Wild Boy

by Rob Lloyd Jones

  As soon as Wild Boy was inside, Marcus lashed the reins and they were away again, racing through the rain — after Sir Oswald, after Clarissa, after the machine.

  “That’s him! Go faster!”

  Wild Boy tumbled back onto the seat as the Lord Mayor’s coach jolted over cracks in the road. Two wheels came off the ground and the carriage almost tipped over before slamming back to the broken surface.

  Drunken crowds ran screaming from the street. A chestnut seller dived out of the way, only to see his tin stove crushed like paper beneath the coach’s wheels. Sparks flew, but Marcus wasn’t slowing down. The coach tore through a washing line, smashed down a shop sign, ripped through a pile of newspapers. Front pages flapped up into the rain, screaming WILD BOY AND CLARISSA STILL AT LARGE!

  “Ya! Ya!”

  Rain whipped Wild Boy’s face as he leaned from the window. He could just see his old caravan, a hundred yards ahead. No, not a caravan — it was a machine on wheels. Electricity crackled along the pipes and wires that crisscrossed its wooden walls. The iron wheels scattered sparks in their path. Sir Oswald sat in the driver’s perch, connected to the machine by one of the mechanical crowns.

  “The machine,” Marcus said. “It’s starting to work.”

  Wild Boy felt useless, helpless. All he could do was watch as the machine grew even brighter, streaking blue light in its wake. What was happening to Clarissa in there?

  “The bridge!” he cried. “He’s heading for the bridge!”

  The narrow street widened into the broad thoroughfare of London Bridge. Workers downed tools and fled as the two vehicles clattered toward them. Sir Oswald’s machine hit a pickax, slowing it down for vital moments. Seizing his chance, Marcus urged his horses on until the carriages were racing side by side, separated by a line of builder’s blocks that ran along the middle of the bridge.

  Wild Boy had to stop that van. And he could think of only one way.

  He slid across the coach and pushed open the window. Orange blurs of gaslight streaked past as the carriage sped along the bridge. He didn’t let himself stop and think about what he was doing. In one quick move he pulled himself out through the window.

  Wind and driving rain threatened to tear him off the side of the coach. But he clung tight to the golden frame and climbed up onto the roof.

  “Marcus!” he shouted. “Get closer to the machine!”

  Marcus pulled the reins, steering the Mayor’s coach even closer to the center of the bridge. Two wheels scraped the stone divide, spraying sparks. This was as near as they could get but they were still yards away.

  Wild Boy glimpsed himself in the reflection of the machine’s pipes. He looked every bit as terrified as he felt. But he remembered the look in Clarissa’s eyes when he’d struck her in the Tower, and the promise he’d made to save her.

  He jumped.

  “AAAAGH!”

  He landed hard on top of the machine. He tried to grasp one of the pipes, but the speed flipped him sideways. His head hit wood as he fell over the side. Only his foot, caught between the pipes as he fell, saved him from tumbling to the street. He swung across the side of the machine, so close to the grinding wheel that it shaved the hair on his cheek.

  The machine glowed brighter. The pipes throbbed. The wires fizzed.

  Wild Boy felt the heat burn his coat and scorch the hair on his back. The van door swung open and he saw Clarissa inside, her pale face shining blue in the machine’s electrical storm. She’d managed to shake off her gag but she remained tied to the wall, with the crown screwed to her head. She stopped struggling, surprised to see Wild Boy hanging upside down outside the door.

  “Help me, then!” she screamed.

  “I’m trying!” Wild Boy replied.

  Struggling against the wind, he reached up and gripped one of the van’s wooden slats. His hand brushed a pipe, and a shock of electricity shot down his arm. But he fought away the pain and pulled himself back onto the roof.

  Now that he was close to Sir Oswald, Wild Boy didn’t know what to do. Just a few days ago, this man had been his friend. Was it true what he’d said — that he had not meant to kill the Professor or Doctor Griffin?

  It didn’t matter. He just had to stop this machine.

