My internal body clock is usually set for seven a.m., which translates as six in the south. That’s still not early enough for my room-mate. The first thing I see this morning is Ren’s made bed, her towel neatly folded over the foot-rail.
I close my eyes again, forcing my brain to work. I woke up a couple of times last night. Everything is muzzy, but I remember some key points: Fleur knows that Colm and I are trying to give the mingers the slip. She’s hanging it over my head like the Sword of Damocles. I have to start back-pedalling in trapeze practise if I want to stay under the radar. Colm and I are stuck here without transport. The police are still making inquiries in the north. I’m still running in my sleep. And Colm’s new line of work involves him being a human punching bag.
This whole situation just keeps getting better and better.
I break for the shower, but there’s already a queue, so I slouch back to my room and get dressed. Dita is out in the hall. She’s got a mug in her hand, and I can smell tea brewing.
‘Hey. Does the mess open earlier than six?’
‘Ah. Well, the mess is handy, no doubt. But Terry takes a percentage out of your wages for meal services. If you prefer to keep your money, you can arrange the basics in your room.’ Dita steps aside and I see into her room: a bar-fridge, with an electric kettle perched on top, is set up at the end of her bed. Dita appears to have the place to herself, which suggests she’s got some status.
‘I’ve never been on a show with a dorm or a mess before,’ I admit.
‘This outfit is bigger than you’re used to?’
‘You could say that.’ Bigger by a factor of a thousand.
Dita smiles. ‘I know what that’s like. It was a bit dis-orienting coming from my small family troupe to this. Thirty-two performers, plus musicians for the show, riggers, mechanics, cooks, costumers, medical staff, tutors, ticket sellers, advance canvassers, admin and paymasters, concession stall touts…all the way down to the roustabouts.’
I make a low whistle. This circus is like its own city. No wonder Morry thought I could find a place to hide here. ‘Back home, it’s just me and twelve others, and we all divvy up non-performing jobs.’
‘That’s tiny! Wow, even my old troupe wasn’t that small.’
I shrug. ‘We move around a lot, so the more compact the better. But you like it here okay?’
Dita nods. ‘The show’s been good to me. Most folks are considerate. Dorm life is fine–I like the community. And if Gabriella’s music is pumping too loud, I just bang on the door and tell her to shut up.’
The door I opened accidentally, fumbling around on my first night–with the pillow-thrower–is flung wide and a woman emerges. ‘I don’t see what your problem is with Jamelia.’
‘No problem.’ Dita grins. ‘I love Jamelia. Just not at three hundred decibels when I’m trying to sleep.’
‘But three hundred decibels is the perfect volume.’ The woman’s voice is rich, throaty.
‘Thought you’d be down at the horses,’ Dita says.
‘I was. We finished late yesterday, so my babies are having a rest morning before tonight’s performance. I came back to change for breakfast, then I heard my name mentioned, and you know what a sticky beak I am.’ The woman leans against the door lintel, toying with the belt of her silk robe. Her face is fully made up, her hair wrapped in a chiffon turban, and her body has a sensual lilt. ‘I’m sorry I threw a pillow at you the other night.’
‘Totally understandable,’ I say.
She extends a graceful hand. ‘Gabriella, equestrienne. A pleasure.’
‘Sorsha, flyer. Same.’
‘A flyer? Ooh, that should be interesting.’ Her perfectly-arched eyebrows lift. ‘Please tell me you’re giving our star performer a run for her money.’
I laugh. Looks like I’m not the only person on the lot with Fleur issues. ‘It’s early days yet. My first practise was only yesterday afternoon.’
Gabriella’s face lights up. ‘Then there’ll be gossip about you in the mess. We don’t want to miss that–give me two seconds and I’ll walk over with you.’ She disappears back into her room and the door closes with a bang.
Dita rolls her eyes. ‘Two seconds–more like ten minutes. Don’t hold your breath.’
I snort, and Dita smiles and heads back into her room to change. I loiter in the common room lounge, waiting for Gabriella. The lounge looks as though it gets some use. There’s a bookshelf with a chess set, and a collection of used paperbacks. Excellent, I can swap out mine for something new.
I check through the window, but Colm’s not in the street. Hopefully his face is starting to feel better than it looked yesterday. I’m still peering out when Gabriella sweeps into the doorway.
Her silk pantsuit is deep red, the hems swirling about her slippered feet. ‘You waited! How lovely. Let’s go, I’m desperate to hear the news and drink coffee.’
