Diary entry 14
Okay, I screwed up.
Reporting Sorsha Neary to the police was a bad idea, I admit that. Doesn’t it mean something, that I’m big enough to admit I was wrong?
I just wish my whole trapeze team hadn’t been there during practise. Sorsha didn’t have to confront me like that–she could’ve at least had the decency to have the conversation in private. I didn’t know she was going to say all that stuff. I didn’t even know she’d been attacked, or what had happened to her.
I wasn’t thinking about that when I rang the cops. She was bringing the show down–that’s what I was thinking. It wasn’t about me. It was about…
I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.
And then she was one who grabbed me off the net after the trapeze accident.
Shitshitshitshit.
And I can’t believe I’m still keeping a diary, like I’m five years old.
Diary entry 21
Judy refused to serve me in the mess today.
I know–fucking Judy. She used to give me hot chocolate after the late shows when I was twelve. Now she can’t even give me a shitty slice of lasagne. She just wiped her hands on a dish towel and walked off the serving line. I ended up digging out a portion from the pan myself.
This is such bullshit.
Everything I’ve worked for, everything I do, it’s always been about the show. I screw up one time and suddenly I’m persona non grata.
Bull. Shit.
So, getting off the usual rant, there was another accident today. Nothing as serious as the trapeze, but it was a Thing. They had to shut down the mini Ferris wheel overnight. Mitch Gibson got really angry, but Daddy managed to calm him down. Nobody got hurt.
But there are still a few superstitious people in troupe. It’s kind of ridiculous, but now they’re all saying, ‘Wait for number three’. Like it’s some kind of curse. Honestly, I think: a) that’s just fear-
mongering, and b) nobody should be talking like that. Loose lips sink ships.
They’re probably the same loose lips that have made my life such a pain in the ass for the last month. Idiots.
But screw ‘em. If they think I’m gonna buckle just because of a few lousy snubs, they can think again.
Fleur Klatsch is a tough nut to crack.
Diary entry 29
People have no fucking loyalty. At all.
I just wanted to say that.
Diary entry 41
So yeah, I know I’ve been writing in here a lot, but sometimes I just need to…what? Talk to someone?
My god, I’m totally losing it. I’m writing here because I miss company. But it’s not like these pages can talk back.
Oh, forget it.
There was another accident, so now people can stop whispering behind their hands about the curse of threes. Again, no casualties. But if Gabriella’s horses had gotten out onto the roadway in the back of the showground, anything could’ve happened. She was super stressed, of course. I would’ve been, too, if they were mine. And she insists that she did the evening lock-up routine like normal, so it was probably just that she pulled the stable gate closed and it didn’t latch. No harm, no foul.
I don’t know why I’m feeling sorry for Gabriella anyway. She’s been a complete bitch about the Sorsha thing for months.
But I’m starting to see the good side of all this. It’s made me a tougher person. I’ve grown a thicker skin. And I’ve become more self-reliant, which I guess is a positive thing? Daddy’s been using our extra time together to bring me up to speed on management details, so I’m really useful now. He’s handed over some of the book-keeping to me, because I’m better at numbers and always have been. He’s still got executive orders on everything else, but if I can prove myself, that might change.
I think he’s getting sick of the sound of my voice, though.
Fuck, I’m so lonely.
Diary entry 47
Okay, the trial is over. Sorsha was exonerated, and Colm, too.
I’m glad for them–no, really, I’m glad. What happened to Sorsha was…something I never, ever want to experience. She’s gutsy. And she’s been one of the only people who hasn’t ignored me for the last nine weeks.
The publicity around the trial has been good for the show. Sorry, that sounds awful. But it’s meant Daddy hasn’t been dodging journalists about the accidents we’ve had. I’m grateful for that.
I’m grateful for everything, lately. Getting served in the mess again? Grateful. Someone saying hello on the midway? Grateful. Dee making eye contact with me during flying practise? Grateful.
Jesus.
I’m just a little ball of humility these days.
Diary entry 50
Okay, people are talking to me again.
It’s weird that I feel so relieved about it. I should be stronger than that. I don’t know. Maybe I’m not strong. Maybe I’m just a big marshmallow inside. Not that I can say that. Daddy needs me right now, so I don’t have time to think about it too much, thank god.
There’s been a new accident.
