Chapter 6- Me, Myself and I
They say that things come in threes; after the disappearance of Sadie and then Jeremiah it was only a few months before the Circus saw another loss, this one however could not have made Jerome happier. Uncle Zak had overseen Jeremiah's book keeping on behalf of the ringmaster for the last couple of years, and only when he vanished in the middle of the night did the ringmaster realise his betrayal. Jerome had overheard the leader of the Circus, a portly black man, angrily questioning his mother a few nights after Zak had left, Jerome had peeked around his bedroom door on hearing a commotion and saw him thrusting wads of accounts at his drunk mother.
"My brother is gone, I'm still here boss, what does that tell you? This is nothing to do with me." Lila pleaded her innocence casually whilst still sipping from her whiskey glass.
"And that boy of yours Lila, where's he? He did this, I trusted him and he's been skimming off the top for years for that useless cook." The ringmaster pointed to some numbers on the budget to which Lila shrugged nonchalant.
"Gone...and not coming back. I haven't got your money, I don't know where it is and I don't care. I've got enough on my plate raising my psycho spawn next door so I suggest you get out and leave us alone." Lila stumbles to the door spilling a little of her drink as she shows the ringmaster the exit.
The next few years in Haly's Circus had been a blur of habitual events, although Zak had gone Jerome had not escaped the violence. Alphonse often found reason to blame Jerome for some thing or another, costume damages or missing drinks each an excuse to dish out a beating always backed up by his clown brothers, Jerome suspected he was weary facing him alone since their encounter on the night Sadie left. When Alphonse wasn't around Lila had a mean right hook herself and a tirade of violent boyfriends and gentlemen callers all encouraged to help her 'keep the boy inline'.
Other than the beatings Jerome oozed through a cycle of shovelling dung, writing in his diary and avoiding his mother. It had gone like that each day until he had turned thirteen, one evening hidden away with the animals just backstage in the big top tent was where he discovered a new obsession.
Late one evening most of the Circus was silent everyone tucked up in their trailers or passed out somewhere, Jerome sits in his usual place under a single lamp leant against the elephant pen, a crack of golden light suddenly casts across the floor beside him illuminating the dust in the air, someone had turned on the ring lights.
Jerome stashes away his journal creeping silently to peer through the backstage curtain, watching as Mr Cisero walks into the centre of the ring placing a battered briefcase on a little table. Unlatching the clips he opens up the lid, one by one the blind old man takes out decorative throwing knives placing them carefully in front of the case, ten in total. Using his cane he hobbles over to the huge circular target, a large disc of wood with a white and red spiral painted on it. Wrist, waist and ankle straps hold a dummy made from old sacking stuffed with hay in place. The old man feels the outline of the dummy before heaving the disc by its edge with all his might causing it to spin.
Walking back to the table the old man places his red hat down into the briefcase, feeling along the table he selects the first knife passing it between his gloved hands feeling the weight and balance. Turning to the spinning target holding the knife buy the tip of the blade he throws it hitting perfectly between the head and arm of the dummy. He smiles to himself before gathering up the next 3 knives, in sequence he throws each knife, one, two, three, each hurtles into the wood with a thud missing the dummy each time.
"You gonna skulk around in the shadows all night boy? Or are you gonna come here and learn something?" The old man doesn't even look at Jerome, what would be the point with his sightless eyes darting uncontrolled at the ceiling of the tent.
Jerome steps out and moves to the old psychic, looking at the knives on the table he reaches out to touch one, a wrack to his knuckles with the brass head of the old man's cane stopping him before he makes contact, he holds out a pair of white leather gloves.
"If you like knives it's always an idea to wear gloves my boy. Protection and style." Jerome takes the gloves and places them on flexing his fingers to tighten the fit admiring the look on his hands as he does. Mr Cisero leans his cane aside and wafts his hand over the knives indicating Jerome to take one.
Jerome picks up a knife, as does the old man, Mr Cisero feels the weight then places the knife across his finger allowing it to balance perfectly, Jerome watches intently as the blade glimmers in the dim light and then copies eagerly. Mr Cisero holds the knife by the blade tip and shows a slow motion movement taking the knife from beside his head to full are extension holding it out in front of him, Jerome mirrors the movement watching carefully. Mr Cisero pulls the knife back one last time and pauses, listening to the turn of the big wooden wheel, then releases hitting the wood between the legs of the dummy.
Mr Cisero bows and steps to the side with his arm out to welcome Jerome to have a try. Jerome steps into position and practices the movement a few times, he watches the wheel spin then hurtles his knife at the target hitting the wood beside the head of the dummy with a thud. Mr Cisero claps his hands together smiling with approval, Jerome frowns and kicks the dirt.
"Something wrong boy? That was a perfect shot. You hit the target on your first try, think you should be pleased." Mr Cisero asks perplexed.
"I was aiming for the head." Jerome replies, the old man coughs a little to show his discomfort.
"I've got to go for a little while, why don't you keep practicing." The old man picks up his red felt hat revealing a hatchet and a small revolver fastened into the lid of the briefcase, Jerome's face lights up.
"When do we get to play with those?" Jerome reaches out intrigued but Cisero snaps the lid shut making the boy pull his fingers back with a jolt.
"Those are for another day Jerome, let's see you master the knives first shall we?" Mr Cisero takes the case with him and leaves Jerome to practice. The boy takes a knife in his gloved hands and admires it, a small smile creeps across his adolescent face, a sense of joy he has not felt in a long time starts to grow in his stomach. He thinks back to the power he felt holding that little pocket knife to Alphonse's fat neck, he knows this is for him, the beauty of the blade the power of the damage it can do.
That evening Jerome practices and practices, knives bounce off the target or miss completely each time but he keeps going until his arm muscles ache and burn, each throw improving his aim just a fraction. He listens to the spin of the wheel, feels the heaviness of each knife blocking out everything else, the circus, his mother, his pitiful life and focuses only on his task. Jerome loses track of time losing himself into the joyful power of the knives until the morning sun pours in through the tent entrance, he throws one last knife, he hits the dummy clean in the face hay exploding out of the torn sacking, Jerome beams with pride, he knows then that he will become a master of the knives, no matter what it takes he will practice everyday and he will be an expert.