Run, Darling

by Nicola Tee

  We are pounding the pavements, individually lost in our own thoughts trying to process what is happening when we stumble upon a pick and mix, but for cars instead of sweets. A car park! It is full of choice, too much choice really, as I can yet again feel myself getting carried away with picturing us with the roof down, cruising along the country roads.

  “Which one do you want?” Mr. Hump asks me. I am secretly ecstatic that he is including me as it makes me feel like his equal, but I will not show him my excitement.

  “I don’t care! Let’s just get anyone and go,” I snap. I definitely don’t want to show him that I am enjoying our grand theft auto moment.

  “This one.” Mr. Hump points to an old school red jeep. It is hands down the ugliest and oldest car in here, which of course means it is ideal for him to drive us in. Judging by the interior of his home, he likes anything with an antique feel to it.

  “You keep a lookout,” he orders.

  “I will try.” I don’t want to sound silly, but keep a lookout for what? My skill sets do not cover any form of action. I mean, who would be intimidated by me? I am someone who jumps every time someone says ‘boo’, I am not someone who can fight people off whilst Mr. Hump steals us a car.

  I am once again feeling useless as I am simply standing around like a spare part. Penknife! All of a sudden, I realise I have a weapon. I pull the blade out and keep a tight grip on it as it hangs in my pocket. I am now ready for the unexpected, it would only take me a second to completely draw it out my pocket and use it. So maybe I am not useless after all. I am being caught up in the moment and with that I pull it completely out.

  “We are trying to not draw attention to ourselves! Put it away!” Mr. Hump screams. But he is the one now drawing attention to us with his unnecessarily loud voice, he must have eyes in the back of his head watching me as well as hot-wiring a car.

  “Quick. Quick.” I am summoned to the far left of the car park.

  I bolt over to him and elegantly leap into the passenger seat. I can’t believe how quickly he broke into this jeep, and I am even more stunned that he managed to hotwire it at the speed of light. Who is he? A spy? A federal agent, or something? When you think you know someone, eh? To be fair, the last few days have really shown me that I do not know him at all.

  It is funny, as the last time I was in a car with him I was petrified and fearing for my life. However, this time I am in control. I have something over him. With one phone call, I can take away his freedom, his future, his life. Of course, I would need to find a phone first but that is a minor detail.

  “Put your foot down then! We need to get to the cottage and out of sight as quickly as possible,” I snap.

  “Please do not tell me how to drive,” Mr. Hump argues back.

  Roughly an hour has passed. Watching Mr. Hump, or should I say Captain Slow, drive is driving me mad, therefore I recline my seat and stare out the window, looking at the passing world. He is driving the speed limit, not one mile per hour over! He stops when the lights go amber, making me want to scream ‘go’ at him. He is allowing people to pull in front of us when they’re coming out of a side road. Surely, they should just wait until it is clear and then pull out? He is refusing to beep his horn even though numerous other drivers have deserved a beep. Mr. Hump is erring on the side of caution, which I get but he is being painfully cautious, which is making our final destination feel like it a million miles away.

  “This feels like déjà vu, being in a car with you,” I jokingly say to break the awkward silence and to lighten the mood.

  He grunts. He obviously doesn’t see the funny side of it. I definitely need to fix his uptight attitude if I am to spend any more time with him. The more miles he drives, the fewer cars and people I see. I once again feel like one of the only survivors in an apocalypse. I feel scared. I don’t know why. I am used to being in my own company. But I suppose it would be nice to have people around so if I do fancy a chat, I can have one. I can tell that the cottage we are heading to has no one close by to engage in small talk with.

  “We are nearly there.” Mr. Hump updates me with a hint of anxiety to his voice.

  We come off the main country lane and start to bump our way down this offbeat track: it has probably never been re-tarmacked, it has that many potholes. I am being thrown in every direction possible.

