“Roll up, Roll up” he cried, waving his top hat as a crowd of curious villagers gathered around the green. “Come one, come all…” he bellowed, his gypsy eyes wild. His nose was as red as his Ringmaster’s coat. His hair as black as his boots, despite his advancing years. He was of average height but stout and thick set. The Ringmaster had spent his entire life travelling with the Circus. His father was a Ringmaster, as was his grandfather before that. Ordinarily Padfield village green was empty, save for a handful of boys playing football or the locals walking their dogs. Rarely does anything exciting happen. But today was different. Today the green was taken up by a large red and white circus tent, encircled by bowtop wagons and horse drawn carriages. Wooden trailers with bright coloured livery reading ‘Sequins Travelling Circus' stood by stocky, piebald horses with feathered feet. The air was filled with organ music, magic and mystique. “Step right up and see the amazing flying trapeze artists and their gravity defying stunts. Witness for yourself the incredible strongman. Feast your eyes on the miraculous magician and arouse your curiosity with the human freak show. Laugh along with the clown, and have your future told by the gypsy fortune teller. And with that, the Ringmaster put his top hat back on and disappeared inside the big top, pulling the curtain behind him with a flourish. He took a flask of Whiskey from his breast pocket and drank deeply.
***
The Magician was preparing for his opening act. A mesmerising spectacle of magic, distraction and sleight of hand. Whilst he was strategically placing his props up his sleeves and in hidden pockets, sewn into his silk tuxedo, he started to think back to his childhood in Romania.
He was the youngest of eight children living in a small two bedroom house in the poorest part of the city. His parents didn't have anything in the way of money or patience. Most of the little that they did have went on alcohol and cigarettes. The eldest of the brothers got bought new clothes and these were passed down from child to child. By the time they reached the youngest, they were tattered and stained. Their father struggled to get work, and when he did get work it didn't last, as he was an habitual drunk with a smart mouth and a short temper. He would return home and explain to his wife that he'd lost another job and they would argue into the night, usually resulting in one or the other having a black eye or fat lip. The 8 children would do their best to stay out of the way but the small, cramped house didn't offer many hiding places. The children would complain that they were hungry and be given a bowl of watery stew and dry bread. When they complained, they were beaten with shoes and belts. All too often they went to school with bruises on their skinny legs, welts on their arms, tear tracks running down their sad little faces. The Magician could remember all too clearly the cold nights he spent crying himself to sleep, clutching his stomach. One winter's day the children were huddled together on the threadbare carpet on the dilapidated living room when there was a heavy knock at the front door. It was the Welfare officers accompanied by the Politia. They explained to the parents that they had written statements from the school, church and neighbours, claiming that the children were being abused and neglected and we're conducting an investigation into their wellbeing. The welfare oficers found the children to be bruised, malnourished and underweight. They found the house to be overcrowded and not suitably furnished. The parents were drunk, and the living conditions squalid. The 8 children were split up and put in orphanages. He was separated from his brothers and sisters and places in a group home, where once more, he was the smallest and weakest. Even here, there was scarcely enough food to go around. The older boys were tough and violent by nature. When the food came out the boys would fight, the lions share going to the victor. The group home was worse than the family home, a cruel world where the strong survived and the weak got scraps. He thought about how, as a young boy, underweight and hungry, he had started stealing food from under the cook’s noses without them seeing, learning to use distraction and sleight of hand to avoid getting caught. He would stroll into the kitchens whilst the cooks were preparing dinner. He would smile and make hand gestures with one hand, whilst slyly taking an apple or piece of bread or cheese with the other. In the dinner hall.he would tap an older boy on his left shoulder and as the boy looked left, he would reach over the right shoulder and steal a potato. When he was a teenager he would sew hidden pouches inside his clothes so that he could go into town and steal from market stalls. He would sell his wares or swap them for food, just to survive. When he left the group home he had used his skills to perform magic tricks on the streets of Bucharest for pocket change so that he could save enough money to come to England and start a new life. The Ringmaster's steps brought his mind back to the present. He brushed his shoulders off with a sweep of his hand and straightened his bow tie.
