All Fall Down

  CIRCUS HEARTS 2: All Fall Down

  Copyright © 2018 by Ellie Marney

  Cover Design by Debra Billson

  Cover illustrations by Marisha, Marta Leo

  and amid999/Shutterstock.com

  ISBN-13: 978-0-6480885-3-0

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication mat be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Bearded Lady Press

  elliemarney@gmail.com

  Australia

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  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  CIRCUS HEARTS 3: One

  One

  Diary entry 14

  Okay, I screwed up.

  Reporting Sorsha Neary to the police was a bad idea, I admit that. Doesn’t it mean something, that I’m big enough to admit I was wrong?

  I just wish my whole trapeze team hadn’t been there during practise. Sorsha didn’t have to confront me like that – she could’ve at least had the decency to have the conversation in private. I didn’t know she was going to say all that stuff. I didn’t even know she’d been attacked, or what had happened to her.

  I wasn’t thinking about that when I rang the cops. She was bringing the show down – that’s what I was thinking. It wasn’t about me. It was about…

  I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.

  And then Sorsha was one who grabbed me off the net after the trapeze accident.

  Shitshitshitshit.

  And I can’t believe I’m still keeping a diary, like I’m five years old.

  Diary entry 21

  Judy refused to serve me in the mess today.

  I know–fucking Judy. She used to give me hot chocolate after the late shows when I was twelve. Now she can’t even give me a shitty slice of lasagne. She just wiped her hands on a dish towel and walked off the serving line. I ended up digging out a portion from the pan myself.

  This is such bullshit.

  Everything I’ve worked for, everything I do, it’s always been about the show. I screw up one time and suddenly I’m persona non grata.

  Bull. Shit.

  So, getting off the usual rant, there was another accident today. Nothing as serious as the trapeze, but it was a Thing. They had to shut down the mini Ferris wheel overnight. Mitch Gibson got really angry, but Daddy managed to calm him down. Nobody got hurt.

  But there are still a few superstitious people in troupe. It’s kind of ridiculous, but now they’re all saying, ‘Wait for number three’. Like it’s some kind of curse. Honestly, I think a) that’s just fear-mongering, and b) nobody should be talking like that. Loose lips sink ships.

  They’re probably the same loose lips that have made my life such a pain in the ass for the last month. Idiots.

  But screw ‘em. If they think I’m gonna buckle just because of a few lousy snubs, they can think again.

  Fleur Klatsch is a tough nut to crack.

  Diary entry 29

  People have no fucking loyalty. At all.

  I just wanted to say that.

  Diary entry 41

  So yeah, I know I’ve been writing in here a lot, but sometimes I just need to…what? Talk to someone?

  My god, I’m totally losing it. I’m writing here because I miss company. But it’s not like these pages can talk back.

  Oh, forget it.

  There was another accident, so now people can stop whispering behind their hands about the curse of threes. Again, no casualties. But if Gabriella’s horses had gotten out onto the roadway in the back of the showground, anything could’ve happened. She was super stressed, of course. I would’ve been, too, if they were mine. And she insists that she did the evening lock-up routine like normal, so it was probably just that she pulled the stable gate closed and it didn’t latch. No harm, no foul.

  I don’t know why I’m feeling sorry for Gabriella anyway. She’s been a complete bitch about the Sorsha thing for months.

  But I’m starting to see the good side of all this. It’s made me a tougher person. I’ve grown a thicker skin. And I’ve become more self-reliant, which I guess is a positive thing? Daddy’s been using our extra time together to bring me up to speed on management details, so I’m really useful now. He’s handed over some of the book-keeping to me, because I’m better at numbers and always have been. He’s still got executive orders on everything else, but if I can prove myself, that might change.

  I think he’s getting sick of the sound of my voice, though.

  Fuck, I’m so lonely.

  Diary entry 47

  Okay, the trial is over. Sorsha was exonerated, and Colm, too.

  I’m glad for them–no, really, I’m glad. What happened to Sorsha was…something I never, ever want to experience. She’s gutsy. And she’s been one of the only people who hasn’t ignored me for the last nine weeks.

  The publicity around the trial has been good for the show. Sorry, that sounds awful. But it’s meant Daddy hasn’t been dodging journalists about the accidents we’ve had. I’m grateful for that.

  I’m grateful for everything, lately. Getting served in the mess again? Grateful. Someone saying hello on the midway? Grateful. Dee making eye contact with me during flying practise? Grateful.

  Jesus.

  I’m just a little ball of humility these days.

  Diary entry 50

  Okay, people are talking to me again.

  It’s weird that I feel so relieved about it. I should be stronger than that. I don’t know. Maybe I’m not strong. Maybe I’m just a big marshmallow inside. Not that I can say that. Daddy needs me right now, so I don’t have time to think about it too much, thank god.

  There’s been a new accident.

  It was just a small thing–a curtain had blown over onto one of the lighting generator units. And the ground around it was wet, which might have been because of the rain we had tonight. But if the ring manager hadn’t seen it, someone could’ve been electrocuted.

