When I crack my eyes open, there’s a girl sitting cross-legged on the bed opposite. She’s just sitting, braiding her hair and watching, which wakes me up fast. Her hair is incredibly long and glossy black, and she’s slender, angular.
‘Selamat pagi,’ she says.
It takes a mental gear shift, but I know how to reply. ‘Selamat pagi. Sorry if I banged around last night finding a bed.’
But she’s too excited about my answer to care about that. She nearly falls off her pillow. ‘Wah, anda bisa Bahasa Indonesia? Hebat!’
‘Sedikit,’ I say. A little. I’ve done enough shows in the far north to recognise the language, but my skills are rudimentary. I reach across to offer my hand. ‘Nama saya Sorsha. Is it still morning? I feel like I’ve slept a while.’
‘Nama saya Ren.’ She bends at the waist and touches my fingers across the divide–it’s a fair stretch–then touches her fingers to her chest. ‘It’s six minutes to ten? I think. I have to check. Asalnya dari mana?’
‘Dari utara,’ I say. From the north. After Fleur’s casual announcement last night, I figure it’s information that won’t stay buried for too long. Better to just go with it. ‘Am I missing something? A morning roll call, or something?’
Ren laughs and shakes her head, dislodging her braid. She unravels a section and starts again. ‘Tidak. There’s nothing special–it’s Monday, so most people are taking a day off, or just taking practise time.’
‘Phew.’
‘Unless you’re a flyer. Flyers have rehearsal at one.’
‘Dangit. I’m a flyer. Guess I’d better get up.’
‘You look like a flyer.’ Ren smiles as she braids the other side of her hair. ‘You’re very small and light, but…’ She squeezes her shoulder with one hand to indicate my muscle development.
I peel my developed muscles out of the sleeping bag. ‘What’s your craft?’
‘Contortion. I’m stretchy.’ Ren seems to find that funny, too.
I wonder if her flexibility extends to room-sharing. ‘If there’s other beds available, I can find a different place–’
‘Nah, you should stay here. You were lucky last night, there’s not many spares. You could bunk with Yani, but she snores.’ Ren ties off her braid–now she has a matched set–and cocks her head. ‘Are you neat? I’m neat. It bothers some people.’
I take in her side of the room. The bed is made, corners tightly tucked, and the mat and slippers on the floor have a ruler-straight alignment. Her nightstand is spartan–a water tumbler, a book, and a pair of reading glasses all occupy specific places. The dresser at the foot of her bed has one large stack of books on top. That’s it. No dirty clothes draped on the foot rail, no personal touches. She’s not kidding about the neat thing.
I grimace. ‘Um, I’m tidy, but I’m not that particular? If it’ll drive you up the wall, having a messy room-mate…’
‘Oh, no,’ Ren laughs. ‘It doesn’t bother me. But it bothers some people, to have a very neat person nearby. Fleur says I’m a ‘neat freak’.’
That pretty much seals the deal for me. I smile. ‘I have no problem with neatness.’
‘Great!’ Ren smiles back.
Maybe I should warn Ren about my nightmares. But that would involve some complicated explanations that I don’t want to go into. I don’t think I dreamed last night. At least, I don’t remember waking up, so that’s progress. I don’t think I’ll mention it for the time being.
Pipes gurgle from somewhere in the building, which distracts me. ‘There’s a kazi here? I should get up and get ready for rehearsal.’
‘Left out the door, at the end of the hall.’ Ren’s hands move to illustrate her directions. She doesn’t seem to have any problem understanding parlari, I notice. ‘Hot water isn’t great early in the morning, but you should be able to get a good shower now.’
‘A shower? Ohmigod, I’m in heaven.’ That gets me moving. I can’t remember the last time I had a shower in a place that wasn’t a concrete amenities unit. I stuff Colm’s sleeping bag into its cover, grab my wetpack and towel.
