Freaks (9 page)

The rendezvous with Mrs. Crowley was still on Sheba's mind the next morning. Something about it was bothering her as she sipped her coffee in the kitchen. To take her mind off it, she picked up Mama Rat's newspaper once more and found herself looking at the small advertisement section. Her breath caught for a moment.

On these pages there were usually offers of miracle cures — for baldness or flatulence — and requests for new maids and governesses, but she had once seen a notice placed by a mother searching for her child. It hadn't been a heart-wrenching plea, or a dramatic tale of loss, just a simple
Mother searching for daughter given up when three. Blonde hair, blue eyes, answered to Kitty
. Ever since then she had read the advertisement section with a mixture of longing and loathing.
What if she's looking for you, too?
the voice in her head would say.
There could be a notice about you in this
very
paper.
She detested that voice, and the way a part of her believed it.
Don't even bother reading it
, she told herself
. Just throw the paper away this time.
So she did.

Out in the yard, Gigantus was limbering up for his morning's exercises. Sister Moon sat with her eyes closed, deep in thought. Mama Rat had a saucepan of hot, soapy water, and was trying to coax her rats out of a hole by the kitchen door.

“You're not seriously going to give those wretched rodents a bath, are you?” Monkeyboy called down from his perch on the fence.

“I am indeed,” said Mama Rat, over her shoulder. “And if you make any of your stupid jokes, you'll be next.”

“Not likely. I've spent years building up this unique aroma, you know.” The threat of clean water made him skip neatly along the fence, a safe distance away, before he gave a sudden yell. “Visitors again! It's them mudlark folk back, and they've brought someone with them.”

Everyone except Mama Rat and Sister Moon dashed back into the house. Sheba shut the back door behind her, then turned to peer through the keyhole.

There came a weak tapping at the gate, before it swung open to reveal once more the cowering forms of Till's parents. They looked more than ever like two lumps of mud that had somehow grown legs. Between them stood another mudlark, this one literally caked in drying clay and stinking like an open sewer. For a moment Sheba's heart leapt, thinking it might be Till, but on closer inspection she could see it was a boy. He clutched the splintered end of a long pole in one hand.

“Begging your gentlefolk's pardon, but we 'as some information which we fink might be of use,” said the man, bobbing his head like a very humble woodpecker. “You did say we was to call on you if that should be the case . . .”

“Of course, of course,” said Mama Rat. “Come in, please.”

The three of them shuffled into the yard and shut the gate behind them. When they were safely inside, and with no means of immediate escape, Mama Rat beckoned to the other Peculiars in the house.

“If you don't mind,” she said, “I'd like my colleagues to hear this. They do look slightly unusual, but please don't be alarmed.”

The mudlarks stared as Sheba, Monkeyboy, and Gigantus came out of the kitchen and into the yard.

“We is . . . er . . . very 'onored to make your acquaintance,” said the father mudlark at last, taking off his hat and holding it on his chest. Sheba felt a surge of grateful admiration. Many other folk would have run screaming, or at least fainted with shock.

“Pleased to meet you, too,” said Sheba.

The mud-caked boy goggled at her, but the lady managed a kind of smile.

“What you have to tell us?” asked Sister Moon. The mudlarks looked briefly startled, as they remembered why they had come to this surreal freak show in the first place.

“If you please, your unusualnesses, our friend Barney 'ere 'as an interesting tale to tell you. Only this very morning, 'e was nearly snaffled by a creature from under the mud.” The man nudged Barney with his elbow, dislodging several clumps of stinking muck from the boy's clothes. “Go on, son, tell the ladies and gentlemen what 'appened.”

Barney blinked a few times, then opened his mouth to speak, making little cracks in the layer of dried mud that coated his face. He told them about the crab-thing and how it had come out of the mud to try and grab him, about his escape and how he had been almost dragged to Brick Lane as soon as the other mudlarks heard his story.

There was a long silence afterward as everyone considered his bizarre tale.

“This thing that tried to get you,” asked Sheba, “do you think it could have been a machine?”

“A machine, miss?” Barney stared at her as if she was mad, as well as very hairy. “T'weren't no machine. It was a monster. A giant, hissing crab, just like I told you. And there was an eye. A yellow eye, with a 'orrible face in it. It must 'ave been some kind of demon, like what the street preachers go on about.”

“But it had pipes and steam. Monsters aren't driven by engines.”

“Leave it, Sheba,” said Monkeyboy. “I think he's drunk too much river mud. It's probably melted his brain.”

“Be quiet, you little gremlin,” said Gigantus, “or I'll melt your brain. Pull it right out of your ears and fry it over the stove.”

“Do you think this thing is what took our little'uns?” asked the woman. “You don't think it's eaten them, do you? I can't bear to think it: my little Till gobbled up by a giant crab. . . .”

“It can't have eaten them, on account of it being a
machine
, you stup — erk!” Monkeyboy was cut off in mid-insult as Gigantus's huge hand clamped his mouth.

“I think it may well be the thing that took the children,” said Mama Rat. “And I'm sure they haven't been eaten. We'll continue our search and let you know as soon as we find anything. Perhaps you'd better leave before our tailed friend here says something truly offensive.”

