Free Circus of Thieves on the Rampage by William Sutcliffe and David Tazzyman Page B

Her
mother’s hugs were ticklish, dainty, fluttery things that felt like being delicately wrapped in a gauze curtain. This hug was more like a cross between a full body massage from two massive
silken cushions and how the last few moments of your life might feel before you were gobbled up by a wild bear.

    If Hannah’s mother had been there, she would have no doubt tried to stop the whole thing, chipping in with an ‘Oooh! Goodness! Careful of her little bones.’ But Queenie was not
careful, and she clearly had scant regard for the supposed fragility of young skeletons.
    Hannah prided herself on being independent and self-reliant, but in Queenie’s arms she felt an entirely new and strangely delicious sensation of being almost swallowed up by someone big
and strong and competent and generally overflowing with wonderfulness. Even though they were almost strangers, Hannah felt as if this was possibly the best hug she had ever been given.
    Everybody needs hugs, just like everybody needs to drink. Hannah’s mother did hug her, and also gave her glasses of diluted juice whenever she asked for them, but hugging Queenie was like
leaping under a waterfall.
    Sometimes, when you are overwhelmed by a situation, the strangest things come out of your mouth. This is what happened to Hannah. The first words she ever spoke to Queenie Bombazine were these:
‘Can I feel your muscles?’
    This could have easily proved embarrassing. As I’m sure you know, ‘Can I feel your muscles?’ isn’t your average greeting. But Queenie wasn’t the kind of person who
cared for average greetings. In fact, she seemed rather pleased by Hannah’s question.
    ‘Of course,’ she said, clenching her bicep for Hannah.
    Hannah had a good squeeze, with one hand, then two. It was like rock.
    ‘Can I feel yours?’ said Queenie.
    ‘OK,’ said Hannah. ‘They’re not very good yet. I’m only twelve.’
    Hannah clenched. Queenie felt.
    ‘Not bad,’ said Queenie. ‘Your mother was a skinny thing, but she was strong, too.’
    These words zapped at Hannah’s heart, sending an electric jolt through her whole body. Her mouth opened and shut, like a fish. This couldn’t be her home-mother Queenie was talking
about – the be-careful-don’t-forget-your-scarf mother – this was her
real
mother.
    ‘You knew my mother!’ said Hannah.
    ‘Of course I did. She was my protégée.’
    ‘But I thought you were Granny’s proto . . . whatsit . . . thingamajig.’
    ‘I was. I was Granny’s protégée. She taught me everything. Then Esmeralda – Wendy – your mum – she was my protégée. All the secrets of
how to be a superstar aerialiste went straight from mother to daughter, via me.’
    Hannah’s mouth was still doing the fish thing. Her head was filled with more questions than ever, but she couldn’t get a sound to come out of her mouth.
    ‘You must have a thousand questions for me,’ said Queenie, who recognised a case of fish-mouth when she saw one, ‘but let’s sit down and have a nice cuppa first. What do
you say to that? Me and your granny have got a lot of catching up to do. Pop?’
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘Pop?’
    ‘Have you got hiccups?’
    ‘No. Pop?’
    ‘Er . . . why do you keep saying pop? Is this a game?’
    ‘It’s an old-fashioned word for fizzy drinks,’ said Granny. ‘She’s offering you a fizzy drink.’
    ‘Oh!’ said Hannah. ‘No thanks. I’m not allowed fizzy drinks. My mother says they’re bad for you.’
    ‘She’s right, they are bad for you. Now live a little and wrap your gums round that,’ said Queenie, passing her a bottle of lurid orange liquid.
    Hannah sipped.
    It was really quite spectacularly revolting, with a taste of floor polish, burnt toffee and plastic oranges, but she smiled politely and said, ‘Thank you.’

    Meanwhile, not far away, not far away at all, Billy was circling the concourse of the arena, pushing through the crowds, searching frantically for Hannah, scouring every
child’s