Read Online Wild Boy by Rob Lloyd Jones - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rob Lloyd Jones
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the vans, spying on folk. And I’m told you can see things no one else can. Ha!”
The porters chuckled with their boss.
Mary Everett blew another cloud of smoke through the bars. “He was a clever man, the Professor,” she continued. “A learned man. That’s why you hated him, ain’t it? Because you’re just a freak and can’t never be nothing else.”
“No, you’re wrong. . . .”
“We heard you were seen attacking someone last night with a knife.”
“What? No! He attacked
us.
He
had the knife.”
“Us? So you do have a partner. Which of the freaks is it? Tell me and maybe I’ll change your sentence.”
“Sentence? I ain’t done nothing!”
“You ran from the Professor’s van. You’re covered in his blood.”
“No —”
“He wrote your name.”
“It ain’t true —”
“You’re the only monster here.”
“I AIN’T NO KILLER!”
Wild Boy’s cry rang around the stable. He stared at the Professor’s body through watery eyes. He knew he could find more clues to prove his innocence, but what was the point? The hatred in Mary Everett’s eyes was clear. And these porters wouldn’t help him — they relied on her for their jobs.
But he wasn’t giving up either. He reached between the cage bars to the cart’s wooden floor, dug out a loose nail and gripped its end with trembling fingers. If any of these men opened the cage he would stab them with it, and try to get past. He’d spotted a hole in the stable wall that looked big enough to squeeze through.
Mary Everett turned to the porters. “One of our own has been killed,” she said. “We don’t need no busybody coppers around here. We take care of our own business, punish them what needs punishing. That’s Showman’s Law. That way everything stays right.”
She looked at Wild Boy and for a moment her eyes softened. He thought he saw something like sadness under that white powder. It was almost as if she didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to be the person she was being. But a second later that person was back, and the ringmaster’s eyes hardened.
“This is murder,” she said. “Only one sentence for that. Jack, get the rope. Sam and Isaac, grab the freak.”
One of the porters threw a rope around a rafter and tied the end in a noose. The others circled the cage, fire torches blazing.
Wild Boy gripped the nail, but his hands shook so hard that it slipped from his fingers. He scrambled back, feeling for the weapon. “Get away!” he warned. “Get away or you’ll all be sorry!”
The porters stepped closer. And then —
whoosh
— a rush of wind extinguished their torches. The stable fell into darkness.
“Who opened the doors?” Mary Everett roared. “Joe? I said no one else comes in!”
“I am sorry,” a voice replied from the dark. “It seems that Joe was remiss in his duties.”
A lantern flickered to life and bobbed closer.
Wild Boy’s heart surged. Had someone come to rescue him? All he could see over the porters’ heads was the gleaming crown of a top hat. He dropped low and glimpsed polished black shoes and the silver tip of a cane prodding the ground. Beyond them, the porter that had guarded the stable door lay unconscious over a bale of straw.
“Who the hell are you?” Mary Everett demanded.
Finally Wild Boy saw the figure — a tall, immaculately dressed man, who leaned on his cane in a way that suggested the stick was more than an accessory to his finely cut coat. As he came closer, a flash of gold shone from under the shadow of his top hat.
Slowly, calmly, the man removed the hat. The lantern light caught his face, and Wild Boy glimpsed a streak of silver and another gleam of gold. The silver was the man’s hair, slicked back and perfectly parted at the side. But the gold . . . It was the man’s eye. He had a golden eyeball.
The metal globe bulged in his thin, angular face as he looked down at the corpse of Professor Wollstonecraft. Wild Boy noticed a ring glint on the man’s finger
The porters chuckled with their boss.
Mary Everett blew another cloud of smoke through the bars. “He was a clever man, the Professor,” she continued. “A learned man. That’s why you hated him, ain’t it? Because you’re just a freak and can’t never be nothing else.”
“No, you’re wrong. . . .”
“We heard you were seen attacking someone last night with a knife.”
“What? No! He attacked
us.
He
had the knife.”
“Us? So you do have a partner. Which of the freaks is it? Tell me and maybe I’ll change your sentence.”
“Sentence? I ain’t done nothing!”
“You ran from the Professor’s van. You’re covered in his blood.”
“No —”
“He wrote your name.”
“It ain’t true —”
“You’re the only monster here.”
“I AIN’T NO KILLER!”
Wild Boy’s cry rang around the stable. He stared at the Professor’s body through watery eyes. He knew he could find more clues to prove his innocence, but what was the point? The hatred in Mary Everett’s eyes was clear. And these porters wouldn’t help him — they relied on her for their jobs.
But he wasn’t giving up either. He reached between the cage bars to the cart’s wooden floor, dug out a loose nail and gripped its end with trembling fingers. If any of these men opened the cage he would stab them with it, and try to get past. He’d spotted a hole in the stable wall that looked big enough to squeeze through.
Mary Everett turned to the porters. “One of our own has been killed,” she said. “We don’t need no busybody coppers around here. We take care of our own business, punish them what needs punishing. That’s Showman’s Law. That way everything stays right.”
She looked at Wild Boy and for a moment her eyes softened. He thought he saw something like sadness under that white powder. It was almost as if she didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to be the person she was being. But a second later that person was back, and the ringmaster’s eyes hardened.
“This is murder,” she said. “Only one sentence for that. Jack, get the rope. Sam and Isaac, grab the freak.”
One of the porters threw a rope around a rafter and tied the end in a noose. The others circled the cage, fire torches blazing.
Wild Boy gripped the nail, but his hands shook so hard that it slipped from his fingers. He scrambled back, feeling for the weapon. “Get away!” he warned. “Get away or you’ll all be sorry!”
The porters stepped closer. And then —
whoosh
— a rush of wind extinguished their torches. The stable fell into darkness.
“Who opened the doors?” Mary Everett roared. “Joe? I said no one else comes in!”
“I am sorry,” a voice replied from the dark. “It seems that Joe was remiss in his duties.”
A lantern flickered to life and bobbed closer.
Wild Boy’s heart surged. Had someone come to rescue him? All he could see over the porters’ heads was the gleaming crown of a top hat. He dropped low and glimpsed polished black shoes and the silver tip of a cane prodding the ground. Beyond them, the porter that had guarded the stable door lay unconscious over a bale of straw.
“Who the hell are you?” Mary Everett demanded.
Finally Wild Boy saw the figure — a tall, immaculately dressed man, who leaned on his cane in a way that suggested the stick was more than an accessory to his finely cut coat. As he came closer, a flash of gold shone from under the shadow of his top hat.
Slowly, calmly, the man removed the hat. The lantern light caught his face, and Wild Boy glimpsed a streak of silver and another gleam of gold. The silver was the man’s hair, slicked back and perfectly parted at the side. But the gold . . . It was the man’s eye. He had a golden eyeball.
The metal globe bulged in his thin, angular face as he looked down at the corpse of Professor Wollstonecraft. Wild Boy noticed a ring glint on the man’s finger
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