DARREN SHAN

VAMPIRE BLOOD TRILOGY

THE SAGA OF DARREN SHAN

CIRQUE DU FREAK
THE VAMPIRE’S ASSISTANT
TUNNELS OF BLOOD

COPYRIGHT

HarperCollins Children’s Books An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Cirque Du Freak first published in Great Britain by Collins 2000 Tunnels of Blood first published in Great Britain by Collins 2000 The Vampire’s Assistant first published in Great Britain by Collins 2000

First published in this three-in-one edition by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2003

Text copyright © Darren Shan 2000

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work

A catalogue record for 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 nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, 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 ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780007143740

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN: 9780007485086

Version: 2016-11-02

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Cirque Du Freak

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

The Vampire’s Assistant

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Tunnels of Blood

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by Darren Shan

About the Publisher

DARREN SHAN
CIRQUE DU FREAK

THE SAGA OF DARREN SHAN

BOOK 1

This freakish show could never have gone public but for

the efforts of my hard-working laboratory assistants:

Biddy & Liam – ‘The Gruesome Twosome’

‘Diabolical’ Domenica de Rosa

‘Growling’ Gillie Russell

Emma ‘The Exterminator’ Schlesinger

and

‘Lord of the Crimson Night’ – Christopher Little

Thanks are also due to my feasting companions:

the Horrible Creatures of HarperCollins. And the ghoulish

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

willing guinea pigs and braved nightmares to make this book

as tight, dark and chilling as possible.

INTRODUCTION

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

It used to drive my mum mad!

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

I loved being scared when I was little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a true story.

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

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

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

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

I just wanted to make that clear before I began.

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

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

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

It started in a toilet.

CHAPTER ONE

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

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

I wish every teacher was as understanding as Mr Dalton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” I said.

“Do you think you’re gonna?”

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

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

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

“Nah,” he said. “The usual crap.”

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

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

“The day after tomorrow,” I told him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You four! Inside!” he roared.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CIRQUE DU FREAK

Underneath that, in smaller writing:

FOR ONE WEEK ONLY – CIRQUE DU FREAK!! SEE:

SIVE AND SEERSA – THE TWISTING TWINS! THE SNAKE-BOY! THE WOLF MAN! GERTHA TEETH! LARTEN CREPSLEY AND HIS PERFORMING SPIDER – MADAM OCTA! ALEXANDER RIBS! THE BEARDED LADY! BANS HANDS! RHAMUS TWOBELLIES – WORLD’S FATTEST MAN!

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

NOT FOR THE FAINT-HEARTED! CERTAIN RESERVATIONS APPLY!

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

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

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

“It’s an advert, sir,” I answered.

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

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

“Sir, it’s mine,” he said.

“Yours?” Mr Dalton blinked slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, no, sir,” we all said quickly.

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

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

CHAPTER THREE

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

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

“It’s got to be a fake,” I said.

“Why?” Alan asked.

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

“It’s not a fake!” Alan insisted.

“Where’d you get it?” Tommy asked.

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

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

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

“Smart,” Steve nodded.

“Where did Tony get it?” I asked.

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

“The one with the spider?” Tommy asked.

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

“How much are the tickets?” Steve asked.

“Fifteen pounds each,” Alan said.

“Fifteen pounds!” we all shouted.

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

“I would,” I said.

“Me too,” Tommy agreed.

“And me,” Alan added.

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

“What does academic mean?” Alan asked.

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

“How much do we have?” Alan asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean steal?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER FOUR

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

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

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

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said.

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

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

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

“Why not?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?” I asked.

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

“I’m not a freak!” I said huffily.

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

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

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

“No,” I said, shuffling my feet.

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

“No,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

“I was on my way,” I told him.

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

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

“What are you doing now?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“OK,” he said, “but make it quick.”

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

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

CHAPTER FIVE

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

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

“Steve’s not like that,” I said.

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

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

“Why not?” Alan asked.

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

“Oh yeah,” Alan said glumly.

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

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

“No, Mrs Quinn,” I lied.

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

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

It was a pretty good daydream.

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

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

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

“What about—”

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

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

“Did you get the tickets?” I asked.

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

“Where’s my flyer?” Alan asked.

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

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

“Yes and no,” he said.

“What does that mean?” Tommy snorted.

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

“Crazy news?” I asked, puzzled.

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

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

“Who?” we asked.

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

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

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

“They didn’t see you?” Tommy asked.

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

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

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

“You got them?” I gasped.

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

“You got them!” we roared delightedly.

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

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

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

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

“But that means …” Alan began.

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

CHAPTER SIX

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

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

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

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

“So, who gets the tickets?”

We looked at each other and shook our heads uncertainly.

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

“Agreed,” Tommy said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

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

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

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

“Agreed,” I said. “No rough stuff.”

“Agreed,” Tommy nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shut my hands really fast.

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

“It’s not here!” Tommy said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was nothing there.

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

“What about the other hand?” Steve asked.

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

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

CIRQUE DU FREAK.

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

CHAPTER SEVEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“OK,” I promised.

“Good man,” he said, and drove off.

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

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

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

“We have to take it by dawn.”

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

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

“Rifles it is, sir,” I agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What if she checks?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Every time,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he laughed, “save the questions for later. The shows long ago were terrible. The owners used to starve the freaks and keep them locked up in cages and treat them like dirt. But I don’t know what this one will be like. They might not even be real freaks: they might only be people in costumes.”

The freak show was being held at a place near the other side of town. We had to leave not long after nine o’clock, to make sure we got there in time. We could have got a cab, except we’d used most of our pocket money to replace the cash Steve took from his mum. Besides, it was more fun walking. It was spookier!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe,” Steve said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Might as well,” I said.

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

CHAPTER EIGHT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where the kid fell from?” I asked.

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” Steve said, and showed his.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do we walk straight on?” Steve asked.

“Of course,” Mr Tall said.

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

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

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

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

“Do you think it’s safe?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

“Me too,” Steve said.

Then we stepped forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was when the screaming began.

CHAPTER NINE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A couple of people fainted when they saw that and loads more began yelling and running. Then, out of nowhere, Mr Tall appeared behind the Wolf Man and wrapped his arms around him. The Wolf Man struggled for a few seconds, but Mr Tall whispered something in his ear and he relaxed. While Mr Tall led him back to the stage, the women in the suits calmed down the crowd and told them to return to their seats.

While the crowd hesitated, the woman with the bitten-off hand went on screaming. Blood was pumping out of the end of her wrist, covering the ground and other people. Steve and me were staring at her, our mouths wide open, wondering if she was going to die.

Mr Tall returned from the stage, picked up the severed hand and gave a loud whistle. Two people in blue robes with hoods over their heads ran forward. They were short, not much bigger than me or Steve, but with thick arms and legs, and lots of muscles. Mr Tall sat the woman up and whispered something in her ear. She stopped screaming and sat still.

Mr Tall took hold of the wrist, then reached into his pocket and took out a small brown leather pouch. He opened it with his free hand and sprinkled a sparkly pink powder on to the bleeding wrist. Then he stuck the hand against it and nodded to the two people in the blue suits. They produced a pair of needles and loads of orange string. And then, to the amazement of everybody in the theatre, they started to stitch the hand back on to the wrist!

The people in blue robes stitched for five or six minutes. The woman didn’t feel any pain, even though their needles were going in and out of her flesh, all the way around the wrist. When finished, they put their needles and unused thread away and returned to wherever they’d come from. Their hoods never slipped from their faces, so I couldn’t tell if they were men or women. When they’d gone, Mr Tall let go of the woman’s hand and stepped back.

“Move your fingers,” he said. The woman stared at him blankly. “Move your fingers!” he said again, and this time she gave them a wiggle.

They moved!

Everybody gasped. The woman stared at the fingers as though she didn’t believe they were real. She gave them another wiggle. Then she stood and lifted the hand above her head. She shook it as hard as she could, and it was good as new! You could see the stitches but there was no more blood and the fingers seemed to be working fine.

“You will be OK,” Mr Tall told her. “The stitches will fall out after a couple of days. It will be fine after that.”

“Maybe that’s not good enough!” someone shouted, and a big red-faced man stepped forward. “I’m her husband,” he said, “and I say we should go to a doctor and then the police! You can’t let a wild animal like that out into a crowd! What if he’d bitten her head off?”

“Then she would be dead,” Mr Tall said calmly.

“Listen, buster,” the husband began, but Mr Tall interrupted.

“Tell me, sir,” Mr Tall said, “where were you when the Wolf Man was attacking?”

“Me?” the man asked.

“Yes,” Mr Tall said. “You are her husband. You were sitting beside her when the beast escaped. Why did you not leap to her rescue?”

“Well, I … There was no time … I couldn’t … I wasn’t …”

No matter what he said, the husband couldn’t win, because there was only one true answer: he had been running away, looking after himself.

“Listen to me,” Mr Tall said. “I gave fair warning. I said this show could be dangerous. This is not a nice, safe circus where nothing goes wrong. Mistakes can and do happen, and sometimes people end up a lot worse off than your wife. That’s why this show is banned. That’s why we must play in old theatres in the middle of the night. Most of the time, things go smoothly and nobody gets hurt. But we cannot guarantee your safety.”

Mr Tall turned around in a circle and seemed to look everybody in the eye while turning. “We cannot guarantee anybody’s safety,” he roared. “Another accident like this is unlikely, but it could happen. Once again I say, if you are afraid, leave. Leave now, before it is too late!”

A few people did leave. But most stayed to see the rest of the show, even the woman who nearly lost her hand.

“Do you want to go?” I asked Steve, half-hoping he’d say yes. I was excited but scared as well.

“Are you crazy?” he said. “This is great! You don’t want to go, do you?”

“No way,” I lied, and slapped on a shaky little smile.

If only I hadn’t been so scared of looking like a coward! I could have left and everything would have been fine. But no, I had to act like a big man and sit it out to the end. If you only knew how many times I’ve wished since then that I’d fled with all the speed in my body and never looked back …

CHAPTER TEN

AS SOON as Mr Tall had left the stage and we’d settled back into our seats, the second freak, Alexander Ribs, came on. He was more of a comedy act than a scary one, which was just what we needed to calm us down after the terrifying start. I happened to look over my shoulder while he was on, and noticed two of the blue-hooded people down on their knees, cleaning blood from the floor.

Alexander Ribs was the skinniest man I’d ever seen. He looked like a skeleton! There seemed to be no flesh on him. He would have been frightening, except he had a wide friendly smile.

Funny music played and he danced around the stage. He was dressed in ballet clothes and looked so ridiculous that soon everyone was laughing. After a while, he stopped dancing and began stretching. He said he was a contortionist (somebody with bones like rubber, who can bend every which-way).

First, he tilted his head back so far, it looked like it had been cut off. He turned round so we could see his upside-down face, then went on leaning backwards until his head was touching the floor! Then he put his hands round the backs of his legs and pulled his head through until it was sticking up in front of him. It looked like it was growing out of his stomach!

He got a huge round of clapping for that, after which he straightened up and began twisting his body around like a curly-wurly straw! He kept twisting and twisting, five times around, until his bones began to creak from the strain. He stood like that for a minute, then began to unwind really, really fast.

Next, he got two drumsticks with furry ends. He took the first drumstick and hit one of his bony ribs with it. He opened his mouth and a musical note sprang out! It sounded like the noise pianos make. Then he closed his mouth and struck a rib on the other side of his body. This time it was a louder, higher note.

