by Will Davis
He woke to the sound of pebbles spattering against the window. Switching on the lamp, he crawled out of bed and went over to the glass. At first he couldn’t see anything in the gloom below, but gradually he made out a figure, standing by the hibiscus bush. He opened the window, letting in a rush of cold night.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ he hissed.
‘Let’s go for a walk!’ called Edward, making no effort to keep his voice down. He sounded merry and he held up a bottle of something that glinted half empty in the moonlight.
‘My parents –’
‘Ah, screw ’em! Come on, you’re only young once!’
He paused, pretending to be in two minds as to whether or not he wanted to. But there was something deeply exciting about seeing Edward here at his house in the middle of the night, and really there was nothing to debate.
‘Stay there.’
‘Ain’t going nowhere without you, kiddo!’
‘And be quiet!’
He threw on some clothes and shoes and poked his head out of his room. The lights in the house were all off, which he assumed meant his parents had not woken. He gave silent thanks and hurried downstairs to let himself out the back door.
‘You took your time,’ complained Edward, from somewhere in the soupy darkness of the garden. He appeared before him, grinning from ear to ear, his teeth illuminated and the rest of him no more than an outline, like the Cheshire cat.
‘But I’m here now,’ he said, grabbing the bottle. He unscrewed the cap and took a swig, almost coughing it back up again as the liquid burned down his throat.
‘What is that? Paint stripper?’
‘Vodka. Russia’s finest.’
‘Yuck.’
He gulped and handed the bottle back. He could tell Edward was smiling at him. Suddenly the world seemed bursting with new-found life and unexplored possibility.
‘So where do you want to go?’ he said.
‘This way.’
Edward pointed towards the woods that lay at the side of the house.
‘Are you crazy? We’ll get torn to shreds!’
‘So what? Afraid?’
He sighed and allowed Edward to lead him down to the bottom of the garden. They passed the hedge where Edward had thrown his bicycle, which lay in a mangled twist of metal and leaves, and ducked into the trees.
‘I can’t see a damn thing!’
‘Hold on to me then.’
He reached out and groped for Edward’s hand. As soon as he caught it Edward let out a little whoop and began to rocket through the woods, forcing him to run after him. He hadn’t a clue if Edward was keeping to the path or not. The world was silent except for the sound of their panting and every so often swearing as they caught a foot on a root or a leg or hand on a bramble.
‘This is insane,’ he breathed in Edward’s ear, but he did not pull back or try to make Edward stop. Instead he held on tightly and followed like someone with no choice. He thought of all the times he had come down here when he was very small on the short cut to the park, his mum holding onto his hand and refusing to let go while he tugged at her, trying to break free so he could run off and play away from her watchful eye. It seemed ironic and hilarious that this time he was the one who was holding on as if for dear life.
Finally, just as it seemed the path would never end, they broke through the other side and onto the common. Edward sank down to his knees on the wet grass, giggling and spluttering.
‘Oh God,’ Edward cried. ‘That was great!’
‘You’re a psycho,’ he told him, gingerly touching a graze on his forearm.
‘Maybe I am,’ Edward agreed. ‘But look at the stars. It’s gorgeous! How come nobody ever comes here at night? It’s by far the most beautiful time for a visit.’
‘Probably because they’re all asleep.’
‘Well, in that case I think we should propose a moratorium on sleep,’ declared Edward in a mock-pompous voice. He reached out and took his hand to pull himself up.
They walked along the side of the field. For a long while neither of them spoke. As his blood began to slow down and his heart rate returned to normal, he felt a foreign sensation settle over him, something like contentment. He thought he could happily walk around in the dark with Edward by his side forever.
‘Dad’s gone to Antibes,’ Edward said abruptly. ‘The womb decided they needed a break from each other. He left yesterday while I was at school, so he wouldn’t have to say goodbye. Didn’t want to deal with any fuss. I found this letter from him on my bed when I got home.’
