Free The Whore-Mother by Shaun Herron

to be left at a specified point on the Limestone Road. It would be found by her in the car park at the Muckamore Abbey Hospital, just outside Antrim town. He wanted the £200 savings his father kept for him. Since Aldergrove Airport was out Antrim way, that was where he was headed. It was the fastest and shortest way out of the country. McManus was for England.
    But he wanted also the old clothes he used when he painted the garage, and his walking boots, and his camping gear with the pup tent. The stuff was to be in the trunk of the car. That didn’t necessarily mean England. It looked more like the hills of Ireland.
    Or youth hostels in Scotland or the English Lakes? Fly from Aldergrove to Prestwick? Then he could go north or south, to the Scottish highlands or the English Lake District. Hostels, with a tent? Well, you couldn’t always get into a hostel and he’d have to sleep in the open. That’s why he wants the tent.
    Clune listened to the talk. What the hell does it matter where he thinks he’s going? He’s going to the Abbey Hospital—that’s the one thing that looks certain.
    So the letter to his sister is printed in pencil on bum-paper; print the address on a new envelope, in pencil, post it, and wait for him at Muckamore Abbey Hospital.
    A watch on his house and his sister? Jasus, yes. Wherever she goes, whomever she sees—she’s got to be under the eyes of watchers till her light goes out at night. Watch the car too, once it gets to the Limestone. Wee boys from the junior IRA would be the best during the day and women at night, with a couple of wee boys or wee girls as runners.
    Where would McManus go while he was waiting for his sister to act on his instructions?
    What the fuckin hell did it matter where he went or was? Clune sometimes lost patience with his comrades. None of them was of his level of intelligence. He often wondered how they would succeed at anything if he wasn’t there. Your man’s goin to Muckamore, isn’t he? They’d wait for him there, and if there was any change the watchers would know it and report and the treacherous bastard couldn’t get far.
    The bottle was three-quarters down. They had everything clear. McManus was dependin on his sister. He didn’t know they knew that. They had the eyes. That’s one thing Powers did right. There wasn’t much they missed. It was McManus who was runnin blind—and frightened. Set the watch. Send the letter. Wait and search at the same time. Get done with him. Wee boys and women and girls could do it, all but the killin. Meanwhile, there was a war on and it had to be got on with.
    McManus knew where he was going. He sat where he could see through the platform of the bus and watched the traffic coming behind. If they’d drummed up a car there’d be more than one man in it and they’d be watching the bus as other drivers and passengers never did. But the cars he could see from his perch on the back seat had only the drivers in them.
    A frightening thought occurred to him—that they might somehow have gone ahead of him, and were waiting where he intended to leave the bus, at Castle Junction. He jumped from the platform between stops and walked and ran and trotted all the way to the Salvation Army hostel.
    For half an hour he watched the street from a doorway opposite and saw nothing that suggested the hostel had ever entered their minds. It was Protestant. It was strange. Only the poor had knowledge of or dealings with the Salvation Army. They would give a lot of thought to where he would go. They would take his background into account. The Salvation Army was not part of it. They would surely conclude that he would hide among his old Protestant friends in some middle-class district. He bolted nonetheless for the front door of the Sally Ann and was confused that the woman at the desk was young and pretty with the sort of tranquility in her face he expected only in the