The Devil's Clown E-Book

Susan Duxbury

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Deutsch

Seitenzahl: 407

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

The girl puts an eye to the keyhole and watches the man she thinks is an alien making love to her mother. Who is to blame for allowing him inside? Gloria! Gloria must be punished! Punishment is a familiar thing! Sally smashes her head, pulls out her eyes and buries her doll in the bin. The story relates the aftermath of domestic abuse; the emotional neglect of cruel and dispassionate parents, and a young girl, convinced that happiness can be restored by making people laugh. Sally hides behind her image of Miss Flummi the clown and becomes a brilliant performer in the vibrant and colourful world of the circus. But don't kid yourselves! Her mind is troubled; her behaviour is bizarre and her habits are strange. The devil demands revenge when atrocities refuse to be buried. Detective Inspector Nicholas Lightbone, called Nickbone, investigates a number of fatal accidents connected with Sally. But were they all accidents?

Leseprobe

The Author

Susan Duxbury was born in Shipley, West Yorkshire, England, and educated at Salt's Grammar School in the famous model village of Saltaire; then Leeds College of Technology where she gained a diploma in hotel management. After emigrating to New Zealand, she travelled to Australia and met her German-born husband. They lived and worked in the Australian outback, where she began writing her first book.

She is also a successful short-story writer and actively engaged in German/British relations; has two sons and lives with her husband in north Germany.

www.susan-duxbury.com

Children deserve a better world…

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 1

The telephone rings and the chimes enter her room, breaking the silence and demanding immediate attention.

The girl hurries downstairs taking them two at a time. She must hurry; it is her duty to hurry; it is her duty to lift the receiver and wait for the caller to tell her his name, although she already knows it's a man. She has known it's a man since the time he had coughed. It had been a deep rasping cough; an unfamiliar cough. But the man hadn't spoken – he never does! It's always the same when she waits for the click, the ultimate click telling her the line has gone dead.

Mum will want to know and it's strangely important she gives a satisfactory answer to all of Mum's questions. She remembers the cough

Telephones are monsters. They're no use to anyone, says the clown inside her. You won't find them in a field or in a tent, which is another good reason for Miss Flummi to stay with the circus.

The fanfare of trumpets, the rolling of drums and clashing of cymbals swell in rhythm, growing louder and louder and drowning the monster's penetrating chimes. The ringmaster, proud and magnificent in red with gold trimmings, waits for his cue behind the dining-room curtains. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he announces entering the ménage, flourishing his top hat with a ceremonious bow: “it is my very great pleasure to introduce the one and only…” here, another roll of drums to heighten the excitement, “Miss Flummi, the world’s greatest clown!”

The applause is deafening when she enters the ring in the baggy trousers from Miss Dixon’s Charity Shop, (who has a soft spot for clowns) and the plastic tomato over her nose, tightened with elastic to prevent it slipping down her chin and becoming entangled with the strings holding the collapsible top-hat (from the joke-shop) perched on her head at an angle.

Later, they’ll say what a mighty show it has been – the hilarious clown running in circles and the rubber-doll turning somersaults on the invisible trampoline. She’d go on forever if it wasn’t for the monster on the sideboard with its shiny black belly, which invariably puts a stop to it all.

The monster on the sideboard is the root of all evil, says Miss Flummi, the clown. It never speaks when she answers. All she can hear is the sizzling and crackling of sausages frying on an outer-space stove. Gloria says it's an alien who is calling. She’ll find out the name if it’s the last thing she does.

Beautiful Gloria knows all the answers. She is the friend with the almond-shaped eyes; red lips formed into the permanent smile and cheeks as smooth and rosy as freshly picked peaches. “Don’t worry! (says Gloria). After the alien has finished cooking its dinner it will enter the house through the ’phone.”

“Enter the house through the ’phone?”

“…inside a balloon,” adds Gloria sweetly, like it’s an everyday occurrence for the alien to enter the house through the ’phone and inside a balloon.

“Inside a balloon?”

This is all a bit much, Gloria telling lies again! She’ll lock her up in the broom-cupboard under the stairs because she knows what it’s like being locked inside a broomcupboard, sitting in the dark and thinking about her lies.

“By the way, Gloria, do aliens cough?” she yells through the broom-cupboard door, but there's no answer. The cough still resounds through her head; a man’s cough, not Dad’s bark or old ’Biggsie’ over the road spitting his lungs onto the pavement, but a hollow echo like it had come up a drainpipe. “Hey! Mr. Alien! – what an evil cough you have!” she’d yelled down the 'phone then squealed in disgust and dropped the receiver, which had jumped up and down like a black shiny fish on a hook. By the time she’d hauled it up again, the line had gone dead.

An alien who calls, day in and day out, but never speaks when she answers! How angry is she about that? – angry for having to leave the ménage to answer the ’phone; angry that the audience has walked out in disgust.

The lounge is now empty and the curtains are closed. The anger remains; it will come and go until she has punished them all. That’s the good thing about accidents!

