Wild Boy by Rob Lloyd Jones Page A

top. There were only a few feet between each — they could use them as stepping stones to reach the edge of the park. Beyond was a street and a muddle of houses. Maybe they could find somewhere there to hide.
    Behind, the barking grew louder. The dogs raced closer.
    “You coming?” Wild Boy said.
    “I . . . I’m coming. . . .”
    “Then let’s go.”
    He ran across the roof and jumped.
    THUMP!
    He landed heavily on the next caravan, windmilling his arms to stop himself skittering off the edge. He recovered his balance and jumped again, then again and again, springing over the dark crevasses between the vans. Each time he landed he heard plates smash inside, people crying out in alarm.
    THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
    Clarissa overtook him in moments, leaping the gaps with ease. “Hurry!” she cried.
    Ahead, Wild Boy saw carriages on the street at the edge of the park. They were getting closer, but so were the porters. He glimpsed the men as he flew over their heads. Hands snatched at him. Fingers swiped.
    “They’re up on the roofs!” someone shouted.
    “Get the dogs over here!”
    Clarissa landed on the next caravan, and stopped. “No —” she breathed.
    One of the porters stood on the next roof, blocking the way. The man had a meat cleaver in his hand and a bad smile on his pockmarked face. “I got them!” he called.
    Dogs reared at the side of the van, snarling and slavering.
    “Get back!” Wild Boy yelled at the man. “Get back or I’ll tell your wife about your mistress.”
    The porter, and Clarissa, stared at him. Only now did Wild Boy understand what he’d said. Before he’d even realized, his eyes had sought out clues to use against the man.
    “Your wedding ring,” he said. “See the line where you’ve taken it off tonight? And that stain on your collar is lipstick. I seen your wife, Jack, and she don’t wear lipstick. Let us go and we won’t say nothing. Ain’t that right, Clarissa?”
    “I . . . Yeah, that’s right.”
    The porter looked at them, dumbfounded. Then, very quietly, he stepped aside.
    Wild Boy and Clarissa leaped to the next roof and kept going. They could see the edge of the park now, enclosed by a hedge about thirty yards from the last van, and the carriages rattling by on the other side. Lights teased from the houses beyond. They were getting closer.
    Clarissa jumped from the top of the last van, somersaulted in the air, landed below. “Hurry!” she screamed.
    But then Wild Boy saw something awful.
    A porter charged into the caravan below. He was carrying a shotgun.
    BOOM!
    Wild Boy barely knew what happened next. One moment he was on top of the van, and the next he was sprawled in a pile of straw on the ground. Slowly, his senses came back into focus, and a sharp pain screamed in his shoulder. His coat was torn, and blood flowed from a gash in his arm.
    Clarissa leaned over him, trying to pull him up. “Get up! Get up or I’ll leave you!”
    He heard the dogs barking, the circus crew shouting. He had to keep going. Clutching his wound, he staggered after Clarissa toward the hedge.
    He dived through the first gap he saw and tumbled onto the street. A carriage thundered toward him, passing so close that its wheels brushed the hair on his face. Carriages flew by, packed with people leaving the fair. One of the horses saw Wild Boy and reared in panic. Its coach skidded across the road and slammed into a lamppost. The driver yelled curses, but Wild Boy and Clarissa were already gone.
    They raced down an alley between the houses, and into a dingy scullery yard. Snarls echoed around the walls, as if the dogs were coming from all directions.
    Wild Boy turned and looked around the houses. He saw high walls, drainpipes, and gutters kissing gutters above. This place was a climbing frame for someone like Clarissa, but not him, not injured. The idea of going on alone made his stomach churn with fear, but he knew what they had to do. Without him she could escape.
    “We gotta split