Книга - Cirque Du Freak

Cirque Du Freak
Darren Shan


The chilling Saga of Darren Shan, the ordinary schoolboy plunged into the vampire world.Darren goes to a banned freak show with his best mate Steve. It’s the wonderfully gothic Cirque Du Freak where weird, frightening half human/half animals appear who interact terrifyingly with the audience. Darren – a spider freak – ‘falls in love’ with Madam Octa – an enormous tarantula owned by Mr Crepsley. Darren determines to steal the spider so that he can train it to perform amazing deeds. But his daring theft goes horribly wrong and Darren finds himself having to make a bargain with a creature of the night.Something out of the ordinary is set against the background of children’s normal lives to chilling effect. Atmospheric, funny, realistic, moving and… terrifying.









CIRQUE DU FREAK


THE SAGA OF DARREN SHAN

BOOK 1











CIRQUE DU FREAK


THE SAGA OF DARREN SHAN

BOOK 1







Madam Octa’s on the web… and so is Darren Shan!

For all things freaky, check out the official

Darren Shan website at www.darrenshan.com


This freakish show could never have gone public but for

the efforts of my hard-working laboratory assistants:

Biddy & Liam – ‘The Gruesome Twosome’

‘Diabolical’ Domenica de Rosa

‘Growling’ Gillie Russell

Emma ‘The Exterminator’ Schlesinger

and

‘Lord of the Crimson Night’ – Christopher Little

Thanks are also due to my feasting companions:

the Horrible Creatures of HarperCollins. And the ghoulish

pupils of Askeaton Primary School (and others) who served as

willing guinea pigs and braved nightmares to make this book

as tight, dark and chilling as possible.




Contents


Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three



Other Books in the Series The Saga of Darren Shan

Copyright

About the Publisher











INTRODUCTION


I’VE ALWAYS been fascinated by spiders. I used to collect them when I was younger. I’d spend hours rooting through the dusty old shed at the bottom of our garden, hunting the cobwebs for lurking eight-legged predators. When I found one, I’d bring it in and let it loose in my bedroom.

It used to drive my mum mad!

Usually, the spider would slip away after no more than a day or two, never to be seen again, but sometimes they hung around longer. I had one who made a cobweb above my bed and stood sentry for almost a month. Going to sleep, I used to imagine the spider creeping down, crawling into my mouth, sliding down my throat and laying loads of eggs in my belly. The baby spiders would hatch after a while and eat me alive, from the inside out.

I loved being scared when I was little.

When I was nine, my mum and dad gave me a small tarantula. It wasn’t poisonous or very big, but it was the greatest gift I’d ever received. I played with that spider almost every waking hour of the day. Gave it all sorts of treats: flies and cockroaches and tiny worms. Spoilt it rotten.

Then, one day, I did something stupid. I’d been watching a cartoon in which one of the characters was sucked up by a vacuum cleaner. No harm came to him. He squeezed out of the bag, dusty and dirty and mad as hell. It was very funny.

So funny, I tried it myself. With the tarantula.

Needless to say, things didn’t happen quite like they did in the cartoon. The spider was ripped to pieces. I cried a lot, but it was too late for tears. My pet was dead, it was my fault, and there was nothing I could do about it.

My parents nearly hollered the roof down when they found out what I’d done – the tarantula had cost quite a bit of money. They said I was an irresponsible fool, and from that day on they never again let me have a pet, not even an ordinary garden spider.






I started with that tale from the past for two reasons. One will become obvious as this book unfolds. The other reason is:

This is a true story.

I don’t expect you to believe me – I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t lived it – but it is. Everything I describe in this book happened, just as I tell it.

The thing about real life is, when you do something stupid, it normally costs you. In books, the heroes can make as many mistakes as they like. It doesn’t matter what they do, because everything comes good at the end. They’ll beat the bad guys and put things right and everything ends up hunky-dory.

In real life, vacuum cleaners kill spiders. If you cross a busy road without looking, you get whacked by a car. If you fall out of a tree, you break some bones.

Real life’s nasty. It’s cruel. It doesn’t care about heroes and happy endings and the way things should be. In real life, bad things happen. People die. Fights are lost. Evil often wins.

I just wanted to make that clear before I began.






One more thing: my name isn’t really Darren Shan. Everything’s true in this book, except for names. I’ve had to change them because… well, by the time you get to the end, you’ll understand.

I haven’t used any real names, not mine, my sister’s, my friends or teachers. Nobody’s. I’m not even going to tell you the name of my town or country. I daren’t.

Anyway, that’s enough of an introduction. If you’re ready, let’s begin. If this was a made-up story, it would begin at night, with a storm blowing and owls hooting and rattling noises under the bed. But this is a real story, so I have to begin where it really started.

It started in a toilet.











CHAPTER ONE


I WAS in the toilet at school, sitting down, humming a song. I had my trousers on. I’d come in near the end of English class, feeling sick. My teacher, Mr Dalton, is great about things like that. He’s smart and knows when you’re faking and when you’re being serious. He took one look at me when I raised my hand and said I was ill, then nodded his head and told me to make for the toilet.

“Throw up whatever’s bugging you, Darren,” he said, “then get your behind back in here.”

I wish every teacher was as understanding as Mr Dalton.

In the end, I didn’t get sick, but still felt queasy, so I stayed on the toilet. I heard the bell ring for the end of class and everybody came rushing out on their lunch break. I wanted to join them but knew Mr Dalton would give out if he saw me in the yard so soon. He doesn’t get mad if you trick him but he goes quiet and won’t speak to you for ages, and that’s almost worse than being shouted at.

So, there I was, humming, watching my watch, waiting. Then I heard someone calling my name.

“Darren! Hey, Darren! Have you fallen in or what?”

I grinned. It was Steve Leopard, my best friend. Steve’s real surname was Leonard, but everyone called him Steve Leopard. And not just because the names sound alike. Steve used to be what my mum calls “a wild child”. He raised hell wherever he went, got into fights, stole in shops. One day – he was still in a pushchair – he found a sharp stick and prodded passing women with it (no prizes for guessing where he stuck it!).

He was feared and despised everywhere he went. But not by me. I’ve been his best friend since Montessori, when we first met. My mum says I was drawn to his wildness, but I just thought he was a great guy to be with. He had a fierce temper, and threw scary tantrums when he lost it, but I simply ran away when that happened and came back again once he’d calmed down.

Steve’s reputation had softened over the years – his mum took him to see a lot of good counsellors who taught him how to control himself – but he was still a minor legend in the schoolyard and not someone you messed with, even if you were bigger and older than him.

“Hey, Steve,” I called back. “I’m in here.” I hit the door so he’d know which one I was behind.

