Chapter 7

Big beautiful woman, living it large
Shaking that ass, keeping you in charge
Pulling the men, whenever you feel
The need to pose, just keeping it real
(Chorus)
Big Mama, Big lass
Big-wig, Big ass
Big bang, big head
Big talk, big bed.
BBW (B. Lake) 2012

ZERO HOUR +21

The police car blipped its siren, and I reluctantly pulled over to the side of the road.

It was an unfortunate end to what had been a mostly pleasant evening, a somewhat nervous night and a lovely, sunny morning.

When requested, I handed over my passport, international driving licence and the registration papers for the rental. He looked at them carefully.

“What’s this about, constable ... sheriff ... officer. I’m sorry, we’ve just arrived for our holiday, and we’re not used to—”

“‘E’s an hofficer,” Summer interrupted me. She sounded very different. “S’right innit?”

“Officer is fine,” the policeman said, looking at my passport carefully and then back up at us both. “So, you’re British. Can I see your passport ma’am?”

“Yes, from Buckinghamshire,” I said. I resisted the urge to stare at Summer.

“An’ I’m from Lunnun,” Summer chipped in, peering at him through her sunglasses. She unfastened her seatbelt. “Well, originally I was. Until Bryn and I found each other – so romantic an’ all, and then we moved in together and I got a job near ‘is place. Look ‘ere, I’ve left me passport in me case ... in the boot, so I’ll ‘ave to fish it out for you, orlright? ‘Alf a mo!”

“Lovely hair colour, ma’am,” the officer commented, seeming very interested in the errant curls that had crept out from beneath her cap.

“Fanks,” she replied calmly, settling back in her seat and sounding pleased at the compliment. “I told that woman back at the ‘airdressers in Wichita that I wanted summat different, like. I was tired of ‘aving to bleach me roots all the time to keep it blond. So I just told ‘er I wanted summat completely different to enjoy on our ‘oliday. She suggested this colour, and I fought, Sally, why not just go for it. Treat yerself – you deserve it, innit? So I did. You like it? I weren’t really sure wevver it actually suits me, but me friend Sue – she’s me best friend, like, ever since school – she says it don’t ‘alf go with me complexion and reckons it’s the dog’s bollocks. I texted ‘er and sent ‘er a picture, and she showed it all round in the grocers where I work – great shop it is, if yer ever in the area and want to pop in for a cuppa char, feel free. Anyway, they all said it was bleeding brilliant! Even me mum liked it, an’ she don’t often like my choices. We’ve ‘ad words, ‘er an’ me, in the past an’ we don’t always get on, especially after our Sharon’s wedding, when me Auntie Tracy – Mum’s sister – said what she did about our Kevin an’ our Effie, and we ‘ad a bit of a barney about that, that’s for sure, but—”

“That’s fine sir ... ma’am. You carry on and have a nice day. Drive carefully.” I think he just wanted her to shut up. Even I felt beaten down by the non-stop torrent of vaguely-Essex-like chatter. She buckled up her seatbelt again.

“Well, I never! The cheek of it! I fought you wanted to see me passport,” she called out to the officer in an aggrieved tone as I accelerated gently away, leaving the man shaking his head and trudging back to his car.

“What the fuck just happened?” I asked after a few long, tense moments as I watched the police car in my rearview mirror, while simultaneously trying to watch the road ahead and not stare at her in astonishment at the same time.

She began to giggle, and then came that laugh that sent out an all-points alert to Mr. Happy once again.

“Where did that awful train smash come from,” I said, smiling helplessly. “Did you hit your head?”

“I thought it was bloody good, like,” she said. Oh my god! She had gone from a bad caricature of an Essex girl, to a 1950’s East End washer-woman to a Welsh accent that would get any comedian booed offstage for being racist.

“Agh! No more. Stop, please! It’s like listening to some soap opera about working class slags from fifty years ago, played backwards.”

“I’m offended,” she said, pouting. “I got the accent from the servants in Downton Abbey, Eurotrash and that Brad Pitt movie, Snatch. I don’t know why I did it. I just panicked.”

“How did you know he would believe it?”

“I didn’t, but let’s face it - he’s a Kansas cop. What are the chances that he’s met that many British people that he would know whether I was from London or Scotland or even Australia or Nigeria for that matter?”

I nodded, guessing she was right.

“Well Netflix has a lot to answer for,” I said. “But despite the horrible arbitrary mangling of my home language, it seems it was exactly the right thing to do. Hopefully he has a fix on two gormless British tourists, and not me and some mysterious fugitive running from...”

I paused for a moment, checking the rear-view mirror once again, and hoping she would fill in the blank.

“Nothing to do with you.” I felt a wave of cold from her.

I shook my head, frustrated beyond words.

“Look, you’re running from something or somebody, and I’m pretty sure by what just happened back there that the police are definitely interested. I’m trying to help you. But I can’t if I don’t know what to look out for.”

She chewed on that luscious lower lip for a few moments. I saw her face sag slightly and knew she’d decided to come clean. The barriers had dropped.

“Okay. My name is Charlotte Anne Kennedy.”

There was a long pause while I waited for her to continue.

Finally, I frowned at her. “And?”

“Charlotte Anne Kennedy!” She stressed each word.

After another pause, I shook my head questioningly. “Er ... How do you do?”

