The Escape

Chapter 7

Each footstep becomes more and more difficult. The glaring sun beats down on my withered body, scorching my skin. My tongue clings to the roof of my mouth, parched from the dry air. It feels as if I’m moving through a furnace. The heat is unbearable. Every sinew of my fatigued musculature aches. Pain traverses my lower calves, searing in the baking hot sun. I don’t think I can go on much longer. I have no water. No food. I have not slept in days. Side-stepping a scorpion I follow the trail up a gentle incline. Even this proves arduous. I can’t take much more of this. My forehead pulsates, sending a blinding ache through my skull. My stomach is empty. Hunger pangs have transformed into painful darts of searing agony. I can’t recall the last person I’ve seen. It must have been before I found this trail. Before I got lost, sent off track and far from what I understand. Before I could even recall my name. The soles of my feet burn, hot to the touch. Another step and I will collapse. I fear my knees will not be able to support the weight of my own body. I need a drink. Food, water, anything for sustenance. The heat is so intense. Sweat dripping down my forehead scalds my skin. The end is near, I can sense it. Only a few more staggered steps. The desert spins. My world revolves. Faster and quicker my surroundings whirl in a blur of indecipherable colours and shades. The ground comes too quickly.

I’m snapped out of my reverie by the sound of fire crackling in the hearth. Drenched in sweat, I look around, bewildered by my surroundings. A large fire is blazing in front of me, warm and inviting. The heat is intense. I’m soaked to the touch. The shirt on my back clings to me like a second skin. A charcoal, iron-wrought fireplace hosts an inviting blaze. The flames dance as I stare hypnotised by the enigmatic sparks cascading from the roaring fire. I am covered in cold sweat. The mantelpiece holds a collection of bronze trophies reflected by a wide horizontal mirror overlooking the room.

My eyes dart around the room. I have no idea where I am. Wind and rain howl outside a small casement window overlooking a rugged coastline. The walls consist of large irregular shaped stones stacked on top of one another painted white and varying shades of grey and lime. Doilies are everywhere. On the lacquered coffee table in front of me rests a vase stand in the corner. I can hear a kettle whistling. ‘How did I get here?’ I wonder, searching around the room for an answer.

‘I hope you had a nice rest.’ An elderly woman with white, curly hair shuffles across the floral pattern carpet carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. Hobbling over to the coffee table she bends over and places the tray in front of me. A wide smile spreads across her face.

‘I hope you don’t mind. I made some tea. Hope you like hob-nobs.’

I stare at the woman as she takes her cup from the tray. She lifts one of the biscuits and sets it beside her cup before turning to sit into an arm chair facing the fireplace. There is complete silence for a few minutes. It feels like an eternity. I’m completely stunned. The blackouts are getting worse.

‘There’s nothing like tea and biscuits on a cold, stormy afternoon like this.’ she says.

I stare at the hearth for a moment, feeling sweat stream down my forehead in rivulets. Instinctively I reach for a biscuit, astounded I can move. ‘How long has it been?’ I wonder, thinking back to the man sitting next to my bed.

‘You’ve been quite poorly, I must say. You weren’t very well when you came here, no sir.’

‘Who am I?’ I croak, surprised by my voice. It sounds old, as if it is coming from someone else. The old lady sits back in her chair, smiling quietly to herself as she drinks her tea. Setting the cup down on the russet skirt covering her lap she fixes the glasses on the bridge of her nose and stares at me. ‘You really don’t remember a thing you poor boy, do you?’ she asks, gazing at me from behind her milk-bottle glasses.