“Mud on a stick?” asked Tim in ready reply.
“Looks like a toffee apple from a distance, squire.”
“I’ll take two then, please,” said Tim.
“No, you won’t,” said Will.
“Poo on a stick,” cried another rapscallion. “Looks like mud from a distance.”
“Press on,” said Will. And Tim pressed on.
“Tell me, Will,” said Tim, as the two pressed on together. “What of the plan thus far?”
“Thus far,” said Will, “the plan stands at this. I have here two complimentary tickets dispatched to me by Master Scribbens, who is aloft, probably making himself up even now in preparation for his performance.”
“What exactly does he do for a performance?”
Will shrugged. “I’m not exactly sure. He hinted to me that there was a degree of sliding involved.”
“Hopefully we’ll be in time to miss his act, if you know what I mean. And what of Mr Wells?”
“He slipped aboard the flying circus with Master Scribbens this morning. He’s had a day to search for the computer programme. Let’s hope he’s been successful. An aerial hansom awaits us upon the corner of Hobs Lane; I ordered it earlier. It will take us up to the circus. Once there Mr Wells will take you to the computer room, where you will disable the system.”
“Right,” said Tim, somewhat dubiously.
“And I will take care of Count Otto.”
“Bring him to justice?” said Tim. “How?”
“Kill him,” said Will.
“What?”
“He was responsible for Rune’s death. I know I don’t have any definite proof, but I believe it all the same. And he is the King of the witches. All of this, everything that I and my other self have been through, is because of him. He has to die.”
“That’s savage,” said Tim. “It will make you a murderer. How can you live with that?”
“I won’t be living with that.”
“How so?”
“Because if I thwart Count Otto’s plans, our future will cease to exist, Tim. We will cease to exist.”
“I’m not at all keen on this plan. Isn’t there another we could try?”
“How many times has he tried to kill me?” Will asked. “And you too. He did kill you. One of his clockwork terminators shot you with a General Electric Minigun.”
Tim shivered. “You do what you have to do,” he said. “I’ll take care of the Doomsday Programme.”
They had reached the aerial taxi. Will turned and took Tim’s hand in his. “It all ends tonight,” he said. “In a few hours from now. However it ends, I just want to say that you are the best friend I’ve ever had. And the best half-brother also.”
“Stop it,” said Tim. “You’ll have me getting a crinkly mouth.”
“I’m sorry I got you involved in this.”
“I’m not,” said Tim. “I’ve loved every moment.”
“So, shall we go?”
The cabbie swung open a passenger door.
“Slide in, gents,” said he.
The Brentford Snail Boy slid a flabby hand across the table of the “Lower Rank Performers” dressing room, took up a powder puff and dabbed chalk dust around and about his face. He examined his reflection in the brightly lit mirror and considered it up to passing muster, although not to passing mustard, and certainly not salt.
The Lower Rank Performers dressing room was packed with Lower Rank Performers: conjoined twins, pig-faced ladies, dwarves and midgets, dog-faced boys and alligator girls.
Master Scribbens sighed. These were his people. He was a freak and so were they: outsiders, things to be gawped at and laughed at by “normal” folk.
“A regular dandy,” said a soft lisping voice to the rear of the Snail Boy. “A regular matinee idol.”
Master Makepiece Scribbens looked up from his own reflection to that of the man who stood behind him.
The man who was partly man.
Mr Joseph Merrick.
Tonight he was maskless and clad in an enormous top hat, white tie and tails. He wore a white kid glove (tanned through a process which demanded extensive use of the pure) upon his serviceable right hand; the other was hidden by a sealskin muff. He leaned upon an ebony cane and grinned in a lopsided fashion that was grotesque to behold.
“Joey,” said Makepiece. “I didn’t know you were on the bill tonight.”
“I’m not.” The Elephant Man took a seat next to the Snail Boy. “I’m a guest of Her Majesty, Gawd give her one for me. In the Royal Box. I’m sitting next to Princess Alexandra.”
“Lucky you,” said Master Scribbens.
“And she’s begging for it,” said Mr Merrick. “Keeps touching my good knee. I’m in there, I can tell you.”
Master Scribbens sighed. “I haven’t reached puberty yet,” said he. “But when I do, I hope that I’ll be as big a success with the ladies as you are.”
Joseph Merrick made elephantine trumpetings. “Sorry,” said he. “I shouldn’t laugh. But look at yourself. All you’ve got going for you is an abundance of natural lubricant. The ladies I pleasure get moist at the very sight of me.”
“You’re a very crude man,” said Master Scribbens.
“I’m sorry,” said Mr Merrick. “I don’t wish to offend you. You and I are two of a kind, which is to say that we are not as others. We are neither one thing, nor the other. So what are we truly, tell me that?”
“Alone,” said Master Scribbens and he said it in a most plaintive tone. “Always alone, no matter whose company we are in. Even among our own kind.”
“Precisely. But things will change. Believe me, they will change.”
“I can’t imagine how,” said Master Scribbens.
“Oh they will.” The Elephant Man tapped his pendulous hooter. “They will change tonight. They will change forever. Be assured of that. I know these things. Trust me, I’m a freak.”
A freak. Someone different; someone apart; someone cursed by their own difference. But let’s not get too heavy here. But then, again, let’s do.
Mr H.G. Wells was certainly different. You can’t get much more different than being invisible. Mr H.G. Wells moved invisibly along a corridor. He had spent the day aboard the flying circus, checking it inch by painstaking inch, and so far had found absolutely nothing. He had entered the great central arena, the big top itself, which occupied the gondola at the centre of the five-pointed dirigible. He had marvelled at its splendour and design: seating for two thousand people, Royal boxes, an orchestra stand, a domed glass ceiling, above which could be seen the star-strung sky; and a mass of gilded ornamentation all around and about, which created the effect of some Rajah’s palace.
He had branched out from there, into the numerous offices and sleeping accommodation, and stables, and catering areas and latrines and playrooms and storerooms.
And he had found absolutely nothing.
He had reached the cockpit and the engine rooms.
He had followed upon the polished ivory heels of Count Otto, as he strutted here and strutted there, attending to the minutiae of detail that ensured the Perfect Show.
He’d listened to all that the Count had said, even his whispered words.
And he had learned absolutely nothing, nothing to even suggest that this was anything more than a circus; an incredible circus, albeit, but a circus none the less.
“I am baffled,” said H.G. Wells to himself and he shook his invisible head.
The cabbie shook his head. “The traffic up here,” he said. “Chronic it is. Sorry, gents, but we’re in for a bit of a wait.”
The aerial cabs were nose to tail, queuing to dispatch their glamorous cargoes of lords, ladies and London glitterati at the circus entrance beneath the central big top.
“We’ll be a while,” said the cabbie.