‘The young lady said that sir was to go to Hyde Park,’ the driver announced in a clear, well-spoken voice. His skin was brown and smooth, and it seemed as though he had combed his black beard. His white turban was tied with immaculate precision and Theo wondered how much practice that took. He was a young man but his eyes were full of kindness and calm.
‘We’re going to Hyde Park?’ Theo asked, puzzled. The driver looked at him in the rear-view mirror and waggled his head somewhere in between a yes and a no. ‘Well, are we or aren’t we?’ Theo asked again, thinking perhaps he hadn’t been heard. Again the driver’s head wobbled on its axis.
Theo was about to insist when the young Indian explained: ‘See, in the country of my parents we do not really believe in certainty. How can I, a humble taxi-driver, know everything that is and will be? If I were to say “Yes”, then I would be giving you a certainty that is not mine to give.’ He adjusted his turban slightly. ‘I only know my intentions, and those are to follow the directions given to me by that well-mannered young lady. God alone knows where we will go.’
‘Who is this God and what does he have to do with us going to the park or not?’ Bozo whispered, nudging Theo in the ribs. He was no longer so sure if he was quite as invisible as he’d thought.
‘I haven’t got the slightest idea,’ Theo replied with a shrug. ‘But I have the feeling he’ll be happy to drive in circles for hours if we ask for an explanation.’
If the driver saw something strange in a young boy maintaining a conversation with the thin air, he was too well-educated to mention it. Instead, he confined himself to saying, ‘The lady also left a bag for young sir. Just behind your head, if you would be so kind as to turn around.’
Theo turned and found a small day-rucksack. It contained a pair of jeans, two T-shirts, underwear, socks and a warm jacket. There were also a couple of apples, a cheese sandwich and a turquoise envelope. Theo hastily changed out of his dressing-gown and into his new clothes, while Bozo grabbed the cheese sandwich and opened the envelope with his long, yellow teeth.
‘Seems like no one can say anything straight anymore,’ sighed Bozo, in between mouthfuls of cheese.
‘What does it say?’ Theo mumbled from inside a T-shirt, as he tried to work out which way round it went.
‘See for yourself,’ Bozo said, and he flipped the letter over to Theo. But before Theo could grab it, it caught on the breeze and sailed out of the open window. Theo was about to cry out to the driver to stop but he saw the letter blow along the gutter and slip down a drain.
‘Bozo!’ he cried out in exasperation. ‘That was our only clue! What are we supposed to do now?’
‘Relax.’ Bozo smiled as he finished the sandwich and reached for an apple. ‘I already read the whole thing.’
‘So what did it say?’
‘Well,’ Bozo raised his eyes to search his rather small memory. ‘It said: “Dear Theo…” ’
‘Go on!’
‘And it was definitely from that woman who could see me … Michelle. That was her name!’ he concluded, very happy with himself.
‘But-what-did-she-say?’ Theo asked through gritted teeth.
Bozo took another bite of his apple and spat a seed out of the window. ‘To tell you the truth, it kind of went on and on. I didn’t pay all that much attention. But I’ll tell you one thing.’
‘What?’
‘These apples are really tasty – but why the seeds? I mean, they’re bitter and a Bloon could choke on one of those if he wasn’t careful….’
‘You mean to say you forgot all of the letter already?’ Theo groaned, slapping himself on the forehead.
‘Not all of it,’ Bozo replied haughtily. ‘I remember very clearly a good bit at the end that said, “If ever you’re in a tight corner, don’t be afraid to speak up.” At least I think that’s what it said.’
‘Bozo! If you weren’t going to remember, why did you bother reading it?’ Theo fumed, beside himself with frustration.
‘No, no. What you mean to say is: “If you weren’t going to read it, why bother remembering?’ Bozo waggled his head as he had seen the driver do.
‘What?’
‘In any case, a Bloon only ever remembers the good bits. Life is so much easier that way.’
‘Bozo!’ Theo cried. ‘This is the most stupid thing you’ve ever done – and that’s saying something. How are we supposed to go on now?’
‘If you’re so smart, how come you decided to leave the hospital in the first place? We could still be there eating biscuits, but no, you had to run away. Now what are we going to do?’
‘It would have been easy enough if someone hadn’t lost all our instructions! If…’
‘Sir will be happy to know that we have arrived at Hyde Park,’ the driver declared. He gave a contented sigh, as though the gods themselves had made such a miracle possible. Theo looked out of the window at the grey London afternoon and suddenly realised the consequences of making his own way in the cold, material world. ‘But I don’t have any money to pay you…’ he realised with a gulp.
