CIRCUS

Closing the front door behind me I shout, "Hey mum. There's a circus coming to town mum!" I then hang my sports bag in the hall cupboard.

Mum shouts from the kitchen, "Football today? I bet you still have your stuff on don't you? Well don't forget to take your boots off before you take one more step lad."

I sit on the floor to untie and wrench my boots off, as I say, "Mum!" I stand up, leaving my boots on the mat, continuing, "Mum, a circus is coming to town."

I try to add a word or two more but she shouts from the other room, "Don't bring that mud in here, how many times do I have to tell you? Leave it back on the pitch."

I look at myself in the hall mirror, pull a hanky out of my sleeve, "That smudge was there yesterday," I say to my reflection, using spit to mix it in with the rest.

Mum comes in to the hall to remark, "Just look at you, up to your armpits in mud! It's the same every week! Why don't you get changed before you come home?"

This wasn't really a question so I didn't answer, as usual.

She continues, saying as she does every week, "I'm sure the other boys don't get as dirty as you."

She stands with one hand on her hip, with the other she points up the stairs, "Go shower yourself John Blake and put your stuff in the basket." Shaking her head she adds, "Lads!" As she always does.

I roll up my sleeves, put my hands in my pockets and with a smile on my face walk upwards to the indicated room, casually kicking at a piece of fluff with my filthy socks, and as a parting remark say,  again, "There's a circus coming to town, mum."

The promised circus being the only hint of stimulating entertainment in the area since the firemen had to get Smelly Smith's head out of his bike wheel, is, of course, greeted with furore and revelry. Posters advance on the valley, how, no one is really sure, advertising -

'Guaranteeable Pleasure, Plus Awe-Inspiring Exhibits

(subject to availability).'

The whole populace from all four points and in between and around are stock-a-block with expectance. School kids and old folk alike are conversing. Housewives and shopkeepers akin are gabbing. In the class, in the streets, over fences, in the solitary cafe and down the pub. Even more numberless posters appear, large ones here, smaller ones there, telling of -

'Meritorious Acts And Exotic Showings Of Magnificent Variation.

Including - Jedies the Dron from Phieads. Mov, with her performing occiput. Zoroastrian wrestling

(Plus, for one day only!  special surprise guest appearance). (PG).'

No one was sure what it all meant, but were nevertheless no less excited.

The big day of the circus swells close, enthusiasm is more than sustained, but alas, there is no clue given as to the whereabouts of the show. All attention is directed on the one situation, a grassy meadow outside of the village, able to support a show of any respectable size. At least of the size hinted at. But the only signs of activity there are younger kids from the village hoping to see some form of setting up and perhaps even a chance to help?

Later the grownups look on.

"Do you think they'll have a camel, Mr. Ibson?" asks little Tommy.

"Well son, the last time .................... ".

His answer is lost in the noisy comings and goings as other folk chatter past, dragging their dogs for their daily coincidentally' by way of the meadow. There's that Mr. Binn with his. That thing belongs in a circus cage never-mind a muzzle, and I don't just mean the dog.

Still, 'They', make no appearance. People in general are moderately apprehensive, most of the posters are still on view, yet devoid of any cancellation, but even optimistic people are now unconsoled and chappfallen. Most others are simply harrowed.

The eve of the circus is on hand, still 'They' have not made suitable preparations. An assortment of persistent persons are still in wait, wishing to watch if not help.

One, Mr. Owens reminisces. "It's just like t'old days, but where's't big top," he wonders.

"When I was a lass they use to come a bit earlier than this and rehearse," remarks Miss Brown from the library who lives up the valley. And the night looks resolved to sleep on, unbusy and undisturbed. Even so, some hardy bystanders stand their ground.

"Something's coming now!" some still enthusiastic soul shouts.

A motor or motors are heard trundling along the lane. A car moves in to view and decelerates to a standstill in front of the few remaining devitalised people.

"It's Mr. er, what's 'is name. You know, from the Water Board," says Joe with the red hair.

