‘Show me,’ grunted Lyle.
As Miss Chaste did so, Tess and Thomas slunk into Lyle’s shadow, avoiding the empty gazes of the children in their beds. When Lyle saw the face of the boy, he drew in a sharp breath.
Tess peeked past him, also saw the child and turned white.
‘Bloody hell!’ she hissed.
Lyle gave a little sigh of agreement that seemed to drain his strength from shoulders to toes.
‘Scuttle?’ breathed Thomas, staring at the empty-eyed creature in the bed. The child was a boy of barely ten years old. His hair was cropped back to his scalp in the manner of a workhouse child suspected of nits; his skin was pale; his wrists were bony; his face was cratered with red acne scars.
‘You know him?’ asked Miss Chaste.
‘He’s a mudlark,’ breathed Lyle, running his hands through his hair. ‘He’s called Scuttle - or Josiah, depending on how you feel. We met him a few months ago, when we needed a guide in - or more importantly, out - of the sewers. Edith White at the workhouse said he’d been caught. Taken to the circus.’
‘The circus?’
‘That’s where all these bad things happen, innit, Mister Lyle?’ hissed Tess. Her face had started to turn red with anger. She went to Scuttle, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, shouting, ‘Oi! Scuttle! Oi, you got spots, you little ha’penny crab! No good two-bit gropus. Oi! Stupid sewer snipe! Scuttle! It’s me! It’s Tess! It’s me! Wake up!’
Lyle carefully pulled Tess away from the bed, and held her. Her eyes were red. She hid her face in his side and bunched her fingers into fists.
‘Horatio, how do you know these children?’ asked Miss Chaste, after a while. ‘You never showed any sign of philanthrop—’
‘It’s the law,’ he snapped back. ‘It’s the one that didn’t need writing down. Don’t murder, don’t steal, don’t lie, don’t cheat, don’t hit strangers - it’s the one that doesn’t need spelling out. Don’t you dare, don’t you even dare, don’t you even think about daring - you just do not, even if the rest is words, you do not hurt children. Thomas, Tess!’
The two stood to some sort of attention.
‘We’re going back to the circus.’
CHAPTER 13
Circus
There’s a . . .
. . . not a child, not at the moment - but that can be fixed - watching the circus, chewing the end of a well-fitting grey sleeve. And if he thinks anything at all, if the ideas in his mind can be graced with the definition of ‘thought’, he thinks this:
Hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry WANNIT NOW!!
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls - especially you boys and girls! - welcome back to Mr Majestic’s Marvellous Electric Circus. Stay a while. Leaving may be harder than you think.
‘Right!’ said Lyle, as the four companions, adult, children and dog, stood before the bright lights of the gate to the circus, ears full of the sound of music, gossip and the rattling of falling pennies. ‘Plan of action!’
He waited.
So did the others.
Tess broke first. ‘Yes? An’ it is . . .?’
‘Teresa,’ Lyle sighed, deflating a little bit, ‘we must discuss one day the subtle nature of my pauses. That pause was quite clearly an invitation for productive and useful feedback, a request for input.’
‘Oh,’ said Tess easily, ‘cos to me it sounded a lot like as how you didn’t have no idea what to do next, Mister Lyle. But now I knows it were in fact a pause what you wanted us to give you useful ideas in, I can go an’ help, can’t I?’
They waited.
‘Yes?’ prompted Lyle. ‘And your contribution is . . .?’
Tess smiled the smile of the infinitely wise, turned slowly, and fixed Thomas with her warmest stare. ‘Bigwig?’
Thomas was aware of his ears turning pink, but on the other hand, this was the kind of thing he’d been bred for: forming a plan and executing it with dignity, even if that plan involved a narrow valley, a troop of light cavalry and a lot of cannon at the far end. ‘Perhaps we could summon the police?’
‘Because a cry of “A clown and an organ grinder tried to throttle me in my own home and a couple of gutter snipes have gone missing” always goes down well with figures of authority.’
‘But you’re a policeman,’ wailed Thomas. ‘Surely if you stand up for the law and justice . . .’
‘Mister Lyle is for law and justice?’ echoed Tess, looking bewildered. This was not the kind of acquaintance she had ever considered herself having.
‘. . . then others will too!’
Lyle patted Thomas on the shoulder.
‘It’s a nice thought, lad.’
Thomas looked crestfallen. ‘But if no one in authority will help us, how are we supposed to help the children?’
‘You know,’ said Lyle thoughtfully, ‘the remarkable thing about law and justice, is that it only rarely considers blowing up the tents of its opponents a valuable use of its time.’
Tess brightened. ‘Blowin’ stuff up?’
‘Naturally,’ added Lyle quickly, ‘we shall not be blowing anything up in the foreseeable future, as this would be an act of gross irresponsibility and a wasteful use of interesting and expensive compound products. But that’s not to say we can’t cause a little . . . inconvenience . . . around the place. I think our plan should be something like this: go into the circus, doing our very, very best not to be throttled by any semi-possessed individuals with considerable strength in their thumbs. Find, in whichever order seems most plausible at the time, any of the following: children in catatonic states, potions liable to induce catatonic states, individuals liable to want to induce catatonic states, cures for said catatonic states, and, ideally, return samples of all of the above to a suitable laboratory for analysis.’
