Wild Boy (4 page)

That was just a guess, though. Wild Boy had a harder time reading Sir Oswald than he did anyone else at the fair. His friend had streaks of gray in his hair, and wrinkles on his face, but he moved as fast on his hands as any young man on his feet. He called himself
Sir
Oswald, but Wild Boy had no idea if the title was real. He kept an old clothes chest in his corner of the van, but he didn’t store much in it. So eventually, Wild Boy gave up searching for clues. He was just happy that Sir Oswald was his friend, the first and only friend he’d ever had.

“Watching the fight, eh?” Sir Oswald said. He peered through the crack in the wood. “The Colossus versus the Skeleton? Not much of a contest there. Used to box a little myself, you know, back when I had pins. Mind you, never against a brute the size of the Colossus.”

“The Living Skeleton will win,” Wild Boy said.

“Poppycock! The man is so thin I can count his ribs through his vest.”

“He was in the army.”

“I have never heard him say that.”

Wild Boy doubted that anyone had. Few of the freaks spoke of their past. Some found it too depressing to speak of happier times. Others, like him, simply had no happier times to speak of.

Sir Oswald leaned closer to the crack, studying the Skeleton curiously. “Master Wild, how could you possibly know that he was in the army?”

“See the white bits of his eyes?” Wild Boy said.

“Barely!”

“They got black specks in them. They’re powder burns from musket fire. You see the same on soldiers about the fair.”

“Perhaps
you
do, Master Wild. . . .”

“And look how he folded his coat, and that old tattoo on his arm. Army bloke, no doubt about it. Watch this, now. . . .”

Outside, the Living Skeleton swung a fist. The Human Colossus fell to the mud with a splash and a mighty thump.

“Outstanding!” Sir Oswald said. “Master Wild, you do have an extraordinary skill.”

“Ain’t no skill,” Wild Boy said. “It’s just looking.”

“Poppycock.”

Wild Boy shrugged. It was just what came from years of being locked up with nothing to do but watch the world and dream that he was someone else. It wasn’t just his eyes that were sharp either. Confined to that room, he’d learned to separate individual sounds from the roar of the city — the barks of different dogs, or the rattle of particular carriages. He could distinguish between hundreds of smells, and had taught himself to read just from posters and placards he’d seen through the window. He didn’t see any of it as being particularly skillful. It was just what came from being a freak.

“Right,” Sir Oswald said, “I shall test you.” He moved across the van and looked through another crack. “How about that lady there? What can you tell me about her?”

Wild Boy didn’t like talking about the way he saw things. He knew that it was something different about him, and he hated being different. But he couldn’t help himself. It was too much fun. He joined Sir Oswald and peered eagerly out onto the path.

“Which lady?” he asked.

“The one in the green bonnet.”

“She’s a seamstress in a factory.”

“Now, how could you know that?”

“She has blisters on the insides of her fingers, probably from the needles. And her old bonnet’s fixed up with different-colored threads, see? Most likely scraps from her factory; otherwise, why not buy the right color?”

“Incredible! And how about that man in the smock?”

“He’s a boxer. Lost his last fight for money.”

“Scoundrel!”

“He needed it for his new baby, a boy.”

“Ah, well, that’s fair game. And that woman there?”

“She’s a flower seller.”

“Now, how could you
possibly
know that?”

“Cos she’s selling flowers.”

They slid back from the wall, both laughing. Wild Boy felt a warm glow inside. He realized that he was proud to have impressed Sir Oswald.

“What are you two snickering at?” said Augustus Finch. The showman, half asleep and fully drunk, sat up on his bed. Again he covered the birthmark on his cheek. “You’re laughing at me, ain’t you?”

He hurled a bottle across the caravan. It smashed against the wall, showering Sir Oswald with beer and broken glass.

“Hey!” Wild Boy yelled. He grabbed a bottle to throw back, but Sir Oswald grasped his arm.

“Don’t, Master Wild.”

