The Circus Read online

  More Praise for The Circus

  ‘A fascinating setting, heart-cracking writing and a big bold friendship at the centre’

  Sue Wallman, author of Lying About Last Summer

  ‘A biting and beautiful examination of why we run, what makes a home and how we find who we are’

  Kiran Millwood Hargrave, author of The Girl of Ink and Stars

  ‘The Circus pulls you in. Beautifully written, with a compelling heroine. A story of survival, family, friendship – and fire.’

  Patrice Lawrence, author of Orangeboy

  About the Author

  Olivia Levez lives in Worcestershire, where she divides her time between teaching in a secondary school and writing. The Circus is Olivia’s second book. Her debut novel, The Island, was published by Rock the Boat in 2016.

  You can follow Olivia on Twitter @livilev.

  Dedicated to my boys, Sam and Louis

  • Rule #1: Don’t stay in the same place too long. Keep moving.

  • Rule #2: Alter your appearance. Use a disguise.

  • Rule #3: Never spend money unless you absolutely have to.

  • Rule #4: Never tell anyone where you are. Never contact home. Don’t rely on friends.

  • Rule #5: Have no plan. Be spontaneous.

  • Rule #6: Never display interest in other people. Do not draw attention to yourself.

  • Rule #7: Always be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice.

  • Rule #8: If possible, hide in full view.

  • Rule #9: Never give in to paranoia.

  CONTENTS

  Act I

  Aerial

  One Arm Hang

  Schoolgirl Missing, Aged Seven

  Clown Face

  Candy Crush Saga

  Now You See Me

  Contortionist

  Schoolgirl Runaway, Aged Twelve

  Night Owl

  Street-Walker

  Foxtrot

  Schoolgirl Missing, Aged Ten

  Sea Spray

  Street Act

  A Little of What You Fancy

  Camera Obscura

  Snake Charmer

  Inner Clown

  Lions’ Den

  Scramble and Twist

  Smoke and Mirrors

  The Mermaid

  Tiramisu

  Helter Skelter

  Swing Seat

  Willow, Aged Six

  Cliff Hanger

  Act II

  Night Cradle

  Loose Change

  Night Music

  Scarecrow

  Exposure

  Balancing Act

  Willow, Aged Fifteen

  Lucky Dip

  Barbie Dolls

  Dream-dancer

  Bed of Nails

  Chalkdust

  Walking on Air

  Crescendo

  Pavement Art

  Pigeon Drop

  Caged Tiger

  The Wrong Side of Clean

  The Longest Air Walk in England!

  Greasepaint

  Popcorn

  Carnival

  Tree Peacock

  The Green Man

  Bee-Bearding

  Catherine Wheel

  The Circus

  Pirouette

  Dancing Girl

  Alice in Wonderland

  Overture

  Bubbles

  Stooge

  Ribbons and Corsets

  Hair Spray and Rose Oil

  Fancy Pants

  Bunting

  Night Music

  Feathers

  Illustrated Girl

  Trapeze

  Ringmistress

  Cloud Swing

  Tumbling

  Cavorting

  Sequins

  Arabesque

  Catch Me If You Can!

  Interval

  Leopard Act

  Wheels of Fortune

  Double Swan Drop

  Freakshow

  Hairy Jack

  Costume Change

  Seagull’s Landing

  Sneak Thief

  Street Act

  Side Show

  Carousel

  Cirque de Paris

  Stand and Deliver

  Escape Artist

  Now You See Me

  Triple Twist

  Finale

  Hurly Burly

  Running Girl

  Dream Tours

  Miss Vertigo

  Act I

  Aerial

  I suppose you could say it begins with the buttons. That’s when I have the idea; I mean, with the first snip. Because you can’t go back, can you? Not after doing something like that.

  There is a row of buttons, satin-covered, from the throat of the dress (low-cut, of course, the way the Handbag likes it) down to the lowest point of the bodice. Then there are handfuls of ivory silk, the dress heavy and new out of its plastic case, but I don’t touch them. I want it to be subtle, what I’m doing.

