Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror (10 page)

How
much of this shit had he plastered onto his face over the years? He
couldn’t even begin to guess. Taped to the inner lid of the box
was a reference photo of himself, although this was a younger, less
cynical version—one still hoping for a big showbiz break, one
with a sparkle in his eye and the happy
I can
do anything
grin. He frowned and wondered why
he still kept it there. He could apply his makeup with his eyes
closed. White base, huge red and yellow smile, oversized purple
eyebrows, and of course, the red nose. Easy when you have been doing
it every day for the last thirty-four years.

But
not today.

Today
he was going to try something new. He stood and removed his shirt,
trying to ignore the weight he had gained. He could try to pass it
off as something coming naturally with age, but knew it was his
dependency to drink that caused the flabby, ape-like appearance. No
longer able to stand looking at himself, he quickly pulled on the
garish bright shirt and stepped into the dungarees. He glanced at the
shoes, but couldn’t face them just yet. He hated the way they
clopped on the floor, and how they made him feel as if he was walking
underwater. His stomach growled, and he realized he’d forgotten
to eat again. He rarely ate anymore, and as a result, the alcohol
would go straight to his head. He knew he would be fine though; he
was, after all, a professional. He sat back at his dresser with a
thump, and looked bleakly at himself. The show had started. He could
hear the muffled sound of the band striking up, and the voice of the
ringmaster as he made the initial introductions. Checking his watch,
he calculated how long until his section of the show. Still twenty
minutes yet. Plenty of time to get ready.

These
big top gigs weren’t too bad. Always guaranteed a decent turn
out. And because tonight was sold out, everyone would get paid, which
wasn’t always the case. He could hear the muted sounds of
laughing and cheering already, and began to feel the niggling
self-doubt he couldn’t seem to shake these days. He no longer
cared for the crowds. The stupid adults jeering and booing, whilst
their even less intelligent offspring whooped and laughed at the fat,
washed up old clown.

Well,
we’ll see who has the last laugh tonight.

As
much as he hated the crowds, they were heaven compared to the private
bookings he was forced to take to make ends meet. The birthday
parties, where it was him alone in some stranger’s house,
performing like a monkey to a room full of sniveling fucking kids. Do
a trick, monkey. Fall over again, monkey. Tell us a joke, monkey.
Worse still were the times the parents had grossly miscalculated
their children’s interest in clowns. Those were the worst of
all. The kids would just sit there and watch impassively as he went
through the motions of his routine. The party would inevitably end
with everyone involved feeling awkward and praying for a quick end to
the travesty.

He
began to apply the white greasepaint, his hands moving with expert
precision. As much as he hated it, at least it helped to cover the
deep lines that had grown on his face over the years. The undeniable
signs of growing old. He heard an audience wide
ahhhhhh
in the distance and knew that Stavros was up on the trapeze,
performing his death defying and legitimately impressive act. Not
long to go now, then
showtime
.
Giving the white basecoat time to dry, he picked up his oversized
patchwork jacket and slipped it on, and unable to put it off any
longer, slipped his feet into those horrible, giant shoes. Taking
another great drink from the half-empty bottle, he then took out the
red greasepaint and drew a large mouth shape across his lips and
cheeks, filling it in efficiently. His next step on a routine day
would be to take out the yellow to color in the outer edge of the
red, but not today. Instead, he took out the black and filled in all
of the inner part of the oversized mouth, leaving it looking like a
wide-open maw. Next, he took out the yellow paint pencil and
carefully drew in twin rows of jagged teeth. Next, he blotted some of
the black paint roughly around his eyes. The left first, then the
right. He felt satisfied as he stared out from the twin pools of
black. It looked good, better than that happy-go-lucky-kiddy-crap. He
looked like a grinning demon. More cheering from the crowd now—
this meant Stavros had defied the odds yet again, and survived his
latest feat of skill. Good for him. Not bad at all for a wife beating
pedophile.

The
choice of wig was next, and important to complete the overall look.
He tried on the green, but it didn’t feel quite right with his
new makeup, so he plumped for the red; a huge curly afro made of
cheap cotton that made his skin itch.

Satisfied, he looked at himself in the mirror, and at
last, he could bear his reflection. Now the outside reflected how he
felt within, and he felt a giddy excitement that had been absent for
some time. He thought it must be because he had something new for the
masses tonight. Something spectacular. There was just enough time to
make his final preparations. He took the note out of his pocket and
taped it to his dressing room mirror. It would answer most of the
questions that would be asked. The ones it didn’t, they would
have to figure out for themselves. He was almost ready, with just one
more thing left to do.

He
walked to the desk in the corner and filled his pockets with the
props for his performance.

Extendable
boxing glove.

Water
squirting flower.

Handshake
buzzer.

He
felt the part now, and was ready to perform. He slipped the belt full
of ammunition around his waist, and slung the bag of hand grenades
over his shoulder. The M16 and sawn off shotgun were already loaded,
and he filled the remaining pockets of his jacket with as much extra
ammo as would fit. There was a knock on the door, then a voice, gone
as quickly as it arrived.

“
Yurple. Showtime.”

And so it was. The crowd was waiting now, and his theme
was playing. Despite it all, he managed a smile as he slipped the
handgun into the waistband of his pants, then picked up the M16 and
the shotgun—one in each hand. That was the thing with clowns,
he thought to himself as he walked towards the center ring. Nobody
ever takes them seriously.

