Nicola Barker - Heading Inland

In fact, both of Marcus’s parents were English. They were a couple who had taken advantage of the Eighties property slump in France and had emigrated when he was eight. He was now eighteen. His stammer in French was much less pronounced than in English, which struck him as rather strange.

One thing his stammer had taught him, however, was never to waste words. In general he tried only to say things that were incisive and pertinent. He preferred to avoid chit-chat. When others spoke to him, he slashed out gratuitous noises and phrases in his mind, analysed what they said, not with the gentle, non-judgemental sense of a confessor, but with the practised, cool, steady calm of a surgeon. For instance:

Larry says: ‘Marcus, tell me straight off if you think I’m out of line here, but I bet you’ll find that the double back-flip after the handwalking stuff isn’t strictly necessary. I mean, it’s great and everything but just a little distracting.’

Marcus hears: ‘Don’t upstage me, new boy.’

Eugenie says: ‘Wow! Those lycra things are fantastic. They look so comfy. They really do. I just love blue. I love that shade. It’s my favourite colour. Are they durable? I suppose they must be French. The French are so stylish.’

Marcus hears: ‘Let me get into your trousers.’

Belinda says: ‘You really must come and meet my parrots. How about it? Tonight? After the show. If you’re busy though, don’t worry or anything. I mean, don’t worry if you can’t.’

Marcus hears: ‘I’m sorry.’

In fact, Marcus was slightly off the mark with his interpretation of Belinda’s babblings. The truth of the matter was that Belinda found him to be both aloof and disarming. She, too, wanted to charm the pants right off him.

Marcus had, however, noticed several worrying characteristics in Belinda’s behaviour that did little to endear her to him. The first was that she jumped — too easily, too freely — to conclusions. This implied a certain amount of self-righteousness, a nasty, bullying bullishness. Secondly, she completed his sentences, which was something that he especially loathed. He guessed that people who were prone to doing this thought that they were helping him in some way, but it only made him feel useless, gratuitous, inadequate. He’d think: What is the point of me , if it’s so easy to predict what I want, so easy to complete everything I begin?

The third and final thing that Belinda had done which had both shocked and disturbed Marcus, had occurred in the pub several nights after the meal out. Alberto had taken Marcus to one side, late that afternoon, shortly after the matinée, and had raised with him the possibility that he and Belinda might perform together during Belinda’s contortionist routine. Since hitherto Belinda had been the only contortionist at the circus, this slot had always been solo. Alberto was keen to have Belinda partnered during this section, and although Marcus was no contortionist himself, Alberto felt that his leonine good looks and strong physique would make him the perfect foil to Belinda’s dark skinniness.

That evening, in the pub, Marcus started to mention this new possibility to Belinda as she sipped daintily at her Pernod. He said, ‘Can we. . talk about. . your. . contortions. .?’

Oh yeah? Belinda thought, and what’s he up to?

Alberto had said nothing to her about his plans. She was none the wiser.

She stared at Marcus coolly, vaguely disappointed in him but unsurprised. He was trying to talk again, but she saved him the trouble.

‘Cunnilingus,’ she said, baldly. ‘Unfortunately, my tongue is the only part of my body that isn’t double-jointed, otherwise I’d dispense with you boys altogether.’

She took another sip of her drink and eyed him over the top of her glass. He blushed. He tried to say something, but it wouldn’t come out. He stood up, drank down his drink in one large gulp and left the pub. Now what? She stared after him, profoundly flummoxed.

Eugenie was lounging against Marcus’s trailer, waiting for him to return. She was a small, pretty acrobat with long, red ringlets. She was thirty, single, an old hand at the circus, sexually voracious. As Marcus made his way towards her he was thinking: Damn Belinda! Damn her! She’s the strangest, coarsest, crudest woman I’ve ever met. She just seems to enjoy frightening me, on purpose.

‘Hello,’ Eugenie grinned at him. ‘I’ve come around to borrow a cup of sugar.’

‘Sure.’

She wasn’t holding a cup. He unlocked his trailer and went inside, then emerged within seconds, holding a teacup full of sweet, white granules. He offered her the cup but she didn’t take it.

‘You’re so literal,’ she said, still smiling. ‘I like that in a man.’

‘Thank. . you.’ He inclined his head graciously. After a pause — not thinking to invite her in — he said, ‘Be. . linda.’

‘What about her?’

‘She’s. . rude.’

‘She is?’

‘I find. . her so.’

Eugenie shrugged. ‘You must just bring out the worst in her.’

Marcus considered this and then said, ‘You think?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Why?’

She took the cup of sugar from him and said, ‘You want to come and have some tea with me? Or coffee?’

‘No. . I. .’

His stutter was so pronounced that Eugenie didn’t wait around to listen to the reason for his refusal. She didn’t mind. ‘OK,’ she said, phlegmatically, handing him back his cup. ‘Some other time.’

Marcus sat down on his top step and stared into the cup. Thousands of grains. Mixed in with the pure, white granules were two extraneous tea leaves. That’s me and Belinda, he thought. The world is full of millions of people, all friendly, all benign, the same. Then there’s the two of us, destined not to get along. Belinda and Marcus. Both in the circus, this small circus. Both tumblers.

He felt relieved that his early and mid-teens had involved a longstanding but secretive intimacy with American Playboy . He was prepared for Belinda’s lewdness, her crudeness. His father had kept an entire suitcase full of them in the attic which he had pilfered whenever he felt the inclination. Also, he had taken Latin at school, which in certain situations he found to be an invaluable linguistic tool. Cunnus — vulva. Lingere — to lick. Like choking on an oyster.

‘Hi,’

Marcus looked up and almost dropped his cup. Belinda smiled at him. ‘Look, I wanted to apologize. I guess I must’ve shocked you earlier.’

‘No. .’

‘Well. .’ She focused on the strong, firm line of his jaw, its determined progression from behind his ear to the tip of his chin. ‘I just saw Alberto.’

‘Ah.’

‘I don’t suppose you want to come and see my parrots?’

‘I’m. .’

‘Allergic?’

‘No. . I’m. .’

‘Busy?’

‘No.’

‘Go on, they’re very friendly.’

Inside the parrots’ trailer it was cool and dark. Belinda lit a lamp but kept the flame down low. ‘It’s bed-time for them really. I like them to be well rested. Otherwise they get cross and uncooperative.’

Marcus had seen the parrots already, in the big top. He thought them quaint but unnecessary. One day he hoped to work in a human circus, a wild circus where the performers did stunts on motorbikes and didn’t use animals — camels with lopsided humps, sad, fleshy elephants, poodles with full wardrobes. Parrots.

‘You like them?’

‘I. .’

‘You don’t like them?’

‘No. . I. .’

‘You like animals?’

He sighed. ‘Yes.’

She said, ‘My trailer’s adjoining. We could have tea if you like.’

He shrugged.

Belinda opened a door and led him through. Her trailer was identical to his, only full of stuff: posters, trinkets, an extra wardrobe.