The Storyteller’s eyes turned from red to amber and then to green, and a hush fell upon the Bloons. They gazed at the old man with a creeping anxiety, as each evening the Storyteller seemed to be shrinking, collapsing into himself. His eyes bulged a little from their sockets and beneath them lay long, dark bags of lifeless skin. Deep wrinkles of fatigue and worry were etched all over his forehead and chin, and his head seemed to shake ever so slightly. Even as he spoke, his voice no longer poured out like a river but rather trickled like a stream on the point of drying up.
‘One of the discoveries made by Bozo and Theo is that, in telling you each night’s highlights of the Story, I have been surprisingly selective. You might ask how such young and foolish adventurers might teach anything to one as old as I. Well, they are like a mirror, voyaging through the Story and reflecting truths hidden in the depths of my mind.
‘It may even be argued that all Hoomans are a reflection of myself, drawing their thoughts, dreams and very consciousness from my mind. And given that we Storytellers are as prone to vanity and pride as anyone, I have only seen the aspects of Hoomanity that have flattered me. Or when I have told of their foolishness, it was with a gentle, forgiving eye that also forgave my own mistakes.
‘Whether it was fear or laziness that caused me to ignore the dark side of the Story, it no longer matters. It is too late to change my ways and, were I to try, I should be dead within a week.
‘No, don’t stuff your fingers in your ears: it does not change anything. Do not make the same mistake that I have made.
‘Or the Hoomans. For just as you gather around the rock each evening to hear the Story, so millions upon millions of Hoomans plant themselves in front of the Hypnosis-box each night to hear their highlights of the Story.
‘It is ironic that while I have focused on the beautiful, the touching and the funny, the Hoomans report back only on the pain, the violence and the fear that take place every day. The headlines report the bomb-blasts, the murders and natural disasters of the Story. Never do they report the seven-year-old growing his two front teeth, or the young couples falling in love under trees in parks across the world.
‘These days, in some parts of the Story, the Hypnosis-box spoke of little else but the Boy Fugitive, Theo. For while his present was buried each day under an avalanche of new experiences and adventures, his past had a far harder time in forgetting him….’
Dr Bunsen sat in his armchair and realised with a scowl that he’d left the remote control on top of the television. Was the entire world conspiring against him? This was supposed to be the 21st century – so where were the robots that would do everything for him and take the effort out of life?
‘Mother!’ he yelled, and a moment later a nervous woman with curly grey hair and spectacles rushed in to attend him.
She hovered in the doorway awkwardly, half a smile quivering on her cheeks. ‘Yes, dear?’ she stammered.
‘Can’t you work it out?’ Bunsen sneered, as he mimed the act of pointing a remote control at the television. His mother grew tense as a pupil facing a tricky question in front of the class. Finally, her eyes alighted on the remote control and she scurried over to bring it to her son. Bunsen snatched it away from her impatiently and turned on the TV, ignoring the further presence of his mother completely.
‘I …I was thinking of making eggs for tea tonight,’ she stuttered, and caught her breath as Bunsen glanced at her suspiciously.
‘Boiled or fried?’
‘I thought some fried eggs would be lovely with…’
‘I want them boiled.’
‘Yes, dear, of course…’
‘And make sure they’re cooked properly this time. I was sick for days on the last occasion.’
‘Sorry, dear. I’ll be more careful,’ she mumbled, as she retreated towards the kitchen.
‘But if the yolks aren’t runny, I shan’t eat them at all,’ Bunsen called after her, a vicious smirk on his face. He enjoyed a moment’s satisfaction from relishing the fear on his mother’s face but then remembered it was almost time to see himself on TV. The old bag had nearly made him miss it. ‘She’ll pay for that,’ he muttered, as he found the right channel.
The Box came into focus and a well-groomed young woman came into view with an intelligent but concerned look on her face. She spoke with the little jerks of the head and raises of the eyebrows that were so essential to landing a job as a TV presenter: ‘Good evening, and welcome to News in Focus. My name is Camilla Davis. It has been more than a month since the dramatic escape of a young boy from St Jude’s Hospital for Children in London. Theo, known throughout the country as the Sleeping Celebrity, has since been sighted in Paris, Cairo, Jerusalem and now reports suggest he may even have reached as far away as India. With me tonight is Inspector Brown of Scotland Yard, who has been assisting Interpol in their efforts to track down the boy. Inspector, just what is going on here?’
The camera swung round to a rather chunky individual in a flannel suit who sweated heavily under the studio lights. ‘Yes. That remains something of a question mark at this stage. You must remember, Camilla, that we have no record of Theo’s existence before he was found asleep in the gardens of St Jude’s…’
‘How is that possible?’ Camilla interrupted, with the hawk-like ferocity of a professional interviewer. ‘How have your detectives failed to locate birth records, doctors’ reports or school attendance? Inspector, with Theo’s face known to everyone in the nation, how can it be that no family or friends have stepped forwards?’
Inspector Brown glared at her with the look of a man more used to asking the questions than answering them. Remembering the camera, he gave a hollow chuckle and replied, ‘Oh, people have come forward all right. According to the response we’ve had, Theo’s got 173 mothers, 58 fathers, 17 grandmothers and three long-lost cousins. None, however, was able to produce any satisfactory evidence to back up their claims. As for records, we’ve had teams of detectives turn the files upside-down and there’s simply nothing there.’
