The Grin of the Dark

SEVEN - TOTEMS

We're nearly at the bottom of the street opposite the petrol station, beyond which the night sky is trailing a crimson hem, when I call 'We're not in quite that much of a hurry, Mark.'

He carries on as if the enlarged letters in the middle of the Frugoil sign are urging him, and barely glances back to protest 'You said we were.'

'No, I said we shouldn't get caught up in the video again. The show won't be starting anything like yet, don't worry,' I say as I join him at the kerb. 'I'm not an old film, you know. I feel as if you want to speed me up.'

He looks at me over his shoulder. 'That'd be funny,' he says, continuing to watch.

This isn't what jerks me forwards. 'Mark,' I shout or quite possibly scream, but I haven't even completed his name when he steps into the road.

His small body flares up as if spotlights have been trained on him. They're the headlamp beams of the lorry that is bearing down on him, horn braying. I'm too far away to snatch him out of its path, and what can I shout that will help? I'm terrified that the glare and the uproar and the sight of his imminent doom will freeze him like just another species of roadkill. Then he dodges the vehicle with at least a yard to spare and dashes across the road.

By the time I reach the opposite pavement he's trotting uphill past the petrol station. 'Mark,' I say, folding my arms and gripping my fists with my clammy armpits.

He halts but drops into a crouch that suggests he's preparing for the next leg of the race. 'What?'

'Come back here. We aren't going anywhere till you listen to me.'

He trudges along the pavement between the entrance and exit of the petrol station. 'What?' he mumbles.

'Do you want to see the last of me, Mark?'

He blinks at me and risks a giggle. 'You're like granny saying I'll give her a heart attack.'

'You damn well near did, but I don't mean that. Do you want your mother and me to split up?'

'You aren't going to, are you?' Apprehension or the light from the forecourt has turned his face so pale I'm put in mind of greasepaint. 'Don't you like me?' he pleads.

'I don't like what you just did, but that wouldn't be why. If Natalie trusts me to look after you and then you behave like that, she isn't going to want me around.'

'You won't tell, will you? We swore we wouldn't tell on each other.'

'I'll keep this one incident between us so long as there aren't any more like it, ever. Agreed?'

'Promise,' Mark blurts and looks hyperactively eager to be on his way. Shahrukh is gazing at us through the window of the Frugoil shop, and I wonder if he's going to make an issue of my letting Rufus in. Perhaps he feels inhibited now that I don't work there. Before he can accost me I follow Mark uphill.

In a minute we're alongside the Royal Holloway campus. Beyond the gates the long five-storey red-brick turreted façade is illuminated so brightly that it resembles a cut-out against the night sky, an image of a French chateau patched into the landscape. A long-legged shadow as tall as the chimneys stalks across it, but I haven't located the owner of the shadow when the wall blocks my view. Mark has forged ahead, so that by the time I reach the end of the wall he's already past a side road. As I cross it, two clownish faces swell out of the gloom ahead of him. One is closer to the ground than anyone's should be, and I might have noticed more immediately that it isn't human if the wide-mouthed faces weren't so similar. Its companion shuffles into the light of a streetlamp, and I see that her mouth is surrounded by lipstick like a child's first attempt at painting. I can't quite shake off the notion that it's the woman who is panting and snorting, not the bulldog. I've dodged around them after Mark when a hoarse voice behind me mutters 'Hurry up.'

I could take that personally, because I don't know where the circus has been set up in the park. I was expecting crowds to show us, but none are to be seen. Mark's shadow and mine play at giants and dwarfs beneath the streetlamps as we hurry uphill. The closest section of the park stretches away between the main road and a lane, and I'm suddenly aware that the place may be as vast as the visible sky. Mark halts, and I think he's about to ask which road we should use until he says 'There's one.'

