Safe House

by James Heneghan

  “Not so ancient,” says Grace. “Circus artists pass their skills down to the next generation. From Fay Alexander to Madame Dubois to us. What’s so ancient about that? I think it’s wonderful.”

  “So do I,” says Rory. “But that’s not what I meant…”

  While Rory and Grace enter into a friendly argument, Liam asks Nicole, “Do you see many movies, then?”

  “Not really. Just certain ones. Like circus stories.”

  “Have you seen Trapeze? Burt Lancaster?”

  Nicole nods, “I love Trapeze. I’ve seen it so many…”

  Grace interrupts. “Who do you think was the technical adviser for the flying sequences in Trapeze?”

  Rory laughs. “Not the famous Fay Alexander again!”

  “You got it, smarty pants.” Grace flashes him a triumphant smile.

  Grace’s eyes are blue, in an oval face. Her manner is often haughty. Liam has already noticed that Grace doesn’t mix much with the Catholic kids. Rory is an exception; she is not so haughty when he is around.

  Nicole and Grace are Protestants

  “Maybe we could watch Trapeze together sometime,” Liam whispers to Nicole as they leave the lounge and make their way back to the circus ring.

  “I would like that.” Nicole’s smile is warm and sincere.

  “Relax,” she says.

  He wobbles and then topples off the slender cable, a few feet off the floor “Yaa-aa!”

  This is his umpteenth failure. “Wire walking is much harder than the balance beam,” he moans.

  But Nicole is enthusiastic. “You’re doing fine, Liam. Keep at it, but focus more as you look ahead. Keep your knees bent and your arms higher. You’re too stiff. That’s it. Relax your shoulders and breathe naturally as you get your balance. Watch me.”

  Nicole jumps up onto the platform and walks out onto the wire, sure-footed as a watchmaker’s cat, and so natural, almost like she’s walking down the street. When she gets to the end of the wire she turns easily and walks back. “There. You see how easy it is?” She smiles at Liam. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Her smile is brilliant, but even when she’s not smiling, her mouth tips up at the corners. He likes the way her green eyes twinkle. Her hair is short and fine, worn just below the ears, and kind of straw-colored.

  Both Nicole and Grace are a pleasure to watch when they work. They are so good, not only on the wire but also on the trampoline. One of the purposes of the trampoline is practicing aerial figures and poses for trapeze work, or flying as it is called, including dismounting and falling to the safety net. Liam is aware that it is possible to break his neck if he does not land on the net or trampoline properly. The girls are wild and audacious, sometimes putting on an exhibition of somersaults and high leaps on the trampoline without their safety harnesses that look like they will go right through the roof. They perform these jumps when the trainers, often third of fourth year students, are taking their break. They never jump like this if Madame Dubois is around, for she becomes angry over the slightest breach of the rules. “I do not want to tell your mothers you won’t be home today because you broke your stupid little necks,” she tells them. She thinks nothing of suspending kids from the program or even dismissing them from the circus entirely if the offense is serious enough.

  Liam steps onto the platform, takes a deep breath and glides out along the wire once again. This time he manages to get to the halfway mark before falling.

  Nicole applauds. “Good, you’re improving. Just try not to be so stiff in the shoulders. Rub some more rosin on your shoes and try again.”

  Circus shoes, or soft-soled moccasins, allow the feet to feel the wire. The rosin helps the soles retain contact.

  Again he tries, but overbalances when he is only halfway across. “I’ll never make it!” He is angry with himself.

  “Yes, you will,” says Nicole confidently.

  “I’m taking too much of your time.”

  “Not at all. I want to see you do this, okay?” Her patience and her brilliant smile make him so much want to please her.

  This time when he walks across the wire he concentrates on relaxing his shoulders. He makes it all the way.

  “Good work!” Nicole laughs. “Now turn and come back.”

  And he does.

  He dismounts. “Great! You made it. Now it will be easier next time, and you will get better and better.”

  “Thanks, Nicole.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  …locks and chains…

  Dinner with the Grogans: chicken, potatoes, peas. This time there was dessert, a store-bought apple pie, no ice cream.

  He suddenly remembered the smuggled potato peeler. He had forgotten to slip it back into the drawer. It was still in his room. Had Moira missed it when she was preparing dinner? There was probably a spare in the knife drawer; in fact, he was almost sure he had seen an extra one there.

  Otherwise dinnertime was much the same as the evening before. No conversation beyond Fergus’s polite question to Liam: “Everything goin’ okay?” And to Moira Grogan to pass the salt and pepper.

  Retreating to his room after kitchen cleanup, he opened his window and looked out at the rainy landscape. He felt better with the window open, felt himself less of a prisoner. He put his hand outside and felt the rain on his palm. The rules said he could not go outside but he could send out his hand to test the world, like Noah sending out a dove from the ark.

