The Trapeze Artist Page 13

  ‘But don’t you even want to keep him here for observation?’

  ‘In a word, no.’

  He opens his mouth to protest, but realises there is nothing he can say to this man, who has the absolute authority to declare what should and shouldn’t be done. Big Pete lays a hand gently on his shoulder. In ordinary circumstances this might make him jump, it being the first physical contact they’ve ever had, but in this instance he doesn’t even notice.

  ‘You heard the kid,’ says Big Pete, eliciting a resentful look from the doctor. His voice is kind and compassionate, a tone he wouldn’t have believed the ringmaster capable of were he not hearing it with his own ears. ‘Old Vlad here’s just being a drama queen, trying to get out of next week’s shows. What he needs is a good night’s kip.’

  He peers into Big Pete’s face in amazement, at the small permanently angry eyes above the huge fleshy red cheeks and the broad bulbous nose. The amazement recedes and he wonders vaguely who this man really is beneath his tough exterior.

  ‘C’mon, let’s go,’ says Big Pete.

  That night he watches over Vlad like a fretful mother over a sickly child, listening for the slightest murmur of discontent. Vlad meanwhile sleeps like a log, so still and sound as to be almost dead. The following morning he does not wake up until late, and so they lie there with the white sunlight streaking through the little window, listening to the sounds of the others striking the big top.

  He puts his ear to Vlad’s chest and hears the steady thump of life from within, and he whispers experimentally, in a voice so soft the words feel like nothing more than a strand of gossamer on his lips, ‘I love you.’ Vlad says nothing, though whether it is because he is asleep, has not heard or is choosing not to reply he does not know.

  After the party he would have forgotten all about Paul, except that Paul had no intention of being forgotten about, and the following week Edward told him at the beginning of class there was someone he wanted him to meet.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  He rolled his eyes but Edward smiled mysteriously and refused to say anything more. When the bell rang Edward took him by the sleeve and he followed him outside to the shed where the school’s games equipment was kept. Edward looked dramatically from side to side as if to check they were not being followed and then, his finger on his lips, led him round the back.

  Paul was standing there staring at the wall, hands clasped in front of him, his straight back and mousy hair unmistakable even from behind. He turned as they arrived. He had a serious expression, as if they had official business to conduct.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said, looking from Paul to Edward.

  ‘Paul’s gay,’ said Edward, in the blunt, plain-speaking style he sometimes liked to adopt. ‘He has no friends and wants to hang out with us.’

  Paul smiled at him and he thought how complacent he looked. He knew instantly he didn’t want Paul to be their friend. He didn’t want him to join them on their wanderings, or sit with them at lunchtime or listen in on their conversations and contribute his own opinions. But most of all he didn’t want Paul to be gay. He had the feeling it was part of some sort of conspiracy of Paul’s to pull them apart.

  ‘Prove it,’ he said.

  Paul lost his smile and gaped. He much preferred this expression on Paul’s face.

  ‘How can he do that?’ said Edward, sounding intrigued.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But if he’s the same as us then he should have to prove it, don’t you think? Why should we take a risk?’

  ‘I can’t prove it!’ cried Paul, shocked. ‘That’s not the sort of thing you can prove!’

  ‘I know,’ he said, ignoring him. ‘He has to kiss another boy.’

  At this Paul turned pale with fright. Edward looked thoughtful.

  ‘That’s an interesting idea, but the only boys who’d let him kiss them are you and me.’

  He hadn’t thought of this. In fact he’d hoped Edward would have a better idea – or at least another suggestion – but Edward was looking at him expectantly and he suddenly realised he had just dug himself a hole, one he could not shovel his way out of. He glanced back at Paul, who was looking between them, aghast.

  ‘Fine then,’ he said. ‘We’ll both kiss him and see what happens.’

  Paul looked rooted to the spot in horror, and he wanted to laugh at the sight. Edward seemed to be giving the matter serious consideration.