The shower water warms as I undress, so I have a chance to take stock in the mirror–a real mirror, not a sheet of reflective metal. Bruises are yellowing on my wrists, ribs and shoulders. I can blame them on training. There’s a fresh one above my knee, from struggling with Colm in the sea. But every athlete has bruises. Nobody will ask where I got these ones.
I’m not that built in the shoulders–well, maybe a little. I cross my arms over my chest. I can’t complain about being skinny, because you don’t want to be carrying anything extra on the trapeze, but I’m hoping for boobs sometime this century. You don’t weigh anything, Colm said. But I’m not insubstantial. My body looks strong.
I step into the hot shower, remembering the way Colm lifted me, balanced on his hands. My skin warms up with the steam. I think of Morry’s warning on the phone: No funny business on the way down. After what happened to me behind Tadgh’s van, ‘funny business’ was the last thing on my mind during the drive. So Morry’s being ridiculous.
Me and Colm have gotten along politely in troupe for three years. Five days in close quarters, sharing secrets, has solidified our friendship. We have some shared history, now. That vibe I got from Colm on the road–that feeling, I don’t know how to describe it better, of noticing and being noticed–it wasn’t anything more than a normal ‘getting used to you’ vibe. I remind myself firmly all the same. Here in the city, we’ll be relying on each other more. We’ll be each others’ fixed points in an altered landscape. I don’t want to go messing that up with softer, more confusing feelings.
I duck my head under the steaming spray again and again, scrubbing and thinking. There are more urgent priorities: we need to figure out how things are going to work with this new show. Colm needs a real job. I need to get over these bad dreams for good, not just be satisfied with a stay of execution for one night. And we both need some certainty about how long we’re staying here. We need a plan.
And coffee. A plan, and coffee.
I dry off, yank on my training gear–grey tights, leotard, track pants, T-shirt–and collect my shoes and Colm’s bag before saying goodbye to Ren.
‘Sampai jumpa!’ She’s doing some kind of study on her bed now; large books open and carefully marked with sticky notes, a notepad on her knee and a pen in her hand.
The dorm hall is empty. Some wag has tacked up a printed picture of Beyoncé with the slogan All the Single Ladies at head height on the front door–I’ll never have trouble finding the exit.
Bright sun outside the Beyoncé door heralds a warm-weather day. Scanning the street, I see a woman on a bicycle, two men who look like Terry’s mech boys from last night, and a guy in jeans with a number of hula hoops over his shoulder. The Spiegeltent soars behind everything like a candy-striped balloon.
I’m desperate to see the inside of that thing. I’ve never performed in a tent that big–the tilt must be forty feet high. I lean on the verandah railing, gazing up, feeling a tingle in my stomach: flying at that height will be like soaring through space.
‘Sorsha!’ Colm is making his way over from the men’s dorm. His hair, freshly washed, is raked back and dark. He looks a hundred percent better than he did when we separated last night.
Then he pitches my sleeping bag straight at my chest. ‘Heads up. That’s yours.’
‘Hey.’ I make the catch, pitch his back. ‘Yours was comfortable.’
‘Yours was crap.’ He grimaces as he comes alongside the dorm porch. ‘I dunno how you sleep in that thing. I had to unzip it all the way around and use it like a blanket.’
‘Shower woke you up, though, right?’
He grins. ‘I reckon. Kazi in the dorms? How good is that?’
‘Pretty good. But if I don’t get coffee soon, I’ll die.’ I pause. ‘I have rehearsal at one.’
He inclines his head. ‘Fair enough. Let me stash this–one sec.’
He trots back to the men’s dorm to drop off his bag. I tuck mine beside the Beyoncé door, sit down on the steps to pull on my shoes. By the time he gets back I’m standing, considering things. Some of those things need to be discussed before we hit the mess, and the company of other people.
‘So it looks like Terry’s not the only one who knows about us,’ I start.
