There were two of them, sisters, one not much above twelve and the other no older than fifteen. Their attack was sudden, an ambush near the gate of Oswalds’ in the early morning hour. It was a dry dawn and the oblong puddles in the gutters had at last drained away, which was just as well for the girls’ rush bowled Kirsty over and she sat down hard upon the pavement, arms wrapped instinctively across her belly. The younger of the little harridans swiped a kick at her. ‘Bitch, so ye are. Bitch, bitch.’ Kirsty struggled to rise but the elder had danced around behind her, grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back. If she had not been so afraid of straining herself Kirsty would have fought back but her pregnancy made her vulnerable and the spitting fury of the girls had about it a tone of moral outrage. ‘Because o’ you, my daddy’s deein’.’ Understanding flared like a gas jet; they were the daughters of one of the villains, Skirving or McVoy. Kirsty reached out and caught the younger girl a stinging slap upon the cheek.
