Wild Boy (11 page)

The filth of the street percolated down. It nudged at the ceiling of an ancient sewer, crept through a crack in the crumbling mortar. It hung from the bricks in a single fat drop. Then it fell and landed —
pat
— on the head of a small boy covered in hair.

Wild Boy opened his eyes.

Everything was black. Not a crack of light anywhere. He was lying on his back on what felt like wet cloth. He heard dripping water, although his mouth was dry and tasted like mold. He extended a foot cautiously into the darkness, felt cold slime on broken brick. He tried to stay calm, but panic overwhelmed him.

“I didn’t do it,” he gasped. “It wasn’t me. . . .”

He scrunched his eyes shut and prayed that when he opened them he’d be back at the fair and everything would be normal.

He opened his eyes and gazed heartbroken around the sewer. He was lying on a narrow ledge that ran along the tunnel wall. Someone had taken his coat, and the hairs on his body were stiff with dried sewage. His injured shoulder, though, had been cleaned and wrapped in bandages. Had he been captured or rescued?

Slish slosh
. . .

Something moved in the sewage.

Wild Boy sat up and stared into the arched darkness. He heard liquid dripping from above. He heard his own shallow breaths getting deeper and faster with fear. And then, there it was again — a slow sloshing sound echoing off the curving walls. Was it a rat?

“. . . Wild Boy . . .”

That was no rat. Someone was coming this way. He had to get up and move.

He slid from the ledge and dropped into a river of stinking slush. Foul water soaked his hair as he groped through the dark, crawling away from the voice.

“Hear that?” the voice said.

“Hear what?” another replied.

“Swear I heard something up ahead. Gimme the knife.”

The voices grew louder, closer. Wild Boy was too dazed to escape. He had to fight. Whoever these men were, they sounded almost as scared as him — maybe he could catch them by surprise. If he screamed and ran at them they might turn and flee. He braced himself, shaking with fear, as they came even closer.

Now,
he thought.
Now!

He opened his mouth to scream — but then a hand shot from the dark and smothered his cry.

“Keep silent,” someone whispered in his ear.

Wild Boy tried to pull away, but the hand tightened around his mouth, almost crushing his jaw. A wrinkled face leaned closer. “They’re after you, Master Wild. Bounty hunters.”

It was Sir Oswald! Wild Boy cried out again, but this time in delight. He had never been so relieved to see another person. He wanted to ask what was happening, but now his friend gripped his arm and guided him into an alcove in the wall. Sir Oswald slid in after him and huddled close, resting the stumps of his thighs on Wild Boy’s lap.

In the tunnel, the footsteps came closer.

Wild Boy’s eyes had become used to the darkness and could just make out the squat shapes of two men crouched low as they waded past.

The man at the back sounded nervous. “What if Wild Boy
is
down here?”

“Then we’re rich!” his partner replied. “Ain’t that the point? Reward’s doubled this past week.”

Reward? Week?
But Wild Boy stayed silent. He waited, deadly still, until the men had passed and their voices were a distant echo in the dark.

Sir Oswald shifted from Wild Boy’s lap and gave his knee a cheery pat. “That was a wheeze, eh? Come on, they might turn back.”

Wild Boy didn’t follow. He pulled his knees to his chest and curled up tight, wishing the darkness would swallow him. “Sir Oswald?” he said. “What are you doing here? What’s happening? That man said they’d been after me for a
week.
”

“Been in a fever, old chap. That wound of yours got infected. Wasn’t sure you’d make it at first. Should have known a tough chap like you would pull through, eh?”

“But I ain’t no killer. I gotta tell the coppers.”

“Out of the question, I am afraid.”

“Sir Oswald, I gotta tell someone what really happened.”

Sir Oswald turned on his palms. When he spoke again, it was in a voice that Wild Boy had not heard from him before — deep and serious and full of force. “Master Wild, you are the target of the largest manhunt this city has seen since Jack Sheppard. If you go back up there, the mob will kill you in the street. And the police . . . I’m afraid they will hang you as soon as look at you.”

He clapped his hat on his head and grinned. “Good news is, it’s almost time for supper.”

Wild Boy sat in the alcove as Sir Oswald splashed away. He wished desperately that he could convince people of his innocence. He wanted to climb back to the street and scream it until they believed him. But Sir Oswald was right — it was too dangerous. He needed a plan, a way out of this, although his mind spun with fear and confusion, and he couldn’t think straight.

At least he wasn’t alone. There was a reward on his head, and most people he knew would sell their own mothers for a few pence. But he could trust Sir Oswald, he was sure. With a heavy heart, he set off after him into the dark.

S
omething rotten squelched under Wild Boy’s hands as he crawled through a hole in the sewer wall. A puff of foul-smelling gas rose at his face, making his head whirl and his stomach turn. He gagged and spat in disgust.

“Where are we going?” he spluttered.

“Somewhere safer,” Sir Oswald replied. “I would have moved you sooner, but I feared for your fever. Damned bad one it was too. You kept babbling about some machine. No,
the
machine, I think it was. Whatever was the meaning of that?”

