by Will Davis
One evening his parents said they wanted to have a talk. It was after dinner and he had just stood up to put the cutlery and plates away. As he did his mum darted his dad an expectant look. Right away he knew something was up, for they had both sat quietly throughout the meal, neither one of them saying a word.
‘Leave that for a minute, son,’ said his dad with a frown. ‘Sit back down again please.’
He sat. It was the word ‘son’ that let him know it was serious. They were both smiling, and he had the distinct sense they were about to tell him something awful. His heart began to pound. For a while they remained silent, his mum casting meaningful looks at his dad, until finally, apparently losing patience, she cleared her throat.
‘It’s about your father and me,’ she said gently. She glanced again at his dad before continuing. ‘We’ve decided to separate.’
‘What do you mean?’ he said, stupefied.
His dad reddened and studied his place mat.
‘We’re going to get a divorce,’ said his dad, not raising his eyes.
He knew plenty of kids at school with divorced parents. Some even had just one parent and some didn’t even know who the other one was. But the fact that his own parents might also one day decide to divorce had never before crossed his mind. Somehow it hadn’t seemed possible, and still didn’t, even as they sat before him, smiling anxiously, awaiting his reaction.
‘Why?’ he managed finally.
They both looked uncomfortable.
‘Because your mum and I haven’t been in love for a while now,’ said his dad. His mum looked down and nodded. ‘We’ve been waiting for the right time, and we’ve decided . . . it’s now or never. I’m sorry, son.’
‘Don’t get upset, love,’ added his mum.
She hadn’t called him ‘love’ since he was a little boy.
He tried his very best to feel upset, because the situation seemed to call for it, but found he could not muster the slightest feeling of unhappiness. If anything he felt amused, amused because something life-changing was finally happening to him and it didn’t seem to matter. It was typical that his parents would manage to tell him of their divorce in this way, he thought, without the slightest shred of drama. Instead of the scene he was sure it ought to be, with screaming and shouting and pleading and threatening, the whole thing was as hushed and unemotional as if they were informing him of a simple domestic decision, such as to repaint the house or trade in the second car.
‘What’s going to happen now?’ he said finally.
His mum looked relieved – apparently the moment for any big reaction had passed and they were on to practicalities.
‘Well, for the time being nothing at all. Your father’s not moving out right away or anything. He’s got a new job in Swindon, which he’s going to be starting in the new year.’
‘In Swindon?’
‘You’ll visit him all the time,’ she added quickly. ‘You don’t have to worry. Nothing’s going to change.’
‘Right,’ he said.
He tried to think of something else to say, but could find nothing. He stood up and his parents glanced at each other, exchanging a rapid silent communication. Then his dad sighed and nodded.
‘There’s something else we wanted to discuss,’ his dad said.
‘What?’
‘It’s about that boy –’
‘His name’s Edward,’ supplied his mum hurriedly.
‘Yes, about Edward . . .’ said his dad.
‘What about him?’
‘We’re a little concerned.’
He waited, but his dad did not seem to know how to put what he wanted to say into words. Seconds ticked past, until once again his mum gave up waiting and took over.
‘What your father is trying to say is that we’re not happy for you to be over at his house all the time. Everybody knows what’s been going on with his family – his mother’s made no secret of it – and it’s natural you’d want to be sympathetic of course. But . . .’ She trailed off.
‘What with everything, we think it’d be best if you cooled things a little,’ his dad said. He looked rather pleased with himself for having had the inspiration to put it this way.
He stared at them blankly and once more they glanced at each other in silent exchange. Suddenly he saw something he had never seen before, which was how well suited they were. They both wanted exactly the same thing out of life, which was for as little difficulty as possible. It seemed terrible and ironic that he should only be noticing this now, minutes after they had announced their separation. He tried to imagine how it had come about – what discussions, even arguments they must have had to reach the decision they no longer wanted to be part of one another’s lives. But it was impossible, just as it was impossible to imagine them meeting, courting and getting married in the first place. How did people like his parents, so prim and resistant to every form of risk, ever manage to find each other? For they must have taken a risk, even if it was only the barest minimum, in order to have got together. To have made that initial appointment. To have leaned across and invaded personal space in order to instigate that very first kiss.
