UNDERGROUND

No one knew I was leaving. I didn’t even know it, not until that day. But after what I’d seen, and after realising he wasn’t planning to do anything about it, I just couldn’t stay there. Not any more. Leaving seemed a good idea, a reasonable decision. But if you want to know the truth, I didn’t give it much thought. I just knew, I just felt that I needed to get the fuck out of there as fast as possible. I needed to be far away.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to take my suitcase with me, so I’d just take my rucksack. As I was packing some clothes into it, I tried to think of a way to escape without anyone noticing. I thought that that bloody ancient school had to have a secret gate or window or something. If you’re curious, I could describe what that horrible place looked like, just for you to picture it.

St. Ashcombe College had been standing there long before any of us arrived and would most likely remain long after we left, which is the sort of thing institutions are very proud of. The building was made of dark Victorian brick, the kind that looks permanently damp even when it isn’t. Tall windows, narrow and severe, watched over the grounds like guardians. During the day the place tried to look respectable. At night it looked older.

The corridors were lined with framed photographs of former students, rows and rows of pale faces in outdated uniforms, all of them supposedly destined for something significant, but it was actually quite creepy. The carpet had that flattened, exhausted texture that suggested generations of boys had been marching across it in identical black shoes. Even the air felt institutional — polish, dust, old paper, something faintly medicinal.

My dormitory was on the second floor, overlooking the inner courtyard. From my window you could see the chapel roof and, beyond it, the tree line of Epping Forest — dark and patient. The forest always looked closer at night, as if it leaned in when the lights went out.

The main entrance of the college was impossible, of course. It consisted of a grand stone arch with heavy oak doors. There was a camera above it — I really doubted it worked — and a motion light that flickered on even if a fox walked by. There was also the side entrance near the administrative offices, but that one required a code I didn’t have and never intended to ask for.

The back of the campus was different.

Behind the sports fields, past the rugby posts and the patch of grass that never properly dried, there was a narrow gravel path that led to the maintenance sheds. The sheds themselves were harmless — paint peeling, one of the doors hanging slightly off-centre. No one paid attention to them unless something broke.

Beyond them was the old service gate. It wasn’t secret. That’s the interesting part. It simply wasn’t important. A metal gate set into the brick wall, half-hidden by overgrown ivy. The latch was old, the paint chipped, and it was mostly used by gardeners who arrived before sunrise and left before dinner. I had seen it open in the mornings more times than I could count. I had also seen it forgotten. That was the thing about Ashcombe.

As I folded my scarf and placed it carefully inside my rucksack, I found myself tracing the route in my head. Wait until Ethan was asleep. Down the staircase nearest the library. Avoid the third step — it creaked. Through the lower corridor by the boiler room, where the lights were always dimmer. Past the noticeboard with its Latin motto about virtue and discipline. Out through the back doors by the changing rooms. Across the frozen grass. Gravel. Sheds. Gate. It did sound almost reasonable when you thought of it that way.

After I’d made sure I was taking my London map, my Walkman, my cigarettes and all my money with me, I paused for a moment and looked around the dorm. My bed was neatly made. My desk cleared. The radiator ticking softly beneath the window. The building hummed faintly. Somewhere down the corridor a door closed. I sighed. I clearly didn’t feel good. But I certainly didn’t want to think about anything any more.

I zipped up my rucksack just when someone opened the dorm’s door.

“You didn’t miss much,” said Ethan, my roommate. He was talking about dinner — I’d told him I felt unwell and wasn’t hungry. “Just that bloody shepherd’s pie. Same old same old.” I looked away. I did not feel like talking to him. Or anyone. “How are you feeling? Better?” he asked. He did not wait for an answer, though. “I’ve just spoken to Liz. Mr. Bailey said it was not the right time, same as usual. He said only two minutes, but then let me for over ten. Anyway, Liz said she’d like to watch this film again. The one we watched a few months ago? About the weddings?” I did not know what film he was talking about. “You know what film I mean?” he asked.

“No.”

“The one with Hugh Grant and that American actress — I can’t remember her name. You haven’t seen it?”

“No.”

