Freaks (2 page)

What would become of them when Grunchgirdle finally gave up? Poor Flossy would probably end up as a plate of lamb chops, and the squirrel-mermaid would get flung back in the sea, but who would want anything to do with a hairy little wolfgirl?

Leaving the oats in a corner of his cage in case Flossy changed one — or both — of his minds, Sheba rummaged in the straw until she found her latest treasure: a five-week-old copy of
The
London Examiner
, scavenged from a bin. Hiding it in Flossy's straw was a gamble, but worth risking a splash of lamb pee. If Grunchgirdle found it he would be livid; firstly to find out she could actually read, and secondly to discover she had been outside, ferreting through rubbish, when he was asleep. But she never strayed far from the shack on her nocturnal expeditions. Any farther and she might not have been able to get back inside in time if she heard Grunchgirdle stirring in his sleep. Feeling the splinters of the pier under her feet, the salty wind all around her, and the endless swell of the sea beneath the planks was enough.
What he doesn't know won't hurt him
, thought Sheba. Although she wouldn't have minded too much if something else had hurt him instead.

She flicked to the last thing she had been reading, an article about the Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations. As far as she could make out between the old coffee stains, it was a magical collection of the most implausible and incredible creations of man, gathered together in London, in a fairy-tale palace made of crystal. There were giant diamonds, stuffed elephants, machines that tipped you out of bed, pictures made of hair (she found that particularly intriguing), knives with thousands of blades, some revolutionary new engine for creating “electrical impulses” (whatever they were), and machines that did everything from making envelopes to harvesting crops. If it hadn't been written in a newspaper, she wouldn't have believed it.

She wasn't sure she actually
did
believe it. With a snort she flipped the page, and was about to start on an article about Prince Albert's favorite breakfast when she caught an overpowering whiff of meat pie, whiskey, and sweat. It was a few hundred yards away, but getting steadily stronger. Someone was walking up the pier. Surely not a customer? On the miraculous off chance that it might be, she hid the paper, climbed into her cramped cage, and quickly locked the door with one of her hairpins. She sat on her stool and arranged her threadbare dress as neatly as possible, ready to be gawked at.

This was the part she was good at: sitting as still as a living statue, muscles locked in place, eyes hardly blinking. She slowed her breathing and let her vision glaze over. Usually she tried to empty her mind as well, but this time she couldn't help wondering what was going on outside.

The meaty, sweaty smell of the stranger was getting stronger. And now there were heavy footprints on the warped planks of the pier. She could smell Grunchgirdle, too. The bony old goat would be sitting on his milking stool by the pier railing, his fishing line cast out, waiting for supper — or a customer — to come by. He had the patience of a brick wall, considering the World of Curiosities hadn't had a visitor for four months, two weeks, and three days, by Sheba's count.

Sure enough, there came the squeak of his stool as the measly old miser sat bolt upright.
He's seen his prey
, Sheba thought. She could imagine his scrawny heart thudding away in his chest. Maybe a bead of sweat forming on his pasty brow, or even a drop of dribble escaping from his thin lips as he thought about what the penny admission fee would get him for dinner. A carrot, or perhaps even a potato to go with the usual fishy broth.

The poor stranger probably only wanted a bit of fresh air and a stroll down the pier. But he'd soon end up staring at a hairy girl, a wilted lamb, and a bad example of fish-based taxidermy.

What Sheba didn't realize was that the stranger knew exactly where he was going. And that Grunchgirdle had finally had enough of eking out a living at the end of the pier.

The footsteps came to a sudden halt. There was a clatter as Grunchgirdle leapt to his feet, knocking his rod and bucket over.

“Good morning, fine sir,” came his reedy voice. “And how may I help you this lovely summer's day?”

When the stranger spoke, his voice was deep and gloopy — as if it had fought its way up through several layers of semi-digested pastry — but the words were important ones. They would change Sheba's life forever.

“I've come about the freaks for sale,” he said.

The two men stood in the tiny shack, taking up almost every last inch of space. The combination of their unique scents was like some kind of seaweed wine that had been swirled around in a barrel of soiled underpants. It was all Sheba could do not to retch. She concentrated on breathing through her mouth only and keeping her features as wolfish as possible. It was hard work. But she'd do anything for the chance of escaping from Grunchgirdle and Little Pilchton. And this was a chance.

The stranger was a fat man. It was as if an avalanche of piecrust and gravy had run through a haberdasher's and come out in a dodgy frock coat and a pair of size eleven boots. Grunchgirdle would have fit inside him seven times with room to spare. He was also deeply unattractive. His nose was bulbous and scarlet, a wild tangle of orange hair stuck out all around the edges of his stovepipe hat, and he was wearing a scowl that could have curdled milk.

Sheba found it difficult to pretend that two very ugly men were not staring at her. She focused on a spot on the floor and kept her ears open.

