Freaks

by Kieran Larwood

  “What material are you talking about?” asked Sheba, trying to keep calm. “What is it you’re taking from the children?”

  “Why, brains, of course!” The doctor looked at her as if she were stupid. “Precisely, the cells from the brain stem. In the correct solution, and with an electrical impulse to stimulate them, they somehow repair the body’s cells. Make them ‘normal’ again.”

  Sheba suddenly realized she had some cream on her hand still. With a shudder, she wiped it off on her dress.

  “But the children,” she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “If you cut their brains out, they’ll die!”

  “And what of it?” said Mrs. Crowley. “They are only starving urchins. Life is wasted on them. It’s likely none of them will live to adulthood, anyway, and if they do, what will their useless lives achieve? The breeding of even more diseased paupers?”

  The doctor picked up a jagged silver saw that looked sharp enough to cut through bone.

  “This is just a small sacrifice so that I can go on to achieve much greater things,” said Mrs. Crowley. “And you can join me, free from that hideous affliction which has landed you in a degrading freak show. You should be on your knees, thanking me for this opportunity.”

  Sheba looked at the terrified face of Till, strapped to the table and about to have the top of her head sliced off like a boiled egg.

  “No!” she cried. “Never! You can’t do this. It’s wrong!”

  Before she could reach for her pistol, or run at the insane doctor, she felt a pair of huge, steely hands close about her arms. It was Baba Anish. She hadn’t even noticed him get behind her.

  “Pity,” said Mrs. Crowley. “Too sentimental, that’s your problem. Just like your pathetic mother.” She looked at Baba Anish, who Sheba could feel growling behind her. “Make her watch this first one,” she said. “Then you can send her to your goddess.”

  Baba Anish held Sheba tight as the doctor moved closer to Till and lowered the saw to her head. Mrs. Crowley stood nearby, holding a metal basin and some kind of slicing scoop.

  “We have to be quick,” the doctor was saying. “The tissue must be placed in the charged solution before the cells start to decay.”

  His words seemed to echo in Sheba’s ears as if he were drifting far away. Suddenly she felt very hot, and it was difficult to breathe. The blood pounded and thrummed in her head, each heartbeat seemed to last a minute, and she realized she was fainting. Stay awake! she screamed to herself. Stay awake and do something!

  She saw the teeth of the bone saw pressing against Till’s forehead. She saw little drops of blood form as they dug into her tender skin. She saw the doctor’s goggling eyes, focused on their horrid task. A tiny bead of sweat was creeping down his temple at the speed of a snail.

  She saw Mrs. Crowley’s eyes crinkling at the corners, as if that hideous mouth of hers was smiling underneath its black silk neckerchief.

  And then she saw something silver flash across the table. It thudded into the doctor’s arm, sending tiny teardrops of blood flying outwards, like a red rose unfurling.

  It was followed by a bang that made Sheba’s ears ring, and Mrs. Crowley fell backward in slow motion, the bowl and scoop she was holding flying up into the air. Sheba’s terrified mind couldn’t fathom what was happening. All she could do was stare at the doctor’s arm. The thing that had hit him was shaped like a star. A perfect silver star twinkling in the gaslight.

  How on earth did a shooting star get in here? her addled mind wondered.

  And then she understood, and with understanding time sprang back to normal.

  She looked up.

  Sister Moon perched on one of the wooden benches, drawing another throwing star from her belt.

  Mama Rat stood on the steps, rats clustered about her shoulders, smoking flintlock pistol in her hand.

  Behind them came Gigantus, yelling a battle cry, and Monkeyboy clinging to his back, face white with terror.

  “You’re here!” Sheba shouted, tears of joy in her eyes. “You’re safe!”

  Behind her, Baba Anish let out a muffled roar. He moved one hand from her shoulder to draw his sword, and Sheba took her chance. She sank her needle-sharp fangs into his other wrist and then, when he let go with a roar of surprise, sprinted to the other side of the theater.

  “Save Till!” she shouted at her friends.

