Kaos

Part 1: Party Time

Chapter One: Tom is all over the place

Tom’s nightmare started with sweat. The murders came later. He struggled up Calton Hill, feeling unfit and overdressed in jeans, sports shirt and trainers compared with the shorts and T-shirts of the streaming mass of young people huffing their way up and down the steep stone steps. The late-morning sun beat down on his bare head and he was irritated at himself for not wearing sun-block, more absurd self-criticism to dapple the emotions washing through him as he pushed his way through the throng.

He had been to Calton Hill years before with Rita, come up from York for a dirty weekend. Then it had been winter -freezing, unforgivingly bleak as Edinburgh can be. They'd taken in the vista across the Firth to Fife, and out to the North Sea, turning into the biting wind to drink up the chill from the grey stones of the great city, the city of Scott and Hume and Smith and so many others. The Queen's residence at Holyroodhouse overseen by the looming, brooding bulk of volcanic Arthur's Seat and its forecourt, the angled rising escarpment and sheer cliffs of Salisbury Crags - all that a broad bottom of a narrow valley that led up a rise to the crown of Scotland, Edinburgh Castle, its high perch jutting into the sprawl of the West End. Rita had wanted to come, to savour the sharp cold grimness of a Scottish winter before taking him back to their hotel and tumbling him into bed, hungry as she always was.

The plan then had been to return in the summer, to enjoy the festival famous all over the world, the first and best fringe...the comedians, buskers, concerts and above all plays...the new interpretations of Shakespeare, the literary giant whose poems and plays formed the core of Rita's professional and intellectual life.

That had never happened. The tiny lump in her left breast took her ounce by ounce, via surgery and radiation and chemotherapy, shrinking her always tiny body till it seemed but a speck against the starched linen of the hospice. The playful wicked smile that filled his heart with joy never left her, but it grew more fixed, less immediate, and then froze one spring day...

He shook his head as if to whisk out the memories and maudlin thoughts before joining the crowd recovering from the climb on the grassy space between the cupola of the memorial to philosopher and mathematician Dugald Stewart, the observatory, and the huge unfinished acropolis that topped the hill, the National Monument, sometimes called Scotland's shame, a ruin before it was new. Nowadays tourists clamber up onto the great stone base to take photos of each other against the backdrop of impossibly tall fluted columns on the one completed side. Tom knew he wouldn't be doing that – he was headed around the back, but he didn't want to go there straight away. He wanted to collect his thoughts, to put Rita aside as much as he could.

He was grumpy about the immediate task ahead of him. He didn't really want to do it, and felt resentful at Cynthia and Vince for twisting his arm. He asked himself how guilty he would feel if he just didn't, though he had promised.

Feeling guilty because he had promised…

Tom thought of Cynthia and Vince as a curse visited on him by his own failings as a man. They'd moved in next door just after he had bought his place in York, before he'd met Rita, what? thirty or so years before. The terraced houses on the narrow cobbled street gave everyone on it a reason to be friendly, and when Vince had skulked off on an adventure with another woman leaving Cynthia alone, tearful and needy, he'd taken advantage of her. He was alone too then; he was tempted by her sultry good looks and wanted to keep away from the young women he employed in the bookshop as a complication he could do without. She was convenient that way, next door, unemployed and living off whatever Vince was sending her, and when she'd thrown herself at him he’d caught her in his arms and taken her to bed.

Past her obvious physical charms Cynthia wasn't his type even a little bit, and while he didn't like Vince at all really, he could understand why she bored him. Her life was filled with smallness, the trivia of housewifery as Rita had later sniffily dismissed it. He was a bit surprised but relieved when Cynthia had one day announced she was going to reconcile with her husband.

Rita had come into his life shortly after, Cynthia had got pregnant with Melissa, and everything seemed sorted...kind of anyway. They'd stayed friends, neighbourly friends, the friends people don't really like but endure for reasons of form and of selfishness too, to keep the peace. Rita was friendly with everyone; it was her nature, and they never guessed her contempt for their lack of interest in anything beyond the material. Vince's braggadocio, an endless swagger about his successes in accountancy of all things, turned them both off. They'd lived like that, barbecues in the summer, drinks after work on Fridays, for a quarter of a century, and as Melissa had grown, she'd come to be a sort of niece for Rita and he...she spent a lot of time at their house, especially once she was a teen and could see the attractions of the life Rita lived inside her head. Melissa had caught the learning bug as Rita called it, and had gone on to follow in Rita's footsteps, making the grade to Oxford and the excitement of one of the great institutions of the world. She'd gone to the same college and Rita had taken her down to help her move in...to catch up with old friends...it was about the time she'd got sick.

