Wild Boy

by Rob Lloyd Jones

  “Outstanding!” Sir Oswald said. “Master Wild, you do have an extraordinary skill.”

  “Ain’t no skill,” Wild Boy said. “It’s just looking.”

  “Poppycock.”

  Wild Boy shrugged. It was just what came from years of being locked up with nothing to do but watch the world and dream that he was someone else. It wasn’t just his eyes that were sharp either. Confined to that room, he’d learned to separate individual sounds from the roar of the city — the barks of different dogs, or the rattle of particular carriages. He could distinguish between hundreds of smells, and had taught himself to read just from posters and placards he’d seen through the window. He didn’t see any of it as being particularly skillful. It was just what came from being a freak.

  “Right,” Sir Oswald said, “I shall test you.” He moved across the van and looked through another crack. “How about that lady there? What can you tell me about her?”

  Wild Boy didn’t like talking about the way he saw things. He knew that it was something different about him, and he hated being different. But he couldn’t help himself. It was too much fun. He joined Sir Oswald and peered eagerly out onto the path.

  “Which lady?” he asked.

  “The one in the green bonnet.”

  “She’s a seamstress in a factory.”

  “Now, how could you know that?”

  “She has blisters on the insides of her fingers, probably from the needles. And her old bonnet’s fixed up with different-colored threads, see? Most likely scraps from her factory; otherwise, why not buy the right color?”

  “Incredible! And how about that man in the smock?”

  “He’s a boxer. Lost his last fight for money.”

  “Scoundrel!”

  “He needed it for his new baby, a boy.”

  “Ah, well, that’s fair game. And that woman there?”

  “She’s a flower seller.”

  “Now, how could you possibly know that?”

  “Cos she’s selling flowers.”

  They slid back from the wall, both laughing. Wild Boy felt a warm glow inside. He realized that he was proud to have impressed Sir Oswald.

  “What are you two snickering at?” said Augustus Finch. The showman, half asleep and fully drunk, sat up on his bed. Again he covered the birthmark on his cheek. “You’re laughing at me, ain’t you?”

  He hurled a bottle across the caravan. It smashed against the wall, showering Sir Oswald with beer and broken glass.

  “Hey!” Wild Boy yelled. He grabbed a bottle to throw back, but Sir Oswald grasped his arm.

  “Don’t, Master Wild.”

  Wild Boy knew he was right — picking a fight with Finch was a bad idea. Over the past few years, he’d seen the showman gouge eyes, bite off noses, even cut off a man’s tongue up in Liverpool. But the anger that often overwhelmed Wild Boy had returned, like a drum beating inside him. He couldn’t calm down.

  “Clean up that mess,” Finch said as he slumped back on his bed. “And get me another drink.”

  Sir Oswald’s hand tightened on Wild Boy’s arm. A sad smile spread across his leathery face. “Things will get better, Master Wild. You will see.”

  Wild Boy tried to return the smile, but it wouldn’t come. He wondered how his friend always remained so hopeful. Sir Oswald had performed in a freak show. He’d suffered the same abuse. But still, he really believed that life would get better for people who looked different.

  “Here you are, Mr. Finch,” Sir Oswald said, placing the beer bottle in the showman’s hand.

  “Clean that up an’ all, runt,” Finch said.

  Sir Oswald slid back, revolted by the sight of the showman’s chamber pot on the floor. The reeking bowl was filled with sloppy brown excrement.

  Finch’s face cracked into a sneer. “Get it nice and sparkling, like.”

  Wild Boy’s fists clenched into hairy balls. Stay calm, he urged himself. But his hands shook with anger. Before he could stop himself he sprang up and yelled at Finch across the van. “Clean that up yourself, you old goat!”

  The showman bolted up. “What did you just say to me?”

  “Nothing!” Sir Oswald said. “He didn’t say anything! Here, I shall clean it up. . . .”

  “Don’t do it!” Wild Boy insisted. “He can bloomin’ do it himself.”

  Slowly, Augustus Finch rose. “Say that again, mutt.”

