The Trapeze Artist Read online

  He stared at the space now, struggling to remember, to see again the shape of Edward’s body and to feel again that boundless horror combined with the instinctive understanding that the world would never be the same again. But time had worked its sleepy magic on his memory so that he saw nothing but an impression of what had transpired. He was not even sure how much of what he remembered was really memory, and how much just his imagination.

  As he stood there straining to recall the details, he became aware of a sniggering, and looked up to see a trio of teenage boys lazily making their way to him. They were passing back and forth a cigarette, obviously playing truant from school. He waited for them to pass, but as they reached him one of the boys, the tallest, who had a shaggy fringe that fell artfully across his left eye, called out to him, ‘All right, mate, you a necro?’

  The other two giggled furiously, their eyes wide and alive, waiting to see if he would react. He dropped his head and stared at the spot where Edward had fallen, willing them to leave.

  ‘You waiting to pick up kiddies or something?’

  He continued to ignore him. Edward would have had a good retort ready, he thought. Edward would have known exactly what to say to this kid to put him in his place. Edward would have said . . . but he suddenly had no idea what Edward would have done.

  ‘Leave him, he’s weird,’ suggested one of the other boys.

  The one with the fringe sniggered.

  ‘Freak,’ he muttered.

  With these words the kid took the cigarette from his lips, which was now almost a butt, and threw it. He felt it bounce off his chest. He looked up in automatic fury, wanting to pound the boy’s head into the nearest gravestone. But screeching with laughter the boys took off down the path and out of the churchyard. The cigarette lay on the gravel, directly where Edward had once lain, a thin stream of smoke emanating from its tip.

  Back in his car he took out his mobile and dialled the head of the agency.

  ‘There you are at long last!’ she answered him. ‘I’ve left two messages. Mr Piers has been calling to ask where you are!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he told her. ‘I’m not coming in today.’

  ‘But you should have been there an hour ago!’ she said crossly. ‘What’s Mr Piers supposed to do?’

  He wanted to break down then and tell this woman he’d never even met all the things that were wrong in the world, then beg her to help him. He wanted to warn her that he was probably going to do something stupid if she didn’t help. He wanted to hear her express concern for him and not for Mr Piers.

  ‘I can’t make it. I won’t be in. You should send someone else.’

  The woman made a tutting noise.

  ‘This is very last minute . . . I don’t know who else is going to be available at such late notice. It’s not going to look very good on your record, you know.’

  Fuck the record, he thought.

  ‘I’m not sure I can condone –’

  He brought his finger down on the button to end the call and closed up his phone. There was no going back now, and the knowledge of this fact, clear and indisputable, drove all the despair from his mind. He plugged the key into the ignition and started the car.

  A crowd of people will have gathered on the field before the stage and he will see somebody beneath the rig is talking into a microphone. There will be stands displaying cakes, bric-a-brac, flower arrangements and a tombola, and a pink-and-blue bouncy castle will be swaying under the weight of numerous youngsters. He will see Sue looking around distractedly and nodding at something one of the locals is saying to her, and he will know she is wondering where he is. He will pass the field and turn into the school’s car park, which is almost full. Immediately he will see the caravan, parked in the disabled space up against the school diner. The space next to it is free so he will pull up alongside and get out the car. He will rap on the side of the caravan, and from within will come a familiar voice cursing.

  ‘I told you it’s only for half an hour so piss off!’ the clown will snap, throwing the door open and presenting the outside world with a ferocious grimace. When Jethro sees it is him his face will slowly untwist.

  ‘Oh,’ the clown will say. ‘Hi.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he will ask.

  Jethro will look momentarily embarrassed.

  ‘What do you think? Came to see your show, didn’t I? See what this cockshite is about you turning yourself into a trapeze artist.’

  His vision will blur.

  ‘You came to see me?’

  Jethro will look cross for a second, as if he is going to start snarling or shouting. Then the clown will suddenly grin. Jethro looks better than before, he will notice – his skin is an almost healthy pink and the dark circles under his eyes do not seem as prominent. As if he knows what he is thinking the clown will say, ‘Stopped drinking, ain’t I? You’re looking at a fucking saint here!’

  He will smile at him, a sad smile, and the clown will jump down from the caravan and start walking around him in a circle, inspecting his body. Jethro will reach out and poke his thighs and then his buttocks.

  ‘Huh!’ the clown will mutter. ‘Been busy, ain’t ya?’

  He will nod, choking a little.

  ‘Jethro . . .’ he will start to say.

  But he will get no further. The presence of the clown is both wonderful and awful, so much so that he will be scarcely able to draw breath, never mind form a coherent sentence. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he will finish lamely.

  ‘Yeah?’ the clown will say. ‘How come you never emailed or nothing?’

  He will swallow.

  ‘Things have been . . . difficult.’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘My mother, she was ill . . .’

