Ned’s Circus of Marvels: The Complete Collection

The colours, sounds and smells – not to mention the desert heat – were dizzying, and everywhere Ned looked the gathered troupe members were locked in excitable banter. He’d never seen a group of souls so happy to be on familiar soil.

Frocks had been bought, stories exchanged and the food trucks were cooking up some exotic treats. The troupe were readying themselves for a party, all except Mystero and Benissimo. Their minds were clearly focused on the forthcoming mission and the retrieval of Ned’s deposit box.

As the sun started to lower, Ned found George sitting by Rocky’s wife. Beside them, Rocky was locked in a violent wrestling match with another even larger creature Ned didn’t recognise. A crowd of rival circuses had gathered and bets had been placed.

“Hello, Ned,” grinned George. It was the first time Ned had seen him, out and about with the rest of the troupe. “You all set?” he added in a rumbling whisper.

“Yup, think so,” lied back Ned. The knickerbockers were as uncomfortable as they looked.

“Abi – this is what last night’s fuss was about, my new roomie, Ned.”

“Well, of course he is. Ello Master Widdlewoops.” At this she winked to let him know she was one of the few in on his secret, along with Rocky, no doubt. “You’ve caused quite the stir already. Why don’t you come rest your bones next to me,” said Abigail in a thick West Country accent.

She was the prettiest, smiliest, fat bearded lady that Ned had ever seen and he was just beginning to wonder whether her beardedness was the extent of her specialness, when her beard started to ripple excitedly.

“That’s Yuri,” she explained pointing over at the fight, “Rocky’s cousin. He’s a troll like my ’usband – a bridge-troll – and nearly as dumb. Those two have been at it since they could fart. Neither of ’em ever wins, mind, an’ every year they meet up ’ere an’ give each other another good thrashin’. Big ugly lumps, the pair of ’em,” she said with a chuckle.

Crack! Crack! Crack! came a flurry of Rocky’s stoney thumps.

“That’s it, lover, you teach that big Cossack who’s boss!” shouted Abi, cheering on her man.

Benissimo arrived sporting a less crooked hat, a well-groomed beard and what looked like a bit of padding around the belly beneath his shirt. He was not in a playful mood.

“Come along, children, we’ve grown-up business to be taking care of.”

Rocky and Yuri got up off the ground, but not before giving each other a final thump.

“And what of my Kit-Kat?” Benissimo asked, turning his attention to Abigail.

“Gave her a cup o’ cocoa an hour ago. She’s all lights out an’ snuggled up in bed.”

“Good, good. And our perimeter?”

“Luigi an’ Marco are on the roof an’ the other Tortellinis are scattered about all over. I’ll be on the bottom floor of Kitty’s bus havin’ a cuppa till you get back, boss. No one’s getting past the Beard tonight.”

As if to make her point, Abigail’s beard rippled again, like a bicep on a boxer’s arm, which was both impressive and deeply unsettling. Ned tried not to stare.

“Be sure that they don’t; we’ve no rudder without her. Miz, if you wouldn’t mind?”

Mystero – in his more solid form – followed Abigail inside to make a last minute check on Kitty, reappearing a moment later to give the all clear. Then he headed into the city with his decoy group, while Benissimo handed Ned the rest of his costume. It was a large sack of ‘goods’ they would pretend to trade.

“You must be kidding; this weighs a tonne!” moaned Ned.

“Well you have to look the part, boy. Now, try not to mess this up, the less chit-chat the better, rich people like me don’t talk to their skivvies.”

The Ringmaster had now fully returned to his old less-than-charming self.

“You know you were almost nice when we came in to land?”

“A mistake I’ll no doubt forgive myself for … in time.”

***

Shalazaar’s streets and alleys were crammed with stalls, selling all things imaginable, and some that weren’t. Ned had to remind himself not to gawp. Behind the Veil, most of the creatures had no need for glamours and the fair-folk were out in force.

