Guy Adams - The Clown Service

The woman entered the mall and I cut across the road after her, determined she wouldn’t go to ground.

I could see her a short way ahead of me once I stepped through the automatic doors. She was staring at the display window of a jeweller’s. Casual. Normal. Just someone filling her lunch hour with window shopping. That made my mood even worse, probably because I knew that I was being anything but casual. My hasty movements around the busy shopping centre couldn’t have drawn much more attention to myself. The Fear had turned into full-blown rage now, as it always did, and I was struggling to suppress it. I walked up behind her. For a horrible moment I had an urge to just reach forward and shove her face into the glass. Smash that smug face into a pulp. Embarrassment and shame came swiftly after. I had no real idea who this woman was; fantasizing about hurting her was not the real me. Or not a ‘me’ I wanted to accept. I was still angry when I took hold of her shoulder, but I was partially back under control.

‘Thought you’d pop by?’ I asked as she spun around. ‘How lovely to see you again – and so soon.’

The look on her face was perfect: an utterly genuine mask of confusion. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You must remember our little chat last night? Perhaps it’s the suit?’

‘I’ve never seen you before in my life.’ Her confusion had shifted to anger, but it was nothing compared to mine.

‘Oh, fuck off,’ I whispered, doing my best to keep a forced smile in place for the benefit of any onlookers. ‘Life’s too short for pointless games. Was there anything in particular you were after or were you just sticking your nose in where it wasn’t wanted?’

The anger on her face turned to fear then and I felt a brief twinge of uncertainty – her performance was exceptionally good.

‘I have no idea who you are,’ she insisted, casting around for someone who might be able to help.

‘Don’t bother,’ I said, stepping in closer, blocking off her view.

That was a mistake.

‘Help!’ she began shouting. ‘This man is harassing me!’

I stepped back immediately. ‘Nice,’ I conceded as people began to turn towards us.

I turned and began to walk away as casually as I could.

‘Some sort of problem?’ a man asked as I passed him.

‘No problem,’ I insisted, but he reached out to take hold of my arm. I smacked his hand away, which was a second mistake as it antagonised him. He grabbed me by my shoulders, his fingers digging in hard.

‘I think you should apologise to the lady,’ he said, the look on his face suggesting he didn’t consider the point open to debate.

Part of me knew that the only sensible way forward was to calm down and play the game; the other part – the bigger part – had absolutely no intention of giving in. With my training I could easily floor this man if I wanted. Stamp my heel onto his foot and his grip would lessen, the palm of my hand to the bridge of his nose, and job finished. I considered it.

‘The lady doesn’t need an apology,’ I told him, struggling to stay calm. I turned to face her and found myself looking at a frightened woman. She looked deeply uncomfortable, scared and desperate. I almost felt sorry for her. I hadn’t made a mistake though; she was definitely the woman I had met the night before, the woman who had tried her best to scare me off working for Section 37.

‘Looks to me like she’s owed one,’ the man insisted. I looked at him: big feller, tracksuit, a full, hard face that spoke of gym hours clocked and fights enjoyed.

We were starting to attract a crowd. I had lost control of the situation.

The woman was backing away, though out of fear or a wish to avoid public spectacle I could no longer tell.

‘Fine,’ I said, swallowing both pride and anger, knowing that the professional way forward was to take the quickest escape route being offered. ‘I apologise if I worried you.’

Then, to the Knight Errant in sportswear, ‘Good enough?’

He looked to the woman. ‘Just let him go,’ she said. ‘He’s off his rocker – as long as he doesn’t follow me…’

‘He won’t be doing that, will you mate?’ The big feller stated, releasing my arms.

‘Not a chance,’ I replied, marching off quickly in the opposite direction before my anger got the better of me and I ended up making the situation worse.

I headed for the exit, aware that too many people were watching me as I weaved between the shoppers and out into the daylight.

Once outside, I released a held breath and leaned back against the railing between the pavement and the road. Twice now she had got the better of me in public. She was really beginning to make me mad.

‘That could have gone better,’ said a quiet voice next to me.

I looked down to see a tiny old man dishing out copies of the Evening Standard.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘She didn’t know you, did she?’ he said. ‘You were a complete stranger to her.’

‘She knew me well enough,’ I countered, then wondered how the hell this guy could even have seen what had happened. He smiled and there was a twinkle of malevolence behind his rheumy eyes.

‘Another lesson learned: we can be everywhere, we can be everyone ,’ he said. ‘She no more remembers she’s talked to you before than this old fool will. We are Legion.’

‘Trying my bloody patience is what you are.’

‘Shining vanished, has he?’

This knocked the confidence from me. How the hell did he know that?

‘He’s not with us ,’ he continued, ‘so there’s hope for him yet. If his little monkey can step up to the mark that is.’ He smiled again. ‘That would be you, by the way.’

I squared up to him.

‘I wouldn’t,’ he said, ‘unless you really want to make an idiot of yourself. I won’t resist, of course, but beating up an old man only seconds after threatening an innocent woman really isn’t going to get you far, is it?’

‘Who are you?’

‘August knows, though he won’t want to tell you. If you ever see him again perhaps you should ask him.’

‘Where is he?’

‘That’s for you to find out; it’s nothing to do with us. We’re just observers here. Tell you what though, just to show we can occasionally be helpful: when you get the phone call about the body outside St Mathew’s you need to give it your full attention. It’s important.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘You will.’

The old man looked away and momentarily lost his balance. I reached out instinctively, trying to keep him steady. He sighed and looked up at me.

‘Legs not what they were,’ he said, his voice somehow gentler, older. He held up a paper. ‘Evening Standard?’

‘No thanks.’ Whoever I had been talking to was gone. Somehow, I just knew that. Say what you like about Toby Greene but at least he’s not slow on the uptake.

I walked back to the office.

c) Section 37, Wood Green, London

Oman had returned to his shop by the time I reached it. At least dealing with him might temporarily push my confusion to one side. Who was it that had taken such an interest in me? And how was it possible they could talk through anyone they felt like, hopping from body to body like a communicative virus?

‘Where were you five minutes ago?’ I quizzed him.

‘Warming up my lunch,’ he said, holding up a steaming Tupperware box. ‘That allowed?’

‘Sorry – not having the best morning.’

‘You don’t know bad days until you have to deal with my customers. What can I do for you?’

‘I want the app that monitors the radio broadcast,’ I said, pulling my phone out of my pocket. ‘Can you do that?’