  ‘Look,’ said Paul, sounding desperate and staring solely at him, ‘I don’t need to prove anything and I’m not kissing you. Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I fancy you!’

  But it was Paul’s prim reaction that enabled him to boldly reply, ‘If you can’t kiss me then you’re not gay, you’re a homophobe, and there’s no way that I’m hanging out with a homophobe.’

  He smiled maliciously. Paul looked like a fawn that was about to be slaughtered and roasted, his eyes wide open, the size of two penny coins.

  ‘Fine!’ Paul said suddenly. ‘Come here then!’

  Without another second of hesitation Paul stepped towards him, screwed up his face, and then leaned in. Since there was no backing down he closed his eyes and a second later he felt Paul’s lips touch against his own. It was the lightest of touches, no more present than a breeze, for instantly Paul jumped back as if he had been scorched. He opened his eyes to see Paul blushing furiously and Edward sniggering.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Edward proclaimed, stepping forward and wrapping a congratulatory arm around Paul’s shoulders. ‘After that display of passion there can be no doubt you’re a fag of the highest calibre!’

  Paul shook him off violently. His skin was now scarlet and his eyes flashed daggers.

  ‘You’re both so bloody juvenile!’ he screeched. ‘I hate you!’

  With these words Paul fled.

  He looked over at Edward and gave a shrug as if to say that was that. But in reality he was quivering slightly. He had been a little scared of the kiss too, and he was glad Paul had bottled it.

  ‘Oh well,’ he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

  Edward raised an eyebrow at him. He had the feeling Edward knew perfectly well that he disliked Paul and didn’t want him to be their friend. Yet he also had the sense that Edward was not exactly cross about it, but even rather pleased.

  For the following week Vlad complains to everyone who will listen of agonising pains in his chest every time he moves and insists he cannot possibly perform. Grudgingly Big Pete agrees to a couple of days’ recovery, but he visits each morning to see how the aerialist is doing and when he opens the door the ringmaster always greets him with a big smile. He is somewhat unnerved by the smile, which looks so difficult for Big Pete to sustain, and only nods in reply and stands back so he can make his way inside the little compartment.

  ‘How’s the invalid today?’ jokes Big Pete, peering hopefully at the lump under the blankets. ‘Any better?’

  In answer Vlad only groans and pushes back the cover so Big Pete can see how bad his face looks. It does look impressively bad still – his left eye has become a black mound, the skin at the corners yellow as if with jaundice. Big Pete grimaces.

  ‘Well, no hurry, no hurry at all. You just concentrate on getting better. Won’t have no one say it of Big Pete he doesn’t take care of his own, eh?’

  At the door Big Pete turns to him.

  ‘You make sure he gets well, you hear?’ the ringmaster says to him in what might be meant as an avuncular tone. He nods again to the ringmaster, afraid that if he answers Big Pete will somehow morph into his usual volcanic self and add a string of expletives. At Big Pete’s instruction Marie has let him off most of his duties while he is looking after Vlad, although she makes it clear she thinks Vlad is wasting everybody’s time.

  ‘That layabout was born to take the piss,’ she sighs when he comes to collect the mop for the toilets, a chore she insists he continue to do because she claims nobody else does it properly. ‘You a
sk me, what ’e needs is a good kick up the backside. Has my dumb ’usband even thought to ask ’im why those inbreds started on ’im in the first place?’

  Secretly he knows Marie is right about Vlad. After the second day the swelling around his eye does not look nearly so bad, and so Vlad takes out his stage paint and dabs it with violet and rouge and yellow to make it appear awful again. The pain in the aerialist’s chest was always a fabrication, he suspects, since although there is a smattering of bruises he has no problem writhing around in bed when they have sex. But Marie’s last comment is what disturbs him. He knows she has a point.

  By the fourth day of Vlad’s recuperation Big Pete begins to lose patience. His ‘Good morning’ is gruffer than before and he peers at Vlad’s injury critically, muttering about how they should go and get him checked out again, it being suddenly obvious that the ‘spotty teenager’ who saw him knew ‘fuck all about medicine’. Vlad only groans in response and in a weak voice promises he’ll be all right in a day or so.

