“It’s a strange show, Vera,” an old man standing next to David commented to his wife.
She sniffed in agreement. “Nothing like our day, Bert. They were true artistes.”
The couple moved away, the woman still complaining.
The man in the road rolled over onto his side and vomited. A groan of disgust rippled through the crowd and they moved away en masse.
David was about to do the same when he caught the man’s words.
“I loved you, you fucking bastard. I loved you and you cheated on me.”
Bastard, not bitch. Huh.
Cursing his impulsive nature, David knelt by the man, careful to avoid the puke. “Are you all right?”
The man mumbled incoherently. His makeup was smeared, and David realised he’d been crying. At the moment he looked more like an Allison Schulnik painting than a clown.
“You really need to get out of the road, man.”
“Leave me in the gutter.”
Oh Jesus, a drama queen. “Listen mate, you can stay here if you want but you’re liable to be nicked. Why don’t you get up and come with me? I want to drown my sorrows. We can cry on each other’s shoulders.”
The clown opened one eye. It would have been a pretty, blue eye if it hadn’t been so bloodshot. “A drink?”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“Probably.” With David’s help the clown sat up then clutched his stomach. “Definitely. I’m going to puke again.”
“Come on.” David hauled him up when he’d finished retching. He cut a miserable figure. “What’s your name?”
“Stan the Clown.