Circus of Thieves on the Rampage

by William Sutcliffe

  ‘Now, dear. What’s the trouble?’ she asked.

  ‘Grnnng, Grnnng, Grnnng!’ yelled Hannah. ‘I’nk jush bing yold hte heerdnest ning nivr, buu is yonts’s makl ang shints! H neee woo ta hxplxn.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Granny fiddled anxiously with her hearing aid. Hannah took out the gobstopper.

  ‘Granny, Granny, Granny!’ she yelled, slightly hoarse now, and with rather less enthusiasm than when she’d started. ‘I’ve just been told the weirdest thing ever, but it doesn’t make any sense! I need you to explain.’

  ‘It’s your birthday, isn’t it?’ replied Granny. ‘You’re twelve now, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Granny.’

  ‘So your parents have told you the Big Secret?’

  ‘Yes! But I don’t understand!’

  ‘Well, it’s a rather long story. Would you like a cup of tea first?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Juice?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Banana?’

  ‘Please, Granny. Just tell me the story.’

  ‘OK, dear. Well, it all goes back a long, long way. We have to go right back to the day you were born. No, we have to go back to the day your mother was born. Or, rather, your mothers.’

  ‘Mothers?’

  ‘Yes, mothers. You see your mother – your current mother – is a twin. You have an aunt you’ve never met. Except she isn’t your aunt. She’s your mother. Your other mother. Your birth mother.’

  ‘I thought you said you were going to explain. This is just even more confusing.’

  ‘Put the gobstopper back in, dear, and let me tell you the whole thing. Your mother isn’t my only daughter. I had twins. Wendy and Wanda. They weren’t identical twins, and they weren’t even non-identical twins. They were opposite-in-every-way-you-can-imagine twins. Wanda, your mother – your current mother – is as you know a very cautious, careful and safety-conscious person. She didn’t walk until she was two, because she thought crawling was safer. Wendy, your other mother – your birth mother – walked at six months, fell over all the time, visited A&E every few weeks, and liked nothing better than launching herself down a staircase just to see what would happen.’

  ‘Hak ma mrrrrbit?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Hannah took out the gobstopper.

  ‘That’s my mother? My real mother?’

  ‘It is. She was a wild one from the start. I always worried about her – always knew she’d get herself into trouble – and she did. She was only a teenager when she ran away to the circus. Can’t say I was surprised. And when she told me she’d discovered a talent for the trapeze, and had learned that she was never happier than when spinning through the air of a Big Top, that was hardly a shock, either. But I was surprised when she came back for a visit and told me that she was in love, and that she had a problem, because she couldn’t tell who she was in love with.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There were two men from two rival circuses, and they’d both told her they loved her. Wendy knew she was in love, because she felt fluttery and flighty and flouncy and flushed, but she couldn’t tell which man she was in love with. She said they were both in the car outside, and asked me if I could take a look at them and give her my advice. Now this was very unusual for Wendy, because she was not the kind of girl who ever asked my advice about anything, but I was happy to help, so I said she should bring them in, and I’d take a look, and set them the Cupcake Test.’

  Granny’s stories were always like this. Stories within stories within stories, like Russian dolls. Once she’d started telling you something, before she got to the end, she’d always divert into telling you something else about somebody else. Hannah knew better than to fight it. If you waited long enough, Granny usually worked her way back to the starting point.

  ‘The Cupcake Test?’ asked Hannah, with a mixture of curiosity and impatience.

  ‘Yes. The Cupcake Test. You sit them both down, and hand the boyfriend a plate, on which are two cupcakes. A big one and a small one. If he takes the small one, he shows that he’s kind and considerate, and he passes. If he takes the big one, he’s clearly selfish and arrogant and rude, and he fails. It tells you everything you need to know about how this person is going to treat your precious daughter.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Well, Wendy brought in these two young men, and I have to say they were both extremely handsome. Not that looks are the most important thing, but golly they really were quite delectable . . .’

  ‘Granny?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve drifted off.’

