Excerpt from The Tightrope Walkers by David Almond, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The lower wasteland, down the rocky path, between the pebble-dash and town, was left to Vincent. In the early years it had been a place for play. We dug our dens there, sledged in winter, we skipped and fought and dreamed that we were in a world far off from our homes, which were a few short footsteps away. But as we and Vincent grew, we used it warily.

He walked his dogs there, yanking at their throats with steel-and-leather chains. He squatted in holes in the dirt by smoulder-ing fires. He wore a sheath knife at his waist. He smoked, he spat and snarled. When kids passed by he yelled that we were nancies, poofs, snobs, berks, teacher's pets and Holy bliddy Joes.

He gouged stones out of the earth and flung them at us. If we dared to face him he yelled, "Howay. Just bliddy try it, then."

One day I crossed the wasteland and heard wailing. Bernard was tied with a rope to a post. Vincent stood before him, snarling that he'd set the bliddy dogs on him if he ever dared do that again. Was he going to apologize? Was he going to bliddy apologize?

"What you lookin at?" snarled Vincent when he caught me watching. "What's it got to diy with bliddy ye?"

He laughed.

Untied the rope, set Bernard free.

"See? It's up to me exactly what I diy."

"Aye!" called Bernard in a frail and high-pitched voice. "What's it got to diy with bliddy ye?"

He giggled as Vincent put his arm around him. Bernard leaned onto him and they faced me, arm in arm, cheek to cheek.

Another day. Bernard stood against a door that leaned against a stunted hawthorn tree. He had his arms stretched wide like wings. Vincent had the sheath knife in his hand. I watched as he took aim and raised the knife, and threw, and the knife spun glittering from his hand to thud into the door six inches from Bernard's side. Vincent punched the air. Bernard punched the air as well, then spread his arms again.

"Come to see the show?" said Vincent to me.

He took the knife from the door, walked away, turned again and flung the knife without a hesitation. It thumped into the door six inches from Bernard's thigh.

"What about that, then, eh?" he said. "Pretty canny, eh?"

He called to Bernard, "That'll do, old son. Bring the knife and let's go off and have some fun."

Bernard twisted the knife out from the timber, went to his friend.

McAlinden hugged him tight."Good lad, Bernard," he said. "Good brave bliddy lad. Howay, let's gan."

They passed close by. Vincent looked me in the eye.

"Why not come alang with us?" he said.

I didn't move.

"We'll have a laugh, eh? Me and you and Bernard."

"He hasn't got the guts," squeaked Bernard. "Not to come to play with Vincent McAlinden and his pal."

Vincent winked at me. He put one arm around Bernard's shoul-ders and raised his other arm, as if to take me to his side.

He lowered his voice, softened it.

"Naebody would knaa, Dom," he said.

He held my gaze.

"You want to, don't you, Dom? You really want to."

He shrugged.

"Ah, well. Mebbe another time, eh?"

"He's just a chicken," said Bernard as they turned away. "Squawk, squawk, bliddy squawk."

Vincent tightened his arm around Bernard's throat.

"No, he's not," he snarled.

He turned back towards me. He held Bernard's head down.

"No, he's bliddy not," he said into my eyes. "This one's got some-thing special, Bernard. Haven't you, Dom?"

I said nothing.

"And one day he'll see it," he continued. "And he'll come to me just like you did, little Bernard."

He grinned, he turned the grip into a hug, held Bernard to his side. Then turned away downhill, towards the town and river.

The Tightrope Walkers Copyright © 2014 by David Almond. Reproduced by permission of the publisher, Candlewick Press, Somerville, MA.