by JH Fletcher
‘He’s scared,’ Benjy said.
Colin felt indignant; worse, betrayed.
‘Nervous as a mother roo in a room full of pickpockets,’ Matt agreed gleefully. He was always boasting how his grandfather had been the first white man into Queensland, bringing cattle up the track from the south. Nobody believed him but for some reason Matt seemed to think that the story, true or false, gave him a corner on courage. ‘Bunch o’ boobies. I’m goin’, even if you’re not.’
Purposefully, he dragged one of the pieces of wood down to the edge of the water.
Downstream there came a rustle and splash as a stretch of the bank, undermined by the current, caved in.
Bloody hell.
‘Comin’?’
No way out.
‘Gimme a sec, can’t yer? Course I’m comin’.’
Colin fetched his piece of wood, dragged it across the sand to the edge of the water. The river was dark, with little waves on the surface. There could be anything out there, he thought but no longer dared say.
Too late for second thoughts.
He pushed the piece of wood bobbing into the water and lay flat upon it. His weight made it ground on the sandy bottom. He kicked off with bare feet. The plank shifted, grating, and all at once was free. The river took him, swirling and spinning. He looked around for the others, saw Benjy hanging on tight, then lost him as the current swung him round again.
Matt he couldn’t see at all, thought he was probably some way ahead.
The river held him tight. Mighty Mississippi; it felt like it, sure enough. Better not come off the plank, he thought. He was out of the cut now, the current sweeping him along faster than ever.
He couldn’t see where he was or where he was heading. Scary.
He might not be able to see much but the river’s voice was clear enough, chuckling and gurgling as it carried him along, reminding him how easily it could drown him, given half a chance.
Have to hang on tight when I get to the falls, he thought. Which, after all, was the point of the exercise. Shooting the rapids had sounded fun when they’d first thought of it. They could all swim, so what was the problem? Now he knew: the problem was the falls were full of rocks. Colin hadn’t a clue what would happen if he crashed up against them, as he almost certainly would.
What would drowning feel like?
A bit late to be thinking about that now.
He could hear a faint murmur somewhere ahead of him and realised it was the voice of the falls. Steadily the sound grew louder, rushing towards him. Colin craned his neck, trying to spot the others, but could see no sign of them.
An eddy, foam-edged, seized the plank and swung it dizzily. Fingers cramping, Colin clung on for all he was worth. Emerging tooth-sharp from the water, a rock swept past, then another. The river roared; streaks of froth shone white in the darkness. Darkness of night; darkness of water.
Now rocks were everywhere. A jar as one of them scraped past. He held his breath but was at once free again. A thump. For an instant the plank was airborne before crashing back into the water. Spray was all around him; he breathed spray.
Still Colin hung on.
The falls bellowed. The river lifted him carelessly and hurled him in a spout of jetting foam into the air. He was falling, still clinging frantically to the plank. Falling. Eyes squeezed tight, every muscle aching as he held on. And on. A thump, a crash, a burst of water exploding about him …
Somehow he was in the pool below the falls. The plank revolved lazily, the roar of falling water remote now. Colin realised that he was still alive. He had shot the rapids and come through.
‘Yeh!’ He shrieked his triumph wetly and looked around for the others. ‘Matt? Benjy?’
For a moment he couldn’t see them, then he heard someone calling.
‘Over here …’
There they were, close to the bank, heads grey against the dark rocks. He paddled across to them.
‘How about that?’
All of them safe, all exultant. They threw themselves into the water that threatened them no longer. They climbed back on their boards again, all of them talking at once.
What happened to me. And to me. What happened —
‘There’s somethin’ over there,’ Matt said, and pointed. ‘Somethin’ in the water.’
Colin could see nothing. ‘What is it?’
‘Looks like a coat.’
‘Oh.’ A coat was not interesting, after the adventure they’d just had.
