Runner

Chapter 1

The black clouds poured hard rain relentlessly onto the road like a bag that had been overturned in the sky. It was the rain of a hot Summer’s evening, falling in sheets at an angle swept up by the wind. There was a storm brewing. It rumbled in the air as it cooked, threatening to burn. The wind, which would seem odd for Summer, was typical of a blustery Scottish border-town. Together they made a formidable opponent for any driver. The raindrops were thick and dropping in pre-assembled puddles, while the gale caught as much as it could in a hurry and threw the water violently in all directions.

The irony of the situation was not lost on Gale. Though he had no love for his name, he did at least think it was appropriate now he was living in Scotland. People had often enlightened him as to how much better it was to live in Scotland rather than England, but so far, the only difference Gale had noticed was that Scotland had more rain and that was about it. He was however, still only new.

Bump!

The car flew over an incline in the road and for a fleeting moment teased to take off into the orange and grey sky like the crescendo to a great family film. Yet, with an undignified tremor, it returned uncomfortably to the tarmac with a splash and a crash. The suitcases in the backseats played a private game of pinball before both being defeated and spilling their hastily packed innards onto the car-floor and the under-seats. A few times already had Gale’s car wheels lost traction on a junction. He’d heard the screeching of tyres in films before, but never from a real car, let alone his own. He glanced at his rear-view mirror. The caravan was still attached. He went to put his foot back down on the accelerator until it touched back down to the ground, but quickly realised he’d never pulled it off in the first place. Onwards, the engine roared.

Gale was usually a very well-behaved person; calm, quiet and the most unlikely chap ever to put a foot out of place. But for the moment his foot had found a new place on top of two pedals in his car – neither of which was the brake. His glasses were fogged up by his heavy breathing and resembled a miniature version of his windscreen. The wipers were working at full throttle, but could not keep up with Gale’s lungs. At random intervals, Gale would wipe a hand over the glass separating him from a wet British Summer and his visibility would increase by a fraction. His mind was racing harder and faster than the vehicle at his command.

“Boring... predictable...” He muttered under his breath, taking no notice of the tidal wave of water he’d just created as the car cut through a pond on the road. He wiped his eyes, which had released streams of water comparable to the storm-clouds above. Gale had reached a stretch of road which would soon take him to the motorway. Trees huddled around the route as though trying to conceal his presence. The minutes sped by. The harder he pressed on the pedals; the quicker time went. That was what Gale wanted. He wished to be out for as long as possible. He just wished he knew where to go.

The orange evening sky had now become a pink-purple Thai-dye blend. It was an hour’s drive to the motorway, but a passing sign had told Gale he was now only 6 miles away from the slipway. It all struck him at once. At last, he took his foot off the pedal and slammed hard on the brakes. The sound was terrifying and Gale felt his car lose grip on the surface beneath. For a moment, man and machine became a curling stone, floating together down the line unable to give any resistance to their journey. Eventually, they came to a stop and the tyres ceased their screaming.

Crack!

Gale looked over his shoulder. The caravan was somehow still tethered to the car, but the hitch had clearly come under serious strain. Gale had stopped the car as suddenly as he had started it over an hour ago. He saw his luggage behind him. They were like slain monsters, lying slack-jawed, a tongue idly hanging out in the form of a sock and blood and guts everywhere – clothes and books. Gale rested his head in his hands and attempted to breath slower. He took in a large gulp of oxygen and felt his body temporarily inflate. He released it all in a deep and resonant sigh.

What am I doing? What was I thinking? Where am I even going? I could have killed someone. I could have been killed.

His thoughts swirled inside his head like the raging monsoon tearing at his car.

Ridiculous. Irresponsible. Dangerous. Outrageous. Pathetic.

Gale gave himself a scathing review, but oddly enough began to calm down. His breathing became controlled and consistent. His eyes too had dried. Gale opened his door and stepped out into the hurricane. Gale in a gale. The irony struck him again. The rain knocked hard against his unprotected scalp and the wind made him place a defensive hand over his coat. It was sobering. The effect of throwing a bucket of ice over a sleeping drunk. In the trees, Gale heard an unmistakable sound, which caused him to curiously scan his surroundings. Though Gale was far from an expert on birds, he was certain of two things: that the bird was a Cuckoo and that he wouldn’t be able to see it.

