FAIRGROUND ATTRACTION

 

FAIRGROUND ATTRACTION

A tale of derring‑do by strzeka (04/26)

 

Part One, Scene One

Ross Davison was gradually assembling his attire for the evening. For the first time in two years, the old gang was getting together again to catch up on goings‑on and to get a few beers in. With any luck, it would be like the good old days, before uni, work and life in general got in the way. Ross had polished his black thirty‑holer boots in the week and was impatiently threading the over‑long white laces neatly from one hole to the next. His tightest bleachers still fit perfectly and were constricting blood flow to Ross’s legs. Just a few more holes. It was time‑consuming because Ross wanted the flat laces to be neat instead of twisted and untidy. He stood and lifted his legs a few times to make the shafts comfortable. He adjusted the turned‑up cuffs of his bleachers and made certain they looked identical. He brushed a few motes of dust off the metal‑capped toes of his boots with his fingers and admired the effect of wearing boots three sizes larger than his natural foot length. The overall effect was subtle but old hands appreciated exaggerated bovver boots, especially on the tall models. The proportions were perfect. The over‑long feet complimented the exaggerated height of the shaft, set off by the extreme shortness of the bleachers below the knee.

 

To complete his attire, Ross slipped his arms into an over‑sized olive green MA‑1 jacket, synonymous with the skinhead look for seventy years. The contrast between the extreme tightness of his bleachers and the looseness of the olive nylon jacket was currently fashionable. Last of all, Ross spent a minute or two persuading a pair of skin‑tight San Francisco police gloves onto his hands. His jacket’s elasticated cuffs hid the gloves’ extreme brevity. They left the wrists bare, covering only the fingers, palms and the backs of the hands. They were literally skin‑tight and looked as sexy as hell. It was perfectly possible to pick up coins, handle a revolver, or open your flies for a slash wearing the gloves. They looked really hot. He glanced at his face in the mirror. He kept his mouth shut and turned his head from side to side, appraising his latest shave. His scalp shone as if lit from within. He kept his mouth shut to hide the gap in his smile. His front teeth were missing since he came off his bike four months ago and hit the kerb at the wrong angle. His dentist removed the last shards of enamel and quoted the price of implants. Ross was still saving for the procedure but tonight, no expense was spared. It would be like the good old days.

 

Part One, Scene Two

Two of his friends were at uni, two held jobs. His best mate at school, Jamie Hutchins, had allowed some of his hair to grow back. It was now a sleek blond crewcut and suited him. He was dressed almost identically to Ross with the exception that his thirty‑holers were burgundy red. Everyone showed concern for Ross’s unexpected gap‑toothed grin but Jim said the shock value alone must be worth the pain. Ross was a good‑looking bloke and his missing teeth emphasised the fact. It was good to have some sympathy and approval for what had been a traumatic blow to Ross’s self‑esteem.

 

They headed to the fairground, paid the entrance fee and argued good-naturedly first about which direction to take. The fairground was one of the largest of its kind which toured England every summer, spending three weeks in each location which never varied from one decade to the next. Local councils anticipated increased incidents of minor injuries and broken bones as young people demonstrated that they were not as indestructible as they wanted to demonstrate to their horrified companions. Health and safety inspectors did the rounds, ticking items on their checklists after being assured by familiar faces that everything was in order and had been checked and approved that very morning by the site’s own engineers. Ross and Jim idly kicked at a thick electrical cable until a consensus was reached. They would circle the fairground in an anticlockwise direction. That way they would leave the best till last. The dodgems! Shouty stallholders dared the boys to throw between two and five balls through holes, into pipes or past ducts to win plushy dogs, penguins or bears for their ladies. They swore choice insults back and laughed at the standard replies. A stall offered roasted chestnuts. Several had more tempting wares. Not so long ago, they all ate the last candy floss they would ever taste. The stench of burnt sugar mingled with the smoke of burning chestnuts imparting an extra dimension to the cacophony of grandiose carousels blasting organ music from patched‑up loudspeakers. Away from the smoke, a hotdog seller arranged a dozen fresh bread rolls and hopefully watched the approaching group. They all stopped to briefly make obscene comparisons between the length of the hotdogs and parts of their anatomy. As a result, they bought five hotdogs with all the trimmings and the hotdog seller was happy.

 

Part One, Scene Three

You could hear the screams before you could see their source. They sounded different from the childish screams of preteens who dared ride the helter‑skelter and those of prepubescent teenage girls spinning together in a miasma of estrogen trapped inside whirling giant teacups on rides designed to entice them. The screams sounded genuine and came from the same direction as the sharp smell of ozone, the swish of trolley poles and the thunder of steel wheels on steel plate. They had saved the best until last and happily handed over the cash for ten minutes on the dodgems. They were quick enough on their feet to claim a car each and belted themselves loosely into the worn red leather seats. Two floor marshals swung from car to car with simian agility checking punters’ seat belts and that no‑one had an alcoholic beverage in their hands. Thirty year old garage music pumped from invisible loudspeakers and a ten second countdown began. The guys looked around at each other, grinning at each other, watching where the marshals were looking. It was never the aim to crash deliberately but accidents will happen. Three, two, one, go! The electricity surged into the motors and the steel wheels jerked into motion. A few seconds of confusion before all cars pointed the right way and then the cut‑throat competition to overtake, to block, to accelerate for twenty metres, to drive as wildly as possible before control was wrested by one of the marshals accompanied by an inaudible shouted admonition. He jumped onto another passing car and disappeared. More speed around the outer rim, quick back into the fray hitting only two blocking his mates giving the finger screaming with laughter excitement freedom. Ross felt himself to be all‑powerful at that moment, better than he had felt in months. He laughed with genuine pleasure baring his mutilated mouth for all to see. The crowd‑safety manager sat high up at one end of the runway behind a one‑way mirror watching the runways and the good‑looking skinhead manoeuvring his car with some skill and care. He approached quickly and the manager, Derek Stannard by name, stared at the ultrasexy visage of a great male face with missing front teeth. He noted the timecode on camera two intending to enlarge the best frame of Ross hurtling towards him, displaying his face and ruined mouth. Stannard knew he would feature in his night thoughts for a while, until someone else just as deviant caught his attention.

 

The music cut out. The ride was almost over. Stannard cut the power gradually. The cars slowed and finally stopped. He watched the skinhead rejoin his mates at the far end of the run.

 

Ross was animated and felt great. The gang of friends looked around for some other attraction before moving away. Ross happened to notice a laminated announcement tacked to a wooden support column. It simply read help wanted apply within ask for stannard. Stannard was an unusual name. He would try to remember it. The beginnings of an idea had taken root. Ross was the only one of his mates who was not earning enough to leave home. All the others either rented or lived in their parents’ second homes. The gang decided they did not want to eat more street grub from any of the stalls and since the Prince of Wales was just a stone’s throw down the road, they left the fairground for a pint or four.

 

Part One, Scene Four

Ross had an embarrassing encounter with his parents the following day. He had been hungover, rising late, looking red‑eyed and sorry for himself. His mother reminded him yet again that he was still living at home when most other young men his age had long since flown the nest. He should get himself a job, any job. It didn’t matter if it was a temporary thing. It was all experience which he would not get lounging around at home every day. Ross made a couple of half‑hearted protests but knew he was fighting a losing battle. Suddenly he remembered the notice tacked to the dodgems circuit. What on earth was that peculiar name? He associated it with Standard somehow. Stannard! That was it. Ross put white trainers on, checked his MA‑1 had his wallet and keys in it and headed out towards the funfair after a twelve hour absence.

 

The gate was locked but there was plenty of motion inside. Stallholders restocking shelves, electricians taping gashes in cables, men making repairs with nail guns. Ross stood watching and tried to catch someone’s attention. A heavily tattooed bald man carrying a pot of red paint walked over to him.

          – I’ve come to see a guy called Stannard about a job on the dodgems.

          – Does he know you’re coming?

          – No. I didn’t know myself until half an hour ago.

The man put his paint down and approached closer to the gate. He sorted through an enormous bunch of keys for many seconds. The lock clicked open and the gate was ajar enough to allow Ross inside.

          – Do I just go to the dodgems and ask?

          – Reckon so.

The bald guy watched Ross stumble over the uneven ground. He looked exactly like the sort of bloke Stannard usually fancied. Good luck to him.

 

Two mechanics working on the overhead power supply saw Ross’s approach and waited to see where he was going. He called out a hello and asked where he could find Mr Stannard.

          – What d’ya wanna see ’im for?

          – About the ‘Help wanted’ notice.

          – Gotcha.

The guy had already noticed Ross’s missing teeth. He took out his phone and poked at it.

          – There’s a bloke ’ere says ’e’s after a job. Nah, young like. Yeah, I s’pose so. Alrigh’. I’ll send ’im along. Righ’. Listen, mate. Stannard will see you in his caravan. It’s the long red and white one behind those bushes over there. See ’em? Jus’ bang on ’is door.

          – OK. Thanks.

 

Ross picked his way across the uneven ground strewn with electric cables and various supports holding stalls in place. Stannard’s caravan was distinctive enough. Long and sleek with a hint of the unavoidable streamlining which affected every late Fifties design. The door opened as Ross drew close. Stannard himself stood with his arms crossed, legs akimbo. He sported an inch wide mohawk, a toothbrush moustache and a soul patch. He looked more than imposing. He looked fierce. Ross halted momentarily and opened his mouth in surprise, revealing his own distinctive facial speciality. Stannard was astonished and intrigued to see, if he was correct, the same guy he had thought the horniest he had seen in a long time casually walking up to his door. He stared at the incredible open mouth.

          – Have you come to ask about a job?

          – Yeah. Are you Mr Stannard? The notice said to apply to Mr Stannard.

          – That’s me. You can call me Derek.

Ross reached up and they shook hands.

          – Come inside and sit down.

The interior was almost bare. There was a small kitchen nook at one end with a table taking up half the floor space. Stannard indicated that direction and followed Ross.

          – OK, all I have to offer you is a job as a floor marshal. That means guiding cars into position at the start and end of each session, making sure the punters stay seated, and keeping the track clear. You need to be quick‑witted and quick on your feet.

          – I understand. I think I could do that.

          – I think you probably could. Then you have to sort out problems like shoving stalled cars to get them going, straightening out vehicles that get stuck and helping riders who can’t steer. And keeping an eye on the power supply, like checking poles and brushes and listening out for mechanical issues. The cars take quite a beating and it’s the marshals’ job to make sure the punters don’t smash them to bits every night. Still interested?

          – Yes, of course I am!

          – What happened to your teeth?

          – Came off my bike and hit the kerb.

          – It looks cool. I bet you don’t think so.

          – Er, no not really. I’m trying to save enough to have a couple of implants. That’s partly why I need this job.

          – I take it you’re free to travel. We won’t be here much longer and we’re heading to Dorset next and then down to Exeter. Have you got your own van?

          – Er, no, I haven’t. To tell you the truth, I haven’t even thought about it.

          – Well, if I gave you a job, I’d expect you to be with us for the whole season. That’s up to the end of October. After that you might stay on as a handyman doing repairs and maintenance on the equipment during the winter until we start out again next year. Where are you going to live?

          – I don’t know.

 

Ross felt crestfallen and a little foolish. It was perfectly obvious that the fairground toured around the country. He could hardly commute every day from home. Stannard looked at Ross’s sudden abject disappointment, hoping for another glimpse of the dark gap and the wet tongue just behind his pretty lips. He looked fierce when his wide gap was obvious. Stannard’s hitler moustache was an attempt to create the same effect. His hawk, stache and soul patch created a vertical streak down his head and face. He knew he looked distinctive and had become inured to the stares of shock and derision engendered by his taboo moustache. Ross was also intrigued that anyone as young as Stannard would want to look like that. In a way, it was quite exciting. It was quite a coincidence that the pair of them sported such deviant facial features, by choice or otherwise.

 

          – I have a suggestion. I’ll take you on for a trial period, say two or three weeks while we’re in Dorset. And you can sleep on the convertible down there.

          – Live in here with you, you mean? Are you sure?

          – I’m sure. You won’t be here much, will you? You’ll be working on the ride.

          – I suppose I will. How much are the wages?

 

They negotiated a suitable rate. It was all legal and above the board. Ross’s income would be taxed and paid into a bank account. He would sleep alongside Stannard. There was cupboard space for a few clothes and he could boil water for a pot noodle or whatever. Ross accepted Stannard’s conditions and they signed a temporary contract. Ross would start work that afternoon, just watching the other marshals working under Stannard’s tutelage. Tomorrow he himself would be on the metal track. They shook hands again. Ross stood and left Stannard sitting behind the kitchen table. He made his way back towards the dodgems with a grin on his face. He told the two workmen that he would be joining them that afternoon. One of them accompanied him to open the gate. Back in his caravan, Stannard awkwardly eased his way from behind the table and limped to the opposite end of the vehicle. He sat on his bunk, pulled his jeans down and removed his artificial leg which was chafing his thigh without a stump sock.

 

Part Two, Scene One

Ross changed into clothes which might better suit his working enivronment, He had plenty of old pairs of bleachers, most of them perfectly serviceable. Most of them were cut short to show off his boots. He thought of keeping up the skinhead look on the job. It looked good, it was practical and the rubber‑soled boots were ideal for hopping around on the steel floor. And Derek Stannard looked like he might have been a skinhead or worse in his younger days. His hitler moustache was really shocking. Ross looked in the mirror and imagined himself with one like it. He laughed. He would need more self‑confidence than he currently possessed to go around like that.

 

He had expected his mother to be home but he was alone in the house. He wrote a quick note saying he had found a job and was being shown the ropes and he might be back late, after midnight. It would be enough if he left before either of his parents returned. Ross was understandably restless. He had landed himself an exciting new job in an environment where he could be himself, be a skinhead in boots and bleachers. He had a new friend. What else to call a man who invited you into his home two minutes after meeting you? He already guessed that Derek was gay. Ross himself had played around and sucked a dick or two. It was what all men did, he told himself. He would be fine if Derek wanted to give him a blow job. But what would it be like jumping from dodgem to dodgem, lording over the punters, shouting rebukes at stupid punters who simply wanted to cause mayhem? It would be grand! Ross the Flying Floor Marshal, the King Skin‑in‑Boots. He was not quite sure if he would be allowed to wear his thirty‑holers on the job, although he could see no reason why they would not be suitable.

 

He made himself a mug of tea, waiting for someone to arrive back. It was coming up to four. The fairground opened at six but he guessed there were things to do before that. He ought to get back and seek out Derek in case there were things he wanted to show before the first session. He weighed his note down with his dirty mug and left.

 

Part Two, Scene Two

Stannard was annoyed with himself for not having told Handsome to be back at least an hour before opening time. Maybe he would turn up early anyway to give a good impression. Stannard could not imagine in his fervour for having Ross’s presence in his van any way in which Ross could improve his impression. There was something utterly charming about the boy’s manner. There was a hugely diverse gap between his first impression as a fit skin with oversized boots and skintight bleacher jeans which revealed the outlines of his cock and balls and the coy way he tried to hide his ruined teeth and the way his eyes flitted to you and then away. He blinked hard as if to emphasise the main point in his sentences. He had beautiful long eyelashes. His wet tongue was visible between his molars when he spoke. His damaged mouth was like a badge of honour. I am Alpha and here are my scars. Stannard checked his calendar. There were still eight days before they made the move to Dorset and Handsome would be his. During the time he had been daydreaming, he had dressed his stump and attached his artificial leg. He stood and put his weight onto his stump to force it deeper into the shallow socket. He twisted the plug into the socket to maintain suction and heaved himself into motion. Time to get back to the arena for another thirty sessions.

