Free Safe House by James Heneghan Page B

silently back along the hallway to the front door of the house and stopped when he saw the number of locks and chains. Impossible. There was no way he could open that door without the Mole hearing him.
    He crept back up the stairs to his room. His legs felt wobbly. He switched on the light, got dressed as fast as he could, and slipped the potato peeler into his pocket. Then he opened the window wide. He looked down. The window was much higher off the ground than his bedroom window at home; it was a bigger house, with higher, old-fashioned rooms. Worse, there was no drainpipe to swarm down. Any attempt to escape out the window would be crazy. How far could he run on broken legs? The Mole would catch him. No, there had to be another way. He looked around the room quickly. The bed!
    Luckily the bed was close to the window. Working fast, he pulled off the sheets and blankets, knotted them together, tied one end to the leg of the bed, and threw the “rope” out the open window. It was a trick he remembered from a movie. It had worked in the movie but would it work in real life? Movies were not real life, he knew that, but he had to try it—what else could he do? He couldn’t escape from the main floor. They had it covered. He pulled on his socks and shoes and dressed himself quickly for escape. The rest of his things—a thin sweater, socks, underpants, gray wool watch cap, a couple of T shirts—he stuffed into his backpack. Then he threw in White Fang. He was operating on pure nerves and instinct. He switched off the light, dropped to the floor, and rolled himself out of sight under the bed, dragging the backpack with him.
    Now all he had to do was wait, heart hammering.
    He did not have to wait long.
    He could hear his bedroom door opening. Slowly, quietly. Then somebody switched on the light.
    â€œShite!”
    â€œWhat the…?”
    He heard the men rushing about.
    The Mole’s voice: “The little Taig bastard’s gone out the window!”
    Fergus: “Quick! He can’t have got far.”
    The two men rushed from the room and down the stairs. He could hear them cursing and swearing as they searched for him outside.
    Liam slithered quickly from under the bed, grabbed his backpack, and flew down the stairs. The front door was wide open. He could hear the men’s voices outside. He ran as fast as he could out the door into the dark and the rain. He fled from the safe house, trembling and terrified, pushing his arms through the straps of his backpack as it bounced about like a wild thing on his shoulders.

…he was a maniac…
    He ran through the rain, unconcerned about direction, concentrating on escape.
    He heard the roar of the engine coming at him from behind. A desperate glance over his shoulder told him it was an armored police Land Rover—“meat wagon,” Catholics called it—intent on crushing his bones, cartilage, muscle, nervous system, brain, organs, and everything else that went into making the skinny parcel of humanity known to the world as Liam Fogarty. The motor thundered in his ears as it came up over the sidewalk at him. He threw himself into a doorway just in time to avoid falling under its wheels as it missed him by the width of a hand and crashed into the front door of the next house. He could see the Mole’s enraged face behind the wheel, livid and contorted almost beyond recognition. The man had gone completely berserk; he was a maniac, no mistake about it. He gunned the engine and backed away from the house. Liam darted out of the doorway’s protection and ran. The Mole roared after him. Legs pumping, arms whirling, Liam fled into an alleyway. The car followed, its high beam throwing Liam’s own shadow eerily out in front of him. The narrow alley, not much wider than the car, left very little room for dodging. He would be creamed for sure if he didn’t get back out onto the street. He was a fool to have come in,