Novel Sweet
Chapter 51
Chapter 51
“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.”
Katy hesitates, looking around her. “But what about everyone else?”
“What about them? I came for you.” Tom dithers, then looks through the window. He sees faces young
and very young, pale, pink, brown, black. All big-eyed, expectant, watching him.
“They don't want to be here either,” says Katy, matter-of-factly.
Of course they don’t….
Do they have brothers somewhere?
Mothers? Fathers?
“Ah, shit!” he mutters. “Let me in, quick now, and quietly.”
A dozen pairs of hands pull him in, rolling him over the ledge to the floor. And as he settles, flashing his
torch around, his stomach clutches. “Ah, Christ Jesus…”
A tiny girl, perhaps 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 you?”
“Fifteen.”
And he knows that her luck has timed out. “What’s your name?”
“Isabella.”
“Right all of you, come on. You’ve got to be quiet and careful. Isabella, the bigger ones will have to help
the little ones. You climb down this ladder to that ledge on the roof over there….” He 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 first, and I’ll pass
the other ones out and down.”
She nods. “What about the boys?”
“The boys?”
“They’re in the next dorm. It’ll be the next window along.”
Fuck!
He swipes a hand through hair damp with sweat even in the chill. “I don’t know….”
“We told them about you. They’ll be waiting for you. I bet they’ve even got the glass out already.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Right all of you.” He waves a hand at the window. “Go. And when you 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 people. All of you. If you all tell them. If you all give the
same story, what these people are, they'll believe you.”
“And the boys?” insists Isabella.
“Go. I’ll get the boys out as soon as you’re all down the ladder.”
*****
Children run, run into the night. Scattering in all directions they run as if the devil were driving behind
them.
Breathless and half-starved, poorly dressed against the bite of winter, they run, kept warm 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 run once more.
*****
“Hey, Sarge, got a runaway.”
“Yeah? Got a name? Where’s he from?”
“Says he’s from Blessingmoors.”
“Better get him back there then.”
A small boy, missing two front teeth, struggles against the hand clamped around his wrist. “I'm not
going back! No! I won't go.”
*****
“Hello, is that the police station?”
“Yes, Madam. How can I help you?”
“I have a teenage girl here. Her English isn’t very good, but I think she is trying to tell me she was
kidnapped. And I must say, she’s in dreadful condition. I wonder if you could send someone out.”
The desk sergeant sighs. It’s going to be one of those nights. He reaches for a pad. “Could I have a
name and address please.”
As he starts to write, the other phone line rings.
*****
The small girl runs pell-mell down the road, looking over her shoulder. Not watching where she is
going, she bangs straight into the pair.
“Help me. Help me!”
“Hey, careful. pet. Look where you’re going.” The man, full of lager and Indian food peers down at the Material © of NôvelDrama.Org.
small ragged child. “It’s a bit late for you to be out by yourself isn’t it?” He has a little trouble forming his
words, but the bairn is all big eyes with a pale, pretty face.
His companion, weaving his way along the road with him, and wondering if the vindaloo was a good
idea on top of that much beer, takes a closer look. “You alright, love? You look scared.”
“There’s a man chasing me,” she gasps. “Please help me.” She darts behind his legs, looking fearfully
back where she came from.
A pair of car headlights glares closer as the car inches down the street. It pulls up and a man gets out.
“There you are, Trixie. Time to get you home.” He turns to the two late-night revellers. “Thanks for
finding her. Her mother’s worrying. You know how it is.”
“That’s not my Daddy!”
“Is it not?” The pair lurch to drunken attention. “I dinna’ like the sound ‘o that.”
“Come on. Hand my daughter over.”
“I’m not his daughter,” she yells.
The two square up, fists weaving unsteadily. “Yer want her, Jimmy? Yer can fuckin’ come and get her
then….”
*****