The Peculiars

by Kieran Larwood

  Before he could blink, Raggety smashed both hooves into his chest. The blow sent the butcher clear off his feet, across the yard and through the door of the little privy. It was not the sturdiest of buildings. The butcher crashed straight through the seat and into the cesspit below. There was a cry of pain, followed by another of utter disgust and then silence.

  ‘Well done, Raggety!’ shouted Sheba from the bedroom window.

  ‘Yes! You beauty!’ cried Monkeyboy, and he slapped Raggety on the rump.

  This was a mistake.

  The horse had seen the tempting street beyond the open gate. He knew that through there somewhere were lanes and pastures full of sweet clover, just like the ones he visited in the summer. In a split second he was through the gate and off, with Monkeyboy clinging to his back and screaming, ‘Not that way, you mangy nag! Turn around! Turn around!’

  As the sound of Monkeyboy’s screaming faded, the front door reverberated with another mighty bang. Baba Anish? Or another of his thugs? There was no telling how many were on their way to Brick Lane.

  Quickly, Sheba scurried to the top of the stairs, looking down to the parlour below. Mama Rat moved to the empty rat’s box, flicking open a secret panel in the bottom of it. She drew out her long-barrelled flintlock. Seeing this reminded Sheba of Farfellini’s pistol, and she fished it from the pocket of her sodden cloak. She checked it to make sure it was wound and not too damp, then glanced over her shoulder to see Sister Moon drawing her two slim swords. The look on her face was cold and deadly. They all held their breath as they heard the door squeak open.

  Then there was a pause. Time seemed to stand very still. Sheba imagined someone very large and very violent standing just outside, preparing to charge in.

  Which was exactly what happened next.

  The other goon from the tavern, the one with a black bushy beard, stormed through, roaring a battle cry and waving a wooden club. He took the stairs three at a time, bellowing all the way – right into the path of Sheba’s pistol. There was a small twang as she fired. The little dart hit him square between the eyes. He stopped. Thank goodness it still works, thought Sheba. The man stood swaying on the stairs for a moment. Then the flesh of his face began to bubble like a pot of pea soup as scores of boils began to erupt all over his skin. Within seconds, his whole body was covered with fat, angry spots. They even peeped out of his thick, fuzzy beard. Wailing like a girl, he tumbled back down the stairs then struggled to his feet and sprinted out of the front door and down the road.

  ‘Good shooting, Sheba,’ said Sister Moon, behind her.

  Sheba was just about to allow herself to feel relieved, then she saw something that rendered her dumb. Stepping through the doorway, curved sword drawn, was Baba Anish.

  He turned his slow gaze up the stairs, catching sight of Sheba where she crouched on the top step. His face twisted in surprise for a moment, before returning to its normal expression. That of someone about to kill you and everyone you cared about.

  Sheba sprang back out of sight but it was too late.

  ‘I see you escaped the tunnel, memsahib,’ he called as he walked slowly up the stairs.

  Thud. Thud.

  ‘Impressive. But you really are a stupid girl.’

  Thud. Thud.

  ‘You should have used your freedom to get as far away from this house as possible. Everyone in it is about to die most horribly. My goddess Kali will soon be drinking blood from your empty skulls.’

  Thud. Thud.

  Sheba looked in desperation to Sister Moon. The ninja reached into one of the pouches at her belt and pulled out a little cloth bag, which she threw to Sheba. Inside were metal ball bearings. What am I supposed to do with these? she thought. Challenge him to a game of marbles and hope he forgets about killing us?

  Sister Moon mimed tipping the bag, before raising her swords again and moving into a complicated-looking stance with the grace of a ballerina. One blade was raised above her head, the other levelled at groin height. Her legs were bent, poised and ready to spring.

  Thud. Thud.

  Sheba emptied the entire contents of the bag down the steps.

  There was a sudden scrambling sound, followed by a loud curse and a series of thumps. She peered over the banister to see Baba Anish land in a crumpled heap at the bottom. She was about to suggest everyone used the few seconds she had bought to make an escape through the bedroom window when she caught a truly repulsive scent.

  Stomping in from the kitchen was the butcher. Somehow he had managed to climb out of the privy-hole.