  ‘Sorry. Yes. So she brought in these two young chaps, and I brought out a plate with three cupcakes on it, two big and one small. And I handed the plate to the first one – the one with a moustache – and you know what he did?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He took all three! Gobbled them down and didn’t even say thank you. I knew straight away that he was a wrong’un. Despicable! And I told her so! But did she listen? Did she?’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘I don’t know. The other chap was lovely. A proper gentleman. I handed him a refilled plate and he gave both cupcakes to Wendy, then stood up and poured everyone tea and handed it round without even being asked. And you should have seen his muscles! Not that muscles are important, but when he held the teapot his forearms rippled and bulged and . . . Anyway, I told Wendy what I thought, but just as Wendy was not the kind of girl to ask for advice, she was also not the kind of girl to listen to advice when it was given. I knew she was falling deeper in love after that, because one of the symptoms of love is that you stop phoning your mother. I didn’t hear from her for a while, except for a postcard from Moscow saying that she wanted me to post her a pair of gloves, and that she was married, and that she’d tell me all about it as soon as she got home.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, the circus was on a world tour, and a few months after that I got a card from Mexico City asking me to post her some tea bags, and saying that she was pregnant, and that it was the most exciting thing ever, and she’d tell me all about it as soon as she got home.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I heard nothing for a year or so, then one day, out of the blue, the doorbell rang.’

  ‘It was her?’

  ‘No. It was a camel. Holding a basket in its mouth. And in the basket was a postcard from Johannesburg saying that the circus world tour was the trip of a lifetime, but that travelling conditions in Africa were not suitable for a young baby. Next to the postcard, in the basket, was a baby. You. The card said she’d be back soon to take care of you. But we heard nothing for two more years, until finally, out of the blue, the doorbell rang.’

  ‘And this time it was her?’

  ‘No. It was the camel again, with a basket holding a black envelope and a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. The envelope contained nothing except a newspaper cutting from the Auckland Examiner, describing a trapeze accident that had led to the tragic death of an aerial artiste.’

  ‘My mother’s dead?’

  ‘Yes, Hannah, I’m sorry. Your birth mother is dead. But your aunt raised you, and she put her heart and soul into it, and even though you and she may not see eye to eye, she’s been as good a mother to you as anyone could want.’

  ‘So my mother’s not my mother, but you’re still my granny?’

  ‘I’m your double granny, because I’m the mother of both your mothers. And what could be better than that?’

  ‘If my real mum was alive, that would be better,’ said Hannah, only just holding back a surge of sobs.

  ‘I’m so sorry, dear,’ said Granny. ‘We all tried our best for you.’

  ‘I know you did,’ replied Hannah, who at this moment felt as if her heart was being used as a trampoline. ‘And my father never came back for me?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘You never saw him again?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’


  ‘You’re not sure?’

  ‘Well, like I said, your father could be either of those two chaps, but the one I didn’t like, the one with the moustache, I think we both may have come across him this summer. And I think he might be an even worse fellow than my Cupcake Test told me.’

  ‘Not . . . ?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Not . . . ?’

  ‘YES!’

  ‘Not . . . ?’

  ‘OH, YES! Armitage Shank. That was him. I recognised him instantly.’

  ‘And the other one? The nice one? Who was he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘I can’t remember. But he really did have lovely muscles. And he was so polite. It must have been him. I’m sure your father’s that one.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I think I’m sure. But your mother was a headstrong girl. Very unpredictable. I’m so sorry about all this, Hannah. It really is quite confusing, isn’t it?’

  Hannah nodded, and a tingle at the end of her nose alerted her to the fact that her sobs could be held in no longer.

  Granny fetched a box of tissues, rubbed Hannah’s back, kissed her seven times on the forehead, then began to rummage in a high cupboard. She returned with a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.

  ‘This is the parcel?’ sniffled Hannah.

  Granny nodded and opened it on the coffee table. Inside was layer upon layer of pink crêpe paper. Under the crêpe paper was a green rubber catsuit with a yellow lightning bolt streaking across the chest and down one leg.