  ‘Sorry!” I shout as my right hand lightly brushes his thigh. He is repulsed by my touch, and that brings a tear to my eye. But why do I care? Why am I now sitting here, trying to hold in my tears? We reach the end of the track and I am positive that tomorrow I will have some bruises thanks to this bump along.

  He pulls up outside the cottage, and I sit there for a moment watching Mr. Hump like a hawk. His reaction. His vulnerability. His shyness. I have never seen any of those emotions from him before. It is almost like he has reverted to the little boy who once visited the cottage at the weekends with his parents. The little boy whose life got turned upside down thanks to one weekend spent at this very place.

  “Let’s go inside.” I think that order is more for his own benefit than mine; I don’t think he can take staring at his past from the outside any more. I closely follow behind him, spying on what he is doing. He picks up the spare key from underneath the plant pot and we enter. He immediately darts for the back room. I hide behind a wall beam, so he can’t see that I am watching him. What is he doing? I ask myself.

  “Yes! Mother must have been back here and fixed the broken window and left this.” I ignore his reference to his mother as I am too hungry and exhausted to start a conversation with him about it.

  I squint, hoping it will help me get a better look. And it does. I see Mr. Hump holding a wad of cash wrapped tightly in an elastic band.

  “Get back in the car. We are going to the supermarket,” he orders.

  “We are in and out, do you hear me. Do not look at anyone. Do not grab what you fancy, as we need to be strategic with this money. And, most of all, do not – and I mean do not – look at the security cameras. They are located upon entering the shop and will be scattered around so keep your head down. Do you understand me?” He lectures me for the whole ride back up the country lane.

  “Yes, sir. You do know I am not stupid,” I say, trying to convince him that I won’t be a liability.

  “Just follow my lead and we will get through this.”

  We arrive at this tiny supermarket with only three cars in their even smaller car-park. Surely a place this off the grid won’t have security cameras. But I still feel nervous to even get out of the car. What if I get the urge to look up, or say afternoon to a fellow shopper? If there are any. I haven't said ‘afternoon’ to anyone in eight years, surely saying it to one person can’t mean we will be found and imprisoned. I know my face is a picture of worry. I can feel my cheeks burning up, my mouth is drying, and my palms are beginning to sweat.

  “Actually, wait in the car. I do not trust you to keep your head down and mouth shut.”

  I plonk myself back on the seat after hovering over it for what felt like hours with fearful thoughts running through my mind, over whether I can follow the rules or not when entering the supermarket. I try to navigate the radio to pass some time, but this thing is too old for me to even figure out where the on button is. I decide it is best to nap instead of fiddling around and further breaking our already broken mode of transport.

  “Right we need to get moving.”

  “Shit, you nearly gave me a heart attack.” I reply.

  I take a sneak peek in the shopping bags and burst into laughter. They are packed exactly how I thought they would be; the meat in one, the soft items in another and the tins all neatly stacked together. I am positive his middle name is Efficient. Life is starting to feel like a game of ping-pong as we head back down the dirt track to the cottage.

  I watch him put the shopping away in record time.

  “I will be out back if you need me.” It feels strange him informing me of his own actions and not ordering
me on mine.

  I am free to do what I want. I manage to figure out how to put money on the electricity meter. Finally, we have light. I am shocked it still works!

  “Now we need running water,” I order myself on what to do next. One bucket down. Two down— Fifteen buckets later the outside tank is full. I can finally run myself a nice bath, something I haven’t done in eight years.

  I submerge myself in the bath with the water overflowing in all directions. I couldn't care less that a mini swimming pool is forming on the floor around the tub as it feels like heaven lying here. I have body hair that I didn’t have before I met Mr. Hump. It is times like these that I wish I had my mum to show me how to properly transition from a girl to a woman. I reach out and grab the razors he bought from the store to shave his beard. I start with my underarms. They are finally hairless and now I understand why woman do it; I feel as clean as a whistle. Onto my legs.

