We spend another night in the tent. I don’t dream. I wake up at different times to check on Colm instead, plying him with mug after mug of hot tea.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ he croaks, huddled in his sleeping bag with a hoodie.
‘I do.’ He’s chilled and hoarse-voiced. I don’t think he’s seriously hurt, but I don’t feel comfortable leaving him alone. ‘I’m still worried about your throat. And I’m wondering how much water you swallowed.’
‘It was my fault.’ He closes his eyes. ‘I wanted to go swimming–’
‘I was swimming, too.’
‘I climbed on you, I nearly drowned you–’
‘Nobody drowned.’ I hold up the mug for him to take. ‘It’s a normal thing, what you did. You hear about it all the time. It’s normal to react on instinct when you’re scared of dying.’
Colm looks at me through bloodshot eyes. ‘Is that how you reacted? Were you scared of dying, when that guy attacked you?’
It’s very warm in the tent, with the lantern on. I don’t speak for a second.
‘Yes,’ I say finally.
Colm’s hands are cupped around his mug ‘What you did was an accident, same as me.’
‘He screamed, Colm. In the dog trap. I–’
‘Sorsha.’ He won’t let me look away. ‘Don’t take it on, mate. Truly. It was justice, what you did.’
I sit back on my sleeping bag. My palms are sweaty. ‘Okay. You should drink that, and then we should get some sleep.’
I know Colm’s right. It makes sense, what he’s saying. It doesn’t feel true, though, and nothing anybody says can make it different. Nothing that Morrighan and the others do to distract the police will change it. Going to a new troupe, evading the investigation in the north, none of that makes me feel better.
I killed a man. I pushed him into Tadgh’s dog trap, and he died screaming. Bringing another man back to life this afternoon doesn’t cancel out what I’ve done. Somehow, it just makes me feel worse.
Next morning, I give Colm an extra hour to lie in before bothering him. He’s not coughing anymore, and his voice is coming good. Against my advice to stay put and rest, he gets a ride into Eden with the camper who lent him the buckets and comes back mid-afternoon with the car.
‘I think we should just drive straight through.’ His voice is still hoarse. ‘We could be at the fairground by midnight if we push it. Then we’ll have proper bunks, and some decent food.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know if you should be driving that much so soon. What if you get sick? What if you–’
‘I’m not getting sick. I’m fine.’
‘Hey, I’m riding in the car, too.’
‘Seriously, Sorsh, I’m fine. I look fine, don’t I?’
I scrutinise him. ‘Your eyes are still bloodshot.’
‘We can’t go too much longer on our cash.’ He shoves his hands in his pockets and faces me. ‘The car repair cost us. We can afford the fuel to the city, but our wallet is almost empty. The longer we stay on the road, the more expenses we have…’
‘Oh.’
‘Come on, Sorsh. Don’t you wanna just get there? Then we can relax.’
I think about it. ‘Okay. But if you get tired, especially after nightfall, we stop and take a break. No arguments–yesterday you nearly drowned, and today you want to do a driving marathon. Tell me when you need to rest, you can kip in the back of the car by the side of the highway. I don’t care if we’re even an hour away from the fairground, I don’t care. But if we have an accident, Morry will kill me.’
‘I promise I’ll tell you if I start flagging,’ he says. ‘Pinky swear.’
I turn to him, square-on. ‘Colm, what are you gonna do, once we get to the city?’
He looks at me, mouth open. Then his face alters, like he was going to say something but he’s changed his mind. He looks back at the campground.
‘Dunno,’ he says. ‘I’ll figure something out.’
It’s nine hours on the road to the city, and we pull over twice–to use the kazi, to eat and make coffee. Colm seems to be travelling okay. I don’t want him staggering in when we meet this new troupe. Too much depends on us being fit and ready to blend seamlessly with the routines of a different carnival.
I don’t want the driving to take longer, but I wish we had more time. Once we arrive, it’ll be all action. After a few days’ rest, we’ll be expected to pull our weight. Colm’s weight is going to be heavier because he’s not walking into a job, and because he always seems to be the one pulling more weight anyway. He’s a strongman, after all.