It was just a small thing–a curtain had blown over onto one of the lighting generator units. And the ground around it was wet, which might have been because of the rain we had tonight. But if the ring manager hadn’t seen it, someone could’ve been electrocuted.
I mean, this is serious. This isn’t about curses of three, or mechanical problems. No show has this many accidents in such a short space of time. We’re having a meeting about it tonight. I’m not sure what a meeting will accomplish, but at least we can say we had a meeting.
I’ll keep updating.
‘You okay, Pumpkin? It’s nearly ten-thirty.’ My father passes me a mug of black tea.
‘Thanks.’ I take the mug with the hand I’m not using to thumb through the pages in my lap. ‘Yeah, I’m good.’
My performance slap is all washed off, and I changed out of my trapeze costume and into jeans and a sweatshirt an hour ago. I used to sit up until midnight after a show, playing on my phone–now I do paperwork with a calculator balanced on one knee. But I’m okay with it. Happy about it, in fact.
‘I’ve checked all the payslip accounts from Monday, I’m just going through the bills.’ I tap my finger against the piece of paper that’s bothering me. ‘This invoice for costume fabric and notions, have we paid that yet? There’s no receipt to match it.’
‘Show me?’ Daddy extends a hand. He’s still in his rockstar black jeans and a black button-down shirt, although he’s ditched his pea coat. ‘Ah, okay. Eugenia paid that out of her own pocket, so we have to reimburse her. She’ll have the receipt.’
‘Okay, I’ll ask her about it when she arrives.’
‘Yep, she and Mitch should be coming…’ He checks the clock on the van wall. ‘Anytime now. You need something to eat before the meeting? I’m snacking.’
‘Nah, I’m good.’
My father wanders to the mini-fridge and grabs a tub of dip, then snaffles the bag of corn chips from the pantry. Daddy is naturally skinny–hollow legs, he calls it–and he’s always running on nervous energy, so he can guts up whenever it suits him. If I could eat whatever I wanted like that, I’d be having chocolate cake for breakfast. Probably wouldn’t be able to fit on the trapeze afterwards, though. Ah, the injustice of the universe.
I do a quick check around the inside of the van: there’s no clothes lying abandoned on furniture and everything is reasonably tidy, except for my open folder of papers on the coffee table. We’re acceptable for company. And it’s only Eugenia and Mitch Gibson, who’ve seen our place when it’s a whirlwind, so I don’t need to fuss.
If it were just up to Dad, we’d be buried under an avalanche of mess. But I’ve been, uh, spending more time at home lately, which means that housework has been getting done. Hooray for me.
When the knock on the van door comes, I let Dad get it while I stack the papers.
‘I brought peanuts.’ Eugenia’s voice has a smoky, older-woman’s mellow tone that I envy. ‘I know it’s a bit clichéd, but it was that or popcorn, and I didn’t have the wherewithal
to cook tonight.’
‘You didn’t have to bring anything,’ Daddy points out. ‘But it’ll go with the whisky, so that’s just fine. Can I pour you one?’
‘Please.’
‘Come on in. A double with ice?’
‘Sounds perfectly adequate.’ Eugenia steps into the van holding the bag of peanuts, her hem swirling around her calves.
She’s wearing a classic, forties-style swing dress tonight, in navy blue. The wide belt nips her waist, and her ballet
slippers show off her ankles. Her goatee is waxed and curled, and her short, dark hair is swept back. She looks immaculate, even at this time of night, but as the show’s costumer she has an image to maintain. Plus, I know Eugenia just gets off on glamour.
‘Fleur, how are you?’ She flips her black shawl over the back of an armchair before settling herself there.
‘Good, thanks.’ I smile as I put the folder on top of the others on the table, push the pile to one side. ‘Give me those peanuts, I’ll put them in a bowl.’
‘That would be highly civilised.’ She grins up at me and winks as she hands me the bag. I know she hates to cook, so peanuts are her best attempt at being a polite houseguest. ‘Are you doing the accounts? I have a receipt for you, back in the Airstream.’
‘Oh, cool, I was going to ask you about that.’
‘I can fetch it for you if you like,’ she offers.
‘Not now–you just got here. I’ll grab it off you
tomorrow.’
‘Excellent, thank you.’
