The Pilo Family Circus (21 page)

‘Yeah, why not?’ JJ went back to his room, wondering what to think. Winston was disobeying Gonko’s orders — but he supposed he was a little proud of the old guy. Why should they wait for payback? The acrobats had had it too good for too long.

As he made his way back to the clown tent, Winston was confident no one who mattered had seen him. Then he saw JJ waiting by his bedroom door and his heart thumped reluctantly.
Oh great. What now?
he wondered, his nerves already worn out from the raid.

‘Hi, Winston,’ said JJ, smirking.

Winston had decided casual nonchalance was the best bet with JJ; be unafraid, but don’t challenge him. He said, ‘What do you want, JJ?’

‘Nothing, nothing. Nice job. That’s all I wanted to say.’

Nice job?
Winston thought, then he realised: the ball. Of course. ‘Yeah well,’ he said. ‘They had it comin’. Now excuse me, JJ, gotta have a rest.’

‘Sure, sure. Hey, Winston. Sorry about this morning. Didn’t mean to come across as … you know. Pushy.’

‘No problem, JJ. But wanna keep this just between us?’

JJ’s face darkened, yet his voice held the same jocular tone. ‘Sure. Wouldn’t want to spill any beans, would I? Neither would you.’ JJ left.

Winston shut his door and fastened the chain. He sighed. No way could he let JJ keep the crystal ball, no way at all. Having JJ aware that
something
was going on was dangerous enough, let alone making him Big Brother. And maybe, just maybe, Fishboy’s hardline stance on JJ would have to be acted on, though it sickened Winston to think so. Until now they’d supposed it was better the devil they knew — bump off Jamie and who knew what kind of replacement would be brought into the show? But the devil they knew was getting out of hand. There might be no way around it: Jamie might have to die to kill JJ.

WINSTON wasn’t the only one busy on the sabotage front. Around the showgrounds, several performers were discovering nasty surprises in their homes.

Mugabo had just been to visit Kurt Pilo. Kurt intimidated and infuriated him; when the magician lay awake at night, most of his time was spent picturing Kurt as a giant mound of steaming ash, for it was Kurt who sent instructions as to what degrading stunts were to be performed each show. The bunny trick, pulling coins from behind the ears of children in the front row, the connecting and disconnecting of silver rings, the ten feet of bright fabric pulled from his sleeves … All done on Kurt’s orders. Those who enforced Kurt’s orders were just as bad, and Mugabo made confused, muddled vows of revenge against each one: Gonko, Shalice, the woodchoppers, even Fishboy — although Fishboy had been decidedly more polite to him than the others.

That afternoon he’d meant to give Kurt a nice big glowing-red piece of his mind, and he’d kept his rage burning long enough for a brazen knock on the trailer door. When Kurt’s gentle answer came from within, ‘Hmmm?’, Mugabo’s hands tensed into rigid sticks, his lip quavered, and his rage
fled him. Had Mugabo an undamaged mind, he would have remembered the same thing happening scores of times before.

In the trailer Kurt had heard him out, although Mugabo hadn’t been able to make much of a case for himself. Under Kurt’s gaze he became a shivering mess. ‘Can’t do ze bunny treek,’ he’d stammered. ‘Can do ze f-fire treek?’

‘Ah, Mugabo,’ said Kurt, cheerful as ever, ‘we’ve discussed this before, haven’t we? Your act isn’t changing. Those are lovely tricks, the ones you do. If we let you do the fire trick, you will scare the audience. It would be coming on far too strong, mmm yes. They need but a hint of your mighty powers. Just a taste.’

‘My tricks are …’ Mugabo made a spitting noise. It was as close as he dared come to arguing with Mr Pilo.

‘No, you are too hard on yourself,’ said Kurt, his fish lips frozen in that grin. ‘
Far
too hard. Dangerously so. There’s a reason we make you do the bunny trick. You are to woo and seduce the audience with wonder and amusement. You aren’t to frighten and overwhelm them with pyrotechnics.’

Mugabo wanted desperately to disagree, but Kurt was standing up from behind his desk. Kurt was approaching him. Mugabo tried to square his shoulders, hold his gaze level, but to no avail. Kurt popped something small and white into his mouth; there was a crunch as he chewed and swallowed. ‘Mm. Speaking of bunnies … lovely mandibles … mm. Lovely. Where were we?’ His eyes had misted over. ‘Ah yes. I’ll tell you what, Mugabo. How would it suit you to do a private show for the carnival staff? Then you could do whatever tricks you like. How does that sound?’

To Mugabo it sounded repugnant — he hated nearly everyone, and had no desire to be put on display for their
amusement and catcalls and jeers. But Kurt was towering over him … ‘That be okay,’ he whispered, defeated yet again.

‘Lovely!’ said Kurt, clapping him on the back with one giant paw. ‘I’ll schedule it for one week’s time. Now off you go and get your act ready. Show day approaches and you must pluck the bunny from your hat! Pluck like there’s no tomorrow. The adorable little bunny, Mugabo. Good man, good man. Off you go, God bless.’

