Circus of Thieves on the Rampage (9 page)

Don’t worry. I’m not talking about one of those pesky natural floods where streets turn into rivers and rivers turn into raging torrents and raging torrents just go nuts. No, I mean
flooded in the sense of being filled with water on purpose. Not right to the top. The seats all stayed above water. The stage alone was transformed into a giant, glass-sided swimming pool. Because,
as you may recall, this was no ordinary circus – it was Queenie Bombazine’s Ecstatic Aquatic Splashtastic Circus of the Century. And, while it is perfectly possible to be ecstatic in
the dry, for the aquatic and splashtastic elements of the show, water was a necessity. It was the essence of what made Queenie’s show unique. Queenie was fabulous in every single department
of fabulousness, but a star cannot rest on her fabulousness alone. In the circus world, you need a gimmick, and water was Queenie’s.

When she arrived and saw Kelvin’s work, Queenie politely ignored the fact that every stone in sight was upside down, and told him that his preparations were fantastic. She was so pleased,
she gave him an enormous kiss on the cheek (a kiss that, as it happens, he thought about every single day for the next fifty-eight years, until he died a contented, peaceful death, moments after
blowing out the candles on his 100th birthday cake).

‘It’s s-s-s-such a p-p-p-pleasure to see you again,’ said Kelvin, who was doing a poor job of disguising his nervousness. ‘I’m so excited about the
sh-sh-show.’

‘My sea lions need their water changed,’ said Queenie, which was not the reply Kelvin was expecting. He had hoped that the hug might lead to some kind of friendly chat, but this was
not Queenie’s way, at least not when there was work to do. ‘Could you possibly lend me a hose, a bucket, a pair of waders and a colander?’

‘I . . . I’ll get them right away.’

‘And a gin fizz.’

‘OK.’

‘That’s for me, not the sea lions.’

‘Of course. And I thought you might want to know that we’ve installed some extra baths in the hotel’s presidential suite.’

‘Thank you so much. I’m going to be knee-deep in sea-lion poo for the next half-hour, but after that, a bath will be just the ticket.’

The roar of a motorbike engine signalled the arrival of Reginald Clench, who dismounted from his bike, removed a brown leather crash helmet with built-in goggles, and marched towards Kelvin
Pype. Literally marched. He stopped with a firm stamp and shook Kelvin’s hand.

‘Pype!’ said Clench.

‘Clench,’ said Pype.

‘Absolutely. AtennnSHUN!’

Kelvin stood to attention.

‘Not you, private. The dog.’

Kelvin looked down. At their feet was a dog, standing rigidly upright on its two hind legs, like a meerkat. But it wasn’t a meerkat. It was a mere dog. It was Rudolph.

‘At ease!’ snapped Clench.

The dog lay down. Clench turned to Pype. ‘Fine to see you, Pype, what what, and all that nonsense. Onwards and upwards. No time like the present. Let’s get cracking. Charts are here
– lighting cues, sound cues, set, safety rig, timings, costume requirements, dressing-room requirements, other requirements, sundries, extras, expenses, etc. I’ll give you thirty-five
minutes to peruse and digest, then I’ll chair a meeting. I want all the relevant teams. No lateness, no slackness, no interruptions, no trainers, no loose talk or sloppy posture. Pip pip.
Things to do. See you in thirty-four and a half minutes.’

And off he marched. Literally. Rudolph followed, perfectly in step, one pace behind.

‘He’s a wonder,’ said Queenie. ‘Isn’t he?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Kelvin. ‘A wonder.’

By the time Clench’s meeting was finished and the animals were settled and the stage was prepared and the lighting was perfected and the sound rechecked, the Ecstatic
Aquatic Splashtastic Circus of the Century had run out of time. The audience was already arriving. For almost the first time in the history of the Oh, Wow! Centre, the show would have to start
without a dress rehearsal.

This had only ever happened once before when a rock band went out to the pub, then forgot what city they were in and got lost for six hours, only to return in a very unfocused frame of mind five
minutes before curtain-up. That notorious occasion had given Kelvin a stomach ulcer which took several months to heal.

This time, he wasn’t worried. Well, he was worried, because he was always worried. He ate worry for breakfast, from a worry-bowl with a worry-spoon, accompanied by worry-tea and
worry-on-toast. But, over and above the usual background anxiety, Kelvin trusted Queenie Bombazine more than he trusted any other artiste to have set foot on his stage.

She was a legend. Most stars these days weren’t proper stars – they were just skinny people with lollipop heads and good teeth who looked good on telly – but Queenie was
different. She was the real thing.

Kelvin, for no good reason, and against all his principles, felt confident.

Queenie wouldn’t fail him.

‘T
URGABURBLE LEBEBBLE OBOBBONTO
thobble B983,’ said Armitage’s satnav. The burble was getting worse. As Billy
and Armitage made the final turning of their very slow rampage, a thrilling sight appeared on the horizon.

