Money for the Circus 15

Marcus doesn't recognise the route taken to the Circus, but then, he's never driven to the common ground by car. Some of his classmates at school will have, he's sure. Maybe they wouldn't drive back, as the car would be on fire by then. Anyway, the Cab pulls up in front of the big top: the caravans and cages are back. As are the various types of vehicles that have hauled them from wherever they went. 

Daitya gets out of the car and lets Marcus and The Prof out of the cab, for all the world as if he was the driver of a VIP in a Bentley or a Roller, rather than a black cab that has seen better days.  
The Prof says 'I must get out of these clothes… I don't feel myself in them. Although I did once.'
Marcus is unsure what to make of that, so he says nothing. 

The Prof disappears into the big top. Then he reappears, dressed in his more "normal" clothes in no more time than it takes to undo a shoelace. 

'Ta dah!, that's better!' He says, arms outstretched as if he's in the ring and his audience is somewhat larger in a couple of senses than Marcus. The man then pulls something from his waistcoat pocket, it looks like the watch Marcus has in his own. He checks to make sure it's still there. The Prof laughs. 
'You found it then? I thought you would.' The Prof's watch is on a chain, he presses the winder and the watch opens. He shows it to Marcus. Like Marcus's, there's a name engraved inside the lid. Or rather, some initials and a name. 
"B.L.Z. Bubb". 

Marcus recalls that his Gran said this – or something similar – over the cards, last Halloween. She'd corrected him on that, "it's Sa-vain, I'll write it down for you." Samhain, she'd written. And she'd put the cards away, wrapped in the silk scarf. Marcus pulls his watch from his pocket, presses the winder and reads – not Marcus –  but "Young Nick".  He pockets his watch, looks Mr Bubb or The Prof or whoever he is in the eye and says 'Where's Gran?' 
'We don't know, we thought you might.' The man sighs. 'It's a difficult situation, that's a fact.' He claps his hands together and says 'Let's eat'. He pulls aside the tent flap and ushers Marcus in. 
There's a long table and mismatched chairs around it, 13 in all. Most are taken. All except two. A large throne thing at one end. Not like the one made out of swords in that daft programme with the dragons. No, it looks like something the Pope might sit in, if he wasn't American. At the other end is a barber's chair. 
'Take a seat, Marcus!' The Prof sweeps an arm wide, clouting the back of someone's head, causing him to spill their wine.  They're dressed as a clown so maybe it's part of the show. 
'Not there!' The Prof hisses. 'That chair is mine!' Marcus is a little surprised that The Prof is pointing at the Barber's Chair.  
Marcus is wondering if he's wandered into the plot of one of the new age comic books. The ones where the bad guys aren't really bad, just misunderstood and Superman is – well –  both invulnerable and vulnerable at the same time.  Not realistic enough for Marcus, in other words. 

So Marcus takes his seat at the head of the table. There must be 3 each of knives and forks and twice as many spoons. 

The Prof claps his hands and shouts "Send in the Clowns". In they come, carrying plates of soup.