The Rising Read Online Free PDF Page B

approached the table, angling the torch beam to better see what was beneath the table.
    ‘Peter?’ I said, quietly, suddenly aware of the silence around us.
    No response. I stooped slightly to look more closely. Just as I realized it was a rucksack, the door of the toilet cubicle behind me flung open and someone shoved past me knocking me flat on the floor.
    I scrabbled after the figure. He wore jeans and a puffy blue jacket, his build slight. I grabbed at his leg, managing to grip his ankle. He turned and kicked viciously backwards several times, the sole of his trainer connecting with my temple. Having forced me to release my grip, he stumbled to the doorway and fell out onto the grass.
    Blundering out after him, I shouted to Dillon and McCready. I could see the two of them scanning the caravan park trying to locate the cause of the disturbance. In the middle distance I heard more shouting from the headland and saw the bobbing of torchlight across the field as they ran to join us.
    I looked around but could not see my assailant. Dropping to my knees, I leant down and shone my torch under the caravans. My wound reacted angrily to the movement and I had to swallow back the bile that rose with the pain. Nothing.
    Moving on to the next row, next to Dillon, I repeated the manoeuvre. There, four caravans up, I caught a flash of blue as the boy tried to squeeze under the vehicle.
    ‘There,’ I shouted to Dillon, as the man lumbered towards the caravan.
    Seeing his approach, the figure struggled all the more, and managed to make it to the other side before Dillon had a chance to grab him.
    Cursing the man’s inefficiency, I called to McCready as I ran up the next row. I went as quickly as I could, but my lungs felt ready to burst, my throat burning with each gasp of air. The boy was much faster than me, sprinting past each caravan, closing constantly the distance between him and the low wall at the top of the park.
    He glanced around once at me, gauging the space between us, his expression one of sheer terror. He was about ten feet from the wall, his pace increasing as he prepared to vault the boundary, when McCready blindsided him, appearing from around the side of the last vehicle, rugby-tackling him to the ground.
    The boy struggled for an instant but McCready soon subdued him and by the time I reached them, the boy lay face down, his arm twisted behind his back.
    ‘Peter?’
    He turned his head to me, grit stuck to the side of his face as he began to sob.
    Behind me I heard the others arriving. Caroline Williams pushed her way through them, her face alight with expectation. She ran to the boy lying on the ground, dropped to her knees before him, and gripped his chin in her hand, raising his head slightly as if to examine it. Her expression darkened.
    ‘Adam!’ she snapped. ‘Adam.’
    Her shoulders began to shudder as she lifted her fists and began to hit the boy around the head, cursing him for not being her son.
    The boy continued to cry, his face a smear of tears and dirt.
    ‘I’m sorry. Please don’t tell my da,’ he pleaded.

Chapter Seven
     
    Adam Heaney sat in the tent with Cahir Murphy now, his rucksack lying forlornly on the grass outside, where Guard Dillon had discarded it.
    ‘Please don’t tell my daddy,’ Heaney repeated for perhaps the fourth time since we’d caught him.
    ‘What the hell did you run for?’ I asked him, angry that he had wasted our time, that he had caused me to hurt my shoulder again, and that he had dashed Caroline’s hopes.
    ‘I told my da I was staying with Peter,’ he explained. ‘He’d have a fit if he knew I was . . . here.’
    He glanced at Murphy quickly before finishing the sentence. Murphy scowled. Clearly, Heaney’s father shared Caroline’s view of Cahir Murphy.
    ‘So, was anyone else here or just the three of you?’
    Murphy laughed without humour. ‘No, that’s the lot.’
    Heaney shuddered involuntarily, then tugged his jacket tight around him.
    ‘What