by David Haynes
He looked away. The silver strands in his hair were dazzling.
“What can I get for you, sir?”
A boy-band waiter stood over him with a pen at the ready.
“A medium rib-eye please. And another one of these too, thanks.” He held his bottle up and the waiter nodded then walked away.
Now, he also felt older than he looked, if that was at all possible. He finished the bottle and opened his book. He never went anywhere without one but he seldom read books by his peers in the horror genre any longer. It scared him how good they all were. In his opinion, much better than him by a country mile. It was a good job his fans were loyal because there were new writers coming through year after year and they all seemed to be able to publish books faster than he could.
The waiter brought the steak and he ate it with little relish. Whatever flavour had been in it to begin with had been driven out by about five minutes too long on the flames. At least the chips were tasty but it was hard to get them wrong, even if they did come straight out of the freezer.
He finished his third beer and took a last look outside. Rain dribbled down the window, making it impossible to see his reflection. He was pleased about that.
“Excuse me, Mr Night?” He’d heard the voice before, earlier today.
Ben turned and smiled. “Hello there.” Seeing Fleur again made his smile a genuine one.
“I hope you don’t mind me coming over. I waited until you’d finished eating.”
She could have come over in the middle of his meal, it wouldn’t have mattered. “No, of course not. Fleur, right?”
Her smile grew wider. “Oh wow, you remembered my name.”
“I thought it was a nice name. I haven’t heard it used very often.”
There was an awkward silence as he waited for her to say what it was she wanted. It hadn’t escaped his attention that she had changed clothes from their meeting earlier. She was wearing a dress that hugged her body. All of it.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
She sat down without waiting to be invited. “I was wondering if you might spare me some tips?”
“Tips?”
“You know, for my writing.” She moved her blonde hair off her shoulders with a flick of her head.
Rachel had been blonde too. He was a sucker for blondes. “Well, I’m not sure...”
“I’ll buy you another one of those.” She tapped the side of his bottle with her fingernail.
“There’s no need to do that.” He signalled to the waiter. “I’ll have another please. And...?”
“A prosecco, please. If that’s okay?” Fleur said without looking up.
“How many books have you written?” he asked. How long had it been since he’d had a drink with a woman?
“Two and I’m part-way through another. It’s hard fitting it around my job.”
“Well, that’s my first tip. Keep writing, keep getting those stories down and keep getting better. I wrote twelve before Howl was published. That’s a lot of words and in those days...” He paused. Did he really want to start saying things like that, at a time like this? “It’s easier now with computers.”
The drinks arrived, quickly followed by another round. Before long the table was littered with empty beer bottles and Ben had a bad case of verbal diarrhoea. He knew he had but Fleur just sat there and listened. She seemed to be hanging on his every word. And the more he drank, the more he wondered what she looked like under the dress.
He knew that was the time to wind things up. He didn’t want to get in a mess again, not after his previous form.
He drained the dregs from the bottle. “Listen, Fleur. I’m sorry but I have to be away early in the morning and it’s already way past my bedtime. Do you need a taxi somewhere?” He looked for the waiter.
“No, I don’t need one.”
She had drunk four glasses of prosecco during the last couple of hours but looked sober enough.
“Driving?”
“Nope.” She smiled and shook her head. “I’m staying here.”
“Ah right, of course.” He offered his hand. “I hope I’ve not waffled on too much and at least some of what I said makes sense. It was nice talking to you, Fleur.”
She took his hand. “All of it made sense. I’ll walk with you if that’s okay?”
Ben stood up. “Okay”
They walked to the lift which was open as they reached it. He pressed the number six. He always requested the top floor. He couldn’t stand to be disturbed by people stamping their feet in the room above.
“What number?” he asked.
“I’m coming to your room.” Fleur took his hand.
He turned and looked at her. For a moment he was confused about what she meant but then it dawned on him.
“Are you sure?” he asked and regretted it immediately. What in god’s name was he saying?
She kissed him on the lips. “Quite sure.”
*
Ben woke in a confused daze. His eyes felt like they were glued shut. Not that he wanted to open them anyway. The light filtering through his eyelids was more than sufficient for the moment. He took a couple of deep breaths and licked his lips. They tasted of lipstick. It was a reminder, if he needed one, of Fleur.
He rolled onto his back and reached across the bed. It was empty and cold. Cold enough to have been vacant for some time. He had no recollection of her leaving, but then again the mini-bar had taken some hammering.
He risked it and opened his eyes. It wasn’t as bad he thought but it was enough to send a stab of pain into the back of his head. He groaned, rolled over and swiped a finger across the screen of his phone. It was gone nine o’clock and he’d wanted to be long gone by now. He would have been too if he hadn’t drunk too much and ended up in his room with a girl young enough to be his daughter. What an idiot.
He rolled out of bed and walked into the bathroom. The mirror was enormous, making it difficult to ignore his reflection as he climbed into the shower. The steam rose around him and he smiled. He wasn’t married any more so it was nobody’s business but his own who he slept with. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d gone out looking for someone. Fleur had come on to him, not the other way around. No, it was his business and that’s exactly how it should stay. And she had been so... so... firm.
