“I’m at the end of my rope with you, boy, I am. The Dark One toys with you. He will consume you.” A slow, dire shake of his massive head. “We’re gonna send you on up to that primary school. I reckon you still gotta come home at the end of the day. You remember who you are, boy. You’re smugglin’ the Lord in. You’re my David, mm? Fightin’ Goliath? David wins, yes? Always puts a great rock…”—as his fat, tusk-like index finger pressed a smudge into the boy’s forehead—“right through Goliath’s skull.” He put his hand down. “You shall not reflect poorly on your family.” A grin lifted the craterous sag of his cheeks. “Supper is soon. Join us, mm?” He turned to Papa, who nodded, and the two men left, their groaning footfalls and low chatting in the hall.

Creighton hiccupped in relief. Who had Goliath killed as a boy?