After a few more practice goes, he kept his mouth open and began playing songs! He played “London Bridge Is Falling Down”, some songs by The Beatles, and the theme tunes from a few well-known TV shows.

The skinny man left the stage to shouts for more. But none of the freaks ever came back to do an encore.

After Alexander Ribs came Rhamus Twobellies, and he was as fat as Alexander was thin. He was eNORmous! The floorboards creaked as he walked out onto the stage.

He walked close to the edge and kept pretending he was about to topple forward. I could see people in the front rows getting worried, and some jumped back out of the way when he got close. I don’t blame them: he would have squashed them flat as a pancake if he fell!

He stopped in the middle of the stage. “Hello,” he said. He had a nice voice, low and squeaky. “My name is Rhamus Twobellies, and I really have two bellies! I was born with them, the same way certain animals are. The doctors were stunned and said I was a freak. That’s why I joined this show and am here tonight.”

The ladies who had hypnotised the Wolf Man came out with two trolleys full of food: cakes, chips, hamburgers, packets of sweets and heads of cabbage. There was stuff there that I hadn’t even seen before, never mind tasted!

“Yum-yum,” Rhamus said. He pointed to a huge clock being lowered by ropes from above. It stopped about three metres above his head. “How long do you think it will take me to eat all this?” he asked, pointing to the food. “There will be a prize for the person who guesses closest.”

“An hour!” somebody yelled.

“Forty-five minutes!” somebody else roared.

“Two hours, ten minutes and thirty-three seconds,” another person shouted. Soon everybody was calling out. I said an hour and three minutes. Steve said twenty-nine minutes. The lowest guess was seventeen minutes.

When we were finished guessing, the clock started to tick and Rhamus started to eat. He ate like the wind. His arms moved so fast, you could hardly see them. His mouth didn’t seem to close at all. He shovelled food in, swallowed and moved on.

Everybody was amazed. I felt sick as I watched. Some people actually were sick!

Finally, Rhamus scoffed the last bun and the clock above his head stopped ticking.

Four minutes and fifty-six seconds! He’d eaten all that food in less than five minutes! I could hardly believe it. It didn’t seem possible, even for a man with two bellies.

“That was nice,” Rhamus said, “but I could have done with more dessert.”

While we clapped and laughed, the ladies in shiny suits rolled the trolleys away and brought on a new one, packed with glass statues and forks and spoons and bits of metal junk.

“Before I begin,” Rhamus said, “I must warn you not to try this at home! I can eat things which would choke and kill normal people. Do not try to copy me! If you do, you may die.”

He began eating. He started with a couple of nuts and bolts, which he sucked down without blinking. After a few handfuls he gave his big round belly a shake and we could hear the noise of the metal inside.

His belly heaved and he spat the nuts and bolts back out! If there had only been one or two, I might have thought he was keeping them under his tongue or at the sides of his cheeks, but not even Rhamus Twobellies’ mouth was big enough to hold that load!

Next, he ate the glass statues. He crunched the glass up into small pieces before swallowing it with a drink of water. Then he ate the spoons and forks. He twisted them up into circles with his hands, popped them into his mouth and let them slide down. He said his teeth weren’t strong enough to tear through metal.

After that, he swallowed a long metal chain, then paused to catch his breath. His belly began rumbling and shaking. I didn’t know what was going on, until he gave a heave and I saw the top of the chain come out of his mouth.

As the chain came out, I saw that the spoons and forks were wrapped around it! He had managed to poke the chain through the hoops inside his belly. It was unbelievable.

When Rhamus left the stage, I thought nobody could top such an act.

I was wrong!

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A COUPLE of people in the blue-hooded robes came around after Rhamus Twobellies, selling gifts. There was some really cool stuff, like chocolate models of the nuts and bolts that Rhamus ate, and rubber dolls of Alexander Ribs which you could bend and stretch. And there were clippings of the Wolf Man’s hair. I bought a bit of that: it was tough and wiry, sharp as a knife.

“There will be more novelties later,” Mr Tall announced from the stage, “so don’t spend all your money right away.”

“How much is the glass statue?” Steve asked. It was the same sort that Rhamus Twobellies had eaten. The person in the blue hood didn’t say anything, but stuck out a sign with the price on. “I can’t read,” Steve said. “Will you tell me how much it costs?”

I stared at Steve and wondered why he was lying. The person in the hood still didn’t speak. This time he (or she) shook his head quickly and moved on before Steve could ask anything else.

“What was that about?” I asked.

Steve shrugged. “I wanted to hear it speak,” he said, “to see if it was human or not.”

“Of course it’s human,” I said. “What else could it be?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s why I was asking. Don’t you think it’s strange that they keep their faces covered all the time?”

“Maybe they’re shy,” I said.

“Maybe,” he said, but I could tell he didn’t believe that.

When the people selling the gifts were finished, the next freak came on. It was the bearded lady, and at first I thought it was meant to be a joke, because she didn’t have a beard!

Mr Tall stood behind her and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a very special act. Truska here is new to our family. She is one of the most incredible performers I have ever seen, with a truly unique talent.”

Mr Tall walked off. Truska was very beautiful, dressed in flowing red robes which had many slashes and gaps. Lots of the men in the theatre began to cough and shift around in their seats.

Truska stepped closer to the edge of the stage, so we could see her better, then said something that sounded like a seal barking. She put her hands on her face, one at either side, and stroked the skin gently. Then she held her nose shut with two fingers and tickled her chin with her other hand.

An extraordinary thing happened: she began to grow a beard! Hairs crept out, first on her chin, then her upper lip, then the sides of her face, finally all over. It was long and blonde and straight.

It grew about ten or eleven centimetres, then stopped. She took her fingers away from her nose and stepped down into the crowd, where she walked around and let people pull on the beard and stroke it.

The beard continued growing as she walked, until finally it reached down to her feet! When she arrived at the rear of the theatre, she turned and walked back to the stage. Even though there was no breeze in here, her hair blew about wildly, tickling people’s faces as she passed.

When she was back on the stage, Mr Tall asked if anybody had a pair of scissors. Lots of women did. Mr Tall invited a few up.

“The Cirque Du Freak will give one solid bar of gold to anyone who can slice off Truska’s beard,” he said, and held up a small yellow ingot to show he wasn’t joking.

That got a lot of people excited and for ten minutes nearly everybody in the theatre tried cutting off her beard. But they couldn’t! Nothing could cut through the bearded lady’s hair, not even a pair of garden shears which Mr Tall handed out. The funny thing was, it still felt soft, just like ordinary hair!

When everyone had admitted defeat, Mr Tall emptied the stage and Truska stood in the middle again. She stroked her cheeks as before and held her nose, but this time the beard grew back in! It took about two minutes for the hairs to disappear back inside, and then she looked exactly as she had when she first came out. She left to huge applause and the next act came on almost directly after.

His name was Hans Hands. He began by telling us about his father, who’d been born without legs. Hans’ father learned to get around on his hands just as well as other people could on their feet, and had taught his children his secrets.

Hans then sat down, pulled up his legs and wrapped his feet around his neck. He stood on his hands, walked up and down the stage, then hopped off and challenged four men – picked at random – to a race. They could race on their feet; he’d race on his hands. He promised a bar of gold to anyone who could beat him.

They used the aisles of the theatre as a race track, and despite his disadvantage, Hans beat the four men easily. He claimed he could sprint a hundred metres in eight seconds on his hands, and nobody in the theatre doubted him. Afterwards he performed some impressive gymnastic feats, proving that a person could manage just as well without legs as with them. His act wasn’t especially exciting but it was enjoyable.

There was a short pause after Hans had left, then Mr Tall came on. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “our next act is another unique and perplexing one. It can also be quite dangerous, so I ask that you make no noise and do not clap until you are told it is safe.”

The whole place went quiet. After what had happened with the Wolf Man earlier, nobody needed telling twice!

When it was quiet enough, Mr Tall walked off the stage. He shouted out the name of the next freak as he went, but it was a soft shout: “Mr Crepsley and Madam Octa!”

The lights went down low and a creepy-looking man walked onto the stage. He was tall and thin, with very white skin and only a small crop of orange hair on the top of his head. He had a large scar running down his left cheek. It reached to his lips and made it look like his mouth was stretching up the side of his face.

He was dressed in dark-red clothes and carried a small wooden cage, which he put on a table. When he was set, he turned and faced us. He bowed and smiled. He looked even scarier when he smiled, like a crazy clown in a horror movie I once saw! Then he started to explain about the act.

I missed the first part of his speech because I wasn’t looking at the stage. I was watching Steve. You see, when Mr Crepsley walked out, there had been total silence, except for one person who had gasped loudly.

Steve.

I stared curiously at my friend. He was almost as white as Mr Crepsley and was shaking all over. He’d even dropped the rubber model of Alexander Ribs that he’d bought.

His eyes were fixed on Mr Crepsley, as though glued to him, and as I watched him watch the freak, the thought which crossed my mind was: “He looks like he’s seen a ghost!”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“IT IS not true that all tarantulas are poisonous,” Mr Crepsley said. He had a deep voice. I managed to tear my eyes away from Steve and trained them on the stage. “Most are as harmless as the spiders you find anywhere in the world. And those which are poisonous normally only have enough poison in them to kill very small creatures.

“But some are deadly!” he went on. “Some can kill a man with one bite. They are rare, and only found in extremely remote areas, but they do exist.

“I have one such spider,” he said and opened the door of the cage. For a few seconds nothing happened, but then the largest spider I had ever seen crawled out. It was green and purple and red, with long hairy legs and a big fat body. I wasn’t afraid of spiders, but this one looked terrifying.

The spider walked forward slowly. Then its legs bent and it lowered its body, as though waiting for a fly.

“Madam Octa has been with me for several years,” Mr Crepsley said. “She lives far longer than ordinary spiders. The monk who sold her to me said some of her kind live to be twenty or thirty years old. She is an incredible creature, both poisonous and intelligent.”

While he was speaking, one of the blue-hooded people led a goat onto the stage. It was making a frightened bleating noise and kept trying to run. The hooded person tied it to the table and left.

The spider began moving when it saw and heard the goat. It crept to the edge of the table, where it stopped, as if awaiting an order. Mr Crepsley produced a shiny tin whistle – he called it a flute – from his trouser pocket and blew a few short notes. Madam Octa immediately leaped through the air and landed on the goat’s neck.

The goat gave a leap when the spider landed, and began bleating loudly. Madam Octa took no notice, hung on and moved a few centimetres closer to the head. When she was ready, she bared her fangs and sunk them deep into the goat’s neck!

The goat froze and its eyes went wide. It stopped bleating and, a few seconds later, toppled over. I thought it was dead, but then realised it was still breathing.

“This flute is how I control Madam Octa,” Mr Crepsley said, and I looked away from the fallen goat. He waved the flute slowly above his head. “Though we have been together such a long time, she is not a pet, and would surely kill me if I ever lost it.

“The goat is paralysed,” he said. “I have trained Madam Octa not to kill outright with her first bite. The goat would die in the end, if we left it – there is no cure for Madam Octa’s bite – but we shall finish it quickly.” He blew on the flute and Madam Octa moved up the goat’s neck until she was standing on its ear. She bared her fangs again and bit. The goat shivered, then went totally still.

It was dead.

Madam Octa dropped from the goat and crawled towards the front of the stage. The people in the front rows became very alarmed and some jumped to their feet. But they froze at a short command from Mr Crepsley.

