The Peculiars

by Kieran Larwood

At first, everyone had been reluctant to let her go off alone. She was only nine (or possibly ten) and the streets of London weren’t a good place for anybody to be on their own, especially a child. However, as she had pointed out, most children didn’t carry a pistol full of poisoned darts. And most children can’t turn into snarling, snapping wolfgirls, either. The voice in her head had added that last bit; she pretended to ignore it.

  As she climbed the steps up from the river and started making her way downstream along the Bermondsey Wall, she began to wish she hadn’t been so keen. When Sister Moon suggested they would need someone to watch the river between the jetty and Paradise Street, to see if the creature returned there, Sheba volunteered. She did have the best senses of hearing and smell. And besides, the only other alternative was being the decoy. She was quite happy to leave that job to Monkeyboy.

  But now it came to walking through the dark streets to Paradise Street all alone, she didn’t feel anywhere near as brave. Her stomach flipped at every tiny sound. Underneath the river-stink, scents flooded her nose. Soot and coal dust, gas and the ever-present reek of raw sewage. Her heart pounded in her chest. She could feel her fur bristling and her nose stretching, her teeth growing and her eyes burning orange. Just like when she was angry, fear seemed to bring out the wolf in her.

  Sheba slipped through the shadows. She didn’t want to stumble into anyone while she looked like this. People might find it amazing when they were paying to see it, but bumping into a snarling wolfgirl down a dark alley was another matter.

  Eventually, she came to a set of narrow stone stairs that led down to the river. Directly behind her was Paradise Street. If she was right, Mrs Crowley had needed a place close to the river for a reason. So that Farfellini’s machine could get in and out of the mud without being seen.

  Half praying she would find the crab machine’s hideout, half praying she would never have to set eyes on it, Sheba gritted her little white teeth and set off down the steps, reminding herself as she went: Be brave, the stolen children need you.

  Somewhere across the river, a church clock chimed. The stakeout on the mudflats had been running for the best part of an hour now.

  Out on the mud, the bait had grown tired of flailing, and was now slowly sinking in the septic slop and wailing in a pitiful manner. Gigantus, from his position behind the skiff, had long ceased being amused and was now just cold and tired. Mama Rat was beginning to worry their plan had failed, which meant another victim might have been taken elsewhere on the river.

  Crouching beneath the jetty, Sister Moon was the only one still focused. She had entered a trance state of concentration, which she could maintain for several hours. Every ripple and bubble that emerged around the sorry figure of Monkeyboy was noted and processed. The harpoon in her hands was poised, ready for flight.

  Lucky for Monkeyboy that one of them was still on the ball, as something was beginning to stir in the silt beneath him. It was almost imperceptible at first; a slight vibration in the jelly-like mud around his legs. Then bubbles began to pop on the surface, followed by a ring of smoking dots . . .

  Sister Moon raised the harpoon higher.

  With a sudden roar, the mud beneath Monkeyboy collapsed. Red tentacles burst upwards, steam pouring from each one, and a spiked dome heaved itself to the surface. Claws clacked and snapped as they freed themselves from the sticky slime, tearing at Monkeyboy’s ragged trousers, and all was lit by the glow from a yellow porthole in the centre. A porthole in which a painted face could be seen, its teeth bared in a fierce grin.

  Monkeyboy screamed.

  And Moon flung the harpoon, aiming for the thinnest of lines on the creature’s back that marked the overlap of its armour plating. Most people wouldn’t have been able to see such a tiny detail in the dark, let alone in the space of a heartbeat. The rusty harpoon tip slid into the crab like a dart into butter, and lodged there firmly.

  Gigantus, startled into action, heaved on the rope – with a little too much zeal. Monkeyboy shot out of the creature’s grasp, and straight into the side of the skiff with a crunching smack.

  The creature let out a wail of grinding gears. Within seconds it had dived back beneath the surface, pulling the harpoon under too. The end jutted out of the mud for a moment, the whisky bottle of phosphorus swinging to and fro before disappearing with the rest. As the ripples of mud slowly subsided, drops of the white substance could be seen glowing in the moonlight.

  The crab had been tagged.

