Freaks

by Kieran Larwood

  “Do not get too close,” warned Sister Moon. She was poised just outside the horse’s striking distance, ready to leap to safety.

  “Get in the stall, you manky old nag, or I’ll pound you into glue,” said Gigantus bravely, but even he was keeping well away from the horse’s back hooves.

  Raggety made a deep rumbling noise that sounded almost like a growl.

  Sheba took a handful of sugar from the bowl on the kitchen windowsill and walked slowly forward, holding out her hand. “Here, Raggety,” she whispered. She didn’t know much about animals — except for Flossy, of course — but she guessed shouting at them wouldn’t be very effective. All creatures responded better to kindness, she reasoned. That, and a spot of bribery.

  The horse eyed her offering, then edged forward and nibbled at the sugar. Despite looking as though he wanted to eat her hand as well, he was surprisingly gentle. He crunched the sweet granules thoughtfully.

  Sheba backed into the stall. “Come on, Raggety, there’s a good boy.”

  Whickering under his breath, the horse clopped toward her. He knew he was being tricked, but it would be worth it for more of that delicious white stuff.

  When Raggety was in the stall and Gigantus had closed the gate, Sheba fed him the rest of the sugar, then clambered out. She noticed Flossy’s basket was standing nearby. She guessed he was going to live in the stall, too. He gave her a little double bleat, and she knelt to give his heads a reassuring pat. The journey to London seemed to have perked him up a bit, although maybe he was just relieved to get away from Grunchgirdle. Hopefully he would be happier in his new home. As long as Raggety didn’t squish him into jelly.

  “Well done, Sheba!” said Mama Rat, slapping her on the back.

  Sheba felt a strange, warm feeling tingle through her. It was the first time she had ever helped anyone, and it felt surprisingly good.

  “Aye, that would have taken us hours,” said Gigantus.

  “Do you feel better now?” asked Sister Moon. For the first time, Sheba noticed she had two long, thin sword scabbards strapped to her back.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Sheba. “It’s just this place . . . this city. I’ve never smelt anything like it.”

  “Make sure you steer clear of Monkeyboy on a hot day, then,” said Gigantus.

  A muffled stream of insults began to pour from the little cage in the corner, but they were cut off by a deafening, gargling snort from the upstairs window.

  “Come on, you lot, there’s work to do before Plumpscuttle wakes up,” said Mama Rat.

  “What kind of work?” Sheba asked.

  Gigantus pointed to a stack of rope and sheets and paper lanterns. “We’ve got to get that lot up by sundown.”

  “And then what?” asked Sheba.

  “Showtime,” said Sister Moon, smiling.

  Night fell on the city. Gas lamps lit the streets with a flickering yellow glow, and orange candlelight twinkled in every window. Peeking out of the bedroom window, cautiously in case anyone below might spot her, Sheba looked down on a scene of enchantment. Brick Lane had been transformed into a fairy city (as long as you didn’t breathe through your nose).

  The pavements were full of ballad singers, jugglers, stilt walkers, and hawkers selling dubious-looking pies — some still with the odd feather or tail poking out. Amongst them milled tatty locals and many grander folk who must have wandered down from the city to sample the slums for their amusement. These were prime targets for the hordes of little pickpockets, who scurried like ants through the crowd, dipping for purses, watches, and silk handkerchiefs.

  This, thought Sheba, was how she had imagined a city to be, all those years she was shut up at Grunchgirdle’s. A place full of noise and bustle and life. The sight was overwhelming, intimidating, but, most of all, exciting. Just as fascinating as Monkeyboy had said it would be.

  The front door to the Peculiars’ house was wide open with signs propped outside, proclaiming the wonders within. Plumpscuttle’s morose nephew, Phineas, stood with a money box and a roll of tickets, beckoning in marks without much enthusiasm.

  Inside, the Peculiars had been busy. A hard afternoon’s work hanging sheets from ceilings had turned the dingy little rooms into a series of chambers. The many-colored paper lanterns gave the place an eerie, otherworldly glow.

  Sheba could hear Plumpscuttle in the parlor. Having slept off his long night of travel, he was letting rip with a mighty spiel about the glories of his sideshow. Sheba peeked down the staircase. He was standing on a box, his ginger hair seeming to glow orange and set off by his ruddy cheeks, which were throbbing like two beetroots. He only had a small crowd, but he was giving it his all.

  Behind him, Mama Rat had arranged the contents of her box into a miniature big top. There were tiny trapezes, a tightrope, hoops, and tunnels, all painted in bright lozenges of red and yellow. Waiting in the wings were six huge rats. Sheba now knew they were called Bartholomew, Matthew, Judas, Thaddeus, Simon, and Peter, although, technically, the last two were girls. They’d all been crammed into hand-sewn miniature circus outfits: clowns, acrobats, and even a ringmaster, with yellow teeth, glittering eyes, and thick, scaly tails. As the lookers-on gathered around, they tumbled out into the circus ring and began performing a range of tricks. At the merest nod or wink from Mama Rat, they turned somersaults, did backflips, and balanced atop one another in a teetering pyramid.

  In the partition behind her, Sister Moon soon had a crowd of seven or more. They gasped as she sliced the burning wicks from six candles with a sweep of her long, thin swords, leaving the tallows standing without so much as a wobble. They shouted in delight as she sent ten throwing stars into the tiny bull’s-eye of a target. They screamed as she disappeared into the shadows, then emerged behind them and tapped them on the shoulder. They tutted in disapproval as she removed her mask and they saw she was a girl. Young women should be doing needlework, not swordwork. What was the world coming to?

