Scapino

The new flats built on Eagle Street were semi-luxurious and advertised as being for "young professionals". Previously it had been a council property and used to house needy families as well as other "problem cases" that the local authorities felt obliged to deal with, including addicts and recently released prisoners. There was a scandal two years before the council sold the premises when the tenants of one flat murdered a young man whom they'd brought home from a nightclub. One of the killers was a collector of clown memorabilia and seemed especially fond of a persona from the craft's history whose life intersected with true crime. Scapino was the name of this ominous funny man, who in the 16th century in Italy travelled from town to town entertaining children and their parents in the market square.
 
According to the legend, he was also a child murderer who'd pick a random boy or girl to lure into his caravan just before leaving for the next town on his itinerary. The killer in the then-council-owned block of flats had a portrait of Scapino in a sunlit and shadow-casting courtyard, juggling knives before a crowd of delighted children, a large body in a multicoloured patchwork suit and a greasepainted face with wide ruby lips.
 
At least one true crime podcast noted that he appeared in the picture to be assisted by a young, dusty-blonde man who bore a passing resemblance to the second killer of the victim lured to the flat, and watched in particular by a little boy who could have passed for the victim himself as a child.
 
Janet and her husband George knew nothing of the murder that had happened in their new home back when it was part of a crumbling complex of council flats. At least not at first.
 
So far as she knew, George had never been interested in either clowns or children and he and Janet lived a childfree life as financial advisors in the city. That was until one day George found in a box in the spare room the portrait of Scapino in the market square. He showed Janet. She made a gagging noise and said, 'Looks like something you'd see in an old people's home. Charity shop art.'
 
'I like it.'
 
'If you think you're hanging it over the sofa, you're sorely mistaken. It can go in this little study of yours. The living room's for Martha's "Sunflowers".'
 
'Lesbian aunt art' said George and stuck his tongue out. She slapped his arm.
 
It was a week later after the portrait of Scapino had been hung to the left of George's computer in his man cave, when he came home with a clown costume and accessories and told Janet that he'd volunteered to entertain the children at the local hospital. She was dumbstruck. 'You don't even like children.'
 
'When did I say that?'
 
She topped up her wine. 'You've never said it in so many words...'
 
'There you are then.' He saw her continuing to look at him with a perplexed expression and sighed. 'Look, work's doing volunteer things, it's a PR stunt, you know how it is. Didn't you have to go on a tour of primaries last year during Comic Relief, telling the kiddies how important stocks and shares are?'
 
'I was advising about financial abuse and online safety, not dressing up as Pennywise. I thought kids hated clowns these days?'
 
'Not the young ones, they haven't been spoiled yet.'
 
And that brought an end to the conversation.
 
***
 
The coincidence that George's interest in clowning came not long after the discovery of Scapino's portrait didn't pass Janet by. Passing by the open door to his study one day, while he was out, she noticed the portrait, took a picture of it with her phone, and looked for it online. She came to a true crime and makeup tutorial channel on YouTube, a bizarre combination to Janet, made no less weird by the presence of a busty 25-year-old with pink hair and anime plushies discussing terrible inhumanities while curling her eyelashes.
 
'The murder took place at a time when institutional prejudice against gay people was still alleged to be prevalent in the Metropolitan Police' the girl intoned, her generous neckline allowing the display of cleavage. Janet wondered if the girl was just plagiarising an article. It seemed like such an easy way to make money these days if you had no shame. 'As a result, many claim that police initially accepted the killers' statement that the victim had gotten high on cocaine and during a subsequent mental breakdown self-harmed to such a degree that he bled to death. It was only due to the persistence of the local community that the incident was reinvestigated and various chat logs and social media posts were unearthed revealing the truth.
 
'Creepily, the older of the two killers was obsessed with both clowns and true crime, and owned a portrait of a centuries-old Italian clown who according to legend murdered children.' Janet's stomach lurched when an image of the portrait hanging in her partner's study flashed up on the screen. 'What happened to the portrait seems lost to time' the girl continued, having now progressed to lip gloss, 'but it was probably sold or otherwise misplaced.'
 