  Even as the Peculiars ran down the steps to where Sheba stood, the doctor was already turning to flee. Wailing with terror, he paused to snatch the generator from the table, scattering and smashing bottles everywhere in the process, and ran out of a narrow side door. Mrs. Crowley pulled herself up and followed him, slamming the little door behind her. Mama Rat’s shot had hit her side and she clutched it as she ran.

  “Get the others!” Sister Moon shouted. “I take the painted man!”

  The bandaged hulk drew his curved sword. He moved toward Sister Moon as she unsheathed both her swords and moved into a fighting stance. Sheba ran to the door, but found it locked tight. She frantically searched for a keyhole to pick, but Gigantus gently moved her aside.

  “Quicker if I break it, I think.”

  As the big man started to pound on the door, Sheba turned to watch Sister Moon fight the Indian.

  Baba Anish had looked murderous before, but now he was horrific. The paint daubed around his eyes was crisscrossed with fresh red cuts from the window glass he had been thrown through. His nose was squashed and crooked, the nostrils caked with dried blood. He looked at Sister Moon with a fury hot enough to melt lead, then, with a lung-rending howl, he launched himself at her, his sword whistling through the air, forcing her farther up the stairs to the plate-glass windows at the very back.

  As he charged, Moon let him come, opening her guard purposefully. Just as he began his deathstrike, she placed a foot in the center of his chest and let herself fall backward onto the floor. His momentum carried him over her head, and at exactly the right moment she kicked hard with her leg and sent him soaring through the air. The old plate-glass window was directly behind them, and for the second time that day, Baba Anish flew straight through the glass, smashing it with his face. With a disbelieving wail, he vanished into the foggy night, on his way to the ground at unpleasantly high speed.

  Sister Moon rolled up onto her knees, calmly returning to the seiza stance.

  “That for Matthew the rat,” she said.

  Sheba cheered, just as Gigantus broke open the door with a final blow. Weapons drawn, the Peculiars ran full pelt after Mrs. Crowley.

  Sheba sprinted down the crumbling corridors after the fleeing forms of the doctor and Mrs. Crowley. She saw them turn, heading through an open door to her right, and moments later she skidded through it herself.

  She emerged into a wide room, floorboards covered with brick dust and rubble. The doctor and Crowley were standing in the far corner, both gripping Faraday’s generator.

  “We had an agreement, you fool!” Mrs. Crowley was screaming. “You can have the machine after you’ve cured me!”

  “But those freaks!” the doctor yelled back. “They will kill us! Look at my arm!”

  “Stop right there!” Sheba shouted from the doorway. She had her pistol out again, and this time there was no hesitation. She fired a shot and the dart pinged across the room to hit the doctor right in the middle of his bald head. He instantly froze, clutching the generator in a rigor mortis grip.

  “Paralysis dart,” Sheba said as Gigantus and Mama Rat arrived behind her.

  Mrs. Crowley let out a throat-wrenching scream of fury. With shaking hands, she pulled out a box of lucifer matches and fumbled to strike one.

  “What’s she doing now?” asked Monkeyboy. “Smoking a pipe?”

  Sheba made a move across the room, just as Mrs. Crowley managed to light a match. She gave Sheba a la
st, hate-filled glance, then threw the flaming stick onto the floor. There was a hissing sound, and a cloud of stinking, sulfurous smoke.

  “Gunpowder!” Mama Rat shouted. “The building is booby-trapped!”

  Sheba watched in horror as a trail of fire zipped along the side of the room. She could now see a line of black powder that must have been set out earlier, just in case the evil woman needed to make an escape. It would probably lead to a keg somewhere; enough black powder to bring the crumbling old building down around them.

  She should have been filled with terror. She should have turned and run from the building. Instead she was filled with a sudden rush of anger. This woman, who had destroyed her family, hurt her friends, was about to escape into the night. There was no way she could let that happen.