  Sheba couldn’t gawk for long. The next stop for the punters was her corner of the bedroom. She dashed back and sat patiently on her stool as a column of people filed slowly past. She tried not to listen as they made noises of disgust or horror, and instead concentrated on her own act: being as wolfish as possible. She widened her eyes so they glinted orange in the lantern light, and let her sharp little teeth poke out. But it was a while since she’d had to sit for a customer, and it was hard to listen to their comments after the applause for Mama Rat and Sister Moon: “Poor thing!” “What a sight!” and “Do you think she combs her face?” She’d moved halfway across the country, but her life had changed very little.

  Out in the yard, Sheba could hear gasps of amazement as Gigantus lifted a wooden bench. It happened to have three men sitting on it, and he hoisted it over his head as if it were a sack of feathers. She didn’t hear anyone calling him names.

  Behind his colossal shoulders was Monkeyboy’s cage. They had put a sign outside, warning ladies not to approach, for fear of being mortally offended. The few people who had dared to wander over were being liberally insulted and sworn at. He’d told Sheba earlier that he also had a few juicy samples of horse manure to hurl, and he was hoping for someone in an expensive suit that he could ruin. She hadn’t heard any screams of horror yet, so he must not have found the right victim.

  Flossy was also out there somewhere. On display in his pen for people to prod, poke, and stare at. She hoped he was all right. At least Raggety would be near, ready to chomp off the fingers of anyone who got too close.

  During a quiet moment, Sister Moon popped her head around the sheet partition.

  “Is your show going well, Sheba?”

  Sheba nodded, smiling back. It was the first time anyone had ever checked on her during a performance. For once she felt like she wasn’t completely on her own. Others were going through this ordeal with her. She was part of something bigg
er than herself. It was a small gesture, but it made her indescribably happy. She forgot about looking beastly and beamed instead.

  The next group of spectators was very disappointed.

  “What’s this supposed to be, then?”

  “It’s just a little girl sitting on a chair . . . my missus looks more ’orrible than that first thing in the morning!”

  “She’s not much better the rest of the day, either.”

  Sheba strained her hardest, willing her snout to twitch, her fangs to jut, but she could feel her features remaining stubbornly normal. Trying another approach, she instead imagined Grunchgirdle with his bony, shaking fingers and watery, spiteful eyes. She pictured the way he used to poke her through the cage bars with a broom handle, how he cursed at her and called her “freak” and “monster”: all the little humiliations and unkindnesses she had endured over the years.

  It was as if the wolf inside her suddenly woke. With a snarl, her eyes flashed amber and her teeth snapped. From girl to animal in the blink of an eye.

  Her audience yelped and rushed back through the sheets and down the stairs. Sheba sat, quietly growling, until she noticed that not quite all of them had gone. Still standing in front of her was a little girl, wide-eyed and clutching at her pinafore in fright, but standing her ground.

  “Sorry,” said Sheba. She suddenly felt very self-conscious and ashamed. With a blink, her amber eyes returned to normal, and she hid her sharp teeth behind a pout.

  “That was very good,” said the girl. She gave Sheba a shy smile. “Bit scary, though.”

  “Sorry,” Sheba said again. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “’S all right,” said the girl.

  Sheba looked at her visitor properly. The poor thing was stick thin and pale as a dead fish. She could clearly see the bones of her skull pushing through her skin, and there were dark shadows around her huge eyes. Beneath her patched pinafore, she wore rags that reeked of stale mud. Her feet were bare and covered with angry-looking welts and scratches. This must be one of those unfortunate people Sister Moon was talking about, Sheba thought. Could she be one of the scavengers from the dust heaps? Or somewhere even worse?

  “Do you live in London?” It was a silly question, but Sheba didn’t know what to say. She’d never spoken to her audience before.

  “Yes, down by the river.” The girl smiled again. “Me ma will never believe me when I tells her about you and the others!”

  “Is this the first time you’ve been to the show?”

  “First time I’ve been anywhere in town,” the girl said. “I’m supposed to be out on the river now, picking from the mud, but I didn’t feel like it. Went for a walk instead.”

  Sheba was about to ask what kind of strange fruit would need picking from a stinking riverbank, when the girl took something from her pocket and held it out to her. Sheba looked. It was a chipped glass marble, the size of a small egg and bottle green. Hesitantly, Sheba took it.

  “My name’s Till,” said the girl. She watched as Sheba rolled the marble between her fingers. “You can keep that if you like. Picked it up this morning.”

  “Thank you,” said Sheba, genuinely touched. It was the first time anyone had actually given her anything. She was filled with gratitude, but guilt, too, as she had nothing to give in return. Instead she offered her name. “I’m Sheba.”

  Till opened her mouth to say more, when the thunderous boom of Plumpscuttle’s voice echoed up from below.

  “What do you mean, she sneaked past without paying? Get off your lazy backside and find her, you dolt! And then bring her to me so I can clout her back where she came from!”

  “I’ve got to go!” Till rushed to the hanging sheets and peeped through. “If that fat bloke catches me, he’ll give me a thick ear!”

  “Didn’t you get a ticket?” asked Sheba.

  “Nah, I ran past that spoony cove on the door. Think I can afford a penny?” She put her eye back to the gap in the sheet. The thumping feet of Phineas came up the stairs toward Sheba’s partition. Till scuttled under the sheets, past Sister Moon, and down the stairs, just as the dozy, round face of Phineas Plumpscuttle peered around to where Sheba was sitting.

  “Oi, girl. Have you seen a muddy little urchin in here? Uncle wants me to hit her.”

  “Haven’t seen anyone,” Sheba lied.

  As Phineas stomped off to look elsewhere, she rubbed the chipped glass of the marble with her thumb and wished for the little girl to come back another day.

  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.