Renegade Read Free

again, my throat sore.
    After using my hands and feet to clear away a selection of small stones from underneath the door, it swings gently towards me with the creak of a rusty hinge. The air smells musty and dry but as
I reach forward, my hands close around what are undoubtedly tins of food. There is not enough light to see what might be on the label, but my mind swims with thoughts of sweet, juicy fruits or
rich, creamy soup. I take the two tins closest to me, excited to see what Imrin will say, and then cross back towards the hatch.
    There is no sign of him but the rest of the water has been taken. In the few minutes I have been away, the light has changed from the dark blue of moonlight to the first traces of morning sun.
After finding food and water, a little warmth would be very welcome.
    As I lean through the hatch, I spot Imrin’s silhouette pressed against the wall opposite. He is breathing heavily and I open my mouth to tease him about how unfit he is. It is only as the
first squeak of a word escapes my lips that I realise it isn’t Imrin at all.

2
    The figure is too tall and wide to be Imrin. At the sound of my voice, he turns towards me and a man barks: ‘Who’s there?’ The voice is gruff and stern:
demanding, not asking.
    Quickly but carefully, I slide the top half of my body back through the hatch until I am lying flat on my back underneath the hole in the wall. He repeats his question but I
remain silent, fighting the sudden urge to cough. I place the tins on the ground and cover my mouth, forcing myself to stay quiet as I hear him moving around. Twice, he says ‘hello?’
and I know he hasn’t seen me. Each heavy thump of his leather boots on the concrete sounds like a clap of thunder. There is a trickle of stones as he steps closer and I don’t need to
see him to know it is a Kingsman – the way he is moving and the harsh tone of his voice gives him away.
    I wonder what has happened to Imrin. All of the pans filled with water have gone and I
didn’t hear any commotion, so he must have returned to our hideaway at least once. I try to calm myself but my worst fears are flowing: that I have led all these people to their deaths and
I’m going to end up on my own.
    I stare directly up and, although I cannot see the Kingsman, I sense him close to the hatch. The mist from his breath spirals through the air above me and for a fraction of a second I smell the
faint odour of wine. It feels as if I am in a battle to see who can stay the most silent. If he had thought the noise came from a rat or other creature, he would have already walked away. I push
myself even closer to the wall, hearing the sudden scrabble of movement before a pair of gloved hands reach through the hatch. There is no way he can fit through the space – but this is also
my only way out.
    The Kingsman’s hands paw at the inside of the walls and instinctively I flinch, staying tight to the ground, thinking he is grabbing for me. I want to race away but he is fumbling in the
dark, wondering what is on the other side. He grunts and there is another thump as the front section of a sleek black helmet pokes through the space.
    Kingsmen act as the King’s guards, both an army and a police force. They each have identical armour made from a black metal named borodron. It is thin and flexible but – as far as I
know – impossible to penetrate. The material is rare and was used to allow access to certain areas around Windsor Castle. The man is so close that I can see the smooth curves of his helmet as
a thin stream of sunlight arcs around the non-reflective surface. His head twists one way then the other as he struggles to pull himself further into the room. I stay completely still, the pain in
my shoulder suddenly stabbing as my body betrays me. I can see the shape of his square rigid jaw as his nostrils flare, as if he is trying to smell me out.
    I count the seconds until his jaw relaxes and then allow myself a small breath as