The Young Wan Read Online Free Page B

whizzing in all directions. Windows were being shattered, even roof tiles were being damaged by errant ricochets. Bosco’s focus now narrowed to a single point. The red brick wall. From behind broken windows and in half-opened doorways he could hear the cries of encouragement from his neighbors.
     
    “Run, Bosco. Run, son.” A woman’s voice.
     
    Amazingly, he passed one very old man who was standing outside his front door propped up by a well-used hawthorn walking stick. Bullets were pinging all about the old codger, but he was impervious to them. As Bosco came abreast of the man he waved his stick.
     
    “Don’t let the bastards get you, lad. Run, Bosco, run.”
     
    Bosco ran. He reached the red brick wall. In one swift, smooth move he sprang from the ground, threw his hands to the top of the wall, and pulled his body up. Just as he was clear of the top of the wall, Bosco saw some splinters of red brick shoot up, and he felt a sting in his thigh. He was hit. Bosco’s body smashed to the ground on the far side of the wall like a sack of potatoes and began to roll down the slight hill toward the road. More numb than in pain, Bosco got to his feet and began to carry on down the street, dragging his now useless leg behind him. Halfway down Cunningham Street, Bosco took a right. He was now into the maze of back-street lanes that were like a second home to him. Blood was streaming from his right leg and trailing along the street, but here in the alleys of the Jarro, Bosco knew he would be safe.
     
    Back on Bosco’s street, the army truck pulled away, loaded with soldiers, and leaving Bosco’s father lying in the middle of the street. There was no point in arresting the old one-legged man now. He was dead.
     
     
     
    The siren above the iron foundry was screaming, and a gush of steam was spouting from its whistle. Day’s end. Constance turned the big key that locked the door bearing the legend “Accounts Office.” She checked the handle and, satisfied it was secure, she began to make her way across the cobbled yard. Along her way to the exit, numerous members of her father’s staff tipped their caps and wished her “Good night, miss.” She returned the greeting, using the first name of each and every person, without smiling. It was not from any sense of aloofness that Constance did not smile; rather, it was a sense of self-consciousness. Her teeth. Constance was an attractive woman, to a point: dark-red hair and pale skin with green eyes. She could turn a man’s head all right, so long as she did not smile. If God’s blessing on Constance was that she be born to a comfortable home, then his curse was that he had given her the most ludicrous collection of teeth imaginable. They grew in every direction except straight and were quite large. When Constance Parker-Willis smiled it was like looking at a badly kept graveyard. So, happy or not, Constance smiled as little as possible. She left her father’s foundry by the small gate on the western side, into Frowns Street. She buttoned up her coat, tied her headscarf, and pulled on her gloves. There was an icy chill in the air, and her breath was steamy in the early evening. She stuffed her hands into her pockets and began to make her way toward the City Centre, where she would catch the number-six tram home to Kingstown. She saw the body immediately as she turned into Windmill Lane. At first, from a distance, she thought he was a wino, lying drunk against the lamppost. The closer she got, the more apparent it became that this was a young boy. A dead or very badly injured young boy, for the pool in which he sat was blood, and not urine, as she had first thought. He was half propped up, and his chin was on his chest. She stooped over the boy and looked about for assistance. The street was empty. Constance knelt beside the boy and lifted his head. The handsome face of the boy took her breath away for a moment.
     
    “Boy, wake up, boy.” She spoke gently as she drew