

YO-YO'S WEEKEND

David Brining

Copyright David Brining 2012

Smashwords Edition

Featuring:

Yo-yo, a teenage ginger-nut

Mister Vanilla, a forty-stone jewel thief and criminal mastermind

Uncle Reefer, a bored boarding-house manager

Aunty Latch, his wife

Lily Gusset, a reverse cross-dresser

Katze, the kab driver

Mrs Lollipop, a bed-ridden widow

Baby, a talking blackbird

Doctor Molasses, a medical man

Matron Majeiski, Ooh Matron

Venus Periwinkle, Yo-yo's Mother

From The Wildcat Circus

Truss, the circus manager

Thyme, the ring-mistress

Rue, the painted lady and Thyme's sister

Ruff, a ball-bouncing bear

Dax and Jax, identical twins in a Hall of Mirrors

Catkin Silver, the Yuman Cannonball

The Lettuce Brothers, Chicory, Endive, Kos, Rocket, the clowns

The Czech Mates, Jezdec, Strelec and Vez, chess-playing trapeze artists

Jungle-Juiced Jake, a decrepit lion-tamer

Brian, a decrepit lion

The People of York

Constable Kipper, a beat policeman

Sigurd the Skull-Splitter, a Viking chieftain

A Ghost Walker

Martin Mizzenmast, a schoolboy and chorister and NOT a buttock-barer

Wee Jocko McTavish, a professional Scotsman

Eleazar Glenn, the two-hundred year old ghost of a six-year old child

King Richard III, pub signboard, waxwork and King of England from 1483 until 1485

William Etty R.A., a Victorian painter turned statue

Constantine the Great, a fourth century Roman Emperor turned statue

Wackem Thrashboy, a Victorian schoolmaster

The Severed Head of Sir Thomas Percy, Seventh Duke of Northumberland

Podgemeister and the Twiglet , brothers (or a rock band. If not, why not?)

Some feisty kids from Bootham School

An old coot whose flat cap gets pissed in

That nice woman from that there shop that sells ladies' requisites

Sir David Attenboroughs and him off the telly...

The voice of Chris Tarrant

Harry Gration and Christa Ackroyd

The voice of Magnus Magnussonsonsons

Her with the face like the back end of an old boot... you know which one!

Hamish, a chocolate Labrador

American, German and Japanese tourists, some ghosts and spirits, publicans, shop assistants, passers-by, school-teachers, Morris dancers and other assorted characters I've forgotten to list like that woman who had the little girl in the push-chair and someone else I can't remember...never mind! You'll find out!

### Contents

First Fit

1. Arrivals: 1119 from Dewsbury

2. In Aunty Latch's COZEE NOOK

3. Into the City

4. The Circus Comes to Town

5. Rue's Magic Box

6. Ghost Walk

7. First Night

8. Morning

9. Monkgate

10. Bettys (est. 1919)

11. Wee Jocko McTavish

12. The King's Head

13. Dr Kirk's Magic Museum

14. Yo-yo's Little Brush

15. The Minster's Mystery Streaker

Second Fit

16. Mister Vanilla in the Hall of Mirrors

17. The Investigations of Constable Kipper

18. The Lettuce Brothers Leap into Action

19. Baby and the Bathwater

20. Second Night

21. A Walk on the Wild Side

22. Conversation with a Head

23. The Play of King Herod

24. The Face of Death

25. Doctor Molasses Comes to the Circus

Third Fit

26. Tea Dance

27. Through the Tunnel

28. Third Night

29. Kissing on a Gravestone

30a). Departure

30b). Departure

30c). Departure

# FIRST FIT

Manchester Piccadilly d 0912 0938 0950

Huddersfield d 0945 1008 1020

Dewsbury d 1044

Manchester Victoria d 0848

Blackpool North d 0847

Halifax d 0945 1027

**Leeds** d 1017 1025 1038 1048 1054 1058 1107

**Leeds** Whitehall d

Cross Gates d 1032 1105

Garforth d 1037 1110 1116

East Garforth d 1039 1112

Micklefield d 1043 1116

South Milford d 1120

**Selby** d 1059 1132

Brough d 1117

**Hull** d 1135

Church Fenton d

Ulleskelf d

**York** a 1043 1100 1112 1119 1136

**Scarborough** a

**Middlesbrough** a 1227

**Newcastle** a 1207 1218

Slower than hedgehogs, slower than houses

Slower than cabbages, slower than mouses

Crawling along like soup in a kettle,

All through the cities, the garbage and metal

Passing the hedgerows flowering bags

Passing the meadows of cows and old nags

Passing the waterways brim-full of trollies

Passing the litter and sticks from ice lollies

Stopping at points for over an hour

Failing signals and loss of all power

The wrong kind of snow and leaves on the track

Somebody somewhere should get the sack

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack

This is the night train bringing the mail

Invoices, catalogues, items for sale,

Letters and packages tied up with string,

Yo-yo the boy and his emerald ring

Travelling on to its last destination

The City of York and its railway station.

# (After R.L. Stevenson and W.H. Auden)

#

# 1.

# ARRIVALS: 1119 from Dewsbury

I guess it all started when Yo-yo said he had murdered his mother. I'm not really sure.

Maybe it all started after that, when Mister Vanilla stole Yo-yo's ring.

Maybe it all started before that, when Yo-yo's mother ran away with that one-legged window cleaner named Stins. You know him. The one with the eye-patch.

Maybe it never really started at all.

Whatever.

Yo-yo told the doctors one story and he told the police something different. This is the story he told me, which is different again, and I will leave you to decide which, if any, is true.

At 11:19 on that fateful Friday morning, the creaking train seeps beneath the sweeping arches, breathing softly like someone sleeping as it creeps into York and draws up under the vaults of Platform 5. Yo-yo presses his nose against the rain-smeared, filth-bleared glass and congratulated himself on his cleverness. He's thrown everyone off the scent and he still has the emerald ring. It is on a silver chain round his neck, for safe-keeping. Stealing it had been easy. Keeping it might be more difficult.

Yo-yo caught the 10:44 Transpennine Express at Dewsbury. He had hitched a couple of lifts to get there, the first with a lorry driver somewhere near Huddersfield. Yo-yo had flashed his leg to get a ride, and also earn a little money towards the train fare. The second lift had been with an elderly couple somewhere outside Mirfield. He had told them he was fleeing a lascivious lorry driver. They had given him the rest of his train fare and gone after the unfortunate trucker with a howling mob and a pair of blunt garden shears whilst Yo-yo had slipped through the turnstiles and onto the train. Now he watches as

benches signals

shops footbridges

platforms

clocks trolleys

porters commuters

flow slowly past and feels a surge of excitement when he spots his uncle and aunt waiting on the platform. They haven't changed. Uncle Reefer is still a shank-shouldered, cardigan-clad, pipe-puffing tree whilst Aunty Latch is still balloon-breasted, barrel-bottomed and bewilderingly be-whiskered. Doctor Molasses and Matron Majeiskii always exchange concerned 'glances' whenever Uncle Reefer and Aunty Latch are mentioned but, with his mother now decomposing beneath the dahlias, they are his only living relatives and they will shelter him, of that he is certain. so he slings his rucksack over his shoulder and steps serenely onto the platform.

''How was the journey?'' Aunty Latch looks doubtfully at Yo-yo's silver-grey trainers, white socks, pale blue jeans, dark blue shirt and green rainproof jacket. She is wearing an orange and pink floral print frock that might make a useful medium-sized party marquee.

''Fine,'' Yo-yo mumbles into her bountiful bosom.

Uncle Reefer ruffles Yo-yo's dusty-copper hair, the mop that had earned him the nickname Duracell in his first days at Gillworthy, and puffs on his pipe. ''You haven't grown a bit,'' he says proudly, ''Not one inch. Still five foot four and still six stone seven. Well done.'' The pipe sketches a halo of smoke round Yo-yo's head. ''Katze's waiting in the taxi,'' it putters whilst Uncle Reefer stoops to scoop up Yo-yo's little tartan rucksack. ''My God, that's heavy!'' grunts the pipe. ''What've you got in it? The kitchen sink?''

Yo-yo grins broadly and follows his uncle and aunt out of the station to the taxi. He stops dead in his tracks.

Oh.

'Taxi' is something of an exaggeration. In fact to call it a 'car' would be like calling an octopus a pony. It is basically a flat, metal chassis with four wheels and some seats.

There is no shell.

There are no windows.

There is no body.

There is no windscreen.

But there are two purple armchairs fixed in the front and a purple sofa riveted in the rear.

An engine is strapped to the front. A whirling propeller juts out from the centre.

Flat.

Metal.

Open air.

Propeller.

A banner streaming from a pole in the centre of the chassis proudly proclaims, in the colour of dried blood, that this is:

KATZE'S KAB

Katze's cap is shoved back on the crown of his head. ''Eh up, Yo-yo,'' he grunts, the hand-rolled cigarette seemingly glued to his lips jiggling up and down. He is wearing a blue jacket, white shirt and dark blue tie.

''No need for the meter,'' Uncle Reefer says jovially, heaving Yo-yo's bag onto the sofa. ''We're not going far.''

''You're damn right,'' says Yo-yo. ''It'll fall to bits before we leave the station.''

''What do you mean?'' growls Katze. ''Solid as a rock, this car.''

''Yeah, the suspension, you mean!'' Yo-yo exclaims. ''I might fall out. I want a proper car.''

''This is a proper car,'' Katze retorts. ''It's the best car in town. You get a view, and excellent a/c. Natural, like.''

''You've heard of convertibles,'' Uncle Reefer says mildly. ''Well, this is the ultimate convertible.''

''It's an al fresco driving experience,'' says Aunty Latch.

''Well,'' says Yo-yo, ''I'm not going in it. What if it rains?''

''We've got umbrellas,'' Katze replies shirtily.

''Well,'' repeats Yo-yo, ''I ain't going in it,'' and he dashes across the road and into the soft green grass, gently swaying trees, bright yellow daffodils and sandstone gravestones of the Cholera Burial Ground between Station Road and the old city walls. 185 people lie here. They died in the Great Epidemic, June 2 to October 22 1832. Around twenty monuments remain in this pleasantly green and shady spot. Some stand tall. Some are raised slabs, like tables. Some are embedded in the path, paving the way. Some are to named individuals such as Jonathan Pickles (Lord Mayor's Officer). Others are communal graves dedicated to two or three apparently unconnected people who all died on the same day such as the one inscribed

Died 1st July 1832

Eleazar Glenn aged 6,

William Ellison aged 42

Sarah, wife of Thomas Buckley,

late of the Minster Choir.

Why are they all buried together? This is a mystery.

Yo-yo stops. He can hear voices again.

''die daddy don't let me die daddy don't let me die daddy don't let me die daddy don't let me die daddy don't let me die daddy don't let me die daddy don't let me''

There is a lung-shredding cough somewhere under the grass.

HUKKKKKK HUK KUK KKKKKK

Then the cries come again.

''die daddy don't let me die daddy don't let me die daddy don't let me die daddy don't let me die daddy don't let me die daddy don't let me die daddy don't let me''

A little long-haired boy in a tatty white shroud lying in the daffodils chokes on his coughs, gives a great rasping gasp. Yo-yo puts a plastic bottle to the cracked, dried lips. Water spills over the small boy's chin. He is shaking violently. His forehead burns with fever and his blue eyes are unnaturally bright.

''Where's your Mummy?'' Yo-yo asks urgently.

''She's dead. HAK HAK HAK HAK ''

''And your Daddy?''

''Dead.''

''What's your name? Where do you live?''

HUKKKKKK HUK KUK KKKKKK

Yo-yo kneels and takes the boy's hand. A tremendous trembling tears the thin frame. Water trickles onto his chest.

''I l..l....live hhhhh....... here!'' splutters the boy.

''Here?'' Yo-yo looks at the daffodils and the grass and.............

### OH GOD!

'''mmmmmmmmmmm ..... Eleazar Glenn!'' moans the boy.

He has been dead these 180 years!

Yo-yo sways away, cold sweat beading his brow. Faintly, as though under water, he hears Katze, Latch and Reefer calling his name, sees them as vague, blurry outlines waving wildly from the city wall, staggers sideways past the headstone that is

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF

RUTH BELLERBY

died July 2 1832 aged 39 years

and lurches

PhuTHLAPP

into a mountain of flesh the size and shape of an unfeasibly enormous pear. He vaguely makes out

thin black hair plastered down with oil that smells of linseed

a pink baby face,

a thin black moustache, tips waxed erect,

some half dozen chins,

a lilac waistcoat,

a gold watch chain

stretched over enormous, smothering stomachs

''Steady, my dear.'' Sugar-sweet breath. ''You could have knocked me over.'' The unfeasibly fat man teases a tiny tin from his waistcoat pocket. ''Have a sugared violet, my pillicock.''

''No,'' says Katze, holding Yo-yo's shoulders in both hairy hands. ''He won't.''

''That's a pretty jewel,'' the fat man observes. The buttons on Yo-yo's dark blue shirt have come undone. The polished green stone winks from its silver ring on the silver chain. ''Sell it me. I'll give you a fair price.''

''Come on, Yo-yo.'' Katze is steering him firmly away from the Cholera Ground.

''Who is that man?'' asks Yo-yo as Uncle Reefer and Aunty Latch escort him back to Katze's Kab.

''Mister Vanilla.'' Uncle Reefer clamps the stem of his pipe firmly between his teeth.

''He's no waster,'' remarks Aunty Latch. ''Weighs forty stone, tha knows.''

''Don't go to the burial ground again,'' Katze says sternly.

Mister Vanilla, standing by Jonathan Pickles (Lord Mayor's Officer)'s headstone, pops a sugared violet into his mouth and dabs at his little moustache with a lilac handkerchief. So that is Yo-yo. He nods. Target acquired. ''I'll get you, my pretty,'' he wants to say but is suddenly conscious of the tourists watching open-mouthed and decides to keep his mouth shut. Instead he will report to his boss that the boy and the ring is within his grasp. The trap is now set.

''How's your mother?'' Aunty Latch asks as Katze sticks out his right hand to indicate he is pulling into the traffic.

''Dead,'' Yo-yo answers. ''I smothered her with a pillow.''

''Hahaha.'' Aunty Latch ruffles his hair. ''How's Gillworthy?''

''Better,'' says Yo-yo. ''I blew it up before I left.''

The twin towers of York Minster rear up before them and the River Ouse oozes beneath them as they pass the statue of George Leeman the Railway King, swing into Lendal and on to Lendal Bridge, with its leitmotif of lions, three to a shield, entwined with white roses engraved in the iron work.

Beneath the bridge, hidden in the shadows, lurk a weed and a pebble. They have recently become friends. They met when the pebble was lobbed off the bridge by a kid named Craig. The pebble, a dark shade of grey, has never recovered from being ripped away from his family and friends and thrown into water. The weed, dark green, a little frondy, prone to nibbling attacks from the bream and perch that occasionally brave the city stretch of the slow-flowing, aptly named Ouse, took pity on the poor, abandoned pebble. He has sometimes regretted it. After all, he has never been trained to deal with post-traumatic stress disorder of this magnitude. Their exchange goes thusly-

Weed: How's it going, Pebble?

Pebble: (Shudders) Don't talk about gooks to me. That sweaty hand! Seized from my home, my lovely, gravely bed, torn away from my wife and kids, imprisoned in that sweaty hand .... He'd been eating nachos, you know.

Weed: So you're OK then.

Pebble: Wouldn't let me go ... wife, kids, all gone ... then chucked into the water ...

left to drown, sinking, watching the water flow past my eyes, watching the plants and roots, silver fish, hitting the sand with a jarring thud....... the horror, the horror!

Weed: So no different then. Yo-yo's in town. I've just seen him.

Pebble: It was awful. Been in Hand .... Can't talk about.... Can't forget it .... The smell of nachos in the morning...

Weed: Things'll liven up now, you'll see....

Pebble: Still have nightmares ... Flashbacks ... you know. Wake up screaming in the night....I can still see those eyes .... And smell the nachos.

Weed: ....now Yo-yo's back.

Pebble: (Sobbing) Nachos in the morning ......

Weed: Yes sir. Things'll be different now Yo-yo's back.

Pebble: Colonel Klutz he dead.

Weed: Right. What are you doing tonight?

Pebble: Dunno. Probably stay in, watch the footie. What about you?

Weed: (Sighs) Washing my hair, I suppose. Unless I get a date. Then .... Way-hey! Watch out, gravel. Here I come.

Pebble: (Starts singing 'The Ride of the Valkyries') Da-da-da-daaa-da, da-da-da-daaa-da, da-da-da-daaaa-daa...

Katze pulls up outside the Bed and Breakfast. They passed a number of Beechwoods and Park Views and Riversides but not a COZEE NOOK. For COZEE NOOK is unique. It is the Bed and Breakfast run by Uncle Reefer and Aunty Latch, close to Clifton Green, the Old Grey Mare and the sandstone-and-spired Clifton Parish Church dedicated to Saints Philip and James.

COZEE NOOK is dismal and dreary, a three-storeyed Edwardian terrace with soot caking its red bricks. A narrow, weed-sprouting path winds through bedraggled bushes and poorly plants up to steep stone steps and a front door from which the paint is flaking. Whilst the Beechwood Guest House proudly displays an A.A. endorsement and a NO VACANCIES notice, COZEE NOOK hides its vacancies card carefully behind crumbling, cobwebbed net curtains.

''It hasn't changed a bit,'' says Yo-yo, delighted.

''Chutter chutter,'' says Reefer's pipe.

Katze scratches the side of his head. ''Lovely, Reefer. You've done it up a treat. Looks awesome.'' He drags Yo-yo's bag from the sofa. ''Blimey, what you got in here, Yo-yo? The kitchen sink?'' It clunks to the floor. ''I'll just pop in on Mrs Lollipop,'' Katze continues casually, ''Then I'll get off.''

''Right-o,'' bibbles the pipe.

''And,'' Aunty Latch adds, ''Yo-yo can have a lovely lunch.''

2.

# In Aunty Latch's COZEE NOOK

.... which is a bowl of disconcertingly grey soup and a slice of disappointingly grey bread (the lunch, not the Cozee Nook, obviously).

Uncle Reefer disappears into the tangle of weeds he calls his 'back garden', leaving Aunty Latch and Yo-yo in the kitchen with their distant cousin and permanent resident Lily Gusset.

''I can't belieeeeve how you've grown,'' gushes Lily Gusset. ''You're sooooo tall now. I can't belieeeeeeve you're still only ten.''

''Thirteen,'' Yo-yo corrects, ''And I haven't grown at all. Not one inch.''

''No, but you look as though you have, and that's what counts.'' Lily Gusset pats his knee and scratches her stubble. Lily is a reverse transvestite. Sometimes she is a man dressed as a woman dressed as a man and sometimes a woman dressed as a man dressed as a woman. Today s/he is the latter, a strapping six-footer with huge balloons squeezed into a skin-clinging knee-length black frock. Her hairy legs would make a gorilla jealous. Make-up is plastered over her five o'clock shadow.

''I remember when you were a little boy,'' s/he sighs, flicking long blonde hair away from her square shoulders. ''You used to climb on to my knee and say 'Aunty Lily, sing me a song' and I'd dandle you in my hands and sing

''If I were the only boy in the world

And also the only girl ...''

S/he quavers a little on the high notes. Yo-yo smiles fondly. Lily has always been kind to him. ''How's your mother?'' s/he says.

''Fine.'' Yo-yo scoops up the last of the soup with the last of the bread. ''She killed Dad in the end, you know. Bashed in his head with the coal shovel and buried his body under the beets. So I cut her throat with a hacksaw blade.''

''Hahaha,'' laughs Lily Gusset, ruffling his hair. ''That's nice. How's Gillworthy?''

''I drove a bulldozer through the wall and ploughed up their lawn,'' Yo-yo replies.

''What would you like to do this afternoon?'' Aunty Latch clears away the soup bowl and spoon.

''I'd like to explore,'' Yo-yo says, ''Have a look round York. What's the weather going to do?''

''Well,'' says Aunty Latch, ''We have sunny patches now, but cloud will start moving in from the west bringing a brisker wind and the chance of a shower or two later in the evening. Temperatures will be in the region of 10 to 15 degrees Celsius, that's 50 to 59 Fahrenheit, so a pleasantly warm spring afternoon. Looking ahead...''

She pulls a chart down from the ceiling.

''Tonight will be cooler, with a little light rain, temperatures around 3 or 4, but tomorrow will be brighter, temperatures higher than today, with sunny spells especially by the coast, where Scarborough can expect unseasonally warm weather, around 18 to 20 degrees, but, over the next two or three days, coming into the middle of next week, things will get cloudier and cooler, though still mild, with occasional outbreaks of rain and a stiff wind as this front moves in from the Atlantic. Sunrise will be at 0527, sunset 8.40. Leeds Time, of course, and the tide times, at Filey Bay, high tides at 0244 and 1518, low tides at 0913 and 2121, that's twenty past nine. For more information check out our website and I'll be back at 11 with the late night coastal and shipping forecast. But that's all from me for now, so it's back to Harry in the studio, and a very good evening.''

Harry Gration: Thanks, Aunty Latch. So a nice weekend coming up for the racing and don't forget the Roses match starts at Headingley tomorrow. Can't wait.

Now, how many of you remember Leeds Children's Day? The Yorkshire Film Archive has recently unearthed some fascinating footage.

Christa Ackroyd: Yes, and we are wondering if you were one of those who danced round the maypole or ran in the egg and spoon race.

Harry Gration: Or maybe you were in the beauty pageant or even Queen of the Day.

Christa Ackroyd: Muriel Cowpat was Queen of the Day in 1957 and she's here in the studio to share her memories of that day.

Harry Gration: But first, here's a look at some of that footage...

Yo-yo switches off the T.V. ''I hate Look Bloody North,'' he growls.

''Well,'' says Lily Gusset, ''Maybe we can go to the park instead.''

After lunch, Yo-yo explores the COZEE NOOK. It is just as dispiritingly gloomy as he remembers it from the time he visited with his mother. The living room contains heavy, old-fashioned, dark, wooden furniture, thick velveteen curtains in shades of deep burgundy, china figurines of coy, bonneted girls carrying baskets, small rod-bearing bare-footed boys wearing battered straw hats and those irritating handbag-sized yappy-dogs that resemble long-haired rats. Distressed aspidistras caked in dust rest on drab doilies whilst dreary paintings of river-bank scenes in brown and dun and dark green oils die inside over-elaborate, curlicue-edged, gilt-sprayed wooden frames. Coffee-coloured tablecloths and cream-cushioned chairs complement the chocolate-dark panels that distinguish the dining room whilst the kitchen's tan tiles are dirt-dimmed with age, the tired, grey grouting rough to the touch. The huge feather-beds in the bedrooms are smothered under heavy, dusky pink, flock-covered quilts while plump pillows nestle against padded, pink headboards. Yes, he decides, Uncle Reefer and Aunty Latch have really done it up a treat.

He heads upstairs to say hello to Mrs Lollipop, another long-term resident of the COZEE NOOK who has known him for years and who is bed-ridden from the nose down. She sits in semi-darkness, a pink cap crammed over her softly greying curls, her pink chins quivering gently, her porky pink hand clutching a walking stick which she frequently bangs against the chamber pot under her bed to attract attention.

Mrs Lollipop has been bed-ridden for around forty-five of her fifty years. When she was a little girl, she had caught a cold. Her mother called out the doctor who told her to put the little girl to bed ''until I pop round next week.'' Unfortunately, the very next day the doctor met with a bizarre accident when he slipped on a patch of vanilla ice cream on the top step of York Minster's tower and tumbled down the entire stone staircase to fetch up in a crumpled heap against the bolted, oak door. Mrs Lollipop's mother, following orders, kept her daughter in bed waiting for the doctor to return. Mrs Lollipop is still in bed, and unless the doctor returns from the grave, she will stay there till she dies.

''Yo-yo, my sweetling!'' Her flabby jowls quiver. ''Come kiss your Aunty Lolly.''

Yo-yo closes his eyes and puckers his lips. Kissing Aunty Lolly is like kissing a chimney sweep's brush.

''You're looking fat,'' he remarks.

''Why, thank you, my dearling.'' Mrs Lollipop settles herself against the plump pink pillows. ''It's my new diet. Egg and prune curry. You have to try it. It's a taste to die for. And you .. look at you. You've shrunk. I think you've lost a good couple of inches in height. But at least you look like a nine year old now.''

''I'm thirteen,'' says Yo-yo firmly, ''Nearly fourteen, in fact.''

''How's your mother, my codling?''

''She's dead, Mrs Lollipop,'' Yo-yo replies. ''She killed my father with a sledgehammer and buried his body among the sweet peas so I poisoned her coffee. Her feet went numb and her blood turned to mud.''

''Did it, sweetling?'' says Mrs Lollipop. ''That's nice.''

Something taps

TOC TOC TOC

on the bedroom window.

''That'll be Baby,'' says Mrs Lollipop. ''Be a dearling and let him in, will you?''

Baby is Mrs Lollipop's blackbird. Glossily feathered, he generally perches on a bedside chair-back nibbling nuts from a bag slung over the bed-post.

''All right?'' says the blackbird as Yo-yo closes the window behind him.

''Fine,'' Yo-yo answers. ''You?''

''Can't complain.'' Baby settles onto his perch. ''Nice ring.''

Yo-yo touches the ring on the chain round his neck. ''It's something my mother gave me to remember her by just before she died. She had cancer, you know.''

Baby squints at it. ''Very nice. Very shiny. Can I have it for my nest?''

''You don't have a nest,'' Yo-yo answers, ''You live here.''

''Yeah, but I'd like a nest of my own one day,'' sighs Baby.

''Somewhere to take the birds, eh?'' Yo-yo says before he can stop himself.

''I find that a deeply disrespectful remark,'' sniffs Baby, haughtily taking offence. ''It's insulting to bird-kind and the birdness of birds.'' He sighs again. ''You know what I mean. A place of my own in a nice tall tree, maybe a poplar, a larch or even an aspen, countryside views, away from the bustle and noise of the city, settle down, get a wife, have some eggs, you know ... every bird's pastoral dream....''

Mrs Lollipop has fallen asleep. Her chins wobble whilst snores snuffle softly out of her mouth. Yo-yo says goodbye to Baby and closes the bedroom door quietly behind him. A bear ambles past.

''All right?'' says the bear.

''Aye, not so bad,'' Yo-yo replies. ''Yourself?''

''Mustn't grumble,'' says the bear, and enters his room.

3.

Into the City

OLD yellow walls

Grassy banks covered in daffodils

Cobbled streets

White and black half-timbered houses

Great STONE gates surmounted with statues

Medieval Churches skulking on corners

Ancient Pubs with oak-beamed ceilings

Buskers playing pianos in shopping streets

Bridges

### e p

### e i

### w n

### s g

over browny-green rivers

Memorial plaques

Adverts for Ghost Walks

Sandstone 'Hic Jacets' set into walls

Colourful flowers in reds, pinks and yellows

Passenger boats tied up at the staithe

People sitting in warm mid-May sunshine

Welcome to

EORFORWIC

EBORACUM

EORWIC

JORVIK

YORK

Yo-yo is sandwiched between Lily Gusset and Aunty Latch. They are aboard a tourist bus. It is red with blue and green globes painted on the side and white lines radiating from said globes in the manner of a child's drawing of the sun.

They have seen The Minster (ancient, huge, impressive), the City Walls (ancient, huge, impressive), Clifford's Tower (ancient, huge, impressive) and are now grid-locked outside York City Library. The St Leonard's Place lights are out of action and the traffic has ground to a halt in a medley of beeping horns and fraying tempers. The commentary has stopped (unless you include the 'sodding traffic's and 'bloody lights') and Minster FM (104.7) is playing KT Tunstall's ''On the Other Side of the World'', their record of the week. Yo-yo likes this song, although radios are banned in Gillworthy.

''Zis iss terrible,'' says a large lederhosen-busting German. ''Ve haffn't moofed for tventy minutes.''

''Ah waaant ma money back, Hank,'' drawls a small, twittery American woman with bird's-nest hair. ''These folks got us here on false pre-tences.''

''Sho right there, hone'-chile,'' says her husband, adjusting his Stetson and slapping his chaps. ''Y'all said we'd see York. All we seen so far is traffic. Ain't like this where we come from.''

''Unt ver iss zat?'' asks the fat German's even fatter wife.

''Thicktwistle, Alabamy,'' says the cowboy. You?''

''Grosser Wurststadt, Bayern. You haff no traffik in Alabama?''

''Sho we got traffic, boy,'' says the American, ''But we just shood id owdda da way. Welcome to the free world, boy. Burn, Chevy, burn.''

A bunch of young Japanese girls put their camera phones down. There is a limit to the number of pictures even they can take of each other stuck on a Sightseeing Bus - it's about 400. Yo-yo thinks they are quite pretty and decides to chat them up. Before he can do so, (104.7) Minster FM slides from KT Tunstall to U2. The song is ''Stuck in a moment you can't get out of''.

''Ho bloody ho,'' says Yo-yo. ''Let's get off.''

Yo-yo, Lily and Aunty Latch walk back down the road to the gardens of the Yorkshire Museum and settle near the ruins of St Mary's Abbey, which is believed to have been founded in 1089 by a monk from Whitby named Stephen. It is said that King William II (known in superficial, simplistic children's histories as Rufus the Red-Headed King) laid the foundation stone of the church himself. It was dissolved in 1539 on the orders of King Henry VIII (known in superficial, simplistic children's histories as the Grossly Fat Wife-Killing King). They wander through a rockery which has been constructed around four stone coffins, pass through the huge, stark skeleton of a Norman arch and settle near nine more coffins arranged in two parallel lines. At the end of one is a very small sandstone coffin. Presumably it once belonged to a child. A couple of curious squirrels chatter as they chase each other through the coffins.

''Time for tea.'' Aunty Latch opens her picnic basket and spreads a tartan blanket on the grass. She hands out three paper plates whilst Yo-yo sits down cross-legged and Lily struggles to retain her dignity in her short, plastic, pink skirt before opening her basket to the world.

First out are

several large, thick, pork sausages

followed by

some rather small, crinkly pickled onions

and

some smooth, rubbery, hard-boiled eggs

and

some ripe, firm tomatoes

and

some even firmer, thicker, creamier bananas.

When her basket is empty, Aunty Latch produces a large Thermos flask of frothy warm milk. Yo-yo helps himself to some tomatoes and, digging in his pocket, some ham and some pork pies he procured from what used to be Scott's of Petergate. He spreads a liberal knife-load of mustard on the ham, rolls it into a cigar and chomps happily. They won't allow him mustard at Gillworthy. They say it excites his imagination. All he knows is it clears his nose. He feeds some to a wandering peacock. It sneezes and ruffles its tail, glaring angrily.

''Sorry,'' says Yo-yo. Meanwhile a nosy squirrel has got his beady little eye on an apple. ''Don't even think about it,'' warns Yo-yo, but it is too late. The bushy-tailed rodent has scampered over the grass, seized the fruit in both grubby paws and is making off with it towards an old oak tree before you can say ''Greedy, thieving squirrel-rat''. Yo-yo excuses himself and chases the squirrel to the foot of the tree.

''Give us that apple!'' Yo-yo demands.

''Sod off, it's mine,'' says the squirrel, scampering up the trunk and pausing only to chuck acorns over his shoulder.

''Ouch!'' cries Yo-yo as the acorns bounce off his bonce. ''I'm gonna use your tail as a dish-mop,'' he threatens, ''With you still attached....Ouch!''

''He he,'' laughs the squirrel, climbing higher.

''Good afternoon, my dear macaroon.''

''EEEK!'' goes the squirrel.

''EEEK!'' goes Yo-yo.

Mister Vanilla is concealed in the tree.

''Give me your ring,'' he says, popping a sugared cornflower into his mouth. ''Sell it me.''

Because Mister Vanilla is unfeasibly large and the old oak tree unimaginably old, several of the branches that are supporting his weight are creaking and moaning so loudly the squirrel drops his ill-gotten apple to cover his tufty little ears with his paws.

''No way,'' says Yo-yo. ''Why don't you leave me alone?''

''You know very well, my dear chicklet,'' says Mister Vanilla. The half-dozen branches supporting his backside groan as he shifts his bulk. ''Your mother said...''

''You leave my mother out of this!'' yells Yo-yo. ''She's dead, you unfeeling bastard.''

Suddenly the branches give way with an almighty crack and Mister Vanilla tumbles down to the grass. The squirrel squeaks as he's squished.

''Serves you right,'' Yo-yo remarks to the flattened fur-cake as he runs back across the grass towards the grand, multi-columned entrance to the Yorkshire Museum, the home of the Yorkshire Philosophical Society and founded in 1830 to house the fossils found in Kirkdale Cave nine years earlier. Once inside he may be able to hide or, better still, find something with which to fight the fat man. He bursts past the cash desk and is confronted by a sandstone statue of the War-God Mars dressed in traditional Roman military uniform, plumed helmet, armoured breastplate, leather-strapped skirt, shield and all. The only things missing are his feet which, Yo-yo suspects, might be something of a handicap in a real battle.

''Halt, who goes there?'' the statue demands.

''Yo-yo the Brilliant,'' Yo-yo replies.

''Those who Wish this World to See Must Answer Me these Questions Three.''

''What?'' Yo-yo glances back over his shoulder. Mister Vanilla is brushing squirrel splat-cake from the seat of his pants.

''Those who Wish this World to See Must Answer Me these Questions Three,'' Mars repeats huffily. '' It's a password thing. Just shut up and co-operate.'' Yo-yo shrugs. ''Question One,'' says the War-God self-importantly. ''What is your name?''

''I already told you,'' says Yo-yo. Mister Vanilla is lumbering up the slope.

''Unless You answer Questions of Mine, Entry to Grottos will never be Thine.''

''God,'' says Yo-yo, ''Sorry, Mars, that's a terrible rhyme. Whoever wrote it committed a crime.''

''I didn't write it,'' moans the statue, ''I just have to say it. Question Two. What is my name?''

''Cloth-ear for dialogue, that David Brining,'' says Yo-yo. Mister Vanilla is stepping through the columns. ''Just let me in, okay?''

''Nokay,'' says Mars. ''My job it is to guard the tomb. Without my sword, we'll come to doom.''

''Shut up,'' snaps Yo-yo, looking round desperately. In the corner is a sandstone block with a woman carved into it. She is playing with a snake.

''Use the animals,'' hisses the snake.

''Yo-yo, my little firkin,'' coos Mister Vanilla, ''I'm coming to get you.'' The scent of sugared poppies wafts through the door.

''Bollocks,'' says Yo-yo, diving past the War-God's shield.

''Hey, come back!'' shouts Mars. ''Question Three ....''

''Chase me, why don't you?'' cries Yo-yo, ''You no-footed War-God-Statue- Thing.'' He skids on his stomach across a large, multicoloured map of the Roman Empire, sliding from pink Asia Minor through blue Greece and purple Italy, yellow France, red Britain, and green Spain through the door to the left and a challenge from the enormous marble head of the York-born Emperor Constantine who scowls from the shadows and mutters something about ''Slave boys today getting uppity and refusing to answer perfectly reasonable questions from gods.''

Two sandstone tablets catch Yo-yo's eye. One depicts a family, a boy standing next to a table, a woman standing behind it, and a bearded man standing next to it. They have remarkably short legs. A fourth figure is seated. The other bears the faceless figure Lucius Duccius Rufinus, the twenty-eight year old from Viennes in France who became standard bearer to Ninth Legion and who saw action in Spain, Africa and Germany before York.

''Those who wish the world to see must answer me these questions three.'' He can hear Mars challenging the challenger. ''Question One. What is your name?''

''My name is Vanilla, my little godikins''

''Question Two.''

Yo-yo grabs a toga and sandals from a nearby basket and poses against the sandstone frieze showing two adults standing behind two children.

''What is my name?''

Mister Vanilla dabs a handkerchief against his lips. Chasing boys is a most disagreeable pastime, he reflects. It makes one perspire to an unendurable degree. If the reward were not so great, he would abandon the pursuit at the Gates of Rome. Instead he intones ''You are Mars, the God of War.''

Mars preens himself. ''Indeed I am, the greatest, fiercest, most heroic of all the ancient gods of Rome.''

''Quite.'' Mister Vanilla resists the urge to fiddle with his pocket watch and ask why he is named after a chocolate bar.

''Leaders and warriors, princes and emperors, all follow at my chariot wheels.''

''Indeed they did,'' says Mister Vanilla, conscious that every minute he wastes in chit-chat with the War God is a minute in which Yo-yo can get further away.

''States and cities, empires and nations, all fall at my command.''

''Very probably,'' says Mister Vanilla. ''Look, do you mind awfully....?''

''Those who wish the tombs to see must answer me these questions three!'' booms Mars.

''Many apologies,'' says Mister Vanilla, ''But I'm in a hurry.''

''Oh, and you think I'm perfectly happy to stand here all day?'' moans Mars, ''That I have nothing better to do than hang around in draughty doorways accosting young men like you. Well, let me tell you something...''

Although Mister Vanilla might quibble with the use of the word 'young' in this context, he wisely keeps silent and lets the statue rant about the unfairness of life and the hand he's been dealt.

''It could be worse,'' says the snake from the sandstone tablet in the corner.

''How could it be worse?'' sniffs the War-God.

''You could be outside in the wind and the rain. You could be decaying in the garden. At least you're warm and dry in here.''

''He's got a point,'' adds the woman. ''It's always warm in here, and they look after you. I get my air-brushed at least once a week. Do you get touched up often?''

''Not often enough,'' Mars admits. ''Maybe I should change the entry test. Whoe'er the Inmost Chambers Seek Must First the War-God's Weapon Tweak. Hmmm.'' The plume on his helmet seems to swell. ''Yes. It's a much better test than which three Emperors visited York and where did they come from? Much better. I'll at least get my rocks off.''

''Hadrian who was Spanish, Septimus Severus who was Libyan and Constantine Chlorus who was Serbian,'' cries Mister Vanilla, triumphantly ducking past the sandstone statue. ''Ha ha! Your entrance is mine!''

''Bah!'' says Mars, ''Well, just make sure you enter gently. I'm still sore from Yo-yo's force.''

The Roman Room is decked out in reds and golds. Red and black banners hang from the ceilings. The sandstone tablets seem to radiate a golden glow. Mister Vanilla narrows his eyes. The room is empty. He inspects each frieze carefully. The family of the bandy legs stares impassively back. He clicks his tongue, teases the pill-box from his waistcoat pocket. A sugared daisy will help him think. The standard bearer has no face. The adults and children seem too short. In another, the man and woman sit behind a table. The man has his arm round the woman's shoulders. Mister Vanilla attempts to translate the inscriptions on stone from the Serapeum, the Temple of the Serapis. There is no sign of Yo-yo. Mister Vanilla has been warned about his slippery ways so it pays to check everything exceedingly closely. However, maybe the delay at the door has enabled the boy to evade him once more. Mister Vanilla sighs in annoyance and descends the stairs to the Medieval Room. Moments later there is a tiny movement, a shuffling jerk of Lucius Duccius Rufinus' large, sturdy pole and Yo-yo's face peeps round the middle medallion. He grins with satisfaction and steps out of the tablet. He carefully sneaks to the end of the room, creeps across the mosaic floor, peers over the banister to where Mister Vanilla is inspecting ceiling bosses, gargoyles and drainage-ditch-covers then tiptoes down the corridor towards the Natural History Section. He now feels confident he will outwit his pursuer but he has reckoned without the Golden Frog.

In a gallery near the exit, a small TV screen set in a wall plays a short extract from the BBC programme Life in Cold Blood showing the mating ritual of a tiny black and orange frog. Sir David Attenborough's hushed commentary describes the action thusly-

David Attenboroughs: His rival is not deterred.

The frog freezes and stares at Yo-yo.

David Attenboroughs: Another arrives. Perhaps at last this is a female.

''This is not a dress,'' Yo-yo says crossly, ''It's a toga. It's Roman, you cheeky Attenboroughs.''

David Attenboroughs: And here one comes.

''What do you mean by 'one'? One what?'

'

David Attenboroughs: Just in case his call is inaudible, he makes his message clear with a wave.

The frog raises a foot and waggles it.

''Hey,'' says Yo-yo, ''Don't think you're gonna mate with me, you goggle-eyed toad.''

''I''m not a toad,'' squeaks the angered amphibian puffing up his chest, ''I'M...''

''Ssshhh,'' hisses Yo-yo, ''Ssssh.''

''...A...''

''Shut up, for God's sake,'' says Yo-yo. ''You'll give me away. I'm sorry... we can mate if you like.....'' But it's far too late. He cringes and covers his ears.

''FROOOOOOG!''

It is like a fog-horn echoing round the Humber Bridge.

''Ha!'' cries Mister Vanilla, pounding down the passageway. ''Got you!''

But no. The Golden Frog's yawp has shattered some cases and the Yorkshire Museum's display of the taxidermist's art (or craft) is coming alive. Stuffed penguins waddle round the Natural History room vying for dominion with otters, badgers, foxes, owls, a duck-billed platypus, beavers, bustards, capercaillies and grouse (grouses or grice?) Mister Vanilla tries to fight his way through the menagerie. Yo-yo claps his hands and a flock of seagulls wheels overhead, dive-bombing the villain with eggs and poo.

''Not fair!'' cries Mister Vanilla, as a yellowy-white streak of bird-lime splatters down his lilac waistcoat. ''Not fair!'' He turns towards Mars and shouts ''Romulus''. A stuffed wolf bursts through the glass and scatters the rest. From the Medieval cellar, the statues of Moses, St John and two fiercely-bearded Old Testament prophets lurch past the dinosaurs. ''Grab him, Hezekiah!''

Yo-yo wraps his toga round him and jumps aside. The prophet trips over a puffin and crashes into the Moa's skeleton which springs into action with a clatter of bones. The animals are beginning to turn on each other, wolf against wildcat, fish against fowl. In a flash, Mister Vanilla and his statuesque allies will be upon him. There is no longer a choice. Yo-yo cries out ''ICHTHYOSAUR!'' and the most terrifying creature in the Yorkshire Museum stirs in its case.

Temnodontosaurus crassimanus is 180 million years old. It comes from the Jurassic period when dinosaurs walked the earth or, in his case, swam the seas. This one was found at Whitby in the 1850s and is eight metres long. Its skeleton consists of fifty pieces and it has the most enormous head and jaw with massive bone-grinding molars which will crunch even through stone as Moses and Saint John seem to sense.

''Bollocks to the jewel,'' mutters Moses. ''I'm not tangling with that thing.''

''You're on your own, mate,'' adds Saint John. ''You get your nuts ripped off if you like, Mister Vanilla, but count me out.''

Like some monstrous crocodile, the ichthyosaur slithers out of its diorama, snaps open its jaw and roars. The blast makes Yo-yo's hair stand on end and sets Mister Vanilla's chins a-shaking. The empty eye-sockets swivel.

''Yo-yo....'' says Mister Vanilla, ''You fool......''

''RUN!'' shouts Mars, and every living thing in the museum, both stuffed and statue, crowds and crushes its way to the door. Mister Vanilla is swept away on a fur- and-feather taxidermized tide. His feet kick and his podgy fists wave as the otters, badgers, beavers and bustards spill over the steps and into the garden. The wolf, the wildcat, the Moa, the bear and all the animals yip and yowl, hoot and twitter, cluck and bark in a raucous, celebratory cacophony of liberation. Out of the toga, Yo-yo stands by the turnstile and watches the wildlife disperse in the park. The ichthyosaur snaps as he slithers sinisterly down to the river, Mister Vanilla borne on his back. He smashes the fence and slides into the Ouse. Mister Vanilla's cries are smothered in mud. Yo-yo rubs his hands and returns to the rug.

''Where did you get to?'' asks Aunty Latch.

''Popped into the Museum,'' says Yo-yo.

''Oh,'' says Aunty Latch. ''Did you have fun?''

''It was okay,'' says Yo-yo. He helps himself to a mini-roll.

''Come along,'' Aunty Latch says, ''We don't want to be late.''

''Late for what?'' asks Yo-yo.

Aunty Latch makes no reply, just refills her basket.

They step into Marygate and fetch up outside St Olave's Church. ''Built in 1055, it has both plain and painted glass windows and, of course, a creepy ghost story,'' Yo-yo recalls. ''One afternoon in 1983 a young lady went into the church and saw a woman in black sitting in the back pew. Next to her was a young boy dressed in a Norfolk jacket. He was crying bitterly and occasionally buried his face in her shoulder. When she went over to find out what was wrong, they appeared to vanish. She did some research and learned that a local man had been killed at the Battle of the Somme in World War One leaving behind a wife and a twelve-year-old son. His memorial service was held in St Olave's with the wife and son were present. That was in 1916.... spooky, eh?''

''What a lot you know,'' twitters Lily Gusset, eyeing the Bay Horse (Ridings bitter) over the road with some longing.

''Oh yes,'' says Yo-yo. ''St Olave's was built by Siward, Earl of Northumbria. He is most famous for his part in moving Birnam Wood to Dunsinane in the battle against Macbeth, King of Scotland. Olaf himself is the Patron Saint of Norway and was their king from 1016 to 1029. He was killed in the Battle of Sticklestad in 1030 and buried in Trondheim, although some say he is buried here. Olaf is famous for a daring attack on London which is the historical event behind the children's rhyme 'London Bridge is falling down' when he burned the bridge.''

''Really?'' Lily Gusset glances again at the mighty Bay Horse.

''It's referenced in the Heimskringla, with the lines 'London Bridge is broken down, gold is won and great renown'.''

Inside the church it is cool and gloomy, light penetrating through the rather dusty fifteenth century east window. An invisible organist is playing Vierne's Carillon de Westminster which uses the theme of the Big Ben chimes-

Bing

Bing bing

bong bong bong

Bong bing

''Organ music is always sinister,'' says Yo-yo, but they don't see the ghosts.

