Wild Boy and the Black Terror (2 page)

1

I
t was that dream again. The dream of the show.

The only dream.

It was a dream that Wild Boy could smell. The reek of damp wood mingled with greasy smoke from the caravan’s oil lamp and the turgid stench of the fairground field; that stew of rotting peels, churned-up mud and steaming dung.

The smell of fear.

Then came the sounds: whoops of tipsy laughter, shrieks from the circus tent, and the crows on the caravan roof cawing like they always cawed, like they were laughing.
Freak
, they said.
Dirty, filthy freak
.

Outside, showmen called to the crowd in voices rough as sandpaper.

“
Marvel
, ladies and gentlemen! Marvel at the sensation of the Two-Ton Man. He’s so fat that only hogs can love him.”

“
Stay away
, ladies and gentlemen! Stay away if you are of a delicate disposition. Or do you dare behold the horror of the Pig Faced Lady?”

“
Hear what they
say
, ladies and gentlemen! Hear what they say about Wild Boy! He’s half-monster, half-boy, but all freak. Poke him, punch him or kick him for a penny.”

Wild Boy drew his knees to his chest and gripped them tight. Through a hole in the stage curtain he watched the showman – Augustus Finch – usher a small crowd into the caravan. The web of scars across Finch’s face gleamed in the swaying glare of the ceiling lamp. Spit glistened on his lips.

“Gather round, ladies and gentlemen,” Finch said. “Get in close to get a good gawp at the freak.”

On the roof, the crows cawed louder. Wild Boy felt the pulse in his throat, his heart pounding at his ribs.

But there was something
else
. He had a feeling that something was wrong with this scene, that somehow he didn’t belong here in the freak show.

He
was
a freak, wasn’t he?

He leaned over the edge of the stage and considered his reflection in the yellow-brown contents of Finch’s chamber-pot. All he could see of his face were his huge eyes, bright and green and gleaming like emeralds. Everything else – his cheeks, his chin, his nose and neck – was hidden by thick brown hair. It was the same hair that covered every inch of his body, other than the palms of his hands and the scratched-up soles of his feet. The hair that had caused his parents to abandon him as a baby on a workhouse doorstep. The hair that made him a monster, locked up alone until the day he was sold to the freak show.
His
freak show.

No! He
didn’t
belong here anymore. He’d escaped this place. He’d found something else. A friend, a purpose…

Unless
that
had been the dream?

The audience pressed closer, sweating, dribbling, dangerously drunk. Finch grinned, flourishing a hand. “Wild Boy! Wild Boy! The ugliest freak at the fair.”

“No…” Wild Boy gasped.

“Freak,”
the crowd chanted.

“Please…”

“Freak,”
the crows mocked.

“NO!”

Wild Boy opened his eyes.

He lay flat in his bed, his chest heaving with gulping, gasping breaths. The hair on his face was soaked with sweat. The longer strands stuck to the pillow.

An image from the dream flashed through his mind. He scrambled from the bed and into the darkness beneath. He waited, curled up tight, for his heart to settle.

“That ain’t me no more,” he breathed – those same words he repeated every night. “That ain’t me.”

He slid from under the bed and rose into the silver moonlight. The bedroom window was open, and icy wind rustled the hair on his face. The cold felt good, waking him further from the dream. But not far enough.

At the washstand, he poured water over his face, soaking the hair on his cheeks and the pallid skin beneath. He could just see himself in the mirror: the hair sticking up at strange angles no matter how often he brushed it down, and his big green eyes twinkling beneath.

Once, he had shuddered at that reflection. He knew now that he was more than the image in the mirror, but that didn’t banish the memories. After four months, the freak show still seemed so close.

He was haunted by that caravan.

It didn’t help that this room was so similar – a cramped attic space with a greasy garret window and slatted walls that creaked in the wind. It smelled the same too, the musty air tinged with damp. But really, Wild Boy’s new home was as far from a freak show as he could imagine.

He pushed the window wider and climbed outside.

It was viciously cold but the night was clear. The full moon hung like a silver shilling over a jumble of rooftops that framed the four courtyards of St James’s Palace – snow-dusted attics, lead gutters and twisted chimney stacks. Ice glinted on every surface, as if the roofs had been sprinkled with diamonds.

