by T F Lince
“How did you know I was thinking that?”
“Of course I know what you’re thinking. We all do – we’re in your head. We are all just visitors trying to help you find your way, whichever way that is. You have got further than most get. It doesn’t stop us trying to help, though.” Benjie continued applying his colourful makeup in the mirror. “You have had the bumpiest ride of anyone by far. We’ve nearly lost you more times than I want to mention.” He started on his lips with red greasepaint. “You have him confused, and I’ve never seen him like this, Dean. Keep your coin handy until you know for definite. You might still need it. My guess is that he has another test up his sleeve before he will allow you back, but to be honest, you have us all stumped on this one.” More red paint was liberally applied to his clown face. “Be ready for anything.”
Dean looked back at the door.
“What happened to Mr Thompson?”
“Dean, we get to choose a few who we think have a chance, but they have to have the will deep inside them to return and prove to him they want to go back. Mr Thompson was a long shot. He’s been very ill. He could have come through this door like you did and fought his way out, but I guess he had no fight left in him.”
Dean again looked at the door. “What will happen to him?”
“He will be given a danake coin and will take a ride on the ferry with Charon up the River Styx, but he’ll be OK. He was ready, Dean. It was Mr Thompson’s time.”
Dean looked at the floor. That could have been his fate. Maybe it still would be.
The clown tried lightening the mood for a second time. “What do you think?” He stood up wearing red braces, red trousers and a yellow jacket with a check running through it. He had a big flower on the lapel.
“You look great.”
Benjie had a full figure bordering on fat, but he had fat in all the right places. As far as the clown was concerned, fat is funny. People laughed more if the fat guy got a custard pie in the face. Dean was normal size, neither short and fat nor tall and skinny. He wasn’t clown material.
“Does anyone really fall for the old ‘smell the flower’ trick?” Dean asked. The clown looked hurt.
“I can’t believe you would ask such a thing! A clown needs a stooge and a stooge needs a clown. There’s a team. The stooge smells the flower – that’s how it works.”
Dean looked around. “But I’ve only ever seen you. Who is the Morecambe to your Wise, the Little to your Large, the Cannon to your Ball, the Vic to your Bob?”
The clown turned his happy smile upside down.
“He died a few years ago, Dean, and for the record, he was the Bobo to my Benjie. I’ve performed on my own since.” Benjie pointed out a picture slotted into the side of one of the mirrors showing a tall, thin figure and a much younger version of himself all clowned up before a performance. “Twenty-five years together, and never one cross word.”
Dean could see he had upset the clown. “I’m sorry, Benjie – can I call you Benjie?”
“You can call me Benjie, that’s my name. I would like that, Dean.” Benjie seemed to perk up a bit. “We have some very special guests coming to see the show tonight.”
“Special guests? Who is coming to see you, Benjie?”
“Not me, Dean, you. Who would you like to see more than anybody in the world right now?”
Dean looked at him.
“You know what I’m thinking, so you know who.”
“Would you like to see them, Dean?”
“Of course I would! You know that I would do anything to see them right now.”
Benjie saw an opportunity. “OK, we need to get you ready.” He opened the door to his late partner’s wardrobe and rifled through the outfits. “I’m sure we’ll find something in here that will fit.”
“Hang on, whoa, I know I said anything, but you want me to dress as a clown?”
“Do you want to see Sarah and Jodie?” said Benjie, looking over his shoulder at Dean. Dean laughed.
“Well of course.”
“Then yes, I want you to be a clown. This one.” Benjie pulled an outfit from the wardrobe. It was the opposite outfit to his own – yellow trousers, red jacket.
“I don’t even know how to…er…clown.”
“Know how to clown? Does that actually mean anything? I am a performer, Dean. Us clowns perform, we don’t clown.”
Benjie’s attitude changed. He blubbed uncontrollably, sobbing and crying real tears. This went on longer than Dean might have expected, so he moved across to Benjie and caught his reflection in the mirror. He hadn’t meant to hurt the clown’s feelings.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it,” he said, putting an arm around Benjie’s shoulders.
