by Madoc Fox
The Escapist
By
Madoc Fox
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 1
Oscar sprinted through the electro-lit streets, the rhythmic slap of his plimsolls against the pavement matching the heavy beat of his heart. Pushing himself with every gasping breath, the boy darted through the alleys that laced the town, ever glancing over his shoulder lest he be followed. Overwhelmed by a sense of newly gained freedom it never occurred to him to stop or where his destination might lie, only that for now placing more distance between him and the Institute would suffice.
Eventually the many grabbing hands of exhaustion tugged at his skinny frame and a stitch sliced through his side. Oscar succumbed to fatigue and tucked himself into a shadowy alcove far from the humming electrolamps that dotted the town. Whilst gently and steadily gaining his breath he surveyed the local habitat, the euphoria of his escape giving way to the reality of his situation. If he was to succeed he would need to decide quickly whether to hide or to move on. Either way he could not afford to remain in his current situation for they could catch him at any moment. The town was full of potential hiding places but perhaps not those suited to a long term stay. Peculiar shaped towers and crooked houses crowded in on him: some stone, some brick, some thatched, some tiled. All added to the eclectic and charming personality of the town but Oscar had no time to dwell on such aesthetics now. If worse came to the worst the labyrinth of sewers would provide a temporary refuge.
Peering from the darkness Oscar considered the stacked mesh of houses across the alley. In the centre stood a shabby old apartment, its walls a mixture of stone and more recent brick work – presumably an attempt to keep the decrepit building from falling victim to its inevitable decay. A light shone from the largest of the windows daring Oscar to gaze in upon the picture-book scene of the kitchen within. Though the steam hampered his vision he could just about make out a woman hard at work, laboriously chopping vegetables and throwing them into a giant cauldron over a lone gas hob. As he leaned in closer, drawn by the tempting smells mingling with the steam, two chubby twin boys burst into the room jostling and competing for the woman’s attention. With an ache of jealousy Oscar tore himself away from the shining warmth and security of the scene, shaking his head violently as if to dislodge the thought. If he was to succeed he couldn’t let such feelings of nostalgia move him. For better or worse, all that was in the past. Now he had to be rational and efficient.
Oscar’s mind raced for what to do next. His breath had returned and he was anxious about remaining in one place for too long, no matter how dark it was. The boy needed time to think and somewhere to get warm, to regroup before moving on. He knew that the later he left it the more suspicious his presence would become. Seldom were children seen out this late. Either way it couldn’t be helped, he had made his escape the only time he could.
Having spent the majority of his life in the Institute, Oscar’s knowledge of the town’s geography was incredibly poor. What little familiarity he had with it was extended only by excursions made from the Institute, during which times he was confined by the stern gaze of the sentry-like matrons. Racking his brain as to where to go, Oscar remembered a tearoom at the centre of town which he’d encountered on one of these rare trips out of the Institute. It was one of the few times he had been shown any kindness: the lady from the tearooms had tried to give him a biscuit. Unfortunately the eagle eyed matrons had intervened and declined the offer on his behalf, indignantly accusing the woman of not knowing her place. Oscar couldn’t help but feel they had done it just to spite him – after all, what harm was a biscuit? In consideration of that episode, it wouldn't surprise him if the owner wanted nothing to do with the Institute or its children. But he had no other alternative. He knew that the tearoom was situated somewhere near a large bridge, where the steam trams would rumble overhead.
Drawing the collar of his tattered coat closely, he shielded his face and walked steadily through the main streets. Running would by now only attract attention. Discretely ambling toward the town centre Oscar carefully watched the evening hubbub. The large mechanical clock in the town square read 8:05 pm and the shops were closing for the day. People rushed to and fro on their way home while shop owners bolted shutters and pulled great brass levers to break the circuits of the electrolamps. The town was a battle ground for competing technologies: steam trams whistled and jostled for space with the dainty buzzing electrocarts. Electrolamps hummed in the background and mechanical steam operated signs projected messages reading ‘HALT’ and ‘PASS’ at the street junctions. But it was outside the town’s infrastructure where the battle was yet to be won. Privately, technology was a sign of wealth and so the richer folks favoured the newer electro-goods whilst the poor settled for steamware. It was said that since the advent of electroart, huge fan farms were being erected in the richer towns and cities to supply the demand. Again Oscar found himself reminiscing about the past - his one reprieve from the Institute, an all too brief spell in the South of the country where the serenity of lush countryside was the antithesis to his current surroundings.
Approaching the tearoom underneath the steam-way bridge, Oscar stood on the other side of the underpass. Trying to remain inconspicuous he waited in the cold whilst the last customers settled their bills and made their way home for the night. The cold was freezing his bones rigid and his teeth had begun to chatter involuntarily. Was this a good idea? He knew so little of the owner and his view of a tender deed might easily turn out to be a misunderstanding of what was no more than common courtesy.
