Free The Devil and His Boy by Anthony Horowitz Page B

knew something was wrong, that this was simply too good to be true. After all, the last time he had been offered work, it had nearly cost him both his legs. But at the same time, it was a job. A roof over his head. Food. And he would be acting in a play!
    “It’s a deal,” he said.
    Dr Mobius stretched out his arm to shake hands and it was then that it happened. He must have lost a button because, for a moment, his sleeve fell away from his arm. Looking down, Tom saw the man’s dark skin and there, just above the wrist, a strange mark. It was an eye with a cross in it. And it hadn’t been drawn there. It had been burned into his flesh.
    The man glanced at Tom, then down to his exposed arm. For a moment his eyes flared and he opened his mouth in what was almost a snarl. But then, he forced the smile back on to his face and pulled the sleeve back down. “My sleeve,” he said. “These London tailors don’t know what they’re doing!” He brought his hand back up in front of Tom. “So, Tom Falconer. I am the devil. Are you going to be my boy? If so, let’s shake.”
    Tom reached out.
    They shook.

the garden players
    There were eight men in the company known as the Garden Players, but with Tom that figure was brought up to nine.
    Tom had followed Dr Mobius back up the south bank of the river. The sun was still shining brightly but Tom couldn’t help but notice something rather strange. Mobius preferred the shadows. Whenever the street widened out – when they crossed Long Southwark, for example – his beady eyes searched for darkened alleyways and hidden entrances. If he saw people coming towards him, he chose another way. And so they barely saw anyone as they followed the Thames, heading east, past London Bridge and on to Bermondsey.
    They finally arrived at the river itself and Dr Mobius stopped, blinking in the light. It was snowing now and Tom could see the surface of the Thames beginning to ice over. He wondered how long it would be before he was able to cross it on foot.
    “Here we are,” Mobius panted, speaking for the first time since they had set off. He waved a hand. “We are here.”
    “Where…?” Tom began.
    The river was lapping at a derelict wooden jetty in front of them. A single ship was moored there, obviously no longer seaworthy. The sails hung in rags from its four masts and there was a gaping hole in its side where the wood seemed to have mouldered away. But there were no buildings close by; no taverns and certainly no theatres.
    “The ship, Tom!” Mobius pressed his fingers together. “We hired a ship. A little economy, you understand. We live there. We work – the deck is a perfect stage. We are, if you like, a family afloat. Yes, I like that. The family that floats. And now you are part of our family, Tom. A very welcome part. Please! This way…”
    Dr Mobius walked up a half-rotten gangplank and Tom followed.
    “This way!” Mobius pointed at a door and a set of steps leading down inside the ship and disappeared. Tom stood for a moment, feeling the deck moving underneath his feet. He had never been on a ship before and had no idea how so much wood and rigging could possibly float when even the smallest stone would sink instantly. But this was no time for such questions. Nervous now, he crossed the deck and went through the door.
    There were seven men, sitting in chairs or lying in hammocks around a coal brazier. The room was full of smoke both from the fire and the candles that lit it. Mobius had removed his hat and was helping himself to a glass of sherry from a small wooden cask. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Our new boy! Yes! His name is Tom.”
    The men nodded at Tom and one or two of them smiled. The first thing that Tom noticed was that, like Dr Mobius, they were all rather dark. The oldest of them must have been about forty, the youngest (playing a woman, as it turned out) only a few years older than Tom himself. They were dressed in leather trousers, thick shirts and boots.