The Pilo Family Circus (4 page)

Jamie shrugged. ‘I don’t think so, but it’s better than anything I can come up with. What happened?’

‘I woke up and the thin one was sitting on my chest with his legs crossed. The others were standing behind him, just staring at me. It was fucking
creepy
, man. I screamed and the thin one pulls out this kind of spray can and fills my mouth with shaving cream. I almost choked. He said something like,
You have twenty-two hours to pass the test
. I asked ’em what the hell I’m supposed to do, and he said:
Make us laugh.
That was it. Then they left.’

Jamie nodded. ‘They were at the club too. Threatened to blow the place up.’

Steve reached forward and pawed Jamie’s leg. ‘What are they? Where did they come from?’

Jamie shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. What did you tell the others? About the mess, I mean.’

‘Told them what I told you. Some guys came around. But I told them it was bikers, looking for one of Marshall’s junkie friends who owes them money. Marshall was kind of spooked.’

‘That’s not a bad story. He believed it, huh?’

‘Yeah. He’s shitting himself. Nathaniel believed it too. He drove off somewhere. Said he won’t be back until it blows over.’

Jamie stood to go. The reek of sewage was getting weaker, but it was still there like a stain in the air, and he didn’t want to know how Steve had managed to sleep in it. ‘The clowns didn’t tell you anything else?’ he said at the doorway.

‘I dunno, they said all kinds of weird stuff. That thin one — he’s a fucking
psycho
, man. I think his name’s Gonka.’

‘Gonko.’

‘Yeah. Hey, Jamie …’

He’s going to tell me he’s scared,
Jamie thought.
This is great, now we’re comrades in arms. Me and him against the world. Just great.

‘I’m scared, Jamie.’

Steve made as though to hug him. Jamie walked quickly away. Down the hall, a shaken Marshall was scrubbing and hosing and sweeping with almost superhuman vigour. It looked like he’d broken out some crystal meth for the job, his preference to coffee. As Jamie passed him he blurted out some rapid-fire talk: ‘Listen Jamie, I’m sorry about the mess. Look, don’t worry, the bikers won’t be back, I guarantee it, I made some calls, got the whole thing sorted out, just a misunderstanding I think, I’m really sor—’

Jamie slammed the back door on him in pretend anger. Down in his room the floor was still carpeted with broken glass. The only change was a light sprinkling of crap over the mess which had leaked through the floorboards above. The vase of daisies and the valentine card were where he’d left them. He made the first tentative moves towards cleaning up the nest. It took him a couple of hours to remove every last trace of the sewage and soak the place in disinfectant. He swept up the ash and wires that had been his bed and put some seat cushions in their place.

Lying back amidst the wreckage, his eyes fell on the card, and suddenly all he could do was laugh. For minutes he lay there, in the light grip of a hysteria which threatened to clutch him tighter and never let go.

HE woke from fitful sleep to find the headache from the rolling pin ‘gag’ was finally gone. The late afternoon sun glinted on the broken glass, sharp points of light shooting off the army of jagged edges. He stood and threaded a path through the shards to the door, then paused in his tracks: a piece of paper was taped to the handle. He took a step backwards and grunted as a sliver of glass jabbed into his heel. Eyes watering, he pried it from his foot, adding a few drops of blood to the carnage. He clawed at the note with a shaking hand, and understood then that he was hanging onto his sanity by a fairly thin thread.

The note read:

Jamie stood for a moment with a sinking feeling, like he’d swallowed a fist-sized lump of clay. For a moment everything inside him trembled on the brink of collapse. Then he muttered, ‘Fuck it.’

And that was that: he no longer cared about the clowns. Seriously, what could they
do
to him? Kill him? No. He’d grown up in the suburbs and knew death was merely a distant bogeyman from movies and newspaper headlines. If they showed up again, he was calling the cops. If they kept at him, he was going to ask one of Marshall’s criminal friends where he could buy a gun.

