‘Anyone involved?’ said Fishboy. No one raised their hand. Fishboy turned back to Winston. ‘Tell us everything you know, and make it quick.’
‘Don’t know much,’ said Winston. ‘Just heard from a carnie, half the funhouse, blown apart. Pilos are over there. Kurt’s gone strange. He’s … changing.’
Fishboy went rigid. ‘Changing? What do you mean, changing?’
‘Changing shape, his face. Talking funny … I think this has gotten to him. Think he’s cracking up. Come on, get back in there. Everyone.’
The group began filing back around the path. Fishboy held up a hand and said, ‘Wait!’ He paused and looked to be thinking hard, quickly. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘listen. Everyone step up the attacks! For the rest of the night, forget any dangers and go, full steam ahead. Some of us will be caught, punished and killed — or worse — but never mind that. This could be the last sacrifice we ever have to make. This could be the last night of the circus! Jamie, go through with your mission — now, while Kurt’s away from his trailer.’
‘What exactly do you want me to do there?’ said Jamie, for the first time actually considering what he’d volunteered for.
‘Come, use your head,’ Fishboy said with annoyance. ‘You know what will get to Kurt. Defiance. So defy him, Jamie, for heaven’s sake. Attack his personal space and make it nasty. Go! If you’re not up to it, speak now and I’ll send someone else.’
Jamie groaned. As he ran back towards the pathway he heard Fishboy telling Winston to ‘execute the Goshy plan, straight away’. Jamie wondered what the hell that meant, and felt vaguely comforted not to have drawn that assignment. He took one last look back and saw Fishboy slapping backs and barking instructions.
Well, if JJ really wanted to see Kurt lose his grip, he might get the chance — if Jamie lived long enough to put on his face paint one more time. He climbed through the gap in the fence, took a deep breath then sprinted off towards Kurt’s trailer.
The explosion was an hour old. A considerable crowd had gathered to watch. The side of the funhouse had been peeled back like a scab, and sickly red light poured out into the night air like blood leaking into water. On the upper floor was the matter manipulator, now getting some unwelcome fresh air, in the spotlight for the first time in his shadowy life. The pasty-faced little man stared out at the crowd staring in, his studio around him looking like a hotel room in hell. The back wall was made of flesh, a flat pulsating web of skin and veins. Horrible creations made of human and animal parts lay dying and bleeding, strewn across the room by the explosion, some embedded in the wall. This was where the freaks were made, where rule- breakers were punished, where every so often one or two tricks were donated as playthings for the flesh sculptor. The man himself appeared caught in the headlights, unable to move. Eventually he crawled out of sight behind one of his pulsating statues, leaving the crowd to worry about something that disturbed them more: Kurt Pilo.
Kurt and George had both appeared on the scene almost immediately after the blast, but on seeing his brother’s mood George had fled quickly. Kurt’s lips were twisted upwards, the anatomy of a smile. His big yellow teeth showed through his parted lips and strange laughter rumbled from the back of his throat, as though his teeth were cage bars trapping in some gleeful lunatic. Hardened carnies who had until now believed they’d seen it all shied away from the proprietor as he prowled through the wreckage, laughing that laugh.
‘Oh, ho ho ho ho, ho ho hooooo,’Kurt chortled. It appeared he was trying to take this incident as a practical joke at his expense, and was fighting tooth and nail to hang on to a semblance of his normal good cheer. The strain was immense, and showing. As Winston had reported, Kurt’s face had indeed undergone a change; his eyes glowed savagely white, the tanned skin on his cheeks was spread thin like it might snap, and it appeared his jaw had lengthened. His teeth were pressing hard against the stretched skin on his cheeks. His hands were clenched and shaking. ‘Oh, ho ho hoooo,’ he said. ‘Well now, well now, isn’t this something, ho ho ho, someone’s having a laugh, there’s, ohhhh ho hoooo, there’s, ho ho, traitors, and I’m …’ He trailed off with a sound like a crocodile growling from deep primitive depths before the laugh faded back in. He prowled through the mess, plaster and glass crunching under his feet. The crowd began to back away.