They cut through the Marygate car park where a purple Ford Focus is trying to manoeuvre into the space nearest the Pay-and-Display. A chocolate Labrador peers intently out of the back as if willing the driver to mind the gap. They emerge by the river where they admire the painted narrow boats moored at Lendal Tower, ignore the green, iron footbridge leading to the Royal Mail and the National Railway Museum and pass along a row of terraces called Riverside Walk. Two houses advertise 'Bed and Breakfast' (''Be a good spot for you,'' Lily tells Aunty Latch). Then they pass some rather boring semis (''Be a good spot for you,'' Yo-yo tells Lily) before emerging into the parkland behind St Peter's School, allegedly founded in AD 627 by St Paulinus, Bishop of York, and therefore the third oldest school in the world. On the field stands a huge red- and white-striped marquee.

''Oooh, a circus,'' cries Lily. ''I haven't been to a circus since I was a little girl. Shall we go? Shall we?''

''I would rather eat my own feet, '' says Yo-yo, ''Than go to a circus.''

''Circuses are great,'' says Lily.

''Bollocks,'' says Yo-yo. ''Trapeze acts and lion-tamers and bloody clowns. Scary bastards, clowns. Something to do with that made-up, painted mouth.''

''But it might be fun,'' says Aunty Latch, plumping her breasts.

''Fat chance,'' says Yo-yo. ''It's a circus.''

''Well,'' says Aunty Latch, ''It's your weekend. We'll do what you want, eh, Lily?''

''Yes,'' says Lily, ''We'll do anything you want. Just wait till after the circus.''

4.

# The Circus Comes to Town

'THUNDER and Blazes' a.k.a. 'The Entry of the Gladiators' a.k.a. Billy Smart's Circus, Julius Fucik's march now rendered for clowns.

She is tall with blonde, buttock-brushing hair. Black, silky, fishnets cling to long, slim legs. Black, polished boots reach to mid-thigh. A black riding-jacket is closely contoured. A riding-crop swishes erect in her hand. She wears a black top-hat. She is Mistress Thyme and she is as fragrant as the herb after which she is named.

Who is Thyme? A fantasy woman of this writer's fevered imaginings? Undoubtedly yes, but she is also a very real figure in this story, for Mistress Thyme is the Ring-Mistress of

The Wildcat Circus

and quite simply the most gob-smackingly beautiful, sexy and alluring woman Yo-yo has ever seen. She is every single fantasy he has ever had rolled into one live, warm, real body. And he's not the only one. Most males are equally gob-smacked.

The Big Top is full. Some two hundred people stare into the brightly lit sawdust-strewn ring. Somewhere near the front, Yo-yo sits in the centre of a row of five reading Left to Right:

Katze, Lily Gusset, Yo-yo, Aunty Latch, Uncle Reefer

Despite the promising posters pasted on billboards, buses and buskers, they had not really intended to come to the circus. What had tipped them into taking the plunge had been Lily's revelations that a) the bear staying at the COZEE NOOK was a juggler in the circus (''You won't belieeeeeve the things he can do with his balls,'' s/he'd squealed) and b) they were in the area with nothing else to do except watch yet another brain-numbing edition of Britain's Great Celebrity Brother's Jungle Talent Factor on TV and then discuss it on Twatter and/or Facespace.

Ring-Mistress Thyme slaps the riding-crop against her black leather boot. There is a crack like a gun shot. Several dozen men and boys gulp.

''My lords, ladies and gentlemen!'' she cries, ''Welcome to the Wildcat Circus!'' She follows this with a pussy-cat miaow that makes the several dozen men and boys break into a sweat. ''Tonight you are on a promise.'' Mistress Thyme struts round the ring. She reaches a middle-aged man in the front row, puts her boot-sole on the hoarding and tickles him under the chin with the tip of her crop. His face turns heart-attack crimson. ''We promise you ... thrills ... oh, yes, I'll thrill you, big man....'' As he seems to melt, she hurls her arms into the air and strides to the centre. ''And....'' She picks out another young man. ''.... Spills! Maybe later, you naugh-ty boy.'' Several dozen men and boys want to cry. ''My name is Thyme and I AM the Mistress of your Ring.'' She smacks the riding-crop against her boot once again. Several dozen men and boys shield their heads under their arms and whimper. Their accompanying women mutter ''Trollop'' and glare viciously, lips tightening into invisibility.

''First tonight, in the Wildcat Ring, we present for you a little.... ANIMAAAL MAGIC! Grrrrrr!'' Several dozen men and boys become suddenly quite damp.

'Animal Magic' involves Jungle-Juiced Jake, a red-faced, raddled old soak in an off-the-shoulder leopard-skin number trying to coax a rather reluctant, mangy-maned lion on to a pedestal in the saw-dusted centre with the aid of a chair.

''Now, kiddies,'' Jake wheezes, ''See me lion here? 'Is name's Brian, Brian the Lion. 'E's very old 'n' not very fit. 'E sleeps a lot an' eats 'n' drinks too much but 'e can still boite yer wiv 'is great big teef. But 'is teef moight stick in yer arm, vey ain't very good. In fact I fink vey might be false. Loike moine.''

Yo-yo is not impressed. Brian the Lion seems rather pathetic and Jungle-Juiced Jake on the edge of collapse. After a few token growls, Jake gives up and Brian slinks back to his cage. Yo-yo eagerly rubs his hands. Like everyone else, he wants Mistress Thyme to return.

''The Amazing Jungle-Juiced Jake and Brian the Lion,'' says the Ring Mistress. ''But now, more thrills. Have you ever played tricks with your balls? I have for you right here, right now, tricks with balls to amaze and delight, tricks with balls you'll never experience again.'' Several dozen men and boys start crying. Yo-yo feels incredibly hot.

But

in the next piece of Animal Magic, Ruff the bear juggles five orange balls whilst riding a unicycle. This he does with impressive dexterity despite his dapper black jacket being a little tight under the armpits. He wheels his unicycle backwards and forwards, the oranges moving round his head in perpetual motion whilst the Band of The Wildcat Circus plays 'Yakety Sax' frenetically. Ruff concludes his act by tossing one orange ball high in the air and positioning the unicycle under it so he can catch it in his mouth whilst slipping the other balls into his pockets. The applause is generous.

Mistress Thyme trumpets ''RRRRRuff the Ball-Bouncing Bear, ladies and gentlemen!'' and runs her crop-tip languidly through her long blonde hair. ''You have already seen skills but I promised you thrills, and this is thrilling, oh sooooo thrilling.... the Czech-Mates are taking us higher, higher, higher ... oh, take me higher and thrill me, boys!''

The Czech-Mates are Triplets. They are dressed in thigh-hugging, bicep-gripping, nipple-showing, flame-coloured Spandex. They are named Jezdec, Strelec and Vez. They are the Trapeze Artists. Several dozen women and girls whimper, dampen and moan, along with a dozen or so men and boys.

''Ladiss unt gennlmen,'' says Jezdec. ''Ve haff a great show for you. I unt my bruzzers vill attempt ze doob-lah backtvist unt pike.''

The high-up hi-jinks get under way. The Trapezing Triplets scurry up the ladders to tumble and twist, wrist-clasp and ankle-grasp, their flame-coloured costumes flickering like fire-flies. After some breathtakingly close calls, they somersault smoothly to crash-land in the net.

''And there,'' cries Thyme, ''Are the spills!'' She waves her riding-crop, the band strikes up with the 'Thunder and Blazes' theme and someone somewhere sends in the Clowns. Everyone claps enthusiastically. It's a sure-fire formula-

big floppy shoes

red noses

ludicrous wigs

baggy checked trousers

rickety cars +

success =

They drive round the ring in their rickety car, parping the great bulb of the horn until the car backfires and collapses in a heap of yellow metal. The four clowns struggle free. They all wear checked jackets and differently coloured bowler-hats. Their mouths are bright-red paint on chalk-white faces and their hair is scarecrow-like and green, orange, violet or blue. They all have plastic flowers in their buttonholes which they use to squirt water at each other. Custard pies abound. Water is poured from jugs into trousers. There are kicks up backsides and running around in floppy-flappy shoes. Mayhem ensues.

''Orl roight?'' One clown, the one with violet hair, takes another, the one with green hair, to one side.

''Yeah, I'm orl roight. Are you orl roight?''

''I'm orl roight, are you orl roight?''

''Yeah I'm orl roight, are you orl roight?''

And so on until Blue-Hair Clown and Orange-Hair Clown creep round behind them, tug at their waistbands and shove custard pies down their pants.

Everyone laughs. The clown with the blue hair runs round the ring with his arms raised and his hands clasped in a gesture of triumph. He has to raise his floppy-flappy shoes quite far from the ground. He looks at the applauding audience as he runs smack into a custard pie held up by the orange-haired clown. Cream flies everywhere. Orange-hair is delighted and turns to the audience with a huge bucket of water. The audience screams as he pretends to hurl the contents at them. He threatens

once ..... TWICE ... THRICE ...

and flings ....

shredded yellow paper

all over the front three rows to squeals of delight.

''Nothing beats a golden shower.'' Mistress Thyme is back and running her tongue-tip over her lips. The long golden waterfall of her hair bounces on her tight buttocks. Someone wolf-whistles. Someone else howls. Mistress Thyme simply smiles. ''Now, now. What would your wives and mothers think? You naugh-ty men.'' She wags the riding-crop at the audience. ''You've had thrills, you've had spills,'' She points at a wet patch under someone's chair, ''You've seen some skills. Now have your fill, with Catkin Silver, the Human Cannonball!''

A curtain is released to reveal the four-foot-wide muzzle of a large cannon and, sitting astride it, Catkin Silver. He is a smallish boy and he is silver. He has silver wings attached to his shoulder-blades and a winged silver helmet on his silver head. Silver boots are on his feet and silver gloves are on his hands. His face is silver and his hair is silver. He is Silver.

''My name is Catkin Silver!'' his treble voice declares. ''I am the Yuman Cannonball. In a moment you will see me streak across the night-sky in a silver blur and return to Earth like a falling star. Ladies, gentlemen, boys and girls, prepare for the Grand Finale of our little Show...'' Drum roll. ''Open the Tent-Top please!'' The lights in the marquee are dramatically cut. The night-sky, complete with stars and a crescent moon, is projected through gobos and coloured gels against the canvas roof. Only a slight, silver form stands out against the blackness. The drum-roll continues as Catkin climbs into the mouth of the cannon and crawls down the muzzle. The drum-roll intensifies as the cannon is cranked to an angle of sixty degrees. Drumming

Drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

###  rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

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BANG

BANG

BA BANG!!

There is a flash of fire, a stream of smoke, a sharp report and Catkin Silver streaks out of the cannon into the night-sky where he seems to hang for an instant before going into a diver's pike, hips twisting sharply, plunging to earth in a blur of starlight to bounce in the net and somersault with the grace and control of Strelec, Jezdec or Vez on to the sawdust with his feet together and a sharp, crisp bow.

The band TA RAs and the audience rises to its feet. 'Thunder and Blazes' strikes up again and Mistress Thyme leads the performers round the ring to acknowledge the applause. Yo-yo is on his feet, cheering enthusiastically as various hats are thrown.

''Did you enjoy that?'' Aunty Latch asks.

''It was all right,'' he says, meaning, in that teenage way, 'quite outstanding'.

''Well,'' says Uncle Reefer, ''The manager, Truss, is an old supporter of ours from way back when. How about we go backstage and say hello?''

Within minutes, Yo-yo finds himself among the trucks and trailers shaking hands with Truss.

''Eh up, Latch,'' he says. ''You're looking fat.''

''Why, thank you,'' twitters Aunty Latch, plumping her bust.

''And who's this pretty young thing?'' Truss continues.

''My nephew,'' says Uncle Reefer.

''Oh, the famous Yo-yo,'' oils Truss. ''How's your mother?''

''Sleeping with the fishes,'' Yo-yo replies. ''I chained her ankles to a concrete block and shoved her off the pier. She waved goodbye as she sank to the bottom.''

''Well,'' slimes Truss, ''She must be missing an angel in heaven since you're on the earth.''

Yo-yo tries not to spew as Truss turns to Lily Gusset and switches on his most charming and seductive smile. It looks as though he's being electrocuted.

''And you, my pretty. What vision of perfection are you?''

Lily Gusset blushes, bobs and shifts her balloon boobs with the crook of her elbow. ''Miss Gusset,'' s/he giggles. ''But you can call me Lily.'' S/he scratches her stubble.

''Lily. As fragrant as the flower after which you are named.''

Yo-yo wants to barf.

''Did it hurt when you fell out of heaven?''

## Barf.

''Welcome to our world,'' says Truss. He is sweating profusely and keeps mopping his brow with a red and white spotted handkerchief. He's on the skinny side, thinning brown hair combed over a pinkish scalp. He is also as nervous as a cat held by the tail over a bath of boiling water. ''Just wander round and see who you can find,'' he tells Yo-yo. ''I have some business with your uncle and this delightful young lady. I hope, my dear, you have a map, because I keep getting lost in your eyes.''

Lily giggles, blushes again and bats her eyelids shyly at Truss. Yo-yo just wants to puke. After several months of Stins, the one-legged window cleaner, saying pretty much the same thing to Yo-yo's mother, it was time to clear off and leave the grown-ups to their mysterious vomit-inducing-but-often-knicker-removing verbal dance. He approaches a white caravan with Wildcat Circus stencilled on the side and opens the door. Inside are -

the Trapezing Triplets, the Czech Mates, playing Chess. They are not identical. Jezdec is much taller than the others, Strelec has a mole on his cheek and Vez has blond rather than mousy hair. Strelec, playing white, moves a pawn. Jezdec, playing black, moves a knight. Strelec moves his queen. Jezdec fiddles with his bishop before nudging his rook into a square.

''Checkmate,'' he says.

Strelec points a Walther PPK at the board. ''I don't zink so,'' he says, and shoots the rook dead. It squawks as it falls.

Vez glares at Yo-yo. ''Get lost,'' he says. Yo-yo closes the door.

He approaches a pale green caravan with Wildcat Circus stencilled on the side and opens the door. Inside-

the Clowns, relaxing. Make-up cakes the towels that are scattered over the floor. Wigs lie forgotten on a table. Big floppy shoes lurk under beds. Big floppy feet soak in plastic bowls of mustard and water. Each clown has a fistful of playing cards and a mouthful of cigarette. A hazy curtain of steel-shaded smoke hangs inside the caravan.

''Hey, come in, kid,'' growls one. ''We're the clowns,'' he adds, ''The Lettuce Brothers. I'm Chicory. Orange-hair's Endive, Blue-Hair's Rocket and Violet-Hair's Kos. Or is it the other way round? I can't remember.''

''Are you really brothers?'' asks Yo-yo timidly

'' 'Course we are,'' says the Lettuce Brother known as Rocket. ''Why do you think we're all clowns?''

''An' why?'' says the Lettuce Brother known as Kos, ''Do you think we all have the same surname if we ain't brothers?''

''An' why?'' says the Lettuce Brother known as Endive, ''Do we all have the same big fat nose?''

''We don't,'' chorus the others.

''That's just you, you fat-nosed twat.'' Kos slaps down a card.

''What are you playing?'' asks Yo-yo.

''Shit-head,'' says Rocket, ''An' Chicory's the shit-head.''

''But that's nowt to do wi' t'game,'' adds Kos, narrowing his eyes against the blue smoke rising from his cigarette. The Lettuce Brothers cackle. Yo-yo closes the door. He approaches a pale blue caravan with Wildcat Circus stencilled on the side and opens the door. Inside-

Catkin, scrubbed clean of Silver. He is wearing just a pair of white Y-fronts. Traces of silver paint remain on his pale skin, hidden in lines and creases, between toes and behind ears. His hair sticks out in a variety of directions from the rough towelling he has given it. From somewhere inside the trailer a sultry female voice coos ''Catkin ... Catty ... come back to the shower. My bits need scrubbing.''

Catkin Silver crosses the trailer floor in a single stride and, with one gruff ''Bugger off'', slams the door shut.

Yo-yo approaches a pale grey caravan with Wildcat Circus stencilled on the side and opens the door. Inside-

Jungle-Juiced Jake is lying on a couch under the heaving form of Brian the Lion who is slobbering over his face. Jake is shouting ''Yes, yes, lick me, lick me ......'' Yo-yo quietly closes the door.

''Why, hello there, my little pikelet.'' Mister Vanilla has appeared from nowhere. ''Would you like a sugared forget-me-not?'' He takes out his tin.

''AAAAAAHH!'' shouts Yo-yo.

''Settle down, my little cupcake,'' Mister Vanilla says, ''I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to talk to you about your ring. I'm a collector, you see, and your piece, I think, is rare and possibly valuable. It's certainly of value to me.''

''AAAAAAAHHH!'' shouts Yo-yo.

''There's no need to be silly.'' Mister Vanilla takes a step forward. ''Are you sure you don't want a sugared forget-me-not? They give the breath a most delightful scent.''

''AAAAAAHHHH!'' shouts Yo-yo.

''Nobody can hear you, my little croquemboche,'' says Mister Vanilla, ''Not in the Circus. Just let me examine it and I'll let you know what it's worth.'' Mister Vanilla takes another step forward. The waxy moustache, the several chins, the baby face, the forty-stone bulk, the thinning hair

move

towards

him.

''Do have a sugared forget-me-not. You'll feel so much better, especially after it's over. It'll certainly help.''

A trailer door opens, a hand snakes out and yanks Yo-yo inside. He turns round in surprise. It's a woman. It's a naked woman. It's a beautiful, naked woman. It's a beautiful, naked, coolly curvaceous woman in her mid-twenties. Yo-yo's jaw falls. Is this every dream he's ever had about to come true?

''Quick,'' she hisses, ''Squeeze yourself into my box.''

Yo-yo just has time to register that her body is covered with pictures in red, blue and green ink, dragons and butterflies ...

''My magic box.''

which is gold and black and fairly large. It's also the only thing in the trailer except an armchair, a small card-table and a standard lamp. The woman tosses her waist-length blonde hair. ''I'm Rue,'' she says.

..cottages, fields and streams ...

''Yo-yo,'' the boy answers breathlessly.

''Hide yourself in my box,'' says Rue urgently.

.... a steam train, a traction engine ...

The caravan door rattles.

''It's too small,'' says Yo-yo. ''I won't fit inside.''

''My box has hidden dozens of boys,'' says Rue impatiently. ''It's bigger on the inside than on the outside. Like the TARDIS. Now get inside.''

The caravan door rattles again. Mister Vanilla coos ''Come to Daddy, my little pavlova.''

Yo-yo clambers in. It's a tight fit and a little musty.

.... a horse with a rider ....

Rue shoves him down, closes the lid and sits on the box.

The caravan door bursts open.

# 5.

# Rue's Magic Box

MISTER Vanilla steps into the trailer and hands Rue a single red rose. ''My dear Mistress Rue. What a pleasure to see you again.'' Rue shakes her hair and reaches for a robe. ''Oh, don't rush to dress on my account,'' says Mister Vanilla. ''It's quite delightful to watch the painted panorama playing over your skin.''

''I'm cold.'' Rue slips inside the robe. The tattoos melt away. ''What are you doing here, Mister Vanilla?''

''Visiting my dear, dear friends at the Wildcat Circus, what else?'' Mister Vanilla twiddles with the tip of his moustache. ''And, of course, you, my dear little duckling.''

Rue sits in the armchair, slings one shapely leg over the other, pops a cigarette into an elegant black filter and lights it with a Zippo. ''Last time I saw you,'' she says, ''You were trundling towards the edge of a cliff in a bathtub full of baked beans.''

''And you were trapped inside a piano. How did you escape?''

''It was an organ, not a piano,'' says Rue. ''And I played my way out.''

''Well, you were always good on the organ, my dear,'' sniffs Mister Vanilla. ''I had to eat my way free.''

''What a hardship for you,'' Rue remarks dryly.

''Ah.'' Mister Vanilla smiles. ''And how is your alluring sister? Still Mistress of the Ring?'' Rue inclines her head. ''The fragrant Mistress Thyme.'' He takes a small crystal-cut scent-bottle from the pocket of his lilac waistcoat and sprays a little perfume under two of his chins. ''We had some good times, Rue.''

''We did.'' She breathes out a lungful of smoke.

''And we can have good times again.'' Mister Vanilla replaces his spray. ''We can go abroad, to ..... well, anywhere you choose, my dear.''

''Venice?''

Mister Vanilla is suddenly dressed as a gondolier, in straw hat and blue and white stripy shirt. He sings: ''O sole mio, give it to me, oh favourite ice cream of Italy.....''

Rue smiles. ''Germany?''

Mister Vanilla is suddenly dressed in lederhosen, white knee-length socks, braces, and a little green hat with a feather in it. He sings: ''Oompah, oompah, ueber alles, oompah alles in der Welt ...''

Rue smiles again. ''Australia.''

Mister Vanilla is suddenly dressed in baggy bush-shorts, a sweat-stained khaki shirt and a hat with corks dangling from the brim. He sings: ''Tie me kangaroo down, sport, Play me didgeridoo, waltz me billabong dry, sport, make me wallaby cry...''

Rue smiles again. ''Egypt.''

Mister Vanilla is suddenly dressed in a loincloth, pom-pommed sandals and a fez. He performs a sand-dance and ''wey-o-wey-o, walk[s] like an Egyptian''.

''All right,'' says Rue, ''I get the idea. We could go abroad.''

Mister Vanilla is back in his own clothes and kneeling at Rue's feet. ''Remember Paris, my kidling? I was happy there, with you, and the Wildcats, all of us together.''

Rue smiles and places her palm on Mister Vanilla's cheek. ''You always knew how to charm me.'' Languorously she lowers her lashes. ''What do you want me to do? Get the jewel off Yo-yo?''

''He doesn't trust me,'' muses Mister Vanilla mournfully. ''I don't know why. I'm almost certain he doesn't remember me.'' He glances towards the box. ''Is he in there?''

''No,'' says Rue.

Mister Vanilla gets up. ''You won't mind my checking, will you, my little froglet? You've deceived me before, after all.''

''Go ahead,'' says Rue. ''He isn't there.''

''Now now, kitty-cat,'' purrs Mister Vanilla. ''I watched him come in here, but he's nowhere to be seen. Now where could he be hiding? I wonder. Where would he hide in a small caravan? There's only one place I can see. Oh, yes. There's a box, a conveniently boy-sized box.'' Mister Vanilla walks towards the black and gold box, examines it carefully, circles it several times. ''I wonder if somehow perchance by any remote coincidence he might be concealed in....here....'' Melodramatically, he throws open the lid. The box collapses. It is empty.

''Ah,'' says Mister Vanilla. ''He is gone. The jewel eludes me yet again.''

Rue inclines her head and begins to comb her long blonde hair. ''Never mind, Vanilla, old friend. We'll always have Paris.''

# 6.

# Ghost Walk

A dozen people are standing on the pavement outside the Theatre Royal in St Leonard's Place. The group includes

\- a courting couple whispering sweet nothings in each others' ears and giggling stupidly behind each others' fatly mittened hands,

\- a family of four, the elder boy a fat fourteen, the younger boy a twiggy twelve, a worn-out washed-up mother and a pompously pedantic father,

\- five Japanese girls with very long, very black hair aged between eighteen and twenty-two who take many photographs on their smart-phones and frequently consult Facepod and iTube on their handheld Raspberries,

\- and a tall, cadaverous man in his mid-forties dressed in a tall top-hat, black tailcoat and black cape. His sunken cheeks are palely sallow and his eyes are underscored with pencilled black liner. He is the Ghost Walker, and he walks with ghosts.

He had greeted his group at 8 p.m. outside the Minster and led them solemnly through Minster Yard to the Treasurer's House where, in 1953, Harry Martindale the plumber had seen the Lost Ninth Legion marching off behind Lucius Duccius Rufinus to oblivion somewhere in Northumbria. This story was too familiar to shock the locals but outside St William's College where, 400 years ago, two brothers had murdered a priest, there had been a flicker of interest when he had told them the younger brother had hanged himself and the spirit of the older one was still fretfully pacing the upper rooms to this day.

''Huh,'' says the Chubster to the Twiglet, ''If you hung yourself, I'd have a party.''

''Hush,'' snaps the mother. ''Don't say such dreadful things.''

The Twiglet punches his brother hard in the arm. The Chubmeister sniffles.

''Don't hit your brother,'' says the weary, washed-out woman.

''He started it,'' the Twiglet protests, ''The great tubby TWAT.''

The Ghost Walker digs his fingernails into his palms and counts to ten.

''Got any stories about dead children?'' mutters the mother.

''Funnily enough,'' the Ghost Walker says, ''In that house over there was a tragedy involving a child.'' This house is close to the Minster and is several centuries old. ''Over the years, the people who lived here often heard but never saw a child crying. One night the daughter said to her mother, 'Don't let the little girl in the white dress sit on my bed tonight. I don't like her crying all the time'. The children were moved to another room and that small room overlooking the Minster,'' He points up at it, ''Was used for guests. But nobody ever got a good night's sleep. They were constantly disturbed by the sound of crying and running feet.''

The Ghost Walker pauses. The Japanese students are holding their breath. The young couple are holding hands. The pedantic father is holding his tongue - ''How do you know? Were you there?'' he is bursting to say, but he knows his wife will not hold hers if he does.

''Finally,'' the Ghost Walker resumes, ''The family became so concerned that they arranged a séance. The spirit told them she was a little girl who had starved to death in the mid-seventeenth century. When the Plague swept through the city, the Minster area was sealed off and quarantined. Three thousand, five hundred and twelve people died including the little girl's mother and father. The servants thought the girl had died as well so they left the house and locked it behind them. However, miraculously, the little girl recovered.'' The Ghost Walker looks at his audience. ''Imagine her horror,'' he says in a hushed voice, ''When she woke up and found herself locked in a room with the dead, plague-ridden bodies of her parents. Not only that, and the trauma of that, she had nothing to eat! She starved slowly to death,'' he said with relish, ''With only her plague-perished parents for company. No wonder she ran mad. No wonder she cried. No wonder she looked to the present tenants for comfort.''

The Japanese students wipe tears from their eyes and check something on the World-Wide Web.

''Should've eaten her parents,'' the Chublet chunters. ''I would've.'' Twiggy and his father laugh loudly.

''You, sir, would've eaten a farmyard of cattle and still had room for dessert, you great tub of lard,'' mutters the Ghost Walker under his breath.

And so to Bootham Bar and the Theatre Royal, which, Miyumi tells her friends, was built in 1744 and rebuilt in 1765 under the lesseeship of Tate Wilkinson. Sheridan, Shakespeare, opera and oratoria were performed and famous actors such as Mrs Siddons and John Philip Kemble graced York with their skills. When W. A. Waddington took over in 1876...

''Excuse me, Miyumi.'' This is Suki. ''So Missr Wirkison lan teater loyal for one hundled yiss ...''

Miyumi consults her Bilberry. She can go nowhere and do nothing without the aid of technology, as her boyfriend, after several sudden and unpleasant electric shocks, is only too painfully aware. ''Yes, Suki. No-one - is named - between - Missr Wirkison - and - Missr Wadington, - so - Missr Wirkinson muss be manajah one hundled yiss.''

The Ghost Walker glowers at the students. He barely understands their accents yet they are in the Upper Intermediate class of their year-round language school. This is for two reasons. Firstly they have pots of money. Secondly their year-round language school employs teachers with less than three weeks' experience who know nothing about placing students in the correct level or indeed teaching English but are very, very cheap and have no union or employment rights.

''Ah so, Miyumi,'' says Suki,. ''Missr Waddington was resee for thirty ...'' She consults her notepad. ''Five yiss, till nineteen dirty tree.''

Chubs and Twigs snigger. ''She said dirty tree,'' they giggle.

The Ghost Walker is getting angry but there are five Japanese students in the group who don't know as much as the natives about tipping so he swallows his irritation, settles his top hat and tells them the story of the Grey Lady of the Theatre Royal.

''The theatre was built,'' the Ghost Walker says, ''On land given by William Rufus and later King Stephen some nine hundred years ago to build St Leonard's Hospital.''

''Ah so,'' says Miyumi, ''Wirriam Lufas had led hair.''

''That's right,'' says the Ghost Walker. ''And at some point in its long history, there was a dark tragedy at the hospital when a young nun was walled up alive in the crypt. No-one knows her name, but it is believed she had an illicit liaison. [dramatic pause] With a man!''

There are no gasps of astonishment. This is a worldly audience. However the courting couple giggle, the ugly, spoon-faced boyfriend whispers something in the stupid, pig-tailed girlfriend's ear which makes her giggle again as she bats at him playfully with a limp, knitted mitten.

''If no-one knows anything about her life,'' begins Mister Pedant, ''Why is it believed she was having an affair? What evidence supports your scurrilous rumour? You're as bad as the tabloid press. A Catholic nun. Must be something dodgy about her. Must be all cucumbers by the fireside, huh? Candles in the chapel, eh? Eh?''

''Please,'' says the Ghost Walker as Mister Pedant's sons piggishly snigger and the worn wife wearily sighs.

The nun had been walled up in the bricks of the dressing room behind the dress circle. Actresses over the centuries have commented on feelings of being watched whilst they are changing (though this could be connected with idle stagehands peering through key holes) and others have remarked on a strange chill inside the room. One night, the wife of Sir Frank Benson sat up in the dressing room praying for peace to come to the little nun and the haunting stopped. Or did it? During a rehearsal of a show called Dear Octopus, the company spotted a strange, foggy figure in the dress circle watching with great interest. The Grey Lady had returned.

''Every theatre has its ghost,'' the Ghost Walker concludes, ''But the Grey Lady of the Theatre Royal is the friendliest and most supportive of them all. Her appearance on opening night heralds a successful production, so she is always welcome here.''

The Japanese girls capture the theatre on their phones as the Ghost Walker waves at the elegant De Grey Rooms just up the road.

''This fine building, with its beautiful white stonework, its elegantly arched windows and its long iron-railed balcony, was built by G. T. Andrews as an officers' mess in 1841. It was used for concerts and public meetings, but, within this building, a horrifying story of murder and savagery unfolded in the late nineteenth century when Captain Clive, a pedantic old bore, and his two young sons were battered to death. Clive owed a young ensign a sum of money but instead of paying up, Clive insulted the ensign in front of his sons who followed his lead and treated the ensign with scornful contempt. The ensign marched into the captain's chambers and dashed out his brains with a poker. They say that brain matter spattered all over the tiled fireplace and appears in ghostly clusters when the captain's ghost is stalking the rooms.''

The Ghost Walker is gratified to see the children turn green. The Japanese students are just pleased their lessons on lexis have stopped at the useful, high-frequency vocabulary of 'expressing opinions' - 'I couldn't agree more' - rather than 'porridgy lumps of tissue and brain'.

''Then the ensign turned on the sons,'' the Ghost Walker continues. ''The first, a fat, moon-faced bully aged about fourteen, had his throat slit like a pig on a ship.'' Leering at the Fatster, he slowly draws a finger under his jaw. ''The blood, they say, formed a puddle four inches deep and one foot wide, and that flies feasted as it glazed over.'' Someone retches. The Ghost Walker grins. ''The younger son, a scrawny, skinny lad of around twelve, watching the blood drain into the carpet, seeing the life seep out of his brother, rushed to the balcony and hurled himself off. He was smashed into jam right there on the pavement.'' He points to the door of what used to be the Tourist Information Office. ''It is said that dogs came from those bushes,'' He indicates the shrubs in the King's Manor garden, ''To lick at the pulp and gnaw on his bones several minutes before he died.'' The Ghost Walker gives a dry, malicious laugh. ''When the mother saw what had happened, she hanged herself from a balcony rail. On very dark, moonless nights, you can still see the body swaying to and fro in the evening breeze, and hear, if you listen carefully, the thuds and cries inside the room. Mysterious blood puddles appear on the tiles and every full moon a small boy materialises on the balcony, his head smashed in so passing tourists can see what is left of his brain matter exposed like the inside of a coconut....''

They have retreated into a respectful reverie. The tip of the Ghost Walker's tongue glides over his grinning lips as Mister Pedant mutters to his wife about suing for the emotional damage done to his delicate children, the Japanese chatter enthusiastically about smashed-in skulls and seeping blood and the courting couple eye each other coyly from under their lashes. They don't seem to have heard a word of the story.

Suddenly

in a pant-peeingly scary moment

Miyumi screams

## AAAAAHHH!

Everyone follows her pointing finger to

a figure on the balcony of

De Grey's Rooms

the figure

of

a

boy

and everyone screams together

## AAAAAAAHHHHH!

''Good evening,'' says Yo-yo.

''He appeared out of nowhere.'' Miyumi is shaking. ''Out of thin air.''

''Yes,'' says Yo-yo, ''I'm sorry if I startled you. Can you help me down from here? It's unnervingly high.''

''It's .... it's .... the m....m... murdered b...b...boy,'' stammers Suki.

''OK, I'll tell him,'' says Yo-yo to nothing, ''If you get me down from here.'' He appears to vanish. The courting couple flee, screaming and crying.

''How the hell did you do that?'' says Fatmeister admiringly, but the Ghost Walker has wet his pants. Ghosts are not supposed to appear on the Ghost Walk. They're not Equity members after all. And this is his pitch, for Heaven's sake. There'll be words afterwards when the Ghostwalkers gather in The Old Star and Garter (serving John Smith's).

Yo-yo rematerializes outside Tourist Information and crosses St Leonard's Place towards the Ghost Walker's party. ''Hi, I'm Yo-yo.'' He holds out his hand. ''An' I'm not a ghost. I'm a boy. I just know a lot of stuff.'' The group is uncertain how to react to this apparition. ''The Grey Lady's called Teresa,'' he says. ''She was a nun in St Leonard's Hospital, as you say, but she was locked in her room not because she had an affair with a man but because she told the other nuns she'd seen angels in the chapel at Mass. The nuns said she had a black and lying tongue, whipped her soundly and then locked her away. A priest held a ceremony in which the grey lady was given absolution so she rests in peace but she misses company and enjoys a good play so she sometimes pops into the theatre see what's going on.'' He inclines his head, as though listening. ''Yes. The girl who starved to death is Ellen. She was six at the time.''

The Ghost Walker pulls his top hat down over his head and gibbers quietly.

''Yeah,'' says Yo-yo, ''I agree.'' He listens intently to nothing. ''I don't know.'' He turns to the Ghost Walker. ''Ellen wants to know why her parents don't haunt the old house, why it's just her. She's not the only one who died horribly there. And Teresa wants to know why people think she was having it off with a fella when she died a virgin. She says it's misrepresentation and she'd like to sue.''

The Ghost Walker yells and runs away.

Yo-yo blinks. ''What's eating him?''

''You appeared out of thin air,'' explains Mister Pedantic. ''I expect you surprised him.''

''Oh,'' says Yo-yo. ''Well, as I said, I'm not a ghost...'' He cocks his head again and grins. ''Though I know a few who are.''

''Listen, buster,'' says Mister Pedantic, ''I don't know who you are or where you came from but your ridiculous stunt has ruined our evening. Our Ghost Walker's gone and we've only had half the tour. I expect you to continue the tour or refund at least half our money.''

Yo-yo smiles. ''Take my picture.''

''What?''

''Go on, take my picture.'' Yo-yo poses with his fist on his hip.

Miyumi, shaking, holds out her phone. The others see quite clearly, behind Yo-yo's shoulder, the faint trace of a woman swinging from a rope in front of the old Tourist Information Office and the shadow of a nun at Yo-yo's side.

Cameras and mobiles bounce off the cobbles. The washed-out woman wobbles and flops in a heap. Twigster turns to run and collides with a bus stop. Podgemeister quivers, his three bellies quaking. Mister Pedantic bluffs ''How did you do that?''

Yo-yo smiles. ''They're here every day. You just never see them.''

The hanging woman grins, looks at the tourists and raises one skinny, shroud-buried arm, her skeletal hand reaching out, out, out and down....

Mister Pedantic's bravado buckles. He leaps over a wall and lands in a small, vicious shrub which scratches his shins, carves up his calves and pricks at his ...

''Help!'' he cries, ''Get me out!'' His legs flail like an upturned cockroach's.

But his sons are too busy, one picking Perspex out of his nose, the other trying to keep down fourteen pies and ten plates of chips as a puddle of piddle pools round his shoes. Their mother rocks manically backwards and forwards hugging her knees. Meanwhile, most of the Japanese students have run away quicker than a Yorkshireman runs away from standing a round in the pub. Blueberries and Nobias lie strewn on the pavement, Youtouch and Tubeface playing to no-one. Except for Miyumi. She is waving at the nun, who is waving back.

Yo-yo smiles. He thinks they'll become the best of friends. He waves to them both then sets off for Drake's, where he is due to meet his uncle and aunt for a traditional slap-up fish and chip supper with mushy peas and sliced white bread.

Yum.

# 7.

# First Night

IT is dark in the COZEE NOOK. That is because it is 02.30 in the morning. All the lights are out and everyone is asleep, everyone, that is, except Yo-yo who was woken by his bladder at 02.28. Too much orange juice at Drake's is nagging annoyingly for release. He gropes beneath the sheets for his little torch, feels it warm and hard against his fingers and fiddles with the switch till the light spills out. The room really is as gloomy and shadowy as he first thought. The furnishings are somewhat overwhelming. The vast double-bed is swamped by a lumpy, musty patchwork quilt in pinks and purples, soft goose-down pillows in which one can lose one's head, dusty-fringed purple shades on chunky bedside lamps and a towering, dark-wooded double-wardrobe glowering in the corner.

Yo-yo remembers his little room at Gillworthy. It has zoo animal wallpaper (Doctor Molasses thinks he's still seven years old, or should be, and seems determined to keep him seven, one way or another.... though Yo-yo does like the giraffes....., and the tigers ........oh, and the zebras, don't forget the zebras, they're pretty cool) and a low, single bed with crisp, white sheets and a fluffy, brown bedspread and bars that they sometimes raise to stop him falling out onto the often-cold linoleum floor. One night, when he'd had too much medication, his nocturnal flailings had tumbled him out of his bed and on to the lino where he had lain insensible for something approaching five hours. As a result of this mishap, he had caught a chill and spent the next three nights in the uninviting infirmary with Matron Majeiskii taking his temperature rectally every two hours, an experience he had been so careful not to repeat he often put the cot's bars up himself.

He fights his way out of quilt, blankets and sheets and swings his bare feet on to the threadbare bedside rug. He can feel each ropey strand digging into his sole. The once-polished wooden floorboards are cold. He shoves his feet into his slippers. They are massive, furry representations of a lion's paws complete with fluffy claws. He had trouble fitting them in his bag along with the kitchen sink but it was worth it. Firstly, they were very warm, secondly they were insanely unfashionable and thirdly they drove Doctor Molasses to distraction.

''Lion's paws do not resemble slippers,'' he would declare, ''And should not be represented as such.''

Yo-yo pads towards the bathroom in his knee-length white nightshirt and giant lion's-paw slippers. The corridor carpet is equally bare of threads. The bathroom is stark and cold, furnished in white porcelain with stained, silvered taps. He pees with a satisfied sigh then becomes slowly aware of a small boy squatting on the cistern. The dribble seems to freeze, especially when he realises he can see white tiles through the transparent body.

''Come on, Eli,'' says Yo-yo, ''I'm having a piss here. Can't I have any privacy?''

''Sorry,'' says Eleazar Glenn. ''I didn't mean to embarrass you.''

''I'm not embarrassed,'' says Yo-yo, embarrassed. ''What do you want? It's half past two in the morning.''

''Nothing really,'' says Eleazar Glenn. ''You spoke up back there for Ellen and Sister Theresa. They wanted me to tell you how much they appreciated it. The Ghost-walkers misrepresent most of us most of the time.''

''Maybe you should sue,'' says Yo-yo, flushing the toilet.

''Steady on,'' says Eleazar. ''It's like sitting on an earthquake.'' Yo-yo apologies. ''If we do sue these people,'' Eleazar continues, ''Would you represent us?''

''Maybe,'' says Yo-yo. ''I gotta go. I'll see you later.''

''If there's anything we can do for you ...'' calls the ghost, ''Just let us know. You gave me water. Most people just scream.''

''Right-o,'' says Yo-yo. Ghosts today have become very litigious. It's all about risk assessment and health and safety, haunting rights and working conditions. He knows they'll insist on a No-Win, No-Fee deal. On his way back, he spots light under the first door on the left. The keyhole is at eye-level. At least it is when he stoops.

### Katze

the cab driver, blue suit

crumpled from a hard day's work,

sleeves rolled up and over his elbows,

white shirt grubby, sweat-stained from driving,

tie tugged down from his unbuttoned collar

cap shoved back on his greasy black hair

cigarette glued to his dry lower lip

chin unshaven

eyes red-rimmed

and tired through overwork

leaning against a chest of drawers

with all the world weariness of a man who

has been on the road for most of the day and not

stopped to draw breath or drink tea or pause for even a moment

in the endless quest to fuel his tank.

Yo-yo feels sorry for Katze. He knows the cab driver has 'feelings' for Mrs Lollipop. Everyone knows Katze has 'feelings' for Mrs Lollipop, except, of course, Mrs Lollipop. She is almost certainly the only person in the COZEE NOOK who hasn't received a rehearsed rendition of Katze's wonderful wooing speech, his 'courting card'. Lily Gusset, in fact, was so overcome that s/he immediately proposed to Katze and even went so far as to buy a wide-brimmed, lace-lined pink hat for the wedding despite Aunty Latch's accusation that s/he was using the notional nuptials as a simple and not very good excuse for buying a very large hat.

Katze's courting card goes like this -

Roses are red, violets are blue,

Stay in your bed and I'll marry you.

Grass is green and daisies are white,

Let's have lots of children tonight.

''Oh yesssss,'' squealed Lily Gusset. ''Children! Lots and lots of children!''

''I'm not sure that's biologically possible,'' Yo-yo interrupted, ''Unless we keep the foetus in a box under the sink.''

''I'm talking about Lolly,'' said Katze impatiently, ''Not Lily.''

Who sobbed ''Oh, another heartless rejection! Ohhhhh! [Dramatic sniff] How could you do this to me? Men! You're all bastards!'' S/he put her head on her arms and cried loudly.

''Now see what you've done!'' Yo-yo glared at Katze. ''You thoughtless bastard.'' He stroked Lily Gusset's hair tenderly. ''Come on, Lil. Don't take it to heart. There's plenty more leaves on the tree.''

''Waaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!'' howled Lily. ''And to think I wasted the best years of my youth on him!''

''Men!'' Yo-yo said feelingly. ''All chocolates and roses before they get what they want and then, when they've had their wicked way with you, VOOM, they're off, like a bat from an oven. Especially if you're up the stick. Then they're away like a parrot off a pylon. And it's all your fault, Lil. 'You should've been more careful, love. Got yourself protection. Taken the pill, worn a Dutch cap, whatever. You can't expect me to remember everything. I have enough trouble tying my laces 'cos I'm a man and I'm dense'. God, we've heard it all.'' Yo-yo growled. ''Bloody men. Should have their nuts crushed. You bastard. You selfish, thoughtless bastard.'' He glared at Katze again. He shrugged in surprise and pushed his cap further back on his head. ''Now then, Lil,'' said Yo-yo, ''Dry your eyes. Come on now. Your mascara's running. Don't worry. There's plenty more seeds in the pod.''

''Waaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!'' wailed Lily. ''And to think I asked him to marry me. Ohhhhhhhh. I'll never trust another man. I'll never love again. Ohhhh, my poor heart's broken in pieces. Fancy misleading a poor young girl like that, just to get his leg over. Men! They're sooooo selfish. You let this be a lesson to you, Yo-yo. Don't let them lead you on like they did me. Or you'll be heart-broken too. Or worse. You'll be up the duff and then where will you be?. They'll get you pregnant then leave you standing at the altar with a bun in your oven and.. WAAAAAHHHH!''

''You should have your bollocks cut off,'' Yo-yo told Katze.

Katze frowned, perplexed by it all.

''Did you get her pregnant?'' Yo-yo shielded Lily's shoulders protectively. ''Did you get her in the pudding club? You did! You great, big, stinking sack of manure. And now you want to abandon her. No wonder the country's in a state, feckless single mothers all over the shop claiming benefits and cheating the taxpayer. You unfeeling, chauvinist pig. You should have your bollocks crushed, you cheating swine. That'd learn you.'' Yo-yo clenched his fists. ''I'll do time, I swear, I'll do time.''

Katze mumbled a muted apology.

''And that's all you have to say for yourself?'' raged Yo-yo, trying to comfort Lily. ''There, there, Lil. Don't take on so. We'll get the bastard to pay up for maintenance. Do you wanna press rape charges?'' He glared at Katze. ''Yeah, rape charges. That'd show you, you selfish pig. Justice 4 Kiddies...'' His rage became incoherent, his clenched fists flailed, his face went purple and spittle flecked his lips.

Katze was confused when he went to bed, but the true object of his affections is now

snortling gently

her several chins

quaking and shaking

her fat sausage fingers

clutching the edge

of the bed sheet

whilst her pet

bird

on his perch

golden beak tucked

beneath his black wing

mutters in his

sleep

Yo-yo presses his ear to the keyhole but cannot really hear any words, just an indistinct

milly

milly milly

milly milly milly

milly milly

milly

milly milly

milly milly milly

It is not clear what Baby is talking about. Either he is hungry and referring to bird seed (millet) or he is dreaming about Mrs Lollipop's husband (Mildew). Yo-yo cannot remember much about Mildew. He decides to ask Aunty Latch in the morning.

Aunty Latch is next door, sharing the big double bed with Uncle Reefer. Yo-yo eschews the key hole, opens the door softly and peers through the crack.

Reefer is further from

the door, lying on his

back, moustache gently

stirred by the breath which

seeps through half-open

lips, one hand on his

heart, beating quietly

inside his pyjamas.

Latch is nearer the door,

hair dressed in nets,

trussed up in curlers,

the crimpled collar of a

flannelette nightgown

bunched under her chin

and her yellowing teeth

grinning out of a glass

by the side of the bed.

