Free Fall From Grace by David Ashton Page A

girls were getting restless in their commander’s continued absence. Lippy. Discipline was slipping. Hannah hated to admit a limitation of her iron hand but the place needed the calm authority of Jean Brash, and without that stillness at the centre, things began to drop from the periphery like pots off a tinker’s cart.
    ‘Are ye going out tonight, mistress?’ she asked.
    Jean’s mind had a picture from the previous night of her lover, waving goodbye then turning to stride off down the street. She had craned her neck out of the carriage to see if he looked back.
    Not even once. But nothing in the rules said you had to look back.
    ‘I don’t yet know,’ she answered Hannah.
    ‘The girls would appreciate your presence.’
    ‘Surely you can keep them in line?’
    ‘It’s not the same,’ answered Hannah.
    And so they left it there.

11

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot
That it do singe yourself.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Henry VIII
 

    Leith, 1836

    The big boy had plenty of time. His opponent was doubled up in pain, nose bloody, crouched over, unable to move any further. The other boys behind yelped and howled like a pack of wild dogs that could sense the kill.
    ‘Say it.’ The big boy licked his lips. This was the best bit, the moment before he put his hard Protestant fist into the wee porker’s belly, the silence that invited the blow, the pure release of a long hatred. ‘Say it. I kiss the Pope’s arse, on my knees, his big fat arse. Say it!’
    No response came from the crumpled form. The big boy had been hammering with his fist and boots for near the length of the narrow passage that led to the wee porker’s wynd. If he’d got through there he’d  be safe but they’d bottled up both ends and let the big boy loose. The porker had made no attempt to fight just taken the blows one after the other, hunched over like a dumb animal
    ‘I’ll give ye one more chance. Say it. I piss in Holy Water and drink it every day. Say it!’
    Nothing. Ah well. Work to be done.
    ‘Scour him good, Herkie. Break his bones!’
    This shout from the pack brought his head round to glare them all to silence. It was his show.
    He swaggered forward and savoured the moment. Not a sound except for the laboured breathing of his blood-anointed target.
    Where to begin? The other had covered up, crouched, body bent, arms over his head, turned to the wall, protecting all the vital parts.
    Of course he could start with the kidneys. Always a safe bet, some hard punches there would bring the quarry round but his hands were sore, plus he wasn’t in a kidney mood. And he had a secret weapon.
    He flexed his feet inside the heavy boots. Each leather toe was capped with a lead plate. His father worked in a foundry and had fitted them himself.
    Taking aim carefully, he launched a kick at the other’s leg, just above the ankle, crunching into the bone. A cry of pain. Another kick, then one more for luck.
    In agony, the small boy turned round to clutch at his legs and Herkie grabbed his hair, pulling him upright so that he could look into the white face, contorted in pain but the eyes curiously blank, slate-grey, staring into his.
    He put four punches into the belly. That was what he liked best. Other folk preferred the face but he was a belly man. One, two, three, four. The grey eyes did not change but suddenly a jet of bile shot out of the boy’s mouth all over his assailant.
    Herkie reeled back.
    ‘That’s no’ fair. Aw, look at this, my Mammy’ll kill me!’
    His clothes were spattered with the yellow discharge and the sight provoked some hastily suppressed giggles from the watching pack.
    He turned back and aimed a wild kick at the other who had by this time fallen on his hands and knees. The kick missed by a mile .
    ‘Ye dirty wee Pape. Dirty wee swine. Yer mother cut her own throat and bled all over her knickers. A’body knows that. Catholic bitch. C’mon boys!’
    In righteous indignation, he led the pack way towards the other