…

The imaginary audience has come alive. It is the artist’s nourishment, watching the rapidly growing queue outside the Big Top; watching expectant faces awaiting admission. The acrid smell of animals mingles with fresh sawdust. Hoards of excited children are hushed along by their elders, intent upon finding their places on tiered circles of wooden benches surrounding the ring. When the band strikes up, the familiar sea of bright faces turns in one direction, waiting for the big moment; waiting for the fun. A clown survives on fun and merriment and it is Miss Flummi’s job to make people laugh. There’s nothing quite like it, wearing the ridiculous clothes, the oversized shoes she keeps in a pillowcase tied up with a bow; being chased around the ring by a horde of impish tiny clowns. She’ll escape by leaping onto the trampoline, to the roll of drums and the clashing of cymbals. Up and down she’ll go, higher and higher, twisting and twirling, as free as a bird and without a care in the world.

At least that's how it seems – but don’t kid yourself! The demons will return, along with the anger. They’ll be out for a fling, sooner or later; Gloria with the permanent smile in the white satin dress embroidered with flowers, and the mysterious man who never speaks when she answers; the alien who has stolen her mother.

…

She can't stop the demons and doesn't want to think about her mother; but memories return, bringing the pain.

“Been a good girl today, have you?”

Charmaine dashes about the kitchen having no time to dawdle, emptying the oversized bag of shopping she’s collected on her way home.

“Yes Mummy, I answered the 'phone.”

“Ah! Who was it?”

“The alien, Mummy!”

“The alien? Now behave yourself! Ten-year-old girls don’t tell silly stories! I’ll have to wash out your mouth!”

“It’s Gloria who says he’ll be entering the house through the telephone...says he’ll be inside a bubble! But I don’t believe everything Gloria says,” she adds hurriedly, eager to please, eager to avoid the dreaded soap in her mouth, “so I’ll take her into the bathroom and wash out her mouth instead, if you like…”

The lopsided shopping-bag succumbs to gravity. A tin of peas crashes onto the tiles, followed by a tin of smoked salmon rolling in diminishing circles. With an impatient sigh, Charmaine grabs her coat from the back of the chair and makes for the door. It bangs behind her with an earsplitting crash.

Oh Gloria! Beautiful Gloria is upstairs in the bedroom and such a pleasure to look at. She doesn’t want to hurt her best friend; doesn’t want to wash out her mouth or lock her in the broom-cupboard for telling lies. The girl buries her face in the soft and unbelievably shiny black hair. Together, they watch the car reverse down the drive; hear the screech of tires as it races down the hill and disappears around the corner.

“When mummy returns, she’ll be as happy as a lark,” says Gloria.

…

She would have stopped answering the ’phone a long time ago if it hadn’t been for Carol, Queen of the Classroom. Her sudden friendship with Carol has been proving hard work.

“Pick” – it demands by way of its usual high-pitched chime – “me up!” in two outdrawn clangs; repeating itself with relentless vehemence; commanding the attention she hasn’t given it for years, so it seems. She sits on the stairs next to the pile of ironed sheets, her head beneath a towel, hoping the dining-room monster will go away if ignored. That’s what you get for swearing eternal friendship, for pricking your finger and mingling your blood with someone like Carol who demands to know why she never answers the ’phone. The familiar sadness alternating with anger descends upon her like a plunging dark cloud. Think hard, she tells herself, think hard! The last time – had it been the last time she’d been suffering from a cold and lost her voice? This time…? What shall she say this time? Will they believe that the bell isn’t working? Yes! The bell isn't working. “It’s a new system and they can’t get the parts.” She speaks with astounding sincerity, enough to convince a group of schoolgirls who are no longer kids, but fourteen-years-olds, with formidable auras seeping through their pores.

“What kind of a system?” Big Thora, the hockey-team goalkeeper whose wrath can be gigantic, looms up against her, with the thick orange braid hanging over her shoulder like a rope to be pulled, if one dares.

“It’s an American system. We’re trying it out for the company that invented it … still in the experimental stages, so they’re sending a technician who’ll fix it ... complicated system ... top-secret.”

The modest, self-disparaging expression in clear, frank eyes: who can help but believe her? At first, she’d been surprised at her ability to conjure up lies at an opportune moment; but now, she even believes them herself.

The monster is still on the sideboard. It is standing next to Auntie Lucy hugging a teddy-bear, and Dad wearing a blue-checked shirt, smiling their happy smiles from giltedged frames, reviving lost memories through sparkling dust that dances about them like pieces of magic. Her hand trembles as she lifts the receiver and listens to the silence. The dark cloud descends, but there’s no fooling her now. Having discovered the trampoline, she can escape her demons by flying through the air like a bird.

…

She hasn’t changed much! Her reflection is still pale and far too solemn. She tries a smile, like the woman pasted onto the pillar with the sparkling white teeth, perfectly formed and zipped into her mouth, which is something she’ll never achieve.

Her eyes are those of a cherub on the church ceiling; big and blue with an innocent look. Light brown curls cover her forehead and a couple of corkscrews dangle around her ears. Twist a glamorous knot! Fix it with a pin at the top of your head and admire the sophisticated look. Admire the athletic figure, flexible limbs, slim, graceful hands and nicely formed boobs. Hey kid! You’re not a bad-looker!

“Do you think I’m beautiful, Gloria?”

Gloria, enthroned on the bed, smiles her permanent smile.

But there’s no escaping the oppressive silence; no reason for gaiety when nobody answers. Dark clouds herald discomforting thoughts and she shudders when she thinks about her ’birthday-party-fiasco’. The memory of it has been interfering with her sleep and the shame of it has been troubling her mind. There'd been no birthday party after all, because Mum had gone to a meeting and she’d hidden behind the curtains pretending no-one was home.