Wild Boy knew he was right — picking a fight with Finch was a bad idea. Over the past few years, he’d seen the showman gouge eyes, bite off noses, even cut off a man’s tongue up in Liverpool. But the anger that often overwhelmed Wild Boy had returned, like a drum beating inside him. He couldn’t calm down.

“Clean up that mess,” Finch said as he slumped back on his bed. “And get me another drink.”

Sir Oswald’s hand tightened on Wild Boy’s arm. A sad smile spread across his leathery face. “Things will get better, Master Wild. You will see.”

Wild Boy tried to return the smile, but it wouldn’t come. He wondered how his friend always remained so hopeful. Sir Oswald had performed in a freak show. He’d suffered the same abuse. But still, he really believed that life would get better for people who looked different.

“Here you are, Mr. Finch,” Sir Oswald said, placing the beer bottle in the showman’s hand.

“Clean that up an’ all, runt,” Finch said.

Sir Oswald slid back, revolted by the sight of the showman’s chamber pot on the floor. The reeking bowl was filled with sloppy brown excrement.

Finch’s face cracked into a sneer. “Get it nice and sparkling, like.”

Wild Boy’s fists clenched into hairy balls.
Stay calm,
he urged himself. But his hands shook with anger. Before he could stop himself he sprang up and yelled at Finch across the van. “Clean that up yourself, you old goat!”

The showman bolted up. “
What
did you just say to me?”

“Nothing!” Sir Oswald said. “He didn’t say anything! Here, I shall clean it up. . . .”

“Don’t do it!” Wild Boy insisted. “He can bloomin’ do it himself.”

Slowly, Augustus Finch rose. “Say that again, mutt.”

Wild Boy knew what would happen now. It was the same whenever he stood up to Finch, or to Master Bledlow back when he’d lived at the workhouse. Now he was going to get badly hurt. But he wouldn’t back down, even though he felt physically sick with fear. He wouldn’t give Finch the satisfaction.

He tried to sound brave, but his voice betrayed him and he couldn’t stop it from cracking. “It . . . It just ain’t right,” he said.

Before he could react, the showman struck him across the face and then kicked him hard in the chest. Wild Boy tumbled back and crashed against the caravan stove in a burst of sparks.

Finch towered over him. “Cry!” he roared. “I wanna hear you cry for once, you disgusting, ugly mutt!”

The sharp taste of blood stung Wild Boy’s mouth, and his chest screamed where the showman’s hobnail boot had hit him. Part of him wanted to curl up and beg Finch for forgiveness, because then the showman would leave him alone. But he wouldn’t — he
couldn’t.

He pressed a hand against the wall and rose unsteadily to his feet. He’d put up a fight, that much he
could
do. Maybe he could even add a new scar to Finch’s collection, before the showman beat him unconscious. That would be something, at least.

He hocked up a ball of spit and blood and fired it to the floor beside the showman’s boots. “I ain’t crying for no one,” he said.

He expected another attack, but now Finch turned to Sir Oswald. The showman’s eyes gleamed with ferocity. “And
you
. . .”

Sir Oswald tried to crawl away, but Finch dragged him back and thrust his face at the chamber pot. “You can
lick
that up now, runt!”

Wild Boy knew he should leave. He could sleep in the stable hut, come back tomorrow. But something inside him had snapped. He’d had enough.

He reached down and picked up a shard of the broken beer bottle. “You let him go, Finch.”

Finch snorted. He released Sir Oswald and stepped closer to Wild Boy. “You got some nerve, boy, I’ll give you that. You say you won’t cry? Ha! Before I’m done with you, you’re gonna scream like a baby.”

The showman struck out, but this time Wild Boy was ready. Ducking Finch’s arm, he dropped to the floor and rammed the glass dagger into the showman’s boot. A savage roar came from his mouth, rage at three years of cruel treatment as he felt the weapon tear through leather and into flesh.

Finch gave a bloodcurdling scream. He tumbled back and landed on the chamber pot, a wave of foul brown filth washing over his head.

