The performance starts at five, but the midway opens at four. Punters start wandering around the concession stands, in greater and greater numbers, and people take up their positions.
Gabriella brings her babies from the stables, and suddenly the street is full of horse-flesh. Four white Arabians mill and snort in the afternoon sun, then fall into line. Gabriellasettles them with a series of gentle touches, cooing into their faces and blowing into their ears. Each animal wears a plumed head-dress, and the gold feathers catch the light.
Gabriella is resplendent in a gold and pink pantsuit, her own pink head-dress larger and more extravagant than any of the ones on the liberty horses. She holds a thin, ornamental whip in one hand and clutches lead ropes with the other.
Every other performer on the lot moves into place behind her. I see Carey on stilts, in his motley costume, and another guy, Owen, on a huge-wheeled, penny farthingbicycle. The acrobats fill out the middle of the parade. Ren waves and smiles from the centre of the group, followed by the jugglers, the clowns, and Chester and Gordon, the bladesmiths.
Luke leads the trapeze team, who wear black silk robes over their costumes. They look subdued when they’re not in the air. Seb–a tall, massively-built Punjabi guy in a costume that shows off his physique–walks beside Dita, who’s carrying what appears to be a fat, black medicine ball on a stick. She slings it over her shoulder so comfortably that I know I couldn’t lift it if I tried. The freak act brings up the rear, and I catch a whiff of accelerant from the fire sticks Bill is carrying: he won’t light them up until the parade starts.
Colm smiles at me as he comes closer, then vaults up to stand beside me on the verandah of the mess. ‘You ever see anything like this?’
‘No.’ I breathe in the excited hum of the gathered community. ‘I saw the advance parade by Ashton’s once, but that was when I was a kid. They had bears.’
‘Bears, huh? You don’t get much of that stuff anymore. Horses and dogs, sure, but not bears and monkeys and stuff. Animals have gone out of fashion.’
‘Yep. It’s better, I reckon. We don’t need those old performing monkeys. They just look sad.’
He lifts his chin at the parade. ‘Nobody here looks sad.’
That’s absolutely true: the buzz is palpable as runners go down the line, letting people know when cues are up. Ticket sales have been good–it’s a full house tonight in the Spiegeltent. And this will be my first look inside.
Colm’s arm bumps mine, and I realise I’m procrastinating. I need to tell him about my new deal with Terry. But I know Colm will be pissed. He wouldn’t think that me doing a featured solo is anything like a good idea, considering we’re trying to fly under the radar. His words replay in my mind: No showing off, keep your head down–if you’re not gonna stick to that, we may as well drive back home.
Oh, he’s going to love it when I tell him I’m breaking the rules about keeping a low profile so he can get a job.
And I know Colm: he’ll think it’s charity. He would say he wants to earn his place in the show, he wants to deserve it. But he does deserve it. The fact he hasn’t had a chance to demonstrate that isn’t his fault, it’s Terry’s.
Thankfully there’s no time left to talk as Colm pulls my hand. ‘Come on, let’s get a spot in the wings.’
Walking to the right, we skirt the parade up the incline to the tunnel where the performers enter. We’re dressed in black, to blend with the behind-the-scenes crew, so it’s easy to slip through the tent flap into the ring-side area. Colm tugs me around the edge of the gallery bleachers. I just want to find a place to stand and watch.
I can’t believe I’m finally inside the Spiegeltent. I’m having trouble keeping myself from gaping–now I really look like a country rube. But the inside of the Big Top is like something out of a circus fantasy. It’s huge, for one thing: the cavernous interior is at least ten times bigger than any tent I’ve ever worked in before.
What sets it apart is the design. Klatsch’s is a permanent carnival, so the stage dressing can be arranged and manipulated to suit the performers, not the other way around. Bleachers stack the audience in dozens of high, tiered rows, which I’m used to. But the ring here isn’t a ‘ring’ in the classic sense. A collection of manufactured boulders, big and small, skirt the sawdust and offer the audience a broken fourth wall. The front starbuck seats of the gallery are actually scattered amongst the boulders, so the audience members with prime tickets will be right in the action.
