The Lewis Man

THIRTEEN

I can see a thin line of yellow light beneath the door. From time to time someone passes in the corridor and their shadow follows the light from one side to the other. I notice that I can’t hear any footsteps. Maybe they wear rubber shoes so you won’t know when they’re coming. Not like Mr Anderson with his tick-tock crocodile shoes. He wants you to know. He wants you to be afraid. And we were.

I’m not afraid now, though. I’ve waited all my life for this. Escape. From all those people who want to keep me in places I don’t want to be. Well, fuck them!

Hah! It felt good to say that. Well, think it, anyway. ‘Fuck them!’ I whisper it in the dark. And I hear it so loudly it makes me sit up straight.

If anyone comes in now, the game’s up. They will see my hat and coat, and notice my bag sitting packed on the end of the bed. They’ll probably call for Mr Anderson, and I’ll be in for a hell of a leathering. I wish they would hurry up and put the lights out. I’ll need to be long gone by morning. I hope the others haven’t forgotten.

I don’t know how much time has passed. Did I fall asleep? There is no light beneath the door any more. I listen for a long time and hear nothing. So now I lift my bag from the bed and slowly open the door. Damn! I should have gone for a pee before now. Too late. Doesn’t matter. No time to lose.

Old Eachan’s room is next door. I saw him in the dining room earlier. And remembered him immediately. He used to lead the Gaelic psalm-singing in the church. I loved that sound. So different from the Catholic choirs of my childhood. More like tribal chanting. Primal. I open the door and slip inside, and immediately hear him snoring. I close the door behind me and switch on the light. There is a brown holdall bag sitting on the dresser and Eachan is curled up beneath the quilt, sleeping.

I want to whisper his name, but somehow it eludes me. Dammit, what’s he called? I can still hear him singing those psalms. A strong clear voice, full of confidence and faith. I shake him by the shoulder, and as he rolls over I pull back the quilt.

Good. He’s fully dressed, ready to go. Maybe he just got tired of waiting.

‘Eachan,’ I hear myself say. Yes. That’s his name. ‘Come on, man. Time to go.’

He seems confused.

‘What’s happening?’ he says.

‘We’re running away.’

‘Are we?’

‘Yes, of course. We talked about it. Don’t you remember? You’re fully dressed, man.’

Eachan sits up and looks at himself. ‘So I am.’ He swings his legs out of the bed, and his shoes leave dirty tracks on the sheets. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Away from The Dean.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Shhh. Mr Anderson might hear us.’ I take him by the arm and lead him to the door, opening it to peer out into the dark.

‘Wait. My bag.’ Eachan lifts his holdall from the dresser and I turn off the light before we slip out into the corridor again.

At the far end I see a glow from the kitchen, and shadows moving around in the light that falls out into the hall. I wonder if one of the other boys has told. If so, we’re done for. Trapped. I can feel old Eachan hanging on to the back of my coat as we shuffle closer, trying not to make a noise. I hear voices now. Men’s voices, and I step smartly into the doorway to surprise them. Someone told me that once. Surprise is the best weapon when the numbers are against you.

But there are only two of them. Two old boys pacing around, all dressed with coats and hats, bags packed and sitting up on the counter.

One of them seems familiar. He is very agitated and glares at me. ‘You’re late!’

How does he know I’m late?

‘You said just after lights out. We’ve been waiting for ages.’

I say, ‘We’re making a run for it.’

He is very irritated now. ‘I know that. You’re late.’

The other one just nods, eyes wide like a rabbit’s in the headlights. I have no idea who he is.

Someone is pushing me from behind now. It is Eachan. What does he want?

‘Go on, go on,’ he says.

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you,’ says the other one. ‘Your idea. You do it.’

And the silent one nods and nods.

I look around, wondering what it is they want me to do. What are we doing here? Then I see the window. Escape! I remember now. The window leads out to the back. Over the wall and off across the bog. They’ll never catch us. Run like the wind. Over the asphalt to the trees.

‘Here, give me a hand,’ I say, and I pull a chair up to the sink. ‘Someone will have to hand my bag out after me. My mother’s ring is in there. She gave it to me to keep safe.’

Eachan and the nodding one hold me steady as I climb on to the chair and step into the sink. Now I can reach the catch. But it won’t move, dammit! No matter how hard I try. I can see my fingers turning white from the pressure.

Suddenly there is a light in the corridor. I hear footsteps and voices, and I can feel panic rising in my chest. Someone’s clyped on us. Oh God!

It’s black on the other side of the window as I turn back to it. I can see the rain still running down the glass. I’ve got to get out. Freedom on the other side. I start pounding on it with my clenched fists. I can see the glass bending with each blow.

Someone’s shouting, ‘Stop him! For heaven’s sake stop him!’

Finally the glass breaks. Shatters. At last. I feel pain in my hands, and see blood running down my arms. The blast of wind and rain in my face nearly knocks me over.

A woman is screaming.

But all I can see is the blood. Staining the sand. Effervescent foaming brine turning crimson in the moonlight.