Dipika hated clowns, but now one was lying in bed beside her. She could tell it was a clown by its breathing. Every now and then the nose would honk, but it wasn’t just a foam ball bought for Vidhusaka festivals, this one was bulbous and round like a split tumour.

Her mother had warned her enough, ‘Go to the circus beti,’ she said, ‘and the clowns will follow you home.’ She really wished she had listened to her. If she had then things would have been different.

Instead she was so foolish. Her sisters dared her and she didn’t want to seem scared. She was too old to act like a baby now.

‘Bet you can’t spend an hour in the circus,’ Zobia had said all too casually when in reality she had spent days plotting the dare. She was always like that, making people do stuff she was too afraid to do herself.

‘Don’t force her,’ said Saira. ‘She doesn’t have to do it if she doesn’t want.’

She didn’t want, but she would never give them the satisfaction of knowing that. ‘Of course I can!’ Dipika joked, hoping that was as far as it would go, but inside she knew it was a horrible mistake. She had already agreed to a verbal contract, it was too late to back down now.

The circus was deep in the woods, so far in you couldn’t even see it from the road. At least her sisters walked her to the big top, but neither of them dared go inside. That blessing was hers alone.

As they stood tentatively looking at the stained big top they could hear the music. It haemorrhaged through rips in the canvas tent, that horrible tune heralding the clowns coming with the stench of the greasepaint.

She wanted to run for her life, but it was too late. A pierrot tore back the canvas tent flap and staggered out.

She hated pierrots, with their awful sad faces and baggy jowls. Her mum had once tried to shoot one that she saw lurking in the mustard field, but either she missed or it was just too tough. She’d heard tell that their winter skin was thicker than a water buffalo’s. Looking at it up close she saw that this one was shedding for spring.

‘Roll up roll up!’ Bellowed the clown, ‘Come on in and join the fun!’ It leered at her through those mismatched eyes.

‘Go on,’ Zobia urged. ‘Give it a coin. You can’t go in unless you pay it.’

‘Maybe we should do this tomorrow,’ Dipika turned to leave. ‘The circus will still be here.’ She really hoped it wouldn’t, they were never in the same place for long, so if she waited it out then it was bound to move on.

Saira should have spoken up for her at that point, but either she was too dumb scared or just didn’t think she would go through with it. Middle sisters were like that, taking the quiet route between the other two, the path that was less bumpy, assuming no harm would come.

‘What, are you chickening out again?’ Zobia smirked, then spoke to the clown herself, forcing the issue as always. ‘Can I have one ticket please?’

‘Of course you can little lady,’ boomed the pierrot sarcastically. ‘Just the one is it? That’s a real shame, aren’t your friends coming too?’

‘Oh no, it’s not for me, this is for my baby sister.’ With that she took the ticket in exchange for one shiny coin and handed it to Dipika.

That was when she knew it was too late, once bought the ticket was binding, everyone knew that. ‘ADMIT ONE’ it screamed at her in a font so ugly she thought her eyes would bleed. 

If she turned away now the clowns would come and follow her wherever she went, school, home or the temple. She’d seen it before. First one, then more, they gathered on the edges of a victim’s life, ever present. The moment it had her cent there was no escape. They would wait and follow until their prey went mad in the light of primary colours and oversized trousers.

So Dipika stepped into the big top, leaving her sisters behind.

The first horror was the audience. There was an audience. They were the kind of people she kept well away from. Gangs of hoodie boys acting tough. People smoking, some drinking and others doing things she had no names for.

Under her feet she felt the sticky crunchy sound of little bones, not all of them dried and clean. She was glad it was so dark inside. Smoky air hid the floorshow.

Suddenly an auguste stepped in front of her. These were the leaders. Thinkers and planners, they plotted where the clown tribes would harry next, choosing a town to ravage by methods no coulrologist had ever quite sussed out.

‘Come witsh me little lassh,’ the auguste slurred. Dipika could smell its rancid breath tangled with stale aftershave. ‘Let me show ye to your sheat.’

She knew better than to anger an auguste, even a sober one, and followed, hoping it would at least prevent the gangs from getting at her.

It led her to a front seat, the very worst kind. From there she could see everything and she had not even brought her mackintosh.

‘The besht sheatsh in the housh.’ It took a swig from a bottle hidden in an old brown paper bag. Dipika dreaded to think what it was drinking. She sat down obediently and tried to make herself seem very small. If she was little then maybe they wouldn’t notice her.

The auguste staggered away, losing interest.

Behind her the crowd erupted in a riot of noise. It took a moment to understand why.

The show had started.

Music churned up from the bowels of the big top, the same chorus of jolliness over and over again, like an orchestra with the needle stuck, then a little puce car trundled out into the centre of the ring. The car stopped and waited. It just waited and waited, its engine turning over for such a long time she thought that the show was already done, but it had only just begun.

A sickly yellow spotlight suddenly vomited illumination onto the clown car. Then came the dwarves, backing out of the doors, bottoms first. They unwrapped themselves from each other and peeled off into the ring.

Dipika counted them, one by one. Dwarf clowns emerging from the knot. But there were only six. Everyone knew those cars carried seven.

Then came the very worst sound in the world, ‘We need a volunteer from the audience!’ One of the dwarves spoke with a voice like a breadknife cutting through a breadboard. Six pairs of pebbly eyes scanned the crowd, waiting and looking, trying to make contact.

Dipika looked at her shoes instead. She was not going to be the chosen one. In the glare of the spotlight she could see the bones under her feet now, small and white. Some feathered, some still squirming.