Yes. A huge and pointless tent. The Oh, Wow! Centre.

‘Look!’ cried Billy. ‘It’s the middle of nowhere! At last!’

Armitage smiled, which was approximately as hard for the muscles of his face as it is for an average human to do three hundred press-ups. Smiling was right near the top of the list of Activities
That Armitage Did Roughly Once A Year.
²⁹

What drew Armitage’s eye was not the huge and pointless tent, but the array of vans, caravans, vanacans and vanacanavanacanavans in the car park, the largest of which was emblazoned with
the words ‘Queenie Bombazine’s Ecstatic Aquatic Splashtastic Circus’.

‘Ha!’ said Armitage, which was the smallest cackle he could manage. ‘Splashtastic! That’s not even a word!’

‘Isn’t it?’ said Billy. ‘It makes me think of frolics and excitement and fantastic watery entertainments.’

‘Well, it shouldn’t. It should make you think of going out and buying that show-offy woman a dictionary and a tin of paint and suggesting that she correct her advertising so as not
to lead vulnerable youth into the clutches of eccentric and irregular vocabulary.’

‘Is show-offy a word?’

Armitage’s moustache began to twitch, which is what happened when he sensed someone might be getting the better of him.

‘Listen to me, young man,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t want any of your lip. You’re either with me or against me. Do you hear? Now which is it?’

‘I can’t remember,’ said Billy.

‘DON’T MAKE JOKES! I HATE JOKES! JOKES ARE FOR STUPID PEOPLE WHO CAN’T THINK OF ANYTHING SENSIBLE TO SAY, AND NO SON OF MINE HAS THE RIGHT TO BE STUPID! DO YOU HEAR
ME?’

‘PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS SSSSSSSS SSS S S S S,’ said Narcissus, and not with his mouth.

‘He’s splashed my shoes!’ said Armitage. ‘Can’t you keep that beast under control?’

‘Yes, Father,’ said Billy, who had decided this was a good moment to stop being cheeky. Narcissus, he felt, had done a pretty unbeatable job of winning the argument for him.

They rode the rest of the way to the Oh, Wow! Centre in silence, and arrived with two hours to spare before the show.

Armitage deposited Billy at a café in the enormous shopping centre that ran all round the Oh, Wow! Centre, told him not to move, and ordered an apple juice for him.

‘Does that come in extra-extra small?’ Armitage asked the waitress, employing what he thought was a charming smile, but was in fact a dismal and terrifying leer that gave her
nightmares for two weeks.

While Billy sipped his minuscule juice, Armitage tiptoed around the Oh, Wow! Centre, examining things through a pair of binoculars.

Examining what?

I’m sure you can guess. Vans, caravans, vanacans, and vanacanavanacanavans and, above all, Reginald Clench’s Portakabin box office.
³⁰

When Armitage returned from his recce, his eyes were alight with a gleam that Billy recognised, a gleam fired by greed, determination and malice stewed together into a mulch of soupy, stinking
wickedness. It was such a hideous gleam it was like bad breath of the eyeballs. You couldn’t look at him without a flip-flop of discomfort flop-flipping in your tummy.

Armitage ordered himself an extra large cappa-frappa-mocha-tocha-lochaccino with chocolate sprinkles and cinnamon sprinkles and extra sugar sprinkled on the sprinkles and extra sprinkles
sprinkled on the sugar. He sat down opposite Billy, peered over the top of his bucket-sized drink and whispered, ‘I have a plan!’

‘Oh, good,’ said Billy, thinking,
Oh, bad.

‘We have tickets for both nights. Tonight, we scope things out. Tomorrow, we strike!’

‘I didn’t know burglars went on strike.’

‘No! We strike! We make our move! We hit Queenie for all the takings!’

‘Oh. OK.’

‘This is going to be the biggest bonanza ever! It’s going to be my masterstroke!’

‘You say that every time.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it’s important to be optimistic. It keeps you young. ‘
HahahahahahaHAHAHAHAHA!
’

This time, Billy recognised the cackle and tried to join in. ‘
HahahahahahaHAHAHAHAHA!
’ he replied.

‘You’ve got it!’ yelped Armitage, spooning cappa-frappa-mocha-tocha-lochaccino froth into his mouth, which gave him a moustache of froth on top of his moustache of moustache,
and a moustache of chocolate sprinkles on top of the moustache of froth, and a moustache of cinnamon sprinkles on top of the moustache of chocolate sprinkles, and a moustache of sugar on top of the
moustache of cinnamon sprinkles. The quintuple moustache look was a new one, fashion-wise, but Armitage pulled it off.

Billy smiled wanly, wishing the same wish he had wished more or less every day of his life. But today it was pulsing through him more powerfully than ever, because now, for the first time, he
had a glimmer of hope that it might actually happen.
If only my father would come! If only my father would come!