Enormous lights from the rigging high above give everything a glittering desert glow. Spots are pulsing around the ring, flaring and dimming over different parts of the stage, feeding the excited anticipation of the crowd of punters. I clutch Colm’s hand tight; I’m anticipating, too.
He pulls me over to a curtained area of side scaffolding, twitches aside the curtain to reveal a concealed space. Once we’re squeezed in, he twitches the curtain shut again, only leaving us a sliver to peer out of.
‘Are we allowed to be here?’ The spot we’re hiding in is a tight fit. My back is pressed against Colm’s front. It’s worse than sleeping in the car.
Colm keeps his voice low, his mouth next to my ear. ‘Archie said they won’t need to move this set for a half hour. We can watch the parade from here until then.’
But I don’t really care anymore, because I’ve looked up. ‘Ohmigod, that trapeze!’ The net isn’t raised, but one glance at the gantry–forty feet high, at least–is enough to make my mouth water.
Colm laughs softly at my expression. ‘Are you having a spiritual experience?’
‘I am,’ I concede. ‘Check out that rig, Colm…’
‘Calm down, Sorsh. Nobody’s started performing yet.’ He snickers, wriggles in the tight space.
Then he casually puts one broad arm around my front, across my collarbones.
My pulse jumps, and I startle. Colm’s other hand rests on my shoulder, calming, soothing. As the audience murmurs quiet, he tucks his face in next to mine.
‘Is this okay?’ His deep voice is tentative. ‘I don’t wanna give you the heebs.’
I close my eyes, open them. My reaction has very little to do with fight-or-flight, unfortunately. The hot feeling in my stomach is back.
‘You’re not giving me the heebs,’ I say. It comes out husky. I clear my throat.
The lights dim, and we’re standing here, breathing together in the darkness. All I’m aware of in this moment is Colm’s firm, muscled arm around me. His warm chest is pressed against my shoulders, the back of my neck. I grip the scaffolding pole in front of me to keep myself steady.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ he whispers. ‘Your heart is going a mile a minute.’
I hardly know how to reply, because the evidence is right there: my heart is a trip-hammer. ‘I’m…I’m fine.’
‘Is my arm too heavy? You’re little, I don’t wanna–’
He starts to move, and I snap my hand up to grab his wrist, fix him in place.
‘I’m not that little.’ I swallow. ‘Stop fussing. If you move around too much, someone will see us.’
‘Okay, then.’ He leaves his arm where it is, but I feel the rumble of his chuckle against my back.
I try to relax, breathe. This reaction I have, when Colm and I make contact, is getting out of control. I remind myself that Morry told him to take care of me. The reminder’s not working. Suddenly, music booms out. The parade has started, thank god. I need the distraction.
We watch it all from the best vantage point in the house. First, Gabriella’s liberty horses burst into the ring, pounding the sawdust and mounting the boulders with their front hooves to create an honour guard as Gabriella sweeps forward with a flourish. A whip-crack later and the feathers part to reveal a galaxy of tumblers–Lee and Annie give a prelude to their spot, as Ren and the others flick-flack around them.
The music becomes deeper and more dramatic as the horses and acrobats depart, and Carey takes huge elevated strides around the ring. Giant silk flags wave in zig-zags behind him, creating a strange industrial scene, while Seb and Dita swing their medicine ball sticks and a great gong sounds. This scene melts away too, and now Ren is standing on a boulder, front and centre. As the flames from Bill’s firesticks spin and flare, Ren’s body turns elastic, folding and refolding over itself, stretching and balancing on feet, on hands–I’ve never seen anyone with such control.
‘That’s my roommate!’ I jiggle in Colm’s grip, and he laughs. But moments later, my eyes track north and my body stills.
