Freaks

by Kieran Larwood

  The Peculiars poked their head around the door of the parlor.

  “Is he dying?” Monkeyboy whispered hopefully.

  Plumpscuttle groaned loudly and tried to sit up, then quickly lay back down again. He looked as though an entire ton of fireworks had just gone off in his head. His piggy eyes seemed to bulge in time to his heartbeat. Underneath the dried blood and gravy stains, his skin was white and clammy. He tried to speak, but all that came out was “Whyaaaaaaaaaaaargh?” The effort made him pass out again.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Gigantus asked. He didn’t sound very sympathetic.

  “It looks like he’s concussed,” said Mama Rat. “Maybe he could be hurt elsewhere, too. A broken rib or something. That Baba Anish chappie did a good job on him.”

  “About time someone did,” Gigantus said. He looked as though he wished it had been him.

  “I think we ought to take him to hospital, you know.” Mama Rat was holding one of his fat wrists, checking his pulse. “He should be looked at by a doctor. And besides, we can’t just leave him here if a bunch of cutthroats are about to come calling.”

  “Why not?” said Monkeyboy. “They can finish the job properly this time.”

  Everyone chose to ignore him.

  “The London Hospital near,” Sister Moon suggested. “Gigantus take him and meet us back here?”

  Sheba was about to object, but Gigantus was already reaching to pick him up.

  “Don’t worry, Sheba,” said Gigantus. “I’m just dumping him off. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  The minutes that Gigantus was missing seemed to crawl past like hours. Sheba paced the floorboards of the front room, while the others stood about, fidgeting nervously. This is a mistake, she thought. We should have gone while we had the chance. But if they had left Plumpscuttle here, then he would surely have been killed in their place. He was a horrid, gluttonous blob, but did he really deserve that? Of course he doesn’t, Sheba told herself. Nobody does, not even a human dumpling who treats us like cattle.

  “Hurry up, hurry up,” she muttered under her breath.

  “I’m sure he’s going as fast as he can, dearie,” said Mama Rat.

  Sheba was about to say it wasn’t fast enough, when there came a splintering bang from the front door.

  “It’s Baba Anish!” she cried. “He’s here! I knew this would happen . . . what are we going to do without Gigantus?”

  “We can manage without him, dearie,” said Mama Rat. “I’ve been in tighter scrapes than this before.”

  “Quick,” said Sister Moon. “Upstairs.”

  Sheba ran up the stairs as fast as her little feet would go. Sister Moon, Mama Rat, and the rats were close behind. Monkeyboy seemed to have dashed into the kitchen. They burst into the bedroom, ran across to the window, and looked out into the yard.

  A hulking, bald man in a blood-spattered apron was trying to slip through the gate silently. Sheba recognized him as one of the goons Baba Anish had been talking to at the tavern. But where was the painted man himself?

  The enormous cleaver the butcher was carrying had a strange effect on Raggety and Flossy. The big horse began to make a low sound like a growling tiger, and Flossy actually leapt right out of the stall and butted the intruder with both of his little heads.

  “Flossy, no!” Sheba called, but her voice was lost in the sound of his manic bleating.

  The butcher, after a moment’s shock at seeing a sheep with two heads, began to swing his cleaver at the little lamb.

  Sheba squeezed her eyes shut and turned away, listening for the hideous sound of Flossy being cleaved into chops. It didn’t come. Instead she heard the creak of the kitchen window opening. The butcher was so intent on killing Flossy that he missed seeing Monkeyboy somersault through the open window and drop down, unnoticed, into Raggety’s stall.

  Sheba opened her eyes again to see Monkeyboy quietly unbolt the stall door and clamber onto Raggety’s back. If the butcher looked up and saw him now, there would be monkey sausages on the menu, as well as lamb chops.

  Raggety found the autumn months very dull, and spent most of the time idly chewing straw and turning his nose up at the cloying smoke and fog. Now his gate was open. Any chance to get out of his stall and stretch his massive legs was welcome, and if he got to assault someone in the process, so much the better.