He's pointing at an entrance from the main road. At first all I can see is the shadow of a figure on the thickness of the wall. A substance appears to be bubbling out of its cranium. It steps into my view to reveal that it's a clown with a presumably artificial mass of white curls crowning its scalp. It cocks its blanched extravagantly wide-mouthed head to watch us with a kind of dismayed glee. I pull out the tickets – one for Cwlons Ulnimited, the other for Cwnols Nutilimed – and flourish them. The clown beckons while its white-gloved fingers scuttle in the air, a gesture so eloquent of lateness that I grab Mark's shoulder in case he's tempted to dash across the road. As soon as the traffic relents I usher him to the gate.

The clown steps back like a duck in reverse and urges us onwards with its monster hands. Its baggy big-buttoned one-piece outfit and its mask of makeup conceal its gender. Where's the tent? The path across the unlit green leads to a pond, on the far side of which an object taller than the trees around the green stands guard. As I run after Mark, all its faces grow visible, a heap of them with wide eyes and stretched mouths. It's a totem pole, another local landmark that looks transplanted from elsewhere. We're close to the end of the path when the lowest face detaches itself and rises to meet us. It belongs to a clown who was seated on a folding chair. I've scarcely brandished the tickets when the clown shakes its floppy hands to indicate an avenue that leads into the dark.

Bare oaks mime praying overhead. Their branches look imprinted on the black sky. Wouldn't it have made sense to provide some light? Before long the path angles sharp left, and Mark might have run into a hulking trunk if a clown hadn't sprung out from behind it to direct us. The figure prances in and out of the trees beside us, wagging its glimmering head and flapping its hands so wildly that they seem boneless. Perhaps the performer needs to reach the tent in the field at the end of the path.

When we run out of the avenue the white tent appears to shrink as if a camera is zooming back. It's the change of perspective. The tent, which has been erected in the middle of the green, isn't quite symmetrical; the canvas pyramid is inclined slightly leftward, giving it a rakish or rickety air. As we cross the field I seem to glimpse a dim leggy shadow that suggests its owner is catching us up, but there's no sign of our guide.

The tent is encircled by glistening footprints, perhaps of customers like us in search of the entrance. A midget clown leans against a taut guy-rope beside the open flap in the canvas. When I hold out the tickets the puffy white hands wave us through. The mocking tragic mask is painted on so thickly that I'm unable to judge whether the diminutive figure is a dwarf or a child. I hurry after Mark into the tent, and the audience turns to watch us.

They're in families scattered around tiers of five benches indistinguishable from steps. They aren't merely watching, they're laughing at us, which strikes me as excessive even if we're late. Mark glances uncertainly at me, but as his gaze slips past me his mouth widens with a grin. An assortment of clowns of various sizes is pacing flat-footed yet silently behind us.

Mark scrambles to join the audience, which doesn't include Natalie. As I sit next to him on the middle bench, someone higher up the tier comments 'Maybe they thought it wasn't on yet.'

'We didn't think it was till after Christmas,' their companion murmurs.

'It shouldn't be till the New Year,' says the first voice or another.

The last clown has entered the ring and is staring at me as if I spoke. When I hold up my hands as a vow of silence I feel as if I'm mimicking a clownish gesture. He, if it's a man, copies this so vigorously that he might be pretending to surrender, and then he scuttles splay-legged to take his place in the circle his colleagues have formed within the ring. There are thirteen of them. Two are less than five feet tall, and two stilted figures are over eight feet each as though to compensate. I wish I'd seen that pair duck through the entrance, which is scant inches higher than my head. Four of the clowns seem familiar, which I take to mean that we were followed by all those we encountered. They're certainly capable of making no noise. The circle is facing the audience in absolute silence.

For long enough that some of the children begin to grow restless, the clowns are as motionless as a film still, and then they start to shuffle crabwise around the ring. Their unblinking gaze trails over the audience. Even the stilted figures on opposite sides of the ring manage to keep in step. Spotlights at the foot of the benches project a distorted shadow play on the canvas above the seats. The routine looks more like an obscure ritual than a circus act until a little girl laughs tentatively. The parade comes to an instant halt as the clown who's gazing straight at her falls over backwards.