  Sheba sat at the foot of the narrow stone steps, her feet resting on the slime of the riverbank. She could hear the water lapping at the mud, as the tide crawled slowly in again. The night was drawing to a close, and the river was readying itself for another busy day.

  Somewhere on it a steamer chuffed along. Wisps of fog had started blowing past, making ghostly shapes in the moonlight. It was almost as if the wind was trying to entertain her with ever more elaborate swirls and loops. Nothing had the slightest effect on Sheba, however – apart from the smell, which she could hardly avoid. With a handkerchief clamped firmly over her nose, she sat lost in thought.

  For the life of her, she couldn’t understand what Mrs Crowley could be up to. She must have lured them to the graveyard just to get a look at who was nosing into her business. All that rubbish about her son had been nothing but a pack of lies (the fact Sheba had fallen for it so easily still smarted) but why was she taking so many children? And why only the tatty, half-starved waifs of the riverside?

  The painted man seemed to be her servant, but what about the frizzy-haired doctor? She remembered what she had heard in the study in Paradise Street: We shall have what we most desire. And how long we have waited . . . What was it they wanted so badly?

  The questions wouldn’t stop. She thought so hard that her furry little head throbbed. Still, they only had to prove Mrs Crowley had taken the children, and then they could call in the police and let them deal with it. She was just picturing Mrs Crowley being led away in iron handcuffs when her attention was caught by a movement further downriver.

  She peered into the darkness. Something was pushing up out of the mud. It was difficult to make out, but it appeared to be big and spiky and slicked with slime. The crab machine! Some kind of rod was jutting out of its back, and it was making a high-pitched keening sound that reminded Sheba of grinding metal. Before she could get a better look, a wave of thicker fog blew across her line of sight.

  Sheba cursed. Now the crab could be anywhere, and she was supposed to be following it. She would have to march through the fog, and hope she didn’t walk right into it. Taking a deep breath for courage, she began to edge downriver along the bank.

  The fog had really set in now, and every step she took sent her deeper into the blankness. She held her breath, ready to run away screaming at the slightest movement. It was difficult to judge exactly where she was going, but by counting her steps she estimated she had gone ten metres or so when she came across a gaping crater in the mud. It was releasing waves of stink so strong that Sheba nearly keeled over backwards. She clamped the handkerchief harder over her nose and peered at the ground.

  There were droplets of glowing white liquid on the crater’s surface, leading up the bank to a crumbling brick wall and into a rank-smelling tunnel. The entrance was partly hidden by rotten planks of wood, slimy weeds and a rusty grate. It looked (and smelt) just like any other sewer outlet along the riverbank. Sheba would never have spotted it, had it not been for the phosphorus. That Sister Moon knows a few tricks, she thought.

  Note where the trail leads, and nothing more. That’s what Moon had said. But it couldn’t hurt if she had a little look. Could it?

  Holding her breath, Sheba slipped behind the stack of rotting timber and pulled open the rusty grate. It squealed noisily, and she winced, but there was now enough space for her to squeeze through. The white drops continued up the tunnel; she could see them glowing well into the distance. She took a tentative step into the tunnel mouth, then stopped. The
gate swung shut behind her. She couldn’t be sure, but it had looked like part of the glowing trail had moved.

  Sheba froze. Her heart skipped a beat. There was a scraping sound from further up the shaft, and the drops shifted again. Slowly it came to her: the very furthest spot of light wasn’t part of the trail . . . It was like a yellow eye . . . The realisation hit her with a sickening thud. The crab was still in the tunnel!

  She turned and ran back to the grate. But it was now jammed in place. From behind her, she could hear the sound of something scraping against the stonework, getting louder and closer by the second. The fur on her neck was standing up. She began to growl. There was the chuff of an engine and the hiss of steam and the clank of broken machinery. Her claws were out. She grabbed the grate and pushed with all her strength. She could smell it now: hot oil and smoke, river mud and coal dust. For a terrible moment she thought the grate wasn’t going to shift, then suddenly it gave way and she tumbled free of the tunnel mouth, landing on her face in the slimy weeds outside. I’m safe, she thought. All I have to do is get back to the others and tell them where the tunnel is.

