Run, Darling

by Nicola Tee

  About the Author

  I am an accountant by day and a writer by night, on most days I wish my nine to five job away, so I can get home and get lost in the world of writing. I travel between London and Paris for work and some of my best ideas come to me when I am on the Eurostar gazing out the window, there is something about open fields in the French countryside that causes my imagination to run wild.

  Run, Darling

  Nicola Tee

  Run, Darling

  Olympia Publishers

  London

  www.olympiapublishers.com

  OLYMPIA EBOOK EDITION

  Copyright © Nicola Tee 2019

  The right of Nicola Tee to be identified as author of

  this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved

  No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication

  may be made without written permission.

  No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,

  copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions

  of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to

  this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is

  available from the British Library.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents originate from the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First Published in 2019

  Olympia Publishers

  60 Cannon Street

  London

  EC4N 6NP

  Run, Darling

  The more I run the more I can feel, see and hear of the world that I have so deeply missed: from the fresh air hitting my cheeks and filling my lungs with goodness to the sheer beauty of the spring flowers pushing their way through their buds. But by far the best bit is the noise of cars backfiring, birds chirping and people laughing that fill my ears with hope. Hope that I once again could be part of it all. I have longed for anything but silence since before I can remember, and finally that wish is coming true, although it never crossed my mind that such a beautiful world could co-exist alongside such ugliness that I have spent years exposed to.

  The fact that I am running away from evil motivates my legs to keep going, one long stride at a time. I have finally found my running rhythm.

  “Damn,” I squeal as I frantically start blowing my palms to stop them stinging. Luckily, I caught myself by my hands preventing a complete face plant into the kerb. I must have buckled over my own feet through sheer exhaustion. If this isn’t a sign that my body needs a break I don’t know what is. I squeeze my eyes shut to help me focus on catching my breath,

  “In. Out. In. Out.” I coach my breathing to help slow my heart rate. I think it is working as my heart no longer feels like it is going to explode from beating triple my resting rate. Why triple the speed? Well my legs have and will continue to demand an excessive amount of blood to carry me away from evil. Come to think of it, I need to focus on regaining the feeling in my legs. I start to repeatedly slap my thighs in an attempt to abolish the painful pins and needles shooting through them. Finally, the tingling is subsiding thanks to some forceful whacks and continuous wiggling of my toes. I think it is okay to open my eyes and to contemplate moving myself along.

  “Shit,” I laugh as I once again see the world and immediately realise I am sitting in the middle of a jam-packed road. Cars are zooming by, people are darting around, and employees look to be annoying people by ramming leaflets into their hands. I quickly pull my knees into my chest, so that my legs no longer dangle into the road; not that they would even reach the passing cars, as I have legs on the opposite end of the length spectrum to the catwalk models. I shuffle one hundred and eighty-degrees, so my back is facing the traffic, enhancing my ability to people watch.

  Things have changed. I vaguely remember life before. But there are differences, significant differences that I cannot help but notice; for instance, dress sense. When I was a little girl I used to spend hours getting myself all dolled up just to pop to the local shop to buy a pint of milk with my mum. Now it seems fashionable to go about your daily life in extremely casual attire. The number of people, especially women, rushing past me wearing gym clothes and trainers is mind-boggling, surely, they aren’t coming from the gym as their faces and hair look catwalk ready. Maybe it is trendy nowadays to work out all done up, who knows? All I know is I am massively out of touch with life. I stupidly thought I could just slip back in and pick up where I left off, but it is becoming abundantly clear that that isn’t possible.

  However, the most bizarre thing I am continuously seeing is polyester cups. Nearly everyone strolling past me is holding one. In fact, I have lost count of the number of people I have seen (since unintentionally plonking myself on the kerb) with their shopping bags in one hand, and a cup of Starbucks coffee in the other. If I zoom in on them I can even see names scribbled on the side of cups, in black pen, written at a slant in this distinctive artistic writing style.

  I give my legs one final whack and climb to my feet. I start to stroll along the pavement, and with each step I take I further submerge myself into civilisation.

  “Excuse me!” I shout at this English man who just brushed past me sending my left shoulder flying backwards.

  He is screaming down his phone, “I said three p.m., you idiot, can you not understand English?” My attempt at getting an apology from him for sending me flying is unsuccessful as he hasn’t even acknowledged me. He is too busy in his own world, and it looks like an important world as he is suited and booted in a grey blazer and trouser set with a perfectly ironed white shirt and a stand-out purple tie held in place by a clip. His attitude stinks. But his style is impeccable. His presence is overpowering. And his importance is undeniable.

  I watch Mr. Suit and tie get smaller and smaller into the distance. He is no longer in my sights. He’s gone. Therefore, I gaze around looking for the next interesting person to analyse. To the left of the shopping centre, standing outside Card Factory is this gorgeous little blue-eyed boy throwing a tantrum that catches most passers-bys’ eye. His cheeks are bright red, and his eyes are bloodshot. I need to walk over to him and comfort him. My brain is signalling my legs to walk towards him. I don’t know if I have the willpower to not go over and interfere.

