Pilo Traveling Show (Pilo Family Circus #2)

16. BELOW

Only the acrobats seemed to really give it their all down below, and of course even they could do little to bring in any takings from the pre-milked tricks. What little soul dust fell was very swiftly pinched up and stuffed into pockets, with now and then the odd squabble breaking out over it and turning nasty.

Gonko let it all unfold, enjoying every moment. He only had to contend with an arson attempt at George's trailer; since George hadn't been wise enough to keep from screaming, a few carny rats knew he'd not in fact been stomped to sludge. That small group, scheming for the mythical secret stash for themselves, thankfully kept their mouths shut about it or the whole lot of them would have stampeded to the trailer.

Jamie took Emerald to the fortuneteller, hoping if Shalice wouldn't take her in she could at least advise somewhere safe for her to live. The fortuneteller gave him a strange look when they arrived at her door. "Does anyone know you brought this girl here?" she said.

"No ma'am," said Jamie.

"You're quite sure?"

"Yes, ma'am. Why is it so important?"

Without an answer, Shalice glanced left and right outside, then quickly pulled Emerald within, slamming and locking the door behind them.

Jamie hid Dean in one of the clown bedrooms, unsure where to put him longer term. Maybe he could find Dean a home with the other ticket collectors soon, but that would mean getting embroiled in the deadly politics, etiquette, and factions—all of it a mystery to those locked outside of it.

Jamie paced nervously. "There had better be somewhere to hide you. Problem is, you stand out. No one down here knows you but the clowns, and you can't join us."

"Worst comes to worst, I'll risk making a run for it," Dean said, "whether they find me later or not."

"Trust me, they will find you. And whoever you're with at the time. And in the meantime, you'll have two missing people to explain. Remember when you reported me to the medical authorities? What do you think they're going to do when they turn up at our flat, find blood all over the floor, signs of a struggle, and three people missing?"

"Well, fuck it. I'll take the gates up, bring a whole bunch of cops down here—" Dean sat up so quickly it looked like a live wire had been pressed into him. "That's it! Man, it's so obvious. I know how we can beat these bastards."

"Shh!" Jamie said. He heard voices nearby; they weren't alone.

"You shouldn'ta said it, but, Ruf, it's downright no good to done said that," said Doopy.

"George said it, you big dummy. George, in his trailer, who we were guarding, remember?"

"But you didn't oughta have to call me a big dummy, Ruf! It was soooo mean."

"Go argue with JJ, I'm busy." There was a scuffle out in the living room area, the noise of a fist fight, with both clowns crying out in pain at random intervals filled with comic slapstick sounds. Jamie waited for it to end so he could hear Dean's idea, but it didn't end; the minutes ticked by slowly and still the two clowns battled.

Finally Jamie gave up waiting and took from his pocket the clay pot he'd seen JJ use up on the surface. "What the hell are you doing?" Dean whispered.

Jamie sprinkled some powder on the clay, with no idea how much to use. He lit it with a match (a box of them sat on the bedside table), watched as the grains melted with faint sounds like someone crying out. Did one wish before or after swallowing? He didn't know, so he did both, drinking down the tasteless warm liquid. "I wish for the return of memories I previously wished to be hidden."

Then he sat back, reeling as sights, sounds, feelings, fears, and experiences flashed and flooded into him, knocking him flat. He saw Goshy diving from a rooftop to land face-first into concrete. There was Winston, old, tired, and desperate for it all to end, sad eyes gazing blankly while his chest was jammed with hot coals. He saw Fishboy, the former freak show curator whose work had been futile in the end, his rebellion a mere disruption to the show's smooth running for a brief time, just a blink in its ancient history. He saw that what he had just melted down and drank was made of human souls—divine, pure things beyond this sad world, trapped here then ripped out of unknowing people like meat from their bodies. And he knew the moment of fear, weakness, and exhaustion that had made him blast all this from memory. There was Kurt—huge, howling, and inhuman—trampling down lives like fruit being squashed, biting, shivering the turf with his footfalls and his roar.

But most of all, he saw JJ. JJ, who was now his "pal" and comrade, drenching their shared body in murdered blood, killing for fun, for the rush of it. No wonder Gonko had brought JJ in on the task of killing those above; JJ would do it gladly. JJ who "just wanted his own body," whose idea of a joke was to stand above Jamie with an axe raised, murder on his face . . .

Dean was shaking his shoulder, had probably been doing so for many minutes. He looked worried. In the other room, Doopy and Rufshod still grappled and slapped each other. "What is it?" said Dean.

"We got a big problem." Jamie swallowed what felt like a brick sinking down his belly. "JJ. My God, I should have done this a lot sooner."

"What about him? He's doing okay so far. The music box, remember?"

"Oh, I remember all right." Jamie shook his head. Where to start? At least he remembered one useful thing: the place Fishboy and his rebellion used to go and meet. There was a fence down an alley with the board that came loose, a thin ledge behind it, and a platform stretched out over a long drop to nowhere. A hiding spot where none would see them. He gestured for Dean to follow.

Before they'd left the room, the tarp in the corner moved. It had been dead still til now, with not even the faintest rustle, but now Jamie lifted its bottom an inch or two and saw the red clown shoes beneath. He yanked the tarp off, and screamed. Goshy stared out with one wide bloodshot eye, the other slitted like a lizard's. His mouth peeled back into bunches of ringed flesh. A burbling whine spilled out: "Oo, ngh, eee." He spun toward the door, missed it by several meters, and walked face first into a crunched hole of plaster, screaming all the while.