I grin. ‘Nice to meet another caffeine fiend.’
Gabriella links arms with me once we’re on the porch, which is only a little awkward–she’s taller and broader in the shoulders–then she proceeds to pick my brains. ‘So were you head-hunted, or did you decide to try your luck?’
‘Uh, I guess I’m just giving it a shot.’
‘Well, good for you. Now I hear you’re from a smaller troupe in the north, is that true?’
‘Yeah.’ I’m not sure how much to give away–I don’t want to supply too many details. But some details are more generic than others. ‘I’ve been in troupe all my life, been flying since I was eleven.’
‘And you’ve got an escort with you.’
‘Colm, yeah. He’s trying his luck, too.’
‘Another flyer?’
I shake my head. ‘Strongman.’
‘Hm, that’s bad timing. Dita and Seb have only just formed their act. Dita was apprenticed for a few years, but she’s in the main set now.’
I suspected Dita was part of the strong act, so this is confirmation. ‘That’s bad timing for Colm, for sure. But he’s a hard worker, they’ll find something for him.’
‘Is he good-looking?’
‘What?’ I glance at her as we reach the stairs. ‘Uh, yeah. I guess.’
‘Well, that should help his case,’ Gabriella says. ‘Now I shouldn’t give you the full interrogation–how rude. What I can do, though, is share a little information. So, first you should know that Terry runs the show, but Fleur rules the roost.’
I nod. This much I already worked out on my own.
Gabriella smiles at my acknowledgement. ‘Yes, well, it’s not rocket science, is it? Anyway, if your young man can stay on Fleur’s good side, he might have a shot on the show in some other capacity. Also, be nice to the costumer, Eugenia–she’s an underappreciated genius, but she’s also Terry’s Magic 8-Ball. She’s been on the show since it started, and she knows what’s what.’
‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘But wait, there’s more!’ Gabriella laughs. Her laugh is deep, and I look at her hands and shoulders. She wears it well, but Gabriella might not have started out life as a woman. ‘You get paid per show, and we run seven shows a week, including the matinee on Sunday. Paymaster hands out slips on Tuesday. Make sure you check your slip–don’t let Terry include added extras, like laundry if you do your own. You pay rent, meals, insurance and that’s it. Don’t let anyone give you any bosh about equipment upkeep, or costuming. That’s for management to cover.’
‘Okay. Wow.’ I puff out a breath. ‘Thanks for telling me this. I’ve never had to sort out my own pay and stuff before. My aunty always handled the finances.’
She pats my hand, reassuring. ‘Baby girl is growing up. Gotta be able to balance your own chequebook.’
‘That’s true.’
I’ve never thought about it like that before. But I’m starting to. This independence has been forced on me, but it’s overdue: I need to learn how to look after myself, earn and deal with my own money, juggle work relationships like Niamh juggles plates back home. I’m nearly eighteen, and Morry’s protected me my whole life. For pete’s sake, I don’t even have my own driver’s license.
It’s time to shape up.
I’m only in the dining room long enough to scull a mug of coffee, but Gabriella makes a point of introducing me to people. I meet Bonnie, one of the clowns, and Carey, who does acrobatics and stilt-walking for the pre-performance audience warm-up, and three of the craft artists from the ‘freak’ act: Chester and Gordon, who both work with sharp objects (‘Sword swallowers are the nicest people,’ Gabriella says with a naughty smile), and Bill–aka Diablo–who does amazing things with fire, apparently.
Gabriella also makes introductions with Yani and Simon, two of the pit musicians, as well as Seb, Dita’s partner for the strong act. Luke and Dee sit across the other side of the room–I give them a wave. Then, feeling a bit inundated with company, I thank Gabriella before dashing off to practise.
‘I’ll tell you if I hear anything juicy!’ she trills, waving me off.
If Luke and Dee are in the mess, I’m guessing that nobody will be at Practise Shed One, and I’m right. The cavernous space is all mine, so I stick in my headphones, cue up my playlist, and plunge straight into training.
Some artists consider solo practise a chore, I really don’t know why. There’s nothing more energising and exciting than having the equipment to yourself. Being alone means I’m completely unobserved: I feel free, for the first time in days. I do push-ups and sit-ups and stretches, work the tramp to practise somersaults, practise twists and grips on the parallel bar. At home, I practise grips with Ceilidh, while Alby bosses me around. Alby corrects me plenty, but that’s fair: if I had a bad fall from the tilt, I’d be out of commission for a month.
