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The Circus

Oneworld Publications

Act 1

Aerial

I suppose you could say it begins with the buttons. That's when I have the idea; I mean, with the first snip. Because you can't go back, can you? Not after doing something like that.

There is a row of buttons, satin-covered, from the throat of the dress (low-cut of course, the way the Handbag likes it) down to the lowest point of the bodice. Then there are handfuls of ivory silk, the dress heavy and new out of its plastic case, but I don't touch them. I want it to be subtle, what I'm doing.

I take the point of the scissors and ease it beneath the nub of the button, wiggle it until I get it to meet around the thread. And then, snip. The button pings over the carpet. I note where it lands, by the mirrored dressing table. It will go in my keepsake collection, to mark a Significant Moment. There'll be more of those to come.

It is easy then, to do the rest.

Have you ever felt like that, Beanie? Like your life is finally going to start over, like you've taken it by the reins and headed firmly in a different direction? It's a rush. My heart's skittering by the time I finish cutting off the last button, and I wonder whether I should take one of my tablets, just to calm down.

I don't, in the end. I decide to go with the buzz. I'll need that spike of adrenaline soon.

I hang up the dress carefully, in its wrapping, place it back on the door and walk across her dressing room to look out of the window. They're arriving already, in twos and threes. A horrific pink limousine belches out a tumble of her shrieking friends, shocking high shoes in various colours of candy teetering on the gravelled drive.

Trust her to invite half of Southside. A whinny from the back makes me crane out further, but not too far. I don't want them to see me in the Handbag's room. It's Spook and Spotty, all dolled up like they're in a pantomime, feathered pink plumes bouncing on their heads. I feel another sting of rage. I told Daddy not to use Spook for her carriage. I told him.

But it doesn't matter now.

None of this does, I remind myself. I am dealing with it. I have a plan.

I leave the Handbag's room, and make my way past the stink of lilies (funeral flowers - not for weddings, surely? But the Handbag likes them, so of course the house is full of them) to my own room. Inside, I slide off my strappy heels, look around for my trainers. There's no time to change properly, not while they're all arriving. I leave my necklace on; it might come in useful for selling later. I grab my black jacket and put it on over my cocktail shift dress.

Next, my bag, which is already packed and ready. I tug my journal from under the window seat and stuff it in too. Then I take your Little Kit of Happiness. (Yes, it was me who took it from your dressing table that time. I'm sorry, but I need it more than you, don't you think?) I take the first ivory button that I cut off and place it inside the yellow drawstring bag.

As I make my preparations, a wild-eyed mad girl keeps catching my eye in the mirror.

Today I'm supposed to be a bridesmaid.

I look more like an assassin.

One Arm Hang

It's easy to swing myself down the wisteria outside my bedroom window. I have thick wrists and thick ankles, and they are made for moments like this. Our wisteria's not going anywhere. It's as ancient as the rest of our house is new, gripping the stone ledge and reclaimed bricks with fleshy little claws. From below, I hear chattering and laughter. It's a sunny day, perfect for a wedding. The Handbag's friends are grabbing champagne and wheelie cases to fit all the makeup and hair extensions that she'll need to use to transform herself into Cinderella.

I hang from the side of the house and from here I can see right over our grounds. Far away, behind our summer house, one of the gardeners is doing something to the rose trellises. Over the lake, the willows sigh and hang their heads. My mother named me after them, did you know that, Beanie? Daddy said that she was sitting at her favourite window, stroking the bump that would become me, and the delicate branches silvered and shivered so beautifully in a sudden breeze that she named me after them, right there and then.

A delicate, slender tree. How wrong she was.

There's nothing slender about me. I'm not exactly the fairy tale princess in the picture books, am I? Not like you. But I'm strong, and I can cling to the sides of houses all day if I need to. I can climb and swing and cling to things. What fairy tale girl can do that?

Anyway, there I cling until the last of the Handbag's friends giggle their way into our house. I wait until Martyna, our housekeeper, sighs and heaves herself back inside, after shouting something at the new Polish girl who grooms for us. I am glad of my Hi Tops. The wisteria is sturdy and strong, and I have climbed it in bare feet before, many times, but not in clumpy trainers.

Below me, the Polish girl rakes over the gravel where the gigglers have scuffed it, muttering and probably cursing under her breath. I wait until she straightens the headdresses on the horses and kisses them on their noses. She starts talking to one of the caterers and they disappear into the ridiculously big marquee on our lowest lawn. No doubt to admire the pink swags on the gold chairs, or to watch the events staff blow up yet more balloons for the love arch.

I swing myself down the wisteria before I literally vomit. I think of the Handbag knocking back Daddy's champagne and letting her friends glue on her fake nails and eyelashes. I wonder if she'll notice all the satin covered buttons stuffed in the plant pot by the window. I think of her rising in her too-tight shoes and taking the dress from the back of the door; easing it out of its plastic casing.

The thought makes me shiver.

