I flick through the papers and find the pet massacre stories buried underneath all the articles on phone hacking and the financial crisis: ‘Pet slaughter shame for nation of animal lovers’, ‘WWII Pet Holocaust’, ‘Pet massacre grave in central London’. I glance over the articles. A WWII RAF veteran said ‘all this fuss over some pets is an affront to all those who lost loved ones in the war. It’s disgusting, it’s sentimentality gone mad.’
I find the article written by Linda. She’d discovered the name that’s on my birth certificate and uses it throughout the piece so it feels like I’m not reading about myself. Linda describes not-me as ‘frail and easily confused’. Queen Isabella, who’s reading over my shoulder, snorts. Linda concludes the piece saying that in this time of financial crisis it’s a waste of money to dig up the pets and give them a memorial.
Ben calls and says, ‘Are ye eating properly, old lady? Are ye staying off the drink?’
‘I’m eating like a queen,’ I say. ‘And I haven’t touched a drop. Don’t believe everything you read, Ben.’
‘I’m just worried about ye. I know how confused ye get when ye drink and I know when ye drink ye dinnae eat.’
‘You don’t need to worry, Ben. I’m fine.’
‘Aye well, ye better be looking after yersel.’
‘I am.’
‘Take care, old lady.’
‘You too, Ben.’
I put down the phone and stare at the paper. I should have refused the interview.
‘Wait,’ says Queen Isabella, right next to my ear, making me jump. ‘Just you wait until they find out you covered up a murder.’
‘I didn’t cover it up.’
‘Wait until they find out you were arrested for murder yourself.’
‘I was innocent.’
‘Just you wait,’ she says. ‘Just you wait.’
Romania, Hungary, Austria, Italy, France, 1964 – 1966
After a show, the clown troupe would get together for a drink, to unwind and dissect our performance, discuss what we could improve, but when we travelled through Romania Horatiu would go straight to his caravan. The other clowns didn’t say anything so I let him be, except when he was late for rehearsal one morning and I went to fetch him. I barged into his caravan, not even thinking, just all breezy, all ‘C’mon, Horatiu, you had too much to drink last night? Look lively, you’re late for rehearsal.’ But there he was sat on the edge of his bed, tears and snot streaming down his face. He was holding a photograph.
‘Hey… You alright?’
He looked up at me, saying nothing, and I backed out of the caravan. I wanted to be as far away from him as I could, away from his scrunched up tear and snot-stained face. I returned to the clowns and told them Horatiu was ill and we got on with rehearsals.
After putting up posters of David in the town that evening I sat with Fish Boy, having a drink in my caravan.
‘I found Horatiu crying today, holding some old photo.’
‘He’s not happy being back in Romania, and it happens to be the anniversary,’ said Fish Boy.
‘What anniversary?’
‘His boyfriend was shot. Horatiu witnessed it.’
‘How do you know?’ I said. ‘How do you know what’s going on with Horatiu?’
‘We got to talking recently, that’s all.’
‘What kind of anniversary is that anyway?’
‘One he can’t forget.’
‘Well, he should. What’s the point in holding onto that?’
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Well, tell me – what’s the point? He should let it go, leave the past in the past.’
Fish Boy knocked back his whisky and said, ‘Maybe you should take your own advice.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘What’s with all the posters, G?’
‘You know I’m searching for David.’
‘I’d thought you’d given up. Then Groo died.’ He looked at me for a moment, then said, ‘She was an old cat who loved you and now she’s gone. It’s just the way it is. You need to move on.’
‘I need to find him.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t let him go.’
‘You always skirt around the past, you always say, “Let the past stay in the past”, but you cling onto this. Why won’t you let him go?’
‘Because I’m his family. He’s my family. Because he was supposed to take me with him to the sea.’
‘We’re your family now.’
‘I know.’
‘Then why not let him be? Why are you chasing a different life, a future that didn’t happen? Maybe he doesn’t want the past – you – catching up with him. Maybe he has a new life and he’s happy. Even if he isn’t, who says he wants to be found? He disappeared for a reason.’
‘I’ve always searched for him.’
‘Maybe if you stop, he’ll come to you.’
Fish Boy put his arm around me.
‘Goblin, just let it go,’ he said. ‘The past be damned.’
‘The past be damned,’ I said, and drank my whisky.
I went to Horatiu’s trailer and knocked on the door. There was no answer. I walked in. I searched through his belongings until I found the photo he’d been holding. I sat on his bed and stared down at Horatiu and his boyfriend. I imagined him being shot, I imagined it and I thought, what’s the point? What’s the point in holding on to that? I threw the photo on the floor, stepping on it as I left. I changed towards Horatiu after that. I shot him down any chance I got and his look of confused hurt made things worse. I started to hate him. He should burn it, I thought. Burn it, bury it. Be rid of it.
We stopped in a small town in southern Austria where mum and dad were running auditions, trying to get some new blood after two of our acrobats had left to settle down. I was chatting with Matt when a scrawny teenage boy disappeared into the audition tent. Matt had been one of our star acrobats but there was an accident in one of the rehearsals and he’d broken his spine. He was in a wheelchair now; couldn’t feel his legs but could still use his upper body so he worked the wheelchair into the show. He was a spectacular showman. Matt would come over to my caravan in the evenings, bringing his guitar, and we’d drink whisky and sing with Fish Boy and Angelina.
We were chatting, about to head off to rehearsals when the scrawny teen stomped out of the audition tent. I looked up, squinting at him.
‘Another reject, I guess.’
‘Seems that way.’
The boy made to leave but he spotted us and headed over.
‘Who the fuck is this?’ he said, gesturing at Matt. ‘I get sent away, but this cripple-leech can stay? You belong in the gas chambers, you waste of fucking space.’
He stabbed his penknife into Matt’s leg. I hadn’t even seen it in his hand. Without thinking I flew at the boy, knocking the air out of him. Pinning him down, pushing on his lungs, I punched his face to a bloody mess before Matt had me by the neck and pulled me off him.
‘I can fight my own fights, Goblin, and that wasn’t worth it.’
‘He stabbed you. He just came right up to you and stabbed you.’
Matt looked down at the forgotten knife.
‘And I didn’t feel a thing.’
‘The things he said to you.’
‘I didn’t feel that either.’
‘I did. I fucking felt it.’
He pulled the knife out and grinned at me.
‘I could join Freaks and Wonders. The human pincushion.’
We both laughed, laughing so hard we cried as the boy rolled over, pushed himself up on his hands and knees and spat blood and teeth onto the ground. This is how mum and dad found us, laughing as this boy dribbled blood.