***
The strongman was warming up before the show. He was stretching out his broad back and shoulders when a note was slipped under his dressing room door. It read:
“M. I can't wait to see you tonight. How I have missed being held in your big, strong arms, missed being kissed by your reassuring lips. How I long to be with you, to hold you, to feel you inside me. I will come to your room tonight after dark. I will be wearing a flower in my lapel. J. “
Marco was the only child of Irish Italian parents. His father was a tough Irishman who worked on the roads by day and enjoyed a drink by night. He had big, calloused hands and shoulders like Granite from years of hard graft. He was a man of few words but liked to settle an argument with his fists. In contrast, his mother was loving, doting and at times, overbearing. She spent much of each day in the kitchen cooking and baking, making traditional pasta dishes from recipes passed down from her mother, and her grandmother before that. She made pastries, cakes and sweet treats for her only son, who she loved more than life itself.
By the time he was 15 years old he was overweight and soft, much to the disappointment of his father. Years of over eating and being pampered by his mother had caught up with him and he now had the physique of an Opera singer. His Father would come home after a hard day shovelling dirt to make roads, hungry and aching. He would feel repulsed and disappointed by his mazy teenager. He would hurl insults at the boy, whilst he himself ate his own supper, calling him a fat toad and a lazy oaf. One evening he declared “Marco, look at the size of ye, ye fucking fat slob. You're a fuckin’ embarrassment, so you are. You're no son of mine” before leaving the house to drink at a local tavern. He grabbed his coat on the way out, coughing blood into his hankerchief as he slammed the door behind him.
From that day on Marco and his father never spoke. Marco felt like a disappointment to the man who was his hero; the man who he wanted to be like; the man who's approval he'd seeked for his entire life. Marco fell into a slump of depression. The only comfort he found in life was eating. The more he ate, the more obese he became. The more obese he became, the more he felt like a disappointment to his father. He was stuck in this cycle for the next two years.
At 17 years old, whilst reading the newspaper, Marco saw an advert for the Charles Atlas Dynamic Tension bodybuilding programme. A mail order instruction manual teaching exercises that promised to turn your body into that of an Adonis. Marco sent a cheque and received his manual one week later. He quickly and diligently became immersed in a routine of press ups, pull ups, sit ups and running. It was difficult at first but the more he exercised, the easier it got and the more he pushed himself. After a few short weeks Marco started to notice changes to his physique; his clothing became loose as the fat burned off, and muscles started to form on his arms, chest and shoulders. He ran further and further, and began lifting buckets of water and heavy rocks. Marco became fitter and leaner with each passing week. His father, by contrast, became sicker and more frail. Marco started lifting barbells and Atlas stones, his passion now becoming an obsession. His father died from lung cancer before Marco had finished his transformation.
As if still seeking validation from his late father, Marco continued to work on his bodybuilding and strength training, travelling the length and breadth of the UK entering strongman contests at fetes and carnivals. It was at one such carnival that he met The Ringmaster.
Now, at age 34, Marco had the physique of a bull. He had his mother's jet black hair and his father's square jaw. Whenever he performed in his tight strongman leotard, the ladies in the crowd would go doe-eyed over him, and try to touch him as he passed through the crowd. They would often wait around after the show to try and stage an encounter with him. He could have any woman he wanted, but Marco wasn't interested. His lover would visit him tonight, a lapel with a flower.
***
***
She hated being called “The Freak”. She wasn't a freak. She was a girl. She was a pretty girl. Mother told her so. She had a name. Orla. Orla was her name. Not The Freak. And she hated it here - with the circus. Life wasn't much better with Mother and Father back in Dublin, but now, as she plucked a hair painfully from her chin, she would give anything to go back. She hadn’t always plucked them, she used to shave them off with an old rusty cut throat razor, but The Ringmaster had taken it from her. He said that the whiskers were better for business than the cuts on her chin. She was promised a better life with the circus, but so far the promises had come up empty. And she missed Mother terribly.
Mother, Missy, was a farmhand in a small village in County Donegal. The farm belonged to her grandparents and she helped out with milking the cows and looking after the chickens. Her parents had worked there too when they were young, but now had jobs in the town. She had a lot of family in the village, and there was always an aunt, uncle or cousin around to tend to the fields, or raise the animals. Missy and Dennis had been high school sweethearts, and when they left school Dennis went to go work on the fishing boats. He would often be away for days at a time, missing his sweetheart. Whenever he returned, he would rush straight to the farm and hold Missy in his arms. He would lift her in his big, strong arms and twirl her around, her pale blue Gingham skirt billowing out as he did so. He would kiss her, and tell her he loved her, and how he had missed her beautiful green eyes and gorgeous smile.