The Cuckoo was a bird native to Africa, not Britain, but could be found across the islands during the Summer when they migrated. They were brass-neck gamblers, who would cross a continent just to steal another bird’s nest. Gale imagined the journey, venturing all the way from Africa to Scotland without the guarantee of a home. It seemed mad to him. Then he pondered the decision. Do birds make decisions? Or is it just instinct. It was a risk the bird had taken. Now it sat large as life, sounding its victory from a branch somewhere overhead. But then Gale made a mistake. The train of thought derailed from its tracks and went head-first over the edge and into a canyon. He remembered.

Lame. Tired. Boring. Plain. Predictable.

Her words repeated on him like a dodgy meal and he felt sick. Gale’s face became hot. He didn’t need to glance at his mirror to know he’d turned the colour of a post-box. Slamming the door, he returned to his seat and clawed the rain-water from his face. His fingers gripped the steering-wheel tight, turning the palms of his hands white under the strain. The strings in his brain had been pulled rigid and the tension broke with a snap. Gale was instantly furious and far from ready to calm down and reconsider what he was doing.

Gale, in his fury, had made a decision. A decision to stop making decisions. He was now a creature of instinct and felt very much like crossing a continent just to steal a nest.

Chapter 2

Gale drove until it was pitch black. The vibrant colours which had earlier been ablaze had at last burnt out into the smoky embers of a dark night. The downpour had finally stopped, but the evidence of it laid strewn over every car and every tree, every road and every path and every lamp-post and street-sign that Gale passed. Every now and then, as it shifted from under its gloomy cloak, the moon cast a hot, white spotlight over the drenched, soggy countryside and everything sparkled under the polish of illuminated rain water. Almost all could be seen as clear as a bright and shining day. Just when Gale would begin to take in his surroundings with some appreciation, a sodden grey mass above would smother all from view. He carried on down the road, waiting periodically for the lights to come back on. He’d only really noticed now, in the dark, just how beautiful Scotland was.

That night, he slept in the car, having pulled partially into a driveway for a birds of prey exhibition centre that was closed the next morning. The trees around him were like wooden skyscrapers that towered into the black ceiling. In the current lighting, they looked like enough to hide Gale’s car from late-night and early-morning commuters. Gale laid awake for hours that night. His mind replayed the words over and over in his head. He was a broken record that made no noise in the night. He wondered if she was angry or upset. Maybe she’d begun to panic by now, after all, Gale was never out this late. He fantasised about her feeling guilty and worrying by the phone. He pictured her begging on her knees for forgiveness and gushing about how wrong she was. At some point, his subconscious stole the reins and produced images of Gale at the helm of a large fishing boat. He was a rugged captain of a vessel with the wings of a bird and steered courageously through a storm, perfectly evading the gibes from the sirens in the ocean beneath his feet.

He awoke with discomfort in his upper back and neck with the sun making a start on the pastel-coloured horizon. The contents of his suitcase were even less organised than before. Gale resigned himself to the fact that he’d have to search for his toothbrush and toothpaste somewhere on the floor of the car. Eventually, he struck gold and found them both beneath the driver seat. He stepped outside into a soft green world that still dripped with the debris of last night’s weather. The trees had provided great cover from the main road. Gale counted only 4 cars he heard pass by while he brushed his teeth and cleansed his mouth of post-nap grogginess. When he’d finished, he reached into the car door for the only thing he had packed with any care. A reusable camera. Gale directed its gaze towards the sign for the birds of prey centre and clicked the button. The camera flashed and Gale wound the wheel with his thumb. Next, he stretched out his arm and brandished an exaggerated smile.

Flash!

The wheel gave a buzz as he scrolled to the next frame. This time, Gale stuck up a thumb.

Flash!

That’ll show her.

By 8am, Gale had continued down the same road he’d abandoned late the previous night and reached a café. When he saw it, his stomach gave a groan of approval and Gale pulled into a parking space. On a piece of A4 paper cellotaped to the inside of the window by the door, was the declaration that Gale had stumbled across the best coffee in Argyll. Inside, the pit stop had a mangey feel about it. It was an old-fashioned building with a business on the ground floor and housing stacked on-top. Though, from the outside, every other floor looked deserted. The few people breakfasting within were just as worn as the furniture they dined on. On the other side of the room a man sat, barely conscious, with two drinks in front of him. One in a mug, the other in a hip-flask. His head rested in a slant on the wall by his chair in such a way that Gale was reminded of crucifixions. Next to him, was a table of three elderly humanoids who very noisily hacked at their bacon and sausages. Each of them wielded their cutlery like prisoners brandishing sharpened toothbrushes. Gale was again reminded of crucifixion.

