Circus of Thieves on the Rampage (18 page)

It was a large atrium, which ran in a circle all the way round the auditorium. Armitage ran and ran, still clutching his sack of loot, chased by a line so long (a hundred and thirty-nine people,
eleven dogs and six otters) that he now found himself running into the back of the last person who was running after him.

‘Get out of my way,’ snapped Armitage. ‘Can’t you seen I’m in a hurry?’

The slowest chaser stopped, turned, and saw that the person behind him was also the person who was supposed to be in front of him. It took a moment to figure out how this could have happened
and, during this very same moment, Armitage realised it was time for a Plan B.

He darted for the nearest emergency exit, rushed through, and jammed a broom into the door handles. As Plan Bs go, this one was pretty basic, but it would have to do.

The door buckled, heaved and creaked.

It didn’t open.

The broom held.

For a creamy and delicious moment, Armitage thought he had got away.

But, as he turned to run for his getaway scooter, a cackle of triumph rising in his throat, something huge and curiously smelly loomed up in front of him. Narcissus. With a girl on his back.
That
girl. Hannah.

Armitage executed a neat swerve to run round the camel, but Narcissus executed an equally neat swerve, swerving into Armitage’s swerve, knocking him off his feet.

Armitage splatted to the ground, just as the broom gave way and a hundred and fifty-six (mostly human) bodies tumbled out.

‘Got you!’ said Hannah.

If she had been the cackling sort, this would have been the perfect moment for a big, hearty, gloaty one. But that wasn’t Hannah’s style.

‘Got you!’ said Old Bill, who didn’t have much imagination, so resorted to copying Hannah.

‘I . . . I . . . I was just trying to put the money somewhere safe. There are bad people around,’ stammered Armitage.

‘Codswallop,’ said Old Bill. This was one of his favourite words and he rarely had the opportunity to use it. ‘You’re nicked, good and proper, and no mistake.’

‘You can use those handcuffs over there, can’t you?’ said Hannah, pointing downwards.

‘I suppose I can,’ replied Old Bill, unlocking Ernesto and slapping the cuffs onto Armitage’s wrists.

Ernesto, his arms free, could now, at long last, hug his son. Never, in the extensive and cuddly history of hugs, can there ever have been an embrace as perfect as this one.

Within seconds, a hundred and thirty-nine people were weeping tears of pure joy, one person was weeping tears of frustration and self-pity, and a camel was beginning to feel peckish.

‘This was all your doing, wasn’t it?!’ yelled Armitage, pointing a long, bony finger towards Queenie Bombazine, who was at that moment removing a shard of broken glass from her
ear.

‘Look in the sack, Armitage,’ replied Queenie. ‘Even if you had got away, it wouldn’t have done you any good.’

Armitage glanced at the money spilling out of his sack and noticed, for the first time, something strange about the banknotes. Although they were the right colour, and although they did say
£50 in the corner, they did not show the usual picture of the Queen with a crown on her head, nor did they bear the words, ‘Bank of England’. These £50 notes were quite
different. In the middle was a drawing of Armitage with a potty on his head and a kipper in his mouth, and at the top were the words ‘Bank of You’ve Been Kippered’.

Even though Armitage already knew he’d been done like a kipper, this was a depressing sight. His kippering was even more comprehensive than he’d thought.

‘It was a honeytrap,’ said Queenie. ‘And you walked right into it, like the greedy, good-for-nothing criminal you are.’

‘YOU MARK MY WORDS!’ snapped Armitage. ‘I’ll get you back one of these days! You’ll pay for this! In money! Lots of it! You’re not nearly as lovely as you
think you are, Queenie Bombazine!’

‘Oh, yes she is,’ said Hannah.

‘I think so, too,’ said Granny.

‘Lovely is the perfect word for it,’ said Old Bill.

‘Yup – she’s definitely lovely,’ said Ernesto.

‘REALLY lovely,’ chorused a hundred and thirty-five other voices.

‘
Woofely
!’ barked eleven dogs, which I think it is safe to assume was a canine vote of loveliness.

‘
Squeak squeak squeak
,’ squeaked the six synchronised otters (all at once, naturally). There’s no way of proving what this meant, since otter squeaks are notoriously
difficult to translate, but it’s not hard to guess.