He managed to find a band-aid in the rubble and plastered the cut in his heel. He had nothing to wear but his work clothes, so he put them on and headed up the back steps, where the shit streaks had dried into sun-baked patterns down the side of the house. Upstairs the stink had lessened and someone had been at work with methylated spirits. A few plates and cups had survived the whole ordeal and sat in their usual spot, unwashed by the sink. Jamie made a coffee and strolled through the house in a serene state of calm. From the hallway, something in the living room caught his eye.

There, sitting on the couch and staring up at him, was a man with a billowy flower-patterned shirt, a white painted face, a big red nose and big red shoes. It was Goshy. Goshy the clown.

Jamie’s heart fluttered. He blinked — no one was there. All in his head. No problem. Just some kind of psychosis, stress induced. ‘I really am losing my fucking marbles,’ he muttered in amazement, then had an attack of the giggles. He took some deep breaths, fought down a more serious panic attack, almost burst into tears, then heard someone sobbing. Steve. Jamie knocked on his door.

‘Who is it?’ Steve said. He sounded panic-stricken, poor bastard. When it came down to it, Steve was one of those guys so used to kicking the dog he couldn’t handle being kicked himself. Jamie had that much going for him: he could
take a psychological blow. Lots of practice; he knew when to brace himself, how to distribute the impact.

He fought an urge to make the kettle noise outside Steve’s door. ‘It’s me,’ he said instead. He opened the door and saw his roommate sitting on the bed with red eyes and wet cheeks. To think, Steve had been alpha male not forty-eight hours ago. Jamie felt a distinct sociopathic thrill; he didn’t like to but couldn’t help it. With agreeable detachment he watched Steve wiping his eyes and sniffling. ‘Did they come back?’ said Jamie.

Steve pointed at his dresser. Next to a framed photo of his mother and a porn magazine was a folded note, identical to those Jamie had found. He unfolded it and read:

‘I don’t know what they want from me,’ Steve moaned. He began babbling about calling the police, about how he’d never asked for any of this, and so on, but Jamie wasn’t listening; he was pondering. First, the tone of Steve’s note was not friendly. On the desk were two others the clowns had left, and Jamie read them.

Jamie’s own notes were courteous by comparison. Second, there was a gap between Steve’s remaining time and Jamie’s.
Ah yes, Jamie had been at work when the clowns first dropped by. That meant roughly six or eight hours difference — which meant he would get to see what happened to Steve if he failed the ‘audition’.

‘I’m afraid to even sleep at night,’ Steve was complaining. ‘I’m afraid to leave the house. I can’t even wank without thinking about those bastards.’

Jamie left him to suffer alone. He stole a pair of boots from Marshall’s bedroom, went downstairs and braced himself for the cleanup.

His eyes never left the clock. Two hours passed in which he cleared the bigger bits of glass. Then he fetched a shovel and scooped the remaining slivers into piles.

The clock struck ten. He’d begun to tackle the stains and smells, and to sort out the salvageable items from the write- offs. By then, Steve had about six hours to go, give or take.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

He’d settled down for a moment’s rest on the seat cushions and drifted again into unexpected sleep. Someone banging on his door woke him with a start. He got up and flung it open. It was Steve.

Jamie’s heart eased back to a frantic sprint. ‘What do you want?’

Steve’s face looked haunted. ‘I got to think of something.’

Jamie shut his eyes. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘To pass the audition. You know?’

Ah, yes. Steve’s was not exactly a mind brimming with creativity. Jamie said, ‘Look, forget about it. If they come back here, call the cops. That’s all.’

‘Yeah, but … you know, what
if
…’

‘Did you get another note?’

‘No. But … I can’t sleep. I can’t stop watching the clock. I’m trying to come up with some kind of plan, just in case, but I can’t think of anything.’

‘No surprises there,’ said Jamie, a remark he would not have dared utter aloud this time last week. ‘I guess you just weren’t cut out to be a clown, Steve. Go away. I’m sleeping.’

Steve gave him a beaten-puppy look over his shoulder as he left. Jamie lay back down.

It was seven in the morning when he woke, having had far too much sleep. He scrambled to his feet, unsure if he was scared or not. Steve’s deadline had now passed.

