The Trapeze Artist Read online

  He will admire the easy familiarity of Paul’s manner of speaking. It will feel like a long time since he has seen a friend. But friend or not, he will see no way to explain himself that Paul, with his hedonistic London life of clubs and gyms and casual sex, will be able to comprehend.

  ‘There’s nothing going on,’ he will reply. ‘I’m just doing what I want to do. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Sweetheart,’ Paul will say patiently, ‘there is no “all there is to it” about what’s been happening in there –’ He will jerk his thumb in the direction of the kitchen. ‘It’s like an assault course. You’re not in training for the Foreign Legion by any chance, are you?’

  ‘I like your hair,’ he will say to change the subject. Since he last saw Paul it has been cut into a spiky plant-like shape and bleached blond at the ends, giving Paul’s head the look of an exotic breed of mushroom.

  ‘Thanks!’

  Paul will raise his hand to his head as if to check it is still there.

  ‘I’m still getting used to it. Of course everyone else thinks it looks gay. And by gay they mean crap.’

  ‘No, it’s great,’ he will say, though privately he will think everyone else is quite right. ‘Don’t listen to them.’

  ‘I never do, but all the same . . . one does get paranoid. But enough about my do. You’ve become quite a sensation. At least all over the Internet anyway!’

  He will let out a ‘humph’ and look at the floor.

  ‘Come come,’ Paul will coax. ‘Tell Paul everything.’

  ‘It’s really nobody’s business but mine,’ he will say finally. ‘I didn’t ask them to write that article. I wish they hadn’t.’

  Paul will give him a long-suffering smile, as if he is being a delightfully dense child.

  ‘Sweetheart, you’re subverting the very essence of suburbia. How do you expect people to react? You’re rubbing their own boring trapezeless kitchens in their faces. You can’t be surprised if they’re a little – what’s the word? – resistant.’

  To this he will laugh. It will surprise him, his own laugh, at how natural and simple it feels, and he will feel a rush of affection for Paul, who will grin lopsidedly. Then the grin will fade, and so will his laugh, because they will both know that at the heart of the matter lies something deadly serious.

  ‘Darling,’ Paul will say softly, ‘have you really gone crazy? Are you in need of professional care? Should I be staging an intervention or something?’ Paul will pause before adding, ‘It’s not because of me, is it?’

  This, he will know, is Paul’s real question. The reason he has come all the way from London to see him. Quickly he will let out an exaggerated groan and shake his head.

  ‘Not everything in this world is about you.’

  Paul will immediately pretend to look shocked.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  Paul will relax, slumping into his chair.

  ‘Thank fuck!’

  Then Paul will surprise him by leaning forward and appraising him slowly from the feet up. He will feel his eyes passing over him as if taking in every inch and when Paul’s eyes finally come to rest on his face and meet his own gaze, he will be startled. It will be as if Paul knows it cannot be as simple as this – as if he will be trying to say that he understands and is sorry. But then Paul will roll his eyes up towards the ceiling and sigh loudly.

  ‘Well, it’s your life,’ Paul will say reflectively. ‘I just hope that contraption in there has some safety features.’

  Without further ado Paul will start to tell him about the young man he is seeing, who he will say has been acting like such a diva he is already considering dumping him. It will be incredible to him, this ease with which Paul will talk of his life – of the clothes he will be considering investing in, of the complete and utter bitch a certain friend will have morphed into since beginning a trial for a new cancer drug, of the stranger he will have sucked off last Friday night who tried to hit him up for money afterwards. He will listen and smile and laugh and pretend to look outraged. But for once he will not feel envious or sorry for himself. Such feelings will have no basis in his world – not any more.

  He was expecting Christmas to be strange and awkward without his father but it did not feel particularly different in the end, except that fewer distant relatives dropped by on their way to visit other distant relatives, stopping in for annual reports over a cup of tea and a mince pie. His mother still spent every day of the holiday cleaning, scrubbing and cooking, and when he grudgingly offered to help she smiled distractedly and said she’d prefer it if he got out from under her toes. The house had been transferred into her name now, and his dad had finally moved out of the bedsit in Swindon he’d been living in since September and had taken a lease on a small chilly flat, which he reluctantly visited on Boxing Day.