  The butcher had just taken a mighty swipe at Flossy, missing him completely, and was readying himself to kick the little lamb across the yard. His expression quickly changed to one of horror as he got a close view of a very big horse raising its very big hind legs for the mother of all kicks.

  Before he could blink, Raggety smashed both hooves into his chest. The blow sent the butcher clear off his feet, across the yard, and through the door of the little privy. It was not the sturdiest of buildings. The butcher crashed straight through the seat and into the cesspit below. There was a cry of pain, followed by another of utter disgust and then silence.

  “Well done, Raggety!” shouted Sheba from the bedroom window.

  “Yes! You beauty!” cried Monkeyboy, and he slapped Raggety on the rump.

  This was a mistake.

  The horse had seen the tempting street beyond the open gate. He knew that through there somewhere were lanes and pastures full of sweet clover, just like the ones he visited in the summer. In a split second he was through the gate and off, with Monkeyboy clinging to his back and screaming, “Not that way, you mangy nag! Turn around! Turn around!”

  As the sound of Monkeyboy’s screaming faded, the front door reverberated with another mighty bang. Baba Anish? Or another of his thugs? There was no telling how many were on their way to Brick Lane.

  Quickly, Sheba scurried to the top of the stairs, looking down to the parlor below. Mama Rat moved to the empty rat’s box, flicking open a secret panel in the bottom of it. She drew out her long-barreled flintlock. Seeing this reminded Sheba of Farfellini’s pistol, and she fished it from the pocket of her sodden cloak. She checked it to make sure it was wound and not too damp, then glanced over her shoulder to see Sister Moon drawing her two slim swords. The look on her face was cold and deadly. They all held their breath as they heard the door squeak open.

  Then there was a pause. Time seemed to stand very still. Sheba imagined someone very large and very violent standing just outside, preparing to charge in.

  Which was exactly what happened next.

  The other goon from the tavern, the one with a black bushy beard, stormed through, roaring a battle cry and waving a wooden club. He took the stairs three at a time, bellowing all the way — right into the path of Sheba’s pistol. There was a small twang as she fired. The little dart hit him square between the eyes. He stopped. Thank goodness it still works, thought Sheba. The man stood swaying on the stairs for a moment. Then the flesh of his face began to bubble like a pot of pea soup as scores of boils began to erupt all over his skin. Within seconds, his whole body was covered with fat, angry spots. They even peeped out of his thick, fuzzy beard. Wailing like a girl, he tumbled back down the stairs, then struggled to his feet and sprinted out of the front door and down the road.

  “Good shooting, Sheba,” said Sister Moon behind her.

  Sheba was just about to allow herself to feel relieved, then she saw something that rendered her dumb. Stepping through the doorway, curved sword drawn, was Baba Anish.

  He turned his slow gaze up the stairs, catching sight of Sheba where she crouched on the top step. His face twisted in surprise for a moment, before returning to its normal expression. That of someone about to kill you and everyone you cared about.

  Sheba sprang back out of sight but it was too late.

  “I see you escaped the tunnel, memsahib,” he called as he walked slowly up the stairs.

  Thud. Thud.

  “Impressive. But you real
ly are a stupid girl.”

  Thud. Thud.

  “You should have used your freedom to get as far away from this house as possible. Everyone in it is about to die most horribly. My goddess Kali will soon be drinking blood from your empty skulls.”

  Thud. Thud.

  Sheba looked in desperation to Sister Moon. The ninja reached into one of the pouches at her belt and pulled out a little cloth bag, which she threw to Sheba. Inside were metal ball bearings. What am I supposed to do with these? she thought. Challenge him to a game of marbles and hope he forgets about killing us?

  Sister Moon mimed tipping the bag, before raising her swords again and moving into a complicated-looking stance with the grace of a ballerina. One blade was raised above her head, the other leveled at groin height. Her legs were bent, poised and ready to spring.

  Thud. Thud.

  Sheba emptied the entire contents of the bag down the steps.

  There was a sudden scrambling sound, followed by a loud curse and a series of thumps. She peered over the banister to see Baba Anish land in a crumpled heap at the bottom. She was about to suggest everyone use the few seconds she had bought to make an escape through the bedroom window when she caught a truly repulsive scent.