Colm groans, rolls his eyes. ‘Man, that daughter of his. She looks like a piece of work. It’ll be all over the lot by this afternoon, where we’re from.’
‘I’ve already told my room-mate I’m from the north, so let’s just go with it. Does Terry know why we’re here?’
‘Call Morrighan, ask how much she’s told him.’ Colm nudges my shoulder as we walk slowly for the mess. I think the contact is meant to reassure me. ‘Nothing’s gonna get out if Morry hasn’t shared it.’
‘Well, we know Terry knows about the mingers, or he wouldn’t have junked your car.’
His shoulders sink. ‘I can’t believe that. My car. You don’t touch a man’s car.’
I nudge him back gently. ‘I understand his reasoning, but it seems harsh. And it’s like he’s taxing you for getting us here. I’ll talk to Morry about getting you reimbursed–you shouldn’t have to wear that. You wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for me.’
‘What, and miss out on that exciting drive? No way.’ Colm’s steps pause, and he faces me. He reaches to tuck a piece of my hair back behind my ear. ‘I told you, I don’t mind that we came down together. It was for the best, me leaving.’
‘But–’
He shushes me with a finger on my lips. His voice is quiet. ‘Sorsha, you think I could’ve just stood there while the police stitched you up for murder? Not a chance. Nobody deserves the kind of shit you’ve been through.’
‘Nobody deserves to die in a dog trap.’ My voice is almost too tiny to hear.
‘Some people do,’ he says darkly. Then his brow unfurrows. ‘I don’t regret coming down with you. I needed to go. Morry told me to take care of you, and I’m sticking to that.’
‘Morry told you to protect me?’ My mouth falls open.
‘Yeah, but listen. Losing the car means we’re cut off. If things don’t go to plan, or if the mingers show up, I can’t drive us outta here.’
I don’t want to talk about this: I promised myself I wouldn’t. But it keeps coming up, like bile in the back of my throat. I take a shuddering breath. ‘If things don’t go to plan, if the police show up…then I’ll just have to deal with it. I can’t keep running forever.’
‘Sorsha–’
Now it’s my finger on his lips. ‘Talking ifs and maybes won’t get us anywhere. Let’s save the worries and do something. Like getting me a coffee.’
I tug on his arm, steering us for the mess.
I’m going to show up for rehearsal at one with a stomach full of coffee. I don’t like to eat before practise, and I’m already nervous about meeting this new group of flyers. Colm shovelled in bacon and eggs and toast and steak and fried tomatoes while I watched–the selection of food at the mess is staggering. It’s hard to believe I was considering eating native quail only a few days ago.
Now Colm’s gone to see what became of his car, whether it ‘ceased to be operational’ or if there’s anything he can salvage. I walk on to rehearsal. Prac schedules were pinned up on a corkboard on the wall outside the mess: the schedule said Practise Shed One. There was even a handy map of the lot, so I know where I’m going. I could always ask for directions: people seem friendly here. I’m still getting used to the size of the operation, though–the mess was packed.
Practise Shed One is basically a barn, located just past the women’s dorms and down a side road called Tinpan Alley. I open the big shed door and slip inside. It actually smells like a barn–the scent of hay, and a whiff of old animal droppings. That makes me feel more at home straight away. There’s the smell of liniment too, so I know I’m in the right place.
A black curtain blocks off the front entrance from the main prac area. I stand there for a moment, breathing out my nerves. Then I hear a voice that stops me cold.
‘…can’t believe that Daddy just let them in without a whimper. I mean, they’ve basically been performing in a mud show in the north, god only knows what their standard is like–’
‘I’m sure their standard is fine.’ Another voice. Deeper, masculine, a trace of accent.
And another–a warm contralto. ‘Those old-style shows have to be on top of their game to draw an audience. Maybe she’ll kick our butts.’
‘Yeah, like that’s a possibility.’ Fleur’s tone drips sarcasm.
