The Runaway (4 page)

“You kind of saved her life, you know!” Wattson sighed heavily over breakfast the next day. He didn’t feel like a saviour. He didn’t feel like anything but a coward guy who was thinking of bolting through the door just because Paul had so much as looked at him. And he knew that look. He understood that look. The way he eyed Brooke being led away from him. The way his sneer remained intact. It reeked of unfinished business. He would come back and get his score. Get even. He hoped he hadn’t pushed him over the edge – he prayed he didn’t make Brooke’s life worse than ever. No, he definitely didn’t feel heroic.

“…if you hadn’t been an ass and poking your nose about in his house, Brooke would have been murdered brutally. Or worse.” Wattson continued. He shrugged. He wanted to return to London. This was a bad idea. The book. The murders. Paul. He wanted to go back to normality.

He smiled to himself as he dragged himself out of the past. Marco needed to be mentioned here. He was the first to reach Paul’s home that night, the one who had cuffed him. He was this backbencher local cop in the town that Wattson was really fond of, and he would hang around Wattson helping him with trekking around Walhalla. Richard had occasionally met him, and Marco had taken him along to all the dump sites. Quirky guy, but he was fun to be with. The arrest of Paul made him a local hero, and he was grateful to Richard for what went down that night.

Pulling himself out from those horrific memoirs of the murders and Paul, he returned to the little sign that read “Applecross” .He turned off his engine, and stopped in front of an iron gate. The sign outside suggested it was a bed and breakfast. He hoped he was at the right place, as all he could think of was crashing somewhere for 2 days straight. And he was hungry. End of the world hungry. He looked around. Across the street as told to him, there was Martha’s café, which was thankfully open. The little town didn’t have too many people about, but then it was past 10 in the night. He prayed he’d get a room at this hour. He couldn’t stand sleeping on the car seat anymore. He secured his car, double checked his windows and slung his backpack over his shoulders. He could hear a faint music from the kitchens followed by the alluring smell of soup. His stomach grumbled loudly. He struck the bell twice – funny little thing hanging from the door. He looked around. The moon shone with an exceptional brilliance tonight. He could make out the grapevines circling the door and up the house. It could almost resemble a picture from those old time movies – bungalows, huge windows and creepers. He rang the bell again. He could make out low voices and a TV blaring inside. He hoped he wasn’t going to be turned away as a fugitive- even though his unshaven face and dirty clothes did give him the look. He heard feet shuffling and the clang of utensils, and thankfully, the door opened. A short plump woman stood staring at him. She strained her neck to look behind him, as if checking to see if there were other criminals that he brought along with him. After a silence that seemed to stretch forever, he cleared his voice and greeted her. Martha was still unsure as to what to make of this man standing at her doorstep when half the town was asleep.

“Are you looking for someone?”

Richard didn’t exactly know how to respond to the question. He stared at her for some time, and stammered, “I’m new in town... just arrived…”

“Figured as much!”

“Err... well…” he just couldn’t recall the name of the gas station owner, which would be utterly rude to start off with. Joe. That was the name, he recalled, relieved.

“Joe said, I could get a room to stay here…”

“Ahh..!! Joe did talk of a new guy in town... Here for a few days?”

Richard nodded, as he was ushered in. He was mildly surprised at not being questioned any further- how trusting are these folks to let a guy just walk in the middle of the night? Martha served coffee and sat on her couch to scrutinize the city guy in front of him – of so like London, with the expensive clothes, gelled hair and that car. He just kept looking all around him, searching for the fancy LCDs or coffee machines maybe?! She had no idea how to handle these people – but she never turned anyone away from her door. Besides she could spare a room for the seemingly harmless fellow, she chuckled.

“Something amusing, Mrs. Lanson?”

“No… I’m sorry I didn’t even ask your name..?”

“Rich... Rick Hal… Rick Hold!”