“Ha, ha, ha, got you! See, we perform. Now do you think you can do as you’re told and perform, Dean?” Benjie held up the outfit.
“Are Sarah and Jodie definitely going to be there?”
“Clown’s honour.”
It was a better offer than anything else Dean had, but he knew Sarah and Jodie hated clowns. The last time he’d talked to Jodie about clowns, he’d said he was going to sort one of them out, and in this very room, he had pinned Benjie against the wall.
“OK, you’re on,” Dean said with as much enthusiasm as he could drum up.
Benjie had a bounce to his step as he threw the outfit at Dean. “Put this on, then I’ll do your makeup and talk you through our old routine.”
Dean took the outfit and went behind the dressing screen to get changed.
“How did Bobo die?” he called over to the clown who was preparing the makeup for his face.
“He died of Alzheimer’s. I’m eighty-six and we were partners in life as well as on the stage. I really miss him, Dean.”
Dean was struggling with getting the cross right on the back of the yellow braces.
“What do you mean you’re eighty-six? And how can he be dead? Aren’t you all…”
Dean stopped. It was a bit inappropriate to ask people if they were already dead.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Sorry. I bet you had fun performing with him.”
The clown looked over to the screen.
“When I go, I’m hoping we can perform again. He performed with me here for a while as one of the guides before he passed.”
Caught up in reminiscing, Benjie was inadvertently saying too much, but Dean wasn’t really trying to work things out right now. He was far too nervous about seeing Sarah and Jodie, and making his clown debut in front of what sounded like a growing crowd beyond the stage door.
Chapter 32 – Four Minutes, Fifty-three Seconds
Sarah arrived at the hospital in good time for visiting. She gave the receptionist a wave – for the last five months it had been just like she was working here again. It seemed she was spending more time in the hospital than at home. Jodie was fine with it as it was for her dad, and anyway, Sarah was still pissed off with Jodie. Clowns, chess and now strangers in black. It was too much.
If Dean did not regain consciousness soon, and that was looking less and less likely, then who knew what might be around the corner? Darren had already phoned to say that something had happened last night that he needed to speak to her about. This conversation could be good or bad news. Good news would be signs of recovery, but if it was bad, it could be that Dean was showing no more signs of life and a decision had to be made. Sarah was dreading the latter. Making a decision to end her husband’s life, even if it was the right decision, did not sit comfortably with Sarah.
She headed out of the lift and on to the ward, her mind spinning with possibilities. Darren was sitting on Dean’s bed, looking at his charts.
“You have a fighter, Sarah, I’ll give him that. I’m not sure he’s ready to go yet.”
“Why, what’s happened, Darren?”
“He went into REM last night, eyes all over the place, so we can safely say his brain is active. He was dreaming like a good ’un, but it’s whatever he was dreaming about that worries me.” Sara
h looked puzzled. “Look at the heart rate, through the roof. He should be dead, Sarah. I don’t know how he’s hanging on.”
“May I?” Darren handed the charts over for her to look at. “Wow, his heart rate touched two hundred and forty beats per minute. When did this happen, Darren?”
“Just after midnight last night, then it went back to normal as quickly as it had started.”
Sarah looked at the chart again.
“How long did it go on for, Darren? How long from when his heart rate started to climb until it started to drop?”
“Just under five minutes.”
“How much under, Darren? Let me guess – seven seconds.”
Darren looked like he had seen a ghost.
“Yes, but how the hell did you know that? It was exactly four minutes, fifty-three seconds from the first beat up to the first beat down. I made a note. What’s going on, Sarah?”
“I can’t explain right now, Darren.” Sarah put a comforting hand on Darren’s shoulder as she got up and gave Dean a kiss. “I love you, Dean, but I need to go.”
She headed out of the ward as quickly as she’d come in, then, remembering her manners, she turned to address Dean’s doctor.