  I take one step in his direction and am being stopped in my tracks by this infectious giggle ringing in my ears. I desperately turn in an attempt to find the source of the happiness, and I do. This tall, beautiful woman looks completely smitten, laughing into the neck of this equally beautiful man on her arm. They are power walking to the other side of the town and within a blink of an eye, they are a dot in the distance. But I can still hear her high-pitched chuckle with a touch of snorting in between breaths, as that sound will forever be cemented in my memory. The sound of pure happiness.

  I have lost the crying boy. Where did he go? I need to look for him. I must find him. I start swirling around like a tired off-balance ballerina. There. I see him. I take one step in his direction when,

  “Miss. Miss.” I look down. This girl in the cutest pink sparkly dress is tugging on my trousers. She looks up. She has a look of pure innocence, with not a care in the world in her expression. Her purity instantly fills my eyes with tears, and then she smiles at me and it restores my faith in humanity.

  “Are you okay?” she asks. She can’t be more than ten. She is the first person to show me she cares. I don’t think I
can hold my tears in any longer.

  “Do not smile at tramps, do you hear me?” This middle-aged woman snaps as she pulls the little girl away from me. I feel like tapping her on the shoulder and giving her a piece of my mind, but I won’t because I need to remain in the shadows and a public argument would shine the light bright onto me, something that I cannot afford to happen. Whilst she is dragging the little girl away, one question fills my thoughts. Do I want to be part of civilisation again when part of it is sickeningly unpleasant? I have only been free for a while and already I have been exposed to both ends of the humanity spectrum; ugliness and beauty.

  I have witnessed ugliness, anger, sadness, laughter, kindness and beauty since becoming free. But all I keep thinking to myself is, will I ever laugh like that loved-up woman, have a child to test me with tantrums like that blue-eyed boy, but most of all will I ever shout down the phone at someone because I have this fire in my belly to cause me to explode? In a weird way, I want the latter to come true to make me feel human again. I want to turn into a bull of rage because I am that passionate about something. Of course, I wouldn't call anyone an idiot like Mr. Suit and Tie did, but I still want my voice to go deep and people to stand to attention and listen to me. Basically, I want to be the one barking orders instead of taking them, as I have been on the receiving end of someone’s barks for far too long.

  I need to stop people watching. I need to find help. When I was a little girl, my grandfather always told me that if I were ever in trouble to look for a policeman, so that is my next task. I wiggle through the crowds of people huddling in different cliques throughout the shopping centre,

  “There.” I am once again talking to myself, but I will worry about my first sign of madness later. I see a man dressed in a black uniform, and what retains my attention is a pair of handcuffs hanging from his belt. Even though I am out of touch with reality, I know that he has to be some sort of law enforcement officer, so I head in his direction. The closer I get to him the more I can feel his eyes examining me, and that judging a book by its cover ideology petrifies me as my cover is terrible. Fear instantly clouds my thought process. Is he going to lock me up? Will I be a victim again? Will he believe my story? I panic!

  I continue to walk straight. I fake a smile in his direction careful to not make eye contact. I pass him. But I am in pain. Why am I in pain? Breathe. I quickly realise I am holding my breath and now my lungs are begging me to exhale.

  ‘Breathe! Breathe!’ My inner voice is screaming, and I finally listen to it. The officer probably heard my exhale, in fact, I think everyone within a hundred-metre radius of me heard it. I hurry myself along, hoping to get away from prying eyes.

  But how can I not cause people to stop and stare when I look like this! My jeans flap around my skeleton legs; they only stay up because of the home-made belt I made, which is a piece of rope pulled so tight that once I undress in the evenings all I see is the indentation of it on my skin. My jumper is full of year-old stains as I can’t remember the last time I was allowed to clean it. In a nutshell my clothes and body odour make me smell like rotten eggs. Personally, I am used to the smell, but I have noticed since arriving in this shopping centre that people are giving me daggers once my odour travels up their nostrils. But my hair makes the rest of me look and smell like a pussycat. It is full of grease to the point where it stays in place without a hairband or clips. It is disgusting.

  I start to jog lightly to the far end of the town centre to get away from everyone. I am a few feet away from leaving this place. But— I feel a hand on my shoulder stopping me from going any farther,

  I am too exhausted to have a quick reaction to anything these days. I slowly turn around whilst doing an award-winning eye roll, because for the third time today I am being stopped in my tracks. All I can see in front of me is a black shirt with perfectly lined white buttons running through the middle of it. My eye line follows the buttons up to the very top one, and I now realise it might be game over.

  “Are you okay?” the officer I saw the other side of town asks. I have a moment of internal battle over whether to say yes or no. I am far from okay, but do I want my freedom to end so soon? No.

  “I am fine.” But I know I look and am the opposite of ‘fine.’ I know the game is up.

