The Trapeze Artist Page 16

  ‘Look really close you might see blood and guts stains on the bonnet.’

  ‘There must be an exciting documentary here. You should get in touch with a TV company.’

  He will speak more drily than he intended and the corners of the man’s mouth will curl downwards. They will turn the corner and there behind a mountain of nuts and bolts as tall as he is he will spy his own vehicle, the familiar little air-freshener tree dangling behind the windscreen. He will approach it like he would a living creature, tentatively as if it might rear up and bellow at him for his abandonment. He will take out his keys and point them at the car, and the car’s lights will duly blink on and a little squeak will sound from within, as if in recognition. He will reach out and gently touch the metallic surface with his index finger.

  ‘It’s all scratched,’ he will say, more in wonder than accusation.

  ‘How we found it,’ the man will grunt. ‘Good thing it hadn’t been used for parts. Another month and we’d have started breaking it down. Should count yourself lucky.’

  The man’s tone will be a warning not to try and lay the blame on him. But he will know perfectly well how it got scratched, and in any case he will not care one way or another. The man will mutter something under his breath that sounds like a swear word and will tell him there’s a form to fill in, and they will turn back down the path of crashed cars to the man’s little shack of an office.

  The next morning it is time for him to clean the stink house – the name the company affectionately uses to describe the toilets. After a single show they can be impressively filthy, but after a matinée and an evening show combined the filth is often nothing short of spectacular. Brown and yellow marks stain the toilet seats, and it is hard to tell if the surrounding muck across the floor is the result of mud from the field or excrement. But worst of all is the smell. He takes Marie’s advice these days and winds a silver scarf from one of Vlad’s old costumes around his face to protect his nose from the worst.

  It takes over an hour to drive the sludge off the floor with the mop, swishing it out of the door and onto the metal steps where it splatters back down to the ground where it came from. Then it is time to do the toilets themselves, and even though he empties the buckets and pours bleach over every inch of the space the stench lingers around the holes. The walls are another matter. Over and over he dumps the sponge into the bucket and wipes at the filth, the icy cold numbing his fingers through the rubber gloves. As he thrusts the sponge at the cubicle wall a shadow falls across him and he looks up and sees the clown looking down, his hand clapped over his nose and mouth.

  ‘Fuck-ing Jeez-sus,’ enunciates the clown, removing his hand and waving it in the air. ‘Un-fucking-bearable in here. How can you stand it?’

  For once his expression does not seem to be twisted into its mirthless trademark smirk, though the absence of it makes it hard to tell exactly what expression the clown is wearing – or what he is thinking.

  ‘I like it,’ he says sarcastically, wringing the sponge of black water and dumping into the bucket once more. ‘What do you want?’

  The clown does not reply at first, and when he glances at him he looks as if he has been caught out.

  ‘Fuck it!’ snarls the clown finally. ‘To say thanks. Happy?’

  He is tempted to laugh at the clown but it is too cold to muster any real sort of amusement. He gives the wall a last swipe with the sponge, decides it will do, and stands up.

  ‘No problem,’ he says. ‘Excuse me, I’ve got to get on.’

  He pushes past the clown and goes into the disabled cubicle.

  ‘Aw Jeez,’ says the clown, peering after him and catching sight of a long thin turd that neatly lines the toilet seat. ‘What the fuck is the matter with people?’

  He uses the sponge to push the turd off the seat and into the bucket, where it lands with a comically dull thump. He wipes the seat and turns his attention to the walls. Still the clown hovers, until finally he starts to feel uncomfortable and throws the sponge back into the bucket.

  ‘Look, I said it’s fine. So don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ mutters the clown. ‘I know it’s not fine. I’ve been a real cunt to you. I’m probably still acting like a cunt by standing here watching you clean up shit and not even offering to help.’

  ‘There’s another sponge over in the box by the door,’ he says. The words are out before he has had time to think them through, and he does not dare to look at the clown’s face to see how he reacts. The clown turns away and he regrets it, since it feels as if he has spat on his olive branch, but a minute later the clown returns, squats beside him, and half-heartedly dips the other sponge into the bucket.

