Copyright

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2016

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

HarperCollins Publishers,

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Text © Justin Fisher 2016

Cover illustration © Manuel Šumberac

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Justin Fisher asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008124526

Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780008124533

Version: 2016-05-24

For C, the glue that binds my pages

And for L, G and L, my tiny pots of Ink

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1. A Birthday Wish

Chapter 2. Surprise

Chapter 3. The Greatest Show on Earth

Chapter 4. Kitty

Chapter 5. Lots & Lots of Marvels

Chapter 6. Whiskers

Chapter 7. The Present

Chapter 8. The Flying Circus

Chapter 9. Collision Course

Chapter 10. Mystero the Magnificent

Chapter 11. Behind the Veil

Chapter 12. Inside the Box

Chapter 13. Face-off

Chapter 14. Darklings

Chapter 15. Something in the Smoke

Chapter 16. A Prisoner

Chapter 17. Secrets and Lies

Chapter 18. Awakenings

Chapter 19. The Truth

Chapter 20. The Amplification-Engine

Chapter 21. French Steel

Chapter 22. A Single Grain of Sand

Chapter 23. Oublier and Co

Chapter 24. So Jump!

Chapter 25. Something in the Mirror

Chapter 26. Mr Sar-adin

Chapter 27. Edelweiss

Chapter 28. St Clotilde’s

Chapter 29. Mother’s Day

Chapter 30. Farewell

Chapter 31. Theron’s Keep

Chapter 32. Falling Star

Chapter 33. The Show Must Go On

Chapter 34. On Your Marks, Get Set …

Chapter 35. Annapurna

Chapter 36. Cold-hearted

Chapter 37. The Source

Chapter 38. The Final Curtain

Chapter 39. To Mend a Broken Heart

Chapter 40. Home

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Read on for a sneak preview …

About the Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

The building work at Battersea Power Station had been abandoned without warning. ‘SITE UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT’ billboards had been hurriedly put up years ago, with a small logo stamped across their tops, ‘OUBLIER AND CO’. The army of cranes, bulldozers and diggers lay silenced, their only visitors an occasional seagull and deepening bouts of rust. It was late and London was asleep. As always, the River Thames flowed quietly by, disturbed only by the odd houseboat and the occasional taxi making a final drop off before heading home.

It started as it usually did. Deep in the bowels of the old power station, the air began to move. Behind a half-cracked mirror, water pipes trembled, inexplicably flowing backwards, inexplicably flowing at all. If anything could have lived down there, which it couldn’t, it would have run. Only the building’s four vast chimneys could see how the shadows turned and twisted, before revealing a mud-splattered, silver-haired nun.

Sister Clementine was tired, tired of running, tired of always being afraid. Ever since she’d agreed to carry the message, they’d had her scent. No matter how well she’d hidden, no matter what tricks she’d used, they’d always found her. Her chest was tight and her legs ached from the chase. She had to think fast; any minute now and they’d be on her. She couldn’t outrun them, especially not the little one. By the time she made it to the fence, they’d have her, and if they had her, there was no hope of keeping quiet. No one ever kept quiet.

Looking out towards the river, she saw a sliver of hope. If she could make the crane in time, she might get high enough to go unnoticed. She climbed the ladder quickly and quietly, her robes perfect cover under the pitch-black sky.

But Sister Clementine did not go unnoticed. Finally at the crane’s arm she slowed enough to hear them. The same two men that had tracked her since the beginning, one short and barrel-chested, the other impossibly tall. They were studying their new surroundings carefully. The shorter man sniffed at the air’s unique aroma, while the tall man’s pin-sharp eyes scanned the horizon. Their kind might usually have been nervous, afraid even of being on land owned by Oublier and Co. But not these men. It was not their job to fear, but to be feared. They were the things that went bump in the night.

In no time they had zeroed in on their target. They moved fast, the tall one climbing with all the skill of a spider while the other charged with the excitable brute strength of a predator nearing its prey.

Sister Clementine moved further down the crane arm as her assailants reached the top.

“Gimme the co-ordinates, Clementine. Jus’ two sets o’ numbers and you go free,” said the tall man, in a thick American accent.

Clementine’s foot slipped, finding only air instead of metal. There was nowhere else to run. The tall American pulled a revolver from his hip, aiming it squarely at the woman’s head.

“Don’t kill her, just wound her; she’s worth nothing if she can’t talk,” snarled the barrel, edging down the crane’s arm towards her.

The nun looked down at the void of black, before closing her eyes for one last prayer.

“He wants the child, Clementine,” said the American.

But the nun’s mind was already made up.

“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love …”

Where there is darkness, joy …”

“WHERE IS SHE?” barked the barrel, almost upon her now.

Sister Clementine opened her eyes and smiled.

“Go to hell.”

She stretched out her arms like wings and pushed hard on the crane beneath her, launching herself into the air. There was no hard crunch of concrete below, only a splash as she landed in the River Thames’s waters. The tall American waited, peering into the darkness, before firing a single perfect round.

“Did you get her?” asked the barrel.

“Have I eva missed?”

A Birthday Wish

“Hinks?” said Mr Wilkinson.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well done. A plus. Johnston?”

“Sir.”

“Not a bad B, Johnston. Widdlewort?”

“It’s Waddlesworth, sir.”

“Yes, yes of course it is. C again, Widdlewort.”

The subject didn’t matter. Ned Waddlesworth always got a C. Not a C plus or minus, nothing with any particular character, just your average, everyday C. He was an unremarkable-looking boy too, with light brownish sort of eyes, and hair that was neither long nor short, styled nor loose, brown nor blonde. His hair was, quite simply, there. Ned wasn’t tall or short, chunky or particularly thin. At school Ned wasn’t in the clever classes, nor did he slouch at the back. Ned, like his hair, was just: there.

Teachers barely noticed him arrive at his new schools, or leave again a few months later. He never got to try out for any of the teams and, until recently, was never around long enough to make any friends. Unnoticeable Ned slipped through the cracks, again and again and again.

His father, Terry Waddlesworth, had once been an engineer. He’d retired from that profession before Ned was born and now sold specialist screws for a company called Fidgit and Sons. “Best in the business”, according to Terry. The job had them move around the country often, sometimes with little or no warning, and was, as far as Ned was concerned, the reason for all his woes. But that wasn’t the only issue Ned had with his father. Terry Waddlesworth had a profound dislike for anything risky or “dangerous”, which meant he rarely left the house unless going to work. He was interested in only three things: amateur mechanics, watching quiz shows on the telly, and Ned’s safety. It did not make for an environment that let growing boys …‘grow’.

They lived at Number 222 Oak Tree Lane, in Grittlesby, a suburb south of London, famed for its lack of traffic, quiet streets and generally being entirely unremarkable. It was the longest they’d stayed in any one place though, and Ned was just happy to have finally managed to make some friends, Archie Hinks and George Johnston from across the road. Despite his father’s best efforts Ned was growing roots.

“So, last day of term,” said Archie as they all headed home from school.

“Yup,” agreed Ned happily.

“And it’s your birthday,” said George. “Major event, Ned, major event. We’ll need to meet up tomorrow for the ceremonial exchanging of presents, of course.”

It would be Ned’s first birthday with the added bonus of friends. The fact that they’d even thought of gifts came as a genuine shock.

“You got me presents? Actual presents?”

“Well, I wouldn’t get too excited. Arch got me batteries last year, wrapped up in old newspaper.”

“They still had a little juice left in them,” grinned Archie.

“Your dad got anything planned?”

Ned’s face darkened.

“My dad? Doubt it. He’s not great with stuff like that. Last year we stayed in watching cartoons. I mean, cartoons! We never go anywhere. It’s like I’m made of glass or something, like he thinks the world was made to break me.”

“Cheer up, Widdler, least he cares, right?” said George.

“I know, I know …” sighed Ned.

At Ned’s gate they said their goodbyes and agreed to meet up after lunch the following day.

Ned opened the door of Number 222 and headed for the kitchen, weighing up the choice between another one of his dad’s microwave meals, or a jam sandwich. The sandwich won.

“Hi, Dad,” he called as he passed the living room.

“And the answer is – Eidelweiss,” chimed the TV.

“Dad?”

“Ned, is that you?”

“No, Dad, it’s one of the millions of visitors you get every day.”

Terry Waddlesworth walked into the kitchen, wearing the kind of tank top you could only find in a charity shop and looking unusually dishevelled.

“Neddles, I was starting to get worried.”

“Oh come on Dad, you’ve got to stop. I sent you the obligatory ‘I’m alive’ text message fifteen minutes ago and I came straight home because of tonight …”

“Because of …?” Terry was now staring through the kitchen window, and out on to the street.

Ned’s heart sank. His dad was like a satellite link when it came to knowing where his son was, but remembering anything else was often problematic. He had a habit of getting … ‘distracted’.

“You didn’t forget … did you?”

“Forget what?” asked Terry, his focus now back in the room.

“The large pile of presents and the party you’ve planned, you know, the one OUTSIDE the house, FOR MY BIRTHDAY?” said Ned, now certain that there’d be neither.

Terry’s eyes started to go a little watery and he pulled Ned in for a large hug.

“You all right, Dad? You’re not thinking about her again, are you? You know it only makes you sad.”

“Not this time, Ned, I promise. She would have loved it though. Our little boy, thirteen years old. Who’d believe it?”

“We said we wouldn’t talk about her today, Dad … and I’m not a little boy, not any more!”

“So you keep telling me.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you just let me … be,” muttered Ned, through gritted teeth and a faceful of his dad’s shirt.

“I know.”

“Dad?”

“Yes, son?”

“You can let go now.” And Ned didn’t just mean with his arms.

Ned’s dad released him at last. “I didn’t forget, son,” he said, producing an envelope and a badly wrapped present no bigger than the end of his thumb and handing them over.

Ned smiled, turning over the tiny package in his hands. “Please tell me this isn’t, like, really rare Lego. Because we’ve built just about everything you can with the stuff and I am seriously, like totally too old for it now.”

“No, Ned, it’s actually a bit rarer than that, but you’ll have to wait till tonight to open it. I do have a surprise for you though. We’re going to the circus. It’s on the green; the tickets are in the envelope.”

Ned would have loved the circus a few years ago, but he was thirteen now, and thirteen-year-olds had the internet, and cable TV and, more recently, friends. Still, any Waddlesworth outing outside the house was worth encouraging.

“Great … I love the circus,” he managed, with all the enthusiasm of a boy that still loves his father just a little bit more than the truth.

“Put them in your pocket, son. I’ve got a bit of a work crisis on. An old colleague of mine … she’s … she’s in a pickle, and I have to go and help her out, but I’ll be back later. We need to have ourselves a little talk before the show. Stay indoors till then, OK? You’ll love the circus, Ned. There’s nothing quite like it.”

Terry Waddlesworth didn’t usually mention “colleagues” and had never had a work crisis, at least not as far as Ned could remember. What worried him more were his dad’s shaking hands, as he went to pick up the keys.

“Dad, are you sure you’re OK? I hope this isn’t about moving again, because …”

But his father was already out the door, double-locking it behind him before marching off down the drive, and Ned was talking to himself.

