Chapter 1: The Attack

'Here he comes!' whispered Jack, as he peered round a wall behind which he and three others crouched. At this, they turned around as one to press their backs flat against the wall which formed one side of the oblong building that served as the mail delivery office. The foremost of the four boys, Jack, had sighted their quarry coming out of the large post office doors.

The quarry, who was headed in their direction, was an elderly gentleman with a bleach-white mop of hair that evinced he was well into the winter of life. In his left hand, pressed against the nook formed by his arm and lean chest, he clutched the small brown parcel he had just collected from the office and with a shaky stride sustained by the strength of a sturdy cane, he unwittingly advanced towards the waiting mischief-makers.

'This one's yours, George,' whispered another of the boys Peter, nudging the smaller boy who stood to his right.

George in his turn took in a huge gulp of air and nodded nervously.

'Here, take this,' said the fourth of the group, who stood at the furthermost end of the line they had formed.

With this, Craig reached beneath his jacket and pulled out a yard long truncheon. As George grasped the weapon between his trembling hands, he shuffled down the line to replace Jack at the front who, grabbing him by the cheeks, whispered:

'It's OK to be scared - it's your first time. He's an old codger -this one- so it shouldn't be too difficult. Just knock the cane away and thump him on the head and we'll be off with his parcel in a trice!'

Again, George nodded as he ran his tongue across his lips. Now turning to peer around the wall once more, he spotted his unwitting victim making a shaky progress about twenty yards away. Twenty soon became ten and then five as the boy's pulse raced and his heart beat furiously. Five became one as the noise of the cane striking the ground became audible to the boys. One more halting step was taken before Jack cried 'Now!’ as he thrust George bodily into the path of the elderly man.

Instinctively, George swung the truncheon in an arc in front of him, in the process knocking the parcel clean out of the aged man's hand. As it clattered against the pavement, George's arm swung back, this time catching the cane and sending the startled man sprawling. As he hit the pavement, by a stroke of serendipity, he fell upon the parcel he had so recently lost and now clutching it anew, cowered beneath the blows that now rained upon his head, delivered by the feet and fists of his feral attackers. Jack, Peter and Craig, having joined the fray, were now busily employed in kicking and punching the crouched figure, cursing as they tried to wrestle the parcel from his claw-like grip.

After about a minute, George retreated a few yards and watched the unfolding violent scene, his mouth agape in horror. He was thus engaged when suddenly, Jack turned round and seeing him standing idly, yelled with a mouth contorted with rage:

'Don't just stand there, you fool! At him with the truncheon and be quick about it. We need to be away before the coppers come!'

For the third time, George nodded meekly, his tongue lingering this time against his bottom lip as the other three boys parted from the sorry figure that lay before them. The elderly man was whimpering as shudder after shudder ran through his bloodied and bruised body.

'Do it, George!' 'Straight on the head, George!' 'As hard as you can!'

Trembling, George raised the club and paused for a second as the earnestness of his friends' urgings sent the blood racing into his brain. Suddenly, he let out a blood curdling screech as down came the truncheon, through the mop of white hair, through thin flesh to eventually come to a rest on the shattered fragile skull of Professor Meldrew.

Such was the name of defenceless man whom George killed with a sole blow that fateful evening for the theft of a parcel. This was also the first murder committed by the notorious 'Parcel Boys', the gang George had finally been inducted into that evening thanks to his deed.

Chapter 2: The Reckoning

The 'Parcel Boys' was a ragged bunch of about twenty boys, mostly orphans, whose prime aim, whilst operating in groups of four or five, was to rob unsuspecting pedestrians who milled about the bustling city. They were a self-run group displaying no evident hierarchy, with new members gaining equal status with existing members after a period of training prior to their induction. Furthermore, at the end of each day, all of their plunder was shared about as equally as possible between the group.