Before Gale had looked any further, a waitress had beckoned him unequivocally to the particular table by the window near the door and asked for his order. Her accent fell into the second of two categories he’d established since moving to Scotland; Glaswegian and other. Gale was relieved it was the latter.

“Morning, Sir. What can I get you?”

“A latte please. Thank you.”

Gale had answered without at all needing to see the menu and the waitress skipped happily towards the kitchen. She seemed relieved to be dealing with a much more manageable customer. He cursed himself. Predictable. He felt a rebellion rose from the base of his spine and Gale regretted deeply that he hadn’t requested a whiskey, a steak dinner and her phone number to go. Her use of the word Sir too had itched a scratch he’d been trying to neglect. She had made him feel old. After a glance at the window to his right, his misery was compounded. Seeing fractions of his forehead in the dim reflections of his rear-view mirror had not prepared him for what he saw now. In the harsh light of the day, he looked abominable. His clothes were soaked and his face was dotted and lined with the symptoms of stress and age. Emotionally, he had attended the funeral for his hairline years ago, but it was his pair of oversized, round spectacles that did the most damage. He looked withered and worn. Like an old shoe. Too small and over-worked to be any good anymore.

Surely, he didn’t normally look that bad. Promptly, he assigned the blame to the storm and the lack of sleep for his shoddy appearance, but he wasn’t entirely convinced. Rescuing him from further self-castigation, the waitress re-appeared with a mug, tea-plate and a tea-spoon. She had returned too quickly for Gale to believe he was about to taste what was purportedly the best coffee in Argyll. Even so, the waitress placed it down before him with the confidence and smugness of a lawyer. He thanked her with a nod and a fleeting imitation of her lip-stretching smile, then she was off. Gale’s cynicism was a recent development. Another thing that made him feel 20 years older than he actually was. Other people had started noticing it too. His work colleagues were the most attentive. They would taunt him with phrases like lighten up or loosen up. Live a little was Gale’s least favourite. Not only was it insulting, but it was a sobering reminder that everyone around him had accepted to live only a fraction of their lives – and this was supposed to be something to strive for, to be proud of. He’d rather live a life than live a little.

Gale had often said in his defence that you’re only as old as you feel. But secretly, that only made him feel worse. By that metric, he felt ancient. Anytime Gale thought about doing something, anything, he became overwhelmed by fatigue. Exercise was meant to be tiring, but not before you’ve actually done it. A new hobby, a holiday, even sometimes the thought of having a nice, relaxing bath, seemed exhausting. The way other people lived their lives thoroughly blew Gale’s mind. Having a job was more than he could handle. Yet, he would often hear of people who’d gone out to work an 8-hour shift, then met friends in the evening for football, or games night, or drinks at the pub. And that was more than once a week. Multiple times in fact would these people find time for both work and play on a regular basis.

And then there was everything else too. Laundry, dishes, hoovering, spending, eating, folding, shopping, sleeping, speaking. Gale felt like he had to specifically make the time for all of those things. Just thinking about it all made him deflate at his table. His sigh had been louder than he’d intended, but thankfully nobody seemed to notice. Gale had turned 31 just a week ago, and yet, he was absolutely ready to retire right there and then. His frame of mind was caught somewhere between revolution and resignation. Both ideologies tugged at his brain like they were gripped to a rope, trying to bring down the other. He needed a distraction. He eyed up his latte. The milk had been issued in such a way that a pattern rested at the brim. Gale angled his head. He wasn’t sure what the pattern was supposed to be. It was shaped like a heart, but had consistent tears through it that made it look more like a leaf. When the thought occurred to him that it was perhaps a broken heart, Gale realised it was time to stop looking and time to start drinking. He gave it a taste and concluded with one audible gulp that this café must be, in fact, the one and only coffee vendor in Argyll. Across the room, the smile on the face of the waitress had evolved to grow teeth and gums, and it was pointed straight at him. For a moment, Gale felt like the Joker had spiked his drink. At least she was satisfied with it.

Just as Gale took out his wallet to pay, a chord had been struck, which resonated charmingly in his ears. His first real smile of the day slithered onto his face. Gale had hatched an idea. Everything surging through his head had led to this moment. Packing his bags, speeding in his car, sleeping by the road. Amidst all the despair he had been reborn. He was a livewire. A box of fireworks. A blank canvas. A cuckoo bird in a storm. Now had come the time to take flight.