Ned took his sandwich up to his room and looked around him. Everywhere a mess of abandoned projects lay scattered. Things he and his dad had started building, or were in the process of taking apart. The largest by far was a scale model of the solar system, every planet recreated from a mass of tiny metal parts and their corresponding screws. What made it different from more ordinary construction sets was that the planets actually orbited the sun, or at least they would, when Ned finally got round to finishing it. However, Ned’s new friends, all two of them, meant that he had less time for the compulsory Waddlesworth hobby, besides he was rarely challenged now by the things his dad wanted them to make. Plus he was starting to think that maybe building model sets with your dad was a little geeky anyway.

He didn’t have the heart to tell his dad though. It had always been their thing, but as Ned had got older he’d come to realise that Terry had a disproportionate obsession with it, as if any problem, any issue that life threw in their direction, might be answered by something found within the folds of some manual.

Ned was fed up with plans, with diagrams and instructions. “Don’t do this”, “don’t go there”, “make sure you call or text”. Much as he loved his dad, Ned wanted freedom, wanted to try life without a manual or his dad’s overprotective ways.

Ned sat down on his bed. Whiskers was lying on his pillow as usual and looked like he might be asleep, though Ned could never really tell. The old rodent had the uncanny habit of sleeping with at least one eye open.

Ned’s mouse never slept in a cage, barely moved unless you were looking at him and in all the years they’d had him, Ned couldn’t remember ever seeing him eat. According to Terry, he preferred dining alone.

“All right, Whiskers?”

The mouse didn’t move.

“Yeah, Happy Birthday to you too.”

He lay down beside him and thought about Terry. Something was making him particularly jumpy. And annoying as his dad could be, Ned did not like seeing him upset.

Ned was pretty sure his dad’s jumpiness had started on Ned’s very first birthday. Olivia Waddlesworth – Ned’s mum – had gone out to buy a candle for their son’s cake when she’d lost control of her car. In his grief, Ned’s dad had destroyed all the photos he’d had of her. Ned didn’t have any other relatives so everything he knew about his mother had come from his father’s memories. He’d described her in detail so many times over the years; the flecks in her eyes, the tint of rose her cheeks turned when she was embarrassed or cross. But it was who she’d been inside that made Terry’s eyes fill with tears. According to Ned’s dad, she had been kind and fierce at the same time. She would go out of her way to help a stranger, was passionate about the world around her, and had never told a lie, ever.

Ned stared at the photo frame on his bedside table. It was worn with both love and age, even though it was completely empty. Ned always made a wish on the night of his birthday and though he knew it would never come true, he always wished for the same thing: a photo of his mother.

And so, as he did every year, Ned made his birthday wish and waited for something to happen. But this year, unlike every other, as Ned closed his eyes and for a moment dozed off to sleep, something actually did.

***

Elsewhere, a tracker in a long, wax trench coat looked out across a forest. He had been there before. The beasts he hunted often used the old part of the wood, the part where shadows still moved with a will of their own, the part where one could hide, even from the hidden.

But this beast had grown too greedy, ventured too far, and now it had come under the watchful eyes of the Twelve and Madame Oublier. They would not allow it to continue. The two men stood beside him, with their matching pinstripe suits and carefully combed hair, had been watching this place for some time. When they were quite sure, they had called for the tracker, him and his animals. The hawk was his eyes, the lions his teeth, and the rest the tracker did himself. One of the pinstripes checked his pocketwatch, while the other made notes in a leather-bound book.

They needed to catch the haired one tonight before it could do more harm. In the branches above, the tracker’s bird called out to him.

“Lerft, roight … go!” the tracker breathed in a heavy Irish whisper.

His lions padded forward and in a moment were in the darkness and out of sight. The pinstripes nodded and he left them at their posts. His breathing steadied. Out here there was no time to be scared; fear could kill you as quick as claws.

Crack.

A broken branch, somewhere in the distance.

Crack. Crack.

Another and another.

The tracker paced forward, low to the ground. In a clearing in front of him a man sat by his tent and cried.

“Niet, niet,” moaned the tourist.

The beast circled him, growling, claws at the ready, saliva dripping from its hideous fangs.

The beasts were never found this far across the border. There were treaties with their kind written in blood, an oath as ancient as the forest it now walked. But something had changed, something had made them bolder, and this one was crazed with a hunger only the tourist and his warm, oozing blood would satisfy.

The boy pulled the silver from his pocket. A delicate chain could be as strong as a cage if handled the right way. He whistled to his lions. The beast was big and he was going to need them.

Surprise

Ned had been having the exact same dream for weeks now. It started with grey. No sound, no texture, just a wall of pure grey. But the grey had a way of turning in on itself, of tumbling and changing, till a shape would emerge, boldly lumbering towards him to the rising brum brum brum of a deep bass drum. The shape scared Ned. It was large and indistinct and heavy-breathing. But today the dream was different. Today he could see the shape as it truly was.

The shape was an elephant with pretty white wings. The animal was ancient and also had terrible breath. He knew this because, as the drumming got louder, it started to lick his face.

Ned found that there were moments, between being asleep and awake, when sounds and senses were stretched, altered. The ringing of an alarm clock might become a siren in a dream. Often it was hard to tell what was dream and what reality, and so it was as the licking from the elephant changed to the prodding of Whiskers’ snout on his cheek, as if the little rodent were trying to wake him up.

Ned opened his eyes. He must have been asleep for hours because it was now dark outside. So it had all been a dream. And yet, the drumming had not stopped, or at least, had become something else, some other strange sound. A sound that Ned instantly knew was bad before he had any idea what it might be, because the hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and the nails on his fingers felt tight.

It seemed to be coming from downstairs. Short laboured scrapes, one after another, then a pause.

“Dad?”

The scraping continued. Whiskers scampered off the bed and sniffed at Ned’s door. Dad had always joked that he made the perfect guard dog. Too small to need a walk, but with the hearing of a bat.

“Dad …” Ned shouted, “if this is a birthday surprise, it’s not very funny.”

There was no reply. Ned opened his bedroom door and cautiously crept down the stairs, closely followed by his mouse. The scraping was coming from the sitting room’s patio doors. Something outside was trying to claw its way in.

Ned’s first reaction was to run, and Whiskers, who was already squeaking noisily by the front door, was clearly of the same mind, but Ned’s curiosity had taken a hold. He turned, inching his way towards the sitting room, and was about to flick on the light switch when he saw something that made his blood turn cold. Standing in the glass doorway, lit up in the cold glow of the garden’s security lights, was the scariest sight he’d ever seen.

It was a clown, though nothing like the ones he’d seen in books or on the telly. He had the same shrunken hat, oversized boots and orange curly hair one would expect, but he was caked in dirt. His make-up had cracked, like white clay left too long in the sun, and the few teeth he still had were gnarled black stumps.

The horrible scraping sound began again as the clown dragged a claw-like nail across the glass. Then Ned realised – scratched into the glass of the patio doors were four letters.

Y C U L

Ned ducked down out of sight behind the sofa, heart pounding, speechless with fear.

Suddenly from behind him Ned heard the sound of the front door being thrown open and a rather different Terry Waddlesworth than Ned was used to burst into the house.

“Dad!” Ned managed to croak over his shoulder.

“Ned? Ned!”

“Dad, there’s something …” But he was suddenly unable to speak, only point with a shaking finger.

“Thank goodness you’re all r …” His father’s voice trailed off as his eyes followed Ned’s hand. The only sound now was the continued scraping from the clown’s fingernails, who seemed not to have heard them through the thick, double-glazed patio doors.

When Ned’s dad at last spoke again, he did so in a slow, deliberate whisper. “Ned, it’s time to go,” he hissed, beckoning him back towards him on all fours then grabbing him by the arm and leading him into the hallway.

Ned was in a daze.

“It’s OK, Dad, no need to panic. I’ve figured it out, I’m still dreaming. I’ll probably wake up in a minute and you’ll tell me we’re staying in Grittlesby for good, because I like it here, and I’ve got actual friends and they’ve bought me presents and we’re going to start behaving like a normal family and everything’s going to be great and …”

Ned’s dad ignored his babbling and picked up two black bags from under the stairs, before pausing by the front door. The scratching stopped.

“Give me a minute, son, and don’t go back in there. Whatever happens, he mustn’t see you.”

And in a second he’d pounded up the stairs to Ned’s bedroom. On his way back down, Ned’s dad was stowing something into one of the black bags. Just as he was dragging Ned out the front door, they heard behind them the sound of shattering glass from the sitting room.

“GET IN!” shouted his dad as he threw open the door of their Morris Minor and revved the engine, and before Ned knew what was happening they were tearing out of the driveway in a cloud of dust.

Slowly Ned started to surface from his stupor. A bank of grey fog had rolled into Grittlesby, just like the one from his dream, and as they sped through their little suburb, Ned wondered whether his dad was using his eyes or his memory to navigate.

“I’m not dreaming, am I? Dad, what’s going on? What was that thing?”

“A clown, and a particularly nasty one at that. I just hope he didn’t see you.”

“See me? I don’t understand. Why would that be bad?”

“Because I haven’t had enough time!”

“Time? Time for what?!”

“To get you to safety, to explain, you see … not everything we see is as we see it. The world is a complicated place. It has layers, Ned, lots of layers. What might be the norm for one person, is not really the same for …”

CRUNCH!

Just then something crashed into the right side of their car, hitting it hard. Through the fog, lit up by the streetlights, Ned saw a bright purple ice-cream van with a sign on it reading, MO’S CHILDREN’S PARTIES. Its driver was hideously fat, with the same monstrous grin and cracked make-up as the clown from Ned’s home.

“GET DOWN!” ordered his dad, before shoving Ned further into his seat and out of the clown’s line of sight.

“Please don’t tell me you hired these clowns for my birthday?!”

“Ned, the tickets and present I gave you, do you have them?”

“What?” said Ned, peeking between the seats at the grinning clown tearing after them.

“THE PRESENT! THE TICKETS! DO YOU HAVE THEM?”

Ned had never seen his father quite so crazed. Fumbling through his pockets he found both envelope and package, and pulled them out.

“OPEN IT! QUICKLY!” shouted his dad.

Ned tore at the present’s paper to reveal a smooth metal box. Just then there was another loud crash at their rear and the box flew from Ned’s hands.

“I’ve dropped it!” he shouted, scrabbling around by his feet. “It’s on the floor here somewhere …”

Terry cursed loudly and flicked on the car’s reading light, before making a sharp turn.

“Find it, Ned, that box is the key!”

“The key to what?”

“Just do it!”

Something in Ned’s dad’s voice made Ned do as he was told, and he soon found himself upside down in the passenger seat, scrambling around under the car seat to find his mysterious gift. Their old car wasn’t used to being pushed so hard and the engine groaned loudly as Terry hammered on the accelerator. Under his chair, Ned could just make out the glimmer of an edge.

“I think I can see it!” he shouted.

“Hold on, son, it’s going to get rough.”

“Hold on to what? I’m upside down!”

The car hit something hard, launched into the air and just as Ned’s fingers closed around it the box was gone again.

“Ow! What was that?”

“Speed bump … and another coming.”

Their car flew over another of the hard, tarmacked lumps, and Ned smacked his head again on the vehicle’s dashboard.

