13
WORST BIRTHDAY EVER
Flap-slap.
I froze.
Flap-slap.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention and I spun around. For a moment I saw nothing out of the ordinary then I caught my breath as a single red balloon floated at head height from behind the house at the end of the road. It bobbed as if it couldn’t make up its mind which way to go, then the breeze carried it in my direction.
The balloon weaved towards me unhurriedly and I took a step backwards, gaze fixed on its plastic skin. My eyes were reflected in its shiny surface, wide and staring. It jerked towards me, as if to tap me on the head and I jumped, snagged my heel on the kerb, lost my balance and fell. I sat hard on the pavement and quickly looked for the balloon. It was floating on past our house.
It’s only a balloon. Get a grip.
I caught my breath and put my hands on the warmed concrete, ready to push myself up.
Flap-slap.
I cried out and turned, one hand covering my mouth. Maybe he had finished toying with me because this time, when I expected to see nothing, the clown was there.
When he saw that I’d noticed him, he started walking towards me again.
Flap-slap, flap-slap… flap-slap.
I scrambled to my feet, stumbled, and with one frightened look backwards, started to run for the house.
Flap-slap, flap-slap.
The clown didn’t hurry, the footsteps didn’t get any louder, but when I reached my steps and looked over my shoulder he was only a few steps behind me.
He was wearing a multi-coloured wig. Underneath the bobbing curls he had bloodshot eyes sharp with purpose.
He reached for me with one gloved hand and I screamed, threw myself up the steps and fumbled for Dad’s keys. My fingers touched the ring and I dragged it out of my pocket. “Go away!” I shrieked. “Leave me alone.”
Flap, slap.
The clown had mounted the steps.
Flap-slap.
He was coming.
I jammed the key in the lock and looked over my shoulder. The clown’s balloons bounced jauntily as he reached for me. His fingers brushed my rucksack, but before they could close and tug me backwards I leaped into the house and slammed the door.
Justin was watching me now, his eyes narrowed. “It wasn't over?”
I shook my head. “I had to open the door for Dad. The clown was standing right behind him. He reached round and touched me – like you did – transferred the Mark. I didn't know what was going on. I freaked out, couldn't believe Dad had let this creepy guy put his hands on me. But as far as Dad was concerned there was no one there.
“Mum came home just in time, before I touched Dad and accidentally transferred the Mark to him. Instead of a birthday dinner Mum took me to the fair on Clapham Common.”
“Sounds nice,” Justin shrugged.
I shook my head. “Not really. The killer worked there…”
The sun was going down and the evening had turned close. My T-shirt had bunched under my armpits and my tongue felt fluffy and strange as if I’d eaten too many sweets. I’d never been more nervous.
Mum pinned me with a look. “I’ll point out the man we’re looking for. All you need to do to transfer the Mark is touch his bare skin with that hand. It’ll be alright. It’s easy.”
I nodded as around us rides whirled and the shrieks and screams of teenagers blended into a din with the blare of tinny rock music.
Mum walked confidently by my side, one hand resting lightly on my wrist. Quickly she guided me past the big wheel and the hook-a-duck towards the Hall of Mirrors.
“Is he there?” I gestured.
Mum nodded, keeping her face down. “He sometimes works the candyfloss, sometimes the Hall of Mirrors. He has a bulldog tattooed on his arm.”
“Why did he do it?”
Mum snorted. “His girlfriend had left him.”
“For the c-clown?”
“No, actually. He helped her escape to a women’s shelter.”
As we walked my trainers skated through a mixture of brown grass, mud created by spilled fizzy drinks and ketchup covered cones of half-eaten chips. “So he was hitting his girlfriend and the clown helped her?”
Mum sighed. “That’s right. He couldn’t get to his girlfriend so he killed Tony.”
“Tony’s the clown?”
Mum nodded. Until that moment my feelings about the clown had been straightforward: he was the boogieman. Mum’s words released a wave of pity that dampened my fear. Then we were almost at the steps of the funhouse and I had to raise my head.
“Two tickets please.” Mum pulled her purse from her handbag and nudged me forward. The man was paying no attention to me. His piggy eyes were fixed on Mum’s maroon top, so I stared at him unashamedly.
He was wearing a stained white vest over baggy jeans. A money filled pouch was tied round his waist and as he took the money, he flexed his biceps and made sure his fingers touched Mum’s hand. Then he licked lips like slugs. I gagged a little and Mum nudged me again. His left forearm had a bulldog on it.
I didn’t want to touch him. I knew I had to, but my arm wouldn’t move.
“Why don’t you take the tickets, Taylor?” Mum’s voice was tense and I knew what she wanted me to do. I just couldn’t.
Now the man was pressing the ticket stubs into Mum’s hand, taking the opportunity to paw her again and it was too late to touch him without being suspicious.
“Taylor.” Mum’s voice was urgent.
I swallowed. “Um… wow, I like your tattoo.” As if in a dream I reached up to press my palm against the snarling bulldog.
“My brother has a matching one.” Proudly he rotated his forearm. “It’s from our army days.”
Mum knocked my hand down before I could transfer the Mark. “Does he work in the fairground too?”
“Oh yeah.” He winked. “We both work the Hall of Mirrors. He’s gone on a break, but I’m the handsome one.”
Mum tried a smile. “So, do you have a girlfriend?”
The man shook his head. “No way. Been single for three years now. My brother’s the one for committed relationships.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “I get off in ten.”
Mum grabbed my elbow. “We’d better go in. Thanks.” She steered me up the steps.
The trailer bounced as we opened the creaking door and entered the Hall of Mirrors. Ahead of me a corridor appeared to stretch for miles yet I knew we only stood inside a lorry. I looked to my left and my body seemed to stretch like an elastic band. My head span. “He didn’t do it. Now what?”
I heard the crunch of Mum’s teeth. Things weren’t going as smoothly as she’d planned. “You’ll have to stay in here. I’ll go and wait for the right man to come off his break. When he turns up I’ll say you hurt your ankle and ask him to help carry you out.”
“Then I have to touch him?”
“That’s right.” She hesitated. “It’ll be fine, Taylor.” Then she left me alone.
I wrapped my arms around my chest and stared at my reflection. The lump in my chest resolved into a ball of tears but I held it down and wondered what would happen when I touched the man. For some reason I imagined him melting away like the Wicked Witch of the West.
“Taylor? Are you alright?” The door opened; Mum was back and she wasn’t alone. “You haven’t tried to move, have you?”
“No.” I leaned one hand against the oddly warm surface of a mirror. My heart thudded in my ears and I couldn’t look away from my reflection.
A man appeared behind me. His image lay beneath my hand, so it looked as if I was pressing him into the glass. This mirror made us into stick people and I couldn’t tell what he really looked like, so I turned around.