Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

She could not reach him to caress him; he did not seem to want to be touched. His rough fingers found each nipple and squeezed hard; she gasped on the edge of pain and pleasure. There was such pent-up force in this clown that she was as close to fear as she had ever been.

His mouth moved, sliding up to join with her mouth; an engulfing kiss, bitter with paint. She wrapped her legs around his hips and the first thrust was so strong that it nailed her to the bed. The clown mask filled her vision, which was blurring. She grasped him tightly and began to respond, but his hands came down on her shoulders so that she could not move.

‘Please. Don’t move. I can’t . . . wait . . . if you move.’

‘I won’t run away,’ she said, wriggling under the imprisoning hands. ‘I will stay all night. Let me go! I won’t be pinned down!’

He blinked and released her. Phryne, whom force turned cold, began to regain her lust as the movements became slow and considered. He bent to kiss her nipples. The sliding of painted flesh made a sucking sound, curiously loud in the night. His hair fell over his eyes, hiding their strange light.

Phryne seized his shoulders, forcing him closer, deeper. He groaned and stiffened, then fell into her arms and writhed with release.

She had been so surprised by his collapse that she had lain still for five minutes under his weight. Now he was becoming too heavy. She shoved at his chest and he clung to her, the muscular arms encircling her in a fast embrace.

‘You said that you would stay all night,’ he whispered and there was that odd note in his voice again. Phryne decided to ask. Besides, she was not yet sated and this man had erotic potential which needed to be developed.

‘What is it, Matthias? Why are you so . . . unsure of me?’

He leaned up on one elbow and wiped the sweet-smelling hair out of his eyes.

The paint had largely been transferred to Phryne’s body. She saw that he had a face which in Paris would be called joli laid; an ugly face, with high cheekbones, long nose, a wide mouth and soft full lips. His eyebrows were winged at the corners.

He bore her inspection bravely and said, ‘There are some women who aren’t circus folk who like . . . who like masks. They occasionally . . . want to try me. But they never want to stay. Just for an experiment, you see.’

‘And you thought I was one of them?’ Phryne’s voice was cold.

He stroked her breast, laying his cheek on it gently. ‘You said that you were curious.’

‘Yes. I am curious. But you are lovely, a good lover. Hasn’t anyone told you that? You’re the only person in this circus who likes me, if you don’t count Mr Burton and Bruno the bear. And my curiosity isn’t so easily satisfied.’

A smile dawned on his face, curving the soft mouth. ‘What can I do for your curiosity, Fern?’ he breathed into her ear.

She reached for him and drew him close, relishing the sprung line of his backbone and the hard strength of his buttocks.

‘Why, satisfy it,’ she said lightly.

Lizard Elsie offered her bottle to the woman lying face-down on the other bed.

‘Have a bit of good cheer,’ she said in her creaking voice. ‘Come on, love, it can’t be as fucking bad as all that.’

Miss Parkes looked up in astonishment at the strange voice and slid her knife down under her mattress.

‘Come on,’ encouraged Lizard Elsie. ‘What’s bloody wrong?’

‘I’m a murderer,’ said Miss Parkes flatly.

‘Oh, are yer? Who says so?’

‘They say so.’

‘Well, they can be fucking wrong, can’t they? Have a sip. Just a sip. It’s bloody good brandy.’

Miss Parkes sat up and accepted the bottle. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘I’m Elsie. They calls me Lizard Elsie because of my bloody blue tongue. I learned the habit early and I don’t seem to be able to fucking break meself of it. That’s better.’

Miss Parkes had taken a deep draught of brandy and was leaning back against the wall. She had not eaten for two days and the spirit rushed straight to her head and disconnected her wits.

‘Now,’ said Lizard Elsie, repossessing herself of her bottle, ‘tell me how you got to be a fucking murderer.’

‘A man,’ said Miss Parkes. ‘He was my husband.’

‘Ain’t it always the fucking way,’ Elsie spat. ‘Did yer kill him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’ asked Elsie, settling down for a long chat.

‘I . . . he mistreated me and made me barren and beat me and then told me to be a whore.’

‘He was bloody lucky if all yer did to ’im was kill ’im,’ observed Elsie. ‘When was this?’

‘Ten years ago.’

‘Ten years ago? They just bloody found out, then?’

‘No, they think I killed another person. A circus performer who lived in the same house as me. His name was Mr Christopher. He was stabbed to death.’

‘And did you?’ asked Elsie, interested.

‘I don’t think so. But I got out of prison, see, and they thought that if I’d killed once I’d kill again.’

‘Fucking cops,’ said Elsie. ‘Have another dram.’

Miss Parkes pushed back her cropped hair, which was filthy. She was still wearing the same suit in which she had rescued Constable Harris from the roof. She noticed that she was grimy, and that her fingernails were black and broken. Elsie scanned her with her parrot regard.

‘Hey!’ yelled Elsie. ‘Duty copper!’

‘Yes, madam?’ asked the duty officer with heavy sarcasm. ‘What does madam require? Caviar? Champagne?’

‘Madam requires that you give me and this poor bloody woman a bath and some clean fucking clothes. Then we’ll see about some lunch,’ said Elsie flatly.

‘But she doesn’t want a bath,’ said the policeman. ‘And she won’t eat, either.’

‘You leave it to old Elsie,’ she said with deep cunning. ‘Just get us a wash and a comb and some lunch and we’ll be right as bloody rain. And fucking put some speed on,’ she shrieked at his retreating back. ‘I ain’t had a bath and a feed for a bloody week.’

‘I can tell,’ muttered the duty officer and went off to arrange the closure of the men’s ablutions for the ladies’ bath.

CHAPTER TWELVE

There liveth not in my life, any more

The hope that others have. Nor will I tell

The lie to mine own heart, that aught is well

Or shall be well.

Euripides (translation, Gilbert Murray)

The Trojan Women

The Brunnies were not hard to find. Jack Black Blake held court as usual in the front bar of the Brunswick Arms in Brunswick Street. When the gigantic figure of Sergeant Grossmith appeared at his side, he did not react.

‘Pint,’ said Grossmith to the barmaid. ‘G’day, Doris! What a fine figure of a woman you are.’

Doris giggled. She, like Mary of the Provincial, was evidently unaware that bosoms were not fashionable. Hers were of a light biscuit colour and were trussed so high that they nestled under her chin. Grossmith found her charming. He liked a woman to be a real woman, not an imitation boy.

‘Hear you had a little trouble,’ remarked Grossmith to the air. The man beside him grunted.

‘Trouble? No.’

‘Someone shot Reffo,’ suggested Grossmith. ‘The ’Roy Boys, or so I hear.’

‘What of it?’

‘Listen, Jack, you got a chance to put the ’Roy Boys where they belong—behind bars. They shot your mate and they’re trying to stand over you for your territory. Now, are you a lot of sissies or are you the Brunswick Boys?’

Men gathered behind Grossmith. He could hear them breathing. Doris moved prudently to another part of the bar. Grossmith identified the men in the bar mirror: the Judge, an ex-wharfie, sacked for always sitting on a case, hulking and dumb; Little Georgie, who carried a knife and had liquid black eyes; Billy the Dog, who grinned, showing rotten teeth; the Snake, hefting a bottle thoughtfully; was a tall man with a thin moustache and the cold flat eyes that gave him his name. Reffo had been his mate. They all exuded menace.