Page 4 of Viking Ink

Rue glanced down the bar to where Saffy sat with a couple of the old timers gathered protectively around her. “I think so. She’s a bit shaken up. I should have kicked those arseholes out sooner.”

“Rue, you’re not a fucking mind reader. You gave them fair warning, and they crossed the line.”

Rue gave a tired shrug. “Go sit down. I’ll bring you lot your drinks in a minute.”

“Put a hold on mine, Rue. I think I’m going to take a walk down to the shop.” I had a nagging worry that I couldn’t put my finger on, but something told me Piggy and his friends wouldn’t be averse to causing more trouble in town now they’d been evicted from the pub.

Rue gave me a nod and I moved over to our table. Cal had moved closer to Mitch, like an overprotective bulldog. “I think I’m going to call it a night.” I turned to Cal. “Are you going to take Mitch back to yours tonight?”

He gave his beard a thoughtful stroke. “Yeah, I’ll go back with him to pack a bag for overnight, then we can work out a time over the weekend to get the rest of his stuff.”

I said my goodbyes and was out the pub door, walking down the narrow lane that led back to the square. I could hear the sounds of the waves even from up here. It was going to be a rough night. Pulling my leather jacket tighter around me, I crossed the quiet street and over to the cobbled town square. The street lights cast a pale, sickly glow, hiding more in shadow than they illuminated. Traders had been arguing for months about the need for new lights. Three muggings and an attack, all in the last four months alone, were bad news. It was part of the reason I was worried about the young busker.

At first sight of the square, nothing seemed wrong— but that impression evaporated as I moved deeper into the paved square. The busker’s guitar lay broken upon the pavers, and his backpack had been flung across the ground, its contents spilled out. I yelled out hoping to hear a response but there was only silence, so I started picking up the scattered belongings, shoving them into the torn backpack while noting that a lot of the things the guy was carrying hinted at him sleeping rough. One thing stood out amongst the items—a small stuffed bear. Its fur was worn bare in patches and one of its eyes was missing, but it still looked like someone treasured it, however worn and old. I wasn’t even sure if it was his, but I picked it up and shoved it into the bag regardless. Someone might have lost him, and I could put a note up in the shop window.

The wind had kicked up, and it almost drowned out the quiet whimper coming from behind the bins—almost. Moving quickly, I shoved bin bags and rubbish aside, and let out a shocked sound. The young busker lay bloody and beaten. It looked like he was barely holding on to consciousness. As I leaned down, the boy let out a pained cry.

“Hey, you’re okay. I’m going to help,”

The boy peered at me through swollen eyelids. “I know you.”

“Yeah, you do. Lay still. I’m going to call an ambulance.” I slipped my phone out from my jacket pocket, ready to dial, but the boy struggled to sit up.

“No, I’m okay.”

“Steady, lad.” I reached out to stop him from toppling forward, the lad flinching at my touch. “Hey, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to stop you from face planting back onto the pavement.”

“Rhys. My name is Rhys,” the lad mumbled.

“Well, Rhys, I’m Simon, and I really think you need to go to hospital. And we need to call the police.” I lay a steadying hand on Rhys’s narrow shoulder.

“No!” Rhys shook his head violently. “I just need my things so I can go to the walk-in clinic in the morning.” He tried to stand, but collapsed back on his arse with a pained grunt.

“Look lad, if you’re worried you’re in trouble, you’re not. The arseholes who did this to you are, though,” I tried, hoping to reason with him, but I could see that Rhys’s shoulders were stiffening, and he was ready to argue.

“No, it’s not that, but I can’t go to the cops.”

“Are you in trouble or something?” I didn’t know this kid from Adam—he could have a string of offences from here to London for all I knew—but something about Rhys told me it wasn’t that.

Rhys shrugged. “It’s something. But I’m okay now. Thank you for your help.” He tried to stand, this time successfully getting to his feet—but he swayed precariously, like a man after a Friday night binge.

“Look, lad, you shouldn’t be on your own. You could have a concussion, or internal injuries. If you won’t let me call an ambulance or the cops, then you’re going to come back to my place and at least let me patch you up.” I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

Rhys pushed back his hair, which was matted with blood from a head wound. “I’ll be fine.”

“I think you’re full of shit, and you’ve taken a blow to the head so you’re not thinking straight,” I said, fully prepared to carry the boy home over my shoulder if I had to.

“You’re not going to budge on this, are you?’ Rhys asked, wincing and bringing a dirty hand to his head. The movement made him hiss again, before his hand moved to clutch his side.

“Nope.” I grinned, and a brief smile flashed across Rhys’s bruised face.

Rhys made a sound through his bruised lips that was strongly reminiscent of a raspberry and it made me smirk. He reminded me of someone I’d not thought about in a long time. Shoving that thought aside, I held up Rhys’s backpack. “I found your stuff.”

His face lit up with a smile when he saw the teddy’s head sticking out of the pack. “You found my bear.”

My heart gave a stupid flip at the soft smile he gave me; this boy was daddy nip. But I wasn’t going there. I had to keep my head straight, get this lad inside and his wounds sorted out, and maybe find out why he was so afraid of me calling the cops.

Chapter 2

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