you even ask that?”

  He raised his cup. “You had this soppy, goofy look on your face. It reminded me of that Bill Murray scene in Scrooged when he has his epiphany then buys goose and shit for everyone.”

  I wasn’t sure if I was more surprised that Cary watched old Christmas films or that he’d been watching my face.

  “I was thinking I like it here, with all these people. They look comfortable with each other. It’s good to see.”

  Cary laughed, and it wasn’t a nice one. “Yeah, we’re just one big happy family. You’re an idealist and a romantic, Rhys. Under this appearance of total domesticity seethes a hotbed of paranoia and jealousies. The circus is like a Game of Thrones hierarchy. You have the King and the Queen in Julien and Greta, various serfs and peasants,
a mix of anarchists and radicals and a few peahens who want to be peacocks.” He gestured towards Stefan, with Emil sitting on his lap. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking this is more than it is. Everyone here has something to hide.”

  My bubble burst, a small flame of frustration fanned its way up because of his commentary. “Jesus, Cary, way to kill the mood. Are you like this during sex too? All, oh, you might think that was good, but I didn’t find it fun at all, it sucked. Why do you have to ruin it like a spoiled child who doesn’t want someone else to enjoy themselves?”

  Cary’s nostrils flared, and his lips thinned to white bloodless lines. “Fuck you, Rhys. You don’t like the truth, you’d rather believe in sunshine and roses and great arching rainbows bringing joy to the word.” Spittle flew from his lips. “There’s no such fucking thing. Life is ugly and twisted. We’re born, we exist, then we die. Some sooner than others.” He slammed his cup down onto the nearest table, where it fell over and leaked white rivulets across the surface. The whole caravan had gone silent as everyone stared at us.

  “Sometimes you need something to believe in, something to make the world a brighter place,” I spat back. “The world can be shitty, but if you have no hope it can get better, that’s a sad place to live in.”

  Laird had taught me that. God, how I wished he was here right now. He’d have known how to deal with the diva in front of me. His cutting tongue would have made short work of him.

  Cary’s eyes regarded me with sheer chilling intensity. “Then I exist in that sad place. Perhaps you should let me be and go back to whatever you were doing in your perfect, Rhys McIntyre life, and fuck off from Trazellas. No one will miss you.”

  He turned and strode away, and the last thing I saw of him was the angry shrug of his shoulders as he took off his jacket, flung it over his shoulder, and walked over to the Big Top.

  Jesus, he was so fucking touchy. He’d gone from amenable to pissed-off tomcat in the space of a few seconds.

  Someone coughed, and I realised Julien stood by my side. “Rhys, you impress me. Not many people get to challenge that man and live to tell the tale.” A ghost of an admiring smile drifted over his face. “Our Cary is a troubled individual and that—” he motioned out of the open door, “that was more passion than I have seen since I have known him. You affect him like nobody else does.”

  “And that’s a good thing?” I stared at him in frustration. “How come I’m the fall guy to make the circus drama queen lose his shit?”

  Julien nudged me on the arm with his. “Because he cares about you and what you think. You have awakened something we all thought was dead and festering in his soul. Something in him is awakening and by God, it will be powerful to see if we are all still around to observe it.”

  Chapter 8

  Rhys

  Three days later and Cary still wasn’t talking to me. He avoided me every turn and hid away in his motorhome. I’d knocked often and shouted at him not to be an arsehole, but got no reply. The man was really a sulky child, and I wanted to put him over my knees and spank him.

  That thought got me thinking things I shouldn’t, so I pushed them away.

  Now, for about the fifth time that day, I rapped on his door. I wasn’t expecting any response; I’d decided that if I could push him to respond and annoy him, that was a winner. I stepped back in both alarm and triumph when the door ripped open and the glowering visage of the man I’d pissed off loomed out at me from the dark of his home.

  He looked terrible. His black hair was greasy and unkempt, skin white and translucent, and his blue eyes sunk in their sockets. Cary had lost weight, something I’d wondered about when I’d seen him up in the air. His tracksuit hung off him and I didn’t think he was wearing underwear.

  There was a defined and lengthy bulge down the right leg.

  I tore my dirty thoughts away from that and thought it was just as well Greta was away because if she saw him looking like an underfed zombie, she’d kill him.

  “What the fuck do you want? I’m tired of you banging, thinking I owe you something. Leave. Me. Alone.”

  I shook my head. “Uhmm, no can do. Seeing what you look like, death warmed up would be a compliment. If I left you to rot away, Greta would never forgive me.”

  I pushed past him, ignoring his surprised retort. His home was impressive, bigger than it looked, comfortable and spacious. My nose wrinkled at the rank smell of sweat, antiseptic, and booze that rankled within. “Geez, Cary, this place smells like the underbelly of a Glaswegian whorehouse.” I opened the windows and turned to face him. “What the hell have you been doing to yourself in here? It stinks like a hospital. Did you hurt yourself?”

