The Life

John was brave and mite stupid. You had to be to become a soldier in wartime. Who else would run in the direction of a scuffle when the target was small but the takers were that much larger than both the target and him? No denying it, John was a fool. Fresh out of the Tesco's late after an appointment, John caught sight of what had to be a punch-up in a back alley and the cry of child in distress.

Harry will never let me rest in peace if I show up dead here tomorrow.

Knowing that as well he did, John dropped his bag of milk and margarine and jogged to the mouth of a dingy gap between a haberdashery and a clinic he hadn't been hired at, toward the jeering horde of what looked to be boys and tomboys.

"Is there a problem here?"

I sound like dear old Da. That wasn't a memory John had much use for.

One of the shorter of lot broke away from the kicking to give John the fuck-off.

"I 'unno, old man. You got a problem?"

"I'm good, thanks. That kid seems to be having a fuck-all kind of day. Why don't you let him up?"

"Don' see why a' oughta. You gonna come an' get 'im?"

John did some idle math of his chances. Three would scatter, easy, braver in the face of a lone child than any adult of authority. At least one other would follow soon after, because they already had one ASBO; another might mean time in a facility. The left maybe two; John could take two.

"I don't think anybody'd like it if I did that."

The overgrown adolescent sneered, making for his back pocket. A knife, probably not a gun. Keep back from the hands.

"Big talker, but can you play?"

John shook out his hands, forcing himself to remember that these were London streets, not Helmand's, children not child soldiers.

"All I do is play."

...

John split two knuckles dragging the tallest, gangliest stragglers to the nearest uniformed copper on patrol. They were spitting mad and calling him out of his name the whole way, swearing down vengeance and retribution first chance they got. He noticed they got much quieter in back of the cruiser—sullen, too.

The lump of unwashed and oversized trousers they'd left bleeding on the alley asphalt wasn't much happier for being rescued. John was stopped from checking his pulse by the sniping.

"I could have taken them," he snapped as John hauled the boy—twelve, maybe?—onto his feet, where he immediately began to sway. John caught him before he could take a header into a dank puddle.

"In this life or the next?"

"What're you, some kinda 'ero?"

"Where I'm from, we call it a good Samaritan." John guided the boy the nearest bin near the mouth of the alleyway. "Let me get a look at you."

He was banged up all right; black eye, split, a nasty bruises down his neck where somebody's got the fine idea to stomp their trainer.

"You look a sight. Where's it hurt?"

The kid look he got in return was deadly. "Pick a spot."

Voice seems normal. Probably no serious damage to airway or vocal chords.

"Where's it hurt most?"

All he got this time was a careful shrug that resulted in an olive-toned face paling to startling grey. Pupil reaction is normal to light exposure. No head wound.

"What was that? Your shoulders or where? Tell me where it hurts." Injury to clavicle or scapulae likely. John made a note of where he'd been hurt in his share of childhood dustups..

The boy hunched in on himself. "Nuthin'."

Possible cracked ribs. Hands from protecting ribs? Probable/possible. X-rays needed.

"Doesn't look like nothing. Where's it hurt?"

"What's it to you? You can't fix it."

"That's where you're wrong. Fixing it's my job; I'm a doctor."

That confession seemed to spark some interest. "Doctor, eh? Where'd ya learn to fight like that?"

"The army. Give us a look. Where's it hurt?"

The boy squinted at him. "You're not one of them pervs, are ya? I'll scream if ya are."

"As you should, but I'm not. I'm a doctor, you're a patient; let me help."

He wavered on the spot, looking John over for weaknesses even John didn't know he bore. "Yeah, all right."

John sighed, relieved. "Good. Right, that's good. Name's John, by the way. Yours?"

"Cav. John's a pretty crummy name."

"Does me all right." He pulled a penlight out of his coat pocket. Always does to expect an emergency. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

On pain of death, Cav waited in the alley whilst John hied back to Tesco's to get plasters and disinfectant. He had him fixed up in ten minutes and sent him on his way with the promise that he'd run instead of fight then next time bigger toughs came to call. John hadn't taken that advice either at his age.

He made a third trip back to the shops for another bag of milk and margarine. Seems his last had grown long legs and walked off.

No good deed goes unpunished.