Freaks (8 page)

“A mutually convenient public place of easily recognizable location,” he said in one long sneer. “Suggested it myself, in fact.”

“Very well,” said Mama Rat. “We shall consider it. Thank you for passing on the message.”

“My deep and abiding pleasure,” said Sneepsnood. The man fawned and smiled a bit more as they left the tiny shop, and even followed them out into the street to wave good-bye. The Peculiars waited until they were well out of his sight before pausing beside a coffee seller to discuss what had happened.

“Thank crikey we're out of there,” said Monkeyboy. “I was about to be sick. That bloke has more slime than a bucketful of slugs.”

“Well,” said Mama Rat. “That was all a bit bizarre.”

“I know he and I go way back,” said Gigantus, “but I can't deny he's trouble.”

“What we do about lady?” said Sister Moon.

There was much rubbing of chins, fur, and tails before Sheba found the courage to speak up.

“I think we should go,” she said. “After all, there's not much else we can do, and if it helps us find Till . . .”

“You're right,” said Mama Rat. “But maybe not all of us. We don't want to give the poor woman nightmares.”

“You and Sheba go,” said Sister Moon. “You know what to ask, and Sheba might sniff something. She very clever at that.”

Underneath her fur, Sheba blushed. Another compliment. What was the world coming to?

“Very well,” said Gigantus. “But the rest of us will be nearby. Just in case.”

Christ Church was literally around the corner from Brick Lane. Made from grimy white stone, with a three-tiered tower at the front, it was easily recognizable for miles around. Crumbling hovels clustered around it, almost as if they themselves were bowing down to worship.

“Fascinating places, churchyards, don't you think?” Mama Rat said as she and Sheba walked around to the graveyard at the back. “Until they built the new cemeteries, there was barely any room here for all the dead. The gravediggers used to have to chop their way down through all the arms and legs to fit the new ones in. There must be thousands and thousands of corpses under our feet right now.”

Sheba shivered. She had expected it to be difficult to spot the lady, but she was the only person present, seated upon a stone bench amongst the mass of crooked gravestones. From a distance, it looked as though she was hidden in shadow, but as Sheba walked closer, she could see it was how she was dressed.

She wore very fine clothing, but every last stitch was black. Her skirts were thick velvet, her bodice embroidered with the shadows of twining flowers. A shawl hung over her shoulders, a bonnet covered her pinned-up hair, and a lace veil hid her face. She looked like an absence of light and color, as if something had come along and snipped a woman-shaped hole out of the world. The only bits of her skin visible were the tips of her white fingers where they poked from the end of her black lace gloves.

As Mama Rat and Sheba wove their way through the gravestones, the lace veil twitched, then moved as the woman turned her head. Sheba found it unnerving to be watched without being able to see any eyes.
Although
, she thought,
a veil would be a good way to hide your face. If I had one, I could go anywhere, and no one would know I was at all different.

“Good day,” said Mama Rat as they reached the bench.

“Good day,” said the woman.

Sheba wondered if she should say “good day,” too, but generally children were expected to be silent unless spoken to. Instead she took a subtle sniff.

Besides the smell of the graveyard itself, and the stench of horse manure and rubbish from the road beyond, Sheba picked up a rather cold and sharp smell around the woman — with a trace of something else, a sweet aroma that, for once, she couldn't place. She frowned.

“Please, do have a seat,” said the woman, breaking Sheba's thread of concentration.

Mama Rat sat beside her on the bench, leaving Sheba room to hop on the end.

“I take it you're the lady that Mr. Sneepsnood has been representing,” she said.

“Indeed,” said the woman. “My name is Mrs. Crowley.” She spoke with a strange lisp. “I understand you have been making inquiries about lost children?”

“May I ask what interest our inquiries are to you?” asked Mama Rat.

There was a long pause, as if the woman were reluctant to speak. Finally, she gave a soft sigh and said, “I too am searching for a lost child. My son went missing some months ago. He was playing by the shoreline one morning and never returned. Which is why I contacted Mr. Sneepsnood. And several other businessmen up and down the river besides. I thought they might have some news.”

“Surely you'd be better off speaking to the peel — I mean the police?” Mama Rat said.