***
 
Like many people whose partners, loved ones, or even acquaintances behave oddly, Janet told herself at first that she was the one being strange. So what if her boyfriend liked clowns, saw one in a picture, and wanted to do some volunteering as encouraged by his firm? Was it his fault that the picture had a sordid history? She was going to tell him what she'd learned about the portrait, but something held her back. She didn't care to address the reason why. Rather, she recalled that he'd passed a brief period in a psychiatric hospital as a teenager, six years before they met, and out of what she told herself was passing curiosity decided to enquire as to why he was there.
 
His sister wasn't very communicative, even after being plied with drink and "just us girls" pleading. 'It was stress, that's all. Both our parents were academics and they put a lot of pressure on us to succeed. They shaped up when George had his breakdown, though...'
 
Janet felt there was more that she wasn't being told. Meanwhile, George was spending two days a week at the hospital and becoming quite the local celebrity, a city gazette having done a piece on him and attached it to the larger context of, 'NOT ALL BANKERS ARE BAD'. 'You're not even a banker' Janet observed, but George just stuck his tongue out at her. He invited her to see one of his performances, and she did, curious now to see what the fuss was about.
 
In a short, narrow ward lined on either side with beds containing very sick children, the walls attempting gaiety through vivid and just off-copyright cartoon murals, George pranced about in full white greasepaint, red nose, frizzy orange wig, his lithe gym build hidden behind a ridiculous rainbow getup replete with baggy pants and suspenders. He sang songs on an accordion, "Wheels on the Bus" and the like, performed pratfalls, simple magic tricks, told jokes in a dopey vaudeville voice, etcetera. The children seemed to like it, for the most part. Janet found herself in sympathy with a bald little girl who stared at his capering for a minute, then leaned to the side and vomited.
 
Janet approached one of George's colleagues, who'd also shown up to see the show. 'Surely the office has gotten its fill of this now' she said.
 
'What do you mean?' said the other woman.
 
'This is organised by the company, isn't it?' The woman laughed. 'Are you kidding? This was George's idea. The only reason the company lets him do it is because of how well he does.' She shrugged. 'Plus it's good PR, I guess. I'm only here to make sure he doesn't embarrass us.'
 
***
 
Janet had once been interviewed for the Financial Times by a freelance investigative journalist with whom she subsequently became friends. She contacted this woman, Anna, a short time after the hospital performance. 'You want me to snoop around a psychiatric hospital for you?' she asked over coffee in the city.
 
'...and see if you can find any notes on George.'
 
'So, you want me to MASSIVELY break the law.' Janet sighed. 'I know... I'm crazy.' She threw up her hands. 'I've gone crazy.' Anna put her hand on her friend's. 'Look, I can't get his file. Obviously. But if you want... I'll snoop around, find out what kind of place it is.' She leaned back, took a sip of her coffee, and watched the shoppers pass down the parade. 'Who knows, there might be a story in it.'
 
There wasn't a story in it, at least not for Anna. The text came through at 01:00 AM, while Janet and George were sleeping. Bleary-eyed, Janet saw the name, picked up the phone, slouched into the bathroom, and sat on the toilet to read what Anna thought was so important.
 
It's funny how you don't react the way you think you would, Janet thought later, when horrifying news reaches you. The picture included with the texts was of a nondescript house in a leafy part of town, with black metal fencing and a car in the drive. There was no signage indicating that it was an institution as opposed to a residence, and when Janet saw the name of the place, she knew why. CLINIC FOR SEXUAL DISORDERS IN YOUTH. The literature that Anna had screenshotted spelt out that the establishment dealt with adolescents and teenagers who exhibited troubling sexual behaviour. Often, they were sent there by judges as an alternative to prison. George's parents were both wealthy academics, she could imagine them bundling him off there or convincing a judge that he was a good boy really, he just needed help. Janet felt as though she had indigestion.
 
