Freaks (14 page)

Low tide came just after midnight, and had anyone been walking beside the banks of the Thames they would have been treated to a rare sight. A group of oddly shaped figures, all dressed in black, was apparently about to drown a little urchin dressed in filthy rags and a cloth cap, a length of rope dangling from his waist.

“This idea is utter horse crap!” the urchin shouted.

Gigantus held Monkeyboy in an iron grip. The big man was grinning.

“How far out do you want me to toss him?” he said to the others. “I reckon I could send him a good thirty feet at least.”

“If you don't put me down right now, I'm going to do something horrible in your mouth next time you're asleep!” yelled Monkeyboy.

The Peculiars stood at the high-tide line on the south bank, next to an upturned skiff. They had chosen a spot just upriver from Paradise Street, reasoning that Mrs. Crowley would be wanting to strike as close to home as possible and to have the crab make its return journey with the current.

Sheba looked around at her friends. The pale faces of Gigantus and Mama Rat bobbed about in the darkness like disembodied turnips. Sister Moon was holding a rusty whaling harpoon that they had discovered in an old ironmonger's on Spicers Street. Attached to it was a whiskey bottle filled with white phosphorus, which gave out a dim glow.

A wide stretch of mud lay before them and tonight the surface of the Thames appeared quite beautiful in the light of a full moon, until you looked close enough to see what was floating in it.

“Don't worry,” Sheba said to Monkeyboy. “There really is no danger. At the first sign of anything bad, Gigantus will haul on the rope and drag you back here to safety. You just have to stand on the mud for a few minutes. You'll be helping. Till and all the mudlarks could be saved because of you.”

“I couldn't give a rat's fart about saving anyone. Now put me down so I can go back home and have a nice long — aaaaaaaaaaargh!”

Before Monkeyboy could finish his sentence, Gigantus launched him like a human javelin. He flew through the night air, trailing a piteous squeal, and landed with a wet smack right beside the water's edge.

“You didn't have to throw him
quite
so hard, Gigantus,” said Mama Rat.

The little figure struggled to right itself in the smelly slop, then began wailing and trying to wade back to shore.

“Stay there, you putrid little munchkin!” called Gigantus. “Or I won't bother to pull you back in when whatever-it-is comes for you!”

“You really enjoying this, aren't you?” came Sister Moon's voice from somewhere in the darkness.

“Oh, yes,” said Gigantus happily. “It was an excellent plan of yours.”

“Well, the trap is set,” said Mama Rat. “We must take our positions.”

There was a slight rattling of pebbles as Moon stole away. Sheba thought she saw her slip underneath a jetty that jutted out into the river.

When she had outlined her plan in the house that afternoon, it had seemed like a stroke of genius. Out here in the cold night, in the mud, where clawed, child-snatching machines lurked, it seemed like lunacy.

“Good luck, everyone,” Sheba whispered, and saw Gigantus nod as he and Mama Rat ducked behind the old skiff. Then she took a deep breath and set off on her own mission.

At first, everyone had been reluctant to let her go off alone. She was only nine (or possibly ten) and the streets of London weren't a good place for anybody to be on their own, especially a child. However, as she had pointed out, most children didn't carry a pistol full of poisoned darts.
And most children can't turn into snarling, snapping wolfgirls, either.
The voice in her head had added that last bit; she pretended to ignore it.

As she climbed the steps up from the river and started making her way downstream along the Bermondsey Wall, she began to wish she hadn't been so keen. When Sister Moon suggested they would need someone to watch the river between the jetty and Paradise Street, to see if the creature returned there, Sheba volunteered. She did have the best senses of hearing and smell. And besides, the only other alternative was being the decoy. She was quite happy to leave that job to Monkeyboy.

But now it came to walking through the dark streets to Paradise Street all alone, she didn't feel anywhere near as brave. Her stomach flipped at every tiny sound. Underneath the river-stink, scents flooded her nose. Soot and coal dust, gas and the ever-present reek of raw sewage. Her heart pounded in her chest. She could feel her fur bristling and her nose stretching, her teeth growing and her eyes burning orange. Just like when she was angry, fear seemed to bring out the wolf in her.

Sheba slipped through the shadows. She didn't want to stumble into anyone while she looked like
this
. People might find it amazing when they were paying to see it, but bumping into a snarling wolfgirl down a dark alley was another matter.