“Oh, I have tried,” Mrs. Crowley replied. “And they have assured me repeatedly they are ‘looking into it.' But I thought . . . if I knew someone else in the same position, we could somehow join forces. Share notes. And to know someone else who felt as I do . . . it would help me immeasurably.”

“It's clear you fear the worst, if you've gone into mourning already.” Mama Rat gestured with her pipe at the black dress.

“Oh, yes, the veil,” said Mrs. Crowley. “I know it might be premature, that there still could be hope. But without my little boy . . . it wouldn't feel right to go about dressed as normal. I'm sure you understand.”

Mama Rat lit a fresh pipe. “We'd like to help, of course, but we've only just started looking into the matter ourselves.”

“I see. And is it your daughter that has gone missing? Or a son like mine perhaps?”

“Neither,” said Mama Rat. “Never had any children myself. Oh, besides Sheba here, of course. No, we're looking into the matter on behalf of some friends.”

“Sheba . . .” For the first time, the veil turned toward her, and for an instant Sheba thought she saw the glint of an eye shining through the thick lace veil.

“Good day,” she said rather belatedly.

The veil didn't move for several seconds, as if the lady was examining Sheba closely, then it turned back to Mama Rat. “May I ask who those friends are?”

“I'm afraid that's confidential,” said Mama Rat.

“I understand,” said Mrs. Crowley. “But perhaps you could let me know of anything you might discover?”

“Of course,” said Mama Rat.

“That would be wonderful.” Mrs. Crowley clasped her hands as if satisfied, although without seeing her face it was hard to tell. Almost as an afterthought, she took a calling card from her pocket. She moved to give it to Mama Rat, then at the last moment reached past her and presented it to Sheba. “I look forward to hearing some news. Soon, I hope.”

Sheba looked down at the embossed piece of pasteboard, printed with expensive copperplate font.
Mrs. N. Crowley, 17 Paradise Street, Bermondsey
, it read.

With a nod of her shrouded head, the veiled lady rose and left the churchyard.

Sheba and Mama Rat stared after her.

“Well,” Mama Rat said eventually. “It's not often you meet someone stranger than us in this city.”

Before Sheba could reply, Gigantus, Sister Moon, and Monkeyboy came dashing around the corner of the church. They looked visibly relieved when they saw the others sitting on the bench, and slowed their pace through the maze of headstones.

“Thank goodness you all right,” said Sister Moon, panting for breath. “We saw strange man follow you. Long coat and big hat. We could not see face.”

“Where?” Sheba said, looking around the churchyard. “We didn't see anyone.”

“He was walking right behind you,” said Monkeyboy. “I'm surprised you didn't smell him with that weird nose of yours.”

Sheba was surprised, too. “Probably just a passerby,” she said, but she felt annoyed with herself. Had she missed something?

“What did you find out?” Gigantus asked. All three of them were clearly itching to know.

“We'll tell you back at the house,” said Mama Rat, with an ominous look around her. “Away from prying eyes and ears.”

Barnabus Bilge awoke to the nearby bells of St. Mary's striking three in the morning. The chimes had woken him at exactly the same time every day since his very first memory.
Years and years of getting up in the middle of the night and I still hate it
, he thought as he wriggled out of the bed he shared with his mother, his father, and three other children. He stepped over a few more kids sleeping on the floor, and went through into the kitchen.

He didn't have time to light a fire to make breakfast; his mother would do that in an hour's time when she got his sisters up for work. Instead there was a bucket of pump water on the table. He took a scoop and slurped some, then splashed the rest over his face to wake himself up. It was a lurid brown color and tasted rancid, but at least it didn't have anything disgusting floating in it today.

He peered at the piece of cracked mirror standing on the mantelpiece and saw a grubby teenager with eyes that looked much too old for his face. He rubbed at the fluff on his cheeks, wondering when it would ever turn to whiskers so he could grow a nice pair of sideburns.

There was a pot of cold gruel hanging over the fire, left over from last night's dinner. Judging by the little footprints all over the cauldron, the mice had been at it again. At least they'd left a bit for breakfast. He swallowed a couple of gloopy spoonfuls, and then headed out.

