The Clown´s Gambit

Stuck at school all through the Christmas holidays, nine boys with nowhere to go. My mother had caught tuberculosis, so I wasn't allowed to go home and the other boys´ parents all lived abroad. Kalubushi´s father had been President of his country until the revolution. No one knew where Kalu´s parents were, or what was to become of him once the school fees came due.

Mr Rose, Rosie we called him, was the only member of staff, who had remained at school, and he was making full use of his opportunity. He summoned us, one at a time, to his rooms punctually at seven o'clock in the evening, dressed for a run. Rosie was always waiting with a towel wrapped around his waist, freshly washed and ready for action. He smelled of soap at the start but of lube and poo a half-hour later. I was not his favourite, he liked Dacre best, but I had reported for his evening physical-training session more often than I wanted to remember.

Just before Christmas a circus came to town and set up their faded marquee on the fairground near the riverbank. As a Christmas present from the school, Rosie bought tickets and took us to see the show. We had front row seats, all ten of us, we boys in our school uniform and Rosie in a tatty, tweed jacket. It wasn't a particularly good circus; the lady on the trapeze juddered with effort, the ponies all had streaks of green manure running down their back legs and the tent itself smelled of mildew and mushrooms. The only clown in the circus had a white face and a big, wobbly belly. He took one look at us and tried to move on to more cheerful visitors but there weren't many of them in the half-empty tent.

My feet had gotten cold, some labourers were carrying a large, wooden screen and nothing much else was happening. Then the orchestra stood up and blew a loud, impressive fanfare, the ringmaster strutted into the spotlights, waving his top hat at the crowd.

“Mesdames et Messieurs, Ladies and Gentlemen. Tonight, it is my great honour and privilege to present to you an act so dangerous, it has been forbidden in every town of our tour. Until now!” He made a wide and impressive gesture with his left arm towards a tall man with handlebar moustaches and a bare chest, who ran out into the menage. “Fresh from his triumphant season á Paris, I give you Mostapha, the dangerous dervish of Tashkent. Knife thrower, fire eater and juggler with the fate of nations; prepare to be astonished---”.

The ringmaster turned away from us as he said the word Paris and explained to another part of his audience that Mostapha needed a volunteer to assist him in his performance. We boys understood immediately. They wanted someone to go into the ring and let himself be tied to the wooden screen, so Mostapha could throw knives at him. We all stood up and each caught hold of a different bit of Rosie, his elbows and sleeves, his lapels and his belt. Kalu had got behind him and was shoving him out of his seat and towards the lighted menage. The white-faced clown reappeared from nowhere and called the ringmaster’s attention to Rosie, who we had dragged and pushed up onto the wooden barrier between the seats and the performers.

The Ringmaster was not pleased but he had little choice. Rosie stood in the ring already and Dr Whiteface took his arm and led the reluctant schoolteacher towards Mostapha’s target and the straps, screwed firmly to its wooden face. There had been little noise from the meagre audience but even that died away, we all fell silent and watched. Rosie was strapped firmly into position, facing Mostapha, who held a bunch of long, shiny throwing knives in each large, practised hand. Mostapha turned and paced solemnly across the sawdust covering the floor, before spinning suddenly on his heel, dancing two steps back towards Rosie and throwing one of his knives, which hit the wooden board with a thud and a twang just beside Rosie´s right shoulder. Our teacher jumped, his eyes popping wide open, but he couldn't move in the straps.

Mostapha bowed low and turned away again, pacing ceremoniously an even greater distance from his target. We boys hung on to each other, perched on the wooden barrier between our seats and the ring itself, breathless and enthralled. Except for Kalu, who had quietly left our group and was now lurking in the shadows behind Rosie. Again, Mostapha pirouetted and, using the momentum of his turn, hurled another of his knives at Rosie, this one striking to the other side of his captive’s body. He spun around his right leg and raised his arm to throw a third knife but this time I saw a dark-skinned hand, holding a small mirror, reach out of the shadows and into the light.

The knife thrower was dazzled, just for an instant, just as he threw his third knife, which caught Rosie on the inside of his thigh, just below his groin. Rosie screamed like a girl at first but then more like a horse with a broken leg. He shook himself, trying to get free of the leather straps fixing him as a target to be missed. Mostapha and Dr Whiteface both ran forward to the wooden screen, where our teacher was yelling and fighting to get free. He must have been able to move a little and pull his leg away from the knife stuck in his flesh because the bleeding started just as the two men reached him. A jet of bright red blood, like a kaleidoscopic fountain under the spotlights, spattered the knife thrower's bare chest and the clown´s white clothes and face. Rosie screamed a diminuendo and fell silent, slumped in the restraints, and I smelt, at last, his blood.

Thank you for reading this piece. Don´t panic! I won´t be writing this sort of thing much in the future. My thanks to the members of the Boarding School Survivors page on Facebook. You will recognise parts of your own stories here.