a/n: yeah, they ate rats, haha. i’m glad the dialogue in chapter two made you smile. i personally love slightly, i think he’s absolutely adorable. anyway, i hope you enjoy this chapter!

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four ; there’s always a siren.

“How long is ‘a while’?” I whisper fiercely, stepping over a mound of plastic bags and narrowly avoiding close collision with a plank of wood that is leaning haphazardly against one side of the alleyway.

Slightly doesn’t reply; he’s too busy picking his way over a group of bins that have been knocked over (or fallen over, I can’t really decide which). There is a pause as he helps me over them, too, and I’m grateful for that. We walk in silence for a bit longer, the sound of our breathing and the occasional rustle of rubbish being the only things that break the lack of conversation.

Eventually we come to a boarded-up door, and the ginger male takes about five seconds to dismantle the planks. I watch him with unbridled curiosity; he handles the chunks of wood with adept skill, and stacks them up slightly to the right of the door. A second later, he’s checking to see if the coast is clear and is then ushering me inside.

To be honest, I’m nervous. I’ve only ever stayed in someone else’s house at sleepovers, and that’s different, because homes that I’ve been in aren’t all boarded up and used as sleeping quarters for homeless people. As soon as I step into the room, Slightly drags a large piece of cork wood across the entrance and we’re closed in, with only a dingy light hanging from the ceiling and the glass-free windows to enable us to see.

I can’t see a lot because of the darkness, but after a moment of fumbling, my companion switches the light on. It’s dim, and flickers hesitantly for a few moments, but doesn’t go out. Now I can make out a mattress in the middle of the floor and, off to the left, near the corner, is a lumpy sort of misshapen chair.

Slightly moves to the middle of the room and gestures around, rubbing the back of his neck. I can tell he’s uncomfortable, and so am I, but I make the best of it by smiling as broadly as I can (it ends up looking like the withered smile I use when I’m not impressed) and he seems to relax. There is paint peeling off the walls, half-eaten wallpaper littering some areas of the floor, and an odd smell that I can’t quite place.

“You can ’ave the mattress,” he says after a moment, and I stare at him. “I’ve got some blankets or somethin’ somewhere…” and he moves off to root around for them, but I’m having none of it.

“No,” I say firmly, a lot braver than I feel, “you can have the mattress.” The light above us flickers, as if to challenge my statement, and Slightly looks up from where he’s dragging a moth-eaten object that looks a bit like a duvet out from behind the misshapen chair.

He seems amused. “Nah, ’cos Peter would kill me,” he responds, beating the blanket slightly and then throwing it over the mattress. I think I can see some stains in it, and there are a few holes here and there, but it looks reasonably okay. “An’ ladies always sleep on mattresses,” he adds with a grin.

“Do you have to be such a gentleman?” I snap, and Slightly stops grinning. “Please, sleep on the mattress. You can have the blanket, too, because you look cold.” I don’t want to say that he looks threadbare, malnourished and hungry, because that seems too out-of-line.

There is a pause as we lock gazes, me with my fierce blue eyes and him with his more relaxed brown ones. I’m not going to back down, and neither is he, and his eyes flash for a moment as the light above us wavers and threatens to die out.

“Yeah, I do,” he retorts after a moment or two, the grin back on his face. “Yer havin’ the mattress an’ that’s all there is to it. I’ll be fine, miss, I always am.” There’s something about his gentle face and the way his grin curves upwards like an innocent child’s that makes me believe that he isn’t always fine. I frown and reach out to touch him.

“We can share the mattress?” I say lightly, and by the look on Slightly’s face, I don’t think I should have suggested that.

“Are you fuckin’ mental?” he answers, eyes widening. “No offence, miss—I mean, Wendy—but… but…”

“But what?” I sound a little too harsh for my own good, I think. “Is it Peter?”

