Benissimo punched numbers into a keypad and its door slid open.
“I’m going to have our head of R&D – research and development – cast an eye over your box. If my nose is right, you’ll need to make a choice. Now, pup, the Tinker is a minutian. Minutians can make most anything from anything, but they’re sensitive about their size. DO NOT, by all that is holy, say the word ‘gnome’ in his presence. There are gadgets in there that could blow up half of Europe if you make him angry.”
From the expression on Benissimo’s face, it was quite clear that he was not joking.
Inside the lorry, machines whirred and spun, bottles bubbled with strange liquids and every available surface was covered in notes, diagrams and mechanical contraptions. It made Ned’s eyes water. His dad would have loved it; every gadget, every blueprint, every complex contraption. This was the kind of place that Terry Waddlesworth would have lost himself in for weeks. And when Ned was younger, he would have sat there with him, copying every move with a wrench or screwdriver. A part of Ned that he had forgotten was still there suddenly longed for his old hobby, and his dad, and the way things had been before.
“Wow!” he breathed. “Look at all this gear! You really could make anything in here!”
Ned ran his hand along the nearest machine, a hydraulic press, marvelling at its unique design. Ned noticed that the Ringmaster seemed to be eyeing him curiously.
“Ahem, no touching the equipment, thank you,” said a voice.
At the room’s centre was a table where a man, no more than four feet tall, was working. On his head were various goggles, glasses and light fittings, and nearly every pocket of his white lab coat was stuffed with tools. He had a smattering of grey bristles that led into the beginnings of a patchy beard. Though Ned had never seen a real one before, he looked exactly the way he thought a gnome should look; small and rather hairy.
“Tinker, this is … the boy.”
‘The boy’ rolled off Benissimo’s tongue in much the same way as ‘the problem’ might have come from a plumber while inspecting a blocked drain.
“Ahhhh, so you’re Mr Widdlewats?” the diminutive inventor said, peering up at him through a particularly large lens.
But Ned hadn’t heard a word. Lying on the workbench in one of his more stationary positions was an unexpected sight – his pet mouse Whiskers.
“You found him! Whiskers, I’ve been worried sick!”
Finally, something that made sense, something he recognised. The Waddlesworths’ beloved pet mouse was safe and had found him!
But the Tinker did not let him enjoy the moment for long.
“Whiskers? Oh no, Mr Widdlewats, this is no ‘Whiskers’, this is a Ticker, a Debussy Mark 12, to be exact. Top of the line in its time, or at least was until yesterday.”
“Debussy Mark what? That’s my mouse, I’d know him anywhere!”
“How old is your mouse, Mr Widdlewats?”
“Not sure, but he’s definitely older than me.”
“And how many mice do you know that live to be that age, sir?”
“Um, well, Dad always said he was special.”
“Indeed he is. This little fella arrived at the green just a short while after you. Would have got there quicker too, if an ice-cream truck hadn’t run him over.”
The Tinker took a needle-thin screwdriver and twisted it into the mouse’s back. He then carefully peeled away some fur, revealing an ornate maze of coiled springs, turning cogs and tiny metal pistons. The rodent’s eyes flickered white for a split second, which was followed by a whirring of gears as it moved its head from left to right, before slumping back down again. Ned watched in stunned silence.
“Oh Whiskers, not you too …”
The Tinker fetched him a small stool and he slumped down on to it.
“How long till it’s operational?” asked Benissimo.
“Well, boss, it’s not quite as bad as it looks. I’ve pinched some parts off the Punch and Judy show and I should have him up and running by the morning.”
“Operational?” said Ned. “What is he … I mean, what’s ‘it’ for?”
“Tickers come in as many forms as you can imagine. They make great pets for the rich, and tireless workers. They make terrifying soldiers too, till that was outlawed. Their greatest use these days is undercover work. This model in particular was very popular for surveillance,” explained the Tinker.
Ned couldn’t believe his ears. His pet mouse, a full third of his dysfunctional family, was made of metal.
“Magical creatures, clockwork soldiers and … undercover mice? Why hasn’t anyone heard of this, of these … things?” asked Ned.
At that the Tinker looked rather surprised.
“Well, because of us, sir. We monitor it all, you see, every creature and every sighting. Anyone outside of our lot who sees anything is immediately visited by our pinstripes.”
“Like the two men outside, the ones with the flutes?”
“Precisely, sir, only they’re not really flutes.”
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,
