Free If I Could Fly by Jill Hucklesby Page B

behind the grass banks, and cross when the traffic thins to a trickle.
    I’m running on autopilot. Seconds, minutes, hours. I have no idea how long I’ve been pounding across wet soil, grass, tarmac and pavements. I onlyknow one thing. My feet are taking me home.
    There is no one about by the time I reach the trading estate. I follow the road as it weaves between warehouses. Very soon, I am jogging up the alley which leads to our back gate. It is locked. I vault the fence and stay crouched amongst the plants by our shed. There are lights on downstairs. The curtains are drawn in the lounge but the kitchen blind isn’t down, so I can see it in detail. It all looks so familiar. There is even a trace of lemon grass on the night breeze. I want to walk in the back door like nothing has happened, hold my mother so tight and hear her say she loves me.
    But I can’t go in. The FISTS might have set up listening devices. I must watch and wait and hope that my mum is here, that she comes outside. She’s the reason I’ve risked coming home. I need her to tell me everything is going to be all right. But that might be impossible. I have to warn her that she’s in danger. She’s the mother of a free runner, an enemy of the System.
    My dad will just be white hot angry with me for causing trouble, but Mum’s the one who worries about me. She’ll understand that I’ve blanked out the events of that night and she’ll tell me what happened.
    Khoon phra chuay!
Little Bird has appeared at the kitchen window. She is looking out, her face drawn and tired. She is even smaller than I remember and sadder than I could ever have imagined. I’m shaking like a jelly, not sure what to do. Why am I afraid to approach the person I love most in the world?
    The back door is opening and my mum is stepping out, her arms folded against the cold night air. She is peering towards the bushes where I’m hiding and muttering to herself, taking a deep breath, shaking her head.
    ‘My
kon dee
. . .’ she says softly.
    I nearly melt when I hear her special Thai name for me. I am about to jump up and run to her when I see a policewoman standing in the kitchen doorway. I want to yell at my mum to get out of there, but no soundcomes. Little Bird turns and moves inside, closing the door. I see her putting the kettle on. This might be my last chance.
    I creep across the lawn and stay low under the kitchen window. I can hear voices – my mum’s and the woman’s. They are speaking quietly. Little Bird doesn’t seem frightened by her. I wonder where my dad is. At the pub, probably. I don’t understand why there’s a cop in our house and why my mum is making her tea. Maybe she’s waiting for me and Mum is just playing along. If she’s under house arrest, what choice does she have?
    I wait until the talking stops and raise my head a fraction above the window sill. Little Bird is taking milk from the fridge. She glances my way and drops the carton. Its contents spill on the floor.
    ‘I love you,’ I mouth at her. She moves to the door swiftly and opens it. She is crying and speaking. I can just make out what she is saying.
    ‘Take care of my child, St Francis.’
    ‘Mum!’ I whisper loudly. But the door has closed again and I can see the shadow of the cop moving about. The sink tap is turned on. I should use the noise as cover and make for the bushes. But I feel paralysed, as if I’ve turned to stone.
    Did Little Bird see me? If she did, why didn’t she speak directly to me? And what was all that about St Francis? Mum’s a Buddhist, not into saints. Maybe she’s trying to tell me it’s not safe. How can it be, with a policewoman in the house? She’s protecting me, just like she has, every day of my life.
    It’s dangerous to stay. It’s dangerous to go. The sit-u-a-shun is bad, every which way. I think I’m in shock. My thoughts are jumbled, full of voices, shouting. I put my hands over my ears. It doesn’t help. The yelling gets louder and my