  Sheba watched, helpless with horror, as Baba Anish got to his feet and the pair of them started up the stairs, the butcher leading. He seemed to have lost his cleaver in the privy-hole, but his fists looked dangerous enough.

  Sheba raised her shaky hands and fired her pistol again. But her nerves spoilt her aim this time, and the dart thudded into the wall, just past the butcher’s shoulder. She frantically tried to wind the pistol for another shot. There was a twang and a crunch as a cog jammed. The gun was now useless.

  Throwing it to one side, she felt fear and anger rippling under her skin. Her body responded to the adrenalin and stretched itself into a new, more deadly shape. Her sharp teeth gnashed, her claws itched to scratch and slash, and this time it didn’t worry her. She wanted to rip these people who had invaded her home and threatened her friends into pieces.

  With a snarling scream, she ran headlong at the butcher.

  The last thing she remembered was the smell of human waste as the man’s fist swung towards her. She was smacked clear across the bedroom, hit the far wall and slid to the bottom in a heap.

  Fat lot of use I was, she thought. She watched the rest of the attack in fuzzy, slow motion – almost as if she were having a bad dream.

  Far from being futile, Sheba’s act had distracted the butcher for an instant, allowing Mama Rat to step up. She pointed her own pistol at the man’s head, but before she could shoot, her rats shot out from the pockets of her coat and swarmed up his body and onto his face. In a frenzy of scratching claws and nipping teeth they began to shred his nose. Howling in pain and terror, and trying to grab at the writhing, slippery rodents, he turned and pounded down the stairs past Baba Anish, and out of the house.

  The painted man wasn’t fazed for an instant. Mama Rat levelled her pistol at his face as he reached the top of the stairs, but wasn’t quick enough. Baba Anish moved with frightening speed, reaching to his belt and lunging in one motion. A throwing knife flipped through the air, too fast for Sister Moon to intercept, and thudded into Mama Rat’s shoulder.

  Sheba and Sister Moon cried out as the woman and her pistol clattered to the floor.

  Baba Anish stepped calmly into the bedroom, raising his curved sword and smiling.

  Moon’s usual calm evaporated. With a furious cry, she launched herself at the intruder, and they began to fight.

  It was like a frenzied and incredibly dangerous dance. The weapons of the two moved so fast, it was impossible for Sheba to follow. Both combatants were surrounded by shimmering arcs of steel flashes, and the sound of metal on metal beat out a staccato rhythm, like a madman with a set of teaspoons.

  Moon seemed to have the advantage at first. Her sheer anger forced Baba Anish back a step, then another as he fended blow after blow. But before long she began to tire. Her immaculate swordplay faltered. The painted man parried a downward cut, then flipped his sword around, reversing his grip and jabbing upwards. The blade nicked Moon’s left forearm, sending a tiny splatter of blood across her cheek. She jumped back from the stairwell, gasping. It was the first time anyone had managed to land a strike on her.

  Baba Anish laughed at her shocked expression.

  ‘I am going to gut you,’ he whispered, ‘then send the hairy girl and the woman to my mistress, Kali. She will enjoy feasting on their souls.’

  ‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ came a low and deeply furious voice from the front door.

  It was Gigan
tus.

  Sheba would have cheered if she had been able to move her mouth.

  Baba Anish spun to meet the new threat, and happened to meet Gigantus’s right fist, which was travelling towards his face at about a hundred miles an hour. It slammed into his mouth with a tooth-shattering crunch, accompanied by the sound of his jaw breaking in several places at once. He staggered back into the room, past the prone bodies of Mama Rat and Sheba, then Gigantus grabbed him by the collar and threw him through the bedroom window and out into the yard. He left a brief, shining arc of smashed glass and blood behind him, and then landed on the packed mud with a solid thump.

  Gigantus and Moon stood panting for a moment, looking at each other and the shattered mess around them. They were too tired for words, too tired to do anything but stare, until Mama Rat groaned and they both rushed to her side.

  Chapter Seventeen

  IN WHICH THE PECULIARS VISIT THE GREAT EXHIBITION.

  ‘Hold still.’