  She felt the fur on her face stand and thicken. Her jaw stretched, her teeth sliding into spiked points. Time seemed to slow down. She casually noticed how her hands had squeezed themselves into paws, and she felt an irresistible urge to howl. This is it, she thought, I’ve finally become a proper wolf. She was surprised to find that this time she didn’t care.

  As the gunpowder ignited with a boom that shook the walls and threw the other Peculiars to the ground, Sheba fell on all fours and began to bound across the room toward Mrs. Crowley.

  There was fire and smoke everywhere. The explosion had come from the floor beneath, thrusting jagged floorboards up like splintered mountain ranges. It cracked the walls and sent bricks, slates, and chunks of timber raining from the ceiling.

  Sheba dodged all these with preternatural speed, jinking and swerving across the floor. Mrs. Crowley was at a door in the room’s corner, forcing it open whilst still trying to drag the generator from the doctor’s grip. The smoke in front of her parted, and the snarling form of Sheba came flying through.

  Mrs. Crowley gave an uncharacteristic squeal as Sheba landed in front of her. Letting go of the generator, she aimed a kick at the little wolfgirl’s head. Sheba dodged out of the way, and sank her teeth into the woman’s ankle.

  “You vicious animal!” Mrs. Crowley screamed. She reached down and grabbed Sheba by the hair, hauling her head up. In her state of rage, all Sheba wanted to do was bite again. She was almost too frenzied to notice the glinting thing that had appeared in Mrs. Crowley’s hand. The woman had a knife and was swinging it down toward her throat.

  Sheba tried to pull away, but her hair was held tight. The knife drew closer, cutting through the smoke in slow motion, now inches away from her neck. With wide eyes, Sheba saw the triumphant grin forming on Mrs. Crowley’s face; one that rapidly changed to horror as something small and betailed bounced off the nearest wall and onto her head.

  “Monkeyboy!” Sheba shouted.

  Mrs. Crowley screamed as the little imp perched on her shoulders, slapping and punching at her face. Sheba was about to help him, when the floor beneath her gave a violent lurch.

  She looked down. The floorboards had given way, opening up a fire-filled hole to the floor below. For one horrible moment she teetered, about to spill down into the flames, and then a hand was on her shoulder. It was Sister Moon, face smeared with soot. And then the ninja was pulling her clear, back through the smoke to safety.

  They dashed back across the room, dodging holes and falling bricks, until they were back at the far door again. Mama Rat and Gigantus were waiting for them and a few seconds later, Monkeyboy appeared, coughing and spluttering.

  “She threw me off,” he managed to say. “The slippery mare got away!”

  Sheba didn’t care. They all crowded around, wrapping their arms about each other, filled with an inexpressible joy that they were all safe and together again.

  “The mudlarks!” Sheba shouted, breaking free of the huddle. “We have to get them out!”

  Everyone instantly turned to run back to the operating theater, rushing to free the children before the fire took hold. Sheba followed, but not before sparing a backward glance through the smoke to where the hazy silhouette of the doctor stood, still paralyzed, and behind him the empty doorway through which Mrs. Crowley had escaped.

  The Peculiars herded the gaggle of dazed mudlarks out of the burning building. Till turned to Sheba and gave her a tight, fierce hug. The other children were just as grateful. They thronged each other and the Peculiars in a tearful huddle, unable to believe their long ordeal was finally over.

  Sheba felt like collapsing onto the ground and gulping in mouthfuls of the clear night air, but she knew they couldn’t stand around for long. It was only a matter of time before the police, already out in their hundreds, came to investigate the explosion.

  “We have to go,” she said, her voice croaky with smoke. The others nodded, and keeping to the shadows, the group headed out of the hospital grounds, passing the crumpled form of Baba Anish as they went.

  Part of Sheba wanted to stay and tell the police what had happened. They might be in time to rescue the doctor and the generator. They might be able to catch Mrs. Crowley and bring her to justice.

  But it was more likely they would laugh in their faces, all the way to the nearest cells. They were nothing but a gaggle of rag-tag sideshow freaks after all. And, at the very worst, they might even think they had stolen the generator themselves. Judging by all the police and soldiers, the theft was being treated as a matter of national security, and Sheba didn’t really fancy her head being stuck on a spike on top of Temple Bar.