Yo-yo is fond of his uncle and aunt but Doctor Molasses and Matron Majeiskii don't trust them. ''Anyone who breeds sea slugs for a hobby has got to be a loony,'' is Molasses' psychiatrical, doctorial verdict on Uncle Reefer. Doctor Molasses is never happy when Yo-yo is 'disturbed' by his relatives.

Yo-yo remembers a time when Uncle Reefer and Aunty Latch visited him at Gillworthy. He had been unwell. His uncle and aunt had looked worried by his bedside, his aunt saying how 'peaky' he looked, his uncle shuffling his feet awkwardly and fiddling with his moustache, Doctor Molasses consulting a clipboard and 'humming and hawing' quite unconvincingly, and Matron Majeiskii saying he needed a syrup-of-figs-and-castor-oil diet to 'sort out his bowels'. Yo-yo had contributed to the diagnostic decision-making by suggesting weakly that after a syrup-of-figs-and-castor-oil diet he'd have no bowels left. Doctor Molasses had agreed somewhat reluctantly to allow Yo-yo to get some fresh air. Uncle Reefer had lowered the bedside bars and lifted Yo-yo out of the cot into a wheelchair. Yo-yo had been wearing the pale blue pyjamas that were as much a Gillworthy badge as the round-the-neck variety Molasses and Majeiskii wore on a daily basis and Yo-yo wore when visitors came. His bare feet had looked palely frail on the foot rest. Uncle Reefer had pushed him round the garden in a silence broken only by the winnowing of his pipe and Aunty Latch's occasional snippets of gossip. The neat, green lawns had been particularly immaculate that day, the scent of the roses strongly sweet whilst the water, sparkling like crystal caught in the sunshine, had plashed playfully into the fountains.

''It's a beautiful place,'' Aunty Latch had remarked.

''Oh, aye,'' said Uncle Reefer.

''And the doctor seems nice.''

''He's a donkey,'' said Yo-yo, feeling his chest tighten as he struggled to breathe.

''Do you need oxygen?'' Uncle Reefer enquired.

''Sssssss,'' Yo-yo gulped down a lungful. ''No .. I'm .... OK.'' His knuckles stood out white on the grips of the chair. ''Molasses .. thinks ... I'm ... an ... invalid. Majeiskii thinks ... I'm ... constipated, and they both think I'm mad.'' Yo-yo lets out a shallow breath. ''What a place.''

After they had wheeled him round the garden several times, Matron Majeiskii had appeared in the doorway to wave them indoors saying it was time for the boy's medication, a thick, white syrup which tasted of toothpaste and made him feel sick.

Uncle Reefer had brushed Yo-yo's face with his moustache and muttered ''Come and stay soon.'' Yo-yo had grinned. That was as good as it got from his uncle. He'd been positively gushing that day. Which is what Yo-yo had been after the syrup- of-figs-and-castor-oil diet.

He blows them a kiss, closes their door gently and treads carefully, stealthily down the stairs. In the hall, outside the living room, is a bear in a pram. The bear is wearing a nappy and a baby's bonnet. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.

''All right?'' says Yo-yo.

''Aye,'' says the bear, ''Can't complain.''

In the living room, shrouded in almost total darkness but for the tiny glow of a miniature china lantern, two figures are dancing. One is a blue-bonneted girl carrying a basket. Her pale blue dress is bound at the waist with a pink sash. She is a milkmaid by trade. Her name is Aureole. Her partner is a small farmer's boy wearing raggedy knee-length shorts and a battered straw hat. His bare feet are dirty. A satchel is slung over one shoulder. A fishing rod rests on the other. His name is Sylvain. A third figurine, a grizzled old man in green trousers and a dirty cream-coloured smock, is playing a slow waltz on an accordion. The lantern rests at his feet. He is a miller. His name is Chrétien. They all come from Le Loire Valley.

Sylvain draws Aureole closer. His fingers press against her waist, against the strings of her corset. Sylvain sighs.

''Oh, mon garon,'' breathes Aureole, the pinky blush painted on her cheeks deepening a little as her own fingers find the string holding up Sylvain's shorts, ''Mon garon.''

''Do you see ze moon, ma chérie?'' Sylvain says. ''Your skin is paler zan ze pale moonlight.''

''Oh, Sylvain ...'' Aureole flutters.

''You see ze stars, ma chérie? Your eyes sparkle more zan ze stars in ze sky.''

''Oh Sylvain...,'' Aureole twitters.

''Do you see ze black night sky? Your hair is blacker zan ze black night sky.''

''Oh Sylvain...,'' Aureole witters. The milkmaid is melting into Sylvain's arms, heart soaring, hopes rising, wooed by his words and a winning French accent. She is reaching ze point when a major indiscretion will be committed. ''Oh, mon Sylvain ...'' she whispers moistly.

''Oh, ma Aureole, je t'aime...,'' breathes Sylvain huskily, ''Je t'aime, mon amour.....''

''Where the bloody buggering hell is the map?'' The living room door blasts open. Yo-yo thunders in, tossing papers around as he searches for the York A to Z. Light floods through the portal. The figurines hurriedly scurry for cover. Yo-yo rages round the room for a minute or two. Why he wants an A to Z at three in the morning is beyond the comprehension of the three figurines concealed in the folds of the thick velvet curtain.

''Oh, my back eez keeling me,'' comments Chrétien.

''Shut up, you old fool,'' says Sylvain.

''Don't speak to my grandpapa like zat,'' says Aureole, pushing her basket against his rod. '' 'E's very uncomfortable. An' so am I.''

''Oh,'' says Sylvain, ''Zen take off your corset, ma chérie ...''

''Where the bollocks is the map?'' Yo-yo rifles through the stack of leaflets on the coffee table. A black and white flyer floats to the floor. ''Ah, Ghost Walks centred on Inns and Pubs,'' he exclaims. ''Sounds merry.'' He shoves it into his nightshirt's breast-pocket then spots what he is looking for, the A to Z. He needs it to plan tomorrow's expedition into the city. He picks it up and whirls out of the room, flicking the switch and plunging everything back into darkness.

''Oh, ma chérie, where were we?'' murmurs Sylvain.

''Oh, Sylvain, you were about to kiss me, kiss me, kiss me .....''

As the painted china lips of Sylvain and Aureole meet, Yo-yo creeps upstairs, pausing only to peep into Lily's hole and recoil, surprised, from -

Blu-tak or plasticine or even a rag. Whatever, Lily's hole is well and truly stuffed.

8.

''Gooooooooooooood Morning Yo-yo,'' trills Aunty Latch.

''Mmmmmmm,'' goes Yo-yo through sleep-gummed lips.

''Lovely day, me dear.'' Aunty Latch draws open the heavy, flowery curtains that will present Yo-yo with an unparalleled view over several slate-grey, rain-glistened roofs. ''What would you like to do?''

''Unnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnh.'' Yo-yo rolls onto his side and drags the duvet up to his ears.

''Well, you can tell us over breakfast. About half an hour?'' Aunty Latch breezes out.

Yo-yo feels the early morning sunshine bleeding through his eyelids and realises with some dismay that he's not going to be able to get back to sleep. And it's only just turned 8.30, for goodness' sake. It's not like this at Gillworthy. There he's allowed to sleep as long as he likes. In fact, they prefer it when he sleeps. Things don't happen when he sleeps. As a rule. Though sometimes they do. Anyhow, Yo-yo knows that Matron Majeiskii sometimes puts stuff in his food to make him sleep so it is clear to him that the staff are happier when he's sleeping. There's nothing for them to do, he supposes, except play cards or catch up with their knitting or sit around watching him sleeping (he knows they do that occasionally). When he's sleeping, the pressure is off.

When Yo-yo first went to Gillworthy he didn't sleep at all. Not once. Not for six nights. He sat cross-legged on the bed in a white, polyester, tie-up-at-the-back night-gown and stared at the bare, white walls for 144 hours (a.k.a. 8,640 minutes, a.k.a. 518,400 seconds). On the first morning, at eight o'clock, blond, block-headed Orderly Henke brought him a blue bowl of Coco Pops, a Rich Tea biscuit and a glass of milk. Yo-yo had been sitting cross-legged on the bed staring at the bare, white walls. He had been sitting cross-legged on the bed staring at the bare, white walls since his admission at half-past four on that dark and drizzly December day. Orderly Henke had put the tray on the floor, snapped his fingers around Yo-yo's head, then shouted for Matron Majeiskii that ''ve noo boy [was] in a trarnce''.

People had

pontificated and preached about his mental condition.

He had kept his gaze fixed on the bare, white walls. People had

passed their hands before his eyes.

He had kept his gaze fixed on the bare, white walls. People had

paraded objects and items in front of him.

He had kept his gaze fixed on the bare, white walls. People had

poked him and prodded him.

He had kept his gaze fixed on the bare, white walls. People had

pricked him with needles and poured electricity into his skull.

He had kept his gaze fixed on the bare, white walls. People had

pretended to give up and go away.

He had kept his gaze fixed on the bare, white walls. People had

pouted with personal affront.

Finally, on the morning of the seventh day, Yo-yo had suddenly turned his head, gazed impassively at Matron Majeiskii's hair-matted hands and knotted, swollen varicose veins and flashed her one brief, brilliant, beatific smile. ''I like you,'' he'd said, ''You're kind,'' and she had fallen instantly in love with him.

Doctor Molasses, however, had received a quite different reception when he had completed his clip-boarding along the corridor.

''At last you're awake,'' the doctor had simpered.

''I haven't been asleep,'' Yo-yo had answered. ''Have you never heard of meditation?''

Doctor Molasses had humphed and glanced at Matron Majeiskii. ''You were asleep, Yo-yo,'' he'd insisted. ''Although your eyes were open, you were clinically asleep.''

Yo-yo had turned his head and gazed impassively at the wine-dark, wine-darkened, soggy-frankfurter nose, the Swarfega hair, the panda rings under the tired eyes, said again ''Have you never heard of meditation?'' and returned his gaze to the bare, white wall.

Doctor Molasses had harrumphed a lot and told everyone that Yo-yo was still in shock and deep denial and that they should give him plenty of space, plenty of time and plenty of fluids, intravenously if necessary, rectally if he objected. But Yo-yo had, for the first time in a week, seized the bowl from Orderly Henke and spooned down soggy Coco Pops with an appreciative thumbs up.

''I'm not mad,'' he'd chanted. ''I'm not mad. I'm not mad. I'm not mad. I'm not mad.''

He flips back the bedspread and, with the emerald ring concealed under his night-shirt, pads down the stairs in his giant lion's-paw slippers to the kitchen where he is met by the mingled smells of bacon, coffee, pipe smoke and aftershave. The bear shoves past him on his way to the bathroom.

''All right?'' says Yo-yo.

''Aye,'' says the bear, ''Pushing along.''

''A'reet?'' grunts Uncle Reefer (grey slacks, white and blue checky shirt, pale green cardy with leather elbow patches) from behind his pipe-bowl.

''Aye,'' says Yo-yo, ''Fair to middlin'.''

''Bacon and tomato roll OK?'' says Aunty Latch (white and apricot floral print frock, pink pinny and plastic pink hair-curlers) from beside the grill.

''Sure.'' Yo-yo pulls over a chair.

''Morning,'' grunts Lily Gusset (tight, black, leather trousers, Union Flag T-shirt, bulging biceps complete with Rock Hard tattoo on arms like steel hawsers, chin like black sandpaper and a Grade 1 haircut) from behind a newspaper.

''Good morning,'' says Yo-yo.

''Good morning,'' says Aunty Latch.

''We've gabbed the whole night through,'' says Uncle Reefer.

''Good morning, good morning to you.''

Then they are up and away in a splendiferous song-and-dance routine from Singing in the Rain, (or Capering Round the Kitchen).

Yo-yo: When the band began to play, the sun was shinin' bright.

Latch: Now the milkman's on his way, It's too late to say goodnight.

All: So, good mornin', good mornin'!

Reefer: Sunbeams will soon smile through,

Yo-yo: Good mornin', good mornin', to you,

Latch: And you, and you, and you!

All: Good morning, Good morning,

(Dancing round the table) It's great to stay up late,

Good morning, good morning to you.

As the music builds to a crescendo, the three leads go into a manic tap routine which ends with Yo-yo stepping on a chair-back then running up the kitchen wall. Lily Gusset shakes his paper irritably.

''Do you mind? I'm tryin' to read the footie scores. United got battered by the Toon Army last night.''

Yo-yo pours himself some coffee and sits down. ''Sorry, Lil.''

''This ain't a West-End Musical, thank God.''

''Indeed.''

''I mean I know it's a beautiful morrrrrning, oh what a beautiful day, I've got a wonderful feeling, everything's going my....''

''Shut up.''

''Bloody car thieves,'' snarls Lily Gusset, ''I'd string 'em up by their bollocks if I got my hands on 'em. Bastards TWOCed another one from the Clifton Estate last night.''

''Aye,'' says Uncle Reefer. He jabs his stem at his nephew. ''Going out today?''

''I guess,'' says Yo-yo.

''You could always stay here and help me with me nudibranch,'' Uncle Reefer says. ''You haven't seen it yet. Getting ever so big. You could feed it and clean it out. Be an interesting job for a young lad like you, feedin' the nudibranch.''

''Aye, it's got very fat,'' adds Aunty Latch, flipping the bacon. ''He's no waster, your nudibranch, and he don't half leave muckment about.''

Uncle Reefer breeds nudibranches. Yo-yo likes the nudibranch farm. It is full of fat slugs. Uncle Reefer has several but one prize sea-slug he treats like the son he never had. This is Chromodoris reticulata - Chris, for short. Chris is from Bali, Indonesia. Uncle Reefer paid a whole year's profit from the COZEE NOOK to acquire him, so £6.50. Worth every penny, he is a spectacular combination of red, pink, white and several millilitres of slime.

Uncle Reefer is trying to breed Chris with another slug, Hexabranchus Sanguineus, Hexy for short.

This experiment is not succeeding. Apparently Chris thinks Hexy isn't much of a looker.

''Think I'll go into town.'' Yo-yo sips his milk. ''Do some shopping.''

''Better get dressed first,'' growls Lily Gusset, clearly in a masculine role today. ''You can't go out like that.'' Yo-yo's nightshirt has rucked up over his knee. ''You'll get had up or felt up or both. By a lovely young filly with a policewoman's hat and a deep truncheon pouch, fnarr fnarr. You'll be tossing around in her cuffs before you can say 'Mind me helmet', hurrr hurrr.''

''Here you go.'' Aunty Latch slides Yo-yo a plated bacon and tomato roll. ''Can you take Mrs Lollipop's toast and marmalade up, Reefer?''

With a grumbling rumble, Uncle Reefer takes off and Yo-yo munches happily on his bacon and tomato roll. Unsurprisingly, he isn't allowed tomatoes in Gillworthy. They're said to be suggestive. And as for a roll, forget it. Even Matron Majeiskii won't give him a roll, though Orderly Henke might for a price.

When he has finished, he goes up to dress. But what to wear? He has packed for every eventuality. He tries on a succession of combinations from his rucksack and appears in

grey hooded sweatshirt pale blue jeans green socks

purple T-shirt green jeans white socks

dark blue sweater white knee-length shorts black socks

navy blue athletics vest navy blue silky shorts no socks

red York City shirt black York City shorts red York City socks

saffron Buddhist monk's robe and brown leather sandals

green Speedo swimming trunks and black tinted goggles

black wetsuit

He settles for the athletics combination, although he's tempted by the robes. Yellowy orange. Could do a lot with those. Mind you, he would have to shave his head and he's not too keen on losing the dusty orange mop that earned him the nickname 'Jaffa' in his first weeks at Gillworthy. The athletics vest has a logo stitched up across the chest -Runners do it faster. The shorts are cut mid-thigh. Rue and Thyme will like that. He ties the laces on his silver trainers, picks up his rucksack and goes out.

It isn't far from the COZEE NOOK to the city centre. Yo-yo walks past Clifton Parish Church (the blue and gold clock reads 10.10), the Old Grey Mare, a B & B serving John Smith's, a bitter he scorns, and the Cottage Hotel, a Spar and a post office, the red-brick-and-spired Clifton Methodist Church, Clifton Preparatory School for Boys and Girls aged 3 to 8 and Clifton Bingo facing it. At St Peter's School (founded in 627 A.D. by St Paulinus, Archbishop of York, and the third oldest school in the world) he pauses. It is now co-ed and independent, boarding and day, and he reflects, as the boys in brown blazers cross the footbridge and enter the gates, that this is the school that produced that embittered patriot Guido Fawkes. Further up the road, after Bootham Crescent, where York City F.C. disappoint their fans week after week, he passes another school, at Number 51, with two large Ionic columns on either side of an imposing blue door and two bas-relief columns behind them, an affectation repeated on the first-floor balcony. This school is administered by the Society of Friends (Quakers) for pupils aged 11-18, and is named after the road itself, Bootham. Virtually next door is the home of Joseph Rowntree (1836-1925), purveyor of confectionary to the nation, pioneer of research and reform on social policy and industrial relations, a three-storey red-brick house with white window frames, black iron railings and a blue door with a black knocker. Yo-yo debates utilising said knocker and asking for a Kit Kat, but cannot be sure of the reception he would get so opts to continue his walk. He passes BBC Radio York, what used to be the

OFF-LICENCE, NEWS, FOODSTORE

of Jackson's of Bootham and the Bootham Tavern (''No children under 12. Children over 12 must leave by 8 p.m.'' for heaven's sake), Wormholes Bookshop and the brown-and white-coloured Private Shop where they watch dodgy movies and play BBC Radio 2 all day, and arrives at the triple-shielded, triple-statued, magnificently medieval Bootham Bar. A plaque informs him that

Bootham is from the Old West Scandinavian word Buthum (1150) ''at the booth's'', implying a district of humble or temporary dwellings. Jurisdiction was disputed between the City and St Mary's Monastery. It was the main road into the City

from the North and is on the line of the Roman Road.

He looks longingly at The Exhibition (serving John Smith's), and heads across the road to the Bar itself where another plaque tells him that

This marks the site of the Porta Principalis Dextra (North West Gate) of the Roman Fortress. The foundations were rebuilt c. 300 AD and lie just below the ground

Next to the plaque is the Gents toilet. Yo-yo goes in. It smells. He stands at a urinal and lets out all the tea he has drunk with a sigh and then becomes aware of a smell even more overpowering than that of the urine, the smell of perfumed forget-me-nots.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! he cries.

''Sell me your ring,'' breathes Mister Vanilla from the next urinal. ''I'll give you a pink dolly for it.''

Mister Vanilla produces a china doll with ludicrously blonde curls.

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH! cries Yo-yo, and runs out of the toilets.

''I'll take good care of it,'' calls Mister Vanilla, zipping up his very large trousers.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! yells Yo-yo.

''Sorry,'' says a tourist. ''Y'all dress like that, y'all get what y'all deserve.''

''No,'' says another tourist. ''It's his right to dress as he likes.''

''But,'' says Jeremy Vine on BBC Radio Two, ''Aren't the shorts provocative?''

''Well,'' says the first tourist, ''Where I come from, the boy'd be horsewhipped. In Thicktwistle Alabama, we don't tolerate these slutty little hoes running round in their skimpy clothing.''

Jeremy Vine: Some people say that runners need to wear shorts.

Tourist: Nonsense. They're making an excuse for filth. That's what it is, Jeremy, filth, pure filth. It's disgusting. Justice 4 kiddies.

Jeremy Vine: Mona McBonkers, social worker and columnist in the Daily Wail, what do you think?

Mona McBonkers: Well, Jeremy, research proves that 98% of people who wear shorts are simply exhibitionists and examples of male patriarchal oppression. Basically they'd rather be flashing their penises than their legs. It's a fact that men are oppressive bastards who need castrating ....no offence to you, Jeremy....

''I hate Radio bloody Two,'' says Yo-yo, switching off the set.

People are staring from the grid-locked bus, the driver of which is still cursing and hooting impotently. God, they've been there all night. Yo-yo collects himself and reties the drawstring of his shorts. He is in Exhibition Square, so-named in 1879 because of the Fine Art and Industrial Exhibition of that year for which the City Gallery was erected. The statue of William Etty R.A. (born in York 1787, elected Royal Academician 1828, died 1849), shouts ''On to the walls! Get to on to the walls!'', and, as Yo-yo dashes up the ancient, medieval steps, William Etty R.A. comes down from his plinth to grapple with Mister Vanilla.

''I am the most under-rated painter of my generation!'' yells William Etty R.A.

''You painted too many nudes,'' explains Mister Vanilla, ''Especially women with big thighs and generous boobies that you pretended were nymphs, you dirty old man.''

''Right!'' shouts William Etty R.A., trying to twist Mister Vanilla's arm into a half-nelson. ''Right! That does it!''

''Get off, you old fool!'' shouts Mister Vanilla as William Etty R.A. wrestles his bulk to the floor.

The tourists take photos.

''Ha,'' says Suki, ''This is good sport. The lunner is good.''

''Yes,'' says Miyumi, ''He fast.''

''Faster than fat man.''

''Yes.'' The camera clicks. Yo-yo is captured in mid-stride. He looks surprised, like a haddock in a sheet of newspaper suddenly surrounded by chips and vinegar.

''Here's the fat one.'' Suki clicks the camera, gets a lensful of bellies. Yo-yo scrambles up the steps as Mister Vanilla and William Etty R.A. wrestle like Don Giovanni and the Commendatore in a WWF-cage.

''You'll never take him alive!'' yells William Etty R.A.

''Get off, you old, dead fool!'' shouts Mister Vanilla, pinning the painter to the ground with his forty-stone stomachs. ''Have a sugared dandelion and get back to your plinth.''

William Etty, R.A, accepts the sweet and immediately crumbles into a pile of powder.

''Ha ha,'' cries Mister Vanilla. ''The boy is mine!''

''Not fair,'' says Miyumi, capturing as much as she can on her Samstung.

''No, not fair,'' agrees Suki, snapping everything on her Nookia.

Yo-yo dashes across the road and darts up the medieval steps to the medieval walls and Bootham Gate whilst Mister Vanilla heaves himself upright and lumbers after him. He is panting like an asthmatic walrus with a heart condition who has just climbed Great Whernside but he will not allow Yo-yo's ring to escape him now. Not now. Even if he has a heart attack in the process. Even if William Etty R.A. recovers enough to slam-dunk him into a doughnut. Even if he is photographed and posted on MyFace with his pants on his head and a cat in his lap. Yo-yo's ring belongs to him, and he will seize it.

#

#

# 9.

# Monkgate

INSIDE the gatehouse, a bicycle is leaning against the wooden portcullis. Yo-yo grabs it and climbs aboard. It's a Penny Farthing. Hell's bells. He struggles to keep it under control and wobbles through the door towards the Minster. Over his shoulder he sees Mister Vanilla seize a small, child's (or a small child's) bike and set off in pursuit. They cycle past the rooftops of High Petergate, the boy on the Penny Farthing, the hugely fat man on the little kid's bike, the saddle sandwiched between his vast buttocks thusly-

''Sell me your ring,'' cries Mister Vanilla. ''I'll give you a pearl necklace for your ring.''

The wall is very narrow and the drop very steep. They pass the Minster gardens and then the clerical houses, long, beautiful lawns tended by churchmen, and then, horrifyingly, there are some steps, only a few but enough to send their teeth a-chattering, their bones a-clattering and their bollocks a-splattering.

''A-A-A-A-A-A-A,'' he cries as he judders down to the next level.

''U-U-U-U-U-U-U,'' cries Mister Vanilla as he follows.

Yo-yo just manages to stay ahead, although his legs cannot really reach the pedals. It does not matter. Mister Vanilla's knees are somewhere up near his nose.

As they pass high by the traffic lights at the Gillygate junction, a chocolate Labrador in a purple Ford Focus does a double-take then woofs ''Shave your legs!''

Bollocks, thinks Yo-yo, there's nothing to shave, and they swerve round the bend and into the straight stretch of Lord Mayor's Walk.

Along the ancient wall they go, the boy struggling to get a foothold on the pedals because his legs are too short, the man wobbling dangerously because he is too large. Forty-stone on a tiny child's bike (or a tiny, child's bike), but when they reach Monkbar and enter a narrower section, it's Yo-yo who

o s

w b e

b l

and comes off the bike, scraping his elbow on the medieval stones.

''Bugger!'' cries Yo-yo as the Penny Farthing skids away and over the wall to land in a rose-bush in a garden below. ''Bugger!''

''Aha!'' cries Mister Vanilla, ''I have you now!'' He discards his bike and advances, moustaches waxed and very erect. He pops a sugared daisy into his mouth, breathes the scent into Yo-yo's face as he kneels down. Yo-yo backs into the Monkbar stones. ''I want your ring,'' says Mister Vanilla. ''I'll give you a belly-button diamond in exchange.'' The small kid's bike tumbles away over the grass. Mister Vanilla stretches out one pudgy finger and touches the ring inside Yo-yo's vest. ''Nice outfit, by the way,'' breathes Mister Vanilla, ''Very sporty, and I know you like sports.'' Yo-yo wrestles and struggles beneath the great weight but it is like a starfish trying to crawl out from under a whale. ''Come along, Yo-yo, I'll treat your ring well,'' breathes Mister Vanilla. ''I'll keep it polished and shiny, buff it up every day, if only you'll let me. You'll love what I'll do to it. You can have a pearl belly-button stud and a very rare pearl tongue-ring in exchange.''

''Everyone wants my jewel,'' says Yo-yo. ''Why should I give it to you?''

''Because of your mother,'' says Mister Vanilla.

''Don't talk of my mother,'' Yo-yo says fiercely. ''She's dead, right? Dead. I killed her. I sliced her up with a chainsaw, cut out her liver and fried it with rice, along with that of her boyfriend, the one-legged window cleaner named Stins. I dissolved his bones in sulphuric acid and buried my mother under the dahlias. They were always her favourite flower.''

''That was peonies,'' says Mister Vanilla. ''I'm so sorry, Yo-yo. I need your ring.''

''You'll have to kill me first,'' says Yo-yo defiantly.

''Maybe it's time,'' says Mister Vanilla. ''Maybe it's time to end all the pain, all the confusion, all the questions that swirl in your mind, the headaches, the eating disorders, the identity crises, the lying awake in the middle of the night, the constant 'who am I' and 'why am I different', the crying, the tears, the endless fear of being discovered. You know they will beat you if they learn what you are,'' Mister Vanilla fixes his eyes on the emerald ring, ''What this does, the power this gives you. They may even kill you. They've killed people for less.''

''Without the ring I am nothing,'' says Yo-yo. ''You may as well kill me.''

''I don't want to kill you,'' says Mister Vanilla.

''Do it,'' says Yo-yo, and closes his eyes. Mister Vanilla shakes himself, reaches out for Yo-yo's throat, fat-sausage fingers bloated and stiffening. Yo-yo smiles contentedly and prepares for surrender to the fat man. At last it is happening. Perhaps it is time for the questions to stop. Come, Mister Vanilla. Do it. Finish it. The time has come. The pain must end. His throat is squeezed. He feels his face purpling. Choked-in air rattles his body. He utters a gargle. He senses Mister Vanilla's peppermint breath in his hair.

''Oi, you!'' comes a shout from Monk Gate. ''What's your game?''

''Taking something that is mine by right,'' says Mister Vanilla. ''Now shove off!''

''You leave him alone!'' shouts the voice. Yo-yo opens his eyes.

King Richard III's black velvet robes flow over his bulging, humped back. His shoulder-length hair is rat-chewed and ragged, his withered arm dried up and blasted. The golden chain clanks on his chest as he limps monstrously from the Monkbar museum, his sword raised.

Mister Vanilla backs away from the boy's fallen body. ''Your Majesty, I am merely collecting a long-standing debt.'' He digs in his waistcoat pocket and gives a winning smile. ''Sugared snowdrop?''

''RUN!'' yells King Richard. Coughing, spluttering and gulping down air, Yo-yo scrambles to his feet and hares away along the wall and down the stairs, hearing Mister Vanilla's cry of exasperation ''Get off, you dead fool!'' as he reaches the bottom. He looks wildly around, is momentarily tempted by The Monkbar Model Shop with its enticing display of Hornby train sets and Airfix planes, is not tempted by Ladbroke's or by the Monk Bar newsagent's racks of Le Monde and Frankfurter Allgemeine or by Meadowcroft's shoe repair and key-cutting shop (est. over 80 years) so runs across the road past some old gravestones and jumps into

Job Centre Plus.

There is a blue sofa with a red back set on a grey carpet in front of a lectern staffed by a shock-headed, blue-blazered official whose purple name-badge reads ''MARK MIZZENMAST. I AM HERE TO HELP.''

''Good morning, sir,'' Mark Mizzenmast oils. ''What cycle are you?''

''What?''

''Cycle,'' says Mister Mizzenmast.

''Errr .... penny farthing,'' Yo-yo replies.

''Ho, a joker.'' Mister Mark Mizzenmast smoothes his blazer. ''You'll never get a job with that attitude,'' he sniffs. ''What's your cycle?''

''40 for colour-fast, cold-rinse and spin,'' says Yo-yo.

''One last time, or I'll call Security.'' Mark Mizzenmast stands up ramrod straight. ''What's your cycle?''

''OK, OK.'' Yo-yo looks Mark Mizzenmast straight in the eye. ''Once a month I bleed like a gazelle's throat that's been ripped out by a lion, eat cakes and coals and stab my boyfriend in the arse with a red-hot knitting needle. Happy?''

Mark Mizzenmast blows a whistle. ''Security! Security! We got a clown who doesn't take the Job Centre seriously. Batter him! Batter him now! And cancel his claim!''

Yo-yo bolts into the

Selby and York NHS Monkgate Health Centre.

He has got the security guards from the Job Centre on his tail. Not that a rather thick-set woman and a wheezy old geezer worry him but it's still something else to deal with.

''What seems to be the problem, young man?'' says a white-coated nurse with a face like a bulldog chewing a bag of thumb-tacks.

''I have a problem with my ring,'' he gasps.

She slaps his face. ''Don't be disgusting,'' she hisses.

''Yo-yo, my ballcock! I'm coming to get you!''

He can smell the sugared rose-petals.

So he bolts again into St Wilfrid's RC Primary School (Diocese of Middlesbrough).

''Where's your school jumper?'' says an officious schoolteacher with a face like a bulldog chewing a bag of plungers. ''And you don't have a tie. Don't you know PE kit is only for PE lessons? Really, you are the scruffiest young lout I've ever set eyes on. You'll sit here after school for half an hour and write lines 'I must not wear shorts in the shower.' No, I meant corridor. 'I must not wear shorts in the corridor.' No, classroom. 'I must not wear shorts in the classroom.' Oh bollocks. No, not bollocks, titties. Yes. Titties. Big hairy titties. No. No. Not hairy. Just titties. 'I MUST wear shorts in the classroom.'...No. Bollocks. Shit. I meant titties.''

''Yoo hoo, my cockling!'' coos Mister Vanilla, fat face at the window.

AHHHHHH! yells Yo-yo.

''I must wear titties in the classroom,'' the schoolteacher says. He opens his jacket to reveal a pendulous pair of plastic breasts. But Yo-yo has gone. ''Bollocks,'' says the teacher. ''Nice shorts.'' He hitches up his comedy boobs and pulls a face like a bulldog chewing a carton of spiders. ''So I said to Enid, if these get any bigger, I'll be able to use them as ear-warmers.''

Yo-yo is back on Monkgate but The Tap and Spile is closed. He pounds on the door. ''Let me in,'' he cries. ''Let me in.''

A grumpy voice calls ''We ain't open yet, you sad, raddled, young alcoholic.''

''I need help,'' cries Yo-yo.

''You're telling me, mate,'' says the grumpy voice. ''It's not even 10 and you're banging on the door after a drink. Pissheads' Anonymous, mate. That's what you need, not a drink''

''Please.....'' begs Yo-yo, ''Please let me in. I might die if you don't.''

''Good God,'' says the grumpy voice in disgust, "To be in such a state at your time of life. How old are you? You don't sound more than eight.''

''I'm thirteen actually,'' says Yo-yo, ''Nearly fourteen, but that's not the point.''

''Good God, thirteen,'' says the grumpy voice. ''I bet your liver's completely fried. You'll be like that there Georgie Best.'' From inside The Tap and Spile, Yo-yo can hear the radio:

Mona McBonkers: He's only got himself to blame, Jeremy. Alcoholics deserve no sympathy.

Jeremy Vine: But isn't alcoholism a disease, Mona?

Mona McBonkers: Disease my arse, Jeremy. The research says it's a self-inflicted self-indulgence. I hope he dies slowly and painfully as his liver rots inside him and then them kiddies in the parks will be safe. 95% of my Daily Wail readers agree with me, so it must be true. The so-called common people know better than any politician how to keep the kiddies safe from these booze-raddled scumbags.

''I'm coming, my prettikins,'' calls Mister Vanilla from the roundabout.

''Let me in!'' Yo-yo bangs on the door again, ''Or I'll bang till you come.''

''Clear off,'' says the grumpy voice, ''Lest you make some unseemly joke about banging till I come. Oh. You already did. Well, bugger off anyway.''

Yo-yo smacks his fist against the door one more time then spins away back towards the graveyard. A plan is forming.

''Hello, cupcake,'' says Mister Vanilla. His great podgy fingers dig into Yo-yo's sweat-vested shoulder. ''We meet again.''

Yo-yo squirms. Mister Vanilla gropes at his buttocks, fat fingers digging through the skimpy, silky shorts. Mister Vanilla chortles. His chins shake. The sickly-sweet scent of peppermint wafts up Yo-yo's nose.

''Get off me!'' shouts Yo-yo. ''I've changed my mind! I don't want to do it now!''

''Give me what I want!'' says Mister Vanilla, grappling Yo-yo through the gravestones and forcing him up against the hedge. A twig scratches Yo-yo's legs.

''Never!''

Yo-yo is forced back into the prickling, stabbing branches. Mister Vanilla is using his body to crush the air from his lungs, to smother his breathing, to squash him like a slug under a steamroller.

''Help me!'' yells Yo-yo to the passers-by waiting to cross at the traffic lights. ''Help me!''

The passers-by tut and pass by.

''Wearing shorts like that,'' mutters a mother, ''Gets all he deserves.''

''What a tart,'' adds her small daughter aged six.

''I'll bet he's a regular slapper,'' says the mother.

''You can tell,'' says the small daughter aged six. ''Riddled with disease.''

''Ho ho ho,'' Mister Vanilla chortles. ''You won't escape now.''

The great weight presses him into the privet. Twigs jab into the flesh of his buttocks and calves. Time is running out. With a huge yell and all of his strength, Yo-yo swings his tartan rucksack up from the grass. It catches Mister Vanilla under the ear and knocks him down flat. Mister Vanilla sees

Ha. Yo-yo had known the kitchen sink would come in useful. What a great piece of packing! He wrestles free of the fallen fatty and prises himself out of the hedge leaving a Yo-yo-shaped impression behind. Painted in yellow on the bricks of a house-side in Lord Mayor's Walk is the legendary advert

nightly

BILE BEANS

keep you

HEALTHY, BRIGHT-EYED AND SLIM

''Ha!'' declares Yo-yo.

Mister Vanilla lifts his head from the grass. ''That was a nasty trick, my little puppykin. Do you want to play some more?''

''Hello, Mister Vanilla,'' says Yo-yo. ''Would you like a bile-bean?'' An old-fashioned tin appears in his hand. ''One every night will keep you healthy....''

Mister Vanilla's chins quiver.

''....Bright-eyed ...''

Mister Vanilla's jowls shiver.

''...And slim!''

Mister Vanilla's stomachs protest. Yo-yo bashes him over the head once again, then scatters a handful of bile-beans over his head. Mister Vanilla sinks to his knees, completely disarmed. ''Healthy,'' he mutters, ''Slim!'' He tries to imagine himself slim, and can't. It's quite overwhelming. The bile-beans bounce off his shoulders onto the road. A chocolate Labrador in a passing, purple Ford Focus yelps as he sees this food going to waste. Mister Vanilla lies on the pavement and squirms into a foetal position. Slim. He sobs. Hamish barks. The car cruises past. Yo-yo dashes back up the road past the Brigadier Gerard, the Homebase roundabout and a small triangular park by the River Foss facing the neat, terraced houses of Huntington Road. A dozen Canada geese hunkered down in the bushes screech ''Run, Yo-yo, run!'' while a stone and a weed on the flat river-bed reflect on his progress.

Weed: Blimey. Bile-beans. What a great idea.

Pebble: Aye. He's no waster, that Vanilla.

Weed: Your Uncle Bob was a bit of a tubby, wasn't he?

Pebble: Aye, but that wasn't greed. Us Stones don't overeat. That was a thyroid condition. He couldn't help it. He was fat because of genetics, his glands, not his appetite or lack of exercise. Unless he was American....

Weed: Does it run in the family?

Pebble: I hope not. I don't want to be a huge hulking Porkster.

They both laugh again.

Weed: How was your evening?

Pebble: Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Settled down to watch some fish.

Weed: Anything interesting?

Pebble: Couple of perch came by. Had a nice chat, then some bastard dog jumped in and unsettled the riverbed. Churned up a load of mud and crap. Some hairy brown bastard. Bastard dogs. What about you?

Weed: I didn't meet any dogs.

Pebble: No. Your evening. What did you get up to?

Weed: Well (looks over his shoulder) you know that Mandy from the staithe? She drifted by. Haven't seen her for a while. My God, she's looking good. Eight kids and hardly a frond out of place. Don't know how she does it.

Pebble: Maybe it's plastic.

Weed: Bloody hell, don't let her hear you say that. She'll choke the life out of you. Anyway, how do you like the Foss? Nice to get out. Bit of change.

Pebble: Aye, it's canny, like.

Goose: Squawk!

Yo-yo jumps over the low wire fence. He has to make his final escape. A sturdy grey goose catches his eye.

''Swim me to the town!'' he cries, and leaps on to the bird, which paddles away down the Foss bearing the triumphant boy like a latter-day Lohengrin riding his swan. Wagner's Prelude swells out of the trees.

Mister Vanilla staggers to the bank of the river. He is rubbing his head and feeling sore. He too spies a bird, a rather weedy brown and black waddler.

Goose: (Pleading) No. No. You can't be serious.

Weed: Oh God, it's Vanilla.

Pebble: Oh no!

Goose: Please, please... don't pick me

Vanilla: Here, Goosey goosey goosey.

Goose: Hide me, Pebble. Hide me.

Vanilla: Come to Vanilla.

Pebble: Get behind me.

Weed: Hold on to my frond.

Goose: Don't pick......

' 'Follow that goose!'' orders Mister Vanilla, springing over the fence.

The poor goose is splatted. An immense tidal wave swamps the field. Pebble and Trout are shaken around like peas in a demented cement-mixer but somehow manage to cling on to Weed whose roots are firmly embedded in mud.

''You silly sod,'' Weed tells Vanilla as Yo-yo floats away under the bridge. ''You won't catch him now.''

Mister Vanilla sits in what's left of the river, half the Foss soaking into his pants. Curses, he mutters. Foiled again. But not for long. Time for Plan E.

#

#

# 10.

# Bettys (est. 1919)

YO-YO sips his coffee and reflects on his narrow escape. The emerald ring nestles against his chest. He knows he has to be on his guard if he is to prevent the bad guys getting it or the rightful owner reclaiming it. He finds it difficult to stand on the moral high ground given that he himself stole it in the first place but never mind. He's a boy in a cake shop and he will do what boys do. He observes the cakes gliding by on dainty trolleys to sate the hunger pangs of other elevensiers. He ticks them off as they pass his table.

 Bakewell pudding, white icing concealing something soft, topped with red cherry

 Cherry Genoa (buttery sponge packed with raisins and glacé cherries)

 Victoria Sponge (quintessential summer cake)

 Grand Cru chocolate torte (deliciously decadent)

 Almond and cherry cake (light and simple)

 Austrian Linzer Torte (moist and lightly spiced)

 Stem ginger cake (chunks of stem ginger)

 Lemon and lime citrus cake (light, refreshing citrus glaze)

Fat Rascals (plump and fruity cookies)

 Date and orange cake (chopped dates, orange peel and a splash of whisky)

 Yorkshire Tea Loaf (traditional fruit cake laced with Yorkshire tea)

What? No scones? At Bettys? You gotta be kidding. Yo-yo wants scones and cucumber sandwiches.

''It's a little early for cream, my love,'' says the white-aproned waitress.

''Bring us a fat rascal, then,'' says Yo-yo.

The waitress winks and bustles away.

Bettys Tea Rooms have been here in St Helen's Square since the 1920s. Part of a six-café chain started by the Swiss confectioner Frederick Belmont in Harrogate's Cambridge Crescent in 1919, the outlet in York is modelled on the cruise-liner RMS Queen Mary. During World War II it was a popular haunt for American and Canadian airmen, many of whom were based around York and at Linton-on-Ouse. The origin of the name is unclear but some of the suggestions include Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, the late Queen Mother, someone named Betty Lupton and a little girl called Betty who interrupted the name-selection meeting to ask if anyone wanted more tea or cakes. Many pedants, including that well-known bore Elliot Blaze, have commented on the lack of apostrophe in the name and have been told, somewhat shirtily, that ''that's how it's spelled so get over it.'' All six branches of Bettys are in Yorkshire. Until 1976, there was a branch in Leeds' Commercial Street but it closed and is now a mobile phone shop. Such are the times. Or perhaps such is the City of Leeds.

''Mind if I join you?'' It is a beautiful woman with waist-length blonde hair. She is dressed in a flowing, satiny blue robe. She is absolutely and ball-breakingly beautiful. Obviously Yo-yo stutters ''y...yes'' and finds himself facing the luscious Mistress Rue.

''You look normal today,'' he blurts.

Rue rolls out a low, silken laugh. ''You sure know how to flatter a lady,'' she says. A shiver shoots down Yo-yo's spine.

''I mean the tattoos,'' he blushes. ''They're gone.''

''Ah,'' says Rue. ''My tattoos. They only appear when I take off my clothes.'' She strokes Yo-yo's cheek with a long, shiny blue fingernail. ''Maybe you can see them later, lovely boy.''

Yo-yo's stomach seems to contract.

Rue orders vanilla slices from a passing trolley containing

Curd tart

Fresh fruit tart

Chocolate roulade

Fresh fruit pavlova

Walnut tart

''Naughty but nice,'' heavy-breathes Rue, ''A little like me.....and I do like a bit of vanilla... do you fancy a tart? I bet you'd ravish a tart.'' Yo-yo's heart leaps into his throat. ''I love cream,'' Rue confesses, ''Thick cream. It's so good for the skin.''

''Do you rub it in?'' Yo-yo croaks.

''Sometimes,'' says Rue. ''Sometimes I rub cream all over my body.''

Yo-yo's heart thumps. ''Doesn't it make you fat?'' he blurts, wishing he could recall the words in the instant he has uttered them. He feels himself sweating.

Rue arches an eyebrow. ''You really do know how to woo a woman, don't you?''

Since the only women Yo-yo knows are Aunty Latch, Mrs Lollipop and Matron Majeiskii, and since all three are what one might describe kindly as 'somewhat on the stout side', and since Yo-yo has never tried to woo any of them, even in his most desperate dreams, he is just a shade out of his depth here.

When the vanilla slice comes, it is enormous. Rue licks cream off her fork with a slow, deliberate twirl of the tongue, a slow, deliberate lick of the lips and a low, slow mmmmmmmmm that makes Yo-yo's groin tingle disconcertingly.

''Do you have a girlfriend, Yo-yo?'' she asks.

''No,'' says Yo-yo. Not unless you count that lovely lamb in Swaledale, which he doesn't.

''Boyfriend, then?''

''Certainly not,'' he splutters into his fat rascal. ''I'm quite unattached.''

''I'm surprised,'' says Rue. ''You're a real cutie. You've got beautiful eyes.'' She gazes into them for a long, heart-stopping, stomach-churning, loin-stirring moment. ''Oh,'' she says. ''I've got cream on my fingers. I am a messy girl.'' Yo-yo watches in anguish as each fingertip is slowly sucked clean. ''Cream,'' adds Rue, ''Gets in the strangest places. Do you like custard? My sister likes custard. And ice cream. In a large cornet, of course. She likes a large cornet. Do you like a large cornet?'' Yo-yo whimpers. ''I'm meeting her later as a matter of fact. Maybe you'd like to come.''

Not half.

''I heard,'' says Rue, ''That your parents had some trouble.''

''My father killed my mother with a butcher's knife,'' mutters Yo-yo. ''There was blood all over the Venetian blinds.''

''Oh, you poor boy.'' Rue draws his head into her breasts and comforts him.

''She was having an affair,'' he adds, resurfacing.

''Oh you poor boy.'' She draws him in once again. He closes his eyes.

''My father found out and murdered her. Slit her throat like a hog in a bucket.''

''Oh you poor boy.'' Again his face is buried somewhere in Rue's silken robe.

''She was having an affair with a window cleaner.''

''Right,'' says Rue, putting some coins on the table.

''He only had one leg.''

''I see.'' Rue counts out a tip.

''I'm really upset.''

You mean rather desperate.

''I'm sorry to hear that.'' Rue gathers the silken robe round her frame. ''Anyhoo, lovely chatting. See you around.'' Leaving a vapour trail of lavender and Chanel Number Five, she wafts from Bettys across Davygate towards St Helen's Church.

''She dumped me for a one-legged window cleaner,'' gabbles Yo-yo charging after her and almost knocking down an elderly woman whose face reminds him of a horse eating a bag of bulldogs. She bellows ''Mind your manners, you ignorant lout'' as he scampers down Davygate trying to keep up with the luscious young woman. Dammit, he thinks. He was on there.

Davygate has been a road for eight hundred years. It is named after David, whose great-grandfather had come over with William the Conqueror. As Lardiner to King Stephen (1135), David had control over the nearby Forest of Galtres and supplied the Royal Larder therefrom. He also had control of this once-Roman road, 'gate' of course not meaning a hinged, five-barred portal made of wood but '-gatta', a road or way, as in Stonegatta, which Rue enters now.

''I can't really cope by myself,'' Yo-yo is babbling. ''I need a mother figure in my life, someone to comfort me and hold me close......''