“Darren, thank you so much. I think Dean may be coming back. I don’t know why I didn’t listen to what my daughter was trying to tell me. She deserves an apology from her mother right now, so I need to go.”
Sarah got back to her car and phoned Jodie. The call went to voicemail, which was to be expected. Jodie was in a teenage strop. Sarah drove home as quickly as the speed limit would allow her and headed upstairs before she’d even taken her coat off.
“Jodie, are you asleep?”
Jodie pulled the covers in tightly and rolled further into the corner.
“Yes,” she barked.
“Jodie, I’m so sorry. I believe you now. Your dad’s heart rate was irregular last night, and do you know how long for?”
Jodie turned one eye in her mother’s direction.
“Four minutes and fifty-three seconds, I would guess.”
“Now I can’t explain any of this, but wherever you were last night seems to have affected your dad, so if you helped him win, you probably saved his life.”
Jodie sat up. “I knew it, Mum! It was too real and meant too much.”
“How did he look?”
“He looked great, Mum. It was amazing seeing him. He said he loved us both very much and would be back soon.”
Sarah hugged her daughter, crying. “I hope so, Jodie, I really hope so,” she said, wiping the tears from her face.
“He’ll be OK, Mum.”
“But how do you know, Jodie?”
Jodie turned her head, looking at her mother face to face.
“Because he promised, Mum. He promised me he was coming back, and I believe him cos he’s my dad.”
They hugged for a while longer. Whatever had happened last night had injected hope into the situation. Dean was fighting, and if that was the case, the least they could do was fight with him.
“He said I was just like you because I was bossy.” Jodie and Sarah shared a laugh, and it had been a while since they had had time to laugh. It had been all about crying in the last few months.
“Am I bossy, Jodie?” Her daughter’s silence answered the question. Sarah added, “I really hope he comes back to us, JoJo.”
“He will, Mum, he will. He said so.”
Benjie was going through his routine while doing Dean’s makeup. Dean was in his new clothes, but he had not put his long red clown shoes on yet, and wasn’t really looking forward to it. They looked five sizes too big; it would be like walking on planks. He looked the part, though – his makeup was just about there. It looked like he was going to be the sad face clown to complement Benjie’s happy face.
“So, have you got that, Dean? Let me test you. Step one?”
”You run on and look for me. I have not arrived yet,” Dean replied. “Yep, got that.”
Benjie continued through the routine. “I say that you’re really nervous and ask the crowd if they would like to see Bobo’s new car.” Dean nodded. “Then you make your big entrance in Chug Chug.”
“Got that.”
“Then you press buttons one, two, three and four in order while you’re driving along so various bits fall off the car. You got that?”
“Yep, I’ve got that. What do I press to make the car go?”
The clown laughed at him. “Dean, you pedal it.”
“Of course I do! What was I thinking? OK, got that too.”
Benjie went through the rest of the routine and got Dean to recite it back to him a few times while he finished his makeup and hair.
“Right, what do you think?”
Dean looked in the mirror.
“You do know after all this that I won’t be happy if Sarah and Jodie aren’t there, don’t you?”
The clown gave him a tap on the back.
“Yes, but I will be, Dean. Is that not enough?”
“I suppose so. How long before we are on?”
Benjie looked at his clown watch.
“Ten minutes, and remember to have fun. When did you last have fun, Dean?”
Dean couldn’t remember when his life had last had proper fun in it. It had got far too serious for fun; maybe it was about time he put that right. He didn’t reply to the clown; the question did not require an answer. It required some realisation with a side order of self-examination.
In the Big Top, the circus was in full swing. The trapeze artists had just finished their routine, and before them the blindfolded knife thrower had completed his performance, much to the relief of his assistant who would live to see another day. There wasn’t really an interval at the circus; it was time for the clowns to keep everyone entertained so the sets could be changed. This was their big moment.
Benjie and Dean were in the entrance to the circus ring.
“Dean, from this moment you are Bobo the Clown, and before we go on, we have to honour the age old clown tradition.”