A touch of homesickness trickles in. My troupe is like family, but my flying team is the red heart at my centre. Ceilidh is due in April. We spent hours talking about her pregnancy, all the preparations she and Alby had made, the names they’d picked out, who the baby might favour. Alby is lean and blonde, and Ceilidh is blonder still–their baby will look like a Nordic prince, if it’s a boy, or the Ice Queen, if it’s a girl. But I won’t be back at Desmond’s in time to greet their baby when it arrives. I won’t be there to say hello.
I can’t help feeling that I’ve let them down. With Ceilidh out on maternity leave, Alby will be stuck performing solo, which is tiring and tough. And here I am in the south, amidst an over-supply of flyers…I sigh, change my playlist to something more upbeat, and look up at the gantry high above. The set-up here really is incredible. Some wire action will kick out my homesickness blues.
I’m about to walk over to the ladder when a hand comes down heavy on my shoulder. Suddenly, I’m thrown back in time.
Hey, birdy babe…
I shriek, smash out, fall over my own feet. I’m scooting on my bum, spider-scrambling, when I finally see who I’m fighting.
‘Sorsha–ah, Jesus, it’s me!’ Colm is standing with his hands lifted, his face pale apart from the bruise on his cheekbone.
I burst into tears.
‘Ah, mate…’ Colm steps closer, palms still raised and open.
The tears are just a flash flood. I get them under control quickly. ‘It’s fine. I’m fine.’ I clamber up off the mat, whack at him when he gets near enough. ‘For fuck’s sake, Colm, don’t sneak up on me like that!’
‘I’m sorry. Shit, I’m real sorry–’
‘Goddammit.’ I wipe my eyes on my T-shirt sleeve. ‘Forget it. Step in front of me or something next time, so I can see it’s you.’
‘I didn’t see your headphones. I called out to you twice.’ He lets his hands drop. ‘I’m sorry. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. I just…’ The insta-rush of adrenalin and fear has gone, leaving me limp. I guess that’s the end of practise. I can’t imagine climbing the ladder and swinging out now. ‘Goddammit. When am I gonna stop jumping every time I turn around? This is such bullshit. I shouldn’t still be reacting this way–’
‘You react the right way for someone who’s been through what you have,’ he says gently.
‘Well, it’s bullshit! And I’m sick of it!’ I whirl, kick the pile of mats nearby. Rubber can’t complain. ‘When is it going to be over? How long does it take? Because I want someone to tell me–’
‘Hush now. C’mere.’ Colm steps right in and holds my arm, pulling me close. ‘You want someone to tell you? Okay, I’m telling you. It’s been barely a week. I don’t know much about this stuff, but I know a week isn’t long enough to get over it. Stop being such a hard arse. Give yourself some time.’
He hugs me into his chest. He’s warm, and all my limbs go soft. He’s doing this out of duty, I tell myself. He was told to take care of me. But I’m aware of all the places our bodies make contact. And he smells good–it’s not something I’ve let myself think about before, but holy crap, he smells fantastic.
I get a sudden flash of him undressing on the beach, the way his black trunks clung in the water. A hot, heavy feeling pools low in my belly.
I take a deep breath, loosen out of his arms. I can’t keep my head when Colm touches me like this, and it’s going to get me in trouble. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to belt you.’
‘Hey, it’s all good.’ He holds up his hands again, clears his throat. Is he blushing? ‘You don’t belt like the boys in the mech yard.’
‘How’s your face?’ I unwind my wrist straps, walk over for my sweatpants. If I can get a bit of distance, I might be able to stop myself thinking about his scent.
‘My face is good. Hopefully it won’t cop any more damage tonight.’
‘You’re fighting tonight?’ I look up quickly.
‘After the show, yeah.’ He doesn’t seem happy about it. No wonder. ‘Don’t come watch, okay? I’ll probably drop in round one, and that’ll be embarrassing for everybody. But yeah, it’s a guy’s scene, like the dogs back home. You don’t wanna be in the middle of that. I’m working all day in the mech yard, so I won’t get to see you, but I just wanted to let you know.’
That’s when I remember. ‘Oh, crap–I’ve got to tell you this. Fleur waylaid me yesterday in the mess. She knows about the police.’
Now he looks annoyed. ‘Well does she know why? What happened to solidarity of the sisterhood?’