The gang had recently earned their nickname in the written press for a spate of vicious attacks visited upon about a dozen men and women as they made their way back, parcels in hand, from the city's many mail delivery offices. There were rich pickings to be had in this new line of business and the boys, who by now were emboldened by their notoriety, took readily to it.

The latest of their victims was the late Professor Meldrew and of his death that fateful evening, the four aforementioned boys were oblivious until the morning after the attack when they could be found conversing in the council-leased dormitory that served for their home. There they stood, around George's bed, passing the brown parcel, from one set of hands to another as they reminisced the events of the evening before.

'I say, George. What a blow you struck that fellow. I swear I heard a crack!' exclaimed Peter, patting his friend on the back.

'I didn't know you had it in you,' said Jack, ruffling George's copper coloured hair. And flashing him a toothy smile, he added. 'You'll make a good Parcel Boy yet!

Craig, who now had the parcel, passed it from hand to hand and said,

'I suppose this belongs to you George. You get to keep your first ever takings, remember? It's afterwards you have to share'

With this, he handed the parcel to George and with expectant eyes, the three boys watched George turn it over. His head was bowed, a posture that betrayed his hesitance

'Come on, open it!' said Craig excitedly 'We want to see...'

His speech was interrupted as a fifth boy raced into the room and breathlessly delivered his dreadful news;

'The chap you boys did in last night is dead!' he exclaimed, between gasps. 'He's some famous professor and they say his head was split right open!'

Silence fell upon the group as the news sank in. In this same silence did the four boys now turn to face a petrified George whose face had gone sheet-white and whose lower jaw, which upon a fleeting inspection, looked to hang impossibly close to his neck.

'It's alright, George. It means nothing, doesn't it Jack?' It was Peter who had broken the silence, his voice laden with uncertainty,

Jack, who at the age of fifteen was the eldest of the four, had now regained the composure he so seldom lost - so hardened was this young man. Gripping the stony figure that stood before him by the shoulders, he shook George till his eyes lost their glaze and said;

'Now listen to me, George. You did OK, you hear me? You did as you were trained - hit till you achieve your aim and no more and that's what you did to the letter. You broke no rules and don't fear the coppers. We've evaded them since and we won't be caught now.'

George's large brown eyes looked listlessly into those of his friend as tears now rapidly filled them.

'Oh no, Jack! I'm damned! I'm a murderer, Jack!' he sobbed as the older boy clutched him close in a bear hug. After a few minutes, the sobs turned to wails until, pulling away from the smaller boy's grasp, Jack sternly said;

'This won't do. You are a Parcel Boy now. You'd better stay home today and try and collect yourself. You'll be fine, trust me.'

With this, the boys patted the weeping boy on the back before turning around to quit the dormitory. As they approached the door, Jack suddenly turned round sharply to watch as George carefully lifted himself into his bed. When he was still, Jack then called out to him;

'Stay put, George, and don't you do anything rash. You know the rules especially the first rule!.'

And with that, George was left alone to mull the fate his crime had dealt him. A fate that filled him with dread, haunted him and depressed him. And not more than a few inches from his teary eyes lay the symbol of his misdeed. An object that now guided his train of thoughts - a snare that was responsible for what George did next. It was the yet unopened brown parcel.

Chapter 3: What George Did Next

Through the streets raced the boy, the bulky rucksack upon his back doing little to hinder his speed - so quick was his pace. Occasionally, he halted his progress to inquire after some directions of a street vendor or a stall owner. After the sixth inquiry, his steps assumed a more determined bearing and with a haste more rapid, the boy sped across the narrow cobbled streets and down the alleys on the way to his destination.

At long last, he reached it. A humble terraced house, the red door of which bore the numbers 55 in large gold letters. Satisfied his journey was at an end, the boy reached up on tiptoe and with the knocker, delivered a rat-a-tat against the wooden door.

Steadying his pulse as he discerned a shuffling noise from within, he lifted the rucksack from his shoulders and plunging his right hand into it, pulled out the item concealed within. Holding it out in front of him, he listened as the bolts of the door were drawn back and the
door slowly swung open.