One Autumn day Dennis was finding it particularly hard to say goodbye. He was going to be fishing off the West coast of Scotland and would be away for four, maybe even five days. Every minute he was away from his Sweetheart felt like an hour. Three days would feel like a lifetime, but he had to think about the money he was saving for their future. He would buy her a diamond engagement ring, have a big Catholic wedding and buy them a house in the nice part of town. They would live a good life and have children, and a garden for them to play in. Thinking about their future made the bitter pill of leaving for work easier to swallow. He kissed her goodbye, slung his knapsack over his shoulder and walked away, turning back to wave as he left.
Once the trawler had got North of Ireland into the Atlantic Ocean the weather took a turn for the worst. A violent wind came down from the North as heavy black clouds gathered in the skies above them. The choppy sea rocked the small fishing vessel and huge salty waves came over the bow of the ship. The headwind threatened to tear the sails from the masts and booms. Try as they might to weather the storm, the Captain had to make a choice: Steer the ship onwards and risk the safety of his men, or turn the vessel around, return home empty handed, but live to see another day. It was a tough decision but the Captain was responsible for the safety of his men. He made the decision to turn around and get them home to safety. Dennis was glad to be returning home to his Sweetheart early.
Once they got South of the storm towards Ireland, the storm eased up, and by the time they neared home it was plain sailing. They reached County Donegal by morning and as soon as they were on dry land Dennis made his way to the farm. Excitedly, he ran into the cowshed. How he wanted to surprise his Sweetheart Missy, To see her face light up at the sight of him back so early. He looked in all the cattle stalls but she wasn't there. Feeling a little bit disheartened, he made his way to the chicken coop. Still, there was no sign of her. Dennis crossed the cobbled yard and into the hay store. As he entered he could hear a breathless panting and moaning coming from above his head. Quickly but quietly he climbed the ladder into the hayloft. He let out a long low cry of “Noooooooo…..” and fell to his knees as the scene in front of him unfolded in slow motion.
The love of his life was laid on her back on top of a hay bail, her pale blue Gingham dress hitched up to her waist. Her white cotton panties hung off of one of her sandaled feet. The other foot was hooked into the stubbly buttocks of a tall skinny boy who's dungarees were ruffled around his boots, his pelvis thrusting rhythmically between her pale thighs.
As the pair heard his cry, they both looked around with a start. Missy quickly pulled her skirt down over her naked crotch, and he reached down and pulled up his dungarees. Both of them stood, dumbstruck, mouths agape but saying nothing. As Dennis's gaze lifted to the tall farm worker's face, he saw that she had been having sex with her cousin, Colin.
Dennis found a new wave of strength as the anger rose within him. He strode over to the pair with hate in his eyes. Missy stepped towards Dennis and with a trembling voice she tried to explain that it wasn't what it looked like. Dennis raised his arm and struck Mother with the back of his hand, leaving a shiny red mark on her cheekbone like a bruised apple. He looked at Colin and spat “I'll fucking kill you, you dirty bastard. I’ll gut you like a fucking fish. That's your cousin, your own flesh and blood. How could you abuse her like that? That's my Sweetheart, how could you do this? How could SHE do this to me?” With tears now running down his cheeks, he took his trawlerman’s knife from his belt and took a step closer to Colin. “I'll fucking kill you, you cunt!”
Colin turned and grabbed the pitchfork that was leaning against the hay bail, and thrust it towards Dennis, warning him “You keep away from me you mad bastard” the Pitchfork's two needle sharp prongs menacing and dangerous, glinting in the shaft of morning sun that shone through the cracks in the boarded walls.
Dennis wasn't one to back down from a fight easily, but staring at those sharp tines, he knew he wasn't going to win this one. Besides, if he killed Colin, Missy would never forgive him. ‘Fuck you” he shouted as he lowered his knife and put it back in his belt. He grabbed Missy roughly by the arm and led her away. “And as for you, you fucking whore, I'm never letting you out of my sight again”.
The pair never did return to the farm, Dennis used the money he’d been saving for an engagement ring to rent a small room at an inn at the edge of town. He never worked on the fishing boats again, and true to his word, he wouldn’t let Missy out of his sight. He knew that he should have finished with Missy as soon as he saw what he had seen, but the truth was, he loved her too much to ever let her go.
Missy was so ashamed of what she’d done she spent her days weeping and feeling sick to her stomach. So deep was her melancholy that she didn’t notice that she’d missed her monthly period. After about six weeks living at the inn, she started vomiting soon after waking up. By two months her belly felt round, and tight. Missy was sure she was pregnant. She thought about drinking a bottle of Gin and taking a hot bath, but she couldn’t stand the smell of alcohol, and Dennis would be suspicious if she asked him to go out and buy a bottle of Gin. There was no way she would be able to hide it for much longer, and so Missy sat Dennis down for a very difficult conversation. Dennis didn’t take the news well, he was angry, confused, scared. He and Missy had decided to wait until they were married before having sex and therefore he knew the baby couldn't be his. The father must be Missy’s fucking retard cousin.