Slightly shakes his head adamantly, moving to sit over in the rickety chair. It groans loudly in protest, and sags to accommodate his scrawny frame, but then it is still and makes no further noise. “Nah, nah, I ain’t scared of ’im,” and he looks serious, now. “’s just that yer a lass, ain’t yer, an’ it ain’t proper fer me to be—”

“We’re modern people.” My statement leaves no room for argument and I pick up the blanket and fling it over him. He splutters and starts to pull it off, but I grab his hands and tug him towards the mattress. “One night won’t hurt, Slightly!”

He struggles against me, begging me not to make him “be unproper” (his words, not mine) but I am as strong-willed as he is, and after a short game of tug-and-war, my feet hit the mattress and we fall backwards onto it. He elbows me in the eye and I wince, remembering that my father struck me there and it probably looks like a real black eye now, and he instantly climbs off me, looking rather bashful.

“It’s just a mattress,” I wheedle, and the redhead stares at me, shaking his head. “I don’t want you to get pneumonia or frostbite or influenza—”

Slightly waves a hand dismissively and snorts. “Don’t worry ’bout me, love. You jest sleep on the mattress an’ I’ll rest on the chair—”

“Take my jacket, then, or you’ll get cold.”

I take my jacket off and throw it to him as he crosses the room towards the chair. He twists and catches it, barely, giving me an appreciative grin as I wrap the blanket around me, a little hesitantly at first, before curling up on the mattress.

Slightly eases himself into the chair, putting the jacket on and closing his eyes. At least, I think they’re closed, because his head suddenly falls onto his chest and he starts to snore. I smile to myself, rolling my eyes. He’s not so bad, really… not so bad.

He’s nicer than any other homeless person I’ve met, anyway, but that might be because all the other tramps I know (or have come into contact with) are grouchy old men who drink. As far as I can tell, none of this lot drink, but then again, I’ve only been with them for less than a day.

I roll onto my side and mull over Peter and what an arrogant arse he is. If it weren’t for him, I could be home by now, but no – he just has to decide that it’s “too dark” to take me home. I could have gone home on my own! I huff indignantly and stare at the ceiling, watching the light flicker before it suddenly dies and I am engulfed in darkness.

Moving onto my side, I continue to stare at the ceiling, bubbling with anger and resentment, and maybe a bit of homesickness, before I hear a quiet voice in the dark:

“I would have taken you home, you know.”

It sounds like Slightly, but when I glance over to his form in the chair, his head is still on his chest and he’s snoring. Assuming that I must have been imagining things, I shut my eyes tightly and attempt to sleep.

---

When I wake up in the morning, Slightly is on the floor with a thin trail of drool running down his chin. I’m tempted to get him up—instead, I sit cross-legged on the mattress and watch him for a moment. His hair is mussed and his fingers are clenching and unclenching as he dreams, in rhythm with the way his chest rises and falls, and then I hear him murmuring things.

“Leave ’er alone, you fuckin’ bugger!” A pause as he twitches and rolls onto his side, hand flailing through the air for a second. “’s right, you ’eard me, I says leave ’er alone. I can talk back if I want to, fuckin’ watch me—”

He rolls over to face me again, but this time his eyes are wide open and he looks… well… I’m not sure how he looks. Either way, I feel ashamed that he’s caught me watching him, so I break my gaze as he sits up and runs a hand through his hair. I hear him sniff and stretch, then I hear the bones in his legs click as he gets up and comes over to me.

“C’mon,” he says gruffly, but not without a smile on his face. “I was jest dreamin’, Wendy, no worries.” He offers me his hand and I notice that he’s still wearing my jacket, but say nothing.

“Where are we going?” I inquire politely, curiosity now peaked.

“Breakfast,” he replies, kicking the blanket into the corner and cracking his neck. I suppress a shudder – bones cracking have always made me feel queasy, and with the mention of breakfast and the possibility of eating a rat again, I suddenly feel rather faint.