With even more bowing and scraping, the mudlarks backed out of the yard, just as the sound of the front door slamming signaled Plumpscuttle's return.

“Shut the gate, shut the gate!” hissed Mama Rat, but it was too late.

Plumpscuttle's head appeared at the kitchen window in time to see the last mudlark disappear.

“What's this?” he yelled. “What's this?”

“Here we go,” Gigantus muttered.

They all turned sheepishly to face the house as Plumpscuttle wobbled down the kitchen steps, his face growing steadily more purple.

“People in my yard again? Uninvited trespassers on my property? You bunch of walking monsters
know
that visitors are forbidden here, don't you? If people want to gawk at you, then I expect them to pay
me
for the privilege!”

He must have had a pie that didn't agree with him
, thought Sheba.
And now he wants to take it out on the rest of us.

“Now, now —” began Mama Rat, but the fat man wasn't listening.

“Don't you tell me to calm down! You lot don't know where your bread's buttered, that's the problem. You don't appreciate who feeds and houses you, who pays for your comforts. Without me, you'd all be out on the streets, begging for crusts and offal. But do I get any thanks? No! All I get are shoddy performances and flagrant breaking of my rules. No respect! No respect!”

“You'll be respecting my fist in a minute,” said Gigantus under his breath. Mama Rat put a restraining hand on his arm.

“What's that?” Plumpscuttle screamed, sending a cascade of spittle into the air. “Think I'm afraid of you, do you? You great, lumpy oaf! You might be able to crush me like a ripe tomato, but if you do I'll have you thrown into the darkest cell in Newgate Prison. And the rest of your little friends will be homeless. Don't think I can't find more freaks . . . and better ones, too. Now get on with your chores, and do them
silently
. If one little sound wakes me up, you're all out of here!”

With a final glare, he turned and stamped back into the house, making plaster crumble from the ceiling.

“Well, that was awkward,” said Monkeyboy when he was sure Plumpscuttle had gone.

“One of these days . . .” Gigantus flexed his arms, and Sheba could hear the threads in his woolen jersey strain and pop.

“I know, dearie,” said Mama Rat. “But for now let's just keep the peace, shall we?”

“What about the monster crab?” Sheba asked. “It sounds like it could be a machine.”

“It still not explain why someone taking poor river children,” said Sister Moon.

“No, but it could be
how
they're taking them. And if we could find out where the crab machine is . . .”

“Now, now, Sheba,” said Mama Rat. “Don't get too carried away. It might be a lead, that's true, but there's not a lot we can do about it at the moment. I suggest we lay low here for a few hours. At least until old grumpychops has gone to sleep properly.”

With a frustrated sigh, Sheba went to fetch the shovel and muck out Flossy.

Monkeyboy waited until the others were all busy, then slipped off to his favorite perch on the roof, a peaceful little spot next to the chimney stack. There was no way he was shoveling sheep crap or shampooing rats. He'd much rather sit up here. He was always more comfortable amongst the tiles than down on the cobbles. And it was a brilliant position for sniping with one of his hand-rolled poo-balls, like being an archer on a castle turret. His victims usually shouted up to the windows, but never thought of checking the rooftops.

Monkeyboy gazed down at the river of humanity below him — the urchins, the hawkers, and the balladeers — leisurely choosing his target. He had a selection of favorite quarry: organ grinders, with their hideous piped music and scrawny little monkeys; stilt walkers and jugglers, just begging to be knocked over or have their balls sent spinning; and, best of all, the prancing advertising men with their sandwich boards. Monkeyboy had a strong dislike of being told what to do — and what to buy. Especially when he didn't have any money. The men with their sandwich boards and placards irritated him immensely, but the ones that drove him
really
wild were those idiots in the stupid papier-mâché outfits. He had seen grown men dressed as giant cheeses, colossal boots, massive top hats, and even a humungous sausage. All the other pedestrians pointed at them, laughing and clapping, but Monkeyboy knew what they were really up to. They were trying to put images in your head, so you went to their stupid shops and actually bought a cheese, a boot, a top hat, or a sausage. When he managed to get a poo-ball inside one of these cramped outfits, it became a super-potent stink bomb.

A slow smile spread across his face. In the distance, just passing Booth Street, were not one, but two papier-mâché constructions.

Monkeyboy rubbed his hands in glee, then took his stash of ammunition from his pocket and carefully arranged it beside him. If he missed the first one — which looked like a bottle of cough syrup — he would have a crack at the one behind. Goodness only knew what that one was meant to be. It was round and bright orange with a number of huge waving arms, just like a giant octopus. Only its limbs were moving by themselves, powered somehow from within the suit. And from its back jutted a pair of metal pipes, both of which were trickling steam.

Beneath the grime, Monkeyboy's face went pale. The cogs and wheels of thought clunked, slowly linking pieces of information together. Brain cells, previously only used for inventing limericks about bottoms, were applied for the first time to deduction. When he finally realized the importance of what he was looking at, he gave a startled cry and flung himself off the roof and into the street below.