Before Bobby could murmur an apology, the man leaned in to him and whispered in his ear. “Meet me out back.”
In spite of the din of the room, Bobby heard his words as clearly as if they had been etched in glass. There was something chilling in the man’s controlled tone. He didn’t seem to be especially upset, yet the words he spoke . . . Did he want to fight, or was this about something else? In any case, Bobby was ready for a fight, even though not yet primed with ale. So much the better, he thought; his reflexes would be keener, while his opponent’s would be slowed by alcohol.
He waved at his friend Mickey, who had caught his eye and was gesturing madly for Bobby to join him. Ignoring the puzzled look on his friend’s face, Bobby slipped through the crowd and out the side entrance. The pub was separated from its neighboring buildings by an alley—one of Edinburgh’s many wynds and closes—a wynd being wide enough to accommodate a cart, whereas a close was an even narrower passageway. This one was a close, judging by the distance between its stone walls, which felt barely wide enough to contain Bobby’s broad shoulders.
The thick stone walls filtered out much of the noise of the pub, the street curiously quiet as Bobby turned into the narrow passageway. The rain had temporarily abated, leaving only a thin, steady drip of water from the eaves into a rain barrel at the back of the building. The sound was rhythmic and mesmerizing—plunk, plink, plunk, plink—and somehow ominous. Somewhere a dog howled. A tightening in Bobby’s stomach and constriction in his throat sounded a warning in his head.
Bobby considered turning back. He might have returned to the pub, claiming to himself that the allure of alcohol was stronger than the need for a fight. But he did not turn back. He took a deep breath as he reached the end of the alleyway and turned the corner into the dimly lit rear of the building. He had come out tonight for a fight, and a fight he would have.
It was the last mistake he would ever make.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Derek McNair was in a bad mood. His friend Freddie Cubbins was late—again. Derek could see the faint glow of dawn in the eastern sky over Holyrood Palace. If the boys were to gather a decent Saturday breakfast from the rubbish bins behind Edinburgh’s restaurants and pubs, it was best to start early, before they had been picked over by the city’s army of street urchins and other vagrants. The storm that had pounded the city all night was lifting, the cobblestones glistening from days of rain.
Derek paced back and forth in front of the Tron Kirk, their appointed meeting spot, hands shoved into his makeshift trousers—a pair of men’s work pants, far too large for him, clasped round his thin waist with a piece of twine he had stolen from a ragpicker’s wheelbarrow. His shoes were equally ill-fitting, being several sizes too large, but they were thick-soled and in good condition. He had come by them through the Sisters of Charity’s annual jumble sale; he found if he lingered until the sale was nearly over, the nuns would take pity on him and give him free clothing—and cakes if he was lucky.
His short woolen jacket and cloth cap were also from the nuns; Derek’s clean features and keen, dark eyes made him a favorite of the more softhearted members of the gentler sex. He had learned what expressions to assume in order to wring pity and compassion from them, what to say, and how to say it. Indeed, there were many things a clever boy of ten might glean from a life on the streets.
Other boys of his age might have pondered the irony of living in a city boasting not one but two palaces scarcely a mile from each other and yet being forced to pick through trash bins in search of food. But Derek McNair was a practical sort of boy, not given to philosophizing or bemoaning his fate. His father was a drunkard and his mother a prostitute, and that’s all there was to it. He had never known a stable home or a new pair of trousers, so he couldn’t miss what he had never had. At least, that was the way Derek presented himself to the ragged set of urchins who also slept in alleys and doorways, living off what they could beg, borrow, or steal. If what went on in his head in quieter moments was somewhat more complex, he knew better than to share it.
Derek looked up and down the street, fingering the smooth stone in his pocket. He always kept a stone in his pocket. He never knew when it might be useful—in a fight, for breaking a shop window, or tossed to distract a fruit seller while plucking an apple from his cart. But mostly he kept it because he liked to roll it between his fingers when he was agitated or nervous.
He peered down the street again, but the only person in sight was Cob, the milkman, making his rounds with his big chestnut, Timothy. Derek liked Cob—he sometimes gave the boy a cup of milk in exchange for holding the reins—but the boy liked Timothy even more. Derek had a way with horses. When he stole apples, he would try to nab two—one for Timothy—and slip the horse the juicy treat while he held the reins as Cob delivered milk to his customers.
He had no apples in his pocket now, he mused as his stomach contracted with another hunger pang. Where the blazes was that good-for-nothing Freddie Cubbins? As Derek contemplated what he would say to his friend when he arrived, he heard quick footsteps and turned to see Freddie running toward him. Though they were both ten years old, Freddie was taller and half a stone heavier than Derek, with sandy hair and a foolish, friendly face. Derek was small and wiry and dark, and the undisputed leader of the two. Freddie was like a big, gangly puppy, whereas Derek was reserved and watchful. Arms crossed, he stood, frowning as Freddie approached, quite out of breath.
“Where ha’ ye been?”
“I’m sorry, Derek, really I am. I overslept.”
“Well, let’s get to it afore there’s naught left.”
“Right,” Freddie said, following Derek down the steps leading to the cluster of pubs underneath South Bridge. The weary winter sun was just cresting over the Firth of Forth as they began scanning the back alleys of Stevenlaw’s Close.
“Oiy—over here!” Freddie called out as Derek pawed through a barrel of discarded oyster shells. “Come on—I got a good one!” Derek hurried over to where his friend was, in back of a pub. “Look at this, then!” Freddie said triumphantly, pulling back an oilcloth to reveal two only slightly chewed loaves of bread and half a nice, fat sausage.
“Wait,” said Derek, pointing to what appeared to be a sack of clothes. “What’s that?”
“It’s a shoe,” Freddie said, poking it. Then he turned pale. “Christ. It’s . . . it’s—”
“Jesus,” said Derek, his face grim.
There, between the rubbish bins and the rain barrel nestled against the back wall, a man lay on his back, his sightless eyes staring up at the newly dawning day. Neither boy had ever seen a dead person before, but they both knew instantly what they were looking at.