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!
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! HANS 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 BluTack 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