The spotlights have turned skyward to light up the tilt, where Luke and the others are completely owning their short teaser routine. The excitement of the parade has lit up their blood, because this is a far cry from the lacklustre display they put on this morning. Fleur is on fire, spinning in space.
‘That’ll be you up there soon,’ Colm whispers in my ear.
I grip his forearm in reply. I can’t wait.
We watch from the side scaffolding until the end of the first act, which is Lee and Annie’s adagio–their spotlit balances and stylised display is a good way to ease into the main show, after the drama of the parade. While the audience applauds and the lights dim, Colm and I sneak out of our hidden cubby, edging along the side of the tent until we reach the backstage area. Then we slip through the tunnel and out the canvas flap, and we’re breathing the night air.
‘I’ve gotta go lug scaffolding,’ Colm says glumly. It’s a comedown after the magic of the performance.
I sigh. ‘And I’ve got a date with the costumer.’
‘Will you make it back in time for the trapeze act?’
‘I think so. Dee said they won’t hit their cue for over an hour. Meet you back here then?’
‘Can’t.’ He makes a face. ‘I’m trawling the car park for the fights.’
I wish he wasn’t doing this. Hopefully my bargain with Terry Klatsch will put Colm’s involvement in the fights to rest. And I’ll tell him about it…sometime really soon. ‘Okay, then, I guess I’ll see you later.’
‘You promised you wouldn’t come to fights,’ he reminds me.
‘I did, and I won’t. But what if you need a lookout?’
‘I can look after myself, Sorsh.’ He side-eyes me, hands on his hips.
But I’m getting a sudden memory of his face, when I pulled him onto the beach; blue lips, eyelids and lashes sprinkled with sand, his hair dripping seawater…I blink hard. ‘Colm, be careful tonight.’
‘When am I not careful?’
‘I mean it. Don’t get a broken jaw or something.’
‘You’re worrying needlessly again.’ He grins, then shrugs. ‘I’m used to the fights, y’know. This isn’t my first rodeo.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Ah, y’know…’ He scuffs the ground with his boot before looking back at the Spiegeltent. ‘The troupe I was in with my mum, before Desmond’s. We’d roll into town with the vans, for the mud show, and before they’d even slung up the canvas we’d be touting for the fights.’ His head angles as he meets my eyes. ‘I’ve been slugging it out since I was fifteen, Sorsha. That’s how Lorcan found me.’
It takes me a second to process what he’s saying. ‘Since you were fifteen? Against grown men?’
‘You take what you can get.’ He starts walking backwards. ‘Go see the costumer. Then make sure you check out the trapeze act, if you’re planning on being in it. I’ll catch up with you later.’
I stand there, open-mouthed, as he turns and walks away. Suddenly, a lot of things about Colm make more sense: his decision to go into the fights in the first place, the way he seemed so matter-of-fact about it…He’s been in bare-knuckle bouts before. How did he deal with it, fighting tooth and claw from such a young age? The whole idea is horrifying.
Sure, I started young, too. I’ve been training for the trapeze practically since I could walk. Morry has pushed me to train, she’s disciplined me, blustered and sighed when I slacked off. But she never forced me onto the trapeze–that was my own choice. And I can’t imagine Morry ever thrusting me into something as brutal as ring-fighting, all for the sake of a few dollars.
But Colm’s mother did it to him.
I don’t know what to think. Or what to feel–although I’m pretty sure pity’s the wrong response. All I know is that Colm looks different to me now, with the stars glittering down on him as he walks towards the mech yard. I’m used to thinking of him as strong. He’s definitely that. But he’s something else as well. Something more vulnerable.
I think I knew it when I pulled him out of the ocean. Now, it’s as if the two images I have of him are slowly coming into alignment.