  I take the point of the scissors and ease it beneath the nub of the button, wiggle it until I get it to meet around the thread. And then, snip. The button pings over the carpet. I note where it lands, by the mirrored dressing table. It will go in my keepsake collection, to mark a Significant Moment. There’ll be more of those to come.

  It is easy then, to do the rest.

  Have you ever felt like that, Beanie? Like your life is finally going to start over, like you’ve taken it by the reins and headed firmly in a different direction? It’s a rush. My heart’s skittering by the time I finish cutting off the last button, and I wonder whether I should take one of my tablets, just to calm down.

  I don’t, in the end. I decide to go with the buzz. I’ll need that spike of adrenaline soon.

  I hang the dress up carefully in its wrapping, place it back on the door and walk across her dressing room to look out of the window. They’re arriving already, in twos and threes. A horrific pink limousine belches out a tumble of her shrieking friends, shocking high shoes in various colours of candy teetering on the gravelled drive.

  Trust her to invite half of Southside. A whinny from the back makes me crane out further, but not too far. I don’t want them to see me in the Handbag’s room. It’s Spook and Spotty, all dolled up like they’re in a pantomime, feathered pink plumes bouncing on their heads. I feel another sting of rage. I told Daddy not to use Spook for her carriage. I told him.

  But it doesn’t matter now.

  None of this does, I remind myself. I am dealing with it. I have a plan.

  I leave the Handbag’s room and make my way past the stink of lilies (funeral flowers – not for weddings, surely? But the Handbag likes them, so of course the house is full of them) to my own room. Inside, I slide off my strappy heels, look around for my trainers. There’s no time to change properly, not while they’re all arriving. I leave my necklace on; it might come in useful for selling later. I grab my black jacket and put it on over my cocktail shift dress.

  Next, my bag, which is already packed and ready. I tug my journal from under the window seat and stuff it in too. Then I take your Little Kit of Happiness. (Yes, it was me who took it from your dressing table that time. I’m sorry, but I need it more than you, don’t you think?) I take the first ivory button that I cut off and place it inside the yellow drawstring bag.

  As I make my preparations, a wild-eyed mad girl keeps catching my eye in the mirror.

  Today I’m supposed to be a bridesmaid.

  I look more like an assassin.

  One Arm Hang

  It’s easy to swing myself down the wisteria outside my bedroom window. I have thick wrists and thick ankles, and they are made for moments like this. Our wisteria’s not going anywhere. It’s as ancient as the rest of our house is new, gripping the st
one ledge and reclaimed bricks with fleshy little claws. From below, I hear chattering and laughter. It’s a sunny day, perfect for a wedding. The Handbag’s friends are grabbing champagne and wheelie cases to fit all the make-up and hair extensions that she’ll need to use to transform herself into Cinderella.

  I hang from the side of the house and from here I can see right over our grounds. Far away, behind our summer house, one of the gardeners is doing something to the rose trellises. Over the lake, the willows sigh and hang their heads. My mother named me after them, did you know that, Beanie? Daddy said that she was sitting at her favourite window, stroking the bump that would become me, and the delicate branches silvered and shivered so beautifully in a sudden breeze that she named me after them, right there and then.

  A delicate, slender tree. How wrong she was.

  There’s nothing slender about me. I’m not exactly the fairy tale princess in the picture books, am I? Not like you. But I’m strong, and I can cling to the sides of houses all day if I need to. I can climb and swing and cling to things. What fairy tale girl can do that?

  Anyway, there I cling until the last of the Handbag’s friends giggle their way into our house. I wait until Martyna, our housekeeper, sighs and heaves herself back inside, after shouting something at the new Polish girl who grooms for us. I am glad of my Hi Tops. The wisteria is sturdy and strong, and I have climbed it in bare feet before, many times, but not in clumpy trainers.

  Below me, the Polish girl rakes over the gravel where the gigglers have scuffed it, muttering and probably cursing under her breath. I wait until she straightens the headdresses on the horses and kisses them on their noses. She starts talking to one of the caterers and they disappear into the ridiculously big marquee on our lowest lawn. No doubt to admire the pink swags on the gold chairs, or to watch the events staff blow up yet more balloons for the love arch.