  ‘It’s not much,’ said his dad with a shrug after giving him a tour of the three rooms that constituted the flat, then showing him the pull-out sofa bed where he would be sleeping that night. ‘But then I’m not here much either. Didn’t make any sense to get somewhere bigger.’

  He looked over at the plastic Christmas tree his dad had put in the corner, decorated with a few gaudy pink and red baubles, and at the token strand of silver tinsel he had Blu-tacked above the front door. Apart from the bed and a couple of stools at the sidebar, the flat was otherwise unfurnished. It seemed so pathetically spartan that he giggled – a thin trill. His dad peered at him but did not ask what was so funny, and he understood from this that his father was no more pleased about his visit than he was.

  ‘I thought everything would be different when he moved out, but nothing’s changed at all really,’ he told Edward when they met at Edward’s house the following day. ‘Funny, but I just don’t seem to care. I guess that makes me a bastard or something?’

  Edward didn’t reply at once, and he looked over in case he was laughing at him. But he wasn’t. Rather he was staring into the dark recesses of the den with a solemn look on his face, as if lost in thought. Eventually Edward heaved a long sigh.

  ‘You’re just like me,’ Edward said with authority. ‘We don’t really have homes. We never did. That’s how we were born.’

  He did not think Edward’s statement overblown – rather he was thrilled at being lumped into the same category of person as Edward. Secretly he felt at times like an impostor, running around with this boy who had seen, done and experienced everything already, pretending he was the same when in reality he knew himself to be a product of ordinariness at its most bland and inoffensive. He sometimes scared himself by imagining that the intense feelings he had for Edward were unrequited, that the day would come when Edward would get bored of him and dismiss him with a flick of his hand, revealing that he had only ever been tolerating his presence while waiting for something better to come along. To be told he was the same as Edward by Edward himself, and to be looked at with such sincerity it made his cheeks flush boiling hot with embarrassment – it was so wonderful he wanted to cry. Instead he confined himself to a subtle nod, as if all along it was what he had been thinking too.

  He waits for an hour, until Big Pete has driven off into the local town for supplies, then returns to the trailer to see Marie. Biting his lip, he knocks on the door. There is no answer, but without the keys to the box office, he can get none of the cleaning materials, and the risk of being yelled at later outweighs his fear, so he turns the handle and timidly pokes his head inside.

  ‘Hello?’

  The inside of the trailer is dark and quiet. He takes another step, thinking to turn on the lights and see if there is somewhere obvious the keys might be kept, but just then there is a rustling sound and a shadowy figure emerges. As she passes the window the light from outside reveals that Marie’s silk dressing gown is dramatically torn across one shoulder, and that her heavily made-up eyes have streamed lines of mascara down her cheeks, so that it looks as if she has been crying tears of ink.

  ‘Sorry,
’ he says. ‘I came for the keys.’

  She stares at him and for a few seconds he braces himself to be screamed at. But Marie only nods.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I’ll get them.’

  She begins to cry and, not knowing what else to do, he steps forward and pats her shoulder. Marie tenses for a second, then reaches out and pulls him to her in a tight embrace. He is so surprised he does not hug her back at first, merely stands there with Big Pete’s wife weeping and clinging on to him as if for dear life.

  ‘Fuck,’ she mutters after a while, pulling him back into the darkness, then hurrying around him and closing the door. ‘Everyone’ll see!’