Eventually she came to a set of narrow stone stairs that led down to the river. Directly behind her was Paradise Street. If she was right, Mrs. Crowley had needed a place close to the river for a reason. So that Farfellini's machine could get in and out of the mud without being seen.

Half praying she would find the crab machine's hideout, half praying she would never have to set eyes on it, Sheba gritted her little white teeth and set off down the steps, reminding herself as she went:
Be brave, the stolen children need you
.

Somewhere across the river, a church clock chimed. The stakeout on the mudflats had been running for the best part of an hour now.

Out on the mud, the bait had grown tired of flailing, and was now slowly sinking in the septic slop and wailing in a pitiful manner. Gigantus, from his position behind the skiff, had long ceased being amused and was now just cold and tired. Mama Rat was beginning to worry their plan had failed, which meant another victim might have been taken elsewhere on the river.

Crouching beneath the jetty, Sister Moon was the only one still focused. She had entered a trance state of concentration, which she could maintain for several hours. Every ripple and bubble that emerged around the sorry figure of Monkeyboy was noted and processed. The harpoon in her hands was poised, ready for flight.

Lucky for Monkeyboy that one of them was still on the ball, as something was beginning to stir in the silt beneath him. It was almost imperceptible at first; a slight vibration in the jellylike mud around his legs. Then bubbles began to pop on the surface, followed by a ring of smoking dots. . . .

Sister Moon raised the harpoon higher.

With a sudden roar, the mud beneath Monkeyboy collapsed. Red tentacles burst upward, steam pouring from each one, and a spiked dome heaved itself to the surface. Claws clacked and snapped as they freed themselves from the sticky slime, tearing at Monkeyboy's ragged trousers, and all was lit by the glow from a yellow porthole in the center. A porthole in which a painted face could be seen, its teeth bared in a fierce grin.

Monkeyboy screamed.

And Moon flung the harpoon, aiming for the thinnest of lines on the creature's back that marked the overlap of its armor plating. Most people wouldn't have been able to see such a tiny detail in the dark, let alone in the space of a heartbeat. The rusty harpoon tip slid into the crab like a dart into butter, and lodged there firmly.

Gigantus, startled into action, heaved on the rope — with a little too much zeal. Monkeyboy shot out of the creature's grasp, and straight into the side of the skiff with a crunching smack.

The creature let out a wail of grinding gears. Within seconds it had dived back beneath the surface, pulling the harpoon under, too. The end jutted out of the mud for a moment, the whiskey bottle of phosphorus swinging to and fro before disappearing with the rest. As the ripples of mud slowly subsided, drops of the white substance could be seen glowing in the moonlight.

The crab had been tagged.

Sheba sat at the foot of the narrow stone steps, her feet resting on the slime of the riverbank. She could hear the water lapping at the mud as the tide crawled slowly in again. The night was drawing to a close, and the river was readying itself for another busy day.

Somewhere on it a steamer chuffed along. Wisps of fog had started blowing past, making ghostly shapes in the moonlight. It was almost as if the wind was trying to entertain her with ever more elaborate swirls and loops. Nothing had the slightest effect on Sheba, however — apart from the smell, which she could hardly avoid. With a handkerchief clamped firmly over her nose, she sat lost in thought.

For the life of her, she couldn't understand what Mrs. Crowley could be up to. She must have lured them to the graveyard just to get a look at who was nosing into her business. All that rubbish about her son had been nothing but a pack of lies (the fact Sheba had fallen for it so easily still smarted) but why was she taking so many children? And why only the tatty, half-starved waifs of the riverside?

The painted man seemed to be her servant, but what about the frizzy-haired doctor? She remembered what she had heard in the study in Paradise Street:
We shall have what we most desire. And how long we have waited . . .
What was it they wanted so badly?

The questions wouldn't stop. She thought so hard that her furry little head throbbed. Still, they only had to prove Mrs. Crowley had taken the children, and then they could call in the police and let them deal with it. She was just picturing Mrs. Crowley being led away in iron handcuffs when her attention was caught by a movement farther downriver.

She peered into the darkness. Something was pushing up out of the mud. It was difficult to make out, but it appeared to be big and spiky and slicked with slime. The crab machine! Some kind of rod was jutting out of its back, and it was making a high-pitched keening sound that reminded Sheba of grinding metal. Before she could get a better look, a wave of thicker fog blew across her line of sight.

Sheba cursed. Now the crab could be anywhere, and she was supposed to be following it. She would have to march through the fog, and hope she didn't walk right into it. Taking a deep breath for courage, she began to edge downriver along the bank.