The biting cold made up his mind for him and as the owner began to dim the oil lamps Oscar crossed the pass and slipped stealthily through the front door. He stood waiting for his presence to be noticed, watching the graceful woman weave her way between tables. She seemed young compared to most other adults Oscar knew - unlike many of the town’s inhabitants time had clearly been kind to her. Or perhaps she hadn’t lived here long and had managed to keep away from the harsh air currents that swept through the region each winter, bringing who-knows-what contaminants from the front lines. Despite her youthful complexion she was garbed in worn and dull clothes like almost everyone else in the town. Making her way towards the door finally she glanced up at Oscar only to jump back with a shriek. Though she quickly recovered, her dramatic surprise made him blush. He was already beginning to feel this was a stupid idea. Why would she want to help him - why would anyone?
“Hello can I help you?” When she eventually spoke her tone was warm and gentle. “Ah! I see, the cold has frozen your tongue. Maybe a hot drink will help?” Oscar was dumbfounded by her civil response. He hadn’t really expected to get this far; he hadn’t really expected anything. Yet here she was as kind as before, gently encouraging him to take a seat at one of the remaining lit tables. Crossing to the counter she poured a hot brown slop into a cup and returned offering the drink along with a biscuit.
“Maybe you could finish your biscuit this time,” she said with a smile, placing the food before him. His eyes lit up; she had remembered.
“You’re from the Institute?” she asked. Oscar nodded slowly, unable to speak.
“Well, I’m
Emily. And you are...?”
“Oscar.” The boy responded in a faint wisp of a voice.
“Well Oscar, why are you here? You’re lost right?” She had a disarming manner of being direct but not aggressively so.
“I have escaped” Oscar said defiantly, his voice finally returning.
“Escaped! Well, congratulations. But what will you do now?”
“Umm, well, I’m working on it. I was hoping to get far away first,” he said. “Maybe take a train to the East. I could join the army.”
“Bit young for the army, aren’t you?”
“I’m fourteen and they take younger than me.” Oscar was somewhat hurt. He had endured a lot at the Institute and did not think of himself as a child. Besides it was true; as the war had raged on, children as young as thirteen were said to be drafted. Usually those of ill fitting backgrounds were taken, those who wouldn’t be missed.
He ate and drank whilst they sat in silence. Upon finishing Oscar looked up to see the woman’s contemplative eyes resting on him.
“I cannot help, I’m very sorry,” she stated unrepentantly, dashing Oscar’s inner most, but unspoken hopes. He wasn’t sure how hurt by this he was but his head bobbed with a nod of understanding as she continued. “I already have three kids and they eat poorly enough as it is. If I get caught encouraging a runaway I could be arrested”
“It’s okay, I understand. I’m on my own now, I’m free. I just need to figure out what to do next.” Oscar replied.
“You must go back,” the woman answered, ignoring Oscar's resulting look of shock. “I realize your life at the Institute is hard but it’s better than on the street, where there are so many more dangers.”
“Hard,” he scoffed “It’s not hard, it’s misery. There’s no way I’m heading back.” Oscar had found his voice and was ready to argue.
“Please, Oscar you have to believe me. There are many nasty fates for a young boy alone on the streets. Let me speak to your matrons, maybe I could help”
“Ha. How? How could you possibly help me?” he said belligerently. He knew it was not his place, but she didn’t understand. Why could she not see? “Life there is hell and you expect me to go back! They’ll punish me for trying to escape. Just like last time.”
“Oscar,” she said, with the soothing tone of a mother calming an upset child. “It’s still safer. There’s a roof over your head. You have food. Do not take such things lightly, not in these times.”
“Fine. You try them, call them and see what good it will do!” With a huff Oscar sat back, crossing his arms and staring at the empty cup.
“I will. Trust me Oscar, it is the right thing to do.” Emily got up and walked to the counter, where she picked up the hand receiver.
“Operator. The Institute please.” she waited for the response on the other end; the speaker projected it loudly across the room.
“This is Head Matron Clarke, can I help you?” an abrupt voice answered the call, the tone sharp and showing little evidence of being helpful.
“Err, yes I believe that I have a child of-” Looking around, her eyes passed to where Oscar was sitting only to see an empty chair and an empty cup.
“Yes, yes. A child?” the impatient voice on the other end interrupted.
“Err no. Sorry I was mistaken.” With a click, she hung up the receiver and sighed.
Eyes filling rapidly, Oscar sprinted through the underpass. His head swam, the loneliness of his situation complete. They’ll never get me, he thought to himself. If I have to run for ever they’ll never get me. Why did she have to…
Thwack! Oscar fell backwards to the ground. Dazed and perplexed he looked up through tear filled eyes to see the huge bulk of a warden looming over him. A long, grey overcoat, held at the waist by the thick black belt - the typical uniform of the street minders. His hand rested on a thick and solid truncheon completing a stoic pose whose impact was pronounced by the thunderous trains passing overhead.
“What do we have ere!” the warden boomed. “You should really watch where you run me lad.”
Yet he had been watching, Oscar thought, indignantly. It was abundantly clear to both parties that the warden had deliberately stepped in his way. Oscar rubbed his sore behind and crouched forward, getting to his feet.
“Tut tut tut.” The warden carelessly shoved him on the forehead, sending him back a further foot to the cold concrete floor. “Stay there for the moment, son.” The warden maintained his advantage, beady eyes scrutinising the young boy's appearance. Truncheon in hand, he prodded Oscar in the chest and looked thoughtfully at him.
