The Trapeze Artist Page 19

  ‘I’m fine,’ he says, sitting up.

  His head swims but then the world settles and he focuses on the aerialist, staring at him from where he stands as if transfixed. Then Vlad turns on his heel and stalks away into the darkness. He looks around and sees the clown has already disappeared.

  ‘What was that about?’ asks Benny.

  ‘Those two been wanting to fuck each other from day one of this detail,’ says Midge sagely, reaching down to help him up. ‘Come on, you need a beer, eh? I’ve been holding back a few.’

  But he is not listening – instead he is running in the direction the aerialist went off in, bounding through the night and shouting Vlad’s name. He turns wildly, but can see nothing, only the darkened field and in the distance the lights of the trailers and the bonfire, flickering red tongues that vanish into thin air as soon as they appear.

  They swiftly developed a reputation, firstly for being gay and secondly for being out of control. In truth they were not out of control, but everyone seemed to prefer to think of them this way, and it was even how he liked to think of them too – though Edward declared that what they were really about was showing people how to think outside the box.

  ‘A bunch of fucking drones, that’s what this community is,’ Edward would sigh. ‘They need us to broaden their horizons before their minds close in on them entirely.’

  It was a vocation, Edward claimed, to help the small-minded before it was too late, and they drew up plans as to how they would go about the operation. They photocopied the first pages of The Communist Manifesto, The Female Eunuch and The City and the Pillar and mailed them to random addresses in the phone book. They registered two after-school societies with the school secretary – one for the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender community and one for meditation, though neither society produced any members apart from themselves. Edward almost got into trouble one day when he asked the teacher if they could realign the classroom using the principles of feng shui to better aid their concentration, but after a few seconds of outrage the teacher saw the funny side and offered to raise the issue at the next staff meeting.

  Paul was enthusiastic about sending the photocopied pages and even suggested making crack calls from a payphone, an idea Edward rejected as far too vulgar, but at school he maintained a cautious distance. Paul was in a separate class, a higher set, but still he only exchanged the briefest hellos with them when they passed in the corridor, and told them he couldn’t sit with them at lunchtime because that was when he had music lessons. At first Edward’s response was to hold his head high and turn it suddenly at an angle, as if he had just become aware of a bad smell whenever Paul greeted them.

  ‘Not good enough to be seen with,’ Edward sneered when Paul met them at the weekend, nudging him in the ribs. ‘I suppose it’s only understandable really – after all, we’re just the help.’

  Paul looked troubled and dropped his head.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Paul said. ‘It’s my parents. They’re not like yours. If they had any idea that I was . . . you know –’

  ‘A raving fag?’ Edward supplied.

  ‘They’d never forgive me!’

  ‘But, darling, that’s the whole point of what we’re doing!’

  Yet Edward didn’t push Paul beyond this, he noted, and at school the next day Edward did not do the thing with his head when they crossed paths with Paul during break time and Paul gave them his usual nod.

  ‘The trouble with little Paulie is that he’s clueless really,’ Edward confided to him while they shared a cigarette behind the hedge that lined the playground. ‘He’s not got any real spine. Such a pity. But that’s how it is with these mummy’s boys.’

  He sniggered. He was glad that Paul had created this distance between them. It was as if he had covertly agreed that Edward was his property and duly backed off to the sidelines.

  ‘He just hasn’t quite grown up yet,’ he summarised, and Edward nodded.

  Secretly he understood what Paul was feeling though, because when he was not with Edward his own confidence faltered. Each morning he would set out wondering if this would be the day that the head would summon them to his office for a long talk about their behaviour. He knew it would have to happen sooner or later from the outrageous things they were doing, and he dreaded it with a passion. Each time a boy from the lower years interrupted the class with a message for the teacher he felt sick with apprehension. But each time it turned out to be for something else, or the summons was for one of the boys at the back, and he would realise they had got away with it yet another time.

