The Thief of Time Read Online Free PDF Page A

with his, my arms hanging loosely by my sides as his own did so that he would not hear me approaching behind him. I reached my hand into his pocket and my fingers clasped around a thick leather wallet within, which I eased out without losing a step. As my hand emerged, I rotated and began to walk off in the opposite direction at a steady pace, my footsteps still in perfect time, ready to return home for the evening, when I heard a voice cry out behind me.
    I spun around to see the old man standing in the street, staring in bewilderment at a middle-aged man who was running in my direction, his arms waving in the air as he bore down upon me. I stared too in surprise, unsure what he was after, when I remembered the wallet and realised that he must have spotted me and decided to fulfil some ridiculous sense of civic responsibility. I turned on my heel and ran, cursing my luck but not for a moment believing that I could fail to outrun this giant of a man, whose paunch alone would surely slow him down. I sped on, my long legs leaping across the cobblestones as I tried to make out the direction in which I could make my escape. I wanted to get towards the market square, where I knew there were five separate lanes leading in different directions, each of which gave off on to laneways of their own. There were always crowds there and I would be lost within their number with no difficulty, being, as I was, dressed like every other street boy. But it was dark that night and in my confusion I lost my sense of direction and after a few moments I knew that I had gone wrong and began to worry. The man was gaining on me, shouting for me to stop – which was an unlikely outcome – but as I glanced over my shoulder briefly I could see the determination in his face and worse, the stick in his hand, and felt for the first time a real sense of fear. I saw two laneways ahead off what I thought might be Castle Street, one running left and one running right, chose the latter and was dismayed to find the street growing narrower and narrower ahead of me until a sinking feeling inside confirmed that a wall stood before me, a dead end, too tall to climb, too solid to break through. I turned and stood as the man turned into the street, himself stopping and gasping for breath as he realised that I was cornered.
    There was still a chance. I was sixteen. I was strong and fit. He was forty if he was a day. He was lucky to still be alive. If I could simply steer around him quickly before he could grab me, I could continue running as long as I had to. He was almost out of breath while I could have run on for another ten minutes yet without breaking into a sweat, let alone having to slow down. The trick was to get past him.
    We stood staring at each other and he cursed at me, calling me a thieving swine, a money grabbing knave to whom he would teach a thing or two when he caught me. I waited until he was as close to the left hand side of the street as I thought he would go, before running right with a shout, determined to outflank him, but he lunged in that direction at the same moment and we collided, me falling to the ground with the weight of him, he falling on top of me with a gasp. I tried to stand up but his reactions were quicker than mine and with one hand he pinned my neck to the ground as his other felt through my pockets for the old man’s wallet. Taking it, he put it inside his own and, as I struggled beneath him, he let his stick crash down on my face, blinding me for a moment, the sound of my breaking nose crashing across my head, the taste of blood and mucus in my throat, a sharp white light exploding before my eyes. He rose and my hands went to my face to ease the pain and he let loose with that stick on the rest of me, until I was rolled in a messy ball in the corner of the street, my mouth a mixture of blood and phlegm, my body a separate entity to my mind, my ribs kicked and beaten, my jaw swollen and bruised. I could feel a trickle