Freaks (12 page)

“Wait till you hear my story, then. It makes hers sound like a comedy.” Monkeyboy finished his mouthful of cake and handed the rest around. Then he cleared his throat, as if about to launch into a performance of his own.

“I was born on a boat, I was,” he said. “A transportation ship, on its way back from Australia with those what had served their time. My mam was aboard, heavy with child (which was me, of course). They were just passing the Isle of Wight when she gave birth. A strange little thing with a tail. Everyone screamed in terror and thought it was a bad omen — the ship was going to sink and all that — so they wrapped me up and threw me overboard.”

Sheba wasn't sure whether to believe any of this. She looked across at Sister Moon, who appeared to be taking it seriously.

“Days and nights I must have drifted on the sea, until I washed up on a Cornish beach. The local tavern keeper took me in, and that's where I grew up. Hanging in a cage and forced to sing rude limericks to all the pirates and smugglers. And I'd be there still, if old Plumpscuttle hadn't come by one day. Just lost his fortune when his boat sank on the way back from America. Bet all he had left on a game of blackjack and won the jackpot . . . me! I was his first freak, I was. Just goes to show, when one door closes, another one opens.”

Monkeyboy bowed as if he'd just done a penny gaff act of his own.

“Were you really his first freak?” Sheba asked.

“I certainly was!” Monkeyboy reached across and took her uneaten piece of cake, cramming it into his mouth in one go. “He had a couple more after me: a grumpy little dwarf and some bloke who said he was older than Julius Caesar. They didn't hang around for long, though. Then he found Mama Rat and Gigantus, straight off a boat from France, and the rest is history!”

Sheba wanted to ask more — such as, what were Mama Rat and Gigantus doing in France? — but the audience had started shrieking again. It was time for the main performance, which turned out to be some kind of bizarre story of a man who kept escaping from prison by tying bedsheets together and picking locks. He wasn't even doing it right, Sheba noticed in disgust.

“What's all this about?” she asked as the hero was being chased around the stage by an angry mob.

“Story of Jack Sheppard,” said Monkeyboy, “most famous jailbreaker in the world. Robbed from the rich, broke the hearts of half the dollymops in London, and escaped from every lockup they held him in. Nobody ever told him what to do. My hero.”

It was all about as well acted as a Punch and Judy show, but the crowd seemed to love it. They whooped and cheered so loudly it made Sheba's ears ring. Monkeyboy was actually doing backflips of excitement on the bench next to her.

Then it was all over. The roars began to subside and everyone suddenly stood up.

“We go now,” Sister Moon said. “Owner cross if you not get out quick. They want to make room for next audience. Take more money that way.”

Sheba noticed the director had returned, this time with a pair of very large bouncers. The rest of the crowd was making for the door as fast as the crush allowed.

With Sister Moon helping, Sheba scrambled down the ladder as quickly as she could. The three of them plunged into the throng and, holding hands tightly, were somehow swept along, through the door and into the street outside.

“Crikey,” said Sheba as she rearranged her cloak. “Isn't there a better way of getting out of the place?”

One of the unspoken laws of London was that, as soon as three or more people stood still for more than a minute, a horde of street vendors and ballad singers would descend on them like a swarm of flies on a fresh pile of manure. The crowd that had previously been the audience now filled the street, and as if a secret signal had gone out, they were suddenly set upon by jugglers, cardsharps, and gypsies, all trying to squeeze some extra pennies out of them.

Sheba and the others dodged a ballad singer, a clothes-peg hawker, and an acrobat before they were finally cornered by a mad-looking old woman with filthy gray hair and no teeth. She shoved a basket of rotten pastries at them and screeched in a broken voice.

“Pork pie, luvvie? Pig in a blanket?”

Sheba stepped back from the reeking meat, just as a gang of small children bustled past. Monkeyboy instantly hopped in front of her and shouted over his shoulder. “Watch your pockets! They're dippers, and she's their kidsman!”

