One Good Turn

rather hoped that some vagabond instinct among the members of the circus troupe would lead them to help him and misdirect the law (“He went that way”). No such luck. The police constable, unfit but dogged, passed across the top of the avenue of trucks. Jackson flattened himself against the side of a huge generator, but too late, the guy had spotted him, yelling something inarticulate in surprise at suddenly coming upon his quarry. The policeman in Jackson wanted to reassure him that he wasn’t dangerous, the guy didn’t have his partner with him, no one covering his back, and had no idea what Jackson was capable of, so he was probably more scared than Jackson was. What was he capable of? he wondered.

He didn’t hang around to find out, instead he was off again, helter-skeltering around the parked convoy. The chase was telling on him, his ribs aching so much he could barely keep upright. Just when he thought he was going to have to give up this game of hide-and-seek, someone or something (he hoped it was someone) grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into the dark.

Not entirely dark, just enough light to make him realize he was somewhere in the hinterlands of the big top, the space where the performers waited to make their entrance. Ahead of him a tunnel led to the ring itself, it reminded him for a moment of the Colosseum. He had taken Marlee to Rome last year. They had eaten a lot of ice cream and pizza. All his recent memories were of holi-days.

There was enough light, too, to catch a glimpse of the knife glinting near his throat. His first thought was that it was Terence Smith with his Clue armory, but there was surely no way he could have got here so fast. He twisted his neck round, felt the knife scratching dangerously near an artery. The dead girl look-alike. She smiled. She had a feral look about her that didn’t invite smiling back. All that was needed were a few clowns and the night-mare would be complete.

“Shut up, okay?” she said. She sounded foreign, he didn’t know why that should be a surprise, everyone he encountered seemed to be foreign.

“Okay,” he agreed. She moved the knife an inch away from his neck. He was so close to her that he could smell the cigarette smoke on her, mingled with perfume. It made him want a ciga-rette. It made him want sex. An idea that surprised him, consid-ering the circumstances. He wondered if the earrings were the sign of a cult, some born-again Christian thing. She didn’t look like any Christian he’d met before, but you never could tell. Had she saved him from the police in order to kill him? That made no sense, but then nothing made any sense.

“You look like someone who’s dead,” he whispered. Yes, he had decided this was a conversation killer, but here he was using it anyway.

“I know,”she said. This was an unexpected answer. She lowered the knife a little more.

“Your sister?” he hazarded.

“No, friend,”she said, and with a shrug, “we look alike, that’s all.”

“Honda Man-Terence Smith-why did he attack you?”

Her green eyes narrowed and she laughed derisively. “The gimp?” she said contemptuously. “He’s idiot.”

“Yeah, I know he’s idiot, but he still tried to kill you.”

She made some kind of gesture that he suspected was obscene where she came from. Russia, by the sound of her. “Da,” she agreed. She seemed impressively unflustered by the fact that someone had just tried to kill her. He wondered if it happened to her a lot.

“I saw you at the circus,” he said.

“Circus is illegal now?” she said. She wasn’t good at small talk.

“What’s your name?” he ventured. “My name’s Jackson Brodie.” I used to be a policeman.

“I don’t have a name, I don’t exist,” she hissed, “and you won’t if you don’t shut up.” Really bad at small talk.

“We’re on the same side,” Jackson said. It seemed unlikely, but wasn’t his enemy’s enemy his friend?

“I’m not on side. Listen-”A little jab of the knife in his ribs to get his attention.

“That hurts.”

“So?”

He couldn’t imagine why he had worried about her being attacked. Another little poke with the knife in his ribs.

“Okay, okay, I’m listening,” he said.

“Stop putting your nose in places, I’m taking care of it.”

“Taking care of what?”

She dug the point of the knife further into his ribs, the bruised, aching ribs, and said, “We can go now,” in a decisive way that brooked no argument. She walked him across the circus ring, eerily dark and robbed of illusion, and made him crawl under the flap on the other side, behind the tiers of empty seats. Out on the grass, in the cool night air, there was no sign of Terence Smith or the police.

“I save your bacon,” she said and laughed, apparently pleased with her mastery of English metaphor. “Now get lost.” She started walking away, she was barefoot but she didn’t seem to notice. He followed her, limping along, a lame dog. “Fuck off,” she said without looking back at him.

“Tell me about your friend, the dead girl in the water,” he per-sisted. “Who was she?” She carried on walking but raised the knife so he could see it. It was smaller than he thought, but it looked sharp and she definitely had the air of someone who would use it without any qualms. He had respect for knives, he’d seen a lot of stabbing victims in his time, and most of them weren’t around to talk about the experience.

“Did Terence Smith kill your friend?” They passed a knot of people who didn’t even give them a second glance-the barefoot girl, the knife, the limping man, the dubious dialogue-Jackson supposed they were taken for Fringe performers.

“You’re big nuisance, Jackson Brodie!” the girl shouted. They reached a main thoroughfare and suddenly there was traffic and people everywhere. Jackson vaguely recognized the street, it was near the museum on Chambers Street, near the Sheriff Court, scene of his disgrace this morning. Hard to believe it was still the same day.

He was desperately trying to make sense of things before she es-caped him. Terence Smith had tried to kill the crazy Russian girl. The crazy Russian girl was a friend of his dead girl. Terence Smith had attacked him and told him to forget what he had seen. Jack-son thought he meant the road-rage incident, but what if he meant what had happened on Cramond Island? Because he was the only witness who knew the girl was dead, apart from the crazy Russian girl. And Terence Smith had just tried to kill her. For the first time since he’d taken his unwelcome dip in the river, he could see something that made sense. A tangible connection, not just a coincidence.

The Russian girl was waiting to cross the road, hovering on the edge of the pavement, looking for a gap in the cars like a greyhound impatient for the trap to open. The traffic slowed to a halt at the red light just as he caught up with her, and he made a grab for her arm to hold her back. He half-expected to be stabbed or bitten, but she just glared at him. The green man on the pedes-trian flashed and beeped behind them, people hurrying across. It turned back to red and she was still glaring at him. He wondered if he was going to turn to stone.

A sudden loud bang made Jackson jump. He had once watched his own house explode and tended to be wary of loud noises.

“It’s firework,” the girl said, “for Tattoo.” Sure enough, in the distance, a huge flower of glittering sparks bloomed above the Castle and fell slowly to earth. Then, without warning, she leaned toward him and put her lips close to his ear as if she were going to kiss him, but instead she said, “Real Homes for Real People,” then she laughed as if she had made an incredibly funny joke.

“What?” She turned to go, pulling her arm away, and he said, “Stop, don’t go, wait. How can I get in touch with you?”

She laughed again and said, “Ask for Jojo.”And then she crossed on the red man, holding up the cars with an imperious salute. She really did have perfect legs.

By the time he ducked into the Traverse, Julia and the rest of the company were long gone. He presumed Julia would be at home, but when he finally made it back to the flat, there was no sign of her, even though it was after midnight. He tried phoning, but her phone was turned off. He was so tired that he hardly noticed when she slipped into bed next to him.

“Where were you?” she said.

“Where were you?” he said. Question with a question. It felt like an old war, one he’d fought several times. His phone rang before hostilities escalated. Louise Monroe