Wild Boy

by Rob Lloyd Jones

  He turned and charged back toward the White Tower. “He’s inside!” he cried. “The killer’s still inside!”

  Only Marcus heard. Reloading his pistol, he limped after Wild Boy toward the keep. “That makes no sense,” he said. “He knows our machine doesn’t work. Why would he have gone back?”

  Wild Boy’s reply was drowned out by a loud groan that came from inside the tower, a sound like twisting metal. Around the courtyard, the Gentlemen turned. Even the fleeing prisoners looked back as the noise grew louder, echoing off the Tower’s walls.

  “We’re too late!” Wild Boy said.

  And then —

  BOOM!

  A sound like cannon fire shook the courtyard. The cobbles rattled. Several of the Gentlemen fell to their backsides.

  BOOM! BOOM!

  It was coming from inside the White Tower. A burst of blue fire lit the ancient fortress from inside, so powerful it shattered the narrow windows. Blocks of stone crumbled from the walls and crashed to the ground.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  Wild Boy stumbled and fell as the impacts sent a tremor along the ground. He rolled away as another huge stone smashed down yards from his head.

  “He’s using the machine!” he said.

  “Let him,” Marcus replied. “It will kill him.”

  “No! He’s using it to escape!”

  Now Marcus understood, because now it happened: an explosion of stone and steam and brilliant blue light. The side of the White Tower caved in as giant sections of machinery exploded through, flying in every direction. Pipes slammed into walls, cogs crashed into stables, and a steaming piston collided with the tower’s chapel, shattering its stained-glass window. Gentlemen dived aside as one of the machine’s massive wheels rolled wildly across the courtyard, spitting and sparking. It careened over and slammed against the perimeter wall in a cloud of dust and steam.

  Wild Boy scrambled up, struggling to see through the haze. “There!” he yelled.

  The hooded man was escaping over the rubble. The killer moved awkwardly, with those heavy, limping strides. Clarissa hung over his shoulder, her fiery hair draped down the back of his cloak.

  “Clarissa!” Wild Boy cried.

  He raced after them, leaping piles of broken stone. Around the courtyard, the sparks had set fire to the stables. Over the roar of the flames, Wild Boy heard gunshots coming from the Tower’s dock.

  “Stop him!” someone shouted. “Don’t let him get away!”

  But they were too late. As Wild Boy ran closer, a belch of steam rose into the rain, and a steamboat chugged out onto the Thames. The hooded man stood at the controls. Behind him, Clarissa lay on the deck. She looked up, dazed and bleary-eyed, blood dribbling from the wound on her head. For a second, she and Wild Boy locked eyes. And then she was gone, as the boat disappeared into the drizzle.

  Another block fell from the Tower and smashed into a pile of crates beside the dock. But Wild Boy just stood still, staring at the river. There was an empty feeling of dread in his belly, like hunger gnawing at his guts.

  “Clarissa,” he said.

  A sheet of paper swept over the broken crates. It was her list. Wild Boy picked it up and stared at the messy writing. The clues she’d written seemed to swirl on the page. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t think of anything but the look on her face when he’d hurt her.

  Marcus came up beside him, grimacing from the pain in his knee. He plucked the golden eyeball from its socket, dripped its liquid contents onto his coat sleeve, and inhaled deeply.

  “Who is he?” he said. “Who is the hooded man?”

  “I don’t know,” Wild Boy said. “I can’t think. . . .”

  “Now is the time to think. Your friend’s life is at stake.”

  Wild Boy whirled at him, crumpling the page. “You think I don’t know that?” he yelled. “These clues don’t make sense! How could the killer have survived that jump? How could he vanish in an alley with only rats and . . . and bloomin’ boxes!”

  He turned to kick one of the crates, but stopped. He stood still, staring at the broken boxes.

  “The crates,” he whispered.

  At that moment, a great weight seemed to lift from his shoulders and float away. Suddenly it all made sense, and Wild Boy knew everything. He knew the location of the killer’s machine, he knew how to save Clarissa, and — at last — he knew the identity of the hooded man. He knew it, but he could barely believe it.

  He looked at Marcus as storm clouds swirled overhead. “The fair,” he said. “You and me gotta go to the fair.”