Whatisname slides down his window. Thrusting his head into the open air he asks, "Aren't they here yet? No? I see not. If they don't turn up I'll see to it that they are reported to, er, somebody."

With that he bids farewell and drives off into the ever growing penumbra. Who owns the field? Most of us are at a loss. Although Malvin says, "It's that strange old farmer Sproggs, yer know, that odd one who hides himself away. He rarely come to the village except when it's dark."

No one replied, but he is right.

Midnight scurries into Sproggs's meadow, but it comes too late to see the last stragglers go home to their beds, who had to go without seeing the arrival of the circus.

Morning slides across the still peaceful valley. I awake, thump my alarm into silence, it stops, but falls to the floor starting again so I get up and turn it off. The rest of the village awakes, too, as the milkman comes around.

He says to mum at the door, "The circus is here. Yes, crack-a-dawn I saw it. Nobody about though. Two pints? See you at the show? Bingo night? Oh. Good morning."

News moves at a great pace, later causing people to move towards the big-top, and, no argument, it is a big one. It towers over the meadow, but there is no sign of graft or other worker activity, only us walking in and out of the open and deserted 'top, now. I can't really call it a tent because it looks more like an upturned and unsupported bowl. That's all there is to see. No caravans, no cages, no side stalls, no noisy engines,  no animals, just the 'top and the sign over the doors -

'CARAVAJUT'

As this meant little to most they dismissed it as 'Show-stuff'. Then, all silence was sieged by an echoing and demanding but informative voice, gifted with a platinum tongue - "Our first showing is at precisely three-o-clock pm. Thank you."

So we all went back home to eat.

At Three the majority has returned, and the throng are giving their remittance to an ungodly gargoyle type of, er, person, at the entrance to the top. He(?) seemingly cleverly made-up.

"Far out make-up!" someone says.

That is the general opinion anyway: make-up.

When all are politely and without guidance, seated, Ringmaster (why I know that is his name and not just his occupation I don't know) makes his entrance, dressed in two hades of blue and more to the point he has four arms.

"Wowy! Amazing! This is going to be a good show! How do those arms work?!!" says the massed voice of the audience. They all laugh.

"First," raising two arms, "Is a spectacular treat!" Ringmaster says, raising one more arm, "Zoroastrian wrestling!"

As he retreats to the shadows two squares fall from the roof. A black one. A white one. They land on the floor with double thuds and before the audience has a second to recover from the surprise each box opens on adjacent sides to the other.

A being races out of each of the boxes and immediately start ripping each other limb from limb. They both seem to change shape and size ad lib. Black is pumping black, thick, 'blood', while White is pumping pale, runny, 'blood'. Their bodies are almost mercurial the way they change and mend, and they have to.

"Absolute FX!" some kid shouts.

Every body-piece gored off, and there are many, is regenerated in a fraction of a second. They fight so fast and viciously that they are soon fighting atop a pile of guts, heads and limbs, awash in dark, pale and unmixable 'blood'. It's awful and smelly. Pieces of creature, every shape, texture and shade fly across the floor. Bones too. The noise is indescribable.

White beast is obviously defensive and good at that it is, but Black is cruel and depraved, without scruples or mercy, and good at those it is.

Children are crying now. Queasy people are looking greenish. Some are moving towards the exit, feet building to a dangerous pace.

Ringmaster, though, is running into the ring, and his domineering but serene vocals calm them to a certain extent, but back to their seats all the same. He is hypnotically reassuring all serried folk.

Suddenly a spotlight is turned on to Black and a vindictive tortured cry issues from its fang-filled dripping jaw. The raging creature is forced back to its black box, apparently, but surely not, dragged by the beam of light, and now it's in the box, the box is sealing itself shut.

White was watching, but now it's stomping back to its own box which begins to seal too. A second passes. BOOM! Each box implodes and vanishes and all the time Ringmaster's lemon-kiss voice has been settling the audience further.