Rue stops under the cross-street sign-beam that reads Ye Olde Starre Inne (more John Smiths, dammit). ''Thyme's late,'' she says. ''Wait here. I'll go find her.''

Curses. Abandoned. Look on the bright side. The sister's coming. Ho. Maybe he could be the meat in a sister sandwich. Yo-yo shakes himself like a ferret after a ride in the washing machine. But he doesn't wait where he is told. Across the street is what used to be The Scottish Shop and the pipes, the pipes are calling, calling him into a world of tartans, shields, haggis and sporrans, into the Wonderful World of

# 11.

# Wee Jocko McTavish

THE shop is jam-packed with Scottish memorabilia. There are tons of Tartan tins of Highland shortbread. There are fabulously framed family trees with heraldic designs linking 'Corey Brinkwater Jr.' with the Clan of McDonald, 'Totty Leemaster' with the Cameron Clan and 'Hubert C. Pendlebrass III' with both the Bruces and the Stuarts which implies that Hubert C. Pendlebrass III from Oil City Texas is really the King of Scotland. There are miniaturised, stuffed Aberdeen Angus heifers, West Highland White terriers and velvet-antlered reindeer piled high in a basket. There are lurid green, plastic Nessies and small grey haggises with bright button eyes and little white legs. There are poems by Burns and novels by Scott and rack upon rack of music for ceilidhs and pipers, drummers and strummers. There are kilts and blankets, daggers and sporrans, and those bloody irritating tea-towels that lay claim to every invention in the history of the Universe on behalf of a Scot. You know the type -

The English wear raincoats made by Mackintosh (a Scot), drive on

roads with tyres made by Dunlop (a Scot) on tarmac created by

McAdam (a Scot), enter their homes (invented by McHome, a Scot),

sit on McSofas (invented by McSofa, a Scot) by fires invented by McUg

(a Stone Age Scot) sipping water invented by McWater (a God-like Scot).'

and so on. In short, every cultural cliché of Jockland is represented but for the one item that is utterly indispensable on any visit to Scotland, namely a large and effective umbrella, as invented by Sir Johnny Umbrella, an Englishman on his first visit to the Highlands who, in order to shelter from the traditional shooting party weather, glued some coat-hangers to a beater's kilt and stuck it on a stick.

''A braw bricht moonlit nicht tae ye, wee mon.'' An enormous, ginger, badger-burying bush is speaking.

''I'm sorry?'' says Yo-yo, fearing this is yet another Moses moment.

''Och the noo and Donal where's ye troosies.''

Yo-yo makes out a yellow, red and black tartan hat on top of the bush, a hat of the kind jocularly known as a 'tam o' shanter' (who was Tam of the Shanter anyway and why did he invent such a bloody stupid little hat?). The bobble is an unfortunate red. It looks like a cherry on a banana-and-blood tart.

''There's a moose loose aboot this hoose.''

''I'm sorry,'' says Yo-yo, ''I don't really speak Jockish.''

''Och awa' wi' ye, sassenach.''

Suddenly Yo-yo realises the bush is in fact a beard and that, from within it, a man is talking to him. ''Good day,'' he says politely.

''Whit ye yammering aboot?'' says the beard.

Yo-yo steels himself. ''Och the noo, oor Wullie, and hoots mon the Broon tae ye neeps and tatties,'' he says.

Instantly the bush breaks into a beaming smile of welcome.

''How are ye this fine mairning, young Jimmy?''

''Hoots the nanny,'' Yo-yo replies.

The speaker pumps his hand up and doon. ''Wee Jocko McTavish,'' he says. Wee Jocko McTavish is about four feet eight in height and about the same in width. Under his vast, voluminous beard is a kilt in the same unfortunate tartan as his hat. There is also a frighteningly furry sporran hanging beneath his waist. ''Whit can ah do for ye, me laddie?''

''You know your bagpipe music?'' Yo-yo begins.

''Whit ye say, Jimmy?''

''Do ye ken yeer piping?''

''Aye. The pipin' .''

''I'd like to buy a CD.''

''Whit?''

''A muckle o' music,'' says Yo-yo.

''Aye weel. That'll be ten poonds and ninety-nine o' yeer shiny new pennies,'' says Wee Jocko McTavish, handing over a CD of the Edinburgh Tattoo.

All Yo-yo's favourites are there. ''I like this one,'' he says.

''O flower of Scotland, when will we see your likes again

That fought and died for your wee bit hill and glen

And stood against him, Proud Edward's army,

And sent him homeward tae think again.''

Wee Jocko's eyes are moist with emotion. 'Tis a stirring hymn.

''There's a real Scotsman inside ye, laddie,'' says Wee Jocko McTavish, ''A real Scotsman. We'll call ye Wee Jimmy McJimmy.'' Before he knows it, Yo-yo is wearing

a frilly white shirt

a kilt in green, blue and black

knee-length white socks

a natty black jacket with silver buttons up the back

a large, hairy, white sporran

''All ye need noo is a skein dhu,'' says Jocko McTavish.

''Hey, hey,'' says Yo-yo, raising a warning finger, ''No-one's skinning my do.''

''Nae, nae, ye dinna understand,'' says Wee Jocko McTavish, rummaging in a drawer, ''A skein dhu, a wee dagger.'' The one he brandishes is a little 'mair than wee'. ''An' ah'm sure ye have yeer ain wee dagger, eh? He he he.'' He twists Yo-yo's sporran and cackles.

''It's like the butcher's knife I used to kill my mum,'' says Yo-yo. ''I cut her throat. Blood sprayed all over the curtains.''

''Aye weel, it goes in yer sock,'' says Wee Jocko McTavish. ''Wuid ye like me to fiddle wi' yer sporran? It's a wee bit crooked.''

The sporran is the hairiest thing Yo-yo's ever had between his legs, unless you count that friendly Nidderdale sheep, which he doesn't. The CD slips unnoticed into

Oh cruel is the snow/That sweeps Glencoe

And covers the House o' Donald

And cruel is the foe/That raped Glencoe

And murdered the House o' MacDonald.

''Hullo,'' says a tourist uncertainly. ''Anyone haim?''

''Och,'' says Jocko, getting off his knees and straightening his beard. ''Ye look the part noo, wee Jimmy,'' he tells Yo-yo, whose sporran has been well and truly adjusted. ''Whit can I do ye fer, Jimmy?''

''D'ye sell haggis?'' says the tourist.

''Aye. Finest haggis in York.''

The newcomer pauses and consults a piece of paper. ''Sorry, I don't mean haggis. I mean neeps and tatties. I've come for some neeps and tatties. Grrrrr.'' Wee Jocko McTavish looks at him blankly. ''You know,'' says the newcomer. ''Neeps. Give us some neeps. And a quick look at your tatties. Woof woof.''

Yo-yo takes a set of bagpipes. He figures a Scottish night once he's back in Gillworthy will drive Doctor Molasses to utter distraction, maybe even to suicide.

''Thank ye, laddie,'' says Wee Jocko McTavish. ''This is Wee Jimmy,'' he tells the newcomer.

''Och aye the noo,'' says Yo-yo, ''Ye slinkie wee beastie.''

''Oh aye?'' says the newcomer. He hesitates. ''I'd like to see your Nessie. Whoooaarr!''

''Whit?''

''Your Nessie. You know. Your Loch Ness Monster. In the deepest loch. Your monster. Eh? Monster. You know?'' The newcomer runs out of steam. ''Nessie?''

''Nae need tae get radgie,'' says Wee Jocko McTavish. ''Awa' wi' ye, Wee Jimmy. Or Not-so-Wee Jimmy, hur hur. Ah'll see ye agin.''

''Your deep-fried Mars Bar?''

Yo-yo opens the shop door.

''I'd like to toss the caber?''

''Och weel,'' says Wee Jocko, ''Why did ye nae say so? Roond the back wi' ye, laddie. We'll put a real Scotsman inside ye, he he he. Ten poond an 'oor.''

Yo-yo is in Stonegate once more. Rue and Thyme are outside Debbie's Ice Cream Parlour which sells 12 types of ice cream including

tiramisu banana

cappuccino coconut

banoffee vanilla

raspberry ripple chocolate mint chip

honeycomb passion-fruit cheesecake

bubblegum

''Nice knees,'' Rue remarks.

''Lovely sporran,'' Thyme twitters. ''May I stroke it?''

Yo-yo's nice knees knock together.

''We bought you a banoffee ice cream.'' Rue hands him a cornet topped by a yellow and brown splodge.

''I thought we should talk,'' says Thyme, ''About your emerald ring.''

They have passed the plaque that claims Guy Fawkes' parents lived here and are under the Stonegate Devil, a small, red, black-horned, black-bearded demon perched on a shop corner, his little hands resting on his little thighs. This was once a printer's shop, a devil being a nickname for the inky-fingered apprentices who delivered the printed-up pages which carried the news. Now it is a designer leather outlet.

''It's very valuable.'' This is Thyme again. ''You could be rich if you sold it, rich beyond your wildest dreams.''

''My dreams get pretty wild,'' Yo-yo admits. ''For instance, once I dreamed I was sitting on top of a giant chimney with Santa Claus feeling for presents in his enormous sack, and then I dreamed I was a giant stick of Blackpool rock being licked by Hannah Montana and that bird out of Twilight.....''

''Yes, yes,'' says Thyme impatiently. ''Fascinating.''

''We could get you a good price,'' says Rue.

''You'd be able to buy anything you wanted,'' says Thyme. ''What do you want, Yo-yo?

''You,'' breathes Yo-yo. ''I want you. Both of you.''

''Well,'' says Rue, ''We can come to an arrangement.....''

''The ring for one hour of bliss....'' says Thyme.

''Both of us together.''

''Drive you out of your senses.''

''All your desires...''

''All your dreams....''

''Come true. With us.''

''NOOOOOO!'' screams the devil. ''Don't trust them, Yo-yo!''

''You're a devil,'' snaps Yo-yo. ''What do you know?''

''More than you think,'' says the devil. ''I've been here hundreds of years. And I know evil when I see it. I'm a devil, for devil's sake.''

Vanilla ice cream dribbles down Rue's chin. Yo-yo's entire being trembles. His hand is yellow, brown and sticky. His once-crisp cornet is turning soggy.

''Think of your mother!'' shouts the devil.

''My mother's a whore!'' yells Yo-yo. ''I don't care what she thinks!''

Everyone in the street stops and stares at him.

''Ahem,'' says Rue to the gathering crowd. ''He doesn't mean it. He's a little upset. Our mother's dead.''

''Our little brother's finding it hard to handle,'' says Thyme. ''We'll take him for a nice walk.'' One sister takes his left elbow, the other his right, and they escort him along Stonegate. ''Come along, Nigel, nice walk and a cup of tea. Rue will show you her Edinburgh Tattoo.''

''There's a nice part where you can toss your caber,'' adds Rue.

''Ha!'' Yo-yo pokes his tongue at the devil. ''Boo-sucks to you, Stonegate Devil'' and he starts singing ''Yo-yo's gonna get it, Yo-yo's gonna get it.''

Suddenly, as they round the corner at Crabtree and Evelyn's, they bump into Katze and Uncle Reefer coming out of The Punchbowl (what is it with all the John Smith's?)

''Yikes! It's them!'' gulp the sisters, and promptly disappear in a herbal scent.

Yo-yo feels like crying but he doesn't really know why, except his discarded cornet lies crumpled and flattened on the now-sticky pavement, his creamy ice cream leaking liquid into the gutter.

# 12.

# The King's Head

''I need another drink,'' Katze says grumpily. He shoves his blue cap further back on his head and marches off towards the river. They end up on the wharf at The King's Head, the medieval pub at the foot of the steps of Micklegate Bridge. They sit at a table under a signboard bearing the sour, frowning face of King Richard III and sup their pints of Samuel Smith's Best Bitter. Yo-yo is restricted to a Coca Cola and a packet of cheese and onion crisps. In Gillworthy, he isn't allowed either crisps or Coca Cola. Doctor Molasses says salty snacks make him piss too much and fizzy drinks make him 'hyperactive'. Yo-yo doesn't know if this is true. He has not been allowed to find out.

''What were you doing with those two?'' growls Katze.

Not a lot, thanks to you, Yo-yo thinks.

''They saved me from Mister Vanilla,'' he says.

''No-one saved you from Mister Vanilla.'' Uncle Reefer puffs on his pipe. ''Only you can do that, Yo-yo.''

''Rue and Thyme are bad news,'' says Katze. ''They can read men's hearts and desires and that makes them dangerous. Do you understand, Yo-yo?''

''I guess.'' Yo-yo sips his Coke and crunches a crisp.

''They can read men's loins,'' chutters the pipe, ''And that makes them more dangerous.''

''Why does Mister Vanilla want my ring so badly?'' asks Yo-yo.

''He's a collector,'' chuffs the pipe. ''The jewel's very precious.''

''What would he do with it?''

''Mount it in his private collection,'' says Katze, ''Or maybe he'd set it into a new ring, sell it abroad. Jewels are big business in Europe.''

''Mister Vanilla has jewels from all over the world,'' adds Uncle Reefer, ''Sri Lanka, Africa, the Middle East ... He's been very successful.''

''Oh, he's clever, right enough,'' says Katze. He sups on his bitter and broods.

Weed: That he is.

Stone: But he wouldn't want me, an ordinary pebble. I'm not exotic at all, although I've a cousin who was related to a nugget of quartz. She was pretty.

The Weed and the Stone have drifted down river and are sheltering in the shadow cast by the bridge. The spring sunshine warms their water.

Weed: And your wife was exotic.

Stone: No, Weed. Erotic. Pretty little red thing, nicely polished.

Weed: Your kids were gorgeous. Beautiful stripes. (Sighs)

Stone: Your kids were pretty too. I remember your daughter. She had lovely wavy hair. Till that carp got her.

Weed: He stripped every leaf, the bastard. If I could get my fronds on him ...

Stone: Do you remember the last time we were here? We had a fine old time.

Weed: (Brightening up) We sat in the bar for days. That was a lock-in, eh?

Stone: (Chuckling) Great beer, good snacks, plenty of dancing - remember that pond-skater? He couldn't stand up by the end. Legs going all over the place.

Weed: And that old bag came in looking for her husband.

Stone: Aye, and that conker told her he'd seen him washed up, full of mud and hanging from a branch. God, she screamed the place down.

Weed: More reasons to shop at Morrison's, arf arf.

They both cackle.

The King's Head is one of York's oldest pubs. Because it stands on the river bank, it is prone to flooding. A brass scale on a whitewashed wall by the door shows how much water has washed inside over the centuries, with 5th January 1982 as the highest level, just a yard or so from the dark wooden ceiling beams. Black and white photographs show people shipping barrels into boats from the upper windows.

Reefer and Katze are onto their second pints. Katze relights the tab-end stuck to his lip. ''I hear we've bought a couple of new players, a striker from Hartlepools whose seventeen and supposed to be great, an' a defender from Scarboroughs.''

''Nowt good ivver come out o' Scabby,'' grunts the pipe.

'' 'Cept fish and chips,'' says Katze.

''Aye, all reet. Fish and chips.'' The pipe putters. ''Great fish 'n' chips.''

''So ... do you fancy going? Middlesbrough match?''

''Friendly?''

''Don't be daft.''

Whilst Reefer and Katze analyse York City's prospects of signing more players during the summer, Yo-yo twitches restlessly. His sporran is hot and he is thirsty. Dare he risk another Coke? Oh, hell, says the Stonegate Devil. Molasses ain't here. You're on your holiday.

''Wait,'' barks King Richard III from his signboard. ''You think Doctor Molasses is a silly old fool. But what if he's right? What then? Eh, Yo-yo? What if he's right, and you are wrong? Eh? EH? What then? EH?''

''Bollocks,'' says Yo-yo, leaving his tartan rucksack with his uncle and stepping inside the cool, shady lounge. In the corner stands a Who Wants to be a Squillionaire? quiz machine. Yo-yo puts in a million coins and starts to play.

''Hu ho,'' says Chris Tarrant, ''And welcome to another edition of Who Wants to be a Squillionaire?

''First question - (diddle

diddle

dum!)

What does the word hippopotamus mean? Is it A: river cow, B: river horse, C: river baboon or D: river pig?''

Yo-yo hits B.

''Is that your final answer?'' asks Chris Tarrant. ''Do you want to go fifty-fifty, or phone a friend?''

''You must be joking, Chris,'' says Yo-yo. ''My friends wouldn't know that. They're mostly completely fuckwitted.''

''OK,'' says Chris. ''The answer is .... B: river horse. Congratulations. Second question. What is tahini? Tahini. T-A-H-I-N-I. Is it A: a small island in Polynesia, B: a paste made from sesame seeds..''

Yo-yo hits B again.

''Hu ho,'' says Chris. ''I haven't finished yet.''

''Give us something more difficult then,'' snaps Yo-yo.

''Right-o,'' says Chris. ''Third question: What is the name of the hero of John Frederick Lampe's opera The Dragon of Wantley? Is it ....?''

''Moore of Moore Hall.''

''What is the atomic weight of mercury?''

''200.59 amu.''

''Distance of the Earth from the Sun?''

''It varies because the orbit is elliptical.''

''Shut up ....''

''But the average is 149 million kilometres.''

''Shut up....''

''But that depends on the position of the perihelion.''

''Shut up....''

''Next.''

''Melting point of gold''

''1064.43 degrees Celsius. Boiling Point is 2807 degrees Celsius. That's hot.''

''First secretary-general of the United Nations.''

''Trygve Lie. A Filipino.''

''The name of the servant in Around the World in Eighty Days...''

''Passepartout. For goodness' sake, Chris. Call this a quiz?''

''Right,'' says Chris Tarrant tetchily. ''I'll show you, you smart-arsed little git. You are on half a million pounds right now. For one million pounds how many gallons of water would it take to fill this room?''

''To the ceiling?''

''To the ceiling. For one million pounds.'' The music pounds. There is an amplified heart beat: BUH BOOM, BUH BOOM. Chris Tarrant waits expectantly. ''I'll have to hurry you,'' he says. ''You can ask the audience.''

''Are you mad?'' says Yo-yo. ''That bunch of losers?'' He looks around the pub, mentally calculating the volume, then his imagination fills it with water. Oh bollocks. A fish darts past. He winces as his fingers sprout webs. ''Look what you've done,'' he admonishes the machine.

Diddle

Diddle

Dum, the machine replies.

''Hu ho,'' gurgles Chris Tarrant through the gushing water. ''Serves you right for being a smart-arsed little git and for wearing a kilt when you're not even Scottish.''

Blowing out a stream of silver bubbles, Yo-yo swims through the murky, green-brown floodwater to the bar. How could he have been so careless? One moment, one lapse of concentration and here he is in a river-filled room.

''Me beer'll be ruined again, you tosser,'' mouths the barman.

''Sorry,'' mouths Yo-yo. ''I didn't mean to. That bloody machine caught me off-guard.''

''You careless berk!'' gurgles King Richard III. ''I'll be covered in mud for months. They never clean me, never, not till they've cleaned out their beer cellar. Have you any idea how undignified it is for a King to be underwater?''

''Sorry,'' says Yo-yo, ''But since your bones are at the bottom of the River Soar, you should be used to it by now.''

''You never get used to it,'' laments King Richard. ''Five hundred and summat years, and you still don't get used to it. Bastard Tudors.''

Yo-yo shrugs, removes some weed from his hair and strips off the kilt, the water-logged sporran which weighs him

DOWN

and the green jacket and swims in his

under wear towards the toilet. A

couple of bream nod as they pass by. He peers

through the green gloom, notes a

green, bog-eyed, cartoon octopus grinning from its perch on a washbasin, swims

over orange floor tiles, past three

urinals

clambers over the broken pieces of a sunken boat

disturbs a shoal of sticklebacks which

flashawayinsilverstreaks, scratches his knee on a limpet, notes a

beautiful starfish , waves to a mermaid lazily combing her

long blonde hair (or is it a Rhinemaiden?) sees the

sloooooowly drifting chain of a floating sea-mine

swims past the orange door and into a cubicle,

clutches the

cistern, raises the cheap black

plastic seat and hits the flush handle.

Everything is sucked away into the toilet, broken-backed boats, sea-mines, Rhinemaidens, bream, starfish, all disappear in a frothy brown whirlpool. Yo-yo waves as the octopus swirls down the pan with an expression of puzzled disappointment. Yo-yo remembers where he has seen the octopus before. He is on the wallpaper of the playroom at Gillworthy.

''Don't worry, Olly,'' says Yo-yo. ''You'll be back.'' He opens the toilet door. He is no longer in the pub. He is somewhere completely different, and he doesn't like it,

13.

# Dr Kirk's Magic Museum

being very dark and very cramped and smelling extremely musty. He thinks for one awful minute he is trapped once again inside the fusty, sweaty confinement of Rue's magic box. He is crammed in a foetal position, his knees rammed up his nose, his spine curved to screaming point. He has to get out before he suffocates, get out before he dies. Over his head is a faint circle of half-light. Twisting his body to the left, he inches towards it, following the fresher air insinuating itself inside his nostrils. God, he thinks. This is like being born again. He didn't like it the first time either.

He forces his head through the narrow aperture. The light is dim but, after the darkness of the enclosed space, still bright enough to make him blink. It takes him a minute to work out where he is. He is curled up inside a large, ceramic jug. He sighs. A jug. Not again. Whilst he is reasonably interested in jugs and spends quite a lot of time looking at them and thinking about them, he never likes being one. He has to jiggle his shoulders past the spout. It is not easy but after a minute or two he is able to stand up and get his bearings. The jug is above the door of Joshua Turner's porcelain shop. Water slops over the spout and trickles over the maroon-painted board. A net curtain twitches in the upper-storey window of Cattle and Barber's silversmiths across the street. Bloody Mrs Barber is no doubt spying on the neighbours again. Nosy old cow.

He steps out of the jug and slides down the drainpipe between Turner's and E. Kendall's Pharmaceutical Chemists next door. He is standing on the cobbles in wet, white underpants and a wet, white vest. No wonder Mrs Barber was curtain-twitching. Poor Mister Turner will have questions to answer in the morning. A small horse-drawn cab waits under a flickering gas-lamp. The windows of Hutchinson & Thompson, the grocers' shop which sells boxes of Cadbury's Cocoa Essence, bear the ruddy smears of tallow candle-flames whilst William Whincup's Spirit and Wine Merchants with its fat, jolly jars of Port, Scotch Whisky, Irish Whiskey, Rum, Gin and Sherry waits quietly for morning. Somewhere in the night a dog barks once, twice, then falls silent. Yo-yo shakes himself, although he could use a warming rum, and pads down the street to the corner. The cobbles hurt his bare feet. As he reaches Cooke & Sons Scientific Instrument Makers, he hears a voice and nearly wets himself.

''Come on, Sophie. Get up. It's nearly seven.''

It seems to be coming from the flat above Wilson & Goodall, the Coppersmith's shop.

''Come on, Sophie. Get up. It's nearly seven.''

''All right, ma. I'm coming.''

A candle bursts into life behind the net curtains. Another dog barks. A bird starts singing. Lights flicker rosily in the windows of William Foster's Haberdashery & Fancy Repository.

''Morning, Rose.''

''Morning, Ernie.''

Nobody there. Just voices from H. Hardcastle, the Pawnbroker's est. 1770. On the corner of the half-timbered house next door, a cat yowls sleepily. A piano on wheels starts tinkling out a popular song. A passing charlady joins in:

''Come, come, come and make eyes at me

Dahn at the ol' Bull an' Bush, na-na-na-na-na''

The window of Hardcastle's contains many items of clothing but also musical instruments, violins, a flute, as well as fob watches and a cricket bat.

''Knives to grind?'' a male voice calls. ''Any knives to grind?''

''Are you goin' to t' football on Saturday?'' asks a small and very invisible boy.

The dawn breaks, the light brightens, church bells chime, a milkmaid cries, a caged canary tweets. Yo-yo is expecting a chorus of ''Who will buy this wonderful morning?'' complete with marching bands, dancing window cleaners and cheery Cockerneys sweeping chim-chimerees or selling buttonholes at tuppence a bag (''Cor Blimey, stone the bleedin' crows Gavnah, would you Adam-and-Eve it? The old trouble-and-strife was making me a nice cup o' Rosie Lee last night when she only gorn an' tripped over her great plates-of-meat and fell down the old apples-and-pears...''). There might also be rosy-cheeked, flat-hatted urchins swiping wipes and considering themselves far too much at home in other people's pockets, winsome red-headed orphans bleating on (and on and on) about 'tomorrow' and reformed bank managers flying kites but he is to be pleasantly disappointed. This is not, after all, a West End musical, thank God.

A Hansom cab waits in the street and now he knows where he is. This is Kirkgate, the Victorian street in the Castle Museum founded in 1938 by Pickering doctor John Lamplugh Kirk to preserve the best relics of the Victorian era for the post-modernly ironic tourists of the twenty-first century.

'' 'Ello, Charlie,'' says a woman, ''Fancy a good time?''

And this in a family museum.

Yo-yo crosses the street to the half-timbered two-storey toy-shop. In its window, among the spinning tops, the hoops and the marbles, is a wooden Noah's Ark, the animals beautifully hand-painted, two-by-two and frozen in time, the tigers in orange and black, the giraffes in red and yellow, the penguins in black and white, Olly the Octopus in green \- he waves - Mister Vanilla in lilac and ..... Mister Vanilla!

Yo-yo leaps backwards. Mister Vanilla. Here. Behind glass and in miniature. And waving. Yo-yo looks round for a hiding place. There is a small yard near Beckett's Bank. It appears dimly lit and rather deprived. There is an iron water-pump set in a stone trough, a line of drying laundry, some run-down shops. A large, printed poster pasted behind the pump warns the public of TYPHUS FEVER OR CONTAGIOUS DISEASES, proclaiming boldly that

IDLENESS, IGNORANCE, DIRT AND DISEASE GO TOGETHER

A mean, green house has an advert in its window:

GOOD LODGINGS

APPLY WITHIN

No Drinking

Dammit. No point knocking on that door then.

Miss Pole's Second-Hand Clothes Shop seems useful. He needs some togs, but those on display are mainly bustles and parasols, gloves and babies' bonnets. He grabs some ill-fitting black shoes, some ragged trousers, a torn, grubby shirt, a grey, worsted jacket and a black cap. He is putting them on when he hears a gurgle from a pram. There, inside a baby's bonnet, is Mister Vanilla, his fat face enclosed in frills and lace.

''Goo goo goo, my little kittykat.''

He leaps backwards again. He's got to hide. But where?

''Hey!'' Someone hails him from inside William Henry White's Family Grocer. ''Want some work, boy?''

''Me, guv'nor?'' Yo-yo touches the peak of his cap.

''Yes, you. Our Dolly's come over all queer and the quack told her to take to her bed with a bottle of Pepper's Finest Tannin Throat Gargle so I'm short-handed today. Consider yourself at home, consider yourself one of the family....''

''Goo goo goo,'' gurgles Mister Vanilla. Yo-yo sticks a dummy in his mouth.

''I've taken to you so strong, there'll be a shilling in it,'' calls the voice, so before he can really think, Yo-yo is behind the counter wearing a stripy apron and serving a procession of people Wild Woodbine Cigarettes by W.D. & H.O. Wills of Bristol & London, Yorkshire Relish by Goodall Buckhouse & Co of Leeds, lime-cream and glycerine for glistening hair and other such delights. He is a little shocked by the front page of The Kirkgate Examiner his new employer is perusing, not the headline declaring

SURVEY TO TACKLE YORK'S POVERTY

or the inside stories about the British Army's victory at Manipur in Afghanistan or the interview with Mister William Chipchase of Bacon's Factory about making candles out of pig-fat or even the feature on Board Schools in York, but by the back-page spread reading

OI MISTER TURNER, WHAT YOU BEEN UP TO?

Boy in pants leaves China Seller's at dead of night

"I know what I saw," says crazed, half-blind woman

Yo-yo shakes his head. China sellers today, he tuts.

''Go get yourself some sweets from Terry's,'' says William Henry White, handing over a shiny new shilling. ''It's just round the corner.''

''Why, thank 'ee kindly, mister,'' says Yo-yo. He knuckles his forehead and scampers out of the shop.

Terry's Sweet-Shop is in the next street, facing William Alexander's Printer, Publisher, Bookseller and Stationer. This is a handsome building, double-fronted. Yo-yo scours the hard-backed volumes stacked on the shelves behind the glass. Henry's Bible, Family Prayers, A History of England in several volumes, The National Encyclopedia in thirteen volumes, Froissart's Chronicles, plans of Harrogate, maps of York, but NO FICTION. None at all. Not even Dickens and Household Words. Not Thackeray nor even Jane Austen. This bookseller does not do frivolity like fiction.

Yo-yo joins a crowd of other urchins bunched round two slot machines near the clock shop. One shows ''Rescue from a Burning House''. A model house lit from inside appears to be on fire. A model fire engine emerges from a shed. A model fireman climbs up a ladder with a model baby over his shoulder. The urchins applaud as the fire flickers out. The second machine is even more exciting. It depicts ''The English Execution''. A boy inserts his penny and the show begins. The model prison's doors creak open to reveal a tiny priest blessing a figure with a bag on his head and a rope round his neck. A tiny judge wears a wig. A tiny policeman carries a truncheon. The trapdoor opens and the tiny prisoner falls to his death. The urchins cheer.

''That's showin' you, Mister Turner, you paedo queer,'' crows the boy who owned the penny.

''Yeah,'' says another gleefully. ''An' if'n they catch his playmate, they'll stretch 'is neck 'n' all, the little bummer boy.''

Yo-yo shields his face with a hand and heads away to the chocolatier. He purchases a paper-bag of lemon drops, some liquorish laces and some peppermint cakes. Not a bad reward for a hard day's work. He stops outside S. & P. Knapton's Musical Instrument Makers. Haydn's Creation bound in red stands proudly next to the sheet music of V.S. de Dobrowolski's Match-Box Polka but, pasted on the wall, is a poster that excites all the small boys in Kirkgate. Mister Carter THE AMERICAN LION KING, it reads, Trained Animals LIONS, TIGERS, LEOPARDS, PANTHERS &C who will make their 3rd appearance in York, Nov 18th, This Present Wed.

''Lawks-a-mercy,'' says a boy, ''Lions and tigers and bears, oh my. Our Ada'll never thoil it.''

Yo-yo grins and slurps a liquorish lace through his lips. Suddenly a finger and thumb catch him by the ear and a rough voice scowls ''So there you are, you little tyke. Think you'd truant, did you? Well, we'll see about that.''

''I got a job,'' gasps Yo-yo, as he is dragged away by the ear to a taunting chorus of catcalls from the other boys. ''I work for Mister White the Family Grocer.''

''A likely tale,'' returns the rough voice.

''Ow, my ear!'' Yo-yo protests, but it's not his ear he needs to worry about. He is hauled roughly into a schoolroom and, before he can resist, is bent over a desk and beaten across the buttocks with a leather strap. He howls in pain.

''Now,'' says the schoolmaster, ''You'll stand in the corner with the Dunce's Cap on and learn your lessons and if you skip school again, I'll tawse you till you can't sit down.''

Sniffing and wiping his nose with his sleeve, Yo-yo glares at the man. He is built like a bullock and has manners to match. A balding pate, a sweat-gleaming, brick-red face, a barrel chest, a black mat of thick hair on his hands, the schoolmaster seems to be permanently choking. A surer candidate for a coronary Yo-yo has never encountered.

''It's against the law to hit children,'' he says defiantly, blinking back tears.

''Stuff and nonsense,'' the schoolmaster replies. ''The day they outlaw beating boys is the day the world stops working. It'll lead to a breakdown of law and order, the end of civilisation as we know it.''

''I'll ring Childline,'' Yo-yo threatens, ''Get the law on you.''

''Will you indeed?'' says the schoolmaster. ''Well, do you know what the police will do?''

''Yeah,'' says Yo-yo. ''They'll give your name to the Screws of the World, you'll make the front page and you'll never work again, you perv.''

''No,'' says the schoolmaster, ''They'll give you a clip round the ear and send you away.'' He shakes his head. ''Boys need beating. Like dogs. It's the only way they learn.''

Yo-yo stares at the portrait of Queen Victoria, the abacus, the low wooden benches, the motto Honesty and Industry in all things written in chalk on the blackboard, the reading book in his hand entitled Tray and Fan, the opening line ''We have two dogs...''

''Old Ann Lee at the cot is ill...'' intones a little girl.

''Two twos are four, three twos are six, four twos are eight,'' intones the class.

He rubs his stinging buttocks and faces into the corner.

''Good day, my dear fellow,'' says a weasly voice.

''Aha,'' cries the schoolmaster, ''The school board inspector. Welcome, my dear sir. Wackem Thrashboy at your service.''

''I trust you are teaching them nothing but FACTS, Mister Thrashboy. FACTS are what these children need.''

''Indeed I am, sir.''

The voice is vaguely familiar. Yo-yo turns his head but Mister Thrashboy bellows ''You! Dunce! Face the wall!''

''FACTS are what makes a man, Mister Thrashboy,'' continues the inspector, ''Not Fancy. We have no need of imagination in education, Mister Thrashboy.''

God, thinks Yo-yo. This sounds like Dr Molasses. He is suddenly as frightened as a Southerner catching someone's eye on the Tube and cannot resist turning round. It isn't Molasses. It is Truss, the Circus Manager.

''Dunce!'' roars Mister Thrashboy, ''Do you want another whipping?''

''Mister Truss, it's me, Yo-yo.'' Mister Truss perspires. ''You remember? Reefer's nephew? From the circus? Mister Truss?'' Mister Truss wipes his face with a large pocket handkerchief. Mister Thrashboy seizes Yo-yo's collar and waggles the tawse. ''Please, Mister Truss..... I'm Venus Periwinkle's son....''

''Ah,'' says Mister Truss, ''Mister Thrashboy, I think I have found our runaway.''

''A runaway, sir? Surely not, sir.''

Truss catches Yo-yo by the arm. ''Always runnin' away, ain't you, Oliver?''

''Eh?''

''Don't worry, Mister Thrashboy,'' oils Truss, ''We'll take care of him, d--n his eyes.'' Out of the corner of his mouth he hisses that Yo-yo should ''work with [him]'' and shakes him like a dog shakes a brat. ''Back to the workhouse with you, Davey, d--n your eyes.''

''Oh,'' says Mister Thrashboy, ''Workhouse brat, eh?''

''That he is, sir, that he is.'' Mister Truss digs his thumbs into his waistcoat pocket. ''Mother was a bad 'un, sir, a right regular bad 'un. Took one look at him and promptly died, sir. Left him to the parish, sir.'' Truss lowers his voice and glances around conspiratorially. ''I shouldn't really tell you this, but she left him a valuable ring which we need to pawn with Old Mister Hardcastle to pay for his gruel.''

''Gruel, sir?'' says Mister Trashboy. ''When I were a lad, there were fourteen of us living in t' mill and eating nobbut twigs and leaves.''

''Twigs and leaves, sir?'' says Mister Truss. ''When I were a lad, there were fifty-eight of us living in t' dustbin and eating nobbut stones and rocks.''

''Stones and rocks, sir?'' says Mister Thrashboy. ''When I were a lad, there were a hundred and seven of us living in a newspapper and eating nobbut warm puke.''

''Warm puke, sir?'' says Mister Truss. ''When I were a lad, there were four thousand, six hundred and twenty-eight, and a half, living in a matchbox and eating nothing but snot.''

''Warm snot?'' says Yo-yo, ''You were lucky.''

''Young Pip is particularly good at stitching mailbags and sewing footballs, sir.'' Truss winks at Yo-yo. ''He could almost be a Bangladeshi and work for a well-known Premier League team based beyond the Pennines, 'cept he's a bit too old at ten and eats every so often.''

''But he's thin enough to sweep the chimbley,'' opines Mister Thrashboy.

''Oh,'' pleads Yo-yo, falling to his knees and clasping his hands. ''Please don't send me up again. Please, Mister.'' He sobs theatrically. ''It's dark and it's hot and the flames burn my bum. The soot stuffs my nose and the smoke chokes my lungs.'' He wipes his nose with his sleeve. ''Please don't send me up again.''

''Nonsense, Oliver, d--n your eyes'' says Mister Truss, ''You're the best d--n 'weeping boy in Old London Town. Mister Sniffwit's chimbley needs a d--n good seeing to and only your brush can get into all his nooks and crannies.'' He winks again. ''Now how about a delicious feast of jellied eels and cockles and whelks before we go?''

''Yum,'' lies Yo-yo.

''Thank 'ee kindly, sir,'' Truss says to Thrashboy. ''I shall leave him with the beak until the beadle collects him.'' He takes Yo-yo's hand and leads him to the Kirkgate Police Station next door. ''You'll wait there for Beadle Bumbarrel like a good boy, won't ye, Davey?'' He lowers his voice again. ''I'm going to fetch your uncle.''

''Oh, yes, sir,'' says Yo-yo, eagerly stepping through the iron-barred door. ''I'll wait here.'' The door slams behind him. A key grates in the lock. ''Hello? Mister Truss?'' He rattles the door. ''Mister Truss?'' Yo-yo is imprisoned.

''Going for your uncle, Oliver.'' Truss' voice echoes eerily from the white-washed walls of the passageway. ''You just wait. You just wait.''

Yo-yo shrugs, lies full-length on the wooden bench, his hands behind his head, cap pushed down over his eyes, and swings his feet up. He might as well get some kip while he waits. It seems to be getting darker. Somewhere far away he hears the voices of children singing 'Tom, Tom the Piper's Son, Stole a pig and away did run...' then 'Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man'. He thinks it may be the Bedern Children, the dozens of orphans who died of disease and starvation in the York Ragged School managed by George Pimm in the mid-nineteenth century, children whose corpses Pimm concealed in his cellar, until their tapping, scratching and wailing drove him to drink, insanity and finally suicide, children who still haunt Bedern Alley and sing their ghostly songs, 'Tom, Tom the Piper's Son, Stole a pig and away did run...' and

One, two, kick the shoe, Three, four, kick the door,

Five, six, break the sticks, Seven, eight, break the gate,

Nine, ten, kill the men.

but it isn't. Instead of the silvery tinkling voices of children, a rough voice accosts him aggressively.

''My name is Thomas Ward, but God help you if you use it,'' begins the man, ''You call me Sir, or Master Turn-keep. Get your feet off that bench and sit up straight, you rogue, you bounder, you ne'er-do-well.'' The ghost of the gaoler glares dyspeptically through the bars.

''He hasn't gone for the Beadle,'' says William Petyt, a ghostly debtor who materialises on the bench next to him, ''He's gorn for Vanilla.'' The man's face is bruised and bloodied. ''I died in this cell on August 27th 1741. I was awaiting transportation to Australia for debt. Thomas Griffith beat me so badly I succumbed to my injuries. My fellow prisoners brought a private prosecution for murder but he was acquitted, God rot him.''

''Shut your filthy mouth, Petyt,'' yells Thomas Ward.

''Up yours, Ward,'' growls Petyt.

''Tom, Tom the Piper's Son....'' sing the children.

''You, prisoner! If you want food,'' shouts Thomas Ward, ''You come to me.''

''You got to get out,'' says William Petyt, ''Or they'll do for you like they did for me.''

''Stole a pig and away did run...''

''And I'll spit in your face.''

''They'll kill you in here.''

''The pig was eat and Tom was beat...''

''If you want an extra blanket....''

''You have to get out.''

''Tom went roaring down the street.''

Yo-yo covers his ears and screams:

In the sudden silence, he slips through the bars and emerges into a cobbled street. A gas-lamp is burning in the dim twilight.

''Where are you, my pretty?'' Mister Truss's treacly voice oozes through the still evening air. ''Come to Trussy.''

Yo-yo gulps. There are a number of shop-window style dummies in a display modelling Victorian clothing. He dives inside a voluminous crinoline dress. The model smiles.

''Got you, my pretty,'' says Rue.

# 14.

# Yo-yo's Little Brush

''I'VE been looking for you,'' says Rue, letting Yo-yo out from her skirts.

''My uncle told me not to trust you,'' says Yo-yo, dismayed to see that he is back in the caravan.

''Don't be silly,'' she says. ''What harm can I do? I'm a feeble, defenceless woman.'' The crinoline skirt crumples to the floor leaving Rue exposed in a white corset and white knee-length bloomers.

''You're working for Mister Vanilla!'' cries Yo-yo in despair.

''Why would I work for Mister Vanilla?'' Rue rubs her ribs. ''God, this is tight. I hate wearing corsets. Could you unlace me, sweetie?'' Rue faces a full-length mirror. ''I have to get ready for the show. Be a darling and help me undress.'' Before he really knows what he's doing, Yo-yo is behind her and fumbling at the corset strings with trembling fingers. As each comes undone, Rue sighs deeply. His knees quiver. ''You'll uncover my Edinburgh Tattoo in a second,'' she whispers huskily. The corset falls away. Yo-yo gulps. Rue is naked. She tugs at a tangle in her long blonde hair. ''This will be more fun in the Hall of Mirrors,'' she says, taking his hand and leading him out of the caravan. They cross the grass. No-one notices the tall, naked woman with the long blonde hair and the long, slim legs hand-in-hand with the thin red-headed boy in the ragged clothes.

''I need you to help me with my tattoos,'' she explains. ''You'll have to paint me.'' Yo-yo gulps again. ''You can also meet my friends, Jax and Dax. You'll like them. They're naked too.''

In the tent labelled Hall of Mirrors there are indeed many mirrors and inside the mirrors, reflected to infinity, sit the twins Jax and Dax, two more blonde-headed beauties, as naked as Rue and reflected a thousand times a thousand inside those mirrors. It is a boy's dream come true.

''Yo-yo's come to paint me,'' says Rue.

''That's good,'' says Dax (or Jax).

''That's good,'' says Jax (or Dax).

They are identical in every respect, right down to the length of their silver-blonde hair.

''Ask us a question, Yo-yo,'' says Jax (or Dax).

''Ask us a question, Yo-yo,'' says Dax (or Jax).

''Errr ... mmmm .... how many peas do you get in a pod?'' asks Yo-yo.

Dax and Jax and Jax and Dax and Dax and Jax and Jax and Jax and Jax and Dax Dax and Dax and Jax and Dax and Jax and Jax and Dax and Dax and Jax and Dax

look at each other.

''One. The others are all imitations,'' says Rue, stretching out on the grass between the twins. Her body is now covered in tattoos, red, green, blue, green, blue, red, all reflected in the mirrors a thousand times, country cottages, sandy beaches, quaint old shepherds, bouncing away into infinity. ''I need you to make a river down my back.'' She hands Yo-yo a paintbrush and rolls on to her stomach. Her back is smooth and beautiful.

''Where's the paint?'' Yo-yo sounds as though he is being strangled.

''In your brush. The paint comes out of your brush.'' She stretches slowly, spreads out her arms and fans out her hair. Yo-yo kneels beside her and applies the brush to her bare back. Instantly, silvery-blue paint bleeds on to her skin. Yo-yo grins and paints a delta between her shoulder blades then draws his brush down her spine in a thick, wavy line some three inches wide. He swirls and whirls, stipples and dibbles. Different paints leak out from the dabbling brush-tip, greens and browns for trees, yellows for reeds, whites and reds for a windmill. The riverside scene seems to swell before his eyes. As his control of the brush improves and his grip tightens, he is able to conjure cows and sheep, ducks and swans, even a little boat on her coccyx.

''Go right down into my buttocks,'' breathes Rue. Yo-yo's brush glides down to the top of the crack. ''Go on,'' she urges. He twists the tip just inside the crevice. More paint gushes from the brush in his hand and spills over Rue's smooth globes. As it flows, it forms into a waterfall with rocks and a sandy canyon. Yo-yo squats back on his haunches to admire his handiwork, his brush dangling limply between his knees, fully satisfied.

''She looks magnificent,'' says Dax (or Jax).

''She looks magnificent,'' says Jax (or Dax).

Rue rolls languidly over. Her golden hair cascades over her breasts.

''Shall I do your front?'' asks Yo-yo breathlessly. Rue reaches between his knees and takes his hand, guiding it up towards her right breast. Her deep blue eyes never leave Yo-yo's whose knees have turned to jelly. The paintbrush tip touches her teat. Red paint. Then she moves the hand and brush round her breast in circles. White paint. She laughs suddenly, a high, silvery, tinkling sound.

''I wanted Mount Everest,'' she says, ''But you've made me into a Bakewell Pudding.'' The spell is broken. Rue kneels up and admires herself in a thousand mirrors. Yo-yo sits on the grass and admires her too. ''You can do my legs a little later. Vine leaves and grapes.''

''OK,'' says Yo-yo eagerly.

''But first, it's your turn.'' Rue smiles softly. ''You can perform with me tonight.''

''Yes, please,'' says Yo-yo, his head filled with visions of mink-lined handcuffs, massage oils and fruit-flavoured rubbers.

''I mean in the circus,'' Rue laughs softly.

''In the circus,'' says Jax (or Dax).

''In the circus,'' says Dax (or Jax).

''I have to get back,'' says Yo-yo, disappointed. ''They'll be expecting me.''

''Nonsense,'' says Rue. ''We'll make you a star.'' She smiles again and snaps her fingers. ''Clothes OFF!'' Instantly Yo-yo is naked. His body bounces a thousand times off a thousand mirrors. His handsflashtohisgenitals. ''Sit down, Yo-yo. Relax. This is everything you ever dreamed of. Relax and let Dax and Jax paint you all over.''

Yo-yo sits on the grass, his legs stretched out, supported by his hands.It's better than nothing, after all. Rue paints his toes brown, then draws the brush caressingly over his foot. ''Trees,'' she says. ''Jax. Dax. Help me here.'' The twins address an arm each and paint a selection of birds and beasts. Yo-yo wonders what Doctor Molasses would say if he knew his young charge was sitting stark naked on the grass in a Hall of Mirrors, his bare body being painted by three equally beautiful and equally naked young women. It would never be allowed in Gillworthy.