Gonko was among them, watching his boss through narrowed eyes. He had seen Kurt stirred up before, a very long time ago. It was not a pretty sight. He’s stirring up now, Gonko thought. Actually getting madder by the second. This could get ugly. Might be a fine time to get scarce … Gonko got scarce without further ado.
Kurt’s shirt had begun to swell around the shoulders. He let loose a particularly loud burst of laughter and the mystery lump of flesh ripped the back of his shirt, sprouting into a mighty hump. The crowd dispersed completely.
Back in the clown tent, Gonko saw Winston backing away from the front door. Gonko nodded to him, glad to see he was there and out of trouble’s way, then he paused — Winston had one hand behind his back, hiding something. ‘What’s that in your hand, feller?’ said Gonko.
‘Nothing, Gonks,’said Winston. ‘See?’ He brought his hand around to the front — it was empty. ‘Why the questions?’
‘Something heavy’s going down,’ said Gonko. ‘I’m rounding everyone up. Now ain’t the time for games.’
‘I’ll go fetch JJ, if you like,’ said Winston.
Gonko nodded. ‘You do that.’ Gonko gave him a measuring look that said: I know you’re up to something, old guy, but is it something I need to know about, or something I don’t want to know about?
Winston supposed it was the former. Tucked into the back of his pants was a bunch of feathery yellow-green leaves. What Gonko hadn’t noticed — thank the stars — was the thin trail stretching from Winston back to Goshy’s room. The trail was destined to end at the fortune-teller’s hut. Winston took a deep breath and headed that way, ignoring the pain in his chest as the glowing patch there began to heat up.
Meanwhile, over at Kurt’s trailer, Jamie was trying to keep himself under control. Adrenaline was making his hands shake. It seemed Kurt would never suspect anyone of possessing the gall to break into his trailer, for the door was not only unlocked but slightly ajar. Jamie took a deep breath, reflected that keeping one’s damn mouth shut occasionally could prove a survival advantage, then up the steps and in he went. It smelled like a zoo in the cramped dark trailer, lit only by a small gas lantern on the desk, moths and mosquitoes hovering around it. Jesus looked down at him from half a dozen plastic crucifixes. ‘Nice touch, Mr Pilo,’ Jamie whispered. ‘Thanks for that.’
Here went nothing. He started by ripping up the Bibles piled on the desk. Each page of each book had been coloured in completely with highlighter pen. Jamie dropped the ripped pages and covers on the floor. Was this an adequate mess? He didn’t think so. What would JJ do? He would know how to make a scene here. Maybe he’d do something along these lines …
Jamie grimaced and dropped his pants. Propping himself on the desk, he unleashed everything he had, bowels and bladder, not easy in the circumstances. He wiped himself with Bible pages and stuck them to the wall. He took a crucifix from the wall and used it to spread the mess over the desk. The piss ran off in rivulets, dribbling to the floor. What the hell else could he do here? The filing cabinet against the back wall, behind the desk … He tugged at it and, with a noise that made him wince, it toppled over. The top two drawers came loose, spilling their contents — not paperwork, as Jamie had expected, but thousands of small white lumps that fell and scattered like hail over the floor. Teeth. Thousands and thousands of teeth.
He’d been here no more than a couple of minutes, but figured he’d done enough. As he turned to leave there was a bumping sound from the desk and a low moan. The moment of panic was like an electric shock; he stared at the door, so delirious with terror that he actually saw Kurt standing there, smiling serenely, bestial eyes promising death. He blinked and it was gone. He e
xamined the desk and saw a small lever like a handbrake by the bottom drawer. He tugged at it, not knowing what to expect, and a spring released. There was the sound of wood sliding, and a heavy drawer slid outwards towards the trailer door. There inside a hollowed-out compartment was the priest, Kurt’s birthday present, lying shivering with the eyes of a frightened animal.
Jamie reached down and undid the ropes knotted around the priest’s wrists. The priest struggled and tried to fight him. ‘Shh, I’m letting you out,’ Jamie said. ‘Don’t make a sound, okay?’
‘Thank God,’ the priest said, though the words came out strangely. Jamie saw why; the man had not a tooth left in his mouth.
‘Can you walk?’ said Jamie. The priest stood and half- collapsed. Jamie lent him a shoulder and they stumbled out of the trailer.
