Читать книгу The Face Behind the Mask - Helen Phifer - Страница 10

Prologue

Summer 1950

Twenty-year-old Gordy Marshall was in the stuffy attic of his parents’ semi-detached house admiring his reflection in the only full-length mirror. He’d found it hidden up here when he was a teenager. He had no idea why his dad hated mirrors. He had a thing about them and there were only two apart from this one in the whole house: one in the bathroom and one in the hall. He’d never been allowed one in his bedroom, which Gordy thought was just absurd.

He’d found this one hidden under a sheet one day when he’d come up here looking for something to make a clown costume out of. He knew that his mother kept an old trunk up in the dark, dusty attic full of costumes that she’d worn when she was a dancer for the circus. He’d found the trunk and sat for hours, looking at the shiny silk and sparkling dresses. There had been a photograph album full of pictures of when his mother was in the circus. She had photos of herself next to the lions, elephants, trapeze artists and clowns.

The clowns fascinated him the most. He was leaving to join the circus and become a clown. He couldn’t tell his mother of his dreams because she no longer seemed to have any of her own. She was a downtrodden, mean-spirited woman who did whatever her husband told her to. Gordy couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed or joked.

He’d listened in awe to her tales of circus life when he was a kid. One day his dad had come home and heard her telling him all about the handsome trapeze artists and that had been it. The next morning his dad had taken him to school and when he’d come home his mother had been in the kitchen making tea while wearing a pair of dark glasses and a scarf around her neck – even though it was a warm autumn day.

She had stopped laughing and joking after that day. She didn’t tuck Gordy in after that either, and the stories had stopped.

Today he was admiring the costume that he’d made himself, holding it up and standing in front of the mirror. He picked up the old satin washbag his mother had thrown away a few months ago and took the white greasepaint out of it. Gordy took his time applying it to his face. It had to be just right. He finished the thick coat of white and took out the red, drawing on the big, false, red smile. He drew the thick lines around his eyes and smiled as he stood as close to the glass as he could.

Turning his head left and then right he admired his skilful handiwork. He never heard the front door open; he was so fascinated seeing himself for the first time in full make-up. He stepped into the costume that he’d made out of some black and white stripy satin material he’d found in the bottom of the trunk. He pulled it up and smiled. There were three black pom-poms in the middle of his chest, which had taken him ages to make.

He pulled out the big, black ruffle that was to be fastened around his neck and lifted it up. Once that was secure he took the wig out of the suitcase next to the trunk. It was a bright orange curly wig from the haberdashery shop, which didn’t look particularly spectacular until he cut away the curls, leaving just three tufts of bright orange hair sticking up. As he tugged it down onto his head he grinned at the reflection staring back at him. From now on he would be called Tufty the clown.

A loud bang, then a high-pitched screech, made him jump. ‘Gorrrdy Marshall, what the hell have you got in here?’ He grimaced at the way his mother shouted his name. For God’s sake she needed to remember he wasn’t some snot-nosed brat any more. He was a grown man and the noise came from directly below him, which meant she was in his room. Going through his private stuff again. The last time she’d done that was under the pretence she was changing the bedding.

Anger filled his chest and he turned to run downstairs to see what she was screeching about. He ran into his room the same time as his father came running up the stairs. She was holding his old sweet tin in her hands, staring down at the contents. He muttered, ‘Fuck.’ As she held the open tin towards him she screeched.

‘What the hell is in here? I feel sick. I don’t know if I want to know or not.’

He shrugged at the selection of small bones from the animals that he’d killed over the years then kept in there as keepsakes. ‘Stuff, my stuff, that you have no right to be going through, you nosy cow.’

His father walked in behind him and shouted at him, ‘Don’t you dare speak to your mother like that – and what the hell are you dressed like a circus freak for? Do you know how idiotic you look? What if the neighbours saw you?’