My shoulders sag. Of course I’m working with Fleur. Of course. Because in the grand universal scheme, I need even more shit in my life. And calling Desmond’s troupe a mud show? Like we’re a bunch of flea bag trash touring the north with a cooch tent and a freak display…I’ll give her mud show.
Ignoring the coffee curdling in my stomach, I square my shoulders and push past the curtain. The barn is high-ceilinged; skylights let in the sun to illuminate the space. Four figures are gathered in the warm-up area, which is surfaced with rubber mats and crash pads.
Naturally, the first person to walk over is Fleur. ‘Oh hi, Saoirse! I didn’t think you’d be training today, after your drive down–’
‘I train every day,’ I say. ‘But I did have a bit of a sleep in, I admit.’
‘Hey there.’ The owner of the deep voice is a tall guy in sweats. He’s African-American, maybe, and he’s holding out his hand to shake. ‘Luke Rogan, pleased to meet you.’
I make my grip firm. ‘Sorsha Neary. Thanks for letting me in on such short notice.’
‘You’re from the north?’
‘Yeah–from…’ Saying McNally’s might not be prudent. ‘Uh, just a small family troupe.’
‘Okay, sounds good.’ He steps aside to introduce other team members. ‘Fleur, you’ve already met…’ Fleur does her simpering smile. ‘And this is Rueben Sullivan, and Deanna LeMarr.’
‘Just Dee,’ the young woman with the contralto voice says. She shakes hands warmly. ‘Hi Sorsha, nice to meet you.’
‘Likewise,’ I say, matching her grin, before turning to meet Rueben. ‘Hi.’
‘Oh, hi.’ He’s solid in the shoulders but gangly. And he’s young, finger-combing his hair into place before taking my hand. His eyes flick over to Fleur’s before shaking, like he needs her permission. This one I’ll have to watch.
But my gaze is drawn to the rigging high above. Platforms are suspended from the mess of scaffolding on either side of the barn’s interior. Wires and ropes are attached to a gantry at the roof. A huge trapeze net is stretched across the chasm above our heads.
‘That’s quite a set-up.’ I’ve never seen such a large-scale flying rig before, and this is just a practise area. What must it be like in the Spiegeltent?
‘Nice, huh?’ Dee is staring up like me. ‘It’s a joy to work on. Terry spent a fortune putting it together.’
‘Wow.’ I don’t say I’m sure he did, but I can imagine Terry sparing no expense where his daughter’s concerned.
‘It’s the best practise set-up in the southern hemisphere,’ Fleur gushes, confirming.
‘And we’re not gonna get to use it if we don’t get a move on.’ Luke claps his hands together and walks back to the warm-up mats. ‘Sorsha, what’s your pleasure? You look light enough for partner work, but are you used to flying solo?’
He’s asking for my resume. I can give that with con-fidence. ‘I can fly solo, or work doubles. I worked triple acts with Alby and Ceilidh back home.’
‘Spinning?’ He means when the gear is rigged from a single point.
‘Some.’ I shrug. ‘I started about six months ago, when Ceilidh got pregnant–I’ve been doing single spinning, and I’ve had a few spots on silks. But I’ve been training myself for wire work, mainly.’
‘Tightwire?’ Luke shares a glance with Dee. ‘How d’you mesh that in with flying?’
‘I do solo wire-walking–normal stuff. When we did aerials, Alby would drop me onto the wire from the trapeze and I’d take it from there.’
A few mouths fall open, I’m happy to notice.
‘Your partner would drop you onto the wire?’ Dee looks incredulous. ‘From what height?’
‘Well, nothing like this.’ I wave a hand at the rigging–the net is about nine feet up, and the rigging above that looks about fifteen, although I’m just guesstimating from here. ‘But from about five or six feet? I didn’t land on my toes, though, obviously. I usually just drop, grab the wire on the way down, swing back up to get a foothold. Do my thing on the tightwire, then when the audience has had enough, I climb up the silks and hold out my arm for Alby to get me as he flies past.’