Slightly must see my expression, because he puts a firm arm around my shoulder and guides me towards the main area of their little hideout (well, it’s more a network of alleys, really), and there’s a humorous little smile on his face. “We ain’t havin’ rat today, if that’s what yer worried about,” he mumbles after a pause, not bothering to block up the entrance again. “We’re havin’ whatever the twins can find.”

“Dirt and Soot?” I ask as we come into view of the main area.

“Yep,” the redhead replies, removing his hand from around my shoulder as we amble into the crossroads of the alley network and find Tootles lazing around on top of a crate, chewing happily on an old chicken drumstick.

Curly suddenly appears, carrying a plastic bag and looking rather worn out. He collapses on the floor, crawling over to where Tootles is and emptying out the contents of the bag to reveal a few bits of packaged food – dry noodles, tinned apricots and a carton or two of orange juice. He’s gasping for air, and Slightly nods attentively as his mouth opens and shuts.

It’s then that I realise Curly is saying something.

“Peter an’ the twins will be here in a minute,” Slightly informs me, settling down on the floor. I sit next to him because I’m not too sure where else I should sit, and both Tootles and Curly grin at me, as if noticing me for the first time.

“Why, where are they?” Questions, questions, I muse, inwardly scolding myself.

“Stealin’,” Tootles responds, flicking the drumstick bone at Curly. It bounces off his head and lands nearby. “Did you think we ate rats all the time?” He laughs at the expression on my face and nudges the blond on the floor with the tip of his foot. “Hear that, Curly? She reckons we eat like animals!”

Curly lets out a guffaw of laughter and the two seem relatively amused for a while, whilst Slightly rubs his hands together in a manner that implies he’s anticipating something. He catches me eyeing him and grins toothily, gesturing towards the wide alley that Curly appeared from a few minutes ago.

“Watch there,” he whispers quietly, and I notice that his eyes are locked on the small lane. “Yer can hear ’em soon. They always go out early an’ like in the mornin’, and Curly’s always the first back. Then it’s Peter an’ the twins—Dirt and Soot, ’s what we need to call ’em now, ain’t it?—an’ Nibs brings up the rear—”

“If we’re lucky,” Tootles pipes up, looking rather relaxed on top of the crate, although I think it looks rather uncomfortable, “—Pete’ll ’ave Tink wi’ ’im, too.”

“Tink—” I’m about to ask, but the sound of whooping reaches my ears and Slightly gestures for me to be quiet and watch the passageway. All four of us twist and turn to observe what happens next, and when it does happen, I’m left shocked.

Peter comes first, whooping and making the most noise, armed with several loaves of bread under his arms. He runs, jumping over a stack of abandoned dog food and sprinting clear of the alleyway, dodging left and tossing one loaf at Tootles, who catches it effortlessly. The second loaf is thrown to Curly, who drops it and then picks it up quickly, whilst he keeps the third and fourth, sinking down next to Tootles and panting heavily from the run.

I’m about to ask him how far he’s run when there’s more noise – a mixture of shrieks and howling. Two figures are running down the alleyway, now, both of them clutching plastic bags. I recognise them as the Twins—or Dirt and Soot, as they’re called now—and they clear the final bit, both jumping over the dog food one at a time.

The one in front (I think it’s Dirt, I can’t be sure) frequently checks over his shoulder to make sure that his twin is following him, and when they move free of the lane, they make two very loud howls and slide the bags towards Peter, looking very pleased with themselves.

The twins then settle down next to Curly, and we all wait expectantly for the final member to make their run. It’s a while before any of us hear anything, but Tootles – with his head tilted slightly to the side – picks it up first.

It sounds like a loud wail from far off, like someone is holding a very long note, and then it suddenly cuts itself off and becomes shorter and quicker. It comes in sharp, small bursts that sound like ‘Wee! Wee!’ to my ears and there is a confused look on my face that doesn’t match the expectancy of the others. I see Peter get to his feet and stand near the entrance to the lane, whilst Curly follows him and everyone suddenly goes tense.