Gordy felt the white-hot rage that he’d kept buried inside him since the day in the woods when he was twelve years old and had almost killed his friend Andrew. He had hit him across the head so hard with a tree branch that it had knocked him out cold. His anger erupted that day because Andrew had laughed when Gordy had confided in him that he wanted to be a circus clown.

Luckily for Gordy, Andrew hadn’t seen the rage coming. He’d spent three weeks in a coma and when he woke up he had no idea what had happened, so Gordy had escaped any blame. Then there was his teacher when he was fifteen: Mrs Goldsmith, who had made it her purpose in school to make fun of him. She hadn’t thought it was as funny when he waited by her house one cold, dark January night. She had made him stay behind at school again and Gordy had known his father would go mad with him for being late.

He had found a rusty old axe in the bushes in the park and had taken it. He hid it behind the low wall of the park, which was opposite Mrs Goldsmith’s house. He had retrieved the axe and waited in the shadows of the backstreet she had to walk past to get to her house. She hadn’t even had a chance to scream as the anger had filled his chest when she came into view. The axe had hit her across the back of the head. She’d fallen and Gordy had run for his life.

He had felt no qualms about leaving her lying on the cold ground bleeding and all alone. He’d laughed to himself all the way home that he’d shown her. She wouldn’t be making fun of him in class again. She hadn’t died, but she never came back to school. He’d heard his mother talking about how she was barely able to talk and feed herself any more.

Now he stared at his father. Once more the anger filled his chest. He didn’t care if his mother saw him dressed this way. She knew what the circus was like, but he hadn’t expected his father to be home. He was such a bigot and all he cared about was Gordy having a proper job, with prospects, and being respectable. His job working for his dad at Marshall and Marshall Accountants was about as exciting as watching paint dry and Gordy knew that he couldn’t do it a day longer. The time had come to leave and he wasn’t sorry in the least.

‘I’m leaving to become a clown. I’ve been offered a position in the circus.’

His father’s face turned the colour of beetroot. He spluttered as spittle flew from his mouth while trying to find the right words. ‘You leave this house looking like that and you’re never coming back.’

His mother had begun to cry, and then she let out a high-pitched scream as she ran at him. Her small fists pummelled his chest. He grabbed them in his huge hands to stop her. His dad bellowed at him to let go of her and Gordy lost it. Was he not allowed to defend himself? His father could punch and kick her yet this wasn’t allowed? It was ridiculous!

Shoving his mother to one side he strode across the room, pushing past his father. He needed to get out of this suffocating house of misery. He had a suitcase packed already in the hall cupboard; he was wearing his most precious items of clothing. After running down the stairs he grabbed his case and walked into the kitchen where he had left his wallet.

His mother, who had found her second wind, was now running down the stairs, screaming at him. Without pausing, he picked up the sharp axe off the fire grate his father used to split the wood. Swinging it with full force he watched as, in slow motion, it hit his mother’s neck and a fountain of red sprayed from it. Her eyes began to glaze over as she fell to the floor.

His father came charging at him, screaming Gordy’s mother’s name. Gordy knew he had no other choice now and swung the axe at his father. He watched as the fight left the huge bully of a man and he collapsed to the floor next to his wife. The spreading puddle of thick, red blood began to pool around both of their heads.

Gordy threw the axe into the open fire and the handle began to smoulder and burn. Flames jumped from it as the wooden shaft caught alight. He expected to hear sirens in the distance, but all he heard was silence. For the first time ever the house was truly quiet. After washing his hands in the sink he dried them on the tea towel and picked up his case.

For the first time in his life he felt liberated; he felt free. He turned to take one last look at the crumpled, bleeding, dead humans he’d left behind – humans he had once loved, a very long time ago. He shrugged. He could get changed, but there was no reason why he had to. The circus was only a mile away down the road on the wasteland next to the park; he could walk there as if he belonged. No one would recognise him and he would finally be able to be himself after all this time.