Money for the Circus 12

[The rest of this is here, but you're not obliged to read it]

It’s late. Somehow, Marcus has spent 8 hours hours at the circus, at least according to his new watch. Maybe he’ll get himself a waistcoat, like the saloon owners in the old “cowboy fillums” Gran likes. In the meantime, his trouser pocket will have to do.  It’s dark. So the watch must be right. Marcus didn’t notice the time. Well, it wasn’t everyday you met an elephant – or a pangolin. As for the humans, well, Leeds and Bradford weren’t that far away and they had all sorts living there. Gran said so often, usually  when shouting at Look North on the tele. 
Marcus crosses the road a couple of times, keeping out of the way of anyone walking around at this time of night. Before closing time is when he feels least safe. There are things more dangerous than elephants out there, especially for a boy who is small for his age. 
The flats are in sight. The old soldier is at his post, passed out on the stairs. Marcus wonders where he’s been. Maybe he’d been called up for a mission?  Marcus thinks that's unlikely, but still, he wonders where else the man has to go.  Marcus, opens the door. The flat is quiet, so no-one is "visiting". He can't hear any snoring and the tele is off. That's not the only thing.  The biscuit barrel is open on the coffee table. A small plate with some crumbs and half a ginger nut is beside it. Gran wouldn't do that. Leave a biscuit half-eaten, that is. Gran's bedroom door is ajar. Marcus wonders where the cat is. 
Gran's not there, either. The bed is tidy, no-one's been using it today. Usually there's a post-it note on the tele screen with just one word: 'Pub'.  It had been the first word Marcus learned how to read. At 3 years old. When the note had been left for his Mum, until it wasn't. There's a smell of … something. Something off, like the meat one of Gran's clients once left instead of paying. Marcus looks in what Gran calls the kitchenette. She always says they live in a bijou flat, Marcus thought she was saying "big-jew" the first time. When he said he thought the council owned it, she'd told him it was just a posh word for pokey. 
And pokey it is. Marcus sleeps on a bed that folds out of a cupboard and takes up all of the space in the second bedroom. The door opens outwards. He has to sleep with the door open, because there's no room to put the bed away, if it's shut. He could stand on the bed and open the door if it is, but the bed isn't all that and would probably collapse, small though Marcus is. 

Marcus goes back to his Gran's bedroom. It's tidy and the window's open. She's had one of her customers round then. There's a footprint on the window-sill. Yes. A footprint, someone with flat feet, and no shoes on. He leans down and looks under the bed. Amongst the slut's wool (yes, Gran's words for it) is a trainer. Adidas, it's a vintage training shoe, not a new-retro version that Gran says cost hundreds more than the original version ever did. Gran's a size 5, the trainer's a 10 at least. Besides, he's never seen Gran in any kind of trainer. Especially not if she's got a customer. 

The globe and the silk scarf are on the small dressing table. Gran always puts them away after a customer has been. The scented candles are just melted lumps of wax in saucers that don't match. Her pack of weird cards are beside them, one card is face up on top, it shows a man is hanging upside down from a tree. Marcus has only touched the cards once, that time Gran was helping the police with their enquiries and the policewoman was left to look after him while they waited for the social to turn up. Gran shouted at him when she got back, long before any social worker arrived. "They are not playing cards, Boy." Gran said.  She put them away straight after using them ever since. In a drawer or something. Marcus hadn't dared go near them again. 

And then there's Gran's mobile. Right next to all the stuff she uses for her customers. Marcus doesn't have a mobile. Well, he's had a few actually, but bigger boys have stolen them. Every time. He uses Grandma's sometimes, but only for googling stuff. Snapchat is scary, Whatsapp is weird. And the people that use them are both. Marcus has worked that out for himself. Point is, thinks Marcus. Everyone in the world – including Gran – except Marcus, is never more than a room away from their phone, if they can help it. And they can't, help it, that is.  

There's a chest at the end of Gran's bed. Marcus opens it, takes out a big envelope full of official looking papers. He knows what he's looking for. The birth certificate. For when the police won't believe how old he is, after he reports Gran's disappearance.