LET’S MAKE HER —
‘Glow,’ he said, and rose, kicked down the door, stepped out into the night.
After George left, Shalice had consulted her charts and knew the attack was on its way. She had worked furiously in a short time and now her trap was ready. One quick stop-off in Sideshow Alley and the preparations were complete: a word to four gypsies, one subliminal command, and voila, all in readiness. She checked her pocket watch — two minutes from now, Mugabo would be finished, out of his misery at long last. Right now the gypsies should have just finished loading a wagon with lumber for the woodchoppers. Four besser blocks were in place on the road, as directed by the charts. Around the time the wagon passed her hut, it would flip onto its side, veer on one wheel off the road and into her door, where Mugabo would be standing. He’d be crushed like an insect. It was not a perfect plan, and left a few things to chance, but at short notice it was the best she could do.
Someone thumped on the door. Shalice checked her pocket watch in disbelief — he was here early. One minute, forty seconds; her calculations had been wrong. Impossible. She’d set far more elaborate chains of events under way with perfect timing. A minute forty out? It might as well have been years.
Thump thump thump again on the door. Years? Maybe not so bad as that — she had to keep him here for seventy more seconds. She stepped away from the door in case he blasted it open and lay down on her belly. ‘Who is it?’ she said.
‘Open the door Shal! You shouldn’ta oughtn’ta done it, you really shouldn’ta!’
‘HMMMMM OOOOOOOO HMMMMMMM EEEEEEEEEE!’
Hold on a second … ‘Who is that?’ Shalice said, then, ‘Oh shit, get out of the doorway. Move it, I’m telling you now, get away from the door.’
‘You dirty rotten, shouldn’ta, never shoulda, we gotta kill you dead, we just gotta, good and proper, you oughtn’ta done it, you really shouldn’ta …’
Shalice stood and went to the door. ‘Listen, you freaks, I don’t know or care what your problem is, but —’
‘Beeee-yoooo WIP!’ Goshy screamed.
Shalice winced and held her hands to her ears. ‘But if you don’t get away from the door —’
Too late. There was a metallic sound, like a chain being struck with an axe, and the sound of hoofs. Shalice jumped away from the door just in time to see it give in as the wagon, right on time, thundered into it. The door fell inward, and stuck to it was a squashed flat mess dressed in bright colours, flower patterns and stripes.
Doopy had borne the impact at the neck. Had it been his torso, he might have made it … Clowns took some killing. Goshy was still twitching. He turned his marsupial eyes to Shalice, and his expression hadn’t changed from what it had been since Goshy became Goshy. The left eye was wide and surprised to see his brother turned to a soft bag of dead clown, the right was coldly calculating which part of Shalice to remove first once she came within arm’s reach.
For her part, Shalice had no idea Goshy was still ticking, biding what remained of his time to strike. She was wondering why her star charts had told her Mugabo was coming, only to have the freak twins appear at her door with some kind of grievance. Two dead clowns was going to take a hell of a lot of explaining come morning.
Suddenly there was a bright flash of white light and an orange tongue of fire as Mugabo launched all he had at Goshy. He’d seen Goshy at the door, making the same noise that drove him from his home minutes before. Now unarmed for this confrontation, Shalice ran to the back of the hut, her heart slamming as she hid under the table, a knuckle gripped in her teeth, counting what she believed would be her last seconds. What a way to end, she thought — and I saw it coming. Trapped like a rat, burned. I had the power of a goddess in my hands and still I could not escape this.
But Mugabo, his rage spent, stared perplexed at what remained of the two clowns. In the confused recesses of his mind it seemed that Goshy had been the antagonist all along, so he turned away from the fortune-teller’s hut, staggering down the pathway, the fires quiet in his head, for now.
The minutes ticked by and Shalice understood she would live. But in the passing minutes another vision came to her, something so clear and vivid she almost believed it had come already. But no — it was coming, fast and deadly, and there was time yet to find her way off the showgrounds. From the pages of a tome on the bookshelf she grabbed a pass-out she’d hidden long ago in case of emergency, then stole her way through the shadows towards Sideshow Alley, and her way out. It was coming — Kurt was coming.
On her way she saw Fishboy’s new assistant, Steve, ducking through Sideshow Alley’s wooden archway with a hot dog in his hand and grease all over him from tending to the rides. The boy has about an hour to live, Shalice thought. She shivered, then she paused mid-step. In her mind she saw Winston, in Kurt’s trailer, sweating with fear of the punishment coming to him. Spared many hurts for the price of a few, she thought. She grabbed Steve’s arm, looked him in the eye and said, ‘Come with me. We are leaving.’
