Chapter 61
Laughter oozed through the big top’s walls, joined by frequent Ooooohs of amazement and Ahhhhhs of wonder.
Out here, the crowd was thinning out. Probably something to do with the circus not being licensed to sell alcohol – so while the kids headed home to bed, the adults headed off to enjoy Aberdeen’s legendary nightlife. AKA: get wankered.
Logan lurked by the Whack-a-Mole stall, which some enterprising soul had customised, so the playing field was a big Mrs Doyle’s face out of which hairy moles popped up for the player to wallop. Extra points if you could hit the green melanoma.
Twenty minutes into the last performance of the Rumplington Brothers’ Circus of Delights and there was still no sign of Charles MacGarioch. All his mates were inside, enjoying the show, but the racist wee shite had finally missed an official Orphan Outing.
Pfff . . .
Yeah, but he might still turn up.
But why would he?
Everyone knew the police were after him – it was all over the newspapers, TV, radio, and internet – even if they didn’t know why he was a wanted man. But MacGarioch did.
Maybe the boy wasn’t as thick as he looked?
Perhaps it would be better to stake-out his grandmother’s flat instead?
Have her followed. After all, if he couldn’t stay the night at Keira Longmore’s house because his nan would have a fit, how could he justify being away from home for two-and-a-bit whole days?
He’d have to get in touch with her somehow, right?
Question was: would the Chief Super approve the manpower and overtime to run another ICSO?
Could divert the team from Seaton Park?
Yeah, but what if he turned up there, soon as they left?
And knowing Logan’s luck . . .
Steel’s voice groaned in his earpiece. ‘This is a bust.’
Yeah.
Charles MacGarioch was officially a no-show.
Logan pressed the talk button. ‘OK, we’re calling it a night. Tufty’s got tickets, if anyone wants to catch the rest of the show.’
Can’t say they didn’t try.
He wandered over to the big top, where Tufty waited, all on his own.
The wee loon handed him a ticket. ‘Did our best, Sarge.’
‘Don’t think the Boss gives out participation trophies.’
Biohazard emerged from the dwindling crowd, dressed like a middle-aged man who thinks he’s still got it, but clearly hasn’t. He accepted the proffered ticket. ‘Look on the bright side: we’re still getting paid.’
Then it was Doreen and Barrett’s turn – grabbing a ticket from Tufty before slipping in through the entrance.
The world’s daftest tiger hooked a thumb at the big top. ‘Can I . . .?’
‘Go on then.’
‘Woot!’ And away he scarpered, into the fun and the lights and the—
‘Me and Spudgun are off to the pub. If you promise no’ to be a misery-faced old snudge, you can buy the first round.’
Tempting.
He pressed the button. ‘Better not. Got Tara and Elizabeth here.’
Steel’s voice softened. ‘It happens, OK? Sometimes the buggers show, sometimes the buggers don’t. We pick ourselves up and we have another go.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ A smile. ‘And that’s two quid in the swear jar.’
‘Oh, for . . .’
Then silence. She’d gone.
Logan stepped through the entrance into a tented foyer festooned with fairy-lights, where a tattooed hipster in a ridiculously tall hat tore Logan’s ticket in half and ushered him through a velvet curtain into the Rumplington Brothers’ Circus of Delights.
A large semicircle of tiered seating surrounded the central ring, broken into six sections of about eighty seats each. And nearly every one was filled.
High above the audience’s heads a trapeze and high wire stretched from one side of the big top to the other, caught in the sweeping beams of spotlights. Down below, clowns worked the crowd, while acrobats tumbled and boinged across the sawdust arena.
Logan moved down the aisle, between two blocks of seats, scanning the faces for Tara and Elizabeth.
Which was a bit more challenging than usual, because of the face-paint. In the end it was easier to spot their clothes than their features – middle tier, on the left. And they’d even saved him a seat.
Logan worked his way over there, excuse-me’d past a handful of people and thumped down beside Tara.
And stared.
Tufty’s mate, Courtney, might have turned the wee loon and his bidie-in into little-big-cats, but Tara had received an elaborate Día de los Muertos face-and-neck paint job, made up of swirls and patterns and leaves and dots, and she looked .
. . stunning. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was a full-on kid/velociraptor hybrid – grinning away as a clown whooshed a bucketful of confetti over some poor unsuspecting member of the public.
Tara leaned in, voice raised over the hubbub and laughter. ‘No joy?’
He forced a smile. ‘Worth a go, though.’
Even if it was a sodding disaster, and he’d have some explaining to do tomorrow.