  Wild Boy knew what would happen now. It was the same whenever he stood up to Finch, or to Master Bledlow back when he’d lived at the workhouse. Now he was going to get badly hurt. But he wouldn’t back down, even though he felt physically sick with fear. He wouldn’t give Finch the satisfaction.

  He tried to sound brave, but his voice betrayed him and he couldn’t stop it from cracking. “It . . . It just ain’t right,” he said.

  Before he could react, the showman struck him across the face and then kicked him hard in the chest. Wild Boy tumbled back and crashed against the caravan stove in a burst of sparks.

  Finch towered over him. “Cry!” he roared. “I wanna hear you cry for once, you disgusting, ugly mutt!”

  The sharp taste of blood stung Wild Boy’s mouth, and his chest screamed where the showman’s hobnail boot had hit him. Part of him wanted to curl up and beg Finch for forgiveness, because then the showman would leave him alone. But he wouldn’t — he couldn’t.

  He pressed a hand against the wall and rose unsteadily to his feet. He’d put up a fight, that much he could do. Maybe he could even add a new scar to Finch’s collection, before the showman beat him unconscious. That would be something, at least.

  He hocked up a ball of spit and blood and fired it to the floor beside the showman’s boots. “I ain’t crying for no one,” he said.

  He expected another attack, but now Finch turned to Sir Oswald. The showman’s eyes gleamed with ferocity. “And you . . .”

  Sir Oswald tried to crawl away, but Finch dragged him back and thrust his face at the chamber pot. “You can lick that up now, runt!”

  Wild Boy knew he should leave. He could sleep in the stable hut, come back tomorrow. But something inside him had snapped. He’d had enough.

  He reached down and picked up a shard of the broken beer bottle. “You let him go, Finch.”

  Finch snorted. He released Sir Oswald and stepped closer to Wild Boy. “You got some nerve, boy, I’ll give you that. You say you won’t cry? Ha! Before I’m done with you, you’re gonna scream like a baby.”

  The showman struck out, but this time Wild Boy was ready. Ducking Finch’s arm, he dropped to the floor and rammed the glass dagger into the showman’s boot. A savage roar came from his mouth, rage at three years of cruel treatment as he felt the weapon tear through leather and into flesh.

  Finch gave a bloodcurdling scream. He tumbled back and landed on the chamber pot, a wave of foul brown filth washing over his head.

  Before the showman could get up, Wild Boy leaped on him and hit him with the pot. “That’s for picking on Sir Oswald!” he yelled. “And this is for everything else!”

  He whacked Finch again, then again, harder. With each strike, his panic mounted, and more tears filled his eyes. He knew he had to run. He had nowhere to go, but he had to run. Dropping the pot, he jumped over the showman and burst through the door. Sir Oswald cried out for him to stop, but he was already gone. His long coat swished red and gold as he fled the freak show and into the fair.

  “Boy! Where are you, boy? I’ll wring your ugly neck!”

  Wild Boy lay flat on one of the caravan roofs. His heart pounded so hard he was sure it would give him away. He didn’t move, didn’t even breathe.

  Below, Augustus Finch stalked along the back of the vans. The web of scars flushed across the showman’s face, and a glob of spit hung like a spider from his chin. He limped painfully from the cut on his foot. The glass shard that had inflicted the wound was gripped in his hand, ready to use in revenge.

  “You’ll be back!” he screamed. “You hear me, you ugly mut
t? You’ll be back, cos where else has a freak like you got to go? But you won’t need to worry about your hair no more. Cos I’m gonna skin you alive!”

  Wild Boy’s face burned with anger. He wanted to leap from the van and smash the showman to the ground. But this time he fought back the rage. He’d been lucky against Finch in the van, and knew that only a fool would challenge him twice in one night.

  So he lay still, as rainwater from the roof seeped through his coat and soaked the hair on his chest. He lay still until the showman was gone and his cries were drowned by the roar of the fair.

  Even then Wild Boy didn’t move. He was trying not to cry. He’d spent his whole life not crying, no matter how badly he’d been treated or teased. But he was so scared right then. He’d never seen Finch that angry. If he went back, the showman would beat him to within an inch of his life, and he wouldn’t care that the star of his show couldn’t perform for a week.