Memories of Grandma’s chocolate cakes are like ghostly children coming out to play!

“Here’s your magic wand, Gloria!” The girl props a pencil under Gloria’s arm. “I’ll tell you my wish. You must keep your promise and make it come true.” She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “I wish they’d run a fish and chip shop like Mr. Darcy’s up the road. Mr Darcy isn’t a bit like Dad! Mr. Darcy is an amateur comedian. He calls himself Charlie Chippie and has a fat stomach that hangs over his trousers; wears funny hats and jokes with his customers while frying the chips. Mum has left me the money. I'll go and get some right now!”

People laugh when Charlie Chippie wraps the food in yesterday’s newspaper and says he’ll be buggered if he’ll give them today’s paper for nothing. “Yer just a skinny old bugger”, someone yells from the back of the queue. Their laughter is contagious; it spreads down the queue and into the street. The girl in the queue thinks it must be a wonderful feeling, making people laugh.

“Skinny old sod – my old man!” agrees Holly Darcy, as thin as a rake and named 'the funny fat fish fryer'. “A pennyworth o’ batter! Is that all yer wanting? Ha!”

That’s what she’ll do, make people laugh! When she has eaten the chips, she’ll go to her room, dress up as a clown and make people laugh.

“Don’t mope,” says Gloria comfortingly. “What’s a fish and chip-shop compared to Prince Charming? He’ll whisk you away on a beautiful white stallion and you’ll live happily ever after.”

“Thanks Gloria! You’ve really cheered me up! Let’s look at the album to see what the clown is wearing before I dress up. Let us step into the miraculous world of the incredible! That’s what it says on the poster; colourful pageantry and magic which must be seen to be believed! You know that Mum grew up in the circus; don’t you?” she reminds Gloria. “Let us imagine the white horses galloping into the ring, tossing their heads covered with bright red plumes. Meanwhile, I’ll untie the red bow, open the checked pillowcase and change into Miss Flummi,” she hurries to put on the baggy trousers. “Miss Flummi will run around in her oversized shoes and make you laugh ’til your sides ache.”

There’ll be hell let loose if they discover her in their bedroom with the rose-bud wallpaper and matching curtains; the bedspread in various stages of bloom. She’d rather die than have her bedroom walls covered with dead roses instead of clowns and circuses. In the dressing-table cupboard there's the small, leather-bound album along with the rest of Mum's secrets which she'll look into later before going through Dad's drawer. She removes the album and returns to her room.

“Hey Gloria, look at him! Look at the midget artist performing a handstand and juggling six balls with his feet at the same time.” She turns another page to examine the faded photo of her grandmother dressed in a tutu, sparkling in the spotlight as she spins through the air, ready for the somersault before the split landing. One can almost hear the roll of drums, the frenzied applause of the audience.

“I’ll let you into a secret, Gloria,” she waits a moment to heighten the tension. “Grandma and Granddad Libella were circus-artists; true circus-artists, they were!”

Gloria smiles her permanent smile as the girl tells her story; the story she has told a hundred times before. Some have rolled their eyes in silent entreaty; others have smiled like Gloria, which is decidedly annoying and deserves to be punished because there's nothing to smile about one’s grandmother dying in the circus ménage and leaving the ring rolled up in an elephant's trunk. She’s heard about Mr. Loosely the plumber, putting his head in the gas oven for not paying his bills, which is a suitable punishment for people like Gloria.

Later, after Sally has switched on the oven and put Gloria inside, she wonders what life will be like without her best friend. She considers the question and then turns off the gas, because there’ll be nobody to talk to if Gloria dies.

“Let’s join the circus and travel the country with funny clowns and all kinds of artists. Do you feel the magic, Gloria? Look, I can do the splits! I’ll clear away your doll’s things to make room for the pirouette, and the elegant hand taking the call. Then I’ll open up the pillow-case and turn into Miss Flummi again.”

The applause has died down and it’s time for bed. Tomorrow, Mrs Lightbone will allow her to use the harness and practise the ’Salto Mortale’ for the Junior Championship in trampoline jumping. She has no fear of heights and her chances are good, says Mrs. Lightbone who is her trainer.

…

Her mother’s steps are hardly audible on the carpeted staircase. They stop outside her door so she closes her eyes, feigning sleep. The sound of breathing draws closer and then fades away. The door closes quietly, ending the intrusion. She opens her eyes, switches on the torch hidden under her pillow and returns to the circus.

The tiger is balancing on a chair next to Grandfather. Grandfather is ’The Great Libella’ and walks the tightrope. “Here’s the clown, Gloria! Look at the water spouting out of his ears. Don’t talk so loud,” she whispers, “because Dad is coming upstairs. Don’t worry! He never comes into my room!” They admire the pretty lady in a beautiful gown, in the centre of the ring with the horses, and then Grandma Libella once again, hanging single-footed from the trapeze like an open umbrella upside-down.