The fog was thick again this morning. Out on the banks, the mudlarks were back. Even tales of missing children and river monsters couldn't keep them away, for they had no choice. Pick from the mud, or starve. If the Thames had been full of piranha fish they would still have been there, trying to snatch as much as they could before their legs were chewed through.

Barney prided himself on being the best picker on the south banks. He was slightly less scrawny than the rest, thanks to his success, and the others paused to give him respectful glances as he passed. He clutched a pole twice as tall as himself, and it was this that gave him his edge.

Whilst the other mudlarks had nothing but their own bare feet with which to test for sinkholes and broken glass, Barney Bilge used his pole. He poked it systematically as he slurped through the thigh-deep slop, finding solid footings that could take him out farther than any of the others. Every now and then he'd strike something under the surface that he could scoop out, too. He'd found such treasures as a crate of pickled eggs, a silver plate, and four human skulls. By mudlark standards, he was a millionaire.

Low tide had come early today, and Barney was pleased he wouldn't have to waste time waiting for it. Instead, he waded straight in, trying not to shiver as his bare toes slid into the chilled jelly of the mud.

Dip, dip, dip went his pole, as if he was some peculiar wading bird. Every now and then he stopped, fished something out, and tucked it in his sack. It wasn't long before he had a pipe, half a pair of spectacles, and a leather boot sole.

The fog folded around him. Step, prod, step, prod. His mind was just beginning to wander into a daydream about being King of England when his pole struck something solid.

He snapped back to reality, and with a hunter's zeal, thumped his pole down again. It struck a second time, with a metallic clang. There was definitely something down there, and it was big.

In a move he very soon came to regret, he began shifting his pole forward, bringing it down hard again and again.
Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!
The thing was directly underneath him, and seemed to be around ten feet long. He wormed one of his feet farther into the mud to get a feel, and soon met a smooth surface, studded here and there with spikes or bolts. His little toes followed the contours, wondering what on earth it could be. There seemed to be several hard layers, or plates, on top of one another, which meant it probably wasn't a chest or crate. Almost at the end, he felt a length of pipe or tubing, and then . . .
it moved
. . .

Barney froze as the movement came again. The thing had juddered beneath his foot. He quickly looked around to see if any other mudlarks were nearby in case he needed help. That was when he noticed the bright red tentacles, poking up from the mud all around him.

At first he thought they might be a bizarre family of eels, but then he noticed a puff of steam escape from the end of one, then another. Soon all of them were gushing hot smoke, just as the thing beneath him began to grind its way upward more violently.

One of the things that had kept Barney alive so long on the river was that he was
fast
. Several times he had felt the mud try to suck him under, and he had managed to pull his feet free and scrabble his way out of danger. Now, his reflexes kicked in again, and he flung himself off the back of whatever-it-was and began pelting his way back to shore.

Anyone who has ever tried to run through deep mud will tell you it is virtually impossible. The quicker Barney tried to pull his feet out, the harder the riverbed sucked them back in. He soon fell on all fours, and began a frantic scrambling that was part crawling, part swimming.

As he wriggled his way to the bank, panting and choking, with fat gobbets of stinking mud flying into his face and mouth, he heard a great roar from behind him. Something had exploded out of the mud, and was thrashing about on the surface. Barney could hear the clank and grind of metal, the hiss and chuff of a steam engine. When he chanced a quick look over his shoulder, he saw a huge, crablike beast with a glowing yellow eye. Its tentacles poured smoke out into the foggy air, and two jagged claws waved about, snipping and snapping as they tried to grab his feet. In the glare from its huge eyeball, Barney spotted a movement: a shadow of something inside the beast itself. A bearded face, painted all over with black lines and swirls, floating in the center of the eye like a diseased iris.

With a scream of terror, Barney doubled his efforts, slithering through the mud like a demented eel. Luckily for him, some of the other mudlarks saw him thrashing around, and dashed to grab his hands. Just as the monster's claws clanged shut on what would have been his ankle, Barney was hauled out of the mud and onto the riverbank, where he lay panting and crying at the same time. The mudlarks looked out at the river, faces pale beneath the muck and dirt, as the fog closed in around the clawed creature, and it slowly vanished from sight.