Eugenia’s usually all cool, no-nonsense attitude and direct talk, which some people find as off-putting as her beard. But I’ve known Eugenia all my life–she’s the same age as my Dad–so I’m used to her style. If I want comfort and fun, I go to Dad. If I want fashion or personal advice, I go to Eugenia. She’s been one of the few constants in this crazy circus life, and one of the few people I know I can really count on.
I’m particularly grateful for the conversation we had two and a half months ago, when the ‘ignoring’ stuff started. She pulled me aside and gave it to me straight. Told me she knew what I’d done, turning Sorsha in to the police, and she was seriously displeased. But she also didn’t approve of the fact that I’d been sent to Coventry by everyone on the show.
‘I don’t believe in that kind of thing,’ she’d explained, one hand on her hip. ‘My feeling is always that the best course of action is frank and honest discussion. So don’t expect me to stick up for you. But if you need to talk, my door is always open.’
I never took advantage of her offer, but I appreciated her speaking to me personally. And…sometimes it was just the knowledge that I could go to her, if I was really desperate, that got me through.
So I make sure Dad’s topped up her glass with plenty of ice before I bus the glass and the bowl of peanuts back to the coffee table. The table is getting crowded–our van is big, but it’s still a van, and all our furniture is compact–so I move the pile of folders to a shelf beside the kitchen bench as Dad puts his dip-and-chips combo amongst the rest of the offerings.
‘We’re still waiting for Mitch,’ Dad says, sinking onto the couch and sipping his own drink. His hand twitches towards the pouch of rolling tobacco in his breast pocket, I notice, but he doesn’t get it out. Over the last few months, with me spending so much time at home, I’ve weaned him off smoking indoors. It’s a huge relief, because I’ve been putting up with it for years, and the smell is disgusting.
Eugenia shrugs. ‘Mitch’ll be here shortly, he’s got further to walk from the mech yard.’
‘Any early thoughts?’
‘I have thoughts,’ she admits, ‘but I’ll save them. Are you happy with the way the new acrobatic routine is shaping up?’
Daddy nods. ‘Yep, I’m good with it. Lee’s a smart guy. Annie is out now until the baby’s born, so working on that feature with Ren is a good move. And Fabian and Clare and Vi will have another earner with it, so everyone wins. It should be ready to run by Friday.’
‘What about Colm Mackay’s spot?’
Daddy whistles. ‘Man, that kid is dynamite. Our receipts have gone up nearly ten percent since we brought him onstage.’
‘I have a hunch I know why.’ Eugenia smiles.
I know why, too. Colm Mackay is Sorsha’s boyfriend, and he’s smoking hot. He’s a strength performer, and does a solo routine with long silks suspended from the gantry at the tilt, but honestly, he could stand in the ring and recite the phone book and we’d still see a spike in ticket sales. If I didn’t know Sorsha would scratch my eyes out just for looking, I’d tap that boy in a heartbeat.
‘I can’t believe I–’ Daddy starts, then pauses when
another knock comes.
Mitch lets himself in, still in his coveralls. I’ve only ever seen him wear jeans or coveralls, so no surprises there. ‘Hey. Sorry to make you all wait.’
Dad waves him over. ‘No problem, we were just shooting the shit. Grab a drink and come on over.’
I get a nod from Mitch as I head for the kitchen and find him a beer. Mitch Gibson is older than my father, stocky and square-jawed. He looks exactly like what he is, a working mechanic, but you’d be nuts if you thought that was all he did around the show.
He scratches through his cropped grey hair, takes his beer and a seat. ‘Thanks, Fleur.’
‘No problems tonight?’
I ask it lightly, but his eyebrows bunch together and his voice is growly as a handsaw. ‘Nothing tonight. But I guess we should talk about that.’
‘Ye-ah.’ My father exhales heavily. ‘Okay, so that’s the order of business, I guess. What do you think, Mitch?’
‘What I think is, someone’s pulling our chain.’ Mitch takes a slug from his beer and eases back in his spot on the other end of the couch from my Dad. ‘I checked the curtain and the rigging from the last ‘accident’, and I don’t reckon we can keep calling them accidents anymore.’
Mitch is the engineering genius who keeps this whole operation running. Dad hired him seven years ago, when we were forming a permanent site, and Klatsch’s Karnival hasn’t looked back since. If Mitch says something’s serious, I believe him.
‘So someone is deliberately sabotaging the show.’
Eugenia sums it up in that one word: sabotage. It’s not a word I like the sound of, and going by the expression on
Eugenia’s face, she’s none too happy, either.