  She heaved herself up on all fours, ready to run, when she felt something close around her ankle.

  Something cold, hard, serrated . . .

  The crab had reached out a claw and grabbed her. With irresistible, mechanical strength, it began to pull her in.

  Sheba let out one terrified, growling shriek before she was hauled out of sight and back into the tunnel.

  Chapter Fifteen

  IN WHICH SHEBA SAMPLES SOME UNPLEASANT HOSPITALITY.

  Sheba was woken by a dim light. At first she thought she was in her bed at Brick Lane, that the night before had been some awful nightmare. Her body soon told her otherwise.

  She was frozen to the bone, her dress and cloak clinging in damp, icy folds all over her. Her ankle felt as though it had been run through a mangle. There was a lump on the side of her head that made her head spin every time she moved. Her entire body was stiff and sore. Beneath her she could feel slimy stone. If what had woken her was daylight, then she must have been knocked out cold for the whole night.

  With a burst of effort that made flashes appear before her eyes, Sheba pushed herself upright and looked around. Her woozy sight was still adjusting, but she could see she was in some kind of chamber. The daylight came from somewhere to the left. Must be the tunnel entrance, she thought. All she could smell was the filthy stink of the river and the rusty scent of hot metal and steam.

  She tried to raise a hand to the bump on her head, and briefly panicked when she couldn’t. Then she realised her hands had been tied in front of her at the wrist. Coarse rope burnt her furry skin, and her fingertips tingled where the circulation had been cut off. She stretched out her bound hands and touched a series of vertical iron bars.

  She was in a cage. Again.

  Most people would probably have found this a terrifying discovery, but Sheba had spent most of her life locked away. There was a stone wall behind her; she leant back on it calmly and assessed her situation.

  The crab had caught her last night, and its pilot – the painted man, she assumed – had tied her up and thrown her in a cage. She had found the crab’s secret hideaway, but the knowledge was useless unless she could tell someone.

  Sheba patted her pockets. Whoever had bound her had not thought to search her first. She still had her hairpins and the clockwork pistol. Hopefully it would still work despite the damp. Could she manage to pick the lock with her hands tied? Maybe she could use her claws to scratch through her rope bindings.

  A sudden noise beside her made her jump. Peering into the gloom, she found her eyes had adjusted and she could make out vague shapes. There seemed to be more cages. Six or seven at least. In the one next to her, a small, dark bundle was stirring.

  ‘Hello?’ she whispered. ‘Is anyone there?’

  The bundle of rags twitched some more, and then Sheba saw the glint of two large, frightened eyes blinking rapidly.

  ‘Hello?’ Sheba tried again. Then she frowned. Was there a familiar scent under the rank stench of river mud? ‘Is . . . is that you, Till?’

  ‘Who are you?’ The voice that came from the ragged lump was cracked and broken, the voice of someone who hadn’t spoken for a long while, but it was enough for Sheba to recognise her friend.

  ‘It’s me. Sheba. The girl from the sideshow. The one with . . . with the hair.’

  The lump moved some more, growing one spindly white arm then another, and gradually unfolding into the shape of a tiny girl. She shuffled forwards, her bony fingers clutching the iron bars between them.

  ‘Sheba?’ The hope in her voice was almost painful to hear. ‘But . . . what are you doing here? Did the monster get you?’

  Sheba slid over to the bars, ignoring the sudden pain in her head and ankle. She lifted her bound hands and put them over Till’s.

  ‘Till! I’m so glad I’ve found you! We’ve been searching and searching for days.’

  ‘You’ve been searching for me?’ Till blinked in surprise. ‘But I only met you once. Why would you come looking for a scrap of nothing like me?’

  ‘Because . . . because you were nice to me.’ Sheba didn’t know how to explain that nobody normal had ever shown kindness to her before. It made her feel embarrassed somehow. Cemented the fact she was so different, so freakish. She tried to change the subject. ‘And your parents, they came to us and asked us to help.’

  ‘My parents?’ Till’s eyes glistened and sparkled in the gloom.