He withdrew a folded piece of white paper from his jacket and held it up where it caught the moonlight. In a sudden motion he crumpled it up, wrapping his fist around it as tightly as he could, then swung his arm back and out, lobbing the ball of paper high into the air.
‘Arsehole,’ said Edward, as if putting paid to the matter.
‘Hey,’ he said.
It came out sounding gruff and adult and Edward glanced at him. Without thinking he pulled Edward into a tight hug. At first Edward resisted but then he seemed to melt in his arms and he felt Edward sobbing against him, which had the effect of making both of their bodies shudder. They stood like that for some time, until Edward’s sobs finally subsided. They did not separate though. The wind rustled through the nearby branches and from far away came the mournful hooting of an owl.
‘You’ve got an erection,’ observed Edward.
He felt his cheeks grow hot with blood.
‘So have you.’
Edward kissed him. He was so stunned that he did not think to close his eyes, and suddenly saw Edward’s face up close in the moonlight. He felt lips pressing against his own and then Edward’s tongue probing inside his mouth for the briefest of seconds before he drew back and detached their bodies from one another. Tentatively he ran his tongue along his lower lip, and thought he saw Edward doing the same.
‘How was that?’ Edward said nonchalantly.
‘OK,’ he said, swallowing.
‘I’ve never kissed anyone before. Have you?’
‘Uh. No.’
‘I think we should practise on each other, so we can get more skilled at it.’
‘OK.’
They pressed together once more. Edward’s kissing was hungrier this time, almost as if he was trying to eat him. He felt his body responding with shivers and his penis growing harder until it seemed as if he was about to burst. Wordlessly Edward let go of him, undid the button of his jeans, pulled down the flies and dug his hand into the underwear. He copied Edward’s movements, pushing his hand down into his own pants and touching his erection. They pressed themselves against one another again and began to rub their bodies. He felt Edward’s breath hot on his face and the smell of his skin and the wet grass and cool night air pervaded his nostrils. He did not know then how this would become an evocative smell, so that years into the future whenever he scented the dew late at night this moment would come rushing back to him, dizzying him with an impossible yearning. As he came, a few seconds before Edward, he clutched at the boy before him and let out a high moan that was then immediately echoed by Edward. Then they were laughing, simultaneously trying to do up their jeans as they fell about giggling on the dew-soaked common.
While the big top fills up he helps Vlad to stretch backstage, a section separated from the auditorium area by a long black-and-red screen. He holds onto Vlad’s wrists while he arches his back up towards the painted stars on the ceiling like a cat and then flattens it dramatically before sinking into a curve. The space is awash with activity. The two silks girls, who Vlad has told him with a pitying voice are from a German circus school and whose names are Franka and Griselda, are each balancing on one foot and extending the other away from them in a shape Vlad calls the arabesque. Beside them the contortionist is rocking back and forth on her elbows with her feet around her neck, complaining of stiffness. Meanwhile Marie is trotting from person to person, fussing with costumes and examining make-up with
a studious eye, issuing orders for more lipstick or white paint or eyeshadow to be applied. Today she has not bothered to inspect his work, and when he went to her earlier on, for his next task after cleaning the doors to the box-office trailer, she told him to get lost and to stay out of her way.
The big top is packed out for the first time in the season and a sense of deep excitement charges every molecule in the space. People are laughing more than usual, cracking jokes in high-pitched voices about costume malfunctions and then getting into sudden fevers of panic over an undone corset or a wonkily drawn eyeline, little storm clouds that dissipate almost as soon as they arise. He too feels the excitement infiltrating his blood, making him nervous and twitchy so that Vlad, now doing a handstand and holding onto his ankles while he sits, cries out, ‘Please stop shaking so I do not break my neck before we even start!’
Someone laughs. It is Pierce, the male acrobat, who is his forties with an ordinarily grey bread that has been brushed with silver face paint for tonight’s show. Pierce catches his eye and grins at him and his heart soars. It is the first time he has been acknowledged by someone in the company.