“Do not move!” he hissed. “Remember your earlier warning: a sudden noise could mean death!”

Madam Octa stopped at the edge of the stage, then stood on her two back legs, the same as a dog! Mr Crepsley blew softly on his flute and she began walking backwards, still on two feet. When she reached the nearest leg of the table, she turned and climbed up.

“You will be safe now,” Mr Crepsley said, and the people in the front rows sat down again, as slowly and quietly as they could. “But please,” he added, “do not make any loud noises, because if you do, she might come after me.”

I don’t know if Mr Crepsley was really scared, or if it was part of the act, but he looked frightened. He wiped the sleeve of his right arm over his forehead, then placed the flute back in his mouth and whistled a strange little tune.

Madam Octa cocked her head, then appeared to nod. She crawled across the table until she was in front of Mr Crepsley. He lowered his right hand, and she crept up his arm. The thought of those long hairy legs creeping along his flesh made me sweat all over. And I liked spiders! People who were afraid of them must have been nervously chewing the insides of their cheeks to pieces.

When she got to the top of his arm, she scuttled along his shoulder, up his neck, over his ear, and didn’t stop until she reached the top of his head, where she lowered her body. She looked like a funny sort of a hat.

After a while, Mr Crepsley began playing the flute again. Madam Octa slid down the other side of his face, along the scar, and walked around until she was standing upside-down on his chin. Then she spun a string of web and dropped down on it.

She was hanging about ten centimetres below his chin now, and slowly began rocking from side to side. Soon she was swinging about level with his ears. Her legs were tucked in, and from where I was sitting she looked like a ball of wool.

Then, as she made an upward swing, Mr Crepsley threw his head back and she went flying straight up into the air. The thread snapped and she tumbled around and around. I watched her go up, then come down. I thought she’d land on the floor or the table, but she didn’t. Instead, she landed in Mr Crepsley’s mouth!

I nearly got sick when I thought of Madam Octa sliding down his throat and into his belly. I was sure she’d bite him and kill him. But the spider was a lot smarter than I knew. As she was falling, she’d stuck her legs out and they had caught on his lips.

He brought his head forward, so we could see his face. His mouth was wide open and Madam Octa was hanging between his lips. Her body throbbed in and out of his mouth and she looked like a balloon which he was blowing up and letting the air out of.

I wondered where the flute was and how he was going to control the spider now. Then Mr Tall appeared with another flute. He couldn’t play as well as Mr Crepsley, but he was good enough to make Madam Octa take notice. She listened, then moved from one side of Mr Crepsley’s mouth to the other.

I didn’t know what she was doing at first, so I craned my neck to see. When I saw the bits of white on Mr Crepsley’s lips I understood: she was spinning a web!

When she was finished, she lowered herself from his chin, like she had before. There was a large web spun across Mr Crepsley’s mouth. He began chewing and licking the web! He ate the whole of it, then rubbed his belly (being careful not to hit Madam Octa) and said, “Delicious. Nothing tastier than fresh spider webs. They are a treat where I come from.”

He made Madam Octa push a ball across the table, then got her to balance on top of it. He set up small pieces of gym gear, tiny weights and ropes and rings, and put her through her paces. She was able to do all the things a human could, like lift weights above her head and climb ropes and pull herself up on the rings.

Then he brought out a tiny dinner set. There were mini plates and knives and forks and teeny-weeny glasses. The plates were filled with dead flies and other small insects. I don’t know what was in the glasses.

Madam Octa ate that dinner as neatly as you please. She was able to pick up the knives and forks, four at a time, and feed herself. There was even a fake saltcellar which she sprinkled over one of the dishes!

It was round about the time she was drinking from the glass that I decided Madam Octa was the world’s most amazing pet. I would have given everything I owned for her. I knew it could never be – Mum and Dad wouldn’t let me keep her even if I could buy her – but that didn’t stop me from wishing.

When the act was over, Mr Crepsley put the spider back in her cage and bowed low while everybody clapped. I heard a lot of people saying it wasn’t fair to have killed the poor goat, but it had been thrilling.

I turned to Steve to tell him how great I thought the spider was, but he was watching Mr Crepsley. He didn’t look scared any more, but he didn’t look normal either.

“Steve, what’s wrong?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

“Steve?”

“Ssshhh!” he snapped, and wouldn’t say another word until Mr Crepsley had left. He watched the odd-looking man walk back to the wings. Then he turned to me and gasped: “This is amazing!”

“The spider?” I asked. “It was great. How do you think—”

“I’m not talking about the spider!” he snapped. “Who cares about a silly old arachnid? I’m talking about Mr … Crepsley.” He paused before saying the man’s name, as though he’d been about to call him something different.

“Mr Crepsley?” I asked, confused. “What was so great about him? All he did was play the flute.”

“You don’t understand,” Steve said angrily. “You don’t know who he really is.”

“And you do?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, “as a matter of fact I do.” He rubbed his chin and started looking worried again. “I just hope he doesn’t know I know. If he does, we might never make it out of here alive…

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THERE WAS another break after Mr Crepsley and Madam Octa’s act. I tried getting Steve to tell me more about who the man was, but his lips were sealed. All he said was: “I have to think about this.” Then he closed his eyes, lowered his head and thought hard.

They were selling more cool stuff during the break: beards like the bearded lady’s, models of Hans Hands and, best of all, rubber spiders which looked like Madam Octa. I bought two, one for me and one for Annie. They weren’t as good as the real thing but they’d have to do.

They were also selling candy webs. I bought six of those, using up the last of my money, and ate two while waiting for the next freak to come out. They tasted like candy floss. I stuck the second one over my lips and licked at it, the same way Mr Crepsley had.

The lights went down and everybody settled back into their seats. Gertha Teeth was next up. She was a big woman with thick legs, thick arms, a thick neck and a thick head.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Gertha Teeth!” she said. She sounded strict. “I have the strongest teeth in the world! When I was a baby, my father put his fingers in my mouth, playing with me, and I bit two of them off!”

A few people laughed, but she stopped them with a furious look. “I am not a comedian!” she snapped. “If you laugh at me again, I will come down and bite your nose off!” That sounded quite funny, but nobody dared chuckle.

She spoke very loudly. Every sentence was a shout and ended in an exclamation mark (!).

“Dentists all over the world have been astounded by my teeth!” she said. “I have been examined in every major dental centre, but nobody has been able to work out why they are so tough! I have been offered huge amounts of money to become a guinea pig, but I like travelling and so I have refused!”

She picked up four steel bars, each about thirty centimetres long, but different widths. She asked for volunteers and four men went up on stage. She gave each of them a bar and said to try bending them. They did their best, but weren’t able. When they had failed, she took the thinnest bar, put it in her mouth, and bit clean through it!

She handed the two halves back to one of the men. He stared at them in shock, then put one end in his own mouth and bit on it, to check that it was real steel. His howls when he almost cracked his teeth proved that it was.

Gertha did the same to the second and third bars, each of which was thicker than the first. When it came to the fourth, the thickest of the lot, she chewed it to pieces like a chocolate bar.

Next, two of the blue-hooded assistants brought out a large radiator and she bit holes in it! Then they gave her a bike and she gnashed it up into a little ball, tyres and all! I don’t think there was anything in the world Gertha Teeth couldn’t chew her way through if she set her mind to it.

She called more volunteers up on stage. She gave one a sledgehammer and a large chisel, one a hammer and smaller chisel, and the other an electric saw. She lay flat on her back and put the large chisel in her mouth. She nodded at the first volunteer to swing the sledgehammer at the chisel.

The man raised the sledgehammer high above his head and brought it down. I thought he was going to smash her face open and so did lots of others, judging by the gasps and people covering their hands with their eyes.

But Gertha was no fool. She swung out of the way and the sledgehammer slammed into the floor. She sat up and spat the chisel out of her mouth. “Hah!” she snorted. “How crazy do you think I am?”

One of the blue-hoods came out and took the sledgehammer from the man. “I only called you up to show the sledgehammer is real!” she told him. “Now,” she said to those of us in the audience, “watch!”

She lay back again and stuck the chisel in her mouth. The blue-hood waited a moment, then raised the sledgehammer high and swung it down, faster and harder than the man had. It struck the top of the chisel and there was a fierce noise.

Gertha sat up. I expected to see teeth falling out of her mouth, but when she opened it and removed the chisel, there wasn’t as much as a crack to be seen! She laughed and said: “Hah! You thought I had bitten off more than I could chew!”

She let the second volunteer go to work, the one with the smaller hammer and chisel. She warned him to be careful of her gums, then let him position the chisel on her teeth and whack away at them. He nearly hammered his arm off, but he wasn’t able to harm them.

The third volunteer tried sawing them off with the electric saw. He ran the saw from one side of her mouth to the other, and sparks were flying everywhere, but when he put it down and the dust cleared, Gertha’s teeth were as white, gleaming and solid as ever.

The Twisting twins, Sive and Seersa, came on after her. They were identical twins and they were contortionists like Alexander Ribs. Their act involved twisting their bodies around each other so they looked like one person with two fronts instead of a back, or two upper bodies and no legs. They were skilful and it was pretty interesting, but dull compared to the rest of the performers.

When Sive and Seersa were finished, Mr Tall came out and thanked us for coming. I thought the freaks would come out again and line up in a row, but they didn’t. Instead, Mr Tall said we could buy more stuff at the back of the hall on our way out. He asked us to mention the show to our friends. Then he thanked us again for coming and said that the show was over.

I was a bit disappointed that it had ended so weakly, but it was late and I suppose the freaks were tired. I got to my feet, picked up the stuff I’d bought, and turned to say something to Steve.

He was looking behind me, up at the balcony, his eyes wide. I turned to see what he was looking at, and as I did, people behind us began to scream. When I looked up, I saw why.

There was a huge snake up on the balcony, one of the longest I had ever seen, and it was sliding down one of the poles towards the people at the bottom!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE SNAKE’S tongue flicked in and out of its mouth and it seemed mighty hungry. It wasn’t very colourful – dark green, with a few flecks of brighter colours here and there – but it looked deadly.

The people beneath the balcony ran back towards their seats. They were screaming and dropping stuff as they ran. A few people fainted and some fell and were crushed. Steve and me were lucky to be near the front: we were the smallest people in the theatre and would have been trampled to dust if we’d been caught in the rush.

The snake was about to slither onto the floor when a strong light fixed itself to the snake’s face. The reptile froze and stared into the light without blinking. People stopped running and the panic died down. Those who had fallen pulled themselves back to their feet, and fortunately nobody appeared to be badly hurt.

There was a sound behind us. I turned to look back at the stage. A boy was up there. He was about fourteen or fifteen, very thin, with long yellowy-green hair. His eyes were oddly shaped, narrow like the snake’s. He was dressed in a long white robe.

The boy made a hissing noise and raised his arms above his head. The robe fell away and everybody who was watching him let out a loud gasp of surprise. His body was covered in scales!

From head to toe he sparkled, green and gold and yellow and blue. He was wearing a pair of shorts but nothing else. He turned around so we could see his back, and that was the same as the front, except a few shades darker.

When he faced us again, he lay down on his belly and slid off the stage, just like a snake. It was then that I remembered the snake-boy on the flyer and put two and two together.

He stood when he reached the floor and walked towards the back of the theatre. I saw, as he passed, that he had strange hands and feet: his fingers and toes were joined to each other by thin sheets of skin. He looked a bit like that monster I saw in an old horror film, the one who lived in the black lagoon.