I have to shake myself. I’ve got an appointment to keep, and I’d better get to it if I’m going to make it back in time for the trapeze spot. I run, because I’m late–past the women’s dorm and the practise sheds, and veering right again onto a grassy area of what probably used to be paddock. Now it’s the parking area for half a dozen RVs. These are the homes of couple performers, or those with family with them, or those who’ve been in show life long enough to afford a van of their own.
The van I want is on the small side, but what it lacks in size it makes up for with grandeur. It’s a genuine, silver-bullet style Airstream trailer, in such mint condition it could have sailed right in from the nineteen sixties. Moonlight reflects off the chrome. A little bush rose in a pot sits beside the miniscule steps in front of the door. Of all the vans in the paddock, it’s the only one with lights on inside.
I take the two short steps, and raise my hand for the door, but it opens before I can knock. The woman standing in the doorway looks to be in her fifties. She’s compact and angular, with a short sweep of dark wavy hair. Her white men’s shirt has the collar up, and is cinched by a pair of tight-waisted culottes–very early-Hollywood–and she has a goatee. It’s the same colour as her hair, although it’s coarser and more curly.
She leans on the Airstream’s door, looking at me with a wry smile. ‘Now here’s a Gaelic tinker’s lass, if ever I saw one.’
I’ve met bearded ladies before, but never one quite so blunt. ‘Um, Terry sent me? I’m the new flyer.’
‘Of course you are, dear. Come in–I’m Eugenia.’ She shakes my hand then steps back, allowing me to enter.
The inside of the van reminds me of Desmond’s–it doesn’t have the same decorations, but the sense of troupe-life glamour is identical. This front room is jam-packed with costumes, everything from Gabriella-style ostrich feather head-dresses and stiff tutus, to jewel-coloured saris and tuxedos. Wherever I look, my gaze falls on something gorgeous: jars of bright sequins, rainbow swathes of glistening fabric. A handful of diamantes is piled on a small table, beside an old-fashioned treadle sewing machine. Beside that sits a state-of-the-art modern overlocker.
‘You take sugar?’ Eugenia moves around the crammed space smoothly, switching on a kettle at a side workbench where teabags and sugar occupy separate bowls. ‘I hope you don’t take milk, because I’ve run out.’
‘Sugar is fine.’ I stand still amidst all the beautiful things. I don’t want to bump anything.
‘And she’s polite to a fault…’ Eugenia regards me as she sets up two mugs. ‘My, look at all that pretty red hair. You might as well have McNally’s troupe tattooed on your forehead.’
I blink as she hands me a hot mug, unsure whether to be offended or proud. ‘Did Terry tell you I was from the north?’
Eugenia laughs as she leans back against the workbench. ‘Terry tells me lots of things, but that’s one thing he doesn’t need to tell me. All the McNally northerners are Irish stock. You still speak the cant, tawni?’
I nod, take a tentative sip of my tea. It’s scorching.
‘There you go. And you have a look about you…What’s your full name?’
‘Sorsha Neary.’
‘No, dear.’ Eugenia shakes her head, before sipping from her own mug. ‘What’s the name you arrived with, before Morrighan Neary adopted you?’
My shoulders straighten. ‘Saoirse O’Malley.’
It’s not a surname I’ve ever used. I haven’t even thought about it for a long time.
Eugenia nods. ‘You’re Ronan O’Malley’s daughter. You live with your mother’s sister–we all heard the news, about the car accident. I’m sorry for your loss.’
She’s talking about my parents’ deaths, which makes me feel strangely hollow. ‘It was a long time ago. But thank you.’
‘And now here you are in the south. That must have been a painful switch.’
‘It’s been a learning curve,’ I admit, my voice strangely rough. ‘You knew my da?’
‘And your ma.’ Eugenia blows on her tea. ‘Just before they married. Everyone said how Ronan was lucky to snag Alice Neary, but there was no luck involved in that. Once Ronan set his sights on Alice, that was the end of it. Didn’t hurt that he was handsome as the devil.’ She smiles at the memory.
