Run With Me (7 page)

“
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 quickly
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.