“Well, she's not bad, I s'pose, but I've seen hairier,” said the fat man. “That squirrel fish is a load of tosh, though, and the sheep's nearly dead.”

“Mr. Plumpscuttle! I assure you the lamb is merely resting. He tires so easily, what with all the extra thinking he has to do. When he's refreshed he hops and jumps about like a March hare, so he does!”

“You can't fool me, Grunchgirdle. I've been in the freak business since afore I could walk, and I know a sick two-headed sheep when I see one. That thing's got a month left at best before it's mint-sauce time.”

Grunchgirdle fawned and whined at the big man for a few minutes more, but Sheba could see from the corner of her eye that his face was set like stone. He appeared to be bargaining. Was she finally leaving Little Pilchton pier?

The very thought made her heart skip a beat. What kind of a man was this Plumpscuttle? She presumed he must run a sideshow of his own — nobody else would want to purchase a pair of bargain-rate freaks — and judging by his impressive belly it must be much more successful than Grunchgirdle's. Beneath the whiff of stale gravy and sweat, she could pick up a hint of gas, grime, and coal dust.
London
, she thought.
Maybe Birmingham or Manchester
. What would his show be like? Her head raced with a thousand questions, hopes, and fears. She began to feel quite faint, although that could have been because of the rapidly building stenches in the cramped little shack.

“Twelve pounds for the girl and the sheep, and that's my final offer,” said Plumpscuttle. “As for the
mermaid
, you can stick that where the sun don't shine.”

He pulled a cloth purse from his waistcoat and dangled it before Grunchgirdle's eyes. The scrawny man stared at it, his face torn with indecision. Finally, with a great sigh, he dropped his head and reached out a bony hand for the money.

Minutes later, Sheba was walking down the pier beside the tub of dumpling stew that was Mr. Plumpscuttle. She clutched her ebony box with two hands. It held everything she owned in the world besides the clothes on her back. From within a basket carried by Plumpscuttle came a weak bleat. She was glad Flossy was coming, too.

She could hardly believe she was out in the open air, in full daylight, for the first time since she came here. Her little furry head was reeling, and she peeped out from the deep hood of her riding cloak with wide eyes. It was all she could do not to leap about screaming with joy, but she got the impression her new owner wouldn't approve.

She felt as if she were walking into a dream. The sunlight seemed impossibly bright. It gleamed off the waves, the sand, the hundreds of flapping pennants that hung along the pier. Everything was so vivid it hurt her eyes just to look. As they approached the town there were such smells, too. Baking bread and ice cream. Sugared sweets and fresh fish. Ale from the pubs. And hundreds of people: old and young, sick, perfumed, unwashed. She'd never imagined there could be such variety. In between all these were scents she had no name for. Endless new odors rushed up her nose, making her dizzy with the desire to run and chase them to their source.

As they came to the end of the pier, Sheba realized that when she stepped from the last salt-streaked plank she would actually be setting foot on solid land again. She wanted to pause and savor the moment, but Plumpscuttle was already striding ahead.
She
scuttled to keep up, enjoying the satisfying thump her little feet made on the stone cobbles.
No more creaking and swaying with every breath
, she thought.

She had imagined Little Pilchton as some kind of exotic world. She had pictured shop fronts overflowing with silks and spices, great boulevards where grand ladies and gentlemen strolled in their finery, mansions and hotels in elegantly carved stone. Instead it was a dingy little place with a couple of ramshackle pubs and far too many fishmongers. Sheba couldn't help feeling slightly cheated.

They soon left the town and crested the brow of a hill. A whole tapestry of fields and woods opened up before them, as wide as the sea and every shade of green. Sheba paused to gasp at the sheer amount of space, and then they were over and down the other side. A narrow dirt track wandered along between hedges and tumbledown stone walls, and they headed down it, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them.

They walked and walked and walked. It seemed as if they were never going to stop. At last, when Sheba's legs throbbed from top to bottom, her cape was coated in grit from the road, and the sun had painted the sky pink, they stumbled to the top of yet another rise.

“We're here,” said Plumpscuttle, the first words he had spoken to her, and he stomped through an open five-bar gate into a field. Sheba trotted after him.

There were signs of recent festivities. Faded bunting was draped along the drystone wall, the grass was churned by hordes of booted feet, and there were paper wrappers, apple cores, and piecrusts everywhere. Carnies were packing up stalls and rides, and hitching them to horses, before rolling out onto the road and off to the next village fair. Sheba saw a coconut shy, a group of fortune-telling gypsies, and a rickety old merry-go-round.

Plumpscuttle waddled on, nodding here and there to an acquaintance, until they reached the corner of the field. There stood a canary-yellow gypsy caravan, with a vicious-looking gray shire horse between the shafts. Written on the side in peeling paint were the words: