Brin Hodgskiss was born in 1976. After that he went to school for a while, spent six years at university looking at some books, and is now gainfully employed. He once kept a wolf spider as a pet. It was not as exciting as you might think. He wrote these stories when bored and unsupervised at work. He has some interesting real-life stories, and will tell them to you if you buy him a drink. Any drink will do. Thanks. He is threatening to write a lot more. He might even do it some time.

The Escape Artist

Brin Hodgskiss

The touring circus used to travel from town to town. It would arrive with trucks and caravans and generators and set up on the fields at the edge of town, where the houses came to an end. Beyond the fields, great grass plains separated the towns from one another. The circus would rise out of the sand and grass there, into the sleepy yellow of afternoon.

The circus would cause great excitement when it arrived. There was never much entertainment in these scattered towns, with their dust streets and winds that blew straight from the sky. The circus brought lights and crowds and many strange things. The whole district would draw to the town like night insects to a lamp.

Before the circus arrived there would be much talk about it. So much talk that the preachers of the small congregations would condemn the circus from their pulpits, likening it Sodom, and preach of the brimstone boiling beneath circus-goers. But the talk would continue and when the circus arrived even the preachers could be seen on the edge of the fields, looking hunched with curious disapproval.

When the circus arrived the farmers would came off their lands, telling their foremen that is the beats weren’t fed when they returned there’d be trouble; the shopkeepers; the townspeople, all would drift together amongst the striped tents on the trampled field. Opposite displays they would lean forward, hands on the shoulders of those in front, not wanting to miss anything. Their eyes would be wide and white, as if their whole lives were concentrated there. The only time this changed was in the beer tent. There the townspeople’s lives seemed to be concentrated somewhere between their mouths and their bellies.

At the edge of the field, covered in a tarpaulin, there would be wild animals in cages. The town folk would pass in such thick groups that the animal handlers would push them back with both hands, and tell them to be careful, and stop the children poking sticks at the mangy lion. The smell of the animals was strong, thick beneath the cover. The farmers would say that if they wanted the smell of manure and beast sweat they would have stayed at home. Besides, one farmer would always say, I’ve seen better wild animals on the hill behind my outer paddock.

But everyone, in all these lonely towns, would want to see the Escape Artist. No one mocked him, or said that they had better Escape Artists in the long grass beyond their paddocks. There had been word of the Escape Artist’s cunning and strength in even the smallest of towns. For weeks before the circus arrived the newspapers were full with news of him. In those weeks the men would sit smoking beneath their porches’ corrugated iron roofs, passing the newspaper between them, and agree with their feet up that the Escape Artist would be a thing to see.

One of the men would suggest, looking carefully at the Escape Artist’s picture on the front page of the newspaper, that the town butcher, or perhaps the school rugby coach, had a similar strength in the arms. The others would disagree and the newspaper would pass around the porch in a flurry of debate and cigarettes. The Escape Artist would be weighed up and compared in parts. Finally the men would sit back and agree that, if all his parts were put together, no man in the district could compare to the size and shape of the Escape Artist. Sometimes a wife would wonder why a husband who usually only wanted to sit and smoke had taken to push-ups and exercise after work. In the schools small boys would tie one another to chairs and have to be rescued by the teacher so, one day, they too could become an Escape Artist. The young girls would say everyone was just being so foolish, and resolve in their hearts to be near the front of the audience at the show. The Escape Artist became the star attraction of the travelling circus, the anticipation of him casting a shadow forward; swimming with dreams.

Finally the circus caravans would roll through the town. There would always be a crowd waiting. The caravans blew dust and diesel smoke from their high sides and spotted windows, over the peeling circus posters in the Town Centre. On the side of one caravan there would be a bright coloured painting of the Escape Artist. When the Escape Artist’s caravan stopped in the field where the circus was being set up, there would be crowds around it. Eventually, a man in a red blazer would ease down the caravan’s stairs. The crowd would press forward, asking to see the Escape Artist, asking what time the show would be happening. “Please, please,” the man would say, lifting his palms off his belly and holding them up to the crowd, “Please calm yourselves: I am the Escapologist’s manager.”