Perhaps today they will.

Thomas Rhodes had worked as a detective for almost
fifteen years, and had seen pretty much everything there was to see.
But even he had trouble believing that the young girl in the
interview room could be guilty of anything other than denying herself
a decent meal or two. He’d always had a good instinct for
sniffing out the truth, but from the moment she was arrested, covered
in blood and walking in a daze, something had not felt right to him.
He looked at her now, as she sipped from her polystyrene cup, and
wasn’t quite sure what to think. Her skin was smooth and pale,
and she had a narrow, oval face, which seemed both guilt and trouble
free. She hadn’t given any personal information when she
was arrested, but he guessed she was only in her early twenties. Her
frame was thin—borderline malnourished—and her shoulder
blades stood out, casting ugly shadows in the harsh light of the
interview room. Her hair was long and black with a red streak at the
fringe, and she wore it parted down the centre, which brought
out the brilliance of her piercing, blue eyes. Rhodes
searched her features, looking for any hint of guilt, but found none.
She could just as easily have been sipping coffee in the park
with friends, rather than under arrest and wearing a white paper
forensics suit.

He
set down his own cup and stretched, trying to ignore the dull ache in
his arthritic knees. He was only forty-two, but was starting to feel
the depressing onset of old age creeping up on him. The hair that
hadn’t already gone grey was thinning, and the dimples in his
cheeks that had given him a chiselled look as a young officer had now
deepened into worry lines. He hadn’t shaved for two days, and
found that even his stubble had lost its once natural blonde colour,
taking on a salt and pepper tone. He made a reluctant mental note to
see the doctor about the pain in his knees, even though he knew he
would be given the same advice that he’d ignored for the last
few years.
Lose a
few pounds, cut out the saturated fats, stop smoking, and exercise
more.
Although he
could probably benefit from losing a few pounds, he didn’t
think it was as doom and gloom as they liked to imply. Either way, he
thought he might put in a request for some vacation time. But only
after he dealt with the enigma sitting across the table from him.

“
Ok,”
he said, folding his hands on the table. “Let’s start
with the basics. How about a name?”

She looked at him with a smile, and it troubled him
deeply. It was a warm, friendly smile—not the twisted smile of
a killer or maniac. Her voice was soft and calm, and although it was
just a single word, it gave him an inexplicable chill.

“
Tina.”

“Ok,
Tina. I’m Detective Rhodes. I’m going to ask you a few
questions, all right?”

She
nodded and put her cup on the table.

“
Now,
I need you to tell me what happened; why you were covered in blood
when we picked you up.”

She frowned, and for a moment, there was a look of
uncertainty on her face.

“
Oh,
I forgot about the blood,” she said casually, lowering her gaze
and staring at the wooden tabletop.

His mouth suddenly felt dry and he had to force himself
to stay focused.

“
You
were covered in it when our officers picked you up. You were walking
down the middle of the road singing. Do you remember that, Tina?”

“
Of
course I remember. I always sing when I’m out walking. It’s
an old habit,” she said with a shrug.

“
What
about the blood. Tell me about the blood. Where did it come from?”

“
From
Lexi, of course. Where else?” she said irritably, like he had
asked the most obvious question in the world. She was staring at her
hands now, as if they held the answers to his questions. Even though
Rhodes had shared rooms like this with some of the most vile and
dangerous criminals to ever roam the country, he had never felt as
unsettled as he did in the presence of this young girl.

“
And
where is Lexi now?”

She
didn’t answer, and wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“
Tina,
I want to help you, but you have to talk to me. What did you do to
Lexi?”

She threw her head back and laughed, the trouble-free
mirth of it disturbing him even more.

“
Me
?
I didn’t do anything. I could
never
do anything like
that.”

“Then
who did it, Tina? Talk to me,” Rhodes pressed.

She
stopped laughing and met his eyes with an icy gaze.

“
It
was Monde.”

Rhodes took out his pen and held it over the notepad.

“
Ok,
spell that for me please. M-O…”

“
N-D-E,”
she finished as he scribbled the name and underlined it.

“
And
where is he now, this Monde?”

She shrugged. “He comes and goes.”

“
Is
he a friend? Boyfriend?”

“
Sometimes.”

“
Sometimes
a friend or sometimes a boyfriend?”

“
Both,”
she replied with a small smile.

“
And what did Monde do? To Lexi
I mean.”

“
Only
what he had to. I tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t back
off.”

Finally feeling that he was getting somewhere, Rhodes
added the name Lexi to his pad and set the pen down on the table.

“
So
you and Lexi are friends?”

“
She
and I had been friends for years, but she kept pushing and pushing,
and Monde didn’t like that. He hates it when people don’t
do what he says.”

Rhodes didn’t like the way Tina was speaking about
her friend in past tense. He pressed on carefully.

“
Tina,
this is very important. What happened to Lexi?”

“
I
don’t want to talk about it,” she said, shaking her head
slowly.

“
Look,
I’m trying to help you here, but you have to talk to me.”

She looked up at him, her eyes hot with defiance.

“
You
won’t find him. You probably won’t find her either.”

“
Let
me worry about that. Just talk to me, tell me what happened. You
realise you could be in a lot of trouble unless you give me
something.”