There’s a little silence after I say all this. Fleur looks as if she just chewed on something rotten. Rueben’s face is disbelieving. Luke and Dee look at each other, then burst into laughter.
‘Well, goddamn.’ Luke’s face looks less stern when he’s smiling. ‘I wanna get an eyeball on that. But we’d need to rig a tightwire first. Sorsha, do you wanna get warmed up, and do some runs with Dee? I gotta make a call.’
He walks off to the area between the front door and the curtain, pulling out his phone from a training bag nearby. Dee grins, watching him go, then turns back to me. She has smile-lines near her eyes, and her cropped auburn hair sticks out like a falcon’s tail feathers.
‘Come on,’ she says, waving me over, ‘let’s get you stretching. I want to see what else you can do.’ She makes a gathering motion to Fleur and Rueben with her hand. ‘Everybody, on the mats. This is going to be an interesting practise.’
‘I’ve met him,’ Morry says. Her tone is brassy. ‘Rogan whatsisface–big fella, black, nice accent? He’s Canadian. It was years ago. He came to a performance, introduced himself afterwards–he was just checking out the scene, don’t think he’d been in the country too long.’
‘He’s a strong catcher. Good to work with.’
‘Glad to hear it. What else is happening?’
‘Terry’s daughter is painful.’
‘You stay on the right side of that one,’ Morry warns. ‘She has a lot of clout with her father.’
‘No kidding.’ But I can’t make myself feel bad about showing Fleur up during practise this afternoon–How’s that mud in your eye, Pumpkin? I suppose that means I’m petty.
‘How’s the boy?’
‘Are you talking about Colm?’ It’s ridiculous that she won’t say his name. ‘I’m not twelve years old, Morry. I don’t melt into a puddle when there’s a guy around.’
‘Let’s keep it that way,’ she insists, then she gets huffy. ‘Anyway, I never said you did.’
‘Fine. But can you please talk to Desmond about sending Colm some money for the car? It’s not fair that he’s lost his job and his car just for agreeing to drive me here.’
She sighs. ‘All right, I’ll speak to Desmond.’
‘Morry, is it true you told Colm to protect me?’ I need to know where I stand. Was he instructed to keep me safe? I want to know if the feeling I get from him is real, or just something he’s been ordered to do: watch out for Sorsha, stick close.
‘I told him to look out for you, yes.’ Morry sounds a whisker off indignant. ‘And so what if I did? I’m miles away, tawni. I can’t take care of you in person, much as I’d like to.’
Twin feelings of warmth and disappointment–Morry wants to take care of me; Colm was just following instructions. I don’t mind people caring for me, but I’d prefer it didn’t come out of duty, or worse, pity.
‘Forget about that, now,’ she continues. ‘Just look after yourself. Watch out for Terry’s girl. Keep your hands to yourself with that boy.’
I blush, even though she can’t see it. ‘My hands aren’t going anywhere.’
‘Good, then. I want to make sure you’re keeping your eye on the prize.’
‘And what’s that? A lifetime of looking over my shoulder? Morry, I can’t be running off to a new show every time the mingers get a sniff–’
‘Well, they’re still sniffing,’ she says. ‘They came by again, after we’d been told everything was done and dusted. Wanted to check if all the troupe was present and accounted for. Desmond handled them, of course, but I’d like to know where they’re getting their information. Maybe from old news clippings of troupe–you were in some of those photos, if I recall.’
I was, and I feel a chill in my gut. ‘Will they keep nosing around, d’you think?’
‘So long as they’re curious about why some josser died at the circus, and why two performers from the same circus appear to have vanished on the night in question, then maybe yeah.’ It sounds very suspicious indeed, when Morry says it plain like that. And she sounds worried. ‘Keep your head down, don’t draw attention. If Terry’s let slip you’re from the north, that’s bad luck. But if you avoid the rumour mill and stay anonymous, there’s still a good chance we can keep you off the mingers’ radar.’
