was still catching his breath when the mountain spoke.
“You are boy, no?” he said, sounding decidedly Russian.
“Err, yeah …” At least, he thought he was. Though the last half hour had left him unsure of … well, almost everything.
“I am Rocky. You are safe now, no one mek passing. De Circus has you.”
There was a gust of wind and within a few seconds the surrounding fog started to form shapes. It swirled and rolled over itself, revealing lights and an echo of music. The mountain stepped aside to reveal his father’s birthday surprise: BENISSIMO’S CIRCUS OF MARVELS.
It had an old, hand-carved wooden entrance, with angels at its top and pitchfork-bearing devils at its bottom. Miniature red and yellow hot-air balloons with little lanterns at their bases floated above the sign, welcoming in their visitors.
Ned’s father – safe, sensible Terry Waddlesworth – was in serious trouble, Ned was in the hands of a Russian mountain, and yet somehow, as they approached the entrance, Ned couldn’t help the faintest of smiles.
A team of three, white-moustached emperor monkeys worked the crowd. They wore smart red outfits, with bellboy hats cocked to one side, one taking the admissions at the front desk, while another checked people’s tickets. The third monkey cranked the handle of a strange-looking machine. From its mass of brass pipes, percussion instruments and what looked to be part of a violin, came the most bizarre music. It sort of wheezed out a tune that was both fast and slow, light-hearted and melancholy.
Ned followed Rocky past the queue and into the packed grounds. His head was a riot of adrenaline, of both horror and wonder, as he took in the sights while his father’s name and the way the clown had snarled it still throbbed in his ears.
There seemed to be three main strips or streets, formed by gypsy caravans and painted lorries, strung together by a web of fairy lights. He could see palm readers, tests of strength, a mechanical Punch and Judy show and a hall of mirrors, outside of which, according to the sign, stood Ignatius P Littleton the third, ‘the Glimmerman’, who was a portly old gentleman covered from head to toe in tiny, rectangular mirrors.
“Roll up! Roll up!” he yelled, his suit and hat alive with reflections. “See yourself as never before! I guarantee you’ll wish you hadn’t, or your money back!”
The circus folk were dressed in a mix of old styles and new. A top hat with a leather coat, gypsy bracelets and ruffled shirts under military jackets and bowler hats. Their faces were all decorated in one way or another, some with glitter, others with white face paint and a few were covered in tattoos. ‘CANDY MONGER’S’ sold sweets and the biggest popcorn buckets he’d ever seen, while ‘the Rubbermen’ passed out helium balloons of every conceivable size and shape.
But as much as Ned marvelled at the sights and sounds, he couldn’t stop thinking about the clowns out in the fog, and his dad out there with them.
“Rocky, my dad said I should talk to Benissimo, do you know where he is? Can you take me to him?”
“Everyone see Benissimo, Benissimo is boss,” answered Rocky, motioning beyond the sea of faces and over to the big top.
Ned had the sense that Rocky had been waiting for him and knew at least something of his predicament, though the urgency of the situation seemed to be going over his head. He hoped that, for all Rocky’s enigmatic comments, he was taking Ned where he needed to be. As they waded through the crowd, Ned had an odd sensation. It wasn’t that anyone was looking straight at him, but it felt like there was someone out there watching from the shadows, from the nooks and crannies of the tents and trailers. Then just as suddenly as the feeling had started, it stopped. It was then that Ned noticed something else. He didn’t recognise anyone in the crowd, not a single soul, and yet they all seemed to know each other, giving the occasional nod or stopping to shake hands. Ned realised that he hadn’t seen a single circus poster or ad in any of the usual spots around town. In a place like Grittlesby, a visiting circus was news, so why weren’t they publicised? Where had they all come from and who were they?
Suddenly a crescendo of horns, trumpets and drums all blared at once as a dozen men on stilts appeared, towering over the crowd.
“Your circus awaits!” they shouted, as they began ushering people to the big top.
Some juggled fire, others plucked violins or blew trumpets. They worked like a team of cow hands, coaxing their herd to the mouth of the big top. Ned followed, too much in the moment to notice himself take his seat: front row and centre.
“Watch show. After, I find you,” announced Rocky, and with that he was gone.
“But …”
Ned tried to protest but at that moment the shouting stopped and the lights dimmed and Ned found himself surrounded by many, but completely alone. He’d just have to sit it out and wait for Rocky to return.
A beat later, the big top’s main spotlight fired up, casting its beam on the centre of the ring. There was an almighty crack, as a pile of sawdust was kicked up off the floor by a coiled leather whip and in strode the Circus of Marvels’ Ringmaster. He was an imposing figure, at least six-foot-three with a thick moustache and eyebrows to match. He wore a red military jacket with tarnished gold buttons and tatty braiding, faded striped trousers and a waistcoat that had seen better days. Even his top hat was crooked and a thin scar ran down the left side of his face, giving the impression of a man part gypsy, part rogue. Was this who Rocky had meant by the boss? Was the Ringmaster Benissimo? He paced around the ring almost leering at the audience; this was clearly his ring and his circus. If anyone under the big top was going to help, Ned hoped that it was going to be him. That was, until he started to speak, and as he did so Ned noticed the strangest thing: the Ringmaster’s whip was moving on its own. It was hard to see at first, but it seemed to twist slightly, like a coiled snake writhing in his hand. Ned blinked and it stopped. Who were these people and why did his father trust them so much that he’d left Ned here alone with them?
“My Lords, Ladies and layabouts, welcome to the Circus of Marvels!” the great man barked. “I, Benissimo, am your Ringmaster and guide. From the mountains of China, the deserts of Africa and the jungles of South America, I have brought you the most miraculous and strange. Tonight you will see and hear things that will blind your ears and deafen your eyes! Let the show begin!”
The band burst into action and in strode seven of the cheeriest men Ned had ever seen, with ‘THE FLYING TORTELLINIS’ emblazoned on their shirts.
“Hey! How you doing, whad-a ya know, where ya been, whad-a ya say?” they chorused.
Boys with overprotective fathers have little in the world to be scared of, apart perhaps from homicidal clowns. But ever since he could remember, Ned had had an overwhelming fear of heights. He felt his stomach lurch as the Tortellinis flipped, lunged and somersaulted through the air. Up on the trapeze and high-wire they moved like mountain goats, as happy a hundred feet up as they were on the sawdust below.
The next act – ‘Mystero the Magnificent’ – came as a welcome relief to Ned. He wore a dinner jacket with a bow tie and was a slight, ill-looking man with pale, clammy skin and a serious disposition. How he managed to escape from the inside of a safe, without so much as a rattle, was completely beyond Ned. Ned knew more than most boys his age about how intricate a locking mechanism actually was. He pictured it in his mind, how the chained and padlocked escape artist might move in the cramped space of a safe, how he might try to unlock it.