  He leaned forward and took hold of the wires that trailed from Sir Oswald’s crown. And then he yanked. He hoped to tear them from the device, severing its connection to Clarissa. But Sir Oswald’s head swung back and caught the edge of the van roof, knocking him out cold. His hands slipped from the reins and he slumped forward.

  “Get up!” Wild Boy yelled at him.

  He reached past him and grabbed one of the reins. But the horses were too scared to slow down. They ran even faster, out of control.

  Marcus tried to steer the Mayor’s coach closer, but couldn’t pass the stone barrier. “Get Miss Everett out of there!” he shouted.

  Edging back, Wild Boy pulled open the hatch in the roof and slid through. He dropped straight down and landed inside the van.

  “What are you doing?” Clarissa cried.

  “It’s a rescue. . . .”

  “Rescue? We’re going to crash! Why did you take so long?”

  Wild Boy grunted — there was no pleasing some people. Dragging himself up, he began to unscrew the crown from around Clarrisa’s head. He lifted it away and untied the ropes that bound her to the wall. The van shook as its wheels crashed against the blocks in the road.

  “Hurry!” Clarissa said.

  “I am hurrying!”

  “Hurry faster!”

  The van jolted again, harder. “What was that?” Clarissa said as she pulled free of the ropes.

  Wild Boy pushed the van door open and looked outside. “The horses! They’ve broken free!”

  The animals had jumped the stone barrier that divided the bridge, but the machine hadn’t followed. Its wheels crashed against the blocks, and now it was on its own, trailing sparks through the rain. At any moment it could plunge from the bridge.

  “We have to jump,” Clarissa said.

  Marcus drove his coach as close as possible to the runaway machine. If Wild Boy and Clarissa were lucky, they could leap and cling on to its railings.

  “Go!” Wild Boy yelled.

  Clarissa jumped. Instinct guided her hands — she caught the golden frame of the Mayor’s coach, flung the door open, and swung inside. “Come on!” she called.

  Wild Boy was about to follow, but he glanced back. The hatch to the driver’s perch was open, and he saw Sir Oswald unconscious in his seat. He couldn’t just leave him.

  “No,” Clarissa said. “Wild Boy, don’t!”

  But he was already back inside the van, reaching through the hatch for his old friend. “Sir Oswald!” he shouted. “Wake up!”

  Too late. The van’s wheels hit the rubble where workers had been repairing the edge of the bridge. Wild Boy tumbled back as the machine flipped over and crashed onto its side in a burst of sparks. It skidded across the surface . . . and came to a shuddering halt half on and half off the bridge.

  The pipes groaned, glowing paler as the electricity in the machine died out.

  The van creaked, wobbled. Inside, Wild Boy lay at the wrong end of the see saw, staring up at the open caravan door. Rain poured through, hissing against hot metal. He didn’t dare move, terrified that whatever he did would send the van over the edge.

  “Master Wild . . .”

  The driver’s hatch hung open. Sir Oswald sat in his perch, held in by a strap over the stumps of his thighs. The machine’s crown had slipped on his head. He looked like a sad, broken king on his throne.

  He stared down at the dark river. He knew that it was his weight that was tipping the van over the edge. His hands shook as he reached to unfasten the strap.

  “I am sorry, Master Wild,” he said. “I am sorry for everything.”

  “No, Sir Oswald. Don’t . . .”

  “All I wanted was to help you. Just tell me you believe that.”

  Wild
Boy did, and he said so. Despite everything his friend had done, he didn’t want him to die. “Please, Sir Oswald. You don’t have to do this.”

  Sir Oswald looked back through the hatch. Tears glistened in his eyes, but he managed one last smile for his old friend. “Poppycock,” he said.

  He unfastened the strap, and fell.

  Sir Oswald didn’t scream, didn’t make a sound other than the splash from hitting the water. The scream came from Wild Boy — a desperate, heartbroken cry that filled the van and shook its walls as he watched the river swallow his friend. But, at the same time, he’d never felt so strong. Sir Oswald had done that for him — so now, more than ever, he was determined to survive.

