Freaks (5 page)

Till had been out picking for a good hour. She'd found a few thin pieces of metal, half a clay pipe, and a brown bottle with a mouthful of gin still swilling in the bottom. A good morning's work. Enough to sell on the street later for a penny or two, which in turn would buy a morsel for supper.

The handful of treasures clanked together in the burlap sack at her side as she pulled one foot slowly out of the clingy mud and took another step forward. The riverbed released a small cloud of green gas, then closed up again over her footprint, leaving no trace of her passing at all. Her feet were wrapped with rags. Too poor for shoes, mudlarks needed some protection from glass and nails hidden in the slime. One cut could mean blood poisoning and a lingering, miserable death. This morning, Till was out with her brothers, Tam and Tob. Three of six children who lived in a one-room cellar with their parents, uncles, aunts, a couple of people who claimed they were relatives, and a wide range of furry vermin. They needed every penny they could raise to keep them all from starving.

Somewhere to the left she could hear the distant
suck-slop-suck-slop
of one of her brothers, trudging in the same ungainly way. She would have been able to see him, too, if it wasn't for the thick London fog. Usually, fog was just a collection of water particles hanging in the air. The worst it could do was spoil the view, or make you inadvertently step into something nasty. But the London variety was different. It crawled into your lungs like poured concrete, then sat there leaking poisonous chemicals into your blood. It seeped into your nostrils, your skin, even your eyes, stinging and burning and choking. It choked the narrow streets, too. And the whole river, the whole city, was more often than not erased from sight.

Till kept her eyes fixed on the lumpy brown surface of the mud. Her mind kept drifting back to the night before, when she had snuck into the sideshow on Brick Lane. Her left ear still throbbed from where her da had clipped her when he'd heard what she'd done. Not for sneaking in without paying, but for wandering off when she should have been making the most of low tide.
We can't afford to miss a chance to pick
, he'd said, for the hundredth time. Not that Till cared. It had been more than worth it to see those bizarre people, and to meet that little girl. Just like her, but covered in hair. And those teeth and claws!
If only I had something strange about me
, she thought,
then I could sit in a sideshow like a queen and have people pay to look at me, instead of having to wade through stinking slime every day
.

She was just picturing herself with a pair of feathered wings, starring in a famous circus somewhere, when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something ripple the surface of the silt.

There wasn't much still alive in the Thames, apart from an eel or two — slimy, pulpy things that were almost blind thanks to the river's pollution. Some folk told of monster-sized ones that had grown fat on the bodies of dead men that drifted downstream, but Till believed none of that. All she was thinking right now was that there might be something in the mud worth eating. Something that would make a change from cabbage water and gruel.

With her tongue poking hungrily between her lips she rounded on the source of the ripple. Slowly, slowly, so as not to scare it, she crouched and eased her way through the mud. Her feet made soft slurps as they broke the surface and slipped back down into the clammy ooze.

When she was above the spot where the ripple came from she stopped and held her breath. She stood motionless for a whole minute, then two. Nothing stirred, and for a moment she thought she might have imagined the whole thing. Then it came again. A shudder in the jellylike silt, somewhere near the surface.

Till's hands shot into the mud like lightning. She felt the long, slimy body of the eel between her fingers, and closed them around it. Her grip was as tight and hard as the hunger in her empty little belly. The eel didn't want to budge, but she gritted her teeth and pulled with all her might, until her hands broke free of the water. Gripped between them was a fat, wiggling creature, wet and slimy. Till's face broke into a wide grin. It was massive!

She continued to heave, her mind racing with thoughts of eel pie, eel soup, eel casserole with extra eel. More and more of the creature was dragged from the mud. It looked as though it was going to be over three feet long!

Till dug her heels in. Any minute now the head would break free and she could knock the thing's brains out with her bottle and drag it back home for dinner. She started to haul hand over hand, and there was still no sign of it ever stopping. . . .

It was about then that she realized that the eel's skin wasn't quite normal. The few miserable specimens she had seen at the fish market had been a gray-green color, as sickly looking as the river water they'd been hooked from. This one was bright red. And completely smooth all the way down. No gills, no fins, no head. Maybe it was some kind of pipe, but pipes didn't bend and wiggle, did they?

