Clowns At Midnight (28 page)

Continuing the security check, I found that the end vents were both flush with the wall and securely fitted, though I’d probably need to check their outside surfaces as well to see how they were locked in place.

But that was enough. After the day, after the incredible night before it, I was exhausted. So much wild unsorted emotion, so much to put in place.

When I had climbed back down, I tried calling Gemma again, but there was still no answer. Where could she be? What did someone do after such an ordeal? Visit parents? Call on friends? Lose oneself in work? Go find Zoe, perhaps join her in a strategy to plan the next surprise,
if
she were part of it?

Perhaps she blamed me for all that had happened, though how could that be the case? She was the one who had dressed in white, painted her face, delivered herself as that frightful incarnation. How trustworthy were her fine words now?

I attempted to work at the computer in the study, trying her number every half hour or so, even phoning the Risis to see if she might be there. No-one was home, it seemed; once again Raina’s recorded voice invited me to leave a message, which I didn’t do.

At 7:20 I heated some lasagna, made a salad and watched television—always a TT in itself, just risking the random flow of images. But I needed the voices, the illusion of conventional lives, ordinary problems and strivings.

I kept thinking of what Gemma and I had been talking about, trying to fit all that had happened into the subsequent events. Where could she be?

At 9:40 I phoned the Risis again and was surprised and relieved when Carlo answered.

‘Hello?’

‘Carlo, it’s David.’

‘David,
come sta
.’

‘Carlo, have you or Raina seen Gemma? I was with her last night. Something happened—a disagreement. I’m worried about her.’

‘Of course. But, no, we have not heard from her. Is it serious? Is there something we can do?’

Put Raina on
! But I didn’t dare ask it.

‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so. Do you know her parents’ address? Do you know where Zoe lives?’

‘Her parents live down in Bellingen. She probably would not go there. But let me put Raina on.’

I couldn’t believe it. Exactly what I wanted.

‘David,
buona sera
. What is wrong?’

I quickly gave her the story I had given Carlo, concluding with my final question to him. ‘Do you know where Zoe lives?’

The barest hesitation, then, ‘Why, yes, yes I do. Of course I do. But I have promised never to tell. It is a promise to Gemma, you must understand, something she was very firm about. I am sorry.’

‘I just need to know she’s all right. This matters, Raina.’ I said nothing about the caravan or the clowns.

‘
È urgente
, I can see. Look, please trust me. I will phone her. I will see if she is there and check that she is okay. Can you let me do this for you?’

‘Of course.’
No
,
no
,
no!
‘Please ask her to phone me. I’ve been trying all day.’

‘I understand. Can you leave this with me?’

‘I can try. It’s very important. You got my letter?’

‘
Sicuro
. Yes. Yes, I did. We were out today. I was going to call.’

‘I’d like a chance to talk. Just the two of us. When this is settled.’

‘That is best. But you must rest now. Leave this with me. If I do not call back tonight, we will speak early tomorrow.’

‘Raina, it’s important,’ I said again, all I could think to say.

‘David, I know it is. I see it is. But
domani
. We will speak tomorrow.’

‘Thank you, Raina. Please thank Carlo.’

‘
Prego
, David.
Buona notte
.’

‘Goodnight.’

I’d done everything I could. Certainly I could drive in to Kyogle, wait outside Gemma’s all night in case she returned, but I was exhausted, desperately tired and upset. Nothing would do short of speaking with Gemma again, making sure she was all right, asking why she’d done what she had, hearing what she said.

It was a hot still night. I showered again to cool down, checked the locks one more time, then went to bed. Though deeply weary, I couldn’t settle immediately, so I just lay watching the curtains stir in what little breeze there was and read more of Renault’s novel.

My thoughts rushed everywhere at first, but soon Nikeratos’s world replaced mine, far off but so real, and I began drowsing.

Then it was there.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

The sound of castors overhead. Unmistakable.

Madame had returned, was up in the attic, running back and forth, being
made
to run along the special runway the Rankins had created for her.

I had to be sure. I stumbled out of bed, rushed into the hallway and listened. Silence.