  The clown will stare at him mistrustfully and he will meet the stare head on. They will look at one another for a long time, just holding one another’s gaze and not speaking, and it will be as if an understanding has arisen between them, of all the suffering they have ever been through, and of all the suffering to come. He will want to drop to his knees and confess everything he has done, to hear Jethro tell him it is OK. But there will be no time.

  ‘I have to start . . .’ he will say. ‘I’m late.’

  He will turn and hurry across the car park.

  ‘Hey!’ the clown will bellow after him. He will stop and look back at Jethro standing in front of his caravan with his hands on his hips. The clown will roll his eyes towards the heavens, heave a great sigh, then roll them back.

  ‘Good luck, eh? We’ll catch up after?’

  The danger of losing control will be too great. He will run across the gravel towards the crowd. Ahead of him, towering over the stage, stands the trapeze rig and for an instant it will resemble gallows silhouetted against the sun.

  He drove through the woods that lay on the opposite side of the common and took a small turning that was easy to miss if you didn’t know it was there, signposted only by a rusty metal notice marked ‘Private’. Forty yards on he parked the car in front of a steep incline, which led to a large ditch in which various pieces of old furniture, clapped-out cookers and broken-down refrigerators were strewn, a purgatory for household items that had outlived their desirability.

  He switched off the engine and sat for a long time studying the dashboard, not daring to look above it – for he felt that if he did he would have no option but to execute his plan. But eventually his gaze drifted up and he looked out at the surrounding trees and then over at the ditch, which seemed like a great mouth that had opened up in the earth, a passage to the underworld such as from an ancient myth. The sun beat down powerfully on the windscreen, burning his scalp, and his bladder ached for relief. He felt his stomach rumble and remembered he had not eaten since breakfast. He thought how pleasant it would be to free himself of these human sensations, and he thought it was probably time. But still he did not move.

  Bit by bit the heat of the sun declined. The air began to grow cold and shad
ows crept across the earth like ghostly fingers stretching out to touch one another. The faraway sounds of cars roaring past on the motorway that lay on the other side of the forest could be heard and nearby the tooting of birds as they saluted the end of the day. All at once he removed his seat belt and slung it to the side, reached down and took off the handbrake. He started the engine and he held his foot over the accelerator. Then, like a slap, it hit him what he was about to do – the momentous reality of it, and he let out a spontaneous gurgle of fright. In a flash he understood that this was not what he wanted.

  It was then that he heard the distant sound of music. A twisting gypsy-like melody with fiddles and tambourines, that snaked its way through the air and to his ears and seemed to wind itself around something inside him. He looked over his shoulder and saw distant lights through the darkness, winking pink and blue through the trees like the auras of faerie folk. The source of the lights lay past the woods, on the common.

  He shifted gear to reverse and brought his foot down, backing the car up the trail, clumsily taking out bushes and branches in the process. When he hit the road he turned round and drove until he reached the common. Here he pulled up the car and gazed in wonder.

  On the field before him, surrounded by a cluster of caravans and trailers and decorated with strands of coloured lights, sat a big top, the word ‘Circus’ decorated in silver spangles above its entrance, the sinewy music emanating from within.

  At the station he uses the payphone to call a taxi from the local cab company. It arrives ten minutes later. He thinks of his own car, abandoned in some random field north of town, and it occurs to him that he ought to work out where he left it, and set out to see if it is still there.

  ‘All right?’ says the driver, peering at him closely after he tells him the address. ‘You from round here?’

  ‘Sort of,’ he replies, not wanting to be drawn into a conversation.

  The driver continues to peer at him and for a tense few seconds he wonders if he knows this man, or if the man knows him. Then the driver nods without any apparent further interest and they drive out of the station. His heart begins to hammer as he takes in the familiar surroundings of the town, and some inner sense shrieks like an alarm bell, telling him to get the driver to stop and turn round, take him back to the station where he can get on the next train out of there and never return. Yet there is also a leaden feeling of finality that gradually subdues this shrieking, as if it were always inevitable he would return. As if for better or worse this is where he belongs.

  Even so, when they turn onto his street he almost changes his mind. The sight of the house intensifies his feelings to such an extent that he wonders if he is going to faint. The first thing he notices is how the front garden is overgrown – for years it has been his job to hunt for weeds and uproot them under his mother’s watchful eye, but without him it has gone to seed. Shakily he climbs out of the cab and offers the driver his money. Then he stands, staring at the house idiotically, unable to take another step, still wondering if it is too late to turn back. But then it is too late, as the cab removes this possibility by driving off, leaving him with no option but to open the gate.

  He has just set foot on the front path when he hears a shrill cry from behind. Alarmed, he spins round to see Mrs Goodly hurrying over. A cleaning smock is draped over her dress and her face is pale as if she has just seen a ghost.

  ‘Oh my Lord – you’re back!’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Goodly,’ he replies, making an effort to sound calm.

  But she seems unable to get over the fact, looking him up and down and wrinkling up her forehead.

