Opposite the door to the board dining room was another door, one that almost everyone assumed was a cupboard. Tony Tolomei took a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and stepped into the stairwell.

There was another way to reach the roof, but these stairs were the secret route his father had insisted on. They led directly to the helipad without having to pass the secretaries.

It was cold on the roof. Tony Tolomei had left his jacket in the men’s lavatory. The wind was blowing from the west.

He climbed onto the helipad and looked west one last time, towards the roof of his home. To the north he could see wooded hills. To the east, a green roof that he imagined was the roof of his childhood home.

The westerly wind whipped his white hair as he started east. He hesitated for a single step, quickened his pace, climbed the few steps, and dived.

Faithful Tony sailed out into the void. His speed rose to more than 160 kilometres per hour. His neck struck one of the circus tent’s supporting cables.

The grey-haired head came off and flew over the tent.

The headless body crashed through the old circus canvas, bounced off a trampoline, and tumbled into the midst of the clowns. Blood turned the beams of the spotlights into a red mist.

Most of it looked like circus magic.

Only a few realised that something real had happened.

Tony Tolomei had arrived at the circus.