  Wild Boy closed his eyes.

  He breathed in deeply, scrunched them tighter. But still he saw Clarissa staring at him from that balcony, her eyes glaring and accusing. We were partners, they seemed to say. We could have caught the killer. But you betrayed me, and now look what’s happened.

  The hooded man had stolen the Tower’s steamboat, and it had taken vital minutes for the Gentlemen to requisition another from a passing waterman. Marcus Bishop had selected his five best men and they’d set off in pursuit. Wild Boy feared they were already too late.

  Rain lashed against him as he stood at the front of the boat. It was the middle of the morning but the sky was as dark as night. Gaslights blinked on the riverbanks, and thunder rumbled overhead.

  He wiped wet hair from his eyes and scanned the river for the Tower’s vessel. There were dozens of ships on the water — steam ferries, coal barges, and trading clippers moored side by side, their tall masts creaking and swaying. Moving between them all was frustratingly slow. Wild Boy wanted to yell at the Gentlemen, but he knew they were doing everything they could. Three of the men shoveled coal into the furnace, and brown smoke belched from the steamboat’s funnel.

  Marcus came up beside Wild Boy. His golden eyeball glinted in the boat’s lantern. “This would be easier if you told me who we are after,” he said.

  Who we are after. At least Wild Boy knew that now. But he couldn’t tell Marcus the killer’s identity. He didn’t know for sure if he could trust him. Was the Gentleman’s main concern saving Clarissa, or finding the killer’s machine?

  “I’ve just realized that I never asked your name,” Marcus said.

  “It’s Wild Boy.”

  “No, I mean your real name.”

  His real name. He remembered all the times he’d dreamed of being someone else. But not anymore. He knew now that he wasn’t just a freak. He was different, and for the first time ever he was glad to be.

  “My name’s Wild Boy,” he said firmly.

  Marcus smiled. “Well then, Wild Boy, we have a killer to catch, a friend to save, and your names to clear. Are you ready for it?”

  He was ready, all right. In the hectic few minutes after the hooded man escaped, Wild Boy hadn’t only solved the mystery of the killer’s identity; he’d also devised a plan to save Clarissa. It was risky, dangerous. But his friend was relying on him.

  The boat’s funnel lowered as it slipped under the sleek stone arches of London Bridge. Through the rain, he saw Saint Paul’s Cathedral squatting like a monster over a sprawl of lanes and alleys that ran from the river. Beyond, a bright orange light flared into the sky, as if a huge bonfire were raging in the heart of the City.

  “Bartholomew Fair,” Wild Boy said. “That’s where the killer’s gone.”

  It hadn’t been hard to work that out. The hooded man knew him, or at least knew of his abilities. The killer had known Professor Wollstonecraft too, so he must have lived with them at the fair. That also explained one of the clues on Clarissa’s list.

  Marks on killer’s hood — lives in a place with low ceiling.

  The hooded man lived in a caravan.

  They drew closer to the riverbank, and a jetty crammed with steamboats taking people to the fair. Fights had broken out among the captains jostling for space.

  “Sir,” one of the Gentlemen called. “Look!”

  Docked among the boats was the Tower’s steamship. A golden letter G sho
ne on the vessel’s side — but the boat was empty.

  “The dock’s too busy, sir,” one of the Gentlemen said. “We can’t get close.”

  Frustration boiled inside Wild Boy. He turned to kick one of the wooden seats, but stopped himself. Getting angry wouldn’t help Clarissa. He needed to think.

  He turned and rushed to the side of the boat. Upstream, a rickety tavern leaned over the river, propped up by beams that jutted from the bank. The mouth of a large sewer stuck out beneath, trickling brown slush into the swirling water.

  “Steer over there!” Wild Boy said. “We can get to the fair underground.”

  The Gentleman hesitated, reluctant to take orders from a boy. He looked to Marcus, who gave a slight, almost imperceptible, nod of his head. “Do what he says,” he ordered.

  With a belch of smoke, the boat turned. The paddlewheel churned through the murky water as they drew nearer to the bank. The men maneuvered the vessel so its bow poked beneath the tavern’s overhang, kissing the mouth of the sewer.