  ‘This is all we got back from the circus. It’s her trapeze outfit.’

  Hannah lifted up the costume and stared. She had never seen anything so beautiful. She raised it to her wet, tingly nose and sniffed. An aroma of absolute perfect and exquisite rightness drifted into her. She inhaled and inhaled, sucking her mother’s scent into her. Then Hannah saw the sequinned words embroidered on the back: ‘Esmeralda Espadrille’.

  ‘WHHHAAAAAAT!?’ shrieked Hannah. ‘Esmeralda Espadrille! That’s my mother?’

  ‘Yes. That was her stage name. She could do a back somersault from trapeze to trapeze with a double pike, triple flip-flop and . . .’

  ‘. . . quadruple wing-ding. I know.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I met her son. Billy. It was him and me who took the enormous lorry and stole back Armitage’s loot.’

  ‘His lute? I didn’t know he played the lute.’

  ‘No, the stuff that he’d stolen. His loot.’

  ‘That was Wendy’s son?’

  ‘It was Esmeralda Espadrille’s son. And if they’re the same person . . .’

  ‘THEY ARE! I knew it!’ said Granny. ‘I mean, I didn’t know it. But I should have. The minute I saw the way that boy handled a camel I knew he was . . . was . . . ’

  ‘Special?’ offered Hannah.

  ‘Yes. Special like your mother was special. Special like you’re special. And, now I think of it, I recognise that camel – strong profile, movie-star eyelashes and a good set of long green teeth – and I’m sure that’s the camel who delivered you.’

  Hannah’s heart was now beginning to feel like a trampoline and a trapeze and a drum kit, all at once. This had been a deeply strange day. She’d lost a mother and father, then found another mother only to discover that she was dead, found two potential new fathers, and now it dawned on her that she might have gained a . . . no, she couldn’t let herself think it until she knew for sure.

  ‘So, if Esmeralda Espadrille is my mother, and she’s also Billy’s mother, does that mean Billy’s my brother?’ she asked.

  ‘I suppose it does. Or your half-brother at least. That all depends on who your father is and who Billy’s father is.’

  ‘The other man who came round that day – the Cupcake Test day – was he called Ernesto?’

  ‘I think he might have been. It’s definitely a name with that kind of sound, because I remember telling myself not to call him Tesco by accident. Or maybe he was called Clive. I think it was one or the other.’

  ‘We have to find Billy and get the truth! He’s my brother!’

  ‘He’s my grandson!’

  ‘So let’s go!’ said Hannah, leaping up.

  ‘Let’s go!’ replied Granny, leaping up, too.

  ‘But where?’ said Hannah, sitting down. ‘How are we going to find them? Shank’s Impossible Circus is on the run. In hiding. And nobody knows where Ernesto is, either. Do they?’16

  17

  18

  The Oh, Wow!

  YOU MAY HAVE READ ABOUT THIS in the newspapers already, but just in case it passed you by, now is probably a good time to tell you about a strange event of national importance that happened several years ago. It was a hot summer’s day, somewhere towards the tail end of the last century, and Parliament was filled with dozy, sweaty MPs, busy debating and dozing and sweating. The Prime Minister himself felt particularly thirsty and hot, which in his case combined with a sudden overpowering urge to drink something blue. He sent out one of his minions for a Slush Puppy, which he foolishly drank in one go, giving him a huge brainfreeze.

  In the grip of this brainfreeze, he suddenly stood up and yelled, ‘Let’s build a massive tent in the middle of nowhere and fill it with interesting stuff! It’ll be incredible! Trust me on this!’

  Everyone there was too hot and dozy to object, but by the time the tent was eventually built the brainfreeze had worn off, and the Prime Minister couldn’t remember what interesting things he’d had in mind to put inside it. The upshot was a massive pointless tent in the middle of nowhere, which sat there for a few years, as a monument to ________,19 until an international consortium of property developers called Yeravinalarf Incorporated bought the site at a knock-down price and turned it into an entertainment venue called the Oh, Wow! Centre.