  The caravan tipped back toward the bridge but still threatened to slide over the edge. The open door was right above him. He had to get through and leap to safety.

  Now, he urged himself. Now!

  He sprang up and reached for the door. He managed to grasp the edge, but now the caravan swung from the bridge. It slid over the side and plummeted down. . . .

  Wild Boy cried out, but he didn’t fall with the van. Instead he remained hanging in the air. At first he didn’t understand what had happened. Then he looked up and yelled in delight.

  A pale face smiled down at him, dotted with bright freckles. Clarissa dangled upside down from a rope, its other end held by Marcus on the bridge above. She’d jumped from the bridge, catching Wild Boy’s hand as the van fell.

  Her grin spread wider. “This is a rescue,” she said.

  Slowly Marcus hauled them up, until they both stood safely on the bridge. Wild Boy shook all over from his brush with death, the pain in his shoulder, and his grief that Sir Oswald was gone.

  But he had kept his promise. Exhausted, he leaned against Clarissa, each propping the other up. Fiery red hairs tumbled over burnt brown ones.

  They heard whistles and shouts as police officers charged along the bridge. But they were too tired to run. Besides, Wild Boy had had enough of running. Over Clarissa’s shoulder he looked at Marcus. The golden-eyed man slicked back his silver hair and replied with the slightest of smiles. And Wild Boy knew that everything would be all right.

  He leaned into Clarissa and closed his eyes.

  Wild Boy opened his eyes.

  He was lying in a bed — a proper soft bed with clean linen and a plump feather pillow that smelled of lavender. His chest ached as he shifted up against the headboard. A bandage was wrapped around his side, and his arm hung in a tight sling. Sunlight streamed through a window, dazzling his eyes.

  Marcus Bishop stood over him, leaning on his cane even more heavily than before. In his other hand was a thick sheaf of papers.

  “So,” he said, “did you have fun at the fair?”

  Wild Boy grimaced. He was in no mood for jokes. He looked around the room, trying to make sense of his surroundings. It was bright, breezy, and spotlessly clean, unlike any room he’d been in before. There was a cupboard that was gilded with gold, a chest that looked like solid silver. Through the door, he glimpsed oil paintings on the walls. He heard the clip-clop of horses and the clatter of carriages on a street some way away.

  “Am I in a palace?” he asked.

  Marcus poured him a glass of water from a jug. “You have been asleep for twenty-four hours,” he said. “Drink.”

  The glass trembled in Wild Boy’s hand as he took several small sips. He was surprised to see that his fingernails had been scrubbed clean. Someone had taken great care in washing him, but he could still smell sewage. . . .

  “Sir Oswald?” he asked. “Did he die?”

  Marcus’s jaw tightened. “Almost certainly.”

  “And his machine?”

  “It joined the killer on the riverbed.”

  Killer. It seemed strange to call Sir Oswald that. Wild Boy knew that, in the end, his old friend had saved his life. He didn’t feel angry at him — he felt sad that he was gone. Without him the world felt emptier.

  “What about me?” he asked. “Them blasted coppers still after me?”

  “That has been taken care of. In fact, them blasted coppers would rather appreciate your assistance.”

  Marcus flicked through a few of his papers. “An interesting new case. Four murders, all Members of Parliament, killed in their homes. The killer sends notes to the police, informing them of the exact date and time that the next crime will occur. He is always correct, to the second. His next target is the Prime Minister, and the police are at a loss. And when the police are at a loss, they come to us.”

  Wild Boy took another sip of water. His neck ached but he felt surprisingly awake.

  “Arrest the clock maker,” he said.

  Marcus looked at him for a long moment, and a smile broke across his face. He tucked the papers under his arm. “Care to come along?”

  “I ain’t one of you, you know? I ain’t no bloomin’ Gentleman.”

  “But you will come anyway.” Marcus limped from the room, holding up the papers. “There are puzzles to be solved.”