‘I’m gunna get it.’ Matt defended his find against the indifference of the others. ‘Dry it out, might come in handy in the cold weather.’
He paddled defiantly towards what he had seen. He took hold, while the others watched, and hauled. He suddenly froze. He yelled out and abandoned the coat, paddling back towards them in a frenzy of foam.
‘What is it?’
Matt was gasping. ‘Let’s get outa here.’
‘What about your coat?’
‘There’s a bloke still wearin’ it. A drowned man.’
They couldn’t get out of the water fast enough. Finding a place to do it was another story. Above them, the rocks were sheer and slippery, shining with moisture beneath a steadily lightening sky. They tried to scale them but fell back into the water almost at once. All around the pool it was the same story; they’d never manage it here. They knew they’d have to go on downstream towards the town, where the banks were lower and free of rocks. Which meant they would have to pass close by the bobbing coat and what it contained.
None of them was talking about being scared now; they all were. They paddled and looked, and didn’t look, eyes turned resolutely away from what they continued to see: the coat bobbing, ominously, in the black water.
Dead blokes can’t hurt you, Colin told himself. Over and over he said it, but was unconvinced.
They found a place eventually and clambered on to dry land again.
Colin said, ‘What we goin’ to do —?’ And stopped.
‘’Bout what?’ Matt was fierce. As the only one of them to have actually seen the body, he had the right.
‘You know. ’Bout him.’
‘You don’ do nuthin,’ Matt instructed him. ‘You keep yer trap shut about it. Otherwise ole Gus’ll have the skin off your arse.’ He looked at them both. ‘Orright?’ he said.
Orright.
Back to the camp, and trouble.
Mr Gus waiting. ‘Where you bin?’
‘Walkin’.’ A forlorn offer, seized upon at once.
‘Walkin’ where?’
‘Around.’
‘You’re soakin’ wet!’ Old Gus raised his fist: as hard as rock, as they all had reason to know. ‘You bin down the river!’
‘We thought one of the horses had got out —’ Matt lying his head off, desperately and hopelessly.
The fist descended. Thump. ‘Di’n I tell you’ — thump — ‘to stay away from there?’
Matt shrieking, for the record. It was just his way: he could never resist making a performance out of everything. Colin wished he would give over for once. Go on raising the roof, the whole circus would know about it directly, and old Gus wasn’t the only one with a heavy hand.
Not that wishing ever achieved anything. Gus’s fist rose and fell, Matt continued to shriek, and within a minute they’d got company. Bruce Mandale, never at his best first thing in the morning, scowling like a wet winter’s day.
‘What’s up?’
Gus was too busy to bother with explanations. ‘Ask that kid of yours. He’ll tell you.’
Red-veined eyes gave Colin a look-over. ‘Too right he will.’
And dragged him off. Colin’s turn to yell.
It had been worth it, all the same. He didn’t think so at the time but later, when he wasn’t sore any more, the memory delighted him. He remembered the accelerating surge of the water, the heart-stopping moment when the river chucked him over the edge of the cataract. He wouldn’t have missed it for anything.
As
for the body … None of them breathed a word. They heard that night that it was a local bloke, full as a boot, who’d somehow managed to overbalance and fall into the river. Which, once again, had earned its reputation as a killer.
THREE
1
Circuses could kill, too.
It was a year later and five hundred miles further north. They’d been held up by rain, didn’t pull into their destination until three in the afternoon, which meant a hell of a rush to get the tent up in time and all the seating organised.
Gus was on everybody’s tail. ‘Git a move on!’
Perhaps that was what did it. Maybe the tent hands took one chance too many because they were running out of time; maybe the grass was slippery after the rain. Whatever the reason, the seats came down when the acts were no more than half over. A full house, too. There were people lying all over the place, moaning and wailing.
Colin had been selling peanuts and lollies on the other side of the tent, so he missed the worst of it. Old Gus grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Git down to town, find a doctor for this lot.’