She walked to the bedroom door and looked at George asleep for a few minutes. Then she turned and made out the painting of Scapino in the study, the smiling clown juggling multicoloured balls to the delight of a small crowd in a market square several hundred years ago. She took it down and hid it under the bed in the second bedroom.
 
The next morning, George noticed the absence right away. Of course he did, you fucking idiot, Janet scolded herself. She thought she might ameliorate the effect of her impulse by admitting to it straight away, but instead, he just looked at her over the breakfast table confused and unblinking, and said, 'What the fuck is your problem, Janet?'
 
'I beg your pardon?'
 
'Don't bullshit me. Why are you so hostile lately?'
 
She tried to repress it and stay rational, but the anger impulse was too strong. 'You want to talk hostility? You've been acting like a fucking freak this past however long, lied to me about what you're doing... And what ARE you doing, George? Or is it better if I don't know?'
 
George had turned as white as bleached whalebone. 'I want you gone before I come back.' Janet burst out laughing at that. 'Are you serious? The rent is in both our names, dipshit, and trust me, I hold ALL the cards here.'
 
'What do you mean?'
 
'What do you think I mean, George? I know things that you've been lying to me about since we met. And gentrification doesn't mean that this neighbourhood's that progressive. How do you think the guys down at The Dog and Duck'll react when they find out their kids are living near a former sex offender?'
 
Janet was gambling it all on this, and an image flashed through her mind of someone betting their entire store of chips on a single toss of the dice. Janet moved back and prepared for a fight when he seemed to step towards her. Suddenly all those self-defence classes didn't seem like a waste of time in exchange for sore muscles.
 
George seemed angry beyond all rational thought, but then the fight went out of him, a fire reduced to two pinpricks of light in his eyes. A weird light that seemed out of time, out of space, pregnant with a cosmic irony and sadistic intelligence far from human understanding. He said nothing, just turned and left the flat.
 
To prevent herself from slumping with exhaustion, Janet started packing all of his belongings to leave in the block of flats' foyer.
 
***
 
Six months later Janet was taking appointments at the bank when a well-tanned older man dressed in a leather jacket and Panama hat was directed to her office. He dropped himself into a chair and Janet exchanged a look through the glass partition with the girl who'd shown him to her. Working in a bank introduces you to all sorts, Janet thought, thankful that he hadn't started screaming racist conspiracies about how his money was being used, at least.
 
'Are you looking to open an account?' she asked.
 
'I'm looking to do something with you' he replied, and started reaching into his trousers. Just as she was about to summon security via the panic button under her desk he extracted from his pocket a business card and handed it to her. It read JEREMIAH LOVELACE. OCCULT DETECTIVE. INQUIRIES. Janet raised an eyebrow. 'Lovelace. Like the porn star?'
 
'Like the man who knows what your old man's been up to.'
 
'What are you talking about?'
 
'Georgie boy, sweetheart.'
 
Janet placed his card on the desk with an emphatic gesture. 'Call me a cute name again and enjoy the embrace of our security staff, old man.'
 
Jeremiah grinned from ear to ear. 'I can see why he found you a challenge' he said. 'But let me cut to the chase. You seem like a woman who keeps up with current affairs. Have you heard about the kiddies who disappeared recently, after spending some time at the local hospital?'
 
Janet had heard. Two children who were friends and in remission from cancer, who'd met on the paediatrics ward and charmed the charity concerns with their friendship. Who'd disappeared from their beds at home one night, as if they'd planned to meet somewhere. As if someone had gotten to them in the hospital and groomed them into leaving everything behind. When Janet read the story in the paper, bits of information coalesced in her mind to paint a picture she couldn't bring herself to look at properly.
 