‘What?’ said Steve, frowning. ‘Why?’
‘Kurt is why. No more questions. Come.’
Chapter 24
Unmasked
Gonko heard some of the commotion and figured it was a mess someone else could clean up. He was pulling objects from the pockets of his pants and laying them on the bed: a loaded Glock pistol, a throwing hatchet, a poison dart, an axe. He’d decided his act could spare one performer, so Winston had told his last fib. Gonko had not missed the trail of green leaves. His first impulse had been to gut Winston on the spot, but he held off … Such decisions were best made after a little thought. Winston had been faithful for a long time, at least as far as appearances went. Had all else been rosy, Gonko would have given him a hiding and let him live. But all was not rosy; suddenly, from out of nowhere, the showgrounds had the feel of a war zone.
He settled on the axe for aesthetic purposes — to Gonko there seemed something entirely appropriate about a clown killing a clown with an axe. He picked it up, flipped it in the air and caught it by the handle. ‘Going to miss you, old feller,’ he muttered, testing the edge with his finger, ‘but not much.’ He stepped out into the parlour, and almost dropped the axe when he saw what was out there waiting for him.
It took a moment for him to recognise it was Kurt, and only the torn remains of Kurt’s necktie gave it away, dangling off the hump on his back. The beast had to hunch to get its head through the doorway. Kurt looked closer to dinosaur than man; the top part of his human face was smeared like part of a broken plastic mask to the beast’s crown. His legs had burst the fabric of his pants, bulging out into scaled muscular pillars, claws bursting through his shoes and sinking deep into the battered grass. His deep cultured voice was still jovial; the shark jaw contorted with difficulty to form the words: ‘Gonko … normally when I come knocking … you do a little gag. Would you … do it now?’
Gonko swallowed, blinked, wiped at his eyes and wondered for a moment what Kurt was on about. Thankfully it came to him. He swallowed again and said, ‘Ah, yeah, I can manage that, boss. No thanks, we … we don’t want any.’
The jaw shook. Each note of Kurt’s laughter sounded like it was made with two voices, one deeper than a crocodile’s, one his usual unstable cheer, in blood-curdling harmony: ‘Ohh, ho ho hoooo.’
Gonko wiped his brow and clutched tight at the axe handle, wondering if it would even chip one of Kurt’s scales should Kurt come charging at him. He doubted it.
‘Gonko, we have trouble,’ the monster said.
‘Ah, is that right, boss?’
‘Yes, Gonko.’ A thick purple tongue lolled down between two of the teeth — now more like tusks — and hung loose, flapping against the patch of hellish red gum. ‘There’s traitors in the show,’ came that horrible voice, ‘but the show must go on. You see that, don’t you, Gonko?’
Gonko’s voice was a thick whisper. ‘Yeah, boss. I think I do.’
‘I thought perhaps … George was behind it,’
said Kurt Pilo, taking two steps towards him. Gonko fought not to back away, to keep perfectly still. ‘That’s why,’ said Kurt, ‘I didn’t try to stop the rot before now. But then, it was my brother who made this list.’ Kurt held up a hand that looked like another jaw, all bone and scale. Clasped in its grip was a piece of paper. Kurt’s eyes bored into Gonko from high above. ‘Two of your men are on this list. That’s a shame, Gonko. We’ll have to talk about that … after.’
‘Yeah, boss, I hear you,’ said Gonko. ‘I’m as shocked as you are.’
Kurt spoke very slowly. ‘I don’t think … you’re quite that shocked. Do you?’
‘No, boss,’ Gonko whispered.
‘Hmmmm. Come then, Gonko. We have work to do.’
With only a door separating Jamie from the nightmares outside, he sat in his room waiting for it all to end. He’d heard something step into the parlour, caught a glimpse of what had become of Kurt Pilo, and had run back here to sit in a foetal position on his bed, shivering. Jamie no longer expected to live through the night; Kurt knew he was in on it, he’d been seen rescuing the priest, seen shepherding him to the loose plank of wood in the fence, pointing him towards the safest spot out there, telling him to come back when it was safe — ha, when it was safe. How did he know Kurt had seen all this? He didn’t. Logic had taken a little well-earned holiday from his mind and in its place was a crippling exhaustion. Now he wasn’t sure if it mattered that he’d likely be dead before the night’s end; it would mean rest.