These last few days have given me and Colm a chance to get to know each other properly. I mean, we know each other–you can’t live in troupe without knowing people. Everyone lives in each others’ pockets. You know the layout of peoples’ vans, the food they eat, their manner and personalities, their bad habits. You know who carries a lucky charm when they’re performing. You know who to avoid when there’s some screw-up during a show.
So I know Colm. I was the only troupe member under twenty-five until he was apprenticed to Lorcan three years ago. I know he doesn’t carry a lucky charm, and he eats like there’s no tomorrow. I know he’s calm, easy-going but not extroverted, dedicated to his craft. I know Lorcan thinks he has talent.
I know Morrighan made it clear he’s to keep out of my way.
She wanted to keep me focused, which I get. And Lorcan kept Colm busy–building up for strength work involves a lot of practice, a lot of concentration. It’s a lifestyle, one that every craft artist develops, and being an apprentice is demanding.
But because of what happened, we’ve been pushed together. We’ve talked more in the last five days than we have in the last three years. I never knew that stuff about his mum. I still don’t know all his history, and that’s okay, but it’s your history that makes you who you are. What he’s told me makes me comfortable around him.
I’m going to miss the hours we’ve spent getting to know each other’s voices, and habits, and stupid jokes. I’m going to miss how it’s been just us. In troupe, there’s no privacy–it’s all shared air.
I won’t miss his pig-headed stubbornness.
‘I’m good. I’m fine.’ He bats my hand away. ‘Stop fussing, you’re worse than Niamh.’
‘You’re a bit warm. We haven’t had a break for four hours, isn’t your arse getting sore?’
‘Leave my arse out of this.’ He slurps lukewarm coffee from his pannikin. ‘It’s another hundred kay, then we’re there. Look, you can see the lights from here.’
‘Those lights are a hundred kay away.’
‘We’ll be there by one. Then we can stretch our legs and crash.’
‘I just don’t want to crash before we arrive.’
‘Ha ha. I’m keen for a bed, Sorsha. A bed with sheets. Don’t you want a bed with sheets?’ His face gets a dreamy look.
I sigh. ‘Yes, I want a bed with sheets. Keep driving then, if you’re gonna be a mule about it.’
We hit the ‘burbs about forty minutes later. Neither of us is interested in taking the CBD route, so Colm charts a course through the outskirts. The last half hour we spend trying to decipher traffic signs, avoiding the wrong turn-off. The lights are much brighter up close. I’ve never worked in a city troupe before.
‘Will we fit in, d’you reckon?’
‘With the southerners?’ Colm peers through the windscreen, shrugs. ‘Shouldn’t be too tricky. It’s the same sort of deal, isn’t it? Just work hard, try not to get in anyone’s way. Keep a low profile.’
‘We’re gonna be the country bumpkins,’ I point out, as we navigate the traffic and massive buildings.
‘So we’ll be the bumpkins. That’ll be a pain for about two weeks, then we’ll just be part of the crew.’
‘Have you worked in the city before?’
‘Couple of times. Just touring, though. Not with a permanent troupe.’
‘Any tips?’
He glances at me, his face weary. ‘Keep your head down. Watch for a while–don’t jump in straight away, wait and get a bead on people. There’s politics, there’s always politics, but just ignore it. Folks will like you if you work hard–folks are always happy with a hard worker. Don’t show off. And don’t lend anyone money.’
‘I don’t have any money,’ I say sadly.
‘Then that’s one less thing to worry about,’ he mutters.
I wonder if the advice he’s giving me is advice he himself was given, maybe by Lorcan, or one of the other people in troupe. Or maybe it’s just something he picked up, learning the hard way when he arrived in our troupe from the west.
Wherever the advice came from, I don’t have too much time to dwell on it. Colm brings the car around a turn, and suddenly I can see the fairground. There’s a high brick wall around the property line, topped by lengths of wire.
‘To keep idiot kids out,’ Colm notes.