Snake-skinned women in pretty lace dresses laughed as a street conjuror pulled wild and rather irritable pixies from his hat. Slightly away from the crowd, a Chinese Kirin was being stroked for good luck by a group of excitable children. The kindly animal – which Ned recognised from a book of mythological creatures, but had no idea actually existed – had a tiger’s body, though covered in scales, and a face much like a dragon’s with a set of beautiful deer’s antlers at the top of its head. What Ned guessed might be an elf seemed to glide by it, all flowing dress and whiter-than-white skin. Outside a food stall, he was watching a group of tiny, leaf-skinned creatures arguing over a sack of plant feed when something sparkled its way between his legs, on the back of a goose.

“Fairy. Avoid at all costs,” warned Benissimo.

The more human inhabitants wore everything from Japanese kimonos, to outfits that would have looked more at home in the streets of old Paris. Some carried masks on sticks, others wore white powdered make-up. It was a living, breathing melting pot of mismatched places and mismatched times.

“Everyone looks so … different,” said Ned.

“You can trace when their ancestors crossed over, and where from, by looking at their clothes. The last good-sized migration was in the Victorian era. To be honest, some of them are a little snobby about it – especially the ones in togas. Now, button it, underling, or you’ll draw attention.”

Besides being busy, it was also noisy, as the din of a hundred sales competed with Irish fiddles, banging drums and the calls of jugglers trying to catch the eye of passing trade. The market streets of Shalazaar never closed. The Shar insisted on the selling of goods at all times of the day.

“Veil’s on the tumble! Darkling crossings on the up!” yelled a gaggle of ‘ink-hawkers’, trying to sell the local paper to anyone with eyes. “The end of the world is nigh – and only The Rag has it in colour!”

As if to prove a point, a group of ‘unveiled’ sat cross-legged next to the hawkers. This, Benissimo explained, was the name given to the homeless folk who’d had to move on when their part of the protective Veil began faltering. It had only gone completely in small sections so far, but it was worrying nonetheless. The unveiled were mostly ignored though, and their begging bowls left empty. In Shalazaar, the end of the world was not nearly as important as making a little coin.

“Three bars and an ingot? You must be mad! I ain’t payin’ nuffin’ over ’alf a scroll and two coppertops for that frog’s breath,” shouted a loudmouthed woman in tatty clothes, who smelt to Ned like she already had all the bad breath she would ever need.

“Arooooooooraaa!” came Bernie’s lament over the noise.

“Bloomin’ Colossus! Tha’s all we need. As if the ’eat weren’t enough! All day, all night, ‘Arooo’ this an’ ‘Arooo’ that. Can’t the Shar do nothing about it?” complained a grumpy market trader to one of her colleagues.

“Love charms, gypsy dreams, hag’s tears! Fresh in today, three for two, five for three!” barked a rough, three-horned trader, with pale green skin. “You, laddie, you look like you’re game, care for a wee sample? The tears really are rather good.”

“No tears today, Borrin. As the gods of misfortune would have it, the boy is with me,” said Benissimo, putting a firm hand on Ned’s shoulder.

“Be- Be- Benissimo, my lord, yes, of course.” The trader lowered his head and started to back away.

“We were never ’ere, Borrin, not now, not ever. Understood?”

“Yes, yes of course, your Ringliness … I mean, no sir, whoever you are, Borrin sees nothing.”

“Gods of misfortune!” seethed Ned to himself.

Past the spice markets and charm sellers, and down a side road, they came to a smart quarter with beautiful shop fronts and pretty cobbled streets. Smartly dressed lantern-wards were firing up their lamps as the night traders arrived for their evening shift.

For the most part, these shops sold an assortment of antiquated weapons and magic, with names like

‘LITTLE WHISPERS: HOME OF THE SHADOWED ARTS’

whose shop window was filled with a moving cloud of inky smoke, making it almost impossible to see inside, and

‘THE LIGHTBOX: WHITE MAGIC SINCE THE FIRST SPARK’.

Some of the magic was apparently so powerful it had to be guarded round the clock by the Shar’s stone golems, who Ned assumed, like the Colossus, were probably not just statues.

The most impressive shop of all though needed no introduction –

‘FIDGIT AND SONS: PURVEYOR OF FINE MEKANIKS SINCE 1066’.