Sheba wondered for a moment what language he was speaking, and then realized he was talking about the children picking her pockets. She was about to tell him she had nothing worth taking, when she remembered the clockwork pistol and Till's marble. Her hands flew to the pouches in her cloak lining. Thankfully, everything was still there. The hideous old pie woman screeched something unintelligible at them and spat on the cobbles.

“Sling yer hook, you smelly old hag!” Monkeyboy shouted after her.

Sister Moon looked at the crowd around them, frowning. “This not good place,” she said. “We go before more trouble.”

Sheba agreed. It was getting later in the day, and this wasn't a place to spend a pleasant evening. Not unless you enjoyed getting robbed, murdered, and robbed again. She was about to follow the others back to Brick Lane when she caught sight of something in the doorway of the inn across the road. Suddenly her feet became rooted, her hair bristling all over her body.

“Sheba, we must go,” Sister Moon repeated, grabbing hold of her arm, then she stopped.

“What is it?” Sheba asked.

“Over there,” Sister Moon whispered. “In the doorway.”

There were several figures lounging about the tavern door, every one of them looking like they would happily slit your throat for tuppence. But one in particular stood out.

He was wearing a long, dark coat, and matted locks of hair trailed down his back from beneath his hat. He was talking intensely to two terrifying-looking goons — one with a bushy black beard and another with a blood-spattered butcher's apron. Although he stood within the shadows of the doorway, Sheba could still see the intricate pattern of coal black stripes and swirls on his face. And there was a hint of something else in the air — oil and spice. She gasped.

“Man at graveyard,” hissed Sister Moon. “I sure.”

“And his face, the patterns. It's what Barney Bilge said he saw in the crab machine's eye! How many people in London have painted faces like that?”

Monkeyboy, having walked twenty yards down the road before realizing the others weren't with him, scampered back to them. “What's the holdup?” he said. “We should be hooking it out of here, not standing around taking the flipping air.”

Abruptly the painted stranger finished speaking, then nodded and left the tavern doorway, turning right along Ratcliff Highway.

“We have to follow him,” Sheba said. Something in her gut told her this man had something to do with the missing mudlarks. She could almost smell it.

“Follow that?” Monkeyboy goggled down the street after the stranger. “You must be joking. He looks like he'd pop our eyeballs out, just for a laugh.”

“I not sure about this, Sheba. Not on our own—”

But before Sister Moon could finish, Sheba was off through the crowd, following the spice-and-oil scent of the stranger like a two-legged bloodhound. Monkeyboy and Sister Moon shared a stricken glance before dashing after her.

They happened to have forgotten all about their ratty escort. It was lucky that Mama Rat's babbies, scuttling along the gutters and rooftops after them, had better memories.

They followed the painted man along the highway, past St. Katharine Docks and out of the East End. All the while they kept as far behind as they could without losing sight of him. Every now and then, Sister Moon would push them into a doorway or behind a hawker's street stall. Split seconds later, the man would turn and glare back up the road, but see nothing.
It's almost as if she
knows
when he's about to look around
, Sheba thought. She supposed stalking people must be part of an assassin's training.

They walked past the piece of old wall that marked the edge of Roman Londinium and alongside the Tower of London. Sheba shivered as she passed it, imagining swirls in the mist were the ghosts of beheaded prisoners watching them. London Bridge was crowded with hansom cabs, carts, and horses, and scores of people in between, hurrying to get away from the stink of the Thames.

Once over the river, they headed down Tooley Street, holding their breath for as long as they could past the tanning yards. Once or twice they lost sight of the painted man in the crowds, but Sheba still had a hold of his scent. She followed it as if it were an invisible rope.

He led them through a maze of streets, past docks and warehouses, and onto a wide, cobbled road. It looked as if it might once have been a grand place to live. On either side stood three-story stone houses with high, square windows and tall chimney stacks. Most had steps up to the front doors. But the painted doors were peeling, the sagging roofs were shedding slates like autumn leaves, and the windows were cracked and filthy.

“If we're not back soon, Plumpscuttle is going to skin us alive,” said Monkeyboy.

“Quiet,” hissed Sister Moon. “Man stopping.”

