Safe House by James Heneghan Page A

then zooming out in the pouring rain over the gleaming wet rooftops of Belfast, looking down on the domed roof of the city hall and the downtown, and the row upon row of commercial buildings and houses radiating outward in every direction, and the streets, and the three motorways and the Westlink. He saw Rory and Nicole, tiny from the far distance. He zoomed out, up into the sky, and looked down on the North of Ireland. He kept moving out into space and looked down on the Irish Republic to the south, and then higher still until he could see Ireland itself as one country, without borders, surrounded by the sea, and there was Wales, the shape of a pig’s head, and England too, a big boot, and now Scotland, a flying kilt, and the whole of the British Isles. He zoomed away more and more until he was hovering way out in deep space, watching the slow rotation of the planet beneath him, unable now to locate the tiny plot of earth that was Ireland.
    â€œIsn’t it splendid, Liam, up here, out of harm’s way, taking the larger view of things?”
    â€œIt’s brilliant, Da.”
    â€œDistance enhances the view, son, according to…”
    â€œI miss you, Da.”
    â€œI know. But you’ll be all right, son. We’re remarkable proud of you, your mum and I. You’re a fine boy.”
    Suddenly he was back in his room, lying on a bed, staring at a book.
    He didn’t know how long he was staring at the book, but after a time he put it down and reached for the second book and looked at the title: White Fang by Jack London. There was a picture on the cover of a fierce wolf. White Fang must be the wolf’s name. It was a good name for a wolf. It was not as easy to read as Space Monsters. The words and sentences were harder and he had to go more slowly; any words he didn’t understand he skipped, plunging on, eager to meet the wolf of the book’s cover. He read of two men in the wild frozen north, Jack and Henry, with a team of six dogs and a sleigh carrying a dead man in a coffin. This was much better than space monsters. He finished the chapter. There had been no mention yet of White Fang, the wolf. But his eyes were getting too tired to read anymore. He put his book down and closed his eyes.

…arms of a child…
    One of his very earliest memories is of two red ladybugs and a deafening noise. The noise comes first. Then the ladybugs.
    He is a little kid walking in the street, his mum holding him by the hand. The explosion terrifies him. He clutches his mum’s hand fearfully and sees on his wrist two sudden small, plump red drops that he thinks are ladybugs. He goes to touch them and sees they are splotches of blood.
    What he does not remember, and so does not know, is that a bomb kills a man named Sean McCoy, a father of six, as he climbs into his car not fifty yards in front of them.
    When he is eight his mum says to his da, “What’s to stop us from leaving Belfast and sailing to England? I hear there’s work for them that wants it in London. Or Birmingham or Manchester.”
    Liam joins in. “No way! I don’t want to go to shitty England.”
    â€œI’ll not have that kind of language in this house!” his mum glares at him.
    â€œSorry.”
    His da shrugs. “Well, we can’t go to England, and that’s that.” He returns to the salad he dislikes but always eats because Liam’s mum says it’s good for him.
    â€œAnd why not?” his mum narrows her eyes at him across the table.
    â€œMoney, for one thing. There’s ferry tickets, there’s lodgings…”
    His mum talks fast, interrupting. “We wouldn’t need much, just enough to get started. A place to stay while you find a job. You haven’t had a proper job in twelve years. Bits and pieces, that’s all, nothing regular. We’re mad to be staying here, living hand to mouth the way we do. I could find a job too. There’s plenty of