He stopped a few metres away from the pillar and crouched down. The light which had been blinding the snake snapped off and it began to move again, sliding down the last stretch of pole. The boy made another hissing noise and the snake paused. I recalled reading somewhere once that snakes can’t hear, but can feel sounds.

The snake-boy shuffled a short bit to his left, then his right. The snake’s head followed him but didn’t lunge. The boy crept closer to the snake, until he was within its range. I expected it to strike and kill him, and I wanted to scream at him to run.

But the snake-boy knew what he was doing. When he was close enough he reached out and tickled the snake beneath its chin with his odd webbed fingers. Then he bent forward and kissed it on the nose!

The snake wrapped itself around the boy’s neck. It coiled about him a couple of times, leaving its tail draped over his shoulder and down his back like a scarf.

The boy stroked the snake and smiled. I thought he was going to walk through the crowd, letting the rest of us rub it, but he didn’t. Instead he walked over to the side of the theatre, away from the path to the door. He unwrapped the snake and put it down on the floor, then tickled it under its chin once more.

The mouth opened wide this time, and I saw its fangs. The snake-boy lay down on his back a short bit away from the snake, then began wriggling towards it!

“No,” I said softly to myself. “Surely he’s not going to …”

But yes, he stuck his head in the snake’s wide-open mouth!

The snake-boy stayed inside the mouth for a few more seconds, then slowly eased out. He wrapped the snake about him once more, then rolled around and around until the snake covered him completely, except for his face. He managed to hop to his feet and grin. He looked like a rolled-up carpet!

“And that, ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr Tall from the stage behind us, “really is the end.” He smiled and leapt from the stage, vanishing in midair in a puff of smoke. When it cleared, I saw him by the back of the theatre, holding the exit curtains open.

The pretty ladies and mysterious blue-hooded people were standing to his left and right, their arms loaded with trays full of goodies. I was sorry I hadn’t saved some of my money.

Steve said nothing while we were waiting. I could tell from the serious look on his face that he was still thinking, and from past experience I knew there was no point trying to talk to him. When Steve went into one of his moods, nothing could jolt him out of it.

When the rows behind us had cleared out, we made our way to the back of the theatre. I brought the stuff I’d bought with me. I also lugged Steve’s gifts, because he was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he would have dropped them or left them behind.

Mr Tall was standing at the back, holding the curtains open, smiling at everyone. The smile widened when we approached.

“Well, boys,” he said, “did you enjoy the show?”

“It was fabulous!” I said.

“You weren’t scared?” he asked.

“A little,” I admitted, “but no more than anybody else.”

He laughed. “You’re a tough pair,” he said.

There were people behind us, so we hurried on, not wanting to hold them up. Steve looked about when we entered the short corridor between the two sets of curtains, then leaned over and whispered in my ear: “Go back by yourself.”

“What?” I asked, stopping. The people who had been behind us were chatting with Mr Tall, so there was no rush.

“You heard,” he said.

“Why should I?” I asked.

“Because I’m not coming,” he said. “I’m staying. I don’t know how things will turn out, but I have to stay. I’ll follow you home later, after I’ve …” His voice trailed off and he pulled me forward.

We pushed past the second set of curtains and entered the corridor with the table, the one covered by the long black cloth. The people ahead of us had their backs to us. Steve looked over his shoulder, to make sure nobody could see, then dived underneath the table and hid behind the cloth!

“Steve!” I hissed, worried he was going to get us into trouble.

“Go on!” he hissed back.

“But you can’t—” I began.

“Do what I say!” he snapped. “Go, quick, before we’re caught.”

I didn’t like it but what else could I do? Steve sounded like he’d go ape if I didn’t obey him. I’d seen Steve get into fierce rages before and he wasn’t someone you wanted to mess with when he was angry.

I started walking, turned the corner and began down the long corridor leading to the front door. I was walking slowly, thinking, and the people in front got further ahead. I glanced over my shoulder and saw there was still nobody behind me.

And then I spotted the door.

It was the one we’d stopped by on our way in, the one leading up to the balcony. I paused when I reached it and checked behind one last time. Nobody there.

“OK,” I said to myself, “I’m staying! I don’t know what Steve’s up to, but he’s my best friend. If he gets into trouble, I want to be there to help him out.”

Before I could change my mind, I opened the door, slipped through, shut it quickly behind me and stood in the dark, my heart beating as fast as a mouse’s.

I stood there for ages, listening while the last of the audience filed out. I could hear their murmurs as they discussed the show in hushed, frightened, but excited tones. Then they were gone and the place was quiet. I thought I’d be able to hear noises from inside the theatre, people cleaning up and fixing the chairs back in place, but the whole building was silent as a graveyard.

I climbed the stairs. My eyes had got used to the dark and I could see pretty well. The stairs were old and creaky and I was half-afraid they would snap under my feet and send me hurtling to my death, but they held.

When I reached the top I discovered I was standing in the middle of the balcony. It was very dusty and dirty up here, and cold too. I shivered as I crept down towards the front.

I had a great view of the stage. The lights were still on and I could see everything in perfect detail. Nobody was about, not the freaks, not the pretty ladies, not the blue-hoods – not Steve. I sat back and waited.

About five minutes later, I spotted a shadow creeping slowly towards the stage. It pulled itself up, then stood and walked to the centre, where it stopped and turned around.

It was Steve.

He started towards the left wing, then stopped and set off towards the right. He stopped again. I could see him chewing on his nails, trying to decide which way to go.

Then a voice came from high above his head. “Are you looking for me?” it asked. A figure swooped down onto the stage, its arms out to its sides, a long red cloak floating behind it like a pair of wings.

Steve nearly jumped out of his skin when the figure hit the stage and rolled into a ball. I toppled backwards, terrified. When I rose to my knees again, the figure was standing and I was able to make out its red clothes, orange hair, pale skin and huge scar.

Mr Crepsley!

Steve tried speaking, but his teeth were shaking too much.

“I saw you watching me,” Mr Crepsley said. “You gasped aloud when you first saw me. Why?”

“B-b-b-because I kn-kn-know who you a-are,” Steve stuttered, finding his voice.

“I am Larten Crepsley,” the creepy-looking man said.

“No,” Steve replied. “I know who you really are.”

“Oh?” Mr Crepsley smiled, but there was no humour in it. “Tell me, little boy,” he sneered, “who am I, really?”

“Your real name is Vur Horston,” Steve said, and Mr Crepsley’s jaw dropped in astonishment. And then Steve said something else, and my jaw dropped too.

“You’re a vampire,” he said, and the silence which followed was as long as it was terrifying.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MR CREPSLEY (or Vur Horston, if that was his real name) smiled. “So,” he said, “I have been discovered. I should not be surprised. It had to happen eventually. Tell me, boy, who sent you?”

“Nobody,” Steve said.

Mr Crepsley frowned. “Come, boy,” he growled, “do not play games. Who are you working for? Who put you onto me and what do they want?”

“I’m not working for anybody,” Steve insisted. “I’ve lots of books and magazines at home about vampires and monsters. There was a picture of you in one of them.”

“A picture?” Mr Crepsley asked suspiciously.

“A painting,” Steve replied. “It was done in 1903, in Paris. You were with a rich woman. The story said the two of you almost married, but she found out you were a vampire and dumped you.”

Mr Crepsley smiled. “As good a reason as any. Her friends thought she was inventing a fantastic story to make herself look better.”

“But it wasn’t a story, was it?” Steve asked.

“No,” Mr Crepsley agreed. “It was not.” He sighed and fixed Steve with a fierce gaze. “Though it might have been better for you if it had been!” he boomed.

If I’d been in Steve’s place, I would have fled as soon as he said that. But Steve didn’t even blink.

“You won’t hurt me,” he said.

“Why not?” Mr Crepsley asked.

“Because of my friend,” Steve said. “I told him all about you and if anything happens to me, he’ll tell the police.”

“They will not believe him,” Mr Crepsley snorted.

“Probably not,” Steve agreed. “But if I turn up dead or go missing, they’ll have to investigate. You wouldn’t like that. Lots of police asking questions, coming here in the daytime …”

Mr Crepsley shook his head with disgust. “Children!” he snarled. “I hate children. What is it you want? Money? Jewels? The rights to publish my story?”

“I want to join you,” Steve said.

I nearly fell off the balcony when I heard that. Join him?

“What do you mean?” Mr Crepsley asked, as stunned as I was.

“I want to become a vampire,” Steve said. “I want you to make me a vampire and teach me your ways.”

“You are crazy!” Mr Crepsley roared.

“No,” Steve said, “I’m not.”

“I cannot turn a child into a vampire,” Mr Crepsley said. “I would be murdered by the Vampire Generals if I did.”

“What are Vampire Generals?” Steve asked.

“Never you mind,” Mr Crepsley said. “All you need to know is, it cannot be done. We do not blood children. It creates too many problems.”

“So don’t change me straightaway,” Steve said. “That’s OK. I don’t mind waiting. I can be an apprentice. I know vampires often have assistants who are half-human, half-vampire. Let me be one. I’ll work hard and prove myself, and when I’m old enough …”

Mr Crepsley stared at Steve and thought it over. He clicked his fingers while he was thinking and a chair flew up onto the stage from the front row! He sat down on it and crossed his legs.

“Why do you want to be a vampire?” he asked. “It is not much fun. We can only come out at night. Humans despise us. We have to sleep in dirty old places like this. We can never marry or have children or settle down. It is a horrible life.”

“I don’t care,” Steve said stubbornly.

“Is it because you want to live forever?” Mr Crepsley asked. “If so, I must tell you – we do not. We live far longer than humans, but we die all the same, sooner or later.”

“I don’t care,” Steve said again. “I want to come with you. I want to learn. I want to become a vampire.”

“What about your friends?” Mr Crepsley asked. “You would not be able to see them again. You would have to leave school and home and never return. What about your parents? Would you not miss them?”

Steve shook his head miserably and looked down at the floor. “My dad doesn’t live with us,” he said softly. “I hardly ever see him. And my mum doesn’t love me. She doesn’t care what I do. She probably won’t even notice I’m gone.”

“That is why you want to run away? Because your mother does not love you?”

“Partly,” Steve said.

“If you wait a few years, you will be old enough to leave by yourself,” Mr Crepsley said.

“I don’t want to wait,” Steve replied.

“And your friends?” Mr Crepsley asked again. He looked quite kind at the moment, though still a bit scary. “Would you miss the boy you came with tonight?”

“Darren?” Steve asked, then nodded. “Yes, I’ll miss my friends, Darren especially. But it doesn’t matter. I want to be a vampire more than I care about them. And if you don’t accept me, I’ll tell the police and become a vampire hunter when I grow up!”

Mr Crepsley didn’t laugh. Instead he nodded seriously. “You have thought this through?” he asked.

“Yes,” Steve said.

“You are certain it is what you want?”

“Yes,” came the answer.

Mr Crepsley took a deep breath. “Come here,” he said. “I will have to test you first.”

Steve stood beside Mr Crepsley. His body blocked my view of the vampire, so I couldn’t see what happened next. All I know is, they spoke to each other very softly, then there was a noise like a cat lapping up milk.

I saw Steve’s back shaking and I thought he was going to fall over but somehow he managed to stay upright. I can’t even begin to tell you how frightened I was, watching this. I wanted to leap to my feet and cry out, “No, Steve, stop!”