  “No,” he blurted, then, “Well, yes, I cut myself on a knife and put some TCP on the cut. It’s fine now.”

  I nodded. “Okie dokie. So, I take it you have a shower in here somewhere?” I peered around, spotting the open door to the bathroom at the back. “I’d suggest you take a shower, wash your hair, look respectable. Then we can chat.”

  His mouth dropped open and confusion crossed his face. I grinned, knowing my take-charge attitude was working. And from the haggard look he sported, I didn’t think he’d have the energy or enthusiasm to argue.

  “Unless you’d like me to help you wash?” I motioned toward the bathroom. “It’s small, I suppose, but I think we could make it work.” I flashed him a Cheshire cat grin. “We’d be all up close and personal but—”

  “No,” he snapped. “I’m fucking capable of taking a shower on my own, thank you very much.”

  Ah, there was the old Cary we all knew and loved. “Great. So, we’re in agreement.”

  Cary scowled at me. “You need to go outside first. I’m not undressing with you in here.”

  “Why? It’s big enough. You’ve got a lovely place here. It’s like a proper little bedsit I used to live in Aberdeen. And how stupid do you think I am? The minute I go outside, you’ll lock the door and leave me hanging. No way, José.”

  I turned my back and crossed my arms across my chest. There was a grunt of muffled anger behind me and then the sound of a door closing. I resisted the urge to peek through. Cary needed to know he could trust me, like a dog gaining his owner’s trust. Countermanding that right now would be the end of anything we might have going between us.

  The lock clicked on the bathroom door, and then water ran. I breathed a sigh of relief. So far so good. Perhaps afterward we could have an adult conversation without the sniping and snarling at each other.

  I sat down and waited. The urge to snoop was overwhelming. My fingers twitched to open cupboards, see what he ate, lift old newspapers to see what lay beneath, and check out the man’s bedroom. Nothing told you more about a man than his bedroom.

  I was a good boy instead. I took out my mobile phone and texted Stuart with my latest update. I shared most things with him and he knew of my obsession with the man showering not far from the small space I sat in. I’d sent Stu a few pictures I’d shot of Cary in various poses plus unrehearsed, candid shots of people in the circus. He’d loved them, saying it was some of my best work.

  In his caravan waiting for him to get out of the shower. He hasn’t killed me yet so there’s hope.

  The reply was quick to come back.

  Still slow and easy, hey? The guy seems fucked up. If anyone can bring him around, you can. You always had the gift of gentling people.

  I shook my head at that. I had the tendency to drag the truth out of people; it was part of my reporter ‘on the job’ training. I’d always found kindness and concern a better carrot than intimidation and pushiness.

  I stood up, bored, and stared at a small collection of what looked like antique knives in a small glass fronted box on his kitchen top. His bookshelf was filled with books—The Power of Habit, Verbal Behaviour, Contemporary Scientific Psychology, and Abnormal Psychology.

  There must have been over fifty titles on the shelves all dedicated to the human mind.

  Huh. The man wa
s an enigma. I wouldn’t have thought him someone interested in the vagaries of the psyche.

  I reached out a hand to pick up a well-thumbed book only to have it slapped away.

  “You have this annoying habit of touching things that aren’t yours,” Cary bit out between gritted teeth.

  I looked up and pushed my mobile back into my jacket pocket as Cary pushed back hair that was damp and long, silky black swathes down to his ears. Dressed in loose blue jeans and an off-cream long-sleeved turtleneck pullover, which looked worn but comfortable, he didn’t look as haunted. Bare feet that were long and thin looked as if they’d been through hell. His toes were twisted, the feet bruised with callouses all over them.

  He caught my glance and curled his toes self-consciously. “I used to do ballet,” he muttered. “I have ballet feet.”

  I stood up. “Wow, I didn’t know that. That explains your grace and the limberness you possess. Do you still do it?”

  He shook his head as he filled the kettle. “I assume you aren’t going yet?” he said.

  I grinned and motioned no.

  He heaved a resigned sigh and took down two mugs from the shelf. “I gave up ballet years ago. Before I re-joined Trazellas. I concentrated on aerial instead.”

  He didn’t ask me what I wanted but made my tea the way I liked it. Milky and two sugars. My dad used to tease me I wasn’t a proper Scotsman at all because I hated tar tea.

  Cary knew how I liked my tea. That little titbit shouldn’t have made me so excited, but it did.

  He handed me my steaming mug of tea and sipped his black coffee. “So, what are you doing here other than stalking and irritating me?”

  “I am not stalking you, I have permission to follow you around and talk to you, take pictures.” I winced at how that came out and ignored his sexy-as-hell sardonic eyebrow raise. “You call it stalking. Me, I think it’s good journalistic practice studying one’s subject.”

  Cary plonked down onto the settee bunk on one side and I followed suit on the other. He moved as if he’d injured himself.