Then it came again.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

Castors on timber flooring right overhead; the only thing it could be.

The symptoms were there, fierce and sharp like the edges of a trap closing: the ragged breathing, the hot heaviness, full-clown pressure clamping the skull. But I had to manage. Once again I had to overrule, take charge of the flight deck just one more time.

I dressed as quickly as I could, then opened the hall closet, dragged out the stepladder and positioned it below the manhole, fumbling all the while, finding it hard to coordinate the simplest moves.

Nothing more from above. No need now. She had announced herself, beckoned, baited her trap.

I steadied the ladder and began to climb, feeling it shift under my hands. I couldn’t prevent it. It trembled with my fear, responded like something alive. Once, twice I stopped, gripping the edges, waiting, regaining balance on the metal steps and fighting the rush of vertigo, the need to flee.

I only had seconds. It was like our last meeting. Act now or forever lose the chance.

I shoved on the cover with both hands, a fierce gesture, saw it clatter to the side. Hard dramatic action, so good to do. Then I reached for the switch, found it and clicked it on, saw the stark flicker as the tubing lit.

Only then did I lift my head and shoulders through the hole, dare to look over the rim.

A curtain blocked the last third of the long room. Someone had hung a makeshift screen, draped a large length of fabric from one slanting edge to the other. Madame would be beyond it no doubt, bloodied again but whole, ready for a shadow show. Or maybe Zoe was there, all in black, brandishing her scalpel, ready for her next prank.

But
things
, just things, I told myself. Things and people. Nothing supernatural. Nothing outside the physical world. All cause and effect. The cover had slammed back.

The ladder was shaking under me. I had to act.

I climbed into the attic, steadying myself on the sloping roof overhead, was no sooner upright than the curtain fell away.

There were seven mannequins—
seven
Madames!—side by side, two dark grey, two brown, another green, the others shades of tan baize, some threadbare and worn, others svelte and showroom new. All facing me. Literally
facing
me. Around their truncated necks, sitting on their bustlines so they peered directly at me, were Commedia masks, new or newly lacquered, but polished, shining in the harsh light. To the left was Naso Turco, gleaming blood-red, as hideous as ever. Next to him—or
her
: genders collided in the instant!—was the good doctor: bumbling, vicious Dr Peste, stark white, beaked, with black ringed-coin eyes. Then it was the brutal prankster, Nascone, and Cucurucu the long-nosed, big-cheeked village idiot, hideously leering, and shovel-faced Bauta, gleeful and cruel, with a snouted, fat-cheeked Coccodrillo next to him, then—terrifying counterpoint—a blank-faced Neutra Sarda, horrific in its stark simplicity: the makings of an issohadore here!

I barely had time to react. Before I could do more than register the identities wholesale, make twisted sense of the faces glaring at me from those grotesque yet oh so demure bosoms, they were pushed aside, sent careening on their castors, pedestals and splayed, pronged stands. One Madame behind the rest came rolling forward—striding forward—no!—was being propelled by someone hidden behind. The Black Clown!—it was!—suddenly there, looming up and flinging something warm and wet, dousing me in a heavy reeking fluid.

I reeled, nearly fell through the hole as I scrambled back.

It was blood! I’d been doused in blood!

I yelled in utter fright, but there was no pursuit. The Black Clown had gone, had retreated beyond the final two mannequins still standing, must have slipped out through the loosened ventilator grille.

But someone! Cause and effect. A person. Behind all this: someone!

I wiped away as much of the foul stinking stuff as I could, then half-struggled, half-fell through the hole. My hands slid on the rim, my feet were slippery on the metal steps. I tried to keep balance, but had barely made the second step when the ladder toppled and sent me plunging to the floor.

No matter. I was down. I was down and with nothing broken. I hurried into the bathroom, into the shower stall, turned the handles on full, soon had warm water streaming over me. I grinned as the hideous red washed away in streaks and clots, smiled because that was where the terror and fright could safely go, into a smile, a manic grin, into wild Commedia mirth. Whatever the raw emotion originally was, this is what it had become.

