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

"Go away from me"—thrash—"with your curse upon you"—thrash—"to the eternal fire"—thrash—"prepared for the Devil—"thrash—"and his"—thrash—"angels!"

She put the cane of Miss O'Kane back upon the desk.

"On your deathbed," she said to Norman, "you may have rea-son to thank me for this day. Now go away from me."

It was known that Vincent McAlinden had never been known to falter and had never once been caned. It was said that he was asked exactly the same question every week.

"To whose image and likeness did God make you?"

"God made me to his own image and likeness."

"Correct, Vincent McAlinden."

Chapter 3The McAlindens. Their ancestors fled from Cork during the Famine. They'd been cast out during the Clearances from the Western Isles. They'd been tinkers in Yorkshire, seacoalers in Durham, rag-and-boners in the Glasgow slums. They were vaga-bonds, wastrels, wanderers, thieves. The father was in Durham Jail for murder. Been murdered himself in the Jungle at Shields. He'd strangled a bairn of his own, chucked its body into a Pelaw cesspit. He was Mrs. McAlinden's own damn brother, her own damn bliddy father. There wasn't just one dad but a clutch of them. Black-souled bliddy sinners, every single one of them. And her? Just had to look at her. Them whiskers on her cheeks, them moles, that sweat, that roll-up in the corner of the mouth. And that clutch of bairns that looked the same. The widow's peak that marked them out, the jet-black hair, the furrowed brows. Witchcraft in that family, had to be. Mebbe worse. Hey, mebbe they weren't true human at all. Mebbe some weird thing twixt man and beast.

In autumn and winter kids gathered beneath a certain street light as the night came on. Some of us were little more than toddlers, some were already in their teens. We told each other ghost tales and gave accounts of nightmares as the sun dropped down over the estate.

We shuddered as the sky darkened and reddened and true night came on. A boy called Colin Moss called us into a ring within the pool of light and began to speak.

"Now we will tell of the father McAlinden. Prepare yourselves. For the father and his dog will walk tonight."

We shivered and gasped, our breath plumed into the icy air. He looked from face to face.

We giggled, goggled, gasped and gaped.

"The McAlindens need their human flesh tonight. Is that correct?"

"That is correct" came the reply.

"Now Mrs. Mac is turning on the oven."

"Click."

"Vincent Mac is sharpening the knives.""

Scrape, scrape."

"Mr. Mac is coming up from Hell."

"From damn and blasted bloody Hell."

"Now listen to the howling of the dogs."

"Aoooooo!"

"And listen to the gnashing of their teeth."

"Gnash gnash!"

"The father of the Macs will walk these very streets tonight."

"Tonight."

"He will wait till all bairns are asleep in bed." "Asleep in bed."

"Whose door will he enter?

"Whose stairs will he climb?

"Whose bedroom will it be this night?

"Which child will be taken to the oven?

"Which child will be carried down to Hell?"

Colin raised his hand, extended his index finger and began to point to each of us in turn, one stab of the finger, one body to each syllable.

"They need a child to cook tonight. Will it be you? Will it be you? No—it—will—be—y-o-u!"

And, with one of us chosen, we suddenly separated and scam-pered below the inadequate streetlights towards our doors, towards our parents, towards cups of cocoa and chairs by coal fires, towards the thrill of being in there with tingling skin and racing hearts, with the thrill of the night still seething within us, towards our desperate nightmares and our soothing dreams.

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