He hurried over and I opened the door. He smiled when he saw me sitting down with my trousers on. “Did you puke?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Do you think you’re gonna?”

“Maybe,” I said. Then I leaned forward all of a sudden and made a sick noise. Bluurgh! But Steve Leopard knew me too well to be fooled.

“Give my boots a polish while you’re down there,” he said, and laughed when I pretended to spit on his shoes and rub them with a sheet of toilet paper.

“Did I miss anything in class?” I asked, sitting up.

“Nah,” he said. “The usual crap.”

“Did you do your history homework?” I asked.

“It doesn’t have to be done until tomorrow, does it?” he asked, getting worried. Steve’s always forgetting about homework.

“The day after tomorrow,” I told him.

“Oh,” he said, relaxing. “Even better. I thought… ” He stopped and frowned. “Hold on,” he said. “Today’s Thursday. The day after tomorrow would be… ”

“Got you!” I yelled, punching him on the shoulder.

“Ow!” he shouted. “That hurt.” He rubbed his arm but I could tell he wasn’t really hurt. “Are you coming out?” he asked then.

“I thought I’d stay in here and admire the view,” I said, leaning back on the toilet seat.

“Quit messing,” he said. “We were five-one down when I came in. We’re probably six or seven down now. We need you.” He was talking about football. We play a game every lunchtime. My team normally wins but we’d lost a lot of our best players. Dave Morgan broke his leg. Sam White transferred to another school when his family moved. And Danny Curtain had stopped playing football in order to spend lunch hanging out with Sheila Leigh, the girl he fancies. Idiot!

I’m our best full-forward. There are better defenders and midfielders, and Tommy Jones is the best goalkeeper in the whole school. But I’m the only one who can stand up front and score four or five times a day without fail.

“OK,” I said, standing. “I’ll save you. I’ve scored a hat trick every day this week. It would be a pity to stop now.”

We passed the older guys – smoking around the sinks as usual – and hurried to my locker so I could change into my trainers. I used to have a great pair, which I won in a writing competition. But the laces snapped a few months ago and the rubber along the sides started to fall off. And then my feet grew! The pair I have now are OK but they’re not the same.

We were eight-three down when I got on the pitch. It wasn’t a real pitch, just a long stretch of yard with painted goal posts at either end. Whoever painted them was a right idiot. He put the crossbar too high at one end and too low at the other!

“Never fear, Hotshot Shan is here!” I shouted as I ran onto the pitch. A lot of players laughed or groaned, but I could see my team mates picking up and our opponents growing worried.

I made a great start and scored two goals inside a minute. It looked like we might come back to draw or win. But time ran out. If I’d arrived earlier we’d have been OK but the bell rang just as I was hitting my stride, so we lost nine-seven.

As we were leaving the pitch, Alan Morris ran into the yard, panting and red-faced. They’re my three best friends: Steve Leopard, Tommy Jones and Alan Morris. We must be the oddest four people in the whole world, because only one of us – Steve – has a nickname.

“Look what I found!” Alan yelled, waving a soggy piece of paper around under our noses.

“What is it?” Tommy asked, trying to grab it.

“It’s—” Alan began, but stopped when Mr Dalton shouted at us.

“You four! Inside!” he roared.

“We’re coming, Mr Dalton!” Steve roared back. Steve is Mr Dalton’s favourite and gets away with stuff that the rest of us couldn’t do. Like when he uses swear words sometimes in his stories. If I put in some of the words Steve has, I’d have been kicked out long ago.

But Mr Dalton has a soft spot for Steve, because he’s special. Sometimes he’s brilliant in class and gets everything right, while other times he can’t even spell his own name. Mr Dalton says he’s a bit of an idiot savant, which mean he’s a stupid genius!

Anyway, even though he’s Mr Dalton’s pet, not even Steve can get away with turning up late for class. So whatever Alan had, it would have to wait. We trudged back to class, sweaty and tired after the game, and began our next lesson.

Little did I know that Alan’s mysterious piece of paper was to change my life forever. For the worse!











CHAPTER TWO


WE HAD Mr Dalton again after lunch, for history. We were studying World War II. I wasn’t too keen on it, but Steve thought it was great. He loved anything to do with killing and war. He often said he wanted to be a mercenary soldier – one who fights for money – when he grew up. And he meant it!

We had maths after history, and – incredibly – Mr Dalton for a third time! Our usual maths teacher was off sick, so others had been filling in for him as best they could all day.

Steve was in seventh heaven. His favourite teacher, three classes in a row! It was the first time we’d had Mr Dalton for maths, so Steve started showing off, telling him where we were in the book, explaining some of the trickier problems as though speaking to a child. Mr Dalton didn’t mind. He was used to Steve and knew exactly how to handle him.

Normally Mr Dalton runs a tight ship – his classes are fun but we always come out of them having learned something – but he wasn’t very good at maths. He tried hard but we could tell he was in over his head, and while he was busy trying to come to grips with things – his head buried in the maths book, Steve by his side making “helpful” suggestions – the rest of us began to fidget and talk softly to each other and pass notes around.

I sent a note to Alan, asking to see the mysterious piece of paper he’d brought in. He refused at first to pass it around, but I kept sending notes and finally he gave in. Tommy sits just two seats over from him, so he got it first. He opened it up and began studying it. His face lit up while he was reading and his jaw slowly dropped. When he passed it on to me – having read it three times – I soon saw why.

It was a flyer, an advertising pamphlet for some sort of travelling circus. There was a picture of a wolf’s head at the top. The wolf had its mouth open and saliva was dripping from its teeth. At the bottom were pictures of a spider and a snake, and they looked vicious too.

Just beneath the wolf, in big red capital letters, were the words:



CIRQUE DU FREAK



Underneath that, in smaller writing:

FOR ONE WEEK ONLY – CIRQUE DU FREAK!!

SEE:

SIVE AND SEERSA – THE TWISTING TWINS!

THE SNAKE-BOY! THE WOLF MAN! GERTHA TEETH!

LARTEN CREPSLEY AND HIS PERFORMING SPIDER – MADAM OCTA!

ALEXANDER RIBS! THE BEARDED LADY! HANS HANDS!

RHAMUS TWOBELLIES – WORLD’S FATTEST MAN!

Beneath all that was an address where you could buy tickets and find out where the show was playing. And right at the bottom, just above the pictures of the snake and spider:

NOT FOR THE FAINT-HEARTED!

CERTAIN RESERVATIONS APPLY!

“Cirque Du Freak?” I muttered softly to myself. Cirque was French for circus… Circus of Freaks! Was this a freak show?! It looked like it.