“My! I’ve never seen anyone stammer so much with their name
...” Richard shifted uncomfortably in his chair- he had always been lame at lying, surprising for a writer certainly. He just smiled back and kicked himself for the stupidest name he could have come up with. Rick Hold?!! From where did that come? And it’s so obviously a pseudonym. He shrugged and attempted at small talk. She agreed to rent him a room – the lodgings were just across the house, and he could eat with them or at her café. He liked the arrangements, and the lady sitting across him. Her house was warm and cosy – wooden panels and couches. But she was lonely – the house practically screamed abandonment. Maybe that’s why she let people stay with her, to combat her isolation. There was no sign of any male presence in the household. It was feminine with comfort and warmth oozing out even from its curtains. He grabbed the key to his room, and shouldered his bag again. He thanked and left. He wanted to ask if there was any source of hard alcohol around – but he wasn’t sure Martha was the right person for that. He walked across the road and knocked at the entrance. A scrawny boy received him yawning widely.

Jim was in his seven millionth dream when the doorbell rang. He grumbled loudly and let this Rick guy in for his room upstairs. He didn’t conceal his foul mood, city folks don’t value a good night’s beauty
sleep. He didn’t even bid him good night, as Rick probed around the room. He stomped to his favourite corner and went back to peaceful slumber. Rick didn’t think too much of the room – the heater was at place, and there was running hot water. The bed was stiffer that he would have liked, but then he hoped he wouldn’t have to sleep long enough here. God knows how he would coax Brooke out in the open to talk to him. He dumped his bag on the table and slumped on the bed. He sighed. It was going to be a while after all, he guessed. Apple Cross, I’m here to stay, he thought to himself. He had to rethink as to why he undertook this journey again, and why he had abandoned it all those years back.

All those years back
. He could still picture Marco carrying Paul away in the wagon. And the fleeting glance that Paul gave him before turning away. He was unnerved. He shuddered every time he recalled those steely cold eyes. It was like a promise that he’d be back to settle scores, and that somehow, Paul was stolen of his award. That Richard stole Brooke away unknowingly. He didn’t want anything to do with the book or Paul after that night – but it never left his mind, those thoughts, that look and all those girls dead. It was like a background score he was trying to get rid of for so many years, till he couldn’t anymore, after his birthday three years back.

His mind, groggy with sleep, flew in and out of memories.
It was a usual cloudy morning – with the hot scones and the cake his sister would always send. She had a funny way of showing affection – which amounted to showing none, however, she was always and always the first to wish him. He had ensured he was alone, or rather Natasha-free before twelve. He hated the judgmental Eve, and Natasha brought it out in her in flying colours. He went through his mailbox, smiling at the letters of old friends – some of the letters were inevitable, and would always turn up on his birthday. At the end of the stack he found a simple coarse paper card with a crude cake drawn on it, no envelope. Strange. He knew no kids who would send him cards or anything at all- he didn’t really gel in well with them. What he found inside was totally unexpected – it had just two words in capitals.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

PAUL.

And it stopped his heart momentarily. He ran frantically into his house, and slammed the door shut. Panting, he checked the postal address and briskly walked up to his study desk. Somehow the idea of having a gun near him made him feel comfortable. He spent sleepless weeks following that incident, cooped up in his home, staying away from people. It was until days later, when Natasha has knocked some sense into him, that he decided to look into this matter. Without probing further, he would never come to know how the card came to be. It had been three years since his trip down under, and he had almost stopped having disturbing dreams at night. He was finally getting over it -those haunting grey eyes, and those dank walls and the woods and piling dead bodies. He dreamt of the same for months. Each night it would get a little more vivid, or it would be dim humming at the back of his mind. But it never truly left him. He knew he was close to becoming paranoid, that he was wont to looking over his shoulders all the time. But three years down the line, the paranoia was fading and he was breathing with ease. And then the card arrived.

After much effort and bribery was put in, it was revealed that three years of good behaviour earned him certain privileges.

“Are they out of his mind?”

He seethed with anger, more so over the fact that Wattson was simply quiet. His raspy voice sounded condescending despite his best efforts – and it wasn’t comforting. The fact that Paul had taken the trouble to post a letter all the way to London just to rattle Richard.

“What the warden does isn’t in my hands Halden. Get a grip over yourself and chuck the card in the garbage. You have enough on your hands with the award coming up!”

Oh! Right. The award. Some award. Would he live through to receive it? Would it be posthumous? Okay now he seriously needed to get out and live a little.

