Run With Me

by Shorter, L. A.

  I reach for the door and pull on the handle. It cracks open and cool air washes over me from outside.

  “What time is it?” I ask, rubbing my head and letting my legs drop outside of the vehicle. I catch my reflection in the wing-mirror. I look horrible. My face is all blotchy, my eyes red and raw. It's obvious to anyone I've had a bad night.

  “It's around midday sweetheart. Now what you doin' all the way out here off the road? This track's private.”

  I arch my neck up and look into the man's face. He's got a kindly expression hidden behind a thick white moustache and tanned, grizzly skin. He looks to be in his 60's, but his sun beaten and weathered skin makes it hard to tell.

  “Oh...sorry,” I say glumly, “I was just trying to find somewhere quiet off the main road for the night.”

  I hang my head back down to the ground to shield my eyes from the blistering sun. The man follows me down, kneeling on his right knee and appearing at my level.

  “You look like you've had a rough night sweetheart. You could do with a strong cup of coffee and a little rest out of this sun.”

  He speaks in a warm tone, his words of comfort causing me to well up slightly. I hold my eyes down to avoid his gaze, but can't help but sniff as my nose begins to run.

  “Come on. My wife makes a mean cup of joe. The house is just at the top of the field. See.”

  His final words force me to raise my eyes to look up the dirt track. I can see a beautiful farm house in the near distance. There's a woman walking from the field to a large barn, a bucket in her hands.

  “My wife,” says the man. “She's just feeding the pigs. What's your name darlin'?”

  “Kitty,” I say quickly.

  “All right Kitty. Come on, let's get you some water first. You look like you're a little dehydrated there.”

  It's the suggestion of water that finally clicks me into gear. My mouth is parched and my head is throbbing. A cold glass of water would be perfect right now.

  I stand from the car and shut the door. My legs feel heavy beneath me, wobbling slightly over my first few steps towards the house.

  “My name's Derrick, in case you're wondering.”

  I look into the man's face and he's now wearing a warm smile. There's something extremely fatherly about him, or even grandfatherly. I've spent a life being told not to trust anyone by my own father, yet I somehow trust this stranger completely. Maybe it's an out of town thing. I don't think I'd readily accept the Good Samaritan act from anyone in LA. Or maybe I'm just desperate.

  “Now you don't have to tell my anything about what you're doing out here if you don't want. But, I'm going to ask anyway, just to make conversation. So, you can tell me or lie to me or say nothing at all. It's down to you.”

  The ambiguous nature of his question – or is it a statement, I can't decide - is a bit confusing to my dehydrated brain. I'm obviously not going to tell him the truth. Maybe a simple lie would be easier.

  “It's my boyfriend,” I say. “Or, ex-boyfriend now.”

  Derrick says “ah” as if that's what he expected.

  “We were at a party nearby and broke up. I got a bit drunk last night...I shouldn't have been driving. I guess I must have gotten lost and ended up down your track. Stupid of me.”

  “Happens to the best of us Kitty. Don't worry about it. Just try not to make drink driving a habit....that sorta thing can ruin your life in an instant if something goes wrong.”

  He seems to have bought my lie. I didn't know I had it in me to come up with something like that on the spot.

  “Oh, it was totally stupid. I've never done that before.”

  We're soon approaching the house, and I can see the woman I saw before coming back out of the barn. Her eyes drift towards us as we move up the track and she starts ambling our way. Her hair is a shining silver, tied back into a knot, and she's wearing a charming smile. She looks as friendly as her husband.

  “Now who's this Derrick?” she asks loudly as we near each other. “Don't tell me you've finally found a replacement for me.”

  She laughs at her own joke and I can't help but smile, despite everything going on in my head.

  “Marge, I could never replace you. You're the only one willing to put up with me!”

  “Now that's true. If anything it should be me looking for a toyboy.”

  We're soon close enough together for their amusing, if slightly inappropriate, jokes to turn to introductions.

  “Marge, this is Kitty. She's...well, she's had a hard night and I'm just getting her some water.”

  Marge steps forward and takes me by the hand. “Lovely to meet you Kitty. So, you've had a rough night?”

  I can feel her eyes scanning my red eyes and blotchy skin, but she doesn't draw attention to them.

  I nod. “Um, boyfriend trouble and a few too many drinks. It's nothing major, really.”

  “Nonsense,” she says quickly. “Any type of boyfriend trouble is always serious. It's what life is really all about.”

