what was the problem, finally got there. Silence. My adrenals gave a joyous squirt and relaxed: safety and solitude. I sat at the mirror.
“Right, love,” I said. Hopeless. “Do me.”
“What?” She squinted over my shoulder. “Are you on soon?”
“Five minutes.” I swept all the Leichner sticks and pots closer. “Do the lot.”
“Bastard apolitical theater managers.” She started me.
For the first time ever I didn’t feel much of a clown. No clown’s clobber, of course, except gloves and a weird hat. I’d sliced the fingers so they dangled, and scalped the topper into a lid. My face was chalk-white. Red nose, scarlet lips, lines about my eyes. I looked like nothing on earth. She’d done a rubbishy job, but I was grateful as I left, promising to send along any passing gondolas and vote something-or-other. She was caroling drowsily to her reflection, another smoke helping the mood. I turned my jacket inside out, and nicked some baggy trousers. Being noticeable was the one chance.
One of the evening-suited bouncers said, “Hey. Other way,” but I kept going, down the foyer and out. The carnival was flowing on, over and round the Mawdslay. It stood there forlorn. No sign of Tinker or Dutchie. An overcoated man moved against the flow, finding refuge behind a pillar-box. I capered clumsily into the mob and drew a squad of ghosts trotting with a fife band. A jig. How the hell do you do a jig? I moved faster, advancing up the parade. I even caught up with my stilt walkers, jazz band, the silent piano man.
Then I saw a jolting notice, bulb-lit: carnival procession sponsored by sidoli’s stupendous circus. Instinctively I shrank, but a jovial policeman shoved me back into the stream.
“I reckon you’re late, son,” he said affably over the din. A huge colorful bloke standing near heard and sang, “As now the sun’s declining rays at eventide descend…”
Dear God, I thought, prancing in panic. It was Big Chas. And there too was little Ern, also looking hard after me. And Mr. Sidoli’s two terrible nephews. They were in carnival gear, flashing bow ties and waistcoats, striped shirts, bowlers.
“No,” I bleated in anguish. The bobby’d thought I was something to do with the fairground. Even as I whined and ran, the familiar sonorous pipes of merry-go-rounds sounded.
“Lovejoy!” I heard Big Chas’s bellow.
I fled then, down across the parade, so terrified that cries of outrage arose even from those fellow thespians who’d assumed I was an act. I needed darkness now as never before. If the gunshots from Dobson’s two goons had seemed part of the proceedings, a clown being knifed would seem a merry encore. I hurtled into a small parked van, wrenching the door open, and scrabbling through. Two first-aid men wearing that Maltese-Cross uniform were playing cards. I waited breathlessly, gathered myself to hurtle out of the front sliding door.
“All right, son?” one asked placidly, gathering the cards. “An act, is it?”
“As long as he’s not another Russian.” He gave me a grandfather’s smile. “No offense, laddie. They only come over here to do Dostoyevski and defect.”
“Aye. Always the second week—”
I swung the door out and dived. Somebody grabbed, shouted. Some lunatics applauded. “How real!” a woman cooed as I scooted past, bowling a bloke in armor over. God, he hurt. Another carrying a tray went flying. I sprinted flat out, hat gone and trousers cutting my speed, elbows out and head down. I charged, panicked into blindness, among a mob of red-coated soldiers. They were having a smoke, instruments held any old how, in a huge arched tunnel with sparse lights shedding hardly a glimmer. I floundered among them. A few laughed. There was floodlight ahead, a roaring up there, possibly a crowd. Well, it couldn’t be worse. “Here, nark it, Coco,” a trumpeter said, and got a roar by adding, “Thought it was Lieutenant Hartford.”
A gateway and an obstruction, for all the world like a portcullis. I rushed at it, bleating, demented. An order was barked behind in the tunnel, and I’d reached as far as I could go. I was gaping into an arena filled with bands. Jesus, the Household Cavalry were in there, searchlights shimmering a mass of instruments and horses’ ornamentation.
Lancers rode down one side. I could see tiers of faces round the vast arena. I moaned, turned back. Out there I’d be trapped like a fish in a bowl.
The soldiers formed up, marching easily past, some grinning. The drum major glared, abused me from the side of his mouth. The portcullis creaked. Applause and an announcement over the roar. The back-marker strode past, boots in time and the familiar double-tap of the big drum calling the instruments into noise. Gone. The entrance tunnel was empty. I couldn’t follow the band into the arena, so I turned. Best if I tried to get to George Street. Those Assembly Rooms…
I stopped. My moan echoed down the tunnel towards the exit. Dobson stood there, pointing. Two goons, overcoated neat as Sunday, appeared and stood with him.
“Help!” I screamed, turning to run. And halted. Round the side of the arena gateway stepped Sidoli’s nephews. Two more henchmen dropped from the tunnel archway, crouched a second, then straightened to stand with the Sidolis. Big Chas walked between them. Five in a row. Both ends of the tunnel were plugged. I was trapped.
“Now, lads,” I pleaded, swallowing with an audible gulp. Blubbering and screaming were non-negotiable. “Too many people have been hurt in all this…” The fairground men trudged towards me.
Dobson called, “He’s ours, tykes.”
“Ours,” a Sidoli said. The tunnel echoed, “Ow-erss, owerss.” He was Sidoli’s nephew all right.
No side doors in the tunnel’s wall. I stood, dithering. Big Chas’s line was maybe twenty yards away and coming steadily. Dobson’s pair had pulled out stubby blunt weapons. I thought, Oh, Christ. A war with me in the middle.
“Stop right there, Chas,” I said wearily. “You were good to me. You’ve no shooters, like them. It’s my own mess.”
And I walked towards Dobson. My only chance, really. And it bought me a couple of seconds. It bought me much more than that, as it happened. I moved on trembling pins towards my end. At least I now only had one army against me instead of two. More favorable odds, if doom wasn’t a certainty.
