Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

Phryne was taken out of the tent. Left alone, Constable Harris struggled afresh with his bonds. The gag had slipped back into his mouth and he was rendered mute.

Phryne was carried, her mid-section bumping painfully, through darkness which smelt of canvas and cooking. She tried to see where she was but could catch no clue. Most parts of the circus looked the same, viewed from upside down.

She was conveyed up the steps of what was probably a caravan and thrown down into a chair. Light wounded her eyes. She shook her head and squinted.

‘Ah,’ said Mr Jones, whom she now knew to be Killer Jones of the Fitzroy Boys, ‘you owe me a favour, Fern.’ He reached out with hands scarred to the knuckles and grabbed the front of her scarlet tunic and ripped it slowly open.

Phryne stared at him. There were four people in the caravan. The small man with the sticking-plastered hands. Ronald Smythe, she presumed. The tall man must be Damien Maguire. And the sneering roustabout whom she had slapped across the face. Everybody except Smythe was staring at her, willing her to struggle, wanting to savour her defeat.

Mr Jones, now kneeling, was engaged in untying her ankles. She shuddered at the reason he might do that.

‘I owe you no favours,’ she said though the gag. Mr Jones removed it. He obviously liked screams and he clearly expected that he would not be interrupted.

‘You got in the way, Fern,’ he said with slow relish, peeling off her tights. ‘You been snooping. You even had a gun. Was that a nice thing to bring into the circus? We got to teach you a lesson, Fern.’

Her much-washed knickers gave way under his pulling fingers and tore down from their band.

‘I should find Fern,’ said Robinson to Alan Lee without urgency. ‘Lot of things been going on in this circus.’

‘This ain’t the circus. This is the carnival. The circus is over there,’ Alan Lee corrected him. ‘She was in the parade, all of the girls were. She’ll be in the girls’ tent by now. I’ll take you.’

Alan Lee and the detective inspector began to stroll through the carnival, chatting casually, but when Alan called Dulcie out she told him that Phryne was not there.

‘She ain’t been back,’ said Dulcie. ‘But I know where she might be. And before I say it, I think she’s all right. She don’t belong in a circus but she’s all right, Fern is.’

With delicacy, she told them about Matthias the clown.

Phryne was helpless. For a moment she lay in panic. Her fate appeared to be set. Jones dragged the webbing belt from around her waist. She made no sound until he broke the thong which held the holy medal and pocketed it. Phryne gave a pitiful cry. Her last link with her own self had gone.

Ronald Smythe’s nerve broke. Phryne was far too old to attract him. His chosen sexual objects were all below puberty. ‘I don’t like this,’ he said. ‘Boss just said to dispose of her. He didn’t say nothing about rape.’

‘Don’t you want a turn?’ sneered Jones. ‘She can’t complain. She’s a spy. Probably belongs to the Brunnies. Don’t you think she’s pretty?’ He indicated Phryne. Her ankles were now free and her hands were still behind her back. The forced arch of her spine thrust out her breasts. ‘She’s defenceless,’ added Jones. ‘She can’t fight back.’

‘I’ll wait outside,’ said Ronald Smythe. He went out and Phryne heard a match strike as he lit a soothing cigarette.

Jones had found the fastening of the webbing belt. He took out a wad of notes and riffled them.

‘Whacko,’ he gloated. ‘The girl and the money. What was this, eh? Bribe money?’

‘Keep looking,’ advised Phryne. ‘You’ll be surprised.’

He found the card case, opened it and read the elegant lettering. ‘Miss Phryne Fisher. Well. Private detective, eh? You’ve been playing with the big boys, ain’t you? Little girls oughtn’t to play with the boys.’

He approached menacingly. One of the roustabouts seized Phryne’s ankle and the other one grabbed for her foot.

She considered the caravan. It was hung with objects which she could not reach. Her hands remained tightly fastened. She had only a second to act before she would be rendered helpless. Mr Jones reached for the buttons on his trousers.

Phryne let go of her civilisation. Years of ladylike behaviour and carefully learned social rules had peeled off along with her clothes. Her rank, wealth and the protection of class had been deliberately abandoned when she joined the circus. She was the ten-year-old ragged girl standing guard over her favourite pig-bin at the Victoria Market, menaced by the bigger boys in the dark behind the stalls. She was the eighteen-year-old Phryne at bay in the black cornices of the Place Pigalle, with the Apache hulking towards her.

A surge of strength went through her like an electric current. They might rape her. But she would not be a victim.

‘No,’ said Matthias Shakespeare worriedly, ‘she isn’t here. And she said she would come,’ he added softly. ‘But perhaps, since Dulcie told her about the rules, she is no longer interested in clowns.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Dulcie. ‘She seemed interested to me. Said she’d rather be thought a tart than give you up. Where can she be?’

‘Perhaps she did not feel it was safe to come to me, or stay in the girls’ tent,’ said Matthias. ‘You can’t keep secrets in a circus. Perhaps . . . Miss Younger?’

Dulcie considered this. ‘We’ll go and ask,’ she said. ‘But quietly. Everyone’s asleep.’

Samson, Alan Lee, Robinson and Matthias the clown, still in clown gear and makeup, followed Dulcie through the canvas lanes.

Phryne jackknifed away from the hands. She pulled her feet free and kicked Jones full in his most threatening part. As he screamed and fell to his knees, Phryne doubled up and brought her bound hands to the front. Damien Maguire aimed a slap at her, which connected with the side of her head. She fell against the caravan wall, dizzy, and was grabbed and shaken. She bit at the passing hands, managed to catch one and shut her jaw with all her force. The hand slid back into her mouth and her back teeth closed on the hand between the thumb and the wrist. She bore down until she felt a bone crack. Blood rushed into her mouth and she had to let go or choke. Jones glared at her as Maguire dragged her off her feet and into a headlock. The sneering roustabout was nursing his hand, holding it between his side and his arm and moaning.

‘She’s a wild beast,’ Jones snarled from his crouch. ‘And you know where we put wild beasts. In a cage.’

Phryne, naked and choking, clawed with bound hands at the steely forearm which was crushing her throat. Then she was back in a bag, jogging up and down as she was carried.

Vengefully, she gloated that the blood wasn’t hers.

Miss Younger was not asleep. She stared at Dulcie. ‘No, she isn’t here,’ she said flatly. I haven’t seen her. Why? Is she missing?’

‘She might be,’ Dulcie temporised.

‘Well, she’s a tart. She’s probably looking for customers in Rockbank.’ Miss Younger slammed the door. The policeman, the carnies and the circus folk looked at each other.

‘What now?’ asked Dulcie.

‘We’d better search,’ said Alan. ‘I don’t like this. Fern’s no tart. She wouldn’t just go missing. Not when she’s got at least two good reasons to stay.’ He looked at Matthias and grinned in a brotherly fashion. Jo Jo the clown smiled uncertainly at the carnie. ‘I don’t like this,’ repeated Alan.

‘Nor me,’ agreed Robinson. ‘She’s reliable, Phr— Fern is.’

Mr Sheridan the magician had packed all his goods away, secured his caravan and started the engine. It purred. He got out and pulled several pegs, unlatching hidden hinges. The decorated sides fell away and he stacked them neatly on the ground. He left the one proclaiming his name, ‘Mr Robert Sheridan, the Great Magician’, uppermost. He looked at the resulting neat Bedford van, painted an unobtrusive shade of grey. It was clearly a tradesman’s truck, full of tools and odds and ends of plumbing.