Freaks

by Kieran Larwood

  Sheba sat looking out from the bedroom window at the twinkling candles of Brick Lane. The fog was especially thick tonight, making the candles seem like will-o’-the-wisps as they shimmered and flickered in little haloes all around her.

  From the room behind her came the rumbling of snores. Gigantus and Mama Rat were fast asleep and, judging by the wheezy squeaking sounds coming from the big box, the six rats were, too. Sheba couldn’t help giving a little shudder. Even Sister Moon was dead to the world, lying elegantly on her back with her head on a funny little hard pillow.

  Sheba was almost tempted to wake her up. There was no way she could sleep, what with everything running through her head, and she wanted someone to talk to. It made her think back to the long nights at Grunchgirdle’s, with the sound of the sea washing back and forth below the floorboards. How she used to slip outside and watch the moon on the waves.

  She decided to go and pay Flossy a visit. Sometimes he used to look as though he was listening.

  Out in the yard it was dark. She could hear distant shouts, cheers, and even screams coming from the Whitechapel streets. Flossy was curled in a little woolly ball, tucked up next to Raggety in the straw. If she hadn’t known that horse was a psychopath, she might even have thought he was cuddling him.

  Sheba sighed, and wiggled her cold toes on the damp earth. There would be no listening from Flossy, then. She was about to head back inside, when she heard rustling from the direction of Monkeyboy’s cage. In the dim light, she could see him sitting up at one end, staring hard at his hands. Dreading what she might see, Sheba moved a little closer.

  He was molding something with his fingers, and as she watched, he set it down on the bars before him. It was a fairly good likeness of the octopus-suited man from earlier, done in earwax and bogies. He regarded it critically for a moment, then sent it spiraling over the fence and into the street with an idle flick.

  “Squeal on me to the crushers, will you?” he muttered under his breath.

  “The police wouldn’t believe him anyway, and Farfellini would probably get rid of him for squealing,” said Sheba.

  She winced as Monkeyboy jumped with fright and banged his head on the cage roof.

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

  “Scared? Not likely.” He folded his arms and pouted. “I knew you was there all along, actually.”

  “Of course you did,” said Sheba.

  “What you doing out here, anyway?”

  Sheba shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

  “All that snoring, is it? Keeps me awake, too, when we’re out in the caravan. Especially old Lumpy. He sounds like a steam train with asthma.”

  “No, not the snoring.” Although Sheba did have to agree with him. “I just keep thinking about Till. About how she might be trapped somewhere, and how we can’t do anything to help her.”

  “Don’t worry.” To Sheba’s surprise, he reached out a hand and patted her on the shoulder. “We’ll find her tomorrow, you’ll see. My amazing clue will pay off, as sure as Humpty Dumpty doesn’t like heights.”

  “Thanks, Monkeyboy.” Sheba gave him a smile. “You’re really quite sweet, aren’t you?”

  “I’m flipping not,” said Monkeyboy. “And don’t go saying stuff like that in public. I have an image to uphold, you know.”

  “All right, then,” said Sheba. “It’ll be our little secret.” Even in the dim light, Sheba could see he was blushing. Feeling a little better about things, she turned and padded back up to bed.

  Not long after dawn the next morning, the Peculiars made their way down from London Bridge, past endless stacks of warehouses and taverns, until they reached a break in the solid mass of buildings.

  It looked as if the riverbank had cracked open, letting the water spill in to create a quiet little side stream. There was barely more than a covering over the mud at the moment, and from it wooden pilings jutted. On top of those, scores of wooden houses had been built, their upper stories leaning out over the river, as if they were teetering on the verge of falling in. Sheba could see little wooden walkways interlacing the structures.

  “St. Saviour’s Dock,” said Mama Rat. She pointed along the inlet to where brown water gurgled at its mouth. “That there’s the River Neckinger. Flows into the Thames. And over there,” she gestured to a warren of rotten buildings, “is Jacob’s Island.”

  “Cholera Island, more like,” said Monkeyboy. “You’d drop dead soon as you set foot on it.”

