Safe House

by James Heneghan

  He could not go back. The Mole was right behind him and soon would be bursting into the room. Either Liam could swarm down one of the window cleaners’ ropes, ending up on one of their platforms, or he could move forward onto the granite parapet and attempt an escape by climbing down a drainpipe to the ground. Then he saw another possible way. About ten yards up ahead, on the outside of the dome, was another opening, similar to the one where he now stood, its double metal doors opened out onto the side of the dome like a pair of shutters. He rejected the idea of swarming down the rope to what would certainly be an easy place for the Mole to shoot him. Instead he could walk along the parapet to the next opening and dodge back into the building and hide somewhere or get back down to the street. That is, if he could walk, one foot in front of the other in circus wire-walking fashion, along the parapet without falling to what would be a certain death below.

  He could hear someone at the door behind him. The lock clicked and tumbled as a key released the bolt. He was seconds away from being caught, dragged away and executed.

  He had no choice. He stepped out onto the parapet and stood, finding his balance. He took a deep breath and began moving slowly, away from the opening, balancing himself, hands at waist level, shoulders relaxed, the way Nicole had taught him, stepping out as though on the high wire at the circus or the balance beam at the gym.

  The rain had stayed off. The parapet was dry. There was very little wind. He did not look down at the ground far below but kept his gaze fixed on the way ahead, to the next opening. Though only about ten yards away, it seemed like a mile. He imagined himself high above the circus ring, walking the tight wire. He imagined the sound of the circus crowd below as it sucked in its collective breath and waited in agonized anticipation. Sweat broke out on his forehead. His head throbbed. He had forgotten about the swelling at his temple. Circus spectators had no idea how much an aerialist suffers if he is unwell on the day of the performance, he thought. One step at a time; one foot in front of the other. Lightly, carefully. He imagined Nicole encouraging him: “That’s it, Liam. Keep going.”

  He was almost there. Nicole’s happy face. Relax. Take it easy. No hurry.

  An imaginary roar of appreciation from the crowd below told him he had reached the metal door. He held on with both hands, swallowing with relief.

  He turned and faced back the way he had come, expecting to see the Mole glaring out at him from the other door, but there was no sign of him. Perhaps he had gone back inside, planning to catch him with the help of a security guard at this second open door. But no! The Mole now stuck his head out the far door, saw Liam, and started to climb out onto the parapet!

  Liam stared. The man was mad. Rage had made him blind. Mole blind. So intent was he on killing Liam, that he seemed unaware of the danger. Liam left the parapet, stepping through the door into a room similar to the first. Now that his feet were on safe ground, he was able to lean out the door and look back at his pursuer. He decided to wait. If the Mole was foolish enough to walk the parapet and managed to make it to Liam’s door, Liam could easily push him off without any danger to himself and that would be the end of the Mole.

  The Mole crawled out of his door onto the parapet, breathing heavily, red-faced, eyes staring madly. He tried to stand on the parapet but failed. He sank to his knees and began crawling slowly along the parapet toward Liam’s door. He crawled only a few yards before he stopped, scared, as if suddenly realizing his predicament. He tried to change his mind and move back but almost fell. He clutched the stone parapet desperately. “Help!” he yelled down to the window cleaners. “Help!”

  The window cleaners looked up. “Hold it there!” one of them yelled.

  “Hang on!” yelled the other as he switched on the electric motor that raised and lowered the platform. The platform began moving upward, like a slow elevator, until it was level with the parapet and then it stopped. But the Mole was several feet away from the safety of the platform. The window cleaner stretched out his arms but could not quite reach him. He was wearing a safety harness. He tied one end of a rope to his platform, climbed onto the parapet, and started crawling toward the Mole with the rope. “Tie the rope round your chest!” he yelled. The Mole, his back toward the window cleaner, reached back for the rope, slipped, swayed, tried to recover but overbalanced and fell, plunging into space, arms fluttering like the wings of some great black bird, bouncing off the second window cleaner’s platform, and plummeting to the ground, screaming like the wind.

  …a great black bird…

  By the time Liam had controlled his trembling enough to climb back down through the gallery and descend the marble staircase to the outside pavement, a crowd had gathered.

  Liam pushed his way to the front. The Mole lay on his back, perfectly still, arms outstretched, eyes closed. A man and a woman were crouched beside him. The woman searched for the Mole’s neck pulse. An ambulance arrived. Two ambulance men exchanged a few words with the man and woman as they examined the Mole. They moved him onto a stretcher, tucked a blanket around him, and then loaded the stretcher into the ambulance and drove away.

  Liam discovered that he was shivering, whether from fear or from the cold he didn’t know. And his head ached. The small crowd broke up as the spectators moved off.

  Was the Mole still alive? It looked like maybe he was. On the telly, didn’t they always cover the face if the person was dead? The ambulance men hadn’t covered the Mole’s face. But Liam needed to know for sure. He headed for the nearby hospital, running to warm himself up. The rain started. By the time he got to the hospital he was quite wet. The woman on the information desk gave him change for the telephone.

  He dialed the number.

