The Circus Read online

  Daddy’s office.

  The door’s not locked. Inside, it smells of new-sawn wood, because it was only completed a few months ago. Daddy has his main offices in Greenwich in London, but he often has meetings at home too. That way, he can still spend time with me when I’m back from school. I know that his work makes him an awful lot of money (more than both Beanie and Miffy’s parents put together) and it has something to do with entertainment.

  ‘Daddy?’ I call. There is a scuffling noise from upstairs. I climb the glass steps to the mezzanine and poke my head round the reclaimed brick partition.

  Daddy is fighting with a lady.

  He has her over the desk and they are wrestling with each other. They are both struggling and snorting, and it looks like neither of them is winning. I watch until I can’t stand it anymore, and one of them knocks a paperweight off the desk.

  ‘Daddy, stop it!’

  They swing round. All that fighting has made some of their clothes come undone.

  Daddy’s face is red so he must be really angry at the lady. She has her hand over her mouth and is straightening her dress.

  ‘Oh, god,’ she says.

  I stand firm. ‘Daddy, what are you doing? You knew I was coming home today.’

  Daddy whispers something to the lady, and she gives me a strange smile and hurries out. I am glad she is gone. The air in the room smells funny, sort of hot and urgent mixed with the new wood.

  ‘Did you remember the tickets, Daddy?’

  He comes over and gives me a hug. He smells strange and I wriggle away. ‘Willow,’ he says. ‘And how is school?’

  I look at him. ‘You haven’t remembered?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Willow.’

  ‘You promised!’

  Daddy always keeps his promises.

  He never forgets to pick me up from school on an exeat weekend.

  He is never too busy to take me out.

  I watch him pick up his phone, which has been knocked to the floor. He jabs at the phone buttons with one hand, and does up his shirt buttons with the other. On the phone he speaks rapidly. It takes him two minutes to book tickets to the ballet at Sadler’s Wells, and another two minutes to organise Martyna to go with me.

  ‘There,’ he smiles. ‘All done.’ His tie’s still crooked from where the lady pulled it.

  I stare at him, and then I run away.

  The mouse has been on our mantelpiece for as long as I can remember.

  It sits with its tail coiled round its haunches, and every detail is painted carefully, from the delicate long toes of its feet to the thin hair-like flicks of its whiskers. The mouse is clutching a china cotton reel, and it looks just like it’s sniffing the air, nose quivering.

  It is probably a priceless antique or something, because literally everything in our house is. Daddy pays someone to buy all our china at auction in Mayfair. The mouse is made of porcelain and has huge ears so delicate and thin that it would take a puff of air to snap them. Martyna, who is so clumsy she’d knock down a tree if she wasn’t looking where she was going, is not allowed to touch it. Nor am I, nor is anyone.

  Daddy used to tell me stories about the mouse. He said that it belonged to Mummy when she was a little girl like me. That her mother gave it to her, and her mother before that. But Martyna sniffed when I told her and said that it came from the auction house like everything else.

  After I run from Daddy’s office, I sit in the drawing room, which is cold because this is the older part of the house, the bit Daddy hasn’t extended. No one comes here because there isn’t a TV in this room. I sit on the sofa and watch the mouse. Sometimes, if I really look hard, I can make its head move and look at me.

  Today, though, it’s not working.

  ‘Stupid mouse. Stupid Martyna. Stupid Daddy,’ I say aloud.

  Then, heart skittering in my chest and head feeling hot so that I can hardly breathe, I stand up and walk over to the mouse. I look at my hands and they are rising up towards the china figurine. I watch my fingers as they curl over the mouse’s ear.

  Snap.

  There’s one.

  Snap.

  There’s the other. Easy as that. The bits of porcelain in my hand are tiny and frail like pieces of broken seashell. The mouse looks really stupid now, with no ears. Its head looks shrunken with little broken spikes.

  I am glad.

  I start off by hiding in the car.

  It’s not far, but it still counts as running away.