My dress is too long, and I hitch it up as I run, past the lake, past the willows, to where the woodland starts. I pass the copse where my au pairs would sometimes take me to play while they smoked dark-smelling cigarettes and texted their boyfriends or sisters or mothers.

There's the Goblin Tree, ridiculously small now, but the first tree I climbed, trying to reach for the clouds. There's Snake Pit, where I performed death-defying feats with my dolls and teddies. I once stayed the whole night in this wood, but I don't want to think about that right now. That was one of the first times I tried to run away before, but of course I was far too young.

I didn't know the rules, not then.

I know them now, of course. I've spent a long time preparing.

Rule #1: Don't stay in the same place too long. Keep moving.

Rule #2: Alter your appearance. Use a disguise.

I expect the police know all of this, don't they, Beanie? Scally will, naturally - she'll have been on courses. Probably raised an ironic eyebrow and enjoyed the free lunch, made sarcastic comments under her breath about the newbie course presenter, because she's been around the blocks; she knows a thing or two.

I have everything I need for #2, but will need to do that properly later. I'll use the train toilets. For now, I wriggle out of my bridesmaid dress and shove it into a hole in the Goblin Tree. Shivering in my bra and pants, I pull on a dark sweater and black jeans. Stuff my hair into a hat.

Now I really look like an assassin.

I grab my jacket and reach the road, bursting out of the secret world of our land into ordinariness and traffic.

Then I stick out my thumb for #1.

I keep walking, keep my thumb out, but pull it in when I see the catering vans and string quartet arriving for the wedding. There'll be press too, probably. The Handbag's biggest ambition is to get into Hello! magazine.

After twenty minutes or so, a lorry stops.

'Where to, love?'

'London,' I say.

It's a man. Early sixties and looks like Santa Claus. Or a fisherman. He puffs out his breath when he sees me. He has a gold ear stud in his ear.

'I can take you as far as Oxford. That'll do you?'

'Fine,' I say. 'Thank you.'

I ignore his outstretched hand and climb up into the cab, squeaking around in the plastic seat until I find the seat belt. I put my backpack by my feet. In the wing mirror, I can see Daddy's car arriving; his red Porsche with its blacked-out windows and personalised number plate: GAS 1. Gary Allan Stephens. I used to cringe on the few occasions he would pick me up for exeat weekends.

All the other girls' parents drove beaten up Land Rovers that had been in their families for decades. Like yours, for instance.

'You all right, love?'

The driver's staring at me, a concerned look on his face. He has photos of his kids plastered all over his cab, stuck on the dashboard and on the ceiling. There are ones of teenagers on family holidays; a young man and a woman in graduate gowns; photos of them with melty looks on their faces as they hold babies of their own. I turn away.

I wriggle round, stare at Daddy's car as it moves slowly down our drive. He's gone. It's over.

I make myself smile brightly at the driver.

'I'm fine. Perfect,' I say.

The driver's a talker, but not a listener, which suits me fine. I gaze out of the window as he talks about his daughters, who are both studying to be doctors, and his latest grandchild – who was born premature but is a real trouper, a fighter, tough as nails – and his wife, who has just been diagnosed with Parkinson's but doesn't let that get in the way of their dream, which is to do up a narrowboat and retire on water, under the stars.

'Beachy Head,' he says. 'Best canal system in the world. Wake up to see a heron on your deck and a fox through your bedroom window.' He rustles inside his glove compartment and pulls out a much-folded picture.

'That's her,' he says. 'That's our Brown Betty'

I take it and make ooh-ing noises at the reclaimed wood and the stripped and tarred hull and the log burner found in a French street market. But I'm not listening, not really. I refold it and pass it back; turn to look out of the window. We're passing through the Cotswolds, juddering past chocolate-box villages and green, summer-soaked fields.

I fiddle with the button in my hand and wonder whether, back home, all hell has broken loose yet.

I drift off, and when I wake up the driver is pulling his lorry into a lay-by.

'This is it. Oxford. I always stop here for a fry-up and a snooze.'

He's indicating a bus that has been converted into a snack bar. MAUREENS BITES it says, no apostrophe.

I unsnap my belt and get ready to open the passenger door, but he's already out and opening it for me. I watch him swing my bag down onto the tarmac.

'You take care now,' he says. 'Always stop for young girls like you, I do. To prevent undesirable types picking them up. I'd like to think the same thing would be done for my daughters and granddaughters.'

He's staring at me with sharp blue eyes.

'Thank you for your help,' I say stiffly. I take my bag. 'I'm afraid I can't pay you.' Rule #3: Never spend money unless you absolutely have to. I withdrew all my savings for my gap year a week ago, and have them in a padded brown envelope stuffed down the lining of my bag. I can't let anyone — even someone as nice as this driver appears to be - see me take it out.

He looks hurt. 'Wouldn't dream of taking your money,' he says. I feel his eyes on me as I cross the road to the train station.

Another adrenaline spike.

Because this is the part where I travel all the way to London without buying a ticket.