  She switches on the light. He blinks. It is the first time he has been inside the trailer and he is amazed at how large it is – far more spacious than its outside appearance indicates, like the Tardis. He is impressed by how much it resembles the inside of a real house. The trailer has been divided into three areas – before him is a living-room area with a long L-shaped sofa, a Persian rug and a little table with a portable TV on it. Behind the sofa is a kitchenette, complete with a sideboard and mini bar, containing a sink, an oven, a hob, a fridge and a microwave. Across from the kitchenette, at the other side of the space, is a long dining table with five chairs around it. Some shelves by the window hold books, folders and an array of little glass figurines. There are three small oil paintings on the walls, one depicting a vase of flowers, one depicting a sunny meadow, and one featuring a beautiful gypsy girl with jet-black hair, a small smile on her pouty red lips as she stares excitedly out into the space before her. There is a divide with a door in it at the far end, which he guesses must lead to Big Pete and Marie’s bedroom, and another small door opens to one side which he thinks must be the bathroom – Vlad has told him Big Pete and Marie’s trailer is the only one with its own shower facility. Everything in the space is immaculately clean and tidy, as if the owners lived in the constant expectation of important visitors.

  ‘What a nice place!’

  Marie ignores him and goes to the table where she throws herself into one of the chairs and blows her nose loudly. He stands uncomfortably by the entrance, unsure of what to do.

  ‘Sit down,’ says Marie.

  There is no question of disobeying, though he is petrified that at any minute will come the sound of Big Pete’s truck as he returns from town, and he does not want to be found here or be caught between them during another blow-up. He sits, waiting for Marie to say something, looking at the portrait of the gypsy girl.

  ‘That’s me, you know,’ says Marie eventually. ‘Not that you’d think it now, eh?’

  The girl in the picture looks nothing like Marie.

  ‘Sixteen years old. Pretty, ain’t I? Those are the days when you think the world’s your bloody oyster, know what I mean? You must have had ’em too. Everyone does at some point in their lives.’

  He nods.

  ‘Me’s proper circus. Born and raised. Not like that jerk of an ’usband of mine. Oh, ’e wishes he was, that’s for sure, but ’e’s just another stupid josser, like all the rest of you on this half-arsed show. My family never liked ’im. When ’e said he wanted to run ’is own show they thought ’e was trying to do ’em out of business – that’s a joke! But of course I supported ’im. Thought it would be magical, our very own circus . . .

  ‘Everyone thinks it’s all very thrilling, this moving back and forth all the time, the life on wheels, the make-up and the stupid shiny costumes. Admit it, even with all the work, you still reckon there’s something to it, don’t ya? I’ve seen ’ow you look at ’em. Like they’s fairy folk or something.’

  He opens his mouth to deny it, but Marie isn’t interested.

  ‘I bought into that exact same crap meself, and no one should know better than I does just what crap it is. Now look what’s ’appened. Five years on and we’re still struggling, still got fuck all, still on the brink of going bankrupt. That idiot with ’is stupid temper and ’is daft ideas about what the people want. ’E don’t know ’ow to work our laundry machine, let alone run this bloody operation.’

  There is another pause. He does not know what to do with this information she is giving him and so he sits and waits with an awkward smile. Marie seems to be lost in her own world anyway. She heaves a long deep sigh.

  ‘I been on circuses all me life, since I was born, and sometimes what I’d really like to do is just stay put. Put me feet up and not ’ave to worry no more about fucking costumes blowing away, or the tent caving in, or flat tyres at three o’clock in the morning, or the aerialist falling on top of a punter . . . any of that bollocks. Sometimes I reckon what I’d really like to do is quit!’

  She announces this with fury, then flicks her eyes towards him as if she has suddenly become aware of who exactly it is she’s been addressing. Abruptly her expression goes cold, as if a mask were descending over her face. She stands up, sending her chair ricocheting off the wall behind her.

  ‘I’ll get you the keys,’ she mutters.

  One afternoon a few days before school recommenced, he came home and his mum told him that a friend of his was waiting for him in his room. He knew instantly, even before she clarified it, that it was Paul. His mum looked pleased.

  ‘He seems like a really nice boy,’ she said.

  Contained within her statement was the unsaid opinion that Edward was not such a nice boy, but he did not pause to glare at her for it. She had been cleaning the kitchen again, he noticed, and he knew this was not normal behaviour because she had spent all the previous day cleaning it too.