He hoped the driver wouldn’t turn around and take him back to the hospital. But the Sikh smiled kindly and assured him, ‘Do not worry, sir. The young lady was kind enough to read my fortune and I was predestined to bring you here. It is my pleasure to serve.’
Theo thanked him and took the plunge from the warm interior of the taxi out into the big, wide world. A moment later he and Bozo were standing at the entrance of Hyde Park, an island of green amid the choking streets of London’s traffic. They stood on the pavement, uncertain what to do, as adults rushed to and fro, glancing at the Chains on their wrists as they went. Double-decker buses thundered past, their heavy wheels churning up the murky puddles from the rain. A light drizzle still fell and there wasn’t much sunshine to be seen in people’s faces, either.
Theo began to feel very small. It seemed as if Bozo wasn’t the only one who was invisible. Every few moments a foot or knee jostled him as someone passed. They always mumbled an apology but never caught his eye. Theo looked up at the sky. He couldn’t make out the clouds: it was just a shapeless mass of grey. Tiny raindrops sprayed across his face like a layer of despair. He wiped them off with his sleeve.
A discarded newspaper blew along the gutter, getting gradually more soaked. The front page splayed open to reveal ‘Mystery Child to Save the World’ as the main headline. The claim seemed meanly ironic now. Were they even able to save themselves?
There was no way to stay still amid the incessant traffic of cars and people, all on their way somewhere in a hurry. Some strode along purposefully, with the air of someone important on their way to a meeting. Others grimaced at the weather and walked along all hunched up, wishing they had already arrived where they were going. Others slouched along despondently, with their eyes trained on the ground, their necks and shoulders weighed down by invisible weights. There were even a few who seemed to have forgotten how to walk in a straight line: they zigzagged all over the place, empty beer cans in their hands and a lost expression on their faces.
Theo began to drift along too, away from the smell of the cars and their noisy engines. He took a path along the border of the park, where the trees gave a little shelter. Bozo kept up with him. They didn’t exchange a word or a look, and each waited for the other to apologise. Their spirits grew as damp as their clothes.
The only sounds were the distant traffic and their feet as they scuffed through piles of fallen leaves. Bozo had barely a thought beyond the other apple in the rucksack, but Theo was deep in contemplation. Who was Michelle and why had she helped him escape? Maybe she was just some crazy woman on the loose, but then why had she been able to see Bozo? If only he had read that letter.
They ambled along in the shelter of the branches of the beech trees, and presently they came to the corner of the park. There they saw small groups of people listening to speakers standing on old wooden crates or plastic chairs. Some attracted larger crowds than others, but all appeared to have something very important to say. Theo paused to listen to an old man in a tweed suit who gestured furiously at a couple of Korean tourists with their Flash-boxes.
‘Those were the days!’ he cried. ‘Time was that old folks were respected. There was none of the smart answers that go on today – oh no! And women knew exactly where they belonged – in the kitchen!’ He wiped his brow. ‘Nowadays, it’s all gone to pot. Coloured people everywhere, girls dressing like belly-dancers. Even the beer doesn’t taste like it used to.’
Theo wasn’t surprised that hardly anyone was listening. He walked on. Most of the speakers were political or religious and some of them were clearly a little mad. He passed each one, lending only half an ear.
‘I ask you – what’s the good of a vote if you don’t use it?’
‘God has not forgotten you, my children. Repent now, while you have the chance…’
‘Aliens came to see me last night…’
The audiences were made up of tourists, French schoolchildren on a day out, and people with nothing better to do. Some listened with a bored expression on their faces, some seemed to find the whole thing pretty amusing, while others appeared to have turned up simply to heckle and argue with the speaker.
Theo was about to walk on when he heard a sentence that made him freeze in his tracks.
‘And what if life was just one big Story?’
Theo and Bozo wheeled around to see a balding man in a denim jacket standing on a soapbox. His skin was tanned and heavily wrinkled. He had attracted the attention of around 20 mildly interested listeners, and as he caught Theo’s eye, he gave an unmistakable wink. Theo drew closer to hear what he had to say.
‘For all we know, we could just be figments of someone’s imagination. All that any of us can be sure of is that we woke up this morning in these bodies and with these faces. We have no real way of knowing what happened before that.’
‘What about memories?’ someone shouted.
‘Ha! We make them up as we go along,’ the speaker declared with a laugh. ‘Look at it this way: each of our lives is like a tale that we write inside a much bigger Story of the world.’
‘And I suppose you’re going to tell us that this Story of yours is written by God?’ jeered a young man at the front.
