Idlebones

Escape. 1.

November 11, 2006 – 0:54

 

I don’t remember why I went with him, but here we were, tearing down
the empty high street at 4 in the morning, our satchels swinging
behind our sweat drenched backs with the sound of the police sirens
wailing from a side street somewhere behind us. A hurried glance taken
over my shoulder told me they were coming up Park Street, the rain
soaked walls reflecting blue swathes of light as they approached the
intersection.

“Here!” Siddo grabbed my arm and swung me, legs skidding beneath me
into a front garden and bundled me into long wet grass behind the low
wall.

“Jesus Siddo, what the F..”

“Quiet!”

I feel his fist dig into my chest, knocking the wind out of my lungs
for a moment. He’s pointing up to the bay window above us. Figures
move about behind the curtain.
Grabbing his arm, I nod and duck my head down as the Police car revved
up through it’s gears and roared past the house. We wait for a moment,
our panting breaths blowing in ghostly mists before us. Siddo raises
himself on one knee and lifts his head above the wall to look in the
direction of the diminishing blue lights.

We lay with our backs against the wall and examined our satchels. I
had to lift each item up to the light to see each one properly. 3
cans of baked beans, 3 cans of Bachelors Peas, a bottle of Evian, a
tin of sardines and half a baguette wrapped in tin foil. The last item
I held up for a moment before turning to Siddo, who was furiously
rummaging around the bottom of his own satchel.

“Pedigree Chum? What the hell am I supposed to do with a tin of Feckin
dog food Sid?”
Siddo only paused for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed briefly at
the tin in my hand, before resuming his search.

“What. Fussy now are we? He said.

“Jesus Siddo. Some bloody escape plan. You come round my house, drag
half the cops in Lincoln with you and convince me to make a run for it.
With fecking DOG FOOD!?”

His fist hits me again full in the chest.
“Shuurrrup for fecks sake”, this time jerking his head abruptly in the
direction of the window. At that moment the curtain twitches and the
siloutte of a mans head appears, hands cupped around his eyes, pressed
against the glass.

We’re up and over the wall in a second, running for the end of the
street, gathering our bags about our backs as we run.

“Least you don’t have to worry about the dog food now” Siddo shouts in
a loud whisper over his shoulder.
“How d’you figure that, genius?”
“Can’t find the bloody can opener”
“Jesus”

An hour ago Siddo was banging on the front door of my bedsit. I had
been lying on the bed watching what little information Sky News was
giving out. Long shots of dark, empty streets behind a raincoated
reporter, separated from the scene by a police barrier and several
heavily armed soldiers. The red Breaking News banner still baring the
contamination alert headline that had been there for four days now.
Sid’s banging had woken me from my thoughts with jolt and I pulled
back the blackout curtain just enough to allow me to see Siddo’s broad
frame in the moonlight.

The town had been under marshal law for 3 days now, and Siddo had had
enough. Without a word he barged past me as I opened the door to him.
I found him standing in my room, dripping water on the cheap lino.

“Bastards” he breathed, staring at the television pictures of a chief
of police was interviewed by the reporter who had by now found himself
an umbrella. Siddo grabbed the remote from where I had discarded it on
the floor and turned it up.

“It’s too early to say what the risk is to human health at the moment,
but the publice must realise that this is a serious situation and we
are going to have to work together to resolve it” The stone faced
chief constable was saying

The reporter was struggling to balance his umbrella with his microphone.

“We’ve heard reports of people trying to leave have been turned away
at the barriers, and in some cases, threatened by armed police. Is
this true? Is there a shoot to kill policy in affect to contain the
contamination?”

“They’re so full of shit” spat Siddo. “It’s all bollocks. C’mon. We’re
getting out of here” he said, and threw a satchel into my chest where
it thumped heavily into my ribcage before I got my hands around it.
“But why would…?” Siddo was already at the front door, hall light
extinguished and scanning the street right and left. I had gone with
him, I suppose, because he’s Siddo and I knew he’d get himself into
trouble without me there. But also because I sensed he may be right.

That had been, what, and hour ago only? Siddo’s plan was to head for
the woods that bordered our old primary school at the bottom the York
road where we could lie low for the night before heading cross
country. All the roads surrounding Lincoln were roadblocked, and cross
the fields to the next town, or at least the motorway, was the only
way we were going to escape undetected. We could see the flashing blue
lights of the police checkpoint, bright neons against the slanting
rain, above the rooftops of the terraced houses that ran the length of
the road before the school. The curve of the road, we had hoped, would
hide us as we clambered through front gardens and over the high wall
of the little primary school. That damned dog. If only we hadn’t
hesitated when it started barking, belted for the wall and took our
chances running across the open playground to the forests, maybe we
would have made it before the patrol car had flung itself around the
corner. Caught in it’s headlights like rabbits, we bolted, our
elongated shadows pumping before us as the car accelerated.

**********************

“You are kidding”

I was staring incredulously at Siddo from behind a gravestone. Siddo
crouched behind another was stretching a cramped muscle in his thigh
as the rain smacked fat drops against the shoulders of his Parker.
Siddo had some strange ideas at the best of times, but this?

“You do realise the drains are, One, manky. Two, In flood after all this
rain .Three, Narrow. We’re not in ancient bloody Rome and four, they’re full
of shite. A bit like you!”

I slumped back against the headstone, feeling the cold granite even
through my coat and jumper.

“No. True. We’re not in ancient Rome, I’ll grant you that” said Siddo, still rubbing his leg. A thought seemed to suddenly cross his mind as he massaged his aching muscle.