“One last bump, have you got it?”

“No I have not, and I won’t have a neck if we carry on like—”

The final bump hurt the most, but as they landed, Ned saw the glimmering metal box leap off the ground just before it hit him square in the eye.

“Ow!” he said, grabbing at it before it fell again. “OK. Got it …”

Ned felt his dad’s hand reaching for his neck and, in a single hard pull, he’d yanked him up and back into his seat.

“Don’t lose sight of it again, Ned. Not now, not ever. Do you understand?”

“Is this … is this what they’re after?”

“Only two people in the world know about that box. Those clowns are after me.”

“YOU! What could they possibly want with—”

Crash!

A horrible crunching sound rang through the car as Mo’s van smashed into the back of them again.

Through the fog, Ned could barely make out the ‘NO ENTRY’ sign to Grittlesby’s pedestrianised shopping arcade and the two metal bollards at its sides.

“Dad, we’re not going to make it!”

“Oh yes we are, my boy, oh yes we are!”

Their beloved old car hurtled through the barrier and there was a loud tearing noise as both of the Morris Minor’s wing mirrors were ripped off. Ned looked out the rear window to see Mo’s van screech to a sudden halt as it crashed into the bollards. At the other end of the arcade, their path was blocked by an even larger barrier, that Ned was sure not even his newly crazed father would try and break through. Terry went quiet, looking left and right, then left again.

“Hold on to your seat, son.”

Ned’s dad slammed the gearstick into reverse and spun the wheel. The old Morris Minor flew backwards, turning wildly up a narrow one-way street. Faster and faster the car sped, crossing one then two intersections, and then another. Ned now had no doubt that his father had gone mad when the car hit a high kerb and flew into the air.

In that moment of free fall, Ned saw his life flash before him. He saw his school surrounded by a flock of C’s, his dad staring at the inner workings of a toaster, Whiskers asleep on his pillow. And Ned did the only thing he could think of.

“Arggggggghhhhhh!”

The car landed with a loud crunch. Its boot popped open sending their bags flying as smoke poured out of the engine.

It took a good thirty seconds of his dad shaking him before Ned felt ready to stop yelling.

“It’s all right, Ned, we made it!”

But Ned’s thoughts were somewhere else. “Whiskers … what about Whiskers? Dad! We left him behind!”

“Don’t worry about him; he’s tougher than he looks. You need to move,” said his dad, thrusting one of the black bags into Ned’s arms. “Quickly, Ned, they’ll be on us in a second.”

The thought of the clowns brought him back to the moment with a thump.

“Where am I going? Why?”

“I was going to explain everything before the show, I wanted to prepare you, but my plans they … just get to the Circus of Marvels, Ned, they’ll keep you safe.”

Ned couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“We’re being chased by homicidal clowns and you want me to hide in a circus?”

“I’m sorry, it wasn’t supposed to be this way, I’ve tried to protect you …”

“What wasn’t? Dad, you’re scaring me. What’s happening?”

“Just get to the circus – they’re waiting for you. Take one of the tickets, you won’t find them without it. Don’t worry, Neddles, just give Benissimo the box, he’ll know what to do.”

Terry grabbed the remaining ticket, tore it into shreds and started swallowing the pieces.

“What is going on, Dad?? How do you know these people? Where are you going? When can I come home?”

Ned could feel the tears welling in his eyes.

“You’re going to need to be brave, son, and grown up, more grown up than I’ve ever let you be before … but I will find you, Ned, I promise. Trust only Benissimo and Kitty, and don’t lose sight of that box.”

“But what does it do? What’s it for?”

From back the way they’d come, still hidden in the fog, came the honk of a horn and somewhere beyond it another.

“The clowns … they’re coming,” said his dad, now peering into the darkness. “They’ve found me.”

“T E R R Y,” called a rasping voice, that was both ugly and near.

“Run, boy, just run!”

The Greatest Show on Earth

Ned held onto his dad, tears beginning to flow down his face. How could he leave him to those monsters, with their cracked make up and glass cutting nails? It was the strength of his dad’s push that gave him his answer. Ned had no choice.

He ran in the direction he was pushed, through the thick fog, only stopping when he could run no more. He looked down at the ticket clutched in his hands. Gold letters spelled out ‘BENISSIMO’S CIRCUS OF MARVELS’ and underneath the words was something he recognised. A picture of an elephant with tiny wings. It was just like the one from his dream. Nothing in his little world made sense any more. How could a travelling salesman obsessed with safety be mixed up in all this, whatever ‘all this’ actually was? Who were those clowns and what was the first one scratching into the glass?

When he had caught his breath, Ned set off again, half running, half stumbling deeper into the wall of fog, until suddenly he hit something hard. When he looked up, in place of the tree he was expecting was a mountainous, red-cheeked man, who looked every bit as terrifying as the clowns. Ned was too dazed to try and escape, and was still catching his breath when the mountain spoke.

“You are boy, no?” he said, sounding decidedly Russian.

“Err, yeah …” At least, he thought he was. Though the last half hour had left him unsure of … well, almost everything.

“I am Rocky. You are safe now, no one mek passing. De Circus has you.”

There was a gust of wind and within a few seconds the surrounding fog started to form shapes. It swirled and rolled over itself, revealing lights and an echo of music. The mountain stepped aside to reveal his father’s birthday surprise: BENISSIMO’S CIRCUS OF MARVELS.

It had an old, hand-carved wooden entrance, with angels at its top and pitchfork-bearing devils at its bottom. Miniature red and yellow hot-air balloons with little lanterns at their bases floated above the sign, welcoming in their visitors.

Ned’s father – safe, sensible Terry Waddlesworth – was in serious trouble, Ned was in the hands of a Russian mountain, and yet somehow, as they approached the entrance, Ned couldn’t help the faintest of smiles.

A team of three, white-moustached emperor monkeys worked the crowd. They wore smart red outfits, with bellboy hats cocked to one side, one taking the admissions at the front desk, while another checked people’s tickets. The third monkey cranked the handle of a strange-looking machine. From its mass of brass pipes, percussion instruments and what looked to be part of a violin, came the most bizarre music. It sort of wheezed out a tune that was both fast and slow, light-hearted and melancholy.

Ned followed Rocky past the queue and into the packed grounds. His head was a riot of adrenaline, of both horror and wonder, as he took in the sights while his father’s name and the way the clown had snarled it still throbbed in his ears.

There seemed to be three main strips or streets, formed by gypsy caravans and painted lorries, strung together by a web of fairy lights. He could see palm readers, tests of strength, a mechanical Punch and Judy show and a hall of mirrors, outside of which, according to the sign, stood Ignatius P Littleton the third, ‘the Glimmerman’, who was a portly old gentleman covered from head to toe in tiny, rectangular mirrors.

“Roll up! Roll up!” he yelled, his suit and hat alive with reflections. “See yourself as never before! I guarantee you’ll wish you hadn’t, or your money back!”

The circus folk were dressed in a mix of old styles and new. A top hat with a leather coat, gypsy bracelets and ruffled shirts under military jackets and bowler hats. Their faces were all decorated in one way or another, some with glitter, others with white face paint and a few were covered in tattoos. ‘CANDY MONGER’S’ sold sweets and the biggest popcorn buckets he’d ever seen, while ‘the Rubbermen’ passed out helium balloons of every conceivable size and shape.

But as much as Ned marvelled at the sights and sounds, he couldn’t stop thinking about the clowns out in the fog, and his dad out there with them.

“Rocky, my dad said I should talk to Benissimo, do you know where he is? Can you take me to him?”

“Everyone see Benissimo, Benissimo is boss,” answered Rocky, motioning beyond the sea of faces and over to the big top.

Ned had the sense that Rocky had been waiting for him and knew at least something of his predicament, though the urgency of the situation seemed to be going over his head. He hoped that, for all Rocky’s enigmatic comments, he was taking Ned where he needed to be. As they waded through the crowd, Ned had an odd sensation. It wasn’t that anyone was looking straight at him, but it felt like there was someone out there watching from the shadows, from the nooks and crannies of the tents and trailers. Then just as suddenly as the feeling had started, it stopped. It was then that Ned noticed something else. He didn’t recognise anyone in the crowd, not a single soul, and yet they all seemed to know each other, giving the occasional nod or stopping to shake hands. Ned realised that he hadn’t seen a single circus poster or ad in any of the usual spots around town. In a place like Grittlesby, a visiting circus was news, so why weren’t they publicised? Where had they all come from and who were they?

Suddenly a crescendo of horns, trumpets and drums all blared at once as a dozen men on stilts appeared, towering over the crowd.

“Your circus awaits!” they shouted, as they began ushering people to the big top.

Some juggled fire, others plucked violins or blew trumpets. They worked like a team of cow hands, coaxing their herd to the mouth of the big top. Ned followed, too much in the moment to notice himself take his seat: front row and centre.

“Watch show. After, I find you,” announced Rocky, and with that he was gone.

“But …”

Ned tried to protest but at that moment the shouting stopped and the lights dimmed and Ned found himself surrounded by many, but completely alone. He’d just have to sit it out and wait for Rocky to return.

A beat later, the big top’s main spotlight fired up, casting its beam on the centre of the ring. There was an almighty crack, as a pile of sawdust was kicked up off the floor by a coiled leather whip and in strode the Circus of Marvels’ Ringmaster. He was an imposing figure, at least six-foot-three with a thick moustache and eyebrows to match. He wore a red military jacket with tarnished gold buttons and tatty braiding, faded striped trousers and a waistcoat that had seen better days. Even his top hat was crooked and a thin scar ran down the left side of his face, giving the impression of a man part gypsy, part rogue. Was this who Rocky had meant by the boss? Was the Ringmaster Benissimo? He paced around the ring almost leering at the audience; this was clearly his ring and his circus. If anyone under the big top was going to help, Ned hoped that it was going to be him. That was, until he started to speak, and as he did so Ned noticed the strangest thing: the Ringmaster’s whip was moving on its own. It was hard to see at first, but it seemed to twist slightly, like a coiled snake writhing in his hand. Ned blinked and it stopped. Who were these people and why did his father trust them so much that he’d left Ned here alone with them?

“My Lords, Ladies and layabouts, welcome to the Circus of Marvels!” the great man barked. “I, Benissimo, am your Ringmaster and guide. From the mountains of China, the deserts of Africa and the jungles of South America, I have brought you the most miraculous and strange. Tonight you will see and hear things that will blind your ears and deafen your eyes! Let the show begin!”

The band burst into action and in strode seven of the cheeriest men Ned had ever seen, with ‘THE FLYING TORTELLINIS’ emblazoned on their shirts.

“Hey! How you doing, whad-a ya know, where ya been, whad-a ya say?” they chorused.

Boys with overprotective fathers have little in the world to be scared of, apart perhaps from homicidal clowns. But ever since he could remember, Ned had had an overwhelming fear of heights. He felt his stomach lurch as the Tortellinis flipped, lunged and somersaulted through the air. Up on the trapeze and high-wire they moved like mountain goats, as happy a hundred feet up as they were on the sawdust below.