‘Can I take one of the horses?’
‘Of course take a bloody horse! What d’you think I want you to do? Crawl down there?’
No one was killed. All the same, it could have been tricky. Accidents happened and no one could do much about them but the locals could have been a bit toey about this one, fifteen people battered, cuts and bruises all over them. The way it worked out, things weren’t too bad: a few mutters, nothing worse than that. It made Gus mad, all the same. It was a long way to the next town. He’d hoped to get away early Sunday morning but some of these small places could be a bit uptight if you travelled on a Sunday so, after what had happened, he thought he’d better not risk it.
‘Whole day wasted,’ he groused, as sour as sick.
Bruce Mandale came up with the answer. ‘Why don’t we go to church ourselves?’ he said.
Gus, not a church-going man, looked him up and down. ‘You crazy?’
‘Not if you wanner travel.’ And explained what he had in mind.
Gus slapped him on the back. ‘Beauty!’
First thing Sunday they struck the tents, loaded the wagons, got everything ready and headed down to church in time for the service. The locals were amazed when the circus mob filed in: it was probably the biggest congregation they’d had in their lives.
Gus had warned them all to be on their best behaviour, said he’d break the back of anyone who messed up, so everyone sat tight, joined in the hymns, said amen in the right places — once or twice in the wrong places, too — did their best to stay awake during the sermon, trooped decorously out of church after the service was over.
‘Wonderful address!’ Gus shook hands with the rector, beaming like he was offering him his false teeth. ‘Fan-bloody-tastic.’
The rector tried not to wince. ‘You’ll be moving on then?’
‘Too right!’
And they were gone, leaving the locals waving goodbye, with not a cross look among the lot of them. What could they say, in the circumstances?
Old Gus Evans, who had slept soundly through the whole service and hadn’t heard a word of the sermon, never stopped telling everyone how inspirational he had found it.
While the circus headed northwards, as good as gold.
Into tragedy.
2
Colin was the topmounter for the acrobatic troupe, the one who stood on top of the others when they clambered on each other’s shoulders, forming a human ladder that reached halfway to the top of the tent. You needed a good sense of balance for that: not so good, falling off when you were twenty feet and more up in the air. Even with Bruce Mandale batting him around the ear every day, it had taken him a long time to get the knack, but he’d managed it eventually. Now, however, he’d got a cold, more than a cold, and couldn’t get out of bed, however much Bruce threatened him.
‘Leave him alone,’ Marge said. ‘He’s crook, can’t you see?’
She’d always been a soft ha’porth but this time she was right.
‘We gotta have someone,’ said Bruce. ‘Can’t do the ladder without a topmarker.’
‘Use that Benjy. He’s done it enough times.’
Falling once or twice, at that, Benjy not cut out for heights, but Bruce supposed he would do, in an emergency.
‘Right.’
And lectured him, around the mouth of a bottle, about what he expected from the boy and what he did not. By the time he’d finished, Benjy — another foundling, with no one to turn to since his foster mother, a strong lady act, had skipped — was more nervous than ever about what he’d have to do. It wasn’t the human pyramid he minded so much. Even the grand finale of the act, when he was expected to do a double somersault off the pyramid onto the trapeze bar and back again, something Old Gus claimed had never been done before, didn’t worry him. What he dreaded was the Catherine Wheel, the balancing trapeze act between the king poles in the very top of the tent, when he had to somersault between Marge and Bruce while they were both swinging faster and faster in dizzy circles above the audience. That was something he really hated: it meant he had to trust not only his own skills but other people’s as well, and so far in his life he hadn’t come up with too many people he could trust at all.
It wasn’t something he could very well say to Bruce.
These days Bruce liked to be well oiled before a performance. Marge had spoken to him about it more than once, but he wasn’t about to take any notice of her moaning, not after all these years.
‘A drink don’ affect me,’ he told her, and himself.