From the solid bulge of his crotch it's reasonable to assume he's a man. Despite this distraction, he doesn't hit the sawdust. With a contortion that his baggy costume hides, he bounces upright without touching the earth or altering his painted expression or uttering a sound. He couldn't have been as nearly horizontal as he contrived to appear, but the trick puts me in mind of a film played in reverse. He puts his fattest finger to his outsize lips as he gazes at the little girl, and his fellow performers copy the gesture. As she covers her mouth while her parents pat her shoulders, the clowns recommence circling with their fingers to their lips.

What joke are we meant to be seeing? Just now I'm more concerned about Natalie. If all the clowns are performing rather than directing latecomers, how will she find the circus? Presumably she'll call me, in which case I'll be guilty of using a mobile during a show. I assume Mark is too fascinated by the spectacle to think of her. All at once, and with some deliberateness, he bursts into laughter.

One of the towering clowns is gazing at him. I'm as interested to watch how the performer will respond as I suspect Mark was eager to discover. As the parade halts again, the giant figure does indeed topple backwards and recover his balance without striking the ground. Not just the painted grimace but the wide unblinking eyes might as well be set in a mask. I'm so impressed by how skilfully he wields his stilts that I can't help laughing and clapping my hands like a child.

The clown fixes his stare on me. It seems capable of freezing my suddenly clumsy hands and rendering me mute. I'm reminding myself that it's another joke when I observe that the lanky figure inside the loose costume is no longer quite vertical. So gradually that I can't distinguish the movement, the clown has begun to stoop towards me. He's at least a dozen paces away, even allowing for his elongated legs and feet, but my awareness is trapped by the ambiguous immobile painted face that's lowering closer. The audience is so hushed it might not be present at all. The clown's posture is starting to resemble a sprinter's crouch, and I imagine him scuttling over the benches at me. I'm about to break the breathless silence with a forced laugh when a sound forestalls me: the siren of a distant ambulance.

The stilted figure rears upright, and the circle scatters in all directions. The clowns dash back and forth across the ring in a panic so elaborately choreographed that they must have been awaiting a cue. In the midst of this the giants collide and stalk backwards at a perilous run and rush at each other once more. This time they trip up, entangling their legs. There's a loud snap, and another.

They sound unnecessarily painful, which is how the results look. The victims roll apart and try to stagger upright on their uninjured legs, only to sprawl on their backs. As they writhe about, legs flailing the sawdust, at least one parent is unamused by the way the antics emphasise if not enlarge their bulging crotches. The other clowns redouble their panic, beseeching the audience mutely as if they're hoping for a doctor or a nurse. When nobody comes forward and a few people even laugh, the clowns fall upon their damaged colleagues. The fattest or at least the one in the loosest costume, which makes his head look grotesquely small, fetches splints and bandages and less likely items from under a bench while four of the performers immobilise each invalid. He dumps the collection in the middle of the ring, and the dwarfs fight over it before scampering to repair the damage.

They splint the legs by nailing wood to them – the wrong legs. They keep missing with the extravagantly heavy hammers, and soon an agonising snap is followed by another. As the voiceless wretches squirm all they can in the grip of their fellows, the clown with the small head mimes directing operations between sallies to the edge of the ring. His outstretched flabby hands urge spectators to participate as the dwarfs attempt to straighten the broken legs. When the unblinking gaze finds him Mark whispers 'Can I?'

Bebe and, I suspect, Warren would forbid it, but that's hardly the point. 'What would your mother say?'

'She'd let me.'

His gaze is as steady as any clown's. 'Go on then,' I say only just in advance of his sprint into the ring.

The clown beckons other children to join Mark. Several do, having asked or pleaded with their parents, one of whom peers at Mark and me as if she suspects us of being planted to entice her daughter to participate. The dwarfs have completed their task, although the mended limbs are anything but straight, and some of the children are visibly disappointed that they weren't given a turn with a hammer. Then the giants wobble to their feet and begin to stagger around the ring. They've thrown their arms around each other's shoulders and are attempting to grip them with their swollen hands, but rather than providing mutual support they seem to be in even worse danger of losing their balance. They lurch enormously from side to side, clutching at each other, and somehow regain their equilibrium for the next step. All this might be funnier if the dwarfs didn't scurry to catch up with them and imitate their crooked efforts behind their backs. Then the clown with the small head gestures the children to follow the dwarfs while the rest of the troupe sits on the lowest bench to watch.

