Ned’s Circus of Marvels

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.