I began reading the flyer again, immersed in the drawings and descriptions of the performers. In fact, I was so immersed, I forgot about Mr Dalton. I only remembered him when I realised the room was silent. I looked up, and saw Steve standing alone at the head of the class. He stuck out his tongue at me and grinned. Feeling the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, I stared over my shoulder and there was Mr Dalton, standing behind me, reading the flyer, lips tight.

“What is this?” he snapped, snatching the paper from my hands.

“It’s an advert, sir,” I answered.

“Where’d you get it?” he asked. He looked really angry. I’d never seen him this worked up. “Where’d you get it?” he asked again.

I licked my lips nervously. I didn’t know how to answer. I wasn’t going to drop Alan in the soup – and I knew he wouldn’t own up by himself: even Alan’s best friends know he’s not the bravest in the world – but my mind was stuck in low gear and I couldn’t think of a reasonable lie. Luckily, Steve stepped in.

“Sir, it’s mine,” he said.

“Yours?” Mr Dalton blinked slowly.

“I found it near the bus stop, sir,” Steve said. “Some old guy threw it away. I thought it looked interesting, so I picked it up. I was going to ask you about it later, at the end of class.”

“Oh.” Mr Dalton tried not to look flattered but I could tell he was. “That’s different. Nothing wrong with an inquisitive mind. Sit down, Steve.” Steve sat. Mr Dalton stuck a bit of BluTack on the flyer and pinned it to the blackboard.

“Long ago,” he said, tapping the flyer, “there used to be real freak shows. Greedy con men crammed malformed people in cages and—”

“Sir, what’s malformed mean?” somebody asked.

“Someone who doesn’t look ordinary,” Mr Dalton said. “A person with three arms or two noses; somebody with no legs; somebody very short or very tall. The con men put these poor people – who were no different to you or me, except in looks – on display and called them freaks. They charged the public to stare at them, and invited them to laugh and tease. They treated the so-called “freaks” like animals. Paid them little, beat them, dressed them in rags, never allowed them to wash.”

“That’s cruel, sir,” Delaina Price – a girl near the front – said.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Freak shows were cruel, monstrous creations. That’s why I got angry when I saw this.” He tore down the flyer. “They were banned years ago, but every so often you’ll hear a rumour that they’re still going strong.”

“Do you think the Cirque Du Freak is a real freak show?” I asked.

Mr Dalton studied the flyer again, then shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said. “Probably just a cruel hoax. Still,” he added, “if it was real, I hope nobody here would dream of going.”

“Oh, no, sir,” we all said quickly.

“Because freak shows were terrible,” he said. “They pretended to be like proper circuses but they were cesspits of evil. Anybody who went to one would be just as bad as the people running it.”

“You’d have to be really twisted to want to go to one of those, sir,” Steve agreed. And then he looked at me, winked, and mouthed the words: “We’re going!”











CHAPTER THREE


STEVE PERSUADED Mr Dalton to let him keep the flyer. He said he wanted it for his bedroom wall. Mr Dalton wasn’t going to give it to him but then changed his mind. He cut off the address at the bottom before handing it over.

After school, the four of us – me, Steve, Alan Morris and Tommy Jones – gathered in the yard and studied the glossy flyer.

“It’s got to be a fake,” I said.

“Why?” Alan asked.

“They don’t allow freak shows any more,” I told him. “Wolf-men and snake-boys were outlawed years ago. Mr Dalton said so.”

“It’s not a fake!” Alan insisted.

“Where’d you get it?” Tommy asked.

“I stole it,” Alan said softly. “It belongs to my big brother.” Alan’s big brother was Tony Morris, who used to be the school’s biggest bully until he got thrown out. He’s huge and mean and ugly.

“You stole from Tony?!?” I gasped. “Have you got a death wish?”

“He won’t know it was me,” Alan said. “He had it in a pair of trousers that Mum threw in the washing machine. I stuck a blank piece of paper in when I took this out. He’ll think the ink got washed off.”

“Smart,” Steve nodded.

“Where did Tony get it?” I asked.

“There was a guy passing them out in an alley,” Alan said. “One of the circus performers, a Mr Crepsley.”

“The one with the spider?” Tommy asked.

“Yeah,” Alan answered, “only he didn’t have the spider with him. It was night and Tony was on his way back from the pub.” Tony’s not old enough to get served in a pub, but hangs around with older guys who buy drinks for him. “Mr Crepsley handed the paper to Tony and told him they’re a travelling freak show who put on secret performances in towns and cities across the world. He said you had to have a flyer to buy tickets and they only give them to people they trust. You’re not supposed to tell anyone else about the show. I only found out because Tony was in high spirits – the way he gets when he drinks – and couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

“How much are the tickets?” Steve asked.

“Fifteen pounds each,” Alan said.

“Fifteen pounds!” we all shouted.

“Nobody’s going to pay fifteen pounds to see a bunch of freaks!” Steve snorted.

“I would,” I said.

“Me too,” Tommy agreed.

“And me,” Alan added.

“Sure,” Steve said, “but we don’t have fifteen pounds to throw away. So it’s academic, isn’t it?”

“What does academic mean?” Alan asked.

“It means we can’t afford the tickets, so it doesn’t matter if we would buy them or not,” Steve explained. “It’s easy to say you would buy something if you know you can’t.”

“How much do we have?” Alan asked.

“Tuppence ha’penny,” I laughed. It was something my dad often said.

“I’d love to go,” Tommy said sadly. “It sounds great.” He studied the picture again.

“Mr Dalton didn’t think too much of it,” Alan said.

“That’s what I mean,” Tommy said. “If Sir doesn’t like it, it must be super. Anything that adults hate is normally brilliant.”

“Are we sure we don’t have enough?” I asked. “Maybe they have discounts for children.”

“I don’t think children are allowed in,” Alan said, but he told me how much he had anyway. “Five pounds seventy.”

“I’ve got twelve pounds exactly,” Steve said.

“I have six pounds eighty-five pence,” Tommy said.

“And I have eight pounds twenty-five,” I told them. “That’s more than thirty pounds in all,” I said, adding it up in my head. “We get our pocket money tomorrow. If we pool our—”

“But the tickets are nearly sold out,” Alan interrupted. “The first show was yesterday. It finishes Tuesday. If we go, it’ll have to be tomorrow night or Saturday, because our parents won’t let us out any other night. The guy who gave Tony the flyer said the tickets for both those nights were almost gone. We’d have to buy them tonight.”

“Well, so much for that,” I said, putting on a brave face.

“Maybe not,” Steve said. “My mum keeps a wad of money in a jar at home. I could borrow some and put it back when we get our pocket money.”

“You mean steal?” I asked.

“I mean borrow,” he snapped. “It’s only stealing if you don’t put it back. What do you say?”

“How would we get the tickets?” Tommy asked. “It’s a school night. We wouldn’t be let out.”