The next act – ‘Mystero the Magnificent’ – came as a welcome relief to Ned. He wore a dinner jacket with a bow tie and was a slight, ill-looking man with pale, clammy skin and a serious disposition. How he managed to escape from the inside of a safe, without so much as a rattle, was completely beyond Ned. Ned knew more than most boys his age about how intricate a locking mechanism actually was. He pictured it in his mind, how the chained and padlocked escape artist might move in the cramped space of a safe, how he might try to unlock it. His father would have had an idea, Ned thought with a twinge. He always had an idea when it came to puzzles and plans. Again Ned felt restless in his seat, wishing he could talk to Benissimo.

But there was no time for that, as the next act took to the stage – a Frenchman who called himself Monsieur Couteau, and announced himself to be the finest blade in all of Europe. He was also wearing a blindfold. There were screams from the crowd as his razor-sharp sword cut a series of crossbow bolts from the air, each and every one of which had been aimed directly at his head. When the lights came up, only sawdust and matchsticks remained of his would-be assassins.

The acts went on and on. The Guffstavson brothers lit bulbs by placing them in their mouths. The Glimmerman walked through one mirror only to emerge through another, more than thirty feet away. Ned imagined an elaborate trap door and tunnel, hidden beneath the sawdust, but the Glimmerman had seemed to disappear and reappear in an instant.

As much as it made his head hurt, the final act was the strangest and most unsettling of all.

“Now,” announced Benissimo, “do not be alarmed. Though our next act has a terrifying aspect, I assure you, you are in no danger. Even so, our youngest members of the audience may wish to look away. Found as a small baby by my own hand, he is the largest gorilla in recorded history. I present to you, George the Mighty!”

Benissimo stepped back into the shadows. For a long time nothing happened. And then it came. A long drawn out wailing – a grunt – and then a deep thundering roar that silenced the big top. Curtains were pulled back to reveal a huge gorilla, at least twice the size of an ordinary ape. He snarled and bellowed at the audience, his mouth curling back over his gums angrily. Ned had never seen such real or ferocious rage.

There were several displays of George’s incredible strength. Metal pipes were bent, huge weights lifted and members of the audience duly terrified. And then it happened. As the ape snapped his last metal chair into countless broken pieces, he stopped moving, peered across the ring, and fixed his great dark eyes front row and centre, on Ned’s own. He grunted softly and then … smiled, a smile that seemed to be aimed directly at Ned.

Ned’s body tensed. He looked about him to see if he was mistaken and the giant gorilla was in fact looking at someone else, but at that moment the big top’s lights flared up. The crowd clapped and cheered. The show was over.

And then there it was again, that feeling, that from somewhere in the shadows, from way beyond the now empty stage, someone was watching him.

***

Outside the big top, the sky was a deep black. All the stalls had closed and just a few fairy lights pointed the way to the exit. Ned had no idea what he was supposed to do now. He had to find Benissimo, the Ringmaster was sure to be backstage somewhere and Ned’s head physically hurt with questions. When would he see his dad? Who were those clowns? What was the Circus of Marvels and was Ned really safe with them?

Happy Birthday, Ned, he thought to himself as the rest of the crowd walked off into the fog, chatting happily, back to their ordinary, clown-less homes. He turned back to the big top, ready to go and look for the Ringmaster, and came face to face with Rocky.

“Boy, come. Sleep,” announced his surly bodyguard.

“Erm, I … I still need to see Benissimo. It’s urgent. My dad sent me, Terry Waddlesworth, do you know him? Is he safe?”

“Niet niet. Now tomorrow you meet boss, mek questions.”

Ned protested as Rocky shepherded him towards a clearing surrounded by cages, with one large container at its centre. The cages were empty and around the entrance to the central container, which was apparently his new bedroom, were multiple signs – ‘NO ENTRY’, ‘KEEP OUT’ and ‘DANGER’, each one larger than the next.

“Are you sure this is right? This is where I’m sleeping?” asked Ned spinning round, but Rocky had gone. Ned’s sense of humour was beginning to wear thin. His phone still had half a bar of batteries; it was time to try Dad.

“Hello, Dad?” he blurted out as soon as the phone stopped ringing, “I’m not having a very good time here! This place is really weird and I still don’t know what’s going o—”

“The number you are calling is no longer in service.”

Ned’s heart skipped a beat, then another. What had happened to his dad’s phone?

“Just come and get me, Dad …” he whispered.

But the recording at the other end of the line had nothing left to say. It wasn’t fair. You couldn’t treat someone like a rare piece of china for years then abandon them to some freakshow without the slightest explanation. Ned had wanted to be free, but not like this.

He reached for the metal box in his pocket and was about to hurl it away angrily, when he heard what sounded like soft scratchy music being played on an old gramophone. He followed its trail to the door of the container and stepped through. What he found inside was something between a library and a home. In place of plain walls, were row after row of leather-bound books, with strange titles like, Tales from Beyond the Veil, What Hides from the Hidden, and From Shalazaar to Karakoum – A Traveller’s Compendium.

The back of the room was shrouded in shadows, but when Ned stepped further in he could make out a huge leather armchair, and, peering closer, to Ned’s horror, sat in the chair was … George the Mighty. And yet, the terrifying ape looked quite calm. He was chewing a banana and reading from an old book through delicate, steel-rimmed spectacles.

Ned blinked, and wondered for the millionth time that day if this could all still be a dream. At that moment the ape turned his head towards Ned, laid his book to one side and got up from the chair. Ned could feel his legs starting to tremble. George lumbered closer and closer, with each pace the container rocked back and forth, till they were only inches apart and Ned could feel the hot air from the gorilla’s nostrils on his skin.

Very suddenly, George narrowed his eyes and opened his jaws wide, revealing large yellow fangs, as thick as Ned’s wrists. Was this it? Was this the end? Was Ned about to be eaten by a bookish monkey? But George the Mighty, George the Ferocious, George the Terrible, only yawned, and said in the queen’s best English: “My dear boy, are you lost?”

That was it, the final straw. The room started to spin and a blackness came over Ned. As he fell to the floor, the last thing he saw was the metal box slipping through his fingers and tumbling away.

Kitty

When he eventually crossed over from deep slumber to the first glimmers of being awake, Ned was smiling. There was a gentle hand patting him on the head. Dad hadn’t woken him like that for years. It didn’t matter, he’d either dreamt the whole circus thing up, or his dad had come to get him. Life was going to go back to normal, or at least the Waddlesworth version of normal.

“Hi Dad, I had the weirdest dream …” he said groggily.

There was no answer, which wasn’t the only thing that was strange. Dad’s skin felt rough and clammy. It also smelt horrible.

“Now, Alice, come on girl, we talked about this. You can’t go pestering the boy, he’s trying to sleep.”

Ned opened his eyes abruptly. An elephant, oddly like the one in his dreams and apparently called Alice, had opened a window from the outside, reached in to his room and was stroking him with her trunk. A man, who Ned couldn’t see but assumed was her trainer, was clearly trying desperately to move her away.

“Morning, Mr Waddlewats,” wheezed the man, poking his head round the door, “I’m Norman, sir, Alice’s trainer. So sorry about this, but I think she likes you.”

Ned could see from looking around that he was no longer in George’s container. He seemed to be on the ground floor of a huge, pink, multi-storey bus. Judging by the beds and the equipment he could see, he guessed it must be the circus infirmary – the perfect place to recover from the shock of the last twenty-four hours. At least it would have been without an elephant trying to break in through the window, or the three emperor monkeys he now saw approaching his bedside, finishing off the remains of his breakfast.

“No, no, no, this won’t do at all!” squeaked an elderly lady, as she hobbled in through the infirmary’s entrance. “How many times have I told you to leave the newlings alone. He’s a josser, for goodness’ sake! Julius, Nero, Caligula … out of here this instant!”

The three emperors stuck out their tongues and leapt out of the window, sliding down Alice’s trunk, which disappeared seconds after them.

“Name’s Kitty,” warbled the elderly woman, holding her hand out to Ned for shaking, which he did. Her skin was old-lady soft. Ned guessed she must be in her late eighties at least. She had grey-white hair, but, somewhat strangely, she was carrying a pink plastic schoolbag, which Ned noticed had a Hello Kitty label on it. In fact, she was dressed from head to toe in Hello Kitty merchandise. She wore Hello Kitty shoes, badges, bracelets, and even Hello Kitty hair clips.

“So, here we are, my little gum-drop,” she said, breaking into a beautiful smile.

“I’m Ned, Ned Waddlesw—”

“Yes, I think you probably are. But how are you, dearie? That’s the question.”

Ned had plenty to say on that subject.

“Honestly? Well, let me see … The most safety-conscious dad on the planet has abandoned me to a bunch of –” Ned paused for a second – “a bunch of weirdos, no one will tell me why I’m here, I’ve been chased by homicidal clowns, and last night I walked in on a giant talking gorilla. It talked, you know? Actually talked. And Dad is somewhere—”

“Tea, dear?”

“Oh, err, yes that would be nice, thanks. But—”

“Now. That wasn’t really what I meant, Ned. What I want to know is how you are inside, what it is exactly that you’re made up of. Whether it’s snips, snails or puppy dogs’ tails. Benissimo needs to know about you before he can tell you about us. I’m the circus’s Farseer. It’s my job to see where our new arrivals are heading and where they aren’t.”

Ned had no idea what she was talking about.

“I’m not really sure what you mea— oi!”

The old woman had taken an alarmingly large pair of scissors and cut a strand of hair from the side of his head.

“Jossers always yelp the first time!”

Kitty giggled like a small schoolgirl, before busily tying his hair with a knot of old lace. Job done, she locked the bundle in a tiny safe nearby.

“Wha … why, why did you just do that?”

“Well, to make a spirit-knot, dearie, why else? All the newlings get them. They’re quite dangerous in the wrong hands, but only one can exist at a time. Now I have yours, you’ll be quite safe from any of that sort of mischief.”

It was at this point that Ned realised Kitty was as mad as a box of frogs.

“Why don’t I show you?”

The old lady reopened the safe and reached into a tray of tiny containers, pulling out a bundled curl of elephant hair, tied together with grey ribbon.

“What goes around comes around,” she announced, before chanting something under her breath and stroking the bundle with a small white feather.

Through the bus window, Ned could see Alice the elephant and Norman. As Kitty stroked the knot, Alice’s leg started to twitch, before kicking back gently and knocking her trainer into a barrel of water.

“Don’t worry, dear, he’ll dry out soon enough, and next time he might just stop the old girl from waking up my patients!”

Ned’s mouth was hanging open. Where had his dad sent him?

“Umm, I’m sorry, but I think there’s been a mistake.”

The old woman’s face shifted, to clear, cold focus.

“Mistake? I don’t think so, my little seedling. Those clowns don’t make mistakes, and if they’ve seen you, things from here on in will be different. Your old life may well be over, dear. What we need to find out is where your new one might take you.”

Ned suddenly felt very small.

“I don’t want a new life, I just want to go home. My dad sent me here but I haven’t heard from him and I don’t know if he’s—”

“Safe and long gone, dearie, and don’t worry, you’ll see him again,” cut in Kitty.

Ned lit up. It was the first glimmer of hope that he’d had since leaving his father, though he didn’t understand how she knew. The last time he’d checked, his dad’s phone had been disconnected.