He hung up. The fact that he was still behind bars served a little amount of satisfaction to Richard. But the cycle had started again, and this time with more vigour. He could never be too careful, never take a turn without looking over his shoulders and his paranoia had touched newer levels altogether. However, unlike the last time, he decided to confine his madness within the limits of his mind. All the hallucinations, the dreams had returned to haunt his night’s sleep – until it subsided into a routine that he stopped running from.

He would always make sure that Paul is still in jail, he decided. Even after Wattson passed away, and he couldn’t attend the funeral, but he made sure to check in Paul’s status. He had enough contacts in Australia to keep him updated. It had been a couple of years since his first card, and Paul had never missed a birthday since. No matter who wished, he’d always be greeted by Paul’s card in the letterbox. It was an eerie gift that he was starting to look forward to. Like an arch nemesis. He scoffed at his wild imagination. People didn’t have arch enemies. Something like this should have freaked him out, yet he never went to the police. Thinking back, he probably should have reported Paul’s “friendly” correspondence- but he couldn’t fathom the reason why he never went forward with the information.

The idea, the escapade was already brewing in his mind – with the cards, and the unexpected interest that Paul took in him. He wanted to return the favour maybe. Or he had reached a point in his life, where routine
and the monotony was strangling his life. And so, the idea was given a corporal form of a book. Again! He had, after all, pursued the dollmaker with the ruse of getting an inspiration for his next novel. He wanted to take it up again. He was sceptical about how much he could reproduce – the incidents were fresh then. He never doubted his memory – it was almost photographic and he was blessed with tremendous retention capacity. It was retrieving that would be troublesome – along with the incomplete information that he had wouldn’t suffice to give justice to Paul. Ronan was the only person who had known about his increasing obsession. And he wasn’t too enthused by it. It was only after Ronan’s intervention that he could see a glimmer of hope again.

Brooke. It was as simple as that. She could light up the memory lanes like the sun. She would be like the talking diary. He hated himself for having thought of Brooke as nothing but a means to achieve his ends, but then, Paul deserved
so much
more, he thought wryly. Ronan’s conversation indicated it had something to do with her location. He had to ferret about to get the exact coordinates. And he was good at ferreting. He only had to think like her and he’d deduce.

A good six years had passed
since the murders. He didn’t know where to start. However all routes led to Brooke somehow. He spent a couple of months, reading up his old notes and documents- trying his best to avoid picturing Selena and the other girls’ dead bodies. After repeated calls to Australia, and hiring a PI, he finally knew Brooke had left Australia for the UK. But that hardly narrowed down his range of places to look for a recluse. It was a long chain of people that had to be pestered and followed up with, that led to the discovery of Brooke in Scotland. Apple Cross was a sheer streak of luck. In the form of a docket named in an illegible code in the cabinet of Ronan. Yeah! He did stoop to snooping around his apartment at night whenever he crashed at his place –which was very frequently given his sudden rise in interest in Paul. He suspected Cook to straightaway understand his motives – even if he did, he paid enough homage to Richard’s stubborn ass. Plausible deniability. He couldn’t help if Rick came by the information unknowingly. But then Cook was obstinately meticulous about his duties – he was sure, Cook would never risk the safety of a homicide witness to honour Richard’s whims.

He could never risk Brooke’s safety. Richard would definitely stop respecting Cook’s judgement if he thought so little for her.
Ronan most certainly didn’t know the docket was unsecured. Richard had almost given up his treasure hunt when he realised the gravity of the situation. What if Paul traces his steps to find Brooke? He laughed out aloud. He was being too paranoid now – too much of thriller movies and books. His own books. He quietly replaced the file back in its place, locking the cabinet, and went back to his room, praying what he was about to embark upon does more good than wrong.

He yawned widely, shuffling those memories out of his mind.
Even after having travelled innumerable miles to reach almost the end of the world to talk to her, he deliberated whether what he did was correct. What if he was jeopardising Brooke’s safety and his own too? But then it would all mean something tangible, if Brooke agreed to talk to him – he was certain she would have forgotten him. He was the constant reminder of the day that her father was taken away for good. Did he dare to hope she would agree to talk to him as she felt grateful to him for that fateful day? That was stupid. The best he could hope for was to have her sane enough after what she had been put through.