  ‘How is everything?’ he asks carefully.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear . . .’ fusses Mrs Goodly, flapping her arms up and down like an agitated bird. She turns her head around as if to look for assistance, but there is none to be found and so she turns back with a fretful smile. ‘Oh dear. What am I supposed to say, I wonder . . .?’

  He decides he does not have time for this ridiculous woman.

  ‘It’s nice to see you too,’ he says with a brisk nod, and then continues up the path to the door. He takes out his keys and breathlessly fits them into the lock. As he opens the door he kicks over a small mound of post, which slides across the floor all the way to the table. It is dark in here, and he can see the blinds to the kitchen in the next room are closed.

  ‘Hello?’ he calls out.

  The silence booms back like a gong. Even before he has taken another step he understands that no one lives here any more.

  As he climbs the rope he will be stricken with panic. All eyes below will be upon him, absorbing his every movement. His hand will shake as he reaches out for the trapeze and his body will rotate away from the bar, so that he will miss and have to make a second attempt to grab it. But the instant his fingers close around it he will be filled with a great soaring sense of triumph. He will climb confidently beneath the bar and raise his legs in front of it, then thrust his torso forward and swing back into a dramatic beat. The crowd will begin to applaud as he rotates around the bar, and there will be screams and whoops when he whips himself up into a sitting position only to drop instantly backwards and catch the ropes with his ankles. He will feel wild, elated and free, his body alive with joy, as if a long imprisoned spirit has finally been released.

  ‘Well, would you look at that, ladies and gentlemen?’ he will hear the Mayor saying into the microphone, and there will be another burst of cheering. As he propels himself from shape to shape, he will catch a glimpse of Sue beaming, flanked by well-wishing members of the public. Over by the cake stall he will see Mrs Goodly, clapping away delightedly in the midst of a small throng of old women.

  Suddenly he will be like a god, and there will be nothing he cannot do. Up here, perching in the sky, anything will be possible. He will climb to a standing position and take hold of the ropes, thrusting his hips back and forth. Slowly his movements will begin to move the trapeze. People will start a slow clap, as the swings get higher and higher, until he is rocketing back and forth across the air. Now he will be able to see Sue frowning – they will have gone over his repertoire and this will not be something she is expecting. There will be other looks of concern too, as the karabiners holding the ropes let out pained screeches each time the trapeze passes beneath them. Then there will be a collective gasp of amazement as at the height of the back swing he suddenly lets go of the ropes and hops off the trapeze, dropping down to catch the bar with both hands. As the crowd begins to applaud he will feel the wind roaring in his ears and it will feel as if every care he has ever had is falling away beneath him.

  Then, as he soars forward and raises his legs, he will find himself looking straight into the eyes of the clown, standing at the front of the audience beside a group of wide-eyed toddlers. Once again he will have that sensation of understanding, as if the clown can somehow see right inside him. Jethro will be shouting something, he will realise, but whatever it is it will be lost to the wind and the applause. He will break his gaze away, tensing every muscle in his body, and concentrate on his arc towards the sky.

  At the height of his swing he will drive his body up and over the bar and release it, feeling himself fly through the air, propelled as if by sheer force of will. He will hear a collective gasp from below, and a burst of whoops and screams. He will twist violently to his left and will feel the ropes against his feet for a split second before one of his ankles fails to catch and he begins to fall. Somewhere in the spiralling vista he will glimpse the bar and will reach for it. Even as the trapeze disappears above him he will reach, straining every muscle in his body, fingertips clawing at air, refusing to admit defeat.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my agent Peter Buckman for his boundless enthusiasm and perseverance.

  Thank you to my editor Michael Fishwick for his incisive notes and suggestions, and to Anna Simpson, Katherine Fry, Alexa von Hirschberg, Alexandra Pringle and everyone at Bloomsbury.

 
Thank you (as always) to Mum, Dad, Tamsin and Seraphina for their support.

  Thank you to Dawn King, Hannah Barton and Jackie Le for all their advice and encouragement over the time this book was written.

  And thank you to Raphael Smith – you helped me more than you know.

  A Note on the Author

  WILL DAVIS is the author of two novels, My Side of the Story, which won the Betty Trask Prize 2007, and Dream Machine. He has trained as an aerialist and specialises in corde lisse (rope), tissu (silks) and static trapeze. He lives in London.

  By the Same Author

  My Side of the Story

  Dream Machine

  Also available by Will Davis

  My Side of the Story

  Winner of the Betty Trask Award

  ‘A coming-of-age tale that combines the coolness of Queer as Folk with the tenderness of Adrian Mole’ Elle

  So what if your parents hate each other and want you to have therapy?

  So what if your holier-than-thou sister (aka The Nun) and her posse have decided you’re going to hell?

  So what if the school tyrant and his goons are hunting you down, or if your best friend has just outed you to a neo-Nazi?