  He stumbles into the caravan and finds the aerialist sitting on the bed holding a shot glass of vodka. The bottle on the table is already three-quarters down and Vlad’s face is red and blotchy and set in an angry pout.

  ‘I was looking for you,’ he says. ‘Didn’t you hear me calling?’

  ‘Yes,’ replies Vlad. ‘But I didn’t want to be found.’

  He closes the door. The little portable heater chugs forlornly in the corner, as if at any second about to give up the ghost. It is very warm and cosy in here but the cosiness and warmth feels all wrong to him, as if he has internalised the cold to the point that it has become part of him.

  He waits for Vlad to say something, to apologise for hitting him and to tell him it was a drunken mistake and that he could not see in the dark. But Vlad just sits there sipping from his shot glass, glaring straight out ahead of him at the wall. He can feel his own anger now, swollen like a saturated sponge.

  ‘So why didn’t you want to be found?’ he says finally, the words threading their way out between gritted teeth.

  The aerialist drains his glass, leans forward, grabs the bottle from the table and pours in another shot.

  ‘I just didn’t.’

  ‘But you hit me! You could have broken my nose.’

  Without further ado the aerialist stands up.

  ‘You want to hit me back?’

  He spreads his arms wide, sending the contents of the shot glass shooting out over the bed.

  ‘So hit me, pussy!’

  His fist seems to throb, as if with yearning to make contact with that smug handsome jawline. He feels it balling up, and feels the surge of adrenalin pounding its way through him, imploring him to do it. The eyes before him blaze with challenge. But he resists.

  ‘I don’t want to hit you,’ he says, slowly uncurling his fist.

  ‘Well, you should!’ screams Vlad. ‘Because I’m sick of you and I don’t want you any more! I’d like you to piss off where you came from. Go and annoy some other trapeze artist and leave this poor bastard alone!’

  He punches the aerialist. The blow catches Vlad in the mouth and glances off to the side. But it is enough to send him stumbling backwards onto the bed, his eyes glazing over momentarily from the shock. He stares at the aerialist, trembling and amazed, unsure if he should beg forgiveness or launch another attack.

  ‘You asked for that,’ he says after a while, trying to sound firm.

  The aerialist’s body tenses as if he is going to fly at him. Then Vlad goes floppy – the fight seeming to leave him all at once. He lets out a long heavy sigh.

  ‘You want to know something about that clown you’re such good pals with? You want to know why he hates me so much?’

  Vlad’s eyes are droopy, as if he is on the cusp of closing down. He is completely and utterly drunk, he realises.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he wants me.’

  ‘Wants you?’ he repeats.

  ‘We fucked once. He never got over it.’

  Vlad yawns then smiles bitterly.

  ‘Go and ask him if you don’t believe me.’

  He stands there, confused and not knowing how to respond.

  ‘Go on – ask your friend. He’ll tell you all about it!’

  As if he can take no more Vlad draws up his legs to his chest and curls his body into a protective ball, turning away from him. He waits a few seconds, then sits d
own on the bed and reaches out to touch Vlad’s shoulder. But the instant his hand makes contact the aerialist jerks and shakes him off.

  ‘Go away.’

  He reaches out again, determined to make Vlad turn.

  ‘I said fuck off!’

  He withdraws his hand and stares at Vlad’s back. But the aerialist does not relent. After a while there is nothing for it but to get up and leave the caravan.

  One afternoon Edward had the idea that they would go to school wearing black make-up and silver jewellery like goths. He was nervous about the idea, but agreed immediately, not wanting Edward to pick up on it.

  ‘Mother dear!’ Edward announced, dragging him and Paul down to his mother’s studio and barging in without knocking. She was dabbing at a new square of canvas critically, a Martini in her spare hand. ‘We need your mascara.’

  ‘Delicious, darling,’ she murmured from behind her easel, not missing a beat. ‘I’ve got extra thick and cry-proof in the box on my dressing table. Help yourselves.’

