Blood and Circuses pf-6 Read online

  His lines were as elegant as those of the great cats. Could he, like them, see in the dark? He had risen to his feet, naked and beautiful, and walked to the caravan door, leaning out, scanning the night.

  Phryne was still rooted to the spot as if she had grown there. She realised that her position was equivocal, to say the least, and also that she was clad only in a thin nightdress.

  The clown looked down and she looked up, green eyes into slate-grey eyes.

  ‘Fern,’ he said softly, as though he were tasting the name.

  ‘Matthias,’ she acknowledged.

  ‘Were you watching me?’

  There was an odd undertone to the question but Phryne answered simply, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Perhaps I was curious.’

  ‘So am I. Will you come in?’

  He made no move to cover his body. It was, Phryne thought as she climbed the stairs into the caravan, a body worth looking at and not one to be ashamed of. She wondered if his nakedness was an invitation or a threat.

  She came up over the last step and shut the caravan door behind her. He drew his curtains. The little room was brightly lit by a kerosene lamp and crowded with possessions—posters, a trunk, and a bed covered with a handmade patchwork quilt. On the windowsill stood the trademark eggshell with his clown’s face painted on it, proof of Jo Jo’s ownership of his mask.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said politely. ‘I’m afraid there is only the bed. Would you like some wine?’

  Phryne nodded, overcome by his closeness and the brightness of the light. He opened a bottle of wine and turned down the lamp as he saw her wince.

  ‘You’ve been out in the dark for a while,’ he observed, his voice low and detached. ‘Here we are, Fern, have a drink with me and tell me what you’re curious about.’

  ‘I’m curious about everything,’ said Phryne with perfect truth, taking a swig from the bottle. It was a sweet, rich port.

  ‘But you are curious about me in particular.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She took another gulp of wine. The paint was still on his face, two yellow stars over each eye, the mouth white and his own lips red. Those grey eyes watched her, giving nothing away. He sat easily on the bed next to her, his bare thigh touching her cotton-covered one.

  ‘Perhaps I just find you . . . attractive,’ she added. ‘Why else would I prowl in the night?’

  ‘Why else indeed?’ he replied. ‘But you are no circus-born kid, Fern. Or you’d know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  His nearness was unsettling Phryne. She could feel heat radiating off his skin and she noticed a muscle begin to twitch, a tendon pulling from his hip to groin. Other developments were making themselves apparent. There was no doubt that the clown was pleased to see her.

  His voice, however, was still cool. ‘No one sleeps with clowns,’ he said, passing her the bottle. ‘It’s unlucky, we’re unlucky. And we are supposed to be sad.’

  ‘Why?’ Phryne laid a hand on the nearest expanse of flesh and heard him draw in his breath.

  ‘Clowns contain sadness. That’s why people laugh at us. How can we be sad if we have lovers?’ he asked reasonably. ‘Ah!’

  Phryne had stroked another part of his back. His muscles under her hands were hard, evidence of formidable strength.

  ‘So you think I don’t belong to the circus?’ she asked, running her fingers lightly down his neck to his chest and finding an erect nipple.

  ‘No, you don’t. You’re a good rider but that’s not why you’re here. Why . . . Ah! . . . Why are you here?’

  ‘I won’t be able to concentrate,’ purred Phryne, ‘and neither will you, until we have this over with. Therefore, you shall have kisses for answers. One, do you favour Farrell or Jones?’

  ‘Farrell. Jones is a crook,’ he said and Phryne kissed the painted mouth. The greasepaint came off on her lips and coloured them alike.

  ‘Good. Two, will you help me find out what is happening?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said and red mouth met red mouth in a deeper kiss.

  ‘Third and last . . .’ She breathed into his ear. Then she paused.

  ‘What?’ he said, still not touching, and saw her smile, the black hair swinging back from her face.

  ‘Do you want me?’

  The clown mask came closer, until he was staring into her eyes, and for the first time that night he touched her. He slid both calloused hands up her calves to her thighs and she caught her breath.

  ‘I might hurt you,’ he said. ‘It has been a long time.’

  ‘Because clowns are unlucky?’

  ‘Yes.’ His face glowed with sweat and paint; a desperate clown who trembled at her touch, at her nearness and her female scent.

