Guy Adams - The Clown Service

A few yards from the entrance of Cornwell’s, the young man – a broker from Chiswick by the name of Len Hooper – looks around, trying to remember quite how he ended up there in the first place.

e) Abney Park Cemetery, Stoke Newington, London

The problem, according to Connor, is that Mikey has had more than his fair share of what little remains of the weed. The problem, according to Mikey, is that there’s fuck all to do except smoke, so what does Connor expect?

They’re sheltering in Abney Park because it’s as good a place as any, and when Shell comes Mikey’s hoping he can convince her jeans to come off. He knows it’s never going to happen, but he’s been thinking about it for days and wants to give himself the best odds he can. Having at least a small possibility of privacy might just stand in his favour.

‘She ain’t coming,’ says Connor, which pisses Mikey off for two reasons: firstly because it’s like Connor’s been reading his mind, and secondly because he knows he’s right.

‘Who cares?’ he says, because that’s the only response he can think of on the spur of the moment. ‘If she does she does…’

Connor knows better than to argue about it. He’s pissed off that Mikey’s used up their stash, but he’s not so pissed off he’s going to get in a fight over it.

‘What do you want to do then?’ he asks, because he’s bored out of his skull of sitting staring at trees, and he really hopes one of them can come up with a better way of spending the afternoon.

Mikey certainly can’t. ‘Fuck knows,’ he says and starts throwing gravel at a headstone.

As entertainment this has its limits, but it’s better than picking a fight with Connor. He doesn’t want to share more black eyes or the inevitable weeks of mutual sulking. Friends have always been in short supply for Mikey and he’s not going to push things again.

‘What’s going on over there?’ Connor wonders, staring towards the other end of the cemetery where a group of people seems to be forming.

‘Funeral innit?’ says Mikey, keeping up with his target practice. ‘Happens in cemeteries you know.’

‘Nah, they’re kicking off,’ says Connor, who has moved out of the little hollow they’ve been sat in so he can get a better look. ‘They’re going mental over something.’

Mikey, deciding that anything’s better than nothing when it comes to passing the time, gives up throwing stones and moves to stand next to Connor.

Connor seems to have a point: whatever’s going on, it’s not a funeral. There are maybe ten or fifteen of them, men and women. Some are dressed in rags, some look naked. All of them are fighting, with each other or – seemingly – thin air.

‘They’re fucking mad,’ Mikey decides, laughing.

‘They don’t look right,’ says Connor. ‘Sort of shiny.’ He’s thinking of the dolls his sister used to have. She would dress them up in different clothes, make them marry each other, stupid shit like that. He nicked them once, tore all their clothes off and strung them up by their necks, hanging from the top of her bedroom door. She went mental, screaming and crying. He hadn’t expected her to take it so badly; he’d just meant it as a joke. She kept jumping up, trying to reach them, trying to pull them down. She got the bloke one by the legs and yanked it free, but its head popped off, making her cry even more. These people remind him of those dolls: the way they move, like their arms and legs don’t bend right, the way their skin shines like plastic.

‘Oi!’ shouts Mikey. ‘What’s your fucking problem then?’

As questions go it’s a fair one , thinks Connor, wishing his mate hadn’t asked it. The shiny people turn and start running towards them.

‘Dickhead,’ he says. ‘Wankers are after us now.’

‘Fucking let ’em.’ Mikey decides. It’s cheering up a boring day, as far as he’s concerned.

Mikey changes his mind as they get close enough to really see properly. He is not thinking of kids’ dolls, he’s thinking of the dummies they have in shop windows – their fixed expressions, their rock-hard arms and legs. How when he was a kid he used to freak out at the sight of those dummies. His mum would laugh at him as he ran away from the shop windows.

‘We should run,’ says Connor, ‘there’s something wrong with them.’

‘Fucking is, if they think they can scare me,’ Mikey replies, prepared to fight his corner if that’s what’s in store.

They’re only feet away now and they’re utterly silent, their faces holding on to one expression as they reach out for the boys. On some, that expression looks angry, on others it just looks confused.

‘What’s your problem?’ asks Mikey as a man grabs him. Mikey gives the bloke a kick and starts raining punches on his head. One solid blow causes a popping sound and a thick, cream-coloured chunk of plastic hangs free from where his jawbone used to be. It’s false, shoved in place to make the face sit right for an open-casket funeral. The hole it leaves behind reveals irregular teeth, splintered bone and a tongue that sticks straight out like the engorged stamen of a grotesque flower.

‘Fuck me, Mikey!’ Connor shouts. A woman, all but naked, bears down on him and he’s throwing punches. Her distended breasts topple from one side to the other as she takes his head in her broken hands and begins to dig her thumbs in.

Connor tries to pull her hands away, kicking out at her legs, but he’s being grabbed from behind now and he can’t fight them all.

Mikey is willing to try, but even he is now realising that taking on a group this size was stupid. He shouts and swears – and screams – as they kick and batter him. Soon he is a wet, shapeless mass.

Connor feels himself being pulled between three different attackers. They can’t do this , he panics, they’re going to kill me . The woman yanks at his head as the other two pull at his legs and arms. Connor recalls his sister’s doll. If the woman pulls at his neck any harder she’s going to…

f) Home Office building, Marsham Street, London

April Shining bursts into the Home Secretary’s office and immediately begins shouting. She’s almost unstoppable. She’s been told to shut up so many times over the last couple of hours a backlog of speech has built up.

‘Ms Shining,’ the Home Secretary says, ‘if you’ll just be quiet for a moment I think you’ll find we’re already aware of the situation.’

April looks at the three of them gathered around the desk. She recognises Sir Robin immediately and forces herself to quell her natural response, which is to storm over there and punch his lights out. The Home Secretary is a given; it is, after all, her office and April would be livid to have broken in only to find her absent. The second man, however, is a total mystery.

‘Who are you?’ she asks, trying her best to loom over him. He’s a dapper chap, in his late fifties. He carries with him a whiff of the country set.

He glances at the Home Secretary, either asking permission to tell April or hoping she’ll be removed, April can’t quite tell which.

‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ April says, ‘I’m an honorary member of most governments. You can say what you like when I’m around.’

The Home Secretary sighs. ‘Can I offer you a drink, April?’

‘That would be a step in the right direction.’

‘My name’s Kirby,’ says the stranger, holding out his hand to shake April’s.

‘Jeffery’s something of an expert in all this,’ says the Home Secretary. ‘We called him in as soon as it became clear what we’re dealing with.’

‘Oh, you’ve finally accepted it then, have you? I’ve had the runaround all morning on the phone… Hang on – an expert?’