Fidgit’s shop front was covered in a thick, gold-leaf lacquer, and delicate Victorian ironwork wrapped around the columns that stood either side of its entrance, giving it a look of grandeur and importance. Peering into the shop, Ned could see its vertically-challenged staff were all clearly minutians like the Tinker, with matching white lab coats. The shop’s polished glass windows were alive with clockwork tickers, like Whiskers – eagles, monkeys, mice, all as yet un-furred and un-feathered to show the intricacy of their inner workings. Everything Ned had ever built paled in comparison. The shop in front of him was a thing of wonder, all wrapped up in shiny metal and perfect moving parts.

“There’s nowhere quite like Fidgit’s,” said Benissimo, noting the look of wonder on the boy’s face. “Your father’s favourite haunt, or at least it was.”

Another reminder of his dad’s secret life, though this time Ned felt comforted. This was the Terry Waddlesworth he knew and loved.

“I’m not surprised … he would have been in heaven here.”

The most impressive piece was outside by the shop’s entrance. An un-furred tiger sitting completely still, its polished chrome metalwork glinting in the last rays of the sun. Pistons, dials and gears whirred away quietly, under a patchwork of curved outer casing so detailed and complex it could be described as art.

“So they definitely do sell more than screws then,” said Ned with a smile, as he reached out to touch the surface of the intricate metalwork.

“That’s not a good idea,” warned Benissimo.

But Ned’s hands were already on its casing. Deep inside the tiger’s chest, a gyroscopic heart started to spin and the beast came to life, its jaws opening to emit a low metallic snarl. Ned jumped back in terror, but the tiger softened, rubbed up against him like a cat and purred.

“Wow! It’s amazing!” laughed Ned.

“You wouldn’t be nearly as chirpy if it had removed your arm. That’s a display unit; the real thing isn’t as friendly. Now, are you ready? Is your head screwed on tight, your heart beating steady?”

Ned was still staring at the chrome-plated tiger.

“Not really,” said Ned, coming back to reality with a sigh.

“Once I open that box, all this becomes real. I liked Dad and me and the world the way it was. I didn’t know how much until now …”

Ned found himself regretting his honesty, and waited for the usual condescending insult to follow. Instead, Benissimo took his arm and looked him straight in the eye.

“We’ll get him back, Ned, if you’ve the heart for it. As for the world, well … it’s still out there. You just have to help us save it.”

Which was exactly what Ned was afraid of. But before he could have time for second thoughts, Benissimo had spun about and pushed open the shop door.

Inside the Box

The inside of Fidgit and Sons was larger than it should have been, at least five times larger. Everything moved. Escalators, elevators, pulleys and gears all running down to a large circular vault and all to the ceaseless clatter of tiny moving parts.

“This little beauty’s just in from Japan,” said an attendant, demonstrating the features of a mechanical puppy to an interested buyer. “One of our more popular new models.” The puppy proceeded to cock its leg and pee on the man’s foot.

“Ahem, completely odourless, of course, and there is the added benefit of the puppy staying a puppy, till you opt for an upgrade.”

On the lower-ground floor, they passed through Fidgit’s security department, of self-defending doors and thief-battering alarm systems before carrying on down to the basement, where they kept their safety deposit boxes, manned by a single, bored-looking attendant.

“Yes?”

“Box room, please,” said Benissimo, passing him Ned’s key.

“A blood-key?” said the now interested attendant. “Haven’t seen one of these in a while. We discontinued them when people started using other people’s blood to get in here. We had one feller turn up with another man’s finger once. The lengths the criminal mind will go to …” he said, shaking his head.

He reached into his drawer and pulled out a menacingly long needle. Before Ned could complain, his finger had been grabbed and stabbed and the key transformed. To his surprise, he hadn’t felt a thing. The attendant then ushered them through a small door and left them in a windowless marble room the colour of snow. As soon as the attendant shut the door, the marble turned as black as night and all they could make out was a gold-trimmed keyhole, waiting for Ned’s key.

With a trembling hand, Ned pushed the key into the lock. When he turned it, there was an almighty thundering of gears as the walls slid apart to reveal a vast warehouse. Black and white marble boxes went on as far as the eye could see, all smooth-sided and completely unmarked. Each was held by a golden arm, and they spun, slid and flipped past each other like a giant mechanical puzzle. From far at the back, one of the white boxes came flying towards Ned, weaving smoothly in and out of the other containers, before stopping abruptly by his hand.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Put your hand to it; it knows who you are.”

