The Face Behind the Mask. Helen Phifer
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was all very well and good her having visions and seeing dead people, but surely a baby wouldn’t be able to see any of those things?
She didn’t want to speak her name; it was forbidden inside the house, but just what if it was her? What if Betsy Baker had come back? She’d had no qualms about killing children when she’d been alive. Why would she be bothered about scaring them when she was dead? Annie hoped to God that she wasn’t around.
She would phone Father John in the morning to make sure her grave hadn’t been disturbed. Just the thought of Betsy filled her stomach with a heavy, sick feeling. Placing the basket on its stand near to her side of the bed, she put Alfie in, kissing his forehead, then she climbed into bed. As she sank into the mattress she thought to herself what a horrible day it had been. Funerals were awful; they drained the very life from your soul.
As she lay watching her baby, her back resting against Will’s and soaking up his body heat, she tried to clear her mind of everything. First she pushed the funeral to one side, and then the dream about the white house, until all that was left in there was an image of Alfie. Her eyes began to close. As she drifted off to sleep she prayed for God to keep her family safe.
Summer 1950
Gordy had walked out of his house, reached the garden gate, then remembered the safe his father had bolted to the floor in the storage cupboard on the landing. It would be foolish to leave all that money there. He turned and went back inside the house, stepped over his parents’ bodies and ran upstairs. He didn’t feel a flicker of remorse for what he’d done minutes ago.
His only regret was that his Uncle Bernard hadn’t been here as well. Gordy would have loved burying the axe in his head. Out of them all he supposed it was Bernard who deserved it the most. The nights he’d babysat for Gordy, waving his parents goodbye as they went to a dance, eagerly waiting until he had him all to himself. Gordy hadn’t realised at first that what he was doing to him was wrong. It was only when he got a little older that he understood it wasn’t right for a grown man to want to do the things he did to him.
Before Gordy had the chance to tell him this, the man had collapsed one night and had a massive stroke. He was now a vacant, drooling wreck in a nursing home. He had to be fed and wore a nappy. Gordy supposed this was at least some kind of justice. Although not as satisfying as killing him would have been.
He opened the bedside table drawer and pulled out the small, black velvet pouch where the master key was kept. Then he opened the safe and took the wads of cash out. His dad had always been very cautious with his money, which really, come to think about it, had been a complete waste of time because he was dead and hadn’t spent any of his hard-earned savings.
Gordy stuffed the notes into his suitcase and pockets. This would see him right for the next year or two if he was careful, and he could be very careful. If there was a legacy his parents had left, it was not to squander your hard-earned money and to keep it for a rainy day.
As he left the house once more, he closed the kitchen curtain and locked the door behind him, just in case any of his mother’s nosy friends came around. It would be wise to make sure he had left town before their bodies were discovered. As he walked along the empty streets towards the circus he wondered where everyone was.
A poster tied to the park fence railings answered his question for him. The last matinee was now in full swing and then the circus would be leaving town, moving on to the next one to start all over again. This time they would have an extra clown with them and he couldn’t wait to start his new life. He saw the peaks of the striped tent and his heart began to race. Walking faster now, he wondered if he could catch the end of the show. He’d already been to all four evening shows, hanging around outside and chatting with the performers until the early hours.
He could smell the animals before he reached the waste ground where the circus was pitched. The smell seeping from the carriages was not for the faint-hearted. The animal cages made his eyes water with the piercing smell of ammonia, even though they were cleaned out daily. Gordy knew that being a part of the circus wasn’t a job; it was a complete lifestyle. You didn’t work the circus; you were the circus. You lived, breathed and ate the circus whether you were a trapeze artist performing in the centre ring or one of the many labourers who took care of the big top.
Everyone pulled together. They spent so much time in each other’s company they were like one, huge family. This was where you left your normal life far behind you and became a part of the greatest show on earth. It was the perfect place for Gordy Marshall to be. All his life he’d fought against the constraints of what society believed he should be, and now here he was, about to live his dream, knowing he would love every single minute of it.
As he reached the red and white striped big top he could hear the thunderous clapping of the audience and the loud cheers. He walked around to the office caravan where Betty – one of the trapeze artists – was sitting on the step nursing a badly bruised arm. The circus nurse was sitting on the floor with a pair of tweezers, trying to pull out splinters from Betty’s leg. Her tights were in tatters.
‘What happened? Are you okay?’
She nodded. ‘The rope snapped, catapulted me across the bloody ring. I managed to grab hold of the pole and slide down it, but not before I’d almost crushed my arm and ripped my legs to shreds.’
‘Do you need to go to the hospital?’
Both women began to laugh and Betty shook her head. ‘Gordy is it?’ He nodded.
‘You’ll soon learn that no matter what happens the show must go on. Even if you’ve got a broken leg, you carry on until you’re out of the ring and the audience can’t see you. I’ll be right as rain tomorrow, new pair of tights, a bandage on my arm and a long-sleeved costume. I’ll be good as new, won’t I, Evie?’
Evie nodded. ‘She will. No point telling her she won’t, is there? She’ll only go back up regardless.’
Betty grinned. ‘So you’re finally a part of the show? How long have you wanted to be in the circus for, Gordy Marshall?’
‘All my life.’
‘That, my new friend, is the right answer. When I’ve taken my final bow I’ll show you where the clowns hang out.’
‘Thank you, but it’s no bother. I already know. I hope you feel better soon.’ He smiled at the women and carried on walking to where the clowns’ caravans were. As he passed the elephants he gave them a wide berth. They were huge and only had bits of rope and thin chains tying them to the outside of their cages. If they pulled, they would break free and be able to trample him. Until he knew them better it was wise to keep a safe distance.
As he continued he heard a loud roar and jumped at the three lions standing pressed against the bars of their cage. One of them had his mouth wide open and Gordy didn’t know what would be worse, being trampled to death or having his head bitten off. Still, he smiled to himself because, either way, it would be better than being suffocated to death at Marshall and Marshall.
Walter Lacey sat on the threadbare chair in his cramped living room, the curtains drawn even though it was morning. He never opened them, preferring to leave them shut. It afforded him some much-needed privacy. He gently rocked back and forth – a coping mechanism he’d used since his childhood – trying his best to release the endorphins inside his brain to soothe himself.
He stared at the small bookcase stuffed full of his films: every horror film he could find at the second-hand stall in the market. He’d been obsessed with horror films since he was a kid. His mam blamed them for the voices he heard in his head back then. He knew that the films didn’t help, but the voices had been there as long as he could remember; even watching the kids’ programmes he would hear them. She just found it easier to blame it on the movies and not the fact that her son was a fully legitimate schizophrenic.
He hadn’t seen his mam for a very long time; not that it mattered. When