But I was too scared to move, terrified that, if Mr Crepsley knew I was here, there would be nothing to stop him from killing and eating both me and Steve.

All of a sudden, the vampire began coughing. He pushed Steve away from him and stumbled to his feet. To my horror, I saw his mouth was red, covered in blood, which he quickly spat out.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked, rubbing his arm where he had fallen.

“You have bad blood!” Mr Crepsley screamed.

“What do you mean?” Steve asked. His voice was trembling.

“You are evil!” Mr Crepsley shouted. “I can taste the menace in your blood. You are savage.”

“That’s a lie!” Steve yelled. “You take that back!”

Steve ran at Mr Crepsley and tried to punch him, but the vampire knocked him to the floor with one hand. “It is no good,” he growled. “Your blood is bad. You can never be a vampire!”

“Why not?” Steve asked. He had started to cry.

“Because vampires are not the evil monsters of lore,” Mr Crepsley said. “We respect life. You have a killer’s instincts, but we are not killers.

“I will not make you a vampire,” Mr Crepsley insisted. “You must forget about it. Go home and get on with your life.”

“No!” Steve screamed. “I won’t forget!” He stumbled to his feet and pointed a shaking finger at the tall, ugly vampire. “I’ll get you for this,” he promised. “I don’t care how long it takes. One day, Vur Horston, I’ll track you down and kill you for rejecting me!”

Steve jumped from the stage and ran towards the exit. “One day!” he called back over his shoulder, and I could hear him laughing as he ran, a crazy kind of laugh.

Then he was gone and I was alone with the vampire.

Mr Crepsley sat where he was for a long time, his head between his hands, spitting bits of blood out onto the stage. He wiped his teeth with his fingers, then with a large handkerchief.

“Children!” he snorted aloud, then stood, still wiping his teeth, glanced one last time out over the chairs at the theatre (I ducked down low for fear he might spot me), then turned and walked back to the wings. I could see drops of blood dripping from his lips as he went.

I stayed where I was for a long, long time. It was tough. I’d never been as scared as I was up there on the balcony. I wanted to rush out of the theatre as fast as my feet would carry me.

But I stayed. I made myself wait until I was sure none of the freaks or helpers were about, then slowly crept back up the balcony, down the stairs, into the corridor, and finally out into the night.

I stood outside the theatre for a few seconds, staring up at the moon, studying the trees until I was sure there were no vampires lurking on any of the branches. Then, as quietly as I could, I raced for home. My home, not Steve’s. I didn’t want to be near Steve right then. I was almost as scared of Steve as I was of Mr Crepsley. I mean, he wanted to be a vampire! What sort of lunatic actually wants to be a vampire?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I DIDN’T ring Steve that Sunday. I told Mum and Dad we’d had a bit of an argument and that was why I’d come home early. They weren’t happy about it, especially my having walked home so late at night by myself. Dad said he was going to dock my pocket money and was grounding me for a month. I didn’t argue. The way I saw it, I was getting off lightly. Imagine what they’d have done to me if they knew about the Cirque Du Freak!

Annie loved her presents. She gobbled the candy down quick and played with the spider for hours. She made me tell her all about the show. She wanted to know what every freak looked like and what they’d done. Her eyes went wide when I told her about the Wolf Man and how he bit off a woman’s arm.

“You’re joking,” she said. “That can’t be true.”

“It is,” I vowed.

“Cross your heart?” she asked.

“Cross my heart.”

“Swear on your eyes?”

“I swear on my eyes,” I promised. “May rats gnaw them out if I’m telling a lie.”

“Wow!” she gasped. “I wish I’d been there. If you ever go again, will you take me?”

“Sure,” I said, “but I don’t think the freak show comes here that often. They move about a lot.”

I didn’t tell Annie about Mr Crepsley being a vampire or Steve wanting to become one, but I thought about the two of them all day long. I wanted to ring Steve but didn’t know what to say. He would be bound to ask why I didn’t go back to his place, and I didn’t want to tell him that I’d stayed in the theatre and spied on him.

Imagine: a real-life vampire! I used to believe they were real but then my parents and teachers convinced me they weren’t. So much for the wisdom of grown-ups!

I wondered what vampires were really like, whether they could do everything the books and films said they could. I had seen Mr Crepsley make a chair fly, and I’d seen him swoop down from the roof of the theatre, and I’d seen him drink some of Steve’s blood. What else could he do? Could he turn into a bat, into smoke, into a rat? Could you see him in a mirror? Would sunlight kill him?

As much as I thought about Mr Crepsley, I thought just as much about Madam Octa. I wished once again that I could buy one like her, one I could control. I could join a freak show if I had a spider like that, and travel the world, having marvellous adventures.

Sunday came and went. I watched TV, helped Dad in the garden and Mum in the kitchen (part of my punishment for coming home late by myself), went for a long walk in the afternoon, and daydreamed about vampires and spiders.

Then it was Monday and time for school. I was nervous going in, not sure what I was going to say to Steve, or what he might say to me. Also, I hadn’t slept much over the weekend (it’s hard to sleep when you’ve seen a real vampire), so I was tired and groggy.

Steve was in the yard when I arrived, which was unusual. I normally got to school before him. He was standing apart from the rest of the kids, waiting for me. I took a deep breath, then walked over and leaned against the wall beside him.

“Morning,” I said.

“Morning,” he replied. There were dark circles under his eyes and I bet he’d slept even less than me the last couple of nights. “Where did you get to after the show?” he asked.

“I went home,” I told him.

“Why?” he asked, watching me carefully.

“It was dark outside and I wasn’t looking where I was going. I took a few wrong turns and got lost. By the time I found myself somewhere familiar, I was closer to home than to your house.”

I made the lie sound as convincing as possible, and I could see him trying to figure out if it was the truth or not.

“You must have got into a lot of trouble,” he said.

“Tell me about it!” I groaned. “No pocket money, grounded for a month, and Dad said I’m going to have to do loads of chores. Still,” I said with a grin, “it was worth it, right? I mean, was the Cirque Du Freak superb or what!”

Steve studied me for one more moment, then decided I was telling the truth. “Yeah,” he said, returning my smile. “It was great.”

Tommy and Alan arrived and we had to tell them everything. We were pretty good actors, Steve and me. You’d never have guessed that he had spoken to a vampire on Friday, or that I had seen him.

I could tell, as the day wore on, that things would never be quite the same between me and Steve. Even though he believed what I’d told him, part of him still doubted me. I caught him looking at me oddly from time to time, as though I was someone who had hurt him.

For my part, I didn’t want to get too close to him any longer. It scared me, what he’d said to Mr Crepsley, and what the vampire had said to him. Steve was evil, according to Mr Crepsley. It worried me. After all, Steve was prepared to become a vampire and kill people for their blood. How could I go on being friends with someone like that?

We got chatting about Madam Octa later that afternoon. Steve and me hadn’t said much about Mr Crepsley and his spider. We were afraid to talk about him, in case we let something slip. But Tommy and Alan kept pestering us and eventually we filled them in on the act.

“How do you think he controlled the spider?” Tommy asked.

“Maybe it was a fake spider,” Alan said.

“It wasn’t a fake,” I snorted. “None of the freaks were fake. That was why it was so brilliant. You could tell everything was real.”

“So how did he control it?” Tommy asked again.

“Maybe the flute is magic,” I said, “or else Mr Crepsley knows how to charm spiders, the way Indians can charm snakes.”

“But you said Mr Tall controlled the spider as well,” Alan said, “when Mr Crepsley had Madam Octa in his mouth.”

“Oh. Yes. I forgot,” I said. “Well, I guess that means they must have used magic flutes.”

“They didn’t use magic flutes,” Steve said. He had been quiet most of the day, saying less than me about the show, but Steve never could resist hammering someone with facts.

“So what did they use?” I asked.

“Telepathy,” Steve answered.

“Is that something to do with telephones?” Alan asked.

Steve smiled, and Tommy and me laughed (although I wasn’t entirely sure what “telepathy” meant, and I bet Tommy wasn’t either). “Moron!” Tommy chuckled, and punched Alan playfully.

“Go on, Steve,” I said, “tell him what it means.”

“Telepathy is when you can read somebody else’s mind,” Steve explained, “or send them thoughts without speaking. That’s how they controlled the spider, with their minds.”

“So what’s with the flutes?” I asked.

“Either they’re just for show,” Steve said, “or, more likely, you need them to attract her attention.”

“You mean anyone could control her?” Tommy asked.

“Anyone with a brain, yes,” Steve said. “Which counts you out, Alan,” he added, but smiled to show he didn’t mean it.

“You wouldn’t need magic flutes or special training or anything?” Tommy asked.

“I wouldn’t think so,” Steve answered.

The talk moved on to something else after that – football, I think – but I wasn’t listening. Because all of a sudden there was a new thought running through my mind, setting my brain on fire with ideas. I forgot about Steve and vampires and everything.

“You mean anyone could control her?”

“Anyone with a brain, yes.”

“You wouldn’t need magic flutes or special training or anything?”

“I wouldn’t imagine so.”

Tommy’s and Steve’s words kept bouncing through my mind, over and over, like a stuck CD.

Anyone could control her. That anyone could be me. If I could get my hands on Madam Octa and communicate with her, she could be my pet and I could control her and …

No. It was foolish. Maybe I could control her, but I would never own her. She was Mr Crepsley’s and there was no way in the world that he would part with her, not for money or jewels or..

The answer hit me in a flash. A way to get her off him. A way to make her mine. Blackmail! If I threatened the vampire – I could say I’d set the police onto him – he’d have to let me keep her.

But the thought of going face to face with Mr Crepsley terrified me. I knew I couldn’t do it. That left just one other option: I’d have to steal her!

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EARLY MORNING would be the best time to steal the spider. Having performed so late into the night, most members of the Cirque Du Freak would probably sleep in until eight or nine. I’d sneak into camp, find Madam Octa, grab her and run. If that wasn’t possible – if the camp was active – I’d simply return home and forget about it.

The difficult part was picking a day. Wednesday was ideal: the last show would have played the night before, so the circus would in all likelihood have pulled out before midday and moved on to its next venue before the vampire could awake and discover the theft. But what if they left town directly after the show, in the middle of the night? Then I’d miss my big chance.

It had to be tomorrow – Tuesday. That meant Mr Crepsley would have the whole of Tuesday night to search for his spider – for me – but that was a risk I’d just have to take.

I went to bed a bit earlier than usual. I was tired and ready to fall asleep, but was so excited, I thought I wouldn’t be able to. I kissed Mum goodnight and shook Dad’s hand. They thought I was trying to win my pocket money back, but it was in case something happened to me at the theatre and I never saw them again.

I have a radio which is also an alarm clock, and I set the alarm to five o’clock in the morning, then stuck my headphones on and plugged them into the radio. That way, I could wake up nice and early without waking anyone else.

I fell asleep quicker than I expected and slept straight through till morning. If I had any dreams, I can’t remember them.

Next thing I knew, the alarm was sounding. I groaned, turned over, then sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes. I wasn’t sure where I was for a few seconds, or why I was awake so early. Then I remembered the spider and the plan, and grinned happily.

The grin didn’t last long, because I realised the alarm wasn’t coming through my headphones. I must have rolled over in my sleep and pulled the cord out! I leapt across my bed and slammed the alarm off, then sat in the early morning darkness, heart pounding, listening for noises.