Missy had heard of a back street clinic in County Armagh where, for a fee, a doctor could ‘see to’ these things with a bottle of Chloroform and a coat hanger. Missy had pleaded with Dennis to let her go to the clinic, she had even offered to pay out of her own money, but Dennis had refused. He said that she should be made to keep the baby, as a reminder of what she had done. So that every time she looked at that baby she would remember what a selfish whore she had been, and never be able to forget the pain and anguish she had inflicted on him. They would soon have a shotgun wedding and move to Dublin for a fresh start, where nobody knew of their previous lives, and nobody knew their shameful secret. Dennis would raise the baby as his own, and nobody but them would ever have to know the ugly truth.
When the baby was born, she was born grotesque and disfigured. Congenital Malformations caused by the biological parents sharing similar DNA. The baby had an overgrown head, with one eye bigger, and seemingly higher than the other. She had a cleft palate and a club foot. When the midwife handed her to Missy, Missy held her in her arms and smiled. She kissed her on her oversized head and said “She's absolutely perfect. I shall call her Orla”.
When Dennis saw the mutant baby he was mortified. How could he ever love such a child? He had insisted that Missy have the baby, largely as a punishment for what she had done back in the hay loft. But now, looking at the bastard child of his wife's cousin, he felt like he himself was being punished for what he had made Missy do. “Lord God” he thought, “What have you done to yourself?”
The following years were a pitiful existence for Dennis and Missy. Trapped in a miserabl , loveless relationship and overwrought with guilt. Missy couldn't leave, how could she? Nobody else would take her on with her disfigured bastard daughter. And Dennis couldn't leave because he couldn't stand the thought of Missy being with anybody else. But most of all, it was the guilt that kept them together. Neither of them saw their families again, and their lives were taken up by hospital visits, medical bills and round the clock care for Orla. Each of them as miserable as the other. But whether they liked it or not, they were Orla’s Mother and Father, and if they found it difficult having a disfigured daughter, it was nothing to what Orla went through. She had years of health problems, speech defects, curvature of the spine, learning to walk with a built up shoe, and once she started early puberty, her polycystic ovaries meant she started growing facial hair at only age twelve. Orla was stared at and sniggered at, pointed out in the street. The kids at school called her Quasimodo, and worse, a Freak. She was sure that Mother loved her, even if Father didn't, but she couldn't help thinking that if it wasn't for her they could have had a much happier life. She felt like she was an embarrassment to them whenever they went out, so most of the time they kept her at home, out of sight. She wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but she could sense their resentment that their lives had turned out the way they had, because of her.
On her fourteenth birthday Father said that they were going on an outing. The circus was in town. Father had got them front row seats and they would all go as a family. Orla couldn't believe her ears, they never went anywhere but school and the hospital, so the circus would be a real treat. The family of three each dressed in their finest clothes, polished their shoes and brushed their hair. Father told Mother to make Orla's hair pretty, and she styled Orla's hair into plaits, tied at the ends with ribbons.
For the first time in her miserable life Orla felt alive. The sights and sounds of the circus awakened something inside her. She marvelled at the high flying trapeze artists, laughed at the clown and her breath was taken away as the magician made white doves appear seemingly from nowhere. There was a funny little midget man who was followed everywhere by a white Jack Russell terrier, who wore a white ruffle around his neck. A gypsy fortune teller with a crystal ball and a moustachioed strong man who lifted heavy barbells above his head.
As the show was closing, the funny little midget appeared, his Jack Russel terrier in tow. He approached Father and said that The Ringmaster would very much like to meet with him, and would they join him in his quarters for a nightcap.
Back in The Ringmaster's Wagon the Ringmaster put down his Whiskey glass, sat forward in his chair and steepled his fingers. He took a breath in then paused, as if thinking how best to say what he had to say. After a moment, he looked to Father and asked “How would you like a better life for your daughter?” He told them that he could offer Orla a job with the circus. That it would be glamorous and exciting. She would have the opportunity to travel, be fed three square meals a day and receive a generous stipend as an act in the show. He promised that Orla would be well looked after, and that she would write often, and send picture postcards from every city they visited.
