Photo by Kevin Solbrig on Unsplash
by Cath Barton
I should have realised when I saw the little clown car with one of them in it, tipped upside down with his face squashed against the window, eyes wide and grimacing. But you see all sorts in motorway service stations, and it doesn’t do to worry about them. The kids didn’t see the clown car, or if they did they didn’t pay it any attention. They were both crazed after being cooped up in our car for hours in the holiday traffic jams, so they were running around, running and jumping and screaming. The screaming didn’t trouble me either, not at first. Not till I saw the knife, and the blood, and the whites of the man’s staring eyes as he came towards me, his shoes slapping on the ground in that mesmerizing one-two, one-two beat.
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Cath Barton lives in Wales. Four published novellas. Short-story pamphlet forthcoming. Novel looking for a publisher, clowns in it, but not frightening. Online: @CathBarton1 https://www.facebook.com/cath.barton.5 www.cathbarton.com
