Send in the Clowns, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (22 page)

Without
knowing why, he started moving out towards Great King Street and
the centre of town. As he approached the road at the front, a
strong gust of wind threw itself at him, pushing him sideways. It
seemed a natural thing to do to follow its direction. Moving with
the wind now at his back he felt a little clearer, Maria had come
this way, he was somehow sure. A loud moaning was coming from the
sky as the wind fought its way through the surrounding buildings.
Sharp bright flashes lit up the sky followed by loud cracking
sounds, making the wind moan louder as it laboured to carry the
storm through the city.

Another
flash, this one slightly longer than the last, revealed the way
ahead, before disappearing and plunging the road back into
darkness. It was only then he realised that there were no other
lights on anywhere. The city was in darkness. Turning, he looked
back towards the Police Station. Even with the minimal lighting
that the generators supplied, it was like a beacon of safety,
towering above the darkened street. He knew it was a falsehood,
inside that building, Keith Joyce and Jane Little would be
conspiring in his downfall, aided by his ineptitude at controlling
his emotions. He had kicked the bottle, but had not managed to get
past that time in his life. Enraptured enough by Jane to be a slave
to his base desires in weaker moments, it kept Laura on the
periphery of his life, she did not deserve that. Another bolt of
lightning reflected off the glass of the department store building
next to him, the clap following assaulting his ears. Shaking his
head, he looked at the sky. He knew he had not been drinking, but
shit, he felt like he had. His head was spinning slightly, his
thoughts thicker, having to fight through the pathways to his
consciousness, the result slower than he liked. Maybe he was ill;
he pulled his wet collar closer around his neck. Needle like rain
was streaming along the street. Work came first, sickness or not,
and he had a prisoner to retrieve. Another gust of wind slammed
into his face and he turned with it and continued, ignoring the
warmth and comfort and following the instructions of the
storm.

Moving around
the corner into St Andrews Street, the buildings provided a small
respite from the wind, the rain was no longer driving at his skin
and his ears stopped ringing. Up ahead towards George Street he
could hear the sound of music. It was a strangely familiar score,
underpinned by the sound of people. Lots of people.

Lights
flickered in the darkness, not manmade, more natural, like flame.
The smell of burning sulphur grew stronger the closer he got to
George Street bringing back vivid memories of dead monkeys. Small
pockets of smoke started playing around his nostrils. The music got
louder, the gentle roar of an appreciative crowd slowly building in
intensity and competing with the storms laboured path. He reached
the corner and came up on the slick backs of adults and children
alike. The needles had returned from the sky and were screaming
along above the crowd, hitting unseen targets. He looked at what
was in front of him; it was like a wall of raincoats, umbrellas,
flaming torches and cell phones. The music was at frenzy, following
the storm, and the wall of the audience was in rapture, completely
ignoring his attempts to penetrate its defences. He needed to see
what it was protecting. Why were these people here? Were they
hiding Marion from him? Were they all enjoying the ineptitude of
the police once more? His own failings?

Faces turned
and stared as he tried to push his way through. Angry faces…, faces
with questions, faces of children who mocked him, faces of people
who believed. They were all just faces, and all of them were
looking right through him.

Suddenly he
found himself standing in front of the wall, the crowd behind him
now, all standing and judging. Large angry eyes were looking at him
from a short distance away. The eyes wanted help, but in the same
instant recognised the futility and the animal they belonged to
snorted and reared its angry head back, lifting its unsuspecting
handler off his feet. A large piece of black leather cracked from
the handler’s side and the elephant lowered the midget handler back
to the ground and continued its performance. Carnival music was
playing inside his head. What in the hell was going on. George
Street was in darkness and there was no lighting coming from any of
the streetlights or stores that he could see, but there were
thousands of people lining the roadside. Cell phones competed
against flaming torches to light up the middle of the road, and the
road was adrift with animals and finery. The Carnival had come to
town and all of Dunedin was here to witness it.

Moving along
with the slow progression of the colourful mêlée, he tried to scan
ahead and behind him. Maria would be here, it made sense she would
return to her own, and they would protect her, but all he could
make out were costumes and animals. Someone yelled in his ear, and
he turned in time to see a stick insect of a man with long wooden
legs scurry back into the middle and then over to the other side of
the road to hunt for more prey to devour. The lights of cell phones
kept waving out from the darkness lighting up the snaking
show.

Pushing his
way forward, faster than the spectre of a parade was moving; he
tried to get a better view of where the head of the colourful snake
was, but could not see past the larger floats up ahead. The beat of
a thousand drums started to pulse at his back. He turned to see
what looked like demented monkeys, writhing around in some sort of
interpretive dance, followed closely by a larger than life image of
a smiling Michael Wilson. Irish Mick and the dead monkeys, the
legacy of Wilsons Circus.

Clowns came
out of the smoke and darkness, angry sneering faces, daring the
onlookers to laugh. They were surrounding the image of the dead
Ringmaster, almost as if he needed protecting in death. Attached to
something unseen, Irish Mick was moving in unison with the parades
progress, and the Clowns moved with him. Bridger raised his eyes
above the almost visible noise of the procession. There were three
faces sitting in the darkened sky above the mess of the Circus
below. Reece Coster sat on one side of the colourful trailer,
Anthony Gonzales on the other, and in the middle, standing like a
Queen between her Knaves, was Maria Staverly. He was too far away
to see the expression on their faces.