I’m soaking up these crumbs about my parents, even though Morry has told me some of the story before. ‘And my mother was a flyer?’
‘One of the best.’ Eugenia examines my body critically. ‘You’ve got the same build. And maybe the same talent, I hear.’
‘I…I don’t know.’ I shrug. ‘I guess.
‘If you’ve got it, you should own it.’ Eugenia plonks her mug on the bench behind herself, turns back to me. ‘Now, guessing your measurements won’t get your costume made, will it? Let’s get you sorted out.’
She yanks a tailor’s tape out of the pocket of her culottes and steps in to measure me. Up close, I can see more evidence of her trade–the tailor’s chalk marks on her fingers, the pins arranged in rows along the front pocket of her shirt.
I set my mug down and Eugenia moves it to safety beside her own. She tugs a hardcover notebook, thick with pages, from a spot on a high shelf, opens it to a fresh page and writes my name across the top–my real name, Saoirse O’Malley. Under that, she makes careful notes of all my measurements. Height, weight–she guesses both accurately–shoulder to wrist, nape to buttocks, waist, hips, bust…
‘Just add a few centimetres to my hip measurement,’ I say sadly.
Eugenia snorts. ‘You’ve got more than a few centimetres there, dear. Stop worrying and let me figure this out. Terry said you need a matching costume now, and maybe something more showy as well. How do you feel about spangles?’
‘Whatever you think will work.’ I flap a hand.
‘Feathers?’
I think of my ruined bird-of-paradise costume and baulk. ‘No feathers.’
‘Hm.’ Eugenia taps her pen on her bearded chin as she scans around the room.
I like that she hasn’t made any excuses for the colourful mess in here. She would’ve been doing last-minute repairs for tonight’s performance right up until first cues, which would explain some of the chaos. But I also think this is probably just how she likes things. This is her domain, her workspace, and I’m pretty sure she knows the location of every item in it.
‘Now, we have to tread carefully, don’t we?’ Eugenia says, pursing her lips at a swatch of bronze lycra. ‘If you look more glamorous than Fleur, there’ll be hell to pay.’
Everything is about not offending Fleur. I try not to let my irritation show. ‘I don’t care what I wear, as long as it’s comfortable to perform in.’
‘Well, I’m not sending you out there in a hessian sack, dear.’ Eugenia’s tone is dry.
‘Of course not, I mean…I didn’t mean to sound im-polite, or ungrateful. Whatever you’re able to make, on such short notice, will be wonderful. I’m just not that fussy about my costume–I like to let the performance shine first.’
‘But a little flash and glamour certainly doesn’t hurt.’ Eugenia’s eyes twinkle. ‘Before you’ve even done your first somersault, your costume should add to the performance and bewitch the audience. Now, don’t you worry about bothering Fleur, let me deal with that. I’ll use my best judgement. But if you’re going to be a featured flyer, we want you looking good. How do you feel about stays? And laces?’
We spend the next five minutes talking about the physical requirements of my act, so Eugenia can consider the range of my movements when she designs. Another five minutes is spent haggling over colours–anything, so long as it’s not unlucky green–and details of my two new costumes. Two feels extravagant, especially as I haven’t done a single performance yet.
Which reminds me. ‘Oh crap–Eugenia, I’m really sorry, but I have to get back to the Spiegeltent. The flyers will be on soon, and I have to watch their performance in front of an audience.’
‘Off you go, then.’ Eugenia ushers me to the door. ‘Come back tomorrow morning for a fitting–you’re going to need one, if we want the first costume ready by tomorrow night. When’s your feature coming in?’
‘Friday, I think.’ I still wonder about this bargain with Terry. Not the part about getting Colm a spot–that’s just necessary. But it all feels like it’s moving so fast. And performing a feature in front of the huge Big Top audience? Pissing off Fleur in the process? The idea still makes me nervous.