‘Oh no,’ came the shocked reply. ‘I wouldn’t call him that. He’s just a Storyteller, is all. The one who tells the Story.’ He waved his arms around in each direction to illustrate.
The young man at the front wasn’t happy with that, however. ‘So how come this Storyteller of yours didn’t write the world with a happy ending? He must be a bit of a sadist to spin a plot with war, illness and hunger,’ he sneered. As the crowd murmured in agreement, he continued: ‘And I suppose that makes us just characters in this Story of yours? Well, I’ve got news for you, mate. I’ve got free will,’ he said, and lit a cigarette.
Theo held his breath in excitement. It couldn’t be just a coincidence! He listened intently and realised that the heckler’s objections were the same doubts that had been growing inside his own heart.
The speaker seemed quite at ease, though, as if he had heard it all before. ‘It seems that you’ve answered your own question.’ He smiled. ‘The Storyteller set the conditions for the Story in his own mind. After that it went along by itself, and now he simply relates the highlights each day. We were written into the Story with free will and he must be kicking himself about it.’
The crowd laughed, warming to the debate, and it might have gone on for some time but the heavens opened and a clap of thunder sent everyone scurrying for shelter. In the space of 20 seconds, the only people left standing in the clearing were Bozo, Theo and the speaker in the denim jacket.
The man turned to face them and Theo saw that he wasn’t English, though he had no trace of an accent. His nose was slightly hooked and his eyes were black and sparking. His skin was smooth but etched with deep wrinkles like the lines of a map. ‘It’s a funny thing about rain,’ he said. ‘People have the idea that if they start running, they won’t get wet.’ He winked, and raindrops ran down his forehead and dripped off the end of his nose.
‘Excuse me,’ Theo said at last. ‘I couldn’t help hearing you mention a Storyteller…’
‘Ah, yes. It’s an old theme.’ The man smiled. ‘I hardly bother telling anyone about it these days. Usually, I have to choose another set of names so that it makes sense to them. But if you thought it was a tough crowd today, you should see them when I start talking about Bloonland.’
‘Not another one,’ Bozo groaned. ‘Just how many Hoomans in this crazy Story know about us?’
The man grinned and patted Bozo on the head. ‘Don’t worry, mate. Any Hooman could see you, but they’re mostly too sensible even to allow the idea that you exist. Basically, you’re invisible to all but seven of us, very small kids, mad people and some animals.’
‘But how do you know about any of this?’ Theo pleaded, shivering with the cold.
‘Come on, boys. Let’s get some hot chocolate and I’ll explain.’ The man led them over to a stall where a teenager who was playing with his Fone could be distracted for long enough to make some hot drinks. Three cups of cocoa were slid moodily on to the counter, but when the teenager was about to ask for the money, he received such an unnerving grin that he forgot what he was going to say. The speaker took the cups and handed Bozo and Theo their drinks.
‘Simon’s the name – or at least that’s what I go by these days. How did your chat with Michelle go, by the way?’
Theo gasped. ‘You know her?’
‘We go way back. Time was we knew each other pretty well, too…’ he mused with a faraway look in his eyes.
‘But how did you know we’d met her?’ Bozo asked suspiciously.
‘Heard it on the news. Listen, here it is again.’ Simon reached into the stall to turn up the radio. The teenager glared at him but was disarmed by a well-aimed wink.
‘And here are the latest headlines,’ the radio said with a faint crackle. ‘The mysterious saga of Theo, the Sleeping Celebrity of St Jude’s Hospital, took a dramatic turn today. An Italian woman posing as a doctor infiltrated the boy’s ward before being apprehended by security. Shortly afterwards, a fire alarm was sounded and, in the commotion, Theo ran away.
‘The Italian woman is being detained under suspicion of impersonating a doctor and abducting the child, though she was armed with nothing more than a pack of Tarot cards. The public is asked to be on the lookout for Theo. He is nine years old, has short, brown hair, blue eyes and was last seen in a taxi heading to north London.’
The teenager surfaced from counting his friends on his Fone and looked curiously again at the customers. A thought appeared to be growing in his mind.
‘So when I heard that, I knew Michelle must be in town,’ Simon explained. ‘And she wouldn’t be here unless she was sure…’
‘Sure of what?’ Bozo asked.
‘It’s like this: we’ve known for some time now that the Storyteller was ill. And there’s a Prophecy – if you believe in such things – that someone would come to save him. It’s supposed to be someone pretty exceptional, with the kind of courage and vision needed to find the Cure.’
Upon hearing this, Bozo puffed out his chest. ‘Well, I suppose you could say I’m not your average Bloon,’ he acknowledged modestly.