  Sheba gave the little girl’s fingers a gentle squeeze. ‘Yes, they’ve been looking too. But it’s all right now. I’ve found you. I can tell them where you are.’

  ‘And how are you going to do that, when you’re locked in here?’ said another voice from further inside the chamber.

  Sheba jumped, fearing it might be Mrs Crowley – even though she hadn’t smelt her – but whoever it was sounded as tired, weak and terrified as Till.

  ‘There’s more of us here,’ Till explained. ‘Eight others. We all got taken by the monster. We’ve tried to escape, but there’s no way out.’

  ‘There is now,’ Sheba said. ‘I just have to get these ropes off.’

  ‘It’s no good,’ said Till. ‘The cages are locked. And they comes to check on us all the time. If they think we’ve been trying to escape, they beat us.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Sheba asked.

  ‘We call her the Night Lady,’ said Till, ‘the one what wears black. Her and the big man with the painted face. And sometimes there’s another. A man with white hair and spectacles. He doesn’t hit us, though. He just prods us and measures us with his devices.’

  Sheba absorbed this information. ‘Have they said anything to you? Told you why you were taken?’

  Till shook her head. ‘They don’t speak much to us. The Night Lady just laughs when we cry. Then she gets the painted man to hit us. It’s better if you don’t make a sound.’

  ‘I’ve heard them talking, though,’ another voice called out. This one came from the black murk at the far end of the chamber. ‘I been here the longest, see. Back when there was just me, I heard them talking together. About something they wanted. A prize, they said. In Hyde Park.’

  Sheba recalled the conversation from the Paradise Street house again. Are you sure you will be able to get it? the doctor had said. They have it very well guarded . . . Whatever they were after was in Hyde Park. She was about to ask what was so special about the place when she remembered Mama Rat’s newspaper. The Great Exhibition was in Hyde Park.

  Were they going to rob the Crystal Palace? What for? She racked her aching head for what she could remember of the exhibits. The crystal fountain? No, too big. One of the sculptures? Or a machine? None seemed worth all this trouble. Something Mrs Crowley most desired, she had said. What did grown-ups most desire? Money? Fame? Gold? Jewels . . .

  ‘Was it a jewel?’ she asked, hesitantly. ‘Did the woman mention a diamond?’

/>   There was a moment’s silence from the cages, then one of the voices spoke.

  ‘She might have,’ it said.

  ‘I think she did,’ called another.

  The Koh-i-Noor. That had to be it. Mrs Crowley was after the world’s biggest diamond. Maybe she was going to make the children steal it.

  ‘We have to get out of here,’ Sheba whispered to Till.

  ‘But I told you,’ Till whispered back. ‘There’s no way out. The cages are locked.’

  ‘Not for long,’ said Sheba. She began to wriggle and turn her wrists, ignoring the burning and chafing, trying to loosen the rope so she could get her hands free. In her panic, she could feel the wolf inside her growing. But instead of suppressing it, she let it in, welcoming the extra surge of strength and ferocity it gave her.

  The rope ripped hair from her arms and blistered her skin, but she kept pulling and pulling. Eventually she felt it begin to loosen a little. A bit more and she could squeeze a hand free.

  A booming clang echoed from somewhere beyond the chamber. It was followed by voices, distant at first, but growing rapidly closer.

  ‘They’re coming!’ Till hissed, dashing to the back of her cage. ‘Sheba, they’re coming!’

  There was the shrill sound of squeaking hinges, and the grating of ancient wood on stone. Somewhere a door was being opened. Sheba strained to see, and was instantly blinded by a flare of searing light. Falling backwards, hands pressed over her face, she thought there had been some kind of silent explosion, but as she peered through her fingers she could see it was only the light from a lantern.

  There were three figures. Without much surprise, she recognised Mrs Crowley, the painted man she had called Baba Anish and the frizzy-haired doctor. She could smell the doctor’s twisted medical stink, and the pungent incense of the other. A cruel, curved sword hung at his side, and he had freshly painted his face with glistening black whorls. His eyes were rimmed with black and his long, matted locks were coiled on the top of his head in a swirling bundle. He looked even more hostile than when Sheba had last seen him. Perhaps he was angry that they had speared his machine.