‘Well, think hard, because if Terry said Friday, he means it. He’ll expect that feature to be up and running for the Friday night crowds.’ Eugenia shakes my hand, grinning. ‘See you tomorrow morning, tawni.’
I leave the Airstream and race back to the Spiegeltent. The night sky feels heavy. The lot is oddly quiet; everyone is occupied with the performance, and the main street is empty, save for the dotted pools of light from the old-fashioned street lamps. I jog up Tinpan Alley, back to the circus tunnel, and lift the canvas flap entrance at the rear of the Spiegeltent. Audience applause makes a roar from inside.
Ren is waiting for me, standing in her robe and ballet slippers. ‘You made it back just in time. Gabriella just started her spot, the trapeze is the next act.’
‘Is that the finale?’ Ren nods and I grasp her hand. ‘I’m sorry I missed your spot. How did it go?’
‘Bagus!’ Good. Ren smiles. ‘Don’t worry–there’s always tomorrow night!’
She guides me to a place in the wings where we can stand together and watch. Gabriella’s horses have just bowed to her, and now she’s directing them in a series of complex runs and switchbacks. I’ve never worked in a troupe with an equestrian act before, and I’m as impressed as the audience.
The trapeze team was always going to have the coveted finale, but I’m not convinced their routine is any more dramatic than Gabriella’s. The pizzazz of their earlier teaser is missing, for some reason–they just perform the same moves I saw this afternoon in training, this time higher up and in costume. The extra height provides some sizzle and the audience is impressed, but it feels rote to me.
‘You’ll be up there tomorrow night, yeah?’ Ren clutches my arm. ‘That’s so exciting!’ She seems more thrilled by the idea than I am.
I just nod, trying to commit the flyer’s coordinated movements to memory. Maybe I’m jealous. I want to be up there, performing. I want to be flying, but right now I’m earthbound.
Near midnight, after the end of the show, I’m still waiting for Colm to come home.
The performance pack up was efficient–done and dusted in half an hour–and then there was a rush for the showers. Costumes were spot-cleaned and put away, makeup was removed, gear was stowed. Gabriella is at the stables, at the bottom of the lot, putting her horses to bed.
There’s no partying: some of the older workers and performers, like Bill and Dita and Luke, meet up for a drink in the mess. But everyone is aware that this is only the first show of the week. There are still six performances between now and Sunday night, so people are pacing themselves.
Ren has a group of steadies who play poker in the common room for a while, with a few other women talking and watching TV in the same space. I join in until the poker game is done, then play Shithead with Ren until she yawns and gets rid of her last card, and the TV is switched off. Finally it’s just me, pretending to read by lamplight while watching for Colm’s golden head out the window.
As I flick at book pages, I worry. He could cop real damage in bareknuckle bouts. I think of broken noses, broken teeth. Fingers, too, which might be even more disastrous. If his chance to impress Terry comes up and he can’t perform because of some injury…
First of all, though, I need to stop dithering and tell him about the deal.
So I’m chewing my fingernails over two issues when he finally does walk up the Parade Road. I don’t spot him at first, because he’s wearing his hoodie up again, but I recognise him by his shoulders. Book forgotten, I race outside.
‘You’re late,’ I say, jumping down the porch steps, then I realise how that sounds. ‘Sorry–I’m not your mother.’
‘Good thing, too.’ Colm’s face is in shadow under the streetlamps. I can’t see his expression when he lifts one hand to reveal two clinking bottles. ‘I feel like a beer. You want a beer? I got ‘em from the mess.’
I come closer. ‘Sure. A beer sounds good. Are you okay?’
‘I never worked in a troupe that had a bar on the lot. Except when Lorcan would buy a slab and bring it home.’ He huffs a laugh, but it sounds toneless. And he didn’t answer my question.
Something’s not right. I want to see his face, ask him about the fights, explain that he doesn’t need to worry about the them anymore. But we can’t talk here in the street.
