Freaks

by Kieran Larwood

  “I know,” he said, beaming.

  “We watched you following Mrs. Crowley into that old hospital,” said Mama Rat. “We would have caught up to you sooner, had it not been so crowded. Thank goodness we got there in time. What you did was very brave, though, Sheba.”

  Sheba blushed beneath her fur. She didn’t know what to say. She was saved from further embarrassment by the mudlarks coming down the stairs. It was strange to see them so clean and happy; they were like a completely different group of children. Sheba could see their faces properly now, without the coating of mud. There were rosy cheeks, freckles, and happy smiles. They looked more like a school class on an outing than a bunch of kidnap victims recently saved from certain death.

  “I’ll get some soup on,” said Mama Rat. “Feed you lot up a bit. Won’t be long until Large ’Arry reads my little message, if Bartholomew rat gets his skates on.”

  Not long after that there was a knock at the door. Sister Moon opened it to reveal a group of nervous-looking figures, clad in shapeless, muddy rags. They were bowing and scraping, and trying to peep past Sister Moon at the same time.

  Sheba recognized Till’s ma and pa, along with another boy who might have been Barney Bilge (it was difficult to tell, because last time she saw him, he had been completely covered in wet mud). Behind them were even more people, all clutching their caps in their hands and chattering excitedly.

  When Moon stepped aside, they all rushed through and gathered the children in such tight embraces that Sheba began to worry their stick-thin limbs might snap. The parlor was full to bursting, and the Peculiars found themselves pushed back against the stairs. But it was a heartwarming sight, and Sheba felt a lump in her throat, especially now that she knew such a reunion would never be hers.

  Her father was dead, her mother lost, and her family fortune stolen by Mrs. Crowley. She had nothing left. Not even the hope-filled daydreams of a normal life. It was like everything she had ever wanted had just been dangled before her eyes, only to be snatched away again. Forever.

  She glanced up to see Gigantus blinking rapidly and pretending to look at something on the ceiling. She silently offered him her hanky, then had to wring the sodden little piece of cloth out after he gave it back.

  “Your amazing worshipfulnesses . . .” said Till’s father, as soon as the hugging and kissing was over. “I ’as got no idea ’ow we is ever going to fank you. We never fought we’d see our dear little’uns again, and now ’ere they are, all bafed and everything! I never imagined a child of mine would live to ’ave a proper baf.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Sheba, Monkeyboy, and Sister Moon together. Seeing the reunion made everything they’d been through seem worthwhile.

  “I knew you’d come frough for us,” said the father mudlark. “We is so used to losing young ’uns to the river and the sickness and a ’undred other things. It’s our way of life, and no one but us seems to care. We didn’t expect you to, neither, but I’m very glad to say we was wrong.”

  Sister Moon bowed gracefully, while the rest of them just beamed. Most of the other families left with their children, after shaking the Peculiars’ hands in turn. Till’s family hung back after the rest, and accepted Mama Rat’s offer of tea. They stayed for most of the afternoon, listening with rapt fascination as the Peculiars recounted the story of the rescue. As Sheba heard it retold, she was struck by how incredible it sounded, but the mudlarks never once questioned it. They only stopped every now and then to wail in terror or sympathy, or to heap excessive praises on each of the Peculiars in turn. They even had the decency not to stare too much, although she did notice Till’s ma absentmindedly stroking her cheeks when she looked at her, as if she was wondering what a coat of fur would feel like.

  At the end of the story, they all broke into applause and Till hugged Sheba tightly again.

  “What will you do now?” Sheba asked. She didn’t like the thought of her new friend going back to a life of dangerous scavenging, even if there were no longer strange mechanical creatures lurking in the mud.

  “Well, miss,” said the father mudlark, “first, we is going to fank Large ’Arry for all his ’elp. Then meself, the missus, Till, and ’er brothers will be leaving the city.”

  “Leaving?” Till and Sheba said together.

