Stolen Lives (The Alice Chronicles #3)

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D ick Winter fumbles blear-eyed in the dimness of the brew house at Hillbury’s inn. It makes for a long job, lifting each spent barrel to lie on top of others, taking out the bung and tipping it with one hand while the other holds the leather jack in hopes of catching some dregs. He moves along the line, finding the odd one that dribbles its last drops. The liquid is earthy with sediment, but in Dick’s view better than nothing. Bit by bit he fills the jack, and a second. He compares the two, choosing the fuller for himself and takes a long swig. He tops it up from the other until they are roughly even. Warily he peers out of the door, checking each way, and hastens round to the back of the brew house. ‘Here’s your – God’s blood, what’s that on your head?’

Bart Johnson prances towards him, stops, pushes out a leg and staggers as he doffs the hat in a wavering bow. He straightens, ‘Away with you, fellow!’ He makes flicking gestures.

Dick rolls his eyes. ‘What do you look like?’

Bart slurs, ‘I never owned a hat as good as this. It does something for me.’

Dick snorts. ‘Yeah, makes you look a noddy. Where’d you get it?’

‘Found it.’ Bart points vaguely past the scrubby bushes behind the hay loft.

‘Let’s have a see.’ Dick puts the two jacks on the ground and approaches. ‘Whose is it?’

Bart shrugs. ‘It’s mine now.’ He resettles it geometrically straight on his head and strides crookedly forward, neck stiff, stubbled chin jutting. ‘Gives me substance, a hat like this.’

Dick coming alongside flicks it off Bart’s head, and the two dive for it, kicking and wrestling on the ground behind the brew house. In the struggle, it gets squashed, bent and scraped along the earth as each tries to wrest it from the other. Dick is the victor. He jumps up with a jubilant cry, ‘Mine!’ waving it over his head. He puts it on and the hat sinks down over his eyes. ‘Gawd, Bart, you must have a really big head, this is enormous!’

‘That’s a real man’s hat, that is,’ Bart says. ‘Give it here, pinhead.’

Dick takes it off and spins it through the air. It lands flat on the brim and slides in the dust. Picking it up, Bart bangs it against his leg and little clouds puff out. ‘Curse you, Dick, it’s got in the folds too.’ He brushes and slaps at it with his hand, which slightly restores the reddish-purple colour. ‘That’s better,’ he says, and puts it on again. The bent brim looks like a leering wink.

‘Fat head, fat head!’ Dick sings.