“Are you sure? Did he contact you?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. You’ll be staying with us for a little while, anyway. Now have a sip of that tea and we’ll take a wee look at you, shall we?”

The tea tasted strange but was hot, sugary and soothing. It seemed to flow through his body, warming him right to the ends of his eyes. Somehow it managed to make him feel calm.

What happened next did not. Kitty took his hands into her own and gave them a good long squeeze, checking over the length of his fingers one by one.

“Hmmmm,” she pondered, then smiled wildly. “Do you play the piano?”

Before he could answer, Kitty drew back her arm and slapped him in the face.

“Owww! What was that for?”

“It’s how I do it, my boy. Blindness, you see, has forced me to do my readings by touch and your boney little hands are not giving much away. Sorry, dear, but the only way to get the proper measure of you is through your face.”

“What? You’re blind? So when you cut my hair just now you—”

S L A P !

The next ten minutes were extremely uncomfortable for Ned. Kitty repeatedly slapped, pinched and prodded his cheeks, nose, ears and neck. Never hard enough to actually hurt, but always enough to shock him. The strange thing was, with every slap, pinch and prod came a squeal of joy from the old woman, even at one point an attack of the giggles that made her snort through her nose.

“I think I want to go home now,” Ned scowled as soon as she paused.

“Sorry, dear, I just haven’t had such a fun reading in ages, and your skin is so very soft, isn’t it? Now let me see,” she said, continuing her strange exploration, “interesting, not keen on homework … and not that good with a football either. Face not entirely remarkable, but not by any means plain. Something of a blank canvas on which to paint.”

This was the part Ned was dreading. If Kitty really could read his mind and was hoping to discover anything exciting about him …

“Not really the rising star, are we? Oh yes, I see … a bit cross with dad, but some new friends and a longing to grow roots. Hang on, I sense … Oh dear, a little sadness. We’ll have to see if we can’t fix that …”

Ned was already feeling increasingly uncomfortable when Kitty’s fingers pressed down particularly hard on his forehead.

“Oww!”

“Interesting,” she whispered.

“What? What have you seen?” Ned asked, trying to sound casual but secretly praying that she’d found something about him that was worth remarking on. “And if you prod me like that again, I’m leaving, clowns or not.”

Kitty smiled. “There’s no reason to get all snippy, my little powder-keg. Nearly done, pinky promise,” squeaked Kitty. “Just close those eyes and breathe …”

Suddenly he felt a pressure in the back of his mind. It was the same feeling he’d had outside the big top and again at the end of the show. It was as though someone, or something, were in there with him. “Heyyy, you’ve … bin here … bef … orrrr,” he slurred.

“Yes, dear, I did have a little peek or two. Now pipe down, I’m trying to think.”

In the darkness of his mind, Ned saw a pinprick of light a million miles away from his troubles. It was disorientating and strange, as though he were in the room and somewhere else at the same time.

“Kitteee … moy stomach … feeeeels …”

“A minute more … OK, just as I thought. Open your eyes, that’s enough for today,” said the old woman.

Ned felt strange and very slightly sick, as the room came back into focus.

“What just happened?”

“Yes, Kit-Kat, what did just happen?” came a deeper voice from the bus’s doorway.

Ned looked up. There, framed in the doorway, was the huge figure of the Circus of Marvels’ Ringmaster – Benissimo.

Ned felt a mix of awe and hope. Perhaps he was finally going to get some answers. This was the man his father trusted, the man who would get Ned’s life back in order.

“It’s unclear, Bene. On the one hand, something … on the other, most definitely nothing,” answered Kitty brightly.

“Hell’s teeth, Kit-Kat! What kind of answer is that?”

“It is the only answer you’re getting till you mind your manners and ask the right question,” she retorted, now in the deeper voice of an elderly but formidable woman, all traces of giggly girlishness gone.

“I just did!” snapped the Ringmaster, his bushy moustache twitching irritably.

“Not to me, you fool, to the boy.”

The great tower that was Benissimo changed, his face shifting from irritation, to new-found understanding.

“I see … yes, yes, of course.”

He raised one of his large eyebrows, then lowered it and raised the other, before studying his subject more closely.

“So this is him and here he is. Not much to look at and very young, Kit-Kat, too young,” said the Ringmaster, now drawing uncomfortably close.

Ned’s shoulders tensed again. Benissimo may have seemed saner than the rest of the circus crew but he was also slightly terrifying and he was staring at Ned so closely it was as if he was trying to read the pores of his skin.

“Err, sorry, but too young for what?”

“Too young for us, pup,” said Benissimo, “for the Circus of Marvels and the road we travel. Tell me, did your father explain anything about what we do here and where it is we come from?”

Ned shrugged. “He garbled a lot of stuff, none of it made much sense though …”

Benissimo did not look impressed.

“Just as I thought. Underaged, unprepared and frankly … underwhelming.”

The brutish Ringmaster was intimidating, but he was also rude and Ned had had enough.

“Look, I don’t know who you lot are or what my dad’s mixed up in, all I know is you’re supposed to help me, and right now you’re not being very nice, so what I want to do is … call the police, or something, so if I can use your phone …”

“Help you?” said Benissimo with a snort. “That’s not it at all. You’re here to help us – though I seriously doubt a josser like you will be anything but a hindrance.”

Ned didn’t know what Benissimo meant by “josser” but by now he was somewhere between the salty welling-up of tears and outright anger. His dad had told him to trust Kitty and Benissimo, and one of them was mad – and clearly a, well, witch – and the other was rude, bordering on foul. What was his dad thinking and how could he possibly help anyone when he didn’t actually know what was going on?

“Why don’t you tell him about your little box, dearie?” cut in Kitty’s singsong voice.

Ned suddenly remembered the birthday present and how it had slipped through his fingers the night before.

“How do you know about that? Dad said I should give it to you, but I think I lost it last night …”

“Fear not, lamb chop, George found it when he scooped you up off the floor,” said Kitty, pulling the box from her pocket and handing it to Ned.

He studied the cube and for the first time noticed a tiny O embossed on to one of its sides.

“Yes, this is it. It’s a puzzle box I think. I’m usually pretty good at stuff like this, but I can’t figure out how it opens.”

Benissimo’s eyes grew wide.

“Jupiter’s beard! That’s no puzzle box, boy, that is something else … entirely.”

Lots & Lots of Marvels

“If it’s not a puzzle box, then what is it?” asked Ned.

“My suspicions will need a pinch or two of verification, but if I’m right, this may well be the second half –” the Ringmaster paused, eyeing Ned up and down – “of a very slim chance.”

“Chance of what?”

“Of keeping the world’s biggest secret a secret, boy. And of keeping your father alive. Come with me, there are some things you need to see.”

Ned’s chest tightened. “Keeping your father alive” were not words he wanted to hear. Was his dad really in that much trouble?

The Ringmaster stepped off the bus and beckoned Ned to follow. Outside, Ned realised they were nowhere near Grittlesby green. The sun was rising and he could see now that the circus had pitched its tents by the side of a motorway. In front of them was the abandoned building site of a half-constructed shopping mall. A single large sign across its fencing read ‘OUBLIER AND CO’. Beyond that, thick untameable forest.

“Where are we?”

“Across the Channel, southern France.”

“France! How did we get here so quickly? Did you get the entire circus on the ferry while I was asleep?” gasped Ned.

“Our presence was required to take care of a local disturbance. It’s what we do, my troupe and I.”

“Disturbance? I thought you like … juggled and stuff?”

“Juggled and stuff?” Benissimo sighed. “This is going to take longer than I thought … I’ll start at the beginning, shall I? You see, the circus, as you and the rest of the world know it, is a place of harmless fun, but its roots are of a more secretive nature. When the old Roman Empire used to rule, they would scour the world for its best fighters and train them in mortal combat. Back then we fought as gladiators, for money, and for fame. It was barbaric, they were barbaric times, but it was done for a reason – to ready us to manage certain borders, to keep what was in in. We’re descendants, Ned, of those very same circuses, those very same warriors, the gatekeepers of a border or borders that we collectively call ‘the Veil’, behind which certain things hide or are kept hidden.”

“I still don’t understand. What hides? And what’s it got to do with me and my dad?” Ned asked.

“What you need, young pup, is a little orientation, a little bit of knowing your up from your down,” said Benissimo. “Come with me.”

The Ringmaster turned abruptly and marched Ned over to the circus’s empty animal cages, then stopped by its smallest.

“Do you believe in fairies, boy?” he asked, without a hint of sarcasm.

“Course not, I’m thirteen.”

“That is a shame … but you did? When you were younger, yes?”

“Maybe.”

“And at that time, you were probably a little scared of the dark too? Saw things in it when nothing was there?”

Of all the people Ned had met, Benissimo was the very last he’d want to admit that to.

“I … erm …”

“Seeing things in the dark,” continued Benissimo, “we call that ‘sight’. The gift of it leaves us when we come of age. The less we believe, the less we see. The Veil takes away that sight completely. Do me a favour, pup, and look into that cage.”

Ned did not like being referred to as “pup” and he certainly wasn’t Benissimo’s “boy”, that privilege was his dad’s alone, though he was starting to wonder if he’d ever forgive his father for leaving him in the Ringmaster’s care. Nonetheless, the man had a way of asking that made you feel like you had to say yes. He stared through the bars.

“What do you see?”

“Just the cage, that and a little sunlight, I guess.”

“Dusk and dawn are the best times to see them, especially the Darklings that we have caged here. Your youth and Kitty’s tea should be enough to break the glamour. Look again.”

This time, as Ned stared through the bars, something began to form. In the dance of shadow and light, he saw a shape. Something small and sinewy, something with teeth.

“Wha … what?”

Before him stood a ferocious creature, which snarled and lashed at the cage bars. Its clothing might once have had some colour, but today the creature’s threadbare rags were reduced to a grimy mush. It had white clammy skin, orange slits for eyes and a pointy, evil face.

“That, my boy, is a hob-gor-balin, only a level three menace, but quite clearly on the wrong side of the Veil. The effects of Kitty’s tea at your age should be permanent, though breaking the strongest glamours needs more aggressive magic …”

Ned’s jaw dropped.

“Ned Waddlesworth, son of Terry. Feast your eyes on the truth. Drink it down like a warm cup of honey. This …” said Benissimo as he led him round the corner to where a large troupe of performers were having their lunch, “… is my circus, the real Circus of Marvels,” announced Benissimo, gesturing in a circle, his chest puffed up with pride.

Ned looked over the troupe and his already dropped jaw gaped wider still. The cook was an unshaven, gruff-looking man who had clearly never washed his apron. He also had tusks hanging down from his mouth, and the snout of a pig. Pretty dancing girls in sparkly make-up laughed, as a red-faced cheery-looking woman sewed sequins and bells on to a pink dress. One of the girls had scales for skin, another short fur and the spots of a leopard, and the third was covered in tiny blue feathers.

Beside them, an excited group was laying down wagers, as Rocky and what Ned could only assume was his wife, despite the beard, went head to head in a playful arm-wrestle. Except that Rocky wasn’t Rocky any more. His bulging muscular skin had turned a hard grey and had the texture of rock. Watching the two lovebirds wrestle were Julius, Nero and Caligula, but the breakfast-stealing monkeys were now in their blue-skinned, mischievous pixie form, and the elephant that had ruffled his hair only moments ago had the pretty white wings at the top of her back Ned had seen in his dreams, where there had previously only been cardboard.