‘Looks like it.’ Mitch nods. ‘Terry, I’ve double checked the Ferris works, the latches on the stables, and all the
trapeze net rigging from the first accident, too…’
I shiver. The trapeze net accident is something I was
personally involved in, and if Colm and the other strength artists hadn’t come to the rescue, I would’ve fallen thirty feet to the ring floor. That would’ve been it. Squashed-Flat Fleur. It’s not something I enjoy thinking about, and I hate the idea of somebody else getting hurt–or killed–in another mishap.
But Mitch is still talking. ‘…and it’s tough, cos there’s no obvious signs of tampering on anything. It all just looks like mechanical failure. But I don’t think we should go on fooling ourselves that this is just coincidence. Four near-misses in two and a half months? Those are betting odds.’
‘And I generally prefer to play the odds,’ my father says with a considering nod. ‘Okay, so there’s a few things we need to think about, amiright?’
‘The primary concern should be keeping the performers and workers safe.’ Eugenia lays it out firmly.
‘Yep, that’s number one. So we’ll need a crew to go through gear and rigging and set-ups, and do a thorough check just before showtime.’
‘That’s going to take hours, if we do it before every performance,’ I point out.
‘No kidding.’ Mitch leans forward and helps himself to peanuts. ‘And I’m gonna need to round up some people to assist with that.’
Eugenia purses her lips. ‘We could ask all the performers to do a self-check, before they go on?’
Dad shakes his head. ‘I don’t want to make people nervous. I mean, we could say it’s just a new regulation or something, but people will wonder. And not everyone can self-check–trapeze artists can’t check the gantry and the rigging, for instance. That needs to be done by someone who knows the set-up.’
‘I could probably organise a half dozen mech guys to do a sweep before showtime,’ Mitch concedes. ‘I’d be assuming they were trustworthy, though.’
Eugenia clinks the ice around in the glass, and finally voices the fear all of us share but are too worried to speak aloud. ‘Do you think someone on the show is responsible?’
‘I don’t know.’ Dad sighs again. ‘I hate that idea. But…’
‘Better safe than sorry,’ Mitch agrees. ‘Terry, I’ll vet all the people working sweeps. Just use folks who I know are completely solid.’
Eugenia sees my face. ‘Are you all right, Fleur?’
I settle myself on the arm of the couch, near my father. ‘Yeah, I just…It’s hard to get my head around.’
Eugenia nods, and we all contemplate it.
The whole concept–that someone on the show could be deliberately trying to hurt people, and bring the show down–unsettles my world. Circus is about trust. You have to trust that the rigging will support you, that your fellow performers will look out for you, that management will take care of your well-being. Without trust, you can’t put fear aside. Mastering fear is the only way some of us can do the things we do. You can’t climb up to that trapeze platform and swing out over the abyss if you don’t feel completely certain the net will catch you if you fall–that wouldn’t just be foolhardy, it’d be suicidal.
I mean, I’ve been given the cold shoulder by the crew for the last two and a half months because people felt that I’d betrayed a trust. That’s why they punished me. There’s a code, and I broke it. I’ve had to work hard to restore people’s faith. It’s that simple, and that important.
So the idea that we can’t trust people on the show? Freaky as fuck.
Our meeting breaks up half an hour later–Mitch has agreed to organise crew members who can do a pre-show sweep, starting tomorrow night, and Eugenia will keep her ear to the ground and try to manage the rumour-mongering. I’m going to go through personnel files, to check who we’ve taken on recently, and see if that turns up anything.
Dad will just…continue being Dad. The Troupe Leader-slash-Ringmaster role is about keeping morale high and making us all feel like a community, as well as steering the show behind the scenes. Dad will stay visible, chat to people on the ground, and make sure we’re all one big happy family.
Someone in the family might be a psycho with a vengeance problem. But I guess every family has issues? Sheesh.
I pull on my sleeping shorts and tank, and crawl into bed just before midnight, thinking Deep Thoughts about the show and my role in it. On the one hand, my inclusion in
tonight’s talk is a sign that Dad’s giving me more responsibility, which is something I’ve wanted for a long time. I’m nineteen and I feel ready. Joining in the discussion with Eugenia and Mitch and my father was very cool. I mean, it was basically a central management committee meeting, so that makes me part of central management.