  Sheba had no intention of going anywhere near it, and she was quite glad when Mama Rat led them around the corner to the Thames. Here were the usual clusters of boats, tied up to a series of rickety pontoons.

  In the middle, looming over the other craft, was what might have been an old warship. Now it was a rotting hulk, stripped of its masts and rigging and left to slowly dissolve in the poisonous water. Faded letters on its stern read HMS Swiftsure, but in fresher paint was Guiseppe Farfellini, Fabricator of Clockwork and Mechanical Automata Made to Your Precise Specifications. Inquire Within. A narrow gangplank led up to a little wooden door, built into the clinkered wood of the hull.

  “Well,” said Gigantus, “it does say ‘Inquire Within.’” And with that he kicked the little door so hard it burst off its hinges.

  Mama Rat stayed outside to keep watch, and the rest of the Peculiars made their way onto the ship.

  Sheba could feel the boat rocking to and fro on the water, and didn’t enjoy the sensation. It seemed oddly familiar to her, although she couldn’t think why. As far as she knew, she’d never set foot on a boat before.

  Inside the workshop (or workship) was a wide-open space with benches lining all the walls. The place was full of powerful aromas: metal, oil, wood shavings, and varnish. There were mechanical animals everywhere, and every available surface was covered with tools, parts, and sections of half-finished creations. She saw foxes, birds, butterflies, crocodiles, lobsters, and turtles. Some of them were so intricate and beautiful, she couldn’t help but admire Farfellini’s skill. But had he turned it to poor use? She couldn’t see anything that looked like a crab. The biggest pieces in the room were two giant wooden puppets. Bearded and dressed in chain mail and helmets, they seemed to be medieval warriors. One held a ball and chain; the other a shield and spear. The wood was bare, as if awaiting a coat of paint, and Sheba could see metal cogs and ratchets gleaming at the joints.

  “Gog and Magog,” said Gigantus, sounding impressed.

  “Who are they supposed to be?” Sheba asked.

  “They’re the guardians of London,” said Gigantus. “It’s an old legend, but they have puppets of them in the Lord Mayor’s Show every year.”

  “Maybe that’s what these are for,” suggested Monkeyboy.

  A heavy door at the far end of the room opened, and a little man dashed out. He had olive skin and quick, dark eyes. He was wearing a waistcoat with countless pockets, each holding tools. Sheba spotted tiny pliers, tweezers, rolls of wire and clippers, and cutters of all sizes.

  “What is this?” he cried. “What do you ruffiani do to my door?”

  “Where is it, puppet man?” Gigantus demanded. “Where’s the machine?”

  “What machine? My boat is full of-a machines!”

  “The crab machine,” said Sheba. “The one that’s been snatching children from the river.”

  Farfellini blinked at them for a moment. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, as if he was trying to think of something to say. Then he turned and dashed back into his private quarters, slamming the door behind him.

  “Well, that’s a guilty reaction if ever I saw one,” said Monkeyboy.

  “He must have the machine in there!” Sheba shouted.

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” said Gigantus. He began to stomp over to the doorway when there was the sou
nd of a loud, metallic clank, followed by a grinding of gears.

  “Be careful,” said Sister Moon. “Little man switch on trap.”

  Gigantus stopped. The Peculiars looked warily around them, but the workshop seemed quiet and still. Then a trapdoor in the ceiling slammed open.

  Down came a cascade of metal constructions, each one spooling on a length of wire thread. They were the size of saucers: bodies of tin segments, spindly legs jutting, and single glowing red eyes. Windup keys jutted from their backs, and slung low at the front were long, sharp needles.

  “What the blazes are those?” shrieked Monkeyboy.

  “Spiders,” said Sheba. She could smell the oil and hot metal inside them, and something pungent and chemical that set her fur bristling.

  They began to skitter toward the Peculiars. Hard as it was to believe, they seemed to be able to see the intruders.

  “Get back,” shouted Sheba, pointing to the mouth-needles. “They’re poisoned, I can smell it.”

  Just as they danced away from the creatures, there was another sound from behind them. The Gog and Magog puppets had been activated, and were moving ponderously toward the Peculiars, huge wooden arms swinging like toppling tree trunks. Farfellini must have had controls in the other room.