On the walk back home each step raised Mugabo’s rage one notch. Soon he’d be blind with it, unable to see for the hazy white-hot glare behind his eyes.
Think he so big
, Mugabo thought bitterly. Problem was he was right — Kurt
was
so big.

His hands were shaking when he got back home. Behind his stage was a small laboratory where he spent his leisure hours dabbling in potions and medicines. It saddened him greatly that no one came and asked for a draught once in a while, for he had something to cure everything — or so he assumed. Right now he felt a tonic was in order to calm his nerves, so he could get through the afternoon without exploding. The bubbling purple batch could well be the ticket — if it wasn’t a nerve tonic, he had no idea what it was.

He scowled at the vacant plastic seats as he walked past them, but stopped cold when he got to the stage. Over the floor, someone had written in white paint:
CALL USEFUL MAGICIAN
?
DO BUNNY TRICK U SCUM
.

Stammering, Mugabo fell to his knees as he read then reread the writing. From the back of his throat came a rasping cry. Here was the proof in block letters: the world was against him, laughing behind his back. The only thing he couldn’t work out was whether the vandal was calling him
names because he
did
the bunny trick, or because he didn’t do the bunny trick very well?

Not that it mattered. He held an arm over the paint and with the same rasping cry shot fire at the message, his palm acting as a hose for a jet of orange flame. The words blackened and smoked and were soon an illegible burnt patch of floor. With massive effort he checked himself before he torched the whole stage. He picked up one of the many sacks he kept on hand and beat out the flames.

It would be some time yet before Mugabo headed out back to find his potion lab in ruins, with bottles smashed, potions spilled and written formulas ripped to shreds. The same message was written on the walls in there —
CALL USEFUL MAGICIAN
? along with,
U CANT EVEN TELL FUTURE U SCUM
.

In her bath, Shalice was quite aware she was being gazed at through the stolen crystal ball. As could Kurt, she was able to feel its presence, like a cold shadow from above.

She was still patiently waiting for the thief to slip up. The Pilos seemed unaware of how rare and precious a thing the ball was, for both Kurt and George had ignored her requests for help. Perhaps another attack by the mystery vandals would stir the venerable Pilo siblings into action. Perhaps she should arrange such an attack herself.

She lifted her leg above the suds, letting hot water run down her shin. Her eyes were closed and a lazy smile played on her face. ‘Keep watching, you pig,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll find you.’

As she lay back, trying to decide what she’d do with the thief when she found him — God knew her options were extensive — something came to her. It was a powerful vision
indeed, an image clear and urgent. It was Mugabo, entering her hut with his eyes and hands ablaze. She saw herself turning to face him just as a stream of orange flame poured over her.

Her heart raced and she had to fight the urge to get up right now, bolt the doors, switch off the lights. She had to wait, capture as much of the vision as she could for clues. Finally it faded; the last glimpse was of Mugabo standing over her burning body, teeth bared, screaming. Once the vision was gone she rose from her bath, towelled herself off, alert for the sound of footsteps outside. She ran to her hut, locked her door and sat, thinking hard. Then she took her charts from the wall, her tarot cards too, and headed for the home of her lover to hide out. It was going to be a busy night.

The resounding BOOM from the direction of Mugabo’s hut some time later turned many heads. They saw a pillar of fire shoot skyward, as though a comet had landed on a gigantic trampoline. A wave of hot wind swept through the showgrounds.

The fire occurred two minutes after Mugabo wandered into his potion lab and saw what had become of his sanctuary. He’d held off until he’d made it onto the roof, where he now lay unconscious, all his energies spent.

Kurt Pilo peered out the window of his trailer as the last flames dissipated. He raised his eyebrows then sat back at his desk. The magician was obviously rehearsing for his private show — a stroke of managerial brilliance, that. Whereas Pa would have skinned the magician, sodomised him, then fed them to the funhouse creatures one spoonful at a time, Kurt Junior met the performers halfway. That was what good
management was made of, yes sir. ‘Going to be quite a show,’ Kurt said to no one.

The acrobats had spent the day in Sideshow Alley, charming the womenfolk and chumming it up with the men. They returned late to discover the vandalism of their equipment and furniture, and there was unanimous consent: the clowns were going to be pissing blood and shitting their own teeth over the coming days.

‘No no no,’ said Randolph, ‘we should play it cool, let them sweat for a while, wonder wha’ss coming.’

‘Maybe,’ Sven replied, ‘but whatever we do is going to settle this bullshit, once and for all.’

‘Once and for all? Only way to settle it is to take them all out,’ said Tuskan.

‘Then maybe tha’ss what we should do,’ said Sven.

‘You don’t mean kill them all?’ said Randolph.

‘At least one or two,’ said Sven.

‘Which ones?’

‘That old bastard. How about him?’