On the other hand, the issue we were discussing chills my blood.
Sabotage. I don’t want to believe it. But talking about it tonight has made it real.
‘How’s it looking from up here?’ Deanna LeMarr’s head pokes out from behind the canvas flap, then the rest of her emerges.
We’re identically dressed, both of us in matching orange flyer’s costumes, with black leather slippers and black ring robes to cover up. Dee is five years older and a head taller than me, though, and we couldn’t look more different: her lean, angular body and hawk-like crop of auburn hair contrasts sharply with my petite curves and sleek, dark up-do. Luke Rogan, our trapeze team leader, says it’s good for the audience, so they can tell who’s who at the tilt.
Dee’s supposed to be down on the lot, getting ready for the parade. I’m currently walking around the rigging on the outside of the candy-striped Spiegeltent, doing a surreptitious check of the ropes and pegs while the pre-show sweep is happening. I don’t know why Dee’s walked up the Parade Road to say hi. Maybe I’m not as surreptitious as I thought.
I turn on a bright smile. ‘It’s fantastic. The parade looks really different from up here.’
‘Yeah, we don’t get to see it from this vantage point so often.’ Dee nods. ‘We’re always in the middle of it.’
I scan down the hill, where the early parade stirrings have begun: acrobats converging at the place where Tinpan Alley and the Parade Road meet, costumed artists carrying equipment. Gabriella won’t bring up the horses until just before we’re due to start. Winston’s tuba will blow, and we’ll all walk together up the incline of the Parade Road, until we reach the canvas tunnel that funnels all performers into the backstage area of the Spiegeltent. And then…
Then, the Greatest Show on Earth will begin.
But that’s an hour away. Right now, Daddy is inside the ring, directing Mitch’s hand-picked team in a thorough check of the equipment and rigging. The view to my right is obscured by the walls of the parade tunnel, but I know that Mitch Gibson is stalking around the front of the tent, checking pegs and touching fence posts as he walks the other side of the perimeter.
‘…so, Luke said that if I was worried about it, I should ask you,’ Dee says, and it’s only when I turn back that I realise I’ve missed the first part of her sentence.
I can’t really fudge it. I squint in apology. ‘I’m sorry, Dee, can you say that again? It’s my bad, I wasn’t concentrating.’
Dee bites her lip, then seems to give in. ‘Okay, it’s just…I was talking to Luke about the trapeze accident.’
‘Oh. Right.’ If I wasn’t attentive before, I am now. My insides bristle whenever this subject comes up.
‘I mean, it’s over and it’s fine, and I wasn’t even
involved–’
‘Hey, you were involved. You were up there on that platform, too.’
‘I guess.’ She shrugs. ‘And sure, we’ve talked about it since. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable that I keep bringing it up…’
‘I don’t mind talking about it.’ I make my voice reassuring to hide the lie. ‘Dee, I wouldn’t have been able to go back up to the tilt if we hadn’t spent some time debriefing.’
Her cheeks go pink. ‘I know. But it occurred to me the other day that you haven’t had as much opportunity to
debrief as the rest of us.’
She’s talking about how I was shut out of conversations only a few days after the accident. Once word got around about what I’d done–my stupid ‘anonymous’ tip-off–only a handful of people on the show wanted to have anything to do with me. Luke still treated me like normal. Rueben
Sullivan, our other team-mate, was okay. Eugenia stated her case, and my father supported me. Even Sorsha herself made an effort to include me.
But Dee was angry. She and Sorsha have gotten along well from the start, and I think she considered my screw-up to be a very personal betrayal. It’s only in the last few weeks that Dee’s been meeting my eyes and addressing me personally, except for when we’re mid-routine. Is this her way of saying she’s sorry?
‘I’m not apologising,’ she says firmly.
Oh. Okay then.
‘But I do wish you’d been more included in the discussions about the accident after it happened,’ she goes on. ‘I feel bad you didn’t have a chance to vent.’
‘Honestly, I’m fine. I did my venting with Daddy,
mainly.’ I’m okay about not ‘debriefing’. I didn’t feel like talking about it then, and I still don’t.
‘Oh. That’s good, then.’ She shifts on her feet, looking a little awkward.