As she stared down at it, a puff of smoke jetted from the end she was holding. It burnt her hands, making her let go with a shriek. She fell backward,
smack
, into the mud.

But the eel-pipe was still moving. Even though she was no longer pulling it, the thing was pushing its way out of the mud.

And then she saw another . . . and another . . . ten or more of the things, all puffing out little bursts of steam that mixed with the stinking fog.

“What in blazes are you?” Till managed to shout, although it came out as more of a squeak. The mud beneath the pipes was rising up now, as something pushed its way to the surface.

Till started to slide backward through the muck, her legs pedaling furiously as she tried to find purchase in the slime. Whatever was about to be birthed from the riverbed, she didn't want to be around to see it.

There was a sucking, slurping sound and out burst a domed carapace studded with jutting spikes. Till got a glimpse of a huge yellow eye and a pair of grasping claws.

And then she was on her front, scrabbling and crawling away from the hideous creature.

Behind her came a cacophony of clanks and hisses, drowning out her terrified screams as she felt something cold and hard and serrated close around her ankle and
pull
.

And then it was over.

The fog whirled in brief, frenzied wisps before returning to blankness. The splatters and splashes on the mud gradually closed over like a wound healing. The only sign that Till had even existed was her tattered picking sack, and an echo of her last shriek drifting along the river.

Breakfast was a cup of weak coffee, served at the kitchen table. Sheba peered over the rim of her chipped mug at the others sitting around the cramped room. Mama Rat sipped hers in between puffs of her pipe. Sister Moon sat with her eyes closed, deep in thought. Gigantus was writing away again, his pen nib scratching across paper.

“Where's Monkeyboy?” Sheba asked.

“He not allowed out of cage,” said Sister Moon, without opening her eyes.

“Plumpscuttle doesn't let him in the house,” added Gigantus. “Ever since he did a poo in his best top hat.”

“That was unpleasant for all concerned,” said Mama Rat, shaking her head.

“Is he back, then?” asked Sheba. After last night's show, he had gone out and she hadn't heard him return, or the gargling snoring from his room.

“He back soon,” said Sister Moon. Her eyes still closed, she put a spoonful of sugar in her coffee, stirred it, then lifted the cup and took a sip.

“He'll be in a soot-black mood, too,” said Mama Rat. “Out all night, his money gone and sick as a pig. But he'll probably go straight to bed and sleep until evening. We'll just try to keep out of his way.”

As Mama was speaking, Sheba caught a whiff through the open kitchen window. Stale sweat, crusty gravy, and cheap wine. She marveled at how her nose could still pick out a scent amongst the London stink.

“He's almost here,” she said.

The others looked at her as if she were mad, but then the front door slammed open with enough force to shake plaster from the rafters. Heavy footsteps stomped across the parlor, and Plumpscuttle's purple, blotchy face appeared at the kitchen door.

“Get me some blasted coffee!” he roared to no one in particular.

Mama Rat filled and held out a mug. Plumpscuttle snatched it and drained the contents in one gulp, spilling half of it down his front. Then he glowered at the Peculiars.

“I'm going to bed — don't you lot dare make a
sound
.”

His booming footsteps headed upstairs, and his bedroom door slammed shut. A few moments later a sound like a wildebeest drowning came through the floorboards.

“That's him out for the day,” said Gigantus, still writing away.

“How you know he coming, Sheba?” asked Sister Moon, a delicate eyebrow raised.

“I smelt him,” she said.

“I must say, he is a bit on the ripe side,” said Mama Rat, “but that is a very extraordinary nose you have, my dearie.”

Sheba rubbed her little pink nose with a hairy hand and felt slightly self-conscious. She wasn't used to being paid compliments. Thankfully Sister Moon changed the subject.

“We let Monkeyboy out of cage now?”

“If we must . . .”