‘I don’t know if she knows why. I don’t think it matters.’ I pull on my sweats, slip into my runners. ‘Fleur’s solidarity is to a sisterhood of one, far as I can see. She said she’s gonna bring the pain if I don’t dial it back in rehearsal.’
‘Dial it back? When did you dial it forward?’ Colm looks at me, his eyes narrowing. ‘Sorsha, you were supposed to be taking it easy…’
My cheeks heat up as the blood rushes in. ‘It was an audition, okay? I didn’t do anything I wouldn’t do normally in a routine with Alby and Ceilidh–’
‘Jesus, Sorsha!’ His jaw clenches. ‘I’ve seen you jump from a tightwire to a trapeze catch with Alby and Ceilidh. You think that shit is normal here? Terry will wet his pants if he sees you doing that stuff!’
‘Hey, it’s not my fault they’ve got a stale routine! The whole crew is flying around Fleur’s limitations–’
‘And it’s your job to stay within those limitations! Mate, I told you when we arrived–no showing off, keep your head down. If you’re not gonna stick to that, we may as well drive back home right now!’
‘We can’t,’ I snap back, flushed with anger. ‘We don’t have a car, remember?’
‘Sorsha–’ Then he stops, puts his hands on his head, elbows out. He looks like he’s pulling on his hair. Like he’d take me by the shoulders and shake me, if he could.
Suddenly, I feel bad. He’s right–I should’ve been playing by house rules. That’s what got Fleur riled up in the first place. And my comment about the car was a low blow.
I sigh, walk closer. ‘Colm, I’m sorry. None of this is your fault. I was stupid–I didn’t mean to be, but yeah, it happened. I’ll…I’ll figure out a way to handle it, okay?’
His face relaxes and his arms come down. ‘Okay. But you’re gonna have to learn how to deal. I know it’s shitty, keeping yourself in a straitjacket, but if we play this right it’ll only be for a few months.’
‘I know,’ I say miserably.
‘Come on, mate, chin up. Don’t let Fleur get to you.’ He squeezes my arm.
I resist the urge to ask for another hug. Man, I need to get a grip.
My early start is gobbled up by the day’s hum of action. There’s a buzz in the air. I see it all around me as I make my way back from the mess after breakfast. Performers are in rehearsal, dashing to launder costumes or make last-minute repairs, feeding and working animals, checking in with the backstage and rigging crew to make sure everything is ready for tonight’s show.
Ren is one point of calm in all the flurry. She sits cross-legged on her bed with her back against the wall, reading a book, making the occasional note in a little jotter beside her. When she sees me, she puts her notes aside.
‘Is it building up out there?’
‘Yup.’ I dump my wetpack on my dresser, hang up my towel. ‘Is it always like this?’
‘Ya. First performance of the week, everybody’s excited. And everybody got paid this morning.’ She scoots over to sit on her pillow. ‘Wanna play cards?’
I’m just killing time until rehearsal at eleven, so…‘Sure. Why not.’
Ren gets a big smile at that. She reaches into the drawer of her nightstand and pulls out a deck of cards as I make myself comfortable on the end of her bed. She shuffles the deck like an expert–Desmond would be impressed.
‘I’m kind of crap at cards,’ I admit.
‘No problem. We’re not playing for money.’ Ren deals, cocks her head. ‘Do you know how to play Shithead?’
I laugh. ‘Uh, no, I haven’t come across that one.’
‘It’s easy. Here, I’ll show you.’ She explains the rules, and we play an experimental hand. Ren is pretty good at cards, I discover.
‘I’m glad we’re not playing for money. Damn, girl.’ I check out the book beside her. ‘Anatomy and physiology? What are you studying?’
‘Sports therapy.’ She deals another hand. ‘This is the first year of my distance education college course.’
I’m intrigued. ‘Is it hard?’
‘It’s tough, fitting study around performance life. I get up early to hit the books when everyone else is sleeping in, or I wouldn’t have time.’ She checks her cards, throws down. ‘But I have to be kuat diri. Self-disciplined. Because I’m not taking classes in person. There’s no professor reminding me to do the reading, or keep up with classwork. It’s just me.’
‘Why sports therapy?’
She shrugs. ‘I won’t stay stretchy forever. I haven’t met many contortionists over thirty.’
‘I don’t know many trapeze artists over thirty, either,’ I admit. ‘But then I haven’t met many other trapeze artists, so…’ I check my cards and groan: I have the worst hand in the history of bad hands.