  I mean, this is serious. This isn’t about curses of three, or mechanical problems. No show has this many accidents in such a short space of time. We’re having a meeting about it tomorrow night. I’m not sure what a meeting will accomplish, but at least we can say we had a meeting.

  I’ll keep updating.

  ‘You okay, Pumpkin? It’s nearly ten-thirty.’ My father passes me a mug of black tea.

  ‘Thanks.’ I take the mug with the hand I’m not using to thumb through the pages in my lap. ‘Yeah, I’m good.’

  My performance slap is all washed off, and I changed out of my trapeze costume and into jeans and a sweatshirt an hour ago. I used to sit up until midnight after a show,
playing on my phone; now I do paperwork with a calculator balanced on one knee. But I’m okay with it. Happy about it, in fact.

  ‘I’ve checked all the payslip accounts from Tuesday, I’m just going through the bills.’ I tap my finger against the piece of paper that’s bothering me. ‘This invoice for costume fabric and notions, have we paid that yet? There’s no receipt to match it.’

  ‘Show me?’ Daddy extends a hand. He’s still in his rockstar black jeans and black button-down shirt, although he’s ditched his pea coat. ‘Ah, okay. Eugenia paid that out of her own pocket, so we have to reimburse her. She’ll have the receipt.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll ask her about it when she arrives.’

  ‘Yep, she and Mitch should be coming…’ He checks the clock on the van wall. ‘Anytime now. You need something to eat before the meeting? I’m snacking.’

  ‘Nah, I’m good.’

  My father wanders to the mini-fridge and grabs a tub of dip, then snaffles the bag of corn chips from the pantry. Daddy is naturally skinny–hollow legs, he calls it–and he’s always running on nervous energy, so he can guts up whenever it suits him. If I could eat whatever I wanted like that, I’d be having chocolate cake for breakfast. Probably wouldn’t be able to fit on the trapeze afterwards, though. Ah, the injustice of the universe.

  I do a quick check around the inside of the van: there are no clothes lying abandoned on furniture and everything is reasonably tidy, except for my open folder of papers on the coffee table. We’re acceptable for company. And it’s only Eugenia, plus Mitch Gibson; they’ve both seen our place when it’s a whirlwind, so I don’t need to fuss.

  If it were just up to Dad, we’d be buried under an avalanche of mess. But I’ve been, uh, spending more time at home lately, which means that housework has been getting done. Hooray for me.

  When the knock on the van door comes, I let Dad get it while I stack the papers.

  ‘I brought peanuts.’ Eugenia’s voice has a smoky, older-woman’s mellow tone that I envy. ‘I know it’s a bit clichéd, but it was that or popcorn, and I didn’t have the wherewithal to cook tonight.’

  ‘You didn’t have to bring anything,’ Daddy points out. ‘But it’ll go with the whisky, so that’s just fine. Can I pour you one?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Come on in. A double with ice?’

  ‘Sounds perfectly adequate.’ Eugenia steps into the van holding the bag of peanuts, her hem swirling around her calves.

  She’s wearing a classic, forties-style swing dress tonight, in navy blue. The wide belt nips her waist, and her ballet slippers show off her ankles. Her goatee is waxed and curled, and her short dark hair is swept back. She looks immaculate, even at this time of night, but as the show’s costumer she has an image to maintain. Plus, I know Eugenia just gets off on glamour.

  ‘Fleur, how are you?’ She flips her black shawl over the back of an armchair before settling herself there.

  ‘Good, thanks.’ I smile as I put the folder on top of the others on the table, push the pile to one side. ‘Give me those peanuts, I’ll put them in a bowl.’

  ‘That would be highly civilised.’ She grins up at me and winks as she hands me the bag. I know she hates to cook, so peanuts are her best attempt at being a polite houseguest. ‘Are you doing the accounts? I have a receipt for you, back in the Airstream.’

  ‘Oh, cool, I was going to ask you about that.’

  ‘I can fetch it for you if you like,’ she offers.

  ‘Not now–you just got here. I’ll grab it off you tomorrow.’

  ‘Excellent, thank you.’

  Eugenia’s usually all cool, no-nonsense attitude and direct talk, which some people find as off-putting as her beard. But I’ve known Eugenia all my life–she’s the same age as my Dad–so I’m used to her style. If I want comfort and fun, I go to Dad. If I want fashion or personal advice, I go to Eugenia. She’s been one of the few constants in this crazy circus life, and one of the few people I know I can really count on.

  I’m particularly grateful for the conversation we had two and a half months ago, when the ‘ignoring’ stuff started. She pulled me aside and gave it to me straight. Told me she knew what I’d done, turning Sorsha in to the police, and she was seriously displeased. But she also didn’t approve of the fact that I’d been sent to Coventry by everyone on the show.

  ‘I don’t believe in that kind of thing,’ she’d explained, one hand on her hip. ‘My feeling is always that the best course of action is frank and honest discussion. So don’t expect me to stick up for you. But if you need to talk, my door is always open.’

  I never took advantage of her offer, but I appreciated her speaking to me personally. And…sometimes it was just the knowledge that I could go to her, if I was really desperate, that got me through.