  ‘By the way,’ says the clown, ‘the name’s Jethro.’

  He forgot to give his mum the invitation that night and when he came across it the following morning, folded neatly into four in his pocket, he crumpled it up and tossed it in the bin without a second thought. That day he and Edward were going to the cinema and Paul was coming with them. He was already sick of Paul – of his sycophantic agreement with everything Edward said, and annoyed with Edward for tolerating him. He knew that with Paul along he and Edward would be unable to hold hands and get aroused, the best thing about going to the cinema. As he mulled it over it struck him that Edward had seemed cooler towards him of late, and less interested in fooling around, and this thought made his blood chill. Then he wasn’t sure if it was true or something he was imagining.

  Downstairs his mum was sitting in the living room looking about her, as if inspecting the place for specks of missed dirt.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she said as he pulled on his coat.

  ‘To the cinema.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘With Paul,’ he added, and thought he saw a pleased look on his mum’s face as he went out the door. He wondered why she liked Paul so much and concluded it was because Paul was the son she would really like to have had – dutiful, clever, hard-working and polite. Probably she would not even mind that he was gay if he was like that. He felt a sudden flash of bitterness towards her, and was defiantly glad he was nothing like Paul.

  When he got to the cinema Edward and Paul were already waiting in a queue for the box-office counter with Interview With the Vampire written above it. Edward had a satisfied look on his face, which he knew meant he had just made a joke, and Paul’s expression was one of emphatic delight. He paused to take this in, curious at the way Edward seemed to bask in Paul’s evident adulation. Then he stalked up behind them.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, startling them both. ‘Thought we were going to see Reality Bites.’

  ‘I’m too depressed for reality,’ said Edward. ‘Shall we see Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt bite each other instead? We can laugh and perve at the same time.’

  He was about to grunt his assent when Paul piped up, ‘I’m more in the mood for a thriller myself.’

  He stared at Paul, suddenly hating him with almost violent passion. If Paul noticed the fury in his gaze he didn’t show it. Instead he smiled blithely at him and then looked at Edward, who was now studying a big cardboard display poster of a grinning Tom Cruise in period dress. The words ‘Drink from me and live forever’ were written in a caption above.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Enjoy.’

  He had the pleasure of seeing surprise register on both Edward’s and Paul’s faces before he turned and marched back out of the foyer. Only when he got outside did he realise what he had done, the gamble he had taken, and slow his pace. He felt dizzy and sick. He dared not look behind him, but he knew if Edward did not come after him it would mean he had elected to stay with Paul – that they would go to see the film together, without him. Every passing second created distance and made the nausea worse. He reached the corner of the building, the bus shelter, the traffic lights. Finally he could bear it no more and looked back. He took in the street, which was empty apart from a couple of kids with skateboards leaning against the wall of the cinema. He shudd
ered and breathed out.

  When he got back he found Edward’s mother seated at the kitchen table opposite his mum. They were both holding mugs of coffee and Edward’s mother was in the middle of a dramatic gesture, her hand outstretched into the open space, the huge moonstone ring she wore on one finger winking in the light as if enjoying a private joke about the pristine surroundings. She was wearing a sky-blue dress with a long emerald-green sash wrapped around her waist, and looked somehow disproportionate and out of place against the beige and eggshell twin tones of the kitchen. In comparison his mum seemed small, nervous and bird-like. Her eyes darted towards him as he entered, the pupils large and fixed with alarm.

  ‘Hello, you bad boy,’ said Edward’s mother. ‘You didn’t give your lovely mum that invitation to my shindig!’

  On the table before his mother was another card featuring the painting of the frightened naked girl.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, never mind about it! I thought I’d stop by anyway, since we’ve never met, and extract the promise she’ll come. You are coming, aren’t you? Please let’s have no more of this “maybe” nonsense!’