“I can sneak out,” Steve said. “I’ll buy them.”

“But Mr Dalton snipped off the address,” I reminded him. “How will you know where to go?”

“I memorised it,” he grinned. “Now, are we gonna stand here all night making up excuses, or are we gonna go for it?”

We looked at each other, then – one by one – nodded silently.

“Right,” Steve said. “We hurry home, grab our money, and meet back here. Tell your parents you forgot a book or something. We’ll lump the money together and I’ll add the rest from the pot at home.”

“What if you can’t steal – I mean, borrow the money?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Then the deal’s off. But we won’t know unless we try. Now: hurry!”

With that, he sprinted away. Moments later, making up our minds, Tommy, Alan and me ran too.











CHAPTER FOUR


THE FREAK show was all I could think about that night. I tried forgetting it but couldn’t, not even when I was watching my favourite TV shows. It sounded so weird: a snake-boy, a Wolf Man, a performing spider. I was especially excited by the spider.

Mum and Dad didn’t notice anything was up, but Annie did. Annie is my younger sister. She can be a bit annoying but most of the time she’s cool. She doesn’t run to Mum telling tales if I misbehave, and she knows how to keep a secret.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked after dinner. We were alone in the kitchen, washing up.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said.

“Yes there is,” she said. “You’ve been behaving funny all night.”

I knew she’d keep asking until she got the truth, so I told her about the freak show.

“It sounds great,” she agreed, “but there’s no way you’d get in.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“I bet they don’t let children in. It sounds like a grown-up sort of show.”

“They probably wouldn’t let a brat like you in,” I said nastily, “but me and the others would be OK.” That upset her, so I apologised. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean that. I’m just annoyed because you’re probably right. Annie, I’d give anything to go!”

“I’ve got a make-up kit I could lend you,” she said. “You can draw on wrinkles and stuff. It’d make you look older.”

I smiled and gave her a big hug, which is something I don’t do very often. “Thanks, sis,” I said, “but it’s OK. If we get in, we get in. If we don’t, we don’t.”

We didn’t say much after that. We finished drying and hurried into the TV room. Dad got back home a few minutes later. He works on building sites all over the place, so he’s often late. He’s grumpy sometimes but was in a good mood that night and swung Annie round in a circle.

“Anything exciting happen today?” he asked, after he’d said hello to Mum and given her a kiss.

“I scored another hat trick at lunch,” I told him.

“Really?” he said. “That’s great. Well done.”

We turned the TV down while Dad was eating. He likes peace and quiet when he eats, and often asks us questions or tells us about his day at work.

Later, Mum went to her room to work on her stamp albums. She’s a serious stamp collector. I used to collect too, when I was younger and more easily amused.

I popped up to see if she had any new stamps with exotic animals or spiders on them. She hadn’t. While I was there, I sounded her out about freak shows.

“Mum,” I said, “have you ever been to a freak show?”

“A what?” she asked, concentrating on the stamps.

“A freak show,” I repeated. “With bearded ladies and wolf-men and snake-boys.”

She looked up at me and blinked. “A snake-boy?” she asked. “What on Earth is a snake-boy?”

“It’s a…” I stopped when I realised I didn’t know. “Well, that doesn’t matter,” I said. “Have you ever been to one?”

She shook her head. “No. They’re illegal.”

“If they weren’t,” I said, “and one came to town, would you go?”

“No,” she said, shivering. “Those sorts of things frighten me. Besides, I don’t think it would be fair on the people in the show.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“How would you like it,” she said, “if you were stuck in a cage for people to look at?”

“I’m not a freak!” I said huffily.

“I know,” she laughed, and kissed the top of my head. “You’re my little angel.”

“Mum, don’t!” I grumbled, wiping my forehead with my hand.

“Silly,” she smiled. “But imagine you had two heads or four arms, and somebody stuck you on show for people to make fun of. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

“No,” I said, shuffling my feet.

“Anyway, what’s all this about a freak show?” she asked. “Have you been staying up late, watching horror films?”

“No,” I said.

“Because you know your Dad doesn’t like you watching—”

“I wasn’t staying up late, OK?” I shouted. It’s really annoying when parents don’t listen.

“OK, Mister Grumpy,” she said. “No need to shout. If you don’t like my company, go downstairs and help your father weed the garden.”

I didn’t want to go, but Mum was upset that I’d shouted at her, so I left and went down to the kitchen. Dad was coming in from the back and spotted me.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” he chuckled. “Too busy to help the old man tonight?”

“I was on my way,” I told him.

“Too late,” he said, taking off his wellies. “I’m finished.”

I watched him putting on his slippers. He has huge feet. He takes size 12 shoes! When I was younger, he used to stand me on his feet and walk me around. It was like being on two long skateboards.

“What are you doing now?” I asked.

“Writing,” he said. My dad has pen pals all over the world, in America, Australia, Russia and China. He says he likes to keep in touch with his global neighbours, though I think it’s just an excuse to go into his study for a nap!

Annie was playing with dolls and stuff. I asked if she wanted to come to my room for a game of bed-tennis using a sock for a ball, and shoes for rackets, but she was too busy arranging her dolls for a pretend picnic.

I went to my room and dragged down my comics. I have loads of cool comics, Superman, Batman, Spiderman and Spawn. Spawn’s my favourite. He’s a superhero who used to be a demon in Hell. Some of the Spawn comics are quite scary but that’s why I love them.

I spent the rest of the night reading comics and putting them in order. I used to swap with Tommy, who has a huge collection, but he kept spilling drinks on the covers and crumbs between the pages, so I stopped.

Most nights I go to bed by ten, but Mum and Dad forgot about me, and I stayed up until nearly half-past ten. Then Dad saw the light in my room and came up. He pretended to be cross but he wasn’t really. Dad doesn’t mind too much if I stay up late. Mum’s the one who nags me about that.

“Bed,” he said, “or I’ll never be able to wake you in the morning.”

“Just a minute, Dad,” I told him, “while I put my comics away and brush my teeth.”

“OK,” he said, “but make it quick.”

I stuck the comics into their box and stuffed it back up on the shelf over my bed.

I put on my pyjamas and went to brush my teeth. I took my time, brushed slowly, and it was almost eleven when I got into bed. I lay back, smiling. I felt very tired and knew I’d fall asleep in a couple of seconds. The last thing I thought about was the Cirque Du Freak. I wondered what a snake-boy looked like, and how long the bearded lady’s beard was, and what Hans Hands and Gertha Teeth did. Most of all, I dreamed about the spider.











CHAPTER FIVE


THE NEXT morning, Tommy, Alan and me waited outside the gates for Steve, but there was no sign of him by the time the bell rang for class, so we had to go in.