‘You love the life, though?’
I consider. ‘Yeah, I love it. I’ve never known anything else.’
‘Mr Klatsch encourages us to think about what we want to do when we’re too old to perform.’ She lays down cards, lightning-fast.
‘He does?’ That’s lifted Terry in my estimation.
‘Yeah. He even has a career day once or twice a year. There’s a lady who comes in to talk with us about our options.’
‘No way.’
‘Yep. I chose sports therapy, because lots of people help regular athletes, but not many therapists specialise in treating contortionists, or trapeze artists–’
‘Or strongmen,’ I say. My face warms. ‘Or, um, jugglers.’
‘Or knife throwers–that’s right!’ Her face gets animated. ‘So it’s kind of niche, but it will keep me connected to the show. And if I ever leave, the skills are transferable.’
‘Wow. That’s cool. And really, really smart.’
Ren blushes with the praise. ‘I still have a long way to go.’
‘But you’ve made a start.’
Like this morning’s talk with Gabriella, it’s got me thinking. Morrighan is old, and Desmond is even older, and they’re both still in the life. But Desmond and Morry have moved into managerial roles, and neither of them perform crafts as physically taxing as trapeze. Desmond can do fingerwork until he’s eighty, if arthritis doesn’t become a problem, and Morry’s fortune-telling gig is the same.
I always imagined I’d stay on the show forever. But things move fast. My world has changed, all in the space of one week. I don’t know where I’ll end up, and with the investigation in the north, I could find myself running again…
My whole life has been turned upside down. How can I plan for the future when my present is so screwed up and uncertain?
Ren demolishes me with a few well-placed cards. I throw down my hand–I need more practise at Shithead. ‘That’s it, I’m out.’
Ren grins. ‘Next time, we play for money. Raising the stakes sharpens your skills fast.’
I laugh because it’s expected of me. But I don’t know. Raised stakes are all I’m dealing with right now.
‘Hup.’
I hear the call, and swing out into space. I must’ve heard that word a million times, and it still produces the same feeling: the excitement of air, of breath, the dream of flying. I aim for Rueben’s hands, launch myself off the bar…and once again get a slithery hand-slap before my stomach drops and I plummet into the net.
There’s a stab of anger and frustration, but I can’t be angry at how Fleur and Rueben have been sabotaging my practise. They’re doing the work for me.
‘Rueben, you missed it again,’ Luke sighs from down below.
‘She’s off.’ Rueben swings back and forth, dusting his hands upside-down in mid-air. ‘I can’t help it if she’s off.’
‘Her timing is fine.’ Luke sounds as frustrated as I should be. ‘You’re missing the catch.’
‘Sorry.’ Rueben doesn’t sound sorry.
‘We should be practising for tonight,’ Fleur calls from the opposite platform. ‘Can we just ditch this and do the routine?’
‘Sure, sure.’ Luke eyes me as I bounce my way to the edge of the net, flip down. ‘Okay, I’m coming up. Everybody in position.’
Dee catches my eyes as she chalks her hands, keeps her voice low. ‘I hope you don’t think we train like this all the time.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ I fiddle with my wrist straps. ‘You should do a proper practise, you’ve got to perform in four hours.’
Dee dips her head–she can’t deny it–and walks to the ladder.
Luke passes behind me as he goes to the other side. ‘Can you work the ladder controls? Fleur’s right, we do need a run-through.’
‘No problem. I just press the button, yeah?’
‘Yep.’ He points a finger at me. ‘And don’t go anywhere. I want to work with you after this session is over.’
Sounds ominous. But I ignore the flutter in my stomach, step over to the ladder controls and keep my finger on the button until the ladder raises to the right height–they’ve taken the top platforms, so this run-through is the real deal. Luke and Dee move into positions. Fleur and Rueben are all seriousness now.
‘Hup.’
The routine isn’t spectacular, but it’s highly competent. Luke and Dee are both excellent artists–every catch is exact, every layout is perfect. Fleur is the flashiest performer, and there’s no doubt she’s a solid artist. She’s just a little workman-like for my taste. And the set isn’t awe-inspiring, which makes no sense to me: how can you not inspire awe, flying so high above the ground? Isn’t that the whole point of trapeze?
I shouldn’t criticise, though. This routine has kept the team a feature of the show. Audiences probably wouldn’t know the difference. And this is what I wanted–to stay in the background. I’m supposed to be playing it safe…just like this routine.
