Free Extraordinaires 1 by Michael Pryor

newspaper story about this child was the inspiration for my Jungle Book tales.’
    With an uncertain hand, Kingsley placed his cup of tea on the side table. ‘Wolves?’
    Kipling leaned forward, his eyes bright behind his spectacles. ‘I didn’t believe it when I first read the story, so I travelled to the Central Provinces and spoke to the forestry officers myself. Decent chaps, they convinced me that they had indeed found a child whose nurture had been solely undertaken by wolves.’
    â€˜That sort of a start to life would tend to stay with one.’ Evadne looked pointedly at Kingsley.
    â€˜What happened to the child’s parents?’ Kingsley managed to ask, while memories of his schooldays clamoured for attention – the yearning for freedom, the realisation that others did not have the same sort of wild side that he did, the understanding that he was different. With a start, he realised that for a long time he had shied away from his Indian past in an effort to be as the others around him.
    â€˜The parents?’ Kipling looked away. ‘The forestry officers had no idea. There was no sign of them when they rescued the boy.’
    â€˜Rescued.’ Kingsley’s memories of his earliest days were crowded and confused, but the notion of rescue didn’t jibe with them. He recalled terror and separation, but not rescue. Any memories of the wild came with feelings of exhilaration, four-footed security and the smells of familiar beasts surrounding him. He had comfort amid the pack, and the two-legged intruders had taken him away from it.
    He almost cried out as the loss he’d felt all those years ago reached out and plucked at his heart.
    â€˜And what makes you think that Kingsley here is your Mowgli, apart from his being born in India?’ Evadne asked.
    â€˜A month ago, your foster father delivered a lecture that I attended. It alerted me to several intriguing features of your background, Mr Ward. How your foster father brought you back from India, for a start, and of his business travelling about that country and the possibility he was in or around the town of Seoni at the time of your discovery.’
    â€˜Discovery?’ Kingsley echoed, and his voice sounded thick in his own ears. His back ached, and he realised he was holding himself poised, tense, until his muscles were screaming. ‘You make me sound like an uncharted island.’
    The pain caused by the memories that had launched themselves upon him unbidden was redoubled by Kipling’s revelation. Even though Kingsley knew it was in his foster father’s nature to be forthcoming where science was concerned, he was still hurt to think his peculiar past had been shared with strangers.
    Kipling looked pained. ‘I apologise, Mr Ward, I truly do. It’s at times like this that my enthusiasm gets the better of me. I have a horror of those who intrude on my own privacy, and yet here I am doing the same to you.’
    Try as he might, Kingsley couldn’t dislike Kipling. The man’s enthusiasm was appealing, as was his careful formality. ‘You heard my father speak?’
    â€˜At the Royal Society about the recent discovery of Homo heidelbergensis remains. He did tend to wander from the topic when he became excited.’
    â€˜That is a weakness of his.’ Kingsley was spent, stretched thin by exhaustion and the events of the last half-day. His foster father was missing, his housekeeper had been murdered in the most horrible fashion and now, on top of all this, a writer was hinting at the origins that Kingsley had thought long forgotten. His hands trembled and it wasn’t solely due to lack of sleep.
    â€˜Aldershot,’ Evadne said to Kipling. ‘How did you end up there?’
    â€˜I have a great many acquaintances of all kinds.’ Kipling flipped the pages of his notebook. ‘Once it was clear that you had embarked on a career in the theatre, Mr Ward, I was able