“Don’t be frightened, Gloria!” she whispers as the shouting begins. “They only quarrel at night because they don’t speak during the day.” Gloria’s nightdress needs rearranging but there’s no time for trivialities. She hears the telephone ringing; listens to the hurried footsteps descending the stairs and then the soft laughter seeping through the floor, which makes her shiver with anger because there’s nothing to laugh about when you're answering the ’phone. Later, footsteps ascend the stairs and enter the room across the landing. Low murmurs get excited; now they are urgent, developing into hectic whispers, swelling in volume, loud and ferocious, and she reckons if she had rose-pattern-paper on her wall, she’d be upset too. Now Mum is screaming and Dad is shouting but there’s a remedy for that! Run a fish and chip shop and make people laugh! Don’t they know there’ll be no more quarrelling if they make people laugh? There's nothing quite like it! – making people laugh.

Such strange noises ...do men cry?

“Pull the blanket over your head Gloria, we’ll return to the circus!”

…

There’s a nude at the back of Dad’s drawer, stretching her limbs on a leopard skin rug and displaying her parts, which is shocking and has been troubling her for weeks. But when she finds the courage for self-examination with the hand mirror wedged between her legs, she concludes it all looks the same, which is of little importance when she reckons the naked woman must have some kind of effect on her father, or he wouldn’t be keeping her at the back of his drawer.

Aren't parents the sexless individuals she has thought them to be, whose job in life is to provide for their children?

The pin-up goes around the classroom and circles the yard. Big-eyed screechers yell ’wow’ and ’huuuh’. The hardliners, who know a thing or two about sex, who have done the unmentionable deed, experienced the pleasure and excitement (and there’s a four-lettered word to go with it), say, “Hey, just look at those boobs – what a couple of hooters! …you can’t shock me with a bit of ’porn’ … where has it come from? … Sally Foss? I told you she’s mad!”

There’s a big fat ink-blot over the pink nipple and a corner of the page has been ripped off, which might go unnoticed if she returns the picture to where it belongs, and turns her attention to the photo-album instead. But the photo-album is nowhere to be found and she’s in a hurry. What about that chocolate-box with the crinolined lady on the lid? A quick inspection of its contents reveals how much her mother has earned and what she has spent it on. The light blue costume – “exactly right for the office,” Mum had said – from ’Le Chic’ in the High Street – had cost half of her salary. Dad keeps complaining about money and that’s another piece of the puzzle that doesn’t fit!

She returns the chocolate box to the cupboard; sits on the bed and closes her eyes. Why is she delving into her parents’ lives, considering their lack of interest in hers? How trivial are their secrets? What do they know about her achievements and the success she enjoys with Mrs Lightbone? They only listen with half an ear when she tells them about 'The Nissan Cup', held annually in Switzerland. It might as well be on the moon for all they care – the oldest trampoline competition in the world, for which her trainer has entered her name.

“You’ll need to put in plenty of practise,” says Mrs Lightbone. “What about weekends?”

…

Looking over the sea of grey berets worn at all conceivable angles according to the disposition of their wearers, she watches Mr. Samson’s bent figure appear around the side of the solid granite building; the Victorian edifice of a school built by the far-sighted entrepreneur, set upon educating his mill-worker’s children.

Amid a harrowing percussion of barks, groans and hisses, the caretaker selects the longest key from those around his waist, opens the wrought iron gates and jumps to one side as fast as his rheumatic legs will allow. Someone nudges Sally’s arm as she enters the school and turns to face the girl behind her, whose eyes move like a preoccupied cat as she opens her blazer, displaying the cigarettes and lighter as proof of her adulthood.

Sally has an image to uphold. One must appear bored when seething within, due to her sudden and unexpected rise in status. A newspaper article covering the renowned ’International Trampoline Competition’, has described the local girl taking part, as a dedicated athlete and ’an example to us all’.

Her brow rises condescendingly. “You know I don’t smoke, it gives you bad breath.”

The haughtiness of the reply hits the mark. Carol’s pained tolerance of her is a thing of the past. One simply must keep one’s cool, especially when someone like Carol is begging for her company; an unimaginable situation until now.

As they sidle out of the crowd and head across the freshly mown stretch of grass forming a borderline between the street and school grounds, there’s a hint of pleading in Carol’s voice. “You’re still coming to my party next Saturday, aren’t you? John Bridges is coming too!”

“Hey! You mean John Bridges the pole-vaulter?”

“And get this! He’s been asking after you!” Carol heightens the drama by making her point with a wellmanicured finger.

She’ll have to pull herself together. Getting excited about John Bridges doesn’t fit the image; a Mona Lisa smile is the thing. “I faintly recall him asking me how fast I can run the two hundred meters. Of course, I told him it was none of his business.”

Another milk-curdling shriek cuts the air. “I don’t believe it!” Carol doubles with laughter and shakes her head in mock disbelief. Then she suddenly has an idea. “You can stay the night. Lots of people stay the night when I throw a party and my people are off playing golf. Just say the word and I’ll get Jenkins to organise a bed.” She looks at Sally enquiringly. “Don’t mind sleeping with Josie, do you? Her parents are going to Cannes for the film festival, so she’ll be staying over too. By the way, did your people make a fuss about you skipping your training?”

“Mum made a fuss, but I managed to persuade her.” Sally concentrates on keeping the haughty expression.

“I should think so! You’re seventeen, honey, so don’t take shit from your parents! If your mother gets narky, tell her to piss off!”

