Free Freaks by Kieran Larwood Page A

seeing her face it was hard to tell. Almost as an afterthought, she took a calling card from her pocket. She moved to give it to Mama Rat, then at the last moment reached past her and presented it to Sheba. “I look forward to hearing some news. Soon, I hope.”
    Sheba looked down at the embossed piece of pasteboard, printed with expensive copperplate font.
Mrs. N. Crowley, 17 Paradise Street, Bermondsey
, it read.
    With a nod of her shrouded head, the veiled lady rose and left the churchyard.
    Sheba and Mama Rat stared after her.
    â€œWell,” Mama Rat said eventually. “It’s not often you meet someone stranger than us in this city.”
    Before Sheba could reply, Gigantus, Sister Moon, and Monkeyboy came dashing around the corner of the church. They looked visibly relieved when they saw the others sitting on the bench, and slowed their pace through the maze of headstones.
    â€œThank goodness you all right,” said Sister Moon, panting for breath. “We saw strange man follow you. Long coat and big hat. We could not see face.”
    â€œWhere?” Sheba said, looking around the churchyard. “We didn’t see anyone.”
    â€œHe was walking right behind you,” said Monkeyboy. “I’m surprised you didn’t smell him with that weird nose of yours.”
    Sheba was surprised, too. “Probably just a passerby,” she said, but she felt annoyed with herself. Had she missed something?
    â€œWhat did you find out?” Gigantus asked. All three of them were clearly itching to know.
    â€œWe’ll tell you back at the house,” said Mama Rat, with an ominous look around her. “Away from prying eyes and ears.”

Barnabus Bilge awoke to the nearby bells of St. Mary’s striking three in the morning. The chimes had woken him at exactly the same time every day since his very first memory.
Years and years of getting up in the middle of the night and I still hate it
, he thought as he wriggled out of the bed he shared with his mother, his father, and three other children. He stepped over a few more kids sleeping on the floor, and went through into the kitchen.
    He didn’t have time to light a fire to make breakfast; his mother would do that in an hour’s time when she got his sisters up for work. Instead there was a bucket of pump water on the table. He took a scoop and slurped some, then splashed the rest over his face to wake himself up. It was a lurid brown color and tasted rancid, but at least it didn’t have anything disgusting floating in it today.
    He peered at the piece of cracked mirror standing on the mantelpiece and saw a grubby teenager with eyes that looked much too old for his face. He rubbed at the fluff on his cheeks, wondering when it would ever turn to whiskers so he could grow a nice pair of sideburns.
    There was a pot of cold gruel hanging over the fire, left over from last night’s dinner. Judging by the little footprints all over the cauldron, the mice had been at it again. At least they’d left a bit for breakfast. He swallowed a couple of gloopy spoonfuls, and then headed out.
    The fog was thick again this morning. Out on the banks, the mudlarks were back. Even tales of missing children and river monsters couldn’t keep them away, for they had no choice. Pick from the mud, or starve. If the Thames had been full of piranha fish they would still have been there, trying to snatch as much as they could before their legs were chewed through.
    Barney prided himself on being the best picker on the south banks. He was slightly less scrawny than the rest, thanks to his success, and the others paused to give him respectful glances as he passed. He clutched a pole twice as tall as himself, and it was this that gave him his edge.
    Whilst the other mudlarks had nothing but their own bare feet with which to test for sinkholes and broken glass, Barney Bilge used his pole. He poked it systematically as he slurped through the