  ‘I will take the risk. What is your answer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She stripped off the nightgown in one movement and then he was above her, kissing her with hard, fast kisses, his strong hands picking her up and laying her on the patchwork quilt. Paint smeared as he rubbed his face across her belly, his mouth seeking the sweet place where all of her sexual nerves twined into a knot.

  Her joints loosened, her thighs parted. Over the flat planes of her breast and hip, the clown’s face appeared. His hair fell ragged and Phryne bit her hand to still a cry. His mouth was skillful; he had found the right place.

  She could not reach him to caress him; he did not seem to want to be touched. His rough fingers found each nipple and squeezed hard; she gasped on the edge of pain and pleasure. There was such pent-up force in this clown that she was as close to fear as she had ever been.

  His mouth moved, sliding up to join with her mouth; an engulfing kiss, bitter with paint. She wrapped her legs around his hips and the first thrust was so strong that it nailed her to the bed. The clown mask filled her vision, which was blurring. She grasped him tightly and began to respond, but his hands came down on her shoulders so that she could not move.

  ‘Please. Don’t move. I can’t . . . wait . . . if you move.’

  ‘I won’t run away,’ she said, wriggling under the imprisoning hands. ‘I will stay all night. Let me go! I won’t be pinned down!’

  He blinked and released her. Phryne, whom force turned cold, began to regain her lust as the movements became slow and considered. He bent to kiss her nipples. The sliding of painted flesh made a sucking sound, curiously loud in the night. His hair fell over his eyes, hiding their strange light.

  Phryne seized his shoulders, forcing him closer, deeper. He groaned and stiffened, then fell into her arms and writhed with release.

  She had been so surprised by his collapse that she had lain still for five minutes under his weight. Now he was becoming too heavy. She shoved at his chest and he clung to her, the muscular arms encircling her in a fast embrace.

  ‘You said that you would stay all night,’ he whispered and there was that odd note in his voice again. Phryne decided to ask. Besides, she was not yet sated and this man had erotic potential which needed to be developed.

  ‘What is it, Matthias? Why are you so . . . unsure of me?’

  He leaned up on one elbow and wiped the sweet-smelling hair out of his eyes.

  The paint had largely been transferred to Phryne’s body. She saw that he had a face which in Paris would be called joli laid; an ugly face, with high cheekbones, long nose, a wide mouth and soft full lips. His eyebrows were winged at the corners.

  He bore her inspection bravely and said, ‘There are some women who aren’t circus folk who like . . . who like masks. They occasionally . . . want to try me. But they never want to stay. Just for an experiment, you see.’

  ‘And you thought I was one of them?’ Phryne’s voice was cold.

  He stroked her breast, laying his cheek on it gently. ‘You said that you were curious.’

  ‘Yes. I am curious. But you are lovely, a good lover. Hasn’t anyone told you that? You’re the only person in this circus who likes me, if you don’t count Mr Burton and Bruno the bear. And my
curiosity isn’t so easily satisfied.’

  A smile dawned on his face, curving the soft mouth. ‘What can I do for your curiosity, Fern?’ he breathed into her ear.

  She reached for him and drew him close, relishing the sprung line of his backbone and the hard strength of his buttocks.

  ‘Why, satisfy it,’ she said lightly.

  Lizard Elsie offered her bottle to the woman lying face-down on the other bed.

  ‘Have a bit of good cheer,’ she said in her creaking voice. ‘Come on, love, it can’t be as fucking bad as all that.’

  Miss Parkes looked up in astonishment at the strange voice and slid her knife down under her mattress.

  ‘Come on,’ encouraged Lizard Elsie. ‘What’s bloody wrong?’

  ‘I’m a murderer,’ said Miss Parkes flatly.

  ‘Oh, are yer? Who says so?’

  ‘They say so.’

  ‘Well, they can be fucking wrong, can’t they? Have a sip. Just a sip. It’s bloody good brandy.’

  Miss Parkes sat up and accepted the bottle. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m Elsie. They calls me Lizard Elsie because of my bloody blue tongue. I learned the habit early and I don’t seem to be able to fucking break meself of it. That’s better.’

  Miss Parkes had taken a deep draught of brandy and was leaning back against the wall. She had not eaten for two days and the spirit rushed straight to her head and disconnected her wits.

