Roll Up, Roll Down

‘Special Agent Horowitz: initial report on case FG-299824

Successfully infiltrated the Gemini Diabolique Travelling Circus, under the assumed identity of Mia Pickering, a local acrobat. No positive leads on any of the reported missing persons yet. Infrastructure extremely compartmentalised and insular, have to tread very lightly in questioning performers. Have stopped and set up camp in Balloon Fiesta Field, South of Rio Rancho – co-ordinates enclosed. Must gather as much intelligence as possible before show opens tomorrow. Identified likely suspects for closer scrutiny: Ringleader Monsieur Gemini and Fortune Teller Madame Scylla. Scylla seems to occupy matriarchal role within organisation. She is usually surrounded by a retinue of performers, but every night there is an hour-long period in which she is alone in her tent, with only the Head Clown standing outside as guard. Will capitalise on this opportunity for an audience with Scylla.’

Agent Horowitz quickly reviewed the little square words on her Palm-Pilot, her finger hovering over the send button. Countermanding the index finger’s authority, her little finger reached out and hit ‘save draft’. ‘Not enough to send a report yet,’ she thought, ‘but that will change tonight.’ The screen returned to its default menu, and she clicked the device off, stowing it back in her safe box. She called it professional optimism. To send off such a sketchy report would be to the detriment of her good name.

Stephanie stepped out of her dingy tepee and emerged into the pale violet evening. She followed with her eye the thick black zigzags of the tree line until her target came into view. Madame Scylla’s tent stood at the mouth of the clearing. It was old and tattered, but clearly very robust, and its faded purple hue made its edges seem to disappear against the dusk light. Beside the door stood Barco, the Head Clown. His massive, angular frame made it clear he could never comfortably enter Scylla’s tent. It also made him the perfect bodyguard. From a distance, the grotesquely huge facial features of his make-up seemed proportionate to his build, but this lent his appearance no humour; only a dimension of realness that Stephanie had never associated with clowns. She checked her pace as she came close enough for him to notice her approach, halting with a modest, almost coquettishly scared gait in front of him.

‘Is Madame Scylla there? I need to talk to her.’

‘Madame Scylla is not to be disturbed,’ he growled authoritatively, his vocal chords clacking like ancient machinery. ‘She has much to prepare for tomorrow.’

‘I know she must be busy, it’s just that-’ She cut herself off mid-sentence. ‘Why are you dressed up and in make-up? The show hasn’t opened yet.’

The clown considered this for a second. ‘Dress rehearsals.’ His thin lips curved upwards under the wide crimson smile that enveloped them. ‘Actually, a lot of us feel more comfortable with the make-up on. Why play at being something you’re not?’

Stephanie smiled up at him, running through combat scenarios in her head. She’d taken down bigger foes in the past, but this man, more than most, emanated wickedness. A gravelly voice rang out from within the tent: ‘Oh just let her in, Barco; it’s quite alright.’

The giant clown looked towards the voice, digesting this new command. He turned, frowning, back to Stephanie, and, keeping his eyes latched on hers, slowly took a step to the side. The cool night air abandoned Stephanie as she entered the choking atmosphere of Scylla’s sanctum, various layers of incense smoke clouds hanging thickly in the squat hut. A large rectangular cage took up most of the opposite side of the tent, and through the mist she thought she could see a length of scaly flesh glimmering under the shadows of the tight chain links. Her eyes darted apologetically to the woman sitting in front of her. Madame Scylla’s desk was uncluttered and unassuming, the necessary articles to make it into an altar presumably stowed away in some corner. Likewise Scylla herself seemed remarkably unadorned. The gaudy headdress and costume jewellery Stephanie had glimpsed her in earlier was now gone, leaving a petite, shapely middle-aged woman wearing a tastefully figure hugging black dress, her dark grey hair piled above her in a loose bun.

Stephanie had almost sat down when her eyes finally locked with Scylla’s. She found herself momentarily transfixed by her shining black pupils, whose hugeness was accentuated by the thin rings of gold-flecked hazel that rimmed them. She felt as though she had just remembered something dreadfully important, but couldn’t recall what it was.

‘Have a seat,’ prompted Scylla, grinning at the young woman’s apparent inability to do so. Stephanie lurched forward, almost onto the desk, and fell back into the chair. ‘And what might your name be, kitten?’

Stephanie could feel her lips slowly parting, and forced her brain into life to catch up with them. ‘Mia. Pickering…I’m the new acrobat. I auditioned for you in Tingely Field?’

‘And what can I do for you, Mia Pickering the Acrobat?’

Stephanie breathed deeply to centre herself. Scylla was a natural confidence trickster. But she was better.

‘Well, my friend from North Valley is interested in auditioning. She’s meant to be coming tomorrow. You see, we met in college, and worked on a couple of display pieces together. I was wondering, do you… admit many auditions at each stop?’ As her words tumbled out, Stephanie remarked to herself how badly this was going. ‘Just ‘cos,’ she blurted, staggering dangerously around her script, ‘she’s really good, you know? And I thought it would be nice to have a friend with me. See, I’m originally from Ottawa, but–’

‘But you moved to Albuquerque to study. You’ve just split up with your college boyfriend, and you decided to… run away and join the circus.’ Stephanie squirmed as Scylla stabbed these last words into the air with bitter sardonicism.

‘Yes, I know your story,’ she continued, smiling maniacally at her. ‘Do you?’

Stephanie stopped. She felt like she was trying to remember a name from a lifetime ago, a byte of information that eluded her by only a few degrees but definitely and insurmountably. This gulf seemed to expand completely, swallowing her in blankness. Not only could she not find the answer, she now felt like she had completely forgotten the question. In her mind she saw a meadow, somewhere her parents used to take her. There was no-one there. Some dandelion heads blew playfully past her in a slow breeze. As she followed theirs path, she became aware of a great darkness, blotting out the horizon and stretching slowly towards her along the land and sky. Everything was completely silent, although she thought she was screaming. Eventually all that was left were a few last dandelion heads, scattering off into the black and the silent screams.

Scylla watched, gleefully leaning back in her chair with steepled fingers. Eventually she rocked forward and loomed over the table like a storm cloud.

‘I’m sorry dear, what was your name again?’

‘Mia. Mia Pickering, from Ottawa,’ she whispered, staring into the cloud.

‘Oh yes, so it is. So it is. Well Mia, I’ll keep you under my wing. Don’t you worry about a thing, kitten.’

Scylla brandished her first genuine smile of the night, and affectionately shooed at the girl like an errant pigeon. Nodding dumbly in compliance, she rose and made for the door.

Mia Pickering tottered out of the tent and into the gloomy night. She headed straight for her little tepee, not stopping to look at any of her fellow performers, who were dotted around the encampment and stared with the same vacant eyes as she did. She needed to go to bed. The show was opening tomorrow.