Jeremiah read her look. 'I need your help, Janet. I'm a man who knows people, that's how I found you, after noticing him. The clown. Scapino. You know the name Scapino, don't you, somewhere in the back of your mind?'
 
'Somewhere in the front, actually.'
 
***
 
Janet was never quite convinced by Jeremiah's claim to have gotten onto her trail after witnessing George's performance at the hospital while she was there too, and then performing some discreet enquiries. Partly because she didn't remember seeing him there. But then she remembered a social experiment she learned of at university, where footage of young people breakdancing with a boombox was played to the subjects, who were then asked "Do you remember seeing the bear?"
 
The footage was then played back to reveal that a man in a bear costume had walked into the middle of the dancers, looked at the camera, and then walked away. If you're not expecting something, you don't always see it.
 
Regardless, standing in his home, a rambling old property near the railway tracks, with a paint stain on the door that called to mind the blood sign used to deter the Angel of Death during Phaoroah's spat with God, Janet found herself impressed by this strange man's organisation. Occultic props were shelved about, crosses and chisels and heathen Bibles, and rows and rows of little glass vials filled with strange herbs or dead insects. The chair and TV in this context almost made her laugh, trying to imagine watching Eastenders or Keeping Up with the Kardashians in this space that called to mind a wise woman's hovel of the 16th century.
 
Jeremiah showed her what had once presumably been a linen closet, and was now stocked with dozens of ceramic clowns. Most of them were corpulent fellows with big red grins and occasional frowns, holding balloons and riding unicycles and performing other tricks. 'Are these all Scapinos?'
 
'They're all that remains of the Scapinos that either I or my former mentor have killed.'
 
Janet turned a little green. 'Do you have one for George?'
 
'Not yet. That's where you come in. And that's also where we get a little more 21st century' replied Jeremiah, walking to another cupboard from which he extracted a black rectangular device covered in angular grooves. He placed it on a coffee table, and then by manipulation of a remote made it unfold into various parts until it resembled an automatic firearm. 'It's a flamethrower' he said, grinning.' Janet stared at him. 'Are you serious?' Jeremiah laughed with the joy of a professional in esoterica who finally gets to share his work with an interested outsider.
 
'Oh I'm deadly serious' he said. 'Have you ever heard of the brazen bull? It was a torture and execution device in Ancient Greece where victims were locked inside a hollow brass bull, under which was then lit a fire. The victim was roasted to death while steam poured out the bull's nostrils, and their screams were converted to roars that made it seem as if the animal was coming to life.'
 
'...and you propose to do this to my ex? My girlfriends just wanted to slash his tyres.'
 
Jeremiah chuckled. 'Well, he'll die a lot quicker than the Greeks. But if you're getting empathic, think on what he did to those kiddies.'
 
Janet thought. 'So what do you want from me?'
 
'Does the name Lil' Bandits mean anything to you?'
 
'The children's play centre outside town?'
 
'That's right.' Jeremiah pulled a folded-up diagram from his jacket. It depicted a floor-to-ceiling jungle gym, in the centre of which was a length of tunnel that had been coloured bright purple.
 
***
 
The text that Jeremiah wanted her to send read as follows:
 
"Ha! Ha! dixit Corydon, rex amisit coronam;
nox est stricta in romance.
Ha! Ha! dixit Corydon est deducit te
ut fortunam tuam amiseris.
 
Meet me at [address of Lil' Bandits]. Lunch is served in the purple tunnel, with roasted child."
 
Janet asked what the Latinate meant but all he said was that it was lyrics to a song. 'He's been trying to get a role at the play centre for a while' said Jeremiah, 'and this'll make him think that the spirit of Scapino has chosen you too. My mate runs the place and let me know when he started sniffing 'round.'
 
'Hospitals, play centres... you're surprisingly connected for a man who collects clowns and dresses like Crocodile Dundee.'
 
Jeremiah grinned through a mouthful of chewing gum. He was quite attractive, in his way, if you liked older men. 'I just have one request' said Janet, her thumb hovering over the paper aeroplane that would send the text to George.
 