  ‘Stupid womb,’ muttered Edward after it had been located. He’d started calling her it again after her exhibition, which apparently had been a stunning success and had earned her several commissions. ‘She’d smile and say hello to her own murderer probably.’

  Edward seated himself in front of the mirror and he applied an experimental layer of black make-up to his eyebrows and eyelashes. He did not say to Edward that often he could be very like his mother, especially in the way he came up with ideas and made grand sweeping statements, as if he were a true connoisseur of all that was worth knowing in life. He knew that Edward’s father called each month and asked to talk to him, and that his mother tried to get Edward on the phone, but that Edward always refused. He was sure Edward longed for his father though, and would give anything to have him back. It was completely the opposite to his own situation really: once a month on a Saturday he would take the train to see his dad in Swindon and stay the night in his shoebox flat, and they would eat a takeaway and watch some video which his mum had carefully instructed should not be above a 15 certificate. He hated the visits and could tell that his dad did not particularly enjoy them either. When he told Edward this his response was ‘So why bother?’ and he laughed because it was so simple and obvious. But when he told his mum he did not want to visit his dad any more she went pale and told him not to try and be funny, and from the way she looked at him he decided it would be better just to keep going than push the matter.

  ‘You look like you’re out of the Addams Family,’ observed Paul.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Edward, examining his reflection. He nodded and batted his eyelids a few times. Then he turned to Paul and arched a darkened eyebrow. ‘Your turn?’

  ‘Uh,’ said Paul, ‘maybe not this time.’

  Edward snorted to show this was exactly what he had expected of Paul, picked up the mascara brush and turned to him instead.

  They timed it so that they would walk in just as assembly was about to start, so no one would be able to say anything until afterwards. Paul grudgingly agreed to be their lookout, and they hid in the toilets until he called them out when he saw the head on his way to the assembly room. They raced down the corridor and threw themselves into their seats just before he arrived. It felt as if they had taken position on a stage, and immediately a ripple of giggles and whispers spanned out across the room around them, only to be almost instantly quelled by the entrance of the head.

  They did not get to first period before the head had summoned them to his office. They waited in the side passage opposite the school secretary, who kept looking over at them with round astonished eyes, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. Edward chattered away to her and offered to give her some of his beauty secrets, making her laugh. He tried to smile as if he thought the whole thing was funny and preposterous, but felt sweat trickling down his sides.

  ‘Is this supposed to be a joke?’ asked the head in an icy voice when they were standing before him. ‘Should I be amused?’

  The head looked almost hopeful that they might apologise and capitulate. Instead Edward made a show of clearing his throat.

  ‘Apart from jewellery there are no regulations on what pupils can and can’t wear,’ Edward said, sounding like he had rehearsed it. ‘That’s the rules. You can confiscate the silver but we’re entitled to dress how we please.’

  He held his breath. For a minute the head stared. A vein pulsed on his temple and he looked as if he was going to physically pop in an explosion of righteous gore. He waited for the angry roar and the tirade of grown-up outrage, but instead the head merely emitted a long breath as if he was in pain.

  ‘You boys have been making quite a spectacle of yourselves lately,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I’ve turned a blind eye to it because it’s not my place to interfere with people’s lives outside the school, no matter how immoral the things they get up to. But when you bring it into the school then it does become my place. I’ll be speaking to your parents.’

  He paused and gazed at them each in turn for a few seconds.

  ‘Is there anything more you’d like to say while you’re here?’

  For once Edward did not seem to have an answer ready.

  ‘Very well. Leave the jewellery and get out of my sight.’

  The head turned his attention to some papers, behaving as if they had already left. They removed the rings and pendants and piled them on the desk. As he was following Edward out of the room the head spoke again, startling him.

  ‘Didn’t think I’d ever see you in here,’ he said, still not looking up from his desk. ‘Always thought you were a decent, hard-working sort of boy. But now I see you’re not like that at all, are you?’

