Chasing The Last Road To Stockholm

I squeezed her hand, and she returned it gratefully.

"It was like being in a nightmare or one of those cheap-shit horror movies -- wandering around in the dark halls of that place, knowing I was going to be discovered at any moment. But then I found an emergency exit. It was just there! I know there are probably dozens all through that place, but at that moment it felt like I'd found a magic doorway.

"I used the keys to unlock it, then just pushed it, ran down the steps and away. An alarm sounded, but I didn't hear any pursuit. I saw the wheat fields and just ran. When I reached them, I kept running for a while, but kept tripping over in the dark. So I hid.

"After a while, in the distance, I saw a couple of police cars drive up to the institute... hospital... whatever it was. I started towards them, and then realised that they would in all likelihood see me not as someone held illegally against their will, but as a patient -- a dangerous, violent patient -- escaping from an insane asylum. Why would they believe that Murdoch was raping and beating me every day, trying to break me and gain control over me so he could loot everything I had? What evidence did I have? Nothing! While they probably had papers to prove I should be there and wasn't in my right mind! If Murdoch was still alive, he would be able to prove I was violent and if he wasn't... What if I killed him? What if I killed a man? I never wanted to kill someone, but I did want to kill him. What if I did? What does that make me?"

She broke off for a moment, her face against her knees, lost in terrible memory. I thought about what she said, and found myself hoping she had indeed killed him. He deserved it -- and more. She was now clutching my hand against her chest like a shield. I pulled the car off the road and stroked her hair with the other one.

Eventually, she sniffed and looked at me again. "I stayed hidden, digging in at night, and moving only a little each day, until I came across a road -- which I didn't dare cross in case I was seen."

"And then I came along," I said.

She nodded and the tears began to flow once more. "And then you came along and... you know."

"I understand."

She squeezed my hand hard.

"If you hadn't stopped... Thank you for stopping!"

"My bladder deserves the thanks," I smiled.

"I'm sorry I treated you like shit," she said quietly.

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing. I'd reached a stage where, in my mind, all men would hurt me. Murdoch had got me to the point that I was starting to give in to him. That Stockholm Syndrome thing. It's crazy. I'm crazy. I'm fucked up in my head. He would hurt me badly, and then bring me a soda or something. And I'd be grateful to him. He'd ask me to kiss the ass of the massive dragon tattoo on his chest, and I'd be happy to do that for him. I was grateful, for fuck's sake! Towards the end he would tell me to do things ... stupid or nasty things ... and I found myself wanting to do them. I wanted to please him -- which horrifies me more than anything. I can't go back! I can't!"

She was taking huge gulps of air, and I began to worry she might pass out. "Jesus, Summer. I wish I'd known earlier."

"I didn't know if I could trust you. I don't really know why I trust you now, although I do... a little. Maybe I'm tired of not trusting people. I've certainly never really felt able to trust strangers before, or even people I knew. Dad warned me when I was still young that guys would want me for my money. Even if they liked me, they would always want the money, which meant that dating anyone sucked, big time. How can you get to like someone if you don't trust them?"

"Well, please don't feel you need to worry about money from my side," I said. "I do okay for myself."

"Really, because you don't really look... well off?" she said hesitantly, the question in her voice. "I don't even know what you do, although you've hinted that you know something about computers."

"I, er... I write songs," I said, starting the engine and swinging back out onto the road and realised I was doing it to avoid answering. I found myself reluctant to explain more, and realised that Phoebe had damaged me more than I'd realised. Certainly not as badly as Summer had been, but significantly enough.

She stared at me, and I glimpsed a look of understanding come into her eyes before I fixed my eyes on the road again. "When you sang to me -- that was your song!"

"Yes."

"It was very pretty. Did you just make it up on the spot?"

"Not really," I said, still reluctant. "I wrote it a few months ago."

"You should finish it and get it out there!" she stated firmly.

I wanted to tell her that Shades of Blue was already finished and that Little Mix would be releasing it in three months' time when their new album was scheduled to go live. It was the first I'd done for a girl group, but it needed the complex counter-harmonies that they would bring to it so well.

I wanted to tell her, but I couldn't. I felt like shit. She trusted me with her story, and yet I couldn't bring myself to tell her the truth of mine. Fuck you, Phoebe!