‘Let’s go to the laundry.’ I take the beers, tug on his arm. He follows without protest until we get where we need to be.
The laundry is pitch black and cold at midnight, but when I press the switch and the fluoros flick on, Colm ducks his head.
‘Fuck, kill the lights, would ya? That’s the last thing I need.’ He fumbles his way to the upturned garbage bin as I comply.
I dump the beers and pull a head-torch–a modern version of a miner’s lamp, very useful back stage–out of my pocket, switch it on and set it on the bench. When I turn back, Colm’s pulled his hoodie down and I get a shock. A sterile pad is taped to the side of his left eyebrow, and his left eyelid is red and swollen. It complements the bruise on his cheekbone.
‘Jesus, your eye–’
‘Forget it, it’s just a graze.’ Colm bats my hand away. There must be more damage underneath the gauze pad. ‘My eye is fine, I’m fine, we all survived. I’m five hundred bucks richer, so no harm done, right?’
But his voice is stiff, and I wonder if he’d prefer to lick his wounds in private. Now would be a great time to talk about Terry’s deal. It might help to loosen Colm up first, though…
I crack the top off one bottle and hand it to him. ‘There you go. Get that into you.’
‘Instant anaesthetic–thanks.’ He looks grateful, and the awkwardness is gone.
‘How did it go?’ I bite my lip. ‘God, I feel stupid asking. You got beat up for money. How is that supposed to go?’
He sighs. ‘Well, yeah, it’s not fun. Gibson lined me up twice. The first guy was a marshmallow, but the second guy had some moves.’
I’m watching Colm closely, but I tell myself that under the circumstances, I’m allowed. His hair is dark with sweat and his knuckles are still taped. His lips slide on the rim of his beer bottle, and he winces as he swallows.
I shake my head. ‘Your eyelid really is a mess. You’ll have a massive shiner tomorrow.’
He shrugs, his forehead pinching. ‘My face doesn’t feel so bad, but my ribs are another story.’
It hasn’t escaped my attention that his arms are tucked against his body. Nothing in the way he moves, the way he looks and behaves, has escaped my attention. To be honest, it scares me a little, how aware of him I’ve become.
When he unzips his hoodie, revealing bare chest underneath, I suck in a breath. His torso is wrapped in a bandage, keeping an icepack in place.
‘Oh, man.’ I sigh and step in closer. ‘Let me look at that.’
Colm puts his beer down. ‘It’s not bad, Sorsh, it’s just–’
‘It’s just an icepack and some injury that’s making you move like you’re made of glass. Right.’ I nudge his arms apart.
He lifts his elbows, grimacing. ‘It’s fine.’
He smells of sweat and engine grease. As I reach beneath the hoodie fabric to unwind the strapping from his chest, I’m enveloped in heat–the warmth of Colm’s skin, and my own humid breathing. I’m suddenly lightheaded, and I haven’t even touched my beer.
But as soon as I see what’s under the bandage and the icepack, my dizziness disappears.
‘What the–’ I dump the strapping on the bin. ‘Okay, this? This is not ‘fine’. No way is this fine!’
‘Sorsha, chill out.’ He tugs at the front of his hoodie, his cheeks spotted with pink. ‘It’s bareknuckle boxing, mate, what did you expect?’
‘Don’t tell me to chill! You look like you’ve been hit with a bag of oranges!’ This is why I made the trapeze deal. I have to tell Colm, and I have to do it now. ‘You’re not fighting again. I’m not kidding. No more fights. Let me talk to Terry, I know a way we can get you out of this–’
‘Don’t talk to Terry.’ Colm straightens, his expression a stone wall. ‘Terry’s priority is the carnival here, and that’s fair enough. But our priority is making a living and keeping our heads down. We need to be smart about this. We’ve already got owies with Terry, and I don’t trust him.’