Ned took a deep breath. People were ready to kill for the contents of this box. Somehow, in some way, those very same contents might be used to save his father.

He touched the box gently with his fingertip, and the cool marble lid flipped open.

Ned and Benissimo peered cautiously into the box. Inside was a letter, and a small metal ring. Ned picked up the letter. It was addressed to him, but the writing was not his dad’s, as he’d been expecting. Then he picked up the ring. It looked just like his father’s wedding band. In all his years, Ned had never seen it off his dad’s finger.

Benissimo sighed with what sounded like relief.

“So the blood-key’s ‘O’ wasn’t an O after all,” said Ned, “just a symbol for the ring. All this, for a wedding ring? I don’t understand. I thought this was going to help us find the girl?”

“It’s not really a ring, Ned. Not exactly. And in the right hands it could wield unspeakable power.”

“Why is it here then? Why was it left for me?”

Benissimo didn’t answer.

“Well maybe the letter will tell us,” said Ned, and was about to open it when Benissimo stopped him.

“Not yet, pup. Madame Oublier and her council would like to meet you first.”

“Who is Madame Oublier?” said Ned, annoyed at being asked to wait.

“It’s who the Tinker messaged when we were in France, and they’re already waiting for us.”

Ned vaguely recalled her name being mentioned, but did not see what she or anyone else had to do with his letter.

“You’re kidding, right? In the last three days I’ve discovered a secret world, been told my dad is some sort of mystical ‘Engineer’, shared a room with a talking gorilla, been attacked by a werewolf and dropped out of the sky in a flying tent … and you want me to wait to find out why? This letter was left for me, not some council.”

“Wait, boy, you’ll thank me for it,” said Benissimo, his tone now more an order than a request.

Ned didn’t understand. Why would he thank him and how did Benissimo even know the contents of the letter? Dad had told him on Grittlesby green before they parted that only two people knew about the blood-key. Was the second Benissimo? Was the handwriting on the letter his? Something about the look in the Ringmaster’s eye kept him silent, apprehensive even. Were there more things about his father that he didn’t know? Things that he wouldn’t like? And if so, why wasn’t Benissimo telling him?

Once they were back outside the entrance to Fidgit and Sons, the Ringmaster took Ned’s items for safe-keeping – without asking – and pulled something from his jacket. It was long and silver, like the tool Ned had seen the pinstripes use on the tourist in France.

“I need to remind our hosts that we were never here. Don’t talk to anyone, do not wander off, and try—”

“Not to breathe?” interrupted Ned.

“Not to mess things up,” said Benissimo. Then he went back inside the shop and locked the door behind him, flipped the closed sign over and rolled down the blinds.

Ned picked himself a spot under the stars and waited. Whatever Benissimo was doing inside was taking some time and it was starting to get cold. He was weighing up what was worse, being away from his dad or being stuck with Benissimo, when he heard padded footsteps nearby.

“Ooh, lookie nicey boy,” came a sinister little voice from the shadows.

“Don’ lookie like mooch up close, do he?” said another.

Ned turned around and his blood ran cold.

Walking towards him were three grinning clowns.

The clowns approached Ned with a strange unsettling stagger, their eyes fixed hungrily on him. Ned recognised one of them immediately as the clown he’d seen at his sitting room window. The second one was enormously fat – perhaps the one who had been driving the purple van, he thought – and the third extremely short, even shorter than the Tinker. Each of their outfits was dirtier and more outlandish than the next and when they got closer, Ned could smell a foul mix of bad breath and a distinct lack of soap.

“You lostis? You no heerie froom?” squeaked the shortest of the three.

Ned looked at the one from his house, and a flash of anger boiled up inside him.

“I don’t speak clown, but I know who you are. What have you done with my dad?”

“No Cloon spikky, hmmmmm,” said the fattest, eyeing up Ned as if he were a plate of food.

“You cooms vid cloons noo, then ve foond Dadda,” said the tallest.