‘I know it’s difficult,’ said his mum.
‘We’re thinking of you,’ said his dad.
‘I don’t get what you’re saying,’ he told them, though he thought he was starting to get it perfectly well. But he wanted to make them spell it out. He wanted to see if he could get them to give up.
‘We had a call from the school,’ said his mum. ‘They’ve been keeping an eye on you and Edward . . .’ She paused. Then, ever so quietly, she said, ‘They’re not sure it’s a healthy relationship.’
He felt himself colour. Out of nowhere the anger and hurt he had been unable to feel at the news of their divorce came flooding into him. He felt furious – with the school, with other people, with his parents, but most of all with himself and with Edward, for feeling so superior, as if they could get away with whatever they liked.
‘Why?!’ he demanded hotly. ‘What are you trying to say?!’
‘You’re just boys,’ said his father, trying to be calming. ‘No one’s passing judgement. No one’s saying it’s against nature or anything like that. But you’re both too young. That’s all.’
‘You shouldn’t go over there any more,’ said his mother in a frightened voice. ‘We’d both prefer it if you came home after school now.’
He rounded on her. He was suddenly certain that she was the one who was to blame for all this.
‘You’ve always hated him! You’ve no right to – you don’t even know him!’
He pushed back his chair. It made a loud sound as it scraped against the floor, causing both of his parents to flinch.
‘You can’t tell me not to see him!’ he shouted. ‘You can’t tell me not to do anything! You don’t have the right –’ he stuttered and then, without caring if it was logical, spat out, ‘you’re getting divorced!’
‘No one’s telling you anything,’ said his father. ‘We’re simply asking you –’
‘No!’ he all but screamed, his hands clapping to his ears, refusing to hear any more. Then his body was carrying him out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his room and before he knew what he was doing he had slammed his door and was face down and shaking on his bed. It was the most dramatic exchange he had ever had with his parents and his skin itched and throbbed from the excitement.
It was some time before his heart slowed to its regular beat – long after he heard the footfall of his parents on the landing outside and his mum calling his name and the low murmur of his dad telling her to let him be and that he’d be more reasonable in the morning. He wondered where they were both sleeping now – if they were still sharing the same bed – and if not, for how long they had been sleeping separately. He wondered why they had ever got married in the first place and if it was possible they had once been recklessly in love. But most of all he wondered if things would be different now, and if he still had to worry about
what they thought, or care if he disappointed them. Though he felt no regret, he knew that by their own standards they had let him down in some fundamental way.
But most of all he couldn’t wait to see Edward and tell him what had happened.
The others arrive ten seconds later. Still dazed from the blow, he is dimly able to make out the ongoing fight in the darkness. He hears shouts, swearing and groans, and then Griselda yelling that the police are on the way followed by Big Pete roaring at the locals that they’d better keep away from his circus or he’ll hunt each one of them down and fuck them up. There are catcalls from the locals, and one of them even laughs. He drags himself up and crawls through the dark towards the spot where he thinks Vlad is. A foot comes stamping down out of nowhere, narrowly missing his hand, and he rolls to the side just in time to avoid being crushed by a body, flailing under the force of somebody’s fist. As he rolls he hits something large and soft which emits a light moan.
‘Vlad?’
The only answer is another moan, and, not knowing what else to do, he throws his arms around the aerialist’s body and holds him tightly to shield him from any further blows or falling bodies that might be coming their way.