'Anything for a pretty face.'
 
'Keep it on the level, old man. What I want is to watch.'
 
***
 
The text was returned, with an agreeance to meet, within 20 minutes and came with a video link that Jeremiah insisted on vetting. A man so tanned has limited ability to pale, but Jeremiah Lovelace's features took on a grim tone. 'For your sake' he said, 'I'm going to keep and destroy this phone. You can tell people it was stolen.'
 
'That bad?'
 
'Worse.'
 
Around midnight, they stood in the conference room at Lil Bandits, which had a one-way mirror looking out at the play centre on the floor below. This included the purple tunnel, atop which was affixed the black rectangle that Janet had seen in Jeremiah's house.
 
The door to the play centre opened and across the floor walked Scapino, once George, dressed in the baggy pink dungarees and polka dot shirt that had become his particular trademark. Just as all his colleagues in the craft had one. She smiled at the thought of him driving here in that getup.
 
Janet's heart dropped into her stomach when he looked up at the one-way mirror. His face betrayed no suspicion, however, at least none that she could see behind the ridiculous greasepainted smile. He crawled through the circular entrance to the jungle gym.
 
Jeremiah started to sneer with the sadistic thrill of a predator seeing its prey step cheerily into its parlour. The left side of his mouth began reaching his ears, and his upper lip curled when Scapino reached the tunnel and crawled inside. Janet's phone buzzed in her pocket with a text to say "I'm here, about to play the music box".  'That's right, you bastard...' said Jeremiah.
 
Janet had seen the music box. From afar it looked like a beautifully ornate toy of ancient vintage, with a female clown in place of the typical ballerina who'd spin when the box was wound up. But up close you could see the inscriptions on the sides, of grimly grinning, impish figures capering in flames.
 
Through a walkie-talkie at Jeremiah's belt came a tinny rendition of "Here We Go 'Round the Mulberry Bush". He thumbed several buttons on the remote and the box transformed, the flamethrower's barrel bending down into the purple tunnel and spraying it in flame.
 
George's screams filled the room. Both ends of the tunnel billowed smoke, making the cylindrical object with its basic purple colouring seem like a conceptual, postmodern take on the brazen bull. Janet felt as though she was observing some bizarre artistic folly, almost.
 
The crematorium witnesses watched as white hot, melting plastic dripped onto George's flesh and held there, each like a cigarette lighter being forced through the skin. Rivets dropped like burning hailstones and Janet almost threw up when she thought that she heard one clang against bone, George still screaming as it did.
 
Finally, he died, or at least stopped screaming. The tunnel burned loose from its bindings and Scapino/George's coffin fell to earth with a great burst of flame. The witnesses left in a hurry. 'Your friend isn't going to mind that you destroyed his establishment?' asked Janet.
 
'It was bought by the society and they've got deep pockets. Battling the Devil's hordes doesn't come cheap, my lovely.'
 
Janet shook her head. 'I don't understand a fiftieth of this.'
 
'Count yourself lucky. Buy you a drink?'
 
A few days later she read the following headlines in her morning paper: FIRE AT PLAY CENTRE. LOCAL FINANCIER DEAD. VIGILANTES SUSPECTED AS POLICE FIND "PORN DUNGEON" IN VICTIM'S HOME.
 
And sometime later the inevitable "makeup and true crime" video, the host applying a beauty mark as she announced: 'The mystery of Scapino continues with the death of George Bailey, a volunteer children's entertainer who DIDN'T shake off the "creepy clown" stigma when he was found IMMOLATED in a children's play centre, shortly before police found in his house the sort of stuff that would make 4chan dox you!'
 
Janet turned the video off. She made a mental note to never think about George Bailey again unless she had to, although somewhere in the back of her mind Jeremiah Lovelace was sculpting a new ceramic to resemble her ex, from the greasepainted smile to the pink dungarees.