  He closed the window, leaving a gap at the bottom, switched on the light, changed into his pajamas, and became absorbed in stretching exercises. Ribs still a bit tender. Foot okay though. It was a quiet house in a quiet area. No traffic noise here at the back of the house. After being stuck indoors for two days, the exercise relaxed him.

  Exercises over, he collapsed onto his bed and reached for White Fang. He opened at the page where he had left off, where White Fang emerges from the darkness of his birth cave and sees the dazzling white world outside for the very first time. It is a second and different kind of birth for the wolf cub.

  But he was unable to read: Thoughts of today’s funeral keep crowding his mind. His mum and da were at this moment dead under the soil of Milltown Cemetery. They were in their coffins.

  He closed his eyes and slept.

  He slept for two days, Friday and Saturday and part of Sunday, not once leaving his room, barely remembering the Grogans trying to get him to come downstairs to eat. It was like a fever, except he had no sickness, only grief.

  On Sunday afternoon, he got up and showered and went downstairs. Fergus Grogan was out. Moira Grogan asked him no questions except, would he like some lunch?

  He sat and ate what was put before him and soon he felt better.

  After kitchen cleanup, he told Moira he wanted to telephone his friend.

  “What friend?

  “Rory. He lives on my street.”

  “Make it short.”

  He slid his wallet out of his hip pocket and read the number. He had never telephoned Rory before; there had never been a need. He lived right across the street, and they were in the same class. They saw each other every day at school, except for right now in the summer holidays.

  Delia Cassidy answered and recognized his voice. “How are you, lovey? Are you all right? How’s your foot?”

  “I just called to talk to Rory.”

  “But you’re all right, yes?”

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Cassidy. Everything’s fine.”

  “We’re just back from ten o’clock Mass. I’ll get him, hold on.”

  “Liam! Is it yourself?”

  “It is. I get one call a day. This is it.”

  “I’m honored indeed.”

  “So you should be. Your mum said you just got in from Mass. So this is Sunday, am I right?”

  “It’s Sunday, yes.” He sounded puzzled.

  “Did you go to YC yesterday?”

  “I did.”

  “Was anyone…asking for me?”

  “Asking
for you? No. Nobody was asking for you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Who were you thinking might be asking for you?”

  “No one special. I just thought maybe…Nicole?”

  “Nicole! Ah! You’re right. Nicole was asking for you. I forgot.”

  “You’re a jerk, Rory, you know that?”

  Rory laughed. “I am. You’re right. Sorry, Liam.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing much. Just wanted to know if you’re all right.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “Told her you’re all right.”

  “You know what, Rory? Talking to you is like spitting into the wind.”

  He laughed. “Ma is getting a bed for you to put in my room.”

  “That’ll be great.” He made an effort to sound cheerful, like his usual self. “So long as you don’t leave your stinking socks on the floor.”

  “Ha!” said Rory. “You should talk. Don’t your own socks reek like rotten fish? Though it’s not the smell so much. It’s the way it makes…”

  “…your eyes smart,” Liam finished for him. “Yes, I know, Rory. You’re like a broken record.”

  They had used the same lines and gags on each other ever since they were little kids.

  “You’re so funny,” said Rory. “Did I mention that everyone asks about you? You’re a big hero around here: on the run from the Prod militants. You’ve made me famous. Like mad cow disease.”

  “That’s enough now,” shouted Moira Grogan from the kitchen.

  “Tell Nicole, when you see her that I…”

  “Hang up!” yelled Moira Grogan.

  “Tell her I will be back soon, and…”

  “You could tell her yourself by giving her a call.”

  “I don’t have her number.”

  “Do you hear me, boy? I said hang up!”

  “She wrote it down for you to call her. I have it here.”

  “Rory! You’re such an idiot. Why didn’t you say? Wait; I’ll get a pencil and write it down.” He hurried into the living room and grabbed pencil and paper. Moira Grogan looked like she was about to burst. Liam ignored her, picked up the phone again, and wrote down Nicole’s number. “Okay, Rory, I have it. I gotta go.”

  “Take care of yourself, boyo.”

  “I will.” He hung up the phone. It was still early in the day. It might be a good time to catch Nicole at home. He started dialing her number.

  Moira Grogan came marching out of the living room, furious, a cigarette dangling from her lips. “Hang up the phone. You had your call. It’s only one call a day, remember?” She reached for the telephone. Liam stopped dialing and turned his back on her. She screamed at him, “Hang up that phone, right now, you hear?”

  “There’s another friend I have to call.”

