Money for the Circus (Pt 2)

The fifty quid is more than wiped out by Gran’s tab. Kasim tosses a packet of 20 Mayfair with a Chinese health warning onto the counter.
“She wants 40, she said, Mister.”
Gran probably wanted a hundred, but Kasim wasn’t daft. That would double what was still owing. Marcus will say half-a-loaf-is-better-than-none, when he hands the fags over. Giving Gran some of her old-woman-sayings back always puts her in a good mood. The bell on the door has already rung when Kasim says,
“Wait...”
The shopkeeper is laying a Mars Bar on the counter, Marcus takes it. He thinks of two things Gran says about the punters who come to the flat.
“Never look a gift horse in the mouth” and “There’s one born every minute”.

It’s a long way round if you walk through the cut by the old Rolling Mills. Marcus often wonders what a Rolling Mills is. You can tell it was a factory, but what did they make? Nothing for almost as long as Gran has been alive, she says, but that might be a joke. Some of the older boys break in to smoke or  “spice up their lives”, Gran laughs ‘til she chokes when she says that, but Marcus has no idea why. No, he walks this way because he wants to see the wall at the front. Whatever it says about Bill Posters and whether the Bizzys will catch up with him or not; the paper dreams get glued to the old wall and they can change weekly, or stay up until they peel off. Occasionally, the council come and tear them down, but, honestly, even Marcus thinks they look better than some of the sprayed-on tags the advertisements for concerts, events and festivals cover up. Most of the lettering looks like it’s been done by some of those older kids on the spice. Marcus knows he can do better – and sometimes has – but there’s no point, not when people don’t stick to the rules. People “cap” tags for no reason, a 10-second “throw-up” on top of something that has taken hours to make. No thanks. Besides, he’s seen some of Banksy’s stuff on line, so yeah, what’s the point, after that?

There’s only one poster, everywhere else is the fading graffiti and crumbling brickwork. It’s a wonder this solitary sheet clings so neatly to the surface. Marcus slides the palm of his hand over the poster, it’s just paper, but he can’t feel the nobbly surface of the bricks underneath. The poster is the shape of those ancient paintings of fat local politicians in the old town hall, where Marcus has been with Gran to register two deaths. She only cried the first time. The colours on the poster seem to be both lurid and faded at the same time. Lurid, a chewy word, the Art teacher at school explained it to him once, showed him pictures of paperback book covers on Pinterest. Gack… as if ANYONE uses that. So yeah, Marcus finds the colours lurid and faded all at once. There’s a girl in sparkly tights and a man in a top-hat and red tail-coat. A man lifting a cow, a  bame woman throwing knives at a white man tied to the head of a huge barrel. This is all at the front, in the background behind the sawdust and the ringside are hundreds of faces. One looks like Kasim, one looks like Gran, but not when you look straight at them, only when you concentrate on the person sitting five seats along. The lettering along the top is curly and jagged, it says Cirque d’Argent, whatever that means. The show’s on the wasteland out beyond Asda, next week.

Marcus thinks he’d like to go.