Tell Mum to piss off...? “Mum never interferes these days,” she lies, recalling the latest outburst which had been the worst of them all. As usual, she had greatly despised herself for upsetting her mother, and as always, she had been at fault for messing things up. Somehow, she can’t stop messing things up and wishes she wasn’t so thick. Her stomach is squirming; the dull pain has returned and she can’t make out where it comes from.

No! She hadn’t thought they were spending money on extra coaching for nothing!

What will Mrs Lightbone say if she goes to a party, after all the hard work getting her fit for the competition? It doesn’t bear thinking about!

You should be ashamed of yourself! Tell me you’re ashamed of yourself before I wipe that silly expression off your face with the back of my hand!

“I’m ashamed of myself!”

“Don’t you ever dare to be ungrateful again, do you hear?”

“Yes Mummy, please don’t get mad, Mummy!”

“You’re right Carol,” says the girl. The tightness in her stomach has reached her throat. She can’t cry now, despite tears waiting to be spilled. “If she gets narky, I’ll tell her to shut her blower and keep it shut,” she announces, trying to sound confident.

It works! Being bold and dynamic gets rid of the tears. She fingers the letter in her pocket, addressed to Mrs Lightbone. Copying Mum’s signature, her slanting italics, had been like copying a Rembrandt.

“We can go back to school after break –think up some shit as an excuse!” says Carol as they walk past a buildingsite. She removes her light grey uniform beret, twirls it suggestively around her finger and then shakes an abundance of blonde tresses for the benefit of the bricklayers, who look around meaningfully and pose for the whistles.

The avenue bordering the playing fields, leads past the old church with the overgrown graveyard and up to the gently sloping lawns of the memorial park. There, the wealthy patriarch reigns from the granite pillar where thousands of workers, dead and forgotten, once put him. Propped against his weathered stone feet is a wreath wrapped in lanky lengths of faded yellow ribbon. The park is almost deserted at this time of the morning, apart from a distant dog-owner with two golden retrievers, chasing a ball and barking excitedly.

With an air of nonchalance, Carol removes a couple of cigarettes from her inside pocket: lights them, inhales deeply, then exhales meaningfully before handing one to Sally, who knows she must smoke it to the butt or her life won’t be worth living despite the oncoming waves of nausea. But taking deep breaths doesn’t do the trick and neither does swallowing (which had helped at the dentist). She can’t afford to be weak, not even now that she’s behind a nearby rhododendron bush, losing the battle to keep down her breakfast.

How can I keep my cool, when my skirt and shoes are covered with spew?

For God’s sake! - do the best you can, with the tiny pool of brackish water from the defective fountain, the dehydrated Cupid surrendering his spout. Why don’t these fountains work when they’re needed?

“I’m going home!” she announces miserably. Hasn’t she made a horrific fool of herself? Dare she beg Carol to keep it a secret? Oh Jesus! How she stinks! It's the mouldering stench of brackish water mingled with the sour odour of vomit and she'd rather make a run for it without further ado. “I’m going home!” she repeats. “Tell Mrs Lightbone I was sick on my way to the gym.”

Carol remains seated on the memorial steps next to the wreath, calmly pulling at her butt. Her features are sharp; eyebrows plucked into permanent surprise. Her new best friend is a bore, but wait and see! There’ll be enough opportunity to liven her up.

…

On a top-deck back-seat of an almost empty bus, the short journey home is uneventful, apart from the half-stoned tramp (is he a clown?) in a ragged coat and bowler hat, who has fallen asleep, now that the conductor has told him to behave himself or he'll be feeling his arse on the pavement.

There’s no place like home when you’re sick, even though the nausea has gone, walking down the road and in the fresh air. Enlightened by the pleasant relief of sudden recuperation, she steps onto the stone wall in front of a house. It is time for her entrée into the ménage; time for the artiste to return to the ring wearing a royal-blue robe dotted with sequins; to step gracefully along the (stone) wall dividing the ménage from the audience. Her feather-plumed headdress waves majestically as she spreads her arms, slowly and gracefully, to dance towards hyacinths and daffodils, around the silver Mercedes limousine parked at the side of the road. An imaginary roll of drums announces she'll mount the stone steps. The invisible audience holds its breath as she produces a key from the chain around her neck and unlocks the door. The well-worn satchel slips from her shoulders. The door closes with the twist of an elbow – a well-practiced trick – accomplished a thousand times already, with the exact amount of pressure. It clicks softly, avoiding the rattling of glass panes when she pushes too hard; nor will it re-open if caught in the wind. Perfect! The carpeted hallway is dark and cool, due to doors being closed to keep the rooms warm. The faint odour of Dad’s 'take-away Bengali curried chicken’ from the previous evening reminds her she’s hungry.

I'll put my stinking clothes in the washing-machine and clean my shoes before going upstairs to see Gloria. She stops to listen. Is it the rustling of paper she can hear? There’s someone in the lounge, moving about in an extraordinary manner and making weird noises, like a marathon-runner…Johnston’s house was burgled last week. Now it’s our turn! Oh God! I'm on my own with a burglar in the house!

She looks around wildly, thinking he must have seen her coming up the path; heard her unlocking the door.

He’ll be out to kill me! I'd better get out as fast as I can! Wait! Is it Mum’s voice I can hear? Thank heaven it’s only Mum! What a relief! Thank goodness you’re here, Mum…! I need looking after! I’ve been sick!