‘SO WHAT!’ yelped Armitage. ‘Even if everyone does think you’re lovely, I still don’t like you, and one of these days I’m going to get you back.’

‘For what?’ said Queenie. ‘For kippering you or for being lovelier than you?’

‘Both. I hate being kippered and – yes! – I admit it. I’m jealous and I’m not ashamed of it and one of these days I’m going to be better than you, then
you’ll be jealous of me, so there!’

‘Better than me at what?’

‘Everything!’

‘Right,’ said Old Bill. ‘We’ve heard more than enough from you. You’re coming with me to the station.’

‘YOU’LL NEVER PROVE ANYTHING,’
ranted Armitage as he was dragged away.
‘IT WASN’T EVEN REAL MONEY!
IT’S HER YOU SHOULD BE GOING AFTER – SHE’S
A SELF-CONFESSED FORGER! IF I THOUGHT IT WAS REAL MONEY, I NEVER WOULD HAVE TAKEN IT! WE WERE ONLY PLAYING! I’M AN
INNOCENT MAN! EVERYONE’S GOT IT IN FOR ME! MY MOTHER NEVER LOVED ME! I CAN’T WEAR PRISON
CLOTHES, THEY’RE HIDEOUSLY UNFLATTERING! IF I GIVE YOU FREE TICKETS TO MY
SHOW, WILL YOU LET ME GO? HOW ABOUT IF I LET YOU DRIVE MY ENORMOUS LORRY? TWICE? OK, I’LL LEND IT TO YOU FOR A WEEK. A MONTH? A YEAR? OK, HAVE IT! HAVE THE LORRY! PLEASE! LET ME GO!
PLEASE!’

Says me. And who are you, anyway?

(I’m the voice of doom. And I hate happy endings.)

Well, go away!

(I don’t want to.)

Go! You’re not welcome here!

(Oh. OK. Bye then.)

S
O OFF ARMITAGE WENT,
in handcuffs towards the dismal fate he so richly deserved.

(Or did he?)

What’s happening here? Is this happy ending being derailed by devious, dastardly, doomy events? It can’t be.

(It can.)

It can’t.

(It can.)

You’re back!

(I am.)

Oh, my goodness! Something is afoot. And not those lumps at the end of my legs. This is something else.

One last twist, one final shocking scheme, may be uncoiling itself before our very eyes. For who is that in the road up ahead of the police car, standing in the middle of the B764, waving her
arms and stopping the oncoming vehicle? It is a woman, dressed rather scantily for this cool autumn evening. Next to her is a man who looks exceptionally French. And behind them is a lorry. Not a
small lorry. Not even a medium-sized lorry. An enormous lorry.

‘Help us! Help! We’re stranded! We’ve run out of petrol!’ said the woman, pressing her hands into the bonnet of the police car, which had now stopped in front of her.

Old Bill stepped out of his car and examined the curious scene in front of him. He sensed there was something fishy (and also vaguely circussy) going on here, but, before he had the chance to
figure out what that might be, Fingers O’Boyle leapt out from behind the enormous lorry and tied him up. Jesse (who was just finishing one of his longest ever sulks) lifted the tied-up
policeman, carried him into a nearby field and, with a this-hurts-me-more-than-it-hurts-you expression on his face, tipped him upside down into a bush, a thorny bush, which, as things turned out,
hurt the policeman far more than it hurt Jesse.

‘Great work, people,’ cackled Armitage, climbing out of the police car, free at last. Well, not really at last, since he’d only been under arrest approximately twenty minutes,
but this felt like a long time to him, since being under arrest was right at the very top of Armitage’s list of The Worst Things That Can Ever Happen.

‘It was me that thought of it,’ said Hank and Frank, at the same time.

‘No it wasn’t, it was me,’ said Frank and Hank, simultaneously.

‘Me!’

‘Me!’

‘Me!’

‘Me!’

While Hank and Frank hanked and franked, Fingers appeared with a length of rubber tubing and siphoned the fuel out of the police car. Within a minute, the enormous lorry was back to its old
self, roaring enormous, fume-belching roars, and carrying off Armitage Shank and his troupe, away from the policeman upside down in a thorn bush, away from the Oh, Wow! Centre, away from the middle
of nowhere, towards further dastardly adventures, and no doubt towards a plan for some quite spectacular revenge.