Freaks (19 page)

“So you
do
remember. And how about your dear nanny? The poor young woman dragged from her home country, halfway across the world, to some squalid Indian cesspit?”

“You?” Sheba managed to say. She had no memory of this woman, couldn't even imagine her as part of her past. But she knew about the white house. And that sweet undertone of Mrs. Crowley's scent that was so familiar. . . . Could there be any other explanation?

“Yes, me. Hard to believe, isn't it? But the things your family made me endure changed me in so many ways. To think I once ran around at the bidding of your stupid mother. . . .”

“Mama . . .” Sheba's lip began to tremble. All those years of dreaming about her mother, and this woman might actually know where she was.

“Where is she?” Mrs. Crowley read her mind. “Who knows now? When you began to change . . . the shock nearly killed her. She was bedridden for months, and then one night she snatched you and left. The last I heard, she had boarded a clipper for England. Perhaps she blamed the foreign soil for her misfortunes. Maybe she wanted to escape your father. God knows she had reason enough. Who knows? She must have died on the journey home, leaving you an orphan. And now an exhibit in a tawdry sideshow, of all the things. How shameful.”

India, the ship, the memories.
It all seemed to fit. What she had felt in the India room was no trick of the mind. It was a memory. A proper memory.

“Father?” Sheba managed to say, even as her legs buckled and she fell to the floor.

“I shouldn't spare a thought for him,” said Mrs. Crowley. “The brute wanted you locked away from the moment you started sprouting hair. After you and your mother left he became drunk, deranged. In the end I ended up caring for him like some pathetic nurse. Until I decided to pass myself off as his sister and take his fortune. After that he was useless. I'm glad I had Baba Anish slit his throat.”

“They're dead.” Sheba felt hot tears run down her cheeks. “They're both dead.”

“Don't cry about it,” said Mrs. Crowley, sounding disgusted. “You never even knew them. Not really. You were a disgrace to them.”

Sheba didn't want to believe that was true. Why would her mother run away with her if she couldn't stand her? But part of what Mrs. Crowley said was right. Crying over the loss of something you never had was stupid. Instead, she should be dealing with what she
did
have. This heartless criminal who had kidnapped the only normal friend Sheba had ever known. Thinking of Till stopped her tears. She still didn't know where the mudlarks were, or what the woman intended to do with them, but somehow she had to find out.

She watched as Mrs. Crowley reached inside the display case and lifted out a boxlike contraption. It had wire-coiled iron loops jutting from the top, with a series of metal discs in between. There were rods and cables poking out all over, and brass buttons and dials set into the mahogany casing.

That thing?
Sheba thought.
That's what she's been after?

Mrs. Crowley tucked the device into a black canvas bag.

“Curious, are we? Wondering why it wasn't the diamond?”

“No,” Sheba said, a little too quickly. “I just need to know what's been stolen when I scream for the police.”

“If you must know, it is Mr. Faraday's Electromagnetic Impulse Generator. Not that I expect you to understand its importance.” Mrs. Crowley heaved the bag onto her back and began clipping it to her harness. She watched Sheba closely the whole time. “Given up on shooting me, then, have you?”

“Why bother when the police can catch and question you themselves? They'll find out where you've hidden the children.”

“I doubt that very much.” Mrs. Crowley took a step backward. Sheba could see a circular hole cut in the glass, much like the one Sister Moon had made, except this one had an india rubber suction cup attached to it.

She climbed the wall
, Sheba realized.
Like a giant, poisonous spider.

“Why? You won't escape, you know. There are hundreds of soldiers and policemen out there.”

“Yes, but they're all going to be busy.” Mrs. Crowley took a pocket watch from her belt and flipped it open. “Right about
now
.”

From somewhere deep inside the exhibition came a thunderous bang, followed by the sound of hundreds of panes of glass exploding. The floor beneath them shook violently, setting all the exhibits rattling in their cases.