"So that's who you're hiding from," I changed the subject. "The police?"

"The police, Murdoch, possibly Kerry, and God knows who else wants me in their hands. Public Health, the FBI... even the fucking dog catcher, for all I know."

She sounded crushed and exhausted. "We were lucky back there. That cop was on the lookout for me. I could see it when he was looking at my hair."

"I'm not sure they're actively searching," I remarked. "I watched the TV news and you weren't on it, so it's not like they're going door-to-door -- more like you're on a watch list of some sort. I don't think this Murdoch character can be dead, as there'd be more kerfuffle about it."

"Kerfuffle?" She actually giggled. She was going from tears to laughter and back way too quickly. Her mental balance was shot. But laughter was better than bitter fear and devastating memory.

I pretended indignation.

"Yes, kerfuffle! It's a perfectly good English word. Like hullabaloo, or williwaw. It means the same thing."

"Williwaw?" She was laughing hard now, but it had no note of hysteria or fear. It was a good laugh.

"There's no such word! You made that up!" she accused.

"No, no, no!" I denied, putting on my best John Cleese impression. "Just because you Americans might not 'ave heard of it, don't mean it's not real. I'll 'ave you know, my girl, that it's a perfectly good noun, and is in common usage by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Bolingbroke and the Marquis De Sade!"

Smiling, she put a hand to my cheek. "You're a very strange man... in a good way, I think."

"Thank you. Such effusive praise deserves a reward. As Lappies would say, 'so 'n bek moet jam kry!' Which I believe translates as -- a mouth like that should be given jam. He's my agent, from South Africa originally. He trots out these little sayings all the time. Half the time, I think he's talking bollocks and just swearing at me on the quiet."

As I spoke, I drew out a chocolate bar from a little paper bag I had at my feet, having shopped at the kiosk near the hotel before we left, and handed it to her. She liked food a lot, and seemed to need feeding whenever possible, so...

She seemed delighted, opening it quickly and nibbling at a corner. She looked at me slyly. "Ooh. Ta. Much obliged, guvnor!"

"Oh God," I moaned, despair in my voice. "She's back into washer-woman mode."

"I think I need to phone my lawyers," she said after a while. "I don't know what's going on, but I think them knowing I'm alive and the circumstances of my recent... confinement... is a good place to start. If nothing else, they can at least make sure that nobody is dipping their hand into the cookie jar. My cookie jar. They control the trust, but I don't how that is affected by my parents... Well, they need to know."

I nodded. It made sense.

"Are you going to tell them where you are?" I asked. "I mean, if the police are looking for you as a mental patient escaped from an asylum, wouldn't they be required to inform them? I don't know how it works here in America."

She bit her lip. "Yeah, I suppose they would. So I'm not going to tell them. All they need to know is I'm alive and that allowing anyone else to get control of my family's money would be a very bad thing in the long run. I think I also need to find a friendly shrink who can certify that I'm not actually crazy."

"If nothing else, they could at least help you with that," I agreed. "And give you some help on... what happened to you."

Her face froze, and I quickly changed the subject. Neither of us wanted her to dwell on that maniac and what he'd done to her.

"I think we should also stay off the highways," I mused, thinking out loud. "If the police have your picture -- and with that last cop pulling us over just to have a look-see, we have to assume that they do -- then we have to keep you tucked away. Unfortunately, and believe me, this is the last thing I want you to do, I think we're going to have to do something about your hair. It's just too obvious, the way it shines out like a golden pearl in a pile of mud, or a roaring fire in a snowy landscape, or..."

She twirled a little lock of her hair around her fingers, examining it closely and then looking at me.

"You really like my hair, don't you?"

I thought about denying it, trying to keep everything on a neutral level, trying to avoid any sign of emotion between us, but I couldn't deny it. I nodded.

"I do. Quite frankly, I've never seen anything quite like it. The thought of you cutting it off makes me feel very sad. Honestly, I'd rather you made it green or blue or pink, rather than cut it off. But your safety is more important."

Her eyes widened and she shot me that wonderful smile, nodding her head.

"Brilliant idea. Let's do that at the next stop!"

"Do what?"

"Cosplay!"

I was about to make a sarcastic remark, when I realised the genius of her idea. Cosplay allowed people -- and for people read slightly weird types -- to dress up as fantasy or comic characters.

