There were two older boys with him, the three of them lounging on an uprooted tree trunk by the side of the path.

You do not live as long as I have without sensing big trouble when it is sitting on a tree trunk thirty feet in front of you.

Big trouble, for example, does not care if there is an adult present. I spotted that in John McGonagal when he simply ignored the referee during the game on the beach. The way he swore loudly, not caring if other people heard him.

And now the fact that Mam was with me was not going to stand in the way of his giving me a beating. He simply did not care.

“Call the police, Mam,” I murmured.

“The police?” she gasped. “Who are those boys?”

“They’re trouble, Mam. Go on.”

She turned and headed back up the lane. There was a public phone box on the main road.

Avoiding officials had been an important part of lying low for so long. As soon as I had instructed Mam to call the police, I regretted it. I should take the beating and be done with it—no one need interfere in our lives.

In a thousand years, I had never gone looking for a fight. But if someone brought one to me?

Boys now are not taught how to fight. That is probably a good thing. If people do not know how to fight, then perhaps they do it less, and that too is probably a good thing.

Me? I was taught. I have been taught fighting skills many times.

I had learned the use of a short wooden staff from a prizefighter from Aragon who would tell me it was “the noblest of all weapons” for it was “without deceit.”

His voice came back to me over the centuries as the boys in front slowly got to their feet.

“Yer mammy run off, has she?” said the biggest boy, who I guessed was about fifteen.

“She’s gone to call the police,” I said, and they all chuckled.

“Don’t fret yerself. This’ll all be done long before they get here!”

They advanced, menacingly slowly, with John between them. I stood my ground until they were about four yards away.

“What’s up, soft lad? Ye just gonna stand there, are ye?”

John took another step forward, and that was when I moved. I dipped into a crouch, grabbing a handful of the fine gravel from the path in my right fist and throwing it straight at his face, hard.

I am a good shot, if I say so myself. Rafel the prizefighter had made us practice this again and again. The gravel hit its target and John let out a yell as the grit went into his eyes.

The other two goons were distracted and before I got to my feet I grabbed a thick branch that was much less straight than I would have preferred, but at least it was the right length and weight: about four feet long, and heavy enough to take a small amount of effort to lift.

“No effort for you, no pain for him,” said Rafel in my head.

With both arms, I swung it at the boy on John’s right, and there was a satisfying crack as it made contact with the side of his knee. He shouted with pain and staggered backward.

“Knees first, slows him down!”

John was still rubbing his eyes, so with one end of the branch I jabbed him hard in the stomach. He did not see it coming, and doubled up with a wheeze and a squeak of pain.

By now, the goon on John’s left had advanced to my right side and made contact with a well-aimed kick to my shin that hurt like heck, and he dodged the branch when I swung it at him. He was going to be trouble.

“In multiple combats, target the strongest first, when you have most stren’th….”

The boy advanced again, but this time I had the club ready, the weight steady in both of my fists. I raised it up, faking a blow, and as his hands came up to defend himself I changed direction and swung at him hard, thumping the side of his chest with a blow that knocked all the air from his lungs.

“Now finish the job, Alfie!” said Rafel.

There was a natural momentum for the branch to swing back, and I raised it slightly, adding my strength and smashing the wood into the side of his head, knocking him out cold. He slumped to the ground, tongue lolling.

There was no time to admire my work, for John and his other pal were both coming at me. His friend lifted his fist for a blow, and I blocked it with the branch, then kicked him in the stomach, sending him flying backward into a patch of nettles. He squealed as he landed.

That left one: John, much bigger than me and with a vicious look in his eyes. By now, though, I could tell my branch—old and dry—was weakening. I had heard it crack before, and when I swung it next at his thigh, he dodged, and as it made contact, the stick broke in my hands. I threw the pieces at him, missed, and he guffawed.

“Nice one, weirdo. Let’s see how you like it.” Without taking his eyes off me, he crouched and picked up one of the pieces, advancing toward me. I would be powerless against it, and raised my forearms defensively as he lifted the stick high above his head.

At that instant, I saw a black-and-white blur, and heard an inhuman, high-pitched growl, followed by a scream from John.

“Aaagh, get it off! Oww! Aaaagh!” He dropped the piece of stick, scrabbling with his hands as Biffa’s claws dug deep into his skull. She mewled and growled and scratched while John McGonagal hopped about, flailing his arms and yelling in pain. Eventually he dislodged Biffa from his head, and she stood in front of him, back arched, hissing and spitting like a boiling kettle.

“You’re crazy, you are! Weirdo! A psycho!” John yelled at me as he backed away up the lane.

“Go on, then,” I said, pointing at his friend who was now a safe distance away. “Are you going to join him? Get lost, all of you. I do not like rubbish littering my path.”

John helped his other friend to his feet and they both staggered off.

“Nice work, Biff,” I murmured, but she was not listening. She took a few paces toward the retreating boys and they ran.

I felt good. Really I did. But I knew that would not be the end of it. Not by a long way.

“In the real world, Alfie, you gotta kill ’em. Otherwise they come back for more.”

Rafel lived in the seventeenth century. It was a different world then.