Breakfast was hard to stomach but he forced a croissant down with some strong coffee. He chose a table on the other side of the room to the one he’d sat at with Fleur. It was closer to the toilet in case breakfast didn’t agree with him. He didn’t know whether to cringe or grin as last night’s activities came back to him. He’d done things that a middle-aged man shouldn’t be doing. Not unless you were a rock star anyway.
Back in his room, he packed his belongings and made one last cup of instant coffee to get his brain working. As he drank it, he switched on his netbook and watched the news. Someone had killed a clown. Not just killed him but cut his face off and taken it away. There were some sick people out there. He sipped the coffee and burned his lips. Even the sugar he’d laced it with couldn’t hide the bitterness.
“The victim, Harvey Newman, was also known by his working name of Bingo The Clown.”
Ben turned the volume up. The screen showed a photograph of Bingo smiling at the camera. He reminded Ben of Sparkles. The dagger-like black diamonds around his eyes gave him the same appearance as the clown on the cover of Clownz. Who would do that? Who in their right mind would base their image on the cover of a monster clown in his book? Clownz hadn’t been a bestseller by any means, but surely someone should have told the guy it was a bad look for a kids’ show.
The reporter mumbled about connections to the occult but Ben was distracted by what was going on in the background. Police tape was stretched across the street and the white-suited forensic team were bringing out computer after computer from the address. Newman was obviously into his tech. As the camera panned across to the house, an officer was struggling with an enormous cardboard box in the doorwa
y. He bumped it against the doorframe twice before he finally lost control and the contents spilled out.
There was a collection of brightly coloured wigs, some silly shoes and a variety of costumes in the box, and they all tumbled out in an untidy pile. A nose as red as a ruby bounced down the path like a ping-pong ball, leaving dirty red spots on the grey concrete path.
Ben leaned closer to the screen. “Shit,” he whispered and rubbed his eyes. It had gone. The blood and the nose were both gone in an instant. He rubbed his eyes again and stretched his facial muscles. This was one of the worst hangovers in history.
The news flipped to another story about finance and he turned away. He wanted to check his emails before he left. He was waiting to hear back from his agent about a potential film deal for one of his monster books, Howl. He didn’t want them turning the beast into a family-friendly, wronged and misunderstood werewolf. He was lots of things but friendly he most certainly wasn’t. A healthy deal on film rights would save him in more ways than one.
There were no emails but there was some activity on his Twitter account, lots of activity in fact. He scrolled down the messages which were of a disconcertingly ambiguous nature. He could feel a sense of dread building in his guts.
He clicked on a link from a fan which read, ‘Good to see a different side to Nightmare! LOL.’
Nightmare was his username and members of his fan club were called Nightmares. The first photograph showed him asleep in bed. His mouth was slightly ajar and he looked terrible. Not as terrible as the second photograph though. He was lying on his front with the sheets dripping off him. They had fallen so far that his arse cheeks were clearly on show for the world to see.
“Oh god.” He lowered the screen. There were two others but he’d seen enough.
He drove home feeling irritated by the whole thing. Irritated and angry. He should have known better than that. Why would a girl who looked like Fleur be interested in him if it wasn’t to get something out of it for herself? She’d get five minutes of fame with her followers and maybe some time with one of the tabloids, but he was hardly what anyone would call ‘A’ list. What was he? ‘C’ list or maybe even ‘D’ list these days. It was more likely that he had fallen off the list completely. He was at the bottom with the dead flies.
His phone kept ringing too. He could see who it was but wasn’t going to answer it because he knew she would be mad. It was Joanne, his agent, and this was the sort of thing that made her blood boil. Would it harm the potential film deal? God, he hoped not.
She would keep ringing though. Ringing, ringing, ringing. That was her tactic – to wear you down, ring you into submission. It was making his head hurt worse than it already did.
He reached over to silence the phone and accepted the call by accident.
“Have you seen the charts?” she shouted.
“What? No.” He felt a mixture of relief and confusion.
“You’ve got three books in the top twenty and Clownz is at three. It’s gone crazy.”
Ben took a moment to digest the information. “The horror chart?”
“No you tit, the chart. The entire chart. I’m looking for the link now but it looks like someone connected Clownz to that murder.” She drew breath. “Tell me you’ve at least seen the news?”
“Yeah, yeah. Some clown got his face cut off. I’m not...”
“A clown called Bingo,” she interrupted. “He looks just like the art on the first edition cover. Can you believe it? Who would do that?”
“Someone who hasn’t read the book maybe?”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. Just keep your nose clean and we’ll get extra for the film rights.”
He cringed and opened his mouth to say something but Joanne spoke before he had chance.
“Ah, here it is. One of the reporters was obviously a fan, he held your book up to the camera. It’s an old edition by the looks of it. Why did we change the cover? That one’s disturbing.”
“Your idea, Jo. I always liked the first one.” He could hear her tapping away on the computer.
“We’ll change it back, I think. Leave it with me. I’ll send you the film details when I get them. Bye.”