“I bet he’s dossing,” Tommy said. “He couldn’t get the tickets and now he doesn’t want to face us.”

“Steve’s not like that,” I said.

“I hope he brings the flyer back,” Alan said. “Even if we can’t go, I’d like to have the flyer. I’d stick it up over my bed and—”

“You couldn’t stick it up, stupid!” Tommy laughed.

“Why not?” Alan asked.

“Because Tony would see it,” I told him.

“Oh yeah,” Alan said glumly.

I was miserable in class. We had geography first, and every time Mrs Quinn asked me a question, I got it wrong. Normally geography’s my best subject, because I know so much about it from when I used to collect stamps.

“Had a late night, Darren?” she asked when I got my fifth question wrong.

“No, Mrs Quinn,” I lied.

“I think you did,” she smiled. “There are more bags under your eyes than in the local supermarket!” Everybody laughed at that – Mrs Quinn didn’t crack jokes very often – and I did too, even though I was the butt of the joke.

The morning dragged, the way it does when you feel let down or disappointed. I spent the time imagining the freak show. I made-believe I was one of the freaks, and the owner of the circus was a nasty guy who whipped everybody, even when they got stuff right. All the freaks hated him, but he was so big and mean, nobody said anything. Until one day, he whipped me once too often, and I turned into a wolf and bit his head off! Everybody cheered and I was made the new owner.

It was a pretty good daydream.

Then, a few minutes before break, the door opened and guess who walked in? Steve! His mother was behind him and she said something to Mrs Quinn, who nodded and smiled. Then Mrs Leonard left and Steve strolled over to his seat and sat down.

“Where were you?” I asked in a furious whisper.

“At the dentist’s,” he said. “I forgot to tell you I was going.”

“What about—”

“That’s enough, Darren,” Mrs Quinn said. I shut up instantly.

At break, Tommy, Alan and me almost smothered Steve. We were shouting and pulling at him at the same time.

“Did you get the tickets?” I asked.

“Were you really at the dentist’s?” Tommy wanted to know.

“Where’s my flyer?” Alan asked.

“Patience, boys, patience,” Steve said, pushing us away and laughing. “All good things to those who wait.”

“Come on, Steve, don’t mess us around,” I told him. “Did you get them or not?”

“Yes and no,” he said.

“What does that mean?” Tommy snorted.

“It means I have some good news, some bad news, and some crazy news,” he said. “Which do you want to hear first?”

“Crazy news?” I asked, puzzled.

Steve pulled us off to one side of the yard, checked to make sure no one was about, then began speaking in a whisper.

“I got the money,” he said, “and sneaked out at seven o’clock, when Mum was on the phone. I hurried across town to the ticket booth, but do you know who was there when I arrived?”

“Who?” we asked.

“Mr Dalton!” he said. “He was there with a couple of policemen. They were dragging a small guy out of the booth – it was only a small shed, really – when suddenly there was this huge bang and a great cloud of smoke covered them all. When it cleared, the small guy had disappeared.”

“What did Mr Dalton and the police do?” Alan asked.

“Examined the shed, looked around a bit, then left.”

“They didn’t see you?” Tommy asked.

“No,” Steve said. “I was well hidden.”

“So you didn’t get the tickets,” I said sadly.

“I didn’t say that,” he contradicted me.

“You got them?” I gasped.

“I turned to leave,” he said, “and found the small guy behind me. He was tiny, and dressed in a long cloak which covered him from head to toe. He spotted the flyer in my hand, took it, and held out the tickets. I handed over the money and—”

“You got them!” we roared delightedly.

“Yes,” he beamed. Then his face fell. “But there was a catch. I told you there was bad news, remember?”

“What is it?” I asked, thinking he’d lost them.

“He only sold me two,” Steve said. “I had the money for four, but he wouldn’t take it. He didn’t say anything, just tapped the bit on the flyer about “certain reservations”, then handed me a card which said the Cirque Du Freak only sold two tickets per flyer. I offered him extra money – I had nearly seventy pounds in total – but he wouldn’t accept it.”

“He only sold you two tickets?” Tommy asked, dismayed.

“But that means … ” Alan began.

“… only two of us can go,” Steve finished. He looked around at us grimly. “Two of us will have to stay at home.”











CHAPTER SIX


IT WAS Friday evening, the end of the school week, the start of the weekend, and everybody was laughing and running home as quick as they could, delighted to be free. Except a certain miserable foursome who hung around the schoolyard, looking like the end of the world had arrived. Their names? Steve Leonard, Tommy Jones, Alan Morris and me, Darren Shan.

“It’s not fair,” Alan moaned. “Who ever heard of a circus only letting you buy two tickets? It’s stupid!”

We all agreed with him, but there was nothing we could do about it apart from stand around, stubbing the ground with our feet, looking sour.

Finally, Alan asked the question which was on everybody’s mind.

“So, who gets the tickets?”

We looked at each other and shook our heads uncertainly.

“Well, Steve has to get one,” I said. “He put in more money than the rest of us, and he went to buy them, so he has to get one, agreed?”

“Agreed,” Tommy said.

“Agreed,” Alan said. I think he would have argued about it, except he knew he wouldn’t win.

Steve smiled and took one of the tickets. “Who goes with me?” he asked.

“I brought in the flyer,” Alan said quickly.

“Nuts to that!” I told him. “Steve should get to choose.”

“Not on your life!” Tommy laughed. “You’re his best friend. If we let him pick, he’ll pick you. I say we fight for it. I have boxing gloves at home.”

“No way!” Alan squeaked. He’s small and never gets into fights.

“I don’t want to fight either,” I said. I’m no coward but I knew I wouldn’t stand a chance against Tommy. His dad teaches him how to box properly and they have their own punching bag. He would have floored me in the first round.

“Let’s pick straws for it,” I said, but Tommy didn’t want to. He has terrible luck and never wins anything like that.

We argued about it a bit more, until Steve came up with an idea. “I know what to do,” he said, opening his school bag. He tore the two middle sheets of paper out of an exercise book and, using his ruler, carefully cut them into small pieces, each one roughly the same size as the ticket. Then he got his empty lunch box and dumped the paper inside.

“Here’s how it works,” he said, holding up the second ticket. “I put this in, put the top on and shake it about, OK?” We nodded. “You stand side by side and I’ll throw the bits of paper over your heads. Whoever gets the ticket wins. Me and the winner will give the other two their money back when we can afford it. Is that fair enough, or does somebody have a better idea?”

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

“I don’t know,” Alan grumbled. “I’m the youngest. I’m not able to jump as high as—”

“Quit yapping,” Tommy said. “I’m the smallest, and I don’t mind. Besides, the ticket might come out on the bottom of the pile, float down low and be in just the right place for the shortest person.”

