Harbinger the Clown

The watch on Harbinger’s wrist showed 4am as he unlatched his side gate and peered out cautiously into the street. A street lamp cast the only light, filtering through a thick fog.

Satisfied he was alone, Harbinger pulled his wheelie bin through the gate and headed to the footpath. He hates people and avoids them as much possible. Actually, that’s not strictly true. Harbinger doesn’t hate people, but he does go out of his way to avoid them. Thursdays are high anxiety days for him, with the risk of running into someone as he takes out his wheelie bin. Hence the furtive 4am foray to reduce that risk.

So you can imagine his disappointment when - just as he dumped his bin on the kerb - he spun and collided with a jogger. The guy emerged from the mist, appearing out of nowhere.

“I’m sorry,” Harbinger said, hanging his head and rushing for the safety of his side gate.

“Whoa, dude!” The jogger called out to him. “It’s like 4am. Why do you have clown make-up on?”

Harbinger sighed and turned to face the jogger. “It’s not make-up,” he said. “It’s… you know what? Never mind.”

“No way!” The jogger peered intently at Harbinger’s face. “You’re Harbinger the Clown! Do you remember me? It’s Billy Butt. You performed at my 10^th birthday party!”

Harbinger shook his head, slowly.

“Sure you do!” Billy persisted. “My father had a heart attack and died halfway through your act.”

Harbinger shook his head, again. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“No biggie.” Billy waved it aside. “It was thirty years ago. This is wild, man. I can’t believe I ran into you.”

The two men stood in awkward silence for a moment, then Harbinger swung his arm in an exaggerated manner and turned to leave. His intention was clear: he was going back inside.

“Wait.” Billy said. 

“I just want to be left alone,” Harbinger said over his shoulder.

“But you didn’t answer my question. Why are you in full clown make-up at this time of day?”

Harbinger paused for a moment before answering. He felt his constant, silent companion behind him, staring at him. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he faced Billy Butt. “It’s not make-up. It’s a curse.”

Billy laughed out loud, as though Harbinger had stepped on a rake and taken a handle to the face. “What a hoot! Hey, my daughter is turning ten this weekend. Why don’t you come do your act at her party?”

“No.” Harbinger’s response was immediate, and emphatic. He turned and walked away, ignoring the icy fingers probing the back of his neck. Before he’d taken two steps, Billy grabbed him by the arm and spun him back around.

“I won’t take no for an answer.” Billy’s voice took on a deeper - almost threatening - tone, full of outrage and entitlement.

Harbinger stared at Billy. He wanted - no, he needed - to end this conversation.

“Why not?” Billy’s nostrils flared, a precursor to further outrage.

“Because…” Harbinger felt his companion's eyes intensify behind him, and the back of his neck started to heat up. “Because Death follows me everywhere. Death is here, right now, watching us.”

“Yeah right,” Billy scoffed.

Harbinger shrugged as he turned and walked away. Once again, Billy grabbed him and spun him back around. 

“Come on, dude.” Billy clenched his fist and narrowed his eyes. “It’s her birthday.”

“You know what?” Harbinger rubbed the back of his neck as he felt Death’s focus withdraw. “Sure. Why not.”