When I was sure my parents were still asleep, I slid out of bed and got dressed as quietly as I could. I went to the toilet and was about to flush when I thought of the noise it would make. I yanked my hand away from the lever and wiped the sweat from my brow. They would surely have heard that! A narrow escape. I’d have to be more careful when I got to the theatre.

I slipped downstairs and let myself out. The sun was on its way up and it looked like it would be a bright day.

I walked quickly and sang songs to pep me up. I was a bundle of nerves and almost turned back a dozen times. Once I actually did turn and start walking home, but then I remembered the way the spider had hung from Mr Crepsley’s jaws, and the tricks she had performed, and swung around again.

I can’t explain why Madam Octa meant so much to me, or why I was placing my life in such peril to have her. Looking back, I’m no longer sure what drove me on. It was simply a dreadful need I couldn’t ignore.

The crumbling old building looked even creepier by day. I could see cracks running down the front, holes nibbled by rats and mice, spider webs in the windows. I shivered and hurried round to the rear. It was deserted. Empty old houses, junk yards, scrap heaps. There would be people moving about later in the day, but right then it looked like a ghost town. I didn’t even see a cat or a dog.

As I’d thought, there were plenty of ways to get into the theatre. There were two doors and loads of windows to choose from.

Several cars and vans were parked outside the building. I didn’t spot any signs or pictures on them, but I was sure they belonged to the Cirque Du Freak. It suddenly struck me that the freaks most probably slept in the vans. If Mr Crepsley had a home in one of them, my plan was sunk.

I snuck into the theatre, which felt even colder than it had been on Saturday night, and tiptoed down a long corridor, then another, then another! It was like a maze back here and I started worrying about finding my way out. Maybe I should go back and bring a ball of string, so I could mark my way and—

No! It was too late for that. If I left, I’d never have the guts to return. I’d just have to remember my steps as best I could and say a little prayer when it came time to leave.

I saw no sign of any freaks, and began to think I was on a fool’s errand, that they were all in the vans or in nearby hotels. I’d been searching for twenty minutes and my legs felt heavy after so much walking. Maybe I should quit and forget the crazy plan.

I was about to give up when I found a set of stairs leading down to a cellar. I paused at the top for ages, biting my lips, wondering if I should go down. I’d seen enough horror films to know this was the most likely spot for a vampire, but I’d also seen loads where the hero walked down to a similar cellar, only to be attacked, murdered and chopped up into little pieces!

Finally I took a deep breath and started down. My shoes were making too much noise, so I eased them off and padded along in just my socks. I picked up loads of splinters, but was so nervous, I didn’t feel the pain.

There was a huge cage near the bottom of the stairs. I edged over to it and looked through the bars. The Wolf Man was inside, lying on his back, asleep and snoring. He twitched and moaned as I watched. I jumped back from the cage. If he woke, his howls would bring the whole freak show down on me in seconds flat!

As I was stumbling backwards, my foot hit something soft and slimy. I turned my head slowly and saw I was standing over the snake-boy! He was stretched out on the floor, his snake wrapped around him, and his eyes were wide open!

I don’t know how I managed not to scream or faint, but somehow I kept quiet and stayed on my feet, and that saved me. Because, even though the snake-boy’s eyes were open, he was fast asleep. I knew by the way he was breathing: deeply, heavily, in and out.

I tried not to think about what would have happened if I’d fallen on him and the snake and woken them up.

Enough was enough. I gave one last look around the dark cellar, promising myself I’d leave if I didn’t spot the vampire. For a few seconds I saw nothing and got ready to scram, but then I noticed what might have been a large box near one of the walls.

It might have been a large box. But it wasn’t. I knew all too well what it really was. It was a coffin!

I gulped, then walked carefully over to the coffin. It was about two metres long and eighty centimetres wide. The wood was dark and stained. Moss was growing in patches, and I could see a family of cockroaches in one of the corners.

I’d love to say I was brave enough to lift the lid and peek inside, but of course I wasn’t and didn’t. Even the thought of touching the coffin gave me the shivers!

I searched for Madam Octa’s cage. I felt sure she wouldn’t be far from her master, and right enough, there was the cage, on the floor by the head of the coffin, covered by a big red cloth.

I glanced inside, to make sure, and there she was, her belly pulsing, her eight legs twitching. She looked horrible and terrifying this close up, and for a second I thought about leaving her. All of a sudden it seemed like a stupid idea, and the thought of touching her hairy legs or letting her anywhere near my face filled me with dread.

But only a true coward would turn back now. So I picked up the cage and laid it in the middle of the cellar. The key was hanging from the lock and one of the flutes was tied to the bars at the side.

I took out the note I had written back home the night before. It was simple, but had taken me ages to write. I read it as I stuck it to the top of the coffin with a piece of gum.

Mr Crepsley,

I know who and what you are. I have taken Madam Octa and am keeping her. Do not come looking for her. Do not come back to this town. If you do, I will tell everyone that you are a vampire and you will be hunted down and killed. I am not Steve. Steve knows nothing about this. I will take good care of the spider.

Of course, I didn’t sign it!

Mentioning Steve probably wasn’t a good idea, but I was sure the vampire would think of him anyway, so it was just as well to clear his name.

With the note pinned in place, it was time to go. I picked up the cage and hurried up the stairs as fast as I could (being as silent as possible): I slipped my shoes back on and found my way out. It was easier than I’d imagined: the halls looked brighter after the dark of the cellar. When I got outside I walked slowly round to the front of the theatre, then ran for home, stopping for nothing, leaving the theatre and the vampire and my fear far behind. Leaving everything behind – except for Madam Octa!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I MADE it back about twenty minutes before Mum and Dad got up. I hid the spider cage at the back of my wardrobe, under a pile of clothes, leaving enough holes so Madam Octa could breathe. She should be safe there: Mum left the tidying of the room to me, and hardly ever came in rooting around.

I slipped into bed and pretended to be asleep. Dad called me at a quarter to eight. I put on my school clothes and walked downstairs, yawning and stretching as though I’d only just woken. I ate breakfast quickly and hurried back upstairs to check on Madam Octa. She hadn’t moved since I’d stolen her. I gave the cage a small shake but she didn’t budge.

I would have liked to stay home and keep an eye on her but that was impossible. Mum always knows when I fake being sick. She’s too smart to be fooled.

That day felt like a week. The seconds seemed to drag like hours, and even break and lunch-time went slowly! I tried playing football but my heart wasn’t in it. I couldn’t concentrate in class and kept giving stupid answers, even to simple questions.

Finally it ended and I was able to rush home and up to my room.

Madam Octa was in the same spot as earlier. I was half-afraid she was dead, but I could see her breathing. Then it struck me: she was waiting to be fed! I’d seen spiders this way before. They could sit still for hours at a time, waiting for their next meal to come along.

I wasn’t sure what I should feed her, but I guessed it wasn’t too different to what ordinary spiders ate. I hurried out into the garden, pausing only to snatch an empty jam jar from the kitchen.

It didn’t take long to collect a couple of dead flies, a few bugs and a long wriggly worm, then back inside I raced, hiding the jam jar inside my T-shirt, so Mum couldn’t see it and start asking questions.

I closed my bedroom door and stuck a chair against it so nobody could come in, then placed Madam Octa’s cage on my bed and removed the cloth.

The spider squinted and crouched down lower at the sudden surge of light. I was about to open the door and throw the food in when I remembered I was dealing with a poisonous spider who could kill me with a couple of bites.

I lifted the jar over the cage, picked out one of the live insects and dropped it. It landed on its back. Its feet twitched in the air and then it managed to roll over onto its belly. It began crawling towards freedom but didn’t get far.

As soon as it moved, Madam Octa pounced. One second she was standing still as a cocoon in the middle of the cage, the next she was over the insect, baring her fangs.

She swallowed the bug down quick. It would have fed a normal spider for a day or two, but to Madam Octa it was no more than a light snack. She made her way back to her original spot and looked at me as if to say, “OK, that was nice. Now where’s the main course?”

I fed her the entire contents of the jar. The worm put up a good fight, twisting and turning madly, but she got her fangs into it and ripped it in half, then into quarters. She seemed to enjoy the worm the most.

I had an idea and fetched my diary from underneath my mattress. My diary is my most prized possession, and it’s because I wrote everything down in it that I’m able to write this book. I remember most of the story anyway, but whenever I get stuck, all I have to do is open the diary and check the facts.

I folded the diary open to the back page, then wrote down all that I knew about Madam Octa: what Mr Crepsley had said about her in the show, the tricks she knew, the food she liked. I put one tick beside food she liked a lot, and two ticks beside food she loved (so far, only the worm). This way I’d be able to work out the best way to feed her, and what to give her as a treat when I wanted her to do a trick.

I brought up some grub from the fridge next: cheese, ham, lettuce and corned beef. She ate just about everything I gave her. It looked like I was going to be kept busy trying to feed this ugly lady!

Tuesday night was horrible. I wondered what Mr Crepsley would think when he woke and found his spider missing and a note in its place. Would he leave like I told him, or would he come looking for his pet? Maybe, since the two of them could speak with each other telepathically, he would be able to trace her here!

I spent hours sitting up in bed, holding a cross to my chest. I wasn’t sure if the cross would work or not. I know they work in the movies but I remembered talking to Steve once and he said a cross was no good by itself. He said they only worked if the person using them was good.

I finally fell asleep about two in the morning. If Mr Crepsley had come, I would have been completely defenceless, but luckily, when I woke in the morning, there was no sign of his having been, and Madam Octa was still resting in the wardrobe.

I felt a lot better that Wednesday, especially when I popped by the old theatre after school and saw the Cirque Du Freak had left. The cars and vans were gone. No trace of the freak show remained.

I’d done it! Madam Octa was mine!

I celebrated by buying a pizza. Ham and pepperoni. Mum and Dad wanted to know what the special occasion was. I said I just felt like something different, offered them – and Annie – a slice, and they left it at that.

I fed the scraps to Madam Octa and she loved them. She ran around the cage licking up every last crumb. I made a note in my diary: “For a special treat, a piece of pizza!”

I spent the next couple of days getting her used to her new home. I didn’t let her out of the cage, but I carried it around the room so she could see every corner and get to know the place. I didn’t want her to be nervous when I finally freed her.

I talked to her all the time, telling her about my life and family and home. I told her how much I admired her and the sort of food I was going to get her and the type of tricks we were going to do. She might not have understood everything I said, but she seemed to.

I went to the library after school on Thursday and Friday and read as much about spiders as I could find. There was all sorts of stuff I hadn’t known. Like they can have up to eight eyes, and the threads of their webs are gluey fluids which harden when they’re let out into the air. But none of the books mentioned performing spiders, or ones with telepathic powers. And I couldn’t find any pictures of spiders like Madam Octa. It looked like none of the people who wrote these books had seen a spider like her. She was unique!

When Saturday came, I decided it was time to let her out of her cage and try a few tricks. I had practised with the flute and could play a few very simple tunes quite well. The hard part was sending thoughts to Madam Octa while playing. It was going to be tricky, but I felt I was up to it.

I closed my door and shut my windows. It was Saturday afternoon. Dad was working and Mum had gone to the shops with Annie. I was all alone, so if anything went wrong, it would be entirely my fault, and I would be the only one to suffer.

I placed the cage in the middle of the floor. I hadn’t fed Madam Octa since last night. I figured she might not want to perform if she was full of food. Animals can be lazy, just like humans.

I removed the cloth, put the flute in my mouth, turned the key and opened the tiny door to the cage. I stepped back and squatted down low, so she could see me.