 

Stannard walked well enough for an amputee with only two year’s experience. His exoskeletal prosthesis was a perfectly ordinary health service item. It looked like a proper leg and was made of some kind of moulding material which dried hard. It extended from the tip of his toeless foot up to his arse bone. His stump was hidden inside it but he had learned to swing his stump, the handsbreadth remaining of his thigh, and the long heavy artificial leg followed suit. It was difficult to walk on uneven ground but that was his life. It was the amputation and his fear that his disability would make him seem somehow weak that encouraged him to shave his formerly handsome chevron moustache into a narrow toothbrush, a proper hitler moustache. It looked shocking and no‑one would ever dare assume he was a lesser man because of his missing leg. The fake leg was bulky enough to look real underneath trousers but the halting gait caused by Stannard’s short stump and the rigid ankle hinted at disability for anyone who understood these things. He climbed up into his control cabin and ran the first power check. The systems seemed to be working. Voltages were correct and steady. Advertising lighting was working, as was the arena’s interior illumination. Led lighting was much more reliable than the old‑style stuff. One of the evening’s marshals messaged him.

          – A guy at the gate says he is starting tonight. What to do?

          – Let him in. Bring him to me.

Stannard laughed to himself. This time yesterday, he had not even set eyes on the most erotic and handsome man he had ever seen. And now he was going to be sitting beside him.

 

Part Two, Scene Three

Ross was early. It was not yet five. The marshal called up to Stannard who replied Let him up! Ross let himself into the impossibly small control room at one end of the straight and sat himself down behind the control desk flashing with red yellow and green square control buttons of a type rarely used after the eighties. Stannard remained seated and the two stared into each other’s faces while shaking hands.

 

          – I’m glad you got here early. I wanted to show you the procedure before we open, see?

Ross nodded and looked up and down the control panel in front of him. It was cobbled together out of bits of kit which came from all kinds of different equipment, glued into blocks which could be lifted out for easy transport. Probably the first kind of practical modular electronic construction. Stannard sorted his thoughts out and began to describe in the most basic terms how the electric motors which propelled the dodgem cars operated and how the controller, Stannard himself, could cut power instantly to any section of the track. It was divided into three zones. The innermost circle was green and the green buttons turned the juice on and off in those sections. The yellow buttons controlled the middle circle and the red, the outermost areas.

 

After only a couple of minutes, Ross began to relax. It had been a long time since he was trusted by anyone else. Now someone who trusted him enough to invite him to share his home was explaining his future job like an elder brother might help a sibling with his first motorbike repair. Stannard had a pleasant enough voice and seemed happy enough to explain his job to an outsider. From their elevated position, they could see the entire layout and Stannard turned to explaining the physical problems which could occur and did occur nightly when solid objects circulated at high speed around a common centre. He was describing the science of fluid mechanics without realising it. It was practically impossible for a ring of moving dodgems to move around the circuit even once before there inevitably formed a chaotic system which needed to be solved quickly to allow additional flow. Stannard used different words with a liberal sprinkling of industry vernacular. The two young men paused between themes and stared at each other’s faces only inches apart. Stannard’s deepset dark eyes searched Ross’s face for a lessening of his initial excitement and tension, hoping to see understanding and assurance growing instead.

 

Stannard stopped his theoretical lecture and suggested they watch the other marshals getting the ride primed for the first session.

          – Keep in mind that this is our livelihood, Ross. The punters come and think they can bash our stuff around for ten minutes. They don’t care if they break something. They just blame us. What can you expect if you hurl half a ton of metal at another half ton at twenty miles an hour? That’s why the marshals have to look out for the idiots and the show‑offs who have too much booze inside them to drive. This is the only place on earth where they can drive after sinking ten pints. Don’t get me wrong. If we notice a drunk, we don’t let them on. That’s obvious. But some people can hold their drink and we usually see the results when the hour gets late. So those are the cars you need to ride on. Stand on the front bumper, grab the trolley pole and be ready to grab the steering wheel before any head‑on collisions. Think you can do that?

          – I reckon I could. I hate seeing idiots trying to spoil stuff for everyone else.

          – Well said.

 

Stannard knew he had made the correct choice in taking Ross on as a marshal. They sat together the entire evening until close down at one in the morning. Pretty young ladies brought them hamburgers, coffee and colas throughout the evening. There was a latrine hidden within the florid panels advertising excitement with results soaking into a four foot deep hole beneath. Four foot sufficed for a three week sojourn.

 

Ross made his way home, tired after absorbing so much new information, his ears ringing from the cacophony around him at all times. Stannard had been great the whole evening. He might be his boss but he seemed more like a brother or a really good friend. He knew Stannard genuinely liked seeing the gap where his front teeth used to be so he opened his mouth more as the evening progressed. In turn, Stannard’s hitler moustache began to lose its shock value. It still looked unusual but the moustache and the soul patch below his lips made him look like some kind of pop idol.

 

Part Two, Scene Four

Ross got home at twenty past one. His father was still awake waiting for him. There was a scene, accusations flew, explanations ignored. It was apparently the height of irresponsibility to take a job as a dog’s body in a fairground of all places. If he insisted on debasing himself to that extent, he could clear out and never darken their doorstep again.

 

His mother was no less sour the next morning. Ross politely pointed out that after looking for a job for over a year since leaving school, the only place which he had found and which seemed to be both fun and well‑paid, was suddenly not what they wanted to see after all.

          – Run off with your gypsies if that’s what you want. There’ll be no running back here with your tail between your legs, I’ll tell you that, young man. Take your stuff and clear out. Working on the dodgems, if you please.

 

Part Two, Scene Five

He turned up at three o’clock after slowly dragging an overstuffed suitcase behind him. He had underwear to last three weeks, five pairs of bleachers, three pairs of boots and two MA‑1 jackets stuffed into it. What more could a man need? He hoped there might be enough room in Stannard’s caravan to let him hang his jackets up and stand his thirty‑holers in a row. They did not like being squashed. One of the marshals let him through the gate and introduced himself. Ross did likewise and the pair crossed the uneven ground towards the dodgems. It would be Ross’s workplace, home, hobby and future for as far ahead as he could imagine. With luck, he and Stannard would hit it off. Otherwise life would not be worth living. He had been thrown out of his home and was surprised at how little it bothered him. He was looking forward to starting a new life beside his new friend with a hitler moustache.

 

Part Two, Scene Six

Stannard limped on his heavy artificial leg across the same uneven ground towards his perch above the dodgems. He could already see that Ross had arrived, chatting with the other track marshals. It was still early. He called out and Ross walked towards him, dragging his case.

          – My parents threw me out. They don’t approve of me working here. That’s why I’m early.

          – That’s too bad, Ross. You don’t mind though, do you? We’ll be ok, I reckon. The door’s unlocked. Leave your case inside. You can see to it later.

          – OK, thanks Derek.

Ross continued across the field, Stanner heaved himself up into the tiny cabin where he spent his evenings. Ross soon reappeared and one of the other marshals called to him and the pair of them were shortly tightening screws on the metal floor.

 

Stanner spoke to Ross only once before the fairground opened its gates to the public. He called Ross over and gave him the key to their caravan.

          – Make sure it locks properly. I know there’s not much there but I don’t want people breaking in. Bring me back the key, OK?

Ross took the opportunity off changing his jeans for bleachers. He was wearing twenty‑holers with double thick soles. They would be ideal for hopping around on steel plate, from car to car, hanging on with the most perfunctory of grips.

 

Stannard had already informed his regular marshals that they were to treat the new boy with respect and keep an eye out for him, especially later in the evening when he would be as tired as the rest of them. Glaring at them with the dark‑eyed intensity of the dictator himself, Stannard’s gaze left no room for doubt. The marshals promised to favour the new boy. Later, together, they sniggered at the insinuation that the one‑legged gaylord had landed himself a boyfriend who was into stump.

 

As was the custom, the first three or four sessions were practice runs. The equipment was allowed to warm up gradually before the fast‑paced action later in the eveming. The first rides were usually for young people, boys with their girlfriends who did not want to shake them about too badly, fathers with children along for their first dodgem ride. Stannard kept the voltage down. The cars were severely speed restricted. The soundtrack was the same two hour long CD of twenty year old electronica which played over and over again. Young children found the loud music more frightening than the ride and there were often tears. One of the marshals would guide the car to the edge and hang on to the trolley pole, ready to boot any approaching cars away. Ross watched what was going on around him and initially thought that Derek was keeping things slow for his benefit. He soon understood what was going on and felt a degree of pride that the controller showed such a considerate side to operations.

 

Gradually the pace picked up. Schoolkids turned up, scoffing candy floss and toffee apples, hotdogs and hamburgers then wanting to ride without washing their sticky greasy hands. The marshals whipped out industrial wet‑wipes to run around the chipped and flaking steering wheels between sessions.

 

The last session ended at midnight. The crowd had thinned, probably due to the cool evening. Nothing seriously dangerous had occurred but the marshals were kept busy, often jumping onto the back of dodgem cars for the simple joy of riding on one. Twice during his first evening, Ross leaned down to take over steering from a driver who seemed to overestimate the capabilities of the car and who continually threatened to hit the sides of the arena. There was no animosity or anger involved. Stannard watched his promising new acquisition with a mixture of love and care. He was worried about what Ross was going to think of him later back in the caravan when he discovered that he was a one‑legged cripple.

 

Part Two, Scene Seven

Stannard powered down the ride, shut off the music and lowered the lights to a dim glow. It was the best time. For a few minutes, everyone was together, sitting on the edge of the arena or leaning against a couple of cars, smoking and joking, planning on the next few hours of free time after midnight, who they might meet, who they might take to bed. Stannard leaned against a car in front of Ross. For the first time, Ross noticed something odd about Derek. His right ankle was stiff. He had seen something similar years ago at school. One of the younger pupils had lost a leg under a lorry at the ripe old age of three and had worn a wooden leg ever since. The foot always stuck up like Derek’s foot. As much as Derek gestured with his arms and shifted his position on the dodgem, the ankle never moved. There was no denying it. Derek had a wooden leg.

 

Ross thought it was an odd thing to keep secret but on the other hand, he had not had reason to doubt his employer’s physical integrity. It was none of his business. When he got his false teeth, he would not tell people. It was none of their business either. But how was he supposed to react when the truth came out? It was such an unusual thing that there was no way it could simply be disregarded. It had to be mentioned and explained and discussed and sympathised with, at the very least. From that moment on, Ross remained silent, letting the other marshals and Derek carry on with their late night banter until the last cigarette was smoked and the stub thrown into the long grass.

 

They walked to the caravan together. Ross was intensely tuned to picking up every uneven step which Derek took as if it proved the existence of a fake leg. Derek himself tried his best to control his heavy prosthesis well enough so that he would not embarrass himself in front of Ross. Derek opened the door and allowed Ross to enter first.

          – Are you tired? Do you want to sleep right now? I usually wait an hour or so to calm down otherwise I can’t get to sleep.

          – I’m OK. I’ll go to bed when you do. I’m not all that tired either.

          – Alright. It might be a good idea to make your bed up now though. Pull the lower section out and put the seat cushions on it. There are sheets and a pillow in there too.

Ross sorted his bed out. It was easy enough. The sheets looked clean. There was nowhere left to put his clothes after he had undressed. They would have to be in a pile on the floor. Still, this was only temporary. He would have to sort out something more convenient for Derek and himself. He could hardly impose on Derek for any longer than was necessary. He returned to the kitchen nook. Derek had put a large plastic food container on the table.

          – There’s something I ought to have told you before this but there never seems to be a proper time.

          – Nothing bad, I hope.

          – Depends on what you call bad, I suppose. See, I was in a road accident two years ago and lost my right leg. This one is artificial.

To prove it, Derek rapped on his thigh with his knuckles. It was definitely an unnatural sound. Ross’s curiosity was reignited after noticing something odd an hour or so earlier. He decided to keep quiet and let Derek explain his situation.

          – So one of the things I have to do every night before bed is to take it off and see to my stump, see? I have to wash it and look it over for bruises and sores. Have you seen a stump before?

          – Er, no I haven’t. Is there anything I should do, or you want me to know?

          – Only that I’m a one‑legged cripple and not the man you might have thought. I don’t know if that makes any difference to the way you think about me. I reckon we already have something which goes beyond work. You’re a handsome bloke and I fell in love with your face when you rode with your mates, the night before you ask about the job. Remember? I was up in the control cabin and I couldn’t take my eyes off you. And then when I saw your smile with the missing teeth, I knew I had to meet you again. I really wanted to see you and be with you. And like some miracle, the next day you turned up again to ask for a job and now you’ve been kicked out and we’re together as if it was all meant to be.

It was a long and unexpected soliloquy. Ross was unsure how he should respond. Derek swivelled in his seat and loosened his jeans.

          – Well, you can watch if you want. See if there’s anything to drink in the fridge, will you?

There were four half litre cans of lager.

          – Yes, bring me one and take one for yourself, if you like. It helps me sleep, I reckon.

Derek had gained access to the valve which would release his artificial leg. He pushed on the socket and the leg came away in his hands. He lowered it to the floor, still tangled in his jeans trousers leg. Derek’s short stump was covered in a beige cover with a metal pin sticking out the bottom. Derek rolled it down with both hands and held it away from him. Sweat dripped out onto the floor. He opened his plastic box and found some wet wipes. He cleaned his stump and kneaded it, feeling for tender patches.

          – So that’s what it’s like to have a stump. In the morning, I have to go through the whole rigmarole again. I should really wash the liner, this thing, but it’ll be OK if I just wipe it and let it dry.

          – I’m sorry you have to go through all that, Derek. It must be a nuisance. I don’t suppose you can just not bother about it, like not brushing your teeth sometimes.

          – Haha! No, it’s not like brushing your teeth. It doesn’t happen very often but I have gone to sleep still wearing the leg but it gets uncomfortable real quick.

 

Ross was impressed by Derek’s open honesty and willingness to demonstrate something which, while not intrinsically sexual or erotic in any way, was probably not something most amputees shared with an audience. He felt that Derek had let him into a shared secret, something unique and special which only they knew about. They job was done. His jeans containing his right leg lay beneath the table. Derek twisted himself back in his chair and lifted his can of lager.

          – Cheers, my friend. Welcome to my humble abode. I’m sorry it can’t be more like what you’re used to.

          – What do you think I’m used to, Derek? This is fine! I feel free for the first time ever. And I hope you don’t mind me saying so but I think your stump looks great. You’re only the second guy I know with an artificial leg.

          – Who was the first?

          – A boy at school.

          – Lucky guy.

          – Lucky? Why do you say that?

          – Don’t get me wrong. If your destiny is to be a one‑legged man like me, it’s better to start as early as possible to get used to an alternative lifestyle.

          – Yeah. I haven’t thought about it. I suppose you’re right. I know the boy at school never seemed to let it bother him.

          – Kids rarely do. They just get on with life. Alright, time for bed. Drink up.

 

They emptied their beers and looked at each other. Derek stood first, revealing his six inch long conical stump. He caressed it and lifted it for Ross’s inspection. He lifted his arms and grabbed hold of the metal runners on each side of the central corridor down the caravan. They found new use in allowing Derek to move from one end of his home to the other on one leg, supported by the rails running overhead. Ross watched him swinging himself to the far end and followed behind. He undressed sitting on the edge of his bed and climbed in, facing away from Derek, a few feet behind him. The lights dimmed.

          – Good night, Ross. Sleep well.

          – Good night, Derek.

 

Part Three, Scene One

The initial reluctance to indulge in deeper intimacy evaporated during the first ten or so days leading up to the move to a new site. Stannard was hugely relieved that his new mate accepted him as a cripple. During their first shared week, he wore his artificial leg at home but then left it off more often. The railings along the ceiling were all he needed to move around inside the van. Ross became used to seeing him semi‑naked navigating the tight spaces of his mobile home on one leg.

 

They began to share the same bed, the larger one at the end of the vehicle where Stannard had always slept. There was no need to fold Ross’s convertible away every morning and they could use the seat again as a spot to leave their clothes overnight. Ross allowed Derek to explore his mouth. Somehow his missing teeth acted as a turn on for his amputee friend. Equally fascinating was the sensation of Derek’s short stump. Ross had never felt anything quite like it before and found it erotic to cup its tip in his hand. They did not indulge in penetration, not yet. It was something which signified a more mature relationship. It was enough to share skin contact and body warmth together.

