Excerpt from The Tightrope Walkers by David Almond, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Him that just moved in the other day."

"Vincent McAlinden, Mr. Hall."

"He threw a stone," said Bill. "The little sod."

"Are ye aal reet?" Dad said to me.

"Aye, Dad."

"And ye done nowt about it?" said Dad to Bill.

"Not yet," said Bill. "He's been . . ."

Dad took me from Mam and stood me up. He took the hand-kerchief from Bill and pressed it to the wound. He set off down the street with me. I could smell the shipyard on him, the oil, the grease, the river, the filth. He drew furiously on a cigarette.

"What were ye up to?" he said.

"Just playing, Dad."

"With the Stroud lass?"

"Aye."

"Diyin what?"

"Walkin on the walls, Dad."

"Walkin on the bliddy walls?"

We came to the house at the foot of the estate. The rocky path-way that led out of the estate ran right beside it. A pair of dogs snarled through the fence. The back door of the house was open, a fire blazed in the grate inside.

"Where's that lad!" shouted Dad.

Mrs. McAlinden came to the door. She wiped her hands on a piece of cloth. She lit a cigarette and drew on it.

"Look at this!" snapped Dad.

I lifted the handkerchief away.

She came to the fence and looked down at me. She yelled at the dogs to stop their bliddy snarling. Kids wailed inside the house, and she yelled at them to stop as well.

"Vincent?" she said.

"If that's his name, that's him," said Dad.

I could smell the sweat on her. Could see the grease in her hair shining in the sun.

"Is it sore?" she said.

I squeezed back my tears and nodded. Yes. The blood was trickling down past my eyes now.

"The lad's a terror," she said.

"Get him here."

"Vincent!" she yelled at the house.

"Keep down!" she yelled at the dogs. "I dunno what to do with him," she said to Dad. "Be different if I had a man like you to give him a proper thrashin now and then."

"Get him out and I'll diy it now," said Dad. "At least I'll scare the little sod."

"I doubt it," she said. "Vincent! Vincent!"

She leaned closer and her huge breasts swung inside her loose black blouse.

"Would you like a cup of nice warm milk, son?" she said.

"No!" I gasped.

She looked at me fondly. Wiped blood from my cheek with her fingertips, then wiped them on her skirt.

"How d'ye get them to be so nice?" she said.

Dad threw the stub of his cigarette away. She gave him another and for a few seconds they just smoked, watching the fumes rise from their lips and towards the bright sky.

"Vincent!" she yelled.

He came to the door at last and stood just inside.

"It was just a bit of carry-on," he said. "I aimed to miss."

"Well bliddy miss better next time," she said. "Now howay here and say sorry to this bairn."

"Not while that bugger's standin there."

Dad snarled.

"Get here now!" he said. "Or I'll come and get ye and I'll bliddy swing for ye!"

Vincent shuffled out. He took one of the dogs by its collar and held it at his side.

"Have ye seen what ye've done?" said his mother.

"Aye," said Vincent.

"Just look at that bliddy blood," she said. "He's just a little lad. Ye should be lookin after him, not hoyin bliddy rocks at him."

"I aimed to miss!"

"Say yer sorry."

His shoulders slumped. He curled his lip and looked down at the ground.

"I'm sorry."

Dad grabbed his collar and dragged him close. The woman kicked the growling dog away. Dad hauled Vincent till he stood on tiptoe.

"Say it like ye meanit," he said.

"I diy mean it. I'm really sorry. What's yer name, kid?"

The Tightrope Walkers Copyright © 2014 by David Almond. Reproduced by permission of the publisher, Candlewick Press, Somerville, MA.