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black crosses painted over his eyes made him look forlorn. His suit had sombre stripes of grey and pale purple, and she could see the cracks in his white make-up from where she stood. He was some distance away, but closer to her than he was to the carnival. He leaned out from a tree on one side of the road, tilting his head, his mouth pulled down into an exaggerated frown. Lifting one arm, he opened and closed his hand in a mournful kind of wave.
    The fear came like a punch in the stomach. Frozen at first, Adie just stared, until his frown lifted and spread wide in a grin while his curled fingers continued that weird wave.
    She took off at a run, not looking back to see if he was following. She didn’t want to know. She’d just keep running until she saw someone else, anyone else. There wasn’t a single soul until she reached her own street. By then her breath felt like knives in her chest, and the tears were streaming down her face. Not wanting to enter the house crying, she slipped through the side-gate into the back garden, headed for the treehouse at the end of the lawn, curled up and buried her face in her hands. It wasn’t until dinnertime that she finally went inside, her face dry and wiped clean with a tissue. She said nothing to anyone about the Melancholy Clown.

    The air in the main tent was still humid and thick with the breath of the last audience. It had been packed, as usual, and now, with the seats virtually empty, the ghostly scent of the absent crowd made for a gloomy atmosphere.
    Felix Renaud, the ringmaster, stood centre-stage, whipping his riding crop back and forth through the dust at his feet. It was a sign of impatience, and the seats were quickly filled by performers and roustabouts as the whipping got quicker and quicker.
    ‘Eighty years.’ The light voice he saved for the customerswas gone, replaced by a deep, throaty growl. ‘Eighty years enslaved, imprisoned. Eighty years…’
    He stared into the distance for a long time, but no member of the carnival dared to break the silence. He whipped the riding crop again and smiled, baring his blackened teeth.
    ‘However, hope is on the horizon, friends. Hope comes to us all, and you better be ready.’ The riding crop pointed feverishly at random faces in the audience. ‘’Cos this time we’re getting out. And no soul is gonna stop us!’
    The crop lingered on a boy sat at the very back of the bleachers. His green, scaly face showed no expression, but the muscular woman in front of him reached back and patted his arm protectively.
    ‘This time we’re getting out,’ the ringmaster repeated.
    He walked the line of performers in the front row, receiving encouraging nods from the group of grim-faced clowns.
    At one end of the front bench, where Felix had placed it, sat a wooden box with curling petals carved into the lid. It shuddered at the sound of the crop whipping once more, so much so that its lid popped open and snapped shut again. Cool air filled the space as Felix’s laughter echoed around the tarpaulin walls.

5
The Doctor
    Grace felt sick. In her hurry to join the girls at the carnival again that morning, she had gone without breakfast. It was after five o’clock, and all she’d eaten all day was candy floss, popcorn and a bagful of sugared nuts. She had wanted to visit Drake and Agata’s tent much earlier, but the others had such a long list of performances they wanted to see and carnival rides they wanted to go on that she had had to wait until late afternoon. She had wondered why Drake wasn’t part of the main show in the evening, and she was eager to see what he could do.
    Adie was missing from the group that day. Oddly, she had told two different stories: Rachel that she had to help clean out the garage at home, and Delilah that she wasn’t feeling well. Grace suspected she was bored with the carnival,and didn’t want to go on any more vomit-inducing rides. It was the last day of the holidays; she couldn’t blame Adie for