‘Winston?’ said Randolph. ‘No, he’s hardly the worst of them. Someone else.’

‘Who, then?’

‘That new guy,’ Randolph suggested. ‘That redhead, the one who’s been hassling the gypsies. Wha’ss-his-name.’

His name was JJ and Randolph didn’t trust him for a second. The others agreed he’d make a fine example for the other clowns.

JJ put the ball away and lay back, wondering if there was any way to prevent the face paint getting rubbed off in the night by the pillow. He was about to go ask Rufshod to paint him up come morning when his hands felt something under the pillow, a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and saw it was a letter from Jamie. Presumably he had been meant to find it first thing that morning. It read:

JJ crumpled the paper in his fist and threw it away. A grin spread over his face. ‘Here’s what I say, chumbo.’

Past the lion tamer’s hut and under the wooden gates of Sideshow Alley crept a figure through the shadows. Only the keenest eyes could have seen him, JJ the clown stalking like a scarecrow with an axe in his hands, sometimes twirling it around like a walking stick, sometimes propped on his shoulder like a parasol. Just faintly there came the sound of him whistling ‘Que Sera, Sera’.

None heard him gently prying open the door of the shack behind the ‘shoot a duck, win a prize’ stall. Inside lived — for the moment — a gypsy woman who made
necklaces from seashells. She was the oldest carnie in the show, had been around before Kurt Junior inherited the circus, and could remember the furious sounds of Pilo Senior’s voice railing against his underlings, could recall what happened back in those days to gypsy girls who made the mistake of being born pretty.

Some heard the sharp scream she made as her time in the show came to an end, some heard the dull thud of the axe head striking,
thump, thump, thump
. None got up to investigate, for this was nothing new. The carnies did what they always did when something went bump in the night: double-checked their doors and windows were bolted, crossed themselves and went back to bed, wondering whose turn it was this time.

JJ was still grinning when he inscribed Jamie’s reply on the cupboard door with a bloody finger. He left a second message in pencil on the wall outside in case Rufshod came to paint him up come morning, telling him to leave him be this time. JJ wanted Jamie to see this.

Jamie saw it. He woke to the babble of the circus preparing itself for the coming show day and overcame a moment’s surprise — he hadn’t expected use of the body again for a good while.

His eyes strayed to the cupboard door and with despair he remembered last night’s killing. In blood on the door were the words:

it’s a deal

He pushed a box in front of the door, hoping for some uninterrupted time to think. The plan had worked, and the plan had been to get another day as himself; JJ had taken the bait. He’d outsmarted his clown incarnation. If it could be done once, it could be done again. But somehow he had to keep it up, provoking more payback jabs and somehow blank out his mind when it came time to put on the face paint.

He went to Winston’s room and knocked on the door. A sleepy voice answered, ‘Aww, what now? Can’t I sleep in for one bloody morning?’

Jamie went in and told him what had happened from the point Rufshod painted him up yesterday, and explained his need for more powder. Winston listened, nodding his head like he’d figured most of it out already. ‘I’ll do you a deal, Jamie,’ he said. ‘I have enough powder to keep your memories hidden from him, probably for as long as we’ll need to. I hardly ever use the stuff, gives me the creeps and makes me feel plain wrong. So, if you come to me as Jamie, I’ll spot you for however much you need. If you come as JJ, I’ll tell you to take a hike. But in return, I want something from you.’

‘Sure, anything.’

‘Give me the crystal ball. I didn’t want to take it, cause it’s puttin’ me at risk of more trouble I can do without. But I thought it over. It’s too risky for JJ to hold onto it. Far too risky. Could live without him seein’ our every move.’

Jamie sighed as he imagined how angry this would make JJ, but he was in no position to argue. He nodded.

‘Good lad,’ said Winston. ‘I’ll put it somewhere safe and you’ll understand if I don’t tell you where. Now, get yourself ready for the day. It’s Kurt’s birthday. Put on your best poker face. In fact if I were you, I’d use some powder straight away
and paint yourself up. Better
you
decide when JJ appears than to have Rufshod bring him out when you ain’t ready. If he catches you unawares and you haven’t cleared your head, we’ll —’

Winston stopped and cocked his head; there was a commotion out in the parlour, shouts and the sound of something breaking. ‘What’s this?’ Winston said with a groan. ‘Hell with it, they can sort it out. I’m gettin’ some more sleep.’

Winston tossed him a velvet bag then threw himself back on the bed with a storm of creaking springs. Jamie thanked him and left. As he passed the parlour he heard a wooden
crack
ring out like a shot, and saw an acrobat fly through the air, landing roughly on the ground. Jamie paused to watch, keeping most of his body hidden in the hallway and poking only his head around the corner. Gonko stood near the acrobat with a two-by-four in his hands. Goshy, Doopy and Rufshod were beside him; it seemed the end of a very brief fight. ‘He was doin’ somethin’, Gonko, I swear he was!’ Doopy cried. ‘Look what he had in his hand, Gonko, just look!’