  Sister Moon was trying to sew up the wound in Mama Rat’s shoulder. Baba Anish’s knife had cut deep, but luckily only into the muscle. Mama sat with her teeth gritted and her face pale. Sheba held her hand.

  ‘Did anyone see where the little idiot went?’ Gigantus asked. He was downstairs by the broken front door, looking up and down the street for Monkeyboy. When nobody answered he shut the door, then tutted as it swung open again. ‘We’re going to need a new lock.’

  ‘And new window,’ said Sister Moon. ‘Plumpscuttle go mad.’

  ‘Let’s hope he stays in hospital for a while, then,’ muttered Gigantus.

  Sheba looked around the battered house. There was blood and broken glass all over the floor. The wall by the stairs had huge chunks and slices chopped out of it by Sister Moon and Baba Anish. Baba Anish . . .

  Still feeling shaky, she got to her feet and tottered to the smashed window. Being careful to avoid the broken glass around the edges, she looked down into the yard. There was nothing there. He was gone.

  She dashed down the stairs, calling to Gigantus, and ran into the yard. There was a large bloodstained spatter, where he must have landed, dotted with the twinkle of glass shards. Smaller puddles of red led through the open side gate, where they soon mingled with the muck and cobbles of Brick Lane, trampled into smudges by the crowds.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry,’ said Gigantus from behind her. ‘I don’t expect he’ll last long after what we did to him. Someone’ll find his body on the street somewhere.’

  Sheba hoped someone would find him. Find him and chuck him into the river for the eels to eat, just like he’d tried to do to her. But even as Gigantus shut and bolted the gate, she couldn’t help feeling that they hadn’t seen the last of him.

  It was a few hours before Monkeyboy turned up. By then Mama Rat was properly bandaged and drinking tea, while Sheba had calmed Flossy down after his ordeal with the butcher, soaked in a hot bath and put on some clean clothes. Her whole body was a mass of bruises and scrapes, and she felt as though she could sleep for a week. She was just telling the others what had happened to her in the tunnel again, when there was a pounding at the door.

  With the handle still broken, it swung wide to reveal a group of angry-looking costermongers. They were leading a huge, grumpy Shire horse, with a fuming Monkeyboy on its back.

  ‘Is this your blooming ’orse?’ one said. He looked as though he wanted to thump someone. At least until Gigantus stood up and stomped over to the door.

  ‘Yes,’ said Gigantus. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, sir.’ The costermonger took off his hat and cowered. ‘We just thought you’d like ’im back.’

  Gigantus took the reins, while the men hurried back along Brick Lane.

  Monkeyboy called after them. ‘I told you my friend was bigger than you!’

  ‘Watch who you’re calling friend, imp,’ said Gigantus. But Sheba could tell he was secretly relieved to see Monkeyboy was back safe and sound.

  It turned out that Raggety had galloped straight to the nearest market and eaten almost an entire stall of flowers before the men had managed to drag him away. They would have called the police, had one of them not recognised Monkeyboy from Plumpscuttle’s sideshow.

  ‘They said they were going to give me a good hiding,’ he said, once Sheba had coaxed Raggety back in his stall with more sugar. ‘So I told them I hadn’t changed my undercrackers in six months.’

  ‘What now, then?’ Mama Rat asked.

  There was a long, silent pause as everyone considered their options.

  ‘We know she’s going to rob the Great Exhibition tonight,’ said Sheba. ‘Maybe we could tell the police, get them to arrest her?’

  Gigantus shook his craggy head. ‘No policeman in his right mind is going to believe a story like that. Especially when it comes from a bunch of weirdos like us.’

  ‘I know,’ said Monkeyboy. ‘How about we just forget the whole thing? It was fun while it lasted, but nearly being killed more than once in a day is just being greedy.’

  Mama Rat pretended she hadn’t heard him. ‘Well, we don’t know where this doctor has taken the children – or why he wants them. But it’s bound to be something horrid. The only lead we have is the Exhibition. You did say you wanted to see it, Sheba.’

  Sheba nodded, remembering how exotic it had sounded when she read about it in the paper. But that was before she knew she’d have to try and break into the place and thwart an evil mastermind.

