Bozo listened impatiently while Theo related the day’s events to Pierre. He couldn’t understand why these Hoomans were so obsessed with talking about things that had happened. It seemed that they spent so much energy trying to remember all the tiny things in the past that they forgot about all the important stuff in the present. Like food.
Michelle’s sandwich and apples were a distant memory. Bozo headed downstairs to investigate the local food supplies. He wandered into an old kitchen with a stone floor, where Pierre’s grandmother was drying up a few last dishes, a cat curled at her feet. She sang to herself as she set down the last plate and almost dropped it as the cat sprang up with a hiss.
‘Why, Cedric! What’s wrong with you?’ she cried. Cedric’s fur stood on end and he stared rigidly at Bozo, who hovered uncertainly in the doorway. The old lady followed Cedric’s eyes but could see nothing. Finally, the cat retreated backwards and exited with a snarl through the cat-flap in the back door.
Pierre’s grandmother chuckled to herself as she dried her hands … and yet, she did have the creeping sensation that someone or something was watching her. She turned, expecting to see one of the boys in search of a midnight snack. The room was still empty. She poured herself a stiff brandy and shook her head.
The older she got, the less she understood the world. There had been a time, years ago, when she felt so sure of everything. Now she found herself asking questions all the time, like a child. The next thing she knew, she’d be believing in fairies again – like when she was a little girl and left them cake and wine before going to bed.
‘There’s no fool like an old fool,’ she laughed to herself, and drank her brandy. She left the kitchen light on in case of burglars and walked to her bedroom at the end of the corridor. A moment later, she returned and placed a tray of biscuits, cheese and a glass of red wine on the table. It can’t hurt, she told herself, as she ambled back to bed.
Having demolished the biscuits and cheese, Bozo raised his glass to French hospitality and drained it in a single gulp. The warmth spread through his head and made his ears tingle before stoking the biscuit crumbs in his belly. He refilled his glass and toasted the Storyteller. So far his mission had been a complete success, and far more entertaining that he could ever have imagined. Just wait till he told the Bloons about his adventures!
A lump suddenly rose in his throat as he wondered if he would ever see Bloonland again. It was all very well entering the Story and roaming around with Theo – who he had begun to love and respect – but the thought of never seeing Bloonland again was too much to bear.
As good as the third glass of Burgundy he now swallowed was, it didn’t compare to the wine-streams back home. Wine matured much better by starlight as it trickled down the cheese dunes. And the cheese! OK, this soft French stuff wasn’t bad, but back home a Bloon would think nothing of eating his body weight in cheese powder before the first moon rose.
Ah well, I knew what I was getting into, he told himself. No point in complaining now. The Storyteller said there might not be a way back to Bloonland. Especially if a cure can’t be found…. Bozo shuddered. It was too awful to think about. No more gathering around the Storyteller on his old rock to hear the latest chapter….
Bozo suddenly wondered if the Bloons had been following his and Theo’s adventures. The Storyteller surely wouldn’t ignore such important characters. Maybe he was even telling the Bloons about Bozo sitting in this old French kitchen right now.
At once he puffed his chest and tilted back his head to strike a cool pose. Just in case they were watching, he had best put on a show. He tipped the bottle so that the rest of the wine arced through the air into his open lips. However, his mouth filled up faster than he could swallow, and in a moment he was coughing red wine all over his face and the table.
Bozo wobbled slightly under the effects of the drink. He felt quite embarrassed in front of the imaginary audience of Bloons. He must do something heroic to compensate. His eyes settled on the lightbulb on the wall and his heart pounded in sympathy. ‘Poor things,’ he murmured.
The Storyteller had explained how the Hoomans had learned to trap Eleckytrons, the tiny creatures of light. Normally, they lived by day, lighting up the world as they danced through the sky, a few of them coming out at night to honour the moon and stars. But the Hoomans trapped them inside glass cages and forced them to dance each time they threw a switch, when the sides of the cages became so hot that the Eleckytrons had no choice but to run from side to side in order not to get burnt.
Bozo knew he couldn’t free all the Eleckytrons in the world, but was that any excuse not to save the ones he could? He picked up a heavy spoon and jumped on to the work surface just beneath the lightbulb. With the heroic resolve of a champion of liberty, he swung the spoon in a dramatic strike upon the glass cage. There was a shattering sound, a flash of light and the Eleckytrons sped away to freedom.
Of course, the minor drawback of such heroics was that Bozo could no longer see anything. He knew that a hero shouldn’t expect much in the way of gratitude, but he found it a bit off that the dancers of light hadn’t even paused to thank him.
Worn out, Bozo felt entitled to take some more cheese and biscuits. He groped his way along the wall and had just reached the cupboard when he heard the cat-flap swing open and shut. A fierce hiss announced the return of Cedric. Bozo’s tail twitched nervously. He couldn’t make out the cat in the dark but he was quite sure that Cedric could see him.
As Bozo saw it, his only chance was to take a random swing at the contents of the cupboard and make a run for it before the cat pulled any fast moves. His hand fumbled carefully until he found a handle. He took a deep breath, swung open the door and grabbed with both hands the first substantial packet he could find. In the same moment, Cedric hissed and sprang at Bozo, who jumped backwards just in time, bringing the contents of the cupboard down behind him. A tin of cat food hit Cedric on the head and knocked him unconscious.
Bozo couldn’t tell what had happened in the darkness, except that following the loud crash everything had gone quiet. Only the snoring of Pierre’s grandmother from down the hall filled the air. The Bloon crept into the safety of a wardrobe in the hall and sniffed to see what he had plundered. How about that, he smiled to himself, cheese first time! So what if it was a little stale and chewy?