  Wild Boy slumped back in the bed. He hated how that man always knew what he was thinking. He hated too that he was always right. He would go with him. Not because he had nowhere else to go, but because he wanted to. People to spy on, puzzles to solve, new places to snoop around . . .

  He felt it in the hairs all over his body — excitement.

  He lay back, enjoying the warm sun and the cool breeze on his face. “I know you’re there,” he said. “In the cupboard.”

  The cupboard door creaked open. An angry eye glared from the dark.

  “How could you know?” Clarissa said from inside.

  He’d known she was there from the moment he had woken. But he also knew that it would annoy her if he didn’t say how, so he just shrugged.

  Clarissa stepped gingerly from the cupboard, still aching from their adventure. She had gotten rid of her circus costume and was dressed entirely in black — black hood, black trousers, long black coat. But her hair blazed like fire in the sunlight, and her freckles looked like they’d been painted onto her face with strawberry juice.

  She came up to the bed and they looked at each other for a long moment. They were both struggling not to smile, still trying to look tough.

  “I ain’t not forgiven you, you know?” Clarissa said.

  “Don’t care anyhow,” Wild Boy replied.

  Clarissa peered out of the door, making sure they were alone. A mischievous smile creased across her cheeks. “Look at this.”

  She dug in her pocket and brought out a golden necklace studded with emeralds and rubies. The gleaming jewels dazzled Wild Boy’s eyes.

  “Where did you get that?” he asked.

  “I stole it. Don’t you know where we are?” She stuffed the necklace back in her coat. “They want us to work for them, you know. The Gentlemen. They need us cos they’re too stupid to solve their own mysteries. I told Marcus we would. We will, won’t we?”

  “Yeah . . . Maybe.”

  Really Wild Boy was bursting to get involved. It wasn’t just Marcus’s cases that intrigued him, but the Gentlemen too. He wanted to find out more about them, to uncover their secrets.

  “Marcus pretends to be mean,” Clarissa said, “but I think he’s all right. Remember I said that you can’t pick a Smithson lock with a nail? Well, he can! Said he’d teach me.”

  She turned and gazed out of the window. “At the fair,” she said quietly. “Did you see my mother?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Did she . . . Did she speak about me?”

  Wild Boy remembered her mother’s cruel words in the circus tent, but decided not to tell Clarissa. Mary Everett had already hurt his friend enough. He wouldn’t let her do so anymore. “I’m sorry,” he said. “She didn’t say anything.”

  Clarissa was silent for a moment, a slender silhouette against the window. “I’m sorry I called you a freak,” she said.

  Wild Boy couldn’t fight his smile any longer. “I’m sorry I called
you normal,” he replied.

  Now she grinned too. She punched him on the arm. “Hurry up,” she said. “Marcus says we’re going to catch another killer!” Then she rushed from the room.

  Wild Boy knew he needed to rest for longer, but he didn’t want to miss out on the fun. He slid from the bed and began putting on the clothes that hung for him in the cupboard — a new pair of breeches, a crisp white shirt, and a red military coat with gold tasseled buttons — swearing loudly each time he discovered a new pain in his bruised limbs.

  Fully dressed, he considered his reflection in the window. The coat was just like his old one except that it was brand-new, tailor-made just for him. It felt like an old friend.

  It was a perfect fit.

  Huge thanks to everyone at Walker for making me feel so welcome, especially Mara, Lucy, Gill, and David, as well as Deb Noyes at Candlewick Press. They all did magic. Thanks to my amazing agent, Jo Unwin, without whose early advice this book would not exist, to the brilliant team at Conville & Walsh, and to Carol for helping me find the time. Most importantly, thanks for a million reasons to Mum, Dad, Sally, and Otis. Love you all.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2013 by Rob Lloyd Jones

  Cover illustration copyright © 2013 by Owen Davey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  First U.S. electronic edition 2013

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2013931467

  ISBN 978-0-7636-6252-3 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-0-7636-6769-6 (electronic)

  Candlewick Press