CLOWN: A Novel of Extreme Psychological Horror Read online

  ***WARNING***

  The following book contains scenes and descriptions which some people may find upsetting. Please be aware this is an extreme novel intended for a mature audience.

  ***

  Copyright©2014 by Matt Shaw

  Matt Shaw Publications

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters in this book are purely fictitious.

  Any likeness to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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  MATT SHAW’S

  CLOWN

  1.

  The children’s screams were music to my ears. If my life had a soundtrack - such a sound would surely be the first track in the collection. Children screaming, followed by the sounds of canned laughter. I raised my white-gloved finger to my lips again and shushed them silent. The screams took a while to fade to a slight murmur. This was my favourite bit. The bit which got the biggest scream before everything finally finished. My very own encore.

  I looked around the group of children sitting in front of me and reached into a large bag that I had brought with me. Their young, innocent eyes fixed upon it as they wondered what could possibly be contained within. What else had I got up my sleeve? I flashed them the biggest smile my mouth could stretch to - accentuated by the heavy red lipstick around my mouth - as I pulled out a paper plate. Keeping the smile from fading from my powdered face, I clamped my teeth around the prop before reaching back into the overly large bag. I pulled out a rubber chicken and gave it a puzzled look. I shrugged to the audience as I threw it over my shoulder. A ripple of laughter from the young crowd. I reached back into the bag and ferreted around some more. Seconds later and I pulled out an old bicycle horn. Another puzzled look in the prop’s direction. It was one of those old style hooters; a trumpet with a black inflatable ball attached to the other end of it. I held it up to the face of the child I had sitting next to me on a stool we’d pulled from his mother’s kitchen. Not that he could see what I was doing; his eyes were covered by my stripy scarf. I gestured to the watching children whether I should give the hooter a squeeze or not, and they all nodded frantically. Gleeful expressions on their faces. I gave them a farcical wink and went to squeeze the hooter only to stop at the last second. I turned back to my young crowd and gave them a disapproving look before sending the hooter over my shoulder and in the same direction as the rubber chicken. Back in the bag and, after another ferret around, I pulled out a can of whipped cream. This is what I had wanted. I dropped the bag onto the floor - next to my huge clown slippers - and took the plate from my mouth. I held it out and pressed the can of cream’s trigger, causing a frothy mess of cream to splatter onto the plate. I kept spraying as the children watched on with amusement. They knew what was coming. At least, they thought they did. As soon as there was a mountain of fresh cream piled high enough on the paper plate, I threw the can over my shoulder in the same direction as the previously used props. I flashed them another smile as I made a gesture as though to splat the blindfolded boy in the face. They all nodded enthusiastically. Of course they did. They always did. The chance to see their friend splattered in the face with whipping cream was too good an opportunity to miss out on.

  The boy in front of me was ten years old yesterday. His name was Johnny. Yesterday being a school night meant the boy’s party was pushed until this afternoon. Probably for the best. Yesterday, it rained heavily for most of the day and yet today it was bright and sunny with temperatures soaring to a near-uncomfortable degree - at least uncomfortable when standing in this get-up - and the parents have decided to move the party to the garden. An act - on their part - which turns me to a smiling-on-the-inside-crying-on-the-outside kind of clown. Of course I do not say anything to them. To do so would be rude and unprofessional of me. Rude entertainers, or those who lack professionalism, do not get repeat bookings.

  I waved the plate of cream in front of Johnny’s face once more and - again - the audience nodded with an unrivalled enthusiasm. Their keenness at seeing their friend hit in the face with cream made me wonder whether they were really his friends at all or whether they were here for the free party bags and cake. I suppose kids will be kids. They just want to laugh.

  I held up three of my gloved fingers and mouthed ‘In three’ at the kids.

  I lowered my fingers.

  I held up one finger and mouthed ‘One’.

  I held up a second finger and mouthed ‘Two’.

  I held up my third finger and mouthed ‘Three’.

  I raised the plate high in the air above Johnny’s face and then - as planned - had it snatched from my loose grip from the boy’s father. It had all been arranged at the time of booking. He wanted to be seen as The Hero of The Day, the man who stopped his son from wearing a face full of cream. The idea had come to him when he saw one of the children - at another party - get upset when he was on the receiving end of the cream splat. Johnny’s father wanted to book me on the strength of that show but was worried his son would have the same reaction. To be fair, most of the children enjoyed the cream ending I lined up for them. Most of them found it funny. I’d say there were only two out of ten who didn’t see the funny side. Regardless - Johnny’s father wanted to spare him and asked whether he could snatch the plate from me and hit me with it instead. I didn’t mind. Why would I? Still getting paid at the end of the gig. And so the plan was formulated that he’d grab the plate and splat it into my face. I’d fall over on the floor in shock whilst he took the blindfold off his son. He would then encourage his son to give me a kick up the bum as I struggled to get up, blinded by the cream. The kick was to be the final act of revenge. At that stage of the plan, I’d run from the garden - into the house - doing a comical scream; a scream I practised throughout the previous evening, much to my neighbour’s annoyance.

