Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

He took out a large envelope and laid it on the pile of sidings, putting a stone on top. Then he got into his van and drove towards Melbourne, which was only twenty-five miles away.

Phryne was shoved into a steel cage. Someone cut the bonds on her wrists. She heard the door clang behind her. A bolt was shot. The darkness was absolute. She could see nothing. Her legs were free and she had no gag. Her mouth still tasted of blood. The reek of the carnivores was all about her. In front of her, something stirred.

Fur brushed iron and claws sounded on the wooden floor. Something stood up and shook itself with a sound like a beaten carpet.

Phryne had been told that the moment before the prey was seized by the predator, it went limp. It ceased to fear or care. An archaeologist friend had talked about the moment when a lion’s teeth closed on his shoulder. Dreamy, he had said. The world had ceased to matter. The last mercy, he had said, to creatures destined to be dinner was that they went down sweetly and gently to death, reconciled to their place on the menu.

‘I am not reconciled,’ muttered Phryne. She tried to think. Screaming would only alarm the lion and she did not want it alarmed. She squeezed herself into as small a compass as she could, drawing in her limbs and making herself into a ball. Fear almost overcame her. The primitive Phryne who had run from lions on the Pleistocene grasslands was taking over what remained of her mind.

‘Nice kitty,’ said Phryne, afraid that her voice might have devolved along with her courage.

Police Constable Harris had found a rough edge on a tent peg. It had taken him almost an hour and his wrists had not been improved, but he had weakened his ropes enough to break them. He tore with swollen fingers at the other lines and stood up, staggering. He felt at the walls. They were canvas. He could hear the cough and smell the cigarette smoke of the man who was placed at the tent flap to prevent his escape. Tommy felt in his pocket, took out a pen knife and fumbled it open. They had not even bothered to search him. He slashed at the tent wall. It gaped. Constable Harris walked through the rent and into the circus-scented dark.

Ronald Smythe did not notice that he was gone.

Matthias, Robinson, Samson, Dulcie and Alan Lee had covered the horse lines and the jugglers and tumblers. They interrupted Mr Burton in his study of Shakespeare’s sonnets and he was cross.

‘No, I don’t know where she is. But I do know who she is. Why? Is she lost?’

Jo Jo the clown nodded. His face was already painted into sad lines but now the underlying flesh echoed them.

‘She didn’t come when she said, Matt?’ snapped Mr Burton. ‘This is serious.’ He walked out along his caravan’s driving seat and stepped onto Samson’s shoulders. The huge man accepted the small added weight without comment. Mr Burton settled himself comfortably. ‘Well, come on.’ He tweaked Samson’s hair as though it were a rein. ‘To the rescue.’

Jones, favouring his groin, got to his feet. ‘We’d better do something about the hayseed,’ he said roughly. The others followed him to the tent. Ronald Smythe was on guard, chain smoking. ‘I heard a scream,’ he said nervously. ‘What . . . er . . . happened?’

Damien Maguire laughed. ‘She kicked Jones in the balls and fought like an animal. So we put her where she belongs.’ He peered into the tent. ‘Hey, you there?’

Maguire lit a match. Apart from some shredded ropes, the tent was empty.

‘You idiot!’ Jones cuffed Smythe. ‘You let him escape!’

Tommy Harris was lost. He blundered around in the dark until he came out into a relatively lighted stretch. A grotesque creature was approaching. It was nine feet tall and had two sets of arms. He gulped. Then it passed him and he saw it was a little man sitting on a big man’s shoulders. Detective Inspector Robinson said curtly, ‘Ah, Harris. Where the blazes have you been? Where is Fern?’ Constable Harris was about to protest that he had done rather well in freeing himself, all things considered, but this was not the time. He said, ‘They got her. Jones and the others. They took her towards a caravan.’

‘Where?’ snapped Mr Burton.

Constable Harris looked around helplessly. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It all looks the same in the dark.’

Detective Inspector Robinson swore in a way that would have gained Lizard Elsie’s admiration.

Darkness blanketed Phryne’s eyes. She was not cold. She was considering death. There was not much chance that she would get out of this cage alive. She stank of blood. She was sure that she was oozing terror. She was losing what grip she had on her wits and she could not reach the bolt. Every time she moved, the creature shifted and came a little closer. She looked and smelt like prey.

‘I don’t want to die,’ she mourned softly, hearing her voice as small as a child’s. ‘I don’t want to die yet. There are a lot of things I haven’t done.’

Even the reeking dark in the lion’s cage seemed precious and infinitely preferable to whatever lay beyond. She would go out like the flame of a candle. Where does the candle flame go when the candle is blown out?

She laid her painted face against the iron bars and bared her teeth at death.

‘What could you see?’ asked Robinson urgently. Harris shook his head.

‘Feet,’ said Dulcie urgently. ‘Running.’

‘Catch him!’ said Robinson to Harris. Ronald Smythe, fleeing in terror from his allies, was tripped and fell flat on his face. Alan Lee was on his back in a moment.

‘Tell us where Fern is,’ threatened the carnie in his silky voice, ‘or I’ll kill you.’ Alan Lee was seriously worried and did not allow the presence of two policemen to cramp his invective.

‘I’ll take you to the Boss,’ quavered Ronald. ‘Don’t hurt me!’

Robinson applied issue handcuffs to Smythe’s wrists and he led them to the right.

Jones was standing in the place where a caravan had rested, cursing. Damien Maguire and the other roustabout looked blank. There the searchers found them.

It was a short fight but nasty. Jones yelled for Farrell, dived back for his caravan and came up short facing a monster. It reached out two sets of arms. Samson seized Mr Jones by the waist and tucked him under his arm as neatly as if he had been a fractious child. He struggled. ‘Excuse me, Mr Burton,’ said Samson politely, ‘could you help?’ The dwarf sprang down from Samson’s height and twisted his tie around Jones’s neck.

‘I am very displeased with you,’ he told the enpurpling face. ‘If you give my colleague here any little difficulty, I shall have to strangle you all dead, instead of half dead.’

Mr Jones ceased to struggle.

Harris and Alan Lee circled Damien Maguire, who had a knife. Lee feinted one way, Harris another. Maguire turned, threatening, ‘Come closer and I’ll stick yer. You won’t take me again!’ Lee went left, Harris right. The man kept turning so that they could not get behind him.

Robinson had secured the roustabout’s hands behind his back by dint of knocking him down and kneeling on him. He watched Maguire with concern. And where was the interfering Miss Fisher?

Jo Jo the clown looked into one of the nearby tents and picked up a large iron skillet. Then he stood just outside the circle with it hidden behind his back. Alan Lee looked at him.

‘Ringwise,’ said Jo Jo calmly, as if he were giving directions in a rehearsal. Alan Lee moved clockwise, Harris lunged forward, and Jo Jo crowned Damien Maguire with the skillet. The blow made a loud, heavy, soggy noise and the bank-robber fell to earth, he knew not where. They handcuffed him. Jo Jo, Alan Lee and Constable Harris shook hands.