ASBO-Boy: The Circus comes to town...

They'd been travelling for half an hour when the armoured van pulled into the strip of wasteland along the sea-front. Unlike the rest of Swansea this piece of land had not changed much and existed today for much the same reason it had for decades, to host the wandering carnivals and shows that came to town. The van ground to a halt along the gravel and the back doors were flung open. Blearily, Omen opened his eyes and squinted into the evening light. Lurid colours swam in front of him before becoming two tall officers and a large man who appeared to be wearing the remnants of a balloon and a top hat. "Stand up boy," one of the Officers demanded gripping him by the collar. Omen rubbed his eyes and made a vague effort of getting to his feet.

"Is he wearing a Restrictor Suit?" The fat man in the top hat and techni-colour coat asked.

"Of course. His name is Omen - he controls short-term probability; minor miracles, that kind of thing. He can also see into the near future. You'll need to keep a close eye on him." The tallest Officer replied, height seemed to be the only way to tell the black-suited drones apart.

"Yes, yes – tell me something I don't know. What's wrong with his face?"

"He had a minor run in with an Elemental." The Officer replied with a smirk. Omen shuddered.

"Yes, well – we might be able to do something with a little greasepaint. Maybe we can paint him white and draw little sixes all over him." The fat man laughed, marched forward and gripped Omen by the arm. "Well, thank you very much Officers, your cheque is in the post as usual." Omen trotted to keep up with the enormous man as he strode off in the direction of the Big Top; a striped affair in burgundy and gold surrounded by a moat of caravans, lorries and lesser attractions. Omen looked down at the pudgy hand that held his arm, it was sporting a collection of vile gold sovereign rings.

The camp seemed to be deserted. There were lights in the caravan windows and the vague hints of muffled laughter and activity from within. Beneath their feet, mingling in the dirt were posters and candy-floss sticks. The air was full of the spice of burnt wood, laced with sweat and earth. The prospect of living in a circus appealed far more to Omen than the brainwashing he’d received at Sandfields. What if he was going to be locked up and chained to a post and made to dance like an animal for gawking tourists? At least the Borstal had kept away the nightmares. The fat man led him up to a long trailer which had extended wings and multiple layers of garish paint. A door was opened and Omen was led into to the smoky warmth within.

"Bloody hell," the fat man gasped pulling away a fake mustache and goatee beard. In moments the entire outfit was disposed of and replaced by a slimmer, white haired old man. "Sorry kid – I hate dressing up like a ponce for those in-bred sociopaths."

"Another freak for the show, Zant?" Behind him was a tall gangly girl with dark eyes ringed by a pair of thick glasses.

"Yes dear, another 'freak' for our little show. I seem to be collecting you." The old man smiled. Much like the exterior of the caravan the interior was a mish-mash of different styles ranging from the vaguely recent to the antique. Tapestries and rugs, incense burners and bookshelves, the place was amass with clutter and curios from all over the world.

"Wow," Omen muttered under his breath. Zant chuckled as he stirred a pot on the stove. It suddenly struck Omen how utterly ravenous he was.

"Let's get you into something a bit more appropriate." The girl said, leading him away from the stove, "I'm Locus, by the way."

"Omen," he replied, "You aren't wearing skin-suits." He muttered, observing that she was wearing a fluffy woollen jumper and a pair of tartan leggings.

"No, we don't – Zant doesn't believe in them. Nor do we." Locus replied cheerily, leading him into another room which looked like the wardrobe of a pantomime production. "Help yourself to anything you like. We all share clothes. Nothing's sacred here." She smiled and went to close the door behind her.

"How many of you are there?"

"Enough." She smiled, "Take your time."

Left on his own for the first time in months Omen felt a vague sense of claustrophobia. There were no guards here. No helicopters or explosions. No Elementals. He took her advice and took his time over his selection. There was nothing here that anyone at his old school would have worn but that didn't matter any more. He started to laugh as he fished through swathes of jumpers, t-shirts, jeans, pantaloons and cod-pieces. The Restriction Skin Suit took time to peel off; beneath it, his skin was covered in sores and an angry rash. With shaking hands he selected a pair of purple jeans and a long-sleeved jumper, he also found some gloves and an old pair of green Cons. Mentally he fought to suppress his powers as they welled up now that the suit was off. Finally, when he was composed, he wiped his eyes and opened the door.

Sitting around, laughing and joking with Zant were four distinctive Others. They were sipping soup from bowls and munching on bread and cheese. Locus appeared with a bowl and invited him to sit down with them. Hands trembling, Omen followed her to the table and lapped up his fare in silence. He felt content to sit and listen to them. In his own private world he allowed himself one small glimpse into the future. He saw happiness and warmth. As he wept, the laughter subsided and he felt five pairs of hands on his arms and back; they stayed there until he felt better. They all finished their meals in silence. When he was ready he told his story and they all listened.