‘Sorry, mate. It’s not you. Theo here is the one.’
‘What?’ Bozo cried. ‘I come all the way from Bloonland just to play second fiddle to some snotty-nosed kid? Some thanks I get!’ He turned his back and slurped his cocoa loudly while he whipped droplets of rain with his tail.
‘But please,’ Theo begged. ‘How do you know any of this?’
‘What?’ Simon exclaimed. ‘Didn’t Michelle tell you?’
‘She left a letter for me but Bozo lost it,’ Theo explained meekly.
‘Bloons!’ Simon laughed. ‘How I’d love to go to Bloonland and see how they live.’
‘Is it possible?’ Theo asked with great curiosity, the idea occurring to him for the first time.
Simon arched his eyebrows. ‘Can a character exist outside his own Story? Well, there you’re into some pretty heavy philosophy. To be honest, I usually leave that to the other AOs.’
‘What’s an AO?’ Theo asked.
‘The Awakened Ones. There are seven of us in total.’ Simon pursed his lips. ‘The Storyteller must have realised it would happen sooner or later – that eventually someone in the Story would wake up and realise what was going on. And about 5,000 years ago, someone did.
‘He sat under a tree all night, and by the morning he’d worked it out. Then he found that, when he closed his eyes, he could travel through the Storyteller’s mind and see anything that was going on in the Story. He was even able to see Bloonland, and at once understood everything.’
‘So how come there are seven of you now?’ Theo asked.
‘There are thousands upon thousands who suspect the truth,’ Simon explained. ‘There are even some who almost see it, but they get stuck putting it into words. Anyhow, the First AO believed that the secret needed to be kept alive, so, over the years, the message was passed on to awaken six others.’
‘Why didn’t he just tell everyone?’
‘There were a few of us who tried to tell the world once or twice,’ Simon admitted, ‘but it usually ended up as a pretty messy affair. Thing is, no one wants to hear they’re just characters in a Story. They want to believe that the world revolves around them. So there’s no sense in rocking the boat too much.’
Theo’s head span. Only yesterday he had felt utterly alone in his quest, and now there seemed to be an entire secret society that knew more about it than he did. Why hadn’t the Storyteller told Bozo about the AOs? He was about to ask him, but then reflected that even if the Bloon had been told, he would probably have forgotten about it.
The rain had eased off and the hot chocolate was beginning to Theo take the edge off the cold. He warmed his hands on the polystyrene cup and blew into the drink so that the vapour rose and heated his cheeks. ‘Who are the other six AOs?’ he said at last.
‘Five. You’ve already met one before me.’ Simon grinned as he waited for the boy to catch on.
‘Michelle was an AO?’ Theo gasped, the pieces of the jigsaw beginning to fit together.
‘One of the youngest. And definitely the best-looking – though you’ll be able to judge that for yourself.’
‘Am I going to meet the others, too?’ Theo asked.
‘You have to.’ Simon looked at him sternly. ‘The Prophecy says that the one who finds the Cure must meet all seven of us before he learns enough to save the Storyteller.’
Theo suddenly remembered what was expected of him and his spirits drooped. It was nice to know that he wasn’t alone in his quest, but he didn’t understand why such heroics were expected of him. ‘Why me?’ he groaned.
‘Why anyone?’ Simon countered. ‘We all have our missions in life. Yours is just a bit bigger than most people’s, is all.’
‘What’s your mission, then?’
‘I stand on rocks and soapboxes to preach to people.’
‘And do they listen to you?’
‘Nah. But I wouldn’t really want that anyway. I tried it centuries ago, but they always go and change what you’ve said to suit themselves.’
‘Centuries ago?’ Theo raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you some kind of immortal, then?’
‘I never said that,’ Simon snapped. ‘See? You’re twisting my words already.’
‘I’m sorry. But how old are you really?’
Simon looked Theo in the eye for a moment and then gave a classic toothy grin. ‘Old enough. Maybe too old. Now listen, Theo, since we realised the Storyteller was dying, we’ve been trying to think of a way to help him. But it seems like it’s going to need a fresh pair of eyes to put all the pieces together. None of us can tell you what to do, but perhaps we can help you work out a part of the answer.’
‘So why can’t I meet you all at once?’ Theo demanded.
Simon leaned close and whispered, ‘The Enemy would find us.’ He looked left and right before continuing. ‘The Enemy has been poisoning the Storyteller for thousands of years now. He knows when any of the AOs come together. He feels it. That’s why we have to stay so far apart. Look what happened to Michelle when she came to see you.’
