The crowd sang along with these, for they were the dance anthems of the day. Queen Victoria did the hand jive and Princess Alexandra, the five-knuckle shuffle.

Joseph Merrick simply hummed.

“Not bad, eh?” said the cabbie in Will’s seat. “Enjoying yourself, bruv?”

His plastered brother shook his head. “I’d be enjoying myself a great deal more, if I didn’t know that my aerial hansom was presently embedded in the roof of the Naughty Pope,” said he. “You big-nosed twat!”

Master Makepiece Scribbens gave his nose another powdering.

“A regular dandy,” whispered a voice at his ear.

Master Scribbens glanced into the mirror. Only his own reflection gazed back at him.

“It is I.” The voice belonged to Mr Wells. “Remember our rules. Do not acknowledge my presence, other than to nod or shake your head when deemed appropriate. Do you understand me?”

Master Scribbens nodded his wobbly head.

“Did you dispatch the complimentary tickets to William and Timothy?”

Master Scribbens nodded once more.

“Do you know whether they have taken their seats?”

Master Scribbens now shook his wobbly head.

“I have had no success in locating any computers aboard this vessel. Nor have I overheard anything suspicious. I do not know what to make of it.”

Master Scribbens gave his head a nod and then a shake.

“I hope we haven’t made a terrible mistake,” said Mr Wells.

“Cavalcade of Curiosities to the ring,” called a voice through the public address system in the Lower Rank Performers dressing room.

“I have to go,” whispered Master Scribbens.

“Break a leg,” said Mr Wells.

Tim tripped down the staircase. “Damn,” said he, as he picked himself up. “I thought I’d broken my leg.” His trouser was snagged up on a rivet, Tim yanked it free, ripping a hole in the fabric.

“Try and be careful,” said Will.

“Yes, well, I didn’t do it on purpose, you know. And I’ve ruined my smart trousers now.”

“I’m getting confused here,” said Will. “Doesn’t this corridor look exactly the same to you as the one we’ve just come from?”

“Do you mean we’ve been going around in circles?”

“Well, hardly, if we’ve just come down a staircase.”

“Let’s try this direction,” said Tim.

“I’ll follow you this time,” said Will.

Mr Wells followed the Brentford Snail Boy as he slid towards the circus ring. Mr Wells was most impressed by all he had seen of Count Otto Black’s flying circus and he felt quite certain that he had seen all of it. The symmetry of the corridors, the precision of the engineering. It was all so highly advanced. Even in this age of advancement, it was highly advanced. And he noticed for the first time a curious anomaly; that although the steel-tipped heels of his invisible shoes struck the steely floor of the corridor, they made no sound whatsoever. And yet earlier in the day they certainly had, and he had been forced to creep everywhere upon tiptoe for fear of being heard.

Mr Wells stopped, did a little jump, heard nothing, stroked his invisible chin and continued to follow the Snail Boy.

Will continued to follow Tim.

“Down this staircase,” said Tim.

“Fair enough,” said Will. “Careful you don’t trip this time.”

“Yes, as if I would.”

Tim took a step down the staircase, tripped and fell the rest of the way.

“You only did that to amuse me,” said Will, joining Tim at the foor of the stairs and helping him to his feet.

“I can assure you I did not.” Tim dusted himself down and gave the staircase a kick. “That’s curious,” said Tim.

“And rather pointless,” said Will. “Did you hurt your foot?”

“Certainly not.” The expression of pain upon Tim’s face made a lie of this statement. “But the sound.”

“What sound?”

“No sound at all.” Tim kicked the staircase once more.

There was no sound at all.

“Now that is curious,” said Will.

“Yes,” Tim agreed, “and not only that. See there,” and he pointed.

“What is that?” Will asked.

“The piece of my trouser that got torn off when I fell down the other staircase.”

Will looked at Tim.

And Tim looked at Will.

“I think we’re in trouble,” said Will.

“You know what the trouble with dwarves is,” said the lady in the straw hat.

Her friend Doris shook her head.

“Nor me,” said the lady. “But someone must know.”

And the crowd almost rose to its collective feet to greet the entrance of the Brentford Snail Boy and the Cavalcade of Curiosities.

The Dog-Faced Boy juggled pussycats.

The Big Fat Lady sang.

The Man With Two Heads talked to himself.

The Bell-End Baby rang.

The Siamese Twins played saxophones.

The Pig-faced Lady juggled.

And the uniped,

With the pointed head

Bounced up and down and—

“What?” Lord Byron asked the Great McGonagall. “Nothing rhymes with ‘juggled’ and you know it.”

“Smuggled?” the Poet Laureate suggested.

The orchestra in the stand above the artists’ entrance played selections from Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat, and also Armageddon: The Musical, which was having its very first run at a pub in Brentford, but which wasn’t going down to great critical acclaim.

“When will the dancing bears be on?” asked Her Majesty the Queen (blessings be upon Her).

Princess Alexandra didn’t answer. Her head was in the lap of Joseph Merrick, and it’s rude to speak with your mouth full.[32]

Time goes by very fast when you’re having a good time, which might actually mean that there’s no such thing as premature ejaculation. But time does go by very fast.

And wouldn’t you just know it, that after the dwarves on the ostriches doing their dance, and the Cavalcade of Curiosities going through their motions, the high-flyers flying and the jugglers juggling, the wirewalkers walking their wires and Mr Aquaphagus swallowing and regurgitating not only goldfish, but mackerel, salmon, sea bass, hammer-head sharks and an entire school of dolphins; the Cossack Horsemen re-enacting the siege of Leningrad, and Lord Babbage’s clockwork ballet and Big Bloke’s Little Boot Dance; the dancing bears (who were greatly applauded by Her Majesty the Queen (Da-de-da-de-dah)) and the dancing elephants (which did not amuse her), and countless clowns, many mimes and, of course, Harry the Horse, who was dancing the waltz, the midnight hour approached.

“Are you having a good time?” Count Otto Black was back in the ring.

The audience applauded.

“Let me hear you say yeah!”

“Yeah!” went the audience.

“Yeah!”

“Yeah!”

“Yeah!”

“Yeah!” said Tim.

“What?” said Will.

“Someone’s shouting ‘Yeah!’ Count Otto Black I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Will sighed. He and Tim sat upon the staircase. They’d been up and down that staircase for the last two hours. “We’re stuffed,” said Will. “We’re trapped. We can’t even find the door we came in by. We walked into a trap. It’s like a mobius strip. No beginning. No end.”

“There has to be a way out,” said Tim.

“There is,” said Will. “It’s just that I’m not too keen to employ it. I mean, I am supposed to be doing things my way.”

“Don’t quite get you,” said Tim.

Will sighed.

“Barry,” said he.

And Will and Tim materialised in the great big top to the rear of the great big crowd.

“You only had to ask, chief,” said Barry. “It would have spared you a lot of walking around in circles. And look at the time.”