***
12. BELOW
Jamie had gotten some sleep, due to lack of other options. He was woken often enough by George's megaphone, berating performers about the show with shrill desperate rants, invariably followed by the whip crack and an occasional scream. This time, the sound of footsteps near his head and the feeling of being watched roused him. Two big red clown shoes filled his vision. A long way up stood JJ, peering down with Jamie's own eyes.
Yet there was something missing from those eyes, Jamie noticed that first; there was a flatness to them, like they were made of dull glass. The next thing he noticed was JJ's sad regretful expression as—very slowly—he pulled into view an object from behind his back. An axe. "I'm sorry I have to do this," JJ said.
Jamie sat up, pulled himself back, and ended up on his knees on the bed when the chain pulled taut. "But you don't have to do anything," he said. "Let's just talk it out, okay? There's no need for the axe."
JJ took a step closer. "There can only be one JJ."
"Fine, that's you. Chill out, and put the axe down. I want to be friends, like I told you."
"There can only be one Jamie."
"Oh, Christ."
"There may only be one. Only one of us." The axe raised high.
"You fucking bastard, kill me when I'm chained up like this? Look, stop, wait, wait!" He wrenched with all his strength at the chains, but he'd done that before, and again, they didn't snap or come loose. He writhed, squirmed, rolled side-to-side, afraid to look up at the axe he was trying to dodge. Time slowed to a crawl, and he heard the whoosh of the axe blade cutting the air. Jamie screamed, shut his eyes. He kept on screaming even after his eyes delivered the news: the axe blade came down on the chain, severing it.
Jamie got up, crazy with adrenaline. He started to sprint out, but JJ held him. "Wait, wait, I was joking. Sorry, just had to! I talked to your trick buddy up there. I'm in. I'll help you guys."
Jamie slowly calmed down. "What?" he gasped.
"I'll help you, okay? I don't want to be here anymore, but they'll keep bringing me back, even if I die. So I'm on your team. Whatcha say: we're buddies?"
"Buddies," Jamie repeated stupidly as his heartbeat slowly eased.
"Should've seen your face," JJ said. He laughed and laughed, and even tried to stop but a glance at Jamie set him off again, right up to when Jamie slugged him. JJ spun and fell into the wall.
"Good to have you aboard," said Jamie after an awkward few seconds. "But I'm on the top bunk. Got it?"
"Got it."
•
It took a while for Jamie to get his bearings back—facing off with death by axe will do that, it seemed. JJ waited patiently, distracting himself with a yo-yo. Over at the clown performance tent, a disturbance could be heard, with George's megaphone screaming, "You call that clowning? I'm supposed to laugh at this abortion?" The whip crack came, in turn followed by a piercing unearthly wail of rage that could only have come from Goshy. "Assault on management!" George's megaphone shrieked. "Code five, code five!" Footsteps thundered past as the lumberjacks rushed in to aid the boss. More squeals and shrieks from Goshy. The hubbub eventually died down as, presumably, Gonko smoothed things over.
"You guys ain't got much in the way of plans yet," JJ observed.
"Nope." And if they did, would Jamie divulge it to this clone of himself? He didn't think so, not yet. "We decided to let Gonko do his thing, not to interfere. We saw no point in getting Gonko booted out or killed, or whatever they'd do to him."
"It might mean you or me gets to be clown boss, if we did it. That might be handy."
"But we don't know just what they'd do. What if they just docked his pay for a year or two? Or if they confine him for a time but he eventually comes back? Then we'd be screwed. Look, we'd better get back up top. Steve looks like he's not going to be much help to us after all. Everyone but George himself seems to think the clowns are sabotaging the show."
JJ led them carefully back to Curls's hut and the gate he'd set up (though the lock had to be picked.) Back above, the camp was still asleep. Jamie woke Dean, led him out of earshot of the others. "Well, you've met JJ. He's my Deeby, you might say. JJ, this is Dean."
"So why is he apart from you?" said Dean.
"We don't know. No one seems to know. Something happened last time I was part of all this. But anyway, JJ's going to help us. He's on our side."
"I hope so," Dean said after a while.
"Hope no more, my friend!" JJ cried. "Together, we shall bring an end to—"
"Keep your voice down, idiot," Dean said, one hand at JJ's throat. "Talk again tomorrow," he said to Jamie before heading for his tent.
"He takes all this so seriously," JJ said admiringly. "Tricks, I tell you."
Jamie nodded. "Weird bunch, aren't they?"
•
Below, the hell night of rehearsals relentlessly went on. There was no sleep. Hours crawled slow. Doors to gypsy and dwarf huts were booted open, caravans were invaded. Those who'd passed out from exhaustion, or who hadn't found devious enough hiding spots for stealing sleep, were dragged before George. They were lashed, and if they mouthed off, sent to join those strapped to benches in the Funhouse. Even George's favorites, the acrobats, were not spared the lash; their cries of pain rang out as George happened to catch them sitting down to discuss a routine and deemed them shirking. Before every carny rat in the show there stretched an infinite hell of this treatment: all-night rehearsals, sleep a crime to be punished, the lash or worse, and beyond all this, no pay to take the edge off.
Eyes following George's movements about the place began to smolder with rage. A few private thoughts, unspeakable even a day ago under the gaze of george is watching posters began to whisper back and forth. Only a dozen lumberjacks stood between the carnies and a good night's rest; lumberjacks, the goon, and the heretofore sacrosanct understanding that one simply did not disobey the proprietor . . . for that meant trouble below.
But this proprietor was in trouble with the ones below. His shrillness and panic said as much. Some had been near George's trailer when the phone rang, had heard his whimpering. Rumor, exaggerating as it passed from mouth to mouth, spread quickly.
In the clown tent, rehearsals were over and the clowns lazed about on their stage. George would not be back to bother them after what had happened, Gonko was sure of that. Had he lashed Rufshod instead of Goshy, there'd have been little commotion. The moment the lash wrapped itself around Goshy's face, Doopy tackled the goon, spilling George in a backwards roll across the ground, Doopy's windmill fists busy pounding until Gonko wrenched him back. "Not fair Gonko, nuh uh, he shouldn'ta oughtn'ta done it, Goshy didn't do nothin,' was being the best super duper clown he could so's he can go lick the sky pretties one day, what taste like ice cream, Gonko, just like ice cream . . ."
"Ease off, George," said Gonko. "We ain't been part of this failing enterprise. Aren't there worse slackers than us you ought to go hassle?"
George had climbed back onto the goon's saddle and was frantically mashing buttons on its controls until the thing was on its feet again. Quickly George moved it to hide behind the lumberjacks who'd just arrived. "You'll hear about this later," said George. "All of you, after the show, see me in my trailer."
"Can't wait," said Gonko. "You're gonna be in such a sweetheart mood when you see how much dust we pull in, boss, I bet you'll just smother us in kisses."
Goshy's lips pursed, brow furrowed. Confused kissing sounds ensued. Doopy seemed already to have forgotten any cause for upset: "Why, yeah, that's gonna be swell. We're gonna kiss George tomorrow, Goshy, ain't that neat?" And that had been that. Now and then Goshy's hand felt along the lash mark across his face; his teeth would clatter or clown ears would spill out, sending Doops