“The Escapologist”, he would say, pronouncing the word carefully with the tip of his tongue, “is performing later, please consult your programmes.”
The manager would begin to walk away from the caravan and the crowd would press him for more. He would stop and say,
“Our Escapologist is in fine form; fine, fine form. Oh, I don’t think he was been in such good form since, oh, our tour of the City. Or even before then, when we performed in front of the Governor and the High Commissioner. Even some members of Parliament were in the audience then” the manager would say “and I don’t believe I’ve seen him in such fine form since those days.”

He spoke like a man extremely proud of a rare possession. He repeated the same words to the eager crowds in all the towns. The manager would slowly lead the crowd to the beer tent, fanning himself with his hat with the ribbon on, and let them buy him drinks.

“Oh, his exercise regime has been rigorous, rigorous indeed. Deep knee bends, squat jumps, and that’s just for a start, of course. Then there are the many stretching exercises, the building of strength in the joints that is absolutely essential, the weights that can be anything from five to fifty pounds. Although of course,” said the manager, smoothing the beer from his moustache with his bottom lip and squinting over the plain, “while touring it is extremely difficult to maintain that training programme. Travel is so trying, you see”

Yes the men would agree, especially at this time of the year with the rains so late in coming. And they would buy the manager another beer to ease the thirst of his long journey.

A podium would be constructed for Escape Artist to perform on: It was four feet high and made of thick wooden planks. There were poles at each corner, wrapped with strings of light bulbs. Behind the podium a red curtain separated it from the caravans. Above the front of the podium was a huge sign in yellow and blue. The Escape Artist’s name was on it in curly writing, above “Escapologist Extraordinaire” and his manager’s name. Everyone would say how grand it looked, and some would explain to their friends what ‘extraordinaire’ meant. And though this podium would stand empty for most of the day, everyone would be watching it out of the corners of their eyes.

There were many other shows and acts in the circus. The field would be scattered with tents and stalls. There would be stalls where you could win something by knocking bottles down with a ball. It was strange that, just as the people near this stall were losing interest, someone who looked very similar to the stall-keeper would win a grand prize and make the townspeople try to win again. The main tent would be busy during show times. There used to be a trapeze display, but because the towns were so small, so far apart, the trapeze was no longer with the circus. There were still clowns and tight rope walkers though. In another part of the field was a boxing ring where the men of the town could pay to get hit by a fat man in a blue mask. There was even a ride that swung you quickly in circles above the grass on small swings attached to chains. The oily machinery ground ever faster to send those swings around, and the people would get off pale and laughing. In this manner they would pass the time until they could see, in the flesh, the Escape Artist whose image adorned the worn posters in the Town Centre.

As the Escape Artist’s show drew nearer the shadows on the grass would lengthen. A crowd would be drawn to the podium. The crowd would grow quickly as people tried to get a good view. Even the beer tent would empty. The crowd would stand and talk, their voices high and loud. The air became orange, then blue, the night rising out the grass. Then the light bulbs above the podium would flare. In their edged light the manager would step up to the podium and announce: “The Escape Artist!”

The manager would watch from the foot of the podium as the Escape Artist was brought out. The red curtain would sweep aside. The Escape Artist would already be bound to his chair with leather straps across his chest and arms. Chains looped over and between these, into the ropes that secured the Escape Artist further. His legs were strapped to the legs of the chair. The chair was carried by three strong stagehands at shoulder height. A whisper of awe shivered through the crowd, sifting in waves as they let them pass. My God, the manger would think, seeing the Escape Artist trussed and dangling, he looks like a hanged man. Then the manager would sweep his hands up to the crowd, a smile like paint on his mouth, and they roared anticipation.

The manager would climb onto the podium and call for volunteers. The volunteers clambered up with swaggering awkwardness. They would pull at the chains and ropes and belts to make sure these were properly secured, stiff shouldered with the awareness that everyone watched. The Escape Artist sat as they pulled and tested, his face still and calm. The bindings were always tight. The manager would make the volunteers say so to the crowd, who would applaud or jeer and, convinced, pull the volunteers off the stage so that the Escape could begin.