  She turns me towards the house and in through the front door. It's so secluded out here that some people might feel unnerved. But the peace and quiet is actually comforting. We move immediately into the kitchen and Derrick quickly fills up as large a glass of water as he can find.

  “Here,” he says, handing it to me. “Get that down you and you'll feel a lot better.”

  I take the water and have a gulp as I quickly take in my bearings. The place is quaint and colorful, with beautifully designed countertops and cupboards lining the walls. There are all sorts of ornaments on the surfaces and window sills, mainly of animals, while the walls are littered with clocks and old signs. It's busy, but in a good way.

  Behind me there's a television quietly humming away, but it's quickly drowned out as Marge puts on the kettle, which takes no time to come to the boil. There's a homeliness to the place, and the couple, that puts and keeps me at ease.

  I drink down my water fast and feel my mouth quickly grow less dry. As soon as it's drained I feel Derrick's hand swoop in and take it off me for a refill. He hands me back another full glass of ice cold liquid and smiles.

  “So, how about that coffee?” he asks, and I smile back and nod silently.

  Marge sets to work, preparing 3 cups and asking me how I take mine. I say “milk and sugar” as politely as I can, still enjoying the cool sensation of the cold water trickling down my throat.

  Soon Marge has brought over the coffees on a little tray, with a little box of cookies in the middle. “Help yourself,” she says as I eye up the delicious chocolate treats, and reach in to grab one. The combination of the warm, silky coffee and the sugary, crunchy cookie is delicious, and I can't help but shower it with praise.

  “Thanks so much. This is lovely coffee. Are these cookies homemade?”

  She smiles and nods. “We like to be as self sufficient as possible here Kitty. Most of what we eat and drink is grown and produced right here on the farm...”

  “Even the coffee beans?” I break in. Not in a rude way, just because I'm interested and I want to keep my mind occupied.

  She chuckles knowingly, as if there's a story behind the question. “Oh, we've tried, but we can't manage it here. Our beans never tasted that nice! At least, what's what the general impression was from our neighbors. When you see someone secretively spitting into a plant pot you know it's not for general consumption!”

  We both laugh together and take another long sip. Good thing she isn't testing a new bean on me, I think to myself.

  “Derrick, though, has perfected his brewing, haven't you dear?”

  I turn to Derrick who's got a cheeky smile on his face that belies his age. Out of the sun, and despite a heavily tanned face, I can see that his nose is slightly red. And it's not sunburn I'm looking at.

  Derrick leans into me and whispers: “it's a point of contention between us. Can you keep a secret? I've got a whole new plan to make my own whiskey! Shhhhh, don't tell Marge!” As he speaks I know she can hear, and quic
kly realize it's just another inside joke that they're enjoying. They seem extremely playful as a couple. I hope, one day, I can find someone like that.

  The thought wipes the smile off my face, and I turn my head down. Right now, I have no future. I'm on the run – I don't know where – and I'm sure the police are after me too. It's something I've been thinking about recently, something which has burrowed into my mind and won't let go.

  It was my apartment they'd have found Tara's body in, shot dead on my sofa. I'd be the first person they'd want to speak to, but I'm missing. Am I a suspect? Do they think that maybe I did it? Or maybe, maybe they think I've been killed as well.

  Against my own wishes that night comes flooding back to me. I can see myself walking up the stairs and seeing Tara's body lying there, blood all over the sofa, the floor. The door, I can see the door. It was hanging ajar, the lock broken. The police will know, surely, that I wasn't involved. Why would I break my own door and kill my friend? And I've never had a registered weapon or handgun – which I'm sure was what was used to kill her.

  I know my face is screwing up with the memory, and I can feel both Marge and Derrick leaning in towards me. Their questions are muffled in my mind as the dark memory of that night takes over. Soon, their voices clear in my head.

  “Kitty...Kitty are you OK sweetheart?”

  “Get her some more water Derrick...quickly.”

  I shake my head slowly. “It's all right. I just have a bad head-ache from the sun.” That part, at least, is still true.

  “Fetch her some painkillers Derrick,” says Marge, her voice an order. I can see who runs this house.

  Derrick paces quickly from the room and I can hear him going up the stairs. The floorboards creek above us as he moves around, rumbling through drawers and searching for the pills.

  “He never remembers where they are,” says Marge. “They're in the top drawer of my bedside table,” she shouts up through the ceiling. She shakes her head mockingly. “Useless.”