When Mark glances at me for approval I show him the palms of my hands. Perhaps my frown is too faint to reach him, because he takes the warning for encouragement. He tiptoes after the staggering giants, and the other children follow in single file until the lead clown indicates that they should copy the dwarfs. The little girl closest to Mark puts an arm around his shoulders, giggling and eyeing her parents. The other children pair off more or less willingly, but this doesn't satisfy the impromptu director. He's urging them to mimic the crippled antics of the giants.

Perhaps Mark and his companion feel bound to obey because they're leading the youthful parade. I'm not certain which of them begins swaying, but in a few seconds they're both doing so with an abandon that looks positively intoxicated. The pair of boys behind them has started to compete when a woman shouts 'Lise, that's enough.'

She's the mother of Mark's partner. The girl halts uncertainly, bringing all the children to a standstill, while the giants wobble to confront the interruption and the dwarfs dodge behind them. 'Come along,' her mother says, tramping down to the ring. 'We're going home.'

As the girl bites her lip and her mother takes her by the hand, the clowns on the benches leap into the ring and surround them. Falling to their knees, they clasp their hands in silent entreaty and bend backwards so as to turn their stricken faces up. The posture emphasises every rampant crotch. 'Move out of the way, please,' the mother says more sharply yet.

That isn't why the clowns jump up and scatter. They're trying to head off several families that are ushering reluctant children towards the exit. Nobody is likely to be won over by their supplications when these involve so much thrusting of their crotches. As the last of the parents reclaim their children, Mark climbs to head me off. 'Can I watch?'

I assume he's hoping the show will continue. Just now the clowns are pursuing the families, wiggling their fingers at any child who looks back, until I'm close to fancying that it's some kind of secret sign. 'Let's see what happens,' I murmur.

The giants have hobbled to flank the exit. They look capable of falling on anyone who tries to leave. As each family does, a clown prances close behind, jerking his outthrust crotch high and gripping his midriff in silent laughter. These parting japes are too much for the spectators who've remained seated – for the parents, at any rate. They lead or in some cases drag their children to the exit and are sent packing by the same rude dance. I haven't seen the people leave who were talking as we sat down, but when I glance over my shoulder I find we're the solitary audience.

If Mark doesn't want to leave, I won't insist. He could see worse on children's television. I sit up straight and fold my arms, and so does Mark. Perhaps that's too peremptory, because all the clowns in the ring scamper to the lowest bench opposite us and sit symmetrically, the clown with the small head in the middle of the group, the dwarfs at either end. The giants remain beside the exit and clasp hands to form an arch.

Are the clowns on the bench waiting for us to move so that they can mimic us? Their fixed stares and superimposed contradictory grimaces don't even hint at their intentions. I'll have to move soon, because I'm finding it hard to breathe, but I feel as if neither Mark nor I should be the first to stir. Could we all be awaiting a new arrival? It might be Natalie, though only by coincidence. I take another constricted breath, and Mark emits a muted giggle. Then we both start as a phone begins to shrill.

The clown with the small head twists around, pulling his costume tight around his swollen torso, and grabs the mobile from behind him. Instead of answering it, he holds it out to us. 'Shall I get it?' Mark whispers.

'I expect so.'

As he runs to fetch the phone his shadow slides down the canvas behind the clowns and shrinks to meet him in the centre of the ring. The leader of the troupe points at me with the mobile and hands it to Mark. It repeats the same strident note in pairs – the sound of a phone from the last century – as he brings it to me. He's so eager that I hope he won't be disappointed by the pay-off. I poke the button to accept the message and hold the mobile so that he can hear.

