While the carousel was turning, nothing on it seemed willing to admit its own weight. The horses rose through loops of yellow light, their painted legs stretched towards a finish they would never reach. Mirrors caught the riders, lost them, then offered them back with brighter faces. Even the music appeared to travel in circles, leaving no gap through which an ordinary sound might enter.

At closing time, the operator touched a switch. The tune broke off halfway through a bar. For two more seconds, the horses continued without it; then the platform shuddered and stopped. One horse remained high above the boards, another dipped towards them, and the fixed smiles on their faces suddenly looked like hard work.

Three workers stepped across the barrier carrying spanners, folded blankets and a wooden box. They removed the outer panels first. Seen from the path, each panel had been a sweep of silver stars; laid face down, it became a piece of timber with a number written on the back. Nuts dropped into the box with sharp little knocks. Grease marked the workers' cuffs. Their instructions were brief: hold this, loosen that, mind your fingers.

The horses came away one by one. Without the turning platform beneath it, the largest did not appear to leap. It hung from a strap while two workers guided its brass pole free, then descended slowly into their waiting hands. Chips in the paint showed along its belly. The red saddle, so splendid under the bulbs, had been rubbed pale where thousands of shoes had struck it.

By midnight, the circle had become several straight rows: poles beside the fence, panels inside the lorry, horses wrapped in grey blankets. The operator checked the empty platform and switched off the last string of bulbs. As the lorry door closed, something inside gave a single musical chime. One worker opened the door, found a loose bell beneath a folded canopy and packed it more securely.