  Stomping in from the kitchen was the butcher. Somehow he had managed to climb out of the privy hole.

  Sheba watched, helpless with horror, as Baba Anish got to his feet and the pair of them started up the stairs, the butcher leading. He seemed to have lost his cleaver in the privy hole, but his fists looked dangerous enough.

  Sheba raised her shaky hands and fired her pistol again. But her nerves spoilt her aim this time, and the dart thudded into the wall, just past the butcher’s shoulder. She frantically tried to wind the pistol for another shot. There was a twang and a crunch as a cog jammed. The gun was now useless.

  Throwing it to one side, she felt fear and anger rippling under her skin. Her body responded to the adrenaline and stretched itself into a new, more deadly shape. Her sharp teeth gnashed, her claws itched to scratch and slash, and this time it didn’t worry her. She wanted to rip into pieces these people who had invaded her home and threatened her friends.

  With a snarling scream, she ran headlong at the butcher.

  The last thing she remembered was the smell of human waste as the man’s fist swung toward her. She was smacked clear across the bedroom, hit the far wall, and slid to the bottom in a heap.

  Fat lot of use I was, she thought. She watched the rest of the attack in fuzzy slow motion — almost as if she were having a bad dream.

  Far from being futile, Sheba’s act had distracted the butcher for an instant, allowing Mama Rat to step up. She pointed her own pistol at the man’s head, but before she could shoot, her rats shot out from the pockets of her coat and swarmed up his body and onto his face. In a frenzy of scratching claws and nipping teeth they began to shred his nose. Howling in pain and terror, and trying to grab at the writhing, slippery rodents, he turned and pounded down the stairs past Baba Anish, and out of the house.

  The painted man wasn’t fazed for an instant. Mama Rat leveled her pistol at his face as he reached the top of the stairs, but wasn’t quick enough. Baba Anish moved with frightening speed, reaching to his belt and lunging in one motion. A throwing knife flipped through the air, too fast for Sister Moon to intercept, and thudded into Mama Rat’s shoulder.

  Sheba and Sister Moon cried out as the woman and her pistol clattered to the floor.

  Baba Anish stepped calmly into the bedroom, raising his curved sword and smiling.

  Moon’s usual calm evaporated. With a furious cry, she launched herself at the intruder, and they began to fight.

  It was like a frenzied and incredibly dangerous dance. The weapons of the two moved so fast, it was impossible for Sheba to follow. Both combatants were surrounded by shimmering arcs of steel flashes, and the sound of metal on metal beat out a staccato rhythm, like a madman with a set of teaspoons.

  Moon seemed to have the advantage at first. Her sheer anger forced Baba Anish back a step, then another as he fended blow after blow. But before long she began to tire. Her immaculate swordplay faltered. The painted man parried a downward cut, then flipped his sword around, reversing his grip and jabbing upward. The blade nicked Moon’s left forearm, sending a tiny splatter of blood across her cheek. She jumped back from the stairwell, gasping. It was the first time anyone had managed to land a strike on her.

  Baba Anish laughed at her shocked expression.

  “I am going to gut you,” he whispered, “then send the hairy girl and the woman to my mistress, Kali. She will enjoy feasting on their souls.”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it,” came a low and deeply furious voice from the front door.

  It was Gigantus.

  Sheba would have cheered if she had been able to move her mouth.

  Baba Anish spun to meet the new threat, and happened to meet Gigantus’s right fist, which was traveling toward his face at about a hundred miles an hour. It slammed into his mouth with a tooth-shattering crunch, accompanied by the sound of his jaw breaking in several places at once. He staggered back into the room, past the prone bodies of Mama Rat and Sheba, then Gigantus grabbed him by the collar and threw him through the bedroom window and out into the yard. He left a brief, shining arc of smashed glass and blood behind him, and then landed on the packed mud with a solid thump.