Jamie and Dean sprinted away, past Doopy and Rufshod head-locking each other out in the main room. The circus music outside had stopped playing; the tricks had been sent home—the day's show was done. "He heard too much," Dean said when they came at last to a halt. "We're fucked."

"Maybe, but he can't talk. He can't tell the others what he heard."

"You sure about that?"

"Christ, Dean. No, I'm not, but let's hope it's right." They jogged through the showgrounds. It had changed its layout from what he remembered, but it wasn't long before Jamie found the alleyway with a popcorn vendor at one end. They walked casually into the alley's shadows, and no one seemed to see them. Jamie said, "Now look, this board here?" He wrenched it back. "Here's a place to hide. If you can't find a home in the showgrounds, stay out here. I can bring food and water, when no one's watching." Dean looked out at the abyss with wide eyes. "The path's only thin for a little while," Jamie said. "There's a wider platform out there. It's where the good guys used to meet when I was here last time."

"And how'd that work out for you?" Dean said, perhaps irritated because he had a bunch of new fears to contend with, including the drop to oblivion at his feet. "I'm going to try for a room first. This is—"

"jayyy, meeeee!" a singsong voice called. "Wherefore art thou, most handsomest clown of all?"

"Fuck! It's JJ. Go, Dean, get out there. Don't let him know we're using this spot."

"Look, is he on our side or not?"

"I don't know. I'll be back as soon as I can. Hold onto the fence as you go around." Jamie sprinted from the alley before JJ could find him there, although maybe JJ would guess where he'd been anyway. A hand grabbed his shoulder; he jumped and screamed.

"So nervous," JJ observed. "That's quite a flinch. What shenanigans have got your nerve strings all aquiver?"

"Ah, you know, I'm just looking for some action."

"Look no further! Some action comes our way. Gonko sent me to find you, wants you to witness the proudest moment in clown history. That's what he said."

"Lead the way my man," said Jamie with forced cheer. JJ skipped off ahead and Jamie could think only of waking in their shared body, covered in blood, with shared memories of killing, murder, death . . .

•

On a patch of turf near the Funhouse there was a large bucket that spun on an axle. Below it was a steel cover, which opened when a pedal was stepped on. It was into this bucket that management—either one of the Pilo brothers or a trusted lackey—would drop the tribute for those below, sometimes several bucket loads, which then dropped down a chute, passed along a tunnel and fed the dust to the bosses beneath. Carny rats had an old tradition of coming by immediately after, to scavenge anything that may have spilled to the ground, the odds reckoned roughly a one perfect chance for any spillage at all, rarer still for a goodly amount (rare, but not unheard of.) Tonight's odds, of course, were substantially lower; for the first time in memory, a show had been put on with not a single grain of powder offered to those below.

Consequently, in George's boarded up trailer, the phone began to ring.

For an hour, it rang. In that time it became the sound of insanity itself. George knew he was fucked, whether he picked it up or ignored it. Taking it off the hook alone did not stop it ringing. So he ignored it, right up until it seemed the pain of its ring drilling in his skull was worse than anything they might dish out. He put the earpiece to his ear. The tense silence spread beyond his trailer; the din of expectant chatter outside quieted down to nothing.

Through the earpiece came what may have been breathing. George sucked in air to say "Hello," but at that moment came "you. are. doomed."

"Aw, c'mon!"

"come. below. now."

"I can't. I'm trapped in my trailer, see? Long story. And see, I'd love nothing more than to come explain to you all what happened, but we have a little trouble up here, and these employees are getting rowdy. It's Kurt's fault really. Kurt was interfering with the show. You gotta get rid of him, then it'll all go back to normal."

"come. below. now."

"Why wouldn't you ever help me when I asked?" George's voice went shrill. Outside, many listened with interest. "I told you something fishy was going on up here, but you didn't even—"

"come. now."

"I can't!"

"then one shall. be sent. for you. and your. torment. made worse." The line went dead.

•

"Say, George, everything okay in there?" Gonko called. "Just weep hysterically if there's anything Uncle Gonko can do for ya."

The quiet sobbing was not hysterical, but it was still a pretty sweet symphony. A fair crowd had gathered by now, mostly waiting for their promised cut of George's fabled private stash, but many who bore scars from the lash were, like Gonko, enjoying the show. JJ kicked and shoved a path through the crowd, earning hateful glares for he and Jamie, who followed him.

"Where's the cut you promised us?" someone in the crowd yelled at Gonko, provoking a chorus of "Yeah!" and "Where's the goods?"

Gonko looked out at the gathered faces for whoever had initiated this hassle, to make note of another carny rat to visit when all was normal again. In so doing he spotted Jamie and JJ, gestured for them to come near, whispered: "Go up top; get my stash. Divvy it into small bags—just a pinch in each. Any amount will be a feast to these turds. Hell, just get me twenty bags, then they can duke it out themselves. Hustle! I'm trying to enjoy the demise of George here, and now they bug me with this crap."

"Should we do that other thing, boss?" said JJ. Jamie looked at him sidelong and saw eagerness.

"Not yet. We ought to know George's future in the next hour or two. Then we'll talk."

***