  I acted surprised when the plate was snatched from me. The look upon the children’s face suggested my over-the-top melodramatic acting was absolutely spot on once again but then that’s to be expected with the rate I charge. Not too expensive, but not selling myself short either. I want to entertain the children, I want them to remember their parties but, at the same time, I do have bills to pay and the cost of the various storage units is not exactly cheap.

  “What are you doing?!” I asked Johnny’s dad as the audience gasped. Johnny himself pulled the blindfold from his vision so he could see what was happening. Even his eyes went wide with amazement when he saw his father lean forward and slam the cream pie straight into my face. “You’re ruining my show!” I shouted in an eerily high-pitched voice as I stumbled back onto my bum. I was surprised by the lack of laughter from the audience.

  “It’s not nice, is it?” Johnny’s dad shouted at me. Again - still no laughter. I rolled around on the floor with my arms and legs flailing about. I must have looked pathetic. “Well you’re not doing it to my son!” His voice changed. He initially sounded as though he were being serious, as though he were genuinely upset that I was about to playfully hit his son with a cream pie. The second line he shouted though, the bit where he said I wasn’t going to do it to his boy - that was better - much more over the top. More…What was it…Cheesy. Fake. A small ripple of laughter ran through the crowd. Johnny’s father noticed this too. “You’re a big, fat bully!” he said. Another ripple of laughter. Louder this time. I took the opportunity to go on all fours
- my big padded arse pointed to the party-goers. “And we don’t like big, fat bullies, do we?” he asked the children.

  “No!” they all screamed.

  “Let’s teach him a lesson!” Johnny’s dad - the Hero of The Day - shouted. He ran up behind me and gave me a gentle kick on the bottom. I playfully screamed. “Who else wants a go?” he asked.

  “ME!” several children shouted out - Johnny being one of them.

  As I pretended to struggle to get up, each of the children lined up behind me and gave me a kick on the bum, their infectious laughter getting louder by the second. The perfect end to the perfect party and another satisfied customer.

  “Thank you for that,” Johnny’s dad said as he stepped into where I was hiding in the family living room. His name was Colin. He was a tall man, fairly well built. Not the biggest of men but - even so - I’m glad he pulled the kick just a little bit. I had a feeling that had he not done so, it would have left a bruise, even with all the padding on the suit I wore. “I was worried, for a moment, that they weren’t going to like the alternative ending,” he said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a white envelope. That would be my payment. What’s inside, not the envelope. He handed it over to me and I slid it into the zipper pocket on the side of my yellow suit. “Think they started off thinking I was being serious,” he continued. To me, this was the awkward part of the events I attended. I always found them a struggle; having to be polite to someone when all I wanted to do was put my feet up and rest a little. I’m fifty in a couple of weeks, slightly overweight (not overly so) and pretty unfit. I loved this gig. It meant the world to me but that didn’t stop it from tiring me out. Can’t be rude though. Need to think of repeat business. His son is ten years old. There’s a chance he could want a clown at his party for at least a couple more years yet.

  “I think they loved it,” I forced out. “My bum - not so much,” I laughed. Had Colin known me, he might have known the laugh wasn’t a genuine one. Again, laughing on the outside and crying on the inside.

  “Well, thank you again. I’ve slipped a little extra something into the envelope for you as an additional thank you,” he smiled and winked at me. It was always good when they felt the necessity to tip and - thankfully - most of them did. But then, I did always give one hundred and ten percent to the shows I put on. For a reasonable rate they got balloon animals, dancing, silly walk competitions, animal impressions and anything else I could think of. Most of my routines were the same for each party; I tended to keep the same order of events too. Why change a winning formula? Even the cream pie ending. The kids would sit there on their chairs, blindfolded, but they knew what was coming. I think the anticipation was half of the fun for them. Well - usually. Like I said - two out of ten kids weren’t as keen on the act but you can’t win them all and I tended to try and make amends with them by letting them get me back with their very own cream pie. Fair is fair after all and I hated to leave on a sour note.

  “Thank you, but you didn’t have to,” I said.

  “Listen - if you want - you can use one of the rooms upstairs to get changed in? Must be boiling in that get-up.”

  “It’s fine, thank you. Used to it now,” I laughed. “Right. Unless there’s anything else I can do for you, I’ll slip out now.”

  “They’re just cutting the cake up now and then I think we’re more or less finished for another year. Unless you wanted some cake?”

  I struggled to get out of the seat. Had to stand up. If I’d stayed there much longer, chances are I’d have fallen asleep. The effort taken to perform such a show, especially in this heat, sure does take it out of you. “I’m good, thank you. But - listen - it’s been fun.”

  Colin extended his hand to me and I took it in my own. We shook and I picked up my bag of props; pretty sure I have it all.

  “It was great. I can’t thank you enough…”

  “Well if you know of anyone in need of a clown…”

  “…I’ll be sure to recommend.”