But the fight is over. With the entire company more or less assembled, the local men are dramatically outnumbered. ‘You fucking plebs!’ Marie is screaming as they depart, her voice loud and high-pitched as a siren. ‘Come on then if you reckon you’re so tough! I’ll kick your arses in so bad you won’t shit right for the rest of your miserable inbred lives!’ The locals flee across the field, shouting back insults about the carnies and how they’ll get what’s coming to them. ‘Cunts!’ snarls Big Pete, off to his left. He huddles into the limp body beside him, running his hand gently up the arm and to the face, where he touches something warm and sticky that he knows can only be blood.
‘Vlad’s here,’ he croaks, his voice hoarse. ‘He’s hurt!’
A vague shape looms and he cringes. But the shape turns into Midge, the roustabout, who kneels over Vlad and starts to examine him with the light from his phone. Behind him Benny appears.
‘You OK?’ says Benny, gripping his shoulder. It occurs to him that it is the first occasion the roustabout has so much as spoken to him. But it is no time to be pleased.
‘Fuck,’ breathes Midge as he inspects the aerialist. ‘This is serious. Help me carry him.’
Midge gets Vlad under the shoulders and Benny takes his feet. With a grunt of effort they stretcher him across the field to the big top. Off in the distance Marie can still be heard shouting insults at the locals, demanding that they come back so that she can single-handedly take them on and teach them the sort of lesson their mother didn’t have it in her to teach. In the backstage area Benny and Midge lay Vlad down gently on the mat. The damage is horrific. Vlad’s face has been beaten almost to a pulp, his forehead and mouth are leaking blood, and one of his eyes has swollen completely shut. There is blood on his jersey and more on his jeans. There are awed mutters of ‘Fuck’ and ‘Jesus’ from the people as they gather around.
‘Vlad?’ says Midge. ‘Vlad, can you hear me?’
Vlad moans, and a shiver runs through his body. He feels tears of sheer fright welling up, and in a timorous voice he asks if anyone has called an ambulance. No one answers. Then someone pushes his way roughly through the company until he is standing over them. It is Big Pete, red-faced and breathing heavily. He stares at the battered body of the aerialist for a few seconds, the rage gathering visibly in the swollen veins at his temples.
‘If they’ve ruined him, so help me God I’ll track every one of ’em down and break their fucking legs,’ he solemnly promises.
It was at the school’s Christmas party that Paul first entered his life. Paul had started at the same time as Edward, but their paths had never crossed because unlike Edward he had gone straight into the top set and stayed there. Paul did a lot of extra-curricular activities, such as the Duke of Edinburgh Award, chess and orchestra, and he was a prefect of the English and music departments. As far as the rest of the school was concerned, Paul’s defining attribute was that no one could touch him, since he was every teacher’s star pupil, and any excessive picking on him would be akin to taking on the establishment. Outside of the school he would have been fair game, except that he never went out. As a result he had become all but invisible.
The party for their year was set up in the sports hall on a weekday afternoon near the end of term and attendance was mandatory. He and Edward stood to the side of the hall watching groups of boys who were eyeing up and jeering at groups of girls, who were in turn studiously ignoring the boys and throwing their limbs around to pop music. Some of the braver boys were tentatively mimicking the dance steps of the girls, and a few well-known couples had dispensed with the ritual altogether and were disappearing down one another’s throats in the darker pockets of the hall, where teachers stalked them between songs and split them up again.
‘Doesn’t it make your eyes hurt?’ said Edward with cultivated disdain as they watched one boy suddenly break into a dance like a chicken, wiggling his elbows back and forth and throwing himself into the middle of a group of dancing girls, producing a flurry of squeals. ‘It makes me want to poke sharp objects through them!’
The boy slipped over and landed on his back, but he continued to dance, kicking his feet in the air. The girls all shrieked with laughter, and over by the door the two teachers who were standing sentry rolled their eyes and gave each other mutually despairing smiles.
‘I’ve got pencils,’ he offered.
‘No,’ Edward sighed dramatically. ‘I don’t want to risk vegetablisation. I’m going to the toilet to drown myself instead.’