 

Saturday was the last night of the fairground. After that the troupe had three days to clear the site and tidy up after themselves or there would be no chance of being allowed to return next year. The four marshals, Ross included, and the mechanics dismantled the steel floor, the steel ceiling and roof and the walls. Cables and other electrics were stashed in packing cases and everything was finally slotted into their accustomed positions inside a tired old trailer, hauled by an age‑old Dennis motor unit. It was a difficult few hours for Stannard. As part‑owner of the ride, he could express his hopes and direct some of the action but he felt guilty about being unable to take part himself. He felt that Ross’s fresh enthusiasm might be enough to compensate for his missing manpower.

 

The various rides and concessions departed at regular intervals during the allotted time. It was best to travel at times when traffic in their direction was minimal. It was best to let the old and frequently overloaded lorries travel singly rather than have the entire fairground travel together in an inconvenient bunch like in the old days. Back then, people along the route would throw stones or insults at the travellers, deterring them from even considering staying overnight in the vicinity.

 

Part Three, Scene Two

The new site was familiar to almost the entire troupe. The vans parked up in the same spots as the previous year and the year before that. Two mechanics inspected the area allocated for the dodgems and gave the go‑ahead to begin reconstructing the ride. The ancient electricals and their controllers again saw life as the framework of the arena grew, cables slotting into grooves, controllers in rows hung onto nails pounded into support columns and hidden with garish covers.

 

Powering it all was the venerable generator which had proved its worth for the past fifteen years. It had been recently officially inspected and declared to be operating within all permissible limits although a recommendation had been issued which suggested that a new generator would be advisable before the end of the decade. Stannard co‑signed the permit and assured the local councillors that a new generator would be at the top of the list of new acquisitions.

 

Ross helped out with lifting the steel mesh ceiling into position. The modular design was obvious when you helped with its construction. The isolators were checked, tension was optimised to provide the electric motors in the dodgem cars with an uninterrupted flow of juice. Stannard stood by giving instructions and advice. Their cohabitation was already common knowledge throughout the troupe but because of Stannard’s disability, he was allowed a little leeway in such matters. Travellers did not traditionally approve of homosexual relationships but after being disfigured, everyone realised that it was a matter of beggars can’t be choosers. His paramour seemed affable enough, willing to help, willing to learn.

 

Reconstruction had progressed far enough that the electric system was ready for testing. The four marshals manhandled a dodgem onto the arena and fitted its tall trolley pole into its rear. Stannard climbed into his control cabin with the intention of testing the three zones from outer to inner and checking that voltage was evenly distributed from one ceiling mesh to the next.

 

One of the regualr marshals, a lithe and swarthy character with a broad moustache and thick golden earrings, jumped into the car and thrust his raised fist with his thumb up into the air. Stannard increased current gradually, slowly enough to ignore inertia. Any sudden drops in current would be obvious to the rider. Steel wheels on a steel floor with the music of the trolley pole scraping across the steel mesh above brought back the spirit of the ride, the joy of riding such raw power, feeling both safe and tempting fate at the same time. Nothing could beat the sensation of hurtling around the arena with an almost suicidal amount of power beneath your right foot.

 

Stannard gradually increased the voltage to the mesh, intending to take it far beyond what he would allow the general public to experience. This was one of the few times when the mechanics and marshals could have a little fun on the dodgem cars at full power. But there was something wrong. Voltage reached an even fifty percent but rose no further. No attempts by Stannard to increase it worked. Willing to please his new workmates, Ross crawled under the steel arena floor to the raised cabinet which contained the so‑called controller direct from the main generator. He barely touched the steel cabinet’s external casing when there was a brilliant flash and a loud thud. Darkness fell immediately followed by the stench of burnt flesh. The dark lithe marshal was behind Ross and guessed immediately what had happened. He gripped Ross’s double sole skinhead boots and pulled him out. Ross was unconscious but still breathing. His hands and forearms were charred claws. Several people called for an ambulance. Stannard lurched onto the scene and bellowed his horror.

 

Part Three, Scene Three

Ross was regaining consciousness by the time an ambulance arrived. Medics administered drugs directly into Ross’s belly and reassured him that everything was going to be fine. Just relax. Stannard was the only person who had any kind of relationship with the victim and volunteered to travel to the hospital to help out with the paperwork, if possible.

 

Cardiologists declared the patient’s condition robust enough for him to withstand the rigours of bilateral amputations. Dermatologists advised on the limits of viable tissue which would affect the length of Ross’s stumps, his residual limbs, the amount of flesh and bone left after the destroyed tissue had been removed. Surgeons argued about the advantages of leaving with patient with scarred, barely viable stumps which would certainly require many skin grafts for the next few years and the less disturbing alternative of cutting away destroyed flesh and bone until the patient was left with comparatively tidy stumps which were healthy living flesh. Their sadism was beaten down in favour of short but presentable stumps. The patient would retain his elbows, at least at this initial stage of his surgical care. With luck, no further interventions would be necessary. Ross was wheeled into theatre where three surgeons used their skill over seven hours to craft two adequate below‑elbow stumps which, with luck, could be fitted with basic artificial arms, returning some degree of practical function to the patient.

 

Part Three, Scene Four

Ross was not as alarmed by his mutilation as the psychiatric staff feared. The stumps were livid mounds of sutured flesh and the patient was not allowed to view them yet. A mild narcotic kept the amputee calm. Attempts to locate the next of kin had been unsuccessful. The only potential visitor was a disturbing and somewhat fierce looking gentleman who declared the patient as his flatmate, although apparently the cohabitation had endured for less than a month. This man had provided as many personal details about the patient which were available to him from his employment contract and other official documents he had access to.

 

Ten days after the accident, Stannard was informed that the patient was asking for him and that visiting hours were between four and eight. He scrounged a lift from one of the marshals and asked him to return at eight.

 

          – Derek! Thanks for coming. I’m going spare in here with no‑one to talk to. They keep telling me I’m still too ill to risk having visitors and today they relented.

Ross lifted his heavily bandaged stumps as if to announce the topic of conversation.

          – We’re both gonna be disabled, Derek. No‑one’s gonna be able to pick on you in future when there are two of us.

          – Don’t worry about me, mate. How are you feeling about what happened?

          – Depends what you mean. Like, I’ve lost my hands so I’m gonna have to rely on hooks but I’m OK with that. They tell me I had a huge shock because the amperage was too high, even though the voltage was OK. Apparently it bypassed my brain and heart, so there’s no real damage done. Just my hands.

          – You’re gonna be fine when you get hooks, Ross. I won’t let anyone make fun of you, I swear.

          – I really want to get back to the arena, Derek. I don¨t want this to mess anything up. Have you got the ride working again?

          – Yeah, it’s working again. We had to get another generator. The police took the old one away for forensic studies, they said. As far as I know, they haven’t found anything suspicious. It looks like it was just a faulty capacitor or something which let the power build up instead of cutting it off in time. You’ll have to talk to one of the electricians if you want to know more. There is one other thing we need to get sorted fairly quick, before we move on.

          – What’s that?

          – We have to get signatures from the hospital about your condition when you were brought in and your treatment for insurance. The fairground has insurance in case someone gets hurt, see? And then they get compensation.

          – Do you reckon I’ll get compensation, Derek?

          – I reckon so. Losing a hand is the sort of thing they pay compensation for.

          – And I’ve lost two. I’m sorry, Derek. I didn’t mean to be a nuisance.

It was such an odd thing to say that Derek was silent while he collected his thoughts.

          – Mate, I promise you to stick with you regardless of if you have hands or no hands. I promise.

          – Thanks, Derek. I want to stay with you. You’re the only friend I have and the only man I know who I can trust.

 

Part Three, Scene Five

Derek was a regular visitor during the following days. The dark lithe man who had jumped into action to save Ross accompanied Derek on one occasion. Their talk was mainly about Ross’s improving medical condition and his prospects for being fitted with his first pair of artificial arms. The problem was that the fairground would have moved before Ross was ready. They would have to search out a manufacturer of prostheses somehow in whatever town they happened to be in. It would make prosthetic care complicated for Ross but it was a problem to be solved when the time came.

 

Word about the new boy Ross, or Stannard’s new toy boy, the skinhead who had joined the dodgems crew, had spread among the fairground troupe. One of the mechanics who worked on the carousel, Angus “Gus” Parks, was a skilled leatherworker and was capable of rustling up anything from arm sheaths for bodybuilders to protective sockets for stumps. One afternoon, he dropped by Derek’s caravan to offer his services for Ross, should he be discharged with mere bandages. He ought to have much better protection than that. The fairground was a rough and tumble kind of place. He ought to be careful. Derek thanked him for his kind offer.

          – It never occurred to me that you must be far more skilled in leatherwork than merely making all the straps and things for the carousel rides.

          – Oh yeah. I thought everyone knew. I do most of the metalwork too. I reckon if your… er, friend wants a genuine pirate hook, I’d be able to make one in a few days.

          – He’d need two.

          – Yeah. Shame that. What sort of a guy is he, mate? D’you reckon he’ll be up for making a go of it as an amputee? He’s gonna have hooks, I take it.

          – I reckon he’ll fit right in. He’s so new that after a year or so, it’ll be as if he had always had hooks ever since he arrived here.

          – You’re an amputee yourself, I hear.

          – Come off it mate! You only need to see me walking in this thing to know.

He rapped on his rigid thigh with a fist.

          – Not at all. I’ll let you in on a secret. I run a side business making leather sockets for artificial limbs. Wealthy amputees appreciate something more comfortable and stylish than the usual plastic sockets.

          – Really? That sounds very interesting. What do you think you could do for me?

          – I’d need to know what I’m working with. What sort of a stump have you got?

          – Let me show you.

Stannard stood and allowed his jeans to drop to the floor. Parks slid off his chair and clasped his two giant hairy hands around the pink limb. He pushed his face into Stannard’s groin and inhaled long and hard.

          – Sorry about that. So what sort of thing do you want?

Stannard was too surprised to speak. Parks was obviously at least an amputee devotee. What sort of a future could Stannard himself and Ross have if they both had Parks as an admiring friend willing to service them for the simple act of flashing their stumps every so often?

          – Do you think you could make me a peg leg? Nothing special. Just a socket with a belt around my waist and a long pylon.

          – Without a knee joint?

          – Without a knee joint. Who needs a knee on a peg leg?

          – Mate, I could have you on a peg leg by the time we shift to Exeter.

          – That soon? I’d like to see it.

          – Listen. I need to make a copy of your stump for the socket. I use fibreglass tape which hardens and use that to make the socket, see? It’ll take a couple of hours. When would you like me to come back?

          – Any weekday before three, Gus.

          – OK. I’ll see you tomorrow.

 

Buoyed by his erotic encounter with the dodgems amputee at long last, Parks made a decision about the skinhead lover. He would make a genuine leather and steel pirate hook for the lad and the other arm could be a simple protective sheath. A leather stump. It would look real horny. The peg leg would be a little more demanding for the simple reason that it needed to bear the user’s weight. Parks knew that Stannard would love it after being hobbled by the health service plaster and paste rubbish for so long.

 

Part Three, Scene Six

Just as expected, Ross was discharged with the hospital’s good wishes and a list of do’s and don’t’s as well as prosthetic limb manufacturers in the south of the country. He was met by Stannard and the car owner marshal who had ferried Stannard several times during the past two weeks. He parked up on the far side of the fairground in a location he could see from his van. The route back to Stannard’s van led past the carousel and on a whim, Stannard suggested that they pay Gus Parks a visit. Gus had become a regular visitor in Stannard’s red and white caravan and they exhausted themselves with deviant sexual acts inspired by Stannard’s stump. He had already taken delivery of a black wooden peg leg with a mid‑brown pigskin socket and associated waist belt. Both were lined with soft chamois leather and Stannard had decided that if Ross approved, he would adopt a peg leg permanently.

 

Stannard needed only to call out Gus’s name. He quickly jogged into view, carrying a heavy fist hammer and ancient wooden toolbox.

          – Ho! Hallo, you two. Excuse me if I don’t shake hands, my friend. You must be Ross, I reckon. Good to meet you at last.

          – Hi Gus. I just thought I’d drop by with Ross in case you have a minute or two free to get started on what we talked about.

          – I could do it now if you like. Let’s go to my workshop and we could make a start.

          – What’s this all about, Derek? What are you up to?

          – Don’t worry yourself, my friend. All will become clear.

 

Gus’s workshop was the front end of his lux‑liner Winnebago which had once been thought streamlined and beautiful. Fluid mechanics and aesthetic taste had advanced over the intervening eighty years but thanks to the entire line being made of surplus post world war two aluminium, many of the vehicles were still roadworthy.

 

          – What I want to do is take a cast of your stumps, Ross, so I can get your size right. It’ll take a while for the cast to harden, about two hours, but if you’re willing to sit with me that long, we could get started right off. Is that alright?

          – I suppose so, but what’s this all about?

          – Well, you see, you’ve been sent home without any protection on your stumps.

          – I have some liners on.

          – But if you knock your stumps, you’ll be in a world of pain and we don’t want that. At least your mate doesn’t want you to hurt yourself so he asked me to make a couple of sockets out of leather. You can wear them until you get your hooks. They’ll keep your stumps nice and safe so you don’t knock them about.

          – I see. My arms have bandages on them but if you take my jacket off, you can more or less see what my stumps are like.

 

Parks gently eased Ross’s jacket away from his stumps. He stared at the remnants of Ross’s arms and wondered how it would be possible to fit a pair of hooks onto such meagre short stumps. Both stumps were almost identical. Both were rounded nubs below Ross’s elbows and there seemed to be about two inches of stump. Parks understood enough about what he was seeing to know that Ross was going to have his work cut out mastering artificial arms. He would have very little leverage to control artificial forearms from his short stumps. Parks did not relay his thoughts.

          – What I think we should do is make you thick leather tubes with a bend at the elbow. They’ll have straps over your shoulders to keep them on. We can leave the part below your elbows quite short or we could make them as long as your real forearms were. Remember, these won’t be anything more than stiff tubes to hold your arms and give them some protection. What I need to do first is measure your arms. Do you mind hearing the word stump? I keep saying arms when I mean these.

Parks cupped Ross’s right elbow and noticed how his own stubby fingers were longer than Ross’s stump.

          – No, I don’t mind if people call them stumps. That’s what they are. In the hospital, some of the doctors kept saying residual limbs and it just sounded ridiculous.

Parks jotted down circumferences and lengths and asked what sort of fake forearms Ross might like to wear for a few weeks until his first pair of proper hooks were ready.

          – I think it would be good to have short forearms about half as long as my real ones. Are they going to have rounded ends or flat ends?

          – I think these first ones will be flat, Ross. It’s not impossible to mould the leather to make a rounded end but it’s a bit of a slow process and I want you to have these as soon as possible.

          – There’s another thing I was wondering about.

          – What’s that?

          – You know the sort of big pirate’s hook that Captain Hook wears?

          – The big curvy thing, you mean?

          – Yeah. Could you make one of them and stick it on the end?

Parks burst into laughter at the idea of a brand new amputee being kitted out with a huge iron hook within days of being released. His medics would definitely disapprove but the guy himself seemed adamant that he wanted one.

          – Listen, Ross. I’ll have a look through my box of odds and sods and if I’ve got a foot length of inch thick steel rod, I’ll try and rig something for you. I can’t promise it’ll be as glamourous as the ones in the films but it will still be a hook. Leave it to me. Oh yeah, I almost forgot. I have some light brown pigskin leather. Is that alright for you?

Ross tried to imagine long pink fake stumps on both arms and nodded.

          – Good show, Ross. That’s all I need you for right now. I’ll let Stannard know when they’re ready and he can come with you.

          – Thanks, Gus. This is more than I ever expected. I’m glad I lost my hands at the fairground where there are people who can help me.

