All on a Saturday Night

Sometimes I shop in town late on Saturday. I enjoy the bustle—the urgency of hurrying to catch the shops before they close—the excitement of maybe picking up a bargain at a miraculously knock down price. Now, as autumn changes to winter, I like moving from the cold streets into the bright cosy warmth of the shops.  Outside, under the streetlights, people congregate in certain places. They gather outside the library and in the entrances to the market hall. They crowd around the bus stop and push into the burger bars and coffee shops. Crowded places appeal to me. Perhaps it is the idea of safety in numbers, or maybe being in the company of a lot of people reminds me of the time I was the centre of attention.

It’s late in the afternoon, early evening really, and there’s a hint of frost in the air. I take a short cut down an unlit back lane and here I can look up between tall buildings to a clear sky and glittering stars. From the far end of the lane the sound of music drifts from the square and my thirty something years fall away as I hear it. I transfer my purse to my inside pocket, hitch my bag over my shoulder and hurry to join the throng. In the square, people dressed as clowns, are mingling with the crowd and a man on stilts sways and towers over everyone. There’s a flare of light and a whiff of burning catching at my throat and I stand on tiptoe to see what’s happening. Now, with little more than a glimpse of the spectacle, I’m thrilled by the sharp intake of breath from the onlookers as they watch a bare chested, spangled fire-eater consuming a great plume of flame. I remember the posters advertising the circus that opens on the town moor later tonight. These performers are a  

preview – drumming up trade for tonight’s show.

 But one clown stands out from the rest and my attention is riveted on him. He turns and as his profile is revealed my spine turns to ice. In spite of the garish make-up I recognise him. The figure beneath the bright satin shirt, inside the hoop-waisted trousers, is unmistakable.  I am not fooled by the antics, the slapstick actions. Something more sinister lurks here and I recall, after the bitterness of the last fiasco, vowing never to see Ivan Zakharov again.  

Retracing my steps back through the unlit lane, I’m glad of the darkness, hoping for a cloud to screen the stars. At the end of the lane I turn and head for home. I don’t want him to see me; don’t want him to know I am here.

At home I take care to draw the curtains before switching on the light. I can’t let him find me and this place is not far from town.

Leaving my lonely meal half eaten I try to watch the television but my mind rejects the game shows, the sports reviews, the soaps. All I see are the lights and colours of the circus. I hear the noise, the laughter and the applause and then the silence as the audience holds it’s breath while I wait with flexed knees, hands gripping the bar, for the split second of time when I let go and hurtle towards him. Then the rush of cold air on my limbs before the moment of truth when I surrender my whole being and put my trust in the man who has the will and the ability to catch my hands and keep me from falling.