  I choose Daddy’s Jag, because it is the comfiest, and climb into the back seat. Daddy’s cars are hardly ever locked because Simon, his chauffeur, doubles up as a security man. He’s almost as lazy as Martyna, and spends most of the time he’s meant to be securing things and waxing cars watching box sets in his little office. He also smokes a lot of those flattened cigarettes he likes, the ones he rolls himself that smell funny.

  I’ve packed my second biggest suitcase, so they’ll know I’m serious. I’ve emptied all my drawers and wardrobe of everything I own: my spare riding clothes, my party shoes and party dresses, my second-best designer clothes, my spare wax jacket and Hunter boots and padded gilets. I’ve literally cleared my room.

  So they’ll all know that I’ve left home.

  And Daddy will have to call the police and they’ll put me on the news and even Martyna will feel guilty, for being so dull and boring and never paying me any attention when Daddy’s away working.

  I couldn’t lift my case into the car, so I’ve hidden it in the space behind the pool machinery in the changing hut. I lie on the cream leather back seat, curled up, waiting. I chew on a sandwich that I took from Martyna’s fridge shelf.

  I can wait all afternoon and all night if I have to.

  I want them to notice that I’m not down for dinner.

  I want them all to notice that I’ve gone.

  I want them to notice me.

  Clown Face

  My face ghosts in and out of the window. I breathe, watch it fade, watch it reappear. My face, but not my face. I’m losing who I am.

  ‘Tickets, please.’

  I jump, and stuff my journal back into my bag. I am sitting in the corridor, on a pull-down seat outside the toilet. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I must have been on this train for ages and I haven’t even done Rule #2 yet.

  The loos are engaged. I glance down the corridor and it’s all right: the conductor’s busy talking to some students dressed as superheroes. Batman needs to buy a ticket, and so, it turns out, do all the others.

  Superman and Batgirl are pulling out their money, swigging cheap white wine from a bottle. It’s definitely not the sort of wine Daddy would keep in our cellar. Iron Man and Wonder Woman are sitting opposite them, laughing at something on their phones. Students. I think of the A Levels I’m supposed to be sitting soon. The future I’m supposed to have. My personal statement not filled in.

  The conductor’s looking a little harassed now; she’s lost her good humour from earlier. The red clicks to green and the door opens. Spiderman comes out, smirking. He winks at me, and shakes his wet hands to dry them. Some of the water goes on me.

  I hurry inside, slamming the door shut behind me.

  My bag’s so stuffed with the things I need, it will hardly squeeze in, and I don’t want to put it on the floor, which is all wet and gross-looking. In the end I balance it on the lid of the lavatory. The train sways and grumbles. Outside the tiny window, trees fly.

  First, my hair.

  I rummage inside the front pocket of my bag and pull out the scissors I used to cut off the Handbag’s buttons. They’re just big enough for what I’m about to do. I pull my hood away from my head and plait my hair quickly, tying it with the hairband I have around my wrist. It’s the last time I’ll need that.

  I stare into the speckled mirror above the tiny steel washbasin, or, as the Handbag would call it, sink. I trace my finger over my high cheekbones, my too-heavy jaw.

  ‘Goodbye, Willow,’ I say.


  Slowly I lift the scissors and widen them at the hinges. I let their little jaws close over the top of my plait, where it reaches the nape of my neck. There is a sort of crunching sound as the plait is cut and comes away in my hand. I am left staring into the mirror with my plait in one hand and my scissors in the other.

  I take the plait, look at it for one last time, and drop it out of the tiny window. It whips past like a bird and disappears.

  I rake my fingers through my hair. It’s not bad. I cut away at my fringe too, so that it sweeps low over my eyes and makes them look wide and huge.

  In the mirror, a teenage boy looks back at me.

  I get out the liquid eyeliner that I took from the Handbag’s dressing table. I draw out flicks at the corner of both eyes and then outline the inside lids, so that my eyes are dark and smudged and dangerous-looking.

  Better.

  I am the Runaway Bridesmaid. I am the Fugitive.

