Freaks (22 page)

After making a brief stop-off in Whitechapel, Sheba caught an omnibus south of the river. She sat in the furthest corner, squashed against the side by a plump businessman in a stovepipe hat. Her hood was pulled low over her face, and she clutched the pennies she had borrowed from Mama Rat in her fist, waiting for the conductor. She was terrified she might miss her stop and end up lost in London, but there wasn't time to walk to her destination and back.

When the omnibus finally pulled up at a riverside tavern called the Angel, Sheba was glad to escape its cramped, sweaty confines and stretch her legs. She took a moment to look out at the river, safe now — at least from Baba Anish and his machine — thanks to her and her friends. Although none of the hundreds of people working, steaming, and sailing up and down the Thames right now knew a thing about it.

She could have stood there all day, working up the courage for what she had to do. Instead she forced her feet to walk along the Rotherhithe Wall and turn down Love Lane. A little farther on, and she emerged on Paradise Street. A few doors down on her left was number 17.

Just as before, she slipped around the back and opened the lock with her hairpins. Just as before, her breath came quick and shallow, as she imagined Mrs. Crowley sitting inside, waiting for her.
But she wouldn't be stupid enough to come back,
Sheba told herself.
Would she?

The house was silent and still again, although this time shards of daylight slipped in through the grimy windows, filling the air with glowing motes of dust. Sheba tiptoed through the kitchen and up the stairs, all the while clutching the pistol in her coat pocket, just in case.

When she reached the third floor, she paused. There was the keyhole she had spied through. There was the room they had hidden in and there, on the dirty floorboards, was a rusty puddle of dried blood where Matthew had met his end.

Sheba had been thinking a lot about this place. She had been thinking especially of the paintings in that room, of the carved wood that framed them.

She took a deep breath and walked to the door, pushing it wide, then stepped into the room, pistol raised.

The high-backed armchair was there, a dark shape in the middle. Sheba squeezed the trigger, shooting a dart. There was a soft
pop
of bursting leather as it hit the empty chair back. There was nothing there: just shadow.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Sheba looked around the room. Someone had been here, and they had left in a hurry. The furniture was toppled and strewn; everything of value had been taken. Mrs. Crowley had gone.

But the paintings were still there.

Sheba moved closer, looking at the frames first. They were made of dark ebony and all around them were twining jasmine flowers. Just like the ones on her box.

Now that she knew, she took her time stepping backward and looking up. She was finally going to meet her parents.

Her father was a stern, proud-looking man. He wore the red uniform of the British army, his chest covered with medals. The dusty hills behind him must be somewhere in India. Maybe the place Sheba grew up. She tried to imagine him drunk and raving, as Mrs. Crowley had described. But he didn't look weak enough. And to let that woman take everything from him . . .

It was too painful to think about. Instead, she turned to her mother. She was beautiful, so beautiful it made Sheba cry. She wore a dress of white silk and gazed out of the picture with a kind, loving smile. And her eyes. They were the same shape, the same amber color as hers. She recognized her now. Remembered her.

Sheba gazed at the painting, wanting to take in every detail before she left. She memorized her mother's hair, the shape of her nose, her lips. And her hands . . . She peered closer, her heart beating just a little faster. Were the nails slightly pointed? Almost clawlike?

Sheba clutched her own hands together, squeezing hard. Could her mother have been like her? Would she really have been ashamed of her daughter, like Mrs. Crowley said? Deep in her bones, Sheba knew it wasn't true. After all, she'd taken Sheba with her when she had left India. She would never really know why she had come to England, but that wasn't important. All that mattered was that she had taken Sheba with her.

It was time to go now. There would be many hours to think over her parents and what might have happened to them. Sheba wished she could pack up the portraits and take them with her, but they were too huge, and would involve too much explaining. For now, this was her secret. She would leave them here in this dusty house, knowing she could come back to see them whenever she wished. That was good enough.

Later on, at suppertime, the Peculiars gathered around the kitchen table for their last free meal without Plumpscuttle. Out in the yard, Raggety and Flossy had an extra helping of oats, and Sheba ladled out Penny Dip into bowls as Sister Moon handed them around.

Mama Rat was beaming. The other rats had brought her a present that morning: a greasy little baby rat they had found abandoned in a sewer somewhere. She was feeding it little scraps of chewed meat.

“I'm going to call you Paul,” she cooed as the scraggly thing let out a piteous mewl.

Sheba concentrated on keeping down her mutton.

Monkeyboy was in an uncommonly good mood, too. He was telling everyone about his heroics of the other night in great detail. Something had also pleased Sister Moon. Whether it was rescuing the children, or getting the better of Baba Anish, Sheba couldn't tell, but her smile was especially serene.

