Young Writers Society

“He did WHAT?!” the chief of police, Henry Jones, yelled.

His son, Andrew Phillip Jones, shook in his seat. “He... he cut me across the back of my hand.”

“Let me see,” the senior Jones demanded.

Andrew pushed back his wet and bloody sleeve to reveal his sticky hand, graced with a wound a few inches long, not terribly deep but enough to be concerning.

Henry sank back in his seat. “I cannot believe the absolute nerve of that thug,” he hissed, in a tone that was quiet but filled with so much anger it was somehow more terrifying than his shouting.

“I will send out a search party to find this boy and then arrest him, charging him with assault and robbery,” Henry vowed. He was still shaking, but with that announcement motioned for his timid wife to bring in their extravagant supper- ham, sweet potatoes, and green beans. As he stabbed into his ham, Andrew allowed himself a small smile, knowing that whoever had done this would be put in jail for a long time.

***

The next morning, Twist woke to the sound of heavy footsteps thundering outside of his little nook. He poked his head out of the little living space he had made with a ratty blanket, a broken lamp, and a few boards set up to shelter his few possessions. Of course, he had all his valuables with him. Only a fool would leave anything of value in plain sight without keeping a very close eye on it.

He saw a group of police passing by, and ducked again. What were the police doing back here? They generally preferred the well-lit avenues of the main streets, up in the bigger city of London. Those were almost always more safe than the dubious alleyways, and the richer folks were concentrated in the center of the city, with all the tourist attractions and big-shot hotels.

Who were they looking for? Rarely, a bigger robber or other criminal would seek refuge in the backways of London to try and avoid detection. It had worked once or twice, but most of the time, the cops caught him and dragged them to court. He stayed low, just in case. He didn't exactly look like the type of person who would live an honorable life.

The police officers paused, and they seemed to turn in his direction. His breath caught in his throat. They were coming towards him.

He started to run, but he was blocked by one of the burlier police officers. Staggering, he tried to regain his balance, but somebody else grabbed his arm.

“What do you want?” he spat. He had no respect for police officers, those who meddled in other's business and fought for lawful loopholes so that they could seek revenge on distant family or friends of friends.

“Please cooperate, and it will go easier for you,” one of the officers instructed. He pulled Twist's hands behind his back and started to handcuff them.

Twist stopped struggling, so as not to pick up a charge of resisting arrest. He racked his brain, trying to think of what he had done out of the ordinary that would've led to this arrest. He hadn't left any bodies around in the last few months, and he had only killed one or two people.

He could probably have gotten off with a plea of self-defense, since in both cases he had been attacked with a knife, and he had defended himself a little violently. But what was he expected to do when he was armed and violently attacked?

Nothing strange had happened recently. Could this be related to his robbery of that snobbish rich kid yesterday? How had he gotten all of the police to swarm the criminal underworld, practically another city?

“What's going on? I have a right to know what I'm being arrested for,” Twist demanded.

One of the officers sighed. “Fine.” He took a deep breath, and continued.

“The chief of police's son was robbed and assaulted in an alley around here by a boy matching your description-- blue eyes, shaggy brown hair, grimy face, and a scar above one eye.”

Twist self-consciously touched the long scar above his left eye. It was a memoir from a nasty fight he had gotten in with a member of a gang. He had slit his opponent's throat pretty easily, but the other boy had gotten one good swipe with his knife in, right above his eye. It followed his eyebrow, but he unfortunately stuck out of a crowd now.

“Where are you going to take me?” he asked.

The cop who had handcuffed him started to lead him to one of the squad cars reading London Police. “To the London Juvenille Detention Facility.”