A Place Called Freedom (1995)

After her came a brawny young man in expensive but disheveled clothes. He came within an inch of grabbing her as she bounced off Dermot, but she ducked and dodged and ran on. Then she slipped and fell, and he was on her.

She screamed in terror. The man was mad with rage. He picked up the slight body and punched the side of her head, knocking her down again, then he kicked her puny chest with his booted foot.

Mack had become hardened to the violence on the streets of London. Men, women and children fought constantly, punching and scratching one another, their battles usually fueled by the cheap gin that was sold at every corner shop. But he had never seen a strong man beat a small child so mercilessly. It looked as if he might kill her. Mack was still in pain from his encounter with the Welsh Mountain, and the last thing he wanted was another fight, but he could not stand still and watch this. As the man was about to kick her again Mack grabbed him roughly and jerked him back.

He turned around. He was several inches taller than Mack. He put his hand in the center of Mack’s chest and shoved him powerfully away. Mack staggered backward. The man turned again to the child. She was scrambling to her feet. He hit her a mighty slap to her face that sent her flying.

Mack saw red. He grabbed the man by the collar and the seat of the breeches and lifted him bodily off the ground. The man roared with surprise and anger, and began to writhe violently, but Mack held him and lifted him up over his head.

Dermot stared in surprise at the ease with which Mack held him up. “You’re a strong boy, Mack, by gob,” he said.

“Get your filthy hands off me!” the man shouted.

Mack set him on the ground but kept hold of one wrist. “Just leave the child alone.”

Dermot helped the girl stand up and held her gently but firmly.

“She’s a damned thief!” said the man aggressively; then he noticed Mack’s ravaged face and decided not to make a fight of it.

“Is that all?” Mack said. “By the way you were kicking her I thought she’d murdered the king.”

“What business of yours is it what she’s done?” The man was calming down and catching his breath.

Mack let him go. “Whatever it was, I think you’ve punished her enough.”

The man looked at him. “You’re obviously just off the boat,” he said. “You’re a strong lad but, even so, you won’t last long in London if you put your trust in the likes of her.” With that he walked off.

The girl said: “Thanks, Jock—you saved my life.”

People knew Mack was Scottish as soon as he spoke. He had not realized that he had an accent until he came to London. In Heugh everyone spoke the same: even the Jamissons had a softened version of the Scots dialect. Here it was like a badge.

Mack looked at the girl. She had dark hair roughly cropped and a pretty face already swelling with bruises from the beating. Her body was that of a child but there was a knowing, adult look in her eyes. She gazed warily at him, evidently wondering what he wanted from her. He said: “Are you all right?”

“I hurt,” she said, holding her side. “I wish you’d killed that Christforsaken John.”

“What did you do to him?”

“I tried to rob him while he was fucking Cora, but he cottoned to it.”

Mack nodded. He had heard that prostitutes sometimes had accomplices who robbed their clients. “Would you like something to drink?”

“I’d kiss the pope’s arse for a glass of gin.”

Mack had never heard such talk from anyone, let alone a little girl. He did not know whether to be shocked or amused.

On the other side of the road was the Bear, the tavern where Mack had knocked down the Bermondsey Bruiser and won a pound from a dwarf. They crossed the street and went in. Mack bought three mugs of beer and they stood in a corner to drink them.

The girl tossed most of hers down in a few gulps and said: “You’re a good man, Jock.”

“My name is Mack,” he said. “This is Dermot.”

“I’m Peggy. They call me Quick Peg.”

“On account of the way you drink, I suppose.”

She grinned. “In this city, if you don’t drink quick someone will steal your liquor. Where are you from, Jock?”

“A village called Heugh, about fifty miles from Edinburgh.”

“Where’s Edinburgh?”

“Scotland.”

“How far away is that, then?”

“It took me a week on a ship, down the coast.” It had been a long week. Mack was unnerved by the sea. After fifteen years working down a pit the endless ocean made him dizzy. But he had been obliged to climb the masts to tie ropes in all weathers. He would never be a sailor. “I believe the stagecoach takes thirteen days,” he added.

“Why did you leave?”

“To be free. I ran away. In Scotland, coal miners are slaves.”

“You mean like the blacks in Jamaicky?”

“You seem to know more about Jamaicky than Scotland.”

She resented the implied criticism. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Scotland is nearer, that’s all.”

“I knew that.” She was lying, Mack could tell. She was only a little girl, despite her bravado, and she touched his heart

A woman’s voice said breathlessly: “Peg, are you all right?”