‘Why don’t they just set up the ticket gates in a city then?’ said JJ. ‘In a busy street. Tricks’d walk through all day.’
‘Secrecy,’ said Winston. ‘We get tricks already on their way to a show. They go out to see a carnival, so that’s what they see. Pilo Senior was paranoid about discovery, which is why he made us rehearse the language of our host country whenever we moved base. Pointless if you ask me, but I don’t make the rules. The tricks come home from the circus with foggy memories, but not knowin’ what’s up. Probably only wonder why they didn’t take any pictures. Now, if people off the street have foggy memories of going to a carnival, when they thought they’d spent the day at work, and if thousands said the same thing, well, probably wouldn’t change a whole lot, if it came to it. But that’s how it’s always been run and it ain’t changin’.’
‘Shut it, you two. Let’s go,’ said Gonko, stuffing George’s instructions back in his pocket. He rocked back on his heels and with one lunge leapt to the top of the fence and over it, making the wire rattle. Doopy shoved Goshy into the fence and ducked down, poking his head and shoulders under Goshy’s legs. With much complaining he climbed up for the pair of them, his brother straddling his shoulders and making confused whistles. Winston was last over, puffing and panting.
The city was quiet except for the honking of traffic a few blocks away. The night sky above the CBD was a pink-white glow on the belly of thick clouds. The clowns jogged through the dark streets, passing only the odd drunk wandering home. On those occasions Gonko signalled everyone to stay in the shadows, something the clowns had down to a fine art despite their bright colours; they blended into the dark as though a light had been switched off around their bodies and they were never seen. ‘What’s this place we’re doing?’ Winston asked Gonko as the clowns paused to check their location.
‘Interesting one, this one,’ said Gonko. ‘This house has a one-month-old baby inside named Louis Chan. This baby, according to Shalice, will grow up to be a researcher of some kind, who will discover some miracle cures. Georgie doesn’t want that shit to go down. So here we are.’
‘And we’re burning the house down?’ said Winston, and JJ heard a hard dark edge to his voice; he was outraged and trying not to show it. JJ sneered.
‘Yes we are, Winston,’ Gonko said cheerfully. ‘We are going to burn down the house, with fire and flame and cinder and ash and whatnot. Three blocks from here, step lively, you shits.’
The clowns came to a house at the bottom of a hilly street, two storeys, half brick, half wood. In the front yard the crown of a mango tree hid them from the streetlight. Gonko dug into his pockets and pulled out a small glass bottle filled with petrol. He produced half a dozen of these and passed them around. Winston was grave-faced, and JJ was strongly tempted to provoke him into some kind of emotional outburst. He sidled up to him and said, ‘I’m scared, Winston. I’ve never smelled cooked baby before. I —’
Winston eyes flashed in a way JJ hadn’t seen before; he backed up a step, sensing he was about to be struck, and fell silent.
‘On three,’ said Gonko. ‘Three. Go!’ Gonko ran down the side of the house, leaping the fence. A German shepherd emerged from the shadows, growling fiercely. With a kick Gonko sent its head jerking at a grotesque angle and there was a crack as its neck broke. He poured petrol over the side of the house, digging more bottles from his pockets. Doopy ran down the other side, doing the same. Goshy peered at his bottle, standing perfectly still. JJ poured his petrol over the porch, adrenaline rushing through him. He had to fight not to whoop and laugh. Gonko vanished under the house, dousing the supports. While down there he lit the first flame.
Winston threw his bottle at the house and it crashed into the window, loudly smashing it.
‘Who threw that?’ said Gonko, emerging from below the house.
‘Me. Sorry, Gonks,’ said Winston.
‘Hope it didn’t wake ’em up,’ said Gonko, wiping his hands on his pants. ‘Ah well, not my problem. Back to the lift. Go, go, go!’
The clowns rushed back through the dark streets, their footfalls smacking the pavement and arousing a chorus of barking from neighbourhood dogs. Behind them the orange glow of the fire was spreading. JJ paused at the top of the street to admire the flames embracing the house like a demon’s arms; I did that, he thought giddily as a sense of power rushed through him. Suddenly he felt like he was onstage being applauded by a huge crowd, praising him, chanting his name … Or booing, what did it matter? Inside, he kicked up his heels, strutting, laughing maniacally. It felt sublime.