“Now you wouldn’t happen to ‘ave evaded our lovely matrons would you?” he asked rhetorically. Still prodding Oscar, each successive thump felt somehow heavier than the last. Oscar remained silent, his heart sinking. In his relatively short lifetime he had already had enough experience with figures of authority to know that any response could validate a beating. There was nothing he could say anyway, the answer was already on display to the warden by the mottled green coat he was wearing; standard issue clothing, in this case proudly bearing the stamp of Sir Gawain’s Compassionate Institute for War Orphans and Unfortunate Children. Oscar’s silence earned him a brief reprieve as the warden ceased prodding to lean in closer, examining the emblem on his coat. His enormous moustache twitched, then gave way to a wolfish grin revealing yellowed canines.
“Well me lad it seems our little run in has saved me a great deal of hassle. Oh yes, it’s gonna be a nice early visit to the tavern for me”. The warden let out a hefty chuckle, which almost sounded like a growl.
Shivering on the uneven paving stones, Oscar felt something inside him begin to boil as he listened to the unintended soliloquy. Jowls flapping, the warden continued,
“Yes if I didn’t have to spend my time dealing with little weasels like you I could spend my time as quite a happy fella'.”
The more he listened, the greater the resolve built within Oscar as he grit his teeth in anger. I’m not done yet, he thought. White noise muffled his ears and he could no longer focus on what the warden was saying – he was just a passive observer of the cavernous mouth opening and closing, watching ampoules of spit flying out and landing on the grey overcoat beneath. Body trembling with anticipation, Oscar waited for his opportunity.
“Right, well, best be back to the Institute with you,” the warden sneered as he leaned closer, recognising only too late the expression of rage Oscar was now struggling to contain. On his final word, the boy arched backwards, flinging his foot directly at the warden’s jaw. It didn’t have the great impact he had expected, but Oscar continued the movement to roll backwards onto his feet, swiftly turning to make good his escape. Running with all his might Oscar didn’t look back, yet over the desperate sounds of his own retreat he could hear the louder breathing and heavy footfall of the menacing giant behind him. Eyes closed, teeth clenched, this was his last chance. If he could only...
Suddenly, a bolt of pain shot through him, hitting at the shoulder yet seeming to reverberate around his skeleton. Fighting against the wave of nausea and pain, his vision began to dim. He remained conscious only for long enough to hear a triumphantly declared 'Gotcha!' but struggled to grasp its consequences; by then the darkness was complete.
Chapter 2
Staring at the wood panelled wall of the Master’s office, Oscar waited while the old man finished reading the weekly paper and drinking the remainder of his tea. He had been standing in the same spot for well over an hour, though the ache in his legs was drowned out by the persistent throbbing of his shoulder. Arriving late the previous night he had regained consciousness in time to see the gates of the Institute looming mockingly overhead. The warden had brought him back by electrocart, so that Oscar’s already humiliating return was made all the worse for knowing he had spent this entirely novel experience in a completely comatose state.
The second he arrived in the main hall he had been greeted by a verbal barrage from the Head Matron - presuma
bly irritated even more than usual thanks to the lack of an early night. He was sent straight to the dormitory, with sinister threats of the punishments he would face the next day ringing in his ears. Climbing wearily into his bunk, Oscar had tried to delay the inevitable recriminations his mind might throw at him, attempting to get some sleep in preparation for the myriad of possible ordeals the next morning might hold. However, it seemed his body had had other plans. Lying on his back was insufferable and he could not find any rest.
As he waited for his punishment to be dealt, Oscar replayed the previous day’s events. He knew it was foolish to have gone to the tearoom. He was too impatient and should have bided his time. Trusting that woman was a mistake, he should have known by now not to give in so readily to trust. It was a dangerous gift to give and incurred twice the bitterness if placed in the wrong hands, as he had unwittingly found.
Yes, that was definitely where he had gone wrong, and the reason that he was now standing here staring at the white wash wall. Already feeling ten times worse than when he left, he was undoubtedly about to receive an extra helping of suffering in return for his crime.
“You can turn around now, Oscar.” A weary voice interrupted his self-recriminations. As he spoke, the old man set his tattered paper and china cup aside and gestured the boy over to him. Positioned at the far end of the room, the Master was tucked behind a massive mahogany desk that spanned almost the entire width of the office. Oscar sighed quietly and then with his head bowed crossed the exotic looking rug that filled the floor.
Oscar waited. The old man withdrew his pipe from a drawer and began to clean it into an ashtray. In that moment, with the Master distracted, the boy dared to glance properly around the room. On the wall adjacent to him under a dust blanket he saw a bolt action rifle, presumably heralding back to the old man's military past as suggested by the accompanying photographs which sat below. The monochrome pictures had a wistful quality about them and showed the Master in younger years at various points throughout his military campaign. The man’s characteristic stern gaze and fixed brow made him easy to identify. Yet one picture stood out for the absence of solemnity; an endearing shot, it showed the Master side by side with another soldier, both men smiling with the air of camaraderie.