  It was ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Cassidy—Delia—it’s me, Liam. I’m at the hospital. The Mole—he’s had an accident.”

  “What! What are you saying?”

  “The man who was trying to kill me. He fell. He’s here in the hospital. Could you tell Jack—Mr. Cassidy? And could you call the police—Inspector Osborne?”

  “Liam! Where exactly are you? Are you in Emergency? Which hospital?”

  “Royal Victoria. Information desk.”

  “Jack will call Osborne. Stay right where you are. We will be there, quick as we can.”

  He paced the entrance lobby. The Information woman told him he could sit in the waiting room. She pointed. He opened the door and looked in; sad faces looked up at him. He closed the door, turned away and resumed his pacing, thinking about the Mole, seeing him falling like a stone.

  …makes the whole world blind…

  The Cassidys were the first to arrive, bursting through the swing doors, straight to where he was waiting. They had taken a taxi.

  “Liam! You’re all right?” Delia Cassidy sounded like his mother. Her worried gray eyes quickly took in his appearance, noticing everything about him, especially the lump on his temple and his wet, scruffy appearance. She came close and examined the bruise. She smelled good. It was like being close to his mother. Mum always smelled good—soap, fresh-baked bread…He missed her something terrible.

  He shrugged. He couldn’t speak. Thoughts of his mother made him a mute.

  Rory said, “Hey, boyo.”

  Jack Cassidy said, “What happened?”

  Delia Cassidy put her arm around Liam’s shoulders, led him to a bench and sat him down beside her. She pushed back his hair and examined the bruise on his temple more thoroughly. “We should never have trusted Osborne. I knew something would happen. I said to Jack, I said…”

  “What are you doing here, boy? Why aren’t you at the safe house?” It was Inspector Osborne, uniformed and angry.

  Liam glared at him. He was no longer intimidated by the man and his uniform. “They tried to kill me.”

  Delia Cassidy clasped his shoulders, as though to protect him from the policeman.

  Osborne frowned. “Who tried to kill you?”

  He felt a terrible tirednes
s and wanted to lie down. He had to force himself to speak. “Grogan and the man with the mole. He’s a police officer. One of your men. Gave Grogan money. They tried to kill me. I escaped. He’s here—the man with the mole is here, the policeman. In the hospital. He fell off…city hall…dead, I think.”

  “When? How long ago was he brought in?”

  “Ambulance…just now.”

  “What about Grogan? Where is he?”

  Liam shrugged. “At the house…”

  Delia Cassidy sat up straight, shoulders back, steely gray eyes, cold stare. “So much for the protection of our city police, yes, Inspector? What kind of a safe house is it that wants to murder a young defenseless boy?”

  The inspector silently fingered his ginger mustache. Then he said, “Please wait here.” He strode away toward the information desk.

  Delia Cassidy said, “Where is your backpack, Liam?”

  “On an Ulsterbus. In Dublin by now.”

  “Never mind.” She sighed, rolling her eyes at her husband. “I would like to give that self-satisfied police inspector a kick up the behind, so I would.”

  Jack Cassidy shrugged. Rory sat beside his mother and Liam. “Here, have a Mint Imperial,” he said to Liam.

  “Thanks.” Liam took one from the bag. It had no taste.

  The hospital was busy. Liam watched a bent old man, shuffling along the corridor, pushing a wheeled medicine bottle contraption ahead of him. He stopped for several seconds to catch his breath and then shuffled on. Liam felt like that old man, worn out, powerless.

  The inspector came back. His blue eyes looked weary. To Liam he said, “The Mole, as you call him, might survive. Or he might not. It’s too soon to know. I would like to ask you a few more questions.”

  “We are taking Liam home,” said Delia Cassidy haughtily. “There will be time for questions tomorrow. Not today. Can’t you see the boy is half dead?”

  “My wife is right, Inspector,” said Jack Cassidy. “Your questions will have to wait.”

  “Very well,” said the inspector. He said to Liam, “I will need to get a full statement from you tomorrow when you’re rested, all right?” To Jack Cassidy he said, “In the meantime, I’m having the Grogans picked up and brought in for questioning.” He turned back to Liam. “You were brave,” he said sternly, “but you’re lucky to be alive.”

  “No thanks to you,” said Delia Cassidy coldly.

  Liam shrugged. He was safe. There was nothing more for him to worry about. He could rest. The Mole would pay for his crimes.

  The inspector said, “I will order a car to take you home.” He gave a stiff little nod to Delia Cassidy and moved off toward the elevator.

  Delia Cassidy turned to Liam. “You’re shivering, lovey. Are we all finished here?”

  “Yes, finished,” he said. “It’s over.”

  The Cassidys smiled. Rory looped an arm round Liam’s shoulders.

  Delia Cassidy said, “Then let’s go home.”

  …a wedding picture…

  When they got outside they ran through a heavy shower to the waiting police car.

  The police car soon had them home.

  They hurried through into the warm kitchen. Delia Cassidy plugged in the kettle. “A drop of tea will warm us up.”