He went upstairs. From the kitchen window he saw a police car parked by the side of the house.
The police!
his mind screamed like a siren.
Something happened — they blew up the club! I’m DOOMED.

From the hallway he could hear voices. He crept into the living room and listened. The cops were talking to Marshall. ‘Yeah, I dunno,’ Marshall was saying. ‘Last I saw he was on the roof. Dunno what he was doing there.’

‘And there’s nothing like this in his room?’ said one of the police.

‘I dunno, man!’ Marshall wailed. ‘I don’t know who keeps fuckin’ drugs in their room and who doesn’t. Why don’t
you
go take a look? You’re the cop, aren’t you?’

Jamie crept back into the kitchen and waited for the police to leave. When they were gone he heard Marshall swearing and throwing things around.

‘What happened?’ Jamie asked him from the doorway.

Marshall turned. He was unhealthily thin, with a pointed goatee that was meant to look druidic. His room was adorned with Celtic symbols, many bearing slash and burn marks from the clowns’ visits. In his hand was an order to appear in court. He held a shaking index finger just below Jamie’s nose. ‘Those …
fucking pigs
… found a pipe and a clip bag. It had leaf in it, for Christ’s sake. I got done for having
leaf
!’ He spat and shook his head. ‘It’s not even quality pot.
Do they know how much speed has gone through this house?
’ He pointed to a shoe box on the floor by the bed and whispered, ‘Last month I was minding fifty grand of heroin in that.
AND I GET DONE FOR LEAF!
’

Jamie had long ago ceased to be surprised by Marshall’s outlook on life. He shrugged. ‘Look, have you seen Steve today?’

‘I dunno, man. I can’t
believe
this …’

‘Did I overhear something about him climbing onto the roof?’

‘Huh? Yeah, he was on the roof.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Dude was fucking high or something. He was shouting something about hoping it was good enough. If he’s the one who called the cops on me, I swear to God …
leaf!
’

Jamie left him to it. Climbing onto the roof … Surely not, surely that wasn’t Steve’s idea for an audition? It almost worked for banality alone. Shaking his head, Jamie knocked on Steve’s door. No answer. He barged in.

And stood dead still.

There was blood on the bed. Blood on the pillow. Blood on the floor. On the walls. A hand streak of red down the wall.

Jamie tottered and nearly fainted. His belly gave a heave. Blood … He had never seen
so much blood
.

On the pillow was a little piece of paper, folded just like the other notes. He tried to walk over, pick it up, but his legs refused to take him any closer to the red nightmare. He coaxed them to back away from the door slowly, and he shut it quietly behind him.

Don’t worry,
he told himself.
There’s still time. Plenty of time. I can pass the goddamn audition.

From up the hall he could hear Marshall wailing about the drug bust, oblivious to what lay in the room beside his. Jamie glanced at the clock, and wondered how his life had come to such ruin in so short a space of time. A week ago, hadn’t things been normal? Not particularly blissful, maybe, but … normal?

He was supposed to be at the club in an hour. Somehow he didn’t think that would happen, one way or another.

‘Let’s settle this,’ he whispered.

‘WHAT’S the time, Gonko? Gonko, what’s the time?’

Gonko, clown leader, waited a minute or two before answering Doopy. Doopy got worked up in those two minutes, till he was whining like a dog. These little worry- fits didn’t bother Gonko. Doopy’s whiny voice was like wallpaper; it felt like home.

‘C’mon, tell me Gonko, it’s not
funny
!’

Gonko took a watch from his pocket, letting its silver chain dangle around his wrist. The chain was fashioned like a tiny hanging noose. The watch said young Jamie had twenty minutes left to pass his audition.

‘Gonko, it’s not —’

‘Twenty minutes, Doops,’ Gonko said quietly.

The three clowns, Goshy, Doopy and Gonko, sat in their tent on the showgrounds of the Pilo Family Circus. It was the grandest show on Earth, although, apart from Jamie, not a person in the living world knew its name.