The paint flows blood-warm over his skin. Rue has passed his knee and is curling brown branches and green leaves over his trembling inner thigh. Jax (or Dax) is coiling a yellow serpent up his left arm and Dax (or Jax) is painting a peacock on his back. Yo-yo grins suddenly. Doctor Molasses can kiss his painted behind.

Yo-yo has just about outgrown Gillworthy. They treat him like an invalid, an imbecile, an incorrigible villain or, more usually, a combination of all three, restricting his diet, restraining his limbs, resizing his brain. Well, when he returns ...

''Lie back,'' says Rue, ''And we'll do your chest.''

The paintbrush tickles as it deposits a golden star on each nipple and a silver white moon in his navel. His stomach turns indigo, his ribs black, though Dax (or Jax) spatters silver spots by flicking her brush over his prostrate form and Jax (or Dax) bathes his face in golden orange.

''Yo-yo the Universe,'' Rue remarks. ''That's what we're making you.'' She laughs and pushes her paintbrush into his penis. ''We could make your wee jimmy into a space rocket...'' Yo-yo closes his eyes and sinks into the earth.

Doctor Molasses will be very upset when Yo-yo walks out. He can hear the bleating voice bleating ''Please, Yo-yo, pleeeease don't go. There's so much left to do.'' Well, Doctor, you can kiss my wee jimmy.....

''It's very stiff,'' says Jax (or Dax).

''Very stiff,'' says Dax (or Jax).

''Dip it in some turpentine,'' says Rue. ''That'll soften it up. Make sure the bristles don't melt and fall out.''

Yo-yo opens his eyes anxiously. They are examining a gunged-up paintbrush. Phew! He stands up uncertainly. His face has become the sun, his body outer space, his genitals a galaxy, a swirling Milky Way. He has become the entire universe and, because of the mirrors, the Universe that is Yo-yo is utterly Infinite. Rue is the Earth in all its infinite and wonderful bounty. They join hands, Earth and Sky, Eve and Adam. ''We'll be sensational,'' Yo-yo declares.

''Out of this world.'' Rue beams.

''Out of this world,'' repeat Dax and Jax.

Music swells from the Big Top. 'Thunder and blazes', The Entry of the Gladiators, circus music, then the martial, march-like theme to the movie Star Wars. Yo-yo puffs out his chest.

''Are you ready?'' says Rue.

Yo-yo gulps, suddenly aware that he is going to parade in the nude before six hundred people.

''Don't worry,'' laughs Rue. ''You'll be great. Just follow me.''

''Just follow Rue,'' breathe Jax and Dax.

Rue kisses him on the top of his head and, still holding his hand, leads him to the flap of the tent. He feels the soft, cool grass under his naked soles, feels the soft, cool breeze on his naked body, feels the soft, cool skin of Rue's fingers, closes his eyes, swallows his nerves and steps out into the spotlight.

15.

# Minster's Mystery Streaker

### YORK Minster

is the second largest Gothic cathedral in Northern Europe. The earliest recorded church on this site was built in 627 for the baptism of Edwin, King of Northumbria by St Paulinus, Bishop of York. Various stone structures replaced this original wooden church over the centuries. Some were damaged by fire, others by Viking invaders. It was rebuilt in 1070 by Thomas of Bayeux, the first Norman Archbishop, and the present Minster was begun in 1220 under Walter de Gray. It was completed in 1472. It is built from magnesian limestone, a creamy-white rock from Tadcaster near York. It is 158 metres (518 ft) long and each of its three towers are 60 metres (200 ft) high. The choir has an interior height of 31 metres (102 ft). It is dedicated to St Peter.

Evensong is being led by the boys of the Minster Choir. A pure, unbroken treble soars to the ceiling of the cavernous Cathedral as his ''Soul doth magnify the Lord'' (in Brewer's version). Yo-yo, listening appreciatively, notes the famous Rose Window dating from 1500 and 'celebrating' the union of the Houses of white-rose York and red-rose Lancaster, and also the rood-screen with its subtly suggestive selection of Kings, from William the Bastard (I) and William the Red (II) to Edward the Bugger (II) and Henry the Rubbish (VI). Notable by his absence is Yo-yo's friend Richard the Crookback (III) and notable too are the number of unfeasibly curly beards, Edward the Longshank's (I) being especially spectacular. Are these hirsute flourishes historically authentic or simply stonemasons' braggadacios?

The magnificent Magnificat draws to an end and Yo-yo gets up to go. He strolls down the Nave, through the Great West Door and steps into the sunshine where

a woman screams,

a pensioner faints,

a man yells ''Pervert!'',

and a boy throws a stone. Horrified, mortified, terrified, Yo-yo is wearing...

### nothing.

The body paint has vanished. He is not in the circus. Rue has tricked him. He stands on the steps of the Minster, stark-staring, bollock-naked nude, with several dozen tourists gawping, the still-grid-locked, sightseeing bus hooting, the Japanese students' cameras flashing, a bunch of blue-jumpered school-kids giggling, some flat-hatted pensioners staring. His handsflashtohisgenitals as hedartstotheleft past St Michael-le-Belfry, the church built by John Forman, Master Mason to the Minster, between 1525 and 1536. A notoriously Pentecostal/Charismatic/Clap-happy church, Guy Fawkes was allegedly baptised there on April 16th 1570 and Nudity might be encouraged if in the spirit of the Worship.

Yo-yo runs round the side of the Minster and, outside the South Door, slap into the green-bronze statue of Constantine, the Roman declared Emperor here in York on the death of his father Constantinius Chlorus in 306 A.D., who turned the Roman Empire into the Roman Church and founded a new capital in Byzantium called Constantinople. Yo-yo clambers onto the statue as the matronly teachers in the Minster School across the road cover the eyes of the young impressionables in their care.

''Get out of it!'' hisses the Emperor. ''You're spoiling the photos.''

''What?''

''Shove off.'' Constantine curses. ''People come from all over the world to photograph me. They don't want your winkie getting in the way.'' The Emperor tries to fix a grin and jabs Yo-yo's behind with his sword.

''Hey,'' says Yo-yo, ''Watch it, mate. Watch where you're sticking that thing.''

''Bugger off,'' snarls the Emperor. ''And I'm not your mate, I'm the Emperor of Rome.''

''Is it Rag Week?'' an old coot calls. ''I seen some student stunts in my time but this takes the cake.''

''Which charity is this for?'' a boxer-faced biddy butts in.

''Help the Clothesless,'' shouts a student. Everyone laughs. Yo-yo's cheeks flush, prompted partly by the pole-prodding Roman.

''Bugger off,'' repeats said Roman.

Flashlights fire.

Yo-yo slides naked over the Emperor's knee.

''Very amusing,'' says the old coot. ''Where's the collecting tin? I'll give you a copper or two.''

Yo-yo springs down from the plinth and seizes the old coot's flat cloth cap. ''Thanks,'' he says, protecting his parts with the mothball- and Brylcreem-scented chequered headgear.

''Hey,'' says the man, ''You can't use my cap as a codpiece!''

''I'll return it,'' cries Yo-yo, ''When I've finished.'' He runs for refuge into the Minster Yard's garden. He dives full-length into a bush. Which is scratchy.

''Don't think I want it back,'' mumbles the man, ''Not on my head, at any rate.''

No clothes. NO CLOTHES!! NO CLOTHES!!!

Yo-yo shivers in the shadow of the Great East Window. A little girl strolls past licking a lemon-and-lime lollipop.

''Hey,'' hisses Yo-yo, ''Hey. Little girl!'' She stops and looks at the bush. ''Can you get me some clothes?'' She twirls the lollipop round her mouth. ''Clothes?'' She stares. ''Get me some clothes. Please?''

A twig pricks his bottom. ''Look,'' he snaps, ''I'm naked. Right? Naked ...''

''AHHHHHHH! Stranger Danger!!!!'' screams the girl, throwing her lollipop at Yo-yo's cloth-cap-codpiece. ''Stranger Danger! Kill, maim, gouge and destroy!''

Her mother drags her away shouting ''You pervert! Lurking in the bushes waylaying little girls! You ought to be locked up, you ought! I'll have the law on you, I will. Bloody pervert! You should have your bollocks chopped off, you should. Bloody paedophiles!''

Yo-yo shudders. What would Doctor Molasses make of this? He'll never get out of Gillworthy. There'll be tests forever and Doctor Molasses will make a fortune from books, papers, lectures and TV appearances-

Harry Gration: And now a story of brilliant, life-saving psychiatric diagnosis.

Christa Ackroyd: That's right, Harry. Remember in May we covered ...

Harry Gration: ...or uncovered ....

Christa Ackroyd: ...the Minster's Mystery Streaker? Well, his name is Yo-yo and he's a young boy with a history of mental illness. He's here in the studio, fully clothed this time, and he's with his Vienna-trained therapist, Doctor Molasses. Doctor Molasses, when did you first notice something wrong with this boy?

Dr Molasses: Ven he vas only a little boy, he vood run around ze hospital gardens drawing attention to hiss vinkie... It vas clearly a case of Freudian penis envy so ve doubled ze dose of strong medication but nuzzink seemed to stop him exposing himself. Ve tried everyzink but in ze end only a lobotomy seemed to verk.

Harry Gration: You mean you cut out a piece of his brain?

Dr Molasses: Ve fried it viz electricity first.

Harry Gration: Vasn't ... I mean wasn't that a little drastic?

Dr Molasses: Ze public must be protected. Zere ver children in ze park.

Christa Ackroyd: And how do you feel now, Yoyo?

Yo-yo: (Dribbling over his chin) Blibble blibble, Christa.

He may even win the Nobel Prize for Medicine for his breakthrough in child psychiatry.

Dammit. A small, fluffy dog is approaching the bush. Sniffing. Sniffing. No. No. Don't even think about it. Sniffing. Sniffing. Yo-yo shifts, treads on a pine cone, yelps. The dog ceases sniffing. Ears pricked. Left leg lifted. Lifted. Lifted.

''Bugger off,'' mutters Yo-yo, ''Just bugger off, there's a nice doggy.''

A sudden burst of warm water splashes his bare foot but, quick as a flash(er), he remembers the cap and catches the rest. Ha ha to you, Mister Dog. He flicks a finger with a contemptuous snort.

A boy walks past. He is dressed in a red blazer, grey shirt and shorts, red and yellow striped tie. The crossed keys embroidered in gold on his blazer pocket tell Yo-yo he is a pupil at the Minster School (prep. school for girls and boys aged 3-13 and provider of choristers). Now then. This is promising.

''You there!'' booms Yo-yo. ''Stand still!'' The boy obeys, owlishly blinking behind his owlish specs. ''This is not a simple bush! This is the Bush of the Lord!'' The boy blinks again. ''The Lord is nude AND IS SEEN BY MAN. He has no clothes. I command you to give me your clothes. Ouch. Bollocks...'' A thistle has stabbed Yo-yo's arse. The boy seems hesitant, perhaps overawed by his Moses Moment. More thistles jab at Yo-yo's behind. ''You will come top of the BOLLOCKS class in Maths,'' booms Yo-yo, ''And top in R.E.'' Still the boy stalls. What's wrong with him? Doesn't he know God is asking a favour? ''I will make you a magnificent ARSE-BISCUITS cricketer.'' Another damn thistle. But Yo-yo knows these prep school boys, what floats their boats. ''A batsman of hundreds and a bowler of MAIDENS.'' The boy peels off his red blazer. ''More!'' booms Yo-yo. ''I WILL MAKE YOU HEAD CHORISTER! Give me your trousers! GOD WANTS YOUR TROUSERS. BUT YOU CAN KEEP YOUR STINKY PANTS! I DON'T WANT THOSE!''

Minutes later, Yo-yo is sauntering through the Minster gardens adjusting the red and yellow tie of his newly adopted clan whilst the boy shivers in a bush in white vest and Y-fronts waiting to be transformed into the greatest bowler since Spinny McSpinner took nine wickets for no runs in 1907 playing for The Edinburgh Gentlemen in a match against The Longbottom Players of Northallerton, Yorks.

He passes through the crowds, spots the old coot and hands him the cap.

''Cheers,'' he says cheekily, popping it on the bald pate as he passes.

''Whew, what's the whiff?'' sputters the coot.

''Latest French perfume,'' Yo-yo replies. ''Pee de chien. Worth a fortune.''

''Lovely,'' says the old coot, settling the cap back on his scalp.

Yo-yo returns to the front of the Minster and sits on the steps as the choir concludes their Evensong with ''Crown him with many crowns''. He chuckles as he finds a clutch of cards in the inside pocket. Pokémon cards. Ho. He can sell these at the Little Apple Bookshop just down High Petergate. That's his bus-fare covered. Suddenly his expression changes. He pats his chest. It has gone. The ring has vanished. He bursts into tears and rests his face on his knees. He feels disgraced, ashamed. His ring has vanished.

''There there, little boy. Don't take on so. What's the matter?'' It's a kind voice, a gentle voice, a voice of concern. Yo-yo raises his tear-stained face from his knees and regards a policeman.

''It's that there pervert!'' cries the mother of the little girl, ''That weirdo freak!''

''How dare you, Madam!'' says the policeman.

''Not you,'' shouts the woman. ''Him!''

''Are you accusing me of something, madam?'' Yo-yo says slowly.

''Aye,'' adds the old man. ''He's that there nudie branch, he is. That nudie weirdo who streaked through the Minster. Used my cap as a piss-pot, he did.''

''Burn the bastard, that's what I say,'' yells the mother, holding her daughter's hand tightly. ''Burn him with petrol. Set light to the fucker, that's what I say.''

''Rip his cock off,'' chirps her charming pre-teen, ''And shove it up his arse.''

''Hiding in bushes frightening the kiddies. Poor little boy. No wonder you're upset,'' says the mother. ''Fecking paedos.''

''Yes,'' sobs Yo-yo. ''He flashed his parts at me. I think he's still there.''

Quicker than a Scouser can zip up a shell-suit, an angry, medievalist mob is assembled by the Daily Stale, The Super Soaraway Scum and The Poos of the World. It is armed with torches and pitchforks, tar and feathers, large, blunted garden shears, stocks, a ducking stool and several sacks of rotten tomatoes, stinky old eggs and sloppy, wet dog-turds. York has suddenly regressed six hundred years.

''We'll protect you,'' soothes the mother. ''Find the perv!''

The mob gratuitously eggs a passing bus, overturns and fires some wheelie bins, bricks a pub window and swarms off into the city centre looking for a paediatrician to castrate.

Now Yo-yo and the policeman are alone on the steps. ''They stole my jewel,'' he says, and bursts into tears once again.

''There there,'' says the policeman. ''What jewel is this?''

''My emerald ring. They pinched my ring,'' Yo-yo sobs.

''Who pinched your ring?'' says the policeman.

''Rue and Dax and Jax. In the Hall of Mirrors,'' Yo-yo blubbers.

''Well,'' says the policeman, ''I am Constable Kipper, and I will recover your ring.'' Constable Kipper is middle-aged, going to seed, one hundred kg, with a brick-red face under a thatch of nut-brown hair.

''My ring is important,'' says Yo-yo, raising his tear-stained face. ''It's all I have left of my parents. They gassed themselves in a suicide pact. Left me a note saying they were sorry. Left me their wedding ring in memory of them.''

Constable Kipper sits on the Minster steps as Yo-yo shares his sorrows.

''It all went wrong when my father lost his job,'' sobs Yo-yo. ''He'd worked for the Highways Agency painting double yellow lines on roads for twenty years. There wasn't a double yellow line in the city that he hadn't painted. Suddenly they decided they didn't need yellow lines any more so they moved him to painting white lines but he couldn't cope. It was far too much far too soon. He had a breakdown and they sent him on compassionate leave, the bastards. My mother gave up her job as a bus-shelter inspector so she could look after him.'' Yo-yo rests his chin on his knees again. His shoulders shake. Constable Kipper wants to comfort him but can't find the words. ''Well, they both got very depressed. Money was tight and they couldn't keep up with their payments. The doors and windows were repossessed. My father sold my hair to a wigmaker but it made no difference. Finally, when the light bulbs were seized, they'd had enough. They went into the kitchen and turned on the gas. I came home from school to find them both stone-dead on the kitchen floor covered in lasagne. There was a note on the table. 'We can't go on', it said. 'Take my ring and go to your aunty. Your dinner's in the oven.' Well, it was, I thought sadly. I buried them both in the garden, ate the lasagne, packed my bag and....''

POOOOOOOOOT!

Constable Kipper blows his nose into a large red handkerchief. ''Sorry,'' he says through his tears. He stands up, flexes his shoulders. This is his mission. This is his calling. This is his moment. The time is here. The time is now. ''Don't you worry, little boy. Don't you cry. I am Constable Kipper and I shall rescue your ring, or die trying!''

And he beetles off to the station for a nice cup of tea.

# SECOND FIT

#

# 16.

# Mister Vanilla in the Hall of Mirrors

MISTER Vanilla smoothes the waxy tips of his waxy moustache and pops a sugared primrose into his mouth. He does not like the way the conversation is developing.

''We did the work,'' says Mistress Thyme, ''We should share the profits.''

''What profits, my little pigeon? You assume I'm going to sell it.'' Mister Vanilla replaces the tin and folds his great fat fingers over his stomachs.

''You said it was valuable,'' says Rue.

''And so it is, my little roselet. Very valuable.''

''So let's sell it and skip the country,'' says Thyme impatiently. ''Imagine, Vanilla, the three of us settling down somewhere together, just as you always dreamed, all three of us together somewhere like.... France..''

Mister Vanilla is suddenly dressed in a black beret and a blue-and-white stripy jumper and has a string of onions round his neck. He sings: ''Sur le pont d'Avignon, on y dansant, allez poncey...''

''Not again!'' he snaps.

''Or Spain,'' suggests Rue.

Mister Vanilla is suddenly dressed in black toreador pants, a golden waistcoat, a black hat and has a red cape in his hand. He sings: ''Toreador, en garda, toreador, knock on the door, kick down the door....''

''Or Good Ole Americay,'' says Thyme.

Mister Vanilla is suddenly dressed in leather chaps, a checked shirt and a cowboy hat, a lasso dangling from his hand. He sings: ''Hey little dogies, roll on, roll on,''

''Or....''

''Stop it,'' snaps Mister Vanilla. ''Stop this at once. I am not going abroad and neither is the jewel. It is valuable, but not to you and not to me. It is not for sale.'' He settles back in his chair. ''Now give it to me.''

''We don't have it,'' says Thyme.

''I don't think you understand,'' says Mister Vanilla softly. A gun appears in his hand. ''Give me the jewel.''

''Oohh, Mister Vanilla, don't shoot us, please,'' says Rue in mock-terror.

''No, Mister Vanilla, please don't shoot us,'' says Thyme. The sisters explode into mirth.

''How do you know I won't shoot you, my little cobra-kins?'' The gun does not waver. Mister Vanilla's blue eyes are ice-cold.

''Because you love us,'' says Thyme.

''You adore us,'' says Rue.

''You lust after us,'' says Thyme. ''You dream of possessing us. You'd sell your jewel, your ring and your soul for one night with us.''

''Where is the ring?'' says Mister Vanilla. ''Where is it, Rue?''

Rue runs her tongue-tip over her lip. ''Satisfy us, Vanilla, satisfy yourself, and you shall have it,'' she says.

''It's your chance to live out your fantasy,'' says Thyme, slapping her high-cut thigh-boot with her riding crop. ''Come, and you shall have it.''

Mister Vanilla is sweating profusely. It is a very unpleasant sensation. He pops a sugared peony into his mouth.

''Not here,'' says Rue.

''Oh no, not here,'' says Thyme. ''In the Hall of Mirrors. You can live out your dream a thousand times over.''

Mister Vanilla is in a dilemma. He needs the jewel. He has been paid to retrieve it. But he doesn't trust the circus sisters. They have double-crossed him many times before. Threats and persuasion have come to nothing. Perhaps he has to pay their price. Mopping his face with a large lilac handkerchief, he adjusts the watch-chain across his upper stomach and lumbers to his feet.

Rue and Thyme exchange smiles. ''Fetch the olive oil,'' Thyme tells her sister.

''Extra Virgin?'' smirks Rue.

''I think so,'' smirks Thyme.

Mister Vanilla finds himself wobbling towards the Hall of Mirrors, Rue on one arm, Thyme on the other. Both sisters are caressing and cooing. Fine, he thinks. Maybe this won't be so bad. The sisters know what they want from him. Maybe he should just lie back and think of the cheque he'll get from his mistress when the ring is returned. Entering the tent, he is dazzled by a billion reflections of himself. Somewhere mixed up in this he spots two naked women, Dax and Jax, bouncing round the mirrors, DaxandJaxandJaxandDaxandDaxandJaxandJaxandJaxandDaxand

and

VanillaVanillaVanillaVanillaVanillaVanillaVanillaVanillaVanillaVanilla

Distantly, he hears laughter and then the voice of Truss, the circus owner, proclaiming: ''Welcome to the World of Mirrors, where nothing is real and everything is reflection.'' His senses swirling, Mister Vanilla groans and sinks to the ground, covering his ears with his very fat hands. As he falls, he understands they have done it again. Rue and Thyme have fooled him again, and now he is lost, maybe forever.

17.

# The Investigations of Constable Kipper

POLICE Constable Kipper is an old-fashioned policeman. He believes in doing things 'by the book', so instead of leaping into action and pursuing the thieves, he has first returned to the station for a nice cup of tea and an hour or so of writing his report into his notebook in beautiful script.

The young Man in Question gave his name as Yo-yo and his Address as Cozee Nook bed and breakfast near Clifton Green. The young Man in Question was wearing the Uniform of The Minster School and gave his Age as 'Between 10 and 18'. He told me he was visiting his Aunt and Uncle following the double Suicide of his Parents and that the Emerald Jewel set into a Ring was a parting Gift from his Mother. He said he had been followed by one Mister Vanilla who had repeatedly tried to procure the said Ring, and tricked by one Mistress Rue, a painted Lady from The Wildcat Circus.

By the time Kipper has finished the report, his tea is cold. He makes another cup and considers his next move.

''Why don't you search the circus?'' suggests Sergeant Cod.

''I'm more interested in this Wee Jocko McTavish character,'' says Constable Kipper, munching into a chocolate digestive. ''There's something fishy about him.''

''Yes,'' says Sergeant Cod, ''Very fishy. He needs to know his plaice. Go bust him up a bit. Bring him to 'eel. You're a dab hand at that.''

Kipper takes another fifteen minutes over his tea and biscuit then gets on his bicycle and rides over to Stonegate and Ye Olde Scottish Shop of Wee Jocko McTavish. Pushing his way through kilts and blankets, he is stopped in his tracks by a burring ''Noo then, Jimmy. Whit's yeer game?''

''I am an officer of the law,'' Kipper declares, ''And I am investigating a crime. I require your co-operation.''

''Is that so?'' growls Wee Jocko McTavish. ''See yon claymair?'' The sword on the counter is very sharp. ''That's Glaswegian for 'cop-operation', ye sassenach, ye.''

Kipper hesitates. This is not working out as he had hoped. ''A young boy came in earlier today,'' he says. ''Red-headed lad, green-blue eyes...''

''Och, so, ye be wantin' a wee laddie then,'' says Jocko McTavish, nodding with sympathetic understanding. ''Weel, if that's yeer haggis...''

''What?'' Kipper adjusts his helmet.

''Ah dinnae gae fer it mesel','' says Jocko McTavish, ''Not enough hair, d'ye ken? Ah like mae men vairy hairy. Wee bairns today dinna have enough hair. But it takes all soorts, as they sae.''

''No, no!'' Kipper protests. ''He came here earlier today. He played with your pipes?''

''Och, that'd be telling,'' grins Jocko McTavish. ''Ye wantin' Oor Jimmy tae play wi yoor pipes?''

''No,'' says Kipper. ''I just want information. He had his ring pinched.''

''He should be so lucky,'' grins Jocko McTavish.

Constable Kipper feels in need of a strong cup of tea. ''Look,'' he says. ''Did a young boy come in here earlier or not?''

''Aye,'' says Jocko McTavish, ''That he did. I gave him a sporran and then a skein dhu.''

''Disgusting,'' hisses Constable Kipper. ''People like you should be put in jail. Sporrin kids and skinning their doos.''

Jocko McTavish grins. ''Awa' wi' ye, sassenach, or I'll set the haggises on ye.'' Several small, grey, furry, tail-less creatures with whiskers skitter across the floor. ''They'll gie yer ankles a nip if ye dinna watch oot.'' Constable Kipper dances backwards away from the swarm. Jocko McTavish claps his hands in delight and sticks on some music. ''Gae on,'' he cries, ''Strip Yer Willow or maybe ye'd prefair a Gay Gordon?'' Constable Kipper waves his arms and jigs about in the manner of a Highland Fling. ''Gae on,'' he shouts, ''Up your Ceilidh, Constable Kipper.''

''Look,'' gasps Constable Kipper again, ''I only want some information...''

''Nae need tae get radgie,'' says Jocko McTavish. ''Gae on, lift yer knees mair. Ye're not daein' it right.'' The haggises squeak and nip the policeman's ankles. ''Ye tak the high rood, an' ah'll tak the low rood,'' he warbles. ''Roond aboot the cauldron go, in the poisoned entrails throw....ye be from the po-lis?''

''Aye,'' says Constable Kipper, jigging on the spot to a bagpipe-and-accordion arrangement of Donald Weer's Ye Troosies?

''An' yer tryin' tae find Wee Jimmy's ring?''

Constable Kipper nods breathlessly.

''Come roond the back, Jimmy,'' says Jocko McTavish, ''An' I'll fill ye in.''

Constable Kipper removes his helmet and unzips his truncheon pouch. After a thorough debriefing and a nice cup of tea, he has the information he requires. He leaves Ye Scottish Shop, mounts his bike and, somewhat gingerly, pedals away to the Wildcat Circus.

All is quiet when he arrives. He approaches the first caravan, a white one, and opens the door. Inside

the Trapezing Triplets, the Czech Mates, are playing a game at chess. Strelec, playing black, moves his rook. Jezdec, playing white, moves a pawn. Strelec moves his queen. Jezdec fiddles with his bishop before nudging his knight into a square.

''What do you want?'' yells Vez.

''I'm looking for Mistress Rue,'' says Constable Kipper.

''Checkmate,'' says Strelec, pushing his bishop a little further up the board.

Jezdec pulls out an AK-47. ''I don't zink so,'' he says, riddling the bishop with bullets.

Constable Kipper closes the door and wheels his bike to the next caravan, a pale green one. Inside

the Clowns are relaxing. Make-up cakes the towels that are scattered over the floor. Wigs lie forgotten on a table. Big floppy shoes lurk under beds. Big floppy feet rest in plastic bowls of mustard and water. Each clown has a fistful of playing cards and a mouthful of cigarette. A hazy curtain of smoke hangs inside the caravan.

''What are you playing?'' asks Constable Kipper.

''Fool,'' says Kos.

''Sorry,'' says Kipper. ''I didn't mean to offend you.''

''No, the game's called Fool,'' says Endive impatiently. ''It's Russian. Durak. Means fool or idiot.''

''Or complete twat,'' adds Rocket unnecessarily.

''Jeez, what an idiot,'' say the brothers, breathing out more clouds of cigarette smoke.

''Hey!'' cries Endive. ''I smell bacon. Can you smell bacon, Chicory?''

''And a fat pork sausage!'' yells Chicory. ''How about you, Kos? Can you smell a fat pork sausage?''

Kos sniffs the air. ''Oink oink,'' he grunts.

''Now then, now then,'' says Constable Kipper, ''There's no need to be rude.''

''Bollocks to you, Tit-head,'' says Rocket.

The Lettuce Brothers cackle as Constable Kipper closes the door.

Inside the pale blue caravan, Kipper finds

Catkin Silver, the twelve year old human cannonball, is devoid of paint and wearing just a rather small white towel round his waist.

''Hello hello hello,'' says Constable Kipper.

''What do you want?'' snarls Catkin Silver. ''Can't you see I'm busy?''

''Sorry,'' says Kipper. ''I'm looking for Thyme.''

''Thyme, like the tide, waits for no man,'' Silver says wisely. Behind him a female voice whines ''Cat-kin, Ca-tty, come back to bed.'' Catkin Silver glares at Kipper. ''Can't you hear I'm busy? Got a fair lady lying in my bed, so bugger off.''

''How old are you?'' demands Constable Kipper.

''Old enough to tell you to keep your sticky-beak out of my sex-life,'' growls Catkin Silver, slamming the door.

Kipper wheels his bike to the pale grey caravan. Inside

Jungle-Juiced Jake is sprawled under the rather decrepit lion named Brian. The lion is yelling '' Yes, Jake, yes. Lick me. Lick me. Go on, Jake. Rub my mane!''

Kipper closes the door quietly. The Wildcat Circus has yielded nothing so far except insult and injury.

The pale beige caravan is marked TRUSS, MANAGER. It is empty. However the kettle is whistling away on a little gas-stove. That's dangerous, thinks Kipper, so he turns it off, makes a cup of tea and helps himself to a nice digestive.

''Good evening,'' says an oily voice. ''How may I help you?''

Constable Kipper brushes the custard-cream crumbs from his uniform and beholds the skinny man with a balding pate who is the Manager of the Wildcat Circus.

''I am Truss,'' says the man nasally. ''Heaven must be missing an angel tonight since you're here on the earth.''

Kipper blushes and pats his straw thatch of hair into a more orderly shape so it resembles a Weetabix rather than a Shredded Wheat. '' Oh, Mister Truss...''

''If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?'' Truss oozes across the caravan floor.

Kipper twitters ''Oh, Mister Truss....''

''What's your name, my beauty?'' Truss puts his hand on Kipper's hip.

''Kipper,'' says Kipper, ''Police Constable Kipper.''

Harrumph. Truss clears his throat and snaps his hand away. ''Errrr... Truss, Circus Manager. Nice to meet you.'' His voice has dropped about an octave so it rumbles like a really macho grizzly bear. ''What can I do for you, Constable?''

A second custard-cream would not go amiss but Kipper is a professional. ''Another cup of tea?'' he ventures. ''Whilst we talk?''

Truss has been manager of the Wildcat Circus for five years. He has travelled with them all over Europe and the UK and is now planning a tour of Bulgaria, Rumania and Hungary. When he bought out Honeysuckle Moon, the previous owner, the circus had been on the edge of bankruptcy. He signed up Rue and Thyme, brought in the Czech Mates, discovered Catkin Silver in a working men's club in Wakefield dancing in his silver paint to a bunch of rowdy yet appreciative ex-miners, created Jax and Dax the Infinite Twins and revived the careers of the Lettuce Brothers, the only acts left from the Honeysuckle Moon era. The success of the Wildcat Circus is entirely down to him. And do they appreciate it? No they don't. Truss is constantly under pressure to provide new lion-skins for Jungle-Juiced Jake, new body-paint for Rue, new thigh-boots for Thyme, new custard for the clowns... The most militant is Catkin Silver, who has become a kind of Shop Steward.

''Look, you twat,'' the last meeting had opened, ''We need a pay rise. Performers like us don't grow on trees so sort it out or we'll all piss off to another circus.''

It isn't easy being a circus owner. Every time he wants to talk to Rue she disappears. Every time he goes to chat with Jungle-Juiced Jake, Brian is unleashed. Every time he visits the Lettuce Brothers, they squirt water in his face. The Wildcat Circus has taken on a life of its own and Truss is embittered. Don't they know they'd fall apart without his support?

''I'm trying to locate a Miss, or a Mrs Thyme,'' says Constable Kipper, having written Truss's troubles down in his notebook.

''Many people want to locate Mistress Thyme,'' says Truss, struggling with a stray strand of hair that has unstuck from his scalp. ''Everyone wants Thyme to do something for them. What do you want her to do for you, Constable?''

''I think she can help my enquiries,'' says Kipper. ''I am an Officer of the Law.''

Truss sighs and stands up. ''OK, OK. Follow me.''

Kipper finishes his biscuits, sets his tea-cup on the floor, flicks a haggis out of his turn-ups and follows the circus-owner out of the caravan. They reach a tent marked Hall of Mirrors. Truss folds back the flap. ''This is Thyme,'' he says. ''Thyme, this is a police constable. He wants to ask you some questions.''

''Oh, big Mister Policeman'' coos Thyme, ''Strong Mister Policeman. Are you going to interrogate me? Beat me with your truncheon? Lock me in handcuffs? Be beastly and dominant, you great, rough bully-boy? I hope so ...unless you're the strip-o-gram... Kipper the Stripper.''

Music blares out of a hidden speaker. Constable Kipper slow-dances round a pole and begins to unbutton his tunic in a suggestive manner. Suddenly he is distracted by the myriad reflections of naked women, of infinite DaxandJaxandJaxandDaxandDaxandJaxandDaxandJaxandJaxandDaxandRatandDaxandJaxandDogandJaxandDaxandDaxandJaxandDaxandJaxandChimpandDaxandDaxandJaxandJaxandJaxandDaxandDaxandJaxandDaxandElephantandJaxandDaxandJaxand

of Constable Kipper falling somewhere between them, falling .......

Kipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperdaxkipperjaxkipperkipperjaxdaxdaxdaxdaxjaxkipperjaxkipperdaxjaxjaxkipper

As he falls he detects a desperate cry of ''Heeelp meeee!'' and a faint scent of perfumed violets but it is too late. Like Mister Vanilla, he is lost in the mirrors with the Infinite Twins.

Thyme smiles at Truss. ''Good job, boss.'' She hands him Yo-yo's emerald ring.

''Thank you, my dear.'' Truss holds the jewel up to the light and squints. ''Ding dong the witch is dead. Ha ha ha ha. Quite exquisite. Utterly flawless. Beyond compare. Such depth of colour. Could it be the most beautiful emerald ring in all the world? I think it could.'' He cocks his head to one side, the better to peer into its depths. ''It is beautiful, it is precious, and now ...'' He throws back his head and guffaws evilly. ''Ha-ha-ha! It is mine, all mine!'' He pockets the ring and heads off to phone a friend.

18.

The Lettuce Brothers Leap into Action

''HE'S at the Minster, you arse,'' snaps Rocket. ''Minster. You know? Big fecking church in the middle of the fecking city.''

''There's no need to shout at me,'' says Kos. ''I'm doing my best.''

''Well, your best's bollocks,'' says Endive, ''Bag o' shite.''

''I met someone once,'' says Chicory, ''Who found a bag of shite in a tree...''

''Look,'' says Kos, ''Do you wanna drive? Right. Shut up and let me focus.''

The four clowns are stuck somewhere on York's inner ring road in their rickety yellow car, the one with the black bulb-horn, the folding windshield, the squared-off bonnet, the grinning radiator grill and the scarlet wheels. They have dressed for this trip in their best checked jackets and bowler hats and painted their mouths brighter red on whiter faces.

''Where the hell are we?'' growls Endive, adjusting his orange wig.

''I don't know,'' snarls Rocket, adjusting his blue wig. ''Somewhere in York.''

''Oh, very smart,'' says Chicory, adjusting his green wig. ''Very sarcarstic. You said you knew the city, you anus.''

''Well, I do,'' says Rocket. ''I just don't know this part.''

''Look!'' cries Kos, adjusting his violet wig. ''Staples! And MFI. We must be close.''

''You twat!'' shouts Endive. ''Do you think they'd build an MFI near the Minster?'' He presses the bulb of his plastic daffodil and sprays water over Kos. The wheels wobble as a Number 6 'Brown Line' bus lurches towards him.

''Bloody idiot,'' he growls.

''Don't you bloody swear at me,'' says Endive, hitting Kos in the face with a custard pie.

The rickety yellow car swerves towards the River Foss and back towards a Vauxhall Astra waiting patiently at the traffic lights.

They have already passed the hugely barbicanned Walmgate twice. Chicory has suggested searching St Margaret's Court behind the Red Tower but has been sloshed into submission with water and pies.

''Ask the newsagent,'' says Rocket, who gets a jug of water poured down his trousers.

''Ask that Canada Goose,'' says Endive, who gets a custard pie splatted in his face.

Kos stops at the lights near Monkbar. The sign pointing to Sainsbury's is tempting. They might find beer that isn't John Smith's.

''What are we doing here anyway?'' says Chicory.

''We're looking for Yo-yo, you fat-faced twat,'' says Endive. ''We've got to tell him that Truss has the ring and that Constable Kipper's trapped in the Hall of Mirrors.''

''Why?'' says Rocket.

''Because, you big-nosed berk, Yo-yo's the good guy and Truss is the bad guy.'' Endive pokes at his orange wig. ''Do you want to end up on the wrong side again?''

''I don't give a monkey's,'' says Rocket, ''Long as I get paid. 'Sides, Truss is our boss.''

''Bollocks to him,'' says Kos, guiding the car into Lord Mayor's Walk. ''He's a crap boss. Do you remember when he held that Professional Development Session on Clowning?''

''What a load of shite,'' says Rocket. ''To develop our Customer Service Orientation Competency, hit more kids with custard pies and randomly squirt more adults with water. What a wanker. How long have we been doing this job?''

''Fourteen years,'' chorus the others.

''Exactly. Fourteen years.'' Rocket slaps the dashboard. 'Thunder and Blazes' blasts out of the engine

as the windshield falls flat. ''Fourteen years. We don't need a tosspot like Truss to tell us what to do.''

''56% of our customers said they'd like more custard pies in faces,'' snarls Endive.

''Whilst 89% of our customers said they'd prefer more water down the trousers,'' growls Chicory, ''And all presented as a pie-chart with differently coloured segments.''

''Power Point bloody Percy,'' rumbles Kos.

'' 'We have to keep up with customer needs','' mimics Endive. '' 'The most recent needs analyses show that most circuses are not providing what the customer wants.' ''

'' 'The last focus group said that whilst it appreciated the hard work of the Lettuce Brothers, they would prefer to see...''

''Redder noses,'' Chicory says. ''91% said they'd like to see redder noses.''

''And floppier shoes.'' Rocket cuts in. ''93% of the focus group said floppier shoes. Do they have any idea how difficult it is to walk in floppy shoes, the bastards?''

''Now now, Rocket,'' says Endive, ''You have to be open to feedback.''

''Feedback my arse,'' spits Rocket. ''You know what my last job plan says? 'Will experiment with larger shoes.' My shoes are already three feet long! What do they want from me?''

''Professional development?'' opines Kos, as he passes something called the University of York St John for the third time.

''Do you suppose that was it?'' says Endive, twisting his head to peer back at Number 42, St John's House Bed and Breakfast, a large, three-storey red and brown brick building with two doors and a wide bay-window facing the City Wall from its corner.

''He's in COZEE NOOK, you twat,'' says Chicory.

They roll to a stop at the Clarence Street traffic lights. Their rickety yellow car has stalled in front of a purple Ford Focus containing two pensioners and their overly boisterous chocolate Labrador. Rocket leaps out, opens the bonnet and pokes around with a spanner then he inserts a long crank handle into the radiator grill and winds up the engine. Kos steps on the gas. There is a chugging sound, a load of grey smoke and a sudden sharp BANG as the car backfires. The Focus's windscreen is covered in thick black soot. The Labrador blinks.

''Sorry,'' calls Rocket, wiping a circle on the glass so the driver can see out but instead of the driver, it's the chocolate Labrador who grins back at the clown.

''Hey,'' says Endive, ''We could get some tattoos.'' He is pointing at the '2 Ronnies' body piercing and tattoo parlour on the other side of the road.

''We are not getting tattoos,'' Kos says firmly. ''Rue would kill us.''

''Rue's gonna kill us anyway,'' says Chicory mournfully.

''Go left down Gillygate,'' barks Endive. ''Then turn left past the theatre.''

The Lettuce Brothers move off. The Ford Focus follows. They pass the Salvation Army headquarters

C

E T

R E

E D

1882

and the motto in red brick

BLOOD

AND

FIRE

carved into the lintel.

The foundation stone tells the clowns that it was laid by Miss Emma Booth on 10th July 1882. Another stone tells them that it was opened by General Booth on March 26th 1883. Inside the building a brass band is playing ''When I survey the wondrous cross.''

They drive on, passing a Chinese acupuncture and herb clinic, a club called 18 CERT which advertises live music and a plasma screen, a shop called Noctule which advertises vampire shirts, Gothic equipment and Witchcraft and Wicca Magazine and a Private Shop where Endive and Chicory argue over the price of love- eggs and thongs.

''Catkin Silver bought the lot,'' says Endive mournfully. ''Reckon the shop's closed down after his visit.''

Kos is cursing again. They are now at Bootham Bar. This is not a public house, but a word meaning 'gate', as 'gate' means 'road' (come on, keep up!) Here Gillygate, Bootham and St Leonard's Place converge outside the medieval gate and the art gallery. This is where Yo-yo encountered Mister Vanilla in the toilets, where the Ghost Walker shocked his listeners with tales of pedantic old bores, where William Etty R.A. came down from his plinth, where the Grey Lady strolled arm-in-arm with Miyumi. The traffic is grid-locked again and a red sightseeing bus full of foreign tourists, Americans, Germans and Japanese, is marooned among the Nissan Micras and VW Golfs.

''For feck's sake,'' snarls Rocket, parping the horn.

''Nooooo!'' cry his brothers. ''Don't parp the horn. For God's sake, don't...''

PAAAAAAARRRRRRRRPPPP

''Oh shiiiiiiiiiiit!'' cry the brothers.

The rickety yellow car collapses in a heap of metal.

''You ass-clown!'' shouts Kos. ''You never parp the horn!''

A bunch of blue-sweatered school-kids waiting on the pavement start laughing and pointing. Chicory kicks Rocket up the arse. The school-kids laugh harder. Rocket produces a custard pie.

''No, Rocket, not the pie,'' cries Chicory. ''Not the pie! We're supposed to be working. Not the pie!''

Too late. The custard pie splats into Chicory's face and before the school-kids know it, the Lettuce Brothers are engaged in a full-scale pie fight outside Bootham Bar. The purple Ford Focus moves sedately away, the chocolate Labrador within looking longingly at the mayhem outside. But he can't join in. Hamish is off for walkies at Beningborough Hall where he will touch the electric fence with his nose at least twice and whimper for comfort for several hours.

Custard and cream fly everywhere. ''Thunder and blazes'' plays frenetically from the remains of the old yellow car. Chicory stuffs a pie down Rocket's pants. Endive splats Kos full in the face. The school-kids cheer and holler. A couple of pies come their way, and, to their great delight, the school-kids are drawn in, a couple of the bolder Bootham boys starting it off by throwing cream back at the clowns.

''Oh,'' snarls Kos, ''You wanna fight, do you? Bloody kids....''

The Lettuce Brothers fall into line, gunslingers in an old Western. The two sides face off across the traffic lights, school-kids on one side, Lettuce Brothers on the other, unfortunate teachers, ''Clowns to the left of [them], jokers to the right, stuck in the middle...''

''I'll never take another Year 8 trip anywhere ever again,'' moans Mister Mealey.

''Nor me,'' gasps Miss Mousey, raising her arm to ward off the custard pie deluge. ''Joshua Green, don't you dare....''

''Sorry, Miss, didn't see you,'' lies Joshua Green, as custard drips off Miss Mousey's chin.

''Go for your pies,'' Endive tells the kids.

The two teachers join hands. A pie splats on Mister Mealey's head. A pie bursts on Miss Mousey's chest.

''I've always loved you,'' says Mister Mealey, turning to his colleague with custard dribbling down his face.

''Oh, Mealey..... I ..... SPLURGE!

Obviously, for the kids, this is the best school trip ever. These are the dozen or so swotty types who had chosen to visit the Art Gallery and complete their worksheets. The dozy types who had opted for a river-side walk and a kick-about in the park are already back in the classroom writing about their day.

A blackbird lands on the No Parking sign and observes the battle. It rages for half an hour before the police come and restore order by kettling the kids, bouncing them down the stairs a few times and then arresting the teachers for allowing the kids to get into a fight and then bouncing them down the stairs.

''Custard pies and clowns, my arse,'' says Sergeant Cod. ''You'll be on the sex offenders' register for life, you scumbags. Getting your kicks by smearing kids in custard. Honestly. Some people. The Daily Sexpress will love it. You'll be splashed all over the front page.'' As Mister Mealey and Ms Mousey are marched away to be pilloried, four custard-covered clowns enter the posh bistro at Four High Petergate. and glare at the maitre'd.

''Table for four, mon-sewer,'' growls Chicory, ''And make it snappy.''

19.

# Baby and the Bathwater

YO-YO wallows in blood-warm water in the COZEE NOOK's white bathtub. He has been chased by a bunch of brown-blazered boys from St Peter's who took a dislike to his cherry-red Minster School jacket and called him a 'nonce' and a 'poof' and a 'bum-sucking queer' or something similarly witty.

''Little bastards,'' growled Lily Gusset. ''I'll go sort 'em out. Stealing your clothes and dressing you in a poncey choirboy's kit. They need their nuts gnawing off.''

Yo-yo read the name-tag sewn into the blazer collar and asked his aunt to return it to **MARTIN** **mizzenmast** 'With Thanks'.

''Whatever you say,'' Aunty Latch answered mildly.

Yo-yo lies back in the bathtub and reflects on the day. He doesn't know how to tell them that he has lost his jewel. He blames himself. If he hadn't allowed Rue to lead him by the loins, none of this would have happened. What's more annoying is that Doctor Molasses will really enjoy it, even more than the streaking incident. Smiling dryly, he will lay Yo-yo down on his hard, brown couch and drawl his questions.

''So, Yo-yo, why did you want to be degraded by those women?''

''You didn't see them, Doc.''

Yo-yo will describe Rue and Dax and Jax in such glowing detail that Doctor Molasses will have to excuse himself. But he won't. Doctor Molasses has the blood of a reptile. Matron Majeiskii would understand. She always excuses herself when Yo-yo describes his fantasy women. Which is often.