  Wild Boy leaped into the tunnel from the boat and signaled for the others to follow. “Hurry!”

  One by one they came across. Crouching low, they followed Wild Boy into the reeking dark. Marcus limped behind him, one hand on his cane, the other pressed against the tunnel wall. “You know this fair well?” he asked.

  Bartholomew Fair. Wild Boy knew it well enough. Through a grille he saw the dense mass of people cramming the street above. It was like a glimpse into hell — everyone pushing and barging, screeching and swearing. A man spat blood into the gutter. Medicine men sold potions from trays. A fire-eater belched flames into the driving rain.

  Around a dozen traveling fairs came together for this last and largest show of the season. Shops, stalls, and stages filled every available space from the river to West Smithfield, the square where Wild Boy’s fair usually pitched. That, he knew, was where he needed to reach. That was where he’d save Clarissa.

  Ahead, a slant of gray light broke the dark. An island of bricks rose from the sewage where part of the tunnel wall had collapsed.

  “We can get up through here,” he said. “We should come out close.”

  He crawled through the hole and into a dingy chamber. It was some sort of cellar, with rotten walls and crumbling stone stairs. It reminded Wild Boy of the place where he’d hidden with Clarissa and Sir Oswald. That seemed like a long time ago now.

  Strengthened by the memory, he climbed the stairs to an abandoned shop — a shell of smashed glass, cracked mirrors, and broken brick. Light shone in thin streams between the wooden planks of the boarded-up entrance.

  Outside, the rain was coming down hard, but most people were too drunk to care, dancing arm in arm through the downpour. Over their heads Wild Boy saw the peak of Mary Everett’s circus tent. That was where he needed to be, but it was a hundred yards away across the square. There was no way he’d get through these crowds, not with the reward on his head.

  Marcus emerged from the stairway. Wild Boy saw the man’s fingers tighten around the top of his cane, and he knew the pain in his knee had grown worse.

  “We’re too far out,” Wild Boy said. “We’ll have to go back down, find another way.”

  “What is that over there?” Marcus said, peering between the boards.

  Halfway across the square, a line of policemen struggled to clear a path for a marching band and a golden stagecoach that rode slowly through the crowd.

  “That’s the Mayor’s carriage,” Wild Boy said. He remembered how each year the Lord Mayor paraded to the circus tent to officially open the fair.

  “If we can reach those police officers,” Marcus said, “they will escort us to the circus tent.”

  “Coppers?” Wild Boy said, horrified. The only place they’d escort him to was prison.

  “Believe me,” Marcus explained, “the police will do exactly as I tell them. We are a very powerful organization.”

  Wild Boy was beginning to believe that. He was keen to learn more about these Gentlemen, who could order the police about, take over the Tower of London, and fill its cells with condemned criminals. But he could think about that later.

  Marcus turned to the other Gentlemen as they came up the stairs. Even though their trousers dripped with filth from the sewers, the five men still looked sharp and focused.

  “Gentlemen,” Marcus said, “you must go ahead to the circus tent. I shall follow with Wild Boy. Have everything ready. We stick to his plan.”

  “Find Sir Oswald Farley,” Wild Boy added. “He’ll help you.”

  The Gentlemen hesitated, still flustered that Wild Boy was in charge. But a glare from Marcus stirred them into action. Four of them brought out their pistols and loaded the plates with powder. The other yanked away some of the panels from the shop entrance. And then they set off, pushing through the mass of bodies toward the big top.

  Wild Boy’s plan was underway. But it relied on him and Marcus reaching the circus too. “So how we gonna get to them coppers?” he said. “Fight our way through?”

  “Fighting, Wild Boy, is not always the solution. I should think you know that by now.”

  Marcus gripped his cane and drew the thin steel sword from inside. “We are simply going to give them a scare,” he said.

  “Well, I know these types, and there ain’t much what scares them.”

  Marcus looked at him, and another hint of a smile danced across his face. “There is one thing,” he said.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please stay calm and stand away.”