‘I’m really okay, Dee.’ I don’t want her to still feel like I’m holding a grudge. We’ve had our issues, but that time has passed. ‘Sure, the last few months have been tough, but hey, I deserved that. I messed up, and I took my licks, and it’s over now. I’ve chalked it up as…a learning experience.’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear that. But, y’know, I still get
anxious when I’m performing,’ Dee admits. She looks at the ground. ‘The accident made me a little nervous, I guess.’
‘You still get nervous when we’re flying?’ I can’t hide my surprise; Dee always seems so steady, so relaxed in the air.
‘Yeah.’ She shrugs. ‘And there’ve been other accidents–the Ferris, Gabi’s horses…’
‘Everything’s okay,’ I say quickly, reassuring. ‘Look, Dad and Gibson have organised a complete systems check before every performance, from tonight onwards. They’re doing the first sweep right now. There won’t be another trapeze accident–or any other sort of accident. Not if we can help it.’
‘They’re checking all the rigging?’ Dee looks hopeful now.
‘Absolutely.’ I make my voice solid. I hate the thought of her flying if she’s still feeling afraid.
Just as I think that, Sorsha Neary walks around from the tunnel-side of the tent. She’s tiny, a pocket Venus with a cloud of red-gold curly hair, but you wouldn’t want to underestimate her. She might look like a Kewpie doll, in her makeup and corseted trapeze costume, but Sorsha’s tough as they come.
‘Are they done yet?’ Sorsha knows what’s going on, because Colm is one of the guys Mitch tagged to do the sweep. ‘Cars are already arriving in the parking area.’
‘The rousting crew will direct people onto the midway. I think we’ll need another half hour or so.’ Patrons won’t be allowed inside the tent before the sweep is finished. I turn back to Dee. ‘Hey, why don’t you come inside and have a look? We’re keeping the sweep under wraps right now, mainly because we don’t want people to get anxious. But come in, see what they’re doing in the tent. It might make you feel better.’
Maybe the sight of the sweep team at work will put Dee’s fears to rest. I wave her and Sorsha to join me as I slip back through the tent flap into the backstage area, to see how Dad’s getting on.
We’re on the far right-hand side of the tent, farthest from the tunnel, and this wing is quiet and dark. The backstage area here is cluttered with equipment, a mass of cables and props, some in storage and some in preparation for the show. For the first time, I realise what an enormous task a thorough pre-show systems check actually is.
‘A complete check of all this?’ Dee is obviously thinking along the same lines. ‘That’ll take hours!’
‘Well, they’ve been at it since three.’ Sorsha trails behind Dee, who’s only a few steps behind me as we pick our way towards the ring entrance. ‘It should be all wrapped up before the parade.’
‘Mitch and the team did the outside and the midway, now Dad should be…’ We reach the wing curtain, and I peer through, tracking the sound of voices. ‘Yep, there they are.’
I can’t help smiling–Dad is stalking around the ring, calling out instructions to the guys as he keeps an eye on a rigger in the gantry. He looks a little tired: maybe I’m the only one who’s noticed a touch of extra shadow in the grooves of wear on his face, around his eyes and mouth. But he looks as if he has everything under control. Somehow my father manages to juggle every aspect of the circus’s daily running, from handling admin and personalities to dealing with hiccups like this.
‘Good stuff. Terry’s got them all scurrying.’ Sorsha grins, her eyes locked on Colm’s fair head and ginormous shoulders as he trawls over the left-hand bleachers with two other crew members, checking bolts and seat connections.
I turn my head to look over at Dee, who’s peering out at the action in the ring. ‘Does that make you feel a bit better?’
‘Yes.’ She glances at me, her shoulders and face visibly relaxing as she exhales. ‘Actually, that makes a huge difference. Thank you.’
‘No problem.’
Maybe more folks are feeling the strain of these
‘accidents’ than we thought. Maybe it would make people feel more at ease if we told them about the sweeps after all. I table that idea so I can talk to Dad about it later, and step out of the curtain shadow towards my father.
He spots me approaching and tears his attention away from the gantry. ‘Pumpkin! Hey, what are you doing here?’
‘Just wanted to let you know the outside is all finished.’ I watch the gantry with him. ‘They’re letting cars into the lot, so the midway will be filling up soon. And Mitch is just walking the front perimeter and then checking the carpark, so he should be in here soon to help you.’
Dad’s eyebrows lift. ‘Great, I need all the help I can get. Did you see how nuts things are backstage? Half the gear we checked there needs to be dragged down to the mech yard.’