The only person who wasn't in a jubilant mood was Gigantus. He was obviously having trouble with his writing, and kept scribbling out passages in his journal in between mouthfuls. Sheba thought she knew what would cheer him up, though.

When the stew was finished, she stood on her stool and cleared her throat.

“If you please,” she said, “I have an announcement to make.”

All eyes turned to her.

“Today I took the book Gigantus has been writing—”

“You did
what
?!” The big man jumped from his stool, his face going pink with rage.

But Sheba carried on. “I took your book and showed it to the printers on Whitechapel Road,” she said. “I'm really sorry, but when I found it — by accident, of course — I just couldn't stop reading it. It deserves better than being hidden under your mattress, Gigantus. And the printers thought so, too. They read it there and then, and they want to publish it in their magazine.”

“My book?” said Gigantus. “It's going to be published? In a real magazine?”

He stood silent, face impassive and steely eyes fixed on Sheba in a frown. She began to wonder if she might have done something really stupid when Gigantus suddenly rushed around the table at her. She squeezed her eyes shut and flinched, but instead of pounding her into paste, he grabbed her in a huge bear hug.

“Thank you,” he said, tears in his eyes. “I should be furious with you, but thank you. Thank you.”

“Are you going to publish it in your own name?” Sheba asked when the big man had finally let go.

“I don't think Gabriel Greepthick would go down too well,” he said. “Gertrude Lacygusset is much better.”

“Gabriel!” Monkeyboy screamed with laughter. “That's a girl's name!”

“Well, it's better than Timbert Tibbs,” said Gigantus. He looked as if he regretted opening his mouth.

“I don't actually know any of your
real
names,” said Sheba. It was something she'd never even thought about.

“Akiko,” said Sister Moon, bowing.

“And I'm Marie,” said Mama Rat. “And how about you, dearie? Do you know
your
real name?”

“It's Sheba,” she said. “I know that now for sure. Sheba is the name my mother gave me.”

“Well, now that we've all been properly introduced, I think it's high time for a celebration,” said Mama Rat.

The rest of the Peculiars cheered.

At least until they heard the front door slam.

Plumpscuttle's gurgling baritone yelled at them from the parlor.

“What, in the name of Prince Albert's moustache, has happened to my pigging front door? And why does my house stink like a week-old chamber pot? Has someone been carving chunks out of my wall? And the bath is out! Who said you lot could have a bath? Get out here and explain yourselves!”

Plumpscuttle's stay in hospital had done nothing to improve his temper. His face was still puffy and bruised, and thick bandages could be seen beneath his shirt. The thing that seemed to have annoyed him most, however, was having had to eat cabbage soup instead of five dinners.

He spent the best part of an hour insulting the Peculiars, before stamping up the stairs to his bedroom. Then he noticed the blanket covering the smashed window, and came back down to shout all over again. Finally he left them to get ready for a show, “to pay for all the chuffing damage to the house.”

For once they all joined Monkeyboy in making rude gestures behind his back. Then they set about putting up the sheets and tarpaulins for showtime.

By the time Plumpscuttle's dozy nephew turned up to man the door, they were just hanging up the last string of lanterns. Phineas stood watching them mutely, while he rooted around in his left nostril with a pudgy finger. Right on cue, Plumpscuttle emerged from his room dressed in an almost-clean suit. He was verging on cheerful, clearly glad at being out of the less-than-hygienic hospital ward.

The Peculiars shuffled off to their various parts of the house, ready for the show to begin.

Sheba sat on her little stool in the corner of their bedroom. She stared glumly at the sheets hanging in front of her, watching as the silhouette of Sister Moon moved in a graceful ballet with her twin sword blades tracing arcs and spirals, and listening to the sounds of the others going through their acts. A few hours ago she had been fighting villains and rescuing lost children, and now she was sitting like a sack of potatoes, waiting for people to shriek at the sight of her.

As the first customers came thumping up the stairs, she tried to drum up the enthusiasm to make herself look as freakish as possible. It wasn't working. Once you had spent a few days fighting hand to hand with twisted machines and evil forces, sitting in a sideshow seemed astoundingly dull.
I'm so much more than just a lonely freak now,
she thought.
I'm part of a team. And I have a mother that loves me. Or at least I did.

The realization made her pull herself upright and jut out her chin. Her fur bristled, and she let her growing canines pop out over her lip. Let these people gawk and whisper at her if they wanted. How many of them had saved children and stopped evil maniacs?

And even better, now she had something she had never dreamed possible. She had a family of her own. Maybe not the most conventional or
normal
, but a family nonetheless.

Sheba picked up her ivory comb and began to run it through her chestnut brown curls, taking out the tangles. She looked out over the rooftops of London and smiled. Everyone always said she had a lovely head of hair.