 

Part Three, Scene Seven

Stannard insisted that Ross accompany him everywhere. They slept together in Stannard’s bed. Stannard changed his bandages until Ross asked him not to. The stitches had dissolved and his stumps could be left naked, although Stannard slipped white tennis socks over each stump in the name of propriety. Not many people appreciated seeing a mutilated limb during a casual glance. Stannard fed him, showered with him in their tiny douche which held enough warm water for three minutes. They ground their soapy genitals together until both were edged to the limit. Ross rested his stumps on Stannard’s shoulders while Stannard stood one‑legged gripping the assistive fittings. He knew how he would grasp his lover after his stumps became more robust.

 

Stannard’s peg leg indicated to Ross that his lover intended to make adjustments to his own well‑being to compensate for Ross’s altered physique. Stannard had been practising on the rigid peg at every opportunity, getting used to its centre of balance and becoming used to the pigskin belt around his waist which ensured that the peg could never slip off his short stump. Since his return, Ross had not seen Derek’s artificial leg and there was hardly enough room in the van to conceal it. They sat together in the control cabin every evening. Stannard found a convenient spot between two distribution boxes where the tip of his peg leg could rest safely out of the way. He asked Ross to bare his stumps whenever they were alone together. The ruined arms were a never‑ending source of erotic pleasure for Stannard and as the weeks passed, Stannard began to realise something about himself which he had never given thought to. He not only accepted his own amputation, he fetishised Ross’s and wanted to see and experience more. Hence the peg leg. He knew Parks intended to invite them both for Ross’s first fittings of his protective stump sheaths next day and was also excited by the knowledge that Parks was waiting on the arrival of a steel fitting for the socket which the hook would attach to. Parks had sculpted a metal rod into an elegant and oversized hook which belonged in cartoon fantasy. Ross was going to actually have the opportunity to wear one. He would look like Captain Hook. The whole idea was as exciting as it was erotic.

 

Part Three, Scene Eight

The two sockets looked pornographic. They were the size of long dildoes, curved halfway along their length. Two padded straps at the top edges were designed to hold the contraptions to Ross’s stumps. Parks held them as Ross inserted his naked stumps one by one into the pig skin sockets. Their colour was disturbing because of its resemblance to human skin. They extended up his arms almost as far as his shoulders. The straps needed a little space to swivel but once two sets of buckles were tightened the sockets would stay in place. The right socket was otherwise identical to the left with the exception of several punch marks intended to accommodate a steel frame to which the iron hook would be welded. The pigskin socket would be riveted to the framework and Ross would have his first genuine prosthesis, a huge and heavy static iron hook at the end of a rigid immobile socket. He would look astounding.

 

Ross accepted his new sheaths with embarrassing floods of gratitude to his new friend Gus and to Stannard, who had promised to pay for Parks’ efforts. Stannard promised to tend to everything which related in any way to Ross’s artificial arms. Parks showed him how to cinch the shoulder straps to ensure maximum security without chafing. Both men fondled the flat‑ended sheaths as soon as Ross had them on his stumps. The artificial forearms were bent at a reasonable angle which looked more or less like a natural way to hold one’s relaxed arms. Ross could raise his arms and the sheaths would act much like long arm stumps. They extended his reach by about four inches, making his sockets about half as long as his flesh and blood forearms had been. The half arm pigskin stumps looked erotic in their rigid brevity. Ross moved them around and the others watched his expressions as he discovered anew how severely disabled he was even with longer artificial stumps.

 

Part Four, Scene One

Exeter Hospital notified Ross that his artificial arms were ready for collection and that it would be preferable if Ross could collect them in person. He replied that unfortunately he was in Shrewsbury for the duration and was unable to travel to collect his limbs. According to Stannard, the fairground would remain in situ for another fortnight. If the hospital was agreeable, they might consider sending the arms by courier if someone else paid. The transaction required more bureaucracy than should be strictly necessary and a pdf invoice from the hospital’s bank account but after several hours, a courier was ordered and the prostheses would arrive the following morning.

 

Coincidentally, Parks received the components he had ordered while Stannard was arranging a courier. He needed Ross to return the right stump sheath for a couple of hours. A brief text message invited Ross to an audience in Gus’s Winnebago.

          – Don’t look so worried, Ross. There’s nothing wrong. I just need to work on your sheath, see?

          – Oh! Have the parts arrived?

          – They have. Do you need some help?

Ross did not. He had discovered that the sheaths stayed put perfectly without cinching the buckles tight. He gripped the right sheath with the left and worked his stump out. Gus held it to stop it from falling.

          – You know what I’m gonna do, don’t you? I’m gonna rivet a steel brace along the whole socket so it bends round at the end like a U‑shape and after that I’m gonna weld the hook to it. You need to tell me how you want the hook to be. Do you want the tip to point upwards or to point like horizontal to the left?

          – I think to the left. I reckon that would be more useful.

          – Alright. Your wish is my command.

          – Thanks, Gus. It’s really good of you to help out like this.

          – Ah, it’s nothing really. All in a day’s work. Look, I’m gonna get started on this and it’ll take an hour or two so there’s no point in you hanging around. I’ll send you another message when it’s all ready, OK?

          – OK. See you later, Gus. Cheers!

 

It was five o’clock before Ross was summoned for the second time. The hook looked nothing like he was expecting. It looked magnificent. The new bracing was riveted to the pigskin socket at two inch intervals and passed under the flat tip without touching it. The hook was welded to an oval steel plate which in turn was welded to the steel brace. It was as rigid and indestructible as it could possibly be. Ross was speechless with gratitude. Gus held it firmly while Ross fed his stump along its interior. This time, he allowed Gus to cinch the buckles firmly over his shoulder. The sheath weighed considerably more now. Ross lifted the socket from his shoulder and admired the glittering hook which had suddenly become his most distinctive feature. Ross moved his stump about in front of him, imagining how the hook could be used. In fact, it was next to useless. It was an ostentatious display of extrovert peacocking. Ross thanked Gus yet again and brashly returned to the red and white van brandishing his new hook in front of him.

 

Part Four, Scene Two

Derek had already left. He would be behind the one‑way mirror in the dodgems cabin. The atmosphere had changed since Ross had arrived. Stannard had been derided after he lost his leg. The time he had spent on crutches was deemed excessive. The team thought he was deliberately trying to avoid helping out with the physical upkeep of the ride. He might be the boss but even so, he directed what was needed and then helped out. Now he merely directed. Then his new boyfriend turned up. Stannard had conjured up an old‑fashioned false leg from somewhere and lumbered around on it, still useless as far as helping out was concerned. For some reason, the boyfriend seemed to like Stannard being an amputee and suddenly he was an amputee himself. No‑one could understand what was going through Stannard’s mind, taking a guy like that on. He was even more useless than Stannard. No hands and no idea of how the ride worked or how the fairground business ran. And yet the two amputees were as thick as thieves and to top the lot, the bear of a man from the carousel seemed to have adopted them as pets. He was always strutting back and forth between the red and white van and his ostentatious Winnebago. The dodgems crew were left in a kind of limbo, not knowing how the changes at the top would affect the work at the bottom. You couldn’t get much more bottom than working ten hours a day as a floor marshal, fun though it may be.

 

The boss had already climbed into his cabin on his ridiculous peg leg. He always wore it just recently. Totally unexpected, the new guy showed up holding a steel hook in front of him and rapped on the cabin door with it. The boss called out Come in, followed by muffled laughter and interjections of one kind or another.

 

          – That looks fantastic, Ross. What do you think?

          – I can’t believe how much I like having it. I mean, the sheaths are great. They hold my arms, my stumps I mean, and I feel kind of horny all the time showing off my stiff little arms in public. And now all of a sudden, I have this fantastic hook. Look how shiny it is! And the bracing up the sides of the socket looks so cool. Do you like it, Derek?

          – It looks incredible. I didn’t think it would be as handsome as that.

Stannard decided he and Gus were intimate enough at this stage that he could get away with suggesting that Gus also convert the left arm with a matching hook. The naked pigskin sheath looked pathetic in comparison with the manly steel hook. It extended Ross’s reach as far as where his natural hand would be. Next time Ross was away for a fitting somewhere and Gus dropped round to redeem another instalment of Stannard’s debt in the flesh, Stannard would ask his big hairy bear if he still had enough odds and sods for a second hook.

 

Ross wore the hook for the entire evening and discovered that it had little practical use with one sole exception. Derek could fit a beaker into the broad hook so he could hold a drink of water. But he had to hold the beaker all the time and could not bend his arm to bring the beaker closer to his lips. Even so, the hook looked great. Stannard was determined to have Gus make a second one for Ross’s other stump.

 

The next morning, Ross checked the progress of his delivery. The package was apparently on its way. There was no point in checking continually because the courier would call when he arrived outside the locked entrance to the fairground. Someone would have to accompany Ross to the gates. There was no way Ross could manipulate a key. One of the marshals would have to help again.

 

Part Four, Scene Three

The courier arrived at ten thirty. Ross had no trouble in recruiting a helper. They walked together and the marshal was the first outsider to get a close look at Ross’s new hook. They exchanged a few words about it and the marshal got the impression that the new amputee might be an alright kind of guy after all. The gate was opened, the package delivered into the marshal’s hands and they returned to the red and white van where Stannard sat one‑legged with a naked stump at the tiny kitchen table going over some bookkeeping.

          – Thanks for your help, Jake.

          – Don’t mention it. You OK now?

          – Yup. Thanks.

Stannard called out.

          – Thanks for helping out, Jake. If you want, you can help Ross open his package. I know he could use a hand.

It was an odd turn of phrase. Jake stepped inside after Ross and they took the package to the wide bed at the end of the van, sitting on the edge with the package between them. Ross ran his steel hook spastically over the top. The corrugated cardboard hummed in reply.

          – Shall I open it for you, Ross?

          – Yes please. Let’s see what they’ve made me. You know what’s inside, don’t you?

          – I have no idea.

          – It’s my proper arms. My real hooks, the ones they made for me in hospital.

          – Oh! Let’s have a look, then. That sounds exciting.

Jake slit the taped edges with a small blade on his keyring and the package fell open to reveal a mass of packing material. Jake reached in and withdrew an artificial arm. There was no way of knowing whether it was a left arm or a right arm. But Ross knew.

          – That’s my left arm!

          – Oh! Great! How do you get it on?

Ross looked at it more closely. It was not what he was expecting to see. There was something odd about it.

          – I’m not sure. Let’s see if there’s any instructions with it.

Jake removed the box’s contents and placed them on the bed. The artificial arms were on their own individual harnesses and there was a double harness in a plastic bag included. There was a big squishy bag of rubber tension bands for the hooks and their applicator like a pair of pliers. There were two spanking new liners and a dozen white cotton stump socks. Right at the bottom was an envelope with the name Ross Davison on it.

          – Will you open it please, Jake?

There were brief instructions on how to use the band applicator and where to order more bands. There was a series of illustrations on how to transfer each arm to the double harness. Last of all was a printed letter from the prosthetist who solved the puzzle about why the arms looked different from what Ross was expecting. Jake held the letter so Ross could see it and read it aloud.

          “You will notice that the prostheses are a different design from those which we discussed. However, considering the common disadvantages experienced by amputees with short below‑elbow amputations, the surgical team and myself decided to depart from the design previously agreed in favour of a full‑length limb which has proved more robust and reliable in use than the short version.”

          – Oh. These arms are not what I wanted. The ones I wanted would just replace my forearms and hands. These ones replace my entire arms!

          – It goes on, though. “We have notified a Manchester hospital that you require rehabilitation services in the near future and you may arrange a suitable date and time through the following phone number. There are aspects of these prostheses which we have not discussed and you may be initially confused. We recommend booking a time for rehab as soon as possible.” Well, that sounds alright. Someone can drive you up to Manchester for a day, I’m sure.

          – Yeah, I suppose so. Do you want to help me try them out?

          – Alright. You’ll have to tell me what to do, though.

          – Well, I don’t know, do I?

The two men giggled. Jake held Ross’s sheath and hook as he wriggled his stumps out of them. He flexed his elbows and his nubs moved like pathetic shadows of adult male arms. Jake stared at the incomprehensible sight of arms which stopped halfway.

          – I don’t know if I need to put more of those socks on. Let’s try it without. Right arm first. Can you come in front and hold it in place?

Jake twisted the alien device until the elbow bent logically. He held it firmly for Ross to insert his right stump. The expression on Ross’s face changed as his stump disappeared deeper into the cool rigid socket until his mouth dropped open when his remnant of forearm reached the end of the socket where a slight bend accommodated it. Instead of being able to move his elbow to operate a separate socket attached to his below‑elbow stump, his entire arm was being held completely rigid with no movement possible whatsoever. Ross was almost panicking in confusion.

          – What’s wrong, mate? What’s the matter?

          – This is rigid all the way down! I can’t move my stump! It’s like my iron hook!

          – You can move that though, can’t you?

          – Yeah but I’m supposed to be able to bend my stump. Look how it’s trapped inside the top bit. See how the lower part with the hook is completely separate? Well, my short stump is supposed to be inside that bit.

Jake was bemused. Ross said the new hook was like the old one, so what was wrong with that?

          – Well look, mate. Why don’t you try them both on to see if they fit and then we can have a look to see how they work? Are you alright? Do you want a drink?

          – No thanks, Jake. I’m alright.

Ross looked at the glossy black arm tipped with a convoluted worker’s hook. A silvery cable led from it up the skinny cylindrical forearm, past his biceps and across to the large steel ring in the middle of his back. A similar cable was connected to the cylindrical forearm. The forearm hung motionless from two elbow joints about three inches from the tip of the rigid socket. The steel hook pointed at an odd angle. It looked the business. It was bigger and more angular than normal hooks. It was intended for working men who did rough manual work. Ross had explained his work as best he could to his prosthetist and accepted a pair of worker’s hooks.

          – Come on. Hold your other stump out.

          – You have to thread that shoulder loop up my right arm first, Jake. Otherwise the arm will fall off.

          – Oh yeah.

Even with Jake’s help, it was difficult to feed his left stump into the other immovable socket. Despite his confusion, there was definitely a hint of the horn about wearing two artificial arms. The two hooks glinted uselessly. They looked threatening and alien. All vestiges of Ross’s stumps had disappeared. This was the way he would look all day, every day, for the rest of his life. A good‑looking man, at least until he opened his mouth, hobbled by unnatural plastic arms and metal hooks. It was too bad to be so disabled at such a young age. Jake thanked his stars he was not in the same position. Ross stood, pushing himself up with the socket on his right stump. The right hook flailed in front of him.

          – How do you open the hooks, Ross? That’s what I don’t understand.

          – I’m supposed to stretch my shoulders, I think.

Ross shrugged and twisted his upper body, restricted by straps attaching his artificial arms to the two rings in the centre of his back. The right hook opened and clicked shut. The left forearm rose and locked itself at a right angle.

          – Oh! Did you mean to do that?

          – No! I don’t know what I meant to do. I just wanted to see what happens.

          – Try it again.

Ross’s contortions could have been frustrating but for the presence of Jake who began to see the humour in the situation, despite his best efforts to keep a straight face. Ross noticed and they both paused. Jake hung on to Ross’s glossy black shoulders and they laughed until their stomachs hurt.

 

Part Four, Scene Four

It would be an exaggeration to say that Ross learned to use his artificial arms that morning but with Jake’s friendly patience, he became familiar with the logic of how his arms operated. The hooks worked as if they were connected to a toggle switch which sometimes made the forearm move up and down and sometimes made the hook open. Instead of a real toggle switch, the different functions were selected by jerking his stump. He chose to move his forearm first by stretching and locked it in place by jerking. Then the hook opened by stretching again and closed by relaxing. Then he jerked to move his forearm again with whatever he had in his hook and jerked again to lock it in place to operate the hook. It was convenient that it always closed automatically on whatever he tried to grab.

 

Jake left Ross on his own and went for lunch. Derek had long since departed for his cabin, making preliminary plans for dismantling the arena at the end of the month. Next stop was Wigan, the penultimate location before closing the fairground for winter. Stannard hated the place. The locals opposed their traditional neighbourhood being disrupted by the arrival of something which attracted their women. Muscular young men with prickly stubble in dirty denim and white T‑shirts always eyeing the ladies, always ten seconds away from a fight with the local lads for a misspoken word, a misunderstood gesture. Ironically, Stannard felt above all that. His facial hair should be warning enough. His newly adopted peg leg was the icing on the cake. Here was a man not to mess with. No woman would be seen dead with him. And next to him, his lover, his perfect man who had lost only his hands but replaced them with utterly crippling full‑length artificial arms. Stannard was awoken from his daydream by the door rattling and several sharp raps.

          – It’s me, Derek!

Stannard extricated his peg leg from its raised resting place and descended the three steps to open the door for Ross. It was the first time he had seen Ross kitted out in his present and future guise. He looked Ross up and down as if appraising merchandise for sale. Ross’s brand new artificial arms hung motionlessly from his shoulders. The hooks looked vicious on unnatural cylindrical forearms. Stannard’s horn synched with Ross’s own. He sensed they were going to make this alien apparatus the focus of their lovemaking.

          – How do they feel?

          – I feel trapped. I couldn’t get them off if I tried. But they feel great. They’re not what I wanted but that’s alright.

          – Come on up. It’s still early but we could get some lunch.

Stannard submitted himself to the indignity of trying to reverse in the tiny space while wearing a long rigid peg leg. His natural foot wore a trainer. Ross followed him up, balancing carefully, unable to grip anything.

          – Where are your sheaths?

          – Back in the van.

          – Are you going to wear those now?

          – You mean now, this afternoon, or now, the rest of my life?

          – Ha! I mean today.

          – I need help to get them off, Derek. I hope you’ll help me tonight.

          – I will. I’ll always help you. I’m glad you’re so determined about your arms. Even the way you took to using your iron hook showed you were willing to overcome it all. I’ll always help you, Ross. You know that.

The loving look Stannard offered Ross was incongruous with his hitler moustache and matching soul patch. Ross responded in kind, his spoiled smile spread wide as he briefly concentrated on something other than how his stumps were trapped in their unforgiving prison.

 

Part Four, Scene Five

Another month, another move. Stannard described his dislike of Wigan but Ross was more enthusiastic. The orthopaedic hospital to which Exeter had directed him was within a short distance and reachable by tram. Ross had never been on a tram and was distinctly rattled by not knowing how to buy a ticket or what to do on board. Stannard laughed at him and admitted that he too had never travelled on a tram but that it was just a glorified bus on rails. If Ross wanted, maybe Jake would come with him. Stannard could afford to let Jake have half a day off, although to be honest, he would still be working for Stannard.

 

Jake and Ross had become good friends, although there was still a degree of deference on Jake’s part. He suspected that Ross was the boss’s lover, drawn to each other because of their stumps and disabilities. Even their faces were deviant enough to set them apart. On Ross’s chosen day, the two friends made their way to the Wigan terminus of the Manchester Metro for the long ride into town. Logically enough, Ross wore both full‑length prostheses. He knew he was due to undergo basic training on how to operate the complicated system of cabling but intended to demonstrate how much he had already learned in the weeks following their delivery. He was used to his natural elbows with their short nubs being encapsulated. Ross found the long rigid sockets erotic. He could cause an erection by trying to bend his elbows and being prevented from doing so. He had also learned to be patient with the mechanism which allowed him to swap between moving the elbow or opening his hook. He had discovered the proper movement which operated the toggle, a firm jerk of his upper arm as if he were trying to nudge someone standing behind him. He used to combine it with twisting his upper body too but that was unnecessary. Derek enjoyed watching Ross using his arms for whatever purpose. He loved the mechanical nature of the arms and the artificiality associated with a handless man equipped with steel hooks.

 

His rehab coach was in his mid‑thirties, a bald black‑bearded man with a limp which betrayed his status as an amputee. He introduced himself as Morgan Frost. He clarified Jake’s status, as a friend along to help Ross if needed, and suggested he could stay to watch the tedious proceedings if he had no other business in the vicinity and promised to be quiet. Frost recoiled at noticing the large gap in his patient’s grin.

          – I’d like to inspect your stumps first please, Ross. Let me help you get your arms off.

Frost paused in surprise at seeing perfectly serviceable stumpage below Ross’s left elbow. Yet the socket encompassed the stump in its entirety, compelling the patient to use prostheses originally intended for use by patients with only short stumps at their shoulders. However, so far Ross seemed quite content with his lot. Frost was in two minds whether to point out the fact that his patient might be far more accomplished with an alternative design which allowed free movement of his elbows and far more fluid motion of the lower section.

 

Frost probed the stumps and complimented Ross on how well they had healed. He enquired about any aches and pains in the stumps, concerned that extended lack of muscle use might lead to loss of power and atrophy. Ross reported that he wore both arms from seven in the morning when he woke to usually after midnight. There were no sores or abrasions he had noticed. He felt quite comfortable having his stumps and elbow nubs held rigid. He could relax and allow his artificial arms to take all the weight and effort. Frost scribbled a few notes in response. He was also intrigued to see a pair of worker’s hooks in use. They usually appeared singly in tandem with a standard hook which was a better design for everyday applications.

          – How many rubber bands do you have on your hooks, Ross?

          – Four each side.

          – Really? That’s a lot. And you’re able to open them without any trouble?

          – Yeah. No trouble.

          – OK. Good.

This new patient seemed to have become used to a pair of arms which were, to all intent and purposes, intended for someone else. He really ought to discuss the issue with the patient before continuing any further. There must be a justifiable reason why Ross had been issued with such demanding prostheses rather than a standard pair of below‑elbow hooks. He ought to question the Exeter prosthetist who had ordered the equipment made to this design but there was no mention of the technician’s name in Ross’s notes and it could be hours before they answered the phone. So Frost ignored the issue and satisfied himself with the status quo. The patient seemed happy to contend with his higher degree of disability due to unsuitable artificial limbs.

 

          – I’d like to see how well you’ve adapted to using the arms, Ross. Am I right in thinking that you’ve had no‑one to help you learn?

          – Well, there’s my er, flatmate at home. He helps me when I can’t do something with my hooks but no‑one has shown me how to use them. I found out myself by trial and error, I suppose you’d call it.

          – OK, good. Let’s see how well you’ve learned.

 

Frost asked his patient to demonstrate movement such as holding the forearms out straight in front of him, bending them to ninety degrees, opening and closing the hooks individually and together and finally picking up a Lego brick from the table and pretending to bring it to his mouth. The patient was severely restricted in his range of movement and needed to contort his body in order to complete the last task, mainly due to the meagre range of motion offered by the mechanical elbow. But the Lego brick was securely in the fierce grip of his worker’s hook in front of his lips. The patient had already learned the single most important skill which all prosthetic technicians strove for, that the patient should be able to feed himself.

 

Frost stood in front of Ross and asked him to repeat several actions which involved switching from one function to the other. Then he stood behind him and watched the same from the rear. Somehow the patient had not only discovered the unintuitive method of operating the artificial arms but had also perfected the necessary movement. Ross was still a little slow. There were obvious pauses between each phase but he had progressed much further than most patients ever managed.

          – You are very skilful, Ross. I feel you should be congratulated. There is one matter we need to come to an understanding about.

Ross looked at the sleek bushy beard and nodded. He kept his mouth closed and Frost thought how unfortunate it was that such misfortune should befall such a handsome man.

          – For some reason, Ross, you have had a set of arms made which stop you from using the short nubs you have at your elbows. Is that what you were expecting?

          – No. I was surprised when I couldn’t move my little stumps. I thought I was going to have arms I sort of strap on to my biceps.

          – Yes, I know what you mean. That’s the sort I would have expected. But now you’ve made such good progress with these arms, what do you think about changing to the other design at this stage?

          – You mean I’d have a new pair of arms?

          – Yes, short ones.

          – I really don’t think I’d be able to use my nubs to work a pair of hooks. You see, they’re so short that I couldn’t really get much power behind them.

          – Yes, I believe you’re right. So you’re happy to continue with the full‑length arms which hold your entire stump rigid, is that so?

          – Yeah. I like wearing them. The sockets feel good and I like the way they hold my stumps firm.

          – Good. Fine.

Frost made more notes and Ross’s future prospects as a hook user was fixed. All his future equipment would be as intended for an above‑elbow amputee. The patient might select a variety of lower arm options, various lengths of socket, different hooks. He had a pair of muscular stumps for operating such prostheses, unlike most users who often had to contend with operating hooks with short stumps at their shoulders.

 

Frost omitted the basics. Ross was confident enough and accomplished enough despite never being tutored in any way. It was an impressive achievement. Ross invited Jake to watch at close quarters when Frost pointed out different components of Ross’s arms and how they could be tweaked to either improve their performance or make them easier to use. Frost was curious to know if Ross had used other types of hook. He had not. Frost had two standard hooks which he used for demonstration purposes. One was the most commonly used model, the other was similar but symmetrical. It opened up as a split ring, ideally shaped for holding cylindrical articles such as bottles, glasses and the like. Jake and Ross watched Frost remove the hook cable and unscrew the right worker’s hook. He replaced it with the symmetrical hook, twisted it to an angle where it would be most useful and invited Ross to try holding a bottle of water. Ross was amazed at how simple it was. The worker’s hook was impractical for such everyday purposes and could easily pierce or crush a plastic bottle. Frost announced that new bilateral amputees were entitled to two pairs of hooks but perhaps Ross would prefer to take two right hooks, a standard and a symmetrical. He nodded vigorously keeping his lips sealed and Frost made more notes.

 

Over lunch, Ross told Frost about his sheaths which the carousel engineer had made. Frost was impressed by the man’s initiative.

          – He did you a favour, Ross. Definitely someone to stay on the good side of. So your sheaths were just a little longer than your stumps?

          – Yeah. About halfway down the length of my forearms, if you see what I mean.

          – Yes. Actually, since your sockets negate your elbows, you might like to have a set of arms made with very short lower arms. They’d really be little more than mounts to attach your hooks to. They’d be very short but you’d be able to manipulate the hooks much more easily, although of course, you would need to get closer to whatever you are trying to grab because of the shorter reach. The point of having a set of arms like that is that you would not need to keep flexing to change operation. You’d have no elbow joint so when you operate the cable, it always opens the hook.

          – I see. That sounds interesting. I’d like a pair of arms like that. It would be as if the hooks were screwed into the ends of my sockets.

          – Very much like that, yes.

          – Actually, I already have an arm like that.

          – Really? How? What do you mean?

          – Well, the guy from the carousel who made the sheaths made me a big steel hook. He made a steel frame and rivetted it to my sheath and then welded the hook to the frame. So my right sheath has a big curvy hook on it.

          – Good lord! And do you use it?

          – Well, I wouldn’t say I use it, but I like wearing it. It makes me feel more like myself when I know that I have something there, if you know what I mean. I don’t like being without my hooks or my sheaths. I feel too vulnerable. Does that make sense?

          – It not only makes sense, it’s the exact reason passive prosthetics are made. They aren’t meant to function, they just make the amputee feel more normal. What about your left arm?

          – Oh, that’s just a sheath. Nothing else. It protects my stump, that’s all.

          – It’s very important to protect your stumps, Ross. But I was going to suggest something. Why don’t you ask your friend if he could make you a second hook for the left hand? I’m sure you’d feel more balanced if you had a matching pair.

Ross laughed at the prospect of having two magnificent hooks. Frost stared again in horror at the ruined mouth.

          – Do you know what? I’ll ask him when I get back.

 

The afternoon was booked but Frost announced that he had little more to demonstrate or teach. It was up to Ross’s determination to continue using his arms and finessing the rhythm of switching from one function to the other. The two men were free to go at any time but perhaps they might be interested in seeing one or two educational films which had been made in bygone years to demonstrate how fresh amputees were taught to use their confusing new prostheses. The narrator was so posh that he was almost incomprehensible. The nursing staff looked like they had been recruited from old people’s homes and the young patients looked thoroughly miserable. They watched two such productions before Jake kicked Ross’s ankle and jerked his head in the universal gesture which means Get me out of here. Ross grinned in his unique way and the two young men made their excuses. Frost had ordered the two new hooks from central and would message when they could be collected.

 

Part Four, Scene Six

It was late enough when they returned for them to be due in the arena. Jake in his role as a floor marshal, Ross in his role as eye candy for Stannard, invisible behind the mirror glass of the control cabin.

          – How did you get on?

          – Oh, fine. He was pleased with what I had already learned. He said I was doing very well. Then he showed me some different hooks which should have been in the box when the arms arrived but I’m getting them in a couple of weeks when they arrive at rehab. I just have to go back to pick them up.

          – That’s OK then. How did you like the tram ride?

          – It’s just like a train, isn’t it? Except the stops are much closer. Like with a bus. The stops are much closer together. I already said that, didn’t I?

          – You did. So will you go on a tram again, do you think?

          – I might. I’m going to have hooks so I can hold a beer.

          – That will be progress. What else did they tell you?

          – That Gus should make me a left hook.

          – Yeah, I’ve been thinking the same. I reckon if you had two hooks, you could go back downstairs and carry on as a marshal again. What do you think? A marshal hopping from car to car, grabbing trolley poles, hanging on with hooks. Grabbing hold of steering wheels and hearing the punters scream in horror when they see you grinning and guiding their cars around with a hook. How does that sound?

          – It sounds great. I want to try.

          – Leave it to me. I’ll have a chat with Gus.

 

Gus had been smitten by Ross’s marred beauty and continued experimenting with his peculiar pigskin cylinders. He had made a new pair about as long as natural arms. The ends bore sturdy steel plates to which artificial hands were attached. These were actually left and right versions of fist hammers, novelty items designed to look as if a fist were thumping a nail in. They were shaped just like a man’s fists, with the thumb closed over bent fingers, complete with fingernails. Gus sawed their bases flat and a touch of spot‑welding made them perfect. He originally intended to present them to Ross as a Christmas present but might well hand them over before that. That was not all. He had guessed even before Ross saw his big iron hook for the first time that he would want one on the other sheath so Gus had spent a couple of hours preparing a second one. He needed the sheath back to attach it properly, after which Ross’s sheaths would have big hooks permanently attached. This simple fact inspired Gus to plan a second set of pigskins which had soon evolved into the arms with hammer hands. Gus was waiting for a suitable occasion to present Ross with steel fists.

 

Ross enjoyed being in Derek’s company. Derek was a few years senior, still bitter not so much by the loss of his leg but by the way it had affected the attitudes of his crew which was often less than sympathetic. Ross had actually felt sorry for him, handicapped by his bulky artificial leg which hindered him no less than his stump. If Ross were honest with himself, he found Derek’s stump quite a turn on. He had never seen or felt a stump before. Derek liked Ross to play with it and stroke it and he always had a fabulous erection. Derek’s dick was really superb when it was erect. Bigger than his own and a better shape. Thanks to the stump, Ross was quickly conditioned to associate disability with supervirility. Now he had stumps of his own, he realised that he suddenly had three dicks. The original one was good enough with its wide purple head and two arm stumps which he might use to tittilate a lover. The spherical nubs at his elbows were not so different from the head of his dick.

 

Despite his enjoyment of Derek’s presence, Ross would have preferred to be down on the arena again. It was hard work and you had to keep your wits about you. Most punters were perfectly sensible and no trouble at all. But there were always dodgy types who caused trouble, either deliberately or through their own stupidity. Ross and Derek sat unseen watching the three marshals every evening for hours on end. Ross picked up a lot of practical knowledge about how to act when things threatened to turn pear‑shaped and wished he could be of more use. He already felt he belonged to the troupe and his gratifying friendships with men like Jake and Gus boosted his self‑respect as a disabled newcomer.

 

Part Five, Scene One

Ross made his feelings about playing a more active role known to Derek.

          – I’m pretty sure I could probably carry on as a marshal if I had a pair of hooks like on my pigskin. Do you think Gus would make me one for my left stump?

