The fight unfolded in a flurry of flailing limbs and well-placed punches to George Phelps' face, chest, and stomach. Not even the burning heat, which grew stronger with every passing second, was enough to stop Kit and Rob. George tried to fight back, but with two against one, he struggled to land more than a single blow to Kit's jaw.

Kit nursed the bruise forming on his jaw, glancing down at George Phelps' unconscious body. Blood covered his face, his left eye swollen, and his body curled up tightly in a feeble attempt to protect himself. He looked unrecognisable. Rob crouched down beside the slumped figure. He reached his hand into his former friend's jacket pocket, the jacket now torn and covered in dirt, pulling out a small jewellery box.

"With a face like that, I don't think he'll be needing this anymore. He's better off in a freak show. How much do you reckon it's worth?"

"Beats me." Kit gestured to the box. "Hand it over and I'll see how much I can get for it. I'll split it with you when I sell it."

"See, that's why we're friends, Jonesy."

"You keep telling yourself that."

"I should split." Rob handed Kit the jewellery box, casting one last glance at George's body. "Don't think we should be seen hanging 'round here with him."

"Right. I'll come find you when I sell it. Shouldn't take too long."

Rob nodded, clapping his friend on the shoulder. He slipped out of the alleyway and melted into the passing crowd. No one noticed him or the slumped body still against the wall. Kit took one last look at George. A snarl spread across his face. He tucked the small box into his trousers pocket.

"Now you know what happens to rats."

Kit spat on George's body, lightly kicking him with the toe of his boot. He pulled his cap a little lower on his forehead and angled it to hide the bruise forming on his jaw. Leaving George in the alleyway, Kit emerged onto the busy Mayfair streets and did his best to blend in with the moving crowds.

The bruises on his knuckles ached, but Kit relished the pain. He savoured the dull throb, pulling a borrowed cigarette from his pocket and lighting it with a match. A small tendril of smoke drifted into the sky from the lit end. Kit took a long drag from the cigarette.

His five months in gaol had done little to quell his itch for danger, and the fight with George would just be the beginning. He longed to get back into the game full-time. The threat of more time in gaol never bothered him, it just made him that much more determined. He had some catching up to do.

Kit kicked a small stone with the toe of his foot as he walked through Mayfair. No one so much as looked at him, just the way he liked it, and Kit glanced at the few motorcars parked along the street. The more common black Ford motorcars were everywhere. He remembered the first time he'd stolen a car; the rush of taking the key, the thrill of driving it through the streets as fast as he could.

That was an itch he was desperate to scratch.

Despite the beat-down he'd delivered to George, he longed to do something else. The midday sun burned, the day only halfway through, and five months in gaol had left him wanting more. He dropped the cigarette to the floor, crushing it underfoot, and approached one of the abandoned motorcars. A Ford might not have been his dream car, but it would still be exciting to drive.

He glanced over his shoulder, checking that no one was around him, before trying the handle of the motorcar. It didn't budge, but that never stopped him before. Kit pulled a small hairpin from his pocket, the one thing he tried to keep with him in those five months, and bent it out of shape. He crouched down and poked the bent hairpin into the lock, jimmying it around to try to unlock the door.

"Oi! What do you think you're doing?"

"None of your business."

"Get away from my car!"

Someone grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him to the ground. Kit released the hairpin, watching it fall into the gutter, and swung his arm out. His right elbow slammed into the stomach of the man who had grabbed him, his grip on Kit's shoulders faltering.

Kit scrambled to his feet, abandoning the hairpin and weaving his way through the teeming streets.

Excitement hummed through his veins. The thrill of the chase was often worth more than the crime itself, and this time was no exception. He smiled as he ran, not caring if he bumped into someone's shoulder and almost sent them sprawling to the ground.

Voices carried over his shoulder. The cries of a police officer as they tried to follow him were lost in the slight breeze that darted around them.

"Get back here, boy!"

"You'll have to catch me first!"

Kit laughed, throwing his head back and feeling the joy pump through his body with each step he took. He sprinted as fast as he could, taking the smaller alleyways through the city. A lifetime of avoiding the police had made him wise to the escape routes. The police struggled to keep up, disappearing into the groups of people drifting through the streets.

Although they wouldn't catch him, Kit kept running. He didn't slow his pace and let his lungs burn and his heart thump against his ribcage. His heart beat echoed through his ears. Sweat trickled down his face and back, the midday sun burning with more ferocity than Kit had known.

He emerged from one of London's small alleys, running out onto the street. Kit glanced over his shoulder to check the police were no longer following.

He was still looking behind him when the bumper of a dark green Rolls Royce slammed into his right leg. His body tumbled over the hood of the motorcar and then dropped to the floor like a stone.

The bright sunlight faded into darkness.

~~~

First Published - February 1st, 2024