The Magic Cottage

On close inspection I saw they really were only kids, not bona-fide toughies in the ghetto sense; they were acting the role, but I wasn't sure they'd convinced themselves. That encouraged me.

All the same, there were three of them and I was in deep. It was Leather-jacket's turn to speak and he seemed to be having trouble forming a sentence (or maybe even a thought). I saved him the trouble. 'Either you leave these people alone, or I'm gonna flatten you.' I did my best to look mean.

It frightened me, but seemed to have the reverse effect on him: he grabbed my shirt and tried to head-butt me. I ducked reflexively and his mouth and chin came in sharp contact with the top of my head. His surprised howl of pain cheered me considerably, although an area of my skull had gone instantly numb. When I straightened, he was holding both his hands up to his mouth, blood already seeping through his fingers, a one-note moan accompanying the blood.

'There's more where that came from,' I warned, feeling elated and refraining from rubbing my scalp.

His pal, No. 2, may have been smart enough to realize Leather-jacket's injury had been more by accident than design; he charged me, bellowing a battle hymn that sounded something like, 'Youuucuuuuhhhhnn . . .'

When pain might be involved, I can be pretty nimble: I stepped away from his outstretched arms and his stomach ran into my clenched fist. It was hardly a punch—his own momentum had provided most of the force—but he creased up, sucking air. I threw him across the hood of the nearest car and I think the metal surface, obviously having been boiling nicely under the sun for quite some time, must have scalded his cheek because he yelped and leapt up again. I was close behind him, though, and pushed his head back down, using my weight to hold him there and letting him sizzle.

No. 3 had finally stopped picking his nose and gone on to scratching his armpit, a bewildered expression striving to give his features some form of intelligence. Leather-jacket was still making muffled noises, his bloodied fingers like a red bandana over his chin.

I was slightly out of breath, but summoned up enough control to smile laconically. 'Don't say I didn't warn you,' I said, almost enjoying the moment and lowering my voice another octave.

To my horror, the other two began to close in, the injured one gurgling curses now, the body I held pinned against the car hood kicking out behind, trying to rise.

'Boys, boys, what is going on here?'

It was a new voice and belonged to a smallish head jutting through the open window of a car that had just cruised to a halt. I could have kissed that little head, which I noticed was mounted on a white, circular ring. The vicar, or priest, looked shocked, as though he'd just run into the overspill from Gomorrah.

'Miles Carver, is that you?' He was looking directly at Leather-jacket.

Miles? I smiled, beginning to enjoy myself again.

'What on earth are you up to, boy?' The cleric switched off the engine and stepped from the car, looking aghast at all of us. He was a short man with one of those youthful, unlined faces that put him in the sixteen-going- on-fifty age bracket; an indication that it was toward the latter end of the scale was his plastered-down hair, all neat rows as parallel as weavers' warp strands, pink scalp gleaming between the lines. He wore a tweed jacket over his black shirt and white collar, and his fawn trousers bunched around his ankles as though they were his big brother's hand-me-downs.

'Would somebody mind telling me what this is all about?' he demanded.

Miles mumbled something that none of us understood. Punk 2 had ceased wriggling under my grasp, although he strained to keep his face off the hot metal, and No. 3's hands had now sunk deep into his pockets in a conscious effort to keep them away from his nose and armpit.

It was Gillie who spoke up: 'The boys were trying to steal from us when Mr. Stringer here came along and stopped them.'

I glanced at her in surprise. 'Steal' was a bit strong.

'My goodness,' the vicar exclaimed. 'Is this true, Miles?' He ignored the incoherent protest, probably well- used to such denials. 'Will you never learn? It was only my personal intervention that prevented you from being put on probation last time, and now I find you've let me down again. I'm afraid I'll have to have another word with your father.'

Miles blanched visibly.

'No real harm done,' I volunteered. 'Things got outa hand, that's all.'

The vicar turned his attention on me, sizing me up somewhat coldly I felt. 'I should think it would be all right to let go of that boy now,' he said, pointing at my charge.

'Sure.' I released my grip and the boy sprang away from the car hood as if ejected. He regarded me morosely, rubbing at the back of his neck.

'Thomas Bradley, you too.' The vicar shook his head in sad resignation.

Punk 3 hung his head in suitable shame—the vicar was probably on speaking terms with this one's father, too.

'I can only ask you to forgive these lads,' the cleric begged the girls and myself. 'They left school last term and with employment in this area so hard to find . . .' He left the excuse hanging in the air for us to deduce the reason for their misbehavior. Try as I might, I couldn't find the answer, but I let it go, glad anyway that I'd come through unscathed and looking pretty good at that.

'The boys are extremely sorry that they bothered you ladies . . .' (they didn't look that apologetic to me) '. . . and I'm sure this sort of thing will never happen again.' The vicar gave each second-rate punk a baleful glare, then told them to be on their way, and 'sharply' too. They lumbered off, Miles (Miles? Oh really?) leaving a blood-spot trail behind. I was amused that a little guy like the vicar could have such a subduing effect on them and, not for the first time, realized that village life was a lot different from the city's.

Gillie and her friend picked up their pieces and put them in the back of the car, and I noticed the cleric was watching them with barely concealed disdain.

'Thanks for helping out,' I said to him. 'I was beginning to lose my temper.'

He faced me and his hostility was evident in both voice and expression. 'Yes, well, such incidents are unfortunate. However, I do wish you people . . .' For the second time he left a sentence hanging in the air.

Her task completed, Gillie came over to me while her friend closed the hatchback. 'Oh, Mike, how can we thank you? Sandy and I were so frightened.'

'They were only kids,' I said modestly.

'Thugs,' she corrected and I shrugged noncommittally. The other girl, Sandy, joined us and I could tell she was still shaky. 'You're Mike?' she said. 'The others have told me about you and Midge. I hope you've managed to settle in at Gramarye.'

The vicar appeared to do a sudden reappraisal of me. 'You're the couple who've moved into Flora Chaldean's cottage?'

'One half of the couple,' I admitted.

He immediately stepped forward, his hand outstretched. 'Then please let me welcome you to the parish and ask your forgiveness for not having popped out to see you and your good lady by now. I'd heard you'd arrived, of course, but my pastoral duties have kept me rather busy of late. I had intended . . .'

I shook his hand, already becoming used to his unfinished sentences and his entreaties to forgive. 'That's okay, we've been a bit busy ourselves. I'm Mike Stringer.'

'Peter Sixsmythe.' He pumped my hand. 'The Reverend Sixsmythe.'

'We have to get back, Mike,' Gillie interrupted. 'It was so good of you to help us—I hope you'll allow us to repay the debt.'

'No problem,' I said, now feeling a trifle embarrassed (smug, nonetheless). 'And nothing to repay. I'm just glad I happened along. See you soon, eh?'

'You will, most definitely.'

I hadn't meant it as an invitation. To my surprise, both girls took turns to lean forward and kiss my cheek before climbing into their car. The vicar and I stood aside as Gillie reversed the Citroen from the parking space, and she waved from the window as they left the car park.

'Mr. Stringer,' said the Reverend Sixsmythe, his school-boyish face grave, 'are you, er, well acquainted with those people?'

I frowned. 'Not really. Gillie and a couple of her friends have dropped by the cottage from time to time. They're very neighborly.'