Freaks (15 page)

The fog had really set in now, and every step she took sent her deeper into the blankness. She held her breath, ready to run away screaming at the slightest movement. It was difficult to judge exactly where she was going, but by counting her steps she estimated she had gone ten yards or so when she came across a gaping crater in the mud. It was releasing waves of stink so strong that Sheba nearly keeled over backward. She clamped the handkerchief harder over her nose and peered at the ground.

There were droplets of glowing white liquid on the crater's surface, leading up the bank to a crumbling brick wall and into a rank-smelling tunnel. The entrance was partly hidden by rotten planks of wood, slimy weeds, and a rusty grate. It looked (and smelt) just like any other sewer outlet along the riverbank. Sheba would never have spotted it, had it not been for the phosphorus.
That Sister Moon knows a few tricks
, she thought.

Note where the trail leads, and nothing more.
That's what Moon had said. But it couldn't hurt if she had a
little
look. Could it?

Holding her breath, Sheba slipped behind the stack of rotting timber and pulled open the rusty grate. It squealed noisily, and she winced, but there was now enough space for her to squeeze through. The white drops continued up the tunnel; she could see them glowing well into the distance. She took a tentative step into the tunnel mouth, then stopped. The gate swung shut behind her. She couldn't be sure, but it had looked like part of the glowing trail had
moved
.

Sheba froze. Her heart skipped a beat. There was a scraping sound from farther up the shaft, and the drops shifted again. Slowly it came to her: the very farthest spot of light wasn't part of the trail. . . . It was like a yellow eye . . . The realization hit her with a sickening thud.
The crab was still in the tunnel!

She turned and ran back to the grate. But it was now jammed in place. From behind her, she could hear the sound of something scraping against the stonework, getting louder and closer by the second. The fur on her neck was standing up. She began to growl. There was the chuff of an engine and the hiss of steam and the clank of broken machinery. Her claws were out. She grabbed the grate and pushed with all her strength. She could smell it now: hot oil and smoke, river mud and coal dust. For a terrible moment she thought the grate wasn't going to shift, then suddenly it gave way and she tumbled free of the tunnel mouth, landing on her face in the slimy weeds outside.
I'm safe
, she thought.
All I have to do is get back to the others and tell them where the tunnel is.

She heaved herself up on all fours, ready to run, when she felt something close around her ankle.

Something cold, hard, serrated . . .

The crab had reached out a claw and grabbed her. With irresistible, mechanical strength, it began to pull her in.

Sheba let out one terrified, growling shriek before she was hauled out of sight and back into the tunnel.

Sheba was woken by a dim light. At first she thought she was in her bed at Brick Lane, that the night before had been some awful nightmare. Her body soon told her otherwise.

She was frozen to the bone, her dress and cloak clinging in damp, icy folds all over her. Her ankle felt as though it had been run through a mangle. There was a lump on the side of her head that made her head spin every time she moved. Her entire body was stiff and sore. Beneath her she could feel slimy stone. If what had woken her was daylight, then she must have been knocked out cold for the whole night.

With a burst of effort that made flashes appear before her eyes, Sheba pushed herself upright and looked around. Her woozy sight was still adjusting, but she could see she was in some kind of chamber. The daylight came from somewhere to the left.
Must be the tunnel entrance
, she thought. All she could smell was the filthy stink of the river and the rusty scent of hot metal and steam.

She tried to raise a hand to the bump on her head, and briefly panicked when she couldn't. Then she realized her hands had been tied in front of her at the wrist. Coarse rope burnt her furry skin, and her fingertips tingled where the circulation had been cut off. She stretched out her bound hands and touched a series of vertical iron bars.

She was in a cage. Again.

Most people would probably have found this a terrifying discovery, but Sheba had spent most of her life locked away. There was a stone wall behind her; she leant back on it calmly and assessed her situation.

The crab had caught her last night, and its pilot — the painted man, she assumed — had tied her up and thrown her in a cage. She had found the crab's secret hideaway, but the knowledge was useless unless she could tell someone.

Sheba patted her pockets. Whoever had bound her had not thought to search her first. She still had her hairpins and the clockwork pistol. Hopefully it would still work despite the damp. Could she manage to pick the lock with her hands tied? Maybe she could use her claws to scratch through her rope bindings.

A sudden noise beside her made her jump. Peering into the gloom, she found her eyes had adjusted and she could make out vague shapes. There seemed to be more cages. Six or seven at least. In the one next to her, a small, dark bundle was stirring.

“Hello?” she whispered. “Is anyone there?”

The bundle of rags twitched some more, and then Sheba saw the glint of two large, frightened eyes blinking rapidly.