  “Ouch,” I squeal as I nick my skin. I am getting into all sorts of positions trying to wipe away all traces of becoming a woman, which is strange as I want to be seen as a woman, but a hair-free one. Finally, I am smooth and shiny and man, I feel like a woman! It’s fascinating, so much so that I keep rubbing my legs together and grinning to myself.

  I am beginning to shrivel like a prawn, so I hop out of the bath and start to set up Mr. Hump’s prison. I find the smallest room in the house which is the box room/home office. I strip it bare, throw an old single mattress from one of the beds onto the floor, alongside one pillow and stand back looking at the finished product.

  “God I can’t wait,” I laugh knowing that what I am going to do to him is morally wrong but extremely justifiable.

  “Dinner! Dinner!” he shouts. His voice echoes throughout the whole cottage, the walls are so thin in this place. And I can’t work out whether that will be a good thing or not.

  I gulp down the dry but extremely satisfying dinner Greg has made us within a blink of an eye as it is the first proper meal I have eaten in days.

  “I am off to bed,” I inform him as we seem to have indirectly developed this polite line of communication in regard to our movements. I need to try to get a good night’s sleep ready for my big day tomorrow, the day my revenge starts. I strip naked and cuddle under the existing covers, they still smell fresh which is strange, but I won’t question how that is possible as all I am here to do is get revenge whilst I figure out my next move in life. I toss and turn for hours, glaring outside the window, waiting for sunrise.

  “Finally,” I say aloud as I see a beam of light coming through the window signalling me to get up and get ready for the day. I quickly throw on yesterday’s clothes and run my fingers through my hair.

  Mr. Hump is already in the kitchen, with his head in the fridge, attempting to line his stomach before I implement my strict regime.

  “Out of the fridge! No cheating allowed!” I snap whilst grabbing his arm and leading him away from the food. I drag him along like a disobedient dog; oh, how the mighty has fallen. I place him in his room and stand back taking in the image of him in his rightful habitat. He is sitting in the middle of the room, blankly looking at me, waiting for food, once again mirroring a dog’s action.

  “Must get breakfast started,” I whisper to myself before heading back to the kitchen. I pop four slices of bread in the toaster, deliberately leaving the crust on because he hates the crust! His face, when he sees what I have done, will be priceless. I lightly butter the slices. Another thing he will hate. I march back to him ready to see his reaction to the crime of the century: proper toast, how I like it.

  “Here.” I chuck him his breakfast.

  “Really?” He gives me the dirtiest look after his brain registers what I have done. He begins to rip the crust off.

  “This must be a bloody joke, look at the state of it!” he shouts whilst he throws all the crust to one side.

  I decide to kick him while he is down, by throwing him the bucket that I found outback yesterday. His new toilet. Now that feels satisfying.

  “Once again, what goes around comes around,” I say with bundles of confidence, to this puffy, full of anger, vein popping face.

  I shut his bedroom door behind me and make my way to the living room scoffing down my toast as I go. I pull out some of the games he has tucked away on the shelf in an attempt to distract myself from what is going on. It isn’t working. I am bored, and I have only just started my payback. I rummage through the side cabinet draws and find a pen and paper set, sit back on the sofa, and decide to write a letter to my father.

  ‘Dear Daddy, I know everything! I just wanted to write you a letter to say thank you for selling me. Thank you for proving to me that my suspicions about you since I was a little girl were correct. I always knew the money came first for you and you trading me for £100,000 proved my point perfectly. The selling me for money not only breaks my heart but it shatters my whole existence because I now have no place to call home. You single-handedly stripped me of that and forever took away my family. But don’t worry, I won’t tell Mummy and Matt what you did as it will only break their hearts, and I do not want them to feel how I feel. You are in the clear. Your secret will remain a secret. You once again have come out on top.’ Tears start to fall, smudging the last few words. I place the letter on the side to dry off.