  Her voice is bringing me back out of my own head, and I can feel myself relaxing again. I'm certain that the police are looking for me, not as a suspect, but to make sure I'm safe. Maybe I should go to them? Maybe I should tell them what I saw? I don't know why I didn't go straight to the nearest station when I found Tara. They could protect me from Michael Carmine, make sure I'm safe. That man – the man he shot outside the bar – if only I knew who he was.

  But no. I know exactly why I haven't gone to the police yet. It's because he'd get me anyway. They'd never believe me, not indefinitely. Maybe they'd protect me for a while, but if I don't know who he killed, and there's no evidence of a murder, what can I give them?

  “I saw Michael Carmine kill someone,” I would tell them. “I don't know who, but he killed someone outside his bar.”

  They'd check the scene, find nothing. What good would it do? I'd tell them he killed Tara as well, maybe they'd take him in for questioning, but what else? He'd have been there a thousand times before. He'll have a $500 an hour lawyer by his side holding all the cards. Then, when the police tell me to go home, that they've got nothing....that's when I go to sleep one night and don't wake up. That's when I get dragged down an alley and chocked to death.

  No, I can't go to the police, and I can't go back. In fact, there's not much I can do right now....except keep running.

  I hear Derrick burst back into the room, a box of painkillers in his hand. “Found them,” he says, as he works to pop a couple of pills from their little pouches. He passes them to me and I gulp them down with half a glass of water.

  Now they're both looking at me, this intrigue on both their faces. I can see in both their eyes that they're interested to know more, know exactly what's going on, but won't ask. I can imagine living out here on the farm isn't overly exciting. Having someone like me, a city girl, marooned just down the track from your house is as unusual a situation as they're likely to have encountered. But they're too polite to ask, and I'm too ashamed and scared to tell them, anyone, the truth.

  An awkwardness fills the air now. It's like this sudden weight has landed on top of us. Or maybe it's just me who feels awkward. They both just look interested in me, like I'm a fish in an aquarium.

  Derrick breaks the silence by turning and walking back up the stairs to put the painkillers back, leaving Marge and I alone once again.

  “How are you feeling dear?” she asks me, “would you like to have a rest? You can't have slept too well out in that car all night.”

  I lift my head and give it a light shake as I speak. “No, really, it's OK. I feel fine, I should probably go....I don't want to get in the way or anything.”

  “Don't be silly dear. You really shouldn't be out driving in your condition. How about you take a nap and have some dinner with us later. Then I'll be happy to release you.” She smiles as she delivers her joke, making light of the situation. In truth, I feel completely torn right now. One part of me would love to stay, maybe stay forever. I could move here, help on the farm, start a new life. My mind fills with ridiculous thoughts, but half of me wishes that they could become real.

  Then there's the other half of me. She wants to stand up and leave right now. She wants to get in the car and keep driving north, keep on going until the car runs out of gas, wherever that may be. She wants to go as far as possible and never come back. She wishes that all of this was really just one big nightmare. That maybe, just maybe, I'll wake up and none of this will be real.

  But it is real. Nothing's going to change that.

  “So what do you say?” Marge's voice comes at me again, breaking me from my thoughts. “I can go make up the bed in my daughter's old room. It's nice and cool in there, away from the sun.”

  Her insistence is so sweet, and it's growing clear to me why. Maybe she sees – both of them see – something of their daughter in me? I've never come across anyone so selfless and friendly. There's got to be something behind it. Or, maybe this is just the way it is out here, away from the city where no one ever seems to help anyone else.

  I realize quickly that she won't take 'no' for an answer, and I really could use the rest. Now that I've had a few glasses of water I'm beginning to feel better, and there's a drowsiness setting in. I nod feebly, slightly overcome by her kindness, and feel my eyes start to water. “Thanks,” I say, “no one's ever been so kind to me.”

  “That's sweet of you to say honey. But we're happy to accommodate anyone who needs some help. It's what we believe. Now, come this way, and I'll get you set up.”

  Moments later I've followed her up the stairs and we're passing by several doors. One is open and I glance inside to see Derrick perched on the end of a bed staring ahead at a television fixed to the wall. He's got this distressed look on his face and is shaking his head slightly and muttering the word “shame”.

  As we pass he looks up at me and gives me a smile. “Kitty's going to get some rest and stay for dinner Derrick,” says Marge.

  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 r
egret 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.