‘And… give him a round of applause!’

Someone had not looked away.

Dipika resisted a peek, but something brushed past her and she saw a pair of black boots crunching the bones as the volunteer lumbered into the ring.

The crowd burst into relieved applause, someone who was not them had been selected.

Soon after the screaming began, and something else too, a twisting and a ripping and a tearing. A couple of heavy snaps, and then the sound of a car door being firmly shut.

Dipika looked up. The dwarves were gone and the car was on the move again. It trundled happily away, carrying all seven passengers.

Next were the whitefaces. These were the cleanup crew for clown nests. They came out from all four entrances to the big top, each matching the directions of the compass. Some experts on the radio said that clowns were intelligent species and this use of compass points proved it, but Dipika’s mum said it was just instinct, like pigeons knowing which way to fly.

The whitefaces rolled and tumbled into the ring, almost laughable, until one stopped and plucked up something, shoving it into its maw. It gobbled greedily, swallowing before the other whitefaces could rip it from its teeth.

The harlequins descended as soon as the whitefaces left. They came down like monochrome puppets on strings from the shadows at the roof of the big top. Some skimmed though the air, mesmerising anyone fool enough to look up.

By the time they had gone so too had three more of the audience.

All that were left now were the hobos. Get past them and Dipika could escape back to her sisters. She was glad they had chosen the matinee. At least she would be spared the butchery of rodeo clowns.

The hobos staggered into the audience, clothes filthy and stinking of comedy. She could smell them from where she sat. Dipika swallowed acid back down her throat. If she vomited they would be attracted by the stench. All she had to do was keep her eyes to the floor and keep herself very very small.

Then one touched her arm.

She closed her eyes tighter.

The hobo pawed at her, trying to get her attention, leaving a slightly gooey substance behind on her top. When she got home she would throw it in the furnace. It was her favourite top, but she could never wear it again. She was glad it had long sleeves.

‘Could yer spare some change?’ The hobo growled.

Dipika remained stone still, eyes firmly shut.

‘Go on luv, just whatever yerv got.’

Still she said nothing, listening to the clown breathing heavily, almost as if its lungs were full of water.

Finally it said something rude and stalked away.

She kept her eyes closed. Hobos often played the fool and returned when their prey was least suspecting.

Only when the music stopped did she believe that the show was really done.

Carefully she opened her eyes, just a squint and glanced around her. The spotlight was gone. The entertainment was over.

Yet the audience seemed to be waiting for an encore, no one was leaving, but Dipika had done enough. She had proved it.  Zobia would have to admit she was no scaredy-cat now.

Standing cautiously she made her way to the aisle, having memorised the route the auguste had led her. It was only a few steps and then she could walk -never run- walk swiftly to the exit.

She turned the corner expecting a clear escape, and found herself looking at the feet of a harlequin. Red, white and green toes stared at her from the bone floor.

Dipika froze, not daring to look up, waiting for what could have been a minute but felt like an hour. The harlequin did nothing. It just stood there.

Then it burped, a long grinding burp from deep inside a bloated stomach. It was satiated; having gorged so much it didn’t need afters like her.

She took courage and edged to her left then, carefully, without making a scene, walked around the clown and continued for the exit.

She didn’t look back. If it was following then there was nothing she could do to stop it.

When she reached the tent flap she expected the pierrot to be on the other side, waiting like a seemingly defeated monster at the end of a scary film, but there was no one there. It was still daylight outside.

And her sisters were gone.

Dipika couldn’t remember running home. She had the scratches on her arms and legs to prove she had fallen a few times, but as to the details she had no memory.

All she could recall was tearing off her clothes and showering in water that was far too hot for far too long. She remained in the pain for ages, and only stopped when Saira called, ‘Hey is that you Dipika?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wow! I can’t believe you did that. Zobia will go nuts!’ Then she added almost as an afterthought, ‘Are you ok?’

‘Yes, fine.’ Dipika said. ‘I just want a lie down. I’ve got a bit of a headache.’

‘Sure thing kiddo, I’m so impressed,’ Saira replied. ‘Mum’ll be home soon.’

So Dipika dried herself off and lay on her bed, trying to clear her mind of the sounds she had heard. There was no headache, but her ears echoed with the noise, and her shoulders ached from trying to make herself small.

She must have dozed off. It was dark when she woke, the evening performance would have started already, with a fresh audience. Once the circus had smelt you it lingered in your head for life. Dipika turned to see the clock and that was when she realised she was not alone.

The clown was lying beside her, squeaking like a doggy toy whenever it exhaled. She had no idea what kind it was. Not a harlequin or dwarf, even though it was small, but a different small, slim not short. It must have climbed in while she was asleep, picking up her scent and finding a place to nest. Young ones sometimes escaped the big top to go and make a circus of their own.

How was she going to explain this to mum?

‘Hey girls!’ Her mother was home already, the front door slammed shut against the night. ‘Hey girls… Dipika, Saira, Zobia?’ She remained silent. Perhaps the clown in her bed would be frightened off by the noise, sometimes that happened. Mum could go get her gun before it had descended the stairs.

‘Hello? Girls, where are you? Zobia where are your sisters?’

The clown abruptly sat up and swung two extra large feet over the side of the bed. It had been awake the whole time. ‘Hi mum,’ it called, in a voice just like Zobia’s, ‘I’m coming.’

The clown stood up and stalked to the door.

Before the gun was fired Dipika found the ticket crumpled up with her discarded clothes. ‘ADMIT ONE,’ it said, and below it in much smaller writing, ‘non-transferable.’