Chapter 3

Gale waved his hand in the air and flagged down the waitress, who at the sight of his frantic flapping wrist, sent him her first frown. She quickly buried it behind a steely grin and approached his table.

“Something I can help you with, Sir?”

There it was again, the image of corduroy trousers and a walking stick. Gale put it to the back of his mind. He was on a mission.

“Some toast please.” He commanded in a strong voice. “Could I... could I have some?” He added more softly.

“Of course.”

Her eyes caught the mug by his right hand. It was still rather full. The descent of her eyebrows caused the skin on her youthful forehead to furrow for a second before she caught herself. Her discomfort was rising. When she left to relay his order, she went through a door behind the counter. Gale rose from his seat the instant she was gone. Adjacent to the till was a wall lined with picture frames hanging crooked from the lumpy stone surface. Beneath them was a two-story tower of trays on wheels with condiments and cutlery laid out for customers. Gale gazed greedily across the goods. His heart was pounding faster than he’d liked. It made his arms wobble noticeably as they dangled menacingly over the packets of vinegar. He was like a wild-cat frozen in time above its prey mere moments before the fatal pounce had landed.

Gale did not wish to be seen out of his seat. The very moment his eyes caught the sight of the packets of butter, his arm had been entombed knuckle-deep in the dish. He grabbed a fistful and hurried back to his table. Once Gale had sat down, he dropped the packets in front of him. The butter had become misshapen victims of Gale’s unconstrained vigour. Such was his callousness, some of the butter had been partially squeezed from one of the wrappers. Four. That might not be enough. The waitress did not return from the kitchen as soon as he’d feared and Gale shook his head at the thought of the calm operation he could have performed instead. When she reappeared through the kitchen door, Gale gave a stunned start, but masked it as the weary stretch of someone awake entirely too early in the morning.

By the time Gale had lowered his arms and stopped pretending to yawn, a plate of warm bread had materialised in front of him. Along with a knife, a napkin and two more packets of butter. This was it. The home-stretch. Gale could feel his wallet poking him in the thighs. The angel to his devil. Don’t do it. Just pay. But Gale had already devoured half of the toast dry. Time began to slow down. He was on stage with the curtain about to draw. Stood on the springboard with the water below. Jump. With a gulp, the last piece of crust scraped its way down Gale’s gullet. He took a sip of his coffee for the pain. Now for the butter.

He pulled his plate closer to his chest and leaned over the table as he began. He opened the first and spread it thin. He glanced behind him. The table of old codgers were going to be finished soon. Gale had to time it just right. He opened the next packets and laid it on thick on one side, then did the same with the next packet on the other side. One last strip of bacon stabbed through the heart by a geriatric. Gale used the fourth packet as a final glaze, but tried to spread it lightly like the first. Was everything okay? Gale heard the waitress ask, along with the unmistakable sound of plates being piled one on top of another. Damn! The under-side! Gale flipped the plate over and hurriedly emptied the last two packets over the porcelain. Only when every inch of the tea-plate had received a coat of butter, did Gale raise his head.

“Excuse me! Could you take this too?” He shouted.

The waitress paused in her tracks and gave him a cold look. Gale gave her a reassuring nod and rubbed his belly.

“Delicious, by the way. The best I’ve had in Argyll.”

This wasn’t technically untrue. Gale had never been there before. The waitress was no longer looking at him, but was now eyeing up the plate. Gale was sure he could see her mouth moving as she made the calculations in her head. Her right arm was stacked with two large plates, one wrapped around the curve of her elbow and the other balanced under the fingertips, which were spread out like an upside-down spider. In her left, she carried a mug between fingers and thumb and one more plate so far up her arm Gale thought she might have mistaken it for a strings instrument. It was perfect. Just as he’d planned. She slid the handle of the mug down her thumb and returned a weak smile. Gale leaned back in his chair to give her as much space as possible. She bent forward, somehow balancing all the crockery finely on her thin wrists and pinched the plate with what was remaining of her left hand. She winced slightly as she stood back up straight. He had to hand it to her. Along with the coffee she’d made, this was another flawless audition for the circus.

She turned and made her way for the kitchen door. The crucifiers were on their feet. Had they paid yet? Maybe they’d had the same idea. The waitress stopped dead in her tracks. She was halfway between the drunkard’s table and the till. Gale heard her groan. Now.