‘English boy, wake up! There were thieves in my house last night!’
Theo opened his eyes to see Pierre grinning from cheek to cheek. His French friend couldn’t believe how much excitement was coming his way these days.
‘Did they take anything?’ Theo mumbled, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
‘Only some candles from the cupboard,’ Pierre laughed. ‘But they made a fight with Cedric, our cat. The police come now to see what happened.’
Theo didn’t answer. His eyes had already strayed to the Hypnosis-box in the corner of the bedroom. Pierre glanced at the TV screen, where a newsreader announced something next to a large photo of Theo. The sound was turned down but they could guess what was being said.
‘Ah non!’ Pierre gasped. ‘And the police come here right now. What you do, my friend?’
Theo didn’t have the slightest idea. Fortunately, he didn’t have to. At that moment a grey, speckled pigeon flew in the open window and landed on his shoulder. He froze in shock and Pierre exclaimed, ‘Look! He has something on his foot.’ He leant forwards and untied the piece of paper. ‘Who is Lou?’ he asked, handing the message to Theo. It read:
Theo looked up at Pierre with apprehension. He searched for the words to say but his friend had already thought it all out: ‘English boy, you must go before the police catch you. Come, we go by the back door.’
Theo dressed hurriedly and followed Pierre down the stairs and over to the garden. Already they could hear Pierre’s grandmother talking to a couple of police officers at the front door. The boys slipped outside and Theo was relieved to see Bozo, who was munching on some conkers. ‘They’re a little hard to chew,’ he announced by way of greeting, ‘but have a great nutty flavour.’
Pierre (who, of course, had not heard a word) pulled Theo over to the alleyway that ran down the side of the house. ‘You must take my bicycle,’ he told his guest.
‘But Pierre…’ Theo stammered.
‘No buts. You go now or they will catch you and take you back. Now come on!’ He pushed Theo on to the saddle and Bozo jumped into the basket on the front.
Theo wheeled the bike into the alley and turned to take leave of his new friend. ‘Pierre, I…’
‘Us children, we must stick together, my friend.’ He smiled. ‘Now go!’ he shouted, giving Theo a violent push.
Theo skidded past the side of the house and out into the lane where the police car was parked. He wondered which way to go but then saw the pigeon sweeping in front of him, heading north.
Theo pedalled along the pavement as fast as he could, anxious to put some distance between him and the police car. The pigeon took him through the shady streets of the suburb and then out into the main roads of Paris in rush hour. In the pavement cafés, men and women in suits and dresses nursed small cups of coffee, but Theo paid them no notice. The wind ruffled his hair as he coasted along.
He rounded a corner and almost collided with a news-stand. To his horror, he saw his own face smiling back at him from the front page of several newspapers. He guessed that some of the children on the bus must not have been able to keep the secret to themselves.
A shadow fell over him and he looked up to see a tall French policeman with a gun in his holster but a kind expression on his face.
‘Qu’est-ce que tu fais ici?’ He asked.
‘He wants to know what you’re doing here,’ Bozo translated. The policeman glanced at the news-rack and a glimmer of understanding lit on his face.
Theo didn’t wait for the penny to drop. He turned and pedalled after the pigeon, which led him down a busy shopping street. He had to swerve to avoid pedestrians. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the policeman in hot pursuit, shouting as he ran.
Theo picked up the pace and, as the policeman blew on his whistle, the crowds parted to let them through. Theo pedalled as fast as he could but the officer was gaining on him. All at once it began to rain hard, and the ground grew wet and slippery within moments.
Theo remembered the message and decided to trust the advice he’d been given. ‘Bozo, untie my shoe and throw it over my shoulder!’ he yelled.
The Bloon giggled but didn’t seem to need any explanation to do something crazy. Theo swung his foot up on to the handlebar. Bozo untied the trainer and merrily tossed it over his friend’s head. ‘Now what?’ he asked, thoroughly entertained.
The trainer bounced on the pavement a metre ahead of the policeman, who was almost upon them. Suddenly, an Alsatian lunged forward to grab the shoe, knocking the young officer off his feet. Neither was hurt, but it took the dog’s owner and two passers-by to pull the animal off the poor policeman.
He had, however, already radioed ahead for support.
Theo kept his eyes fixed on the pigeon and banked a sharp right down a cobbled street. The wheels bumped over the rough stone surface and the bike shook like a drill as they picked up speed going downhill. Up ahead, a milk-float made the morning rounds.
‘Don’t look now, but it seems we’re very popular today,’ Bozo called.
Theo swung his head around and saw a police motorbike approaching rapidly. As it came up from behind, it put on its siren. The sound chilled Theo to the bone.
‘What do we do now?’ Bozo asked with interest.
‘I don’t know. The message said to leave it up to you,’ Theo cried in desperation.
‘I like that,’ Bozo sniffed. ‘You’re supposed to be the Chosen One, but as soon as you get into problems it’s up to me to sort it out.’ The Bloon sat up, blocking Theo’s view.
‘Bozo! This is no time to be getting jealous…’ Theo shouted as he lost control of the bicycle. They skidded on the wet road and crashed into the back of the milk-float. They were both sent flying on to the crates of milk. Pierre’s bicycle sprawled behind them. The police bike crushed the frame of the bicycle and then skidded on its side into a parked car.
The milk-float rounded the corner and the driver pulled up in the middle of the street to see what had happened.
‘Look!’ Theo cried. In front of them was a house whose front was covered in vines. A plaque above the open door read:
Lou Presquevu
‘What?’ Bozo grumbled, nursing a bruise.
‘Never mind,’ said Theo, lowering himself to the ground and glancing back nervously at the street corner. ‘Just hurry up. And bring a carton of milk.’