Wild Boy (5 page)

He cursed, banged a palm against the rooftop. He would warn them, that was all. He’d give them a flash of his face — that was enough to scare anyone off.

A moment later he was running again behind the vans. His long coat fluttered as he leaped over planks supporting sinking wheels, and weaved between guy ropes where showmen had pitched tents backstage. He ran right around the circus tent and to the backs of the caravans on the other side of the path. He ducked down an alley between two of the vans and finally stopped, catching his breath. A strip of cloth hung across the other end of the alley, painted with a slogan for the circus.
MRS. EVERETT’S MOST MARVELOUS SHOW!

Wild Boy felt a glow of satisfaction. He’d gotten there before the thief.

He crept to the end of the alley and peeled back the banner. Yards away, dozens of people trudged along the path. He was relieved to see that the family didn’t need help after all — they had already turned back toward the park gates, moving so fast they were almost running. Wild Boy watched them go for a moment. The girl was crying, but how he envied the life that she was running back to. He hoped for her sake that she could forget all about this terrible place.

Just then something dropped from the top of a van and landed with a
splash
behind Wild Boy in the mud. It was the thief!

He whirled around but the person was too fast, a blur of red and gold. A fist punched him in the stomach. A boot kicked him hard in the shin.

“I saw you, freak,” said a voice. “You scared off my mark.”

Before Wild Boy could react, the thief leaped over him in a single acrobatic bound. He turned to fight, but again he was too slow, and the thief booted him painfully in the backside. He staggered forward. His head whacked against the caravan wall, and he tumbled into the mud.

The boots squelched closer. “And now you’re going to pay.”

W
ild Boy looked up through a veil of wet and tangled hair.

The face of a girl glared down at him, as pale as the moon except for strawberry freckles that dotted her cheeks. Her long hair was the color of rust, and her dress was covered in red and gold sequins that shimmered in the moonlight.

Wild Boy scrabbled back between the vans, his heart pounding. This was Clarissa Everett, a teenage acrobat from the circus. He’d been enemies with her since the day he joined the fair. That day, more than ever, he had needed to show people that, although he might be small, he’d fight anyone who laid a finger on him. Clarissa had been the first to try, and he’d smashed one of her teeth with a stick. None of the other fairground children had picked on him since.

Clarissa stood over him, fists bunched and freckles flared. “This end of the path is circus territory,” she said. “Freaks don’t belong here, nor rats neither. And you’re both.”

Gripping the caravan wheel, Wild Boy pulled himself up. He guessed that Clarissa was only a year older than him, and almost as slim, but she was tough too — an acrobat by day and a fairground thief by night. He had to show her he was tougher.

He brushed long hair from his eyes, hocked up a ball of spit, and fired it to the ground between them. “Fight, then,” he said.

Clarissa did the same, her spit landing inches from his bare feet. “Fight,” she agreed.

“To the death,” Wild Boy added, holding her glare.

Clarissa hesitated. “What?”

“If we fight, it’s to the death. Them’s the rules.”

“I ain’t fighting to the death! I’m just going to kick your teeth out. I followed that family all the way from the gates until you scared ‘em off. They were rich toffs.”

“Ha! All you’d have gotten was an empty pocketbook. They weren’t toffs. At least not no more.”

“How could
you
know that?”

“I saw.”

“Saw?”

Wild Boy cursed. Other than Sir Oswald, he didn’t tell anyone about the way he saw things, and especially not Clarissa. But he sensed an opportunity to make some money, so he wouldn’t have to go back to Finch.

“How about this?” he said. “I’ll find you another toff, a real one this time, for half of what you steal.”

“I don’t need help from a
freak.
”

“Then we gotta fight,” Wild Boy said.

“I don’t need to fight you neither. I already won.” She flicked back her hair and turned to look past the banner. “Go back to your monster museum,” she said.

Wild Boy considered giving her a kick in the back. But he knew this wasn’t over yet. He needed Clarissa’s help, but she needed him too. “Fair enough,” he said as coolly as he could. “Find a toff yourself, then.”

He turned to walk away.

“Wait,” Clarissa said. “How can
you
find one?”

Got her,
Wild Boy thought. But he tried not to smile. “Always a couple of rich types about,” he said. “They come in disguise so they won’t get robbed.”

“Nonsense. Who?”

“Fifty-fifty even split.” He spat on his palm to shake on the deal.

“I’m not touching your spit! If you do find a toff, I
might
give you some of the takings.”

There was no use arguing. Better to see what she stole, Wild Boy thought, and then decide if it was worth fighting for. He moved closer.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” Clarissa warned. “I don’t wanna catch nothing.”

But Wild Boy barely heard. Already his eyes were searching the crowd, homing in on tiny, telling details that flashed past the banner. Only after a minute or so did he notice that Clarissa was staring at the hair on his face. He turned, and she looked back to the path.

“So?” she said. “Where’s this toff, then?”

“There. That man in the cloak.”

Clarissa gave a derisive snort. The man Wild Boy had selected was young and handsome, with bushy black whiskers covering his cheeks. “Nonsense,” she said. “His cloak’s all shabby.”

“But look at his shoes. Almost clean.”

“So?”

“So the road to the fair’s muddy. Means he was dropped off by a carriage close by. Ain’t too likely for a bloke in a shabby cloak, is it?”

Clarissa considered the man curiously. “Maybe he lives close by.”

“Nah. Top of his hat is wet, see? It was still raining wherever he got into his carriage.” Wild Boy looked up at the clouds scudding past the moon and made a quick calculation. “Lives around London Bridge, I’d say. Lots of toffs there.”