"Don't you need to have a costume for that?" I asked.

"Pah," she said blithely. "With all those clothes you bought me? I can mix and match, and if anyone asks, I'll make up a character and pretend it's a brand new comic. I could be Fantasiala, or Pudding Girl, or even a character dressed in her normal daily disguise -- like Clark Kent or Diana Prince."

I sniggered. "Pudding Girl! Be Pudding Girl! Oh, please be Pudding Girl!"

"What? Why?"

"Everybody likes pudding. Mmm, treacle tart or sticky toffee pudding and custard. No -- pavlova! I love pavlova with double cream. That's a good name for Pudding Girl -- Wantsomemoreova Pavlova. It even sounds Russian, like Black Widow."

"Those are desserts, not pudding."

I shot her a look. "Pudding, dessert -- same thing."

"Pudding is a smooth, creamy dessert."

"You guys are weird. That's like saying dinner is a hot, tasty dinner."

We fell into a spirited argument, and for the first time, it felt good to be talking and laughing with her -- without the shadows of our damaged pasts darkening the mood.

She made a couple of phone calls on my phone. When she slowly said and very clearly said several words that made no sense together, I came to the conclusion that they were code words to identify her. After that I tried really hard not to listen, wanting to give her privacy.

We stopped at the next town and after rummaging in her suitcases, Summer drew me into a large store that seemed to sell just about everything, from toothpaste to televisions. The long aisles proved no problem for her, however, and within minutes she had purchased what she wanted and found the toilets. Glancing around and seeing nobody looking, she popped into a disabled loo and locked me out to stand guard. Of course, with my luck, within two minutes a guy in a wheelchair appeared.

"Somebody in there, mate," I offered lamely, which I guess was appropriate. "She has disabled ... er, hair."

He stared at me, laughed and began chatting amicably, asking me where I was from. There was a flush and, thank God, a woman in a wheelchair exited the adjacent toilet, relieving me of having to explain my statement and giving me a reprieve from the feeling of guilt at guarding the door for Summer, against people who actually needed it.

It took ten minutes before she opened the door and allowed me to see the results of her efforts.

I was gob-smacked. In front of me stood a small, fairy-like creature with purple hair that hung down to her butt. A sparkly red dress showed a little cleavage and a lot of thigh. In the middle of Summer's forehead was a large red diamond. It took me a moment to realise that it was painted on, with glitter stuck to the paint. Her eyes were made up darkly, extended from the corners, giving her a slightly Asian look. Her legs were wrapped in what looked like leather thongs, which criss-crossed all the way up from a pair of black heels.

She dropped a deep curtsey as I gawped at her.

The guy in the wheelchair chose that moment to exit his bathroom. He raised his eyebrows at Summer, then waggled them at me and gave me a thumbs up, before rolling off into the shop. I smiled.

"Well?"

"I get to escort the Fairy Queen to the destination of her choice. How could I deny such a charming and powerful creature anything?" I gave her a deep bow with a sweep of an imaginary hat.

"Say beautiful or I'll turn you into a frog, and forbid any maidens from kissing you!" she warned, a smile in her voice at me playing up to her.

"There are real, live maidens in this land -- actual maidenly maidens with maidenly attributes still present and correct?" I said, pretending to be astonished. "Who knew?"

"Beautiful! Say it!" she repeated.

"My queen is exquisite, delicate, fragile, wondrous..."

"You've been warned!"

"...and beautiful beyond words."

"You have a way with words, puny human. I shall not magic your favourite body parts away to the deepest depths of the ocean."

"Gasp! No!" I said. "Not my absolute favourite part!"

I clutched both hands to my left ear, and she burst out laughing.

"Idiot!"

"Guilty on all charges, m'lud!"

Laughing, we joked all the way back to the car, pausing only to buy her a large pizza as a road-snack.

Three hours later, as we headed towards Springfield, she gave a great sigh of satisfaction as she finished off the last slice in the box, uncaring that it was stone cold and defending it to the last -- having allowed me to have two slices before smacking at my hand when it crept to take another piece and declaring that they were hers for later.

My phone rang.

Before I could do anything interesting, the car picked up the call and I found myself saying hello to the dashboard.