‘I’ll…I’ll do my best.’
‘I know I seem harsh.’ This time I can hear emotion in Morry’s voice. ‘And I know I’m not a mum or dad to you. But I care about you like you were my own child, Sorsha. I’m gonna fight this, and if you fight on your end, we’ll get you through unscathed.’
Everyone thinks Morry is such a curmudgeon, but she is a parent to me. She’s the only parent I’ve ever really known. Now she’s up there, trying to keep everyone in troupe together and maintain her cool exterior while the police circle and prod for information…She’s doing all this for me.
‘I love you, Morry,’ I say, my throat thick.
‘Ah tawni,’ she says. I hear her sniff. ‘Love you, too, girl. Now get off the phone and stop making an old woman cry.’
It’s nearly dinner time, and I haven’t seen or heard from Colm. I distract myself by setting up my side of the room I’m sharing with Ren–unpacking my clothes and training gear into my dresser, finding sheets and blankets and a pillow from stores, making a place for my wetpack and performance slap. I stash the billycan and frypan under my bed.
I’ve got no idea what happened to Morry’s tent. Maybe Colm’s got it. I’ll have to find out–we might need that tent again, if the police show up. What a lovely thought.
When I’m done, my side of the room doesn’t look much homier than Ren’s side. There’s no pictures or ornaments: all I brought with me was what I could carry. It looks as if I could pick up and run away again at a moment’s notice. Which I suppose is a good thing, if a bit depressing.
Ren’s not around to chat to, so I watch the action in the hall as folks gather for the evening meal. A woman in a boiler suit walks past, tucking her hair into a ponytail. She meets another woman at the front door, and they both stride off. The door that had the sock on the handle last night now stands open. The biggest, most muscular woman I’ve ever seen emerges from the room, unwinding her long black hair from a towel.
She walks closer, rubbing at her damp head. ‘Welcome. New on the lot?’
We shake hands and I nod. ‘Got in last night. I rattled around finding a bed, hope I didn’t wake you.’
‘Not me.’ The woman smiles, her teeth flashing white. ‘Sleep like the dead. I’m Dita.’
‘Sorsha.’ I glance back as another girl in paint-flecked jeans bustles past for the front exit. ‘So, workers and performers bunk in together?’
‘On this lot, the women stick together. The men’s dorm is mixed, too. The mech boys have their own arrangement, no performers there. A few of the older women have their own vans, and all the couples and families, but this dorm takes every girl without a ring on it.’ Dita lifts her chin at Beyoncé on the front door.
I’m meant to grin, and I do. ‘I guess I fit right in, then.’
Dita cocks her head at me. ‘First time leaving the nest? Or were you thrown?’
‘Uh…’ I can’t answer that one without giving too much away.
‘Don’t worry about it, you’ll be fine. Have you got everything you need? Most essentials you can get from stores, but I go into the CBD with the girls a few times a month to shop. Let me know if you want to join in.’
‘Thanks for the offer.’ There’s a whole city just outside the showground wall, I suddenly remember. How weird. ‘I haven’t been paid yet, but maybe when I have some cash in my pocket.’
‘See you round, then.’ Dita smiles, still scrubbing at her hair as she ducks back inside her space.
I’m starving, because I missed breakfast and lunch. When I get outside, I’m not the only one walking towards the mess building: it seems like half the lot is converging there for dinner. Then I notice one figure walking against the flow of traffic in my direction. I’d recognise those scruffy jeans and massive shoulders anywhere.
But Colm’s head is down, the hood of his jacket pulled up to cover his hair. He’s shielding his face. My first thought is Police–my heart goes cold in my chest. I break out in goosebumps, like I’m about to go for a triple somersault.
When he gets close enough, Colm grabs my wrist and tugs me back the way I’ve come. ‘We need to talk.’