And then I see Nibs and everything makes sense. He’s running with what looks like a melon under his arm, colliding with a broken crate and recovering almost straight away. There’s a frantic sort of euphoria on his face as he shrieks and woops and makes a racket, and then, before I know it, he’s through the lane and heading towards me. I wonder if he’s going to stop running or if I should get out of the way, and it’s only when someone suddenly pulls me to the right and Nibs goes sailing past me that I realise that I should have moved out of the way.

There is a hand firmly wrapped around my waist, and another one on my shoulder, and I find myself with half of my face pressed into the chest of Slightly. He is standing up, having pulled me up and to my feet in one quick motion, and whilst I see that he is apparently calm, I steal a glance at Peter and he looks livid. Well, I think faintly, I’d be angry, too, if one of my friends was careless.

“Are you okay?” Slightly asks me tentatively and I nod my head. He lets go of me and moves two steps away, nodding his head with some sort of dog-like obedience.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, somewhat aware of indignant shouts behind me. I turn and see Curly, plus the Twins, pushing Nibs around and demanding why he didn’t stop, whilst Peter broods near the entrance of the alley and Tootles lazes around on his crate.

---

After a breakfast that consists of bread, tinned apricots (Tootles managed to open them, I don’t know how), orange juice, melons (badly hacked apart by Peter’s penknife) and some fairy cakes, Peter gets up and leaves the circle just as I am plucking up the courage to ask him if I can go home.

“’e’s in a bit of a mood today, eh?” I hear Tootles tell Curly, and I can’t help but listen in on their conversation whilst nibbling at the piece of melon I was given earlier. “Got no idea wha’ ’e’s playin’ at, though, considerin’ that missus over there.”

“Mm,” Curly says through a mouthful of food, crumbs going everywhere, “maybe he feels guilty ’cos she can’t go home or somethin’. What do the other lot reckon?”

“Nah, I think it’s ’cos Tink’s all pissed off or somethin’ like that, yeah,” Nibs murmurs, shuffling over to join the other two. “’Cos, you know what they’re like, an’ it ain’t pretty. I mean, she’s pretty an’ all but—” he whistles lowly, “—the attitude, mates, I’m a-tellin’ yer. The attitude, it ain’t—”

My eavesdropping is interrupted by a light tap on my shoulder. Slightly is standing there, looking rather sombre.

“Um—” I begin, but he brushes it off with a wave of his hand.

“Don’t worry ’bout the eavesdroppin’, yeah, ’cos we all do it, an’ anyway, ’s perfectly allowable,” he grins, helping me up.

“What’s this about—?”

“—ain’t got time fer questions, love,” Slightly murmurs, gesturing for me to follow him. “Peter wants to talk to you an’ I ’ave to take you to ’im. ’s only goin’ to be a few questions and whatnot, though,” he adds upon seeing the look on my face, “so don’t worry.”

“But—”

“—an’ ’e won’t do anythin’ to yer, like I’ve said before, yeah? ’Cos I’ll be a-waitin’ outside, anyways, as part of the Lost Boys pact an’ stuff, so yer pretty much safe, miss.”

I don’t understand what he’s going on about. Lost Boys pact? Still, I don’t ask any questions as we walk past the other boys – none of whom notice the fact that we’re leaving – and a few seconds later, we’re outside what I presume is the door to Peter’s quarters.

“Where are the Twins?” I whisper, feeling nervous. Slightly lays a hand on my shoulder and smiles softly.

“They ’ave other things to do as well,” he whispers in reply, knocking on the door, “so they only stay for dinner an’ lark like that.”

“Do—” I’m about to ask him another question, but he must have heard a response of some sort, because he’s opening the door and pushing me inside.

“Slightly! Slightly!” I’m panicking, now, and the male mouths ‘good luck’ before another voice catches my attention and I turn around.

Peter.