Winston had paused to catch his breath just ahead. JJ passed him and gave him a beaming smile. The old clown stared straight ahead, hot tears in his eyes.
You’ll get yours, JJ thought, and a shiver ran down his spine. You’ll get it real nice. It’s coming.
Back at the construction yard they sprang over the fence and ran to the lift as the first sirens wailed. Goshy paused at the door, staring off in the distance as though he’d heard the cry of some kindred spirit. ‘Come on, Goshy!’ said Doopy, pointing to the portaloo door. Goshy turned a full circle and let out a low whistle, a look of childish excitement on his face. He stared meaningfully at his brother and pointed back over his shoulder as more sirens sounded from another direction. ‘I know, Goshy,’ said Doopy, holding him by the shoulders, staring into his eyes. ‘I heard it too, I really did!’
JJ squirmed against the door as the lift descended, and finally could hold it in no longer. ‘What fucking planet are you two from?’ he cried.
Doopy and Goshy answered him with silence.
The clowns completed the rest of their duties in Sydney. Gonko set the lever inside the lift to ‘City 2’, making it lurch for seven minutes. When it stopped they found themselves in another construction yard in a city with cooler, more polluted air. They began by beating up the pedestrian on his way home, a nightclub bouncer with organised crime connections. They’d really laid into him, silhouettes lashing and kicking at a writhing shape in the dark by the roadside to the backdrop of passing headlights. According to the fortune-teller, this beating would be the first blow in what would become a major gang war, complete with public shootings, car bombings and civilians caught in the crossfire. JJ asked why George wanted the gang war started, but Gonko shrugged and warned him not to ask that question again, as George was probably following orders himself.
Stealing the car came next, a flashy BMW they’d taken for a spin out in western Sydney. They smashed it up nicely and ran it into a house. The car belonged to an up-and-coming ALP man, one day destined for parliament. Gonko wasn’t told what the purpose of it was, only that it was part of a far longer chain of events, the results of which wouldn’t manifest themselves for more than a decade. ‘We’re just doing that skag’s work for her,’ Gonko said as the clowns went back home. ‘No tricks around? Give it to the clowns. Fucking sickens me.’
JJ didn’t mind the chance to stretch his legs back in the real world. He’d snatched a newspaper from the ALP man’s front lawn. Back in the clown tent he unrolled it and saw the headline:
PENRITH SHOW DEATH INQUEST
Police are no closer to answers about the freak accident that killed nine people at the Penrith annual fair in February. The bodies were found at the close of the fair, apparently trampled to death. No witnesses to the accident have yet come forward. No date has been set for the coroner’s report, but relatives are considering legal action against the show’s organisers, a source revealed. Police are understood to be conducting further interviews with those who attended the fair. The case has attracted international media attention around the world, including the USA and Britain.
‘I’ll be,’ said JJ. ‘Guys! We’re famous. We made the papers.’
JJ showed Gonko the article. ‘Thought they might notice that,’ said Gonko. ‘Nine dead tricks. Dead ones are better off, if you ask me.’
‘What do you mean?’
Gonko gave him a smug look. ‘Tricks a
re like cows, JJ. They come in here, we milk ’em. Only difference is they can’t get their milk back. You dig?’
‘No. What the fuck are you talking about? What do we milk them for?’
‘You should know, my pet. I give you a small bag of the stuff every week.’
JJ fell silent and Gonko dealt out a hand of poker. ‘But this isn’t fame, JJ,’ he said. ‘We’ve been involved in shit wa-a-ay bigger than nine dead tricks. Try fifty fucking million dead tricks. Try that on for size, JJ. That’s famous. That’ll get you the front page. More than once.’
‘What?’
Gonko squinted at him with a thin smile. ‘Let’s put it this way. A failed Austrian painter owes his political success to Kurt Pilo. He wasn’t known for his paintings, but you have most certainly heard of him.’
JJ was tired of this conversation. He went to his room and opened one of the velvet bags — he had three, as George had reluctantly paid the clowns when they returned tonight — and tipped some grains onto his palm, staring as the light glinted off them in tiny rainbow flashes. ‘What is this shit?’ he muttered.