‘What the hell happened to your face?’ I stare up under his hood. He has a red-stained tissue stuffed up one nostril.
‘That’s why we need to talk,’ he grits out.
I follow where Colm leads. We walk back past the dorms, cross the little street, and enter a squat concrete-block building. Metal sinks are ranged along one side, industrial washers and dryers on the other wall. It’s a laundry, which I didn’t even know existed. But I haven’t done any exploring today–obviously Colm has. He already knows his way around the lot better than me.
Colm leans against the metal bench, next to a small pile of mismatched socks. He pulls off his hood. ‘I think I’ve found a job.’
‘Are you kidding me, what happened? Oh man, your face…’ The damage looks worse up close. Apart from his nose, the skin over his right cheekbone is purple and swollen. I step in and reach up to touch him.
He shies away, pulls the tissue out of his nose and throws it into a nearby garbage bin. ‘My face is fine–it’ll come good. I just wasn’t ready for the first punch.’
‘The first what?’
Colm sighs, sits himself on another garbage bin that’s been upturned. ‘The mech boys. Y’know how I went down there to find out about the car, right? Well, the car’s trashed, but anyway, I was asking about work, cos I’ve always been pretty dab with the cars and van engines back home…’
I nod, I know that much. Colm and Tadgh were always our default mechanics, dealing with engine problems when Desmond’s troupe was on the road–more Tadgh, cos he’s had some experience with diesel engines. Neither of them were experts, but it was enough to keep us going until we reached another town with a proper grease monkey.
‘Sure, but what does that have to do with–’
‘I’m telling you.’ Colm grimaces. ‘So the head guy there, Gibson, he says maybe they can take me on until I find something solid. It’s better than sweeping sawdust, yeah? But then he asks me if I’ve worked any fights.’
‘Fights?’
‘Apparently the mech guys have a little racket on the side–bareknuckle boxing. They round up an audience after the main show in the Spiegeltent, and punters pay to have a crack at some of their big boys. Supplementary income, you might say.’
I look at him, aghast. ‘But Terry won’t–’
‘Terry’s in on it–he comes to the fights sometimes. Always bets on the house, of course.’ Colm rolls his eyes.
‘Bareknuckle boxing.’ I stare at him. ‘Bashing each other up for fun.’
‘For fun and profit. Emphasis on the profit.’
‘Colm, that’s crazy.’
‘Not that crazy.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s the kind of behind-the-scenes shit that jossers like, you know how it goes. In Desmond’s troupe, we had the dog fights. This is kinda the same thing.’
‘Except with people instead of dogs.’ I cross my arms. ‘Great.’
‘It’s a reasonable cut, and it’s cash in hand.’
‘And the bloody nose…That was some kind of audition?’
‘Gibson lined me up with one of the other guys, and we went a few rounds, yeah. Only I wasn’t sure of the rules beforehand.’ He gives his cheekbone an experimental prod. ‘Turns out there aren’t any. This guy, Fraser, went straight for my head. I gotta learn how to duck faster.’
‘Colm, don’t be stupid. You’re a craftsman. You should hold out for a spot on the show–’
‘It’s a job, Sorsha, okay? We’re broke.’
It’s nice he said ‘we’. But I should set him straight. ‘Morry said she’d send money for the car–’
‘It’s not just about the car. This is something I can walk straight into, and I’ll have cash in my pocket by the end of tomorrow night. I can’t stand around the lot twiddling my thumbs until someone throws me a bone.’ His face is bruised but set. ‘You had your audition and I had mine.’
But that’s not fair! I want to rail against this. But Colm’s right–he needs to have a role on the lot, or he risks being seen as dead wood. And when has life ever been fair? I should know that better than anybody.
More owies, more bad news. I’m sick up to here with bad news. When are we going to catch a break?
He lightens his tone. ‘Look I’m not in love with the idea, but it’s better than loitering.’ Just as he says it, his nose starts bleeding again. ‘Ah dammit–’
I grab one of the abandoned socks near the sink, press it against his nose. Our fumbling hands collide. My stomach does a lazy roll.