          – I reckon he would. Shall I ask him next time I see him?

          – I wish you would. I reckon I could use the big hooks to grab onto the trolley poles and ride behind the punters.

          – You might even be able to lean over their shoulder and steer. We’ll give it a try tomorrow.

 

The arena was powered up just after three o’clock. The crew were present and waiting, sitting on the wooden platform surrounding the arena. They could see Stannard and his man approaching. The boss strutted on his peg leg with an air of superiority. His jeans were sliced off so the entire peg leg was always visible. Regardless of what you thought of the boss, you had to admit that he looked stunning. His face seemed to have a dark vertical stripe down it and his peg leg fought for attention. His man was no less arresting, especially right now. He had one of his ordinary hook arms and the stiff leather thing with his big hook on it.

          – Afternoon, everyone. I have a bit of an announcement and I want to hear your input. Ross here wants to get back on the floor working as a marshal again. We’re going to test his ability before we open, so if you could kindly get a couple of tandems warmed up and ready for running, I’d be much obliged.

          – Sure, that’s no problem. Was that the announcement? What do you need our input for?

          – I want to know if you want to work alongside Ross. How would you feel about having a disabled man to keep an eye on. Even with a pair of hooks, Ross still needs some support from his workmates. Men who aren’t too proud to help someone in Ross’s situation. You can imagine yourselves what his life is like having no hands. You don’t have to decide right now. Let’s have a look at how Ross manages first.

Stannard spun on his peg leg and strutted back to his locked cabin. He climbed inside and shortly the power was on. A transformer hummed beneath the track, ribbons of light swirled in rainbow shades. Two marshals switched the mains supply to two dodgem cars on and sat expectantly inside waiting for a signal to start. Ross stood at one end of the arena next to Jake, rotating his shoulder and gesturing with the large iron hook.

 

Stannard reappeared and crossed the steel plate floor to where they were standing.

          – OK guys! Do a few laps and then start nudging each other. Ross, you jump on and sort them out when you feel ready.

 

Stannard struck his most impressive pose. Legs askance, he folded his arms and raised his chin and stared around at his employees gaining speed as the electric motors reached their optimum operating conditions. Ross moved away from the others and positioned himself near the start of the long straight. From there it was easiest to jump a car from the rear. He spun his shoulders and his hooks caught the light. Then he was sprinting behind one of the cars and swiped at it with his big iron hook. It clattered against the trolley pole and slid up and down until Ross leaned back to increase pressure on it. He straightened his long black artificial arm with its worker’s hook glittering menacingly and leaned down to grab the steering wheel and guide the car away from the other one which seemed determined to drive it into the inner wall. Ross was caught in a position with his body leaning down to the left, his immovable iron hook on the rigid brace. It slid up and down the pole with ease with Ross’s movements but its mere size prevented it from slipping off in any circumstances. Ross disengaged it and jumped off the car, waiting by the inner wall for another chance to jumpride a dodgem.

 

Stannard watched his lover with pride. He cocked his head and looked momentarily like a cross between the two dictators from a hundred years ago. Jake watched Ross’s performance and his admiration for his friend’s determination to overcome his staggering disability grew minute by minute. Ross leapt onto the floor in pursuit of the second car and again used his big hook to anchor himself before chastening the errant driver with his long artificial arm. And he was free, slowing himself rapidly to reach the outer rim with his eyes on both cars as they hurtled into the far turn for their fourth or fifth circuit. He was ready for them both when they reappeared. He ran behind one and swiped at its trolley pole with his right iron hook. It caught and Ross leaned back, grinning with joie de vivre and exposing his ruined grin for anyone who looked, his shocking black artificial arm high in the air. He looked like the madman riding the bomb at the end of Strangelove. Stannard laughed at the sight of his lover’s success. Ross had proved he was capable of returning to the arena as a marshal. The others could express their opinions but they would hold no weight.

 

That evening, as usual, Ross and Stannard were together in the cabin. Ross described how exhilarating it was to ride the dodgems as he had done that afternoon but wished that his left arm had also had a big iron hook on it.

          – When I’m hanging on with my right hook, the left arm is too long and because of my weight hanging off my stump, I can’t operate the left hook anyway.

          – But you managed to steer the cars despite that, didn’t you?

          – Yeah, but it was mostly because of gravity. I didn’t really like to put too much pressure on my arm because I don’t really know how much weight it can take and I’m scared of breaking it.

          – Would a second big hook make all that much difference?

          – It would turn me into superman!

Stannard kicked his erection with his stump, imagining Ross working in full view of the public with two big iron hooks last seen in a cartoon film with Captain Hook. His erection engorged further, echoing his lover’s rigid hooked arms.

 

Part Four, Scene Five

The carousel was in its traditional place at the Wigan site. It was on the right near the entrance where its hurdy‑gurdy music enticed the public to enter and enjoy all the fun of the fair. It was about as far as it was possible to get from the red and white caravan near the dodgems, the other main attraction which ensured that visitors would make their way all the way around the site, clockwise or otherwise, it made no difference. Either way they would pass every stall, every hall of games, of mirrors, of unbelievable strongmen, every seller of toffee apples and candy floss, every fortune teller, cheat and pickpocket. All the fun of the fair. Stannard cursed the uneven swamp of mud which the previous night’s showers had left. His peg leg slipped beneath him. He tried to step on tufts of grass but they were usually slimed with mud. At last the silvery Winnebago heaved into view. He banged on the door, desperately trying to rid himself of his hatred of his disability and his frustration with the rain.

          – Ha! Look at you! The man himself! Come in my friend. What brings you here? Is everything OK? You don’t look too happy.

          – Take no notice, Gus. It’s great to see you. I’m a bit out of breath making my way through all that mud.

          – Understandable. Sit down.

Stannard did so and Gus admired the peg leg which stuck out.

          – I’ve come with a request and I hope you’ll be able to rise to the challenge. You see, Ross wants to return to work and gave us a demonstration yesterday that he’s up to it, thanks to your big iron hook. He reckons he could be twice the man if he had a second hook on his left stump and we’re hoping that you could see your way to fixing it for him.

          – Well now, my friend. It might not come as too much of a surprise for you to hear that I have been expecting exactly this. So much so, in fact, that I’ve already made it. All Ross needs to do is bring me the sheath and I’ll have the thing done within the hour. Just a minute.

Gus rose and went to the far end of his van where his workshop was. The left arm brace shone brightly among the greasy rags and the huge steel hook hung from a peg on chipboard to one side. Gus picked them up and returned to where Stannard sat, watching in amazement and gratitude.

          – That’s brilliant, Gus. Thank you so much. Ross will be overjoyed. How much do I owe you for this?

          – Don’t you worry your pretty little face about that, my boy. We’ll work something out later, have no fear.

Stannard looked at the bear of a man, coyly expressing his promise of another session of erotic encounters. Stannard’s stump twitched in expectancy. They both chuckled and Stannard rose to his foot.

          – Ross will be round later. Thanks Gus.

 

Part Four, Scene Six

Ross turned up within the hour. He was wearing both full‑length arms and cursed the slippery mud at every step. If he fell, it would be almost impossible for him to regain his feet. Gus had already spotted him and watched him hopping tentatively from one grassy tuft to the next, just as Stannard had done earlier. Gus was no less welcoming to Ross, who regarded the giant of a man more or less as a genius superhuman.

          – I hear you need a new hook so you can get back to work, my young friend. Are your sleek black ones of no use?

Ross lifted his prostheses and allowed the hooks to open and snap shut.

          – These aren’t strong enough to stand the forces a marshal puts on his hands and arms, Gus. We have to be quick and grab onto moving cars and I don’t think these ordinary metal hooks can take the strain. And I don’t want to break them because otherwise they’re fine. I rely on them to do stuff.

          – They’re your arms, Ross. Take care of ’em. Well, if you let me have the sheath back, I can get started.

          – It’s in my backpack. Can you get it out?

Ross turned so Gus could access it. The sheath was in superb condition and showed areas where friction had caused the surface to gain a sheen.

          – Did Derek tell you I already made the second hook?

          – No. Have you? You mean you only need to staple the brace on?

          – And weld the hook onto that. That’s all. Do you want to watch?

          – I’d love to.

 

Gus had made the left arm brace as a mirror copy of the right. It was simple enough to find the correct position for it along the sheath. The sheath’s slightly bent elbow allowed only one orientation. A few minutes later, Gus had riveted the brace to the sheath and handed the device to Ross.

          – I need you to put this on so we can decide on the right angle for the hook.

          – OK. I want it pointing to the right, like the other one points to the left.

          – You’re gonna look something special with these two hooks.

          – I know. I’m not going to be able to do much but they’re perfect for what I need them for. I can really get back into my job as a marshal when I know I can grab on with something as strong as your hooks.

 

Gus was charmed at being complimented by such a good‑looking man with tragically marred beauty. He was going to be stunning, even shocking, when equipped with two big iron hooks on rigid sockets. He positioned the left hook exactly as Ross suggested and within minutes, it was permanently welded to the bracing. He held it firm while Ross pushed his left stump into the sheath. As always, his long stump was again held rigid, movement possible only from his shoulder. The hook curved around and pointed towards the right. It did not reach as far as the hook on Ross’s full‑length artificial right arm. Those hooks allowed him to access his dick when he needed to pee or wank. The big hooks Gus had made did not reach that far.

          – I want to put the sheath back in my backpack, Gus. Will you help me?

          – Of course.

Gus knew what needed to be done. He took the sheath and slid it into Ross’s bag. He gently lifted Ross’s artificial left arm as if it were priceless art and threaded the harness loop up the arm onto Ross’s shoulder. His stump fit tightly into the black carbon socket, hiding it completely. Ross shrugged and twisted his shoulders to get his prostheses to rest on his shoulders in exactly the right spot and relaxed into the invincible inability to flex his elbows. His stumps were rigid again, capable only of the most basic movements. The hooks at the ends of the narrow cylindrical forearms glinted with latent strength. Ross was gradually becoming one with his artificial arms. He accepted their limitations in the sure knowledge that his crippled lover would always help. Ross thanked Gus for his work and generosity. The giant’s two inch penis was erect below his belly and leaking precum. The boy’s moist tongue was visible behind the gap in his teeth when he spoke. Gus loved to see it.

 

Part Four, Scene Seven

Derek was happy to see Ross returning so soon and looking so pleased with himself. However, Ross made no extra effort after removing the newly hooked sheath from his backpack. Derek admired the sight of the pigskin sheath held by its huge inert hook in Ross’s worker’s hook. One dwarfed the other. Derek wanted to see Ross wearing the two big hooks, to see how Ross would react to being additionally disabled by his unalterable rigid prostheses and yet suddenly able and willing to rejoin the marshals.

          – Aren’t you going to put them on, mate?

          – Do you mind if I leave it for now? Do you want me on the arena tonight?

          – No! I want you in the cabin with me.     

          – OK. I’ll change into the sheaths tonight after we get back. You don’t mind, do you, Derek? It’s just that my arms feel comfortable and I don’t want to go through the rigmarole of taking them off and putting them on again.

          – No, of course not. You’re quite right, mate. Plenty of time.

 

They closed a few minutes earlier than usual and were back in the red and white van at half past midnight. It was the eve of the next and final move of the season, to the site of a derelict factory which had been almost completely demolished last year. But tonight, huddled close together for warmth, Derek slid first one outsized hook and then a second onto his lover’s stumps and lay back. His impressive erection glistened beside his stump, which he beat impatiently against the mattress. Ross sat cross‑legged beside him and leaned forward in an effort to grip Derek’s tool between the tips of his gigantic hooks. Gus had maybe had this purpose in mind when he ground the tips into completely smooth round ends the size of fingertips which echoed the shape of Ross’s stumps. Derek changed his position, pushing himself with his leg to accommodate Ross’s efforts better. Whatever Ross was attempting to do was not working. He tried another tack. He tried positioning his hooks so that the broad smooth curves closed around his lover’s penis. It was an unintuitive action in that to exert more pressure, he had to pull his hooks apart. But Derek knew nothing except the ecstasy of Ross’s loving efforts to please his man. The pathetic nub of remaining leg twitched and shuddered with pleasure and with the customary whoops of triumph, Derek’s handsome cock erupted, coating Ross’s sheaths in sperm for the umpteenth time. It proved an admirable leather polish after it flaked off the next morning.

 

Part Four, Scene Eight

Chaos for the last time this season. Ross held Derek’s peg leg between his hooks as Derek towed the red and white caravan to their designated spot on the far western edge of the site. A low brick wall prevented overshoot.

          – May I have my peg leg, kind sir?

Ross gripped it with the symmetrical hook on his right stump and lifted his entire arm from the shoulder. He had no alternative. Derek reached across and took it with a kiss. The first job was to detach his age‑old Mercedes 250 from the van and drive it to the far corner of the site near the main entrance and municipal street lighting where city authorities could be held responsible if any mischief were to occur. Then there was the interminable wait until the engineers came by with power lines. As for water and everything else, you were on your own. Several hours later, some kind of order began to assert itself. The ground was two centuries of coal, charcoal and brick dust, flat as a pancake and with a distinct industrial smell. The red and black speckled surface was a welcome relief from the mudfest at Wigan.

 

Engineers and marshals alike were working at full power to reassemble the dodgems ride. This was when Ross felt his disablement most. He should have been out there with his colleagues reconstructing their livelihood. Instead he was trapped inside his artificial limbs, unable to express himself with the skill of a man, condemned to rely on unnatural twitches of his shoulders to replicate anything and everything a normal man gave no thought to. Ross’s carbon arms hung useless at his sides, the forearms equally artificially canted forward in an experimental attempt to replicate the way natural arms hung at rest. However, there was nothing natural about Ross’s steel hooks, the very thing which everyone noticed first, before the alarming or enchanting gap where his front teeth should be. Ross had been reassured during their nightly sessions that his missing teeth were the most erotic thing about him and the one thing which had compelled Derek to accept him as a marshal on that seemingly distant day nine months ago. So much had happened. Derek now walked on a peg leg and had forged a new life with an armless lover. At least, he was armless when he used his black carbon arms. In bed, he had warm stumps and Derek knew he would never stop loving their touch.

 

Part Four, Scene Nine

It was time to make a decision about Ross’s future role. He wanted to join the other marshals to do the job he had applied for. He insisted that he was fully capable thanks to the grotesque hooks Gus had made him. He felt safe using them and the others had agreed to look out for him in case he got himself into an awkward situation. Derek was initially reluctant to see Ross leave their evening sessions behind the mirrored glass but forced himself to the correct conclusion that Ross had as much right to earn his bread as the rest of the crew. Being handless should not sentence him to a life of insentience.

 

Opening night with huge crowds already queuing outside the gates. Stannard gathered his crew and gave them the same pep talk he always gave with the exception that they would have the extra support they deserved in the form of Ross. Ross would be joining them from now on. Ross was a equal member of the crew and the fact that he had iron hooks instead of hands was no reason to treat him differently in any way.

 

The opening session went as well or better than expected. The evenings were already dark early and the fairground looked more enticing and exciting bathed in electric light and pumped with rhythmic music and the aromas of candy floss, toffee apples and roasting chestnuts. The clientele on the dodgems changed in the usual way. The first sessions were for young dads with their toddlers when Stannard kept the voltage low. Later the teenagers and young adults in their clan colours and quasi‑uniforms turned up intent on wrecking whatever they turned their jobless hands to. The marshals had their hands full. Stannard upped the power to near a hundred percent in the certain knowledge that word would soon get around if the ride seemed tame. The marshals chased cars which were too erratic. Ross kept up, mindful only of the fact that releasing his grip from trolley poles involved a completely different technique from how he had previously operated. He was too caught up in the action to notice the punters’ reactions to having a guy with two huge hooks riding on the back but Stannard noticed how Ross was becoming a talking point and maybe an attraction. The leatherboys and skinheads left the cars standing where the power had been cut and pointed back at the good‑looking guy in the cut‑off T‑shirt with the big hooks and muttered amongst themselves.