Before the showman could get up, Wild Boy leaped on him and hit him with the pot. “That’s for picking on Sir Oswald!” he yelled. “And this is for everything else!”

He whacked Finch again, then again, harder. With each strike, his panic mounted, and more tears filled his eyes. He knew he had to run. He had nowhere to go, but he
had
to run. Dropping the pot, he jumped over the showman and burst through the door. Sir Oswald cried out for him to stop, but he was already gone. His long coat swished red and gold as he fled the freak show and into the fair.

“B
oy! Where are you, boy? I’ll wring your ugly neck!”

Wild Boy lay flat on one of the caravan roofs. His heart pounded so hard he was sure it would give him away. He didn’t move, didn’t even breathe.

Below, Augustus Finch stalked along the back of the vans. The web of scars flushed across the showman’s face, and a glob of spit hung like a spider from his chin. He limped painfully from the cut on his foot. The glass shard that had inflicted the wound was gripped in his hand, ready to use in revenge.

“You’ll be back!” he screamed. “You hear me, you ugly mutt? You’ll be back, cos where else has a freak like you got to go? But you won’t need to worry about your hair no more. Cos I’m gonna skin you alive!”

Wild Boy’s face burned with anger. He wanted to leap from the van and smash the showman to the ground. But this time he fought back the rage. He’d been lucky against Finch in the van, and knew that only a fool would challenge him twice in one night.

So he lay still, as rainwater from the roof seeped through his coat and soaked the hair on his chest. He lay still until the showman was gone and his cries were drowned by the roar of the fair.

Even then Wild Boy didn’t move. He was trying not to cry. He’d spent his whole life not crying, no matter how badly he’d been treated or teased. But he was so scared right then. He’d never seen Finch that angry. If he went back, the showman would beat him to within an inch of his life, and he wouldn’t care that the star of his show couldn’t perform for a week.

He pulled his coat tighter as an icy wind swept over the rooftops. He knew that he had to go back — what else could he do? Certainly nothing normal; a freak show was the only life someone like him was good for. One or two freaks had gotten away to run their own shows, but first they’d saved up money to rent a van and horse. Wild Boy hadn’t earned a single penny during his time with Finch.

Unless . . .

Unless he could
steal
some money. How hard could it be? He just had to find the right target, someone who wouldn’t miss a few pennies from their pocket.

He slid to the edge of the roof, his sharp eyes raking the crowds. From here he could see all the way to the circus tent at the end of the path, a swirl of color against the soot-black sky. There were hundreds of people down there. He saw a beggar with a sign saying
SHIPWRECKED SAILOR
(whom he could tell had never been to sea). He saw four women playing cards (three of whom he knew were cheating). He saw a woman faking a fit outside a gin tent, a man with a hook for a hand, a girl stealing gingerbread . . .

His eyes landed on a wealthy-looking couple buying chestnuts for their daughter. Was there something to steal there? No, they only
looked
wealthy. The mother’s ears were pierced but she wasn’t wearing earrings, even though the family was all dressed up. The girl’s expensive dress was patched in three places, and two of the father’s mother-of-pearl shirt buttons were missing — pawned, Wild Boy guessed, to provide for his family.

No — he couldn’t steal from them.

Suddenly he sat up. Across the path, a dark figure moved between the vans. Someone was shadowing the family — stopping when they stopped, moving when they moved, darting from behind one van to the next.

Another thief,
Wild Boy realized.

He wasn’t surprised. The family was an obvious target. They didn’t just look rich, they looked scared too. Wild Boy watched as they made their way cautiously along the side of the path, as far as possible from the threatening crowds. Soon they would brush past a banner for the circus. That, he guessed, was where the thief would strike. And he had a good idea who that thief was too. . . .

He turned away, trying to forget what he’d seen. “Ain’t none of my business,” he muttered.

Only . . . That family wasn’t rich, but they were going to get robbed unless he did something about it. He imagined how they would feel when they discovered they’d lost what little money they had.