As Sheba threw herself to the floor, her first thought was for her friends, that one of them might have been caught by the blast. They might be lying there right now, as razor-sharp shards cascaded down. She had a sudden urge to dash back out of the room to find them all, to make sure they were safe.

But Mrs. Crowley was moving again. She picked up a coil of black rope and tied it to the remains of the iron cage she had just dismantled. The other end she threw out of the hole.

“What about the children?” Sheba cried.

Mrs. Crowley laughed, and squeezed through the hole in the glass. There she paused, her feet braced on the side of the Crystal Palace.

“If you could see what I'm going to do with the children — what I could do for
you
— you wouldn't care less what happens to them, believe me. Follow me and see. If you dare.”

Then she slipped out of sight.

Sheba ran to the window and looked down to see her shadowy shape zipping down to the ground. Somewhere to her right was the red glow of fire, and hordes of men in army uniform were sprinting toward the Crystal Palace.

There was no time to find her friends and get them to safety. There was no way to stop the woman here and now without losing the children forever. She had to make a decision.

Sheba grabbed the rope with one hand, put her foot on the edge of the glass hole, and jumped.

Sheba spilled from the bottom of the rope and onto the grass with a thump that shook her entire body. All around was chaos as smoke poured out from a shattered hole at the far west end of the exhibition. Men were swarming around it like angry bees around a kicked nest. She could hear the shouts and cries echoing.

She picked herself up and looked around in time to see a dark figure dashing away from the Crystal Palace toward the cover of the trees. Sprinting to keep up, Sheba scampered after her.

They ran through the shadows of Hyde Park, back along Rotten Row. Crowds were starting to gather, come to stare at the burning Crystal Palace. Mrs. Crowley wove through them, keeping close to the trees and bushes. She was wearing a cloak over her harness. Sheba struggled to follow, turning her head every now and then, hoping to see the other Peculiars amongst the throngs of gawkers.

But they were nowhere to be seen.

Near the park gates, Mrs. Crowley finally slowed her pace. Sheba had a chance to catch up, although she had to keep straining on tiptoe to spot the woman amongst the crowds.
Can what she said be true?
she kept asking herself.
Was I really born in India?
It was too big to think about right now. First she had to find the mudlarks, discover what Crowley was up to, and
then
try and come to terms with it all. It would keep.

Finally, Mrs. Crowley left the crowds and stepped out onto Hyde Park Corner. A horse-drawn fire engine was negotiating its way through the gates, bells clanging. She calmly moved aside, the firemen not realizing the very cause of the blaze was standing right next to them. Mrs. Crowley crossed the road quickly toward a grand white building, its front covered with towering columns like all the other buildings nearby. She slipped around the side.

Sheba was still panting for breath after her sprint, but gritted her teeth and pushed against the gathering crowds to cross the street.

Outside the stately white mansion was a sign. It read
St. George's Hospital
. Hospitals, doctors. Sheba remembered Mrs. Crowley's other servant. Could he be inside somewhere? Maybe the mudlarks, too?

She followed Mrs. Crowley around the side of the mansion, and emerged behind it into a maze of much older, smaller buildings. Some were in the process of being demolished, scaffolding covering their sides in rickety cocoons, and the ground in between was covered with piles of bricks and worm-eaten timber.

Sheba spotted Mrs. Crowley ducking under a tarpaulin and into one of these derelict buildings. Pulling her cape tight about her, Sheba followed.

It was dark inside, and filled with strange smells. Decades of dust, damp brick, and plaster mingled with a mixture of medical odors. Sheba smelt dried blood, soap, and starch; chemicals, medicines, disease, and chamber pots. All of it was old and faded. A disused hospital, perhaps? A part of St. George's once upon a time? There was a steep, winding staircase in front of her.

Mrs. Crowley's footsteps echoed from somewhere above. Looking up, Sheba saw the woman's shadow moving around and around and up, the bulging pack jutting out like a hunched back.

