The Clown

- for Sufjan Stevens

Claire walked down the wide boulevard, unconsciously looking over the flowers in the flowerbeds of the neat rows of gardens. The lawns were lush and moist, regulated with clockwork precision by the parade of lawn sprinklers. It was April, and it would be Claire’s birthday in nine days’ time.

            As she walked, she heard the tinkling of a bell. It was Bobby Simpson. She knew him from school. ‘Hi, Claire!’ he said. She gave him a small wave and looked onwards, blushing slightly, not wanting him to see her. She heard a low rushing sound and looked overhead as the paper descended in an ark onto the porch of one of the houses. Bobby delivered the Chicago Tribune, a daily paper. A lot of people in the neighbourhood were retired, not connected to the city, and they wanted to know what had been going on: what the mayor had said that week, whether any politicians had been involved in any scandalous affairs, what the Lakers were up to, how Reagan’s campaign was going – that kind of thing.

            She looked at Bobby. ‘See you later, Claire,’ he said, a stupid grin writ upon his face. She stopped herself from blushing, smiling at him as he cycled off down the road. He looked back once more before commencing throwing the papers onto the lawns.

            Claire was headed to Mr Macey’s house. Everyone else called him ‘Old Man Macey’ on account of all the good deeds he did around the neighbourhood. Last year he’d managed to raise over three thousand dollars for a local school’s new sports block by organising a community fundraiser: on the spread of his huge lawn he’d had a stool on which he sold homemade preserves and pickles, he had fun and games – apple dunking, guess the weight, knock the cans from the shelf – he put out a paddling pool for the little ones, and, most memorably, he dressed up as his alter ego, Bozo the Clown, telling jokes and performing magic tricks for all the local children. Claire could remember they sat there mesmerised, transfixed. They laughed, but at the same time they seemed very quiet, as if there were some invisible terrifying thing about the man. Those eyes swollen with joy, that red and white face, the smile huge and carved like a slice of watermelon.

            Mr Macey had been giving Claire music tuition for three weeks now. She liked him a lot: he was always kind to her, giving her tea and sweets, but he didn’t talk down to her like a child. When she made mistakes he didn’t placate her, but he also didn’t bark at her like some of the others had done. He was a good teacher, and her parents approved of him. There was something about him which was calming, something which put Claire at ease. Today she’d be learning scales – pentatonic major and minor. The same as the last two weeks.

            She got to Mr Macey’s house about twenty to two. Opening his garden gate, she marvelled at the beautiful flowers in his garden, nestled behind the brick wall. Buddleia, thick cones of purple-blue flowers tapering off at their ends like the fingers of strange hands; tournefortia, white and mysterious curled up in their little bunches like claws; and dahlia, the flowers exploding with colour, from white to burnt orange to the white-streaked pink edges of each petal. Beautiful, like brilliant unnatural eyes. His lawn was vast and greener than all innocence.

            She latched the gate behind her and walked up to the front door. After she pressed the bell, she heard movement and Mr Macey had opened the screen door. He was dark behind the glass, but when he opened the front door the light burst in, and all she could see was eyes and a smile, his little teeth like shards of porcelain.

            ‘Hello, Mr Macey,’ she said.

            ‘Claire!’ he beamed. ‘How good it is to see you again.’ He bent down slightly and shook his finger playfully at her, a menacing little grin writ upon his face. ‘But what have I told you about calling me Mr Macey?’ he wagged at her. ‘Call me James. We’re friends – I’m not like those teachers you have in school.’

            ‘Okay,’ Claire said, smiling, and he ushered her into the front room. She sat down in the green arm chair and looked at the television. It was an old set, bound in oak – probably from the 50s. Ronald Reagan was being interviewed on CBS. She flicked the channel over to some cartoons, old episodes of Tom and Jerry. She’d never got too old for them, she thought.

            Mr Macey came in from the kitchen holding two cups and saucers. He placed them next to a table beside the piano, which was in the corner by the window, and then went back to the kitchen. Claire could hear the faint melody of birdsong outside his window. She looked up at the pictures on the walls and then looked at the pictures of Mr Macey on the mantelpiece of the fire. There was one of him dressed as Bozo, beaming broadly, another of him collecting a community award, and there was one black and white photo she liked especially in which he was stood between his parents on a beach looking hazily up at the camera, the sun in his eyes. He must've been about ten. His mother’s hair was windblown and it obscured her face, and she was looking down at James. His father smiled broadly. He didn’t wear a shirt. His hair was short and cropped, and he wore thick-rimmed glasses. James was wearing a cowboy hat and his mouth was smeared with vanilla ice cream. She’d not told Mr Macey she liked the photo, though – it hadn’t occurred to her to. He looked a little bit like Bozo with his mouth all white with ice cream. She smiled at the thought.