Madam Octa did nothing for a while. Then she crept to the door, paused and sniffed the air. She looked too fat to squeeze through the gap, and I began to think I must have overfed her. But somehow she managed to suck her sides in and ease out.

She sat on the carpet in front of the cage, her big round belly throbbing. I thought she might walk around the cage, to check the room out, but she didn’t show the faintest sign of having any interest in the room.

Her eyes were glued to me!

I gulped loudly and tried not to let her sense my fear. It was difficult but I managed not to shake or cry. The flute had slipped a couple of centimetres from my lips while I was watching her but I was still holding it. It was time to start playing, so I pressed it back between my lips and prepared to blow.

That was when she made her move. In one giant leap, she sprang across the room. She flew forward, up into the air, jaws open, fangs ready, hairy legs twitching – straight at my unprotected face!

CHAPTER NINETEEN

IF SHE had connected, she would have sunk her fangs into me and I would have died. But luck was on my side, and instead of landing on flesh, she slammed against the end of the flute and went flying off to the side.

She landed in a ball and was dazed for a couple of seconds. Reacting rapidly, aware that my life depended on speed, I stuck the flute between my lips and played like a madman. My mouth was dry but I blew regardless, not daring to lick my lips.

Madam Octa cocked her head when she heard the music. She struggled to her legs and swayed from side to side, as though drunk. I sneaked a quick breath, then started playing a slower tune, which wouldn’t tire my fingers or lungs.

“Hello, Madam Octa,” I said inside my head, shutting my eyes and concentrating. “My name’s Darren Shan. I’ve told you that before but I don’t know if you heard. I’m not even sure if you can hear it now.

“I ’m your new owner. I’m going to treat you real good and feed you loads of insects and meat. But only if you are good and do everything I tell you and don’t attack me again.”

She had stopped swaying and was staring at me. I wasn’t sure if she was listening to my thoughts or planning her next leap.

“I want you to stand on your back legs now,” I told her. “I want you to stand on your two back legs and take a little bow.”

For a few seconds she didn’t respond. I went on playing and thinking, asking her to stand, then commanding her, then begging her. Finally, when I was almost out of breath, she raised herself and stood on her two legs, the way I wanted. Then she took a little bow and relaxed, awaiting my next order.

She was obeying me!

The next order I gave was for her to crawl back into her cage. She did as I bid, and this time I only had to think it once. As soon as she was inside, I closed the door and fell back on my bum, letting the flute fall from my mouth.

The shock I’d got when she jumped at me! My heart was beating so fast, I was afraid it was going to run up my neck and leap out of my mouth! I lay on the floor for ages, staring at the spider, thinking about how close to death I had come.

That should have been warning enough. Any sensible person would have left the door shut and forgot about playing with such a deadly pet. It was too dangerous. What if she hadn’t hit the flute? What if Mum had come home and found me dead on the floor? What if the spider then attacked her or Dad or Annie? Only the world’s dumbest person would run a risk like that again.

Step forward – Darren Shan!

It was crazy, but I couldn’t stop myself. Besides, the way I saw it, there was no point having stolen her if I was going to keep her locked up in a silly old cage.

I was a bit cleverer this time. I unlocked the door but didn’t open it. Instead I played the flute and told her to push it open. She did, and when she came out she seemed as harmless as a kitten and did everything I’d communicated.

I made her do lots of tricks. Made her hop about the room like a kangaroo. Then had her hang from the ceiling and draw pictures with her webs. Next I got her lifting weights (a pen, a box of matches, a marble). After that I told her to sit in one of my remote control cars. I turned it on and it looked like she was driving! I crashed it into a pile of books, but made her jump off at the last moment, so she wasn’t hurt.

I played with her for about an hour and would have happily continued all afternoon, but I heard Mum arriving home and knew she would think it odd if I stayed up in my room all day. The last thing I wanted was her or Dad prying into my private affairs.

So I stuck Madam Octa back in the wardrobe and trotted downstairs, trying to look as natural as possible.

“Were you playing a CD up there?” Mum asked. She had four bags full of clothes and hats, which she and Annie were unpacking on the kitchen table.

“No,” I said.

“I thought I heard music,” she said.

“I was playing a flute,” I told her, trying to sound casual.

She stopped unpacking. “You?” she asked. “Playing a flute?”

“I do know how to play one,” I said. “You taught me when I was five years old, remember?”

“I remember,” she laughed. “I also remember when you were six and told me flutes were for girls. You swore you were never going to look at one again!”

I shrugged as though it was no big thing. “I changed my mind,” I said. “I found a flute on the way home from school yesterday and got to wondering if I could still play.”

“Where did you find it?” she asked.

“On the road.”

“I hope you washed it out before you put it in your mouth. There’s no telling where it might have been.”

“I washed it,” I lied.

“This is a lovely surprise,” she smiled, then ruffled my hair and gave my cheek a big wet kiss.

“Hey! Quit it!” I yelled.

“We’ll make a Mozart out of you yet,” she said. “I can see it now: you playing a piano in a huge concert hall, dressed in a beautiful white suit, your father and I in the front row …”

“Get real, Mum,” I chuckled. “It’s only a flute.”

“From small acorns, oak trees grow,” she said.

“He’s as thick as an oak tree,” Annie giggled.

I stuck my tongue out at her in response.

The next few days were great. I played with Madam Octa whenever I could, feeding her every afternoon (she only needed one meal a day, as long as it was a large one). And I didn’t have to worry about locking my bedroom door because Mum and Dad agreed not to enter when they heard me practising the flute.

I considered telling Annie about Madam Octa but decided to wait a while longer. I was getting on well with the spider but could tell she was still uneasy around me. I wouldn’t bring Annie in until I was sure it was completely safe.

My schoolwork improved during the next week, and so did my goal-scoring. I scored twenty-eight goals between Monday and Friday. Even Mr Dalton was impressed.

“With your good marks in class and your prowess on the field,” he said, “you could turn into the world’s first professional footballer-cum-university professor! A cross between Pele and Einstein!”

I knew he was only pulling my leg but it was nice of him to say it all the same.

It took ages to work up the nerve to let Madam Octa climb up my body and over my face, but I finally tried it on Friday afternoon. I played my best song and didn’t let her start until I’d told her several times what I wanted her to do. When I thought we were ready, I gave her the nod and she began creeping up the leg of my trousers.

It was fine until she reached my neck. The feel of those long thin hairy legs almost caused me to drop the flute. I would have been a dead duck if I had, because she was in the perfect place to sink her fangs. Luckily, my nerve held and I went on playing.

She crawled over my left ear and up to the top of my head, where she lay down for a rest. My scalp itched beneath her but I had sense enough not to try scratching it. I studied myself in the mirror and grinned. She looked like one of those French hats, a beret.

I made her slide down my face and dangle from my nose on one of her web-strings. I didn’t let her into my mouth, but I got her to swing from side to side like she’d done with Mr Crepsley, and had her tickle my chin with her legs.

I didn’t let her tickle me too much, in case I started laughing and dropped the flute!

When I put her back in her cage that Friday night, I felt like a king, like nothing could ever go wrong, that my whole life was going to be perfect. I was doing well in school and at football, and had the sort of pet any boy would trade all his worldly goods for. I couldn’t have been happier if I’d won the lottery or a chocolate factory.

That, of course, was when everything went wrong and the whole world crashed down around my ears.

CHAPTER TWENTY

STEVE POPPED over for a visit late Saturday afternoon. We hadn’t said much to each other all week and he was the last person I was expecting. Mum let him in and called me downstairs. I saw him when I was halfway down, paused, then shouted for him to come up.

He gazed about my room as though he hadn’t been here for months. “I’d almost forgotten what this place looks like,” he said.

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “You were here a couple of weeks ago.”

“It seems longer.” He sat on the bed and turned his eyes on me. His face was serious and lonely. “Why have you been avoiding me?” he asked softly.

“What do you mean?” I pretended I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“You’ve been steering clear of me these past two weeks,” he said. “It wasn’t obvious at first, but each day you’ve been spending less time with me. You didn’t even pick me when we were playing basketball in P.E. last Thursday.”

“You’re not very good at basketball,” I said. It was a lame excuse, but I couldn’t think of a better one.

“I was confused at first,” Steve said, “but then I figured it out. You didn’t get lost the night of the freak show, did you? You stuck around, up in the balcony probably, and saw what happened between me and Vur Horston.”

“I saw nothing of the sort,” I snapped.

“No?” he asked.

“No,” I lied.

“You didn’t see anything?”

“No.”

“You didn’t see me talking to Vur Horston?”

“No!”

“You didn’t—”

“Look, Steve,” I interrupted, “whatever happened between you and Mr Crepsley is your business. I wasn’t there, didn’t see it, don’t know what you’re talking about. Now if—”

“Don’t lie to me, Darren,” he said.

“I’m not lying!” I lied.

“Then how did you know I was talking about Mr Crepsley?” he asked.

“Because …” I bit my tongue.

“I said I was talking to Vur Horston,” Steve smiled. “Unless you were there, how would you know that Vur Horston and Larten Crepsley are one and the same?”

My shoulders sagged. I sat on the bed beside Steve. “OK,” I said, “I admit it. I was in the balcony.”

“How much did you see and hear?” Steve asked.

“Everything. I couldn’t see what he was doing when he was sucking out your blood, or hear what he was saying. But apart from that …”

“… everything,” Steve finished with a sigh. “That’s why you’ve been avoiding me: because he said I was evil.”

“Partly,” I said. “But mostly because of what you said. Steve, you asked him to turn you into a vampire! What if he had turned you into one and you’d come after me? Most vampires go after people they know first, don’t they?”

“In books and films, yes,” Steve said. “This is different. This is real life. I wouldn’t have hurt you, Darren.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not. The point is, I don’t want to find out. I don’t want to be friends with you any more. You could be dangerous. What if you met another vampire and this one granted your wish? Or what if Mr Crepsley was right and you’re really evil and—”

“I’m not evil!” Steve shouted, and shoved me back on the bed. He leapt on my chest and stuck his fingers in my face. “Take that back!” he roared. “Take that back, or so help me, I’ll jerk your head off and—”

“I take it back! I take it back!” I shrieked. Steve was heavy on my chest, his face flushed and furious. I would have said anything to get him off.

He sat perched on my chest a few seconds longer, then grunted and rolled off. I sat up, gasping, rubbing my face where he had poked it.

“Sorry,” Steve mumbled. “That was over the top. But I’m upset. It hurt, what Mr Crepsley said, and you ignoring me at school. You’re my best friend, Darren, the only person I can really talk to. If you break up our friendship, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

He started to cry. I watched him for a few seconds, torn between fear and sympathy. Then my nobler self got the better of me and I put an arm around his shoulder. “It’s OK,” I said. “I’ll still be your friend. C’mon, Steve, quit crying, OK?”

He tried but it took a while for the tears to stop. “I must look a right fool,” he finally sniffed.

“Nonsense,” I said. “I’m the fool. I should have stood by you. I was a coward. I never stopped to imagine what you must be going through. I was only thinking of myself and Madam—” I pulled a face and stopped talking.

Steve stared at me curiously. “What were you going to say?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “It was a slip of the tongue.”

He grunted. “You’re a bad liar, Shan. Always were. Tell me what it was you were about to let slip.”

I studied his face, wondering if I should tell him. I knew I shouldn’t, that it could only mean trouble, but I felt sorry for him. Besides, I needed to tell someone. I wanted to show off my wonderful pet and the great tricks we could do.