‘So, along with systems-checking, you’re de-cluttering? You’re using the Kondo method, I hope.’ I give him a grin.
‘Absolutely.’ Dad scrunches a hand at the back of his neck, grimacing as he keeps his gaze aimed high. ‘Anything that doesn’t bring me joy is going straight to landfill. So is the parade forming up? Do I need to show my face yet?’
‘You’re good, you’ve got maybe half an hour–’ I start, but Dad’s been distracted by something up on the bleachers.
‘Zep! Hey, back up,’ he calls. ‘Did you check the seats on the top levels?’
Zep Deal, one of the younger mech guys, looks up quickly from the seats he’s checking halfway up the level. His voice echoes in the empty auditorium. ‘Not yet, Mr Klatsch. I’m going row by row, right?’
‘Yeah, that’s right, but–’ Dad makes a frustrated noise, then claps me on the shoulder. ‘One second, honey.’ He starts towards the bleachers, speaking as he goes. ‘Zep, we need to check over and under…’
I stay where I am, my attention split between my father and the experienced older rigger who’s checking connections nearly forty feet above us. He’s secured to the top poles with a rappelling harness. I still don’t like the idea of anyone climbing that high without a spotter.
‘Fleur, is there anything we can do?’ Sorsha calls in a stage-whisper from the wing curtain, where she and Dee are still watching the action.
I shake my head and stage-whisper back. ‘Nah, don’t think so. This is just the boring stuff. Do you and Dee
wanna head back to the parade? Once the tilt is done, I’ll–’
My reply is interrupted by the sound of Colm Mackay projecting his voice. ‘Uh, Mr Klatsch, hang on a minute.’
‘Yeah, what’s up?’ Dad has spoken to Zep, and walked up the next set of stairs, to the highest level of the neighbouring set of bleachers. Now he’s standing near the backboards behind the very top seats–the eyrie seats. They’re really the worst seats in the house, as they’re furthest from the ring, although the view isn’t bad from that height. Dad’s voice has the slightest edge. ‘You find something down there, Colm?’
‘No, sir.’ I think Colm could be the politest guy I’ve ever met. ‘But we’re going set to set, and I haven’t checked the poles under that set of bleachers. You might wanna wait to climb up there until we’ve had a good look at–’
And that’s when I hear it: the creaking groan of metal. My head turns so fast I crick my neck. It still takes a second for my brain to catch up to what I’m seeing.
The top tier of the centre set of bleachers is swaying.
It’s just the slightest movement. But nothing should be moving on those bleachers–they’ve got to support thirty people per level, they have to be rock solid.
Swaying is bad. Swaying means that something is deeply, structurally wrong. And if my father is up there, adding extra weight–
I don’t think about it. I bolt for the bleachers.
‘Daddy.’ My voice is all breath. I clear my throat and call out again as I run. ‘Daddy!’
‘Mr Klatsch!’ Colm’s voice rings out again, but my eyes are soldered to my father.
Alarm and fear and anger ripple across Dad’s face as he grips the scaffolding poles nearest him. He’s trying to comprehend what’s happening. And I can tell from his expression he’s working out how to get down without tipping the invisible scale that will make the whole structure collapse.
But that’s not all he’s thinking about.
‘Fleur, stay there!’ His right hand extends, palm towards me.
I hear Sorsha’s voice. ‘Fleur, come back!’
But I’m not concerned with anything now except Dad. I’m nearly at the base of the centre bleachers, skirting fake boulders set up around the edges of the ring for the performance. I push over chairs, straining towards him–
‘Wait.’ A hand grabs my shoulder, then a lean body gets in front of me. ‘Fleur, wait, it’s not safe–’
‘Zep, get out of my way!’
‘No, Fleur. You can’t go up there, the weight–’
‘Daddy!’ I shriek. I thump Zep’s chest. I don’t care about safety, I don’t care about any of that. I just want my father down.
‘Fleur, it’s okay.’ Daddy’s hand is still forward, he’s standing braced where he is on the gently tilting scaffolding. His face is almost apologetic. ‘I’m coming down, okay? Stay there, Pumpkin. Zep’s right, you can’t come up here.’
How can this be happening? The sweep team was supposed to find any potential disasters and fix them before they caused harm. It never occurred to me that this might put the team in danger themselves. Now my father is standing on a teetering pile of unstable scaffolding, and I can’t do anything about it.