  She looked at his mum, whose pupils widened and who nodded quickly and brought her lips together in a self-conscious smile.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Thank you. More coffee?’

  ‘I’d love to, but I must make a dash. Have to get across town and sort out the space for my big debut.’

  ‘How exciting,’ offered his mother timidly.

  Edward’s mother beamed at her and stood up. His mum showed her to the door and stood there smiling manically until she had driven off. Then she turned, looking pale and drained.

  ‘What a . . . an unusual lady,’ she murmured.

  She peered at him almost as if she didn’t see him, and he wondered if she was about to faint and prepared himself to rush and catch her. But then she put out her hand and touched the wall, and used it to guide herself towards the stairs, murmuring something about taking a nap.

  After the show that evening Vlad says he knows a cool place in the local town and whines and wheedles until he agrees to go out. They catch a bus and get off in the town centre, where the aerialist takes him to the nearest cashpoint to get some money out. His bank account has depleted massively in the last two months – he has been paying for the food, drink and petrol while staying with Vlad, and he has not bothered to discuss the matter with the aerialist, who behaves as if his savings are inexhaustible and belong to them both.

  ‘Come on,’ says Vlad, tugging at his shoulder.

  ‘Where is this place?’ he asks, but Vlad merely puts a finger to his lips and smiles mysteriously. He follows him over the road, down an alley and across a car park to a gloomy-looking building where he sees a large door painted with zebra stripes. A mountainous bouncer with bristle-brush sideburns peers down at them.

  ‘Fiver each,’ he growls.

  Vlad waits expectantly, and he digs into his pocket and gives the bouncer a ten-pound note. The bouncer nods and opens the door. From inside comes a blast of pounding disco music. He hangs back, suddenly nervous, for he has never been comfortable in clubs. But Vlad is already pulling him inside, down a metal staircase that looks like a fire escape, into a large dingy room full of men dancing ecstatically. The music is deafening and the air is thick with the scent of sweat, like a gym. Above the crowd a slowly rotating mirrorball sends shards of light spinning out over the gyrating limbs, which every now and then are hit by a strobe and turned into a bullet burst of staccato images, faces and bodies contorted in photographic stills that fade no sooner than the eye has absorbed them.

  He follows Vlad down the stairs and they fight their way through the crowd to the bar, where Vlad orders two beers from a beautiful skinny boy in a tank top with a bleeding Union Jack symbol on the front. Vlad starts saying something to him, but he can hear nothing, can only see the aerialist laughing, and he has a paranoid premonition he could be telling him anything, something awful about himself, and he wouldn’t know. He frowns at Vlad and shakes his head, cupping his hand to his ear to indicate he cannot hear. The aerialist leans in close.

  ‘Let’s dance!’

  He shakes his head violently, but Vlad just laughs. The aerialist grabs his hand and leads him insistently to the dance floor. For a while he tries to emulate the fluid movements of the aerialist’s body, but it is hopeless. His arms feel sluggish and his feet refuse to meet the beat. He feels tired, and his mouth aches already from the effort of smiling as if he is enjoying himself. After a couple of minutes Vlad seems to lose interest in him, concentrating instead on flinging his body back and forth to the beat, and he turns away, heading for the toilet. As he passes through the crowd he stumbles on someone’s foot and receives a death stare from a powerfully built man in a leather waistcoat.

  In the toilet he stands for several minutes before the urinal, putting off leaving the room again. He feels inadequate, as if at any moment one of the many men with their gym-built bodies might grab him and demand to know who the hell he is and what he thinks he is doing there. The door opens, causing him to jump, and he quickly goes to the sink, not looking up lest he should meet the eyes of whoever has entered and see some trace of scorn.

