Skinner's Festival [antikvár]

Panic was etched on the face of the clown on the unicyle. Even through the happy smile make-up, it registered as he struggled to regain his balance, rocking frantically backwards and forwards on his unsteady perch. His arms flailed, and for a second it seemed certain that he was gone, but with a violent last-ditch heave he pulled himself back to the verticai, stráightening quickly in the saddle and resuming his compromise with gravity. The reallife smile returned behind the rictus. He swerved suddenly towards Skinner and Sarah. Under Bob's arm, Sarah's shoulders still shook with laughter from the sight of this silent struggle. She leaned against her husband as the clown drew closer. Fully in command of his steed once more, the unicyclist thrust out his right hand, offering them a leaflet. Sarah reached up and took it from him, waving him goodbye as he wobbled on towards his next target. She studied the handbill. 'Le Cirque Mobile. Leith Links. Performances 7:30 and 10:00 nightly.' 'Hmm. Hope the rest are a bloody sight mors "mobile" than him,' Skinner said, dryly. 'Let's find out somé night. My treat.' 'Put like that, Doctor Sarah Grace Skinner, you're on.' His wife hugged him tight with her left arm as they made their way, slowly and haphazardly, through the crowds which thronged the open area at the foot of the Mound, around the grey-pillared Royal Scottish Academy, and its yellow stone neighbour, the National Gallery of Scotland. The classical formality of the buildings was in strange contrast to the garish make-up and dress of the Fringe performers who were milling around the pedestrian area, promoting the opening nights of their various shows. Skinner's sweater was slung over his left shoulder, hanging from his thumb by its label. As the sun had climbed higher in the sky in the late August morning, its heat had caught him by surprise. He was a tall, strongly built man, grey-maned but still