“But Ancient Romans were here though” he said slowly, eying me with a
confident look.

It had occurred to me just as he said it. With a quick glance to scan
the road at the end of the graveyard, we got to our feet and ran, bent
over with quick strides towards the Church.

Under the Church we both knew, a derelict tunnel that supposedly ran
from the Churches basement, under the main street and down to the
small Augustinian Church on the outskirts of the town. Both Churches
had been built the sites of ancient Roman Shrines, as we had learned
in our history classes growing up in the town. Archaeologists had
found the tunnel in the 1970’s and excavated it. It had been open to
the public throughout the Eighties until it had become unstable after
the new road was laid above it. It had been boarded up and it’s
entrance blocked by a bookcase since then. But we were sure it was
still there. If we could only get into the church, we could make it to
the Augustinian undetected, passing beneath the road block and up into
the church that la a good 50 yards behind the baracades. The only
problem was, how were we going to get in? A loud smash, and a tinkle
of broken glass answered my question. Siddo was standing beneath the
a broken window, bent over with his hands laced together offering me a
step.

“C’mon then!”

Sure enough, once our eyes have accustomed to the dark, we find the
entrance to the churches basement. Everything seems to creak around
us. The ancient pews in mute lines hide shadows that flicker in the
light thrown down from the moonlight that pours in through the tall
gaping stained glass windows, giving the eerie illusion of movement as
we passed along the aisle, and mounted the altar. Siddo stops for a
moment before stepping up to the oblong granite altar, then genuflects
quickly, making the sign of the cross on his torso. He catches me
glancing over my shoulder at him with a quizzical expression.

“We need all the help we can get man” he says, and hurries passed me.
I regard the towering crucifix behind the altar for a moment, my eyes
resting on the lolling head of the Christ, before crossing myself too,
and following him into the sacristy.

Inside the priests room, the air smells of warm incense and candles.
Altar boys gowns, probably the same ones we had both worn here in our
youth, hung like limp, sleeping ghosts against the far wall, their
whiteness softly glowing against the pitch black. The door stood at
the opposite end of the small room. Siddo tries the handle, and it
opens easily. We had remembered that the basement had only been used
for storing chairs, stocks of candles, and prayer books and the like,
so it was never locked. Siddo goes first, taking one causious step
onto the wooden stair that leads down. Grasping the single handrail,
he ducks down to get a better view into the gloom below, as if
expecting to find a sleeping priest, or worse. I suddenly have a
thought. Pulling open the drawer of the small table that stands beside
the entrance I rummage around until my hand closes over the waxy
cylinder of a candle. Holding it up, I flick my zippo and light it.
The room flashes before us for a moment, then settles into an amber,
wavering tone. Cupping my hand around the newborn flame, I pass it to
Siddo, who passes it slowly before him, then begins to descend.

The basement is how we both remember it. Cold, clammy, musty and dank.
In the far corner we can see the tall bookcase, nowhere near as big as
we had remembered, us having both been in our early teens the last
time we had been down here. Siddo finds a drinking glass and props the
candle up inside it, letting the melting wax drip on to the floor were
he places it, before taking his place holding the opposite corner of
the bookcase to me. On three, we lift, realising far too late that we
should have removed some of the boxes of candles from its shelves
first. As soon as we lift, the bookcase begins an inexorable tilt
forwards, spilling its contents, slowly at first, and then in a
torrent of candle holders, documents, prayer books and missles that
cascade to the floor, dousing our candle, followed by a loud crash
that reverberates through the cellar, impossibliy loud, as we both
dive for cover to avoid the heavy mahagony bookcase.

“Bollocks!” barks Siddo. Immediately I hear the flurry of an arm as I
imagine him crossing himself again in the dark. “Sorry” he breathes.
To the Church, I suppose.

I fumble in my pocket for the zippo again as I listen to Siddo
frantically pulling himself to his feet again and wading through the
papers on the floor. I crooked myself up on one elbow and finally find
the lighter in the bottom of my pocket and flick it in to life in
front of me. The spark flashes white light into the pale wide eyed
face that is staring at me, inches from my face. I instinctively
recoil, dropping the lighter to the ground.

“Jesus Siddo!! Ye scared the shite out of me! What the hell are you
doing creeping up on me like that?!” I lay back on the concrete
clutching my chest as my heart races from the fright. I start to
smile, laughing at how jumpy I’ve become.

“Ha?”

Siddo’s voice is from across the room. Distant. I freeze for a second,
the face still peering down at me in the burn from the light. Suddenly
I’m scrambling on all fours, hands sweeping frantically for the
lighter. I find its cold steel casing and grab it with both hands,
flicking it into life once more in one motion.

The room flashes to life once more, throwing light on my friends face
on the other side of the now horizontal bookcase between us.

“What?? It wasn’t my bloody fault” he says defensively. His eyes
narrow as he looks at me. “What’s up with you?

I stare at him, still shaking the image from my head. It must have
been a trick of the light, I decide. I console myself. It had to be.

“Nothing mate. Just a bit shook, that’s all. C’mon,” I nod towards the
horizontal planks of wood that cross the opening we’ve uncovered.
“Lets get on with it”.

We make short work of the twenty year old boards that have been nailed
into the soft rock of the basement wall. They come away cleanly,
chunks of dry rock coming away with the rusting 6 inch nails. They
reveal a yawning black arc that seems to swallow up the dim light from
our candle. We can see only two or three feet into the tunnel before
the ancient stone blocks either side disappear into inky blackness.