‘Where’s Rufshod, Gonko? Gonko, where’s Rufshod?’

Doopy knew very well. He was only asking to be denied an answer, so he could fret and fuss and shit bricks. Gonko obliged by not answering him — if he did, another question
would follow moments later. The answer would have been that Rufshod was in bed, for Gonko had beaten him unconscious. Rufshod had thoroughly enjoyed the beating, but that was beside the point — he had to be punished for his prank. It was Rufshod who had put the bag of powder in Goshy’s pants right before Goshy wandered outside and got himself lost.

Once the powder was recovered, the plan had been to fuck with Jamie for a while, then kill him, but the rolling pin gag had had Gonko in hysterics, or as close as he was likely to come to hysterics (which amounted to a slight sideways tilting of the straight line of his hard lips). He’d taken a closer look at Jamie, with the reluctant help of the fortune-teller, watching him in her crystal ball, and he’d liked what he’d seen.

Gonko looked at his watch again and muttered, ‘Where is that fucking clown?’ He was referring to the apprentice.

‘Uh, gosh, I’m not sure,’ said Doopy, who was busily wiping Goshy’s mouth with a handkerchief. Goshy was blinking contentedly while Doopy groomed him, arms locked to his sides, hands loose. ‘I think I saw him, um, at Shalice’s. That’s what I think I saw, Gonko. And who I think, I think.’ Doopy frowned. ‘Remember when you asked me where he is, Gonko? Remember? You just did before. You just —’

‘Shh.’

‘Sorry Gonko, I just, I …’

Gonko looked at his watch a third time and sucked at his teeth with displeasure. It had cost him a fortune in bribes to borrow the crystal ball to watch this audition — he was not on the fortune-teller’s Christmas card list.

Doopy turned to him suddenly. ‘I don’t
like
the ’prentice, Gonko, I don’t
like
him!’

Doopy wasn’t playing. The apprentice had rubbed everyone up the wrong way and reeked of sabotage waiting to happen. Not good. There were enough enemies on the showgrounds without one in your own crew.

At that moment the apprentice appeared at the tent doorway. He slunk in with his shoulders slumped, the fortune- teller’s ball of glass in his hands. Gonko gazed at his sullen slinking gait with distaste. The apprentice’s every movement seemed to say:
I’m waiting until your back is turned.

Gonko looked him in the eye. A smarter performer than the apprentice would not have met that gaze; he stared back insolently. Gonko rushed to his feet in one fluid motion, to make him flinch. It worked. With extreme gentleness he lifted the crystal ball from the apprentice’s arms, set it down on the table and said, ‘Get out.’

The apprentice slunk back the way he’d come, slowly. He waited by the door, just inside it, deliberately disobeying to make the clown leader repeat his order. This also was unwise. Gonko stood and reached a hand into his pocket, for he’d suddenly decided to kill the sullen clown where he stood. But at that moment the apprentice crept out.

Staring after him, Gonko fingered the blade he’d pulled from his pocket for a moment, then he spat and set it down. Goshy made a beeping sound. Expressing mild disapproval, Gonko supposed, but the only one who knew for sure was Goshy.

Candlelight gleamed on the crystal ball’s surface like a single yellow eye. The clown leader placed his palm on the cool glass and muttered the word, ‘Jamie.’ The glass fogged up like someone inside it was blowing smoke at its smooth surface. Gonko’s watch said Jamie had fifteen minutes to go.

I’ll cut him a little slack, time-wise
, Gonko thought, as he considered the young man. Beneath Jamie’s attempt to live a rational life where all was clearly marked and set in order, there was a wellspring of eccentric behaviour waiting to be tapped, which Jamie seemed instinctively at pains to keep from spilling over. It looked to be a daily battle. And the more fight he put up, the more impressive the results when the guy either temporarily cracked, or permanently bent. No one bends further than someone made of completely straight lines.