Each and every one was different, from the enormous troll that was Rocky, to the dwarven unicyclists delivering food at the food truck’s trestle tables.

“The hidden. Marvellous, aren’t they? Every myth and legend, every obscure or forgotten tale, they are all, most wonderfully, most stupendously and on numerous occasions, rather dangerously … true.”

Ned turned around to take in the other Darklings in their cages. They weren’t like George or Rocky or even the clowns. They were monsters, of every possible size and shape.

“That there is a harpy,” said Benissimo indicating a brown-winged woman sat scowling in one of the cages, her mouth covered to stop her taunting screams. “Her voice can cause instant paralysis, or madness, or both. Very nasty indeed,” explained Benissimo. Behind her, in a far larger cage, were a pair of thin-limbed creatures wearing clothes that looked like they’d been stolen from the dead.

“Nightmongers; the less said about them the better. Look into their eyes and you see your worst fears. Hear them talk and it’s already over.”

Their faces were covered by wide-brimmed hats, and instead of fingers Ned saw long claws the length of kitchen knives hanging from their wrists.

“Please, please tell me I’ve gone mad,” said Ned, suddenly longing for his dull, safe dad more than ever.

“It’s always hard on jossers the first time,” said Benissimo dismissively. “That wyvern took ten hands to capture, most of which wound up in the infirmary.”

The beast he was talking about was in the largest cage by far. It was about the size of a horse with the features of a dragon. Its leathery wings had to be chained down and it wore a heavy iron muzzle.

“Flammable spit. I’ve seen them burn bones to ashes in mere seconds.”

As still as it was, the briefest look from its glowering grey eyes was enough to chill Ned’s bones. The Darklings were nightmares come to life, only worse, only real. Ned didn’t care whether he was going mad or not. He was quite beyond that now.

BANG.

An unmarked grey truck backfired beside them. Its rear doors were flung open and out stepped a tracker. He wore a long wax coat to match his long greasy hair and his wild eyes looked entirely feral.

“Lerft! Roight! Heel!” he called in a strong Irish accent.

Ned watched in awe as the tracker’s pet lions, Left and Right, bounded out of the truck and fawned over him like obedient puppies. It wasn’t so much that he had a power over them, it looked more like he was one of them, a creature of the wild too.

“Aark!” he called next, in a voice only part human.

From somewhere high in the air came a screech and a swoosh of wings as a large black hawk flew down to the man’s arm. A large black hawk … with two heads.

It was at this point that Ned lost the power of speech altogether.

Circus hands lowered a covered cage from out of the back of Finn’s truck, while two men in matching pinstripe suits interviewed the German tourist who’d been unlucky enough to stumble upon whatever it was the tracker had captured.

“Oh dear, Mr Smalls,” said one of the suits.

“Yes, quite, Mr Cook,” agreed the other.

The tourist was babbling and in severe shock.

“You see, one moment it was there unt the next, nosink. No beast unt only the forest. You believe me, ja?” pleaded the tourist.

“Yes, sir, actually we do rather. Mr Cook, if you wouldn’t mind doing the honours?”

The taller of the two pulled a long silver tube from his breast pocket that looked a little like a flute, only it wasn’t. He pointed it at the tourist’s face and blew. The two men then dragged the now sleeping backpacker to Kitty’s bus.

“You see,” Benissimo rumbled, his great eyebrows furrowed, “when the two worlds come crashing together, yours and mine that is, it’s the Circus of Marvels and others like her that have to clear up the mess. When things go awry and the shadows bite, it’s my troupe that bites them back. Whether you’ve the teeth for it, pup, remains to be seen.”

Ned felt his anger rise up again. Benissimo kept talking to him as though he’d somehow agreed to join their band of travelling monstrosities while in the same breath reminding him that he was not up to the task. And he still hadn’t explained how he and his dad were part of all this! He was about to tell his host exactly what he thought of him when there was an almighty howl from inside the truck’s cage. As the beast within threw itself at its bars, the cover slipped and fell. In place of the monster Ned was expecting, was a thin, shaking man, clammy with sweat. The man looked at Ned, cocked his head to one side and started to whimper. But despite the timid sound, he watched Ned with the same look of interest a dog gives a cat, before trying to tear its head off.

Benissimo’s whip snapped at the cage bars, seemingly without the Ringmaster moving.

“Any more of that and I’ll order our boy Finn here to give you a bath with his lions,” he warned.

The man cowered at the Ringmaster’s glare and the cage was covered up again. Ned was shocked by Benissimo’s ferocity. Could they really treat a person like that? Weren’t there rules and laws for that kind of thing?

“Don’t be fooled by its human form. That’s the level fifteen our pinstripes called us in for. Thankfully the threat of soap is usually enough to calm them before it comes to blows. Ours is a dangerous path, boy, and requires a firm hand to keep it straight.”

Ned looked at the man in front of him as he strode on once more, a towering mast in a sea of monsters. One thing seemed certain – the Ringmaster would do anything to keep the shadows, as he’d called them, at bay.

As they passed the big top, the troupe were now going through rigorous training. Though not entirely of the traditional circus kind. Grandpa Tortellini and his seven grandchildren were up on the high-wire, which of course made Ned’s stomach churn. At one end of the arena, another group of men and women were scaling a wall in what looked like blindfolds, which was when Ned realised that those in the air also had their eyes completely covered.

Directly in front of them, Monsieur Couteau – the master swordsman – was drilling several troupe members in armed combat using charmed axes, silver swords and even flame-tipped spears. As Ned watched he demonstrated the effectiveness of what he called runes, by throwing a small square of engraved stone at a wooden dummy. A moment later the dummy had turned to a pile of ash. A small group of them, moving together like a well-oiled machine, were children even younger than Ned. It was abundantly clear that safely trapping beasts was not always an option.

“How … how old is she?” Ned stammered, pointing to one of the smallest.

“Daisy is a smidge over seven. We get them going as early as possible. Without proper training, one’s life expectancy around here is practically nil. You, pup, are quite woefully in that category, and if you’re to stay safe or be of any use, you’ll have to get in there and test your own metal soon enough.”

Ned knew screwdrivers not swords and wasn’t sure he had any “metal” to be tested.

“This isn’t a circus, it’s … it’s an army,” said Ned.

For a moment, the rock-hard swagger slipped from Benissimo’s face, and was replaced with the same tinge of disappointment he’d seen in the Ringmaster’s eyes on Kitty’s bus.

“You need an army to fight a war, boy. Even the ones you have no hope of winning.”

Whiskers

Ned’s head was spinning when at last they stopped by one of the circus’s larger vehicles. Benissimo punched numbers into a keypad and its door slid open.

“I’m going to have our head of R&D – research and development – cast an eye over your box. If my nose is right, you’ll need to make a choice. Now, pup, the Tinker is a minutian. Minutians can make most anything from anything, but they’re sensitive about their size. DO NOT, by all that is holy, say the word ‘gnome’ in his presence. There are gadgets in there that could blow up half of Europe if you make him angry.”

From the expression on Benissimo’s face, it was quite clear that he was not joking.

Inside the lorry, machines whirred and spun, bottles bubbled with strange liquids and every available surface was covered in notes, diagrams and mechanical contraptions. It made Ned’s eyes water. His dad would have loved it; every gadget, every blueprint, every complex contraption. This was the kind of place that Terry Waddlesworth would have lost himself in for weeks. And when Ned was younger, he would have sat there with him, copying every move with a wrench or screwdriver. A part of Ned that he had forgotten was still there suddenly longed for his old hobby, and his dad, and the way things had been before.

“Wow!” he breathed. “Look at all this gear! You really could make anything in here!”

Ned ran his hand along the nearest machine, a hydraulic press, marvelling at its unique design. Ned noticed that the Ringmaster seemed to be eyeing him curiously.

“Ahem, no touching the equipment, thank you,” said a voice.

At the room’s centre was a table where a man, no more than four feet tall, was working. On his head were various goggles, glasses and light fittings, and nearly every pocket of his white lab coat was stuffed with tools. He had a smattering of grey bristles that led into the beginnings of a patchy beard. Though Ned had never seen a real one before, he looked exactly the way he thought a gnome should look; small and rather hairy.

“Tinker, this is … the boy.”

‘The boy’ rolled off Benissimo’s tongue in much the same way as ‘the problem’ might have come from a plumber while inspecting a blocked drain.

“Ahhhh, so you’re Mr Widdlewats?” the diminutive inventor said, peering up at him through a particularly large lens.

But Ned hadn’t heard a word. Lying on the workbench in one of his more stationary positions was an unexpected sight – his pet mouse Whiskers.

“You found him! Whiskers, I’ve been worried sick!”

Finally, something that made sense, something he recognised. The Waddlesworths’ beloved pet mouse was safe and had found him!

But the Tinker did not let him enjoy the moment for long.

“Whiskers? Oh no, Mr Widdlewats, this is no ‘Whiskers’, this is a Ticker, a Debussy Mark 12, to be exact. Top of the line in its time, or at least was until yesterday.”

“Debussy Mark what? That’s my mouse, I’d know him anywhere!”

“How old is your mouse, Mr Widdlewats?”

“Not sure, but he’s definitely older than me.”

“And how many mice do you know that live to be that age, sir?”

“Um, well, Dad always said he was special.”

“Indeed he is. This little fella arrived at the green just a short while after you. Would have got there quicker too, if an ice-cream truck hadn’t run him over.”

The Tinker took a needle-thin screwdriver and twisted it into the mouse’s back. He then carefully peeled away some fur, revealing an ornate maze of coiled springs, turning cogs and tiny metal pistons. The rodent’s eyes flickered white for a split second, which was followed by a whirring of gears as it moved its head from left to right, before slumping back down again. Ned watched in stunned silence.

“Oh Whiskers, not you too …”

The Tinker fetched him a small stool and he slumped down on to it.

“How long till it’s operational?” asked Benissimo.

“Well, boss, it’s not quite as bad as it looks. I’ve pinched some parts off the Punch and Judy show and I should have him up and running by the morning.”

“Operational?” said Ned. “What is he … I mean, what’s ‘it’ for?”

“Tickers come in as many forms as you can imagine. They make great pets for the rich, and tireless workers. They make terrifying soldiers too, till that was outlawed. Their greatest use these days is undercover work. This model in particular was very popular for surveillance,” explained the Tinker.

Ned couldn’t believe his ears. His pet mouse, a full third of his dysfunctional family, was made of metal.

“Magical creatures, clockwork soldiers and … undercover mice? Why hasn’t anyone heard of this, of these … things?” asked Ned.

At that the Tinker looked rather surprised.

“Well, because of us, sir. We monitor it all, you see, every creature and every sighting. Anyone outside of our lot who sees anything is immediately visited by our pinstripes.”

“Like the two men outside, the ones with the flutes?”

“Precisely, sir, only they’re not really flutes.”

He pressed a button on an old-fashioned typewriter of sorts and a panel on one of the walls slid away, revealing a large brass monitor. It had little boxes of text, scalable windows and streaming rows of data, just like a regular computer screen, except that everything was made of moving metal parts.