Hot tears pool behind my lashes. I haven’t felt this helpless since I was ten years old, and it makes my voice crack. ‘Daddy, you come down right now!’
‘Let me up there!’ Colm pushes past me and Zep, and practically vaults up to the top tier of the neighbouring set of bleachers. He has a thick coil of rappelling rope fisted in one hand, and he plays out cord quickly, casting around for other faces, raising his voice. ‘Archie, find Mitch Gibson now. Everybody else, stay the hell away!’
Archie Carsisi sprints from the tent like he’s been shot from a gun. The other members of the sweep crew stand in place as if they’re glued to the floor. All their faces are turned towards the centre bleachers, their expressions
horrified.
Colm looks back to my father, the two of them only a few metres apart but separated by a gulf of air. Colm’s projected words are calm, firm. ‘Okay, Mr Klatsch, listen up, now. I’m gonna throw this over, and you’re gonna tie it around your waist. You got that?’
‘Sounds good,’ Daddy says lightly.
‘Okay, here we go. Don’t try to catch it. Just wait for it to come to you.’
‘Whenever you’re ready,’ Daddy says. There’s a tremble in his voice. I make an agonised groan, and Zep squeezes my shoulder. My whole body is shaking now.
Colm spins a lasso of rope once, twice…then casts it across the void. Every person in the Spiegeltent seems to hold their breath.
The rope goes exactly where it’s supposed to–it catches right over the rail beside my father…and stays.
My relieved gasp comes out like a sob.
Daddy releases his death-grip on the scaffolding so he can reach for the rope. He moves carefully, so carefully.
‘Make a couple of loops around yourself,’ Colm calls
encouragingly.
‘Got it.’ Daddy glances at Colm as he untangles the lasso. He’s trying to work fast but smooth, no sudden movements. ‘Son, when this is over, remind me to give you a raise–’
And that’s when the top tier of bleachers collapses
under my father like a house of cards.
Ellie Marney is a teacher and author of YA fiction, best known for her YA romantic crime trilogy, the Every series (Every Breath, Every Word, Every Move), and the companion novel, No Limits. Ellie promotes and advocates for Australian YA literature through #LoveOzYA, runs #LoveOzYAbookclub online, and has contributed to the highly awarded Begin End Begin: A #LoveOzYA Anthology. Her fifth book for young people, White Night, was released in March 2018, and the Circus Hearts series came out in the same year. She lives near Castlemaine, Australia, with her partner (also a teacher) and their four sons.
Find Ellie online:
Website: www.elliemarney.com
Twitter: @elliemarney
Facebook: Ellie Marney
Instagram: @elliemarney
Also by Ellie Marney:
Begin End Begin: A #LoveOzYA Anthology
Circus Hearts 1: All The Little Bones
Acknowledgements
Thank you, first of all, to the readers. Without all of you, I’m just shouting in the dark!
Big ups to every single person who has supported me through the writing and creation of the CIRCUS HEARTS series: the women of the Vault, the women of the Sub-Binder, friends and buddy writers from retreat, friends from Castlemaine and surrounds.
My most heartfelt thanks to Alison Croggon, who is a rock. These books were made possible with the help of Lucy Marney. The covers are by Debra Billson, who is bloody awesome.
Special thanks and gratitude to Diem Nguyen, Lauren Rosenberg, Angelique Gouvas, Andy Johnston and Adeline Johnston. Shout outs and hugs to Amie, Jay, Cat, Kylie, Sarah and Lucy.
It was only possible to write these books because of the eternal love and patience of my family. Geoff, Ben, Alex, Will, Ned – love you all xx.
Notes on the language
Travelling show folk have their own slang, called ‘parlari’ or ‘parlyari’, which is a mixture of vocabulary from a number of different language groups in Europe and the Mediterranean. The parlari in these books is taken directly from the ‘shelta’, ‘cant’ or ‘gammon’ of traditional Irish tinkers, which was freely adapted for use in circus slang. Cant (or ‘jib’ in parlari), like all traveller’s slang, is part of a long heritage of private language used by traders, sailors, circus and fairground people, and others – the common thread of a population that is traditionally itinerant, lower class, and requiring a language unintelligible to outsiders.
Most circus and fairground people consider the term ‘carnies’ a pejorative, and prefer the term ‘show folk’.