Will be caught, won’t be caught

Cramped muscles, dry mouth and clammy hands.  A floor board creaks, two booted feet moving overhead.  Counting the steps, un-synced with the thump of a racing heartbeat.  Then silence.  A long sigh, deflating like a balloon with a slow puncture.  A voice shouts out: ‘There’s no sign of the fucker’.  It’s answered by another: ‘He’s here or he’s nearby.  He’s a wily fuck.  Tear the place apart.’  The feet return, the inner voice chiming a mantra in time to their dance: ‘will be caught, won’t be caught ...’  The feet stop directly above.  ‘Will be caught, won’t be caught ...’