Dean had got this far. If he was going to be a clown, he was going to do it properly.
“OK, I’m Bobo. What’s the tradition?”
Benjie leant forward. “We always smell each other’s flowers. It’s been done for years and pays homage to all the clowns who have come before us.” Benjie was primed in the ‘smell my flower’ position. “Bobo, do you want to smell my lovely flower?”
Reluctantly, Dean took up the offer and got a faceful of water.
“OK, your turn. Would you like to smell my flower, Benjie?”
Benjie gave him an ‘are you stupid?’ look before ordering him into his car.
“It’s not a tradition at all, is it, Benjie?”
“Of course not. Thought it might get rid of your nerves.” He laughed at Bobo, soaking wet in a clown car. “Good luck, Dean.”
“Benjie, I’m Bobo. No more Dean.”
The ringmaster was in the centre of the ring which was covered in sand. She was wearing the tightest of tight white ski trousers and red tails and was holding a cone-shaped amplifier for effect. The crowd’s eyes followed her every move and listened to her every word. There was an expectant hush of excitement, a quiet buzz of anticipation.
“As we head for the end of the show, Bobo and Benjie are going to paint their boat. Would you like to see them, boys and girls?” The noise went through the roof – the unmistakable high-pitched cheer of hundreds of kids. Having this many kids hanging on to her every word, the ringmaster milked it for everything it had.
“Are you sure, boys and girls?” A louder shriek bounced off all sides of the Big Top.
“Bobo and Benjie might come out and see you if you shout for them really loudly, kids. Are you ready? After three, shout for Bobo. One, two, three…”
Bobo’s name was screamed from all angles. No pressure there, then, Dean thought. His clown debut was getting worse by the minute. Trying to remember his routine, he looked over to Benjie who w
as doing a few stretches like a total pro. Benjie gave Dean the thumbs up.
“OK, boys and girls, and what about his best friend, Benjie? One, two, three…”
Benjie received an even louder scream. That was his cue. The ringmaster had whipped the crowd into a frenzy – what could possibly go wrong? The distinctive Dut dut, dera dera, dut dut, da da…Dut dut, dera dera, dut dut, da da clown music started, and Dean, now in Bobo mode, got the nod from Benjie.
Benjie walked on stage carrying two overly large paint pots around his neck on a yoke. He was heading for the boat on the other side of the circus ring, shuffling through the dusting of sawdust on the floor. Every so often, he dipped his finger into the pots to show they contained paint – one tin of red, one tin of yellow.
As he got nearer the crowd, he started spinning, faster and faster. The paint pots were raised up until eventually they were horizontal, but not a drop was spilled. The crowd cheered and gasped all at the same time.
Benjie came out of his spin and put the pots down near the boat, staggering and dizzy. He cupped his hand to his mouth and shouted, “Bobo…Bo…bo.”
“Bobo…Bo…bo…” echoed the crowd.
Dean started to pedal Bobo’s car, thinking what on earth am I doing? But seeing as he was there, he would give it his best shot. As he came through the archway onto the circle, the sound wave hit him. The kids were screaming and shouting his name.
Benjie had told Dean that his Bobo character was the idiot. In clowning, there is always a boss and always an idiot. “Think Laurel and Hardy,” he’d said. The trick was for the crowd not to hate the boss, but they had to love the idiot.
Dean was struggling to pedal the car along the dusting of sand and sawdust under the wheels. It didn’t help that the wheels were not actually round, more hexagonal. All the while, he was waving to the crowd. He’d forgotten all about whether Sarah and Jodie were there; he was too busy trying not to let Benjie down.
Benjie was shouting, “Hurry up, Bobo, c’mon, Bobo, hurry up.” That was the cue for Dean to press button one on his car. There was a big explosion and the doors blew off sideways. Dean had not been expecting such a big explosion and nearly jumped out of his seat, standing up for a brief second while still pedalling. The crowd roared and screamed with laughter.