  So I make sure Dad’s topped up her glass with plenty of ice before I bus the glass and the bowl of peanuts back to the coffee table. The table is getting crowded–our van is big, but it’s still a van, and all our furniture is compact–so I move the pile of folders to a shelf beside the kitchen bench as Dad puts his dip-and-chips combo amongst the rest of the offerings.

  ‘We’re still waiting for Mitch,’ Dad says, sinking onto the couch and sipping his own drink. His hand twitches towards the pouch of rolling tobacco in his breast pocket, I notice, but he doesn’t get it out. Over the last few months, with me spending so much time at home, I’ve weaned him off smoking indoors. It’s a huge relief, because I’ve been putting up with it for years, and the smell is disgusting.

  Eugenia shrugs. ‘Mitch’ll be here shortly, he’s got further to walk from the mech yard.’

  ‘Any early thoughts?’

  ‘I have thoughts,’ she admits, ‘but I’ll save them. Are you happy with the way the new acrobatic routine is shaping up?’

  Daddy nods. ‘Yep, I’m good with it. Lee’s a smart guy. Annie is out now until the baby’s born, so working on that feature with Ren is a good move. And Fabian and Clare and Vi will have another earner with it, so everyone wins. It should be ready to run by Friday.’

  ‘What about Colm Mackay’s spot?’

  Daddy whistles. ‘Man, that kid is dynamite. Our receipts have gone up nearly ten percent since we brought him onstage.’

  Eugenia smiles. ‘I have a hunch I know why.’

  I know why, too. Colm Mackay is Sorsha’s boyfriend, and he’s smoking hot. He’s a strength performer, and does a solo routine with long silks suspended from the gantry at the tilt, but honestly, he could stand in the ring and recite the phone book and we’d still see a spike in ticket sales. If I didn’t know Sorsha would scratch my eyes out just for looking, I’d tap that boy in a heartbeat.

  ‘I can’t believe I–’ Daddy starts, then pauses when another knock comes.

  Mitch lets himself in, still in his coveralls. I’ve only ever seen him wear jeans or coveralls, so no surprises there. ‘Hey. Sorry to make you all wait.’

  Dad waves him over. ‘No problem, we were just shooting the shit. Grab a drink and come on over.’

  I get a nod from Mitch as I head for the kitchen and find him a beer. Mitch Gibson is older than my father, stocky and square-jawed. He looks exactly like what he is, a working mechanic, but you’d be nuts if you thought that was all he did around the show.

  He scratches through his cropped grey hair, takes his beer and a seat. ‘Thanks, Fleur.’

  ‘No problems tonight?’

  I ask it lightly, but his eyebrows bunch together and his voice is growly as a handsaw. ‘Nothing tonight. But I guess we should talk about that.’

  ‘Ye-ah.’ My father exhales heavily. ‘Okay, so that’s the order of business, I guess. What do you think, Mitch?’

  ‘What I think is, someone’s pulling our chain.’ Mitch takes a slug from his beer and eases back in his spot on the other end of the couch from my Dad. ‘I checked the curt
ain and the rigging from last night’s ‘accident’, and I don’t reckon we can keep calling them accidents anymore.’

  Mitch is the engineering genius who keeps this whole operation running. Dad hired him ten years ago, when we were forming a permanent site, and Klatsch’s Karnival hasn’t looked back since. If Mitch says something’s serious, I believe him.

  ‘So someone is deliberately sabotaging the show.’

  Eugenia sums it up in that one word: sabotage. It’s not a word I like the sound of, and going by the expression on Eugenia’s face, she’s none too happy, either.

  ‘Looks like it.’ Mitch nods. ‘Terry, I’ve double checked the Ferris works, the latches on the stables, and all the trapeze net rigging from the first accident, too…’

  I shiver. The trapeze net accident is something I was personally involved in, and if Colm and the other strength artists hadn’t come to the rescue, I would’ve fallen thirty feet to the ring floor. That would’ve been it. Squashed-Flat Fleur. It’s not something I enjoy thinking about, and I hate the idea of somebody else getting hurt–or killed–in another mishap.

  But Mitch is still talking. ‘…and it’s tough, cos there’s no obvious signs of tampering on anything. It all just looks like mechanical failure. But I don’t think we should go on fooling ourselves that this is just coincidence. Four near-misses in two and a half months? Those are betting odds.’

  ‘And I generally prefer to play the odds,’ my father says with a considering nod. ‘Okay, so there’s a few things we need to think about, amiright?’

  ‘The primary concern should be keeping the performers and workers safe.’ Eugenia lays it out firmly.

  ‘Yep, that’s number one. So we’ll need a crew to go through gear and rigging and set-ups, and do a thorough check just before showtime.’

  ‘That’s going to take hours, if we do it before every performance,’ I point out.

  ‘No kidding.’ Mitch leans forward and helps himself to peanuts. ‘And I’m gonna need to round up some people to assist with that.’

  Eugenia purses her lips. ‘We could ask all the performers to do a self-check, before they go on?’

  Dad shakes his head. ‘I don’t want to make people nervous. I mean, we could say it’s just a new regulation or something, but people will wonder. And not everyone can self-check–trapeze artists can’t check the gantry and the rigging, for instance. That needs to be done by someone who knows the set-up.’