Jamie alone seemed to find it other than funny. It frightened him, but also he alone could tell its distress was real—it was not playing around, it wanted to be away from their gazes and shrieks of laughter. "Its eyes! Look at its eyes!" someone cackled.
The clown's hands slapped over its ears to shut out the noise. One of the more drunken and daring in the ring stepped forward, a wiry young man with a goatee who had parted with his shirt. He leaned forward, offered the clown a hand to shake, grinning ear to ear. The clown slapped itself in the face, hard, then harder. Some of the crowd laughed even louder, but the slaps went on and got harder, til they rang out like a mound of dough or side of beef being pounded with a baseball bat, and the first spray of blood flew from its lips, then cheek, then ear, then eye, spattering the pavement, spattering the clothes of those nearest . . . only then did some of them stop laughing.
The young shirtless drunk, not perturbed by this, said slowly "Are you lost? Do you need some help? Are you a bit special in the head?"
The clown's lips peeled back. A hissing sound of indrawn breath made its belly swell and grow, fuller and fuller until the shirt popped a button and the fabric tore, letting hang loose a glob of pink-white meat. "How do they do that?" said someone to Jamie's right. "Those special effects . . ."
All at once a high-pitched wail exploded from the circle's middle. Those closest clapped hands to their ears, ducked down to their haunches. On it went, far louder than a car horn. The circle shrank back, no one laughing anymore. The shirtless drunk lay writhing on the pavement, hands to his ears.
Jamie stood with the blood pounding in his ears and adrenaline surging. You wanted a clue, he thought, and you just got one. This clown, he had seen it somewhere before . . .
The clown ceased its noise. Slowly, inevitably, it turned his way. The eyes met his and narrowed. One step, two steps, it came in a jerking rush. Crunch crunch, its oversized shoes trampled the young man and sent out the sick crack of a broken femur and rib.
Jamie backed up a few steps, then turned and ran through the crowd of people, most of whom had turned to stare down the mall at the noise. He risked one glance back—he expected to see it coming, but if it was, it was lost in the movement of people.
For the rest of the half run, half walk home, he tried to do what normal people would do, to convince himself it was just a street performance gone wrong, that those were indeed just "special effects," and most of all that it had nothing to do with him. By the time he got home, he had almost succeeded in kidding himself, but he knew that's exactly what he was doing.
•
The apartment was basically one round wall, two-thirds the way up a high-rise overlooking the Storey Bridge. The Brisbane River wound sluggish and placid below, in no mood just now to flood the human filth put into it back across the streets as it had several times before and surely would again, sooner or later. A tall gang of similar buildings stood around them in all directions, their evening glow proud ornaments in the gorgeous Brisbane night light display. A young city, the sense of possibility was as palpable as the sense of history layered thick in other places. This town was a nearly blank page, waiting to be written.
The high-rises opposite had their share of exhibitionists, old and young, attractive and distinctly otherwise, partial to undressing with the lights on and blinds open, not to mention bouts of shameless rutting. To that end there sat a pair of binoculars on the sill, military grade. Some nights the entertainment was better than watching TV.
Jamie entered the place, which already felt like home, expecting to hear all manner of the usual Dean bedroom war cries, but the flat was silent, the lights off with only the twilight glow of outside light seeping in. He had an urge to find Dean and tell him about the clown from the mall, to get a dose of the common reality which so easily rationalized away the dark and strange. (That clown had looked right at him. Had come after him, out of all the people there, watching it. Had recognized him . . . ) But a woman's giggling sounded faintly from Dean's bedroom followed by his low murmur. They were between festivities, then, and fireworks would soon ensue. Jamie sighed and went to his room, pulled back the blanket and screamed.
A knife lay on his sheets, which were rumpled and messed up. A few small but unmistakable spots of blood were sprinkled around it. A door slammed open. Dean rushed in, saw what he was looking at. "Oh, sorry. Forgot," he said, taking the knife.
"Yours?" said Jamie, relieved, then pissed off.
"Yeah. Sorry, bro. Hadn't changed my sheets yet, so me and Jodi had to start out in here."
"Why not change your own fucking sheets? Couldn't the sex have waited five minutes while you changed your sheets?"
"Got to seal the deal, bro. Take no chances. You'd be surprised how many deals get blown by an unflushed toilet or dirty sheets. Don't worry, mine are changed now."
"But . . . look, I'm no prude. But why a knife?"
Dean sighed. "This Jodi, what can I say. She's a crazy girl. Real intense."
"This is someone you just met tonight? About an hour or two ago?"
"Seen her around. The knife was her idea, she read some book and wanted to try it. Wanted me to wear a balaclava too, this fantasy about burglars? Hey if I get her in the right mood maybe you'll get an invite. Want me to ask? She likes redheads."
"Tempting." It actually was, upon reflection. "But no, not after the day I've had and not before having at least one conversation with her. Call me old-fashioned . . ."
"Suit yourself. Gotta go." There followed the coitus hand signal and Dean left as abruptly as he'd come. Jamie changed his sheets, lay back with eyes closed as bedspring music began to play through the thin, thin walls.
What was all this? All these urges to do whacky, antisocial, clowny things. His mother had been right: in most conversations back home he'd been looking for the chance to make a stupid one-liner, often in poor taste. He'd never even noticed himself doing it. Now this new delight—nay, addiction to making a room full of people laugh, not through any real wit or cleverness but with cheesy delivery. He could draw a laugh at any time in those presentations, and if his supervisor weren't there to watch, he'd clown around for the entire thing.
Clown around. Clown.
"Tell my cock you love it," Dean's voice suddenly boomed through the walls.
"I love, love, love your cock," came the reply.
"Don't talk to me. Talk to the cock! Don't look at me. Look at the cock! Call it Ramrod."
"I love you Ramrod. Oh jesus." The bed next door protested, staged its own earthquake. Jamie swore and turned on his stereo, cranked the volume high. "And now, an oldie but a goodie from ‘The Kinks. Death of a Clown!'"
"Are you serious?" Jamie said. He almost laughed as the song filled his room. The box in his closet caught his eye, lit only by the stereo's little blue panel light. It called him, that box, beckoned him like Sauron's ring of power.
There was no fighting it. He stroked the hideously gaudy fabric, the red shoes. Undressed himself, and . . .
The clothes fit. Perfectly. Better than perfectly—he was made for these clothes. The rustle of cloth whispered encouraging things. The fabric caressed his skin with gentle loving touches. A feeling of deep glee stole into him, tickled him, made him squirm and laugh. He put on the big red shoes. They squeezed down over his feet and felt so right. He was lighter than air. He could back flip around the room, out the hall, off the balcony and land on concrete, only to bounce right back up here like a rubber ball.
And the mirror said he looked awesome, hilarious, even a little noble. And the mirror said, "Jamie, help me. They're bringing me back, they're gonna bring everyone back. I don't want to be a clown no more, Gonko's pissed at me, he's gonna—"