The manager knew exactly what to do. He would speak, and pause, even the dust in the air falling more slowly. Sweat would break out on his brow and cheeks as his voice rumbled over the crowd, lifting them up on their toes. He would tell of the Escape Artist’s past heroics in Escapology, his prodigious talent at a young age, his natural propensity, his dexterity and determination. And the crowds would press closer even if they did not understand all those long words. In small parts of the crowd some men would bet amongst themselves that the Escape Artist would never get free. They had seen the bindings and would quickly wager with their friends in hushed voices. Money and handshakes passed beneath the manager’s voice. Behind the pacing manager the Escape Artist would sit in calm preparation, hair smoothed down and shining.

Then, at the moment the crowds were clenched to bursting point, the manager swung aside, arm outstretched. The crowd’s eyes rushed like tiny hands over the broad form of the Escape Artist, weighed and hung in his chains. The escape would begin. As the crowd pushed forward those in the front would be crushed together. But none of the young girls in those rows would mind, because they were watching the Escape Artist. The crowd, without realising, would wriggle their shoulders and clench their fists in sympathy with the Escape Artist. The betting men would laugh at first, then grow still, mouths hanging open. They would stare at the near bursting of the Escape Artists’ neck, his veins. He was clearly willing to die to get free, they would say afterwards, recalling the shivered bow of his back, the tremor of muscle.

The crowd was silent. The sounds of the Escape Artist carried far over quiet faces. The crowd would later say that they had never send anything like it, ever. Sometimes someone, faced with the Escape Artist’s fevered struggle, would faint and fall, ignored, amongst the feet of the crowd. Then suddenly the Escape Artist was free. The chains would be shaken, flung aside, and he would stand, teeth gritted and trembling, and face the roaring crowd. They would shout and idolise him in tumbling voices as he stood with bent shoulders before his empty chains. In one town, the crowd broke over him and lifted his stiff smiling face onto their shoulders. The manager and the stagehands clapped one another on the back as he was ferried around the show ground with his hands held up over his head like a boxer’s, fists clenched.

But soon the crowd would calm and fall apart. The pieces of crowd would wander away to view the clowns, the wild animals, the beer tent, or the ride that swung you around until you were ill. The Escape Artist would be released, standing alone. Then the manager would hurry the anguished Escape Artist, hunched in the circle of his arm, to the waiting caravan.

Unseen by the crowd the manager would clatter up his caravan’s steps, rushing the folded Escape Artist through the door into the dark interior. There, on the carpet, another chair would wait. It was prepared. Bindings, ropes, straps, and chains would lie open to receive him. The manager could feel the ache in the Escape Artist’s tense sides. Carefully he eased him towards the chair.

The Escape Artist would rouse from his exhaustion, stirring to pull the chains and buckles over his chest and arms. He would be helped by the manager, and sometimes a brave stagehand. The Escape Artist’s eyes were bright with only one yearning. He would kick his feet back into the loops around the chair’s legs, the locks, his legs shaking with tiredness and haste.

The finals bindings were pulled over and secured. Only then would the lines in the Escape Artist’s face grow less deep. His lips would close over his teeth. The tears on his cheeks would dry. His shoulders would smooth, and his head fall forward into a slumber against his chains. Finally, the agonised shadows of his body would ease to gentle night. Every time, the Escape Artist would whisper that if the manager didn’t mind, could there please be more chain the next time, this was becoming too easy, too easy. The manager would be busy tightening the chains that would hold the Escape Artist until the next town. The manager would not look up, his eyes white in the caravan’s gloom. The Escape Artist would whisper again, louder now, and the manager would agree quickly. Yes, my boy, yes, whatever you need.

The manager would stay for a moment in the darkness to make sure everything was properly secured, then leave the caravan quickly. Outside, he sometimes paused for a moment with his hand on the door handle, head down. Then he would walk quickly away across the loose sun set grass with his shoulders back. Beyond the horizon, there were many small towns that would pay to see the Escape Artist tied to his chair.

boontoe

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