UIST (dream)

Uist is an island in the Hebrides. I went there with a party of men, like old shabby Victorian scarecrows, and old disgraced mothers with disfigured faces, or faces shrouded and not seen. Not modern mothers, more like Sicilian widows.

We are stranded and on the run. It is eve. A brown and twinkling twilight, from ancient squibs of almost Oakley primeval tree. Like in a Hammer horror we gain an old Victorian mansion. A Chekhov "stately home" of dark rolling lawns like a St. Andrews... A setpiece, almost a period drama cliché but way darker.

On the run. I escape from almost protesting mum who seems now modern, in august t-shirt, and is collaborating, in that senseless way, with the Victorian moguls and rogues, the dark "villains". A jumble of emotions, i can't tell whether recent or new-formed. There are lassies there too (downstairs) past the oak panelling n dusty curtains. Sexy lassies or my compadres. Perhaps other dark women, all dark-clothed.

I go upstairs and hide by a window overlooking the very lawn. Detection is very near. I hear muffled voices, and strongarms almost collaring me, though i hide, weasel-like, in this closet feebly twisting myself inward, holding breath. I from somewhere have got a mobile phone, owning to the owners of the house, "o" the owners, old lady vacant, with dead wedding cake n bedraggled dress be-phantomed in rooms. A cool dark mobile phone.

I press again and again the numbers "999" "beep beep beep" "999" "beep beep beep". Anxieties behind the shrouded curtain. Maybe the phone don't work. Evil red digital numbers.

I can see the villains down there on the lawn. Tophat and teeth, dark mustachio'd like 1910 movie villains. Thin, and my traitor mother maybe in their number? Or other confused captive family members.

NINE NINE NINE. "Police please", breathed very quiet. The blonde receptionist, operator wife, slinky and unworried. But i can't get through, and might be found if i speak out loud. My voice might travel through the thin pane of glass.

On the shadowy phone i find the imprinted address, or stuck on with identification sticker. The address as if common brown Gaeltach farmer, an old Hebride fussiness. I discover the place we are at is called UIST. A proud brown island, pouchy brown of inslets and crinkly maps, like a slob of the sea. I realise that the emergency services are ineffective or sleepy upon Uist (might've been "South Uist") the red light on the phone twinkles in vain.

But upon discovering the address, and subsequent phone number, i hit upon the vital idea of ringing up area code and random numbers thereafter, to contact some other humble Gaeltacht fishmouthed farmer, for big emotional rescues. Area code round zeroes threes.

......... Tension mounts. At same instant, the "villains", those shadowy figures outside on the lawn, notice me behind the window and shout up at me (i am discovered).

The men have hairy Robinson Crusoe faces.