  He swallowed, stunned by these words. Outside Edward let out a loud cackle, producing another disbelieving giggle from the secretary, who was used to pupils coming out looking tearful and sorry for themselves.

  ‘We took on the system,’ Edward crowed triumphantly. ‘And we won!’

  But the words of the head reverberated accusingly in his mind.

  As he wanders through the night he tells himself it is just another tempestuous episode, and that he will return later and that Vlad will be overcome with remorse and full of affection. It is the aerialist’s nature – which often seems to him to be the nature of something larger than a mere individual, perhaps even the nature of the circus itself. He pictures the scene just a few hours from now: Vlad throwing his arms around him, him shrugging the aerialist off and insisting that he is leaving, Vlad shrieking apologies and then turning coy when he refuses to forgive him, and begging to at least be allowed to suck him off one last time. Embarrassed and excited by this image of the soon-to-be, he quickens his step. As for the clown, he thinks, what does it matter?

  At that precise moment, almost as if fate had been listening in on his thoughts, he stumbles upon the clown himself, squatting on the knotted roots of a tree, repeatedly flicking his lighter and swearing quietly at it.

  ‘Fucking piece of –’

  Abruptly the clown becomes aware he is being watched and looks up at him, his shoulders squaring and mouth set in a defiant snarl, as if expecting an ambush. Neither of them says anything. Slowly the clown’s face relaxes.

  ‘How’s the nose?’ Jethro says.

  ‘Great,’ he replies.

  ‘Caught you a bit of a blinder, eh? Fucking bastard. You wait till I see him next, I’m gonna –’

  ‘Are you in love with him?’

  The question launches itself into the air with all the grace of an elephant and causes the clown to drop his lighter in shock. Jethro curses and starts to fumble around in the darkness, but with a practically extrasensory instinct he knows this is just a ruse. The clown is trying to work out how to answer.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he says slowly, as the truth dawns on him.

  The clown lets out a hearty guffaw.

  ‘Don’t be fucking stupid!’

  ‘I don’t believe it.
’

  Jethro catches his breath.

  ‘Fuck off, OK?’

  They stare at one another. He wonders if the clown is going to charge at him, and thinks he has had more than enough violence for one night. Then it occurs to him, as he holds the clown’s gaze, that he has never seen so much violence in all his life as in the last few weeks, and this fact, along with the serious angry face before him, suddenly seems obscurely funny.

  ‘You are!’ he giggles. ‘That’s hilarious!’

  The clown seems to teeter, unsure if he is being made fun of and how he should react. Then Jethro yanks open his jacket and wrenches out his hip flask. He watches the clown unscrew the cap and take a long deliberate swig, and thinks he has never known people who drink so much, or ever drunk so much himself. This thought, too, is for some reason funny, and he laughs again.

  ‘Full of beans tonight, aren’t you?’ mutters the clown.

  ‘I’m surprised, that’s all!’ he splutters. ‘I thought you hated him!’

  ‘I do hate him.’

  ‘Does that mean you hate me too?’

  The clown rolls his eyes upwards, so that only the whites remain. For a split second he is alarmed because it doesn’t look like the pupils are going to resurface, but then they rotate back down and settle grudgingly upon him.

  ‘Why should I hate you?’

  ‘Because I’m with him.’

  ‘So fucking what?’

  The clown seems to be daring him to pursue this line of enquiry.

  ‘You hated me when I first arrived.’

  ‘That’s just the tradition around here. Anyway, you’ve seen for yourself what a slag he is, haven’t you? Sucking cocks in fields and car parks. Only strings you along cos you take care of him. Everybody knows it, including that fuckface ringmaster. Reckon you know it yourself.’

  The clown’s words hurt more than the aerialist’s blow, and he takes a strained breath through his swollen nostrils. Yet as he watches him the malice in the clown’s face seems to crumble away, his features untwisting into an expression that is astonishingly close to kindness.