Just masks. Just sewing dummies. I was getting beyond it. Thankfully I was.

Someone had done it. Like putting graffiti on a wall, or running a coin down the side of a car, or trashing a bottle-tree, somebody had staged this.

Zoe.

Carlo
and Zoe!

Carlo had read the draft of my article, knew about the Commedia masks, would easily guess which ones were right for this. I’d told Gemma some of it that day in the car. She would have told Zoe. Carlo would have. Perhaps Raina knew as well. All of them. All of it planned.

Even my behaviour now would have been predicted.

He’ll either go straight for the shower or run outside to check the grilles
.
The contingency options will be…

I’d been five minutes in the rushing water, probably more, plenty of time for handlers to remove the sewing mannequins and the curtain, wipe away most of the blood, replace the grille.

All so well planned. You could drive someone mad in seconds, keep them mad, with the right planning.

Belatedly I struggled into fresh clothes, rushed out to check the driveway, the turning area, the ends of the house.

There was nothing, of course.

But planned, rehearsed. I marvelled at the logistics; it was like a military operation, in and out in minutes.

The shower had helped. The mad laughter had. I stood smiling at the night, still locked up and shaking, but seeing the other side: the organisation, the choreography. It made it bearable.

Inside again, I set up the ladder, made myself do it, then carefully climbed the blood-slick steps and peered into the terrible space. There was blood, a lot of it, but the sewing dummies and the curtain were gone. All thrown through the grille Zoe had used to escape. She—probably others—had waited on the roof, had heard me fall then acted quickly, tossing the Madames one by one down to waiting hands, the whole terrible carnival troupe bundled up and whisked away into the night, perhaps still out there under a tarpaulin.

Operation Bugaboo complete
.
Awaiting instructions, over
.

I thought of going to a motel in Kyogle, leaving all this till morning, but that was Zoe’s territory. Gemma’s. Carlo and Raina’s.

Contingency Four
:
the motel
.
Send the clown
…

It was late, close to midnight, I discovered, but I took the Rankins’ torch, hauled an extension ladder out of the shed and carried it to the driveway end of the house. I set it up and checked the outside face of the ventilation grille the Black Clown had used.

Sure enough, the right side was hinged, the left side secured with two butterfly nuts, locked tight now but easy enough to remove. A holed flange on the edge of the grille lined up with one on its steel frame, no doubt for a padlock to keep the whole thing secure, though that was missing now. When I shone the torch out over the roof itself, I saw a flat wooden ladder within easy reach, obviously how the intruders had managed to get down into the house through the manhole.

I hauled the ladder clear and dropped it to the ground. I’d lock that away in the garage. Then I checked the grille at the northern end, found it securely bolted in place.

Just one entry then, that and using a spare key for the terrace door for the visits before I changed the lock. The question remained why? Why bother?

It was Jack working with the Rankins, had to be. Psychotherapies-R-Us.

I had several options. I could head back to Sydney as I’d intended, or drive over to Lismore or Byron Bay or Ballina. Step outside the plan.

Probably all factored in.

Or, once again, choose to stay. Replace the padlock on the grille. Bolt some heavy mesh across the inside. Smile in the shower more. Accept it as Jack’s latest therapy, if that’s what it was, enlisting Carlo and the others, using the knowledge they had.

Unbelievable, unlikely, yet all possible.

Or something to do with here. The tower was here. The long attic room. Gemma was, whatever, whoever she truly was.

I put a new padlock in the southern grille, locked the ladders in the garage, then went inside to phone Jack.

What did they call it: bearding the lion in his den?

Since it was so late, I wasn’t surprised when I was redirected to his voicemail server. I left a message asking him to call, saying that it was
urgente
, using Raina’s expression.

It was Tuesday night and I had surprised two clowns—three, if tonight’s were a new figure entirely: two black clowns and one white.

I did a further check of the house, all the rooms, looked in cupboards and under beds, then went to my room. Not satisfied with just locking my door, I dragged the set of drawers in front of it again.