Circus of Thieves and the Raffle of Doom by William Sutcliffe Page B

looking for it, and the only
person who’d come to look for it would be Armitage.
    He looked in all directions before nipping out onto the path and rushing back towards his caravan in time for the final costume change. Due to the thicket detour, he was running late . . .
    . . . but not too late, and Armitage made it into the ring at exactly the second the spotlight span towards him. His cuffs weren’t done up, and he hadn’t had time to zip his fly, but
he was reasonably confident that no one would notice.
    He grinned at the audience, all the more grinnily for knowing that he had successfully robbed them. The evening had gone superbly, apart from the one strange fact of that re-parked lorry. Yes,
in all the scramble to get ready for his final entry, he still hadn’t had time to investigate. His criminal nose had given him the feeling that there weren’t any police snooping around,
but he had not yet accounted for the mysterious truck move. This was a puzzle, a puzzle that distracted him slightly during his closing speech. Such was his skill at audience manipulation, however,
that even when carried off at only 90% brilliance, it was still rousing enough to generate two standing ovations, three encores and a woken-up granny.
    Granny stared at the empty seat next to her, in disbelief. Hannah was a responsible girl. She didn’t just run off. But she had just run off. She wasn’t there. As the audience around
her whooped and clapped, then slowly began to drift out of the auditorium, Granny stood in front of her seat, turning round and round, calling her granddaughter’s name with increasing fear
and desperation.
    Then, through the canvas side of the tent, she heard a voice that she knew was Hannah’s calling out one very clear word): ‘GO!’

    The side of the lorry clanged downwards. The audience, now streaming past on their way home, froze. They couldn’t believe their eyes. Inside the lorry was an enormous
mound of stuff – valuable stuff – TVs, laptops, jewellery, DVD players, gadgets, gizmos and gee-gaws. Not just any old valuable stuff, either, but their valuable stuff. And also several
tins of sardines.
    Baffled at first into silence, then with noises of surprise, protest and outrage, the audience gathered round the truck staring in horror at the possessions that had been stolen from their
houses while they were watching the show.
    ‘It’s all yours!’ Billy called to them from the top of the lorry.
    ‘Take it home again!’ said Hannah.

    Armitage, who was back in his caravan, applying a layer of make-up remover, sensed that something was up. He knew well the sound of a satisfied audience trundling contentedly
home, and this wasn’t it. This was something else. He looked out of the window and saw . . . the worst thing he had ever seen in his entire life.
    He darted out, towelling off the thick white cream as he sprinted towards the commotion. Avoiding the audience, he ran in a wide arc to the back of the lorry and scurried up the ladder onto the
roof.
    A chill swept over Billy and Hannah when they saw the look on Armitage’s face as he appeared on top of the truck. Never had either of them seen an expression of such pure, intense,
terrifying fury.
    ‘I’m going to deal with you two later,’ he hissed, fixing them each, in turn, with a stare so poisonous it was almost enough to turn the blood in their veins into a bleach and
weed-killer smoothie. But only a moment after looking as if he would never smile again, Armitage strode to the edge of the lorry roof, faced the crowd below and, with enormous effort, as if his
cheek muscles were in the final round of a weightlifting contest, he smiled. Not a happy smile, nor an obviously fake smile, but a smile with a hint of cringe, a smattering of apology and a
sprinkling of fear.
    ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced, in a thinner, less booming voice than usual. ‘Allow me to explain—’
    At this point, a chorus of outrage flew up at