A memory of the thin pathway came back to him, the way the priest had staggered along it, refusing to look at the abyss to his right. At the time Jamie had thought the priest might be better off falling than staying around to endure whatever Kurt had in store for him. Falling off, or jumping. Jumping. You know, he thought, that’s probably a damn fine idea. Probably the logical choice at this point. I’ve got a hunch I’ve seen enough. Still, he sat there a while longer. Out in the showgrounds he heard the deep volcanic roar of Kurt Pilo unmasked.
Jamie stood up and walked calmly through the parlour, without a tremor in his step and with a steady heartbeat. If he made it to the brink before they found him, he supposed it would be some kind of victory. If not — well, what did it matter.
The trail of bodies was piling up fast. Gonko made a point of killing as enthusiastically as he could because the boss was keeping an eye on him. The boss was looking for traitors everywhere, and finding them. The acrobats now lay in bloody ruin. Kurt had told them the show must go on before he tore them up like screaming dolls. Had Gonko been told yesterday that he and Kurt would butcher the acrobats, he’d have thought it too good to be true, but there was something not right about this. The show was not going on. It felt like the final curtain call, and Gonko could do nothing but sit tight and hope Kurt came out of this ‘mood’.
Kurt stalked to the freak show tent, Gonko at his heels. Fishboy was at the door, waiting for them. He looked minuscule as Kurt towered over, every sharp edge of his body gleaming wet and red. Fishboy stood there, arms folded, somehow meeting Kurt’s stare with one of his own. His gills flickered once. Behind Kurt’s back Gonko wore a look of disbelief as he gestured for Fishboy to get back, stop blocking the doorway … Why the hell was he staring Kurt down?
Behind Fishboy the other exhibits looked on, silent in their glass cages.
‘Took your time,’ said Fishboy, not even looking at Gonko. ‘We’ve been waiting for this a long time. We would have killed ourselves, if we hadn’t thought there was a chance to bring you with us.’
Gonko’s jaw dropped. What was Fishboy fucking talking about?
Kurt let out a quiet ‘Oh, ho hooo …’
‘Fishboy, what —’ Gonko began, but he had no need to finish. Kurt swooped down. It was over in a second.
‘You see, Gonko?’ said Kurt, turning to face him with waterfalls of blood pouring between his teeth, down the side of his face. ‘Traitors. Everywhere. Flush them out, Gonko.’
Gonko did as he was told. Minutes later there were no freaks left in the show. Yeti had grappled with Kurt fiercely, bitten at his claws and broken one finger away, but Kurt had merely toyed with him a while before crushing him in one fast squeeze. ‘Sideshow Alley,’ said Kurt, who was beginning to find speech very difficult. ‘Others on the list … must be hiding there … Show must go on, Gonko.’
‘I guess you’re right,’ said Gonko, then froze as Kurt tilted his head skyward and howled. The sound sent chills down Gonko’s spine. On Kurt’s breath he could smell the stale reek of swamp land, ancient battlefields for scaled warriors who had lived long before man’s time. The monster charged off into the distance, booming footsteps and sending shivers through the ground.
It seemed Gonko’s help was no longer needed. He stayed put, gazing around at the ruins of the freak show, wondering if he’d been dreaming when yesterday seemed just another day. Time for a little holiday, he reckoned. Time to round up his crew and get the hell off the showgrounds.
JJ stood and dusted himself off. ‘Whoa, shit’s getting heavy,’ he said, reaching down to help Rufshod to his feet. ‘Thanks for that. Owe you one.’
‘Thank Gonko, his idea,’ said Rufshod. ‘Been looking for you for hours.’ He cocked his ear, listening to the screams of carnie rats getting offed by whatever was offing them, then dropped the tub of face paint and the hand mirror and bolted back towards the clown tent. ‘Come on,’ he said over his shoulder. JJ followed him through some obscure back route out of Sideshow Alley.
‘OHHHH HO HO HO!’ something bellowed. It sounded vaguely like … It was Kurt, had to be. JJ paused in his stride, wondering whether or not to go and watch the show. He’d been waiting for this since he first laid eyes on the big goon.
Then everything came back to him; Jamie hadn’t had time to clear his mind of memories this time before Rufshod waylaid him. JJ took a quick look at the hidden files — oh, look at that, secret meetings, conspiracy — and he had to admit he didn’t blame the guy for hiding it all. Jamie was an enemy of the show, and JJ guilty by association. Through no fault of his own, JJ was an outlaw. ‘Son of a fucking tramp!’ he screamed.