‘Will she be all right?’ Theo asked anxiously. He hadn’t known her long but it perturbed him to think that he might have got her into trouble.
‘Oh, Michelle could talk her way out of anything,’ Simon laughed. ‘Besides, if something happens to us, we always come back somehow.’
‘But who is this Enemy you keep mentioning?’ Theo persisted, confused under the rain of new information.
‘It’s not really my place to tell you,’ Simon sighed. ‘I’ll leave that to Lou.’ He reached into his pocket and withdrew an old and battered business card. Italic black letters across the top read:
Louise Presquevu
Boulevard de Seine 117
Paris
‘Paris, France?’ Theo cried. ‘How am I supposed to get there?’
‘Don’t look to me for a loan,’ laughed Simon. ‘None of the AOs ever carries any money. We’d soon forget what we knew if we did.’
‘But…’ Theo began.
‘Look, mate, there’s more I would tell you but it seems like we’re out of time,’ Simon interrupted. He pointed to where the teenager from the stall was approaching fast with four police officers.
‘That’s the kid on the news, right?’ the teenager squeaked. ‘He’s been talking to that weird old geezer there.’
The police officers knew all about strange old men bothering young kids. It was not the kind of thing they took lightly. They surrounded Simon and Theo, and pulled out their truncheons and handcuffs. They’d heard that the kid was a slippery customer, too. He’d set fire to his own hospital, by all accounts. Three of them moved forward to put the cuffs on Simon, while the female officer took a good hold on Theo’s collar.
‘Now then, young man, you’ve got some sharp explaining to do,’ she said in a grim voice.
Thus far everything went to plan. What none of them was able to explain to their sergeant later was how their eyes came to be full of mustard and chilli sauce. They could only speculate that there must have been a hidden third party, an accomplice who had taken the plastic sauce bottles from the stall and attacked them. As no one else had been seen lurking around, their story seemed a bit unlikely, and they each received an official caution for incompetence.
Bozo put down the mustard and dashed after Theo, who had already begun to run in the direction of the speakers. The boy weaved his way through the crowd. All he could see were raincoats and belts. He could hear the shouts of the police behind him and knew they must be coming his way.
He squeezed his way through to near the soapbox where he had first met Simon, but the speaker was nowhere to be seen. Not far away Theo caught a glimpse of the first police officer pushing through the crowd. Theo looked around desperately but there was nowhere to hide. The iron railings were too high for him to climb, and if he made a break for it through the park they’d see him straight away. He half-hoped that if he stayed still and quiet, no one would see him, but in his heart he knew it was all over. They would soon be upon him and he would be dragged back to face the wrath of Dr Bunsen.
‘It’s no good, Bozo,’ Theo groaned. ‘There’s no way out.’
Bozo thought for a moment and then suddenly his eyes lit up. ‘Remember what Michelle wrote in the letter!’ he cried.
‘How can I? You lost it,’ Theo objected bitterly.
‘If you find yourself in a tight corner, don’t be afraid to speak up,’ Bozo reminded him.
‘So?’
‘So there’s your stage!’ Bozo grinned, pointing at the soapbox where Simon had previously stood.
Theo looked at the box doubtfully. If he stood up, everyone would see him at once. And what could he possibly say? The idea seemed absurd. Foolish, even. Then he thought of the Fool stepping off the cliff, and before he knew it he had stepped up on to the soapbox. A few heads turned towards him with interest. Theo gulped and said the first thing that came into his head. ‘I really don’t have anything to say,’ he stammered.
‘Makes a refreshing change around here,’ someone cried, and there was laughter all round.
Theo grew in confidence a little at the unexpected warm response. He continued: ‘No, I mean, I don’t really know anything.’ He kept one eye on the police who continued to scour Speaker’s Corner.
‘Someone honest at last,’ an old man at the front remarked. Again, a ripple of mirth spread through the growing crowd.
‘I just stood up here to speak because … because sometimes when you feel trapped you have to do something really foolish. If you want to stay free, then sometimes you have to stand up and speak out, I guess – even if you don’t really know what to say.’
This impromptu speech met with thunderous applause. Cries of ‘Hear! Hear!’ filled the air, and everyone agreed it was the best lecture they’d heard all day.
The police searching for Theo joined up in a huddle about ten metres away. They shook their heads woefully. They didn’t know how, but the kid had given them the slip again. He’d dissolved into thin air, it seemed. Behind them they could hear the crowd cheering a speaker who seemed to be more popular than most. But they had no time to listen to speeches. They had a child to find, so they spread out to search the rest of the park.