Seems unfriendly to me, but then I guess we have the dog traps. They’re not for people, though. Not usually. I don’t want to think about that right now.
In fact, I don’t want to think about it at all anymore. I exhale a deep breath and decide to make that a policy: no more thinking about what happened, no more talking about what happened. Maybe if I do that, it will just…disappear. Like me, disappearing into another circus. Either way, if it’s not in the forefront of my thoughts I’ll be able to put up a better front for the southerners.
We drive off the main road and circle around to the right. The road we’re on veers into a driveway, which comes right up to a massive wooden door in the brick wall. The night is still, but I feel a rumble nearby.
Colm honks the car horn. A spotlight comes on, bouncing off the bonnet and illuminating the car’s interior. My clothes and hands are grubby, I suddenly notice. I should’ve cleaned up a bit before we arrived. Too late now.
The huge door cracks down the middle and shows a black gap as a person walks out, some guy in an undershirt and overalls. Colm winds his window all the way down and leans his head and shoulders out.
‘Hey,’ he calls. ‘We’re the visitors? Colm Mackay and Saoirse Neary, to see Terry– Morrighan sent us.’
Overalls Guy nods and gives us a thumbs-up. He directs us through the door by waving a flashlight, which seems like overkill considering the spotlight is still blazing down. Colm slides back into his seat, puts the car in gear and follows a route through the dark open gap into the fairground. It’s like we’re entering the maw of a giant’s cave. I try not to shiver.
‘All right, here we go,’ Colm whispers, his sandpaper throat making the words sound nervous.
As soon as we’re through the door, the spotlight is gone. My eyes adjust, and I see people moving around in the dark. Overalls Guy waves us onward, down a short road. Other people wave us to the left. The carcass of an enormous midway ride, the Spider, looms further back. Closer, four blokes in workshop coveralls scurry around, and I see sparks fly up from someone using an angle grinder. This is more like it.
‘Evening, folks, just park over there on the left.’ The guy speaking through our window is stocky, older. His coveralls are navy blue, stitched on the breast pocket with his name: Gibson.
Colm follows directions. When he pulls the handbrake and the engine dies, we both sigh, look at each other. I’m not sure if I’m sighing with relief, or sadness, or because I’m glad we’ve arrived.
‘We made it. We’re in the clear.’ Colm’s whole body seems to soften.
‘We’re not clear yet,’ I remind him. I wish I knew when ‘getting clear’ will be something we don’t have to worry about anymore.
He meets my eyes, apparently mustering the last reserves of his energy. ‘Stay close. Don’t talk about stuff with anyone but Terry–he’s the only man in the know about us. Just…act relaxed.’
‘Hey, I’m relaxed,’ I say.
But I’m not. I feel tripwire-ready. Again, this awareness comes back to me that the journey down was the easy part. Now’s when the hard work starts.
Colm reaches for his door handle. I stop him with a hand on his arm. ‘Thank you. For driving all this way–for all of it. I’ll always owe you one.’
He grins, his warm hand covering mine. ‘I think your owies got cancelled out yesterday. But, hey, it’s been a pleasure travelling with you, Sorsha.’
I press my lips, squeeze his fingers. His formality doesn’t seem out of place. This trip has been momentous.
Before I can reply, another voice sounds from outside the car window. ‘Folks, you want to just pop out of the car, now? Nice to meet you, it’d be more friendly in person.’
‘Oh right, sure,’ Colm says, and opens his door.
I get out my side–it’s weird for a second, to be standing on solid ground and not in motion. My feet are heavy in my boots, and I can hear men calling to each other. Walking around the bonnet, I find Colm shaking hands with a tall, rangy man with sandy hair. He’s old–not Desmond-old, but Morrighan-old–and he’s wearing a pair of black jeans with a threadbare T-shirt, a black pea-coat over the top.
‘And here’s the lovely Saoirse,’ he says, smiling and glad-handing me with a chummy grip. ‘Nice to meet you, nice to meet you. Colm was telling me you’ve been going for hours, come and take a load off.’
