Wild Boy by Rob Lloyd Jones Read Free Book Online Page A

all, with your mother.”
    Clarissa’s freckles flared again. “You shut your head about her!” she snapped. “Ain’t nothing wrong with my mother.”
    She threw the letter at Wild Boy. “You keep it, then. But if someone
does
get killed, then it’s all your fault!” She stormed away, then stopped and turned. “I know why you watch people, you know. It’s because you wish you were normal like them. Well, you never will be because you’re an ugly bloody freak!”
    Wild Boy hurled the stick at her, but missed. He sighed — neither of them had dealt with that well, although what did he expect? They were enemies, after all. But as he picked up the letter from the ground, he couldn’t resist another glance.
    The machine . . .
he read.
    What was all this about?
    Another gust of wind rustled the trees, and crows swooped like witches around the high branches. And then something else moved behind one of the trunks — something black and ragged, and much bigger than a crow. . . .
    Wild Boy whirled around, his heart thumping. “Who is that?” he yelled.
    He rushed to the tree. But no one was there.
    “Master Wild!”
    Sir Oswald called from beyond the glade, one hand pressed into the grass, the other waving urgent signals. “The show’s starting! Hurry!”
    That was a call Wild Boy had never thought he’d be glad to hear. For the first time ever, he realized he was eager to get back inside the van. He stuffed the letter into his pocket and ran full pelt to the fair.

I t was the busiest day of the season so far. The road from London Bridge to Greenwich was so crowded with coaches that whip-fights broke out among the drivers. Their passengers poured through the park gates, dancing and singing in a heaving, steaming mass. The drinking tents ran out of beer, the circus sold out for each show, and queues trailed from every caravan and stall that lined the path.
    Wild Boy usually hated busy days, when there was less time to spy on the fair. But today he was glad of the crowds. With so many punters, there was no chance for Augustus Finch to seek revenge for last night. But Finch hadn’t forgotten. With each painful step on his wounded foot, he cast a vicious glare at Wild Boy. It was his signal that, soon enough, harm would be done.
    But that afternoon, Wild Boy’s mind was on something else — the letter. Over and over he told himself to get rid of it, but he kept sneaking looks. He must have read it a dozen times that day, and it still sent a chill down his back.
    Murder
— it was a dark business, even for a fairground. And Clarissa was right — the warning had never been received. She was right about something else too: Wild Boy
could
tell who the letter was meant for. In fact, he thought he already knew. He kept thinking about what Clarissa had said, how it would be his fault if the person was killed. Deep down he knew she was right. If he could do something to stop it, then he had to try. But that wasn’t the only reason that he’d decided to deliver the letter. It was a mystery, and he was curious to find out more.
    That evening, the wind had settled and a cool mist drifted across the fairground. Wild Boy’s pulse raced as he sneaked behind the caravans and around the side of the circus tent, dodging signs warning CIRCUS CREW ONLY! and NO FREAKS PAST HERE!
    It was dangerous just being here. Wherever the fair traveled, freaks and their showmen always camped apart from the circus crew. It had been that way ever since the circus’s star acrobat ran off with a heavily tattooed performer called the Painted Lady. That acrobat was Clarissa’s father.
    That was before Wild Boy’s time there, but he knew the story. Clarissa’s father had been one of the best acrobats in England, and so had her mother. The three of them used to perform together, thrilling crowds in their red-and-gold costumes. Wild Boy had heard that those were happy times for the circus. But when Clarissa’s father ran off, he left Mary Everett a