‘Meet you by the haunted house,’ she said, and headed off.
Beyond the main circus tent, the ground was boggy, but here and there panels of rubber matting had been laid across patches of mud. Cables snaked between the caravans, and with bin bags and buckets strewn about it wasn’t very nice at all. The caravans themselves looked deserted, their curtains drawn. Josie quickened her step, suddenly thinking she probably wasn’t supposed to be in this area at all.
As she rounded a wheelbarrow filled with sandbags, a movement to her left made her heart jolt. A huge black and brown dog leapt right at her, only to be snatched back on a chain around its neck. It barked and strained, drool flying from its mouth. Josie normally liked dogs, but she could tell this one wanted to bite her. The caravan door opened, and a young woman in a blue satin dressing gown appeared at the top of some steps.
‘Shut it, Tyson!’ she said.
The dog immediately relaxed, sitting back and licking its lips.
‘Sorry,’ said Josie.
The woman stared hard at her – almost through her, Josie thought.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said. Then she went back inside and closed the door.
Josie’s heart was still racing as she hurried on to the portable toilets. She didn’t want to take her teddy inside, so left it on the grass, hoping no one would take it. The loos weren’t as bad as she expected, but she made sure she washed her hands twice anyway.
When she came out, there was a small queue forming, and for a moment she found it hard to get her bearings. Which way was the haunted house? Then she spotted the main entrance again, and remembered it had been close to that. She grabbed her teddy and set off, passing the trees that lined the bottom edge of the field, and a shed with a corrugated metal roof that looked like it was falling down. A piece of old farming machinery – something that looked like it belonged on the back of a tractor – lay rusting amid the long grass.
A flash of red caught Josie’s eye, and she saw the boy from the football game again, but he wasn’t alone this time. Holding his hand was a clown, with red hair almost as bright as the Liverpool shirt. They were walking away, quite quickly, past a leaning bathtub stained with green and brown streaks. The boy was looking up at the clown and saying something, but she couldn’t see the clown’s face to see if he was talking back. And then they were gone, around the corrugated shed and out of sight towards the trees at the bottom of the field. It seemed an odd way to go – there weren’t any rides or anything in that direction.
Josie stood still for a moment, a strange warm feeling rising from her chest to her throat. She considered going after them, just to check everything was okay, but something kept her feet rooted to the spot. Maybe the clown was his dad, or uncle. And she didn’t have time to hang around anyway. Kim and Bec were waiting for her. She set off once more, and though she thought about looking back, she did not.
There was no queue at the haunted house, so they used the last of their money to go in together. It was scarier than it looked from the outside. You had to walk through, and it was really dark. Things jumped from the walls, and in one part, a hologram made it look like a witch was peering over your shoulder in front of a mirror. The noises were the worst – creaks, and shuffles and cracks that came from every side. Josie was secretly glad she was with her friends, and gripped the large teddy tightly every time there was another shock. Kim’s scream was so loud that Josie’s ears were ringing as they bundled through the exit doors.
‘Dylan?’
A woman about the same age as Josie’s mum was walking in long strides past the front of the haunted house, calling out.
‘Dylan!’
Her eyes scanned left and right, and her face was flushed. For a moment, her gaze passed over Josie and her friends, paused, then moved on. Josie saw her spot a man sitting at a fold-out table near the entrance. She made a stumbling, darting run towards him, pushing past two teenagers.
‘I can’t find my son,’ she said.
The man, who had a bushy moustache and a ruddy, swollen face, looked taken aback for a moment. ‘No kids have come out this way. How old is he?’
‘Seven,’ said the woman. She held out a hand at hip-height. ‘This tall or so. He was wearing a red shirt. I only looked away for a second.’
The warm feeling blossomed again across Josie’s chest. She felt itchy, her breathing shallow and strange.
‘Let’s find your brother,’ said Kim. ‘I really want to try the swingboat!’
‘He’s probably having it off in a bush somewhere,’ said Bec.
‘Yeah,’ said Josie, vaguely. She was looking at the woman, who broke away from the table and put both hands up to her mouth.
‘Dylan!’ she shouted again, her voice panicky.
‘He’s probably with his mates,’ said the organiser.
‘He hasn’t got any mates!’ snapped the woman.
‘Steady on, love. He’ll turn up.’
Josie stepped closer to them. She felt tiny. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I think I might have seen him.’
The woman turned to her, eyes confused and afraid, then suddenly focused. She advanced quickly and gripped Josie’s shoulders so hard it hurt.
‘Dylan? Where? Where did you see him?’
Josie managed to point to the buildings at the edge of the field. ‘Down there. With the clown.’
‘What clown?’ asked the organiser, suddenly interested. He stood up from his seat, and Josie noticed a small patch of his belly showing from the top of his trousers.
‘With red hair,’ she said. ‘They were holding hands.’
The woman released her, and her face moved in a way Josie had never seen before – a sort of crumpling – and she let out a wail that sounded like someone had ripped it from her stomach. She began to run. A few seconds later, the man at the desk waddled after her. Josie stayed where she was, wondering if she’d done the right thing.
‘Come on,’ said Kim. ‘There’s nothing we can do.’
‘There’s your brother,’ said Bec, and Josie saw Paul carrying Helen Smith on his shoulders, like she was a prize he’d won on one of the stalls. She turned full circle, watching the rides and the games and the flags of the big top flying. She wanted to see a flash of a red Liverpool shirt, just to tell her that the orange-haired boy called Dylan was okay, even though, somehow, she knew he wasn’t.
FRIDAY
Jo tried to ignore the vibration in her jacket pocket and concentrate on what Dr Kasparian was saying.
‘… the cost of the vitrification starts at three thousand pounds for one harvesting procedure, but there are discounted rates for subsequent treatments.’
‘And would you recommend that?’
The doctor – well-tanned, athletic, expensive-looking wire-rimmed spectacles – spread his hands.
‘In most cases, the initial hormone boost should allow us to harvest more than one egg. Of course, probability-wise, you are more likely to conceive the more cycles of fertilisation you undertake.’ He looked at the papers in front of him. ‘Based on your age, any single attempt yields a twenty-two per cent chance of a successful pregnancy.’
‘One in five,’ said Jo flatly.
‘A