‘Oh, hi. I was just going to get our stuff out of the–’
I turn for the car, but there are guys swarming over it. Two men are offloading our luggage onto a patch of ground nearby. One of the men slips behind the steering wheel.
‘That’s all sorted,’ my new friend says, ushering me and Colm sideways. ‘The boys will take care of the car, get the luggage in. I’m about to show you to your quarters, and we can have a cuppa before you get some well-earned rest, all right? I’m Terence, by the way, Terry Klatsch. It’s good to know Morrighan still feels she can call on me when she needs a hand.’
When she needs to call in a favour, more like–I can’t think like that, though, I should be more grateful. This guy is helping us out in a big way.
I look up to catch Colm’s eye, but he’s distracted by what’s happening behind us. ‘Hey, what’re they doing with the–’
‘This way, young Colm,’ Terry says in a jolly way, trying to draw him on, but Colm is stopped dead, gazing back. I turn to see.
Our car, the car we drove down in, has been pushed into the bowels of the workshop near the Spider. The boot is open, and people are in the process of removing the wheels. I hear an air compressor start up.
‘That’s my car!’ Colm cries.
‘Yes,’ Terry says consolingly. ‘Well, it was your car. Now it’s a car we’re taking apart.’
‘What are you doing?’ I’m as shocked as Colm–someone is removing the car’s windscreen now.
Terry throws an arm over each of us. ‘It’s a great car, a great car, and I’m sure it’s served you well, amiright? But it’s not a car we want anyone to find now, is it. That’s to say, if certain people, authority-type people, were to come here, or maybe just be visiting on their day off with the family, and they happen to see a car very much like the car you two arrived in, then there could be some awkward questions. I’m not so fond of awkward questions, personally, so I’ve taken the liberty of telling the mech boys to make the car unrecognisable. If it happens that, during this process, the car ceases to be operational–’
‘Ceases to be operational?’ Colm’s eyes are bugging out. ‘You’re junking my car? I saved for two bloody years for that–’
‘Indeed,’ Terry says, ‘and right now, you’re about to be shown your guest quarters, where you’ll be provided with food and drink and shelter for the duration of your stay, yes?’ His eyes take on a certain granite-like hardness. ‘I’m sure you both appreciate the delicacy required in a situation like this, and I know you must be keen for everything to go as smoothly as possible. Mr Mackay, I guarantee you’ll be provided with a vehicle for your personal use whenever you need one in future, okay?’
And that’s the end of the discussion. Colm doesn’t like it, and neither do I, but Terry has just made things abundantly clear: he and his people are the ones taking the risk. If we want sanctuary with his troupe, we have to play by his rules.
‘Now, if you’ll just follow me this way…’
Keeping up the patter, Terry leads us along a roadway, past a couple of unwalled sheds full of things for repair–carousel horses, old vans, a collection of bicycles–and then further. Two of the mech guys are lugging our gear behind us as we walk up the gentle incline. I can’t help but feel that they’re positioned to cut off retreat.
But it’s too late for retreat, anyway: Colm and I are here now. We don’t have any place left to go.
The road is illuminated by electric lampposts that have been designed to look like nineteenth century gas lamps. They’re more decorative than functional: the light they cast is sullen and murky. But it’s by this light that I get my first glimpse of the Spiegeltent. It rises high behind the other buildings, a dark mountain lit from the back by the CBD glow.
Colm’s eyes have tracked in the same direction. We gaze together, then exchange glances. For the first time, I feel like I know where I am.
Terry waves us onward. ‘She certainly is a beauty, isn’t she? Well, you can’t see much at this time of night, but in the morning she’ll be shining like a jewel. Now, you’ll get breakfast in the mess, just here…’
We’ve passed a kazi block and turned right at a T-junction before a cinder block wall. The building Terry’s showing us is a single-storey wooden rectangle that stretches halfway to the next corner. Lights are on inside, even at this hour.
Terry steps up onto the wide verandah running the length of the rectangle, urges us closer. ‘Come on up, that’s it. Let’s grab a quick cuppa, eh? I’m sure we can find you a mug.’