Has it anything to offer except static? When I press it to my ear I grasp that the waves of sound are too patterned to be random. As the hissing grows more solid and more resonant I identify it as the beginnings of laughter. The mirth is distant, but not for long. It swells until I have to lower the phone, to save my ear as much as to let Mark listen. Even now it seems too loud, filling the tent and shivering the canvas, except that a wind must be doing at least the latter. Are the clowns adding to the laughter? Their faces are quivering like jelly as they expose their prominent teeth and clutch at their midriffs, and yet the gleeful merriment sounds like the product of a single mouth. The mobile feels weighed down by hysteria, and my senses are so overwhelmed that I seem unable to move my hand. Then the chortling begins to subside, and the quaking of the clowns lessens in sympathy. At last the noise trails off in a series of hisses that dissolve into uninterrupted static, and the phone goes dead.

Mark gazes up at me, and the performers watch just as intently. I've no idea what anyone expects, since the mobile is as inert as a terminally infected computer. 'Is anything else going to happen?' I wonder aloud.

I might as well not have spoken. There's as little response when I hold out the phone to the clowns, and when I shrug and lay it on the bench to my right, away from Mark. Why should I be expected to perform any more? That's the job of the clowns, however they spell themselves. I'm close to saying so until I notice that they aren't as still as I thought; their eyes are turning leftwards in unison and then back to me. They have to do this several times before I realise they're indicating the exit. 'I think that's it,' I murmur.

Mark seems happy enough. The outrageousness of the show must have satisfied him. As we head for the exit I brace myself for a last prank, but the seated clowns stay where they are. Their united gaze keeps hold of us, and their fattened fingers wriggle, presumably to send us on our way. I glance back from the exit, but nobody is prancing after us, and the jerry-built giants aren't about to collapse on us. Mark peers up at them in delicious expectant panic as I guide him clear of their rickety legs and out into the dark.

There's no sign of the departed audience. We're making for the dim foreshortened avenue behind the tent when the field grows abruptly darker, swallowing Mark's faint shadow and mine. All the lights inside the tent have been switched off. Without its whitish glow it reminds me of an ancient monument, but I'm wondering what the clowns can be up to in the dark. Might they be creeping out of the exit? I can think of no reason why they would, nor why we should wait on the chance that they are. 'Let's see if we've time to watch the film again,' I say to speed Mark onwards.

It's even darker beneath the oaks. The entangled branches seem to prevent any light from filtering down out of the scraps of sky. The hulking trunks are closer together than I would expect oaks to grow. I hold Mark's small chilly hand as we trot along the middle of the avenue; I wouldn't want him to run ahead and collide with anything unseen. Have we strayed into a different avenue? I'm glimpsing the totem pole through the trees on our left, although the pile of wide-mouthed glimmering faces seems to skulk behind them whenever I try to distinguish it more clearly. I even imagine some activity beyond it, rapid movements of pale dim limbs whose gait puts me in mind of an injured spider. If it was one of the giant clowns, where would the other be? When I look back the avenue appears to be deserted, although blocked by the looming bulk of the tent. I face forward again, and Mark clutches at my hand.

The alarm is only the tune of my mobile: 'You must remember this...' The song from Casablanca has lost some of its appeal in the gloom caged by trees. Mark relaxes his grip as I continue walking and lift the mobile to my face. 'What's been wrong with your phone?' Natalie apparently doesn't want to know, because she goes on 'Where are you?'

'Heading for the road near Frugoil.'

'It's all over, then.'

'It seems to be.'

'I'll pick you up at the gate.'

'What did – ' I begin, but the phone is unoccupied except by waves of static. Mark pulls me left around a bend, beyond which the avenue leads straight to the totem pole by the water. Once we emerge from beneath the trees I'm certain that the faces are incapable of springing apart and forming a line to meet us. I can see lamps above the wall at the far side of the field, and I'm disconcerted to find the sight so reassuring. I release Mark's hand as we cross the lawn to the gate.

Natalie's Punto is panting on the road. 'Was it good?' she asks as I let Mark have the front seat.

'It was funny.'

'Lots of laughs,' I say and shut the rear door. 'What did your parents want?'

Natalie meets my gaze in the mirror. 'I'll tell you later,' she says, and I suspect that I won't relish the experience.