Stephen Lawhead - The Skin Map

His interest piqued, Douglas stopped. “What’s happened here?”

One of the nearest bystanders replied, “That one there pushed t’other in front o’ t’carriage, the little devil. Like to have killed ’im. Lucky thing t’driver saw ’im an’ pulled up.”

“Is he hurt?”

“Don’t think so. Got a nasty jolt, I reckon.”

Then, even as they were discussing the situation, the odd-looking ruffian stepped forward and kicked his young adversary in the head. The injured boy collapsed, and his attacker kicked him again-and would have gone on kicking him in full view of the bystanders if he had not been roughly pulled away. “Here, you!” shouted the man restraining him. “Stop that! Someone call the bailiff!”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Douglas Flinders-Petrie, pushing through the crowd. “I’ll take responsibility.”

He moved quickly to the smouldering youth, interposing himself between the boy and the crowd. “Listen, you little guttersnipe,” he hissed, bending over him. “Come with me now if you want to stay out of gaol.” Then, taking the boy by the hand, he began leading him away.

“Oi! You there!” called one of the citizens. “You know that boy?”

“Yes,” called Douglas over his shoulder. He kept walking. “It’s all right.”

“Are you his father?” called another onlooker.

“Yes,” he answered, then added under his breath, “I am now.”