‘Got your fluffer to hand, I see,’ says the clown sourly from the corner by the props table where he is fitting his feet into the long spangled comedy shoes he wears for the show, which are three times the length of an ordinary foot. Without his wig the clown looks freakish, even evil, like a character from a horror film. Instantly his good spirits are laid flat.
‘Ignore that talentless fuck,’ Vlad instructs him loud enough for the clown to hear. He comes down out of his handstand and gives the clown the finger, apparently loath to take his own advice. ‘He is just old, ugly and nervous.’
The clown’s lips twist into his trademark sneer, which he recognises even beneath the black stripe of mouth painted across the clown’s face.
‘That’s right, concubine,’ the clown says. ‘Just ignore me.’
‘What do you call him?’ snaps Vlad. ‘What is this “concubine”?’
‘Learn to speak English, immigrant fuck.’
Just as Vlad is about to lose it completely Big Pete appears in full costume and make-up. The ringmaster’s outfit has been dramatically upgraded since he saw the circus a week ago. Marie has sewn silver tasselled pads to either shoulder and white stars on his waistcoat to echo the stars on the canvas of the big top. He now has a top hat with a huge silver feather fastened with a glass emerald to a black ribbon around the brim. As before he wears a collar of black feathers which rise out around his neck as if he were a showgirl. The result is magnificent and unsettling, and the whip that he brandishes as if ready to start lashing completes the effect, making him look like an intergalactic super-villain.
‘What’s this poof doing here?’ demands Big Pete, looking directly at him and ignoring the whistles he receives from the rest of the company. ‘This area is for performers only.’
‘I said he could help me,’ says Vlad, crossing his arms defiantly. ‘He promises not to get in the way.’
Big Pete’s eyes burn into his.
‘I don’t give a shit. You do what you want in your private time but don’t you be bringing your laundry into my tent. This area’s off limits, so he can fuck right off!’
‘He’s been ’elping me, so you can quit running your A-hole,’ screeches a voice from behind. Big Pete turns to Marie, who looks him up and down and cocks her head to the side, her nostrils flaring.
‘Nothing’s straight!’ she snaps. ‘You dress with your eyes shut or something?’
Big Pete subsides into a chair while Marie fusses over his costume, shaking her head in an ostentatious display of impatience. It is amazing to see this bear-like man cowed by such a little woman. As Marie goes around behind her husband to tighten his collar, she looks over at him and winks. He is so surprised by the wink that he starts, and by the time he has realised that a wink is indeed what it was, Marie has finished with Big Pete and is berating Imogen, the female acrobat, for tearing the frill on her sleeve.
‘Time!’ comes a gruff shout from the main space.
Everyone falls silent as a deep gong sounds. He recognises the gong and a cold thrill runs through him. Vlad takes his hand and gives it a quick squeeze before skipping away to the corner to dust his hands with rosin – a sticky chalk-like substance to prevent his fingers from slipping on the bar. All about the performers stand stock-still, waiting for their cues. At the last second Marie notices a stray lock of hair that has escaped from under her husband’s hat and fixes it down with a hairpin from her own head. The ringmaster takes a deep breath and walks proudly towards the ring entrance, chest puffed out and shoulders pushed back. The circus is starting.
He will open the door and find not only Mrs Goodly but four other women from the neighbourhood. They will each have their arms folded and their foreheads will be dramatically creased. He will almost laugh at the sight of them, for they will put him in mind of an elderly female mafia.
‘We need to talk,’ will say Mrs Goodly firmly.
With these words she will thrust her body towards him and, not wishing to touch her, he will instinctively flatten himself against the wall. This will be all she needs, and she will push her way into the house, followed immediately by the other women – Mrs Spencer, Mrs Collins, Mrs Lenard from the bottom of the road, and old Mrs Hancock with her two walking sticks.
‘Oh my God, look at the place!’ Mrs Spencer will shriek at what is left of the kitchen, surveying the hillock of wood, bricks, paint and nails collected at the side of the room which he has yet to ferry to the garage.
‘Like the Blitz!’ Mrs Hancock will murmur, resting her elbows on her sticks.