  ‘Now,’ said Lizard Elsie, repossessing herself of her bottle, ‘tell me how you got to be a fucking murderer.’

  ‘A man,’ said Miss Parkes. ‘He was my husband.’

  ‘Ain’t it always the fucking way,’ Elsie spat. ‘Did yer kill him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Elsie, settling down for a long chat.

  ‘I . . . he mistreated me and made me barren and beat me and then told me to be a whore.’

  ‘He was bloody lucky if all yer did to ’im was kill ’im,’ observed Elsie. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Ten years ago.’

  ‘Ten years ago? They just bloody found out, then?’

  ‘No, they think I killed another person. A circus performer who lived in the same house as me. His name was Mr Christopher. He was stabbed to death.’

  ‘And did you?’ asked Elsie, interested.

  ‘I don’t think so. But I got out of prison, see, and they thought that if I’d killed once I’d kill again.’

  ‘Fucking cops,’ said Elsie. ‘Have another dram.’

  Miss Parkes pushed back her cropped hair, which was filthy. She was still wearing the same suit in which she had rescued Constable Harris from the roof. She noticed that she was grimy, and that her fingernails were black and broken. Elsie scanned her with her parrot regard.

  ‘Hey!’ yelled Elsie. ‘Duty copper!’

  ‘Yes, madam?’ asked the duty officer with heavy sarcasm. ‘What does madam require? Caviar? Champagne?’

  ‘Madam requires that you give me and this poor bloody woman a bath and some clean fucking clothes. Then we’ll see about some lunch,’ said Elsie flatly.

  ‘But she doesn’t want a bath,’ said the policeman. ‘And she won’t eat, either.’

  ‘You leave it to old Elsie,’ she said with deep cunning. ‘Just get us a wash and a comb and some lunch and we’ll be right as bloody rain. And fucking put some speed on,’ she shrieked at his retreating back. ‘I ain’t had a bath and a feed for a bloody week.’

  ‘I can tell,’ muttered the duty officer and went off to arrange the closure of the men’s ablutions for the ladies’ bath.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  There liveth not in my life, any more

  The hope that others have. Nor will I tell

  The lie to mine own heart, that aught is well

  Or shall be well.

  Euripides (translation, Gilbert Murray)

  The Trojan Women

  The Brunnies were not hard to find. Jack Black Blake held court as usual in the front bar of the Brunswick Arms in Brunswick Street. When the gigantic figure of Sergeant Grossmith appeared at his side, he did not react.

  ‘Pint,’ said Grossmith to the barmaid. ‘G’day, Doris! What a fine figure of a woman you are.’

  Doris giggled. She, like Mary of the Provincial, was evidently unaware that bosoms were not fashionable. Hers were of a light biscuit colour and were trussed so high that they nestled under her chin. Grossmith found her charming. He liked a woman to be a real woman, not an imitation boy.

  ‘Hear you had a little trouble,’ remarked Grossmith to the air. The man beside him grunted.

  ‘Trouble? No.’

  ‘Someone shot Reffo,’ suggested Grossmith. ‘The ’Roy Boys, or so I hear.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Listen, Jack, you got a chance to put the ’Roy Boys where they belong—behind bars. They shot your mate and they’re trying to stand over you for your territory. Now, are you a lot of sissies or are you the Brunswick Boys?’

  Men gathered behind Grossmith. He could hear them breathing. Doris moved prudently to another part of the bar. Grossmith identified the men in the bar mirror: the Judge, an ex-wharfie, sacked for always sitting on a case, hulking and dumb; Little Georgie, who carried a knife and had liquid black eyes; Billy the Dog, who grinned, showing rotten teeth; the Snake, hefting a bottle thoughtfully; was a tall man with a thin moustache and the cold flat eyes that gave him his name. Reffo had been his mate. They all exuded menace.

  ‘It’s no use crowding me,’ remarked Grossmith artlessly. ‘I ain’t your enemy.’

  ‘You ain’t exactly our friend,’ said the Snake through a closed mouth.

  Grossmith grinned. ‘You bet. I ain’t never going to be your mate, Snake. But at the moment we could be allies. What have the ’Roys got themselves into? It’s too big for them.’

