XX
As he made his way backstage, towards his carriage, The Ringmaster pranced about on the tips of his toes, twirling occasionally when the moment suited. For a man of his stature, he was strangely buoyant, and as limber as a young child.
“Can you hear them?” he shouted, to each person that stood in gobsmacked attention, pressed against both sides of the wall. The Ringmaster threw himself at each coloured troupe member, kissing their cheeks and ruffling their hair; sometimes even tickling their bellies. “It’s magnificent, it’s fantabulous, it’s spectacular, it’s true. I am the father of Light,” he sang. “I am the father of Light.”
“It’s working. Just like I thought, and just like I imagined. It’s working. Just like I told you, and just like I said. The people are healed, the sick have become better, the people are healed… Hallelujah Light, what more on Earth could they want? Heaven awaits. Hallelujah, Heaven awaits.”
It was true. Out on the stage, a man with only two ribs was winning the rapturous applause of a people who, only hours earlier, had neither the want nor the will to express their cultured dissatisfaction. And now, they sat on the edges of their seats, clapping wildly, and biting their fingers as man and beast rolled about in epic battle, snapping and snarling, choking and poking one another. And just when it seemed like the beast had won, and when every townsfolk hung onto the same terrified breath, there came a rumbling from beneath the stage that sounded like thunder, and there came blinding flashes of Light from the rafters above. And just as the vile, scaly beast set it jaws to snap, there came one enormous bolt of Light, and the man, as if he had received an order, a command, or an intervening hand, pulled his head out of the alligator’s snapping mouth and punched it, once, twice and three times more.
And the crowd went wild.
The sign in the Tiny Tattooed Man’s hands read, ‘Rapturous applause’.
But this was apocalyptic.
“Listen to them,” said The Ringmaster. “That’s love in their hearts. It’s Light… Light in their hearts. We saved them. We have saved them all. I love you,” he said, kissing the lips and cheeks and bellies of one and all, on his merry way to his carriage. “I love each and every one of you.”
The first act ended with a chorus of trumpets and elephant trunks, and the stampeding of townsfolk on the rafters below their feet. But The Father could hear little over the sound which the gasoline made, as it swished back and forth in its drum, as he spread the liquid all about the house. He had flooded the back garden already, turning his wife’s and daughter’s graves into foul smelling wishing wells. And he was going room by room now, with a dozen drums already emptied and two dozen more, ready to be used.
The last time he smiled like this was during an exit interview at a company that he hated. He felt breezy, as if it didn’t matter about the fire or the smell of smoke. He’d beaten that damn curse. And he’d save his boy.
The Father emptied the final drum under his son’s door, flooding the room entirely. And when the last drops of gasoline rattled about, he threw the drum onto the floor and collapsed back against his son’s door. He was so calm and so content, he almost fell asleep.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and…..”
“Ahem,” said Rex, interrupting.
The Three Legged Midget turned backstage. “What the …..”
“No bloody kids!” shouted Rex.
“Aha. Yes. True. My mistake,” said The Three Legged Midget, turning back to the audience. “Ladies and Gentlemen, b…b…b…,” he said stuttering. “Big and small. For the second act, for my act of mystery and wonder and awe, I present to you, the art of, ‘Egg in Sack’,” he said, lowering his pants, and taking, from a stand beside him, a spatula, a can of whipped cream, two hair bobbins, and a bag full of tapeworms.
The Father marched down the corridor, stumbling as he did. The fumes were making his head swirl, his eyes blur, and his stomach turn violently. Still, though, he wore the most stupendous grin. It was the very same smile that he wore for days after the first time that his wife told him that she loved him, as their car spun out of control along a busy four lane highway. And it was the same too, when his daughter was born - when he punched the police officer and found himself in a piss stained cell with a junky, a priest, and a man with bloodied knuckles who was in need of a fight or a hug.
It was a smile that seemed to defy the worry of his predicament.
And then, in the garden, he took one more look at the final resting places of his wife and daughter. He imagined them as they had been, before this dreaded curse, before this godforsaken hell that he had endured; that he and his son had endured. He imagined them, and he imagined his son too, in a way that he had been scared to this whole time. He imagined them, and thought of them, with loving compassion.
For the first time in so long, he thought of his son, not as some irking bastard, or some vile, depreciating cunt. And he thought of him not as some smudge on a page that he wished he could erase. He thought of him not as a curse, a burden, or a blunder. And he thought of him, not in regret, repugnance, or disgrace. He thought of his son, for the first time in so very long, in absolute loving-kindness.
“I love you,” he said, to the graves of his wife and daughter, as he lit the end of nylon fuse, doused in kerosene.
The Father threw the projectile and in a second, the garden was up in flames. And the flames, they roared like maddened lions, spitting up into the night and catching onto the dried branches that hung over his fence, which in turn quickly spread to the roofs of his neighbour’s houses. For a second, it felt delightful with the wall of fire warming his goose bumped skin. But with a crack or two, and the sound of falling timber, The Father turned back towards the corridor, thinking only of his son.
“I’m coming,” he shouted. “Don’t worry son. You don’t need to worry anymore.”
He slid down the corridor, splashing pools of gasoline in his eyes as he tripped and then gathered his stumbling feet. The fire raged behind him, now completely absolving the garden of any appearance whatsoever. There was just the corridor, the fumes, and the furnace outside that leaped and bound towards the open door.
“I love you, son. I love you,” he shouted, with the very same inappropriate grin, as if he weren’t tearing out scores of nails, bolts, hooks, chains and padlocks, and board after board, while, behind him, a wall of fire swept into the corridor and ignited the putrid fumes. It was as if none of this was occurring. It was as if none of this was true.
“Wait for me son. I’m coming. We’re free now,” he shouted. “We’re free to love, and to feel sorry. And I’m sorry, my boy. I’m so so sorry.”
With every syllable, he tore out planks of wood while fire licked at the back of his neck, painting itself over his clothes and setting about searing his skin. But still, regardless of the horrible pain, he wore that incredible grin, as if his imminent death was insignificant. He wore that very same smile each time that love had been born in his heart. And he wore it now, more real than it had ever felt, as he tore off the last board and burst into his son’s room, followed by a tidal wave of swirling fire.
“Son!” he shouted, to an empty room.
And as the Father collapsed on his son’s bed, a light breeze from a loose floor board invited the fire to swarm about him. The heat and flames danced on his skin and rose up over his head, lighting pictures and posters, and his son’s favourite teddy bear. As he thought of his son, and as he stared at the loose floorboard behind the shelf, The Father felt the onset of crushing defeat and woeful depression.
Then he took his last scalding breath and died.
“That was incredible,” said The Three Legged Midget, rushing form the stage. “Let me go back there, just for one more bow.”
Rex kicked him in the arse.
“Next act,” he shouted. “Get on that stage.”
Beside him, each act stood nervously, one behind the other, and beside them, a well-fed cat groomed itself. There were still five acts remaining. “So fa
r so good,” said someone, it didn’t matter who, it wasn’t appreciated.
“Where is the girl?” asked Rex.
Everyone looked around. There were five acts left, but there were only four acts standing in queueing. They all shook their shoulders and offered little concern, as the worry they had for their own performances was momentous.
“Always the girl,” said Rex, repeating his master’s thoughts exactly. “This is gonna be a disaster,” he thought. “And it’s all my bloody fault.”
He craned his neck painfully, looking up and around every nook and cranny beneath the stage, but he couldn’t see her anywhere.
“Where is that goddamn cripple?”