The second strike from the baton managed to knock Edmund to the ground, and the boy crumped when he did so.

"Please!" he shouted, but nothing else came as he curled into himself, anticipating another painful strike.

Who could resist such a plaintive plea for mercy?

Fanny, that’s who.

She kicked him hard in the back and jabbed the baton down onto his hip. Someone screamed.

Ugh, she’d have to hurry this up before she got more complaints. Handcuffs jingled behind him.

“Wrists out,” she barked.

The kick very well knocked the breath out of Edmund, and forced his face into cobblestone hard.  He felt skin scrape from his cheek and chin, and grit his teeth against the pain.  Somehow, he managed to feel even more like shit when he heard jingling from above him.

He turned his head, but it only confirmed his fears. 

"Jail?"  His voice was quiet, raspy, weak and pathetic.  Hadn't he come here to leave all that behind?

Maybe it was in his blood.  Maybe that's just who he was.

God.  This was turning out to be the worst fucking day of his life.  He should have taken the warning from the man before and left when he had the chance.

The crowd, strangely, parted. The rattle of wheels and clop of hooves approached.

There was … screaming. Inside.

The horse veered out of the way of them, but the cart collided with the constable (who also let out an equally soprano scream), and just narrowly missed Edmund’s crumpled, beaten form.

The cart picked up speed again. The constable was clutching his knee with teeth bared, though the open shape looked more shocked than furious.

Edmund didn't even try to move as he heard a horse and cart approaching.  When the shadow came over him, his eyes closed, preparing for yet another impact, but it never came.  Still, he heard the cart hit something, and a scream.  It sounded like a woman.

The boy's eyes shot open and he struggled to his knees, looking around for the injured woman, but only saw the constable that had been about to arrest him on the ground.  He looked hurt.

"Oh," fuck, he didn't say, coming closer to the constable on his knees.  Once again, he had the chance to run and he wasn't taking it, but it wasn't even fair now.  Who was expecting a damn cart to come out of nowhere?

"Are you alright, sir?  What... are you badly hurt?  Should someone call for a doctor?"

Fuck, it smarted. It felt like it was bleeding, but when Fanny touched her leg it her glove came back dry. Her breaths came in rasps, heavy – impeded. Was this how she died? In the middle of the street, like she always figured she would back when she worked it?

Fanny coughed, spat (clear), moved her leg and gritted her teeth. Wasn’t broken, probably. Catching her breath, however …

The constable jutted his chin with bared teeth when the boy came to tower over his, breath rattling through. But the moment he said “doctor,” his eyes widened in a second of unbridled terror.

“No!” he wheezed, hands flying up to his chest. “Get-- get lost!”

Getting lost!  What wonderful advice.  Edmund hesitated for a moment, considering if he should do just that.  The constable could move his leg, but it seemed to hurt quite a bit, and scared of doctors.  Edmund could relate.

He shook his head once.  "Can you roll up your pant leg?  No doctors, just let me see it.  Ehm - please?"

Edmund probably should not have been ordering the constable around like he wasn't still struggling to breathe.  He lowered himself some, trying to show the man his intentions were true - as true as a would be criminals, at the very least.

Pain clouded her thoughts, and old habits crept up to pick up the slack.

“Pervert!” she hissed … then made a face. “… Perjury!” she tried instead.

She didn’t even know what that was, but she hoped it sent him scampering.

How hard exactly had this man struck Edmund on the head?  Or was he genuinely calling the boy a pervert?

Edmund shook his head, but it just made the world around him swim.  Ah... he needed a lie down.  Or maybe he should call a doctor, but for himself.

"I don't know what that is," he admitted weakly.  "Should I call for another constable..?  Your leg might be broken, or sprained, I'm sorry, I just..."  Would it be suspicious if he said he was trying to help?  Maybe he should just get lost after all.  Find Mable, or Father Brennan, or just go home.

The constable gritted his teeth, and shoved himself up to stand with his baton. Looked at the kid for a long, heavy-breathing moment as he genuinely considered braining him even in this state.

It … could have gone worse. Not that Fanny’d ever admit that.

“Right, I was arresting you,” the constable grumbled, grasping for the handcuffs at his waistband.

But they … weren’t on his waistband, because he’d dropped them when a fucking cart hit him.

“Pick those up,” he grunted, nodding to them.