Run With Me (8 page)

He responds with an even wider
smile. “Excellent, sleep well darlin'.”

We continue past the room and
enter a room on the other side of the corridor. She was right when
she told me it would be cool. The air is so fresh inside, a steady
breeze flowing in through an open window.

“
This was our daughter's room
before she grew up,” says Marge. “She always said how comfortable
the mattress was, so hopefully you'll feel the same.

I can't tell whether the
daughter has just left for college, work, or if she's even dead.
Marge has no real emotion in her voice when she mentions her, so I
assume it's just one of the former options.

“
Do you have any other
children?” I ask, hoping to shed some light on things.

“
Oh, yes, a son as well. He
lives in New York now with his wife and family.”

“
And your daughter?” I ask
tentatively.

“
Well, we don't see her too
often these days. She emigrated to London soon after college. It must
be 10 years ago now.” She still speaks cheerily, although there's a
hint of regret in her voice that's unmistakable.

She goes about setting up the
bed and soon has he fluffy duvet cover folded over for me to step
into. Then she opens a cupboard and pulls out a towel. She hands it
to me and tells me there's a bathroom just next door if I want to
wash after I've had a rest.

The sight of the bed is
incredibly appealing and my drowsiness is now beginning to build
quickly. Since seeing Tara in my apartment I've only been getting a
few hours of sleep here and there. It seems like so long ago, and I'm
amazed when I realize it's only been a few days. I guess all that
emotion, all that rushing around catches up with your eventually. And
here, for the first time since leaving LA, I actually feel safe.

When Marge has left the room I
sit on the edge of the bed to test it out. Her daughter clearly
wasn't lying about it being comfortable. I can feel my limbs aching
as I bend down to pull off my shoes and jeans. The feel of the soft
sheets beneath my bare legs is so soothing as I slide further up.
Then I pull off my top and fling it to the floor, leaving me in my
underwear.

When I lie down and pull the
duvet over me, I feel my body relax completely. Suddenly there's a
calmness inside me, like I'm maxed out on fear and guilt and emotion.
Everything that's gone on over the last few days just washes away,
leaving my mind blank and free to drift off into a deep, untroubled
sleep.

It's not a crash of thunder or a
tapping on the window that wakes me this time. This time I slowly
drift back to consciousness naturally, my eyes flickering open as the
sun begins to descend down below the horizon outside my window. All I
can hear are natural sounds – trees whistling, birds tweeting their
songs of dusk, a light rustling in the bushes below as an animal
forages through the undergrowth.

Smells reach my nose too. The
scent of apple orchards at the back of the house, a slight taste of
mint being cooked in the kitchen below. It looks as though Marge is
cooking. I wouldn't be surprised if she was brilliant at it, given
how delicious her cookies were.

I slide from the bed, almost
begrudgingly, and feel more refreshed than I can realistically have
expected to feel. There's a clock in the corner of the room, ticking
away silently on a table, which tells me it's nearing 8 PM. I must
have been sleeping for over 7 hours.

When I pick up the towel that
Marge placed on a chair beside my bed, I realize just how bad I smell
right now. It must have been sweating in that car during the night.
Then I realize that maybe I've been sweating as I slept right now as
well, adding to my musk.
I guess that's why Marge suggested I take
a wash
, I think to myself.

I take up her advice and creep
out of the room and into the bathroom opposite. I move as quietly as
possible, hoping to avoid detection until I'm ready to go downstairs.
Something tells me, however, that this lovely old couple aren't going
to be intrusive.

I manage to work the shower in
the bathtub without too much trouble and am soon smelling as fresh as
a daisy. Unfortunately, I've left my bag out in the car, however, so
am forced to dress in the clothes I was wearing. I give them a sniff
before climbing back into them, and find that they're not too bad.

I feel strangely nervous as I
move back down the stairs. It's so odd waking up in a random person's
home, sleeping in the bed their daughter once used night after night.
It's like I'm a stand-in for her for a day, giving these people a
reminder of what it was like to have their girl in the house. The
thought certainly crossed my mind, but I dismiss it, even if it might
be true. I have no right to second-guess these people's motives for
letting me stay. They've been so kind to me and, even if they are
getting something on their end, they've got every right to do so.

The smell of mint begins to
build as I move down the stairs, accompanied by the sound of boiling
water. As I round the bottom of the stairs and peer into the room, I
can see Marge busily cutting potatoes and dropping them into the
froth.

“
Sleep well?” she asks,
without turning to look at me. I guess she can hear the goings on in
her own house well enough, despite my intention of not making a
sound.

“
Brilliantly, thanks.” For
some reason, I still find it hard to call her Marge. I wish I knew
her surname so I could call her Mrs whatever is it.

“
Well you've timed things very
well. Derrick's just outside finishing up with the horses so should
be back soon.”

I look down at the kitchen table
and it's already prepared with 3 sets of plates and cutlery. There's
a fresh bowl of salad sitting with several dressings and other
condiments around it, and a couple of other large plates lying empty
in the middle. There's also an opened bottle of red wine and a glass
at each place.

“
Please dear, would you pour
me a glass of that wine. And one for yourself if you're up to it?”

“
Um...OK,” I say, grabbing
the bottle and filling the glasses. I expect to be driving again soon
after dinner, but one glass is OK I guess.

Marge now leans down to open the
oven and the smell of beautifully cooked chicken fills the air. It's
only now that I realize how hungry I am, so quickly take a sip of
wine to sate me.

For a few moments we talk,
mainly about the weather and how beautiful it's been, until Derrick
comes in from outside. He looks tired and worn, yet still carries an
upbeat tone to his voice.

“
Ah, well, you're up!” he
says to me. “I hope you're better rested now?”