**

That night he dreamt for the first time in a year. The night he was caught came back in staggering detail. Waiting outside the office, the raised voices, hearing words he didn't understand and the image through the opaque glass of two figures bent near the desk. He saw the headmaster's flushed, angry expression and the look of despair on the fifth former's – he'd seen something he wasn't meant to and so he was branded with an ASBO and locked away. To this day he didn't know what he was meant to have seen. The dream moved on, shifting focus and he felt that familiar surge of moving forwards into the future. Even in the lucid dream state he was aware of what was happening; it was like wetting the bed, somehow you knew.

There were figures cowered in a small space. They were running out of air. People were looking for them. There was something about the air – it was poisonous. He saw faces – girls, boys – kids his own age, younger, older. Then he saw Him, the Elemental. The one they call Swelter stalking a dark landscape through the fog, glowing like a fiery ghost.

He sat up sharply and banged his head on the bunk above him and got a sense of deja vu over the burning pain in his forehead. He rolled out of the patchwork quilt and held his head in his hands. That face, the gurning, twisted expression there in front of him whenever he closed his eyes. Swelter – even the word felt vicious and sickening.

Omen looked over at the tank in the corner. It was where Spout slept. The band of Others in the Circus were among the strangest he'd ever seen. Nearly all of the Others in the Borstal looked normal but of the Others here he and Locus were the only ones who didn't look odd. Spout had blue skin and could breath underwater, as such he slept better in a tank.

"Bad dreams?" Came a bubbly voice.

"Yes and no." Omen replied, "Just bad memories." He wondered whether the vision of the trapped kids was worth mentioning and decided against it – it'd take too long to explain.

"I never dream." Spout said, climbing out of the tank. Omen looked away quickly. Spout, apart from being blue and scaly, had absolutely no modesty and slept naked. He seemed to float over to the fridge at the other end of the room and open the fridge, from inside he grabbed a bowl of half-eaten sea-weed pasta and started munching away with his fingers. Omen had come from a very staid household in Sketty. Not a molecule out of place. There was something oddly satisfying about having one's underwear and clothes strewn on the floor. The whole boy's end of the caravan was a pig-sty.

The door opened and in walked Swarm who was older, stocky and covered in peaty looking soil. He slept outside and only came in to eat and talk. As per usual, he was covered in a variety of insects.

"Evening chaps," he muttered, following Spout to the fridge. He made no point of Spout's nakedness or the fact that it was four o'clock in the morning and not even remotely the evening. From within he pulled out a pint of brown soup. "Ahhhh! Beef dinner. Just like Mam used to make."

Spout laughed, "Half-digested beef dinner concentrate? Sounds lovely."

"Says he who's eating sea weed."

"Touché." Spout retorted through a mouthful of pasta.

"Come on Omen, what are you having?" Swarm asked earnestly. Omen smiled back and wondered. To be honest, looking at what those two were eating he'd never felt more ill. But hey, he thought, you're going to have to get used to this.

He caught a brief glimpse of the future and saw vomit and laughter. Swallowing whatever shame he might have once had he stood up and walked over to the fridge and bent down in front of the glow. The other two hovered nearby to see what he was going to pull out. Feeling cruel and vindictive he pulled out the remains of a sticky chocolate cake.

"Eurgh!" They both staggered back in revulsion. Omen stood up and brandished the cake, feeling sick and euphorically tired all at once. He had a devilishly cruel idea to break the ice. He was tired of being young, tidy and an Outsider. He wanted to belong.

"I have a challenge." He proclaimed. Spout and Swarm shared a reproachful look, "We each have to take a bite or sip of each others food."

"What's the challenge?" Swarm demanded.

"The last one to be sick wins." Omen replied with a shrug. Swarm and Spout shared a derisive snort as their chests swelled with the prospect of a challenge.

"Right. I'm winning this." Swarm announced which began an argument over who was going to come out on top. No less than three minutes later it was too close to call as all three of them poured out of the caravan and threw up into the wind.

**

The following morning Omen woke up with a sore throat and a headache. The upside was he hadn't had a repeat performance of the dreams and visions, which was a relief. The downside was he'd spent the wee small hours getting to know people through the medium of projectile vomit.

"You wouldn't believe the mess outside, Swarm hasn’t been eating cake again, has he?" Locus muttered as she stumbled in to get to the fridge. There was a muffled protest from outside and Omen laughed, in the corner he heard an expulsion of bubbles. Omen lay back in bed with his hands under his head and closed his eyes. He thought back over the vision of the trapped kids and wondered what he should do about it – then he remembered Swelter, and that ugly, twisted grin and decided against it.

“Come on,” Locus said, shaking him, “It’s time to start training.” He mumbled a ‘why?’ under his breath, to which she replied, “For the Circus silly!”