Soon the other clowns went to bed and the showgrounds were silent. JJ took out the crystal ball, not expecting to see anything at this time of night. He figured he’d check out the dwarfs to see what they got up to when they emerged at lights-out. After a few minutes of watching them squabble on the rooftops he swept the ball through the parlour and was surprised to see something else: a figure blending with the shadows was creeping into the tent. JJ panned in as close as he could, but whoever this invader was, he could sneak in the darkness as well as the clowns; JJ saw only an outline with slumped shoulders and a bad limp. Suddenly he knew who it was — he’d seen this same wretched figure crawling out of the funhouse earlier today, skin charred and body spewing smoke. As the apprentice passed a lantern in the parlour JJ saw his face, pink, white and purple with burns. There was steel in his gaze, the look of a man whose last straw has been well and truly snapped. In his hand was a lead pipe.
Fear clawed at JJ as he understood he was the target; after all, it was he filling the apprentice’s shoes, taking his wages, occupying his room. Whimpering, he propped a chair next to the door to buy himself an extra second or two. His hands were already shaking. He rummaged around in the boxes for a weapon and found the rolling pin, then went back to the ball and watched closely. The apprentice stumbled forward with clumsy but relentless steps.
JJ tried to hold the rolling pin steady as he cocked back his arm. He would throw it with everything he had; his aim was spot-on, and with a good wind-up he could break the bastard’s face. Eyes flickering from the ball to the door, the apprentice came into view … But he passed JJ’s door without giving it a glance.
JJ switched emotions like he was changing socks — all fear left him. Suddenly eager for bloodshed, he set the rolling pin down and crept out the door. The apprentice staggered up ahead like a zombie fresh from the grave. JJ followed. Movement caught the tail of his eye; he turned and saw Doopy creeping up the hallway. They locked eyes for a moment then both moved without a sound.
Four feet ahead the apprentice’s neck was a scorched, blistered patch of seething purple. His clothes were sooty, speckled with white ash, with patches burned away to reveal hideous weeping wounds. Only a single printed daisy remained visible on his shirt.
The apprentice paused at Gonko’s door, unaware of his audience. He swayed on his feet. JJ wondered whether or not to warn the boss; he felt no concern for Gonko. Asleep or not, any leader who couldn’t repel an attack by this wretched wounded figure should probably not be leading.
The apprentice reached a mauled blistered hand to Gonko’s door, wrapped his fingers around the handle, splitting the skin on his knuckles. JJ heard him hiss through his teeth, then he opened the door and went in. Doopy and JJ rushed up behind him and stood in the doorway.
A single candle burned in Gonko’s room, the tiny flame almost extinguished in a pool of red wax. The clown leader lay under a sheet, breathing deeply in his sleep, his shins and clown shoes hanging over the end of the bed, the blanket over his chest and face. The apprentice raised the lead pipe and stepped close, one step, two steps, his fingers tightening around the weapon. Then he stood, gazing down at his helpless enemy, either working up the nerve or savouring the moment.
There was a sudden loud ringing noise, and it came from Gonko. Rather, it came from one of his pockets, where an alarm clock was going off violently in his pocket. The apprentice froze as Gonko whipped off his blanket and his eyes shot open. In one violent wrench he was on his feet, rolling backwards, putting the bed between himself and his enemy. He glanced at the apprentice and at the lead pipe and his lip curled up. Though Gonko’s face was the same rough mask, to JJ’s eye he looked delighted.
The apprentice recovered from his surprise and raised the pipe, crouching down as though to leap onto the bed. Gonko’s eyes narrowed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the alarm clock, still ringing shrilly, clicked it off with his thumb and tossed it aside. His eyes flickered past the apprentice’s shoulder to JJ and Doopy. He reached into his pocket again and in his hand was what looked like a rolled- up sock. Like a baseball pitcher he drew his hand back and threw it; the apprentice ducked aside and it landed in Doopy’s hands. JJ caught a whiff of something chemical. As though he’d been instructed by Gonko’s glance, Doopy crept behind the apprentice and pressed the cloth roll to his face. The apprentice snorted, dropped his pipe and swooned to the ground.