            Mr Macey entered the lounge again holding a plate of biscuits. He put them down beside the tea and approached Claire, gently taking the remote from her. ‘Now, now, Claire,’ he said. ‘Too much TV rots your brain!’ he said, and he chuckled. He turned off the TV. Claire couldn’t help but think there was something odd about his laugh. It was like it was Bozo’s laugh, or Bozo’s was his laugh. For some reason, she couldn’t place it – it didn’t seem to belong to either of them. He approached the stool and sat. He tapped it lightly, beckoning Claire to sit next to him. He took a sip of his tea and then placed the cup on the windowsill. He leafed through the pages of the music notation until he came to the right song.

            Claire had come over and sat beside him, and she was dunking a bourbon biscuit into her tea. ‘You like the Beatles, yes Claire?’

            She struggled to finish the biscuit before she said, ‘Oh, yes. Yes, James.’

            ‘Good, good,’ he said coolly. ‘What’s your favourite song?’ he said.

            She thought about it, racking her brains and twisting her mouth up into a little squiggle of contemplation.

            ‘Do you like Hey Jude?’ he interjected.

            ‘Oh, yes!’ she said. ‘That’s my favourite!’

            Mr Macey smiled. ‘That’s good.’ He took a sip of his tea and then said coquettishly, ‘We-e-eel, what if I were to tell you that I could teach you to play it.’ He paused. ‘If you learn your scales for today, of course,’ he said, putting all the emphasis on that if. ‘And you could play it to your parents. Wouldn’t they be impressed? Wouldn’t they,’ he said, ‘be so very proud of you?’

            She thought about it and then looked up and laughed, a joyous smile on her face. ‘Yes, yes, they would!’ Mr Macey gave her a contented look, and she felt at peace. She looked outside at the bright sunshine, the colours, the pristine houses and lawns, the rows of cars, and she felt complete. It would be her birthday in a few days. She wouldn’t be able to come to next week’s lesson because she was having a sleepover with a few friends, so learning Hey Jude would be a great treat.

           

                                                                                 *****

            Claire and Mr Macey had been practising for an hour and a half now. It was half-past three, and their lesson would end at four o’clock. She had practised major and minor scales, and she’d done it well. Just as he’d promised, Mr Macey was going to show Claire the chords for Hey Jude, and then slowly interweave the melody.

            Claire had noticed throughout their lesson that Mr Macey had been looking down her blouse. But not in an interested way – not in the intent way that the boys in some of her classes looked at her. Not like Bobby Simpson. The few times she’d glanced him looking, there was an odd expression on his face. It was like he was repelled by some thought. Sweat streaked his wide brow in a thin film. He'd periodically pull out a white handkerchief and dab his brow carefully, as if it were a little ritual. But then whenever they’d make eye contact the beguiling look would change quickly to one of joy or entreaty, him spurning her eagerly on and praising her playing.

            The two of them sat there, and Mr Macey started telling Claire about his father, whom he’d not spoken of before. ‘Your father’s such a nice man, Claire. Ever so nice. Not like my father,' he said, disheartened.

            Claire looked at him, his old pocked and weather-beaten face fixed in a morose look. ‘Really?’ she said, curiously, sincerely.

            ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’ve the same name, you know? Only I’m Jr.’

            Her natural reaction was to laugh as it was quite funny and strange; she’d never understood why men did that, name their sons after themselves. But then she looked at him. He looked troubled, more troubled than she’d ever seen him. He frightened her in that moment, something which she’d not felt around him before but which now felt oddly natural. A brief feeling of anxiety seemed to settle like a pall, a cold white sheet, over her face.

            The tea Claire had drunk earlier had made her throat dry. She had begun itching it with her tongue. Despite the window being open, it was quite hot in Mr Macey’s front room. ‘Mr Macey - I mean, James -’ she said, ‘would it be okay if I go fetch a glass of water?’

            ‘Why, of course, Claire.’ He looked at her quite severely. ‘You’re my guest. You don’t have to ask,’ he said, quite gently. She began walking to the kitchen, and just before she rounded the corner she heard him call her name.

            She turned back to look at Mr Macey. ‘Yes?’ she said.

            ‘Just be careful,’ he said.

            She didn’t know what he meant. She thought he was just being polite. ‘Okay,’ she smiled, slightly nervously.