The glass cleared, and there was the new recruit. Gonko figured the stalking had put him within a hair’s-breadth of nervous breakdown, and he was pleased with the campaign; the timing had been perfect, and now the guy would be just about ripe. The other two clowns crowded in beside their leader and bent over the glass ball. Goshy gave a small toot, best signified as ‘Oo.’ There was no telling what it meant — perhaps a signal of recognition as the tall redheaded young man strode over the glass ball’s surface. ‘Hush, Goshy,’ said Doopy to his brother. ‘Goshy, hush. He’s starting.’

Queen Street Mall was packed with tourists enjoying the heat, and locals wishing they could escape it. The first load of Monday’s evening commuters were trudging to the train station in their suits and ties. At 4.02 there was a disturbance in the crowd and a hush came over Queen Street as people turned their heads. A noise sounded from the top of the mall, so loud and piercing it was only vaguely recognisable as a human scream. Directly after it, a cluster of explosive noises like machine gun fire came from
the same direction. Everyone stared; at the top of the mall a cloud of grey smoke was drifting languidly skyward.

The scream came again, shrill and drawn out, filtering through the crowd: ‘There’s a BOMB!
THERE’S A BOOOOOMMMMMBBBB!
’

Five years with terrorism in the headlines had taken their toll; everyone froze and panic swept through the crowd like a ripple through water. The popping bangs continued. Two police jogged cautiously towards the smoke, hands on their belts. Suddenly, bursting through the shoppers, a tall thin redheaded and, most notably, naked man was pelting down the street in a gangly sprint. A thatch of red pubic hair sat just above his frantically wobbling penis. His stride was fit for a Monty Python sketch: knees raised in a kind of goose-step, taking leaps rather than strides, elbows flailing like wings. His face was hidden beneath a pillow case. He peered through its eye slits at the crowd around him, seeing only blurred shapes and obstacles as he charged past.

There was green paint on his chest, a backwards swastika. On his back, a smiley face. Sweat was causing the paint to run, and soon the symbols were reduced to a green smear. On his trail were three baffled policemen, middle-aged men who’d expected the day’s work would involve no more than a few shoplifters. They tried to keep up but, despite his bizarre stride, Jamie was fleet of foot. He swerved like a footballer between families, university students and Japanese tourists, who were aiming cameras at him. Jamie screeched again at the top of his lungs, ‘THERE’S A BOMB!
THERE’S A BOMB!
’

His pillow case slipped out of place and he was momentarily blinded. Without time to regret it, he plucked it from his head and left it to float gently to the pavement for the police to collect at their leisure. Over towards the
casino the smoke was spreading out into an impressive grey fog. The pops and bangs reached a crescendo, then ceased.

There was no bomb. The pops and bangs came from fireworks he’d bought from an obscure shop in Fortitude Valley. After painting himself in a public toilet and stalking up Queen Street in nothing but a raincoat, he’d wrapped a thick roll of fireworks around one of the shrubs at the top of the mall. He had no idea if all this would impress the clowns, or even if they would somehow see it, but it was all he could think of. Were it not for the jolts his mind had received from the clowns’ harassment — Steve’s blood the last straw — he might have just called the police and saved himself some trouble.

But as he sprinted down the mall, the troubles of the last week were as good as gone. The adrenaline was like nothing he’d ever felt. His mind ticked over like a tape on fast-forward. He couldn’t feel the pavement beneath his pounding feet, the stretching muscles in his legs, or the slapping of his balls against his thighs. He felt like he could take off and fly.

Of course in the crowded mall he couldn’t keep this up forever. He came to a wall of people and saw no way through. He careered into two schoolgirls in uniform, who screamed as they fell. He felt his penis brush against one of their schoolbags, and it was a miracle he avoided landing squarely on top of them. From the ground, he saw a Seven News crew stopped at the lights at the bottom of the mall. A cameraman was leaning out the window, a grin on his face, his camera pointed at Jamie.