Before Mother could speak, Father stood up and declared it a wonderful idea. “Why that would be fantastic. Orla has always loved the Circus, and has never had the opportunity to travel. Wouldn't that be wonderful? Orla, earning her own money, and being a part of this wonderful travelling circus?” His words were spoken Rhetorically. “Orla has never really fit in before, this could be the best thing that's ever happened to us!”
Before Mother could fully comprehend what was happening Orla was handed over to the Circus like she was a second hand chest of drawers. The Midget led Mother and Orla away to see her new sleeping quarters. The Ringmaster handed father a drawstring bag full of coins and the two men shook hands.
That night Orla was laid awake in her caravan, scared and confused. She had never spent a single night away from home. She heard footsteps approaching from outside so she squeezed her eyes tight shut. She heard her caravan door open, then close softly. She felt her blankets lift as someone climbed into her bed next to her. As he inched his body closer to hers, she could smell the Whiskey on his hot breath.
***
His teachers described him to his parents as ‘the class clown’. It was the same story every year. It wasn't that he was a naughty child - quite the opposite. He was clever, helpful and popular amongst his peers at St Peters boarding school, as well as being a bloody good cricket player. St Peters was a prestigious private school in North Yorkshire for privileged children who's parents were fortunate enough to be able to afford the term fees. His parents were the owners of a large shipping company and they had made their fortune through hard work. As proud as they were of their achievements, they didn't want their oldest son to follow in their footsteps. Rather, they wanted him to be studious, an academic, and be paid for thinking, not manual work. They wanted him to be an esteemed lawyer or doctor and join the Freemasons. Marry into a good wealthy family and give them grandchildren.
Despite his natural intelligence, he enjoyed making the other boys laugh. He loved to tell jokes, and play pranks during class. He would throw paper darts, pull funny faces and have his friends in fits of giggles when they should have been paying attention to the teacher. His was a popular boy, with lots of friends and a valued member of the cricket team. Even the teachers couldn't help but like him, despite his cheeky nature.
As the boys at St Peters reached adolescence, they began meeting girls, stealing kisses from them at the garden gate as they walked them home. Despite his friends' attempts to set him up with various pretty girls, he wasn't really interested. He much preferred to spend his evenings at the cricket club.
It was in the cricket club changing rooms when he first started to notice the other adolescent boys. Their muscular arms, their contoured chests. Their tight buttocks. Their penises. He wondered, thought it was surely forbidden to do so, what it would be like to touch another boy's penis. To hold it, to taste it. He tried to put the intrusive thoughts out of his mind, but despite his best efforts, he couldn't ignore them. Night after night he would finish cricket practice, then linger in the changing rooms, longer than necessary, a secret voyeur.
One mild Spring evening, after cricket practice, he was loitering in the changing rooms, as had become a habit for him. Most of the other boys had left, eager to make the most of the balmy weather. Just he and one older boy remained. He couldn't keep his eyes from stealing a glance at the older boy’s penis. When he looked up, the older boy was looking him straight in the eye. He quickly looked away, embarrassed that the other boy had caught him looking. He could feel a wave of shame wash over him, as his cheeks started to burn red. When he returned his gaze, he was surprised to see the older boy looking back at his penis, stroking his own as he did so. Without speaking, the two boys stepped closer to one another, breathing quickly, and looked into each others eyes. Their lips met in a slow, but firm kiss, their throbbing penises touching as they started to rise.
The two boys started to meet in secret a few times each week, becoming passionate lovers, always being very careful so as not to arouse suspicion. If anyone found out, his life would be made very difficult. He would be kicked off the cricket team, expelled from school. He would be publicly humiliated, ostracized from society. He would be disowned by his family and would not inherit the family fortune. If anyone knew of his terrible secret, it would be curtains.
The two adolescent boys would meet in the bushes behind the cricket club on fine nights, in a nearby farmhouse hay store on colder nights. One would leave, wait five minutes and then the other would leave. Careful that they were never seen arriving or leaving together.
It had been a busy evening at the cricket clubhouse bar. Some old friends, alumni of St Peters and former cricket players, had been visiting. The landlord, a former cricket team player himself, had enjoyed catching up with his old pals, being regaled with tales of sporting prowess, travel, money and women. At closing time, the landlord put the closed sign on the door and invited his old friends to stay behind for more drinks, on the house. The hour grew late, and the friends had each consumed several tankards of ale.
