The Pilo Family Circus

by Elliott, Will

  Jamie grimaced.

  ‘It’s true,’ Steve went on, missing the subtleties as usual. ‘You laughed your head off at Yeti. He wanted to kill you. Me and Fishboy had to calm him down after the show. You’re probably safe now, but don’t laugh at him when he eats glass. He doesn’t like that.’

  ‘It’s not me,’ Jamie said, wondering how to explain it. ‘You know the face paint? When I put it on it does something to me. I can’t control it.’

  ‘Nah, man, it was you, I saw you!’ Steve said, throwing his rag down in anger. ‘Same tall skinny redheaded wanker. Can’t believe you laughed at him. You ever tried eating glass? You’re such a prick, man, I swear.’

  Jamie smiled ruefully and got up to leave. ‘Good luck on your date,’ he said.

  ‘What? Oh yeah, Loretta. She’s all right — kinda short though. Hey, come get me next time you rehearse, okay? I wanna watch.’

  Jamie nodded to prevent an argument and left.

  In their tent the clowns felt the morning after in full. Only Goshy seemed free of the lethargy; from his room came an occasional loud coo, sliding like alien fingers into the ears of anyone in range. Gonko and Rufshod sat at the card table, both looking glum. Gonko’s hoard of loot made the loss of nine bags a triviality, but he was still livid about the whole business. No one sabotaged the clowns. He and Rufshod were talking tactics to help ease the post-show blues. ‘We’ll start,’ said Gonko, ‘by acting like we’re beat. We treat the acrobats like they won, got our nuts in their handbags. We’ll be so sweet they just wanna puke whenever they see us. If we act hot and bothered, they’ll know we got nothing on ’em. If we act beat, they’ll see right through it and know something’s coming. So we wish ’em a happy rehearsal, every day. Happy performance, every show day. They’ll get to a point where they’re too scared to rehearse at all, thinking someone cut a wire on their equipment. They won’t even wanna leave their tent alone.’

  Rufshod nodded solemnly then asked Gonko to hit him, just this once.

  ‘Not till you’ve earned it, snookums.’

  Jamie came through the door. ‘Mornin’, JJ,’ said Gonko.

  ‘Morning,’ said Jamie.

  Gonko peered at him, not caring for the timidity in his voice. It wasn’t JJ’s play-acting; the guy was scared. He either had something to hide or he was chickenshit. The latter could be solved by a little camaraderie. ‘What’s the matter, JJ? Got a case of the mummy-I’m-scareds?’

  Jamie flinched and shook his head. ‘Nothing’s the matter … just homesick, I guess.’

  ‘Ah well, don’t worry about that,’ said Gonko. Diagnosis: chickenshit. ‘You’re home now. Why be homesick? Don’t tell me you miss that fucking cesspool outside?’

  ‘Yeah, Gonko,’ Jamie said quietly. ‘That could be it.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, my sweet. We got our own cesspool right here. Come on in, the water’s fine. Besides, soon we’ll be right back out there, thanks to last night. Thanks to little Georgie too.’ Gonko spat. ‘I fucking hate outside jobs. We can swing by your joint if you want. What do you say? Got a girlfriend out there? Wanna pay a visit to yer parents? We can do that. I’ll play nice around ’em. I won’t kill nobody. And if I do, it’ll be real fast. What do you say, young JJ? Christ! What’s his problem? Running off like I stole his lollipop! What’d I say?’

  Shalice was in her caravan with her lover, a muscular gypsy man who lay beside her covered in a sheen of sweat. She had brought him to the show long ago, arranged his escape from prison and then ensnared him in her own webs, not a slave to her, but neither an equal nor friend. She felt little for him and did not need his help to survive. His body was all that interested her, and he did not burden her emotions; those had become numb over the years, blunted by the knowledge of so much pain and death, much of it channelled through her own hands at the Pilos’ orders. She lay with her eyes half-closed and distant, pulling at her bottom lip with her thumb and forefinger, a pose she adopted when troubled by unwelcome reflections on her position in the circus.

  She and her lover rarely talked, having said what little they needed to say long before; he had no insight to offer and they would just be repeating themselves. Today, though, he did observe: ‘Something’s upset you.’

