“He’ll be back.”
The following night, three dozen small alert bodies lie under their covers, waiting.
And in the cold dark hours, there is the sound of scraping and grinding. “Tommy?”
“Yes, it’s me. Just keep quiet and let me know if you hear anyone moving.”
Two girls dart to the door to the corridor, listening. All is silent save for the slight metallic grinding noise, the rasp of metal biting metal.
Somewhere in the building, a toilet flushes.
“There's someone below you.” a piping voice warns.
The rasping noise stops.
After a few seconds, there are the dull thuds of heavy boots echoing on bare wooden boards and the bang of a door somewhere far off in the building.
“I think it’s alright now.”
And the noise resumes, a thin quiet fretting sound heard only by those gathered closely around.
With the grate and scrape of grit and cement, a bar slides out of its socket.
The voice murmurs through the glass. I’ve got one out. It’ll be faster now. I can pick at the cement for the others. A ripple of excitement runs through the group.
The scraping noise changes tone, the picking away of mortar from stone. After only a few minutes there is another sliding, grating sound. “That’s the second one. Katy, get whatever clothes you’ve got on. This last one won’t take long. We’re leaving.”
Girls of all sizes, ages and races scuttle around, silently as they can, pulling on threadbare dresses, tattered woollens, extra socks; anything they have. Layer on tattered layer. None of them owns a coat. You only need a coat if you go outside. None owns outdoor shoes or boots. Light indoors slippers must suffice against the winter.
The last of the steel bars sucks out of its socket and with only a moment more effort on cracked and perished caulking, the glass follows.
Arms fling out through the gap. “Tommy! Tommy! I thought I'd never see you again.”
“Whoa! Careful now. Don’t topple me. It’s a long way down. Now, come on, we're getting out of here quick.”
her. “But
Tom dithers, then looks through the window. He sees faces
want to be here either,”
Of course they don’t….
have brothers
Mothers? Fathers?
shit!” he mutters. “Let me in, quick now, and
hands pull him in, rolling him over the ledge to the floor. And as
six years old, pixie-faced stares at him, sucking her thumb. Another girl, much taller than the rest, offers a hand to help him upright. She’s a looker. “How old are
“Fifteen.”
that her luck has
“Isabella.”
points. “It’s roped on. The ladder won’t fall, but you have to hang on. From there, follow that roof-line….” He draws paintings in the air as heads hang out of the window, following his fingers. “At the end, you can scramble down a broken-down wall and out. Isabella,” He jabs at the tall girl. “You go
“What about
“The boys?”
It’ll be
Fuck!
through hair damp with sweat even in the
you. They’ll be waiting for you. I bet they’ve
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
get to the bottom, run. Run as hard as you can.” he hisses. “Run in all different directions. The bastards here can't follow all of you. And when you're well away from this hell-pit, tell
boys?” insists
get the boys out as
*****
in all directions they run
by hope and freedom. Some limp where pebbles stab through thin-soled slippers. Others pause, hiding in shadows, exhausted and hungry, needing to rest. But then they
*****
Sarge, got
name? Where’s he
“Says he’s from Blessingmoors.”
get him back there