Thomas raised an uncertain hand. ‘How do we return samples of individuals who want to cause catatonic states, sir?’
‘I’m sure you’ll think of something, lad.’
‘What if someone recognises us?’
‘Remember what I said about the irresponsibility of blowing things up?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Amazing how the memory lapses at times of stress. Also, if you find . . . no.’
Tess, never one to let a sentence wind away peacefully, said, ‘If we find wha’, if we find wha’, if we find wha’, Mister Lyle?’
Lyle sighed. ‘If you happen to run into an oriental gentlewoman with a fondness for sharpened knives and a dislike of magnetism who may or may not have intervened at a previous point in our affairs, tell her . . . tell her . . .’ Lyle’s face crinkled in the effort of finding something suitable to say. ‘Oh, just say hello nicely, will you?’
Three pairs of disbelieving eyes stared back at him. Tess’s mouth worked slowly with the effort of concentration. ‘You don’t mean . . . you don’t think as how . . . You don’t like Lin do—’
‘Come on!’ barked Lyle, drawing himself quickly up to his full, not particularly remarkable height, and pushing out what was, at the end of the day, a none-too-impressive chest in a slightly stained white shirt. ‘Let’s finish it.’
They headed into the circus.
Welcome to Mr Majestic’s Marvellous Electric Circus!
Wonders you have never seen before just wait to be discovered. You, sir, may we show you creatures from the exotic Indies, strange dancing monkeys on top of the organ grinder’s table cavorting for your delight? They never stop dancing, not even when the sun has set, but dance for ever and ever and ever until they drop dead, the bodies buried by the sides of the roads the circus travels along from place to place. So hard to find a replacement monkey in the provinces, enjoy it while you may. You, madam, if your heart is strong enough, come see for yourself the horrific freaks born - through no fault of their own, God’s mercy on them - with faces like melted wax and stooped backs from which stubby little arms hardly deign to grow! If your child fears such things, then put them out of your mind, for just one slice of cake, jus
t one bite, just one sip, just one sniff of this potion I have in my pocket, and your child need never fear again. Need never be angry or afraid, lonely or lost, but will for ever sleep and dream of distant stories, and be at perfect peace. Is this not better than the pain of growing old? Is this not paradise eternal? It is yours, if you just take a taste.
Have you witnessed a man eat such quantities of fire, or drive a sword - how sharp the blade! - down his own gullet? You shall never know if they bleed inside; these are not secrets to be whispered outside the circus. Marvel at the agility of our acrobats as they flop and dive from sky to earth with not a net in sight and look! Their knees seem to bend the wrong ways, their necks turn too fast, their arms twist too roundly and perhaps, perhaps if you were the kind who did not believe in magic, you might call it horrifying the things that you can see at this circus.
Welcome to Mr Majestic’s Marvellous Electric Circus.
Welcome, ladies and gentlemen.
Welcome, boys and girls.
We forgot to put up the ‘exit’ signs.
Tess mingled.
She was very good at mingling.
It helped that she was small, even for her age, and could duck behind many pairs of legs whenever she felt unsuitably observed. It helped further that even now, even in the cool rising night, with the lights blazing and the torches lit, after that unfortunate business with the elephant, even now the crowds flock to Mr Majestic’s Electric Circus, providing a thick cover for her passage as she moves between the brightly coloured, music-spinning tents.
But even were all these things not the case, Teresa Hatch still had the art of mingling. Everything about her, from face to ambling walk, suggested that here was someone of no interest whatsoever, completely immersed in her own thoughts, of no threat, no danger, no nothing that might lead the watchful eye to consider alarm. She could have waltzed through a graveyard and still, somehow, impossibly, been considered in her place.
Thomas, on the other hand, was not good at mingling.
This was largely owing to the fact that, whenever he accidentally trod on a person’s toes, as frequently happened in the press of bodies, he would exclaim, ‘Oh, I am so sorry!’ - a politeness that immediately marked him out as other. As not welcome at the circus.
As for Lyle . . .
. . . he wasn’t even trying.
But his eyes were everywhere.
‘Thomas, Tess?’ he murmured after a while.
‘Yes, Mister Lyle?’
‘I’m thinking of causing a spot of bother.’
‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Thomas.
‘ ’Bout time,’ grumbled Tess.
‘I’m going to the central tent to continue the conversation I had with Mr Majestic.’
‘The one what ended with you in the elephant - pen?’ suggested Tess, sweetness and light.
‘That’s the one.’
‘But, an’ I know as how you’re a wise old bloke an’ that, but ain’t the fact as how it ended up with you in the elephant pen last time a bad thin’? Like ten spoonfuls of catalyst when you were only lookin’ for one bad?’