Then, simultaneously, as if they have rehearsed it, their heads will all drop back as they look up to see the trapeze dangling from its rig. There will be a collective gasp, followed by a long pause.
‘What can I do for you ladies?’ he will say, as five pairs of eyes drift slowly down to fix upon him. ‘As you can see, I’m quite busy.’
‘Busy? Busy?!’ Mrs Lenard will screech. ‘Busy with demolishing this beautiful old house? Why, your mother’d have a fit if she could see it! He needs help!’
‘Shhh, Anne,’ Mrs Goodly will say quickly, resting a soothing hand on Mrs Lenard’s shoulder and patting her as if to stop her from charging at him. She will clear her throat. ‘We wanted to come and say to you that enough is enough. You need to stop this . . . unusual behaviour . . . before it gets out of hand.’
He will not respond, merely fold his own arms.
‘I think you have to admit,’ Mrs Goodly will continue falteringly, ‘that what you’re doing here are hardly the actions of what you’d call a . . . a reasonable-minded person.’
‘We can hear you. Every night and every day – endless banging!’ Mrs Spencer will exclaim. ‘Sounds like a war zone going on.’
‘We’re worried!’ Mrs Collins will supply.
‘Extremely worried,’ Mrs Goodly will pick up the thread, raising her hand to quieten the others – there is no doubting who is leader here. ‘You’ve not been yourself of course, and that’s understandable, I’m sure. You’ve a lot to deal with. But after all . . .’
She will trail off again, uncomfortable under his stare. But then she will thrust her chin out determinedly and turn to Mrs Spencer.
‘Margaret?’
Mrs Spencer will nod and take a card out of her purse. Quivering, she will hold it out to him in the manner of one forced to feed a wild animal. It is his turn to be astonished. He will take the card from her and she will snatch back her hand as if worried about infection. On the card will be embossed the name of a doctor from the next town, above the word ‘Psychotherapist’.
‘My daughter recommends him,’ Mrs Spencer will say timidly.
‘It’s all the rage now, you shouldn’t be ashamed,’ Mrs Goodly will add quickly. ‘Tilly’s been ever so much happier since she started going, hasn’t she, Margaret? Can’t go often enough from what I hear.’<
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Mrs Spencer will nod her head up and down very fast.
‘Thank you,’ he will reply, wondering if politeness will get them out of the house more swiftly than anger.
‘You’re very welcome,’ Mrs Goodly will say, pleased with his reaction.
‘They really can do wonderful things these days,’ Mrs Spencer will say.
‘And what happened with your mother is ever so sad,’ Mrs Lenard will contribute, evidently encouraged enough now to try and be civil. ‘We all know how much she loved you. A shame about that whole . . . you know, situation, of course, but that’s all in the –’
‘Anne!’
‘Yes?’ Mrs Lenard will appeal with both hands. ‘He ran off to God-knows-where and left her all by herself! Helpless! Not so much a word or a phone call. It’s hardly surprising if he feels guilty, is it?’
‘That’s enough!’ will declare Mrs Goodly, gritting her teeth in a show of good-natured annoyance. She will turn back to him. ‘We’ll be getting out of your way then, and let you finish up with your’ – she seizes inspiration – ‘refurbishments. But you will contact that doctor, won’t you?’
Without waiting for his reply she will begin to usher the other women out of the kitchen. They will all crane their heads around until they are outside, drinking in every last detail, and he will know that he is soon going to be the subject on everyone’s lips within a five-mile radius.
‘I had an aunt who was a tightrope walker,’ he will hear old Mrs Hancock say conversationally as she negotiates the front step.
He will wait thirty seconds and then hold up the card once more. Twisting his lips into a wry smile, he will tear it in two and toss the pieces on top of the pile of rubble.
That night after the circus Vlad is tense and surly and eats the meal he prepares without so much as a thank-you, chewing ravioli without relish and staring sullenly into space. He is deeply uncomfortable with the aerialist’s silence, worried that it means he no longer wants him around.