‘JJ?’ someone called. He turned and saw Gonko standing with Rufshod. Gonko was spattered thick with blood.
‘Wasn’t me, boss, swear it. Jamie set me up,’ said JJ.
‘You still a clown? Then I don’t give a damn,’ said Gonko. ‘We’re going. The clowns are out of here. We’ll find ourselves a new home till this shit blows over.’
‘Going? Where?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll find a hippie commune or start a religious cult. Come on, we’re off to Georgie’s trailer for some pass-outs. You, me, Ruf and Winston. I’ll let bygones be, since we’re short on staff all of a sudden. Gosh and Doops seem to have got ’emselves killed at long last. They’ll be back, I reckon, but death’ll keep ’em busy for a while. Tonight at least. Let’s go.’
‘Okay!’ said JJ. ‘Coming!’ He bounded over to Gonko. ‘You’re not mad about all that stuff, are you boss? About that whole conspiracy-to-make-all-this-happen stuff, are you?’
Gonko squinted at him. ‘On your brightest day I don’t think you could have planned for Kurt’s little tantrum.’
‘For sure,’ said JJ, nodding emphatically, ‘that was the last thing on our minds.’
Across the showgrounds came a roar that seemed to shake the ground. Following it was the sound of something huge, possibly a house, being crushed. ‘Goddamn he’s ticked off,’ Gonko muttered.
‘Who took … Lord’s name … in vain?’ Kurt’s voice rolled across the showgrounds like thunder.
‘Whoa, here he comes,’ said Gonko. ‘Step lively!’ Gonko, Rufshod and JJ ran for George’s trailer. Soon they came across someone standing in their path. Mugabo had blue waves of electricity rippling over his robes and turban. JJ’s hair stood on end and the air became thick with the smell of ozone. ‘Mugabo!’ Gonko cried cheerily. ‘How the hell are ya?’
By way of answer Muga
bo appeared to grow in size, arching his hands over his head, fingers splayed. ‘White man bring da plague,’ he growled.
‘Oh great,’ Gonko muttered, stuffing both hands into his pockets. ‘Mugabo, buddy, don’t get any ideas just because you zapped me the other —’
Mugabo’s hands swept down and two balls of white fire flashed through the air. Gonko leapt sideways, rolled and came to his feet — by that time he’d somehow manoeuvred a thin fire extinguisher from his pockets. He took two hops forward and sprayed foam all over the magician. Mugabo groped blindly and spluttered. Gonko threw the canister at him. It caught Mugabo squarely in the face with a hollow metallic thunk and he dropped to the ground. Gonko kicked him as he ran past.
They came to George’s trailer and Gonko paused, drawing the clowns into a huddle. ‘Now, we’ll tell Georgie to hand the passes over, and if he doesn’t cough ’em up he’s clocking out, courtesy of us. As far as I know, Georgie packs no punch at all apart from a surname and some hot air. Got the plot?’
Rufshod and JJ nodded. Gonko kicked at the trailer door but received no answer. He shrugged and wrenched it open and the clowns charged in. Gonko pulled at the desk drawers, fumbling around until he found the pass-outs. Just as he held them up and said, ‘Let’s go,’ the trailer door slammed shut. Gonko went to it and shoved it with his shoulder. It didn’t budge. He kicked it, kicked it again. It still wouldn’t budge. ‘Well, this is news,’ he said.
‘I’m scared!’ JJ cried, only half faking.
‘We’re moving,’ said Rufshod. ‘Look …’ He tore the curtains from the side window. Outside the landscape crawled along slowly. The trailer shook.
‘What in Cleopatra’s panties is going on?’ Gonko yelled.
What in Cleopatra’s panties was going on was George Pilo packing what punch he had — a rat’s cunning, if nothing else. Kurt had been so enthralled with the priest he’d been given for his birthday, he’d neglected to make sure the redwood crucifix had been delivered to his trailer. George had spotted it and knew it was likely the only barricade strong enough to hold his intended prisoner — Kurt — inside. Still, he was happy enough to have caught the clowns, who weren’t getting out of this alive either, if George could help it. He’d signalled for the woodchoppers to jam the crucifix against the door, held in place with heavy iron rings recently welded to the trailer’s front corners, a trap he’d planned for his next assassination attempt. Now he was hauling the trailer along at a slow pace with a small buggy he’d hooked up to it. He could hear the clowns banging and yelling in there and he smiled, tasting one of his life’s few bitter victories. Others could well be in store — first he had to get these clowns to the funhouse.
The Pilo Family Circus Page 28