It was almost 1am when the group dispersed and the landlord started to close the clubhouse bar. He counted the takings and put them in the safe. He washed the few remaining tankards and put them on the rack to dry. He wiped the tables with a damp cloth and set about locking up. Once he had closed the windows, bolted the doors and locked the padlocks, he turned to set off home. His wife would be wondering where he was. He had only walked a few steps when he felt a sudden pressure in his bladder. The tankards of ale had gone straight through him and he felt an immediate urge to piss. He should have gone before he locked up really, but was thinking about how late it was getting and how he should be getting home to his wife. Rather than unlock the padlocks again he decided it would be much easier to relieve himself behind the clubhouse building. He walked a few metres around the side of the clubhouse and rounded the corner towards the secluded clump of trees and bushes that sat behind the clubhouse. It was a clear night, with a full moon and very little cloud cover. He was grateful that he could see where he was going without the need for a gas lamp. As he approached a clump of bushes, he could clearly make out two boys in the moonlight, engaged in an act of fellatio.
The Landlord felt it his duty to inform the Headmaster. He was proud to be a representative of St Peters and could not, in all good faith, allow this kind of behaviour to go on, not on his watch. He met with the headmaster the following day. Meetings were had. Letters were written. Expulsions were handed out. The two boys were excluded from the school forthwith and it was never spoken about again. Well, not at St Peters school anyway.
The once popular class clown with a bright future now felt like the bottom had fallen out of his world. Everybody knew of his dirty little secret. His education had come to an abrupt and premature end. His mother and father were ashamed of him. He would never see his friends again, and his secret encounters with his lover were no more. His parents could not bear the shame, and so packed him off to live with an aunt in Surrey. Not so much a punishment, but rather a fresh start, where nobody knew him and nobody knew of his shame. He didn't last long in Surrey, and as soon as he turned sixteen he left to start a new life in London. He had heard tales of Bohemian private members clubs, and cabaret bars in Soho where other boys like him could meet and feel accepted. He stole some money from his Aunt and set off on a new adventure to London.
Once he arrived in London he found the big city to be overwhelming. It was busy, noisy and the air thick with pollution. He wasn't used to this pace of life and he found it tiring. The clubs that he hoped would be familiar and accepting, he found to be seedy and unsettling. He had hoped that being amongst like minded people would bring him some comfort; make him feel validated. Instead, it made him feel alienated. Like what he was feeling was dirty and should be kept hidden. London wasn't for him. As an innocent child he had often joked about running away and joining the circus. Now, as his Aunt's money was running low, he was starting to think it might be a good idea.
And here he was, in his dressing room, applying his clown make up in a grimy dressing table mirror that was surrounded by light bulbs. There was a bulb out. There was always a bulb out. As soon as they replaced one bulb, another bulb blew. Like the plates that he spun during his act, this was, he supposed, a metaphor for life. Tonight was the opening night and the clown had to put on a show. He drained the last inch of Gin from his glass. Checked his make up one final time, slipped on his over-sized shoes, fastened his yellow jacket and put a flower in his lapel.
***
Jasmine put the opium pipe on the glass table and closed her eyes.. “Just for a minute” she told herself . Any longer than that and she would risk going under and missing her act again. That wouldn't go down well. She would really like to re-load the pipe and smoke until she passed out, but for now, that would have to wait. She would finish putting on her fancy clothes, wig and headscarf, she would put on a full face of make up, put in her ridiculous earrings and wear her best smile, go out there and give them a show. She would gaze into their dewy eyes and read them like they were books. She took another puff on the glass pipe. The Ringmaster had told her that the Opium would kill her one day. Not that it mattered now. She was as good as dead already. Yes, she would look into their sad, pathetic eyes and she would see what they longed for the most. She would go through the old charade of looking into the mysterious crystal ball and she would make an open statement like “You have always thought that you are different from other people” or “You have lost someone very close to you”. Jasmine spoke with a Russian accent, though sometimes she forgot to. “You have been very lonely in recent years”. It was easy: The lonely wanted to be told they would find true love. The poor wanted to be told they’ll come into money. The rich wanted to be told they would find happiness. Everything else was just garnish. You will meet a stranger with the initial D. You will go on a journey. You will have a change in career. As long as it was served with good fortune they would swallow every last bite. She couldn't feel sorry for them. Sometimes she even stole their wallets, pocket watches and jewellery and sold them for Opium. Old habits die hard.