  ‘Then it’d be too big for us,’ said Jack Black. ‘All right. We can make a deal.’

  ‘Oh, can we?’ asked Grossmith. ‘What deal is that?’

  ‘You leave us alone and we’ll tell you.’

  ‘No,’ said Grossmith after a moment’s thought. ‘I can’t do that, Jack. You know I can’t do that. My chief is set against gangs and I can’t go over his head.’

  Jack Black laughed suddenly and called for another beer.

  ‘But,’ said Grossmith, ‘you want to get rid of the ’Roy Boys and this is the way to do it. Because if you think that you can start a gang war in Melbourne like they have in Chicago, Jack, you got another think coming. You use the police for your revenge, and that’s good, I’ll put in a good word for you if I can. But you go out and buy a machine-gun and I’ll hang you if it’s the last thing I ever do. I’m not having it and that’s flat. And that’s all I’ve got to say, so I’ll be going if you don’t want to talk.’

  ‘Fetch Iris,’ ordered Jack, and Snake left the bar.

  Grossmith ordered another beer and said slowly, ‘One of my constables was shot last night.’

  ‘Yair?’

  ‘In Brunswick Street.’

  ‘Oh?’ Jack yawned.

  ‘Lizard Elsie was with him.’

  A faint interest dawned in Jack’s eyes. ‘Mad as a coot,’ he said. ‘That Elsie.’

  ‘Yair. She almost bit Wholesale Louis’s ear off.’

  Jack Black roared with laughter. So did his men.

  ‘She still playing that trick? She’s a mean bitch when she gets going! So where is she?’

  ‘Lizard Elsie?’

  ‘Yair. Lizard Elsie.’

  ‘In the clink,’ said Grossmith.

  ‘Best place for her,’ decided Jack Black. ‘She might dry out. She’s been all right, the old Else. Done me a good turn, once. Picked me up outa the gutter and brung me home when I had a difference of opinion with . . . some people. And I don’t reckon she had nothing to do with Reffo. She never joined any mob. She’s always been on her own. But since she got on the red biddy she’s been going downhill. Poor old Elsie. The terror of publicans.�
�

  Grossmith filed away the information that the Brunnies, at least, did not seem to hold any grudge against Lizard Elsie. He turned to see a girl being ushered in through the swinging doors.

  Pretty Iris had been with the Brunnies for three years. Grossmith put her age at about twenty-five. She was slight, fashionably dressed and pale, with light brown hair and blue eyes. Her hand bore one small but very bright diamond. Diamonds also flashed in her ears. Pretty Iris had expensive tastes.

  ‘Jack?’ she inquired. Her voice was soft and high. The only things that Grossmith didn’t like about her were the rigid line of her thin lips and the baby intonations which she used on susceptible men.

  ‘Iris,’ he acknowledged. ‘Give the lady a seat, boys.’

  Iris perched on the bar stool between Jack and Snake and asked, ‘What’s going on? I was at a dress fitting. I’m gonna lose my job if you keep dragging me away from the salon. Madam was most upset.’ In her spare time, when not assisting the Brunnies in their nefarious schemes, Pretty Iris was a mannequin.

  ‘If you lose your job you’ll have more time to devote to us,’ said Jack Black irritably. ‘This is . . .’

  Iris’s fine eyes widened. ‘I know who it is.’ She laid a cool manicured hand on the policeman’s arm and he was washed with a gust of French perfume. Sergeant Grossmith was intensely aware of the pressure of her fingers. ‘What does he want here?’

  ‘He wants you to talk to him.’

  ‘And do you want me to?’ She cast a coquettish look at Jack and he shifted in his seat.

  ‘Yair. I want you to.’

  ‘All right.’ Pretty Iris was supplied with a small sherry by a disapproving Doris. She sipped daintily and then asked, ‘And what does Jackie want poor little Iris to talk about?’

  ‘The ’Roys.’

  Her expression changed instantly. The smooth forehead creased into a frown and the red lips pouted. ‘Ooh, Iris doesn’t like rough boys.’

  Grossmith, controlling an inward nausea, nevertheless found Pretty Iris effective. So did Jack Black. His face was darkening. He blinked.

  ‘Talk about it, Iris,’ he ordered, and Pretty Iris hitched up her skirt to sit more comfortably on the bar stool.