He tried to
move back towards the float but felt himself drawn sideways against
his will. The flow of the parade had changed. It had reached the
Octagon and the snakes head had split in two. He was moving down
towards the lower half, where the bars and clubs had spewed patrons
onto the streets. The trailer had gone right, dead Irish Mick
leading the way. He watched as it moved slowly up towards the top
half, where Robbie Burns sat guarding both the Town Hall and St
Pauls Cathedral from the darkness. He could see them getting higher
as he went lower; the crowds had grown bigger with patrons from the
surrounding bars unable to stay indoors without power. The seething
masses were moulding in behind the floats, closing any path
forward, he could do nothing but go with the flow. Maria was
disappearing from view, escaping again, and she was taking Coster
with her. He needed to do something now. Both Coster and Staverly
were instrumental in the death of Michael Wilson, and Maria was
formally a prisoner now and needed recapturing. Looking through the
trees on the other side of the central carriageway splitting the
Octagon in two he could see the procession had paused, as if it had
come up against opposition. It was more likely the crowds had just
become too intense for further forward movement. Either way it gave
him an opportunity. He could see Maria and her two Knaves still
sitting in the air above the dead Irish Mick, still guarded by the
ugly Clowns. They were less than one hundred meters from him. Maybe
he could just fly up there and arrest them, for a short minute he
though he just about could, and then the roar in his ears from the
surrounding crowds brought him back to reality.

Pushing
through a group of suited but intoxicated middle-aged executives,
he tried to make his way towards the top. One old soak out of the
group, too pissed to stand anyway, stumbled and fell backwards,
landing heavily on his back. Bridger made to step over the writhing
mess on the ground, intent only on his destination.

“
Watch it you dumb prick,” the angry outburst came from
somewhere behind him “what the fuck do you think you are doing,
there are kids about.” Bridger did not want to get into any
discussions about what would be appropriate for children to see
with a bunch of self-righteous drunks and could not actually tell
who had spoken, so tried to go around them. The fist came fast, but
with drunken accuracy, glancing of his chin causing no harm. “Do
you want a go mate? Uh…do you want try your luck… Fucken
dickhead…”

Two of the
fallen executive’s mates had moved in front of Bridger and were
standing shoulder to shoulder, blocking his path but swaying like a
couple of chorus girls. “Go on Spencer… Fucken have him mate… do it
for Paul…” an expectation of violence written all over their faces
“Yeah Spence man, fucken do’ im…” This time Bridger sensed the blow
aimed at him from behind. He moved sideways and managed a smile as
Spencer planted a great right hook square on the nose of his pissed
friend, causing the chorus line to collapse, clearing his path.
Another flash lit up the sky, followed by a crack that shook the
glass in the surrounding buildings. The rain spat its fury at
whatever it could.

Bridger
blinked and suddenly he was standing face to face with the dead
Irish Mick. His massive head was smiling at him from above the
white oversized collar of his chiffon shirt, making him look like a
decoration on a particularly nasty cake. He was at the front of the
trailer that he had seen Maria on top of, a minute of his life
missing. The crowds had thinned and the music had stopped playing
in his head. Irish Mick winked at him from the large poster, lips
curling at the sides. Rain ran from his made up cheeks as if he was
crying and then a lion’s roar erupted from his mouth.

Bridger shook
the image from his head. This could not be real. He looked up, but
could not see the top of the trailer. Moving backwards to get a
better view, he remembered the guards. No one stood in his way
though, there were no Clowns… where were the Clowns? He moved to
the side of the trailer to look on top but already knew what he
would see. Maria and her two Knaves were no longer there.
Shit.

He blinked
again and found himself standing at the top of the stone steps of
the Cathedral, the large wooden doors in front of him, flapping
slightly in the wind. He had never actually been inside there
before but felt compelled to enter, something unseen drawing him
in. Pushing open the door, a gust of wind thrust from behind
pushing him towards the inside. He stumbled through and another
gust slammed the door behind him, sealing him inside the unfamiliar
place of worship and locking the storm outside. It was eerily
quiet; he half expected to see God standing in welcome, but all he
saw was black empty mass. The sound of the storm was humming
quietly around the vaulted wooden ceiling unseen in the darkness
high above his head. Lightning scorched the sky outside sending
little coloured rays of light through the stained glass lining the
walls. He could make out rows of pews lined up facing the front lit
up by the shards of light. He knew enough about churches to know
the pews would all be facing the altar, the place where all the
answers spewed forth every Sunday. He needed answers.

Moving slowly
forward he felt the hardness under his feet of the slate tiles, the
light flashing outside was enough to show him the way. As he neared
the front, a salty odour teased his nostrils.

“
Sit…
” The
voice boomed out of the darkness, bouncing off the walls and coming
back at him from every direction. Was this God?

More light
flashed in from outside, coming through the very top arched windows
it was shining directly onto a spiral stone staircase leading to a
small pulpit above the altar stone. He thought he saw movement at
the top… more a shadow standing above him and looking down, stained
glass reflecting colour onto the dark shape. God or
Clowns?

Feeling the
air pressure change slightly beside him, something pushed at his
chest from the darkness, his legs connecting with something hard,
bending them in the middle. He did not fight the movement and sat
heavily on the wooden pew behind him. Reaching out into the
blackness, he could feel nothing. His head started spinning again
and he closed his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose. He was
feeling faint, like stepping out into the fresh air after a heavy
session on the Malts.

“
Are you ready to listen…? Are you
really open to hearing more than your own
assumption?
” The voice was all-commanding,
coming from all around him it was making him confused. He opened
his mouth but could not speak, his tongue glued to the roof of his
mouth. “
I
will
tell you… but you have to listen… then you will know that the one
you seek is not the one you want, she is the
reason
.” Changing in pitch, as if there
were more speaking as one, he did not know where to look.
“
Give me a sign
.
Let me know you will
listen.
” Putting his hands up in the
darkness towards the pulpit, he hoped that they would see it.
“
Good… now open the
Book.
”