“All right,” Alan said. “But no shoving.”

“Agreed,” I said. “No rough stuff.”

“Agreed,” Tommy nodded.

Steve put the top on the box and gave it a good long shake. “Get ready,” he told us.

We stood back from Steve and lined up in a row. Tommy and Alan were side by side, but I kept out of the way so I’d have room to swing both arms.

“OK,” Steve said. “I’ll throw everything in the air on the count of three. All set?” We nodded. “One,” Steve said, and I saw Alan wiping sweat from around his eyes. “Two,” Steve said, and Tommy’s fingers twitched. “Three!” Steve yelled, jerked off the lid and tossed the paper high up into the air.

A breeze came along and blew the bits of paper straight at us. Tommy and Alan started yelling and grabbing wildly. It was impossible to see the ticket in among the scraps of paper.

I was about to start grabbing, when all of a sudden I got an urge to do something strange. It sounded crazy, but I’ve always believed in following an urge or a hunch.

So what I did was, I shut my eyes, stuck out my hands like a blind man, and waited for something magical to happen.

As I’m sure you know, usually when you try something you’ve seen in a movie, it doesn’t work. Like if you try doing a wheelie with your bike, or making your skateboard jump up in the air. But every once in a while, when you least expect it, something clicks.

For a second I felt paper blowing by my hands. I was going to grab at them but something told me it wasn’t time. Then, a second later, a voice inside me yelled, “NOW!”

I shut my hands really fast.

The wind died down and the pieces of paper drifted to the ground. I opened my eyes and saw Alan and Tommy down on their knees, searching for the ticket.

“It’s not here!” Tommy said.

“I can’t find it anywhere!” Alan shouted.

They stopped searching and looked up at me. I hadn’t moved. I was standing still, my hands shut tight.

“What’s in your hands, Darren?” Steve asked softly.

I stared at him, unable to answer. It was like I was in a dream, where I couldn’t move or speak.

“He doesn’t have it,” Tommy said. “He can’t have. He had his eyes shut.”

“Maybe so,” Steve said, “but there’s something in those fists of his.”

“Open them,” Alan said, giving me a shove. “Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

I looked at Alan, then Tommy, then Steve. And then, very slowly, I opened my right-hand fist.

There was nothing there.

My heart and stomach dropped. Alan smiled and Tommy started looking down at the ground again, trying to find the missing ticket.

“What about the other hand?” Steve asked.

I gazed down at my left-hand fist. I’d almost forgotten about that one! Slowly, even slower than first time, I opened it.

There was a piece of green paper smack-dab in the middle of my hand, but it was lying face down, and since there was nothing on its back, I had to turn it over, just to be sure. And there it was, in red and blue letters, the magical name:

CIRQUE DU FREAK.

I had it. The ticket was mine. I was going to the freak show with Steve. “YEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!” I screamed, and punched the air with my fist. I’d won!











CHAPTER SEVEN


THE TICKETS were for the Saturday show, which was just as well, since it gave me a chance to talk to my parents and ask if I could stay over at Steve’s Saturday night.

I didn’t tell them about the freak show, because I knew they would say no if they knew about it. I felt bad about not telling the whole truth, but at the same time, I hadn’t really told a lie: all I’d done was keep my mouth shut.

Saturday couldn’t go quickly enough for me. I tried keeping busy, because that’s how you make time pass without noticing, but I kept thinking about the Cirque Du Freak and wishing it was time to go. I was quite grumpy, which was odd for me on a Saturday, and Mum was glad to see the back of me when it was time to go to Steve’s.

Annie knew I was going to the freak show and asked me to bring her back something, a photo if possible, but I told her cameras weren’t allowed (it said so on the ticket) and I didn’t have enough money for a T-shirt. I told her I’d buy her a badge if they had them, or a poster, but she’d have to keep it hidden and not tell Mum and Dad where she’d got it if they found it.

Dad dropped me off at Steve’s at six o’clock. He asked what time I wanted to be collected in the morning. I told him midday if that was OK.

“Don’t watch horror movies, OK?” he said before he left. “I don’t want you coming home with nightmares.”

“Oh, Dad!” I groaned. “Everyone in my class watches horror movies.”

“Listen,” he said, “I don’t mind an old Vincent Price film, or one of the less scary Dracula movies, but none of these nasty new ones, OK?”

“OK,” I promised.

“Good man,” he said, and drove off.

I hurried up to the house and rang the bell four times, which was my secret signal to Steve. He must have been standing right inside, because he opened the door straightaway and dragged me in.

“About time,” he growled, then pointed to the stairs. “See that hill?” he asked, speaking like a soldier in a war film.

“Yes, sir,” I said, snapping my heels together.

“We have to take it by dawn.”

“Are we using rifles or machine guns, sir?” I asked.

“Are you mad?” he barked. “We’d never be able to carry a machine gun through all that mud.” He nodded at the carpet.

“Rifles it is, sir,” I agreed.

“And if we’re taken,” he warned me, “save the last bullet for yourself.”

We started up the stairs like a couple of soldiers, firing imaginary guns at imaginary foes. It was childish, but great fun. Steve ‘lost’ a leg on the way and I had to help him to the top. “You may have taken my leg,” he shouted from the landing, “and you may take my life, but you’ll never take my country!”

It was a stirring speech. At least, it stirred Mrs Leonard, who came through from the downstairs living room to see what the racket was. She smiled when she saw me and asked if I wanted anything to eat or drink. I didn’t. Steve said he’d like some caviar and champagne, but it wasn’t funny the way he said it, and I didn’t laugh.

Steve doesn’t get on with his mum. He lives alone with her – his dad left when Steve was very young – and they’re always arguing and shouting. I don’t know why. I’ve never asked him. There are certain things you don’t discuss with your friends if you’re boys. Girls can talk about stuff like that, but if you’re a boy you have to talk about computers, football, war and so on. Parents aren’t cool.

“How will we sneak out tonight?” I asked in a whisper as Steve’s mum went back into the living room.

“It’s OK,” Steve said. “She’s going out.” He often called her she instead of Mum. “She’ll think we’re in bed when she gets back.”

“What if she checks?”

Steve laughed nastily. “Enter my room without being asked? She wouldn’t dare.”

I didn’t like Steve when he talked like that, but I said nothing in case he went into one of his moods. I didn’t want to do anything that might spoil the show.

Steve dragged out some of his horror comics and we read them aloud. Steve has great comics, which are only meant for adults. My mum and dad would hit the roof if they knew about them!

Steve also has loads of old magazines and books about monsters and vampires and werewolves and ghosts.

“Does a stake have to be made out of wood?” I asked when I’d finished reading a Dracula comic.