  “I take spiders,” Sister Moon called. “Sheba, you get to puppet man.”

  Hurriedly taking some pins from her hair, Sheba ran to the heavy oak door as Gigantus and Monkeyboy turned to face Gog and Magog. Ten feet tall, they swung ball and chain, jabbed with shield and spear. They looked like they meant business.

  “I’ll take the one on the left,” said Gigantus. “You go for the one with the spear.”

  “Me?” shouted Monkeyboy. “Me? Have you seen the size of me? What am I supposed to do against that thing? It’s going to rip me into mincemeat!”

  “Stop whining and get on with it.” Gigantus cracked his knuckles, then charged headfirst into Gog, hitting it with a thud that set the whole ship rocking.

  “Oh, Mummy!” cried Monkeyboy, but he took a breath and ran at Magog, dodging at the last minute to avoid its spear and scampering up one great oak leg, where he clung on for dear life.

  Between the feet of the giant puppets, Sister Moon danced. All around her skittered the little silver spiders, ticking away in a chorus of clockwork. They shot at her legs, trying to stab her with their deadly needles, while their glowing red eyes tracked her every move.

  Or tried to, for she was nearly impossible to follow. She leapt and spun in kicks and somersaults, touching the floor for the briefest of instants before flipping somewhere else. Every time she landed, she lashed out with her sword. Each strike hit a target, slicing the legs and bodies of the spiders, until the floorboards were littered with tiny shards of metal.

  But still they came at her. One managed to hit her boot, but luckily it missed her toes and shot its lethal payload into the leather of her sole. Another leapt at her, just as she landed from a double backflip. It clung to her belt, and was about to sting her when she knocked it free with her elbow and launched into a spinning front somersault.

  Despite the clashes and bangs around her, Sheba tried to focus only on the hairpin in the lock. But it was impossible to ignore the danger her friends were in, and she kept sneaking glances over her shoulder.

  Now three of the spiders threatened to jump together on Sister Moon. She couldn’t block all of them. Sheba’s breath caught. Sister Moon smacked the first away — the other two were raising their needles to strike just as Mama Rat stepped in. She aimed her flintlock pistol and fired, blowing both spiders into shards with one shot. Where did she learn to shoot like that? Sheba thought. And where did that gun come from? But before she could worry about it any more, her attention was distracted by a roar from across the room.

  “Eat this!” Gigantus yelled, slamming another fist into Gog’s chest. There was a splintering sound, and a crack finally appeared in the hard oak. The puppet responded with a blow to Gigantus’s stomach that knocked him back a step, but it only halted him for a second. “Monkeyboy, find a way to turn these things off!” he roared, as he started pummeling again.

  “How?” Monkeyboy wailed.

  Sheba held her breath as he clambered up the puppet’s leg and squeezed inside. A moment later, there came a series of grinding crunches, and the huge model stopped. Monkeyboy’s head popped out of the puppet’s bottom.

  “Oi, Lumpy!” he called to Gigantus. “You can turn it off inside!”

  Gigantus gave a nod, and then drove his fist through the cracked chestpiece of Gog and grabbed a handful of metal parts, ripping them free with a crunch. The puppet juddered and froze, a statue once more.

  Sister Moon descended from a double backflip to land squarely on the last spider’s back. It flew into pieces with a crunch.

  “Nice move, Moonie,” Monkeyboy said.

  “Rolling porcupine flip. I invent myself.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Sheba turned back to the lock. She could feel the tumbler beginning to spring. She levered it up, then stuck a second pin into the keyhole to shoot the bolt back. She was rewarded with a loud clunk, and the heavy door swung open a couple of inches.

  “Oh no you-a don’t,” said a voice from inside.

  Farfellini’s hand shot out, grabbed Sheba’s shoulder, and pushed hard, flipping her head over heels.

  “Sheba!” cried Mama Rat.

