The Escapist (2 page)

“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 - presumably 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. 

A deep gestured cough from behind the desk brought Oscar's attention back to the present and he waited whilst the Master lit his pipe.  The old man drew on it for a long breath before releasing a thick grey cloud that diffused around the room.

“Five years you have been with us, since returning from the Appleby’s and yet you still insist upon this disruptive attitude.”  The Master inquisitively peered at the lone figure before him. “This is your fourth attempt to escape, am I correct?”

“Yes sir” Oscar timidly replied.  The Master nodded to himself, flicking through the files before him.

“It says here your parents died when you were two.  A bombing raid I see.  Sounds like you were lucky to have survived, if you can call it that.  Though perhaps so - it sounds like you weren’t here long before you moved out South with the Appleby family.  You have been with us a long time overall Oscar, yet the Appleby’s are the first and only family to have taken you in since.  Why do you think that is?” The Master had a mild disposition that made the whole affair seem rather academic.

“I don’t know, Sir.”

“No, I expect you don’t,
” the old man interrupted. “All I read is that you are distant and uncommunicative, refusing to engage in interviews.  The matrons seldom wish to put you forward, it seems so futile.”

“They just want shot of me like the rest of the kids!” Oscar realised only too late that his mouth had run away from him.  But incredibly it hadn’t riled the Master.  He merely sat back and drew another lug on his pipe.

“I don’t find that surprising.  Tell me, if the warden hadn’t caught you, where would you have gone to Oscar?  Do you think there is anywhere out there for you?  You have no family.”

“I would have joined the army Sir, they’d have me.” Even as he spoke Oscar wasn’t too sure how much he really believed he would have enlisted.  He might be young, but he wasn’t naïve to the perils of war.

“I’m sure they would, though if I was you I wouldn’t be so hasty about joining.” The old man paused.  “Since this war began long ago I have seen many young men and boys - both friends and acquaintances alike - be shipped off to fight.  And over the years this war has ravaged I have yet to see but one arrive home alive.” Sorrow swept across the Master’s brow as he spoke and a breeze of self reflection passed through those old bones. 

“Your situation isn’t going to improve Oscar unless you change your attitude. Life here isn’t ideal.”  Far from it! Oscar thought
, as the Master continued. “But it is the only life you have.  A boy of fourteen could no more survive out there than he could in the army.  So my advice is to buck up your ideas and make fit.” The Master gave one more cursory glance at Oscar, and then with a self satisfied nod he rang for the Head Matron to enter.

The large, oak panelled door swung inwards, bringing with it a chilling draft.  A tall wiry woman strode in, cane under arm and without so much as a glance in Oscar’s direction.  The wrinkles across her face were indicative of someone who seldom smiled.

“Master?” she enquired.

“Ah yes, Matron Clarke.  I’ve had words with the boy and so now I leave him in your care.  I trust you will punish him firmly but fairly, for these things cannot be ignored.”

Oscar had a grim suspicion it was going to swing more in the favour of firm. 

“However, Matron, despite the inherent need for discipline within our institution, I believe it is my conversation with Oscar which will ultimately influence his conduct in the future”. 

“Well, quite...” said the matron.  Though a little too obvious was the hint of condescension creeping into her tone.  “Is that all?”

Despite the veiled implication of doubt over his judgement, it was only the Master’s bushy eyebrows that acknowledged this step over the boundaries.

“Yes, you may leave.  Go and get some lunch Oscar and then report back to the Matron. Oh, and if I see you back here again, you might be joining the army sooner than you expect.” With that, the old man returned to his paper, ignoring the figures present in his office.

“Hmm...  Right, well, out!” Matron Clarke barked. Oscar turned on his heels and scuttled out into the hall. “Keep on.”  She prodded Oscar, conveniently making contact right at the epicentre of his aching shoulder – something he was sure she had done deliberately. 

They continued down the hall before coming to a halt just off the main corridor at one of the bay window areas, out of earshot of any passers by.  This is it, Oscar thought, steeling himself for the worst.  It is officially the start of a gruelling few days or maybe even weeks, of hell.

“Now I don’t know what that senile old man has told you, but now you are entrusted to me and I promise you Oscar, that you will be punished.”  The matron’s eyes blazed through her metal framed glasses, savouring the potential fear of her prey.  But this situation was not new to Oscar and unlike with the Master, whom had earned a level of his respect, he was not going let the matron get quite what she expected.

“Yes Matron” Oscar said raising his head to show an angelic and anticipatory smile.  The sharp pain across his ear was worth it for the aghast look on her face.