  ‘Do you think it’s a good idea to lie about this?’ he asks Vlad once Big Pete has gone. In response the aerialist throws his head back and lets out a hoot of laughter, then tosses away the sheet and yanks him towards him. ‘Fuck me hard,’ Vlad orders him, pushing his legs wide around his crotch.

  Sex with Vlad has not changed since he joined the company. Vlad is perfectly capable of having an orgasm, but his penis still swells only a little and then quivers before he ejaculates. ‘An accident on the trapeze bar . . .’ Vlad has whispered to him, but will not say more, merely putting his finger to his lips and shaking his head as if to say it does not bear thinking about. He wonders if the aerialist has seen a doctor, and supposes he must have heard of Viagra, but really he does not mind. The aerialist’s favourite activity in bed is to lock his lips around his penis and suck, something Vlad never tires of doing and he does not tire of either. When he penetrates Vlad, the aerialist becomes almost wild – but his bouts of thrashing are always tempered with moments of extreme tenderness, when Vlad will pull himself up and hold onto him tightly, staring into his eyes with such intensity it is as if he is searching desperately for something vital yet indefinable, even to himself. These moments are what he loves most about being with the aerialist.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ he says when they are finished and are lying across one another, a mesh of limbs and panting.

  ‘Ask me anything, my love.’

  ‘How come those men were fighting you?’

  ‘Eh? What are you saying?’

  Vlad is instantly on the alert.

  ‘I mean . . . how come you were – talking to them in the first place?’

  ‘They were being friendly. Said they wanted to know more about the circus. I was trying to be a nice guy. Shows what you get!’

  Vlad leans over him and reaches for a packet of cigarettes. It seems to him that the aerialist is avoiding looking at him in the face. He waits until Vlad has lit one and puffed out a cloud of smoke before asking, ‘What sort of things did they want to know more about?’

  Vlad coughs and turns to him. His eyes flash and he recognises the danger signs of the aerialist’s quick temper.

  ‘What is this? An inquisition?’

  ‘No, I –’

  ‘You think that I must have asked for them to beat me up?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Then how about you shut your fucking hole?’

  He swallows down his questions, leans back into the pillow and closes his eyes. A minute later Vlad lies back too, his whole body softening as he wraps his free arm around his shoulders.

  He asks the aerialist nothing more, but there is something about it that continues to bother him, long after Vlad has put out his cigarette and started to snore peacefully away beside him. He stares up at the nicotine-stained ceiling of the caravan and although he will not admit it to himself, in his bones he knows perfectly well what Vlad thought he was doing out in the dark field with those men.

  There will be a pounding at the door, as if an elephant is trying to break in. He will come running down the stairs, expecting another reporter, ready to use his fists to repel them if necessary this time. But when he flings open the door he will see a familiar face, the same age but without his smattering of crow’s feet or worry lines, tanned almost orange from hours dedicated to the sunbed.

  ‘Hi,’ Paul will say. He will be panting slightly and rubbing his knuckles. ‘I’ve been banging on your door for ten minutes.’

  ‘Hi,’ he will say. Then, ‘Sorry.’

  For a few seconds neither of them will say anything more. They will simply stand opposite one another, as if each is waiting for the other to make the first move. Then, without warning, Paul will launch himself at him and wrap his arms around him in a great bear hug, squeezing him as tight as his gym-built muscles will allow.

  ‘It’s good to see you!’ Paul will exclaim. ‘I called about a billion times but you never answer. Then I sent about a thousand emails and still nothing! I thought maybe you’d died until I saw that article – did you know you were on the BBC website? Of course I didn’t believe any of it –’

  At this point Paul will look past his shoulder and into the house, where he will have a full view of the missing floor and the trapeze rig. Paul will push him away and stare, his jaw plummeting two inches.