And Charles MacGarioch would still be on the run.
And the press would be in raptures of self-righteous indignation.
And the top brass would be screaming for results.
And Soban Yūsuf would be lying in a mortuary drawer, awaiting Isobel’s not-so-tender ministrations . . .
Wasn’t exactly a great day’s work.
The Ringmaster from the poster strode into the ring, wearing his bright-red faux-military uniform with lots of braiding.
Raising his top hat for a bow to the audience.
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, I must insist: no flash photography! We cannot risk startling the animals. For who knows what might happen . . .’
He stepped back with a big flourishing gesture, and the rear curtain opened. Spotlights swooped in as a Lion and Tiger slunk into the ring, followed by a huge lumbering Elephant.
They were part puppet, part marionette, part animatronic, and part costume. Life-sized and lifelike.
The audience Oooooh-ed and Ahhhhhh-ed as the ‘animals’ launched into the kind of routine most circuses could only dream of.
Logan let his gaze wander around the big top, picking out Tufty and Kate, Barrett and Doreen, and Biohazard sitting all on his own.
Then across the sea of faces to where Charles MacGarioch’s Orphaned Chums had taken over a chunk of the seating block – second from the far end – with the weenies on the bottom row, then the younger teens, then Jericho and Alexis and Marshall and Ralph.
The weenies were agog at the animals, and the teens seemed to be too.
Which was kind of lovely and wholesome, especially after all the horror and suffering.
Looked as if Jericho was cultivating his bad-boy gangsta image by sneaking in some tinnies. And yeah, technically Logan could march over there and give him a hard time about it – what with council bylaws and everything – but there was no need to be a dick, as long as he wasn’t hurting anyone.
And at least Jericho was trying to be discreet.
He popped his empty in a bag, so no littering, then dug out a fresh six-pack of lager: handing one to Alexis, who passed it to Marshall, who passed it to Ralph, who opened it and had a sneaky drink. The next tin stopped at Marshall. Then it was Alexis’s turn.
Finally, Jericho opened one for himself, but instead of drinking it, he put the can down at his feet as everyone burst into applause for the Elephant’s latest trick.
Maybe the lad was a bit stoned, because when the Elephant moved onto the next thing, Jericho opened another can and took a sneaky scoof. Laughing and cheering along with the rest of the crowd, as the Tiger and Lion jumped through hoops of artificial fire.
Oh, to be young and stupid . . .
By the time the animals had finished their set, the Secret Orphan Drinking Club were all passing their empties back to Jericho, who popped them, one by one, into his bag. Then finished his own tinny. It joined the collection.
A wee pause, then he did something strange.
Jericho reached down to his feet and picked up that extra beer he’d opened. Only instead of drinking it he gave it a wee shake – as if making sure it was empty – then slipped it into his bag with the others.
Hold on a minute.
OK, it was possible he’d downed two tins in the time it took everyone else to drink one, but . . .
Another six-pack emerged from Jericho’s personal off-licence, and away we go again: one passed all the way along, then a second, and a third, then one for the floor, and one for Jericho.
The sneaky bastard . . .
Yeah, the tin was placed at Jericho’s feet, but what happened after that was hidden behind the head and shoulders of the teen sitting in front of him on the next row down.
Logan raised the extension to his mouth and pressed the talk button. ‘Anyone still about? I think the fox is in the hen house.’ He leaned over and kissed Tara – trying not to smudge her face-paint. ‘Watch the monster.’
Then shuffled out of his seat, pardon-me-excuse-me-ing along to the steps as the spotlights swirled around to focus on a clown car rattling and banging out from behind the curtain.
It was a smaller, pedal-powered version of the one that’d been driving all around town, and before it had even gone half a circuit around the ring a similarly rattle-bang version of a patrol car pedalled out after it – complete with two clowns in high-vis waistcoats and Police Scotland black.
And God knew, Logan had worked with enough of those.
The clown car juddered past a prop speed camera – FLASH – and a ‘high-speed’ chase ensued, complete with lights and sirens.
Tufty: ‘Where is he, Sarge?’
‘Right-hand side of the tent, where they’ve just unrolled a zebra crossing.’
Doreen: ‘Not seeing him, Guv.’
‘That’s because he’s underneath the bleachers.’
Biohazard: ‘On it.’
Off to the left, Biohazard hopped out of his seat and hurried to the end of the row, then disappeared down the side.
Doreen and Barrett, Tufty and Kate scrambled out of their stalls too, all at the same sodding time.
‘Try not to make it too obvious, people!’