  She gave a start, as though she’d forgotten he was there. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I had thought after many harsh lessons the rest of the show had learned to leave me be. It seems they must be taught again.’

  ‘Is it the clowns?’ he said.

  ‘It could be.’ She sighed. ‘When age and death are not likely to trouble people, they have no need to acquire wisdom. They are unafraid to play with fire.’

  The gypsy grunted and rolled on his side away from her, rocking the bed with his weight. His huge tattooed shoulders lay like a wall between her and the window, over which blue curtains were drawn, filtering the dim light. He knew she would not expect him to offer his help. A few minutes passed and he began snoring. That habit is one of the things I should have foreseen before bringing him to me, Shalice thought, not for the first time. Then she turned her mind back to the problem at hand.

  While the crystal ball was her most important asset, it was not her only one. She was certain the thief would be revealed. It might come to her in a vision, flashing into her mind sudden and unbidden. For some reason that escaped her completely, the powder was telling her nothing and she looked forward to finding out why. Suddenly there seemed more mysteries afoot than she had supposed.

  Who had she crossed swords with of late? Gonko for one. Being friendly with Kurt, he seemed to believe he was invincible, he and his band of creeps. Not long ago, against every rule in the book, he had taken a trick girl back to his room and fed her some powder, though what he’d made her use it for was anyone’s guess. Shalice had intended to use the girl as a domino which, carefully placed, would culminate in a business empire toppling. The term for such magic was Fortuna Imperium, or fate-steering. Practitioners could be found amongst the kings, queens and emperors of times past.

  It worked like this: Man raises his middle finger at a passing car; the driver ponders it, wondering what he’d done to offend the stranger, misses his route home while distracted, and collides with a van, killing the driver who was the real target of the exercise. The simplest of scenarios, but the setups could be so elaborate and huge they shaped the course of history; wars could be started or finished.

  Shalice’s programming of JJ the clown on his first day would, according to Kurt’s orders, have resulted in a shooting massacre in New Zealand next year. The clown’s interference may well have caused any number of variations to the final result, possibly including bloodshed on a global scale.

  Often she could steer the less tasteful chains of events like these off course and get away with it, but every so often such orders had to be carried out; it was imperative the Pilos trusted her. She would not deny that she enjoyed the power, nor could she stand the thought of such power being entrusted to someone else. The way she saw it, the world had already been spared many hurts for the price of just a few. In the girl’s case, Gonko’s disruption had made the first domino topple the wrong way. Things had been frosty between them since. But the clowns had other enemies, who would delight in starting a feud between Shalice and Gonko. On the off- chance this was the case, she would not be firing any shots until she was certain.

  Who else was there? Mugabo, of course. She’d been given the unenviable task of coaxing him to perform earlier this month. Whoever did so was in for an interesting morning, and destined for Mugabo’s bad books for a long time. He had the magical skill to pull off the fake crystal ball. It didn’t seem likely to her, but he was unpredictable; another one to watch.

  Then there were the woodchoppers. Her feud with them had been constant since they joined the show sixty-two years ago. In their eyes, she was the only decent piece of tail on the showgrounds, and every time she passed them they’d holler their moronic innuendoes and wolf-whistle. There had been one attempted
rape, decades back, and after a string of cruel ‘accidents’ the perpetrator had not witnessed his next birthday. They’d had more than their share of bad luck over the years; there’d been collisions with runaway wagons, electrocutions, mystery illnesses … Every grain of powder they earned was spent on pain relief and cures. Perhaps they’d cottoned on to her at last and sought revenge. Again, unlikely, but bigger surprises had been sprung on her before.

  That covered the list of suspects. The freaks, gypsies and dwarfs she had no quarrels with, as far as she knew. Already she almost pitied the fool who’d crossed her.

  In his trailer Kurt Pilo was sucking on a wolf fang and setting aside a Bible. He’d found it a highly entertaining read and had marked in his favourite passages with a highlighter pen, which amounted to every single word.

  Intuition told him his brother George was due to make an assassination attempt. Kurt wondered with pleasant curiosity what the poor fellow would try this time. He also wondered with pleasant curiosity whether or not George would succeed, though he doubted it. Kurt supposed it was George who had the fortune-teller’s ball — he’d felt himself being watched yesterday. It had to be George; who else would dare do such a thing? If anyone were that suicidal, surely they would choose a quicker means of death than annoying Kurt Pilo. ‘George, George, George,’ said Kurt. ‘Why do we have such hate for the ones we love?’