She glanced in the mirror and saw the tattoo on her right arm. It reminded her of her fiance. It had been fun at first but somehow it had led her here. How did it all go so wrong? How ironic that she was The Fortune Teller, and yet she could have never foreseen her own misfortune. She had met The Magpie at The Ritz Hotel in London. Jasmine was the best pickpocket in the city and had dressed in an exquisite Chanel dress and shimmering jewellery so that she could mingle with London's socialites. It was a high stakes gig, and if she played it right, she would walk away with a good bounty. The Magpie, as he was known, was a Sicilian jewel thief with ties to the Mafia. He was in London on business, dressed in an Italian cashmere suit with a silk tie and matching handkerchief. He always carried with him a handcrafted stiletto knife with an ivory handle. Their eyes met across the lobby and they made conversation over a bottle of French Champagne before retiring to his suite for the night. From then on, they were inseparable.
They would travel over Western Europe, working capers together, gatecrashing high class galas and soirees. Jasmine would work the floor, picking gentlemen's pockets and lady's handbags. The Magpie would work the safe and steal the jewels. They would fence the stolen goods through his Mafia connections and live like kings. They would wear the finest clothes and shoes that their ill gotten money could buy. They took holidays across Europe and America. It was during a week long break in Czechoslovakia that she got the tattoo. They would eat at the best restaurants, drink Champagne and dance in lavish ballrooms and then fall into four poster beds in expensive hotels and make love until they fell asleep. It was a whirlwind romance full of danger and excitement, passion and lust. The Magpie asked Jasmine to marry her, and she had said yes. The Magpie’s large Sicilian family were not enamored with the idea of him marrying her. They were distrusting of those outside of the homeland and wanted him to marry a good Italian girl.
Jasmine took out a small jewel case and took out a pinch of Opium, placed it in her pipe and lit it with a match. She inhaled deeply and felt her head get heavy. It was the only thing that took the pain away these days. It was getting worse by the day.
She thought back to the night it all changed. They were the guests of honour at a charity function at the city hall. They stood together in the entrance lobby which was bedecked with fine art and chandeliers, and they greeted the guests together as they arrived. The guest list was made up of film stars and singers, dignitaries, business owners and associates, Mafia families, counsellors, politicians, the chief of police and the mayor. They ate a lavish three course meal, drank Champagne, and danced to live music. Jasmine found it so exciting, yet also tiring and overwhelming. She had needed to step outside for some fresh air. It was a late October evening and she knew it would be cold outside but she needed to take a walk. She picked her Fiancé's coat from the hook in the lobby, draped it around her shoulders and stepped out into the cold.
It was then she smelled the perfume. Not her perfume, and not familiar, but definitely ladies perfume. She looked down and saw a trace of make up on the shoulder of his jacket. She shuddered against the cold and pulled the coat around her tighter, putting her hands deep in the pockets. In the left pocket was the ivory handled stiletto knife, in the right, a small cylindrical object and a piece of paper. She took out the contents of the right pocket for closer inspection. The small cylindrical object was a lipstick. Again, not hers. On the paper was a letter that read “My love, I have very much enjoyed our meetings of late. My bed seems so empty on the nights when you're not here. When are you going to tell her about us? I can't wait until we are together. I love you. Rosetta xx”
Jasmine couldn't believe it. The engagement was a big lie. He was planning on leaving her. And of course for a fucking Italian woman. Oh how his family would just love that. She was never good enough for them. She felt so betrayed, so angry, so upset. So foolish. She stormed back inside to confront him. When she got back inside he wasn't in the ballroom. She asked around and was told that he had noticed her missing and had gone up to their room to look for her. She threw the door to the suite open, and there he was, standing by the window. She looked him square in the eyes and threw the lipstick and the note on the bed. She needed only one word. “Explain”.
He reached down and picked up the note from the bed. The gravity of the situation hit him before he'd finished reading the first line. He knew there was no way he could explain his way out of this one. In a way it was a relief, he was trying to work out the best way to tell her. But still, he had meant to let her down gently. He never meant to hurt her, and he never expected it to feel as bad as it did. He felt an enormous wave of guilt wash over him in an instant. He saw the pain in her eyes. He wanted to explain but like she had, he could only muster one word “Sorry”. He wanted to console her, to hold her and tell her that everything would work out for the best. She stepped towards her with his arms open. He saw a flash of steel as she plunged the ivory handled stiletto knife into his heart.
The pain was bad today. Worse than usual. Jasmine lit the glass pipe again and filled her lungs with the sweet, intoxicating smoke.