“Hello?” Sheba tried again. Then she frowned. Was there a familiar scent under the rank stench of river mud? “Is . . . is that you, Till?”

“Who are you?” The voice that came from the ragged lump was cracked and broken, the voice of someone who hadn't spoken for a long while, but it was enough for Sheba to recognize her friend.

“It's me. Sheba. The girl from the sideshow. The one with . . . with the hair.”

The lump moved some more, growing one spindly white arm, then another, and gradually unfolding into the shape of a tiny girl. She shuffled forward, her bony fingers clutching the iron bars between them.

“Sheba?” The hope in her voice was almost painful to hear. “But . . . what are you doing here? Did the monster get you?”

Sheba slid over to the bars, ignoring the sudden pain in her head and ankle. She lifted her bound hands and put them over Till's.

“Till! I'm so glad I've found you! We've been searching and searching for days.”

“You've been searching for me?” Till blinked in surprise. “But I only met you once. Why would you come looking for a scrap of nothing like me?”

“Because . . . because you were nice to me.” Sheba didn't know how to explain that nobody
normal
had ever shown kindness to her before. It made her feel embarrassed somehow. Cemented the fact she was so different, so freakish. She tried to change the subject. “And your parents, they came to us and asked us to help.”

“My parents?” Till's eyes glistened and sparkled in the gloom.

Sheba gave the little girl's fingers a gentle squeeze. “Yes, they've been looking, too. But it's all right now. I've found you. I can tell them where you are.”

“And how are you going to do that, when you're locked in here?” said another voice from farther inside the chamber.

Sheba jumped, fearing it might be Mrs. Crowley — even though she hadn't smelt her — but whoever it was sounded as tired, weak, and terrified as Till.

“There's more of us here,” Till explained. “Eight others. We all got taken by the monster. We've tried to escape, but there's no way out.”

“There is now,” Sheba said. “I just have to get these ropes off.”

“It's no good,” said Till. “The cages are locked. And they comes to check on us all the time. If they think we've been trying to escape, they beat us.”

“Who are
they
?” Sheba asked.

“We call her the Night Lady,” said Till, “the one what wears black. Her and the big man with the painted face. And sometimes there's another. A man with white hair and spectacles. He doesn't hit us, though. He just prods us and measures us with his devices.”

Sheba absorbed this information. “Have they said anything to you? Told you why you were taken?”

Till shook her head. “They don't speak much to us. The Night Lady just laughs when we cry. Then she gets the painted man to hit us. It's better if you don't make a sound.”

“
I've
heard them talking, though,” another voice called out. This one came from the black murk at the far end of the chamber. “I been here the longest, see. Back when there was just me, I heard them talking together. About something they wanted. A prize, they said. In Hyde Park.”

Sheba recalled the conversation from the Paradise Street house again.
Are you sure you will be able to get it?
the doctor had said.
They have it very well guarded. . . .
Whatever they were after was in Hyde Park. She was about to ask what was so special about the place when she remembered Mama Rat's newspaper. The Great Exhibition was in Hyde Park.

Were they going to rob the Crystal Palace? What for? She racked her aching head for what she could remember of the exhibits. The crystal fountain? No, too big. One of the sculptures? Or a machine? None seemed worth all this trouble. Something Mrs. Crowley most desired, she had said. What did grown-ups most desire? Money? Fame? Gold? Jewels . . .

“Was it a jewel?” she asked hesitantly. “Did the woman mention a diamond?”

There was a moment's silence from the cages, then one of the voices spoke.

“She might have,” it said.

“I think she did,” called another.

The Koh-i-Noor. That had to be it. Mrs. Crowley was after the world's biggest diamond. Maybe she was going to make the children steal it.

“We have to get out of here,” Sheba whispered to Till.

“But I told you,” Till whispered back. “There's no way out. The cages are locked.”

“Not for long,” said Sheba. She began to wriggle and turn her wrists, ignoring the burning and chafing, trying to loosen the rope so she could get her hands free. In her panic, she could feel the wolf inside her growing. But instead of suppressing it, she let it in, welcoming the extra surge of strength and ferocity it gave her.

The rope ripped hair from her arms and blistered her skin, but she kept pulling and pulling. Eventually she felt it begin to loosen a little. A bit more and she could squeeze a hand free.

A booming
clang
echoed from somewhere beyond the chamber. It was followed by voices, distant at first, but growing rapidly closer.

“They're coming!” Till hissed, dashing to the back of her cage. “Sheba, they're coming!”