‘Then let me ask you this, inspector: Theo slipped through your grasp in London, bamboozled the police in Paris and, despite the mobilisation of a regiment in Cairo, he’s still on the loose. Inspector Brown, is this not an awful lot of trouble to be going to over one small boy? After all, people go missing every day the world over.’
Brown blinked. One moment he was under attack for not doing enough, the next he was called to answer for trying too hard. He drew a deep breath and answered calmly: ‘It is the very ingenuity of Theo’s escape that draws our attention so keenly,’ he explained. ‘It defies belief that a nine-year-old boy on his own should be able to evade the best efforts of the international police forces so easily. And remember, he has no passport or money. So the only reasonable conclusion we can come to is that he has been kidnapped.’
‘Kidnapped? By whom?’
‘By anyone hoping to draw a bit of attention to themselves,’ Brown snapped. ‘Thanks to the intensive campaigns of the media, Theo has become a celebrity in much of the western world. He is also a rallying point of public morale.’
‘And what do you intend to do about it?’
‘I’m working closely with Interpol to establish international co-operation in locating the boy. We have also received generous offers from various social and business organisations – notably the Tigers Club – and are able to offer a reward of £100,000 to anyone who can bring Theo to a police station anywhere around the world.’
Camilla’s eyebrows arched. ‘So your solution to a scenario in which a nine-year-old boy has outwitted the combined police forces of the world is to offer a huge cash reward and spawn a wave of bounty hunters? And inspector, forgive me if I’m wrong, but isn’t India rather large? I was under the impression that hardly anyone in the countryside even owned a television set. What are the chances of your message reaching them and tracking down Theo in a country of that size?’
Inspector Brown made to reply furiously but Camilla switched off his microphone and turned to face a new camera: ‘We at News in Focus went to St Jude’s Hospital today to see if we could get a psychological perspective on Theo’s disappearance.’
Dr Bunsen gripped the sides of his armchair as the show cut to a recording made earlier in the day. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for to launch his career into the spotlight.
‘My name is Camilla Davis and today I’m in the famous ward where Theo, the Sleeping Celebrity of St Jude’s, first awoke. With me here in the ward is Dr Benson…’
‘Ah, that’s B-u-n-s-e-n.’
Camilla glanced at her notes. ‘Whatever. Now, doctor, you were Theo’s psychologist. Can you offer us any insight into this whole mystery?’ The camera swung to a close-up of Bunsen’s gleaming forehead and he switched on his most enigmatic yet learned smile. ‘Of course, in the time that Theo was here, we struck up a very close relationship. We spent hours chatting and I have no doubt he considered me more a friend than a doctor …’ An enormous crash interrupted his speech and the camera wheeled round to see Nurse Sandra kneeling down to pick up a dropped breakfast tray. ‘Sorry,’ she beamed. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’
The camera swung back to Camilla, who gave a devastating smile and, turning to Bunsen, asked, ‘So what’s up, doc? Why did Theo run off like that? Can you tell us what might be running through his mind right now?’ Dr Bunsen looked thoughtful for a moment. He had his answer already prepared but the chance to look intelligent on TV didn’t come every day. ‘I think the key question to ask is: What is he running from? A past he claims not to remember? A future that he fears? Or simply a present he would rather not face?’
Bunsen continued to pontificate but the sound went dead. He was left to mime for a few moments before the show returned to Camilla in the studio. She fixed her most radiant smile. ‘Oops, some technical problems there. Apparently the cameraman got bored and went off in search of a coffee,’ she laughed.
‘No!’ Bunsen yelled from his armchair. ‘You can’t do that to me!’
But Camilla couldn’t hear him and she continued: ‘That about wraps it up for Theo, everyone’s favourite runaway. His photo has been circulated to officials at every major dock and airport around the world. And with £100,000 on his head, I’m sure there will be plenty of people looking for him. I’m Camilla Davis. Goodnight.’
Bunsen switched off the TV and threw the remote control over his shoulder. He’d been robbed again of his chance to become a celebrity. He’d make that brat pay if it was the last thing he ever did.
There was a scream from behind him and the sound of clattering plates. His mother had slipped on the remote control and gone flying backwards, landing in a heap on the floor. Bunsen barely blinked as his mind worked feverishly.
‘I’m sorry, dear,’ his mother groaned. ‘I’ll go back to the kitchen and make some more.’
Make the brat pay. If they were offering a £100 grand reward for finding Theo, why shouldn’t it be the doctor that found him? Feverishly, Bunsen took an atlas from the shelf and spread it across the dining-room table. He took out a felt-tip pen and plotted Theo’s course around the world. From London to Paris, then to Cairo and up to Israel. Now they thought he was in India. Bunsen saw that Camilla had been right: it was a large place and he had no intention of going there simply to get diarrhoea.
Something told Bunsen that Theo would keep moving, though. He’d been remarkably elusive until now, but sooner or later he’d slip up. And when that time came, Dr Bunsen would be there to cash in on it.
His mother set down a fresh plate of eggs, salad and soldiers beside the map with a weak smile. When she received no response, she backed away warily, careful not to disturb her son’s meditation. Bunsen eventually noticed the meal and gave it a desultory sniff. Ignoring the plate, he walked across the room and lay back on the sofa. He pulled a Fone from his pocket and rang for a pizza. Then he closed his eyes. While he waited for the delivery man, he thought about all the ways he could spend £100,000.