  Landing on all fours, Sheba turned on the puppet maker, as full of fierce anger as she had ever been. She saw the little man had pulled a strange-looking pistol from his jacket, and was raising it to point at her, but she was too furious to be frightened. This horrid puppeteer had just tried to hurt her friends, and could even have Till hidden away in his room. More than anything, she wanted to teach him a lesson. Her sharp teeth were bared in a snarl, her fingernails had squeezed themselves into sharp little claws, and she knew her eyes were flashing bright orange. I’ve never changed this much before, she thought. What happens if I can’t change back?

  Behind her she heard a roar. It was Gigantus, stampeding toward the door. Farfellini switched aim to the lumbering giant and fired.

  There was a twang, and Gigantus halted, slapping a hand to his neck as if he’d been stung. A tiny dart with bright red fletchings jutted between his fingers.

  Farfellini frantically wound the mechanism on the side of the pistol, getting ready for another shot, just as Mama Rat was pouring powder into the muzzle of her pistol across the room. But Sister Moon was quicker than both. She pulled her sword scabbard from her back and flung it at the man, knocking the gun from his grip and sending it spinning across the floor toward Sheba.

  Even as Farfellini made a grab for it, Sheba snatched it up and pointed it straight at his head.

  “Don’t move or I’ll shoot,” she said. She was still in the grip of her wolfish anger, so the words came out as a kind of snarl.

  “Don’t-a shoot! Don’t-a shoot! Is poison, you silly girl. It kill me!” Farfellini put both hands in the air as the Peculiars surrounded him.

  “What kind of poison?” Sheba asked. “What have you done to our friend?”

  Farfellini looked over to where Gigantus was still clasping his neck, swaying to and fro and looking very pale. “Nothing bad,” he said, unconvincingly. “He be fine.”

  “No, he pigging won’t,” said Monkeyboy.

  And they all watched as the big man let out a groan and collapsed to the floor like a felled redwood tree.

  While Mama Rat saw to Gigantus, and Sister Moon tied up Farfellini, Sheba went to investigate the room where Farfellini had been hiding. Behind her, she could hear Gigantus groaning and the puppeteer cursing in Italian as Monkeyboy interrogated him by using a pair of his pliers to pluck out his nose hairs one by one.

  Farfellini’s quarters were quite different from the wor
kshop outside. There was carpet on the floor, pictures on the walls (mostly badly painted views of foreign cities that Sheba assumed were in Italy), a small cot, and a stove. There was also a drawing board by the window, and another workbench. Sheba saw several half-built clockwork spiders, just like the ones that had attacked them. By the door was a board covered with levers and wires. Something inside it made it spark and crackle. Electricity, she realized. The new miracle energy. It must be how he activated his trap. It was incredible, really. Like magic.

  There was no sign of anything crablike, though. No claws or pincers, no rubber piping or steam engines. Had they jumped to a false conclusion? But he had run away when they’d mentioned a crab — and he had tried to kill them with pistols and poisonous spiders. There must be something, Sheba thought. She went to the drawing board. Stacked upon it were sheet upon sheet of detailed drawings. It seemed that Farfellini meticulously planned his every creation.

  Sheba saw blueprints for everything in the main room, including Gog and Magog and the spiders, and for others that either weren’t here or had yet to be built. There was a tiger, a dragon, an elephant, tiny fairies, and a monstrous snake. She was nearing the end of the pile and about to give up when she saw it: the unmistakable shape of a serrated claw.

  Throwing the other sketches to the floor, she stretched out the broad sheet of paper and held it up to the light. The design showed a huge contraption with two colossal claws, a series of spindly legs, and some kind of screw propeller to drive it through mud. There was also a porthole at the front, surrounded by tiny gaslights. It had a steam engine slotted into the rear, with pipes and vents jutting from under the carapace. And where its stomach should be was a chamber. “Big enough for two” was scrawled upon it.

  “Found anything?” Mama Rat had poked her head around the door into the workshop, and was looking at Sheba expectantly.

  Sheba held up the plan and grinned. “Jackpot,” she said.

  Back in the workshop, Gigantus was still sitting with his head in his hands. Mama Rat had managed to remove the dart, and now the big man was quietly groaning while Monkeyboy tenderly patted him on the back. Sister Moon had the point of her sword at Farfellini’s throat.