“Our computator gives us up-to-date information on every sighting and everyone who’s done the seeing.”

The monitor clattered noisily and a map of Europe covered in tiny bulbs slid into view.

“The ‘fair-folk’, as we call them – creatures human or otherwise with any kind of magical ability or curse – live behind the Veil and they do so for their own protection, to keep them safe from your witch-hunts, scientists and zoos.” The Tinker paused until Ned nodded his understanding. “Most of them, like Rocky and our resident pixies, use glamours to stay hidden when outside its borders, while a few can change their appearance at will. There are also those who look completely human and are, well … not. We have to keep tabs on all of them to stop the Veil and the creatures it hides from being discovered. You’d be surprised by how many live on your side, with ordinary lives and jobs. Our little audience last night were all fair-folk. Circuses are a good place for them to catch up on the latest gossip.”

Ned peered at Benissimo. He looked eccentric like all the troupe members, but he also looked human. If the Tinker was right, then there was far more to the man than a steely eye and a tough swagger. But what?

“This map is for the other kind,” continued the Tinker, “the kind that are strictly forbidden to cross the Veil’s boundaries. The ones YOUR kind need protecting FROM. The Darklings outside are just a taste. Yellows are level five and under, oranges six to fifteen, and reds, sixteen to thirty-five. Whites, well … whites are their own thing altogether – the puppeteers, if you will, that pull on the Darklings’ strings.”

There were literally hundreds of bulbs on the map, only six of them were white.

“Demons, Ned,” cut in Benissimo. “Thankfully extremely rare with a profound aversion to light. They mostly dwell underground, safely within Veil-run reservations. The last one to go unchecked was Dra-cul, a particularly vile creature with a soft spot for human blood. He and his Darklings nearly swept the whole of Eastern Europe, bringing their darkness with them. But we fought them back eventually.”

Ned gulped – this was a history lesson unlike any other!

“They haven’t tried anything on that scale since and the borders have remained manageable. You see, it isn’t easy for a Demon to cross. It takes an act of true evil, coupled with pitch-black magic. Or at least … it did. Something is stirring them up.”

How any of this fitted in with a safety-obsessed screw salesman was completely beyond Ned.

“I’m sorry, my brain feels like it’s melting. The world was normal when I woke up yesterday, sort of. Whatever this Veil thing is, this secret world of yours, what’s it got to do with my dad and this box?”

The Ringmaster leant in closely.

“Maybe nothing, but most probably everything. No one knows why but the Veil is falling, tumbling down around our very ears, and there are those that want to see it that way. If it does, the horror that is Demon-kind will walk freely. And when they do, we will have ourselves a war that can’t be won. It will mean the end for all of us, on both sides of the Veil.”

Ned swallowed.

“We have one small chance of saving it. Since the beginning, there have always been two people, each generation or so, who have discovered in themselves the rarest and most particular of gifts, gifts that they have used for the most part for good. Because of the nature of their magical abilities they’re known as the Medic and the Engineer. There is a prophecy amongst the likes of Kitty and her kind, that in the Veil’s greatest hour of need they will combine their powers to save it. If this is indeed that hour then they are the only thing that stands between us and unbridled evil.”

Ned shook his head in frustration. “But I still don’t know how my dad fits into all this!”

“We’ve been searching for a girl, Ned. Her name is Lucy Beaumont and she is the last Medic. Her parents were taken from her in a cloud of unspeakable violence and many think her dead. The Engineer, and the one who we believed knew of her whereabouts … is your father.”

The Present

Ned could feel the blood draining from his face.

“He told me he was an engineer before I was born, before Mum’s accident. But it doesn’t make any sense. He’s a Waddlesworth. We, I mean he, especially Dad, he doesn’t go in for this kind of thing. Telly, screwdrivers, jam sandwiches, that’s what Waddlesworths are good at. Dad was always saying it.”

“I dare say that’s what he’s tried to make you and everyone else believe and I dare say he’s come fair close to succeeding. But you see that’s just it – you’re not a Waddlesworth. Your father’s given name is Terrence Armstrong.”

Ned repeated the name in his head over and over again. Terrence Armstrong was somebody else. No one with a name like that would eat jam sandwiches in front of the telly wearing their favourite tank top and slippers. “I’m … Ned Armstrong?”

“Indeed you are, and if your box is what I think it is,” Benissimo continued, “then you and you alone hold the answer to finding the Medic.”

Ned wanted to scream. With every word, the Ringmaster was turning his life, even his name into a lie.

“Me? Look, whatever you think Dad is mixed up in, you’re wrong. He was an engineer but I don’t think he was the kind you’re talking about. He likes building stuff … though nowadays mostly he just sits there on his own looking at all the parts. Besides, if, if he were this ‘Engineer’ you’re looking for, he’d have been lying to me, for, like, a really long time and Dad would never …”

“Whrrr, dzt, ching.”

Ned stopped mid-sentence at the twitching of his mechanical mouse. It kicked its legs briefly, before shutting itself down again.

“… lie to me,” Ned finished lamely.

“All we know is that the last message between your father and Lucy’s guardians was intercepted at Battersea Power Station two days ago. That’s when he sent for us. The harsh reality is that events now rest on your rather small shoulders, which is as much a concern to me as it is a shock to you.”

Benissimo passed the Tinker Ned’s birthday present.

“Tinker, what do you make of this?”

The Tinker held the little cube up to the light and adjusted one of his lenses.

“Blimey. Well, boss, the work is unmistakable, a rarity these days. I didn’t think they made them any more.”

“They don’t. I think you’ll find it’s almost exactly twelve years old,” said Benissimo.

“Yes, right you are, sir. Well, the symbol’s a bit out of place but there’s no doubting it – it’s a blood-key.”

Their explanation of what a blood-key actually was came in the form of a pin being pushed into Ned’s forefinger.

“Ow!”

What proceeded next would have been strange had it happened before his birthday. A drop of Ned’s blood was placed on the cube, and the box began to unfold, its microscopic hinges twirling and twisting in the Tinker’s hand. Seconds later, it had reformed itself into the unmistakable shape of a key. Ned was speechless as the Tinker placed it in his hand.

“Take a look, sir. It’s yours, after all.”

“What is it?”

“Blood-keys were fashionable before your time, Mr Widdlewat— I mean, Mr Armstrong. They activate for one person and one person alone, or at least for their fresh blood, that is.”

Looking closely at the key’s edge, Ned saw it was marked with beautifully inscribed letters: ‘FIDGIT AND SONS, EST. 1066, CLASS A DEPOSIT BOX.’

“But … but that’s the company Dad works for. They make screws!”

“Among a great many other things. Fidgit and Sons is a shop. It’s in one of our oldest trading cities, hidden behind the Veil in the deserts of the Yemen. The men who are after your father have been after him since before you were born. I think he gave you the key for a reason, a way for us to unearth Lucy if he was … unable,” said Benissimo.

“He’s in really serious trouble, isn’t he?”

“Until we retrieve what’s in your deposit box, you both are.”

Ned’s breathing quickened. The name Armstrong kept turning over in his mind. If he wasn’t who he thought he was, was he even really human? Frantically he began searching the Tinker’s worktops. Finally exasperated, he grabbed hold of the minutian’s head and peered into one of his mirrored lenses.

“Young man! Unhand me this instant!” protested the Tinker.

“I’m me. Why am I still me? If Dad’s this Engineer character, then shouldn’t he have horns or something, and shouldn’t I be like him, you know, like everyone else in this freak show?”

“No, boy, you’re both quite human, and that will be the last time you use the word ‘freak show’ in my presence,” said Benissimo with a clear note of warning in his voice. “Being human does not however mean that your dad can’t have magic in his blood. Sometimes it happens that someone is just born with magical ability, like your dad, or given it. I was quite human myself once …” At that the Ringmaster paused for a moment, as if in thought. “And Kitty is completely so. Human, minutian, elven or troll, good, bad or somewhere in between, there are all kinds behind our beloved shroud. Now, please let go of the Tinker’s head. We have serious matters to discuss. Besides, I need it in one piece almost as much as I need yours.”

Ned unclasped his fingers and slumped back on to his stool.

“What is he? I mean, being an Engineer, what does that mean? Why is it so important?”

“Engineers can control atoms with their minds. With strong enough focus, air can turn to fire, wood to metal, and water to stone. But it doesn’t end there. The creations can be shaped to any variety of complex structures. The possibilities are endless. It’s a hard concept to grasp, especially for a josser who is new to our ways, but his skills together with the Medic’s are unique. Add one to the other, and their combined purpose is to mend, to rebuild and heal. I need to make that happen. The Veil is failing and I need them to mend it.”

Ned looked up at the Ringmaster. He was torn between the loyalty a boy feels to his past and the almost certain knowledge that his past is not what he had thought it was. More precisely, that his father was not what he had thought he was. What had his life been like as an Engineer? What kinds of things had he seen and done? Why had he never told him? The questions hurt too much to want answers, at least not from anyone except his dad, and for that to happen, he was going to have to trust a man who clearly thought very little of him and join his troupe of oddities.

“So let’s just say I’m not mad. You, the Tinker and everything you’ve told me is all real.” Ned paused for a second to gather his thoughts. “If we go to this Fidgit and Sons place, and we find the girl, and she and Dad do whatever it is they’re supposed to do … then I get him back for good and life goes back to normal? Like, Grittlesby normal?”

Even as he said it, it surprised him. He wanted his father back just the way he was. Even if it meant being bored, even if it meant being fussed over and forced to stay in. He would do anything for that right now, anything at all.

“I can’t promise normal, but with enough wind behind us …” the Ringmaster sighed and looked him up and down yet again, “… and a great deal of luck, yes, you’ll get your dad back.”

“I’m going to ignore that look you just gave me, if you promise not to do it again.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

Ned gritted his teeth. “Fine. When can we go?”

Benissimo’s mouth turned towards what might have been a smile, though it ended up with just a hint of sadness.

“Perhaps you’re more like your father than it first appears … though while you’re with us, it’d be for the best if you kept him to yourself. Just a few of the troupe know who you really are – let’s keep it that way. Tell me, did the clowns see you?”

“I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.”

“Well, ‘don’t think so’ will have to do. That said,” continued Benissimo, “it does not guarantee that prying ears or eyes won’t find out about you. There’s a rot in my circus, a spy or spies that are trying to hamper our progress. Until I root them out, you keep your head down, understood?”

“Understood.”

“For now we’ll say you’re a runaway. We get a lot of recruits that way and no one will pay someone like you much heed.”

Ned felt another flicker of anger. Why did the man dislike him so much?

“By ‘like me’ I guess you mean ordinary, right?”

“I had something else in mind, but ordinary will do.”

Ned had a pleasing vision of yanking Benissimo’s moustache, then setting it on fire with one of the Tinker’s gadgets.

“Tinker, a message to Oublier, if you will?”

“Right you are, boss!”

Ned seethed quietly as Benissimo’s head of R&D opened two windows at the back of the truck and picked up a large device shaped like a trumpet. Directing one end out of the window, he started to speak in a mixture of slow drawn out tones and revolting nasal snorts, all the while contorting his face and lips horribly.

