Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Forty-Two: Tears of a Clown

Day became night, and after my performance - which closed the show - the crowds drained out of the tent; leaving sticky plastic cups, greasy burger boxes and a trail of taffy wrappers behind them.

My muscles stiff as vestiges of my masquerade, I retired for the evening. Still, my body was pulsing with adrenalin, my knees quivering as aftershocks of the show, my hands clammy inside the stuffy gloves.

I walked through the darkened carnival, the last colours of sunset draining from the horizon and the the lights of the booths and the tent were flicking off.

The merry band of misfits - who in the last six months had become my family - were celebrating. Clacking of beer bottles rang out and raucous laughter.

"Ah! The pièce de résistance!" Jacques announced, arm gesturing in a sweeping motion to me. "The cream of the carnival!" He blew a kiss and beckoned me. "My little Hawkeye!"

I was dragged towards the rowdy group of carnies, weaponry still on me and costumed to the nines. An uncapped beer was stuffed into my hand, beads of condensation coating the glass; it slipped around in my grip.

Jacques catapulted a cumbersome arm around my shoulder, resting drunkenly on me. "A toast! To our newest and most successful member!" He slurred, blinking lamely.

All of the bottles were thrust high into the air, clinking together and spilling fizzing ale onto the grass. "To Hawkeye!" The bottles were then guzzled in my honour.

Staring mutely at the drink in my hand, I turned to Jacques. "I-I can't drink..." I resolved, going rigid where I stood.

Jacques belted out a phlegmy laugh. "I know you're not twenty one, but here-"

"No, no, it's not that, it's-" My father was a drunkard. He used to abuse my mother and me when he drunk. My borderline abusive brother used to get worse when he was drunk. I don't like alcohol. I don't like what it does to people. It scares me. I don't want to know what it will do to me. "Nevermind." I crammed the bottle into Jacques free hand, not in the mood for disclosing my dark past and bear the burden of the beastly memories that came with it.

"Woah, woah! Hey!" The jubilation drooped off his face. "What is wrong with my little bird? My small showman? My Robin Hood?" A pinch appeared between his bushy brows and his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Nothing's wrong." I tried to costume my despondency with a wistful look and a pensive smile. "I should..." My head wilted. "...Get to bed." I nodded dolefully. "It's been a hell of an evening..." Then pivoted on my heel.

But ten metres down the dusty track to the trailer I had been granted, I heard a pattering of feet and Jacques shouldered into me.

"Hey, Clinton," he purred, his French accent having thickened in his doziness. "What is it that's troubling you? It's unlike you to be anything but buzzing with life!" He prompted, shoulder to shoulder with me. The very use of my first name jarred on me; it had been so long.

"I don't wanna talk about it, Jacques, it's nothing. Really..." I tore my gloves off with my teeth and undid the ribbon on the mask that was strung around my neck.

"Something about the alcohol..." His eyes narrowed discerningly, but his mind was numbed by the drink. In all honesty the volatility that alcohol instilled in people unnerved me. Even Jacques, the man to who I owed my employment and home, in his current state, unnerved me. "It doesn't bode well with you?"

Reaching the steps up to my trailer, I perched on the edge and pulled off my stuffy boots; wriggling my blistered and sweat-slick toes out of the choking things. "I don't wanna talk about it."