The door was only half-open when the boy carefully flung the item at the partially revealed form of the person behind it and with a haste matching that which he had journeyed hence, the boy fled before he could be seen.

On his way back, he passed a road sign with the name of the street on which the terraced house stood. It was Grosvenor Close.

The first rule of the Parcel Boys was it's most important. It was a rule intended to guard against the weakness of regret, the consequences of which, it was widely perceived, threatened the group with discovery. It was one which read:

'Upon no occasion should you return a stolen item to its owner or anyone connected to him or her'.

55, Grosvenor Close, the home of the late Professor Meldrew had been George's destination that morning.

Chapter 4: The Atonement

'Where is it, George?' inquired Jack, shaking the boy roughly as he lay still as a corpse on his bed. This was the third time he had made this inquiry and his nostrils were now flared with anger. His dark eyes flashed wickedly as he paused for a response from George.

None came as George who remained still. He had been so since he had been accosted that evening when his friends eventually returned to the dormitory. His eyes were also firmly closed.

'George, just tell us where the brown parcel is and we'd let you be in peace!' pleaded Craig angrily, from where he stood at the other side of the bed with Peter. 'You haven't given it back now, have you?'

Still, there was no response.

All this while, Peter had stood silently by. Being the most vocal of the four, this was odd as the situation that presented itself was one that would usually be readily graced by his shrill tones.

There was a reason Peter was silent. He had the shortest temper of the four - a temper which when lost, expressed itself in the most violent of rages. It was this temper that Peter was now struggling to control for the sake of his friend and he was growing increasingly close to losing it as George stubbornly remained silent.

'Where is it?' blurted Jack one more time, this time grabbing George by the collar and shaking him till his teeth rattled.

Another pause and still no word escaped George.

Suddenly, and without warning, an open palm raked its way hard across George's right cheek which went a deep red. The palm belonged to Peter who now followed the slap with another delivered with the back of his palm across the other cheek.

In defiant silence George received this latest provocation and the torrent that followed for now the blood had risen to the heads of his friends and the familiar rage they were accustomed to expressing upon their victims in the streets was visited upon George in his bed. Blows were rained upon the still body of their erstwhile friend, his irritating silence spurring them to greater depths of anger.

'Where is the damned parcel?' screamed Craig, striking George across the ribs with a fist. 'Tell us or we won't stop!'

As we have learnt at a point prior to this in this tale, upon joining the Parcel Boys, the boys had been taught to hit until they achieved their aim and no more. It was a lesson that had by now become so ingrained in them that it spurred the three boys on and stemmed any feeling of compassion for their now bloodied and broken friend who bore his suffering in silence.

George was acutely aware of this fact too as he received the blows that fell upon him. He knew he could spare himself the beating by admitting to returning the parcel and at worst he would have been expelled from the gang.

But despite the pain he stubbornly refused to take this course as he recoiled from a blow which broke his two front teeth. His mouth gushing with blood he was just about to slip out of unconsciousness when to his relief he heard the following words. The words he had longed for all the while he was being attacked. The words that meant his pain would soon be at an end.

'Let me at him with the truncheon!'

It was Jack. Jack Ever Sure who always struck hard and true. George pursed his bloodied lips and unheard above the yells of his three friends, he whispered;

'Please forgive me Professor, for I now atone for my crime!'

The blow when it came was swift and sure as the truncheon parted the copper-coloured hair and the flesh beneath before finally coming to a rest on the shattered skull of George Brewster, an orphan aged nine.

The End

Postscriptum: In the parcel that had caused the chain of events that led to George's death was a record held by the city of a young boy's short life including the details of the last foster home in which he had lived with the Brewster family before he had vanished. At the top of the sheaf of papers was the boy's name at birth, registered two days before he was given up for adoption by his ailing mother. The boy's name was George Meldrew and he was the long-lost grandson of Professor Meldrew.