In her hut, Shalice watched the magician in her crystal ball. She had left the hut in darkness and her caravan lights on so that, should he decide it was time to strike, she would have some extra time to make an escape. Twice he had resolutely stepped out with a gleam in his eyes, and both times paused, thought it over and headed back inside. The rest of the time his mood swung from furious rage to utter depressed stillness and blank stares. During the quiet times he would mutter to himself, gradually working up to one of the towering rages that had him tearing at his hair, shooting sparks from his hands and screaming like an animal. That Shalice was the cause of his rage she didn’t doubt — she’d read her name on his lips a dozen times. She had also seen the apparent cause of the trouble: the destruction of his silly laboratory. For some reason he blamed her, which would need some investigating once this had settled down.
For now, she decided she’d seen enough. Mugabo had to go.
As she came to the decision there was a knock at her door. With a deft wave of the hand she panned the ball’s vision to outside her hut and saw with some surprise George Pilo standing out there. ‘Open up!’ he barked.
She went to the door and opened it. ‘What is it, George?’
‘Don’t take that tone with me,’ George almost screamed. ‘Something’s going on here. I want the ball. Hand it over.’
Oh you little SHIT, she thought. ‘George, please — now is a bad time. Whatever you want looked upon, I will do it.’
‘What the hell!’ George snapped, face pressed into her belly, eyes peering up like two malicious white lumps of gristle. ‘Am I in charge, Shalice?’ he said. ‘Does that seem to be the basic thread of our interactions? I could be miles off the mark, but what do you think?’
She cringed away from him, disgusted to have him in such close contact. ‘Yes, George. You have a share in the leadership, I believe.’
‘Very good,’ he said, not rising to the bait. ‘Then hand it over. With every word you don’t talk back, you’ll get the ball back one day earlier.’
‘George —’
‘Did I say day? I might have meant year.’
‘You do not understand,’ said Shalice, knowing it was futile, ‘my life is in danger —’
‘Well,’ George cried, ‘tell me all about it! I’ll just let the circus come crashing down while I sit here, your shoulder to cry on. Have I ever told you your feelings are important to me, Shalice? I must have done. Let me set the record straight, you stupid bitch. Give me the ball.’
Not looking at him, she handed him the ball. George snatched it, spat over his shoulder and marched out the door as fast as his Napoleonic legs could carry him. Her eyes blazed out after him. ‘Your time is coming, little man,’ she whispered as she shut the door then locked it.
George looked like a miniature drill sergeant in a film run at double speed for comic purposes as he scuttled back to his trailer, but there was no smile on his dial. He barrelled through everyone who found themselves in his path. There were two deeply conflicting emotions coursing through him: bitter triumph because Kurt’s ship was sinking, and disgusted fury that anyone would dare strike out at the show. If George had his way, everyone would be dead except him … Bitter flavours were all his palate knew.
Once in his trailer he placed the crystal ball on his desk and glared at it. Over by the funhouse Kurt was still prowling around, though no spectators remained. A mighty big hump had grown on his back and his jaw had stretched far longer than normal, rendering him unable to close his lips, which still formed the words Oh, ho ho hoooo …
Moving the ball’s vision along towards Kurt’s trailer, George saw something that made his eyes go wide. That new clown, J-something, was sneaking down the path with Kurt’s priest. George gave a short bark that might have been laughter. He snatched one of the accountant’s notepads and jotted on it: Culprits. First name on the list: J the clown. George panned over to the acrobat tent. Only one of them was home, Randolph, and for some bizarre reason he was emptying a bag of manure over the furniture. Why the hell is he messing up his OWN STUFF? George wondered. Randolph then placed a red plastic clown nose on the suede couch, buried in manure, and sprinted away. George shook his head in bewilderment and added Randolph’s name to the list.
He spent the next hour gazing into the ball at the strange goings on which, if he didn’t know better, looked to be bloody well organised. Every so often he’d mutter ‘that qualifies’, or ‘gotcha’, and scrawl another name on the notepad. He saw several dwarfs and gypsies he knew by name vandalising this, setting fire to that, tipping over this, covering in excrement that. Before long the list had a dozen names on it. George summoned the accountant, who bumbled and bustled into the trailer. ‘Take this to Kurt,’ George ordered, handing him the paper. ‘I think he’s still at the funhouse. If not, try his trailer.’ The accountant nodded his head, jowls quivering, and left. George didn’t really need his services any more anyway.