Clarissa stared at the man, then at Wild Boy. “How did you . . . ?”

“I seen him before,” Wild Boy said quickly.

“Oh. Well, then you cheated. Look, he’s coming this way.”

They watched the man approach. With one hand, he pushed an old lady aside in his rush to get through the crowd. His other arm was stuffed inside his cloak, as if he were clutching something to his chest.

“Wonder what he’s got under there?” Wild Boy said.

“Nice fat pocketbook, that’s what,” replied Clarissa.

They grinned at each other, and then scowled, remembering they were enemies.

“He’s getting closer,” Clarissa said.

The man looked like he was in a rush. Sweat dripped from beneath the brim of his top hat, and he was muttering under his breath. He stopped and looked over his shoulder, and his arm tightened around whatever he was protecting under his cloak.

“See that?” Clarissa whispered. “Definitely something under there.”

She was trying to look calm, but Wild Boy could tell by the way her tongue dashed anxiously over her broken front tooth that she was as nervous as he was. Something about the man didn’t seem right, although he couldn’t work out what. He wanted to warn Clarissa, to tell her they should find someone else. But he reminded himself how badly he needed the money.

“Here he comes,” Clarissa said.

The man came closer. . . .

“
Now,
” Wild Boy whispered.

Clarissa’s hand shot under the man’s cloak, delving for a pocketbook. He was just inches away on the other side of the banner, so close that Wild Boy could see the sweat glisten on his bushy whiskers. For a thrilling second he thought Clarissa was going to pull this off. . . .

Then the man stepped back and screamed. One hand seized Clarissa’s wrist, while the other lashed out, wielding a clasp knife. Unable to see his attacker, he slashed wildly at the banner. Veins bulged in his forehead, as he yelled a strange warning. “You’ll never get the machine! You can kill me, but you’ll never get the machine!”

“Get off me!” Clarissa cried. “Get him off me!”

Wild Boy struggled to pull her from the man’s grip. The knife slashed his coat sleeve, but he held on and pulled harder. Finally he tore Clarissa free and they tumbled back between the caravans. When they looked up again, the man had turned and fled for the park gates.

All around the path, curious heads turned. Without a word, Wild Boy and Clarissa sprang up and pelted away into the backstage area of the circus. They hid behind the stable hut, breathing hard.

Clarissa slammed a hand against the stable wall. “Why didn’t you tell me he had a knife? He was crazy, a lunatic! And what was he saying?”

“Something about a machine,” Wild Boy wheezed. “What did he have under his cloak?”

“Nothing! Just this.”

She thrust a scrap of paper at his face.

It looked like a letter. Wild Boy reached out to take it, but she snatched it back.

“It’s your fault,” she said. “I ain’t got nothing now!”

She glanced toward the circus tent, and Wild Boy saw a fear in her eyes that he recognized. Clarissa, too, was scared to go back.

“Well,” he said, “maybe we can find another —”

“Shut up, freak! I should never have listened to you.” She shoved him in the chest and ran off toward the circus. “You owe me double now.”

Wild Boy didn’t bother yelling a reply. He had bigger problems than Clarissa Everett. Like her, he’d gotten nothing. And so he had to return to Finch. By now the showman would have passed out from drinking. But come the morning . . .

“I ain’t scared of him,” he muttered unconvincingly. “I’ll punch out his teeth. Give him another scar on that ugly . . .”

He turned. Someone was watching him.

A dark figure stood in the shadows at the end of the stable, hidden by a sagging black hood and a leather cloak that draped to the ground. Wild Boy couldn’t see anything under the cloak — no hands, no face, not even any boots through the holes in its tattered, muddy trail.

But he was certain the figure was staring at him.

He knew that drunks often sneaked behind the caravans for free looks at the freaks, but this person didn’t seem like he’d been boozing. The figure stood perfectly silent and perfectly still, except where his leather shroud rustled and creaked in the wind.

Gathering his nerve, Wild Boy edged closer. “Hey!” he said. “Hey, you! Get a good look, did you?”

Still the figure didn’t move. Then, from under the hood came a voice that caused Wild Boy to step back in fright. It was deep and menacing, but also strangely distant, like the growl of an animal far away.

“Where is it?” the voice said.

“Eh?”

“Where is the machine?”

“Machine?” Wild Boy replied. Wasn’t that what the man he and Clarissa just robbed had yelled?
You’ll never get the machine. . . .

A cry rang out behind him. He whirled around, but it was just someone at the fair. Quickly he turned back.

But the hooded man had vanished.

“Bloomin’ idiot!” Wild Boy yelled.

He tried to sound tough but something about that figure had sent a chill through every hair on his body, an even deeper fear than anything he’d experienced that night. Whoever it had been, he was glad the person was gone.

He pulled his long coat tighter around him and trudged back toward the freak shows. He looked forward to the fair moving on, and getting out of this wretched place. So far, Greenwich wasn’t going well at all.

W
ild Boy woke to the call of a crow.

The beady-eyed bird sat in the caravan doorway, considering him with a curious, tilted gaze. What was that hairy creature curled up on the floor?

The crow flapped away as Wild Boy rose with a groan from the sacks. Everything hurt from the beatings he’d taken last night — his arm, his back, his jaw. His body felt like one big bruise. He rubbed his coat sleeve and felt the slash where the man’s knife had struck. It still didn’t make sense to him. The man had gone crazy, screaming about some machine. And then, moments later, that hooded figure had said the same thing. . . .