Brushing hair from his eyes, Wild Boy looked down to the palace’s largest courtyard, a square of cobbles surrounded by arched brick colonnades. Flagpoles jutted from the arches, hanging icicle flags. A lonely lamp stood in the centre of the courtyard. A single crow perched on top, ragged and hunched.

“Bloomin’ crows,” Wild Boy muttered.

He pulled his coat tighter around his hairy chest, comforted by its embrace. He’d worn this coat – a red military tunic with gold buckles – for the whole time he’d lived on the freak show. He hated thinking about those days, but couldn’t bear the thought of wearing anything else. This coat was part of him as much as all the hair. And he
never
wore shoes. They weren’t exactly comfortable with all the hair on his feet.

The crow flapped away as a carriage rattled through the courtyard gatehouse. A golden symbol gleamed on its door: a large letter
G
.

The cabin doors opened and two men emerged, dressed identically in frock coats, tight white breeches and shiny beaver-pelt top hats.

“The Gentlemen,” Wild Boy said.

Those men were members of the secret society that had been protecting him since he fled the freak show. He stepped back from the edge of the roof. The Gentlemen were a
very
secret society. They wouldn’t be pleased to catch him spying.

A hand grabbed his shoulder.

Wild Boy whirled around, but all he saw were snow and moonlit footprints.

Excitement shone in his emerald eyes. Impossible as it seemed, someone had leapt over him and landed without a sound on the edge of the roof. Only one person could do that, and that was why Wild Boy grinned.

Clarissa
.

He rose and stepped forward. A faint fog of breath drifted over his shoulder. She was following him, having fun.

Not for long
.

He kicked back a heel, catching her in the shin. There was a startled cry and then a punch that found only frosty air as Wild Boy dropped to the snow. He rolled back, crashing into Clarissa’s legs so she tumbled over him and onto the roof.

He sprang up but again she was gone.

“Up here, thickhead.”

Clarissa Everett stood high on a chimney stack. She was half a silhouette, her long black coat lost to the night. But her rust-coloured hair shone almost golden in the moonlight, and strawberry freckles flared across her pale face.

“I won,” she said.

“Won? You’re shaking with fear.”

“Ain’t shaking. I’m shivering.”

“Ha! I don’t shiver.”

“Cos of all your hair.”

“No, cos I’m tougher than you.”

“I’ll shave you in your sleep. Then we’ll see if you shiver.”

“Shave me and I’ll break your arms.”

“Break my arms and I’ll break your face.”

“What with? Your arms will be broken, remember?”

Clarissa bit her lip, considering how the violence could be accomplished. “I’ll do it with my feet,” she decided.

Delighted with her own cunning, she leaped from the chimney and somersaulted in the air. She cartwheeled along the narrow ledge, as carefree as if in a summer meadow.

She was showing off, and Wild Boy loved it. He remembered the first time he saw Clarissa perform at the fairground. She’d danced effortlessly along the high wire, dazzling the circus crowd in her red and gold sequins. It was strange to think that they’d been enemies back then – until they were framed for murder. Everyone had turned against them: the showmen, the police, even Clarissa’s mother. Their quest to catch the real killer had led them to the Gentlemen. Since then, they’d barely been apart.

Clarissa landed beside Wild Boy. Her hair hung wild around her face. “You had that dream again, didn’t you?”

“Just a dream,” Wild Boy said.

He almost laughed.
Just a dream
.

“You ever think about it?” he asked. “What happened at the fairground, with the killer, and then your mum?”

Clarissa looked away. Her frozen breaths quickened and her hands curled into fists. Then she sprang back and continued to flip around the rooftop obstacle course. But now the movements were fiercer, the landings harder. Her boots sank deeper into the snow. “Let’s do something fun,” she said. “Something dangerous.”

Wild Boy knew he shouldn’t think about the past. They’d been through so much. They were branded monsters, hunted for a reward. Most of London still thought they
were
monsters, at large somewhere in the city. But they were safe here, under the protection of the Gentlemen. Now they could have a little fun.

A smile rose across his face as he watched the Gentlemen in the courtyard. They were unloading a wooden crate from their carriage. Judging from the tremble in their arms, whatever was inside was either very heavy or very dangerous.

“They’re up to something secret,” he said.

Clarissa landed beside him. Now she was grinning too. “Definitely looks secret. Sort of thing they don’t want to get seen.”

“Or spied on.”

“Well then,” Clarissa said, dusting snow from her hands, “they shouldn’t have been so bloomin’ obvious about it. Let’s go!”