Gonko strolled over to the prostrate figure, picked up the lead pipe and pulled another rolled-up sock from his pants. He waved it under the apprentice’s nose, and again JJ caught a hint of chemicals. With a spluttering cough the apprentice opened his eyes, waking to the sight of Gonko standing over him, tall as a god, the lead pipe in one hand, a smile on his face which was almost fatherly. The clown leader blew the apprentice a kiss then raised the pipe over his head, and slammed it down, raised it, slammed it down, raised it, slammed it down. Each blow sang out a dull chiming note, singing in sick harmony with the crunching of bone. Doopy watched with a look of mild curiosity as blood spattered up onto Gonko’s shins, spouting in a ring on the ground around the dying clown.
JJ watched his master strike at the thrashing and utterly defenceless body below. The sights and sounds of murder touched him, titillated him in a spot no sexual craving could, though the feeling was not dissimilar. His mouth hung open, his eyes sucked in every spatter of red, every dent. The lead pipe thundered down steadily long after the limbs had ceased thrashing.
Gonko finally stopped swinging. He muttered, ‘Clowns take some killing, JJ. Clowns don’t die easy’. He tossed the lead pipe aside and folded his arms, nodding once towards the corpse. As though part of a long-rehearsed drill, Doopy kneeled down and grasped it by the feet. JJ crouched down and took it by the shoulders, badly dented and soft in his hands. The broken ruin that had been the apprentice’s sullen face rested against JJ’s chest as he and Doopy carried the body out into the night, through the deathly silent showgrounds to the tall wooden fence, gravel crunching under their shoes. They swung the body to and fro, gaining momentum and heaving it over the fence. A streak of red drops splashed against the fence in a vertical line as the corpse fell to the other side.
Without speaking the two clowns returned to their tent. Eyes peered from curtain cracks as they passed the gypsy huts. Death was never far away; it paid to peer through the curtains on nights like this when footsteps crunched by on the gravel paths. It paid to lock the door.
The night was not over yet.
In bed JJ’s mind replayed each swing of the lead pipe, not missing a detail. He saw clearly each speck of blood flying, heard each sound of breaking bone and the dull metallic chime ringing to the steady beat of Gonko’s swings, and discovered something new — a new emotion.
Almost without thinking JJ rose from his bed. He distantly remembered Jamie, remembered the attack on the freak show and the fat carnie Jamie h
ad seen as he fled. Any excuse would do; this would certainly do. JJ had forgotten why Jamie betrayed him, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was teaching him not to do it again. What mattered was covering his tracks.
Out he went again, not bothering to quiet his footsteps on the gravel. In the quiet stillness of night the sound was large and lamplights flickered on in the gypsy slums as he passed. Death was never far, and the new clown had learned how to make it. He found an axe leaning by a woodpile. He picked it up and kissed it.
Jamie woke around midday, his face paint rubbed over the pillow as usual. His bed felt hot and stuffy and stank of sweat. Sweat, and some other smell, not dissimilar. There was something sticky on his fingers so he held them up to his bleary wet eyes. At the sight of blood his heart kicked into gear before his mind understood what he saw. Blood covered his hand, coating every finger, down to the wrist.
The dim grisly memories returned like a nightmare: kicking open the hut door. Lighting a lantern while the gypsy man lay sleeping with an empty flask at his feet, beer gut hanging over his pants, dripping with sweat like a big glistening pot roast. Lifting the axe, whispering: Watching, Jamie? This is your mess.
Up. Down. Up. Down. The flat of the axe into his skull. The calm emotionless ease of the swings, not a moment’s hesitation, the small grunt the gypsy made as his skull was crushed. That had been the moment of death but the beginning of JJ’s fun. Something had happened while he killed. He’d been clear-thinking, calm, almost detached from the physical act, but his blood had felt heated as it flowed through him. There was an intoxication that was almost sexual. He’d gripped the axe so tight it felt like part of him. After the wounds stopped pumping their blood he’d kept swinging, oh yes, oh fuck yes, up down up down, faster, intending to keep going until he could swing no more but his arms just didn’t tire. He’d been panting like a wolf, spattered so thick with blood it was a second skin. Finally he’d slipped in a puddle of it, dropped the axe, and the swinging stopped. He’d dragged the body to the fence, not troubling himself to haul it over. Instead he’d set it upside down, propped on the stump of its neck.
The Pilo Family Circus Page 20