Jasmine had spent enough time on the streets of London to know it well - every back street, short cut and bolt hole. When she left City Hall she had run to a little known Speakeasy where she spent the night drinking Gin amongst old friends. She hid out there until the early hours then paid for a room in a cheap hotel where they didn't ask too many questions. The Times front page the following day told the story of a ‘Murder at City Hall Charity Ball'. As Jasmine read the full article she wasn't surprised to read that an eyewitness, the Hotel Concierge, had seen a woman in a man's dinner jacket with blonde hair fleeing the scene. She had blood all over her dress and was still holding the knife as she ran out of the door.
One more pinch of Opium, to help with the pain, then she would have to get ready for her act…
The Chief of Police had been at the ball and would no doubt have the full Metropolitan police force out looking for her. They would stop at nothing to find her and bring her in. They would want to make an example of her and hand out a lengthy prison sentence. The Mafia would be hoping to get to her before the police did - they would want to handle this themselves and dish out their own version of justice for killing one of their own. There would be a contract out for her murder. An eye for an eye.
Jasmine had been on the run for about a year before she got sick. Travelling from place to place, hiding, using false names and disguises. Life on the run had been tiring and expensive. Jasmine could never put down roots or make any real friends. She felt like The Police and Mafia were closing in on her.
Another match, another puff on the glass pipe…
The circus has been the perfect cover. A life that paid her to hide in plain sight. To drape herself in outrageous dresses and jewellery, to wear a wig and a headscarf, to cover her face with make up. To use this ridiculous name - Jasmine. She no longer had to travel on public omnibuses and trams. She no longer had to check in to hotels and inns, where spying eyes may be watching. She no longer had to worry about running out of money. She was never in one place for longer than a few days and nobody outside of the circus would ever know her next move. It wasn't a glamorous life, but it was easy enough as long as she played her part. And what choice did she have? There was no way out for her. No escaping the merry-go-round. No happily ever after.
She took one more hit from her Opium pipe, closed her eyes, and her world went black.
“This is your ten minute warning, you lazy bastards” The Ringmaster barked as he walked through the cluster of caravans and trailers banging his stick on each as he went. “Curtain’s up in ten minutes and you lot better be fucking ready!” The Midget's Jack Russel crossed his path and he gave it a swift kick in the side. “Get out of my fucking way you flea bitten bag of bones.” The little dog gave a yelp and scurried back to it's owner's trailer. “Keep that bloody dog out from under my feet” said The Ringmaster “I nearly broke my bastard neck. And you better be ready!”
Inside the Big Top seats were filling up fast. Villagers of all ages had come to see the show, excited that a travelling Circus had come to the quiet village of Padfield. Children, parents, grandparents and young couples were all waiting with great anticipation, ready to marvel at the wonders of the Circus. The air was thick with excited chatter and childlike giggles.
The Ringmaster continued walking through the field of trailers. He banged with his stick on the Magician’s quarters where he was just going through his final checks, hiding white doves in boxes and hats. “You better magic your arse into that Big Top. You're on first.” He strode over to Jasmine's caravan. “Come on you, you fucking Jezebel, you better not be late again.” He banged on the door with his stick. When there was no response, he shouted her name as he walked around the side of the caravan and banged on the rickety window. Again, he got no response. “You've got to be fucking kidding me…” he said rhetorically as he walked back around to the door. He climbed the three wooden steps and tried the door. It was unlocked. As he stepped inside, he saw Jasmine at her dresser, face down in a pool of frothy vomit. Her skin was as white as chalk and her lips were tinged with blue. Dark circles around her lifeless glassy, open eyes. On the dresser in front of her was a black wig on a mannequin head, a glass pipe, a small empty jewel case and a stiletto knife with an ivory handle. Her arms were sprawled across the sticky, foamy dresser. A tattoo of a magpie visible on her right arm.
The Ringmaster muttered “Shit” under his breath, stepped over and drew the curtains. He tiptoed back across the small living space and took the key from the inside of the lock. He glanced around carefully as he left the caravan, locked the door and put the key in the pocket of his red Ringmaster's coat. He took a swig of Whiskey from his flask and descended the three wooden stairs. He carried on walking through the cluster of caravans towards the Big Top, stopping to knock on the Clown’s caravan as he passed. “Come on you, you won't be fucking laughing if you're late for curtain's up!”
The Ringmaster took a minute backstage to compose himself. As he took a few deep breaths and another swig of Whiskey, the other acts started to file in. He did a quick headcount in his head. ‘One short, but who the hell cares?’ he thought. He turned around to face the stage. Another deep breath and the curtains came up. The Ringmaster took a few steps forward, smiled and removed his top hat. “Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls…” he bellowed, “IT’S SHOWTIME!”
*****
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