  Startled faces stared. Frightened bodies stepped back. Someone screamed. Someone laughed. The whole crowd watched as Marcus Bishop emerged from the shop, one arm wrapped around Wild Boy’s neck and gripping a pistol. The Gentleman’s other hand swept his sword in a wide arc, clearing a path to move forward.

  “I have captured the Wild Boy of London,” he declared. “And I claim the reward. I intend to deliver him to the officers in the parade. Anyone who tries to stop me will receive a bullet in the neck. Now, please, let me pass.”

  Some of the crowd scoffed, thinking it a prank. This ragged, filthy boy was covered in hair, but surely someone so short and slim couldn’t be the Wild Boy of London, monster and murderer of two men. Marcus’s sword, though, was no joke. As one, the crowd edged back farther, making way for the Gentleman.

  “Back!” Marcus said. “You, fat lady, stand aside!”

  The fat lady stood aside. Everyone stood aside, parting like the Red Sea to let them through. As the crowd pressed back, the chain of policemen struggled to keep them from spilling into the route of the Lord Mayor’s coach parade.

  Wild Boy struggled to breathe in Marcus’s powerful grip. He was amazed by how well this was working. It wasn’t just the weapons that held the mob back. It was Marcus — the force of his words. He’d never seen someone in such complete command.

  But he knew it wouldn’t last. The reward on his head was too high.

  Some of the crowd edged closer. Clammy hands reached for him. Hot faces leered. Marcus cracked one man on the head with his pistol, but still they came.

  “Get the freak!” someone yelled. “Split the reward!”

  Wild Boy kicked another man, who lunged at him. But there were too many. They grabbed his arms, dragging him from Marcus’s grip.

  “Shoot!” Wild Boy yelled.

  “What?” Marcus said.

  “Shoot your bloomin’ gun!”

  It was their last chance. Raising his pistol, Marcus fired into the sky.

  The crowd reeled back, tumbling into one another. The police couldn’t hold them any longer. The blue line broke and bodies sprawled past. They collided with the marching band, sending tubas and trombones clattering.

  “Now!” Wild Boy cried.

  Bursting forward, he ran over the backs of the crowd and into the path of the parade. He pelted toward the circus tent, between the two lines of police. The officers saw him but they couldn’t break their chain without letting the rest of the cr
owd swamp the procession.

  “It’s the Wild Boy of London!” someone shouted.

  “He’s after the Mayor!”

  But the Mayor was far behind. Wild Boy’s lungs burned and his legs strained. As he got near the big top, he saw a familiar figure waiting at the entrance. Sir Oswald hopped on one hand and waved urgently with the other.

  “Master Wild!” he said. “Thank the heavens you are safe. But where is Miss Everett? And what is this business? These gentlemen ordered me to bring Mr. Finch to the circus. They said it was upon your request. Surely he is the last person you would wish to see right now.”

  Wild Boy leaned against the circus pay box, catching his breath. Now that he was here, he was more scared than ever about what he had to do. He looked at Sir Oswald, wondering if he should tell him what he knew about the killer. But he decided to stick to his plan. “I don’t have much time,” he gasped. “I’ll explain inside.”

  Even in the spluttering light of the gas chandelier, the circus tent was dark and dank. Rainwater leaked through holes high in the canvas, turning the sawdust into slush. The other Gentlemen were here, guarding two prisoners in the middle of the ring — Augustus Finch and Mary Everett.

  The showman and ringmaster looked almost amused by the Gentlemen’s pistols. Both of them were well used to run-ins with the law. But when they saw Wild Boy, their faces changed. Mary Everett’s mouth curled from a sneer into something like a snarl, the crust of powder makeup cracking across her cheeks. Finch glared at Wild Boy, stroking the deep-purple scar that ran over his nose. His other hand slid toward his waistcoat, inside which Wild Boy knew the showman kept his favorite knife.

  Marcus came up behind Wild Boy, breathing hard. He gripped one of the chandelier’s guy ropes and winced from the pain in his knee. “Are you sure you know what you are doing?” he said.

  Wild Boy nodded, although suddenly he wasn’t sure at all. Ever since the Tower he’d been running on anger and adrenaline, barely stopping to think. Now he felt sick with fear — of the mob behind him and of the killer, who was just yards away from him now, in this tent.