  He pulled his coat tighter as an icy wind swept over the rooftops. He knew that he had to go back — what else could he do? Certainly nothing normal; a freak show was the only life someone like him was good for. One or two freaks had gotten away to run their own shows, but first they’d saved up money to rent a van and horse. Wild Boy hadn’t earned a single penny during his time with Finch.

  Unless . . .

  Unless he could steal some money. How hard could it be? He just had to find the right target, someone who wouldn’t miss a few pennies from their pocket.

  He slid to the edge of the roof, his sharp eyes raking the crowds. From here he could see all the way to the circus tent at the end of the path, a swirl of color against the soot-black sky. There were hundreds of people down there. He saw a beggar with a sign saying SHIPWRECKED SAILOR (whom he could tell had never been to sea). He saw four women playing cards (three of whom he knew were cheating). He saw a woman faking a fit outside a gin tent, a man with a hook for a hand, a girl stealing gingerbread . . .

  His eyes landed on a wealthy-looking couple buying chestnuts for their daughter. Was there something to steal there? No, they only looked wealthy. The mother’s ears were pierced but she wasn’t wearing earrings, even though the family was all dressed up. The girl’s expensive dress was patched in three places, and two of the father’s mother-of-pearl shirt buttons were missing — pawned, Wild Boy guessed, to provide for his family.

  No — he couldn’t steal from them.

  Suddenly he sat up. Across the path, a dark figure moved between the vans. Someone was shadowing the family — stopping when they stopped, moving when they moved, darting from behind one van to the next.

  Another thief, Wild Boy realized.

  He wasn’t surprised. The family was an obvious target. They didn’t just look rich, they looked scared too. Wild Boy watched as they made their way cautiously along the side of the path, as far as possible from the threatening crowds. Soon they would brush past a banner for the circus. That, he guessed, was where the thief would strike. And he had a good idea who that thief was too. . . .

  He turned away, trying to forget what he’d seen. “Ain’t none of my business,” he muttered.

  Only . . . That family wasn’t rich, but they were going to get robbed unless he did something about it. He imagined how they would feel when they discovered they’d lost what little money they had.

  He cursed, banged a palm against the rooftop. He would warn them, that was all. He’d give them a flash of his face — that was enough to scare anyone off.

  A moment later he was running again behind the vans. His long coat fluttered as he leaped over planks supporting sinking wheels, and weaved between guy ropes where showmen had pitched tents backstage. He ran right around the circus tent and to the backs of the caravans on the other side of the path. He ducked down an alley between two of the vans and finally stopped, catching his breath. A strip of cloth hung across the other end of the alley, painted with a slogan for the circus. MRS. EVERETT’S MOST MARVELOUS SHOW!

  Wild Boy felt a glow of satisfaction. He’d gotten there before the thief.

  He crept to the end of the alley and peeled back the banner. Yards away, dozens of people trudged along the path. He was relieved to see that the family didn’t need help after all — they had already turned back toward the park gates, moving so fast they were almost running. Wild Boy watched them go for a moment. The girl was crying, but how he envied the life that she was running back to. He hoped for her sake that she could forget all about this terrible place.

  Just then something dropped from the top of a van and landed with a splash behind Wild Boy in the mud. It was the thief!

  He whirled around but the person was too fast, a blur of red and gold. A fist punched him in the stomach. A boot kicked him hard in the shin.

  “I saw you, freak,” said a voice. “You scared off my mark.”

  Before Wild Boy could react, the thief leaped over him in a single acrobatic bound. He turned to fight, but again he was too slow, and the thief booted him painfully in the backside. He staggered forward. His head whacked against the caravan wall, and he tumbled into the mud.

  The boots squelched closer. “And now you’re going to pay.”

  Wild Boy looked up through a veil of wet and tangled hair.

  The face of a girl glared down at him, as pale as the moon except for strawberry freckles that dotted her cheeks. Her long hair was the color of rust, and her dress was covered in red and gold sequins that shimmered in the moonlight.