Even though I’m ready to drop with tiredness, Colm and I have no option but to join him. Our porters pause outside with the luggage as we go in.
The inside of the mess is like a school cafeteria, or a truck stop–a long serving area, stacked plates and cups ready for the onslaught of hungry people in the morning. A large urn is set up on a table to one side, with coffee and tea makings.
A girl in tight jeans and a green velvet shirt is sitting at one of the many empty tables, wearing headphones and texting, a mug in front of her. She jumps up when she sees us, throws her arms around Terry. ‘Daddy! Are you coming back to the van soon, cos it’s been hooours.’
‘Pumpkin, you shouldn’t still be up–’ Terry starts, but the girl rides over the top of him.
‘Daddy, you know I can’t sleep after a show, I need to wind down for a while afterwards…Are these the new people? Oh my.’ The girl directs a brilliant smile at Colm, looks me over like I’m a bug on the windscreen. ‘Wow, you’ve had a long trip, huh? Daddy said you’re from the north–I mean, I would love to perform up in the north, it sounds amazing.’
Colm flicks me a glance–nobody except Terry was supposed to know about us–then offers his hand. ‘Yeah, hey, Colm Mackay, nice to meet you. And this is Saoirse Neary.’
The girl takes his hand and shakes, giggling. When I offer my hand, she gives it a cursory flop. ‘Fleur Klatsch–nice of you to join us.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Terry says. ‘Delighted. Now let’s find you both something to warm you up.’
He makes a palava out of upturning two mugs near the urn and hunting for tea bags until I take over, mixing up two hot drinks and ferrying one to Colm.
‘Any messages from Morrighan?’ Terry asks.
Colm clears his throat. ‘Um, no messages. Just, yeah, thanks for bringing us on.’
‘Anything in particular I should know? Although I’m sure I can call her first thing in the morning to sort out all the details…’
‘We’ll work hard, take whatever jobs you’ve got. That’s about it, I think.’ I don’t want to have this conversation now, with Fleur Klatsch sitting at her father’s shoulder, soaking up every word.
But his questions have reminded me: I pull out my phone and send a brief text to Aunt Morry; Arrived safe. Into what, I don’t know.
‘Outstanding.’ Terry glances at his daughter. ‘Two hard workers are always welcome, amiright, Pumpkin?’
Fleur just smiles.
I take a hot swallow from my mug, trying to keep from jigging foot to foot. ‘Uh, Mr Klatsch, is there a kazi block here? It’s just been a long time in the car…’
‘Of course, m’dear, of course! Fleur, could you point the way for young Saoirse?’ Young Saoirse. He makes me sound as if I’m a little kid.
Fleur looks closer to Colm’s age than mine. She unfolds herself from her chair–she has natural grace, and a flexibility that suggests she’s some kind of performer. Acrobatics, maybe, or equestrienne? She could be a flyer, although I hope to god she’s not.
‘Out this door, on the left,’ she says. ‘Just go down the stairs.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ I’m desperately trying not to look as if I’m desperate.
‘Oh, and Saoirse? We don’t really use parlari in this troupe. It’s just ‘the bathroom’.’ She gives me a simpering look.
‘Sure. Right.’ Like hell. I give her a polite nod, dash away.
The kazi is the brick building we passed before, and the toilet seats are freezing. I dash back as fast as I can, not wanting to leave Colm stranded with Terry and Miss Pumpkin. By the time I return, Terry already has Colm out on the verandah, waiting with the long-suffering porters. Colm’s red-eyed with exhaustion. He seems relieved to see me again. I wonder if Terry’s been grilling him for info, what roundabout answers he’s had to supply.
‘You’ll be able to find this place again for breakfast in the morning? Excellent, excellent.’ Terry claps his hands together, strides further along the verandah’s length as we scurry to keep up. Whatever you might say about the guy, he’s got energy. ‘You’ll figure your way around the place within a couple of days, I’m sure. Watch the stairs!’