“For God’s sake, Liam. Everyone has watched it. Literally everyone. It’s good. I didn’t love it, but it was fine. I had a laugh from time to time. Anyway, she said she’d like to watch it again. I think she just wants to go to the cinema. And there must be nothing really interesting to watch. Then she mentioned this ring she saw last time, when we went to London. I’m not stupid, I know she wants me to buy it. Thing is it was really expensive. I was thinking about buying it for Valentine’s Day, but that’s almost two months away. Do you think she can wait that long? I don’t know.”

And he kept on talking about Liz. Liz was this girl he’d been going on and off over the past few months. Ethan had been my roommate for more than a year then. I liked him, he was nice. I’d hung out with him and his friends a couple of times. But he did like talking, and was always talking about different girls — Liz being the latest. Occasionally he talked about some subjects or about football but it was mostly girls. And on that particular evening, I did not feel like talking or hearing about that topic at all. I just wanted him to go to sleep so I could sneak and finally get away from there.

“Oh, Mr. White was looking for you. I mean, he asked about you. Where were you, etc. I told him you didn’t feel well and he kept looking at me. I was almost scared — he really gives me the creeps. So, how are you feeling?”

“Fine,” I said. But I was lying, of course. And I felt worse when he mentioned his name. Mr. White was the headmaster. He was a fucking hypocritical moron, I swear to you.

“What are you doing?” he asked this question since I was literally standing in front of my bed, where my rucksack was lying.

“Just tidying some stuff.”

“I see. I’m going to have a shower.”

“Okay,” I said. He didn’t really need to tell me what he was planning to do, but he often did, even though I didn’t ask him.

When he got in the bathroom, I sat on my bed and sighed again. I didn’t know what I was going to do until Ethan was finally asleep. I took a look at my rucksack and opened it. I took my scarf and held it tightly. That was my favourite scarf, ever. It was a gift from... from someone really special. And I knew it’d be so useful since outside it seemed to be freezing.

Someone knocked on the door. I looked that way and felt clearly uneasy.

“Mr. Walker. Are you there?” said a voice. I calmed down. It was Mr. Bailey. Mr. Bailey was our English teacher. He was nice, even though I wasn’t any good at his subject. I mean, I liked English, but it just wasn’t my cup of tea. I enjoyed reading, you could say, but not all the books that we were assigned. And I liked writing but I was not good at all.

I stood up and opened the door. “Hi, Mr. Bailey,” I said.

“Hi, Liam, how are you? Mr. White told me to pay a visit to see how you’re doing. He said you didn’t feel so well?”

Fucking Mr. White.

“Oh, I’m all right now,” I said.

“What was it that you were feeling?”

“Nothing. I just felt a bit dizzy, like I was going to throw up. But it was nothing, really. I feel all right now.”

“Well, that’s great. Is there anything I could do for you?”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks, Mr. Bailey. I was just about to have a shower and then go to sleep,” I said. He smiled. He looked satisfied with my answer.

“Well, that’s great,” he repeated. “Have some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Bailey. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

He left and I closed the door. No, he was not going to see me tomorrow. I was going to leave for good. And suddenly I felt good for leaving. But at the same time I felt more uneasy. He and the other teachers would notice I wasn’t in class, and I wouldn’t have Ethan to tell them that I was feeling unwell because I wasn’t going to tell Ethan that because I wasn’t even going to be here. But you know what? I didn’t care. At all. Not any more.

As I’ve told you, Mr. Bailey was nice. And it was fine to talk to him whenever you had a problem. But I’d actually never talked to him about anything that was not related to school subjects, especially English, of course. He was good at giving advice. And there were other teachers that were just fine. But it was not the same at all. I mean, what I want to say is, it was not the same as talking to Edward. Or Mr. Taylor, as everyone would call him. He used to be our History teacher, but then he moved to Scotland — he’s Scottish. And I missed him. I really missed him. We used to talk a lot. About any topic. He used to lend me books. And tell me stories. And he would listen to me, when I had something to tell him, or just tell. We really got along. He was my favourite teacher, ever.