The Peculiars headed out into the yard. After stopping to check on Flossy — who was actually making an attempt to frolic — and trying to give Raggety some sugar without losing a hand, Sheba joined the others at the cage in the corner. Sister Moon yanked the door open and stood back.

There was a rustling from the straw within, then a boy-sized streak burst out and began bouncing around the yard, whooping and shrieking. He finally came to rest on top of the privy and gurned down at the others below him.

“Good bloomin' morning, you bunch of sideshow weirdos!” he said, winking. “About time someone let me out of there; I'd run out of snot to harvest three hours ago!”

“That is truly disgusting, even for you,” said Mama Rat, which caused Monkeyboy to cackle so much he started retching. After a few moments, he calmed down enough to speak again.

“Right, Sheba. Time for the national anthem.”

The bells of Christ Church struck four in the afternoon. Monkeyboy was now amusing himself by throwing carefully rolled balls of dried pigeon poo at everyone. Mama Rat was leaning against one of the caravan's large wooden wheels, behind an old copy of the
Times
. Gigantus was scribbling away once more, pausing every now and then to stare into space and chew his pen, and Sister Moon was throwing metal stars into a wooden pole. She was very good at it, and had just managed to split a fly clean in half.

Sheba sat on an old milking stool, feeling bored. This was hardly the exciting big-city life she had been expecting. Perhaps the days of sitting at the end of Little Pilchton pier hadn't been that dull after all.

“Can I read some of your paper, please, Mama Rat?” she asked. At least now she didn't have to squirrel bits of paper away in Flossy's pen. She smiled when the woman handed her the front page.

The headlines were all about the Great Exhibition. There was a report about a group of seven hundred farmers that had traveled up from the country, a review of the latest exhibits from America, and an article moaning about how awful the food was. There were etchings of the most amazing exhibits: the Koh-i-Noor diamond (“the largest in the world!”), the pink crystal fountain (“twenty-seven feet high!”), and Mr. Faraday's revolutionary electromagnetic engine (“like captured lightning!”). It seemed as if the exhibition was the only thing the city was talking about, and yet none of the Peculiars had even mentioned it.

“Have any of you been to see the Great Exhibition in the palace of crystal?”

“It's the
Crystal Palace
, dearie,” said Mama Rat. “And no, we have not as yet had the pleasure.”

“If I even had a spare shilling, I could think of a hundred other things I'd spend it on, rather than go see a load of old tosh in a giant greenhouse,” said Monkeyboy. “And anyway, they wouldn't let in the likes of us.”

“I don't suppose we'll bother,” said Mama Rat. “It all sounds very grand, but once you've seen Rome by moonlight, nothing really compares.”

“Well,
I'd
like to see it,” Sheba said, under her breath.

“Me too,” said Sister Moon. “We go together sometime.”

Sheba blushed — she'd thought her comment was too quiet to be heard — and then smiled nervously at Sister Moon.
This must be what having a friend is like
, she thought. A proper one, with a single head and no fleece.

She was imagining herself and Moon, strolling through the glass corridors amongst the glorious exhibits, when there was a knock on the yard door.

The Peculiars stared at each other in surprise for a few seconds. Then the more shocking rushed to hide, so as not to frighten off their visitors. Gigantus lumbered into the house, Sheba slid under the old caravan, and Monkeyboy crept back to his covered cage.

Sister Moon stood like a palace guard next to Mama Rat, who arranged herself on a bench and called out, “Please enter!”

The gate swung open slowly and, with much shuffling of feet and backward glances, two figures entered the yard. A woman and a man. From her hiding place, Sheba could see they were barely human — the poorest of the poor. They were wearing little more than rags and were caked to the waist in stinking mud. Their backs were bent, and their shaking limbs were stick thin. Sheba could see that, underneath a tattered shawl and what might once have been a hat, their eyes were saucer wide. The mud stench and pallid skin reminded her of Till, the girl at the show last night.

“Good day,” said Mama Rat, beaming at them from her seat. “Excuse the messy yard, but it's not often we have company. How can we be helping you?”