  “Follow me,” he orders. I begrudgingly walk alongside him in silence, once again allowing myself to be dictated to. All eyes are on me. The passers-by don’t even try to hide their fly-catching expressions to my being led away. I am not in handcuffs, I just have a firm grip on my shoulder, I could escape the officer’s clutches if I really wanted to. But what’s the point? I have nowhere to run to, as I have no idea where I am. I walk with my head down as he leads me back across the town centre and down this hill,

  “After you,” he orders. I cautiously walk through the door, entering a police station. I walk towards this kind-faced woman standing behind the front desk.

  “One minute, darling,” she requests as she walks into the back room. She resurfaces after a few moments and smiles at me,

  “Here is a spare set of clothes I found you. Why don't you use that toilet over there, sweetie, to freshen up?” I knew her warm smile represented kindness. Clearly, I still have the ability to correctly read people. She hands me a grey pair of tracksuit bottoms, a black jumper and a carrier bag.

  I smile as a sign of appreciation and then head towards the disabled toilet to change. The first thing I must do is wash the years of muck off my face. I close the door behind me and dart to the sink. I can’t bring myself to lift my eye line and look at myself in the mirror, so I keep my head down whilst rinsing my face. It is tempting to sneak a peek, so I can see how much my cheekbones stick out, as they are all I feel when I rub my hands over my face. Over the years they have protruded further and further out, almost like they are trying to break through my skin and escape. I can’t take seeing that image today.

  I start getting undressed whilst cautiously avoiding the full-length mirror located next to the toilet seat. Thankfully the new pair of bottoms have an elasticated waist so I don’t have to D.I.Y them up. I place my dirty clothes in a clear bag that the female officer also gave me.

  “Quick, clean up the mess,” I lecture myself. I pull two of the paper towels out the holder and dry up the splattered water around the sink.

  “Done,” I mutter feeling quite proud that I am leaving the bathroom how I found it. I take a quick glance over my shoulder to check it is tidy as I exit.

  I sink back into one of the waiting room chairs, drop my shoulders, pull my bag of clothes closer to my chest, close my eyes and breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth.

  “Oh shit, I need a pen,” I remind myself as I jump to my feet and head back over to the front desk.

  “Do you have a pen I can borrow?”

  “Here you go,” she replies as she hands me the black biro she is using, cementing my theory that she is a good egg.

  “Thank you.” I quickly jot down one thousand two hundred and ninety-four, four hundred and fifty, one hundred and seventy-eight, two hundred and eighty, one thousand one hundred and twenty-four and four hundred on the back of my hand and give the pen back to the lady.

  Once again I sink into my seat and close my eyes.

  “Are you ready to begin?”

  I quickly open my eyes to find this grey-bearded, gel loving, smartly dressed man staring at me, waiting for me to speak.

  “Yes,” I reply as I stand up.

  “Follow me. Oh, and I am Detective Simmons.”

  I walk behind him like a well-trained dog, all I need now is a treat to congratulate me on my ability to follow orders.

  Kate, Is Who I Am

  “Do you know who you are?” the detective gently asks with a look of caution in his eyes, based on the fact that if he says one wrong word to me or uses the wrong tone when addressing me, I will mentally break. I know I look fragile, but surely I don’t look that fragile?

  “Yes, my name is Kate W
right.”

  “And do you know how old you are?” he continues.

  “Not exactly, but I know I am older than sixteen as I remember I had the most show-stopping birthday party when I turned it. I had it in a local town hall just up the road from my parents’ house. There were hundreds of balloons floating around the crystal-white ceiling; they had my name signed on them in sparkly pink lettering. And there was music playing all night, the sort of music that gets everyone up dancing, singing, laughing and forgetting all their worries. I did that!

  “Do you remember where the town hall was?”

  “No. Sorry. But a lady called Jennifer made my birthday cake, maybe you could find the location of the hall if you look for Jennifer.”

  “It’s a long shot, but we will try,” replies the detective as he quickly glances up at the ceiling. That glance was purely to compress the smug grin he wanted to make after my previous comment. I know he isn’t going to look for Jennifer. He should have said, ‘No, that will be like looking for a needle in a haystack’, instead of saying ‘It’s a long shot, but we will try’. I hate liars, especially the ones who unintentionally make their lies obvious through their body language.

  But I continue, not wanting to give away my ability to see through his bullshit just yet. “Honestly, the best part of my birthday was the cake, I am sure if you look her up you will find her as she was fantastic, world renowned if you ask me.

  “Sometimes at night, if I was particularly hungry – well, I was always hungry but if my stomach was rumbling more so than usual, I would lie on my mattress trying to remember how yummy the cake was when it went into my tummy. I would lick my lips pretending they were full of sugar. I know my imagination did not do the taste justice and I was probably only teasing myself and indirectly making myself hungrier, but it was still fun to immerse myself in a cake bubble for a while. My sixteenth birthday was one of the best days of my life, it surpassed all my expectations and I used those memories to get me through some of the harder days I have had.