Colm lifts his gaze. ‘I look like the guy your mother would’ve told you to avoid, huh?’
Distracted, I dab at his nose. ‘My mother probably would’ve told me not to run off and join the circus, too, but see how that turned out.’ I’ve made him laugh. I take away the sock. The red trickle has stopped, but I still feel bad for him. I cup his bruised cheek. ‘Oh, Colm, this is crap. You shouldn’t have to do this.’
His eyes are dark, and liquid deep. ‘We all do things we don’t wanna do sometimes.’
I look away. I don’t need to be reminded. I look back when his hand drops to my waist.
‘Sorsha, I appreciate it. That you give a shit about whether I get a spot.’ He glances off somewhere, shrugs. ‘My mum would have just said, y’know, a job’s a job. You take what you can get.’
I’m very aware of his hand, although his grip is delicate. Such large hands: his fingers span almost all the way to my spine at the back, while his thumb nudges my belly button in front. And I’m very aware of how we’re positioned–him sitting on the upturned bin, and me standing between his knees.
My voice comes out a little rough. ‘You shouldn’t just settle for anything. You’re talented, you’re trained up–you deserve a spot. If Terry can’t see that, he’s deranged.’
‘Go big or go home, huh?’ He grins.
‘Yes!’ I feel my face warm. ‘Well, that’s what Morry always says.’
‘You sound just like her when you say it, too.’ His eyes spark as he stands, towering over me. He looks like he’s getting his mojo back. ‘All right, come on. Mess time. If we’re gonna go big, we gotta eat big.’
I pinch his waist as we walk out of the laundry. ‘You ate enough for three people this morning.’
‘Hey, I’m recovering my strength.’ He scoops me up onto his shoulder, and I can’t help but laugh. I ride like that all the way to the mess, where Colm flips me back onto my feet. He eyes the situation in the mess through the window. ‘Serving line has thinned out. Excellent. More for me.’
Now the rush is over, the dining area is only sparsely populated. We take our heaped plates, find cutlery and settle at a table.
I cut up my roasted chicken breast. ‘This is way better than the dukey boxes we used to have on the road with Desmond’s.’
Colm nods and grunts, his mouth too full to reply. He demolishes his plateful in half the time it takes me to eat mine, then grabs a Coke for a sugar-hit dessert on the way back to his dorm. We bump knuckles as he leaves.
It only takes five minutes for Colm’s now-vacant chair to be filled. Empty tables are everywhere, so there’s no reason for Fleur to come and sit with me when she walks in the door, except that she’s obviously trying to tick me off.
‘Great practise today.’ Her face is saying the opposite as she plonks her mug on the table top between us. ‘You sure know some fancy tricks on that wire, hm?’
‘I guess.’
It suddenly occurs to me that my star turn today was the total reverse of what Colm and Morry have been advising me to do. I’m supposed to be lying low, keeping my head down. Today’s performance–even though it was just the kind of stuff I’d normally do back home–could easily be construed as showing off.
Morry said I should stay on Fleur’s good side. Detesting the people you fly with doesn’t usually promote a trusting work environment. I’m going to be training with this girl. I need to swallow my pride, try to cultivate a cordial friendship. It might be important for Colm’s job prospects, as well.
I attempt an easy-going smile. ‘Fleur, I hope you don’t think–’
‘It doesn’t matter what I think,’ she says, the snap in her voice pitched low. ‘It’s what I know. I know you’re not just here trying your luck with a new troupe. I know you and your boyfriend are avoiding the police.’ She smiles. It’s not a ‘cordial friendship’ type of smile. ‘Keep trying to worm your way into first-flyer position and see how that works out for you. You’ll need all the fancy tricks in the book to get out of the shitstorm I’ll bring down on your head.’
She stands up, grabs her mug and walks out.