There was a flurry of nudging and shoving, until finally the man was pushed forward a step. He removed his hatlike thing and stared studiously at the ground in front of Mama Rat's feet. When he spoke, Sheba was startled to hear a young man's voice. She had been expecting him to be ancient.
What a harsh life these people must lead to age them so
, she thought.

“If you please, your ladyship,” he said. “We 'as come to see you, as no other we've asked 'as the hinclination to give us the time of day. We 'as been all over Sarf London asking for 'elp, and 'as been spat on as often as not. We 'ad all but given up 'ope, until the missus fought of asking yourselves.”

“Help, dearie?” said Mama Rat. “I think you've got us mistaken. We're just a small sideshow troupe. Unless you want to book us for a performance, we won't be much use to you.”

Sheba could see the pity in her eyes. It mirrored what she herself was feeling.
That's just the way people look at me
, she realized with a sudden chill. That patronizing arch of the eyebrows, the glance that says, “Poor thing — how miserable it must be to be
her
.” She felt the skin beneath her furry cheeks prickle and blush at having done exactly the thing she most hated to someone else.

“We know that, your ladyness. It's just that we've asked everyone what is supposed to 'elp us — the peelers, the men on the river — and they all just laughed in our face. On account of what we 'eard, we fought this might be the place to come.”

The woman plucked up courage and stepped forward to speak. She too sounded much younger than she looked.

“It's our little girl, ma'am. She came 'ere last night, told us all about you lot and how fantastic and magical you all were and stuff. Then she went out to gather from the river this morning and never come back. All we found is her picking sack, left on the mud . . . my poor Till . . .” The woman broke down in tears.

From her hiding place beneath the caravan, Sheba gasped. Till!

“Missing, you say?” said Mama Rat. “And you're sure she hasn't just run away?”

“Run away to what?” asked the man, then looked shocked at his sudden outburst. “Begging your pardon, your ladyshipness, but you can see from the sight of us that we 'as no better station to run to than the one we got. Picking from the mud is all we is good for. Ain't nowhere for us to run, nor no one what would 'ave us.”

“Hmm, you have a point, dearie,” Mama Rat said. “Do you have any idea as to what might have happened? Has she failed to come home before?”

“No, your nobleness. Besides skipping off to see you lot last night, she's always done as she was told. Tess fought she might 'ave come back to join you, but I said, ‘What's so fantastical about a raggedy little mudlark?' Grand folk like you wouldn't want someone like 'er 'anging around. . . .”

Mama Rat sat and puffed on her pipe for a few moments while the mudlark woman sniffled and the man shuffled his feet.

Sheba reached forward and clutched the wheel spokes, staring wide-eyed from the shadows.
We have to help find her, we just
have
to!
She could almost picture Till — lost and lonely somewhere, away from her parents. It was hard enough for Sheba, forever wondering about the family she had never had. Imagine having known that kind of love and having it ripped away from you.
Say we'll help her!
She tried to will the thought across the yard and into Mama Rat's head. If she didn't think it would send Till's ma and da screaming out of the yard, she would have jumped out and begged.

In between the clouds of pipe smoke, Mama Rat caught her eye. Some kind of understanding passed between them.

“I think we might be able to help you, dearies,” she said slowly.

“You will?” The man looked directly at Mama Rat for the first time, his mouth open in shock. “You really will?”

“I'm not promising anything,” said Mama Rat. “As I said, we're just a little sideshow troupe. But we do have some connections and . . . abilities that might be of service, I suppose. And after all, your daughter was a member of our audience, however briefly.”

“Lawd bless ya,” said the man, clapping his hands. From under her spatterings of dirt and grime, the woman beamed with relief. “And we'll pay you all back some'ow. Even if it takes us fifty years of sifting mud, we will.”

At that moment a large amount of banging and shouting could be heard coming from the upstairs window of the house. Plumpscuttle was stirring.

“Yes, yes, we'll discuss all that later,” said Mama Rat hurriedly. Sister Moon stepped forward and began ushering the mudpickers toward the gate. “We'll send word when we have any information for you. Keep your ears open, and please feel free to visit again, should you discover anything yourselves. Good afternoon, dearies!”