  I swing myself down the wisteria before I literally vomit. I think of the Handbag knocking back Daddy’s champagne and letting her friends glue on her fake nails and eyelashes. I wonder if she’ll notice all the satin-covered buttons stuffed in the plant pot by the window. I think of her rising in her too-tight shoes and taking the dress from the back of the door, easing it out of its plastic casing.

  The thought makes me shiver.

  My dress is too long, and I hitch it up as I run, past the lake, past the willows, to where the woodland starts. I pass the copse where my au pairs would sometimes take me to play while they smoked dark-smelling cigarettes and texted their boyfriends or sisters or mothers.

  There’s the Goblin Tree, ridiculously small now, but the first tree I climbed, trying to reach for the clouds. There’s Snake Pit, where I performed death-defying feats with my dolls and teddies. I once stayed the whole night in this wood, but I don’t want to think about that right now. That was one of the first times I tried to run away before, but of course I was far too young.

  I didn’t know the rules, not then.

  I know them now, of course. I’ve spent a long time preparing.

  Rule #1: Don’t stay in the same place too long. Keep moving.

  Rule #2: Alter your appearance. Use a disguise.

  I expect the police know all of this, don’t they, Beanie? Scally will, naturally – she’ll have been on courses. Probably raised an ironic eyebrow and enjoyed the free lunch, made sarcastic comments under her breath about the newbie course presenter, because she’s been around the block; she knows a thing or two.

  I have everything I need for #2, but will need to do that properly later. I’ll use the train toilets. For now, I wriggle out of my bridesmaid dress and shove it into a hole in the Goblin Tree. Shivering in my bra and pants, I pull on a dark sweater and black jeans. Stuff my hair into a hat.

  Now I really look like an assassin.

  I grab my jacket and reach the road, bursting out of the secret world of our land into ordinariness and traffic.

  Then I stick out my thumb for #1.

  I keep walking, keep my thumb out, but pull it in when I see the catering vans and string quartet arriving for the wedding. There’ll be press too, probably. The Handbag’s biggest ambition is to get into Hello! magazine.

  After twenty minutes or so, a lorry stops.

  ‘Where to, love?’

  ‘London,’ I say.

  It’s a man. Early sixties and looks like Santa Claus. Or a fisherman. He puffs out his breath when he sees me. He has a gold stud in his ear.

  ‘I can take you as far as Oxford. That’ll do you?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

  I ignore his outstretched hand and climb up into the cab, squeaking around in the plastic seat until I find the seat belt. I put my backpack by my feet. In the wing mirror, I can see Daddy’s car arriving, his red Porsche with its blacked-out windows and personalised number plate: GAS 1. Gary Allan Stephens. I used to cringe on the few occasions he would pick me up for exeat weekends.

  All the other girls’ parents drove beaten-up Land Rovers that had been in their families for decades. Like yours, for instance.

  ‘You all right, love?’

  The driver’s staring at me, a concerned look on his face. He has photos of his kids plastered all over his cab, stuck on the dashboard and on the ceiling. There are ones of teenagers on family holidays; a young man and a woman in graduate gowns; photos of them with melty looks on their faces as they hold babies of their own. I turn away.

  I wriggle round, stare at Daddy’s car as it moves slowly down our drive. He’s gone. It’s over.

  I make myself smile brightly at the driver.

  ‘I’m fine. Perfect,’ I say.

  The driver’s a talker, but not a listener, which suits me fine. I gaze out of the window as he talks about his daughters, who are both studying to be doctors, and his latest grandchild – who was born premature but is a real trouper, a fighter, tough as nails – and his wife, who has just been diagnosed with Parkinson’s but doesn’t let that get in the way of their dream, which is to do up a narrowboat and retire on water, under the stars.

  ‘Beachy Head,’ he says. ‘Best canal system in the world. Wake up to see a heron on your deck and a fox through your bedroom window.’ He rustles inside his glove compartment and pulls out a much-folded picture.