  The hansom cab screeched to a halt at Hyde Park Corner. Sparks had been flying from the left axle all the way from Whitechapel, where Gigantus’s weight had been forcing the suspension down onto bare metal. As its strange cargo poured out of the door, the cab sprang back upright with such force that the cabbie nearly shot off his perch at the front.

  ‘That’s two shillings!’ he shouted. ‘Not including the damage you’ve done to me blooming axle!’

  One of the passengers flung a handful of copper pennies up at him, as the odd group ran off toward Hyde Park.

  ‘Oi! This isn’t enough!’ the cabbie yelled after them, but the Peculiars were already out of earshot.

  ‘This way,’ Gigantus panted as he ran. ‘It’s before midnight, so the gates are still open, even if the Exhibition is closed.’

  There were several small groups of people walking in and out of the park. At the sight of the huge man charging towards them like a bull elephant, surrounded by shadowy figures in black, they scattered in all directions.

  As Sheba ran alongside the others, she gaped at the architecture around her. To the left was a huge stone block of a mansion, with a massive portico jutting out of the front. Next to it was an immense gateway: three stone arches big enough to drive a carriage through, and rows of stone columns in between. In fact, there were so many columns about, Sheba thought for a moment the cab might have taken her to Ancient Greece by mistake.

  ‘That’s the Duke of Welly’s house,’ said Monkeyboy, as they passed the mansion. ‘Shall we give him a knock? I bet he’d be up for helping us out.’

  ‘Where’s the Exhibition?’ asked Sheba. She’d been expecting an enormous glass palace filling the horizon: spires jutting skyward and glinting in the starlight. All she could see now were trees and bushes.

  ‘This way,’ said Gigantus. ‘Down Rotten Row.’ He pointed to a long, straight, sandy track that ran into the park. It was lined with trees and benches, most occupied by huddles of ragged women and children.

  The Peculiars set off down the track at a jog. Sheba was impatient to get to the Crystal Palace as quickly as possible, but Mama Rat was already breathing hard. Sister Moon and Monkeyboy loped easily beside her, and from the bushes nearby she could hear rustling and scurrying that could only be the rats. Her own legs were beginning to ache when they came to a little bridge.

  ‘We get off road now,’ said Sister Moon. ‘There are soldiers.’

  Up ahead a small patrol was marching behind their sergeant. All had long rifles with bayonets fixed to the e
nds. The Peculiars quickly scurried behind the nearest bush.

  ‘You think that’s bad,’ whispered Gigantus. ‘There’s a whole flipping barracks full of them just over the road.’

  But Sheba didn’t really hear him. She was looking past the soldiers, to where a wide, clear river stretched off into the park. The stars were reflected in its clear surface. Compared to the chaos of the Thames, it looked so peaceful and serene.

  ‘Holy pigeon turds on toast,’ said Monkeyboy, who was crouching next to her.

  ‘I know,’ said Sheba. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it.’

  ‘Not the Serpentine, you plum! That!’

  When Sheba saw what he meant, her mouth fell open in sheer awe.

  It wasn’t the fairytale palace she had imagined. It was far more spectacular than that.

  There were no turrets or towers or drawbridges, just a jaw-droppingly amazing man-made structure. A vast, almost endless construction of glass and metal. In the centre were tiers, like the biggest wedding cake in the universe, topped with a huge curved arch. And it was entirely made of ironwork and glass. So much glass. If they’d taken every pane from every single house and building in London, it still wouldn’t have been enough. Sheba didn’t understand how it didn’t collapse under its own weight. The sheer size, the mechanics, of such a thing made her head begin to spin. How had they done it? How was it even imagined?

  ‘It’s . . . it’s . . .’ she tried to say, but words failed her.

  ‘The biggest greenhouse in the world?’ said Monkeyboy.

  The Peculiars stared as the glow of gas lamps and moonlight played across the vast expanses of shining glass before them. It was so magnificent, they all forgot for a moment why they were there.

  ‘Well, how are we going to get in?’ Monkeyboy said at last. ‘We can’t fly up to the roof, and if we try and smash in through the wall, we’ll be full of lead before we can blink.’