I nod to him as he moves forward
and fills his own glass with wine. His first sip drains half his
glass, forcing him to top himself back up. He winks at me and
gestures to Marge, who's once more got her back to me as she pulls
the chicken from the oven.

“
Don't think I don't know what
you're doing Derrick. That wine's for sharing, remember.”

Derrick smiles wide again and
looks at me, like a naughty child being told off by his mother. I
can't help but laugh at the situation.

Dinner is delicious. Roast
chicken and beautifully boiled potatoes with plenty of greens. It's
just what I need. Something that'll keep me satisfied through the
night. After the main course Marge pulls something special from the
refrigerator – a two tiered chocolate cake covered in wild berries
and topped off with thick, white cream. It's stunningly delicious,
and I tell her so.

The time ticks by quicker than I
could imagine. By the time Marge starts clearing the plates,
insisting I not help her, I notice that it's already nearing 10 PM.
Now I'm feeling awkward again. I should leave. I've outstayed my
welcome.

I don't know if the awkwardness
tells when I speak, but I certainly don't feel comfortable all of a
sudden. “You two have been so kind,” I say, a little out of the
blue. “I don't know how to thank you, but I should go. I don't want
to be a burden.”

That last line – it almost
forces the other person to say “oh, you're not a burden”, and
then guilt trips them into inviting you to enjoy more of what they're
offering. In this case, that's safe accommodation for the night. But
then, that's not what I was trying to do. I was only trying to be
polite, not force them into letting me stay.

Of course, that's exactly what
they do, and after a little jostling, I give in. Their argument –
that's it late now and it's much more sensible to leave in the
morning – is perfectly valid, and they do seem to genuinely want me
to stay.

By the time the clock ticks by
to 10 PM, we've all moved into the living room and are settled in
front of the television. They tell me it's their routine – eat
late, then watch a bit of TV before bed. Derrick tells me that he
usually gets up at about 5 AM, and often goes to bed at midnight,
which to me sounds impossible. I could never live on 5 hours of sleep
a night. At least, not for an extended period of time.

“
Well, the body needs less
sleep as you get older,” he says. “When you get to my age you'll
realize that you want to be awake as much as possible to enjoy the
time you've got left!”

We've been watching TV for about
30 minutes when a commercial comes on, interrupting the film we've
settled on. “Oh, not this one!” exclaims Derrick, who's got
control of the remote. He quickly flicks the channel and it lands on
the news, and immediately my heart sinks about a foot into my
stomach.

I sit looking at the pictures of
my aunt and uncle on the screen in front of me. A reporter speaks
loudly over the images, but I can hardly hear her words. I feel my
heart constrict and tighten as my hands turn clammy, while in the
background Derrick starts to speak.

“
Oh, terrible this,” he
says. “I was watching this earlier, Marge, did you see it? It's not
too far from here, you know. Someone apparently killed them as they
slept.”

I can't think, I can't move. I'm
frozen, unable to look away from the screen.

“
Yes, I heard about it on the
radio. Awful, terrible tragedy. The things that happen in this world,
in this country. You wonder how some people can be driven to such
acts.”

“
Money,” I hear Derrick say
quickly. “This is about money, I know it.”

My breathing is slightly
abbreviated now and I've managed to turn my eyes down away from the
screen. I'm trying to stay calm, but I can feel a panic attack
coming, like back at the movie theater.

Then I hear my name. Not from
Derrick. Not from Marge. It's coming from the TV.

I lift my eyes slowly and my
heart stops. It's my image on the screen now. It's me plastered all
over the news.

Now things are happening all at
once. I'm standing, suddenly, my legs wobbly and heavy. I can hear my
name being said again and again. This time it's from Derrick and
Marge.

“
Kitty....Kitty....what's
going on...”

That's all I hear. It's all I
dare hear.

I don't look at Derrick or Marge
as I run to the door. I don't thank them for what they've done. I
don't wait to tell them the truth. I just run. Out of the living room
door, down the hall, straight through the main entrance to the house.

Now I'm on the dirt track, and I
can still hear voices behind me. They're making an attempt to stop
me, but they can't keep up. I'm sprinting, as fast as I can, my heart
pounding, my lungs burning. When I reach the car I open it and fall
in, fumbling my hands on the keys to start the ignition. Only now do
I look up to see Derrick coming towards me, waving his hands around
in the air. He's shaking his head and shouting, “no, no, stop, come
back.”

But I don't stop, I don't come
back. The engine roars to life and I'm quickly reversing down the
track, picking up some speed. The sound drowns out Derrick's voice,
but he's still running, still shaking his arms. When I'm a good
enough distance away I turn the wheel and spin the car. The back end
hurtles off the track and into the field, ripping up the crops. Then
I slam on the accelerator and the wheels begin to spin, churning up
the soil, sending crops flying from the back of the car. I can see
Derrick approaching just as the tires catch and the car hurtles
forward, storming off down the track and back towards the open road.

Colt

I'm sitting in a cafe off the
main road in the countryside north of Bakersfield. A large, black
coffee sits in front of me, a swirl of steam gushing from the top of
it. Outside it's dusty and warm, the late afternoon sun burning down
from above. I take a large gulp and feel the hot liquid slide down my
throat and into my stomach. I've always taken my coffee piping hot.

It's been a slow afternoon. I
have a radio, one that monitors police chatter, and it's going to
come in handy now. Kitty. I've seen her on the news, and the full
story is beginning to come together in my mind.

It's not just the fact that her
auntie and uncle were murdered in their home. It's the fact that
Kitty's own apartment in LA was subject to the same treatment only a
few nights ago. According to the news report, a young woman was found
shot dead in Kitty's apartment on Friday evening. Naturally, with
Kitty missing, the police are going to think one of two things: that
she's dead too, or that she's a suspect. In fact, both theories are
probably being considered.