Remember you are an accustomed fugitive. You have run away many times before.

The first time I ran away, I was nine.

That first time, it was all because of the mouse ear.

Schoolgirl MiMbngy

Sheila chatters all the way home. She's interrupted all the time by her sat nav, which tells her to turn down lanes in some old Doctor Who's voice, because she's a saddo sci-fi geek, which is literally eye-roll.

I don't really listen, because I'm thinking of Daddy and Spook's faces when they see me back home. It's an exeat weekend and Daddy has promised he'll drive me to his offices with him and take me to Hamleys and I'm so looking forward to seeing Spook again. On the way home I've imagined over and over his face and his whicker when he sees me; how he'll leave his grass-pulling, and come trotting over to nudge and snort and probably knock me off my feet, he'll be so excited.

Daddy's paid for Sheila, the house mistress, to drive me home. They do that sometimes. Get paid by the parents to do extra duties. I mean, they probably don't earn much looking after the little ones, do they? Even if they get their own flat and everything.

Martyna lets me in. She's our housekeeper. She's in charge of food and me. She's bad at both, but Daddy hasn't sacked her yet.

'Oh, you're back,' she says, as Sheila waves me goodbye and sails off down the drive with Doctor Who. 'I thought it was tomorrow'

'Where's Daddy?' I ask, pushing past her. This isn't easy because she takes up most of the doorway. I leave all my bags for her to take to my room, and run from room to room, breathing in all the smells of home. New carpets and new LG TVs and Martyna's scented plug-ins. Beanie says that those sort of things are naff. Her house smells of beeswax and cut flowers and coal ash.

Daddy's not in the drawing room or library or kitchen. He's not in the games room.

Martyna is standing in the hall, scowling down at my bags.

'Where is he?' I demand.

Her eyes narrow so that they disappear into her sullen face. 'We thought you were coming tomorrow,' she repeats.

Daddy's country office is in a converted stable. I crunch over the gravel and hum to myself as I stroke all Spook's rosettes in the stable lobby. He'll be in his field, of course, waiting for me. I frown at the dollops of dung in his straw. Nobody's cleaned him out yet. I hurry past the other stalls to the new stable block, which is all glass and steel and cedar cladding.

Daddy's office.

The door's not locked. Inside, it smells of new-sawn wood, because it was only completed a few months ago. Daddy has his main offices in Greenwich in London, but he often has meetings at home too. That way, he can still spend time with me when I'm back from school. I know that his work makes him an awful lot of money (more than both Beanie and Miffy's parents put together) and it has something to do with entertainment.

'Daddy?' I call. There is a scuffling noise from upstairs. I climb the glass steps to the mezzanine and poke my head round the reclaimed brick partition.

Daddy is fighting with a lady.

He has her over the desk and they are wrestling with each other. They are both struggling and snorting, and it looks like neither of them is winning. I watch until I can't stand it anymore, and one of them knocks a paperweight off the desk.

'Daddy, stop it!'

They swing round. All that fighting has made some of their clothes come undone.

Daddy's face is red so he must be really angry at the lady. She has her hand over her mouth and is straightening her dress.

'Oh, god,' she says.

I stand firm. 'Daddy, what are you doing? You knew I was coming home today.'

Daddy whispers something to the lady, and she gives me a strange smile and hurries out. I am glad she is gone. The air in the room smells funny, sort of hot and urgent mixed with the new wood.

'Did you remember the tickets, Daddy?'

He comes over and gives me a hug. He smells strange and I wriggle away. 'Willow,' he says. 'And how is school?'

I look at him. 'You haven't remembered?'

'I'm sorry, Willow.'

'You promised!'

Daddy always keeps his promises.

He never forgets to pick me up from school on an exeat weekend.

He is never too busy to take me out.

I watch him pick up his phone, which has been knocked to the floor. He jabs at the phone buttons with one hand, and does up his shirt buttons with the other. On the phone he speaks rapidly. It takes him two minutes to book tickets to the ballet at Sadler's Wells, and another two minutes to organise Martyna to go with me.

'There,' he smiles. 'All done.' His tie's still crooked from where the lady pulled it.

I stare at him, and then I run away.

The mouse has been on our mantelpiece for as long as I can remember.

It sits with its tail coiled round its haunches, and every detail is painted carefully, from the delicate long toes of its feet to the thin hair-like flicks of its whiskers. The mouse is clutching a china cotton reel, and it looks just like it's sniffing the air, nose quivering.

It is probably a priceless antique or something, because literally everything in our house is. Daddy pays someone to buy all our china at auction in Mayfair. The mouse is made of porcelain and has huge ears; ears so delicate and thin that it would take a puff of air to snap them. Martyna, who is so clumsy she'd knock down a tree if she wasn't looking where she was going, is not allowed to touch it. Nor am I, nor is anyone.

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Excerpted from The Circus by Olivia Levez. Copyright © 2017 Olivia Levez. Excerpted by permission of Oneworld Publications.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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