  Wild Boy scrabbled back between the vans, his heart pounding. This was Clarissa Everett, a teenage acrobat from the circus. He’d been enemies with her since the day he joined the fair. That day, more than ever, he had needed to show people that, although he might be small, he’d fight anyone who laid a finger on him. Clarissa had been the first to try, and he’d smashed one of her teeth with a stick. None of the other fairground children had picked on him since.

  Clarissa stood over him, fists bunched and freckles flared. “This end of the path is circus territory,” she said. “Freaks don’t belong here, nor rats neither. And you’re both.”

  Gripping the caravan wheel, Wild Boy pulled himself up. He guessed that Clarissa was only a year older than him, and almost as slim, but she was tough too — an acrobat by day and a fairground thief by night. He had to show her he was tougher.

  He brushed long hair from his eyes, hocked up a ball of spit, and fired it to the ground between them. “Fight, then,” he said.

  Clarissa did the same, her spit landing inches from his bare feet. “Fight,” she agreed.

  “To the death,” Wild Boy added, holding her glare.

  Clarissa hesitated. “What?”

  “If we fight, it’s to the death. Them’s the rules.”

  “I ain’t fighting to the death! I’m just going to kick your teeth out. I followed that family all the way from the gates until you scared ‘em off. They were rich toffs.”

  “Ha! All you’d have gotten was an empty pocketbook. They weren’t toffs. At least not no more.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “I saw.”

  “Saw?”

  Wild Boy cursed. Other than Sir Oswald, he didn’t tell anyone about the way he saw things, and especially not Clarissa. But he sensed an opportunity to make some money, so he wouldn’t have to go back to Finch.

  “How about this?” he said. “I’ll find you another toff, a real one this time, for half of what you steal.”

  “I don’t need help from a freak.”

  “Then we gotta fight,” Wild Boy said.

  “I don’t need to fight you neither. I already won.” She flicked back her hair and turned to look past the banner. “Go back to your monster museum,” she said.

  Wild Boy considered giving her a kick in the back. But he knew this wasn’t over yet. He needed Clarissa’s help, but she needed him too. “Fair enough,” he said as coolly as he could. “Find a toff yourself, then.”

  He turned to walk away.

  “Wait,” Cla
rissa said. “How can you find one?”

  Got her, Wild Boy thought. But he tried not to smile. “Always a couple of rich types about,” he said. “They come in disguise so they won’t get robbed.”

  “Nonsense. Who?”

  “Fifty-fifty even split.” He spat on his palm to shake on the deal.

  “I’m not touching your spit! If you do find a toff, I might give you some of the takings.”

  There was no use arguing. Better to see what she stole, Wild Boy thought, and then decide if it was worth fighting for. He moved closer.

  “Don’t you dare touch me,” Clarissa warned. “I don’t wanna catch nothing.”

  But Wild Boy barely heard. Already his eyes were searching the crowd, homing in on tiny, telling details that flashed past the banner. Only after a minute or so did he notice that Clarissa was staring at the hair on his face. He turned, and she looked back to the path.

  “So?” she said. “Where’s this toff, then?”

  “There. That man in the cloak.”

  Clarissa gave a derisive snort. The man Wild Boy had selected was young and handsome, with bushy black whiskers covering his cheeks. “Nonsense,” she said. “His cloak’s all shabby.”

  “But look at his shoes. Almost clean.”

  “So?”

  “So the road to the fair’s muddy. Means he was dropped off by a carriage close by. Ain’t too likely for a bloke in a shabby cloak, is it?”

  Clarissa considered the man curiously. “Maybe he lives close by.”

  “Nah. Top of his hat is wet, see? It was still raining wherever he got into his carriage.” Wild Boy looked up at the clouds scudding past the moon and made a quick calculation. “Lives around London Bridge, I’d say. Lots of toffs there.”

  Clarissa stared at the man, then at Wild Boy. “How did you . . . ?”

  “I seen him before,” Wild Boy said quickly.

  “Oh. Well, then you cheated. Look, he’s coming this way.”

  They watched the man approach. With one hand, he pushed an old lady aside in his rush to get through the crowd. His other arm was stuffed inside his cloak, as if he were clutching something to his chest.