  “One call a day. Don’t you understand?”

  “You owe me from the days I didn’t come down.”

  She lunged for the phone. He held it away from her.

  She pushed him and he staggered backward. The woman was heavy and surprisingly strong. The telephone receiver fell and dangled on its cord, swinging against the wall. He stepped forward, reached down for the receiver, and accidentally pushed her. She fell to the floor with a shriek. “You struck me!”

  “No I didn’t.” He held on to the receiver and watched her climb laboriously to her feet.

  “You did. You struck me. Wait till Fergus hears about this.” She retreated to the living room, crying and muttering to herself.

  to herself.

  Old cow.

  He dialed Nicole’s number again.

  “Hello.” A woman’s voice.

  “Mrs. Easterbrook?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Liam Fogarty. I’m a friend of Nicole’s from Youth Circus. Could I speak to her?”

  “Yes, of course, hold on, Liam.”

  “Liam? It’s Nicole. It’s good to hear from you.”

  “I can’t talk long. I’m…” He couldn’t think of what to say next.

  Nicole said, “I gave Rory my number but wasn’t sure if you could call. I’m so happy you did. It’s terrible about your mum and dad, what happened, I mean. I’m sorry. I can only imagine how awful it is for you, Liam.”

  “Yes.”

  It was good to hear Nicole’s voice, but her choice of words reminded him they were on opposite sides: Hers was a Protestant Loyalist family; his background was Catholic Republican (or Nationalist). Only a Protestant would say, “I’m sorry” instead of the usual Irish Catholic, “Sorry for your trouble.”

  “I missed you at YC yesterday. We all did.”

  “Thanks. Were you flying?” Flying was the word they used for swinging trapeze work.

  She gave a happy sigh. “All morning. I just love it so much. And in the afternoon Dubois was teaching swinging ankle hangs. Scary! You should’ve seen Dubois. She’s amazing. Wish you could’ve been there.”

  “Me too. But I might be a while yet.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Liam?”

  “What?”

  “I really miss you a lot. Come back soon, okay?”

  Fergus Grogan didn’t return until late, after Liam had gone upstairs, so the promised tongue lashing over the use of the telephone did not take place.

  Later that night, Liam woke to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The Grogans’ bedroom door closed with a click. The digital clock showed 11:45 PM. He got up, switched off the light, closed his eyes and tried to get back to sleep. It was useless; he was wide-awake. After tossing and turning for a while, he got up, switched the light on again, and leaned on the wall, stretching his back and leg muscles. Then he got back into bed and read some more of White Fang, hoping this would help him sleep. But it didn’t work; after half-an-hour he gave up and let the book drop to the floor.

  One o’clock. He was suddenly very hungry. Maybe this would be a good time to creep downstairs and return the potato peeler to the knife drawer and see if there was anything to eat in the fridge. He slid off the bed, turned off his light, and bare-footed it silently down the stairs.

  Voices in the kitchen. Men talking quietly. Fergus and another man. The other man’s voice sounded familiar. Liam tiptoed along the short hallway toward the kitchen and then stopped. Police. A uniformed constable seated at the kitchen table was speaking in a low voice to Fergus, on the opposite side of the table.

  The policeman handed something, a book or an envelope, to Fergus. “You better count it,” he said. “Make sure it’s all there.” He leaned back in his chair and took off his uniform cap.

  Liam stared in horror. The Mole!

  Heart and stomach plunged.

  The Mole was a policeman!

  Handing Fergus an envelope of money!

  Why would the Mole be handing Fergus a wad of money? Liam did not know the answer, but there was one thing he did know: His life was in danger again. He had to get out of the safe house or he was dead; he had to get out now, immediately. Heart thumping wildly, he turned and moved quickly and 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.

  “Shite!”

  “What 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, unless…with the sound of God-knows-how-many tons of speeding steel in his ears he saw a possible way out. Leaping into the air, he grasped the wet limb of a backyard tree and hauled himself high enough for the vehicle to speed beneath him, like a bull rushing under the matador’s cape. With a scream of brakes it stopped and reversed, but by then Liam had thrown his legs over the wall and dropped out of danger, temporarily, into the backyard. He picked himself up out of the mud and leaves and made a mad dash for the street. Which way now? He turned right. He got to the corner of the street and glanced back. The Land Rover was only a few hundred yards behind. There was a main road up ahead. It was Newtownards Road; he recognized Freedom Corner from the huge Prod mural, with its red hand of Ulster, painted on the wall. A city bus was just pulling in to the bus stop. He glanced back again. The Land Rover wasn’t far behind. Lungs bursting, he willed his legs to sprint for it. With a lunge he leaped onto the bus platform as the door was starting to close.