The Enemy by Charlie Higson Page A

finding the bike had given him fresh confidence. Al he had to do was fol ow the road signs to Hol oway and he’d be al right.
    He turned left into the Seven Sisters Road and cycled on. The squashy tires made the bike unsteady and difficult to steer, but he was stil going much faster than he would be if he was walking.
    For the first time in twenty-four hours he smiled. It was a sunny day. The streets were clear, he was zooming along on his new bike. Wel , not quite zooming. More wobbling, perhaps. But it didn’t matter. He was going home.

    Once again he imagined the look of amazement on the faces of his friends.
    “A bike, Sam? You found a bike!”
    “Wel done—you’re the coolest.”
    “King of the streets!”
    Then he heard footsteps behind him.
    He looked back. There was a grown-up fol owing him. A lone father. Loping along on stiff legs, panting with the effort. As Sam watched, another grown-up joined him, a mother this time, her hair tied up in a big untidy knot on top of her head.
    Then another and another. They were coming out of the streets on either side. Sam had to keep glancing back and then looking ahead to make sure he didn’t hit something. There were cars abandoned al over the roads, and you had to be careful or you would crash into one.
    More and more grown-ups were pouring into the road, half running, half walking. Sam skidded around a van and saw two ugly fathers coming at him from the front, one on either side, in a pincer movement. He sped up even more and just managed to squeeze between them as they made a lunge for him. He careened al over the road, out of control, then stood up on the pedals and pumped them as hard as he could. It was about as fast as the bike would go on these junk tires, and he was scared it wasn’t fast enough.
    He had never cycled so hard in his life: his lungs were on fire, his heart trying to punch its way out through his rib cage. Before, he had thought that he was flying along, but now he seemed to be moving in slow motion.
    Come on. Come on.
    He realized there were tears streaming down his face.
    His happy dream of being welcomed home as a hero was in tatters. Nobody would ever know what he had gone through last night. Nobody would know about the battle at the stadium. The giant’s beard on fire. His escape across the field. Hiding in the water tank. It had al been for nothing.
    Nothing . . .
    No. Damn them. He wasn’t going to let them catch him. He was Sam the Giant Slayer. He was going to escape.
    Then, as if in answer to an unspoken prayer, the road began to slope gently downward, and he picked up speed, stil pedaling furiously. When he next looked back, the grown-ups had fal en behind. Yes. He was getting away.
    See you, losers!
    On he went. His legs like Jel -O. And each time he looked behind him, the grown-ups were farther away.
    He whooped.
    He screamed.
    He was Sam the hero again.
    By the time he hit Hol oway Road he was alone. He had lost sight of the shambling idiots. Ah, they were probably stil fol owing him, but they’d take ages to get here—he had plenty of time to get inside.
    There it was. Waitrose. His home. The lookouts on the roof would have spotted him already. He waved, but couldn’t see anyone. Maybe they were already at the speaking tube, sending orders to the kids below.
    “You’l never believe it! It’s Sam, riding a wonky bike like a crazy kid!”
    Maybe the doors would open up for him as he arrived.
    He cycled up to the front of the shop and jumped off his bike. He couldn’t hear anyone inside.
    “Hey!”
    He pul ed the chain that rang a big bel above the shop floor. Pul ing and pul ing and pul ing.
    “Open up!” he yel ed. “It’s me, Sam. I’m back!”
    Nothing. What was taking them so long?
    “Hey! You lot. It’s me. Let me in. . . .”
    He stopped shouting and listened. He couldn’t hear anything. He pul ed the chain again. Maybe it was broken? No. He was sure he could hear the bel ringing in the shop. So why was nobody