“N e w … l e a d … f o u n d … F i d g i t … a n d … S o n s.”

A large gust blew up, swirling leaves into a pillar of spinning greenery, before launching itself over the forest’s canopy and away from the truck.

“What’s he doing?”

The Ringmaster gave Ned a withering glare. “Hush, boy, it’s an air-modulator. He’s harnessing the wind to send a message.”

“Who is he messaging?” whispered Ned in amazement, but they were too deep in concentration to hear him, or to reply.

The Tinker continued to work the machine, twisting dials and pressing its keys to change pitch. Finally something else happened. A dozen wind chimes, both crystal and wooden, started to sound on the truck’s roof. Outside a gust of wind was blowing in over the treetops. And then it came, in soft blowy whispers. A reply.

“H … U … R … R … Y .”

“Well, we’d better get to it then,” said Benissimo, “it’s time for tear down.” And taking Ned’s blood-key for safe-keeping, he charged out of the Tinker’s vehicle.

Ned followed closely behind, having no idea what he was talking about. But as Benissimo called for the troupe to gather round, he soon found out.

“All right everyone! Pull your tent pegs and fire up the engines …” he called. “We’re going home!”

***

Much further than the crow flies but only moments later, a meeting was held between a spy and his master. The master was holding an apple, which he cut carefully, his sharp knife making perfect incisions across its golden skin. He was a great dark hulk of a man, with a deep, unsmiling voice.

“Sister Clementine’s ‘ending’ was unfortunate. She was the closest we’ve come in years,” brooded the master.

“Yes … but now there is the boy,” whispered back his spy.

“A lucky turn of events. Tell me, does he know?”

“Not all of it, no. Bene has kept nearly everyone in the dark for fear of your watchful eyes.”

“And fear them he should!”

“How shall we proceed?” asked the spy from his shadow.

“Everything depends on the boy’s key. I believe it always has. Do you remember the tale of the Parnifer tree?”

“Vaguely.”

“You of all creatures should. In the story, the King’s son was taken by a terrible affliction and could not be woken. The King cried for a hundred days and a hundred nights, till his tears formed a river. By its banks, a tree sprang up from the ground.”

“The Parnifer tree.”

“Precisely. They say a single seed from the tree’s fruit could cure anything. The girl is like the seed. If she were to meet with the Engineer …”

The master put down his knife, before crushing the apple in his fist, its wet pulpy flesh oozing through his fingers.

“The seed, must, be, crushed. I’ll send the devil himself if I have to.” He gazed for a moment at the fruit falling from his hand. “In the meantime, we’ll be needing some leverage. With the boy’s spirit-knot and enough time, we could do extraordinary things. I’ll leave that up to you. Watch, observe, slow them down if you can. When the moment is right, we’ll make our move.”

And with a silent nod, the spy melted into the shadows and returned from where he came.

The Flying Circus

There was all-round whooping and hollering and a happy trumpeting from Alice as the Circus of Marvels readied itself for departure. According to the Tinker, they always did their real travelling at night. When Ned stepped outside, he could see why. The very same fog that had rolled into Grittlesby had followed them again across the sea. Through the layers of rolling grey he saw the circus’s big top. Its red and white striped canvas was bulging as if it were about to burst, making it more than twice its normal size.

Even stranger though was the fact that the big top seemed to be floating thirty feet off the ground, as if it were some sort of hot-air balloon … Then Ned saw them through the fog …

Hanging from the big top, suspended in the air, was a series of buses and caravans that had all been joined together. Some were inside out, and others bent in half, all forming a huge metal gondola more than three storeys high through the middle and four at the back. It was all tethered together with great bars of steel and knots of iron rope. Walkways taken from the big top’s inner seating ran all over its hull, and Ned could see crewmen running along the upper deck, checking its rigging and shouting to one another over the roar of the engines. Not for the first time that day, Ned stood wide-eyed and open-mouthed, gawping up at this great metallic beast as against all odds it rose up through the fog. It was the stuff of dreams, a marvel of engineering, and Ned was lost in its every detail.

“Come on, josser, don’t just stand there! Wind’s about to change!” yelled Benissimo.

Ned’s body suddenly drained of blood as he was marched up a narrow walkway and into the airship’s belly. Inside were mismatched corridors of old and new. Not even his dad could have made any sense of it. Every room was different, latched together from some metal bus or wooden trailer, and yet it all seemed to fit perfectly, as though it had been built as a whole first and its separate four-wheeled vehicles extrapolated after. But it was dawning on Ned that impressive as it was, it was also uncommonly large; large and extremely heavy, and also extremely high. As he peered over the edge, his heart plummeted to his stomach. Being scared of heights was one thing; flying in an inflatable tent was quite another. He was already dreading Benissimo’s reply as the question left his lips …

“This thing, this flying machine … is it … safe?”

The Ringmaster stopped dead in his tracks and began muttering to himself.

“Why me? A blasted child and scared of his own shadow …”

“Oi, I am here, you know?” said Ned crossly.

“For your information, boy, this is not a ‘thing’, this is the Marilyn – the finest airship on either side of the Veil and as safe as a ruby in a crown.” Benissimo’s moustache was now twitching quite violently. “There are ‘things’ aplenty where we’re going that will offer up more than ample danger. Your fear of heights should be the least of your – or my – concerns.”

Ned sensed that it might be a good time to hold his tongue.

“Now, while you’re aboard, you need to follow a few simple rules. One – don’t touch anything. Two – don’t talk to anyone, and if anyone talks to you remember: you’re a runaway.” The Ringmaster paused to scratch at his chin. “On second thoughts, it might just be better if you stayed in your bunk. Don’t leave unless you absolutely must.”

Benissimo indicated a door to their immediate right.

“What about permission to breathe? You left that out,” Ned grumbled under his breath.

“Veil-bound and right secure on the third!” roared one of the Marilyn’s crewmen.

“Nearly home and all aboard on the second!” yelled another below.

The first floor’s reply was a loud metallic clunk as the circus’s captured Darklings were locked into their hold. Benissimo strode away to take his place at the helm from where Ned heard a long blast of the ship’s foghorn. From all around the Marilyn a chorus of trumpets and what could only have been a cannon replied and Ned realised she was only one floating vessel in a much larger convoy.

He went into his cabin and looked out the window to a wall of fog. It came as a huge relief. Without seeing their take-off, at least he could pretend he was on a bus. A really big, weird bus.

One thing was certain, Benissimo – his protector and only route to finding his father – did not think very highly of him, which was fine because the feeling was entirely mutual. He decided to focus on more pressing matters. There was the girl for one thing, Lucy Beaumont. Did she know they were looking for her? Was she lost? Afraid? Were the clowns after her too? It was then that he remembered the scratched writing on the patio doors of his sitting room.

Y C U L …

Of course! He hadn’t thought about it at the time but the clown’s writing, seen from the other side of the window, would appear backwards. It was Lucy’s name. Was that what his dad had wanted to explain? Did he want to tell him about her? This new world that his father was supposed to be part of was not Ned’s. It made him feel like he didn’t really belong, even at home with his own dad.

Alone in his swaying bunk, Ned checked on the black bag his dad had given him. He found clothes, a toothbrush and his passport (which had never actually been used). He opened it up and looked at his name. It made him wince because it wasn’t really his name after all. Was any of it real? Was anything his father had ever told him actually true?

At the bottom of the bag he found some cash, quite a lot of cash. But the most surprising item was the empty photo frame Ned kept by his bedside. So that was what his dad had run up the stairs for when they’d made their escape.

This was not the freedom Ned had wanted. This was the kind of bag you prepared if you knew you weren’t coming home. It made his eyes prick with tears. He took his phone from his pocket and laid it by the photo frame. A pictureless frame and a powerless phone; even Ned’s pet mouse wasn’t real. He had never, in all of his life, felt more alone.

“Room for another?” came a polite grunting voice from the doorway. It was George the giant gorilla.

His attempts to fit his enormous bulk into the small cabin made him look rather clumsy and much less intimidating. Despite everything that he’d seen that day, Ned still had no idea what to make of him.

“Err, sure, but I don’t think I’m allowed to talk to you. Or anyone else.”

“I think that’s over-egging it a bit, old bean. I’ve been fully briefed on your situation along with the rest of our inner circle.”

“Oh. Right …”

“And on that note,” George rumbled gently, “I made you some angel cakes. Had a feeling our resident josser might need a smidge of cheering up.”

The oversized ape opened a bag and beneath a pile of books and his favourite reading glasses, were four of the ugliest cakes Ned had ever seen.

“Wow, err, George, I don’t know what to say. You, err, you really shouldn’t have?”

“My pleasure, laddie. Of course, as far as I’m concerned, nothing beats these little gems,” said the gorilla, pulling out a banana. “I could write an entire book of sonnets about the joys of this yellow beauty. There’s baked banana, creamed banana, puffed, boiled and fried banana. Caramelled, salted, barbecued, even pickled. Of course my favourite is sushied,” he added, before gulping it down whole.

Ned couldn’t help smiling.

“There now,” said George, “a smile, that’s more like it.” He beamed – revealing his huge teeth – but somehow still managing to look friendly.

“George?” asked Ned. “What’s a josser? Only Benissimo’s been calling me that a lot, amongst other things, and I don’t know what it means. I don’t really know what any of this means and the only thing I thought I knew, is, well … not what I knew at all.”

“You mustn’t take it personally, old chap. The boss has a few rough edges, but he’s a decent fellow under all that bluster. Jossers are what we also call outsiders, folk who are unaccustomed to our ways.”

Ned was used to being an outsider, but in the Circus of Marvels he was something else, something way beyond average. Half of the troupe weren’t even human and even those that were had powers of some sort. Ned was average by tradition, because that’s what the Waddlesworths were, or so his father had led him to believe. But being average in the Circus of Marvels did not mean slipping through the cracks – it was like strapping a flashing light to your head and asking people not to look.

“I don’t fit in here, George. What if, even without me talking to anyone, someone figures out who I am, or why I’m here?”

“Don’t fret, dear boy, I have your back while you’re with us, and no one will bat an eyelid. Being lost with nowhere else to turn is something of a requirement before the Circus of Marvels will have you.”

“Is that what happened to you? Were you a josser?”

George grinned again. “Between you and me, I think I still am, but then I’ve got my books and my bananas.”

Ned suddenly felt far less alone.

“What about Benissimo? What is he, besides being … well, obnoxious?”

George looked over to the doorway, before lowering his voice.

“We are not all the creatures we become by choice, old bean, and the least said about it the better. When a chap tries as hard as the boss to hide what he is, it’s considered rude to ask.”

Ned took George’s hushed tones as the warning they were meant to be. Whatever Benissimo was or had been was clearly not a topic for discussion.

The towering ape talked late into the night and turned out to be a living encyclopedia on the creatures and places that the Veil kept hidden. He told Ned about the Grand Duke of Albany, Viceroy to St Albertsburg; the last hidden city of Queen Victoria’s old empire; the Norwegian library city of Aatol, buried deep underground, which could only be accessed by solving a series of impossible riddles; Gearnish, the city of Tickers where almost everything was run by metal machines; and Shalazaar, the trading city and ‘jewel of the desert’, where they were currently heading.

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