  “Yes,” said Till’s mother. “I ’ave a cousin what works on a farm down in Kent. A place called Stanhope Farm. She’s always said there’s room for us there. The children can work picking ’ops, and Tam and me can labor on the farm.”

  “It’ll be a better life for us all,” said the father.

  Till looked at Sheba with tearful eyes. “I won’t ever see you again, will I?”

  Sheba shook her head, too heartbroken to speak.

  “I don’t know about that,” said Mama Rat.

  “Aye. We often go down that way in the summer, when the fayres are on,” added Gigantus.

  “We find a way to make Plumpscuttle go to Kent,” said Sister Moon.

  “Just as long as there’s something to eat besides turnips,” Monkeyboy added. “My arse can’t handle all that again.”

  “Promise you’ll come see me,” Till said, squeezing Sheba’s hands. “Promise!”

  “I will, I promise!” Sheba said, laughing. Next summer was a long way away, but it was better than nothing.

  With that, the mudlarks prepared to leave. Before heading out the door, they bowed and smiled at each of the Peculiars in turn, so that Sheba began to feel as though she was some kind of royalty. As she watched them disappear down Brick Lane on the way back to the river, she held the chipped marble Till had given her when they had first met. She looked at it for a moment, squeezed it tight, then took it upstairs to place inside her ebony box.

  Afterward, she sat for a long time, running her fingers over the carved jasmine flowers. This box must have come from India, too, she thought. Perhaps it was my mother’s? It made her think again of Mrs. Crowley’s story, opening everything up like a fresh wound. Those little, star-shaped flowers, just like the ones at the exhibition. But she had seen them somewhere else recently, too. Where had it been?

  Shortly after that, they received another visitor, a messenger, this time from the London Hospital. He brought them a note that said Plumpscuttle had almost fully recovered, and would be returning the next day.

  The Peculiars all groaned. Without the gluttonous Plumpscuttle, their little house was quite a pleasant place to live. Now they would have to return to being slaves and exhibits.

  “We should have charged those mud-sloppers a blooming fortune. Then we could have done a runner while fat ginger-knickers was on his sickbed,” said Monkeyboy, as he stomped off to his cage to sulk.

  “And what would they have paid us with, exactly?” said Gigantus. “Half a ton of raw sewage?”

  “I’d rather have a load of rotten poo than that blubbery bully, any day,” Monkeyboy called back from the yard.

  Sheba was inclined to agree. Still, a free afternoon gave her time to run a little errand or two.

  Leaving the others to repair the house as much as possible, she padded upstairs to fetch something hidden under a certain strongman’s bed. While he was still scribbling in his journal, she slipped out of the house.

  After making a brief stop-off in Whitechapel, Sheba caught an omnibus south of the river. She sat in the furthest corner, squashed against the side by a plump businessman in a stovepipe hat. Her hood was pulled low over her face, and she clutched the pennies she had borrowed from Mama Rat in her fist, waiting for the conductor. She was terrified she might miss her stop and end up lost in London, but there wasn’t time to walk to her destination and back.

  When the omnibus finally pulled up at a riverside tavern called the Angel, Sheba was glad to escape its cramped, sweaty confines and stretch her legs. She took a moment to look out at the river, safe now
— at least from Baba Anish and his machine — thanks to her and her friends. Although none of the hundreds of people working, steaming, and sailing up and down the Thames right now knew a thing about it.

  She could have stood there all day, working up the courage for what she had to do. Instead she forced her feet to walk along the Rotherhithe Wall and turn down Love Lane. A little farther on, and she emerged on Paradise Street. A few doors down on her left was number 17.

  Just as before, she slipped around the back and opened the lock with her hairpins. Just as before, her breath came quick and shallow, as she imagined Mrs. Crowley sitting inside, waiting for her. But she wouldn’t be stupid enough to come back, Sheba told herself. Would she?

  The house was silent and still again, although this time shards of daylight slipped in through the grimy windows, filling the air with glowing motes of dust. Sheba tiptoed through the kitchen and up the stairs, all the while clutching the pistol in her coat pocket, just in case.

