“Good Lord,” said a woman’s voice from somewhere above him. He tried to focus, and saw a pale face with a generous mouth, large brown eyes and soft, mousy brown hair looking down at him. “Where did you come from? And what happened to you?” Davey tried to open his mouth to explain. “No, shush, it’s okay. You’re safe. Let’s get you inside.”
“Who is it?” asked a girl’s voice from somewhere beyond the doorway.
“No idea. Can you stand up, sweetheart?” Davey tried, but the strength was gone from his legs. “Not to worry. Priss, can you get Tom, please? I need some help.”
The shadow of someone else looming over him, a brief, interested pause, then footsteps passed by, crunched on the gravel, receded. Davey closed his eyes and abandoned himself to the bliss of that hand on his forehead, not stroking, not moving, just lightly resting there, like a kiss or a promise; like a balm or a blessing.
“What’s going on?” A man’s voice, anxious, ready for a fight.
“It’s fine, Tom, no need to panic. We just, well, we seem to have this boy.”
“What boy? Who is that?”
“Let’s just get him in, shall we?”
“Well, if you’re sure—”
The hand left his forehead, and then someone who smelled of fresh air and wood shavings gathered him up in his arms, staggering a little as he stood up.
“Are you going to make Tom bring him in the house?” A girl’s voice, Liverpudlian and incredulous.
“Why not?”
“He could be fuckin’ anybody.”
“Obviously he’s somebody. But you can’t just leave people out on doorsteps, it’s not fair.”
“Well, put him in the outhouse at least! He might be a psycho or a junkie or—”
“Shush, Priss.” The voice sounded amused.
“You’re too good to be true, you are.”
“Be nice,” the man’s voice commanded.
“I don’t need to be nice. You and Kate have got nice covered. I’m bein’ fuckin’ sensible.”
“God always takes care of drunks and little children,” said the woman. “Stop being horrible and bring up a jug of water. Can you hear me, I wonder, whoever you are? Don’t worry. You’re safe now.”
The Winter's Child Page 33