  His jaw clenched, crushing the wolf’s fang into powder with a sound like cracking knuckles. He swallowed and reached into the bowl, dug around for a while, then picked out a deer’s tooth. He held it between his thumb and forefinger, gazing at it with a serene smile before setting it on his tongue.

  His eyes fell on the calendar on the wall, where 9 March was circled, and he sighed happily. What would the employees do for his birthday this time around? They were probably already making plans. The competition over gifts was fierce, with everyone out to curry his favour or avoid his wrath. What a lovely thing it is to be in charge, he thought.

  Back in his room, Jamie sat staring at the wall, a look of tiredness on his face. Before him lay a dangerous and narrow range of choices. In fact, there were only two: stay or go. The latter seemed impossible, and pointless in any event — they’d find him as they had before. That meant staying here without a fuss, which seemed to mean kissing himself goodbye and surrendering entirely to JJ. Maybe he should try to accept it, even embrace it the way Steve had. No more visits to his parents’ place for Christmas. No more posting on his internet forums. No more computer games … no more Sim City. No more David Bowie or Devo records on vinyl. No more scheming to get a date with Svetlana the Russian girl who served drinks at the Wentworth. No more rainy nights reading Stephen King in the lamplight. No more anything.

  In a way, he supposed he was dead. He reached for the tub of face paint, so he wouldn’t have to care for a while.

  Part 3

  Jamie versus JJ

  Love and blood begin to meld, you’ve lost the self you once held Merry go round your head — awake, asleep, alive, or dead

  CAROUSEL

  Chapter 15

  Kurt’s Prayer Meeting

  FOUR days had passed since the show day that saw nine tricks trampled to death and the clowns relegated to odd jobs outside the showgrounds. George Pilo was to hand them their first assignment that night and the clowns were tense.

  Later that afternoon (much to everyone’s chagrin, not just the clowns) one of Kurt’s ‘prayer meetings’ was scheduled, a new bimonthly tradition inspired by Kurt’s recent interest in all things biblical. All circus employees of note, which excluded only the gypsy and dwarf masses and the shadowy beings lurking in the funhouse, good-naturedly gathered to hear Kurt give a speech, offer encouragement to his charges, strut and make tasteful jokes. Prayer meetings were ostensibly designed to foster some sense of community in the show, but Kurt’s good intentions were, as usual, well off the mark.

  Meanwhile, it was now important that JJ keep the crystal ball hidden from the other clowns. He’d told Rufshod he no longer had it, that the ball had simply vanished, presumably stolen. Rufshod bought the story and had been moping sulkily around the tent since. As for Jamie, he didn’t last five minutes each morning without rushing for the face paint. He’d take one look around, reel like a man who’d woken into a nightmare after pleasant dreams, and JJ would find himself in charge.

  His concern lately had been trying to work out precisely what he could do with the wish powder. There seemed strict limits — for instance, he’d swallowed a small amount and wished death upon all the acrobats. After making the wish he’d almost felt the words sitting somewhere in limbo, like a line cast out over the water and yet to fall. When he opened his eyes and ran excitedly to the acrobat tent, he was disappointed — they were all still kicking. Back in his room he’d made the wish again with a larger dose of powder, but again no luck. That spelled Tantrum — he’d kicked the walls and choked back tears for an hour. Sullenly he made another wish, this time wanting just to see Rufshod trip up on his own feet. Out in the parlour he saw Rufshod’s pants snag on the corner of the card table, sending him head over heels.

  At that point JJ realised he was wasting his whole stash, and asked Gonko what the limits were. ‘Anything goes, as long as it doesn’t upset the balance of things,’ said Gonko. Asked what he meant by the balance of things, Gonko had snapped: ‘Look, anything that doesn’t directly harm the show. Within reason. The more you use for a wish, the more likely you’ll get it.’