  No, it was better that nobody knew they were involved. They had stopped Mrs. Crowley and saved the children. That was all that mattered. As the first policemen came running, blowing their whistles and shouting for help, Sheba and the others slipped through the crowds on Hyde Park Corner and home, to Brick Lane, with Till clutching Sheba’s hand all the way.

  The morning edition of the Times was full of speculation about the events in Hyde Park. The front page showed a drawing of the Crystal Palace with flames rising from a gaping hole in its side, and beneath it the article read:

  BURGLARY AND BOMBS AT THE GREAT EXHIBITION

  At around midnight last night, Hyde Park was host to a tragic spectacle. The Crystal Palace, site of the Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations, fell victim to a malicious and cowardly attack.

  Persons unknown managed to gain access to the North Gallery by cutting through the glass wall. They then removed at least one of the exhibits, before placing an explosive device in the Refreshment Court. Thanks to the diligence and bravery of London’s Fire Brigades, none of the displays was lost.

  Prince Albert himself is due to inspect the damage this morning, and it is expected the exhibition will remain closed for at least two days.

  There was also a piece on the theft, which Sheba read eagerly:

  FAILED ATTEMPT TO STEAL FARRADAY’S GENERATOR

  It seems that the target of last night’s raid on the Great Exhibition was the Electromagnetic Impulse Generator, designed and built by Mr. Michael Faraday, one of the exhibition judges.

  A revolutionary new design, the generator is capable of creating the strongest electrical impulses yet achieved, with its inventor claiming that one day similar machines will replace steam and water power throughout the nation.

  Ultimately, however, the plot was foiled. The criminals chose one of the derelict buildings of the old St. George’s Hospital as their lair, which then caught fire. The first policemen on the scene discovered the missing device, and also apprehended two criminals. One was a Dr. Everard Whitmore of Rotherhithe, the other an unknown foreigner who is thought to be a mystic.

  Both men were severely injured and are now in police custody, while the generator has been returned to Mr. Faraday.

  Sheba folded the paper and placed it back on the kitchen table. She was glad it had all turned out all right, but couldn’t help a twinge of envy. It should have been us in the papers, she tho
ught. Instead nobody would ever know who had really stopped Mrs. Crowley.

  Although that wasn’t quite true. The parlor at Brick Lane was full of little sleeping people who would remember. They filled up most of the floor space, curled around each other, gently snoring. And after all, everything the Peculiars had done hadn’t really been anything to do with foiling burglaries or catching criminals. It had been about keeping those children safe.

  Sheba hopped down from the table and started to stoke up the stove, ready to put some coffee on for breakfast.

  A few hours later, everyone was sitting in the front room, talking about the events of the night before. Upstairs in the bedroom, Gigantus had hauled up the tin bath and filled it with water from the street pump, warmed over the fire. The mudlarks were taking it in turns to have the first bath of their lives, and the sounds of whoops and splashes drifted down every now and then.

  “But what happened when the bomb went off?” Sheba was asking. “How come none of you were hurt?”

  “Luck, I suppose,” said Mama Rat. “It just happened none of us was near it at the time. If we hadn’t split up to find that woman, it might have been a different story.”

  “And how did you get out without being caught? The place was crawling with soldiers when I left.”

  “We all ran back to the east wing when we heard the blast,” said Gigantus. He was writing in his notebook again, pen scratching across the paper, just as if the events of the past few days had never happened. “The guards were so busy with the fire, we managed to slip out of Sister Moon’s hole in the glass and join the crowds.”

  “And then we find this,” said Sister Moon. She held up the chipped marble that Till had given Sheba. “It must fall from your pocket. Before that, we think you stuck in exhibition, or hurt by bomb. Then Monkeyboy spot you running down Rotten Row.”

  “That was very clever of you, Monkey,” said Sheba as he puffed out his chest.