Rough Justice by Gilda O'Neill

of course – resulting in the smashed china and overturned table for which she had been blamed. So she was as good as expecting it when he lunged towards her, with his open hand raised high above his head ready to strike her across the face. Not being half asleep like George, Nell had the advantage, and she was able to duck out of his reach and take off along the hallway to the front door. She had her hand on the latch a bare moment before he reached her.
    Nell flung open the door and threw herself out onto the landing – right into the arms of Martin, Joe and Mary Lovell’s son. He was just stepping out onto the landing from Number 57.
    ‘Morning,’ he said with a bashful grin, stepping back as he took his hands away from her. He raised them to his shoulders, making it clear that he’d not intended to touch her. ‘What’s the rush?Someone after you, are they? If they are I hope they’re—’
    It was the most that Martin had ever said to her, but he wasn’t given the opportunity of saying anything more. George had launched himself across the landing and grabbed Martin by the collar of his overcoat. He started shaking him with the force of a muscular bull mastiff dispatching a wiry young terrier pup.
    ‘You get away from her, you nasty little bastard,’ George spat through clenched, morning-furred teeth. ‘Right now. D’you hear me? Now.’
    Martin waved his hands in mock surrender. ‘Come on, George, nothing intended. She only run into me by mistake.’ He nodded at Nell, and smiled. ‘You’re all right, aren’t you, Nell?’ Martin blushed as he said her name out loud for the first time – although he’d repeated it in his head enough times. ‘You were going at about twenty miles an hour just now.’
    He tried another grin. ‘Sorry if I embarrassed you. I didn’t mean anything.’
    Nell didn’t reply, she just stared down at her shoes.
    ‘What’s this then, a bloody tea party, all having a nice little chit-chat are we?’ George gripped Nell by the upper arm and started hauling her back to Number 55. ‘Come on, move your bleed’n’ self.’
    Martin, now frowning, followed them. ‘Here, George, aren’t you being a bit rough with her? I mean, look at the size of you, mate.’
    George had spun round and thrown himself on him before Martin even knew what was happening. George slammed him in the chest and threw him backwards, smacking him into the wall beside the open door of Number 57. Martin’s head hit the lime-washed brick with a thud. But he didn’t fall; instead he rocked forward and squared up in a boxer’s stance, fists up in front of his chest.
    ‘All right then, George, if you think you’re so tough, let’s have you. Or d’you only pick on girls?’
    George looked at Martin, pausing to consider – could he, a whacking great nineteen-year-old, take on this smaller, much slighter lad of sixteen? Even one who went to a boxing club?
    Course he could. He was twice his size.
    As it happened, George was wrong, and when Martin’s parents appeared in the doorway of their flat curious to see what all the commotion was about, they saw George stretched out on the floor, panting like a train, dabbing at his bloody nose with the back of his hand. Their son was straddling him, fists raised ready to lay him out again, daring him to move.
    ‘Martin?’ Joe Lovell said quietly. ‘What’s going on here, son?’
    ‘He was hurting Nell, Dad.’
    Mary Lovell, dressed to go out, took off her gloves as she stepped around her son and the still horizontal George. ‘You get yourself off to work, Martin, or you’ll be late,’ she said, drawing Nellclose to her. ‘And I’d better get myself down the shop soon or Sarah’ll be wondering where I’ve got to. It’s one of the mornings when I set up with her, see Nell.’ She spoke evenly, as if everything was perfectly normal. ‘But I’ve got enough time to make you a nice cup of tea before I go, love. You come indoors with me, eh?’
    Mary knew she