She followed up the creaking steps — one, two, three floors — and then walked toward a door that glowed with flickering gaslight. Painted on the wall outside were the words
Operating Theater
.
Funny place to put on a show
, she thought, but when she peeked around the door she realized it was for a different kind of show entirely.

Mrs. Crowley was in the center of the room. She was unpacking Faraday's Electromagnetic Impulse Generator onto a workbench and, standing beside her, as excited as an infant on Christmas morning, was the doctor. Around them were more tables, these covered in saws and knives, vials, bottles, tubes, and piping. But the whole scene was taking place in a lowered pit, surrounded by six or seven tiers of benches, all descending toward the stage space at the bottom.

It
was
a place for watching, Sheba realized. But the performance wasn't a penny gaff show. It was chopping and slicing and hacking. Surgery.

Sheba began to shake as she realized why Mrs. Crowley might need a doctor and the mudlarks in a place like this. Something more vile and horrific than she could ever have imagined. And that was when she saw them. Bound and gagged and stacked in a pile at the back of the theater. All nine children. Looming over them was another figure. It took Sheba a while to recognize him, as his face and hands were swathed in blood-spotted bandages, but when he looked up at her with those black-rimmed eyes she knew it couldn't be anyone else.
Baba Anish!
So much for him collapsing and getting thrown in the river.

“Come down, girl,” called Mrs. Crowley as if she had always known she was there. “We are about to begin. And you will find this especially interesting.”

Sheba began to descend the stairs in the middle of the benches. Baba Anish watched her all the way. His jaw was oddly lopsided, held in place by a thick bandage surrounding his head, from which his matted locks spilled across his shoulders. Ignoring him, Sheba's eyes flicked all around, looking for something, anything that might help her put a stop to this.

“It's splendid, simply beautiful,” the doctor was fawning over the generator, rubbing his gangly hands over the mahogany casing.

Baba Anish was still gazing fiercely at her. He tried to shout something, but with his broken jaw so bandaged, all that came out was, “Mmng ug ee ooing ere?”

“Hush,” said Mrs. Crowley. “Once I show her what we are about to do, we will have no more silliness, I'm sure. She's a resourceful girl. And she's here, after all. Maybe she'll make a good protégé. How long until we are ready, Doctor?”

The doctor adjusted a few switches on the generator, then turned the crank handle. The metal discs on the top began to whizz around, and blue crackles of light started jumping between the coils. This made the doctor clap his hands with glee, while Mrs. Crowley and Baba Anish visibly flinched. Sheba stared, amazed. It was like watching tamed lightning. He took some copper wires from the rest of his apparatus on the bench and attached them to the generator. Then he turned to Mrs. Crowley and gave a fawning bow. “We are ready now, ma'am. We just need the first batch of
ingredients
.”

As if that were some prearranged signal, Baba Anish bent and hoisted up one of the mudlarks. He heaved the wriggling, squealing child toward the operating table. Sheba recognized the big, brown eyes that stared at her above the gagged mouth. It was Till.

“Wait!” Sheba shouted. “You haven't told me what you're doing yet! What's all this . . . all this
stuff
for?”

She pointed at the doctor's table, where the sparking generator was whirring away. Its cables led to a glass crucible on a stand, which was now starting to bubble, letting off a strong chemical stink.

“This, Sheba, is the miracle I was telling you about,” said Mrs. Crowley. She took a clay pot from the table and removed the lid to reveal a gray, pulpy cream.

“It doesn't look much like a miracle to me,” said Sheba. The stuff stank — and it was the cold, sharp smell she had picked up from Mrs. Crowley at the graveyard when they had first met.

“Haven't you ever despaired at your . . . condition?” Mrs. Crowley asked. “Haven't you ever wished away your cursed differences and dreamed of being normal? I know I have.”