The three clowns were now standing between Ned and Fidgit’s, so he couldn’t bang on the window, and with the shutters closed, there was no chance of Benissimo seeing out on to the street.

“Not scarums boy, facie bad bad,” said the smallest, as he inched his way closer.

“Nicey boy, vid cloons noo,” added the fat one, licking his lips as he got ready to grab Ned.

Ned did not want to be eaten by a fat clown, or go anywhere with any of them, and as the clown moved in, Ned raised his leg high and stamped down hard on his foot, before bolting.

“Argghhh, boy smush! Flik flak!” hissed the clown. “Getty getty noo!”

Ned had no idea which way to go, only that he needed to run. Benissimo would never find him in the maze of streets, but if he could get away, he was sure to find his way back to the city wall and the camp where the troupe was waiting.

Getting away, however, would be harder than he thought. Every turn he took seemed to lead him further from the city wall and deeper into the warren of twisting, darkening streets. At one point he took a fork to the left and the fattest of his three pursuers took the other. How were they keeping up? Their baggy trousers and rubbery shoes seemingly did nothing to slow the clowns’ progress, and Ned wheezed and panted as he tried desperately to escape them. Hurtling round a corner, his face dropped at the sight of a dead end. His two pursuers had him trapped.

Ned’s head was pounding and his chest was on fire. The two clowns hadn’t even broken a sweat. Who were these monsters and how could they keep up with a young boy in less ridiculous shoes?

“Gotchi, gotchi, nicey boy,” grinned the shortest, as they lumbered menacingly towards him.

Ned had to think fast. In the corner of the alleyway, he spotted a pile of empty apple crates piled against the wall, and made a run for it. Three paces, a high jump and a face full of sandstone later, he found himself at the top of the wall. Usually anything higher than a two-step ladder would make his head swim. But there were some things even worse than heights and these clowns were definitely on the list.

“Grrrrrr,” snarled the shortest, grabbing a bicycle horn at his waist.

Honk! Honk!

Ned dropped down on the other side and dusted himself off. His eyes were blurry with sweat and he felt sure he was about to have a heart attack. But he’d made it, he’d got away. Now all he had to do was find his way back to—

HONK! came the deep bass of another horn.

“Oh, come on!” yelled Ned in disbelief.

Standing just a few feet away and not even remotely out of breath was the fat clown. How had he got there so quickly? Ned’s spirit was broken; there simply wasn’t anything left of him to try and escape again. In no time the others had climbed over the wall and he found himself pacing backwards down a narrow, covered passageway.

“Nicey boy frightie?” grinned the tall one.

“Mo snacka makey,” said the fattest, revealing a wide set of perfectly black teeth.

Were these foul lunatics really planning on eating him?

“Eanie, Meanie, heel! Mo, stop that!” boomed the voice of a stranger from somewhere behind Ned.

Ned felt a momentary wave of relief. That was, of course, until he saw the look on the stranger’s face.

Face-off

The passageway had led to a small square, where two unsavoury-looking characters were sat around a table outside an otherwise empty café, sharing a pot of evening tea. One of them was the tallest person Ned had ever seen, a thin-lipped cowboy with a checked shirt and grubby yellow scarf. Opposite him was a short barrel of a man, who was almost as wide as he was tall. He had skin like sandpaper and wore a tight leather crash helmet, barely held together with a patchwork of stitching. He was trying to pour a cup of tea with visibly shaking hands, and had the expression of a man who was always angry. Under the table and amongst their feet, a cat was busying itself with a saucer of milk.

“I’m so sorry my boys here startled you; they have the most shameful manners,” said the third stranger, smiling again.

Ned had never seen a smile like it. It managed to look kind and cruel at the same time. The rest of him was no less unsettling. He was a large stocky man, with tattooed forearms as thick as Ned’s legs. He had a broad face and a wiry, black-red beard. On his head was a bowler hat with two black feathers in its rim and hanging from his belt was a heavy, square meat cleaver, brown with rust. He plucked it from his belt and began cutting an apple, in careful, measured strokes. Each of his fat fingers had a gold sovereign for a ring and his neck was strewn with chains. To Ned he looked like a pirate king, or a butcher, or both.