She listens, intent upon regaining control over her breathing before calling her mother, who will open the door with a welcoming smile. She is ready to be spoilt, to be looked after and cared for because that’s what happens when you’re ill. How pleasant it will be, lying on the sofa, warm and safe beneath a blanket. Mum will run backwards and forwards with a pile of comics and chicken soup – Grandma Foss’ remedy against bad colds and stomachache.

A sudden premonition prevents her from opening the door. Is it the long low wail ending in a high-pitched giggle or the crescendo of rustling paper? Definitely not Mum turning magazine pages. Is something wrong? She hears the man’s voice… not Dad’s voice! Dad isn’t home – there’s no bike propped against the garage wall – no take-away meal in the kitchen. Is Mum in the lounge with a strange man? What is she doing? Where are the answers?

The man coughs. She has heard that cough over the 'phone, and then a thousand times in her dreams. She has seen the alien, a face like a frog with pointed ears for catching signals, entering the house through the ’phone, inside a bubble, which is ridiculous and impossible.

Does he look like a frog? Is the frog puffing and panting like a long-distance runner? Why is Mum moaning? Is her stomach-upset too? Perhaps she has hurt herself and is helpless. Mum has never moaned like that. Should she get help? Dare she look through the keyhole?

An eye focuses on the head of light brown hair; long and straight, cut to the chin. A man…and naked...! She has never seen a naked man in such a position because Dad always covers his ’parts’ with a towel. She’ll have to find the reason; it is imperative that she finds out why the alien is on top of her mother, bending over her wide opened legs and putting his mouth on the most private of places. The nausea returns. Her stomach is empty. She retches silently.

Mum seems to be enjoying herself! Yes! Mum is definitely enjoying herself, like she’s never enjoyed herself before! The noise is enough to awake the dead, like Grandma Foss used to say, whom she still hasn’t forgiven for dying. She’ll get down on her knees and ask Lord Jesus to put everything right. That’s what she’ll do! Like Grandma Foss said – no need for a mite like yourself to be worrying your head over the silly things that grown-ups do. Before the Lord Jesus puts everything right, she’ll take a last look. The eye focuses on her mother lying on the couch, gazing at the ceiling like the naked lady at the back of Dad’s drawer. The rhythmic rustling of the newspaper is gathering speed, indicating passion reaching its climax.

White bodies move in ecstasy on the brown velvet couch, up and down, up and down, rhythmically, faster and faster, groaning, panting. The screams! Terrible screams make her tremble with fear! The door is the flat brown monster; the impenetrable monster. It separates her from her mother. The alien has entered the house and he'll take her away.

Go on! Have another look and don’t be a simpleton any longer!

They’re doing it lying down. Carol says she did it with Jimmy Becks, standing up and propped against a wall. Until then, she had always thought they did it like dogs. Once more, the eye penetrating the morbid magnet of the keyhole focuses the woman on the couch and melting into the alien's kisses. The girl turns away, unaware of the warmth leaving her body. She stares at the carpet. The colours are ghastly and dingy. The vintage ship, the Christmas-present she’d painted, is hideous and tasteless; they hadn’t thanked her as effusively as she’d expected and it's hanging lop-sided, almost begging to be removed. With the picture under her arm she leaves the house as silently as she had entered, thinking how contaminated and filthy the place is... grey patterns and whirling images replace pale-skinned frogs on brown-velvet couches…

The girl marches down the road to the canal, past neighbouring houses and the milkman pulling the trolley filled with empty bottles, clattering in crates as he returns from his round. He shouts something at her, and then shrugs indifferently at the uncharacteristic lack of response; raises his eyebrows at the uncanny gait; the mechanized robot-like strides. She crosses the ancient wooden swingbridge at the bottom of the hill; a relic of a bygone era, when goods and mill produce were transported by barge. After a few yards along the embankment, the girl suddenly stops as though examining her reflection in the dark, murky water.

The long-distance runner rounds the grimy walls of the derelict factory and sees the girl. He is sure she is one of those freaks attracted to the canal embankment like flies around shit. He’s seen them praying to the sun and dancing along the old towpath with enlightened expressions on their faces. This girl is standing like a statue and holding a framed picture over her head; disposing of rubbish in an unconventional manner no doubt, like the three-piece-suite that had been blocking the barges.

She throws the picture into the canal and he feels like applauding; couldn’t have thrown it further himself! It won’t be likely to sink for a while – floating on piles of debris hemmed in by a log. A stone from the dry-wall of the neighbouring field follows the picture with a splash. Aha! Another mad woman pulling down walls! Heavy ripples spread across murky water, forming a circle of miniature waves. By the time he reaches the girl, the picture has gone.

…

She’s got the punishment she deserves for looking through keyholes. Strange, how the suffering stops when one’s head has grown numb from the pain. Pain is an old friend. It comes and goes. Her steps are heavy and cumbersome. She is no longer the trampoline artist who flies through the air; neither is she the clown who’ll make people laugh. Images fade, switched off by an invisible hand.

Now she has arrived at the bus station. So many people, but no-one to help me! How can I explain the predicament I'm in? Should I ask queuing passengers if they’ve had sex with the alien? It's something to be considered! On second thoughts, they’ll say I'm a creep asking provocative questions; call the police and have me locked up.