  He took the steps two at a time and threw open the door to his room. Paul was sitting on his bed reading one of the porn magazines he had borrowed from Edward, which he no longer bothered to conceal under his mattress because his mum had at long last agreed that his room was his private space and promised never to enter without his permission.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Paul looked up at him. A split second of guilt showed on his face, but it vanished almost immediately as he straightened his neck and pursed his lips. He put down the porn magazine and stood up.

  ‘I’ve come because I want –’

  ‘Get out!’ he shouted. ‘Get the hell out!’

  In response Paul shut his eyes and clenched his fists. A bead of perspiration appeared above his left eyebrow and slid suddenly in a dramatic arc down to his cheek. Paul looked so ridiculous that his fury vanished and he burst out laughing.

  ‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘Look – I don’t want you here, OK?’

  Paul opened his eyes and stared at him.

  ‘Why do you hate me so much?’ Paul said. ‘What did I do?’

  He was stumped by the question. He could not explain that it was greed essentially – that he prized Edward above all other things and did not want to share him. That the last thing he wanted to do was invite a stranger into the exclusive world he had built with Edward. Yet somehow he suspected Paul already knew this.

  ‘It isn’t anything you’ve done,’ he said finally. ‘It’s just that you and I are very different people and I don’t think we can get along.’

  There was a certain perverse pleasure in being able to say this to someone – especially someone he did not like. Paul turned silently away and faced the wall, his fists clenching up again and his body trembling. He felt a stab of pity for Paul then, and for a second he even wondered if he wasn’t being ridiculous, treating this feeble and insignificant creature as if he was some sort of threat.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he heard himself say with more authority than he felt. ‘It’s not your fault. But that’s just the way it is.’

  ‘Only because you’ve decided so!’ responded Paul bitterly. ‘You could just change your mind – it wouldn’t cost you anything, you know!’

  From downstairs came the noise of suctioning air – his mum was vacuuming again.

  ‘Why do you want to go round with us anyway?’ he said, wishing Paul would jus
t leave. ‘Why is it so important?’

  ‘Because I’m gay like you are and there’s no one else!’

  Paul turned back to face him passionately.

  ‘All I’m asking is that you give me a chance. A chance! If you still don’t like me after that then I’ll leave you alone and it’ll be like I never bothered you in the first place!’

  Paul’s eyes bulged slightly. He seemed to be trying to use willpower to force him to say yes. He debated. Each passing second seemed to gather momentum until it was as if his answer would be of such consequence it would go down in history.

  ‘All right,’ he sighed. ‘But no promises.’

  Paul’s face positively radiated happiness and he thought that perhaps he’d done the right thing after all. Paul stepped across the room and held out his hand. It was a clichéd gesture, he thought, and combined with Paul’s smile it made him suddenly regret being persuaded. But it was too late to change his mind. Feeling stupid, he raised his hand and let Paul shake it.

  At the door Paul will pause and peer around at the neighbourhood, at the surrounding gardens with their tasteful pine gazebos, freshly mown lawns and little stone sculptures of fauns and dwarves that peep tentatively out from beds of poppies and roses.

  ‘God,’ Paul will say. ‘It’s been so long, I’d almost forgotten what this place was like. It really does feel like something out of a horror film, doesn’t it? You can just see a serial killer hiding out behind that hibiscus.’

  He will smile, but by now he will just want Paul to go, to get back in his car and drive off back to his big fast life in the city and leave him to concentrate on his own tiny world.

  ‘You know,’ Paul will say, oblivious to his impatience, ‘there’s nothing to say you have to stay on here.’

  He will deliberately look down at the front step and not respond. But Paul will not read his body language and will cheerily continue.

  ‘You could sell up and move to London. Find a nice little pad, maybe somewhere near me. Even with your – ah – let’s say alterations, I’m sure this place must have some value. And you don’t have to stick around, do you? I mean, your mum doesn’t exactly need you any more –’