  When she reached the third floor, she paused. There was the keyhole she had spied through. There was the room they had hidden in and there, on the dirty floorboards, was a rusty puddle of dried blood where Matthew had met his end.

  Sheba had been thinking a lot about this place. She had been thinking especially of the paintings in that room, of the carved wood that framed them.

  She took a deep breath and walked to the door, pushing it wide, then stepped into the room, pistol raised.

  The high-backed armchair was there, a dark shape in the middle. Sheba squeezed the trigger, shooting a dart. There was a soft pop of bursting leather as it hit the empty chair back. There was nothing there: just shadow.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Sheba looked around the room. Someone had been here, and they had left in a hurry. The furniture was toppled and strewn; everything of value had been taken. Mrs. Crowley had gone.

  But the paintings were still there.

  Sheba moved closer, looking at the frames first. They were made of dark ebony and all around them were twining jasmine flowers. Just like the ones on her box.

  Now that she knew, she took her time stepping backward and looking up. She was finally going to meet her parents.

  Her father was a stern, proud-looking man. He wore the red uniform of the British army, his chest covered with medals. The dusty hills behind him must be somewhere in India. Maybe the place Sheba grew up. She tried to imagine him drunk and raving, as Mrs. Crowley had described. But he didn’t look weak enough. And to let that woman take everything from him . . .

  It was too painful to think about. Instead, she turned to her mother. She was beautiful, so beautiful it made Sheba cry. She wore a dress of white silk and gazed out of the picture with a kind, loving smile. And her eyes. They were the same shape, the same amber color as hers. She recognized her now. Remembered her.

  Sheba gazed at the painting, wanting to take in every detail before she left. She memorized her mother’s hair, the shape of her nose, her lips. And her hands . . . She peered closer, her heart beating just a little faster. Were the nails slightly pointed? Almost clawlike?

  Sheba clutched her own hands together, squeezing hard. Could her mother have been like her? Would she really have been ashamed of her daughter, like Mrs. Crowley said? Deep in her bones, Sheba knew it wasn’t true. After all, she’d taken Sheba with her when she had left India. She would never really know why she had come to England, but that wasn’t important. All that mattered was that she had taken Sheba with her.

  It was time to go now. There would be many hours to think over her parents and what might have happened to them. Sheba wished she could pack up the portraits and take them with her, but they were too huge, and would involve too much explaining. For now, this was her secret. She would leave them here in this dusty house, knowing she could come back to see them whenever she wished. That was good enough.

  Later on, at suppertime, the Peculiars gathered around the kitchen table for their last free meal without Plumpscuttle. Out in the yard, Raggety and Flossy had an extra helping of oats, and Sheba ladled out Penny Dip into bowls as Sister Moon handed them around.

  Mama Rat was beaming. The other rats had brought her a present that morning: a greasy little baby rat they had found abandoned in a sewer somewhere. She was feeding it little scraps of chewed meat.

  “I’m going to call you Paul,” she cooed as the scraggly thing let out a piteous mewl.

  Sheba concentrated on keeping down her mutton.

  Monkeyboy was in an uncommonly good mood, too. He was telling everyone about his heroics of the other night in great detail. Something had also pleased Sister Moon. Whether it was rescuing the children, or getting the better of Baba Anish, Sheba couldn’t tell, but her smile was especially serene.

  The only person who wasn’t in a jubilant mood was Gigantus. He was obviously having trouble with his writing, and kept scribbling out passages in his journal in between mouthfuls. Sheba thought she knew what would cheer him up, though.

  When the stew was finished, she stood on her stool and cleared her throat.

  “If you please,” she said, “I have an announcement to make.”

  All eyes turned to her.

  “Today I took the book Gigantus has been writing—”

  “You did what?!” The big man jumped from his stool, his face going pink with rage.

