Conlon frantically pulled papers from the drawers of the old oak desk. This could work, he told himself. A noise from outside the room startled him, and he turned to see if anyone was about to disturb him. The door, slightly ajar as he had left it, showed him nothing. He held still for a beat, and then assured of his privacy, turned back to his searching.
Where are they? They must be here!
The desk was a mess, completely unorganised. How was anyone supposed to find anything in this chaos? Conlon began pulling at the drawers, throwing them from him as soon as he had ascertained that what he desired was not held within them, in his haste forgetting that he must keep himself secret, must not be caught in his Fathers study, or the punishment would be severe, and his chances for escape would be withered.
If he could just find the papers his Father had prepared for Conlon’s older brother’s upcoming trip to America, then he could take them to the man he had met in the pub earlier that evening. The man, Murphy, had told him that he was a great forger of documents, currently on the run from the Brits for manipulation of financial papers, and for a small sum, could help him in his wish to escape to the new world. Conlon, pressed into grueling service in his Father’s pig farm, gleefully agreed. The thought of escape from the stink of the swill, the hum of manure filling his nostrils daily, it gave him energy the like of which he had never known in his short life.
The bottom left drawer he had been pulling at indignantly came unstuck at last, and an envelope marked “America” flew out. Conlon picked it off the ground and made his way to the pub, to his savior, to freedom, and away from toil and oppression. The new world awaited.
This is a post promted by Trifecta Writing Challenge