Ned’s Circus of Marvels

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Whiskers (#ulink_a83ccfa0-1e1a-5d64-b3a1-986728c2db2a)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tinker, this is … the boy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How old is your mouse, Mr Widdlewats?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh Whiskers, not you too …”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At that the Tinker looked rather surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ringmaster leant in closely.

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

Ned swallowed.

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

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

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

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The Present (#ulink_f307dd3e-26d8-5260-91f0-6f1ae30a43bf)

Ned could feel the blood draining from his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whrrr, dzt, ching.”

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

“… lie to me,” Ned finished lamely.

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

Benissimo passed the Tinker Ned’s birthday present.

“Tinker, what do you make of this?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Ow!”

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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