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“He’s probably still down there. I bet he can’t walk after that beatin’. If he ain’t dead, poor little prick.”
“Oh, fuck off. You his old dear?”
“You’re a cunt. That’s what you are.” The slight man walked away.
“Yeah, you go kiss ’im better!” The weather-beaten man spat, then took another swig of wine.
Silas waited a few seconds before pursuing the slight man, who mumbled to himself as he swayed through the alleyways. Several twists and turns on, the slight man slowed to a creep, stopped mumbling, then knelt next to a tiny figure on the ground.
“Oi.” The slight man poked at the body. “Oi.” He stood and shook his head. “Poor little prick. I’ll get him for you, don’t you worry.”
Silas pressed himself into a doorway as the slight man passed.
Silas approached the small boy. Bruised and covered in blood, it was him. “Found you,” he whispered, placing two fingers on the boy’s neck. A weak pulse. He studied the emaciated boy for several minutes and considered leaving him.
“I’m not walking past that stench again for nothing,” Silas said. “You can die in the woods if you have to.” He scooped the boy over his shoulder. Light as a feather.
Silas retraced his steps. The Spring, now shrouded in darkness, took the pressure away from carrying what looked like a murder victim.
The scuffling of a fight echoed ahead. Silas slowed to a creep and peered around the corner to see the weather-beaten and slight man. Rolling around in the dirt like a couple of pigs.
The grunts of the two men stopped, and the slight man stood, kicked the weather-beaten man in the ribs, then slunk into the darkness. As Silas passed, he noticed a dirty wooden knife handle stuck in the weather-beaten man’s eye. Shame. Would have been nice for the boy to have done this himself.
Silas readjusted the bony boy on his shoulder and headed for his exit.
3
Scab’s eyes stung as he opened them. Thin strips of light pierced through the walls. The straw at his sides rustled as he flexed his fingers. His head felt heavy as he lifted it.
The sight of clean woollen clothes took him by surprise. He stroked them. So soft.
He winced as he moved his shoulders up to his head, and his cheeks and forehead hurt to touch. He couldn’t remember anything after he’d bumped into the man. It’s quiet here. Where am I? The door to his side opened.
“You’re awake,” the man said.
Scab shuffled to the wall and propped himself up in the corner. The dark figure stayed in the doorway, lit up from behind. Pain flashed up his sides, his head pounding.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” The man moved toward him and offered out a leather bladder. “You need to drink.”
Scab recognised the blue eyes. His black hair and beard made them look even brighter than before. “You killed that Wretch.”
“Not a term I am familiar with. I’m assuming you mean the man in the alleyway?” The man sat on the floor and took a swig from the bladder.
Scab fidgeted as he tried to ease the pain.
“Hurts to move? You received quite a beating. Why don’t you lay down?” The man placed the bladder next to the straw and made for the door. “I’ll make us some food. Now you’re awake, you must eat.”
“Where am I?”
“The mountains. Rest, we can talk later.”
Mountains? The door closed, and Scab made straight for the bladder. He gasped for air after a long guzzle of the cleanest water he’d ever had, then flopped back onto the straw.
Did he bring me here? Did he give me these? He stroked the woollen jumper again. He’d never had clothes like it. The dry straw he laid on was just like the stuff Peter had got them to have in the gap – before it’d got all damp and smelly.
It wasn’t long before he could hear the pops and cracks of the fire, and as the smell of cooking meat filled the air, his mouth watered, and stomach gurgled. Am I going to get to eat that? It became too hard to just lay there and smell it, so he crawled to the door and pulled it open, every bit of him aching.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” the man said.