Yo-yo sinks further into the bubble-bath. The last time he'd tried to activate the imagination of Doctor Molasses by describing his fantasy woman had ended in humiliating failure. Yo-yo had been rapidly strapped to a trolley with a drip in his left wrist, a sedative cocktail lining his stomach, Orderly Henke's hand in his pale blue pyjamas 'to calm him' and Doctor Molasses ticking his list as he'd jerked against the restraints. They'd wheeled him away at a breakneck speed and kept him sedated, isolated and under constant observation for three days and three nights.

''Don't be afraid,'' squeaks the yellow, foam-floating duck. ''You will prevail.''

''You're a plastic duck,'' Yo-yo retorts. ''What do you know?''

''Plastic ducks know everything,'' it quacks. ''People confide things in their baths.''

''So why won't my soap lather?'' says Yo-yo.

''You need to wet it first, then rub it in circles,'' the duck replies.

Yo-yo scrubs himself as directed. Lather builds on his stomach.

''There you are,'' says the duck. ''I told you we know everything.''

''You're quackers,'' laughs Yo-yo.

''That's a demeaning comment,'' huffs the duck, ''Insulting to duck-kind. Putting me down with your ill-chosen puns so you can feel superior. Well, it's not on.''

''Fair enough,'' says Yo-yo, soaping his feet. ''How can I get my ring back?'' The duck falls silent. Yo-yo soaps between his toes. ''Where is Mister Vanilla? Don't you have a cousin who is Mister Vanilla's bath-time companion?'' Yo-yo soaps his legs. The duck doesn't reply. ''There!'' says Yo-yo. ''You don't know everything.'' He tosses the duck out of the bath. It lands on the fluffy blue mat with an indignant quack. Yo-yo slides under the surface of the water, under the pine-scented bubbles, and opens his eyes. The bottom of the bath is covered in limb-licking weeds. Over near the plug, a hundred yards away, is a stripy tent. Yo-yo turns on his stomach and swims towards it. The sides of the bath seem to expand as he twists and turns away from the green light. A mermaid beckons to him and calls his name softly and flutingly - ''Yo-yo, Yo-yo.'' Her silver-grey fish-tail gleams in the murky bathwater light. She holds up the emerald, the jewel in the ring, holds it out teasingly, beckoning, calling. Yo-yo kicks and propels himself forward, his red hair streaming. He misses the mermaid, turns back and treads water. She smiles. The ring's in her hand. Her long, golden locks flow over her plump, naked breasts. Yo-yo swims forward again. She darts away, peeps from behind a rock. Yo-yo sculls with his hands. The mermaid smiles again. She purses her lips and blows him a kiss. It shimmies through the water to bubble against his lips.

he mouths

The mermaid's tail sways lazily in the current. She perches on the edge of a pink scallop shell, a regular Venus, and combs her golden mane with long, languid sweeps of a brush. Yo-yo swims closer.

h e bubbles, resting on the sand at the sea-bottom. Fronds of weed gently sway. The mermaid ducks coyly behind a jagged rock.

he pleads in silver bubbles. She plays peek-a-boo with him then shakes her tail seductively. Yo-yo stretches out his hand. His fingertips brush one soft, silken breast, his lips purse, she pouts, they yearn to touch, closer, closer...

### TOC TOC TOC TOC

The mermaid dissolves. Disappointed, Yo-yo treads water, squinting through the greenish water to the surface.

### TOC TOC TOC TOC

He glances around. The rock has gone. The weeds have gone. He is back in the bath. He surges up out of the water, soapsuds sliding over his skin, and opens the window to the blackbird called Baby.

''All right?'' says Baby, hopping through onto the tiled window sill.

''You bastard,'' says Yo-yo. ''I was on there.''

''Nah,'' says Baby. ''She was just teasing you.'' He pecks at Yo-yo's loofah. ''How you doing?''

''Not so good.'' Yo-yo closes the window. ''They took my ring.''

''That nice shiny emerald?'' says Baby, ''I know. I saw the Lettuce Brothers. Constable Kipper's trapped in the mirrors with Mister Vanilla. Truss has the ring at the circus.''

Yo-yo looks at the blackbird in despair. ''What can I do?''

Baby hops onto the taps. ''Do you remember Mildew Lollipop?'' he says. ''Mrs Lollipop's husband?''

''Not really,'' says Yo-yo. ''I wasn't a day over eight when they got married.'' But he remembers the wedding. He sits down again in the bath.

What a wedding it had been. Mildew Lollipop, stringily sallow, all dressed up in a white shirt with the most enormous collar and a tiny, grey suit which barely contained him, an unfeasibly large top-hat in his hand, his bride-to-be in a knitted white bed-jacket and a brand-new white cap, the bed itself decked out in ribbons and streamers, a board on the back reading TILL BED DO US PART.

Aunty Latch had cried. The pipe had puttered. Lily had squealed. Katze had ground his teeth. Yo-yo, dressed in a green corduroy trouser-suit, had gazed admiringly at his mother, Venus Periwinkle, who could sweep into a crowded room and be noticed immediately. She had long, slender legs and luscious, chestnut hair which seemed to glow with inner vitality. Even at someone else's wedding she had effortlessly attracted the attention of everyone present. That day she had worn a lime-green and lemon chiffon dress with a pastel-peach scarf and matching feathery hat which resembled an explosion on a parrot farm.

''I liked that dress,'' Baby says wistfully.

''Me too,'' says Yo-yo. ''I buried her in it.''

''Anyhow,'' says Baby, ''Remember when Mildew was worried about getting Lollipop to the Registry Office 'cos she wouldn't get out of bed? He couldn't figure out how to get her there without hiring some lads to wheel the bed ... remember what you said?''

''Come at it from a different angle,'' Yo-yo murmurs.

''Right,'' says Baby, ''A different angle. Use your imagination. And because we couldn't get her to the Registry Office, we brought the Registry Office to her.'' Fifty people had somehow squeezed into the Lollipop Chamber.

''What are you saying?'' says Yo-yo.

''Truss has your ring. He won't bring it back. The cops are trapped. So you go and get it.''

''But they know who I am,'' says Yo-yo.

''Go in disguise,'' Baby suggests. ''Use your imagination. When all else fails, use your imagination.''

''I'll just wash my hair,'' says Yo-yo, sliding back under the water. Maybe the mermaid will still be there. He slithers through the weeds once again, pausing to speak to one he knows.

Weed: Hi Yo-yo.

Yo-Yo: Hi Weed. How's tricks?

Weed: Still alive, worse luck. You?

Yo-yo: Aye, still breathing. Family well?

Weed: Daughter's got engaged.

Yo-yo: Nice.

Weed: (Sharply) He's a layabout. Hanging around the pier all day. Chatting up pebbles and tickling fish.

Yo-yo: Your daughter must see something in him.

Weed: Aye. Lovely long fronds and a black tattoo.

Yo-yo: (Clearing his throat) Harrumph. Seen Stone lately?

Weed: Yeah. Still depressed. Had a fight with one of them there nudibranches

the other day. One o' your uncle's. An' he's coming back...

Yo-yo: Oh.

From the corner of his eye he spots Chris seeping into view. ''S'pose I'd better get him back,'' he says. ''See you, Weed.'' As the Weed waves goodbye, he swims towards the sea-slug, still hoping for the mermaid's return.

H

he bubbles, but there's no fishy-tailed, massively-mammaried mermaid. Just a sea-slug called Chris. Sod it. He resurfaces into the bathroom and rinses the lather from his limbs. Will he never get lucky?

''No, mate,'' quacks the duck. ''You're quackers. You're only 13.'' Yo-yo tosses him back on the bath-mat.

# 20.

# Second Night

02:28. He always wakes at 2.28. He tosses under the heavy covers on his bed. It's hot in the stuffy room and he cannot sleep. He needs a plan, but without the jewel he feels slightly lost. He racks his brains for an idea, fails to find one, tosses again. The sheets are damp. He's far too hot. He flicks back the covers and gets out of bed. Drawing back the heavy, pink curtains, he kneels on the sill and lets the moonlight wash through the window to bathe the slender, copper-topped, night-shirted figure in its lambent glow. Is this a 'New Moon', or just an eclipse? Are dashing, glittery vampires out there in the trees wooing silly young things with their breathless sweet-nothings?

Oh Ella, I (gasp gasp gasp) love (gasp gasp gasp) you (gasp gasp gasp).

Oh Jedward, I (gasp gasp gasp) love (gasp gasp gasp) you too (gasp gasp)

But (breathe) you (breathe) can (breathe) never (breathe) have (breathe) me

Why, Jedward? Because you're a vampire and will suck the blood from my veins?

No, Ella, because this is a 12-certificate movie and therefore can't be too fruity in front of the children. Also the franchise needs to stretch this rather thin plot to fit several sequels or they'll lose money, so the plot has to slooooooooow dooooooown.

Clifton Green is quiet. The parked cars are still. The night air is calm. Everyone is sleeping. Except for Yo-yo. Who needs a plan. He gets off the window sill and goes to the bathroom.

''Hi, Yo-yo.''

''Hi, Eleazar.''

The ghostly boy perched on the cistern crosses his legs. ''You got a plan yet?''

''No,'' says Yo-yo. ''Any ideas?''

''I told you before.'' The boy cocks his head, considering Yo-yo with bright, shining eyes. ''If you need our help...''

''I'll bear it in mind.'' Yo-yo lowers the lid but doesn't flush this time.

''You never know when a ghost might come in handy,'' Eleazar Glenn chirps.

''That's true,'' says Yo-yo thoughtfully. ''A ghost or two might come in handy.''

Down in the living room, the tiny glow of a miniature china lantern illuminates the corner of the mantelpiece. Sylvain is sitting on a hummock. His battered straw hat is shoved back on his head. One filthy bare ankle rests on the ragged edge of his shorts on his filthy right knee. His rod curves and bends in his hands. He is fishing. He is also worried and chews frantically on a grass stalk. He is worried about the blue-bonneted, basket-carrying milkmaid Aureole, for Aureole is pregnant by Sylvain and Sylvain has no means of supporting a child. Aureole, however, is blooming. She dances round the hummock singing '' 'ello mon cheri.''

'' 'ello, Aureole,'' says Sylvain unhappily. '' 'Ow is ze bébé?''

''Bien, mon Sylvain, très bien. Le bébé, c'est ici.'' She places Sylvain's palm on her bulging china belly. ''Oh, mon cheri. We 'ave un bébé.''

''Oui,'' says Sylvain unhappily, feeling it kick beneath Aureole's skirts.

''Now we can marry,'' says Aureole.

''Oui,'' says Sylvain unhappily, choking back a tear. It isn't fair. He's only a boy, a poor farmer's son. He has his whole life ahead.

''You dirty leetle ba-stard!'' Chrétien tugs at his green cord trousers. ''You dirty bastard.'' He rubs his bristly chin. ''What the hell did you think you were doing, getting my granddaughter up the duff like that?''

Tears well in Sylvain's eyes. ''I didn't mean to,'' he murmurs.

''Didn't mean to what?'' barks Chrétien. ''Get her up the stick or shag her?''

''Get her .... pregnant,'' says Sylvain.

''So you meant to shag her.''

It wasn't as simple as that. One moonlit night Aureole had led him off behind the big mock-Ming flower vase and, breathing urgently into his ear behind the daffodils that her pond needed fishing and he should cast his rod in it and she could help him arrange his tackle, tugged at his string till it broke.

''What do you think she is?'' Chrétien rants. ''Some whore you can shag when ze fancy takes you?''

''No ...'' says Sylvain miserably.

''Some cheap china tart you can use for your pleasure then cast aside?''

''No.''

''Some painted slut or trollop you can have on a whim?''

''No...''

''So you raped her, you bastard!'' yells Chrétien.

''No ...'' Sylvain starts crying. Aureole was a practised and skilful milkmaid and she'd practised her skill on him, screaming 'Sylvain Sylvain' so loudly she had rattled the daffodils in their vase. A head had dropped off. ''It wasn't like that.''

''Oh, mon grandpère,'' Aureole sighs, ''Me and my bébé and my husband to be.'' She places her hand on Sylvain's straw hat. ''I am so 'appy.''

Light floods the living room. The figurines freeze. Yo-yo comes in. What the hell does he want now, at this time of night? It's 02.25. Does this night-shirted prowler never sleep? He picks up the York Evening Press and is instantly mortified.

BARE-FACED CHEEK OF MYSTERY STREAKER

reads the headline.

Three large photographs dominate the front page. Photo 1 shows

Nude Yo-yo on the Minster steps in front of the Great West Door. It's a full-length frontal shot. His hands are dangling at his sides, his expression similar to that of the startled pigeon on his head.

Photo 2 shows

Bare-skinned Yo-yo sitting in Constantine the Great's lap, his arm round the green Emperor's neck, his ankles crossed, a big grin on his face. He isn't exactly capering with Constantine, but it isn't far off.

He doesn't remember posing for that second photo. Did he pose? He'd have had to spring onto the plinth for one thing. He can't remember doing that. But maybe he did. Oh Lordy. Doctor Molasses will have him in Gillworthy for life.

Photo 3 shows

Yo-yo's bare buttocks mooning at the crowd.

''The nudie boy, who then ran away into the Minster's gardens, has been identified.'' Yo-yo's heart thuds uncomfortably. ''One Martin Mizzenmast, a pupil at the Minster School, was discovered lurking in his underwear in the bushes.''

Ha ha ha! Martin Mizzenmast! Yo-yo rejoices. Poor sap! That'll teach him.

''Martin Mizzenmast denies all charges. 'Those aren't my buttocks,' he told police, 'At least I don't think they're mine.' Nonetheless, Martin Mizzenmast is to be ducked in the river tomorrow as a punishment for his bare-faced cheek.''

Ah well. Yo-yo tosses the paper back onto the coffee table and rummages around for some bus timetables and tourist leaflets. How to come at it from a different angle? Disguise? What kind of disguise? He asked Baby for more ideas but all Baby said was ''Use your imagination'' over and over again. Last time he'd done that, Doctor Molasses had streamed electricity through his brain. He had no desire to repeat that experience, twitching in his chair with dribble running down his chin and piss running down his leg. Matron Majeiskii had told him: ''You have to co-operate, Yo-yo. It's for your own good.''

Suddenly a tourist leaflet catches his eye. It is advertising a play in the King's Square at the top of the Shambles and a plan begins to form in his imagination.

''We'll settle zis later,'' Chrétien tells Sylvain as Yo-yo closes the door. ''You won't get away with putting your bun in 'er oven, you feelthy chien.''

Sylvain keeps weeping whilst, in his bedroom, Yo-yo sits on his bed with his feet crammed inside the lion's paws and studies the leaflet. He grins at his own cunning. This is a plan so fiendishly clever it cannot fail.

21.

A Walk on the Wild Side

HE dips the tip of his sausage in yolk. He is breakfasting at The Ambience Café Bar, Bistro and Tea Garden in Gillygate. Two sausages, two bacon rashers, a fried egg, hash browns, baked beans, tomatoes, mushrooms, toast and tea, all for £4. He also gets to sit in a lovely garden with wooden tables and green and white umbrellas watching a rabbit playing on a lush green slope by an ancient wall.

He'd told Aunty Latch he didn't want any breakfast and had left the house at 8.00, saying he had 'things to do'. Lily Gusset, dressed today in pink hot-pants and an orange crop-top which revealed her rather hairy navel, had squealed disappointment.

''Ohhh, but Yo-yo, you know how much I enjoy our little breakfasts together.''

''Sorry, Lil,'' Yo-yo had said, lacing his silver trainers, smoothing his purple T-shirt and hitching up his dark green jeans. ''It'll all be clear later.'' He gave her a peck on the cheek, gave Aunty Latch another, and bounced out of COZEE NOOK leaving his aunt and her friend lamenting the conduct of 'young 'uns today' and his uncle pleading plaintively ''But don't you want to play with me nudibranch today?''

Yo-yo piles beans on hash-browns and crams them into his mouth with a yum. Breakfast in Gillworthy is never like this. Breakfast in Gillworthy is generally prunes, figs or bran, to keep him regular, and a large, healthy spoonful of cod liver oil.

''Would you like more tea?'' the waitress enquires.

''Mmmm,'' Yo-yo mmmms through his mushrooms.

The plan is good. He believes it will work but he needs a disguise and that is what has brought him to Gillygate at nine in the morning. There is a fine shop called KAOS which hires fancy-dress costumes. Yo-yo has spotted in the window a huge and fluffy Tweety-Pie, a grey and sinister Sylvester Cat and a fabulous Orinoco the Womble complete with hat and unfeasibly long nose. He isn't yet sure which costume he'll choose but he'll sure have fun trying them on. 'The Party Starts Here', says the motto over the shop front, and Yo-yo sincerely hopes this is true. He finishes his breakfast, swallows the tea and belches softly, quietly satisfied.

Gillygate, as the Lettuce Brothers have already discovered, is an eclectic mix. From the imposing red-brick Salvation Army Head Quarters and Wacker's Fish and Chip Restaurant (Parking at Rear), Yo-yo passes Bohemia Galleries, Ruby Chinese Takeaway, King's Pizza, and The 'Cello Wine Bar on one side, Mamma Mia, Hudson Moody, the RSPCA and Lloyd's Pharmacy displaying leaflets on 'Beating Diabetes' in its window on the other.

But Yo-yo is not to be distracted. He has one goal and one goal only and it stands on the corner of Gillygate and Bootham, facing the scene of yesterday's Great Art Gallery Pie Fight. It is Jax Hair Design. Two school teachers, covered in custard, are chained to the railings outside.

''Will you marry me?'' Mister Mealey asks Miss Mousey.

A blob of custard drops from her nose.

One old fellow is already in the barber's chair, chatting about the weather and horse racing and his friends in Japan. (104.7) Minster FM is playing Justin Bieber:

''I wish we had another time, I wish we had another place,

But everything we have is stuck in the moment...''

Yo-yo flicks idly through the Daily Bale. Not much in there. So what's new? He picks up the Yorkshire Post. Bad move. His buttocks stare out from the front page. He blushes, hurriedly puts it back face-down, then conceals himself completely inside The Stun.

''Going to the ducking?'' the stylist asks the old fellow. ''Bloody pervert, running round the Minster without his clothes. Totally starkers, they say. Waving his todger all over, they say. Hidin' in bushes scaring the kiddies, they say.''

''Bugger the kiddies,'' squeaks the old fellow. '' 'E used me 'at fer a piss-pot, 'e did.'' Yo-yo chokes. ''I'd lop his bollocks orf,'' squeaks the old fellow. ''That's what they did in my day.''

Yo-yo shuffles uncomfortably. Those shears were fairly blunt, he recalls.

''You been to that there circus?''

''Aye,'' says the old fellow. ''Marvellous. They got this lion tamer, can't be a day under 105, juggling bear, yuman cannonball, an' the clowns are great. Mind you, they 'ad more custard in my day. An' redder noses. An' bigger shoes. These modern clowns. Don't get 'em. I filled in a survey for a focus group and telt 'em - redder noses and bigger shoes. That's what the public wants. Clowns were clowns in my day, tha knows.'' The stylist holds up a mirror so the old fellow can see the back of his head and what's left of his hair. ''Aye, very nice,'' says the old fellow.

''Anything for the weekend, sir?'' The stylist winks.

''What? You mean this trim won't last till Christmas?''

''No,'' says the stylist. ''Something for the wee wifie at home. Grrrr.''

''I can't afford a new duster, not at my age.'' The old fellow eases himself out of the chair.

''No, sir,'' the stylist persists. ''Something ... er.... intimate? For the evenings?''

''Oh,'' says the old fellow. ''You mean contraceptive devices.''

The stylist glances at Yo-yo, who hides his face in the big tits on page 53 of The Slum. Honestly, these footballers with their booze-fuelled antics and super-injections.....

''Black Mambas and that there ribbed stuff with studs?'' says the old fellow. ''French ticklers and flavoured johnnies? Condoms and ready-lubed tubes? Extra-strong rubbers for a bit of back-passage interest?''

''Sir....,'' says the stylist, glancing at Yo-yo who is perusing the pop profiles.

''Blimey, in my day you 'ad ter make yer own out o' a rolled-up chip wrapper or a salt-and-vinegar-crisp bag if you wanted a bit of adventure.''

''Sir,'' says the stylist, darting a glance at Yo-yo, who is deeply engrossed in the fashion section, ''There are children present.''

''You'll be asking if I want a cock-ring and some love-eggs next.''

Yo-yo chokes behind the paper.

''Sir....''

''Oh, all right, then,'' says the old fellow. ''Give us some o' that there pomade. Make me hair all glossy for the wife. Just don't make me smell like a Parisian prozzie.''

The stylist does his bit with the scented spray and sooner than a Frenchman can drop his trousers, the old fellow is out in the street plumping up his fancy new hair-do.

''Now then, young man,'' says the stylist, rinsing his comb in a jar of disinfectant as Yo-yo moves into the chair, ''What's it to be?''

''Black Mamba?'' says Yo-yo hopefully. ''French tickler? Something for the weekend? Grrrr.''

''I meant your hair,'' says the stylist starchily.

''Dunno,'' says Yo-yo. ''I want a new hair-style. Try some stuff out and I'll tell you when I like it.''

The stylist runs his comb through the dusty red hair that had earned Yo-yo the nickname 'Copper Nob' in Gillworthy. Though he'd never really connected that with his hair.

In the mirror

Yo-yo has a short back and sides. ''No,'' he says, ''Too military.''

In the mirror

Yo-yo has a crew cut. ''No,'' he says, ''Too Fascist.''

In the mirror

Yo-yo has a ginger scarecrow wig. ''No,'' he says, ''Too Scottish.''

In the mirror

Yo-yo has black curly locks. ''No,'' he says, ''Too Scouse. Calm down.''

In the mirror

Yo-yo is bald.

''Hmmm,'' he says, running his hand over his gleaming smooth scalp, ''I like it, but something more... feminine.'' The stylist blinks.

In the mirror

Yo-yo's coppery hair is blonde and in bunches, with pale blue ribbons for contrast.

''That'll do,'' he says. ''Thanks very much.'' He pays his ten quid and leaves. ''Forget the Black Mambas. I'm in a hurry.''

Feeling somewhat self-conscious, he crosses the Bar to the Gents toilet on the other side. It smells strongly of wee. Last time he was here he ran into Mister Vanilla. He goes into a cubicle and locks the door. The floor is covered in water so he opens the tartan rucksack on the cistern and suddenly

Yo-yo is wearing white ankle socks and black shoes and a pale blue knee-length party frock, bound at the waist with a white sash,

He looks like Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz. ''Oh Aunty Em, that awful old witch threatened poor Toto,'' he squeaks, then looks in his rucksack again.

Yo-yo is wearing very short, ludicrously tight pale green shorts and a white sleeveless cropped-top that exposes most of his stomach

The fashionable pre-teen jail-bait look that parents seem to permit. Hmmm. No. He looks in his rucksack again.

Yo-yo is wearing an ankle-length black dress with tassels on the hem

Very nice, but a little too hippy-dippy. He looks in his rucksack again.

Yo-yo is wearing pink dungarees with a large yellow sun in the centre of the chest

Possibly, though a little too Playbus. He looks in his rucksack again.

Yo-yo is wearing a two-piece bikini-style swimsuit in green with blue polka dots

For God's sake, who packed this bag?

He shakes the rucksack and realizes, with some dismay, that his knowledge of girls' clothing is very limited.

Yo-yo is wearing a pink and white patterned skirt, a fluffy white cardigan

which buttons to the throat and pink and white fluffy slippers.

He has suddenly turned into somebody's grandmother. All he needs is a rocking chair and a nice bit of knitting. Follow the Yellow Brick Road, he sighs, and selects-

white ankle socks and black shoes and pale blue knee-length party frock, bound at the waist with the white sash.

He minces from the cubicle in what he hopes is a girly way. The old fellow from the barber's, washing his hands, simply stares. A young boy at a urinal gulps and rushes into the cubicle. A middle-aged man winks a ''Mornin' darlin'.''

''Excusez-moi,'' squeaks Yo-yo, ''I got ze wrong toi-lette. I am française and cannot read Eengleesh.''

''Zen let me 'elp you, leetle girl,'' says the middle-aged man. ''Zees is called ...un cock ... would you like to touch it?''

Yo-yo knees him in the bollocks and minces out into the street. The Sightseeing bus is still grid-locked in Exhibition Square. The Germans, Americans, Japanese and Italians are still aboard, still taking photos.

''Close your eyes,'' yells the tour guide, ''And pretend that we're moving. Here on your left is the Tower of London ...'' A dozen flashbulbs explode.

A horse trots by. Martin Mizzenmast is tied naked to the saddle and facing the tail. He is pursued by a roaring, fist-shaking, pitchfork-waving mob and several pounds of tomatoes and eggs.

Yo-yo shakes his head and passes under the gate into High Petergate. The Lettuce Brothers are still in Number 4. The waiter reads back their order:

''So that's two ham-hock terrines with red pepper and cauliflower piccalilli, one steamed Shetland mussels with pancetta and pesto, and one partridge and mango roll with canteloupe melon, Muscat and plum relish, followed by one pheasant breast with celeriac and potato dauphine, baked stone-grave figs, crisped Parma ham and pan juices....''

''Yum,'' drools Endive.

''.. one red wine and juniper marinated Fort William venison with cinnamon-braised red cabbage and maple-roasted parsnips....''

''Tlap tlap.'' Rocket licks his lips.

''...one lamb loin tagine with herby couscous and caramelised baby pears, mint and coriander....''

''Mmmmm,'' dribbles Chicory.

''And one rosemary-marinated Yorkshire fillet steak with king prawn tortellini, honey courgette and caper-cream sauce.''

'Glglglgggggll,'' gurgles Kos.

''And to drink, sirs?''

''Four pints of mild, please,'' says Chicory.

''Any side-salads, sir?''

''Listen, buster,'' says Rocket, ''Do we look like weight-watchers?''

Yo-yo peers through the window of The Little Apple Bookshop. He has just spotted the cult novel YO-YO'S WEEKEND. It's remaindered at half-price because no bugger will buy it. Doctor Molasses says it's a load of old bollocks. Yo-yo's heard it's gratuitously offensive to just about everyone, has a beer fixation and an unhealthy obsession with kinky sex and therefore wants to read it, just for the laugh. Maybe he'll buy it just to annoy Doctor Molasses.

He looks longingly at The Hole in the Wall (serving Ridings, Snecklifter and Mansfield's Mild and offering curry nights on Monday, acoustic nights on Tuesday, steak and wine nights on Wednesday and quiz nights on Thursday) but it isn't open yet, so he walks on past the Minster and the statue of Constantine (''Hello, old friend'' he replies to the Emperor's subtly salacious wink) then heads down Goodramgate to Boyes' department store. He is promptly accosted by a middle-aged sales assistant with a bosom like two badly parked Volkswagens and a face like a bag of snails.

''What can I do for you, my dear?'' breathes the matron.

''I'm looking for lippie,'' squeaks Yo-yo, ''Something to go with my eyes.''

''You have beautiful eyes,'' breathes the matron. ''Very green. Come with me.''

Yo-yo finds Boyes' in York a little downmarket, albeit affordable. He prefers the slightly classier though more expensive Boyes' in Scarborough but he's not really that choosy. Being in Boyes' anywhere is an exciting adventure. He looks helplessly at the array of lipsticks lined up like miniature missiles and thinks a coral kiss might be nice, a mulled wine even nicer, but birthday suit? After yesterday's shenanigans? These names are exotic, alluring and deeply unhelpful. I mean, what colours are they?

Poncho pink Marshmallow whip Honey blossom

Coral kiss Heather berry Hot chilli

Birthday suit Passionate plum Mulled wine

It reads more like a race-card than a lipstick list.

Peter O'Sullivan : Welcome to the 1125 at York, the Boyes' Lipstick Chase. They're all in the gates and under starters orders, Poncho Pink 11-2, Marshmallow Whip 4-1, Honey Blossom moving out to 8-1, Coral Kiss is evens, Heatherberry and Hot Chilli 13-1, Mulled Wine 3-1 with Passionate Plum 16-1, Birthday Suit a distant 50-1 outsider. Conditions good to firm, they're off.

The gun claps.

Passionate Plum takes an early lead, with Heatherberry close on her tail, Birthday Suit is closing the gap as they come to the first furlong, and Coral Kiss coming up on the rails, as they close on the bend, and Mulled Wine is making up ground on the leaders as they turn towards the stand.

Yo-yo jumps up and down, the race card in his hand. ''Come on, Coral Kiss, come on Coral Kiss.''

They're coming into view and it's Heatherberry a length ahead of Passionate Plum, Mulled Wine is close on the rails, Coral Kiss a neck behind, Birthday Suit and Poncho Pink and Honey Blossom bringing up the rear.

''Come on, Coral Kiss. Come on, Coral Kiss.'' Yo-yo pounds the rail.

Heading into the final furlong, Passionate Plum in the lead, Coral Kiss coming up the outside, it's going to be close, Mulled Wine, Coral Kiss, Mulled Wine a nose in front, and it's .... Passionate Plum on the line, Mulled Wine second, Coral Kiss in third.....

''Goddammit,'' says Yo-yo, ripping up his betting slip.

''Ahem,'' says the shop assistant. ''When you've quite finished.'' Guiltily, Yo-yo returns the sticks to their rack. ''Now then, Coral Kiss.'' The shop assistant heaves her bosom up with her forearm and sets to work on Yo-yo's lips. ''Nice,'' she pronounces, ''But may-be some-thing mau-ver, or more bur-gun-dy? Those love-ly green eyes. Just like emeralds,'' she coos, ''And that gor-geous red hair..''

''Strawberry blond,'' growls Yo-yo, insulted.

''Hold still, love.'' She grips his jaw between finger and thumb, a ferret in a vice, and daubs his lips with Passionate Plum. ''There. Now then. Blusher ...''

''You're all right,'' says Yo-yo. ''I just want the lippy.''

''You've got quite pale skin, dear,'' muses the matron. ''Maybe a mauve or a bronze?'' She dusts his face. ''Are you Irish, dear?''

''Certainly not!'' splutters Yo-yo.

''Gypsy, then?''

''Are you looking for a punch up the bracket?'' Yo-yo snarls.

''Eye-shadow. Taupe, or bronze, or something more buttery maybe? Let's try something apricoty, perhaps.'' She picks up an eye-pencil. ''Hold still, dear. You hear about that there freaker then? I come over all of a-quiver when I heard about it.'' That explains the earthquake then, thinks Yo-yo. ''There you go.'' She stands back and admires her artistry.

''Thanks,'' yelps Yo-yo, trying to avoid the mirror.

''Now what about a bra?'' breathes the matron. ''I'm sorry, dear, but I couldn't help noticing your bust is beginning to show.''

''What?'' barks Yo-yo. ''Man-jugs at my age? How dare you?''

The matron looks flustered. Yo-yo feels awkward. He looks at himself in the mirror, in his frock and bunches. He doesn't know much about busts. There are no girls in Gillworthy. All he knows is what he's seen in gentlemen's recreational literature, and he is damn sure his penny pieces aren't on the two-water-melons-in-a-bag scale.

''Okay,'' he twitters, and, before he knows it, he is modelling bras.

There's a primrose one

and a pale blue one

and a soft pink one

and a saucy, lacy black.

''How old are you, dear?'' says the shop assistant.

''Errrr ...''

''About fourteen, I should say.'' She's rummaging in her drawers. ''What size are you?''

''What? Errr ... 42...'' The 42E is humungous. ''Blimey,'' he quips, holding it up. ''You get a lot for your money. You'd get a couple of basketballs in here and still have room for the team.''

She plucks out a plain white 32B cup and a frilly black 34B cup and holds them up against Yo-yo's chest. ''They should do nicely. Good starter-bras for growing girls. Give you plenty of room to develop.'' She winks. ''You'll have a nice pair when you're older, if I'm not much mistaken.''

You are much mistaken, Yo-yo thinks as he finds himself in the fitting room trying them on. This plan is not without hazards. He buys both the bras. The shop assistant throws in matching knickers. Apparently they come as a set. Yo-yo looks despondently at the two infinitesimally small wisps of frilly cotton. It'd be like wearing a cheese-wire, he thinks.

''Now have you started your period yet, dear? Maybe some tampons? We've got some on special offer.''

Yo-yo blushes and, quicker than an Italian soldier changes sides in a war, bolts with his purchases.

''We've got some nice sanitary towels,'' calls the shop assistant, ''If you don't want anything going inside....''

La la la la la la, ears covered by hands.

Yo-yo passes along the twelfth century street of St Gudrun, Our Lady's Row, built in 1316, and the oldest houses left in York. Despite the powerful enticement of a Fantastic Four poster, a Star Wars Trivial Pursuit DVD (£44.99) and Clone Wars Risk (£24.99) in Travelling Man's Comic Book Store, chocolate-dipped strawberries in Le Chocolaterie and the black waistcoat, red pants, bandana, black eye-patch and skull-blazoning flag in Festival of Fun, Yo-yo arrives unscathed at the narrow entrance to the ancient church of Holy Trinity and his long-anticipated

22.

# Conversation with a Head

HOLY Trinity Church is a twelfth century foundation. Its stained-glass dates from the fifteenth century and it is notable for its eighteenth century box-pews. The church is largely unchanged in the last two hundred years. Sadly no longer used, it is under the care of the Church Conservation Fund. It has an interesting graveyard with many moss-covered headstones and an intriguing plaque on the wall reading

Beneath is depoited

All that was mortal of ANN the Wife of

WILLIAM APPLEBY

Who died the 3rd of August 1784

Aged (indecipherable)

Here

Alo rets the remains of

WILLIAM APPLEBY.

He died the (indecipherable)

Aged 8 (presumably there is a second number indecipherable)

This stone also ...... The woman .....

What woman? Not Mrs Margaret Smith, late of Scarborough, who died in this Parih June the 15th 1762 aged 42 years, because she is under a slab in the Nave.

No. Yo-yo has come to see the Head. Leaning on the stone

SACRED

To the Memory of

BARNARD WATSON

Who died May the 3rd 1793

In the 33rd Year of his age

he pouts his freshly glossed lips and waits.

The Seventh Earl of Northumberland is in a sour mood. This is not entirely unexpected. His body is somewhere in a river and his head is here in Holy Trinity. Once the most powerful man in the kingdom, he was executed for treason on August 22nd 1572.

''Eh up, Yo-yo,'' says Northumberland's Head. Yo-yo nods acknowledgement. ''You haven't changed a bit. You don't look a day over eight.''

''I'm nearly fourteen,'' growls Yo-yo. ''And I'm dressed as a girl.''

''Well, my eyes aren't what they were,'' says the Earl. ''It's something that happens when your head gets cut off.'' Yo-yo groans. He had forgotten how self-pitying the Head could be. ''You know what it's like?'' the Head continues, ''To have your head cut off? No, you don't. Nobody can if they haven't gone through it. My friend the Duke of York had his head spiked on Micklegate Bar. It stayed there for years. You any idea what it's like, to look at your own head every day, and see your head looking back at you?''

''No,'' mutters Yo-yo impatiently.

''Not nice,'' says the Earl, ''Specially when your head's wearing a paper crown. Humiliating, that's what it is, humiliating.''

''I'm sure it is,'' says Yo-yo. ''Look, I've got this plan...''

''Specially when you should have had a real crown, a golden crown, on your head. Thank God for his son!''

''Richard the Third.''

''Richard the Fourth. Call yourself a Yorkshireman?''

''How dare you!'' says Yo-yo. ''Do I look like a skinflint?''

''Have you been to the Pavement?'' the Earl goes on, ''That's where they did me. When my head came off, I'd just finished a good luncheon of pheasant and truffles. Didn't even give me time to digest it, the bastards. Just saw the inside of a basket, then a howling crowd, heard a thuggish peasant voice cry 'Behold the Head of a Traitor!' ... Traitor! Me! I was trying to save the country! Bloody Protestants! Bloody Virgin Queens! Can't stand 'em. Then three or four seconds, and that's it. All over. There were pools of blood all over the scaffold. Seeing your own Head in someone else's basket is enough to spoil anyone's digestion. I can still taste that pheasant, the bastards.''

''Ellen had nothing,'' Yo-yo says smartly. ''She starved to death.''

''Should've eaten her parents,'' sniffs the Earl's Head. ''I would've.''

''They died of plague!'' Yo-yo protests.

''So?'' says the Earl. ''She was going to die anyway. Least she could've died on a full stomach. I told her that at the time.''

''Right,'' says Yo-yo.

''You know who I was? Most powerful man in England, me, from the most powerful family.'' The Head glares defiantly. ''Bloody traitor? I don't think so. You know who my Dad was?''

''Yes,'' says Yo-yo. ''He had a fling with Ann Boleyn and got his head chopped off by Henry the Eighth.''

''Bollocks to you,'' snarls the Head. ''He was engaged to Ann Boleyn. Hulking Henry stole him off her and then had him killed to shut him up. I was eight at the time. Eight. Saw my daddy's head rolling into a basket. Bloody Tudors. I hate 'em. My granddaddy, then.''

''Henry Algernon? Didn't do much,'' sniffs Yo-yo. ''Fought for the King against the Cornish Rebels.''

''OK, smarty-pants,'' snarls the head. ''My great granddaddy.''

''Detained by Edward IV 'cos he supported Lancaster against the Yorkists, and his daddy fought against us at Wakefield, got killed at Towton, then he switched sides, supported Richard at Bosworth but did sod all to help him,'' says Yo-yo dismissively. ''Looks like treason's in your blood.''

The Head gets angry. ''Come here and say that! Come here!''

''What you gonna do?'' sneers Yo-yo. ''Hit me with your neck-stump? You mean your great great whatever, Harry Hotspur, 2nd Earl of Northumberland.''

''Aye.'' A tear rolls down the withered cheeks. ''That were my ancestor, that were.''

''Fought the Scots then joined with his father to depose Richard the Second,'' says Yo-yo, detecting a pattern. ''Then joined with the Welsh under Owain Glyndywr to fight the very man he'd put on the throne, Henry IV. Killed at the Battle of Shrewsbury when he lifted his visor to get some fresh air and was hit in the mouth by an arrow. Body impaled on a spear, then quartered and the head spiked ....ha, on York Gates in 1403. Do you see him often?''

''We defended the kingdom,'' the Head protests.

''You're a family of traitors,'' Yo-yo retorts. ''You betrayed every king. You all got what you deserved, and by the way, they got your head in one slice. Not like poor Monmouth. Six or seven goes at him, you know. Twitching and moaning whilst Ketch struck at his neck. Blunt axe, you know. Makes an awful mess. In the end, Ketch had to sever the cords with a butcher's knife. So shut your face.''

The Head sulks for a moment, then turns on Yo-yo. ''Why are you dressed as a girl?''

''It's a disguise.''

''It's crap. You look like Lily Gusset. You've got your make-up all wrong.''

Yo-yo lets this pass. ''So will you help me?''

''What, with your make-up? I haven't got any hands, have I?'' The Head sniffs. ''By the way, you need a bra. Your bust's beginning to show.''

''Bollocks!'' says Yo-yo. ''I'm still six stone seven and five foot three. I play football and swim twice a week. I do not have man-jugs. And anyway, I've got a bra.''

''Put that frilly black one on,'' says the Head. ''You'll soon pull the boys.''

''I don't want to pull the boys,'' Yo-yo snaps. ''Can we get back to business?''

''Doctor Molasses might like it.''

''It hasn't got a clipboard,'' snarls Yo-yo. ''Come on! Focus! I don't have much time.''

''Huh,'' sniffs the Head, ''Four hundred and some years with a body in one place, my head in another, waiting for someone to put them together .... and you don't have time ... wait till you're dead. You'll find out the meaning of time then.''

''I'm sorry,'' says Yo-yo, wanting to kick the self-pitying bonce into the bushes.

''My head was spiked on Micklegate Bar. You know what it's like? To have your head spiked? Very uncomfortable, having a spike shoved up your throat.''

''I imagine it's a regular pain in the neck,'' Yo-yo remarks.

''Oh ho ho ho,'' the Head says, ''Very witty, very sarcarstic. A regular pain in the neck, har har. Mind you, there's a great view from the Bar. I could see my house from up there.''

''Yeah, yeah.'' Yo-yo looks at his pink plastic watch. Barbie's hands are already pointing to Ken forty-five.

''Up there for years, I was. Bloody ravens pecking me, fecking flies feasting on me....''

''Right-o,'' says Yo-yo.

''And my body flung into the Foss. Not even the Ouse! The Foss! Have you been to the Foss? Piddling little stream that goes nowhere.'' The Head sniffs again.

''Doesn't it go to Fountains Abbey?''

''You're such a smart-arse,'' the Head replies. ''Even dressed as a girlie, you're a smart-arse. No wonder you haven't got any friends. Have you been to Fountains Abbey? A load of old stones and broken-down buildings. What would my body do there?''

''It's very interesting,'' says Yo-yo. ''I went there once with my mother and Stins. We had a picnic lunch and peaches with cream.''

''Very lovely,'' says the Duke's head sarcastically, ''Very delicious. Not so delicious when you're dead.''

''You must meet a load of monks.''

''Yeah, monks. Even lovelier. They spend all their time chanting and praying.''

''I've got this plan...''

''Very boring. Counting rosaries, genuflecting, bells, smells and candles...''

''This plan...''

''Buggering boys round the back of the cloisters...''

''Plan.''

''Up with the skirts and in with the carrots...'' The Head glares at Yo-yo. ''Why should I help you recover your ring?''

'' 'Cos I can help you.''

''How can you help? My body's in one place, my head's in another. Can you put the back together? You gonna go fishing in the Foss for my bones?''

''I can defend you,'' Yo-yo says weakly, ''Here with the Ghost Walkers who misrepresent you. Like I do with Ellen and Sister Theresa.''

''Maybe I like being misrepresented,'' says the Head. ''Maybe I'm not so easily bought, unlike Ellen and Sister Theresa. They're sluts for the tourists, specially Ellen. She'll do anything to get in the limelight. Bloody ghosts. Just 'cos they can walk through walls, they think they're something special. Just a bloody party-trick, that is. Bloody ghosts.''

''Ay-yor,'' Yo-yo laments. ''You're the sulkiest head I've ever had!''

''Well, that's 'cos my body's somewhere up near bloody Ripon!'' scowls the head. ''And you wouldn't wish that on your very worst enemy.''

''It was 1572,'' says Yo-yo. ''Get over it.''

''One of the most powerful men in England,'' says the Duke's Head, ''Betrayed by the Scots ... bloody Jocko bastards... to a slip of a girl, and a ginger girl at that.'' He glares at Yo-yo. ''Hey, you're a red-head. And you're a girl. AND you got a tartan rucksack. It's you. You're the Virgin Queen!'' And the head starts shouting ''Help, help, the Virgin Queen! Help, it's the Virgin Queen!''

''Hush,'' says Yo-yo. ''People are staring.''

''Oh, diddums,'' says the Head. ''Help, help, the Virgin Queen!''

A couple of elderly tourists are watching from the gate.

### ''Help, help, the Virgin Queen!''

Yo-yo shoulders his rucksack with a muttered ''Gotta go, Head.''

''Oh, you go!'' sniffs the head. ''Have a good time! See if I care! Bloody kids! Can't even spend an hour with us any more. What've we done to deserve that treatment, eh? Bloody kids,'' the head sulks. ''Bloody carrot-tops. Can't trust them an inch.''

''Sorry,'' Yo-yo tells the elderly tourists. ''It's not me that's the virgin. I love sex, me. Grrrrr. Bit o' rumpy, slap-and-tickle, find the sausage.... Yeah, do it all the time, me.....twenty times a day....woof woof.'' He slaps his thigh and winks. However, the failure of the Duke of Northumberland's Head to help out with the Plan is not only a blow, it is also a mystery. What isn't a mystery is

# 23.

# The Play of King Herod

because the York Mystery Plays are not much of a mystery any more. Devised as teaching tools to bring the Bible to the masses, they emerged in the fourteenth century as part of the Church's celebrations for the Feast of Corpus Christi. Written by craftsmen and artisans, they were designed to be performed on pageant carts which would be dragged around the city between sunset and sunrise, with performances given at the four main gates at Bootham, Monk Bar, Walmgate and Micklegate (remembering that 'gate' here is 'gatta', or way). Mystery cycles begin with the Creation of the Universe and finish with the Apocalypse and the Second Coming of Christ. Highlights include the Creation itself, the story of Noah's Flood, the birth of Jesus, his Crucifixion and Resurrection. The play to which Yo-yo has come is that of King Herod. It is being played in King's Square at the top of the Shambles and is in full swing.

HEROD is in a rage.

HEROD You say they've gone another way?

Seize them! Hold them! Make them stay!

Then these three wise men I'll slay,

Strike their heads off and parade

Their bleeding trunks, which I'll degrade,

Scratched with briars, ripped to shreds,

Tear their skin to bloody threads!

Then chop off their treacherous feet-

King's revenge is always sweet.

One of his SOLDIERS approaches.

SOLDIER Mighty Lord, forget these kings.

You must deal with other things.

Jesus, This new King of Jews ...

HEROD Ahhhh!! I am angry! I am mad!

Everywhere the news is bad!

Jesus! Jesus! King of Jews!

Everybody knows my views.

All the children in the town

Must be slaughtered, be cut down.

Toddlers, teethers, babes in arms,

Slit their throats and do them harms!

Bloody rivers here shall flow!

Hear my order! Arm, and go!

The SOLDIERS leave.

HEROD Now this baby Jesus dies.

Back to God his soul soon flies.

Early warning makes him late.

No-one crosses Herod the Great!

There now follows a jazzy song-and-tap-dance routine for King Herod. He soft-shoe-shuffles across the stage, giving it 'jazz- hands' and grinning like a loon. He is joined by the cadaverous, black-hooded figure of Death. They join hands and salsa across the stage, strictly come dancing for Sir Bruce Forsyth:

Bruce Forsyth: Good evening, good evening, ladies, gentlemen, boys, girls and others, welcome to Strickly Come Dancing. It's nice to see you, to see you ...

AUDIENCE: (In chorus) NICE!