***

Walking into the food hall Oscar was met by the usual level of silence, yet today this was supplemented by a wall of stares.  A hundred or so children had downed their spoons and were looking curiously at him – some excited, some fearful and others in awe.  Given the usual monotonous discipline of the lunch room they could hardly have made their reaction to him more obvious to the matrons if they had been cheering and standing on the wooden benches. 

He smiled inside at the subtle suggestions of support but knew in his heart it would never truly amount to anything.  It was each child for
themselves and the matrons did far too effective a job of quashing any budding sense of unity between their charges.   Nonetheless it was a tiny measure of comfort that he briefly enjoyed, until the Matrons walked up and down aisles cuffing children across the head and physically turning them back to their food. 

Under the glare of three stern middle aged women Oscar quickly found an empty seat at one of the closest tables and slowly began eating a bowl of fish stew slammed down before him by a kitchen worker.  It was lucky he wasn't that hungry Oscar thought to himself, as half the stew spilt out onto the table thanks to the over zealous placing.

The food hall was a disgusting place to eat.  Tables and floors were crusted with the remnants of years of matured stew; so much so that the wooden tiling seemed to be taking on a new grain.  The air was thick with a confused smell of rotten fish and unwashed children.  In some ways it was fortunate to only have fifteen minutes break, thought Oscar, as he almost always felt he was gasping for breath by the time he left.  And as for the stew -and it was always stew– well, it was best just to eat fast and be done with it.

“Psst, Oscar, Osc.  Hey Oscar.  Look up for goodness sake”.  Oscar didn’t need to raise his head to know that the hissed greeting would be from George, a boy intent on pestering anyone he thought might listen.  Whilst most of the children kept their heads down and mouths shut when the matrons were around, George seemed unable to do so.  He hadn’t been at the institution for as long and his natural enthusiasm for social interaction was proving quite resilient.  Perhaps this positive demeanour was linked to the level of nourishment available; whilst most of the other children slowly wasted away and became apathetic, George seemed to have maintained a pretty sizeable weight.  So much so, that the other children had begun referring to him as ‘Piggy’.  Oscar couldn’t help but wonder how he did it.  Perhaps he had resorted to licking the tables when everyone departed from the lunch room.

“Yes Piggy?” Oscar said in a weary voice.  Piggy was nice enough, but had a knack of pestering at the wrong time.  The boy shuffled closer so he was nearly opposite Oscar and reached across to scoop the spilled stew off the table, licking his fingers.

“So how far did you get Osc?   I bet they gave you a nasty beating when they got you.”

“I got right away actually, far into town.” Oscar said, a little defensive about his failed attempt. “Well, as far as the tearoom anyway.” he relented.  “I would’ve headed out the other end of town after that – if the warden hadn’t caught up with me.  It was a close thing.”

“A warden?  Ouch Osc, I bet he done you good.”  Piggy said continuing to mop up the spilled stew and barely looking away from the extra food.

“Yeah, well.  Not without me giving him what for first.  I kicked him square in the jaw.” Oscar fell silent as the matrons patrolled the aisles.

“What! No you didn't, that’s pig swill Osc. Not even you could be that stupid” Piggy exclaimed a little too loudly and received a clip round the ear from the nearest matron.  He rubbed his ear distractedly before returning to the spilled food.

“Yeah right Piggy.  Keep on and I’ll boot you just the same.  It’s none of your business anyway” Oscar hissed before turning back to his stew, ignoring the envious gaze radiating from across the table.  Taking no notice of Oscar's rebuttal, Piggy pestered on.

“So you think you might try again?”

“Maybe,” Oscar said, trying not to give away the extent to which this failed attempt had crushed his spirit.  “I don’t know yet.  I won't get the chance for a good few weeks, that’s for sure.  It seems like Clarke has lots of fun planned for me.”  Oscar stared darkly at his uneaten bread roll.  After a few moments he decided he’d had enough and stood up to leave.  With casual disregard he tossed the roll at Piggy, who seized upon it greedily.

“Cheers Osc, sorry for calling you stupid an' all.  I don't envy what’s in store for you at the moment.” 

Back in the corridor Oscar passed a host of children heading towards the workroom, all talking in hushed whispers.  Oscar however was heading to Matron Clarke's office.  He thought wistfully of the work he would be missing – it was never something he had enjoyed but in comparison to what the matron would undoubtedly have in store, he knew where his preference would lie.  Furthermore, if they were continuing on from the previous week then the work class would only consist of several hours spent repairing old army kit – not much fun, but it would at least have given him an opportunity to rest his unceasingly sore shoulder.