Fizzlebert Stump and the Bearded Boy (13 page)

The seagull squawked and flapped furiously at the sea lion.

Fish honked back and showed his teeth.

A sea lion may not have quite as scarily big teeth as a land lion has, but they are still sharp, pointy, long and filthy. (In fact, they were black, which, although bad news in
your
mouth, is actually quite healthy and normal for a sea lion.)

The seagull grumbled, muttered, squawked and finally flew raggedly off, out of reach of Fish’s snapping jaws, leaving the sea lion to enjoy the chips all by himself.

Fish gobbled them up, savouring the rich vinegary flavour, and was left sitting sadly, looking longingly at an empty wrapper.

He was still hungry.

Chips were all very well, but a sea lion like Fish was only really interested in the thing that usually came along with them, the bit that normally appears before the words ‘and chips’ in the shop sign.

In short, Fish loved fish.

If you could see inside his brain it went like this:
Fish? No. Oh . . . Fish? No. Oh . . . Fish? Yes . . . Mmm . . . More? No. Oh
. . . And so on.

He burped a lazy hazy halibut-burp and lifted his nose in the air.

He sniffed.

He leant his head on one side and sniffed again.

There, what was that?

He sniffed for a third time, with his head cocked on the other side, and then slowly lowered it.

Oh, he’d smelt something. Even above the fishy smell of his own breath, he’d caught the scent of something interesting.

He began waddling between caravans, lifting his head from time to time and snorting a big noseful of air. Oh yes, the scent seemed to say, this is the way! And he’d waddle along just a little bit quicker.

And after a minute or so he stopped waddling, and began flolloping, which is like waddling but faster.

And then he skidded round a corner between two tents and he was almost where his nose had sent him. He flolloped at full speed, right toward the fish smell that was filling his nose, and bang!

There he was with his head stuck through a bit of wood, wolfing down his favourite food.

Back in the Barboozuls’ caravan, Fizzlebert had put his plan into action. But hang on, you’re probably saying, what plan? When we left Fizz he had reached a dead end. He was locked in with the useful escape-plan tuna sandwich halfway to his stomach. And now he’s put his plan into action? This, you’re probably thinking to yourself, is not very good storytelling. I mean, it’s not been told, has it? So, okay, give me a moment to backtrack a bit and explain what it is that’s happened.

As Fizz was sat swinging his legs idly, trying to think of a new plan, his shoe hit something hard. Something hard that rolled away when he kicked it. It was, he saw when he bent down, the tin he’d thrown at the window. It had bounced off and ended up under the table. And what do you think was in that tin? The tin he hadn’t read the label of before he threw it? (If you just said ‘tuna’ you’re right and deserve a housepoint (or whatever equivalent writers are able to give to their readers); if on the other hand you said ‘sweetcorn’ or ‘pineapple chunks’ then you’d best stay behind after the book for detention as you clearly haven’t been paying attention.)

It was tuna! (Da-dah!)

And with the tin of tuna Fizz was able, at last, to put his plan into action, and his plan was this:

(a) He knew he could rely on Fish to track down the source of any fish-flavoured stink.

(b) Fish had a problem being quiet. (He was like a clown with a sensitive horn. He honked and barked all the time. That was simply what he did.)

(c) If Fizz could attract Fish to the Barboozuls’ caravan with fish, he could be relied on to make a loud noise outside the door and someone would hear it, know something fishy was going on, and come and force the door open. All it would it take was a couple of riggers with a crowbar and he’d be free.

It was a pretty good plan. Fizz couldn’t see a flaw in it. It made sense. It was logical. Give him a few minutes and he’d be out of there.

He used a can opener from the kitchen drawer to get the lid off and poured the tuna-y fish brine on the floor, right at the bottom of the front door. With his fingers he sloshed the juice into the gap underneath the door, and then squidged and squeezed as much of the tuna as he could in there too.

As he squished the fish into the thin slot, it pushed the briny juices even further through and in his mind’s eye Fizz could imagine them oozing out the other side and dripping down the caravan’s steps, leaking their strong pong into the fresh air.

All he had to do now was wait.

He went back into the kitchen and washed his hands. As he wrapped the tuna can in a plastic bag (they stink out the rubbish and attract flies otherwise (what a thoughtful boy he was)) and went to put it in the bin, he glanced out the window.

What was that?

Oh, it had worked! Already!

There was Fish, flolloping at top speed along the grass between the tents opposite.

Fizz waved his arms and banged on the window, trying to get the sea lion’s attention.

‘Hey, Fish!’ he shouted. ‘Go get help! Fish, it’s me! Look over here!’