We clunk down the steps on the verandah’s end, into the street. I don’t know if I can keep walking much longer. I stumble against Colm, and he props me up.
Terry is still nattering. ‘…that many hours driving in such a short time, I’m blown away, I tell you. Talk about a feat of endurance. But we’ll get you rested and fed, by tomorrow you’ll be feeling better.’ We reach another low wooden building with a short porch. ‘And here we have the women’s bunkhouse, which is where our journey ends for the lovely Miss Saoirse–’
‘What?’ I say.
‘Fella’s dorms are just over there.’ Terry indicates another building across the street. He points me towards the steps up to the porch beside us. ‘We have the single folks bunking separately, of course–your auntie would approve, m’dear, hm?–so here’s your gear…’ The porters dump my bags at my feet. ‘…and we’ll see you in the morning. Bright and early, eh? Adieu, good night, I’ll take young Mr Mackay across the way and then we’ll all be settled–’
‘What?’ Colm is being bustled off by Terry and the porters. I don’t have time to grab his hand. ‘Wait!’
‘Sorsha–’ Colm holds my gaze as his body is pushed in a different direction. ‘It’ll be okay. I’ll find you, first thing–’
‘Colm–’
But he’s gone, whisked away by Terry and hustled across the street. Colm’s eyes snatch at mine over his shoulder. We never even got a chance to say goodbye.
I stand there for a second, watching Colm being herded into the men’s quarters. After days of close travelling, suddenly we’re apart. It feels wrong. There was stuff I wanted to say. But there’s nothing I can do about it now.
I bend for my bags, trudge up onto the porch and through the door of the women’s dormitory. The hallway is dim, which is understandable–it’s nearly two in the morning. I close the door carefully, try not to bump into things. Edging past a small lounge room, with a TV and a couch, I assess the closed doors up and down the hall. There’s no way to know which rooms are occupied and which aren’t. I’ll have to try door handles until I find something vacant.
At the first room, the door creaks and someone throws a pillow–I beat a retreat. The second room has a sock tied to the door handle. I move further on. The third room is dark, but I can see an empty bed by the light I’ve let in from the hall. I tip-toe towards it, freeze when the floor cracks under me. Somebody snores–there’s another occupied bed on the right-hand side of the room.
But I’m almost ready to drop by now: my whole body longs for sleep. I creep in further, settle my phone on the nightstand, toe off my shoes. The bed isn’t made up–so much for Colm’s fantasy of a bed with sheets. I pull out my sleeping bag, only to discover that in the rush to get me and Colm ‘settled in’, the porters have given me the wrong bag. Colm’s going to be mighty uncomfortable in my kiddie-sized sleeping bag tonight.
There’s nothing I can do about it now. I climb into the bag and lie back. Gentle snuffles rise up from the other bed. I’m not alone, but I’m with strangers, which is good as. This is the first night I’ve been alone since…since before everything happened. I’m not used to being alone anymore. I’m not even sure I can get to sleep like this.
But Colm’s sleeping bag smells like him–that tang of male sweat, plus the scent of salt and sun I associate with him alone–and my heartrate steadies. Heavy breathing from the other bed reminds me of the nights in the tent. I snuggle down into the polyester-cotton, try to still my brain. No thoughts. No worries. Please, no dreams.
My mind swirls with images instead. Terry giving us the showman’s sweep of his arm as our car is dismantled in the background. Fleur Klatsch’s toothpaste-ad smile. Colm lifting buckets on the beach, his gold hair flashing. Morrighan hugging me, frowning hard to keep from crying. Ceilidh and Oona and Desmond…
It was Morry who pushed me towards Desmond’s van, just before Colm and I departed. While she and the others sorted out the bags and the car, I walked over to say goodbye and receive final advice from our ringmaster.
I didn’t feel right–it was so soon after what happened, I didn’t think I’d ever feel right again. My legs and hands were still shaky. Oona had offered me a sleeping tablet; I had the tablet shoved into my jeans pocket, and I warred over whether to take it. I was wrapped in Morry’s enormous woollen jumper, trying to bring some warmth back into my core.