There was the shrill sound of squeaking hinges, and the grating of ancient wood on stone. Somewhere a door was being opened. Sheba strained to see, and was instantly blinded by a flare of searing light. Falling backward, hands pressed over her face, she thought there had been some kind of silent explosion, but as she peered through her fingers she could see it was only the light from a lantern.

There were three figures. Without much surprise, she recognized Mrs. Crowley, the painted man she had called Baba Anish, and the frizzy-haired doctor. She could smell the doctor's twisted medical stink, and the pungent incense of the other. A cruel, curved sword hung at his side, and he had freshly painted his face with glistening black whorls. His eyes were rimmed with black and his long, matted locks were coiled on the top of his head in a swirling bundle. He looked even more hostile than when Sheba had last seen him. Perhaps he was angry that they had speared his machine.

She also noticed the dark passageway they had stepped from. Where did it lead? Back to Paradise Street?
I knew there was a reason for her staying there.
The fact she had been right didn't give Sheba much satisfaction now.

Mrs. Crowley paused to light a torch on the wall. Now Sheba could see they were indeed in a large chamber made of heavy stone. Ribbed arches supported the roof. They looked ancient, crumbling. A row of cages stretched around the wall, each one holding the small, shivering body of a child. To her left was what had to be the tunnel entrance, glowing dimly. Down there, just the length of a short dash, were the river, her friends, and freedom. But it might as well have been a hundred miles away.

Right in front of the cages was a wide pit. Steps led down to a muddy bottom, where the mechanical crab sat in a mud-spattered pile. Hooked chains on pulleys dangled over it. Sheba could clearly see Sister Moon's whaling harpoon jutting out of the crab's back. She had thrown it perfectly: Its barbed tip had sunk straight into the machinery inside. Even now smoke was slowly leaking from the machine while thick oil poured out to pool around it like clotting blood. It looked dead, if that could be true of something that had never really lived. It was broken, at any rate. If Sheba hadn't achieved anything else, at least it wouldn't be snatching any more mudlarks from the river.

“A harpoon? I don't believe it,” Mrs. Crowley said. Her lisping voice echoed around the stone room, making Sheba jump. “Has the thing been badly damaged?”

“I can't get it to work anymore,” said Baba Anish. “And without the puppet man—”

“Those interfering freaks!” Mrs. Crowley slammed her lantern down on the floor, cracking the glass. It was the first time Sheba had seen a dent in her cool exterior. “I thought you said you'd warned them off? Didn't you beat their leader hard enough?”

The painted man shrugged. Sheba wondered who they meant by “leader.” Then she realized it was Plumpscuttle. If she hadn't been so scared out of her wits, she might have laughed.

“Where is the one you captured?”

Baba Anish pointed to Sheba's cage.

Mrs. Crowley walking toward her was like a shadow peeling itself from the wall and becoming solid. Under the featureless veil, Sheba imagined a face twisted in rage. But instead of cowering back, Sheba rose on her knees, snarling and showing her white little fangs. She could smell the chemical odor of the woman quite strongly now, and beneath it that familiar odor she couldn't quite place. A flower of some kind? A perfume? It was definitely something she had smelt before. But where?

The veiled woman paused outside the cage, and seemed to be staring at her again, just like she had in the graveyard. It was a different kind of stare to the ones Sheba usually received. More intense. She could almost feel the woman thinking as the seconds of silence ticked by.

She's probably deciding on the best place to kick me
, Sheba thought. But when Mrs. Crowley spoke, her voice was calm. She sounded almost amused.

“It's the little girl, is it? The rat woman's ‘daughter,' if that is to be believed. Were you the one snooping around my house, or was it one of your . . .
malformed
friends?” The woman almost spat the word, making Sheba wince.

“It was me,” said Sheba. Let her take whatever punishment this horrid woman would give, if it meant the others would be left alone.

“On your own? I hardly think so. I suppose you expect me to believe you threw the harpoon that ruined my machine as well?”

“No, but I followed the trail.”

Mrs. Crowley looked again at the crab. The bottle hanging from the harpoon end still trickled drops of phosphorus onto the rusty carapace.

“Very ingenious,” said Mrs. Crowley. “But for all your cunning, it only got you as far as this cage. I would call that a failure, wouldn't you?”

“I know what you're planning,” Sheba said. “That's not a failure.” It probably wasn't the best thing to blurt out, but the woman was making Sheba angry. Even as she spoke she could feel her snout jutting out and her ears tweaking into points.

Mrs. Crowley gave a tinkling laugh. “Come on, then. Let's hear it.”

“You're going to steal the Koh-i-Noor from the Great Exhibition!” Sheba shouted. “You're going to make the children take it, so they get the blame!”