The three of them ducked into a nearby doorway and watched as the painted man walked up the stone steps of one house and pulled on the bell. There was a moment's pause before the door opened and a tiny little man stepped out. He had scrawny limbs and an oversized head. A white frizz jutted out around his ears, but there was no hair anywhere else on the bulging dome of his skull. He also wore a pair of thick, heavy glasses.

Sheba's heart was in her throat. She whispered to the others, “Remember what Farfellini said about the man who gave him the order for the crab?”

“Skinny,” said Monkeyboy.

“Bald,” said Sister Moon.

“And spectacles,” added Sheba. “Exactly.”

The two men shook hands, then walked inside the house. As the slam of the door echoed down the street, Sheba and the others stepped out of their hiding place.

“That's it,” she said. “We've found them. They must be the ones who've taken Till. She could even be inside that house right now.”

“Number 17,” Sister Moon said, peering down the street at the house. “We go back and tell Mama Rat what we find.”

Something about the number made Sheba pause. She looked around the road for a street sign, finally spotting one screwed to the side of a building behind them.
Paradise Street.

“What is it, Hairy?” asked Monkeyboy. “You look like someone's just stuck a rat down your knickers.”

“17 Paradise Street,” Sheba replied. When the others looked at her blankly, she drew out the pasteboard calling card from her cloak pocket.

The house was Mrs. Crowley's.

“She knows them, the sneaky witch!” Monkeyboy's face boggled and bulged as he slowly became more outraged. “She was stringing us along from the start!”

Sheba frowned. The dilapidated house didn't seem to fit with the fine quality of clothes Mrs. Crowley wore, or her clipped accent. Somewhere, a ship's horn sounded. The river where Mrs. Crowley's son had supposedly gone missing wasn't far. Could her posh facade have been an act? Could her child have been a mudlark, too?

“They might be helping her look for her son,” Sheba suggested. “There might be an innocent explanation.”

“Too much of a coincidence,” said Monkeyboy. “Those two have got something to do with the missing mudlarks.”

Sister Moon looked as puzzled as Sheba. “Maybe they giving her son back? Or asking her for ransom?”

“Or maybe they've got the mudlarks tied up in the basement somewhere and they're about to eat them for supper?”

Beneath her hood, Sheba's face was set in a determined scowl. “There's only one way to find out.”

“What you think?” Sister Moon asked. “That we break in house?”

Sheba nodded, and Monkeyboy let out a whimper. “You must be crazy,” he said. “Anyway, we're supposed to be back at Brick Lane any minute. Plumpscuttle will kill us if we're not there for the show — unless those three do it first.”

“We'll be quick,” said Sheba. “If we don't hear anything about Till, we'll be out again and on our way home straightaway.”

“But we're bound to get caught,” Monkeyboy whined. “Caught and thrown in a dungeon somewhere.”

“Do what I tell you, Monkey,” said Sister Moon. “I expert sneak. We go in at back.”

The three mismatched figures scurried around behind the row of houses and found an alley. It was narrow and dark, with splintered fences close on both sides. When Sister Moon stepped into it, she seemed to disappear, the white skin of her face appearing to float in the gloom.

“Come on,” she whispered. “No time to slither.”

“Dither,”
corrected Sheba, joining her in the shadows.

Monkeyboy stood for a moment on his own, quietly sniveling, before one of Sister Moon's arms reached out from the alley and yanked him in.

A few moments later, they were standing at the back door of number 17. Nobody had rushed out to seize them yet. The small garden around them was a mass of weeds and brambles, another sign of dilapidation that didn't fit with Mrs. Crowley.

Sheba heard a church clock strike six somewhere in the distance as she worked on the door lock. They really would have to be quick if they were to get back in time for the show at eight. She hoped there weren't any dead bolts besides the clunky old key plate she was picking.

The thought of the painted man being just behind the door made her breath catch in her throat. If they were caught, what would happen? Her hand shook, rattling the picks against the lock. She forced herself to take some deep breaths and tried again. This time, the tumbler clicked into place and the door swung silently open.