“No,” he said. “It can be metal or ivory, even plastic, as long as it’s hard enough to go right through the heart.”

“And that will kill a vampire?” I asked.

“Every time,” he said.

I frowned. “But you told me you have to cut off their heads and stuff them with garlic and toss them in a river.”

“Some books say you have to,” he agreed. “But that’s to make sure you kill the vampire’s spirit as well as its body, so it can’t come back as a ghost.”

“Can a vampire come back as a ghost?” I asked, eyes wide.

“Probably not,” Steve said. “But if you had the time, and wanted to make sure, cutting off the head and getting rid of it would be worth doing. You don’t want to take any chances with vampires, do you?”

“No,” I said, shivering. “What about werewolves? Do you need silver bullets to kill them?”

“I don’t think so,” Steve said. “I think normal bullets can do the job. You might have to use lots of them, but they should work.”

Steve knows everything there is to know about horror facts. He’s read every sort of horror book there is. He says every story has at least some bit of truth in it, even if most are made up.

“Do you think the Wolf Man at the Cirque Du Freak is a werewolf?” I asked.

Steve shook his head. “From what I’ve read,” he said, “the wolf-men in freak shows are normally just very hairy guys. Some of them are more like animals than people, and eat live chickens and stuff, but they’re not werewolves. A werewolf would be no good in a show, because it can only turn into a wolf when there’s a full moon. Every other night, it would be a normal guy.”

“Oh,” I said. “What about the snake-boy? Do you—”

“Hey,” he laughed, “save the questions for later. The shows long ago were terrible. The owners used to starve the freaks and keep them locked up in cages and treat them like dirt. But I don’t know what this one will be like. They might not even be real freaks: they might only be people in costumes.” The freak show was being held at a place near the other side of town. We had to leave not long after nine o’clock, to make sure we got there in time. We could have got a cab, except we’d used most of our pocket money to replace the cash Steve took from his mum. Besides, it was more fun walking. It was spookier!

We told ghost stories as we walked. Steve did most of the talking, because he knows way more than me. He was on top form. Sometimes he forgets the ends of stories, or gets names mixed up, but not tonight. It was better than being with Stephen King!

It was a long walk, longer than we thought, and we almost didn’t make it on time. We had to run the last half-kilometre. We were panting like dogs when we got there.

The venue was an old theatre which used to show movies. I’d passed it once or twice in the past. Steve told me once that it was shut down because a boy fell off the balcony and got killed. He said it was haunted. I asked my dad about it, and he said it was a load of lies. It’s hard sometimes to know whether you should believe the stories your dad tells you or the ones your best friend tells you.

There was no name outside the door, and no cars parked nearby, and no queue. We stopped out front and bent over until we got our breath back. Then we stood and looked at the building. It was tall and dark and covered in jagged grey stones. Lots of the windows were broken, and the door looked like a giant’s open mouth.

“Are you sure this is the place?” I asked, trying not to sound scared.

“This is what it says on the tickets,” Steve said and checked again, just to be sure. “Yep, this is it.”

“Maybe the police found out and the freaks had to move on,” I said. “Maybe there isn’t any show tonight.”

“Maybe,” Steve said.

I looked at him and licked my lips nervously. “What do you think we should do?” I asked.

He stared back at me and hesitated before replying. “I think we should go in,” he finally said. “We’ve come this far. It’d be silly to turn back now, without knowing for sure.”

“I agree,” I said, nodding. Then I gazed up at the scary building and gulped. It looked like the sort of place you saw in a horror movie, where lots of people go in but don’t come out. “Are you scared?” I asked Steve.

“No,” he said, but I could hear his teeth chattering and knew he was lying. “Are you?” he asked.

“Course not,” I said. We looked at each other and grinned. We knew we were both terrified, but at least we were together. It’s not so bad being scared if you’re not alone.

“Shall we enter?” Steve asked, trying to sound cheerful.

“Might as well,” I said.

We took a deep breath, crossed our fingers, then started up the steps (there were nine stone steps leading up to the door, each one cracked and covered with moss) and went in.











CHAPTER EIGHT


WE FOUND ourselves standing in a long, dark, cold corridor. I had my jacket on, but shivered all the same. It was freezing!

“Why is it so cold?” I asked Steve. “It was warm outside.”

“Old houses are like that,” he told me.

We started to walk. There was a light down by the other end, so the further in we got, the brighter it became. I was glad of that. I don’t think I could have made it otherwise: it would have been too scary!

The walls were scratched and scribbled-on, and bits of the ceiling were flaky. It was a creepy place. It would have been bad enough in the middle of the day, but this was ten o’clock, only two hours away from midnight!

“There’s a door here,” Steve said and stopped. He pushed it ajar and it creaked loudly. I almost turned and ran. It sounded like the lid of a coffin being tugged open!

Steve showed no fear and stuck his head in. He said nothing for a few seconds, while his eyes got used to the dark, then pulled back. “It’s the stairs up to the balcony,” he said.

“Where the kid fell from?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you think we should go up?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s dark up there, no sign of any sort of light. We’ll try it if we can’t find another way in, but I think—”

“Can I help you boys?” somebody said behind us, and we nearly jumped out of our skins!

We turned around quickly and the tallest man in the world was standing there, glaring down on us as if we were a couple of rats. He was so tall, his head almost touched the ceiling. He had huge bony hands and eyes that were so dark, they looked like two black coals stuck in the middle of his face.

“Isn’t it rather late for two little boys like yourselves to be out and about?” he asked. His voice was as deep and croaky as a frog’s, but his lips hardly seemed to move. He would have made a great ventriloquist.

“We… ” Steve began, but had to stop and lick his lips before he could continue. “We’re here to see the Cirque Du Freak,” he said.

“Are you?” The man nodded slowly. “Do you have tickets?”

“Yes,” Steve said, and showed his.

“Very good,” the man muttered. Then he turned to me and said: “How about you, Darren? Do you have a ticket?”

“Yes,” I said, reaching into my pocket. Then I stopped dead in my tracks. He knew my name! I glanced at Steve and he was shaking in his boots.

The tall man smiled. He had black teeth and some were missing, and his tongue was a dirty shade of yellow. “My name is Mr Tall,” he said. “I own the Cirque Du Freak.”

“How did you know my friend’s name?” Steve asked bravely.

Mr Tall laughed and bent down, so he was eyeball-to-eyeball with Steve. “I know lots of things,” he said softly. “I know your names. I know where you live. I know you don’t like your mummy or your daddy.” He turned to face me and I took a step back. His breath stank to the high heavens. “I know you didn’t tell your parents you were coming here. And I know how you won your ticket.”

“How?” I asked. My teeth were shaking so much, I wasn’t sure if he heard me or not. If he did, he decided not to answer, because next he stood up and turned away from us.