  But Sheba carried on. “I took your book and showed it to the printers on Whitechapel Road,” she said. “I’m really sorry, but when I found it — by accident, of course — I just couldn’t stop reading it. It deserves better than being hidden under your mattress, Gigantus. And the printers thought so, too. They read it there and then, and they want to publish it in their magazine.”

  “My book?” said Gigantus. “It’s going to be published? In a real magazine?”

  He stood silent, face impassive and steely eyes fixed on Sheba in a frown. She began to wonder if she might have done something really stupid when Gigantus suddenly rushed around the table at her. She squeezed her eyes shut and flinched, but instead of pounding her into paste, he grabbed her in a huge bear hug.

  “Thank you,” he said, tears in his eyes. “I should be furious with you, but thank you. Thank you.”

  “Are you going to publish it in your own name?” Sheba asked when the big man had finally let go.

  “I don’t think Gabriel Greepthick would go down too well,” he said. “Gertrude Lacygusset is much better.”

  “Gabriel!” Monkeyboy screamed with laughter. “That’s a girl’s name!”

  “Well, it’s better than Timbert Tibbs,” said Gigantus. He looked as if he regretted opening his mouth.

  “I don’t actually know any of your real names,” said Sheba. It was something she’d never even thought about.

  “Akiko,” said Sister Moon, bowing.

  “And I’m Marie,” said Mama Rat. “And how about you, dearie? Do you know your real name?”

  “It’s Sheba,” she said. “I know that now for sure. Sheba is the name my mother gave me.”

  “Well, now that we’ve all been properly introduced, I think it’s high time for a celebration,” said Mama Rat.

  The rest of the Peculiars cheered.

  At least until they heard the front door slam.

  Plumpscuttle’s gurgling baritone yelled at them from the parlor.

  “What, in the name of Prince Albert’s moustache, has happened to my pigging front door? And why does my house stink like a week-old chamber pot? Has someone been carving chunks out of my wall? And the bath is out! Who said you lot could have a bath? Get out here and explain yourselves!”

  Plumpscuttle’s stay in hospital had done nothing to improve his temper. His face was still puffy and bruised, and thick bandages could be seen beneath his shirt. The thing that seemed to have annoyed him most, however, was having had to eat
cabbage soup instead of five dinners.

  He spent the best part of an hour insulting the Peculiars, before stamping up the stairs to his bedroom. Then he noticed the blanket covering the smashed window, and came back down to shout all over again. Finally he left them to get ready for a show, “to pay for all the chuffing damage to the house.”

  For once they all joined Monkeyboy in making rude gestures behind his back. Then they set about putting up the sheets and tarpaulins for showtime.

  By the time Plumpscuttle’s dozy nephew turned up to man the door, they were just hanging up the last string of lanterns. Phineas stood watching them mutely, while he rooted around in his left nostril with a pudgy finger. Right on cue, Plumpscuttle emerged from his room dressed in an almost-clean suit. He was verging on cheerful, clearly glad at being out of the less-than-hygienic hospital ward.

  The Peculiars shuffled off to their various parts of the house, ready for the show to begin.

  Sheba sat on her little stool in the corner of their bedroom. She stared glumly at the sheets hanging in front of her, watching as the silhouette of Sister Moon moved in a graceful ballet with her twin sword blades tracing arcs and spirals, and listening to the sounds of the others going through their acts. A few hours ago she had been fighting villains and rescuing lost children, and now she was sitting like a sack of potatoes, waiting for people to shriek at the sight of her.

  As the first customers came thumping up the stairs, she tried to drum up the enthusiasm to make herself look as freakish as possible. It wasn’t working. Once you had spent a few days fighting hand to hand with twisted machines and evil forces, sitting in a sideshow seemed astoundingly dull. I’m so much more than just a lonely freak now, she thought. I’m part of a team. And I have a mother that loves me. Or at least I did.

  The realization made her pull herself upright and jut out her chin. Her fur bristled, and she let her growing canines pop out over her lip. Let these people gawk and whisper at her if they wanted. How many of them had saved children and stopped evil maniacs?