She stared at me as if I was incredibly stupid.

“Of the Sacramento Kennedys,” she expanded.

“Ooh,” I said as if that explained everything. Sarcasm to the fore. “The Sacramento Kennedys. Right. Of course. How did I not put that together immediately?”

“You have no idea who they are, do you?” she asked accusingly.

“No. Sorry love, no clue. I’ve got nothing. You related to JFK? John and Robert?”

She gave a sound of impatience. “No, of course not. They’re Massachusetts Kennedys.”

I grew impatient. “Look, if I told you I was part of the Duke of Norfolk’s family, how much would that mean to you?”

“You’re related to royalty?” she asked, her eyes widening a little.

“Absolutely,” I replied. “We’re all related to each other in Britain. He’s my second cousin once removed.”

“Really? Wow!”

“No! Of course not! Or at least I don’t think so – I must admit, there have seen some real surprises come up recently when it comes to royal blood links. But what I’m trying to point out is that you know nothing of them, and I know nothing of the Sacramento Kennedys. Up until the time you told me different, I always thought Sacramento was in Texas or Arizona. Somewhere round there. Then you told me you were from California.”

“Sacramento is in California.”

“You live, you learn...” I sang.

“Okay,” she sighed. “My family has money. I’m Charlotte Anne Kennedy.”

“You keep repeating that as if you expect precise repetition to somehow give you a different result. That never works. God, it would make my life so much easier if it did. Programming would be a piece of piss.”

She looked blank.

“Piece of piss – really easy,” I clarified. Despite her grovelling in the murky depths of the English language on television, she really wasn’t clued up on the slang.

She paused for a long time, and when she spoke again, her voice seemed very small. “My parents died four months ago. I’d had a stupid argument with Dad, a really bad one about a date – an all-night date – that I’d been on, and then felt really guilty the next morning when I refused to say goodbye as he and Mom left for Washington. I wanted to tell him I was sorry, that I loved him no matter what. So I drove to the airport in a rush but got there too late. I was just in time to see their plane take off – and then drop into the ground.”

She released an awful sound – full of loss and heartache and terror. Tears streamed down her face, and I silently squeezed her hand for a long, long moment.

“They didn’t survive. The last time I spoke to my parents it was in anger, and I couldn’t handle it. I went on a drinks and drugs binge, and when I came out of it, I was in an institution.”

I nodded in understanding. All of my family were still alive and kicking, so I didn’t know the pain, but I could imagine loss with no problem. I could easily remember loss.

“I have a large trust fund...” She let that trail off.

I nodded again. I’d known trust fund babies. To my mind they were normally associated with self-indulgent assholes who thought they bore no responsibility to anyone. Of course, that could be just the ones I’d met. She didn’t seem like any of them.

“Over ten million dollars,” she said in a tone that seemed to suggest I should be flat on my back with astonishment at her words. I wasn’t that impressed. I had money – not as much as her trust fund – but more than enough for a single man, and more coming in each month. After a certain point, it’s just numbers.

“Uh-huh,” I said flatly in response.

She seemed taken aback by my lack of enthusiasm at her announcement.

“That’s a lot,” she pointed out.

“Eight million pounds,” I mused. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” she shouted. “Not bad? Well, it was more than enough to get someone to have me committed, and then moved to a private institution here in Kansas, which effectively hid me from anyone who knew me. And it was more than enough to get me beaten and raped again and again and again as M-M-Murdoch tried to get me completely under his control. I don’t think anyone knows or cares that I’m missing, and I don’t think anyone will find me if they get me back there. Nobody knows what’s going on. I’m not even sure that I do. Oh God, what if it’s all in my mind? What if I really am crazy?”

She was sobbing now, her knees drawn right up to her chest and her arms wrapped tightly around them.

I placed my hand on her arm. She didn’t acknowledge it, but she didn’t throw it off.

“Summer, I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

“Yeah, well your sympathy and five dollars will get me a cup of coffee.”

“Shit, coffee costs that much round here?”

She stared at me for a long moment, and then a weak smile broke through the tears. “You’re an asshole, you know that.”

Mentally, I breathed a sigh of relief that it had worked. I may very well be an asshole – my ex-wife would be more than eager to agree with that – but I had learned something in my ongoing crusade to rescue the wounded. Distraction can sometimes be better than confrontation.

She reached to my hand on her arm, and snuggled her hand in beneath it, holding on tight.

“I don’t know whether Kerry, my godmother, knows where I was taken or whether she organised it, or who else is involved. I don’t know anything! I can only presume that it’s about control of my family’s money.

“They kept me sedated a lot of the time, but I learned to slip those damn pills out of my mouth before they dissolved. Last week, when Murdoch came in for another of those fucking nightly ‘training’ sessions, I was waiting with the tray they served the evening meal on. I swung it at him side-on, and caught him across the throat and he went down, choking. I raged and kept kicking him, but after a while I realised it was more important to get out of there. He’d passed out, and his breathing sounded like a deflating balloon with someone stretching the nozzle wide – you know, like kids do to really annoy every adult in the room. I didn’t have a plan, or even an idea of what to do. I just stole his keys and sneaked out. I managed to grab a shirt out of a laundry trolley that had been left in the passage and a hat off a hook on the wall. I was so frightened I thought I was going to have a heart attack, but wearing something helped just a tiny bit.”

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.