‘Teresa!’ Lyle beamed with delight. ‘You just used a scientific metaphor in your daily speech!’
‘Simile,’ corrected Thomas automatically.
‘What?’
‘Simile. Miss Teresa used a scientific simile, not a metaphor.’
Three pairs of eyes stared blankly into his face. Thomas opened his mouth to explain, and felt the tiny tug of a little inner voice, the voice that might one day be big enough to wear his father’s coat, whisper, Uh-uh.
‘Well,’ said Lyle at last, ‘I must admit that’s slightly undermined the delight of the moment, but never mind. The point is, Mr Majestic’s attempted assault on me is a sure indicator that we’re onto something positive.’
‘It is?’
‘Yes!’
‘It’s your skull, Mister Lyle,’ said Tess with a shrug. ‘Ain’t my business where you go an’ put it.’
‘Besides,’ added Lyle, getting increasingly flustered, ‘this time, you two will be there to keep an eye on me.’
‘We will?’
‘Yes.’
‘An’ what we’re s’posed to do if you’re dumped in the elephant poo again?’
Lyle leant down until his face was just a few inches from Tess’s. She felt him press something glassy and cold into her hand. She looked down. It was a glass tube with a cork. Inside was a clear thick liquid, that dribbled very slowly down the insides. ‘Come and rescue me, of course.’
Tess started to smile.
His name is . . .
His name is . . .
Now, think about this.
His name is . . .
Mister Martin Michael Morris Maurice Mister . . .
No, not quite right.
His name is . . .
(Sweat stands out on his face. Was this always such hard work?)
His name is . . .
Oh yes.
What a relief.
Mr Majestic.
He is Mr Majestic of Mr Majestic’s Marvellous Electric Circus.
See how easy that was, once you didn’t think about it any more?
All he wanted to do was to entertain the children. So! Pull the moustache tight, stretch the waistcoat, sweep back the hair, stand up straight and prepare to inspire! Turn from the mirror to the door of the tent, smile, always there has to be a smile, because you are the ringmaster of the circus and you cannot not smile, you cannot not smile, haven’t not smiled, for so many years, so, so many years, until the smile was locked in place, but that’s fine, Mr Majestic always smiles and . . .
‘Hello, Mr Majestic,’ said Lyle.
‘Why, good evening, sir. How . . .’
And Mr Majestic sees, halfway through his merry greeting, to whom his greeting is addressed, and the smile that was locked in place, locks a little tighter over the sparkling brightness of his teeth, and his fingers tighten round the cane and stay tight as Horatio Lyle leans forward until his face is barely an inch from Mr Majestic’s own, and says, ‘Now, we were talking about Greybags.’
Tess and Thomas sat opposite the ringmaster’s tent and ate.
Thomas wasn’t entirely sure what it was they ate. He knew it involved sugar in some manner that had been burnt and stewed and moulded and cast, but quite how the sugar had become the colour of old soot or acquired the taste of fish, he didn’t know. Tess promised him that this was a fairly common thing for food to do that weren’t brought up on a fancy silver plate, see, but as how he shouldn’t worry ’bout nothin’ cos of - No, wait. How he shouldn’t concern himself because of her presence as his protector.
Thomas frowned.
He knew, in his heart of hearts, he knew that it was only a matter of time before some of Tess’s language slipped into his own, largely because of how much of it she used relative to how little he spoke in return. Mister Lyle wasn’t much help in terms of maintaining appropriate grammatical standards either, for while he was a great believer in scientific precision, he, like Tess, tended to resort to base crudities and common slang in the face of exotic yet remarkably regular danger. Thomas half closed his eyes and tried to imagine how his father would react to being called ‘guv’nor’. He couldn’t see it going down well. Somewhere in his soul, two hundred and twenty years’ of aristocratic breeding glowered at barely two or three years’ worth of emerging social consciousness across an uneven battlefield. Next to his right shoulder, Tess said, ‘You havin’ yours or wha’?’
Thomas considered the sad package of fish-flavoured sugar in his hand, and wordlessly passed it over. Even his social consciousness had a limit. Tess got gobbling. Tate waited expectantly for his fill at her feet, and was promptly rewarded for his patience.
‘Miss Teresa?’ asked Thomas at last.
A mumbled reply that he imagined was some sort of acknowledgement forced its way out through a set of sugar-covered teeth.
‘Miss Teresa,’ tried Thomas again, feeling
that perhaps his conversation partner wasn’t fully engaged on the debate, ‘do you think it ’s . . . well . . . appropriate for Mister Lyle to put you in danger?’
‘Me? In danger?’
‘Yes.’
‘I ain’t in danger, bigwig. Mister Lyle, case you ain’t gone an’ spied, is the bloke wha’ went walkin’ into the tent with the bloke with the big moustache thin’ an’ the heavy stick. If anythin’, I feel as how Mister Lyle is doin’ the whole coddlin’ thin’ too far.’
The Dream Thief Page 17