Gale’s plate hit the ground first and tore itself in two. The sound of it caused all other noise to die. Then went the rest. The poor waitress had angled her hand too far, hoping to prevent it from falling, but only caused the rest of her load to cascade to the ground after it. With a quiet, concentrated audience, she dropped everything into a pile. The wail of the ceramics as they crashed to the ground into atoms was like an elongated shriek. She held her hands to her ears. She hated that noise. It reminded her of having to empty the bins from the bar at her old job. The sound of glass upon glass that made her ears ring and her stomach contract. The crucifiers gave her a consoling look and elected not to request their bill just yet. The Joker gnarled her teeth into a furious simper. But when she turned to look back at the waterlogged fossorial who had handed her such a slippery plate, his seat was already empty and everything on the table had gone. Everything except for the coffee.

Speeding once again in his car, Gale thought that his bones might shatter around his thumping heart. It was beating against his ribcage like the hordes of barbarians laying siege to the city walls. The plan had almost worked. The plate had slipped from the waitress’ weak wrists and the resulting smash had offered a diversion. But Gale had forgotten about the bell above the door. The very second he heard the innocent ring-a-ding sound his sudden exit, his calm but speedy walk had erupted into the full flight of a young and clumsy gazelle. He stumbled twice; once over a chalkboard and then over plant-pot. He was certain he’d knocked the board over and alerted everyone fully to his crimes. But Gale had not looked back. He wasted no time in readying his get-away vehicle and bursting onto the open road.

The early morning commutes had started to fill in the bare tarmac. As much as Gale wanted to speed again, there simply wasn’t the space to pull it off. Too many witnesses. Too much danger. But Gale wanted to do more. The adrenaline was surging through his body like he’d been struck by lightning. The honks from irritated drivers voicing their disapproval of his sudden and reckless arrival on the road did not deter him. Usually, Gale would pull over and apologise to other drivers, even if they were in the wrong. He didn’t care that his calculated robbery of the café had gone down in a bit of a blunder. He’d gotten away with it. I did it. Gale patted himself on the back and was smiling so much he began to laugh. However, the more he thought about it, the more his smile faded.

He had robbed the café. Actually burgled an establishment. Committed a crime. Took the ultimate risk. And without a mask. He’d shown his bare face to the waitress on multiple occasions. And what a memorable face too. And for what? What had he really gained from the gamble? Two slices dry toast and a coffee he didn’t even drink. That’s what he’d stolen. It would have cost less than £10 to pay for it, but no, now he was a criminal. The police had probably already been informed. Someone had probably seen his number plate too. Every car around had just observed in plain sight as he’d pulled into the road, nearly causing a crash. Oh God.

Gale spent the rest of the day hiding in a car-park. He had driven for hours but lost his nerve and pulled into a Tesco-24. He was laid over the backseats with his stomach rumbling when he heard it on the car radio. Missing, 31-year-old male, slim build, shorter than average, declining head of brown hair, brown eyes, last seen late Friday night. So she had noticed. And she was worried too. She’d called the police. Gale felt a pang of satisfaction, before a tidal wave of guilt and regret. He pulled his hands over his eyes and rubbed his face wildly, pushing and pulling his cheeks as high and low as they could go. He considered turning back, paying for damages at the café, going home and apologising, putting things right. Mustn’t think too much. Instinct. Spontaneity. Can’t carry on like this. Dangerous. Wrong. The war rages on. The eternal struggle.

In his efforts to decide what to do, Gale spent an awful lot of time doing nothing. Before he knew it, the sun had set and Gale’s was the only car left in the car-park. Frustrated and tired, there seemed to be as good a place as any to sleep for the night. Perhaps after some rest he’d know what to do. Maybe in the morning he’d feel better. Gale shut his eyes and all turned to black. Boring. Predictable. There she was again. Every criticism, weakness and every anxiety Gale had put on her voice for that extra bit of impact. It fit like a glove. Maybe she deserved better. Maybe she should have someone in her life who surprises her with exciting holidays abroad and flowers home from work, instead of tantrums and theft. This was even her car he’d left in. Her camera too. Gale didn’t have many possessions of his own. He never seemed to want for anything. I must start wanting things he told himself. But he couldn’t think of anything. Did that make him happy? Did his like of desires mean he was content in life? He didn’t feel that way.

A flicker of red danced in the blackness and Gale opened his eyes. The red turned to blue and Gale’s spine turned to stone.