  “That’s all I ask,” I replied as he walked me through to the front door. He opened it and I carefully stepped out. There was only one step down to the driveway but - in these shoes - that’s sometimes enough to send me flying to the floor in a crumpled heap. Been doing this gig for so many years and still get caught out from time to time. And the problem is - when you do fall - people think you’re joking around, what with being dressed as a clown. They just clap and cheer. A free laugh at my unplanned expense.

  I made my way down the drive and onto the road where my van was parked up. A white van with my working name etched down the side of it along with a generic picture of a clown. Nothing fancy. It gets me from A to B and that’s all I care about. People don't hire me for my van - just my prat falls and silly antics. I kicked the over-sized shoes off my feet so I was barefoot and jumped into the van. I threw my bag of props across to the passenger seat, along with the shoes. They slumped off and landed in the footwell. I leaned back in the comfortable seat and sighed. A quick moment to catch my breath before I slid my white gloves off and tossed them to the side too. Sweaty hands wiped down the front of the already dirty clown outfit. Guess I’ll have to wash that when I get in. A shame, considering how tired I am. Sometimes I go home full of energy and other times I go home with the distinct feeling of being too old for this, part of me contemplating finding something else to do for the remaining years of ‘work’ I have left. But what does a retired clown do once he hangs up the big, red nose? I guess I could always work in a joke shop, or something similar. Maybe a fancy dress store? I shuddered at the prospect of getting a steady nine to five job as I slid the van’s key into the well-scratched ignition. A quick twist and the old girl spluttered into life, coughing a thick plume of black smoke from the rear exhaust. Had I charged a little more for the services I provided, I may have been able to get her fixed or replaced depending on costs.

  I crunched my way into first gear and pressed my foot on the accelerator. At least I’ll be home soon with an evening to myself before tomorrow’s appointment. Funny how it goes. You can go for ages without a single hint of a booking, using more and more of your savings with each passing day and then - suddenly - they all come along at once. Johnny was my third booking this month. Tomorrow’s booking makes four and - more importantly - the least amount of money needed to ensure all bills are paid. Well, all bills are paid so long as I have a bit of a fiddle on the taxes. As I approach sixty, I guess it’s fair to say I’ll never be a rich man unless I win on a lottery ticket but to do that I might have to start buying them. It was a good thing I didn’t do this job for the money.

  It was never about making money.

  It was only about bringing joy to the lives of the children I met.

  II

  My house was as quiet as it always was. Sometimes this was a blessing and sometimes it felt as though it were a curse. Just me bouncing off the walls of the modestly-sized building that was only mine due to a generous last will and testament. I threw the clown shoes and bag of mixed props into the corner of the hallway. One perk of living alone is the fact I do not have anyone due to come home who’ll moan at me for not putting things away properly. I unzipped the front of the clown suit via a small, concealed zipper which ran from neck line down to belly and slipped it off my shoulders down to my waist, instantly refreshed by the cool breeze blowing in through the house due to the windows left open. In this day and age not many people are comfortable leaving their windows open but I have nothing to lose. Not a lot in here for anyone to steal. At least - nothing that’s of any worth. Hell, I don’t even have a flat screen television, just some old, dated set that can’t even receive the signal for digital transmissions. Not that there is anything worth watching upon the channels missing. Just depressing news stories about crimes; murders, government conspiracies, missing children - always the same.

  I pulled the green wig from my head and felt instant relief. All these years wearing the damned thing, you’d have thought I would
be used to it by now but it still itches like crazy. Had I had more hair, I’d have just dyed that green. I threw the wig onto the stairs so I knew where to find it the following day. By the time I walked down the hallway and into the kitchen, I had more or less stepped out of my outfit completely. Just the make-up on and the red nose (which surprisingly isn't as uncomfortable as you’d imagine). I pulled the nose off and threw it over my shoulder, back down the hallway, and walked over to the washing machine. Supposed to hand wash this but I have to be honest - I can’t be bothered and the washing machine hasn’t done any damage to it after all these years so…Why stop? I slammed the door shut and set it up for a quick wash. Not enough time for a full wash; not if I wanted it to be dry in time for tomorrow’s booking.

  And now - now I could take the time to relax. I walked through to the living room and dropped down onto the sofa. My reflection stared back at me in the television screen. I was still wearing the white powder upon my face. I rarely take that off. I don’t like the face underneath. I don’t like the person underneath. I find him hard to control. I find him hard to talk to. I find him hard to keep quiet. The make-up I wear keeps him hidden. The make-up keeps him at bay and that’s the way I like him. I reached for the television controller and hit the little red button. The screen buzzed into life. A second later and sound came from the small speakers. A button press on a second controller, next to where I sat, and my small DVD unit spun into life. I’m not really a film person. I do not like the violence and unnecessary bad language. The only disks in my collection are old movies featuring Laurel and Hardy - the best comedy double act of all time in my humble opinion. They don’t make them like this anymore. The film’s production company blurred its way onto the screen and was soon replaced with the main title of the film. I settled back in my chair and reached for a lever tucked between my sofa’s padding and its arm. A quick pull and it activated the foot rest. That’s better. I knew I wouldn’t see the whole movie. My eyes were already feeling heavy but it didn’t matter. I had seen it more times than I could remember.