And she was gone. Even if he had wanted to talk to her about the photographs of his naked bum, he couldn’t get a word in edgeways. He’d talk to her tomorrow, when the hangover had subsided.
Three books in the top twenty, though. That had never happened before. Top one hundred a few times, but top twenty? Never.
It was a day of mixed news but all he wanted to do now was climb into bed and sleep. He pushed down harder on the pedal and accelerated into the rain.
3
Maldon stayed in bed for most of the next two days. He had only felt quite so ill once before, when he went cold turkey from heroin. He slept, he dreamt and his pores opened in a great gushing stream of rancid sweat. He remembered getting up twice to use the toilet but couldn’t recall eating anything.
He stared up at the cobwebs on the ceiling and listened to his stomach rumble and gurgle. He’d been dreaming about his parents again. For years afterwards, he’d dreamt about the night they were killed. About the blood on the walls, on the carpet and on his skin. And for a while he’d been able to see their faces, particularly his mum’s face just as the knife passed across her throat. She’d looked shocked but not in pain. Like someone had just played a bad trick on her.
Had killing Bingo been part of the dream too?
His pillow felt like a sponge and his legs were stuck to the sheets. The sour stench of stale body odour was everywhere, making his arid mouth feel drier by the second. He needed to get up, he needed to get out of bed and shower himself before he retched.
“Up and at ‘em, Mouldy, jobs to do, people to see. Bingo’s dead. Long live Sparkles!” A squeaky voice yelled from inside the holdall.
“Shut up!” Maldon shouted and climbed out of bed. The clown had been jabbering constantly for the last two days; telling jokes, being unkind and generally being a nuisance.
He walked to the bathroom, stepping over his copy of Clownz on the way. Had he left it in the middle of the room like that? He must have done but he didn’t remember doing it. He climbed into the shower and started whistling the clown music. It made him feel better.
Cutting Bingo’s face off had been an inspired idea. The clown had deprived him of a childhood. He had stolen Maldon’s smile, his laughter, his parents. What better way to kill him than that? He wasn’t entirely sure yet whether the resulting birth of Sparkles was a good thing or not.
He dried himself and walked back to the bedroom. The book was still on the floor, in the middle of the room. Where he had absolutely not left it.
“Pick it up, Maldon. Read it to me.”
He looked at the bag and then at the book.
“Take me out and read me a story?” His voice was reedy and metallic. It sounded like it was coming through a voice changer, or belonged to a highly-strung cartoon character.
He crouched and opened the bag.
“Boo! Did I make you jump?” Sparkles had blood around the corners of his mouth and where his eyes should have been. There was no mistaking him; the ghostly white face with black diamonds painted around his eyes. His smile was different though. It was smaller and it didn’t turn up at the edges. There was no sense of happiness to it. In many ways it was just like his own non-existent smile.
He lifted the clown’s face out of the bag. He had hoped his own smile would have come back by now. It had been two days and there was still no sign of it. His face looked and felt exactly the same as always.
“Where is your smile? Why are you not dancing and laughing like a lunatic? It looks like you didn’t quite get what you wanted, Mouldy. Bingo wasn’t the right man for you it seems. How very sad.”
Maldon lifted Sparkles above his head. He wanted to hurl him at the wall. He wanted to hear the squelch as the face slapped into the dirty plaster. Sparkles would be just another stain.
“Wa
nt it back? Want smiles and laughter and jokes and all manner of fun and games?” Sparkles’s voice went up another octave.
Maldon paused. That was exactly what he wanted. What he had yearned for, for as long as he could remember.
“I can give it to you. This time next week you’ll be laughing like a drain, Mouldy. You’ll be singing and dancing and I’ll transform that ugly downturned mouth of yours into a radiant thing of beauty. How does that grab you?”
Maldon nodded but didn’t make a sound.
“Look at that book down there. Look at my smile!”
Maldon looked down at Clownz, at the startling and vivid cover.
“We want the same thing. We both want to smile again.”
Maldon opened his mouth to object but closed it again. Clowns knew more about laughter and smiling than anyone else. His own plan hadn’t worked, he remained utterly miserable.
“Come on, whaddaya say? I’ll bring the music?”
Immediately Maldon’s beloved circus music started up inside his head. It was called Entry of the Gladiators, he knew that because he’d looked it up several years ago. It was scratchy, faint and a little out of tune but it was there again and it was wonderful. He sat down cross-legged beside the book and put Sparkles's face up on his knee.
“Where do we start?”
“You know where, you just need a gentle shove in the right direction. We’ll need the knife. Now are you going to read to me? I can’t do it myself, I ain’t got no peepers.”
Maldon picked up the book and turned to the first chapter. He started reading but he could have recited the opening two chapters from memory.
“The circus was here! Multicoloured posters of clowns and fire-breathers and lion tamers decorated every single wall in the town. And if the children stood close enough to the pictures, the smell of candyfloss and hot dogs drifted down into their cute little nostrils. ‘Can we go, Mum?’ they asked. ‘Can we go and see the clowns?’