‘Colm, please, just listen for a second. The fights are a bad scene. It’s too easy for you to get injured, and then where will you be? I’ve got a better idea. Terry said–’
‘No.’
‘At least let me–’
‘No.’ His face darkens. ‘We’ve got bigger worries than me copping a few bruises.’
‘Stop being such a jackass! A few bruises? Have you even seen yourself?’ I catch sight of his ribs again and groan, cover my face with my hands.
He pulls my hands away gently. ‘Sorsh, I made money tonight, good money–’
‘It shouldn’t be just about the money!’
‘Sorsha, come on.’ His grip firms on my wrists. His eyes are a rich gold shot through with green, clashing with the red on his eyelid. ‘I told you this wasn’t my first rodeo. I know it looks bad, but I’m okay. I can handle this.’
‘I can’t handle this.’ I look at him desperately. ‘Colm, don’t do this. There’s another way. Getting beaten to a pulp every night, it’s not–’
‘You have to trust that I can deal with it.’ Colm doesn’t move an inch. ‘At least for a little while.’
My voice breaks. ‘But it’s hurting you.’
‘They’re just bruises, Sorsha.’ He tugs my hands to his ribs. ‘See? They’ll fade.’
He’s trying to reassure me. Or maybe he didn’t think about it at all when he pulled my hands to touch him, skin to skin. We’re usually so careful about touching each other, I realise. This touch is spontaneous, and somehow that makes it different.
Because now my cool fingers are flattened against his mottled ribcage, my palms lifting with his breath. I should move my hands away. But god, his skin is so warm. He’s like molten gold under my palms. And he’s soft–even the light pelt on his chest is soft. No wonder he bruises up so badly. How can a guy have skin this soft? How is it even legal?
Colm’s breathing is rough, and it suddenly seems very quiet in here. Or maybe his rough breathing means something else, and I’m being an idiot. ‘Crap, I’m sorry. Are you too sore to touch?’
‘No, it’s…it’s okay.’ His cheeks are flushed and hectic, his eyes darting.
Alarm bells are clanging hard in my head. How the hell did we ignore each other in troupe for three years? I swallow. I shouldn’t be staring, but even damaged like this, his body is just…staggering. Like Greek marble that’s been breathed to life. My face feels hot, and I’m scared to look up, scared to look him in the eye.
‘I should wrap this back on…Let me…’ I reach blindly for the strapping and the icepack.
‘Leave it.’ He circles my wrists again with his enormous hands. His voice is tense and tight.
Morry told me once that being a circus fortune teller is about watching for tells. It’s not about being psychic, she said. You just have to watch what people reveal by the way they move, the clothes they wear, their gestures, what they fix their eyes on.
Colm Mackay’s eyes are fixed on my mouth.
My breaths turn into shallow sips of air.
It’s just Colm, I remind myself. Reliable, familiar Colm. But myself doesn’t listen. Myself is singing ‘lalalala’ with her fingers in her ears.
I know exactly when I decide to give in to this. But it’s like I’m watching it all happen from far away. I touch him again. I stroke the pads of my fingers, feather-light and dangerous, over the black bruises on his ribs.
Colm wets his lips. His eyes are heavy lidded, like he’s half-asleep. ‘Sorsha…’
But he doesn’t push my hands away, and I’m hypnotised by his reactions. I trace the bottom of his ribcage with my thumbs and his breathing gets ragged. I slide my fingers up his chest to his collarbones and he shudders right in front of me.
His voice is a rasp. ‘Sorsha–’
‘Do you want me to stop?’ I can’t get my words above a whisper.
He just looks at me, lips parted. I trail my fingers down again, following the swell and dip of muscle. His eyes close and he swallows. His head tips forward, like he’s going to rest his forehead on my shoulder.
‘Oh god,’ he groans. ‘I’m gonna fuck this up.’
Then his lips sink onto my neck, and everything explodes.