Fizzlebert Stump by A.F. Harrold Page B

warm and a bitwrinkled and as he unfolded it it flapped in the breeze.
    Dympna had very neat handwriting and had labelled the map beautifully.

    Here was the school and here was the field. And there was the road Fizz could see on the other side of the fence. And at the top it went round the field, and then there wasanother road, and another, and then a house marked ‘My house’ and behind that a big green patch she’d coloured in in felt tip with a picture of a tent in it and a sign saying ‘Your house’.
    This was going to be easy.
    All Fizz had to do was go to the other end of the big field, jump the fence, run down three or four streets (ideally the ones on the map), and he’d be back at the circus. Even if his mum and dad, as he expected, were back in the forest looking for him, he’d be home and someone there would be able to get in touch with them and call them back. It was a foolproof plan. As easy as simple pie (which is the first pie bakers learn to make. It’s pastry with a pastry filling: simple).
    And I think it only right and fitting that as Fizz glories in the marvel of his having a perfect plan in front of him, we take a break between chapters and go off to have a cup of tea or a slice of pie, cheese, cake, cheesecake, mousse, soufflé, ice cream and/or sandwich, as you see fit.
    (Oh, by the way, I didn’t mention it at the time, because we were on the other side of the field, but in the street that runs along one side of the school field, an old man called Arbuthnot Crumplehorn was walking a small puppy called Simon, as promised.)

CHAPTER EIGHT
    In which a boy runs away and in which a grown man gives chase
    Fizz looked at the fence, and he looked back at the school building.
    There were things about his time here that he’d almost enjoyed (Dympna had been nice, but most of it had been less than brilliant). Now it was time for him to take his leave, he thought. He’d go back to where he belonged.
    He turned and, as inconspicuously as he could, in his vest and pants, jogged towards the back fence and the golden promise of home.
    He didn’t get far before he heard someone shout, ‘Mr Carvery, Piltdown’s running away,’ and then there was a lot of whistle blowing followed by some rapid megaphonage (‘Come back,’ and the sort), but as far as Fizz could see when he glanced over his shoulder, no one was following him. (The teacher had only just come back out after dropping presumably-Charlotte at the sick bay. He was climbing back into his golf cart as he megaphoned, and doing two things at once was slowing him down.)
    As Fizz reached the fence he leapt, caught hold of the interlocking diamond-shaped wire, and hauled himself up and over. Allthose lessons with the Twitchery Sisters and doing the occasional tumbling act with Fish had paid off.
    He lowered himself down the other side and saw that the pursuit had begun.
    Mr Carvery was finally zooming up the field in his buggy (‘zooming’ is perhaps the wrong word, since it suggests great speed: ‘chugging up the field’, ‘trundling’ maybe?).
    Mrs Scrapie, the woman who had first met him when he arrived at the school, was standing by the school door. It looked like she was talking on a mobile phone while staring directly at Fizz. The round otteriness of her face wasn’t as friendly as it had been when they’d first met – the eyes were narrowed. She wasn’t happy.
    Fizz turned his back on them and ran.
    *   *   *
    All these streets looked the same to Fizz.
    He turned another corner, following the line on Dympna’s map that linked the school and the circus. There were houses, side-by-side, two-by-two like unmoving square brick animals in a very flat ark filled with neat front gardens, pillar boxes and telegraph poles (so not very much like animals in the ark, after all).
    Cats watched him as he ran past.
    Dustbins stared at him with