Wild Boy grunted, pretending not to know. But he did, all too well.
The
machine
— that was why the hooded man had murdered Professor Wollstonecraft. He was after some sort of machine. The golden-eyed man had spoken of it too. Wild Boy wished he knew more, something he could tell the police to prove his innocence.

“Watch your head,” Sir Oswald said.

The tunnel ended in an abandoned basement. A fire smoldered in the corner, and shadows squirmed on bare brick walls. Thin stalactites of filth hung from the low ceiling, dripping brown liquid to the black floor.

At the side of the chamber was a dinner table made from objects salvaged from the sewers — a corrugated-iron sheet with newspaper napkins and broken bases of oil lamps as bowls. A candle flickered between them, dribbling wax onto the sack tablecloth.

Sir Oswald stirred a pot of food over the fire. “It is not exactly St. James’s Palace,” he said, “but we shall make do.”

Wild Boy couldn’t help smiling. Good old Sir Oswald, always making the best of a bad situation. He spotted his coat by the fire. The sleeves were stiff with dried sewage, and there was a tear over the shoulder, but as he slid it on he immediately felt better.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Somewhere under Bermondsey, I think. Wretched district. You two are much better off down here.”

Wild Boy turned. “Two?”

Clarissa Everett stepped from the gloom. Underground, the acrobat’s face seemed paler than ever. She looked anxiously at Wild Boy, and the bandage on his shoulder. “Are you . . . ?” She turned to Sir Oswald. “Is he all right?”

Sir Oswald nodded. “He is indeed, largely thanks to your —”

Suddenly Clarissa stormed up to Wild Boy and jabbed him hard in the chest. “This is your fault!” she yelled. She was so close that flecks of her spit wet the hair on his face. “I should be in the circus tonight, but instead I’m wanted for murder.”

Wild Boy stepped back, clutching his bandaged shoulder. “Circus?” he said. “It’s them that’s after you! If your bloomin’ mother hadn’t —”

“Shut your head about her! She didn’t understand.”

“Some misunderstanding! She set dogs on us!”

“And I wish they’d caught you!”

Wild Boy was about to shove her, but Sir Oswald rushed between them. “Master Wild! Miss Everett! Listen here, I have been in tighter squeezes than this and ridden out with the colors. Ridden with the Iron Duke, by gad!”

“Tell her if she touches me again,” Wild Boy said, “she’ll be eating sewage.”

“Master Wild, that is no way to address a lady. Besides, you owe Miss Everett a debt of gratitude. Not only did she save you from the circus crew, but she is also responsible for your rescue down here.”

Beneath his hair, Wild Boy’s face reddened. He’d assumed that Sir Oswald had found him and saved his life. “What?” he said.

Clarissa shrugged. “I bumped into Sir Oswald after we split up. It was his idea to find you, though. I’d have left you here to drown.”

“Poppycock!” Sir Oswald said. “And, Miss Everett, may I remind you that, as you told me, Master Wild insisted that you run off to save yourself. An entirely noble gesture.”

“I was just sick of her moaning,” Wild Boy said.

“Enough, both of you. We can discuss what to do over dinner.”

Sir Oswald carried the cooking pot to the table, waddling awkwardly on the stumps of his thighs. He spooned thick green gunk into the bowls. It was pea soup, and it smelled wonderful. Wild Boy plonked himself at the table.

“Master Wild! It is customary for a gentleman to allow a lady to sit first.”

“Don’t see no lady, just her.”

Clarissa scowled. “And I don’t see no gentleman, just a freak.”

Sir Oswald tucked his newspaper napkin into his collar. “Well,
bon appétit.
”

For several minutes the only sound in the chamber was slurping as they drank their soup. Between sips, Wild Boy snatched glances at Clarissa. He saw her hand tremble when she raised her spoon, the redness of her eyes, and the salty tracks that stained her cheeks. He couldn’t blame her for crying — he could still picture her mother growling,
“Get them. Get both of them.”

Clarissa slammed her spoon on the table. “I wish I’d never let you free!” she yelled.

“Why did you, then?” Wild Boy said. “I didn’t need your help!”

“I wish I’d never!”

“You never shoulda! You look out for yourself and that’s all.”

“Master Wild!” Sir Oswald said. “This is no time for high spirits. Need I remind you that whoever killed those men remains at large? Do you have any idea who the person was?”

Wild Boy felt a sudden sickness in his stomach, and not because of the soup. “What men?” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“You just said whoever killed
those
men.
”

Sir Oswald patted his lips with his newspaper bib. “Ah, well . . .”

“Show him,” Clarissa said.

“Show me what?”

“Well,” Sir Oswald mumbled. “I had hoped to wait until you regained your strength. . . .”

“Just show him!”

With a defeated sigh, Sir Oswald pulled the newspaper bib from his collar. He passed the grease-stained sheet across the table. “Yesterday’s
Chronicle,
” he said. “But I wouldn’t let it upset you, Master Wild. It’s . . . Well, it is probably a pack of lies.”

Wild Boy took the crumpled page. At first he was too scared to look. But he had to know what was going on. Pulling the candle closer, he began to read.