  Now Queenie Bombazine happened to be an old acquaintance of the Oh, Wow! Centre’s Operations Manager, a man called Kelvin Pype, who by a curious coincidence had once been Queenie Bombazine’s second-favourite plumber. She called him up, reminisced for a while about a blocked U-bend, back in the good old days when U-bends were U-bends and days were good and old, then she told him about her plan for a comeback show. She wanted to book the Oh, Wow! Centre for two nights.

  ‘Oh, wow!’ replied Pype, who was something of a circus aficionado, and was fully aware of the legendary status of La Bombazine. He immediately agreed, on condition that she’d give him a seat in the front row for every performance and autograph his bottom. (He was a BIG fan.) Queenie Bombazine, who had seen it all before (not his bottom – I simply mean she had come across all kinds of eccentric behaviour), agreed, with a weary sigh. Fans, these days, really were getting weirder. After one of her last performances, she’d been asked to sign a full-size, home-made, papier-mâché hippopotamus. There was simply no way of explaining what people wanted from her.

  It was hard, indeed, being a celebrity. Harder than it used to be, back in the good old days when U-bends were U-bends and celebrities were left alone. In fact, that was one of the reasons why she had retired, the other one being that trapeze careers have a habit of coming to a sticky end (literally). Queenie didn’t believe in safety nets, but she also didn’t believe in plummeting to her doom for the entertainment of strangers, so, when the day came that she felt the strength in her arms beginning to weaken, she decided to call it quits before she came a cropper. But that, of course, was before she came a cropper in a quite different way, by plummeting to her doom from cosy, multiple-bathroomed richness to chilly, horrid skintness.

  The Oh, Wow! deal was arranged by phone, from Queenie’s bath. Barely had she hung up than she heard the sound of Reginald Clench’s motorbike puttering up her driveway. Queenie had a long driveway. That’s how rich she was. Or had been, when she bought the house. ‘Pip pip,’ tootled Clench as he parked up and strode across the field to Queenie’s bath. His Labrador, Rudolph, leapt out of the sidecar and marched
alongside, in step with his owner.

  The dog marched?

  Yes.

  Marched?

  Stop arguing. Rudolph the dog marched. Clench was a military man and he’d trained Rudolph as he would have trained any young recruit. If you’ve never seen a dog march – and you probably haven’t – then you’ll just have to imagine it. It’s more or less the same as a normal soldier’s march, except with more legs.

  ‘Hello, Reginald,’ said Queenie. ‘I’ve booked us the Oh, Wow! Centre for two nights.’

  ‘That’s top-hole!’ said Reginald, who was delighted to have his enforced retirement coming to an end. He didn’t even like weekends, so for him retirement was a dismal nightmare of relentless tedium, which he could only fill by carrying a toolbox with him wherever he went and performing almost constant DIY. During some of his lowest moments, he’d been known to break things just so he could fix them again.

  ‘How are we doing for infantry . . . I mean, performers?’ he asked.

  ‘I was just going to make a few calls.’

  ‘Good idea. You chat ’em up, talk the talk, then pass ’em over and I’ll take care of the money. Let’s get weaving. No time like the present. Rolling stone and all that, what what?’

  They got weaving. Queenie Bombazine made her calls, though it wasn’t so easy to track everyone down, since her old troupe was so loyal to Queenie that when she’d retired most of them had taken the decision to bow out of circusry altogether rather than work for someone else.

  Her first call was to Jemima Steam, the nautical fire-eater. It turned out she was now working as a pearl diver in the Maldives, but the minute she heard about the Oh, Wow! Centre revival, she vowed to get on the next flight home and be there in time for the show.

  Next up was Zygmond Tszyx, the trampolining bubble wizard, who was now the Transport Minister of Hungary. But Budapest would just have to remain gridlocked, because Zygmond Tszyx was in, and he was bringing along his son, Zygmond Tszyvn.