  JJ spent the rest of his leisure time tormenting the carnie rats. He threw things at them, tipped over their stalls, kicked the women in front of their husbands, spat in the men’s faces, stole their wares by the armful and dumped them in the latrines, threw the ‘test your strength’ hammer over the distant rooftops every few hours, helped himself to their food and generally made an absolute menace of himself. The carnies patiently endured him, tried to avoid him and waited for his interest in them to fade, but that wasn’t going to happen any time soon; they were the best fun JJ could find. Sometimes the rats ran and fetched the acrobats for protection, and the three of them would stride into Sideshow Alley in their tights and bulging codpieces, stalking him through the showgrounds, forcing him to hide, sobbing quietly until they left. When they left he would resume the harassment, beginning with whoever had squealed on him.

  JJ was in his room polishing Shalice’s crystal ball with a rag when a deep voice boomed cheerfully from the parlour, ‘Knock kno-ock!’

  Kurt! JJ gasped and dashed out into the parlour. Kurt stood in the doorway, a jovial smile on his dead lips. Gonko emerged from his room and called to Kurt, ‘We don’t want any,’ as though he were a wandering salesman. Kurt chuckled appreciatively. ‘Come in, boss,’ said Gonko. Kurt entered, gazing around the tent with that serene smile. His cheeks glowed with good humour, and he seemed to find quaint amusement wherever he looked — only his brow suggested that what was so amusing was the thought of everything around him drowning in a river of blood.

  Gonko strolled over with a smile that seemed at odds with his face, as though nature had never intended the muscles to pull that way. Kurt clapped him gaily on the shoulder. JJ watched Gonko closely, trying to work out how the clown boss was able to endear himself to Kurt so easily; what it came down to, he supposed, was a lack of fear. Nonetheless, Gonko was minding his manners. ‘Prayer meeting today, right, boss?’ said Gonko.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kurt with a happy sigh. ‘Oh, and I am sorry to hear about that odd jobs business. But I know you boys are up to it.’

  ‘Yeah, well, good with the bad you know, boss.’

  ‘Good man.’ Kurt clapped Gonko’s shoulder again. ‘Actually I just stopped by to borrow an umbrella. You know the ones, the small ones that deflect things from above. Things larger and heavier than rain.’

  ‘Yeah, no probs, boss. RUFSHOD!’

  Rufshod emerged from somewhere and Gonko barked an order to fetch him one of the ‘funny umbrellas’, then he fell into q
uiet conversation with Kurt. JJ tried to eavesdrop, sneaking as close to them as he dared on the pretext of searching for something or other, but they went quiet when he drew too near. Rufshod soon returned with a small green umbrella. Kurt took it. It looked minuscule in his giant hand. ‘Thank you so much’ he said. ‘I’ll return this after the prayer meeting, I shouldn’t need it after that. Toodle-oo, clowns.’ Kurt loped away.

  Gonko went to the card table and dealt a hand of poker to the empty chairs, which soon filled with clowns. ‘Hey, Gonko,’ said Doopy. ‘What happened to the ’prentice, Gonko? Gonko? What happened to —’

  ‘Ah, him. I had a little encounter with him over by the woodchoppers’ pit yesterday,’ said Gonko, spitting over his shoulder. ‘He should be just about parboiled by now. Other than that, Doops, I’m sure he’s faring well.’

  ‘He punched on Goshy!’ Doopy cried. ‘He shouldn’ta oughtn’ta punched on Goshy.’

  ‘You always were the high-minded type, Doops,’ said Gonko. ‘Now, listen up, you fucks. It’s an insult, odd jobs, but we’re gonna take it on the chin and keep rehearsing. Kurt’s birthday is coming up, so all we gotta do is outdo everyone else, gift-wise, and we get our show back. It ain’t brain science, people.’

  ‘Whatcha got planned there, Gonko?’ said Winston.

  ‘Still working on it. What’s Kurt’s latest fad? I ain’t been paying much attention. Religion right?’

  ‘Yup. Christianity,’ said Winston.

  ‘Oh yeah. Gotta be easier to shop for than the Muslim phase.’ Gonko rubbed his chin in thought. ‘Well, I dunno. Piece of Noah’s ark, maybe? A Bible signed by Jesus? A nun’s tit? Whatever. I’m open to suggestions.’

  JJ saw movement by the door as George Pilo scuttled in without invitation.

  ‘Hello there, George,’ said Gonko. ‘How’s life?’