Peace and Coffee

Emma’s POV
I scanned the departure board at the station. Early Sunday morning is not a good time to plan an escape from a werewolf who can track you by scent. Hardly any trains were running yet. Not great.

I bought a ticket for Edinburgh, then caught the first train northbound. The train was only going as far a Wolverhampton… the irony I thought… changing trains in a town named for a wolf.

I had to wait some time for the next train, but I was sure if I hadn’t got out of the city he would have tracked me down. Tears trickled down my cheeks. Part of me just wanted to run back to him, but I couldn’t think when I was around him. I just wanted him to hold me, to love me… let’s be honest, to fuck me. I had been emotionally starved for far too long, my own fault, I should have tried more in the last six years. But I didn’t.

I boarded the train for Edinburgh and found myself a window seat. The train was quiet, and I dozed for a while, the motion of the train rocking me to sleep.
…
I woke up still an hour out from Edinburgh, the sleep had given me a chance to clear my head a little, and I realised I needed a bit more of a plan than run as far as I can.

Firstly, I pooled all my money, so that I could withdraw it as cash from the bank tomorrow. Then I booked a bed and breakfast in Leith for tonight, as it was cheaper than the city centre.

I wasn’t sure how quickly he would track me to Scotland, so I needed a longer-term solution of somewhere to stay… A smile curved my lips as I recalled a work colleague telling me about a trip they had made around the Highlands in a hired camper van. I had felt quite envious at the time, thinking I would never get the opportunity for such a grand adventure, and now here it was.

Going online I found Touring Trips, a company based in Nairn, which hires out campervans all year round. I reserve online, to pick it up on Tuesday. Finally, as the train pulled into Waverley station I text Jo to ask her to take care of the boys for as long as necessary, then I switch my phone off.
…
The cash withdrawal went smoothly, I had expected more questions, but they were happy with my explanation that I was buying a car. However, I am a little nervous about carrying this much cash, nearly three grand, I also know it will be much harder to trace me.

Next, I go shopping. I can’t continue to wear the same clothes, but thrift is the name of the game, so I hit the charity shops for most things, trousers, t-shirts, jumpers and even a pair of boots. Primark was good for underwear and some running gear, and my one clothing luxury was a pair of decent trainers.

Next purchase was a laptop, so I could route communications through it without it coming back or being traceable, and finally a new sim card for data.
…
I paid for the train to Nairn in cash, catching the night train, saving myself the cost of another night in a hotel.

The train pulled into Nairn station just after 9:30am and I took a taxi to Touring Trips. I fill out the paperwork, present my drivers licence and use my credit card to pay the rather hefty deposit. Then I take the keys to a glorious little yellow VW campervan.

I pull off the forecourt and a squeal escapes my lips. I turn the radio on and drive away to La Isla Bonita blasting through the stereo.
…
The first week was the hardest. A dull ache filled my chest. Tears would fill my eyes and threaten to overwhelm me constantly.

Every day I would drive to a new location and park up. Then I would run, run until my brain stopped working, until my feet were sore, the new trainers causing blisters to form.

My evening meal was generally soup and bread. Breakfast was coffee and fruit. Lunch was most often forgotten. At first my stomach would clench and growl, but it quickly got used to always being a little empty.

Hunger and exhaustion the physical pains I used to ward off the metaphysical one in my soul.

By week two I knew that punishing myself physically wasn’t going to achieve the desired result. It wouldn’t cauterise my soul.

I shortened the drives. Tried to eat at least one proper meal each day, often in cafes in the towns I drove through.

I bought some weights, browsed online, designed and started a new fitness regime… I had always promised myself I would get buff when I had the time. And I certainly have the time I thought. After a couple of days rest, I continued running daily, but not to the point where my body shut down anymore.

Rosie’s birthday came and I recorded Happy Birthday, and a message for my shining angel. God, I miss her. I had to re-record my first attempt when I realised there was a view of the outside.

Mostly I didn’t talk to anyone. I listened to music, I drove, I walked, and I exercised.

Week three the nightmares started.

Children crammed into a small space, scared and crying.

I kept thinking that Rosie was amongst them, I would see her blond curls disappearing into the back of the crowd.

I would push through trying to get to her, then cold hands would grab me and pull me back. I would find myself in the centre of a circular stone room, my arms chained above my head. Then pain would start to spiral out from my core. As if I had been filled with liquid fire, but not in a good way. The pain would spiral up and up in intensity and I would jerk awake sweating and screaming

I doubled down on my training. The sense of foreboding increased almost daily. I stalked Jo and Sam on Facebook and Snapchat, checking for signs of trouble, reassuring myself that Rosie was safe. I would also check to see if Peter posted, finding comfort in the pictures of him. I almost sent him a message, to ask him to look after them, but thought better of it.

Mostly I spent my time trying to connect with myself. With the person I was before my disastrous marriage. And by week three I was definitely making progress.
…
It has been 26 days since I fled. Twenty-six days of roaming the hills of Scotland. Nearly four weeks.

I look into the gathering gloom. I cradle a large mug of black coffee.

Just like every night at this time my eyes turn south, and my thoughts are of my family, and of Peter.

I send my love and blessings to them, just as I have done every night since I left. I imagine them being carried by birds, flying away to the south to deliver the tidings, on silver wings.

The ache I feel hasn’t dulled, sometimes a sharp pain stabs through the only hickie that didn’t heal… I guess this is where I was marked. Still at the top of my thigh it is easy to hide.

I miss them all so much, I have decided to go back… If Peter hasn’t left maybe we can work it out, find a compromise.

I look inside myself and with an honesty that wasn’t there before I admit that I want Peter in my life, just like I want sunshine and colour, but I need my family in it.

My reverie is disturbed by the roar of an engine. I can see headlights rounding a bend in the road. I watch the vehicle approach, expecting it to continue round the bend and disappear into the night.

I hear the tires crunch as the vehicle… sorry vehicles… I realise it is two motorbikes… pull on to the gravelled area where I am parked.

I studiously ignore the new arrivals, happy to remain in my own bubble of solitude. It is a public space and I have no right to complain if someone else wants to use it as well

‘E-hem’ the sound of a man clearing his throat has me swinging my head to my right. Emerging from the dark is a ginger-haired blue-eyed man dressed in biker leathers. Normally I would describe him as handsome, but the word Gollum is screaming through my brain.

‘Me and my mate are just stopping for a bite to eat,’ he tells me. ‘Is that okay with your family?’

‘Sure, it doesn’t bother me,’ I respond. Stupidly failing to realise that I have just told him I am alone.

I return to my contemplation.

Crunch! The gravel behind me is disturbed. I swing round towards the sound. Crunch! A matching sound from the other direction.

Oh shit, I think. I might be in serious trouble.