He watched Edward make his way through the swaying girls and boys to the teachers, one of whom listened to his request with a dubious expression, as if he suspected him of some far shadier purpose, before jerking his head at the door.
‘Hi,’ said a voice to his side.
He turned to find Paul smiling up at him and clutching a plastic cup of Coke.
‘Having fun?’
Paul had the look of someone who was in pain. His smile was so forced it was like a parody of a smile, and his shoulders were hunched as if he wanted to shrink into himself and hide. He was smaller than most of the other boys in the year, had straight mouse-coloured hair and wore glasses to boot, which made his appearance almost ridiculously nerdish, as if he had styled himself that way for a fancy-dress party.
‘Not exactly,’ he replied. ‘It’s like a fucking death camp.’
Paul’s eyes widened as if he had said something shocking and hilarious, and he let out a short, near-hysterical laugh.
‘Yes!’ Paul cried. ‘It’s so awful, isn’t it?’
He nodded and turned away. It was nasty of him, he knew, but there was something instantly dislikeable about Paul, a light of desperation in his eyes that repelled you. He knew that behind him Paul must be freezing up, could imagine his intake of breath, could feel the twin flashes of hurt and anger. He rested his eyes on the pull-out climbing frame latched to the opposite wall, which had been threaded through with streamers of tinsel, and told himself it was mean, that he should turn back round and be nice to Paul. But when he looked behind him again Paul was nowhere to be seen.
He will not see the paper until late afternoon, having been busy with his exercises. He will be crossing the kitchen to make some food when his eye will fall across it poking through the letter box. He will have not cancelled his mother’s subscription, and a strange, sick sense of apprehension will propel him to pluck out the paper and open it. On the third page there will be the headline The man who built his very own circus, above a picture of his trapeze taken with a telephoto lens through the window of the living room. It will be followed by an article about him. The article will begin with the line, ‘Concerned neighbours reported strange noises from next door. But never in their wildest dreams did they have any notion of what was taking place . . .?’ T
here will be interviews with the neighbours, Mrs Goodly and Mrs Lenard, who respectively say what a shame and a shock it is. His eyes will haze at this point and he will be able to read no more. His pulse will increase with fury beyond reason, and before even giving a thought to what he is doing he will have stormed out the front door and onto the lawn and will be glaring about in all directions of the neighbourhood. Then he will catch sight of movement on one of the lawns further down the road. He will need no more incitement.
‘Are you happy now?’ he will screech.
In the end it is Big Pete who drives Vlad to the hospital, himself and Benny in the back with Vlad propped up between them and swaddled in coats and scarves like a mummy. Big Pete is quiet and broods the entire thirty minutes of the drive, producing only the occasional snort while Benny fills the cold air of the unheated truck with cigarette smoke. He cradles Vlad in his arms and whispers to him that he isn’t to worry, he is going to be just fine. Now and then Big Pete glances round at the aerialist, and he feels his eyes passing over him and inspecting him also. He thinks Big Pete is probably sickened by the way he is behaving, by this further evidence of his softness, but he does not care – he cares only about the trembling body beside him.
They wait for almost an hour to be seen in the accident and emergency clinic, and are eventually shown into a large room full of beds where a young doctor who cannot be more than thirty sits Vlad down, examines him, and then to everyone’s disbelief pronounces him to be bruised but otherwise uninjured. Vlad groans every time the doctor touches him, and lets out a faint string of curses in Romanian at the diagnosis. His face by now is almost uniform damson purple.
‘But look at him,’ he cries. ‘Shouldn’t you at least X-ray him?’
‘He’s taken some knocks, that’s all,’ says the doctor wearily, who despite being young has a look in his eyes as if he has lived a hundred years and is weary of other people thinking they know better than he does. ‘Take him home and let him get a good night’s rest. And put an ice pack on that eye. We’ll give you something for the swelling.’
