‘Thirteen,’ Woodburn whispered to the floor. ‘He’s thirteen.’
Acton threw his jacket at Cross and began to roll up his sleeves. I knew then what would come next. ‘Dear God,’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘He cant…, he won’t…’
Acton took a short, hard whip from his belt, a savage thing made to drive cattle. Enough to tear flesh from a young boy’s bones.
Kitty clutched my arm so tight I almost cried out, but she didn’t look away.
Acton grabbed the boy’s shoulder and hauled him to his knees. He raised the whip in the air.
One silent moment.
The whip came down. Then again. And again.
The boy screamed, holding up his hands to shield himself.
A ripple of sympathy spread across the room, but no one moved. The beating went on and on, relentless. I could hear Acton grunting softly with the effort. Sometimes he would pause, and wipe the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Plant his feet a little wider. And then he would begin again. Woodburn covered his face with his hands.
The boy’s cries faded to whimpers, then silence, as the blows came down.
Slowly, without a word, people moved away from the window. Only Kitty remained, still clutching my arm, her fingers digging in with every lash as if she could feel it ripping her own skin. A tear slid down her cheek.
You must act, a voice spoke in my head. You must dosomething, for pity’s sake. He’s just a boy, and they’re beating him to death in front of your eyes.
He was on his knees, now, crawling through the dirt. Acton raised his boot and stamped down hard on his back.
‘Henry. Oh God, no!’ Kitty cried, bringing me to my senses. Her tiny charge – forgotten in all the confusion – had wandered out of the coffeehouse and was now toddling across the yard towards Acton and the whip, arms outstretched and giggling.
Before I could even think to stop her Kitty dropped my arm and ran after him. Mrs Bradshaw flung herself in front of the door. ‘You can’t stop it, sweetheart,’ she cried in a panic. ‘You’ll only bring trouble on yourself.’
‘He’s just a baby, Sarah,’ Kitty hissed. ‘He thinks it’s a game, don’t you see? He thinks they’re playing a game!’ She pushed her way past Mrs Bradshaw and darted outside.
A moment later I found myself chasing after her.
What possessed me? To this day, I still wonder. One moment I was standing in the coffeehouse, the next I was outside, the prison buildings spinning about me like a carousel, the blood roaring in my ears. Kitty ran out and I followed her, as if there were a chain tying us one to the other.