  I press every button on the cooker until one of the rings finally fires up. Supposedly the cottage hasn’t been used in years, but the fresh bedding, working stove, running water and electricity makes me think this place was recently occupied. Anyway, I empty two cans of tomato soup into a pan and place it on the stove to warm through, I watched Mr. Hump prepare my meals a handful of times over the years, so I roughly know the process and timings of it all. Whilst that is warming up, I butter a few slices of bread, and take out a couple of bottles of water from the fridge for Greg and me. I don’t know how he did this every day for eight years; it is only day one and I am already overwhelmed and bored. I empty the warm soup into two bowls and carefully make my way to Mr. Hump.

  “Here you go.” I drop the bowl into his hands, causing a slight bit of soup to trickle down the side. He doesn't look at all fazed by what is happening: the lack of control he has, the mess I just made, the plain meals, nothing! Nothing about this lunch is bothering him and that is bothering me. Mr. Hump can read me, and I know, that he knows, that my being in charge is way out of my comfort zone. I am sensing an ounce of smugness in his body language; therefore, I do a one hundred and eighty-degree turn and leave the room promptly, taking myself off to the living room to enjoy my soup in peace.

  Where do I sit? I rhetorically asked myself. There are two sofas in front of me and a kitchen with five breakfast chairs, but I decide to sit in the only place I feel comfortable: the living room floor. He has morphed me into someone who doesn’t need the finer things in life, like a chair. Eight years of being with him really did a number on me. The soup is missing a certain je ne sais quoi. Mr. Hump must have added a hint of something as his soup tasted a hundred times better than mine, and that is annoying me.

  I force down the last bit of tasteless soup before it goes cold.

  “Now what do I do?” Once again, I am talking to myself; that is how bored and lonely I am.

  “I know. I will do some cleaning.” I have even started answering my own questions which is worrying. I empty a whole bottle of Fairy Liquid into a bucket and add water to the point where the bubbles are escaping. I will work clockwise round the house, going from room to room, excluding Mr. Hump’s prison as I want him to live in his own mess.

  “The house will be gleaming come 5:30 p.m.,” I say as I pick up the bucket and start scrubbing.

  “Done with five minutes to spare.” I feel a sense of achievement that the whole house is shining, with every room corner, skirting board and wall having been scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. I have realised the key to preventing my mind from wondering is keeping myself busy. So, I waste no time in starting dinner. The great thing
about feeding Mr. Hump and me simple, repetitive meals is that I do not have to stand with the fridge door open, endlessly debating what to have three times a day. I get two pieces of chicken out of the fridge, place them in the oven and prepare the rice. I think it is safe to say I am no longer a vegetarian, even though I now have the choice. The problem is I am so used to dry chicken and rice for dinner that I cannot imagine myself eating anything different. I once again eat it on the floor, a mirror reflection of how I have eaten my meals for years.

  The hardest part of the day is approaching, revenge time. It is a lot easier said than done, taking physical revenge on another human being. I flick the kettle on and go and grab Mr. Hump.

  “You do not have to do this,” he begs.

  “You didn’t have to do it for eight years, but you did,” I reply as I push down the piping hot spoon onto the back of his left hand. I watch in awe as he squeals. It feels bizarre having the roles reversed, but I don’t flinch one bit as I keep pushing. Who knew I had such a dark side? Mr. Hump hangs his head in shame as he realises he inflicted this pain on me over and over again for years. I release the spoon, lift his chin and look him dead in the eye. He isn’t blinking, nor am I. We are staring each other out. A face off. A long overdue face off.

  For a little less than two weeks, I made breakfast, I cleaned, I made lunch, I cleaned, I made dinner, I cleaned, and I tortured him. It is a full-time job holding someone captive. It is just after 8:15 p.m. this Friday evening when I realise I can no longer do it. I rush to Mr. Hump’s room, unlock the door, and yell,

  “You are free!”

  “Well that was proper revenge,” he sarcastically quips.

  “I cannot do it. I am not like you. I cannot be a monster,” I cry.

  “How many times do I have to tell you I am not a monster?” he screams back at me.