But Fish wasn’t paying attention to the boy in the window, and to Fizz’s eye it didn’t look like he was slowing down either.

And suddenly there was a smashing noise.

Oh, poor Fish, Fizz thought, as he ran back to the door.

But to his surprise all he found was the sea lion’s head, poking through a sea lion’s head-shaped hole in the bottom of the door slurping and scoffing and wolfing the tuna.

Fizz patted his nose (which is a dangerous thing to do while a sea lion is eating with such abandon – please don’t try this at home), and was happy to see that his friend seemed entirely uninjured.

It didn’t take Fish a moment to finish the tuna and as soon as he had, he slid backwards out of the hole, ready to start looking for the next meal.

With just a little extra kicking and banging Fizz was able to make the hole big enough to fit through himself and once he was out he shouted, ‘Fish, let’s get to the Big Top!’

Fish, thinking there might be fish, flolloped along as Fizz ran.

I should really put some dramatic music here, don’t you think? Will they make it to the next chapter in time to save the circus? (
Dum-dede-dum,
dum-dede-dum,
dum-dede-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum . . .
) Will they even make it to the next chapter in time for the next chapter to start? (
Dum-dede-dum, dum-dede-dum, dum-dede-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum . . .
) Who knows? (I know.)

You know the drill by now. Turn the page for the new chapter, and find out what happens next.

Chapter Twelve

In which a whole load of stuff happens, in and around the Big Top

Fizz was alone when he found the Ringmaster stood behind the backstage curtains. (Fish had been distracted by two halves of hotdogs and another spilt packet of chips on the way. (People are
so
careless with their food sometimes.))

Fizz recognised the music the band were playing as Percy Late’s theme.

‘I sent him out with a second plate,’ the Ringmaster explained, seeing Fizz come running up. ‘We’re that desperate, lad.’

‘Ringmaster,’ said Fizz breathlessly. ‘I know what’s been going wrong. I heard them! They locked me up. They’ve been stealing everything!’

‘Slow down, Fizz. What are you talking about?’

‘The beards,’ gasped Fizz, still out of breath from running. ‘The Barboozuls. They’ve been sabotaging the circus. They stole – ’

‘Now, Fizz,’ interrupted the Ringmaster, ‘don’t tell lies. Lady Barboozul has already told me you might say something like this. I’m afraid she guessed this little fantasy of yours.’

‘But – ’

‘Ever since you lost Charles’s teeth you’ve been upset, and I understand that, but to go pointing the finger and making up stories like this – ’

‘No, but it’s true, Ringmaster! Lady Barboozul stole my mum’s nose. And Dad, well, he was tickled, wasn’t he? That’s what did his back in, what put him out of action . . . and what tickles? Beards tickle! I was hiding in their caravan and I heard them admit it all.’

‘Fizz, Fizz, Fizz. I’ll get angry in a minute if you keep on with these lies. It’s unpleasant to make accusations without proof . . .’

‘I’ve got proof!’ Fizz shouted.

‘I’d be very interested to see it,’ said a smooth, cool voice from right behind his head.

Fizz spun round. There was Lady Barboozul looking down her beard at him.

‘You did it all,’ he said, before the Ringmaster put his hand on Fizz’s shoulder and pulled him back against the buttons of his coat.

‘I’m so sorry about the lad,’ he said. ‘I think he’s banged his head on something. His father does leave such heavy things lying around. A caravan can be a dangerous place if you’re not careful.’

‘Have him taken away, Ringmaster. Now.’

‘I haven’t got time, Lady Barboozul. I’ve got a show to run. I’m sure he’ll stand nice and quiet over here, out of the way. Won’t you, Fizz?’

‘No. No, I won’t be quiet! She’s a liar and a thief and she’s trying to ruin our circus!’

‘Don’t be stupid, Fizz,’ the Ringmaster snapped, losing his cool. ‘What utter nonsense. The Barboozuls are the only act that’s not had to be shortened or cancelled. They’re our only chance to impress the Inspectors, Fizz. Think about that.’

‘Yes, we’re all that stands between you and the grim world outside, boy,’ said the bearded woman.

‘So you should be thankful they’re here at all, after the things you’ve said about them. You do want the circus to pass the inspection, don’t you, Fizz? And besides,’ the Ringmaster went on, softening his tone and smiling at the bearded lady, ‘such a nice lady as Lady Barboozul couldn’t possibly – ’

Just as he began the sentence Percy Late’s second plate came rolling out from between the curtains and Percy came running after it.

‘Oh blast and bother,’ he said as he tried to catch his runaway crockery.