At the finale, Fleur and Rueben and Dee arrow into the net, one at a time, leaving Luke to do some solo acrobatics.
Fleur ambles over while I’m watching. ‘Nice to see you’re playing the game.’
‘What game is that?’ I keep my eyes on Luke.
‘Saoirse, you’re a very…qualified performer, but this isn’t your show.’ She turns towards me, so I’m forced to meet her gaze. ‘I don’t think it’s a smart idea to commit the team to switching everything to accommodate you, when you don’t even know if you’ll be sticking around. Amiright?’
The way she uses her father’s quip is annoying as hell. ‘Well, like you say, I’m a guest of the show.’
‘I’m just trying to do what’s best for the team.’ Her eyes flash.
I get it, I really do. This team is her centre, the way Alby and Ceilidh are my centre. ‘You’re protecting your team. That’s okay, I understand.’
‘You do?’ She looks taken aback that I’ve agreed with her. ‘Well…great. Good.’
‘But could you please tell Rueben that he can catch me sometimes? I just don’t want to look like an idiot in training. I won’t bite him on the hands or anything.’
‘Sure. Sure, I’ll tell him.’
Fleur walks off, so I get to see Luke complete one last heart-stopping set of spins and dives: that part of the routine is genuinely exciting. It’s a good way to finish. He gets a round of applause, and then we all break for our training bags, unwinding wraps and finding water bottles. Rueben makes a quick escape–I’m pleased to see Fleur snag his arm as they head for the curtained door.
I hunt for my sweatpants and shoes, almost manage to make a clean getaway. Then Luke flips off the net and stalks over to me before I can avoid him.
‘Okay, get up there. Three sets of swings to bring you up to speed.’
‘Uh, you just did a run-through. Aren’t you tired?’ I’m hedging and he knows it.
He grins. ‘I can do this all day.’
‘Better get moving, tawni,’ Dee says as she comes closer. She hands me the chalk bag and smiles. ‘We’re performing in four hours, remember?’
I shouldn’t be doing this. My heart is humming as I hold onto the ladder, though. Dee punches the button, and the ladder climbs for me. No showing off, keep your head down…But I’m not performing for anyone, I’m not in front of a crowd. Fleur’s not even here, so I can’t piss her off. Colm would be okay with this.
I think.
I step onto the platform, unhook the bar. This is the moment, for me. Something in my blood slows down at this height above the earth, and my vision becomes sharp-pointed. All the tiny details around and inside me suddenly come into focus: the chalk dust floating in the air, the creak of the gantry, my own breathing. Luke is hanging by his knees, swinging in position, miles away. I watch him, hear the ‘Hup’, and launch myself into space.
Then everything goes away.
It’s just me and the air now, and I’m flying. I’m a bird now, I’m a flame. My muscles are loose springs, and I give one-word directions to Luke as I move–hold, and lift, and release–with a micro-second delay, cos we’ve never done this before, we’re improvising. For him, this is a new world. But I move sure, because if there’s one thing I know about trapeze, it’s that you have to commit.
I climb his body like a monkey, twist to dive, catch the bar on its return. The bar is all mine, and I own it, circle it–one-handed, both hands–and swing out again, loop the loop. This is what it means to be free. There’s no last week, no backstory, no running–just me. I feel joy, for the first time in a while, and my heart expands. I would do this forever if I could. Until the stars fall down, and the earth shakes, and the heavens open, and…
‘Drop now,’ Luke rumbles.
So I do, and the tightwire is there, waiting for me–it’s like grabbing the hand of an old friend. I spin around it, find my feet, skip along its length. I’m dancing on air. Then one bounce, two, and when the wire makes its own tsunami wave, I ride it–up, reaching, firm hands touching mine.
I clutch, catch, and now my breath is laboured. I kick out to give us momentum, more and higher. I hear Luke’s heavy breathing. It’s time to fall, and I do–flipping and spinning on the way down. Then the net hugs me in its arms, and it’s over. Gravity has taken hold again.
My body feels heavy as I drag myself to the edge of the net. It takes me a second to realise there’s applause coming from the gallery–it seems wrong, somehow, that someone’s applauding, because what’s the point of applauding flying? Birds do it every day, it’s normal. You may as well applaud breathing. But then I register voices, too, as Luke drops to the net and I’m bounced right to the edge, close enough to swing down.