  ‘Oh my sweet Lord!’ Paul will breathe, shaking his head dramatically from side to side. ‘It is true . . . you’ve really gone and flipped out, haven’t you?’

  By the end of the week Big Pete’s good humour is all used up. Instead of greeting him in the morning the ringmaster merely pushes him roughly aside as if he were no more than a curtain in the way and strides purposefully into the caravan. Without speaking Big Pete raises his hand and brings it down hard on the hillock of blankets, causing Vlad to let out a roar and throw the covers back in fury.

  ‘You get out of bed and start training, you useless lying lump of shit!’ Big Pete bellows. ‘You’re going on tonight and that’s all there is to it! And tell your fairy chum here’ – Big Pete jerks his thumb in his direction – ‘this ain’t no charity I’m running and if he wants to stick around he’d better start pulling his fucking weight!’

  After he has stormed off Vlad pulls himself out of the bed with a groan. The bruises on his chest have completely disappeared now and when he washes the make-up off his face there is only a slight shading left around his eye, as if a permanent shadow had been cast across it. He smiles at the aerialist.

  ‘Suppose I’d better get to work.’

  ‘Poor us,’ says Vlad mournfully before pulling him close for a kiss. ‘The holiday is over already.’

  He promises to help Vlad stretch later on and pulls on his shoes and a T-shirt. On his way to visit Marie to find out what chores need doing he passes by the clown’s caravan, which sits several feet further out of the company’s circle than any of the others, as if he were trying to distance himself from them as much as possible. He has not seen the clown for a while and is startled by the sight of his ravaged face and Mohican, and the demonic smirk that instantly appears as he sets down his juggling balls and nods at him as if to say good morning. He nods back warily. He understands enough now to know that nobody from the company much likes the clown.

  ‘And how’s the star of our little circus coming along?’

  The words do not seem to come from his mouth, but rather from a space beyond his smirk, which seems thinner and more like a battle-worn mask than ever. There is so much bitterness in the clown’s dark eyes that he decides not even to acknowledge him, recovers his composure and passes by without a word.

  ‘Off to see the boss?’ calls the clown after him. ‘Do give him my very best and tell him what a fine old time I’ve been having, waiting around doing nothing while you screw the unicycle!’

  As he gets closer to Big Pete and Marie’s trailer he becomes aware of a group gathered outside, listening to raised voices coming from within; screams of fury, follo
wed by the unmistakable sounds of household items shattering.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asks.

  At first it seems as if everyone is just going to ignore him as per usual, and he feels himself flush. There is another crash from inside and the sound of Marie screeching ‘Bastard!’ over and over. Then someone in the crowd turns – it is Midge, a smouldering roll-up attached by spittle to his lower lip – and says in a deep conspiratorial voice, ‘Ain’t never seen ’em go at it like this. Gonna bring down the whole show.’ He breathes a small sigh of relief at being noticed, and peers with the others at the shapes passing behind the blinds of the trailer windows.

  Suddenly Big Pete throws open the door. Some of the people try to look away, as if there might be some other reason why they are all gathered there outside like a convention of nosy neighbours, but most simply applaud as if they were an ecstatically pleased audience. He watches as Big Pete’s face turns from red to purple and his cheeks swell to even greater proportions than usual.

  ‘Get out of here, you bunch of talentless fucks!’ shrieks Big Pete, shaking his fist at them. ‘Get out of here before I fire the whole fucking lot of you!’

  The crowd instantly disperses, hurrying off to their respective caravans while Big Pete continues swearing and threatening about how he will leave them stranded at the next town. But beyond Big Pete’s yells and threats can be heard the curiously heart-rending sound of Marie sobbing.

  ‘Well, I have to say I like your improvements very much,’ Paul will say, accepting the mug he offers him. ‘I always thought this place was rather too drab.’

  He will smile.

  ‘Thank you for coming all this way out to see me.’

  ‘Right then,’ Paul will say, assuming a militant tone. ‘As simply as you can, I want you to tell me what the hell is going on.’