“We must hurry,” he said, beginning to walk. I thought he would take giant steps, but he didn’t, he took short ones. “The show is about to begin. Everyone else is present and seated. You are late, boys. You’re lucky we didn’t start without you.”

He turned a corner at the end of the corridor. He was only two or three steps in front of us, but when we turned the corner, he was sitting behind a long table covered with a black cloth which reached down to the floor. He was wearing a tall red hat now, and a pair of gloves.

“Tickets, please,” he said, reached out, took them, opened his mouth and put the tickets in, then chewed them to pieces and swallowed!

“Very well,” he said. “You may go in now. We normally don’t welcome children, but I can see you are two fine, courageous young men. We will make an exception.”

There were two blue curtains in front of us, drawn across the end of the hall. Steve and me looked at each other and gulped.

“Do we walk straight on?” Steve asked.

“Of course,” Mr Tall said.

“Isn’t there a lady with a torch?” I asked.

He laughed. “If you want someone to hold your hand,” he said, “you should have brought a baby-sitter!”

That made me mad and I forgot for a moment how afraid I was. “All right” I snapped, stepping forward, surprising Steve. “If that’s the way it is… ” I walked forward quickly and pushed past the curtains.

I don’t know what those curtains were made of, but they felt like spider webs. I stopped once past. I was in a short corridor and another pair of curtains were draped across the walls a few metres in front. There was a sound behind and then Steve was by my side. We could hear noises on the other side of the curtains.

“Do you think it’s safe?” I asked.

“I think it’s safer to go forward than backwards,” he answered. “I don’t think Mr Tall would like it if we turned back.”

“How do you think he knew all that stuff about us?” I asked.

“He must be able to read minds,” Steve replied.

“Oh,” I said, and thought about that for a few seconds. “He nearly scared the life out of me,” I admitted.

“Me too,” Steve said.

Then we stepped forward.

It was a huge room. The chairs had been ripped out of the theatre long ago, but deck chairs had been set up in their place. We looked for spare seats. The entire theatre was packed, but we were the only children there. I could feel people watching us and whispering.

The only spaces were in the fourth row from the front. We had to step over lots of legs to get there and people were grumbling. When we sat down, we realised they were good seats, because we were right in the middle and nobody tall was in front of us. We had a perfect view of the stage and could see everything.

“Do you think they sell popcorn?” I asked.

“At a freak show?” Steve snorted. “Get real! They might sell snake eggs and lizard eyes, but I’ll bet anything you like they don’t sell popcorn!”

The people in the theatre were a mixed bunch. Some were dressed stylishly, others in tracksuits. Some were as old as the hills, others just a few years older than Steve and me. Some chatted confidently to their companions and behaved as though at a football match, others sat quietly in their chairs and gazed around nervously.

What everyone shared was a look of excitement. I could see it in their eyes, the same light that was shining in Steve’s and mine. We all somehow knew that we were in for something special, the like of which we’d never seen before.

Then a load of trumpets blew and the whole place went quiet. The trumpets blew for ages and ages, getting louder and louder, and every light went out until the theatre was pitch black. I began to get scared again, but it was too late to leave.

All of a sudden, the trumpets stopped and there was silence. My ears were ringing and for a few seconds I felt dizzy. Then I recovered and sat up straight in my seat.

Somewhere high up in the theatre, someone switched on a green light and the stage lit up. It looked eerie! For about a minute nothing else happened. Then two men came on, pulling a cage. It was on wheels and covered with what looked like a huge bearskin rug. When they got to the middle of the stage they stopped, dropped the ropes and ran back into the wings.

For a few seconds more – silence. Then the trumpets blew again, three short blasts. The rug came flying off the cage and the first freak was revealed.

That was when the screaming began.











CHAPTER NINE


THERE WAS no need for the screaming. The freak was quite shocking, but he was chained up inside the cage. I think the people who screamed did it for fun, the way people scream on a roller coaster, not because they were actually afraid.

It was the Wolf Man. He was very ugly, hair all over his body. He only wore a piece of cloth around his middle, like Tarzan, so we could see his hairy legs and belly and back and arms. He had a long bushy beard which covered most of his face. His eyes were yellow and his teeth were red.

He shook the bars of the cage and roared. It was pretty frightening. Lots more people screamed when he roared. I nearly screamed myself, except I didn’t want to look like a baby.

The Wolf Man went on shaking the bars and jumping about, before calming down. When he was sitting on his backside, the way dogs do, Mr Tall walked on and spoke.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, and even though his voice was low and croaky, everybody could hear what he was saying, “welcome to the Cirque Du Freak, home of the world’s most remarkable human beings.

“We are an ancient circus,” he went on. “We have toured for five hundred years, bringing the grotesque to generation after generation. Our line-up has changed many times, but never our aim, which is to astound and terrify you! We present acts both frightening and bizarre, acts you can find nowhere else in the world.

“Those who are easily scared should leave now,” he warned. “I’m sure there are people who came tonight thinking this was a joke. Maybe they thought our freaks would be people in masks, or harmless misfits. This is not so! Every act you see tonight is real. Each performer is unique. And none are harmless.”

That was the end of his speech and he walked offstage. Two pretty women in shiny suits came on next and unlocked the door of the Wolf Man’s cage. A few people looked scared but nobody left.

The Wolf Man was yapping and howling when he first came out of the cage, until one of the ladies hypnotised him with her fingers. The other lady spoke to the crowd.

“You must be very quiet,” she said in a foreign accent. “The Wolf Man will not be able to hurt you as long as we control him but a loud sound could wake him up, and then he would be deadly!”

When they were ready, they stepped down from the stage and walked the hypnotised Wolf Man through the theatre. His hair was a dirty grey colour and he walked with a stoop, fingers hanging down around his knees.

The ladies stayed by his side and warned people to be quiet. They let you stroke him if you wanted, but you had to do it gently. Steve rubbed him when he went by but I was afraid he might wake up and bite me, so I didn’t.

“What did it feel like?” I asked, as quietly as I could.

“It was spiky,” Steve replied, “like a hedgehog.” He lifted his fingers to his nose and sniffed. “It smells strange too, like burning rubber.”

The Wolf Man and ladies were about halfway down the rows of seats when there was a big BANG! I don’t know what made the noise, but suddenly the Wolf Man began roaring and he shoved the ladies away from him.

People screamed and those nearest him leapt from their seats and ran. One woman wasn’t quick enough, and the Wolf Man leapt on her and dragged her to the ground. She was screaming fit to burst, but nobody tried to help her. He rolled her over on to her back and bared his teeth. She stuck a hand up to push him away, but he got his teeth on it and bit it off!





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