  Humming under my breath, I wash my hands with tepid train water and slimy soap and wipe them dry on my jeans. I pick up my bag and shut the door with a click behind me.

  The conductor’s left Coach A, where the superhero students are. None of them gives me a second glance as I slide into an empty seat.

  I stare at my new face until it disappears, ghoulish in my window breath.

  I wonder whether they’ve called off the wedding yet.

  I wonder which of them will notice that I’m gone first.

  I could have killed the Handbag once. Saw her hair extensions floating over the water of that ghastly hot tub and it would have been so easy to have pressed both hands over her face and pushedpushedpushed her under.

  I didn’t kill her. But they kill me, every day.

  Candy Crush Saga

  I was prepared to go through with the wedding before everything changed.

  I would do it for Daddy, I thought: smile and smile and talk and talk to the guests, even the ones the Handbag’s invited from Southside. There wouldn’t be any need for me to hand out drinks or devils on horseback or the mini pizzas she’s got the caterers to make. They have dozens of hired staff on call, hovering around in smart black skirts and trousers and bow ties. They’re having the works: pig roast, the poor thing turning on a spit, a skewer thrust through it, mouth to arse. There’s the string quartet, and the DJ for later. I’m surprised the Handbag’s not got living statues scattering gold dust over everyone as they line up to pay her tribute. Maybe a couple of baby dragons perched on her shoulders as she simpers and air kisses and flutters those hideous eyelashes.

  In my room, I have laid out my bridesmaid dress on my bed, and unballed the tissue paper from inside my new shoes. I’ve refused to match the rest of the bridesmaids, so my dress is black, which is obviously more appropriate than the baby-pink mermaid dresses she’s making all of her friends wear. I suppose that I’d better shower.

  I meet the Handbag coming out of the bathroom, looking pale and sweaty. For once, she’s not tottering around in spray-on jeans and spike-heeled shoes, but is still in her dressing gown, a pink one with white love hearts all over it. She pushes her hair out of her eyes and gives me a sort of twisted smile. She looks awful without make-up. There’s a spray of spots on her chin, waiting to be smothered in foundation.

  ‘All right?’ she says.

  She’s lost weight and it doesn’t suit her. I don’t know why she’s nervous. I mean, it’s not as if she isn’t getting everything she wants, is it?

  I give her a bright smile to freeze her out. One day, if I smile hard enough, I will magic her out of my life altogether.

  We have three bathrooms, but this was always the one I used before she came, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t use it now. But like in the rest of the house, she’s left a trail of pieces of her, like she’s shedding skin. There are bubbles on the floor. Tweezers by the basin.

  And she’s left her phone on the side of the bath.

  Probably for playing Candy Crush Saga, in between applying false toenails.

  It’s pink (of course), in her favourite zebra-print case in pink and white. A fluffy animal thing hangs from the corner like she’s ten or something, not however old she is, which is at least half the age of Daddy. Turns out to be a penguin.

  How sweet.

  The Handbag’s left it where it could slip and smash, and, remembering my plan to be nice, I sigh and reach for it, meaning to move it to a safer place. I’m not so nice that I’m going to trot after her and return it.

  It buzzes. A message pops up in its green speech bubble:

  Oh my godddddddd! Congratulations!!!!!!!!!!!!! Still can’t believe it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  It’s from Cheryl, her best friend from Basildon.

  I frown, and pick up the phone.

  There’s a photograph attached to the Handbag’s original message, and I tap it to make it fill the screen.

  It’s instantly recognisable: grainy, blurred, a black and white image that’s out of focus. The Handbag’s phone is the latest super-sized Android, and it seems that, as I stare, the bean shape in the middle of the photo shivers and quickens.

  The phone buzzes again. Another text from Cheryl:

  You’ll be a GREAT mum!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  Quickly followed by another:

  Shame about You Know Who!

  I have a spare box of my tablets in the cabinet. It takes me a long time to pop two out of their tiny blisters, and even longer to get my breathing back to normal. It won’t do to collapse on the tiled floor. Martyna or someone would find me, and then there’d be a fuss, and it would be much harder to make my escape.