But after two years, as Rita lay dying, Melissa dropped out. She'd taken a job with a traveling circus of a sort called The Tent, that followed the British festival season during the spring and summer months, moving from town to town, festival to festival, a literal sideshow to whatever celebration was on hand. Tom didn't know that much about it apart from the complaints laid at its door by Cynthia and Vince. Whatever it was about, a gap year turned into two years, and then a third, and the time for Melissa to choose, either to leave Oxford behind or go back to school had arrived.

Make her see reason, Tom, Cynthia had pleaded, her big eyes beseeching him, as if she would take him to bed if only he would. As Vince was standing there, drink in hand, making similar noises in a less appealing away, he didn't think she meant it. And in the years since their affair, he’d come to realise Cynthia could fabricate very creatively.

He'd tried to avoid it. After all, he was going to the festival, heading to the fringe, because Rita had urged him. Nay more, it was unfinished business, part of Rita's leftover life. He was putting her masterwork into shape, a book on women and Shakespeare, claiming the lesser known play Troilus and Cressida held a coded message for both readers and playgoers. Rita's book was an ambitious, wild-eyed romp that went well past the usual Shakespeare scholarship. She'd worked on it while she was ill, and hadn't shown it to him as she usually did, and after she'd gone, and he'd got over the idea that she wasn't going to be there, nibbling his shoulder or his earlobe or sliding her hand under his shirt or down onto his hard secret as she called it, he'd gone through it with surprise and even astonishment.

He had it nearly together, and was coming to Edinburgh to see a version of the play based on her interpretation, or what he thought was her interpretation: an Oxford theatre group’s production supposedly based on some notes she'd left...

...and that version would be put on under the canopy of this Tent Melissa had joined. It wasn't connected, or he didn't think so - the theatre troupe was just hiring the venue at night when it wasn't otherwise in use. Edinburgh in the festival saw any corner that could squeeze in an audience of more than two used to mount a production.

But when Cynthia and Vince had found out he was going to Edinburgh, even going to this Tent itself, they'd pounced.

And now there he was, around the corner from the place.

He had no desire at all to hassle Melissa. In the two years since Rita had died, he'd seen very little of her. She was an adult now, capable of making her own decisions, and if she was keen on this Tent, whatever it was about, it was her affair. He said so to Cynthia and Vince, but they weren't put off and in the end they'd persuaded him, in Cynthia's words, just to have a look, to see if it was what Melissa claimed for it. He'd managed to wriggle out of a commitment to talk her out of it. He would just talk to her, see what this Tent was like, and report back to them.

I'm not going to patronise her, he'd told Cynthia when she'd seen him off at the rail station in York. She's an adult. She makes up her own mind.

It's a cult, Cynthia had hissed. Oh, Tom...well, you'll see. And she'd turned and left, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

Well, he would. Pushing himself up off the grass, he ambled self-consciously around the edge of the monument, taking longer than he needed…

Chapter Two: Big enough for the whole world

You look like someone who wants to juggle! A young woman dressed in a billowing red and white striped clown suit thrust a handbill at him. He took it almost absentmindedly, folded it, and stuck it in his back pocket as he passed by the apparition with huge red lips painted on a black and white face topped with a polka dot dunce cap.

Hey, I mean it! The young woman pushed back into view. You really do! The exaggerated lips flexed absurdly as the woman spoke. You've just got the look, she pressed on. Don't ignore the chance. Just around the corner...Jack the Juggler is there. You can see...you'll see

Tom blushed. The clown had made him feel guilty for ignoring her flyer.

Thank you, he mumbled. I'll take a look.

Hey, I'll come with you...you'll see, she said again. As they walked she kept burbling. It seemed they had an intimacy he did not understand...It's the Tent. You won't know about the Tent...it's wonderful...I'm in itthere's ever so many people involved...it's a philosophy...a philosophy of fun...big enough for the whole world...you'll see. There! There's the Tent! And there he is...Jack the Juggler!

A slim young man with an oversized top hat sliding down one side of his face and an intentionally ill-fitting suit with super sized shoulders was tossing differently coloured plastic hoops in the air while twirling one on his right leg in front of a large red, blue and white striped circus tent. A crowd of about fifty people was gathered round him in a semi-circle. As he flipped the red ring from his foot skyward to catch a green one, Tom observed distractedly that he was incongruously wearing trainers, and thought even more distractedly that seemed to be his one connection with the world of the young.

Abruptly the young man stopped, catching the hoops and laying them aside.