            She was pouring herself some water when she heard movement in the other room. Mr Macey must’ve been filing though all of his music books to find the Beatles notation for Claire. She was looking out of the window into the back garden when she by chance glanced upon the pantry in the corner to her right. She’d never noticed it before: the door had always been closed. There was something strange about it. She couldn’t pin it on anything specific, but then her eyes fixed on a loose floorboard. One of the nails was missing. Once she'd had the thought there was no removing it.

            She looked into the door opening to make sure Mr Macey wasn’t there, and then she got on her hands and knees in the corner. She worked the floorboard away from the others carefully. Something inside of her told her to stop and turn back. She could see herself putting the floorboard back, taking the glass of water, and returning back to Mr Macey. But she persisted. Something inside her was telling her to persist.

            She felt around in the space. There was a leathery texture. She could make out many differently sized objects. Her fingers worked across them and she clasped her hand around one of them. She withdrew it.

            In her hand was a child’s shoe. A boy’s shoe. By the size of it, the child it belonged to must have been eight or nine years of age. She put her head into the dark hole, deep down. In the faint light, she could make out several pairs of shoes, most of them small and musty, bitten by age, scattered randomly. But one pair looked quite new. A small pair of black low-top Converse. She recognised them. How long had Charlie Parker been missing? Three weeks? She couldn’t believe it. No, she thought, it can’t be. But she knew it to be the truth. The fear was too much for her to take in any deeper, like a breath caught in the throat of an asthmatic child.

            ‘Claire?’ Mr Macey called out. ‘You’re taking ever so long. Are you okay in there?’

            Pushing down the fright deep into her stomach, she said, ‘Oh, yes, my water was a bit cloudy. I’m just running it for a second.’

            She held the shoe in her hand. The Parkers only lived across the road, just a handful of doors down. She had to get it to them. ‘That’s funny,’ said Mr Macey’s voice, ‘the water’s not running.’ The voice came from the doorway.

            She looked up and saw Mr Macey fling open a drawer. But before she could clamber to her feet to run, or scream the shrill unnatural scream that only a child in ungodly peril can give, he’d sent the mallet crashing down onto her skull. A loud hollow sound issued out, a clear popping sound, as if all the air in her head were suddenly rushing out into a vacuum. She crashed over sideways and slouched in a heap up against the white formica cupboard. ‘Stupid girl!’ he roared at her small limp body. ‘You stupid girl! I told you to be careful!’ he raged.

            The man clambered over the girl's body and looked into the pantry, putting his head down into the dark dusty hole to make sure nothing had gone missing. He put the shoe back into the hollow and then sat down at his kitchen table, looking at the wall.

            He sat there for what seemed an hour, but when he checked his watch only fifteen minutes had passed. The room had begun to spin, everything was in motion. But then some thought made him shudder back into life. His sight moved down the wall above the sink to the girl. Her head was covered in blood, the small wound on her skull starting to cake over dry, and her skin had begun to turn unnaturally blue.

            He sighed a regretful sigh: he’d have to dispose of the body, but there was no more space under the crawl space of his patio. As he sat there looking at the lifeless body sprawled before him, he had a sudden thought. It came to him like thunder from some Jovian cloud. This girl, she’d be fourteen in a few days. She was a star pupil at school: he had broken an agreement, a relationship of trust. He had broken the seal of a letter not meant for him. The others, they were only kids. They didn’t matter. What had he done?

            He walked calmly into the hall over to the phone and dialled a number. It rang a couple of times, and then he listened to the voice. ‘I’d like to make a confession,’ he said.
            He waited for the voice, listening, but carried on speaking out of desperation. ‘I’ve done something terrible,’ he said, and then he paused. The voice was entreating him for something, for information.

            My name?’ He thought about this for a time, staring blankly at the floral patterns of the wallpaper in his hallway. ‘James Warren Macey,’ he said. His throat was dry and parched. ‘Junior,’ he finished. He stood there with the telephone limply held up against his ear, his posture rigid. Looking into the hallway mirror, he didn’t recognise himself. His reflection seemed warped, as if he were looking into a hall of mirrors at a funfair.

            A tear trickled down his cheek. He rubbed it away with the back of his hand. He thought his makeup was running.

End note: 

For those of you who didn't get it, this story is based on the real-life serial killer John Wayne Gacy Jr. Yes, I know it's a cheery subject, but if you know anything about the man (and I can't say I know an awful lot), you'd know that he's a fascinating - if despicably vile - character. Anyway, I don't feel I have to defend the story in any way - hopefully it speaks for itself. If not, please tell me and I will go editor on it!