A Cast of Falcons by Steve Burrows

“Just a little scared, that’s all. I’ll take him over there for you.” He nodded to a patch of grass near the stone wall and rolled to his knees, still clutching the boy in his arms.
    The natural impulse to comfort her child compromised, the woman’s shock morphed into anger instead, and she rounded on the van’s driver, an elderly man wearing thick glasses. Her eyes were wild with fury. “You bloody old fool,” she screamed at him through the open driver’s window. “You should watch where you’re going!”
    â€œI didn’t see him,” said the man defensively. He sounded dazed, shaken. “What was he doing in the middle of the car park, anyway? You should keep better control over your young ones.”
    The woman hefted the baby up on her hip and squared herself to the car window, as if preparing herself for further confrontation. Some of the bus passengers had arrived by now, gathering in a small half-circle around them. From other parts of the car park, people were drifting over to see what was going on. The small crowd was beginning to build. There would be many mobile phones among them, Domenic knew. He stepped between the pair, blocking the woman’s view of the driver. He locked her eyes with his own.
    â€œYour son is safe,” he said quietly, engaging her, taking her focus away from anything else. His voice was calm and reassuring. “He was crying because he’s afraid, but he is unharmed.”
    â€œNo thanks to this idiot.” She was shaking now, trembling, the baby on her hip rocking slightly with the movement. “He could have been killed.” She put her free hand to her mouth, and tears started to her eyes as the realization took hold. Her body seemed to melt slightly, and for a second Domenic was afraid she might faint. He reached forward to steady her. The crowd was watching them intently. No one had reached for a phone yet, but he knew he had only seconds before an electronic pulse of some kind went out from this scene: Instagram. YouTube. The police.
    â€œYour son is safe,” said Domenic again. “This man reacted quickly. We should thank him for that.” His voice was soothing, calm, the voice of reason. He turned to the man now, still blocking the view between the two. “You did well, sir, to stop like that.”
    â€œI never saw the wee lad.” There were tears in the old man’s eyes, too, now, behind the glasses. “If I hadn’t caught sight o’ that man out the corner of my eye, going past the front of the van like that …” He gripped the steering wheel tightly, staring out through the windscreen with unseeing eyes. Domenic realized for the first time that the van was still in gear. The man’s foot must be on the brake. He reached in through the window and jammed the column shift into Park. The man didn’t move. In the back of the van, Domenic saw an old chair, now lying on its back — the noise, he realized, the thud , the one he had thought was his brother, and the woman had thought was her child.
    Domenic turned back to the woman. “I’m sure your son wants to talk to you about what happened, but I know you’ll want to express your gratitude to this man for his quick thinking first.”
    Domenic stepped aside so she could see the driver now, his head bowed slightly, chin quivering.
    â€œAye … well, thank you,” she said grudgingly, uncertainly.
    The driver turned to look at the woman. “I’m glad the boy is all right,” he said, his voice almost breaking. He reached out a hand and unsteadily put the van into gear again, inching cautiously over the gravel at first, barely above walking pace, slowly gathering speed. The crowd watched the van navigate through the gap in the stone-walled car park and then dispersed in a cloud of low murmurings.
    By the time Domenic and the woman reached them, Damian and the boy were lying on