"Mr. Lake? Bryn?" I recognised that voice.

"Is that Annie-May?" I asked.

"It is. Two things. First to thank you again for that gratuity -- it was more than generous. And secondly just to let you know that a man with a badge came in showing your friend's picture around, and saying she was a person of interest to the authorities."

I was silent for a moment, trying to think of what best to say.

"Bryn?"

"Sorry Annie-May, I was just thinking. Was it a policeman?"

"I don't think so, he just flashed the badge and then put it away. He didn't show me identification or anything. He could have been from one of the alphabet agencies, I suppose."

It took me a moment to realise what she was referring to. It was a clever description, and I filed it away to use later as a throwaway line.

"And what did you tell this person?" I asked.

"Well, I couldn't lie, so I said I hadn't noticed anyone who looked like the photograph. I mean, it was flat and glossy, and I certainly hadn't seen anyone who fit that description. Your friend isn't flat and square."

"Annie-May?"

"Yes."

"Worth every penny and a whole lot more."

"Really...? Well, I really like Riley Green, and I really like your songs, so..."

I laughed. "Annie-May, I don't think I could swing that. I know nothing about trucks and I wouldn't know a hound-dog from a Siamese cat."

"Ah, that's a shame. It could have been a match made in heaven. Well, you have a good trip and a great day! It was nice talking to you."

"You too, Annie-May. Bye."

I was grinning when I pressed the switch on the wheel to disconnect the call.

"You like her!"

"Sure, what's not to like?" I asked.

Summer flounced in her seat. I stared.

After a moment she turned to me. "Don't you know it's not polite to try and charm a girl while you're with another woman?"

I did the goldfish impression. "I wasn't trying to charm her. She's nice! And more importantly, she told us about that investigator looking for you."

"She didn't say anything to him. Tell me more about your songs that she really likes so much, and no hiding things this time!"

Ah, shit!

"I didn't hide anything. I told you I was a songwriter."

"You told her that?"

"Well, no. She recognised my name, I think."

"I didn't recognise your name!"

"Maybe she listens to the radio more than you," I retorted, feeling defensive and not understanding why.

Her eyes widened. "You have songs on the radio?"

"You sang along to a couple yesterday," I laughed.

Those eyes -- normally so big -- grew even wider. I felt for a moment I could simply dive into them and find myself in paradise.

"Which ones?" she demanded.

I told her and she looked puzzled until I clarified it. "They sang them, I wrote them. Nobody would pay to hear me sing."

"But why didn't you tell me?"

"I have a problem with telling people about my work," I confessed.

"Why?" she asked in confusion, then her face changed. "No, let me guess! Fucking Phoebe!"

I snorted. It was a good nickname. I nodded and explained.

"She sang on one of my songs. It was picked up and over time it became the norm for her to perform some of the songs on my submissions. It was a bit of a problem actually, because I create songs for specific singers, and she insisted on singing them on the demos. And when Phoebe insisted... well, I usually gave in just to get some peace and to stop her from destroying the house, or at least from blowing up my studio.

"But a lot of those I didn't even send out, and just stored them away on backup. They were no good for the people they were actually designed for, so I just let her do her thing and think they hadn't made the grade because of my song-writing rather than her voice. It was frustrating not to keep getting my songs out there, but we weren't short of cash, I loved her, and it made her happy, so...

"Then the shitweasel entered the picture."

Summer looked taken aback.

"A shitweasel: a creature so sly and slimy that it can sneak up your arse without you knowing about it and then eat you away from the inside. It's not a saying; it just describes that little prick perfectly.

"The first I knew about it was when she came home one day and announced that she now had an agent -- which was pretty weird as she wasn't doing anything in particular, so why would she need an agent? As far as I knew, there was no call for housewives to get themselves an agent. And even if she was planning to do something where she would need one, what agent would take her with no skill set?"

Summer was staring at my hands on the wheel, and I realised my fingers were drumming and tapping against it loudly in agitation. I took a firm grip to keep them still.

"So why did your wife need an agent?" she asked.

"She didn't. But he made her think that she did; that dog-snot, pox-infested mole-fucker!"

Summer's brows were raised high. "Hey, tell me how you really feel," she said lightly, and I realised she was playing my own game against me, using humour to calm the situation.