Anyway, I let a few minutes pass before I opened the door again and left the room. I walked up to the nearest window in the corridor and opened it. I needed some fresh air. And I did get it — it was really cold outside. I closed my eyes and breathed in and out, in and out. I took a look at the tree line once again and pictured myself there, lying on the ground, surrounded by very tall trees. Suddenly I really felt like leaving.

I turned around when I started hearing these footsteps. These boys were climbing up the stairs to go to their dorms. Some of them were on the second floor like me and I said hi to those who passed me by. I knew I had to go back to my dorm before I saw him, but I just couldn’t move. And I saw him, just as I’d expected. He was chatting with this friend of his about football. He didn’t seem so interested in the conversation, though. He looked at me and then looked away. And I looked away too. I’d like to tell you about him, about Isaac, but maybe this is not the right time.

Anyway, I finally came back to my dorm to find that Ethan had already got out of the bathroom and was preparing to go to sleep. I decided to do what I’d told Mr. Bailey I’d do and so I had a shower. I didn’t really know what else to do in the meanwhile, and I thought it’d be a great idea to change my clothes before leaving. So I took this T-shirt, my jeans, my training shoes and a dark jacket — nothing remarkable — and got into the bathroom.

I stood under the shower longer than I usually did. The water was lukewarm, as usual —Ashcombe believed in character-building temperatures. I let it run over my face and into my eyes until everything blurred. The tiles were cracked near the drain. Someone had scratched a name into the wall years ago. The place smelled faintly of cheap soap and damp towels. It was depressing.

I tried not to think about what would happen the next morning. About Mr. White’s expression when he’d find my bed empty. About Ethan saying, “He was right here.” I didn’t want to picture it. I didn’t want to picture anything beyond the next ten minutes.

I turned the tap off. The pipes groaned in protest. I dried myself quickly, as if lingering would make the decision reversible. I dressed and then I walked back into the dorm. Ethan was already asleep — he was such a heavy sleeper. He snored lightly, one arm hanging off the side of the bed. His bedside lamp was still on, casting a soft yellow light over the room. For a second I considered waking him up. Not to tell him everything. Just to say something — maybe goodbye? But in the end I didn’t.

I left my uniform on my bed and switched Ethan’s lamp off. The room fell into shadow. I picked up my rucksack. It felt much heavier than I’d expected, but there was no time to leave anything. I listened. Silence, mostly. The faint hum of the building settling into the night.

I opened the door. The corridor was dimmer than before. The emergency lights gave everything a faint greenish glow. I stepped out and closed the door behind me as gently as I could. The carpet softened my footsteps. Down the staircase nearest the library. I skipped the third step. My heart was beating too loudly. I was positive someone could hear it echoing through the walls.

The lower corridor was empty. The boiler room door stood shut, humming faintly. I passed the noticeboard with its Latin motto — Virtus et Disciplina — and resisted the urge to laugh. The words looked smaller at night.

I was almost at the back doors when I heard it. Footsteps. Slow. Measured. I froze. They were coming from the opposite end of the corridor. For a second I considered running, but that would have been absurd. I turned the corner instead, ducking into the shadow beside the sports equipment cupboard. The footsteps grew closer. A door opened somewhere behind me. Then closed. Silence again. I waited a full minute before moving.

The back doors opened without complaint. The cold hit me immediately — sharp, clean, unforgiving. I stepped outside and let the door fall shut behind me.

The grass was stiff with frost. Each step across the field made a faint crunching sound that felt louder than it should have. The sheds looked even more neglected in the dark, leaning slightly as if tired of pretending to be useful. I kept walking.

The sound of gravel under my shoes was treacherous. I slowed down instinctively, placing each foot carefully. The ivy around the old service gate moved slightly in the wind. For a moment I worried the latch would be locked after all. That the entire plan had been completely ruined.

I reached out and pressed it down. It gave way. The gate opened with a small metallic sigh. I stepped through. And then, I turned around. Ashcombe stood there in the dark, enormous and composed. A few windows were still lit. For a second I wondered if someone would even notice I was gone.

Then I pulled the gate shut behind me. And I started walking.