 

It was a late end to the evening. There was still a crowd of lads standing in line, smoking and spitting. It was already twenty to one but Stannard allowed one last session before pressing the pre‑recorded announcement explaining that this was the last ride of the evening and that everyone was welcome back tomorrow. Many of the youngsters waiting groaned and dawdled away but many of them hung onto the wall surrounding the arena watching Ross marching back and forth, giving directions to the other marshals, gesturing with his giant hooks.

 

Next morning was Sunday and they allowed themselves a late sleep‑in. Ross was decked out in a single artificial arm and Derek was naked except for his peg leg. Breakfast was under way when the unmistakable bulk of Gus appeared outside the door. Still naked, Gus let him in as quickly as possible.

          – Oh, sorry to interrupt. Just got up? I’ve been up for hours. What sort of a first night did you have?’

          – It was fine. Ross was back on the arena.

          – That’s what I’ve come about. I was watching the crowd last night and I reckon there could be some trouble brewing with the local lads. And I’ve been thinking about how Ross would defend himself if there was to be trouble. So I made a special pair of arms for you, Ross. And I only hope that they’ll be of use to you if you should ever find yourself needing ’em.

Ross and Stannard looked at each other seeking a sign that the other had known something about what Gus was up to. He had brought a large blue bag whose worn yellow text revealed its origin and bent down to retrieve two brand new pig skin sheaths, longer than the first pair. They were capped with steel fists, the natural size of an average man’s hand curled into a fist.

          – See, I saw this on a hammer and thought how it might look on one of your sheaths. And then I found out you can get left and right so I ordered a pair and put them on a new pair of sheaths. I reckon if you were wearing these after dark and you were threatened by a gang of yobbos, you’d come out the winner, no problem.

          – Wow! They look fantastic! Thanks so much, Gus. Let me get this arm off and I’ll try them out.

Ross squirmed for a few seconds until he had loosened his prosthesis and allowed it to drop to the floor. Gus held first one sheath and then the other. The leather elbows were bent exactly the right amount to look natural. The hammer heads weighed nearly two pounds each. There was a comfortable heft to them. They were both mounted on the sheaths so that the flat hammer surface faced down on a tabletop. The rest of the metal fist, the fingers covered by the thumb, looked quite natural.

          – You could paint them if you think the metal is too provocative, I reckon.

          – They look great just as they are. Thanks Gus. How much do I owe you?

          – Ah, it’s a gift. I want you to have them. They were supposed to be a Christmas present but it seems better to let you have them now. That bunch last night looked like they could be trouble, dontcha think? The only thing is, I’ve run out of the metal I make the bracing from so if you need another pair, you’d better warn me in advance, alright?

          – I will. Thanks, Gus. Look, mate! How do you like these?

          – They look fantastic but I hope you never need ’em.

The impracticality of changing one set of artificial limbs for another when suddenly threatened was left unmentioned. The fists could only ever be functional, either as weapons or as threats, if Ross donned the sheaths before they left home. Once again, he had a pair of arms which prevented any possible movement of his natural elbows and their nubs. The new arms were bent enough to look quite natural when he walked and, as Gus had suggested, if the fists were painted a fleshy colour, they would probably not attract attention. The two naked iron fists definitely did.

 

Ross and Stannard left the dodgems in the hands of two marshals while they trekked across the newly organised fairground and out into the real world. It was lunchtime. Stannard remembered a pub a few streets away which served a decent Sunday lunch for under twenty quid and they headed in that direction. The place had closed. The windows which were not boarded up were smashed. Shards of glass glittered on the pavement and in the gutters. Stannard had hooked an arm around Ross’s sheath for support. The fist looked menacing. Ross adapted his gait to conform to his lover’s halting progress on the rigid peg leg. Both men looked fierce. Stannard wore a cut‑off leather jacket which had once been the upper half of a Swedish policeman’s great coat. Ross wore a black MA‑1 from which his iron hammers protruded. There was little sign that his arms were permanently locked in that position. His stumps were relaxed inside the sheaths and the new weight of the hammer heads rested on his shoulders. They found another pub farther afield and ordered a traditional Sunday meal followed by a couple of pints. Stannard fed his lover and lifted his pints to his lips between eating his own meal. Ross sat with his iron fists resting on his thighs, feeling both comfortably helpless at being fed and simultaneously invincible. A blow from one his hammers would be decisive in any argument.

 

Part Four, Scene Ten

The final venue of the year progressed as they often did. Crowds for the first few days, then the quiet days which were not as disastrous financially as might be expected. Punters enjoyed having more space and more time to themselves. They were in better moods and more willing to spend an extra pound for something which would have otherwise been passed over. Everyone walked by the dodgem on their way out and many stopped for a moment to watch and savour the scent of ozone. And a few noticed the handsome young guy with two enormous hooks in place of hands and stopped to gawp.

 

The fairground dismantled itself for the last time. Marshals and engineers noted equipment and furnishings which needed a lick of paint or special attention. The troupe had traditionally wintered in a dedicated spot, usually a derelict farm or factory where there were workshops or at least enclosed buildings where maintenance could be undertaken. These days the members of the troupe had their own favoured spots and on the first morning after closing, the myriad parts which together made all the fun of the fair gradually detached and spread far and wide.

 

Stannard’s family had owned a smithery in the centre of Sheffield for centuries. Now its red brick buildings functioned as winter storage for twelve dodgem cars and the wooden structure. The electrics were stored elsewhere, out of the reach of frost and damp. Best of all, there was a two room cottage at one corner of the yard which had lately been used as an office with a telephone, where two generations of Stannards had sat down for a few minutes while they waited for their tea to brew. Derek had stripped out everything and updated it to twenty‑first century living. There was no more space but the kitchen no longer took up half of it and there was room for a one‑legged invalid to relax without necessarily wearing his artificial limb. Into this micro‑home Stannard invited his lover who looked around in amazement at such comforts as an indoor toilet, a separate shower and running water.

 

There was little opportunity to cook elaborate meals but both men ate well and treated themselves to meals in town several times a month. One afternoon in mid‑January, Stannard called over to Ross. The insurance company ultimately acting on Ross’s behalf informed him that it was pleased to announce a six figure sum in compensation for the maiming and loss of earning potential for Ross Davison while in the employ of Derek Stannard Ltd on condition that no further related claims would be made. Ross was unworldly enough, naïve perhaps, to have not even considered claiming for compensation. He had lost his arms but found a lover who loved his artificial limbs as much as he did. What more could you ask for? Suddenly he had nearly a half million quid to his name. It was incredible. Stannard was genuinely pleased for him. Not only was the matter closed, it had been proven beyond all doubt that the defective amperage which had cost the man his hands was an electromechanical fault which had manifested from Hokkaido to Wisconsin and now the United Kingdom. Davison’s maiming was due to misadventure and that was the end to the matter.

 

Part Five, Scene One

Stannard allowed Ross the luxury of always wearing his hammers when they went into town together. Regardless of whether they were going on a shopping trip or to a smart restaurant for an evening meal, Ross wore his heavy iron fists. His artificial arms, the pig skin sheaths, were otherwise useless. It was a sensation which Ross appreciated more and more as he became more familiar with using his full‑length artificial arms. They rigidified his stumps and robbed him of the small amount of motion he still had available to him. But it was erotically exciting to have it denied him. His first pair of carbon fibre arms were everything a bilateral arm amputee could need. So Ross thought. In fact, he was denied use of his natural elbows, the mechanical elbows bent at only one angle, his hooks were attached to immovable wrists and required external mechanical effort to change their positions. He remembered what one of the medics had said last year, that it might be an idea to have a set of arms without forearms whatsoever. His hooks would connect directly to the upper arm sockets so there would be no need to jerk his stumps to select hook or elbow operation. Ross had nodded his understanding but not given the matter further thought. He had his big hook on his pig skin sheath and he was delighted with that. Now there was some money in the bank, maybe it would be good to look into having a second set of hooks made for special days and holidays. They would combine the utility of his full‑length hooks with the shock value of his big pig skin hooks.

 

There was a well‑known and long‑established manufacturer of surgical devices and artificial limbs in Sheffield, Bond’s. As a Victorian centre of British industry, the city’s factories had produced a regular stream of invalids. The company had remained in the founding family’s ownership and after explaining his particular disability, Ross was invited along for a chat. The proprietor was delighted to hear that the prospective patient was a bilateral arm amputee. These were rare creatures who often became lifelong patrons of the company. As a result, Bond’s had valuable experience and a large archive of previous work to draw on. The company prided itself on producing bespoke artificial limbs according to their owner’s desires, not in accordance to the dictates of a health service practitioner.

 

Part Five, Scene Two

Ross insisted he could manage alone. Stannard was overly protective and offered to drive him to and from the shop at the very least but Ross insisted.

          – I need to learn how to operate in the outside world, mate. I know I’ll have problems but I don’t even know what they are unless I confront them first. Do you see what I mean?

          – Alright. Be careful.

          – I will.

 

Ross fastidiously studied everything about using the city’s public transport. There was a tram route from near the old smithery to the area where Bond’s had functioned for over a century. He downloaded a ticketing app onto his phone and was pleased with the additional maps and suggestions for leisure diversions which came with it. At last he felt like he belonged somewhere. It was only a minor thing in reality but having been granted permission and wished welcome to the system, Ross felt that Sheffield had become his home base.

 

Fraser Bond was waiting for Ross when he arrived. He was tall and thin, myopic and balding. He wore a white lab coat and looked much as if he had just stepped out of a time machine from 1950.

          – Good morning. Mr Davison, I presume.

His voice was deeper than expected and his accent was certainly not local. Ross demonstrated his skill with his arms and presented his right hook at a ninety degree angle. Bond took it and pressed it long enough to judge its temperature.

          – I’m very pleased to meet you. Let’s sit down and discuss what you hope we can help you with.

He guided Ross to a comfortably furnished coffee room where they both sat in low one‑piece plastic armchairs. A young assistant, actually an apprentice, appeared after an electronic summons and took their orders for refreshments.

          – I insist you try a slice of cheesecake. Leon, bring us both medium lattes and a slice of cheesecake each. Then come and sit down. I want you to hear what Mr Davison has to say.

The pair of them discussed Ross’s experiences with artificial limbs since his maiming ten months ago.

          – So the prostheses you are currently wearing are your initial pair. I see. And you feel comfortable using them? You are fortunate to be in a position where you have a choice. The leather sheaths are an excellent idea, one which I recommend to my own patients on occasion but most are reluctant to spend more than absolutely necessary.

 

Ross did not mention that one pair of sheaths made him look like a cartoon pirate and the other pair was intended de facto as weapons. Leon reappeared carrying a tray which he placed in the middle of the low circular coffee table. He placed mugs of frothy coffee in front of his employer and the prospective client. The cheesecake was more problematic. Ross had wondered how he was going to eat it. Leon offered him the choice of two forks. One as its designer had intended, flat and unadorned. The second had been inserted into a foam rubber tube to make manipulation by a prosthetic steel hook possible. The entire process had been concocted decades previously to help Bond’s prosthetists gauge how adept their visiting amputees were at manipulating a fork and feeding themselves. Then, as now, it was the top priority.

 

The preliminaries were out of the way, the niceties seen to. It was time to get down to business. The three men entered a workshop lined with machinery of distinctly varying ages. Rolls of materials hung on racks. Bond made it clear that Leon would be responsible for the actual manufacture of Ross’s second pair of arms, under his own supervision, naturally.

          – Let’s see what we’re working with. Please remove your prostheses.

Ross shrugged and struggled to loosen them. Suddenly they fell from his stumps and hung from their harnesses around his shoulders. Leon helped by lifting them over his head and paid particular attention to the excessive length of the sockets. The patient had minimal stump length below his elbows remaining and had obviously become used to prostheses more typically suited to above‑elbow amputees. There was no accounting for taste. The Bond establishment had long ago discovered that the customer is always right and never made any judgment or recommendation regarding the features of the artificial limbs they described.

          – Have you given thought to the design of your second pair, Mr Davison? I assume you wish the second pair to be of the same carbon material?

          – Yes, black carbon. I like the look of it. As for the design, I want a pair of arms without elbow joints.

          – Oh? How interesting. Do go on.

Leon was immediately intrigued. He was fascinated by his profession and his work at Bond’s occasionally provided him with the opportunity to work on unique pieces.

          – You can see that my sockets are bent near the tips to take my nubs into account. The forearms are operated by shoulder movement as are my hooks.

          – Yes. It’s the typical system for amputees with stumps at their shoulders.

          – And I have become accustomed to using it. But there are times when I would like my hooks to be more responsive without having to preselect them after adjusting my forearms.

          – I understand. Do continue.

          – So I’d like my second pair of arms to have the sockets bent at eighty degrees for my elbow nubs and for standard hooks to be fixed flat against them. And in that way, I’d be able to operate the hooks directly.

          – The hooks will make up almost the entire length of the rigid forearm.

          – Yes.

          – You will have two rigid sockets terminating in standard hooks at eighty degree angles fixed directly to the tips of your sockets immediately below your nubs. Leon, would you draw up a schematic on the computer to make sure we are all on the same page?

 

Leon swivelled around and powered up a CAD program. He rapidly assembled the necessary components from a standard collection of items and moulded an ordinary socket into something with a rigid bent elbow at a precise eighty degree angle. Two matching hooks completed the rendering.

          – Very nicely done, Leon. Is this what you have in mind, Mr Davison?

Ross peered at the screen and admired the rigid bent arms. They were shockingly short. He would have a couple of jackets adjusted so he could wear the hooks in public. The new arms would have the shock value of his sheath hooks with the added advantage that he could open and close them.

          – I want to be able to use the hooks to eat with, you see, so we have to check the angle. I think eighty degrees is about right.

          – Leon will make sure of it. Do you ready for a fitting? We need about two hours. We will make plaster casts of your stumps as this is your first visit. In future, we will rely more on digital scans with the original casts as reference.

 

The process progressed almost without further conversation. Leon casted the stumps at an eighty degree angle which Ross found most comfortable. The only additional details concerning the future set of arms related to their suspension. Ross asked for them to be mounted on a double harness which he suspected would feel more secure than the two separate harnesses he currently used. Derek sometimes wanted to see Ross with only one hook with an iron fist on his other stump.

 

The job was done. Leon had two perfect moulds for further processing. He washed and dried Ross’s stumps and massaged them with skin conditioner before replacing Ross’s stump socks and the artificial arms themselves.

          – Would you prefer to come for an intermediary fitting before we complete the prostheses or do you trust us to present you with the finished product?

          – You mean if they fit OK, I could leave wearing them?

          – Exactly that. I estimate fifteen working days or three weeks if that suits you.

          – That’s fine. Just in time for Christmas.

          – Indeed. What a remarkable Christmas gift they would make!

 

Part Five, Scene Three

Ross collected his new arms two weeks to the day after his initial meeting. There were fewer components needed for this set and less exacting precision was required for the sockets. The arms were as shockingly short as Ross had anticipated but they seemed doubly so when seen in person. Leon tightened the control cables to their optimum state. Ross shrugged to settle the equipment over his shoulders and noticed that the new sockets not only hugged his arms more securely, the tips had a little more space than his other pair. In spite of that, the hooks looked larger simply because they were closer to his face. He lifted his shoulders and noticed how the hooks curved towards him. He leaned forwards and angled his body from side to side, guiding his hooks towards various objects displayed simply to be picked up. The short rigid arms with hooks set in one position were even more disabling than the long arms. Ross was excited by yet again being crippled by artificial limbs. He was disappointed that he would not be able to travel back wearing the short arms because of his unaltered MA‑1 but he would ask for alterations to at least one of his jackets so he could have the pleasure of seeing the hooks on his short arms poking out of the repositioned elastic cuff of a skinhead jacket. He would look deformed. Deformed and disabled. Hooks instead of hands where his elbows should be.