You should see me do that in bed with my girlfriend, he joked. There was an appreciative titter from the crowd. Well, no you shouldn't really. More tittering.

Now, he crowed as he put the hoops into a big wicker box and drew out what appeared to be tissue cartons painted with a crazy quilt zebra pattern, time for a true miracle of motion. Starting with two boxes and a number stuck under his arms, he added one after another, performing different tricks with them as he did...he stacked them lengthwise, twirled one in the middle to catch it with the ends of two others...then had four and finally five boxes spinning in the air while he held two in his hands. As he worked he kept up a steady stream of gags...It's easier when you don't know how...there are magnets inside, that's how I do it…actually there are mice...Pavlov's grandson sold them to me. It's true! He told me so...Now, he finished as he stacked them one on top of the other, the final amazing thrill! Deftly, he grabbed the one in the middle and dropped it into the box, followed by the next one down, then the next, till he had only the top carton. Holding it as if discovering it in his hand for the first time, he said, Some people will do anything for attention, dropped the carton into the box, and bowed. The crowd applauded appreciatively and some whistled.

If you want to learn how to do this, Jack smiled, there are classes...it takes time to learn but you can do it if you want to. Tickets in the Tent. Meanwhile, he smirked, this hat is so large because it can take a lot of spare change... he passed the hat around the crowd...the sound of coins clinking against one another as they hit the felt fabric was muffled. Several people put notes in the hat...a nice little earner, Tom thought to himself. He put a 50p coin in as Jack nodded his thanks.

Another show in two hours, he called as he gathered his box and disappeared into the huge canopy.

You see? the clown-girl next to him hadn't given up. He's great isn't he? You can learn...buy a ticket inside! She thrust another flyer at him. Got one, Tom smiled, pulling the first one out of his back pocket. And I may just do that. Thanks.

Yay! She crowed gaily as she moved away...an awful lot of selling for one pigeon, Tom thought as he watched her race off toward the corner that would take her back to the milling masses in front of the monument.

Chapter Three: Wafur?

The tent was more roomy than he'd imagined. Somehow the broad vertical stripes of the canvas made it look smaller on the outside than it felt once he'd passed through the high portal that took up part of one side. Thick guy ropes held the awning aloft and the walls taut as stout steel tipped wooden poles sent the structure skyward. There was nothing like a circus inside though despite the aura: the huge space was broken by partitions, with signs pointing to their purposes. Mime, Juggling, Unicycling and stilts, Clowning around…there was a sign pointing to costumes, and make-up, and at the far end, a row of cashiers' booths and some small caravans offering fast food fronted by picnic tables, and beyond that, signs pointing to portaloos. And everywhere, people: heading for this or that workshop, standing in line at the ticket booths, clustering around the food caravans...a swirling sea of humanity.

A trestle table near the entrance to the melee had a big i tacked to a post...a few young women in clown costumes sat behind the table while the curious fondled brochures set out on the big surface or paid for something that Tom realised when he got near was a DVD of some kind. He got at the end of a not too long queue and waited till he was face to face with one of the clowns. To his surprise it was the young woman who'd taken him in hand outside.

You! she beamed. I knew you'd...

Tom was embarrassed. You don't understand, he began, but she was already shoveling a DVD at him. You need this, she gushed. It explains everything. How the Tent works...

He looked at the DVD. A man and woman stared at him from the cover. They were dressed in flowing clothing, just the sort he'd associate with a cult, standing in a mocked-up Garden of Eden somewhere, eyes bright and wind in their hair as they gazed, smiling, at an adoring public...The story of The Tent promised to reveal the secrets of a philosophy that can change your life.

It's just ten quid, the young woman smiled, pressing it into his hands. It tells you everything...apart from how to juggle. She giggled.

Yes - all right, he said, and dug out his wallet, found a ten pound note, and passed it to her.

Actually, he said, I'm here looking for someone - someone who works here. Maybe you can tell me how to find her.

The clown's face drooped in disappointment at having not made a convert, flicking the switch in his spirit back into guilt mode.

I didn't know anything about this, he said quickly. It's interesting. I'm grateful, really I am.

She brightened as quickly as she had paled.

Oh! That's so nice, she gushed. You'll like the DVD. It's very good, honestly...

I'll watch it tonight, he promised, wondering if he would, then: I'm looking for Melissa Brown. Do you know her?

Melissa? Sure, everybody knows Melissa. She stood up and pointed, down past the cashier booths and the food barns. Go down there, out the back. There's a caravan. Ask there... She waved at him as he made away.