As Sheba watched, Mrs. Crowley reached up and removed her goggles. Underneath were surprisingly young eyes, elegantly shaped. Her nose was small, slightly upturned, but perfectly proportioned.
She's beautiful
, Sheba thought.

But then Mrs. Crowley removed the black neckerchief.

From beneath her nose and down, the features were withered and shrunken. Her lips were gone, exposing jagged teeth hanging by threads in leathery gums. It was the face of someone long dead; a mummified corpse's mouth, like something you would find grinning up at you from an ancient grave.

“Pleasant, isn't it?” The distorted mouth gnashed as Mrs. Crowley lisped the words. “A souvenir of my time in India. Apparently it's a very rare affliction. According to Baba Anish, it means I've been blessed by his goddess. I should be honored, shouldn't I?”

As Sheba stared in terror, trying not to scream, the woman dipped her fingers into the pot and smeared some of the gray goo onto her cheek. Instantly the withered skin started to change. It became plump, smooth, and pale, like the rest of her face. Sheba let out a little gasp of amazement. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. It was like some kind of magic.

“Try some,” said Mrs. Crowley. “With this, both of us could be normal. Neither of us need hide ourselves away again. Not ever.” She took hold of Sheba's hand and smeared a dab onto the back. As Sheba stared, she felt her flesh beginning to tingle. When she rubbed her thumb over it, the hair fell away, revealing soft, pink skin underneath.

It works!
Sheba thought. For a few perfect seconds, her mind spun with all the wonderful possibilities. No more freak shows. No more hiding from the world in the shadows of her hood. Being able to walk down the street and talk to people, really talk to them, without them running away screaming.

“But the effects are only temporary,” said Mrs. Crowley.

Already, her patch of cheek was beginning to wrinkle and shrink, and when Sheba looked down she could see minute hairs pushing their way out of her skin again. Mrs. Crowley tied the neckerchief back around her mouth.

“That is why we are here today,” she said. “The doctor has found a means to make the change permanent.”

“Yes,” said the doctor, blinking his eyes behind the huge lenses of his spectacles. “The problem is in the subject material. I discovered that only children's would work, but dead ones were all I could obtain from the Resurrection Men — body snatchers or grave robbers, you might call them. I realized that, to make the cream's effect permanent, I would need live tissue to combine with my compound. That, and a substantial electrical charge to ‘activate' the cells. To bring them to life, as it were. I tried a range of generating devices of my own design, but I couldn't create a powerful enough current. That is why we required Faraday's engine, here. A spectacular piece of engineering. Truly revolutionary. I think the man only realized its potential himself recently, which is why he was about to remove it from the exhibition.”

“What
material
are you talking about?” asked Sheba, trying to keep calm. “What is it you're taking from the children?”

“Why, brains, of course!” The doctor looked at her as if she were stupid. “Precisely, the cells from the brain stem. In the correct solution, and with an electrical impulse to stimulate them, they somehow repair the body's cells. Make them ‘normal' again.”

Sheba suddenly realized she had some cream on her hand still. With a shudder, she wiped it off on her dress.

“But the children,” she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “If you cut their brains out, they'll die!”

“And what of it?” said Mrs. Crowley. “They are only starving urchins. Life is wasted on them. It's likely none of them will live to adulthood, anyway, and if they do, what will their useless lives achieve? The breeding of even more diseased paupers?”

The doctor picked up a jagged silver saw that looked sharp enough to cut through bone.

“This is just a small sacrifice so that I can go on to achieve much greater things,” said Mrs. Crowley. “And you can join me, free from that hideous affliction which has landed you in a degrading freak show. You should be on your knees, thanking me for this opportunity.”

Sheba looked at the terrified face of Till, strapped to the table and about to have the top of her head sliced off like a boiled egg.

“No!” she cried. “Never! You can't do this. It's wrong!”

Before she could reach for her pistol, or run at the insane doctor, she felt a pair of huge, steely hands close about her arms. It was Baba Anish. She hadn't even noticed him get behind her.