Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 3 2018 | Page 40

Money. Tons of it. Everywhere.
On the twelfth night at the camp, I chalked out an escape route. I shared my plan with three other boys I
trusted including Dirk. All we needed was a distraction. We would all carry some money to help us on our
journey. We decided to escape on a night when there would be no moon.
The day arrived.
As planned, Dirk sneaked into the weapons room and threw out smoke bombs. There was commotion all
around. We ran for our lives and made towards the boundary of the camp, each of us carrying a sack stuffed
with money.
We headed to where the barbed wire was cut. We squeezed through as the guards chased after us. The train
station was close and we managed to catch the train as it was pulling out. Triumphant, out of breath and our
faces damp with sweat, we peered out into the dark.
We could make out the shape of some guards running. One of them stopped, bent over and lifted
something or someone from the ground. I looked around and counted three heads, including mine.
Where was Dirk? My heart sank.
Our victory was short-lived and bitter. It came at a cost. Dirk was the price we paid.
It took us two weeks to get to France and then to London. We booked a hotel room and gave them one of
our sacks of money. I was finally 28 years old and I was free, but would I ever be free of the vision of the
helpless faces that haunted me every waking hour of my life? The faces that never made it and lie buried in
the darkness.
The only solace I could find was sleep.
And for the first time in 20 years, I slept.