The intense odour of snack-bar frying distracts her attention and she retches once more behind a wall. Before commencing her journey to the next lamp-post, she removes the newspaper from a bin, which will clean her as well as anything else. Take a look at the headlines! And while reading the newspaper, enjoy the cosy smell of freshly baked bread, reminding me of happy evenings with Grandma Foss in her kitchen. It fills my stomach and makes me feel better. Mum says they use extract from beetles to colour pink icing, decorating these buns in the bakery window. Oh! I'd almost forgotten! But Mum can’t be trusted for the truth, or anything else for that matter.

“I’ll have a sticky-bun please!”

The middle-aged woman behind the bakery-counter has almost finished serving the stiff-looking matron with the pillar-box hat, but there's still plenty of gossip to be spread; a detailed account of her daughter's wedding, who has married into money and thrown in her job. With half an ear she registers the girl's order, hands over the bag and holds out her hand, clicking her tongue impatiently while the girl searches her pockets and finally hands over the money.

Standing on the pavement outside the shop, Sally eats the bun and wipes her hands on the newspaper. Her fingers are still sticky, black and streaky from printer's ink and she wants to go home.

Tired workers with expressionless faces don’t give the girl as much as a glance as she squeezes onto the bus, hangs onto the strap and alights outside the pseudo antique-shop where two rickety chairs on the pavement are meant to attract buyers.

Nothing has changed. The day has been uneventful, other than the rancid sticky-bun which has upset my stomach and caused me to vomit. It is definitely the bun and nothing else, which has made me feel ill!

The house is empty and silent, as always.

Go into the bathroom, clean yourself and come out again. Gloria is waiting!

She disposes of the clothes still soiled with vomit. She would have done it earlier but something prevented her from changing her clothes and she’ll be darned if she can remember what it was. And her satchel is still in the hallway. Had she forgotten to take it to school? There she is! Gloria enthroned on the pillow waiting to ask the question – always the same question – day after day – week after week. “Did you have a nice day at school?”

“I didn’t go to school!” She answers impatiently.

“You didn’t go to school? Why not?”

Gloria's facial expression never changes and the lackadaisical attitude is getting on Sally's nerves. Does she detect a slight note of disinterest in her friend's voice? She could swear that Gloria is not the slightest bit interested in her well-being and besides, she has been a great disappointment just lately. She'll never forgive Gloria for allowing the alien inside the house. He had stolen her mother. Nobody should be allowed to steal someone's mother!

“Never mind, Gloria! Tell me what has happened today!”

Gloria is smiling but her eyes are empty. Traitor’s eyes are always empty. “Gloria! Oh Gloria! Why did you remain on your throne while he contaminated the house? Why did you let him take Mum?” Now she is shouting, almost screaming. “You should have stopped him, Gloria. You’ll have to be punished.”

A sudden blow and there is a loud thud – such is the force of Gloria’s removal from the throne which has been hers for a decade. The half-open mouth smiles at her from the carpet, but the row of white pearly teeth (which Sally has always admired) has disappeared somewhere inside, leaving a dark toothless gap. A heavy foot lands on her head and splits it open, revealing an eye. Another heavy foot transforms the eye into a bullet. It ricochets against the door and into a corner. The other cheek crumbles beneath a marble trinket-box and a second eye shoots out.

The executioner, having destroyed the demon, performs the tribal dance; stamping in circles and jumping about until the head is a mere pile of crumbs. She brushes them into a dustpan, together with the black shiny hair tied in a pink satin ribbon which has lost its hold on the decapitated doll’s body, and hurries downstairs to the garden, complaining hysterically about unfaithful friends. A puzzled neighbour, attracted by the shouting and screaming, watches the bundle of rags catapulting through the air at great speed, watches it crash against the garage and fall into the open dustbin upon a bed of vacuum-cleaner dust.

“Hello my love, alright?’’

She closes Gloria’s coffin and stands at the gate on the back lawn, impassively observing her father’s attempt at accessing the garage. He doesn’t request help and she offers no assistance either, as he balances his take-away-supper on his bike, wrapped in the familiar maritime flair of ’Holly’s Haddock and Charlie’s Chippies’.

“Yes, Dad!”

“That’s good!’’ he remarks absent-mindedly, having decided to leave the task of opening the garage until later. He props his bike against the wall next to the roll of chicken wire, which has been there as long as she can remember.

The smell of fish and chips causes another turn of her stomach.

“Got stuck behind a bloody manure carrier!” Matthew is mildly annoyed, which is as angry as he’ll get. Running his bath is a ritual; the indispensable luxury of removing the strains of a factory floor always succeeds in lightening his mood. He sinks into the hot soapy suds. Tension leaves his body together with the profanities of being a shop-steward. Keeping peace among workers is a job he truly hates, but successfully conceals; his calmness being mistaken for the strength of character he doesn’t possess.

The fumes of mid-city traffic ooze from his clothes, making her dizzy as she sits on the stairs, head between her knees; an often practiced remedy against fainting at school after standing too long during morning assembly. The hallway darkens in the evening light and her father emerges from the bathroom, freshly scrubbed. The clean white vest barely covers his large, pelty frame and his short cropped hair is wet and spiky.