Clutching his purchase, Tom threaded his way through the crowd. As he passed by the costume stall a group of young Asians spilled out from behind the canvas screen, toting bags with clown gear poking out of the tops. Some already had their faux fur-ringed dunce style caps on...they were laughing and shoving at each other as young friends do...he smiled at their happiness. It made him feel better about everything...

Outside the tent he had to pass a group of large steel rubbish bins, the sort that compacting trucks can pick up and empty, teeming with food scraps and their attendant flies. Tom's nose curled up at the smell as he squinted in the bright mid-day sun. The caravan just beyond the smell was everything the tent was not - old, rusty, careworn, its faded cream-coloured casing dented and scuffed; the windows pushed outward to let in some air in the hot August afternoon were scratched and chipped. A faded cardboard sign taped to the open door said simply, office.

Help you? A lanky youth with very long hair jumped out of a rickety-looking deckchair in front of the caravan as Tom approached. Next to him a slim, very small young woman with close-cropped black hair watched him suspiciously.

I hope so. I'm looking for Melissa Brown.

Yah? The youth looked at him in evident surprise, as if it was unheard of, asking for Melissa Brown. His eyes narrowed and Tom could sense his companion boring into him. Wafur?

Don't be rude, Timmy the young woman scolded. Go see Tyrone.

Timmy spun on his heels and went into the caravan. Through the open window Tom could hear voices, muffled...he made out 'Lissa but there was more he couldn't distinguish.

The young woman got out of her deckchair and walked over to him. She really was very small, elfin...short and skinny. She looked up into his face with a blank stare, as if she was totally uninterested really but had to bother with him for form.

It will only be a minute, she said. Timmy has to look important. She stared up at him with her suspicious eyes. Melissa's my friend - my best friend.

She was about to go on when a man of about his age - fifty or so - appeared in the door of the caravan. He was taller than Tom, maybe six feet, fit, and had a deep tan. His long wavy grey hair was pulled back into a bun, giving his face an angular look. Sharp blue eyes twinkled in smooth skin that seemed out of place in a face so evidently old. Tom recognised the man on the cover of the DVD in his hand.

Tom. The man jolted him with his name as he smiled and waved. Melissa said you'd be paying a visit. Come in. He didn't wait but turned and disappeared into the caravan.

Yah, the small woman said. You're expected. She smiled, and then surprised him with a giggle. Go on - he won't bite.

The entrance to the caravan gave way to a narrow passage that split left and right. The long-haired youth called Timmy was standing at the junction and pointed to the left...a brown formica-clad hallway with some shut doors gave way to what had been built as a kitchen but had been made into an office. There was a wooden desk with a laptop open on it, a remote telephone in a cradle, and some yellow foolscap notepaper with a pencil lying across it. To one side a filing cabinet doubled as a stand for an electric espresso machine. In front of the desk two stackable plastic chairs splayed weakly flexing legs over cracked faded lino. The tanned fellow was sitting behind the desk in an old wooden swivel chair, leaning back, trainers up on the desk next to the laptop.

As Tom entered he waved at the seats...Timmy went to sit in one but the man said, Timmy you're not needed here. Go help Natasha. The young man pulled a face and slunk unhappily away.

When he was out of earshot the man said, Timmy has a problem with Melissa, as if that explained everything. Then he said, People call me Tyrone, Tom. I hope you'll do the same.

Tom didn't reply. He was put off-balance by the man knowing his name, and anyway was used to more formality in introductions...so instead he said, I've just come to catch up with the daughter of a friend. I don't see...

Ah, but I do, Tom, Tyrone replied. I do. Let me explain. He smiled, but his eyes showed something different...watchful, wary...

Melissa dropped out of university to work with us. Her parents have been very concerned about this, and it's understandable that they should be. Melissa is highly intelligent, and Oxford is a great university. My partner Lola - you'll meet her - went there...and I understand your wife...

Rita has nothing to do with this, Tom snapped.

Tom, Tom...relax. It's OK. Tyrone took his feet off the desk and straightened up, leaning over with his elbows straddling the laptop. We're like a family here - The Tent, we call it. Melissa's talked to me. It's natural that she would. I know a lot about you and I must say I'm very impressed.

Tom glowered at him.

The trouble is, I'm not so impressed with Melissa's dad Vince...Cynthia, well, her concern is understandable...a gap year turns into a career. Vince - he's just an angry man. He's been up here, both of them have, twice...Vince has had to be sorted out a bit.

Tom could imagine. Vince was a hot-head. They hadn't said they'd been up, even though they saw each other almost every day. Thinking about it, Tom realised that they hadn't told him because Vince had lost his temper - again.

Timmy doesn't seem much of a match for Vince, he offered with