BRUCE FORSYTH: Our first couple tonight is King Herod and Death, and don't they look good together? Herod, you'll remember, found fame for his role in the BBC's updated Christmas Nativity set in the Cold War, No Room in Berlin and for murdering hundreds of babies, but that was two thousand years ago and all is forgiven now. Death, of course, is familiar from his regular appearances in East Enders and Corrie, and he recently won a Royal Television Society Award for Best Guest in a Soap.

Brucie drapes a yellow boa round Death's neck and the Bee Gees kick into that great disco classic ''Stayin' Alive''. Death and King Herod mix rumba, jive, quickstep and foxtrot and the audience loves it. Death slides King Herod between his legs and then rolls him up and over his shoulders. Herod does a cartwheel. Death does a disco manoeuvre, the infamous sword-drawing move.

''Ooh ooh ooh ooh, stayin' alive, stayin' alive...

Ooh ooh ooh stayin' ali-i-i-ya-ive...''

Death's dazzling quickstep is nifty. Herod's hand-jive is slick. Death's tap is spectacular. Herod's hip-wiggle brings the audience to its feet The climax sees Death flinging Herod into a knee-slide towards the camera. The audience goes wild.

Bruce Forsyth: Look at that! Look at that! Look what you've done. A standing ovation. Death and King Herod, ladies and gentlemen. Didn't they do well?

The judges love them too.

''Mahvellous, dahlings, simply mahvellous. I loved your kicks and flicks, Death dahling, and I thought the story-telling was fab-u-lous. Eight out of ten,'' says the token toff.

''Oh thank you,'' Herod gushes, air-drying tears with a few hand-flaps.

''You really nailed that dance, Herod,'' says the token totty. ''There was flow and elegance, and lovely lifts. I thought Death was a little too fluffy in places but Herod brought out the emotions well. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Good job. Eight.''

''Oh my, this is so exciting,'' says King Herod, fiddling with his false fingernails.

''A-ppa-lling,'' snarls the token tough-guy. ''Death, you've got two left feet and Herod, what were you thinking with that purple robe? It was like watching two three-legged Rottweilers eating a pie on ice. Massacre of the Innocents? Massacre of the Inner Sense, more like.''

Booooo! The audience makes its feelings plain.

''Oh, the heartbreak, the heartbreak, darling,'' sobs Herod, dabbing his eyes with a tissue. ''Showbiz is such a cruel mistress, but we've always got the phone vote, and we can still get through if all those lovely people vote for us....''

''Bollocks, '' says Death bitterly. ''I really wanted that glitterball an' all.''

BRUCE FORSYTH: Never mind. He's an old misery-guts, isn't he? We all liked it. You're my favourite couple.

KING HEROD: Thank you, Brucie.

BRUCE FORSYTH: Anyway, now we have my favourite couple, the Angels of Death, doing the Charleston!

The audience whoops.

DEATH My winged angels are fearsome of face

Harpies from Hell move through time and space:

Their bony fingers will freeze your skin

And their horrible howling will make your blood thin.

Behold them with fear. They're a terrible sight.

And pray you don't meet them in Tesco's tonight.

There is a commotion behind the curtain and, as Death raises a bony finger and a stage-hand rolls a drum, Rocket Lettuce bursts on to the stage, his big shoes flapping, his blue wig askew, his red mouth smiling.

ROCKET Hello there, boys and girls! Anyone want a custard pie?

The audience laughs.

DEATH What the hell do you think you're doing?

Kos Lettuce's violet wig bristles.

KOS You're not very polite. (To the audience) He's not very polite, is he, boys and girls?

AUDIENCE (In Chorus) Nooooo.

KOS Shall we pie him?

AUDIENCE (In Chorus) Yeeeesss!

KOS Shall we?

AUDIENCE Yesss! Pie him! Pie him! Pie him! Pie him!

Death's black hood jerks in anger. ''I am Death, you arse-head, come for King Herod and the innocent babes. Where are my angels?''

CHICORY We pied 'em back-stage.

ENDIVE And now we'll pie you!

DEATH I AM DEATH! I AM THE GRIM REAPER! I TAKE ALL, RICH AND POOR, PRINCES AND PEASANTS! LOOK ON MY FACE AND TREMBLE WITH FEAR!

The Lettuce Brothers exchange nods and four custard pies splat together on Death's black hood. King Herod exclaims an astonished ''What's going on?''

''Ah!'' growls Rocket, ''The evil King Herod.''

SPLAT! goes a pie. The audience cheers, laughs and claps.

''Gee, this is swell,'' says an American tourist. ''I never saw this coming.''

''Is it in the Bible, honey?'' asks his wife.

''Oh sure,'' he replies. '' 'And the Lord sent the clowns to custard the King, and there was much rejoicing.' The Book of Bartholomaeus, Chapter 4 Verse 2.''

As Death lurches around the stage wiping custard-cream out of his eyes, Endive Lettuce turns to the crowd. ''Are there any little boys or girls out there who'd like to give Mister Death a custard pie right in his ugly fat kisser?'' A dozen hands go up. ''Are there any little boys called Yo-yo out there who'd like to give Death a pie in the face?'' One hand remains. Yo-yo springs from his seat and up to the stage. He waves cheerily and beams at the audience but Endive does a double-take. ''Or any little girls?''

''It's me, you twat,'' hisses Yo-yo. ''I'm in disguise.''

''It's very good,'' says Endive admiringly. ''You certainly had me fooled. Where did you get the haircut? And the frock? That's a nice bra. Plenty of room for you to grow into it.''

''Aye,'' says Chicory, ''You'll have a nice pair if I'm not much mistaken.''

''Like little balls of knitting wool, all soft and cuddly,'' says Rocket.

''Or grapefruit, if they're a little firmer and juicier,'' says Kos.

''Shut your faces,'' Yo-yo raps , adjusting the socks in his bra.

''Nice lippy,'' says Kos. ''Passionate Plum? Or Jailbait Jaune?''

''You look like Judy Garland,'' Endive observes. ''Are you a Friend of Dorothy?''

''How dare you!'' says Yo-yo. ''Aunty Em'll string you up by your Munchkins.''

''You should have gone for the Coral Kiss,'' says Kos, ''With your colouring. Your skin's a little dark. You're not a gypsy, are you?''

''Bugger off,'' says Yo-yo.

''Or Irish?'' says Chicory. ''Orange, white and green, ha ha.''

Death pulls himself together and roars out his rage. ''YOU KNOW NOT WHAT YOU DO! I AM DEATH, THE BRINGER OF WOE!''

''I thought you were going to say 'I am Death, the bringer of Death','' says Rocket.

Everyone laughs. Except Death. Death seizes Yo-yo and rams his sickle-blade against 'her' throat.

''I SHALL TAKE HER!'' The audience boos. ''THIS GIRL SHALL BE MINE!''

''Get your hands off her, you filthy pervert!'' shouts the American.

''Leave her alone!'' cries someone else. ''She's only a little girl.''

''Pick on someone your own size, you great bully!''

''Shame on you!''

Boo. Boo! Boo!!

The American takes off his camera. ''Here. Hold this, honey.'' He steps on to the stage and raises his fists. ''You wanna fight? Y'all can fight with me.'' The crowd cheers. ''Put 'em up. Put 'em up.''

''I AM DEATH, YOU ANUS...''

''An' I'm a good ole boy from the Confederate Deep Sa-a-a-th,'' says the American. ''Now see here, buddy. I saw your kind back in 'Nam and you weren't so clever then. In Thicktwistle, Alabamy, we'd tar and feather you, Mister Death, and then whup your ugly be-hind owdda town, yes sirree.''

''This isn't in the script,'' Death moans to the producer. ''I'm supposed to kill Herod and sing a song, not be accosted by pie-flinging clowns, a gung-ho Yankee Doodle and a pre-pubescent cross-dresser.''

''You're just a great, big bully,'' says the American, ''And ah'm a-gunna kick your fat ass for molestin' that sweet little lady and then, for good measure, ah'm a-gunna invade a small and harmless A-rab state that I don't like because I can.''

''Ah, go take a hike, Uncle Sam,'' says Death. He claps a skeletal hand over Yo-yo's mouth. ''One scream out of you, little girl, and I'll kill you. Clear?'' He drags Yo-yo backwards to the wings. Enraged, the crowd storms the stage.

Bottles break,

chip butties fly,

apples are hurled,

curtains come down,

planks are ripped up,

punches are thrown.

''One peep and I'll slit your throat LIKE An Envelope.'' Death pulls Yo-yo away from the chaos as Herod and Uncle Sam wrestle in the debris. 'Resistance is futile.'' He tucks the 'girl' under his arm and dashes down The medieval Shambles, formerly the Street of Butchers. They are not exactly hand-in-hand, more like arm-round-neck, but running they are. Death is strong, his grip is strong, and he uses his sickle to clear a path through screaming shoppers and shuffling sight-seers to Margaret Clitherow's shrine. Dragging Yo-yo inside, he flings him to the floor at the foot of the altar.

''Welcome to my domain,'' he growls. ''This is where the Woman was punished.''

''Margaret Clitherow,'' Yo-yo gasps, ''Was crushed to death by large boulders placed on her chest because her neighbours accused her of witchcraft.''

''And you,'' snarls Death, ''You TOO are a witch, and you too shall be crushed.'' He smacks Yo-yo in the head with the butt of his swinging sickle. Everything goes

#

# 24.

# The Face of Death

WHEN Yo-yo comes round, he finds he has been tied hand-and-foot and laid on the altar. Death is sharpening his sickle on a grindstone.

''I've changed my mind,'' Death declares. ''I shall cut your throat and bathe my hands in your witchy blood.''

''You're mad!'' yells Yo-yo. ''You're a jobbing actor! You just play a part!''

''I AM DEATH! AND YOU ARE MINE!''

''I appreciate Stanislavsky, The Method and all that, but this is absurd!'' says Yo-yo. ''Even Brando wouldn't push it this far.''

''SILENCE LITTLE GIRL! PREPARE THY SOUL!''

Yo-yo sighs. ''Yes, yes, very good. Very scary. Did you learn that at RADA?''

Death approaches the altar. ''Many people laugh at Death. Many people scoff and mock. But they are fools. they reckon not with the Reaper. He is implacable. He is determined. He will take all, princes and peasants, believers and non.''

''I agree, so let me go.''

''There is no point struggling, little girl. You are mine!''

''I'll have the law on you,'' warns Yo-yo. ''I'll tell 'em you felt me up. You'll get ten years in a nonce's wing, the other prisoners'll gang-rape you in the showers, the warders'll spit in your food and you'll be on the kiddy-fiddlers' register for ever. Even worse, you'll get your phone hacked and your mug in the papers. The Daily Nail will love you.''

Death laughs a hollow laugh. ''LAW? I AM THE LAW. I AM DEATH.''

''No you're not,'' Yo-yo says patiently. ''You're an out-of-work actor. Didn't you use to be in EastEnders?''

''WHAT?'' says Death. ''EASTENDERS? How dare you!''

''Yeah,'' says Yo-yo, ''That's where I saw you, in EastEnders. You were in the launderette when Dot told Pauline about Michelle and Den an' then you popped over the Vic for a pint with the Mitchells. You were very good. Do you still see Grant and Phil? And Sharon. How's Sharon? I haven't seen it for ages. We don't have televisions in Gillworthy. Is that Nigel still in it? I like him. He has cool ties. Could you get me Frank Butcher's autograph? Or maybe some of Pat's ear-rings? They're lush.''

Death places the sickle on Yo-yo's pale throat. ''ONE SLASH AND IT'S OVER. YOUR BLOOD SHALL SOAK THESE STONES.'' The point pricks the boy's skin.

''Jeez,'' says Yo-yo, ''Sorry to trouble you. You could just say 'no, she's a moody cow' and leave it at that.''

Death rubs his forehead. ''Little girl, you talk too much.''

''Right,'' says Yo-yo, ''I'm convinced. I believe you. You're the best Death I've ever seen. So now let me go.''

Death laughs again and folds back his hood. In place of a face is a giant black hole. Stars, suns and moons are rushing into it at a tremendous speed. Supernovas and blue dwarves blossom and perish. Comets flash and meteorites crash. Everything swirls into the centre. Around the stars a mass of spirits, a million billion nameless unknowns, swirling and screaming, whirling and wailing, howling and crying, follow them in, the dead of millennia sucked into the Face.

''LOOK ON THE FACE OF DEATH,'' roars Death, ''AND DIE!''

George V Gary Speed John Mills Charles Dickens

Sister Theresa Elvis Presley Eleazar Glenn Ellen the girl Arabian prince

Humphrey Bogart American businessman Cossack horseman Ethiopian baby

African slave Julius Caesar Filipino maid girl from Pompeii Mary the Scot

old man with cancer woman in childbirth man in a train crash young GI from 'Nam

boy with leukaemia Cambodian farmer

foetus aborted girl in tsunami

Vladimir Lenin Indian fakir

Jonathan Swift Iranian child

Princess Diana

Christopher Reeve

Ghanaian with AIDS

Space shuttle astronaut

Young girl from Hiroshima

Palestinian stone-thrower

Ayatollah Khomeini Wilma McCann

Austrian goatherd baby in cot death

Joshua Tetley Oliver Hardy Sir Donald Bradman

Yo-yo

This is the Face of Death. Yo-yo is suddenly terrified. He has never been so terrified in his life. This surpasses even the moment he went into Gillworthy, even the moment when his mother waved 'bye' and left him behind with Doctor Molasses who had smiled his oil-slickly smile, this is the most bowel-clenchingly frightening moment in Yo-yo's young life.

''You have no f..f..face,'' he stammers.

''THIS IS MY FACE,'' thunders Death. ''THIS IS THE FACE OF DEATH, AND YOU ARE IN IT!''

Yo-yo's life passes in front of his eyes.

watching the play going to bed

Baby and bathwater painting Rue's naked body

travelling into the City The Trans-Pennine Express

Gillworthy, medicine, trolleys Doctor Molasses, clipboards, pills

His pastel-blue bedroom His parents joking and laughing,

His primary teacher giving him stickers

cot and birth back in the womb

''I'm not ready,'' he murmurs.

''Very few are.'' Death comes towards him and lowers the sickle. ''Prepare thyself.'' The blade digs in behind Yo-yo's Adam's apple. He swallows and feels his heart flutter, his bladder beginning to weaken, his breathing shallow. The skin is punctured. It hurts. He cries out in shock. Death laughs, puts the point of the sickle in the neckline of the blue frock and slits it down the middle to the crotch. He stands back in confusion as he sees Yo-yo's flat chest, the bra and the socks. ''You're not a girl.''

''No,'' says Yo-yo, ''I'm not.''

''Unless I'm Very much mistaken,'' says Death, ''that's a WINKIE.''

''You are not mistaken.'' says Yo-yo. ''That is a winkie.''

''Though I need a microscope to be sure.''

''Hey, steady, Eddie,'' warns Yo-yo. ''I'm only thirteen.''

''It might Be a Maggot,'' Death opines, ''Or a small chipolata.''

''Oi,'' says Yo-yo, ''Watch it, buster. It can still do the business.''

''It's not really a Giant Pork-Sword or a Massive Corn-cob, is it?'' says Death, ''Or a great Pink Python. More like an earthworm or a pea-pod. Or a baby's finger.''

''Bugger off,'' snaps Yo-yo. ''It's not the size but where you stick it that counts.''

''Yeah, yeah,'' says Death. ''That's what everyone says who's got a Tiny tiddler. Why are you wearing a dress?''

''It's a kind of disguise.'' Yo-yo folds the dress over his parts. ''And it's not a tiddler.''

''I suppose You could be one of them-there trans-Gender Transvestite she-male types,'' muses Death, ''Or maybe you're one of them long-legged lady-boys who play tricks with goldfish.''

''I am not a lady-boy,'' says Yo-yo indignantly, ''Or a she-male. I'm All-Man, with a bit of wild animal thrown in. Grrrrr.''

''Can you Shoot Ping-Pong Balls out of your Fanny?''

The approaching crowd can be heard in The Shambles. They are chanting, a mob on a mission. Fires are burning and tempers are high. Death's sickle droops. ''Come with me.'' Death scoops him up, slings him over a shoulder, blunders out of the shrine to the street. His sickle clatters on the pavement. The mob is closing.

''There he is, the child-snatching weirdo!''

''Paedophile!''

''Pervert!''

''Damnation!'' The sickle is abandoned. At Whip-ma-Whop-ma-gate, he looks around desperately. The mob is howling, close on his heels. There's nowhere to go. Settling Yo-yo over his shoulder, he crashes through St Crux's Church wall. A dozen spirits hail ''Hello!'' Death glances wildly, jumps through a window, faces the Stonebow Job Centre, imagines the interview:

MIZZENMAST Are you claiming Contributions or Income-based

Jobseekers' Allowance?

DEATH Contributions.

MIZZENMAST So what was your last job?

DEATH Death.

MIZZENMAST And how long did you do this job?

DEATH Three hundred millennia.

MIZZENMAST And what did this job involve?

DEATH Killing several trillion people.

MIZZENMAST Reason for leaving?

DEATH I had some trouble.

MIZZENMAST Oh?

DEATH Over a girl/boy/child.

MIZZENMAST Oh, kiddy-diddler, are you? On the Sex Offenders' Register, are you, you slime?

DEATH Maybe. I don't know. What is it?

MIZZENMAST List of nonces for the tabloids to print. Did your employer give you a P45? Are you claiming Housing Benefit as well, you scrounging scumbag?

DEATH Err .. No... Can I get Disability Allowance? I

done me back in, see? Too much lifting...

MIZZENMAST 'Ere, you're not foreign, are you? Bloody Brussels Eurocrats, filling our country with scrounging pedie dole-scum.....

Death shudders. Job Centre Plus, with its inane forty-five minute interview and endless, mindless, pointless questions, is the first thing ever to scare him. He screams and charges off towards Coppergate, the mob in pursuit. He stands still. Yo-yo is heavy on his shoulder. Where should he go? Boot's? Fenwick's? The Japanese Shop? The mob is closing, screaming for blood. He stops outside Jorvik, the Viking Museum, and growls in his victory.

''The Viking Museum! We'll hide out in here!''

''Do you have a ticket, sir?''

''WHAT?''

''A ticket, sir. You need a ticket.''

''I AM DEATH! I NEED NO TICKET!''

''One adult, one child ....will you pay by cash or credit-card?''

''Look, you arse-head ...''

''I'm sorry, sir. I can't let you and your daughter in without tickets. That's the rule.''

''Bloody hell.'' Death rummages under his robes for some money. ''I haven't got any change. Yo-yo, have you got any change?''

''In my little pink purse,'' says Yo-yo.

''There.'' Death slams several pound coins on the counter. ''happy?''

''Thank you, sir. Enjoy your visit.''

They shove through the turnstile, pile down the stairs and find themselves in a model village with thickly thatched roofs, wax peasants at wells, wax dogs chewing rubbish, and truly revolting bodily smells.

''Jesus!'' swears Death, reeling back from the odour. ''They been boiling cabbage all day or what?''

''Hello there, Yo-yo,'' says a flaxen-haired wench on her way to the market. Her basket is full of ripe apples and bread. '' How are you?''

''Hi Gudrun Svensdottir, I'm very well, thank you.'' Yo-yo speaks over the shoulder of Death. ''How are you?''

''Ur-dur bur-dur,'' says Gudrun Svensdottir.

''Snnnnrrr snnrrrr Yo-yo,'' grunts a fat, pink pig.

''Snnnrrr snnnrr to you, Porky Pig. Meet my friend Death.''

''Snnnrr snnnrrrr grrrr grrrr snnrrrr snrrr,'' grunts Porky Pig.

''You know all these waxworks?'' Death shouts in despair, ''As well as the ghosts?''

''Who're you calling waxworks?'' snorts the pig.

''Sure,'' Yo-yo answers. ''I've known them for years.''

''I'm going to kill you,'' says Death, closing his fingers round Yo-yo's thin throat, ''Witch!''.

''You all right there, young Yo-yo?''

''Hi Sigurd Skull-Splitter. Just being strangled,'' chokes Yo-yo.

''Right-o,'' says Sigurd, shouldering his axe. ''Need any help?''

''HAK-HAK-HAK-GRRRRR-UUUUUUU,'' says Yo-yo, face turning purple.

''Hey, you! Viking chieftain!'' shouts Death, ''Give me your axe!'' Sigurd Skull-Splitter fingers his beards. ''Give me that axe and I'll bring you to life!''

''Ah,'' ponders Sigurd, scratching his head.

''HAK-HAK-HAK,'' splutters Yo-yo. ''Give .. him .. the ... Axe ...''

''Bring me to life?'' ponders Sigurd.

''GIVE... HIM ... URGGHGGHHHH!'' Yo-yo's eyes are starting to bulge. His tongue is swelling. Death reaches out for Sigurd's great axe. His fingers touch the shaft. Yo-yo twists his body away from the fingers and falls onto the time-line.

''ARGGGH!'' shouts Death, frustrated once more.

A time-car is coming, a family of four, a mother and father and two little girls. Magnus Magnusson's voice on the tape tells them of mealtimes in Jorvik. As it passes, Yo-yo jumps in. The little girls scream.

''Hello,'' says Yo-yo, ''Do you mind if I join you? I'm running from Death.'' He smiles winningly. ''There he is.'' He points at the towering figure in black wielding an axe. The mother now screams. The father's already passed out. Yo-yo takes the time-car's controls. It accelerates quickly away from the village. Magnusson's voice gets faster and faster.

MAGNUSSON: We have now arrived at the River Foss. On your right two children are playing a board game, on your left is a ship which has brought traders from Denmark or maybe Hamburg, trading in amber, teal or furs.

There is a man with a yellow beard and a green tunic cutting teeth in an antler comb and, sitting on a wall, a blond guy in an orange cloak eating an apple and waving a knife.

MAGNUSSONS: And here is the wood-turner named Uli. Heidlfu, Uli. He is expecting a visit from the children next door. They use the wooden cores from his cups as spinning tops. Here a man is gutting fish.... The next plot is occupied by a butcher.

This is Coppergate, named not for the shiny orange metal that has given Yo-yo his nickname but for Koppari-gata, the Street of Cup-Makers (did you remember that gata means street? Well done. Gold star to you.)

MAGNUSSONSON: Watch out for the pit filled with bones and animal waste. Here a couple is arguing over whether to have meat or fish for supper.

Yo-yo looks over his shoulder. Death and Sigurd are now in a time-car and hurtling round the tracks in pursuit. Yo-yo seizes a bun from a tray and lobs it on to the rails. It doesn't help. Death's getting closer. Yo-yo smiles sweetly at the mother and father. ''Would you mind getting out?'' he says. ''You're slowing us down.''

''This is our time-car,'' says Mother. ''Get your own.''

''I know,'' says Yo-yo, cornering expertly and keeping the time-car firmly on track, ''But I've got Death behind me and if he outruns us ... well ... '' He draws a finger over his throat. ''Curtains, you know?'' The mother screams and somehow falls out. ''Sorry,'' says Yo-yo, ''Wasn't me. She just overbalanced ...oh, and bye bye to your father...over he goes.... Oh, right into Porky Pig's trough. Thanks very much. Now you, little girls ...'' Another corner. Yo-yo takes it like a bobsleigh driver. The two girls have gone. When he looks back behind him, he can see their four sandaled feet sticking out of a pile of manure. Round The Jorvik Museum he races. There's nowhere to go. It is endlessly looping, for ever and ever. Over his shoulder he sees Sigurd and Death getting closer, Sigurd's twin beards streaming behind him, Death waving the axe and laughing AHHAHAHAHAHAHA! like a lunatic chasing an ant.

Then a third car joins the chase.

''Hold on, Yo-yo!'' cries Chicory Lettuce.

''Pie 'em, Kos!'' yells Endive Lettuce, ''Pie the mardy twats.''

A custard pie splats down on Sigurd Skull-Splitter's head. He growls and shakes his fist. He doesn't like cream dripping down his helmet.

''An' again!'' yells Rocket as a pie catches Death on the shoulder.

Magnusson's voice gets faster as the cars whizz back past the little girls mired in manure.

MAGNUSSONSSON:Heresachildwithaneggandthereadogpeepingoutofthehouse

Toilets,rubbishpitsandwellsallneartheriverwaternotcleaneveryonedrinksbeereventhe

children..

Hooray! cries Yo-yo. The past was so much more civilized than the present. Vicious Vikings, Rotten Romans, Terrible Tudors and other simplistic reductions of history that talk down to children, my big, fat, hairy arse! They were all better than where we are now with our paranoia and health and safety and you have to wear safety glasses to play conkers and harnesses to climb trees and every bush contains a paedo and eveyr sweet is poisoned and every nut is gonna kill you...we got soft, you see....

Porky the Pig grunts his agreement as another pie splats on the back of Death's head. How many circuits? Is there no end to this chase?

MAGNUSSONSSONSSON: Theredkiteyouseeonthefenceisaregularvisitorscavenging

Fromgardensandpitsandoverthereisamanontheplop....

Yo-yo makes a decision and, gritting his teeth, twists the wheel with one savage jerk. The car leaves the tracks, crashes out through the wall and sails over a bunch of roofs and tables.

''Well, he might do all right,'' Katze concedes, sipping his pint. ''He scored a few for Grimsby Town.''

' 'Aye,'' says Reefer, chuffing on his pipe, ''And Grimsby ain't got the midfield we've got. Our boys'll give him much better supply.''

With an enormous

Yo-yo's time-car lands in the Ouse.

''I just hope the defence can hold it together this season,'' putters the pipe.

''Aye,'' says Katze. ''Need to concede fewer goals if we're going to mount a serious promotion challenge.''

The Time-Car of Death passes over their heads.

OHHHHHHHHH! cries Sigurd the Skull-Splitter.

WOOOOOOOOO! cries Death.

The time-car seems to hang in the air for a moment.

''I always loved you.'' Death pats Sigurd's hand.

''Thank you,'' says Sigurd.

The time-car drops like a concrete caravan into the river.

Martin Mizzenmast, tied to a ducking stool, glances up from under his sopping wet fringe. His teachers cheer and duck him again. As he passes under water, he sees Death and Sigurd in their time-car looking surprised and somewhat concerned. They are holding hands. Martin thinks they make a sweet couple as he tries not to choke from the river-water pouring up his nose.

Weed: Here he comes again, little freaker.

Stone: Ha ha. Tickle his nose, Weed, make him sneeze.

Weed: Ha ha. Keep your knickers on next time, you pervert, ha ha.

Martin: But it wasn't me...

Stone: Papers say it was, an; that's good enough for me.

Weed: Aye. You sayin' the papers got it wrong? They hacked your phone. They must be right.

Stone: Hang about, Weed. Who's this?

Weed: That be that there Death coming down to our riverbed, Stone.

Stone: Aye. Ugly looking bastard, ain't he, Weed?

Weed: Aye. reckon I've got a score or two to settle with him.

Stone: Reckon I do too. Shall we get him?

Weed: Aye.

The Weed and the Stone seize Death by the robes.

''Get off!'' yells Death. ''Leave me alone.''

''You're joking, you bastard,'' scowls a very large trout. ''You fixed my cousin Barry Bream to some fisherman's hook. You're fish-food, mate.''

Death screams as a bunch of fish, stones and weeds pull him down to the river-bed. Martin Mizzenmast sweeps back through the water. His teachers cheer and duck him again.

Then Yo-yo's head breaks the surface.

''TO THE CIRCUS!'' he cries, and flies up on to the bridge.

25.

# Doctor Molasses comes ''To the Circus!''

YO-YO, dressed in white knee-length shorts, navy blue crew-neck sweater, black socks and silver trainers, leads to the riverside field a large, angry crowd consisting of:

The American tourists,

Wee Jocko McTavish,

Uncle Reefer and Katze,

Lily Gusset and Aunty Latch,

the young courting couple and the Podgemeister's family,

the Ghost-Walker himself,

the parents from Jorvik with their dung-covered daughters and Porky the Pig,

the King's Head's landlord and the blackbird called Baby,

the waitress from Bettys and the waiter from Four High Petergate,

the barber and the flat-capped old coot,

Martin Mizzenmast, released from his stool,

Sergeant Cod and a group of policemen,

five Japanese students,

some Peterite schoolboys and the custard pie pupils from Bootham's,

Harry Gration, Christa Ackroyd, Brucie and Tess, David Attenboroughs and Mona McBonkers,

Mister Mealey, Ms Mousey

and Hamish the dog.

As they cross Lendal Bridge, the grid-lock breaks and people spill out of the tour-bus's windows, ignoring the tour-guide who gives in and follows.

''Where are we going?'' the Tourmeister asks.

TO THE CIRCUS, they cry.

The red-and-white Big Top billows gently in the springtime breeze. Mister Truss emerges to greet them, rubbing his palms together, then smoothing his scalp.

''What a lovely-looking lynch mob,'' he oils, ''Very lovely indeed. If I said..''

''Cut the crap, Truss,'' Yo-yo says fiercely. ''Give us Vanilla!''

''We're not open yet,'' Truss replies. ''Come back at 4.''

''Give us Vanilla!'' Yo-yo yells.

GIVE US VANILLA, echoes the crowd.

''What's Vanilla?'' asks the tour-guide.

''No idea,'' someone replies.

''Doesn't matter,'' says somebody else. ''Just keep shouting.''

GIVE US VANILLA, they bellow.

''Oh,'' says Truss weasily, ''I have someone else who'd much rather see you than Mister Vanilla''

and

Doctor Molasses steps out from the shadows. His over-ripe nose looks ready to burst. The Brillo-pad hair is less springy than usual. His pristine, white coat is heavily starched. He carries a clipboard, a stethoscope and an unfeasibly large, cartoon-style syringe.

''Good afternoon, Yo-yo,'' says Doctor Molasses. ''We've been looking for you all over the country. We've been extremely worried since you ran away. It's time you came home.''

''He killed my mother!'' Yo-yo yells loudly. ''He pushed her down the stairs then suffocated her with a pillow. Threw her body in a dumpster.... He wanted her ring...''

''Yo-yo, poor Yo-yo.'' Doctor Molasses shakes his head sadly. ''Your imagination runs wild.'' He spreads his hands to the crowd. ''Come back to Gillworthy and we'll heal you again. Look. Matron Majeiskii has brought you a chair.''

Matron Majeiskii looks more like a gorilla chewing a bulldog than ever before.

''They torture me!'' Yo-yo cries out. ''They use electric shocks and multiple enemas.''

They'd claimed he was constipated, despite a twice-daily fig-and-prune diet, and shoved half a yard of rubber hosepipe and a gallon of warm water up his bottom 'to get his bowels moving'. They'd moved for days. The other children had sat dumbstruck with horror as Doctor Molasses had yelled ''Let that be a lesson! To all of you! Don't listen to Yo-yo. Or you'll get the same!'' and hissing in Yo-yo's ear as the rumblings began ''That'll teach you, you mad, crazy bastard.''

''I am a doctor,'' Doctor Molasses says to the crowd, ''I know what I'm doing.''

The crowd mutters a ''He's a doctor. He knows what he's doing.''

''Don't listen to him!'' shouts Yo-yo. ''He's mad! He's a nutter! He's a mentalist!''

''He's the mentalist,'' Doctor Molasses remarks to the crowd. ''He goes round the garden talking to trees. He chats to ghosts. He reads William Shakespeare and Jonathan Swift. Gulliver's Travels is his favourite book. He believes everything has a soul, even the trees, even the stones. He believes in climate change. He believes in recycling. He believes in public transport and national health and free education! He believes that music and poetry can save the world. He believes that people are essentially good. He believes in the Soul.'' Doctor Molasses senses the crowd beginning to turn. ''He even believes in God.'' The damning declaration.

''Phew, what a loony!'' Mister Pedant remarks.

''Burn him!'' screams Miyumi, ''Burn the witch!''

Doctor Molasses holds up his syringe. ''He'll come home with me. I am a doctor. I can cure him of his delusions. I will make him well again.'' The crowd claps. Doctor Molasses bows slightly. ''Come along, Yo-yo. Give me your arm.''

''No!'' shouts Yo-yo.

''Listen to the doctor,'' says the waitress from Bettys. ''He'll make you better.''

''He only wants what's best for you,'' adds the tour guide.

''We all do,'' snorts Porky the Pig.

''You're very lucky he's a doctor who cares,'' says the Ghost Walker.

''He doesn't care! He just wants to destroy my ring, to grind it to powder!'' Yo-yo protests. ''I am creative. I have imagination. I make things happen, here in my head. I write stories in which all things can happen - animals talk, children fly, people do magic, the poor become rich and the blind learn to see - stories, just stories I make up and tell so that people have hope that there is something better.''

''You're nuts!'' says the Fatster.

''But don't you want to live in a world where things like that can happen, where miracles happen, where anything can happen?'' pleads Yo-yo.

''Sure don't,'' says the American. ''You sound like one of them there an-ark-ists. In Thicktwistle Alabamy, we'd feed you on burgers until you explode, you vegetarian weirdo.''

''Why do people always want to destroy what they won't understand?'' Yo-yo cries. ''Why do you always want to drag everyone down? What are you afraid of?''

''It's easier, Yo-yo,'' explains Doctor Molasses, ''For people to believe the earth is flat. It's easier to believe that all minds are the same. It's easier to believe that the world is what you see, and not what you feel. It's easier to believe what you're told to believe. People feel comfortable with what they're told. Then they don't have to think it through for themselves.''

''But there are possibilities out there that neither you nor I can even dream of,'' exclaims Yo-yo passionately, ''Untapped possibilities. Limitless. Infinite.''

''And that,'' says Doctor Molasses, ''Is what frightens people. I've told you before. You'll never fit in if you're not mediocre. Nonentity leads to acceptance. Ignorance is security. Mediocrity is safety. Talent, risk, non-conformity, being different .... that leads to the newspapers, exposure, ridicule, humiliation and shame.''

''But I can't live like that.'' Yo-yo says softly.

''You must,'' says Molasses, ''Go with the mainstream or you'll be destroyed. You can't be in Gillworthy for the rest of your life. We can protect you in Gillworthy, but out in the world ....'' The needle glints in the afternoon sun. ''Just one little prick, and it'll all be forgotten.'' It touches his skin. ''You can come home and we will protect you. We'll make you well again, or, if we can't, we'll keep you safe, from the dreams, from the hopes, from all that would distract you and make you mad. We'll keep you safe from the world, from them.'' The needle pricks his skin. Yo-yo weakens. He can feel his knees turning to water. ''We will keep you cosy and warm....'' The sky reels. Then something explodes:

BLAM!

and Doctor Molasses falls to his knees.

''Get off him, you bastard!'' screams Mrs Lollipop, ''Leave him alone!'' She stands over the doctor, handbag aloft, pink bed-socks wrinkled, her mob-cap askew. ''It's doctors like you kept me bedridden for forty years! And there's nothing wrong with me! Nothing! Don't listen to doctors. Listen to yourself! Your inner voice is the only true voice!''

Doctor Molasses yells as the handbag wallops him over the head once again. He sprawls on the grass, his clipboard forgotten, as Mrs Lollipop hits him again. His Frankfurter nose explodes in a fountain. Matron Majeiskii cheers with the rest. He tries to crawl to a place of safety but the ghost of Eleazar Glenn seeps through the earth and picks up his pen.

''You looking for this?'' the six year old taunts, waving the pen under his nose.

''What ...what ... what ....?'' stutters the Doctor.

''I am the Ghost of Eleazar Glenn.''

''There is no such as thing as ghosts,'' says Doctor Molasses. ''You're merely a piece of undigested cheese or some too-dry toast...''

Yo-yo touches his ring. The head of the Earl of Northumberland bleeds out of the earth, with Sister Theresa and Ellen the Girl, the children of Bedern and the mother and son from St Olave's Church. Doctor Molasses tries to bat them away.

''You are not real! You do not exist! Ghosts do not exist.'' Doctor Molasses says defiantly. ''I am a doctor. You do not exist.''

''We exist,'' says Ellen, ''But you choose not to see us.''

''Life is not on a clipboard and it's not on a tick list and it's not in your books of law or your books of medicine or your books of business and commerce. It's here in your head,'' says Sister Theresa, ''And here in your heart.''

''He'll never understand,'' Yo-yo says sadly.

''I know,'' says Eleazar Glenn. ''Time to go.'' He seizes Doctor Molasses' Paisley-socked ankles. The Doctor screams in terror. The ghostly children of Bedern sing their ghostly song:

One, two, kick the shoe,

Three, four, kick the door,

Five, six, break the sticks,

Seven, eight, break the gate,

Nine, ten, kill the men.

Eleazar Glenn gives a supernaturally strong tug and Doctor Molasses, with a final, despairing wail of ''But I'm a doctor!'', disappears through the earth. Suddenly there is a whoosh and a distant boom and the tent erupts in an orange fireball. Ruff the Bear has dropped his torch.

''What the devil was that?'' cries Truss.

''The circus!'' says Yo-yo, ''It's all about the Circus.''

The Wildcat people lay hands on their boss. ''Unhand me, you loons. Unhand me at once.''

''No way.'' Catkin Silver. ''Not now we got you.''

Truss raises his eyes to behold the Uzi-toting Czech Mates, the ferocious features of Brian the Lion, Jungle-Juiced Jake wielding a knife and the Lettuce Brothers with water-squirting plastic buttonholes.

''You should've given us a raise when you had the chance,'' says Jungle-Juiced Jake, ''Instead of lectures on productivity and customer service.''

''Job Plans and targets,'' says Jezdec.

''Feedback and focus groups,'' says Vez.

''Health and safety and risk assessments,'' says Strelec.

''You took all the fun out of life in a circus,'' says Jungle-Juiced Jake.

''It was for your own good!'' cries Truss. ''Remember what it used to be like here? Chaos. Anarchy. No-one in charge.''

''Maybe that's how we liked it,'' says Ruff the Bear.

The circus performers close in on their boss.

''What are you going to do?'' he cries.

''Revenge!'' grins Brian the Lion. Truss shrieks as they bundle him roughly towards Catkin's Cannon.

The mob sweeps across the grass towards the burning camp. The heat is intense. Everything seems to shimmer. The smoke is oily and black. Everyone seems to cough. Ropes and hawsers bang like gunshots. Pieces of wood crackle like fireworks. Fingers of fire claw at the canvas. A thick tongue of smoke licks at the sky. The canvas marquee sags in the centre, its roof swaying under the weight of destruction. It collapses upon itself with a deafening crash. People swarm among the trailers. At the Hall of Mirrors they fling open the flap, and are confronted by the Infinite Twins, JaxandDaxandJaxandDaxandJaxandJaxandJaxandDaxandJaxandDaxandJaxandJaxan

somewhere in the middle

Constable Kipper, tied to a chair in his boxer shorts and hob-nailed boots,

and

Mister Vanilla, grossly naked, a black, studded collar fixed round his neck and linked by a chain to the foot of Rue's bed.

''Guess what?'' Catkin Silver shoves Truss into the muzzle. ''You're fired!''

BOOOOOM

Truss soars through the air, limbs flailing like an epileptic spider, wailing like a demented police siren, and crashes headlong into the Hall of Mirrors. Everything shatters. Everything splinters. Everything dissolves into fragments of

### d jV

ax n ki

### x lla ja a

### p per

### x d

that spray into the air like glitter at a children's party.

''Thank you, Catkin.'' Dax, released, flies into the sky.

''Thank you, Catkin.'' Jax, released, flies into the sky.

Constable Kipper picks himself up and uses his helmet to cover his parts. ''Constable Kipper!'' exclaims Sergeant Cod. ''What on earth are you doing?''

Catkin Silver puts his hand on his Cannon and bows. ''Thank you very much.''

The Wildcat Circus is falling apart. Tents collapse, caravans fold. Jungle-Juiced Jake's getting shagged by his lion. Strelec and Jezdec are knifing each other whilst Vez stands by with a bazooka to take out the winner. The Lettuce Brothers are four middle-aged, balding blokes stripped of their make-up and big floppy shoes and just looking sad. Truss is crawling around on all fours, cut, bruised, blackened by soot, a few broken bones, his clothes in rags. Mistress Thyme bursts from the debris, waving her riding crop, her top hat on fire.

''Everything stop! I command.....''

''Ah so,'' says Miyumi, ''There's Mistless Time.''

Five camera-phones fire off as one and Thyme, her mouth wide-open in a soundless scream, is captured forever in digital form. But now, emerging slowly, steadily from the silvered slivers of glass, comes Mister Vanilla, fully-clothed in his yellow trousers, his lilac waistcoat, his ruffled pink shirt, the golden watch-chain stretching over his stomachs, his thin, black moustache-tips waxed erect, his thin, black hair plastered onto his scalp with an oil that smells of linseed. He pops a sugared buttercup into his mouth. His half-dozen chins and baby-pink face wobble a greeting.

''Have one, my pillicock, they're awfully nice.''

Yo-yo confronts him. ''Give me my ring.''

''Your ring?'' Mister Vanilla gives a soft chuckle. ''I think not, my little iced bun.''

''You stole it,'' shouts Yo-yo, ''Now I want it back.''

''But it wasn't yours in the first place,'' says Mister Vanilla mildly. ''You stole it yourself. I was only recovering the jewel for its rightful owner.''

''The owner is dead!'' Yo-yo retorts. ''She left it to me.''

''She isn't dead,'' says Mister Vanilla. He sighs sadly. ''I know it's hard, Yo-yo, but you have to grow up. You can't remain a child forever.''

''I want the ring,'' Yo-yo says petulantly. ''It's mine. And I want it. Now!''

Mister Vanilla shakes his chins. ''I'm sorry,'' he says. ''You can't have it.''

''It's mine!'' says Yo-yo again.

''I was asked to retrieve, and retrieve it I have.'' Mister Vanilla twiddles his 'tache tips. ''You see, my little dogkin, I do not want your ring for myself. Truss and the ladies, they want your ring for what it will bring them. Doctor Molasses wants your ring so he can destroy it. I want your ring because of your mother.....''

''Don't talk about my mother!'' Yo-yo slams his hands over his ears.

''You need to know the truth,'' says Mister Vanilla, ''About me, your mother and the Wildcat Circus...''

''La la la la la la,'' sings Yo-yo, closing his eyes.

''You must face the truth. Yo-yo, I beg you, open your eyes....''

Suddenly there's a low, rumbling grrrrrrrrrrrr. Brian the Lion's black tail-tip twitches. Mister Vanilla's eyes pop with surprise. The lion bounds forward, jaws roaring, teeth gnashing. Mister Vanilla squeaks and turns to run but Brian is on him in one mighty leap. Mister Vanilla squeaks and struggles. ''Get off! Get off! Yo-yoooooo...''

His great face swells,

his chins expand

and suddenly

suddenly

suddenly

Mister Vanilla explodes like a giant balloon.

Pieces of lilac flutter down from the sky. Falling swiftly, whirling and spinning, comes Yo-yo's ring. He hurls himself forward and catches it neatly. ''I got it! I got it!'' He springs to his feet. ''I got my ring back.'' His friends crowd around him, patting his shoulder, clapping his back, ruffling his hair, punching his arm. He solemnly, ceremonially replaces the chain round his neck and then he is chaired through the circus's ruins by crowds of people who cheer and chant his magical name:

YO-YO, YO-YO, YO-YO, YO-YO,

YO-YO,YO-YO,

## YO-YO

# THIRD FIT

#

# 26.

# Tea Dance

BETTY'S Tea Rooms (est. 1919) have never been so full. Present are people of every colour and creed, crammed into the café and calling for cakes. Giant balloons float above tables, champagne is flowing and music is blaring in wild celebration. Lily Gusset is up on the counter, dancing with Catkin. S/he loved her new present, the black frilly bra, is exhibiting it with wild abandon.

''Ooooh, Yo-yo,'' s/he'd squealed, ''Thanks very much.''

Catkin Silver is a surly boy in a plain, grey T-shirt and black, board shorts. He has dusty-blond hair and adolescent acne sprayed over his face. ''That's the end of my job,'' he says, sucking on a cigarette. ''Never liked it anyway. Who'd wanna get shot out of a fecking cannon twice a day?'' He grabs Lily round the waist. ''Not when they can dance the night away with a beauty like this! Shall we get married? Or just get it together?'' He grinds out his ciggie then grinds Lily's groin.

''Ooooh, Catty, you're love-ly, so romantic.'' They snog passionately.

Katze is talking to Mrs Lollipop in a corner. His cap is pushed forward to cover his eyes. The tab-end has vanished, along with the stubble. He has smartened up and is holding her hand.

''I know this is sudden,'' he awkwardly says, ''But I .... like you ... my dear ....'' Mrs Lollipop's heart flutters. ''I .... I ......quite.....like.....''

''He loves you,'' says Yo-yo, ''He's crazy about you. He wants to marry you. Isn't that right?''

Katze shifts awkwardly.

''Oh, Katze!'' Mrs Lollipop flings her arms round his neck. ''What a wonderful idea! Of course we should marry!''

For the first time in living memory, Katze smiles. It's quite a scary sight, like a pussy cat who has spotted a Doberman stuck on his side of the fence, but Yo-yo supposes they'll get used to it.

The Japanese students photograph cakes.

''Hello, Martin Mizzenmast,'' says Yo-yo to the schoolboy, now restored to his red Minster School blazer. ''I'm sorry they ducked you but I needed your clothes.''

''I know,'' grins young Mizzenmast, ''But the ducking turned out to be fun. I made some new friends on the bed of the Ouse. A weed and a pebble. They're ever so nice. Every time I went under, they asked how I was. The weed gave me air and the stone just kept talking. Got a chip on his shoulder the size of Newcastle.''

''I know,'' says Yo-yo. ''He's a miserable old git, is Stone, but he's okay underneath. He's had a tough life.''

Baby the Blackbird is perched on the piano talking to Ruff.

''All right?'' says Yo-yo.

''Aye, still breathing,'' answers the bear.

''I told you to come at it from a different angle,'' says Baby delightedly. ''Well done. Even Quackers agrees.''

Jungle-Juiced Jake sits near the doorway. He's fairly disconsolate now the lion has left him. Yo-yo wonders what he can provide. Maybe a chimp? Or maybe ...

''Let me introduce you to Baby the blackbird.''

There's a mutual twittering. Yo-yo moves on.

''So,'' chutters the pipe, ''How's it gone, do you think?''