At Desmond’s van, I knocked on the door, heard the ‘Come’, stuck my head in carefully. With Desmond, you could never predict when you’d open the door onto knives being thrown, or cards spinning through the air. But there wasn’t anything like that. Desmond was at his green baize desk, shuffling cups and little coloured balls
‘Sorsha, always a pleasure.’ Desmond sent a row of balls in an orderly waterfall down one arm and into a cup. ‘What’s the patter?’
He seemed so calm, so unruffled. It was a sudden injection of normal into what had been the most abnormal night of my life. Desmond’s van was no different to any other time I’d seen it–plush and very neat, with bills from old shows glamming up the walls, as well as photos of classic old troupes that Desmond had worked in, like Ashton’s and St Leon’s. It was like being inside the ring, as if you could step up from the van stairs straight into the first act. Normally I found it relaxing, but I was so far from relaxed at that point, it just felt like stepping into another universe.
‘No patter.’ I sank down into the chair beside Desmond’s desk. ‘I don’t…I don’t feel good.’
‘That’s to be expected.’ He regarded me gravely. ‘I’m very sorry this has happened to you, my dear. Give it some time.’
‘I don’t know if this is the right thing, what we’re doing. Morry said it’s for the best, me and Colm leaving, but I just…It feels weird, running away.’ My curiosity got the better of me and I stared at Desmond’s hands. ‘Is this for a new spot?’
‘Ah, tawni, it’s a very old spot.’ Desmond’s hands danced, caught balls out of the air. ‘Don’t think of it as running away. Think of it as…Well, you understand misdirection, don’t you, Sorsha? You deceive the audience with a show of hands, and maintain the mystery of the performance.’
I never understood half the things Desmond said, to be completely honest, but I nodded my head. Desmond was the gaffer, the ringmaster, our gentleman boss–and the most amazing fingersmith I’d ever seen. If anyone had some wisdom that would help in this situation, it’d be him.
He paused, tipped the felt balls out onto the desk and set them twirling. ‘There’s three ways to misdirect, Sorsha. Firstly, you can have all the facts and be a very good actor. That won’t work with you and Colm–the experience is too fresh, it’s written all over you. The second way is to know there’s sleight involved, but be innocent of the details. Again, that’s not an option. The third way is our best bet.’
‘The third way?’
‘The third way is to be totally ignorant, and trust that the magician will direct your steps. With you and Colm gone, there’s nothing for the mingers to find but one fellow who’s had an unfortunate accident.’
My stomach roiled. ‘An unfortunate accident. Right.’
‘Each way has advantages and disadvantages, of course. But I think this is the right decision–for you, for Colm, for the whole troupe.’ Desmond’s silver hair shone in the lamplight as he spun the balls into the cup. ‘We all have a role to play, Sorsha, and everyone in troupe knows what to say. Take your cue from Morrighan. She has your best interests at heart.’
‘Okay.’ I was confused–I thought I’d come to say goodbye, but instead I’d become engaged in another mystifying talk with Desmond. Which was always like having your brain jumbled in a cement mixer.
His fingers curled around each ball in turn, and they disappeared somewhere. I knew they weren’t up his sleeves, because he was in an undershirt, with the braces from his trousers over his shoulders.
‘Where did the balls go?’
‘They didn’t go anywhere.’ He flicked his fingers and all the balls returned, one at a time. ‘We think of the Latin words, dexter and sinister. The right hand, dexter, performs for the audience, while the left, sinister, does the trick. Sinister does the sleight work, you see. This is the key to all mis-direction. To ensure that the right hand never knows what the left hand is doing.’
I watched as the balls made a tiny planetary vortex in Desmond’s palm. Each ball winked out in turn, until there was only one red ball left, spinning and spinning.
I was still confused. ‘So in this situation, am I the right hand or the left hand?’
Desmond blew on his palm, and the red ball vanished into thin air.
‘My dear,’ he said, looking at me intently, ‘you are the ball.’