They entered a dark and empty kitchen. The house beyond it was silent and still. There was something unnatural about being in someone else's house uninvited. They tiptoed through the room and started up what would have been the servants' staircase. Sister Moon led the way, with Monkeyboy clinging to her shoulders. Sheba followed, trying to put her feet exactly where Moon had. Every time the stairs made a tiny creak, her heart nearly stopped beating.

The whole place was dark, yet somehow Sister Moon moved with confidence, as if it were broad daylight.
Must be her cat's eyes
, thought Sheba, remembering how Sister Moon's eyes had shrunk to slits that first night in the caravan. Even with her own wolfish senses, Sheba could only pick out dim outlines of the walls and stairs, but she could smell mildew, dust, and woodworm: neglect.

When they got to the second floor, they stepped onto a wide landing in the main part of the house. It was lit only by a flickering gaslight. The paper on the walls was yellowed with age, and the floorboards were scuffed and warped. There were no grand paintings, no potted plants and ornaments. The place was bare. If it hadn't been for the dim murmur of voices in a room somewhere, she would have thought it derelict and abandoned.

They silently made their way down the landing to the source of the noise. And stopped by a heavy oak door, which gleamed with light at the cracks. There were voices inside — two or three people at least. Sheba looked at the others, wide-eyed. Her bravado had now completely evaporated, and she realized she was standing in a stranger's house, a couple of yards away from the owner herself, and possibly two very nasty villains. She motioned back down the stairs, meaning:
I really, really think we should go now
.

Sister Moon shook her head. She pointed to the keyhole and held her fingers to her eye in a circle. Then she pointed to Sheba.

Why me?
Sheba mouthed, but it was obvious. She had the best hearing, and she might also be able to pick up a scent through the tiny hole. Sister Moon and Monkeyboy edged back along the landing to where another door stood open.
Thanks a bunch
, Sheba thought, but she bent her head to the keyhole.

Although her field of view was limited, she could see a thick, musty rug, ornate chairs, and a chipped sideboard with a tea service on top. On the walls hung two large oil portraits in ornate ebony frames. One was of a beautiful woman, dressed in cascading folds of white silk. The other showed a handsome army officer, hand on sword and with a backdrop of some faraway country. Both were obscured by a thick coating of dust. Mrs. Crowley's ancestors, perhaps? Or the people that used to own this crumbling house?

Sheba almost didn't notice Mrs. Crowley at first. The way she sat motionless in a high-backed leather armchair, covered from head to foot with layers of black cloth, made her look like a shrouded statue. The only clue that she wasn't were the white tips of her fingers, which gently twitched on the chair arms as she observed the people standing before her.

One was the painted man. His broad shoulders stretched out the fabric of his coat, and without his hat his locks spilled down his back like greasy rats' tails.

The other figure was the man with the mad, white hair. He wore an old, stained frock coat, and was clearly quite excited about something. He was waving his arms and gesticulating madly.

She was now close enough to pick up their scents. The painted man's spice-and-oil aroma was more like some type of incense, she thought. The other was ripe with some kind of chemical mix. Medical, perhaps. But not the good kind. There was a hint of something noxious beneath: rotten meat, dead things. Both odors set Sheba's hackles on edge. She felt an almost overwhelming urge to turn and run back down the stairs, but somehow she fought it. She had to stay and hear what they were saying.

“Are you sure you will be able to get it?” the small man was asking. “They have it very well guarded.”

“You just worry about your part,” came the lisping voice of Mrs. Crowley. “Leave the rest to me.”

“Yes, but without it, I will not be able to make it work —”

“Doctor.” Mrs. Crowley leant forward in her chair. She sounded as though her patience was wearing thin. “I have assured you that I will be able to obtain it.”

Sheba frowned at the keyhole.
So the man was a medical doctor. But what was “it”? What were they after?

“Now, about the children . . .”

Sheba's heart began to beat so loudly, she thought they would be able to hear it on the other side of the door. She had to focus on calming herself so she could pay proper attention again.

“One more should be sufficient,” the doctor was saying. “If only that last boy hadn't managed to escape.”