  Because that’s the only option left to me now, isn’t it? They don’t want me. Daddy will have a new son or daughter, one that’s shiny new, not bitter and difficult.

  There isn’t a place for me here, not any more.

  I know when I’m not wanted.

  Now You See Me

  I didn’t think about the barrier at Paddington Station, but in the end it didn’t matter. I just shrugged and looked sort of hopeless, and the guard opened the barrier and let me through without even checking my ticket.

  I took my hoodie off and stuck on some lipstick, and it was that easy. But now there’s a camera, watching me with its single eye, and I’m regretting uncovering my face. I feel hunted. I am hungry and tired.

  I root around in my bag until I find some coins. I don’t dare pull out the brown envelope because there are people everywhere, and I need to tuck myself away in some place quiet, to get my bearings, to decide what to do next. I’ve never got this far before.

  I find enough change for a sandwich and a coffee, and eat slumped down on the floor, watching the station pigeons fight over a bag of crisps and listening to the hum of the passengers. In the end, I surreptitiously slide out the envelope and run my fingers over the crisp notes. One thousand, two hundred and eighty pounds. My entire gap year savings, from when I pretended to care about such things.

  ‘You eating that?’ a girl asks.

  I flinch, and stuff the envelope back inside my bag. The girl is sitting with her back against the wall, dirty red bobble hat pulled low over filthy hair. She has broken teeth and sores around her mouth.

  She could have once been pretty, but it is difficult to tell. In silence, I pass her one of my ham sandwiches. I watch her as she pulls out every bit of ham and feeds it to the pigeons.

  ‘Veggie,’ she explains. She yawns widely, showing off those jaggy teeth, and stuffs the bread and butter into her mouth in one go. ‘Got any ciggies?’

  When I shake my head, she shrugs and hollers at a passing man. He’s not much older than me, bearded. He takes out a cigarette and lights it for her as she thanks him profusely. ‘God bless you,’ she calls.

  The next time I look at her, she’s fallen asleep, dirty parka swallowing her like a grubby duvet. Then I notice the paper cup. Her hands are filthy, blackened around the nails. The girl looks an awful lot like me: same firm chin, same dark eyebrows that almost, n
ot quite, meet in the middle.

  Looking at her gives me an idea. I take my pen and scribble on the paper napkin that came with my sandwiches. 7839. Daddy’s pin number. I still have his gold card, left over from when I went interrailing at Easter. He lets me have it for emergencies, but of course I can’t use it, not now. It will instantly inform anyone looking for me of my exact location. I know they have CCTV cameras behind every ATM machine; it’s one of the ways they get you, when they’re hunting you down.

  Not that I’ve researched this or anything.

  Heart hammering, I slide out Daddy’s card, and wrap it inside the napkin. Then I place both items inside her paper cup. She wakes then, when I am crouched over her. I see the flash of fear and violence.

  ‘Have a good day,’ I whisper.

  Last time I checked, Daddy had over twenty thousand pounds in his account.

  I break into a ten pound note and buy a tube ticket to wherever. End up at Charing Cross. Get off. Look around. Endless CCTV cameras. Hordes of homeless people gazing dull-eyed at other people’s lives.

  I get onto the first train I see, just because there’s no way I can spend the night alone in London, and I need to sit down. I need to stop.

  Stop.

  Have you ever felt like that, Beanie? Like you want to step out of your life, just for a second, and take stock? I bet you haven’t. You have a nice, normal life, with nice, normal parents. A father who is boozy and brusque and humorous. A mother who’s something high up in some charity. A perfect home and a perfect life. You don’t come home to find the Handbag’s redecorated the drawing room so that it looks like Night of the Living Room Hell with matching swags and bows and cushions. You don’t have to remove your dad’s tart’s hair extensions draped over the back of the brand-new hideous sofa before you sit down. At exeat weekends, when it’s time to get collected, your family’s car always arrives first.