James Craig: The Circus

‘Eh?’ In the driver’s seat, Sergeant Joe Szyszkowski turned to face his boss.

‘It’s a joke Alice told me,’ Carlyle explained. ‘She’s been wandering round the house with a big fat joke book, picking out the ones that make her giggle.’

‘Kids. .’ Joe shrugged. He was a family man himself — he had two, a boy and a girl, to Carlyle’s one daughter.

‘This one is her current favourite — at least it was as of last night.’

Joe nodded indulgently. With the best will in the world, other people’s kids were just not that interesting.

Ignoring his sergeant’s lack of enthusiasm, the inspector tried again. ‘So, what do you call an exploding monkey?’

The girls finally made it to the pavement on the far side of the road and disappeared down another street. Releasing his seatbelt, Joe opened the car door. ‘Dunno.’

‘A baboom,’ Carlyle cackled. ‘Geddit? Ba- boom !’

Joe groaned as he eased himself out of his seat. ‘Tell Alice from me, that’s terrible,’ he said.

‘What d’ya mean?’ the inspector protested. ‘It’s brilliant. A baboom ! Outstanding. Best joke ever.’

‘C’mon,’ Joe said wearily. ‘I should have been home more than an hour ago. Let’s get this over with.’

FOUR

The Troubles. The Troubles. . was there ever a more boring subject in the world than Northern bloody Ireland? What the hell were these people fighting about? Like they were the only ones who ever had problems. With a sigh, Hannah Gillespie let her history textbook fall to the floor as she stretched out on the bed. As she did so, Emeli Sande’s ‘Next to Me’ started playing on the LG mobile on the bedside table. Grabbing her phone, Hannah opened the newly arrived message and grinned.

R u coming?

Any feeling of tiredness immediately evaporated as she typed her reply.

15 mins .

After carefully deleting the original text, Hannah jumped up from the bed. Pulling on her red Puffa jacket and Reebok trainers, she slipped out into the hall. Even with the door closed, she could hear the television in the living room. Her mum would be watching EastEnders with Emma, her older sister. Dad wasn’t home from work yet. Heart pumping, Hannah realized it would be easy enough to leave the house without anyone noticing, but she was cuter than that. Pushing the living-room door open, she leaned against the frame. ‘I’m just going out for a little while, Mum.’

Slumped on the sofa, Alison Gillespie did not look up from the couple of characters arguing on the screen.

‘Going round to see Rosie for an hour,’ Hannah explained.

Alison scratched her arm, eyes still glued to the television. ‘Does Rosie’s mum say that it’s okay?’

‘Of course.’

‘Have you done your homework?’

‘Ye-es.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure. History. It was about the Northern Ireland Peace Process and the suspension of Stormont in 1972.’

Her mother made a kind of grunting noise that could conceivably be misconstrued as indicating that she had even the first clue about internment and the introduction of Direct Rule.

Emma shot her sister a look that said You lying cow , but said nothing.

Smirking, Hannah turned for the front door. ‘See you later. Bye.’

‘Make sure you’re home by no later than nine-thirty,’ her mum called after her. ‘It’s a school night, remember.’

30 Seconds to Mars had moved on to ‘The Fantasy’ by the time Horatio Mosman flopped onto the cream Ligne Roset Togo sofa and switched on the Loewe Xelos LCD/LED HD 1080p Digital TV, flicking through the muted channels until he came to British Talent, his favourite porn channel du jour . For once, he had the place to himself. His parents, God bless them, had gone into Town to see something worthy at the National Theatre. Dad’s firm was sponsoring a production of South Pacific at the National Theatre — on the South Bank — yawn! There was no way they were dragging him along to that . Meanwhile, his annoying siblings, sister Lizzie and brother Ignatius, were also out and about somewhere, being boring, no doubt.

All in all, this was a major result.

Sucking greedily on a bottle of ice-cold Carlsberg, Horatio loosened the belt on his Evisu jeans and settled in for a happy half hour with Debbie Armour, star of Debbie Does Derby and of similar shows set in various other sad little towns and cities around Britain that he knew he would never have the misfortune of having to visit. Wiping beer from his chin, he moved around on the sofa until he got himself comfortable. ‘ South Pacific ?’ He snorted and belched. ‘Hah!’

On the 40-inch screen, Debbie was enthusiastically but silently fellating an Asian man behind the counter of a fish-and-chip shop.

Mmm .

The thought of food made Horatio suddenly feel hungry. With his free hand, he reached for his mobile and pulled up the number of a local takeaway. Time to speed things up, he thought, as he listened to the phone ring.

‘Forbush Pizza,’ said a cheery female voice at the other end of the line. ‘How can I help you?’

Having placed his order, Horatio attended to the urgent matter at hand. Then, reaching for the box of tissues on the coffee table, he became aware of movement behind him. Shit! Someone must have come home early. Leaning forward, he made a grab for his trousers, just as a noose was slipped round his neck, metal encased in plastic like a bicycle chain, pulling him backwards on to the sofa.

‘Hey!’ He tried to scream but it came out more like a grunt. For a moment, the boy flopped around like a dying fish, his hands not knowing whether to reach for his neck or for the jeans around his ankles.

This couldn’t be happening.

The music was suddenly switched off and a gruff male voice barked, ‘Sit still!’

‘Ow!’ No longer concerned about his nakedness, Horatio pawed at the makeshift necklace. ‘You’re hurting me,’ he cried. ‘Let go!’

The response from his assailant was to yank the noose tighter. ‘Sit still and shut up.’

Embarrassedly aware of his own damp stickiness, Horatio finally did as he was told. Letting his hands fall to his sides, he glumly looked towards the screen as young Debbie expertly dodged the money shot which flew across the shop, ending up in a pail of freshly prepared batter. Urgh, Horatio could not help thinking. How gross is that? As Debbie turned to the camera and winked, he felt a twitch in his groin and glanced down. Despite his recent endeavours and the rather unexpected turn of events, the youngster was surprised to see that his erection remained essentially undiminished. Instinctively jerking forward, he felt the necklace cut into his throat. From somewhere deep in his brain he vaguely recalled reading something on the internet about people deliberately cutting off their air supply in order to heighten sexual pleasure; so maybe that was what he was experiencing.

Leaning back on the sofa, Horatio remained still for several moments. There was a slight loosening of the noose, whereupon he tried to move his head. For his trouble, he was given a swift smack.

‘Don’t look round.’ The man spoke quietly but firmly. ‘Do what you are told and you will be okay.’ A gloved hand appeared from somewhere behind his head and pinned a small, clear plastic bag to the boy’s Jack Wills striped Henley shirt. Horatio dropped his chin to his chest to peer at it. Inside was the image of a painting which looked like it had been torn from a catalogue or a textbook.

‘What’s that?’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

For a moment there was silence. Then Horatio heard a click by his left ear. At the edge of his field of vision, he saw a small red light begin blinking on the improvised collar. The man took Horatio’s hand and brought it up to the collar so that he could feel the small device, about half the size of a cigarette packet, attached to one side.