pointed potato peeler from the knife drawer, smuggled it back to his room and immediately started working on the window frame, gouging and peeling away the thick hard layers of paint between frame and casement. He needed to get the window open. Why? he asked himself. For fresh air, of course. And the work would keep his mind off todayâs funeral. Also, he hated the feeling of being closed in. What about escape? No: The window was much too high off the ground to risk a jump should something happen. But what could happen? It was a safe house, wasnât it?
He hadnât asked Osborne the time of the funeralâheâd said morningâbut it was probably happening right now, right this very minute.
He worked away at the window for a long time, stripping away curling ribbons of paint. He had seen IRA funerals before. There would probably be two groups of six IRA men carrying the coffins on their shoulders. The potato peeler was an effective tool for the job, slicing easily under the old paint. Then there would be maybe ten or twelve uniformed and masked IRA men with guns surrounding the coffins. The paint peelings began to pile up on the floor. The British soldiers would be resting their elbows on the turrets of their armored vehicles, automatic rifles at the ready and watching the IRA men firing their guns in the air as the coffins were lowered into the ground. Finally, after much cutting and scraping and peeling, he was able to hook his index fingers under the grips and lift the window high enough to jump out. If he wanted to. If he wanted to break his neck. And then the masked IRA men would march away and the soldiers in the armored vehicles would continue to watch them, careful not to say anything that might start a fight. He carefully cleaned up the paint peelings and tossed them out the window. He closed the window, leaving just a crack open for fresh air. The police would be there too, sitting in their Land Rovers with binoculars and cameras with telephoto lenses. And not to forget the security forcesâ helicopter shooting video footage of the funeral from far above, out of the range of snipersâ guns and hand-held anti-aircraft missiles. He felt satisfied about his open window. He propped himself up on his bed with pillows and went back to Space Monsters, but his mind was still clenched on the funeral and he soon put the book aside.
He wasnât allowed to go outside, couldnât go to the funeral even if he wanted to.
Did Fergus leave every morning at half-five? Then this really wasnât a prison after all, was it? Not exactly what youâd call a lockdown. What was to stop him from just walking out the front door if he wanted to? Fergus had gone to work. Moira couldnât stop him, could she? An old chain-smoking lady?
But where could he go? The funeral? Where the Mole was probably waiting for him? Could he go home? The house was empty but would the Mole or one of his fellow thugs be watching for him? And did he really want to go back there? The place where his mum and his da had been murdered? It was contaminated now by blood and horror, fear and hatred; it wasnât his home any longer.
He decided to stay where he was, for the time being anyway. He would just have to be patient; he couldnât go outside but he could exercise and read, or he could watch the telly downstairs if he wanted. This room was quiet and private; it would suit him fine until the Mole was put away for good.
It was, after all, a safe house. He would stay.
He picked up Space Monsters again. After only a minute, his eyes glazed over. The book worked better than sleeping pills. It was awful. He closed his eyes and after a while found himself hovering under the ceiling, looking down on his own skinny body, sprawled on a bed in a bare room, a book in his hands. He zoomed his mind out, like a camera, pulling away higher and higher out of the room, hovering for a few seconds over the roof of the safe house,
He hadnât asked Osborne the time of the funeralâheâd said morningâbut it was probably happening right now, right this very minute.
He worked away at the window for a long time, stripping away curling ribbons of paint. He had seen IRA funerals before. There would probably be two groups of six IRA men carrying the coffins on their shoulders. The potato peeler was an effective tool for the job, slicing easily under the old paint. Then there would be maybe ten or twelve uniformed and masked IRA men with guns surrounding the coffins. The paint peelings began to pile up on the floor. The British soldiers would be resting their elbows on the turrets of their armored vehicles, automatic rifles at the ready and watching the IRA men firing their guns in the air as the coffins were lowered into the ground. Finally, after much cutting and scraping and peeling, he was able to hook his index fingers under the grips and lift the window high enough to jump out. If he wanted to. If he wanted to break his neck. And then the masked IRA men would march away and the soldiers in the armored vehicles would continue to watch them, careful not to say anything that might start a fight. He carefully cleaned up the paint peelings and tossed them out the window. He closed the window, leaving just a crack open for fresh air. The police would be there too, sitting in their Land Rovers with binoculars and cameras with telephoto lenses. And not to forget the security forcesâ helicopter shooting video footage of the funeral from far above, out of the range of snipersâ guns and hand-held anti-aircraft missiles. He felt satisfied about his open window. He propped himself up on his bed with pillows and went back to Space Monsters, but his mind was still clenched on the funeral and he soon put the book aside.
He wasnât allowed to go outside, couldnât go to the funeral even if he wanted to.
Did Fergus leave every morning at half-five? Then this really wasnât a prison after all, was it? Not exactly what youâd call a lockdown. What was to stop him from just walking out the front door if he wanted to? Fergus had gone to work. Moira couldnât stop him, could she? An old chain-smoking lady?
But where could he go? The funeral? Where the Mole was probably waiting for him? Could he go home? The house was empty but would the Mole or one of his fellow thugs be watching for him? And did he really want to go back there? The place where his mum and his da had been murdered? It was contaminated now by blood and horror, fear and hatred; it wasnât his home any longer.
He decided to stay where he was, for the time being anyway. He would just have to be patient; he couldnât go outside but he could exercise and read, or he could watch the telly downstairs if he wanted. This room was quiet and private; it would suit him fine until the Mole was put away for good.
It was, after all, a safe house. He would stay.
He picked up Space Monsters again. After only a minute, his eyes glazed over. The book worked better than sleeping pills. It was awful. He closed his eyes and after a while found himself hovering under the ceiling, looking down on his own skinny body, sprawled on a bed in a bare room, a book in his hands. He zoomed his mind out, like a camera, pulling away higher and higher out of the room, hovering for a few seconds over the roof of the safe house,
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