''Excellent, Uncle.'' He butters a slice of Yorkshire tea-loaf. ''We've made people happy and we've made them believe.''

''That's what we're here for,'' says Aunty Latch.

''You got your jewel?'' puffs Uncle Reefer.

Yo-yo lowers the neck of his sweater. The shiny green emerald set in the ring and bound to a chain rests content again on his chest.

''Your Mum will be happy.'' remarks Aunty Latch.

Yo-yo's face darkens. ''She left me for Stins, the one-legged window cleaner with a face like a brick and breath like a baboon eating a bag of turds.''

''Understand, Yo-yo. Your mother was lonely,'' says Uncle Reefer. ''She needed a friend, a support. When Stins polished her windows, I suppose she felt happy.''

The day that it happened, Yo-yo's mother, whom he adored, had left him a note saying 'Tea in the oven. At the pictures with Stins', the one-legged window cleaner who'd propped his ladder against Yo-yo's window and leeringly polished his pane. Stins had a face like a monkey chewing a skunk and hair to match. Why the hell had she gone out with him? Yo-yo had thrown his pork chop on to the back lawn and downed a whole bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. Sick as a dog, he'd crawled into the toilet, retching and spewing all over the tiles. She didn't care for him at all. She preferred to go out with One-Legged Stins, the one-legged window cleaner. Yo-yo's anger had made his head throb.

''How do you feel?'' asks Matron Majeiskii, combing her hands.

''I'm fine,'' says Yo-yo. ''How about you?''

''It was never personal,'' says Matron Majeiskii. ''I was only following orders.''

''That's what they all say.'' Yo-yo suddenly takes her in his arms and gives her a kiss. ''You were always kind to me.''

Matron Majeiskii had brought him tea and, very occasionally, cake. Even when they had decided he needed force-feeding, she had done it kindly. No funnels for her, just tea-spoons and coaxing. She had often stroked his hair when he had been agitated or out-of-control, and, once in a while, she had let him sit alone on the lawn to enjoy the weak sunshine warming his skin and listen to the thrushes chirruping gaily among the clouds of cherry blossoms in the orchard nearby. She had wheeled him down to the fountain to watch some of the others play croquet. Yes, the Many Kindnesses of Matron Majeiskii had made life in Gillworthy almost acceptable, and Yo-yo would always be grateful. He kisses her again. ''Thank you,'' he says.

The Lettuce Brothers are already obnoxiously drunk.

''You stupid, big-nosed twat!'' Kos is saying. ''You should've played on Even Reds.''

''It's easy to say that now,'' says Rocket, ''Now you know it was red and even.''

''You lost all our money, you arse-head,'' grumbles Kos.

Chicory vomits violently into a flower-pot. ''I'm sorry, plant,'' he mumbles contritely, ''Really sorry. You're quite a cutie, aren't you? What're you doing later?''

Constable Kipper enters the room. ''Hello, hello, hello. What's all this then?'' He bends his knees. ''Whose is that rickety car parked outside? You're on a double yellow, you know.''

''That's us!'' says Rocket.

''Well, I gave you a ticket,'' says Constable Kipper, ''But, when I put it on the windscreen, the car collapsed. Sorry. It's a heap of metal round the front.''

''Arse-biscuits,'' says Rocket. ''You wrecked our car!''

''You stupid plod!'' cries Kos.

''Well,'' says Constable Kipper, ''It's clearly an unroadworthy vehicle. Have you got a current M.o.T. certificate? And what about the insurance? Are you insured? There'll be a fine in this.''

''We got no money,'' says Endive.

''Not since the fat-nosed twat here placed it all on black and odd,'' scowls Kos.

''I'm sorry, right?'' Rocket snaps. ''Jeez, why can't you let anything go?''

As the Lettuce Brothers slip into a furious row, Kipper's attention is drawn to a painting on the wall. It is a beautiful landscape from the Romantic period, dramatic glowering cliffs, thundering waterfalls, skeletal trees, a little cottage in the foreground with a farmer's boy, a milkmaid and an old shepherd with a little dog. As he peers more closely, sipping his tea, the milkmaid waves. Then the waterfall ripples. The picture is alive. This is great tea, thinks Kipper, sipping some more. The dog seems to bark. Constable Kipper's head jerks out of his tea cup.

''Listen, you anus,'' Kos is saying, ''I said at the time.....''

A loud pop signals the end of one of Lily Gusset's balloons. S/he and Catkin are noisily shagging on top of the piano. Jungle-Juiced Jake is sitting morosely in the corner reminiscing about his cosy nights in with Brian the Lion as the piano

### t

### in s

### k le

and Lily yells ''Catkin! Catkin! Take me roughly! Take me roughly'' and Catkin throws his cigarette on to the floor to grip Lily's buttocks more firmly.

The farmer's boy, who looks a little like Sylvain, flicks his fishing rod. Constable Kipper peers again. The milkmaid, who seems to be pregnant and resembles Aureole, waves again. The waterfall splashes into a deep pool in the rocks. An old elm tree sways in the breeze. The old shepherd, who might be Chrétien, pats his dog. The boy flicks his rod once again. It is the very definition of idyllic pastoral.

''OHHHH, Catkin,'' groans Lily, ''Catkin..... Ohhhhhhh.''

''Shut your face, Kos,'' snaps Rocket.

Slowly it dawns on Constable Kipper that he is not looking at a painting after all. He is, in fact, regarding Rue's lovely, painted buttocks which are framed on the wall.

''SSSSSSHHHHHH!'' hiss the buttocks. ''Don't give us away. We'll do for you what we did for Vanilla.''

Kipper has a mental flash of himself attached to Rue's bed by a chain attached to a black leather collar.

''OK,'' he whispers.

''Look!'' shouts Rocket, ''Leave me alone! I made a mistake, all right? It happens.''

''You're a very nice plant,'' Chicory murmurs. ''How about you and me getting out of this joint and hitting somewhere more lively?''

''You must be joking, you big-nosed bastard,'' the plant replies.

Chicory steps back, bursts into tears. ''She doesn't love me. She doesn't love me.''

''What you on about, you weirdo?'' says Kos.

''It's a fecking plant, you moron,'' says Rocket.

''OOOOOOOOOHHHHHH, Catty,'' squeals Lily, ''Scratch me, scratch me.''

''Getting out of hand, love,'' Uncle Reefer remarks.

''It'll end in tears,'' agrees Aunty Latch.

Now no-one really knows what happened next. Yo-yo couldn't tell me. Neither could Constable Kipper. All we know is that someone, and we can't be certain which of the Lettuce Brothers it was, threw a custard pie which hit Police Constable Kipper in the back of his unfeasibly square head and dripped custard on to his collar.

''Hello, hello, hello,'' he goes, ''I'm an officer of the law. You can't pie me. Who threw it? Come on! Who threw it? Who threw that pie? If you don't own up, you'll only make it worse for yourself.''

Silence.

''Right then, the whole class stays behind till the person who threw that pie owns up.'' Constable Kipper's face is as red as a red brick painted red.

''It was Kos!''

''It was Rocket!''

''It was Endive!''

''It was Chicory!''

''It can't have been all of you!'' bellows Constable Kipper.

''Oh yes it could,'' chorus the clowns.

''Oh no it couldn't,'' cries Constable Kipper.

''Oh yes it could,'' chorus the clowns.

And the second pie is launched. Right in Kipper's face. As he splutters and staggers, wiping custard from his eyes, he realises he's dropped his tea and his blueberry muffin. Everyone gasps and f r e e z e s.

No-one, but NO-ONE, comes between the constable and his cuppa.

''Now then, now then!'' he yells, waving his truncheon. The third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh pie are hurled straight at his helmet.

A pie hits

Lily and Catkin, exhausted and sweating on the piano.

Lily becomes a teenage girl in pink dungarees with blonde hair in bunches and braces on her teeth. Catkin becomes a boy in a red Liverpool shirt and blue tracksuit trousers.

A pie hits

Baby who turns into a baby, crying and pooing into a fatly full crap-bag a.k.a. nappy.

A pie hits

Martin Mizzenmast who sings ''Oh for the wings for the wings of a dove'' in a pure perfect treble and is transported from red blazer and grey trousers into red cassock and white surplice.

A pie hits

Mrs Lollipop who immediately accepts Katze's marriage proposal and jigs for joy.

A pie hits

Katze's car, which turns into a black Rolls-Royce Phantom.

A pie hits

Miyumi who recites ''The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain'' in flawless English

A pie hits

Jungle-Juiced Jake who gives up the booze and the lions and starts running marathons

A pie hits

Reefer whose pipe expires with a winnowing whimper.

A pie hits

the painting. Rue detaches herself from the wall and wraps a white, silk robe around her shoulders.

''It could have been you, Yo-yo,'' she says.

He has a mental flash of his own naked self attached to Rue's bed-post by a dog-collar and lead. ''Maybe it's not too late?'' he quavers.

Cinnamon slices and cucumber sandwiches, strawberry flans and scones thick with cream, Danish pastries and Bettys Fat Rascals fly through the air. Endive and Chicory, Baby and Catkin, Jake and McTavish, Kipper and Mizzenmast, Kos and Rocket, Harry and Christa, Ruff and Majeiskii grapple together. Tables are thrown, chairs are smashed, stools are flung, bodies fall. The floor is covered with puddles of tea and cream.

A pie hits

the back wall of Bettys.

It collapses in a heap of rubble and dust and opens the café to the real world beyond. Outside there are people going about their everyday business. There are men in suits and ties, newspapers and briefcases in hands, walking to work. There are women pushing babies in prams. There are children in school uniform with satchels and rucksacks over their shoulders. There are tourists in checked shirts and camouflage shorts taking photos. They all freeze and stare at the scene inside, and the people inside freeze and look back at them, horrified and appalled.

There is Reefer in a suit and tie going off to work at the Halifax.

There is Latch scrubbing the tiles on the kitchen wall.

There is Lollipop pushing a trolley round Sainsbury's frozen food aisles.

There is Katze browsing in the plumbing section of Homebase.

There is Lily Gusset filing her nails behind a desk in York City Library.

There is Catkin Silver in a brown St Peter's School blazer studying Physics.

There is Chicory Lettuce filling up cars at a garage on the A19.

There is Endive Lettuce pulling pints in The Blacksmith's Arms in Newton-on-Ouse.

There is Rocket Lettuce screening calls for the HSBC bank.

There is Kos Lettuce easing the Number 2 bus out of the Rawcliffe Park-and-Ride.

There is Jungle-Juiced Jake signing on at Job Centre Plus.

There is Baby the Baby having his diapers changed by

Miyumi the au-pair who speaks perfect English

There is Constable Kipper ticketing cars in Acomb high street.

There is Wee Jocko McTavish stacking paint tins in B & Q at Clifton Moor.

There is Rue taking a memo from a miserable boss in a miserable office.

And there is Yo-yo squeezed inside a blue Bootham School sweater sitting detention and writing out lines because he's cheeked off the Chemistry Master.

They look at each other across the rubble, then scream as one:

WE DON'T WANT

TO LIVE LIKE THIS!

''Come on,'' says Uncle Reefer, tapping his pipe. ''Time to go,'' and he and Latch, Katze and Lollipop, Lily and Yo-yo scramble over the rubble and out into Davygate.

A troop of men in white shirts, white trousers and white straw hats are dancing to the tune Shepherds' Hey which is being squeezed from an old, wheezy accordion. Their hats are decked with orange blossoms. Their trousers are adorned with bells. They wave their hankies and click their sticks. They pat each other's bottoms with bladdered balloons. This is the Morris, to celebrate May. It is all very jolly, but the tourists are as surprised as the Morris Men when La-La the yellow Tellytubby, Tweety-Pie the cartoon canary, Sylvester the Puddy Tat, Orinoco the Womble, the Pink Panther and Woody the Woodpecker join in the dance. The accordionist squeezes out another tune and the dancers form two lines, The Pink Panther, Sylvester and Orinoco facing the Woody Woodpecker, Tweety-Pie and La-La. They approach, clash their sticks, then prance around on the spot, waving their hankies. La-La hits Orinoco on the bottom with a balloon, Sylvester hits Tweety, Pink Panther hits Woody, and then they reverse. Then Woody and Pink Panther join hands. Sylvester and Tweety then Orinoco and La-La dance under the arch. There is a little more 'stickery', then the friends dance down the alley-way and into Lendal Cellars.

# 27.

# Through the Tunnel

IT is a beautiful day at Thornwick Bay. This stony beach at Flamborough Head with its cliffs and its caves is an unspoilt spectacular of the Yorkshire coast. Somewhere out at sea a pebble laughs in delight.

Stone: This is my family! There's Uncle Bill!

A stone on the beach waves enthusiastically.

Weed: Go and join them, Stone.

Stone: I won't know what to say.

Weed: Try ''hello''.

Stone: What about you?

The weed looks around and smiles contentedly.

Weed: There's plenty of seaweed. They're distant cousins. They'll settle me in.

(Pauses) Go, Stone. I'll be OK.

Stone: (Emotionally) You've been a good friend.

Weed: So have you. (He touches Stone with a frond) Just go.

Stone: I'll never forget you!

Weed: Mind you don't. (As Stone swims off) Keep in touch! Lucky bastard.

A bunch of black sea-wrack swarms around him.

Weed: Hi, I'm Weed...

The sea-wrack folds him in their arms.

''I'm home,'' the Weed says contentedly.

The tunnel is dark and the six friends get stuck several times. They stumble along by the light of matches struck repeatedly by the Pink Panther and Sylvester. They lead the group, with Woody, La-La and Tweety holding hands and muttering about the cold and the darkness, and Orinoco comes last, feeling the water drip on his brim, his great furry nose sniffing for salt. The tunnel is cramped but at least they do not have to crawl, just follow the path and the scent of sea-air.

''The tunnel twists to the left!'' calls Sylvester.

Everyone feels their way round the rough-faced rock.

''And descends quite steeply,'' adds the Pink Panther.

La-La trips over a boulder. The path indeed winds and drops steeply. Far off in the darkness is a small patch of light. Everyone grins and feels revitalised. Not so long now. The path opens out and they arrive in a high-ceilinged cavern. Beyond is the sunlight.

''Hoorah!'' says Woody. ''My blisters are bursting.''

''Let's take a breather,'' suggests the Pink Panther, grousing when he finds his pipe tobacco's gone damp.

''You suppose that's the end of Doctor Molasses?'' asks La-La.

''Who knows?'' says Tweety-Pie. ''I taut I taw a puddy tat.''

Sylvester smoothes his whiskers and lights a cigarette. ''I just knew you couldn't resist it. That's a pound you owe me, Panther.''

Orinoco takes off his hat and mops his nose. ''Hot in these caves,'' he says. ''Just hope we're in the right one. I'd hate to have to go back to Bettys.''

''Aye,'' says the Pink Panther. ''We'd find ourselves clearing up again.''

''This is great,'' says Sylvester, the cigarette glued to his lip wobbling up and down. ''Wandering through a cave system is not my idea of fun.''

''Could do with a pint,'' agrees the Pink Panther's pipe.

''Again, again,'' burbles La-La.

Woody the Woodpecker laughs.

''I like your nose,'' Tweety-Pie tells Orinoco the Womble. ''It's very long and so very furry.'' S/he squeezes it gently. ''Bet it's not the only part that's long and furry, fnarr fnarr.'' Orinoco clears his throat awkwardly. ''Underground, overground, wombling free ....'' sings Tweety. ''Underground, or overground, I don't mind. You can pick my litter any time, hur hur!''

''Harrumph,'' coughs Orinoco. ''Let's get on, shall we?''

''Oh Orinoco, you're ever so shy,'' says Tweety.

The path drops again, bends sharply round to the left. The smell of brine is stronger now, and the circle of light is bigger. They are nearly at the end.

''Walk towards the light,'' Orinoco commands. One by one the friends reach a ledge. The grey and white sea is some six feet below, the mouth of the cave some ten feet away. Beyond that is open sea and the beach itself.

''The tide's in. We have to swim,'' says Orinoco decisively.

''I'm not good at swimming,'' whines Woody Woodpecker.

''Couldn't we wait for the tide to go out?'' says Tweety uncertainly. ''Then we just have to walk across the rocks.''

''We could,'' says Orinoco, ''But we would probably starve to death first. Besides, low tide is in the middle of the night. It would be too dark to see.''

''But if there's a moon....'' says La-La.

''Just believe.'' Sylvester pats La-La on the back. ''Swim for the light.''

La-La jumps down into the sea, followed by Sylvester, whose cigarette remains firmly stuck to his lip. Together they reach the cave-mouth, glance back at the others, wave, then head out together into the open sea. The Pink Panther's pipe sputters once and dies out as he heads stoically for the beach. Tweety-Pie jumps from the ledge, twitters and splashes around in the lapping waves, spits out salt water, then paddles slowly away. Woody Woodpecker, screeching a little about getting his comb wet, reaches the exit. He turns back, waves to Orinoco, and disappears into the blue-grey beyond. Orinoco glances around the cave and touches his ring. He jumps down to the water and gasps as its coldness penetrates his fur. Briny water spills into his mouth. It makes his eyes sting. He blinks, catches his bearings, and sets off in a steady breast-stroke towards the mouth. The light makes him blink. To his right is the beach, towered over by chalky white cliffs. He can see the others wading through the breakers and gulls, going ashore. He strikes out more strongly. It is time he got back.

''Hello, dear,'' says Venus Periwinkle. ''Find anything interesting in the cave?''

''Some nice weed and a shiny pebble,'' says Yo-yo, emerging from the sea in emerald green swimming trunks.

''Well,'' says Venus Periwinkle, ''Come and get some lunch. You must be hungry after all that swimming and climbing.'' She has spread out a red-and-white checked tablecloth and placed upon it sausage rolls in flaky pastry, vol-au-vents with creamy mushroom fillings, pork pies, sliced hard-boiled eggs, diced cucumber chunks, halved tomatoes, salmon and cottage-cheese sandwiches, ginger beer, lemonade, apples, oranges and chocolate mini-rolls. He slips on the flip-flops that he left on a rock and picks his way back to his mother. Katze and Lollipop are sitting side-by-side on a rock. Hand in hand, they whisper sweet nothings. Lily, in a pink bikini, is lying on a towel improving her tan. Uncle Reefer and Aunty Latch are tucking into the picnic.

''Great pies,'' says Uncle Reefer. The sleeves of his blue and white stripy shirt and the legs of his brown trousers are rolled up. The discarded cardy lies like a snakeskin. He has a knotted hanky on his head.

''Where did you get them?'' asks Aunty Latch. Her pink and orange floral print frock resembles a tent.

''Scott's of Petergate,'' says Venus Periwinkle, who is wearing a sunburst-yellow bikini, large sunglasses and a wide-brimmed straw hat. ''Have an egg sandwich.'' Yo-yo takes it limply. ''Have you had a good time?''

''Yes,'' says Yo-yo. ''How about you? How is Stins?''

''He wasn't right for me,'' says Venus Periwinkle. ''He spent the whole night talking about window-cleaning techniques. I learned more about the respective qualities of respective leathers in one night than I ever wish to. Although he was very good at the 'wax on, wax off', if you know what I mean.''

Yo-yo bites into his sandwich. ''So it's over.''

''Yes, it's over.'' Venus tosses her long auburn hair. ''I guess I was just intrigued by a one-legged man.''

''Was he good in bed?'' Uncle Reefer is slapped by his wife.

''No,'' says Venus, ''He was rubbish but that wasn't the one leg. His cock was too small.''

''Well,'' says Aunty Latch, ''Size doesn't matter, does it, dear? Or so you say.''

Uncle Reefer chokes on his chicken.

''And then,'' says Yo-yo's mother, ''I realised there is only one man in my life...'' She throws an arm round Yo-yo, ''And that is my son.''

''I wish Dad would come back.'' Yo-yo sucks ginger beer through a straw.

''He will,'' says Venus, ''When he's finished his work. He'll come back a hero, you'll see.'' She cuddles her son. ''I love you, Yo-yo, and always will. We all do.''

Uncle Reefer and Aunty Latch nod their agreement.

''Gillworthy,'' says Yo-yo.

''All in the past. You can come home.'' Venus Periwinkle smoothes her bikini and drags a hand through her long auburn hair. ''For good. You and I belong together.''

''Why did you send me there in the first place?'' Yo-yo says savagely.

''You know why we sent you,'' Venus sighs mournfully, ''We went through this at the time. You wouldn't eat, and when you did, you sicked it all up again. All those plastic bags. You needed help. You were losing weight. We were thinking of you.'' She sighs again. ''It looked so good in the prospectus, top of the league table, first-rate results.''

''Well, it wasn't,'' says Yo-yo bitterly. ''It was a hellish, nightmarish, re-education camp.''

''Well,'' says Venus, ''It's all over now, and you still have your ring.''

''Mister Vanilla...''

''He's an old friend from Paris.'' Venus looks at the ocean. ''From when we all worked with Honeysuckle Moon and the Wildcat Circus. Mister Vanilla worshipped me.''

''Before we sold out to Truss and came home,'' adds Aunty Latch.

''He was a good friend,'' says Uncle Reefer, ''Till he got in with that Rue. She turned his head and stole his heart.''

Yo-yo looks at Venus Periwinkle's gracious figure and finely formed face, the auburn hair flowing over her shoulders. ''I love you, Mother,'' he suddenly blurts, flinging his arms round her beautiful neck.

''I love you too.'' Venus smiles and returns his hug.

After lunch, Yo-yo puts his flip-flops back on, along with a beige beanie hat, and walks down the beach. His mother follows him carefully. They wade together into the sea and play with a beach-ball, then Yo-yo swims whilst his mother takes photos and Uncle Reefer puffs on his pipe and Aunty Latch clears up the picnic and Katze and Lollipop make wedding plans and Lily Gusset works on her tan.

Standing in the breakers, Yo-yo kicks the sea into a myriad rainbows. For the first time in years, he feels happy inside. He touches the jewel in the ring on his chest. His mother is back. He skims stones and pokes in the rock-pools at limpets, anemones and starfish. His mother is back and his father is coming. Feeling his shoulders beginning to burn, he runs up the beach, salt caked in his hair, sits down on the stones and crosses his legs. Venus Periwinkle rubs some sun-cream into his pinkening skin. The sun is beginning to sink into the ocean, boiling away in a great orange ball.

''It's wonderful,'' Yo-yo remarks.

''It certainly is,'' replies Venus Periwinkle.

The seven friends watch while the sun sets fire to the sea.

28.

# Third Night

IT'S 02:28 and, for the first time in months, Yo-yo does not wake up. His lion-paw slippers, so used to prowling around COZEE NOOK in the small hours, snooze undisturbed on the bedside rug. The lumpy furniture, cheap, battered wardrobe and gloomy curtains don't feel so oppressive on this third and last night. His mother has made a tremendous fuss. As he'd sat in the bathtub, she'd sat on the edge and they'd chatted and laughed.

''What was this I saw in the paper?'' Venus had smiled. ''The Mystery Streaker?''

Yo-yo laughed. ''I had to hide in a bush and get some clothes off a boy. He thought I was God.'' He laughed again. ''He got ducked in the river.'' He turned his head. ''How did you know it was me?''

Venus rubbed shampoo into his scalp. ''I'm your mother. I'd recognise those buttocks anywhere.'' He felt his face redden. ''You need a haircut,'' she added. ''It's beginning to get curly again.''

''I had one,'' said Yo-yo, ''At Jax Hair Design. He gave me blonde bunches. It was my plan to dress up as a girl and fool Mister Vanilla. The ghosts helped me.''

''Ghosts?'' said Venus tipping a bowl of bathwater over his head.

''I made friends with the ghosts,'' said Yo-yo, blinking as watery shampoo ran over his face. ''The Earl of Northumberland was really miserable but his head's in Holy Trinity and his body's at Fountains Abbey and you wouldn't wish that on your worst enemy, would you?''

''No,'' smiled Venus, pouring more warm water over her son.

''And I went to the circus and met the clowns and a human cannonball called Catkin Silver who swore a lot,'' Yo-yo continued, ''And a woman called Rue whose body I painted. She bought me coffee and cakes in Bettys. And then,'' He lifts his arm so his mother can soap it, ''There was Jocko McTavish. He sold me some bagpipes.''

''Great,'' said Venus. ''I guess you'll be practising. That'll drive your father nuts.''

''Then I had a fight with Death. He was going to cut my throat with a sickle but I got away in a time-car. Mister Vanilla chased me round the walls on a tiny kid's bike.'' Venus sponges the soap off his arm. ''I had a penny farthing, and King Richard III made him fall off.''

Venus smiled tenderly and touched the emerald jewel in the ring on the chain round her son's neck. ''Poor Vanilla.''

''He got eaten by a lion,'' said Yo-yo, ''Called Brian.'' He jerked his head at his mother. ''Tell me about Vanilla in the old days. What did he do? What did you do?''

''It's a long story,'' murmured Venus, ''And you were there, but you don't remember.'' She stilled his protest. ''Another time,'' said his mother. ''The water's gone cold.'' She splashed some into his face. ''Get out now and I'll dry you off.''

''Mum ...'' said Yo-yo, ''I'm nearly fourteen!''

The plastic duck quacked his amusement.

''You're still my son.'' So Yo-yo stood on the fluffy, white bathmat while his mother towelled his hair dry. They laughed as she made it stand up like a cock's comb, and hugged each other. Then he had lifted his arms and his mother had dropped his nightshirt over his body. She kissed him on the cheek and made him warm milk and tucked him up in bed with another kiss and a mutually murmured 'I love you'.

Because he is sleeping, he will not know that the toilet is empty, that Eleazar Glenn is absent tonight. Nor will he notice that, down in the living room, three china figurines are having a party. Sylvain and Aureole are due to be married and will raise their child in the grandfather's house. They have sold the dog.

The COZEE NOOK is peaceful and quiet. In Lollipop's room, her baby gurgles. Ruff the bear has disappeared and Lily Gusset sleeps, thumb in mouth. Through the keyhole, if he were awake, he would see

a pink

bedroom

with posters of ponies

and Justin Bieber

and

a pink hairbrush

and glossy pink nail lacquer

and a small television and VCR

and teddies and ponies and Barbie and Ken

and lions and tigers and bears, oh my,

and Lily Gusset, eleven years old, peacefully sleeping

and dreaming of Catkin Silver the ex-teenage cannonball

The city is sleeping, the Green is grey. There is nobody out there. The sky is empty. Yo-yo murmurs something, lost in sleep, and rolls onto his side. The lion's paw slippers wait for the end.

29.

# Kissing on a Gravestone

DRESSED in silver trainers, white socks, pale blue jeans, a grey hoodie and his green rain-jacket, Yo-yo carries his tartan rucksack out to the car and heaves it into the back. Venus Periwinkle is wearing a stunning, slinky creation in scarlet and black and a fabulous matching hat. The COZEE NOOK residents gather outside to say their goodbyes. Uncle Reefer brushes both Yo-yo and Venus with his bushy moustache whilst Aunty Latch crushes them both in a smothering hug. She sheds several tears.

''It's been lovely having you here,'' she tells Yo-yo. ''You must come again.''

Lily is blushing. ''You will write, won't you?'' she lisps through her braces.

''Sure,'' says Yo-yo, pecking her swiftly on the cheek.

''You will come to the wedding,'' Katze insists. ''We'd love to have you there.'' His fiancée is feeding Baby inside the house.

''Of course,'' says Yo-yo. ''I wouldn't miss it for the world.'' On an impulse he touches the ring on his chest. He looks at his mother who smiles graciously so he unhooks the chain and hands it over. ''This is a gift from us to you. Give it to Lolly and look after it well.''

Katze's lower lip trembles and his eyes fill with tears. ''This is too much,'' he mutters, ''Far too much.''

''It's only a ring,'' says Venus Periwinkle, ''Only stuff, you know?''

''Where did you get it?'' mumbles Uncle Reefer through his Nicorette gum.

''It came from a jewel mine in central Sri Lanka,'' explains Venus Periwinkle. ''It was a wedding gift to my husband and I from Honeysuckle Moon so it is right that the ring now becomes a wedding gift to you and Mrs Lollipop.'' She kisses Katze on the cheek. ''Look after her, Katze.''

''I will,'' he says solemnly.

As they load their bags into Katze's Rolls-Royce, Venus Periwinkle turns to her son. ''That was a beautiful thing you just did.'' She kisses the top of his head.

''It's no big deal,'' shrugs Yo-yo, ''But it will make them happy.''

They have a couple of hours before their train so, because it is another bright, sunny day, Venus Periwinkle elects to shop for clothes in Laura Ashley's, Brown's and Cult whilst Yo-yo goes for a walk by the river. He stands on Micklegate Bridge and gazes over the brown water at the King's Arms pub which he had flooded only the day before yesterday, at the cobbled King's Staithe where the people of York had set up their ducking stool and plunged Martin Mizzenmast into the drink, at the middle of the Ouse where Death and Sigurd had crashed their time-car into the bed. What a weekend it had been. Strange to think he would never see Gillworthy again. He would have to go to retrieve his belongings, say goodbye to Orderly Henze and the few friends he had made, Prepuce Tom, Cassiopeia, Muff and Zee, and move back to a home he had not seen for half a lifetime. It would take some adjustment.

''Hello, Yo-yo,'' whispers a sultry voice in his ear.

''I wondered where you'd got to,'' Yo-yo says crossly. ''I'm going home today. My mother's in town. I might not see you again.''

''Let's go to the abandoned churchyard,'' says Rue, gripping his elbow, ''Where we won't be disturbed.'' Despite the warm sunshine, she is dressed in a brown fur coat that reaches her ankles and has a furry, box-shaped hat perched on her head. Yo-yo knows what lies beneath and cannot help quivering with anticipation.

The redundant Church of St Martin-cum-Gregory is halfway up the ancient street of Micklegate. It is mentioned as the church of St Martin in the Doomsday Book and the present building was probably built in the twelfth century. Certainly parts of the wall date from 1150, although the red-brick tower and large circular clock in black and white iron are certainly more recent adornments. John Trousbutt, the Rector in 1230, added aisles to the interior and in 1585 the parish joined with that of St Gregory's in Barker Lane to form the present 'small parish', which, according to a battered, moss-dotted metal plaque screwed to the gate, 'has contributed an archbishop (of Armagh), 25 sheriffs, 28 lord mayors, 3 county sheriffs & 3 Mps for the city'. Notable features include the tower plinth constructed using masonry from the Roman temple of Mithras which had stood, long ago, on the other side of the road. The crypt is now filled in but there is a priests' chamber at the north-east end, a floreated child's grave to the west and a sculpted Roman monument. Black Jacks (ancient fire buckets) are arranged under the south-west window. The church is well-known for its medieval stained glass and is the burial place of William Peckitt, the most famous glass-painter of the eighteenth century. Born in Husthwaite, Peckitt (1731-1795) painted the central sunburst motif in the Minster's Rose Window as well as the Alma Mater window in the library of Trinity College Cambridge and windows for Oriel and New Colleges Oxford, Lincoln Cathedral, Ripley Castle and Holkham Hall. Interestingly, the windows of this church are mainly made of colourless glass with some simple stained devices discreetly situated in the centre or round the edges. The parish registers date from 1538 and contain records of the Great Plague's devastation of the city. This church of Martin-cum-Gregory is a true repository of history. However, it is not now used and has become a gloomy, dark and empty shell with a damp and musty smell and an atmosphere of forlorn loneliness.

Rue leads Yo-yo through the gate in the black iron railings, up the path and round to the graveyard. There are several slab-stones. ''Sit,'' she says, choosing one under a window. ''Sit and let's talk.''

''What's under your coat?'' Yo-yo says breathlessly.

Rue arches an eyebrow. ''My, aren't we a hasty little puppy today?''

''I told you,'' he says, ''I'm leaving today.'' The clock above his head chimes the quarter-hour.

She puts her hand on his knee. ''Do you have the ring?''

''Yes,'' he lies, gulping as the hand moves up his thigh. ''I love you, Rue,'' he blurts, twisting on the grave-slab to kiss her. She smiles as their lips meet. Yo-yo closes his eyes and loses himself in the moment. Rue smells of sandalwood and lavender, and her lips taste of honey.

''Give me the ring,'' she says softly, ''And you can have this forever. You can be my naughty little sex-slave for the rest of your life.'' He gulps at the vision of himself spread-eagled and tied on Rue's bed naked but for the vanilla ice cream. ''We will live and play together ...'' She kisses him again, long and lingering. Their lips part, tongue-tips touch.....he shuts his eyes again, lost in the vision.

Mister Truss looms from the shadows in the graveyard corner. His suit is creased, greased and tattered. His collar sticks out at strange angles and his tie is a rag. His face is soot-stained black. His remaining hair stands up stiffly like a chimney-sweep's brush. He is holding a gun. The cocking of its firing mechanism resounds metallically. Yo-yo and Rue spring apart, Rue somewhat less startled than the boy. Truss points the Walther PPK at Yo-yo's heart.

''So, Yo-yo, we meet again.'' His voice is low, controlled, a hate-filled grate.

''We were only snogging!'' says Yo-yo defensively. ''It isn't a crime.''

''Although she's about twenty years older than you,'' sneers Mister Truss.

''I don't care about that,'' says Yo-yo wildly. ''We love each other.''

''Love.'' Truss spits the word. ''I have been to hell and back because of you. You destroyed my circus, my livelihood, and now I have nothing, not even the knowledge that, when this story is told, I will be the main villain. People will remember Mister Vanilla and Doctor Molasses, but not Truss the circus manager. Oh no. They'll talk about Rue and Mistress Thyme, and Catkin Silver and the Lettuce Brothers, but Truss, who brought them all together, will be forgotten.''

''What do you want?'' Yo-yo keeps his eyes firmly on the Walther PPK's single black eye. ''Immortality? I can give you that....''

''I want the ring,'' says Truss.

''No,'' says Rue, ''It's promised to me.'' She stands up. ''He promised it. You promised it. The ring is to be mine.''

''So sorry, my dear,'' Truss waves the Walther again. ''You think I would give it up again?''

''But I brought him here, I brought him to you.....'' She claps her fingertips to her lips, so recently kissed.

''What?'' It is Yo-yo's turn to stand up.

''Ha ha,'' laughs Truss, ''She brought you here and with a Judas kiss she hands you to me. How wonderful, how spiteful, how eternally wounding is a woman's betrayal.''

''Is this true?'' Yo-yo confronts her. ''Is it true that all you wanted was my ring?''

Rue lowers her gaze and says nothing.

Yo-yo feels his heart ripped from his body by a pack of rabid dogs.

''Give me the ring,'' snaps Truss.

''I haven't got it,'' Yo-yo mumbles, choking back the tears. ''I gave it away.'' He looks at Rue, half-blinded. He tastes salt. ''I lied to you.''

''Search him,'' says Truss.

Rue shakes her head. ''Search him yourself,'' she says.

Truss bares his teeth. They resemble a broken fence. ''Into the church,'' he snarls, waving the Walther, ''And then we'll see.''

Crying quietly, Yo-yo steps through the door into the cool interior. Blinking in the sudden gloom, he ......

So how does it end? The story thus far is what Yo-yo has told me. But how does it end? He told me one story, Constable Kipper said something different, and as for Rue, she said something quite different again. These are the versions as told to me, and I'll leave you to decide which one is true.

# 30 (a)

# Departure

sniffs a little and wipes his eyes.

''You're a little weasel,'' says Truss, ''And you're going to get what you deserve.'' He gestures for Yo-yo to move under the window of William Peckitt.

''I don't have the ring,'' sobs Yo-yo.

''Fair enough.'' Truss shrugs, and pulls the trigger.

Yo-yo feels a sudden sharp punch in his chest. A scarlet flower seems to blossom on the front of his hoodie. His fingers feel numb. The single gun-shot is remarkably loud, its sharp crack booming round the ancient arches.

''You shot me,'' he mutters.

''You didn't have to shoot him,'' says Rue, a hundred millions miles away.

''I had to shoot him,'' says Truss. ''It's the only way.''

Yo-yo sinks to his knees. His breathing is harsh. He feels sweat on his face. His vision is fading. Truss and Rue are blurring. He presses his hand against his heart, trying to force the blood back inside, but it's spreading and flowering, flowing over his fingers. Some blood froths into his throat and flecks over his lips.

The ceiling

S

N P

I

He falls onto his face, one arm flung out on the cold, cold stone. He can no longer move. He feels tired, so very tired. He hears laughter and the voice of Eleazar Glenn saying ''Goodnight, sweet prince, and may flights of angels sing you to your rest.'' And now there is music, a high-pitched singing, maybe a choir humming one note, increasing, increasing, intense and overwhelming.......... He feels so tired.

Rue 's voice is very very faint. She is repeating his name. Maybe she is also crying. Dimly he hears a commotion, hears Katze and Uncle Reefer shouting, hears Venus Periwinkle screaming... he tries to turn his head, but it is too heavy. He starts to laugh. It becomes a short cough. Venus picks him up in her arms. Katze has punched Truss to the floor. Venus is talking but Yo-yo cannot hear her. He tries to smile but his face is too heavy.

Slowly, gently, he closes his eyes. ''I'll see you at Christmas,'' he says.

THE (EAST) END

30 (b)

# Departure

sniffs a little and wipes his eyes.

''You're a little weasel,'' says Truss, ''And you're going to get what you deserve.'' He gestures for Yo-yo to move under the window of William Peckitt. ''All those lies, all that deceit. Hospitals, reformatories, nicking stuff and thieving... it's time you were called to account...''

''I don't have the ring,'' sobs Yo-yo.

''Fair enough.'' Truss shrugs, swivels and pulls the trigger.

Rue gives a sort of soft yelp and crumples to the floor. Yo-yo cries out.

''She betrayed you,'' says Truss, ''She betrayed me, she betrayed everyone.'' He pockets the gun. ''You'll never be free with Rue roaming at large. Your uncle and Katze, they warned you. She gets inside your head, twists your mind. It's the only way to set us both free.'' He removes the fur hat and reveals a hideous, crumbling, half-rotting death-mask of a face. ''Behold the woman. See her as she really was.''

Yo-yo fights the urge to vomit. He has just kissed those withered lips and played tonsil-hockey with those .... Urghhh... maggots. He recoils, but the horror is only just beginning. Those withered lips purse and pout, break into a teeth-baring grin, the grey-green chaps tightening, the arms lifting, the back straightening.... Truss and Yo-yo yell as Rue the Zombie lurches to her feet. Truss fires again, once, twice, three times. The bullets merely pass through the undead woman with a wet, slapping suck and clatter spent to the flagstones beneath.

''Bloody Hell, Truss, what have you done?'' They scoot into the graveyard and slam the door shut. On the other side, Rue the Zombie can be heard gurgling and scratching the wood with her vicious fingernails.

''Run!'' yells Truss. ''I'll keep her occupied.'' Rue's fist smashes through the planks.

''I can't abandon you.''

Rue the Zombie's grinning face appears in a jagged hole torn in the door. She waves a plastic straw, licks her lips and points at Yo-yo's skull.

''She'll suck out your brain!'' Truss says unnecessarily. Then Zombie Rue's Zombie hands burst through the door and grip him by the shoulders. He utters a blood-curdling scream. The plastic straw enters his ear. Zombie Rue's skeleton face grins. Truss' limp body, drained of his brain, is tossed aside. Yo-yo seizes a garden fork and backs into the corner under a tree. Rotting flesh falls away from Zombie Rue and transforms into dust in the air. She opens her mouth very wide, like a tunnel, and laughs a shuddering, horrible, hollow O O O. She points a bony finger at Yo-yo, then beckons slowly, invitingly.

''COME LIVE ME AND BE MY LOVE,'' she slurs, blood and spittle gushing over the front of her matted fur coat. ''BE MY NAUGHTY LITTLE SEX-SLAVE.''

She steps over the grave-slabs, raising her arms, the fur of the sleeves folding away to reveal the maggoty blue-black flesh and patches of white, glistening bone. Yo-yo is backed into a corner under a tree. There is no way out. Shit. Fancy dying at the hands of a transvestite zombie bride. What a way to go. He shakes his head, steadies himself and grips the fork-shaft more firmly.

''See you at Christmas!'' he yells. Raising the fork, he leaps at the zombie.

# THE ('NORF-AND-SARF') END

# 30 (c).

# Departure

sniffs a little and wipes his nose.

''You're a little weasel,'' says Truss, ''And you're going to get what you deserve.'' He gestures for Yo-yo to move under the window of William Peckitt. ''All those lies, all that deceit. Hospitals, reformatories, nicking stuff and thieving... it's time you were called to account...''

''I don't have the ring,'' says Yo-yo, ''I gave it away, but what I do have for you both isssss.....cue lights!''

A BLAZE OF LIGHT

''Cue music!''

A BLARE OF MUSIC

''Cue Company!''

The principals, in stripy blazers and straw boaters, burst into song:

''A clown with his pants falling down, Or the dance that's a dream of romance, Or the scene where the villain is mean,  
That's entertainment!

Mister Vanilla: The lights on the lady in tights

Katze: Or the bride with the guy by her side

Uncle Reefer: Or the ball where she gives it her all.

Men: That's entertainment!

The men tap-dance across the stage whilst the women hand-jive. The Bootham school-kids and some of the ghosts join in the chorus.

Aunty Latch: The plot can be hot, simply teeming with sex

Lily Gusset: A gay divorcee who is after her ex

Thyme: It could be Oedipus Rex

Women: Where a chap kills his father and causes lots of bother

The women tap-dance whilst the men hand-jive. The circus performers join in the chorus. Yo-yo, donning a green and blue stripy blazer, does a soft-shoe shuffle and bounces his cane off the stone.

Catkin Silver: The clerk who is thrown out of work

Majeiskii: By the boss who is thrown for a loss

Wm Etty RA: By the skirt who is doing him dirt

Dax and Jax: The world is a stage; the stage is a world of entertainment!

A glitzy banner in matching colours unfurls from the ceiling, declaring

THAT'S ENTERTAINMENT

Coloured balloons and champagne corks fly. Rue opens her fur coat to reveal a gorgeous wedding dress covered in sequins and ribbons. Betty of Harrogate wheels out a three-tiered cake. Confetti fired from a cannon flutters in the air.

The company repeats the line:

''The world is a stage; the stage is a world of entertainment!''

Yo-yo waves his hat and dances across the stage with Harry Gration, singing:

''Hip hooray! It's Yorkshire way!  
The world is a stage; the stage is a world of entertainment!''

Everybody cheers. The dancing and singing continues and members of the cast come for their curtain calls. Yo-yo taps to the door. The company claps and whistles. He bows three times then, still waving his hat and cane, leaves the stage to long applause.

''See you at Christmas!'' he cries, and bows once more.

THE (WEST) END

''Where on earth have you been?'' scolds Venus Periwinkle as he skids through the entrance to York Railway Station. ''The train leaves in five minutes.''

''Finishing the story,'' he grins.

''Did it end well?''

''I think so.'' He grins again.

As Venus Periwinkle bundles her bags towards Platform Three, Yo-yo regards once again the old city walls, the green burial ground where Eleazar Glenn lies, the Minster Towers guarding the people.

''I'll see you at Christmas,'' he says to the city, hitches his rucksack onto his shoulder and scampers away to the noonday train.

THE (REEL) END

About the Author

The author has lived and worked in several different countries and has been, variously, a camel jockey, a tennis coach, an underwater photographer, a motivational speaker, an opera singer, a pantomime dame, a cat-sitter and a ghost-buster. He is the author of Tombland Fair, A Teenage Odyssey, J, Yo-yo's Weekend, Dead Boy Walking and Out.

Also available by David Brining as ebooks and in print:

Tombland Fair

Norwich 1272. Nicolas de Bromholm lives with his parents and baby sister in 'The Mischief Tavern'. When his father's best friend is murdered by a monk, Nicolas' life is turned upside down. Under siege, their world in flames, Nick and his friends must choose which side they are on, that of the rulers, or that of the people.

A Teenage Odyssey

This epic for a new millennium describes teenager Adam Lycett's journey from comfortable home to cardboard box when he flees his violent stepfather to find his real father somewhere in contemporary London, a Dickensian cityscape populated by gin-swilling, pill-popping juveniles bent on burglary, mugging and sex, by fat-cat lawyers and bankers swindling their clients, by an idle aristocracy abusing the poor, and by people living, and dying, in doorways.

Dead Boy Walking

When Iraqi teenager Ali Al-Amin's parents are killed by a terrorist bomb, he is recruited by Arab Intelligence to infiltrate a school for suicide bombers in Syria. There he is turned into a human bomb, a dead boy walking, and sent to murder 3000 people with sarin nerve gas. Ali has just three days to save himself and the world from total destruction.

J.

A Veritable Jackdaw's nest of a book containing secret societies, conspiracies and counter-conspiracies, Jacobites, Inquisitors, artists and dramatists, jays and jackdaws, velcro jumping, Jewish Zen Buddhist blues, mathematical opera, Jacobean theatre, folk and jazz, kings and popes, Jason and JASON, Bedekeepers and Beadkeepers, tarboys and jumbucks, curious ceremonies, arcane rituals, bizarre coincidences, eccentric characters, lots of fascinating but utterly useless information, plenty of ovophiles and the quest to crown a King.

Out: A Schoolboy's Tale

When 15 year old Jonathan Peters falls in love for the first time, it is as unwelcome as it is unexpected because he falls in love with another boy. As his love deepens, his internal struggle with being homosexual spills into the open, impacting on his relationships with family, friends and teachers, who must all adjust their ambitions for him and the way they relate to him.

Yo-yo's Weekend

While spending a weekend in York, schoolboy Yo-yo's ring is stolen by Mr Vanilla, a forty stone jewel thief so he gathers together, among others, Lily Gusset, the reverse drag-artist, Mrs Lollipop, bed-ridden these forty years, Baby the talking blackbird, the custard-pie flinging Lettuce Brother clowns, an angry ichthyosaur, a weed and a pebble, a copper named Kipper, a professional Scotchman named Wee Jocko McTavish and the severed head of the Ninth Earl of Northumberland in a quest to retrieve it.