‘Sorsha.’ Dee can’t seem to say anything more as she helps me to the ground. Her eyes are round as dinner plates.
‘Holy shit,’ Terry says. He’s standing right behind Dee, and he’s laughing. ‘Does she do that every practise? Oh man, we are gonna make a mint with this act.’
Luke drops down beside me and puts a hand on my shoulder, turning me. His breath is a bellows. ‘Can you repeat that, what you did?’ His eyes track over my face. ‘Do you even remember what you did?’
‘I-I remember,’ I stammer, but it’s Terry who’s turning me now.
‘Sorsha, you’re a wonder. Damn, girl!’ He laughs with his head thrown back, and it’s jarring to hear my words to Ren repeated. ‘If I’d known you could fly like that, I would’ve stolen you from Morrighan years ago!’
‘I wouldn’t have left,’ I say stiffly. But I know what I’ve done. This is a screw up of the first order. I have to fix this, and I have to do it now. ‘Terry, I can’t perform yet. What you saw, that was just fooling around–’
‘Just fooling around, she says!’ He chortles.
But I’m serious. ‘I’m not ready. Luke and I were just testing stuff out.’
I look at Luke desperately. He bites his lip and nods.
Terry puffs out his chest–he’s in his T-shirt and jeans again, but this time his T-shirt bears a Ramones logo–and claps a hand to my shoulder. ‘You take the time you need, my dear girl. I want to see it happen, though. I want it in the Spiegeltent!’
I swallow hard. ‘If you want us to do this in the Spiegeltent, it’s gonna need more work.’
Terry is unfazed. ‘You and Fleur could make up something together–it’d be amazing!’
Amazing. Right. I let out a deep breath, but I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m still panting.
Then I realise–I have leverage now. This is my chance, and I’d better take it.
‘Terry, I know you’ve already done a lot for me and Colm…’ I choose my words carefully. Please, god, no more screw ups. ‘And we really appreciate it, because we were in a tight spot. But Colm needs a place on the show. Right now, he’s working with the mech crew, and that’s, um…Well, it’s great he’s getting some money in his pocket. But it’s not ideal. D’you know what I’m saying?’
‘I think I know,’ Terry says slowly. ‘So you want me to give Mr Mackay a craft position?’
‘Yes,’ I blurt. ‘You gave me a chance to show you what I could do. But Colm hasn’t had that chance, and he’s a good artist, too.’
Terry’s eyes track away. ‘Ah, Sorsha, everyone wants a place on the show…’
‘I know that.’ I stand firm. ‘I know it’s hard, squeezing everyone in. But Colm would impress you. He deserves a spot.’
Terry puts his hands on his hips and grins at me. ‘So, what, you’re not gonna perform unless I give him one?’
I hadn’t meant it like that. But I’ve dealt my hand, now I have to play it out.
‘Yes,’ I say.
Terry is still bemused. ‘What if I say no?’
‘Then…I’ll take my act elsewhere. There’s other troupes in the south.’ This is true. Colm and I only came to Klatsch’s because of Morry. I try to play this cool, even though my insides are a jumbled, terrified mess. ‘That would almost be easier for you, right? On lots of levels.’
It’d mean he wouldn’t have to worry about the possibility of police knocking on his door. At this stage, all I can hope is that I’ve made an indelible impression. Maybe what Terry just saw is enough of a teaser that, now he’s got me, he won’t want to let me go.
‘How exactly will you do that?’ Terry’s eyes narrow. He’s finally figured out I’m not joking around. ‘You haven’t got transport.’
He’s not catching me with that one. He’s the reason we haven’t got transport.
‘I’ll take the bus,’ I say through clenched teeth.
Terry eyes me for a moment. Then he breaks into a guffaw. ‘Oh, man. You remind me of Morrighan so much.’ He sticks out his hand. ‘Okay. Done. You drive a hard bargain, Miss Neary.’
We shake, and relief washes through me.
‘Work up something for Friday, just a teaser. Incorporate it into the regular act.’ Terry snags Luke’s eye. ‘And keep Fleur in the loop.’
‘Will do.’ Luke glances at me, and I know he’s wondering how that’s going to work out. Terry’s just off-loaded the hardest part of the problem.
Terry walks out. A thrill spins around my insides–I’ve played my hand and won. But my knees are still knocking together. I’ve got a lot to learn before I master this game, and it’s a lot more complicated than Shithead.
A few hours later, cars start arriving on the lot.
Tonight’s performance is about to begin.