No Cage for a Crow

Three - The Wrong Boys at the Right Time

But suddenly, one of the devils behind us gave a warning cry, and I and the tough restraining me turned as one in time to see one of the others drop to his knees. Something small and bright streaked through the air, striking my captor in the throat, and he uttered a hoarse exclamation and fell, also. I scrambled away from him, striking the wall hard, and tried to become one with the brickwork.

Three dark figures appeared silently in the mouth of the alley, and two more hemmed us in from the other side, emerging from the shadows like ghosts.

Friend or foe seemed to be the salient question. I squinted at the newcomers but could make out nothing much beyond the mufflers that covered their faces from collar to eyes, cloth caps drawn down low over their brows, and the shine of steel in their hands. Four of them carried a hodge-podge assortment of blades, and the fifth held a contraption of wood and leather. A sling, I suspected, remembering the projectile which had felled my captor - only by narrowly missing me.

'Hellhounds!' cried a voice, filled with mockery. It echoed strangely in the small space, so that I could not venture a guess as to which of them had spoken. 'I said we'd thrash you if we found you on our turf again. Well, whose turf do you call this?'

The two downed Hellhounds were rising unsteadily, rubbing at their individual injuries and glaring back and forth between the pair of human barricades blocking their way.

"Wrong Boys," one of them growled.

And suddenly, four met five in a tempest of whoops and blades and fists and flying ball-bearings. The Hellhounds moved automatically into a tight square, back-to-back against the onslaught. Two Wrong Boys advanced on them from either end of the alley, while the fifth, the one with the sling, mounted a pile of rubbish and sent a barrage of little metal missiles into the midst of the Hellhounds' formation, raising bruises and curses and fouling their aim as they slashed wildly at the Wrong Boys.

The tips of the flashing knives passed alarmingly close to me, and I sank down against the wall with my arms curled instinctively around my head, unable to run in either direction for the blockade of Wrong Boys.

The muffler-wrapped figure closest to me staggered suddenly, propelled by a fist to where I supposed its jaw must be. It collided with me, and I shoved it back toward the fray, but not before an angry Hellhound scented his foe's momentary disadvantage and followed, swinging punches wildly.

I had no particular reason to be favourably disposed toward the Wrong Boys, not knowing whether they meant to rescue me or leave me be or pick up where the Hellhounds had left off, but I did have ample reason to despise their rivals.

As the boy surged toward me, I made sure my legs tangled with his. He stumbled into the side of me, kicking fiercely to free himself. My ankle exploded with pain. The Wrong Boy kicked the Hellhound's knees out from under him, and I shifted before the two could fall on me. The Hellhound grabbed at the Wrong Boy's coat, and the two hit the ground together in a flurry of churning limbs.

Then there was a quiet noise, something between a gasp and a cough, and everything stopped. The two brawling gangs froze and turned to stare. The Wrong Boy beside me regained his feet. The Hellhound did not. He lay on his side with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms curled around his belly. The Wrong Boy's short, curved knife dripped red.

"Had enough?" asked the largest of the muffled figures.

None of the Hellhounds moved or uttered a sound, save the one who lay and groaned.

"Fine, then," said the Wrong Boy. "Get you all out of here. And you'll all have much worse, next time."

Slowly, their eyes blazing with malice, the three standing Hellhounds dragged their comrade to his feet and carried him to the mouth of the alley and out into the street. The Wrong Boys stood aside to let them pass.

All was momentarily still as the Wrong Boys and I watched the retreat.

Then one of them turned toward me, eyes glittering between scarf and cap, knife gleaming in his hand. He watched me closely, and I watched him.

'Hold up,' said the largest of them, their leader. 'That ain't no Hellhound.'

'I should say not!' I agreed heartily.

The eyes above the masks widened.

'Coo!' exclaimed the smallest one. 'It's a wee toff!'

The leader sheathed his knife and approached, offering me a huge, gloved hand. I pulled myself up, using the wall for support, and he hastily grabbed my arm when he saw I could hardly stand.

'Lost?' he asked with a sharp glance at the hem of my nightgown peeking from beneath my coat. I knew I must have looked a sight, by then, drenched and shivering, evenly coated with the alley's muck, every hair that had blown free of my braid now plastered to my head and neck. But for the quality of my clothes, I could not have looked very much different from any other girl huddled in a London alley.

'Anywhere we can take you, Miss?'

'No,' I said. 'Thank you. I'll be quite all right on my own.'

They exchanged a look, as though not sure whether I intended that as a joke. I stared them down.

'Haven't you a home to go to?'

An instant of clarity broke upon me as I realised how dearly any of these boys would have loved a room with a fire and enough to eat. They would have thought me an idiot if they knew what I had had and had left behind. But it was not really so clear as that, no. It had not really been a choice. I had destroyed what I had hours before I decided to climb out that window.

'I had,' I admitted. 'I haven't, any more.'

They all exchanged another look and seemed to come to some sudden, silent agreement. The chances were good that each of them had uttered something similar, once. Each of them must have had a first night on the street.

The one supporting me cleared his throat. 'You'll be all right on your own,' he allowed, with the obvious tenor of an obliging lie, 'but maybe a bit more all right if you're dry and can walk.'

'You make a fair point, sir.'

He smiled.

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