  Gigantus and Moon stood panting for a moment, looking at each other and the shattered mess around them. They were too tired for words, too tired to do anything but stare, until Mama Rat groaned and they both rushed to her side.

  “Hold still.”

  Sister Moon was trying to sew up the wound in Mama Rat’s shoulder. Baba Anish’s knife had cut deep, but luckily only into the muscle. Mama sat with her teeth gritted and her face pale. Sheba held her hand.

  “Did anyone see where the little idiot went?” Gigantus asked. He was downstairs by the broken front door, looking up and down the street for Monkeyboy. When nobody answered he shut the door, then tutted as it swung open again. “We’re going to need a new lock.”

  “And new window,” said Sister Moon. “Plumpscuttle go mad.”

  “Let’s hope he stays in hospital for a while, then,” muttered Gigantus.

  Sheba looked around the battered house. There was blood and broken glass all over the floor. The wall by the stairs had huge chunks and slices chopped out of it by Sister Moon and Baba Anish. Baba Anish . . .

  Still feeling shaky, she got to her feet and tottered to the smashed window. Being careful to avoid the broken glass around the edges, she looked down into the yard. There was nothing there. He was gone.

  She dashed down the stairs, calling to Gigantus, and ran into the yard. There was a large bloodstained spatter, where he must have landed, dotted with the twinkle of glass shards. Smaller puddles of red led through the open side gate, where they soon mingled with the muck and cobbles of Brick Lane, trampled into smudges by the crowds.

  “I shouldn’t worry,” said Gigantus from behind her. “I don’t expect he’ll last long after what we did to him. Someone’ll find his body on the street somewhere.”

  Sheba hoped someone would find him. Find him and chuck him into the river for the eels to eat, just like he’d tried to do to her. But even as Gigantus shut and bolted the gate, she couldn’t help feeling that they hadn’t seen the last of him.

  It was a few hours before Monkeyboy turned up. By then Mama Rat was properly bandaged and drinking tea, while Sheba had calmed Flossy down after his ordeal with the butcher, soaked in a hot bath, and put on some clean clothes. Her whole body was a mass of bruises and scrapes, and she felt as though she could sleep for a week. She was just telling the others what had happened to her in the tunnel again, when there was a pounding at the door.

  With the handle still bro
ken, it swung wide to reveal a group of angry-looking costermongers. They were leading a huge, grumpy shire horse, with a fuming Monkeyboy on its back.

  “Is this your blooming ’orse?” one said. He looked as though he wanted to thump someone. At least until Gigantus stood up and stomped over to the door.

  “Yes,” said Gigantus. “What of it?”

  “Oh, nothing, sir.” The costermonger took off his hat and cowered. “We just thought you’d like ’im back.”

  Gigantus took the reins, while the men hurried back along Brick Lane.

  Monkeyboy called after them. “I told you my friend was bigger than you!”

  “Watch who you’re calling friend, imp,” said Gigantus. But Sheba could tell he was secretly relieved to see Monkeyboy was back safe and sound.

  It turned out that Raggety had galloped straight to the nearest market and eaten almost an entire stall of flowers before the men had managed to drag him away. They would have called the police, had one of them not recognized Monkeyboy from Plumpscuttle’s sideshow.

  “They said they were going to give me a good hiding,” he said once Sheba had coaxed Raggety back in his stall with more sugar. “So I told them I hadn’t changed my undercrackers in six months.”

  “What now, then?” Mama Rat asked.

  There was a long, silent pause as everyone considered their options.

  “We know she’s going to rob the Great Exhibition tonight,” said Sheba. “Maybe we could tell the police, get them to arrest her?”

  Gigantus shook his craggy head. “No policeman in his right mind is going to believe a story like that. Especially when it comes from a bunch of weirdos like us.”

  “I know,” said Monkeyboy. “How about we just forget the whole thing? It was fun while it lasted, but nearly being killed more than once in a day is just being greedy.”

  Mama Rat pretended she hadn’t heard him. “Well, we don’t know where this doctor has taken the children — or why he wants them. But it’s bound to be something horrid. The only lead we have is the exhibition. You did say you wanted to see it, Sheba.”