 

Part Five, Scene Four

Somehow Stannard had not understood the severity of Ross’s future disablement with short rigid hooks. He was impressed by the ease of dropping the double harness over Ross’s shoulders. He was shocked by the simple fact that the short arms were all one piece controlled by Ross’s shoulders. The hooks opened by Ross stretching his shoulders. His lover looked both severely disabled and utterly heroic.

          – Open your hooks and close ’em.

Ross obeyed. Stannard shifted his stance, leaning forward onto his peg leg while he rearranged his genitals to make room for an impressive erection.

          – I don’t want you to wear your long arms any more.

          – What? Not even the hammer fists?

          – Oh you can wear those. I mean the carbon ones. I want to you look like that. I can’t stand it! It looks so incredibly hot. And you know what would make you even hotter?

          – No, what?

          – Get a pair of those old‑fashioned hooks we were looking at the other day. The ones which don’t open.

          – Do you think if I had two of them, I could wear them on the job?

          – Up to you. I like the big hooks, you know that. A pair of small ones would be perfect for you. Small steel hooks on your short arms during the day and big iron hooks on your pigskins in the evenings.

          – And at night.

          – Yeah, and at night. Get a pair of simple hooks for your new shorties, Ross. I want you to be disabled by your artificial limbs.

          – If I do that, would you do something for me too?

          – What?

          – Stop using the peg leg. Just have your trouser leg folded up into your belt and use crutches. Proper wooden ones, I mean, not the clacking aluminium sort.

          – You want me to be one‑legged?

          – At least for a while. I’d like to see it, Derek. I want us to be really disabled and helpless unless we’re together to help each other.

 

Part Six, Scene One

Over the course of the winter, the troupe’s engineers toured those venues which members had adopted for their annual hibernation. After early April had dumped cloudbursts all over the south of the country and interrupted work schedules, the engineers finally arrived at the old smithery to inspect the dodgem cars and make any essential repairs.

 

Stannard himself showed them around. Some of them remembered vaguely that the guy had been injured somehow and no longer took a physical role in the daily running of the dodgems but they were surprised to see the figure crutching towards them. His head was shaved completely bald and his only facial hair was the hitler moustache. His empty knee‑length trouser leg swung as he approached. The dichotomy was disturbing. He looked fierce but his disability was debilitating. His amputation was attractive but his face was a deterrent. Behind him, a good‑looking guy appeared, bald with an impressive beard. His arms were plastic‑covered stubs extending from his shoulders. The stubs ended in hooks like you might expect to find on an old trawler to hang fishing nets from.

 

Ross weighed up the expressions on the engineers’ faces. They seemed au fait with Derek, even his moustache. But they were confused by Ross himself. He was not a vain man but he knew well enough that his facial hair was enviable and that his arm stumps and their fantastical prostheses consistently alarmed onlookers. He watched them with amusement and asked a couple of simple questions about duration and work inspection. He gestured with his rigid little arms and his iron hooks moved about before the engineers’ faces. Two of the engineers were nursing gropwing erections, fantasising about having the bearded wonder jerk them off with hooks.

 

The engineers spent three days on site, testing electrics and making adjustments for optimum performance. Stannard occasionally watched and questioned one of the workmen about their progress. His appearance demanded truth and honesty. Stannard had come to the conclusion that his stump was a little inadequate to bear the strains and pressures associated with his artificial leg and his peg leg. It felt much better left free and unadorned. He was quite used to walking with crutches and enjoyed catching a glimpse of his reflection gliding along on a single leg. It was elegant and felt pleasurable.

 

Part Six, Scene Two

It was time for the new season. The component rides and concessions were due to congregate in Ross’s home town in a week’s time in readiness for the May Bank Holiday. They had permission this year to remain for four weeks and Stannard was in discussions with other senior figures about revising the timetable in such a way that one of the lesser profitable venues might be omitted, either temporarily or permanently. Probably one of the west country towns. They were distant and unusually reliant on weather conditions. It would make more sense to spend a week or two longer in more profitable locations.

 

Before leaving Sheffield, Ross made a final visit to his prosthetist who had ordered a pair of inert steel hooks for the short prostheses his assistant had made. They would fit both pairs of carbon fibre artificial arms. Derek suggested that they might be eye‑catching additions to Ross’s considerable collection of prosthetic devices. In fact, he wanted to see Ross wearing immovable hooks on his short arms. Ross would again be almost completely helpless. Derek assumed that Ross would therefore spend more time with him, relying on Derek’s assistance for everything. Ross wanted to know if the new hooks and his short arms would stand the stress of a marshal’s work on the arena. In any case, he would be unable to reach a car’s steering wheel. He hoped the shock of having an armless amputee marshal hooked onto the trolley pole riding on the back of a dodgem car would be reason enough to persuade any errant punter to behave. Ross had also worn his pair of worker’s hooks on his short arms. They were both ugly and overly complicated for such a limited application. They were better suited to his long arms where their visual shock value was at its highest.

 

Piece by piece, the fairground gradually assembled itself once again. Posters went up around the town centre to remind the townspeople of all the fun of the fair. Mr and Mrs Davison noticed one on a Saturday morning shopping trip.

          – That fairground’s back in town.

          – Is it the same one, do you think?

          – I should think so. That’s the way they operate, touring the country on a regular basis.

          – Do you think Ross is still with them?

          – I neither know nor care, June. If the boy had any decency, he would have made contact ages ago. He didn’t even send you a birthday card, did he? Selfish brat. I never brought him up to be like that.

          – No. Neither did I. Still, perhaps he’ll get in touch one day.

 

Ross’s whereabouts was something of a mystery. The police had been notified about a missing lad but regretted that they could do little with the resource cuts. They would inform the parents if anything untoward were uncovered. Mr and Mrs Davison had a mental image of their son as he had been when they last saw him and had given a similar description. Clean‑shaven, tousled hair, two arms and legs. No‑one like that had worked at the fairground since Ross’s amputations.

 

Ross suspected that his parents might try to seek him out if they were still angry with him. He doubted they would recognise him. As an additional disguise, he asked Jake to place sunglasses on his face when they were working the arena. He wore white trainers, skinny jeans, a white T‑shirt—always white—and this season he had his new short prostheses with inert steel hooks. Anyone who saw him would be stunned by his blatant display of severe disability and might be even more flustered by his handsome face with the beautiful eyes, magnificent bushy beard topped by a meticulously maintained chrome dome. Derek shaved both their heads as often as possible.

          – I want you to look disabled, Ross. You’ll be our best advert.

          – I’d be a fairground attraction.

          – You better believe it!

Ross grinned at his lover, exposing his glistening tongue through the gap where his front teeth had been.

 

Stannard gathered his crew for the customary pep talk. There was an hour to go before the fairground opened for the first time this year. He looked even more arresting than he had last season. Now he shaved his head and had only the hitler moustache. And instead of the peg leg, he was one‑legged. He let his trouser leg hang halfway down to his knee and swung himself around on crutches. Truth be told, he used them like an expert, as if he had always used them. He leaned on them now and looked around, commanding the crew’s attention. The same rules and regulations applied as last year with the addition that they were now in Ross’s home town and there could be a confrontation between Ross and the local yobbos if he were recognised. They were all to keep an eye out not only for their own safety but for Ross’s too. He could be in danger if a fight broke out, being severely disabled, although a blow to the jaw by an iron hook might be worse than merely painful. Jake winked at Ross and gestured with a thumbs up. Ross smiled back with closed lips and raised his right hook in an approximation of a salute.

 

Part Six, Scene Three

The session swung into action with the inevitable rush of young dads giving their toddlers their initiation into the world of dodgems and inadvertently undertaking the final testing and fine‑tuning before the cars were cranked up to full power later in the afternoon. The marshals kept a keen eye out for unruly kids who might try to grab a steering wheel or stand up on the seat for a better view. Ross had chosen to wear his new prostheses with the smaller inert hooks. He checked continually that they pointed towards each other so they would engage around the dodgem car trolley poles without fail. Ross usually appreciated the unavoidable absence of feeling where his arms and hands should be. It was a fabulous sensation to wear hooks and to have arms without a sense of touch. But he had to be careful on the job. He would definitely come a cropper if he tried to grab a pole when his hook pointed vertically. His smaller steel hooks were more demanding in that respect. Jake accepted the minor task of straightening Ross’s hooks every time they met on the arena. Punters could not fail to notice Ross’s presence. His bald head and big beard were already striking. His glossy black hooks were alarming or shocking or fascinating. The dodgem ride was always surrounded by the largest crowd.

 

It was a Bank Holiday and coincidentally Mr and Mrs Davison’s thirtieth wedding anniversary. They had been to a steak house for a thoroughly nice lunch earlier in the day and Mrs Davison was disappointed that her favourite tv shows were not on.

          – Don’t fret, love. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we go down to that fairground to see if we can find the boy?

          – Oh, I don’t know. I don’t really want to go out again.

          – Don’t be like that. Come on. The change’ll do you good. I’ll buy you a toffee apple.

          – Ha! I bet you would, too. Alright, I will. Let me get my shoes.

 

It had been a fair spring day. Bright with light cloud. As evening drew in, the sky turned red through its myriad pinks and the streaks of wispy clouds shone yellow and orange with light from the setting sun. Music blared out from the carousel, traditional Victorian melodies transponded for the harmonica and reproduced by mechanical steam organs. Captured and reproduced by decent digital gear. The dodgems had music which Stannard chose himself, old stuff from the eighties. He had a CD like a mix tape which he played from start to finish whenever there was motion on the arena. As Mr and Mrs Davison approached from the fairground entrance, punters were dashing to vacant dodgems. Boyfriends with girlfriends, single males split from groups of friends each wanting their own car and ready for a good smash up, dads and teenage sons letting the offspring demonstrate his skills where he could do no damage before deciding whether he was responsible enough for his own moped.

          – There’s such a crowd. Shall we carry on and come back later?

 

There was plenty to see for a couple in their early fifties. Their youthful energy had been ground down years ago but they both had some sense of adventure left. They held hands for the first time in years, reminding Mrs Davison of how her husband used to be so tactile, as the saying went. She was overcome with romance when first the sound and then the sight of the huge carousel came into view.

          – Let’s go on it! Look, there’s hardly any queue.

          – Are you sure? Alright, my love.

Mr Davison thought five pounds a little excessive but followed his wife. She chose a leaping horse conveniently at rest at its lowest extent. As if by magic, the rotund carousel proprietor in a costume with a top hat stepped forward from his circular depression offering her his hand to help. Gus was always one for the ladies. He touched his top hat to Mr Davison and stepped back down to his control panel.

 

The ride lasted almost too long. Mrs Davison hung on after realising her husband was a little too far to be able to hold hands with. She closed her eyes and imagined herself when she was still young, still happy. She felt a little giddy and disliked the melody of Roll Out The Barrel but it was the most fun she had had in about fifteen years and she loved it. Thirty years of marriage was a long time and she certainly never expected to celebrate it like this but could think of nothing better. A hundred yards away, her double amputee son scanned the punters expecting to see former schoolmates, former school bullies or, even worse, his parents.

 

Part Six, Scene Four

Mr and Mrs Davison continued their tour of the fairground, past the shove ha’penny, the coconut place, past tiny stalls where you could win an otherwise doomed goldfish in a plastic bag if you could score a bullseye. As always, the layout returned them to pass the dodgems arena. The crowds had lessened a little. It was clear that most of the crowd were not actually queuing.

          – Do you remember that time in Broadstairs?

          – On the dodgems, you mean? That was fun. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

          – Yeah. Come on! You’re only young once.

 

Mr Davison took his wife’s hand and they stood in line, certain to be among the punters who would have an car available for the next session. They stood a little lower than metal floor where the cars sparked and clanked but they could watch some of the action. Round and round the cars went, accompanied by shrieks and screams from the punters and shouts from the marshals who followed the action from the narrow central reservation, ready to leap onto the thick rubber skirt of any dodgem driven irresponsibly. Lights flashed overhead, the trolley poles arc’ed against the wire overhead. The smells of roasting chestnuts wafted from somewhere, mingling with the sharp bursts of ozone issuing from the dodgems. From his vantage point, Ross caught sight of his parents waiting in the queue. He was utterly amazed. They obviously had not spotted him yet. His reality quickly returned. There was little chance either of them would recognise him. He looked older now with his shaved head and full beard than he did a year ago and they were certainly not on the lookout for a double amputee. He smirked and shrugged to tighten his sockets against his stumps. The motion reassured him. He could sense his absence of forearms and hands. His hooks caught the artificial light and the glossy black sockets reflected streaks of colour.

 

The current session ground to an end and the punters climbed out of the cars reluctantly. The new batch hurried to take their places. Mr and Mrs Davison approached a metallic green dodgem car. His father held his mother’s hand as she climbed in maintaining as much decorum as possible. His father squeezed in and explored the floor with a foot to find the accelerator. An audio countdown began like at an ice hockey match. Excitement grew and Stannard turned the power feed up to eighty percent. Dodgems jerked into motion requiring alarmed drivers to correct their direction. There was an immediate jam. Jake and Ross jumped into action to clear it. Ross hung from a trolley pole with his right hook and gesticulated with his left, starling the driver even more. He turned sharply into the imminent flow of traffic.

 

Other cars were rumbling towards him. He could reach the outer ring and another stuck car by jumping via the green car approaching… now. His prostheses clattered against the trolley high above his parents’ heads and his mother looked up in surprise at the sound. She was dazzled by flashing neon and the shadowy figure was already gone, left behind as her husband expertly guided their ride out of the traffic congestion. Mr Davison snuggled closer to his wife and gave her a peck on the cheek. He was reminded of how the evening had ended all those years ago in Broadstairs and momentarily wondered if the excitement would have a similar effect on his wife tonight. Their little green car flashed reflections in every direction. Mr Davison slowed a little as they swung around the far corner. The congestion had been cleared already. The marshals were off the track. Two were standing dead ahead under Stannard’s mirrored window watching the cars. Jake was standing on the left and Ross was to the right, leaning on Jake’s left shoulder with his short hook. The other hook was perfectly outlined against Ross’s white T‑shirt. Mrs Davison blinked at the surreal appearance of a man with two hooks and assumed he was the one who had clattered across their path. How dreadful to be disabled in such a cruel way.

 

Mr Davison put his foot down and again the little car rattled and swished down the metal track on metal wheels, stirring up ozone and adding to the general din from Stannard’s loudspeakers. Mrs Davison was impatient for her husband to curve around so she could get another look at the young man with the flat tummy and muscular legs in tight jeans. She wanted to confirm her initial impressions that he really did have two short artificial arms with hooks like some fantastical pirate in a maritime dystopia. But the marshals were gone. They were riding on parallel cars twenty metres behind them, jumping from lane to lane in order to reach the central isle.

 

Ross managed to stay out of his parents’ line of sight, not through any special effort. He had a job to do. He and Jake worked together, in tandem, relying on each other to work to the other’s benefit. Stannard suspected the two of them might pair up if anything happened to his relationship with Ross. For the time being at least, the three of them were on friendly terms and Jake was always a welcome visitor in the red and white caravan. Three more circuits before his mixtape, actually a CD, reached its climax. The music would stop, the power would cut out, the punters would climb out and another session would shortly start.

 

Mr and Mrs Davison did not catch sight of any of the marshals as they departed. They were standing in a row on the other side of the arena watching them. Ross watched his parents leave without a backwards glance and leant forward against Jake from behind. He lifted his hooks over Jake’s shoulders and they nuzzled their bald heads together, one against the other. In the short pause between sessions, Ross felt happier with himself than he had ever been. He had a lover who cherished him for his extreme disability, a friend who loved him and would always be there for him and a job he enjoyed where he could brandish his shocking disabilities as if they were a fairground attraction. Jake twisted his head around to kiss Ross’s luxuriant beard and grabbed his hooks, linking them tightly across his chest. Ross had asked him not to do it because he did not have the strength to uncouple them unless someone else did it for him. But this time, tonight, as his parents walked away, Ross was happy to let Jake have a moment of fun with his deviant artificial arms. It would be Derek’s turn later.

 

FAIRGROUND ATTRACTION