‘A drink?’ she said. ‘Half a bottle, more like.’
‘You ever seen me slip, or miss a turn? Have you?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Nor never will.’ He was affronted that she dared suggest there was even a possibility of such a thing. ‘Nothing wrong with my skills,’ he said.
Still bloody Marge wouldn’t back off. ‘There’s always a first time.’
Until, in self-defence, Bruce was obliged to clip her with the back of his hand, just once, in order to win himself a little peace.
‘It’s only for my headaches,’ he said.
He suffered from those quite a bit. It was a hazard of the job. Being the understander in the pyramid, you got so many knocks on the head that it was bound to affect you, eventually. It made no difference to his strength, though; in the pyramid he could still take the weight of the three blokes he was carrying, even when they were swaying about a bit.
Tonight was no different from any other night. Even when Benjy kicked off from the top of the pyramid in his somersault routine it didn’t bother Bruce much, although his headache was back, a real cracker, despite the grog he’d been swallowing to keep it at bay. Once he’d thought it might be an idea to bring a top-up into the ring with him, but he never had. He’d never get away with it. There was nowhere to hide the bottle, for one thing. In any case, old Gus could be a strict old buzzard when he’d a mind. No, he’d just have to live with it. Always had, after all.
It was a good house tonight. Must be all of two hundred people here. Standing under the lights in the middle of the ring you couldn’t see them very clearly, especially up on the back benches, but you could feel them and the excitement that thickened the air inside the tent as the artistes went through their routines.
Most circuses kicked off with a flying act, where they had one, but Gus liked to be different. He’d decided that the Marvellous Mandales act was so spectacular that it deserved to come right at the end, just before the grand finale and ‘God Save the Queen’. Instead they began with a series of leaps, all the artistes doing aerial somersaults, things like that, followed by a comedy act with clowns, the ringmaster and a horse. The horses were always a favourite. They’d lost their strong lady act when Benjy’s foster mum had taken off. A pity; a regular wonder that woman had been, able to take the weight of a big man in her teeth, swinging by one leg from the trapeze, thighs
on her like a python. In her place they had a couple of kids, sisters, who could do a neat high-wire routine: very genteel. Then more horses, then the human pyramid, and finally the Catherine Wheel.
Bruce had worked out the routine himself. He loved it, the feeling of freedom up there, swinging round and round, hearing the oohs and aahs and gasps, knowing he’d got them on the edge of their seats. Then to come back down at the finish to roars of applause … You couldn’t beat it.
They called it a flying act and that was exactly what it felt like, up there with nothing but the air and your own skill to keep you company. It always gave him a kick to think how close he was to the edge. One slip, a miss; that was all it would take. He would never use a net, and it was a matter of pride to get as close to that edge as he could, leaving it later and later to take hold of the other person’s wrists when that was all that stood between them, or himself, and plunging head first to the ring below.
There were times when he knew he’d frightened Marge. Playing games, she called it. One time he’d pulled his hands away, with her in midair in front of him. Made sure she’d seen him do it, too. He’d brought them back in time, took hold of her as though nothing had happened. She’d been spitting like a snake over that one, swore she’d never go up with him again. Talk, that was all it had been. Of course she’d gone up again: what else could she do? Gus wasn’t the sort to put up with a hanger-on and there were no other acts Marge was trained to do. All the same, Bruce had taken care to behave himself for a while, even though he still couldn’t resist slipping in something like it from time to time.
He knew he’d better not play any games tonight, not with a new boy in the act. Benjy would never be the greatest in the air, he was too nervous for that, but he was all right as a stand-in. Bruce decided he’d let him off lightly.
Then, halfway through the routine, head pounding like a drum, mouth as dry as a gum-digger’s dog — like always at this stage of the evening — he thought: Why not?
What the kid needed was confidence. Show him what was possible, high up in the air, take him to the edge and prove to him he was still safe, bring him back down again … It could be the making of him.