“Can you keep a secret?” I asked.

“Of course,” he snorted.

“This is a big one. You can’t tell anyone, OK? If I tell you, it has to stay between the two of us. If you ever talk …”

“… you’ll talk about me and Mr Crepsley,” Steve said, grinning. “You have me over a barrel. No matter what you tell me, you know I can’t grass, even if I wanted to. What’s the big secret?”

“Wait a minute,” I said. I got off the bed and opened the door to the room. “Mum?” I shouted.

“Yes?” came her muffled reply.

“I’m showing Steve my flute,” I yelled. “I’m going to teach him how to play it, but only if we’re not disturbed, OK?”

“OK,” she called back.

I closed the door and smiled at Steve. He looked puzzled. “A flute?” he asked. “Your big secret is a flute?”

“That’s part of it,” I said. “Listen, do you remember Madam Octa? Mr Crepsley’s spider?”

“Of course,” he said. “I wasn’t paying much attention to her when she was on but I don’t think anyone could ever forget a creature like that. Those hairy legs: brrrr!”

I opened the door to the wardrobe while he was speaking and got out the cage. His eyes squinted when he saw it, then widened. “That’s not what I think it is, is it?” he asked.

“That depends,” I said, whipping off the cloth. “If you think it’s a deadly performing spider – you’re right!”

“Hell’s bells!” he gasped, almost falling off the bed in shock. “That’s a … she’s a … where did … Wow!”

I was delighted with his reaction. I stood over the cage, smiling like a proud father. Madam Octa lay on the floor, quiet as ever, paying no attention to me or Steve.

“She’s awesome!” Steve said, crawling closer for a better look. “She looks just the same as the one in the circus. I can’t believe you found one that looks so similar. Where’d you get her? A pet shop? From a zoo?”

My smile slipped. “I got her from the Cirque Du Freak, of course,” I said uneasily.

“From the freak show?” he asked, face crinkling. “They were selling live spiders? I didn’t see any. How much did she cost?”

I shook my head and said: “I didn’t buy her, Steve. I … Can’t you guess? Don’t you understand?”

“Understand what?” he asked.

“That’s not a similar spider,” I said. “That’s the same one. It’s Madam Octa.”

He stared at me, as though he hadn’t heard what I’d said. I was about to repeat, it but he spoke up before I could. “The … same … one?” he asked in a slow, trembling voice.

“Yes,” I said.

“You mean … that’s … Madam Octa? The Madam Octa?”

“Yes,” I said again, laughing at his shock.

“That’s … Mr Crepsley’s spider?”

“Steve, what’s wrong? How many times do I have to say it for you to—”

“Wait a minute,” he snapped, shaking his head. “If this is really Madam Octa, how did you get your hands on her? Did you find her outside? Did they sell her off?”

“Nobody would sell a great spider like this,” I said.

“That’s what I thought,” Steve agreed. “So how did … He left the question hanging in the air.

“I stole her,” I said, puffing up proudly. “I went back to the theatre that Tuesday morning, crept in, found where she was and snuck out with her. I left a note telling Mr Crepsley not to come looking for her or I’d report his being a vampire to the police.”

“You … you …” Steve was gasping. His face had turned white and he looked like he was about to collapse.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“You … imbecile!” he roared. “You lunatic! You moron!”

“Hey!” I shouted, upset.

“Idiot! Dumbo! Cretin!” he yelled. “Do you realise what you’ve done? Have you any idea what sort of trouble you’re in?”

“Huh?” I asked, bewildered.

“You stole a vampire’s spider!” Steve shouted. “You stole from a member of the undead! What do you think he’s going to do when he catches up with you, Darren? Spank your bottom and give you fifty lines? Tell your parents and make them ground you? We’re talking about a vampire! He’ll rip out your throat and feed you to the spider! He’ll tear you to pieces and—”

“No, he won’t,” I said calmly.

“Of course he will,” Steve replied.

“No,” I said, “he won’t. Because he won’t find me. I stole the spider the Tuesday before last, so he’s had nearly two whole weeks to track me down, but there hasn’t been a sign of him. He left with the circus and won’t ever come back, not if he knows what’s good for him.”

“I dunno,” Steve said. “Vampires have long memories. He might return when you’re grown up and with kids of your own.”

“I’ll worry about that when and if it happens,” I said. “I’ve got away with it for the time being. I wasn’t sure I would – I thought he’d track me down and kill me – but I did. So quit with the names, all right?”

“You’re something else,” he laughed, shaking his head. “I thought I was daring, but stealing a vampire’s pet! I never would have thought you had it in you. What made you do it?”

“I had to have her,” I told him. “I saw her on stage and knew I’d do anything to get her. Then I discovered Mr Crepsley was a vampire and realised I could blackmail him. It’s wrong, I know, but he’s a vampire, so it’s not too bad, is it? Stealing from someone bad: in a way it’s a good thing, right?”

Steve laughed. “I don’t know if it’s good or bad,” he said. “All I know is, if he ever comes looking for her, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”

He studied the spider again. He stuck his face up close to the cage (but not close enough for her to strike him) and watched her belly bulging in and out.

“Have you let her out of the cage yet?” he asked.

“Every day,” I said. I picked up the flute and gave a toot. Madam Octa jumped forward a couple of centimetres. Steve yelped and fell back on his bum. I howled with laughter.

“You can control her?” he gasped.

“I can make her do everything Mr Crepsley did,” I said, trying not to sound boastful. “It’s quite easy. She’s perfectly safe as long as you concentrate. But if you let your thoughts wander for even a second …” I drew a finger across my throat and made a choking noise.

“Have you let her make a web over your lips?” Steve asked. His eyes were shining brightly.

“Not yet,” I said. “I’m worried about letting her in my mouth: the thought of her slipping down my throat terrifies me. Besides, I’d need a partner to control her while she spun the web, and so far I’ve been alone.”

“So far,” Steve grinned, “but not any more.” He got up and clapped his hands. “Let’s do it. Teach me how to use that fancy tin whistle and let me at her. I’m not afraid to let her in my mouth. C’mon, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go go go go GO!”

I couldn’t ignore excitement like that. I knew it was unwise to involve Steve with the spider on such short notice – I should have made sure he got to know her better – but I ignored common sense and gave in to his wishes.

I told him he couldn’t play the flute, not until he’d practised, but he could play with Madam Octa while I was controlling her. I ran him through the tricks we were going to do and made sure he understood everything.

“Being quiet is vital,” I said. “Don’t say anything. Don’t even whistle loudly. Because if you disturb my attention and I lose control of her …”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve sighed. “I know. Don’t worry. I can be quiet as a mouse when I want.”

When he was ready, I unlocked Madam Octa’s cage and began playing. She advanced at my order. I could hear Steve drawing in his breath, a little scared now that she was out in the open, but he gave no sign that he wanted to stop, so I went on blowing and started her off on her routine.

I let her do a lot of stuff by herself before allowing her near Steve. We’d developed a great understanding over the last week or so. The spider had grown used to my mind and the way it thought, and had learned to obey my commands almost before I finished sending them. I’d learned that she could work from the shortest of instructions: I only had to use a few words to prompt her into action.

Steve watched the show in total silence. He nearly clapped a few times but caught himself before his hands could meet and produce a noise. Instead of clapping, he gave me the thumbs-up sign and mouthed the words “Great”, “Super”, “Brilliant” and so on.

When the time came for Steve to take part in the act, I gave him the nod that we had agreed upon. He gulped, took a deep breath, then nodded back. He rose to his feet and stepped forward, keeping to the side so I wouldn’t lose sight of Madam Octa. Then he sank to his knees and waited.

I played a new tune and sent a new set of orders. Madam Octa sat still, listening. When she knew what I wanted, she started creeping towards Steve. I saw him shivering and licking his lips. I was going to cancel the act and send the spider back to her cage, but then he stopped shaking and became calmer, so I continued.

He gave a small shudder when she started crawling up the leg of his trousers, but that was a natural response. I still got the shakes sometimes when I felt her hairy legs brushing against my skin.

I made Madam Octa crawl up the back of his neck and tickle his ears with her legs. He giggled softly and the last traces of his fear vanished. I felt more confident now that he was calmer, and so moved the spider round to the front of his face, where she built small cobwebs over his eyes and slid down his nose and bounced off his lips.

Steve was enjoying it and so was I. There were lots of new things I was able to do now that I had a partner.

She was on his right shoulder, preparing to slide down his arm, when the door opened and Annie walked in.

Normally Annie never enters my room before knocking. She’s a great kid, not like other brats her age, and nearly always knocks politely and waits for a reply. But that evening, by sheer bad luck, she happened to barge in.

“Hey, Darren, where’s my—” she started to say, then stopped. She saw Steve and the monstrous spider on his shoulder, its fangs glinting as though getting ready to bite, and she did the natural thing.

She screamed.

The sound alarmed me. My head turned, the flute slid from my lips, and my concentration snapped. My link to Madam Octa disintegrated. She shook her head, took a couple of quick steps closer to Steve’s throat, then bared her fangs and appeared to grin.

Steve roared with fear and surged to his feet. He swiped at the spider, but she ducked and his hand missed. Before he could try again, Madam Octa lowered her head, quick as a snake, and sank her poison-tipped fangs deep into his neck!

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

STEVE STIFFENED as soon as the spider bit him. His yells stopped dead in his throat, his lips turned blue, his eyes snapped wide open. For what seemed an eternity (though it couldn’t have been more than three or four seconds), he tottered on his feet. Then he crumpled to the floor like a scarecrow.

The fall saved him. As with the goat at the Cirque Du Freak show, Madam Octa’s first bite knocked Steve out, but didn’t kill him straight off. I saw her moving along his neck before he fell, searching for the right spot, preparing for the second, killer bite.

The fall disturbed her. She slipped from Steve’s neck and it took her a few seconds to climb back up.

Those seconds were all I needed.

I was in a state of shock, but the sight of her emerging over his shoulder like some terrible arachnid sunrise spurred me into life. I stooped for the flute, jammed it almost through the back of my throat, and blew the loudest note of my entire life.

“STOP!” I screamed inside my head, and Madam Octa leapt about half a metre into the air.

“Back inside the cage!” I commanded, and she hopped down from Steve’s body and sped across the floor. As soon as she passed the bars of the door, I lunged forward and slammed it shut.

With Madam Octa taken care of, my attention turned to Steve. Annie was still screaming but I couldn’t worry about her until I’d seen to my poisoned friend.

“Steve?” I asked, crawling close to his ear, praying for an answer. “Are you OK? Steve?” There was no reply. He was breathing, so I knew he was alive, but that was all. There was nothing else he could do. He couldn’t talk or move his arms. He wasn’t even able to blink.

I became aware of Annie standing behind me. She’d stopped screaming but I could feel her shaking.

“Is … is he … dead?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“Of course not!” I snapped. “You can see him breathing, can’t you? Look at his belly and chest.”

“But … why can’t he move?” she asked.

“He’s paralysed,” I told her. “The spider injected him with poison which stops his limbs working. It’s like putting him to sleep, except his brain’s still active and he can see and hear everything.”

I didn’t know if this was true. I hoped it was. If the poison had left the heart and lungs alone, it might also have skipped his brain. But if it had got into his skull …

The thought was too terrible to consider.

“Steve, I’m going to help you up,” I said. “I think if we move you around, the poison will wear off.”

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