Jamie scrambled to his feet, belatedly covering his crotch, and the schoolgirls screamed again. This would not look good on the news. Over his shoulder he saw the police closing in. Two more officers ran straight for him from
directly ahead. He sucked in a deep breath and took off towards King George Square. The park was full of pigeons, tourists, commuters, students reading on the lawns. He ran through them, adrenaline still coursing through him and numbing the aches and pains. Numbing the repercussions. There would only be repercussions if he stopped running. And he wasn’t going to do that …

It ended with a handcuffed naked walk of shame through King George Square. A policewoman tossed him a towel to cover himself, a look of complete neutrality on her face. ‘You don’t understand,’ he’d screamed at them as they had tackled him to the ground. ‘The clowns … I had to … the clowns made me …’

In the interview room he’d been read the charges. Indecent exposure, disorderly conduct, assault (the schoolgirls), possible indecent assault (the schoolgirls), disrupting the peace, possession of illegal fireworks, perverting the course of justice. They said they would get back to him regarding an additional charge after they consulted federal police — there were new anti-terrorism laws which made bomb hoaxes punishable as genuine threats. Which meant Jamie could be, officially, a terrorist. That was the point Jamie went from feeling like crying to actually crying.

On top of all that was the matter of Steve’s possible murder, which he didn’t dare mention. He should tell them, he knew, but answering their questions was enough to deal with at the moment; he’d been struck by a terrible weariness after the adrenaline high of the streak and wanted nothing more than to crawl into a warm place and close his eyes.

It was midnight when the police let him go. Around then a new and more terrifying thought occurred to him:
It might actually be, every bit of it, inside your own head. You might have imagined the entire thing, from the very first time you saw the clown on the road. If you’re really that crazy, guess what? You might also be responsible for those blood stains in Steve’s room. Maybe you did it in your sleep. Maybe you crept up there and hacked him apart. Maybe you’re the one who vandalised the house. You could be in deep, deep trouble, not just with the law. You’re in trouble
here
, inside your own head. You may never see daylight again.

To all this he could offer no protest as he made the slow march home. If by some miracle Steve were there, alive and well, maybe he could quietly check himself into an asylum and try to forget all this.

When he got home he saw a note lying on the seat- cushion bed. He stood in the doorway, staring at it, swaying a little on his feet. He stayed that way for nearly five minutes in which his heart seemed to stop beating. The entire city went quiet outside.

He went to his bed and picked up the note. It read:

In the clowns’ tent, Goshy had been making fluttering whistles like a lorikeet chirping. The sounds meant nothing especially, just an indication that some of his circuits were still on and running, that in his own way Goshy was still ticking.

In the crystal ball the clowns had watched the spectacle from the time Jamie painted himself to now, as he was being
crash-tackled out front of City Hall. Two officers were holding him down, his legs thrashing. Through it all Doopy had been offering commentary, which amounted to: ‘Oh … gosh … what’s he? … where’s he? … gosh …’

Gonko’s mouth had turned on its axis — a smile, to the trained eye. As Jamie was led off, hands cuffed behind his back, a look of dawning mortification on his face, Doopy turned to Gonko and said: ‘Did he done do it okay, Gonko? Gonko, did he? Gonko, remember when I asked you if he done did it okay?’

Gonko’s eyes moved sideways in their sockets. ‘I think he did just fine.’

‘Yeah, that’s what Goshy thinks too, don’tcha, Goshy? Don’tcha?’

‘Oo.’

Gonko placed his palm back over the glass, like someone smothering a candle. ‘Beats climbing on the goddamn roof,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll give him that much.’

Goshy gave a toneless whistle. The clowns stood. For a couch, they’d been using a bound and gagged man. The man’s name was Steve, and he was out cold. ‘Give young JJ a couple of hours to stew, then we’ll go fetch him,’ said Gonko. ‘Ruf can send up a note when he comes to. And get this one,’ he poked the unconscious lump with his boot, ‘out of my sight.’

Jamie didn’t wake that night as hands gently lifted him from the floor; Gonko saw to that. Of all the weapons in the clown leader’s arsenal, chloroform was a little orthodox, but the stuff worked, and he never went kidnapping without it.
He held a white handkerchief to Jamie’s sleeping face for six seconds then stuffed it back in his pocket.