He faces her questioningly. “Why are you sitting on the stairway alone in the dark?” Without waiting for an answer – hunger being stronger than curiosity – his features relax as he remembers his supper and makes for the kitchen. “Mmmm! Want some?” He grabs a tea-towel from the back of the chair and reaches into the oven.

“No thanks, Dad!” The familiar smell of fish and chips spread through the house, mingling with the filthy aura of invisible contamination. Either she’ll purify her room, or kill herself. She decides on cleaning her room.

“Go on! Have a few chippies then!”

“No thanks, Dad!”

The telephone rings. She can hardly bear the sound of it ringing, covers her ears and flees up the stairs to her room.

“Answer the phone, will you?”

“No, Dad!” she yells from the top of the stairs.

What the hell is the matter with the girl? His chippies’ll get cold. He’ll have to put them back in the oven if she doesn’t answer that ’phone. And who could be ringing at this time of evening? Charmaine? Might she need him for a change? No such bloody luck! You’d think he’d got the pest! That posh book-keeping-job isn’t doing her any good; no good at all... and after all that night-school studying! A bloody waste of time – that’s what it was – bloody waste of time! Still grumbling under his breath he leaves the kitchen to answer the phone and returns five minutes later. “That was your Uncle Mike, wanting to know if I’ll give them a hand when they move up to Dale Road,” he yells up the stairs, trying to sound cheerful and adds, “You can come down again! The ’phone won’t bite!”

She couldn’t care less if Uncle Mike moves into Buckingham Palace! Uncle Mike, who’ll put his fist in a face at the shake of a leg, with Auntie Lily and three gregarious cousins in Buckingham Palace…now that is something to think about! For a while, it even succeeds in distracting her attention.

Matthew opens the newspaper, but closes it again. “When was the last time we ate together?” he looks at his daughter questioningly. “It’s not healthy to stuff yourself with junk food!” His bushy eyebrows draw into the frown of sudden revelation and a row of deepening rifts reach his cropped hair, giving him the air of a chastising monk.

“Don’t know, Dad!”

“Well, it’s not healthy...!” his voice trails off as his mind delves into faded memories. “When I was a kid, we took our meals together – all ten of us! I’ll tell yer something! Nobody was allowed to start eating until we were all sitting, freshly combed an’ scrubbed, after your Granddad Foss had said grace, bless his soul. Now then! What d’ya think about that?”

“Don’t know, Dad!”

“Ah well! That was a long time ago! Nowadays, women don’t cook like they used to. Mind you, she’s a hard working woman, is your mother; very hard working indeed!”

The brown velvet couch enters the corner of her eye and ghastly visions appear. For a moment, she is tempted to believe she has imagined the rhythmic rustle of newspaper, the deep rasping cough, the alien’s body on her mother…in the lounge…on the brown velvet settee...legs open wide…oh my God!

She’ll never sit on that brown velvet settee again; not for all the money in the world!

“Put on the telly lass, will ya!”

“I’m not going into the lounge, Dad!”

There is a short, pregnant silence and newspaper rustles as he peers over the edge. The sound of rustling paper reminds her of something … she doesn’t want to think about it…please God, not again...!

“Why not?”

Her voice is almost panicking. “You should get rid of that pile of newspapers, Dad! At least you shouldn’t be keeping them next to your chair.”

“Why should I do a thing like that?” Matthew’s voice projects the incredibility of the request. “I haven’t read them all yet.”

“They’re contaminated, Dad!”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Filthy! They’re filthy and I hate them...do you understand, Dad? I hate them!”

Now she has burst into tears, leaving him bewildered; thinking the girl must be under some kind of stress! Too much training – these gymnastics and competitions are going to her head! He has lost count of the competitions she has won, although there are plenty of trophies in the cabinet to show for it! Charmaine says they take up too much space! But it does keep her occupied and she obviously enjoys it. What’s the name of her trainer? Mrs Lightbone? Now that’s the right name for a gymnastic teacher. She seems to think our daughter has talent, or she wouldn’t be ferrying her about the country to all these events!

“Anything good on the telly tonight?” he asks, eager to change the subject, yearning for a moment of peace. He’s had enough unpleasantness to cope with just recently, since they’ve cut the tea break at work. And now, to crown it all, his daughter is grinding him down. That’s adolescents for you! Get too damned big for their boots and start thinking selfishly. If there’s any more trouble he’ll hand in his notice – that’s what he’ll do! – hand in his bloody notice, and Willy Armsley can call the men off on a half-hour strike for the sake of three hours of non-permitted overtime, right up 'til doomsday if he feels like it. Jesus Christ and Holy Mary Mother of God! Too much for a man who wants nothing but a bit of peace and quiet and gets a hysterical daughter instead! He examines the television-programme. ’The Morecambe and Wise Show’ at nine fifteen! That’s what a man needs – a good laugh and a bit of slapstick!

“Don’t know Dad! I have a lot of work to do.”

Thank God her voice sounds normal again. Best to ignore these occasional tantrums, he thinks, and remarks absentmindedly, “Homework, eh?”

“Sort of! I need to do some washing and clean my room.”

“That’s my girl!” He closes the newspaper and takes it into the lounge, to the armchair in which he’ll fall asleep within the hour. There’s the sound of water running into a bucket; the squeaking of the cupboard door beneath the stairs. It needs oiling but he hasn’t had time! Who bloody cares...?