  ‘That’s her,’ he says. ‘That’s our Brown Betty.’

  I take it and make ooh-ing noises at the reclaimed wood and the stripped and tarred hull and the log burner found in a French street market. But I’m not listening, not really. I refold it and pass it back, turn to look out of the window. We’re passing through the Cotswolds, juddering past chocolate-box villages and green, summer-soaked fields.

  I fiddle with the button in my hand and wonder whether, back home, all hell has broken loose yet.

  I drift off, and when I wake up the driver is pulling his lorry into a lay-by.

  ‘This is it. Oxford. I always stop here for a fry-up and a snooze.’

  He’s indicating a bus that has been converted into a snack bar. MAUREENS BITES it says, no apostrophe.

  I unsnap my belt and get ready to open the passenger door, but he’s already out and opening it for me. I watch him swing my bag down onto the tarmac.

  ‘You take care now,’ he says. ‘Always stop for young girls like you, I do. To prevent undesirable types picking them up. I’d like to think the same thing would be done for my daughters and granddaughters.’

  He’s staring at me with sharp blue eyes.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ I say stiffly. I take my bag. ‘I’m afraid I can’t pay you.’ Rule #3: Never spend money unless you absolutely have to. I withdrew all my savings for my gap year a week ago, and have them in a padded brown envelope stuffed down the lining of my bag. I can’t let anyone – even someone as nice as this driver appears to be – see me take it out.

  He looks hurt. ‘Wouldn’t dream of taking your money,’ he says. I feel his eyes on me as I cross the road to the train station.

  Another adrenaline spike.
>
  Because this is the part where I travel all the way to London without buying a ticket.

  Remember you are an accustomed fugitive. You have run away many times before.

  The first time I ran away, I was nine.

  That first time, it was all because of the mouse ear.

  Schoolgirl Missing, Aged Seven

  Sheila chatters all the way home. She’s interrupted all the time by her satnav, which tells her to turn down lanes in some old Doctor Who’s voice, which Beanie’s brothers say makes her a saddo.

  I don’t really listen, because I’m thinking of Daddy and Storm’s faces when they see me back home. It’s an exeat weekend and Daddy has promised he’ll drive me to his offices with him and take me to Hamleys and I’m so looking forward to seeing Storm again. On the way home I’ve imagined over and over his face and his whicker when he sees me; how he’ll leave his grass-pulling, and come trotting over to nudge and snort and probably knock me off my feet, he’ll be so excited.

  Daddy’s paid for Sheila, the house mistress, to drive me home. They do that sometimes. Get paid by the parents to do extra duties. I mean, they probably don’t earn much looking after us, do they? Even if they get their own flat and everything.

  Martyna lets me in. She’s our housekeeper. She’s in charge of food and me. She’s bad at both, but Daddy hasn’t sacked her yet.

  ‘Oh, you’re back,’ she says, as Sheila waves me goodbye and sails off down the drive with Doctor Who. ‘I thought it was tomorrow.’

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’ I ask, pushing past her. This isn’t easy because she takes up most of the doorway. I leave all my bags for her to take upstairs and run from room to room, breathing in all the smells of home. New carpets and new LG TVs and Martyna’s scented plug-ins. Beanie says that those sort of things are naff. Her house smells of beeswax and cut flowers and coal ash.

  Daddy’s not in the drawing room or library or kitchen. He’s not in the games room.

  Martyna is standing in the hall, scowling down at my bags.

  ‘Where is he?’ I demand.

  Her eyes narrow so that they disappear into her sullen face. ‘We thought you were coming tomorrow,’ she repeats.

  Daddy’s country office is in a converted stable. I crunch over the gravel and hum to myself as I stroke all Spook’s rosettes in the stable lobby. He’ll be in his field, of course, waiting for me. I frown at the dollops of dung in his straw. Nobody’s cleaned him out yet. I hurry past the other stalls to the new stable block, which is all glass and steel and cedar cladding.