  Returning to the dance floor he stands awkwardly at the side of the crowd, watching Vlad confidently jerk his body left and right to the music. The aerialist’s tight T-shirt shows off his lean torso as if it were a trophy. Certainly he is not alone in watching him. The eyes of many men are centred upon Vlad, and a couple of other dancers circumnavigate the floor until they are grinding up and down beside him. He watches the crowd with a mixture of jealousy and fascination, the way in which eyes dart glances and lips pout to indicate interest. The flirting seems both theatrical and yet strangely perfunctory, as if he were watching the incomprehensible mating rituals of some obscure species on TV. Now and then he meets someone’s eyes himself and flushes – the eyes sweep swiftly away, as if to mull over their assessment of his flesh.

  He returns to the bar and orders two more beers from the boy in the tank top, who stares at him with apparent disdain while he takes out his money. The beer tastes watery and sweet in his mouth, and he winces as he gulps down a mouthful.

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’ says a voice in his ear. He is startled to see the clown leaning against the bar beside him, a beer in hand, peering at him with an arched eyebrow. His Mohican has been spiked up into a series of stegosaurus-like fins, and he looks like an apparition – a wicked genie that has been conjured out of nowhere by an absent-minded wish.

  ‘Hi.’

  He had not realised the clown was gay.

  ‘So where’s the unicycle?’

  ‘Don’t call him that!’

  He realises he sounds stupid and looks back at the dance floor. The aerialist cannot be seen, lost somewhere within the battle-crush of bodies.

  ‘Doing right by you, I hope?’ says the clown, the corners of his mouth flickering upwards.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he says, picking up the beers. He pushes his way through the crowd, feeling beer slosh over both hands as arms and elbows lurch into him. Faces glance his way with annoyance as legs and shoes are in turn splattered with beer.

  He gives up and decides to leave. Perhaps Vlad lost him too, he thinks, and has gone back to the caravan to wait for him there. But he knows this is unlikely. As he goes he catches sight of the clown again, admiring a boy twisting about obliviously before him, his eyes spinning in some alcohol- or drug-fuelled trance.

  Outside the air feels wonderfully cool against his skin after the furnace-like heat of the club. The moon above is bright and full and casts silvery light across the car park. As he crosses it he hears something like a moan and turns quickly, his heart beating fast. It is coming from behind a large skip. Not quite knowing why, he walks towards the noise, flattening his footfall and shortening his steps so as not to be heard. Above the skip he sees a man’s head, someone in his forties with a goatee and a silver
earring, his hair shaved into a crew cut. The man’s eyes are closed and his mouth is open wide, his tongue lolling about in pleasure.

  He knows he should leave but he doesn’t. Instead he takes a couple more steps for a better view. There behind the skip, beautifully illuminated by moonlight, almost as if someone had thrown back a curtain, the aerialist is revealed, on his knees sucking the man off.

  He will park outside the home and take a deep breath. Then he will get out and push open the door and enter the small reception area. Instantly he will be hit by a familiar musty odour – the smell of old age. With it will come a wave of memory so arresting it will cause him to stop in his tracks. The woman at the front desk will look at him, puzzled, her natural smile of welcome wavering as she briefly debates whether he is a visitor or a crazy.

  ‘Hello there, may I help you?’

  In the corridor beyond her desk he will see carers coming and going with cups of tea – middle-aged women bustling about to rouse the home’s residents for the survival of another day.

  ‘Hello,’ he will say. ‘I’m here to see my mother.’

  The woman will take a lot of time to verify the details he gives her, and when she does he will see she is even more confused, because he has not been before. She will look at him from time to time with expectation, evidently waiting for him to explain that he has been abroad, or ill, or kept from coming for some other reason. But he will give her nothing, will merely wait, stony-faced, until she calls a carer to take him to see his mother.

  She will have been put in the Green Room, and he will want to tell them he knows where it is like the back of his hand, but he will resist. He will be glad that the home’s staff is no longer made up of people he knows.

  ‘She’s not very responsive,’ the carer will say as he follows her down the corridor. ‘But you can tell there’s life in the old girl yet,’ she will add cheerfully as she pushes the door open, catching sight of his expression and seeming to judge it unnecessarily morose.