  Liam stood and looked out the now-repaired kitchen window, the one that had been shattered by the Mole’s bullet. He watched a starling picking about in the patch of grass near the garbage can in the tiny backyard. The rain had stopped. A shaft of bright sun cut through the clouds and lit the bird and the patch of grass. He listened to the whistle of the teakettle and the sound of Jack Cassidy humming under his breath as he rinsed cups and saucers in the sink.

  He was safe here.

  He slept.

  The next morning, Delia Cassidy handed him a gold ring. He looked at it in the palm of his hand. She said, “It was your mother’s marriage band. Now it’s yours. And this too.” She handed him a chrome pocket watch on a silver-colored chain. He knew it well. He released the catch, looked at the fine black roman numerals on the white watch face, closed the front again, and weighed the watch in his hand, remembering the frown that creased his da’s forehead whenever he squinted to read the time. This was Liam’s inheritance: a wedding ring and a watch. His throat filled up. He pushed the ring onto the middle finger of his left hand and dropped the watch into his pocket.

  “And here.” She held out the key to his house across the street. “You might want to pick up some of your things before the landlord empties the place.”

  He made no move to take the key. He didn’t want to cross the street and go inside the house where his mum and his da had been murdered.

  “You do not have to go, of course, if you don’t want to.”

  There were things he would like to keep, things that belonged to his mum and his da, but…

  Delia Cassidy read his mind. “Will I come with you?”

  “No, that’s okay.” He took the key from her hand. “I’ll go alone.”

  He crossed the street. It felt strange going in. The house looked the same but felt different. Empty. Damaged. Defiled. He hated it now.

  The smashed front door was gone. A second-hand one hung in its place. Probably from the builder’s demolition yard. It was a brick color that did not match the dark green trim round the windows. Not that it mattered. The whole street was a mixture of mismatched colors, including the curbs outside the houses, painted the colors of the Irish Republic: green, white, and orange (or gold), meant to symbolize peace (white) between the Irish Republic (green) and the Protestant North (orange). Some white peace, thought Liam. Red would be more like it.

  It wasn’t the new door so much as the inside of the house itself that gave him the tight feeling in his chest, like his heart was being squeezed and he couldn’t breathe.

  He climbed the stairs. The door to his mum and da’s room was closed.

  Frightened at what he might see, he stood outside the door, steeling himself to enter. He didn’t have to go in, he knew that; he could simply pass it by. But he gritted his teeth and opened the door and stood staring in. He could see the mess the bullets had made of the walls and the floor. The bed was gone. The rest of the furniture was shattered. Someone, probably the women on the street, had scrubbed and tidied the room. There was no blood that he could see. One step forward and he was inside the room, heart thumping. He saw a picture frame lying face down on the wrecked chest of drawers. He picked it up. It was a wedding picture: his mum and da when they got married, just the two of them, photographed cheek-to-cheek, smiling and happy, posing for the camera, his da in a suit and tie and his mum in a white dress. Both the picture frame and the glass were broken, but the picture was intact. He stared at it and felt his throat muscles thicken and his eyes fill with tears.

  For the first time since their deaths, he let it all out. It was like a dam breaking.

  He cried.

  He sat on the floor and he cried.

  When he was finished crying he moved across the hallway to his room. It looked much the same as when he had left it. He took down his circus posters and rolled them up together along with the picture of his mum and da.

  Downstairs, he took a last look at everything: bookshelves full of books, photo albums, his da’s newspapers and magazines strewn untidily on the coffee table, the sleeping telly, his mum and his da’s library books, his mum’s big ball of dark blue wool and a pair of knitting needles left on the couch, the blender on the drain board, cups and saucers in the kitchen sink, the silent kettle…

  He took the two photo albums of family snapshots with him and he left the house, closing its door for the very last time.

  …police line-up…

  The seven men wheeled their wheelchairs into a brightly lighted room and lined up against a white wall. Each man wore a number on his chest.

  It was a police line-up. Liam watched from a window in a separate room. There were three others with him, Jack Cassidy, Inspector Osborne, and a p
olice assistant.

  “The wheelchairs are from the hospital,” the inspector explained. “It’s got to be a level playing field: each man the same.”

  It was now November, and Belfast was well into its rainy season. A full four months had gone by since the Mole had toppled off the city hall dome, four months since Liam had been living in his new home with the Cassidy family.

  He examined the faces of the men in the line-up. The Mole was the second man from the right, number six. He would know the man anywhere. He still saw him in his nightmares. He felt himself trembling. Jack Cassidy’s big hand squeezed his shoulder.

  Inspector Osborne spoke quietly to his assistant, seated at a desk in the room, and then turned to Liam. “Look at these men. Take your time. If you see the man who broke into your home and shot your parents, just tell me the number on his chest.”

  Without hesitation Liam said, “Number six.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Jack Cassidy gave his shoulder another firm squeeze.

  Inspector Osborne nodded to his assistant and the men in the wheelchairs were led out of the room.

  “It is all up to the police now,” said Jack Cassidy as they left the station. “Everything is in their hands.”

  “Will they keep him in jail do you think?”

  “Didn’t you pick him out? Without hesitation. I watched you. You hardly looked at the others. It was obviously the right man, no question. I’m sure they will keep him in jail.”