Kurt wasn’t prowling around the funhouse anymore. He stood in the doorway of his trailer, eyes roaming about slowly, taking in each detail of his defiled office; the spilled teeth, the human waste, ripped-up Bibles, and the open desk drawer with his priest no longer inside. He’d said one thing as he stood there observing it all: a barely audible ‘Ohhh, ho ho ho.’
Even the distant piercing cry, loud as an explosion, as Goshy discovered what had become of his wife, didn’t cause Kurt to flinch.
Behind him someone cleared their throat. Kurt gave a start as though roused from a trance and turned around. Had the throat-clearer been privy to the grin on Kurt’s face he would have kept quiet, turned and walked away very quickly, for the jolt Kurt had received from the attack on his office had manifested itself physically. Suddenly his face appeared to have been divided into two portions; his forehead and brow were as normal, but his nose was protruding out into a bent knuckle shape, almost like a small spine bulging under the skin. His lips and cheeks were spread thin. His teeth jutted like sharp knuckles of stained ivory. Kurt Pilo no longer resembled a human being — half his face had become a jagged weapon closer to an upside-down shark’s jaw than a man’s. This face was the last thing Pilo Senior had seen this side of the grave.
The jaw lowered like a drawbridge. Kurt said, ‘Hmmm?’
The accountant had about a second in which to turn pale and wet himself before Kurt ripped his head off cleanly. With a thud it dropped to the grass, glasses cracked but still intact. Kurt pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and daintily patted his cheeks. His words were half-formed, but jovial. ‘What have we done? Made a mess. Must control myself.’
He reached his hand down — the bones in his fingers had grown longer than the skin — and carefully picked up the note the accountant had dropped to the ground. His eyes flickered across it, though it took his eyes a moment to recognise letters and words again. He knew the names listed, the faces too. The culprits. ‘Ohhh ho ho ho,’ Kurt said, stepping out of his trailer and heading for the clowns’ tent.
Goshy’s face was changing colours from one moment to the next; his skin went blue, yellow, green, black, bright red, then back to its normal sickly pink. He stood motionless in the doorway of his room, like a p
ile of lard sculpted into a vaguely human shape and painted tacky colours. The black pot lay on the floor before him, soil tossed over the floor in the rough pattern of a giant brown teardrop. Feathery yellow- green leaves lay scattered in a trail leading out the door.
Doopy seemed to sense the mood from afar. He came running from his room, calling out, ‘Goshy? G-G-Goshy?’ No one in the showgrounds was spared the ear-needling pain of Goshy’s shriek. The lamp’s light bulb smashed. Blood leaked from Doopy’s ear in a thin stream as he stared at the empty pot. ‘Oh Goshy,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Oh Goshy, no!’
Goshy pointed a stiff arm at the trail of leaves and his mouth flapped mutely.
‘I know, Goshy,’ said his brother, ‘we should maybe oughta follow it, should maybe oughta see where it goes, Goshy, maybe we gotta! C’mon, Goshy, c’mon …’
Mugabo was in a frenzy of paranoid rage. He tried to keep it inside, the fire begging to come out and play, whispering, Release me! It’s dry out there, dry and crispy, we could make it shimmer and turn orange and black, you and me, let’s do it, come now, you have your reasons, I have mine, let’s burn burn burn burrrrrrrrn …
‘No,’ he croaked weakly in reply, ‘no, must … think … make sure is … really her … make … certain …’
This battle had raged for two nights and Mugabo was losing. The fires spoke louder, relentlessly. She’s so very dry, they all are, like bundles of straw, let’s make them crackle and spit and glow …
‘Shut up!’ Mugabo screamed with some force. The fires quieted down for a moment, giving Mugabo a chance to breathe, calm himself …
That’s when Goshy’s scream jabbed his ears as painfully as darts. HER! the fires cried. LOOK WHAT SHE DID!
Mugabo lay on the floor, shivering uncontrollably. ‘Look what she did,’ he whispered.
The Pilo Family Circus Page 27
