The Ring

Prologue

Prologue

July, 1893

It was dark by the time the circus arrived in Liverpool. Enormous wooden wheels creaked as they rolled through squelching, uneven mud. “Is this it?” the man driving the leading cart asked, looking out at the veil of torrential rain. In the drenched warmth of the summer night, everything was heavy with the scent of hay, leather and sweat. The lantern on the cart swung violently, threatening to detach at the next dip.

“Yes,” said the cloaked man next to him. He muttered something that the driver couldn’t hear and waved his hands. Speaking more clearly this time, he said, “this is the place. I promise you.” He pulled his hood down to reveal masses of dark wavy hair, and secured his top hat on his head. His ringed fingers twinkled in the lamplight as he struck a match and lit another lantern with filthy hands. The driver stopped the cart and held out a palm to the sky. The rain lessened off.

Moments before, two urchins had watched the gaudy convoy of wagons veer left off Scotland Road and onto the designated green, quickly churning it into a quagmire, muddying the travellers’ shoes and boots as they disembarked. Somewhere in the distance, the animals protested in their various calls and grunts. Some noises were familiar; other noises sounded strange and unsettling. Amidst the undulating din, a woman laughed.

The boys stalked the train of vehicles in the darkness, ducking beneath the windows of the carriages as they came to a halt. They stopped when they saw a carriage door open, and as fast as rats, scurried into safety, squatting beneath the wheels.

“I wish we could have come on the train,” a small man said, picking a splinter out of his bare shoulder. They couldn’t see who he was talking to, but some people were still in the carriage above them. “At least we’re here now, eh?” he said, looking up at the lit cab.

“It looks dreadful out there,” said a woman.

“It’s not too bad. We’ve ground sheets, I suppose.” The small man standing in the mud looked around, surveying the bleak surroundings. Tiny yellow squares winked at him from within the gloom like eyes—the windows of the few slum-dwellers who were still up. The small man stretched and yawned.

The boys remained still. They watched as a pair of black shoes lowered themselves from the step slowly, landing in the mud. The black shoes belonged to a man wearing white stockings.

“Would have been nice to have done the parade first,” the man with the white legs said. He sounded funny to the children, speaking in an accent they didn’t recognise.

They heard the young woman laughing again: a shrill, wild laugh. “What’s so funny?” Whitelegs asked, unamused.

“You look so sad about it,” said the woman from inside the carriage.

There was a pause, and the man with the white legs sighed. “I didn’t—I thought we were doing the parade!” He waved his arms about, soliciting another giggle from the woman. “Nobody said it was off!”

She laughed harder.

“Merde,” Whitelegs said flatly.

“What’s wrong?” the girl asked, calming down.

“I’m all in white.”

The laughter started up again until there was a bang on the side of the carriage, shocking the speakers out of their tomfoolery. The children remained still, eyes peeled. “Come on. Get these tents up,” the voice barked. It was the man who’d been sitting with the driver. He had a strange voice, too, but it was different to Whitelegs’ voice. The boys turned to see his long, black boots on the other side of the vehicle. Another door swung open with a creak. Projecting onto the mud, they observed his shadow in what narrow light streamed from the open door. The shadow man was taller than any man they’d ever seen. Long and thin. The crooked man.

“They’ll be all wet and horrible,” the woman whined.

“No, Tilly! The tents are waxed canvas. Do not fear the rain,” the strange man in the long boots said. “Now get out.”

There was a shuffle and a thump above the children as they heard the woman drop back into her seat. The strange man walked past them, his boots squelching along as he banged on the other vehicles with his cane. At a distance, and illuminated by the lanterns, they could see his grotesque features outlined by the light he held out in front of his face. He said something to the other travellers, and turned away, walking further down the line until he and his billowing long coat disappeared from view.

The young woman’s whining caught the boys’ attention again. “Oh I wish we’d gone through with the parade. It’s going to be awful.”

“We had no time for th’ parade. Had to get on t’ road,” the small man said from the other side of the carriage. “ They had heard men speaking like him before, and his face was round and kind. He was unrolling a large sheet and hammering metal pegs into the ground. “Anyway, it’s nowt to worry about. Let’s just get set up, eh?”

“Why did we leave early?” asked the woman, leaning out of the window.

“I don’t know the pacifics,” said the smaller man, down on one knee with his mallet, “but we’re here a day early. Folk got spooked again, perhaps.” He hammered the peg in and moved to the next corner. “Don’t blame ‘em, like,’ he said with a lowered voice. White legs shushed him.

The girl sighed. “It’s not ideal, Thomas. No one even knows we’re here.”

Whitelegs walked to the end of the carriage and back. “That could change,” he said.

The boys yelped when Whitelegs suddenly shoved his face under the carriage. “Hello there,” he said. “You can come out now.”

Their frightened faces stared up into the light of the lantern Whitelegs was holding. Large, white eyes sprang out of their gaunt, muddy faces. Whitelegs, it appeared, was white all over, with black eyes and a black tear on his cheek. “You want to give us a hand?” the white-faced clown asked.

The two boys nodded silently, dazed by the striking clown face smiling at them as they emerged from beneath the carriage. The clown looked them up and down: no shoes, sleeves too short, trousers lacking the love of a mother’s mending needle. “Are you all alone here?” he asked. They nodded. The small man erecting the tent stopped for a moment, and studied them too.

“What… who are they?” asked the girl. They could see her now. She wore a neat little hat and a dark travelling gown.

“I found some children,” the clown said. “But we must be quiet.” He placed a finger on his lips, and patted them on the head. “Fontini doesn’t like children all that much,” he said quietly.

“Hugo…” said the girl, sternly.

He ignored her. “Do you like rock?” the clown asked. He pulled some out of his bag and waved a stick of it at them. Their little faces lit up, and Hugo nodded with them. “Everybody likes rock,” he agreed.

“Hugo… don’t…” the girl said again, quietly.

“Shh, it’s fine.” The clown towered over them, his dark shadow absorbing them as he stood there. He looked about, to make sure that they were as alone as they seemed. “Come and give us a hand. We have lots of rock.”